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apickleago · 28 days ago

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last light on: part one

Years after your break up, Itoshi Sae returns to Japan.

He finds he left more than just you behind.

MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DO NOT INTERACT.

pairing: itoshi sae x f!reader, one-sided itoshi rin x f!reader

wc: 4k

cw: aged up characters/pro-footballer au, sae and reader have a named daughter together that reader hid from him, exes to lovers, complicated relationships.

notes: i couldn't contain myself any more. after several false starts (aka me posting and deleting while having a meltdown), here is the real thing. i owe my life to @lorelune for their input and advice on this fic—i cannot even begin to explain. anyway, i hope you enjoy this first part! please note this will have slow updates - please be patient with me, thank you!

Japan is a haunted place for Sae.

He forgets that, most days. He spends most of his time as far away as he can get. And Sae is not a man who lives in the past; he is focused on the future, on the endless horizon of upcoming days.

Then he steps onto Japanese soil and remembers you.

You live at the edge of his memory, gone wispy with the passing years. These days, you’re just the tilt of your lips; you’re the elegant slope of your shoulder. An outline of yourself, an imprint left behind on a foggy window.

You’re a ghost of the worst kind: one of his own making.

And Japan is your territory. You linger in the very air; he breathes in sea salt and thinks of the taste of your tears. It stirs something inside of him that he’s quick to ignore.

This trip is no different.

The plane lands at the first bloom of dawn, pink streaking across the sky like petals. Sae’s been up for a while, reviewing game footage on his iPad. He makes another note before he puts it away; there will be plenty of time to review more.

By the time he slides into the car, the sun is starting to peek over the horizon. The light is sweetly golden, soft and warm, and to his surprise, your smile flashes through his mind. It’s one of the things he’s never forgotten, but he keeps it tucked away, under the melon rind curve of the bitter smile you gave him when he left.

He shakes off the memory. He starts the game footage again, his teal eyes sharp, a scalpel’s edge. He watches for a few more minutes before he sighs. He pauses it and takes out his phone, ignoring the notification from his manager. Instead, he navigates to Instagram.

It’s a relic of his past life. He’s never updated it since going pro; he can’t be bothered. He can’t even remember the last time he opened the app. Maybe to see what his PR team had posted on his official one.

He clicks into his profile. The most recent post is almost as old as the account itself; it's the beach at twilight, the waves eating at the shore.

Right.

He'd deleted all his photos of you.

With a sigh, he navigates back to his feed. He scrolls a bit, flicking through most of the photos without a second glance. It’s all tepid, glimpses into tedious lives that he doesn’t care about. He’s just about to close the app down when something catches his eye.

It’s you.

Older now, but undoubtedly you. You’re facing away from the camera, but he knows the line of your neck, the swan’s wing curve of it. He swipes to the next photo in the set; you’re still in the background, but you’re in profile this time, lips tilted sweetly, wine-kissed.

He swipes again, but you’re not in the next picture. When he glances at the caption, it doesn’t tell him anything, but you’ve commented. He clicks the link to your profile, but it doesn’t take him anywhere. His lips thin; he tries again and gets the same result.

When he tries to search by your username, nothing comes up.

You’ve blocked him.

His brow furrows. It’s not entirely unexpected, but he had thought that the years might have softened you towards him. He sighs and tosses his phone onto the seat next to him before starting the game footage once more.

It’s for the best.

—

Sae does not dream often.

Or if he does dream, he simply doesn’t remember. He wakes in the morning and nothing lingers. There are only the cobwebs of sleep, which he blinks away with ease.

But tonight—his second night in Japan—he dreams of you.

It’s hazy in that way that dreams often are. He knows it’s your first apartment, the one with the flickering porch light you always left on for him, but he can’t make sense of the rest. It fades into the background, leaving him with only the starglow of your eyes peeking over the horizon of your shoulder as you disappear from room to room.

You weave through the apartment with easy grace. He follows until he doesn’t, watching you vanish into the kitchen—a tiny, cramped thing with plants stuck wherever they can fit. You glance back at him, half-devoured by shadows. There are tears shining on your cheeks. Your lips part, and as you start to speak—

He blinks awake.

Sae stares up at the ceiling. He runs a hand through his sleep-ruffled hair and sits up. The hotel room is dim, the rising sun held at bay by the thick curtains. If he were someone else, he might think of the shadows that you peered out from, but he doesn’t. The dream is already fading.

He gets out of bed. The curtains part under his hand; the sudden gleam of the sun makes him squint.

He opens the window, as he always does. The breath he takes is deep; it fills his lungs with the fresh bite of the morning air. It washes away all but the dregs of the dream. He takes another breath and buries those dregs deep.

He buries you.

—

Like all ghosts, you refuse to stay buried.

By his fifth day in Japan, Sae has thought of you more than he has in years. He’s not sure what it is about this trip in particular; you’ve always returned to mind when he’s back, but never to this extent.

It’s annoying.

With a sigh, he taps his pen against his notebook. He glances out the window and sees the hydrangeas waving in the breeze, tiny puffy clouds. He thinks of you, petal-bodied, and sighs again. He pulls out his phone and starts a text to his manager.

Sae has always been a man of action.

He’ll exorcise you himself.

—

Your neighborhood reminds Sae of Kamakura.

It’s nicer than he expected; a family neighborhood, based on the parents walking by with children perched on their hips like little birds. The houses are a mosaic of architecture, a few odd styles standing out, just like his childhood. It’s only missing the kiss of salt in the air, the sea’s eternal presence. Instead, there’s the earthiness of the park that cuts through it, pungent and grassy after the morning’s rain.

He crosses the street as the light turns; according to Navitime, your house should be on the other side of the park. The foliage swallows him down, a verdant throat, before it spits him back out into a manicured playground. Children are laughing, bright peals of sound like summer windchimes.

