it’s mid october and the japan air finally feels amazing. no more madrid furnace trying to cook you alive, just crisp wind, ginkgo leaves turning that beautiful gold, and the smell of yakitori drifting from every alley.
you’re standing in your parents kitchen in kangawa, barefoot, wearing one of sae’s old hoodies that still smells faintly like his cologne and baby spit up.
peach is in your arms, sucking on your fingers, drooling all over you.
your mom is at the stove making food and humming off key. your dad is on the living room floor letting the cat crawl all over him while some old drama plays at low volume.
home.
you didn’t know how bad you missed it until the jet lag wore off and you cried in the shower the first morning because the water pressure here just hits different.
sae pads in from the room, hair messy from the nap he pretended he wasn’t taking, he hasn’t bothered gelling it since the plane. his schedule loosened up at the beginning of october—fewer matches, more recovery days, some sponsorship stuff he can do remotely.
so he actually agreed to a couple weeks here without complaining (much).
“he’s hungry” he says, nodding toward the baby, your finger caught between his gums
“just look at him,” you murmur. “future striker, jaw’s already strong.” you bounce peach lightly, earning a delighted coo as his tiny legs kick.
sae steps close, slides a hand under peach’s butt to take the weight off. the baby immediately lets go of your finger, grabs a fistful of sae’s shirt, and tries to stuff it in his mouth instead.
“cannibal,” sae mutters, but lets him chew on the fabric anyway. he looks at you, eyes doing that thing where they go a little less cold. “you’re smiling like an idiot.”
“because i’m home, sae. real home. i can hear the wind outside, the lady next door yelling at her cat. it’s perfect.” you tilt your head onto his free arm. “i missed this so much i could cry again.”
“you already cried. twice. once in the shower, once at the store when you saw they still sell that chocolate milk you liked when you were younger.”
“shut up, it was hormonal.”
your mom turns around, wooden spoon in hand. “sae-kun, sit. food’s almost ready. and take that hoodie off the baby, he’s sweating.”
sae glances down—peach is indeed a small furnace and peels the hoodie off him in one smooth move. under it, haru’s wearing the cutest “i love mommy” onesie.
dinner is chaos in the way only family dinners can be:
too many dishes.
too much rice.
your dad asking sae about his soccer season even though he’s balancing a sleeping baby against his chest & trying to eat, your mom piling seconds onto your plate because “you’re still too thin after giving birth—look at your wrists!” peach wakes up halfway through, furious and loud, demanding milk. he gets passed to you under the table like contraband, a bottle passed into your hand while you keep eating with the other.
sae watches the whole circus with his usual blank face but his foot is hooked around your ankle under the table.
later, the house is finally quiet, you’re sit on the back engawa with the sliding door cracked open. october night air smells like wet leaves, it's so quiet compared to madrid. no car horns, no tourists yelling, just cicadas and the occasional train in the distance
sae's sprawled on his back beside you, one arm flung over his eyes, the other resting on your thigh.
peach is passed out in the portable crib inside, cheeks flushed, tiny fists curled by his face. he makes a tiny noise in his sleep and you both freeze like someone pulled a grenade pin. when he just smacks his lips and settles again, sae exhales through his nose.
"he slept six hours straight last night," you whisper, still scared to jinx it. "six. i woke up in a panic thinking he died."
"he didn't die. he just finally figured out nighttime is for sleeping. took him long enough."
you nudge sae's leg with your foot. "says the guy who can sleep through a full eight hours on a turbulent flight sitting straight up."
"discipline."
"freak of nature."
your mom slides the shoji open, balancing a tray with tea and sliced apricots. she's been in heaven since you landed, always making sure you’re fed, taking roughly eight hundred photos of peach a day.
"you two eat," she orders, setting the tray down. "sae-kun, you lost weight again. european portions are too small."
sae sits up, takes the glass with both hands (polite boy when he wants to be), and murmurs, "thank you."
the door slides shut again. silence falls, just cicadas and wind chimes.
you lean back on your palms, staring up at the slice of sky you can see between the houses. “i forgot how many stars you can actually see here. madrid’s too bright.”
sae’s beside you, elbow on his knee, chin in his hand. “you wanna stay longer?”
you turn your head. “you’d be okay with that?”
he shrugs, eyes on the sky. “schedule’s light till january camp. and you light up here. it’s annoying how obvious it is.”
you lean your head on sae's shoulder. "i miss this place so much when we're gone. like... my soul misses it. madrid's beautiful but it's not home, you know?"
