double header tomorrow… loons vs lafc game then scooting downtown for bar hopping and going to the timberwolves/nuggets playoff game. my voice is going to be GONE on sunday
happy @teardropdeer and @el-toros-loco rivalry day 🙂↕️🙂↕️ hoping we get to see james rodriguez and petar musa on the field at the same time that’ll be sick
also very jealous that it’s dollar hot dog night at fc dallas… minnesota united doesn’t do anything like that 😭
Youth is not always comprised of golden days, and the carefree summer nights spent running underneath a blue horizon. Days meant for freedom and happiness [childhood innocence] destroyed before the taste of dreaming hit your lips. Learning of the cruelty of living before you learned how to swim.
And youth, or yours, was spent tip-toeing through a familiar, yet unfamiliar hall, unending and compressing — between hushed whispers and eyes crawling up your skin. Your mother’s grip had only tightened.
Bone crushing against yours.
White nails pressing into your skin. Stinging of the scattered crescent moons drawn into you. Warmth as red pools beneath your thinning skin.
Your mother hands shake around you, cold, and you want to comfort her, despite the suffocation in your chest. You could justify her leash, because you love her. You understand her, because she is your mother, and you, her only child.
Life is not fair to anyone, but there was always good times within the bad. It wasn't too cruel, despite the small part of you that will forever remain trapped within that August summer day.
On an otherwise pleasant summer day, it was shining with childlike innocence — you, and the sound of your pink sandals flapping against the pavement, and the clear blue skies, and the familiar cicadas ringing in the distant that began to become distorted as red pooled your vision — your mother screams, yet sound does not come through.
The sky was beautiful, you remember.
—
Your room is on the first floor. Everything you need is on the first floor — navigating through the house is easy and simple, because you memorised the lines and how many steps it takes you to get from your room to the kitchen. Everything is organised in a way that makes sense to you and only you.
Your mother doesn’t like gazing upon the clutter, she says your room is a mess, but she doesn’t move anything. She hasn’t since then – that day – and the flooring has been renovated with different textures.
It is not easy loving you, you think. Not anymore, at least.
There was a time when the moon rose, and voices echoed through the halls of your home. Anger and frustration and anxiety lingered in every corner. The voices of your mother and father were only heard during the night — hidden hearts and blame — where burning love morphed into blinded hate.
(Fading hearts slipping away. You stand there cold.)
The click of your white cane tapping against the floor overrides their anger. Everything dies down, their voices, the owls, and you, who lied and said you needed to use the washroom. Their attention falls onto you — their voices soften, and loving hands touch you, but the atmosphere stays the same. One day, the argument died down completely, and for a moment, you believe everything would go to how it was back then — back before the accident.
A week from then your father had left with only a suitcase. Only the sound of wooden floors creaking and the faint click of the door as he slips away remains in your mind. Your mother hasn't talked about it. But it is your fault.
(A part of you and them remains trapped in that summer day, a memory that burns to the touch.)
It is not easy loving you, you know this, even when she says she does.
[They say the eyes are the window to one’s soul. You cannot see her eyes — even as they pierce into you.]
—
It is early in the morning when he wakes to the scorching heat. There are no classes today, or the weeks that follow (thankfully, and finally). Summer turns his room into a sauna, and he chugs the glass filled of lukewarm water on his nightstand. Yukimiya immediately regrets it, unable to soothe the dryness itching his throat.
His mother calls his name, yelling from the kitchen, to remind him of his afternoon appointment. 13:30. Luckily, it is only noon right now, yet his dreadfulness pulls at his ankles, and he does not want to take a step.
His mother places iced hōjicha instead of her usual homemade fruit juice in front of him. Yukimiya instantly understands without a word. She wraps her arm around his shoulder, and says everything will be fine.
The iced tea works on soothing the dryness. His nerves are not evident, and he feigns his usual cool, subconsciously rubbing his eye.
The specialist he goes to see was recommended by one of his father’s best friend. They say there has been nothing, but kind words said about the doctor. And Yukimiya thinks he understands. Dr. Motomura is an old man with gentle eyes, he makes him uncomfortable in the unfamiliar room, yet his next set of words feel like standing in January’s storm.
Optic Neuropathy.
[Everything will be fine.]
He suddenly feels so, so small. Surrounded by flashing lights, cameras and eyes focused on him and only him — the doctor’s gentle eyes feel magnified and they sit in every corner of this little room staring at him and his failure.
It is as if he, and his entire world [football], had become frozen. He, his dream, was stuck frozen in time with no way to move forward — no light shone at the end of the tunnel. And when he cries, Dr. Motomura’s words of comfort do not reach him.
—
“Hey, are you alright?”
The hallway lights are blinding — it takes a second for his eyes to adjust to the brightness. White light stinging him. He’s crouched down, a few feet away from Dr. Motomura’s office, his legs gave out and the remaining tears leaked down his face.
In his misery, he had forgotten he wasn't alone, and he failed to hear footsteps approaching him. His eyes are probably red and puffy and he doesn’t want anyone to see his face like this — tear-stained with snot.
Face to face, reddish eyes meet yours, or attempts to. Your eyes stay closed under this light, and he takes in your appearance. Eyes zeroing in on the white cane held in your hand. “You can’t see,” he blurts out without a thought before slapping a hand over his mouth.
Yukimiya quickly snaps his head up to guage your reaction at his insensitivity. Yet, there’s nothing on your face, and he suddenly feels so small and pathetic.
“As you can see,” you reply, unable to hide a small smile that tugs your lips — a joke, he thinks. Though, he can’t find this situation amusing, his heart aches with regret.
A quiet I am sorry falls from his mouth, ashamed. He wonders if you heard it, he attempts to repeat his apology a little louder, but a familiar, low tone calls out your name.
Mr. Motomura calls for you, and his apology dies right then and there.
“Here.” Your hand reaches out to him, closed-fist, and he meets you half-way. “Cheer up,” you say as hard candy is dropped into his hand, and you disappear down the hallway into the room he exited.
[It tastes like vanilla and condensed milk. Too sweet.]
—
It is a week before you meet again. He runs into you at Dr. Motomura’s office — that is when he finds out you are related to Dr. Motomura. Not by blood, you mention a little later.
You accept when he asks if he can talk to you. You end up sitting at a small park bench, only three minutes away from the office. And you mention that your mother will be here soon.
An awkward silence fills the air, not unpleasant, but not exactly comforting. “I hope you’re feeling better,” you began, taking the opportunity to comfort him once again. “Did you like the candy?”
“. . . I am,” he lies. Yukimiya takes a deep breath before speaking again. “I felt bad for what I said last time. I kept wishing to see you again to apologise.”
“Oh. Yes, he told me that you . . . Well, don’t worry. I wasn’t offended.”
“No, I was insensitive. I am sorry about that, please don’t pretend I didn’t do anything wrong,” he replies, disappointed in himself, his hands clutched together. Each night since that day, he laid in bed, his words and that interaction on repeat.
A light breeze picks up, your cane falls onto his thigh and he reaches for it before it clatters onto the concrete.
“Really, it’s not big deal.” He stays silent, a soft sigh escapes your lips. “Fine. I’ll forgive you if you tell me your name.”
“My name?” Eyes flicking to your face — nothing masked. He answers, “It’s Yukimiya Kenyū.”
You smile, asking, “As in . . . ?”
He stares for a second, before reaching out a hand, “Can I see your hand?”
Without hesitation, you place your hand in his, and honestly, his heart flutters at your trust in him.
Palm open, index finger traces feathery lines — burning to the touch. Sweat builds beneath, unsure if it from the summer heat or a strange collection of nerves — him, or you.
雪宮 as in a snow shine.
剣優 for gentle sword.
You’re giggling by the time he finishes the last stroke. Smile, showing your teeth. “You didn’t have to trace the kanji for me. I only wanted to know the meaning, but thank you.”
“Oh. I thought—no, nevermind . . .” He rubs the back of his neck in embarrassment, internally groaning.
And when you began to laugh, he turned his head away quickly — as if you could see [read] everything written all over his face. He's embarrassed, despite it not really being anything, it could mean something.
Then, you take his hand in yours this time, his palm faced up, and you don’t seem to be bothered by the sweat that had slowly built up from the previous touch. Your finger presses against his palm and when you began to trace, he attempts to memorise each stroke, except you draw dots.
He blinks.
And he is left confused. He wonders if it is in English or another foreign language, and he concentrates on your light touch (your skin against his), except it really is just dots you press into his skin. “What are you drawing?”
You simply reply, “It is my name in braille.”
“Braille?”
“Mhm. For people like me.”
Something flickers inside of him at this moment. A genuine curiosity for the person in front of his eyes — he wants to know you. “How do I write your name again?”
That night, the lamp in his room stays on. Only the faint click of the mouse is heard as his family is fast asleep. He spends a long time browsing through sites and YouTube, his finger tapping against a thick sheet of paper with cells of raised dots.
—
He gets a new pair of glasses. One more fashionable. His agency says it suits him and glasses are considered fashionable these days. Trends always come and go. But those words do make him feel more confident while wearing them. If anything, he thinks they frame his face quite well.
A magazine, one from his shoot from a few months ago, is shoved into his face. “My mother says you are on the front page. I know she isn’t lying to me, but I want to make sure.”
He confirms that it is him, but says he is not alone. It was a couple’s shoot for White Day. Upon seeing the pictures, Yukimiya realises that the fake glasses he wore in that photoshoot are similar to the ones he has on now.
You softly hum, as your finger glides across the page and when you turn to the next one. “Do you think the blue or brown shirt suited you better? The blue is so dark, but I am not sure how fair your skin is.” There are little scratch marks on his image, and his heart warms at recognition.
“Maybe brown? I prefer it over the blue. I like earth tones.”
“When I was a child, I think I liked yellow. Like dandelions, and the sun,” you tell him. In these little moments, he learns more things about you. It may not be much to anyone, but he likes the way he naturally learns without asking — you just speak, and he listens onto every word ever spoken between the two of you.
You like braille. You are learning how to cook, though your mother stays in the kitchen at all times. You ask him what his favourite dish is, and then he asks if he is allowed to be hopeful (you answer maybe, and to not blame you if it tastes terribly). You lost your sight when you were a child, it was an accident, and you never mentioned it again. He doesn't ask. And your childhood favourite colour is yellow of all things.
Admittedly, he does not know of anyone who likes or wears that colour, dandelion yellow, besides during photoshoots. “Well . . . I guess those could be consider earth tones, too.”
“I am pretty sure those don’t classify as earth tones.”
“It is considered part of the Earth, no?” And he knows he probably sounds so ridiculous, uncharacteristic of him, but your laughter makes everything worth it.
He confesses, “When I was a kid, blue was my favourite colour, like the sky.” He doesn't tell you that he went through a red phase during all of his years in junior high.
“The sky is beautiful,” you reply.
He gazes up to white clouds, and contrails on sky blue. It is beautiful, he agrees.
—
It becomes a routine: the gentle footsteps that stop five inches before reaching you, and the soft [tender] voice that calls your name. Soft and gentle, like cherry blossoms petals swaying in Spring.
