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[keijicyl]

# Akaashi and Bokuto layout

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[iliacobserva-deactivated2023103]

my tits are too pretty for this. for all these agonies.

[official-boob-posts]

official boob post

[tio-trile]

[rinoomi]

more akaashi

[dark-art-666]

[miplup]

post-game dinner

[5555ilenthill]

[seumyo]

HAIKYUU BOYS ✰ HOW THEY WOULD BE IF THEY HAD A CRUSH ON SOMEONE

FEATURING. Kageyama T., Kuroo T., and Akaashi K.

NOTE. i’m giggling at these ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ ) + starting to lean into more headcanon posts because it’s so fun!

KAGEYAMA TOBIO — SUDDENLY FULL OF QUESTIONS

When Kageyama Tobio has a crush, he’s suddenly full of questions.

He doesn’t realize when it starts, only that something feels different, like a switch flipped quietly in his brain without his knowledge. One day he’s focused on his volleyball, on keeping his head in the game, and the next he’s glancing sideways at you without meaning to, his thoughts drifting away from volleyball formations and subjects that he badly needed to pass to play volleyball. The questions come before he can stop them, slipping out of his mouth as if they’ve always been there, waiting.

“Hey,” he says from his seat, eyes still glued to his notebook like that might hide the heat creeping up his neck. It doesn’t help that his notebook’s blank.  “What’s your favorite food?”

He sees you look surprised, eyebrows raising before you smile at him. “Huh? Curry, I guess.”

He nods slowly, committing the information to memory even though he has no idea why it matters so much. His pencil scratches against the page, writing nothing important. “Spicy or not spicy?”

You tilt your head. “Medium.”

“…Okay.” The word comes out firm, decisive, as if he’s just confirmed something important. He forces himself to look back down at his notes, shoulders stiff, ears burning red.

A few minutes pass. He manages to last exactly two minutes before the need to ask another question becomes unbearable.

“Do you like cats or dogs?”

Your shoulders shake as you try not to laugh, turning in your seat to face him properly. “Cats.”

“Why?”

“They’re quiet,” you answered after a second. “And cuter, personally.”

He hums under his breath, satisfied. That makes sense. He likes that answer more than he probably should.

After practice, you walk home together, the air cool and the sky painted in warm shades of orange and pink. Kageyama doesn’t think about it when he slows his pace to match yours; he just does. His bag hangs heavy from one shoulder, the sound of your footsteps falling into an effortless rhythm.

“Do you get cold easily?” he asks suddenly, staring straight ahead.

You laugh at him again, light and surprised. “That’s kind of random.”

“I’m just asking.” His tone is defensive, even though there’s no real reason to be.

“Yes,” you answered, still smiling. “Why?”

“…Nothing.” He shakes his head once. “Just—good to know.”

You wrap your scarf tighter around your neck, glancing at him from the corner of your eye, clearly amused. Kageyama doesn’t say anything after that, because he could barely look at you—too focused on the thoughts that are running in his head.

The next day at lunch, he notices it without meaning to. The empty space on your table. The way you pause, looking around like you’ve forgotten something. Without thinking, he slides his unopened milk carton toward you.

“You didn’t bring a drink.”

You blinked at the carton, then looked at him, your expression soft albeit surprised. “Oh. Thanks.” You nodded. “You noticed.”

“…Yeah.” He looks away quickly, pretending to adjust his bangs, his heart thudding too loud in his ears.

You eat in comfortable silence for a while. Ten seconds pass. Fifteen. It becomes unbearable.

“What music do you listen to?” he asks.

“Soft stuff. Acoustic. You?”

“None.”

You snorted. That figures.”

He frowns, genuinely confused. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re cute,” you reply easily, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Kageyama immediately chokes on his rice, coughing as his face turns red. You pat his back between laughs, apologizing even though you’re clearly enjoying this. All Kageyama could think about was the pressure of your hand on his back as he almost had a near-death experience. Your hand was very light and gentle.

Later, when you’re assigned to clean the classroom together, the room feels quieter than usual. Sunlight spills through the windows, dust floating lazily in the air. Kageyama works quietly, but his attention keeps drifting to you as you wipe down the windows, humming softly under your breath. The sound sticks with him, like a lullaby.

“Do you hum when you’re happy?” he asks before he can stop himself.

You paused, turning to look at him. Your pout is thoughtful but fond. “Yeah. Do you ask questions when you’re nervous?”

“I’m not nervous,” he says instantly, too fast.

You shrug your shoulders, clearly unconvinced. “Uh-huh.”

He doesn’t understand it. He just knows he wants to know everything—what makes you laugh, what you eat when you’re tired, whether you prefer sunsets or sunrises. The questions feel endless, and none of them feel unimportant.

You step a little closer to him when you finish. “You know, you can just say you want to spend time with me.”

Kageyama freezes, every muscle locking up as his face burns hotter than it ever has. He stares at the floor, fists clenched at his sides.

“…Is that ok?” he asks quietly, completely serious.

Your laughter is music to his hears—what is wrong with him? “Yeah, Tobio. It is.”

He nods once, like he’s made a decision in a match. “Okay.” He swallows. “Then—can we walk home together again tomorrow?” Tomorrow because he knows that volleyball practice today will end late, and he doesn’t want you waiting for him so late.

Your answer comes without hesitation. “Of course.”

KUROO TETSUROU — STUDIES IN ADVANCE TO IMPRESS YOU

When Kuroo Tetsurou has a crush, he becomes unbearable in the most subtle way possible.

He doesn’t brag outright—he’s not that obvious. Instead, he prepares. Thoroughly. With intent.

The night before chemistry class, he’s sprawled across his bed, textbook open, phone discarded somewhere near his pillow. He’s already finished tomorrow’s homework, but that isn’t enough. He rereads the chapter anyway, flipping pages with practiced ease, making mental notes of things that might come up. Not because he’s worried about the test. Because you sat one row ahead of him, and sometimes—sometimes—you turn around and ask questions.

He wants to be ready.

The next day, Kuroo leans back in his chair as the teacher drones on, eyes half-lidded, posture relaxed. To anyone else, he looks bored. Lazy, even. But he’s listening, catching every word, every concept he already knows by heart. Also because he’s studious like that.

Sure enough, you turn around, pen tapping lightly against your notebook. “Hey, Kuroo.”

He perks up instantly. “Yeah?”

“You get this part?” You point at an equation. “The coefficient change.”

“Oh,” he says casually, like he hasn’t memorized the entire section. “Yeah. It’s just adjusting for the reaction rate.”

You squint. “Just?”

He grins. “You’re overthinking it.”

You scoff. “I am not.”

“You totally are,” he says, leaning forward. “If you isolate the variable first, it’s way easier.”

You study the equation again, and then he sees your lips curl into a small, smug smile. Oh no. “That only works if you assume ideal conditions.”

Kuroo pauses.

“…Okay, yeah,” he admits, impressed despite himself. “But that’s what the teacher’s going for.”

“Still,” you say, chin lifting slightly, “it’s not wrong to consider alternatives.”

He laughs quietly. “Did you study ahead again?”

“Maybe,” you replied innocently, even batting your eyelashes at him. “Did you?”

He shrugs. “Maybe.”

If “maybe” was 96 hours of him studying non-stop and juggling that alongside volleyball, then yes, maybe he did study.

You hold eye contact for a second too long, and Kuroo suddenly feels the urge to blink because he thinks his face is growing hot. He feels something in his chest—that spark he always feels with you, the way conversations with you never feel dull or one-sided. You don't just listen. You push back, whatever that means.

After class, he falls into step beside you in the hallway, hands tucked into his pockets.

“You’re annoying,” you mused lightheartedly.

“Because I’m right?”

“Because you enjoy being right.”

He smirks. “I do. Sue me.”

You bump his shoulder with yours. “Don’t let your head get too big.”

You stop by the lockers, and Kuroo leans against the metal casually, watching as you fumble with your lock. “So,” he says, tone intentionally offhand, “you like physics or chemistry more?”

“Physics,” you answered without hesitation. “It makes more sense.”

“Oof. Bold take.”

“You disagree?”

“Chemistry’s more fun,” he says. “More variables. More chaos. Plus, Lab’s fun when we get to do actual experiments.”

You laughed, nodding your head. “That tracks.”

He watches your expression, the way your eyes light up when you talk about school, about learning. He likes this side of you. Likes that you don’t dumb yourself down. Likes that you challenge him.

But he wants more.

The walk toward the school gates together was as mundane as can be, afternoon sun filtering through the trees.

“You always ask me about school stuff,” you pointed out suddenly, glancing at him. “Is that, like, your thing?”

Kuroo blinks. “What, being smart?”

“No,” you reply, amused. “Being… this.”

“This?” He gestures between you.

You shrug. “Debating. Studying ahead. Competing.”

He laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Guess so.”

There’s a beat of silence before he adds, “I can ask about other stuff too, you know.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Like what?”

Like what music you like. What makes you laugh. What you do when you’re not being ridiculously smart.

A million topics just went through his head.

Instead, Kuroo says, “Like… what you do after school.”

You nodded your head slowly. “I tutor my cousin. You?”

“Volleyball,” he replies easily. “Captain duties. Being awesome.”

You rolled your eyes at him. “Naturally.”

He grins, emboldened. “You ever come watch?”

“…Maybe,” 

…

“If you promise not to show off.”

“No promises.”

You laugh and shake your head and start walking again. He follows, heart a little lighter.

“Hey, [Last Name]?”

“Yeah?”

He hesitates, then asks, “What do you do for fun? Like—not academic fun.”

You think for a moment. “I like reading. Baking. Long walks.”

“Baking, huh?” He perks up. “What kind?”

“Cookies. Mostly.”

He nods seriously. “Important information.”

“Why is that important?”

He shrugs. “Just… wanna know more about you.”

Your steps slow. Just a little.

“Oh.”

You reach the corner where your paths split, and for a moment neither of you moves.

“Well,” you started, tucking your bag higher on your shoulder, “see you tomorrow, know-it-all.”

“Later, genius,” he replies.

As you walk away, Kuroo watches you go, smiling to himself. He still wants to impress you—always will—but maybe it doesn’t have to be just about textbooks and equations.

Maybe it can be about cookies. 

Oh, man. He was going to learn how to make the world’s best cookies.

AKAASHI KEIJI — THE CHALANCE IN NONCHALANCE

Akaashi Keiji is painfully aware of how conscious his breathing is.

In, out. Counted. The same way it always is—except today, it feels louder, like his body is betraying him with how aware it is of you. You sat one row ahead by the window, sunlight catching in your hair as you absentmindedly twirled your pen between your fingers. You aren’t paying attention to the lecture at all. Akaashi notices because he always notices things like that.

Patterns. Habits. 

The way people drift when their minds are elsewhere.

You look peaceful. Unbothered. And for some reason, that makes him want to disrupt it—just a little.

When the teacher pauses to write something on the board, Akaashi leans forward, voice low and careful, like he’s approaching a wild animal he doesn’t want to scare away.

“You’re going to miss the notes,” he says.

You flinch slightly, blinking as if you’ve been pulled out of a dream. You turn to him, eyes widening for half a second before softening. “Oh—sorry. What?”

“The last problem,” he explains, gesturing vaguely to the board. “It’s… important. Probably.”

You look back up front, then sigh. “I always zone out during explanations.”

“I wrote everything down,” he adds quickly, then hesitates, realizing how eager he sounds. He clears his throat. “You can copy mine later. If you want.”

Your lips curve into a polite smile, familiar and practiced. “Thanks, Akaashi. You’re always so calm and prepared.”

Always. That word lands heavier than it should.

He shifts in his seat. “I’m not,” he says before he can stop himself.

You blinked again, clearly confused. “Not… prepared?”

“Not always,” he clarifies, then feels compelled—why does he feel compelled?—to keep going. “I forget things. Often. Yesterday I left my uniform at home. And last week I forgot my lunch.”

You stare at him for a moment, then let out a small laugh. “That’s it? That’s your big secret?”

He nods solemnly. “Yes.”

“That’s very normal,” you say, amused.

“I am,” he agrees. “Normal.”

“You don’t have to convince me.”

Akaashi leans back, heart thudding a bit harder than usual. That didn’t go the way he planned—but you laughed. That counts for something.

When class finally ends, the room fills with noise—chairs scraping, voices overlapping, the familiar chaos that Akaashi usually slips away from unnoticed. Today, though, he times his movements carefully. When you stood up, he stood too, slinging his bag over his shoulder.

“Are you heading to the library?” he asks, keeping his tone neutral even as his pulse spikes.

You look genuinely surprised, eyes flicking to him as if you hadn’t expected him to speak again. “Yeah. I have to finish my literature report.”

“I have a case study,” he says, then adds, “I could also… be there.”

There’s a brief pause, just long enough for him to wonder if he sounded weird and if this is the part where you tell him off. Then you smile. “Let’s get going, then.”

You walk side by side down the hallway, not quite close enough for your arms to brush, but close enough that Akaashi is keenly aware of your presence. He feels strangely stiff, unsure what to do with his hands, so he just clasps them on his front like he normally would.

“What’s your report about?” he asks, partly to fill the silence, partly because he genuinely wants to know.

“Romantic poetry,” you replied with a grimace. “Which is ironic, because I don’t really get romance.”

He glances at you. “You don’t?”

“It feels exaggerated. Like people overthink every little thing.”

He almost smiles. Almost. “Sometimes,” he says slowly, choosing his words with care, “people don’t know how to express themselves properly. So it comes out… awkward. Or intense.”

You hum thoughtfully. “Is that your personal opinion, or are you analyzing human behavior again?”

“…Both,” he admits.

You laughed, this time louder and unguarded. The sound hits him square in the chest, warm and dizzying. Akaashi feels something loosen inside him. He did that. He made that happen.

In the library, the air is quieter, softer. They sit across from each other at a long table, sunlight filtering in through tall windows. You spread your notes out, chewing on the end of your pen, brows furrowed in concentration. Akaashi opens his notebook too—but instead of studying, he finds himself watching the way you scrunch your nose when you’re thinking.

“You’re not studying,” you pointed out without looking up.

“I am,” he replies automatically.

“You haven’t turned a page.”

“…I was thinking,” he admitted.

“About volleyball?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

The question hangs between you. His chest tightens, nerves buzzing under his skin. He could deflect. He usually does. But today, he doesn’t want to.

“…How to make you laugh again,” he says quietly.

Your pen stills. You look at him, really look at him, eyes wide and searching.

“That’s…” you paused. “That’s actually really cute.”

Heat rushes to his ears. “I’m not very good at it,” he admits. “I think I made it weird for the both of us.”

“I think you’re doing fine,” you tell him. “You’re just not what I expected.”

He meets your gaze. “Is that bad?”

You shook your head immediately. “No. I like it. You’re not just the calm, intimidating setter everyone talks about.”

“Intimidating?” he echoes faintly.

“A little,” you shrugged. “But now you’re just… Akaashi.”

The way you say his name—casual, familiar—makes his chest feel strangely full.

He reaches into his bag and pulls out a small juice box, setting it on the table like an offering. “I forgot my lunch,” he says flatly. “But I remembered this.”

You stare at it, then burst into laughter, covering your mouth. “Is that your proof of being normal?”

“Yes,” he says, utterly serious.

Your laughter fills the quiet space between the shelves, bright and genuine, and Akaashi watches you with something soft and steady in his chest. He thinks—this is enough. For now.

Being a little weird doesn’t feel so bad if it makes you smile like that, especially when he's being true to himself.

SEUMYO © 2025. PLEASE DO NOT REPOST, PLAGIARIZE, MODIFY OR TRANSLATE.

[bbrothertedd]

[sunee-syrup]

genius. [akaashi keiji x f!reader] chapter four.

>>You struggle to pay rent on your limited graduate student salary, and your worst enemy agrees to help you out.

or

You realize you need to find a partner for your faceless porn account, and Akaashi Keiji is the only man who meets all your requirements.<<

previous. || masterlist.

a/n: welcome to the end <3

You don’t talk about it.

The thing that had happened that night – that thing that you don’t want to acknowledge – stays silently between you through all of Thursday and well into Friday morning, when you’re standing outside of the hotel with your luggage and searching for the LEM members.

Well into Friday morning, when you lock eyes with Akaashi Keiji for the first time in two days.

You’d called in sick yesterday, emailing your advisor and asking for some time to recover – “recover”, meaning you’d sat in bed all day with your phone on silent and your head swirling with memories of Akaashi whispering your name, of him begging you to say his because he couldn’t come without it. Of his mouth on yours, of desperation and need and heat that required release.

You were certain that you were coming down with something, because your skin had burned all day and your head had fogged over, unable to see light despite every effort to think of something but those cyan eyes.

Those cyan eyes, wide and nervous, burn through your skin now, too.

“There you are!” your advisor says, waving you down from the front steps of the hotel.

You smile to yourself, snaking through the crowd of other departments, other universities, other cohorts of grad students. You try not to look too nervous, try not to look too distracted–

‘Say my name again. Please-’

You blink it away, tugging your scarf up around your face despite the burn in your skin. 

“Alright,” your advisor says, gesturing inside. “Let’s get to the lobby before the check-in lines get too long. We’ll divide up keys at the elevator, ‘kay?”

He leads the group of you inside, and you’re surrounded by the luxury of the largest conference center in Japan. A massive elevator bay to the left of the registration desks, a fully stocked bar and lounge to the right. Signs pointing toward the back hall, signaling an indoor pool and hot tub. A restaurant tucked away down a different hall, guaranteed to run a bill in the triple digits, if not quadruple.

Three days of luxury and networking, fully covered by the university.

Three nights sharing a room with the man who makes your skin burn to all hell.

“Y/n, Keiji – get our keys, will you?” 

You swear your advisor knows. He has to. There’s no other explanation.

“Of course,” Akaashi mumbles, that soft-spoken tone digging its home under your ribcage.

The immediate bubble of personal space surrounding the two of you while you wait in line is stagnant, pushing its limits to the point of bursting.

After a moment filled with the crashing energy of everyone else’s excitement – friends from different universities reuniting like schoolchildren, giggling and screaming and hugging in a way that makes you look around for Yachi’s sweet little hairdo – Akaashi speaks.

“How’d the poster end up?”

You take a sip of your takeaway coffee, trying to find the courage to look up at him-

‘Please. I’m really close.’

There’s hot coffee splattered all over your face.

“Jesus-” you cough, wincing at the burn and hoping no one important saw that.

“Are you-” He’s reaching to wipe at your skin.

‘Please, ‘Kaashi – I need it. I need you.’

“I’m good,” you laugh awkwardly, flinching away from him. He hadn’t even touched you – hadn’t even made contact – but you can still feel the heat of his skin. You know the feel of his hands on yours, know the feel of his voice whispering your own name against your throat. “Uh-” You shake your head, wiping your face. “It turned out okay, I think. I managed to get the pilot data analyzed, and I included some of the case stuff you wanted.”

Watching him fail to dampen his own grin of satisfaction makes the embarrassment of admitting that completely worth it. He steps forward as the line moves, and you go with him, lingering close when the lobby starts to get a little too crowded. His cologne floods your senses when his shoulder passes near your face. You find yourself wondering if he can smell your perfume, or if you just smell like coffee.

“How’d the talk prep go?” you ask, distracted and fuzzy-headed.

He breathes out a laugh, angling his body toward yours. You wonder if it’s because of the group of girls glancing over him from the next line. You wonder if you’d even have noticed them if things between you and Akaashi weren’t what they are.

Whatever the hell that might be.

“Slide deck is done,” he starts, glancing back awkwardly and then stepping closer to you. It’s confirmation of your previous suspicions. 

You don’t know why he’s signaling so hard to those girls that he’s not available – in particular, the supermodel-esque one with the long, dark hair and the sultry, siren eyes that stick firmly to the side of his face – but you’re almost guilty to be glad. Glad that he’s peeking warily at her out of the corner of his eye, glad that he’s making a point to face you but not so much that she can’t see how he takes your space like it’s his.

Because it is. His.

Your stomach flips traitorously, so you take another sip of coffee and look away.

“I included those counterexamples you had,” he mumbles, shuffling forward with the line again. “It was a bitch to reframe my account with less than two days to do it, but it’s done.”

Your own satisfied grin escapes before you can even think to dampen it.

“You can just admit I made your argument stronger, ‘Kaashi. It’s okay.”

You don’t mean to say it that way, his name, but the flick of his eyes to your mouth makes it hard to regret.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” His tongue runs along an incisor while he waits for you to answer. 

You know what that tongue feels like in your mouth.

“You know I would.” You try to match his confidence, the ease of his tone, the edge in his words.

What comes out is a breathier version, full of desperation and a second meaning that only he can hear.

And he’d certainly heard it, because his nostrils flare and his jaw snaps shut. 

The curl of his fingers into the front of your scarf, rough and tight, makes your heart stop. He drags you toward him subtly, barely glancing down at you when you stumble into his side.

“You’re a real piece of work, you know that?” he mutters, low and for your ears only. His breath is warm against your skin. “You ignore my texts all day yesterday, and now you’re teasing me? In front of all these people, Y/n?”

All his texts–

“My phone,” you choke out, nervous. “It was on silent all day yesterday. I was working on the poster.”

“Bullshit,” he bites, not an ounce of malice behind it and his eyes seeing right through you. “You worked on it Wednesday night after I left.”

How does he know that? How does he know that you didn’t sleep that night? How could he possibly know that you were physically unable to fall asleep, to the point of sitting at your desk at two in the morning, hyperfocusing on your work for the sheer need to just focus on something that wasn’t him?

Akaashi’s gaze traces your features, lingering on your mouth before peeling away, as if by force.

He hadn’t slept that night, either.

“When’d you finish the reanalysis?” you whisper. “The one with my data?” You’re shameless, tying yourself to that thing he’d stayed up all night working on just to avoid thinking about you.

He doesn’t answer, just detangling his fingers from the front of your scarf and taking the last few steps to the front desk, a polite smile filling his face.

You stare at his back, dazed and blinking rapidly, and accidentally make eye contact with the Siren five feet away. She looks you over, squinting, and then lifts a brow in question when she sees you looking.

You can’t help the sly grin you slip her, your own eyebrows flicking up mockingly as you press close to Akaashi’s side. Your eyes burn into hers over his shoulder when he opens his body up to let you near him.

“You done marking your territory?” Akaashi breathes to you as he watches the concierge disappear into the back for room keys.

You shoot him a slight glare, both offended and embarrassed. “Depends,” you nip. “Is my territory marked?”

It’s a weighted question, one you’d meant as a joke and not at all in the way Akaashi seems to take it. He doesn’t look at you, eyes still on the back room, but his face does split into a shit-eating grin that lingers even when you groan and hide your reddening face in your scarf.

He smothers a breathy laugh, only nodding and thanking the hotel employee when she hands him the stack of keys for your labmates.

When he brushes past you, preoccupied with counting the keys, he drops his voice in that way he knows you like. 

“And you call me possessive.”

You want to set yourself on fire.

–

“He must know, right?” Keiji says, staring dreadfully down at the king-sized bed in the hotel room he’s sharing with you. You stare down at it with him, and then glance around – no other bed.

His advisor must know. He has to. There’s nothing else that could explain this.

You don’t bother offering to sleep on the couch by the window or the armchair in the corner. He wouldn’t have let you offer, anyway, but it does something to his chest that all you do is shed your coat and drop it on the bed.

“Right side or left?” you ask, depositing your scarf with it and then moving to drag your suitcase onto the little table by the TV.

Keiji glances between both sides of the bed. He remembers something his father said once, about how he should always let his woman take the safer side of things – the bed, the sidewalk – so that she’s protected.

Are you his woman?

He doesn’t know, but the idea of you sleeping closer to the door makes him uneasy.

“This one,” he gestures blandly at the right side, as though he hadn’t just contemplated your entire relationship.

He unpacks quietly, unsure what to say to you. Unsure how to address Wednesday night, unsure how to tell you he’d dreamt of you whispering his name into his hair and thanking him like a mantra when he’d come inside you.

He shivers, eyes unfocusing slightly before he remembers himself.

“Uhm-” you start, and he freezes, worried that he’d said something aloud. That you’d caught him daydreaming about your teeth digging into his bottom lip.

He turns over his shoulder, eyeing you warily.

You’re standing shyly beside your suitcase, holding your tripod in both hands.

Keiji thinks God might be real.

“Here?” he breathes, voice cracking.

Your eyes widen, and your grip tightens. “I-We don’t have to. I just brought it in case-”

“No,” he says sharply, and then shakes his head. “No, I mean yes. Yes. It’s good–It’s a good idea–” He gestures awkwardly to the room and the bed. “Change of scenery, or–”

‘Change of scenery’ is what he’d used as an excuse to be near you on Wednesday, closer than he should have been but not nearly as close as he’d wanted to be. That close, he’d gotten just a few hours later, with his tongue down your throat and your legs hooked over his elbows.

Your face floods with heat. You remember it, too, then.

That’s humiliating.

“So,” he says, busying himself with his dress clothes for Sunday. He hangs them gingerly in the closet, next to your outfit for the poster session tomorrow. He doesn’t want to think about how your clothes look next to his in a closet. He can’t. That’s not allowed. “Any scheduling ideas?”

You clear your throat. “Well, I think the group is gonna hang out today, so I was thinking tomorrow?”

After your poster session. Before his talk. The perfect excuse to burn off his own stress and also help you celebrate a job well done. Maybe you’ll mark him up a little, just enough that he has to hide it in his collar. Maybe he can tell you again how good you are, in your ear and against your skin and down your throat–

“‘Kaashi?” You sound confused.

He’s hard.

“Yeah-” he says thickly, shaking out his dress shirt one more time. “Tomorrow night’s good.”

–

You and Akaashi attend the opening remarks of Ling Expo, sitting dutifully beside your advisor and meeting each other’s eyes, unimpressed, when he leans in and whispers ‘Room okay, you two?’ with an evil look in his eye.

You finally manage to locate the rest of your friends after dinner, when Bokuto sends a string of loud texts demanding Mermaid Time, which Akaashi very graciously translates for you through the wall while you’re lining your toiletries up on the bathroom sink.

“He wants to go to the pool,” he says, voice muffled. “Did you bring a swimsuit?” 

You chew on your bottom lip, sighing to yourself. “No. I can just sit on the edge and put my feet in, I guess?”

“That’s no fun.”

“You got any better ideas?” you joke, shaking your head. You lean into the shower and line your shampoo bottle up next to Akaashi’s, trying not to linger too long on the idea of domesticity. 

The bathroom door is wrenched open – you jump, spinning just in time to catch a white t-shirt to the face. The door shuts again.

“There. Problem solved.”

You blink, inhaling the scent of Akaashi Keiji as the shirt falls into your hands.

“What’s this?” you say, albeit it a little stupidly. It’s one of the department shirts, Tokyo Linguistics scrawled across the left chest patch in familiar print. You have the same one at home.

“My sleep shirt. I don’t have extra trunks, though, so you’re outta luck there.”

You breathe out a laugh, mind turning over itself quickly. “What’do you plan to wear to bed, then?”

“I think we’re past that point, don’t you?”

You press the shirt to your face, hiding from no one. 

“And what am I s’posed to say when our friends see me in your clothes?”

“Just put the shirt on, Y/n.”

You don’t need to be told twice.

When you exit the bathroom in nothing but a pair of panties and his shirt – long, hanging past your ass, and very clearly not yours – Akaashi says nothing. But his eyes linger long after you’ve turned to sift through your suitcase, heat burning up the backs of your thighs and sticking to the lace of your underwear.

You tug a pair of shorts on for the walk to the pool and throw a towel over your shoulder, glancing expectantly at him when you’re ready to go. He continues to say nothing, just gesturing for you to leave first. He follows you all the way to the elevator, where you press the button and wait for it to come to Floor 9. 

He waits until the doors are about to open – it’s noisy on the other side, full of people – and then shifts his weight, pressing his side against yours.

“Looks good on you.”

The entire ride to the lobby is spent trying to hide your burning face from him.

–

“What the absolute fuck are you wearing?”

You choke on a gasp, turning to face Hitoka in the women’s locker room. Her eyes are bugging out of her head, and she rushes to you while glancing back at the door. 

“What do you-”

“It’s got his name on the back, Y/n!” Her voice is a low, horrified hiss, but her eyes are bright and wide and full of excitement.

You stare at her emptily, suddenly remembering that – Oh, right – the department shirts were custom-ordered.

Quietly – humbly – you march to the nearest mirror and turn over your shoulder, confirming the boldface ‘AKAASHI K.’ that stretches across your back.

Of course, he’d already taken that into account. Because Akaashi Keiji thinks of everything.

“It certainly appears that way,” you mumble, wondering how you’re going to make it through the weekend.

“You realize,” Hitoka starts, a smile stretching across her face and a thumb jabbed over her shoulder. “That the pool is extremely crowded right now.”

You hear what she doesn’t say.

“Possessive freak,” you breathe to yourself. And then you shoot Yachi a gentle smile, trying to talk your way out of it. “I didn’t bring a swimsuit – he was just helping.”

Her mouth opens, a laugh of disbelief falling out. But before she can scold you for lying to her, the door to the locker room creaks open, noise pouring in, so she just narrows a glare at you. 

“We are so not done talking about this.”

“Yes, ma’am,” you grumble, knowing full and well that the days of hiding your relationship with Akaashi – whatever it may be – are over.

When you round the corner back to the lockers, you find yourself face to face with the Siren from the lobby. She stares emptily at you, and you stare emptily back. You watch her drag her gaze over you – over the shirt that’s too big to be yours, over the lack of a proper swimsuit – and the corners of her mouth tighten, like she wants to fire off some snarky remark.

You just slip past her, stuffing the rest of your belongings in the little metal locker and locking it up tight with the hotel-issued lock. When you turn back, she’s staring down at the spot where Akaashi’s name had been, and Hitoka is staring up at her.

“Got somethin’ to say?” 

You remember, distantly and hauntingly, that Yachi Hitoka had grown into a rather outspoken woman.

The Siren’s eyes snap to your friend, shorter and less put-together than her, and just laughs.

“Nothing in particular.”

Damn. Even her voice is sexy. 

You grab Yachi by the elbow, just muttering ‘let’s go’ and dragging your little guard-dog away.

–

“Did Y/n just forget her own size when she ordered that shirt?” Bokuto says, laughing wholeheartedly as he points you and Yachi out across the room.

Keiji warms, sinking low in the hot tub in embarrassment.

Tsukishima hides a laugh behind his hand when he sees you, completely swimming in Keiji’s clothes. “Yeah, Bokuto,” he says. “And I’m sure she just so happened to get Akaashi’s size.”

You turn back slightly, glancing at the door to the pool anxiously, and your back flashes toward the hot tub.

Kuroo chokes on the beer in his hand. “I guess she forgot how to spell her own name, too!”

Keiji’s chest tightens with anxiety, and he watches Bokuto closely – watches as realization hits his friend like a truck.

The bigger man swings around toward him with wide eyes. “But-” He leans in, far too close to Keiji’s face. “What about that girl in your department? What will she say when she sees Y/n in your clothes?”

Keiji has to hand it to Bokuto – he technically had whispered it. The issue is that he’d whispered it in his own, Bokuto Koutarou way. 

Which, of course, is not at all.

He feels both Tsukishima’s and Kuroo’s eyes snap to him, understanding passing between them and completely over Bokuto’s head.

He just sinks lower in the hot tub. “Don’t think that’ll be a problem, Bo,” he murmurs, the sound bubbling through the rolling water.

“Hey, guys!” Yachi calls out to them, waving excitedly as she marches you over to their group.

“Something tells me we’re gonna need a guys’ night later, don’t you, Akaashi?” Kuroo says quietly, a warning that passes easily to Tsukishima, who just smirks to himself.

“Ooh, guys’ night!” Bokuto says, nodding enthusiastically.

The way you look when you arrive at the hot tub, face flushed and eyes vulnerably searching his – that’s the only reason Keiji can’t bring himself to regret lending you his shirt.

To his relief, none of the guys mention your clothes, but Kuroo does very pointedly shift away from Keiji, leaving an open space that you fill without thinking.

“You’re an asshole,” you mutter when you’re close. Pleasure warms Keiji’s chest, and the anxiety suddenly feels so far away.

“Funny way to say ‘thanks for the shirt, Keiji’,” he whispers back, taking advantage of Bokuto and Yachi’s immediate chatter.

“Something you didn’t think about, Keiji,” you start. Keiji’s heart lurches at the sound of his name – his name – in your mouth. “Is that this is a white shirt and I’m not wearing anything under,” you finish, breathed close to his ear. “Guess the whole room gets a show, huh?”

Keiji’s nostrils flare at the thought of his shirt sticking to your wet skin and revealing too much of your body for his liking.

He bites a response, shifting close to you and sliding a palm over the small of your back, possessive and heated. 

“Good thing my name’s on the show.”

He hears – loud and clear – when your breath catches in your throat. But, despite the uncomfortable tightness in his trunks, he just pulls away and forces his body to relax, arms stretched out across the edge of the hot tub. He forces himself to focus on something that’s not you – you, needy and flustered and entirely too easy to fuck with. 

Forces himself to focus on something else, because he doesn’t find that he wants to fuck with you. 

He just wants you. And he wants everyone to know it.

This weekend’s going to ruin him.

–

“Oh, you must be joking.”

You shuffle awkwardly around the hotel room, changing out of Akaashi’s wet t-shirt quickly and wrapping your towel around yourself. Yachi’s standing in the foyer of the room, staring down at the bed. 

“We didn’t arrange the rooms ourselves,” you explain, glancing sheepishly at her while you scoot past to hang his shirt on the shower railing. “Our advisor did it.”

She laughs, making herself comfortable on his side of the bed and scrubbing a towel through her hair. “So, what you’re saying is that he really wants you two together?”

You sigh, climbing onto your side gingerly. “Yeah, he’s made it pretty clear.”

“And?” She eyes you knowingly. “Did it work?”

You huff at her. “We haven’t even been here one night.”

“You know what I’m asking.”

“It’s not what you think.”

“Then what is it?”

You pick at a piece of lint on your towel. “It’s hard to explain.”

Yachi sighs, crossing her arms under her head and shutting her eyes. “We all know you guys are sleeping together.”

You frown to yourself. “Everyone?”

“Everyone. Bokuto hasn’t totally figured it out, but he knows something’s different.”

You shake your head. After all this time – after trying so hard to hide it – you can’t bring yourself to be distraught by this information. It was going to happen eventually, and things are changing so quickly between you and Akaashi that you don’t have the energy to worry about everyone else, too.

And you’ve been feeling it recently, this aching need to talk to someone about it. Especially after Wednesday night.

You sniffle to yourself. “I could really use some girl talk.”

Hitoka sits up right away, crawling in close to you. “I’ve been waiting! Tell me everything.”

“It’s really not what you guys are thinking,” you start. “Not exactly.”

“Okay…?” She nudges you gently. “Tell me, I can help.”

You groan, bracing yourself. “Uhm – I’m… a porn star?”

The silence that follows is one you’d expected.

“Like… in bed? I mean,” she laughs. “More power to you, babe, but what’s the issue?” You just stare at her, defeated. She blinks after a minute. “You’re joking.”

You shake your head. She grabs your shoulder, forcing you to look at her. 

“Like, an actual porn star?” 

“Well, I guess I’m not famous enough to be considered a star, but-”

She laughs. She just laughs and laughs and laughs, and you can only watch.

“Holy shit, are you serious? You really are?” When you nod, she flops back against the bed, looking delirious. “Is it good money?”

You smile, wondering why you had thought she might judge you. She’s your best friend. “It wasn’t at first.”

She hears what you purposely avoid saying, her eyes meeting yours. “So, Akaashi is-”

You just nod.

She squeals, turning over onto her stomach and screaming into the pillow, her feet kicking in glee.

“You’re so messy!” she yells into the bed. “That’s a recipe for fucking disaster!”

You nod to no one. “You can say that again.”

She’s in your face again. “What happened? Tell me. I need to know every detail.”

So you tell her.

By the time you’re done, it’s well past midnight, and you’re both curled up in bed, giggling like schoolgirls, hair tangled and half-dry and towels all twisted up. 

You’d missed it. You’d missed confiding in someone about something this personal.

“So, what?” she asks, quiet and sleepy. “He’s, like, your dom now, or something?”

You flush. “I dunno. I guess?”

“I mean, after Wednesday…”

“Yeah, that was… a lot.”

“And you haven’t talked?”

“No… It’s just killing me, because-” you sigh, shaking your head. 

Yachi tilts her head in your direction, examining you for a long moment. “You want to kiss him again.”

You don’t answer, just warming when you remember how his lips had felt on yours.

She snorts. “You like him. Real bad.” She taps your arm comfortingly. “And he likes you.”

You groan. “I don’t know, ‘Toka. I just can’t tell.”

“He gave you his shirt to wear in front of everyone. That wasn’t an accident, especially if he’s as possessive as you say he is.” When you don’t respond, she says one more thing before drifting off. “He wants you to be his. And he wants everyone to know it.”

You fall asleep right alongside her, your face warm and your skin tingling with the thought of Akaashi Keiji.

–

Downstairs, Keiji is having trouble holding his liquor. 

He’s avoiding the topic that Kuroo and Tsukishima seem so eager to get to, just downing drinks in a curved booth at the hotel bar and then asking the bartender for water so he’s not hungover in the morning.

“And then-” Bokuto says, continuing some story he’s been reciting for fifteen minutes now. “That student gave me a handwritten note thanking me for a great semester!”

Keiji smiles, patting him drunkenly on the shoulder. “That’s great, Bo. Your passion for the sport seems to really show itself in how you teach-”

“Okay, everyone shut the fuck up,” Kuroo interrupts, unable to take it anymore. “That’s great, Bokuto, it really is, but I need to say something.”

Bokuto, unsurprisingly, does not look even a little offended. “What, what?” he just says, excited and curious.

Keiji shrinks in his seat when Kuroo points straight at him.

“When did you and Y/n start dating?”

Bokuto’s golden eyes are on him. “What?” he all but shrieks. “But what about the other girl-”

“There is no other girl, Bokuto,” Kuroo says, exasperated. “It’s her.”

Keiji watches Bokuto process this information, and then he considers crawling into a hole and dying.

“Oh,” the bigger man says finally, a bit dazed. “Well, that’s good, right? I was worried about the other girl.”

Keiji groans, shoving his warm, flushed face into his hands and trying to stop his head from spinning. “We’re not dating.”

“Then when did you start fucking her?” Tsukishima says, shameless.

Keiji can’t help it. He glares right at the blond, his glasses skewed on his cheeks. “Careful.”

Kuroo and Tsukishima both whistle, eyebrows raised with interest. “Oh,” Kuroo laughs. “You’re down bad.”

Keiji just turns to Bokuto. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, Bo. We were– Things are complicated.”

His best friend just shakes his head, still a little dazed, and takes a sip of his drink. “No, that’s okay – I’m just processing.” He blinks and then looks right into Keiji’s eyes. “You’ve been different lately. Smiling more. It’s nice.”

Keiji doesn’t know what to say to that. He doesn’t know what to say to Kuroo and Tsukishima both nodding in agreement. 

“It’s just casual,” he mutters weakly. “Nothing more.”

“Bullshit,” Kuroo says. “You basically wrote ‘Property of Akaashi Keiji’ on her back at the pool.”

“She’s not-” Keiji sighs, shaking his head. He doesn’t know what he feels. It’s scaring him. “She’s not my property. She’s not mine.”

“You know, this actually makes a lot of sense,” Bokuto says thoughtfully. “You’ve been really weird around me recently, too. You get kinda cold when I get too close to her.”

Tsukishima snorts into his drink. Kuroo just stares at Keiji meaningfully.

“‘m sorry,” Keiji says, nudging Bokuto. “That’s not fair to you.”

“It’s okay!” Bokuto says, grinning. “Now that I know why, it’s kinda cute.”

“No, it’s not,” he argues, shaking his head. “We’re not together. It’s not cute or wholesome or any of it. It’s just casual.”

“Be honest, Akaashi,” Tsukishima pushes. “It’s just us here.”

Keiji looks deep into his eyes. “You first.”

Tsukishima has the decency to blush, as does Kuroo. Bokuto just laughs.

“Okay, that one I got,” he says, bumping Kuroo with his knee. “You guys aren’t exactly subtle.” And then he clears his throat, glancing down at Keiji. “So… since we’re all on the same page about them…”

Keiji just stares at his drink stubbornly, swirling the glass in one hand and watching the condensation wet the table.

“So, you’re saying that if someone from the conference tries to hit on her, maybe wants to take her back to his room…” Kuroo starts, and Keiji knows they can all see the way his hand freezes. “That you’d be alright with that?”

Keiji doesn’t answer that. He can’t. He doesn’t want to lie to his friends, but he can’t answer that.

Kuroo just nods, and Tsukishima and Bokuto just share a meaningful look. 

“Right,” Kuroo says. “Casual.”

Keiji just downs his drink in one painful, burning gulp.

–

You wake to a dark hotel room, to the sound of shuffling on the other side of the bed.

“Yachi,” a voice whispers, and then the bed shakes slightly when a hand tries to jostle Yachi. “Yachi, you have to wake up. It’s two in the morning.” 

You squint up at the shadow hovering over the bed, knowing by the shape of it that it’s Akaashi.

“Hitoka,” he tries again, and you watch him card his fingers through her hair with care. “Hitoka, come on. Bokuto’s outside, he’ll walk you to your room.”

Your heart thumps painfully, a warm feeling spreading through you when you see how gently he treats your best friend. He looks so sweet like this, it kills you.

“Mm?” Yachi finally mumbles, waking slowly. “Akaashi?”

“Hi,” he whispers. 

“You smell like booze,” she grumbles. “Sorry,” he says, laughing a little. “Bokuto smells worse.”

“Ugh,” she says, letting him help her sit up. He sits beside her, both their backs to you.

“Do you want me to get you some clothes for the walk?” he says, glancing over his shoulder at you to make sure he hasn’t woken you. You just keep your eyes closed until he turns back again. “Or, I can make Bokuto give you his shirt or something.”

“That’s okay,” she giggles. “I’m not the girl you want in those clothes.”

There’s a silence, one that makes your heartrate pick up, and then he’s clearing his throat. “What’d she tell you?”

You cross your fingers, praying Yachi doesn’t accidentally tell him how you feel.

“That’s for me to know and for you to never find out,” she says playfully, nudging him. “You’re not invited to Girl Talk.”

He just laughs. “Okay, I understand. If you figured out what the guys figured out, then we’re all on the same page, anyway.”

“Did the guys figure out everything? Like, everything?”

He pauses again, deciphering her meaning. “No. I guess not everything.”

“Okay,” she whispers. And then she lifts her finger to her mouth, shushing at him softly. “I won’t tell.”

He smiles, his grin visible in the moonlight. Your chest warms again, and you’re overcome with the need to kiss him. “Thanks, Hitoka. We appreciate that.”

She huffs at him. “But if you hurt her, I’ll kill you in your sleep and hang your skin suit on my office door.”

He just stares, blinking stupidly. “Understood.”

She stands, letting him guide her out of the room. You hear Bokuto just outside, whispering loudly that he’s ready to piggyback Yachi to her room.

The door shuts behind Akaashi, leaving you in the silence of your own heartbeat while you try to figure out what he’s up to. 

A hand touches to the side of your face. “Y/n.” When you don’t respond, he cups your chin with one hand. “Baby.”

You inhale with warm surprise, scrunching your face up when you hear him laugh under his breath.

“Knew you were awake,” is all he says.

“Whatever,” you grumble. “No fair.”

“You have to shower,” he mumbles, leaning down to wrap your arms around his neck.

You glare up at him in the dark, cyan burning right through you. “You sayin’ I smell?”

“No,” he laughs. He smells like rum. “I’m saying the chlorine is bad for your skin.”

“What about you?”

“I need to shower, too.”

You sigh, falling limp and letting him move your weight around all by himself. “Together, then.”

He pauses, staring down at you. “You wanna shower with me?”

“‘s late, I’m tired, you’re drunk.” It’s the only explanation you give.

He doesn’t respond, just tugging gently on the towel wrapped around you. It falls open, exposing most of your body to him in a way that makes your skin hum. And when he hooks his fingers into your panties and tugs them down, pausing to press a kiss to the skin between your breasts, you feel yourself give in to him.

“C’mon,” he mumbles, holding you against his body and lifting you off the bed. You wrap your legs around his waist and bury your face in his neck. 

“What was Guys’ Night about?”

He sets you gently on the counter, moving to the turn the shower on. “You know what it was about.”

“I told you the t-shirt was a bad idea,” you whisper nervously, swinging your feet. 

He just glances back at you, testing the temperature with his hand while he examines your face. “Do you think it was a bad idea?”

You just purse your lips and shake your head. He lifts both eyebrows and turns back to the water, waiting until it’s warm enough before he comes back to you.

“Then it wasn’t a bad idea,” he says, stripping out of his shirt and swim trunks.

That’s all he says about it, and that’s all you need.

He scrubs your hair in the shower, which you don’t make easy for him in the slightest.

“Can you please stand up straight?” he laughs. “I’m so tired.”

“Don’t wanna,” you say, face buried in his neck. “Gonna sleep right here.”

“Yeah? Am I that comfortable?”

“Incredibly. I like it here.”

He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing against your nose. “Yeah. Me, too.”

You lift your head, peering up at him. Watching how he watches you. Watching his eyes flit around your face, dropping to your lips and then away.

You plant a kiss on his mouth before you can overthink it.

There. You did it. You did what you’ve been wanting to do all day. Now you can be at peace.

Akaashi stares down at you. There’s no surprise written on his face, but he does look like there’s something more he wants to say. 

“What?” you whisper, neck craned back so you can look at him properly. 

He just presses his palm to the back of your head and drops his lips to yours.

You gasp against him, feeling his tongue slide against yours like a shock straight to the nerves.

Your back is against the cold tile before you can take another breath, an arm wrapped tight around your waist and his other hand cupping your face. Your fingers find their way into his hair, tangling tight and clinging when he starts to moan into your mouth. You dig your teeth into his bottom lip, trying to push your body impossibly closer to his.

“Fuck,” he whispers, pinning his hips to yours. You can feel him oh so clearly, hard and twitching against your thigh. “Can we…?” 

Your stomach flips. “We shouldn’t,” you breathe, trying not to think too hard about the way his quiet whine of protest slips down your throat. “You know we shouldn’t.” 

He doesn’t say anything in response.

He just pushes his lips harder against yours, sucking gently on your lip and putting all his energy into making your brain go staticky and numb.

And then he says it.

“Say my name, Y/n.” 

You shiver, heart jumping when you hear how your own name sounds against your mouth. 

“‘Kaashi,” you whisper, desperate. “‘Kaashi, we have to sto-”

His voice is hard, jagged and sharp and laced with the kind of begging that makes you want to melt.

“My name, Y/n.” 

Your heart stops in your chest. You pull away, looking up at him carefully. His face is flushed, breath ragged and full of alcohol, and his gaze is cloudy, like he knows he’s not thinking straight. His eyes flick between yours once, twice, and then down to your mouth.

“Please.”

You feel yourself break for him.

“Keiji…”

He shudders, his exhale mixed with a moan. You turn him slowly, pressing his back against the wall and leaning up into his face, your fingers carded through the hair at the base of his neck. He drops his head back against the tile, eyelids fluttering shut, and you swoop in, pressing your lips to his pulse.

“Oh, God,” he breathes, hands clamped tight to your waist. You push your hips against his, moving until you get what you want. His cock slides between your thighs, and you shiver against him, sucking on the spot where his pulse jumps. You don’t let him in, because you know you shouldn’t do more than this, but you can’t help that your eyes roll back in your head when he rocks his hips forward.

“Fuck,” he whispers, barely audible over the water. “Your thighs are so soft, Y/n.” 

You drag your lips over the column of his throat, his wet skin chilled on your warm tongue. “Keiji,” you whisper against the shell of his ear. “We’re not supposed to be doing this.”

“I know,” he groans, slipping his cock between your thighs again and again and panting at the feeling. “I know, fuck-” 

You lift your lips to his, not quite making contact. “We’re not supposed to be doing this, either.”

He nods, lips brushing against yours while he fucks your thighs. “I know.”

“But?”

He breathes out shakily, and you feel his cock twitch. He’s close. 

He presses his lips to yours weakly, moaning when you kiss him back. “You fucked me up, Y/n.” Your heart jumps, and you hold tight to him when he slots his lips against yours again. “You fucked me up,” he whispers against you. “I can’t go back.”

Your soul sings for him.

“Come for me, Keiji,” you whisper. “For me. Please.”

His head smacks back against the tile when he moans, loud enough that you need to clamp your hand over his mouth. He spills onto your thighs, warm in a way that makes your head spin.

“Thank you,” he whispers against your palm. You just lean your forehead on his chest and stare down at your thighs, chest heaving unevenly while you watch the evidence of him wash away.

There’s a twinge of guilt in your chest.

You look up at him, examining his face. “‘Kaashi?”

He smiles against your hand, breathing deep. When your hand falls away, he meets your eyes. 

They’re completely clear.

Relief hits you like a truck. “You aren’t drunk.”

He just shakes his head.

Nerves hit you just as hard.

You swallow. “So, when you asked if we could…?”

He just purses his lips and breaks eye contact. 

You kind of want to kiss him again.

–

It doesn’t last long.

— 

You wake to your alarm at 6am, groggy and angry from less than four hours of sleep. You slap around the bedside table, eyes half-closed, searching for your phone without success. It’s only when an arm – warm and close and familiar – stretches past you to the table that you remember you’re not alone.

