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ughgoaway · 3 months

Text

An encounter

content warnings; smut (duh), threesome, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex, slight cumplay maybe? swearing, drinking and possibly mediocre writing. and also probably more things I'm forgetting...

a/n; idk why, but I have actually never been more nervous to post a fic?? maybe I'm just insecure because JESUS CHRIST writing threesomes is so fucking difficult. I'm just thankful there was only one dick involved in this one. also i fear i made this a little too gay... i mention the girlfriend A LOT. soooo... sorry about that <3

anyway special thanks to @think0fmehigh for being the nicest human ever and encouraging me to try and write this!! she is to blame if this is awful (jk it is all my fault lol)

word count; 5k -ish

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Sweaty bodies press into your sides, the beat of the music pumps through the room, and you can feel the vibrations moving within you. With a heavy sigh and a wide smile, you throw your head back, letting your body move to the song carelessly.

The music was swirling in your brain, and you were carelessly dancing, paying no attention to anyone else around you. So when you feel someone bump into you from behind, you immediately go to apologise.

Before you get a chance, you feel a pair of hands slide around your waist. You flick your eyes down and see perfectly manicured red nails spreading across your stomach, almost as if they were asking permission to pull you back into their body.

Maybe it's the alcohol running through your veins, or the music pumping in your ears, or perhaps the fact that you haven't had a good fuck in 4 months. But you lean back into the mystery person's grip, pressing yourself against their hot body.

A wave of floral perfume overtakes your senses. The sickly sweet scent causes goosebumps to spread over your skin as you fight the urge to throw your head back and bury your head in her neck. sharp nails dig deeper into your skin, and you feel yourself hoping that she leaves crescent-shaped marks behind, to prove that this feeling is real.

After a few minutes of moving together, you gain the confidence to flick your eyes back, to finally see the woman who has been practically fucking you in the middle of a crowded club Heavy eyeliner surrounded her hooded eyes and a deep red lipstick was smudged over her lips. Long curls of hair fell down her neck and chest, and even in the dark lights of the club, you could see her glowing skin, each pulsing light highlighted the thin sheen covering her.

With this newfound confidence, you press your body back against hers, your sticky skin sliding together as you grind against her. The rumble of a groan rips through her chest, and you can feel the vibrations as she presses herself even closer to you. Power thrums through your veins, and you can't help but giggle at the feeling of heat pulsating through you.

After a few minutes of dancing together, you feel her bend down to your ear. You prepare yourself for her hot breath in your ear, for her to whisper filthy things that make you drip down your thighs. You swear you can almost hear her inviting her back to her place, asking if she can bury her face between your legs until you're a sobbing mess.

Instead, she traces the outline of your ear with her tongue and begins pressing kisses to the outside of your neck, nipping and sucking your damp skin.

You let out a shuddered gasp at the sensation, and you can feel a smirk dancing across her lips. She slides her hands down from your waist to the tops of your thighs, inching dangerously close to your barely covered core.

The short skirt you were wearing didn't leave much to the imagination, and you wouldn't be shocked if she’d already caught a glimpse of your red panties from the way you were moving against her.

Once the song ends, you feel her grip around you loosen, and images of her spinning you around and shoving her tongue in your mouth as she gropes your exposed skin come to mind.

Except, before you can process the loss of her, she's slinked off into the crowd, leaving you breathless and annoyingly turned on.

Fucking hell. time for a drink.

You manage to part the sea of bodies and stumble to the bar, you shout over the pumping music and order a vodka cranberry. It might be a basic drink, but it was cheap and cheerful, and just what you need after being pied off by one of the hottest women you've ever seen.

“Put it on my tab mate, what's one more drink?” you hear a deep voice from behind you say, the timbre of his voice makes your pulse skitter. It was silky smooth and dripping with something you couldn't quite put your finger on. It wasn't confidence or hunger, not even lust. It was just something.

you feel his body press up against you before he slides onto the stool to your left, his hot breath dances over the back of your neck, and you almost shiver at the sensation. But you were more than ready to shoot him down, you didn't come expecting anything tonight, and after dancing with that girl for 10 minutes you're not sure a man could fill the hole she’d left behind.

However, when you flick your eyes over to him, any sense of apprehension melts away and is replaced with pure lust. His dark eyes still managed to glow in the low lights of the club, and his pretty wine-stained lips were already begging to be bitten and kissed. Perfect ringlets framed his face, dark but with swirls of grey dancing through them. A light spattering of facial hair covered his jaw, just enough to scratch your skin deliciously.

“Thanks” you say, smirking over at the mystery man. You pause and wait for him to fill in his name, but he doesn't. Simply smiling smugly and taking a sip of his red wine, you watch a droplet fall on his lips and study the way his tongue darts out to catch it.

His intense eye contact makes you nervous, and you almost pull your eyes away. His heavy gaze was confident, as if he knew something you didn't. You almost scoff at his obvious bravado, but that dies in your throat when you see the woman you were dancing with earlier slink up to his side.

His calloused fingers slide around her waist, and you can see the tension in his grip, his almost white fingertips letting everyone know he was staking his claim on her.

“Hey baby,” she says, bending down and kissing the mystery man messily. You can see their tongues dancing in each other's mouths. The kiss is filthy, all teeth and tongues, perfectly wet and sticky, strings of saliva trailing between the pair.

You can feel yourself yearning to be involved somehow, to be pressed between them. You want to be both of them. You want to feel the grip of his hand around your neck like it is on hers, the subtle display of dominance making your pulse race. But you also want that dominance rattling through your bones. You want to overpower her and let her know who owns who.

The bartender slamming your glass on the bar in from of you pulls you out of the trance you were in, and you already feel a flush covering your cheeks. The heat spreads down your neck and chest, a pretty pink haze covering every piece of your skin. Fucking hell, you hope they didn't notice the way you were gawking at them.

They did, of course.

You start gulping down your drink, needing whatever liquid courage you can get right now. The man grabs your glass to stop you, gripping the base forcefully, “Woah, slow down there, love. Dont want you drinking too much tonight.”

You eye him suspiciously and place the glass down, “no? Why’s that?” You smirk over at the pair of them, tracing the rim of your cup with your ring finger. The girl bites her lips, leaving you completely entranced by the view of them both in front of you.

The throaty laugh from the man in front of you pulls you back once again, and you can see in his eyes that he knows you want her. And that you want him to.

