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The last time Kei saw you sober was at the airport three days ago, and maybe not even then.
Here, at the club, he watches as you saunter over to the edge of the room and bat your lashes at the bartender in exchange for a glittery pink cocktail and a shot. He is not paying attention to the short shift dress you’re wearing, and he’s certainly not paying close enough attention to know that it’s pale champagne in color; that it must be silk, from the way it’s clinging to your figure; that it hits you just above mid-thigh, with a lace trim on the hem. The kind you’d find on a nightgown. As though you’ve just rolled out of bed—or are preparing to jump into someone else’s.
Someone specific, he knows. You know. Everyone knows.
You and Yamaguchi broke up two weeks ago—just in time for the vacation your entire extended friend group had been planning for months. For reasons unknown, both of you decided to show up.
Or—well, the reasons aren’t really unknown. You’re here because you’re stubborn, and had already been approved for the time off work, and also because you’d basically planned the entire trip itinerary yourself, top to bottom (which, he has to admit, is a decent reason). Yamaguchi is here because he is a peacekeeper and a pushover and oh, right, still one hundred percent hung up on you.
And you’re not exactly dissuading him, either.
The two of you swore up and down that it would be fine if you both came. That it wouldn’t be weird. Maybe you really meant it at the time, or maybe it was just some weird game of breakup chicken that went too far. Whatever it was, the end result is the same. Kei—and the rest of your friends—watching from a painful middle distance as the two of you circle each other. Making thinly veiled passes at each other one second, and even more thinly veiled passive aggressive remarks the next. Sitting either too close or too far away from each other any time you guys go anywhere.
And you—not the two of you, but you specifically —generally doing whatever you think will cause the most trouble at any given point in time.
Case in point: your outfit. And the accompanying makeup, a combination of light, smudgy eyeliner and blotted lipstick that makes you look perpetually just-kissed. And the way you move, the way you smile, bright and easy and electric as you flirt.
You are always flirting, Kei thinks. Endlessly. With the bartender. With the man sitting to your right at the bar, and the blonde woman on your left. In fact, once you’ve knocked back the last of your cocktail, you allow the woman to tug you over to the dance floor. The strobe lights catch on your hair, on your dress, on the glitter you got one of your friends to apply to your shoulders and clavicle and cheekbones. It’s like watching you move in slow motion.
As if reading his mind, you look over.
What you’re actually trying to do, he knows, is catch your ex’s attention. He falls for it, as he always does; Kei notices the way he shifts his weight from one leg to the other, the way he tries (and fails) to keep his eyes off you. You notice, too, because a sly little smile plays around the corners of your mouth.
And then—there is a moment where those soft, sleepy eyes of yours flash up to meet Kei’s.
Your hair is wild about your face, your cheeks flushed from dancing and vodka. One of the straps of your dress slips off your shoulder. Someone else on the dance floor comes up behind you—the man from the bar—and Kei watches as you grind against them both, the man and the woman.
Besides him, Yami wrings his hands. “I should go—“
“ No. ” Kei stops him with one hand. “Stop. You can’t keep doing this.”
Yamaguchi glances back over his shoulder. “The others want to head to a different bar, and I can’t just leave her here.”
Kei rolls his eyes and tips his head back, his groan disappearing into the thick pulse of the bass. “I’ve got it.”
“But—”
“It’s fine. I wanted to head home anyway. I’ll get her some water, recovery position, whatever.” Yamaguchi still looks unsure. “What?”
“But I—” Even in the dim lighting, there’s a clear blush on his cheeks. “She said earlier, that maybe…”
Oh, God .
Kei shakes his head. “No.”
“But I—”
“Dude. No. Drink this.” He passes him a shot. With some reluctance, Yamaguchi downs it. Kei jerks his head back at the door. “You are on an island full of hot people. Get out of here, find literally anyone else to hook up with, and I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”
Finally, he nods, and turns back to where the rest of the group (minus one or two, who are presumably off having one-night-stand adventures of their own) is waiting.
Kei turns back to look at you—still dancing, sans your two dance partners of a few seconds ago. A stranger comes up behind you, and grabs you a little too strongly for comfort. There is panic on your face, subtle but there. And—is that a hand around your wrist?
It takes him all of a few seconds to push through the crowd and pull you away. The guy trying to “dance” with you—sure—tries to put up a fight, and you are drunkenly apologizing to them both—
Long story short: in very short order you and Kei end up back at the AirBnb, with you sobering up over some leftovers and Kei pressing a bag of frozen berries to his eye.
“You guys have got to stop this, you know,” he mutters.
You scoop up a bite of cake onto your fork, chew, swallow. Lick your lips. “Stop what?”
“Fuck off with that. I know Yamaguchi thinks the sun rises and sets up your ass, or whatever, but you’re not fooling anyone else.”
“I’m not trying to fool anyone.”
“I’m serious. He’s my friend, and you’re giving him the wrong idea. If you’re not going to fuck him—”
You snort. “I’m not. Promise.”
“Then stop acting like it.”
You’re quiet for a second. “I don’t want to hurt him.”
“Sure.”
“I mean. I don’t want to get back together with him. That wouldn’t be good for either of us. I just…it’s like...I have all of this energy .” As you say this, a little divot appears between your brows, and it’s almost as though he can feel your ache. “And I haven’t been allowed to direct it anywhere other than Yami—Yamaguchi—for so long. It’s, like, autopilot.”