“we can stay till after new year’s,” he says, voice low. “if you want.”
your heart does that annoying floppy thing. “are you going soft on me?"
sae hums, hands sliding up your back. “so. till new year’s?”
you nod, pressing your face into his neck. “mhm, thank you.”
he just tightens his arms and lets the quiet stretch, cicadas and distant trains and peach’s soft baby snores through the open door.
home, for a little while longer.
a week later and you’ve migrated from your parents house to the itoshi family home in kamakura, because sae’s mom called him three times in two days going “bring my grandson here or i’ll die” and sae, for all his coldness, actually folded.
the house is exactly what you expected: spotless, modern, windows overlooking the sea, everything in cool tones of gray and white. peach is now twelve weeks old, fat as a little dumpling, and has started smiling real smiles that make you want to fling yourself into the sun. every time you look at him you understand why old ladies in the supermarket keep stopping you to squeal.
sae’s mom greets you at the door with the softest hug, like she’s afraid she’ll break haru, then immediately takes him from your arms and starts crying because “he has rin’s baby cheeks but sae’s eyes, oh my god.”
“welcome home, sae. oh my goodness look at these cheeks i’m going to eat him—”
she’s already halfway down the hallway, haru giggling like he’s known her his whole life. traitor.
sae’s dad is in the entryway, gives you a polite bow and a quiet “welcome back,” then takes both your suitcases without asking because that’s the kind of man he is.
and then there’s rin.
he’s standing awkwardly at the foot of the stairs in a black hoodie, arms crossed, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else on planet earth. his hair’s longer than the last time you saw him, falling into his lashes, and he’s taller too somehow, but the expression is the same:
resting bitch face.
sae walks past him without a word.
rin’s eyes flick to you, then to the empty space where haru was, then back to you.
“…the baby’s real,” he says, like he’s confirming a rumor.
“yeah, genius. his name is haru. peach for short because he’s edible.”
rin blinks, deadpan. “peach.”
“don’t start.”
sae’s mom comes back with haru now dressed in a tiny yukata onesie she definitely bought the second she heard you were coming. peach is gnawing on his fist and drooling everywhere, living his best life.
“rin! come hold your nephew!”
rin looks like he’s been sentenced to death.
sae drops onto the couch, legs stretched out, and pats the spot next to him. you collapse there instantly because your lower back is still hurting like a bitch.
rin shuffles over, hands shoved deep in his pockets. “i don’t… do babies.”
“you do now,” sae says flatly.
his mom literally places haru in rin’s arms before he can escape. rin freezes, elbows locked, holding peach out like he’s a live grenade.
“support the head—” you start.
“i know,” rin snaps, but adjusts immediately, cradling haru closer.
peach blinks up at him with those big teal eyes—exact copies of sae’s and rin’s and then does the most diabolical thing possible: he smiles. full gummy, drooly, right at rin.
rin’s face does something complicated. his ears go red. he looks away so fast he almost gives himself whiplash.
“he’s… small,” rin mutters.
“yeah, they start that way,” you say, trying not to laugh.
sae’s watching the whole thing. “don’t drop him. he’s the only spare i’m making.”
rin glares at him. “i’m not going to be the better uncle anyway.”
“there’s no competition. there’s only you.”
“exactly.”
peach chooses that moment to grab a fistful of rin’s hair and yank. rin makes a noise you’ve never heard from him before and haru squeals in delight, kicking his little legs.
sae’s mom is openly crying again. his dad is filming on his phone. you’re wheezing into sae’s shoulder.
later that night, after dinner you’re all in the living room. peach is having his nightly scream fest because he’s overtired and overstimulated from all the new people. you’re bouncing him, pacing, shushing, the whole routine.
rin watches from the doorway for a solid ten minutes before walking over and holding out his arms.