“I am going to grab a petal that had fallen on top of your head,” Yukimiya states, smooth voice next to your ear, and it tickles — your heart flutters as he waits for your okay before moving.
Minimising the space between the both of you, yet his fingertips are barely felt against the little strands of your hair as he carefully picks up the flower petal.
Yukimiya is a gentleman, so sweet and kind, your best friend. He treats you so gently, as he does with everyone, and it makes you feel equal.
“Oh, thank you. Shall we go now?” You reach out your hand and he instantly catches it, allowing you to be the one to link your arm through his.
—
You seem to take more walks these days. Sometimes, you invite him and he accepts more often than not. But today is Thursday, and Thursdays are meant for you and your mother to go to the market together, except she had a sudden client meeting and could not reschedule.
Your name lights up on Yukimiya’s phone screen, and he answers on the second ring. Twenty minutes later, he is running out the door in his best outfit.
The two of you take a walk, chatting about random things that has happened since the last time you’ve seen each other [exactly four days ago], and he suggests stopping by a café for drinks and mini cakes to which you agree.
The whispers and noises within the café hush out everything, and he moves his chair closer to you to hear better.
“You must be popular,” you point out, twirling your straw in your iced latté, ice clinking against the cup.
“Hm?” Softly scratching his cheek — debating on what the proper reply to that would be. “Well, not really,” he decides to add.
“I feel a lot of stares when we go out together. More than when I am alone. It must be you.”
“Maybe it’s you,” he replies.
You softly giggle, tip of the straw pressing against your bottom lip. “No, these stares feel a little different.”
For some reason, he doesn’t like the way you said that, despite your face and smile looking so bright. Discreet glances thrown in this direction from a few school girls – maybe junior high – and you never once reacted to the growing stares.
“I want to know what you look like,” you say.
He replies before thinking, “You can touch me.” And you do just so.
Cold from the way your hands were cupped around your iced latté, he flinches at the first touch, and you softly giggle at that — the scent of the strawberry cake you had eaten mixed with caffeine surrounds you. He thinks you did it on purpose, but he doesn’t accuse you of so.
Your hand cups his cheek, thumb brushing over his skin, and his breath hitches as you run a finger over his jaw and he swallows harshly.
Yukimiya ignores the stares, or attempts to as he has always grown conscious of the way people look and perceive him, because this is what you have always done. You told him that your other senses are only stronger, because you have no choice, but to rely on them unlike your eyes, and he is sure you can hear the soft giggles and glances every so often as they’ve grown louder and more bold — he is envious that this doesn’t seem to affect you.
The closing distant doesn’t seem to affect you, nor does the way you touch his face — growing red from soft and lingering touches. You seem so unfazed, so concentrated on memorising the bones and blemishes that makes him him.
Your fingers rub along the black frames of his glasses, careful to avoid the lens. “Can you describe your eyes?” You ask, a little quieter than usual. A little drowned out by the sound of the coffee machines.
“My eyes . . . They are orange, I think they’re a little bigger than normal. I get it from my mother,” he slowly answers.
“Orange. Like the sun?”
Yukimiya lets out a quiet drone. “The sunset, I think.”
“Oh, wow. I can see why you're a model,” you reply. “I think these glasses look good on you.”
A ‘pfft’ falls from his mouth, a little less gentlemanly than he liked to be, all at your joke hidden within a compliment. But the noise makes you break out into a grin, and he can't help, but to smile at the sight of your smiling face.
He walks you home today — rare, yet not uncommon. He had memorised the direction to your home, the difference in what street you turn into depending on if you’re walking home or when your mother drives.
A soft, warm glow paints over the horizon as you reach your house. Before you reach the door, you turn around to say, “You’re beautiful, Yukki.”
Your features glowing against the memorising light. Golden, you and your smile. The sun is sinking down so slowly, reluctant to say farewell to this day, and he swallows down everything and anything he isn’t ready to admit.
And for the first time, in this moment, he is glad you can't see him. There's no way for him to hide the redness flowing onto his face and ears and quivering lips.
Even after you had disappeared inside, his eyes linger on the spot you had just been.
—
There is hope for him, his eyes and dream, though the chance is low. Dr. Motomura says, “It’s not a crime to keep on dreaming. No matter how dark it seems, never give up hope.”
And he thanks the elder, sincerity in his words and heart — his voice shakes a little at the end. “I feel like I’ve come to terms with my diagnosis.”
Dr. Motomura proudly smiles.
“Yukimiya-kun,” his doctor unexpectedly calls out from behind as he is about to step out of the office, one foot out the door.
He turns around, and the man’s smile is awfully gentle, yet sad. “I haven’t seen that child so expressive before.” So, so sad. And when the man thanks him for treating you normally — his eyes began to sting, though he does not cry.
—
A confession spills from his lips to you. About his dream. About football, and his worries.
You confess to him, too. You tell him you don't really have a big dream, and you just want to live a normal and happy life.
Smiles shared over secrets, fingertips that nearly touch, and mirror of hearts that feel like it – the two of you – means something.
He asks if you are happy.
Your throat tightens, barely missing a beat when you say yes, and he replies that he is happy, too.
A shooting star passes by overhead, Yukimiya points its location out to you. Shooting stars are meant to be wished upon, and you do just so — a blue streak of glittering hope left behind as it disappears from human eyes.
[Shooting stars are not stars at all. Just specs of dust turned into meteors. Burning up as they inevitably fall down, down, down.]
—
At Miyazaki Station, you wait for the train with him. It’s early, too early — the sun had only just risen, its soft glow barely seen from over the tall buildings surrounding the station.
You yawn beside him. Contagious, as he does, too. “You didn’t have to come,” he says to you, but is grateful all the same. Admittedly, it would’ve feel right if you weren’t here.
“I wanted to.”
And all Yukimiya can say is, “Okay.”
You held hands, not knowing who reached out first, and it fits together like puzzle pieces. Perfectly together. You held hands and didn't let go until the train stopped.
And that faint tremble of your hand causes his heart to ache in a way he had never experienced as he pulls away. Regret immediately comes, and suddenly, he doesn't want to leave. He hugs you first, so sudden and he hopes he did not frighten you, but you hug back instantly without a word. The surrounding noise dies out — the footsteps and voices of people drown out, as does the hissing of the train. Diseal fumes and metal in the air mix in with the sweet scent of your shampoo.
“I’ll see you later,” he whispers, and your arms tighten themselves around his waist as you nod into his chest, before you let go of him first — the warmth of your body vanishes, and he suddenly feels cold.
You don’t say goodbye. You only tell him to call you, and he turns to board the morning train to Tokyo.
He can't find it in himself to look out the window despite this growing need of wanting to catch a glimpse of you just one last time, because he knows you will still be there in the same spot he had left you. You won't leave until you don't the sound of the train slowly fades from your ears.
(You will still be there.)
Eyes closed, from tiredness and not wishing to look back, he lays his head against the glass — the coldness keeps him awake, there’s an ache. Yukimiya reaches into his pockets to grab him cellphone, maybe hoping there is a message from you or his friends, except his fingers brush against paper and he pulls it out in confusion.
White, thick card stock, no smell of ink lingers. Written in braille, his index finger gently glides over the cell of raised dots, careful to not leave even a scratch. Once. Twice. He swallows harshly.
Good luck, Yukki. I believe in you.
Words bubble up, and get trapped in his throat. and strangely, it makes him want to cry, despite his heart being filled to the brim — like a glass jar full of happiness, anticipation, and you.
[Everyone was hopeful.]
note. this was so rushed. i lost motivation and i gave up half-way through ;;; there is probably a ton of grammar and spelling mistakes as it’s unedited
idk much about him, sorry if he is mischaracterised !!
just went a little crazy and ordered a set of sae/aiku/sendou/shidou nuis from buyee and then a bunch of little outfits on aliexpress… what have i become
need to figure out how to make them tiny timberwolves, lynx, and loons jerseys
⋆˙⟡ all i want for christmas is a hat trick - shidou ryusei x reader [hallmark christmas movie, very cheesy, smut]
⋆˙⟡ princess cut - shidou ryusei x reader [porn without plot, breeding kink]
kunigami rensuke
⋆˙⟡ ruiner - kunigami rensuke x reader [angst and smut, post-canon, manga spoilers, childhood best friends] | part one ⋆ part two ⋆ part three ⋆ part four
⋆˙⟡ super! - kunigami rensuke x reader x oliver aiku [threesome, partner sharing, MLS!kunigami and oliver] | part one ⋆ part two
oliver aiku
⋆˙⟡ c'mere - oliver aiku x reader [pro athlete!aiku, charity gala, banter, smut]
⋆˙⟡ super! - kunigami rensuke x reader x oliver aiku [threesome, partner sharing, MLS!kunigami and oliver] | part one ⋆ part two
Every year, you and your friends volunteer at a charity gala to raise money for brain cancer research in honor of your dear friend. It's always a fun night of doing something good while rubbing elbows with your city's elite.
This year, though, the hotshot new soccer player on your city's team is something of a guest of honor, and he's got his eye on you.
oliver aiku x afab reader, gn language used | 8.4k words | ao3 | minors dni
a/n: this is my first time attempting to write something with a gn reader. i avoided use of any feminine pet names or descriptions of feminine clothing, with the exception of a mention of victoria's secret panties. if you have any feedback on this, please let me know! i'm looking to improve at writing gn readers :)
(Content warnings and tags for work: meet cute, charity gala, post-canon, banter, sugar daddy vibes, rich pro athlete aiku, sexual tension, smut, alcohol use, vaginal sex, condom use, sleazy aiku but like it's hot)
“Over here!” an older gentleman called out to you, holding up a hundred-dollar bill.
Was this what strippers felt like? Just… hotter, maybe?
You smiled brightly at the man and began waltzing over to him, rolls of tickets akimbo. “A hundred? That’ll get you ten tickets,” you explained cheerily as you counted out his raffle tickets. You tore off half of each one, then kept the other half to put in the spinner. “The winner will be called at the beginning of the program.”
“What’s the prize?” the man asked as he tucked his tickets away inside his tux pocket, his gaze not-so-subtly raking over your figure. Aha. So your choice of outfit had, in fact, made you another sale - not the allure of the prize. Cha-ching.
“A pair of diamond earrings. One carat total weight,” you answered. Before the geezer could attempt to draw you into further conversation, much to your relief, a woman nearby began gesturing to you. “Please excuse me. Thank you so much for your support!”
As you sauntered between tables of wealthy donors to reach the woman, you glanced around the event hall. It was beautifully decorated, and hundreds of impeccably-dressed guests were eating, chatting, and buying raffle tickets happily. Your friends, fellow volunteers at the gala, were also selling raffle tickets among the tables - each of you intent on winning your little competition to see who could sell the most (and thus raise the most money for the cause).
After selling the woman her tickets, another old man who you could just feel was sleazy called you over. But hey, if putting up with a sleazy man meant more money towards brain cancer research, you could deal with it.