“Well, not to be a cliche,” she starts, tracing your body with her eyes shamelessly, lingering as long as she pleases, “but we saw you across the bar and thought you were beautiful” She finished her sentence with a smirk and a lick of her lips.

You can see the man's hands tense again, pulling her in even closer to his side. The light dances over her exposed legs as she slides into his lap without a second thought, draping herself over him. You can't help but follow the line of her legs all the way up, your eyes catch at the highest slither of skin, and you imagine that if she moved her leg ever so slightly you would be able to see what underwear she was wearing.

But based on how tight her dress was and the lack of panty lines, you would guess the answer is none.

You snort out a laugh at her wording, fanning yourself as the heat of the club begins to get to you, "This is starting to sound like the start of a shit porno”

You gulp down the remainder of your drink and hold eye contact with the man as you do, and you revel in the way his irises darken even further at your teasing actions. You know you couldn't keep up this faux-dominant act much longer, but his reactions were too tantalising to stop. The way his shoulder tensed and his pupils blew out.

You could see his chest shake with laughter every time you pretended to be in control. He could see right fucking through you.

“We were hoping it would end up being more like a good porno,” he drawls out, “if you agree to come home with us, that is” You follow his hand as it runs through his hair, before dropping to his wine glass and wrapping around it.

You can see the glimmer of a tattoo poking out of his sleeve, and you find yourself yearning to know if he has any more. Or if his pretty girlfriend does. Maybe you could trace each one with your tongue, holding eye contact with them as you did.

You know you should mull this over more, make them work for it. But honestly, any fight you might have put up disappeared about 3 months ago.

“Call a cab then, let's go have a little fun”

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The poor cab driver is trying his best to keep his eyes on the road, but he can't help but flick them up to the rearview mirror every once in a while to catch the movie playing out behind him.

You’re sitting in between the two of them, Matty's lips are hot against your neck, licking and sucking every piece of exposed skin. He kisses over the lipstick stains left by Scarlett, smiling as he thinks about sharing you between them. Your face is stained with smudged red as her lips work fervently against yours. The taste of her is almost overtaking your senses. The sweet strawberry flavour fills your mouth.

You only learnt their names when you were desperately kissing Matty outside the club, and you heard Scarlett groan it from behind you. Was it kind of slutty to agree to a threesome before you knew either of their names? Maybe, but you never claimed to not be a slut.

Matty works diligently behind your ear, sucking a deep purple hickey into your soft skin. You moan wantonly at the sensation, and you can feel the smirk on Scarlett's lips at your needy noises. Matty pulls from your neck and twists your head away from Scarlett, pushing his lips against yours harshly and licking inside your mouth.

He snaps away with a heaving chest and smirks over to his girlfriend, “Can fucking taste you on her tongue. Do you like that angel? I can already tell she’s been all over you” You whimper needily, nodding desperately at Matty and pulling his curls, craving his lips back on yours.

Scarlett's hands slide over your chest, palming your boobs and thumbing over your nipples through the thin mesh of your shirt. The scratch of the fabric against your sensitive skin was dizzying, and you had to fight every urge to fall back into her and moan helplessly.

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you both stumbled into the house messily, following Matty's every command. Which led you here, kneeling on the bed in front of him, panting, staring at Scarlett with lust-blown eyes.

“Put on a little performance for me ladies, c'mon” Matty demands, sitting back against the pillows and watching you both wordlessly, his eyes growing dark at the scene playing out in front of him.

Scarlett peels off her poor excuse for a dress, and you watch with wide eyes, tracing over every inch of her body. She tugs at your clothes, and you follow her silent order, ripping off your tiny skirt and flimsy shirt quickly.

You see her hold in a moan at the sight of you just in your panties, her teeth scraping over her lips as she hungrily eyes you over. Your shirt looked bad with a bra, so you decided to forgo one tonight, much to her delight.

She surges forward and pushes you onto the bed below, hovering over you with dark eyes before kissing your neck hungrily, marking you wherever she can reach. With featherlight kisses, she begins moving down your body, flicking her eyes up to you and grinning at the blissed-out look on your face.

Matty hisses as he palms himself over his jeans, the pressure of the heavy fabric against his hard cock was making his head hazy. But he kept teasing himself, watching as his girlfriend began to make her way down your exposed chest. Every new patch of skin was explored, tracing it with her tongue and mouthing over you, nipping and soothing as she moved.

Breathy moans leave your lips at the sensation of her mouth on your skin, the way her hot breath dances over you . Goosebumps arise all over your body. The heat was pulsing in your veins, and it kept growing hotter the further down she moved. Her heavy breathing over your clothed core made you feel as if you were burning from the inside out.

Scarlett flicked her eyes up to Matty and wordlessly asked his permission. After a hasty nod, she grabbed the string of your panties with her teeth and began tugging them down your shaking thighs. Your jaw dropped as you watched the vision in front of you, thoughtlessly you lifted your hips to help her drag your underwear off you.

The cold air against your wet cunt made you gasp, your slick spreading over your inner thighs as you writhed helplessly. With a heavy smirk, Scarlett came crawling back up the bed, gripping your knees and ripping your legs apart, you saw her eyes grow darker at the sight of you all spread out for her.

“Such a pretty pussy, can I taste?” you open your mouth to answer, but before you can get a word out you hear Matty’s voice all around you,

“Go on baby, let me see you eat her”

You feel Matty moving behind you as Scarlett edges closer to your core, pressing wet kisses up your thighs, tasting the slick spread over them. You open your eyes to Matty looming over you, his eyelids heavy, and his chest heaving.

His once perfectly manicured curls are now frazzled from your hands running through them, pulling and revelling in the grunts that were ripped from his throat. His neck was already blooming with purple hickies, scratches framing them perfectly from Scarlett's hands desperately pawing at him.

Scarlett finally puts her mouth on you, licking a broad stripe up your pussy before sucking your clit harshly, moaning desperately at the taste of you, as if she would die without you filling her senses.

She mouthed at you like you were a delicate fruit, spreading your lips with her tongue and tasting every inch she could. Your slick was dripping down her chin, like juice from a peach. She burrowed herself deeper in your pussy, flicking her tongue over your clit and teasing it with the tip.

Just as Scarlett begins her assault on your cunt, Matty crashes his lips onto yours, moving harshly and licking needily at the seam of your closed mouth. He bites down on your bottom lip gently, causing a gasp to fall from your mouth.

