Welcome to Mars

paying close attention was the only thing that made you finally figure it out, seemingly nobody else did but you. his eyes would flicker to your mouth whenever you spoke, too brief to be caught by anyone who wasn’t looking for it. and when you’d stop talking, he’d let the silence hang instead of brushing past it. the most obvious part of all was how your opinions got more weight in decisions than they should have, how your scrapes got seen before anyone else’s, even when you said you were fine. this was not commented on, and that almost confirmed it for you. only bepo noticed. he’d never say it, but the way he looked between the two of you when law gave you orders said enough. if it was obvious, someone would’ve joked or teased or questioned but no one did. that meant they either didn’t notice, or they were too unsure to bring it up, or they must’ve figured it was protocol or convenience or maybe just seniority. but it was favoritism. gentle, careful favoritism that he swore he didn’t show, expect for when he’d assign you the lightest duties during hard missions. he tormented himself for exactly four years by treating his affection as something shameful that had to be folded up and put away somewhere you could never find it.

over time, he stopped standing too close in tight quarters because it got harder for him to pretend. his body would lean before his mind caught it, and he’d yank himself back just a little too late. you felt his voice change slightly in tone when he said your name, a subtle and softer sound he only reserved for you. he told you that you were imagining it, said it sounded the same no matter who he was talking to. “you’re hearing things,” he said once, eyes already looking away before you could answer.

law truly believed his courtroom composure could erase every stray glance, but you recognized his secret devotion long before his mouth ever tasted yours. inside his meticulous skull those kisses had played on an endless reel, at least a hundred rehearsals deep. he endured seasons convinced he could quarantine that sweet affection forever, scrubbing any pink warmth from his voice whenever you wandered close. you still wonder which lonely future would have unfolded if your mouth had not moved first to claim what already belonged to you. if you hadn’t touched him, kissed him, pulled that devotion out of the dark and told him he could give it to you, because he really might have never done it. he would’ve spent years pretending he didn’t still think about you before falling asleep.

and sometimes, you look at him in moments like this, half-dressed and muttering to himself, hair slightly flattened on one side from where he dozed off before this dumb obsession woke him, squinting at an auction timer like the fate of humanity depends on whether or not he secures a limited edition whitebeard figurine, and you really do wonder how you ended up with the biggest nerd in the suboceanic hemisphere. what a geek, hunched over that ugly knockoff den-den mushi-laptop hybrid he built himself because nothing on the market met his “operational standards.” the glow of the screen reflects off his earrings and the slope of his nose, casting that same weird blue tone across his bare chest clicking way too aggressively for someone who’s supposed to be a genius.

and still somehow, you’re completely, pathetically in love with him. you’ll always love him for how serious he was about hiding his big fat crush on you. for how sincere he was, even when he thought he had no chance. that was before you knew how his seriousness melted into clingy tenderness meant only for his pretty girl. and how bad his taste in collectibles actually was. but it’s during nights like these that you start to think maybe you should’ve left him to suffer in his yearning forever.

you’re lying on your back right in the center of his bed, legs stretched all the way out, hips tilted to one side so the dip of your waist curves into the mattress. your arms are folded under your chest and your elbows push into the silk sheets. you’ve been staring at him, your captain, with your head tilted back against the pillows, eyes half-lidded, mouth parted just enough to show how bored you are.

citrus traces float from his favorite hand balm, the little tin you procured in a port he despised for its cramped docks and rude traders. the bed’s still warm from the time he spent beside you earlier, when his hands were all over you and his voice was tired but affectionate. but now he’s back at the desk, head bowed, glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose, and you can see how tight his shoulders are from where you’re laying. his forearms are tanned and covered in those veins you adore tracing with tongue when permission exists. he hasn’t said anything in maybe forty minutes. he’s been locked in, pulling up tabs, scrolling through listings, flipping between forums and those grim old marine archives.

you catch him zooming in on the arm joint of a ten-inch figure and mumbling something about joint calibration. “you can tell by the stress lines on the coat…”

your hips tilt slightly causing the silk robe you put on to descend, exposing the gentle ridge of sternum and the upper swell of both breasts. bare thighs extend toward the footboard, only one of your knees bent outward, granting an unobstructed corridor of soft skin beneath the loosened fold. your fingers pinch a corner of fabric, letting it fall so the right lapel hangs lower than the left, inviting examination from any attentive observer. your voice remains a breath above silence when you murmur traf?, testing whether his concentration will fracture beneath this deliberate temptation. he keeps staring at that improvised laptop, yet every sensory receptor in his disciplined frame registers your proximity and the thermal bloom against his sheets. strategy dictates restraint, so you persist wordlessly, presenting a silhouette that glints under the console glow, trusting tactile intuition to lure him. nothing shields the smooth plane of your abdomen, but he still won’t even look at you?

“not right now, babe,” he mumbles absently. “i swear i’m almost done.”

“you said that twelve minutes ago.”

“the bid closes in five.”

“it was five six minutes ago.”

“it extended. someone else placed a last-minute offer.”

you shift your gaze toward that glowing monitor, lashes heavy with deliberate disdain, lips curving into that lazy warning he’s learned to recognize. words spill softly, deceptively gentle in tone, “someone else is offering higher credits on that whitebeard figurine?” he pivots on his stool, his amber orbs narrowing under low lashes before settling on your contour. one finger raises his spectacles without rushing, fingertips grazing the bridge of his nose, mouth pressed into a firm line resisting any retort.