“give him here.”
you’re too tired to argue. you hand peach over.
rin starts walking in slow circles, one hand under haru’s butt, the other supporting his back, murmuring the most random shit under his breath.
“you’re going to be faster than your dad… gonna have a better left foot… we’ll work on your first touch when you can walk…”
peach quiets almost instantly, tiny face smushed against rin’s chest, eyes drooping.
you and sae both stare.
sae’s voice is dry. “show off.”
rin doesn’t even look up. “he likes me better.”
“he likes your heartbeat. it’s the same as mine.”
“cope.”
you lean into sae’s side, grinning so hard your face hurts. “he’s keeping him.”
sae grunts. “over my dead body.”
but when rin finally hands haru back—peach is completely knocked out, mouth open, drooling on rin’s hoodie
sae’s expression is softer than you’ve ever seen it. he takes the baby carefully, settles him against his own chest, and looks at rin.
“you can hold him again tomorrow.”
rin scoffs, but you catch the tiny curve at the corner of his mouth before he turns away. “whatever. he’s… not bad.”
that’s rin-speak for i would die for this child.
that night in the guest room, peach asleep in the travel crib, you’re curled against sae under the heavy duvet. the window’s cracked open and you can hear the ocean.
“your brother’s in love,” you whisper.
sae’s hand finds your waist, pulls you closer. “he’s always wanted to beat me at something. now he’s trying to steal my kid.”
“he can try. peach is a mama’s boy.”
sae hums, lips against your temple. “and apparently and uncle’s boy.” he sighs, but his arms tighten around you.
outside, waves fall and rise again, over and over.
inside, your little family of three (plus one new uncle) is finally, perfectly whole.
You've gotten to used to walking home with Bachira, and to any other places he can tag along to. No matter how much you try to dissuade him and tell him there's no need, he loves to butt his head in your personal affairs and join you when you run errands like they're his side quests.
It still baffles you, how much he insists to be in your space. You wonder if he just likes walking around and seeing the world, since you're not that interesting to be with anyway.
At least that's what you think, given you keep you thoughts to yourself whenever you hang out. Despite his requests to accompany you everywhere, there's no way he finds your silence entertaining.
He's more than happy to fill in the quiet, taking the lead in conversations whenever you don't (so 90 percent of the time). Though there are moments you're both more focused on your surroundings, no words exchanged as you weave through the crowds.
Today, it's the same, a particularly windy weather rocking the tree branches and stealing your attention. The yellow leaves sway almost eagerly with the breeze, a tiny smile making its way to your lips. "...That tree looks like it's saying hi to us."
You utter the words so quietly, you don't even notice they left you. Bachira does, though, turning to you in curiosity. "What did you say?"
You suddenly feel self-concious, already shaking your head. "Um, you know. It's pretty windy, so it looks like the tree's waving at us."
Bachira stares at you with his bright, wide eyes, and for a moment you think of changing the topic to move past from the silly comment. But he looks back and forth between you and the tree, before smiling widely. "You're right! We need to wave back."
A laugh of disbelief escapes you, "It's just the wind, Bachira. The trees won't be offended if we walk past."
"But that would be rude to ignore them! Come on, let's do it now!"
Bachira makes you lift your hand with his, the two of you waving animatedly. "Hi, Mr. tree! Hello, Mrs. Tree! It's a lovely day, isn't it?"
"How do you know which are male and which are female?"
"I just know. Trust my judgement, I'm a nature expert!"
You can't help but giggle, not questioning him further.
The two of you wave to every tree you find in your way that afternoon.
❀˖ °
Another day, you're heading to the store together and notice an ice cream shop. Bachira comments something animatedly, swinging your joined hands. He always seems to want to hold your hand while you walk, and you allow him so you can keep an eye on him and stop him from running off in random directions. This time, however, you're barely listening, your pace slowing down while you stare at a cone being handed over to a child.
You sigh softly, muttering, "It's not even that good..." under your breath. And though you were thinking out loud, Bachira still listens.
"You don't like ice cream?" He asks, sorta pouting like he's waiting for you to confirm it to disagree. You shift your weight, hesitating, before responding. "It's not that... They don't make it the same way anymore."