Matty seizes the opportunity to shove his tongue inside, smirking at the feeling of you meeting him and tangling them together. He pulls back, panting, trying to catch what little breath he has. When you finally open your eyes again, he can barely see the colour of them, black pupils overtaking every inch.

The fog surrounding you made you feel like you were underwater. All you could hear was your muffled groans and deliciously wet and sticky noses from Scarlett between your legs. Matty pulled your attention back with a cruel laugh as he brought his thumb up to your bottom lip, coaxing your mouth open delicately.

You watch as spit falls from his lips, the light catching it as it drops into your waiting mouth. A loud cry falls rips out of your chest as you swallow diligently, and Matty growls as he slams his lips back against yours, chasing the taste of himself.

Scarlett continues to devour you with a sly smirk on her face, listening to your cries muffled by Matty’s lips. He can feel the vibrations of every pretty noise you make. Part of him wants to separate so he can hear your cries, but he can't bring himself to pull away from your waiting mouth.

Eventually, his lack of oxygen means Matty drags himself away from you again, strings of spit spreading between you gleaming in the light. Matty’s lips were puffy and ruby-red from your harsh kisses. They pulled into a familiar smile as he flicked his eyes down to his girlfriend between your thighs.

She holds his eye contact, and you can feel her smile against your core. They ignore you as they stare at each other, treating you as if you're simply there as a toy for their pleasure.

“Does that feel good, angel?” Matty asks teasingly. Just as you whimper out a response, he moves his hands down your chest, pulling and teasing your nipples. You cry weakly, squirming at the onslaught of sensations on your pebbled skin.

The whites of your eyes are all matty can see as you whimper and moan, your jaw drops as he tugs at your tits, and it shakes as he soothes them with his palms

Scarlett continues to consume you, fucking you with her tongue mercilessly, your sopping hole welcoming her hungrily. Each motion brought you closer to the edge, and Matty could tell by your hazy eyes and wrecked moans. But he didn't want you to cum just yet, he needed to drag this out a little longer.

With a harsh tug, he drags Scarlett out from between your thighs, a garbled moan leaves her lips, and Matty can see your wetness covering the bottom half of her face.

You cry at the loss of sensation, but any complaints leave you when you see the image in front of you. Scarlett’s hair was a mess from your hands pulling at it needily, her eyes were hooded and you could see the remnants of her lipstick smudged over her cheeks and chin, the Ruby-woo framing her mouth beautifully.

Matty grunts at the sight and pulls her in roughly, desperately licking in her mouth and devouring her, chasing the taste of you. The musky taste fills his mouth, and they both moan needily, your slick spreading over their faces as they move their mouths together.

You lay there helplessly as they made out above you, entranced by how fucking filthy they looked. Any orgasm that was building within you was quickly fading but you couldn't care less as you watched them in awe.

With a filthy smirk, Matty pulls away from her, flicking his eyes down to you before his grin grows even more. “Get on your hands and knees,” he orders, clicking his fingers at you. Laughing as you immediately begin to scramble, following his every demand.

“Lie down in front of her, she's gonna eat your pretty cunt now, sweetheart” Scarlett nods in a haze, moving without a second thought.

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You lap desperately at her clit, teasing it with the tip of your tongue and sucking on it hungrily. A mixture of her slick and your saliva is dripping down your chin, but all you can focus on is fucking her with your tongue.

But soon your focus is ripped away from you as you feel Matty sink into your needy pussy, you feel your walls welcome him easily, pulsing around his shaft.

Matty stands behind you and smooths his hands over your ass, watching the skin pull under his palms as he pounds into you. Jckhammering his hips as he stares in awe, studying how you desperately mouth at his girlfriend's pussy.

Every swirl of your tongue drives you crazier, the distinctly sweet taste overtakes your senses, and you can't help but eat her out like a woman starved.

The pleading whimpers falling from your lips are muffled by Scarlett's pussy, she feels the vibrations of your begging against her. With each moment the coil in her stomach is only winding tighter and tighter.

She cracked her eyes open to take in the scene in front of her, you mouthing at her between her legs and Matty pumping into you with a merciless rhythm. Part of her wishes Matty was fucking her rather than you, but she soon forgets that when you bury your tongue as deep as you can into her hole and lick her walls, chasing her g-spot greedily. She kicks her legs helplessly at the feeling, ecstasy bubbling in her gut.

Your eyes are closed in bliss as shockwaves rattle through you. Electricity is running through your veins with every thrust. You can tell you’re already nearing the edge, Scarlett's mouth having already brought you so close only minutes earlier. Warning bells go off in your head telling you to warn Matty, but the combination of his deep thrusts and her delicious cunt was dizzying, making it impossible for you to pull away.

If you didn't know better you'd think Matty was in your fucking guts, every thrust feels deeper than the last. He's brutally pumping into you, not giving you any rest before pressing himself as deep as he can inside you.

Somehow, he finds that spot inside of you with each roll of his hips, causing stars to dance across your vision whenever he buries himself inside you to the hilt. You can hear his animalistic grunts behind you every time your warm walls welcome him inside.

Beads of sweat drip from his neck down his chest pooling in his collarbones as he ruts into you, and he can feel your racing pulse in your pussy.

“That feel good angel? You like it when I fuck you this? So. Fucking. Deep.” he punctuates each word with a hard thrust, skin slapping skin and moans are all you can hear in the room, cutting through the thick, hazy air.

Scarlett feels your moans get more are more needy against her she knows you're nearing the edge. The fire pooling in your abdomen is growing too hot to ignore.

Only you can't bring yourself to pull away from her delicious nectar, moaning as you continue to eat her out furiously. Not letting her have a moment of peace, swapping between fucking her hole with your tongue and sucking on her puffy clit. Your fingers grip her thighs tightly, sliding your hands up her legs to pull apart her folds so you can drive further into her cunt.

“She’s- f-fuck. Little slut’s about to cum. I can fucking feel her- ugh- her desperate fucking whines against my cunt.” Scarlett can't help the cry that falls from her lips when she finishes speaking, her words only driving you harder.

Matty laughs cruelly at you both, ripping his hands away from his tight grip on your hips to clasp the back of your head.