“it’s not just any whitebeard figurine,” he says. “it’s the 20th anniversary box release. pre-war. sculpted from ooda’s early model sheets. look at the spine, right here — see the tilt on the bisento? there were no reissues. not in any region. this one’s never even touched a shelf.”

he sounds breathless. he shifts again, eyes drifting along your bare limbs and tracing the line of your chest exposed by fallen silk. his rigid posture softens imperceptibly, admitting devotion he still feigns to suppress whenever your presence beckons him away from duty. momentary silence settles, punctuated only by low hum of auxiliary engines and heartbeat reverberating beneath your bare skin. he loves you, but occasionally he loves pretending he’s not into you even more.

with his attention held for more than three seconds, you throw yourself down into the center of the bed again, this time with just enough effort behind the movement to make the mattress shift under you with a weighted, theatrical sound. your back arches slightly with the impact, and the silk of your robe slides farther down your chest, your nipples stiffen under the change in position, and you know he has to have noticed it. there is no angle from which he could possibly miss what you’re offering him now. you let your chest rise with an intentionally long inhale, your arms slack above the pillows, hair spread around your face, one leg bent just slightly to let the robe fall open further over your thigh. you wait one second, two more, then three.

“oh my god,” there’s genuine awe in his voice, “the seller just confirmed the signature. it’s real.”

wow. you hiss without raising your head from the pillow, “what, whitebeard signed it himself from the afterlife?”

he doesn’t answer you or even pretend to have heard you. his elbows are locked tight to his ribs now, body pitched forward into the glow of his desk, hands typing too fast to be entirely rational. you’re not sure if he’s more invested in the bid or in pretending to ignore you, but either way, it’s insulting. finally, without turning, he mutters something again. “the sculptor,” he says, “the sculptor signed it. this is a museum-grade item.”

you stare at the ceiling long enough that your vision unfocuses, the dim lights from the control panels near the door tinting the shadows across the upper wall in gentle amber and deepened navy. you drag a hand slowly across your face, your palm wide, starting at your brow and pulling all the way down, across the slope of your nose and over your parted mouth. you want him pressed down on top of you, there’s a pulse between your thighs that’s getting harder to ignore, but it’s matched by how pissed off you are that he’s so good at this. he’s enjoying this entirely. he wants you frustrated. he likes watching you get irritated and hot and flushed and fed up while he sits, serene, putting on a perfect performance of detachment. it’s the same twisted, self-hating pleasure he lived off of before he had you, except now he gets to be on the other side.

step one of the five-step grieving process of postponed sexual gratification from your surgeon pirate boyfriend: bargaining.

“hey,” you say, “if you press buy now, i’ll let you do anything to me for the rest of the night.”

you don’t blink when you say it just to see what he does. you want to know how far he’ll push this ascetic monk bit before he loses the upper hand. he clicks something and nods. “already bid. can’t back out now.”

“you’re gonna lose it.” you threaten.

“i’m not.”

you don't even sigh when you walk over to him, because you know he’s waiting for it. he should be groveling by now, you’ve done your part and he hasn’t even kissed you once. he’s leaned in closer to the screen, arguing again. you tilt your head, glance over his shoulder, and see the username he’s replying to.

“you’re fighting a man named figfan_88,” you say, slowly.

“he’s objectively wrong,” law murmurs, he won’t even turn. “he said whitebeard’s bisento was re-sculpted for the 2012 release. i’m correcting the record.”

“by writing a thesis?”

he keeps doing what he’s doing because he has no off-switch. no gauge for balance, or sense of proportion when it comes to his own compulsions. his brain has latched onto this fixation like it always does, and the fact that you’ve been half-naked on his bed for twenty-three minutes means exactly nothing when a stranger on the internet has misdated a weapon sculpt on a forum thread from a decade ago. he doesn’t even consider the possibility that you might be bothered.

you stare at the back of his beautiful, stupid head, you drag your fingers through the soft, uneven locks in hopes of activating a different quadrant of his cursedly capable brain, something nonacademic, something that would snap him out of this absurd little ebay fugue state, but all you receive is more stubborn key clacks and the sound of his molars working at the inside of his lip.

you blink down at the bare column of his neck, then lean closer, dragging your words low across the shell of his ear. “don’t you ever wonder why your dick is so neglected?”

he exhales through his nose, but still doesn’t look at you, fingers twitching on the keys.

“when all you do is nerdy stuff like this?” you ask, slowly. his response to that is, “so sit on it and give it some lovin’. i’m right here.”

your mouth parts. “excuse me?”

he finally turns to look at you, pupils already blown, but you doubt it’s from arousal. more likely the adrenaline of pretending he still has the upper hand. his eyes drop, unapologetic, to the swell of your chest.

“i said,” he starts, enunciating now, “maybe if you put those pretty thighs to work, i’d stop typing.”

your breath hitches, but your glare deepens “you’re disgusting.”

“you’re stunning,” he counters, eyes tracking the slip of your robe. “i’m suffering. can’t you let me win this one last bid in peace?” you scoff and cross your arms. “five more minutes,” he pleads, lifting a hand, “just five. and then i’m all yours. ruin me. crush me. tie me up. i’ll even delete the forum app, i swear.” and then he stretches, leans back in his chair, and manspreads on purpose, just to be unbearable. there’s an invitation somewhere in the gesture, but it’s the kind that doubles as a challenge. he’s not going to beg or stop you if you climb into his lap and ruin his little hobby night.

“fine. keep ignoring me. but if i get myself off before you touch me, i swear i won’t let you watch.”

“you’re so sexy when you threaten me,” he grins, turning back to the screen, completely unbothered. you huff, your hips sway when you turn, and you make sure he notices. he watches you walk all the way back to the bed, and his grin fades into something lazier. his eyes drop to your ass with a slow, appreciative drag. he hated to see you go but watching you leave might’ve been better.

you try lying flat this time, try letting your thighs fall open, try folding the pillow under your hips and sinking into it in hope that it’ll ease something. the sheets are warm, slippery, clinging to your skin, and every time you breathe too deep you feel that tight, dull ache between your legs. you swallow, bite your bottom lip, try to ignore the fact that your body’s basically begging. and still, nothing. “you’re really just gonna sit there while i suffer?”

“you’re not suffering. you’re being dramatic.”

“i’m sweating!”

“turn the fan on.”

“i’m restless.”

