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greenbuns · 5 days ago

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checkmate | e.w

written by greenbuns

° . Pairings : Ellie Williams × Fem!Reader (you)

° . Contains : slight nsfw, enemies to lovers, rivals, bet, swearing & bickering, mutual tension, suggestive content, eventual confessions, eventual kiss, slight nudity and mention of sex, theatremajor!ellie, musicmajor!reader, college vibes, men & minor DNI

"chess match with ellie came with stakes. the rules are simple; each time ellie loses a piece, she owes you 10$, and for you—you strip out of your clothes for her"

♛♕♚♔♛♕♚♔♛♕♚♔♛♕♚♔♛♕

Your fingers pound a restless rhythm across the piano, a chord that tastes like burnt coffee and unresolved feelings. You tell yourself it’s just warm‑ups before your orchestration class, but really you’re trying to drown out the voice drifting in from the corridor;

“No, no, no, Jesse—you’re delivering the monologue like you’re apologizing. Lear’s a storm, not a drizzle. From the diaphragm, man!”

Her. The theatre-arts star, self-anointed director, campus darling with a chip on her shoulder and a clipboard in her hand. Every professor adored her “vision” and every actor bent to her will, she was poetry with a cigarette edge—smirking in spotlight, living for drama both onstage and off.

You hunch lower over the keys, jabbing staccato notes. It’s unfair that her voice still gets under your skin—warm cedar timbre wrapped in sandpaper sarcasm. You can’t remember a time you didn’t know that voice. She’d been lodged squarely under your rib cage since kindergarten—the sandbox tragedy, eighth‑grade spelling bees, senior‑year talent shows. Wherever you went, she was a step away, tossing barbs like confetti. She's the equal parts muse, rival, and the most infuriating person you’d ever wanted to kiss just to shut her up.

Okay, maybe not kiss. Or maybe yes kiss.

When the rehearsal door swings open, you heard footsteps.

You swear you can smell Ellie Williams before you spot her—warm cedar cologne and permanent stage‑paint residue.

“Hey, Treble Queen.” The greeting lands with practiced drawl. “You composing Swan Lake 2: Electric Boogaloo in here?”

You glide into a thundering tremolo and keep your gaze on the sheet music. “Just trying to drown out the wailing from the hall. Someone’s butchering Shakespeare.”

“Oof.” She paces behind you, casual predator. “I’ll tell Jesse you think he’s butchering it. He cries easy; should be fun.”

“You could direct him better.” You strike a dissonant cluster. “Or is yelling your only coaching tool?”

She appears in your peripheral vision, leaning her hip against the piano. Loose jeans rucked at the knees, black tee flecked with silver paint, auburn hair tied up messily—infuriatingly magnetic. Her eyebrows lift. “Yelling’s efficient. And cathartic, especially when the Music Department won’t stop practicing the same four bars of Les Mis outside my studio every night.”

“That’s called rehearsal,” you retort. “You theatre people should try it sometime.”

Ellie’s grin blooms, all teeth. She flicks a folded index card onto the music stand. “Speaking of rehearsal: you. Me. Chess match. Midnight at black-box.”

Your head snaps up despite yourself. “Chess? What is this, retro rivalry week?”

“Try lifelong vendetta.” She crosses her arms. “Unless you’re scared.”

“Must be desperate for humiliation.”

Her grin widens, shark‑sharp. “Oh, sweetheart, I’m counting on you being the desperate one.”

You scoff but your pulse jumps. Chess has been your shared battleground since middle school—a quiet war fought behind library stacks, hospital waiting rooms, band‑trip buses, and the occasional rainy cafeteria lunch when neither of you wanted to talk about feelings. It wasn’t just a game between you two; it was ritual, a sacred tradition of sharp glances over pawns and smug grins after a stolen queen. An unspoken agreement lingered like smoke between your fingertips: if you could beat each other on sixty‑four squares, maybe—just maybe—you could beat each other at life. Your record? Dead even. Thirty-two wins each. Ten draws. And one game interrupted by a fire drill and never resumed, still the subject of playful arguments to this day.

“Stakes?” you ask warily.

Her smile sharpens. “Every piece I lose, I owe you ten bucks. Every piece you lose…” She tilts her head, eyes glinting. “You shed something.”

Heat floods your cheeks. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope.” She taps the card like a judge’s gavel. “Call it high‑stakes strip‑blitz. Unless the Music Department’s prodigy doesn’t believe in performance art.”

You thumb the edge of the sheet, knuckles tense, your pulse thudding a steady rhythm against the cotton. Part of you wants to hurl your metronome at her smug face—watch it bounce off her stupidly sharp jawline and shatter that ever-present glint in her eyes. But another part—one you don’t examine too closely, the one that lives somewhere deep in your gut and hums like an electric current—thrums with a different kind of anticipation.

The idea of making Ellie pay, piece by piece? Delicious. Watching her frustration simmer behind that cocky grin as her pawns fall like dominoes? Even better. But the idea of risking bare skin under her gaze? Or peeling off your layers one by one, her eyes trailing, lingering, devouring? That idea sends heat curling low in your belly. You're not sure if you’re about to win this game—or fall straight into her trap, breathless and bare.

Terrifying... but much more delicious.

Shit.

“Fine,” you hear yourself say, mentally slapping yourself. “But if campus security finds me half‑naked in your studio, you handle the scandal.”

Ellie pushes off the piano, swagger in every line. “Director’s privilege. See you at twelve.”

She strolls out whistling a parody of your arpeggios. You stare after her, heart playing triplets, wondering if accepting tonight’s gambit was brilliance—or checkmate waiting to happen.

♛♕♚♔♛♕♚♔♛♕♚♔♛♕♚♔♛♕

11:37 p.m.

You pace your dorm room like a storm cloud waiting to burst, counting heartbeats like metronome clicks—each one faster than the last, like you're already halfway into the game. Your laptop glows dimly from your desk, the only witness to your growing nervous excitement. You pause in front of the mirror, smoothing down your top with shaky fingers, double-checking your outfit like it’s armor.

Blue jeans. Teal crop top. Your favorite silver hoops—the ones that sparkle just right under warm light. Strategic choices. Clothes you wouldn’t mind sacrificing early if it came to that. Easy enough to peel off. Easy enough to look good doing it.

Underneath? Lacy peach bra and matching boyshorts, a set you swore was for laundry day comfort but deep down… you know better. It’s soft, delicate, flirty. It says I didn’t dress for you, I dressed for me—and maybe, just maybe, for you a little too, shut up.

You catch your own reflection biting your lip coated with cherry gloss, eyes gleaming with something between war-readiness and something far more dangerous. Anticipation pools low in your belly, warmth blooming like a threat.

This isn’t just another chess match.

This is Ellie-freaking-Williams. And you’re about to go to war.

You throw a hoodie over everything and cram a water bottle, spare hair tie, and your battered chess notebook into a tote. Your roommate, Dina, grins from her own desk on the other side of the room.

“Hot date?” she asks.

“Hot disaster,” you reply.

“Same thing,” she sing‑songs.

You flip her off fondly and bolt.

The quad’s lamps cast honey pools on wet pavement. Rain earlier left petrichor in the air. You stride past the fine‑arts building—stone gargoyles peering like silent gossipers—into the theatre wing’s rear entrance. Half the campus is asleep; the halls echo with your sneakers.

Ellie’s studio door lies ajar, gold light spilling. You push in.

The black‑box is transformed; center stage cleared, two director’s chairs at a scarred wooden table holding a well‑worn walnut chessboard. A single work light hangs overhead like a spotlight. Coils of lighting cable snake across the floor. On the table: neat stack of twenties, digital chess clock, and—unsettlingly—an empty coat rack.

Ellie lounges in a chair, feet propped on another. Dark sweatpants, army‑green flannel, battered Converse. She’s rolled her sleeves, exposing her tattoo, more freckles, and lean forearms painted with faint charcoal streaks. Her brow lifts as you enter.

“Punctual. I’m impressed.”

“Just want this over with.” You drop your tote, trying to ignore how your pulse spikes at the sight of her. “Rules clear?”

She fishes a Sharpie from her back pocket and uncaps it with her teeth. “Let’s codify.” On a scrap of gaffer tape stuck to the table she writes:

Ellie loses piece = $10

(You) loses piece = Strip 1 item

She peels the tape, slaps it down. “Signed, sealed, humiliate‑delivered.”

“You’re awfully confident,” you mutter, pulling out the White pieces.

“Statistically,” she says, tossing you the bag, “White wins 52 percent. But I thrive on underdog tension.”

You line pawns. The board’s earthy smell triggers memory of summer camp tournaments—Ellie across from you, slurping melted Popsicle, swearing she’d beat you before lights‑out. She did. You cried behind the mess hall and vowed revenge. Four… what, five years later? Same vow, fancier stakes.

Ellie sets the clock: five minutes each, 3‑second increment—blitz. “Faster game, hotter drama,” she winks, handing you White’s side.

“Let’s burn,” you say, sliding your D‑pawn two squares.

Clock punched. Game on.

♛♕♚♔♛♕♚♔♛♕♚♔♛♕♚♔♛♕

You steer toward the Lasker Defense—lines you rehearsed all week for a campus blitz tourney. Ellie’s playing Black but falls right into theory, mirroring classic moves. On turn three, you capture her center pawn. She peels a ten off the stack and flicks it into a mason jar labeled Tuition Relief. You smirk.

“Beer money,” you correct.

She taps the clock. “Worry about your clothes.”

A minute later she blunders a pawn again; you seize it immediately. Another ten. But she’s smiling—that predator grin—which worries you. You glance at the position; symmetrical, but her minor pieces hum with latent energy.

“Predictable,” she purrs. “You still play the book like you’re afraid to improv.”

“Oh please, Miss Theatre Kid lecturing me about originality?” you retort, pushing another pawn to harass her bishop.

Ellie shrugs. “At least I know drama sells. You musicians lock yourselves in practice rooms because the real world scares you.”

You snort. “Spoken like someone who’s never faced a juried recital.” Your bishop lands on d3, eyes her kingside. She castles quickly.

On move 10, you slide your pawn forward with deliberate ease—sacrificing it like an offering on an altar. It’s calculated, clean, and utterly dangerous. You know the moment she sees it, her brow arches ever so slightly, eyes narrowing with suspicion. Two full seconds tick by in the silence, her fingers hovering above her black bishop. She hesitates. You can practically hear the gears grinding behind that smug expression.

And then—she takes it.

Click.

You grin, slow and wicked. The trap is set, and she just walked right into it.

“Trying to honey‑trap me?” she drawls.

“Trying to see if you remember your endgames.” Your queen slides to h5, threatening mate. Ellie’s eyes narrow—lip bite, concentration crackling. Her knight leaps to block the threat.

The clock ticks; you have 3:42, she 3:19. Not bad.

When you pull a fork move; king and rook, the classical Greek Gift, Ellie groans. Finally tips her rook.

Her total: $40.

“God, I saw that in YouTube shorts last night,” she mutters.

You lean back theatrically. “Should have gone to sleep earlier.”

She retaliates, sweeping your pawn off the board like it personally offended her—of course, you counter, slamming your piece down with a smirk, knuckles brushing the edge of the board.

For a heartbeat, the silence between you sharpens—then all hell breaks loose.

What follows is a messy fight—pawns crumbling, knights leaping into suicidal charges, rooks skewering from opposite flanks. It’s blitz now, and the room buzzes with tension, the clock ticking down with merciless speed. Your fingers move faster than thought, chasing her through a tactical minefield, but it’s getting harder to breathe, harder to keep up.

Ellie’s brow is furrowed, lips parted slightly as she calculates, and you hate—hate—how good she looks when she’s thinking like this.

Three moves later, in a blur of bad judgment and adrenaline, you miscalculate. Your fingers brush the wrong square. Your light‑square bishop is hanging—undefended. Exposed. Ellie doesn't hesitate. She snatches it off the board with a flourish and an audibly smug inhale.

“Oops,” she says, teeth flashing. “Was that important?”

You grit your teeth. Damn it.

“Strip,” Ellie sing-songs.

You inhale, heart banging, and reach up to unhook your silver hoops. They clink onto the table. Small sacrifice.

Ellie exaggerates a pout. “Aw, I was hoping for something bigger.”

“Your ego’s big enough,” you mutter, moving your rook with force.

She laughs, cheeks flushing. “Touché.”

For the next minutes, Ellie’s pieces coordinate with predator grace. On move 18 she launches a pawn break, cracking your center. You misjudge, your queen misplaces on e2, and her knight lands a killer fork. Off goes your knight.

“Hoodie,” she commands.

You slide it free, cotton dragging over your top, tossing it onto the rack. Heartbeat drums in your ears. Ellie’s gaze flickers down, then back to the board, a faint flush blooming on her cheeks. She tears her eyes away and slaps the clock.

Your advantage evaporates. Two moves later you lose your dark‑square bishop in a tactical skirmish—she pins your queen to your king.

You gulp.

“That top,” Ellie whispers. Her voice is suddenly rougher.

You peel the teal top you were wearing, chill air kisses your bare arms; gooseflesh rises. Ellie’s pupils dilate.

“Quit staring.”

“Trying,” she rasps. “Eyes keep malfunctioning.”

You slide a pawn, more forceful than necessary. Ellie counters. The board is chaos—queens roving, rooks on open files. You’re down material but compensation lurks in active squares.

“Why the strip rule?” you blurt mid‑calculation, attempting calm.

Ellie shrugs, moving her rook. “Needed motivation. You always play safest lines. Thought risk might coax you out.”

“You could’ve just asked.”

She glances up, expression unreadable. “Thought you’d say no.”

The truth hits you like a misfired spell to the chest—sudden, electric, and disorienting.

She’s not trying to humiliate you. Not really.

She’s not gloating like she used to when you were thirteen and shoved a queen off the board just to piss her off. There’s something else in her gaze now—sharp, yes, but not cruel. Focused. Curious. Hungry in a way that has nothing to do with winning and everything to do with you. Her eyes flicker, not to the board, but to your bare shoulder, to the slope of your neck, the rise and fall of your breath like it’s the most fascinating thing in the room.

She wants to see you.

Not dominate. Not destroy.

See.

And the realization fries a circuit in your brain. Suddenly the room is too hot, your skin prickles under her gaze, and you're no longer thinking in moves or strategies. You reach for your rook on instinct—half-aware, off-balance—and place it a square too far.

