Thank you for your dark business

Being in a don't tell me what to do mood, you proceed to noticeably chew the chocolate in your mouth faster paired with a charming middle finger waved in your partner's face. The effect is immediate with you grimacing at how the mint flavor becomes powdery and chalky as you chew the aero chocolate. Karasu's look towards you becomes smug, and he tilts his head in a way that annoys you to no end when he's cocky about something. Makes his devilish mouth even more prominent with the smile and looks he's sending your way.

"Didn't taste so great, did it?"

The frown on your face grows into a full blown pout before turning away from him. "...No." it's all but a mumble from you. You're too cute when you're grumpy like this is all Karasu can think.

There's a large hand grabbing you by the chin and deftly bringing your head to face your boyfriend again. With the way you are situated on the couch next to each other, you're forced to look up at him and that smug smile that just won't leave his face.

"D'ya want another piece?" Karasu's other hand is holding up a new small chocolate square. You glare at him a moment longer before nodding. He hums in approval before speaking again with something heavier in his tone. "Good. Now, open."

You huff a little give a heavy eyeroll up at the man's face before parting your lips wide enough to let him feed you. The grip on your jaw tightens slightly before he remarks. "tch. Tongue out. Now." You squint up at him in way that Karasu knows you're calling him a perv without saying out loud. There's more pressure on your cheeks.

He's smiling down at you with a level of arrogance and is speaking in a tone that makes your stomach flutter. "Now, please."

There's still an annoyance with him in your eyes, but you stick your tongue out. Karasu places the chocolate there and lets you close your mouth. The thumb on your cheek starts rubbing light circles in approval as he speaks. "Good. Now let it melt. In your mouth."

He doesn't take his eyes off your mouth and the way the corners of your lips tick up a bit as you listen and let the chocolate dissolve in your mouth.

The chocolate is light and smooth, and the coolness from the mint tingles in the way you like. It does taste better this way, and you know he knows your thinking that exact though. Karasu has an eyebrow quirked up and a smirk that screams "'Ts good, yeah? Told ya so" Letting it melt has the saliva pooling in your mouth in a way that's so full-

"Don't swallow yet." The whining mewl caught in the back of your throat has him chuckling at your antics. He leans down to bring his face closer to yours, "Ya didn't believe me the first time and remember how that worked out for you, love? Trust me. Let it melt completely, and then you can swallow." His breath is warm and your mouth is warm and suddenly everything is hot.

Fuck, you think, he's definitely using That Voice on purpose right now. The tone that's a lot smoother and a bit deeper than Karasu's normal speaking voice that has your insides melting and any actual thinking with your brain disappearing in a wink. Asshole.

You struggle to pinch your face into a look of frustration with your mouth now fully occupied, and he laughs again at how cute you don't even realize you're being. He’s definitely toying with you and enjoying every second of it.

After what feels like eons of letting the drool collect in your mouth to dissolve the lump of candy [that admittedly, does in fact taste insanely good], you have to swallow twice before you can open your mouth to tell your boyfriend off for being a perv about chocolate. Before you can say a word, you're swept up in a kiss that's almost all tongue.

Karasu's hand that never left your face till now slides back to cup your neck and he groans in approval when your returning kiss meets him halfway. There was still some excess saliva in your mouth that you feel slip down your chin that Karasu doesn't hesitate to lick up before going back to kissing you. Freak. He pulls away and there's an evident sheen on his lips that are back to smiling that arrogant smile.

"Mmm. Sweet. Thanks babe."

"And what," you make a show of wiping your face with the sleeve of the hoodie you're wearing, "was the point of that little display, exactly?"

Karasu perks up with eyes alight in a Thought you'd never ask kind of way. "That was, or better put, this candy," he shows you the individually wrapped chocolates he pulled from who knows where "is part of today's lesson: patience. No more rushing to get what you want all the time."

Your eyeroll and huff at his brat-taming antics in the form of "daily lessons" is all he gets as a response before you walk off to a different room with a door slam. He's insufferable in the way he acts at times like he knows you better than you know yourself, and this is one of those times.

What's worse is that you know he knows you liked the way he instructed you and held you close with a firm grip. He'll never get rough with you no matter how much you act up, but those moments when he gets controlling and in your space makes your brain foggy and breathing unsteady in the best possible way.

Karasu is unsurprised and grins bigger when not 10 minutes after your dramatic storm off, you're cozying up next to him on the couch and grumbling. "...Can I have more please."

a/n: i don’t know there’s just. Something so frustratingly hot when being forced to admit your partner is right about something trivial like in this scenario. To me at least ahah. This candy also works as a “minute of silence” tool if I’m yapping nonstop and Karasu just wants to shut me up for a second because he knows I’m a sucker for candy, especially chocolate. -_- this is the aero chocolate btw!

—

Not counting your boss, there’s ten of you on the team. One happily bonded omega, seven betas – including you and Ino – and two alphas; Sakai, in her mid-to-late 30’s and Junya, who’s two years younger than you and already working his way to his next promotion. 

Nearly four months in, and you’ve finally gotten to a place where you don’t have the urge to flee any time either of them walks into the room. That’s progress.

Sakai’s got an omega of her own and Junya’s not interested in women, much less betas, and those facts should matter, they should make a difference, but they don’t.

Still. Baby steps.

—

There’s butterflies in your stomach. Not the kind you used to get back in school, making eyes across the room with your crush. Not the type to leave you warm and giddy. You feel faintly ill. 

Your hands are clammy too, but short of anyone reaching for a handshake or a hug – unlikely – that’s a problem you can deal with.

You’ve been at Kuroo’s for twenty minutes already and the game doesn’t start for another fifteen. 

You wander around with a glass of wine someone handed you that you haven’t touched, flitting on the outskirts of conversations that don’t include you, and while you do make an effort to appear present and attentive, laughing when everyone else does, a hum of agreement here and there, you find yourself more often that not staring at the furniture, the framed pictures on the walls. No specially lit trophy case or wall of medals, but–

“You look bored.”

The glass in your hand slips. Blame the sweaty palms or the way you spook like a startled animal – it crashes to the ground at your feet, shards of glass skittering across the floor, the wine you hadn’t touched drenching the front of your skirt and your shoes.

“Shit.”

Kuroo, who’d snuck up beside you, makes a choked noise of surprise. People stop talking, turn to gawk – only for a moment, but that moment stretches infinitely, in slow motion with a spotlight shined directly on you. Stupid, awkward, clumsy beta. Your cheeks burn.

“Anyone ever tell you you’re a jumpy little thing?” he drawls, nudging his shoulders teasingly against yours. Like you’re friends. Like this is funny. 

And that, more than the shards of shattered glass at your feet or the wine staining your clothes, cracks like a hammer to your defences.

“I, um–” your throat’s too dry. “Sorry. I’ll go get…” you’re backing away, stumbling over your heels when there’s a light, fleeting touch to your wrist.

A pretty, auburn haired omega you hadn’t noticed before stands at your side, next to Kuroo. She offers a small, reassuring smile, “Don’t worry about it,” she says. “I’ll clean this up. Bathroom’s just over there,” she points, “if you need a sec.”

You take the out. Not a word to Kuroo or her or anybody else, scarpering off without a backwards glance. 

There’s not a whole lot to be done for your skirt. With trembling hands and vision that blurs with stupid, ridiculous tears, you sponge it off best you can, leaving a giant wet spot that doesn’t look much better.

You need to pull yourself together.

It’d be bad enough if everyone out there were strangers you’d never have to see or speak to again, but these are the people you work with. They already believe you’re awkward and probably socially inept, you can’t have them thinking you’re going to unravel after a simple startle.

The worst part is, you’re fully aware this is an overreaction.

If you could, you’d change it. Rewire your brain so logic would overrule blind panic. One alpha hurt you, years ago. You can’t be spiralling into hysterics every time you’re forced into close proximity with another. By and large, alphas aren’t interested in betas, most won’t pay you a second thought, most don’t have bad intentions.

You need to get a fucking grip.

Deep breaths. Inhale through your nose, hold it, exhale through your mouth. Inhale, hold–

Exhale. 

You breathe like that until your hands stop trembling and your pulse calms down. Until you don’t feel hunted, and when you stare in the mirror and school your features into something less haunted, still wan, still a little wide-eyed, the image of it holds.

As good as it’ll get.

You emerge from the bathroom steadier than when you went in, but rather than slipping back into the fray, you head for the balcony. The sun’s set, it’s cooler outside and you desperately need another minute to just breathe. 

This time, you see him coming. Clock him peeling away from his friends’ conversation to follow you out. Dark haired, glasses, handsome with a somewhat serious mien. An alpha. He’s in a few of the photos you’ve seen tonight – the last of Kuroo’s packmates, if you had to guess, though if anyone mentioned his name, you’ve since forgotten it. 

He stops a few feet away, leaning against the railing, head tilted your way. Casual, relaxed. Not far enough. 

Your heart thuds off kilter.

“He wasn’t trying to be an asshole,” the stranger says after a long beat, the corners of his lips twitching upwards. “It’s a natural talent of his, unfortunately.”

“W-what?”

“Kuroo,” he elaborates. “With the wine and all that. He wasn’t looking to scare you off.”

“Oh.” You swallow hard. “Um, yeah. No, it’s– it’s fine… Sorry I broke one of your glasses.”

“I think we’ll survive the loss.” 

You don’t get it. He’s smiling, lightening the mood with dry humour, apologising for his packmate. There’s no move to close the distance between you, no hint of hostility or derision, and none of it is the slightest bit reassuring. None of it eases the prickling on the back of your neck or the vice-like constriction around your lungs. You turn to face the view, the glittering city lights miles away set against the violet sky, the whisper of a breeze blowing. It’s beautiful. Peaceful – or it would be, if he wasn’t boring holes into you with those flat, blue-grey eyes. 

“Since I doubt Kuroo said anything, I’m Akaas–”

He’s cut off by someone calling your name. Both of you turn on instinct, you half expect it to be Ino, but standing in the open doorway, a faint frown marring her otherwise flawless face, is Sakai.

“The game’s about to start,” the female alpha says, a sharp, assessing gaze flickering between you two. It softens fractionally when it finally settles on you. “You should come back inside. It’s cold out here.”

You can count on your fingers the number of times Sakai’s spoken directly to you when it wasn’t work related. There’s no mistaking the concern etched in her brow, though. The look she flicks the other alpha when you wordlessly scurry past him.

She steps back, giving you plenty of space to get past her, and for the first time you wonder if the carefully maintained distance between you hasn’t entirely been a one-sided endeavour.

In a quiet voice, she asks, “You okay?”

“Mhm,” you lie. 

—

Six days later, you’re waiting on the ground floor for the eternally slow elevator to ride up to your office when a woman steps up behind you, an omega, if the sweet scent of honeysuckle is anything to go by.

Since you don’t make it a habit to ogle random omegas, you simply shift a bit to the side to give her more space, attention already sliding back to the digital display above the elevator, tracking its crawling descent. For the life of you, you cannot understand how in a twenty storey building with three elevators, only one ever seems to be working at a time. 

“Hi,” she says.

You don’t glance over, positive that she’s talking to somebody else. It’s only when there’s no immediate response, not even a tinny echo from down a phone line, that you turn to look at her fully, and in doing so, realise she’s speaking to you. 

“… Hi,” you parrot back, awkwardly and a beat too late.

And then it hits you.

Auburn hair, pretty smile. You couldn’t smell the honeysuckle that night because, well, you weren’t exactly working at full capacity, what with your incoming breakdown and all. But you recognise her face now that you’re looking at her properly.

“Himari,” she supplies, not perturbed in the slightest. “I’m Himari, we met at Kuroo’s for the opening match the other night, I don’t know if you remember…” she trails off.

“Yeah, I remember.” Burned into your memory, more like. “Thank you, by the way.” 

She waves off your gratitude as the elevator finally deigns to arrive. Both of you step inside, you first, with Himari behind you. “Which floor?” you ask, punching in fifteen for yourself. 

“Eighteen.” 

…Where Kuroo and the rest of the JVA work. Huh. 

You suppose it makes sense. She was standing by Kuroo at the time, had offered to clean up the mess, which strongly suggested she was familiar navigating their home, either a close friend or their–

“You um, you and Kuroo?” you ask. With the sweater, skirt and boots combo she’s wearing, you can’t spot any claiming marks, but omegas aren’t always about flaunting those things. “You’re their mate?” 

She blushes a darling pink. “Well, kind of. Almost. But I’m actually really glad I ran into you.”

The elevator climbs.

“You…are?”

She laughs, “Yeah, I am. I think we should go get coffee.”

The invite, if you can call it that, isn’t the strangest thing she could’ve come out with. People in elevators probably get asked out for coffee on a semi-regular basis. Doesn’t make this situation any less bizarre. 

“Coffee?”

“Or boba, or matcha, tea. Milkshakes. The beverage isn’t really the important bit.” She may as well be speaking French for how you blink uncomprehendingly at her. “Here, pass me your phone, let me give you my number.” 

She holds out an expectant hand, and without conscious thought you dig through your purse and pass it to her, unlocked. 

She hands it back a few seconds later, right as the elevator arrives on the fifteenth floor and the doors slide open.

“We’re gonna be good friends, I’ve got a sense for these kinda things.” She winks at you, “I’ll tell Kuroo you said hi.”

—

Back in high school, your best friend was an omega. She’s on the other side of the country now, all packed up and happily mated, but every now and then either she’ll reach out or you will, and it’s like no time’s passed at all. They can be finicky about odd things, and they get a little weird around their heats, but overall you’ve never had issues with omegas.

You don’t even have an issue with this omega. You’re just… a bit bewildered. 

It has to be pity, right? The chances that watching you spin out in a giant overreaction to an alpha striking up a conversation endeared you to her in any way are slim to none, you can’t understand what else it could be if not pity. 

There’s no denying you’re a mess – last week proved that –  you’re working on it, but you aren’t some broken doll for anyone to fawn over and fix.

And yet, in spite of those misgivings, here you are. Standing outside the cute little brunch spot she’d messaged you about, wondering, not for the first time, whether you’re overthinking things. There is a slight possibility, you can concede, maybe, that there is no ulterior motive. That Himari’s genuinely interested in being friends, terrible first impressions notwithstanding. You’re afraid a lot of the time. Overwhelmed and easily panicked, but you aren’t a coward. 

What’s the worst one over-friendly omega can do, you muse, dithering on the doorstep before you take a deep breath, force your shoulders to loosen and walk on in. 

The universe, ever giving, is quick to provide you an answer. 

In the cozy, well lit cafe, it’s easy to spot the auburn haired omega, and the tall, bespectacled alpha sitting beside her.

The sudden nausea that yanks deep in your belly, the panic sawing raggedly through your chest, those are familiar to you. Familiar, and deeply unpleasant.

He’s the one who catches sight of you first, a faint smile as he raises a hand in greeting.

You consider running. Well, running might be a bit dramatic. You consider ducking your head and sneaking out the door you just walked through, pretending you never saw them, never left home this morning, never responded to Himari’s messages at all. Much more rational. 

Himari follows the alpha’s gaze and lights up when she sees you, beaming like you’re old friends. 

Too late.

Mechanically, your legs jolt you forward. You work with alphas. You live and breathe and exist with alphas. You can handle coffee with one. 

“I’m so glad you came,” Himari gushes when you reach the table. She’s already standing, leaning in to give you a hug. From your experience, omegas aren’t usually all that touchy feely with strangers, but she pulls you close enough that you swear she’s trying to scent you. “You remember Akaashi, right?”

Akaashi. He hadn’t told you his name that night– no. Sakai had interrupted him before he had the chance. Now, he’s watching you with the same placid expression, seemingly unbothered by his almost-omega’s overt affection towards you.

“Yeah, we only spoke for a minute, though.” 

Akaashi hums, but chooses to say nothing. Fine by you.

“Anyway, don’t mind him,” Himari breezes on through. “If I’m out on my own for too long they get antsy, even if it’s just coffee with a friend. Trust me, if the other two weren’t busy, they’d be here, too.” She says it with an eye roll and a sigh, but there’s no real irritation there. Her hand’s resting on Akaashi’s, her chair tilted towards his. She thinks it’s dreamy. It sounds like the beginnings of a horror story to you. 

For her sake, you hope they loosen up a bit after they bond. If they bond. 

“You haven’t eaten, have you? This place does the most amazing pancakes. I know we said coffee, but you’ve got to try them. We can share if you’re not feeling all that hungry…?” she trails off with a hopeful expression.

“Uh, sure. Sounds good.” 

“Don’t. She’ll order the matcha mochi ones. No one deserves that.”

Himari turns on him, mouth agape in mock offense. “What’s wrong with matcha mochi pancakes?” she demands.

Akaashi doesn’t roll his eyes, but it’s a close thing. “Tea doesn’t belong on pancakes.” His voice carries no heat, only a familiar sort of exasperation that makes you think this is an argument they’ve had before. To you, he says, “The strawberry one they do is pretty popular, you should go for that instead.”

You do, in the end, order the strawberry pancakes. Not because you particularly want them – the thought of eating could not be any less appealing right now – but because it is easier than picking up a menu and trying to parse it out when your brain won’t cooperate with you, and not ordering food will only make this whole thing more awkward than it already is.

“So,” Himari begins after the waitress leaves with a promise to return shortly with your drinks, “Kuroo’s only told us the basics. You started at your job a few months ago, right? Were you already living here, or did you move to the city for work?”

And so it begins. 

You tell them bits and pieces. Nothing that comes close to touching your damage, nothing that you wouldn’t share with the friendly girl from your weekly, beta only yoga class.

You like your job just fine, but it wasn’t what you planned on doing career wise, you just sort of fell into it. No, you grew up in a smaller town down the coast, you’d be surprised if they recognised the name of it. You’ve been in the city for about a year now.  A few of your cousins live here too, which is nice.

Only child, though you always wanted a big sister. Yeah, your parents are both betas, too. Most of your family is. 

No, not really a volleyball fan, or a sports fan in general, but seeing the game was kind of cool, you guess. Your hobbies? Well, you’ve been getting into baking lately, um– stress baking. You’ve found a beginners yoga class nearby you like, even though you’re not great at it. 

When your food arrives, you take it for the blessing it is. 

You aren’t in the least bit hungry. You bite and chew and swallow, and all you can taste is the cloying sickliness of your own discomfort. But, with your mouth full and a stacked plate in front of you, there’s a temporary reprieve from the rapid fire interrogation, which means you’ll eat and be thankful for every bite. 

Himari pouts at your pancakes like they’ve personally wronged her, and you wonder why Akaashi bothered to order at all when he spends less time eating than he does staring across the table at you. You can’t decide if there’s too much going on behind the blank affect, or if he’s genuinely bored out of his mind listening to his girlfriend/omega/almost-mate pepper you with questions. 

To be polite, you ask a few in return between mouthfuls. How they met, whether she was a volleyball fan first, or if that came after, and while Himari answers each happily enough, it inevitably swings back to–

“What about you? You seeing anyone?”

“I’m married.” 

You don’t know why you say it. You aren’t and never have been, and as far as jokes go, it isn’t particularly funny. It becomes even less so when, in an almost creepy synchronicity, Akaashi and Himari’s expressions drop and they snap their attention down to your left hand. Your bare left hand.

Made you look. 

You chuckle awkwardly. Himari laughs, too, after she realises you’re joking. 

Akaashi doesn’t.

—

Late Tuesday, Kuroo strolls into your office. 

It’s well after six, which means the girls who work reception either already left for the day, or they took one look at the handsome alpha and let him pass regardless. 

You spot him from the corner of your eye, scanning the floor, and assume he’s there to corral some of his friend-slash-drinking buddies into heading off somewhere. Your plans involve the spreadsheet on your screen, and staying put at your desk until your boss finally finishes up for the night to head home. Four-ish months in, you don’t yet have the goodwill the others take for granted.

Ino left twenty minutes ago. Her workspace is neat and tidy, a few post-its stuck to the monitor, chair tucked in – until Kuroo pulls it out and collapses into it with a dramatic groan.

“You gonna stare at that thing all night?”

Your fingers freeze over the keyboard. “I have a deadline,” you manage to say.

Kuroo grins. Stretches his long legs out into your side of the desk, fingers laced over his lap. There’s no attempt for subtlety or discretion. Your boss’ in his office, door open, and while some of the office had left, plenty of your coworkers remain. If they weren’t watching this, gawking at the two of you, you’d eat your laptop. 

God, you’d give anything to just disappear right now.

“Well, lucky for you, I’m here to spring you. I need you.” When you don’t immediately jump to your feet and start gathering your things, he adds, “C’mon, it’s for Himari. Please?”

Himari. Why else?

She’s messaged you a few times since pancakes. Without her alphas hovering around, you find you actually kind of like the omega. She’s sweet, if a little… intense. 

You aren’t sure you like her enough for whatever this is, though. 

“I can’t, I’ve got–”

“A deadline, yeah, yeah, yeah, I heard. Thing is, I need your help, and it absolutely has to be tonight.”

“Kuroo–”

He rolls Ino’s chair closer. Your pulse ratchets in response. “Don’t make me beg. C’mon, you don’t want to be here for the next three hours pretending to work, do you?” You open your mouth again, and he cuts you off, again. “Your boss won’t care. It’s one night, help me out. Please?”

He takes you by the wrist and urges you to your feet, and though every cell inside you recoils at his touch, you let him, well aware of the audience the two of you have attracted. There’s a weight to the stares burning into the back of your head, the pindrop silence growing louder from the moment he sat down beside you. 

“I’ll– meet me downstairs. I need a few minutes to finish up,” you mutter, every word pulled from your teeth with hooks. 

“That’s my girl.” He raps his knuckles against Ino’s desk, satisfied in spite of the fact you resolutely won’t meet his gaze. “I’ll be out front.”

Kuroo stops briefly at your boss’ door on his way out, winking back at you and heat suffuses all the way to the tips of your ears. 

Mechanically, you gather your things, refusing to look up, to meet anyone’s stare or find out if they’re watching at all, now the show’s over. No one would’ve blinked if it were Ino, or any of the other betas in the office, but because it’s you, the new girl, the weirdly skittish one no one’s quite sure about yet, they’ll be whispering and giggling about it in the break room come morning, you’d bet money on it. 

Your boss’ office is situated between your desk and the front door, there’s no option but to walk right by, and with glass partitions, there’s no sneaking past. He glances up from his screen long enough to call out a friendly goodnight, and your shoulders drop another inch. 

Kuroo’s waiting for you by the elevators.

“Shall we?” 

Biting back a sigh, you offer a resigned nod. The ride down is near silent. You put as much space between you and him as the small confines of the metal car allows, as much as you think you can get away with without it coming across as rude, and Kuroo leans against the opposite wall and watches you do it with a stupid, irritating smirk. 

You’ve yet to meet the volleyball player, and Akaashi’s decidedly unsettling with all the dead-eyed staring, but Kuroo’s fast becoming your least favourite of Himari’s almost-mates. 

“Where are we going?” you ask when you finally have the space to breathe. And when can I leave? 

“Kuroo.”

It’s an echo of another night, another alpha too close when you were stripped down. Though the voice is much deeper, you turn half expecting to see Sakai by the door again, that same leery frown. Silly, because Sakai hadn’t been in these past two days, thanks to her omega’s heat, and the voice wasn’t calling for you. 

You both turn, and it’s Kuroo’s expression that drops. You recognise the alpha approaching. He looked bigger on Kuroo’s TV. Not physically – roughly the same height as his fellow alpha, the jacket he’s donned for the late autumn chill doing the bare minimum to mask his build –  just… more, somehow. Possibly because of the scolded puppy expression on his face.

Bokuto, though Himari only ever calls him Bo. 

Kuroo’s hand clamps down around your wrist, not tight, but firm, like you’re an errant child about to sprint blindly into traffic. “What happened to training?”

Bokuto shrugs, eyes shifting guiltily between you both. A non-answer. Eventually, he says, “We’re doing the thing, right?”

“The thing?” You tug at Kuroo’s grip, pulling back, but he doesn’t let you go. Not at first. Not until you make a strangled sort of noise, tugging harder, and his attention snaps like a rubber band back to you. He releases your wrist, plastering an easy grin on his face.

“You haven’t met Bokuto yet, have you?” 

You don’t particularly want to. 

“What thing?” you ask again, ignoring the other alpha. 

“Are you this prickly with everyone, or am I just lucky?” He doesn’t sound all that put off by the prospect. “The polite thing to do is say hello. He won’t bite.”

He’s joking. Of course he’s joking, Kuroo hasn’t wasted a single one of your interactions being serious, that doesn’t stop the ice that drips through your veins, the echo of abject terror slicing away at your insides. 

Without his hands on you, there’s nothing keeping you from stumbling a step backwards, and then another.

“I–” you swallow, something sharp lodged in your throat. You remember your manners long enough to glance in Bokuto’s general direction, “It’s nice to meet you, really,” you lie. “But I can’t do this tonight. Sorry,” you add hastily to Kuroo.

“Relax. We’re going shopping, it’s nothing nefarious, cross my heart.” He isn’t smiling anymore. Reaching out to stop you, a hand in the dark–

gripping your hair, blood dripping down your face

– “I– I can’t do this. I can’t,” you gasp out, jolting backwards.

“Alright, okay, that’s fine, we don’t have to do anything tonight,” he says. “But we should take you home. Neither of us,” he shares a look with Bokuto, “would feel good about leaving you on your own in this state.”

They’re tracking you, both of them. Every twitch, every inch you put between you, caught and catalogued. Kuroo’s palms are up in front of his chest placatingly. Bokuto looks like he’s a hairsbreadth from lunging at you, a fervent, frankly unsettling desperation bleeding through the loose, lax, ‘non-threatening alpha’ pose he adopts.

Pretending they both aren’t trying to hem you in. 

Around you, the street hums with activity. Office workers heading home, off to find somewhere to eat and drink the hours away. Friends catching up. Date night. Shoppers and tourists milling about. Plenty of bystanders and witnesses. If any of them spares the standoff between you three a second glance, they decide it’s not worth intervening. 

From the outside looking in, the alphas aren’t doing anything untoward, they aren’t threatening you, they aren’t even touching you. You’re the one falling to pieces over nothing.

“I-I’m fine.” Neither of them buy it. Wide eyed, trembling like a fawn, you suppose it isn’t all that convincing a performance. When it comes down to it, though, you don’t need them to believe you. You need them to heed it. “I can get an Uber.”

“What if– what if it was just me?” Bokuto offers. “Kuroo stays here, and I could take you home.”

As if Kuroo is the sole problem here. 

From the corner of your eye, you spy an empty taxi driving along the road, and you don’t think, your body moves with a will of its own, hand shooting out to hail it down. 

Your legs are steadier now there’s an escape route in sight. “Thanks. I’ll take the cab.”

There’s more you should say. Another apology, probably. The feigned politeness you hastily toss out in your bid for freedom won’t win you any favours. Tomorrow, later tonight maybe, you’ll curse yourself for it, remember the reason you walked out with Kuroo in the first place, and stew over what he might tell your coworkers. Your boss. 

Emotionally unstable. Paranoid. Bitchy. A few carefully placed words, and it all goes up in smoke. 

For now, you side step the two of them and slip into the cab with as much dignity as you can claw back.

You don’t properly exhale until they’re specks in the rearview mirror.

—

Blood drips from your face onto your forearms, onto the gravel beneath.

You can’t breathe through a busted, bloodied nose. You wail instead; choked, animal. Fingernails scrabble for purchase. Break. You can’t drag yourself away. You can’t move with the heavy weight draped over your back.

The pain like a hot knife thrust into your insides. 

And then– 

exponentially worse.

The taste of warm copper heavy on your tongue. You thought the bite would be the worst of it. The knot. 

‘Rookie, where the hell did you–!’

Four of them, featureless in the dark, obscured by tears. Arguing. Rough hands pulling at you both, yanking him away far, far too soon.

A shriek ripped from your lungs. Snarling. A warm splatter on the ground, seeping red. 

The haze of rage and fury, pounding in your head. Not yours.

More swearing. Snapping of teeth, fists meeting flesh. 

‘D’you wanna fuckin’ help me with him?!’ 

One hangs back. Watches you attempt to lift yourself up, crawl – but the agony swallows you whole. Spits you back out. 

‘Shit, shit, shit! Fuck– uhh, you’re gonna be fine. You’ll be okay. We’ll send for help. We’ll… we’ll– Fuck!’

And he runs. 

—

There’s no gasping breath as you wake. 

You don’t shoot bolt upright, clutching at your chest.  Your eyes open, adjust to the dim confines of your bedroom, and you wait for the paralysing dread to balefully relax its claws and slink back to the shadows it inhabits. 

The scar on your neck’s long since healed, fading into nothing as the bond did, but on nights like tonight, it throbs and itches and aches beneath your skin. A wound that never healed right. 

There’s no chance you’re going into work once the sun rises and the day begins proper. The reserves have bled dry, there’s nothing left in you to cobble together a convincing enough performance for your boss, your coworkers, Kuroo – any of them. You can’t even call it a decision, there’s no reality in which you roll out of bed in a few hours fully functional and go about your day like normal. 

Your normal is already a struggle. 

When you grab your phone, intending on setting an alarm to message your boss in a few hours’ time, an unopened notification from Himari catches your eye. 

kuroo said you left upset :c whatever they did, they’re idiots. 

And then, ten minutes after that:

can i come over? i think we should talk, no alphas just us girls <3 

Being that it is the very, very early hours of the morning, you don’t respond right away, but you will. She’s right, after all – the two of you do need to talk.

The second time you wake, sunlight’s beginning to creep through the gap in your blinds. 

The third time, when you finally drag yourself from bed, bleary eyed and bone weary, it’s well into the morning. 

You make coffee, eat breakfast. One of your cousins messaged you about catching up for dinner soon – a thin veneer for what is essentially a check in – you respond to her and then shoot a reply back to Himari as well. 

A few hours later finds her at your door, the brightness of her expression dimming when she takes in all that the long, scalding shower couldn’t wash away.

The air goes thick, redolent with her honeysuckle scent. 

“Oh, honey,” she sighs, and wraps you up in a hug.

Loosely, you return it. 

After messaging her your address, you’d gnawed at your lip and picked at your cuticles, pacing about and wondering how to broach it, what you’d tell her. In some ways, you’re strangers to each other. There’s something there, though. Fledgling and fragile, and you’re about to take a hammer to it.

And to do that, you have to tell her the truth. Problem is, you don’t know how. 

But before you can open your mouth, she’s drawing back, a soft crease between her brows, lips downturned. 

The words, “I feel like this is my fault,” are the very last thing you expect her to say. 

“What do you mean?”

She takes your hand in hers, soft and warm, and smiles a little sadly. “Come sit,” she says, which is a little weird when she’s not the one who lives here. Even so, you find yourself following along when she leads you to the couch, settling down beside her. 

“Have you ever been in love?”

You blink at her, surprised by the sudden left turn the conversation’s taken. 

“… No. Never.” Love always seemed like one of those things you’d get around to eventually. Once you finished school, once you figured out who you were, once you had a bit more life experience under your belt.

And then the goalpost shifted.

“Omegas don’t always have that luxury,” she says. “We get a choice with an invisible timer attached to it, counting down to an unknown point in time where our bodies turn on themselves and our heats eventually kill us.” 

None of this is news to you. No one likes to talk about it, but it’s a simple, brutal truth that every child learns at some point. One of the reasons you grew up thankful for your own boring beta biology. 

“We have a limited time to pick alphas who will treat us right, take care of us during our heats, provide for us, be good fathers to our kids, and once we do there’s no taking it back. Sometimes…” Himari breaks off, her eyes dropping to where your hands are joined. She sighs again, “They told me they wanted a beta mate.”

The quiet admission hits you in a delayed sort of reaction, the crack of a slap registering seconds before any pain does. Your eyes widen, but she misinterprets your shock, laughing gently.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that. I knew pretty much from the get-go, no surprises, no rugs pulled out from under anyone. I could’ve walked away if I wanted to, I just,” she shrugs, “didn’t want to. I thought it wouldn’t matter. They’d bite me, we’d bond and fall in love, and if one day they met someone, it wouldn’t take away from my own happiness. I’m not a jealous person. I want my alphas to have everything they want.”

Her eyes are beseeching when she squeezes your hand and delivers the final blow.

“But Kuroo came home one day, and he had this look on his face, and I thought– I thought if they liked you, and you liked them, we’d finally be able to bond. We’d be a pack, all of us. I gave them my blessing, and then I met you and–”

“I can’t,” the words slip out without you meaning them to. “… It can’t be me. I’m sorry.” 

Himari flinches, a tiny, likely involuntary response, but you catch it all the same. “You can’t give them a chance? Give me one? I know they came on a little strong, and that’s partially my fault, but–”

“In my first year at university, I was walking home from a friend’s place one night when I was attacked by an alpha in a rut.”

She falls silent, frozen and wide eyed. Whatever she thought you were about to say, it wasn’t that.

You tell her how you were jumped from behind and wrestled to the ground, how it was so dark that you never got a good look at him. You tell her about the other alphas that showed up after he’d raped, bitten and knotted you – his friends, presumably – the damage they did prying him away.

You tell her that they promised to send help, and they ran, and no one came. For hours. 

You tell her, briefly, about the months you spent in recovery, hindered by the bond sickness that quickly and brutally set in. 

By the time you’re finished, Himari’s got streaks of tears running down bloodless cheeks, gripping your hand so tightly you’d think she was the one clinging to a lifeline. 

There isn’t much to say after that. 

She hugs you on her way out, burying her face in the crook of your neck. “I’m sorry.” 

It isn’t her fault. Some things just are the way they are.

“Me too.”

And then she’s gone.

The silence in your apartment feels louder in her wake. 

There’s a few hours of daylight left yet, but you were exhausted when you woke up, and more so now. An exposed nerve, dredged up in the muck of your past, that leaves you feeling raw and deeply uncomfortable, now that you try to settle back on the same couch you spilled your guts on. 