You turn, your body betraying you and shuffling close to Akaashi without permission. He breathes a laugh into your hair while he turns the alarm off, and then you feel him, strong and solid, pull you to his chest.

“We have to get up,” he murmurs.

“Don’ wanna.”

“What, then, are you just gonna stay here all day?” He says it like it’s absurd, but his arm is curling around your waist like he means to do just that. 

You run your fingers down his bare torso, his skin warm on your forehead. “Maybe.”

Nails drag down your spine gently. “Yeah? Am I invited?” His voice is weak, nervous.

Warmth spreads across your face, and you burrow further into him. It’s not close enough. “Guess it wouldn’t be very fun to stay by myself.”

His fingers splay across your skin, possessive and shameless. “Tempting.” He breathes a sigh and, with great effort, peels you off of him. “But we have networking to do.”

You groan but give in, following him out of bed and through the motions of getting ready. You brush your teeth at the same time and get dressed at the same time and fix your hair at the same time. And you avoid meeting each other’s eyes in the bathroom mirror, because you don’t want to think about how he puts his cologne on while you do your makeup, and you don’t want to think about how he watches you bend over to get close to the glass. How he studies your mannerisms, the ones that you’re not even conscious of.

But then you do glance at him in the mirror, because a dark spot under his ear catches your eye.

“Uh oh,” you snicker, examining him. “You can’t go out there like that.”

He visibly warms but cranes his neck, studying the hickey you’d given him last night. “You love to watch me suffer.” It’s not a question.

You just dig through your makeup bag, beaming. “C’mere, you little slut.”

The grip of his hands on your waist is a warning. “What was that?” he says, turning you in place. “Didn’t quite catch it.”

You just smile up at him and pat the sink. “The lady requests assistance.”

He snorts, muttering ‘the lady’s a pain in my ass’ under his breath as he lifts you onto the counter. And then he steps in, pushing your skirt up your thighs so you can part them easier for him. His fingers dig into your skin, and your thighs dig into his hips. You let his hands wander while you apply concealer to his skin, holding your breath and just feeling. Feeling as his nails scratch against your thighs, as his fingertips skate across the small of your back, as his breath warms the skin of your throat, because he still has to bend a little despite the boost he’d given you. 

Your skin is covered in goosebumps by the time you cap the tube of concealer, but you don’t mention his affection, only staying right where you are and breathing him in.

“All done,” you whisper, eyes closed.

You feel his breath again, falling over your lips. 

“Thanks,” he whispers back.

You’re not strong enough to resist him.

“Can I kiss you?”

A moment passes that’s too long – too heavy – to mean nothing. 

You open your eyes, meeting his. He looks surprised, and his ears are pink, and he’s just standing there examining you. 

You don’t know what to make of the look on his face, but his lack of response is making your stomach drop in dread.

When your gaze finds his, he clears his throat. “Y/n,” he starts, wavering. “I-”

Both of your phones chirp with texts at the same time.

Whatever he’d just been about to admit is gone. He digs into his pocket for his phone. 

You stare at the side of his face, blinking rapidly. What was that?

Akaashi combs his fingers through his hair. “Looks like everyone else is at breakfast.”

“Okay. Uhm-” You swallow. “What were you… saying?”

“Oh-” He pockets his phone and steps back. Steps away. Looks away. “Nothing.”

Nothing good.

You push back the sting, knowing now that you’d gone too far. Wondering how much damage you’d just caused. If there’s time to fix it.

“Okay,” you mumble, sliding off the counter and rushing from the bathroom without looking at him. You hear him follow behind you. “I still have some stuff to get ready, so you can go first.”

He pauses near the bed. “You seem pretty ready… I can wait-”

“Are we still filming tonight?” you ask, short and clipped and without looking at him, because you’re not sure you can. You just dig through your suitcase mindlessly.

When he doesn’t answer, you glance over your shoulder.

He looks hurt.

He looks hurt?

He blinks the look away and turns to put his shoes on. “Yeah. If you want.”

If you still want to, even though I won’t kiss you.

Even though I kissed you last night.

Your head starts to pound, frustration tight in your throat. You don’t know what’s happening. What the difference is between last night and right now. He hadn’t been drunk. You’d seen it yourself. 

Then maybe he regretted it.

What could you possibly have done between last night and now to make him regret it? 

To make him change his mind?

You feel as he hovers near the door. “So-”

“See you at breakfast,” you cut in, still digging through your clothes. Your eyes burn and your chest hurts and you feel the pain so plainly in your skin that you know even a glance at your face would be enough for him to see it, too.

He doesn’t say anything.

The click of the door closing behind him hurts just as much.

You give yourself one minute to cry. Not hard, because you’ll mess up your makeup, but you let a few tears fall and a few ragged breaths free from that knot in your chest. And then you straighten and push your shoulders back, shaking it off.

There’s no time for this. You can’t afford the time it takes to spiral. You have to be on your best behavior today; you have to be your best self.

“Not now. Just make it to the end of the weekend.”

Just two days.

–

Keiji feels nauseous.

He’d almost told you. He’d almost told you how he feels. About you and the arrangement and his dreams and what he wants so desperately whenever you’re in the room and especially when you’re not.

But then he’d been interrupted and he hadn’t been able to recover the courage that had flashed through him when you’d asked to kiss him. 

So he’d chickened out.

And then you had become cold. Cold in a way that had felt like whiplash, because you’d just asked to kiss him – you’d shown him something that wasn’t supposed to be there, and he’d loved it. But it had gone away before he could hold onto it, and then you’d-

You’d asked about filming. About the arrangement. He hadn’t known what to make of that, other than it had felt like a knife under the ribs, deep and meant to shut him out.

He’s confused. And he’s hurt. And he doesn’t know anymore if he should tell you how he feels, because now it doesn’t feel right. 

Now it feels like you’d just had a lapse in judgment and then changed your mind. 

Why had you changed your mind? What did he do?

He tries to get your attention throughout the day, tries to find your eyes. Tries to find the wall that had formed between you.

But you never give it to him.

He doesn’t like it. Hates it, in fact. He’s gotten used to having your undivided attention, your gaze unwavering on his. He hates not having it.

It’s probably obvious in the way he carries himself, tight and stressed and unapproachable. He does his best to network, smiling at all the right times and shaking all the right hands, but he can’t help that he searches for you in the crowd every four seconds. He can’t help that his eyes flick to you whenever you move across the room or meet a new person. He can’t help the shame that floods him when his advisor catches him staring, when the man just lifts a knowing brow and leaves him to his pining.

Why won’t you talk to him? You’re never like this with him. When you’re upset, you fight and scream and claw at the problem until there’s nothing to do but address it. You wear your heart on your sleeve, and he’s gotten so fucking good at reading you.

He can’t read this. You won’t let him.

The poster session starts halfway through the day, and he lingers close to you, knowing well enough that he looks like a freak. Knowing that it looks like he’s either babysitting you or guarding you, and knowing that neither one makes him look good.

You finally cut him a sharp glance, because the dark cloud over his head is starting to drive people away, and he realizes he’s risking so much more than his own image. He’s risking yours.

He reels back like he’s been hit, like there’s some Phantom-Keiji yanking him away from you – because at some point in the last week or so, his avoidant personality had become an anxious one, and today is not the day to address it.

So he wanders aimlessly around the other posters, nodding along dutifully at the presentations and pretending he’s absorbing any of this. He should be. This is good for him.

But so are you.

He rounds a corner, unintentionally circling back to you. 

When he lifts his eyes, his heart stops.

So, you’re saying that if someone from the conference tries to hit on her, maybe wants to take her back to his room…

You’re talking to a guy from Osaka, a bright smile on your face and a pleased flush rising on your cheeks. You’re pointing at your poster, eyes twinkling and your gestures full of pride, but the only thing Keiji can see is your body language. Open and welcoming, so deeply interested in whatever he has to say. Interested in him in a way Keiji’s never seen before.

Why has he never seen this before?

The guy walks away, and you catch Keiji staring.

That you’d be alright with that?

A beat passes between you, one where you’re examining him, confusion and frustration clear on your face.

Keiji turns, not afraid to admit that he’s running away from you.

–

“What’s your problem?” you demand, pushing into the hotel room after Akaashi.

He’s been weird all day, avoidant and then anxious and then all but stalking you during your session. And then avoidant again at dinner, sitting as humanly far from you as possible and refusing to glance in your direction even once. Even after confusing the hell out of you all day.

“What?” he mumbles, distracted. Or pretending to be. You can’t tell today.

“Why are you being so weird today?”

“I’m not-”

“Akaashi!” You stomp your foot. It’s not your best moment, even you can admit that. But this version of him – this version of you – is foreign now. This is the version of your relationship that once was. You thought that version had gone away, shoved aside by sleeping in the same bed and showering at the same time and kissing like it means something.

Frankly, you find the old version annoying.

He does too, apparently.

His tie is thrown on the bed, and he whips around, undoing the top button of his shirt while he glares at you.

“What were you and that guy talking about?”

You blink, thrown off balance. “What guy?”

“The guy!” He throws his arms out, gesturing to the door like that means literally anything at all. “The guy, the guy! The one from your poster! The Osaka guy!” His hands are shaking, and his eyes are sharp when he scowls at you, but you can see that he’s trying not to freak out.

You don’t understand why.

“Do you realize how many guys I talked to today, Akaashi?” When he only glares, you roll your eyes. “Don’t be a child! You know what I’m talking about-”

“What I know is that you were looking at this guy like he fucking lit up the world for you, and then you sat with him at dinner!”

Oh. That guy. The guy from Osaka who works on similar research and had been complimenting your recent publication.

You blink slowly at Akaashi. “You mean the guy who read my publication and was engaging in my research with genuine interest and questions that I was excited to answer?” All he does is stare, and you stare back, irritation flooding your system. “You mean the guy who asked if he could cite my dissertation before it was finished? The guy who only seemed interested in my work, not in me personally? That guy, Akaashi?”

He looks away, blinking rapidly. Opens his mouth, closes it. Looks around the room like it’ll tell him what to say to fix this.

“I-” he starts, shaking his head. “Sorry. I’m… not handling this well-”

“No, you’re really not,” you bark. “And I have no idea why. I’ve never given you any fucking reason to be jealous-”

“I’m not fucking jealous,” he snaps, eyes alight. A wall’s just come up, and you don’t know why. “I’m not jealous, Y/n. You can do whatever the fuck you want.”

“Anything I want?” you laugh. “Those aren’t the rules at all-”

“I meant talking to him.” Akaashi’s anger peaks, his breath catching hard in his chest. “You can talk to whoever you want-”

“Of course I can, you have no say in who I talk to!”

“I didn’t say that!”

“Well, you sure as hell implied it-”

“And you implied that I was giving you permission to fuck him!” 

He’s in your face now. Or maybe you’re in his. It doesn’t matter. The hurt in your eyes is the same as his, things unsaid that will continue to be unsaid. 

A moment of silence, and then his voice, wavering and angry and whispered – and hurt?

“Tell me you won’t talk to him again.”

You scowl. You hate not being able to read him. It feels like before. Before everything. “I’m not ruining a professional connection just because you’re insecure, Akaashi.”

His nostrils flare. “Is that your answer, then?”

“I’ll answer you when you’re reasonable enough to talk to.”

He just pushes past you, disappearing from the room.

You stand in the middle of the room, tearing up.

–

“You can’t just avoid her.”

Keiji frowns, knocking back the shot. He starts to wave the bartender down for another, but Bokuto’s hand catches his wrist and shoves it back down. 

“You’ve had enough,” he mumbles, unusually quiet tonight.

Maybe it’s because Keiji had called him when he was already four shots in, hiccuping and choked up. Stumbling over his words, heavy on his tongue and trapped in his throat.

“-fucked it up, Bo-”

“-come get me, please?”

“-think I love her-”

“-so fucking scared, Bo-”

Think I love her.

Keiji snatches his hand from his friend’s grasp, successfully managing to wave and signal for two more.

They taste like gasoline.

So fucking scared.

Think I love her.

“God,” he rasps, shaking his head when the sixth goes down. “That shit burns.”

“What’re you trying to do, burn a hole in your throat?” Bokuto’s hand is firmer now, Keiji’s bones aching when he strains against the larger man. “Your talk is at nine in the morning, ‘Kaashi. You need to stop.”

Fucked it up.

Think I love her.

“Just one more,” he all but begs. Bokuto just shakes his head, shoving a glass of water under his nose. “Just one more, Bo.”

“No. Cut it out, Akaashi. I mean it.” Bo’s pout betrays how soft his resolve is, but Keiji doesn’t push it. 

“Fine,” he mumbles.

“Talk to me.”

“I said what I had to say.”

Bokuto just hums. “You’re not usually this hardheaded.” Keiji doesn’t respond, only feeling shame as Bokuto examines him. “Did you mean what you said on the phone?”

Think I love her.

Keiji shuts his eyes, sighing. His head is spinning, and the idea of going back to the hotel room is haunting him.

“Can I stay with you tonight?”

Bokuto just watches him, not speaking for a long while. Long enough for the spiral in Keiji’s brain to end and start again.

“I don’t know that Y/n will feel good about you not going back to the room,” is all he says.

Keiji feels the fight leave his body.

“I know.”

“You know she won’t.”

“I know.”

“You know she’s probably up there, upset and confused and angry because you won’t explain.”

He knows. Keiji knows perfectly well the state he’d left you in. He’d just been too caught up in himself to care.

He’s such an asshole.

“Probably shouldn’t stay with you tonight, huh…”

Bokuto just huffs out a laugh, standing. “C’mon. Let’s get you back.” He lifts Keiji out of his seat easily, slinging an arm around him and all but carrying him to the elevator. “Make sure you take painkillers before you fall asleep. You’re gonna be a nightmare tomorrow.”

–

Akaashi doesn’t come back until one in the morning. You’re pretending to be asleep, heart racing and emotion spiking when the lock beeps under his key card. He stumbles in, mumbling, “Yeah, thanks, Bo. I will.” And then he trips over his feet, swearing under his breath when he runs into the dresser.

You listen as he strips from his clothes and lets it fall to the floor. And you try not to jump when he suddenly flops down into bed, jostling you. 

“Fuck,” he breathes. You’re hit with a cloud of alcohol, and your anger spikes again. You’d been up here crying your eyes out after a fight, all while he was downstairs getting trashed? The night before one of the most important presentations of his grad school career? 

You sit up and turn, glaring down at him. He jumps, eyes wide and glossy when he stares up at you. 

“Jesus,” he whispers. “I didn’ know you were awake.”

“You woke me up.” He didn’t, but you’re feeling mean. “You’re fumbling around in the dark like a fucking idiot, and you’re trashed out of your mind. Of course you woke me up.”

“‘m not trashed,” he argues weakly. And then he reaches for you. “Y/n, I’m sorry-”

“Don’t-” you say, blocking his hand with a gentle smack. “I don’t wanna hear it. You were completely out of line earlier.”

“I know,” he whines, scooting close. “I know, baby, I’m sorry.” You fight a flush, trying to remember your anger, but it’s hard when he’s looking at you like you’re his world. “I’m sorry, baby. I got jealous.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, no shit. I didn’t even do anything.”

“You didn’. Y’r right. I got scared.”

“I don’t care. Get your emotions in order.”

He frowns. “You were the one ignorin’ me all day. And you were weird this morning. You get your emotions in order.”

Your face scrunches, heart panging painfully. Weird? 

Is that how he feels?

Your voice wavers. “I’m trying. Are you?”

“‘m doing my best,” he says. It’s sharp, like he’s trying to fight, but his words are slurring together too much. You don’t have it in you to argue with him when he’s like this.

“Just go to bed, Akaashi. Take medicine and go to bed. You’re gonna fuck up your presentation at this rate.”

“No, I’m not-”

You don’t answer him, just rolling over and facing away from him.

He settles after a long moment and a deflated sigh.

You don’t sleep well.

–

When you wake on Sunday morning, dread and anxiety are already seeping into your bones. You peek at your phone – just after seven – and then close your eyes, wondering what time Akaashi left the room-

The door to the bathroom opens, steam pouring out.

Fuck.

He stands in the room for a second. You can feel his eyes burning into you. You swallow your pride and let yourself look at him.

He looks like shit. There are bags under his eyes, and he’s standing like he’s unsure if you’re about to kick him out.

“Are you hungover?” is all you ask. He just nods, moving to his suitcase so he can get dressed. “Good. That’s what you get.” You wince. You’d wanted it to be a joke, but even you can hear how it sounds.

He sighs but says nothing. You watch him, watch the way he holds himself. Watch the water drip off of his hair and onto his skin. Watch as he glances at you out of the corner of his eye, eyelashes long and watery and caught in the golden light coming in from the window.

He looks away without saying anything. You just roll over and bury your face in the pillow, dread and anxiety and now guilt. But there’s something else. Discomfort with how things had gone last night.

He gets ready in silence, and you let him. You can’t feel your toes or your fingers, and that discomfort is gnawing at you.

Is it pathetic to admit you miss him?

His belt clinks as he does it up, and his cologne – subtle, wonderful as ever – wafts over you.

Something about him being about to leave spurs you into action.

“Akaashi, I-” You sit up. He’s not looking at you. You purse your lips. “I don’t like that you left after our fight. That you left and got drunk and didn’t talk to me properly.”

He’s facing away from you, so you can’t see his expression, but his shoulders do tense up.

You swallow, watching as he starts packing his backpack. “I don’t like that you left me here when we were having a problem. I don’t like not addressing things. I should have done things differently, too, but I don’t like being left alone like that.” That desperation – the one that was once good and then so fucking bad, the one that his presence alone can fix – is back full-force.

He’s leaving without talking to you. He’s putting on his shoes, even though he can hear you.

It feels like something’s broken. Something that can’t be fixed.

When he slings his bag over his shoulder, you break, too.

“Akaashi Keiji!” You throw your fists down on the comforter, throwing a tantrum like a child.

He turns, shocked, and you see it. How torn he looks, the frustration and hurt in his eyes, echoed in your voice.

Your lip wobbles. “I don’t know what’s happening.”

He swallows. “Me, neither.” 

“I don’t like being ignored by you. Don’t ignore me when I’m talking to you.”

He just blinks, and then his lips drag down in a deep frown. “I don’t like being ignored by you, either. Don’t ignore me.” His voice is low, like he’s trying to keep his emotion in check.

The air between you is taut, the braided cord tying you to him more than a little frayed.

“We can be in a fight,” you start, eyes stinging and voice wobbling dangerously. “You can be mad at me, because I’m still mad, too. But acknowledge my boundary, Keiji. You have to.” You won’t be able to take it if he can’t.

He just blinks down at you, jaw working as he examines you. He looks as fragile as you feel. “It won’t happen again. I’m sorry I left you here.” He looks away and then catches your eyes again, shifting his weight awkwardly. “I’m sorry I acted like that yesterday. It wasn’t fair.”

You steel your nerves. “I’m not going to apologize for doing what was best for my career.”

“I don’t expect you to. I was being a dick.”

“You were.”

“I know.”

You can’t tell if the cord is mending itself or ripping more.

“I’m sorry I was so reactive. I should have been calmer,” you try.

“Don’t apologize for that. I was being unreasonable.”

You don’t say anything, just looking away. You want to ask why. Why he acted like that. Why he was so unreasonable.

But you can’t bring yourself to do it. So you just whisper ‘okay’ and watch him finish tying his shoes.

“Good luck,” you mumble.

His head shoots up, and he stands, alarmed. “You’re not gonna be there?”

“N-no, I am-” you start, eyes wide. “Of course I am.”

“You won’t miss it?”

You shake your head dumbly. “No, of course not.”

“Even though we’re in a fight?”

“Akaashi,” you breathe, half-laugh and half-exasperation. “No. I will not miss the biggest talk of your career just because we’re in a fight.”

“But I was a piece of shit during your poster session.” 

You shrug. “Maybe, but that guy from Osaka?” You watch him fail to push down a grimace, your own expression a little smug. “Turns out his advisor is looking for a psycholinguist post-doc. And I got to meet her.”

Akaashi stares down at you, processing. “You have an in for a job?”

You just give another shrug. “Nothing’s concrete, but-”

“Y/n.” He’s staring like he’s seeing you for the first time. “Holy shit. This is huge. Are you serious?”

You grin, pulling your knees up to your chest. “She’s sticking around Tokyo for a couple weeks. She wants to get lunch.”

“Y/n, you-” He laughs in disbelief, shaking his head. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me this. This is insane.”

“We’re in a fight!” you argue, unable to hide your flush of excitement. “You’re not supposed to be happy for me.”

“Too fucking bad,” he says, unable to smother his smile. He turns to the door, calling back as he heads out. “Looks like I need to impress Osaka today.”

He’s gone before you can piece together what he’s implying.

–

Impress Osaka is exactly what Akaashi Keiji does.

His talk goes perfectly. His presentation timing is perfect, down to the second, and his Q&A session is impeccable, confidence and prestige rolling off of him like it’s natural. 

The you of a few months ago hated this Akaashi Keiji, genius incarnate.

The you of today can only stare, impressed beyond belief and chest swelling with some emotion you can’t place.

Maybe it has something to do with the acknowledgements he’d given, your name stated right after your advisor’s, the words ‘for her invaluable contributions of feedback, data, and a healthy humbling of my ego’ burned into your brain. 

Maybe it’s the way he’d looked right into your eyes as he’d said it. 

Maybe it’s the way your advisor had leaned over, whispering “Can I presume that the war is over?”

It’s almost enough to forget the line Akaashi had drawn in the sand yesterday morning, putting distance between you.

Almost.

The sting is still there, hurt and confused that he can manage to both turn away from you and still act like a jealous boyfriend.

Things are not alright between you, but you can still be proud of him. You are proud of him.

–

“God, it’s all finally over!” Yachi stretches her arms high above her head, her body slumped against yours in the booth at the bar. It’s decently crowded in here, the last night of the conference always a social hour. The reward of finally being done, another year successfully come and gone.

The boys are at the bar, sipping whiskey and laughing about nothing.

You watch Akaashi idly, your eyes drawn to him without effort. He’s more muted than Kuroo and Bokuto, but you can tell he’s enjoying himself.

You just smile, a little bittersweet, and lie your head atop Yachi’s. “I’m so tired, ‘Toka.”

She just sips at her cocktail. “Something’s weird with you guys. Weirder than usual.”

You sigh. “I asked if I could kiss him yesterday morning. Before breakfast.”

She jerks up, jostling you. Your drink sways dangerously in your hand. 

“What?” she half-whispers. “And then?”

“And then,” you laugh. “He rejected me.”

She just blinks. Processes. “There’s no way.” When you shrug, not sure what else to say, she presses. “What exactly did he say?”

Your brow furrows. “I don’t know, I guess nothing? He looked surprised and was just staring at me. And then he tried to tell me something, but Bokuto texted about breakfast. And then when I tried to ask him what he was saying-” You put your drink down, a little rougher than intended. “-he said ‘Oh. Nothing’.” Your imitation of him is bad and laced with frustration. “That’s it. Just-” You frown, staring down at your hands. “Just nothing.”

Yachi thinks for a moment, staring at you and then glancing over at Akaashi. “I don’t really think that’s a rejection, babe.”

You meet her gaze. “What? Of course it is.”

She shakes her head. “Just sounds like he chickened out of something.”

“Yeah, a rejection.”

“Or,” she presses. “Not a rejection. A confession.”

You don’t understand. “Why would that have been a confession? He was just standing there looking at me. He didn’t seem happy or anything-”

“Yeah, because you guys have all these fucked up rules,” she jokes, almost like it’s obvious. “Guy like him? Genius grad student who’s used to knowing what’s happening all the time? He was probably standing there overthinking, Y/n.”

The knot of anxiety ties itself up nice and pretty in your chest. “But-I mean-”

You hadn’t considered that. Of course you hadn’t fucking considered that.

Yachi watches you closely, and then takes a breath, like she knows you’d probably gone and done something stupid. “What did you do after that?” 

You stare right through her.

She stares back, understanding washing over her expression. “Y/n… What did you say?”

“I asked him if we were still filming something this weekend,” you say blandly, still staring right through her. “Because I… thought I had to backtrack and recover.”

She sinks low in the booth. You just stare down at the table.

“Y/n,” she starts slowly. “I love you. You know I love you, right?”

You nod.

She nods back. “You fucked that up. Real bad.”

You nod again. “I see that now.”

She leans in. “You know you have to fix it, right?”

“Fuck,” you whisper. And then you meet her eyes. “Fuck.”

“Yeah,” she breathes. “Fuck.”

“Okay. Okay,” you start, gathering your things. “Okay. I’ll just go over there and ask him to talk.”

“Good plan.”

“And then I’ll-”

Fuck.

You stare at the back of Akaashi’s head, just like you’d done earlier. But he isn’t looking at Kuroo or Bokuto or Tsukishima anymore.

He’s in the middle of a conversation with that girl. That girl from two days ago.

And she’s looking up at him with those siren eyes, leaning close and twirling her hair around her finger. 

And he’s talking back. Nodding, shrugging, smiling.

“Y/n.” There’s a hand on your shoulder, but you barely feel it. Yachi just shoves you toward the end of the booth. “Y/n, go. Go now.”

You stumble out, somehow making your way across the room to the bar. Eyes locked on Akaashi’s face, on the way he meets her eyes and smiles when she does. 

You can’t feel your fingers or toes or anything but your own heartbeat, pounding and loud and burning. 

She puts her hand on his arm.

You’re burning.

You don’t even realize that Akaashi is shaking her off of him. You don’t realize, as you near them, that he’s responding politely but not warmly, that his smile isn’t flirtatious or sweet or anything close to interested.

You don’t realize any of it. And, frankly, you don’t care.

You step between them, staring right at her. Eyeing her up and down. “Can I help you?”

She lifts an eyebrow, clearly affronted. “Excuse me?”

“Just wondering if there’s something you needed from my boyfriend.” You feel Akaashi shift behind you, but you keep your eyes on her. “If not, you can move along.”

You’re not used to this – this feeling that sears through you. This unending jealousy, this possessive heat that’s almost unbearable. You can’t bring yourself to care that you’re coming off rude, that you’re being confrontational in a crowded bar. You want her gone. Now.

She steps back, taking you in. And then she looks over your head at Akaashi. You want to rip her face off her body. 

“You’re with her? Really?”

Akaashi’s chest presses into your back when he leans closer. His hand slides around your middle, pulling you back against him. “I think she was pretty clear. And also probably the nicest she’s gonna be about it.”

The girl scoffs, straightening and turning to leave. But then she pauses, reaches over the bar for a pen. She scribbles on a napkin and slides it to him. You know without looking that it’s her number.

“In case you get bored,” is all she says. And then she’s gone.

Her face isn’t enough. You think she’d look better without a head.

“Boyfriend, huh?” Akaashi murmurs behind you. You see him drag the napkin toward himself, and you turn, still angry.

“What the fuck, Akaashi?”

He meets your eyes, playing with the edge of the napkin, his expression deceptively innocent. “What? We were just talking.” At your rage, evident in everything about you, he leans close. “That’s allowed, isn’t it?”

Behind him, you see Bokuto starting to interject, because he’d always hated when you and Akaashi would fight. Thankfully, Kuroo and Tsukishima both grab him and hold him far away from you two.

“Absolutely the fuck not,” Kuroo mutters. 

You’re grateful for them, but right now your judgment is clouded. Right now, all you care about is him.

“You know it’s different.”

His brow furrows high on his forehead. “I don’t fucking know anything anymore, Y/n. None of this is making sense anymore. Things were good, and then suddenly, they weren’t.”

You breathe out, frustrated. “I know. I fucked up. I misunderstood.” You lean into his face and lower your voice. “But let me make something clear right now, so that you don’t misunderstand. You are mine, Akaashi Keiji. Mine.”

His lips part in surprise, and he starts to whisper your name, but you’re not done. “And no one else can have you, ever. Do I make myself clear?”

His eyes flick over your face rapidly, taking you in. Taking in the resolve in your eyes, the finality in your glare. 

He slips the napkin between his fingers, glancing down at the digits written on it.

You inhale sharply. “Akaashi-”

He rips it in half, and then in half again, his face neutral. And then he drops the shreds in his whiskey glass, watching the liquor wash the ink away. 

When his eyes meet yours, there’s a warmth in them that you hadn’t realized you’d missed so much.

“You made yourself clear.”

Air fills your lungs. You hadn’t been breathing.

His fingers wrap around your wrist, and suddenly you’re being marched across the bar to the door.

“We’re never gonna see them again,” you hear Tsukishima mutter.

Akaashi moves through the hotel and to the elevator bay without a word. You watch his back as you’re dragged along, heart pounding in your ears.

As soon as the elevator doors close behind you, you’re pressed up against the wall.

He tastes like whiskey and desperation.

You’re probably giving it back tenfold.

“You misunderstood?” he mumbles against your lips. “What the hell could you have possibly misunderstood?”

“Shut up, Akaashi,” you growl, fisting his hair in your hands and kissing him again. “You’re such a fucking know-it-all.”

“Not with you,” he pants, lifting you by the thighs and pinning you to the wall with his hips. He bites down on your bottom lip, sucking hard. “You make me feel like a fucking idiot.”

The elevator dings, and the doors slide open, but he doesn’t put you down. He just stumbles down the hall with you in his arms, pressing you up against the wall every few feet and kissing you like he keeps forgetting what he’s supposed to be doing. 

“I can’t think straight when you’re around,” he mumbles, your back against one wall.

And then another. “Can’t think when you’re not around, either.”

Another. “Fucking hate it.”

Another. “You make me feel pathetic.”

Against the door of your own room, all breath and panting and a slight whimper that echoes behind his words. “I’m so fucking pathetic for you.”

“Good,” you whine, clinging to him and pushing your mouth against his. “Tell me it’s only me, Keiji. Please.”

He groans, slipping his hands under your dress and grabbing fistfuls of you, anywhere he can. “I told you already.” Your underwear start to slide down your thighs, and you’re distinctly aware that you’re still in the hallway. “I told you. You fucked me up,” he chokes out, fingers hooked tight into your panties. “You ruined me, Y/n. I’m yours.”

You tear up, emotion overcoming you. Your eyes burn, and the tears flow over, and you know he can feel the way your body trembles. You know he can taste the salt on his tongue.

You know he does, because it makes him moan.

You’ve never loved him more.

You pull away and lean your head back, taking him in. His lips are swollen and red, and his face is flushed. And his eyes are on yours, taking you in, too. And you can’t help but feel good, because the sight of your tear-stricken face is making him harder than he already is.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “Tell me you’re mine, too. Tell me this is mine. Please.”

“Take me inside, Keiji,” you whisper, pushing your lips against his again. “Make me yours for good.”

The door feels better against your back from inside the room.

Maybe it’s because you know you’re alone now, finally.

Or maybe it’s because Akaashi loses himself when you flip the deadbolt shut.

He drags you away from the door, only to slam you against the wall. It stings, but you barely notice. Even when you make a noise of discomfort, even when he apologizes against your mouth, you barely notice. You just force him to set you on our feet and then start pushing him through the bedroom, your mouth attached to his throat.

His pulse pounds against your tongue. “Where are we-ngh-” He inhales sharply when you shove him past the bed. When his legs hit the armchair in the corner, your hands drop from his chest to the front of his slacks. 

“Please, ‘Kaashi,” you whisper, fingers working the belt free and then focusing on the zipper. He moans quietly against your ear. “Please let me have this.”

“Have what-”

The sound of his belt hitting the floor echoes off the walls behind you. 

You shove him down into the chair and drop to your knees.

He gasps quietly, trying to straighten, but your plant your hands on his thighs and lean up into his face. 

“Y/n, this isn’t-”

“Keiji,” you breathe, pushing your lips against his lazily. “Let me have this.”

He kisses you back. “I don’t want you to be disappointed. I get in my head.” He’s protesting, but it’s quiet and weak. He wants this as much as you do.

“Just focus on me,” you coax. “Think about me, Keiji.”

“That’s all I do,” he says, his smile a little pathetic.

“Then think about this,” you say, kissing him while you slide your hand past the band of his boxers and wrap your hand around his cock. He shudders, and you press a kiss to that spot under his ear that you like so much. “Think about making me cry like this.”

His cock twitches in your hand, and you smile against his skin, because he’s letting out a shaky ‘Fuck’ against your shoulder. 

You settle back on your knees and press a kiss to his thigh, eyeing him from where you are. “You wanna make me cry on it, Keiji? Wanna fuck my mouth until I cry?”

His fingers find the back of your head. “You’re so fucking mean,” he grunts, glaring down at you. 

You run your tongue along the underside of his cock, smiling with your mouth open when he tangles his fingers through your hair. Smiling when he shivers, when his heated glare tracks your tongue until he can’t anymore. Until he can’t help but let his head fall back, because you’re wrapping your lips around him and bobbing your head.

“Agh-fuck-” he chokes, his chest heaving. “Fuck, fuck, fuck-”

You take more of him, feeling the tip of his cock hit the back of your throat. You back off, breathing heavily every time he slips out of your mouth. You beam up at him, and then you pout teasingly.

“You don’t wanna watch, Keiji?”

He groans, not even opening his eyes. His fingers tighten in your hair. “So fucking mean,” he breathes. “You’re such a fucking ass-nngh-”

You’ve got him halfway in your mouth when his hips move sharply. He hits the back of your throat, and you gag involuntarily.

You smile, knowing you got him.

“Fuck!” he yells, his fingers tangling tight and pushing your head down. You let him – let him push you down hard, let him make you gag, let him thrust harshly into your mouth. You let him fuck you like this, because it’s exactly what you’ve wanted for so long.

Your tears hit his thighs before anything else, and his head snaps up when they do. You’re still smiling, and although you can’t see his face, you can feel his reaction. His grip on your hair starts to hurt in a way that makes your heart pound, and his cock hardens more against your tongue. 

“Holy shit,” he breathes. “Look at you. Look how fucking pretty you look like this.” You moan when he praises you, and the vibration makes him moan, too. “You’re so fucking pretty baby,” he starts, rambling aimlessly. “Look at you taking me like that. You like crying on my cock, Y/n?” When you nod, he suddenly remembers his grip on you, and he uses it. He bobs you up and down, smacking against the back of your throat every time and moaning when you gag. Moaning when you swallow and suck and slide your tongue against the vein on the underside. 

He’s whispering to you the whole time.

“That’s my girl, so fucking cute when she cries-”

“You having fun, Y/n? You like turning me out like this?”

“You want me to come down your throat, baby? Can I?”

You nod vehemently, moaning when you feel his breath change and his hips stutter.

“Y/n, fuck,” he grunts, voice tight. “I’m really fucking close, are you sure-”

You knock his hand away from your head and sit up on your knees, taking him with your own pace and showing him just how desperate you are for it.

Akaashi Keiji looks so pretty when he comes down your throat.

His hands wrap around your biceps, anchoring himself, and his back arches, and his voice bounces off the walls when he chokes on your name. 

You swallow everything, all but worshipping him. 

You release him with a pop and watch, delighted, as he comes down, his breathing sharp and his eyes screwed shut and his hair stuck to his sweaty forehead.

“How was that?” you whisper, grinning.

He doesn’t respond, just dragging his nails along your skin gently.

You climb up into his lap, carding your fingers through hair at the base of his neck while you press kisses to his throat. 

“Shut up,” he finally breathes against your ear. “You almost killed me.”

You laugh into the crook of his neck. And then you gasp, because he’s pushing your hips down against him. “What-”

“Take these off,” he says, hooking his fingers back into your panties. “Hurry up.”

“Already?” you cry, letting him drag them down your thighs. “You’re fucking insatiable.”

“Oh, so you want to stop?” he argues, pulling his hands right off of you. “You’re totally fine right now?”

He knows you’re not. Even without the whine that’s pulled out of you when he stops touching you, he knows. 

You bury your face against his skin. “Take them off, Keiji. Please.”

When he slips inside of you, it’s without any resistance at all. You both moan into each other’s mouths, unable to focus on anything but the way he rocks you in his lap, demanding and a little desperate. 

“Missed this,” he admits, kissing you. “Missed you. My pretty girl.”

You start to bounce, lifting yourself off and letting your hips drop freely, loving how his firm thighs feel against your soft ones. Loving how a moan gets trapped in his throat every time you drop. 

But you start to get tired, knees already sore and thighs burning. You cling to him, rolling your hips. 

“Need your help, Keiji,” you whine. “Need you, I can’t do it-”

The groan that rumbles through his chest and against yours is heated, and suddenly you’re up in the air, legs hooked over his elbows.

He lays you on the bed with as much delicacy as he can manage. It’s not much, because he’s too focused on pushing the tip of his cock against your entrance. “Need you to hold onto me, Y/n,” he grunts, sighing when he slides back in. 

Your eyes roll back in your head at the feeling, and your nails dig into his back. “Make me cry, baby,” you whisper, holding tight. “Do whatever you want to me.”

“Fuck,” he bites, gripping the undersides of your thighs and prying you open for him. 

You don’t remember much after that. Akaashi Keiji empties your mind, fucking you into the mattress and clamping his hand over your mouth when you scream for him. Fucking you only that much harder when tears stream down your face and you start to sob, your own name falling past his lips in a pretty mantra, again and again.

You don’t remember much, because he flips you over at some point, digging his fingers into your hip with one hand while shoving your face down into the mattress with the other. He fucks you just like that, just like you love, because he’d never forget what your favorite position is. He’d never forget it, because you cry harder like this, screaming and crying his name and nothing else. 

You have nothing else.

Nothing else but-

“Keiji, Keiji, love you, Keiji-” 

His hips stutter, falter, and then stop. You keep crying, unable to catch your breath, the blankets around your face soaked. 

“What?” he pants. His breath is short and sharp, and you can feel how sweaty he is. “What did you say?” 

You don’t respond, crying and whining because he stopped fucking you and you can’t take it anymore, why isn’t he fucking you-

“Y/n.” He yanks your head up by your hair. You moan helplessly, squeezing around his cock. “Y/n, what did you just say?”

“Love you, Keiji,” you pant, throat aching and eyes burning and heart pounding everywhere. Your chest, your throat, your ears, your toes. “Love you, love you, love you-”

He drops down over you, your head falling back onto the mattress when he lets you go. “Y/n, look at me.” You can barely open your eyes, but you do your best. “You mean that? You mean it, right?”

“Love you, Keiji,” you sigh, head spinning and body screaming for him because he still isn’t fucking you and you’re starting to lose your mind. “You love me too, right? You love me, Keiji? Need you to love me-”

“Fuck-” 

His hips stutter against you, and his forehead drops to your shoulder, but thank god, because he’s starting to move again. His hands are on your hips and he’s pushing down into you, again and again and again. 

“Yes,” he breathes, voice wavering. “Yes, fuck, I love you.” His pace picks up, and you’re being fucked into the mattress again, his grip so tight that the bruises he’s leaving are forming bruises on top. “Fuck, Y/n, I love you. I love you-”

“Promise, Keiji, promise,” you cry, blankets balled up in your white-knuckled grip. “Promise you love me, Keiji, make me yours, please-”

“You’re mine, baby, you’re mine forever. I love you, you’re mine-”

Your skin feels wet, and his skin does, too, and you’re distantly aware that you’re screaming, but you can’t feel anything but the way he fills you up. His voice is shaky, and he’s moaning ‘fuck, fuck, just like that, baby, just like that’ into your hair, and it’s only then that you realize it’s because you’re squirting while he comes inside of you. 

And when he collapses on you, it’s with his hands wrapping around your wrists and his face in the crook of your neck and his cock still inside of you. 

You fall asleep like that.

–

You only wake up because the sun’s in your face. 

And also maybe because Akaashi is groaning into your hair.

“We’re so getting charged for this mess.”

You blink into the blankets, cold and warm at the same time.

“Why’m I wet?” you grumble. “‘s cold.”

He just laughs, arms wrapping around you. “See for yourself.”

“Don’t wanna. Everything hurts.”

His fingers push along your spine, hot on your chilled skin. “Too much?”

“It was perfect,” you mumble, smiling into the mattress. Your hands hurt, still over your head and buried in the blankets. “You’re perfect.”

His lips dance along your shoulder. “Do you… remember everything?”

“Nope.”

He stills. You turn your head to him, peering up at him. He looks stressed, so you decide to show him a little mercy.

“How many times did I say I love you?” you whisper, a little embarrassed.

He blinks, relaxing slightly. “Six.”

“You counted?”

“Yeah,” he admits, chewing on his lip. “How many times did you mean it?”

You smile, shy. “Probably ten.” When his brow furrows, your smile grows. “Said it more in my head.”

He just stares down at you, gaze tracing over your face. And then he leans in, lifting one of your arms gently and tucking himself under it. His nose brushes against yours.

“Say it again, then.”

You just push your mouth against his. “I love you, Keiji.”

His smile is small, but you see the way his eyes light up. “I love you, too.”

You sigh, relieved. And then you press your forehead to his. “I’m sorry. For misunderstanding what happened in the bathroom. I thought you were rejecting me when you didn’t respond.”

He blinks, and then he blinks again. “Oh. Fuck. I was busy freaking out.”

“So was I. I didn’t think. I’m sorry for pushing you away like that.”

He nods, kissing you again. “I’m sorry for talking to that girl to make you jealous.”

You lean away with a gasp. “I fucking knew it-”

He cups your jaw, dragging you back in. “Don’t forget you love me,” he laughs. 

“You’re such an asshole,” you complain, despite letting him hold you tight and press his mouth to your skin. “Don’t do it again.”

“Promise. You made yourself clear,” he breathes, teasing.

You’re too tired to push him away.

–

When you leave the hotel, it’s with sheepish grins and a large tip left for the cleaning crew. And when you think you’re going to part ways, all he does is drag you in the other direction, taking you home with him. His home, where he fucks you slow, with your name whispered into your mouth and ‘I love you’s pressed into your skin. His home, which he only lets you leave two days later, when you argue that you can’t go to campus in repeat outfits, lest your advisor pull the two of you into his office for a nosy chat.

His home, which you return to that same night, takeout and a duffle bag in tow. Your keys on his dining table and your clothes in his closet and your body in his bed. 

When you graduate six months later, it’s with two signed contracts at the same university in Osaka and a shared lease.

Two bedrooms, one that your friends help you decorate, along with the rest of your apartment.

The other, an office that they suspiciously never see the inside of.

[sunee-syrup]

genius. [akaashi keiji x f!reader] chapter three.

>>You struggle to pay rent on your limited graduate student salary, and your worst enemy agrees to help you out.

or

You realize you need to find a partner for your faceless porn account, and Akaashi Keiji is the only man who meets all your requirements.<<

previous. || masterlist. || next.

a/n: so much to say and so little time to say it

[feel free to buy me a cup of coffee!]

When you come to, you’re completely slumped over Akaashi, your head buried in the crook of his neck and his arms hanging loosely around you. He’s breathing hard, jostling you where you lie flat on top of him.

“Shit,” he breathes, lifting one hand to his hair and curling his fingers into the locks. You make a small noise, one that’s neither awake nor asleep, and he taps his other hand on your back lightly. “You good?”

You nod groggily and try to lift onto your hands. Your arms shake, so you adjust, but the motion has you both flinching, because Akaashi’s still inside of you. “Fuck,” you whisper to yourself, oversensitive, and he drops both hands to your hips, breathing out shakily while he lifts you off of him. You start to fall sideways onto the bed, but he catches you, throwing his body toward yours and catching you so that you don’t hit the mattress too hard.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” he says, a furrow in his brow when you glance up at him. “I put you through a lot.”

“Yeah, you tend to,” you joke weakly, your head lolling to the side as he sits up. You both sigh hard, Akaashi barely managing to crawl to the end of the bed for your phone and both sets of underwear before he returns to his spot. “Thanks,” you mumble when he hands everything to you, and, as you’re sliding your panties on (and ditching the bra, because you can’t be bothered right now), you look down at the sheets. “The bed’s dirty.”

“Don’t care. Need a nap.” He digs the heels of his hands into his eyes, groaning. You curl up on your side next to him, your eyes heavy and your muscles aching. A nap sounds glorious.

Before you can drift off, however, his words are ringing through your head.

‘You know me better than that.’

Your eyes crack open, and you stare at the side of his face. His head is bobbing slightly as he starts to fall asleep, eyes flickering open and shut, and you feel distantly bad for interrupting.

“You’re really not doing it on purpose? Any of it?” you whisper, half-hoping it doesn’t wake him at all.

His eyelids flutter, and he turns his head groggily to meet your gaze. When he sees you looking, he turns onto his side, achingly slow, until he’s facing you, too. And then he shakes his head, the exhaustion clear in his every move.

“Not at all,” he whispers back, surprisingly open with you in his tired state. “Are you?”

You frown slightly, confused. “What could I be doing on purpose?”

His eyes slide shut for a moment. “Everything.” 

You get the feeling that what he’s just admitted is bigger than what you have the space to process right now. So you just shake your head, too, and echo his words back. “Not at all.” 

“Okay,” he breathes, after a pause that’s so long that you’d wondered if he’d fallen asleep. “That’s settled, then.”

“I don’t think anything’s settled.” You could probably stop whispering, but the world outside is starting to grow dark, taking this room with it, and the only light in the house comes from the kitchen, so far away from the space between you and Akaashi. And his pinky is brushing up against yours, twitching as he falls asleep, but he’s reaching sleepily for it anyway, hooking your fingers together just before his breath evens out. You’re not sure that he realizes he’s done it.

You want to let him sleep – you want to sleep. But you need his answer. So you squeeze your pinky against his once, and his brows twitch as he wakes again. He hums softly, marking his attention.

“What do we do?” you ask, your words as vague and unclear as your head feels. He swallows, unknowingly shifting marginally closer to you. 

“Told you,” he breathes, a little slurred. “Not doing it on purpose. Jus’ happens.” He lets out a tired sigh and shifts again. “Everything jus’ happens…” 

“So, what d’we do?” you say again, eyes flitting all over his face for an answer.

“Nothin’,” he says, shaking his head slightly. “Nothin’ to do but let it happen.”

You stare at him so long that he falls asleep again, his head tilted toward yours. You wonder if you can do that – just let it happen. Whatever that means – whatever it is. You wonder if you can just give in to Akaashi Keiji like that.

‘You know me better than that.’

You suppose that’s alright. Because he’s giving in, too.

When you finally drift off to sleep, it’s with your forehead pressed against his and his finger curled around yours.

–

Keiji flies up in a tangle of limbs and a gasp that wakes you. 

“Shit-” His eyes fly to the window, seeing that dawn’s well past come. You groan, still curled up on your side, and his head whips around to the bedside table, his phone snatched up in an instant. 

It’s almost 7am.

“Fucking shit-” He rolls out of bed, missing his footing and tumbling right off of it. He hits the floor in a pile of his own body, groaning and shaking it off as best as he can, and you sit up quickly, caught off guard by his crash landing.

“Akaashi-”

“Shit, fuck-” He trips over his own feet, still half-asleep, and tries to locate his clothes. “It’s almost 7. I have to get home and shower and get my shit. I have to teach at 9.” He snatches his shirt off the floor and pulls it on, letting out a frustrated groan when he realizes it’s on backwards.

“Take an Uber. I’ll pay for it,” you try, but he just shakes his head, rushing to twist the shirt around.

“Need my bike later–wait.” He looks at you, in his boxers and his half-on shirt and his crooked glasses. You stare back, in your underwear and your bedhead and a pillow pressed to your chest in order to hide your body from him in this new daylight. “We only filmed one thing.”

Your eyes go wide, and you’re breathing ‘fuck’ as you stare up at him. He looks around the room, blinking hard. “What do we do?” he asks, still standing there like an idiot.

“I’m free tonight if you want to come back,” you offer. He nods – he thinks he’s free, too.

“Yeah, that works.”

“Okay, then take an Uber home, since you’re just coming back,” you push again. “And leave your shit here.”

“Okay,” he sighs, searching for his jeans. “That’s fine.”

He finds them on the other side of the bed, entirely unsure how they’d gotten there, and starts to hop into them. There’s a moment of silence, one where he goes through the mental list of his things – wallet, keys, phone – before you’re speaking.

“Akaashi.”

“Hm?” he hums, taking one last hop to get his jeans up to where they need to be before he’s wrestling with the zipper.

“You said last night that there’s nothing we can do except let things happen.” Keiji pauses with his fingers on his zipper, back turned to you and eyes flicking down at nothing while he thinks. Had he said that? “Did you mean that?” you ask quietly.

He tugs his zipper up and does the button, blinking rapidly. His ears start to warm with some unknown embarrassment. “I suppose I did.”

“So… are we just gonna…” You don’t finish the question, but he hears it, anyway, and his heart flips in his chest. 

Are we just gonna keep doing this? Whatever we want?

He glances over his shoulder at you, turning slightly while he tightens his belt around his hips. “What is it, huh?” he asks, a soft smirk lifting on his lips. “You attracted to me, Freak?”

You scowl, but he sees the interest in your eyes. It’s the same interest that plucks at his nerves now, as he’s doing up his belt and staring down at you where you sit, naked in the bed that he’s fucked you in twice this week.

“I think you know the answer to that,” you bite, but it’s lacking its usual edge. You’re nervous. 

He doesn’t have it in him right now to fuck with you, because he’s nervous, too. “Yeah. I do.” He scoops up his phone and runs his fingers through his hair. “Okay, I have all my shit, I think.”

You tap quickly on your phone with an uncertain nod. “Okay,” you say after a moment. “Uber will be here in two minutes.”

He nods, rushing to the door. “Thanks,” he breathes, and then he stops himself with a hand on the door frame. He shouldn’t leave like this. 

Backing slowly into the room again and eyeing you where you sit, he sighs. “Freak.”

