heavensent

You also like working here because it doesn’t feel like work. It feels something like a vacation, but you’re just tidying up a few things. Nothing is ever dirty. In fact, nothing even looks used. Everything in this apartment looks straight out of a catalog. The stale furniture makes the place feel like a movie set, expertly placed and entirely fake.

Your instructions are overwhelmingly simple: Disinfect all surfaces. Sweep, mop, and dust before you go. It’s hard to believe someone would hire a cleaning service for such basic tasks, but it keeps you employed so you don’t ask questions.

You’re scheduled for two hours, but most days you finish in half that. With the remaining time, you like to sit on the floor and watch from behind the windows, mesmerized by the life bustling from hundreds of feet below.

You have a couple guesses as to what this place is used for. Part of your brain thinks it’s a… ‘casting couch’ situation of some sort, and the other part thinks it to be some stock broker’s summer playhouse. The furniture is tasteful and trendy, but lacks a feeling of home. There are no pictures on the wall. No faded memories pinned to the refrigerator. No stains or tears on the sofa, or even so much as a dish in the sink.

No signs of life, really. Who could live like this?

Whatever this place is used for, you can’t even begin to wrap your head around the cost of everything. The things you’d do to have even a fraction of the amount… You don’t allow yourself to get lost in the fantasy.

It’s a Friday night when you step out of the elevator, armed with a small cart of cleaning supplies. You start with the kitchen, as you always do, before targeting the other rooms. Everything appears to be remarkably unused, and you breeze through cleaning the master bedroom, study, and living space. You finish with sweeping, mopping, then sweeping once more to catch the crumbs you missed in the first pass. You dust the major appliances and wipe down the counters until they gleam.

Now done, you sit criss-cross by the window, soothed by the sounds of the city below. The streets look so alive; the whole city looks like it’s breathing. So much movement, from every corner. You allow yourself to relax, just a second, to stop and forget about the crushing weight on your shoulders. The luggage shacked to your feet. The money. The debt. The friendships, now lost to time.

But the pain in your back that you’ve been ignoring for days feels worse than it ever has, and the balls of your feet are numb from hours of standing. With no task to distract you, your body becomes hyper-aware. You’re exhausted. Have been, for a long time. You didn’t know your life would play out like this, but here you are. 

You don’t mean to cry but the tears just come, streaming down your face in hot streaks. Quiet sobs begin to shake through your body, starting deep in your gut and pressing against your lungs. It’s a fight to even breathe, and the hollows of your chest shudder with the effort. 

“Uhm. Are you alright?”

You gasp, whipping your head around to the source of the voice. You hadn’t heard the ding of the elevator. You’re still gasping for breath, your face wet from crying. The man before you is gorgeous, dressed handsomely in a well-fitted suit. His hair is slightly overgrown, but the loose curls compliment the sharp planes of his face. Though, his eyes—God, his eyes are easily the most beautiful thing about him. They’re almost predatory in nature, something dark swimming behind those coffee-cold irises. 

“Oh, god, I’m so sorry. Yes, sir, I’m fine.” You scramble to your feet, head lowered out of respect and red-hot embarrassment, “I got some window cleaner in my eyes. Sorry. So sorry.”

You keep your head lowered, staring at the expensive leather of his shoes as a stray tear slides down the bridge of your nose. You wipe it away before it has the chance to drip onto the marble floor. You’re still shaking.

“There’s… no need to apologize.” His voice sounds pained. “Should we call the poison control center?”

“That won’t be necessary, sir,” You take a steadying breath, and lift your head. God, he’s fucking hot. And your eyes are puffy from sobbing on his floor. And your nose is running. You look a mess. You feel like a mess. God, you fucking are a mess. You offer him a wet smile. It’s meant to be reassuring, but it’s probably more horrifying than anything else, “I’ve finished all tasks assigned to me for the day. I’ll be taking my leave, if it’s alright with you.”

You don’t wait for his approval. Confusion graces his beautiful features and you hastily collect your things, practically sprinting for the exit. You’re a whirlwind, a hurricane, a snotty-nosed mess, and you just want to go home.

“Oh, uhm. Goodnight.” He calls, once you’ve made it to the elevator. You open your mouth to politely say thanks, but the eye-contact makes your mouth run dry. He’s looking at you again, but it’s not just confusion. It’s pity. Directed towards you. At you. For you. What is there to say?

You lower your head again, elevator door closing shut, and listen to all 65 floors fly past.

&&&

He’s there again, the next time you return. You’d leave right then and there if you didn’t need the money. 

He’s dressed down today, clad in gray sweatpants and a fitted black cotton shirt. Still as handsome as you remember, just more comfortable. He’s got his feet kicked out on his trillion dollar sofa, hardcover book in hand. He’s sipping something warm in a patterned ceramic mug, a little startled to see you again.

“Oh, uhm, hello. How often are you here?”

This fucking guy. He doesn’t even know how often his house cleaner comes to clean. What a life, you suppose, to not know what your money gets spent on. To be able to afford not knowing. 

“I’m scheduled to come every other week on Friday evenings, sir.” You say instead, polished, practiced, and polite, “But my schedule can always be adjusted to accommodate yours.”

He thinks for a bit, before closing his book and setting it on the nearby coffee table. He moves slowly, always so relaxed. He sips his drink on his own time, letting you wait on his answer. Peppermint tea. Somehow it feels very fitting, very him. “Do you like coming in on Friday nights?”

His question catches you off guard, “What?”

“I’m asking if this is your preferred time to work.” You still look lost, so he continues, “Wouldn’t you rather be, I don’t know, home? Or with friends? Family? Any hobbies?”

You’re embarrassed to say you have none of those things. Moving away from a small town will do that to you. Most days you’re elbow-deep in someone else’s mess. Most days you don’t even feel like a person.

But you don’t tell him that. Instead you say, “No, sir. This time works just fine for me. What would you like me to get started with today?”

His eyes narrow as he assesses your condition. Studying you, you think. Picking you apart and deciding your value. Tongue in his cheek he says, “Go home.”

Are you being fired? It’s fucking humiliating, this power dynamic. That he could dispose of you so easily and not be impacted in the slightest. You could grovel and beg and he would remain unmoved. You rush to amend yourself, “I think there’s been a misunderstanding–”

“I’ll still pay you for your services this week, but go home.” He’s not looking at you anymore. Instead, he lightly blows the tea to cool it, steam curling into the air. He takes another sip, distracted from the conversation at hand. You’re grateful to not be the subject of his attention for once. “Get some rest.”

Is this guy fucking with you? Are you being pranked right now? You open your mouth to inquire further, but he sends you a look as if to say: What are you still doing here?

You don’t wait for him to change his mind. You get your ass back into the elevator.

“Yes, sir. Thank you.” You say as the elevator closes, and you watch the floor numbers tick down to zero.

Your commute home is long and uneventful, but the sleep you get that night is the best you’ve gotten in a long time.

&&&

The next time you come, he greets you by name. 

“Don’t look so surprised.” He says to the shock on your face. You nod politely but don’t respond, kneeling down to grab your supplies. He must have reached out to the cleaning company that employs you. He must have gone searching for it.

He watches you, the entire time you’re there. You work quietly, and pretend you can’t feel his gaze. You take your time today, going over the same spots again and again, just to look like you’re doing something. You’re wiping down the kitchen counters the next time he speaks to you.

“What’s your availability for the rest of the week?”

You’re beginning to sound like a broken record, “What?”

A half smile, “Would you be able to come in on Tuesday? I’m hosting a dinner and could use the extra help cleaning up. 9 o’clock should be fine.”

You bite the insides of your cheek. That’s much later than you would like. You wouldn’t get home until midnight, nearly.

He tilts his head ever so slightly, “I’ll pay double what I pay now.”

“Uhm.” Your eyes widen after crunching some numbers, “Yes, sir. I can be here Tuesday.”

“Great. And you can just call me by my name.”

Yikes. This seems like information you should know. You’re shy when you ask, “And what is your name, sir?”

He doesn’t seem bothered in the slightest. In fact, he looks glad you asked. There’s no obvious smile, but his eyes crinkle softly at the sides. He’s pleased. “Sakusa Kiyoomi.”

“Sakusa, then.” You nod, returning your attention to wiping the same clean spot on the counter. Wide circles, again and again. “I’ll be here Tuesday.”

&&&

[to Sakusa K]: Is now a good time to head up?

Your message goes unseen and unanswered. 

The two of you had exchanged numbers before you left last week, no longer using the cleaning company as a mediator, since he was paying you under the table for helping him out today.

The elevator opens to a dark apartment, illuminated only by the soft glow of the TV. On the screen plays an Opera performance. What would normally be a beautiful ballad now feels haunting and hollow.

You catch the movement of his hair from the corner of your eye. He’s leaning over the balcony, nursing a glass of something dark. 

“Was your dinner okay?” You ask, sliding open the heavy glass panes. 

Despite being up here numerous times, you’ve never actually been outside. You’ve always appreciated the view from indoors, behind the wall of glass, but the experience is much more vivid in the open air. The wind whips around you in quick bursts, and you nearly lose your footing as you take in the scenery. The moon looks beautiful tonight, full and iridescent, hanging low in an obsidian sky. You once had a friend that knew all the phases of the moon, and you’d reel back in joyful surprise every time she’d tell you, like a child being shown an impossible magic trick. 

