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kechiwrites · 2 years

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| kinktober week one | ♱ denial ♱ | mob!au ushijima wakatoshi x reader |

synopsis: “Being with him was like falling off a cliff, sometimes you jumped, sometimes you’d tripped. Other times Wakatoshi would push you, over and over, and you never quite fell far enough for your head to meet the pavement racing forward to greet you.” wc: 5k cw: angst, power imbalance, language, unprotected sex, minor character death, NO MINORS. author’s note: finally! the prequel for approval arrives, it’s only 2 years late. it’s not necessary to read approval first, you can read them in either order honestly. also! most kinktober fics will be posted mon/wed/fri. enjoy.

approval (pt. 1) ♱ find the rest of my kinktober masterlist here

The kitchens are always so loud, but the sounds of working and cooking and cursing and laughing drown out your musings on what you’re doing with your life.

Your co-worker, Hana, whips past you with a tray heavily laden with food, opening the door to the dining room with her hip. It’s not all that busy, lunch service on a weekday was particularly slow for the kind of lofty, too-high-prices for too-small-plates restaurant you worked at, but a surprisingly large group of brunch moms had settled at the center of the dining room, right in her section.

“He's at your table again babe,” she’s about to push out of the door completely before she doubles back to add; “Well technically he’s at one of my tables but he asked for you. Again.” You nearly choke on the soup you'd been hunched over, and plunk the little ceramic bowl down, wiping nonexistent crumbs from your mouth and apron. Even through her laughing, the look on her face is ripe with insinuation and you know you’ll be recounting the exact details of what he said and what he did and if “he smiled this time?”

In your rush to see him, you nearly smack your head on the swinging kitchen door, your mild embarrassment at seeming so eager pushed askance. It’d been two and half weeks since you’d met, waiting on his table of business associates during an oddly slow dinner service. You’d placed plates and refilled glasses, trying in vain to keep your eyes off the cut of his jaw and the slope of his cheek. Every minute you could steal away from the table of men was spent catching your breath in the walk-in, goosebumps raised by his gaze maintained by the chill biting through your uniform sleeves.

When the meal was done and they’d called for the bill you were only too happy to slide the leather folder onto the table, careful not to angle it towards anyone in particular. Before it could even make contact with the linen tablecloth, Ushijima plucked it from your grasp, sliding in a handful of bills and depositing the filled sleeve into the pocket of your apron.

“Keep the change.” he murmured, voice pitched low and honey sweet as he rose from the table to loom over you. With a practiced, startling quickness, the men accompanying him also stood, clearly gathering themselves to leave. You mumbled out a thank you, eyes pinned to a scuff on the hardwood floors of the dining room, happy to be done with the entire encounter. Happy to have your temperature return from its fever pitch.

Just as you’d pivoted to escape to the kitchen’s safety, his arm shot forward to capture your forearm, and the sensation of his touch ricocheted up your arm into your chest where it spread like ice. For a moment you worried you had offended him somehow and that come that time tomorrow you’d wash up on some shore a thousand miles away from home. After a split-second of panic, his fingers slid lower to cover your wrist, your pulse beating against his fingertips, and the panic was quickly replaced with desire.

“What time do you have?” The question was so mundane it rattled your mind.

“Huh?” You’d managed to choke out, face twisted in confusion. You could hear the redhead who’d been sitting immediately to his left chuckle at you, catching the sight of his hand covering his mouth in your periphery.

“What time do you have?” His tone barely shifted, but looking back, you’d describe it as amused.

You glanced down at the watch wrapped around your free wrist and rattled off “10:28, sir.”

It had been the only words you exchanged that night, aside from his order, but for Ushijima, it had apparently been enough.

He’d left you half your rent as a tip.

You had known who he was, the moment he and his companions sat down, your manager had whispered his greatest hits into your ear. Protection fees, bribes, enforcement, probably murder.

Now he was a regular. Your regular.

“You know you keep coming by and I'm gonna start thinking you like me.” You pull the small notepad out of the apron tied around your waist and tap your pen against it. As always, it’s hard to meet his eyes, so you opt to doodle little flowers in the margins.