Ellie blinks.

Then smiles.

“You sure about that?”

You look down and your heart sinks. You blundered. Badly.

You don’t even have time to curse before she takes it, slow and deliberate.

And gods, the way she’s looking at you now—like the game’s no longer about chess at all.

“Sock,” she murmurs.

Your pulse spikes; you tug off a sock, toss it onto the rack. She smiles softly, almost apology. “We’re even now.”

“Hardly,” you mutter, but nerves tangle with something gentler.

While Ellie ponders her next move, you recall sophomore year of high school—community‑theatre production of Into the Woods. You were pit‑orchestra percussion; she was Jack. One tech rehearsal the fly system jammed, set piece dangling precariously. Ellie had climbed the rigging to fix it before anyone else reacted. You’d watched her silhouette against stage lights, heart jackhammering with adrenaline and… something else. She’d winked after, and you’d told her to go fall off a cliff.

Back then, you didn’t understand why your insults sounded like confessions in reverse.

Back on the board, time dwindles: you 1:14, Ellie 1:01. You sacrifice another pawn for an attack, ignoring the clothing risk. Ellie fumbles under pressure, her queen briefly hanging; you snatch it with your rook. Ten bucks whoosh into the jar. You beam.

“Overacting again,” you tease.

She rolls her eyes. “Directed chaos, babe.”

The term of endearment slips out, both of you freezing. For half a second the black‑box silence roars. You swallow. Ellie’s ears redden.

You capture her remaining bishop. Her ten hits the jar. Total $100.

She leans in, elbows on knees. “Gonna bankrupt me?”

“As soon as I’m done performing my strip routine apparently.”

Her tongue clicks thoughtfully. “Maybe I’m paying admission.”

Your breath stutters, cheeks blaze. You capture her last knight. She owes $110. You’re ahead in pieces taken, but down to bra and jeans.

Not great.

Ellie forks your queen and rook with a pawn deflection. Rook gone—another socks gone. You grip the cotton hem, tug your sock and pulled it off from your foot. Chilly air plus vulnerability goose your skin. You refuse to cross arms; instead you stare at the clock like the plastic digits hold salvation.

Ellie’s gaze tracks lower but she snaps it to the board, jaw tense. “You okay?” she murmurs.

“Focus,” you say, voice ragged.

She swallows. “Roger.”

Despite exposed skin, you’re weirdly emboldened—fear converted to kinetic energy. Your queen spearheads an attack, delivering perpetual checks. On move 32 you snag her rook with a between‑move discovered tactic. You’re material up again. Two more tens hit the jar.

Ellie huffs. “I swear you studied Tal games just to torment me.”

“I did,” you confess. “You like drama; Mikhail Tal was the drama king.”

She chuckles, low and genuine. The laugh warms you more than your hoodie ever did.

With pieces traded, endgame looms: your king slightly safer, but Ellie’s passed pawn menaces. You realize with horror that your knightless army can’t stop promotion without huge losses.

You bite your lip, think of earlier camp vow. No giving up.

You push your pawn to distract. She ignores, queen escorts pawn. You sacrifice your last rook in desperation. She captures; grin triumphant.

"Jeans,” she says quietly.

Your hands tremble. You stand, unbutton jeans, shimmy out. Damn AC hum makes your skin pebbled. You refuse to blush, planting yourself back on chair in just peach lingerie. The bare stage light paints your shoulders in amber.

Ellie’s breathing grows uneven. She rubs a hand over her mouth as though wiping away drool—then blinks guilt. “You sure—”

“Play.” Your command wavers but holds.

She nods, sympathy flickering. Somehow that kindness slices deeper than mockery.

Two moves later you salvage a skewer tactic; Ellie’s queen falls. The jar climbs to $130. Gasps echo from both of you: her at the loss, you at rescue.

With queens gone, only bishops and pawns skitter. You’re down to a single pawn on h7; Ellie’s has advanced to d2. Kings race across board like marathoners.

Sweat beads on Ellie's temple. You’re each under 20 seconds. The clock’s increment barely saves you from flag.

Your pawn promotes, snatching a spare queen from the box. Ellie counters by queening hers with check. Suddenly bare kings and shiny queens square off in mutual zugzwang.

The position repeats twice. You glance up, breathing hard. Ellie mirrors you across the table, eyes liquid.

“We’re… stuck,” you pant.

“Draw?” she whispers.

You examine the board. You could play on, but one misclick could lose. Pride says fight; heart says enough bloodshed.

“Draw,” you agree, pressing the clock button three times. The digital display freezes.

Your world spins down to silence.

♛♕♚♔♛♕♚♔♛♕♚♔♛♕♚♔♛♕

Neither of you moves. The board sits between you like a battlefield in the aftermath—pieces scattered, kings still standing, but barely. Sweat clings to your hairline, trickling down your spine, and adrenaline pulses hot through your veins, leaving a subtle tremor in your limbs. You can’t look away from her, and she doesn’t look away from you. The silence is thick—electric—buzzing with everything unsaid.

Then Ellie stands.

She moves without a word, strides across the studio to swipe a towel from the backstage rack, her posture loose but eyes still burning. You expect her to toss it at you with a snide remark, something cocky and offhand.

But she doesn’t.

She returns, stepping into your space with a strange softness. And then—gently, so gently—it’s draped over your bare shoulders like a queen’s mantle, warm and worn, smelling faintly of stage paint and sandalwood.

Her fingers linger a moment too long at your collarbone, brushing your skin like a secret. The contact jolts you like a live wire. You inhale sharply but say nothing. Your mouth is suddenly dry.

“You cold?” she murmurs, voice lower than before, rough with something that has nothing to do with teasing.

“A bit,” you exhale, suddenly felt small under her gaze.

She gathered your clothes on the rack, placing them on your lap without comment on your near‑nakedness. The jar sits heavy at $130.

“Keep it,” Ellie says softly. “Call it hazard pay.”

You shake your head. “Split after pizza."

She chuckles. “Alright.” A beat passes. “We, uhh—we should talk.”

You clutch the towel. “About?”

Her eyes find yours—vivid green ringed by exhaustion and honesty. “About why chess matters so much… why you matter so much I had to make a stupid strip bet just to keep you in the same room after midnight.”

Your lungs seize, breath catching on a sudden swell of memory. Fireworks crackling in July darkness, her laughter splitting the night; the dizzy height of the rigging where she’d steadied you with a gloved hand; the endless hallway skirmishes—hip‑checks, sharp words, sparks flying off metal lockers. Each recollection clicks neatly into place, stacking like polished chess pieces until a single, aching truth towers over everything: you hated her because hating was simpler—safer—than admitting how badly you wanted her.

“I thought college would be escape,” she admits. “But then you showed up at freshman orientation wearing those ridiculous headphones and I felt…” She exhales. “Everything all over again.”

You toy with the cotton towel, “And so you challenged me to chess instead of, I don’t know, coffee?”

“I don’t do gentle,” she murmurs. “I do rivalry. Conflict. Direction notes. With you it’s always been… high stakes.”

You swallow. “What if we tried gentle? Just once?”

Ellie’s gaze softened, “Define gentle.”

You step into her space. Under the midnight shadow, freckles pattern her cheeks like constellations. Fingers trembling, you let the towel slip from your shoulders and drop to the cold floor beneath your bare feet, grounding and intimate all at once. Ellie pointedly looks away, giving you space rather than devour.

Respectful, longing, maddening.

You raise a hand, brush an auburn strand behind her ear. She shivers.

“This,” you whisper, bringing her face to look at yours. “No bets, no insults. Just honesty.”

Her breath catches, eyes trailed down from your eyes, lips, collarbones..

Fuck. Your tits gorgeously wrapped with the lacy peach bra.

She's clearly better than no man.

"I’ve wanted to kiss you since you played that solo song sophomore year and glared at me like I’d stolen your thunder," she whispered, her eyes back on you.

Your laugh cracks. “I glared because you cheered louder than anyone and embarrassed me.”

“Did it work?”

“Like a charm.”

Silence brims with possibility, thick enough to taste. You lift your chin by a breath; she closes the distance, breath fanning across your lips like the hush before a decisive move.

"You're so fucking beautiful," Ellie breathed, the words slipped out before she could stop it. Her eyes locked with yours when she murmurs, "Can I kiss you?"

When she saw you gave a small nod, both of your lips finally connect. The kiss is feather‑soft—tentative as a pawn’s first step—but heat sparks instantly, an opening gambit that leaves you both hungry for the middle game.

She presses closer, lips molding to yours with newfound certainty, and you feel pieces topple inside your chest, scattering strategy into pure sensation. Her fingers anchor at your waist, thumbs brushing against your bare skin, igniting a shiver that races up your spine.

You cup her jaw, fingertips tracing the sharp line to her ear before sliding into her hair, tilting her even deeper. She tastes of peppermint gum and adrenaline, cool mint over molten desire, and when her teeth graze your lower lip—a teasing, wicked scrape—you answer with a soft gasp that vibrates between you like a struck chord. The world narrows to shared breath, quickened heartbeats, and the heady realization that this is no longer a game; it’s surrender, bold and breathtaking on both sides of the board.

Her tongue sweeps along the seam of your mouth and you open for her, hunger roaring to life. One hand skims up your ribcage—calloused fingertips tracing reverent lines until they brush the edge of lace—while the other slides into your hair, tilting your head so she can drink you in deeper. She breaks the kiss long enough to nip your bottom lip, eyes dark and wicked, before capturing you again with a groan that vibrates straight to your core. You arch into her, hips meeting denim with dizzying friction, nails grazing down her back in a plea you’re no longer shy about voicing.

Ellie shifts, guiding you gently backward until your spine presses against the cool wall of the studio, her body a furnace against yours. She kisses you again, slower this time but no less intense—like she’s memorizing you piece by piece, savoring every reaction she pulls from your mouth. Her knee slides between your thighs, coaxing a breathy moan as you grind down with desperate instinct, chasing friction like oxygen. Her hand cradles the back of your neck, grounding you as her lips trail from your mouth to the edge of your jaw, then lower, brushing your pulse point with a heat that borders on reverence.

"Fuck," she breathes against your throat, voice wrecked. "You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this—wanted you."

Your reply dies in your throat as her fingers skimming the soft underside of your lacy bra with a graze so light it’s cruel. You gasp, hips twitching in response, and she huffs a laugh against your collarbone—low, soft but maddening. “You like that, sweetheart?” she murmurs, voice dripping with challenge. You grip her by the collar of her flannel and pull her flush against you, heart pounding like a war drum. “Stop teasing, Williams,” you whisper back, half threat, half invitation. Her answering grin is wicked and victorious just before she kisses you again like it’s the only language she’s ever been fluent in.

Her lips trail down your neck with unhurried hunger, teeth grazing sensitive skin just enough to make your breath catch, just enough to make your hips rise instinctively against her. She groans low in her throat—a sound born of want, raw and impatient—as her hands slide under again, this time with purpose, fingertips tracing the edge of the lace before slipping beneath it to palm your breast. "Mmmh.." Your head falls back with a soft, broken but heavenly noise, and she takes the invitation, mouth latching onto the curve of your throat as if claiming every inch of you she can reach.

"Yeah, keep making that sound, baby,” she murmurs against your skin, voice thick with desire as she keeps on playing with your left breast, “Every time you open your pretty mouth, I want to either argue with you or fuck you senseless.”

You moan—half scandalized, half soaked in how true it feels—when she unclasped your last armour and latched her wet tongue around your hardened nipple, gently licking then sucking it while she kept whispering sweet nothings in the process. You pull her in tighter, your own hands roaming her back, curling into the hem of her flannel. "You're a menace, a pretty one," She murmurs, grinding her hips against yours, slow and devastating, and you feel everything you’ve ever denied flood to the surface, hot and impossible to ignore.

Every stolen breath clings to the heat blooming between you; strategy, pride, and years of rivalry melt away until only her name trembles on your tongue like the final, breathless move of the most dangerous game you’ve ever played.

And now? You’re both ready to fall.

♛♕♚♔♛♕♚♔♛♕♚♔♛♕♚♔♛♕

The heat has settled into a slow, glowing hum between your bodies.

You lie tangled together on the worn couch at the edge of the black‑box, skin still warm and flushed, breaths mingling in the dim light. Ellie’s arm is draped lazily over your waist, fingers tracing idle, possessive shapes across the bare skin just above your waistband. Her jacket is haphazardly thrown over both your bodies, soft against sweat‑damp skin, still smelling of her. The silence isn’t awkward—it’s heavy with everything that just happened, everything you finally let go of. Your legs are twined with hers, your cheek resting against her collarbone, and she presses a kiss into your hair like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You realize this is the real checkmate: not victory over each other, but surrender to everything that’s been waiting, patient and inevitable, just beneath the rivalry’s surface.

“I never hated you,” she murmurs, voice low, raw from breathless moans and whispered curses. “I just didn’t know how else to want you.”

You smile against her skin, your fingers brushing the hair away from her face. “All those years—every fight, every argument—I was just trying not to fall apart wanting you.” You whisper back.

Ellie then cups your face, forehead resting against yours, and you feel her exhale—shaky, like this moment has unraveled something in her too. “I want you. Every version. Even the one who calls me a pretentious theatre bitch.” You laugh, breathless and dazed, curling your fingers in her shirt to keep her close. “Good,” you whisper, “Because I want the overdramatic director who smells like peppermint and chaos.”

Ellie chuckles, soft and wrecked, then tips your chin up and kisses you again—slow, deep, claiming. When you break apart, you’re both smiling.

“Check,” she whispers.