“Oh yeah? Is that right angel? You have to make her cum first before you can, sweet girl. C’mon, make her cum all over your pretty face” Matty pushes your head further into her overstimulated cunt, making you both whine and cry out powerlessly.

Scarlett’s words seemingly do the same thing for Matty that they did to you, and you can feel his speed up even more, sinking into you feverishly. The tip of his dick massages your walls as he fucks you.

The burning in Matty's thighs is nothing but an afterthought, all he can focus on is making you feel so good that you can't help but make Scarlett cum. He wants to watch her fall apart in front of him whilst he pumps another girl full of his cum. “You're such a slut, letting us use you like a fucking sex toy. Just here for our- shit- our amusement.” he laughs wickedly at his words, and at the muffled whimper he hears from you afterwards.

Maybe it's Matty’s words or the way your tongue is driving into her mercilessly, but Scarlett finally feels the rubber band inside of her snap. With a shout, she squirts all over your face, covering you and the sheets below in her juices.

She would swear on whatever God there might be that she's never felt this fucking good, every nerve ending is on fire and she can feel a tingle from her toes all the way up to her scalp. Her legs kick helplessly as the sensation continues, dragging on for what feels like forever.

As soon as you feel her release on your face, you can help cumming. Crying into her cunt as you fall apart around Matty’s cock. You're practically convulsing at the feeling, especially when Matty continues to fuck into you with abandon.

But you can’t pull yourself away from Scarlett, so you understand the primal need to keep going. You can feel your pulse in your head, racing as Matty continues to pound into you, the sound of your pumping blood swirling in your ears.

Matty groans and throws his head back. Your wet walls pulsing around him were almost enough to push him over the edge. But Scarlett yanking you by your hair off of her pussy and moving down until she was licking her juices off your face, all whilst holding eye contact with Matty, was the final fucking straw.

With a heavy grunt, Matty empties himself inside of you, each pulse of your walls around him milking his cock. Shockwaves gripped his body as Matty continued his shallow thrusts inside you, the slight overstimulation making his vision blur.

With a heaving chest, Matty stops moving, throwing his head back in ecstasy just as the feelings blooming within him start to dissipate.

Scarlett flops back on the bed unceremoniously, her body aching as she lets out an airy giggle at the absurdity of what just happened. You can't help but join her, breathless giggles falling from your lips, which are only interrupted by a sharp hiss when Matty pulls out of you.

“I know, sorry angel.” Matty pouts as he speaks, but very quickly gets distracted.

“Fuck.” he whispers, watching his cum drip from your weeping hole. The pearly streams of his release fall out of you, leaving milky trails in their wake, decorating your skin beautifully.

“Come over here baby, look how fucking filthy she is” Matty waves Scarlett over and she scrambles up immediately, crawling over the bed to stare at your pussy.

She moans at the sight of her boyfriend's cum dripping out of you, she imagines the taste of him combining with the sweet taste of your cunt from earlier, and the idea makes her mouth water.

Without a second thought, she leant forward and started lapping at your hole, cleaning you up with her tongue. You cry out at the feeling, gripping the sheets so hard your knuckles turn white, and your jaw shakes as the sensations rattle through your bones.

“Stop,” you protest weakly, “if I cum again i think i'll die” You whimper at the feeling of Scarlett's breathy laugh against you, even the puff of hot air feels like too much.

Thankfully, she pulls away quickly, slotting her mouth against Matty’s, dripping his cum from her tongue onto his as she kisses him. He grunts at the feeling, marvelling at the taste of all three of you in his mouth.

Matty briefly thinks that this night might be one of the hottest things to ever happen to him, but his girlfriend moaning against his lips brings him back to earth.

“I'm so fucking glad I went to the club tonight,” you say as you flop forward onto the blanket, flipping over to see Matty and Scarlett sitting at the end, licking into each other's mouths with abandon.

She pulls away with a filthy smirk, eyeing Matty before turning to you and crawling over, “We are too. Turned out better than a shit porno, no?” she giggles as she quotes your words earlier in the night. You see Matty move his hand and lightly slap her ass, smirking at her weak cry.

“Cheeky, but true. It was very nice meeting you…” Matty pauses and in that moment realises he hadn't thought to ask your name this whole night.

You look up at him with a teasing smirk and shake your head, “Y/n. Thanks for asking, by the way,” you turn your focus to Scarlett, pressing your lips against hers with a light giggle.

“y/n, yes. Meant to ask that.” he says with a smirk, following Scarlett's lead and moving up the bed to meet the two of you.

#oopsie i hate this ahhhhh #i think... its not great #but i put too much work into this to not post it #but if we all hate it... i will delete #anyway shut up ace here you gooooo #hope all the queers of 75 tumblr enjoy #matty healy smut #matty healy fic #matty healy x oc x you #matty healy x reader #the 1975 smut #matty healy fanfiction

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cyancherub · 2 years

Text

genesis | hayakawa aki

this is part one of the series menthol.

PAIRING. aki x bff fem!reader

PLAYLIST. nightdrive + sesh

SERIES SYNOPSIS. after a string of casual dating mishaps leaves you unsatisfied, you find that the grass is greener in the front seat of your best friend’s car.

PART ONE LENGTH. 5.5k words | coauthor @akishroom

PART ONE WARNINGS. slight nsfw (18+, minors do not interact): fantasizing; vaping + smoking; aki is a Car Guy ™ so he drives a slammed car, teaches you to drive stick, and fixes a car up for you; reader and aki have a long history, reader is in makeup and a sundress, reader has a backstory and a personality; there’s a slight age gap (less than two years), but it’s exaggerated as a running joke between them.

A/N. heavy nasty smut in the next part HEHE this one’s mostly just buildup <3 ENJOOOOYYY

DO NOT INTERACT WITH THIS WORK IF YOU ARE A MINOR. BY CLICKING THE READMORE, YOU CONSENT TO VIEWING ADULT CONTENT.

“What time’s your date again? Six?”

“It was supposed to be,” you say, tilting your head to hold the phone between your ear and your shoulder.

The other end of the line is silent for a moment, aside from a dull crackling and the assorted sounds of traffic—his turn signal ticking, the faint rush of tires on concrete.

And then his dubious response: “Supposed to be?”

You exhale slowly, studying the recently-dried lacquer on your fingernails. “Yeah. It’s off.”

“He canceled on you?”