He glances at the parents lining the sides of the playground and blinks.

Sae thinks of the Instagram post from just a few days ago. He hadn’t paid much attention to who posted the pictures, but if he were to pull it up again, he knows exactly who it would be.

Rin.

Rin, who is currently staring at him from his spot next to you.

It can only be you. There’s a ghost of the girl you were just under your skin, blooming like a spring bud. It’s in the way that you move; it’s in the way that your eyes gleam. The imprint of you that’s haunted him given new life. Made real again.

You still haven’t noticed his brother’s early onset rigor-mortis, because your attention—your attention is on the little girl snuffling on your lap.

She’s a tiny thing, no older than three. Her hair gleams cherry-dark in the sunlight, the faintest sheen of red shimmering through it, and when she blinks, her long clusters of lashes sweep across her cheek like clouds. She blinks again, slow and sleepy, and it’s all sunlit stained glass, her eyes a familiar shade of brilliant teal.

His shade of teal.

The world narrows. Sae takes a step forward without thinking about it.

The little girl yawns. Her nose crinkles with it, twitching like a bunny’s. You lean down to nuzzle your nose against hers, a little smile unfurling on your lips, a night-blooming flower. She bats at you with a tiny hand before rubbing at her eyes.

Sae watches, entranced.

A shadow falls over him; a hand pushes against his chest. He glances up into burning turquoise eyes.

“Rin,” he says. “It’s been a while.”

Rin steps closer. His lean muscles are coiled tight; his lip curls back in a snarl. He’s blocked Sae’s view of you and the girl, a sheepdog circling his lambs.

“Stay away from them,” he spits out.

Sae blinks. “Hello to you too.”

“I’m not here to say hello. Stay away from them.”

He’d known. Sae has always had a quick mind; on the field, he needs only the smallest glimpse of information to put together the puzzle pieces, to build his strategy. He’d known as soon as he’d seen his daughter, but this—Rin and his bared fangs, Rin and the fear trembling just beneath his fiery tone—it confirms everything.

He has a child.

“Them,” Sae muses. “So the kid is hers. Mine, too.”

Rin’s hand flexes at his side, his long fingers twitching. “Go away.”

Sae raises a brow. “It’s a public park,” he points out.

Rin scowls, moving fluidly with Sae as his brother tries to step around him. “She doesn’t want to see you,” he says.

“She can tell me that herself.”

“Not telling you should speak for itself.”

Sae lets out a breath. “You can’t stop me, Rin.”

“You don’t deserve them,” Rin says, his turquoise eyes aflame, flaring like the auroras in the night sky.

Sae realizes that he is not the only one you haunt.

“And you do?”

Rin goes stiff.

Sae hums. “Does she know you’re still sniffing after her?”

“Shut up.”

“That’s a no.”

“At least I’ve been there. At least she wanted me there.”

Sae’s jaw flexes. “But she still doesn’t notice you.”

“You—”

“Sae?” you say. Your voice warbles, delicate birdsong, his name sweet on your tongue.

Rin flinches.

A little smirk flickers to life on Sae’s lips. Rin’s fingers flex, his glare deepening, but he wavers as you step closer. It gives Sae an opening. He claps a hand on his brother’s shoulder as he pushes past him.

Rin makes a sharp noise, but Sae ignores him.

You're his focus now.

There was a time that your eyes lit up when you saw Sae, but as he draws closer, he sees only wariness. A wolf with its lips drawn back, giving a glimpse of teeth. Not yet bared, but the promise of a bite.

“Sae.”

That airy warble is gone; your voice has settled into something cooler, the first kiss of winter on an autumn day. There’s a slight furrow to your brow, but Sae still knows you. There’s a tremble to your lower lip; there’s sorrow tucked up secret in the corner of your mouth.

He says your name. Watches the way you cup your daughter (his daughter) closer to you, her little face burrowed in the gentle curve of your neck. You have one hand cradling the back of her head, as delicate as a dove’s wing, your fingers splayed like feathers.

“What are you doing here?” you ask.

“Looking for you.”

Something flickers across your face, a fleeting summer storm.

“Japan, Sae. Why are you in Japan.”

He shrugs. “It’s still my home, you know.”

“Is it?”

Your daughter makes a small, musical noise, shifting in your arms. You hush her, humming softly until she falls still again, lulled back into sleep. Sae watches the way her little hand curls into your sweater, tiny fingers anchoring her to you.

(He wonders, briefly, if she would hold onto him in the same way.)

"What's her name?" he asks.

"Why do you care?"

He sighs. "Games don't suit you," he says. "Tell me my daughter's name."

Something in you hardens, frost spiraling across a river's surface.

"Rin," you say quietly, and his brother steps in front of him again, blocking his view of you and his daughter. He flexes his fingers as Rin scoops up the little girl; she mumbles quietly before settling against his lean shoulder. It's easy, born of familiarity, and something in Sae grows teeth.

"One brother wasn't enough for you?" he asks.

Rin whips around, fury lining him like a cloak, splitting through him like a thunderclap. Your hand comes up to rest on his other shoulder, restraining him with the most delicate of touches. An owner pulling her dog's collar.

"It's fine," you tell Rin. "Can you settle her in the stroller, please?"

Rin's turquoise eyes are aflame, burning like a comet's tail through the velvet sky. He stares down Sae for another breath before he turns back to you.

He leans in close; too close for Sae to hear what he says to you.

You nod, and Rin sends Sae one last glare before he walks away, carefully cradling the little girl in his arms. Sae's gaze catches on her small form; he thinks of the sea foam that washes up onto the shore, too delicate to last.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he asks, turning back to you.

You meet his gaze steadily. "You wouldn't have stayed."

Sae shoves his hands in his pockets; he stays quiet. You watch him, your lips curling down at the edges, like wilting leaves.