You look up from your phone, frowning. “Is that just gonna be your new name for me-”

“I’m attracted to you, too.”

Your mouth drops open, and his splits in a smug grin that hides how terrifying it had been to admit that. 

“But you probably figured that out, didn’t you?” he asks quietly. When you just swallow and nod shallowly, he nods back. “So, yes. We’re ‘just gonna’.” He quotes your unfinished question and offers no ending. The rest of it sits between you, the silence empty and full at the same time.

You let out a long breath after a moment. “Okay,” you whisper. 

The sound of it – of your agreement to the unsaid proposal he’d just made – makes his fingertips go numb.

“Okay,” he breathes back. “I’m gonna go.”

“Okay.”

As he sits in the back of the Uber, Keiji tries to remember what he’s in such a rush for.

–

The time between October 25th and November 11th passes in a blur.

You and Akaashi find a flow, one that’s surprisingly easy. He comes over twice a week, as planned, and the world around you – outside of you – reduces to nothing but the things that happen inside the walls of your apartment. You both leave everything behind and enter into the suspended disbelief that carries you through this arrangement. 

He bends you over every surface in the spare bedroom and forces you to forget who you are, not that that’s hard with the way he handles you. You talk back as often as you can, because the way his eyes light up when you do tells you he likes the challenge. That no one challenges him quite like you. You bump heads throughout the day, over and over again, only to fall into each other at night in a way that’s wonderfully in sync – two pieces of different puzzles that fit together as though they’d been made that way. 

You start to think after a while that every argument you find yourself in with Akaashi Keiji only serves to make this thing between you stronger when you’re alone. Because on the days that your tension is particularly bad, you find it that much easier to give in to him. On the days when you’re particularly combative, he’s that much more eager to mold you into what he wants. Easy, like putty under his fingertips, you give for him – and he gives right back, just like he’d promised.

He still won’t let you touch him, not in the way that you want. After two weeks, he still won’t let you show him how to get out of his own head. He spanks you, ties you up, bends you in ways no one ever has before and makes you do things that would be completely humiliating if not for the fact that it’s him making you do them. You know that – you’re aware enough to know that it’s because it’s him.

That it’s always been because it’s him.

So even if he won’t let you do the one thing you keep asking for – tears in your eyes, a pout on your lips, anything that might make him give in to you – you can’t find it in you to be too upset. Because a deal is a deal, and Akaashi Keiji’s good for his word. And in return for giving him what he wants, he fucks you in your favorite position, once and then twice more in the same night, because you’re just that good at listening.

You listen to him, no matter the request, and he makes it worth your while without fail.

It bleeds into your everyday life without either of you realizing it. 

Not the sex – never the sex. But things are different now. That suspended disbelief reaches, aching and stretching, into the corners of your days, touching the tension between you and then slipping away before you have a chance to recognize that things are changing.

Akaashi sits in the back of the LEM meetings now, where no one can see him. He lets other people take the round table, slipping in at the last second and taking a seat against the wall instead of coming five minutes early like he always does. He does it on purpose – you know he does, because he makes two choices. 

The first is that – on days when you don’t present – he sits right behind you and taps his foot ever so lightly on one of your chair legs, just to remind you he’s there. And when you inevitably inch forward, he’s quick to adjust, because the universe had cursed him with long legs and he’s more than willing to use them. If you grow annoyed enough to turn and glare at him, you’re always unlucky enough to catch the smirk tugging at his lips and the heated look in his eye, because he gets off on you snapping at him. 

You both know that now, and he’s not ashamed to admit it, anymore. Not to you.

The second – much, much worse – comes on the days that you do present. Because you’re forced to speak to a group of your peers and advisor for twenty minutes straight. Twenty minutes where Akaashi Keiji sits in the back of the room and undresses you with his eyes. His long, dark eyelashes flutter as his gaze travels across your body, and his bottom lip gets trapped between his teeth without hesitation. His head tilts this way and that, giving him the angles he needs to ogle you. 

A few seconds on the hem of your skirt, giving way to thighs that, when pressed together like that, hide the marks he’d left only the night before. A few seconds on your throat, because, if he strains his eyes enough, he can see the traces of himself there, purple and slathered in concealer. A few seconds on the buttons of your blouse, the same buttons you’d had to sew back into your shirt because he’d accidentally ripped them off in his rush to undress you last week. 

But maybe that’s your fault for wearing one of your roleplay blouses to campus that day. Maybe you’d done it on purpose. Maybe, over the last two weeks, you’d come to anticipate the shiver of nerves that would run down your spine when your day to present would come back around. Maybe you’d started to look forward to the way he would inevitably grill you with questions after spending twenty minutes flustering you, because – as you’d come to learn – Akaashi Keiji’s preferred form of foreplay had always been psychological.

Maybe that’s what you get for choosing him.

Maybe that’s why you’d choose him again in a heartbeat.

It takes too long to notice that other people are starting to see it, too. That, when Bokuto digs through your fridge and holds up a container of kung pao chicken in confusion, your stuttered excuse of having Akaashi over to grade exams together hadn’t passed over with Kuroo as well as you’d hoped. That, when Akaashi beckons you away from lunch to go to Syntax lecture together, Tsukishima’s eyes follow you out of the dining hall, watching you two walk closer together than usual. That, at Bokuto’s parties, Yachi had started to realize that Akaashi was careful with her personal space on that couch, but not yours.

It takes too long to notice those things, for both of you. Because you’re both too busy noticing each other.

At night, Akaashi doesn’t text you anymore. He just logs on to xxxvids .com and pings you, no matter how many times you tell him to stop being weird. He pings you there and takes up most of the time you could be spending responding to other messages, talking about absurdly normal things like grading and dissertation progress. It adds to the suspended disbelief, and you think that maybe you both know it. He always drops a five-star review at the end, and, after a week of it, he starts gifting you the in-chat badges and stickers that cost money. He sends them without hesitation, the money adding up so quickly that you start to threaten to block him. 

‘You won’t block me,’ he always messages back. ‘You like my attention too much.’

You hate how well he knows you.

So you start to text him your solo videos before you post them. Because you know him, too. Because you know that all you have to do is attach a cheeky message – ‘since you liked it so much the first time ;)’ – before he comes running, your phone ringing angrily every time.

‘You better cut it out,’ he always says. 

‘What’re you gonna do, punish me?’, you say. Because you know that he will.

You know that Akaashi will always give you what you want, no matter how far you push his limits outside of the bedroom. Because as long as you give him what he needs when it matters, he’ll do just the same.

That understanding becomes real in ways you hadn’t predicted, much too soon.

–

Keiji tugs on the collar of his turtleneck in annoyance, the fabric rubbing against his skin in a way that irritates him. He passes through the mass of people in the dining hall, grimacing when his shirt sticks to his skin, the heat a bit unbearable.

It’s still too warm out to be wearing something so clearly meant for winter, but he’d been in a rush this morning, and he hadn’t had time to cover up the hickies you’d left on him two nights ago. He’d cursed you and your family line when he’d spotted the marks in the mirror, because he certainly did not have time to cover them up with the concealer you’d bought him. He’d picked out the first high-neck item he could find in his closet, which just so happened to be this awful wool sweater that’s heavenly in the cold and absolute hell any other time.

You’re already at the table with Bokuto when he finds you, and he sees your eyes drop to his neck. Your eyebrows go up with interest, and you’re hiding a smirk, because you know exactly why he would ever have chosen such a bad outfit for today’s weather. He sits with a sigh, his loudly clattering tray one of the many micro-decisions he’s making to let out his irritation today.

“Hi, Bokuto,” he says quietly, only acknowledging you with a nod of his head. You nod back, seeing when he rolls his eyes subtly at you. It makes you smile, so you turn it on Bokuto, because that’s more natural than smiling at Keiji.

“Kou, have you heard back from the Expo?” you ask, giving the larger man all your attention. Keiji’s eye twitches slightly, and he digs into his lunch, trying not to let you see. But he knows you have, because you always do. 

Sometime in the last two weeks, you’d picked up on the way his shoulders tense when you talk to Bokuto, on the way his jaw clenches and unclenches when you touch him. On the way he’s just that much meaner in bed afterward.

He’s not stupid enough to believe he’s not a little bit possessive. He’d felt it enough times over the last few days. 

It always starts with an annoyance that strums in his veins when his best friend hugs you – because there’s a heat map on your body that only Keiji can see, one that shows him all the places he’d put his hands the last time he’d fucked you. And he has to sit there and watch Bokuto’s hands cover it all up. 

It’s worse when Bokuto lingers, friendly and unassuming, in your personal space, because Keiji knows you won’t smell like you afterward. He always tenses when it’s not your perfume in his nose when you pass him by. His mind goes blank when it’s Bokuto’s cologne instead, stronger than his own and not at all suited to your skin.

It always leaves him feeling like a fucking dog, overcome with some strange urge to pull you close – in public or otherwise – and drown you in things that smell like him. His cologne, his shirts, his coat, he doesn’t fucking care. It irritates him. And you’d noticed.

Of course you’d noticed – because you’re annoying like that. You’re annoying enough to feed into it, giving Bokuto extra smiles and extra sweetness when Keiji’s around, because you know that, the next time you’re alone with him, Keiji will make you cry and beg for forgiveness.

And it doesn’t matter how many times he reminds himself that it’s not his business to be jealous. It’s not his business to be possessive, because there’s nothing for him to be possessive about. You’re not his. 

But you lean into it. So he does, too.

You lean into it now, touching your fingers down on Bokuto’s arm when you ask him about the conference. It starts on Friday, and the results still aren’t out yet. It’s concerning, enough that it’s made everyone more high-strung than usual – conference results coming out with less than a week for speakers to prepare is unheard of.

But Keiji’s not thinking about that. He’s thinking about the fingers you have on Bokuto’s wrist, wondering if you remember that, two nights ago, you had those fingers wrapped around his-

“No, I haven’t!” Bokuto exclaims, snapping Keiji out of his growing frustration. “It’s so weird and annoying! Have you?”

You shake your head, pouting slightly, and Keiji’s rice spoon shakes in his clenched fist. He’s really not in the space to do this today.

“We haven’t, no. Our advisor’s starting to get a little pissed,” you say in faux contemplation. You press one fingertip to your bottom lip and tap thoughtfully a few times. Keiji wonders if it’d be okay for him to throw himself across this table and tackle you.

When your eyes slide to his, catty and challenging, he loses his mind.

Dropping his spoon in the metal bowl with a jarring clang, he leans back, sighing performatively. “God, I think I chose the wrong outfit for today.”

Bokuto looks him over, nodding enthusiastically, but Keiji keeps his eyes locked on yours. You know to be wary of him, at least – your eyes narrow, and his even out, your challenge accepted.

“Yeah, dude, you really did. It’s way too hot to-” Bokuto goes quiet, staring. His eyes are locked on the place where Keiji has a finger hooked into his collar and is tugging it down, presumably to air out his warm neck.

His warm neck, where there are some rather you-shaped love bites marking his skin.

Your face drops, mouth hanging open and eyes wide as you stare at him. Keiji doesn’t react, because Bokuto’s looking at him, not you, but he does turn his gaze on his friend and tug on the collar a few more times with a relieved sigh.

“So hot in here. I made a mistake.”

“Dude.” Bokuto stares, open-mouthed, and then reaches for him, yanking the collar all the way down and exposing Keiji’s hickies completely. “Have you been sleeping with someone?!”

Keiji stares you dead in the eyes when he says–

“Just someone from my department.” He watches your gaze turn deadly, and he smiles politely at the glare you shoot him, turning back to his friend. “I don’t think you’d know her. It’s really casual.”

Bokuto immediately turns to you, and you fix your expression with impressive speed.

“Do you know who it is?” he asks excitedly, practically vibrating in his seat. “Y/n, please tell me you know who it is. Please, please, please-”

“Uh-” you stutter, laughing nervously and shaking your head. “Our department’s pretty big, Kou. And I’m not really in the habit of getting in Akaashi’s business.” 

It’s a solid save, Keiji will give you that. But he can’t help but smirk, because he can tell you’re not going to be letting this one go any time soon.

“Um, but-” He plasters an embarrassed grin on his face, nudging Bokuto in a way that’s meant to be sheepish. “We’re keeping it kinda quiet, okay? So don’t tell anyone?”

The man’s eyes go wide, and he’s nodding very solemnly. “Yeah, I totally get it. I won’t say anything!”

Your chair screeches when you push it back, standing to full height. Keiji watches you with disinterest.

“I just remembered,” you say through gritted teeth. “We were supposed to go over that handout before lecture. Should we go?”

Keiji just lifts his brows and looks down at his lunch. “I’m still eating.”

Your nostrils flare, and a rush of excitement flies down his spine. Picking up your bag, you smile sweetly down at Bokuto. “Sorry, Kou. Let’s get dinner tonight?”

Keiji can’t wait to get you alone.

He and Bokuto watch you go, Bokuto waving and yelling ‘see you tonight!’ across the crowded room. Keiji eats his meal silently, watching when Kuroo, Tsukishima, and Yachi break through the mass of bodies and make their way over to the table. The two men are stealing glances at each other as they walk, but Keiji’s learned that if he minds his own business, then Tsukishima tends to do the same.

And it’s important to him that Tsukishima does the same.

“Was that Y/n we just saw?” Kuroo asks as he sets his tray down. Bokuto nods bouncily.

“She said something about a handout that she and Akaashi need to go over.” He looks down at Keiji, who’s stuffing his mouth full of food at record speed. “Shouldn’t you go with her?”

Keiji nods, cheeks stretched to their limits as he tries to swallow it all. “Mhm,” he says, grimacing as the food goes down and then shoveling more in. He picks up his bag as he’s still eating, swinging it over his shoulder and snatching his tray up. “Gotta go-” He chokes a bit, barely recovering as he’s waving goodbye over his shoulder. He feels Tsukishima’s eyes on him for only a moment before the sensation passes, and he’s grateful he and the blond have come to a silent agreement.

He makes a beeline for the door, all but bursting out in a run as soon as he hits the sidewalk. His phone buzzes in his pocket, and he yanks it out, heart pounding at the thought that it’s you.

[2:38PM]

Bokuto: DONT WORRY AKAAAASHI!!! 

Bokuto: I WONT TELL ANYONE ABOUT YOUR SECRET SITUATIONSHIP!!!

Keiji laughs to himself, pocketing the phone again as he heads straight for the Linguistics building. 

He only makes it to the corner before he’s being dragged around the side of the dining hall and slammed against the brick wall.

“You asshole-”

He closes his eyes and laughs, your voice washing over him in a giddy wave. “This doesn’t look much like a Syntax handout-” 

“You told him.” You lean in close, and he meets your eyes with ease, the grin tugging at his lips satisfied.

“No, I didn’t,” he says. “I told him I’m fucking a girl in my department. It could be anyone.”

“He’s gonna figure out it’s me-”

Keiji takes your face in his hand, squeezing tight and pulling you close, not unlike the way he’d done it in the stairwell two weeks ago. There’s something about the way you’d said it – like you really don’t want Bokuto Koutarou to find out you’re hooking up with him – that makes him angry. Irrationally so, because it’s not his place to be angry at all. But still, he grabs you. He grabs you, and then he turns you around, pushing you up against the wall with his body.

“You wanna play with me, Freak?” he mumbles, his voice cold as he stares down at you. “You wanna flirt and touch and smile at him like that when I’m around?” Your eyes are heated, so different from his own, and he wonders if you realize that it turns him on when you look at him like this. He leans down, close enough that he watches your eyes drop to his lips in a slight panic, because every breath you let out passes through his lungs next. 

He hopes you feel it in yours when he whispers, “Then I’m gonna play with you, too.”

Your gaze hardens on his, but he’d felt the shiver of anticipation that had just wracked your body. It eggs him on, makes him want to do worse.

“If you wanted to fuck Bokuto, you should have asked him instead,” he says, his voice hard. “But you asked me. Not him.”

Your eyes flick between his, and then your gaze clears of its anger. Keiji’s brow furrows.

“You’re jealous,” you whisper, amazement coating your words and sticking to him like honey. He scoffs, shaking his head. 

“I’m not fucking jealous-”

“You’re so fucking jealous, Akaashi-”

“Y/n,” he growls, pushing you up harder against the wall, but you just stare up at him, a wild look in your eye that makes him completely and utterly nervous. “I’m not jealous.”

“Well, you’re something,” you breathe, the smile on your face unable to be stopped, even with the way he’s squeezing your cheeks together. “What’s wrong, huh? Worried I might not just be yours to play with?”

His veins run cold, and there’s a terrifyingly significant part of him that wants to take you right here, just to prove a point. To make you scream right here, in public, so close to the dining hall where anyone – maybe even someone in particular – might pass by and discover you. It makes him crazy.

You make him crazy.

“If you fuck anyone else–” he whispers, cold and hard and laced with a threat. “–then this is over. You hear me, Y/n?”

He thinks you’re going to be angry. He’s saying something completely irrational. He’s being possessive and gross and terrible, and you should be angry with him. It’s not his place – none of this is his place. You can fuck whoever you want to. It was unspoken that there would be no one else, but it was never part of the rules. You should be kicking and screaming and fighting him with everything you’ve got.

But you don’t. 

“I hear you, Akaashi,” you just breathe, staring up at him with wide, twinkling eyes. You look excited, like you’d been waiting to bring this out of him. Like you’d wanted this from him, because there wouldn’t be any other reason that you would–

Keiji blinks, realization filling him. “You… aren’t attracted to Bokuto, are you?”

You grin wide, evil and wicked as you search his eyes. “God, you’re possessive.”

He wants to crawl into a hole and die.

–

You don’t see Akaashi again until Tuesday morning. He’d sat through Syntax lecture the day before with his head in his hand, ears burning and phone buzzing uselessly in his pocket with the teasing texts that you were sending him. He hadn’t checked his phone once, because he could see you typing and, based on the shit-eating grin on your face, they weren’t texts that he was safe to check in public. He’d booked it from the lecture hall the moment your advisor had stepped away from the podium, and he hadn’t answered any of your calls. At some point he’d just turned his phone off, but you couldn’t bring yourself to be worried about it, because, like clockwork, he’d pinged you online.

[9:07 PM]

tokyohandsome: i hate you.

tokyohandsome: youre the worst thing thats ever happened to me.

You’d just sent him another text to his phone, a voice note of you laughing and asking if he would still give you five stars even if you don’t message him back. He does exactly that, and then he texts you back –  a middle finger emoji.

You look forward to seeing him on Tuesday, but every thought of Akaashi Keiji leaves you when you check your email in the morning.

[06:22 AM] Notification of Conference Acceptance – Poster Presentation

You stare at the email, a mix of excitement and dread swirling in your gut. You’d gotten in. You’d gotten into the conference. A poster presentation isn’t as much of an achievement as a full talk – you’d have to stand around in the poster session for an hour just talking to whoever would be willing to drop by and listen for a few minutes, instead of having the attention of a dedicated audience for twenty minutes plus a Q&A session – but an acceptance is an acceptance. It’s an accomplishment and a point of pride to be accepted to conferences, especially to one like Ling Expo.

Ling Expo, which starts in three days.

Three days to make a poster, with teaching responsibilities, pilot data to analyze, and a dissertation chapter due to your advisor tomorrow afternoon.

Right. Okay, then. Time to get to it.

–

You don’t think you’ve ever had a day quite this bad before. It’s barely 11am, the LEM meeting something that you’d consider a break right now, and you feel like you’ve been put through hell. You’d spent the morning analyzing data and trying not to cry when your code for the analysis had returned an error message for the sixteenth time. You’d gone through your advisor’s comments on your last chapter draft, trying not to cry again when you’d seen the major revisions he’d left in the margins for the section you haven’t done yet. And then you’d taught your Semantics class, trying not to cry again when someone had asked a question that you’d just answered four minutes prior.

By the time you flop down at the round table in the lab room, your head is screaming and you’re about one minor inconvenience from sobbing in front of everyone. 

When Akaashi silently sets a steaming hot latte down in front of you, you think you might start sobbing anyway.

You look up at him, eyes wide and bloodshot. You don’t see that everyone else is looking at him too, the whole room falling silent as they watch him act out of character. “Why?”

He doesn’t look much better than you. “Poster or talk?”

You blink. You hadn’t told him you’d been accepted. “Poster.”

He smiles, not like he’s proud of you but like he’s satisfied that he’d been right. “I got a talk.”

The room relaxes – he’s just gloating. Your advisor laughs low next to you, almost like he’s relieved that the universe isn’t turning on an odd new axis. But you keep your eyes on Akaashi’s, because you can see he’d meant it for what it really is.

He’s checking on you.

He takes the seat on the other side of your advisor, and you hear him breathe a sigh of relief when he sips from his coffee. You try yours, feeling your life come back to you just a little bit. 

Your advisor casts a look around the room, clearing his throat as he surveys you all.

“Based on the varying states of despair I’m seeing, we got a few acceptances to Ling Expo.”

The group of you laugh, and you feel that interesting wave of camaraderie fall over you that always comes around the time of this conference. That reminder that, even if you’re all different people working on different research, you’re just a group of twenty-somethings who landed in the same school, in the same department, working for the same advisor at the same time.

At the finish line, you’ll be vying for the same jobs – the same research positions, the same professorships, the same industry careers. But for now – for one weekend a year – the ten of you in this room represent the man at the head of the table, and, as brutal and unrelenting as he can be, there’s a reason it’s his lab group that gets invited to the biggest conference in Japan every year.

There’s a piece of you that’s glad that things between you and Akaashi had smoothed out this year – that, even if you still wage an academic war with him every chance you get, things between you will be different this weekend. Because, of the ten of you, there are exactly two PhD candidates in the room. Only two who will be watched above the rest, because only two are on the job market at this very moment, their competence on display in front of the brightest linguists in the country.

Two, who sit on either side of the head of the table at this very moment.

The stress comes down on your chest harder than before.

“I know it’s really short-notice,” your advisor says, shaking his head and staring down over his bifocals at his laptop screen. “The organizers have been a little scattered this year, but I guess it happens to the best of us.” And then he claps loudly, you and Akaashi flinching at the noise. “That said, they didn’t book enough rooms for everyone, so we’ll have to do some sharing.”

You nod emptily, too caught up in your mental to-do list for the rest of the day to really register what he’s said. It’s happened before, anyway – the larger, interdisciplinary conference always ends up drawing massive attendance records across all departments. You’d had to share a room two years ago, with a girl who works for one of the top three translation companies in the world now.

If you manage not to fuck up this weekend from the sheer lack of preparation, you might impress someone long enough to land a similar job.

Your mind lingers on that for the next few minutes, the pressure to represent your advisor well weighing down heavy on your shoulders. You should start your poster after this meeting – if you skip lunch, you might be able to finish it before the Syntax lecture. And – if you aren’t stopped for questions by students on the way out – you might be able to troubleshoot the data code for the rest of the day. You could probably afford to order takeout for dinner. That way you don’t have to waste time cooking, and you can even take a break afterward by hauling your stuff down to the coffee shop by your apartment and working there on the dissertation draft until morning. Oh, but there’s grading that needs to get done by Thursday night, and you won’t have time tomorrow-

“-eiji and Y/n. And I think that’s it.”

You blink, turning to your advisor. He’s already looking back at you, eyebrows raised.

“That is fine, right?” he says, smiling innocently. You hear the scattered snickers of your lab-mates, and you can only look over the man’s head at Akaashi. He’s staring back, eyes guarded and ears tinted pink.

Sharing a hotel room with Akaashi?

“What?” you say dumbly. “Sorry. I was doing damage control in my head for my workload.”

It eases Akaashi’s tension, his shoulders relaxing as he laughs with the rest of the room. Your advisor nudges you good-naturedly. 

“You and Keiji are together for room placements,” he repeats. “I know it’s not ideal, but we’ve got an odd number of guys and girls, so we need one co-ed room.” He looks between you lazily, as though his logic had been obvious. “And you two know each other best, so…”

Somehow, Akaashi looks more guarded now.

You’re not sure you’re in a place mentally to unpack everything this man’s just said. So you just nod along, ignoring the look of surprise Akaashi gives you when you only mumble ‘yeah, that makes sense’. 

“Great!” you advisor beams at you, returning to the rest of the group. “Now, about the presentation schedule-”

You tune out for the rest of the meeting, certain you must have fallen asleep with your eyes open, because Akaashi’s nudging your shoulder as he passes behind you on the way out. You blink, seeing that it’s already noon.

You rush to your office, barely hearing when there’s a knock at your door two hours later. A dark head pokes past, but you just keep your eyes locked on your double monitor setup, your fingers flying across the keyboard of your laptop as you fill in the text boxes of your poster.

“Y/n.” You just hum at the call of your name, watching the screen fill up with the literature review you’d boiled down to just a few bullet points. The dark head becomes a whole body, tall in the doorway of your office. “Y/n, it’s time for lunch.”

You blink, only pulling your eyes away from the screen because you’d filled in the whole section and could afford the break in your concentration. Akaashi’s at the door, staring down at you expectantly. When you don’t move to join him for lunch, his eyebrows go up.

“You have to eat.”

“Oh,” you say, shaking your head and going back to your screens. “I’m good. Too busy.”

“To eat?”

“To eat.”

He sighs hard. “Are you going to lecture after?”

You nod absentmindedly. “Have to. ‘s my job.”

“And you’re not going to eat?”

“Akaashi,” you say with a distressed laugh, turning to him again. “Please. You’re killing my concentration.” You gesture generally to the door. “If you don’t go eat soon, you’ll be late to lecture.”

He only steps further into the room, glancing out into the hall before shutting the door behind him. When he rounds your desk, it’s to examine what you’re working on. You recognize that, only weeks ago, you would never have let Akaashi Keiji see the state of your workspace.

But now, you just let his eyes fly across your laptop and monitor, too tired to do much more than lean back in your chair with a sigh. You’ve got the poster template up on your big monitor, zoomed in to the 300% mark so you can fill out the boxes. Your laptop screen is split in two, one side filled with a previous version of your talk slides and the other taken up by your dissertation chapter, the glaring red strikethroughs and lengthy comments left by your advisor popping out against the text.

He doesn’t comment on the state of your draft — on the mistakes and lack of understanding, on your flaws as a researcher, your places of improvement. He doesn’t comment on all the ways you don’t match up to him, even though the difference between your poster presentation and his talk presentation speak loud enough for both of you.

He doesn’t comment on your shortcomings or the state of your stress, loud and angry and visible in everything about you. He just sighs and crosses his arms and says —

“Do you want to cancel tonight?”

Your blood runs cold. 

You forgot he’s supposed to come over tonight. You didn’t count him in your schedule.

Still, the idea of not seeing him makes you feel weird.

You don’t look up from your screen. “Only if you’ve got too much going on.”

You leave it up to him. You want him to say he’s free, that he doesn’t want to cancel. You don’t want to cancel, even though the extra five hours would probably save you from drowning just a little bit. But you don’t want to tell him that — you don’t want to tell him that the thought of him cancelling makes your stomach hurt and your chest twinge with disappointment. You don’t want to show him that you’d rather throw yourself into worse stress tomorrow rather than giving yourself more time tonight.

 You don’t want him to see how badly you want to see him tonight.

“I’ve got time tonight,” he says quietly, and you don’t turn to look at him, even though you really want to. Even though you can hear that there’s more in his voice than the words he’d said. Because you know he doesn’t have time, either.

“Okay,” you say, nodding once and then sitting up to return to your poster. “If you don’t go eat now, you’ll be late to Syntax.” 

He leaves without another word.

When you join him in lecture, he drops a banana and a protein shake in your lap. You eat silently, swallowing over the lump in your throat.

–

Something’s not right.

By all counts, everything is fine. Everything’s as it should be. Akaashi has one hand planted firmly on your bare waist, the other locked tight around both your wrists as he keeps them pressed to your stomach. It feels good, the way he’s pushing his hips into yours – it always feels good. Never once has sex with Akaashi not felt good.

But now – even as your back is arching against the mattress and your legs are spreading further to let him in, the silence filled with the sound of your breathless pants mixing with his – something’s not right. 

It’s not him that’s not right. 

But it is. 

It’s the way he’s staring down at you, cyan eyes cold and detached. It’s not new, and normally it works wonders for you. Normally, it plucks at a strand of pleasurable desperation in your soul, one that wants to please him and give him anything he wants, even when he doesn’t tell you what it is. 

Tonight, that strand is plucked over and over, harder and faster until it’s wound tight. Tight enough to snap, because the way Akaashi Keiji’s disinterest is pulling at you is starting to hurt.

“What’s with you, huh?” he mumbles, half-distracted as his eyes roam your body and linger on how your breasts bounce when he thrusts hard into you. “You’re not so bratty tonight. You losing interest?” 

You shake your head, the string pulling at your spine. “No, it’s not-”

“If you’re losing interest-” he starts, cyan eyes snapping to yours. Filling with looming disappointment, like you’re not doing enough for him tonight. Like you’re not doing enough to keep him here. “-then I’ll lose interest, too.”

You’re not enough.

You feel your face twist before you can stop it, brows pinching together hard and eyes squeezing shut. Your mouth drags down in a deep frown, and your chest stutters as you try to keep a sob in, your eyes burning with tears all at once.

“‘m sorry,” you gasp, wanting to hide behind your hands but finding them trapped in Akaashi’s grasp. “I’ll try harder, I promise-” You cut off, body jerking as you sob, tears hot and angry as they fall down your cheeks. Your nerves are frayed, shocking and sparking at your skin and forcing every new sob to the surface. Your breath comes short, and you can’t find more no matter how hard you look for it.

You notice too late that Akaashi’s stopped moving.

You want to play it off, want to feed into his dacryphilia, if only to save face. “I can do better, baby-” you try, but it comes out weak and pathetic. Covered in the kind of tears that couldn’t possibly do much for him. “Just tell me what to do-”

“Y/n.”

You gasp, not expecting the hard edge of his voice or the sound of your name. Your eyes fly open, vision blurry and eyes stinging. He’s staring down at you, his own gaze full of alarm. “What’s your color right now?”

Your chest caves in.

“Yellow,” you cry, shaking your head and tugging at the restraint on your wrists. He lets you go, and you slap your hands down over your face, crying hard. “Yellow, it’s yellow-”

It’s red.

But you don’t want him to think it’s because of him – it’s not because of him, and you know that. You know, even in your anguish, that it’s because of how stressed you are. You can feel it in the cruel voice that taunts you, whispering that you’re not enough. Not enough for this program, not enough for your advisor, not enough for your dissertation or the field or anything else that you absolutely need to be enough for.

You’re not enough for Akaashi, either, but that’s not his fault. He hasn’t done a single thing wrong.

So you tell him your color is yellow.

But he hears it for what it is. 

Hears you for what you mean, even when you don’t say it.

You sob when he pulls out of you, because you don’t feel like you’re enough to keep him here, but you don’t try to convince him to stay. You just cry into your hands, your frayed edges made more jagged by the wail of your own voice, viciously loud and echoing off the walls as you curl up in place and let the sobs wrack your body.

You hear him moving around the room, hear him swear under his breath, hear your phone hit the bedside table. And then the mattress moves, shifting with his weight as he clambers back over you.

“Hey.” His hands find your biceps, palms steady and warm on you. He pulls you up, and you let him move your body however he wants. You just cry, embarrassed and hurting and wanting so desperately for this whole thing to be over. “Come here-” He lifts you into his lap, maneuvering you until you’re sitting chest to chest with him, legs wrapped around his waist. 

You throw your arms around his neck and press your body to his, crying loudly into the crook of his neck. His chest is warm against yours, and you can feel the fabric of his boxers sliding against your thighs. And his arms are strong and anchoring, belting around your waist and pulling you as close to him as you can physically be.

Akaashi Keiji feels safe, and you so very badly want him to stay.

“I’m sorry,” you sob, face hidden in his neck. “I’m so sorry - you didn’t do anything wrong.”

“It’s okay,” he says, and you feel him speak more than anything else, his voice low and vibrating in his chest and in yours. He’s pulling the comforter around you both, and you’re safer still, wrapped up in this little bubble with him. “It’s okay. I was too mean tonight-”

“No, you weren’t!” you argue, angry with yourself for making him doubt this. “You weren’t too mean – everything was fine-”

“Y/n, you’re crying in my arms right now,” he jokes, but his hold on you never falters. He only pulls you closer. 

“But it wasn’t you,” you say, shaking your head against him. His throat is warm, and you can feel his heartbeat on your cheek. It pulses hard with anxiety, and you hate that you’ve done that to him. “It was everything else, I’m just-” Your tears are still flowing, but your chest doesn’t hurt so much. Your breath is easier to find. “I’m just not in a good place tonight.”

“I know,” he mutters. You feel his lips pass over your shoulder. “I know you’re not, but I still wasn’t nice enough. I should have been nicer.” His mouth is warm as it pushes gently against your skin. “I should have read you better,” he whispers.

“That’s not your responsibility,” you protest weakly. But his fingers are drawing warm shapes in your back, and you’re coming down from your peak of stress-crying, and all you feel now is extreme exhaustion.

“Yes, it is,” he breathes with finality. His lips are against your ear now, and his breath is sending waves of shivers down your spine – it usually sets you on edge, but in this moment it calms you, the feeling of him pressed against you completely as he whispers in your ear. “I have to know how to read you – how to know what you need from me.”

Your brain, worn and frayed, likes the sound of that.

“Okay.”

He stays quiet for a moment – mere seconds where he sits completely still with you in his arms. Where your chest presses firmly against his, your heartbeat slowing to match his, and then both of them slowing together, back to normal. Where your face presses to his skin, and his face presses to yours, the two of you breathing in time.

The thing that had slid into place and locked tight all those weeks ago – when you looked into Akaashi Keiji’s eyes the first time you’d slept together, the first time you’d gone over the edge with cyan in your mind – rattles now, chains jangling against your spine and pushing hard behind your ribcage. In the spot where your soul sits.

“Okay,” he says.

And then he stands, taking you with him. He wraps you up in the comforter and takes you, completely naked and wrapped around him like that’s all you know how to do, out of the room and into the living room. He pads through the room with you obstructing him in every way, and he does it with ease, pushing his way into your pantry and snatching the box of pop-tarts off the middle shelf.

He drops the box haphazardly on the coffee table and takes a seat on the couch, careful not to hurt you but still rough – certain and final – about the way he turns you in his lap. You sit with your back against his chest, swaddled and a little confused but otherwise allowing him to do as he pleases in any way he pleases. Your mind is too hazy to make any decisions, too cloudy to question his. Your brain is too hot, the jagged edges of your judgment too muddled and eroded away for you to do anything except trust him.

You leave your life and your body in Akaashi Keiji’s hands, because it’s Akaashi Keiji who knows what to do with them.

When he turns on the nature channel silently and comments ‘series about whales today’ with a half-interested hum, you start to cry in your hands again. He lets you, his thumb rubbing circles into your skin the only indication that he’s got his attention wholly on you.

He takes one hand off of you after a moment, only to hand you a pack of strawberry pop-tarts. And then to pick up his phone, previously discarded on the cushion. You watch through strawberry pop-tart and blurry vision as he orders Chinese food – wonton soup and two orders of dumplings.

Comfort food.

You cry harder, one hand clasped over your mouth as you listen to the narrator talk about whale migration. When Akaashi’s done ordering, he tosses his phone down and pulls you close again, letting you turn halfway so you can bury your face in his neck.

“Ready to talk?” he mumbles, soft and coaxing. You’ve never heard him speak to you like that before.

“Just stressed,” you whisper weakly, unable to give him more. Too tired to say more. 

His thumb pushes warmly against your hip on its path around the circle. “Ling Expo?”

You nod. “Dissertation, too.”

“Yeah,” he says, nodding once. “I saw his comments on your draft. Er–” He laughs lamely. “The size of the comments, rather.”

You don’t respond. You know he’s further along in his dissertation than you are – he’s probably past the point of major foundational issues. It feels like you’ll never get there.

“Just feels like nothing I do is good enough.”

You don’t question why you tell him that. You just recognize that you’re comfortable enough to.

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, just nodding and keeping his eyes on the TV while he runs his thumb across your skin.

“I didn’t mean what I said earlier,” he finally says. You keep quiet, curled up against him and wondering where this is going. “I feel like you know that,” he adds. “But I just… thought I should make it clear.” His fingers find your hair, tangling tight and pulling you away with a firm hand so he can look at you. His nose brushes yours while he flicks his eyes between yours, searching you. Reading you. And then he shakes his head.

“I didn’t mean what I said. About losing interest.”

You’re enough for me.

Your throat tightens and your eyes well up, and his mouth is tugging into the ghost of a smile. “Don’t cry again,” he whispers.

“I’m gonna cry again,” is all you say.

He’s kind enough to let you hide your face from him again before you do.

When he has to go downstairs to get the food, there’s a hole gnawing at the center of your chest. 

That’s new.

You sit in silence, wrapped up in blankets and staring emptily at the TV. Thinking about the anxious knot in your stomach – about the angry tug of emotion in your throat, threatening to force tears into your eyes again.

When Akaashi slips back through your front door, the knot eases and the emotion mellows out.

That’s definitely new.

You eat in silence while staring at the TV – you in your swaddle and Akaashi in the jeans and hoodie he’d been wearing earlier – and then you stare at the TV some more, your mind turning over and over on itself as you try to figure out where this feeling had come from. The one that needs him.

After an hour, he says something quietly about getting home. You just apologize for cutting the filming short, and he offers to come over tomorrow. Your chest pulses with unplaced emotion. 

He leaves. 

You sit on your couch and stare at nothing, the TV off now. 

The knot is tight and making you nauseous. The emotion is rolling up into a painful lump in your throat. Your eyes burn with tears that won’t fall.

–

Keiji sighs and pulls his fingers through his hair, tugging tight and searching the shelves of the convenience store. 

He doesn’t know why he’s here. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. There’s nothing in this store that will make you feel better. He keeps picking random shit up – cookies, chips, snacks that he thinks you might like – and putting them back, uselessly trying to find something to ease your stress just a little bit. The clerk at the front is starting to stare at him, a bored teenager with judgmental eyes watching him be indecisive in the middle of the store.

He feels like throwing up. His head is hot and there’s an irritated pull in his gut, like he’s forgotten something. He keeps closing his eyes, willing it to go away, but every stupid snack he picks up and puts back down – a claw-machine stuck on repeat – makes the feeling worse. 

He picks up a can of coffee. Stares down at the label. Puts it back.

You only drink almond milk.

He needs to get home and shower, to use the rest of the night to work on the slide deck for his Ling Expo talk.

He walks one aisle over and surveys the sweets again. Picks up a package of cookies. Stares down at the label. Puts it back.

You like oatmeal, not oatmeal raisin.

He needs to grade and work on his dissertation chapter. 

Over to the far wall, the last shelf before the freezers. Picks up a bag of chips. Stares down at the label. Puts it back.

You don’t like this brand of shrimp chips.

There are a million things he needs to do.

His eyes drift slightly to the right, to the pints of ice cream lined up behind the lightly frosted freezer door.

You do like cookies and cream.

He stares at it, at the label that stares back at him, and the tug in his gut yanks hard at his nausea. 

He’s not going to get anything done like this.

Reaching over with an irritated sigh, he rips the door open and plucks the offending pint of ice cream off the shelf. He takes it to the clerk, too embarrassed to make eye contact.

“Girlfriend upset about somethin’?” the teenager asks.

Keiji doesn’t answer him, glaring down at the counter while he pays.

–

There’s a knock at your door thirty minutes after Akaashi leaves.

You’re curled up in the middle of your bed in oversized clothes when it comes, stomach turning as you try to sleep. Disappointment seeping through your skin, because you feel like something’s missing.

When the knock sounds, you turn in bed, surprised. You climb out slowly, padding through the apartment to the front door and peeking through the peephole.

Your heart sends a pulse of electricity through your whole body. You pull the door open, eyes wide.

“Akaashi?”

He stares down at you, lips pursed with frustration and ears tinted pink. He thrusts a hand out, a plastic bag dangling from his fingers.

“Here.” 

You take it, peering inside. “Ice cream?”

“Yeah.”

You blink up at him. “Thank you?”

He just nods. You wait for him to say more, but he doesn’t. He just lingers, staring down at nothing.

And then he takes a step toward you, and his eyes meet yours.

Your breath catches in your throat.

You let him in wordlessly. He sets his shoes neatly in your foyer before moving to his spot at the couch and dropping his bag right where it was half an hour ago. He turns to look at you, scratching awkwardly at the side of his head.

You almost miss the way his eyes flick toward your bedroom curiously and then down at your pajamas.

Your bedroom. Not the spare room.

Your eyes well up when you realize that he means to stay the night. 

He exhales in disbelief, but you just cross the room in three strides and throw your body against his, arms wound around his neck and face lost in the collar of his hoodie.

He scoffs, even as his arms snake around your waist. “You’re such a crybaby,” he mutters, but any mockery he makes of you is overshadowed by the way he lifts you off your feet, pulling you closer. The bag falls from your hand, hitting the ground, and you wrap your thighs around him and lock your ankles behind his back.

He takes it as permission and carries you to your room without another word.

When he drops you to your mattress, it’s followed up by the shedding of his jeans and hoodie and the press of his body to yours, warm and safe and terribly confusing – because your body is used to this in a different room, in a different context. Not in your own bed, and not for any purpose that allows you to keep your clothes on.

But Akaashi just clambers toward you, hands rough on your body as he pulls you toward him. You hug him close, heartrate picking up when he throws himself between your thighs and wraps his arms tight around you, his face burning when he presses it to the crook of your neck.

You hold him like that, crying into his hair and feeling shivers race down your spine when he presses one kiss to your throat, and then another.

“Just go to sleep,” he whispers. “Everything’s fine. Just go to sleep.”

It takes you almost an hour to drift off, because your heart won’t calm down, but neither will his. It’s loud against your torso, and you can only imagine how annoying your own must be in his ears. You can only imagine how embarrassing your body’s being right now, because every brush of his lips against your skin makes your pulse beat just a little bit harder, and you know he can feel it.

You know he can feel it, but he keeps kissing you, anyway. 

His heart skips against your body, too. But he keeps kissing you, anyway.

You’re asleep before you can piece together that the aching nausea and the disappointment under your skin have faded away.

–

You wake up on Wednesday morning without an alarm.

It’s weird, because you always need an alarm. You always set an alarm.

But there’s a shift in the mattress beside you, so you don’t need one today.

You turn, peeling one eye open and staring up at the man leaning against your headboard. 

He hasn’t noticed you yet, because there’s a paper in his hand. A paper covered in sticky notes and highlighter and handwritten comments.

Your handwritten comments.

You watch him for a moment, watching the way he squints down at your comments and turns the pages this way and that so he can read the sideways ones better. His glasses sit on the end of his nose, and his hair is askew from sleep, pillow creases on his face and neck. The sunlight filters in through your sheer curtains in a way that makes his skin glow, but he sits in an otherwise dim room, not a single light in sight as he reads your thoughts on his work.

You blink groggily, and a thought crosses your mind – distant and strange – that it might be nice just to stay here like this. You, curled up in your comforter, watching Akaashi Keiji read quietly in the early morning light in your bed, shirtless and disheveled and entirely at peace with you.

You wonder if it would be too much to ask.

Akaashi sighs quietly and shakes his head at something you’d commented, and you can’t help but alert him that you’re awake.

“Somethin’ you don’t like?” you ask, watching him blink and turn to look down at you. 

He sighs again, shaking the paper in his hand with slight frustration. “Why don’t you say any of this shit in LEM?” When you don’t answer, he shuffles through some previous sheets, searching the margins and then pointing. “Like this. Why didn’t you tell me that these counter-examples exist? This is important data.”

You smile to yourself, too sleepy to argue with him. “I was worried that you’d thought of it already and just hadn’t written it there. I didn’t want to look stupid bringing it up to you.”

He cuts you a glance. “I’ve never thought you looked stupid.”

“No?” you say, smiling when he rolls his eyes. “You talk to me like you think I might be.”

“I don’t,” he sighs. And then he gestures to something you’d scratched into the edges with massive red question marks. “I think you’re the only one in that room who could think of this.”

“You really think I’m smart?” 

It’s a remnant of last night, that insecurity. You tell yourself that it has to be, that you wouldn’t be asking him something so vulnerable otherwise. It’s too personal, asking him to evaluate your intelligence when it’s the one thing you’re measured most critically on.

“Yeah,” he says plainly. Answering you plainly, like he’d never thought twice about it. “I do. And it pisses me off when you don’t.” He sighs again and then shuffles to the edge of the bed, waving the paper at you again. “I’m keeping this. I need it.”

The thought that he could ever need something from you makes your heart lodge uncomfortably in your throat. “Okay.”

“It’s 6:30,” he adds, standing and stretching his arms high above his head. You watch him, eyes lingering on his chest and the way his boxers slip under his hip bones when he lengthens his body like that. You tamper down the urge to put your mouth on those two spots, to press kisses there that taste like comfort and early morning. “Just so you know.”

“Okay,” you say again simply, wishing so dearly that you could just stay here. Knowing you could never ask him to stay here with you. “What time do you teach?”

“Nine.” He eyes you a moment, long enough for you to wonder if he’d seen you watching him wistfully. “I don’t have clothes here.”

“Oh.” The thought of him leaving makes your chest hurt. You recognize the feeling from last night. “Do you need to go back to your place?”

“Yeah.”

Oh.

You swallow, pushing away the odd, aching panic that’s rising in your chest. You don’t want him to leave. 

Akaashi chews on his lip. You reach for your phone slowly, like you want him to stop you. “Do you want me to call you an Uber?” you ask.

“Sure.” He swallows, watching you a moment. “Do you-” You lift your eyes. He looks away. “Do you want to go with me?”

Your nerves sizzle and snap, but the anxiety is washed away instantly.

You don’t know what to do with these feelings.

“Okay,” you whisper, staring up at him with wide eyes. His eyes flick to yours nervously, and then his lashes flutter as he looks away.

“Okay. Get dressed.”

You listen, that strand of desperation plucking away at you in ways that it really shouldn’t. 

Neither of you says anything about the pint of melted ice cream in your living room.

–

When Keiji shoulders his door open, it’s with a panicked glance around his apartment. He’s normally tidy, but this week has been especially difficult, and he doesn’t need you seeing the extent of his stress in the way he stops taking care of his space.

You stand awkwardly in the foyer, glancing around and then back at him. He’d noticed on the ride here that your face is more flushed than usual, that your eyes linger on him more than usual. He wonders if you feel the same strange need to be near him, or if there’s something else going on.

Because his eyes keep lingering on you, too.

He feels an itch under his skin, one that prickles and irritates him until he’s with you. He’d felt it this morning, when the threat of leaving your apartment without you had been on the edge of your conversation.

It had started last night, in that stupid convenience store.

Even now, as he ushers you into the room and gestures for you to sit on the couch, he feels weird about leaving the room. He’s only going to shower, for fuck’s sake. He needs to shower, because it’s already 7:15 and he still needs to prep for his class. But he lingers, rushing into the kitchen to make coffee in order to buy more time.

“You can raid my pantry if you want,” he calls from the coffee machine, hurriedly scooping coffee grounds into the basket. “You can eat whatever you want – it won’t take me long to get ready.”

“Okay,” you say, much closer than he’d expected. He turns, surprised, and finds you lingering at the entryway. Glancing at him and then away, flushing with embarrassment as you hover for no reason.

The thought that you hadn’t even wanted to be a room away from him makes Keiji’s skin burn with desire.

Something’s off. Something’s new, and he doesn’t know how to handle it.

You drift past him into the room, opening cabinets at random and peering inside with blank curiosity. Peering inside this little piece of his life, not necessarily searching for anything in particular but curious all the same. Keiji’s chest swells with emotion – a need to be nearer to you, closer to you than this.

He feels insane.

He shouldn’t need you the way he does.

You open the pantry door, leaning halfway inside as you poke around. “‘s really neat in here. Only you would be this neat.”

He’s got his hands on your waist before he can process that he’d crossed the room.

You gasp, eyes wide as he spins you around. “What-”

He shuts the door to the pantry by pinning you against it. Your breathing picks up when he presses flush to you, but your fingers are in his hair regardless. Your body opens up for him regardless, welcoming and familiar and trusting.

He wants to ruin you for anyone who’s not him.

Keiji drops his mouth to your throat, pushing his lips hard to the pulse point and breathing you in. You shiver, your head dropping back against the door. He tugs your hips against his to make a point – a point he probably shouldn’t make.

“‘Kaashi-” you gasp, and his entire body lights up with dangerously frayed nerves, the knot in his chest sparking and hissing with the threat of worse.

He doesn’t feel close enough to you. He wants more. 

Your fingers tug through his hair hard, and he groans quietly against your neck. He feels when your skin warms, feels when your fingers start to tremble. He’s making you nervous, nervous enough to shake in his arms. 

It’s a dangerous realization, the fact that he can make you feel this way. 

He knows that once you figure him out, too – because you will – he’ll be done for.

“Akaashi, we can’t,” you whisper.

He hadn’t considered fucking you in his apartment, but the fact that you had makes him want to cancel his class and keep you here all day.

“I know,” he breathes, his head spinning and his face radiating heat against your skin. “I know, I just-” He sighs hard. “Fuck.” 

There’s a low noise that climbs up your throat, one that he feels more than hears, and a part of him – the irrational part that wants to fuck you against this pantry door right now – wants to ask if you want to shower with him.

God, he doesn’t want to be apart from you, not even for that.

“You have to shower,” you mumble quietly, like you’re reading his mind and coaxing him gently away from the thought. He hopes that you’re coaxing yourself away, too.

“Okay,” he says, swallowing hard. He doesn’t want to let go – especially since you’re not letting go, either. “Okay. I should go.”