There’s a harsh edge to his voice; it’s the serrated, clipped tone of a protective older brother. Not that you know much of older brothers, as an only child. But he’s always been the closest thing you’ve had to one. Mostly stern; sometimes teasing, sometimes soft—but always defensive of you, always watchful.

“Yup,” you say. “Over text, too.”

“You’re joking.”

“It wouldn’t be a very funny joke, Aki,” you say, spotting a chip in the polish on your middle fingernail. “I’m sitting here in my date outfit like a made-up fool. Woe is me.”

“I’m sorry.” The edge in his voice is already gone, softened with sympathy.

“It’s fine. It would’ve only been the third date, so I’m not devastated over it.”

“Still.”

“Don’t worry about it,” you say, picking at the chip in the polish until it peels. “I didn’t even really like the guy.”

“Funny,” he says drily. “Neither did I.”

The petty irritation in his voice is so novel that it makes you laugh out loud. “You didn’t even know him.”

“Did I have to?”

You snort. “What are you up to, anyway? Driving somewhere?”

“I just picked up some beer from the store. I was heading to that party that the guys from the shop invited me to, but—”

“But?”

There’s a pause, and then: “But I’m taking the exit.”

“What? Why?”

“Because I’m on my way to your place.”

You scoff. “Don’t miss your thing. Stop worrying about me. I’m fine, really.”

“They’re not gonna miss me,” he says. That tone’s familiar, unbudging; his mind is made up. “I wasn’t planning on staying long anyway.”

You tap your fingers on your thigh, watching the chipped nail polish glare up at you woefully, as if disappointed that it was put on for a date who didn’t show up.

But mistakes can be covered, flaws remedied. You can paint over that chip, make it perfect. Or he could, like he’s done many times before, taking your outstretched hand in his just as soon as you’d ask (Can you paint them for me, Aki?): eyes focused, brows knit, brushing the polish carefully over your fingernails and leaving them perfect.

There’s no problem he can’t solve.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” he says. “I’m about ten minutes out.”

“Okay. See you.”

Ten minutes, and then you’ll see the sleek-white of his slammed coupe on your street. You wonder how many times he’s done this routine before: pulling up, stepping out, waiting patiently for you. A tall form leaned back against a low car, exhaling smoke. Tapping ash from a cigarette, eyes tracking you when you come out—straight-faced, until you’re up close; and then the chill in his expression thaws.

Just like always.

It’s all familiar, everything about him. Especially his tendency to turn around when he doesn’t have to, because he always prioritizes you, always drops everything for you; and you don’t ever have to ask. You don’t have to say a single thing, because a near-lifetime of friendship means he can read you like a book. He knows when I’m fine means I need someone.

But not anyone. Just the person who always shows up.

For a moment, you wonder why, if it’s all so familiar, there’s a sudden, unfamiliar twisting feeling in your chest. But you resume your part of the routine—throwing your bag over your shoulder, swiping your keys from the table, making your way to the front door—before you have the time to stop and think about what that feeling might mean.

There’s no reason you should feel any different. It’s all familiar; it’s all the same, and this is just like any other time.

/ / / / /

It’s different this time.

This time, you’re already outside when he pulls up: sitting out in the warm summer air, on the little bench by your house that’s been there since you were kids, with your legs crossed and your skin bathed in sunlight. The sunset’s still a while off, but for now the sun’s cast everything in gold as it begins its slow descent, peeking over your shoulder like a halo fallen off its owner.

An angel in a sundress.

A fleeting thought, unsolicited. He shakes it off.

It’s a pretty dress you’re in. Flowy at the bottom, floral-printed. It’s flattering—the waist tight, the chest tight, the neckline a little low, maybe. Not that he should be noticing any of that, or where it cuts off.

(High on the thigh, bare skin in the golden sunlight—he barely allows himself a glimpse.)

Aki tears his eyes away, easing to a stop a couple inches from the curb.

By the time he’s put the car in park and rolled the windows down—engine idling, radio low—you’re right there, resting your arms on the edge of the driver’s side window as you lean through it. You bring the summer heat in with you, coming so close he can smell the perfume on your throat. A new scent, he thinks, but the same old proximity. You’ve never had much of a sense of personal space with him, and he’s never complained.

He doesn’t mind when you lean so far over into the body of his car that the neckline of your pretty dress falls open. But he keeps his eyes up.

But even looking at your face feels indulgent, somehow. You weren’t lying when you said you were done up; you took time and care, and now you’re looking down at him through heavy lashes, your lips (shiny with gloss) curving up into a smile.

He wonders what state of mind someone would have to be in to cancel on you.

“Are you the Lyft I ordered?” you grin.

“You think you’re funny, don’t you?”

“One of us has to be the comedic relief.”

He studies your expression. You’re smiling, but then again, you’re always smiling. You’re good at faking it, but he’s attentive enough to tell the difference.

“How’s the comedic relief holding up?” he asks. “You alright?”

You let out a weary, dramatic sigh. “I told you, I’m fine.”

“Did he reschedule?”

“No.” There’s a but, but then you trail off.

“I see.”

“Don’t look at me like that. It’s not a big deal. People cancel dates sometimes.”

“What kind of people? Assholes?”

There’s a moment of heavy silence, and then you let your smile relax.

“To tell you the truth,” you say earnestly, “I’m better now that you’re here. So thanks for coming.”

You’ve got your hand in the car, some of his hair twirled around your finger. Pesky—you’re always messing with his hair when he has it down.

“You don’t have to thank me,” he says, twisting the key to shut off the ignition. “I wanted to come.”

By the time he reaches for the handle and pushes the door open, you’ve disentangled your hand from his hair and stepped back. He steps out into the space, stands up; and then he’s the one looking down at you. He was always so much taller than you, even when you were kids. That’s probably when he picked up the habit of slouching and leaning around you so he wouldn’t tower over you so much.

On instinct, he rests his side against the car.

“So what do you want to do?” he asks. “Go somewhere? Or stay here? I still have that twelve pack in the back seat if you want to hang out inside.”

You chew your lip. “Sure. We can stay in, if that’s easier.”

Maybe if he didn’t know you so well he wouldn’t have noticed the almost-imperceptible fall of your expression. He knows it’s not that you mind staying in; you’re both content to do nothing in particular—cook, drink, talk, smoke (every type of nothing that doesn’t feel like nothing when it’s done with the right person)—at your place or his, until one of you gets tired and falls asleep on the other’s couch.

