Not Playing Games | H. Suo x Reader
---
For this pretty over here
---
15.) "I said don’t move!" "You’re the one straddling me.”
Prompts
---
Warning(s): I tried
Important Warning: I really did
---
The game pieces were long forgotten.
What began as a casual night of board games in your room had turned into a quiet war of wills. You were cross-legged on the floor, the carpet warm under your thighs, frustration prickling at your skin as you glared at the boy across from you.
Hayato Suo sat with his knees bent, one long arm resting casually over his thigh, the other holding a cup of tea he hadn't touched in ten minutes. He was watching you—no, studying you—with that infuriating calmness that made your heart do things it had no right to do.
"You moved my token," you accused.
He blinked, tilting his head slightly. "I don’t recall."
“I watched you,” you said, voice rising. “When I blinked. You leaned forward and—”
“You must be imagining things,” he said smoothly, setting the cup down. “You’ve been staring at me all night.”
You scowled. “Because I was trying to catch you cheating.”
He hummed thoughtfully. “Or maybe you were just distracted.”
By what, exactly?
His perfectly calm posture? The way his long fingers toyed with his sleeve cuffs, or how the soft fabric of his charcoal-gray shirt clung to his lean frame? Maybe it was the way his single visible eye stayed locked on yours, unblinking, like he was reading every thought you weren’t brave enough to say out loud.
“You’re ridiculous,” you said flatly.
“And yet you’re still losing,” he replied with a faint smile.
That did it.
With a growl, you lunged across the board. It was supposed to be a light shove, a playful tackle in revenge. But Suo shifted at the last second, catching you with a quiet “careful,” and then the world tilted. You found yourself straddling him, both hands braced against his chest, your legs locked around his waist.
Time froze.
Suo didn’t move, didn’t blink. Just laid there on your carpet like this was normal, like you weren’t currently sitting on his lap with your knees pressed into his sides.
The only thing worse than your own panic was the way he looked at you.
Calm. Steady. Slightly amused.
And his hand—his very large, warm hand—had come to rest on your thigh, anchoring you there like it was nothing.
“…This doesn’t count as cheating,” you blurted.
“No,” he said, smiling slowly, “but it’s definitely breaking the rules.”
Your face went hot. “Get off me.”
“I believe you’re the one on top,” he murmured.
You stared down at him, breath uneven. You hated how easily he could do this. How he can rattle you, shake you with just a look, a comment, a damn touch. He was the storm and the stillness before it, and you never stood a chance. You could feel him shifting, his hands wandering a little.
“Suo,” you warned, leaning down a little, “don’t move.”
“Why?” he asked, eyes glittering. “You’re afraid of what’ll happen if I do?”
“Yes,” you snapped.
And then he moved.
Just his hips, just a little. Barely an inch.
But it was enough.
Your body swayed with the shift, and your palms slid down his chest to catch yourself—and that was when you felt it. The subtle tension in his abdomen, the heat between your bodies, the unspoken something simmering just beneath the surface of this moment.
His fingers pressed gently into your thigh, a quiet reminder that he could hold you here as long as he wanted.
You swallowed.
And said, shakily, “I said don’t move.”
His smile widened, calm and devastating. His voice dropped just enough to scrape along your nerves.
“You’re the one straddling me.”
You nearly choked on air.
“I—you—”
He lifted himself onto his elbows, bringing his face even closer to yours. His breath brushed against your lips, his tone maddeningly soft.
“You going to tell me to stop?”
You hated him. You hated the way your heart betrayed you when he looked at you like that. Like you were something precious. Like he meant every word, even when it was wrapped in teasing.
You tried to steel yourself. “This is all just a game to you.”
His gaze darkened. “No. Not this.”
Your heartbeat stuttered.
He reached up slowly and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, fingers trailing along your cheek with disarming gentleness.
“I flirt, I tease. But when it comes to you, I don’t play.”
You stared at him, trying to find the lie, the joke, the thing that would let you run from this.
But there was none.
Just his honesty. Quiet. Certain. Raw.
“I’ve always loved you,” he said, voice like velvet and thunder. “And I think part of you knows that. You just keep pretending it isn’t real because you’re scared.”
“I’m not scared,” you whispered.
His thumb brushed your lower lip. “Then kiss me like you mean it.”
You hesitated.
Just for a second.
Then you leaned in.
And kissed him.
It started uncertain. Your lips barely pressed to his. But Suo didn’t give you space to doubt. His arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you down against him, deepening the kiss with a hunger you hadn’t seen in him before.
His mouth was warm, confident, possessive. He kissed like he had time, like he’d been waiting, like he was afraid you’d vanish if he didn’t memorize every part of you.
Your hands slid into his hair, tugging gently. He groaned into your mouth and rolled his hips, not enough to scare you, but to remind you who had the upper hand.
“You still pretending this isn’t real?” he breathed against your lips.
You shook your head. “No.”
“Good,” he whispered. “Because I’m not letting you go.”
You kissed him again, harder this time. His hands moved under your shirt, fingertips grazing up your back, mapping the curve of your spine. Every touch was reverent, like he was learning you by heart.
And then, he pulled away, just far enough to look you in the eye.
“You’re mine,” he said quietly. “Say it.”
You trembled, breath shaking. “I’m yours.”
His smile was unlike any you’d seen before. Soft and raw and utterly undone.
“Again.”
“I’m yours.”
He sat up fully, keeping you in his lap, and brought your foreheads together, both of you panting.
“You’ve always been,” he said. “Even when you pretended not to notice.”
“I noticed,” you whispered, nuzzling against him. “I just didn’t know what to do with it.”
He chuckled, and kissed the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, then your neck. “Let me show you.”
And he did.
Slowly, carefully—never rushing, never pushing, but always close, always there. Every kiss. Every touch. Every breath.
Hayato Suo was calm, elegant, gentlemanly to a fault.
But when it came to loving you?
He was ruthless.
---
A/N: Gentleman? Sure... sure...
---