“you have hands.” he continues, “and you’ve barely moved. unless rolling around with your ass out counts as cardio.”

you shoot a glare over the blankets. “what are you even doing now?”

“tracking the bid history. figuring out if this guy’s serious or just driving the price up for fun.” the way he’s speaking makes it worse.

your thighs squeeze together again. “you know, i think you’re going through something,” you murmur, eyes on the ceiling now. “when we started this, you used to be on me constantly. you barely let me leave your bed without dragging me back. i miss being touched without asking for it.” your brows pinch. you almost stop there, but don’t. “i miss feeling wanted. by you.”

“you are wanted,” he confirms, “very badly. you’re just also being incredibly annoying.”

you ignore that, “and don’t say it’s just a busy night,” you add. “you get like this sometimes. you’ll have a week where you’re completely insatiable, and then you shift into this cold little slump where i have to throw myself around to get you to do anything.”

“you’re exaggerating.” you turn your head toward him. “am i?”

“you think i’m ignoring you?” he asks, sounding almost amused. your mouth opens but no sound comes out. “besides,” he adds, “you always want it more when i act uninterested. it’s psychological. i’m doing you a favor.”

“sorry. psychological?”

“mhmm.”

“no, repeat it. out loud. and slowly, so you can hear how stupid you sound.”

he shrugs. “acting uninterested makes you want it more. it triggers a heightened sense of pursuit. textbook reward conditioning.”

“what textbook.”

he clicks back to the auction window and mutters, “any of them.” you scramble up on your elbows, glare at the outline of his jaw in the low blue light. “you think withholding attention is rewarding to me?” you roll your eyes so hard it physically hurts. “you’re not a psychologist.”

“not officially.”

“you’re a surgeon. you’re not even qualified to talk about dopamine.”

“actually, i am. neurotransmitters are part of the—”

“shut up.”

he laughs, cocky and deeply fond. he’s smiling now, the corners of his mouth turned up in that way he always gets when he knows he’s winning but doesn’t want to gloat too hard “do you want me to be obsessed with you again?” he asks gently, “because i can do that. i’m adaptable. and very responsive to need.”

you sniff and pull the blanket over your shoulder like it might shield you from the idiocy radiating across the room. “you’re lucky you’re hot.”

“i know.”

his fingers tap once more against the trackpad, then pause. silence settles. you can hear the computer fan humming and the soft sound of the floorboard creaking when he shifts. he tilts his head just slightly, adjusting his glasses without looking up from the screen. you hate how easy it is for him to smile at his own arrogance. “you don’t need to worry about a thing,” he says. “you’ll get exactly what you want in the end. i just want to see how long you can hold out without begging.”

you pretend not to hear him speak, “you’re gonna be outbid by some forty-year-old war criminal with a display case and no girlfriend.”

he stands suddenly and moves toward the dresser and grabs the auction book he’s marked up over and over again. pages rustle too fast for it to be useful, but he’s flipping through it anyway, about to prove a point that hasn’t been made yet. “i know i saw it listed before,” he says to no one in particular. “it was on page thirty-three, bottom right, had the wrong serial label—” he disappears into the bathroom with the book still in hand and you hear the faucet turn on. the water slaps hard against the basin, he’s only in there to think.

you move fast, knowing he won’t stay distracted for long. rolling off the bed, dropping onto the floor without a sound, you crawl under the desk and grip the base of the keyboard, pulling it toward you with even movements. the cord of it clacks once when it hits the frame of the bed. you wince, shoving it far beneath, hidden behind a stack of unopened mail. wiping your hands on your thighs, you return to the bed, lounging in the same position you once were.

he walks out moments later, towel slung over his shoulder. his glasses fog slightly when he pushes them up. he’s still mumbling about the bid timer. he walks straight to the desk and sits. he reaches for the keyboard, then pauses.

“…where the hell is my—?”

“hmm?”

“my keyboard. it was right here.”

“was it?”

he narrows his eyes and frowns, already looking under books, behind the monitor. “don’t play with me.”

you tilt your head slowly. “maybe it got tired of your typing and ran away.”

“did you take it?”

“take what?”

“my keyboard.”

“why would i take your keyboard?”

“because you’re—” he stops talking, stands still for a moment. “you’re so petty.”

you shrug without breaking eye contact. “if it mattered that much to you, you wouldn’t have left it unguarded.”

he pushes back from the desk in one smooth movement and crosses the room with zero hesitation. he crouches at the edge of the bed, reaching out for your ankle, his hand closes around it easily. “negotiate,” he says.

“i don’t know where it is.”

“you’re a liar.”

“so make me tell the truth.”

he shifts onto the mattress in a steady motion. both of his hands slide over your hips, and the silk top gets pressed aside without ceremony. his voice stays low. you raise an eyebrow, “you’ve got about six minutes before bidding closes. are you really gonna waste it arguing with me?”

“i’m not wasting it. i’m winning.”

“oh, so this is a competition now?”

“it’s always a competition. you just don’t admit it because i’m better at it.”

suddenly, he breathes out a laugh, he can’t believe you’re doing this to him during a limited-time listing. he glances back at the desk briefly, then looks at you again.

“you know i’m gonna find it eventually.”

“i know. but you’ll be too late.”

you stay laid back, elbow behind you, silk slipping again just slightly with your shift. “you want the keyboard,” you say, “fine. i’ll trade.”

his eyes flick up your thigh but land back on your face. “what do you want?”

you hold up your fingers one by one, “i want three kisses. then i want you to come to bed, with no laptop, and i want your mouth on me until i forget what time it is.”

he tilts his head slightly, “that’s it?”

you squint, “that’s enough.”

“you’re giving me the keyboard for something i already planned on doing.”

you arch a brow, “you were going to bury your face in me tonight out of the goodness of your heart?”

he leans forward slowly, mouth stopping at your knee. he kisses there once, open-mouthed, nothing sweet about it. “i was gonna do it just to shut you up,” he says. “but now i’ve got a reason.”

you shove at his shoulder with your foot. he grabs your ankle again, firmer this time, drags your leg until your knee bends and you’re pulled toward the edge of the mattress. your breath catches slightly. you try to hide it, but he notices.