TV might help, you eventually decide. You don’t particularly care what, anything to fill the silence, give you something to stare at rather than wallowing through the last two days. 

A knock at your door sounds just as you reach for the remote.

The only reason you get up at all is because you assume it’s Himari, having forgotten something. Your phone’s been on silent all day, left on the kitchen bench – if she’d messaged you after leaving, there’s every chance you wouldn’t’ve heard the notification go off.

Either Himari or a delivery driver with the wrong address.

Only, when you flick the lock and crack open your door, it isn’t the auburn haired omega standing on the other side, but one of her alphas.

“Bokuto?” You step back on instinct, fingers tightening on the doorknob. You force yourself to smile, to soften the image, grim as it may be. “Are you looking for Himari? She left like ten, fifteen minutes ago.”

For a split second, you think he’s just going to stand there, all six foot whatever of him, looming in your open doorway like a sentinel, and then–

A smile like wonder breaks across his face, “Fuck, say it again,” he groans out. 

He moves quicker than a man of his size has any right to it. A foot in the doorway first, stopping the door from slamming on him when you shove it with all your might, and then he’s in your apartment, catching it on the rebound and swinging it shut himself. 

Your mouth opens on a scream, but you never get the chance. Two steps, and he’s on you. A hand fisting through your hair, parted lips crashing into yours. “Say it again, baby. Please?” he groans lowly, attacking your lips again with a near feral desperation.

You can’t answer him even if you wanted to. 

Fear floods through you. There’s no kick of adrenaline to spark your feral resistance – you plummet into a pit. Sapped of what strength you have, a slow acting paralysis. Rather than the pilot, you’re demoted to a passenger, and it is all you can do to draw your palms up to his chest and shove ineffectually back while he wraps his free arm around your back to haul you closer.

Your elbows fold. You collapse against him wholly, every part of you entangled with him. His tongue hot in your mouth, the scent of him suffocating. 

He loosens his grip on your hair fractionally. Draws away from your lips only to mouth openly and suck at your jaw and the tender flesh beneath. 

You remember how to scream as an old, poorly healed wound throbs at the junction of your neck–

And his teeth dig in.

It’s lightning. The bond burns you from the inside out, robbing you of thought, of sight, of control. You are alight and in pain, clutching at him blindly, lips parted on a strangled whine, and he uses that disorientation to move you into your bedroom and onto the bed. 

“Missed you,” he pants, laying you down and caging you in from above. “Missed you, missed you, missed you so fuckin’ much.”

He rips through your clothes like they’re paper, treating each inch of exposed flesh like territory he needs to map and stake a claim upon. It’d strike another cord of terror if you weren’t half out of your mind with fear already, reckoning with the foreign and familiar sense of alpha forced into your chest.

Bokuto.

Tears brim and spill, and your eyes fall shut. Himari’s words echo in your head, over and over in a never ending loop. They wanted a beta mate.

An alpha in a rut is mindless and ferine. This is a conscious choice. 

Rough hands glide over your breasts, pinching and flicking at your nipples ‘til they peak under his touch, a low appreciative growl leaving his throat. “I know, baby, you missed me too. You shouldn’t’ve left.”

W-what?

Your eyes fly open of their own volition. Golden irises, sharp, focused, predatory, flit from your tits to the oozing bite on your neck to your tear stricken face, like he can’t decide which he likes looking at best. Somewhere between the door and now, he’s shed his hoodie. His own chest heaves above yours, not with tears or exertion – he’s barely broken a sweat so far – or terror like yours is, but quivering with excitement. Even without the waves of lust assaulting you down the bond, the strain of his erection pressing against his jeans is evidence enough.

And you remember the feel of it, splitting you apart. 

“Please, please, Bo,” you beg, adopting Himari’s nickname for the hulking alpha. Your alpha. Your mate. “You’ll hurt me again. I can’t,” you draw in a sharp, ragged breath, “I-I can’t–”

A quiet tearing sound, and cotton scraps of your underwear are shoved aside. 

“‘Course you can. We’ll take it nice and slow. It’s been a while, huh?” But his voice is thick and roughened, dripping with excitement, and he either doesn’t realise his hips are already jerking clumsily against yours, desperate for the friction, or doesn’t care enough to stop. His hands tremble when he settles back and fumbles for his belt buckle. “We love each other. We’re mates,” you whimper at the word, and the bond goes liquid between you, “This is how it’s s’posed to be.”

A year or so after you were attacked, your parents pushed you into taking self defence classes. On a rational level, you understood that what happened was a freak occurrence. The chances that anything similar would happen to you again were next to negligible. 

But you weren’t thinking rationally when you’d accidentally bump carts with an alpha while doing your groceries, or when one would take the seat next to yours on a busy train. 

Your parents were under the impression that if you had confidence in your ability to defend yourself – at least to the point of being able to escape – being around alphas in public wouldn’t be so hard on you. 

It was too early, maybe. The instructor was a beta, and the class split between betas and omegas, mostly women, but not all. That wasn’t a magic fix, though. The second anyone got too close, it didn’t matter their designation – you were right back in the alley.

No one ever said as much, but the truth became obvious fairly quickly. A thrown elbow might be enough to wind the slow moving omega trying to ‘overpower’ you. It wouldn’t stop the alpha twice your size, with a hold on you from inside yourself.

Metal clinks, the hiss of a zipper sliding down. Bokuto’s low, throaty groan sounds as he works at his own cock. He shifts forward, large, calloused hands sliding down your trembling thighs to push them further apart, all whilst his heavy cock bobs threateningly between you. Your tears come quicker, choked, frightened little sobs. You shake your head back and forth, pleading wordlessly with him – your alpha. Your mate. 

“Hold onto me, baby–” he grunts a little, moving your arms so they stretch over the back of his shoulders. “Yeah, like that. Good mate.”

Maybe if you sink your nails in, claw at his back. If one of your knees comes up, if you can just–

“Ready for me?” His cock slides along the seam of your pussy, a testing push at your entrance.

“Please,” you beg, your voice pitched and frantic. “Please, Bokuto, don–” 

Sharp, blinding pain. The shriek that replaces panicked pleas is smothered under another hungry, demanding kiss as he pushes his cock deeper.

Reality fractures. Gravel digs into your skin, the mattress springs creaking beneath your combined weight. You taste blood on your tongue, you taste him, his scent. It wraps around you. You’ve never been colder, exhausted in the darkened alley. Never burned hotter. Battered under a barrage of emotions that aren’t yours, held down, clawing at the ground, nails splitting, breaking, twisted in your own bedsheets, gasping, crying out. The panting in your ear. Snarling. Moans and grunts, the slick sound of your pussy squelching around him and his heavy balls smacking against the back of your thighs. 

Agony, ricocheting like forks of lighting. He doesn’t let up, won’t give you a second to adjust or squirm away. 

No matter his promises to take it slow, he fucks like it’s the only chance he’ll ever have to do so, like he’ll die if he can’t bury himself deep enough to reshape your insides around him. 

You don’t think it can get any worse, and then you feel the unmistakable swelling at the base of his cock, notching at your entrance on each downward stroke; his knot. 

There aren’t words for the visceral wave of terror that ripples through you, but you must clench down around him, because Bokuto moans loudly above you, cursing as he picks up the pace.

“My mate, all fucking mine,” he pants in your ear, hunched over you like an animal. 

Carried along with the motion of his thrusts, helpless, just a ragdoll tossed about beneath him. “You ca-n’t–” you cry out. “Bo, your kn-ot, pull out! You’ve g-gotta pull out–”

“Gonna knot you so fucking good,” he slurs out, “gonna keep you right there on the end of my dick all night. My mate.”

It all becomes too much, the force of Bokuto’s cock punching into you, the deluge from the bond, your memories, the pain and the sudden, stark terror.

Pushing, pushing, pushing, and then–

Unbearable fullness.

—

You come to some time later.

The light in your bedroom’s different. Golden, now. You blink blearily, a confused noise slipping out as you register the strange sensation between your legs. Stinging, an ache that throbs, and…

Warmth suffusing your core. 

Hands on your inner thighs, keeping them spread. A drag of something wet and hot along your pussy–

Bokuto appears in your eyeline, naked, loose, a dumb, satiated grin wide across his face. “Stay down, baby. ‘Kaashi just wanted a taste.”

You scramble back immediately, ignoring the sharp burst of pain moving so suddenly earns you. 

Laid out on his stomach between your spread legs, hair lightly mussed, glasses gone, mouth and jaw glistening with– with you, Akaashi’s lips twitch faintly upwards.

“I don’t think I was done, angel,” he remarks with a dry laugh. “Not very good with instructions, are you?”

Your stomach churns, heart pounding sickly in your chest.

It isn’t the sight of the bloodied mark on your thigh that can only have been another bite, or Bokuto’s resumed pawing. It’s Akaashi’s eyes. You always thought them flat, cold and lifeless. Shark-like. Serial killer-esque if you were feeling particularly unkind.

Nosing along your thigh, nipping lightly just to hear the catch of your breath, they shine with an unsettling fervor, too bright. Too much. 

“I-I don’t think–”

“You don’t need to,” he tuts. He rises smoothly from his elbows and stalks up your frozen body. His lips, wet with the remnants of you and Bokuto, hover mere millimeters above yours.

You think he’s going to kiss you. You’re close enough to count his long, dark eyelashes, and every breath you take he shares. 

The hand that takes you by the throat is gentle, the touch dare you say loving in its caress – right up to the point it tightens. Not harshly enough to restrict your airway, not enough to bruise. Just enough so as to feel the jump of your pulse beneath his fingers, watch your eyes widen in instinctual fear.

Into your lips, he whispers, “That’s what you have your alphas for.”

—

Kuroo arrives a few hours later. 

The three of you are still in bed. You’re nestled between Bokuto and Akaashi, sweat slicked and shivering. The front door opens and you don’t even have the strength to flinch. There’s a soft thud, something heavy being set down, shoes kicked off and toed aside. A coat flung over the back of one of your chairs. 

Seconds later, he’s walking through your bedroom door like he belongs there, making a beeline for your bedside.

Ignoring for the moment Akaashi propped up between you two, he leans down and tilts your chin up for a languid, simmering kiss. “Hey, babe. Sorry I’m late.”

The noise that leaves you is a wounded, confused thing, but Kuroo just laughs. “They really wore you out, huh?”

“Might’ve waited if you’d showed up when you were supposed to,” Akaashi taunts with that half grin of his, a stray kiss pressed to the crown of your head, resting now back on his shoulder. 

Kuroo groans, scrubbing a hand through his already messy hair. “What was I supposed to do? Tell the division head to sort his own fucking problems?” 

Akaashi raises a brow and Bokuto makes a half-hearted grunt, sprawled face down over your chest and clearly more interested in napping. 

“Ugh, whatever.” He waves them both off with a huff, straightening up to start taking off his clothes.

There’s no dread, no flash of panic. There’s nothing but cold numbness inside of you, an echo of pain washed out by the contentedness of the two alphas you’re already bonded to.

Soon to be three. 

And though he doesn’t say anything to them, Akaashi kicks at Bokuto, and after a little grumbling from Bo, they both begin to withdraw, shifting you like a doll between them to make space for Kuroo to kneel on the mattress and crawl to you. You never thought of your bed as small before – it’s a double, and it’s only ever been you. With three alphas added into the mix, it feels claustrophobic.

Your whole apartment does.

You wonder how much of it shows on your face, because Kuroo snorts, cupping your tearstained cheek in his palm. “We can handle a bit of close quarters cuddling for a night, beta. We’ll have you back home in the nest tomorrow.” His smirk grows ever so slightly, “Could’ve picked out some new pieces just for you, if you hadn’t run off on us.”

“What… what about Himari?” you manage to croak. 

If you expect him to be bothered in any way at the reminder of his almost-omega, you’re sorely disappointed. Kuroo shrugs and drags the pad of his thumb over your bottom lip, “Home, I guess. Poor thing learned some hard truths today. Needed the space.” He presses down ‘til your they part and accept the digit. 

All she knows is that her capacity to be here is dwindling by the second.

“This is frying me.” 

From the corner of her eye, she sees those deep orange braids slide over Solayne's hiked up shoulders as she throws her head down on the desk. Her hands over her eyes cushion her fall.

She doesn't need to outwardly acknowledge the other woman's dramatics, but she definitely resonates with them; Being stuck in this small room—that can stand to be a few degrees warmer—with its shitty fluorescent lighting, rereading the same chapter and still not understanding the concept, has her feeling dumber and dumber. 

It’s probably not even her fault, maybe it’s the arbitrary way of teaching her professor has that makes it so difficult for her to understand his notes. Either way, she's ridiculously close to throwing in the towel. Who needs to stress over words when she could be relaxing with a self-care day or going to parties like her other peers? 

The thought of her parents hearing that is enough to snap her back to reality.

“Ámerei, I don’t think I can do this anymore.”

She blows out a breath, tucking a couple loose strands of her sew-in behind her ear. “Me neither.”

Sitting up with the rush of a new idea, Solayne's eyes widen with excitement. “You tryna eat? Matcha and brownies on me!”

It’s a tempting offer. Too tempting. An immediate ‘yes’ comes into her mind before she can even think twice about it … until she does.

Her teeth gnaw at her bottom lip, the last smudges of her lipgloss stuck to the pink skin despite having licked most of it off in the stress of studying. 

She can’t take another “study break.” Messing around with Solayne, she’s already pushed this off more than she should have. And now, her midterm for Qualitative Analysis is just two days away and she’s nearly clueless about the most heavily covered chapter on the test. This could make or break her grade for this class, and a dropped class is not something her parents can afford.

Solayne’s face falls before she can even break the news of this truth to her. 

Worry folds creases in her forehead and drags the corners of her lips downward. “I want to, Sol', but I can’t.” 

A groan. “I knew you were gonna say that.”

“I’m sorry!” A remorseful laugh tumbles out of her. “I can’t fail this midterm. That’s gonna be my ass if my parents see that.”

A second is spared by the other woman to dwell on the misfortune, only for her sadness to vanish within a second, leaving behind a look of indifference.

“Well!” She shrugs. “I know how I’m going to spend the rest of this study sesh.”

And with that, Solayne stretches across the table to collect her books, notes, laptop, and any pen or highlighter left behind—likely even sneaking some of Ámerei’s.

“Enjoy one for me,” Ámerei smiles sadly.

"Of course.” As she stands to shove her laptop into her purse, Solayne looks to her. "But, seriously, don't stress yourself out too much. You've been studying for this test for like a week straight now, and that class is notoriously hard. I'm sure your professor's gonna give y'all a curve."

Leaning back in her chair, butt aching from how long she's been sitting, Ámerei exhales softly. "I hope so. I could honestly really use it, because the way I've been failing these quizzes is ridiculous."

Solayne purses her lips with the shake of her head, zipping up her tote bag. "You'll be fine, you always are."

"I don't think so, Sol'." Her lips twist into a frown. "I've really been stressing—"

"And that's your problem right there," she announces as she throws the hefty bag over a shoulder. "You're stressing when you don't need to. If you've already done all that you can, there's nothing left for you to do but trust yourself."

There’s not much Ámerei can say to that. All she can do is bring her laptop close to continue studying.

Solayne scoffs. “You need to relax. You don’t gotta stop studying now, but at the very least, let tomorrow be your day off. You can’t cram the day before the test.”

“No … but I can review.”

“Review my ass,” she rolls her eyes. “What you need to do is have a nice, good smoke sesh. Use that to calm your ass down.”

Ámerei kisses her teeth, the sound slipping out before she can stop it. “Or I can use that valuable time to study some more, so I can boost my chances of passing this midterm.”

Dismissively, Solayne waves a hand, turning for the study room’s door. “Blazè-blah. Good luck with that,” she shrugs. “And, by the way, access to this room expires at four, so make sure you’re out of here before one of those fucking monitors catch you. They are not about to fine me for this.”

Chin resting in her palm, Ámerei doesn’t spare her a glance. Instead, she squints her strained eyes at the small text on her screen. “Stay safe.”

“You too, text you later!”

A second later comes the abrupt shut of the study room’s heavy door. Alone in peace and quiet, she lets out a sigh.

‘Time to take this chapter from the top.’

ᝰ

TRUE TO SOLAYNE’S IMPRESSION OF HER, Ámerei is cramming the day before the test. Or at least, she’s trying to.

A set alarm had her up by seven, and after rushing to get ready, she raced her way to the campus library to snag a room before they were booked out.

Now, it’s almost half-past 10, and she hasn’t been able to retain a single word of information splayed across her screen.

She pulls her scrunchie free from her hair to retie her ponytail for about the fifth time in the last fifteen minutes. Her eyes steal yet another glance at the time. She’s been here for almost two hours, and it’s starting to scare her how hard it is for her to focus.

Honestly, she’s starting to get the idea that Solayne was onto something. But, she can’t prove her right just yet.

So she thinks.

As she stares at the laptop, the words begin to swirl and the sentences stop making sense. Her eyes jump from line to line, unable to keep their spot. And the diagrams? They’re complete nonsense.

“Fuck me,” she mumbles, dropping her head into her hands.

For a moment, she stays frozen in that position, her mind searching itself for a solution to this madness. Her notes are useless, all the tutors for this class are booked up, and clearly reviewing this chapter isn’t doing anything. 

She’s ready to admit it.

Picking her head up and out of her hands, Ámerei reaches for her phone with bleary vision. It only gets to ring once. 

“Well if it isn’t my gorgeous friend! What can I do for you, my love?”

Her eyes flutter shut, holding back a sigh. “You were right—”

“Oouu!”

She squeezes her eyes tight, the shrill sound of Solayne’s voice piercing her ears.

“If those aren’t my favorite words to hear—so what does this mean?”

Peeling her eyes open, Ámerei peers down as she toys with the small, pink Tiffany pendant resting on her chest. “It means … I think I wanna take the edge off.”

Boisterous cackles fill her ears, the corners of her mouth rising. 

“You so fucking dramatic,” Solayne muses, her laughter dying down into an easy chuckle. “But, I got just the thing for you.”

She shifts in her seat, eager to hear her suggestion. 

“Now, unfortunately, I am busy today.”

The easy smile that graced her lips is wiped off in an instant as her spine straightens. “What?” She glares at her phone in betrayal.

“I know, I’m sorry! I owed Malaysia a favor, and she chose to cash it in today: I gotta drive her to and back from the mall.”

A soft groan leaves her as she throws her head back. 

“Don’t worry, though. A nice smoke by yourself every once in a while is the best thing you can do for yourself, swear. Just spark up, play some music or watch a show, eat some good food—you’re lit!”

Thinking about it for longer than a second, Ámerei finds herself taking to the idea. Smoking will definitely take her mind off of the stress of this midterm. And with that weight off of her shoulders, she can probably catch up on some of her hobbies. Like, playing in her makeup. It’s been too long since she last got cute or even played The Sims.

“M’kay.”

A squeal has her flinching. “Perfect! You’re gonna have so much fun. I know a guy that sells on campus. Good shit, too. He’s cool with Eren.”

“Who’s Eren?”

“You don’t remember? That one guy on the swim team Aneesa used to fuck with?”

Her face screws up in confusion, threaded brows pulling together. “No?”

“Uh—anyway—he’s friends with Eren, I bought from him a couple of times. Y’know, supporting a Black-owned business ‘n’ all that. But … y’know, I am loyal to my plug.”

Staring ahead at nothing in particular, Ámerei raises a brow as one corner of her lips quirk up. “Connie?”

“Well … yes!”

She laughs at her friend.

“And speaking of, I might link him tonight—y’know … for weed.”

“Weed, yeah, right,” she giggles.

“Mhm, anyway, I’ll send you his Insta when I find it. It’s the only way to cop from him.”

“Thanks, Sol’.”

“No problem,” she sings. “Let me know how the high goes. Kisses!”

“Bye.”

With a clear decision made, Ámerei wastes no time in packing her belongings and freeing up this room for the next suffering soul.

When she returns to her dorm, empty of Solayne’s presence, she picks out a simple outfit: black capri leggings and a cropped white tank top. 

As she pulls the skimpy top over her head, her phone pings with a notification from Instagram. Shirt on, she smooths the soft wrinkles out of it before grabbing up the device from her bed.

It was DM from Solayne—a shared profile. Before she can even respond, her phone buzzes with a new message:

His name is Onyankopon btw

Ámerei ‘hearts’ the message before clicking onto his page. There isn’t a face present anywhere on it, and no highlights to skim through. No tagged posts or even a name in the bio. There’s only one post up: a three photo carousel. 

The first photo is of his hand, the dark skin marked heavily with ink. One finger is adorned in a glistening ring and a tennis bracelet on his wrist. 

‘Well … at least he takes care of himself,’ she thinks, noting his clean nails and trimmed cuticles.

The second photo is an interior shot of a car, the model she isn’t sure of. All she recognizes is the sleek emblem that glints on the steering wheel—Genesis.

‘Expensive.’

The last photo is a perfect “off-guard.” A clear shot of his outfit. It’s crisp definition and high quality tells of the use of a professional camera. He had turned his face away just in time for it not to be caught in the photo. 

His arms were hidden by a Pelle Pelle jacket, but from the peak of his wrist, she can tell he’s covered in ink. At least his arms are.

‘Mysterious … okay, sure.’

The ‘like’ count on the post is off, and the comments are tame—limited, too. But, she can only imagine what the counts for each would be, seeing as he has a little over a thousand followers. She presses her lips together, telling herself that these little details about his account shouldn’t matter.

It’s not like she needs to know much about his morals or his character anyway, however, he does seem like the flashy type. She’s only hitting him up for a service—a product, really. 

Heading to his chat, she shoots him a quick message:

Hey, I was told you sell

Crashing onto her bed, she chews on her lip as she watches the chat. She’s not sure why she decides to wait on a response. Maybe it’s a testament to how much she needs this.

But luck is on her side. As she blinks, a new message appears in their chat:

Yea

She swallows, trying to think of what will be enough to cover her. She doesn’t buy often, and she definitely isn’t a casual smoker. After about a minute, her fingers type quickly.

How much for a gram?

Don’t sell less than a dub

Her head jerks back, stumped. What the hell is she going to do with all of that weed? Sure, it isn’t necessarily a huge amount, but she's definitely not going to make more than one blunt any time soon.

She guesses she’ll just have to leave the rest for Solayne. It’s that girl’s lucky day.

But Ima let it slide for uu

First time client deal

An unexpected scoff burst from her lips. A crinkle becomes evident in her brows as she ‘hearts’ his message.

Ty

This time, he ‘hearts’ her message. 

Whn uu want it ?

Today

Soon if you can, lol

2 ,by the big fountain statue ?

That's good, thank you

Aii

With just a small bit of time before their meetup, Ámerei does the next best thing to distract herself from the fate of her Qualitative Analysis grade: scroll through her TikTok’s 'For You' page.

ᝰ

THE SUN HANGS HIGH IN THE SKY, partly obscured by thick clouds. Crisp yet light winds blow gently, pushing around any stray leaves that have fallen to the ground.

It isn’t too cold, the slight breeze is something that Onyankopon doesn’t mind. He’s more concerned with the punctuality of this customer.

Her name, he doesn’t quite remember. Something with an ‘A.’ When he skimmed through her profile, he remembers thinking that it had a pretty spelling—that’s about as much as he recalls.

His saving grace will be recognizing her once he sees her, he’s always been good at remembering faces. That, and he doesn’t think he could forget hers.

She’s pretty from what he saw. Cute. But, that’s about as extreme as his thoughts went. A girl with a simple look, not that there’s anything wrong with that. Clean and minimal makeup, hair neatly styled and out of her face, and an affinity with the color blush pink.

A well-curated aesthetic to fit that of an influencer. If he has to bet, she probably has a sizable following on TikTok, posting content of her getting all done up for her viewers: “Get Ready With Me to Run Some Errands;” “Outfit of the day;” “Come With Me to Try This New Matcha Drink—”shit like that.

He doesn’t have a strong opinion regarding that. Just a blanket assumption regarding the information he was able to garner from her page. 

It’s funny; when she first messaged him, part of him thought it was someone else talking to him through her account. Simply using her face to lower his guard—possibly a nigga trying to set him up for something petty like another woman.

Then she asked him how much for a gram, and he went scouring through her account. It started making sense. It’s likely that she doesn’t smoke much, she doesn’t look like the type. And he doesn’t remember ever talking to her, so it couldn’t be a set-up … not from another man, at least.

So, he chose to be nice—this once. A first-time deal for a new client, even if this little $10 transaction is a waste of his time. His weed is good, he’s got confidence in his product. And hopefully, in seeing that he’s a business man willing to cater to any type of customer, she’ll admire that enough to become a regular. 

For a split second, he’s adverse to his own idea; A pretty girl like her doesn’t need to be facing blunts like that. Yet, just as quickly, the thought evaporates, because how much she smokes simply isn’t his business. And if she wants to smoke more of his weed, then that’s just more money for him.

His useless hypotheticals are put to stop when he notices movement in the near-distance; A sort of rushed walk of determination, heading in his direction.

For some reason, Onyankopon bites back a scoff. Everything about the way she is dressed confirms the character he’s created of her in his head.

‘Come With Me to Buy A Gram On My Way to Pilates!’

He almost laughs at the thought.

Glancing at the time on his phone, he notes that she’s almost ten minutes late. He’ll let it go just this once; “first-time client deal” and all. She’s just lucky today is one of his slower days.

Black hair, pressed flat and shining under the sun, sways with body behind her. It’s tucked behind her ears, showing off dangling earrings. A cropped, half-zipped sweater hangs boxy on her smaller frame and off of one shoulder, keeping her upper-half somewhat warm in this breeze.

As she gets closer, he notices the finer details of her. Like the subtle dewiness of her skin, the quiet definition of muscle beneath her moisturized skin, and the wispy lashes that perfectly frame her slender eyes.

Her pace slows as she comes to a pause before him, apprehension covering her like a shroud. Onyankopon relaxes his stance, trying to give off an air of gentleness so as to not spook her off. Then, he reminds himself that she’s not some deer in the forest that’ll run off at the faintest sound of a twig snapping.

“H-hi, Onyankopon? Did I say it right?”

Of course, her voice is soft. Real gentle, like … plush mink fabric. 

The blow of wind barely shifts in direction, yet that’s all he needs to smell the clean scent wafting off of her; warm and spicy, with an overall powdery essence. Not an overbearing smell. In fact, its projection is personal. She’d have to let him get close to smell more of it. 

Admittedly, it’s enticing enough to lure him in.

“Yeah,” he half-nods, staring down at her, conscious of making no sudden movements. 

“Okay.” A shy piece of laughter breaks from her, the corners of her eyes crinkling as her mouth opens to let the airy sound free. 

He gets a generous peak of her pink tongue and gums, and her white teeth—a “perfection” in hygiene that seems naturally characteristic of her.

“I was scared I approached the wrong person,” she says, laughter dying off. 

He wonders if she practiced this interaction. If she thought more than twice about what she’d ask him and how she’d ask it. Then, he tells himself to stop being a dickhead.

She’s not doing too bad. Someone like her—if she’s not smoking often—likely doesn’t get her own weed. She probably doesn’t even roll her own blunt, let alone crush the bud. 

No, she can’t risk getting anything under her nails or having her fingertips stink. Unless she uses a crusher, and not just any old crusher. It has to be cute, something pink to match her aesthetic.

“Nah, you good.” 

His gaze dips below her face for a split second, stealing a peak at her hands. As he suspected; a soft, milky pink color is painted over square-shaped nails that barely reach over the tips of her fingers.

She nods, glancing off to the side before clearing her throat. “Um—how much?”

“Ten.”

He sees the minuscule jump in her brows as she tries to conceal her shock. 

‘How much did she think it would cost?’

Nodding, she reaches for the tiny purse he hadn’t even seen tucked beneath her right arm. She barely rifles through it for more than a second.

“You don’t gotta give cash, just Zelle it.”

She freezes, eyes wide as she looks up at him. “Oh,” she mumbles. She fumbles to readjust the purse on her shoulder before getting her phone out.

The large iPhone is adorned in a powder-pink case. Her thumb does a great deal of stretching across the screen as she tries to type one-handed. She eventually gives up, using both hands.

“What’s your, um, number?” She stares down at her screen, thumbs hovering over the glass as they wait to enter his digits.

“You don’t wanna see the weed first?”

That same caught look returns to her face as she picks her head up. “Oh—shit. Sorry—”

A dry, amused snort leaves him as he finally allows himself to smile—albeit, a faint one. “I’m just fucking with you.”

“Oh, alright,” she snorts. The tense energy in her shoulders releases a bit.

“It’s in my car, can’t do this out in the open.”

She nods quickly, like she suddenly remembered the nature of this exchange. He turns to head to his car, silently calling for her to follow along. And she does.

Just a few inches from his side, he watches her from his peripheral vision. Another new thing he notices: the simplistic, earthy green slides on her feet, showing off her toes that match her nail set.

When they reach his car, he isn’t surprised that she’s stopped a few feet from it. He takes no offense to it, either. Instead, he opens his door, sliding into the driver’s seat. He does a quick reach over the console to retrieve a small dime bag from the glove box. 

Holding it between his thumb and forefinger, he toys with its seal as he nods over to her. “Take my number.”

Springing into action, she opens her phone back up to enter his number for the transaction. As he recites it, her fingers move quickly. 

“I’m sending a dollar first.” She peers up to look at him, her shiny lips parting as she inhales. “Just to make sure it’s the right … thing.”

“Do what you gotta do.”

He turns his head away to survey the scene—campus is quieter than usual, most students crowding the libraries or indoor lounge spaces to study for midterms.

It’s silent for a minute before his phone pings with a deposit notice. He gives her a confirming nod when she looks at him. Soon, she sends the remaining balance, asking him “ten dollars, right,” as if she didn’t remember the total. He answers her anyway, unsurprised by her trepid thoroughness. 

Before his phone can even sound with the confirmation of the remaining money sent, he outstretches his hand, offering the baggy.

She blinks, going “O-oh,” before gingerly taking it. 

“‘Preciate it,” he nods.

“Thank you.”

She gives him a genial, close-lipped smile before tucking the baggy away in one of her sweater pockets and turning to leave. He doesn’t check to see where she’s going or to even watch her go.

The encounter went just about how he expected it to. 

He can’t tell if she’d be back, though it’s not something he’d take to heart if she doesn’t. Girls like her are usually one-time customers, just from experience.

As he shuts his door, his phone pings with the notice of the rest of his money. He doesn’t check it, sure that she’d sent him those nine dollars, just like she was supposed to.

He turns on the engine, shortly pulling out of the parking space to continue the rest of his day.

WARM VANILLA, SUGARY CHOCOLATE, AND ANY OTHER GOURMAND SCENT she can think of, fills the small off-campus apartment, courtesy of the women present. There isn’t a moment of silence here. 

And it helps, not having to think too hard about how she’s still barely afloat in that class (which shall not be named); head just above water. All Ámerei wants to think about is how lit she can get tonight with her friends.

“And you’re sure y’all won’t get a violation for this?”

Resting across the short length of the olive green couch, Solayne watches the next woman closely, seated on the floor before her.

“Girl, yes,” Aneesa responds. Face buried in her phone, she doesn’t even spare a glance. “You know how many times me and My-My smoked in here?”

“Nah, facts,” Malaysia backs up, showing all thirty-two teeth as she recounts the many times they’ve gotten away with breaking the strict off-campus apartment rules. “We just gotta stick a towel under the front door and open some windows, we’ll be good!” 

Her boisterous, raspy confirmation brings Solayne and Ámerei peace.

“Oh, then, say less,” Solayne sighs out in relief.

“Yeah, and no one’s gonna snitch, even if they do smell it,” Aneesa adds.

Seated at the small kitchen island, Ámerei pulls an open bottle of a cranberry Prosecco wine closer to her as she watches her friends work out the plans for the night. Grabbing her cup, she replenishes on the bubbly drink as conversation continues amongst them.

“Only thing is … I'm out.” She bares her teeth in an expression of awkwardness, sucking in a breath of air. “All I got is papers." 

Aneesa's confession comes out with apprehension. Quickly, Solayne turns to Malaysia for hope.

"Facts," the second choice frowns, reaching to tug on a stray curl at the nape of her neck. "I do got cones, though."

"Fuck!" Solayne groans out. However, she quickly remembers Ámerei, looking to her roommate.

"Mei, you have any left?"

Malaysia and Aneesa look at their quiet friend in mild shock. 

The unsuspecting business major gawks at them with wide eyes, like she'd been caught in headlights. 

"Left? Girl, since when have you ever got any?" Malaysia asks, an incredulous smile on her face.

"I hooked her up with a plug," Solayne answers, popping out her tongue as she flips a good amount of braids over her shoulders.

With pursed lips, Aneesa looks her up and down, holding back a laugh. "And you look proud of it."

"Look at you," Malaysia shakes her head. "Corrupting the poor girl."

Swallowing a sip, Ámerei shakes her head, holding a hand out to catch their attention. "Hold on, she didn't corrupt me. I wanted to smoke—"

"Tell 'em," Solayne defends.

Ignoring the interjection, Ámerei continues smoothly. "And I only bought a gram, anyway. It was supposed to be a once in a blue moon type of thing."

Malaysia raises an eyebrow, watching the other woman with skepticism as she moves to the kitchen for a drink of her own. "You rolled?"

As Ámerei turns her head away to hide the growing smirk on her glossy pink lips, the others burst out into laughter. 

"Right," Aneesa laughs.

"Girl, you know she had me roll that shit for her when we came back from the mall,” Solayne confesses.

"I'm crying," Malaysia says, grabbing herself a cup and stealing the bottle of Prosecco.

"Well, I hope you still got that dealer's number, 'cause he's about to make a cute coin tonight." Pushing herself up from the ground, Aneesa heads for her room.

"But was his shit was good, though?" Cradling her cup, Malaysia reenters the living room space.

Ámerei nods. "Yeah, I liked it. Pretty smooth."

Solayne scoffs. "Girl, of course it was good. She got her shit from Onyankopon."