"What do you want, Sae?"

"My daughter."

"You can't have her," you say. "You'll break her heart."

"Like I broke yours?"

"You didn't break my heart, Sae."

He watches you for a moment. You meet his gaze steadily, but he sees the cracks in you. The ghost of who you were before he left you behind. The girl you’ve grown out of, her skin too small for the woman you’ve become.

"Yes," he says. "I did."

You sigh. "Go home, Sae."

"I will," he says easily. "But not without her."

You stiffen. "You'd take her from me?"

"No," he says. "You're coming too."

"Fuck off."

He steps in close, until he can feel your body heat, until he can hear the soft breath you suck in. Longing cuts across your face, a wound torn open. It’s gone in a breath, but Sae sees it.

"You miss me," he says. "Don't you?"

"Fuck off, Sae."

"That's not a no."

Your hand comes up as he pushes closer; you splay it across his chest. The heat of it sinks through his shirt, like spring sunlight, gentle and warm. He waits, but you don't shove him away. He wraps a hand around your wrist, stroking his thumb over the tender underside. Your eyelashes flutter, a butterfly’s wing.

"You miss me," he says. "Say it."

"I miss you," you breathe.

The words are delicate, spider’s silk. They linger in the space between you, a gleaming web spun from your trembling lips.

Sae leans closer, until he can smell the honeysuckle-kiss of your shampoo.

"Then let me in."

You let out a shaky breath. Your fingers flex against his chest, wrinkling the fabric of his shirt. "Sae—"

"Yeah?"

"No," you say, finally shoving him away. He steps back gracefully, his face impassive. “Don’t do this to me. You won’t stay.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes,” you whisper. “I do.”

Sae studies you. Your eyelashes are damp; one of them has caught on your cheek, a dandelion seed. There’s an urge to reach out and sweep it away with his thumb. He shoves his hands in his pockets instead.

“Do you give Rin this hard a time about leaving?” he asks.

“That’s different.”

“Not really.”

“Sae.”

He shrugs. “I’m just saying.”

You purse your lips, a flower bud pinching shut. “This isn’t about Rin.”

He glances past you. At the edge of the playground, his brother is rocking the stroller with long, practiced movements. It’s a strange picture, this snapshot of Rin; his ease speaks of a life already lived.

Rin leans down; he’s reaching for the girl’s foot, kicked over the side of the stroller. Sae stares at that tiny foot, cupped carefully in the palm of Rin’s hand.

“You’re right,” he says. “It’s not.”

He returns his gaze to you.

“It’s about my daughter.”

Something flashes across your face; Sae thinks of the last days of summer, the slow swallow of them.

“You mean my daughter,” you say. “She’s not yours.”

He sighs. “We both know she is.”

“No,” you say. “Not in any way that matters.”

Sae was stung by a sea urchin, once. He’d stepped on it in the shallows, its prickly body hidden amid the shadowed, worn rocks of the tidepool. The spine had pierced through the bottom of his foot; he’d bled. He hadn’t been able to play soccer for a week.

But he hadn’t held it against the sea urchin.

It was just protecting itself.

“I would say helping create her matters rather significantly.”

(Okay. He had held it against the urchin. A week was a long time to be banned from soccer.)

“It doesn’t,” you say.

Sae tilts his head. “If that was true, you wouldn’t be so scared right now.”

You flinch.

“I’m not—”

“You are.”

Quiet falls between you. Your eyes flash in the sunlight; Sae thinks of heat lightning, how it never touches the ground.

“You’re right,” you say, so softly that it’s almost lost to the wind. “I’m scared.”

He waits.

“Tell me I don’t have to be.”

Sae glances past you again. He wishes he could see into the stroller, that he could see his daughter’s face again.

“I can’t.”

Your face crumples, delicate origami crushed in a fist.

(You have always reminded Sae of the lacquered origami that’s scattered around your bedroom like stars. Like them, you’re tough enough to protect yourself against the elements, but underneath it all, you’re still paper.)

The creased paper edges of your devastation slice through Sae, scoring the tender underbelly of him, the part he’d thought had long hardened against such cuts. He thinks of roshambo; perhaps he should have known.

Paper always beats rock.

But if he’s cut, you’re wounded, a deep, terrible thing. You’re curling in on yourself, just slightly, as if that can staunch the sorrow seeping from you. Your lower lip trembles, but Sae can see the anger starting to filter in, a sunset bleeding across the horizon.

You blink away your unshed tears; the remnants of them leave your lashes glistening, the sunlight catching in them like a prism. Sae watches you piece yourself back together, your anger the glue, glowing through you in kintsugi gold.

You take a deep breath.

“You’re such an asshole,” you murmur.

He doesn’t bother to refute it. He knows this is where most people would apologize, but he won’t. Not for telling you the truth.

“I want to see her,” he says instead. “Can I come over tomorrow?”

You go stiff, a marionette pulled upright by its strings. He wonders if you’re thinking of what you both know: Sae does not ask for things. He does them, consequences be damned. It’s an olive branch, one barely blooming, a twig of a thing. But it’s there.

“No.”

Sae doesn’t flinch, but he feels his jaw go tight, his teeth clicking together, bone against bone. He flexes his fingers at his side.

“You—” he starts, voice chilled, a blade of ice.

“You can’t just walk into her life,” you say, cutting him off sharply.

It stops him in his tracks. He’s not used to that, not anymore. People tend to listen when he talks. The surprise keeps him from responding, giving you enough time to add:

“And you can’t just walk back into mine.”

He doesn’t need long to recover, though. “Even though you miss me.”

Your expression twists, souring at the edges, the first hint of rot in overripe fruit. “That doesn’t matter.”

“I think it does.”

“I don’t care what you think, Sae.”