“okay,” he says, looking up at you again. “three kisses. and i eat you out until you forget your own name.”

“not what i said.”

“no,” he shrugs, standing to full height and pressing his knee into the bed, “but it’s what you meant.”

his hands move to your hips. pushes the silk up with a kind of calm that makes you burn faster. he leans down again, kissing the inside of your thigh once. then again higher. then pulls back.

“i’ll throw in something extra,” he says, voice low now, mouth way too close. “but i get to choose when the third kiss happens. and where.”

you swallow once. look up at him, biting back a smile. “deal.”

“good. now give me the keyboard,” he says.

“under the bed,” you say, “behind the stack of mail you keep ignoring.”

he leans over, arm stretching beneath the frame. he pulls it out by the cord, holding it in the air like a trophy.

his attention doesn’t back to the desk. instead, he sets the keyboard on the floor without looking, stepping forward until his knees are pressed against the mattress. one hand settles just above your knee, thumb grazing the soft skin there, the other sliding up your thigh without hurry. you shift against the sheets when his palm reaches the lace, brushing the edge before pushing under it.

his fingers are warm, knuckles bending until the tips meet you in slow, deliberate circles. your breath hitches the moment he starts, the pace unchanging, every movement dragging too much focus out of you.

“you’ve got that auction,” you say, voice catching but still aimed to needle him. “don’t you need to—”

“there’s an intermission,” he says, almost bored, but the smallest upward curl at the corner of his mouth betrays him. “you gonna try and distract me from my own deal?”

“i’m trying to keep you from missing it.”

his circles tighten, just a fraction, enough to force a stifled breath from you. “i already told you. intermission.”

“feels… longer than six minutes.”

“stop counting,” he says, not even a twitch in his wrist. “you’re bad at it.”

your fingers curl into the sheets, silk sliding against your skin with each subtle shift of your hips. he notices, he notices everything, and instead of speeding up, he keeps the exact same rhythm, watching every flicker across your face.

“you could just…” you start, trailing off when he presses harder for a second, “go back to your desk.”

“and let you think you’ve won? not happening.”

you want to argue, but it’s too much effort with the way his hand moves so measured, and patient, owning every reaction without rushing a thing.

“embarrassed?” he asks suddenly, still fixed on you.

you breathe out hard through your nose, eyes closing briefly. “shut up.”

he leans in, his mouth just over your ear. “too good to stop, though.”

you don’t answer, and that’s enough for him.

his circles shift lower, pressing between every pass, spreading the slick he finds there without a word. the edge of the lace drags faintly across your thigh with each movement, his fingers unhurried but heavier now. he watches your mouth part when he dips just barely inside before sliding back up, tracing you in a way that makes your stomach clench.

“that’s better,” he murmurs, tone warmer now, almost coaxing. “feels good when you stop trying to talk over it, doesn’t it?”

your hips lift a little, not even on purpose, but his hand is there immediately, palm firm against your lower belly to keep you still. “don’t,” he says, soft but certain. “let me do it for you.”

he pushes two fingers inside slowly, his thumb finding your clit again, circling with that same steady rhythm while his other hand stays planted over your stomach. the stretch makes you gasp, your legs shifting open more, and he leans in, resting his forehead against yours briefly.

“that’s it. open up for me,” he says, voice low, steady, almost too intimate in the quiet of the room. “want you to feel all of me.”

you clutch at the sheets near his hips, breath catching each time his thumb glides over the same sensitive spot, every push of his fingers angled just right. his mouth brushes your temple, kissing there without pulling away from what his hand is doing.

your body jerks when it tips over, a rush of heat pulling tight through your stomach before it snaps, and there’s nothing you can do to slow it. his fingers stay buried inside you, steady through the pulse of it, coaxing more with each press until it’s spilling out against his hand, seeping past his knuckles and dripping onto the inside of your thigh. he catches it with the slow curl of his fingers, pushing it back into you while his thumb keeps circling.

your hands go for him without thinking, first gripping his bicep, feeling the hard flex beneath your palms, then sliding up over the ink along his arm until you’re pressing against the solid heat of his chest. you can feel his heart pounding harder now, the soft fabric of his shirt catching under your fingertips as you drag them over his pecs.

“don’t look away,” you manage.

his jaw tenses, eyes darting up for a second before breaking off to focus on your stomach instead. “don’t tell me what to do.”

you laugh once, too breathless to make it sharp. “you’re scared.”

“of what?” his thumb slows, just slightly, enough to make you twitch in frustration.

“me.”

he finally looks up, but only for a moment, your face is too open, too warm, and he shakes his head once before ducking down to kiss along your collarbone. “you talk too much,” he mutters against your skin.

you try to reply, but the next press of his fingers steals your voice, your hips tilting toward him despite the hand on your belly keeping you pinned.

“see?” he says, breath warm against your chest. “quiet now.”

“only ’cause—” you cut yourself off with a sharp inhale when his thumb hits that same spot again, “—you’re making it impossible.”

he hums low, almost pleased, mouth brushing up your neck before stopping at your jaw. “good. don’t want you thinking about anything else.”

your nails press harder into his chest, the thin cotton bunching under your grip, and for a second he closes his eyes like he’s collecting himself before opening them again, still not holding your gaze for long.

“you’re so damn much,” he says quietly, the words not meant to be cruel, his tone too full for that.

“you love it,” you breathe.

he kisses the corner of your mouth without answering, his hand still working you through every last wave until you’re trembling against him. his palm finally lifts from your stomach, the absence making your skin feel colder for half a second before that same hand hooks under your thigh and hikes it high over his hip. the change in angle drags him deeper instantly, his knuckles pressing harder into you with every curl, the heel of his hand hitting the tender spot just above your clit.

you catch sight of his tattoos when he shifts, D and E stamped across the two fingers buried inside you, the thick, deliberate strokes of the letters flexing every time he pushes in and draws out. A sits along the curve of his thumb, circling and pressing where you’re already raw, lazy but unrelenting. T rests against the edge of your thigh now, the base of that finger warm where it braces you open against him. H drags faintly along your inner thigh with every slow rock of his hand.