“Mate,” you breathe, and she laughs, bright and disbelieving. [•]

> istg i fell asleep while editing my drafts and accidentally posted this :) anyways ty for reading luvs! also thanks for all the likes and sweet comments, i'm totally melted <33

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novascharms · 5 months ago

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teach please me — tutor!reader x soccer player!rafe

reader's life is meticulously planned, from high school to becoming president of the country—she knows exactly where she's headed and every step to get there. but her airtight plan hits a snag when the principal ropes her into tutoring rafe cameron, the school’s star soccer player, who’s failing algebra and at risk of being benched next season. the team needs him on the field, and reader needs the principal’s glowing recommendation to secure her spot at her dream school. balancing her ambitious goals with rafe’s chaotic charm might just throw her perfectly crafted plan off track.

word count — 2.3 chapter index — prev. chap. — next chap. masterlist

fourteen

friday, february 14th

valentine’s day always felt like one of the least captivating “special” days of the year to you.

first off, no one really seemed to know where it came from, beyond vague whispers about saints and martyrs.

second, the idea of dedicating just one day to showering your significant other with love seemed, well, silly. wasn’t every day supposed to feel like valentine’s day when you were in a relationship?

still, you couldn’t deny the history that was known about it was interesting. valentine’s day cards, for example, were centuries old. the tradition dated back to the 1700s, and by the mid-1800s, advances in printing technology made mass-produced cards a staple of the holiday. the earliest known valentine’s message, though, came even earlier—in 1415, charles, duke of orléans, penned a heartfelt poem to his wife while locked away in the tower of london. it was the whole reason why you chose this specific event for valentine's day.

this entire day felt like a nod to history and the wistful romance of charles and his wife. but for you, it didn't make this day less tiring. you’d already been through nearly fifteen classrooms, walking alongside the valentine’s day volunteers as they handed out letters to blushing teenagers. your feet ached from all the pacing, and the constant hum of chatter and giggles was grating. to top it off, you were missing your own classes for this.

the basket in your hands remained stubbornly full, each letter carefully sorted by class. “alright, next class is JL4,” one of the clipboard-wielding volunteers announced. your stomach dipped at the mention of the name—you recognized it immediately as rafe’s class. you let out a soft sigh, steeling yourself, and tried to plaster on the big, cheerful smile you’d been wearing all morning.

the three volunteers, all dressed as cupid, were practically bouncing on their heels as they prepared to enter the next room. they’d tried to convince you to wear the same ridiculous costume—a gaudy red-and-white getup complete with feathered wings—but you’d politely declined, compromising instead with a simple red sweater.

you knock lightly on the door, then ease it open after a beat. “hi, mr. winslow.” your smile is polished, the kind you’ve perfected over the course of this exhausting day. the teacher glances up, already looking amused as his eyes flick past you to the three cupids clustered just behind.

“hello, ms. y/l/n,” he greets, his grin wide and knowing. “how can my class and i assist you today?” it’s clear he already knows exactly why you’re here.

you give a light laugh, slipping into the well-rehearsed script you’ve been reciting all morning. “my cupids and i have some very important mail to deliver.” you step further into the room, maintaining that same bright expression as you gesture to your basket. “and this class happens to be our most popular yet—with a monumental," you pause for a moment to double take your notes, "fifty-six letters.”

the classroom erupts into laughter and chatter, and as you set the basket on the nearest desk, you can already feel the weight of rafe’s gaze. you spot him sitting next to pope, his chair tilted back slightly, that signature grin tugging at his lips.

“dahlia hendrix,” you call out, scanning the organized letters until you find her name. the blonde sitting by the window perks up, her cheeks already flushing. “cupid’s got three letters for you.” you hand the cards to the first cupid, who diligently adds the three accompanying lollipops.

your attention shifts as you fish out the next set. “topper thornton,” you announce, your voice overly sweet as you lock eyes with him. topper—the same guy who’d called you a bitch just last week—smirks, clearly unbothered. “cupid paid you a lovely visit with five letters.” ignoring the boisterous cheering from his group of friends, you pass the stack to another cupid.

your gaze lands on kiara, who’s already shaking her head, visibly unimpressed by the spectacle. “kiara carrera,” you say with a giggle you can’t quite suppress. “four letters for you.” as she begrudgingly takes the cards, you watch her swat away jj’s teasing hands, the corner of your mouth twitching with amusement.

you continue distributing the letters, each name met with varying levels of enthusiasm. “cupid’s got five for jj maybank.” you hand them off. “one for sienna jackson, four for pope heyward, and two for nixon blake .” the room grows louder with every delivery, envelopes being torn open, voices overlapping in excitement.

but there’s one more name to call.

you inhale softly, forcing a smile to hold your composure. “rafe cameron,” you say, your voice steady despite the way your stomach twists. his eyes are already on you, his brow raised in lazy curiosity as he slouches in his chair. “cupid’s got… thirty-eight—"

the room explodes. cheers, whistles, shouts—it’s pandemonium.

“goddamn, cameron!”

“playboyyy!”

“leave some for the rest of us!”

rafe doesn’t join in on the noise. his faint smile doesn’t falter, but he doesn’t look at anyone else either—just you.

you bite down on your tongue, hesitating as you hand off the stack to your waiting cupid. a part of you wants to hold onto them, to stop him from receiving all thirty-eight love letters.

your cupid even needs a separate bag just for the mountain of lollipops meant for him.

“uh, no thanks,” rafe says smoothly, declining the sweets with an effortless shrug. “you can hand those out to the class.” he doesn’t even glance at the towering pile of letters now sitting on his desk, but they feel like they’re mocking you anyway.

grabbing your basket, you turn back to mr. winslow and offer a polite smile, mouthing a quick “thank you.”

“happy valentine’s day, JL4,” you call out, your voice cheery despite the sinking weight in your chest. the class who are now all enjoying rafe's candy, respond in a chaotic chorus, and you’re already stepping out the door, closing it firmly behind you.

thirty-eight cards. thirty-eight. what kind of lunatic receives thirty-eight love letters from girls in the same school? it was absurd, incomprehensible. what was he even doing to these girls? brainwashing them? you could barely fathom the ridiculousness of it all. the thought of ripping every single card to shreds—one by one—flashed vividly in your mind.

“you cannot seriously be mad at me for getting letters from girls i don’t even know.” rafe’s voice carries an amused lilt as he follows you down the empty hallway, the echo of his steps light and unhurried.

“sure, i can,” you snap, pushing open the double doors with more force than necessary. “this is a free country, isn’t it?” your words are sharp, but your pace is sharper, your arm aching from lugging the stupid basket of valentine’s leftovers.

“what was i supposed to do, put out a memo to stop them? you think i orchestrated this?” he asks, his tone threaded with mock innocence as he keeps up with your brisk strides.

you don’t answer, too focused on navigating your way up to the attic. weaving through the maze of dusty boxes and forgotten decorations from past school events, you finally reach the valentine’s day shelf. you place the basket down carefully, feeling the relief in your sore arm but not in your simmering annoyance.

“i think it’s cute,” you say sweetly, the sarcasm practically dripping from your voice. “all those girls just adore you. we should read the letters together, make a night of it. how fun would that be?”

“i know you’re being sarcastic,” he laughs, leaning against a nearby stack of storage bins. “but honestly? it might be hilarious to see what they wrote.”

you roll your eyes, pulling the flower petals out of the basket and carefully pouring them back into their designated bowl. “right. i can already picture it. ‘oh, rafe, i can't stop thinking about your eyes, blue like the sky. let's go skinny dipping on the beach at last light, you can kiss me goodnight.'” your mocking tone grows more dramatic with each word, and you hear his laughter double over behind you.

before you can say more, his arms snake around your waist from behind, and you try to wriggle free, but his grip is firm. “i’ll throw them all out if that’s what you want,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your ear, his lips brushing the shell of it with maddening softness.

you shake your head stubbornly, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a real answer. “no,” you mutter, crossing your arms even as his hold on you tightens. “you should put them above your bed. make a shrine out of them.”

his lips find a familiar trail along your neck, pressing soft, deliberate kisses that make your resolve falter. “i think i kinda like when you’re jealous,” he murmurs, his voice low, sending a shiver down your spine.

you huff, keeping your eyes locked on the shelf in front of you, determined not to react. “who’s jealous?” you whisper, your voice small, defiant.

you feel him smile against your skin, the curve of it unmistakable, and you purse your lips, refusing to admit how easily he gets to you.

he presses you against him and suddenly, his gentle kisses turn into desperate nipping and soft sucking that flood your entire core with pleasure. you moan softly as his hands travel down, lower and lower until they're under your skirt and he's ripping your tights and panties down to your ankles.

"r-rafe.." you attempt to warn him, to stop him, to tell him this cannot happen in school but his name slips out like a breathless whisper and you can't get yourself to say no to this.

his hands are all over you and your body is suddenly pliant under his touch as he takes one of your tits in hand, "you look so beautiful right now." you can barely focus on his words when his fingers are inching closer and closer to your pussy, tentatively trailing along the walls of your thighs before finally rubbing your pearly clit with his thumb, your eyes flutter shut and you instinctively try to push your thighs shut.

"should take a couple of pictures of you and hang those right above my bed," he muses and you whimper, head tilting back to rest on his shoulder as he forces your thighs open. "you'd like that, huh? your pretty cunt on my wall?" his thumb tirelessly rubbed your clit, flicking the little nub till your eyes were tearing up and you were gasping for more.

“more?” he’s taunting, almost mocking you as his fingers trail along your sensitive slit before finding your clit again. “mm,” you whimper as you buck your hips into his hands.

his lips nip at your skin but you can barely process it, you try to stay in the present, try to focus on anything that can ground you but fail miserably, “my fingers? does my pretty girl want my fingers inside her?”

"mhm, y-yes.." you whimper, back arching into his chest and you cry out when his fingers slowly push into your soaking cunt. your walls constrict around him and you're in disbelief at how filling his fingers feel. "rafe! oh, god!" you grip his forearm as he drills his digits in and out of you, fingers curling and pushing deeper and deeper.

you’re writhing against him, trying to stay up right as his fingers clamor in you and his thumb rubs your clit until it’s all sore and swollen. “it’s so g-good.. s’ good..” you mumble lazily, tears streaming down your face and rafe is mouthing at your neck, fingers move at a relentless pace. “c’mon, sweetheart, cum for me.”

you feel that familiar earth-shattering sensation, a combination of low pressure and deep coiling. your hips jerk against your will and then you’re moaning, eyes closed as you squirt and gush all over rafe’s fingers. “that’s it..that’s it, pretty girl..” rafe mutters quietly as you pant in his arms. you can’t believe that just happened in a storage room on school grounds.

“try to stand still, okay?” he mutters into your ear before he’s letting you go and reaching into your bag that sat forgotten on the floor for a tissue. he cleaned you up gently before pulling your panties and tights over your tights and up again.

you hold onto to the shelf for a moment to not lose your balance before turning to look at him, lazy smile on your face. “another first?” he asks and you’re nodding slowly and leaning up to nuzzle your nose against his. he grins when you cup his cheeks, “i’ve only ever..done it myself and it has never felt quite like that. thank you.” you whisper and rafe pecks your lips, gently, lips brushing against yours. “anytime, baby.”

you wrap your arms around his neck slowly and he pulls you in, body against his as he kisses you again and again and again. “i want you,” you sigh against him when you feel his bulge poking you and he’s smiling against yours lips. “you just had me..” he murmurs. you shake your head, “no..” you whine softly, hands darting down to his bulge and gently running your fingers along it. “want you..” you repeat quietly.

you don’t know where this insatiable feeling is coming from, you don’t understand why you can’t get enough, can’t stop, don’t even want to stop. not even a little bit.

you’re slowly sinking to your knees but rafe stops you with a pained expression, hands on your arms, “you’re not going to give me a blowjob in a storage closet. that would take the cake as the most assholey shit i’ve ever pulled.”

“i want to make you feel good.” you complain softly and he pecks the pout on your lips. “soon, yeah? i promise.”

chapter index — prev. chap. — next chap.

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notiddygothgf · 6 days ago

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★ pairings: aki hayakawa x fem reader

★❝ I got you, Angel. ❞

★ c.w.: so much yearning, smut, nipple play (f!receiving), riding, nasty depraved car sex, unsafe sex lol, infidelity, angst, did i mention yearning? lmfao, obsessive!aki. god hes so nasty in this chap lol. not beta'd

★ a/n: okay so when i said i was back... apparently i lied lol. i started a summer chem course and its accelerated so when i tell you this shit has been whooping my asssssss! anyway! i wanted to finish this one before updating my other stories, but it wound up being so long that im going to have to add one third and final chapter after this anyway LMFAOAO! so!! i hope you all enjoy this chapter as much as i enjoyed watching it come to fruition. If this ff seems like its moving fast, thats cus it is. It's a short story (and also theyre obsessed w eachother lol). keep those comments coming -- i just might update sooner lollll.

★ w.c: 15.4k

for your love ; chapter index

AKI WAS GOING INSANE. Sitting across from you at the long banquet table, surrounded by the hum of forced laughter and clinking glasses, he could barely hear a thing over the sound of his own heartbeat.

You were breathtaking, as per usual, simply breathtaking. The dress accentuated you in ways that made it impossible for him to focus on anything else, and every time your eyes flicked up to meet his, fleeting and full of affection, it only made it worse. He felt like he was unraveling by the second.

God, you were driving him insane.

Your husband was standing nearby, glass in hand, laying on the charm for a cluster of higher-ups. Aki watched him talk, laugh, gesture – all too comfortably. The man was admittedly charismatic, and seemingly oblivious to the tension boiling between you and his superior.

Aki's fingers itched. He needed to do something. Anything. He was going to lose his fucking mind.

On the table sat a pen – a sleek, branded thing meant for guests to write down well-wishes or advice to new recruits on the little cards provided. Some cute Public Safety tradition he really couldn't give less of a shit about. He picked it up, eyes still locked on you, and dragged a cocktail napkin toward him.

His handwriting was sharp and quick.

I want to see you outside.

He folded the napkin once, casually, like it was nothing. But his hand trembled just slightly as he leaned forward and slid it toward you across the white tablecloth, the edge of the note stopping just near your fingertips.

You looked down. A beat passed.

Then your fingers closed over the napkin like you already knew exactly what it said. You unfolded the tiny paper square, pretty eyes drooping to scan the letters on its surface. He watched them widen before you slid the note beneath the table, cradling it to your lap so your husband wouldn't see it.

You scribbled something down, and Aki felt his heart race.

A moment later, checking to make sure your husband wasn't looking, you slid the napkin back to him. Your fingers brushed in the middle – a small, tiny movement, but it sent jolts of electricity up his arm. He fumbled the tiny thing, damn near dropping it before he was able to pry it open and read it.

Not here. Someone will notice.

His mind was already spiraling. It wasn't rejection. It was restraint. Fear. Desire wound tight and hidden beneath a composed exterior.

It's not a no.

His hand shook as he reached for the pen. It felt too small in his grip, his fingers too stiff.

He wrote fast, pressing the tip of the pen harder than necessary.

Then when?