But then he takes another look at you, at how dolled up you got to go out, and he’s kicking himself for suggesting the opposite.

“Actually,” he corrects, “why don’t we go somewhere?”

“That sounds nice,” you smile.

He signals to the passenger side with a tilt of his head, and then he’s guiding you over. Your voice is eager, your expression bright. That’s better, he thinks, opening the passenger door for you.

You’re already settling into the passenger seat by the time he realizes it’s as far back as it is. He must have left it all the way back on its track after cleaning the car, forgetting to slide it forward to its usual spot. (Your spot—that’s how he thinks of it, since you’re usually the one sitting there.)

He rests a hand on the top frame of the car and ducks his head in, leaning over you to press his fingers to the little button on the side of the seat that moves it on its track.

“Sorry,” he says. “I meant to move it forward for you.”

There’s a high electronic whir as the seat inches forward, and Aki means to look up at you. But as he raises his gaze—from the button on the side of the seat, to where you’re sitting, with your leg resting just a few inches from his hand—his eyes catch on your thigh for a second.

Before he can think about what he’s doing, he’s letting his vision linger. He’s pausing with his eyes right where your dress has ridden up, high, leaving the skin of your upper thigh bare.

God, he thinks suddenly. That dress.

He tears his eyes away from your thigh, forces them up to meet yours instead. And he stalls there for a moment—frozen, with his finger on the button, looking at your face as he thinks about your dress and all the bare skin just beneath it.

He thinks—Who’d you put that pretty dress on for?

Someone who’d appreciate you in it?

Someone who’d show you off? Buy you all the pretty dresses you want?

“I could’ve moved the seat myself.” You’re laughing—oblivious to that glance, fortunately, and to all the thoughts that (out of nowhere) are running wild in his head. “I know how to press a button.”

He’s still reeling from that glimpse, barely even processing that he’s moved the seat forward more than enough; he’s brought you right up close without moving an inch himself, and now you’re face to face, and he’s looking you dead in the eyes, but his mind is still on that dress. That dress on you, and that smile on your face (familiar and comfortable, but isn’t it somehow a little different?), and that perfume filling his head—dizzying.

You cock your head to the side, still laughing. “It’s kind of nice, though. I don’t mind being taken care of.”

Taken care of…?

For a split second, something’s flashing through his head that absolutely shouldn’t be—his hands on your waist, on your hips; laying you down, pushing your dress up. Kneeling between your legs, with your thighs on his shoulders, and his fingers grazing over your skin. Taking care of you, treating you right, with your fingers tugging at his hair, and his tongue on your—

“Aki?” Your eyes are wide. “Hello? Are you alive? Are you astral projecting because I’m boring you to death?”

He pulls back the same second he snaps out of his daze, thinking, What the hell am I doing?

“Sorry,” he says quickly, “I was thinking about—”

Things I shouldn’t have, looking at places I shouldn’t have, and I have no idea why.

“—some parts for the car that I have to replace.”

He shuts the door.

“You know, I think it’s nice that you always open doors for me. It’s like the dying art of the gentleman,” you say, peering up at him.

Gentleman?

He has to suppress a wince. Hands on the frame, he thinks: If I were a gentleman, I wouldn’t have been looking at you like that.

He says: “Opening doors is the bare minimum.”

“Well. At least chivalry isn’t dead for one guy in this godforsaken town.”

And what about the rest of them? The guys who do next to nothing and call it enough, the ones who don’t even think to do the bare minimum for you—why even give them the time of day?

But that’s not any of his business, is it? Just like it’s not his business what you look like underneath your dress. He crossed a line, looking at you the way he did. He shouldn’t have been imagining any of that.

Just like he shouldn’t be sighing your name right now. And when you look up at him (eyebrows raised, expectant), he shouldn’t be saying with so much emotion, “You look really nice. I hope you know that.”

You smile. “Do you think so?”

“Yeah.”

Of course I do, he thinks. I always do. But he doesn’t say it, because he knows he shouldn’t.

What he should be doing is shaking off that momentary lapse in judgment. Those fantasies—where are they even coming from? That’s never been the nature of your relationship. And it never will be, because you don’t see him that way.

The worst thing about it all is that he knows exactly how you see him. Like family. And even knowing that, even after stepping into that role for years, he still had that filth on his mind.

Pervert, he thinks, stepping back from the window. Get your head straight.

“Thanks, Aki.”

“Yeah.”

He scrubs the remnants of those thoughts from his head as he rounds the car, crushing the feeling before he can say or think anything else that he shouldn’t. And by the time he slides into the driver’s seat, puts the key into the ignition, and hears the engine come to life, he’s back to normal.

Back to treating this as he should; that was just a little slip, and this time is the same as any other.

Back to normal, he promises himself.

“Where are we going?” you ask, fiddling with the volume and the AC until everything’s exactly how you want it.

“Where do you want to go?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Me neither,” he says, pulling away from the curb. “But we’ll figure it out on the way.”

Just like always.

/ / / / /

It’s cold in the car.

It smells like mint, smells like him: the menthol of the vapor leaving his mouth, the same smell that lingers on his clothes and in the AC vents carried out on the cool air as he drives—one hand on the wheel, the other on the gearshift, with the Juul caught between his fingers.

The metal of the vape is the same black as the ink on the fingers holding it.

Little tattoos. Some meaningful, some not; all so familiar to you that you could draw them from memory. You know the tattoo on the back of his hand—lifted, bringing the vape to his mouth—like the back of your own.

He breathes in, out; the menthol intensifies, vapor hanging in the air before it dissipates. Faster than the cigarettes he used to smoke, but still the scent lingers, until everything smells cold.

Like cough drops, you think. It smells like cough drops, and the smoke from his old cigarettes, and the leather seats that smoke still hides in. And beneath all of that, the leather cleaner he always uses to keep his car spotless.

“Still no cigarettes?”

He looks over, quizzical. “You’re the one who wanted me to quit.”

“I do. But vaping doesn’t count as quitting.”

“I’ll get there,” he says. “I promise.”

You can’t complain; you know that promise is as good as gold, because Aki doesn’t make promises he can’t keep. And for you, promises come easy. All you have to do is ask. Sometimes you don’t even have to ask; sometimes you just mention something once, offhandedly—When are you gonna quit that shit, Aki? Smoking that much is awful for you—and you find that that’s all it takes for him to kick a habit of years.