“mm—” your chest jumps with the deeper push, breath stuttering even though he’s nowhere near rough.

“better?” he asks, his voice low but with a glint in it, like he already knows the answer.

“you— you know it is.”

“say it, then.”

he watches your chest jump with every push, the motion small but enough to make him smirk against your neck. “not even going fast,” he murmurs, the words dragging low from his throat. “and you’re already shaking.”

“you’re…” you start, but it turns into a soft gasp when the A and T bear down together for a second, making your thigh tense where it’s hooked over him.

“what?” he asks, his thumb slowing just enough to make you ache for it.

“you’re doing it on purpose.”

“of course i am.” his hand under your thigh tightens, pulling you closer so his chest brushes yours with each roll of his wrist. “why wouldn’t i?”

his head tilts, eyes flicking over to the monitor across the room when the alert chimes. you barely notice it until he exhales sharply through his nose, muttering, “two minutes.”

you give a breathless laugh, still clinging to his shirt. “guess you should go—”

“not a chance,” he cuts in, hand under your thigh pulling you closer until your hips are flush to the heel of his palm. his fingers curl harder inside you, the pads dragging along the spot that makes your stomach twist. “just means i have to make you finish faster.”

“you’re—” your voice cracks when his thumb tightens over your clit, circling with quick, practiced precision, “—you’re insane.”

“and you’re close,” he says, eyes locked on your face now like he’s measuring every second. “don’t fight it, just give it to me.”

your leg over his hip trembles when he drives in again, not rough but deep enough that your chest jumps with the force of it. the T and H are pressed right over the most sensitive part of you now, moving fast enough to pull broken sounds out of your throat without pause.

“c’mon,” he urges, the edge of urgency in his voice now matching the speed of his hand. “minute and a half.”

you try to say something back, maybe push at his shoulder, but your nails only curl tighter into him when the pressure tips hard, the build in your stomach snapping so fast it feels like falling.

“there,” he breathes, not slowing until your hips jerk against him, until your thigh squeezes hard around his waist. “that’s it. perfect.”

he pulls his hand free only when your legs go slack, the wet on his fingers catching the light before he wipes them slow along the hem of your shirt. then, finally, he presses a kiss to your temple.

“still got a minute to spare,” he says, already smirking as he stands to go back to the desk. so sated, you barely even register the pass of the five minutes before he’s crawling back into bed.

“did you win?” you inquire as he settles over you.

“yeah.”

“yeah? how much, trafalgar.” he laughs under his breath. “market price.” you push at his chest. “law—”

“okay, okay. it was… thirteen million.” you go silent. he stares at you, expression unreadable, completely unaffected. “…what currency?”

“not beli.”

your jaw tightens. “…was it real currency?”

law smiles against your neck. “real enough that it shipped in a fireproof crate.”

you stare at the ceiling for a full thirty seconds. he kisses your jaw again. trails one lazy hand down your thigh. “you’ll forgive me,” he says softly.

you snort. “will i?”

“you always do.”

“you’re paying for my next four shopping sprees.”

he kisses your collarbone again. “done.”

Kyotani always brings a mix of the strangest people together. There’s you and your other fellow students from your gender studies class, then guys from his former highschool volleyball team. There is also a bunch of men with face tattoos and a criminal record from his underground fight club (who are currently nailing the choreo to Rihanna in Just Dance), some nerds he met at a Pokémon TCG tournament (you and him once bought a hundred booster packs together while high and he thought he could recover from the financial ruin by winning one of these things) and the small group of housewives from his DND group who he meets once a month.

It’s unclear why Kyotani asked everyone to dress up for this but you’re not mad about having an occasion to drench yourself in fake blood and call it a night. In true Patrick Bateman fashion you also spent hours with excessive skin care prior to the party while you watched your best friend and roommate Atsumu zip himself up in the skimpiest maid outfit you’ve ever seen. It may be early December but that wouldn’t hold him back from showing off his thighs and a bit of his ass cheeks–maybe at heart he was just a 2000s British party girl trapped in the body of a 6’3 athlete. You shared the same cheap cherry lip gloss before heading out in the cold. 

A few drinks into the night and your head starts to hurt, which is when you retreat outside through the kitchen window to your usual spot on the fire escape. With the rolled cigarette dangling from your lips, you pat down the pockets of your suit in search of a lighter. You let out a frustrated groan when you realize you lent it to two guys dressed as Melody and Kuromi and that you’ll probably never get it back, which sucked because it had a kitty cat leaning on an eight-ball while smoking on it and you got it for free from your local conbini girl in exchange for a hand-crocheted triangle bikini top.

Someone taps your shoulder and you almost drop your cigarette if it wasn’t for the stranger’s quick reflexes, catching it for you before it would be gone with the wind. His fingers tilt your chin up a little and he puts the cigarette back between your lips. You look up and meet the gaze of Inuyasha.

Or well, a guy dressed as Inuyasha, but it might as well be your childhood crush come to life. Tan skin, sharp snaggleteeth that weren’t part of the costume but still fitting, and a pair of eyes that feel like they’re piercing straight through you. Your stomach does the little flip thing and you briefly wonder what was in the drinks you let Atsumu mix for you, but that was something to ponder on later. For now you only stare back at him, nodding when he asks if the seat next to you is free.

He sits down close to you and then reaches for something hidden in his sleeve and pulls out–your lighter. 

“Sorry about my friends. They have a knack for never returning things,” he huffs and you snatch the lighter from him, your face cracking into a smile. 

“Very noble of you,” you say, then hold up the light for him when he reaches for the cigarette behind his ear and puts it between his lips as well. His hand comes to cup yours to shield the flame from the wind and for a second your faces are close, so close, before you lean back again, taking a deep inhale of your cig. 