The words looked desperate, he knew that. Not his usual stoic script. His hand hovered above the napkin for a moment afterward, as if he was thinking of adding more, but stopped himself. He folded it in half again, heart pounding, and pushed it back across the table. When no one else could see it.

It was risky – stupid as hell, he fucking knew that, but he couldn't help it.

Your eyes flicked down again, and this time you didn't wait. You opened it right there in front of your plate, using the edge of your hand to shield it from sight. You didn't look surprised. You just picked up the pen again and wrote, then slid the napkin back to him one final time.

I'll be at the 9 o'clock mass this Sunday while my husband is out.

The handwriting was delicate. Pretty, even. Fitting for someone like you.

Aki's throat tightened as he read it. He stared at the napkin for a few long seconds, barely breathing.

You wanted to see him.

And not in a hallway or behind some locked door at HQ. A church. Sunday. You were giving him time.

Someone called his name. "Hayakawa!"

He blinked.

Laughter echoed down the table. He looked up, someone gesturing at him with a toast, waiting for a response.

He nodded, distracted, forcing something like a smile. Then, before he could second guess it, he grabbed the napkin, folded it with trembling fingers, and wiped the corner of his mouth with it. A single motion, casual. Inconspicuous.

Then he stuffed it into the bottom of his empty glass like it was just trash.

But his hands were still shaking. His jaw was tight.

And, fuck, his mind was already on Sunday.

As Aki sat in the driver's seat of his car, his heart was practically beating right out of his chest. Behind him, the jacket of his Public Safety uniform was draped over the backseat, leaving him in a button down that felt far too hot, no tie – he'd had to stop by HQ for some paperwork. In front of him, the church stood tall, its white walls reflecting the morning sunlight. It was a sanctuary, a promise of purity.

But there was nothing pure about what Aki had come here for.

Nervous was a vast understatement. He sat anxiously in the driver's seat, wringing his hands in his lap, bouncing his leg up and down, eyes darting over to the red double doors of the church's entrance. Outside, it was raining – not too much, but just enough for him to hear the pitter-patter as the droplets met his windshield.

God, he thought, I could really use a cigarette.

The little pack felt heavy in his pants pocket. His fingers itched for another, but then he would have blown through three cigarettes in one morning, which was ridiculous, even for him.

Was this even the right church? He'd double-checked the address twice, triple-checked the time you'd given him. But now, sitting here, he wasn't so sure. What if you'd meant the nine o'clock evening mass? What if it wasn't today at all? What if you changed your mind and just didn't want to tell him? He certainly wouldn't have blamed you.

You're spiraling, he told himself. Breathe.

But the silence around him felt oppressive, like even the birds had the decency to quiet down for the awkwardness of the moment. His mind wouldn't stop running. Did he look too tense? Too eager? Should he have worn something else? His shirt felt too stiff, his palms too clammy.

What the hell was he doing here?

And then, as if on cue, the doors opened, releasing a flood of churchgoers onto the sidewalk and street – all of them dressed in their Sunday best. Among them, nearly smothered by smiling faces, there you were, wearing a pretty white dress of your own. You had a flower pinned to your hair.

You stepped out.

A sundress, soft and summery, one that flowed out around your waist. Matching heels clicking softly against the pavement. Hair done, makeup subtle, like you hadn't tried too hard but still managed to look... stunning.

Of fucking course you did.

His heart did something strange in his chest. His thoughts slowed for a second – not gone, just momentarily stunned into silence by your beauty.

You didn't hesitate. No wave, no smile. Just a glance, and then you crossed the lot and pulled open the passenger side door like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You got in without saying a word.

And suddenly, the air in the car felt thick.

Aki cleared his throat, moving to break the silence, but you did it before he could.

"Drive to the woods," You told him, gaze curtly avoiding his. "Near the outskirts of the city."

"Why the woods?" he asked.

"I don't want anyone seeing us together," you admitted, your voice low, like you weren't sure if you should've said it out loud.

He nodded, jaw clenched. His fingers twitched as he shifted the car into gear. He was trembling just slightly, just enough for him to feel it. He felt as if he had never been this close to you before, not for this long. Not in such a small space, not with so much left unsaid between you.

The drive took twenty minutes. It passed in complete silence.

He kept his eyes on the road, but he was writhing beneath the tension – beneath his hyper awareness of your every move. At every stoplight, his fingers would tighten against the steering wheel.

There was so much to say.

You didn't speak. Neither did he. The silence between you was heavy, but not empty.

When he finally pulled off the main road and into the clearing, trees crowding in on either side, he parked the car and killed the engine.

And then... nothing.

He didn't look at you. Just sat there, staring ahead, his hands still gripping the wheel like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

Taking a deep breath, you finally spoke up, "I'm so confused. I keep telling myself this is wrong– that I'm not supposed to feel like this. I made a vow, but..." She trailed off, breath catching. "Every time I see you, my chest gets tight, and I can't breathe, and– God, Aki– my heart feels like it's going to burst out of my chest."

I feel that way too.

"If I'm–" You turned your head to the side, but you didn't quite meet his eyes, "If I'm imagining this–"

"You're not imagining it," Was his rushed response. He whipped his head around to look at you – really look at you, your hair, your eyes as they turned to meet his gaze. Subconsciously, perhaps, his eyes dropped down to the pink, pretty arch of your lips. He wasn't a fan of how hoarse his voice sounded when he added, "I can't stop thinking about you either."

An admission. A guilty one. Truthfully, you had been the only thing on his mind in recent days – especially since you'd gone and kissed him in the bathroom at the party. Fuck, you were driving him up the wall.

And now, you sat before him, the picture of beauty. Your hands were neatly folded in your lap, fingernails freshly painted with a french tip. Your lips trembled ever-so-slightly. Your eyes peered up into his like you were searching for an answer he didn't have.

"I think about you all the time," You admitted, glancing out the windshield, as if the words filled you with shame. Aki felt like the wind had been knocked right out of him. "At the store, when I'm with him... even when I don't want to, and I hate that I feel– I don't... I don't know what it means."

You exhaled, then. A shuddering, trembling breath that materialized in the cold air between the two of you. You were so close to him, eyes lined with a shade that flattered them, lips begging to be kissed. He could smell your perfume – hints of lavender, something floral mixed together with the smell of freshly fallen rain – and it was driving him insane.

Your eyes began to water. "Every time I'm in bed with him, I wish it was you."

The words hit him like a punch to the fucking ribs.

His breath stalled completely., heart stumbling over itself. His hands flexed uselessly against his thighs. He didn't move, didn't dare look directly at you—not when he felt like something inside him had just cracked open.

He'd imagined this. He'd fantasized about you saying something just like that, in a hundred different ways, on a hundred different sleepless nights, but hearing it, really hearing it with your voice so soft and raw and full of everything you'd been holding back wrecked him.

She thinks about me.

She thinks about being in bed with me.

She wants me, too.

Something wild and possessive surged in his chest, something he wasn't proud of. He tried to shove it down, tried to stay rational, but it was like trying to hold back a tide with bare hands.

God, I am not your strongest soldier.

Every time I'm in bed with him, I wish it was you.

"Don't say that," He exhaled sharply, turning his head to the side. He couldn't bear to look at you anymore, not when you were sitting there looking so perfect, so delectable that his fingers twitched with the urge to reach out and hold you, touch you.

"I wanna know what it's like to kiss you, how you feel," You breathed out, and the words came flowing like water, like you were trying to ruin him. You inched a little closer, and he turned around to face you head on. Closer, still, and he could feel your breath as it fanned across his chin. "I know it's wrong but I can't– I can't take it anymore. I want you, Aki."

I want you.

And he thought, Fuck, I want you too. So much that it hurts.

He could easily lie to himself. He could sit and say that he was an honorable man, that he had no intentions of pursuing a married woman, but he would be convincing no one – including himself. No, at the end of the day, he had come here to meet you with one intention in mind.

Instead, all that came out was a sigh, "You don't know what you're asking."

"I do– I..." You broke off, voice trembling. "I need you, Aki."

Fuck, say my name like that again.

His breath left him in a sharp exhale. Every nerve in his body lit up, blood rushing hot and fast to all of the wrong places.

He felt like an animal. Like something primal had been caged in his chest and was now clawing its way out.

You moved closer. Not much, just a few inches, but it was enough. Enough to make him lose whatever thread of composure he was holding onto. You were right there. Practically nose to nose.

He could see the shimmer of tears in your eyes. The slight part of your lips. Your breath mingled with his, warm, unsteady. You looked up at him, and he looked down at you, and for a moment neither of you moved.

But everything inside him did.

Your voice broke through the stillness, barely above a whisper. "Say something, please."

He let out a low, helpless sound – half laugh, half groan – and shook his head like he was scolding himself, like he couldn't believe what he was about to do.

Fuck it.

"You have no fucking idea what you do to me," he said, voice rough.

And then he was leaning down – finally, finally – and kissing you. Fuck, you tasted like heaven, melting on his tongue like a decadent chocolate. His arms wrapped around you without so much as a second thought, tugging at your shoulders, pulling you ever closer to him. He couldn't get enough.

There was nothing hesitant about it. No cautious testing of boundaries. No slow burn. Just heat. Immediate, consuming. Like striking a match to dry leaves.

Your lips were soft, warmer than he imagined, parting under his like they belonged there. He groaned low in his throat when you kissed him back, mouth opening, breath mingling with his as your tongues met – tentative at first, then deeper, hungrier.

Sweet and sharp, like whatever gloss you wore mixed with the ghost of coffee and something that was just you. It went straight to his head, dizzying. Addictive.

He tilted his head, kissing you harder. Lips pressing, dragging, catching slightly before sealing again, wetter now, messier. Your breath hitched against his mouth, and it nearly fucking undid him.

Quickly, desperately, you climbed into his seat.

You were in his lap now, knees bracketing his thighs, your body warm and solid against his as you pressed closer. His hands found your hips, steadying you, pulling you against him with a desperation he couldn't hide.

Your hands were everywhere, gripping his shoulders, threading into his hair, tugging just hard enough to make his stomach twist, to make his ponytail come loose. He could feel the shape of your thighs around him, the press of your chest against his, the soft whimper you tried to swallow when he nipped at your lower lip. The way you arched up into him while your hands tangled into his hair.

"God," he muttered into your mouth, panting, "You're driving me insane."

You pulled him back in instead of answering, and he let you. Let himself get lost in it.

He reached down and shoved the seat back with one hand, the click of the lever sharp in the quiet. The seat slid, giving you both just enough room, but not nearly enough distance.

Not that either of you wanted space.

He kissed you like he was starved for it. Like this was the only time he'd ever get to. His tongue slid against yours again, slow at first, then deeper, hungrier. He caught your lip between his teeth and you gasped, and it sent fire straight down his spine.

His hands were roaming now – your back, your waist, fingertips grazing under the hem of your dress like they couldn't help themselves. Fuck, like he couldn't help himself (he couldn't.)

Your lips were going to be the death of him. He didn't even care that the two of you were making out in the driver's seat of his car like a bunch of horny highschoolers. No, the only thing that mattered was you – your scent, your hands on his shoulder, in his hair, your lips sliding up against his like two puzzle pieces, finally joined together. All that mattered was the way you felt pressed right up against him – all soft curves where he had sharp angles, so warm between the thighs that he could hardly wrap his head around it.

Fuck, he would give the world just to have a taste of you.

I cannot believe I'm actually about to do this.

His kisses strayed from your lips – though he couldn't stand the thought of not being liplocked with you for even a moment – to trail down the valley of your jaw, your neck. He lavished the area with love – nipping, licking, sucking the skin there like brush strokes over a blank canvas. You whined, tossing your head back, hair falling out of your face, rolling your hips down into his lap, and, fuck, he was so hard, it was becoming difficult to think straight.

And then your hands were on him, pulling him closer, fiddling with the buttons of his white dress shirt. You undid the first while Aki's lips dropped lower, peppering hot, open-mouthed kisses to your collarbone.

"Marks–" You gasped once you were finished undoing the buttons, pushing his shirt open and revealing his chest, his toned stomach. "Don't leave marks."

Wouldn't dream of it. No, he knew exactly how hard to bite. Not enough to leave a trace, but just enough to have you arching up into his touch so prettily. He had always prided himself on being a quick learner, and this was no different. Your body was an open book, and he yearned to gloss his hands through the pages, lose himself in them. As his fingertip grazed over stretch marks and curves, he couldn't help but be starstruck by you.

Never in his life had he ever seen a woman so beautiful.

Your hands roamed over his chest like those of a sculptor, mapping out the planes of his pecs, revering his body like you were amazed. He wasn't proud of the shaky moan that left his lips when your fingers grazed his abs.

What? He was pent up.

And, judging by the way his hands gravitated towards your breasts to respond in kind, he was lost beyond retrieval. The mounds were warm through the fabric, soft in his hands. He kneaded the tender flesh more gently than he'd ever held anything before. It was then that he realized something that made his slacks grow ever tighter.

You weren't wearing a fucking bra.

Good lord, He thought, pausing to collect himself before he creamed his pants like an idiot. You had gone to church without a bra on... for him?

That's just downright sinful.

The way you were grinding yourself down on him had him losing his grip on reality.

Your fingers stayed tangled in his hair, nails scraping lightly against his scalp as you tugged and rolled your hips, just enough to draw a guttural sound from his throat. His mouth hung open beneath yours, breath ragged, hips twitching up to meet yours with a helplessness he couldn't hide.

He moved his hand. Slid it down from your chest with a kind of reverence, fingertips trailing over your ribs, the soft tremble of your stomach, until he reached your hip and gripped it like it was the only thing keeping him tethered.

Your noses bumped. Foreheads pressed together. You didn't kiss him.

You just gasped into each other's mouths, barely touching, the heat of your breath mingling in the space where your lips should have met. Every sound he made rattled through you. Every exhale felt like it could tip you over.

Still, he didn't dare to move any further, out of fear of scaring you off. That is, of course, until you spoke up.

"Touch me," you whispered, like it was a prayer, "Please..."

The words set his heart ablaze.

His thumb brushed against your hip bone like he was memorizing the shape of you. Then, slowly – shakily – his hand dipped a little lower, gracing the hem of your pretty little sundress, slipping just below. The moment his hand made contact with the warm skin of your thigh, he couldn't resist the urge to squeeze the delicate flesh. He was gentle, of course. No, he didn't want to break you.