“You should go.”

He’s not convinced.

“I should go,” he says again, a little stronger. Stronger, because his hands are slipping under the hem of your shirt and pulling you closer instead of pushing you away.

“You should go, Akaashi,” you say, too, but it’s weaker this time. You’re weak to him – weak for him.

He’s so fucked. 

“Y/n,” he breathes, a warning inlaid and his pleas embarrassingly audible. Begging you to be strong with him, because he can’t do it on his own.

Your fingers slip out of his hair and clamp down on his shoulders, and you manage to peel him off of you. “Akaashi,” you say, your tone wavering but sharper than before. You’re trying. “You have to shower. We’re gonna be late.”

He meets your eyes and regrets it instantly, that swimming feeling filling his head and his face burning that uncomfortable, sticky hot again. 

“Yeah,” he whispers shakily, swallowing hard. “You’re right. I have to go.”

Your eyes drop to his lips, filling with a yearning that’s painfully clear for him to see.

Fuck.

He pushes off of you, backing away quickly and scrubbing at his brow. “Yeah. You’re right,” he repeats, louder this time. It doesn’t help, the thought of kissing you slamming into him hard enough to make him dizzy. “You’re right.” He turns away, padding quickly out of the kitchen and leaving you in the kitchen. “I’ll be back.”

The time away from you doesn’t help clear his head.

He just spends it thinking about kissing you.

–

Akaashi’s acting as weird as you feel.

The walk to campus happens in silence. When you walk into your usual coffee shop together and immediately run straight into Yachi, he flushes hard and mutters something about ordering first before making a beeline for the counter. You know there’s nothing you could say to save that moment – not with Hitoka staring knowingly into your soul – so all you’re able to do is smile weakly and chat with her in line, three customers behind Akaashi. She doesn’t pry, and you wonder briefly if all of your friends can see what you and Akaashi are trying so hard to hide.

He keeps it up throughout the day. But so do you.

So do you, because the way he’d acted in his apartment – taking up your space like it’s his own, like he’s unable to do otherwise despite trying – makes you think it’s okay to feel this way. To feel like you need more, even if you’ve already taken too much.

In your office, finalizing your dissertation draft and sending it off to your advisor, your mind is muddled, drifting often to the office just across the hall and the man sitting just inside. Your head is staticky, fuzzy, and you have to fight not to go over there. You have to fight, because half of you feels like you’ll be able to concentrate better on your work if he’s around, but the other half of you knows there’s no chance in hell of getting anything done if he’s in the same room.

It turns out there’s no need to fight, because he makes a decision for you.

A knock comes to your door an hour before lunch, the silhouette on the other side of the frosted glass all too familiar. 

The way he drags his eyes over your form when he walks in and then glances back into the hall with his bottom lip caught between his teeth makes you shiver visibly. He sees it – you know he does, because his eyes fly right back to you, heated and examining. Like he’s looking for something. 

When he mumbles ‘change of scenery’ under his breath and then crosses the room to fold into the chair on the other side of your desk with his laptop, you know he’s found it. The two of you don’t speak, but you can feel him watching you while you work, and you’re moving with a slight wobble in your step by the time you head to the dining hall.

At lunch, he sits right across from you, in Bokuto’s usual spot. You don’t say anything about it, not wanting to draw attention. Not wanting him to know how much you notice him.

You don’t say anything about the way he presses his knee between your legs, either. It shakes you to your core, that gentle nudge of his knee against the inside of yours. Your body sparks with nerves, but you don’t say anything, because he’s still talking to Tsukishima about jobs as if he hasn’t just rattled you of your ability to act normal at lunch. 

You say nothing, just letting his body heat nestle between your knees and trying your best not to burn at the feeling. His eyes flick to yours just briefly enough to mean nothing to everyone else – but it means everything to you, because he drops his gaze to your mouth before he looks away, and suddenly you’re back in his apartment, pushed against his pantry door with his mouth less than a breath’s distance from yours.

He swallows hard and returns to the discussion Tsukishima’s having with Yachi, Bokuto and Kuroo caught in their own conversation about the conference this weekend. You breathe deep and try to respond to Kuroo’s comment about the group meeting up at the hotel bar in everyone’s free time, but then Akaashi’s shifting across from you. He stretches his leg out under the table and takes up your personal space with purpose, and your words are lost in your throat.

It’s a reminder that Akaashi Keiji is possessive.

You wonder if he realizes how much you like when he’s like this.

You make it through lunch, somehow, and then walk in silence beside him to the Syntax lecture. You make uncomfortable eye contact with your advisor when you enter the lecture hall – uncomfortable, because he’s flicking his eyes between you and Akaashi and then smiling to himself as he turns away. 

You promise yourself that you’ll make it through lecture without incident, but that goes out the window the second Akaashi shifts and bumps his thigh against yours, halfway through the class.

Your breath catches in your throat sharply. He bumps your leg again and then leaves it there, thigh pressed firmly to yours. Only a moment passes – a moment where you trick yourself into thinking it means nothing, for your own sake – before his hand is sliding across your thigh, heat searing through your jeans.

You stiffen, scanning the room nervously. But you always sit in the very back of the hall, so no one’s able to see what’s happening. No one’s going to catch anything Akaashi does, which you’re confident he’s already calculated. Still, you don’t want to risk anyone glancing back, so you don’t speak to him.

You just wrap your fingers around his wrist, squeezing tight in warning.

He just slips his hand between your clenched thighs, curling warmly around the curve of your thigh and digging his fingertips into the plush give of your body. Your skin erupts in goosebumps, and you become needy almost instantly. The way he rubs circles into your jeans with his thumb makes you needy. The way he handles your body with ownership – the way you’d let him handle you last night, like you belong to him – makes you want him much more than you should. Makes you want him physically, but also in ways that you never had before. Not before last night.

You glance at him out of the corner of your eye. And then you shiver, because you realize that he’s hard in his slacks.

Oh.

He meets your eyes when your body reacts to him, and that gnawing, yearning feeling in your chest worsens.

His eyes are glazed over, distracted and hot. Distracted by the same terrible neediness that’s plaguing you.

Oh.

He looks away, squeezing your thigh again before moving his hand away and tugging his cardigan down over his tented pants subtly. Your chest swims with disappointment for the moment it takes him to extract his phone from his pocket, and then it fills with hope. 

Your own phone buzzes in your bag a second later.

[3:44 PM]

Akaashi: am i still coming over tonight?

Oh, dear god.

–

“That’s it, princess.”

Your mind fogs over with the feeling of him – of Akaashi’s voice in your ear, of every whisper that heats your brain that much more. Of the tingles that had started plaguing your every nerve the moment he’d started this – this praise – and simply don’t seem to be anywhere near easing up.

You rock your hips back where you sit in his lap on the couch of your spare room, arching your chest forward into his and breathing roughly when his arm curls tighter around your waist. You’ve got both hands on his shoulders, anchoring yourself to him like it’s your only link to sanity, and he’s using the hand he doesn’t have wrapped around you to push and pull at your hips, guiding you against him whenever you’re unable to do it yourself.

You feel full of him, warm and safe and muddling every thought that crosses through your mind while he fucks you. He fucks you slow, slow enough to trick you into thinking that it’s you who’s leading here. He fucks you slow and whispers that cursed praise in your ear and against your throat, knowing without ever having asked that it’s what you need from him tonight.

“Just like that, baby,” he breathes, his cock twitching against your walls when you moan to yourself, genuine and quiet and just for him. “You’re doing so good, fucking me so good.” You whimper into his hair, struggling to remember that there’s a camera and that you have a job to do. That your sounds can’t just be for him. That your pleasure can’t only be his.

But you want it to be, even just this once. You want to be his, just this once.

“‘m close,” you whisper, feeling that familiar, welcome tug under your navel.

“Come for me,” he breathes back, his lips brushing against your cheek. “Give it to me. You can do it.” 

You can’t help it. It’s entirely out of your control, spurred on by this entire week and the way he’s treated you. The way he’s handled you, in ways only he can. By the need you’ve been feeling, acknowledged and echoed tenfold in him, too. You really can’t help it.

And, looking back later, you can’t bring yourself to regret it.

“‘Kaashi,” you whisper against his temple, your pleasure washing over you in waves that are so close to what you need.

Akaashi stops moving his hips before you can get there.

Your heart stops at the same time.

He lifts his head, leaning back just enough to look you in the eye. Your breath cuts short, and you let him search your face – eyes flicking between yours before they fly across your other features. You let him search you, because you can’t bring yourself to hide anything.

“What did you say?” he whispers, alarm in his expression but not in the way you’d expected. Alarm that checks you, alarm that betrays a lingering anticipation in eyes that you can only see because you’ve spent so long learning him.

You purse your lips together, too scared to say it again.

He doesn’t need you to.

He just drops his gaze to your mouth, shoving you right back into that moment in his apartment, and all you can do is part your lips in surprise. All he needs to do is lift his head, just a few more centimeters.

He tastes like quiet desperation, the kind that’s been building for far too long.

He curls his fingers into your hair and swallows audibly, his lips still on yours even as he tugs you closer. You’re more than happy to follow his lead, breath stuttering nervously against his mouth. 

Each push of his lips against yours is more heated than the last. Until his grip on the back of your head stings a little, until the pass of his tongue over the seam of your lips makes your stomach flip and your limbs go a little more numb. Until he’s angling his head against yours and pulling you close, his grip tightening and his body shifting under you.

You don’t realize he’s putting you on your back until your skin meets the soft sheet on the couch, until he’s hooking a hand under your knee and keeping your legs spread while he pushes his hips against yours, his lips warm and urgent. 

You flush nervously, your head going hotter than before and your thoughts scrambling without warning. You can’t take it – the feeling of his mouth on yours while he fucks you, the feeling of his moans traveling down your throat whenever your walls clamp down around him, the most turned on you’ve ever been.

That familiar tug comes back stronger than before, rushing you to the edge with each push of his lips and each pass of his tongue against yours.

And when he murmurs your name into your own mouth, quiet and soft and tinged with warning, your fingers and toes go numb.

“Say my name again,” he breathes, angling his hips in a way that has you seeing stars. “Please. I’m really close.”

You pull your lips from his and wrap your arms around his neck, pushing your mouth close to his ear and moaning quietly when his thrust has your head bumping gently against the arm of the couch.

“Come for me, baby,” you whisper, your own orgasm following close behind when you hear how he moans in your ear, quiet and just for you. “Please, ‘Kaashi – I need it. I need you.” 

He groans into your skin, and you bask in the warmth that he fills you with, his hips stuttering and your name pressed into your throat. You fall quietly over the edge with him, different from before. It washes over you this time instead of hitting you hard, in waves that feel like comfort and sun on your skin. In waves that make you all the more aware of his hands on your body and his breath fanning over the crook of your neck, of the way he whispers your name on the last push of his hips against yours. Of the way you whisper ‘thank you, thank you, thank you’ against his shoulder absentmindedly when you come.

It’s hazy, the way you fall with him. And you realize, with your heart pounding and your head swarming sleepily with gratitude, that it’s just what you needed to put all your broken pieces back together.

That Akaashi Keiji puts all the pieces back together.

[sunee-syrup]

genius. [akaashi keiji x f!reader] chapter two.

>>You struggle to pay rent on your limited graduate student salary, and your worst enemy agrees to help you out.

or

You realize you need to find a partner for your faceless porn account, and Akaashi Keiji is the only man who meets all your requirements.<<

taglist: [open]

@kodsuken @onlytendoguesses @kakeru-eem @itslawful @rikari0913

tumblr didnt let me tag some of you -- please check your settings and let me know :'))

previous. || masterlist. || next.

a/n: im never writing a 30k chapter ever again in my entire life. i hope you like it :))))

[feel free to buy me a cup of coffee!]

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Akaashi arrives on Saturday morning at 8am. You’re making coffee when he knocks.

It feels almost illegal to be filming porn so early in the morning, but Bokuto had texted a large group of people at 2am, inviting everyone to a party that same day, and you’d sleepily texted Akaashi instead of responding to the group message.

“Come over at 8 if you plan on going to Kou’s thing,” you’d said. It’s the only text you’d sent him after his impromptu video message, and you’d hoped at the time that he wouldn’t be offended by it. “Otherwise, come at 11 like we planned.”

“8,” is all he’d responded, and you’d gotten the feeling Bokuto’s text had woken him, too.

He looks exhausted when you open the door, and you latch onto that so as to not be overcome by the weird tingling feeling that’s starting to swirl in your stomach at the sight of him.

“Hi,” you say plainly, looking him over. He’s wearing a pair of grey sweats – a different pair than last night’s, you hope – and a black t-shirt, his hair falling into his eyes and his glasses barely staying on his nose. He’s got a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. You point to it now. “What’s that?”

“Three changes of clothes, so all the videos are different,” he mumbles, his voice tense. “Do you have coffee?”

You can’t help the smile that breaks out on your face. “Akaashi Keiji, are you a crabass in the morning?”

He rolls his eyes. “Do you have coffee or not, Y/n? Because I need to go to the shop downstairs if-” He points over his shoulder in the direction of the elevator, but you wrench the door open, waving him in with a laugh.

“I made it, I made it.”

He gives you a snippy hum and makes his way through the foyer, leaving his shoes behind as he moves to drop his bag by the couch. He goes straight to your kitchen, and you wonder if his usual polite tendencies only show themselves post-caffeination.

“Cup?” he calls from the other side of the wall, and you follow him in there, seeing that he’s opening all of your cabinets. 

You laugh. “I’ve never seen you not be a good guest-”

“Cup, please, Y/n – I’m dying.”

“Last one on the right.” You chuckle to yourself and open the fridge, pulling a bottle of cream out and leaving it on the counter. He meets you halfway, setting two mugs between you and reaching for the pot of coffee just as the machine is beeping its completion.

“Breakfast?” you ask, already reaching for the fridge again while he pours a heavy cup for each of you. You have eggs, and you’re sure there’s bacon in there-

“Do you have pop-tarts?” is all he says. You stay silent, just staring at him. He cuts you a tired glare. “Don’t look at me like that. I can’t be perfect all the time.”

You let out a breathless laugh. “Does anyone else know you’re this humble?” He takes a defiant sip of his coffee instead of answering you, sighing contently afterward. You move to your pantry, extracting a variety pack of pop-tarts. “Here,” you say, sliding it to him.

“Thanks,” he grumbles, poking through it and deciding quickly on the smores flavor. “I’ll get lunch. Chinese?”

“Free food is good food,” you respond, mixing your coffee with cream and sugar from the little jar on the counter. You watch him rip the plastic open with his teeth. “Do you need… I don’t know, a toaster or something?”

“Nope.” He talks through a mouth full of smores pop-tart and walks off, disappearing into the living room. You stare after him, laughing in shock as he goes. You’ve never seen Akaashi Keiji like this.

You move to the couch with your own pop-tart (strawberry) and sit on the opposite side. He already looks better, his fingers tangled in his hair as he chugs coffee that’s scalding hot.

You feel odd starting right away with a conversation about the filming plan, so you take a quiet sip of coffee. “So… how was your night?”

Akaashi chokes on pop-tart crumbs.

Your face burns with realization. “Oh– I…”

He shakes his head, laughing while he coughs. “You did that on purpose.”

“I didn’t!”

“How was your night?” he asks, meeting your eyes. You purse your lips – you hadn’t responded to his text, after all.

“It was… fine.”

“Fine, good? Or fine, bad?” You don’t answer, and he gives you a meaningful lift of his brows. “Some feedback would be nice.”

“Well, you let me know when you make your own porn account,” you joke. “I’ll be sure to leave a comment.”

“Hey, now.” He tuts and shakes his head. “I showed you what I thought of your video. I think a little reciprocity’s fair.”

“I’m about to take my clothes off for you,” you argue. “I think that’s your reciprocity.”

He hides his smile behind his hand. “Fair enough.” He downs the rest of his coffee and then sighs, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I needed that.”

“Clearly,” you mumble, leaving your own drink and pop-tart on the coffee table. “Better, crabass?”

“Better,” he says plainly, accepting the nickname. “What’s the plan?”

That quiet tingle returns, prickling in your fingertips and toes. “Uh…” You stand, moving toward your bedroom. “I suppose I should figure out what I’m wearing, but… generally, I was thinking we could film enough for three or four videos? I can fill the rest of the week in with solo videos.”

“Okay,” he says behind you, and you hear him stand and move to the hallway. “Is what I’m wearing now okay for the first one?”

You leave the door cracked while you change. “Yeah, that looks good!” you call, pulling out a yellow crop top and a black, lacy thong. You grimace down at the set. You usually don’t put much thought into your outfits, but having Akaashi here makes you a little self-conscious. “Which video should we do first?”

“Well, I’m not sure that 8am is the best time for freaky, screaming, headboard-slamming sex, Y/n.” 

You laugh to yourself. “Something softer? With the morning sunlight coming in through the window?”

“That sounds better. I’ll get the windows in the room.” 

You change into the set quickly and stand in front of your mirror, fixing your hair. You look down at yourself, turning back and forth, and decide to forgo the bra. There’s no point in it, but you do feel a lot more exposed now. “Are we gonna talk for any amount of time, or are we starting?” you say, a little louder so he can hear.

“We should probably figure out the order of the videos,” he responds, back in the living room now.

“Okay, then I’ll get a sweater.”

What you walk out in is more of a moomoo than a sweater, and Akaashi tells you as much.

“You look stupid,” he says, amused, when you stop outside your bedroom door.

“Be quiet – wearing nothing is a cold affair.” You scoop your coffee from the table and follow him toward the hall, but he stops before you can get there. You have a whiteboard hanging on the wall in the living room, one with your research ideas and spare thoughts. He takes the marker now, hovering over an empty spot, and looks down at you expectantly.

“Order?”

“Not on my precious board,” you complain, and he rolls his eyes.

“Fingering for the first one? And then I was thinking something with the desk,” he says, writing down the first point quickly.

“I think oral’s probably good. Both kinds.” When he grimaces, you nudge him. “Would you rather do isolated videos, or have me give oral as foreplay in every video-”

“Isolated sounds lovely,” he says quickly, starting to jot that, too, but you stop him with a slight laugh.

“Why don’t you like having your dick sucked, Akaashi? Is something wrong?”

“There’s nothing wrong with me,” he argues. “The attention’s just a little weird. I prefer doing other things with the time.”

You tilt your head at him, brows furrowed. “You feel weird about the attention?” He meets your eyes briefly, and you spot the scowl forming. “Sorry, have you never gotten good head before?”

“Shut up,” he bites. “I just get a little lost in my head. Makes it hard to enjoy it.”

You blink. You think you can understand that – having an overactive mind must make it hard to relax. You can’t say you don’t know what that’s like.

“Okay, then,” you say, taking the marker from him. “You just need to get out of your head.” You write ‘Give Akaashi Good Head’ under his first point, and he snorts.

“Good luck,” he mumbles.

“I don’t need luck,” you beam at him, confident. “What’s next? The desk?”

“I can eat you out there,” he says plainly, taking the marker back, and you’re suddenly caught off guard again by his jarring language, as though you hadn’t just done the same. You blink rapidly.

“O…kay. And then?”

He shrugs. “Bed? Sex?”

“Right,” you say, nodding. “Sex. Sure.”

He eyes you while he writes. “You’re getting nervous.”

“It registered while you were talking.”

“Registered for me last night,” he says, capping the marker and replacing it. “I’ll take over while you process.”

“Shut up,” you say weakly, letting him lead you down the hall anyway. “When’d you process? When you were coming to a video of me?”

He has the decency to blush. “Somewhere around there, yeah.”

You snicker, leaving your coffee on the dresser. “Shall we? Before I get cold feet?”

“Does your rent due date get cold feet?” he asks, moving to the chest. He extracts a small vibrator and a dildo, and then, after careful consideration, he puts the dildo back. He moves to the couch with the vibrator and settles down with a sigh. 

You nod at his question. Right. You’re here to make rent. This is a business arrangement. You can do this.

Your eyes scan the room. He’d popped one of the windows open and raised the blinds for all of them, making the room just a little chilly but overall comfortable and sunny. There’s a golden glow in the room, birds chirping peacefully, and you smile, pleased with the environment. 

“Okay!” You say, mostly to hype yourself up, and strip from the moomoo. You leave it on the bed, shivering slightly, and turn toward Akaashi. He’s looking at you blankly, but you can see a pink tinge in the tips of his ears. You take your phone to the tripod, bending at the waist to set the camera up. You change all the settings the way you like them, keeping him in frame to position the phone right. 

You realize upon glancing at him in the front view that he’s got his eyes on you.

“Are you staring at my ass?”

He jumps, meeting your eyes in the camera. And then he scowls. “Don’t scold me. I’m processing again.”

You snicker, shaking your head and pressing record before joining him on the couch, a good foot or two of space between you. “I’m just fucking with you.”

He eyes the camera, seeing both of your faces in frame. “You’ll crop it?”

“Zoom and crop,” you reassure. “I’ll even send you the login to my account so you can review the videos before they post.”

He nods, seemingly comforted by that. “‘Kay.” 

You swallow. “... ‘Kay.” 

It hits you in this moment that you haven’t been with a man in three years – and that Akaashi Keiji is one very handsome man.

He looks at you expectantly, lifting his brows. “Wanna start?” he asks, in a voice gentler than before – you’re struck with the thought that Akaashi is one of those men whose soft features make him all the more masculine. Long eyelashes that make his eyes darker, a lean frame that makes him tower over you, a voice so soft that the depth of it is striking.

You like men like that.

“Right.” You blink rapidly, panicking at the realization that he might just be your type. Panicking because you hadn’t noticed it before. “Okay. Uhm-” Your face warms, worsened when he starts to smirk. “Oh!” You say, an idea coming to you. “Music! Maybe music will help-” You rise, starting to question where you’d left your speaker, but Akaashi’s hand wraps tight around your wrist, warm and secure.

“God,” he says, laughing slightly. His grip drags you down, your knees hitting the couch and your body slumping against his. You yelp when you land, and he releases you in favor of sliding one hand around your waist and the other around the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair. “You’re a mess,” he jokes, his voice suddenly a lot closer than you’d prepared for.

When his lips touch your throat, the room starts to spin.

Your whole body breaks out in goosebumps, starting from the crown of your head and melting down over you.

“Oh,” you breathe, your head falling to the side all on its own, resting against his hand and giving him better access. He drags his lips across your throat, kissing the skin quietly and easing the tension in your muscles. You slide trembling fingers into his hair, holding tight as he uses the hand on your hip to pull you half onto him, your legs dangling between his knees. 

There are a hundred different sensations you’re struggling to come to terms with. Every touch of Akaashi’s skin to yours is new, because there’s never been a situation where you’d needed to make physical contact with him. His hands are large and his fingers are warm. His mouth is warmer, and his tongue and teeth send shockwaves down your spine with every pass and nip of your skin. His body is hard against yours, and, when your free hand searches for somewhere to anchor and lands on his bicep, you realize that Akaashi’s endless wardrobe of cardigans, sweater vests, and button-downs has done remarkable things to hide his physique. 

He’s strong, strong enough to hold you steady as you all but go limp in his arms. And his hair tickles against your skin, but it smells nice. He smells nice – he hadn’t put cologne on this morning, but he smells nice. And his eyes are dangerously blue when he pulls back to look at you, that deep blue that’s close enough to a dark green to be confusing in the golden light of the morning.

“Princess,” he whispers, and you start, staring down at his lips. They’re pink and look soft – they are soft, you register. You know that now. You know what his lips feel like. “Do you plan on doing anything at any point?” he asks, and you blink, meeting those blue-green eyes again.

Oh, right.

Right.

“Sorry,” you mumble. “Just… took me a second to get used to it.” 

He doesn’t quite smile, but it’s close enough. “Second’s up, darling. Take your shirt off.” 

You nearly laugh, your face warm, and then you shift, using your fingers in his hair to tilt his head away. “Gimme one more second.”

It is way too satisfying to hear the way his breath hitches when you press your lips to his throat. His skin tastes the way you imagined it might – like soap and salt, clean and chilled against your tongue. You let your hand roam his body while you kiss him, your teeth sucking marks into his skin while your fingers curve over his shoulder and across his chest. You wonder if he’s as affected by all of this as you are. If he’s as confused, if his nerves are as electrified by the newness of it. 

His fingers leave your hair to latch onto your leg instead, fingertips sliding across the skin as he runs his hand slowly up and down your thigh. When your hand drops to front of his sweats, he manages not to jump. His fingers dig into your skin, and he lets out a rough breath, but he manages to not make it look like you’ve never touched each other before. You palm him slowly, doing your best not to react when his cock jumps under your fingertips. You keep kissing him, palm tracing the outline of him as he grows hard at your touch, his breath short in your ears.

He doesn’t say anything else to you, only anchoring both hands to your waist after a moment and hauling you up. You gasp quietly, lifted and turned until you’re on your knees, straddling his thighs. He looks up at you, and you see that his eyes have darkened since you’d last looked at them.

“Take your shirt off,” he says again, and it’s not a joke this time. You cross your arms over your chest and hook trembling fingers under the hem of your crop top. Your stomach flips in a moment of nerves and anticipation, but you brush it aside, lifting your shirt clean over your head and dropping it to the couch. 

Akaashi’s fingers tighten on your waist, and you only have time to slide both hands into his hair before he leans forward and takes one nipple in his mouth. You gasp loudly, a quiet moan leaving you. He takes the other breast with one hand, sucking and dragging his teeth over one nipple while his thumb tweaks at the other. You moan louder, fingers tightening in his hair, and your thighs shake. You lose the strength to hold yourself up when, eyes shut and eyelashes fluttering prettily against his cheeks as he suckles you, he slides his hand blindly up your body and pushes his thumb against the seam of your lips.

Your knees give out, and you collapse into his lap with a breathy moan, the sound parting your lips and granting him the room to slide the pad of his thumb against the flat of your tongue. His head stays nestled against your chest, his ministrations never stopping, and you moan loud around his thumb – for the camera, because you realize suddenly that all that’s visible is your back and the supporting hand Akaashi has pressed to the center of your spine.

When the sound leaves you, admittedly a little performative, the rest of his fingers tighten around your jaw, and he releases your nipple from his mouth with a quiet pop. He lifts his head to meet your eyes, lips pink and wet, and he uses the thumb in your mouth and the fingers on your jaw to grip you, pulling you close.

“It’s annoying when you fake sounds like that,” he whispers, eyes hazy but piercing straight through yours. You stare back, your own eyes wide. He lifts a brow. “Understand?”

You nod back dumbly, and he pulls his thumb from your mouth. Both hands fall to your waist, and he mumbles ‘turn’ close to your ear. You let him turn you around, settling between his thighs with your back to his chest, your heart beating loud in your ears after the way he’d spoken to you.

“Do you need to fix the camera?” he murmurs against the shell of your ear, and you lean forward shakily, pulling the tripod closer and lowering it so only your mouth and below are showing. You relax your head against his shoulder, sighing nervously when he cups both breasts in his hands.

You arch your back a little dramatically, glad that he seems to realize that some things need to be performative, and spread your thighs, hooking them over each of his. He slides his hand up your chest and pushes the middle two fingers into your mouth. You wrap your lips around them, tongue swirling around the tips, and you hear his breath stutter in your ear. His hips push against your ass, and you realize with a rush of heat and a flip of your stomach that he’s properly hard now. 

You twist one of your arms behind your back and slide your palm against him carefully. He groans low against the side your head, pulling his fingers from your mouth. His hand falls to your pantyline, and he slips his fingers past while you’re distracted with touching him.

You jump when his wet fingers, cold from the air, make contact with your heated core. “Oh, my-” He swipes two tight circles over your clit before sliding his fingers through your folds, repeating the motion a few times – just the way you like it. 

He’d paid attention during that video last night, then.

“Mm,” you groan, feeling his middle finger push gently against your entrance. You grip him harder behind your back, and he shudders against you, his teeth grazing the tip of your ear.

“You’re really wet,” he breathes, teasing weakly. “How long’s it been, again? Three years?”

You arch your back, nearly distracted by the way he pushes his fingers through your folds. “Take your pants off, then. Let’s see how long you last.” 

You feel him grin against your ear, and that does something to the flip of your stomach and makes you twitch when he swipes the pads of his fingers over your clit. His free hand pushes at the lace of your panties.

“You first, princess,” he breathes, and you lift your hips in compliance. “Your viewers are gonna wanna see how you look with two of my fingers buried inside you.” 

Your heart explodes in your ears, and you go limp against his chest, your head turned and your face pressed to his neck when you moan weakly. He laughs quietly, jostling you and the million tiny needles pricking your skin as his comment sinks into you.

Akaashi gets your underwear off of you with very little help from you, and then he pries your thighs open with both hands, your whole body on display while he holds you, still fully clothed. “Shit,” he whispers to himself, fingers hooked behind your knees and pulling your legs open a little further. Your eyes flutter open, and you find his gaze flicking between the camera and your body, his lips parted as he looks down at you.

“Like what you see?” you whisper, pulling your arm out from behind your back and wincing when it aches. He adjusts you, sliding one arm around your waist and pulling you tight against him. The other lifts, the same fingers from before finding your mouth. You let him in, whining when you taste yourself on the pads of his fingers and shivering when he murmurs ‘there you go’ against your ear.

When his fingers find your core this time, all you can do is breathe out shakily and relax against him. He swipes twice and dips toward your entrance. You manage to keep the video in mind, arching your back and cupping your hands over your breasts, kneading and touching yourself for the camera. Akaashi nudges the tip of his middle finger past your entrance, and the moan that falls past your lips is breathless and shocked.

You purse your lips, your body trembling as it realizes that someone who’s not you is doing this. Akaashi pushes his lips to the crook of your neck and tries again, using two fingers to work you open carefully. Your breath is shallow and harsh in your chest by the time he gets both fingers inside you comfortably, his cock twitching against your back.

“God, you’re tight,” he breathes in your ear. The pads of his fingers brush up against the spongy spot that’s normally so hard for you to reach on your own. “You need to relax.”

“Trying,” you bite, breathing hard. “Your hands are a lot bigger than mi-mm-” You jerk when he starts to move, thrusting his fingers slowly and curling them inside you. “Fuck,” you breathe sharply, a rush of heat washing over you. He picks up the pace, flicking his wrist and snapping his palm against your skin. Your mouth falls open, breathy, high-pitched moans tumbling out with every push of his fingers into you, and your hips start to roll against his hand, entirely unconscious. You can’t remember the last time you’d gotten a stretch like this, and there’s a brief moment of insanity where you imagine calling Akaashi Keiji any time you need to get off.

It should be embarrassing, the way your body’s reacting, but your brain is full of static, and you can’t hear much aside from your own breathing and the low moans buried in Akaashi’s throat, quiet with each push of your core against his hand. He’s rocking his hips slightly against your ass, his fingers stalling and stuttering after a moment. He lets out a harsh breath on your skin, and you manage to crack your eyes open enough to see he’s got his eyes squeezed shut and his forehead pressed to the side of your head. His lips are parted, breath warm on your sweat-chilled skin, and, when your walls flutter around his fingers, his hips jerk against you, breath hitching on his inhale.

“Fuck,” he breathes to himself, his chest rising and falling faster now. “Fuck, fuck-” 

He reaches out blindly with his other hand, patting the couch frantically. You don’t have the energy to look, but the buzz of the vibrator coming close makes you whine. When it touches your skin, his fingers finding your clit with ease, your back arches and you cry out, the extra sensation too much.

“Oh, I’m- I’m gonna-”

Akaashi holds you tight, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he whispers, “Come on, come on, come on, com-”

You gasp loud, twitching and jerking against him while you come around his fingers. There’s a warmth that spreads over your lower back, but you pay it no mind, your ears ringing too hard and your body shivering too much against him. 

Your hand clamps onto his wrist, pushing the vibrator just far enough away from your body that you can catch your breath. Heart thundering in your chest and throat, you focus on regaining control of your limbs, your fingers and toes numb.

You’re not sure how long you lie there, splayed open on Akaashi’s lap as you try to remember your own name, but you do shiver and whine when he pulls his fingers out of you slowly. He runs them through your folds one more time, the touch to your clit making you twitch against him again. He breathes a shaky laugh into your ear and rests his hand on your inner thigh, sighing quietly.

“How was that?” he asks roughly, his breath as unsteady as yours.

“Mhm,” you hum. “‘s good. Nice. Well done.” His laugh is delirious, and it draws your own spare breath into a tired chuckle. “Dude, I can’t feel my toes.”

He laughs harder. “I just came in my pants.”

“Is that what that was?” you ask, turning your head enough to look up at him. His cheeks are flushed a pretty red, and his eyes are glazed over slightly. You reach lazily behind you, fingers dipping into the wet warmth on your lower back. He gives a pained groan when you whisper ‘nice’ in a voice that’s horribly smug, and he scrubs the bottom of his shirt over your skin to wipe it away.

“I haven’t done that since I was a teenager,” he complains, dropping the vibrator on the couch and reaching for your panties. He helps you put them on, propping you up while you complain about being lifted. When you pull away from him, sitting up properly between his legs, he laughs down at himself. You look back, finding a wet spot on his sweats and his t-shirt stained with cum. 

He meets your eyes, ears burning. “You can’t give me head today. This is embarrassing.”

You laugh loudly, turning to reach for your phone and end the recording. “Okay, fine. You got off easy this time.”

“Yeah, you can say that again,” he mutters, and you drop your face to your hands, groaning. 

“Can we take a small break?” you ask. “I dunno if I can handle more right now.”

“Yeah, I should change anyway.” He climbs out from behind you, taking your coffee cup with him as he heads back to the main room. You pull your shirt back on and then stand on shaky legs, padding over to the bed for your cover-up. Sitting on the couch in your Bokuto-sized onesie and going through your phone, you send the video to the locked photo album in your camera roll and try to recover from the small shockwaves still sparking through your body.

Akaashi returns in fresh clothes a few minutes later, black jeans slung low on his hips and a white t-shirt hanging over the hook of his forearm. You realize, by the wet edges of his hairline and the few wet strands that hang over his eyes, that he’d washed his face and freshened up. You also realize, with a sneaky peek at his lean build, that you hadn’t been wrong about the physique he’s been hiding.

“Couple questions,” he asks, holding both cups of coffee as he makes his way to you carefully, the open pop-tart packs pinched precariously between his knuckles. You sit up, taking yours and thanking him quietly. He sits beside you, sipping happily at his fresh coffee and letting out a large sigh when he’s done. “First, when do you want to eat lunch? Because, by the time we’re done, I’m gonna be crabby again.”

You snort, checking your phone. It’s already 9:15, you realize with surprise.

“Oh. Well, if we keep this pace…” You blink a few times, thinking. “We could order around 11?”

“Between the desk scene and the bed scene?” He lifts his mug to his lips again, and you lift a brow.

“Why? You think it’ll only take thirty minutes to fuck me? Just in time for delivery?”

He coughs into the cup, splashing hot coffee all over his face. “Fuck-” He tosses his clean white shirt in your lap and wipes at his face with a wince. “That’s not what I meant-”

You bite your lip, laughing quietly. “Sure, we can order before the bed scene.”

“You’re such a-” He shakes his head, cleaning his hands on his jeans.

“A what?” you tease, leaning toward him with a smile. He leans toward you, too, his brows lifting. 

“A brat.” He leans away, leaving you with warm cheeks and a set of rapid blinks. “May I continue, or do you need more time to be annoying?”

“The floor is yours, Your Highness,” you say, picking at your pop-tart before leaving it on the little coffee table to your left.

He gestures to his jeans. “I put on a real outfit because I was thinking we could make it more… roleplay-ish.”

You hear his intended question. “I can find an outfit for that. What’s the vibe you’re going for?”

“I don’t really know. Something… spontaneous. Like you invited me over and things got out of hand, or something.”

You squint playfully at him. “I can’t tell if you read a lot of smut or watch a lot of porn.”

“I have an active mind.” He shrugs, rolling his eyes when you make fake gagging sounds.

“You want me in a school-girl skirt?” you joke, but he cuts a glance at you.

“You have one?” He laughs when you smack him on the arm. “I’m just saying – I’ve never seen it.”

You throw your hands up in exasperation. “When would you have seen it?!”

“We run the same circles!” he tries. “I see a lot of you on a daily basis.”

You groan, turning away from him and giving your coffee extra attention. “I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing a schoolgirl miniskirt to Bokuto’s biweekly parties, Akaashi. Use that brain of yours.”

There’s a pause, and then he chuckles to himself. “Oh, I get it – I should have scrolled a little longer on your account last night.”

“You’re so irritating,” you say, standing. “Is that what I’m wearing? I need to change.”

“Let’s see it, then,” he says, waving a polite hand at the door.

You pad to your room, your head swimming slightly. It’s weird, you think as you search your closet – you’d spent an hour reveling in new discoveries of Akaashi Keiji, but the moment things had ended, you’d gone back to normal. Is it the continued absurdity? Is it some weird, twisted form of suspended disbelief – where, when the camera’s rolling, you’re allowed to forget who you are with him? And, when it’s done, you’re able to snap back to reality without issue?

And does he feel the same?

You choose an outfit while hyper-analyzing him, sliding on a matching bra-panty set while wondering if he’s thinking the same about you. Zipping your plaid miniskirt while considering if things would be this easy with Bokuto or Kuroo, or if things are easy because it’s Akaashi – because of that strange sense of detachment you’d noted before. Tying your hair up and tucking a white button-down into the skirt, the first three buttons undone, while secretly hoping that things continue to be this strange and simple.

You’re still messing with your hair by the time you head back to the spare room, and you barely notice the way Akaashi’s eyes go wide when he sees how short your skirt is.

“Okay, I see what you mean.”

“Oh, yeah?” you laugh. “Think I should wear this to the party tonight?”

“Sure, if you want to put on a live show.”

You roll your eyes, straightening your clothes. “Slutty schoolgirl enough for you?”

“Incredibly,” he says, standing and pulling his shirt over his head. “Shall we?”

You move the tripod toward the desk by the windows, setting your phone up so it’s level with your chest. “I think we should probably walk into frame if we’re going for roleplay.”

“Okay.” Akaashi stands at the open window nearest the desk, peering down to the ground level and then out across the way. You hadn’t lied about your balcony yesterday – your apartment doesn’t face the street, because your residential high-rise looks out to water. The nearest building this tall is across the river. Still, he glances at you. “Do you close these when you film here or leave them open?” You don’t answer, your face warming instead. His lips split in a knowing grin. “I see.”

“It’s not what you think-”

“So, you’re not an exhibitionist?”

“Not a big one!”

He turns away, backing out of frame and waiting for you next to the end of the bed. “I don’t know about the degrees of exhibitionism, but I’d say leaving your windows open while I eat you out is pretty up there. Freak.”

“Do you always have to talk?!” you snap, embarrassed and a little warm from the way he’d called you a freak. “Always talk, talk, talking. Some of us like our windows open, Akaashi. It’s not like anyone can actually see.” You press record angrily and stomp over to him. “You can never just shut the fuck up-”

His hand flies out, latching onto your waist and dragging you the rest of the way to him. You gasp, hands landing on his chest as he pulls you flush to him.

You’re no less unprepared for his mouth on your throat this time around. You stumble back, grabbing onto his t-shirt to keep yourself standing while he sucks on a spot under your ear.

“‘m I still talking too much?” he murmurs, walking you slowly into frame. You card your fingers through his hair and trust him to not let you fall on your ass.

“Always,” you breathe, that strange suspension of disbelief setting in when you bump against the desk and Akaashi slips his fingers around the backs of your thighs to hoist you up. You lean up, pressing your lips to his jaw and kissing carefully down the line of it. He tugs your shirt free of the skirt and undoes two of the buttons with one hand, the other hooked under your knee so he can slot his hips between yours. Then he nudges you away, taking over.

You let him touch you, his fingers fondling and groping your body while you lean back on your hands with a sigh. His mouth finds the hollow of your throat, teeth nipping at your collarbones while his hands slide your skirt under the curve of your ass. The material bunches at your waist, and he slips your panties off of you and throws them somewhere behind him. When he meets your eyes, you catch the glint in them.

“Maybe you should do something about that. Since you want to be a freak.”

You narrow a glare at him, heart skipping a beat when he says that stupid name. You let him pull your thighs open, and then you reach between for the button on his jeans. He lifts a brow, interest piqued, as you undo his pants and push them past his hips. You slide your palm against his boxers, smiling up at him when he sucks in a breath.

“You like that, baby?” you ask, your grin widening when he narrows his eyes. “Even though someone could see?” His cock jumps under your hand, and your eyebrows fly to your hairline. He has the decency to look embarrassed. “Oh?”

“Shut up,” he mumbles, knocking your hand away. You shrug it off, pushing that hand into his hair.

“Then say I’m not a freak,” you say, pulling tight. He doesn’t seem to mind it, but he does narrow a glare and an irritated grin at you.

“You’re not a freak, sweetheart,” he whispers, voice saccharine. “But you love it when I call you one.” He lifts his brows when you say nothing. “So what does that make you?”

You glower and push down on his head, and he drops to his knees with a snicker. You check the camera quickly, making sure that his face is hidden behind your thigh. Keeping your hand on the side of his head to provide more coverage, you try not to shiver when Akaashi presses his lips to the inside of your thigh. When he hooks both your legs over his shoulders and holds on tight, you whimper quietly.

And then the bickering and the nerves all fall away. The flat of his tongue presses to your core, and you make the mistake of looking at him with wide eyes. 

Akaashi’s eyes are a lot bluer when he’s got his face between your thighs.

You suck in a sharp inhale, legs trembling when he drags his tongue over your folds, slow and torturous. You’re unable to keep eye contact with him, a flush rising to your cheeks and your stomach flipping with nerves every time you glance down, because he’s staring right back at you.

Finally, he lets his eyes slide shut, his movements more intense now that he’s not focused on anything else. Your fingers shake in his hair, and your chest rises and falls with something akin to a live wire straight to the veins. Akaashi’s fingers tighten on the tops of your thighs, and he shuffles closer on his knees, his head bobbing as he slides his tongue, velvety and searing hot, through your folds before latching onto your clit.

“Oh, my God-” Your body twitches when he suckles gently, his lips soft around the nub. Your grip tightens on him, and your hips rock forward of their own accord. He follows your lead, finding his timing within the rhythmic cant of your body’s response, and soon, he has you gasping and moaning audibly. 

His glasses sit knocked askew and pushed up against his forehead the more certain he becomes between your thighs. You feel the cold metal on your skin and glance down blearily. A fresh wave of heat washes over you when you realize that they’re smeared with dewy drops of you, and you move them shakily off his face and set them beside you on the desk. Akaashi’s hands respond, sliding up and over your hips, reaching for you. He finds the last button on your shirt and undoes it with a flick of two fingers, and there’s something about the way he moves, skilled and smooth, that makes you shiver visibly in front of the camera.

One of Akaashi’s hands slides up your torso, and he cups your breast firmly through your bra, squeezing and twisting at your nipple until you start to squirm, a whine building in your throat.

“Too much,” you whisper, and he pulls his mouth away from you with a warm huff, his lips wet and glistening when he looks up at you.

“Color?” he murmurs, his breath sharp against your core with each ragged exhale.

You purse your lips. “Green.”

“Then stop complaining,” he says, already lowering his head again. When he pinches your nipple this time, it comes with the aid of the tip of his tongue, pushing carefully against your entrance.

“Holy shit,” you gasp, eyes wide and fingers tugging his hair tight enough to hurt. He pushes once more and then relents, sliding up to suck hard on your clit. You choke, your body arching and trembling against him when he lowers his head and tries again, slipping gently in this time and moaning against you when you squeeze your thighs around his head. He uses both hands to hold tight to your waist, grounding you against him and keeping you from wriggling too much while he fucks you with his tongue. Your skin burns with every drag of his tongue against your walls, and you reach the summit alarmingly fast. “Wait, wait, wait-” 

He slides out of you, and your chest bursts with air, gasps coming to you in choked breaths and shaking thighs. But then he leans up, wrapping his lips around your clit and sucking hard, his teeth brushing against the nub in a way that feels a lot like Akaashi putting his hand on your back and shoving you right off the cliff with no warning.

You scream, your head thrown back and your back arching painfully as you see stars. You feel a slight pain in the back of your head, but you don’t register that you’d hit your head on the wall until much later, when the stars are gone and your vision isn’t blacked out any longer. When all that’s left is the camera rolling and your fingers aching where they’re clenched in Akaashi’s hair.

He’s pressing kisses along your thighs slowly, thumbs rubbing circles into your hips. He glances up when your lungs finally relax, your breaths much longer and drawn out now as you find yourself again.

“You okay?” he mumbles against the inside of your knee, examining you through long, dark eyelashes. “You hit your head.”

You nod dumbly and meet his eyes, flames licking up your navel when you catch the thinly veiled heat in his expression. “It can’t be fair that I’ve come twice and you haven’t come at all.”

“I came once,” he reminds you quietly, the breath of his whisper seductive on your thigh. His lips brush over your skin, feather-light and wonderfully soft, and his tongue tracks the path of his mouth, too, warm and wet and drawing your breath short in your chest again. “But I wouldn’t mind taking you up on a second time.”

Your skin heats, the air buzzing in your ears and your heartbeat audible in the silence between you. You nod shallowly, your lips parted, and his eyes flit around your face, searching you. He must like whatever he finds, because he doesn’t respond. He only stands slowly and towers over you, his shirt pulled swiftly over his head and dropped on the desk next to his glasses. He leans down and wraps his arms around your waist, hoisting you up.

You gasp, wrapping yourself tight around him as he crosses the three steps to the bed, the tripod with your phone dangling between his knuckles. He sets it down on the end of the bed, and then he drops you unceremoniously on the mattress. You bounce lightly on it, staring up at him with wide eyes, and he nods at the camera.

“Need to set up?”

“O-Oh. Right-” You blink rapidly, crawling over to the edge and adjusting it quickly while he comes to stand at the side of the bed. You scoot back after, your head facing the top of the bed, and make sure you’re centered in the frame before looking up at him with wide eyes. You purse your lips, skin buzzing with anticipation. “Okay – ready.”

Akaashi lets his eyes roam your body – they land on your shirt, lying open uselessly on your shoulders and showing off your pretty, black bra. Then down to your skirt, bunched up against the tops of your thighs when your knees are bent like that. You do the same, shamelessly – drinking in his body, lean and lanky but muscular all the same. With those black jeans sitting so low on his hips that you can trace the dark trail of hair that disappears into his boxers, an invitation.

You take it, sitting up on your knees and reaching hesitantly for his unbuttoned jeans, your eyes on his. He says nothing, but his lips part when you hook your thumbs into his boxers and start to push them down.

“Shit,” he sighs under his breath when you get his pants down, his cock hard and smeared with precum. You inhale sharply, staring at the pretty curve of it – pretty like his long fingers and his warm lips and his piercing blue eyes. Pretty like the thumb he’d put in your mouth. You want to put this in your mouth, too – your mouth is already watering, funnily enough – but he’s already told you no.

So you settle for wrapping your fingers around him instead, satisfied with the quiet hiss he lets out. You stroke him a few times, twisting your wrist and running your thumb over the slit slowly, the way you’d seen him do it last night. He cards his fingers through your hair, holding loosely.

“How many times did you watch that video?” he asks quietly, the teasing edge in his voice lost to the breathless sigh he lets out after. “You’re doing it the way I like.”

That makes your heart swell with pride, and you can’t help the smile you give him, bright and giddy. “What can I say? I’m a fast learner.”

He chuckles back. “The academic uses her gifts for good.”

“You callin’ me smart, baby?”

He rolls his eyes, taking your chin between his fingers and tilting your head up. “How about you focus, huh? I’ll admit you’re smart when you get me off.”

You sit up a little straighter at that, pursing your lips and mimicking how he’d touched himself last night, flicking your wrist hard around the base and softening your touch at the tip. He swallows when you repeat the motion, his grip on your hair tightening, but he gives you nothing else, his eyes devoid of emotion otherwise. It spurs you on, targets the piece of you that seeks validation. He’d only given it to you once, but you’re eager to hear it again.

“How’s this?”

He just lifts his brows. “What’s wrong? Already need my approval?”

You scowl, returning to the task at hand. It doesn’t take long, not with the way the muscles in his abdomen keep tightening, or the way he’s breathing shallowly through his nose, or the way his hips start to push up to meet your fist halfway. No, it doesn’t take long at all.

But before you can get him off – before you can have the satisfaction of him swearing over you as he comes on your skin – he wraps a hand around your wrist, stopping you.

Your eyes fly up to his, alarmed and disappointed. “What?”

His cheeks are flushed, lips a little swollen from what you can only guess is biting, but he just moves your hand and reaches down to remove his pants. “Lie down. Shirt off.”

You strip from the button-down and toss it uncaringly off the edge, scrambling back to where you were before and leaning back on your elbows with growing anticipation. Your stomach flips when he starts to climb over you, his eyes searching yours. There’s a glint in his eye that seems to signal that he’s processing this, too – that you’re about to have sex. That, out of everyone – out of everyone you actually like – you had decided to come to the one person you don’t like. To the one person you hate most days, because of the way he is and the way he treats you.

But it’s the way he is and the way he treats you that had made him perfect for this.

So, out of everyone, it’s Akaashi Keiji that you’re getting into bed with.

Your tongue darts out when he settles between your legs, your skirt falling up to your hips when your thighs open for him. He glances back and checks the camera frame once before leaning down over you. His brow is furrowed as he slides his cock through your folds, his Adam’s apple bobbing when he feels you. He pushes his hips forward once, twice, and then re-angles himself on the third, his fingers lining the head of his cock up against your entrance.