You should have learned, should have asked her to teach you. You miss those nights.

You wonder what phase the moon is in tonight. You wonder what phase of her life she’s in now.

“Oh,” You look over to Sakusa, to find he’s already looking at you, “They didn’t come.”

You feel your expression crumble into something sympathetic. You don’t know what to say. You don’t know how to help. Sakusa waves a dismissive hand, as if sensing your pity.

“It was just my family, so I don’t know why I expected anything different.”

A few responses cross your mind, but you can’t decide on one in time. Sakusa straightens, drink in hand, and gestures for you to retreat inside. You remember why you came, and head for the kitchen, hoping there would be some dishes to clean so you wouldn’t have to be stuck guessing how a normal person would react in this situation.

The array of food is untouched.

“Did you eat?” You ask, before your mind can stop yourself. 

“No,” Sakusa answers, “But you're more than welcome to take food home.”

“You shouldn’t drink on an empty stomach.” You ramble, your sentence trailing off, “It’s not… good… for you.”

“No,” A real smile, this time. It’s small, but it’s the first one you’ve seen from him. The slight display of emotion feels blinding. You almost don’t hear him when he says, “I suppose it’s not. Join me for dinner, then?”

By far, Sakusa is one of the weirdest people you know, and yet, he’s the first sort-of friend you’ve made since moving to Tokyo. You take him up on his offer, “I’ll set the table.”

Dinner floats by. Somehow, Sakusa convinces you to try one of his many drinks. It’s fruity and sweet, and you’re tipsy before you’re done with your first glass.

“The Olympics?” You gawk, the alcohol blurring the lines of professionalism, “No fucking way. You’re lying.”

Sakusa seems pleased with your surprise and swells at your attention, like he’s happy to share this part of his life with you, “I can assure you I’m not. Do you want to see pictures?”

“But how?” You ask, “That’s so niche. You must be really good, then.”

“Eh, I’m alright.” He smiles, and you almost didn't catch it, but he was joking. Sakusa Kiyoomi told a joke. To make you laugh, his fucking housecleaner. It’s the first meaningful exchange you’ve had in a long time, and you try not to let it get to your head. 

Dinner is long finished, but the conversation spurs on. Any nervousness you initially felt about seeing him tonight has melted into something warm. The feeling is featherlight, mellow. It pools from your stomach and makes your head swim, the light in Sakusa’s eyes as the only thing anchoring you to the topic at hand.

“And you play the… spiked winger?”

“Wing spiker.”

You hardly react to the correction, “Are you still the wing spiker even when you rotate positions?”

“Yes.” He says, happy to answer all of your questions, “I’m always the wing spiker.” 

You hum in acknowledgement and, before you can stop yourself, your eyes trail to the broadness of his shoulders, the swell of his biceps, the strength of his callused hands. A small part of you realizes you should be in awe at the powerhouse in front of you. Arms that can send a ball flying at over a hundred miles an hour. The larger part of you just thinks he looks sexy. 

“Is it fun?”

“What, volleyball?”

“Yeah, I mean,” You think about all the conditioning he’s told you about. It sounds grueling and downright unpleasant, a casual hobby for most as his main source of income. You wonder if that takes the fun out of playing, “After so many years of playing, you don’t get bored?”

He considers your question for a short moment, before abruptly standing and heading towards the door, “C’mon.”

Instinct screams at you to apologize—surely you’ve offended him somehow. You stay planted at the table, quietly watching him rummage through the entryway closet. You’ve offended his livelihood, his passion. He’s going to kick you out. He’s going to toss you to the curb and replace you with someone better, prettier, younger, and—

Apparently finding what he was looking for, Sakusa looks at you like you’ve grown a second head, seeming confused by your presence still at the table, “Are you coming?”

&&&

He’s touching you now.

Sakusa’s hands are softer than you thought they would be. It’s a piece of information you don’t imagine many people have. You make sure to tuck the memory somewhere safe.

“You want to make your arms as flat as possible,” He instructs, “A level platform to launch the ball from.”

“What if they’re not super flat?” You ask, just to be annoying.

“Then you’re fucked.”

You snort. Okay then. 

Summers in Japan are always devastatingly hot, but the few months before then are the closest thing to serenity a person could find. The sun is long gone, but the air still lingers with its warmth. A soft breeze blows in from the east, drying the thin sheen of sweat that’s beaded along your hairline. There’s a quiet humming from the streetlamps overhead, joined only by the constant singing of happy cicadas.

“And fold your hands together like this.” His hands slide from your arms down to your hands, gently folding your fingers into each other. Now distracted, you take the opportunity to admire him from such a close distance: the twin moles above his eyebrows, the bob of his throat when he swallows, the texture of his skin.  He’s even more handsome like this, the sharp planes of his face warmed by the soft glow of the streetlamps overhead.

Satisfied with your form, his dark eyes find yours. God, he's so close. There's a light flush across his cheeks, maybe from the drink he was sipping earlier, maybe not. You suddenly feel immensely jealous towards anyone who gets to see him outside of the four walls of his apartment. You imagine what it would be like to casually enjoy his presence, as a friend instead of his employee. To hear his laugh, see his smile. You wonder if he gives everyone the same kindness he shows you.

You wish you met under different circumstances. Would things be different, then?

“Now what?” You ask to distract yourself. 

“Now you hit it.” 

And so you play, passing the ball to one another and trying your best to not make a fool of yourself. The empty tennis courts in Sakusa’s apartment complex offer plenty of space to spring around, and you’re glad there’s no net for you to hit the ball over—simply passing it to Sakusa is difficult on its own. He somehow manages to perfectly return your wild, uncoordinated passes. You send the ball flying at the most impossible angles, and he goes for it every time. It’s like he can't help himself.

One pass is so terrible, he’s literally on the ground to return it, before expertly sending it into a tall arch that lands right against your wrists. You swing your arms in what you feel is an appropriate amount of strength, but the ball flies up and over your head, then over the court entirely, landing loudly in the bushes on the other side of the fencing.

Whoops.

It starts as a few quick puffs of air before bursting into something brighter, lighter, complete. It’s a full body laugh that makes your sides hurt. You bask in the absurdity of it all—What the fuck are you doing? Playing volleyball against a professional athlete. Your boss of all people. Though, there’s something so pure about him giving you a glimpse into his world like this. You, his employee. You, his goddamn house cleaner. 

You turn to Sakusa to apologize, only slightly embarrassed, but your throat closes up when you see the way he’s looking at you. He watches you like he’s just now seeing you for the first time, the slightest shift in the air. There’s a delicate smile pulling at his lips, so subtle it’s almost nonexistent. 

“It’s fun, right?”

Well, damn. You had almost forgotten the reason you came out here in the first place. Sakusa wanted you to see that volleyball was enjoyable. Sakusa wanted you to have fun. With him. 

“Yeah.” You agree softly. 

“You want to head inside?” He asks. Time seems to have stilled—How long have you been out here? It has to be nearing midnight. You can’t bring yourself to care.

“Maybe just a few more passes.”

&&&

“I’m going away for a while.” He says once you’re back inside, the words tangled up in one another. It’s rushed and out of character. It stops you in your tracks as you gather your things. “And I’ll need a house sitter. Does that sound like something you’re interested in?”

You don’t have the chance to talk about pay before he drops a hefty sum. A daily amount. You’d be making more in a week than you do in a month.

“I’ll also pay for any groceries while you stay, or anything else you may need.”

You’d be an idiot to pass this up. You might black out. Really, you might. Emboldened, you ask, “Why me?”

He’s looking at you again, but there’s something different swimming behind his eyes. You aren’t one to decode the many games people play, to interpret people’s actions for hidden meanings. You aren’t the best at reading people. 

“Because I like you.” he says, as if it were the simplest thing in the world, “And I think you’re capable.”

But you don’t have to read Sakusa. He makes it clear what he wants. He’s always honest, even when he doesn’t have to be. You don’t have to guess around him. You like that he answers all your questions. You like that he asks none in return.

“I like the artisan bread from the co-op down the street.” You say, testing your luck, “The fancy one with the seeds in it.”

Another gentle smile. It’s dazzling, breathtaking almost. You can’t believe you have a crush on your boss. 

“Of course,“ He answers, hand outstretched. His smile is boyish and shy, curly fringe hanging handsomely over his dark eyes, ”Whatever you want. I’ll see that you have it.”

You swallow, palms sweaty, and shake on it.

Before you leave, he makes a point of ordering you an Uber. He tells you it will be your new normal, both there and back. Your commute is quartered. You’re asleep before your head hits the pillow, and when you dream, you dream of highrise sunsets, extravagant bubble baths, and soft lips turned upwards into a shy smile, tenderly pressing against your own.

&&&

Sakusa wasn’t lying about being gone for a while. It’s been three weeks and still no mention of him returning. 

You text the entire time he’s away.

The messages are professional for the most part. How to work the shower. Where the breaker is. He even gives you some freedom to decorate after you let a comment slip out about how ‘manly’ his apartment is.