“Yes,” he says, “You do.”

You sink your teeth into your lower lip, denting the plush flesh. “You’re such an asshole,” you tell him again.

“I know.”

The wind picks up; it catches at your clothing, plucking at it with playful fingers. You smooth the fluttering fabric back down with a trembling hand.

“You can’t see her,” you say softly. “She won’t understand.”

“Won’t understand what?”

“Why you have to leave again.”

“You don’t know that.”

You sigh. “I do,” you say. “It’s hard enough with—”

You pause, clamping your mouth shut before you can finish your sentence. Something cold curls through Sae, a winter river that snakes between the banks of his ribs.

“With Rin, right?” he asks. “It’s hard enough with Rin.”

You watch him for a moment, your eyes wary, a rabbit peeking out from the brush. You nod.

Sae exhales through his nose. “I see,” he says coldly.

You wince. “Sae—”

“Don’t.”

It’s not his usual calm tone. It’s shatterglass, keen-edged and ready to cut. He hates it.

Your eyes widen. There’s something in your expression that Sae doesn’t want to name. It catches beneath his skin like a burr, sharp and unrelenting.

“Sae,” you say softly. “I—”

A piercing cry rents the air, splits it apart like a blade. Sae blinks, but you’re already whirling around, heading for the tree Rin has settled under with the stroller. His brother is hefting the screaming girl into his arms, his big hand stroking along the slip of her spine, but she’s still wailing, a high, animal keen. She reaches for you as soon as she sees you, her chubby hands grasping at air.

She buries her face in your neck as you cradle her. Sae’s too far to hear what you’re murmuring, but her wailing starts to trail off. Your hand settles at the back of her head, cupping her close, a gentle promise.

Sae steps forward just as Rin shifts, curling around you like a shield. There’s a flash of turquoise heat; Rin’s expression is a dare.

He should know better. Sae has never been one to back down.

He ignores Rin and comes closer, until your voice floats to him. It’s softer now, but it’s steady. Sure.

“It was a scary dream, huh?” you say, pressing a kiss to the crown of the girl’s head. “It’s okay. You’re awake now. Let’s go home, yeah?”

The girl’s answer is lost in the salt of your skin, her face still glued into the curve of your neck. You seem to understand the squashed words perfectly, though. You hum an agreement and adjust her in your arms. She finally peels away from the cradle of your neck. There’s silvery tear tracks mapped across her chubby cheeks. From under her wet eyelashes, there’s a peek of teal, a crescent moon of familiar color. She sobs again, low and wrenching.

Something twists through Sae, a tender bruise being pressed. He takes another step forward, but before he gets close enough to garner your attention, Rin slinks forward, blocking him.

Sae gives him a sharp look, but Rin’s thundercloud scowl only darkens.

“Not now,” his brother hisses. “Are you stupid, you shitty brother?”

Sae glances past him. His daughter has buried her face in your neck again; only the sunset sheen of her hair is visible. You’re curled protectively around her even as you search the stroller for something.

Sae is not one to back down, but he also knows how to pick his battles.

He nods to Rin; his brother blinks, his scowl softening in his surprise. Rin watches him for a moment before clicking his tongue. He doesn’t nod back, but Sae doesn’t need him to.

Sae watches as Rin turns back to you and coaxes the stroller out of your grip.

“Let’s go,” he says gruffly.

“Okay,” you say, hushing the girl as she whimpers softly. “Got everything?”

“Yeah.”

You glance back at Sae. It’s only for a breath. For a moment, he thinks you’ll say something, but you don’t. You turn around and start down the park’s path, Rin pushing the stroller at your side.

Sae watches until the verdant throat of the park swallows the three of you up.

You don’t look back again.

485 notes · View notes

apickleago · 28 days ago

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thank you for the venom ♱ pt. i

— vampire!oliver aiku x f!reader

There are worse jobs than working as a human at a vampire nightclub. It pays well enough to help you keep your head above water, at least. As long as your clients don't try feeding from your neck. But when the last person you're expecting to see comes walking in during your shift one evening, every long-forgotten feeling you've spent years putting behind you flares to life again under the familiar, careful gaze of your older brother's best friend.

word count ; 2.9k

content ; 18+, vampire!oliver, brother's best friend!oliver, feeder!reader, childhood friends, blood drinking, (eventual smut in later parts)

THE REUNION. —

“We’re up.”

You glance over at your co-worker, Hayami, who’s currently nodding in the direction of a table of clients that just sat down.

It’s not exactly what you’d call fun—working as a human at a vampire nightclub.

But the night shifts fit with your class schedule, the pay is generous, and you no longer have to miserably juggle three jobs to pay for tuition and rent. It’s been working out for you well enough in the six months since you started here. Blue Lock is also, arguably, classier than most places that you’d find on a random street corner in Tokyo. For one, you’re not expected to fuck the clientele.

You just have to feed them.

–

“Wrist, please,” you murmur quietly to the man whose lap you’re currently sitting in, trying to carefully adjust yourself away from the lips hovering near your neck as you lift up a hand, letting him see the delicate gold bracelet that hangs from your right wrist.

Blue Lock is strict about giving staff the autonomy to choose where they are and aren’t comfortable allowing clients to feed from, with gold jewelry used as a subtle signifier. Guests who choose to ignore it are typically thrown out without preamble.

Most of your co-workers are fine with neck feeding, some even prefer it, but it’s just too intimate for you. Not with a complete stranger.

The vampire grumbles, glancing over at one of his companions with thinly veiled jealousy as she sinks her teeth into Hayami’s neck, drawing a shameless moan from your co-worker’s lips.

You shudder, wincing only slightly at the prick of pain as your client bites you as well, albeit on the wrist like you’d instructed.

It doesn’t hurt as much anymore, now that you’ve grown used to it.