Just as those words had left her mouth, Aneesa emerged from her room, her wallet in hand. She pauses in her tracks. "Onyankopon?"

All heads turn to her, seeing the way her face screws up.

"Yeah, what's wrong?" Solayne asks, eyeing the woman as she rejoins their circle. 

She offers a weak eye roll. "Nothing, I just hate hearing about anything or anyone related to Eren." Her legs fold under her body as she takes her seat on the floor near the couch, wallet in-lap. "And what about Connie? We can't just get from him? I'm sure he'll give us, like, a discount—y'know, off the strength that it's you."

Both Ámerei and Malaysia glance at each other, cracking twin smiles as they catch the subtle shade.

Solayne only waves her off. "Oh, girl—please! And Connie not even on campus right now. He went home for the weekend." 

Malaysia scoffs, lifting her cup to her mouth. "Yeah, your ass would know," she mumbles into it.

Solayne looks at her with faux confusion. "Something was said?"

Ámerei giggles at the two. "Guys, it's fine. I can text, um, Onyankopon." Licking her lips, a bad habit of hers whenever she gets tipsy, she plucks up her phone to go straight to Instagram.

"How much should I ask for?" she asks as she taps around on the screen, brain lagging for a micro-second between each one.

"A quarter," Solayne offers.

"Bitch—no. Ask for a half, please, Ámerei."

Solayne scowls at Malaysia. "Fucking druggie."

A mini debate over the desired quantity breaks out amongst the women. One side argues that it'd be too much—after all, they're only going to be smoking for the night. The other proposes that they must consider the varying tolerance of the rest.

"Guys, c'mon," Ámerei cuts in. "I don't wanna text him then leave him hanging—"

"Relax, cry baby" Aneesa placates. "Just get the half. We'll split it, and whatever's leftover, whoever wants can get it."

Licking her lips, Ámerei begins to type in hers and Onyankopon's shared chat:

Hey

Can I get a half?

As she waits for his response, she chews at her bottom lip, careful to keep their chat open and her phone on. 

"What did he say?" Malaysia questions, leaning over her shoulder to see.

"He didn't respond yet," she mumbles as she picks up her cup. A shallow wave of dizziness hits her, but that only tells her to drink more.

Aneesa scoffs, folding her arms across her chest. "He must not want this money then."

Solayne smirks at her. "You don't wanna buy from this man so bad."

"Ou, he just texted back!" Malaysia announces. Turning back to look at the phone, she tells Ámerei: "Tell him we want it tonight."

"Calm down, you fein," Solayne says.

Blocking out the noise around her, Ámerei reads his response.

Whn uu want it

Tonight, pls

He 'hearts' her message before shooting back a reply.

Gotchu in 20

That's good, how much is it?

Once she sees the bubbles bounce on his side of their chat, she expects to see a response half-a-second later. So, she's a little bit surprised when it doesn't come.

In fact, her surprise morphs into confusion when the bubble disappears and reappears, repeating this dance for about a minute.

"The fuck? He don't know his own prices?" Malaysia says.

Aneesa rolls her eyes. "And this is who we're supposed to be buying from?"

"Shut up," Solayne groans.

Ámerei is about to swipe out of their chat when his message finally pops in.

Picking her head up from the phone, she earns the girls' attention. "He said it's $120."

"That's not too bad," Malaysia says.

The others agree, Aneesa with less enthusiasm than the others.

"Thirty each, okaaay," Solayne nods, a growing smile on her face.

Garnering the responses, Ámerei types back. 

That's good. Are we meeting at the same spot?

Yh

"Okay, it's set," she announces, much to the others' relief. "I just have to go pick it up by the statue on campus."

Aneesa blinks. "The statue? On campus?"

"Right, girl that's a cute … twenty-minute walk right there," Malaysia adds.

"Not only that—what do you mean you have to go pick it up? I hope you don't think we're letting you go out there by yourself?"

Ámerei glances around at her friends, noting the shift in energy. "I went by myself last time—"

"Mei, that was during the day," Solayne interjects, though she's careful to keep her voice light.

"Facts, you not about to get snatched up for some weed, going out there by yourself," Malaysia says.

Refraining from rolling her eyes—all too used to the protective nature of her friends regarding anyone belonging to their tight-knit group—she relents: "Okay, we'll all go, I don't care." 

She utilizes a tired laugh to disguise her slight irritation, but it doesn't go unnoticed, not by Solayne. However, it's ignored in favor of keeping the mood high. Besides, she doesn’t want to jump to any conclusions just yet.

ᝰ

THE AIR IS PERFECT TONIGHT, far warmer than the night of their last exchange—more humid, too. Her baby tee clings to her skin. With every step, the air brushes against her legs like the smooth pass of a blanket.

Her friends cling to her, their natural conversation floating around them. However, she doesn’t give much of her attention to their words. Instead, the brief memory of her last encounter with Onyankopon keeps her mind busy.

She questions why she was so nervous the first time. It was a simple transaction. Yet, it was all too easy for her to second-guess herself when it came to asking the right questions. She’s sure he could sense her nervousness, too. She likes to think that this time will be different.

As they round the corner on the path leading across the campus yard, Ámerei sees that tall figure leaning against the University’s trademark statue. 

The others spot him, too.

“Ugh,” Aneesa groans softly.

“Oh, hush,” Solayne butts in.

As they near him, Ámerei clutches the money tighter in hand, the folded bills soft in her grasp.

Tall street lamps line the path, casting soft warm spotlights around the manicured lawn. The closer they get, she notes how his body seems to evade most of it by where he stands.

Her feet pick up in stride, thong-slippers slapping the concrete as she's pushed to the front of the group as their new lead. Eventually, space grows between her and the girls. To which they don’t fail to notice, of course.

“Girl, where are you going?” Solayne asks.

A half-hearted motion is thrown in the general direction of the man, some odd-feet away, as Ámerei glances back at her. “He’s right there!”

They finally get within a good enough range of him, and a bolt of courage strikes throughout her.

“Hi,” she waves, coming to a stop before him, an easygoing smile on her lips.

Unlike last time, a durag covers the inky black waves on his head—royal blue. He looks every bit as comfortable as he portrays himself to be: Chrome Hearts hoodie, baggy sweats, and slides on his feet.

She wonders if her request had stolen him from the comfort of his bed.

A quick nod is sent her way as he pushes himself off of the statue. “Wassup.”

Going half-a-step closer, she looks up at him with low eyes. Her nose picks up the faint scent of his cologne, something she’s never smelt before; clean, floral yet woody—even a hint of amber.

It almost makes her mouth water. She squeezes the money tighter. Before she lets her mouth run unfiltered, she chooses instead to lick her lips and swallow her spit.

“You bought your friends?” 

The question sounds like an after-thought as he reaches down to retrieve a book bag by his feet, which she hadn’t noticed.

“Huh?” She glances back at the girls, seeing them converse amongst themselves, the occasional glance shot her way. “Oh, yeah,” she giggles.

As he reaches into his bag, he’s sure to keep his eyes on her.

“They, um, they didn’t want me to come alone … said it was dangerous.”

A half-hearted snort comes out of him. “They not wrong.” He pulls out a decently sized bag full of his product. The smell hits them immediately. “But how I know y’all not here to rob me?”

As the question leaves his mouth, he hands her the bag, a faint one-sided smirk on his lips.

A laugh bursts free from her. “I’m in flip-flops. I can’t run, even if I wanted to … I’m not fast.”

He hums in thought, glancing down at her toes so quick she almost misses it. “Could’a fooled me … would’a thought you did track or something,” he mumbles, analyzing her figure.

At the confession, her eyes almost bulge out of her head. “Track? I wish!” 

If his growing smile is anything to go by, he’s definitely amused.

“I, um, I-I do Pilates.” There’s an attempt to hide her own grin; she chews at her bottom lip.

“Yeah?”

She nods. “I wish I was more consistent, but yeah… I’m sorry, you didn’t ask that.” 

Her laugh is awkward, to say the least, yet she tries to quickly move past that; outstretching a hand, she offers him the money.

“You cool.” He takes the rolled up bills, quickly counting the cash before shoving it in the pocket of his sweats.

She nods, clutching the bag to her chest.

For a moment, they stare back at each other, waiting for the next prompt. He goes first.

“Y’all stay safe.”

She blinks, the corners of her mouth dropping just a fraction as she realizes this interaction is over. 

“You, too,” she nods before leaving first, heading back to her friends. She doesn’t glance back at him.

As she returns to the group, Solayne is the first one she makes eye contact with.

“Finally, I thought that shit would never end,” Aneesa starts.

Malaysia rubs her hands together, shoulders bouncing with glee. “Ouu, I can already smell it. Tonight’s gonna be so good!”

The journey back to the apartment doesn’t feel as long.

ᝰ

THERE’S A REASON WHY he tries to be on campus as little as possible. The slow-walkers and corny people, the dick-riding ass security guards, the useless administration, and overall atmosphere of the school is too much for him at times.

To make a long story short, Onyankopon doesn’t have the patience for this.

His body twists, narrowly avoiding colliding shoulders with another student. With the quiet kiss of his teeth, he shakes his head, thinking, ‘This exactly why I scheduled these classes back to back.’

He readjusts his grip on the cool grey metal of his laptop, clutching it to his chest. 

“Stupid ass nigga,” he mutters with the curl of his upper lip.

Outside’s cool breeze is shut out as he finally enters the second campus building—the location of his next class. He reaches up, readjusting his headphones over his skull-cap. 

The journey to his next class is a short one, thankfully: a quick ride up the escalator to the second floor, a walk down the west hall to room 158, and he’s there. Nothing longer than two minutes … usually.

However, this time is an exception. 

As he steps off of the escalator, eyes scanning the large hall as they typically do, his attention catches on something.

Someone.

In a small area off to the side is a cul-de-sac of benches for student seating. And it seems that he’s just caught Ámerei getting up from the bench, as she hangs her purse over her shoulder.

He’s not sure how to describe the emotion that fills him as he sees her glance back—in the midst of flipping her hair over her shoulder—at a guy just inches from her.

Mild shock? Surprise?

None of those words seem to qualify, because this is definitely something he should’ve expected.

But, he doesn’t remember seeing a post about a man or even a story-post involving one when he last saw her page—about two weeks ago when he was just curious about remembering her actual name.

Her glossed lips move at an excited pace as she turns to speak to the man, the apples of her cheeks rounded and high with a smile. 

His attention flicks over to the man himself, who stares in her face like it would kill him to not pay attention to her for even a second.

Onyankopon’s left brow twitches. 

It’s not unusual for people to not post their significant other. But, it makes sense that she has a nigga, he thinks. 

A pretty girl that keeps up with herself at all times. Her vibe gives off that she’s a woman of—at the very least—some kind of class, and she’s got money. She keeps herself healthy, dresses good, has good hygiene, nails done, hair done—overall, highly attractive.

And his type.

He blinks, swallowing back at the realization. Once more, he looks at the pair, catching them at the tail-end of a hug.

‘Noted.’

With practiced ease, Onyankopon turns the other way to head to class, right down the west hall.

Hey

Can I get a gram pls

THE MESSAGE FALLS DOWN ON HIS SCREEN AS HE SCROLLS THROUGH TIKTOK, currently in the middle of a compilation of basketball highlights—his idea of decompressing after finals. As soon as it was over, he raced back to his apartment, situated off of the campus.

Onyankopon isn’t too concerned about how he performed on the test. He did too well in that class to even think he could possibly fail.

It took him a moment to recognize the username, confused as to who would be asking him for a gram—especially knowing he doesn’t sell such a small amount. His lips press together with faint irritation as he views their chat. 

He hasn’t seen Ámerei around campus since that day … almost two months ago. Nor has he heard from her. Understandable. He doesn’t expect to hear back from or even frequently see the people he deals to often.

Admittedly, after seeing her with that other guy, he decided to keep his eyes to himself. Even if he wasn’t really looking that hard. He’s had enough of the drama that comes with people, especially when it comes to women.

Making money and finishing college, that’s his top priority.

was a new client deal

1 time only

Immediately after sending the message, he swipes back over to TikTok to resume his video. He’s only granted a few seconds of peace when a new message pops up:

Oh right, sorry

An eighth then

Whn uu want it

Rn...

At the sight of the message, Onyankopon squeezes his eyes shut and releases a deep sigh. 

So much for decompressing.

ᝰ

ONYANKOPON FINDS HER at the usual pick up location, looking the most stressed he’s ever seen her. He has to admit, he’d much rather see a smile on that face instead of a pout.

With furrowed brows, she stares off at nothing in particular. All the while, the tip of her thumb is pushed in between her lips, jaw working as she nibbles on her manicure.

He doesn’t announce his presence, only walks up to her. And upon seeing him, the tension in her narrow shoulders eases some.

“Hey,” she breathes out, taking a half-step towards him.

His hand clutches the strap of his book bag a bit tighter. “Wassup.” 

A tiny sigh falls from her lips as she looks off to the side. “Nothing, really … just stress, honestly.”

A curt hum leaves him as he brings his bag around to his front to get out the baggy.

“Y’know, with, like … finals, and everything…”

He nods. “Felt that.”

She peers up at Onyankopon, watching his face closely for any small signs of irritation. He shows none. However, she does notice something she’d never seen before—the small tattoo printed near his left ear.

“It was just so hard this semester, like…” she groans, looking off to the side again. “I don’t know. Sometimes I feel like I’m not cut for this college stuff.”

She chews at her bottom lip, partly noting his silence.

“Yeah,” he shrugs. “Ain’t nothing new, though.” Casually, he hands off the weed.

“No, I know, but…” Another sigh. “But this—it’s too much. Especially this round of finals. I honestly felt like … no matter how hard I studied, I still couldn’t understand anything. Like … my professor was so terrible! I just—ugh. I honestly want to get so fucking high I can’t even remember how bad I just bombed this final. I know I failed it.”

Her head drops in her hands, and Onyankopon is at a loss for words. The corners of his lips twitch as he’s actively trying to decide whether he should laugh or at least attempt to console her.

“I mean … you can’t be talking like that … or thinking like that.”

His voice picks her head up out of her hands. 

They stare at each other, each waiting to see who will move the ball first. Onyankopon almost cracks first.

Almost.

“Do … do you smoke?”

Confusion flashes across his face as the topic switch almost throws him off.

“Uh … occasionally?”

She nods, staring up at him with big eyes that seem to be soaking up everything in her line of sight—him.

“I only asked because … y’know, you … do this—” She gestures to the baggy in her grasp. “H-how often do you do it—smoke?”

He shrugs again. “Not much...”

Another nod, and it’s quiet again, but only for a very brief bit of time.

“Sorry—do you—did you have finals?”

He makes a face, brows scrunching up as the corners of his lips quirk up.

“I know you sell to people on campus, so—” She shakes her head. “That was a stupid question. I meant, what class did you have finals for?”

Hands in his pockets now, Onyankopon looks down at her. Eye contact is sparse at this point. Her fingers comb through the ends of her hair.

“Why you asking all these questions?”

That gets her attention; Her eyes bulge out of her head as she gawks up at him, seemingly having forgotten herself.

“Sorry, I was just curious—you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to!”

Under his stare, she shrinks in on herself, even begins to create a bit of space between them.

“I didn’t mean to, like, pry into your business—”

“You smoking alone?”

The question is enough to throw her off. Her brain shoots off about a hundred different thoughts before she’s able to stammer out an answer.

“Yeah … w-why?”

He’s quiet for a while, but it’s obvious that an idea has been set in motion. She can see it in his eyes. 

“Tryna chill with me?”

ᝰ

‘YOU DIDN’T SAY YOU LIVED HERE, my friends live in this building.’

Those words almost tumbled their way out of her mouth. Until she overthought it and predicted his “would-be” response: ‘Why would I tell you where I lived?’ That was enough to keep her quiet.

Oblivious to the metaphorical cloud hanging over Ámerei’s head, Onyankopon leads the way into his apartment. 

His stature—tall with broad shoulders—hides her view of his place for a moment. In that very short period of time, the pleasant scent of his home hits her nose.

The layout is similar to Malaysia and Aneesa’s apartment. The familiarity offers a bit of comfort.

Yet, it’s not enough to push her shoulders down or take the stiffness out of her gait. Following behind him, she is the living definition of meekness. Her palms sweat as they hold on tight to the baggy of weed she has yet to pay for.

“No shoes in the house,” he says, veering off to the side to toe-off his own.

Silently, she nods, removing her sneakers and setting them down near the door.

“You could sit on the couch if you want.” 

She glances over at the short sofa, littered with two small stuffed toys—a mini Mario and Luigi pair—sitting at opposite ends.

"Oh, that's cute." The words slip from her mouth without much of a thought.

"Huh?" He glances back to see her heading for the couch, reaching out for one of the stuffed toys. "Oh, shit, yeah," Onyankopon chuckles.

Stealing a spot, Ámerei easily plops down with the tiny Luigi in her hands. And she doesn't plan on letting him go any time soon. She pinches and twists at his little arms, even rubbing the pads of her thumbs over his smooth felt, as she watches Onyankopon move with absolutely no hurry around his home. 

She keeps trying to predict when he'll join her on the couch. Whenever he gets close enough for her to think so, her heart rate spikes, before she's flooded with both relief and disappointment as he walks away.

"You want something to drink?"

A light hum leaves her as she pretends to think. "What do you have?"

"Orange juice, water ... some orange Fanta."

"Um..." She rubs her lips together in thought, refusing to look up at him. "Mh ... no. It's okay."

"A'ight."

The soft padding of his feet melts away as he leaves the living room. In his time of absence, Ámerei wills herself to relax, even by just a little bit.

As she’s caught in the throes of trying to get her shoulders to—at the very least—not to hike up, Onyankopon reemerges with full hands.

"You could sit back, y'know. You not gon' get in trouble."

It takes half of a second for the joke to get to her. When it finally does, the corners of her eyes wrinkle as a gentle smile pulls at her face. "Oh, okay, sorry," she laughs lightly, pushing herself back onto the couch.

"You good," he mumbles, making his way over. 

On the short coffee table between the couch and TV, he sets down a rolling tray holding the necessary supplies needed for a smoke session. 

Although the couch is short, Onyankopon makes an effort to keep some distance between them, trying his best to give her a comfortable amount of space.

"You could roll?" He asks, bringing the tray into his lap and grabbing his crusher.

She glances down at his hands as he prepares his weed. "No. I just have my friends do it."

A scoff, partnered with the gentle shake of his head. "Knew it." A faint smirk lines his lips.

"Shut up.” 

She tries not to let her laughter linger for too long, however, her overthinking is done in vain as Onyankopon mumbles out yet another line.

“You and them girly-ass nails … can’t mess ‘em up, right?”

She blinks, her brain making an effort to keep up with this newfound trait of playful teasing within the stoic man. “W-well, of course not.”

His eyes stay glued to the paper in his fingers as he packs it with the crushed weed. “Yeah, they too … expensive, right? Just like all the other … shit you got on.”

Her glossy lips are parted, and they remain that way. Her gaze is no longer passive, but searching now. Searching for some kind of a reason for this teasing, and if it is truly playful.

A quiet scoff comes from him, just before he rolls the paper to form the first blunt.

“You pay for all that yourself?”

The rise and fall of her chest is more noticeable in the quiet that settles between them; him waiting on her answer, and her waiting on him to announce that he’s just playing with her.

“Are you trying to ask if I have my own money?”

His lips press together in a simple smile, almost like he’s laughing with himself, just before he lifts the blunt to his mouth to lick.

“That ain’t what I asked.”

It’s quiet as he finally seals the blunt. 

Their eyes meet.

He catches a flash of recognition across her face.

‘There she go,’ he thinks, suppressing a smirk.

“I do…”

Onyankopon grabs the lighter before reaching forward to place the tray down on the table. Sitting back on the couch, he rolls the flame beneath the blunt, turning it over the tiny fire.

She expects him to say something, another response to her answer, maybe? A new topic?

But, nothing comes.

All discussion goes out of the window as Onyankopon lights the packed blunt. He takes the first hit with ease. He only needs about two more pulls before he leaves it hanging between his lips to outstretch a hand her way.

“Hm.”

She looks down, seeing his palm open for something. She glances back up to catch him nodding towards the baggy beneath her arm.

“Oh…” She passes the bag over to him.

Wordlessly, she watches him take out the bud he’d sold her to crush down. It sort of impresses her, how fast he’s able to roll a blunt. And when it’s done, he lights it before carefully handing it over to her.

“Thank you.”

He nods lazily as she takes her first puff. 

“‘Thank you.’”

The soft, high-pitched voice almost makes her choke. She pulls the blunt from her lips, face twisted in a mixture of confused amusement. “Did you just … mock me?”

A small grunt leaves him as he readjusts to sit more comfortably on the couch and face her. He’s got an arm resting atop the back cushion, blunt in hand. He exhales the smoke through his nose.

“You got some good manners.”

There’s a calmness present in his voice that makes goosebumps rise on her skin.

His legs are spread wider. If he were to move by just an inch, their knees would bump together. The proximity alone is enough to make her slightly dizzy.

“‘Can I get a gram, please?’” He takes a pull. “‘Onyankopon—did I say it right?’”

A chuckle brews in his chest as her own embarrassment makes itself known on her face.

“Oh my gosh,” she laughs shyly, hiding the lower half of her face behind a hand. “Stop, I was being polite.”

He scratches at his chin, blunt dangling between his plump lips. 

“Yeah … you a good girl.”

A gentle wrinkle disturbs the smoothness between her brows. The urge to disprove him rears its head within her. She opens her mouth to retort, but he stops her before she can get the chance.

“Don’t gotta deny it,” he shrugs with the simple shake of his head. “It’s cool …”

Weakly, she rolls her eyes. “But why do I have to be that, though? I can’t just be normal?”

“You is. You a normal … good girl.” As he emphasized the word, Onyankopon made sure to keep eye contact. 

Her upper lip twists ever so slightly. It almost makes him laugh. Even her most sour face is polite—hardly offending. Even just chilling on his couch, her poster is straight and her head is held high.

“Nah, matter fact—you more like a princess.”

Ámerei gawks at the word. “A princess?”

His lips twitch into a smirk, clearly having fun with this.

“Stop—” She outstretches a hand towards him. “Stop playing with me.” But her attempt at strict delivery falls flat as a giggle bubbles out of her.

Onyankopon kisses his teeth, taking a hit as he turns his head away. “Acting all proper…” He exhales a thin cloud of smoke. 

“Bet you always follow the rules and shit … handing in your homework on time, studying for tests—”

“Like a regular student,” she defends.

Nevertheless, he continues: “Parents don’t even gotta worry about you going away for college.”

“I’m grown?” She raises a brow, a half-smile on her lips.

“Right, a ‘grown,’ goody-two-shoes … probably can’t even take dick.”

The statement almost feels like a stab to the chest—unexpected. Tingles echo through her skin. Those soft-spoken words shut her up immediately, and any semblance of a smile is wiped off of her face.

“Matter fact…” Onyankopon rasps. He reaches forward to ash his blunt on the tray, moving at a relaxed, unrushed pace. “I know you can’t take dick.”

When he sits back, his eyes bore into her again. “Too good to just fuck on any random ass nigga, right?”

She peers down at her hands as she plays with a ring on one of her fingers. For a moment, she loses herself in thought as she twists the dainty metal around.

“Well … I’m glad it’s so obvious that I don’t have sex.”

The words come out in almost a soft mumble. Yet, they’re loud enough to break him out of his weed-induced spell as he sits up just a little bit straighter, a rift appearing between his brows seconds before they lift up high. 

“What you mean?”

A quiet groan slips from her. “I’m a virgin … duh.”

For his reaction, she watches him closely out of the corner of her eye. And she can’t lie to herself, what she notices gives her a sense of … disappointment?

Onyankopon sits up entirely, turning his body away from her to look forward. His legs no longer spread as wide as before, increasing the amount of space between them.

‘Is he … not interested anymore?’

It throws her brain for a loop how quick he switched up on her. Was she not supposed to say that? It’s not like she was broadcasting the news to him—he started it!

Her chest caves in the longer she sits in this suffocating silence. She doesn’t even know what to say.

The blunt is fizzling out between her fingers, the paper itself growing damp from how much her hand sweats.

“Um—”

“You watching any shows right now?”

Ámerei doesn’t allow herself to remain stunned for longer than a second before she’s giving a nonverbal response; a shake of the head.

“A’ight,” he groans, reaching forward to grab the remote. 

He goes silent as he sifts through his Hulu account, flipping through titles to see what can best fit the vibe for this hangout (and even resuscitate it). 

“I-is there a problem?”

His eyes don’t stray from the screen before them, the TV speaker emitting low clicks as he moves onto the next title. “Nah…”

Her eyes narrow. “Why’d you get quiet when I said I’m a virgin, then?”

He takes a slow inhale, finger freezing on the remote. There’s a handful of seconds before he spares her a brief sideways glance.

“You not watching any shows right now?”

Confusion and irritation twists her face up as she glares at him. “So, you’re just gonna be weird now?”

The sigh that leaves Onyankopon only offends her further. “I’m just tryna find something to watch. We don’t gotta talk about nothing—”

“Bullshit.” She sits up straighter in her spot on the couch, leaning over to get in his face. “I know I’m a virgin, but I’m not stupid. I know you’re interested in me … kind of. At least, I am. Obviously, that’s why I came over here, and it’s probably why you invited me over here, too.”

“Listen—”

“Like, why would I come to a random guy’s apartment just to smoke with him? I know what the fuck people do in situations like these.”

He refrains from showing his mild shock at her change in demeanor. Nevertheless, he faces her as he tries his best attempt at showing remorse. “You seemed cool, maybe I was just tryna chill with you. That’s what you came over here to do?”

Her gaze falters under his own, and her shoulders curl in tighter around her. With a shrug, Ámerei confesses, “I just wanted to … try something new.”

His “guilt” melts into something else: amusement. All there is to show for it is the ghost of a smirk on his lips. “Try something new? That’s … funny.”

His words regain her eye contact, and just as easily she shrugs off her humility for anger. “I’m just going to leave.” Ámerei puts out her blunt and pockets it before reaching for what’s left of her uncrushed weed. “Clearly you think … I’m some little fucking girl, and I’m not gonna sit here and be treated like that—”

“Hol’on—”

“No, I’ll just go—”

As she prepares to stand, he reaches out an arm to keep her in her seat.

“Calm down, just—” Yet another sigh is released as he assesses the situation. “You being a virgin isn’t … a issue. I just … I’m not tryna be the guy that you get first—”

“Why? Because I’ll get attached?” She says the words with air quotes. “Please,” she scoffs. Her arms cross over her chest as she falls back against the couch cushions.

Staring at her, Onyankopon licks at his back molars as he weighs his options with this situation. Catching his eyes, Ámerei staunchly raises a brow in question—in challenge, actually.

“A’ight, you wanna fuck?” He nods to himself, shifting in his seat. “Fine, we could do that.” 

It takes a second too long for her brain to get a firm grasp of his words. “Wha—a-are you—really?”

An unflinching stare is the only answer he gives her.

With apprehension, her arms unfold to push herself up higher. “O-okay … um.” She swallows. “A-are you clean?” 

He wants to laugh, but keeps it at bay. “No, I don’t got nothing. You wanna get tested before we do something?”

“No…?” She doesn’t acknowledge his sarcasm, she doesn’t think she can. “If that’s fine with you?”

He shrugs, eyes softening as he looks at her changing demeanor. “I’m cool.”

The gentle sound of his voice and the heat of his stare boils her in her seat. “Where … should we start?”

His eyes travel to the object of his thoughts: her lips. “I could kiss you?”

Her mouth parts with a silent stutter of words she has yet to mumble. “Y-yeah,” she nods.

Turning his head, Onyankopon ducks in to press his lips against hers. It almost makes her dizzy—them finally touching. Not too wet, his lips are perfectly moist as they slide over her own.

Whereas he moves smooth and fluid, her lips remain pursed against his own, frozen with timidity. And then the wet smooches of each kiss are so loud in her ears, it’s all she can hear.

As he opens his mouth further, he lightly laughs against her. “You gotta kiss back.”

“I am.”

He pulls back to stare at her fully. “You not.”

Brows pulling together, she looks off to the side with a frown and a huff. “Well … it’s awkward.”

“Wha—how you expect to fuck if you can’t handle this?”

Her eyes dart back over to him, growing wide. “I can handle a kiss! It’s just quiet as hell, and I don’t only wanna hear us kissing! Then, it’s just awkward only using our … lips, like—ugh. Can’t we just use tongue?”

“A’ight, if that’s what you wanna do,” he scoffs. “Was tryna ease you into it.”

She doesn’t say anything as she rolls her eyes. Instead, she surges forward to smash her lips against his. This time, she moves with an eagerness that screams she’s trying to prove herself. 

And, honestly … she uses just a little too much teeth.

Yet … Onyankopon can’t find it in himself to be annoyed or even the slightest bit peeved. Instead, it’s kind of cute to him how … not great she is at this.

But, of course, he’s still a man; His cradle of her jaw is light, yet guiding as he tilts her head and holds it in its new position, granting him the perfect access to slip his tongue inside. 

The muscle is velvety smooth and wet; addicting. Her fingers clutch awkwardly at the closest parts of his shirt, eyes fluttering shut as she loses herself in the action of sucking on him.

Maybe she knew what she was talking about. Onyankopon revels in feeling her body sag against his, the warmth of her more apparent the longer they continue. Even her kissing is more relaxed, slow and perfect.

His hand sinks to her neck—not squeezing. Just ... holding. He pulls back by just a fraction, peeling his dark brown eyes open to stare down at her through his lashes as he laves at her bottom lip.

The pretty pink skin glistens with their spit, bouncing with the release of pressure as he lifts his tongue. As she opens her eyes, the fresh wispy set of lashes framing them so perfectly, the kiss drunk gaze she's got makes something in his stomach drop.

'Fuck it,' is all he thinks before dragging her light frame on top of him. Their lips are back on each other without another thought. In fact, their brains buzz with excitement. 

Neither of them can stop.

The only coherent thought he formulates, is the realization of her heartbeat. Her pulse beats like a bunny rabbit's beneath his thumb. His fingers twitch as he barely stops himself from squeezing any tighter.

He's moving purely off of instinct, already knowing which actions to take; his lips veer off of hers, traveling down to the side of her face, underneath her ear, and the column of her neck.

Her mouth hangs open, puffing out swathes of air; it feels empty, missing the feel of something in it.

The hand at her neck slides behind her to cup the back of her head. He pushes her body closer into his. Ámerei's hands clutch his shirt tighter when his lips press firm into the heat of her skin and suck, pulling a hoard of blood just beneath the thin skin.

Yet, the pull isn't strong enough, and she catches herself almost whining out in complaint. When he releases her from his mouth with a weak pop, he licks over the clean skin, pleased that he hadn't left a mark.

In his arms, Ámerei shifts ever so slightly, but it's enough for her to feel him beneath his pants, pressing into the seat of her ass.

'Fuck, I'm really gonna do this,' she thinks to herself.

"Your heart beating fast," he whispers in her ear, his voice sounding distant.

She swallows. "Sorry."

"Don't be."

Before she can think of a response, his hands grip her thighs firmly. In the blink of an eye, she's suspended in the air, held up in his arms as her feet dangle at his sides.

She doesn't ask anything as he whisks her away from the living room, the couch shrinking over his shoulder as they head down the short but dark hallway and towards another room.

The bedroom.

It smells just as good as the living room, but a different scent. One softer, cleaner. The only messy thing in here is his bed, as it was left unmade.

She doesn't judge him, though. She can't remember the last time she's made hers either.

Those thoughts are quieted as she's set down on the pillowy bundle of his comforter. As her back sinks into the gentle warmth, she's engulfed in his natural scent: a faint, manly musk with an air of powdery cleanliness. 

She half expects his body to already be on top of hers. Instead, he's standing over her, looking down at her with eyes full of an alertness she hadn't expected.

"What happened?"

"You wanna do this? Like, actually?"

She's nodding, sitting up on her elbows to get a better look at him. "Yes, I want to ... you don't?" The beginnings of her brows itch to pull to each other.

"Nah, I do. I'm just making sure ... don't need nobody crying 'cause I took they virginity—"

"Which is a social construct," she sasses, softly jerking her neck as she does so. "And you’re not taking anything. So stop talking about it, and let's go."

He can't lie, she got that one. All he can offer is a scoff and the shake of his head. "You keep talking like you Billy Badass."

A grin teases at her lips. "Then shut me up."

He pauses for a moment, staring at her as he decides on what he should do to her first. One hand at the hem of his pants, his tongue swipes over his bottom lip. "You just let me know when it gets too much."

His hushed tone gets her wetter, she can feel it. All she gives is a nod of her head.

"Take your clothes off for me."

"Okay," she breathes out, pushing herself to sit up on her knees. 

Her capris came off first, leaving her in the pistachio green panties she decided to throw on today. Next is her sweater, which she throws softly to the floor. And then, it's her camisole.

Onyankopon doesn't try to be polite or chivalrous, there's no reason to hide how he feels; his gaze is exactly where he wants it to be.

He reaches out a hand before he can think, warm fingers cradling the side of her ribcage as he runs his thumb over the pert hill of her left boob, lazily playing with the taut, almost maroon nipple.

"Perky ass lil' titties."

Her spine bows, pushing them further into his touch. "Shut up," she mumbles, her lips pulling around her pretty teeth as she can’t keep herself from spilling a smile.

“Mhm,” he hums, moving his hand to hold her jaw and angle her chin up.

His low-lid stare has her feeling stuck in the spotlight. Ámerei can’t tell if she loves all of the attention or if she’s too shy for it.

“Why you still got them fucking panties on?”

Her breath hitches, hearing his soft voice harden around the profanity.

“I-I thought you were gonna take them off,” she says softly.

Kissing his teeth, his hand falls away from her face, leaving the skin cold. “You really think you a fucking princess.”

There was no malice in his tone at all.