Manly? And what’s that supposed to mean? 

your house looks like a hospital lol

I’ve got a few interior design magazines lying around somewhere. Please feel free to browse through them—I suppose I could use a second opinion. 

You sleep in the guest room, and travel from his apartment to wherever your next job is. You still have to wake up incredibly early, but being in the middle of the city means a shorter commute, and every night you return to a bed large enough to fit several people, home before sundown.

Sakusa had offered to have someone bring you meals, but you quickly let him know that wasn’t necessary. You enjoy making your meals, and it’s so much easier to cook in his fancy kitchen, with the fancy organic groceries he pays for.

Life is still hard, but now it’s a bit more bearable. You like being taken care of. You like that Sakusa takes care of you. 

You’re snuggled comfortably on his couch, sifting through his many streaming services for something to watch, when he answers your text from a few hours ago.

Do you have a moment for a phone call?

You’re searching for his contact in seconds. The line rings once before he answers.

“Hi,” You breathe, “You wanted to speak with me?”

“I didn’t know you were an interior designer.”

You had almost forgotten the last text you sent him. A picture of his living room, now more decorated with exactly two pillows, a grey throw blanket, and a generic candle from the clearance section. These changes are overwhelmingly simple, but to a guy like Sakusa, you might as well have renovated the place.

“Oh.” You put the television on mute, “Do you like it? It’s not too much?”

“Do you like it?”

“Uhm.” You falter at the redirection. What does it matter what you think? “Yeah, I do. I think it gives a more homey feel. Less like a patient waiting room.”

He chuckles at your shallow digs, unoffended, “Then I love it. I’ll be back tomorrow night to see it.”

Oh. That comment gives you pause. You forgot you’d have to leave at some point. That all of this would come to an end. Of course you couldn’t stay here forever. Suddenly you feel very out of place in this penthouse – you’re easily the cheapest thing here. Replaceable.

“Safe travels, then.” Even so, you feel a thrum of excitement at the mention of his return. Curling tighter into yourself, you idly fidget with the tags on one of the new throw pillows, “I’ll see you soon.”

&&&

You kinda go overboard with welcoming him back.

After work, you find the energy to go grocery shopping, and get enough supplies to cook a small dinner for the two of you. You don’t feel bad about splurging on nice ingredients. With what he’s been paying you, you’ve finally been able to make a dent in your student loans. You have money in your savings account, for once. Preparing a meal for him after a long day of traveling pales in comparison to all he’s done for you.

He arrives just as you finish setting the table, with tired eyes and a hefty duffel bag slung over his shoulder.

Your voice comes out as a squeak as he approaches you, “Welcome back.”

God, you always forget how good-looking he is. Even through the layers of his hoodie and sweatpants, you can see he’s well built. Broad shoulders packed with muscle from years of training, paired with his towering height makes for a dangerous, alluring combination.

“Thank you.” He hums, and he’s doing that thing with his eyes again. The thing where you feel like a helpless animal caught in one of his traps. He towers over you, but you don’t feel scared. Relief washes over you. You’re glad he’s back, “I see you’ve cooked dinner?”

“Yes, are you hungry?”

You ignore the sharp angle of your neck, your chin positioned almost uncomfortably just to look him in his eyes. You feel his gaze sweep over you, assessing. Always analyzing. Always observing. He’s close enough that you can feel the body heat radiating off of him. Despite hours of traveling, he still smells so good. It’s manly, for lack of a better word. Something mixed with pine or cedar wood, maybe a hint of amber. It’s refreshing, relaxing. You want to lean into the feeling forever. 

“Yeah,” He smiles softly, like he can read your thoughts, “Starving.”

You’re glad to have something to do. In one quick motion you turn on your heel to prepare his plate. It’s too easy to get distracted around Sakusa. His presence has a way of commanding all of your attention.

“Actually, why don’t you take a seat?”

“No sir, it’s quite alright if I–”

“Sir?” His voice is closer than you anticipated. He must have followed you into the kitchen. Now aware of his proximity, you can feel him looming behind you. You can feel his body heat again, can faintly smell his cologne, “I thought we were past honorifics.”

“Sakusa, then.” You say, and the words have difficulty forming on your tongue. He’s so insistent on you calling him by name, “Sorry.”

“Kiyoomi is fine.” He corrects, then gently takes the serving spoon from your hand. You let him, face burning, and promptly take your seat, “And there’s no need for apologies.”

He hums a quiet melody to himself as he navigates the kitchen, even bringing out two wine glasses from the cabinet over the stove.

“Red or white?” He calls over his shoulder.

“Surprise me.”

The domesticity isn’t lost on you, watching him serve both plates. Any outsider watching the scene ahead of you would easily confuse the two of you as lovers, playing out a romantic night in. You wonder if he thinks the same.

Finding his way to the table, he sets both plates down, then makes a second trip to retrieve the wine glasses. You can’t help but notice his glass is filled to the brim.

“That bad?” You joke, reaching for your own glass.

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” His exasperated look pulls a smile from you.

Taking his first bite, Sakusa’s eyes widen at the taste, “This tastes amazing.” He politely pats his mouth with a napkin, “You said you made this today?”

“It’s an old recipe. My mom used to make it all the time for me.” Before you moved away, of course. Before you dropped out of school and found other ways of getting by.

“That’s sweet,” He hums, “Are the two of you close?”

“No, actually.” You feel compelled to answer truthfully. The words feel like ash on your tongue, “We don’t talk anymore.”

The alcohol loosens his tongue more than it should. He speaks without thinking, “Why is that?”

You don’t want to talk about this. You don’t want to think about what could have been. The emotions pile up and get stuck in your throat, rendering you speechless for a long stretch of time. Instead you say, “Tell me more about your trip.”

Tell you more—What?

You’ve never outright denied him information. Maybe skirted around the truth, but never a complete refusal. He watches you with an expression you can’t decipher, the lines of his face fixed into a blank stare. 

He doesn’t press further, moving his attention back to his plate and continuing the conversation.

He tells you about how annoying it is to be shipped around from hotel to hotel, and how he got stuck rooming with a teammate whose snoring could rival a jet engine. He tells you about the knee injury he got in high school and the extensive physical therapy to does to manage it. He tells you, one-by-one, about his teammates and how it’s exhausting keeping up with them sometimes. They’re monsters, he says, freaks. It’s the most you’ve ever heard him speak, and you cling to every word like a child would to a beloved stuffed toy. 

“And you? How was your stay? Everything was to your liking?”

“Yes, more than.”

He pauses at that, content rippling through his features, “I’m very glad to hear that.”

Sakusa is awfully concerned with your opinion of him. You’re exhausted by the mental gymnastics of trying to determine what it all means. Maybe he’s just being nice. That’s all it has to mean, nothing more.

You distract yourself by looking out of those massive glass windows, but the flickering lights of the adjacent building taunt you. You speak before you can stop yourself.

“The Imperial Crown Style.“

He’s so cute when he’s confused, “Pardon?”

“I studied Art History. As a visual art, architecture is sometimes included in that.” You continue, “I remember this exact building model: it merged Western structures with Japanese-style roofs. Very popular in the mid-19th century. This one here was probably one of the first in Tokyo,” You gesture to the building in the distance, “Though, they didn’t make many buildings in this style because it's a pain in the ass to construct. An engineer’s nightmare. Not to mention expensive.”

You can see the question die on his tongue. What happened to you? The unanswered hangs in the air. Sakusa is polite enough to not ask, cognizant enough to know it’s not a happy story. He spares you the embarrassment. You can’t decide if you’re grateful or angry. Was it mercy or pity? You stand to clean the plates.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you something.” His hand flies out to catch your knuckles. It takes everything in you to not stare down at the place where his skin meets yours.

His forwardness dispels all your other thoughts, commanding all of your attention to him and only him. When you don't answer he continues.

“There’s a charity ball coming up,” He starts, voice small, “To celebrate the end of the season. And I was wondering if you’d like to be my date.”

“Oh.” You say elegantly. You don’t know what you were expecting, but it certainly wasn’t that. 

“But I understand you’re very busy, and I don’t want you to change your schedule around just for this–”

“No, no,” You squeeze his hand gingerly, unsure of what it means in the context of your relationship—if you could even call this a relationship—but you don’t dwell on the politics of it all, “I’d love to go. When is it?” 

The date he gives is just a few days away. Thankfully it’s in the evening, so you don’t have to worry about fitting it into your work schedule. However…

“I… wouldn’t know what to wear.” Looking him in the eyes is proving to be difficult. Your voice gets quieter by the second, “I don’t know if I have anything nice enough.”

“That won’t be a problem.” He replies, earnest, and returns a reassuring squeeze. Sakusa seems to get rid of all your problems these days. “How much do you need?”

&&&

So what if you rounded up a bit? Sakusa isn’t exactly struggling for cash. 

The dress you’re wearing is the most expensive thing you’ve ever owned. Catching your reflection in the tinted window, you take in your appearance. You look pretty, adorned in the sleek fabrics Sakusa paid for. You even put a bit of makeup on. Earrings, a necklace, the whole shebang. You can hardly recognize the reflection staring back, and yet you look more like yourself than you have in years. The word beautiful crosses your mind, and your cheeks warm at the thought. You hope that Sakusa thinks the same.