–

It’s early still when the first group of clients strolls in through the doors on Friday evening, pink and orange staining the lower edges of the sky as the sun lazily eases its way down into the horizon.

Your boss motions for you and Hayami to take care of them, as most of your other co-workers aren’t due to start for another hour yet.

Waltzing directly ahead of you and swinging her hips in anticipation, Hayami gets a clear view of the vamps before you do, and she spins on her heel to turn back to you and whisper, “You know, I wouldn’t mind if fucking customers was a part of the job if they all looked like that.”

Rolling your eyes is a knee jerk reaction to her salacious tone—she enjoys flirting with clients far more than you do. But any response quickly dies on your lips when you actually see the group as they settle into a private booth.

More specifically when your eyes land on one of them in particular—a tall man with two different colored eyes, a jaw shaded ever so slightly with stubble, and a flash of green tucked beneath the lower edges of an otherwise dark head of hair.

It’s been a very long time since you’ve seen him in person, but you’d recognize him beyond a shadow of a doubt anywhere.

(Your stupid heart would, anyway.)

Oliver.

Your brother Haru’s best friend.

Oliver and Haru played soccer together in high school, and they were virtually inseparable for years. Most days, he could be found at your house after school, kicking around a ball in your backyard and teasing you as you labored over homework assignments at the kitchen table.

And most days, you couldn’t bring yourself to care about catching the interest of any of the boys in your grade, not when your thoughts were constantly tangled up in the way Oliver sent your heart spinning off its axis with every stupid grin and wink.

Realistically, he was only two years older than you.

But even if he had seen you in that way, Haru probably would have wrung his neck if he tried anything, given Oliver’s downright awful reputation with girls at school.

(A reputation that’s only become more notorious in the years since he skyrocketed to soccer stardom.)

But a girl could certainly dream.

The long-buried crush rustles awake in the depths of your chest cavity now, unfurling warmly as you stare at him, rooted to the spot. Feelings greet you at the door like an old friend, the brush of a cat’s tail at your ankle, a dog’s cold nose nudging at the back of your hand. You want to reach out, to grasp them—

But the longer you look, the more unsteady you become on your feet as your heart remembers the weight of it, of this near-magnetic pull that used to always exist behind your ribcage in his vicinity.

It’s not news to you that Oliver was Turned—it happened years ago, according to your brother. But it sends a shiver down your spine all the same to see him here. Now.

Of all the places…

Hayami’s quick to busy herself chatting with three of the men in Oliver’s group. Meanwhile, Oliver remains engrossed in conversation with the other one; he’s yet to notice you.

The man he’s talking to does, though, and his lips quirk upward when he meets your eyes. “Well hello beautiful.”

You offer him a polite smile in return, shoving aside the distracting wave of nostalgia gripping at your ankles as you remember that you have a job to do.

Pining doesn’t pay the fucking bills, after all.

“What can I get for you tonight?” you ask.

It’s a bit of a joke, because there’s really only one reason vampires come here.

But it lands, because he doesn’t miss a beat as he laughs, “Well, my friend here says he likes to take his partners home to feed, so I think he might just be a boring cuck and watch tonight, but—”

He’s cut off suddenly by the sound of your name, and he whips his head sideways to look at Oliver, who’s currently staring at you with a completely bewildered expression on his face.

It would be cute, almost, if your heart wasn’t violently lurching in your chest.

You breathe in through your nose, trying to steady the way the room threatens to sway beneath your feet. “Hey, Aiku.”

He physically recoils at your use of his surname; you can’t remember the last time you called him that, not even when you were teenagers.

The man beside him raises a brow, looking between you and Oliver in blatant confusion. “Do you two know each—”

“Yeah. So you should go and find somewhere else to be, Sendou,” Oliver answers pointedly as he cuts him off again, eyes still locked with yours.

Sendou scoffs under his breath, “You can’t just hold one of your fuck buddies hostage if you’re not going to feed, I’m sure she wants to make money tonight.”

Oliver looks over at him, unimpressed and blinking slowly, before he turns back to you. “She’s my friend’s little sister.”

Sendou snorts. “Sounds like something you’d do, Aiku.”

The gap between their bodies closes quicker than you can blink, and the size difference between the two becomes wholly apparent as Oliver leans in close, all traces of amusement wiped from his face when he slowly rasps, “I’d watch your mouth if I were you.”

Something akin to surprise works its way across Sendou’s face, which then morphs into pinched annoyance as he subtly shrinks away from Oliver’s form, dragging a hand through his strawberry locks and petulantly letting his gaze fall back on you. “Yeah, well I’m hungry, and I have money.”

He thumbs at one of his fangs, frowning.

“Not my goddamn problem, Sendou. Go find someone else to feed on,” Oliver flatly replies to him as he lifts his hips slightly to pull his wallet out of his back pocket, though his eyes are solely focused on you. “And I never said I wasn’t paying for her time.”

Sendou collapses backward on the couch, blowing his hair off of his forehead as he crosses his arms and huffs, “Well if you’re paying anyway, doesn’t it make sense for one of us to at least feed on—”

“Sendou,” Oliver says his name calmly, despite the way the dangerous look in his eyes betrays his tone entirely. He smiles, and it’s more a show of dominance than anything else as the whites of his fangs flash against his lips. “Get the fuck out of here. Now.”

His friend rolls his eyes, muttering something under his breath about wasting your time before eventually getting up moving over toward the rest of their group.

“Is it Aiku now?” Oliver finally asks when you’re alone, head tilted slightly to the side as he stares up at you.

He says it like it bothers him.

You shrug, sitting down on the couch beside him but leaving a respectable amount of space between your knee and his. “You don’t have to pay if you’re not feeding.”

He ignores you and says again, “Aiku, really?”