“Looking to buy some raffle tickets?” you greeted as you neared the table. Upon your approach, you gave the attendees at the table a quick scan.
Your eyes immediately caught on one man - dark hair with green underlights, an athletic build, handsome stubble, and strikingly heterochromatic eyes - one dark, one a lighter green. One of your friends had pointed him out as he’d entered the event. He was a soccer player or something for your city, and had donated several pieces of signed memorabilia for the silent auction portion of the night. He must have been pretty popular, because you’d heard that those items had gone for thousands of dollars each.
He was hot. And unfortunately chatting with the guy next to him instead of paying attention to the cute ticket seller.
However, someone was paying attention to you, and said someone snapped you out of your thoughts.
“What’s the raffle prize? A date with you?”
Barf.
“Buratsuta!” someone at the table scolded him, guffawing. You faked a good-natured laugh instead of sneering. It was for charity, you reminded yourself.
“Sorry to say it’s not,” you answered, smiling politely at the man. “It’s for a pair of diamond earrings. And the money goes to a good cause, of course!” You held up the rolls of tickets enticingly.
The man - Buratsuta, you figured - bought ten tickets, as did a few others at the table. Just when you figured everyone was done and were ready to move to the next table, the dark-haired man raised a hand and shot you a smirk that made your heart stutter.
You rounded the table to him quickly.
“I’ll take a hundred tickets,” he said casually, pulling out a black leather wallet from the interior pocket of his tux. Your eyes widened. Casual displays of wealth were normal at an event like this, but nobody had bought more than ten or twenty tickets at a time so far.
“Oh! Wow! Thank you so much, sir,” you said, smiling brightly at him.
As he began to count bills, you began counting tickets - until he said something that made your heart catch in your throat.
“If I win the earrings, I’m givin’ ‘em to you,” he said casually, still smirking as he counted out ten hundred-dollar bills. “You’ve earned it with all this ticket sellin’ and dealin’ with creeps like him.” He jutted his chin at Buratsuta across the table, who was too engrossed in his conversation to catch the slight.
You just giggled nervously in response, flustered and incapable of forming a coherent thought because oh my god a hot professional athlete was flirting with you and handing you a thousand dollars in cash. Your fingers brushed his as you traded the cash for his tickets, and you nearly let out a pathetic squeak at the feeling.
“Thanks, doll,” he said, winking at you before turning back to the table.
You managed another “Thank you!” before an older woman at the next table over was vying for your attention. Duty called.
-
The rest of the ticket-selling portion of dinner went by in a haze, and even while you counted up the cash you’d raised with your friends in the back room of the event center, you felt like you were floating.
“Six thousand flat,” your friend Andrew announced, holding up his fat stack of bills and grinning proudly. Your friends cheered - he’d raised the most so far out of everyone that had counted. “How about you?” he asked, nodding towards you.
“Six thousand seven hundred,” you replied, beaming and fanning your cash goofily. Surprised “oooh!”s and “no way!”s rang out through the group, and everyone congratulated you on your victory in the friendly competition.
Once you’d given the cash to the woman coordinating the event and keeping track of donations, you nudged Andrew with your elbow.
“Hey, what did you say was the name of that soccer player who’s here?” you asked.
“Oh, the one who donated all the stuff? That was Oliver Aiku,” he replied. “Seems like a good guy. Plays as a forward for us. Huge signing from Japan. Did you sell him tickets?”
You nodded as he spoke, taking in the info. “Yeah,” you answered. “He bought a ton. A hundred.”
Andrew’s eyes widened in surprise, and he let out a low whistle. “Damn. Must really want those earrings… or must be really passionate about fighting brain cancer.”
“Something like that,” you murmured in response, the corners of your lips twitching up in a little smile. Before Andrew could reply, a whistle rang out through the room - the volunteer coordinator was vying for everyone’s attention.
She launched into a spiel about how the next part of the event was going to go - the auction and the “paddle raise”, where donors would hold up their bidding paddles to donate sums of money. As volunteers, you’d be scattered among the tables and given flags to wave in order to bring attention to bidders.
It seemed the universe was smiling down on you tonight, because you ended up being placed right by Oliver Aiku’s table again. When he spotted you, the grin he gave you made butterflies go wild in your stomach.
The emcee, a local celebrity known for his morning talk show on the city’s news channel, took the podium again and greeted the crowd.
“We have some amazing auction items for you all tonight, folks,” he said smoothly. “Our organization is lucky to have such kind, generous donors who have made this all possible - and are helping us to fight brain cancer. Speaking of our wonderful donors, I’d like to thank Shane Co. Jewelers for donating our raffle prize tonight!”
He reached into his suit pocket and pulled out a sleek velvet box. When he opened it up and showed it to the crowd, a pair of beautiful diamond earrings glittered inside to a chorus of “ooh”s and “aah”s.
“Shari, our event host, will be drawing the winning raffle ticket now. Get out those tickets, folks!” he announced, gesturing towards where the chair of the organization’s board was mixing the tickets around in a raffle tumbler.
Attendees held their breath as the chairwoman spun the tickets around and around before finally stopping and unlatching the cage to draw one out. With a flourish, she handed the lucky ticket to the emcee, who cleared his throat before beginning to read off the numbers.
Out of the corner of your eye, you could see Oliver holding up his strip of a hundred tickets, noting the range of numbers he held.
“Two… five… three…” the emcee read slowly, glancing around the room. Many of the tickets sold fell within those numbers so far. “Six…” Groans rang out as most individuals were eliminated. “One…” Oliver’s smirk widened, and his eyes met yours. “Twenty-two!”
Oliver stood, holding up his long strip of tickets in one hand in victory. He shot you a wink before making his way up to the stage with more confidence and swagger than you’d ever seen in a man before.
Embarrassingly, whatever he had going on was working on you.
“We have a winner, everyone!” the news anchor announced into the microphone, gesturing towards Oliver as he approached. The crowd applauded politely, no doubt disappointed they hadn’t been the ones to win.
Once Oliver had retrieved his prize, he returned to his seat as the emcee began explaining how the auction would work. The athlete’s pretty eyes found yours again, and he gestured for you to “come here” - with a look that told you he knew you wouldn’t be able to say no.
As though under his spell, you weaved through the tables until you were standing right next to him again. The old guy - Buratsuta? - grinned at your approach, but you ignored him.
“I’ve got somethin’ for you,” Oliver announced, hiding the box behind his back like you hadn’t just watched him retrieve the earrings.
“Mr. Aiku, you really don’t need to-” you started, but he cut you off.
“Mr. Aiku?” he repeated, laughing. “First of all, it’s Oliver. Second of all, you know my name now? You looked me up or somethin’?” He was having too much fun with this, but your face was flushing bright red.
“O-oh, my friend’s just a fan, and was mentioning you…” you tried to explain, but trailed off, giving him a sheepish laugh. He just chuckled, bringing the box out from behind his back and holding it out to you.
“Put ‘em on,” he urged you, his voice low, cutting through the emcee’s voice and the din of the attendees. Obediently, you removed the earrings you were currently wearing and put the gorgeous diamond ones in instead. Oliver took your earrings from you and tucked them safely back into the box.
He leaned in closely to look at them, his proximity making you blush. You couldn’t see the earrings, but given the quality and how they’d looked in the box, you were sure they looked beautiful in your ears.
“You look nice, doll,” he drawled, his voice low and velvety in your ear. He then leaned back in his chair to get a better look at all of you. “They make your eyes sparkle.”
“Thank you,” you squeaked, more flustered than you’d ever been before in your life. Were you really going home with these earrings?
Oliver tapped the velvet box on the table that now contained the earrings you’d worn there tonight. “Don’t let me forget to give these back to you before you leave tonight.”
You nodded in response, stepping back to take your place before the auction started.
The news anchor running the show began describing the first auction item - a “staycation” in town, complete with private dining, a stay at a five-star hotel, and spa treatments for two. Paddles went up immediately, and you and the other volunteers got to work waving your flags and bringing attention to the bidders with their paddles up. The auctioneer’s voice rang out, quick and nearly impossible to understand, tallying up their bids. “SOLD! To bidder number 543 for $14,000. Thank you!”
As the next item was described, Oliver turned to you again, beckoning you closer. Fuck, the way he looked at you made heat bloom in your chest. Obediently, you scooted towards him. He leaned back in his chair again, a movement that was so confident and so full of swagger that it was almost cheesy.
“Any particular reason why you volunteer?” he asked, his heterochromatic eyes staring up at you.
You blinked twice in surprise. It was a nice question, just not really one you were expecting. Your hand raised, pointing at your friend across the room - Gabi, who was looking absolutely stunning in a purple dress tonight, holding her flag and glancing around the room as the emcee described the helicopter tour of the city that bidders could win.
“See my friend Gabi over there?” you asked. Oliver looked where you were pointing, then nodded. “She had brain cancer years ago. When we were in college. This org… They helped her a lot. She was an honoree our sophomore year, shortly before she went into remission. She’s been cancer-free for a while now, but we have a big group of friends who volunteer with the gala every year to sort of honor her.”
It was Oliver’s turn to look surprised, apparently. “Wow,” he said. “That’s a great story. You got a good heart. Your friends, too.” His voice was so genuine that it made your heart clench - yet another feeling to add to the list of things he’d made you feel tonight.
You gave him a small smile, fidgeting with one of the earrings he’d given you. “Yeah. It’s a good organization full of good people. I’m happy to help out where I can.”
“We’ll start the bidding for this once-in-a-lifetime helicopter tour experience for two at one thousand dollars!” the auctioneer’s voice rang out, bursting the little bubble you and Oliver had found yourself in. With an apologetic smile, you stepped away and back to your place, ready to wave your flag for bidders.
-
One by one, the auction items ticked by. One in particular intrigued you, though - a gameday experience for the football club Oliver played for. A meet and greet with the team, field-level seating, and a game-worn jersey signed by the whole team at the end of it. The emcee said it was donated by an “anonymous donor” - but the tiny smile fighting at the corner of Oliver’s lips as the bids crept higher and higher gave you an idea of who had donated it.
Once the auction had completed, it was time for the “paddle raise” - the final push for donations, in which amounts of money would be called out and donors would hold up their bidding paddles to commit to donating that sum of money.
“We’ll start small, at donations of five hundred dollars,” the announcer said into the mic, prompting several dozen paddles to raise. Next came a thousand, then two thousand five hundred, then five thousand. With each, you waved your flag and pointed at anyone near you who had their paddle up.
As the donation amounts climbed into the tens of thousands, you could feel Oliver’s eyes on you, but you were busy ensuring everyone’s donation was accounted for. Every year, it always amazed you that there were people wealthy enough to donate sums of money like this so casually - but you supposed you were thankful for their willingness to donate to the cause, all things considered.
In a quick lull between the seventy-five thousand dollar and hundred thousand dollar marks, Oliver waved you over again, this time with a little bit more franticness. You hustled over and leaned in, totally not ready for what he was going to say.
“Say, doll,” he drawled, like he already knew your answer. “If I donate a hundred grand right now, will you come get a drink with me after this?”