Sakusa had apologized repeatedly for not being able to drive you himself. As a newer member of the team, he’s expected to get to the venue early to help with set-up. Something about hazing the newbies, earning his stripes. You informed him that it was quite alright—You were no stranger to public transportation. He sent a car to get you anyway.

The trees clear to reveal a beautiful countryside estate, tucked away beyond Tokyo’s city limits. You shoot a text informing Sakusa of your arrival as the car peels from the paved road and onto delicate gravel. Once parked, the chauffeur exits from the driver's side to open your door, only to be intercepted by Sakusa’s dismissive hand. 

He looks devastatingly handsome, dressed well in a full tux. He looks taller, somehow. More confident, maybe? You resist making any comments about how adorable he looks sporting a bow-tie around his neck. 

He looks at you like he’s seeing sunlight for the first time, hand outstretched. You can see the breath stutter in his chest as he takes in your appearance.

“Oh. Wow.” A faint pink rises to dust his cheeks. “Hello.”

“Hi.” 

You take his hand, letting him guide you out of the vehicle and shutting the door behind you. He thanks the driver, slipping him a small roll of money with a curt nod before fixing all of his attention on you.

“Ready to head inside?” He says. There’s something bright in his eyes as he looks at you. You’ve never seen this expression before. If you had to guess, he looks… happy, in that strange way of his. Excited, almost. Like he really is glad you’re here. Like he didn’t think you would actually come.

“I’ve never been to a ball before.” You reply, unhelpful. 

“Glad to be your first, then.” The double entendre isn’t lost on you. He’s still holding your hand, eyes crinkled at the sides, as he leads you up the smoothed stone steps, “Just follow me.”

&&&

The first thing you notice is the sheer size of the venue. It looks like a massive ballroom, almost. The ceiling is adorned with intricate chandeliers that catch the light, turning it this way and that, reflecting it back onto every corner of the hall, bathing each intricate decoration in soft pools of warm light. It seems to stretch on forever, extending for what feels like miles above you. The walls are lined with wide windows that stretch from the floor to the ceiling, revealing an undisturbed hillside padded with tall trees older than the building itself.

Dozens of round circle tables are arranged around a stage that’s been set-up in the middle of the room, decorated with ornate floral centerpieces and exorbitant tableware. Even the tablecloths look luxurious. There’s easily 200 people here tonight, though there's so much extra space that the room doesn’t feel cramped. You try not to gape at your surroundings. There's even live music, the small group of talented musicians dressed in concert black are set up adjacent to the main stage.

Sakusa ushers you to an assigned seat, indicated by the folded paper tents with your names written in fine ink. 

Sakusa, K. 

Then, next to him: Sakusa, Y/F/I.

You don’t comment on it, but it makes your chest flutter and your face warm. Sakusa pulls back your chair for you to sit, gently sliding you in place and taking his seat next to you. Neither of you move when you feel his leg brush against yours. The hall is loud as the invites talk amongst themselves, finding their seats and making conversation with the people around them. You do the same, giving polite introductions to the well-dressed attendees seated at your table and trying your best to make a good first impression. 

“Oh? So you’re the lovely lady that’s stolen our Omi-Omi’s heart? And how’d the two of you meet?”

“Miya.” Sakusa quips, venom laced in every word. You’ve never heard him use this tone. It’s firm, authoritative. It has you squirming in your seat, “Don’t start.”

“What?” Miya, as Sakusa had called him, scoffs dramatically and leans back into his seat, “Just makin’ conversation.”

“Well, don’t.”

Stole his—what? Your attention is pulled from the conversation when the music begins. The first notes of the violin have you floating. The murmurs of the audience die down into hushed whispers. Slowly, the other instruments join in, building a melody that leaves you breathless. The symphony is hypnotizing. You lose all sense of time as one song blends into another. 

You turn your attention to Sakusa, who you find is already looking at you. That’s twice now. Not that you were keeping track.

“It’s beautiful.” You whisper, just to have an excuse to talk to him. Sakusa nods, keeping the rhythm with his feet. You can feel the movement so clearly, his legs brushing against yours.

You don’t miss the way his eyes sweep over your face, stopping to study the slight curve of your lashes, the shape of your nose, the arch of your lips. His fingers twitch at his sides. 

“Yeah,” He rasps, averting his eyes in favor of taking a lengthy sip of champagne, “Breathtaking.”

&&&

Sakusa had briefly introduced you to most of his teammates, though tried to avoid as much socialization as he realistically could. You’re grateful for that. You didn’t exactly come here to talk to a bunch of strangers.

Most of them looked at you with something mixed with suspicion and keen interest. Everyone is friendly, though.

It seems the main event is over now—Dinner had been served, a few speeches given, awards exchanged, and milestones reached. Guests are free to leave, but are encouraged to stay and enjoy the music. Following that announcement, a handful of invites had pulled their dates to the marble ballroom floor, entranced with one another as they fall in step to a gentle waltz.

“You’re cold.” Sakusa blurts, pulling you from your trance. 

He was watching you again, sharp eyes honed to your every need. You blink. Once. Twice. He’s close to you, his face just a few inches from yours. Did he move his chair closer when you weren’t paying attention? You can smell the layers of his cologne and the fragrance of his shampoo, can count the moles on his forehead.

When he reaches for your hand, you find that his skin is burning hot. He runs a finger over the raised follicles of your arm and says, “Goosebumps. You’re cold.”

How strange, you think. Your skin tingles where he touched you.

“Oh.” You say dumbly, his eyes having trapped yours. You hadn’t even realized you were cold, the music having estranged your mind from your body, “I guess I am.”

He hums, shrugging off his jacket and draping it over your shoulders. It’s heavy in a way that suggests it’s of high quality, and the residual warmth of his body has you leaning into the fabric, tugging on the collar to cover any exposed skin.

“Comfy?” He asks, amused at the sight of you drowning in his clothes. 

“Yeah.” Comes your reply. Suddenly feeling very bold, you lean to rest your head on his shoulder, feeling yourself relax at the touch. You revel in the sharp inhale that he takes, and for a second, you think his breath really does stop, “I am now.”

You stay like that for a while. The song that plays next is terribly slow. Romantic, even. It has Sakusa standing at his feet, offering a hand he hopes you’ll accept.

“Would you like to dance?” He clears his throat, the end of his sentence trailing off in volume. He’s nervous. “With me, I mean.”

“Here?”

“Yes, here.”

“Now?” He can’t help but smile at your apprehension.

“Yes, now.”

“I don’t know how.” You answer honestly.

“That’s perfectly fine,” Sakusa hums when you accept his hand, leading you to the edge of the ballroom floor. He adjusts your hands to rest on his shoulders, then flattens his palm over your back. His hands slide down—lower and lower until they reach the small of your back, then pressing you to him tightly. You can’t remember the last time someone held you so intentionally. He dips down to talk lowly into your ear, “Just follow my lead.”

The dancing is fun. Sakusa leads you through a simple waltz, and doesn’t comment when you accidentally step on his toes. His shoulders are massive from years of volleyball drills, packed firmly with layers of lean muscle. It’s the first time you’ve touched him like this, and you aren’t too proud to admit you like what you’re feeling. He seems like he’s enjoying himself, too, a calm content washed over him. 

You bite the inside of your cheek, “I can feel your heartbeat.” 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” It’s a lie, but you know his tells enough to discern that something is on his mind, “It’s beating really fast.”

“Oh. You tend to have that effect on me.” He answers quickly. Easily. You realise then that Sakusa has never been one to lie, especially not to you. He leads you into a spin before pulling you into him once again, closer this time. 

There's several beats where you just… stare at one another, no words exchanged. The song fades from your senses, the music that once put you in a trance failing to pull your attention away from Sakusa.

You want so badly to kiss him, it’s all you can think about. You wonder if he feels the same.

The thought doesn’t feel as scary as it did three months ago, when he caught you crying on the floor of his penthouse, eyes dripping with tears that just wouldn’t stop coming. That memory feels like a blur now, distant and small. Sakusa has a way of making all of your problems feel small.

“What are we?” You blurt unceremoniously, before the courage escapes you, “What is this?”

“I’ve been trying to decipher that myself. I–” Sakusa flushes at your forwardness, a strawberry blush melting across his cheeks, “I… have a very big crush on you.”

“Oh.” Something light flutters in your chest. 

“And I want to continue seeing you, but I don’t want you to feel like I’m… manipulating you.”  He exhales, tense shoulders relaxing with the motion. This truth must have weighed heavy on his heart, “Especially because—”

“Because I’m your housekeeper."

“I mean—Yeah. I just—” He murmurs, emotions swelling in his chest with such intensity he might burst, “I’ve never done this before, but I—”

He’s interrupted as the song draws to an end, and the MC announces loudly that the events of the night are truly over, and wishes everyone a safe journey home. The murmurs in the room raise a few octaves as the remaining guests bid everyone goodnight. 

But Sakusa can’t let the moment escape him, not when he’s been building this courage for days, weeks, months. His hands envelop yours, holding them in the small space between the two of you, breathless like he himself can’t believe he’s saying all of this, “—But I’d like to try. At whatever pace you decide.”