You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “How long has it been, six, seven years? It seemed impolite to assume—”

“It’ll always be Oliver for you,” he interrupts, though not unkindly. “And do you know how much money the league throws at me? I’ll pay if it means you’ll sit here with me instead of letting one of those idiots feed from you.” He jerks his head toward the other guys that Sendou went to join.

Warmth churns again in your gut, whether you want it to or not.

“Oliver,” you nod, trying to fight the smile tugging at your lips.

His lips quirk upward in turn, a real smile this time, and you try not to think too hard about the fleeting sensation that dances up the notches of your spine at the sight of the white points of his fangs that rest against his bottom lip when he does it.

It’s easier than you were expecting—catching up with Oliver. In a way, it feels like no time has passed at all as you slip back into the familiar, easy comfort of conversation with him. He asks what you’re majoring in, if you still hate math. If you’ve been traveling at all like you always said you would.

If you’re seeing anyone.

(Your stomach flips at the question, even if there’s nothing suggestive in the way he asks it.)

He asks if it bothers you—the fact that he was Turned.

(It doesn’t.)

Oliver doesn’t look at you with pity or judgement on his face when you tell him that you started working at Blue Lock to help pay for your tuition—he knows that your mother had enough trouble sending your brother to university. Though he does ask about the gold bracelet on your wrist. This must be his first time here.

“This is the only place I let clients feed from me.”

You nod toward Hayami, who’s currently straddling Sendou. He makes eye contact with Oliver as he nudges aside the gold chain around her neck and sinks his fangs in. She throws her head back, burying her fingers in his hair.

Yeah, she may very well end up fucking him tonight.

Oliver looks away, expression wholly impassive despite their near-vulgar display, and you continue, “My neck is off limits at work.”

Unconsciously, you rub your collarbone, and Oliver’s eyes track the movement. Your skin feels hot in the wake of his gaze, even if it only lingers for a moment.

He quirks a brow. “Only at work?”

You blink at Oliver several times, a sudden flash of heat searing its way between your legs at the boldness in his question.

He laughs then, shaking his head, as if thinking better of it. “Sorry, ignore me, that was inappropriate—”

“No, it’s okay. I…just feel like neck feeding should be reserved for romantic partners,” you tell him, and saying that to Oliver of all people makes you feel somewhat embarrassed. “Or sexual partners, whatever. It’s just too intimate for me to let a complete stranger do it.”

You shrug, fiddling with the bracelet on your wrist. And out of the corner of your eye, it looks like Hayami’s dry humping Sendou as he continues to feed from her (clearly he’s tipping her well, if she’s yet to slide into the lap of another one of Oliver’s teammates yet).

Case in point.

It’s probably a trick of the light, but you swear Oliver’s eyes darken for just a moment as your words sink in.

Hayami outright moans, but Oliver doesn’t take his eyes off of you.

“So you don’t sleep with vampires,” he says, more a statement than a question.

It feels layered, thick with something you’re not sure you want to peel back and inspect too closely. Not when Oliver’s proximity alone has desire creeping its way through the slats in your ribcage like greedy, reaching vines.

You wonder if he knows—just how much you used to think about him.

How badly you used to want him.

(How badly you might still.)

You wonder if he still sees you as his best friend’s little sister.

“I haven’t,” you tell him.

(Not “I won’t.”)

Oliver tilts his head to the side ever so slightly. “You shouldn’t.”

Your lungs burn on a silent inhale as the two of you stare at one another, and your lips part, as if to say something—until a raucous outburst of laughter nearby distracts both of you momentarily, and the moment collapses like a deck of cards.

The charged feeling in the air ebbs (if only to find shores at the base of your ribs).

You blink, and Oliver coughs. “Hey, remember that old abandoned building your brother swore was haunted?” he asks, changing the topic abruptly without missing a beat.

And you don’t know whether to feel thankful or regretful for it as you try to reconcile the disorienting feelings stirred up inside of you.

The next hour goes by without incident. Oliver talks about himself and what he’s been doing with his life, what it’s like playing soccer in a vampire-based league these days. You learn that the rest of the men with him are on his team as well. Professional sports leagues for the Turned have become more popular in the last decade or so. And when you heard the news about Oliver—that was your first thought. Because you knew how much he’s always loved soccer.

The rest of his group eventually stands, cheeks flushed in a way that only happens when a vampire feeds, and Oliver hands you his phone, silently asking for your number.

Somewhere, your teenage self is flopping back in bed and screaming into a pillow.

You stifle the foolish thought as the pads of your fingers tap the screen, hand briefly brushing against his cool skin when you give the device back to him.

Oliver goes to slide his phone into his back pocket, and for whatever reason, you blurt out, “Are you sure you don’t need to feed?”

He freezes, gaze slowly returning to yours, and he stares at you for a moment before he finally responds, “When I feed, it’s in my bed.”

You remain rooted to the spot long after Oliver leaves with a wave and a smile that once again shows the barest hint of his fangs, not trusting your legs not to give out on you.

And when you eventually go to head to the back for a break before entertaining another group of customers, your boss catches you and tells you Oliver paid for you up through the end of your shift. So you can either take another client and earn extra for the evening, or head home early.

You choose the latter with a knot of warmth in your chest, electricity fizzing at the edges of it.

–

Later, tucked beneath a blanket on the corner of your couch with some awful reality show playing quietly in the background, you hate the way you find yourself staring down at Oliver’s Instagram profile.

It’s been a while since you’ve let yourself peruse his posts.

The grid of photos is mostly a mixture of professional shots from his games and promotional ones, with some various shots of food, city landscapes at night, and a rare selfie here and there.