Before she can even fake a frown, he gently pushes her back down on the bed. Her mouth hangs open, speechlessly watching as he softly hooks his fingers beneath the waistband of her underwear. He stares for a moment, before he even thinks to pull them down.

Between her legs, he takes heed to how the thin fabric sticks to the curves of her pussy, showing what usually goes unseen. Only slightly does he pull them up, just to further pronounce the outline of her folds. And that’s when he sees the small wet spot previously hidden.

“What’s wrong?”

The fear in her voice is poorly hidden. 

“Nothing, you good.”

His smile matches that of his tone: plain and simple.

Without much more delay, Onyankopon takes great care in ridding her of her underwear. The small garment in his hands, he begins folding it with the tips of his fingers, like it’ll rip if he pulls at them too hard.

“Scoot back,” he nods in the direction he wants her to go, just before placing the folded underwear on his dresser.

Ámerei shifts to the middle of the bed, Onyankopon moving into the new space she made for him.

His hands get her by the underside of her legs, pushing them back against her stomach. As he lowers himself between them, she doesn’t lean back, only staying on her elbows to watch with … morbid curiosity.

Once again, he halts, concern befalling his face. “You good with this?” 

She nods, chewing at her bottom lip as worry brings her brows together. “Y-yeah, I’m just … kinda scared? Not of you, but, like … w-what if I, like …. stink?” 

He laughs softly. “You don’t.” 

“I don’t?”

He quirks an eyebrow. “Was you supposed to?”

Her eyes widened. “No—no! I was just—ugh, nevermind, keep going. Sorry.”

For a moment, Onyankopon eyes her, searching for any signs that he should stop. “Do you wanna do this?”

“Yes,” she nods eagerly, never breaking eye contact.

“So lay back, then.” He kisses his teeth, hoping to calm her nerves with a playful tone. “Moving like you supervising me.”

She only rolls her eyes, her back sinking into the sheets.

Face to face with her second set of lips, Onyankopon can’t say that he’s surprised with what he’s seeing, only pleased by the sight of her. A clit, swollen with arousal, heading the curtains of her inner labia which come to peek past her lips.

Right above it, he places a soft smooch on the hill of her mound, feeling the hot and smooth skin under his lips. Then one right beneath it, where her lips part. Just in the crook of her leg and hip, he plants another kiss there. 

The hitch in her breath is complimented by a subtle flex of her inner leg muscles.

“You ticklish?”

Her hands, awkwardly tucked at her sides, twist the sheets beneath them as she stares up at the ceiling. “U-um, not really—”

Pressing his tongue to the opening of her pussy, Onyankopon flattens it against her, barely dipping inside. But, he doesn’t let it linger, as he licks a long, wide stripe all the way to her clit.

Her stomach sucks in and her hips press into the bed, thighs fighting to close around him.

“O-oh—”

Another lick pulls his lips over her clit, slowly rolling his tongue over it. “Hm?”

“Mm—I don’t—“ She shakes her head, eyelids lowering by the second.

He pulls back, creating a soft smooch sound, then another lick. All before he pulls her clit back into the warmth of his mouth to suckle on.

“Mh … mmh … mh, uh … uh—”

His lips tighten around her as he holds in a laugh. He readjusts his grip to better handle her hips as they rock against his face.

“Yes … mh—please,” she pants out. She licks at her drying lips, only for her mouth to drop open again as he continues to suck at her clit.

Her knuckles pale, hands twisting and pulling at the sheets as she bears the feeling of his tongue flicking against her clit—each one pushing her towards a familiar feeling.

At the back of her head, the sound of her own voice—moaning in a way that she’s never heard before—is honestly … embarrassing. 

But, she can’t bring herself to care. Not with how he has her folded up and shaking against his face.  

She can feel his chin moving against her, almost digging into the underside of her thighs, and perfectly so. Right above his head, her ankles cross and her feet arch.

He switches his tempo, tongue swirling circles on it. That pulls a shiver out of her.

“Hmmm, mmh, mh—” 

Using all of the strength she can muster, Ámerei pushes her hips upwards to rut against his face, chasing after a fastly impending climax.

And she’s so eager for it, she doesn’t even notice the shifting of his hips against the bed. How contained he’s trying to be. How hard he tries to not to let it be known that he enjoys getting his face fucked by a pretty girl. 

Her thighs press harder against the sides of his head, drowning him in the sweet scent of the lotion that coats her skin.

“Ooh—”

Her body jumps, tightening as her body flutters, and her own release leaks down her middle. 

As he licks at her, a clammy palm pushes against his forehead. He clutches tighter as she squirms beneath him, broken laughter spilling from her mouth.

“Fuck, stop, stop!” She twists and turns, twisting to slip out of his grasp.

Letting go of a soft chuckle himself, he releases her out of mercy. “You didn’t wanna continue,” he asks, sitting up, a grin on his wet lips.

Through hooded eyes, Ámerei watches him as she tries to regain her composure. She notices a speck of her cum on his chin just before he wipes the bottom half of his face with his shirt.

“That was good for you?” As Onyankopon talks, he comes to stand up.

Immediately, her eyes fall below his waist. Straight to the print in his pants that is impossible to ignore. Wordlessly, she nods, her stare unmoving.

The corners of his mouth raise into a grin as he hooks his thumbs on the waistband of his pants and drags them downwards. It pops out as it's freed from his clothes. 

In her eyes, his dick bobs in slow motion, solid and stiff in the air.

She struggles to get a good breath in as he rejoins her back on the bed, his knees sinking into the mattress on either side of her.

“Look at me.”

Her mouth opens, but no words come out. Her attention is wrangled in by the soft grip he adopts on her chin. He tilts her head up, forcing her to meet his gaze.

“Tell me how you felt.”

She blinks herself out of a daze, just barely realizing the soothing rub of his thumb against her chin. “It—I—g-good.”

A soft snort leaves him. “Yeah? It was good?”

She nods, growing bashful again. As she ducks her head, she subtly jerks back, having almost brushed the tip of his dick with her lips. She looks back up at him, noting the almost expectant look on his face.

“You wanna suck it?”

“Mh—I…”

She glances at it again. Sepia blooms over the crown of it. The tip is blunt and wide, a perfect surface just inviting her to curl her tongue around it.

A thought flashes in her mind as she wonders how many women have had him in their mouths. How many women have made him cum, and how fast. How much … better they’d be at it than her.

With a thick swallow, she peers back up at him. “Not—I don’t think I could do it this time.”

He nods, the grin on his face unchanging. “A’ight, that’s okay.”

Bending down, he plants a kiss on her cheek, then, one on her neck. “Lay back, again,” he whispers to her.

“Why,” she questions, leaning back anyway as she watches him lower himself to her side. 

“Put your legs up.”

There’s a buzzing present in her brain, like she’s moving on autopilot. And it feels so good. Hence why, she doesn’t think twice when he whispers a command, performing the action as she speaks to fill the space.

She curls her legs into her chest once again, tucking her manicured hands beneath her knees, just to have something to hold onto. Yet still, there’s ample space for him to slide a hand between her thighs. Right where her lips are pushed together.

“G-go slow, please,” she urges timidly.

He doesn’t mind her words as he runs his fingers through the plush skin of her lips. Slow and soft, teasing her as he gets the tips of them wet. They’re relaxed, petting. 

Her eyelids start to grow heavy, limbs relaxing into the mattress as he rubs messy circles over the bundle of nerves between her legs. The walls of her pussy hug themselves as they flutter from his touch. 

Even as he’s right there—not daring to pull away—her hips chase after his touch. They stutter and roll beneath him.

Her head lolls to the side, eyes barely open as he stares down at her falling apart.

“This good?”

“Mmmhm,” she nods lazily, moaning softly into his arm.

“This how you want it? You gotta tell me.”

Her legs quiver. He feels a trickle further wet his hand.

“Y-yes,” she whispers, the sound barely slipping out past her lips.

“Hm?”

The pads of his fingers rub so perfectly against the small pearl, overwhelming her with their gentle roughness. 

“Yesss, Ony,” she weeps, her face contorting in desperate pleasure as she nods against him. “Yess—”

A gentle gasp slices her plea in half; a finger, long and thick, slides through her lips and pushes in, gliding easily. It almost takes another moan from her.

And as that thick, long finger dives deeper, it presses right up against that spot perfectly inside of her. So deep that the knuckle of his hand presses to her opening with a soft squish.

“Mhm,” he hums, peering between her legs as he pulls that finger out. But, only about halfway before he’s pushing back in to hear her body croon around him. He pulls out again.

It doesn’t surprise him, seeing the thin, slimy film coating his skin—viscous and sticky. It’s built up in some spots more than others.

“Creaming already.”

Before she has the chance to get bashful at the off handed comment, he’s sliding his finger right back in, the tip of it just kissing her g-spot.

The pressure is a dull ache that knocks something deep in her tummy.

Her eyes roll shut, shoulders tensing up as her body tries to handle the steady strength of his finger fucking into her. It curls so perfectly in her, pushing against her walls. And yet…

“M-more,” she whimpers.

“More?”

She nods, the crease in her brows deep as her eyes fall closed. She doesn’t even see the way his lips curve upwards as he kisses his teeth.

“Wasn’t you just begging me to go slow?”

His question doesn’t get a real answer, only an irritated whine.

“Huh?” As he works his finger in and out of her, always aiming to hit that one spot, her body gurgles around them, splishing against him. “That wasn’t you?”

There’s an effort to keep her lips pressed together, even as her eyes roll back at the feeling of someone digging her out in the most pleasant way possible. “Mh—Please.” The word drags from her mouth, weighed by an attitude that reeks of entitlement.

He doesn’t mind it. Without a second thought, he gives her just what she asks for, pushing his ring finger in right alongside the middle one. A moan that perfectly encapsulates utmost satisfaction leaves her lungs as her body welcomes him.

She’s sopping, her walls velvety and soft. They mold around his fingers as he presses into the spot right behind her bladder.

“Ouu … shit,” her voice drags, cracked and heavy. Above his head, her feet arch like they’re in Louboutins. Her hips twitch, thighs shuddering perpetually.

She’s a vision that he has to sit up further to see in its entirety. He licks his lips, trying to get a trace of her taste again as her cream seeps around his hand. 

“You feel that?”

Bunched up together, her eyebrows don’t separate. She can only manage a weak nod. Her body offers no friction, welcoming him in with weeps of milky arousal all over the intruding fingers.

“Fuck,” he groans to himself, shifting on his knees. “Why you creaming like that?”

His answer is a shaky mewl as her thighs tremble around his wrist. Square acrylics with perfect corners bite into the skin of her legs as her grip only hardens.

His mind is on its own bender, this sight enough of a drug to last him the entire evening. Onyankopon doesn’t question the next thought that pops into his head, he only does it.

With too much ease, he slips a third finger in, curious to see how much she can take. 

There is no resistance. 

No struggle.

No hiss of pain or tightening to stop him. 

Just pretty pink walls, bending and stretching to accommodate the weight and size of three big fingers.

“She greedy like that, huh? Been starving… Why you kept her waiting this long, Ámerei?” He bends down close to push his face into her neck, lips right at her ear. “Hm?” Her pussy spurts around him, the sound of wet clicks accenting his words. “Tell me.”

Her whimpers are too perfect. Anyone could hear them, and here she is, making all of this noise about his fingers. How does she expect to take his dick?

“Wanted to wait until someone could do you right, hm? Give you some princess treatment,” he teases.

He runs his lips, slowly, down her neck and up the hill of a breast. At its peak, he laves at a pearled nipple before suckling. Her hips cant against him, like they’ve been brought back to life.

He’s relentless, fucking her good enough so that she doesn’t even notice when he grabs the condom—only slipping his hand out to tear open the aluminum packet. That’s when she finally has a clear enough head to open her eyes.

To look up.

Her eyes go wide.

“W-woah—wait.”

He freezes, the condom having already been rolled half-way down his dick.

Her eyes flit up to his face, almost shocked by the concern splashed across his face. 

“What’s wrong?”

“I … I just…” 

She takes another peak at him, noting the way the latex stretches thin around his tip. There’s only one hand around himself, but Ámerei can tell that it’s feasible for him to grip it with two. It curves just slightly to the left. A small web of veins, laying just under the skin, ribs the length of his shaft.

“Look, we don’t gotta do this—”

“I do. I … I do, just … please, go slow.”

“Okay, Ámerei. I heard you,” he stresses. “I’m not doing nothing you not okay with, a’ight?”

She nods, still looking between his legs. Her gaze is torn away when there’s a hand at her chin, pushing her head up. 

“I hear you.”

She nods again, rather stiffly this time, on account of the hand still at her chin. And yet, he gently squeezes her in reprimand.

“Something hurts, say it. Don’t gimme that fake-moaning shit if you don’t like it, ‘cause I’ma be able to tell.”

“Okay,” she whispers.

He scours her face for a moment. 

“Okay.” He releases her face to finish putting the condom on. “Lay back … I ain’t gon’ tell you again,” he mumbles, voice less stern than it had been in the last minute or so.

Swallowing back her fears, Ámerei does as told. He doesn’t give her room to ruminate. Or, he gives her no space to, rather; his face is back in hers.

There are kisses dropped one after the other on her lips, as a knee of hers is lifted and pressed against her stomach. 

“Look at you—” a kiss. “—doing all that worrying … Like you don’t got me this fucking hard.” 

Ámerei holds in a gasp as the weight of his tip drops against her lips with a firm tap. She jumps at the impact. It surprises her, that’s for sure, feeling how solid he is.

He looks in her eyes seeing the lust bloom behind her shrinking apprehension. Taking his hand off of himself, Onyankopon gently grabs her other hand to place it around his dick, so that she can see for herself.

“Feel that?” he breathes out as she makes a clumsy fist around him. Her hand is so soft. It’s almost a shame. “Ain’t even have you suck my shit, but you got me giving you dick.”

His stare is unflinching. Her hand tingles, like it’s in shock at how he feels in her grasp. It almost makes her head hurt, noting how even if she really tried, one hand won’t be enough to fully hold him.

“That’s what you used to … getting everything you want, w-without having to do nothing for it, hm?”

He can make a comment about how easy it’ll be to split her open—he’s definitely thinking it. But, Onyankopon watches his words. Tries to keep it tame for her sake.

She bites at her lower lip, nodding shyly as she tries to hide her face in her shoulder.

“Don’t get shy, I ain’t shaming you. S’what you used to…” Staring down at her, he licks at his lips before nodding down to where she holds him. “But you gon’ do some work today. Rub it in, c’mon.”

Huffing softly, Ámerei tightens her grip as she takes the reigns. Onyankopon pulls his hand away, using it to aid in his balance above her.

Where she would typically have a comeback, Ámerei keeps her mouth shut. Her thoughts are hazy, body too eager to make contact with him.

Her eyelids lay low, bottom lip tucked neatly between the rows of her teeth as she gently swipes the head of his dick against herself. It brings a shudder out of her, the feeling akin to the licks he’d given her just moments ago.

‘Heavy,’ she thinks. Thick and weighted, like he’s carrying a pipe between his legs.

It’s slow, her movements, as her body gradually wakes to the feeling of his dick against her. But, it’s inevitable that she starts to gain some sort of confidence, especially when he hums in encouragement.

“Mhm.” His breathing is messy and less composed. Louder, too, even as he rolls his lips into his mouth and tries to keep quiet. 

Peering up at him, eyes glossed over, Ámerei chews at her lower lip. Her movements grow surer. She doesn’t stop, even as her wrist burns from the angle made by their closeness and his length. 

She pulls him further and further, dipping the head past her clit. For a moment, he catches just where she opens. Where her cunt seeps around nothing.

“Shit … you so wet.”

The soft rasp of his voice sends a fluttering feeling down the line of her stomach. Her clit jumps as she clenches.

“S’for you,” she mumbles, still keeping that eye contact.

When his eyes flick upwards to meet hers, his face twitches with the effort of a man close to losing self-restraint.

Kissing his teeth, he squeezes his eyes shut. “Stop t-talkin’ like that.”

Her brain vomits out a response too quick for her liking: ‘Sorry, Daddy.’

But her lips quiver as the words die on her tongue, unspoken. Can she say that yet? Should she? Maybe it’s best to save that for someone who’s more of a permanent fixture.

Instead, she revises the thought.

“Sorry, Ony.”

The tiny pout on her pillowy lips is enough for him to reach for her face—better balance be damned. He squeezes her cheeks, pushing those lips out further to plant his own on them as he leans in.

“Don’t gotta apologize,” he says against her mouth, the words garbled and smushed.

Her shoulders shoot up, body tensing as the weight of his head starts to press heavier against her.

“Ony—”

Her warmth is inviting, his hips stutter. “It hurts?” His lips are still pressed to hers. So close, suffocating either of them in the best way.

She shakes her head.

“Let me in, then.” He kisses her softly. “You was just taking my fingers, I know you could take this.” 

One of her hands slip from behind her knees to grip at his upper arm.

“C’mon,” he pants, gently rocking his hips against her, pushing his tip through her lips to spread her arousal. “Be good, you could take this.”

He presses back against her hole, feeling himself inch inside by way of her wetness.

“You know you could take it … know you c-could,” he groans.

“Oh, G-God—”

Her body widens slowly, the feeling foreign as it stretches around the blunt crown of his dick. He pops it in, her walls doing small spasms around him.

“Fuck,” he pants. “It’s hurting?”

A whine is caught in her throat. She tries to swallow it down. 

“Keep going,” she messily shakes her head, strands of her hair getting in her line of sight.

Her face is scrunched up. Onyankopon takes heed to go slow. His hand leaves her face to hold himself at the base.

“Keep holding them legs open … fuck, you real pretty.”

Unexpectedly, a nervous chuckle falls out of his mouth as he looks from where they connect to her face. He breezes past the slip up as he starts to use his body weight to push in. Her breath gets caught in her chest for the umpteenth time with him. 

“O-oh—ohh—”

The weak, high-pitched whine hits his ears as his dick slowly sinks into soft, wet heat. Pushing, pushing, pushing. It’s a far bigger stretch than just three fingers. And it only gets wider the farther in he goes.

He’s hardly even half-way in when he meets resistance, like he’s hit a wall inside of her.

“Fuck—stop, please—”

He freezes, immediately looking down. Her lips stretch as much as they can around him, gripping the sides of him as her walls try their hardest to take him. Their contractions are weak, her body giving its best effort to take something it’s never experienced before.

But as his eyes move just inches upward, he finds the real source of the issue: the barely noticeable swell in the pit of her stomach. 

Right where he is.

Her face contorts in pain, and immediately he takes action to slowly and carefully relieve her of the pressure sitting in her gut.

“M’sorry—fuck, it hurts—”

“Quit that, you good. It’s me, th-that’s my fault,” he grunts, trying to keep his movements slow and controlled. 

When he pulls out, he can’t help but to notice the minor stretch he gave her, the opening of her cunt winking back at him. No doubt, she’s a little more open now.

“My fault, I’m sorry,” he mumbles, reaching for her face. “You want me to stop?”

“Uh-uh,” she shakes her head, peering up at him, a wrinkle still in her brows. “Try again, just—”

“I’ma be careful.”

She nods. Beneath him, she shifts to regain a sense of comfort, reaching down to spread herself open.

French shorties frame shiny wet lips that give away to a pink center, coaxing him in with the promise of a gushy hold. Below her pussy, her second hole puckers tightly. 

“You look good like this,” he rasps, smiling as he takes his dick in-hand. “You helping me?” 

Sinking her teeth into her bottom lip, she nods. Her toes curl in excitement above her. Her hair is messy, in need of a good brushing. A thin sheen of sweat covers her, adding spots of highlight to the high points of her face. Yet, here she is, still so eager to follow through with this.

He grips his dick tighter as another rush of blood makes him pulse.

“Just like that … keep that shit open…”

He guides himself back to her hole and goes for another try. This time, he’s slower, watching carefully as her body accepts him with an ease of familiarity, right up until that spot where he stopped.

She hisses again, body tensing up as she’s unable to hide her discomfort.

“Ow—s-stop—”

“I’m stopping, you good,” he quickly comforts, stilling his hips. 

At his sides, her legs tremble. The pain settles, but not completely.

“You want me to pull out?”

She doesn’t give an immediate answer, eyes and lips sealed shut.

“C’mon, Ámi’, talk to me.”

“I … it’s too mu-uch.”

Her voice waivers. 

She half expects him to be pleased hearing those words. Isn’t that what most guys like to hear?

“Want me to put you in a new position?”

Her eyes pop open. His face is close to hers. She gets a front row seat to the concern laced within his features. And, through her pain, manages a shaky but grateful smile.

“Yeah,” she nods.

The room spins as he pulls back out, still careful. “Turn on your side.”

Wordlessly, she does so. Her head rests against the arm she has splayed against the pillow, a sigh of relief leaving her as her eyes fall closed.

Scooting closer to her, he lifts a leg, pulling it straight up as he lowers himself to sit just at her cunt.

“You comfortable?”

She peels her eyes open just to look at him as she nods. Fatigue is written all over her face, what little they’ve done enough to zap her of her energy.

A real pillow princess.

“You ready?”

“Yeah.”

Upon pushing back in, Onyankopon is pleasantly surprised to find that he’s able to do so with ease. In fact, they both are.

“Mmph,” she mewls pleasantly, eyes falling back closed as he slips in further than he was ever able to.

“Fuck … there we go,” he breathes out.

She isn’t too taut around him. It’s a perfect stretch that makes him feel elated, because he can tell she’s enjoying it, too. 

It takes a while, but he bottoms out; her stretched cunt pressed flush to his balls. The cool skin paired with the light dusting of hair on his sack makes her shudder. It’s such a pleasant feeling, the fullness. There’s still that ache in her lower tummy, but in the sweetest of ways that only makes her want more.

“Onyy,” she whines softly.

“It’s okay?” He’s almost breathless. In this position, he fits a lot more snuggly within her. No awkward poking. 

She nods against the sheets, lips parted. 

“I’m moving slow.”

“Okay.”

He starts out with a slow rock. Back and forth, back and forth. Until with each one, he’s pulling out more inches. Yet, his strokes remain slow and soft. Gentle and rolling. Amazing.

“Oh … ohh … o-oh,” she whimpers softly, eyes rolling back as she twists and turns, gripping the sheets. 

“You enjoying this?”

He doesn’t even need to ask. Not with the way her pussy squelches like she’s got something to tell him. It’s like every time he pulls out, her body cries, only getting wetter.

He finds that he can hit her deeper. "Feels good, right?”

“Uuuh—!”

“Know it does... Could hear it.”

Plap, plap, plap.

Her body claps against him in applause every time he bottoms out. Still going at a moderate pace, still careful with her.

“Ohh, God!”

“I know, I know.” He reaches down to grip her jaw, turning her head to see that pretty face. How much it twists into an ugly expression, hair all over her face, as he digs her out in the best way.

"Had to get you ready, but I'm not gonna go too hard... Too soft for that, can't break you, hm?”

A shrill whines leaves her lungs, the small peaks of her breasts jumping slightly as he fucks into her. All slow, nice, and polite.

"Gotta ... treat you all nice 'n' soften you up. Like you a princess, huh?”

The teasing only makes her clench up.

"Couldn't fuck you in my car … n-not like them other bitches, right?

Before the words cement themselves in her brain, her body is wonderfully stunned by a stroke just an ounce heavier than the last. Meaner.

“Huh?”

She shakes her head, having barely comprehended anything past the first few words of that sentence. He leans in closer, bucking his hips harder against her. Faster.

PlapPlapPlap!

Her whines get chopped and screwed as she writhes beneath him. They turn into silent moans as her mouth hangs open. The whites of her eyes are what he sees.

“Nah, right?”

Her pussy flutters nonstop, sucking him in, begging him to never leave. He grips her ankle tighter, never putting her leg down for rest.

“You want princess treatment... only want niggas to treat you nice and sweet, huh?”

“Oh … mh—mh—mh—ohhh fuuuuuck—”

“Yeaah, right?” A breath chuckle tumbles out of his lips, even as a bead of sweat rolls down his face. “You … t-taking this shit like a … n-natural.”

He sees it: the way she creams around him. How can he not? All of her arousal packs at the base of his dick, translucence building up until it’s thicker and more solid in color; a tight slip and slide for his dick.

“Taking you home … fucking you in my bed like you my girl... This what you came here for?"

It’s like her heart is fighting to get out of her chest. Ámerei struggles to keep a grip on the reality of the situation at hand. Genuinely, it’s like he’s beating her pussy out of its frame. And yet it feels too good for her to want it any other way.

Then again, what does she know?

As expected, there’s a bit of resistance as Onyankopon pulls out. The mild suction tempts him to stay in.

“Please,” Ámerei croaks as Onyankopon gently puts her leg down to rest.

“Relax, I still got you.”

He sits back on his knees, staring down at her with a lust that overpowers whatever fatigue he might be feeling. He can’t tell if it’s the weed or if he’s actually this horny for her.

He’s putting a pin in that thought for later, in favor of putting her face deep in the sheets and her ass high in the air.

“Arch that shit—c’mon, you know what to do… Bet you studied for this shit, too.” Onyankopon wipes the sweat from his forehead with the corner of his comforter. “Deep, too, I don’t do that shallow shit.”

Shifting on her knees, she spreads her legs wider and sinks her back in. And part of her is thankful, relieved that this is the new position. Because being spread open before him, her most private parts on display for him in this manner, has her growing unbelievably shy—she doesn’t want to think too hard about it.

Or about the fact that he might not achieve what he wanted from this position. She’s never had a fat ass, just a noticeable set of hips on a small frame. 

But—see—Onyankopon isn’t worried about that. Not when he’s getting the best view from behind; dribbles of slick ooze from her pulsing cunt. She’s dripping, pussy still wanting more of what he can offer.

“Lil’ thing hungry, hm?”

A lazy slap is dropped on the plane of her right ass cheek, before he softly grips and shakes what little fat is there. The little jiggle is too cute for him, especially when another whine escapes her.

It seems that’s one of the only sounds she’s been able to make lately.

“Speak to me, Ámi… Can’t be the only one talking.”

Blindly, she reaches back for him, searching for his hand.

“Y’know I’m not a talker.” He captures her wrist, gently pressing it to the small of her back. With his free hand, he repositions himself, swiping his tip through her lips. “You supposed to be the one doing all that for me.”

His push back in is one of his biggest highlights of today.

“Th-this shit so … f-ffucking perfect,” he groans out, voice wavering as her walls grip him up in the wettest, warmest way he’s ever felt.

His hips are just seconds from colliding with her ass when he hears it:

Pfft … ppfftt!

“Whew!” He smiles, moving his second hand to grip her hip instead. “Mhm, just like that—that’s the kind’a talking I’m trynna hear.”

That fullness has returned to her. And it’s mind-numbingly amazing. Shaking and sniffling, Ámerei only takes it as Onyankopon pounds into her, just like she wanted.

“Oh God, Oh God, Oh Go—”

She tenses up as he uses his strength to pull her ass back on him as he meets her halfway. Each smack of their skin is sharp and quick. 

“Oouuuuuuuu—ahh,” she cries out embarrassingly, feeling herself just leaking around his dick as he slips in and out of her.

“Quit … l-losing that arch—fuck I just tell you?”

Every new stroke felt punishing, and in the best way possible. She wants to cry and rejoice at the same time. Her knuckles pale as she clutches the pillow beneath her tight. Lord knows she needs something to hold on to as she tries to inch up on the bed.

All that achieves is a two second break, Onyankopon pausing to yank her back before he continues.

“A-another thing … that running shit—” 

The cracks in his voice make her stomach swoop and her pussy flutter.

"Don't know … why you was asking f-for … all this … C-can’t even f-fucking take it—”

The swing of his hips are so heavy against her. The skin on her ass stings and every thrust has her afraid that she’ll lose control of her bladder. 

And yet, it’s bringing her closer to something.

“Why you squeezing me like that? You ‘bout to cum?”

His breathy voice gives her enough of a high to ride off of. But, the timid musk of his sweat is something she hadn’t expected to like; it invades her senses as he leans in over her back, hips still working against her.

“Hm? Y-you ‘bout to cum, Ámi?”

A broken whimper is what she manages, aside from a measly nod of the head.

“C’mon then.” 

The hand on her waist slips beneath her body, slithering to a slobbering set of lips between her trembling legs. 

For a sobering moment, his hips still. He grunts as her pussy spasms around him, still in shock from the way he worked her.

Reprieve ends as he rubs messy but concentrated circles on her poking clit, careful not to put too much pressure on the sensitive bud. 

“Cum on me,” he pants.

Her hips stutter, tummy sucking in as her back arches. “Ony—k-keep doing…”

“Uhuh … cum on my dick. Cum on it—”

A violent shiver nearly takes her out as she lets go around him. His strong arms serve as an anchor for her, as she nearly loses herself in the lasting orgasm.

“Keep—oh fuck,” he shudders, finally letting go himself, emptying into the condom as she milks him dry.

Both bodies twitch against one another, riding out their releases.

It’s after that conclusion, Ámerei learns something new about herself: that sex is definitely an activity to put her to sleep. 

As Onyankopon separates from her—making it a point to notify her that he was just going to get some wipes—she finds it difficult to keep herself awake.

It only works but so well.

Succumbing to her body’s wishes, Ámerei’s eyes flutter shut seconds before Onyankopon enters the room, still naked yet condom-free. She wants to get up when she hears the sound of a soft snort.

“You sleeping?”

Largely, Ámerei inhales as she stretches against the sheets, turning her head and peeling her eyes open to look at him. “Mh-mh.”

His grin is faint, yet she can tell it’s a product of fatigue. And she’s not surprised, he did do all of the work.

Onyankopon makes his way over to the bed, a pack of wipes in his hands. Her eyes fall back closed before that first wipe even touches her hot, clammy skin.

“Mhm, bet you tired now, huh?” 

“Shut up,” she mumbles.

His hands move as his mouth runs, a cocky smile on his full lips. “Don’t know why, I was putting in that work.”

A dreamy smile is all she can muster, too tired to give a genuine laugh.

“Thank you.”

“That polite shit,” he mutters, that smile of his dimming to a genuine grin that he makes an effort to further hide. “You welcome.”

Chucking a soiled wipe on the ground for later, he exchanges it for a new one to wipe the slick that had run between her ass. 

Part of her is caught off guard. She hadn’t expected him to be this … chivalrous. But, she’s not going to deny herself of this service. He was absolutely correct in giving her the ‘Princess’ title. And she is going to play the part.

"Ain’t gon’ lie to you, though…” he licks at his lips, brain producing a line of thoughts that he finds himself happily following. “If you wanna keep doing this … you gotta learn how to take dick."

Without a thought spared, Ámerei sits up on her elbows, pure bliss wiped off of her face in an instant. Mild offense twists her face into a scowl.

“Don’t even trip,” he soothes. 

Onyankopon doesn’t spare her a glance as he runs the wipe down an inner thigh.

“We gon’ fix that."

𝒃𝒂𝒏𝒏𝒆𝒓𝒔 ᝰ @uzmacchiato @crylynnluv

Something’s on your mind, that vortex of secret thoughts he has such a hard time reading, guessing, interpreting. You guard the castle of your inner realm with fairly high walls and it no longer feels like a lost challenge, his inability to pierce them. It’s dissatisfying in ways he can’t, won’t express. 

That doesn’t mean he can bring himself to stay away, quietly indulge your stubborn distancing.

“Penny for your thoughts?”, he brushes his nose against yours and you offer a smile, legs lazily wrapped around his waist from where you’re sitting on the counter.

“I’m hungry. And you look handsome while cooking”.

Oliver hums, still not entirely convinced.

“Why these, then?”, his thumb gently presses between your brows, smoothing over the little creases you get whenever you’re pondering something you won’t share.

“I’m sore”, you lie and he sees right through it, “so thanks for that”.

“You’re welcome”, he grins. And then he just stays there, looking at you, waiting. Expectant in a way that makes your palms clammy.

“I wanted to talk to you about something”, you start, unsure. Oliver hums.

“Uh oh”, he jokes but not as flippant as he always gets.

You feel sick. He’s probably expecting some pathetic love confession, because of course you’d be the one to catch feelings. Is it even possible not to fall prey to his charm? It’s not even fair to be upset about it. Oliver is a good man: he’s polite, communicative, honest. You knew what this was from the very start.

Little does he know, there’s no need to be so tense about it. You’re not about to burden him with your unrequited feelings, on the contrary, you’re finally going to take the entire weight off his shoulders. You had your fun together but this is no longer fun for you. It’s embarrassing, complicated, the mere thought of who he may be on the nights when you’re not together starting to get more and more gut-wrenching.

“What is it?”, he’s not making this easy, not by whispering in that hushed, intimate tone you find so attractive. Not as he’s so close his lips are brushing against yours.

“I don’t think we…”.

“Oliver?”.

You both freeze. Your legs go limp as he slowly turns around and takes an uncertain step forward.

“Mom?”.

There are three women you’ve never seen before in his kitchen and they all remind you of him somehow. The younger girl is insistent in keeping her eyes on you as you jump down from the kitchen island, horrified.

“You promised you’d take us shopping, remember? You wanted to come”, his mother tilts her head, eyes darting to you for just a moment.

“I remember”, Oliver clears his throat, “you’re early. I thought we were supposed to meet at…”.

“Coach moved today’s training to Friday”, the younger girl is still looking at you, “is she your new girlfriend?”.

He runs a hand through his hair and you pray to god the kitchen floor will open to swallow you whole.

“Uhm, actually I-”

“Oh, dear”, his mom smiles and she’s so beautiful your voice dies in your throat, “we finally get to meet one of your partners!”.

“Which number is this one?”.

“Kaya”, Oliver’s warning is stern and his youngest sister finally looks away.

“I’m sorry”, you bow, mortified, and quietly introduce yourself, “I was just about to leave”.

“Don’t mind her”, the woman who is probably his older sister offers you a friendly smile and takes a step forward, “I’m Mia. Why don’t you come with us?”.

Their mom’s face lights up.

“What a wonderful idea! Yes, please come!”.