A beat passes, before you bactrack. "I mean, it's not that deep. It's still good, but it's not the same. Does that makes sense? Forget it. We can get some if you want to."
"No, I get it." He sympathizes, to your surprise. "Some of the flavors are not the same I had when I was a kid. It sucks."
Your head lifts immediately, "Yeah! That's what I mean. The new ones are good too, but sometimes I'm craving the same flavor of ice cream I had once about ten years ago with my piggy bank money."
He laughs, "That's very specific."
"But I mean it, really. I remembered the name, but when I had it again the taste was wildly different. Some of the ice cream I used to get would have bits of fruits depending on what you got, but now you have to pay extra for it. How do I know they're making it with real food? It's hard to tell."
"That's why I sometimes prefer to just have things at home. My mom would probably make some good homemade ice cream. Actually, wanna ask her?"
"Bachira! I can't bother your mom with such a thing."
He tugs at your hand, giggling, "Come on, she'd love you. We'd help her too, she wouldn't mind!"
You hesitate some more, but his friendliness melts you. Nodding meekly, "Okay... we can try that someday."
"Yay! You'll see, maybe we'll recreate what you had as a kid."
You shake your head, laughing, "Whatever you say."
But you're already looking forward to it.
❀˖ °
Sometimes, you and Bachira get together after a long day of being busy with your own stuff. Tonight, he texted asking if you were nearby, and now you're having instant noodles in a random 7-eleven. Quiet reigns while you two remain focused on your cups, until Bachira notices you've been spacing out for a minute.
He nudges your shoulder with his, catching your attention. Leaning closer, he whispers, "You look like you're thinking something fun again."
Your eyes widen, profusely shaking your head. It's only happened a few times, yet you swear he's been paying more attention to you ever since. He never pushes you to say anything, and that won't change now. But under his relentless curiosity, you give up and whisper, "That senior lady would rock a short haircut."
Bachira snickers immediately, earning him a light slap on the arm from you. "Don't laugh, I meant it in a good way!"
"She'd look like Ellen. That's a rude thing to say!"
"Well, I was thinking of a bob cut, not a pixie!"
Bachira keeps giggling, making you sigh. You take another look at the elder woman, and after the mental image Bachira placed in your head, your burst into laughter as well.
"Gosh, you're so mean," You mutter, covering your mouth to muffle your chuckling.
"Come on, you saw the vision too." Bachira grins, before leaning close again. "Look at the cat with her, now. Doesn't it look familiar?"
You calm down enough to look over, analysing. "...Wait. That fat cat from Big Hero 6?"
"Yeah, Mochi!" Bachira holds onto your arm, "I want to pet it. Let's go over!"
"We were just laughing at her expense..."
"But she doesn't know. Come on!"
Once again, you get dragged along by Bachira, this time to talk to the older lady.
You were ashamed as hell at first, but she did let you two pet her cat. The noodles you left in the cup were cold when you remembered them, but it was worth it.
Before leaving the store, Bachira stops you, pointing at a maneki-neko with a waving paw sitting on top of the counter. "Wait, we have to say goodbye first!"
And given you waved at trees together once, it doesn't feel weird this time around.
❀˖ °
After that, you've started talking to him way more often.
Pointing at every little thing, only for him to double down each time and continue the conversation.
"There's an unusual amount of ants in the area." "Wanna investigate what brought them here?"
"...Have you ever seen a cow swimming?" "No. let's look it up!"
"Look at that tit." "Excuse me...?!" "The bird, that's how they're called!" "No one calls them that!"
"Do you think a kiwi and passionfruit smoothie would taste nice?" "I think I've made something like that with my mom before. You should come home and make more stuff with us someday!"
When you're not yapping about random stuff, you're people watching while you walk, trying to guess what strangers do with their lives. The amount of times you've gone from 'hippie working at a laundromat' to 'international spy stealing secrets form the government' is concerning. It never gets old (despite your newly acquired paranoia).
Sometimes it's nice to sit down in a bench when you've walked a while, though laying down in green areas is your favored choice. Like now, feeling the park's grass against your skin while you watch the clouds. You keep spotting the most random things in them, exhaustion filtering from your body.