You watch him when he finally slides into you, the rest of the world lost in a dull buzz that fill your brain.

When he nudges the tip past your entrance, gliding slowly past your walls, his chest rises and falls with the breaths he’s keeping trapped inside, but he’s short of breath nonetheless. His skin is radiating warmth in that way that you find pretty, just like the rest of him, and his eyes are dark when they meet yours. His eyebrows twitch the further he sinks into you, and his lips – pink and wet and pretty – are parting as he bottoms out, and he lets out a soft sigh.

The dull buzz is cleared away like smoke, and you realize there’s a needy moaning echoing in the room, one that can only be coming from you.

“Oh, my God,” you cry, falling back on the mattress when he starts to thrust into you. “Oh, my God, holy shit-” Your heart is pounding hard in your ears and throat and veins, and you’re caught between wanting to claw at the comforter desperately and wanting to hide your face behind your hands.

Akaashi drops down over you, caging you in with one arm as the other bends back, his hand tight on the underside of your thigh as he picks up his pace. You gasp, unable to find enough air in the room to fill your lungs. One of your hands finds his wrist by your head, clamping on tight, and the other smacks down over your eyes – you can’t look at him, not when you’re like this. Not when you’re sweating and breathless, not when your stomach is fluttering with some unfamiliar mix of nerves and desire with every bump of his hips against yours.

Not when you’re realizing that no one else has ever made you feel this way before.

“Look at me, princess,” he grunts, and your stomach flips at the ragged sway of his voice. 

“I-fuck – I can’t-” you whine, but the sound catches in your throat when he angles his hips and the head of his cock smacks right up against your g-spot. You gasp loud, your grip on his wrist tightening with all your strength. “Oh, my God-please-” 

“There?” he asks quietly, and he drives his hips forward at that angle once more. You cry out when he hits it again, but then he stops.

He stops, just hovering over you silently.

The hand on your face drops in shock, and you stare up at him. “What-”

“I told you to look at me.”

“You-” You want to smack him so badly. “You can’t just stop-”

“Can’t I?” He tilts his head, eyes filling with disinterest, despite the breathy quality of his voice. “You weren’t listening to me.”

You remember now, the things he’d said yesterday.

‘Is it alright if I’m a little mean?’

Fuck.

“Uh-fuck,” you laugh pitifully. “Fuck. I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry.” Your chest starts to fill with a strange feeling, a clawing that reaches for your throat when he only stares, dissatisfied. He doesn’t seem happy with you, and – for every piece of you that doesn’t give a fuck what Akaashi Keiji thinks in any other situation – there’s a panic that’s starting to swirl in you at this very moment. “I’m sorry, please don’t stop-”

He draws his hips back, and the panic forms into a knot all at once when you realize he’s pulling out.

“No, no, no-” You dig your nails into his shoulders, keeping him close and staring up at him with wide, terrified eyes. “No, please, I really am sorry.” The clawing in your throat starts to burn, and your eyes sting at the thought that he’s decidedly finished with you. There’s a rational part of your brain that knows he isn’t. He can’t be. You’re still filming. But the part of you that’s very rapidly become addicted to the feeling of Akaashi fucking you is panicking hard enough to make tears fill your eyes.

His cock twitches inside you when you start to sniffle, and the word ‘dacryphilia’ floats through your brain, the ghost of a memory.

If he wants you to cry, you’ll cry.

“Please, baby,” you murmur, your head falling back on the mattress and your nails clinging to him. You let yourself sink into that panic and your vision blurs, the tears hot and embarrassing as they stream down the sides of your cheeks onto the bed. “Please don’t stop.” 

You don’t see his reaction when you give in to him, but you hear his shaky breath. And you certainly feel when he relents, because he’s pushing slowly back into you. You find yourself whispering ‘yes, yes, yes’ as he’s coming back to you, and the tightness in your throat starts to loosen.

“You gonna listen?” he murmurs, and you nod again. “Because I’ll stop. I’m fine either way.”

He’s bluffing, your brain tries to tell you, but fresh tears are burning your eyes and you’re choking on the lump that’s reforming at the base of your throat. He can’t stop, he can’t. You don’t know what you’ll do if he stops.

“Please, don’t-” you sob, shaking your head. “I swear I’ll listen.” 

Your heart jumps when the mattress dips by your head again as he cages you in. When his other hand finds the underside of your thigh again, the bruises his grip had left the first time ache as his fingers fill those prints once more. He leans down toward you, and you blink through the tears just enough to meet his eyes.

“Cover your mouth,” he whispers, staring down at you with a dangerous glint in his eye. You’re quick to slap your hands over your mouth, terrified of taking too long and testing his patience. He doesn’t smile at your obedience or give you any visual signal of satisfaction, but his eyes do trace your face meaningfully. “Well, if you’re gonna be that good for me, I guess I can let you have it.”

He thrusts his hips forward sharply before you have any time to process what he means. You scream, your back arching when he slams up against your g-spot, and you’re distantly grateful that he’s minding the noise limits on your apartment while he decidedly fucks you into oblivion. He keeps that pace and that angle, and his head drops down beside yours as he does.

“Let’s make a deal,” he says, breathless and rough in your ear. “You listen to me when I talk to you, and I’ll abuse your tight little cunt as much as you want.” Your eyes roll into the back of your head, your body starting to go numb as the pressure builds in your navel for the third time in one morning. “Sound good?” he whispers, swallowing hard after. You nod frantically, and his panting becomes audible in your ear. “Fuck, I’m close. Where should I-” He starts to pull his hips away, but your hands fly off of your mouth and grip hard on his biceps.

“If you pull out right now, I’m going to fucking kill you,” you say, staring straight into his eyes. Your eyes burn, and you’re sticky and warm, and you know you look like a mess, but you keep your eyes directly on his. “We just made a deal.”

He stares, wide-eyed, and then breathes out a laugh. “Okay. I hear you.” When his hips touch yours again, it comes with him dropping down to his elbow and carding his fingers through your hair tight. “But I want you looking at me.”

You’re surprised by that, because it feels oddly intimate for him to chase an orgasm while looking into your eyes – but then he finds that special pace and angle, and you can’t think of anything but giving him what he wants, just so he doesn’t take away what you want. 

You look right into those blue-green eyes as your navel curls and twists, despite every urge to let your eyes roll back and your mouth hang open. You slide your arms around his neck and look into his eyes, clinging tight as he takes full control of your body – prying you open and kissing that particular spot inside you that no one else has ever found before. You look into his eyes up until the very moment you find that summit, the morning light golden and warm and blinding. You find him there, too.

You won’t realize it for a long, long time, but something slides into place and locks tight when your body registers that the last thing you see before falling off the edge is the dark cyan of Akaashi Keiji’s eyes. When it registers that the last thing that he sees – before his eyes roll back and his forehead drops to yours, his hips stuttering and stalling as he fills you – is you.

You think you might have fallen asleep in that spot, because you’re not sure if it’s been minutes or hours since you moved. Your body trembles under him, and you feel him starting to release you achingly slow – his elbow cracks when he lifts off of it, and his breath is taxed and heavy while he pulls out of you. He holds you like that for a minute, just long enough for the creampie to be visible to the camera, and then he sets your thigh down gently. But you whine anyway, because there’s a horrible soreness that’s starting to set into your muscles and bones.

“Shit,” he whispers. “That was-”

You let out a weak laugh, immediately groaning at how it rattles your body. “This Chinese food is going to be the most glorious meal I’ve ever earned.”

He laughs back, that delirious one that comes when he’s struggling to find himself. “I forgot to order it between the desk and the bed.”

“I don’t think we would have made the thirty-minute deadline.”

He laughs harder, collapsing back down on his elbows. “God, I think I’m dying. I don’t know if I have the stamina to be a porn star.”

You groan, planting both hands on his chest and pushing him slowly off of you. He hits the mattress beside you with a sigh, and you curl up in place. “This was hard. I’m tired.”

“There’s no time to be tired. It’s already-” He sits up slowly, reaching for your phone to end the video and check the time. “-noon, apparently.”

“Noon?!” You dig the heels of your hands into your eyes. “Four hours, holy shit.”

“I need food,” Akaashi mumbles to himself, rising off the bed with a groan and searching the floor for his boxers. He finds and trips into them on his way to the door, muttering ‘phone, need my phone’ as he goes. You roll off the side of the bed unceremoniously, swiping your shirt and underwear off of the rug and slipping them back on.

“We were supposed to change,” he calls from the other room. “You’re a slutty schoolgirl in two videos.”

“I don’t care,” you whine, stumbling back into bed and lying flat on your face, your voice muffled. “Let me be a slutty schoolgirl, fuck.”

“Do you still have your pop-tart?” he asks, back in the room and completely ignoring your complaints. “What do you want for takeout?” You hear him snatch the plastic package off the little coffee table by the couch. “I’m eating your pop-tart-”

“Oh, my God, Akaashi, just eat the fucking pop-tart,” you snap, growing crabby. There’s silence, and then he flops down on the bed beside you. 

“Maybe you should eat the pop-tart.”

A laugh bubbles and bursts in your throat, and you start to giggle uncontrollably. “What the fuck did we just do?”

“Burn a lot of calories,” he jokes through a mouth full of your strawberry pop-tart. You turn your head toward him, watching as, half-naked beside you, he scrolls through the delivery menu of the nearest Chinese takeout place. “I’m getting kung pao chicken.”

“Ew.” You wrinkle your nose. “Peanuts.”

He looks at you in confusion. “You’re allergic to peanuts?”

“No. I just don’t like them.”

“Oh,” he grumbles, turning back to his phone. “That’s stupid.”

“You’re stupid-”

He flaps the silvery plastic of the pop-tart in your face. “Eat this and tell me what you want before I get double kung pao-”

You snatch the stupid pastry away from him, watching him lift his hand in defeat and whisper ‘okay, crabass’ as you stuff your mouth with sugary nothingness. “I want beef and broccoli.”

He grimaces. “Boring.”

“Get out of my house, Akaashi-”

“I got it, look-” He brandishes the screen at you, showing your food in the online cart. “What else?”

“Egg rolls. Crab rangoon. Maybe some pot-stickers, too-”

“You’re just trying to spend my money,” he complains, adding it all anyway.

“We’ll make it back soon enough.”

He meets your eyes, and you both seem to re-realize how you’ve just spent a full Saturday morning. It settles in then, the arrangement you’ve made with Akaashi Keiji. Saturday mornings and weekday evenings, a suspended disbelief that you’ll never be able to explain to your friends. Pop-tarts in your slutty schoolgirl skirt, Chinese food in his boxers. A series of life experiences that can never leave this apartment, shared with the singular person you’d tried so long to keep out of your life entirely.

Akaashi blinks, and you blink back, infinite realizations passing by all at once.

He turns his head back to his phone. “Fried or steamed pot-stickers?”

You turn your face back into the mattress, your voice muffled. “Fried.”

–

While the food’s on its way, you leave Akaashi to wash up in your bathroom. You disappear into your bedroom and change, hearing when the sink stops running and the door opens. 

“In here,” you call, pulling your hair back as you head to your desk that’s pushed against the wall shared with the living room. He appears in the doorway in a pair of athletic shorts and a hoodie, his hair and face damp and his glasses a little foggy from the moisture on his skin. 

“Should be ten more minutes,” he says, checking his phone. And then he glances around your room in a way that appears casual, but you can tell he’s curious. 

“You can come in,” you joke, waving him in. You take a seat at your desk, shaking the mouse attached to your monitor to wake the computer up. “I’m gonna give you account access now before I forget.”

He hums, wandering your room slowly and taking it all in. The photos of your friends on top of your dresser, the plushies on your bed that would be embarrassing to show anyone that’s not him. The bookshelf in the corner, filled with fun novels and academic textbooks alike. 

“I have a few of these,” he murmurs, crouching and thumbing through the volumes. You smile to yourself, logging into your account while you respond.

“The smutty romance novels? No wonder you’re such a creative porn star.”

“You’re funny,” he says, not an ounce of humor in his voice. “You’re missing the Cambridge handbook on Korean morphosyntax.”

“‘s here,” you nod at the small pile of books on your desk, spines facing outward. “I keep the best ones close.” You hear him approach behind you, your eyes busy locating his own account and inviting him as a collaborator. 

But then his hand reaches past your head, and you realize with a drop of your stomach that he’s plucking a paper off the top of a pile that you keep next to your books.

A paper with his name on it, published in Syntax last year, on Korean case marking. It’s full of pen, highlighter, and sticky tabs – your thoughts on his work.

“Oh?” he says, his voice dreadfully smug. “You keep the best ones close, you said?”

“Shut up,” you say, shaking your head. “Research is research-”

“Good research gets cited. You gonna cite me, Y/n?”

“I’m sure you’re no stranger to good research, Akaashi Keiji. I’d be stupid not to.”

“So-” He steps closer, and your lift your eyes to his reluctantly. He looks excited. “-you’re including the case marking, then? In the dissertation.”

You roll your eyes. “Would you like me to say ‘thank you, Akaashi, oh Brilliant One’?” 

He lifts his brows with a smirk. “Yes, actually. I would.”

“Kiss my ass,” you say with a laugh, shaking your head and returning to the task at hand. “Now that I don’t have to find a second job, I might actually have the time to include it.”

“You would have made the time anyway,” he says confidently, and you give an exhausted sigh.

“Okay, I gave you access. Can we-” You stand, snatching the paper back and dropping it on the pile. “-exit the research chat, please?”

“Why?” he prods, following you out the room. “Worried I’ll make good points without our referee around to keep me in check?”

“The fact that you need to be kept in check in the first place is a bad sign.” You flop down on the couch with a sigh, and he follows. “You’re so abrasive.”

“Being gentle doesn’t get you published,” he argues, and you snap back quick.

“Shockingly, I still managed it.”

“You got published?” He lifts his brows, turning to you with interest. “Where? When?”

You sigh. “Language and Cognition,” you mutter, watching his eyes go slightly wide before flattening out again. “End of the month.”

“Holy shit,” he says, nodding and looking away. “Language and Cognition. That’s top-shelf stuff.” You think that might be a compliment. The first he’s ever paid you. “It’s about time.”

The compliment is magically negated.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You say, heated.

“Nothing!” he laughs, shaking his head. “I wasn’t trying to be mean.”

“You’re saying it took me a long time to publish-”

“Considering your skillset,” he argues pointedly. “Yes. I’d say I’m surprised it took this long.”

“Are you insulting me or complimenting me?” You throw your hands out. “Choose, Akaashi.”

“Don’t wanna,” he says childishly, smiling in a way that’s intentionally irritating. You scoff, but his phone pings with the delivery notification before you can pick a fight. He stands, disappearing out the door to get it, and you take a long, deep breath to relax yourself. You turn the TV on, flicking through the options before landing on the nature channel.

He slips back in after a few minutes, bag dangling from his fingers. “What are we watching?”

“Squirrels fighting for their territory,” you say, completely entranced by the action happening on the screen.

“Seriously?” he asks, stopping by the couch briefly to look at the TV. 

“Look at them go,” you whisper in amazement, shaking your head as you watch two squirrels positively tear each other apart.

“Are you in the habit of watching the nature channel?” He wanders to the kitchen while he asks, and you let him struggle to find bowls and unpack the food.

“Every night,” you say, distracted. “Relaxes my brain.”

“God, you’re insane,” he mumbles from across the room.

“Well, what do you do to relax?” you ask. There’s silence in the kitchen, and your attention’s torn from the screen as you look over your shoulder at him. He’s frowning slightly down at the food while he serves it, and you grin smugly. “Oh, I get it. The stick in your ass is there for a reason.”

“Fuck off,” he breathes with a shake of his head. He carries both plates to the couch, handing you one and staring with skepticism at the TV. “We’re really watching this?”

“Look how that one stands on his hind legs and asserts his dominance!” you exclaim, pointing excitedly at the TV before stuffing your mouth full of beef and broccoli. “The other one’s totally gotta give up his acorns now.”

Akaashi sighs, digging into his food with a shake of his head. “Squirrel social dynamics and Chinese food. My Saturday morning.”

You eat in relative silence, the only comments coming from your enthusiasm about nature and his quiet, exasperated laughter. Finally, he sighs, setting his empty plate on the coffee table.

“I should go.”

You nod, reaching to mute the TV. “I gotta edit these videos and draft one to post tonight. What time’s the party?”

“Starts at 9,” he says, standing slowly. You purse your lips, realizing that you’ll have to see him again today – in public, where you’ll have to pretend you hadn’t spent the morning together. 

“Okay.” You nod. “See you then.”

There’s a moment of silence, where he seems to realize the same thing you had, and then he just nods, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “Kay. See ya.”

The apartment echoes with the click of the door behind him.

You stare at it, feeling a bit weird, as though the entire affair is finally starting to crash down over you now that he’s gone. Your phone buzzes on the table, and you shake off the feeling, snatching it up. Your heart beats a strange little rhythm at the sight of his name.

[1:24 PM]

Akaashi: dont forget to cover your hickies tonight

“What?” You stand, padding to the bathroom quickly. The reflection in the mirror is horrid, your throat already bruising on both sides. “This motherfu-”

You: youre such a dick.

He sends back a shrugging emoji and nothing else, and you move around the apartment with a little more stomp than usual, minimally annoyed as you clean up the tables and put the leftovers away before returning to your desk to edit the videos.

–

Keiji arrives at Bokuto’s townhouse at 9 o’clock on the dot, knocking quietly. It’s Tsukishima who opens the door, just lifting his brows in greeting before leading him back through the living room. There’s no one else here, and Bokuto is filling bowls with chips in the kitchen.

“Hey!” he calls excitedly. “I’m so ready to be trashed!”

Keiji sets two handles of vodka and a case of Coke on the counter. “In a good way or a bad way?”

“Good, of course! Life is good!” The kinesiology student starts organizing the bowls by color, smiling to himself while he talks. “Research is good, friends are good, life is good!”

There’s a knock on the door, and Keiji’s heart jumps without his permission. He glances at the new arrivals that enter when the host yells ‘it’s open!’, and he’s oddly disappointed to see it’s just some of the people in Bokuto’s cohort.

Tsukishima dims the lights in the main room and connects his phone to the speaker, and Bokuto starts to dance while he chats up his friends and preps the kitchen with more food. Keiji stands off to the side, pouring himself a drink and nodding politely when a guy he recognizes greets him.

Thirty minutes go by like that, with Keiji standing in sight of the door and glancing up, a little nervous, every time it opens. He doesn’t know why he feels this way, but he does know it’s your fault.

He’d felt it when you’d texted him a couple hours ago, too – it was only to let him know that the video for tonight had been edited, but he’d still gotten a strange twinge of anxiety when your name had popped up on his phone. He had watched the video back, impressed at how you’d edited the tattoos out and muffled both your voices – creating what’s essentially a quiet, faceless video with only your moans to show for his performance. He’d also refrained from watching the video in too much detail, because even just skimming through it, he’d felt renewed desire stream through his veins.

He wonders if it would be too much to go back and watch it later tonight, when he has too much alcohol in his system to worry if it’s weird.

Tsukishima finds him again after a while, lingering with him in the corner. “Research?”

“‘s good,” Keiji says, lifting his drink to his lips – the second in half an hour. “Finally started writing the dissertation chapters. Should be done next year.”

“God, I’m jealous,” the blond laughs quietly. “With working at the museum, everything takes twice as long for me.”

Keiji hates that his first thought is you – that that could have been you, too. “Did your advisor tell you when you’re s’posed t’finish?” He should slow down. Water, maybe.

“Two years,” Tsukishima groans, emptying his cup and then reaching for the vodka again.

“That’s what Kuroo has left, too.”

The blond shoots him a side glance. “So?” Keiji sees the tinge of pink at the tips of his ears, so he shrugs.

“Just an observation.” The door opens behind Tsukishima, and his eyes flit to it, just over the blond’s shoulder. 

It’s a couple he doesn’t recognize, but Bokuto clearly does, his ‘hey, hey, hey!’ audible from here.

“Who are you lookin’ for?” Tsukishima dips his head into Keiji’s way, an eyebrow arched and his words slower than usual from the alcohol. “You keep doin’ that.”

Keiji blinks and clears his throat. “No one. It just-” The door opens again, and you walk through it with Kuroo and Yachi. Keiji’s throat dries up. “-catches my attention.”

Tsukishima glances back, but if he notices that you’re clearly what Keiji had been waiting for, he doesn’t say anything. He just whips his head back around, swallowing hard and taking an aggressive swig of his drink.

God bless Kuroo Tetsurou.

Keiji watches you greet Bokuto and some of his friends, your smile wide and your hugs generous. His eyes scan you carefully. You’re wearing a pair of black jeans that hugs you in all the right places – places he knows now – and red long-sleeve shirt with a v-cut so low that his mouth waters slightly. You’d covered the bruises on your throat, and there’s a piece of him – small but troublesome – that’s a little dissatisfied to see the skin smooth and mark-free. Especially with the way you giggle at something Bokuto says, the taller man smiling down at you and holding your waist in a friendly way. Keiji swallows and brushes that odd little feeling away.

His heart flips over itself when you turn in his general direction, and he’s quick to turn back to Tsukishima, blinking rapidly. He feels weird – he wants you to notice him there, wants you to say something to him, even though you’d both agreed not to act any different. You’ve never spoken to him at these parties unless absolutely necessary, so he shouldn’t be wishing for anything of the sort. 

But he wants to know that you feel weird, too. That you want his attention, too. That you don’t know why, either.

“So,” he clears his throat, getting the history student’s attention. “The museum. Have they gotten back to you about the full-time position?”

“Not explicitly,” Tsukishima responds, seeming equally grateful for the distraction. “But they basically said it’s mine whenever I’m done.”

“That’s good. Makes things a little less stressful,” Keiji says, pointedly looking down into his cup, because he feels you behind him, passing by. Your perfume makes his nostrils flare, and a shiver – traitorous and laced with want – runs down his spine. 

“Hey, Tsukishima,” you say, brushing past the taller man. “Good weekend so far?”

The blond nods. “A little pissed to get a 2am text of Bokuto screaming, but otherwise, yeah.”

You laugh gently, and Keiji’s skin floods with goosebumps. He looks at you without meaning to, and a white-hot heat sears through his stomach, because you’re already looking back. You don’t greet him or betray any visible emotion when he makes eye contact, but he sees your breathing change, and there’s a warmth that makes your skin glow in the dim light. 

You’re nervous. He’s making you nervous.

And that’s a dangerous little piece of information for him to have access to.

“Y/n,” he says, rolling your name around on his tongue like he’s tasting it for the first time. He’s glad that Tsukishima’s distractedly looking over his shoulder at Kuroo, because he doesn’t see the way your breath catches or the way your spine straightens.

“Akaashi.” It’s weak, and your voice wavers on the last syllable, cutting out and filling with the breath that you draw in sharply. His body hums when he hears it, and the urge to hear it again – the urge to witness your poorly concealed emotions – grows to the point of being unbearable.

He wants to make you nervous.

“Get started on those case marking materials yet?” He’s careful to reference the LEM meeting only, not the things you’d talked about this morning. Still, it makes you swallow, and you pluck a red solo cup from the stack before reaching for the vodka. 

“Do you really want to talk about research here?” you ask, mixing it with some of the orange juice that Yachi had dropped off a few minutes ago.

“Why not?” he says. “Tsukishima and I are.”

You level a grin at the blond, who’s tuned back in at the sound of his name. “Don’t you want a night off, Tsukishima?”

Keiji doesn’t hear what his friend’s answer is. He’s too busy dragging his gaze slowly down the length of your body while the taller man’s talking to you. You shift slightly, and his eyes find yours. You’re flitting your gaze between his and Tsukishima’s, trying to stay engaged with the conversation but also clearly distracted. Keiji just stares, his eyes unyielding on yours whenever you meet them. You drink urgently from your cup, chugging until it’s empty and then reaching back to make another, a grimace tugging on your lips.

He looks away, because he can hear Bokuto storming into the kitchen.

“Hey, my favorite pals!” He slings his arms around Keiji’s and Tsukishima’s shoulders, and Keiji tips forward into you. You yelp, barely managing to steady your drink on the counter. He slips his arm around your waist to catch himself – definitely not for any other reason – and he hears you gasp in his ear at the contact. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles, head swimming with alcohol.

“No, you’re not,” you whisper back heatedly. But Keiji can feel you leaning into him, too, your fingers brushing on his arm. 

It fills his chest with a giddy excitement – the realization that you can’t help yourself, either. 

He decides in that moment – in the mere milliseconds where Bokuto’s straightening and exclaiming in Tsukishima’s ear that the friend group should collect by the couches in the living room, the two of you completely unnoticed – that he doesn’t want to stop doing this. He doesn’t want to stop provoking you, even though he very well should. Because he can see that you don’t want it to stop, either. Because you’re searching him with wide eyes and the kind of attention that he could get high off of.

Because, in a single morning alone, Keiji’s learned to recognize when you’re turned on. 

The flush of your cheeks and the tug of your bottom lip between your teeth. The way you hug yourself, like you’re worried you might do something with those hands if you don’t. The uneven pattern of your breathing, your chest rising and falling with attempted recovery.

God, he thinks he’s turned on, too.

He swallows, leaning away and letting Bokuto sweep the three of you away into the living room. You’re still pressed to his side unwillingly, your body heat making him shiver with excitement – you smell the way you did this morning, like warmth and the laundry detergent of the sheets he’d fucked you into. Like the memory of your tears and the way you’d begged him not to stop, the memory of your walls fluttering around him and the way your back had arched when you’d come–

He scrubs drunkenly at his scrunched eyebrows, stumbling to wherever Bokuto had guided him and throwing himself down on the couch. Even with his eyes closed, he knows that the body that lands next to him is yours.

When he opens his eyes, the world a little blurry and tilted, Kuroo and Yachi have joined the group – Hitoka’s on his other side, and Bokuto’s taken the armchair, Tsukishima and Kuroo sitting awfully close together on the floor. It always happens this way – the group of you always end up in your own corner, the rest of the party carrying on without the host needing to entertain. The music is always thumping just loud enough that everyone has to raise their voices to be heard, but it’s never annoying. Never too much, never overwhelming. It’s why all these people always come back – Bokuto Koutarou’s parties are always the perfect escape.

He’s starting to understand why, tonight.

The night goes on like any other. Yachi rambles about her current dissertation progress, clearly excited to talk about her graphic design and marketing ideas. Bokuto engages her excitedly, asking if she could help him make some recruitment flyers for the volleyball class he’ll be teaching next semester. Kuroo whispers things to Tsukishima, the smirk on his lips pressed to the blond’s ear and Tsukishima’s cheeks burning with a cherry-red blush.

Which leaves Keiji with you. Surrounded by friends who are much too drunk and distracted to care what he does.

So he settles into the couch, spreading his legs to get comfortable – at least, that’s what it looks like. No one questions why he never intrudes on Yachi’s space, why he angles his body toward yours, why his knee bumps yours and then stays there. No one asks why you suddenly look nervous or why you silently decide to let his thigh press against yours. Why your own thigh, radiating gentle warmth, presses back after a moment – although it’d be completely in character for you to make some snappish remark about respecting personal space. 

No one asks why your fingers twitch on your leg, your pinky brushing up against his leg, stretching toward him and then retracting.

No one asks about the slight bulge in his jeans. Or the arm he stretches across the back of the couch – in your direction, not Yachi’s.

Your breath catches, and you lift your cup to your mouth quickly. “Cut it out,” you hiss, hidden, and he smiles down at nothing.

“‘m not doing anything,” he breathes back, unheard over the music.

“Bullshit.” 

He laughs softly, but he knows you’re right. So he extracts himself, standing carefully and pointing in explanation toward the hall when Bokuto looks up at him curiously. He pushes through the crowd, rounding the corner and taking the stairs up to the second floor. The music is quieter here, and he knows that no one else would venture this far – because everyone knows Bokuto, but no one knows Bokuto. Not like the group of you.

He disappears into the bathroom by Bokuto’s bedroom, clean and uncrowded. His phone screen reads 11:08 when he checks it – endless parties just like this, and tonight, he’s barely managing an hour and a half in the same room as you. He stares at his reflection in the mirror, breathing deep. His vision’s still a little blurry, and his head is still swimming. His cheeks are flushed, and his eyes are heated, betraying how you’re affecting him. 

He fixes himself in his jeans so it’s a little less obvious and then runs his fingers through his hair with a sigh. Now that he’s alone, he can see that he definitely needs to sober up a bit. He needs to act right, because he knows the stakes are high. His brain feels clearer, and it’s sinking in that he’s pushing the line with you. That there’s something about you – something about this morning – that makes him want to forget the rules, when he really shouldn’t.

Maybe he’s just too drunk. Maybe he’ll be better about this when he’s sober.

The memory of you crying under him flashes in his mind, and he has to shake his head, leaning his hands on the counter. Maybe those memories won’t come when he’s in control enough to stop them. He has to hope that they won’t, because right now, his mental faculties aren’t listening to him.

Right now, he’s thinking about how you’d squirmed in his lap when he’d fingered you. About how your head had knocked back lightly against the wall when you’d come on his tongue, sweet and warm and wet enough to make him just a little bit obsessed with you. About how you’d looked up at him with wide eyes while you’d jerked him off, asking if you were doing okay. Asking for his approval. 

Keiji’s breath comes hard now, and he shakes his head again in a weak attempt to clear it.

The way you’d moaned like a proper porn star when he’d pushed into you for the first time.

The way you’d felt around him, velvety and tight and like no one he’d ever been with before you.

The way you’d clung to him, desperate and scared when he’d threatened to pull away – pleas on those plush, pink lips and tears in those pretty little eyes. Bullying him rudely to his orgasm.

“Fuck,” he breathes. He needs to get it together.

He thumps himself lightly on the head a few times with the heel of his hand, silently begging his boner to go away as he turns to leave the bathroom.

You’re standing on the other side of the door, a frown on your face as you lean against the wall.

Fuck.

“What’re you up to, Akaashi?” you demand drunkenly, your lips pushing out in a whiny pout that makes his cock twitch in his jeans.

Fuck.

“What?” he says, trying to slip past you toward the stairs. You get in his way.

“We decided t’be normal,” you slur, stepping close to him. Your perfume clouds his brain. “You’re not bein’ normal.”

Your chest bumps against his when he tries to move past again, and he finds his hands on your waist before he can think it through.

“And you decided t’follow me up here,” he breathes tightly, walking you back quickly into the wall. Your eyes go wide when your back bumps against it, but the gasp that falls past your lips is because he’s pushing his hips against yours, still half-hard. “You did this.”

“I didn’t-I haven’ done anything,” you try, glancing down in hazy surprise at where he’s pressed against you. “You’re the one who keeps touchin’ me and– and teasing me.”

“Yeah? Is it fucking with you?” he coos, mocking. “Welcome t’the club.”

Your eyes search his. “'Kaashi,” you whisper, slurred. His eyes drop to your lips.

He doesn’t like it when you say his name like that. Soft and pleading. 

It makes him want to do terrible things to you.

“Careful, Y/n.”

He doesn’t mean to say it like that. He’s actually asking you to be careful, because he’s not in his right mind and you’re making it worse. You’re making everything worse, and he’s more than happy to blame this on you. But the way it comes out – the way he talks to you – is with a tone he knows better than to use outside the bedroom.

He watches the tension leave your body, and you start to blink up at him rapidly, your face burning and radiating heat into the very limited space between you. He watches your demeanor change – watches you swallow nervously and break eye contact, watches you purse your lips and breathe shallowly – and something in him aches for you.

For the first time all day, he regrets sleeping with you. Because now he’s not sure he can ever recover.

“Uhm,” you start, voice shaky. “Maybe we should go back-”

“Akaashi! Y/n!” 

You gasp, and your hands find his chest. You shove hard, and he stumbles back toward the opposite wall with wide eyes. You both turn toward the stairs, watching Bokuto trip and fall up the last few steps. He looks down the hall with wide eyes, giggling loudly when he sees you.

“There you are!” And then he narrows his gaze at you dramatically, examining the situation as he stands. “Oh, no-” He pouts, crossing his arms. “Are you two fighting? This is a party! We’re with friends!”

Keiji sobers instantly, eyes flying to yours as the reality of the night hits him. As he realizes how close you’d come to getting caught, and on the very first day at that. You look just as alarmed as he feels. He doesn’t know how he could ever have explained what’s just happened to anyone else. How things had gotten that far.

He turns without a word and brushes past Bokuto. He barrels down the stairs, ignoring Bokuto’s cry of ‘eh?! where’s he going?!’ and heading straight for the door. It slams behind him, and he races out of the building and toward the street.

He swears loudly on the entire walk home.

–

It isn’t until noon on Sunday that you wake up, groggy and disoriented. You slap your hand around on your bed blindly for your phone, the sunlight that’s streaming through the window making the room feel hot and making you groan. You retrieve your phone from the depths of your bed, squinting at it with a growing headache and a serious case of dry-mouth.

There are some texts from Kuroo and Yachi, asking if you feel as positively terrible as they do, and an all-caps text from Bokuto to the massive group chat, thanking everyone for coming to the party. There’s even a text from Tsukishima, asking if you got home alright and if you know where Akaashi had gone.

Akaashi.

You roll over and bury your face in the pillow, groaning loudly. He’d left so abruptly, and you’d even texted him – multiple times – to drunkenly ask where he’d gone and if he was okay. You check those texts now, clicking into the thread.

[11:16 PM]

You: whewred yiu go>?!?!

You: are yoim okai???

[11:59 PM]

You: akaaaaaashiiiii

You: whyaw didn yoo leave so sunddnly?

[12:39 AM]

You: at lest tellme if tju got ahaome safew

[9:19 AM]

Akaashi: im fine thanks

Your lips twist into a scowl, and you throw your phone down, minorly annoyed by his response. He’d run out of the party without a single word, after teasing you all night and then pinning you up against the wall and fucking with your head. And now he’s going to act cold to you, like he hadn’t admitted to wanting you last night?

Whatever.

You kick your legs over the side of the bed, ignoring the throbbing pain in your head as you stumble down the hallway to shower and get ready for the day. You make a pot of coffee and rummage through your fridge for something that’ll fix your hangover, and then you settle down at your desk and check your personal email, just to see if the new video with Akaashi had been received well.

There’s a string of emails sitting right at the top of your inbox, the last received at 10am.

[10:00 AM] Account Updates (Oct. 22) – New Followers: 2,139; New Comments: 608; New Video View Count: 87,903

[9:36 AM] Congratulations! Your new video has made over $500.

[5:02 AM] Congratulations! Your new video has made over $400.

[3:47 AM] Congratulations! Your new video has made over $300.

[1:59 AM] Congratulations! Your new video has made over $200.

[10:29 PM] Congratulations! Your new video has made over $100.

You stare at the subject lines, your head swimming.

“Holy shit.”

You log into your account in a rush of adrenaline, unable to believe this is really happening. You click quickly into your profile and scroll down to the section for profit information.

$529 dollars, made off of the video of Akaashi fingering you.

That’s almost everything you have in your bank account – doubled in one night.

That’s rent.

That’s rent.

“Holy shit.” You sit back and stare at the number for ten minutes, watching in growing shock as it flicks to $535 and then to $541 in that span of time. You’ve got 137 message requests sitting in the top right corner – 137 more opportunities to make money, if you just dedicate an hour or two a day to sending off quick and flirty one-liners to the horny men flooding your inbox.

Your hand reaches for your phone, because you have to tell Akaashi the amazing news – but then you remember how odd his last text had been. You frown slightly and put your phone back down. You don’t have anyone else to talk to about this – and you want to talk about this, to marvel and wonder at how this could have happened – but you don’t want him to ruin your mood, either.

So you don’t. You don’t tell him – if he wants to know how the video did, he can look for himself. He’s a collaborator on the account now. 

You just roll your shoulders back and pull up your video editing software, getting to work.

You have money to make.

–

“Are you okay?” Yachi says the next morning, watching you with thin amusement as you yawn so wide that your jaw cracks. You nod sleepily, following her into the coffee shop.

“Just a long night. ‘m okay.” You scrub at your brow, suppressing another yawn while you wait in line. You’d spent most of yesterday editing the other two videos and responding to messages, and then you’d taken three hours to record solo content, staying up until nearly 3am editing those videos, too. You’d hoped that the solo content wouldn’t lose you followers, actually, since it had been clear just how well-received the partner content is.

But the work had been worth it, because you’d posted one of the solo videos last night and woken up to 500 more followers and another $300 in profit, both from the video with Akaashi and from the spillover of the new followers going back through your old videos and the new solo video. It turns out your solo content is good; it just hadn’t gotten enough traction to make any money. Now, there’s a lot of traffic to even your first couple videos, and every video is bringing in money.

So, even though you’re falling asleep while standing in a coffee shop at 9am, you feel that every moment of sleep lost was a moment of incoming financial peace.

“D’you know what you want yet?” Yachi asks, peering at the menu. “I’m not sure.”

“You get the same thing every time,” you state simply, only smiling when she shoots you a sideways glance. “But I can go first, if you’re totally not sold yet on your medium almond milk vanilla latte.”

“Yes, please,” she says brightly, and you cut past her to get to the counter. You order your drink and a breakfast sandwich, feeling for the first time in weeks that there’s no crippling guilt when you spend the money. It feels nice, being able to give yourself even this small treat.

“Y/n!” 

You flinch at the booming voice, already identifying its owner. You turn, stepping off to the side to let Yachi order while you smile at an excited Bokuto. The man bounds up to you, arms swinging, and you’re left wondering how he could possibly have any energy this early.

“Hi, Kou – How was your Sunday?”

“Oh, you know.” He shrugs. “Spent it cleaning vomit out of my rug. But I slept like a little baby, so I feel great today!” He glances past you. “Hitoka!”

The little blond woman flinches at the volume, much like you had, and turns after she pays, joining you with a grin. “Kou! Still on to talk about those recruitment flyers later?”

“Oh, God, yes! I need you!” Bokuto seems to almost vibrate in place, and you let them talk, keeping an ear out for your order while you shut your eyes to let out a deep yawn.

“Hi, Yachi.”

The yawn dissipates in your throat. You snap your head around, finding Akaashi hovering at Bokuto’s shoulder. He’s smiling politely down at Yachi, one hand tucked into his fall coat and the other gripping an extra-large coffee cup. The tired look in his eye tells you he’d lost sleep over something, even though neither Bokuto nor Yachi comment on it.

“Hi, Akaashi,” Yachi says. “We missed you at the party after you left.”

“Yeah, sorry about that,” he laughs quietly. “I started to feel pretty sick, so I left.”

“Aw, that’s unfortunate,” she commiserates. “Are you feeling better?”

“I am, thank you.” He nods, his body language and manners betraying that well-spoken, gentle demeanor that everyone speaks so highly about. You wonder how many people know that Akaashi’s a complete mess before he’s had coffee and anything but gentle in bed.

He turns to Bokuto now, speaking softly. “Ready? I have to teach.”

The silver-haired man nods happily, waving at you and Yachi. “Gotta go! See you lovely ladies at lunch!”

You wave him off, flicking your eyes to Akaashi. He’s got his gaze on you as he passes, emotionless and bordering on disinterest. He doesn’t say a word to you, and then he’s gone, leaving you in the wake of his silence and his annoyingly attractive cologne.

You frown slightly, only pulled away by the sound of your name at the counter. You collect your drink and breakfast, finding Yachi scowling deeply beside you as she stares out the door.

“What an asshole,” she grumbles, only shrugging when you bite out a surprised laugh. “He didn’t even say hi to you! That’s so rude.”

“That’s just how he is,” you mutter, staring down at the lid of your cup.

That’s just how he’s always been. So why does it feel so much worse now?

–

It happens again, only twenty minutes later.

You’d left Yachi at the crossroads separating the Linguistics building and the Marketing building, waving and wishing her good luck with her morning of teaching and dissertation work. You’d trekked up to your office, dropping your things off and heading back down to the first floor quickly in order to make some copies of the handout for your Syntax discussion. You stand in the administrative office while the copies print, and then – after a full minute of arguing with yourself – you make the copies for Akaashi’s section, too. Because the two of you had always had that system, and you wouldn’t allow him to see that he’s affected you enough to impact your professional relationship.

You leave them in both mailboxes and head to the elevator, your coffee sipped slowly as you make your way down the long hallway. There’s an open classroom door on your left, a quiet voice slipping out and echoing in the empty hall.

“...the exponence of morphological features will arise differently depending on the language and its family – take agglutinating languages, for example-”

You glance toward the room, knowing that soft, steady voice anywhere.

Akaashi’s turning his back to the classroom, lifting his right hand toward the chalkboard, when you see him. He’s shed his fall coat, folded over the back of his chair now, and you take him in properly as you pass, as though in slow motion. He’s wearing his standard black slacks and white button-down, but there’s no accompanying sweater vest on top today, completely changing his cozy, boy-next-door vibe into something much more flustering. 

He’s got the top two buttons undone and the sleeves rolled haphazardly up to his elbows, which you know is a public speaking habit of his. His left hand sits tucked into the pocket of his slacks, a few thin, silver bracelets stacked on that wrist and his tattoo easy to spot on his right forearm as he lifts it to the board. His hair falls into his eyes a bit, and his glasses sit neatly on his face, perfectly completing the dreadfully sexy professorial energy he’s exuding.

You’re hit with a wave of attraction, worsened when his gaze finds yours through the open doorway. He holds the eye contact as he turns, and you see it’s that same, detached look he’s giving you. But whatever he’s seeing on your face – likely mortifying, given the warmth flooding your face – has one of his eyebrows lifting, a scowl pulling on his lips. He tears his eyes from yours, finally pressing the chalk in his hand to the board in front of him.

“Languages like Korean, Japanese, and Turkish – although in different language families – bear their exponence in a transparent manner, with morphemes stacking in a particular way depending on how the morphological features are assigned and collected…”

You pause just past the door, out of sight, and feel entirely out of place with the strange gnawing sensation that’s beginning to form in your chest. 

–

You try your best not to let him get to you throughout the day, but you still find yourself sitting in your office half an hour before lunch, anyway, wondering if you should try talking to him. You know he’s across the hall, and you wonder if maybe you just need a few minutes alone with him to figure out why he’s acting so strange. Had the party really screwed things up that much between you?

You stand and head to the door, stepping into the hall and even making it as far as the single step to his door, your hand raised to knock, before you stop. You hesitate. Maybe he’s upset with you, for whatever reason. Had you done anything bad at the party? No, you don’t think so. It had mostly been his doing, even though he’d blamed you for it outside the bathroom. You don’t think you’d actually done anything except be there, and he can’t really be mad at you for that.

Still, you turn back to your office, suddenly uncertain about confronting him. You return to your desk, settling down with a conflicted sigh and opening your laptop to keep working until lunch.

Your phone buzzes on the desk.

[1:45 PM]

Akaashi: what is it?

Your heart jumps, and you type quickly.

You: nothing

Akaashi: you were going to knock

You: it’s fine

Akaashi: just tell me.

You groan, trying to figure out what to say. ‘I wanted to see if we’re okay’ is completely unhinged and a little bit crazy, and ‘Just checking on you after the party’ is entirely out of character for you. So you just sigh and type up the best excuse you can.

You: was just gonna tell you the first video made over 500

You: and my other stuff is making money now too

You: my rent for november is covered

You: so.. thanks ig

There’s a minute or two of silence before he answers, a minute or two that feel distinctly longer.

Akaashi: …

Akaashi: you were seriously coming to say that to me?

Akaashi: out loud? here?

Akaashi: really, y/n?

You bristle, filled with an irrational anger. Obviously, that’s not what you’d been going to his office to talk about, because obviously you know better. But you hadn’t been able to come up with anything better to tell him, and now you’re being scolded for it.

And how dare he say that to you, after he’d been all over you on Saturday night? In front of all your friends, no less?

You type an angry response.

You: well i didnt DO it, did i?

You: unlike you, i have decent judgment of what should and shouldnt be done in public.

Akaashi: excuse me?

Akaashi: wtf is that supposed to mean??????

You: use that brain of yours and figure it tf out.

Akaashi: you have decent judgment of what shouldnt be done in public?

Akaashi: yet you just LOVE to keep your windows open

Akaashi: dont you, y/n

There’s a piece of you, larger than you’d ever admit, that loves to be the person who makes Akaashi Keiji’s perfect little walls come crashing down.

You: at least thats done in the privacy of my own home

You: not the privacy of someone else’s 

You: especially not with all our friends right around the corner

Akaashi: oh go to hell

You: see you there, freak.

You throw your phone down and let out an irritated scream that echoes off the walls of your office. You’re certain Akaashi’d heard it, but you can’t bring yourself to care what he thinks or doesn’t think of you today.

You work until lunch, distracted and angry while you respond to emails and grade a few assignments. When Bokuto texts your small group chat asking about lunch, Kuroo’s expected response of ‘We meet every SINGLE day, Bokuto!’ coming in only seconds later, you slam your laptop shut and pack up.

Akaashi’s leaving his office at the same time as you. He frowns instantly when he sees you, and you scowl openly at him.

“Think you might have a banshee in your office,” he says tightly, pulling his door closed and walking off ahead of you. “There was a demonic scream echoing in the hall earlier.”

You roll your eyes, following him to the elevator. “Worry about your own office, Akaashi. There’s an icy bitch inhabiting your desk.”

He snorts, jamming his finger against the down button. “That’s real classy, Y/n. Can you afford lunch today, or do you need a loaner?”

You whip your head around, staring up at him in shock. His eyes slide shut right away, jaw clenched, and he lets out a deep sigh. When he looks at you again, his gaze is full of regret.

“Sorr-”

“I’ll take the stairs,” you snap, turning on your heel and marching toward the stairwell.

“Y/n-” You hear him follow behind you, even as the elevator dings with its arrival. You throw the door open, ignoring as it slams against the wall, and stomp down the five flights of stairs. He barely stops the door from shutting in his face, his voice echoing in the empty hallway as he flies down the steps after you. “Y/n, come on-”

“Fuck you,” you spit, refusing to look at him even as he’s catching up to you on the landing between the third and fourth floors.

He wraps his hand around your bicep, spinning you around to him. “I’m sorry, okay? That was fucked up-”

You snatch your arm back. “Why did you follow me, Akaashi? You want your 20% now or something? Sorry, I have to transfer it over to my bank first, if that’s fucking okay with you.”

His face scrunches up in irritation. “That’s not what I was saying-”

“You want me to cover your lunch? How’s that? You worried I’m not good for my word?” You spin back around, continuing your march. He sighs angrily behind you.

“You’re so fucking insufferable sometimes,” he snaps.

“Then cut your losses and get out while you can, asshole.”

He’s silent for a moment as he follows you, and then he’s bitter with his response. “You need me.”

You whirl around, cornering him against the wall by the fire exit on the first floor. Your voice drops to a hiss, rage seething in your veins as you lean up into his face. “I’d rather be homeless than fuck you again, Akaashi Keiji.”

He grits his teeth, and he takes your face in one hand, fingertips digging into your cheeks and squeezing tight. You let out a quiet noise of surprise, eyes widening marginally. His eyes are dead of emotion now, but you can see in the fluttering clench of his jaw that he’s angry with you.

“Don’t-” He squeezes your face and pulls you closer, breath fanning out over your lips. “-make threats you can’t follow through on, Y/n.” He lifts his brows knowingly. “You need me.”

You shudder in his grasp, eyes flicking between his and chest heaving with angry breaths. There’s a moment of panic in your chest, because you do need him. You do need him, but he doesn’t need you.

Then why is he so adamant about keeping you?

You scan him quickly, realizing that his chest is heaving, too. That he looks just as frustrated – that his eyebrow is twitching and that his eyes are searching yours. That he’s swallowing hard, waiting for your response.

He needs this, too. You don’t know why, but that much is clear to you. And it’s enough.

“What’s wrong, Akaashi?” you murmur, watching his eyes drop to your lips when you respond. “Worried I’ll find someone else to fuck and throw you away?” 

His fingers tighten on your face, but you see it – the panic that you feel, reflected in his eyes. It makes your chest swell with satisfaction, and something else you can’t place. Something like relief.

“Shut up,” he hisses. “Shut up, Y/n-”

His phone rings in his coat pocket, loud and jarring and ripping you right out of this moment with him. His eyes widen, and you raise a hand to smack his arm away, and then you stumble back as he fumbles for his phone.

It’s Bokuto, if the muffled screaming on the other end is enough to tell you anything.

“Hi, Bokuto,” Akaashi mutters, the heat in his voice gone – the polite, sweet, soft-spoken walls coming right back up, brick by brick. “Yeah. I’m on my way.” His eyes flick to you, empty. “Yeah. She’s with me.” He stares right into your eyes, that dead expression solidifying on his face. “Yes. I’ll tell her to check her many messages.”

You pat your pockets quickly, wondering how you could have been so caught up with Akaashi that you’d missed something. Your eyes go wide when you look at the screen – it’s been ten minutes since you’d said you’d meet them for lunch, and Bokuto’s spam-called you six times.

[2:36 PM]

Kou: Y/N!!!!!!! ARE YOU OKAYYYYYYY??????

You type back a quick response.

[2:41 PM]

You: yes omg sorry im omw now

Kou: PLEASE DONT BE FIGHTING WITH AKAASHIIIIII

You: we’re not i promise!!! be there soon

“We’re not gonna have time to eat,” you mumble to yourself – you both need to be in Syntax in twenty minutes. Akaashi brushes past you, heading out the fire exit door.

“Walk fast and eat faster, then.”

You follow behind, sighing heatedly. “I hate you,” you bite under your breath.

“Yeah, well-” His long strides don’t have any intention of accommodating you as he heads to the dining hall. “-I’m not so fucking fond of you, either.”