"Would that be so bad?" This forces your gaze upward, his voice is teasing, but his face, and what a face it was, is blank. Almost scarily so.

“Depends on how you look at it.” You abandon your flowers.

“How do you look at it?” His eyes are shrewd as he settles back into his chair. On anyone else, the movement would seem casual, but with him, it looked like a threat. Everything he did looked like a threat.

Sometimes you wished he’d make good on them. On you.

“I'll let you know when I've figured it out,” you snort, despite yourself. “Can I get you anything, maybe a glass of wine?” you gesture to his table, empty of anything but place settings and spotless glasses, one for water and another long stemmed crystal that usually went unfilled.

“I don't drink.” He murmurs, voice just above a whisper while he drags the pointer finger of his left hand over the tines of his salad fork.

“Do you ever relax?” Your eyes are drawn to the movement, following the gentle path along the cutlery, and when he stops, you force yourself to meet his stare. The look he gives you makes you feel as though he’d given you a test, and try as you might, you can’t tell if you passed or failed.

“I indulge in other things.” The phrase is dripping with promise and you find yourself tingling with the familiar excitement his presence brings. He shoots you a meaningful stare, eyes now focused on the set of your mouth as you speak.

“I'll be right back with your water.”

Somehow the refuge of the kitchen is less hot than the dining room where he sits, waiting for you. Regardless, you still feel like sticking your head in the dishwater just to cool off.

When you can bring yourself to return with his ice water, Ushijima’s table is empty, save another exorbitant tip, and a perfectly square piece of paper, folded in half. You slip the tip into your apron and unfold the note, revealing text written in thin, slanted script; “Antonio’s, 9 PM”. The dark blue ink is slightly smudged over each following letter.

You stash the note away with his tip and think to yourself; ‘Hm. He’s left handed.’

That night, you’re hardly halfway into your meal with Ushijima, woefully trying to soak up your pre-dinner glass of wine with the fancy pasta he’d recommended to you, when he asks you a question.

“Do you have a man to take care of you?” He stares at you unflinchingly, hands folded in his lap, food barely touched. You almost choke on a noodle at his bluntness, and narrowly avoid coughing into your hand by forcing the stray fettuccine down with, you guessed it, more wine. The waiters here must’ve been paid by the pour.

“I don't see how that's any of your business.” You manage to spit out, covering your mouth with your hand daintily, pausing to set down your fork.

“I want to make it my business.” The phrase sends heat up your spine and you desperately tamp down your desire to lean forward and whimper “Whatever you want, Mister.”

Instead, you opt to answer diplomatically; “What if I told you I do?”

“You're not going to say that.”

Ouch.

He doesn’t wait for you to respond, pushing on, not to explain himself; he never explains himself. Ushijima speaks to inform you. How kind.

“Not because I don't think men want you, I know men want you. I want you. I don't think you'd entertain me if you had someone in your life.”

If you were pressed later on, you’d say that’s when Ushijima Wakatoshi had you. That’s the moment you fit so sweetly in his palm. That’s when your heart swore fealty.

But in the moment, you just really wanted to fuck him.

“Fair enough.”

Your next sip of wine empties the glass.

All your following dates after the first have a strange shade of innocence to them. Ushijima, even with his thick perimeter of bodyguards and seemingly bottomless pockets, is content to take you out for ice cream, to pick you up after work and hold your shopping bags while he foots the bill. It’s all surprisingly pedestrian for a man with a body count in the hundreds. Allegedly, of course.

And then, after date number six, when you’re thanking him for walking you home, and the night around you is still and quiet and comfortable, he tells you to call him Wakatoshi, and you think that he might just be in your palm too.

The first time you have sex, the two of you are lying on your slightly too small bed, and you almost cry with how good it feels. He touches you so softly, but every part of him is so firm. And he kisses you so much, on your lips, your cheeks, your throat, the small of your back, where your thigh curves to make your ass, the inside of your wrist. It feels as though there isn't a moment where his lips aren't pressed to your skin, and you revel in the feeling. In the soft downward slope of his shoulders and the short puffs of breath against your temple while he drives into you. The first time he makes you come it stops all thought, every worry of how bad he was for you, how far and fast you were falling. It’s all so good that it’s only the pressure of him bearing down on you that stops you from passing out from the pleasure.