“Oh, no, really, I don’t think it would be…”.

“It’s just a few hours of shopping, it’ll be fun”, Mia winks, “plus, we could use additional opinions. Right, Kaya? You always complain about mom’s horrible taste”.

The younger girl shrugs.

“I guess. Let’s just get going”.

“Hey”, you murmur, taking him by the arm as everyone else leaves the room. There must be a way out, he’s certainly alarmed at the thought of you crossing such a boundary. Hanging out with his family. “I’ll tell them I feel sick or something and just go home, okay?”.

Oliver wets his lips, pensive as his gaze takes in yours.

“Really? It’s just a few hours”.

You open your mouth then close it again, at a loss for words. He leans in closer.

“It’d break my mom’s heart to find out we lied”.

“Technically, we didn’t lie-”

“Oli, it’s late!”, Kaya’s harsh tone interrupts what would’ve been a hopefully convincing enough string of excuses. They melt on your tongue anyway, when he takes your hand.

Turns out, Kaya is about to turn 18 and the party she’s planning is going to be a big deal. Finding the perfect dress and making sure everyone wears something passable (her words, not yours) is mandatory.

She’s acting very wary but you wouldn’t dream of holding it against her. You’re a stranger, intruding in something she was supposed to do with her family, it’s only right. The only reasons why you’re accompanying them are Oliver’s mom, whose sweetness is leaving you no chance but to keep the act up, and Oliver himself, who seems way too comfortable with the blatant lie you’re both hiding behind.

Still, you try to keep your respectful distance. They’re a nice family, you can see the sincere fondness tying them together in invisible, golden strings. It’s in the way Kaya bickers with her brother but smiles so big when he comes back with a million dresses in his arms, huffing and puffing about how annoying she is. It’s in the way his mom tenderly ruffles his hair and, instead of circumventing her touch, he pulls her closer with an arm around her shoulders. It’s in the way Mia flicks his forehead and Kaya asks for her older sister’s advice despite the perpetually grumpy exterior.

“Don’t be so tense, she can smell fear”, Oliver casually whispers in your ear before disappearing into the store to help his girls, like he calls them, look for the perfect pair of shoes. You’re left with Kaya, who looks both unfazed and devastatingly pretty in the dress she’s almost convinced is the one.

You gather all your confidence and casually clear your throat.

“Excited about turning eighteen?”.

“Don’t talk to me like you know me”, she doesn’t spare you a single glance. You shrug.

“Sorry. I just remembered how my party was. I was really nervous, as if my life was on the verge of changing forever. I remember finally getting bold enough to confess to the boy I had a devastating crush on”, you don’t look at her while you talk, attention diverted to a couple coats hanging just outside the fitting room. A brief silence follows.

“And?”, she pushes. You hide a smile.

“We danced, shared a piece of cake. He was so handsome, tall, really kind in turning me down”.

“What? Are you serious?”.

“Yeah, turns out I wasn’t really his type. Which is fine. I ended up going out with his best friend”.

When you turn to look at her, your gaze softens. She seems pensive, still looks really young despite her age.

“How do you even know when you’re somebody’s type anyway?”, Kaya is reluctant in asking the question. You wish you could offer more solid reassurance.

“You find someone honest and value that honesty more than anything else. If they make you feel like you can trust them, if they’re willing to prove how special you are to them, chances are they’re worth keeping around”.

She hums, half a sound that makes you bite back a chuckle.

“Well, since you’re here, you might as well provide feedback. Thoughts on the dress?”.

Kaya seems to be really struggling to keep the hostile facade up but you know better than to make it obvious you noticed.

“I liked the previous one better. I’d still get this one too”.

She tries to resist it but finally ends up offering a tiny smile.

“My thoughts exactly”.

“Here. About a thousand shoes to go with the perfect dress”, Oliver, Mia and their mom are finally back with their arms filled with colorful, stylish options.

“Actually”, Kaya corrects her brother with a grin, “after careful consideration, I decided you’re paying for both dresses”.

It’s not lost on him, the conspirational look she shares with you for just a brief second. Thankfully, you don’t have to face any consequence because Mia claims your attention and you get to quickly elude whichever accusation Oliver’s narrowed gaze harbors.

“You should try this on”, she eagerly pushes a dress right into your arms and you only have the time to feel how nice the fabric is against your skin. Far nicer that what your wallet would usually allow.

“But we’re here for Kaya”, you try to hang the dress back but Mia furrows her brows, keeping it caged in your hands by gently holding your wrists. 

“Come on, I think it’s perfect for you! You can wear it when mom invites you over for dinner”, her lips curl into a sly smile.

“You think that’s gonna happen?”, you try to dissimulate the panic in your voice as best as you can and, thankfully, Mia mistakes your terror for regular excitement. If only.

“Of course. Oliver doesn’t introduce just anyone to us”.

With a nervous chuckle, you focus your gaze on a sales assistant trying to convince a woman to try an expensive coat on because it’s just her color.

“Yeah, about that…”.

“Truly, I think the last time we met one of his partners was years ago”.

“Mia, we didn’t plan this. Like, at all”, your fingers tighten around the fabric of the beautiful dress you’re still holding, “it’s just a coincidence, he didn’t mean to..”.

Her genuine laugh interrupts your desperate string of awkward excuses.

“You think he wouldn’t have been able to get out of this if he wanted to?”, her smile softens at the sight of the deep lines settling on your forehead, “he doesn’t mind having you hang out with us. Which, I believe, says a lot. If not about him, at least about you”.

“What do you mean?”.

She shrugs.

“You earned Oliver’s trust. Whatever you two are, it makes you pretty special anyway”.

Her chuckle fills the air again when you awkwardly cough, embarrassed. Of course she’d see right through the stupid lie he decided to back up, which is simply mortifying.

“Try the dress on”, Mia’s eyes twinkle with mirth, “please? For me?”.

“Okay”, you sigh. Anything to escape her painfully knowing and yet somehow lenient gaze.

You slip into an empty fitting room, trying not to draw any attention. The dress is simple but incredibly beautiful, crafted in lightweight white wool and silk, embroidered with a gradient of coral beads on the top and bottom. It’s something you’d pick too, in a regular shop. You don’t ever remember stepping foot inside a designer boutique but it shouldn’t come as a surprise that the Aiku family was warmly welcomed and followed around the minute they arrived.

Oliver is still sipping on his champagne when you bashfully step out. His mom gasps and promptly hands him her glass of sparkling water.

“Mia insisted-”, you start and, as if summoned, she appears by your side out of thin air.

“Look at you! It’s gorgeous, of course I insisted!”, she chirps, hands frantically smoothing the fabric of the dress as you awkwardly stand there, gaze kept low.

“I love it”, her mom gets up from the velvet sofa, hands clasped, “you should get it!”.

“Mine’s prettier but it doesn’t look too bad”, Kaya eyes you with a seemingly unimpressed gaze that dissipates part of your stiffness and makes you melt into a chuckle.

As much as you try to avoid it, Oliver’s intense stare ends up locking you in place. You try not to squirm underneath it but he doesn’t seem inclined to say a word, which is weird and makes you feel oddly vulnerable. It’s usually quite hard to shut him up.

“You’re staring like a weirdo”, Kaya lightly elbows him in the ribs. He doesn’t falter.

“I don’t think I’m going to get it”, you clear your throat and do your best to ignore his mom’s brokenhearted objection, “but it’s really pretty! Mia has taste”. She mirrors your smile, lightly adjusts one of the tie-up shoulder straps.

“Maybe next time, then. Doesn’t she look great in this, Oli?”.

You find his eyes again and this time his expression is somehow softer.

“Yeah”, he breathes, “I’m a lucky man”.

“Yikes”, Kaya, sitting next to him, rolls her eyes. He flicks her arm.

“Aren’t you a bit old to be jealous?”.

“I’m not jealous. You’re just corny”.

“Aww, my baby sister still wants her big bro all to herself? Süß”, with a mischievous grin, he pulls her in with an arm around the shoulders, laughs at the way she grimaces.

Everyone giggles at the sight and you can’t control it, the way your smile grows while they keep bickering. His mom gently squeezes your shoulder and you wish you could bask in that warmth, in a familiarity that will only last the space of one late morning.

Oliver gets you alone outside a different boutique, he just gives his card to his sister and tells her to get whatever bag she thinks will go best with her birthday outfit. One bag, is the only warning. He’s not entirely sure she’ll comply.

“Are you absolutely hating this?”, he asks only because he knows you aren’t. Although he’s not convinced you may be possibly enjoying it as much as he weirdly, unexpectedly, is.

“What? No, of course not. They’re lovely”.

“Lovely”, he repeats, amused, “even Kaya?”.

“She’s seventeen, I’m a stranger. Cut her some slack”.

He hums.

“You managed to have her warm up to you though, I can tell”.

“We just talked. I like how close you are, they’re all very…”, you stay pensive for a second, trying to come up with the right words, “I can see glimpses of you in them and of them in you. I like your family”.

“And they like you”, he says and the gentleness of his tone makes your stomach do a weird flip.

“Here”, Oliver hands you one of the bags Kaya’s left in his hands ahead of running to a different store, “but you’re not allowed to protest”.

Confused, you take the elegant bag and peek inside.

“No”, you say right away and try to give it back to him, “are you insane? Take this, return it”.

“Sorry, no can do. Told the sales assistant that if anyone tries to return it, including me, she’s not authorized to accept it. Under any circumstances. I can sound very proper and serious when I order people around, I’m team captain after all”, he smiles, offers a playful wink. You’re horrified.

“This dress costs…”.

“I don’t care”.

“But I can’t accept-”

“I don’t care”.

“Oliver!”, you whine, feeling as pathetic as ever.

“Can’t I ever do anything for you?”, he cocks his head, looking every bit as innocent as intended.

“Can’t you do something that doesn’t involve spending a terrifying amount of yens?”, you fire back.

“I make my own rules”, his smirk makes you groan, “please, just take it. I promise I won’t ever get you anything else”.

“You’re lying”.

“I am”.

Exasperated, you deflate and stop the useless attempts at giving the bag back. He’s infuriating. The way he’s looking at you, gaze hazy with affection, makes your heart ache. It prompts a weird feeling to unfurl in your chest, one you absolutely cannot wallow in.

“Thank you. Also, I hate you”, you murmur. His laugh is sweet, the hand rising to cradle your cheek rough but warm.

“I don’t believe you”, his thumb gently strokes the portion of skin right underneath your eye and for a moment you forget to breathe.

It’s just a second: you allow yourself to lean into his familiar touch, pretend not to notice the tenderness laced into the gaze you’re avoiding. And then, Mia is kind enough to keep her voice extra loud to signal that they’re back, to give you the chance to take a step back and avoid the umpteenth awkward interaction of the day.

You try to hide the bag but, surprisingly, it’s Kaya who puts you at ease with a seemingly indifferent comment about being glad Oliver got it for you: it would’ve been a waste to leave a dress that beautiful. 

They’re nice to you. They are so nice to you. For a few hours it makes you forget that, hopefully, this is the last time you’re going to see Oliver at all. It’s for the best, for you heart and his time. You don’t care that he’s being sweet, that he’s willing to have you hang out with his family, that he’s looking at you like that. You just know opening up to him would require too much work on your side and too much patience on his, it’s just not worth it for any of the parties involved. You will leave the dress at his apartment and disappear from his life without a second thought. Yes, it’s a good plan. He’ll get over it in two days and you… well, you’ll surely manage somehow. 

“How did you guys meet?”, Mia takes a bite out of her burger after asking the question and suddenly, everyone is looking at you. Oliver languidly hooks his ankle around yours underneath the table.

“I tried cutting in line at a cafe and she got so upset she spilled her coffee on me”.

“It was an accident!”, you protest, outraged.

“Oliver”, his mom shakes her head, feigning exasperation.

“I was late for practice”, he pouts, “she ruined my favorite shirt”.

“You’re making me want to spill more coffee on you right now”.

Mia chuckles.

“And then?”, Kaya lazily sips on her strawberry milkshake but you can tell she’s invested.

“She was so sweet, tried to pay for the dry cleaner”, he grins and you roll your eyes, “we met again at a mutual friend’s party the same week”, which is a nice way to say he used to fuck your roommate and was invited to her birthday. You remember his charm, how easy it was to win everyone over in the space of one night. You remember begrudgingly chatting with him out on the balcony, the deepness of his voice, the twinkle in his beautiful eyes.

Eventually they stopped seeing each other and your roommate casually, skeptically mentioned something about his interest in you over breakfast. You never thought he’d ever actually message you over social media. You never thought his magnetic field would be so strong, his touch so addictive. Ha made you fall for him without even noticing, without trying. Without doing anything but being himself.

And now you’re his while he’s still everyone else’s.

“So, a bad first impression”, his mom smiles, knowing, beautiful eyes boring into yours, “what made you change your mind?”.

“More like what made you do this to yourself?”, Kaya grins and Oliver throws a crumpled napkin at her.

You smile too. Despite being well aware of what danger his stare harbors, you still turn to look at him.

“He’s a good man”, you say, “honest, really kind. He always thinks of those around him, hardly ever puts himself first. I just love how genuine and caring he is”.

The corners of his eyes crinkle slightly as Oliver casually takes your hand and brings it to his lips, his mom softly cooing her emotion. Kaya softens up too, perhaps deciding against joking about his looks or money playing a substantial role in your change of heart.

“You have to tell her something nice too, idiot”, she pokes his brother’s cheek and he chuckles.

“I was getting there”.

“So?”, Mia urges, “what was it about her?”.

He hums, pensive. You’re tense again, he can feel it. He hopes the thumb he’s rubbing comforting, attentive circles over your wrist with, is enough to soothe your mind. It makes him smile that you lightly bump your knee against his under the table.

“She’s smart, way funnier than me. Disarmingly generous. I don’t have to be anything but myself when I’m with her”, Oliver hesitates, then relaxes in his seat, “she makes me want to be a better person”.

He’s a bit disappointed by the way you promptly avert your gaze with an embarrassed chuckle, wishes you’d look into his eyes more. Maybe you’d read something in them, a reason to share what you’re tormenting yourself with in that pretty little head of yours.   

By the time you stumble back into his apartment, it’s the late afternoon and your traitorous heart is on the verge of undermining the rational decision you were so ready to put across only a few hours prior.

The bag with the dress is strategically left by the door, hidden behind the umbrella stand, where he won’t immediately notice it after you leave. You plop down on his couch and sigh, exhausted for more than one reason.

“Tea?”, Oliver peeps out from the kitchen, “I got that ceylon one you like”.

“No, thanks, I’ll leave in a bit. Can you call me a cab actually?”.

You hear the distant rattling of cups being put away and after a moment he shuffles to the living room.

“What cab? I’ll drop you off”, Oliver sits next to you with an easy smile, “thanks for today. If you're mad, I can make it up to you”, and just like that, with a gentle grasp of your chin, he angles your head just right to press a chaste kiss to your lips. You can’t help but melt into him, when he runs his tongue along your bottom lip the sharp exhale you let out makes him smile.

“You’re cute when you’re embarrassed”, he murmurs against the spot behind your earlobe where he’s mouthing at the skin, “looked so beautiful in that dress. How about putting it on right now just so I can take it off?”, you try to gather your thoughts enough to string a few coherent words together but Oliver’s teeth graze your ear before his lips are back on yours, eager, and the fire of your remonstrance is about ready to die. A candle burning out.

“Oliver”, you pull away but he chases you, pecks your lips again and again, “Oliver”, you try again, hand on his mouth in a silly attempt at keeping it at bay. Eyes locked to yours, he grins against your fingers and then casually parts his lips to take two of them in his mouth. Something scorching hot trails down your spine and you have to take a deep breath. Focus.

“When you tell them we broke up, please be nice about it”.

He releases your fingers and you pretend not to notice the way his smile falls ever so slightly, a crack in the facade you’re not willing to question.

“You promised you’d come to Kaya’s birthday”.

“Yeah but we can be broken up by then-”

“It’s in three days”.

You sigh.

“Well, technically she didn’t invite me, your mom did. I think it’ll be fine if I don’t show up”.

“I know my sister, she’s gonna ask me if you’re coming. She’d like to have you there, I want you there”.

He’s not making it any easy for you.

“Do we really have to talk about this right now?”, he pushes, scooting even closer and resting his chin on your shoulder. You shut your eyes.

“Why won’t you let me get close?”, he murmurs, lips inches from your neck. You clear your throat.

“What d’you mean? I think you get close enough”, with a nervous chuckle, you hope to disperse the weird tension you can feel bubbling underneath the surface of his words.

Oliver’s nose follows the curve of your jaw, breath curling hot against your skin when he speaks again.

“There’s a barrier, right here”, his finger gently taps on your chest first and then on your temple, “you let everyone else in so easily. Not me, though”.

If he feels the way your heart starts beating faster, he doesn’t comment on it.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Aiku”.

He hums.

“I see. It’s getting higher, can’t climb over it. What are we gonna do?”.

“Oliver…”.

“Ah, there she is”, you can feel the curl of his smile, “if I ask you something, will you be honest?”.

You nod, not trusting the steadiness of your voice.

“Do you trust me?”.

It’s a loaded question, one you’re unprepared for. By now, you know him well enough to understand what he’s truly asking, the implication going beyond the simple outward layer coating his scrutiny.

Oliver is asking if you trust him with what you’re keeping from him, your heart and your thoughts. Because of course he’s smart enough to notice.

“No”, you murmur after a few seconds of careful evaluation.

His cheek is pressed to your shoulder and dark hair tickles your chin when he nods, immersed in his own thoughts and considerations.

Oliver doesn’t speak for a while, perhaps an entire minute. He wonders if the day spent with his family wasn’t enough, how much of himself he has to bare for you to believe he’s worth being vulnerable for. When has he ever shied away from a challenge?

Right as you’re about to timidly ask for a cab again, the deep rumble of his voice makes your heart jump.

“I’ll change that”.

“let me put underwear on first, at least.”

“lift it up for me. please?”

it’s the false sweetness you recognise easily, the gentle caress before the quick and surefire strike. you grimace but tug the shirt up just enough, and hiori’s gaze lowers.

for a second, he really does look like he’s only checking. his fingers are cool from the ointment when they settle against your hip, smoothing carefully over the edge of a bruise blooming there. purple at the centre. yellow at the edges. one of his.

he hums softly.

“this one’s healing.”

“mm.”

you zone out almost immediately because it feels good. the glide of his fingers. the quiet room. the smell of clean skin and laundry detergent. hiori’s knee pressed against yours. his thumb moving in slow circles, careful and even, like he is soothing something instead of admiring it.

“there,” he murmurs. “see? i can be nice.”

you laugh softly. “that’s not true.”

his smile widens by half a centimetre.

then his thumb stops circling.

and presses.

hard.

your whole body jolts before your brain catches up. “ah— yo!”

he doesn’t let go. he watches your face with that sweet, blank curiosity that is never blank at all.

“oh,” he says softly. “still tender.”

“you know it is.”

“i’m checking.”

“you are not checking, you’re being mean.”

“am i?” his thumb presses deeper, right into the heart of it, and your hand flies to his wrist. not pushing him away. just holding on. betraying yourself immediately.

his eyes flick down to your fingers around him.

then back up.

the tears come fast because they always do. not bad tears. not tears that alarm him in any way. just the stupid helpless ones that gather when the pain hits clean and sharp and welcome, when it punches the air out of you and leaves only him in its place.

hiori’s expression softens, but his thumb doesn’t.

“you’re crying already?”

“shut up.”

“that’s not very polite.”

“you’re hurting me.”

“i know.” he sounds fond, his voice airy and serene. “you’re letting me.”

he presses again, slow this time, dragging the pressure through the bruise until your knees wobble. you make a pathetic little noise and lean forward without meaning to, forehead nearly bumping his shoulder.

hiori catches your chin with his clean hand.

“look at me.”

you blink at him, wet-eyed and furious, and he looks so pleased it should be illegal.

“there,” he says. “pretty.”

his thumb eases off the bruise. for one blissful second, you think he’s done.

then he finds the one higher on your thigh.

a newer one he left with his fingers.

you inhale too sharply— too aware of how close his thumb is to the proper pain.

hiori notices. of course he notices. his face goes still in that terrible, focused way, like he’s found the exact page he wanted in a book.

“this one?”

“no.”

“you answered too fast.”

“because i don't want you to.”

his thumb hovers over it, barely touching. that’s worse somehow. the promise of pressure. the waiting. your body tenses before he’s even done anything.

“yo.”

“mm?”

“don’t.”

he tilts his head. “do you mean that?”

you hate that question. you hate that he asks it softly. you hate that he will listen if you say yes for real. probably.

your fingers twist in the front of his shirt.

“… no.”

his eyes warm.

“no, you don’t mean it?”

you mumble something useless.

he leans in just a little.

“use your words.”

your face burns. “i don’t mean it.”

“there we go.”

then he presses.

it is mean. it is so mean. his thumb drives into the bruise with deliberate, steady pressure, and your mouth opens on a broken whine. your eyes spill over properly this time, tears slipping hot down your cheeks.

hiori watches them fall like he’s being given a gift.

“oh, sweetheart,” he says, voice sugar-soft. “you really are sensitive.”

“you’re doing it really h-hard.”

“i know.”

“you’re s-so— mean.”

“i know that too.”

he keeps you there for another second. maybe two. long enough for your grip on his shirt to go weak and needy. long enough for your breathing to hitch into that floaty, irritated little crybaby rhythm he likes so much.

then he lets go.

instantly, the pain blooms outward, hot and throbbing.

you shove at his shoulder, not hard. “asshole.”

he catches your wrist and kisses the inside of it.

“hi.”

“don’t hi me.”

another kiss, this time to your knuckles. “you did well.”

“’m mad at you.”

“i know.”

“serious.”

“i know.” his thumb wipes under your eye, gathering the tears he caused like he has any right to be tender about them. “come here.”

“no.”

his expression shifts.

not stern, exactly. just quiet. settled in itself, and in your responses.

“don’t make me ask twice.”

you glare at him through wet lashes.

he waits.

patient. pretty. awful.

finally, you climb into his lap with all the dignity of a kicked puppy, knees on either side of him, shirt bunched around your hips. hiori’s hands settle at your waist, careful now, avoiding the tender spots he just bullied.

“good,” he says.

“you’re not allowed to say it like that after being horrible.”

“i’m allowed to do anything you let me do.”

you pout at him, and he smiles.

there it is. the real smile. small. devastating. too knowing.

he reaches for the ointment again and smooths more over the bruise, gentler this time. barely any pressure. just his fingertips moving in slow, apologetic circles.

your body, traitorous thing, softens almost immediately.

“that’s better,” he murmurs.

“you’re o-only being nice because you made me cry.”

“i like making you cry.”

“you’re not supposed to say that.”

“you already know.”

you make a frustrated sound and hide your face in his shoulder. he laughs under his breath, not meanly this time, and slides a hand up your back, holding you close. the ointment is cool against your skin. his palm is warm. your thighs still ache where he pressed, every throb a tiny reminder of his attention.

for a while, he just rocks you. slow. almost absent. his cheek rests against your hair.

then his thumb brushes your lower lip.

you go still.

he doesn’t speak.

he doesn’t have to.

your mouth opens, and his thumb slips in, pressing lightly against your tongue. not rough. not yet. just enough to quiet you. just enough to make your jaw relax and your thoughts blur at the edges.

his other hand smooths down your spine.

“there,” he whispers. “less whining.”

you make an offended sound around his thumb.

hiori’s eyes brighten.

“cute.”

you try to glare. it does not land. it absolutely does not land, because you’re teary and soft and sitting in his lap with his thumb in your mouth while he pets you like something precious and ruined.

he kisses your forehead.

then your cheek.

then the damp track of tears near your jaw.

“let me fix it,” he says, so gently it almost makes you mad again. “you can be upset at me after.”

you make another sound.

he presses his thumb down against your tongue, just enough to steal it.

“after,” he repeats.

and the worst part is, he does soothe. he takes it upon himself with that same horrible focus he uses for everything else. the bruises get ointment. the tears get kissed away. your body gets coaxed out of its little tantrum piece by piece until the irritation has nowhere left to live.

until your eyes are heavy.

until your hands stop gripping his shirt and simply rest there.

until he can pull his thumb from your mouth and tap your cheek twice, soft and proud.

“see?” he murmurs. “all better.”

you blink at him, dazed and still a little mad.

“… you’re mean.”

hiori smiles like an angel.

A promise she’s kept more than once. Too many times. Omegas like Aya, young and vibrant and oh-so-lovely, shouldn’t have any trouble finding a pack to settle down with. Hell, alphas should be banging down the door just for a chance with her – to fuck, to bond, anything and everything in between. You’re the sticking point. The reason why Ayako hasn’t bonded into a pack yet.

Alphas have no interest in betas. They do nothing for them – can’t take a knot, don’t have heats. Betas aren’t durable enough to ride out an alpha’s rut. All that compounded by the simple fact that bonding bites between the two don’t last longer than a few months, so why bother?

You’re dead weight. Aya clings to you anyway. 

She pulls your hand to her cheek, the tender, delicate spot right beneath the curve of her jaw. Scenting, you realise a touch belatedly. Omegas have stronger scents than betas do; florals, spice, indulgent, enticing things – you once knew an omega whose scent reminded you of hot caramel drizzled over apple pie. Ayako smells like lilacs and the rain, a softer scent admittedly, yet one that screams of home and comfort and familiar things. 

Your own scent is milder. Now, on top of sea salt and that faint whisper of summer, you’ll smell a little of her. She’s claiming you as pack, as hers. Her beta, exactly as she’d said

A flutter of warmth blooms in your chest, and you smile back at her, the first genuine one of the night. 

“You look great, by the way,” she tells you. “Come on, Tendou messaged to say they’re running a bit late and we should head on in without them. Ushijima’s practice doesn’t finish up ‘til about seven, so we’ve got plenty of time for the show.” She winks and lets out a bubbling laugh and you kind of feel like you’ve missed the joke.

Nevertheless, you let her tug you into the stadium. The lady behind the ticketing counter slides across two visitor’s passes on lanyards when Ayako gives your names.

“Practices are closed to the public,” the omega explains in a hushed voice while the two of you make your way towards the door for the stands. “Apparently the team get a few passes they can hand out to whoever they like – pack, usually.”

The pass has your name printed on it. Beneath it, in bold; Ushijima Wakatoshi. 

You finger the plastic edges absentmindedly. 

There’s other people in the stands, all wearing the same style lanyard draped around your neck. Some, you think, are partners. Friends and family. Pack, like Ayako said. You spy a woman maybe a few years older than you, bouncing a toddler on her lap and pointing animatedly towards the court, another guy sitting beside her, an arm curled over the back of her seat. Others appear to be there in a more official capacity – staff, you suppose, wearing the same white polo edged in blue and gold (team colours, you guess), talking quietly amongst themselves and jotting things down on expensive looking tablets. 

They pay you no mind. Ayako does the same, dragging you right up to the guard-rail with an excited gasp. You’d been expecting them to be running laps or tossing balls in pairs or something. You weren’t expecting anything like this. 

Without the roar of a crowd, every noise on the court is amplified; the squeaking of shoes, the thwack of palms meeting leather, shouts ricocheting from both sides as they scramble for the ball.

Scramble isn’t the right word, though. It flies through the air between the players, choreographed chaos.

One of the players, a dark haired behemoth, shoots up and connects with the ball, slamming it over the net with a terrifying force – you feel the impact in your chest when it hits the floor.

A whistle rings out.

“Oh my god,” Aya breathes.

The behemoth turns, dark eyes zeroing in on your figure from across the court. His nostrils flare.

Alpha, you realise. He’s one of Aya’s alphas.

Ushijima Wakatoshi. 

“You know he’s one of the top wing spikers in the country, and he’s on the national team? He’s already got like three Olympic medals! Three!” she gushes. “He’s incredible.”

You hardly hear her. The other players on the court, his teammates, are already re-setting, a blond slapping Ushijima on the back, another hurling a teasing jab across the net – earning him a middle finger in response – Ushijima’s gaze doesn’t shift, his attention doesn’t waver. You swear you see his pupils dilate. 

Your breath is caught somewhere in your chest. 

“Are you gonna wave at the alpha you dressed so pretty for?” 

“Would you stop?” you hiss, tearing your gaze away to jab an elbow into Ayako’s side, which she artfully dodges with a delighted giggle. 

“Can’t say I blame you for drooling. I practically melted into a puddle the first time Semi dragged him into the bakery. He’s hot as hell,” she sighs. 

The problem is, she isn't wrong. Weird, heavy, way too intense eye contact aside, Ushijima is the textbook definition of ‘hot alpha’; all tall and broad shouldered, his face hewn with clean, strong lines. Add on the ridiculous athleticism, the muscles that clearly aren’t just for show – yeah, no wonder Aya’s got heart eyes already. 

On the court below, the whistle blows. More cheers. Another point scored. By the time you glance down again, Ushijima’s lost interest, his focus returned to the game, nodding at something one of the (you presume) coaches yells across the court.

The tight, prickling feeling writhing beneath your skin, that doesn’t fade as quick. 

God, you’re way too worked up about this whole thing. 

“He’s very, uh…” 

“Intimidating? No– impressive? Or were you gonna say sexy? All true, by the way. Ushiwaka’s a beast.”

The other two alphas have finally deigned to grace you with their presence. Wonderful. 

Swallowing back a wince, you turn to face the duo. “Good,” you say. “I was going to say he’s very… good.”

Aya had told you the basics, of course; Semi’s the lead singer slash guitarist in a band, Tendou’s a chocolatier. The former used to be a civil servant, the latter recently moved back from a stint in Paris, and both of them played Volleyball with Ushijima in high school. 

You’re not entirely sure what you were expecting. Carbon cutouts of their packmate, maybe, big, brawny, radiating the kind of imposing dominance that forces everyone around them – other alphas included – to sit down and shut up with a look alone. 

The two alphas before you aren’t that. 

The shorter of the two, more wiry in his build than the redhead beside him, smirks. “Good, huh?” 

He’s teasing you. They’re both teasing you. Your cheeks burn hotter. Before you can open your mouth to apologise, try and sidestep you shoving your own foot in your mouth as a first impression, Aya intervenes. 

“You should’ve seen her a minute ago, her jaw was on the ground. She’s playing it cool.”

The sound of her laugh digs at you in a way it shouldn’t. 

It’s not fair, not when you’re the one who’s acting like you don’t have a single working brain cell and she’s trying to cover for you, but it bothers you when Ayako acts like she has to smoothe over your edges, make you more palatable, more pleasing. You’re not an omega, you won’t ever be an omega, and sometimes you can’t help but wonder if Aya’s gonna spend the rest of your lives trying to compensate for that.

Her shoulder knocks with yours, a gentle bump, that same hopeful, painfully optimistic look in her eyes. 

Guilt, an old, familiar friend at this point, washes over you. 

“This is Semi,” she introduces, gesturing at the ash-blond with the ripped jeans, “and Tendou,” the gangly redhead. 

“And you must be our beta,” Semi surmises, slowly eyeing you over. 

The casual possessiveness rankles you, your tight smile freezing in place. Again Ayako simply laughs, her fingers, very deliberately, lacing with yours once more. “She’s my beta, you have yet to win her over.”

Neither alpha appears all that put out by the prospect.

Tendou, eyes crinkling with a wide, eager grin that takes you a little aback, thrusts a hand out towards you, a white gift bag you hadn’t noticed dangling from his fingertips. “Presents help with the whole wooing thing, right?” he jokes.

From your experience, yes. 

Aya’s received plenty. You, as her tag along beta, less so. 

One pack brought you a bouquet of pink and white peonies on your first date. Not quite as  extravagant as the arrangement of roses they presented Aya with, they had a lovely, subtle perfume and when you put them in a vase and set them atop your nightstand, they brightened up the whole room. You could appreciate that they’d at least tried to make you feel an equal part of this. 

They’d been willing to play pretend.

Back then, when Aya first started bringing potential packs around, you were… idealistic. Naive, maybe. 

You watched them dote on her. Lap up Aya’s attention like it was the sweetest fix. You saw the hunger. The arousal that flared, thick and syrupy, whenever she did something unintentionally appealing to the alpha inside of them – a simple stretch, nibbling on her bottom lip while she mulled over a menu, the sway of her hips as she walked up to the bar.

Oh, they were polite to you. Drew you into conversations, chatted about your job, your hobbies, the plans the two of you had for the holidays in a few weeks’ time – all the while tracking every movement of the omega beside you from the corner of their eyes.

They were nice to you. You didn’t want ‘nice’. You wanted what they so freely offered to Aya; hunger and captivated attention, a desire so thick in the air you could choke on it. 

Foolish, pretty fantasies. There’s no competing with biology, you know that. The most interesting, beautiful beta in the room is still just a beta. 

Down below, the court’s quieter, muted chatter drifting up to the bleachers in place of squeaking and thuds and the sharp trill of whistles blowing. Did the practice match finish up?

Aya squeezes your hand. Drops it. As subtle a cue as she can manage. 

Brain kicking back into gear, you step closer and pluck the gift from the alpha’s outstretched hand, an odd little shiver trickling down your spine when the tips of your fingers graze his rough palm. 

“Ah, thank you,” you say, remembering your manners at last.

Tendou’s eyes flutter shut, breathing in deep, shuddering a little on the exhale. When they open again, there’s a giddy sort of satisfaction creeping from his expression. He licks his lips, smiling wide. “Sea salt.”

“… Sorry?”

“The chocolates,” his chin juts towards the gift. “Sea salt caramel. I had a feeling, went with it. I’m not usually wrong.” He sounds absurdly proud of the fact. 

“Oh.” 

Beside you, Aya looks as lost as you feel. Semi, on the other hand, snorts, shaking his head. “You might wanna ease up on the beta, dude. She met you all of three minutes ago.”

“Yeah, but we’re gonna be besties. I can feel it.” Without warning he slings an arm over your shoulders, dragging you close to smush you into his side, unbothered by your startled yelp, the way the bag of chocolates smacks against his torso when the hand clutching it jerks out to steady yourself. “Don’t be jealous ‘cuz I’m already the favourite, Semi-Semi.”