Though, honestly, he would if you asked him to with that pretty lilt in your voice. The one that drove him mad.

Suddenly feeling a whole lot less experienced than he actually was, his fingers grazed your inner thighs, moving up, up, until they met with the warm fabric between your legs. You made the prettiest little sound into his mouth, shifting your hips down a little harder, and that was all it fucking took to have him hooking a finger beneath the crotch of your panties, pulling it to the side.

He dipped a digit experimentally into the aching warmth between your plush thighs, and, fuck, you were dripping for him. Tracing up and down, up and down, he leaned forward and captured your lips again, reeling from how fucking wet you were.

He should have looked away. Should've closed his eyes, buried his face in your neck, done anything but watch you like this – hips grinding against his hand in slow, sinful circles, breath shaky, fingers tangled in his hair like you were holding him in place on purpose.

But, shit, you looked too good like this. Ruined and trying not to fall apart all over him.

His hand was still slick from touching you – he could feel it in the space between your skin and his, warm and wet, proof of how badly you wanted him. And he couldn't stop himself. He brought his hand up slowly, deliberately, and met your gaze like a challenge.

You didn't look away.

You watched him, wide-eyed, lips parted, as he dragged his tongue across his fingers, tasting the heat you'd left behind. His breath hitched at the way your expression shifted from disbelief to something far hungrier, but he never once dared to break eye contact.

His tongue moved with purpose, tasting you off his own hand like it was the most natural thing in the world. It was salty, sweet, just the slightest tang, and he groaned at the taste of you.

I'm gonna lose my mind.

He only wished the two of you had more time together. Maybe then, he would be able to lay you down in the backseat, feel you fall apart against his mouth.

Then, his fingers were exploring your pleasure again, inching towards your core, parting the wet folds and teasing you gently, slowly. With his index and middle finger, he traced a line down to your entrance, petting it gently. With his thumb, he searched for your puffy clit – and once he found it, he zeroed in on it, using the pad of his finger to rub tiny circles around it.

"Aki..." You breathed out, breath fogging up the driver side window. You ground your wet pussy right into his hand, practically begging him to dip a finger inside.

Who was he to deny you such a pleasure? Keeping your foreheads pressed together – and his thumb on your clit – he teased a finger over your hole, slipping it inside of you with no resistance. You felt even warmer on the inside, gummy walls clinging to his digit like you didn't want to let it go. Then, when you moaned his name again – and he decided that he would do anything just to hear you say it like that again – he added another, just because you took them so fucking well.

"I got you, pretty baby," He crooned softly, just faintly enough for you to hear.

You felt unreal, and the thought that you (potentially) wanted him and his dick anywhere near the oasis between your legs was enough to have him feeling dizzy. You hugged his fingers like they fucking belonged there. He couldn't help but do everything he could to stretch you open, to hear those pretty noises of yours. Scissoring them, curling them, using them to feel around until–

"Oh– Right there!" You gasped out rather suddenly, grip tightening around his hair.

Found it.

It felt only slightly different from the surrounding area. A little spongier, tucked just out of the way, a few knuckles deep. Once he'd succeeded at finding it, he began to press the tips of his fingers into it, massaging the area slowly, like he had all day.

He nuzzled your nose with the end of his, bringing your lips together for a chaste kiss. "Right there, Angel?"

"Mhm," You replied – so perfectly, like something straight out of a wet dream.

You were so fucking wet. Practically dripping down his palm, his wrist. Even though his arm ached from the angle, he would be damned if he stopped now. He wanted– no, fuck, he needed to make you feel good.

His thumb worked a little harder on your clit, eagerly rolling over the needy bud in circles, side to side – more desperation than real finesse, but judging by the way you were rutting against his palm, he was doing just fine.

Back arched, hands running slow and lazy over your own body like you needed to feel something, anything – your fingers grazing your sides, slipping up to your chest, catching slightly on the fabric of your dress. Like something straight out of one of the damn porno magazines Denji had left on the kitchen table, you squeezed your chest through the dress, hands doing everything they could to get the edge off.

Your breaths were shallow, uneven, lips parted as you looked up at him through half-lidded eyes that shimmered with heat and something else he didn't want to name, all while groping yourself like you wanted him to do it instead.

It killed him.

You looked untouchable like this. Barely holding yourself together. And yet you were right there in front of him, moving like you belonged to him, like you wanted him to see every inch of you come undone.

He didn't mean to reach for you. Not really.

But his fingers lifted anyway – slow and trembling, like a fucking virgin – and he let them skim over the soft fabric of your dress, hovering at the low neckline. His breath hitched as he touched it. Not your skin. Not yet... just the barrier.

Then, while continuing to fuck you open on his long fingers, he used his spare hand to slip the strap of your dress off of your shoulder, then the other. The moment you caught onto what he was trying to do, your eyes darkened. Then, slowly, agonizingly, you reached for the top of your dress and rolled it down.

Finally free of their confines, the mounds on your chest fell free, and, fuck, he felt like an animal. They were by far the prettiest he'd ever seen – though, honestly, anything that was attached to you could easily have achieved the same title – plump, plush, with pretty nipples hardened into stiff little peaks.

He was practically drooling at the sight.

His blue eyes – uncertain, but filled to the brim with adoration – drank in the sight of you like this. Hair messy (with that pretty little flower still clipped into it), lips glossy with spit, eyes blown wide with pleasure. It killed him to know that he was the reason for that.

Then you fucking smiled at him, breathless and debauched while you brought his free hand up to cup one of your tits. He felt unworthy. Still, that didn't stop him from wrapping his fingers around it and rolling the soft skin around in his palm, from crooking his fingers back up into that place deep inside of you that had you breathing out his name.

"Aki."

Fuck, he didn't think he would ever be able to get it out of his head.

Peering up at you once more to make sure that you were okay for him to continue, he leaned forward, bringing his face up to the plush of your chest and practically burying it between your tits. He was overwhelmed with desire, with the need to kiss whatever skin he could touch. Your sternum, the inside of your breast. By the time his lips finally wrapped around your nipple, you were tangling your fingers into the back of his head, into his hair.

The skin was warm, slightly pebbled as he rolled his tongue over the bud in a few expert strokes. He rolled it between his teeth next – not enough to hurt, but enough to make you grip him a little harder. He sucked like he was on a mission to brand you with his tongue, his eager lips.

You gasped, turned, arched up into him. In all honesty, managing to fingerfuck you while keeping one of your tits in his mouth proved to be much easier said than done, but he could die happy like this.

Slowly, your hand slid down between your body and his, glossing over his abs, his navel, until you were tugging at his belt.

Fuck.

At first, he wasn't certain about continuing – maybe it was a mistake?

But, then, your hand dipped a little lower. It caressed his thigh, his crotch, then gripped him tightly through his slacks. He fucking gasped – his dick was throbbing so hard that he wouldn't have been surprised if he exploded.

Okay, definitely not a mistake.

You gripped him harder, tighter, and his words came out as a shuddering gasp against your lips. "I don't... have protection."

Fucking idiot.

You have one chance to spend time alone with the girl of your dreams, and you forget to bring a fucking condom?

Then again, he hadn't been bold enough to assume even for a minute that you would want him the way he wanted you.

Still, you shook your pretty little head, hair shifting from side to side as you did so, and answered, "Don't care, please... I'm clean, I just– I need you."

I don't want to take any chances, he thought. It was bad enough that he had even thought about fucking a married woman. The last thing he needed was for you to get knocked up.

But, fuck, he felt like he would die if he didn't get inside of you.

"That's too risky," He decided to do the right thing. He swallowed, the apple of his throat bobbing beneath the heady weight of your ravenous gaze – locked onto him like you already owned him. "What if we–"

"I'm on birth control," You grinned.

He stared at you.

His heart lurched so hard it nearly knocked the breath out of his lungs.

Fuck.

It echoed in his head, loud and helpless. His control fractured. Every reason he had for holding back – duty, caution, fear – melted beneath the heat of your grin and the way your hand slid down his stomach, undid his belt buckle like you wanted him to break.

"It's okay, Aki," you said again, softer this time, like a promise. Or a dare.

He took a sharp breath, chest rising beneath you, and exhaled like it physically hurt to hold himself back. His hands gripped your hips tighter, fingertips digging into your skin like he needed something to tether himself to before he fucking melted into the seat.

You were going to be the death of him.

Fuck me, he thought, not sure if it was a curse or a prayer.

"Fuck, you're gonna be the death of me," he said aloud this time, his lips brushing against your jaw, his forehead pressing to yours like he needed to steady himself. But he was already gone.

And you – smiling like you'd just undone him – simply finished undoing his belt. Then, once you were satisfied with that,you tugged at the waistband of his black slacks.

Instead of stopping you, instead of putting an end to this like he most definitely should have done, he helped you. He withdrew his fingers from your heat, using both hands to wiggle his slacks and boxers down to his thighs. Just enough to finally free his aching cock from its restraints.

He felt nervous – more nervous than he had any reason to be. But, fucking hell, when your eyes dropped down to his lap, widening at the size of him, it was hard to not let it get to his head.

You didn't take long to make up your mind, though, lowering yourself right down onto it and rocking your hips back.

And then you started to move.

A steady, languid rhythm, rocking your hips back and forth, sliding against him in a way that made it hard to breathe, let alone think. His hands hovered at your waist, unsure whether to grip you tighter or just let you have him however you fucking wanted. He watched you like he was dreaming – eyes dark and hungry, mouth slightly open, utterly helpless.

You were the picture of pornographic beauty.

Head thrown back, throat exposed, mouth parted on a soft, broken sigh as your body moved with instinct and intention. Your back arched so beautifully while the window cast fragments of sunlight onto your tits, like something out of a painting, the curve of your spine drawing his eyes down your body, and he swore he'd never forget the way you looked right now. Lit only by the low light and the haze of shared heat, riding the edge of your own desire right there in his goddamn lap.

You were using him to take the edge off, and it was driving him insane.

Because you weren't even looking at him – and still, you had him. Entirely. Mind, body, every last shred of restraint. You didn't need to try. Just the way you moved – like you knew you were being worshipped, like a serpent – was enough to ruin him.

"Fuck," he breathed out, "Use me, baby, just like that."

You moaned in response, rutting your hips down a little harder, a little faster. He could feel you – too much and not enough at the same time – warm, wet, tempting.

His eyes dragged up the line of your body again, and he felt his chest tighten. Not just with need, but something deeper. Something more dangerous. He was enamored by you, completely.

Slowly, not wanting to disrupt you (but needing to feel you a little deeper), he reached between your body and his. Then, he grabbed his dick and held it up, sliding it back and forth until it caught on your entrance and, fuck, you sank down like it was nothing.

Well, not nothing. Though your body practically sucked him in, your eyes were squeezed shut, brows furrowed with concentration. Your thighs were shaking, too, telltale signs that it hurt a little more than you wanted to let on.

"You got it, pretty," He breathed out words of encouragement. "Just like that."

Once the tip was in, Aki pressed a kiss to your chin – the only place he could reach. It seemed to spur you on, because only a moment later, you were pushing your hips the rest of the way down, down down.

His head dropped back against the seat with a dull thud, a sharp exhale tearing from his throat as your warmth took him in, inch by inch.

She takes me so well.

Then, he bottomed out inside of you. It was fucking perfect – so warm, so wet, hugging him just tight enough to make his head spin. You were perfect and, fuck, the two of you let out the most synchronized moan the moment your ass met his lap.

You started fucking him like your life depended on it, picking a slow riding pace while you grew accustomed to the feeling of him so deep inside of you, but it changed to a faster one rather quickly.

Up. Down. Up. Down. You bounced on his lap, desperately chasing the promise of pleasure, and it was driving him fucking crazy. Subconsciously, his hands reached for your hips, guiding their motions while you undid him at the seams.

"Oh my God–" You gasped out. Your hand shot out to the side, grasping the window, then his chest for support. All of the heat was beginning to fog the windows up, so much so that he couldn't see a damn thing outside. Eyes squeezed shut, mouth gaped open, you cried again, "Oh my God–"

The sound that tore from his throat wasn't planned, wasn't controlled – it was a choked-off moan that escaped before he could catch it. His eyes rolled back as your pussy dragged against up and down his shaft, body melting into his like it was second nature, like you were made to move like this on top of him.

"F-fuck," he gasped, his grip tightening on your waist, but it didn't stop you. If anything, you only rocked harder, back and forth, pressing down on him with a slow, teasing rhythm that made it impossible to breathe.

What? It had been a while for him.

You were fucking him with intent, like you wanted to see him fall apart one gasp at a time.

And, God, it was working.

He could feel every curve of your body rolling into his, the heat, the slick friction, the pretty noises you made every time your hips met.

His head fell back against the seat again, jaw slack, eyes fluttering shut as he moved with you, utterly helpless. It felt like he was fucking melting. Like you were dragging him under with nothing more than the way your body moved on top of his.

Your hands roamed up his chest like you were studying him, measuring his reactions, learning what made his breath catch and his muscles lock. You leaned in when he moaned. Smiled when he cursed. You were doing this on purpose – drawing him out, winding him up, making him lose his grip.

And suddenly he was looking at you again. Really looking.

Your hair had fallen into your face, strands clinging to sweat-damp skin, and he reached up – slow, gently – and tucked it gently behind your ear. His fingers lingered there, brushing the shell of it, soft and barely-there, and you fucking smiled at him.

God, you were breathtaking.

His gaze dropped down to his lap, to the junction between your body and his. He could feel your clit bumping his navel when you leaned forward, changing the angle. He could see the sweat dripping down your neck, down his abdomen. Above all else, he could see you– all of you.

"You– Ha," He gasped out, voice breaking on a whimper, "You feel so fuckin' good, Angel."

You were an angel. Ethereal, calm, kind, fucking perfect. (Not to mention that the pussy was out of this world).

You felt better than fucking nicotine – like he'd gone his whole life without taking a desperately needed hit and then, suddenly, you were there... invading his lungs, filling his chest and making him feel so warm.

"S'big," You groaned back in response, "So fucking big, fuck."

Your hand was back on the foggy window, gripping at nothing in particular, and he didn't even care about leaving fingerprints. You felt like heaven wrapped around him. It was insane, he thought, how quickly you had been able to tear him apart.

I'm not gonna last very long at this rate, he noted.

But, shit, one look at you, and he knew he wouldn't be the only one. You were practically starstruck – eyes glazed over with pleasure, lips full of praise, of cries of his name.