Your jaw dropped, and you blinked at Oliver in shock. His gaze shifted to his bidding paddle, his neatly manicured fingers finding it on the table, before looking back at you expectantly, waiting for an answer.
Your mouth worked before your brain. “Make it five hundred and it’s a deal.”
He laughed. A laugh that was full of complete and utter delight, like he was happy you’d said that. “You drive a hard bargain, sweetheart,” he murmured, the glimmer in his eyes turning downright feral. “I like that.”
Unsurprisingly, he followed through, and when the final donation level of the night was called, he was only one of two donors to raise their paddles. His eyes stayed locked on yours as he did so, giving you a smile and a wink that had heat pooling in your core. You gave him your best attempt at a sultry smile back, though you were sure he could see your heart practically pounding out of your chest.
Before you departed with the rest of the volunteers, leaving the attendees to enjoy the dessert and entertainment, Oliver reached out and gently grasped your wrist, tugging you towards him. You leaned down, and he angled himself so that he was speaking directly into your ear, his warm breath sending shivers down your spine.
“I’m stayin’ at the hotel across the street tonight,” he murmured. “I’ll wait for you in the bar over there after this. Don’t keep me waitin’ long, alright?”
He released your wrist, and you stumbled a bit on your feet for a moment before standing upright again. You could feel your face burning bright red. “Okay,” was all you could manage to say, your brain on overdrive.
With one last look at Oliver, you hurried off to meet up with the other volunteers.
-
“I can’t believe he donated $500k,” Andrew said, shaking his head in disbelief. “I knew he was a good guy, but wow. Though I guess that’s kind of pocket change to an athlete like him.”
“Sure,” you replied, taking a bite of the cupcake you’d been given for dessert. The two of you were sitting side by side in the back room of the event center, enjoying a break before it was time to help take down the event. Andrew was chatting about Oliver, but your mind was spinning, unable to reply properly.
“How rich of a guy are we talking?” you asked after a moment of thought. Maybe it was wrong, but you were curious as to what level of wealth Oliver was on if you were going to be getting drinks with him later for the low, low price of five hundred thousand dollars.
Andrew shrugged before pulling out his phone, typing “oliver aiku salary” into his search engine.
The number that came up had you choking on your cupcake. “Jesus!” you exclaimed through a mouthful of cake and frosting.
“Makes sense, I suppose,” Andrew hummed. “He was linked to this program in Japan that produced some of the best players in the world. They’re all crazy successful internationally now.”
Still coughing from your salary-related choking incident, you nodded in understanding. Your heart was racing, though - you had been gifted a pair of diamond earrings from one of the best athletes in the world, and now you were supposed to go have drinks with him? You’d just come here expecting to have some fun volunteering with your friends and maybe bump elbows with some rich people. Not… this.
This was turning out to be a wild night, and you still seemingly had the wildest part to go.
-
Once you’d helped clean up and take down the event, you ducked into one of the bathrooms at the event center to freshen up. Thank god you’d had the foresight to shove deodorant, mints, and supplies to touch up your appearance into your bag before you left. You’d even - by some grace of god - chosen cute underwear to go beneath your formalwear, just in case tonight went beyond drinks. Which, based on the way Oliver looked at you earlier, you had a feeling it might.
Once you felt somewhat put together again, you exited the venue and crossed the street to the hotel Oliver had said he was staying at - a beautiful, five-star place you’d been to the bar of a few times before with your friends, the type of place you’d dress up and take Instagram photos at. The city hummed with life around you, full of promise and opportunity.
Once inside, it didn’t take long to find the athlete you were searching for. Oliver was sitting on one end of the U-shaped bar, tucked away in a quiet, darker corner. The whole place was dark and moody, but he’d chosen the spot that was most so - intentionally, you guessed. His green-and-dark eyes scanned the room as he took a sip of something from a rocks glass, half-lidded over the rim.
When he spotted you, you could see the corners of his lips curl up in a grin behind the glass before he lowered it again, revealing his smile in all its infuriatingly charming glory. You smiled back and began weaving between patrons and tables to reach him.
As you approached, you realized that much of the anxiety you had been feeling earlier was gone. Here, in this hotel bar, you weren’t a volunteer and a mega-wealthy donor - you were just two people… on a date? Getting drinks? Whatever this was.
The up-and-down look he gave you as you neared him still made butterflies go wild in your stomach, though.
“You came,” he said, his voice like velvet, as you slid into the barstool next to him.
“Of course I did,” you hummed in response. “Only because you have my earrings,” you added with a teasing smile. He laughed at that, and pulled the velvet box from earlier that contained your earrings back out from his pocket, sliding it across the bar top to you. You tucked them into your bag for safekeeping.
His eyes flickered to the diamonds adorning your ears, to the way they caught the dim light of the bar. “Did I tell you how pretty those look on you?”
“You might have.” You leaned forwards, resting your elbows on the bar and your chin on your hands. You turned your head to face Oliver. “I wouldn’t mind hearing it again, though.”
He chuckled at that, taking the last sip of his drink. “Well, may I say that they look-” He started to compliment you, but was interrupted when the bartender arrived to take your order. Oliver asked for another one of whatever he was drinking, and you ordered an espresso martini - after the long day of running around at the event, you could use the caffeine.
The bartender arrived with your drinks a moment later, and you both thanked them politely. As you sipped your martini, Oliver stirred his drink - a Boulevardier, you’d learned when the bartender had announced it - and eyed you with amusement sparkling in his gaze.
“You know,” he started, his glaze flickering between the ice in his glass and your face. “I’ve been on some expensive dates before.”
You chuckled at that as you set your drink back down. The number that had flashed on Andrew’s phone screen earlier came to your mind again. “I’m sure you have.”
“But none of them have cost me a half a million dollars. You’re expensive,” he finished.
“Hey, you’re the one who offered.”
“You’re the one who ran such a hard bargain.”
“Not that you hesitated.” You rested your cheek on your palm as you looked at him, a smile tugging at your lips.
Oliver leaned forwards, his heterochromatic eyes locking onto yours. “That’s because I took one look at you sellin’ those tickets and knew I needed to figure out a way to take you out tonight.”
He leaned back again, a smirk on his lips, and took a long sip of his drink. Lord. You were well and absolutely fucked. But at least you’d get a good story out of it, right?
-
The first round - or second, for Oliver - of drinks was spent on those “getting-to-know-you” topics. You told Oliver about where you’d grown up, what you did for fun, what you hated most about your job.
And in turn, you learned about him. He was fascinating. He’d spent half of his childhood in Sweden, and half in Japan. He played football his whole life, and when he was 19, joined something called Blue Lock - an insanely intense soccer training program that produced some of the best players in the world. He’d played in Italy for Ubers for a number of years after the program, but transferred to your city a few years back in search of a change. He’d lived and traveled all over the world - and partied all over the world, too.
When the next round came, Oliver held up his glass for cheers. “To charity,” he said with a grin that made your heart flip.
“To charity,” you echoed, clinking your glass with his. “And fuck cancer.”
“Fuck cancer,” he agreed with a laugh. His knee bumped yours under the bar. You didn’t move your leg, letting the warmth of him seep into you through layers of fabric.
Motion caught Oliver’s attention out of the corner of his eye, and yours too. Across the U-shaped bar, a fan was not-so-subtly trying to take a discreet photo of Oliver.
Chuckling to himself, Oliver smiled brightly and flashed a peace sign at the fan. Flustered, the guy put his phone down and turned away quickly.
“Hope you don’t mind endin’ up on Twitter,” Oliver murmured as he sipped his Boulevardier. “The fans’ll get over it quickly, though.”
You watched for a moment as the embarrassed fan made his way out of the bar. You prayed he wouldn’t send out some announcement that Oliver was here or something. “Is it… weird?” you asked. “Having people recognize you in public like that?”
“You get used to it,” he answered with a shrug. “Comes with the job.” His gaze returned to you for a long moment. His mismatched, pretty eyes studied your face like he was just seeing you for the first time. “It’s always really nice, though, spendin’ time with someone like you. Someone who just… doesn’t give a shit.”
“I give a little bit of a shit,” you admitted, your tongue loosened by the alcohol.
“Okay, well, you know what I mean,” he retorted, laughing softly and shaking his head. He took another sip of his drink, and you couldn’t help but watch the way his throat moved as he swallowed.
-
“Be honest with me,” Oliver hummed as the bartender placed round three - your last for the night, you’d already internally decided - in front of you on the bar. “If I hadn’t gone up to $500k, if I’d stayed firm at a hundred… would you have still agreed to drinks with me?”
You thought for a moment, toying with the embossed cocktail napkin beneath your drink. “Probably.” You glanced up at Oliver to find him looking at you with a fascinated gaze, clearly waiting for you to go on. “I didn’t know what you could afford,” you began to explain. The use of past tense earned a raised eyebrow from him, but you carried on, not wanting to admit you’d looked up his salary. “At the end of the day, it’s just drinks to raise a lot of money for a cause that means a lot to me. And it helps that you’re hot.”
“You think I’m hot?” he asked, satisfaction evident in both his tone and the grin he gave you.
You rolled your eyes playfully. “Like you don’t know.”
“Maybe I do,” he hummed, lifting his glass to his lips. “But it’s always nice to hear from a pretty thing like you.” Your heart skipped a beat at the compliment, the alcohol in your system making the blood rush to your cheeks a little easier than it would otherwise. You sipped your drink if only to give yourself something to do with your hands.
The blush on your cheeks, the way you averted your gaze, only seemed to intrigue him further. He leaned a little closer, turned more towards you, pressed his leg into yours more. His closeness made your breath hitch.
“That your last drink?” he asked, his voice lower now that he was closer, nodding towards the martini glass in your hands. You nodded in response.
“Good.” His gaze flickered between your eyes and the drink. He brought his Boulevardier up to his lips again and finished it, draining half of the glass in one go. The soft clink of the glass on the bar top sounded like a gunshot, a declaration, in the small space between you. The bar had gotten a little busier as the night had gone on, hotel guests returning from their adventures, but the corner Oliver had chosen had remained relatively private.
“Finish your drink,” he instructed, reaching inside the pocket of his tux jacket to pull out his leather wallet once more, just as he had done earlier in the night to buy tickets from you. As you turned your attention to your remaining half of a martini, he pulled out a wad of cash and set it on the bar.
Once he’d placed his wallet securely back in his pocket, Oliver leaned back in his seat. One hand came up to his neck, loosening the bowtie there as he watched you finish your drink. His eyes were darker now, filled with a hunger that sent a shiver down your spine, tracing your profile as you sipped.
Your glass clinked as you set it down on the polished wood. As though the sound was the starting gun of a race, Oliver slid off his barstool and held his hand out to you. “C’mon.”
“Where are we going?” you asked as you placed your hand in his and grabbed your bag with the other. You knew where you were going.
“My room.” That fucking smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth again as he began to guide you through the bar, towards the lobby and elevators. Your stomach fluttered.
“That’s… direct,” you murmured.