By the time lunch is over, even Kuroo’s texting you asking if something had happened.

–

Tuesday morning doesn’t go much better.

You’re still angry from the day before, short of patience as you get ready to bike to the LEM meeting and already itching for another fight by the time you settle into one of the chairs in the lab room. Other people file in slowly, and you manage to mask your anger long enough to smile at everyone and ask about their weekend. Your advisor pats you on the shoulder in a fatherly way when he enters, sighing deep as he settles in beside you.

“You’re not presenting today, right?” he asks, checking his phone for emails idly.

“No, I don’t have the pilot data yet,” you mumble regretfully. He just shrugs, shaking his head.

“You have a lot going on. No need to stress about it just yet.” And then he eyes you over his bifocals. “Have you figured something out, though?”

You warm, because Akaashi’s cologne is drifting into the room, just over your shoulder. You know that he’s heard it, because he lingers for just long enough before moving to the TV that you can tell he’d been caught off guard.

“Yes,” you say under your breath, your ears burning. “I figured something out, thank you. I should be good to start data collection next week.”

“Good to hear.” Your advisor nods, and you let out a steadying breath. “Okay,” he says, louder and to the group, clapping his hands. “We have Keiji for updates first, and then-” he points between two of your other cohort-mates. “-you two can fight over who goes next.”

You watch Akaashi go straight into his 20-minute run, explaining some updates he’d made to his theoretical framing and some more thoughts he has for his dissertation. You, as usual, are convinced of his logic, but there’s something about the way he refuses to look at you – cyan eyes passing over you like you’re a ghost – that makes your blood boil. Something about the way he nearly rolls his eyes when he accidentally does meet your gaze, because he can certainly see the burning anger all over your face.

Maybe that’s why – even though you don’t have a single piece of criticism to give him – you open your mouth when he asks ‘Any questions?’ in that gentle tone you hate so much.

“I have one.”

Everyone’s head whips around to you, because you never speak during Akaashi Keiji’s Q&A session. 

But it’s Akaashi’s reaction that spurs you on. His eyes fly to yours when he hears your voice, and you watch shock, confusion, irritation, and – finally – vague interest flit across his face in a matter of milliseconds.

“Okay?” he says, the confusion slipping through in the uptick of his voice.

“Your proposed analysis – what are the implications it has for research testing native Korean speakers?”

He lifts one eyebrow, and you feel the room shift. 

“You’re asking me-” The other brow joins in now. “-how my research applies to yours?”

You clench your jaw, searching his gaze. He’d said it like he was offended, but you can see he’s pushing you. “I’m asking how your analysis can be used by other linguists in the field – not just to study the grammar of native Korean speakers theoretically, but to study the grammar empirically. With real data-”

“I have data-”

“You have judgments,” you snap. “Native Korean speaker judgments from your consultants. Two consultants, yes?” He nods, and you nod back. “Right. And you expect your two consultants’ individual grammars to speak systematically for the whole of the Korean grammar?”

It’s a cheap shot, but a valid one – for someone else. Not for Akaashi. You know this well enough, that the primary job of theoretical syntacticians is to formulate analyses and proposals of a language’s grammar. You know well enough that it’s not his job to figure out if his analysis will make the cut if tested with a large sample of speakers.

That’s your job. And the job of experimentalists more broadly. It’s your job to take his theory and prove it right or wrong. It’s only his job to craft his logic and evidence in a way that makes the argument worth proving.

And Akaashi knows that, too.

“What would you like me to do, Y/n?” he asks tightly. “Would you like me to run the experiment myself and put you out of a job?”

“Okay-” your advisor starts to cut in, but you speak over him.

“What about all the previous research, Akaashi? The research that’s tested syntactic analyses which differ from yours but still find supporting results? Would you like the field to throw all that away and believe you instead? How do you account for those findings? What’s the bigger picture?”

His eyes light up, molten hot. “What I’d like is a unified syntax of Korean case marking, which the field has been missing for decades. It’s up to someone like you to test my theory; it’s up to someone like me to take your results and update my analysis, over and over and over again until we get it right. That’s what linguistics is about.”

You lean forward, elbows digging into the wooden table. It’s quiet enough in the room that you can hear him breathing across the room, ragged and rough and irritated.

“If you want someone like me to go through the trouble of testing your theory, you should do a better job of convincing me it’s worth my time.” You glare hard at him, your heart skipping when you watch that wall come down. He looks exactly the same, poised and perfect and well-mannered, but his eyes betray how badly he wants to tell you exactly what’s on his mind. 

So you smile at him, cold and mocking, and push him over the edge. “Or else linguistics will move on without you.”

“Okay!” you advisor says, looking between you and Akaashi with wide eyes. “I think we get it, you two. Let’s move on to someone else, please – I’m too old for this.”

You stand quickly, the chair scraping across the floor, and barge from the room. 

“Y/n!” your advisor calls just as the door is slamming behind you. A moment later, you hear his voice again, muffled. “Keiji!”

The door swings open, and the sound of the lab erupting in chaos echoes through the hall, your advisor’s ‘okay, okay, settle down everyone-’ muted by the door shutting again.

“What the hell is your problem?” Akaashi bites behind you, and you glance back while you walk, finding him stalking after you. You roll your eyes, heading for your office. 

“You heard my problem. Your research is isolated and inapplicable-”

“Inapplicable-”

“Goodbye, Akaashi,” you snap, unlocking the door and shouldering your way inside. You throw it shut behind you, but his hand slams down on the wood, startling you. You whirl around with wide eyes and watch him slam the door, the frosted glass window rattling from the force. The two of you are left in the silence of your office, both of your breaths audible in the space between you.

“Inapplicable?” he hisses again, eyes glinting.

“What do you want me to say, Akaashi?” you bark, letting him get in your face. “You want me to just ignore that you’re not thinking about the consequences of your own research?” You poke him hard in the chest. “If you don’t take responsibility for the work you’re putting out into the field, then don’t expect me to be okay with fumbling to use your grammar to explain my data.”

He pushes forward, cornering you against your desk. “That’s exactly what your job is, Y/n. It’s your responsibility to figure out what speakers are doing, just like it’s my responsibility to figure out how to explain that. And you’re not stupid enough to believe otherwise. We need each other-”

“No, what I need-” You stand tall, feeling his breath mingle with yours in the space between your lips. “-is to not be handed another ‘grammar of Korean’ that’s been decreed into a fucking void.”

He doesn’t say a word, just letting his eyes flit between yours angrily. He’s breathing hard, just as hard as you are, and his eyebrows are twitching as he glares down at you. You hold your ground, whispering an admission to him.

“You might be a genius, Akaashi, but you really need to be put in your place sometimes.”

You watch in real time as his demeanor changes.

The anger drains from his body language and his face, leaving him with shock and a lip that’s curling in amusement as he stares down at you with wide eyes.

“Oh, is that right?” he breathes. “And-what? You think you’re gonna do that for me?” You start to protest, but he just takes a step forward, sudden and forceful, and you take a surprised seat on the desk with a gasp. He towers over you, that smile dangerous. “You really think you can do that, Y/n? When you aren’t even confident enough in your own work?”

Your brows furrow, offended. “What-”

“With your shy little smile and your uncertain little laugh when you present to the lab-” he whispers, breath fanning over you as you stare up at him. “With that fucking look you get in your eye,” he growls under his breath. “Like you don’t know what to make of your own research. Of your own skills. Makes me fucking sick.”

You try to stand, but he just leans down, planting his hands on either side of you. His nose brushes yours, and his eyes fill with a heat that isn’t anger. It’s something else, and you can’t place it.

He lifts his eyebrows. “You think you can put me in my place? That would mean we’re on the same level, wouldn’t it? Is that what you’re saying?” When you don’t respond, he speaks slower, like he’s talking down to you. 

“Are you a genius, too, Y/n?”

You scowl at him. “I’m not beneath you, Akaashi. I never have been.”

He shifts, and you finally place it – that heat in his eyes, the one that burns through you and makes your heart race.

It’s excitement.

It excites him to fight with you like this.

And the smile that stretches across his face, tinged with what you can only describe as pride, is starting to excite you, too. Because fighting with him feels good. Because you can see that it makes him feel good, too. It feels good to be pushed like this, to show someone else who you really are and be accepted for that, good or bad. 

Especially the bad. 

This may be the first time you’ve ever been glad that Akaashi Keiji treats you differently.

He steps impossibly closer to you, and you find your thighs parting to let him into the space before you can realize it. His smile grows, and his breath hitches in time with the lurch of anticipation that fills you, because he’s leaning down over you, forcing you to collapse back onto your elbows.

“If you’re a genius, Y/n,” he whispers, carding his fingers ever so gently through your hair. You shudder, chest heaving with a gasp when he pulls taut, fisting your hair painfully in his hand. His eyes twinkle with that terrifying excitement that makes your veins sing for him, and you’re distantly aware that he’s hard against your inner thigh. “Then I want you to fucking act like it.”

The shaky breath you let out is laced with a moan, and his gaze flies down to your lips, his smile stretching into something wild and wicked. He meets your eyes again, that blue-green gaze piercing when he asks–

“Do you think you can do that?”

You shiver, the reaction visceral and entirely visible to him. He smiles and whispers ‘I thought so’, his breath forming goosebumps on your skin.

And then there’s a hard knock on your office door.

“Y/n?” your advisor calls, his blurry shadow visible through the window as he stands just on the other side of the door – on the other side of the terribly compromising position Akaashi has you in on your desk.

Your breath catches, and you struggle against him. “Akaashi-”

He pulls you up quickly with wide eyes, and you both frantically fix your appearances in silence for the half-second it takes you to call ‘It’s open!’ to the door. Akaashi latches onto your arm and drags you forward in a panic, stepping behind you to partially shield himself from view – you have to keep from snickering, because the door’s being pushed open cautiously. 

Your advisor stands in the doorway, examining the two of you with wary eyes. “Are you both alive and in one piece?”

You and Akaashi nod. “Sorry for storming out like that,” you say. “I was… a bit heated.”

The old man snorts. “Oh, really? I couldn’t tell. We had to end early because no one could focus.” He looks over your head at Akaashi. “And you left all your stuff in the lab. Were you heated, too?”

Akaashi clears his throat. “Uh… a bit?”

Your advisor sighs and shakes his head. “I’m gonna start putting you two through hell if you don’t cut it out. Force you to say nice things about each other, or look into each other’s eyes for a full minute, or something.” 

You laugh nervously. “We’re fine. Sorry.”

He rolls his eyes but moves on. “Did you both apply for Ling Expo? We talked about it in the meeting, but some members of the group went missing.”

You flush, shifting your weight. Akaashi’s fingers find the back of your shirt, tugging you back to where you were so he can remained covered. 

“Yes,” he says behind you. “I submitted the abstract last week.” 

You nod in agreement. “Me, too.”

The man sighs, nodding back. “We’re all going again this year, so make sure to block the weekend of November 15th off.” You both make noises of understanding, and he takes a moment to look between you. His eyes narrow as he examines you, and then Akaashi over your head, and then you again. He purses his lips and hums. “There’s something about this situation that makes me want to make you leave this door open, but I’m not your father, so…” 

A rush of heat washes over you, and Akaashi coughs awkwardly behind you. 

“Are you allowed to say that?” he mumbles, and your advisor throws his head back, giving a belly laugh as he shakes his head. 

“It’s none of my business what you two get up to in your free time.”

You chuckle nervously. “Are you allowed to say that?”

His laugh, loud and booming and satisfied, can be heard down the hall long after he’s gone.

–

Keiji collapses into his chair, slumping down over his desk and burying his face in his folded arms.

“Fuck,” he groans, muffled and inaudible outside of himself. He thumps a fist on the desk twice, overwhelming embarrassment flooding every cell in his body.

What the hell was he thinking, cornering you against your desk like that? Why is he entirely incapable of containing himself when he’s alone with you? What had you done to him – what witchcraft has taken hold over him?

When he’d woken up on Sunday, he’d spent several hours in a puddle of dread, unmoving from his bed as he’d stared at the ceiling and contemplated what to do. He’d chalked most of his behavior from the party up to the alcohol, but he also knows himself well enough to know that he’d only acted that way because those feelings – those desires that had been threaded under his skin – were lingering somewhere unreachable inside him.

He’d decided by the end of the day that he would need to overcompensate in order to keep your mutual friends from catching on to the fact that there’s a live wire inside him that sparks dangerously every time he even so much as thinks about you. He would need to be more detached than ever if he were to stand any chance of keeping this arrangement with you a secret.

And then he’d overdone it, in that cafe yesterday morning. He’d ignored you deliberately, and he could feel almost instantly when your energy had shifted. And when he’d seen you pass by his class, he’d been a mix of surprised – because seeing you had thrown his heart into his throat and had scattered his thoughts like loose paper – and desperate not to let his students see that he’d lost his train of thought. So he’d scowled at you like you were the last thing he’d ever want to see, and, in the midst of rattling off knowledge that’s been sitting idly in the back of his mind for years, he’d felt a twinge of regret that he’d reacted that way.

And he’d known that you were coming to check in on him. He’d known – by the way you’d lingered at his door, by the way your weight had shifted, by the way your steps had sounded so uncertain – that you were confused. That you wanted to know why he was acting this way. But he’d felt an overwhelming panic at the idea that you might be able to sense his real feelings for what they are – that you’d be able to see just by looking at him that he’s almost concerningly attracted to you. So he’d lashed out over text, and then he’d lashed out at the elevator bay, because even when you’d called him an ‘icy bitch’, all he could focus on was the snarky edge to your voice and how badly he’d wanted to smother it.

When you’d threatened – emptily, but anxiety-inducing nonetheless – to put this arrangement to bed and move on from him, he’d lost his mind in that stairwell. He’d lost his mind, and he’d let his nerves show. And you’d latched onto them instantly, because, as he’s coming to learn, you can read him a little too well.

And that’s terrifying.

It’s terrifying to wonder, in a room full of all of Keiji’s peers – in front of his own advisor, for fuck’s sake – if his attraction to you when you level him with that challenging glare is as palpable to everyone else as it is to him.

It’s terrifying to wonder if you can see what a confused, muddled mess of a man he’s become since sleeping with you. Ricocheting between wanting you and hating you and somewhere right in the middle, where he feels both.

He’s found himself in that middle ground often over the last 48 hours.

And then he’d cornered you against your desk, not even ten minutes ago, and bullied you to your limit – forcing the admission of your own capabilities from your lips like psychological torture, entirely unable to hide how much that had excited him. How much it had affected him, watching you fold like that for him. 

But you’d shown yourself to him, too. You’d shown him how excited you’d gotten when you’d realized how he was feeling. You’d shown him that this terrible, confusing knot of uncontainable want that twists in his gut when he meets your eyes– 

It’s mutual.

And that – that is more dangerous than anything before it.

Keiji sits up, hands shaking slightly as he presses circles into his temples and leans back in his chair. He slides his laptop in front of him and opens it, navigating to the site for Ling Expo in order to clear his thoughts.

A small part of a much larger conference event that hosts multiple different departments all engaging in their own specialized events for three days straight, Ling Expo is held every year in mid-November and boasts the largest gathering of linguistic scholars in the whole of Japan.

At least, that’s what it says on the home page when he scrolls through it.

In reality, the LEM members – all students of his advisor – are carted away for a weekend to Tokyo’s largest hotel and conference center, regardless of whether or not any of them are presenting. He gets out of a Friday of teaching and spends three days networking, and – luckily – hanging out with his friends, because every department at this university has a group that goes.

Thankfully, it’s all paid for by the university. And, hopefully, he might not find himself in any weird academic standoffs with you this year. The two of you had always been careful not to let your rivalry become clear externally, because that reeks of a lack of professionalism, but there was always something that would tip the weekend into a mess of underhanded comments and awkward encounters in the extensive buffet line.

Maybe this time, things would be different.

Well, things are already different, so he’s not really fooling himself with this positive thinking. Because different could be good or bad.

His phone buzzes in his back pocket, and he closes the tab for Ling Expo while he extracts it. It’s a text sent to the group chat of the larger friend group, only ever used when Bokuto’s too impatient to text both of his smaller groups.

[12:17 PM]

Bokuto: DID YOU GUYS SEE THERES A NEW CLUB OPENING TODAY???? 

Bokuto: WE H A V E TO GO!!!!

Keiji sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. The last thing he needs is to get caught in another terrifying encounter with you, especially at some crowded club with all his friends there to witness it, but he knows how Bokuto can get when he’s told no. So he just opens his calendar, checking what else he would have had planned tonight.

There’s nothing, but there is something for tomorrow night that catches his eye and makes his heart lurch.

‘Research Updates’ is blocked off from 8pm to midnight, seemingly innocuous. Just as it had been on Saturday morning, from 8am to noon.

He sighs, staring down at the scheduled time. Is that still happening? Surely, it would be, right? 

But, things between you the last two days had been anything but cordial. And you had threatened to end the arrangement, even if it had been empty. 

You text the group chat back, an agreement to go, and he sighs quietly.

He supposes he can go, too.

–

The booming music pounds in Keiji’s head as he squints around in the dark. There’s a pair of hands on his shoulders, guiding him through a sea of people he would rather not be pressed into at the moment. He’s glad he’d decided to change into jeans and a t-shirt, because the slacks-button-down combo would have him soaked in sweat already.

And he’s especially glad you decided to change into a slinky black dress that he never would have guessed that you would own. You’re pushing through the crowd just in front of him now, and he’s sneaking glances down at you as the group fights to find an empty booth.

“There!” Bokuto eventually yells, stretching one of the hands on Keiji’s shoulder out over the distance, locating a singular empty booth. Keiji flinches at the noise, but he follows after you, anyway. You’ve got two hands on Yachi, who has two hands on Kuroo, who has two hands on Tsukishima, who’s complaining while he parts the crowd with his massive frame and leads the group to the table.

Keiji contemplates putting two hands on you, too, because it’s objectively most efficient for keeping the group together. But he doesn’t know how you’ll react – not after his total lapse in judgment in your office earlier. He doesn’t know if you even want him to touch you, now that your head’s probably a bit clearer than it’d been while you’d been trapped under him.

But then there’s a rush of people bumping into him, and he loses you for a moment, so he reaches out as soon as he finds you again – he justifies it as listening to instructions, because Bokuto’s screaming ‘Grab onto her, Akaashi!’ in his ear.

His hands slide across your waist, and a shiver runs down his spine at how you feel under his fingers. You jump at the contact and glance back in panic, probably thinking he’s some weird stranger trying to make a move. When you see it’s just him, you relax a little, but then your eyes fill with nerves, and you’re whipping your head back around to face away from him.

The crowd sways and shifts, forcing the line of you to bunch up in order to not be separated. Bokuto stumbles forward at some point, propelling Keiji right into you. You yelp, tripping, but he catches you, hauling you back against his chest. His breath catches and his heart rate picks up at the feeling of you pressed against him – your perfume wafts over him, and he finds himself leaning down close to your shoulder to breathe it in.

“What are you doing?” you hiss, tensing when his left hand subtly leaves the safety of your waist and slides around you, nestling you back against him more.

“Nothing,” he mumbles back, swallowing and retracting his hand back to your waist. “Just-nothing.”

You glance up at him, hearing his fumble, but it must be too dark to see the flush that spreads across his cheeks, because you only look forward again and focus on following Yachi. He examines you while the group nears the shockingly still-empty booth – he realizes your dress is riding up your thighs, likely from the stumbling and shoving that’s happening in this crowd right now. It rides up enough that he can see the lace edge of your pantyline, and he has to swallow hard, distracted by a memory of lace in other ways.

He reaches down, shielded by the dark, and tugs on the hem of your dress, pulling it back down over your ass. You yelp, looking up at him with alarm.

“Akaashi!” 

He shakes his head tightly, turning you back to the front and leaning down toward you. “Your ass was out – I was fixing it-”

You sigh loudly, turning your mouth to his ear. “You can’t just put your hands on me like that-”

“I can’t?” he bites, not an ounce of heat behind it. “You were fine with it earlier-” He grunts, because you’re driving an elbow into his gut.

“Dumbass,” you grumble, but he sees the warmth in your ears, and he smiles despite himself. 

Tsukishima reaches the table, and the six of you pile into the rounded booth that’s certainly not meant for six. Keiji’s chest presses against your shoulder, and you’re kind enough to angle your body with his so that you’re not digging into his chest painfully. Bokuto calls out across the table.

“I’ll get drinks!” He disappears back into the crowd, and Keiji wonders for a moment if Bokuto can carry enough drinks for six people. Kuroo seems to have the same thought, the man smacking Tsukishima on the arm and pointing out into the ocean of bodies.

“Go with him!”

The blond shakes his head forcefully. “No fucking way – you go!”

Kuroo groans but pushes Tsukishima out of the booth so he can stumble back into the crowd. Keiji relaxes with a sigh as the four of you left fill the booth more comfortably. Yachi starts rambling brightly to Tsukishima about the club, making comments about the music and the dancing. The blond just blinks back at her with empty, unseeing eyes, nodding occasionally. Keiji gets the feeling he can’t hear a word she’s saying.

You shift next to Keiji, your thigh bumping against his, and he finds himself tracing his gaze over your body while you look out at the dance floor. You feel him looking, and you glance up at him with a raised eyebrow. 

“Don’t tell me you’re about to ask me to dance,” you say, your voice barely audible to him. He just tilts his head and gives you a knowing look.

“I don’t dance, Y/n.”

“Oh, you’re so cool,” you mock, cooing at him. He narrows his eyes at you, excitement spilling into his body when he sees how you tense at the glare. It makes him feeler bold – bold, like he’d been in your office, even though he’d sworn to himself only moments after that he wouldn’t do that again.

He swears you’ve cast some sort of curse on him.

He brushes two fingers over your thigh, tugging at the hem of the dress before letting it snap back to your skin. “Where’d you get this?”

You warm, looking up at him with practiced disinterest, but he can feel when your breath changes. “I’ve had it forever.”

“I like it.”

You purse your lips, frowning up at him. “You’re being weird.”

“Am I?” he asks, letting those two fingers trace circles into your thigh and smiling when he feels the goosebumps on your skin. Your eyes flit around his face, and he can see that, under the confusion, there’s anticipation. You’re waiting for him to do something.

“Y/n, look!” Yachi yells next to you, and Keiji pulls his hand back into his lap. He watches as you try, still flustered by him, to follow your friend’s excited pointing into crowd. He tampers a satisfied smile, only pulling his gaze away from you.

It lands on Tsukishima, who’s watching Keiji blankly.

Keiji’s heart drops to his stomach.

The blond flicks his eyes between the two of suspiciously, and then his gaze drops to Keiji’s throat, because he’s swallowing nervously. Tsukishima lifts both eyebrows and then looks away, returning to Yachi’s excited monologue about the well-planned design of the club architecture and decor.

Keiji’s skin hums with adrenaline and anxiety. What is he supposed to do if Tsukishima questions him? Or worse – tells Kuroo?

As if summoned by the devil, Bokuto and Kuroo reappear – they’re holding two trays of shot glasses each, and Keiji stares in shock as Bokuto lines up five shots in front of Keiji.

“Those are for you!” his friend exclaims, doing the same for you. Keiji stares at the shots.

“This’ll put me in the hospital, Bokuto-”

“I have to teach tomorrow,” you add, giving a laugh of exasperation. Bokuto waves it off.

“A problem for tomorrow!” he yells, already picking up one of his own shot glasses. He holds it out toward the middle of the table. “To new experiences!”

Keiji sighs, lifting one of his up, too, to clink against Bokuto’s, and the rest of the table follows.

“To new experiences,” he mumbles, knocking the shot back.

–

Well, Bokuto hadn’t been lying about new experiences, Keiji thinks drunkenly.

His head swims as he stares down at the five empty shot glasses in front of him, wondering where his drinks had gone. You sway beside him, holding a cocktail in both hands as you sip at it – your shot glasses are equally empty, and Keiji’s not exactly sure where you’d pulled an extra drink from.

He watches through blurry vision as Yachi and Bokuto wriggle wildly on the dance floor together, far away enough that he can only tell it’s them by their ridiculous height difference. Kuroo and Tsukishima sit huddled on the other end of the booth, heads bent together as they whisper likely obscene things to each other.

Keiji had worried for about thirty minutes that Tsukishima would tell Kuroo what he’d seen, but the blond seems to have decided that it’s none of his business what happens in this club tonight. Keiji’s grateful for it, especially now that he can see Tsukishima slipping out of the booth, his hand tight in Kuroo’s and both their faces flushed from whatever they’d just talked about. They disappear in the direction of the bathroom, and Keiji snorts to himself.

“‘s one way to do it,” he mumbles, and you lean toward him heavily.

“Hah?” you say, your body pressed against his. “What’dya say?”

“Nothin’,” he slurs, shaking his head. And then he looks down at you, taking you in. Taking in the fact that the two of you have been left alone here in the dark, still visible but not noticeable. He shifts his body toward yours, pressing your sides together while he reaches to pluck your drink from your hands. “What’s this?”

“Hey,” you pout, reaching for it, but he just holds it behind him, forcing you to lean up into his face. Your eyes go wide when you realize how close his are, and he grins down at you, open and unfiltered.

“What is it, Y/n? Can I try?”

“No!” you complain, pressing your body against his as you stretch for the drink. Keiji slips his free arm around your waist, pulling you close.

“Just one sip?”

Your outstretched hand drops to his shoulder, and you say nothing about the arm he has around you. “You’re annoying,” you mumble, glaring hazily up at him. “Get yer own drink.”

He tilts his head toward you, the tequila in his breath mixing with the vodka in yours. “But I wanna taste yours,” he whispers, and your cheeks warm – he hadn’t meant anything sexual by it, but he’s not complaining if you’re taking it that way.

He lifts your drink to his lips, keeping his eyes on you and reveling in the way yours drop to his mouth, and takes a sip. It’s just a Vodka Cranberry, which he’d already guessed by the scent of your breath. He puts it back down on the table, letting you have it again. “Thank you,” he jokes.

“Whatever,” you mutter, cradling the drink again. “Why’ve you been so mean to me this week?”

“Aw,” he coos. “Did I hurt your feelings?”

“Yeah,” you say plainly, pouting. “You made me mad. Made me wanna do bad things.”

Desire spikes in Keiji’s body. “What kinda bad things?”

“Made me wanna be mean to you, too,” you say, oblivious to the way Keiji’s looking at you now. “Made me wanna hurt your feelings, too.”

“You did do that,” he says, laughing at you. “You were so mean.”

“Not mean enough!” you argue, leaning comfortably against him as he holds you. His hand gravitates from his lap to yours, the fingers he’d just had on your drink now cold and damp against your heated skin. You shiver at his touch, and he feels his jeans start to tighten. He draws small circles into your thigh with the pad of his middle finger, his intentions plausibly deniable even though his knuckles brush up against the hem of your dress every time.

“You don’t think calling my work ‘isolated and inapplicable’ is mean enough?” he coos down at you, watching with satisfaction as your lips part and you let out a shaky breath, because his middle finger is slipping once under the hem of your dress before completing the circle. He feels a shock of excitement fly down his spine and spread out across his skin, that live wire sparking in his chest.

He glances out briefly at the dance floor, confirming that Bokuto and Yachi are still jumping around and that Kuroo and Tsukishima have completely disappeared. He’s glad to know that he has more time with you. More time to slide his cold fingers across your flushed skin, more time to feel your body press tight to his. The thought of getting caught like this – with his arm wrapped around you and his fingers hidden under your dress – passes through his mind, and he can’t help that the live wire crackles dangerously, or that his jeans are uncomfortably tight on him now. But, still, he’s glad that no one’s seeing what’s going on over here.

He doesn’t want to share this with anyone else quite yet.

“Hey,” you grumble in his ear, low and whiny enough to make his cock twitch painfully. You grip his face with one hand, turning him back to you. Keiji stares down at you with wide eyes, his breath caught in his chest when you glare up at him and mumble, “You’re not payin’ attention t’me.”

He lets out a weak laugh. “Oh, I’m sorry – were you saying somethin’ important?”

Your pout deepens, and Keiji feels himself leaning toward you, his eyes fixated on your mouth.

“Yeah,” you say, nodding. “I was talkin’ about how you deserve to be bullied.”

He huffs in amused disbelief, just staring down at you. “Y/n.”

“Hm?”

“I have a question.”

“Mm?” You tilt your head, attention his. He starts running his fingers over your skin again, watching when you shiver.

“Are we still meeting tomorrow? Or was I too mean this week?” He swallows hard, hoping you’ll understand what he’s asking. If things are too tense between you – if the arrangement can’t be recovered, after all of his screw-ups this week. 

Your eyes widen, flitting between his, and he grows a little nervous. But then your face warms, and you shift under his fingers, and your eyes drop quickly to his mouth before lifting again.

“I thought we were…” you breathe. “Are we not?”

His skin hums with the need to feel you underneath him again, the possibility of having that tomorrow night no longer hanging in the balance. But still, he has to check. “Not gonna find someone else to fuck ‘n throw me away?”

You giggle at his quote of your own words, and you shake your head. “Unfortunately for me, there’s no one else who meets all my requirements.” You grin up at him, your eyes full of humor, as though what you say next is stupidly obvious.

“‘s gotta be you, 'Kaashi.”

Keiji really regrets sleeping with you.

–

On Wednesday at 7:30pm, you find yourself slapping your hand around on the bedside table for the alarm that’s going off. You find your phone, shutting it off and tossing it down on the bed next to you. 

You’d woken up at 7am this morning, dreadfully hungover, and dragged yourself to campus to teach. You’d stayed in the department until the very first moment that you were no longer needed, and then you’d Uber’d home, throwing your stuff on the floor in your foyer and climbing back into bed.

You repeat the process now, but you feel significantly better after the extra sleep. Instead of the hangover, however, your brain is burdened by the knowledge that Akaashi will be showing up at your door in thirty minutes. You groan, not for the first time today, at the memory of the humiliating things you’d said and done last night. At the way you’d draped yourself all over him and pouted up at him like an idiot, admitting that he’d gotten to you with his behavior this week.

At the way you’d admitted that there can be no one but him in this stupid arrangement.

You grumble the entire time you wait, stomping around the apartment until you hear his knock at your door.

When you wrench the door open, he looks mildly unsettled, and you know that means he’s as nervous as you.

“Hi.” He shifts his weight awkwardly, hoisting his duffel bag high on his shoulder. He flits his eyes around your face and then down to your pajamas, brows lifting. “Did you just wake up?”

“I took a five-hour nap,” you sigh, letting him in.

“Did you not eat dinner?” he asks, setting his bag down in the spot by the couch that’s slowly becoming his.

“No,” you mumble, wandering into the kitchen and digging through the pantry. “Not super hungry, anyway – just hungover.”

“Oh.” His voice sounds a bit tense, and you realize belatedly that he might have been asking if you wanted to eat dinner with him. You purse your lips, groaning to yourself. Things are still uncomfortable with him – how could they not be? You’ve spent the week bouncing back and forth between being insatiably furious with him and completely folding whenever he gets too close. Even if he seems to have reciprocated some of the confusing feelings wracking your brain lately, it can’t be easy to be dragged back and forth by your mood swings.

You emerge from the kitchen holding out a packet of smores pop-tarts to him, the strawberry flavor open in your other hand. He stares down at it and then takes it, eyes on yours. “Thanks.”

“Your leftovers from Saturday are still there,” you offer, nodding back to the kitchen. “If you want them.”

“Man, you really do hate kung pao chicken,” he jokes lamely, swallowing hard as he opens the silver packaging. You wander toward your room with an awkward sigh. 

“Uhm… how many videos should we film today?” You flick your lights on and move to the closet, leaving your pop-tarts on the dresser. There’s a creak in your doorway, and you glance back to find Akaashi leaning against the door frame, his fingers tapping on the crinkly wrapper while he chews slow and drags his eyes around your room.

“Dunno… Three? Four?” He flicks his eyes to you and then away again. “Same deal as last time? Foreplay first, then sex?”

You nod, digging through your drawer full of lingerie. You look him over briefly, ignoring when he tenses under your gaze. He’s wearing baggy, light blue jeans and a form-fitting black t-shirt, tucked into his belt. You hum, plucking a simple white set from the dresser and then reaching into your closet for a pair of shorts and a baby pink graphic tee, a cute strawberry drawn on the front. You brandish the clothes at him in question.

“Girl-next-door enough?”

He nods, eyes lingering on the white lace in your left hand. “Sweet and innocent.”

You shrug jokingly. “Just like me.”

“Yeah, okay,” he snorts, shaking his head. You don’t move, and he lifts his brows at you as he’s lifting the chocolate-filled pastry to his mouth. “What?”

“Uh…” You give him an expectant look. “I have to change.”

“Oh–” He lifts off the door frame and turns in place, staring out into your living room. “Is this good?”

You roll your eyes and strip from your pajamas, tossing your shirt at the back of his head. He chokes on his snack upon contact, and you laugh while you pull the lingerie on. He clears his throat quietly.

“So… you think my research is inapplicable-”

You groan, your shoulders tensing in preparation for a fight. “Please, not now, Akaashi-”

“I’m just wondering if you meant that, or…” His voice is joking, and you know he’s just talking shit in order to fill the silence, but you’re still a little rough when you brush past him, fully dressed now.

“You know I didn’t,” you admit quietly, padding over to the spare room and hearing when he follows. “You said it yourself  – I’m not stupid enough to believe that.”

“But you said it.”

“You say a lot of things, too.” You glance at him while you fluff the pillows on the bed. “What is this? Why are you picking a fight right now?”

He shakes his head simply. “Just making conversation.”

“Well, can you make conversation about anything else-”

“Like what?” he argues. “We can talk about research, or we can talk about what positions you want me to fuck you in today-”

“Okay,” you say, flushing. And then you swallow. “What… positions are we doing?”

Any heat that had been in his eyes melts away, and he lets out a breathless laugh. “Seriously?” When you shrug, a smile crosses his lips briefly before he’s smothering it. “Which one’s your favorite?”

Your eyes go wide, and you start to fluff the pillows more aggressively now, your face burning. “They’re all fine.”

“No,” he jokes, stepping close. You’d left your phone on the dresser by the door, and he brings it with him when he approaches you. “You definitely have a favorite.” He slips the device into your awaiting hand. “Tell me.”

You square your shoulders, scrolling through your apps to dim the string lights and change the color, bathing the room in a soft, pink glow. “It’s doggy,” you say without looking at him. “But they’re all fine.”

“Doggy,” he breathes back, nodding. “Understood.”

“Whatever,” you bite, gesturing to the bed in embarrassment. “Can we–?” 

He lifts his brows with a grin, waving you toward it. “By all means.”

You sigh, climbing onto the bed and pointing toward the selfie stick you keep on the desk. “I’ll just hold the phone for this first part.” Akaashi goes to get it, and you slot the phone into it with ease. “Okay. Ready.”

He props himself up next to you, both of you leaning against the headboard. You click record and fix the zoom, centering yourself in the frame.

“Okay,” you breathe, settling for looking at him in the camera, because you don’t know if you’re brave enough to meet his eye right now. “We’re good. Uhm…” You think quickly about how this should go. “Just look at something on your phone, maybe, and then come in whenever you think you should.” He reaches for his phone on the bedside table, and you joke nervously. “Not your email, though. Nerd.”

He scoffs, shaking his head with a hint of a smile. “Dumbass.”

You smile, refocusing the camera until neither of your faces are visible. You mess with your hair, watching the ends of it flutter on the screen, and trail your hand down your chest, kneading your breasts slowly and letting out slightly performative sighs. Your fingers dance along your thighs and between your legs briefly, and you see in the frame that Akaashi’s thumb has stopped scrolling. You don’t turn to look at him, but you do smile to yourself, watching his wrist start to go limp as he watches you, distracted. 

When you slide your hands under your shirt, your fingers moving the fabric as you squeeze and touch, Akaashi slowly moves to put his phone on the table. He shifts closer, turning his body toward yours, and his hand slides across your thigh. The touch makes you shiver, his palm searing hot on your skin and his fingers kneading at the inside of your thigh appreciatively. You hear him breathe in sharply, and then he presses his chest to your shoulder and drops his head to your neck.

The feeling of his lips on your skin is more intense than it had been on Saturday. You have no idea how, but you’re impossibly more sensitive tonight, and even the breath that fans over your throat between kisses has you panting. He sets two fingers on the wrist that you have hidden under your shirt, tugging your arm away from your body and angling you so he can fill the space.

His hand disappears under your top, and a quiet moan falls past your lips – because he’s cupping your breast, his palm warmer and larger than yours. You start to tremble, your stomach flipping with anticipation and desire every time his fingers move against you. You don’t know why everything feels so different tonight than it had only four days ago, but it feels like Akaashi’s experiencing the same.

His breath is ragged in your ear, and his lips are shaking slightly on your skin, even though all he’s done is touch you. His hand moves over your body almost nervously, fingers exploring in a way that falsely reminds you of anxious inexperience.

You turn toward him. “What’s with you?” you whisper, looking him over with wide eyes. He lifts his head, and you see that his pupils are blown wide. His cheeks are flushed slightly, and his lips are parted and wet. 

“Nothing,” he says, shaking his head. And then he tugs on your shirt. “Take this off.”

You hand him the camera stick, and he makes sure to keep you in frame when you peel your shirt off and toss it to the end of the bed. You kick your shorts off, too, while you’re at it, leaving you in your matching lingerie. He hands the camera back and scoots ever closer to you, his hand sliding across your body impatiently while he presses himself to you. You let your head drop and lean your weight against the headboard, letting him explore as he pleases.

When his fingers start to dip curiously between your thighs, that nervous anticipation is firing up. You spread your legs, breathing hard as you struggle to keep everything in frame, and he wastes no time, his middle two fingers sliding over your clothed core.

“Oh-” you moan loudly, much louder than you’d expected, given that he’s barely touched you.

Akaashi notices it too, it seems, because he lifts his head to stare at you, wide-eyed. “What was that?” he breathes, and you shake your head, your lips pursed in embarrassment.

“I was faking it,” you try, despite knowing what he’d told you last time about that.

He lifts his brows, and you see that it doesn’t matter, because he doesn’t buy it. “Liar.” He touches you again, circling your clit roughly through your panties. Your eyes widen, and your lips tremble when your breath comes out. He stares down at you in wonder, watching with a growing smile as you react much more intensely than you had on Saturday. “You’re sensitive today,” he notes quietly, a little satisfied.

You don’t bother denying it, not when he can clearly see how your body is reacting to him. “So are you,” you just whisper, eyes dropping to the front of his jeans. He’s already hard. “I haven’t touched you at all.”

He shakes his head, his fingers massaging into the wet spot in your panties with purpose. “‘s not a prerequisite.”

You lift your brows at the admission. “Good to know.”

He rolls his eyes. “Not like you’re gonna do anything with that information.” He pushes your panties to the side and touches his fingers to your soaked core, and you both gasp at the feeling. He breathes hard, eyes heated as he stares down at you. “You’re not brave enough.”

“Don’t-” you hiss through gritted teeth, resisting the urge to moan when his fingers push experimentally against your entrance. “-tempt me.” You reach your free hand toward his jeans, fully intent on unzipping them and touching him, but his hand comes down on your wrist – a smack of admonishment, gentle but firm. He narrows his eyes at you when you look at him in shock.

“I’m not gonna make it that easy for you, princess.” He pulls your thigh open over his legs to free up more space for himself, and then he’s dropping his head back to your neck and nudging against your entrance more seriously.

You’re wet enough that it only takes one try for both fingers to push into you, pressed against your walls and stretching you out. 

You gasp, your head falling back and bumping against the wall. “Oh, my God-”

Akaashi’s no better, his mouth open against your throat and his breath sharp and jagged. “Oh, fuck,” he breathes, his voice distracted and stunned. “Fuck.” 

“I’m,” you start, swallowing hard when he starts to move. “I’m not gonna last long-”

He groans, curling his fingers inside you and pressing hard against that spongy spot that makes you nervous. “I want you to squirt for me,” he breathes into your ear.

Your heart jumps into your throat. “What?” you say, high-pitched and shaky. “It’s-That’s not easy-”

You’re lying. It is easy for you, scarily so. And with the length of Akaashi’s fingers – with the way he knows how to press up against that spot every single time – it’s going to be so embarrassingly easy that you’re worried you might never live it down.

“I want it,” he breathes, persistent. He sounds a little urgent, bordering on desperate. “I want you to make a mess on my fingers.”

You whine, squirming against him as he picks up speed. You feel it forming, that pressure that’s different from the normal coil in your navel. “Uhm-I-” Your breath picks up, and his palm slaps against your skin when he slams his fingers into you again. The sting of it, repeated twice more, shoves you closer and closer to that dangerous pressure. “Mm-I’m gonna-” you heave, your body trembling in his arms and your hands struggling to keep the camera straight.

“Give it to me,” he whispers, groaning when your walls start to tighten around his fingers. “Be good and give it to me.”

You black out.

You black out, and you have no idea what happens when you do. You can’t feel anything, your entire body numb and light, floating on nothing. You feel your muscles spasm sporadically with the aftershocks, but you have no idea what had happened to get you here. Your hands are limp on the bed, but you can’t bring yourself to care if the camera had captured the moment. You feel Akaashi’s fingers still inside you – still moving – but you can’t do much more than listen as he pants in your ear and whispers ‘fuck, fuck, fuck,’ against the side of your head.

When you finally come to, you realize that you’re lying in a puddle. And Akaashi is hovering over you, his face flushed and his eyes full of disbelief and a burning heat.

“‘zzat good?” you slur, your head slumping against his shoulder, and he laughs against you, shaking his head.

“Holy shit, Y/n,” he breathes, laughing harder. “That was-fuck.” He jostles you gently. “Are you… Let me get you some water,” he says, shifting you, but you groan in protest.

“Did you come?” you breathe, dazed, and peel your eyes open to look at him.

“No.” 

“Then take your pants off,” you say, plain and direct. He looks into your eyes for just another moment, gaze tracking you and analyzing your energy, but you just level a frown at him. “Do you want to come or not, Akaashi?”

His brows lift, and his eyes flick down to the soaked blanket under you. When his gaze finds yours again, that heat is back.

He stands quickly, leaving you to shake the numbness out of your bones as he strips and moves impatiently to get the tripod. He sets your phone up with practiced fingers, and you sit up, shaking your head to clear it and sliding your panties and bra off.

“God, that was intense,” you breathe with a laugh. He glances back at you, a smile tugging at his lips. 

“You sure you’re good?”

“Super good.” You nod once, and then you beckon him toward you. “Hurry up, before I start to care what you think again and get embarrassed that that just happened.”

His burst of laughter echoes off the walls, and you feel pride at having drawn it out of him.

And then he climbs over you, and everything that’s not him fades into the background.

His eyes are steady on yours, but he moves with a decided lack of control, and that – his urgency – makes you more nervous than anything else. You lie back against the pillow and spread your legs for him, watching with bated breath as he shoves his boxers off impatiently and slots himself between your thighs. He leans over you, and one of his hands clamps down over your mouth while he lines himself up at your entrance.

He takes a breath, eyes flicking to yours, and you see the anticipation in them. Like he’d been waiting for this all week.

You’d been waiting, too, you realize.

He sinks into you in one press of his hips, and your back bows off the mattress. You moan loud against his palm, your eyes rolling back, and the groan he lets out – unfiltered, desperate – embeds itself into your skin. You struggle to breathe, to find your lungs when all you can feel is Akaashi inside you.

Your eyes focus and unfocus, searching uselessly for him while he slams his other hand down on the headboard to steady himself before setting a pace that makes your vision flicker. Your hands fly up, too, pressing back against the headboard to keep you from crashing into it. 

Akaashi’s hand falls from your mouth when he realizes that you’re not making noise, and it becomes clear that you can’t. Your mouth just hangs open, breath ragged and short while you gasp. Your eyes meet his, and he grins down at you.

“How’s that, princess?” he teases, panting tightly. “Still wanna find someone else to fuck? Or am I really the only one?”

He’s taunting you, torturing you. It makes some part of you angry – the part that hates him, so distant right now – and you try to argue.

“You’re only bitching-” You gasp sharply when the head of his cock bumps against your g-spot, scarily accurate like last time. “-because you got what you wanted-”

His next breath comes in a low growl, and he angles his hips so that he can hit your weak spot more easily. Your body shakes with each slam of his hips against yours, but you hold onto a shred of your sanity.

“You talk a lot of shit for someone who’s so needy for me-”

“Look in the mirror, asshole,” you bite, using every ounce of your energy to keep this up. But he presses two fingers against the seam of your lips, shoving them into your mouth. You choke around them, and he moans, because your walls flutter tightly around his cock at the feeling of his fingertips hitting the back of your throat.

“How ‘bout you shut the fuck up and get me off,” he snaps, gritting his teeth when your tongue curls wantonly around his fingers. “Maybe if you’re good at it, I’ll let you come again.”

You whine, despite yourself, and feel that twinge of need – the one that had reared its ugly head on Saturday. The need to give him what he wants, to fold for him and do what he says.

And then it hits you–

That this is what you’d felt all week.

That the gnawing in your chest and the frustration in your bones and the disorienting need to get his attention – good or bad – is exactly this. This need to bend to Akaashi Keiji’s will, because he’s got you wrapped around his finger.

You’re filled with an overwhelming rage, and you nip your teeth against his fingers – not hard enough to hurt, but definitely enough to shock his system.

Akaashi’s eyes go wide, and he hisses and draws his fingers from your mouth, wet and dripping saliva on your skin. “What the fuck?”

“You’re doing this on purpose,” you snarl, one of your hands leaving the headboard to shove against his chest. He stops moving, sitting up on his knees and staring down at you in confusion.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

You shove him again, and he catches your wrist, his eyebrows furrowing.

“You’ve been messing with me all week on purpose,” you spit, and then you sit up, startling him. You use the moment to latch onto him and roll him onto his back, swinging your leg over his waist and straddling him. He stares up at you, wide-eyed, as you try to take control of this. “You’ve been hot and cold, and rude and flirty,” you snap, lifting your hips just enough to sink down onto him. Your breath catches in your throat, and you watch his eyes roll back briefly, a quiet moan slipping past his lips. You plant your hands on his chest, finding a rhythm in his lap that has him gripping your waist tight. You grit your teeth and talk through the waves of pleasure, the ones that start in the crown of your head and make it hard to focus.

“You teased me at the party. And then you acted like I didn’t exist at the coffee shop.” You struggle to keep your breath, your movements growing unstable. His eyes search yours, alarmed.

“What-”

“You acted like I was a burden all day on Monday, and then you fucked with my head in the stairwell.” You glare down at him, hating wide-eyed way he’s watching you. “You fought with me in my office – you liked fighting with me-” You thump your fist weakly down on his chest while you bounce in his lap, angry – but not angry enough. It’s starting to fade into something else. Frustration that he’d played you, and confusion that he looks so confused. “And then you treated me like I was the only thing you could see at that stupid fucking club last night.”

The humilation creeps in – the embarrassment that you’d let this happen. You’d let him humiliate you. It makes your eyes prickle, and you squeeze them shut angrily. Akaashi slides his fingers roughly into your hair, holding tight when you try to shove him away.

“I hate you,” you say, choked and upset and refusing to look at him.

“Listen to me-”

“I hate you-”

“Listen to me.” He fists your hair tighter, jostling your head with enough urgency that your eyes fly open to find his. He’s glaring up at you now. “I’m not doing any of this on purpose.” You’d stopped moving in his lap at some point, too overwhelmed, but he bends his knees now, angling you against his thighs. You gasp when he starts to move, thrusting his hips up and using his one-handed grip on your waist to keep you steady.

“You think I wanted this?” he barks, snapping his hips up and bouncing you roughly against him. “You think I wanted to lose face at that fucking meeting? You think I wanted to fight in the stairwell like that?” His face twists into an angry scowl, and it’s your turn to be confused. “You think I want to get drunk and be unable to keep my hands off you? Huh?”

What-

What?

Akaashi’s hand slides out of your hair, dropping to the base of your throat. His fingers wrap around your neck, and your stomach flips with desire when he squeezes tight. You sigh in relief, the feeling of his palm against your throat when you swallow heavenly. He uses his grip to pull you close, until your nose brushes his. He sets a brutal pace with his hips, fucking up into you while he stares you down angrily.

“You know better than that,” he hisses. 

You start to shake over him, your desire mounting. “I-”

“You do know better, don’t you?” he whispers, his voice dangerously even. His eyes burn with anger. “Why are you acting like that? You told me you were smart.” His voice shakes a little, and you can see him struggling to keep up – his cheeks flush and his ears burn red, and he’s starting to pant, broken in a way that makes your stomach flip.

“I am,” you whisper, a bit whiny now. “I am smart – you’re just too confusing.”

The anger in his eyes solidifies into something worse. Something cruel and wicked.

“Then stop trying so fucking hard,” he snarls, slamming his hips up into you. You dig your nails into his shoulders, his sharp inhale clear in your ears. “Stop trying to figure this out.”

You shake your head hard. “I won’t. I can’t-”

“Oh, you can’t?” He mocks, and the edge in his voice kicks and shoves you right to your orgasm. “You won’t, is that it? Even though I just told you I’m not doing this on purpose?”

You squeeze your eyes shut. The idea that Akaashi’s just as affected as you are – just as much a victim to whatever this is as you are – fills you with a terrifying feeling. A feeling close to freedom, close to something that makes you want to throw everything away and give in to him. Because it’s not his fault, either, then. Because – if he’s not doing this intentionally – then there’s no one to blame.

And if there’s no one to blame, then you’re going to stop fighting the way you feel around him.

“Look at me.”