For a while you stay like that, with him inside you, unmoving, and you beneath him, gasping for breath. He hasn’t finished yet and he makes it painfully clear, rubbing his thumbs into the tensed muscles of your thighs and calves, urging you to recover. You almost ask him to stop, the contact is nearly overwhelming.

Then he asks you.

“That's not enough for you, is it?”

And you agree. You push him away and slide out from under his hold, twisting deftly until he is below and you are above. You straddle him and take his head between your hands and watch the most feared man in the city crumble beneath you. He pours himself into you, hips stuttering against you in his desperation, sweat slick palms sliding over your skin while he fucks you to completion.

Toshi is not sweet, or charming or even very kind, not unless his lips are pressed to yours while his hands go soft over your breasts, thumbing and grasping at the plush skin beneath your shirt. Regardless, where he goes, you follow, until you're tumbling head first into something you couldn't have possibly prepared for.

There were times when the reality of what you were doing struck you upside the head and made you question everything. When you were alone and your mind could go unchecked, focus on something other than Wakatoshi burying his teeth in your shoulder while you came on his fingers. Times like when your boss couldn’t quite keep eye contact with you during front-of-house meetings. Or when you were sure a police cruiser was tailing you. Or when the intense bodyguard (with a fucking bowlcut) who so clearly disliked you slammed the town car door just a little too hard. But Toshi was close by, ready to wipe away worries with soft lipped kisses and lingering touches and presents he “thought you would like”.

And he was always close by. He hoarded your attention like he hoarded power and influence. For the first three months you'd been together, he had refused to call you by your name in front of his men. As though it was knowledge only he should know, a power only he could have.

It was surprisingly childish, but the proclivity faded eventually. Instead, he showed his influence in different ways.

Over time he develops this method of persuading you, of asking you questions until you gave him the answer he wanted to hear. Sometimes you weren't even sure if he knew he was doing it. It started with little things, things that branded you as “his girl”. Making reservations using his name, even when he wasn't present. Letting him fuck you in the back seat of one of his glossy black cars, even after insisting you weren't "that kind of girl" (whatever the fuck that meant), breaking your lease and moving onto his estate, into a bedroom across the hall from his. Not that you spent much time there.

Then the things Ushijima asked for weren't so little anymore.

“Put in your resignation.” He mutters, patting the inside of your thigh when he pulls away from you. The switch to Ushijima Wakatoshi, “the Underground Crime Boss” from Toshi, “man who just spent an hour grinding your clit against his tongue” makes your head spin and it takes you a minute to realize he’s talking about your job at the restaurant. Unfortunately, the feeling his command causes is familiar, and unwelcome.

“A place like that doesn’t need a resignation.” You laugh him off and rise to shower, legs pleasantly unstable, but before you can start wobbling to the bathroom, he catches you by the wrist. His fingers press forcefully against your skin, anchoring you to the spot.

“Good. Make the call then.”

His tone brooked no room for further discussion, and you acquiesced, just to get that cold, sharp gaze off your skin, out of your hair. Later you’d tell yourself he would’ve convinced you eventually and you were just saving the both of you some time, time better spent with him inside you. You’d tell yourself that you never really even liked your job, just the people and they’d be easy to reach.

But it didn’t make you feel any better.

Being with him was like falling off a cliff, sometimes you jumped, sometimes you’d tripped. Other times Wakatoshi would push you, over and over, and you never quite fell far enough for your head to meet the pavement racing forward to greet you. Mostly, you could only feel the air rushing past, whipping over your skin, watering your eyes. But occasionally, things would happen that force you to remember the ground, and fear makes your stomach flip flop into your throat. And you truly honestly think; “I’m going to die.”

The parties, however, are a definite bonus, you meet interesting people, you wear nice clothes, the top shelf, premium quality alcohol is free and you spend the majority of the night tucked securely into Toshi’s side. But the best part is the looks, the fear. You’d never really experienced anything like it before. People stare at you in reverence, they try to impress you, people you barely know stumble over themselves to make you happy. Because you’re Toshi’s girl.