“Relax,” he said, chuckling. “I just wanna… show you the view.” He pressed the ‘up’ button on the elevator and turned to you again.
“The view.”
“Yeah,” he said, as though it was obvious. “Corner suite. Top floor.” His mismatched eyes glittered with amusement as he looked at you.
The elevator doors dinged as they opened, and he all but tugged you inside, swiping his keycard and pressing the button for the top floor.
Oliver didn’t make a move yet. Security cameras, you figured. He kept your hand in his, but leaned back against the wall of the elevator as it began to ascend. His heated gaze drifted slowly up and down your body, making heat smolder in your core.
“You know,” he drawled after a moment, breaking the silence.
“What?” You cocked your head to the side as you looked at him. He smirked again.
“For the record…” His mismatched eyes met yours again, causing your heart to race. “I definitely would’ve gone higher than five hundred.”
A surprised laugh escaped your lips, and you shook your head. “I wouldn’t have asked.”
“I wouldn’t have blamed you if you did,” Oliver replied. He paused for a moment, his eyes still on you, and you could see his tongue run along the inside of his cheek. “Thanks for sayin’ yes.”
You weren’t exactly sure how to respond to something like that. Thanks for letting him donate $500k? Thanks for letting him, a world-famous athlete, take you out for drinks?
“Yeah,” you finally settle on, giving him a small smile.
When you finally reached his floor, he gently led you by the hand to his hotel room. It wasn’t frantic - Oliver moved like he already knew how tonight would end, though he wasn’t necessarily presumptuous.
“You weren’t lying about the view,” you murmured once he’d opened the door and guided you inside. Your shoes got kicked off and your bag got dropped by the door as Oliver shrugged off his suit jacket and removed his bowtie, tossing them onto the desk chair. The room was gorgeous, all blue and gold and art deco. The big windows gave a gorgeous view of the darkened city - as soon as your shoes were off, you crossed the room to get a better look.
When you turned around after a few moments, the sight that greeted you made your heart skip a beat. Oliver had unbuttoned the top few buttons of his dress shirt and rolled up the sleeves, then settled onto the couch with his legs spread wide. He was watching you, his heterochromatic eyes half-lidded and a lazy smirk on his lips.
You were suddenly hyper aware of yourself. Of the formal clothes still clinging to your body. Of the weight of the diamonds in your earlobes, sparkling as they reflected the city lights. Of the fact that you were standing in the middle of a celebrity’s hotel room, and he’d dropped half a million dollars to get you there. Of the way his eyes wouldn’t leave your form.
Of the heat building low in your core.
“You gonna come here,” he drawled, his voice rough and husky, “or you just gonna stare at the skyline all night, doll?”
You stifled a giggle, a smile tugging at your lips. “You said you wanted to show me the view.”
“I did. It looks great.” His eyes didn’t leave you. The laugh spilled from your lips now, and your cheeks warmed up under his gaze. Your heart raced.
“C’mere,” he murmured, giving you the same gesture he had at the gala. He looked even more certain now that you wouldn’t be able to say no to him.
And he would be right.
You crossed the room quickly, coming to stand in front of him where he was lounging on the couch like he owned - no, dominated - the space. He didn’t move as you approached, just watched with appreciation evident in his gaze.
You stopped an arm’s length away.
“You nervous?” the athlete asked, smirking. You shook your head, a hand coming to rest on your hip as you looked down at him. He was deliciously disheveled, the tiniest hint of pink on his cheekbones from the alcohol.
He held your gaze for another moment before his eyes flickered down to the hand resting on your hip. Slowly, like he was giving you the chance to pull away even though he knew you wouldn’t, he reached out and took your wrist the same way he had earlier in the night. His hand was big, warm, and soft, you noted, as he encircled your wrist and tugged you gently forwards until you were standing between his spread knees.
“Don’t be nervous,” he purred.
“Bossy,” you teased, smiling down at him.
“Not bossy,” he corrected smoothly. “Just very used to gettin’ what I want.” His hands moved, releasing your wrist and both coming to rest on your hips.
“And tonight,” he murmured, “I want you.” His low voice sent shivers down your spine.
“You’re a dog.” There was no heat in your words. Just fondness and a hint of desire he latched onto.
And Oliver, that fucker, barked. A shocked laugh escaped your lips, and his grip on your hips tightened slightly as he grinned up at you.
“Excuse me?” you asked, still laughing in disbelief. He leaned back against the couch, his hands still on you, that grin still on his lips.
“Maybe I am a dog,” he clarified. “Woof.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“And yet…” he pulled you forwards by the hips, guiding you to straddle him on the couch. “You came upstairs with me.”
Your breath hitched as you settled onto his lap, your heart rate kicking up a few notches. This close, all the details of Oliver’s face were clear to see - the faintest hint of freckles along the bridge of his nose, the way his eyes caught the light differently from one another.
“Your ego is insane,” you told him. He laughed at that, a little harder than you would have expected, like it was funny for a reason you didn’t quite get.
“It’s what makes me so good at my job.” There was a challenging glint in his eyes that made your heart flutter. You were incredibly aware of your position on his lap, his hands on your hips. His body heat seeped into you through your clothes.
Your hands, which had been resting on your thighs, slid up his chest, feeling the muscles beneath his shirt, until you reached his shoulders. His gaze flicked from your eyes down to your lips, and your eyes did the same to him.
He hummed in approval as one hand left your hip, moving around to your back. It slid up your spine until he reached your neck, and he gently guided you closer to him.
“This gonna cost me?” he teased once your lips hovered just a millimeter away from his.
“Just fucking kiss me already,” you whispered back.
And he listened. Oh fuck, did he listen. He pulled you to him, kissing you with a barely restrained hunger. His lips were slightly chapped, and he tasted like whiskey and something more bitter. His hand on your neck slid up into your hair, and the hand on your hip slid down to grab your ass. His tongue licked into your mouth, hot and wet and intoxicating.
Your hands moved. His shirt needed to go. Button after button came undone until you were pushing his dress shirt back, and his hands were leaving your body to help you get it off.
“Fuck,” he cursed lowly as he broke the kiss, reaching down to grasp the hem of his undershirt. The neckline messed up his hair deliciously as he pulled it off, and your eyes widened as you took in his muscular form. You knew he’d be ripped - he’s a professional athlete, after all - but you didn’t expect it to be so fucking hot. His chest was dusted in a light amount of dark hair, spread across his pecs and leading enticingly downwards towards his belt.
He didn’t let you admire for long, though. His hands were on your body again a moment later, tugging you to kiss him again as he began pulling your clothes off.
He only got a few steps in before he groaned in frustration. Cursing, he grasped your thighs tightly, his fingers digging into the soft flesh.
“Hold on tight, baby,” he murmured before surging upwards, lifting you off the couch and settling your thighs around his hips. You let out a little gasp as he lifted you so easily.
He dropped you on the crisp white linens of the hotel bed, following you down. He used the change in position to strip your clothes off until you were just in your panties.
“So tell me, doll,” he spoke against your skin as he began to kiss down your neck. “Was this always the plan?”
“H..huh?” you stuttered. His lips on your neck made it difficult to form a coherent thought.
“Awful fancy underwear you chose,” he pointed out, shifting his weight to one arm so he could reach down and trace the lace of your panties.
“God dammit,” you breathed, laughing. Your hand came up to tangle in his dark hair as he licked a stripe up your neck, making you shiver. “No. I just wanted to wear nice underwear with my nice clothes.”
“Cute.” He moved further down your body to bring his mouth to your tits, finding a nipple with his mouth and beginning to tease it. “Too bad I want to see you in nothing but those diamonds.”
Then, in a move that made your jaw drop, he sat back on his knees, brought both hands down to your panties, and ripped them clean apart.
“Oliver!” you gasped. “Those were expensive!”
“I’ll buy you new ones. I’ll buy you the whole fuckin’ catalogue,” he promised. “Just wanna make you say my name like that again first.”
And then he was pushing your thighs apart and bringing his mouth to your dripping pussy and everything turned upside down.
“Oh fuck, Oliver!” you gasped as he immediately honed in on your clit, your whole body jerking at the sensation.
“Yeah, just like that,” he groaned against your core, his hands massaging the fat of your thighs as he held you open for him to feast on. “Say my name, baby.”
He was clearly experienced, and it was hot as fuck. He knew just how to lick up and down your slit, suck on your clit, flick it with his tongue just right to have you whimpering and moaning for him.
And when your hands tangled in his hair and tugged a little, he moaned.
“Shit, Oliver, don’t stop,” you gasped, beginning to buck against his face. You swore you could feel his smirk against your pussy as he focused his ministrations on your clit. If he could talk right now, you just knew he’d be spewing absolute filth.
He didn’t need to say ‘cum for me,’ because the way he was rapidly stroking your bud with his tongue was command enough. “Fuck! C-cumming!” you choked out before you crashed over the ledge, your whole body spasming as he held your legs open and continued to drink you down.
His lips didn’t leave your pussy until you were overstimulated, whimpering and trying to pull him away by his dark hair. “Jesus, Oliver,” you breathed, your chest heaving as you tried to catch your breath. He just gave you a triumphant grin as he rose up from between your legs, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Now that you’re nice ’n’ ready…” he purred, reaching down to begin unbuckling his belt. You pushed yourself up on your elbows to get a better view, watching appreciatively as he removed his suit pants.
He kicked off the pants, letting them fall to the floor elsewhere in the hotel room. He was just wearing black boxer briefs beneath, and fuck, you wanted him to crush you with his thighs.
“Your legs are insane,” you blurted out without thinking, admiring the defined muscles of his quads as he knelt before you on the hotel bed. You were still laying there, totally naked, your torn panties beside you on the bed, your legs still spread for him.
Oliver laughed at that, looking down at his legs as he tensed his muscles in display. “Another occupational hazard,” he joked, before looking up at you with a grin once more. “You wanna see what other part of me is insane?”
That earned a laugh from you, too. “No way your dick is big. You can’t be charming, hot, rich, successful, AND have a big dick.”
“Oh, but I can,” he teased in response, his thumbs hooking into his boxer briefs. He watched your face carefully as he pulled down the waistband, letting his erection spring free.
“Jesus, Oliver,” you groaned, both in excitement and disdain for how perfect this man seemed to be, as you watched his dick bounce for a moment. He was big - average in length, but certainly beyond average in girth.
Oliver just grinned proudly at you as he stroked his cock slowly. “Yeah?” he murmured.
“Shut up and fuck me,” you told him, trying your hardest to maintain a straight face.
“Alright, alright. Expensive and testy, apparently,” he mused, chuckling to himself. He climbed off the bed, a little awkwardly due to the boxer briefs around his thighs still, and kicked off his underwear before making his way over to the desk chair he’d left his suit coat on. After rummaging around in the pocket for a moment, he produced his wallet, from which he pulled out a condom.
Meanwhile, you were just enjoying the view of his toned ass as he moved around the room.
The way that Oliver opened the condom (carefully) with his teeth was insanely hot. He tossed the shiny wrapper aside and rolled the latex down his erection.