You exhale softly, lost in thought. There are still moments of quiet between you two, that hasn't changed. Your eyes slowly dart towards Bachira's face, and he catches you staring. And though you look away swiftly, once again, he notices.
"Penny for your thoughts?" He asks lightheartedly, as usual.
And before you can talk yourself out of it, you whisper, "...Thank you for listening to me."
Bachira processes your words for a second, before chuckling lightly. "You don't have to thank me. It's always fun to talk to you!"
You suppress the urge to roll your eyes, smiling thinly. "Well, it's because you always know what to say. If you didn't reply with something fun each time, the conversation would die and it'd be nothing but a boring moment."
"What? No..." He retorts, his usual smile tinged with a certain sadness. He rolls over to his side, taking your hand and pushing gently to make you do the same. You follow suit, now facing him directly. Once he's sure you're looking at him, he resumes speaking.
"It's nice to hear you talk, I love everything you say. Sometimes you think of things I would never have thought of, and that doesn't happen every day!" He laughs to himself. "I love talking, but I like it more when you do it instead. So never stop in my account, okay?"
It takes you a moment to fully take in his words, emotion overwhelming you and leaving you speechless for a moment. You can't conjure up anything to say, giving him a nod and hoping that'll do the trick.
Bachira giggles once more, and god, his laughter has always been contagious. Holding your hand from force of habit, he looks back at the sky, while you actively fight the awe in your chest.
You've never felt so seen, not in such a pure way. However, when it comes to Bachira... It's always been his nature to treat you this way.
It makes you realize, maybe you've underestimated yourself. There's an ache that comes with that realization, but it melts into something fond the more you get used to it.
You take a deep breath, focusing in your environment again. His palm's warm where it rests on top of yours, grounding you until you follow his gaze to the sky.
"Hey Megs..." You break the silence, and immediately after you feel his gaze on you.
"Yeah?" He asks softly, waiting patiently.
"So, I haven't watched the movies in years, but maybe you have..." He's already grinning. "...If you were to write the script for a sixth Descendants movie, what would you make it about?"
Bachira sits up abruptly, beaming in excitement. "Actually, I have a lot to say."
You mirror his movement, sitting up as well.
The melody of his voice fills the air around you again, while you prepare to give your commentary.
And while the park's always been relaxing, now you know it's Bachira that's always made you feel lighter.
❀ notes: happy bday bachi! of course i had to fish a random bachira idea from my notes to post today (it's still 8/8 here leave me alone). did you know today's also international cat day? that's a pretty cute coincidence imo. this post is my no. 69 which is pretty funny because im immature. i need someone like him in my life y'all, this got me emotional 😕🤍
The clock hits midnight and your phone lights up with his name. No greeting. No hey. Just a location pin or, more often, the low growl of an engine idling outside your building. You don’t change. You don’t even put on shoes half the time.
You lock the door behind you, slide into the passenger seat of whatever sleek black car he’s driving that week, and the second the door shuts he’s already pulling away from the curb like the city belongs to him.
Kaiser doesn’t look at you right away. One hand on the wheel, the other finds your thigh without asking—palm warm and possessive, fingers spreading just enough to remind you whose skin this is for the next few hours.
The drive is silent except for the low music and the occasional brush of his thumb against the soft skin of your inner thigh. By the time you reach whatever hotel or empty apartment he’s chosen, your pulse is already between your legs.
That’s how it works between you.
No labels. No mornings after that last longer than a cigarette. No soft questions about what any of this means. The second you try—when you’re still shaking and full of him and the sheets are a wreck and you whisper something stupid like what are we even doing—he shuts it down so fast it leaves a bruise. A sharp, almost fond laugh. A kiss that tastes like dismissal. “Don’t ruin it,” he murmurs against your mouth, and then he’s already reaching for his clothes.
You tell yourself you’ll stop answering.
Weeks go by. Silence so complete it starts to feel permanent. You see him in grainy paparazzi shots outside clubs, arm slung around some other girl’s shoulders, that same arrogant half-smile he wears when he knows cameras are watching.
You delete his number once. Twice. Then you put it back because the alternative is worse—because your body still remembers the exact way he fucks into you like he’s trying to leave a permanent mark, because some pathetic part of you still waits for the knock that might never come.