You panic when your thumb slips and you nearly like a shirtless photo of him standing in his bathroom mirror, too focused on the large, dark bruise that blooms across his ribs.

oliku23: note 2 self, don’t block sendou’s penalty kicks at practice from 3ft away

After that, you decide it’s safer sticking to the thumbnails, but still you find yourself unable to resist the urge to carefully tap open another selfie—he’s grinning in this one, nose, cheeks, and teeth covered in blood, and a red-stained soccer ball perched in one hand.

oliku23: promise i didn’t bite anyone

Snorting softly, you put your phone down on the couch beside you, resting your chin on your knees. It doesn’t look like he has a girlfriend, or if he does, he’s completely private about her. Either that or—judging by Sendou’s comment earlier—he’s probably the same Oliver you used to know: a professional at sleeping around and not getting attached.

Your phone lights up again from where it’s perched on the cushion beside your socked foot, a notification hovering on the lock screen.

Unknown: it was nice seeing you tonight.

♱ TO BE CONTINUED.

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apickleago · 28 days ago

Text

steady

shinsuke kita x f!reader

A hot summer morning spent picking strawberries in kita's garden leaves you at odds with feelings you've spent years trying to forget.

wc: 2.2k

c: 18+ only, pining, fluff, feels, outdoor sexual activities, dry humping, fingering, see also: emotional smut

a/n: requested by @cheesypuffkins87!

SPICY SLEEPOVER WEEKEND — HEAT WAVE EDITION

“Yer doin’ it wrong.”

Part of the green stalk breaks in half along with the small, red fruit clenched between your fingertips, and you turn to look at the man bent down on one knee in the dirt beside you, his brown eyes focused on yours.

“I thought you were just a rice farmer,” you tease, the strawberry bobbing as you twirl it by the stem.

It’s a little strange—crouching down in the middle of Shinsuke Kita’s garden, a wicker basket overflowing with peppers and garlic and onions sitting on the ground nearby. Sweat prickles at your temples despite the light, breezy fabric of your sundress, the summer morning sun hanging bright overhead.

It’s strange—after all these years. To see the corded muscles that make their way up Kita’s forearms, his skin tan from long days spent tending to his rice field. His hair is still the same soft shade of silver, black underneath, but there’s something less tame about the way he wears it now, the strands mussed like he’s perpetually been running a hand through it.

His smile’s still the same though, a careful, tentative thing, something that always feels like a secret when you earn it.

(The sight of it still makes your heart flip helplessly in your chest, too.)

You were close with Kita at Inarizaki High, close enough that all of your friends just assumed the two of you were dating (though you certainly weren’t).

You’d confessed to him after your graduation, and he’d let you down as gently as possible, smiling sadly as he reminded you of the acceptance letters to universities overseas that you’d been mulling over for weeks. He couldn’t hold you back.

He’d seen you off at the airport, let his hand linger near your wrist, pressed a chaste kiss to your cheek that nearly brushed the corner of your mouth.

(You’d replayed the moment over and over in your head the entire flight.)

Now it’s been six years and you’re moving back in with your parents for a little while, and you’d hardly been back in town for twenty-four hours when you found yourself face to face with Kita at the grocery store one morning, every compartmentalized drawer of feelings you’d carefully tucked away over the years crashing open and spilling out onto the bright, shiny linoleum floor beneath your feet.

This thing is, Kita doesn’t do social media.

So as your calls and texts naturally dwindled over time, you found the only glimpses you could get into Kita’s life were the brief times he appeared in posts from other old friends like Aran and the Miya twins.

And sure, you knew he’d become a rice farmer—Osamu had once posted a particularly flattering video of him in the middle of wiping sweat from his face with the bottom of his shirt out in the fields, your throat going dry at the strip of his abdomen that was exposed in the process.

(You’d thought about it for weeks.)

But still, you weren’t prepared for the way your heart caught in your throat when you saw him standing there in the middle of the cereal aisle in a white t-shirt and a pair of light wash jeans covered in speckles of paint.

And you definitely weren’t prepared for the way your name still sounded on his lips—a warm familiarity that made you feel eighteen again.

Now you’re kneeling beside a row of strawberries wondering what your life would look like if you had stayed, if there’d be two chairs instead of one on Kita’s back porch.

You drop by his house most days now, and there’s something tangible that hangs in the air between the two of you, unfinished business thicker than the late summer humidity and louder than the steady buzz of the cicadas nestled deep in the towering trees. It’s in the brush of your fingertips when he hands you a cup of coffee and the placement of his hand against your lower back when he hugs you goodbye, feather-light and yet deliberate all the same.

It’s in the vase of carefully picked wildflowers he sends you home with for your mother, and the way he won’t take no for an answer when he insists on helping you to get the old sedan in your parents’ garage running again to save you a trip to the local mechanic.

(It’s in the nearly imperceptible shift in his expression when you tell him you haven’t dated in over a year.)

You’re not sure what he’s waiting for, if he doesn’t realize you’re still head over heels for him after all these years. If he doesn’t know how badly you want to feel the solid wood of his front door digging into your shoulder blades as he presses his body flush against yours and kisses you like you’ve always wanted him to.

Kita sighs, equal parts fond and exasperated as he removes another strawberry from the plant with ease. “Ya might as well let me set up that garden for your mom.”

Balking with faux indignation, you grab a larger berry with much more success this time. “Are you doubting my green thumb?”

The corner of his lips quirks up, just a little. “We’re way past doubt, I think.”

Frowning, you stick out your tongue at him before bringing the strawberry to your lips and taking a slow, deliberate bite out of it, maintaining eye contact with him all the while. Kita’s throat bobs as he watches your eyes flutter closed for just a moment at the sweet, ripe flavor, and you can feel the sticky juice trail down your chin.

When your eyes open, there’s a hand on your wrist stopping you from taking another bite, Kita’s callused fingers resting against your pulse point.

Idly, you wonder if he can feel just how hard your heart is beating as he holds your gaze while he leans in, taking the last bite of the fruit while it’s still in your hand, his lips brushing over your fingertips in the process.