“Not allergic to latex, are you?” he asked as he settled down on the bed between your legs once more. “I got non-latex in my bag if you need it.”
It was… oddly considerate of him. And it also made you realize how often he must do this. You shook your head - no latex allergy for you - and he grunted in approval.
You gasped when he smacked his fat, heavy cock on your already-drenched pussy.
“You ready for this, doll?” he asked, his voice husky. You nodded emphatically, and he grinned in approval.
His thick fingers spread your slit apart as his other hand guided his shaft to your waiting hole. Slowly, agonizingly, he began to press into you.
“Oh shit, Oliver, you’re so fucking thick,” you hissed.
“And you’re so fuckin’ tight,” he replied, his eyes glued to the sight of his dick splitting you open. “Jesus, baby. You tryin’ to make me bust already?”
His hands moved up to grip your waist as he continued to fill you up, until his hips met the back of your thighs. When he bottomed out, he let out a groan that made your cunt clench around him, his head tipping backwards to face the ceiling.
His eyes were blazing with hunger when he looked down at you again. Slowly, torturously slowly, he pulled out almost all the way, until just the tip of his cock was inside you. With another low groan, he then pushed back inside, making your back arch off the bed. A moan of his name tore from your throat, and he grinned. “That’s it,” he purred in approval.
Then, before you could even think, he was moving. He began to piston into you with immense force, his hands finding the back of your thighs and pressing your legs to your chest to open you up wider for him.
“Fuck,” he growled. “You feel even better than I imagined.”
“Y-you - ngh! - you imagined?” you questioned through moans.
He chuckled and grunted in affirmation. “Fuck yeah I did, doll. The second I bought those raffle tickets, I knew the only prize I gave a shit about was you.”
His words made your heart race even more than it was already.
The thrusting paused for a moment, and Oliver shifted back onto his heels, gyrating his hips to tease you. One hand guided your leg to rest over his shoulder, while the other ran through his dark hair. His jaw was tensed.
“Fuck, doll, I promise I normally last longer,” he gritted out. “Especially with a fuckin’ rubber. But Christ, you just feel so fuckin’ good…”
His free hand came down to rest over your pelvis, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing it in tight circles as he resumed his punishing pace. His heterochromatic eyes seemed to glow with lust as he took in every aspect of your body hungrily, from your flushed face to your bouncing tits.
“Gonna make you cum before I do,” he promised. And he was dedicated to that promise, if the way he slowed his thrusts to hold off on cumming and focus on your pleasure was any indication. He toyed with your clit like a man on a mission, intense in a way you imagined he saved for sex and soccer.
“Oh shit, Oliver, don’t stop,” you gasped, your hands clutching at the bedspread. Your whole body tensed as you felt your orgasm approaching. “I’m gonna cum.”
“Yeah?” he murmured, his eyes half-lidded. “Cum for me, baby. Cum on my cock. Give me that prize.”
With a few more well-aimed thrusts, you were coming undone around him, crying out his name as your body shook. Oliver roared something in a language you didn’t understand - you were too far gone to know if it was Japanese, Swedish, or something else entirely - and thrusted a few more times before spilling into the condom, his thumb never stilling on your clit.
Finally, once you were shaking at clutching at his arm, he removed his hand from your pelvis and gave you a second to breathe. With one last groan, he pulled out, pulling off the condom, tying it off, and tossing it elsewhere in the room to be dealt with later.
“Shit, doll,” he murmured as he flopped down beside you on the bed. “That was incredible.”
“You can say that again,” you replied, your voice slightly raspy from screaming his name.
-
When you returned from the (incredibly fancy) hotel bathroom, having freshened up and recovered somewhat, Oliver was still lounging naked in the bed, scrolling on his phone with one hand and absentmindedly massaging his thigh with the other.
“Am I not entertaining enough?” you teased, grabbing a bottle of water from the minibar. Oliver Aiku, pro footballer, could afford the $50 charge or whatever it was. When Oliver looked at you in confusion, you pointed at his phone.
“Oh,” he said, looking back down at his phone. He turned the screen towards you - from your distance away, you couldn’t make out the details, but he was clearly on the Victoria’s Secret website. “Just doin’ my homework. You like black lace? I’ll get you those and my team colors.”
The revelation earned a shocked laugh from you - thankfully, you hadn’t started drinking the water yet, or you’d be choking. “Seriously?”
“Of course. I owe you,” he said, shrugging like it wasn’t surprising that he was actually following through with this. He tapped the screen a few more times, then tossed his phone towards you, where it landed on the foot of the bed. “Put in your address. They’ll be here on Monday.”
Once you’d entered your address into the checkout screen, he tapped a few more times before locking his phone and setting it aside. You cracked open the water and took a swig, thankful for the hydration after… all that.
Oliver leaned forward and grabbed the water bottle from you, chugging the last of it in a few seconds. It was both annoying and cutely intimate in equal measure.
“You busy tomorrow?” he asked, like it was nothing.
You blinked once, twice. “Tomorrow?” This wasn’t a one-time thing? He wasn’t kicking you out?
“What?” He smirked at you, gorgeous and frustrating and so hot. “You think I’m droppin’ five hundred grand for just one night?”
shoutout to @lorelune for the writer's block advice that made me actually able to finish this finally lol.
hope you all enjoyed!! comments/likes/reblogs are much appreciated :) and my asks are open for any requests or comments you may have!
it’s past midnight and i have an on-camera work meeting in less than 8 hours but lord help me i am trying SO hard to push through the writer’s block on this fucking aiku/reader fic i’ve been working on for months now 😭😭😭
can't believe james rodriguez is on my team man. what the hell. also was very sad to not get to see evander play BUT i survived an fc cincinnati match without getting my shit rocked by a full-power shot to the face for once (though it was close) so that's great
still trying to warm up hours later because it was 20 degrees fahrenheit outside and we froze our asses off
yoichi isagi x reader || M || vampire isagi + blood drinking || wc: 5.6 || ao3
You have become an auctor at the well-regarded blood house, Bastardpunkt . Isagi is your first client.
a/n: god i love vampires. i love vampires so much. vampire ya was my literal actual gateway to becoming a writer at all and therefore i will be hopelessly endeared to the genre always. please enjoy some vampire isagi!! this is a snippet from a larger blood house-verse (kaiser centric but shhh). huge thank you to @suguwu for beta reading!!! enjoy loves!!!
tags: blood drinking, author-brewed vampire lore, vampire isagi, human reader
"Have you done this before?"
You shake your head. "N-No, it's my first time.
Isagi is pouring some tonic into a polished silver... well, you can only call it a chalice. It gleams in the lowlight of the room, all warm and full despite the dark red and black tones of the room. Bastard’s Point— Bastardpunkt— is full of these gothic aesthetics. It lines the halls and grand rooms like flesh inside a body.
Isagi doesn't fit it well, at least not now. He’s wearing well-tailored black trousers, a white dress shirt, and a cool-toned blue sweater vest. He looks more like a schoolboy, really, a man about to go to a university lecture and not a vampire who is more than likely several times your age. His appearance, oddly, puts you at ease.
You’ve seen the other vampires of the coven that runs Bastard’s Point. Zweiter Herr Kaiser wears garish outfits, high-waisted pants with ruffled shirts with cravats, glittering stones on shining silver bands wrapped around his fingers. Herr Ness prefers to be draped in long fabrics, favoring maroon and violet velvet. Herr Noa, the sire of the coven, you believe, looks more like a business man, always in fine suits and ruby cufflinks that catch the light like they're glowing.
Isagi is so normal looking by comparison. You can see why the attendant at the fine stone reception desk placed you with him, rather than someone more intimidating and voracious-looking. He’s rather tame by comparison
"Ah, I see." Isagi hums. "I saw that in your chart, but some folks fib in order to add some perceived appeal to them. I'm glad you were truthful, it's better to be honest here."
You nod. You're a little too nervous to speak.
Becoming a blood auctor— sanguinarius, if one is to be archaic— at Bastard’s Point is quite a process. It required you to be vetted by two coven-based vampires. You needed blood testing to check for disease and hemoglobin levels. A background check was completed and you think a private investigator may have been hired to tail you for a few days.
Not that they would've found much if your hunch is correct. Your day-to-day is quite dull. You have your part-time work at the bakery from early morning until early afternoon, and after, you usually return to your studio apartment to rest and make a paltry meal in the evening.
All of the hoops to jump through to get here should be worth it. The contract that you signed had a bonus attached, to be awarded after your first feeding takes place. Not to mention that each individual feed has a handsome fee that will go, more or less, into your pocket, beside the percentage Bastard’s Point takes off. Bachira had told you that vampires often tip as well. And this is merely what is included in your current, starter contract. If you establish a regular client who wants exclusivity, modifications can be made. More money secured.
You’re getting ahead of yourself. It's only your first time, after all.
And despite the promised funds, you're still apprehensive. Nervous at the prospect of being drank from, even though auctorship is a rather common side hustle these days, given how much regulation and reform that there has been in the last few decades. It's a safe profession, especially at an established, above-board blood house like Bastard’s Point. Such knowledge should quell your anxiety.
But, it doesn't really. Not when you're settled on a firm velvet couch with a throw pillow in your lap.
Isagi looks kind as he approaches from a long counter and assorted shelves in the corner. There are plenty of snacks and refreshment stocked, even in their standard rooms like this one. You know the tonic in his hands is meant less as a tasty treat and more for nourishment. You read up on them prior to arriving. They’re quite miraculous little tinctures. Bastard's Point is known for their stock, in variety and quantity, as well.
Isagi sets the chalice on a side table and looks you over. You meet his gaze, or attempt to, even as his slides over your form.
You dress as you had been instructed to. Loose pants that can be pushed up past your knee if required with a soft, oversized shirt that can be shoved this way and that, depending on the bite preference of the vampire that you're serving. You feel very dressed down like this, vulnerable and soft-bellied, even though Isagi isn't looking all that hungrily at you.
There is a calculating sheen to his eyes. It's not cruel, but it's intense to be under. He seems to catch your spiking anxiety, probably due to his acute hearing and the way your pulse is undoubtedly thumping a little harder than it was a few minutes ago.
He sits beside you, though a few feet away. "There's no need to be nervous. They placed you with me because I go easy on the newbies."
"Do you have that reputation?"
Isagi nods. "I don't have a consistent auctor, so I'm frequently available to take fresh blood— ah, I’m sorry, that probably sounded insensitive."
"No, no, it's fine. That's what I am, right?" You laugh, a little too high and tittering.
Isagi looks at you with undisguised sympathy. "It's okay to be uncomfortable. You can back out at any time, okay? I won't take any offense and you certainly wouldn't be the first."
It provides you some comfort. Isagi doesn't seem like the type to force you into anything, not to mention your contract has quite heavy penalties if a vampire were to take from you without your consent. A proper blood house protects its stock and all.
"That's good to know." You fiddle with the tassel trim from the throw pillow over your thighs.
Isagi reaches out and squeezes your knee.
"Do you have any preference for where I bite?"