Semi shrugs, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans, leaning back against the centre railing behind him. Slowly, a smirk unfurls. A challenge. “For now.”

Plastered against Tendou’s side, swallowed up by the heat of him, the heady scent of cherrywood – of alpha – thick and strong, and with no sign of him letting you go anytime soon, you dart a glance to Aya.

Your best, oldest (admittedly only) friend, watching the three of you with a quirked eyebrow, expression otherwise indecipherable–

And then, she giggles, rolling her eyes with exasperated amusement. “Can we at least sit while you two fight over my well-earned spot?” 

You wonder if they notice the brief look of concern she throws your way as Tendou relaxes his hold and the two usher you over to a seat, Semi snagging the one to your left, Aya taking the right.

Her promise from earlier rings in your head. One word and she’ll walk, no questions asked. 

Aya needs a pack. She wants this one. She likes this one, but at some point, she’ll need one. 

Omegas don’t do well long term without mates. Right now her heats are okay, manageable with suppressants and toys – eventually those won’t be enough. They’ll get worse, come without warning, more frequently. The suppressants won’t help, she’ll ache and burn up, forgo food, water, sleep…

The lucky ones end up hospitalised. The unlucky ones either end up dead or in situations where it’d be a kindness if they were. 

“You okay?” she asks, whisper soft. Her voice won’t carry, the other two aren’t paying attention anyway. Semi’s thigh brushes up against yours when he spreads his legs wide, thumbing out a message on his phone, and Tendou’s leaning over the backrest between you, chin perched on his folded forearms, watching him type. 

One word and she’ll walk, that’s what Aya promised. 

Down on the court below, the players spread across the floor, stretching out and cooling down, half empty water bottles and sweat towels scattered around them. Ushjima’s lying on your side of the court, one thigh drawn over the other, twisting out his lower back. If he realises he’s got an audience in you and Aya, he gives no indication of caring, holding the stretch for a few seconds longer before repeating the motion with the other leg. 

“Yeah.”

If chocolates and overly tactile besties are what you get out of this, you can manage that. 

—

While you wait out front of the stadium for Ushijima to finish up, Semi smokes.

A lit cigarette dangles loosely between two fingers, the tip glowing cherry red with every drag. He stands separate from the three of you, a few feet away, because when he’d fished out the slightly crumpled packet from his jacket pocket to pluck one out, Aya’s nose wrinkled. Omegas are sensitive to strong smells at the best of times, and Aya’s loathed the stench of cigarettes ever since she was a kid and her dad would smoke on the back porch of her gran’s place. He died years ago, and to this day she swears up and down that every time she sets foot back there, she smells those Seven Stars.

To her credit, she hadn’t actually said anything, and to Semi’s, he hadn’t kicked up a fuss. He’d shrugged, shuffled on back and lit up anyway. Water off a duck’s back.

Tendou talks loudly and Aya’s giggling laugh echoes louder. Semi watches. Idle – bored, almost. 

Until his gaze shifts to you.

And stays there.

From a young age, you’re taught that alphas are stronger than betas and omegas. They’re quicker. Smarter. In the old days, they tell you, alphas were the hunters, the providers – protectors, when the situation called for it. What they mean, dressing the truth up in nicer, more palatable terms is that alphas are, down to their marrow, predators. 

Those instincts don’t go away just because society’s a little more civilised these days. 

Semi’s expression doesn’t change. There’s nothing particularly dangerous or threatening there, nothing to explain the sudden ball of anxiety that lodges itself in your stomach. 

Yet you can’t shake the sense that with that stare, every ounce of his focus rests solely on you. Every breath, every nervous twitch, shift of your muscles, all of it tracked, analysed. He stares, breathing out a slow plume of smoke, and you feel the physical weight of it bearing down on you.

He won’t bite, lunge for the kill – but he could.

His chin tilts, eyebrow lifting. A flicker of amusement, as if he knows exactly the thoughts running wild in your head. You shake them off, ignore the hammering of your heart to follow the wordless, beckoning call to his side, nudging Aya on the way past so she won’t think you’ve abandoned her. 

“You realise she’s gonna try and get you to quit,” you tell him in what you hope is a friendly, upbeat tone. 

Semi scoffs and takes another drag of his cigarette. You watch, off-kilter, a little dazed as his head tilts back, exposing the long, lithe column of his throat, and he slowly exhales.

With dark, sweeping lashes and angular features, the problem, you realise, is that Semi is distractingly pretty. An artless, grunged up sort of pretty. Pretty like pools of oil on asphalt after it rains. 

Pretty in the way that poisonous things often are. 

“She’s more than welcome to try.” He plucks his cig from his lips and extends it your way, his expression almost… goading. 

You don’t take it.

There isn’t much surprise to be found in your refusal, his pretty mouth pursing as his arm falls by the wayside. “Omega’s got her claws stuck in you good, huh.”

And that’s the rub, isn’t it. What all this boils down to. Right from the start, the very first pack you met and every pack since – Aya’s made it clear from the get-go. They don’t get her without you. You’re her beta. 

“Is that a problem for you?”

You won’t take the cigarette because Aya has issues with it. She won’t entertain you leaving her because the two of you are too fucking entangled in one another to handle extrication.

You’re pack, you’re family, you’re all each other has left, now that her grandma – the woman who essentially raised you and her – is gone. 

You won’t play second fiddle, if only because Aya won’t allow them to push you aside like that. If that’s a problem, a dealbreaker (and, historically speaking, it has been) better they figure it out now, before she – or you – gets too attached and ends up hurt. 

Semi regards you for a long moment, taking one last puff of his cigarette before he flicks it away, grinds the smoldering butt into the cement with the toe of his boot. “Don’t know yet. Guess we’ll find out.”

And you nod, because at least that’s an honest answer. 

“Tendou came back to Japan for her, didn’t he?” It’d twigged when you’d gone to hand back your visitor’s pass and the lady behind the counter made some casual comment about not expecting to see him ‘til next season.

Not back for a visit, back permanently.

Semi shakes his head, “He was always coming back. Paris was only ever a temporary thing,” he corrects. “But yeah, he made the decision to come home early when we realised the opportunity that’d fallen into our laps.”

While you don’t love the way he makes meeting Aya sound, you understand the gravity of what he’s saying. Tendou uprooted his life for her. 

You glance back over your shoulder, fiddling with the handles of the bag of chocolates he’d made for you. They’re still talking, quieter now, both of them subtly – subconsciously, probably – angled towards the two of you; Aya with that same bright-eyed look about her, Tendou like he’s just itching to interrupt and steal your attention back for himself. He, at least, might actually like you. 

“And you? Are you all in, too?”

The words slip out before you can stop them. Semi doesn’t owe you an answer, you know that. It’s not fair that you asked, it’s just– you can’t get a read on him. For all his sharp edges and the smirks that make your insides squirm, you don’t know whether this is what he wants. Wanted, maybe.

Semi surprises you. In a move too quick for you to catch, he closes in on you. He doesn’t pin you down per se. You’re not caged in, trapped between his body and a wall. Physically speaking, there’s nothing stopping you from stepping back and regaining that inch of space as he looms over your shorter frame, tilting your chin upwards with two curled fingers like he’s going to kiss you. 

Nothing except your suddenly jelly legs. 

There’s barely anything separating you. Millimetres. Heat floods your face. Your stomach tightens, blood simmering, writhing beneath your skin. Long fingers encircle your wrist, right where Aya had scented you, his thumb digging in over your fluttering pulse. A noise escapes you then, a distressed sort of whimper you thought yourself above, and Semi’s eyes flick down to your lips, something dark and hungry flaring in response. 

Alpha. Smaller than his packmates, but no less. 

“Who d’you think called him and told him to get his ass back home, little beta?” 

You swallow unsteadily–

“Time to share, Semi-Semi,” Tendou sings, snaking an arm around your waist to haul you away from the blond. To you, he says, “You wanna come say hi to our big, bad pack alpha, don’tcha?” 

It’s then you realise that Ushijima, along with several of his teammates, have finally emerged. While they wave each other off, scattering across the carpark, some heading to their cars, others in the direction of buses and the train station, Ushijima halts near the door – Aya already skipping on over. 

“Ah… yes?”

Tendou snickers. 

“Relax,” Semi tells you with a smirk, clapping your shoulder as he brushes on past. “Ushiwaka doesn’t bite.” 

As Tendou nudges you forward like an errant duckling, you fix Semi with an unimpressed look. He winks. Asshole.

Omegas, especially unbonded omegas, tend to be picky about touch and physical affection outside of pack and family. Aya, for all her moon-eyed infatuation, doesn’t throw herself at the alpha. Ushijima offers a single, wooden pat on her head, the edges of his mouth lifting in what you suppose is an approximation of a smile.

She beams all the same.

“– and this is my beta,” she introduces. 

You’re not anticipating an overly warm welcome. For one, he looks stiff enough smiling at Aya to suspect he’s not practised with the expression, for another… the whole, weird staring thing from earlier sits all too fresh in your mind. If he’d heard your awkward fumbling with his packmates in the aftermath, you doubt that’s helped endear you to him any.

Nothing prepares you for the way he turns, every speck of goodwill falling from his features when your scent finally reaches him. Cold, remote stone, eyeing you down. 

“You smell like lilacs,” he grunts, like the very concept offends him. You, a beta, wearing his would-be mate’s scent. 

—

The izakaya the alphas take you to is only a few minutes walk from the stadium, and each one of them passes in near unbearable, stilted tension. 

Aya doesn’t question you when you make a bee-line for the bathroom rather than following the others to a table, though the small furrow between her brows says plenty.

You just need a minute.

The single unisex stall offers spartan amenities at best – a sink with a cracked mirror hammered into the wall, paper towels, and a lone, flickering light above. 

Braced over the porcelain vanity, eyes closed, shaking like a leaf with remnants of ice-cold water dripping down your face, you will the frantic, sickening churn inside you to ease. 

Fuck. 

What’s wrong with you?

Ushijima could barely stand that Aya had scented you, and you’re supposed to believe he’d let you bond into the pack with her? And if he did, what kind of life would that be? You, forever on the outside, pack but not really, not in the ways that matter. 

What place does a beta have between alphas and their omega?

More to the point, how, after all the packs you and Aya have tried this with, all the the indifference and dismissal you’ve weathered, the cruel insults you weren’t supposed to hear–

Think of it this way, dude; it’s a spare hole for you to stick your cock in while the omega’s busy bouncing on my knot.

–how are you still surprised that they don’t want you?

You let a slow breath out, shoulders sagging. Okay. 

Okay. 

Straightening up, you rip a sheet of paper towel from the dispenser, dabbing to remove any trace of distress from your face. You can do this, you tell yourself. Smile, play pretend. A few drinks, some dumplings, yakitori – two, three hours max.

Nothing’s changed.

The alphas want Ayako. Ayako wants these alphas.

In spite of that, in spite of the blushing and fawning and big, lovely doe eyes that bat ever so prettily for her alphas, she’ll hold true to her promise if you ask it of her. 

No questions asked, without an ounce of resentment, she’d walk away from them. She’d choose you. 

It’d be a few weeks of moping around, picking each other up and dusting yourselves off. There’ll be other packs. Aya’s got a few years yet before her heats really become an issue. You can always try again.

The thing is… you don’t want to anymore.

They like you as a friend. You’re in the way. They wanna fuck you, but only if the omega’s otherwise occupied. You can take care of the household stuff during heats and ruts, right? Maybe one day there could be something more. 

They wouldn’t look twice if it wasn’t for Ayako. 

Every time it hurts, like clawing out pieces of yourself, and you just… you can’t anymore. You won’t.

So tonight, you’ll be the bestie. Let her have her fun, flirt with the big, strong alphas she’s so enamoured by, and then tomorrow… tomorrow you’ll find a way to cut yourself loose from all of this. Aya gets her pack and you can find a nice, normal beta to settle down with. You’ll both be happier for it in the long run. 

Wiping a smudge of mascara from under your eye, you suck in another fortifying breath, nodding at yourself in the mirror. A few hours of pretending is nothing. A piece of cake.

Focused entirely on the veneer you have to slip into, you don’t notice the large, muscular frame blocking the door until you quite literally collide with it.

“Oof– Sorry, my b–”

The words wither like ash on your tongue when you look up to find Ushijima standing over you.

Despite the resolution you’d come to mere moments ago, you’re not feeling particularly charitable towards the hulking behemoth of an alpha, and you have every intention of wordlessly skirting around him to head back to the table and join your friend, civility be damned. 

You make it all of a single step before a change sweeps over him and he stiffens, nostrils flaring like they had back on the court. His eyes bleed black, and that’s the only warning you get before he seizes your wrist in one giant hand and starts to haul you back into the stall, slamming the door shut behind you both. 

“What the hell are you doing?!” you hiss. 

“She scented you,” he growls, looking angrier than he did before. “You smell like omega.”

No, this isn’t anger. Not exactly. Ushijima’s shoulders heave with every breath, his whole frame almost shuddering, pulled taut like a bowstring primed to snap–

And that’s when realisation hits. 

“You’re in a rut,” you whisper, eyes going wide in horror. “Ushiji–” You don’t get to finish the sentence. 

Big should mean slow. Clumsy. Ushijima’s neither. 

In an instant he surges into motion, one hand clamping down over your mouth, the other shoving you forward, trapping you on the tips of your toes between his hulking body and the vanity that was your lifeline five minutes ago. Just like then, your hands automatically reach out, clutching the edge of the sink to steady yourself. Stupid, when the full weight of Ushijima pins you precariously in place anyway.

Your heart hammers, panic and terror clawing at your stomach. You aren’t an omega, you can’t take a knot. If Ushijima tries to fuck you like he wants – like his instincts are driving him to – he’ll tear you apart. He’ll break you. 

But if any part of the mindless, snarling alpha behind you recognises that, he doesn’t care. The warm body in his grasp smells like lilacs, like the omega outside, and that’s good enough.

He noses at your hair and pants, yanking your skirt up to rip at your underwear. The fabric gives easily.

While he rips and claws at his own clothes to free his cock, Ushijima stares at your reflection, watching you shake as the tears well up and spill over. There’s nothing human there, nothing cognizant. The black pits staring back at you are pure alpha, consumed by the need to fuck and breed. 

You have seconds – seconds – to brace yourself.

Ushijima drags the head of his cock along your slit just once, bends you over, and without warning or preamble, splits you in two. 

Omegas have slick to help with sudden ruts. You don’t. 

It doesn’t matter that you’re not prepared to take him, that it hurts worse than anything you’ve experienced before and you’re choking on tears and muffled wails. You scream into his hand and Ushijima grunts, bullying his cock into you one agonising millimetre at a time. 

He fucks into you like you’re made to take his cock, every thrust slamming you into the unforgiving edge of the sink while your legs scramble for purchase. You’re fairly sure you’re close to passing out when you feel the swell of his knot start to catch. 

Oblivious to your panic, the wheezing cries and pleas dashed against his palm, the alpha snarls in open-mouthed pleasure, his spare hand coming down to cover one of your own, braced against the sink. “Mine.”

With the added weight, the vanity unit rattles against the wall, and you pray that someone’s walking by and hears it, cares enough to come investigate.

You aren’t that lucky, though.

Ushijima hauls you back upright, and as his knot swells, thick and pulsing, stretching you to breaking point and spurts of hot cum coat your insides, you cling on to consciousness just long enough to watch him tilt your chin to the side, lap at a bead of sweat trailing down your neck, and bury his teeth in your skin. 

—

Three days after your release from hospital, you wake to Aya knocking at your bedroom.

“S’posed to be at the bakery,” you mumble, curling tighter into the warm cocoon of your sheets. Soft morning light spills into your room. You can’t be bothered reaching for your phone to see the time, however your internal clock tells you that whatever the time is, it’s too early.

Aya sighs, taking that as an invitation to slip inside and plant herself on the edge of the mattress beside you. “Soon. I swapped shifts so I could start a bit later. I didn’t want…” she seems to struggle to find the right words, her shoulders rising and falling in a helpless shrug. “You know I love you, right?”

“I know.”

That isn’t the problem. 

“You remember the day your mom left?” The stark flinch beneath the covers must serve as answer enough. “You wouldn’t stop crying. Gran was so worried you’d make yourself sick, kept bringing you tea, bottles of water, anything to keep you hydrated.” 

An omega like her granddaughter, the last of her alphas having passed away a few years before, she’d paced fretfully outside Aya’s bedroom door for hours while you’d sobbed into your best friend’s arms, an absolute wreck. 

A bittersweet feeling floods your heart at the memory. No one ever loved you like gran did. 

Aya continues, “I made a decision that day. I wasn’t going to leave. I wasn’t going to run off with a bunch of alphas to live out some fairytale happily ever after and leave you behind. You can blame me for what happened. I get it. If I hadn’t scented you, he–” she breaks off with a sharp inhale.

He wouldn’t have tipped into a rut.

Wouldn’t have fucked you.

Knotted you.

Bit you. 

“You can blame me for it,” she repeats, though her voice shakes and her eyes shine with tears she won’t let fall. “Hate me for it if you have to, so long as you know I’m not going anywhere. You’re still my beta, my best friend. All I wanted was to keep us together.”

Aya waits for you to say something. To forgive or condemn, and you try– you genuinely do, because blaming her isn’t fair, and you could no sooner hate her than you could carve out a lung. 

Only… you open your mouth and there’s nothing. 

The way her expression collapses before she has a chance to plaster over it hits you like a punch to the stomach. 

“Alright, lovely girl. I’ll see you when I get back – four-ish probably, unless we get hit with a late rush. I’ll try and steal some of those mini strawberry cakes to bring home too, I know how much you like them,” she rambles, patting your blanket covered knee and rising to her feet. “Call me if you need anything.”

“Aya–”

Already halfway to the door, she turns, perfect brow arched, “Hm?” Like she’s expecting you to ask for another blanket. Some tea. Nothing wrong, nothing amiss. 

“Love you, too.”

And it’s like the sun coming out from the clouds. Aya beams a watery smile, and quietly closes the door behind her. 

Sleep drags you back under before you hear the front door click. The doctors warned you about that; one of the many charming side effects you’d be subjected to over the next few weeks.

Bond sickness, they called it. An alpha’s bite formed a mating bond, and that bond doesn’t respond well when it’s neglected, say by putting several miles of distance between you and the alpha who marked you. For omegas it can be deadly if it goes on long enough. Alphas have a sense of it, but it doesn’t affect them in the same way. They don’t get sick. For you, it means a month or so of lethargy, aches, low grade fevers and chills, nausea, a veritable shopping list of symptoms that’ll ease and fade as the bond itself does. 

None of that had stopped one of the nurse’s at the hospital from suggesting that, despite the delicate nature of the situation, it might be beneficial for your health if you moved in with Ushijima and his pack until it did fade. 

It was Aya who’d jumped down her throat for that one. 

You were still in shock. Numb–

Except for the foreign, slow simmering anger lodged like a thorn between your ribs. A small piece of you that wasn’t you at all. 

—

Sometime around midmorning, you stir again.

There’s footsteps in the living room, pattering through towards your bedroom. Dancing on the edge of awake, your brain slow and sluggish, jumps to the most logical conclusion. 

“Aya?” 

You expect your door to open, that familiar bloom of lilacs to spill into your room along with your best friend, a bowl of noodle soup from the shop on the corner in tow, the strawberry cakes she promised earlier, extra pillows, coffee, her laptop with your favourite movie already queued up; comfort things she knows will help.

The door does swing open, and neither one of the tall, looming frames behind it belong to Aya. 

“Sorry to disappoint, little beta,” Semi drawls, crossing the threshold like he has every right to be there. “Your girlfriend’s busy, you’re gonna have to play with us instead.”

The blood in your veins runs cold. 

Drawing your legs up tight to put as much distance between you and the advancing alpha as you can, your eyes dart between the two, Tendou lingering in the doorway, fingers drumming against the jamb. 

“I didn’t report him. I’m not going to,” you tell them, clutching at the blankets around you so your hands won’t shake. “I know how it’ll go, I’m not i-interested in–”

Semi reaches your bed. That look he’d had in his eyes back at the stadium, dark, focused, predatory – it’s there again, sharp and gleaming. He’s smirking. 

“There’s no– you don’t need to threaten me, or-or try to scare me–” His knee hits the mattress and your voice jumps to a squeak as he climbs on up.

You squirm back against the headboard. Semi prowls closer. 

There’s nowhere for you to go. 

Tendou’s not so subtly placed himself between you and the exit, and even if you could launch yourself out of bed without Semi catching you – without your head spinning and stomach threatening to upheave – they’re alphas. You couldn’t outrun them on a good day, you sure as hell can’t fight them.  

“Please. You can go. I-I won’t say anything.”

“Fuck, that’s cute,” Tendou shivers, the deep red of his iris nearly swallowed by black. His fingers aren’t idly drumming anymore, they’re digging into the wood, splintering it beneath his grip. 

Inches away from you, Semi suddenly freezes, his attention snapping downwards to focus on something near his right hand. His nose wrinkles, lip curling. “You wanna know what I liked best about the omega?” he asks, lifting his gaze back to you. “I don’t think you really believed me back at the stadium.”

You shake your head. You don’t want to know. If they aren’t here to scare you into keeping your mouth shut about Ushijima, then–

A low, husky chuckle comes from the doorway. 

“When she’d show up smelling like the sea in summer.” 

He strikes hard and fast – seizing your ankle to yank you under him. His mouth finds the soft curve where your neck meets your shoulder and he bites down. Hard. 

Agony washes you over you, chased by fire. 

Panting wildly, your body locks up, arcing against him; against the warmth that crowds you, the hard muscles that cage you, the face now tucked into the crook of your neck, licking at the bloody, oozing wound. 

He’s there inside of you, too. Buried beneath your skin, brimming with smug satisfaction. 

“Bite her and we’ll take her home to the nest. I’m not fucking her here,” he calls over his shoulder, keeping his eyes fixed on you. He pats your hair, strokes your cheek. “Little beta needs her mates, don’t you?”

“Course she does!”

You’re gasping for air that won’t come, trembling, heart beating so frantically inside your chest you worry it’ll give out.

Tendou, bounding over with puppy-like eagerness, jumps on the bed and shoves his fellow alpha out of the way. 

“A…ya,” you rasp, weakly pushing at the large body crawling atop yours. You’re not sure whether it’s a question or a plea, but you get the sense that it doesn’t actually matter either way. 

Semi rolls his eyes – you can feel the flicker of his irritation – while Tendou, pawing at your sleep tee, pushing it up and shoving his face into the soft skin revealed there only groans, huffing at your scent like he can’t get enough. 

“Pretty omega like her? She’ll have her own alphas to worry about,” Semi dismisses, a faint frown marring his pretty face as he zeros in on the bandage over your neck. 

A split second too late, you realise his intentions. 

“No, don’t–”

He rips off the gauze.

Ushijima’s bite is puffy and inflamed. Calloused fingertips drift over the edges of the wound, Semi’s eyes boring into you as you let out a low, anxious whine. As Tendou licks and nips at your chest, working his way upwards, the blond increases the pressure, digging in.

You choke on a cry, pleasure, rather than pain, flooding and overwhelming your senses, and deep in your core, the answering surge of rabid need rips through you so viciously it punches the air from your lungs–

“We don’t fucking share.”

Five Months Later

The letter, still unopened and unread, stays with him wherever he goes. It’s a constant reminder of what’s happened, a constant piece of you that he can keep close. Everyone knows better than to bring you up, save for Oikawa and the therapist you two used to share.

“Couples in trouble aren’t the only ones who should see a therapist. We have a good thing and we want it to keep going, right? It’s never a bad idea to strengthen our communication!” “Of course you would say that, Dr. Iwaizumi. You’re fluent in five languages and are learning another. Your life revolves around communication.” “Tsk. You just like hearing your name attached to my title. Anyway, think of it as maintenance. You don’t wanna wait until there’s a breakdown, right? It’s better to take care of it like you’re supposed to.” “Okay, okay. Go ahead and make the appointment. But you’re damn right, I like hearing my name with your title. It’s your name now, too.”

He alone carries these memories, the memories of you and him, of the life you had together. He alone carries the weight of your love, of his love for you.

Just like your letter, it stays with him wherever he goes.

It was a hot summer day, just before the start of his first term at UC Irvine.

You were on the phone just outside of the cafe, speaking animatedly to the person on the other end of the line, talking about something or other—he can’t remember because he wasn’t paying attention back then. Not really. It wasn’t until you started listing languages you were fluent in and which you still wanted to learn that he had started listening. You caught him staring and offered a wide smile as though you two were the best of friends.

While he went inside to get a drink, he hoped you wouldn’t be there upon his return, that you would’ve left, that you would've afforded him the opportunity to quietly contemplate the cute girl who had caught his eye, the same one who had said that she’s fluent in Japanese.

Of course, that didn’t happen. Off your phone, you were reclining in your chair, looking as though you were waiting for him. As soon as your eyes landed on Iwaizumi, your smile turned breathtaking and you invited him over.

And just like that, you had entered his life, changing it permanently.

A Ph.D. Applied Linguistics candidate in your second year of post-grad. You were fluent in English, obviously, Japanese, and Castilian Spanish, and were in the process of learning Arabic. It was easy spending time with you, something he attributed to your Japanese, though he now understands it was a part of your charm.

Exceptionally skilled at reading people, you knew just what to say and how to act to make others comfortable, though you never had to do so with Iwaizumi, never even tried. Being in your company was comfort enough, providing a sense of peace he never thought he’d need.

Two years. It took him two years for him to fall in love—well, a better way to describe it would be to say that it took two years for him to realize he was in love with you.

Looking back on it, he can’t be upset that it took him so long to figure it out. It was still time spent with you, spent enjoying you and making you smile. It was still time spent loving you and being loved by you.

Upon graduation, he returned to Japan, having received an offer to train with the national team thanks to recommendations made by Ushijima and Utsui. The two of you maintained contact, communicating over the phone, over handwritten letters, over video calls. All the same, there was only so much communication that can be done with more than 8,000 kilometers and a sixteen-hour time difference separating you two.

Looking back on it, he regrets the time spent away from you. It was only eighteen months, not that much time in the grand scheme of things—as he justified to himself back in 2020—but too much time considering the amount of time he would actually get with you.

This is something he still struggles with reconciling now that he returns to an empty bed at the end of each day.

Early Summer 2033

The facility always smells like various cleaners, always a shock to the senses despite coming each day. Better this than a virus that could run rampant among immune-compromised patients, as witnessed during the pandemic.

The doctors glance his way and busy themselves, answering the question he’s yet to ask. But he asks nonetheless.

“How’s she doing?”

The answer they give him is one they must be familiar with giving, but one that’s undoubtedly difficult to answer each time.

Iwaizumi knows the answer before the words tumble from their lips.

It’s written across their faces. It’s heavy in his coat pocket, heavy in his heart at the memory of your first night here months ago, of the day that came before.

The one where you didn’t recognize him, where you didn’t recognize your home, where you couldn’t communicate what you needed or what you wanted. The one where there was nothing he could do to comfort you.

He still visits each day, still talks to you about his day, about Oikawa and his reluctance to retire from volleyball despite the fact that his ligaments are beat to shit, about how veterans of his first Team Japan still ask about you.

He continues to read to you from your favorite—er, what were your favorite poetry books, though he’s certain he’s butchering the translated poems in their original languages. He changes your flowers once a week, making certain to care for them as you had shown him before the first overseas trip you had to make years prior.

Some days he’s able to spark your memory, even if but for a moment. You make it abundantly clear how much you miss him, how sorry you are that you can’t fulfill your promises to him. It comes in the form of correcting his pronunciation or humming the Godzilla theme with him. Those are the days he looks forward to, the ones where he can see you. Those are the days that break his heart, when the love in your eyes is replaced with fear and confusion, when he loses you yet again.

He knows the day is coming when you’ll be far past recognition, when he’ll no longer see your smile, no longer see the affection that you once held. He knows that day is coming when this will be another memory that belongs to Iwaizumi and Iwaizumi alone.

Some days, he wonders whether there’ll come a point where it’s too much, where his heart can’t take it anymore, where he’ll listen to those who dare tell him that you’re already gone, that visiting doesn’t make a difference anymore. Some days he believes that his limit is coming sooner rather than later.

But the truth is that he still won’t abandon you. The truth is that the sliver of hope that resides in his heart is enough to keep him going, even when all of him knows there is no saving you.

Five Months Later

The day he married you, the sakura had started to fall. It marks change, marks the ending and a new beginning simultaneously. He had believed the hanafubuki to be a sign of hope, of the beginning of his life with you, the promise of always having you by his side. After your diagnosis, he would look back on that moment and wonder whether it was an omen, a foretelling of the ending to come.

It had started slow, almost insignificant, coinciding with an intense set of expectations and responsibilities, traveling for work while you were in the process of being published in two separate journals.

You both had chalked it up to stress.

Blanking on a word that was clearly on the tip of your tongue. Forgetting where you had placed an item that you had just put down. Forgetting names when you always had an exceptional ability to remember the name of someone you had interacted with only once. Losing track of the conversation mid-thought.

The therapist attributed it to stress, just as you did, just as he did. They recommended little reminders—alarms, post-it notes, vibrant ribbons to grab your attention, multiple planners and calendars placed around the home. Iwaizumi took it upon himself to create reminders in his phone so that he could remind you himself.

Two months had passed and it only got worse. No longer had you the additional stress from the journals, yet the lapses became more frequent, ultimately culminating in an accident that prompted a series of scans and that diagnosis.

Neither of you were alone that day, having the 2021 Team Japan there to offer support because it was you.

Undeniably charming, impossible not to love. You brightened each room you entered, reminded everyone of the little blessings to be found each day, leaving everyone with a smile on their face.

And still, that night you both felt incredibly alone and incredibly scared.

That first night was hell—not that any of the subsequent ones were any better. It was spent desperately trying to absorb the information thrown at you, ending with you curled against his chest while soft sobs punctuated the silence that threatened to consume you both.

You started writing letters again, despite the fact that he wasn’t leaving you, that he refused to leave you. Once a week for nine years until you couldn’t anymore.

“Entrusting him with your heart,” you would say, but you both knew that it was your way of giving him as much as you could before… Well.

This.

A phone call as he travels to visit with you again. The morning sun blinds him momentarily as he answers via Bluetooth.

He should stop driving. He should pull off to the side of the road. He should—

“Iwaizumi-san? I’m sorry to report that your wife—”

He should do something because the world is slipping away from him as his vision is clouded by tears and feels himself being hollowed out.

It’s a miracle that he made it. They find him on his knees in your now empty room, still decorated with the flowers from yesterday, with the books he made certain they had, with his letter to you firmly placed on the nightstand. There’s a vibrating in his pocket but he can’t seem to make it stop.

“Hajime?” “Hm?” “Can I rave about these so-called ‘untranslatable words’ with you? It’ll be but a moment of your time.” “You never take a moment when talking language. But go ahead. Tell me all about them.” “It’s kinda a point of contention among linguists—” “What is?” “The existence of ‘untranslatable phrases’ in the English language. The idea that there are words that exist, beyond our ability to translate. It’s false, obviously, as they can be translated, even if it takes a more detailed translation. Just because a word in one language has no counterpart in another, specifically English, we dare call it untranslatable.” “Okay. I’m following. How does this tie in with what you wanted to tell me?” “Let me get there! You know that I like providing context. Anyway, what’s so interesting about these words is that they describe sensations and experiences nearly universal with varying degrees of importance depending on the culture. Eh. It’s more like—what a given culture has paid more attention to, for one reason or another.” “You’re starting to lose me, doll.”

“Iwaizumi? Bud?”

He recognizes the voice, but can’t quite place it. Everything is engulfed by a fog that numbs him, that separates him from his senses, keeping him in a prolonged state of limbo, a state of reality wherein he doesn’t exist.

“How long has he been like this?”

“Since he arrived an hour and a half ago. When I made the call on her behalf, I expected someone else.”

“Yeah. The person you called—”

“Oikawa-san?”

“Yeah. Him. He’s working on flying in from Argentina, so he called us.”

Nothing makes sense right now. Not the voice he’s known for the last twenty-three years, the one he hasn’t heard in a couple of months, nor the soft voice of someone he only ever sees in passing, only ever here. He’s astonishingly, astoundingly, devastatingly

e m p t y .

Everything feels weighted, sluggish, like his nerves are taking their sweet time relaying input to his brain and he can’t find it in him to care. He understands what you meant, what that phrase had signified.

It was a lie that he didn’t realize he told (or was it?), not like it matters. Any misconception is left by the wayside as he feels that pain you had once described firsthand.

“It’s how we have so many words related to sakura here. Or how there’s specific words to describe each phase of snow in Inuktitut. These words exist in these languages because it’s something we experience often, something that has significance to our cultures.” “Okay, that makes more sense. But is that what you wanted to share with me?” “Not quite. What I find to be particularly enchanting are all the phrases dedicated to describing various points in love. Can I share some with you?” “Go for it.” “Fuck, I love you, Hajime," you had murmured in your native tongue. “Is that one of them?” “Hajime!” “Sorry. Go ahead.” “Thank you. Going back to Inuktitut, there’s ‘iktsuarpok,’ which describes that feeling you get when you’re waiting for someone to arrive. More than anticipation, enough that you find yourself looking out of the window or popping your head out of the front door to check if they’re nearby.” “I think that’s what it felt like while I waited for you to come into my life. I was waiting for something and it was only appeased once you asked me to join you.” “Who knew that Iwaizumi Hajime was so cheesy when in love?” “You, for one. What’s the next one?” “Norway has ‘forelsket.’ It’s that giddiness that you feel when you start to fall in love, when you think about them or when you get to spend time with them. And there’s ‘onsra,’ which is almost like the Boro contrast to koi no yokan. Instead of an inevitability before you walk into love, it’s the inevitability that a love won’t last.” “Huh. I wonder if that’s what Kusokawa meant when he was talking about his last relationship. Okay, then. What’s the one that strikes you the most?” “‘Ya’aburnee.’ It’s Arabic, something I had come across a couple of years ago but never really looked into. Its literal translation is ‘you bury me.’” “That’s morbid, don’t you think?” “I guess? It’s that pain, that feeling you get, deep in your being when you consider living without your love. It’s the wish that you die before them to spare yourself the pain of living without them because it’s certain to be unbearable. It’s typically incomplete in that form, but I digress. I… I feel it, in my soul. The possibility that I’ll outlive you? It terrifies me.” “I think I get what you mean. I wouldn’t want to live without you either, but I’d rather spare you that pain than to go first.”