Your eyes open without your permission. Cyan stares back.

“You think I’m doing this on purpose?” He’s breathless and frustrated, searching your face. “Look at me.” His eyes are filled with emotion – that same caution you feel, not wanting to give into this if you’re not going to give in with him. His grip tightens on your throat, and he pulls you close, whispering into the breath of space between your lips.

“You know me better than that.”

When he falls, he takes you with him. And, as much as you want to fight it – kicking and screaming – you don’t. 

You just wrap yourself around him and fall.

[sunee-syrup]

genius. [akaashi keiji x f!reader] chapter one.

>>You struggle to pay rent on your limited graduate student salary, and your worst enemy agrees to help you out.

or

You realize you need to find a partner for your faceless porn account, and Akaashi Keiji is the only man who meets all your requirements.<<

masterlist. || next.

a/n: this series is going to be the death of me. im currently writing ch. 2, and the first scene (the first scene!!! of 9!!!!!) is 10k words. i wrote a 10k smut scene. :)))) im actively dying. please enjoy chapter 1!!!

[feel free to buy me a cup of coffee!]

---------------------------------------

“ Shit, shit shit- ” You throw things all over the apartment, searching for your keys. The clock on the wall reads 10:55AM, flipping quickly to 10:56 and making you swear again. “ Fuck! Oh-” You snatch up your house keys with a victorious cheer and then immediately race for the door, your bag hauled over your shoulder on the way.

You turn the 30-minute bike ride to campus into 20 minutes, but that still gets you to the door of the Linguistics department by 11:15. You slam down on the elevator button repeatedly while you wait, glancing back at the rest of the lobby only when you hear someone call your name. It’s a student of yours, so you have to smile and wave back politely, even though all you want is to scream ‘ I’m so fucked! ’ into the void. 

The elevator doors open, and you treat the buttons on the inside panel with the same cruelty, choosing to text your frustrations to Bokuto while you wait to arrive on the 5th floor.

[11:16 AM]

You: FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK

Kou: OMG SAME

You: ?? whats wrong on your end

Kou: nothing why?

Kou: IS SOMETHING WRONG???

You snort, rolling your eyes.

You: late to my 11am

Kou: OH THE READING GROUP

Kou: which one is that??? Linguisticsomething of something something??

You: you know,,, there was no way to be wrong with that answer kou

Kou: :))))) 

You: it’s LEM

Kou: LINGUISTICS AND EXPERIMENTAL METHODS

Kou: RIGHT

Kou: oh wait isnt that the one akaashis in?????

You: thats why im fucked

Kou: oh im sure he wont say anything

Kou: SAY HI FOR ME

The elevator opens, so you shove your phone away and race down the hall to the lab room. You skid to a stop in front of the door, taking a calming breath before pushing into the room as quietly as possible. A few people glance up from the round table in the center with small smiles before returning to the presentation on the screen, but you know well enough that you’re not in clear.

“-f it’s true then that case gets valued where base-generated, rather than at the landing site after Movement, we should see that these forms are nominative-marked. However, clearly, we get accusa-” 

You take the seat closest to the door, and it creaks.

Akaashi Keiji’s eyes find yours.

You grimace openly at him, and he lifts an eyebrow, his finger still hovering over the example on the TV.

“Y/n. Would you like me to start over?”

You struggle not to roll your eyes at him, your face burning with embarrassment. “Of course not. Please, continue.”

“It might be helpful if I start over-”

“I don’t need the background on case valuation in Korean, Akaashi,” you snap. “We work on the same language.”

You watch his eyes harden. It’s only you that he looks at like that. He opens his mouth, but your advisor cuts in on your left.

“Okay, you two,” he says. “Let’s try not to kill each other today.”

You lean back in your chair, arms crossed, and meet Akaashi’s eyes evenly. He stares back blankly only a moment before returning to his presentation.

“So, we can see here that accusative-marked nominals are permitted, despite the prediction that only nominative is grammatical-” 

You let out a quiet breath, trying to pay attention to his presentation – because, no doubt, he’d put you on the spot about it soon – while also recovering from the adrenaline rush of getting here. Your phone buzzes in your pocket, and you extract it subtly, glancing at the screen. There are two alerts.

Bank Account Balance (Oct. 10); $562.95

Rent Notification: Rent and Utilities; Payment ($1018.00) Due Nov. 1

Your heart sinks, a lump forming in your throat, and you shove your phone away, returning to Akaashi’s presentation. A coffee cup from the nearby cafe slides into your periphery, and you turn to see your advisor pushing it toward you silently, his own cup in front of him. He doesn’t look at you, but he does crack a tired smile.

“ Drink, ” he whispers. “ You’ve had a hard couple days. ”

You smile and bring the cup to your lips, ignoring when Akaashi glances at it and then between you and your advisor. It’s your regular order, and you’re immensely glad that most of your advisor meetings happen at coffee shops. You make it through Akaashi’s presentation with little issue – unsurprisingly for the department’s Golden Boy, his work is flawless. You agree with every argument he makes, every flaw he finds in the analyses of previous work.

So when he says “ Any questions?” in that polite, soft-spoken way of his, you’re prepared for the very few questions asked to be nothing more than clarification. No one has any comments about his thinking or his analysis, and no one challenges him. Because Akaashi Keiji is always right. 

But you can also see that these questions don’t excite him. He answers each one nicely, nodding along and mumbling ‘ Yes, that’s right ’ or humming thoughtfully – as though he needs to think about it at all – and then shaking his head, clicking through his slide deck until he can point to something and correct someone’s thinking. But he looks a bit disappointed, like he’d been hoping for a bit more of a discussion. He even glances at your advisor hopefully – but your advisor is also his advisor, so why would he have any notes? He’s already pre-approved all of this.

Well, that’s what you get for being so smart, you think with a little bit of snark. Your advisor always preaches to the group that peer feedback creates room for improvement, but what’s Akaashi supposed to do when there’s no more room? He’s already the best.

He meets your eyes briefly, and you look away. You’re not going to give him what he wants.

“Okay, then,” he says after a moment, unplugging his laptop from the TV. “Thanks for listening – Y/n?” You pull your laptop from your bag, standing and rounding the table. You take the HDMI cord from him, slipping into the chair he’d occupied. He takes yours, careful not to touch your things. You sigh softly and then smile at the rest of your reading group.

“Hey, guys. Thanks for coming.” You gesture to the TV, your slide deck open. “So, if you were here for my most recent project, you know that I got some interesting results and will be broadening the scope in order to explore them for my dissertation.”

You launch into your presentation, the material so familiar to you that you don’t have to think about what to say. Your second major project had wrapped up last year, your name sitting on a journal article set to print at the end of the month. You’d gotten a number of reviewers asking similar questions, all related to the experimental results of one of your tasks, so you and your advisor had decided that, for the dissertation, you would be increasing the technical difficulty and redoing the experiment with new materials and a more rigorous theoretical analysis.

You present this to the group, outlining your idea and the changes you’d be making to the original project in order to answer the open questions left by your reviewers. By the end of your 20-minute slot, you’ve got most of the group nodding along in agreement.

Most of the group.

You do your best not to look at him, but you can still see Akaashi sitting there with his arms folded in his lap, his expression void of everything. His eyes skim your slides, unreactive, and you just know that you’re in for it.

“Okay-” you sigh, clapping your hands on your knees. “That’s it. Thoughts?”

Your advisor lifts his brows, a smile tugging at his lips, and you know he’s thinking the same thing.

Just the grilling of a lifetime incoming .

There’s silence for a while, everyone trying and failing not to look at Akaashi, because they know how this will go. And then his lips part, a soft breath taken.

“Can I… ask a few questions?” He starts gentle, the way he always does. He fools everyone into thinking he’s sweet and soft and careful, but you know better. You know that, if you were anyone else, he wouldn’t have started like that. He would have complimented their work first, noted the things he thought they’d done well.

You’ve never heard a compliment from Akaashi Keiji in the five years you’ve known him.

“Of course,” You sigh. Some snickers pass through the group.

“How do you know that this will tell you anything at all?”

He doesn’t hold back – you’ll give him that.

“Sorry?”

“If your results indicate a misalignment between the production of this ambiguous form and the comprehension of it, why are you using eye-tracking to test only comprehension? Where’s your production gone?”

You inhale slowly, flicking back through the slides. “Like I said before, there are two possibilities for why this form was over-produced and under-accepted by participants. Either they are operating within their grammar and just attaching an emphatic element to a different word, resulting in a homophone with the ambiguous form I’m interested in-” You flick through more slides. “Or they’re operating outside of their grammar, in which case there are discourse factors at play.” 

You meet his eyes with a tight smile, trying to remain polite. “Running an eye-tracking task with comprehension will let me see, in real time and without metalinguistic interference, if they accept this form in situations that should be ungrammatical. If they don’t, then these results are due to emphatic attachment and that’s that. If they do, then..” You shrug. “There’s more to be done. But my point is that production wouldn’t be necessary here. I have what I need.”

The group all shift their eyes from you to him in an instant, waiting for the tennis match to start. Akaashi only meets your gaze for a moment and then nods, and you feel mildly victorious at having won this interaction. But you swallow it down, because he’s opening his mouth again.

“And what about case?”

You almost roll your eyes. “What about it?”

“What analysis are you adopting?”

“I’m only using accusative-marked forms for this experiment,” you say. “The object of the embedded clause is the position I need. I’m not adopting competing analyses.”

“But there are other ways to mark case on these forms – as I’m sure you’re aware.” His gaze narrows at you when he says it, and you know he’s getting back at you now for your comment earlier. “What about those?”

“I’m not interested in them-”

“ Right ,” he bites. “I understand that. But what are the case alternations available?”

It takes a special kind of person to draw Akaashi Keiji’s patience short, and you’re happy to be that person every single time. You have to purse your lips not to smile, because there’s a little piece of you that finds it funny to draw out that twitch in his eyebrow that no one else claims to have ever seen.

“Genitive and nominative, and dative under restricted circumstances.”

He lifts his brows at you. “So pretty much all of them.”

You nod simply. “But using pretty much all of them means I’d have to change the structure of the sentence for each type. It’s not a simple swap.”

“Then do it.”

“Excuse me?” You lift your eyebrows in disbelief.

He shrugs. “Your results could be due to any of the things you’ve talked about. Or they could be due to this form being preferred with different case markers in different situations. You could be getting low acceptability because of the case, rather than what you’re interested in.”  

You just stare. “That’s, like, four dissertations, Akaashi.”

His eyes have flattened out again. “Then maybe you should have done it right the first time.”

“ Okay ,” your advisor says, clapping his hands. “Hour’s up. Let’s thank Keiji and Y/n for their time.”

Your eyes stay locked on Akaashi’s while the room clears out, both knowing that you’re not allowed to go anywhere. You get a couple ‘ good job ’s from the people leaving, but you can’t bring yourself to break eye contact first. In fact, it only serves to irritate you more – why is it only you that gets those reassuring comments? Why don’t people tell Akaashi that he’s doing well? Do they think you need it? Does everyone think you need it more than he does?

“Alright,” your advisor breathes, shutting the door again and turning toward you. “Oh-Come on, you two.”

You break first, dipping your head and turning to unplug your laptop from the TV. 

“That was good, both of you.” Your advisor cuts a glance at Akaashi as he sits. “A little harsh there, but-”

“Sorry,” He mumbles, immediately deferent. But you know he’s not apologizing to you, and that makes you finally roll your eyes.

“Okay, okay,” your advisor laughs, taking his coffee and sipping at it. “Let’s just finish this up so I can get away from all this hostility.”

The meeting ends quickly, the three of you just summarizing thoughts and future steps for each of your projects. Akaashi purses his lips when you speak about your plans, but he doesn’t push at you any further. 

Finally, you’re able to leave, so you gather your things quickly and bolt for the door. Unfortunately, your office is directly across from Akaashi’s, so the walk down the hall is spent with him on your heels.

“It’s not four dissertations, by the way,” he says as soon as your advisor’s out of earshot. “Just redesign your materials to include the case alternations, and you’ll get something interesting.”

You roll your eyes and shake your head, not stopping your march down the hall. “I’ve already designed the eye-tracking materials, Akaashi. It’ll take me weeks to redo them for case.”

“Then take the weeks ,” he argues, just as you’re both arriving to your respective doors. “Do you want to do it fast, or do you want to do it right?”

You whirl on him, your anger unfiltered now that you’re alone. “What would you know? You’ve never done the kind of research I have to do. You don’t know anything about psycholinguistics – you don’t know what goes into something like this. You just sit in your world of theory, without ever thinking about the practical applications. You might be right about everything all the time, Akaashi, but I’m the one who has to take those theories and do something with them.” 

He stares back emptily while you rant, and then he leans in close, his eyebrows lifting as his voice drops. “Are you really going to be okay not including the case alternations? Now that I’ve brought it up?” When you only sigh heatedly through your nose, glaring up at him, he shakes his head. “No. You’re not.” Then he turns to his office door, slotting the key in the lock while mumbling to you. “You’re a lot of things, Y/n, but you’re not lazy.”

You stare at his office door long after it’s been shut.

You really hate Akaashi Keiji.

–

“I dunno, Kou, I’m not sure what to do,” you sigh, running a finger along the rim of your coffee cup. It’s the same from earlier, because you don’t have the money to buy another and because drinking it slowly helps to stave off your hunger. You’d been too rushed for lunch before leaving home, but you know dinner’s only four hours away. You can last until then.

“Well-” Bokuto talks through a mouth full of food. “-is it gonna bug you to not do it?”

“ Yes ,” you admit a little grumpily. “Of course it is. But I don’t have the time – I wanted to have pilot data for the experiment by the end of October.”

“What would happen if you pushed it back a few weeks?” He asks loudly, spooning more food into his mouth before he’s even done eating the first mouthful.

“I don’t know. It would just push my whole timeline back, and I’d graduate later than expected, and I’m already losing my mind. I need a job , Kou – I can’t live on grad student wages much longer.”

“Yeah, I feel you,” he nods, pulling more food out of his backpack. “But at least you’re still splitting that nice apartment with your roommate! $500 a month is so nice.”

You stare down at your lukewarm coffee.

You haven’t exactly mentioned to him or your other friends that your roommate had moved out. She hadn’t left for anything negative – in fact, she’s a good friend of yours. The two of you had posted in the graduate students’ forum over the summer before your first year, each requesting roommates, and you’d paired up nicely. Your personalities had gone together well, and you’d stayed roommates the entirety of grad school. But she’d had to go home suddenly, which was fine for her because she’s finishing up her dissertation and doesn’t need to be on campus.

However, that does leave you without a roommate in the middle of the semester. There’s a fee for you to break your lease early, and it would overall be way more expensive for you to move out, especially in the middle of October. But paying over $1000 on your own, with your limited salary, is extremely difficult.

You’d looked for another roommate, but there aren’t any grad students without housing this late in the year – the only people you’d seen posting on the university Facebook page about housing had been undergrads, and you’re certainly not comfortable with that. So, you’d looked for extra jobs, but your student contract only allows you to be employed a certain amount, and you’d already reached the maximum. Your advisor had told you as much, shaking his head regretfully when you’d all but begged for extra hours in his lab. You’d even tried finding jobs outside of the university, but most of them had asked for a consistent work schedule and more hours than you can afford to give. 

Which might be why you’d decided to turn to making adult content online.

You’re not particularly attached to the idea of being a porn star, but you’d seen a video online talking about the amount of money that adult content creators can make even from a single video, and you’d made an account without giving yourself time to think about it. You’d taken all the necessary precautions – things like always editing out your face and the singular tattoo you have on the inside of your ankle, or never displaying your background in a way that would be recognizable to someone who knows you. You really don’t need anyone finding out about this, especially not your friends.

You’re not sure that Kuroo would really care – the chemistry student’s nosy, sure, but he’s a big proponent of leaving people to their lives. And you know that Bokuto would probably find it interesting, but he’s got an objectively big mouth and little social control, so it would be a risk to tell him. The only person you’re really worried will find out is Yachi – your closest friend, that sweet girl wouldn’t be likely to judge, but she certainly wouldn’t understand. She’d ask a lot of questions – ‘ why would you do something like that?’; ‘well, are you sure there aren’t other options?’; ‘i would rather move out if i were you’ . Yachi’s had a very straightforward way of thinking ever since you met her, and she’d be the most likely to tell you that pursuing this line of work is drastic and unnecessary. You’re not sure you’re emotionally strong enough to deal with that.

Especially since your new occupation isn’t exactly going well . You’ve only been at it a few weeks, and you’ve garnered a decent number of subscribers on your platform – 897, to be exact (you check every day; you’re desperate). But, in the month since your roommate’s left, you’ve hardly made $300, and, while $300 of extra income per month is certainly not insignificant, it’s not enough to pay your rent.

Which is why you’re sitting here now, lunchless and sipping pitifully at cold coffee. But at least you’re in good company, Bokuto’s presence always a weight off your shoulders.

“Hi, Bokuto.”

Here comes the weight, right back on your shoulders.

You look up from your cup, meeting Akaashi’s eyes. He scans you quickly but doesn’t greet you, only setting his lunch tray down on the table and taking the seat beside Bokuto. The silver-haired man looks between you with wide eyes.

“Aw, man! Did you guys fight at your reading group?!” He rubs at his stomach. “Don’t fight now, too. It’ll make my tummy hurt.”

You laugh weakly, turning away and surveying the crowded dining hall. “Of course not, Kou. You’re neutral ground.”

“What she said,” Akaashi says, carefully mixing his food with his chopsticks. He cuts a glance at your coffee cup. “Is that the same one from this morning?” He glances at the time on his phone. It’s already past 2:30.

You’re instantly defensive. “Yeah.”

He hears the edge in your tone, shaking his head with a breath of laughter while pulling noodles into his mouth. He chews and swallows before responding, ever the gentleman. “Didn’t bring lunch?”

“Forgot it at home.”

He points at the buffet line at the back of the dining hall. “Then buy something.”

“Trying to save money,” you say. You watch his eyebrows pull together in confusion, and you know why – the dining hall’s extremely cheap, usually only $8 or $9 for a fair lunch. The issue is that you don’t have $8 or $9. You don’t have rent money, so you don’t have lunch money.

Thankfully, though, he doesn’t say anything else about it, and you’re briefly appreciative that he’s respectful of your financial situation. You’re also appreciative that he doesn’t tip Bokuto off about it. The large man is tapping away on his phone while he chews loudly, so he’d barely heard the questions Akaashi had asked you. He looks up at the silence now, glancing between you. 

“What’d I miss?”

“Nothing. We were fighting,” Akaashi says. Today’s turning, shockingly, into a day of appreciating Akaashi Keiji.

“ No, ” Bokuto whines. “No fighting.”

A body slides into the spot beside yours, and another into the spot beside Akaashi.

“They fighting?” Kuroo asks, organizing his food on his tray. Tsukishima snorts across the table, mumbling ‘ aren’t they always? ’ quietly.

“We’re fine,” you laugh. “Trying not to make Kou’s tummy hurt.”

“Fair enough,” Kuroo says as he’s lifting a bite of food to his mouth. He stops, though, staring down at your cup. “Your tummy hurts, too, I guess.”

“I guess so,” you say, smiling and sipping at the now-gross coffee. He doesn’t say anything about it, only turning to ask Tsukishima about some ongoing drama in the history department. But he does slide his tray between the two of you while he talks, shoving his chopsticks into your hand and then leaning casually over to keep chatting to the blond, as though he’s merely asking you to hold them while he talks. You purse your lips, embarrassment warming your ears, but you pick at his tray anyway – just a bit of rice and a thin cut of spam balanced on his spoon. You take two bites and then slide the tray back, muttering ‘ thanks ’ under your breath.

You feel Akaashi’s eyes on you, but you refuse to meet them. Your phone buzzes in your back pocket, and you pull it into your lap.

[2:47 PM] New Comment on Your Video

Your eyes widen, and you lower the brightness and turn your back slightly to Kuroo. 

user6969 : pretty hot, would be hotter with someone fucking her tho

It already has ten likes. Your eye twitches, and you clear the notification quickly. You could never film with another person. You can’t . That defeats the whole purpose of keeping this anonymous. 

But what if that’s the thing keeping you from making money? From paying rent? At this point, would you rather bring someone else into this, or would you rather eat the cost of moving out?

But you can’t move. With breaking the lease and having to sign a new one – moving fees not included – you already don’t have enough money. There’s no way to get approved for a new place with such little money in your bank account. 

Should you sell feet pics? No, you can’t switch platforms or content at this point. You’d be starting from nothing in that case, and it’s no guarantee you’d do well there. Not that you’re really doing well with your current account, either.

Are you going to have to find a partner to film with?

“ Y/n .”

You jump, looking up. Akaashi’s staring back, standing behind Bokuto with his eyebrows raised and his tray in his hand. He looks a little annoyed.

“I’ve been calling your name.”

You blink. “Sorry. What is it?”

He lifts his brows impossibly further. “We have to go.”

You start, checking the time again. It’s 2:52. You have to go to the undergraduate class you’re TAing with him. “Oh, shit,” you mutter, standing with your bag. “We’re gonna be late.” You wave a cursory goodbye at the others, rushing to toss your coffee in the trash. 

You chase after Akaashi, cursing his long legs, and follow him across the quad to the lecture hall. You both slide past the doors just as your advisor’s clearing his throat to get the class’s attention. 

“ Now that our distinguished TAs have arrived, we can get started… ” he says into the microphone connected to the podium.

You follow Akaashi up the steps to the top row, managing to control the urge to roll your eyes at the number of undergrad girls watching longingly as Akaashi passes by. You sit with him in the back corner, huffing quietly and then hugging your bag to your stomach, because a low gurgle of hunger is creeping out. Akaashi snorts quietly, and you glare sideways at him. But he just reaches down into his bag, extracting a granola bar and offering it to you, his eyes still on the whiteboard at the front.

You grimace. “ I’m good, thanks, ” you whisper.

“ It’s going to annoy me, ” he says, jabbing the bar at you. You take it with a soft sigh, mumbling ‘ thanks ’ to him while you try to unwrap the plastic without being loud. You eat it quietly, deciding that it’s the least he can do for torturing you during LEM. And then you stuff the empty plastic in your bag before extracting your laptop, intending to take notes on your advisor’s lecture.

The screen is bright and noticeable when it opens to your most recently opened tab – thankfully not your porn account, which you’re always mindful to close before leaving home. But it is open to your bank’s website, still signed in and clearly displaying the meager $562.95 in your checking account.

You jump, rushing to lower the screen brightness and close out of the tab at the same time, and then you cut a glance at Akaashi. He’s not looking directly at your screen, but he’s certainly not looking at the whiteboard anymore. His eyes hover suspiciously in the space between your laptop and his, and he meets your eyes quickly before looking away when he realizes you’re watching him.

“ Sorry, ” he mumbles. “ Brightness caught my eye. ” 

“ Don’t say anything ,” is all you say. All that you’re willing to plead with him. He just lifts a brow and nods, saying nothing else as he refocuses his attention on the lecture. You sigh, pushing two frustrated fingers against your temple, because now Akaashi Keiji knows you’re broke and living way too far above your means.

–

You sit on your couch four days later, scrolling aimlessly through Tinder. You grimace as you swipe, unable to bring yourself to approve of any of the guys you’re seeing. There are obviously some good-looking ones, and even some extremely attractive ones, but every time you start to swipe right, you hesitate.

How crazy are you going to look, matching on a dating app with someone, only to ask them if they’d be willing to be your faceless porn partner?

You groan, throwing your phone down. You can’t believe you’ve even gotten to this point. Just this week, you’d sworn you would keep running your account alone. You’d sworn you wouldn’t let anyone else get involved with this, for your pride and for your anonymity.

That’s another reason you’re so unwilling to match with someone on Tinder. What if he ends up being a total weirdo? What if he leaks your name online or talks about you to his friends? Or-

Oh, God, what if he lies about his age and ends up being an undergrad? Even worse – an undergrad in your department ?

“ Ugh- ” You shudder, picking your phone back up. “No. No fucking way.” You quickly delete your account and the app, shaking your head. It’s too much of a risk, and you’re not even sure you could ever trust someone you don’t know to help you with something so private and sensitive.

Do I really have to find a partner?  

You pull your laptop from the table and open it, logging into your porn account and scrolling through the videos. You’d stuck to the same posting schedule since you’d started, maintaining consistency and posting every day over the last four weeks. It had definitely helped with your views, because the subscribers you do have know when to expect a new video. But, even this week alone, your view count has become stagnant and – in the case of the video you’d posted today – even gone down a few thousand hits.

You check the section for monetization, seeing you’d made an extra $16 dollars in the last four days. $16 dollars in four days. You might as well start selling your couch.

But if you can’t find a partner amongst the hundreds of men you don’t know, then it has to be someone you do know.

“Kuroo,” you sigh, leaning your head back against the couch. And then you shake your head. He’s the best choice – he’s private and minds his business. He would never be a risk for outting you. He’s also extremely attractive, and you have decent chemistry. But he’s also one of your closest friends, and you’re not even willing to tell him you do this for a living, for fear of something changing between you. You could never ask him to help you.

“Bokuto,” you move on, bobbing your head back and forth. He’s definitely the least likely to let anything change between you – he’d find it interesting, and he would never judge you. He’d also be more than willing to help, especially since this is for the purpose of paying your bills and not just something you do for fun on the side. He’s incredibly kind and motivated in that way… but still, it isn’t right. 

Not only does it feel a bit weird to imagine having sex with him, even for business, but it also wouldn’t be long before he accidentally lets something slip to someone. It would be unintentional, of course, but Bokuto Koutarou isn’t exactly known for his subtlety. Not to mention that you need someone who can’t be recognized on camera, even faceless, and Bokuto’s presence is so overwhelming that it would take no time at all for someone who knows him to pinpoint exactly who it is.

You shake your head, going through the mental list of every guy you’ve ever interacted with. You don’t really know Tsukishima, despite eating lunch with him most days and seeing him at almost every function, and you get the feeling he would laugh in your face if you ask. You think of guys you’d known in college and even some guys you’d met at the events that your friends have invited you to. You even pick up your phone and start scrolling through your contacts, really stretching the limits of your imagination.

None of them work.

“ Fuck ,” you groan, scrubbing at your brow. This isn’t going to work.

Your phone buzzes with a text, the message sliding into view before disappearing.

[9:48 PM]

Akaashi: i printed copies of the handout for discussion on monday

Akaashi: putting them in my mailbox so you can grab them before class

Akaashi: youll print the exams next week, right?

You stare at the messages as they come in.

Akaashi . 

His name drifts like a whisper through your mind, and you have to throw your phone on the table and stand, your eyes wide.

“No. No,” you say, rounding the couch and pacing behind it. “No, no, no.”

Not him. Anyone but him. You can barely stand him, and the idea of him knowing what you do to make rent is unfathomable. You can’t trust him with something like that-

But, he is trustworthy. He’d shown himself not even a week ago to be sensitive to your personal information and financial situation. He makes judgment calls that benefit you, even though he could be doing everything in his power to make your life hell. As annoying as he is – as rude as he can be, especially to you – he’s a decent human being. He’s private, he’s subtle, he’s quiet and keeps to himself, and-

And he’s average. A very good-looking man, yes, but overall a perfectly normal, average guy that would never be recognized.

“ No! ” You groan, starting to pace harder. “ No, no, no! ”

Your phone starts to ring on the table. You jump, staring at the screen.

You can see his name even from here. 

You approach it carefully, hands shaking as you reach for it. 

“H-Hello?”

“ Y/n, ” he says, his voice quiet but firm.

“Uh-” You laugh weakly. “Hi. What’s… up?”

“ I’m just checking you got my texts. I’m leaving the department now. ”

“You stayed there until 10 on a Saturday?”

“ I lost track of time. You got my texts, then? ”

“Yes,” you sigh. “Yeah, I got them. Thanks for printing.”

“ And you’ll-”

“Yep. I got the exams.”

There’s silence on the other end, followed by the quiet jingle of his office keys. “ Are you… You sound.. not great. Nervous. ”

It’s mortifying that he can hear that it in your voice. Why can he hear that in your voice?

“No, I’m good. Just-just busy. Stressed.”

“ Oh. Okay, then. ” He pauses a moment, and you wonder if he’s giving you time to say more. You don’t. Finally, he clears his throat. “‘ Kay. Bye. ” He hangs up before you can repeat it back to him.

A perfectly average, decent human being who’s private, subtle, quiet, and keeps to himself.

The only issue is that you hate each other.

Great.

–

You pace in front of his office door two days later, biting your nails while you think. Anxiety swoops low in your gut, over and over again while you imagine talking to him. Swelling and heaving when you imagine the look on his face, inevitably judgmental and maybe a little amused that you’d even thought to approach him.

God, you can’t do this.

“No,” you mumble, turning back toward your own door. You’ll find someone else.

The door opens behind you, and you jump, spinning around. Akaashi stares at you in exasperation, his glasses askew and his hair ruffled like he’s been pulling his fingers through it.

“Are you going to come in, or are you just going to stand outside all day?”

“Uh,” you stammer, shaking your head. “Uh, no. No, I didn’t-I don’t have anything-”

“Y/n,” he sighs. “You’ve been pacing out here for ten minutes. I’ve been watching your feet go back and forth in front of my door this whole time. It’s really fucking distracting – I’m trying to work.”

Your eyes go wide, because you’re not sure you’ve ever heard Akaashi swear before. He opens the door wider, beckoning you in with an impatient sweep of his arm. You find yourself stepping past the threshold, wringing your hands as you stand in the middle of the little room. He leaves the door cracked, slipping past you carefully and returning to his desk.

“What is it?” He sits and starts sorting through his papers, attention only partially on you. “Something about LING 303? I graded my section’s assignments already – do you need the answer key?”

You swallow, still standing awkwardly in the middle of the room. “No, I… I have an answer key, too.”

“Then?”

A large part of you wants to leave. He’s in a bad mood, and he’s clearly busy. You’re not sure this is the best time to bring up something this sensitive with him. But then again – when would you ever find the best time to talk to Akaashi Keiji about your secret porn account?

So, with a shaky breath, you return to the door, pushing it closed quietly and locking it.

“Uhm,” you start, turning slowly on the spot and facing him. “Can we talk?”

He’s got his eyes, wary now, on the doorknob where your hand rests, your thumb still over the lock that’s been pushed in. He blicks and flicks his gaze to yours, eyes narrowing when he sees the discomfort in your expression. 

“O…kay?” He sets his papers down and leans back in his seat, his attention yours now. “...What’s up?”

You make your way to the chair in front of his desk and perch in it uncertainly. “Okay. Is it okay if I say everything before you talk?” He just tilts his head, watching you intensely, and then he nods once. Whatever had been on his mind before is clearly gone, and you silently hope it hadn’t been some groundbreaking idea that you’ve just interrupted.

“So,” you start, heaving out a nervous sigh. “You saw my bank account the other day. Last week.” He nods again, and you rush into the speech you’d practiced all morning, not wanting him to think you’re just here to ask for money. That might be easier, honestly. But your courage might never come again, so you need to barrel through this now. “It’s been that way for about a month now. I live in a 2-bedroom apartment, and – when I had a roommate-” He squints now, because he’s certainly heard Bokuto talk about your roommate as though she still exists. “-my rent was only $500 a month.”

He opens his mouth to speak, thoughts very obviously swirling in that overactive brain of his, but he shuts it again, remembering he’d promised you silence. He nods, and you nod back.

“She moved out a month ago for personal reasons, and if I break the lease and move out, too, it would cost more than just continuing to live there on my own. And-” You throw your hands around while you talk, ramping up in intensity now that you’ve gotten started. “-I know that in the long run, it’s more cost-effective to eat the move-out fees and the cost of moving, but you saw my bank account. I don’t have any way of doing that right now.”

“You need a roommate,” is what he says, unable to stop himself. You sigh, shaking your head.

“I tried. The only people searching for housing this late in the semester are undergrads.” He grimaces, and you nod. “So that’s not an option.” You sigh again, trying to remember what to say next. “Uh-Oh, right-So-” You wring your hands in your lap. “My rent’s over $1000, and I obviously don’t have that. And I’ve tried looking for extra jobs and for extra hours around the department, but I’m at max hours, and there are no part-time jobs that are flexible with my research and teaching schedule.”

You sigh shakily, staring out the window behind his head. You stay that way for a minute, gathering your courage. Akaashi watches you carefully, tracking the slight changes in your expression and the defeat that crosses your face.

“Y/n?” he asks, his voice soft now, in that way that he speaks to everyone who’s not you.

“Sorry,” you laugh. “Nervous.” You clear your throat and ground yourself, looking him straight in the eye. “So, I had to turn to some… desperate measures.” His eyebrows lift with interest, and you think you see him lean in almost imperceptibly. “I… decided to start making… content -”

You watch understanding cross his face immediately – of course it does, he’s not the Golden Boy for nothing. His eyes go wide, and he inhales quietly, leaning back in his chair and letting out a long, drawn out breath that ends in a quiet ‘ oh, boy ’. You stop talking, just watching him nervously. He stares back a moment, his mouth opening and closing with thoughts unsaid as he considers how to respond.

“And it was your only option?”

“Probably not,” you laugh. The sound is watery, and your eyes are starting to sting. “But I couldn’t think of anything else at the time, and I haven’t figured out anything better since – anything short of asking someone for a $500 loan.”

“Okay,” he says simply. You meet his eyes, searching for judgment or thinly veiled disgust, or anything . But he just looks back at you, his face devoid of everything but concentration as he thinks. “So, why are you telling me this?”

You break eye contact, staring down at your lap. You’re sweating profusely, your stomach doing that terrible flipping. “It’s… not exactly going well .”

Silence, and then-

“Define ‘ not going well ’.”

You flick your eyes to meet his briefly, seeing that he’s staring at you with an intensity you’ve never seen before. When you make eye contact, he takes a breath.

“Y/n-”

“Someone-” You swallow. “I’ve only made $300 in the last four weeks, and my roommate helped me pay the October 1st rent because she felt bad for moving out so suddenly. I’m clearly desperate, Akaashi, because I’m not making the kind of money I need to be making, but there’s nothing else. And someone commented on a video that-” You break, rubbing at your brow and breathing hard. God, this is so difficult. You don’t know how to say it to him.

“You need a partner.”

You suck in a breath, your own watery, stinging eyes meeting his. He’s breathing a little harder now, and his expression’s not as guarded as it usually is. He’s tapping a finger nervously on his desk and blinking a lot.

“Why me?”

You fumble for an answer. “Uhm-Because-”

“Why not Kuroo?” He asks, his voice calm despite the increased tapping on his desk.

“‘m not sure our friendship would survive it. I care too much about him.”

He nods, clearly not offended by the implication that you’re willing to risk things with him . He’s not your friend and he knows that. The relationship between the two of you is delicate and tense, but it’s never entered the realm of care. Professional respect at most, outright hatred at worst. There’s nothing to risk by asking Akaashi Keiji to help, aside from the risk that he’ll make you feel bad or even that he’ll tell someone else. And it must mean something that you’re trusting him not to do those things.

“Bokuto?” he asks, jumping through all the same mental hoops that you had.

“There’s a million reasons it can’t be him,” you say, sighing tiredly. He narrows his eyes at you in suspicion, but he doesn’t push it. He just shakes his head slowly.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea to do this with someone in the same department.” He considers something else, rolling his eyes slightly. “ And we have the same advisor. It’s too close. If something goes wrong…” He shakes his head again. “I don’t know, Y/n.”

“Right,” you say emptily. You’re already recalculating how often you can film and post solo content without losing too much sleep, the thought of selling feet pics popping up again. Anything to keep your mind off of the fact that talking to Akaashi had been a mistake – a waste of his time, and an exposure of yourself that had amounted to nothing. 

This had amounted to nothing, baring this piece of your life to him. How humiliating.

“Y/n,” he says gently. You don’t meet his eyes, just patting your pockets for your office keys.

“Okay, well – thanks for your time-”

“I won’t say anything, Y/n,” he tries. “About any of it. I promise.”

“Thanks,” you laugh. “Yeah, I would appreciate that. Sorry for wasting your time.” You stand quickly, spinning to the door.

“Y/n- Y/n- ” 

The sound of your name is muffled as you yank the door open and slam it closed behind you. You hear him sigh on the other side, a quiet ‘ fuck’ uttered in the stifling silence. Your phone buzzes in your pocket, and you plead for it to be Bokuto or Kuroo or Yachi.

Shockingly, it’s all three, sent to your group chat.

[2:26 PM]

Kou: LUNCH? TEN MINUTES?

Tetsu: bo we eat lunch at THE SAME TIME EVERY SINGLE DAY

Kou: IM JUST CHECKING, FUCK

Hitoka: i like that he reminds us, hehe

Kou: yeah, see??? Yachi’s forgetful!!!

Hitoka: hey now.

Kou: oops-

A small smile tugs at your lips as you drift down the hall to the grad student lounge to get your lunch. But, as you’re typing out that you’ll be down soon, another text comes in.

Akaashi: y/n i wont say anything

Akaashi: i swear

Your face burns with embarrassment. It’s damage control, plain and simple, and the fact that he feels the need to do that at all makes this whole situation worse. You can’t bring yourself to open the text or say anything else to him. It’s humiliating, knowing that Akaashi Keiji knows what you do for money now. That you’re not even good enough at it to make rent.

Akaashi doesn’t make it to lunch that day. You try your best to shrug uncaringly when Bokuto wonders aloud why he’s not there.

–

Keiji has never known what to make of you.

From the moment he’d met you – at the department orientation five years ago – he’d found you interesting, and not always necessarily in a good way. When you’d rattled off that list of research interests during your self-introduction, the one that had been unrealistically high-reaching and ambitious, he’d written you off as naive. When you’d made friends easily, your smile bright and your laugh loud and grating against his ears, he’d written you off as annoying.

And then you’d gone ahead and proven that that list wasn’t as high-reaching as he’d thought. Or maybe it was, and you’d just had a touch of insanity in your blood. You’d proven that you aren’t just ambitious – you’re successful. You’re smart – brilliant, even. And Keiji had found you interesting again, because he could never tell if you’d realized it. He still can’t.

You carry an intensity in your shoulders and eyes that he’s always caught off guard to see. You question the work of your peers with the kind of brutal honesty that should make you unpopular. It should make people hate you, the way you pick apart their ideas and results. But they never do. They never hate you, and he kind of hates that. 

Maybe it’s because you always seem so eager to learn. You don’t criticize when you question – you just question . You don’t tear anyone down – in fact, your questions only seem to build people up, to the point that you’re often stopped in the halls and asked for your opinion on methodological choices and theoretical connections. People seek you out, and you’re all too happy to help.

But with your own work, you’re suddenly unsure. Keiji bristles when he sees it, that uncertain tilt of your head when you talk. It’s almost impossible to notice, and he’s sure that, to everyone else, you’re just being humble, or a nervous public speaker, even. You’re knowledgeable about your work, you seem confident when you answer questions, and you accept criticism with grace, taking notes diligently when points come up that you hadn’t thought of.

But he sees it – that uncertainty in your own ability. And it pisses him off.

You are annoying, he’d decided after the first time he’d noticed that hesitant nature. It annoys him, because you work just as hard as he does – you’re just as smart as he is – and you can’t seem to see it. Or is it a ploy? Is it an act, a performative relatability that only he can see? 

You piss him off.

How can both of you be so brilliant, but you seem so much more likeable? How can people call him the Golden Boy and then be too afraid to approach him? You’re the Golden Girl, for fuck’s sake. Can’t they see it? Why are you so easy for people to talk to? Why do people tell you ‘ good job’ when you give presentations, and he’s never gotten so much as a pat on the shoulder? Why do people like you so much , and all he gets is polite smiles and nervous expressions? Why does his name float around the department in reverence, but it’s your name that people say when they want to get a second pair of eyes on their proposals, their chapters?

And why , for all that is good in the world, do you not realize it ?

That’s why he targets you. It’s like an itch he can’t reach — he just can’t help himself. He doesn’t offer you meaningless platitudes or careful language when he gives you feedback, because it’s not your favor he wants. What he wants is to push you. He wants to push you to your limit – bully you to it, if he has to. 

Because it’s your research that’s born of brilliance, the kind of brilliance that makes goosebumps rise on his skin. The kind that makes his spine straighten and his gut wrench with excitement. It’s your research – your mind – that he’s drawn to. He wants to see you succeed, because he wholeheartedly believes that you could change the field.

But you don’t see that. No one seems to see that, except him and, undoubtedly, your advisor. So, when he pushes you, he know it looks like a personal attack. He knows it looks to you like he dislikes you for no apparent reason, because you’re just trying your best and he’s the department genius that thinks you’re beneath him. He knows how it looks, and he makes not a single move to fix it – because he’s seen, more than once, how what you think he is and what you think he’s doing has moved you to do revolutionary things.

He’s seen you do remarkable things with just a little bit of hatred. 

So he keeps it up, because maybe he hates you just a little bit, too. Maybe his own work is as unquestionable as it is because he’s secretly begging you to question it, begging you to give him that focused look and that critical eye that always makes his breath hitch. But you never give him what he wants, so he doesn’t either. He doesn’t give you the softspoken voice or the gentle, polite demeanor that he gives everyone else, even though he can see you yearning for it. He won’t give you that, not until you realize what you are – a genius, just the same as him.

When you come to him on October 16th, opening your life to him in ways he hadn’t expected, he means every word he says to you. It shouldn’t be him – it would get messy, the two of you having sex. He knows you had to have thought this through already, that you would never have approached him unless he was the absolute last option available, but he can’t bring himself to say yes to you. He knows you need the money, and there’s a non-insignificant part of him that actually wants to say yes. That wants to help you, because, despite how he feels about you, he can recognize the severity of the situation. Of the look in your eye, desperate and scared.

But he can’t bring himself to do it, because he knows that this intricately built web of hate and respect that you’ve built together is incredibly fragile. That whatever you two have – whatever this thing is that can’t be called friendship or anything close to it – would collapse and change. Keiji doesn’t like change. 

So he watches, over the course of October 17th, 18th, and 19th, as you become more desperate. 

He catches you dissociating more than once during your shared reading group meetings, and you don’t even pull your laptop out during the syntax class you TA together. You avoid his eyes for the duration of the 17th, but you seem to forget about him entirely the rest of the days, your gaze distant and stressed. You check your phone more than once during class, and he doesn’t dare look, because he’s certain you’re looking at your porn account for views and comments.

He catches you chasing after your advisor after group meetings, and he realizes quickly that the man’s aware of your financial situation, because he only shrugs regretfully and leaves you in the hall, staring down at nothing. He catches you turning down Bokuto’s lunchtime offer to hit up a bar on the evening of the 18th, and then he glances into your office the morning of the 19th – you’re staring blankly at the journal article on your desk, not reading a single word, and Keiji begins to understand how this might impact your research.

He confirms it that afternoon, a cloudy Thursday just before lunch. He’s passing his advisor’s office on the way to the grad student lounge, a can of iced coffee waiting with his name on it – but he stops short when he hears your voice inside.

“ ...have to find another job, ” you say, your voice clearly stressed. “ There’s no way to get an advance on next month’s paycheck from the department? ”

The old man sighs loudly. “ I’ll see what I can do, but you know these things don’t usually work like that. And they take time. I think another job’s the only option at the moment. ”

“ Okay, ” you say. “ In that case, I’m not sure what to do about my research- ”

Keiji inhales sharply, pressing his ear to the door. You’re not postponing your experiment, are you? You can’t. He knows he told you to push it as much as necessary for the case marking issues, but he hadn’t meant for it to be like this . 

“ Take some time to focus on your personal situation ,” your advisor says. “ Find a part-time job with stable hours, and we’ll work your research around it. It might double the time needed- ”

Double?!

Keiji’s starts to shake his head. No, that’s not possible. You can’t.

“ Fuck ,” he whispers, stomping off down the hall, his coffee entirely forgotten. God, is this really going to be the thing that brings you down? Is it really going to be this ? 

He barrels into his office and starts to pace the length of it. He thinks through your situation in extreme detail, rubbing at his brow and sighing in frustration every time he has to turn and pace the other way down his office. 

Obviously, you’ve thought through every option, but he runs through them anyway, if only to confirm for himself that you really are left with no option except finding a job and delaying the progress of your research.

Well, there’s one option.

One option that wouldn’t require you to put your energy toward applying for jobs and training for some side gig you have no interest in. One option that doesn’t require you to lose sleep or miss class or drop out of optional reading groups due to having to work somewhere across town. One option that would probably get you immediate payout, which he knows is the reason you started in the first place.

He looks at the little flip calendar on his desk. October 19th. 12 days until your rent is due. How long would it take you to apply for jobs? Would they let you start right away? When would you get your first paycheck?

Is finding a part-time job even a solution anymore?

“ Fuck! ” He throws himself down in his chair. There’s a very large part of him – the majority, even  – that’s concerned about your research progress. It’s unwarranted, his dedication to work that’s not his own. But it’s not even about that – it’s the fact that he knows how this will tear at you. How it will eat you alive, not being able to work on your research. How agonizing it’ll be, seeing the rest of your cohort progress while you struggle to pay rent. Because you think like he thinks, whether you’d like to admit it or not.

Maybe that’s the smaller part of him, too. The part that wants to help you because it’s you . Because, as much as he dislikes and even hates you at times, he wants to fix this for you. He wants things to be okay for you, because you’re a person with a life – a person in his life – and you don’t deserve the kind of torment you’re currently experiencing. He doesn’t want to see you crushed by the stress.

Not when there’s something he can do about it.

–

Akaashi texts you that night.

You sit, hunched, at your dining table, frantically fixing your resumé and sending it off to different cafes, restaurants, and bars all over Tokyo. You’ve been applying all week – two places have already rejected you, saying they’re only hiring full-time workers, and one place has scheduled an interview with you, but it’s over a week away.

You’re staring intensely at your laptop, pushing down the continuous sense of dread by finding more and more places to apply. You barely notice when your phone buzzes next to you, and you pick it up without looking, thinking it’ll be one of your friends sending a meme to the group chat.

[7:59 PM]

Akaashi: i’ll do it.

You stare down at your phone, unseeing. Your ears start to buzz, and your vision goes blurry for a moment.

He’ll do it? He’ll-

You press call before you can think of anything. He picks up on the first ring.

“ Hello? ”

“You’ll do it?” Your eyes focus in on a scuff on your hardwood floors, latching onto it so you don’t have to look at anything else. “Really?”

“ Yeah. I’ll do it. ”

“Why?”

There’s a moment of silence on the other end, and you eyebrows scrunch the longer it stretches on.

“ I could use a bit of extra money, too. Once you’re done paying rent. ”

It’s insultingly easy to spot that that’s bullshit, but you don’t press it. You can’t risk pressing this. Not when your solution – this miracle – is finally within reach.

“What about the other stuff?”

“ We’ll figure it out. I can draft up a contract and bring it by tomorrow, if that works for you. ”

“A contract?” You want to roll your eyes, because that’s incredibly Akaashi Keiji , but you also recognize that you hadn’t thought of that.

“ Are you in or not? ”

There’s no way in hell you’re passing this up.

“Yes-Sorry, I’m just… surprised. But, yes.”

“ Alright. Tomorrow afternoon? ”

“I’m free after 2.”

“ I’ll be there at 2:30. Send me your address. ”

“O…kay. Okay.”

You hear him swallow and shift on the other end, and then he mumbles, “ Okay. See you tomorrow. ”

You’re left with the dial tone, that scuff in the hardwood burned into your mind when you blink.

“Okay,” you say to no one.

The conversation had lasted 55 seconds.

–

He shows up at 2:29 on Friday, rapping three quick knocks on your door and scaring the shit out of you as you pace the living room nervously. You rush to get it, fixing your hair and clothes as you go and giving the room a cursory glance. You’re suddenly so nervous to exist in front of him, feeling your appearance and the cleanliness of your home under scrutiny even though he hasn’t seen either yet.

You pull the front door open, dragging your eyes up to meet his. He’s wearing a pair of black slacks and a tucked-in white button-down, the collar peeking through the top of the black sweater vest he’d fitted over it. His glasses, black and settled comfortably on the bridge of his nose, glint in the light and block you from seeing the look in his eye when you appear in front of him. And then he shifts his weight, and you see those deep blue eyes staring right into yours.

Akaashi adjusts his backpack on his shoulder. “Hi.”

You swallow hard. “Uh. Hi.” You step back quickly to let him in, and you try not to notice the subtle cologne he’s wearing when he brushes past you. Had he always worn cologne? “Thanks for coming.”

“Mhm,” he hums, slipping his sneakers off and setting them neatly to the side in your foyer. When he stands, you watch him cast his gaze across your living room and dining area, tucked into a corner by the kitchen. He steps into the living room, wandering slowly to the side of the couch while looking at the space. “I can see why you wouldn’t want to let this place go.”

High ceilings, lots of windows, and a small balcony. Hardwood floors and an open floorplan – the kitchen is visible past the island counter, two beams capping the ends of the bar to section the area off from the rest of the room. Your bedroom door is just past the couch, your roommate’s old room hidden down a narrow hallway with the bathroom. 

When you and your ex-roommate had found the place together, five years prior, rent had been cheaper and $500 hadn’t been considered a steal for a place like this. You’d managed to keep the landlord from raising the prices over the years, the two of you stellar tenants with not a single issue to note. That’s the only reason he’d let your roommate break her lease so suddenly – especially since you’d said you could take the entire thing over until you could find a new roommate.

Not that that new roommate would ever appear.

“Yeah,” you say, following Akaashi into the room and gesturing for him to sit. You move to the kitchen to get two glasses of water while he takes the corner and sets his backpack down at his feet. “I’ve made my home here. Would hate to start over, I guess.”