You’ve thought about this. It would be better to not have any lingering marks visible for your day job, but that leaves your ankles and thighs as the most optimal spots. However... that seems quite intimate for a vampire that you only met in the last thirty minutes. Your wrist is another coverable-option, but you read online that that can lead to soreness that affects one’s motor function temporarily, even with proper treatment and replenishing tonic. Your neck, by proxy, may be the best option. You purchased a mock neck in preparation for today, just in case, though you left it at home, air drying on your petite balcony following its first washing.
"I think," you swallow. "My neck— may be preferable. Do you have any favorite spots?"
Isagi smiles again, a little sharper, but not mean. "Ah, for first timers, I usually go for a wrist or forearm. But post-defloratio, I prefer—" He looks a little shyer. It's cute— he's quite cute, isn’t he? "Upper thigh, mainly."
"S-So my neck doesn't work?" You had some plan in your mind for how this would all go. You planned for your neck to be bitten, and the seeming lack of that option sends you into a minor panic, a weird threat of uncontrollability cascading down the back of your neck.
Isagi shakes his head, waving his hands in front of him. "No, no! Your neck is totally okay. It can just be a lot, for the auctor. Are you prepared for that?"
"Yes, I am." you say, though a good part of you wishes that a bite on the wrist was less risky. "I n-need my hands for work."
He looks at you thoughtfully. "Your file said you work at a bakery, right?”
"Mhm,” you nod. “I can't lose dexterity for the day job, you know?"
"Kneading a lot of dough?"
"Yes— and I decorate our pastries, and it requires a steady hand."
"I see," Isagi squeezes your knee again. "Well, we’ll be sure to keep your hands intact then. Your neck is perfect. Would you like to be thralled?"
Yes, is your immediate response, but you don't voice it yet.
You’ve read plenty about thralls. Both in online forums offering first hand accounts of the experience, and the most romanticized notion of them, plucked from the vampira amor genre of books that folks are so enamored with these days. It's less absolute than vampiric compulsion (a rare skill, though you've heard rumors that at least one of Bastard's Point's vampires has the ability.) But, it renders you highly suggestible, sedated in a supernatural way that makes the process of bloodtaking more pleasant. Some vampires don't like a thralled victim, they like the cortisol in their prey's— auctor's— blood.
You don't know Isagi's preference.
"... What would you prefer, zweiter Herr Isagi?"
You stumble over his coven title. It’s not required, not at all, for as ancient an establishment as Bastard’s Point is, a mortal human using only a vampire’s given name is more than acceptable. If anything, it’s a bit odd that you’d use it in the privacy of an auctory suite. Your use of his full title is more a form of avoidance. A diversion, maybe. A poor attempt, all things considered.
Isagi examines you. The pit of his gaze feels endless. It’s critical, unveiled in its intensity. He’s drinking in every breath you take and every slight twitch of each individual muscle of yours. You’re like a poor insect, pinned by thin needles for his analysis. He’s taking you apart in a way that feels rending. He probably has been this entire time, Isagi just has been wearing a kinder cloak up until now. He’s a disarming type of man, a dangerous type of vampire when he shows this side of himself, too.
You understand why he is Bastard Point’s second— zweiter Herr.
Your nervousness, in contrast, is apparent. Your attempt at a verbal diversion is easily cast aside by Isagi, ever even-keeled, it seems. You
"Thralling is my go-to, especially considering this is your first time being fed from. It really tamps down any pain from the bite. And, if we’re lucky, it will feel pleasurable to be fed from, rather than painful."
You feel a little silly for trying to divert Isagi from your own fractiousness, but he doesn’t seem put off by your attempt in doing so. He seems forgiving. It does
"Would it hurt, without a thrall?"
You know the answer already, but you want to know how Isagi will respond.
"It would, yes." Isagi says. "Quite badly, too. I've drank from a few auctors who preferred the barebones, no thrall at all, and it’s quite painful.”
Of course it would be. One is getting a bite from an iron-jawed vampire to your jugular.
"That makes sense." You tug the pillow to your chest and hold it tight against your sternum and ribs.
You’ve been dragging out the preamble, avoiding the inevitable.
Isagi must notice. You won't look at him anymore, fixated on the light-catching fabric of the pillow. You know you're hunched over a bit, shielding your core. It's only instinct, really, one that you don't know how to quell. You’ve willingly put yourself in private quarters with an apex predator, intent on your drinking your blood from the vein. It’s only natural that your hindbrain is screaming at you, and your response to said screaming is to retreat into yourself, away from the source of your fear.
You could walk out. You could leave without consequence. Your contract has such a clause, built in for your comfort and safety. And yet, you don't move to exit.
(You need the money. Your cat had an emergency vet visit a few weeks ago, and rent is due in a few days. The bakery has been cutting your hours, little by little. Your purse is more empty than you’d like it to be. Despite this, even as you have spent the last few months being vetted to be a sanguinarius here, you're still a little terrified.)
"Hey, can you look at me?" Isagi implores you. You take a big breath, being so very brave, and turn to him. He's a little closer, but not cloyingly so. He smiles, brightly and kindly, that calculating side of him washed away. "There you are."
"Sorry," you apologize. "I’m just nervous."
"That's alright, we'll take things slow. We can stop and be done at any point, okay?"
You nod, only a little assured. "... And you won't take too much?"
"No, no. promise. I've got good self-control, no need to worry about that. Though, you may be dizzy and a little nauseous regardless, but that's what I pre-poured that tonic for."
Ah, it's nice that he's so prepared. You appreciate his thoughtfulness. It puts you a little more at ease.
"Okay." you say, sounding smaller than you mean. "Thank you."
"Of course." his thumb rubs circles on your knee. "Would you prefer to have me drink from you here, or in bed?"
Ah, bed. The room feels like a parlor, but there is a queen sized mattress in a sub-room, just feet away. It's more hidden from the room’s entrance than the couch. You're exposed here. But, the bed itself is on a four poster frame with gossamer drapery. The sheets look fine and soft. It feels like a more... intimate setting.
"Can you choose?" you reply.
Isagi looks... contented at that, almost like he's breathing a sigh of relief. You feel similarly. You don't know if it's presumptuous to want him to take the reins on this experience at this point, but whatever silly little plan you constructed prior feels more and more frail each second.
"Of course. I'll take the lead." He says. "Let’s stay here and get comfortable.
You nod— that's more than fine. A couch feels less like you're about to fuck than the plush-looking bed.
Isagi shifts. "Trust me from here, okay?"
You nod again, a little dumbly as he moves closer. In a flash of motion, all vampiric speed, he is kneeling on the ground before you. He taps your knees and you spread them without thinking. He shuffles closer and you can feel heat rising in your cheeks.
"Herr Isagi—"
"Trust me, remember?" He braces his hands on the inside of your knees, sliding them to your thighs, kneading the tense muscle.
You swallow audibly. Isagi's gaze shifts from the give of your thighs to your throat in an instant. He swallows too. He must be— he must be thirsty.
His touch moves on from thighs. His hands ghost to your wrists, squeezing, before tracking up your arms. He rises from his kneel to a more upright position on his knees. Like this, he's a little taller than you. It’s a good vantage. You look to your lap, unable to meet his eyes, whether they are pitying or hungry.
His fingers tips brush over your collarbones. You shiver.
He drags the backs of his fingernails around your jaw, lingering there. Back and forth, with a rhythm that's gentle, almost musical. He does it long enough that your pulse stops racing quite so quickly. You dare to look at Isagi directly.
He’s— pretty. He really is. His jaw is sharp but his cheeks are soft, especially for a vampire. His hair looks soft too, like it would be nice to put your hands in and musse up. His teeth are white, his canines sharp and a little too long, in that unnatural way that vampires are. Your throat bobs.
"Not so bad, right?"
You nod and Isagi looks pleased. He looks kind now. You understand why he is placed with new auctors like yourself. You’re unsure that most vampires would take so much time with their meal, ensuring their comfort in this particular way, so intentionally.
His palms cup your cheeks. He's cold to the touch. Not like metal left in snow, he's better fed than that, but still too chilled to be human.
"Just relax for me," Isagi says softly, hushed, barely loud enough to hear.
His eyes are all soft-polished lapis, deep in hue like how an old sea is on a calm day. You feel— absorbed by them. The color is in your throat, smooth and cool, but warming too, somehow. Like a heavy blanket. You feel your eyelids droop.
You feel like you're being pulled and pulled and pulled—
Belatedly, you realize that this is his thrall. Panic climbs in your throat.
It’s unnatural for a human to accept a thrall. For how many tens of thousands of years has falling prey to such a sensation meant certain death? There are some twitchy impulses that can't be quelled with gentle words, and this is apparently one of them.
You push where there is pull. You tense where you’re urged to loosen. You blink, rapidly, tears forming in your eyes.
Isagi shushes you, thumbing over your cheeks. "Don't fight it, love. It’ll only make this harder."
You can't nod, you're too ensnared for that. You whimper instead, mouth falling open like you're going to speak, but how could you? The world is glassy, far too smooth to hold onto. The thing pulling you back and back and away from your panic is so warm and inviting. Like a blanket of calm against your own maelstrom. It’s so lovely that it’s disquieting.
You choke and jolt away, but Isagi's grip doesn't waver. He tightens his hold on your face, following your motion.
"Don't resist it, dear. I promise, it'll be alright. Just let go."
No. You shouldn't. The bulb of a brain at the top of your spine ignites like a spark on brush. You warble out some helpless sound, eyes stinging. You can't make out Isagi's expression, your vision is ringed at the edges, hazy in the center.
You do feel Isagi brush a thumb under your eye. "Be good and relax, I know you can."
Be good, be good, be good.
His words hit like a sedative directly into your veins. A noise gets caught in the back of your throat, and the pull feels easier to acquiesce too. The rigidity in you collapses like wobbly stones stacked atop one and other.
Isagi swoops you up. You dully feel yourself settled against the back of the couch. The weight of the pillow in your lap is suddenly gone.
"There we go." Isagi sounds so soothing. He's so warm-sounding, so easy to sink into. He smells nice, too. He did earlier, but you hardly made note of it. Now, his cologne is like a pleasantly-scented cloud that you're misted with.
His hands don't leave your face, you don't think so any way, but there's a shift of... something. Your vision is darker and for a moment, you think you've closed your eyes without meaning to. Thinking is hard, so difficult. It takes you a moment, and a weight settling over your thighs, to realize it's Isagi who has moved, eclipsing the light of the room.
His thighs are sturdy around your own, another heat source. Pleasant warmth begins to feel a little hotter, like the burn of liquor on the back of your tongue, sinking into you.
"You're doing so well, not fighting me at all." Isagi's voice is sweet and sticky like honey stirred into tea. It soothes any burn. You want to cling to it, get stuck in it and never move. "Just take what I give you from here, and you'll do well."
You can't nod, wordlessly or otherwise, anymore. Your hands twitch at your sides. You wish you could grab him, but you don't trust your body to respond to your thoughts in your intended way.
Isagi's hair brushes your neck— it is soft. His lips ghost along the line of your throat. You jump with the pressure, even thralled. A little noise escapes you, watery in your ears.