The acrid smell of Matsukawa’s shitty cigarettes brings him to the brink of consciousness, pulling him away from the memory of you. He hates this—hates that his escape is the burden of these memories while you left without any.

To hear you speak, he has to dive into the depths of his memory, has to see the life you two had together, the life cut short. Not even forty and he’s achingly, staggeringly alone.

“Oikawa’s flight just took off. He should be getting in sometime tomorrow.”

“That’s good,” Hanamaki sighs. “Where do you think we should go? I’m not sure that taking him home’s such a good idea.”

“I don’t know. I can’t think right now with how hungry I am. Hey—Iwaizumi. You there?”

One of them nudges him, tries to get him to speak, but he can’t find his voice. Lifting his eyes in acknowledgment, he can nearly feel the relief that flows from them both.

“That’s progress,” Matsukawa says with just a hint of disbelief. “It’s been a while since you’ve had anything to eat, right?”

The words won’t come and his voice is lost, left somewhere that only you would know.

“Shit. Alright. Going off the assumption that you haven’t eaten since six this morning, it’s safe to say that you need food just as much as we do. Makki—there’s a little ramen place not too far from here. Think you could get us there?”

“I know just the one you’re thinking of,” Hanamaki sighs. It falls silent before he hears Hanamaki say, “Hang in there, Iwaizumi.”

Late Spring 2034

Things are… better. Depending on how you choose to look at it. For Hanamaki and Matsukawa, Iwaizumi is doing better. For Oikawa, he’s not. Then again, Oikawa’s been around long enough to know better.

While you had been writing letters for him, you had also written letters for each of your friends, each of his friends. You even wrote one for whichever nurse would be on duty when you passed. They served as goodbyes, dedicated with love as could be expected from you. But they also included instructions. Specifically, instructions on how to help Iwaizumi, to make certain that he’s not alone, that he knows he’s loved.

They serve as a testament to how well you knew him—predicting how he’d react, when he would want to be left alone, when he shouldn’t be left alone. His friends help keep the memory of you alive simply by honoring your wishes as diligently as they are. But it’s not you.

It doesn’t lessen the pain, doesn’t lessen the yearning.

The only way he can get Oikawa to leave him alone—by which he means staying on the opposite side of the house—is by telling him that he’s going to read the letter. The one he’s been intentionally neglecting.

The edges of the envelope are soft, worn down from constantly being on his person. Barely sealed, he’s able to delicately open it, maintaining its condition as best as possible. The contents are short, succinct if only because you were struggling with writing it in the first place, both emotionally and physically. It doesn’t fail to tear into that gaping wound, doesn’t fail to leave him open and bleeding out.

And Oikawa’s there for him when he needs it the most, whether by his own instinct or by your guidance, he doesn't know.

This pain is cataclysmic, but he would still rather deal with it himself than have you live through a second of this.

One Year After Your Death

Oikawa watches as Iwa-chan works up the nerve to enter what used to be your office. He’s only entered it once after your passing, not that Oikawa can particularly blame him. Of any other room in your shared dwelling, this one is nothing but you.

But almost everything else is packed, save for some essentials, the big pieces of furniture, and your office. It’s time.

As soon as the door is pushed open, the thick musk of dust that’s built up over the years engulfs them both, even as Oikawa waits in the hallway. As the dust settles, the subtle notes of jasmine reach his nose, reminding him of the pressed flowers you liked to keep. Iwa-chan stiffens as he enters the room and Oikawa knows it’s because he smells it, too.

What little traces of you that remain exist wholly untouched in this room. He feels for his best friend, he does. Bad enough to imagine what it would be like were Oikawa in his shoes, if he had lost his partner as Iwa-chan lost you.

That word you had mentioned in your letter—what was it?

It takes quite a while before either of them can start. Oikawa takes up gingerly packing your items as Iwa-chan goes through them, cherishing each piece. He’s not certain whether Iwa-chan will ever truly recover from this, though there has been some progress made, a semblance of returning to normal.

The thing is—normal for Iwa-chan has included you for nearly half of his life. Oikawa will sometimes find him preparing to visit you, either having forgotten what’s happened or too emotionally spent to realize that it’s not a part of his routine anymore. Sometimes he’ll pick up the phone and dial the facility, hanging up once they answer.

But the spark that used to be in Iwa-chan’s eyes is slowly coming back, though it’s muted, nothing he’s ever seen in all the years that they’ve known each other. It doesn’t surprise him, not when he considers the relationship you two had.

When Iwaizumi had first brought you to meet Oikawa, he was surprised. Sure, Iwa-chan had introduced other love interests to Oikawa before, but never had he flown them across the world to meet him. Never before had one of his partners looked at him the way you did—as though you had found the most beautiful creation in all the cosmos.

Hours pass like this—reminiscing over random memories associated with almost any item, some happy, some sad, while Oikawa packs up box after box. It’s when he gets to your desk that confusion dances across Iwa-chan’s face.

“Iwa-chan?”

He turns in the direction of Oikawa’s voice, but his eyes are focused on the drawer he just opened. There’s the soft shuffling of papers shifting against one another as he pulls out an envelope, pristine, looking as though it were placed there earlier today.

On the face of the envelope is addressed to Iwa-chan in precise kanji that he knows to be yours. This is a letter that you had written him from quite a few years ago—the one Oikawa had received but three years prior had started in hiragana, but was forfeited after several basic mistakes, transitioning to English. But the letter that is being unfolded by Iwa-chan right now is a gift from the linguist that he had fallen in love with from either before or shortly after your diagnosis.

“Do you want a moment?” The question drips from him, a worrisome mixture of hesitance and anxiety, and a silence quickly builds, one that starts to border deafening. Iwa-chan is looking at the letter, not quite reading, not quite seeing anything past your careful script. It lasts a moment longer before—

“I, uh—yeah. Yeah, that’d be… good.”

With a small nod, he turns on his heel and leaves your study. Once in the hallway, he leans against the wall adjacent the door and slides down, feeling the residual grief that has seeped into the bones of this house that’s no longer a home. He waits for the sound—any sound, really—of his friend needing him, waits for a break from the stifling quiet, the one that has him praying to whoever will listen that he never experience this kind of pain.

My dearest Hajime,

It’s been three weeks since my diagnosis and I am writing this because we both know what it means.

I’m scared, Hajime. I’m terrified of losing my memories—the important ones. I couldn’t care less about misplacing my keys or my books. I couldn’t care less about getting lost in the city that I’ve called home for the last two years. I couldn’t care less about any of the minuscule symptoms of the early stages.

I’m scared—absolutely petrified, my love—of losing the important memories. That night we were both studying, bickering over which version of Blade Runner was best (we both know I won that argument, thank you!). When we went stargazing and you told me all about Tōru’s theories surrounding aliens and his fascination with the cosmos. That one guy from my department who kept asking me out, making you get all defensive and anxious until you got fed up and asked me out yourself. The way your lips felt the first time we kissed and the way my hand fits perfectly in yours. The moment I asked you to marry me and I got to watch as Iwaizumi.exe stopped working (only for you to pull out a ring from your pocket).

I don’t want to lose these memories, so precious and dear to me. I don’t want to lose you.

Calling you over to join me on 13 September 2016 was the best decision I have ever made—and you and I both know, I’ve made some pretty amazing decisions over the years. Nothing compares to the moment you stepped into my life and changed everything. It was as though I had been living in a world without color or music or literature, something I wasn’t even aware I was missing out on. And you came onto the scene and everything became so vibrant. Music became complex and intricate, utterly enchanting. Poetry had never sounded better, had never carried such evocative emotions.

You are the best thing to have ever happened to me. There is so much love in your heart—even if you show it through aggression—that pushes you forward. You have drive and compassion that continually inspires me and motivates me to be a better person, if only for you. There isn’t a single part of you that I’m not desperately, hopelessly in love with—even the things I “hate” about you are things I adore, though you will still never catch me waking up with you at five in the morning to go on a run. I’m sorry, Hajime. That’s just the way it is.

You’re probably wondering why I didn’t give you this letter sooner. Shit. I’m wondering why I’m not going to give this to you sooner. I think it’s because I know that at one point, my letters and my communication are going to become less coherent as I start to lose cognizance. Knowing me, I’ll keep this up as long as I can—you know how much of a fan I am for the written word—and that at some point, I’m going to give you the last letter I can ever write.

I can’t speak to its eloquence or its contents, but I know that I want my last words to be ones that I am cognizant of. I want to choose my last words just as much as I have chosen every single aspect of my life, and I’m confident in choosing to keep the letter in my desk drawer because I know you.

I know that you are adamant that I need my space. I know that you respect my space. I also know that you vividly remember the morning after you had tried to help me by organizing my office—the very office that had my research carefully organized and spread out in my mess. I don’t think I’ve seen you that scared since. You won’t come in here until you have to. So this piece of me will be waiting here for you when it seems as though I have nothing left to say.

We both know that’s not true.

There is not a single regret that I hold throughout the entirety of my life—not the excruciatingly embarrassing childhood memories that almost seem like bad dreams; not the pains of adolescence that we shall not name; not the trips, stumbles, and falls that riddled my life. I regret none of it because it led me to you. It made me who I am today and granted me the opportunity to be a partner to the most fantastic, awe-inspiring, beautiful person this planet has to offer.

I have and will continue to cherish each and every moment I spend in your presence, each and every moment that you choose me to be your partner. Each day I wake, I look forward to choosing you again and again. I love you, thoroughly, unconditionally, and completely. My love for you will outlive the both of us. This, I know with absolute certainty. As sure as the sun will rise and the sakura will arrive, my love for you will outlive us.

It was shortly after we married, I think, that I went on that tangent about untranslatable phrases. Do you remember? I shared the one that one phrase that had struck a chord with me. Ya’aburnee. It’s a beautiful word for a beautiful language, one that weighs heavily on me now. Back then I had said that I never wanted to know what it was like to live without you. Now that wish is likely going to be a reality, I want to take it back. I would rather save you from that pain than to save myself.

I cannot spare you that pain, but I can wish. For you, Hajime, love of my life, I wish for your health and safety. I want for your happiness, for the world to be brightened by your smile. I want for there to come a day—sooner, rather than later—when the sun will be high in the sky and a pleasant breeze will blow past you, and you’ll feel peace and love. Know that when that day comes, I am with you.

Until I see you again.

A/N: This was written both with research conducted on Alzheimer's and "untranslatable words" and personal experience with either. I apologize if I misrepresent either and I encourage you to reach out and help me learn better 💜

It was moving in together that dealt the final blow to the illusion. Something about seeing his daily routine, the quiet-resigned misery that seemed to subsume everything else in his life. You tried to ask him about it. He brushed you off. Thanked you for worrying with a kiss on your forehead, but told you that you worried for nothing. But reality couldn't be denied for comfort's sake. You hadn't wanted to take his stoicism for hopelessness—but too many mornings you'd caught him staring into the mirror between menial tasks of shaving his face or brushing his teeth as if he expected his reflection to have the answer for the silent question his tired eyes kept asking: what's the point to all this? There'd been no point to hounding him any further. Whatever sadness was inside of him, hollowing out his days, was a sadness he'd decided to bear all by himself. The same way he did everything else. Kento Nanami was a man of complete self-sufficiency.

What on earth did he need you for?

You’d thought breaking up with him would bother him so little that you had done it in the middle of his workday. Scheduled a lunch on your shared calendar for the exact purpose, because Kento preferred everything be on the calendar, so that everything could be kept perfect track of. Practical. Your Kento was defined by practicality. Maybe even cursed with it. He had feelings, obviously. But above all else, he was rational. And as a rational man, he must have felt what you felt. The mismatch between you. The disconnect in some essential wiring.

He talked about a future with you, but it never seemed very personal or like he was in a rush to get there. Maybe you just experienced love differently. Love, for you, had always been loud. Kento had said the words—but the life you lived together read more like deep fondness. You think he might have just been ready for the next step in his life when you came wandering by in the nick of time, checking off enough of his boxes. If he were a jerk or a bad partner, you’d feel a little more raw about it all, but you don’t have any hard feelings at all. Kento has been one of the best relationships of your life. That didn’t mean you were going to settle though.

There’s someone out there in the world who’s going to take one look at you and fall so in love they’ll never let you go.

“I see. Did I do something wrong?” His hand clenches into a loose fist on the tabletop. You’ve so rarely seen him angry that it reads as low-level anxiety from an unforeseen situation. You wish you could have warned him; but that would have required texting him you were breaking up with him, and then you would be an asshole.

You place your hand over his. Hope you still have the right to comfort him after multiple years together. Even if you’re the reason, he needs comforting. “No! No, you didn’t do anything wrong, Kento. I just wonder if we’re compatible. Like—be honest, do you feel a spark between us or do you think we’ve kinda just settled into each other?”

“Settled?”

“I don’t mean that in a settled for you way I mean it like … if you met someone else, who you got along with just as well, at the same time as me, I think there’s every chance you could’ve wound up with them instead.”

“There isn’t.” Kento says firmly. Jaw clenching. Poor thing, probably grinding his teeth from anxiety. You wonder if you should have done this at home, or if that would have been worse, tainting one of the few places he seems to loosen his guard even slightly. Spilled milk worries, now, you’ve already tilted the jug onto the counter and are dealing with the consequences of that choice no matter how much you suddenly wish you’d used a glass.

You shrug, pull your hand away to adjust your clothes, your hair. Small things that don’t matter but soothe your own nerves. You’d never had to break-up with someone who hadn’t done anything wrong before. It felt awful. You had to do it anyway. Pull off the bandage for both of your sakes. A little torn skin is better than a shredded to confetti heart if you let the relationship stagger on for a few more stilted, drowsy years just because. Not all objects in motion should stay that way.

“You’ve made up your mind,” Kento says, after staring at you in silence for a long moment that only made you squirm in your seat a normal amount. He had piercing eyes. Discerning.

“I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately.”

“But you didn’t bring any of the thoughts to me until now when we’re supposed to be partners.”

“Talking to you about anything so emotional is hard. You just throw logic at a problem until a solution comes out. This is about connections. We can’t logic our way into feeling connected with each other, Kento. There’s a wall between us, and I can’t get through. I’ve tried.” Your words are a mix of frustration tempered still by the knowledge that Kento is not wrong in the way he approaches and views the world, just different. And some differences make it so that people have to part ways, no matter how much they care about one another.

Kento’s watch beeps. It’s time for him to walk back around the corner and into the office building that holds a thousand cubicles of people who hate their jobs just as much as he does, but who still find other reasons to smile. Kento rubs the brim of his nose like a man about to walk in front of a firing squad. Every aspect of life so grim. How can he stand it?

“Let’s talk about this more at home, please. I’ll try to be home from work early.” He stands and comes across the tiny table to cup the nape of your neck, pulling you gently forward until his lips can brush your forehead, as always.

The routine is comforting. But routines can be changed. New ones will be established and gotten used to, and soon those routines will be the recipes for comfort, and these moments will be distant, foggy alien memories that are impossible to remember with clarity.

You smile, though, because you will miss Kento even if you want something else out of life that he can’t give. “Sure. We’ll talk some more at home.”

When you open the door to your apartment, you’re surprised to find that Kento is actually home early for once. The smell of spices and well-cooked meat hangs in the air. You can hear the sound of oil popping in a skillet even from the doorway. No doubt the temperature of the oil is perfect, and there’s a meat thermometer on the counter, just within reach. Kento doesn’t do half measures. It was one of the things you fell in love with, or thought you had.

You kick off your shoes, then toe them into crooked alignment with Kento’s carefully laid out ones.

“Honey?” Kento calls out.

“I’m here.” You call back, hanging up your coat before walking down the short hallway that opens into your kitchen and living room.

You stop to look around the space. Kento loved this apartment. You had liked it well enough. The decorating is tamer than you enjoy, but wilder than anything Kento would do on his own. A home of a hundred compromises. The unromantic things that are the building blocks to the greater joys if you’re lucky. You hadn’t been this time. Love is a bit like a lottery system in that way.

“You didn’t have to cook.” You say, coming closer to the stove to see what he’d made. A curry. One of your favorites, because it was one of the first things he’d ever cooked for you, and the care he put into the tiniest details of the dish had felt so much like love back before he’d decided to say the words.

“It was no trouble.” He says, and before you can refute that with a litany of counter-evidence like his eternal exhaustion from work — if not physical then emotional — that makes anything beyond work a chore, though he hides it well enough, or by the simple fact that the meal already seems done, meaning he took most of the day off, which must have certainly caused him trouble (inconvenience, he’d correct you, for the sake of not having a situation exaggerated).

“You didn’t have to.” You repeat.

You can’t help the way your hand settles at his back, briefly. Appreciative. Second nature. You do appreciate him — did, and the time you shared; it’s just time to move on now. You pull your hand away like you’ve touched a hot stove instead of Kento’s crisply ironed white button-up. He stares at you out of the corner of his eye before he sets his eyes back to the curry.

“Could you please hand me the serving dish?”

“Of course.”

You watch in silence as he ladles the food from pot to bowl, even scoops that never spill or drip. You always lose your patience and wind up making a mess of the counter and stove and pot, but Kento has all the patience in the world for the tasks you find menial. Sometimes you just have to do things that are unpleasant in this life; they still have to be done the right way, same as everything else, he’d told you ages ago while watching you pout about something. You had not been receptive to his words of wisdom in the middle of your crisis. A hug would have done fine; but that was Kento, practical instead of sentimental.

The table where you had shared so many meals together was already neatly set. Romantically, if you were being honest, but you’d forgive him that. He thought this talk was about changing your mind still. You were the only one who knew it couldn’t be changed. There was fresh bread from the local bakery you both loved, freshly sliced. Wine sat in glasses by each of your bowls, already poured. You went to portion food onto both of your plates, but Kento had already beaten you to that as well. Being doted on had always made you feel wonderful. Right now it was making you feel guilty. Asking him to stop, however, would make you a brat. He wasn’t doing anything out of the ordinary. Kento was being himself. It was you who had grown. Outgrown your apartment. Outgrown this quiet life that made your skin itch with nerves, needing something more, something louder, more proof. The truth is, no matter what Kento said to you over dinner, it wouldn’t be enough because he would never let himself go enough to be able to give you the type of reassurance you needed. Kento loved quietly. And the sparks between you had died a quiet death in the quiet dark of your anxious need.

You take a gulp of the wine. Then another. Needing liquid courage to talk about the end of your relationship in the sacred space of the home built on the foundation of it.

"Honey, maybe you should slow down—"

"-you should keep this place. Do you remember when the realtor showed it to us? You just went wild for it. You thought the layout was clever, remember? I always just just thought it was okay, but I loved how you loved it, so I wanted us to live here together. Now, I want you to have it." You ramble. Take another gulp of the wine. There's something different about it, despite it being one of your favorites, but you think your tongue might be suffering from an overall palate displacement. The curry was unusually spicy tonight. It leaves everything tasting slightly off.

"Is there anything I can do… anything at all, to change your decision?" He asks, staring down into his own plate.

"No, Kento, I don't think there is." You shake your head.

For a second, a shadow passes over his face, and you think he'll say something, anything. Yell at you. Open up to you. Drop a wall. Instead, he closes his eyes tightly, takes a breath, and then continues to eat.

He stops between bites to pour you another glass of wine, "One last meal then."

You're thinking of logistics — moving out dates, which friend to stay with while you find a new apartment, the future grief you'll feel having left Kento behind — when the room begins to spin on its axis, like gravity has been turned off for you alone. You grab unsteadily at the table, trying to stay upright in your seat, but all you manage to do is knock your dishes to the floor. The sound of the glass breaking is muted as it hits your ears. The feeling of your body hitting the floor is muted, too. Everything tv static, down to the blood in your veins and the twitching of your fingertips before you lose feeling in them.

Your body hurts. It feels like you'd gotten into a hit and run at a hundred-miles-per-hour headfirst. Like a deer. Your mouth is so dry you think your tongue might have independently dragged itself through a desert before crawling back into your mouth just in time for you to wake up. When you try to sit up, you find you can't. Immediately, you don't care how tired you are; you force yourself to open your eyes and try to sit up again. You're only able to do one of those things.

You're in the bedroom you used to share with Kento. But there's been a change in decorating style: the creepiest talismans are plastered on every inch of wall space you can see. They send a chill down your spine in a way that irritates you. You've never been the superstitious sort, so you wouldn't start on that journey now. Besides, you have bigger problems than some unnerving redecorating Kento has done during his afternoon off. On each one of your wrists and ankles, securing you to the bedframe, are one of Kento's ties, expertly knotted. You tug on your arms. The knots don't give. You tug violently. Nothing still. It feels like trying to tear at fucking iron for some reason, and panic is starting to bubble up, and you start to scream—

—Kento rushes into the room. You are not immediately soothed by his appearance. You look him over for any signs that he's been attacked, or hurt, or fought someone off who randomly broke into your house, poisoned you, and then tied you up using your boyfriend's clothing. He looks just as he did at dinner.

"Baby, untie me before whoever did this gets back." You still say the words. Give him an out. Hope you're reading the situation horribly wrong.

Kento sighs, as if whatever is coming next will all be very hard, but necessary, "You can scream, but no one will hear you because I spent the afternoon making sure that would not be possible. The apartment is soundproof."

You scream anyway because you don't believe him.

After fifteen minutes of screaming, and no one knocking on your door and coming to your rescue, you're left with the horrifying realization that he was somehow able to soundproof at least the bedroom in less than one afternoon. Your dependable Kento. Your screams die off into a croak. Dried out throat and mouth not willing to call for help that won't even come. Kento leaves the room. Comes back with a water bottle that he holds up to your lips. You turn your face away, not wanting to drink it.

"This isn't drugged like anything at dinner. Why would I drug you twice? You're already restrained." He explains calmly. You want to spit at him, make a lunge for his hand with your teeth; but you don't know Kento Nanami nearly as well as you thought you did, so instead of giving in to anger you let him pliantly tilt your head back and give you water. "There. All better now."

He sits at the edge of the bed. Lays a hand on your stomach like it will comfort you. "This won't be forever. It will just be until you see reason — that we belong together. Once you understand that things can go back to normal."

A smile. Not a lying, angry smile but a real one. Patient. Because Kento knows that life is about these hard, messy moments. Knows these hard, messy moments aren't the building blocks for the love you want, but that they themselves are the love. The withstanding of these difficult moments. Kento Nanami is strong enough to withstand plenty.

He's certainly capable of withstanding and outlasting one of your temper-tantrums.

A/N: I feel like it'd be very easy to underestimate Kento as a yandere, which would be a horrible mistake, but you also wouldn't know until it was so fucking over, so no winning there. Also, I think I have to start pairing more yanderes with flighty!readers. Untapped potential for me, really. Another oneshot because you guys said you missed them.

if you enjoyed this drabble consider reblogging, leaving a reply, or an anon! a writer's fuel is engagement. if you really loved this, check out my PATREON: slasherscream, for some exclusive content. this particular story was posted three weeks ago on the patreon, for early access. xoxoxo

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“I was looking for you at the feast,” Valarr says as he enters your chambers. You can hear the frown in his voice as he shrugs off his cloak and tosses it on the chair on the opposite side of the room. “Why is it that I had to hear from my cousin that my wife left early because she was feeling unwell?”

You press your lips together, not answering him as you stare out the window—east, to the Blackwater, the Narrow Sea, and beyond. Far, far beyond. Your jaw is tight, and your throat is tight, and your chest is tight, and your eyes already sting—you have been here for two hours already, and he has only just returned. Did he only just realize you were missing?

The irritation drains from his voice as he pauses, looking in your direction and catching the tension in your shoulders. He says quietly, “You are upset with me.”

You stiffen when you hear him make his way over to you, raising your chin when you feel the cushions dip behind you. You exhale hard through your nose as his fingers ghost the nape of your neck, brushing your hair over one shoulder so that he can press his lips there. 

You bristle instantly.

“Oh my,” Valarr murmurs—he has the nerve to sound amused, you can picture the boyish grin curling at his lips, and it enrages you. The nerve. “You are very upset with me.”

“Unhand me, you lecherous cur,” you snap, shifting further away. “I shall catch the pox if your touch lingers too long.”

You hear the smile in his voice as he asks, “And what have I done to deserve such a vicious accusation, ñuha jorrāelagon?”

My love.

His High Valyrian is honeyed as ever, soft and sweet to your ears, the endearment enough to make lesser women melt, but you are not lesser women, so you only toss him a furious look, because how dare he play the fool as though he doesn’t know what he’s done? How dare he try to abate your anger with sweet nothings?

“What have you done?” you echo furiously, gaze cutting as you whirl around to face him. Loathsome man—you hate that he is beautiful, and you hate that even in the face of your rage, his eyes are soft and adoring. “You shame me, that is what you have done.”

Valarr tilts his head to the side slightly, a glimmer of calculation and confusion in his mismatched eyes as he searches your face—as though he does not know what he has done, how he has shamed you. You detest him. 

“Tell me how I have shamed you,” he says softly, shifting closer still. Loathsome, loathsome, loathsome—he lifts his hand to brush the pads of his fingers against your cheekbone, and when you try to pull away, he holds your chin lightly, keeping you in place, forcing you to look at him. “Tell me, so that I may fix it.”

You almost bite him for that—for the softness in his voice and the fondness in the eyes, the way he looks at you as though you are something precious to him when he has spent the better part of the evening making a spectacle of you before half of the court, letting that Lannister woman parade around on his arm.

“You should know already,” you hiss.

“I do not,” he says, and he sounds earnest. You despise him. Loathsome man. His thumb glides over your lower lip, free hand coming up so that he can cradle your face between them both. “If I have wronged you, I would hear it from your lips.”

You think to spurn him some more, to press your hands to his chest and shove him away, to leave your chambers and go seek out—seek out who? You have no one in this wretched keep. Your brothers are all back home, six thousand miles away, because your wretched father sold you to the Targaryens for trade. And your wretched friends—who were never truly your friends, clearly—abandoned you the moment they realized you would no longer be able to bolster their standing when you are three seas away. 

You are alone. All you have is a wretched husband—a man you were promised would be gallant and charming and respectful, only for him to spend the evening smiling at another woman while the court watched to see how his foreign bride would react. 

They hate you—they have hated you since the moment you arrived on your father’s gilded ships, smiling to your face and scorning you the second your back is turned. They pray for illness and poor health, that an accident would befall you, so that Valarr might take one of their Andal daughters to wife instead, and—

—and the cruelest part of it all is that, in this wretched court with these wretched people, the only person who has ever made you feel wanted is your wretched husband. 

Valarr leans in to press his lips against yours when you do not immediately respond, soft and gentle as he always is, trying to ease the answer out of you.

A wavering sigh escapes you before you can stop it, and you melt into him far too easily, because Valarr is loathsome and wretched. You detest him, and you despise him, but he is—he is insufferably good to you. Has been since the moment the two of you were introduced, in spite of the fact that he was as forced into this marriage as you. He is as gallant and charming as you were promised, much as you wish him to be otherwise, and he treats you as though you are not some foreign prize ferried across three seas to warm his bed and strengthen alliances, but someone he chooses and wants.

It is the worst part of it, because if he were cruel and disrespectful, you think you could hate him properly.

“You are wretched,” you whisper against his mouth, voice unsteady with the remnants of your anger. “You stand there all evening with that woman draped upon your arm, smiling at her as though she were the Sun Maiden herself, and then you come here and kiss me as though I am meant to simply forgive you.”

Valarr draws back only enough to look at you, brows knitting together slightly.

“The Lannister girl?”

You glare at him. “Yes, the Lannister girl, you witless dragon.”

To your mounting fury, understanding finally flashes across his face, and then amusement follows close behind it.

You shove at his chest immediately. “Do not laugh at me.”

Valarr catches your wrists before you can shove him too far, laughter warm and breathless as he presses a quick kiss to the inside of your palm. He pulls you closer to him, one hand sliding around your lower back to drag you into his lap, and you hate that your arms instinctively slink around his shoulders. You hate that your anger dissipates, and you hate that the fury on your face drains into a pout, that you have to chew the inside of your cheek to stop the tears from building in your eyes.

You hate everything about this. You are not so weak, but weeks of suffering through this snake pit have taken their toll on you.

The amusement fades from his expression when he sees yours, one hand lifting to caress your cheek gently. 

“I was alone,” you say, grateful that your voice doesn’t break. “I am always alone in this awful place. You are the only person I have, and you abandoned me to let that girl cling to you. If you wish to take a proper Westerosi wife, you are free to do so, but divorce me and let me return home. Do not force me to endure such humiliation.”

“Now, that is a bit drastic,” Valarr murmurs, and your lashes flutter as his fingers drag lightly along the nape of your neck, tangling in your hair to pull your head down so that he might ghost his lips against your forehead. “Why ever would I divorce you when I have only just managed to convince you to tolerate me?”

You make a soft, offended sound that he swallows with another lingering kiss to your lips. He tastes of honey and wine; you let out a breath that is far too shaky as his arms tighten around you, one hand soothing up and down your back.

“I am serious,” you mutter. “You make light of everything.”

“Only because you speak as though I have cast you aside for a girl I scarcely noticed.” His thumb rubs small circles into the small of your back. “Look at me, wife.”

You do not wish to. You fear if you do, he will see the tears that have started to gather in your eyes, and your pride has suffered enough tonight. You meant to stay angry and silent, but it is hard to do so when Valarr is—well, Valarr.

He waits anyway, because he always does, and when you still refuse to do as he says, he hooks two fingers beneath your chin, and tilts your face upward so gently that you barely bite back a whine. There’s a softness in his face, an undeniable fondness that makes your heart ache. 

“I did not abandon you,” he tells you quietly. “I left your side because Lord Lannister cornered me to speak of the new trade agreements with Qarth and his daughter decided to preen while doing so.” His thumb brushes beneath your eye to catch a tear before it can fall. “Had I known you were miserable, I would have returned immediately. I thought my cousins were taking care to ensure you were not alone.”

“You should have known,” you say, spiteful, voice sullen.

“Yes,” he agrees easily, without argument. “I should have. Forgive me.”

You falter, because you prepared yourself for his infuriating charm and smooth talk, not for an apology—especially not one so genuine.

Valarr exhales softly through his nose, gaze roaming over your face before he rests his forehead down on your shoulder, arms curling a bit tighter around your waist until your bodies are flush. You let out a shaky breath before burying your face in his soft hair, eyes sliding shut. 

“The Lannister girl is not what really upset you,” Valarr says quietly after a moment—it is a question, but it is not phrased as one, and you stiffen. You do not respond, but you do not need to. He knows the answer already. He admits reluctantly, as though the realization pains him to speak aloud, “I do not know how to make you happy here.”

“I am happy,” you say immediately, an instinctive, courtly answer, a lie that tastes like poison on your tongue.

“Do not lie to me,” he tells you, and then he lets out another heavy breath. You see his jaw tighten slightly before he speaks again. “I…” He hesitates, trying to find the words. “I thought if I loved you enough, the rest would matter less.”

You inhale at his words, watching as he pulls back to look at you again. The grief in his eyes makes your stomach turn. 

“It is not you who makes me unhappy,” you say, because guilt eats at you. Valarr is the only person trying to make you feel comfortable in this wretched place—he goes out of his way to ensure you are included, to make you feel wanted and welcome, and you—you what? You turn on him the moment he glances away? As though none of the rest matters? You feel embarrassed suddenly, mortification rolling waves in your stomach and chest, because Valarr has tried. He has tried so hard, so desperately, and here you are making a mess of everything, because of a tantrum over something beyond his control. “Valarr, I—”

“Hush,” he chides, leaning in to swallow your words with another kiss. “I understand. You do not need to explain yourself to me.”

The tears fall in earnest at that, rolling over your cheeks silently as you stare at him. You are the wretched one—wretched and miserable, you have been blessed with a marriage to a man most women would kill for, and you ruin it with your gloom. Love from Valarr should be enough to outweigh the rest, so why isn’t it?

Valarr clicks his tongue lightly, lifting his hands so his thumbs can wipe your tears as they fall. 

“None of that,” he murmurs. “I do not know what is running through that beautiful mind of yours right now, but enough of it. I know this is not an easy transition for you—you are six thousand miles away from your home and family, in a strange place with stranger people. I do not begrudge you for struggling to find your place here, nor for being upset when alone. I should not have left you.”

“I want you to be enough,” you say, and you mean it. You mean it so desperately—you need him to understand. This is not—it is not of your choosing; if you had it your way, this would be enough. “I want to be happy here.”

“I know,” he says gently, holding the weight of your head in the palm of his hand as you lean into him. “I know, ñuha jorrāelagon.”

“They all hate me,” you tell him. When his brows furrow and lips part to deny it, you continue before he can, “I can tell. Do not deny it.”

Valarr doesn’t respond for a long time, and then he says quietly, “You are beautiful, and you are my wife, and their daughters are not. You arrived on gilded ships with enough wealth to shame the majority of lords in Westeros, and then had the audacity to capture the affection of a prince they had long hoped to claim for themselves. They would have hated you even if I did not adore you so openly. They hate men for much, much less.”

“It is not fair,” you say, voice weak and childish. “I have given up so much for their favor. I dress how they expect. I speak how they expect. I act how they expect. I celebrate their holy days with them, and I go to the temples of their gods, and—”

“I know,” Valarr cuts in gently again, stroking your hair. 