He’d ditched the smokes for an alternative the next day.

Less harmful, he’d said. Just for now. Until I can get off nicotine completely.

The vape smells better, at least. The menthol smells good, actually: clean, fresh; but if you’re honest, you never really minded the smell of the cigarettes. Maybe because they were his.

“I was thinking,” he says, glancing over, “we can get food if you’re hungry. There’s the hotpot place you like, or the pizza place on 9th. Or we could grab stuff from the convenience store and eat at the park. Watch the sun go down. Maybe catch a late show afterward. You’ve been wanting to see that heist flick, right? Your call…”

You think on it, looking out through the windshield. The tint’s dark, probably too dark, but through it you can see the evening sun (a half-hour from setting, now) suspended above the horizon, bleeding pink into the sky and clouds surrounding it.

He gives you time with your options, drives in comfortable silence, taking hits off the vape. The menthol thickens in the air around you, that familiar smell growing stronger. More present. It’s comfortable, just like his presence beside you. It’s exactly what you need.

He has a knack for figuring out what you need. The magic touch to make it all better.

You’re glad he turned around. As much as it hurt to be canceled on, there could be no better remedy. Really, it’s hard to imagine that the date could have beaten this. You’re almost glad that your date never turned up, because you’d rather be here than anywhere. You’d rather be with the one person who always shows up. Reliable, consistent—safe.

It’s safe here, just like home. Eighty on the freeway but you’re anchored. They’re always comfortable, these aimless drives, accompanied by aimless conversations that last even after the moon is high. You could stay here forever—let him drive until the sun sets, then rises, then do it all over again, and you’d still be content.

“Can we just drive for a while?”

Whatever you want to do, wherever you want to go, he always says. Even if it’s nowhere at all.

He says it this time, too, obligingly, predictably: “Whatever you want.”

You’re on a long stretch of freeway, driving in the direction of the sun, when it starts to set. It sinks slowly, turning the pink sky orange and then red and then purple. There’s a lapse in the conversation, but it’s comfortable—spent watching buildings fly by, listening to the music and the flare of the exhaust.

The menthol cooling your head, the AC cooling your skin: it’s a chill as familiar as the drive. From suburban back roads to the city, through endless mazes of buildings, coasting down exits; even when the route becomes unfamiliar (further and further out of traversed neighborhoods, into places where the scenery is brand new) it all feels the same.

He drives with one hand on the wheel and the other switching gears between puffs of menthol vapor. His head back on the headrest, his attention on the road, except to glance at you when you talk. Even in the sunset’s final moments—when the sky is at its most radiant, its gradients most saturated—if his pale eyes leave the road, it’s only to look at you.

Another glance your way. Your eyes lock for a split second—his on yours in the dying light; the sun past set now, the last of the colors in the sky fading to indigo—before he looks away, turning his head to switch lanes. The tattoo on his neck peeks out from under his hair, ink warping with the movement as he checks his blind spot, and your mouth goes dry.

There’s that feeling again, the twisting sensation in your chest that you don’t quite understand.

You avert your gaze, looking for something else. A distraction. Anything to look at that’s not him.

Your eyes settle on the dashboard, then catch the gas indicator. At the beginning of the drive, the tank had been full; now the needle is just a little above the halfway point. You wonder how much he’s spent on gas because of you. Not just today, but over all the years he’s been driving you around.

Would the alternative have been any cheaper? If you’d taken him up on one of his earlier offers—to grab food, to catch a movie—how much would he have spent on you then? Because he always pays; he never lets you spend a dime when you’re with him, no matter how insistent you are.

There’s another pang in your chest, a knot forming in the pit of your stomach. So much for distracting yourself.

Because now you’re thinking about all the things he could be doing: drinking with friends, blowing off steam; he could be doing anything he wants, but instead he’s here. Driving you for hours, doing whatever you want. He’s covering for someone who fell short. A guy he never even met. But that doesn’t matter, because Aki always picks up the pieces; no matter who breaks you, he’s the one who puts you back together.

The car slows, rolling to a stop.

In the dark, just the two of you stalled at this stoplight, in a quiet neighborhood on a quiet night (so quiet that you could be the last two people on earth), you look up from the indicator and at his profile. Black eyelashes heavy around pale blue irises, black hair tucked behind his ear; his face basked in the red cast by the stoplight, the same color as the stud shining in his ear—

You suppress a shiver.

He must have caught the movement. With his hand darting out to the AC dial, he asks, “Are you cold? Your dress is…”

His eyes flit down to your thighs for a fraction of a second, where goosebumps are forming.

He trails off, his face going suddenly and uncharacteristically pale as you stammer, “No, I just—”

It’s not the cold your skin is reacting to. That, you’re accustomed to—his chill is biting, AC and menthol and cigarettes. He’s always liked cool air to wick the summer sweat off skin, often sticky from hours spent together in the heat. Hot to cold reminds you of years ago, lakeside days in heatwaves: your heads dipping under the surface of the water at the same time, bodies submerged.

“—Leave it,” you say. “I like it.”

It feels good. It feels like you.

The red cast on his face flicks green with the change of the stoplight. He looks forward, foot on the gas, hands back in place—ink on his wrists, on his hands; he shifts gears, stirring a dormant memory of a quiet night much like this one.

A memory of tattooed fingers brushing over yours in a dark, empty parking lot.

Aki, can you teach me how to drive stick?

How long ago was that, now? It’s been a few years since that night, at least.

But he was as obliging back then as he is now. It must’ve been past midnight, that night when you’d asked him to teach you. But of course he’d said yes—and that’s how you wound up in the empty parking lot of the old theater all those years ago.

You remember: he started by giving you a demonstration. Still sitting in the front seat, his movements were easy. Familiar and confident from years of practice, but still slow enough to be comprehensible to someone inexperienced.

Clutch. First gear. Second. Alright?

He gave you thorough explanations with his hand on the shifter. You remember his hands under the dim yellow of the parking lot lights: the veins over his knuckles, the slate of the ring on the middle finger of his right hand.

(That little ring: a half-joke of a gift you gave to him forever ago. Like friendship bracelets, but better, you’d said. He still wears it to this day, a perfect match for the half-joke you still wear on your own hand.)

You remember the flicker of the street light overhead, and above that, the moon full and bright in a deep indigo sky.