He looks around, eyeing all the decorations and furniture in the room. Your roommate had left you with the furniture, thankfully – this place would be barren otherwise. She’d even left her bed and the little couch in her room, reasoning that keeping the room furnished might encourage someone to move in. 

You’re not sure you’d ever tell her what you use that bed and couch for now, a conveniently placed “studio” right in your own home.

You join Akaashi on the couch, offering him the water and just nodding awkwardly when he thanks you for it. His fingers brush yours when he takes the glass, his attention still on the room, and you fight the blush that rises. There are a number of thoughts floating through your mind as you examine his fingers, but you shake your head to clear them, because technically no contracts have been signed, so you’re not allowed to think about how pretty his hands will look on camera.

“So…” you start. “What exactly did you have in mind for these contracts?”

He blinks, as though remembering why he’s here, and sets his glass down. “Right.” He rustles through his bag, extracting two sets of papers and handing one to you. “I… had to look up a template for this kind of contract-”

You snort despite yourself, because he’s blushing slightly at having to admit that he has no clue what he’s doing. He rolls his eyes but continues anyway. 

“I think it’s standard to just discuss expectations, boundaries, and-uh- preferences .” 

You flip the first page over, finding blank lines to fill in the terms of the agreement – and then a long checklist that spans about two more pages. It consists entirely of turn-ons, turn-offs, kinks (taboo or otherwise), and absolute non-negotiables. There’s another page with blank lines, the section titled ‘ Agreed Upon Consent System ’. 

You nod slowly. “You did your homework.”

“Did you forget who I am?”

You bark out a laugh, shaking your head as you look through the checklist again. “Sorry – is ‘Shibari ’ listed here because you know it, or because you expect that I might?”

He smothers a smile, but you catch the downward turn of his lips before it’s gone. “I didn’t want to make any assumptions.”

“Fair enough,” you sigh. And then you look at him. “And… you’re sure you’re okay with this?” When he just nods, meeting your eyes evenly, you watch him for a moment. “And you won’t, like, hold this over my head or something?”

His brows furrow for a moment before smoothing out. “No. Of course not.” You don’t respond, and he sighs. “I don’t benefit from hurting you, you know.”

You relax at that. You suppose that’s true – the two of you might not like each other, but it would be another level of messed up if Akaashi were to use this against you in any way..

“Okay. Sorry. I had to check.”

“Surprisingly, I’m above blackmail.”

You shake your head, wondering if he’d always been a little funny, or if this situation’s so ridiculous that you’re finding everything hilarious. “Okay, so – terms?”

He shifts his weight forward, leaning his elbows on his knee while he looks down at the first page of the contract. “I think payment’s the most important part right now.” You nod, watching as he retrieves a pen from his bag and clicks it a few times. “I was thinking… I take 20% of the cut for each video, but only when it wouldn’t prevent you from paying rent and bills?”

“How’d you decide on 20%?”

He shrugs. “I’m relatively comfortable financially, so I don’t need a large portion. And I don’t expect anything for the first few weeks, at least – not until your finances are settled.”

You watch the side of his face while he thinks – his lips pinch into a grimace and he shifts his head back and forth. He’d always been that way, from the beginning. He clicks his pen a few more times, and then he glances at you.

“Is that okay with you? I’m good for 10%, too.”

You shake your head right away. “No, of course not. 20% is completely reasonable.”

He nods, tapping his pen to the paper and writing out the agreement for payment. He sighs quietly. “Okay, next thing… What do you do for privacy?”

You take a breath. “I edit my face out of everything, and-” You stretch your foot out and lift your pant leg, displaying the small sunflower tattoo on the inside of your ankle. “-I edit that out, too.” You point down the hall. “I film in the spare bedroom, so that no one recognizes the stuff in my room. And I muffle some of the audio, so my voice isn’t easy to recognize. It would help, too, if we need to talk to each other.”

He nods, and then he starts to roll up the sleeve on his right arm. “Would it be hard to edit this out?” There’s a medium-sized tattoo on his forearm, a stretch of the moon cycles sketched in black across his skin.

“Oh, woah-” You scoot in on instinct, your fingers hovering over his milky skin. “When did you get this?”

“Last year, when I passed the Prelim.” His voice comes from over your head, quiet and low. You smile to yourself, examining the intricate line art. “I wanted to gift myself something.” You find it interesting to imagine Akaashi Keiji being nervous enough about passing the milestone between doctoral student and doctoral candidate, so much that he’d promised himself something if he were to pass.

“Pretty cool gift,” you mumble, your fingers tracing the air over his skin but never making contact. He lowers his arm, and you seem to realize only now how close you are. You meet his eyes quickly, seeing the silent amusement in his gaze, and you scoot back to your spot. “Sorry.”

He says nothing of it, just nodding down to his arm. “Can you edit it?”

You squint at the art. “I can try, but if you move your arms a lot, it might be easier to cover it with makeup. We can test it – film from the other side, lower the camera so your arm’s out of frame. That kind of thing.”

He nods, rolling his sleeve down again. You look away from his hands as he works, taking the moment instead to reflect on how business-like this conversation is. You’d expected more discomfort, given the circumstances. But you both treat it with detachment and only a few hiccups that can be recovered easily. It’s oddly easy, in a way that you can’t imagine with Bokuto or Kuroo – perhaps because of how much history you have with them, how much would be changing by entering into this kind of agreement together.

There’s nothing holding you and Akaashi together that would prevent you from doing business together in this way. It’s reassuring to realize that.

Akaashi buttons the cuff on his sleeve again and reaches for the pen, jotting down the terms of privacy. He glances at you briefly. “About who we can tell…”

Your heart jumps. “No one, preferably.”

“Right,” he says. “But if someone were to find out on accident, or if someone puts together that we’re having sex… what do we say?”

“Oh…” You tap your nails on your thigh. “Just that we’re hooking up?”

He nods. “That’s fine. I also think it’s fine if you decide to tell someone what we’re actually doing.” He cuts you short when you open your mouth to protest. “ I won’t tell anyone, because this isn’t my financial situation and this wasn’t my idea. This is your business, and I’m mindful of that. But I think it’s perfectly possible that you might end up wanting to tell someone, for whatever reason. And I think that’s your prerogative, so I don’t mind if you tell them that I’m part of it.” He takes a breath, smiling to himself when he considers something. “Uh, but – maybe don’t show them anything.”

“Oh, God, I would never,” you reassure him, shaking your head. “That’s a huge violation. And I don’t expect that I’ll want to tell anyone-”

“Still,” he argues. “It’s good to have the option. If you’re stressed or need a friend.”

“Well, what if you want to tell someone? What if you need a friend?”

His eyebrows tent in amusement, and he sighs. “How about we just agree to ask each other first? Whatever the reason.”

You take a breath. “Okay. I’m okay with that – reserving the right to say no?”

“Of course,” he says plainly, adding that to the terms.

You nod, sighing shakily. You feel an odd sense of trust with him – that he’s good for his word, because he’s, more often than not, honest to a fault.

“Anything… else?” you ask. “Before we get to the… technical parts?”

He snorts through his nose while he writes, and you’re reminded of the absurdity of the situation. “Yeah, just one more thing.” He purses his lips now, not meeting your eyes. “When was your last health visit?”

“Oh!” You blink rapidly, realizing what he’s asking. “Oh, I’m clean. I get a yearly health check, and I haven’t had sex in– I dunno, probably two or three years, so I’m good,” you ramble, laughing to yourself as you brush off his concern. Then you stop, because he’s looking at you like he’s fighting laughter himself, and you register what you’d said. That you’d just admitted to him that you haven’t gotten laid in three years . “Uh-”

He shakes his head. “Good to know. And it’s been at least a year for me, too.” He reaches into his bag, retrieving a sheet of paper. “But I brought this, in case you needed it-” He starts to hand it to you, and you piece together quickly that this is his health check. You take it, only glancing at the date to confirm that it was, in fact, done today.

“You went to the doctor today?”

He blinks. “I thought it would be best.”

You gape at him. “You didn’t have to do that. I would have believed you.” You glance around your living room. “I don’t even know where my sheet is- I went two months ago-”

“I don’t need to see it,” he says, shaking his head. “I believe you.”

“Dude! You can’t have all these weird, anti-double-standards.” You throw your hands up and hand him his health check back, and then you stand, moving to the file cabinet in the corner. “I’m finding that little fucker-”

“ Y/n ,” Akaashi laughs, and you pause, if only because you’ve never heard your name like that from him. He looks more visibly relaxed, too, now that you look at him properly. “It’s fine . If you want to find it, find it later.”

You sigh, staring him down a moment but returning to the couch nonetheless. He tries to hand you the health check again, but you brush it off with a grumble. “I don’t need your stupid health check, damn it.”

“I went through the trouble of getting it,” he argues, lifting his brows with a smug tilt of his head. You glare, snatching it from him but leaving it on the coffee table.

“What else, huh?” You bark, half-joking. “Got any other surprises for me?”

“No,” he says with a patient shake of his head, his lips tugging his smile away. “We can get to the technical part.”

You sigh, lifting your copy of the contract from the table and leafing through it. “So, I post every day on a consistent schedule. Obviously, I don’t want you to give up every evening of your week to film for the next day’s post, nor do I have the time.”

“And it would look weird – both of us becoming suddenly unavailable to see our friends every night,” he reasons, and you nod.

“Exactly. You have a life, and so do I. I usually batch all my content one night a week, and then I spend a few hours the next night editing everything and scheduling it to post.”

“You’ve really thought this through,” he comments quietly, also leafing through his contract. You warm, realizing it’s a compliment. 

“ Thanks ,” you mutter. “I’d hoped it would have yielded better results, but at least I have a consistent schedule now.” You return to your proposal. “I think filming partner content will take longer, naturally, but I don’t want us meeting every night, so how’s twice a week? Five or six hours each?”

He hums and nods right away. “Makes sense. And we can change the days every week, so we’re not both conveniently missing every single, say, Tuesday and Thursday.”

“Yeah, good point.” He writes it down, and you clear your throat. “And I don’t think we should kiss,” you suggest, your voice quiet.

“I agree.” He doesn’t think twice about it, just writing it on the next line, and relief fills you. You hadn’t been sure how to bring up to him the fact that you find kissing personal and intimate in a way that you aren’t comfortable experiencing with him. It would probably offend you if he were anyone else – the way he agrees immediately – but you know he’s only thinking about this as logically as you are.

You appreciate, for once, that you and Akaashi Keiji think so similarly.

“And,” you start, clapping your hands as you realize something suddenly. “As for protection-”

“Oh, yeah,” he says, reaching down into his bag. 

He drops a box of condoms on the table, size large.

You stare down at it dumbly. “Oh. Okay. That’s-” You’re not sure you’d ever expected to be in the know about the size of Akaashi’s-

“I was at the store and didn’t want to forget.”

“Oh. Yeah, that’s fine, it’s just-” You smile to yourself, a little embarrassed to know this. “Videos with condoms don’t really do as well as videos without.”

You feel his eyes on the side of your face. “I… did not know that,” he says. “But I can understand why.”

You swallow, handing the condoms back to him with an awkward grin. “I’m on the pill, is what I wanted to say.” You’re glad to see that the apples of his cheeks are becoming rosy.

“Got it,” he says, turning to put the box in his bag again. He scribbles ‘ birth control ’ haphazardly on the sheet, and you let out an accidental snicker. He shakes his head at it, and you catch the grin on his face just as he’s turning away.

“Uh,” you start, trying not to laugh again. “I was also thinking pet names might be necessary.”

“Oh, if we need to talk to each other,” he realizes, nodding. “Yeah. Do you have a preference?”

“I think that question might be better for you,” you muse. “I’m good with most things-”

“ Sweetheart ? Princess ? Pretty girl or baby girl ? Darling ?” he asks without thinking. You watch his mouth move, words you’d never expected from him just falling from his lips like nothing. 

“S-Sure. That’s all fine with me.”

“Okay,” he says. “I think for me… I mean, baby ’s fine. I’m not really into the… more stereotypical names.”

You tilt your head. “What, like daddy ?”

He grimaces. “Yeah, that’s not my thing-” He cuts a glance at you. “Sorry, if it’s yours.”

You smile wide now, utterly amused. “Can’t say it is. But – are you a dom, Akaashi? Or a sub.”

“Why?” he says, a single eyebrow lifting as his lips quirk in a grin. “Because I like to be called baby ?”

“I’m just curious,” you say, feigning a seriousness you simply don’t feel.

“Well, be curious in bed, not now.”

You laugh loudly, throwing your head back. “Yes, Sir.” His fingers twitch on his pen, and your eyebrows lift with interest. You lean forward. “ Sir ? Is that it?”

He shakes his head. “Nope.”

“But you reacted when I said it-”

He rolls his eyes and starts to flip the page toward the checklist of preferences. “It’s not what you said, it’s how you said it.” 

“How’d I say it?”

He stands, glancing down the hall. “Like a brat.” Your smile drops, right along with your stomach. It flips violently, and your fingers start to tingle, but he barely gives you a second look. “Give me a tour of the spare bedroom? While we go through these.”

Your legs shake when you stand. “Sure.” You lead him down the hall, contract clutched in your hand and heart in your throat. You weren’t prepared to hear that from him.

You push the door open, letting him in. He wanders to the center of the room, turning in place. You’d put plain white sheets on the bed, the comforter a deep red color. The couch in the corner is covered in a pale green sheet, and there are a few throw pillows and blankets laid over the arm and back of it. There’s an empty desk in the corner, one that Akaashi eyes with an amused lift of his brow. 

“It’s nice in here,” he says blankly, his eyes still tracking the decor in the room. It’s all plain enough not to be recognizable, but the room is comfortable to be in. You’d put string lights all around the wall, your phone equipped with an app to change the colors whenever. You’ve got one tripod for your phone near the bed and another near the couch, and there’s a chest at the end of the bed. Akaashi taps it with his foot.

“Functional or just decoration?” Your harsh flush is his answer, and he reaches for the latch, pausing for permission once he’s got his fingers on it. You nod curtly, and he drops his contract and pen on the bed so he can crouch by the chest and lift the top with both hands.

He gives you no indication of his thoughts when he looks inside – it’s filled with sex toys, harnesses, props, and basically anything else you thought might be useful. Looking at it now, you’re certain it looks like you’re into a lot of interesting things, but he only glances at you for a second round of permission before he reaches in. He seems to understand that it’s one thing to look and another entirely to touch , but you give him that permission, too.

The first thing he extracts is a whip. “Have you ever used this?”

You smile emptily. “On myself, once. Wasn’t very fun. And I didn’t upload the video.”

He sets it back inside gently. “I prefer to use my hands, if that’s okay.”

“Oh.” You’re not sure you’ll ever get used to this. “Sure.”

He spends the next few minutes quietly pulling out a variety of dildos, butt plugs, and vibrators and laying them neatly on the bed, side by side. You grow warmer with each one, unsure what to do with this situation. He also retrieves a stretch of black cloth that you’d used once to blindfold yourself. It hadn’t gone as well as you’d hoped.

He stands with it now, tugging on it experimentally. “I like this.”

“Okay.”

He nods to the items on the bed. “I like all those, too-” He glances down and reaches into the chest again, setting a bottle of lube next to the vibrator on the end.

You approach him finally, standing beside him as you survey the collection. “Okay. Why?”

He picks up his contract, scanning the list and pointing to your bed as he speaks. “Guided masturbation.” He points to the dildos and the vibrators. He points next to the butt plugs. “Anal-”

“Oh, I’ve-” You fidget with your fingers. “I have yet to be successful with that.” He stares down at you in confusion, and then gestures to the fact that there are three of them on the bed, varying in size. You smile pitifully up at him. “I thought the issue was the size.”

“O…kay,” he says with a breath of laughter. “We don’t have to include anal-”

“No, I’m…” You chuckle to yourself. “I’m not opposed… obviously.”

There’s a long moment of eye contact, one where you become incredibly warm and his lips fight to tug into a smirk, but he eventually turns back to his contract. 

“Understood.”

You wonder how much longer this torture will last.

He moves to the couch, sighing quietly and clicking his pen again. You’re starting to get the idea that that’s a nervous tick. “Should we just go one at a time and say yes or no?”

“Okay. Sure.” You close the lid of the chest and sit on it, ignoring the pile of toys behind you. 

You spend the next ten minutes that way, voting on a list of kinks with Akaashi Keiji, as though you haven’t spent the last five years dreading every second with him. You learn that he’s into choking – giving and receiving – but that he prefers giving oral more than receiving it. You tell him that you like being tied up but that you’ve never tried it with a partner before, and then you admit to a slight oral fixation. He jokes dryly that you’d have to settle for his fingers in your mouth, in that case, and you bite back a warning that the oral fixation includes marking your partners up where others can see. He only lifts a brow and asks if he should check off ‘ exhibitionist ’, and you joke that your balcony isn’t visible from the street. You ask more certainly if he’s a dom, because it’s becoming obvious that he is, and he rolls his eyes and asks if you’re always this bratty.

The list goes on and on, and you’re surprised by how honest both of you are being. He checks ‘ dacryphilia ’, and you tell him with waning embarrassment that he can go ahead and check ‘ somnophilia ’ while he’s at it. Even things you’ve never tried but have been quietly interested in make the list, and you wonder if maybe it’s because this is a chance to try all those things without fear of judgment from the person you’re doing it with. There’s no pressure with Akaashi, because there’s no crushing fear that he’s going to find you strange or uncomfortable. 

He’d shrugged and nodded when you’d said the word somnophilia, for fuck’s sake. He utters the words ‘ temperature play’ , ‘ overstimulation ’, and ‘ ruined orgasm ’ with ease, and you rattle off ‘ edging ’, ‘ praise ’, and ‘ dirty talk ’ like it’s nothing. There’s nothing to worry about with him.

Eventually, he sighs, turning to the last page of the contract, which only has the ‘ Agreed Upon Consent System ’ section and lines for your signatures. “And… is it alright if I’m a little mean?”

You tilt your head at him, your embarrassment long forgotten. “Like, degradation? Calling me names?”

He hums and then shakes his head. “Not exactly.” He thinks for a moment. “More like… disinterest.”

“Oh.” You consider it. “I suppose that’s a kind of degradation.”

“I suppose it is.” He shifts. “Just worried, since you mentioned praise.”

You feel a little embarrassment now. “Well, is there a way to do both?”

His smile is surprised, and he ducks his head when he laughs. “Yeah, I think there might be. Disinterested praise.”

“Yeah, see? Just make sure not to smile at me when you say nice things,” you joke.

He shakes his head and then taps the paper. “What’s our consent system?”

You shrug. “I’m only really familiar with the color system.”

“Green, yellow, red?” he asks, already starting to write it down. You hum in agreement, and he holds the contract up when he’s done. “Okay. I’m ready to sign if you are.”

You leave your blank copy on the bed and hop off the chest, joining him on the couch. You watch as he signs his name and marks the date on one of the lines – he hands you the pen after, and you do the same, your name sitting neatly under his. 

“Okay,” you breathe, staring down at the paper with fresh eyes. He nods beside you, and then he turns his head. You feel his eyes on you, so you meet them, and he sticks his hand out to you.

“Let’s get you your rent money.”

You can’t help but laugh when you take his hand, shaking it firmly.

–

He texts you later that night, after you’ve had time to lie in your bed and process what’s just happened. 

You feel, weirdly enough, more comfortable with him – not completely, and certainly nothing of the friendly sort, but you feel like the afternoon hadn’t been that tense or difficult. It had mostly been awkward and a little funny, which is only to be expected in this situation. It makes you wonder, while you’re showering and making dinner, if maybe Akaashi’s not all that bad outside of an academic context.

Of course, things between you inside an academic context are so hostile that it had always bled over into whatever social interactions you’d been forced into by your mutual friends. You can’t imagine that those things will change anytime soon – it feels strange to picture Akaashi as anything but rude and torturous within the department, and you find that you’re not so enthused at the idea of him suddenly warming up to you. You like how things are between you. You like him just how he is, predictably annoying and cold.

So, when he texts you, you’re unsurprised that your guards go up.

[10:16 PM]

Akaashi: i need your account name + site

[10:18 PM]

Akaashi: please

You feel the floor drop out from under you, and you answer in a frenzy.

[10:19 PM]

You: no fucking way

Akaashi: ???????

Akaashi: i need to study before tomorrow??????

Yes, you’d agreed to spend the majority of the day tomorrow batching content for the week. But you have no idea why you hadn’t anticipated this. 

Aghast, you don’t bother typing, just jabbing down on the button to record a voice note.

“You need to study?! ” You say, exasperated. “My body’s all over that account! I’m doing a lot of things on that account! Naked things!”

You send it and wait, pacing the space around your bed. He sends a voice note back. You click play with a shaky thumb.

“ Are you insane?” he says, and you hear that he’s laughing at you. You swell with annoyance as he talks. “ Did you plan to have sex with me with all your clothes on? ” You roll your eyes, sitting at the edge of your bed. 

“Yeah, that was a stupid point,” you mumble to yourself.

“ I need to see what the general aesthetic of your account is, okay? To see how you film. ”

You press the microphone again to record. “Yeah, but this feels super unfair! You’ll have seen my whole body, and I won’t have seen yours – this is skewed!”

He texts back this time.

[10:23 PM]

Akaashi: oh, sorry. let me link you to my porn account, too, then.

Akaashi: are you hearing yourself???

You groan, throwing yourself back on your mattress. You know he’s right, but it’s terrifying to know that Akaashi will have seen you naked – more than naked, really – and you will have no clue what you’re walking into tomorrow. Still, you just flail on your bed a few times in protest before sighing and lifting your phone to your face.

[10:26 PM]

You: xxxvids .com

You: username tokyolovely

You throw your phone down and roll over to bury your face in the mattress, screaming into the comforter when your phone buzzes with his response.

Akaashi: … no comment.

You want to smack him.

Akaashi: and why couldnt you choose one of the big sites that everyone else posts on???

Akaashi: onlyfans?? pornhub even???

Akaashi: i swear to god if i get a virus from xxxvids .com

Akaashi: rent is not the only expense youll need to worry about

You definitely want to smack him.

–

Keiji throws his phone down on his desk, shaking his head with a sigh.

“What even is that?” he mumbles to himself, typing the site into his laptop. “ XXXVid- This is so stupid. Just use PornHub at that point.”

He’s accosted immediately by thumbnails of naked women and men with penises that just have to be cosmetically enlarged. He plugs his headphones in quickly, very much not needing any audio surprises from this site, and makes an account, rolling his eyes when he needs to come up with a username.

When he’s done, he types your name into the search bar.

“ Tokyo…lovely, ” he says as he types, and then his middle finger hovers over the Enter key. 

His goal really is just to look at how you’ve set up your account. He just wants to see the general tone of your channel. If you’re loud or quiet. If you’ve marketed yourself as one of those gentle, virginal girls or as a sex freak that makes a lot of noise. He needs to know these things, so he knows how to perform tomorrow. It’s logical. It makes sense.

But still, he sits here, finger hovering over the key while he contemplates it. He’d gone through the entire contract with you and revealed his deepest interests – previously experienced or otherwise. But this feels like a move he can’t take back. Once he does this, he will have seen your body, and that’s irreversible.

You agreed to this, you idiot.

He groans, jamming his finger down on the key before he can think further about it. The website buffers long enough that he wonders about that virus again, and then it loads.

Oh.

His heart jumps, and he finds himself looking away from his screen and glancing nervously around his living room, as though he doesn’t live completely alone. And then he looks back, met with the sight of your body.

He can only tell it’s you because he knows it’s you, and – looking at you in a set of black lingerie in the first thumbnail – this body looks like yours. The next thumbnail has you in a mismatched bra-panty pair, and, in the video after, you’re not wearing anything at all. He sucks in a breath, glancing away every few seconds while he scrolls, because it feels wrong to stare. He focuses on the titles, testing every ounce of his reading comprehension in this moment.

[Oct. 19] Shy Girl Fingers Herself to Orgasm

“Shy?” he mumbles, shaking his head. “Yeah, right.”

[Oct. 18] Virgin Sends Masturbation Video to Boyfriend

“Not a virgin,” he says. “No boyfriend.”

[Oct. 17] Girl Makes Herself Squirt on Friend’s Couch

“Not a friend’s cou-Wait.” He blinks. 

You can squirt ?

The room becomes noticeably warmer as he stares down at the little thumbnail of you curled up on the couch in your spare room. He’d intended to watch one video, just to see the extent of your editing, but he’d meant only to skim through it, skipping parts and examining the video from a purely analytic standpoint.

But… Well, if he’s going to watch one, anyway… 

He drags his mouse over it, about to click into it, when a pop-up banner appears from the left side of his screen.

TOKYOLOVELY IS ACTIVE NOW – SAY HI!

Keiji jumps, feeling as though he’s been caught doing something awful. And then he sighs heatedly and clicks on the banner, watching it open to an empty chat box.

[10:35 PM]

tokyohandsome: stop anxiously scrolling through your own videos

tokyolovely: YOU FUCK, YOU CHOSE THAT NAME ON PURPOSE

tokyohandsome: get offline, tokyolovely

tokyolovely: youre not allowed to watch the one of me with that dildo in doggy

Keiji blinks hard. The what ? Where you’re what ?

tokyohandsome: go to bed, youre driving me nuts

tokyohandsome: wait-

tokyohandsome: can you see which video i view????

tokyolovely: …. if i say yes will you exit this website

tokyohandsome: ill take that as a no.

tokyolovely: YOU HAVE TO TELL ME WHICH ONE YOU WATCH

tokyohandsome: goodnight, lovely <3 

tokyolovely: i hate you.

He laughs to himself, bright and hidden in his hand.

tokyohandsome: do you get paid for interacting with viewers in dms?

tokyolovely: yes.

tokyohandsome: do i decide how much they give you?

tokyolovely: … it’s a rating after i log off.

tokyohandsome: then you better say goodnight to me and log off, lovely <3

tokyolovely: ….. goodnight, handsome.

tokyohandsome: :((

tokyolovely: …. <3

tokyohandsome: :))

TOKYOLOVELY HAS LOGGED OFF

He sighs, pleased, and gives you a five-star rating like he’d always intended, closing the chat. He’s tempted to go looking for that video of you in doggy position, but he respects your hyper-specific request and returns to the video he’d originally seen. He clicks on it now, nerves a bit eased after that absurd interaction with you, and settles back in his chair.

The video starts with you in your underwear, touching yourself gently through the fabric. He watches with distant interest as you squeeze your breasts through your bra and then drop one hand to the spot between your thighs that’s currently hidden by how you’re curled up. You touch yourself vaguely, and he hears the beginnings of a moan, quiet in his headphones.

The sound grows the longer you continue, and he wonders if those moans sound faked because they’re obviously so or because he knows you. From the many years of hearing your voice – albeit never in this situation – he can’t imagine that this is what you would actually sound like if you were feeling good. He clicks his tongue, shaking his head as he watches you start to slide the panties down your thighs. 

He’s certain he can pull better sounds out of you than that.

He watches a few moments longer, genuinely critiquing the video and your performance, if only to gauge how he should act, too. 

But then you drop your panties on the couch beside you, sighing breathily, and move to unhook your bra. Keiji’s eyebrows lift as you slip the straps off, and suddenly he’s not thinking about things he plans to do differently as your business partner.

You prop your feet up on the couch and spread your legs, and he spreads his, too, unconsciously, eyes dropping to your exposed core. His tongue darts out, wetting his lips, and he shifts in his seat, his sweats becoming suspiciously tight. He watches you on his laptop screen – the way your fingertips swipe over your clit in two tight circles before dropping to your entrance – and he swallows, committing the motion to memory, because he’s here to study. To study .

He blinks hard, shifting again and ignoring the way his cock twitches in his pants and strains against the band. He watches you dip both fingers into your entrance before slipping out, and he has the torturous thought that your fingers look a lot smaller than his. You repeat the motion three or four times, working yourself open until you can fit both fingers up to the knuckles. 

You moan in Keiji’s ears, loud and a little gratuitous – but he moans back.

He palms himself through his sweats, watching you finger yourself. His breath hitches, and his stomach swirls with nerves, and he feels a wave of desire crash over him.

And then he hears your voice, in that note you’d sent him.

‘-feels super unfair – You’ll have seen my whole body, and I won’t have seen yours-’

He groans, throwing his head back against his chair briefly, and reaches for his phone before he can overthink.

“ Fuck it, ” he mumbles in a strained voice, opening the camera and propping his phone up against the stack of books on his desk. 

He presses record.

–

At 11pm, you get a text.

You’ve sat on your bed the last thirty minutes, scrolling through Twitter absentmindedly as you think about what Akaashi could be watching. You wonder if he’s actually watched anything, or if he’s just skimming the thumbnails and titles, or maybe if he’d just logged off right after you, satisfied with teasing you a little. 

You feel painfully vulnerable in your state of not knowing. You have no clue what you’re walking into tomorrow. At least before, you were partially comforted in that neither of you had seen the other naked, and also in that neither of you had been with someone else in at least a year. There had been an air of safety, knowing that you and Akaashi were on relatively equal ground.

You’re horribly underground, now.

So, when his first text comes through, the banner pulling down over the top of your screen, you think the worst.

[10:59 PM] 

Akaashi : [Video Attached]

What is that? What did he do? Did he record your videos on his phone? Is he commenting on them? At the very worst, he’s making fun of you, and at the very best, he’s offering you tips to improve your filming or editing. You really don’t know which you hate more.

But then his second text comes in, this banner replacing the last.

Akaashi: making it a little less unfair.

“ What? ” you mumble, brows furrowed as you click on the notification. Your phone jumps to the text thread, and you squint at the thumbnail of the video. It’s just him leaning toward the camera with a furrowed brow, seated at his desk in grey sweats and a white t-shirt, with his glasses perched on his nose and his hair slightly wet from what’s probably a recent shower. He’s got headphones in, and there’s something bright on his laptop screen.

It’s the glare in the corner of his glasses, a reflection of his laptop screen, that makes your heart leap.

You know that pale green sheet.

“What… the fuck …?” You bring the phone close to your face, too scared to press play . “Is that asshole live-reacting to my video?” With a trembling finger, your click on the video.

And you realize immediately what’s happening.

Akaashi settles back in his chair with a heated sigh, his tongue darting out as he watches his screen. It’s because he leaned back that you can see properly now – the tent in his pants, the hand he presses over the outline of his cock with a quiet sigh.

Your jaw drops. He’s-

His eyes track your movement on the screen, which you can now see clearly in the glare of his glasses, and his bottom lip catches between his teeth. He breathes hard, palming himself through his sweats as he watches your video. He glances once at his own camera, clearly nervous about recording this, but then his eyes widen and fly to his screen, whatever sound you’d just made in his headphones drawing his attention completely.

“ Oh, f- ” He purses his lips, and you feel yourself leaning in, wanting to hear what he’d been about to say. He blinks rapidly, eyes trained on one spot – you can see exactly which video it is now, and your heart jumps when you recognize the way your own body moves in the reflection of his glasses.

So that’s what he’s into.

You spend so long staring at the reflection in his glasses that you nearly miss the way he starts to move. You drop your eyes in time to catch him lifting his hips just enough to slide his sweats down to his thighs. He tucks one hand into his boxers, and you watch with parted lips as Akaashi Keiji’s eyes roll back into his head.

“ Fuck, ” he breathes, his head dropping back momentarily, and your mouth falls open more, your brain stunned into nothingness as you watch him masturbate to a video of you masturbating. As you realize that this isn’t just anyone watching one of your videos – liking one of your videos.

This is Akaashi Keiji.

Akaashi Keiji’s just given you the confirmation that you’re good at this, after so many weeks of feeling quite the opposite.

“Oh,” you breathe, the sticky heat of understanding washing over your skin. It worsens when he uses his free hand to tug his boxers down, making this ground feel suddenly a lot more equal.

Oh.

Akaashi keeps his eyes glued to his screen, and you catch a glimpse of your on-screen self coming more and more undone. You examine him closely while he watches it, too – his lips are swollen and wet from pursing and biting at them, and there’s a flush high on his cheeks and a hooded, hazy quality to his eyes that makes your stomach flip with nerves. His tongue darts out again, wetting his pink lips just as he’s parting them to sigh. 

Your eyes drop, watching how he slides his palm against his cock, slick with precum and making the most impolite, soft squelching sound whenever he flicks his wrist. Your thighs press together instinctively, a hard throb pulsing through your core when his hips jerk slightly. 

His breathing speeds up, as does the flick of his wrist, and you realize in the reflection that you must be starting to squirt. Akaashi grips the arm of his desk chair with his free hand and presses his lips together, his moan muffled but still audible. His hips jerk and stutter, and then his eyes roll back into his head again as he comes all over his hand and stomach, streaks of white painting the back of his hand and wrist.

His lips part in a gasp and a rough sigh as he’s coming down, and he slumps against his chair, breathing hard as he stares at nothing – the screen is dark in his glasses now. He drags his clean hand through his hair, tugging hard and breathing out a soft ‘ fuck ’. He breathes twice more, and then his eyes flick to his camera, as though he’s only just remembered it’s there.

He sees himself in the video and rolls his eyes immediately, a breathless laugh leaving him as he shakes his head and looks away.

“ Uh, ” he says, still laughing. He leans forward, reaching with his free hand for the phone, and shakes his head again. “ See you tomorrow, I guess.”

The video cuts there, leaving you with silence and a sudden, overwhelming attraction to Akaashi Keiji.

Oh.

[showhay]

errors

akaashi keiji x f!reader

keiji would rewrite the dictionary just to make sure you never have to be wrong again.

wc: 1.7k c: reader has bad grammar.

grammar was, for akaashi keiji, a holy crusade. he lived his life by the sharp, uncompromising edges of a fountain pen. to him, a misplaced comma was a personal insult; a dangling modifier was a physical itch in the center of his brain that he could only scratch by leaning over and softly—but firmly—correcting the offender. he was the guy who would pause a high-stakes volleyball strategy meeting just to tell bokuto that he meant “fewer” mistakes, not “less” mistakes. it was a reflex. it was as natural to him as breathing or setting a perfect toss.

then there was you.

you were a walking, talking linguistic catastrophe. you spoke in a dizzying slurry of slang, half-finished thoughts, and sentences that often ended in a preposition just because it felt right in the moment. you used words like “thingamajig” when you couldn’t find a noun, and you had a habit of turning adjectives into verbs that definitely didn’t exist in any known dictionary.

and akaashi? he was absolutely, terrifyingly gone for it.

he watched you across the gym floor, his eyes tracking your every move with the intensity of a starving man watching a banquet. you were laughing at something konoha said, throwing your head back, your hair catching the fluorescent light in a way that made akaashi’s chest tighten until it actually hurt. he felt a desperate, clawing need to be the reason for that sound. he wanted to gather every botched syllable you ever uttered and store them in a silk-lined box inside his heart.

“hey, ‘kaashi! look at this!” bokuto barked, shoving a crumpled piece of paper under akaashi’s nose. it was a handwritten sign for the upcoming training camp. “everybody bring there own water bottles!!”

akaashi’s eye didn’t even twitch. usually, he would have reached for a red marker with the precision of a surgeon. but he saw you standing behind bokuto, nibbling on a pen cap, looking proud of the sign you’d clearly helped him write.

“it looks fine, bokuto,” akaashi said, his voice a low, melodic hum.

the gym went silent. konoha dropped a ball. sarukui froze mid-stretch. even washio looked up, blinking in confusion.

“fine?” bokuto yelled, his voice echoing off the rafters. “akaashi, you literally spent twenty minutes yesterday explaining the difference between ‘their,’ ‘there,’ and ‘they’re’ to me until i cried! you said it was ‘non-negotiable’! you said it was ‘a blight on the fukurōdani legacy’!”

akaashi didn’t look at him. he was busy watching you walk over, your shoes squeaking against the polished wood. “is something wrong?” you asked, tilting your head. “i thought the sign was pretty clear. we want ‘em to bring their stuff, right?”

“it’s perfect,” akaashi murmured. his gaze was heavy, dripping with a devotion so thick it was borderline intoxicating. he stepped closer to you, invading your personal space with a quiet, predatory grace that felt both protective and overwhelming. he reached out, his long, slender fingers hovering just inches from your shoulder before he pulled back, as if afraid he might accidentally crush something so precious. “it’s the most effective sign i’ve ever seen.”

“but the ‘there’—“ bokuto started, only to be silenced by a look from akaashi that could have withered a redwood forest. it wasn’t a glare; it was a cold, soul-piercing command to shut up before he was erased from the roster.

𓏵

later that afternoon, the team was huddled around the benches. you were telling a story about a dog you’d seen on the way to school.

“and then he just, like, runned right into the puddle!” you chirped, waving your hands around. “he was so happy, he didn’t even care that he was all muddy. he was the most happiest dog ever.”

akaashi was sitting on the bench next to you, his water bottle forgotten in his lap. he was staring at your lips with a hunger that was honestly a bit much for a tuesday. he looked like he wanted to inhale the air you were breathing.

“most happiest,” bokuto whispered, his voice cracking. he looked at akaashi, waiting for the correction. the “most” was redundant. “runned” wasn’t a word. the world was tilted on its axis. “akaashi... did you hear that? she said ‘runned’.”

akaashi turned his head slowly. his expression was serene, almost saintly, but there was a flicker of something like a silent warning that you were his personal sovereign, and your version of the japanese language was the only one that mattered.

“she expressed herself clearly, bokuto,” akaashi said, his voice like velvet over gravel. “the imagery was vivid. i could see the dog. can you not see the dog?”

“i see the dog! but the grammar is dying, akaashi! it’s screaming for help!” bokuto flailed his arms. “you told me last week that “anyways” wasn’t a word! you made me write “anyway” fifty times on the chalkboard!”

akaashi leaned toward you, his shoulder brushing yours. the contact sent a visible jolt through him, a tiny shiver of pure, unadulterated yearning. “ignore him,” he told you, his voice dropping to a private, intimate frequency. “i like the way you say things. it’s... innovative.”

you beamed at him, reaching out to pat his arm. “thanks, keiji! you’re always so supportive. i feel like i can talk to you about anything without feeling, like, stupider.”

akaashi’s heart didn’t just beat; it performed a violent, rhythmic ritual against his ribs. keiji. you called him keiji. he felt a desperate urge to fall to his knees and thank whatever cosmic force had put you in his path. he wanted to wrap himself around you like a shroud and keep the world from ever correcting a single breath you took. he would rewrite every textbook in the country if it meant you never had to feel “stupider.”

𓏵

the breaking point came during a study session in the library. the whole team was there, struggling through prep for midterms. the atmosphere was tense, filled with the scratching of pencils and bokuto’s occasional muffled sobs over math problems.

you were working on an essay for literature. you bit your lip, concentrating so hard a tiny stray hair fell over your eyes. before you could brush it away, akaashi’s hand was there. his touch was feather-light but lingering, his fingers tucking the strand behind your ear with a reverence usually reserved for ancient artifacts. he didn’t let go immediately, his thumb grazing your temple for a second too long.

“keiji,” you whispered, glancing at him. “how do you spell ‘definitely’? is it with an ‘a’?”

akaashi looked at your paper. you had written “definitly.”

“it’s perfect just as it is,” he lied. he, akaashi keiji, the man who owned four different editions of the kōjien dictionary, lied through his teeth without a hint of remorse. he would commit perjury for you. he would commit arson for you. a misspelling was nothing. “your handwriting is so beautiful, the spelling is secondary.”

bokuto, who had been eavesdropping with the intensity of a federal agent, finally snapped. he stood up, his chair screeching against the floor, drawing the attention of the entire library.

“THAT’S IT!” bokuto pointed a shaking finger at akaashi. “YOU’RE BROKEN! THE SYSTEM IS DOWN! YOU CORRECTED MY AMAZING MONOLOGUE YESTERDAY, BUT SHE JUST SPELLED A WORD WITHOUT HALF ITS VOWELS AND YOU CALLED IT BEAUTIFUL?!”

akaashi didn’t even flinch. he just looked up, his face a mask of calm, terrifying devotion. “lower your voice, bokuto. this is a library.”

“YOU LIKE HER WRONG WORDS, DON’T YOU?!” bokuto wailed, ignoring the librarian’s shush. “YOU’RE OBS—“

akaashi’s eyes snapped to bokuto, a predatory stillness settling over him. “choose your next word very carefully, bokuto.”

“YOU’RE DOWN BAD!” bokuto shouted instead, pivoting at the last second. “YOU’RE ABSOLUTELY WHIPPED! SHE COULD CALL A CAT A ‘FUR-FLAP’ AND YOU’D TRY TO GET IT ADDED TO THE ENCYCLOPEDIA!”

akaashi sighed, a long, weary sound, but his gaze immediately drifted back to you. the way he looked at you was almost scary—like you were the only source of oxygen in a room that was rapidly vacuuminizing. he reached over and took your hand under the table, his fingers interlacing with yours, squeezing with a desperate, grounding force. he needed to feel your pulse. he needed to know you were real and that you weren’t going to vanish.

“they’re hers,” akaashi said, his voice ringing with an terrifying, quiet finality that silenced the room. “so they’re right.”

the logic was circular, insane, and completely devoid of the intellectual rigor akaashi was known for. but as he sat there, holding your hand like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth, he didn’t care. he watched you blush, your cheeks heating up, and he felt a surge of possessive triumph.

“really?” you asked, your voice small and sweet. “you don’t think i’m, like, bad at talking?”

akaashi leaned in closer, until his nose was brushing yours, his breath warm against your skin. he was so close he could see the tiny flecks of color in your irises. he felt a frantic, gnawing hunger to just... keep you. to lock you in a room filled with books and soft pillows and just listen to you invent new, grammatically incorrect ways to tell him you loved him.

“you are the most eloquent person i have ever met,” he murmured, his voice thick with a sincerity that made your toes curl. “every time you speak, you improve the language. i wouldn’t change a single letter of you.”

you giggled, leaning your forehead against his. “you’re so sweet, keiji. i’m lucky i gots you.”

akaashi’s brain stalled at ‘gots.’ it was a linguistic nightmare. it was a crime against the foundations of education. it was the most beautiful thing he had ever heard in his entire life.

“yes,” akaashi whispered, his eyes closing as he inhaled the scent of your shampoo, a look of pure, delirious worship crossing his face. “you ‘gots’ me. forever.”

konoha leaned over to bokuto, who was still standing in the middle of the library aisle. “we should probably leave,” konoha whispered. “i think akaashi is about to start a cult where she’s the only deity, and i’m not ready for that kind of commitment.”

“i just want to know why i can’t say ‘ain’t,’” bokuto sniffled, defeated.

as the team shuffled out, akaashi didn’t even notice. he was too busy pulling out a fresh notebook, ready to transcribe every wonderful, mangled sentence that fell from your lips, archiving them like sacred texts because if you said it, it wasn’t just grammar—it was gospel.

n: i’m back with the not-so-subtle possessiveness, no one can stop me.

keiji’s taglist 1/2

@the-bloopsters @trulyylee @highandalive @nelinkythoughts @sleepykeijiii @averys-place @reverd-ck @sxnnee @anzuuhoshi @evilari111 @rabbitcola @nivabiva @s1lly-bon @miilsa @yeonette @forgottensniper @katzline @michexoxo @meonelixir @pelicanpizza @x3nafix @meikstv @depressinglyobsessed @buriedfifii @keiob @ghostwifeyy @bigdaddyyaoii @perpetuallydone @mptality @qardasngan @crystal-lilac @methiart @wensurr @alyriaschoenheit @rafsbeloved @suha-reads @sillylule @horanghaepaws @imjustanobody2024 @hibernatinghamster @olliesoxenfree @griffincorn @fiannee @snowstormsandavalanches @starzlytoetsie @ceramic-raven @nekoffie @eri0-0 @kuroofangirl67 @lov3shin

© showhay — don’t copy nor translate without my permission. i do not own any of the photos that i have used. credits to all the rightful owners !

iloveu

[undertheblanketwithyuu]

♯┆mundane things that lover boys do

ハイキュー!! various haikyuu.

[1]. covers the corner of furnitures with his hand

it has become an instinct.

he remembers the first time that you complained to him about the random bruises on your arms and legs. at first he thought you're sick and insisted on getting you checked to make sure, until he started noticing your lack of spatial awareness.

the man is certain that clumsiness is your second nature. every where you go, you would make contact with random objects: a pole, the table, chair, even trip on your own foot before brushing it off like nothing happened because you've gotten used to it.

so this guy made it sure to look after you, especially with your tendency to turn off your brain whenever he's around.

every where you go, his hand will always baby proof anything. the table, the cupboard door, the kitchen counter—anything that you could hit your head on while you're busy doing something else is already covered by his large hands.

"i'm sure you'll always have a concussion if i'm not around."

asahi, tsukishima, AKAASHI, semi, SAKUSA, aran, KITA, konoha, IWAIZUMI, matsukawa, osamu, DAICHI

[2]. ties your shoelaces

he doesn't care about who sees him do it, he will kneel on the ground just to tie your shoelaces.

his teammates would always tease him about it but the man will simply smile at it with hearts in his eyes. to him, it's important to show his love and care for you even in the smallest of things like securing the laces of your shoes.

it never failed to make you smile. there was a time that you even had to fight him because you're running late, but he kept refusing to let you tie it yourself. even when he's carrying a lot of things, he won't hesitate to drop it all the moment he sees the loose strings on your shoes.

and just to make it more romantic, he will always plant a kiss on your knee. chaste, sweet, light. but definitely enough to remind you that you are loved even in the simplest way.

"i don't want you bending down to fix your laces when the man should be the one on his knees."

TANAKA, kuroo, HANAMAKI, konoha, osamu, daichi, USHIJIMA, tendō

[3]. carries hair tie on his wrist

the moment you became his, he decided that the world needs to know.

to him, it's dual-purpose. you get a hair tie whenever you need it, he gets to let everyone know that he's a taken man now. it's a win-win situation.

not that you're complaining. after all, it's no secret that your boyfriend is a handsome man and a highly skilled athlete. his fans are always around, screaming his name and blushing at the sight of him. and although you trust him, sometimes it's nice to take pride in how he parades your ownership of him publicly.

the man is well within the comfort of his masculinity. he believes that having a pink scrunchie on his wrist is nothing to get worried about especially if it's for you. plus, he's starting to get tired of the girls trying to get his attention as if they're worthy of him. a little something to shut them up would be nice.

"ah, don't mind them. i'm already owned."

OIKAWA, ATSUMU, HINATA, SUNA, KUROO, BOKUTO

[4]. takes your bag without offering

it became an unspoken agreement: wherever you go, he will carry your bag. you don't ask him for help, he doesn't ask if you need it.

the first time it happened was during a hectic exams week in high school. even before you started dating, he's already aware of how conscious you are of your studies so whenever exams are approaching, it's expected that you would drown yourself in textbooks and notes until the week passes.

so when you wordlessly gave your bag to him after a tiring finals week, he didn't say anything and just slung it over his shoulder before walking you home while listening to you blabber on about your day.

since then, it became the norm between the two of you. whenever he would pick you up from your work or class, he will take your bag and you will give it without a question.

"i can't carry your burden with me, but i can carry your bag for you."

KYOTANI, hanamaki, matsukawa, IWAIZUMI, kunimi, AKAASHI, semi, tendō, KONOHA, KAGEYAMA, nishinoya

[5]. stocks up with your favorite snacks and necessities

it took him until your third sleepover to realize that you need to have your own things in his house.

every time you come over, you'd always carry a backpack with toiletries and your skin care and to him, it's such a hassle. so he made it a goal to do some grocery shopping for you.

with much effort, he tried to remember the moisturizer brand that you use, even your favorite hair mask and lotion. this guy made a list of everything he thinks you will need whenever you're coming over to stay the night. he wants you to have as little belongings to carry as possible.

you couldn't believe it when you saw his bathroom the first time that he did it. from makeup wipes to face masks, from sanitary pads to body wash, it's all there. you cackled at the sight but your boyfriend simply shrugged as if it's the most normal thing to do.

"what? i'm getting ready for when we start living together."

kenma, SHIRABU, YAKU, sugawara, yamaguchi, daichi, SAKUSA, IWAIZUMI, aran, AKAASHI, kita, semi

[shoyosun]

a snowflake falls on the tip of your nose, and he says "i think i love you"

you and akaashi were best friends since high school, or at least is what you two kept saying.

best friends who hold hands in the middle of the street, best friends who cuddles in front of a tv show, best friends who leave kisses on the forehead every time they say see you tomorrow.

you were his certainty, the person who knows everything about him, everything that comes into his mind and from heart.

but he kept pretending. too scared to lose what you two had.

and now, in the middle of a skating rink, hand in hand, he's looking at you almost in awe, tealish eyes roaming over your features.

"is everything okay?" you asked, stopping in your tracks on the ice, after you noticed he slowed down.

and he's looking at you like this, like you were the only thing in the whole world.

something snapped into him.

you were the most important person, and you were always been. and he just realized he was scared to lose you, not only your friendship per se. you. in his life. so why keep lying to himself?

"i think i love you" he says as a statement.

you look instensely at him, lips parted, lost into his pretty features, trying to find any hint of joke.

he takes your hands and start to skate with you, slowly, all around the rink.

he hold your gaze, and a little soft smile forms on his lips.

and so you know, how true he is about it.

how he has always cared about you, and you only. how he has always left everything whenever you needed him. how he has always gently touched you, like you were the most precious thing.

how he has always loved you.

okay i'm not sure about this but HABDKHWJ since it's snowing i had this scene in mind

also feel free to ask for other fics or hcs!!✨

[sunlightbuck]

how your post finds me