You take in his pained expression, the anguish in his voice. Sakusa has shown you nothing but kindness in the short time you’ve known him, and perhaps against your better judgment, you trust him. He’s never belittled you, or made you feel small. Sakusa makes you feel a lot of things, but unimportant is not one of them. Even now, as you’re wearing a dress paid for by him in a venue you only have access to because of him, he’s still looking for you to acknowledge him. The word equals comes to mind. Respect. Sakusa gives and gives and gives, and doesn't expect anything in return, happily accepting whatever piece of you you’re willing to share.

You find your hands returning a reassuring squeeze. Once, twice, three times, “Let’s go back to yours, yeah?”

&&&

“There’s so much I don’t know about you.”

“There’s not much to know.” 

You’re still in your dress, but your heels have been discarded, placing all of your faith in his balcony railing as you lean over it, arms folded on the cool metal. Sakusa’s still in his suit, his jacket long put away, sleeves pushed back to reveal a tasteful amount of forearm. He leans on the railing alongside you, his bicep pressing against yours, something amber swirling in the short crystal class he just can’t seem to put down. 

The moon is bright tonight, feeling closer somehow. Like you could reach up and pull it down if you wanted to. You wonder quietly to yourself if you really are closer from this height. 

“I've been wondering about you for so long, you know. You’re pretty mysterious.”

You snort, poking fun, “Ooo, mysterious, he says.”

“You are,” He insists, “For the longest time, I thought you were… kidnapped, or something. The first time we met, I genuinely thought something terrible had happened. I thought about filing a report to the police if you hadn’t come back.”

You wave a dismissive hand at his overactive imagination, “It’s not that… Exciting.” You huff a laugh. It’s dry. Hollow. You find the strength to keep speaking.

“I was, uh, in a really bad relationship for a long time. He told me a lot of terrible things about myself, things I eventually began to internalize. Beliefs about myself I’m still trying to dismantle. I did eventually find the courage to leave him, but I had to abandon everything to make sure he wouldn’t find me. I thought I had planned everything perfectly—I thought I had all my credits to graduate—But I’m missing just one class. Can you believe that? A fucking intro-level history elective is all I needed to—” A burning frustration claws its way up your throat, your eyes stinging at the memory. You take a steadying breath, finding your voice again. You shake your head. You’ve cried about this enough times, “—So I never got my degree. And it’s been so long, there’s a good chance all my credits have expired. If I go back to school, it won’t just be the one class. I’ll have to climb the ladder all over again.”

When he doesn’t answer, you keep rambling. You realize you’ve never told anyone your story. Hadn’t been around people who cared enough to ask. 

“I left home. Left everything. My parents. My friends. My job. Some days I regret it, I just feel so fucking stupid. Burned through all my savings that it’d be impossible to even try going back to school, especially now with my work schedule. I couldn’t face them again. Not like this.”

You feel bad for trauma dumping on him, but he literally asked. You find yourself apologizing anyways, mentally kicking yourself for oversharing, “Sorry. Look, I don’t expect you to say anything—”

“I think that’s very brave.” His voice is steady, thumb swiping at a tear you hadn’t realized was falling. The small kindness breaks you, and you lean into his touch, feeling more tears escape from the corner of your eyes, “And you’re incredibly strong to have made it so far on your own. You have a lot to be proud of.”

“I’m so fucked.” You whisper, scared to believe it. Sakusa’s touch doesn’t falter, “It’s all fucked.”

“It’s never too late.”

“Even for me?”

“Expecially for you.”

Redirection. You need redirection. A distraction. Something to shift the attention from you. You shove your shoulder against his to dispel some of the tension in your body. It doesn’t lighten the mood, it’s just plain awkward. You shouldn't be surprised when you feel he doesn’t budge even a little bit. Fucking athletes. "What about you?”

He looks confused, “What about me?”

“You’re pretty mysterious, too, all things considered.” You sniffle and it’s so gross. A horribly wet sound. It reminds you of the first time you met.  “Like, why are there no photos in your house? How do you keep your place so goddamn clean? And who gave you the stuffed bear plushie you keep on your bed?” 

“Oh,” a shy smile, “You saw that?” 

“I’ve seen every corner of this house,” You inform him, “Of course I saw it.”

“Well, my story isn’t very interesting.” He sighs, swirling the liquor at the bottom of his glass, “My father is a shareholder for several major banks in East Asia, just like his father, and his father before him. He moved to Singapore when I was very young, and my mother joined him right after I graduated high school. I don’t see them often. My siblings are all much older than me and have their own lives—Some don’t even live in Japan. The only time I see them is around New Year’s, and even then, it’s common that a few of them don’t make the trip.” 

He shares this information as if he were talking about the weather. Detached, like he was talking about the cast of a TV show and not members of his own family. It’s clear that he’s digested and accepted these facts as truth. 

But there’s some hurt lingering there. 

“I spent a lot of time alone. I think I wasn’t socialized enough as a child and it’s made me…” He trails off, searching for the words. A sad shadow glazes over his eyes, “... The way I am now, I suppose. Sometimes I feel like everyone except me got the handbook on how to be a human being, and I get to chase behind them, playing catch-up. But with volleyball, I don’t have to think.” He explains, a silver lining in an otherwise unhappy tale, “I don’t have to guess. I can just play, and play well. And it’s enough.”

You think about a younger version of him. Always alone. A life of luxury with nobody to spend it with. Maybe the grass isn’t always greener.

“And the bear?” You ask, just to be annoying.

Another soft smile. It takes great effort to not swoon.

“I stole it from my sister right before she moved out. I don’t have many memories of her from that time, but the memories I do have are good ones. She took care of me more than my mom did sometimes. She would read to me for hours; teaching me how to spell my own name and count to 100 forwards and backwards. I think I just wanted to have a piece of her when she was gone. I doubt she even knows I have it.” 

You nod your head, listening earnestly, taking in his admission. What a fucking night. The runaway drop-out and the lonely olympian. What a pair, the two of you make. Geez.

“Could I have some?” You ask, gesturing to the last bit of whiskey in his drink. He hands it over easily, fingers brushing against yours. 

“Please take it. I should really slow down anyways. We aren’t allowed to drink much in season, so when I get the chance, I just—” He sighs, pushing back a handful of messy curls from his eyes. It doesn’t work. The curls rebel, flopping back right where they were, “Go crazy, I guess. Sometimes I feel like I can’t socialize without it. Like it makes me a better version of myself. More pleasant to be around, at a minimum.” He shakes his head at himself, “Hopeless, huh?” 

You tip your head back and empty the glass, sifting through his words to find what he isn’t saying. It burns the whole way down. Is he drinking because you’re here? Because he wants to impress you? The thought makes you frown. The thought that he would change anything about himself for anyone makes you unreasonably unhappy.

“There’s nothing hopeless about you.” Your tone is serious, turning your body to face him. You grab his arm to gain his full attention. His eyes find yours immediately, something tired in his gaze, “And I find you pleasant to be around regardless.”

The weight of his stare is almost unbearable. Neither of you move. He’s too close, yet not close enough. If you lean forward you probably could—

You break the silence, afraid of your own desires, “Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like—” Like you want to kiss me. Like I’m something to be cherished. You gesture vaguely in his direction, turning your head away, “That.”

“Y/N, look at me. Please, look at me.” His expression softens then, leaning impossibly closer, a delicate finger rising to push the base of your chin back toward him. Well, not really pushing, just there, a silent request. Against better judgment, you turn your head to face him again, “You’re going to have to be more specific.”

“Like… Like you want to kiss me.” You struggle to get out the words, face burning with the effort it takes to be vulnerable before another person.

“And if I did kiss you,” His nose brushes against yours, lips hovering above yours, “Would that be okay?”

He’s so sweet, so considerate, so attentive to your needs—You could hit him. Yes, obviously, you want to say. You should pommel him for making you wait so long. But that’s not important right now. The space between you feels larger than it ever has, and you lead the charge, lifting your head the rest of the way and closing the gap that separates you.

Kissing Sakusa Kiyoomi is unlike anything you could have imagined.

It’s slow at first, lips molding together in a delicate rhythm, letting you taste him, letting you feel him out at whatever pace you like. Your free hand slides to hug the side of his neck, pulling him deeper into the kiss. You feel him smile against your lips, taking the glass from your hand and smoothly setting it on the patio table behind him, kissing you the whole way. His hands return to your hips, pressing into you with his thumbs. His touch is grounding. Reassuring. And so, so real. This is real. Sakusa is really kissing you and it's really good. 

You pull apart every so slightly, connected by a thin string of saliva. His nose is still touching yours, lips brushing when he speaks. 

“I like you so much.” He murmurs against your lips, “Tell me what to do and I’ll do it. Tell me what you want and it’s yours.”

“You,” You breathe, because it's true. There’s nothing more you want in this moment than him, “I just want you, Kiyoomi.”

It’s the first time you’ve ever said his name and he moans at the sound, slotting his lips against yours in another bone-melting kiss. 

You bite his lip to get a reaction from him, and he moans again, louder than before, sliding his hand to the small of your back to press you harder against him, adjusting his leg to press in between yours, putting pressure up against your—Oh. Oh. 

Now, where did he learn that?