"Aki," You breathed.

Aki. Aki. Aki.

Fuck, he thought, Say it again.

You were beginning to lose momentum. Your hips began to falter, thighs tense and undoubtedly sore from holding yourself up. So, deciding that that was his cue to take the reins, he planted his feet firmly on the floor, hands gripping your hips like a vice.

My turn, he thought.

Then, he lifted his his up off of the seat, thrusting into you from a new angle that had you nearly screaming for him. He could feel himself slide that much deeper, hit spots harder than you were able to hit by your own ministrations. Your pussy clenched down on him like it was your fucking job – every time his hips were flush up against your ass, you rocked your hips back and forth in tandem.

"Yes, Aki, fuck me!" The words were ripped out of your chest, and they only spurred him on. "Harder, fuck, just like that–"

God, it was perfect.

Eventually, he figured out what made you tick, which angles made you scream, which ones made you arch your back. He built up a rhythm, hips snapping up against your ass, sensitive tip of his dick hitting your walls every single goddamn time. Your body was a maze, and he was lost in its intricate twists and turns.

His grip tightened around your hips, calloused pads of his fingers sinking into your soft skin like he was trying to fucking brand himself there, to mark you – to make sure you felt him long after this was over.

The possessiveness washed over him in waves. He watched you from beneath dark lashes, half lidded eyes, shuddering groans practically torn from his chest – your wide-blown pupils, that damn pink flush across your face and body that drove him half mad. You were unraveling – Fuck, you were so pretty like this, and you didn't even know it. Your lips were parted. Your voice caught on the edge of every moan like a fucking prayer to him and him alone.

And he thought, with a heat so sharp it nearly burnt a whole through his damn chest – He doesn't deserve you.

No, he didn't.

Not the man you wore that damn ring for. Not the one who sat across from you at the table every night and criticized your cooking like it was nothing. Aki would bet that he didn't even know what you sounded like when you fell apart like this, how you looked.

So he leaned up, breath ragged against your neck, and the words slipped out before he could even stop them, "You ever been fucked like this, Angel?"

His angel. He didn't care how delusional it sounded. No, right now, you were his.

Your response was instant, shattered, "No– never," You gasped out. "He could never fuck me like you."

Fuck.

Aki shuddered, eyes squeezed shut for a second while he tried to hold it together, tried to keep fucking up into you without falter, but he couldn't. He was already fucking gone. The words had already sunken their claws into his brain, looping around on repeat, echoing louder than the heavenly sounds you were making.

"Yeah?" He asked, voice rougher than he intended, cracking on the edge of a growl, "Say it again."

And your nails dug into his shoulders like you needed to cling to something, like you would fall apart if you didn't. Your head dropped down to his neck, letting him take over, lips brushing against hot skin while you licked a stripe up his neck.

"Only you."

Your teeth grazed his jaw, his neck – when you bit down on the skin like you wanted to mark him, he died a little inside.

"Haah–" His breath caught in his chest before he fucking broke.

He pounded up into you, sharp – more possessive than he had any right being, like he wanted to drive the point home, bury it deep enough that you never forgot it. You jolted against him, eyes flying wide, and he watched hungrily – watched as you trembled, watched as your pretty eyes rolled right back into your eyelids.

"Don't stop–" You cried out. "Oh, God, don't stop!"

Then you leaned back, and it was the prettiest fucking thing. Your dress slipped a little lower, pooling around your waist, exposing you before his ravenous gaze. The full swell of your breasts bounced every time the two of you met in the middle. From here, he could see where your cunt greedily sucked him in, and it was mesmerizing.

"I got you, Angel," He groaned, hand sneaking down between your body and his, finding your clit and pinching it gently between two digits. Then, he rolled it around in tiny circles. It was small, almost imperceptible, but it was enough to have you bouncing harder, pulling him deeper. He was babbling, and he didn't care, "M'g'nna take care of you. Promise."

He threw his head back against the headrest, trying to hold on, trying not to cum, but you felt like fucking paradise.Focus, dammit.

He couldn't. Not when you were making such debauched sounds while you met his thrusts in the middle, and certainly not when you reached down and grabbed him by the necklace, tugging until he was sitting up high enough for you to crash your lips against his. It was more desperate than anything, open mouthed and full of tongue. It was heated, it was filthy, but, fuck, he didn't give a damn.

Head thumping against the headrest, he let you brace your hands on his chest, pushing him down against it. Then, you brought your feet up onto the seat, and you fucked him even harder.

"Aki–i–" You whined, "I'm close–"

Aki's lashes fluttered shut, eyes threatening to roll all the way back. Oh my, God.

You rose and fell on his dick like you were chasing something, like you were on a mission, and he fucking let you. No, more than that – he met you in the middle, slamming up into you with such force that the car bounced.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," You pleaded with him.

Your nails scraped his chest until the skin turned pink beneath your fingertips, dragging across flushed skin that was slick with sweat. He moaned, head tipping back for a second while he savored the feeling of you – he could feel your walls pulsing, feel your pussy squeezing him. His hair clung to his forehead, damp and disheveled, and he slicked it back with one hand so he could see you better. So he could see what he was fucking doing to you.

No, he didn't even want to blink, lest he miss a moment of this – Your head tossed all the way back, flower tangled in your messy hair, face flushed with a pretty pink hue.

"Look at you," He growled, licking his bottom lip slowly – filthy, "You're fucking perfect– You like this, Angel? Like–" A gasp, "Like being fucked dumb?"

You cried out like he'd hit a nerve, head thrown back so far your throat arched for him, exposed and trembling. He watched a bead of sweat drip down the column, down your collarbones. The sight wrecked him – how open you were, how shameless, like you wanted him to see every inch of you come undone.

"I can feel you, pretty," he rasped, digging his fingers harder into your hips, rutting up into you. "You're fuckin' soaked. You always this wet, or am I just special?"

You whined, leaned forward like gravity didn't matter, like the only thing tethering you to this earth was him. Your mouth caught his in a hot, sloppy kiss, all tongue and moans and teeth, and you moaned into him, into his mouth like you were giving him that sound to keep.

He swallowed it down, groaning into your mouth. "That's it. That's it, baby. Give it to me. Let 'em hear you– You gonna cum?"

"Oh– God, I think I am," You gasped, "I've never– I don't–"

But, then, your body spoke for you, arching up into his touch. Every time your hips met his ass, he could hear that pussy making a mess out of him. His fingers kept on rubbing your puffy clit, bringing you that much closer to the edge.

He needed to see you fall apart.

Your pace stuttered, your thighs trembling, overwhelmed, wrecked – and his hands roamed your back, your ass, your ribs, grounding you in place as he met every grind with a sharp, punishing thrust.

"This pussy was made for me," he growled against your mouth. "Only me, right?"

You gasped, nodding frantically, lips brushing his as you breathed it out, breaking for him completely.

"I'm yours, Aki– fuck, I'm yours."

And then you shattered.

Your whole body tensed, spine arching like a bowstring pulled taut, and you cried out – his fucking name, over and over – into his mouth, into his skin, wherever your lips could land as the pleasure ripped through you, wave after fucking wave. He could feel you, feel your walls spasming wildly around his dick while you fell apart.

Your thighs shook around him, locking up, trying to hold onto something, anything, as your release crashed through you so violently it nearly stole the breath from your lungs.

He caught you when you came down, his arms around your waist, holding you firm, grounding you as you fell apart in his lap. His name spilled from your mouth like a prayer, like a confession, broken and reverent, and he watched you, eyes wild, jaw clenched, as you rode it out.

Holy fucking shit.

"That's it," he rasped, voice thick with awe and lust and something darker,. "Just like that. God, baby, look at you. So fuckin' perfect when you cum for me."

You trembled against him, still grinding, desperate and raw, not ready to stop, even when your body was. There was a puddle in his lap, undoubtedly some mixture of your juices and his that he knew he would have to clean up after this.

"I'm so fucking close," he groaned, licking his lips as his hands slid down your back, rough and greedy. "You meant that, didn't you?"

You barely had the strength to nod, still gasping for air.

He pulled you in, mouth brushing your ear, voice wrecked and low and so uncharacteristically possessive.

"You're mine, right?" he growled. "Say it again."

And even now, still pulsing from the aftershock, you gave him what he wanted – because it was the truth.

"I'm yours," you whispered, voice trembling like you fucking meant it. Then, your hands slid up to his jaw, craning his head towards you, making him look at you. "I need you to cum inside of me."

Perhaps a more reasonable, less debauched version of Aki would have put the breaks on this whole ordeal – would have pulled out and saved the risk. But the Aki that was currently buried balls deep in a warmth so wet it made the whole world spin couldn't hold on a moment longer, sitting up to bury his face in your neck, to kiss at the skin between your jaw and your chest.

"Cum for me, Aki," You begged, pressing a kiss to his forehead, cradling the back of his head.

You were still trembling when he grabbed your hips tighter, the way a drowning man might cling to the last breath in his lungs. You didn't even need to move anymore – he took over, rutting up into you with sharp, desperate thrusts, like your words had broken the last thread of his control.

"Fuck," he panted, burying his face in your neck. "You feel me? Shit–"

You clenched around him, body still sensitive and twitching, and that's what did it. He groaned – loud, low, feral – and he stiffened beneath you, hips slamming up one last time as he came hard, breath torn from his lungs.

"Ah– fuck, Angel–" His voice cracked, jaw slack as he spilled into you, holding you down like he was scared you'd vanish if he let go. His whole body trembled through it, sweat dripping from his temple as he rode it out, buried deep, gasping like the air was too thick to fucking breathe.

You both went still, bodies pressed together, skin sticking with sweat and the heat of what you'd just done. Your heart thundered against your ribs like it wanted to break free.

For a moment, neither of you said anything.

You stayed like that, chests rising and falling, his arms still wrapped around your waist, your fingers knotted in the mess of his hair.

Silence settled between you, broken only by the sound of your harsh, uneven breaths. Then... reality crept back in.

You lifted your head from his shoulder and looked at him. His hair was a mess, his face flushed, his lips parted as he tried to catch his breath. He looked as stunned as he felt.

Your eyes met. And it hit you both at the same time.

Suddenly, he didn't care about the ring. He was content to have you like this.

You buried your face in his chest, shuddering breath muffled against his skin, and he wrapped an arm around you again, still holding you close.

Fuck, he was so screwed.

Aki didn't say very much during the ride back to your house. Truthfully, he didn't trust his own voice – not when his hands still smelled like you, not when your thighs were pressed tight together like you were reliving the moment. Both of you remained still, as if the slightest movement would shatter the moment.

He'd rolled the windows down to clear up some of the fog. Your lipstick was still faintly smudged, even though you'd fixed it (and wiped the remnants off of his own lips), but not enough for it to be noticeable. No, in fact, if you weren't anxiously drinking in every molecule of your appearance (like Aki was), you wouldn't have noticed it at all.

And he felt the weight of what he'd just done at every fucking red light.

It wasn't regret – No, he would do it again if you asked, in fact. It was something far worse; affection.

His heart hadn't stopped racing since you climbed back into the seat – since he shifted the car back into drive and pulled out onto the main road like nothing had happened. And now, as he parked up the street from your house, it felt like it was about to beat straight out of his chest.

It's safer this way, he thought. No one will see us.

Honestly, he didn't give a damn if anyone saw. Your lips were fucking branded onto his, like a memory he wouldn't ever be able to shake. No, he was already gone.

You didn't move to open the door right away. In fact, you didn't move to open it at all, and even though he was staring straight ahead, pretending like he was focused on the dashboard, he could feel the weight of your gaze on him.

Then, releasing a shuddering sigh, you broke the silence. Quietly, like you didn't want him to hear.

"I don't think we can see each other again after this."

The words cut a little deeper than he expected. Still, he'd anticipated them. He nodded slowly, not because he wanted to, but because he had to. He hadn't been dense enough to think – even for a second – that this could have been anything more than a one-time-thing.

Still, that didn't make it hurt any less.

Of course you'd say that. He swallowed hard.

You were still looking up at him – through eyes smudged with black at the corners – and it was killing him a little more with each passing second. That fucking expression on your face was going to drive him crazy. Regret, maybe, or something else entirely – something he could almost have mistaken for longing if he let himself be stupid about it.

The words, You don't want that, do you? Were on the tip of his tongue. He didn't say them.

No, he knew that you belonged to someone else.

So, instead, he watched you take his lack of an answer for acceptance, stepping out of the car. Watched as your fingers tightened around the door ever-so-slightly, watched as the wind caught in your hair.

"Goodbye, Captain Hayakawa," You addressed him with a formality he absolutely despised.

Then, he watched you walk away without turning back. He waited, of course – like the stupid dog he was, like he would have waited an entire lifetime for you (and it felt like he had) – until the door to your place shut softly behind you.

He sat there, engine running, hands still on the wheel.

Waiting. Just in case.

A week of radio silence had Aki's head in the fucking gutter

The silence was deafening – it spread slowly, day by day, rooted itself into the deepest corners of his life and hollowed him out from the inside. Not a moment went by that you weren't on his mind. Aki wasn't the clingy type – at least, he thought he wasn't – but, apparently, one mistake was enough to change everything he thought he knew about himself.

The silence stretched, stayed, hardened, and he couldn't fucking stop thinking about you.

He kept telling himself that he should've expected this. Getting involved with a married woman was ballsy, even for him. Plus, you'd made it clear as day that you didn't want it to be anything more than what it already had been – "I don't think we can see each other again after this."

But, fuck – that didn't stop the replay.

It was constant. You, flushed and breathless, straddling him in the dark. The windows of his car steamed up, his hands dragging over bare skin, your voice breaking on a cry of his name. It haunted him in the shower, in his sleep, fucking everywhere.

He sat on the porch at night more often than he'd admit, staring at nothing in particular. He'd burned through a pack of cigarettes, already. That was bad, even for him. Himeno would have been pissed if she saw the mess he'd been reduced to in the span of a week. He was barely eating anymore, let alone sleeping.

Though you had never set foot in his house, each room felt haunted by the ghost of you. Somehow, he would imagine you there anyway – a dangerous train of thought, considering that you were married. He would imagine your purse on his chair, your heels kicked off at the door. The way you would practically purr when he pulled you into his lap, pressed kisses to your sensitive neck, hiked your dress up around your hips, touched you just the way you liked.