He’s still staring at you as he wipes the back of his hand across his lips. “‘m not a strong enough man for this,” he exhales.

The skirt of your dress ripples in the breeze. “For what?”

Kita reaches out, slowly, and drags his thumb through the juice still on your chin, curving upward toward the corner of your mouth. “To watch you walk away again.”

Somewhere in the distance, the sound of tires on pavement echoes out across the fields. A bird shrieks. The wind chimes at the edge of Kita’s porch whisper and sway.

“Do you want me to stay?” you ask him.

The night.

The day after.

Until you lose count.

Until the well-worn footpath to the garden is carved out for two.

“Yes,” Kita rasps without hesitation, “C’mere.” His eyes are bright with something as you lean forward while he sits back, until his hands are clasping your hips and you realize he’s tugging you into his lap.

Straddling him, you let your arms loop around his shoulders, and his eyes fall shut for a moment as you let your thumb scrape against the nape of his neck, his skin warm to the touch from the relentless sun. When his brown eyes open back up again, they track a path to your lips as he brings a hand up to cup your jaw.

“Shoulda done this a long time ago,” he murmurs, tracing the curve of your bottom lip with a careful reverence that makes your heart ache.

And then his lips are on yours.

Kita’s lips are soft, far softer than you ever could have imagined, but they’re also more greedy, more demanding than you ever could have hoped. Years of want and regret and desire mold the shape of his mouth on yours, the slick slide of his tongue against the seam of your lips, the tightening of his fingers against your hip bone at the breathy little sound that leaves you as he deepens it.

When you break for air, it’s almost regretful, the separation of your lips as both of your chests heave, his brown eyes a shade darker, pupils blown wide. With one hand splayed across the small of your back, Kita’s mouth traces a path along the curve of your jaw, pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss against the sensitive place just behind your earlobe. You whimper as his tongue laves over the spot, your body arching into him, and his hand slides up higher against your spine, pulling you impossibly closer still.

“Shinsuke,” you accidentally gasp out while his lips are blazing hot and wet down the side of your neck, and he groans, tightening his grip on you as his teeth sink into the space between your shoulder and neck.

He exhales against your skin, rough and a little unsteady, his breath hot and damp. “Say it again.”

It was rare for you to use Kita’s given name—you were always afraid of the intimate weight of it on your tongue (it weighed enough in your heart, after all).

And you’ve yet to use it now, not since you’ve returned, the syllables firmly, stubbornly trapped in purgatory behind your teeth.

“Please,” he breathes out, still waiting.

Your heart thunders in your chest as you crumble for him and whisper, “Shinsuke.”

Kita’s mouth comes crashing back into yours, engulfing your lips in a hunger that leaves you dizzy as his tongue tangles with your own, your body writhing against him as he tugs at your hips.

A searing wave of pleasure rips through your chest as your hips fully align with the movement, your cunt dragging against the erection tented at the front of his pants. Kita cups the back of your head, kissing you deeper as his other hand slides to your ass, dragging you against him.

You gasp into his mouth, your cotton underwear the only thing separating your folds from the friction of his pants with the way the skirt of your dress is rucked up around your thighs. Rocking against him, you whine as you try to chase the rising and falling tides of pleasure dancing over your nerve endings with each roll of your hips.

“Ya sound so pretty like this,” he murmurs against your mouth, a hand sliding beneath your dress to trace the waistband of your panties.

“Touch me, Shinsuke,” you beg.

His eyes meet yours as your mouths part, a trail of saliva snapping between your lips, and he cups your mound through your underwear. “Like this?” he asks, brows raised, his middle finger pressing against your slit, no doubt feeling the way the material’s already soaked through with your arousal.

You clock the moment he realizes how wet you are, his jaw ticking as he swallows.

Bucking a little in his grip, you exhale. “More than that.”

Kita takes his lower lip between his teeth, hooking a finger in your panties to pull them aside, and you watch the muscle at the side of his neck flex as he drags one finger through your dripping folds. “This all for me?” he asks.

You want to laugh.

You want to cry.

You want Kita to carry you inside and take you to bed, to fuck you until you can’t think straight. To make love to you until you lose track of where you end and he begins.

You nod, carding your fingers through the hair at the back of his head, and Kita lets out a satisfied hum before plunging a finger inside of you.

There’s a dizzying rhythm to it, the way Kita rocks you in his lap as he massages your inner walls, one finger quickly becoming two. His voice is gravelly as he murmurs soft words against your lips, telling you how much he loves how wet you are, how good your cunt feels on his fingers, and the coil in your gut wraps tighter with each exhale, each plunge, each stroke.

There’s something so deliberate in how Kita fucks you with his fingers, like he’s already mapped you out, as if he knows how to scrape up every dredge of pleasure boiling in your veins, how to orchestrate every moan and whimper he eases up your throat and past your kiss-swollen lips.

And when you shudder and keen for him, he groans, like the mere idea of how fucking sensitive you are for him is a phantom stroke against his throbbing, untouched cock.

“Come for me,” he instructs you in a low, steady tone, his gaze burning into yours.

He drags his thumb across your clit and curls his fingers inside of you, and you see stars as your climax punches through you, every muscle in your body tensing with the hot, gushing damn of pleasure that comes unbound from your very core.

Kita’s patient as you ride out the aftershocks, kissing you softly while you shudder and whimper and gasp for air, holding you close as you try to catch your breath, letting your forehead drop against his shoulder.

When you finally look up at him, there’s a sparkle of amusement in his eyes as he muses, “I really was gonna take ya for dinner first, at least.”

Brushing your fingers through the mussed strands of hair over his forehead, you reply, “I’m also a fan of breakfast in bed.”

He smiles. “Think I can manage that.”

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