And then, without warning, he’s there again.
Tonight it’s the knock on your door instead of a text. You’re still in the same oversized shirt you slept in, hair a mess, when you open it and find him leaning against the frame like he owns the threshold. Jacket still on, ice blue eyes already dark with intent. That tattoo on the side of his neck half-hidden by the collar of his shirt, the ink dark and sharp against pale skin.
He steps inside without waiting for an invitation. The door clicks shut behind him. The coat comes off in one smooth motion—expensive wool sliding from those broad shoulders—and he drops it over the back of your chair like he’s done it a hundred times.
You don’t move.
“I’ve heard you’ve been out with some other girl,” you say. The words come out quieter than you meant them to.
Kaiser’s mouth curves, slow and completely unapologetic. He steps closer until the space between you disappears, until you can smell his cologne and the faint trace of cigarette smoke that isn’t yours. His hand finds your jaw, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth like he’s already decided how this ends.
“What you heard is true,” he says, voice low, almost conversational. “But I can’t stop thinking about you.”
The admission sits heavy between you. It shouldn’t mean anything, it never does, and yet your chest still aches.
His mouth finds yours like he’s been starving for it. There’s nothing soft in the way he kisses you—only heat, desire, and the kind of desperation he would never admit to out loud.
His hands are already under the hem of your shirt, palms sliding over bare skin, mapping every place he’s touched before. You arch into him without thinking, and the soft sound you make against his mouth makes him laugh, low and rough.
“Missed this,” he murmurs against your throat, teeth grazing the spot that always makes your knees weaken. “I Missed how wet you get the second I touch you.”
Clothes disappear in pieces. Your shirt hits the floor. His follows, and the full canvas of him is revealed under the low light—broad shoulders, the cut of his abs, the heavy length of his cock already hard and straining.
The blue rose on his neck sits high and proud, petals sharp and inked deep. His tattoo sprawl across his shoulder and arm: intricate black chain-like thorny stems and vines that wind over his arm, curl around his biceps, and trail down toward his hand. You’ve traced them with your tongue more times than you can count. They look even darker against the flush rising on his skin now.
He lifts you like you weigh nothing, carries you the short distance to the bed, and lays you down with a care that feels almost cruel next to everything else.
But he doesn’t settle between your thighs right away.
Instead he kisses down your body—slow, open-mouthed, lingering on the soft underside of your breasts, the dip of your stomach, the sensitive skin just above your hip bones. His hands push your thighs apart with practiced ease, and the second he looks down at you, already glistening for him, something dark and hungry flashes across his face.
“Fuck,” he breathes, almost to himself. “This. This is my favorite thing in the entire fucking world.”
Then his mouth is on you.
Kaiser eats you out like he’s been craving it for weeks—because he has. There’s no hesitation, no teasing first. He flattens his tongue and drags it from your entrance all the way up to your clit in one long, filthy stroke, then does it again, and again, until your hips are already twitching.
He groans against you like the taste of you is better than anything else he’s had lately, the vibration making you gasp. The tattoos on his arm and hand flex as he holds your thighs open wide, the ink shifting with every movement of muscle.
“Shit—” It slips out of you on a shaky breath the second his tongue presses flat against your clit. “Oh my god…”
His hands hold your thighs open wide, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh as he settles in properly. He sucks your clit between his lips, tongue flicking in tight, relentless circles while he watches your face from between your legs.
Every time you try to close your thighs he just tightens his grip and goes harder—lapping at you, tongue pushing inside you, then dragging back up to suck on your clit like he’s trying to pull another sound out of you. That blue rose on his neck fully visible now, moving with every flex of his throat as he works.
“Missed how you taste,” he murmurs against your soaked cunt, voice rough and almost reverent. “Missed how fucking wet you get for me. Look at this—shit—already dripping down my chin.”
“Mmmm—Don’t stop,” you whisper, fingers already tightening in his hair. “Fuck—please, that feels so good”
He dives back in, messier now, more desperate. Two fingers slide into you without warning, curling deep while his mouth stays locked on your clit, sucking and licking in time with the thrust of his hand.