"So sensitive." His voice is so close. You're going to drown in it. "You are fresh. And you smell so wonderful."
You feel him inhale against your skin. It feels indulgent of him, but you’re not in any place to refuse his greed, nor would you want to. Isagi presses his lips firmly against your throat. The pressure is dull, but there. So soft, too. His lips are soft. He really is so soft, especially for a vampire.
He keeps his lips on you, dotting them from spot to spot. You could almost call it kissing. Maybe it is— if you weren't thralled, maybe you could tell definitively. Instead, it's all a wash of sensation. Heated and lovely and warm warm warm.
"You'll feel a little pressure, then you should feel good, maybe really good, if you're lucky." Isagi whispers. "Keep being good for me."
It's less of a request, more of a command. Your mind is too slow to catch all of the intention behind it though, especially as Isagi's jaws loosens and you feel two points against your throat.
Ah—
He bites.
His fangs sink into you. Beneath the thrall, it's a wash of sensation. Heat, a tinge of a sharpness that's balmed by a gentle suck almost immediately. It's hard— hard to catch all his motions. You think he removes his fangs from the wound and pulls away a little, just enough to fit his mouth over the punctures and suck.
That you feel, vibrantly beneath the thrall.
It's good. It's good, it's good, it's good— you're lost in how pleasurable it feels to have him sucking at the wound on your neck. There's a weight on your hips, holding you down, but still you arch into him, you feel yourself do it. Isagi gives a longer, deeper suck, a wet noise echoing into your ear. It doesn't disguise the groan from him that follows. Isagi shudders, you think. Or maybe, you're just vibrating where you sit.
He drinks to his heart's content. You're lost in the sensation of him, taking his fill of you with each slippery noise that slips from the seam of his mouth and the fragile skin of your neck. It’s— it's hot. It's so hot and not just in the way your skin is lighting on fire where he touches. It’s molten in a way that sends liquid desire pooling between your thighs.
You’re not sure how, but you managed to raise your hands. One grabs his sweater vest at his back, the other lands shakily into his hair. You don't intend to tug, but you do, holding him there. He outright moans into your skin.
You can't tell if it's him who rocks forward into your center, or you who grinds up into his.
Isagi pauses.
He isn't sucking anymore, just holding his mouth over the wound, inhaling and exhaling with enough force to feel like a strong gale. He's scenting you through his mouth, maybe? You heard most vampires can do that, like how cats do.
"Fuck." Isagi curses, pulling himself back.
You whine at the loss, at the way the heat retreats aside from the weight around your thighs and the hand of his that's still on your cheek.
"I have to," Isagi pants a little, "play it safe, baby. Can't take too much."
He hasn't taken too much, you want to tell him. He can have as much as he wants. He can drown on you, on all the blood from your veins that he wants. He can take and take and you'll give and give and give. You’d let him crush you down, even, for him to consume in your entirety.
He rubs over your cheek, settling back over your thighs.
The haze subsides, but the heat remains.
Your head is tilted to the side, you realize. It’s a better angle for him, but you hadn't even noticed that you'd been arranged in such a way. You blink, slow and unsteadily. Your chest is rising and falling in a way that almost hurts in its intensity. The side of your neck is wet. Isagi brings up something to hold against the wound there. It's soft, high quality linen. When you attempt to get a better look at him, not even moving your head, just your line of sight, your vision swims without any pleasant warmth.
You whimper behind your teeth and clamp your eyes shut. Dizziness rocks you, like you've drank too much yourself.
"Light-headed." Isagi says, rather than asks. He stretches and grabs the chalice with tonic. "I’m putting a few drops of my blood in it to help the bite clot, okay?"
Fear shoots through you, all animal again. "Noo—"
"Shh, it's okay." Isagi holds the cup, so cold, against your lips. You’re so cold, aren’t you? In your flesh. "I would need to take a lot more blood from you and feed you significantly more of mine to trigger any change."
You choose to trust him, if only because he is Bastard Point’s second, and making a fledging of fresh blood would reflect poorly on him in a multitude of ways. He tilts the glass, just enough for you to get a reasonable mouthful of the tonic. It's metallic on your tongue, like you're licking a coin or a rod of grey metal. You grimace.
"It tastes bad, I know, but it'll help you to feel better. Bear it just a little longer." Isagi urges you.
You take only two more mouthfuls before you, painfully, wrench your head away from it. You still feel dizzy. However, there is something grounding about the cloth on your neck and Isagi's weight over you. Still on your thighs, in your lap— still holding you down and preventing you from collapsing away.
Isagi seems content with your consumption and busies himself with patching up the side of your neck. He carefully tilts your head forward once he does. The gauze and medical tape adhered to your skin feel far less nice than his careful touch.
You open your eyes, finally.
Isagi looks— ravished on top of you, really. He's still panting still. Your blood is smeared around his mouth, like he got a little messy during the feed and barely had time to wipe it away before tending to you. His own chest is heaving a little. You— you think you see a vague outline of something in his trousers. You don't linger there for long, but still blush rises in your cheeks.
"It's— normal." He attempts to excuse. You know this, you read about it online. Vampire feeding usually results in arousal for the vampire, a product of blood entering the vampire's body and going to the parts— all parts— where it regularly belongs and has been deprived of.
"S'okay." you slur. God, you're tired, actually. Fatigue settles like lead in your bone marrow. You blink up at Isagi slowly. "Did I taste good?"
You know the answer, but maybe, since Isagi's fed on you and some pretenses can be dropped after such an affair, you feel a little bolder.
Isagi must notice, his eyes narrow and he grins. "You tasted lovely."
"Did... Did you take too much?"
"No, you'll be alright." He assures you. He climbs off your lap. You mourn the loss of him as your hands fall heavily to your side. You try and brace yourself to push up off the couch and follow him as he flits off, but you almost immediately crumple back down—
Isagi has an arm wrapped around your waist before you can even blink. That unnatural speed of his jars you, all you can do is blink at him. He furrows his brow, looking more concerned than upset.
"You need to move slowly, you're going to feel ill for a while. Let me fetch you a blanket, alright?"
Half of you wants to ask if Isagi would help you hobble to the bed across the room, but the couch is much closer, and not that uncomfortable. You don't think he spilled any blood on it either, though you assume that's a common casualty given the nature of your suite.
You relent and lay down on your side on the couch, your beloved throw pillow finally serving its intended purpose. You close your eyes once more. Your vision still feels a little rocky, and it's easier to manage in darkness. You understand why Bastard's Point keeps its lighting so minimal even when there are plenty of humans in its halls. It's far easier to cope with the lingering effects of vampire saliva and blood loss in the dim lighting.
A heavy blanket is settled over you. It's soft and knit, you can tell. It smells nice, like a good, herbal detergent. You know that some blood houses focus on cleanliness above all, and make a point to keep their halls smelling like the alcohol and other cleaning agents they use. You appreciate that Bastard's Point does not. It feels more homey. Even if that homey feeling comes from a building in the shape of a gothic fortress.
A hand slides into your hair, rubbing over your hairline gently. You crack your eyes open to Isagi kneeling, once more, beside the couch. He looks more settled, clean around the mouth and boyish all over. There's a flush in his cheeks and his eyes don't seem to vacuous anymore. He needed a good meal, clearly.
"How long do we have the room?" You ask.
"As long as we'd like. We don't rush off humans after a feed, especially not fresh ones, like you. We don't want you stumbling out onto the street half-drained."
"I suppose it would be a bad look for the coven." You sigh.
"Well, that, and," Isagi chooses his words carefully. "We’re selective with our stock, here. We'd rather have happy humans who are frequent auctors within our walls, rather than a larger catalogue who are less well kept that are here less regularly."
"Hence all the vetting?"
"That’s part of it, yes." Isagi nods. He scratches the back of your neck. You feel a bit like a pet kitty, but you don't tell him to stop. You wonder if a thrall has any lingering effects. You feel— too shy to ask, now. You’ll comb some forums when you get home.
"That makes sense." you let your eyes drift shut again. Blood loss still has you feeling off kilter. You want to rest and not move. "Will you leave?"
"Right now?"
"Yes."
"No, no. I like to make sure whoever I feed from is on their own two feet with bright eyes before I depart. I'll walk you to the main doors too."
"Thank you."
"It's the least I can do." You dare say that Isagi sounds a little indignant. "How did it feel for you?"
"... Being fed on?"
He hums an affirmative.
You shift deeper into the blanket and a roll of nausea hits you again, but it subsides quickly. "It wasn't so scary, once the, uh, thrall hit. I'm sorry I fought you to get there."
"It's alright." There's a notable pause. He sounds softened. "It's only natural."
"I suppose." you don't disagree. You wonder if relenting to a thrall's gravity gets easier. "Otherwise, it was... good. It felt good. Does it always feel that good?"
"Depends." Isagi covers what could only be a delighted laugh. "On the vampire and their flavor of thrall. And the auctor themselves."
“It varies that much?”
“Indeed.”
"Have you been given such rave reviews before?"
"Like I said, they give newbies to me for a reason."
It reminds you that Isagi is... a 'starter' of sorts. Next time you come in, two weeks from now per your contract, you will more than likely be assigned to a different vampire, unless Isagi requests you specifically. Based on what you were told by the initial attendant and Isagi himself, it doesn't seem like something he really does.
"Sad," you say, words round in your mouth and misshapen. "I’d like to see you again."
(You want to feel that good again.)
(There is a specific clause in your contract that clears consensual intercourse around a feeding if desires are made known--)
"Who says you won't?"
"Mister newbie, the vampire in front of me, I think." You force your eyes open and flash him a smile. "I’ll be alright, I'm sure."
Your eyelids are so heavy. They close again and Isagi doesn't reply. But, his hand doesn't leave your hair, not until it tracks lower. Over your shoulders, to your back, where he rubs and scratches. It feels good, even if the sensation prickles a little bit as your body remembers itself and its blood, piece by piece.
A quiet envelops the room. The only sounds are the ambient ones from the building itself. The distant sound of voices and the thrum of footsteps on the polished stone floors that lay the castle. There's maybe a drip from the sink across the room. Isagi doesn't stop petting you. You don’t want him to.
Isagi interrupts the quiet with a conviction that makes your heart drop and leap, all at once.
"Nothing bars me from taking what I want." Isagi says. His tone forces you to look at him. He's closer than before, pupils large and eclipsing. "And you tasted very good, you know that?"
You swallow, your throat dry and your mouth tasting like the replenishing tonic.
"So you say."
Isagi leans forward, nosing into your cheek. You let him, lacking any thrall.
“I mean it." Isagi’s lips drag a path that's hot like fresh embers. “And I'm at liberty to take another taste if I should request you, aren’t I?”
"I suppose you are."
And whether you mean too, or it's some animal in you that's been warped by a single feeding, you bare your throat to him. You hear his breath catch. And though he doesn't dare to bite you in your condition, you know that he watches your jumping pulse with nothing but interest, desire—
And the undying hunger that only an undying being can have.
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