“Cool costume. You watch a lot of movies? Me too,” he says and rests his chin on one palm, looking at you. There’s something about his gaze that makes you feel drawn to him and you briefly wonder what he’d look like without the cheap white wig and also if he’d keep the costume on if you were to hook up with him and ask him nicely about it. 

“Is that so? Name every movie then,” you retort and it makes him laugh. Fuck. He has a really nice laugh.

You lean over and brush a few strands of the plastic hair behind his ears because the combination of the wind and the lit cigarette seems like a potential fire hazard (you learned a lot about fire hazards this year) and you’d kinda hate to see him combust too soon. 

What you don’t expect is him leaning in, almost nuzzling his face into your palm when you do, and looking back at you with a flicker that can only be described as drunk and lovesick. It makes your heart stumble in your ribcage a little. 

“Or you can just tell me your name. Unless you want me to save your contact as ‘Inuyasha’ in my phone. I can do that too,” you add when you pull your hand away, as if you’ve burned yourself by getting a bit too close to the sun. You put your cigarette between your lips and pull out your phone, tapping the screen a few times before glancing up at him again.

“It’s Iwaizumi. Hajime Iwaizumi.”

You think a lot about kissing Hajime Iwaizumi for the rest of the night.

✧. ┊ TWO

Osamu and Suna share the apartment directly below yours and when they text you that they made weed brownies, you didn’t really think about just how many of them they made. Together with Atsumu you shuffle downstairs, not expecting a bunch of other people to be there. Maybe then you would’ve worn something that wasn’t Atsumu’s old highschool club shirt and a pair of velour track pants you bedazzled yourself so it would read “soup” across your butt, but here you are. 

“Is this some kind of side business now?”, you ask Suna when you pull him aside. He has the biggest, shit-eating grin known to man plastered across his face and shakes his head. 

“A bunch of guys from his culinary school said they didn’t know how to bake weed brownies and Osamu offered to teach them, and somehow it turned into a ‘bring your own weed, get a tray of brownies’ party,” he replies and leans a little closer to you, which you know means he has a piece of juicy gossip to share. “One guy here totally got scammed, too. Spent ¥24,000 on some, can you believe?”

You almost choke on the piece of brownie in your hand. Osamu pressed it faithfully into your palm the moment you entered the kitchen, knowing he could trust you with it. Both of you had a very loose definition of trust–to Osamu it meant believing you won’t be dumb enough to eat more than one piece of the brownies, to you it meant you won’t change the contact names in his phones to soup ingredients again, no matter how high, and you both respected that.

“What, was it gold-dusted or something?” You cough and laugh, tears pricking in the corners of your eyes while Suna pats your back with empathy. “What a guy. Introduce us, I need to add him to my dream blunt rotation.”

Your eyes follow the direction Suna is nodding at, somewhere in the living room, and you meet the gaze of Iwaizumi Hajime slash Inuyasha from the fire escape. You start laughing again and head over to him, the sulk written all over his face.

“Not a word. I know, I know,” he groans when he makes space for you next to him on the couch. You squeeze in beside him and hug your knees to your chest, then catch the pillow he’s throwing at you when you can’t stop laughing the second you look at him.

“It’s okay. Actually, it’s kinda cute.” “Are you just saying that to make me feel better?” “So what if I do?”

Iwaizumi huffs again and his arm just happens to be behind you on the couch, his fingertips ghosting over your shoulder. Appreciate it, he grumbles, and eventually his face softens when you start telling him some anecdotes of your high life that definitely make the ¥24,000 weed purchase seem a little less dramatic. 

It’s loud in the apartment, with music blasting and people chattering, but you barely register any of it; too absorbed by his eyes that dart to your lips every now and then, and his tongue poking out from between his lips when he does, and the rattling desire in your chest that he could kiss you right here, right now. 

His fingers grab your chin and tilt your face up again, just like they did last time on the fire escape, except now he’s brushing over the corners of your mouth, collecting a few crumbs that were still there. He brings them to his lips, licking them off in one clean swipe of his tongue, and you’re pretty sure you’d let him devour you.

✧. ┊ THREE

Mattsun–the Kuromi from Kyotani’s party–and his friends from the forensics science department are hosting an Addams Family themed christmas party on their floor of the dorm and this time you don’t make the mistake of giving your lighter away. Atsumu is on a noble mission to “get laid by one of the goths” and you’re on your own, but not for long. 

“Oh, it’s you! Almost didn’t recognize you without all the fake blood,” Makki–the Melody from Kyotani’s party–shouts across the room when he spots you in the crowd and squeezes past all the people to clink his drink against yours. “You left quite the impression.”

“That so?”, you ask with a raised eyebrow and Makki gives you a boyish grin. You already have a feeling where this conversation is heading.

“Hajime won’t shut up about you. Like, ever,” he says and links his arm with yours, dragging you to the other end of the hallway. “He’s here too, by the way. Last time I saw him he was winning some kind of arm wrestling contest, but if you ask me people just wanted to ogle at his biceps. Can you blame them?” 

Speaking of the devil, you find Iwaizumi stumbling out of the bathroom, stilling when he sees you. His hoodie is tied around his waist and he’s wearing some baggy jeans and a tight, sleeveless compression shirt that does show off his arms nicely. Very nicely. So nicely you forget what to say for a brief second. 

Makki shoves you into Iwaizumi’s arms before heading off somewhere else, probably asking Mattsun to push him against the nearest wall, and you’re alone with the boy again. He caught you by your shoulders, his hands now resting on top of them while he looks you up and down. You wonder if he’ll do the chin thing again, and maybe if third time’s a charm and he’s gonna kiss you tonight for real. 

Instead he asks, “do you want to check out the tattoo station they set up in the other room?” and because your impulse control has vanished the moment you entered his orbit, you agree without a second thought. Maybe not even a first thought. Ten minutes later you’re wearing a pair of black latex gloves and hover over Iwaizumi who is lying shirtless on his back in front of you.