Every time he pulls his fingers almost all the way out, your slick follows—thick and glossy, sliding down the length of them in a slow, shameless trail. Kaiser’s eyes drop to watch it happen. He watches as it runs over his knuckles and down his hand, the clear wetness catching the light as it coats the sharp inked points.
His tongue slows for just a second, something almost possessive flickering across his face at the sight of you marking him like that. Then he pushes the fingers back in deeper, twisting them, and goes back to sucking on your clit like the interruption never happened.
The wet sounds are obscene. You’re already shaking, thighs trembling around his head, fingers tangled in his blue-and-blonde hair as he works you open like he has all the time in the world and nowhere else he’d rather be. Your nails scrape over the ink on his shoulder, tracing the lines you’ve memorized by now.
“Feels so good,” you breathe, voice breaking. “You’re gonna make me come—please—”
He doesn’t stop when you start to get close. If anything he doubles down—his tongue starting faster, fingers deeper, the occasional soft scrape of teeth that makes your back arch off the bed.
When you come it’s with a broken cry, hips jerking against his mouth as he keeps licking you through it, drinking every pulse of your orgasm like he’s starved for it. Only when you’re twitching and oversensitive does he finally pull back, lips shiny, chin wet, eyes dark with pure satisfaction. A strand your wetness glistening on the edge of his tattoo on his throat.
“Best fucking thing,” he says, voice low and wrecked as he crawls up your body. “Could stay down there for hours and still not get enough.”
Then he’s kissing you, letting you taste yourself on his tongue while he lines himself up. Instead of pushing in right away, he takes the swollen head of his cock and drags it slowly over your clit, smearing the thick bead of precum that has gathered there in lazy, deliberate circles. The wet heat of it makes your hips twitch. He does it again, and again, coating you in himself until your clit is shiny and slick with both of you, watching your face the entire time.
“Just put it in please—” The words leave you on a shaky breath.
Only then does he finally sink into you, slow and deep and deliberate, the stretch burning in the best way after how thoroughly he just worked you open. You dig your nails into the sheets as he bottoms out, filling you completely, and the low, satisfied sound he makes against your neck goes straight to your core.
He starts to move.
Deep, rolling thrusts that drag against every sensitive place inside you. His hands grip your hips hard enough to leave marks, holding you still so he can fuck into you exactly how he wants—controlled, relentless, possessive. The muscles of his torso flex and shift with every snap of his hips, the ink on his arm stand out in sharp relief as he braces himself above you.
“Oh—“ you whimper on a shaky breath, “—Oh my god, you’re so deep.”
The pace builds until the only sounds in the room are the wet slap of skin and the broken noises neither of you bother to swallow. Every time he bottoms out you feel him in your stomach. Every time he pulls almost all the way out you clench around him, trying to keep him inside.
“Don’t stop, you whisper, voice already fraying. “Please—don’t—ngh—stop.”
Your fingers stay clenched tight in the sheets, knuckles white, because if you touch him too gently he might remember this is supposed to mean nothing.
Kaiser notices.
Without slowing the deep, rolling drive of his hips, he reaches down, pries your hand free from the tangled sheets, and places it flat over the center of his chest. Right over his heart. His skin beneath your palm is warm, the muscle solid, and for a few long seconds you feel the hard, rapid beat of it under your hand.
His eyes stay locked on yours the entire time—blue, sharp, and almost too honest. Neither of you look away, the room feels smaller. The weeks of silence, the other girl, every time he’s walked out without looking back—all of it sits between you in the space of those few heartbeats. The palm of his hand rests over your knuckles, a quiet, constant pressure.
Then something flickers across his face. Realization. Panic, almost.
He doesn’t say a word.
Instead he drags your hand slowly down his torso, over the ridges of his abs, through the dark trail of his hair leading lower, until he guides your fingers between your own legs and presses them firmly against your swollen clit. He keeps his hand over yours, making you touch yourself while he continues to fuck into you, eyes never leaving yours. The contact is too intimate, too deliberate. Your breath stutters.
“Feel that, baby?” he murmurs, voice rough, still watching you like he’s daring you to look away first. “That’s what you do to me. Don’t forget it.”
“I can’t,” you admit, soft and broken, still looking at him. “I never can.”
The moment breaks, but the ache of it lingers.