It’s intoxicating.

The vodka helps too though.

And tonight it’s in excess. You’re not even quite sure what’s being celebrated but Toshi had thrown open your bedroom door, small, wrapped silver box in hand saying little but “get dressed”. When you asked what for, he’d shrugged and muttered something about a nightclub before placing the gift in your expectant hands. Inside had been a diamond tennis bracelet, each inlaid stone winking it’s own brilliance at you. Easily one of the most expensive gifts Toshi had ever given to you, and his small, indulgent smile as you’d secured it to your wrist confirmed its importance. He’d placed his hand on your cheek and pressed his lips to yours gently, whispering against your mouth; “Let’s show it off.”

And really, how could anyone say no to that?

“Quite the step up from bussing tables, ain’t it.” Tendou is addressing you, which is rare enough that it pulls you out of your reverie. What isn’t rare, however, is the seedy, leering smirk on his face when he looks at you over the rim of his crystalline whiskey glass.

“It’s nice.” You shrug, and Toshi adjusts minutely so you can lean forward, the movement jostling the diamond drop earrings you’d received for your birthday. You smile placidly at him and will your heartbeat to remain steady. In reality, everything about Tendou makes you nervous, where Ushijima is blunt and quiet, Tendou says a lot and means so very little. His eyes are sharp and unwavering for everyone, even for those you assume he likes and though it’s easy to forget that the men and few women who surround you on a daily basis are hardened criminals (many of whom treat you like a little sister of sorts), Tendou is undeniably dangerous, and he wants you to know it.

When you do speak again, your voice is deceptively even and playfully regretful; “I do miss the tips though.”

Tendou’s answering laugh is loud and abrasive. He raises his glass to you, seemingly satisfied with your answer and the breath you release is just barely a comfort. Toshi tugs you back into place and before you’ve even settled, his lips brush the shell of your ear.

“Be good.” The command sends a shock down your spine that settles as a flutter in your abdomen.

“When am I ever not good?” The flirting comes easier with the time that passes. Over the year you’ve spent together, you’ve struck a balance between what Toshi wants people to see of you and what you want to show. It feels almost like...putting on an act, saying the lines that will get a reaction, playing a part the audience wants to see. The Mobbed Up Girlfriend. Not quite as out of the know as you really are, beneath the jewelry and liquor and bodyguards.

All of that show just to strip it down when you’re by yourself, really by yourself, and you have to confront the constant, suffocating, looming threat of danger and secrets, of blood and money. Of Wakatoshi taking phone calls in other rooms, and harshly whispered commands and family meetings you aren’t allowed to attend.

But right now, in the dark, numbingly loud nightclub, nestled deep into Ushijima territory, you have a play to put on.

So you play. Ushijima turns and asks Shirabu for a cigarette, who quickly provides for his boss. Ushijima balances it between his lips and begins to remove the arm around you to light it. But because you’d forced Toshi to watch a gangster movie with you (“it’ll be funny. You can tell me what they do wrong.”) and you were apparently stupid, you sneak your hand into the inside pocket of his jacket, wrapping your fingers around his silver lighter, before you tug it out and light his cigarette for him.

Toshi, for a fraction of a second, looks shocked and the rise of his eyebrows delights you. Then his face settles into something darker, more...considering. And your delight melts into desire. Without a word to the hangers-on nearby, he stands, his hand clasping yours, tugging you through the dance floor filled with shaking, sweating bodies and into the restroom. Immediately, you’re met with three pairs of curious eyes, eyes that just as quickly swing to the man accompanying you.

“Out.”

The men’s room door is barely shut before your dress is rucked up around your waist and Toshi pushes inside your weeping cunt, trailing feverishly hot, open mouth kisses up the exposed column of your throat.

“What part of ‘be good’ don’t you understand?”

The interior of the car is plush and warm when you enter, the running engine thrumming pleasantly beneath your shaky legs. Goshiki’s knife-sharp gaze meets yours in the rearview window. “He’s still inside. I’m leaving a little early.” You mutter, not wanting to explain the tear up the side of your dress to Toshi’s most unlikeable lackey. Without another word, he pulls out of the club’s parking lot, speeding along the route to the estate. It’s silent for a while, after all, there’s no love lost between you and your “babysitter” and you’re content to sit in the bitter quiet, watching the streetlights zip by.