And, God, the sounds. It felt as if they'd been etched into a little record in his brain, spinning round and round on repeat.They crept in while he was in the shower, hand braced against the tile while he imagined how you'd feel from behind. When he was dressing for work, and his fingers burned like they'd just slipped beneath the hem of your dress. When he was in bed, and he imagined how you'd taste, fuck.

The scent of your perfume still clung to the shirt he'd worn on Sunday. It had been in the same spot since he came home, tossed haphazardly on his dresser so he could treat the stains (if there were any, he hadn't even checked yet).

Experimentally, he held it up to his nose one day before work, just to see if it still smelled like you. It did. He should have thrown it in the wash.

He didn't.

He was down bad.

On missions, it was no better. He was quieter than usual – not that anyone noticed. He was always quiet. But now, he was distracted. Off-balance.

He'd catch himself turning toward shadows that didn't move, clearing corners too fast or too slow. He was still functional – he was always fucking functional, he had to be – but his edge was gone. That hard, clean instinct that had once kept him sharp was now dulled by distraction. By memories of pretty eyes and soft hands.

You, in the passenger seat, undoing your seatbelt with shaky hands. You, riding him. Your fingers in his hair, your mouth trailing down his throat. The way your voice caught when you moaned his name – like you needed him (and it had been quite a long time since he'd last felt needed).

It replayed constantly. Even when he didn't want it to.

Now he sat in the meeting room, back stiff, palms flat on the table. The overhead lights were bright and clinical, buzzing faintly above his head. The projector clicked through a slide deck slowly – maps, timelines, entry points. Strategic chatter filled the air.

It was a typical Friday at Public Safety.

And standing at the front of the room, running the entire brief, was him.

Your fucking husband.

Aki's eyes were on the screen. On the lines and bullet points. He even nodded now and then, just to sell the illusion. But his mind?

Elsewhere. On you, pressed against the fogged-up window. The windshield dripping with condensation. His hands under your dress, dragging it up. The way you gasped – not in shock, but in relief. That low, shaking moan, the way you choked out his name when you rode out the apex of your pleasure all over him – it haunted him, every damn night. Worse than any nightmare.

And right now, while your husband droned on about terrain and extraction windows, Aki's memory had decided to rerun it in full-color detail – The way you clenched around him. How hot you'd felt, how tightly you held onto him, like you couldn't bear to let go.

"Oh, God, don't stop!"

"I got you, Angel."

He kept his gaze fixed on the map, jaw tight, but his mind was far from tactics and floor plans. You were flooding back again – the grip of your thighs, the scrape of your nails across his ribs. The sounds you made. That soft gasp when he first pushed inside, how you buried your face in his shoulder like you couldn't believe you'd gone through with it.

He shifted in his seat, jaw tight. This was ludicrous. He needed to pull himself the fuck together. He needed–

Your husband turned, mid-sentence, gesturing to the map – and his eyes landed squarely on Aki. They locked for a second too long. Something jolted in Aki's chest. A moment of pure, skin-prickling dread.

He kept his face flat, unreadable. He was good at that. Had years of practice. But his heart thudded like he'd just been caught doing something vile.

Does he know?

That look – it wasn't angry. Not suspicious. But something in it lingered, like the man was trying to see through him. Like he was reaching into Aki's head and pulling something out.

Or maybe he was just imagining it.

You fucked his wife.

You fucked his wife and now you're sitting here, listening to him talk like nothing ever happened.

It made his stomach twist.

"He could never fuck me like you."

"Do you think we should invade from the front or back entrance?" Your husband's voice cut through his thoughts.

Aki barely picked his head up when he answered, not quite meeting his eyes, "The back."

Though, truthfully, he had no idea what the fuck they were talking about.

Aki stood in the hallway after the meeting concluded with his back pressed up against the wall, phone receiver pressed to his ear. Idly, his thumb brushed the dial buttons on the wall. A few of the numbers were more worn out than others, obviously from repeated wear and tear.

Makima was talking on the other end of the line. He was only half-listening.

"Kyoto's undermanned. Three agents have been hospitalized," She sighed, voice as robotic as it always was. "Their division can't handle the incoming assignments on their own. I was thinking about sending someone from Tokyo HQ."

The mission would take a week. Maybe more.

Aki's eyes flicked towards the end of the hallway, towards nothing in particular, really, but his mind saw your husband again – that condescending smile he always wore, like he'd already won some bullshit game Aki wasn't a part of.

He was beginning to hate that man. Not for any respectable reason, and certainly not out loud. In his eyes, the man was an obstacle – he knew that was a horrible way to think about it, but you struck up a sort of possessiveness in him that he'd never felt before. Truthfully, he didn't know what to do with it.

Maybe it was irrational. Maybe it was bitter, but Aki couldn't forget the last time he saw you. He'd been trapped in the memory ever since, actually – doomed to replay the image of you closing the door, of you telling him that you couldn't see him again – and it was all his fault.

Then, he thought of the party – of how shamelessly your husband handed you off to one of his superiors. The way you'd simply smiled, like you were used to being sold out. Like it was normal.

It made Aki feel like something was rotting inside of him.

No, that was the thing. You didn't look happy. Not miserable, either. Just... dulled. As if all of the warmth left in you had been tucked into some box deep inside, locked away.

The idea wasn't sudden. Not in the slightest. It was more like a steady drip. A week..

It wasn't much time, but it was something. Before he knew it, Aki was about to make the most selfish decision he'd ever made in his entire life.

"Why don't you send that rookie, Nakamura?" He said smoothly, hoping his ulterior motives didn't translate. "He's capable."

The briefest silence fell over the line, then Makima replied, as level as ever, "I'll make the arrangements."

A week without him.

The words echoed in his mind after he put the receiver back on its hook and pushed himself off the wall. As he trekked down the hallway, he took slow, measured footsteps. Inside his head, though, he was buzzing with thoughts about what a week without your husband would entail.

He could go see you.

Yeah, just once. Nothing crazy, nothing grand – he wasn't stupid enough to do that. He could just... check in. Stop by under the pretense of neighborly concern. Maybe you'd even smile when you saw him.

The thought sent a dull, stupid throb through his chest.

He pictured you opening the door, looking up at him through those pretty lashes. Maybe your hair would be messy, like it was the first time he met you. He'd say he was going for a walk. Maybe you would ask to join him.

Or, worse. Maybe, you'd invite him in. Offer tea. Maybe the two of you would talk.

Or maybe– just maybe – you could go out with him. Somewhere neutral, casual, just to get some fresh air.

Again, he'd be content just to talk to you.

It was a fucking ridiculous thought. Somewhere deep in the back of his deluded mind, he knew that. You were married.That ring on your damn finger wasn't theoretical. Your life was structured around someone else – someone who treated you very poorly, admitted, but someone you were bound to.

He could tell himself he wasn't delusional, but it would be a lie.

Still, once the idea had been formed, it lodged itself right between his ribs. It wasn't that he expected anything from you. Admittedly, that would be easier to process, but no. All he wanted was to see you.

The truth was a whole lot uglier than he wanted to admit. He missed you.

Aki sighed, dragging his hand through his hair while he rounded the corner into the stairwell. He swore he wouldn't do anything stupid.

But maybe – again, just maybe – he would knock at your door, stupidity be damned.

The fluorescent lights in the supermarket buzzed faintly overhead as Aki reached for a bottle of shampoo, scanning the label with the practiced indifference of someone who had better things to be doing. Denji was somewhere behind him, loud and half-helpful as usual, and Power...

"This smells like strawberries," Power declared proudly from halfway down the aisle, uncapping a bottle of shampoo and bringing it straight to her mouth.

"Don't you dare," Aki snapped, not even turning to look. "It's not edible."

"Why not? It has strawberries right on the packaging." she called back indignantly.

Dear God, He exhaled sharply through his nose and rubbed at his temple.

Then he saw them, tucked between cheap bath bombs and seasonal clearance junk.

A small stand of fresh bouquets, shoved in a plastic tub of water like an afterthought. Most of them were a little wilted, but one caught his eye – pink tulips. Simple. Elegant. Pretty in a quiet kind of way.

Just like you.

His hand hovered near the edge of the bouquet, not quite touching. Something in his chest pinched. It wouldn't have been the first time he bought you flowers (and certainly not the first time he'd thought about it, but now the idea felt stupid. He didn't even know if you'd want to see him after what he – after what the both of you – did.

"You like someone."

Aki glanced over his shoulder.

Denji was watching him with that all-knowing grin of his. For a moment, Aki weighed the pros and cons of knocking it right off his face in front of everyone.

"What?"

"You like someone," Denji repeated, grinning harder ow. "You've been staring at those flowers like they're gonna tell you your future. Someone has a crush."

"I don't–" Aki paused, groaned, and turned back toward the shelf. "Shut up."

"Oh my god," Denji said, delighted, following him. "It is true. I knew it. No wonder you've been pacing around the house like the side dude in a romance manga. Who is it? Wait– do I know her? Is it Miss Makima?"

Aki let out a long, tired sigh, the kind that came from knowing resistance was futile.

"It's not Makima, I'll tell you that," he finally admitted (though he wasn't entirely sure why), voice low.

Denji cackled. "Damn. Never thought I'd see hardass Hayakawa wrapped around a girl's finger. No wonder you've been so quiet lately."

I hate that he's right?

"Shut up," Aki muttered again, dragging a hand through his hair. "I fucked up. I'm trying to make amends. That's all."

"Yeah? If you wanna win a girl over, forget the flowers," Denji said with a lazy shrug. "Just show up at her house. Girls love that shit."

Aki shot him a flat look. "And how would you know what girls like?"

Denji wasn't getting any action from anything other than his right hand any time soon.

"I'm telling you, man," Denji continued, completely unbothered. "I saw it in a soap opera once. Dude showed up at her place after they had a fight, and she practically tackled him into bed. Tore his clothes off. Total win."

Aki sighed, then glanced back at the bouquet. The color of those tulips reminded him of you, of the shade of your lips right after he kissed you. The soft look on your face just before you asked him – begged him – to push you a little further.

Aki dropped the bouquet into the cart like it had personally offended him. The flowers landed with a soft rustle, crushed a little against the metal. "No. I'm not doing that," he muttered, pushing the cart forward. "She told me not to come by. I'm not just going to show up like some creep."

Behind him, Denji trailed close, his grin still plastered on like it had been superglued there. "Don't be ridiculous," Aki added, glancing over. "That stuff doesn't happen in real life. You know soap operas are fake, right?"

Denji gave the aisle a quick glance, then leaned in like he was about to share state secrets. "So girls don't, like..." he whispered, "...orgasm?"

Aki stopped walking and smacked him upside the head, flat-palmed and hard enough to make a dull thwack. "Keep your voice down, dumbass."

Denji stumbled a step, rubbing his skull.

"Real life's nothing like the pornos. Once you figure that out, maybe you'll actually get laid," He added.

Denji narrowed his eyes. "Oh yeah? And how would you know, topknot?"

Aki should've ignored him. Should've walked away, found a new aisle to disappear into.

But then, incriminatingly enough, his mind thought of you.

Thought of the way your lashes fluttered when you came undone atop him, the way your breath hitched when his canines grazed your neck, the way your fingers trembled when you reached for him after. His jaw clenched.

Denji's eyes lit up, like he could follow the entire trajectory of that thought. "No way," he gasped. "No way."

Aki blinked. "What."

"You're not a virgin?" Denji looked like he'd just discovered aliens.

Aki sighed. "I'm twenty-two."

"That doesn't mean anything!"

"We're not having the birds and the bees talk in the middle of the store," he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. "I need a fucking cigarette."

"How many?" Denji asked, as if he were polling for science.

"Probably a few," Aki replied dryly. "You're aging me prematurely. I think I'm getting gray hairs because of you."

"No, how many girls have you banged?" Denji pressed. Then, glancing around the aisle, he leaned closer, cupping his hand around his mouth so no one else could hear him. "And do you know how to make them–?"

"That's none of your fucking business," Aki snapped, shooting him a look sharp enough to silence him for exactly two seconds. Across the aisle, an old woman furrowed her brows. Aki shot her an apologetic expression.

"Go be useful. Help Power pick out a bar of soap or something. She needs it. Badly," He sighed.

Seemingly undeterred by Aki's command, Denji pressed his luck, grin widening, "You're deflecting."

Aki paused, narrowing his eyes at the little twat. "Where the fuck did you learn that word?"

"TV," Denji shrugged, like that should have been obvious.

"Oh my fucking God," Aki reached up to pinch his temple. There was a migraine coming, he was sure of it. He alwayshad one when Denji was around. "I knew I should have hidden that damn remote."

That was the problem. He let Denji have the TV for thirty minutes each night. Thirty fucking minutes while he stepped out for a smoke, and suddenly the kid was a licensed therapist.

"This girl you like..." Denji asked again, like he didn't give a damn who might have been listening. "Did you do her, too?"

Aki looked around, like you might have been lurking just around the corner. Then, he reached into the cart, rolling up the promotional flyer and promptly smacking Denji over the head with it.

"Do you want to get your ass kicked?" Aki returned the question. He was deflecting. He hated how right Denji was.

"You're not denying it!" Denji shouted out, shoving a finger in Aki's face like he'd cracked a fucking murder case. "Hayakawa, you dog!"

That's so rich coming from this little perv.

Power spoke up at the end of the aisle (as if this whole situation couldn't have gotten any worse). "He's not a dog, you moron. He's a human. Everyone knows that."

There is no God, Aki thought.

Denji ignored her. "Why is everyone but me getting laid?" He groaned with a dramatic toss of his hands up into the air. Then, as if struck by some source of fucking inspiration, he added, "Hey... does she have a younger sister?"

Aki stopped in his tracks at that. Then, he turned slowly, bearing a look on his face that could have withered a fucking plant.

Finally, Denji caved. "Okay. Geez. Nevermind," he muttered. "I hope you get gonorrhea. Bitch."

"Eat shit," Aki retorted flatly, pushing the cart again. "Maybe if you spent less time pissing me off and more time talking to real women, you wouldn't have anything to complain about."

"Why? So I can end up all stressed and broody over some chick, like you?" Denji laughed, clapping an unwelcome hand on Aki's back. "Yeah, I'm good."

"Beats dying a virgin," Aki taunted him, shrugging him off. He knew it was low hanging fruit. He didn't give a shit about being the bigger person, not anymore.