He shifts the angle, hitting that spot that makes your vision blur, and keeps driving into it until you’re shaking underneath him. Your legs wrap around his waist, your free hand raking down his back, leaving a trail of marks. The pressure builds fast and brutal, coiling tight in your lower stomach until it snaps—your second orgasm crashing through you so hard you cry out, walls fluttering and clamping down around him as you come.
“Micha—haah—mmm—fuck, I’m—“ your voice breaks on his name as the wave hits.
The nickname hits him like a physical blow. His rhythm stutters hard, a low, almost wounded sound tearing out of his throat. His grip on your hip tightens until it borders on painful, and for a split second the arrogance in his eyes cracks completely, leaving something raw and desperate in its place.
He buries his face against your neck like he can’t stand to let you see it, but he doesn’t stop moving. If anything he fucks into you harder, like he’s trying to fuck the sound of his own name out of your mouth.
And then, voice rough and low and barely more than a breath against your skin, he says it in German — something soft and broken he would never risk in English.
“Ich bin dein... nur dein.”
You don’t understand, but the way his voice cracks around them lets you guess enough. He keeps thrusting through it, forehead pressed to your temple, like the admission cost him something.
Kaiser doesn’t stop.
He fucks you through it, chasing his own release with harder, deeper thrusts that keep you oversensitive and gasping. You can feel him getting closer—the way his rhythm stutters, the way his grip on your hips tightens, the low, almost pained sound that leaves his throat. The tattoos on his shoulder and arm are slick with sweat now, the black designs gleaming under the dim light.
“Gonna come inside you,” he rasps against your ear, voice wrecked. “Fill this pretty pussy up until it’s dripping down your thighs. That what you want? Want me to leave you full of me again?”
“Yes,” you breathe, too far gone to pretend otherwise. “Yes—please, come inside me. I want it.”
His hips snap forward one last time, burying himself to the hilt as he comes hard—hot, pulsing spurts flooding deep inside you. You feel every thick pulse, every twitch of his cock as he empties himself into you, painting your walls and staying pressed deep like he’s trying to make sure none of it escapes, his breath ragged against your neck.
His body is tense and shaking above yours, his tattoo rising and falling with every heavy breath. For a long moment he just stays there, buried to the root, letting you feel the wet heat of him still spilling into you. His eyes stay on yours even now, something raw and unfinished sitting behind the usual arrogance.
Only when the last aftershock fades does he finally ease out.
You feel the immediate rush of his cum leaking out of you, warm and messy between your thighs. Kaiser watches it with dark, satisfied eyes, then reaches down and pushes two fingers back inside you, slow and deliberate, like he’s trying to keep as much of himself in you as possible. The wet sound of it is obscene. You whimper, oversensitive, and he just smirks. The ink on his forearm flexes as he works his fingers deeper.
“Look at that,” he murmurs. “All fucked out and still full of me. Perfect.”
Afterward he doesn’t leave right away.
He stays long enough for the sweat to cool, long enough for his fingers to trace idle patterns on your stomach, long enough for the almost-confession of his heartbeat under your palm to sit between you like a third presence. Long enough for you to almost—almost—ask the question again.
But you don’t. You’ve learned. The second the words start to form, his hand stills, and the quiet that settles over the bed is answer enough. Your gaze drifts over his tattoos one more time—the rose at his throat, the design that wraps shoulder and arm—before he finally moves.
Eventually he gets up. Pulls his clothes back on with the same unhurried grace he arrived with. The coat goes back over his shoulders, covering most of his tattoos again. At the door he pauses, looks back at you still tangled in the sheets, thighs sticky with what he left inside you, and the smile he gives you is soft in a way that hurts more than the silence ever did.
“I’ll see you,” he says.
You both know what that means.
Midnight will come again. Or it won’t. Weeks will stretch. Someone else will be on his arm in the next photograph. And still, when the knock comes—or the text, or the idle engine outside your building—you will open the door.
Because you can’t leave each other alone.
And neither of you has or will ever pretended otherwise.
art - v3raxyy
dividers - @/cafekitsune
an - reader’s meaf cause I wouldn’t leave ether if he was an eater and the dih was fire :/