“You know it's a power thing right?” Goshiki snipes, eyes back on you when you drag your eyes back to the mirror.

“What?” You’re practically soaked in alcohol and you can’t be bothered to drum up even a little softness in your tone.

Not that he deserved it in the first place.

The way he looks at you makes you sick, makes you uncomfortable, like you're something stuck to his shoe.

"It's a power thing for him. Man like him can have anything he wants." his brows come together in the center, and you can feel the envy roll off him in waves, thick to the point of suffocating you. "Anyone, so he picked you. A little waitress from the big city." He sneers.

And you know, of course, that it's true. You, like all things, are just another facet of Ushijima's business, a more personal account he handles himself. Kept so close, to lose you would be a liability. He loved you, he said so himself, but he keeps you at a distance.

But that doesn't mean you have to let disrespect slide.

“Being rude to me won't make him like you, you know.” Your voice is so cold it almost shocks you, but for better or for worse, watching Toshi conduct business everyday has changed the way you speak. ‘Just a little bit’, you reassure yourself. “It won't make them take you seriously.” Your perfectly manicured nails dig into the buttery leather of the seat between you, before you lean forward to hiss in his ear; “You're just a foot soldier.”

“And you're a stress reliever.” He bites at you, his foot falling heavy on the gas pedal in irritation, forcing the car to accelerate further.

“Maybe.” You hum, “But I get to stay inside the house. Can't say the same for you, can we?” The harshness of your taunts fills your ears, and it may as well be another person speaking entirely. But the way he pales and tears away his gaze makes you feel….good. In a way you don’t want to examine.

Goshiki leaves you alone after that.

For the most part, everyone keeps you at an arm’s length when it comes to Toshi’s business, and you’re grateful. The ugly seediness of the city’s underbelly is a world you don’t care to explore, even though you're happily perched on the lap of the man who controls it.

That being said, there’s hardly anything you can do to stop his enemies from trying to get to you. It’s not intentional, not really, but it is business, and business is fucking important.

It’s business that has you leaving the estate earlier than usual. Apparently, Toshi has the entire underworld coming to the estate for some sort of “gangster summit” (Tendou’s words of course) and he wants you out of sight.

“Just for the day. I’ll make it up to you. Keep your head down, follow orders for once.” He’d murmured above you while you looped his tie, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head before turning his broad back to you, the soft click of the bedroom door closing behind him eliminating any chance of your refusal. Not that you had one brewing anyway.

It was hard to turn him down when you first started seeing each other, now it’s near impossible. Now, the slightest downturn of his mouth, the incredulous uplift of his brow is enough to turn the “no” on your lips to ash. The shame only settles in when he’s not around to fuck it out of you. It trails behind you like smoke curling and cloying wherever you go, following you out of the main house and down the driveway, Goshiki, ever present at your side. You wave at Kai, who’s sitting sleepily in the driver’s seat of the slick black sports car at the end of the driveway. He returns the gesture, smiling back before turning the key in the ignition.

You’d never seen an explosion in person before, like any normal goddamn person, but before today you had figured it would be close in approximation to what you see in movies, and on tv. And yeah, you weren’t stupid, you knew those were controlled, and on sets and sound stages, but how far from the truth could they be?

Very far, as a matter of fact.

It’s the light that hits you before anything else. It’s impossibly bright at first, and in the back of your mind you wonder if you’ll be blinded, if you’d keep your eyebrows, even though you weren’t very close at all.

Then the sound of it — the delay was a little disturbing — the crushing boom of Toshi’s favourite convertible exploding into flames came maybe a quarter of a second after the light, and your screaming started with the heat. You screamed and screamed even through the smothering presence of Goshiki’s palm.

You could’ve been in there. Wakatoshi could have been in there. Burning to death like the driver is right now, the driver with the small, sweet smile. Too sweet for the work he does. The driver who likes the chai lattes you bring him most mornings, even if “they’re not a man’s drink”. For business.