“Kinda sad you don’t want a tramp stamp. It’d look good on you,” you sigh with feigned annoyance while rubbing an alcohol soaked pad over his hip bones to disinfect that part, trying hard to keep your eyes pinned on there, but it’s kind of an impossible thing to ask of you. It would be a shame if you didn’t appreciate the canvas in front of you.

“Maybe next time,” Iwaizumi exclaims with the confidence of a man who simply doesn’t do the whole ordeal of regretting. It’s admirable, really. “And I let you pick the design of this one, didn’t I?”

That he did. You drew a wonky oval shape on the stencil paper which was kind of impressive as it was, given the drinks you had prior to that. Iwaizumi took the pencil from you and added a similar one, overlapping with yours. 

“That’s two eggs,” you muttered, tilting your head to the side and trying hard to focus–which again, was a hard task at hand, given that Iwaizumi leaned over your shoulder shirtless. He smelled nice. You noticed that the first time you met already. Something between fresh laundry, a spritzer of YSL Y on the side of his nape and a hint of sweat, but not unpleasant. It made you want to dig your teeth into the curve of his neck and shoulder.

“It’s a heart, dumbass,” Iwaizumi huffed as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, second to how much both of you were thinking about kissing the other. 

✧. ┊ FOUR

When Kenma invited you over to his place for the Bouncing Ball winter party, you were promised free unlimited food and a goodie bag, but all you got was ancient rage and a badly rolled cigarette passed back and forth between Iwaizumi and you.

“I will fucking kill Oikawa with my bare hands,” you mutter under your breath and squeeze the can of lychee soda (branded with the Bouncing Ball logo) that you’re holding a little tighter. 

“Believe me, I’ve tried many times in the past but this bastard always comes back. Like some demon lord or something.” Iwaizumi takes an angry drag of the cigarette before holding it between your lips again. His fingers brush lightly against your skin when he does and it’s the only thing that calms you down a little. 

“Like. The blue shell right before the finish line felt so personal, right?”

Kenma had sent both of you into timeout outside when you almost flung the unstrapped Wii remote towards the flatscreen and Iwaizumi might or might have not punched a hole into the shoji door after Oikawa won the third round of Mario Kart in a row and was being awfully smug about it.

You’re sitting on the backstairs together, huddled close to each other from the cold and the unspoken desire to kiss the other one stupid. With every minute you spend like this your anger vaporizes little by little, until all you can feel is the body heat radiating off Iwaizumi’s body and how calloused his hand is when he takes yours into his.

He’s wearing the hat you crocheted for him, an apology for the crooked hand poked tattoo you gave him a few days prior to today which now adorned his hip bone. At least it wasn’t infected which was a tiny miracle given the circumstances. His face lit up when you handed the hat to him, wrapped in some tin foil because neither you nor Atsumu own gift paper and that’s the most festive you could do with the utensils you had at hand. At least you threw in a little bit of confetti which was now stuck in his dark hair.

You pick some of it off his strands and Iwaizumi leans a little closer. It reminds you a lot of a big cat asking for head scratches. 

“‘s nice, with you,” he mumbles without looking at you and gives your hand a small squeeze. His thumb rubs over your knuckles with unexpected gentleness and your head sinks against his shoulder.

“Really nice,” you agree quietly, allowing yourself to close your eyes. 

The moment could have been perfect. Just the two of you, the stubbed out cigarette at your feet and the sweet taste of artificial lychee on your lips, the slowly falling snow. If only it wasn’t for the backdoor being flung open again, carrying the chatter and the music from inside towards you and a too familiar voice that will surely haunt your nightmares chirping “yahoo~”, making Iwaizumi next to you groan in agony. 

You spend the rest of the night losing another ten rounds of Mario Kart and Oikawa manifests as your sleep paralysis demon from now on, but at least you got to hold Iwaizumi’s hand under the table a little longer.

✧. ┊ FIVE

Hinata is back home from his semester abroad in Brazil. He texted the groupchat a photo of him (wow, he got really tan and buff, you think) and the three giant boxes of oranges that he brought with him and invited everyone over for an impromptu reunion party at his place. 

It’s not as excessive as other parties of your friends, more of a get together that lasts an entire weekend with everyone dropping by and going as they please, as long as they take a few oranges with them. 

You quite literally ran into Iwaizumi on your way there, your hands full with a bunch of books you borrowed from the library prior to that and him almost crashing into you when he skated around the corner on his longboard. He wore the hat you crocheted him again (with less confetti this time) and offered you his scarf and a ride. You almost wish Hinata would live at the other end of the world just so you’d have an excuse to sit cross-legged on his board in front of him while he pushes it slowly for a little longer. 

Maybe he’ll give you a ride home if you ask him nicely. Maybe the right words would fall out of your mouth this time. Maybe he’ll kiss you on the threshold, with his fingers tracing your jaw and your lips parting for him so willingly.

At Hinata’s place you find your way underneath the kotatsu with Iwaizumi by your side. The air smells like hot punch and christmas cookies and you listen for hours to Hinata talking about the things he experienced while abroad. You swipe through photos on his tablet while around you people come and go, and the entire time Iwaizumi sits so close to you that your knees keep touching underneath the table. Occasionally his hand brushes over the small of your back or pulls you a little closer towards him when someone else squeezes beside you, his touch lingering but never overbearing. 

It’s getting late and you should probably go home soon, considering the last looming deadline you still had to tackle before your winter break, but it’s not easy to peel yourself away from Iwaizumi. Not when he draped his jacket over your shoulders and his fingers brushed the nape of your neck, and especially not when he starts peeling oranges for you and starts pushing the slices directly between your lips when you’re too lazy to lift your head. 