The pressure makes you squeak, and you feel him smile against your lips. You moan at the sensation, kissing him deeper, harder, bringing your hands up to his shoulders to tangle into the delicate hair curling at his nape. The desire you feel for him is an all-consuming fire, something red-hot coiling in the base of your stomach and getting warmer by the second. His fingers trail feather-light patterns onto your thighs, subtly pulling your dress up higher and higher until—-

“Do you… Want to go inside?” You could laugh at his politeness. You’d fuck him right here on the balcony.

“Yeah.” Your voice is hoarse when you answer, “Let’s.”

He guides you by the hand to his bedroom, looking back to steal shy glances as he leads you deeper into his home. You’ve travelled these halls several times over, been in this exact bedroom enough times that you could navigate it blind. But the air is different, this time. Hotter. Electric. Charged. The walls feel closer somehow, the room smaller altogether, like there’s less space between the two of you. In some strange poetic way, maybe there is.

He sits himself on the edge of the bed, languidly guiding you to stand between his legs. It’s not often that someone towers over Sakusa Kiyoomi, and yet here he is, looking up at you like a penitent would when praying, begging for forgiveness, seeking resolution. He takes a shuddering breath. 

“You looked beautiful tonight.”He presses kisses into the soft planes of your stomach, looking up at you through dark lashes, “I couldn’t stop staring at you. I still can't."

His hair is a tangled mess of curls from when you were pulling on it earlier. He looks wild. Desperate. He looks like he’s in love. 

Your hand drifts to the top of his head again, running your fingers through the loose curls here and there, twirling them this way and that. Kiyoomi absolutely melts into the touch, eyes closed like he’s dreaming. This moment, built on months of stolen glances and lingering touches. This moment, a house of cards. 

“Kiyoomi.” You say his name, just because you can. His eyes flutter open, bringing himself back to reality, caught in a dream that feels like you, you, you. A dark set of onyx eyes bore into yours, attentive, wanting. You could ask him for anything and he’d give it to you, “Take off my clothes.”

He’s on his feet in an instant, towering over you once again. His fingers trail over your hips and trace up your spine before stopping at your zipper, pausing for a moment. His eyes meet yours in silent inquiry. Are you sure, they seem to say, is this really what you want?

You’ve never wanted anything more than you want him. Nothing seems to exist outside of the four walls of Kiyoomi’s bedroom. Nothing else even matters. You stand on your tiptoes to kiss the bride of his nose in response. He nods, once, a firm reassurance mostly to himself. Securing his fingers around the cool metal, he drags the zipper down, lower and lower and lower until—

With a slight roll of your shoulders, your dress falls to the floor around you. You stand exposed before him, wearing nothing but a strapless bra and thin cotton panties. You feel shy under his stare. It’s not even a matching set.

Kiyoomi could care less. It’s clear you’re precious to him, a callused hand reaching out to feel you. Hesitant, like he can’t believe it. “I’ve been wanting to eat you out all night. Will you let me?”

You offer a shy nod, arms raising instinctively to cover your chest. His hand jerks, itching to pull your arms away, but stops himself. He wants you to give into him, willinging, easily. Soft, like earthen clay in a potter's hand. He doesn’t want to force anything from you. 

“Lay back, love.” But you can see his restraint weaken by the second. You sit on the edge of the bed, laying back to rest on your elbows. You lift your head to take a peak at the man before you, feeling brave.

There’s something so satisfying about a grown man on his knees.

Grabbing your legs, he shuffles closer, leaving dainty kisses in odd spots that are much too sensitive. He kisses your ankle, the sides of your knees, the soft skin of your inner thighs—so light, it could all be a dream. You jolt every time he touches you, not quite used to the sensations after going so long without it, and he hums quite reassurances each time, pressing his affections into your skin. You don’t think anyone has touched you the way Kiyoomi’s touching you now. You don’t think anyone else could.

Then he does something so glorious, so delightful, so intimate—it has you gasping his name through sharp intakes of breath.

Kiyoomi digs his fingers into the soles of your feet and massages.

You throw your head back and mewl as you feel your body turn to play-doh, stuck somewhere between a half-laugh and a half-moan.

He smothers a smile into your thighs, kissing and nipping the skin there, now working the other foot, “Yeah?”

“Fuck yeah,” You exhale long and heavy, “That feels good.”

Feeling your body go lax, he hooks his arms around your thighs, pulling your lower half to the very edge of the bed. The sudden display of strength surprises you and you squeal, much to Kiyoomi’s delight. Like this, he’s mere inches from your most private areas, your panties doing little to hide your arousal. His fingers trail the insides of your thighs again, so close to where you need them most. He rests his head on the tender flesh there, comfortable. Like he belongs there, nestled between your legs.

“Do you want me to take care of you?” His voice is like velvet, dark chocolate, so heavy and deep that you feel him in your bones. His hand searches for yours in the fluff of the duvet, slipping his fingers in the space between yours and giving you a comforting squeeze. Once, twice, then three times, holding firm. 

Words escape you, so you nod. Holding your gaze, he dips down, and licks a long, wet stripe from your cunt to your clit, then kisses it.

Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit—

He peels away to slide your panties from your legs, then returns to his spot between your thighs, closer this time. You can feel his breath fan over you. You can’t run from him, not like this. Kiyoomi licks his lips, eyes looking up at yours expectantly.

“Holy shit,” You squirm, “Just hurry up and—”

“I said: Do you want me to take care of you?” He asks again, more firm this time, heavy hands pressing against you, holding you still. It’s clear he wants a verbal response. Wants you to acknowledge that you want this, just as badly as he does.

“Yes.” You squeak, “I want you to take care of me. I want us to take care of each other.”

Kiyoomi eats like a man starved. 

It’s obscene, the way drags his tongue through your folds, repeating the motion over and over, easing you into the feeling. He’s studying you, you think. Trying to figure out what makes you arch, finding the spots that have your voice twisting up into pretty cries of his name. 

It’s a steady, rhythmic pleasure. It has you opening up to him without even realizing, legs spreading wider as he buries his face deeper. Everything is wet—His face, your thighs, the delicate spot between him. It drips down his chin in clear, sticky streaks. He sucks on your clit and you gasp, back arching, your free hand flying down to fuck up his hair for a second time tonight.

“You taste so good,” You feel him groan into your cunt, repeating the motion, “Thought about this for so long.”

You don’t have time to pick through what he just said. Something hot has been building in the pit of your stomach for a while now, coiling so tight your release could find you any second. The pleasure is so intense that you try to pull away, but Kiyoomi tracks your movement, lifting your legs into his shoulders and preventing any additional squirming. He maintains the rhythm with his tongue, not stopping for anything. Relentless.

You’re shaking now, breathless. He’s still holding your hand from earlier, your fingers tangled up in one another's. Something so sweet to balance something so vulgar, and when you do cum, you’re a sight to behold. Kiyoomi wants to etch it all into his memory: The arch of your back, the beads of sweat lining the valley between your breasts, the way you pull at his hair and say his name. 

He works you through it all, stopping only once you’re twitching and pushing his head away. You’re hypersensitive, your body a livewire. He gives you space and sits back on his heels, the lower half of his face slick with all that you gave him, hands folded politely in his lap as if awaiting instruction. You take a second to return to your body, limp and weightless.

You eye the strained imprint in his dress slacks and remember your words from earlier, that moment feeling so far away. I want us to take care of each other.

“Come here, Kiyoomi.” You rasp, sliding deeper into the bed until your head reaches the pillow. 

He’s on you in an instant, undoing the buttons of his dress shirt the whole way, lips melting against yours, shirt discarded on the floor. He bores you down into the plush fabric of his pillows, and you let him, wrapping your arms around his neck and wrapping your legs around his center, anchoring him there. The feeling of his skin on yours is intoxicating, all senses turned to Kiyoomi like a compass needle points North. You roll your hips against him, moaning when his tip catches your entrance through the fabric every so often.

“Fuck, wait,” He shudders around you, breathless, “We don’t have to go any further, you know. We can stop right here and I won’t be upset. Nothing has to change.”

He’s so cute, giving you an out when you clearly don’t want one. There’s not much you can offer Kiyoomi. You don’t come from a well-off family. You have no real money to your name. You still struggle to answer texts in a reasonable amount of time, and you never even got your license. All you have to offer is your love. This, you can give him. This, you can share.

“Take off your pants.” You say. Hopefully the message translates over.

He huffs a laugh, lifting himself from the bed to unclasp the buckle of his belt. You try not to ogle when he stands before you, bare. He’s… big. Everywhere. But you already knew that.

You’ve spent months stealing glances at one another, but that was different. This was intentional—You’re both here because you want to be. Only now do you notice the deep blush dusting the tops of his ears, the apples of his cheeks, the top of his chest.

You tell him he’s handsome, because it’s true. He doesn't respond, but your comment seems to stun him for a short moment. His blush grows deeper as he lowers himself onto the bed once again, kissing your forehead in silent thanks.

Raising up, he pulls your leg to rest against his chest, your foot dangling over his shoulder. Pupils blown wide, he wraps a hand around himself, guiding his cock over the soft folds of your cunt again and again, collecting the wet that’s pooled between your legs, slowly, slowly, slowly. 

“Are we going slow?” The weight of him is grounding, and there’s a burst of pleasure every time he puts pressure against your clit, making your breath hitch and body shake with the effort of staying still. You nod, unable to find your voice.