Head? Meet pavement.

It’s four days after the car incident, the incident no one will mention around you, the one that left Ushijima’s favourite ride a smoking heap of burnt out metal, the one that almost killed you, the one that reportedly left a little girl fatherless. He’d all but shoved you out of the house, foisting you onto Goshiki, if only to evade your questions, your concerns, your night terrors.

“Go get something to wear, we’ll go out tonight.” The paranoia scratching at the inside of your skull almost makes it impossible to process what Wakatoshi is asking of you, but you nod anyway, slide the folded bills he offers you into your coat pocket and descend the stairs to where Goshiki is waiting, sullen but blissfully quiet. On your way down, you catch the beginning of Toshi’s conversation before he shuts himself behind his office door; “I don’t want any more close calls.” Your stomach flips in time with the door slamming shut and you swallow down the bile rising in your throat.

What the fuck is happening?

Shopping is a dull affair lately, expensive clothes and saccharine perfumes slipping through your fingers with disinterest. Anything that does catch your attention is scrutinized with thoughts of how quickly it would burn up in a staged arson, how well it could stop a bullet, how much or how little it would hurt Ushijima to sell it or toss it out after he’d buried you in the estate’s garden. After hours of the same, of sales associates with the word “commission” sparkling in their otherwise dull eyes, of Goshiki grunting and sighing about having “better shit to do”, you call it, ready to slink your way over to some luxe hotel room to burn away the rest of your exile.

The car sits gleaming in the parking lot and as it has done every day since, your heart skips before you remember that every single vehicle that goes in and out of the estate has been checked thoroughly over and over. However, before you can stash yourself away in the backseat to pour over what the fuck you were doing with your life, you’re approached by a pair of uniformed officers, their faces smeared with tepid smiles, as if they wish to put you at ease.

“Excuse me Miss…” the officer trails off, leaving space for you to finish your name. You don't, instead you stare, placing three heavy shopping bags into Goshiki's waiting hands.

“We'd like to speak with you,” the taller officer with a goatee and long hair addresses you, his thumbs tucked into his belt. “regarding an incident that occurred outside your residence the other day.” The other police officer, wearing a badge brandishing the surname ‘Nishinoya’ eyeballs Goshiki, his entire — admittedly small frame — fraught with tension, as though he’s waiting to pounce. “If you have some time.” The first officer adds, his gaze never straying from your face.

The rules drilled into you by Toshi are so well ingrained you begin to speak on autopilot.

“Am I being arrested?”

The officer blinks, and shakes his head, the corners of his mouth pulled down in a frown. "No ma'am. But we are asking you to provide us with a statement."

Later on, when you’re sitting on the cold, cold steel chair in the precinct, shivering and willing yourself not to whimper under the detectives’ heavy, judging gaze, you’ll realize that it was the word ‘witness’ that set Goshiki off, reminded him of his fucking job.

Your babysitter-bodyguard steps in front of you, shielding you from the officer’s view, shoulders hiked up to his ears.

“You can let her come with us, or I can find a reason to put you in the cop car too, and I promise you the trip won't be quite as nice.” Officer Nishinoya chirps, shifting towards the two of you.

“It's fine.” You place your hand on Goshiki’s shoulder, hoping to stave off any upcoming outbursts, if not for his sake, then certainly for your own. “I'll come.” You circle around the men, almost relieved that you’ll be someplace, where for once, you are out of Wakatoshi’s grasp, out of his influence, at least for a little while.

“He won’t like this.” Goshiki spits, his eyes nearly bulging out of his head as the officers guide you into the backseat of the cramped cop car they arrived in.

“He wanted me out of the house, Goshiki. I’m following orders.”

whew! longest fic yet i believe. again, you can find approval, which takes place directly after this fic here. scope the rest of my kinktober 2022 masterlist here!

#wakatoshi ushijima #ushijima wakatoshi x reader #wakatoshi x reader #ushiwaka #hq!! fanfiction #haikyuu x reader #kinktober 2022 #ushijima x reader #ushijima x you #mob!au ushijima #approval verse #kechiwrites #kechiwriteskinktober

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