You remember that, after the full demonstration—after you had already switched seats so you were in his and he was in yours, and you were behind the wheel with your hand on the gearshift—you laughed, I think I already forgot everything.

It could be that he heard the tremor in your voice, or maybe he just knew that you needed reassurance the same way he always seems to know what you need without having to ask.

I’m right here. Don’t be nervous. Do you want me to show you what to do?

Please.

You remember his hand closing over yours on the gearshift: light enough to be respectful, warm enough for you to recall the sensation years after the fact. But don’t you remember it all? The heat of his skin in the chill of the car, the smell of him when he leaned closer: mint on his breath, cigarette smoke lingering on his shirt, mingling with the scent of his detergent.

Every patient instruction.

Foot on the clutch.

Every affirmation.

Good. You’re fine.

His hand tightening over yours on the gearshift. Black ink spidering over his skin, moonlit.

Move it like this.

Guiding your hand, left, right.

Put the car in neutral.

Like this?

Perfect.

Letting his hand linger for as long as you needed it: helping you shift into first gear, and even afterward.

There you go. You’re doing so well, you’ve got it.

Just a memory. But it’s so tangible—the feeling so raw, every sensation somehow so fresh after all those years—that it sends your heart racing.

You don’t understand.

Back then you hadn’t felt a thing. Why would you have? It was all so comfortable, familiar. There was nothing out of the ordinary about a light touch; he was a friend, practically family—why would it stir any emotion in you? There’s years worth of that in your memory: his hand brushing against yours, a graze here, arms brushing there, impersonal.

But thinking back on those memories, they feel suddenly different. Tinted in a new color, their details sharpened. Every touch from the past, once impersonal, now seems charged. The way his hands would linger—not the touch of a friend, not the touch of a brother, but something else.

Something yearning.

It’s not just the touches that suddenly stick out in your memory. It’s the fact that whenever you needed something, you’d go to him on instinct. Because you knew he’d do whatever you needed, and do it right, no questions asked.

It’s the years worth of him obliging you.

Can you help me move some boxes? Can you help me paint my room? Can you help me put this new dresser together?

It’s the years worth of him doing everything you asked, and so much more.

Can you show me how to change my oil?

He’d shown you how to check the oil in your car, and how to change it, but you never really had to put that knowledge to use. He’d do every oil change for you, return your car washed and waxed.

Your car—that’s another matter entirely.

The parking lot lessons lasted a few months, until you were comfortable driving stick. And then, on one random morning several months after that (sun peeking through the blinds, birds chirping), you’d woken up to a text from him.

Are you up yet, youngin?

Barely.

Sleepyhead. Come outside.

He was sitting on the hood of an unfamiliar car, with a cigarette tucked behind his ear and his hands in his pockets.

The car was souped-up. Shiny new paint job, mods like his own, a model similar to cars he’d flipped in the past—it rang his style, was clearly his own project.

You asked: Is this your new baby? You fixed it up?

Yeah. What do you think of it?

It was almost cute. Sitting on shiny, clean rims. Compact, sporty, made to burn rubber—the type of car that looked fun to drive.

You always liked Aki’s cars, but you loved that one immediately. There was something special about it. From the interior (spick and span, recently reupholstered) to the exterior (spotless, not a flaw in the paint), it had been treated with extra care. You wondered how much time he’d put into making sure everything was perfect. It must have taken him forever.

It’s amazing. I love it. The color especially.

Your favorite color.

It wasn’t a question, but you answered anyway.

Yeah. You skimmed a finger over the paint (smooth to the touch, glossy), still peering into the windows.

There was a jingling sound from his direction. You stopped ogling the car to look his way, and you were confused to see his arm extended, held out to you with a key ring dangling from his fingers. (His hands were still stained with oil, scraped up at the knuckles, nicked in places—he’d been working hard.)

It’s yours.

You were frozen in place, incredulous. What?

Now that you can drive stick, you can drive this.

You fixed this up for me? you asked shakily, taking the keys. How do I even repay you for this?

You don’t. He plucked the cigarette from behind his ear, slotted it between his lips. It’s a gift.

You’ve lost your mind, old man.

A half-smile around the cigarette. Then his lighter was out, the flame jumping to ignite the smoke as he rounded the car, his hand up to shield it from the wind.

You were still glued to the pavement on the other side.

Well? He rested his arms on top of the car from the passenger side, looking over it. Let’s go for a ride. See how you like it.

How many hours did he put into your car? How much time, how much money did it take to gut the insides, replace the old parts, do all of those mods?

His blood, sweat, and tears. And you’d thought it all friendly? Impersonal? That twist in your chest, that pit in your stomach—after all of that, and for all those years, you never felt it?

Until now.

Now, beyond the passenger window of his car, the city is quiet. You coast past apartment complexes shrouded in darkness, little windows (yellow-lit from within) dotting the night. You don’t think you’ve been in this area before. Nothing around looks familiar; you must be really far out. Even after fixing up that car for you, he still drives you anywhere you want to go in his own.

“Why do you do all of this for me?” you blurt.

Aki glances over with a look of confusion, and for some reason you’re thinking again about the parking lot. About how you’d feel this time. If his hands were on you again—if he were running his inked fingers down your skin, murmuring, There you go, you’re doing so well—how would you feel this time?

“What do you mean, why?” he asks.

“You don’t have to do all of this. Bailing on the party to drive me around. Being here whenever I need anything. My car. You do so much for me, and you never get anything in return.”

“In return?” he asks skeptically. “I don’t know how these guys have been treating you, but not everything is an exchange. Some people will do things for you just because they care about you.”

There’s that wrenching in your chest again—but stronger, this time. This time, it becomes a swell.

“I don’t do things expecting something back,” he says. “And I’m not here out of obligation. I’m here with you because I want to be.”

Larger and larger that swell grows, until you feel it bloom, like petals opening in your ribcage. Maybe that feeling was always there. Dormant for years, but—like a night-blooming flower awaiting the moonlight—fated to open at the right time.

Finally, you understand what that feeling is. You let yourself accept it. You resolve to do something about it—

“That’s what friendship is, right?” he murmurs.

—if, after all these years of friendship, he’ll let you.

If he feels something more than friendship, too.

“Aki,” you say, “can we drive out to the lake?”

#hayakawa aki x reader #aki x reader #csm x reader #csm smut #aki smut #UHHH..HERE WE GOOOOO!!!!#cherub fics

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