“I’ve got you.” He leans over you, bringing your legs to rest around his sides. He presses a kiss against your temple, your nose, your forehead, then finally your lips. Lining himself up, “I’m going to take good care of you.”

You gasp when the head of his cock pops past your entrance, sinking into you deeper. Fuck, he’s big. The stretch is uncomfortable until it’s not. It dissolves into a soothing pleasure, one that grows with every movement of his hips. It has you spreading your legs wider, opening up for him like a flower in the Spring, your nails sinking deeper into his back to bring him closer.

“That’s it.” He presses open-mouthed kisses down the slope of your neck, mumbling into the skin there, “You take me so well. You feel so good.”

“Oh my god—” 

“I know, love.” His hips come to a halt, fully seated inside of you. You gasp a pretty cry of his name. “I know.”

Kiyoomi’s thrusts are firm and full. You’re unable to think about what comes next. Yesterday, tomorrow—It doesn’t exist. You can only focus on the pleasured cinch of his brow, the feeling of another warm body pressed against yours, the movement of him inside of you.

“You’re so precious.” He groans, picking up speed. A hand snakes between you two to put pressure on your clit, rubbing tight circles there, “You feel amazing. You’re amazing.”

The sudden pleasure has your body tensing and relaxing in unpredictable bouts, legs shaking with all he’s giving you. There’s a pressure building where he’s touching you, snowballing into a feeling so intense you’re almost scared of it. 

You bring both hands to the sides of his face, searching for more of him to hold on to, reminding yourself that this is all very real. Kiyoomi’s eyes flutter closed as you press your lips against his, bringing you both closer and closer to the edge. 

Your release finds you like a wave breaking against the shoreline, ripples of pleasure overwhelming your senses and leaving you floating in its aftermath. Spilling, plunging, collapsing, surging—Kiyoomi fucks you through it all, groaning from the way you squeeze him impossible tighter, your foreheads still touching, sharing every breath.

“Fuck, darling, I’m gonna—” He hisses through clenched teeth, pulling out fully to stroke himself the rest of the way, looming over you.

Sakusa Kiyoomi is beautiful when he comes. 

His brows are cinched tight, eyes squeezed shut in deep bliss. He’s panting, covered in the thin sheen of sweat, the muscles of his biceps flexing deliciously with the rapid flicks of his wrist. You hungrily watch as his abs clench and roll as he brings himself closer to the edge. He gasps, eyes flying open, cupping a hand around himself to catch his release. It doesn’t work. There’s so much that it drips through his fingers and onto your stomach in warm, sticky strings. He’s shaking. 

“Fuck, sorry. I figured you wouldn’t want me to—” He eyes the mess he left on your stomach, genuinely apologetic, “I’ll get us a towel.”

You push back a laugh as you watch him scramble to the bathroom to get a hand towel, feeling too tired to come up with something witty to say. Your limbs feel far off, and you have to wiggle your toes to make sure they’re there.

Kiyoomi returns with a warm towel, and cleans you off with such care it almost lulls you to sleep. He makes you get up to pee, then brings you a glass of water. He makes you drink it all.

“What happens now?” You ask, in bed again. You’re tucked protectively into Kiyoomi’s chest, his arms a safe haven. Your cheek is smooshed against him, so your words are muffled.

His fingers thrum against your back, rubbing soft circles with his thumbs. He dips his chin to meet your gaze, eager, unadulterated, reliable. He presses a kiss against your temple, your nose, your forehead. 

“Now it’s like you said. Now we take care of each other.”

&&&

You rise the next morning feeling like you slept for eons, rested in a way you haven't been for a long time. You wake up Kiyoomi with a warm mouth and a hot tongue. He kisses you in thanks, after you swallow, then returns the favor twice over. 

He makes you breakfast. It’s colorful and healthy and balanced, and he makes sure you eat all of it. He tries to convince you to have seconds.

“I want you to go back to school.” He says once breakfast is finished, your plates not yet cleared from the table, “I—I will pay for you to go back to school.”

“That’s… very nice of you.” The sudden shift in conversation startles you, “But the issue isn’t just the cost of school. It’s my job, too. Everything, really. Life. It’d just be too much to manage.”

He considers your dilemma for a quiet moment, “You should quit.”

“I am not quitting my job.” You sputter. It’s all I have, you don’t say.

“I mean—I don’t want to take your autonomy, but I don’t mind helping you cover bills." He offers, “You could work part-time, if you want. Maybe at another job, even.”

“This is too much, I–”

“It’s not too much” He silences your pleas, “It’s what you deserve. You’re amazing. Brilliant. We take care of each other, remember?” He breaks the silence when you don’t speak. “Just think about it. And if you need help paying for other stuff, I don’t mind doing that either.”

You can hardly believe what you’re hearing, “Are you trying to be my sugar daddy or something?” “I’m trying to be whatever you want me to be.” He takes your hand and kisses your knuckles, squeezing once, twice, three times. “So long as I’m yours.”

Hello again. I’m doing well. Moved across the country (again). TL;DR I broke my laptop that had allllllll my 100+ wips and it curbed my passion for writing. I had so many AUs planned—I just felt behind and overwhelmed (even tho writing on Tumblr is literally so chill lmao I just get in my head about stupid stuff), so I just stopped posting altogether. That was like 2 years ago. That’s totally my bad. 

On a positive note I got a new computer! Then I girbossed a little too close to the sun and got accepted into a Neuroscience PhD program, and that soaks up all of my time as you can imagine.

By some small miracle, the draft of this story was the only one that was backed up onto my iCloud for whatever reason (because I write in my notes app lmfao its all about the ~aesthetic~). 

I’m working on new ideas now (and re-writing some old ones that got lost) and I do plan on posting more (and maybe writing for other characters but idk my heart belongs to Kiyoomi 4lyfe) but I want to say it may not be all the time and sporadic as hell. I’m thinking of posting on AO3, too, since some people have mentioned they prefer reading on that site. I will update when that goes live if I decide to do that.

Anyways thanks for reading this far. And thank you to everyone who messaged me while I was away. I read every single one.

Feels good to be back. ♡

&&&

It’s fine that you leave. It’s not like he's holding you hostage. You’re free to make your own decisions. You’re both adults, after all.

So, like an adult, Kiyoomi goes to practice and works hard. Nails every set that comes his way and aims his serves with lethal precision. He pointedly ignores the chorus of wolf whistles that start up when they’re back in the locker room, responding to overly curious questions with a smug ‘Wouldn’t you like to know’ or ‘Not very work appropriate, Miya.”

Now that had earned him a growl, “Since when do you fuck?” 

“Since your mother asked me so nicely.”

“Don’t you fuckin’ talk about my—”

But Kiyoomi’s already gone, letting Atsumu’s rage fissile out of earshot as he slips out of the locker rooms and into the gymnasium, sneakers squeaking against the glossed court floor.

You’re there when he leaves, sitting on the bleachers as you type furiously on your laptop, the cutest scrunch between your brows as you focus on your task. You don’t seem to notice him, too deep into… whatever it is that you’re doing, so he clears his throat with an awkward wave.

“Hey.” He says, a little startled to see you, a little excited. A clipboard rests beside you, fixing a document in place that you’ve scribbled numbers all over, half the page covered in bouts of pink and purple highlighter. You’ve got your hair pulled up tight, face set into something pensive. “You look nice today. I like your hair.”

“Oh, hi. Thanks, Omi.” You smooth a hand over a lock of hair, twirling it around your fingers in focused circles, your expression melting into something warm, “You really think so? Trying something new.”

Ki, Kiyo, Yoomi, Yooms—You seem to be searching for every possible way to shorten his name. It always catches him off guard when you come up with a new one, taking steady breaths so his heart doesn’t beat out of his chest, lips fixed in a frown to fight down a smile. 

Kiyoomi nods—perhaps a bit too stiffly—remembering the way you looked last night, sleepy and satisfied and so, so cute. He wants to kiss you back into yesterday, when you were soap-soft and giggly, falling apart again and again as he worked you through it all, melting on his tongue like ice cream on a summer afternoon—

“Is… there something I can help you with?” You say when he doesn’t reply, and oh my god he’s been staring this entire time just say something Kiyoomi say anything—

“What… are you doing out here?” Jesus fucking Christ. 

“Working, if you can believe it.” You don’t seem to mind his presence, so maybe he’s not making a complete fool of himself. “The wifi in my office is shit, so I’m stuck out here until I finish this.”

“What are you working on?” He asks, craning his neck to see the source of your despair.

“Budget stuff.” You jot down a few more numbers on the sheet packed full of numbers, tilting the screen to give him a better view, “We need to order a million things before the season officially starts. This isn’t even technically in my job description.”

You tilt the screen to reveal a spreadsheet. Kiyoomi doesn’t understand much of it.

“Seems like a lot of math.”

“It is.” You hit the ‘enter’ key with perhaps too much force, “Putting my degree to use, I guess.”

“I thought you majored in English?”

“I did, but it’s all the same to them.” You dismiss him with a wave of your hand, “A degree is a degree. And someone has to order the charter bus for the game next week.”

That pulls a quiet laugh from him, “Maybe you could use a drink?”