You watch him quietly as he does, his fingers that are usually a little bruised and roughed up now impossibly gentle as he digs through the citrus skin, peeling away layer after layer. It’s beautiful, you think. He’s beautiful. You wonder if he could do the same to you, tearing through every bit of resistance you put up to protect your heart, or maybe if it was already bare in front of him the entire time, ready for him to sink his teeth into your flesh.

You hope he’ll peel a thousand more oranges for you in this lifetime.

✧. ┊ ONE, AGAIN

It’s winter solstice and Atsumu and you decide to host one last party at your home before the year ends. Together you go out to buy liquor and one mistletoe (for the festive spark of it all) but the lady from the flower store insists you take all of them for free since they’re closing soon and she would throw them out anyway. So now there’s around fifty mistletoes hanging from every ceiling of your apartment and the entire hallway of your floor, and you briefly wonder just how many mistletoes it would take for Iwaizumi to kiss you tonight.

Osamu begrudgingly agrees to prepare some food since you’d end up raiding their fridge around 2AM anyway if he doesn’t, meanwhile Suna shows you some paparazzi-esque photos on his phone that he took of Iwaizumi and you over the span of this month. For once you’re grateful that he snaps a photo of everything and everyone, because swiping through these makes your heart do a little flip in your chest.

There’s one with both of you smoking on the fire escape, leaning in close to catch the flame of the lighter. You with your legs thrown over his lap on their couch while waiting for the weed brownies, his arm resting behind you on the couch. The moment when Iwaizumi takes his tight compression shirt off in front of you (it’s slightly blurry and Suna blames it on the goths and their shitty lighting). Iwaizumi and you pinning Oikawa to the floor and a Wii controller on the verge of becoming a murder weapon. You napping with your head on top of your folded arms, a plate with some orange peel in front of you, Iwaizumi’s hand in the back of your neck while looking down at you fondly. 

To be adored by Iwaizumi Hajime feels tender and mellow. There’s something magical about it; never loud or overwhelming, and yet never leaving room for doubt how he does love you with his entire being. It comes to him as natural as breathing. A love as toasty warm like a black cat basking in the sun, storing sunshine in every fibre of your soul. 

When you open the door for him later that night, he hugs you longer than usual, his arms caging you in his embrace. He murmurs something about all these mistletoes against the shell of your ear and you laugh.

“I think it’s a dumb tradition, but they’re quite beautiful, aren't they?”, you ask and Iwaizumi pulls back slightly to look at you, his hand cupping one side of your face now. 

“More than just beautiful,” he mumbles, not talking about the mistletoes.

You learn that night that Iwaizumi doesn’t dance (other than Oikawa and Atsumu who are currently destroying the Dance Dance Revolution dance pads in the living room), but he’ll happily spend hours watching you do your DJ thing. Anything as long as he can be in your proximity. He’s leaning back in the chair in the corner behind your pult, a cold Tiger beer in one hand, his chin resting on the other and his gaze never leaving you. It’s like he’s your personal bouncer for the night. You quite like that. It’s an oddly protective gesture but it makes you feel warm and giddy. 

“Someone just asked me if they can snort protein powder off my biceps,” he tells you when you return from the bathroom back to his side. He holds up a cigarette he rolled for you meanwhile. You lean down and let him put it between your lips before he reaches for your lighter stored in his pocket. 

“And did you let them?”, you ask, your face illuminated for the flick of a second when he lights up the cigarette for you. You’re standing between his spread legs and Iwaizumi reaches for your hips, making you stumble a little closer to where he was sitting. His chest is heaving now, his pupils dilating when he lets his eyes wander over you. You’ve seen this expression before, you think. It’s been the same from when you touched him for the first time, back then on the fire escape.

“Told them I was already taken,” he murmurs, almost not audible, and even in the dim light you can see the tip of his ears dusted in a dark pink color. His eyes flick up to yours and his expression is something between pleading and demanding. Oh. 

How brazen. 

He lets out a labored breath when you push him back in his chair, making room for you to straddle his hips. His hands find your thighs, fingers digging into your supple flesh and it’s clear that he doesn’t plan on letting you go for the rest of the night. Or, forever maybe.

You take a long drag of your cigarette and this time it’s you cupping his chin, tilting it up and hovering above him. Iwaizumi doesn’t need to be told what to do, his head falling back, his Adam's apple bobbing slightly before he parts his lips and lets you blow a mouthful of smoke into his lungs. It’s greedy, how he swallows it so willingly, watching you through half-lidded eyes. Hungry. Begging. Adoring. 

He’s in love with you like no one else ever was. 

“I need to kiss you or else I’m going insane.” 

His voice is hoarse, strained. As if he is clinging to the last bit of his resistance and sanity. In one swift movement he snatches the cigarette from your lips with one hand and carelessly drowns it in his half-empty beer bottle, his other hand wraps around the back of your neck and pulls you closer to him again.

“Please,” he huffs and it sounds like he’s pierced with ten swords, in agony over not feeling your lips against his. “Pretty please.” 

Your arms wrap around him and you kiss him. During the longest night of the year it’s like the sun is rising just for you. You don’t think, just let the feeling wash over you as your body melts against his. Iwaizumi lets out a quiet growl and kisses you back, gently at first, until your tongue slides against his and his calloused hands against your bare skin start trembling slightly. He’s using every ounce of self-restraint so he wouldn’t devour you on the spot. He knows you’d let him and that is a problem. 

“Took you long enough,” you mumble against his lips once you pull apart to breathe, which could have been an hour later or a lifetime. Time becomes a blur under the soft caress of Iwaizumi. He mirrors your smug smile, stealing another kiss from your lips.

“I’ll make up for it,” he rasps, closing his eyes when you rest your forehead against his. His hands on your waist pull you impossibly closer again, his fingers slipping under the hem of your shirt, caressing the sliver of skin there. He lets out a quiet hum, a sound very close to purring. “Gonna kiss you stupid till you forget your own name and can only remember mine.”

“Silly,” you huff back and kiss him again. “Is this a threat or a promise?”

“Both. With you, it’s both.”