And definitely not when Denji frowned.

Aki told himself he wouldn't bother you – that he couldn't see you again. You wanted to be good.

And, apparently, he didn't. There he was, standing outside of your church holding the bouquet of flowers he'd picked up the day before at the supermarket – only one day after your husband left for Kyoto. He knew it was deplorable, fuck, he knew he was out of line, but he felt like he would have died if he didn't at least try to make ammends with you.

He watched the doors like some shameful apparition, far too scared to actually go in, bouquet of tulips clenched in one hand. He'd meant to throw them out, he really did. He came close – three times, actually. But he couldn't.

So, he brought them. He wasn't entirely sure how this whole stupid idea of his would actually go. The fact that he was even here, waiting outside such a sacred place knowing he'd already tasted the forbidden fruit, was crazy.

He shouldn't have come.

In fact, he was about to turn and go right back to the car, but those damned doors creaked open, and he watched as the churchgoers came pouring out. Among them, you – sun reflecting off of the side of your face, making the curve of your cheek glow soft and gold.

And, your eyes–

They fucking softened when they found him. Not in anger, no... in recognition. Like some part of you had wanted him to come.

You wandered over to where he was standing – fearlessly, too. Gently, you peered at the tulips in his hand and took them without hesitation.

"They're beautiful," was the first thing you said to him.

The words were enough to kick his heartbeat up a few notches. He did his best to ignore the feeling he got as your fingers brushed his. He didn't trust himself to speak, but the words, "Do you have a minute?" were out before he could stop them.

He nodded towards his car, hoping that you didn't misinterpret what he was saying and assumed he wanted to repeat past mistakes (he did, just not today). You followed without question, heels tapping against concrete as you made your way to the passenger seat. He followed suit – but only after holding the door open for you.

Once the two of you were in the car again, Aki swallowed, clearing his throat.

"I wanted to apologize," He finally began, voice hoarse. "For my actions last week. It was... unprofessional of me."

He paused after the words he'd rehearsed were out in the open. Every line of restraint, every intricately chosen phrase slipped right through his fucking fingers the moment he laid eyes on you.

"There's nothing to apologize for," You breathed out. Your voice was soft – too damn soft. "I don't regret what we did."

Aki's breath stilled entirely, like he would create a hairline fracture in the moment by releasing it. You weren't looking at him, not directly – your gaze was hovering somewhere past his shoulders, like you, too, felt as if eye contact would unravel you. You were sad – he could tell, and it killed him to think that he might have been the cause of that.

Is it because I sent her husband away? He thought.

"Why did you come here, Aki?" You asked, finally addressing him by name. It looked like you knew the answer and just didn't want to hear it. "What do you want?"

The words cut a whole lot deeper than he expected, but he figured it was the least he deserved for complicating your life. So, instead, he glanced away, jaw flexing.

"Do you want me to tell you what I wanted to tell you?" He asked you. "Or do you want the honest answer?"

It was raw – uncharacteristically so, even for him. He simply couldn't bear to beat around the bush any longer.

You blinked up at him, like you hadn't expected him to be so candid with you, but nodded anyway. "Be honest."

Here goes nothing, I guess.

Aki's shoulders sank, feeling the weight melt away from his shoulders.

"I want you," He admitted quietly. "I want... I want us to stop pretending this didn't happen. I want us to stop ignoring each other. I want you to get out of my head – to stop haunting me every time I light up a fucking cigarette."

He swallowed, voice dropping another notch, like he was ashamed. "I... want to be with you."

That was it. The words were out, now, and he couldn't take them back. His heart felt like it was about to beat right out of his chest. Slowly, he turned to look at you, frightened by what you might say.

You didn't speak. You sat there, looking at nothing in particular, eyes shimmering with unfallen tears. You reached up to wipe them quickly, like you didn't want him to see it.

"I know you sent my husband away to Kyoto," You spoke up, tone unreadable in a way that had him overthinking it. "I'm glad you did, honestly. I haven't been able to look him in the eye since..."

You trailed off, sentence unfinished. "I don't know what to do, Aki. I'm so confused, I feel like my head's about to burst."

He sighed, quietly resigned to his own fate. "I know I... I know I shouldn't be here. I know it's not fair to ask you for anything else given that I've already put you in a horrible position."

His gaze fell over the street, like maybe the answer was out there instead of in the car with you. "But, I can't–"

He faltered.

"I feel like I'm losing my mind," He exhaled. "I swear, I'll forget about what happened between us, if that's what you need– if it means I can keep seeing you, even just like this."

But, the moment the words left his mouth, he knew he was full of shit. He could never forget you, even if he wanted to.He couldn't even pretend that your touch hadn't burned a hole straight through his skin, like kissing you hadn't scarred his memory.

You started to cry, then, effectively cracking his heart open in his chest.

He wasn't being fair to you.

"I'm sorry," He whispered, reaching out to wipe a tear from your eye. "I shouldn't have said that."

"That's the thing," You answered back, eyes glassy as you looked into his. "I do– I do want to see you again. I wanna make the same mistake again. I want..."

You trailed off again, and it made Aki want to rip his own hair out, before you went back on what you sai, "You shouldn't be here, Aki. Someone will see you."

"Let them see," He rushed out. He didn't care how desperate he seemed. No, he would have regretted it for the rest of his life, if he didn't tell you how he felt. "Are you happy?"

The words felt foreign, uncanny.

"What?" You asked.

"With your husband," He swallowed. "With your life. Are you happy? If you are, then tell me, and..." He damn near choked on his next words, "I won't bother you again. I'll go, I swear, I'll understand. I won't bother you anymore."

He meant it. He swore he did, even if the thought of never seeing you again felt like resigning himself to death.

You looked up. Opened your mouth, like you wanted to say yes, like you wanted to tell him your life had been perfect before he'd come along and homewrecked it. But nothing came out, and you sealed your lips a moment later.

Reaching into the pocket of your pants, you pulled out a small object – his lighter. You took your hand and pressed it into his palm, gently curling his fingers around it like a goodbye you couldn't even say out loud.

Then, before he could stop you, you were opening the car door and stepping out without a word. Gently closing the door. Walking down the street with the morning sun shining off of your silhouette.

His hand tightened around the little lighter like it might have kept the moment – might have kept you from slipping out of his grasp. Helplessly, his eyes trailed you as you continued right on down the road – down your back, down to the curve of your hips, the way they swayed as you walked away.

Even devastated, he still couldn't fucking help himself.

"Fuck," He muttered beneath his breath, covering his eyes with his hands and laying his head back against the seat.

The rain was coming down heavily – it had been falling for hours, the kind of rain that soaked deep into the concrete, the wood of the porch, made everything smell like earth. Aki sat slouched on the steps, elbows braced up on his knees. A half-burnt cigarette was pinched between two fingers.

His skin was still tingling from how cold he'd let the water run during his shower only half an hour ago. It was a vain effort to get you out of his head, a last ditch attempt, and it obviously didn't work.

Tonight, there had been a celebration of his birthday. Nothing too big. A few of the division leaders had organized a little get together at a nearby izakaya in his honor. His chest was still warm, skin buzzing from the few beers in his system. It had been a pleasant distraction. Hayakawa's birthday. Another year older, another year spent above ground.

He wasn't drunk anymore, though, and now his fingers were trembling as he lifted the cigarette butt to his lips. They hadn't done that in a long time – not since Himeno had passed. Not since those nights when he would sit out on the porch just like this, too drained to even stand, chain smoking in complete silence to quell the emptiness in his chest. The tip of the cigarette glowed orange as his hand shook. He pretended he didn't notice either.

Because he was a glutton for punishment, apparently, his eyes drifted across the street. The outline of your house was familiar, even in the rain. A light was on upstairs.

Were you up there? Reading? Crying? Lying awake, staring at the ceiling, just as he had been doing?

Were you thinking about him?

God, he could only hope you were.

Aki let the warmth flow into his chest before he exhaled slowly, smoke curling around his jaw, bleeding into the rain. The water ran in rivulets from the porch roof, a steady dripping sound.

It was your birthday, too. You were probably spending it alone. Your husband was in Kyoto, after all. It was unfortunate timing, honestly (he knew he was selfish).

He closed his eyes. Inhaled again, and the smoke caught a little in his chest.

Suddenly, Aki remembered why he didn't do relationships. This was why.

It ran deeper than grief. It was hollow – it was loneliness, sharpened into a blade that cut him deep. He didn't want to go back inside of the house. It felt too damn empty.

He dragged another inhale and looked over at your house.

Are you thinking about me?

A part of him wanted to walk across the street and knock. See your face, even if only for a moment – even if you only told him to leave, even if you didn't say anything at all.

Fuck, he needed to hear your voice. To see you again. Anything was better than this fucking silence.

Outside of the porch, the rain kept on falling. He pulled another drag, slow and savory, craning his neck back to breathe it out. His eyes remained glued onto the light in your window like it might have given him an answer – remind him that he wasn't alone.

It didn't, of course, because he was alone.

He missed you.

He missed you like his body missed oxygen. Like he missed the feeling of that first smoke. Like thirst, like obsession.

You had her, and you let her go.

Shit, if he left right then, he could have been standing at your front door within a few minutes. Less, maybe. That's all it would take – just a few steps.

I feel lost without her.

The thought came hard and fast; Don't go over there.

You'll only make things worse.

A more reasonable version of Aki Hayakawa would have made peace with that fact already, but he wasn't himself. Instead, he leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees, watching the rain wash the world in silver.

His eyes found your porch again before he could stop them.

But what if she's thinking about me, too?

It was so fucking stupid. He knew that, but the ache wouldn't leave.

Stay, he thought. You would hate him if he showed up again. You had every right to.

Go, said the more depraved half of him.

Aki soothed a hand over his face, trying to talk himself down from the ledge. Be sensible.

But you were in his mind again, like a fucking symbiotic organism that had crawled its way inside and sunken its teeth into his brain.

Denji's words from the supermarket were a cruel, broken record.

"Just show up. Girls love that shit."

Aki squeezed his eyes shut. There's no way I'm about to take advice from shit-for-brains.

Oh, but he was.

"Fucking idiot," He sighed aloud – to Denji or himself, though, he wasn't entirely sure. His cigarette was down to the filter now, burning just a little too close to his fingertips. After a long moment – watching the burn climb higher and higher – he flicked it out into the street. The ember spun, hissed as it made contact with a puddle and went out.

Fuck this, he thought. Then, he stood, stomach turning the moment he did.

Before he could stop himself, he was already stepping out into the rain, letting it drip down his damp hair, letting it seep through his sweater. He moved through anyway, driven by nothing more than pure, stupid obsession.

His sweatpants were damp by the time he reached the sidewalk. It reminded him that this was really happening – that he was really alive. As each step brought him closer and closer to your house, his heart wouldn't stop pounding in his chest. The porch was steeped in warm light. From here, he could hear the birds chirping outside of your place.

His hands stayed in his pocket the whole time, fingers curled tight. It was pathetic enough that he had come over in the first place, but to trudge through the rain like some lovesick asshole in a drama was low, even for him.

But something in his chest refused to give.

You'll regret it if you don't. You'll regret it for the rest of your fucking life.

He hadn't felt this nervous in years. He knew better, and he was doing it anyway.

Go home. Be a fucking adult for once in your life.

His feet met the base step of your porch. He hesitated. He was cold to the bone, and he couldn't bring himself to care.

Then, after a lengthy pause, he knocked three times. Then, he waited, heart in his throat, lungs tight in his chest, until the door opened.

You appeared, like something out of a dream, wrapped in light and the comfiest-looking nightgown he'd ever seen, brows furrowed in disbelief. He swore the oxygen left his lungs entirely.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

The scent of dinner drifted out from behind you – you were cooking. Oddly enough, the smell was reminiscent of a childhood he'd nearly forgotten. Of a warm bowl of soup after school, of his mother's arms.

You smelled like home.

"You'll catch a cold out there," You breathed out softly, glancing behind him to make sure no one was watching before ushering him inside, "Come inside."

Aki nodded. Again, he didn't really trust his own voice to convey what he wanted to say – hell, what did he want to say?

Either way, he kicked off his shoes when he stepped inside and reached back to shut the door behind him – and lock it, sealing his fate.

He hadn't meant to stay, of course, but the second that door was closed behind him, he knew he wasn't going anywhere.

a/n: i know. im getting so bad w the cliffhangers though, buttttt its so late over here rn so i wanted to drop a lil sum sum before going back to publishing my other two (the dante ff and pornstar, duh). im so behind. wish me luck as i catch up!!! x oh, and as always, yall better lmk what you thought in the comments ;)))

credits: I obviously do not own csm or anything related to it. please do not reproduce, copy, or translate my works anywhere. dont fk w me im a bruja.

also: come find me on my wattpad if u wanna interact more!

taglist: @mitsuyeahhh , @sleepysnk , @enneadec , @noaabean , @em1e , @drakensdarling , @bertholdts--butt , @satanlovesusall666 , @mitsuwuyaa , @noctifule , @scaraphobia , @ask-the-insect-hashira , @lovingranchturkeyweasel , @bontensbabygirl , @slvdsjjk , @novacrystalli , @hanmastattoos , @kodzuksn , @hqtiny , @ohmaiscool15 , @redlittlequeen , @leivane , @goldeneagles-posts , @yeahblahlame , @no-oneelsebutnsu , @cookiesandcreammy , @cawwn , @the-haitani-baton , @littlelovebug98 , @armani78 , @mindurownbussines , @kokos-property , @violetmatcha , @hp-simp505 , @acethebrave , @mitsuyeahhh , @sleepysnk , @enneadec , @noaabean , @em1e , @drakensdarling , @bertholdts--butt , @satanlovesusall666 , @mitsuwuyaa , @noctifule , @scaraphobia , @ask-the-insect-hashira , @lovingranchturkeyweasel , @bontensbabygirl , @slvdsjjk , @novacrystalli , @hanmastattoos , @kodzuksn , @hqtiny , @ohmaiscool15 , @redlittlequeen , @leivane , @goldeneagles-posts , @yeahblahlame , @no-oneelsebutnsu , @cookiesandcreammy , @cawwn , @the-haitani-baton , @littlelovebug98 , @armani78 , @mindurownbussines , @kokos-property , @violetmatcha , @hp-simp505 , @mrshayakawaa , @xxpr3ttyk173rxx

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