Your eyes finally shift from the screen to meet his gaze, playful but intrigued, “Why? Are you offering?”

The effect is immediate, stomach fluttering as his chest thumps. It feels good to have all of your attention. He’s not too prideful to admit that.

“I—Yeah. Well, the guys are going out later. Team bonding, or something. You should come.” He feels a bit like a coward for using the team as a crutch, but he’d say anything to spend more time with you. “And before you ask: You are part of the team. Nobody would care about us if it wasn’t for you.”

“That’s not true. You’re all well-liked, with or without me.” Your disagreement is made clear when the scrunch between your brow returns, “Besides, nobody wants to get drunk with their PR manager.”

A half-truth. Managing their public images hasn’t been easy. Last month you had to deal with a leaked sex tape that looked suspiciously like one of the Miya twins. Bokuto can’t stop swearing during public interviews and Hinata almost got himself cancelled for inappropriate comments about the starting setter for the Schweiden Adlers. Even Kiyoomi has gotten heat in the media for turning down gifts from fans. You’ve got enough dirt on them to bury them several times over—It’s a miracle you have anything nice to say about them at all.

“I do.” He says before the courage leaves him. Kiyoomi likes that about you, too. Part of him wishes he could step into your world and experience life through your eyes—where everything is brighter, lighter, and forgiving. You always find ways to highlight the best parts of people, even when faced with the absolute worst. He figures that’s why you’re so good at your job. 

Still, he can see the uncertainty in your face about coming. “I want you to come. It would be nice if you came, I mean.” Then more quietly, “Only if you want to, though. No pressure.”

Kiyoomi is about to cut his losses, feeling like he’s pushed too far and revealed too much about himself, begging for a scrap of your attention like a dog at dinnertime. 

But you say something so astounding and unfathomable that Kiyoomi thinks he misheard you.

You say yes.

&&&

The bar they always go to is nearing empty. It’s almost midnight and still no sign of you.

The team is long gone by now since they do everything on an early schedule, including going out. Start drinking by 7pm, have your last drink around 9pm, then sober up enough to leave at 10pm to be ready for 8am practice the next day. That’s just how it goes.

So he sits in a corner booth, waiting for your silhouette to walk through the door when he probably should have left hours ago, his beer untouched and having lost all carbonation. He watches a guy on the other side of the bar completely miss his shot in a game of pool.

Huh, Kiyoomi thinks to himself, watching the condensation steadily slip down the glass, so this is what getting stood up feels like.

It just stings, more than anything else. The embarrassment is what kills him, really. You hadn’t even texted.

It begins to make sense the longer he dwells on it. It was ridiculous of him to invite you, and even more ridiculous for him to get his hopes up. Drinking with the team, really? You obviously want to maintain a professional relationship with him as much as possible, and that’s fine. He was stupid to think otherwise. Why would you jeopardize your career over him? This isn't a workplace romance.

It’s a thirty minute walk back to his apartment, but he could use the air. The trains are done for the night, so it’s not like he has a choice in the matter. Kiyoomi closes his tab, tugs on his jacket and heads for the door. 

He decides to take the long route anyways, hoping to pass through the livelier side of the city to drown the noise in his head. Stopped at the crosswalk, he waits for the light to change, when a shoulder shoves into him. It’s not a big deal. He did choose to walk through the part of town known for nightlife. Though, the thought of a drunk stranger emptying their stomach on the pavement beside him has Kiyoomi turning to look at just exactly who bumped into him.

“Oh.” He says, eyes wide, “Hey.”

“Hi.” You greet, brushing him off. The light changes and you start walking, Kiyoomi following a half-second after.

“You… ” He trails, taking longer strides to match your pace. You walk strikingly fast for someone so much shorter than him. “You didn’t show.”

You huff, walking faster. “You didn’t text.”

He… what? The only reason he didn’t text was because he didn’t want you to feel pressured. You don’t need him hounding you about an offer you seemed hesitant to accept in the first place. He was trying to be considerate, afraid to stretch his luck too far and ask for too much.

“Did you not want to come? I didn’t want you to feel I was forcing you.”

“I don’t know what to feel, Kiyoomi.”

The use of his full name makes his stomach drop, “Did you want me to text you?”

“I don’t want anything from you.” You spit, tucking yourself further into your thin cardigan. He can feel you slipping further from his reach. Kiyoomi can’t see any tears, but the tremor in your voice gives you away, “Not anymore. I just want to go home.”

“Then let me walk you.” He blurts, shrugging off his jacket to drape over your shoulders, “And it’s cold out, you should be wearing a thicker coat—”

You stop walking, whipping around so fast that it forces him to stop, too. The sudden loss of momentum makes him stumble, nearly taking you down with him. The crowd splits around you, suspending this moment in a bubble where it’s just you and him, pedestrians passing by in an indistinguishable blur.

He would have fallen if he didn’t reach out to steady you, one hand landing on your shoulder and the other around your waist. Kiyoomi’s hands retract as if burned, but the slip-up puts the two of you much closer. You don’t step back. 

“What is it that you want from me?” Your face is set into that firm expression again, the one that makes the cutest dip between your brows. Kiyoomi just wants to kiss it away, make it all better. 

“I want—” He tries, panicked eyes darting around your face to catch every microexpression. “I want whatever you want. I invited you tonight because I wanted an excuse to see you. I’m sorry I didn’t text. I didn’t want to push. Earlier it seemed like you didn’t want to come.”

“Of course I wanted to come! You’re just so—” You gesture towards him vaguely, “I don’t know! You don’t acknowledge me at work. You rarely text. You just followed me on Instagram. What am I supposed to think?”

Kiyoomi could rip his hair out. In hindsight, his choices seem nonsensical, but every decision had been a carefully calculated measure.

“Fuck, I was over-thinking.” He can feel his heartbeat in his throat, “I was overthinking it so bad—” 

You huff, adjusting his jacket over your shoulders. You don’t look convinced.

“I swear I was trying to do right by you. I didn’t know if you wanted other people to know, or if this was a casual thing, or if—”

“You could have talked to me, maybe?” You cut him off, “Fucking asked me?”

“I… didn’t have the guts to ask. I don’t know what I would have done if you just wanted to be friends.” The words catch in his throat. “I wouldn’t have known how to stand next to you at work and pretend that was enough. I still don’t.”

He’s rambling now, inhibitions now forgotten at the crosswalk when you first bumped into him.

“I think about you all the time. At practice, at home—” he gestures vaguely between you like that explains anything, “I replay every conversation we’ve had trying to figure out if I imagined it or if you actually—” he cuts himself off, “And then you leave. Every time, you just—leave. Like it didn’t mean a thing.” His voice drops, quieter now, shy. “And I didn’t know how to ask if it did.”

You’re both still blocking the walkway, the city moving around you in blurred streaks of noise and neon. Neither of you move, your fingers twitching at your side like you’re not sure what to do with them. Your mouth opens, then closes. For a second, it looks like you might say something.

You don’t.

Still, Kiyoomi holds your stare, refusing to be the one to look away first.

Finally you shake your head, but there’s no malice in it. Your voice comes out quieter than it should, “You are so fucking stupid.” 

“Yeah.” He agrees easily, no arguments to be made, “—But I can do things differently from now on. If you even want to continue this. I just—Let me walk you home? Please, can I walk you home?”

“I am home,” You gesture to the building behind you with a tilt of your head. “This is my apartment.”

Not that he would know. You’ve never invited him over.

Kiyoomi recalculates, face warm. “Let me walk you to your door?”

Your smile takes him by surprise, small as it is, keys jangling loudly as you pull them from your purse, “Sure. Don’t want to get lost, now do I?”

Your sarcasm fails to deter him. Kiyoomi is a man of his word, so he escorts you the final ten paces to your doorstep, not-so-discreetly wiping the sweat from his palms. 

“I have to know. What were you doing when you bumped into me earlier?”

Your gaze drops to your shoes, rocking slighting as you shift your weight from your heels to your toes then back.

“Being petty. I didn’t want to show up too late or too early. I was waiting for you to text me, so I wouldn’t look stupid.” You exhale a quiet laugh. “But you actually didn’t text me. And it suddenly felt like I was reading too deep into this. I was heading home when I saw you at the crosswalk.”

“Where’d you go for all that time?”

“The bar next door.” You snort, “I had drinks with my friend instead. They really helped me figure out my feelings.”

The thought of you dressed up, waiting anxiously for a text that never came makes Kiyoomi want to fall to his knees. Your friends probably hate him, too, and they’d be right to do so. It takes significant effort not to bang his head into the sidewalk.

“Could I…” He feels a flush creep up his neck, “Could I try again?”

You debate his question for a short while, Kiyoomi’s heart a sledgehammer in his chest. Clumsily shoving your keys into your bag, you extend a hand and give him your full name.

He scrambles to take it, your hand soft against his calloused palm, and it feels like something new. 

“Sakusa Kiyoomi.” He reintroduces himself with a firm shake and a boyish grin, “Are you doing anything next weekend?”

haiii the sun is out and i feel like a person again. its actually so embarrassing how slow i am at writing i totally understand if u want to stone me in the town square. i have like 5 longer wips to finish so expect more at some point in the future probably!!