“Then why? What more must I do for them to accept me?”

Valarr doesn’t reply for a long while, an unreadable expression on his face. “Do not give up anything more for them,” he says. Your face twists, but before you can rebuke his words, he continues, “I mean it. The only thing that will help is time—I do not want you to cut away parts of yourself to satisfy the likes of vultures who would strip you of everything if given the chance.”

“It is easy for you to say,” you scoff bitterly. “You do not have half of the lords in this keep praying for your ill health and accidents to befall you. It is only a matter of time before their prayers turn to action.”

Valarr goes very still and very quiet. For a moment, the only sound in the room is the crackling of the fireplace, and you realize you have made a terrible mistake.

His hand slides from your cheek to your hair, holding you close as something cold flickers briefly through his eyes—your husband is gallant and charming, and he loves you despite the circumstances. Your husband is also a Targaryen, and the blood of the dragon runs hot through his veins; madness and greatness are always one flip away from the other. It is tamer in Valarr compared to his cousins, but it is there nonetheless.

“Who?” he asks softly. The quietness of it chills you more than shouting would have.

You shake your head immediately, burying your face in the crook of his neck. He lets you, but his fingers remain stiff in your hair, body tense and coiled against yours. 

“It does not matter.”

“It does to me,” he says. “You think someone in this keep means you harm. You think they pray for your death so openly that you have come to expect attempts on your life—and you would have me ignore it?”

You shouldn’t have said anything. You know this court better now than you did when you first arrived; you know how quickly whispers become accusations, and how quickly accusations become bloodshed when dragons are involved. Valarr has always seemed gentler than the rest of his kin—arrogant, maybe, but what prince is not? He is easy laughter and soft smiles, and it lulls you into a false sense of security, because you forget he is still a prince of House Targaryen. Still fire and blood. 

“It was only a figure of speech,” you murmur, another lie.

“You do not speak carelessly, wife.”

You fall silent at that, because he is right—you do not. 

Valarr exhales hard through his nose. “Who has threatened you?”

“No one.”

“Who has frightened you, then?”

You do not answer, looking away. “I do not want to talk about this anymore.”

Valarr’s jaw tightens, frustration flashing across his face briefly. For a moment, he looks as though he wants to fight, but then he concedes, “Very well. But this will not be the last we speak on this.” 

His hands slide under your thighs, and your eyes slide shut, arms tightening around his shoulders as he rises to his feet with your body wrapped around his, carrying you over to the bed and laying you back gently on it. He slips out of his tunic and leathers before joining you beneath the covers.

You immediately curl into his side, pressing your face into the warm skin of his shoulder, sliding one leg between his to be as close to him as possible. His arms wrap tight around you, holding you impossibly closer.

“You are wrong,” he says after a moment, and your brows furrow. “Not everyone dislikes you in this keep. My family adores you, and that, I fear, is one of the greatest accomplishments a person can claim, considering most of them can barely tolerate each other.”

“That is not true,” you say immediately, lips pursed.

“It is,” Valarr insists. “My father and brother love you. They cherish the mornings you join them in the library. They like hearing your stories of Qartheen culture and the Far East. My father wishes to broach the subject of you joining them more often, but he does not want you to feel obligated to come.”

“Oh,” you say, voice wobbly again, eyes suddenly very wet.

“And the twins adore you,” he continues. “Aelora gave quite the verbal lashing to a Marcher lord who spoke poorly of our union—” Of you, he means, because no one in this keep would speak poorly of Valarr, the perfect prince. “—and Aelor threatened to have him whipped if he ever repeated such a thing again. They do not forget the day you found Uncle Rhaegel teetering on the edge of a balcony in the west tower and looked after him until they were able to come and retrieve him.”

“I did not know that,” you whisper.

“And gods know how you managed to gain the affection of Uncle Maekar’s sons—”

“Affection is a stretch,” you disagree.

“You do not know my cousins like I do, wife,” Valarr says with a wry smile. “It is affection, I must insist. I have never seen Aerion so captivated when someone speaks the way he is when you do.”

Your face feels hot. “It is only because he is interested in Qartheen magic and our warlocks. He wants to visit the House of the Undying.”

“I digress, both Aunt Shiera and Uncle Brynden are well-versed in magic, and Aerion is hardly so starry-eyed when he badgers them for information,” Valarr counters dryly, though there is something pinched in his voice that piques your curiosity. “And even you cannot deny that Daeron is enamored by you—I have caught him reciting poetry for you in his drunken ramblings. You have thoroughly charmed him, that is clear.”

This time, there is no denying the bitterness in his voice. You smile against his skin.

“Are you jealous, husband?” you ask, peeking up from his shoulder to look at the way his jaw is tight.

“In truth, I have contemplated tossing them both into the Blackwater a concerning number of times this past week,” he admits flatly.

A laugh startles out of you before you can stop it, and the flat line of his mouth softens at the sound. He leans down to press his lips to your forehead, long and lingering.

“Daeron cornered me for an hour last week to ask whether you prefer sweet wines or dry ones,” he continues after a moment, bitter. “Claimed he wished to ‘better understand Qartheen tastes’ as though I am foolish enough to not realize what he is really doing.”

Your eyes crinkle. “That explains the odd assortment of wines he brought to the gardens when I was there reading, then.”

Valarr lets out an exasperated sigh. “To think my own cousin is trying to woo my wife away from me,” he mutters, “and so shamelessly at that. To think he has the nerve to ask my advice on how to go about it.”

You find yourself giggling despite yourself. “He is sweet,” you say at last. “Harmless.”

“He is a Targaryen prince,” Valarr says dryly. “We are very rarely harmless.”

You are smiling openly now, warmth spreading through your chest as the void of loneliness is filled little by little. You had thought yourself so isolated here, so painfully unwanted, that you never considered anyone beyond Valarr might genuinely care for you.

The realization leaves your throat terribly tight.

Valarr notices at once, expression softening as he tilts your face up toward him to brush his lips against yours gently. Once. Twice. Three times. You think you could lose yourself in the taste and feel of him.

“My brother is to be married soon,” Valarr says after a moment, fingers stroking your hair absently. “To the daughter of the Tyroshi Archon—my father finalized the betrothal this morning. I hope, perhaps, the two of you will get along, since she will also be far from home. It may make court easier for you, to have someone who understands what it is to arrive here alone in a foreign land—a companion.”

You peek up at him again, blinking once. Tyrosh. He presses his lips to your forehead. You say, voice small, “The Tyroshi like dyes and hats. I am not versed in them. What if we cannot find common ground?” 

Valarr pauses, and then says, far too amused, “I think you will have enough common ground that you need not be familiar with dyes and hats.”

“Do not mock me,” you mutter.

“I am trying very hard not to.”

“You are failing.”

“Terribly,” he admits.

You make a wounded sound and attempt to bury your face back against his shoulder, but Valarr catches your chin before you can escape, smiling as he brushes his thumb along your cheek.

“Wife,” he says gently, “I promise you the Tyroshi girl will not arrive here expecting expertise in dyes and hats.”

“Perhaps I should read up on them just in case,” you say, gaze flitting away briefly. “Qarth is—it is a far cry from any of the Free Cities. Very different… very far. She might think me strange, and if I am strange, then everyone here will be strange to her. It would be good to have common ground in interests, so that she can keep some of home with her at least with me. I think it would make her more comfortable, don’t you?”

Valarr’s expression changes at once, and there is something devastating in the way he looks at you now—so warm and tender, so sickeningly fond that it makes heat creep up the back of your neck. Valarr loves you; he loves you so deeply and so openly that it is impossible for anyone to deny, not with the way he looks at you as though you are the most precious thing in the world. You gnaw at your bottom lip, unable to hold his gaze when he looks at you like this. He kisses your temple again, long and lingering, and then sighs against your skin.

“You are worried about making her comfortable,” he realizes quietly.

You blink. “Well, yes.”

You remember too vividly what it felt like to arrive here alone, standing in a hall full of people smiling at you with teeth instead of warmth. If the Tyroshi girl is lonely, if she looks around this court and feels swallowed whole by it, you do not want her to feel the way you did.

“You are extraordinary,” he murmurs. “I do not know how I got so lucky.”

Heat floods your face immediately. “I am speaking about dyes and hats, Valarr. Do not be ridiculous.”

“You are speaking about a girl you have never met and worrying over how to make her feel welcomed in a foreign court despite the fact that you yourself are still struggling here.” His mouth curves softly. “You do not even realize how lovely you are, do you?”

You scowl weakly. “You are biased.”

“Hopelessly,” he agrees, so sincerely that it makes you embarrassed. He adds after a moment, “You know what I think will happen?” 

You eye him warily. “What?”

“I think the Tyroshi girl will arrive terrified.”

Your brows knit slightly. You know this. That is exactly what you are trying to prepare for.

“I think she will spend the voyage rehearsing how she ought to speak and smile,” Valarr continues, voice soft. Yes, she will, you agree, because that is what you did, too. “I think she will step into court and immediately realize she is being examined like a prized horse at market.” His thumb strokes slowly along your cheekbone. “And then I think she will meet you.” 

Something in your chest twists painfully.

“She will see another woman who crossed the world alone,” he says. “Another woman who survived it, and learned this court well enough to navigate it gracefully despite how cruel it can be.” His lips curve faintly. “And then she will cling to you desperately for guidance while you panic over whether or not you understand hats sufficiently.”

You let out a startled laugh despite yourself. Valarr smiles at the sound instantly, gaze unbearably warm.

“There she is,” he murmurs quietly. “You look less like you wish to flee back across the seas now.”

“You make it very difficult to remain angry with you.”

“That is because I am devastatingly charming,” he says, ghosting his lips against your nose, over your eyelids, your forehead, settling on the top of your head. “Ask anyone.” 

“You are insufferable, is what you are.”

He hums in agreement. “And yet, you cling to me still. I cannot be so insufferable then, can I?”

“I told you not to mock me, husband. My homeland is fond of its poisons—you might find sweet death laced in your wine should you push too far,” you threaten, but there is a smile in your voice, hidden against his shoulder, and his chest rumbles as he huffs out a laugh.

“I will endure the risk if it means I get to have you curled in my arms like this, ñuha jorrāelagon,” he murmurs, all warmth and devotion as he tucks you closer into his chest.

You lay like that with him for a long while, basking in his warmth and the comfort of his arms, eyes sliding shut as the drowsiness finally hits you, all of the day's stress and excitement sinking in.

You murmur at last, “You smiled at her too much,” before you can stop yourself. Then you add for clarification, “The Lannister woman.”

He vows, “I shall never smile at anyone besides you again.”

“I will poison you if you do.” 

His fingers trail up and down your side, gentle and adoring, lulling you to sleep. “A just punishment, certainly. I should expect nothing less from my fearsome wife.”

You make a soft, sleepy sound at that, too exhausted to muster another threat, and Valarr smiles faintly against your hair.

Valarr’s fingers continue their slow path along your side, absent and affectionate. You think he believes you are half asleep already by the way he presses another kiss to your temple, lingering there for a moment too long.

“You frightened me tonight,” Valarr admits quietly after a while.

Your lashes flutter slightly, but your eyes do not open. Your words are half slurred together as you ask sleepily, “I frightened you?”

“You spoke as though you truly believed I would cast you aside,” he murmurs. “That you were unwanted by me.”

You do not know how to reply to that, because a part of you had believed it, for a moment. You were forced upon him through politics and trade, and the rest of the court has made its opinions clear on you. You had let the insecurities get the best of you, with people around you whispering poison so sweetly it began to sound like truth.

“I choose you,” he says when you do not respond, fingers stroking your side again. “Not for your father’s ship and your family’s wealth. Not for trade with Qarth and access to the Jade Gates. You—because you do not look down on my brother for not taking to the sword the way everyone else expects him to, because my father’s eyes light up every time the two of you speak, because you ease the burden that weighs on my shoulder just by being in the same room as me. Because you are good and kind and worry about making sure another girl is comfortable here, when you still struggle yourself. Given the chance and opportunity to pick any woman in Westeros or Essos, I will always pick you—and anyone in this court who is bold enough to try to harm you will find themselves begging the gods for mercy before I am through with them.”

“You are very foolish,” you whisper weakly, barely awake.

Valarr’s lips curve. “Desperately so.”

“There are easier women,” you say quietly. “Women who your court would accept, who—”

“I do not want easier women,” he cuts in immediately. “I want you, and only you. I try very hard to be a good man—to follow in my father’s footsteps—but I would do terrible things to anyone who dared try to take you from me.”

Your chest aches. Loathsome man.

“I love you,” you say quietly, eyes heavy and voice slow, the steady beat of his heart and strokes of his fingers still doing quick work at ensuring you are half to sleep already. 

But you suppose indifference is just what your mother's betrayal taught you. And for that, you’re grateful. Others would sooner use it as a source of blame and frustration. Or, at least, that’s the common trend among your fellow workers.

Out of the many, you might call just one of them an actual friend. Just like you, her mother also left her here to repay her debts—and perhaps that’s the only reason for your friendship. Solidarity. 

She likes to regard herself as thick-skinned, but you’re not so convinced, cocking a brow at her as she acknowledges how any day might be her last and swears she’s not afraid of it—brave-faced, behaving like every little thing is worth the fight because there wouldn't be anything left otherwise. 

You, on the other hand, dream of running away every single passing second just like your mother.

Though, unlike her, you let the dreams suffice. You’re more practical in that regard. You can only ever chase such things, never catch them. And so, your thoughts of escape are nothing you’d ever dare actually do. They’re just tiny nothings to pass the time.

Some might call that cowardly, but you’ve always had mixed feelings about the concept of courage. Some part of you admires it and wishes to have some of the same strength your friend has, but at the same time, you can’t help but think it’s foolish. After all, if you say you can handle worse, you’re basically inviting it to come.

Of course, she argues the same, that acting cowardly like you also acts as an invitation. That, either way, whatever a rabbit does, it’ll always be prey—and so, having dignity in the face of death is better.

You see her point, and yet you still don’t think you can agree. Act like prey and you’re just waiting for trouble to find you. Act brave, however, and you’re out there looking for it. There’s a difference in that. And you think that difference is important. And every day is only a matter of waiting for that difference to show its face.

And it turns out, this might just be the day.

She’d been extra mouthy with some guests. You’d come to her aid, not to fight, but to apologize for her like always. Usually, it ends with a free lap dance, maybe something more—a few bite marks and an aching back and a really long shower.

Only this time, she’d done worse than just talk back—a drink was spilled, the glass was broken, and her dull claws had somehow managed to draw blood straight across a customer's face.

You know it then and there, that was it. This is the day you die. Predators will be buying your flesh in the market tomorrow—if they don’t feast on you today—bones and all.

You’re taken upstairs to that part of the building where people go and rarely return from. 

It’s dark in the many turning hallways. You walk straight, and as you walk, you think about your short life, and how it was all coming to an end tonight. Spending your last moments treating the route like a dumb metaphor. How, maybe if you’d taken a different turn down another hallway, you might still be walking by this time tomorrow.

But it’s a silly thought, you decide. All hallways wind up at the same place in the end. And with that, you don’t regret trying to help your friend, despite it having pulled you into her mess. In all matters of eventuality, you might have been the one to fuck up with a customer today, and she the one coming to your aid. And so, you suppose, none of it really matters. It’s not as if you’d be losing all that much.

The room you enter is a little more lit. Not by much, but enough for you to see the wolfish pack members lining the walls. Even without it, you smell them. The air reeks of cigars and musk and blood and meat and other scents you’re more than used to. And yet, for some reason, it’s nearly enough to make you faint as you follow closely behind your friend, to the far end of the room, where, behind a red oak desk, death is sitting waiting.

There had been rumors going around down at the club recently, saying that the old boss had been killed by his juniors. You were never one to partake in such gossip—it didn’t concern you. But you could put the rumors to rest now, feeling the glare of the new leadership linger on you. Not one, but two.

Young wolves, both of them—brothers, by the looks of it—they couldn’t be that far off from your age if you had to guess. Still, they were full-grown with a strength that could rip you apart faster than you could blink.

You keep your eyes fixed on the ground instead of eyeing them. But your friend, brazen even now, looks on ahead, meeting their red gaze. How she approaches such things as a challenge instead of torture is beyond you. It’s so alien, you almost doubt you’re even the same species. 

You probably don’t even look remotely akin in the way her ears stand at attention while yours droop down, trying to make yourself as small as possible.

The wolves start talking, your friend talks back, and you swallow thickly, not listening to a word being said—too much blood pounding in your head to focus. But you don’t think it matters much. After all, you’re going to die, and there isn’t much more to it than that, and so that’s the only thing you can think about. The small talk is only a game, anyway, and your friend doesn’t seem to understand she isn’t a player, but a pawn. You know well how predators like playing with their food. And the more fun the food is, the longer they spend eating it. And while your friend insists on making herself interesting, you plan on being boring. Boring and quick.

You hadn’t noticed his approach, but suddenly a clawed finger curls under your chin, lifting your round gaze from your feet, up to look into a pair of crimson eyes. Stock-still, you don’t move a muscle—you don’t even blink. In fact, you don’t even dare draw breath while waiting to have your throat ripped out.

Though, unfortunately for you, and with no regard to your efforts of being boring, it seems he plans on enjoying himself after all. Granting you time in which, despite not feeling inclined to, your eyes skitter nonetheless, taking him in. 

His fur isn’t bristly like those other wolves you’d catered to down in the club, but fine-cut and kempt, and clean. The way he looks at you, you can’t see his fangs yet. It’s almost as if—well, you don’t know exactly, it wouldn’t be right to make assumptions—but it’s almost as if he doesn’t want to spook you just yet. Though you’re certain that’s only a fleeting objective. One soon to alter against your favor.

And still, his teeth remain hidden, even as he speaks. “This one is mine.” 

His voice is deep like a rumbling, and yet, soft—or as soft as he can make it. So are his eyes, though red and glaring, not hungry—not like those you see look at you through the cage while you dance. These eyes are refined and controlled—tame, if a wolf could be such a thing.

You don’t know why, but somehow, it’s more unsettling than anything you’ve ever seen before…

“Fine by me,” the other one answers in a rasp. Only then does your vision snap to see your friend bent over the red oak desk, struggling against the wolf at her back. He, contrary to the other, licks his canines with a grating laugh, full of growl and bark, “The feisty one’s more my type anyway.”

Funny enough, when all’s said and done, your friend is the one who screams. And for odder reasons still, you don’t voice a single sound. It’s as if the roles reverse for a moment. She, terrified and swivel-eyed, begging and pleading and apologizing. And you, taking a deep breath, calm, peaceful, smiling, saying, soft-toned, one last time, “See you soon,” before you’re both taken opposite ways.

You can still hear her screaming even as she disappears from view and you’re led somewhere even darker, a big paw placed on the small of your back, guiding you forward with a steady push you don’t even think to fight against.

The room you arrive at has a bed—but that was to be expected. You refrain from conjuring any images of your impending last night, insisting on holding onto this feeling of strange peace in knowing the very simple truth of your death.

“Are you listening?” the wolf says, possibly for a numbered time as he snaps his fingers before your eyes, holding your cheeks with black claws dipping into the fat.

You blink, and for the first time feel some of that never-had bravery appear within. It’s a pity this is where and how you use it, but better in your last moments than never at all, you think.

“I won’t struggle,” you announce. “So, you can just get it over with.”

You don’t look for his reaction. You don’t look for anything. You just wait for him to heed your offer and do just that—get it over with.

But he doesn’t seem inclined to. Rather, his tail piques behind him and starts ever-so-softly wafting from side to side—unfortunately still intrigued by your effort of being unintriguing. Smiling at you, when asking, “Get what over with exactly?” 

He then topples down in the plume of the bed, sitting there, widespread, inspecting you where you stand as if you’re some odd creature he’s never seen before. And you suppose you can’t blame him. You feel just as odd as you most likely seem, but right now, though you know you’re supposed to act like prey, you just can’t help but want to drop the theatrics and skip to the end.

You sigh, deeply, with a type of exhaustion like you haven’t ever had a proper rest. “Eating me, fucking me, whatever it is…”

He scoffs at that, offering a small laugh and a real smile where he finally flashes those great big teeth you’re sure are going to plant themselves in your neck some time tonight. 

“You’re funny, you know that?” You’re not sure if it’s meant as praise, but you also don’t care to think about it enough to find out before he keeps going, “I can tell you actually mean it. Your heart’s beating out of your chest, but it’s strangely calm.”

You don’t indulge him with an answer. You just continue waiting for it, knowing it could come at any moment. Even though you know it’s best to be oblivious when it finally happens, for some reason, you really don’t want to practice ignorance is bliss in your final moment. No, for your final moment, you want to be able to say that you faced it head on.

“Come, sit. Why don’t we talk a little first? It might help you feel a little more comfortable.”

If you were on the clock, you would thank him for the offer. And he’d get a good little rush thinking about what a hero he is, unknowing of how you really feel. But the truth is, out of all the guests you get in the club, his type is truly the worst. The nice ones. Gentle predators who dare talk to you as if you’re the same, who praise your intellect and charm, as if you’re anything but a toy to them.

But you’re not on the clock. So this time, you won’t be doing anyone any such favors, replying to him with a short and bitter, “No thanks.”

You expect him to try it again, coo at you for a little bit longer, see if he can’t persuade you into coming willingly into his clutches. But no. As if he can see his act isn’t fooling you, he decides to drop it just like that.

“Alright then. As you wish.” He removes his suit jacket, tossing it aside along with his tie shortly after as he cuts right to the chase, “Take off your clothes.” 

You do as prompted. Glad to finally be getting somewhere. You unclothe as unceremoniously as you would as if you were alone.

“Thought you were a stripper.” He complains at your lack of tact, a brow raised at your now naked body and the little heap of clothing at your feet.

But, as you thought you’d already made clear, you haven’t any desire to cater to the man. And so, withholding your apologies for once, all you say is, “You didn’t tell me to put on a show.” Hoping you’re making yourself better understood this time, wanting him to know that his disapproval means nothing to you, and hoping it incites a little more rage out of him.

However, instead of rage, this time he starts laughing. “Guess so.” 

He signals for you to come closer while the chuckles die down, and you obey, stepping up before him. 

“No matter…” His rough paws dwarf your hips when you get close enough, pulling you onto his lap. “I think I actually prefer you this way.” 

Regardless of how many times you’ve been in the exact position, instinctively, your fur poofs up under his claws anyway.

“Honest and raw,” he drawls. “I’ve never seen you quite like this before…”

Your brows curl at that. You didn't realize he was familiar with you.

“When you’re working the floor, you’re always so…” Smiling lazily, he looks you over with halfmast eyes of fondness. “Filtered, masked, polite to a fault. Like, you're somewhere else pulling your own strings.” 

He chuckles again, finding fun in his own impressions—like the very idea of you is a wonderful joke. 

“I already thought you were interesting then, but look at you know…” He licks his teeth and traces the outline of your body—a low growl in his chest, not threatening, but enjoying, like a purr. “For such a small thing, you’re full of surprises.”

You swallow thickly, even more disturbed now by his confessions. How long has he been watching you? 

Again, you have to remind yourself of how it doesn’t matter. This is what they do. They play games. Make you run in circles all for their amusement so that it feels extra good when they finally sink their teeth in.

“You’re not one for small talk, are you?” he says then following your silence.

And again, you just give him that unapologetic look of fuck you, saying, “You didn’t tell me to talk.”

He doesn't laugh this time, but grins. Scoffing “Tch–” as he takes your insolence like a challenge. “Let’s get right down to business then.”

His claws dig deeper in an instant, making you gasp as he lifts and tosses you down beneath him. And then his hand’s around your throat—not squeezing, not hard at least, but enough to keep you pinned as he bears on top, full face of fangs and all, now with that playful spark in his eyes that all nice guys get when riled up.

“Care for a little wager?” he rasps, knee between your thighs, hiking your leg over his hip while his paw presses down flat on your lower stomach. 

“All these years working here… and I’m willing to bet not a single guest has ever made you cum.”

You flinch once you realize what he’s up to, feeling his hand draw downward, cupping your cunt in a heated hold.

“I’m right aren’t I?” he raves on with another low snicker. “Some have tried, but you won’t give in to them. It’s your silent little rebellion.” 

His fingers part, leaving just the middle to curl up, nuzzling your entrance with the tip, dipping against it until forcing its way in, making you keen with a whine.

“Yeah–it’s defiance like that that I love. We don’t fuck you, you fuck us. Is that right?” 

Your hands circle around the one on your throat, and he watches on in delighted shudders while you struggle under his will.

Voice heated and raspy as he continues, “It’s so cute it makes my mouth water. Like you’re trying your best to be a carnivore. Hunting, chewing, and spitting us back out, and never letting anyone get a true taste of you in return.”

He pulls his digit back, maneuvering quicker than you can counter as he seizes both of your legs beneath the knees and folds you over—his clothed, fatted crotch rubbing against yours, as he hovers over you, wild haired and wild eyed.

“See, here’s what I’m thinking.” Bowing, he gets in close to your face—both of your breath’s heavy, caught in each other’s air as he lays forth the stakes, “If I get you to sing for me, you stay right here and be my cute little pet indefinitely.” 

His tail, now wagging relentlessly behind him, is already a tell-tale sign that this is going to be far from fair. 

“But…” he croons, continuing, “If you manage to hold out, I’m gonna let you leave the market with enough funds to set you up for life. Now, how’s that sound?”

Again, you swallow thick, getting caught up in the fantasy of it with eyes wide, before you’re reminded of what you know. Just another game… You wonder if this was the type your mother once played. Another awful game where they dangle hope in front of your eyes only to squeeze it free of life. Their idea of a fun time.

“Come on, what do you say?” he taunts—fangs practically dripping.

Still, you furl your brows and bite back with a, “Fuck you.”

And again, it only makes his grin broader. Simpering at you, “That’s what I like to hear.”

He’s on his knees in the next moment, before the bed, claws digging into the cake of your thighs, keeping them where he wants them as he lowers his mouth between them.

“Mmh, it's gonna feel so good to be the first one to ever make you truly yield.” 

You squirm under the warmth of his words.

He only coos, “Don’t worry,” tongue not even a whisker away as he speaks, “If I win, which I will, I’ll let you challenge me with the same odds anytime you want.”

♡ BNHA – Dabi ♡ JJK – Geto ♡ HQ – Kuro, Atsumu ♡ BLLK – Reo ♡ DS – Doma ♡ WB – Suo, Togame

You laugh softly, a gentle sound that makes his heartbeat flutter faster. How can someone so cute ask something like that? His fingers flex against your hips ever so slightly, grip tightening.

"No," you admit, hand sliding up his back to play with the hair at the nape of his neck, "'m just curious."

A moment of silence passes between you. You're content to just hold him like this, enjoying the comfort of his body against yours. He's warm and solid underneath you but there's still a softness to his limbs and chest. Like a pillow. Always cradling you and offering you a place to rest.

You would've assumed that Nagi began drifting off, lost in the solace of your arms— if not for the rapid thumping in his chest.

"I just watched whatever was on the first page. Didn't feel like looking for something."

His lazy, mumbled reply makes you grin. If you didn't know him better, you wouldn't bat an eye at his dismissal. But you do know him. And Nagi could easily stop this conversation, could tell you that he doesn't want to talk about it, could even lie and say he doesn't remember to satisfy your inquiry, but he doesn't. He knows you would stop prying and drop it, going back to just enjoying the silence between the two of you in this intimate moment if he asked. You’re sweet like that, considerate.

"Yeah? And what was on the first page?" Your nails scrape gently against his scalp and he lets out another grunt.

“The usual stuff." He answers vaguely despite how it makes his face feel hot, his lips brushing against your neck as he turns his head.

“Like...?" You draw the word out, giggling again at his soft whine.

"Why do you want to know?"

“Told you, Sei. Just wondering." Your hands find their way to his chest, dragging along the fabric of his hoodie languidly. "It tells a lot about a person, don't'cha think?”

“Maybe it was just too much of a hassle to find anything else.” 

“Maybe,” you concede, biting your lower lip to try and stop your smile from spreading more. Another beat of silence and you're pulling away slightly, making Nagi’s head lift up to meet your gaze. Your eyes are sparkling, pupils blown out slightly. “But those videos still got you off, right?”

“I guess.”

“So…?” You try again, pushing for more. Always pushing for more and more.

“Things like, I don't know, blowjobs and spanking. Creampies.” Just uttering those words in front of you makes him feel like a pervert. Though the two of you are no strangers to being intimate with the other, it’s different to talk about them so casually like this. It feels dirty, making Nagi’s ears burn and his pulse quicken. His cock twitches, too.

“Did you like those?”

“Sometimes. ‘m not that picky, too much work otherwise.”

“Did you watch other videos, Sei? Like,” you pause, humming as you think, “roleplaying or anal?”

It's not fair, he thinks. You look so cute, so innocent as if the topic isn't about porn and you're not the one who initiated the conversation. Straddling his lap, your body warm against his, the curve of your waist fitting perfectly in his hands—you're anything but innocent.

“Yeah.” It's all he can manage. Especially when your hands move down his chest, lower and lower.

You palm at his crotch, fingers easily grabbing his semi hard dick through the loose fabric. It throbs underneath your touch. A soft groan leaves Nagi’s lips and you smile to yourself, knowing he's putty in your hands.

“Tell me about them.” 

There's no rhythm or pattern that you're following, just groping at his covered cock, touching him as you please. Playing with him. Feeling him twitch in his sweatpants, hips bucking up slightly to chase your hand.

“Watched a lot of, uh, roleplaying.” Nagi spreads his thighs apart, giving you more room and allowing him to sink back into the couch cushions. You take the hint and grab at his waistband, pulling the elastic down enough for his cock to be freed.

He's warm, still thick and heavy despite not being fully hard yet. His dark eyes watch the way your hand wraps around him, how small you always seem in comparison to him. Nagi knows he's big—both in stature and build, but also with the size of his dick—and it never fails to get his blood pumping south to be reminded of the stark contrast between you and him.

“Yeah?” You encourage, your own gaze fixed on his hardening dick, fingers tracing the veins that run along his shaft. Lowering your voice, you lean closer to him, breath hot against his ear. “Did you watch sexy teachers disciplining their students? Or busty assistants getting railed over a desk?”

“Y-yeah…” Nagi’s cock throbs and his fingers dig into your skin, grounding himself as you slowly jerk him off. The sound of his heartbeat echoes in his ears, a swirl of guilt from admission making him feel hotter than usual. “Stuff like that.”

“What about step siblings? That's popular, right?” 

He doesn't say anything, doesn't have to. His cock jumps in your hand and he bites his lower lip, holding back the groan that threatens to spill out. The corners of your lips curl up in satisfaction.

Jackpot.

“Do you want to try it?” You ask, loosening your grip around him, but still stroking.

“Try what?”

“Do you want me to be your step sister, Seishiro?” Looking up at him through your lashes, you bite your lip, feeling a rush of adrenaline shoot through you at the thought. You didn't have an interest in it before, but seeing Nagi flushed and hard just from talking about it has piqued your curiosity.

He groans softly, his head falling once again to your shoulder. Pulling you closer on his lap, he hides his face, nuzzling into your neck as if that would hide his shame.

“Don’t tease me.” Nagi mutters, mouth moving against your skin, hips jerking up into your hand. His tip is leaking already, the pearly liquid gathering at his slit. He shudders as you swipe your thumb across it. “I just watched it sometimes.”

“I think it's hot.” You throw the words out casually like it's not making his brain fry and turn to static. “My big step brother all hard and desperate for me, teaching me how I should touch him while we stay quiet so we don't get found out.”

“Fuck,” he hisses out, “keep going.”

“Ask me nicely.”

“Please,” he tries again, needy, kissing at your neck.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“S-step sis.” His eyes squeeze shut, eyebrows furrowing together as your hand finally closes around his length. Tight enough to actually feel good instead of just teasing. Your pace is still too slow for his liking, but at least it's something.

“Yes, step brother?” Your voice is like honey, playing up the role of a sweet and doting sister. Nagi hates how much it turns him on.

But, fuck, he doesn't want to stop now.

“Touch me.” His heart thumps against his ribs, the thrill of experiencing this taboo fantasy mixing with the dull thrum of pleasure settling at the base of his spine. It's exciting. The words shaky as they leave his lips, spilling out like a dam breaking. “Please, sis. I need you to touch me.”

“Good boy.” Whispered against his lips, you lean forward, unable to resist giving him what he wants. The kiss is heated, messy. Tasting and taking everything the other has to give, like this is the only chance you'll get.

Your hand moves faster along his length, starting to build a steady rhythm that makes Nagi groan into your mouth. Up and down, up and down, twisting just enough near his tip to make more precum dribble out.

A string of spit snaps against his chin when you part for air, gasping heavily to refill your lungs. Every nerve in his body is lighting on fire, spreading a familiar warmth and hunger throughout. He doesn't think he's ever been this hard in his life.

It's not wrong—not technically—but he knows it's messed up. Pretending that you're his sister instead of his girlfriend, pretending that your touch is forbidden and dirty, it's making it hard to think straight. He's acting on instinct, thrusting up into your fist while he holds you steady on his lap.

“Fuck, squeeze it, baby. Just like that.”

You do as he asks, tightening your grip the way you know Nagi likes, adding your other hand on his aching length.

“Like this, step bro?” The term comes from you so naturally, so perfectly, as if you were meant to do this for him. A puzzle piece that falls right where it needs to be. A compliment to him and his fucked up fantasy. 

“Yeahhh, shit, feels good.” He hisses when you start kissing his neck, teeth lightly dragging down the expanse of skin, giving him another sensation to drown himself in. 

His length throbs, his peak building faster than he wants, but when you're sitting so prettily on his thighs, your hands wrapped around him, and your dirty words dripping with sweetness, he can't fight it.

“Mm, are you gonna cum? Gonna cover your little sister's hands with your load?” He can hear the smile stretched across your lips, feel it in the way you start working your hands faster over him.

This was a game and you won. He didn't even put up a fight.