He sighs. He wishes he didn’t feel bad for you. “Look, you need to get him out of your system. Sure. I get it. So go,” he waves a hand in your direction, “go get him out of your system.”
“How?”
“We’re on an island full of people who would be happy to help you expend some energy.”
“You give him that advice, too?”
“You really want me to tell you?”
“No. Not really.” You shake your head, licking frosting off the back of your fork. “I don’t want to fuck a stranger. Doesn’t sound fun.”
“Stranger, enemy, I don’t care. Just go find someone who isn’t him to fuck you so that we can all move on with our lives.”
“Fuck me yourself, coward,” you say through a mouthful of cake.
He rolls his eyes.
“No, I mean it.” You swallow, push the plate away from you as you hop off the stool and cross to where he’s sitting on the couch. “Since you’re such a good friend, who wants me to leave him alone that badly.” You brace one arm on the head of the couch behind his head, straddling him with two easy movements. The soft white-gold fabric of your flimsy little nightgown pools around your hips.
His eyes trace a slow path down your neck, to your collarbone, your heaving chest, your nipples peaked against the buttery fabric, before he catches himself and brings his gaze back up to yours. He keeps his tone casual as he asks, “Exactly how much have you had to drink?”
“I’m sober enough.” You tilt your head. “You’re really going to tell me you don’t want to?”
You lower your weight onto him, and both of you suck in a breath as you feel just how much he wants to.
“Oh, shit.” You breathe out a laugh, sounding actually surprised. “Friend of the fucking year, huh? Give me a fucking break.”
His hands are on your waist, over the nightgown. He runs them slowly down, down, then back up your thighs, sliding under the silk to cup your ass, and you aren’t even wearing underwear, are you?
Throughout all the years you and Tadashi dated, Kei never liked you. He was adamant it was because he was a good judge of character. He didn’t like your energy, he told himself; didn’t like how friendly you were, how stubborn. How you came just short of flirting with everyone you met. How you were attractive and knew it.
He never let himself even consider that it might be because you were attractive and he knew it.
He tilts his hips up into you, and you let out a noise that would surely embarrass you sober. He can’t help but smile, pressing his lips against your throat to feel the vibrations of your voice as he guides your hips with his hands, helping you slowly grind against him.
“This is a terrible idea,” you finally whisper.
Understatement of the fucking century. “Yeah, well.” He nips at your neck, just below your ear. You shudder. “Wasn’t my idea.”
“Didn’t think you’d actually go for it.”
He pulls back. “Having second thoughts?” Those amber eyes flick up and down, scanning your face for a sign the same way you’re scanning his.
You are alone in the house. Both of you are sleepy and drunk on sun and salt and alcohol; both of you have reason to turn back.
There is still time to turn back.
You bite your bottom lip. “No.”
That’s all the permission he needs.
He leans in—doesn’t quite kiss you, just brushes his lips against yours, then pulls back slightly, nipping at your bottom lip. Again and again, until you grab his head with both hands and pull him in.
He doesn’t know where to touch first. Now that the cap is off the bottle, the greed he feels is overwhelming. One of your straps has fallen down again, and he flicks down the other, the satin falling to your waist to reveal those gorgeous tits, soft and full and glitter-dusted, your nipples dark and stiff already. He lowers his mouth to them, one and then the other, kissing and sucking and biting. You’re still grinding against him, still grabbing at his shoulders. He slaps your ass, and you whimper, which of course makes him immediately go in for another. He gets you to lift up with a tap to your hips, and adjusts his arm so that he’s able to run a few fingers over your hot, wet cunt.
“You know,” he begins, his voice low and rough in your ear as he rubs slow, slick circles around your clit. “The walls in our apartment back home are really fucking thin.”
“Perv.” You manage the buttons on his shirt, pushing it back as far as you can to expose his shoulders, sculpted by volleyball and freckled by sun. At the feeling of your nails on his bare back, his hips buck up involuntarily. “I bet you’ve— ohfuck —heard a lot, then?”
“Not really.” He curls his fingers, and—oh, the noise you make is going to haunt his dreams. “Nothing impressive, anyway. He never really took care of you the way you needed him to, did he?”
“Pervert and a shitty friend?” you breathe, even as you fuck yourself on his fingers. “Aren’t you a catch.”
“Not shitty. Just honest.” He pulls his fingers out, puts them to your lips, and you—good girl that you are—take them into your mouth without hesitation, looking him in the eyes as you clean yourself off his fingers. His fingers slip out of your mouth with a wet pop .“How do you want me?”
You keep eye contact with him for a moment, searching. Deciding.
Wordlessly, you get off his lap and maneuver so that you’re on the couch next to him—face down, ass up, legs perfectly spread so that he can see you in all your swollen, aching glory.
He leans in, grabbing your thighs so that he can keep you from squirming too much as he licks along your slit. Your back arches more, and you push back into him ever so slightly. You’re fucking dripping for him.
He stops as soon as he feels you getting close, relishing in your frustrated moan. “Fuck off , you fucking—”
You trail off into another, quieter moan as he presses the tip of his cock against you. “Yes?”
“I hate you,” you say, with no conviction whatsoever.
“But this greedy fucking pussy loves me, and that’s all that really matters. Isn’t that right, baby?” You make another indecent noise. He’s in no rush, not when edging you is this fun, and so he drags his tip up and down against you, pulls away to slap his cock against your ass a few times, then goes back to teasing you. “God, do you know how many times I’ve thought about this?”
“Pl—” You cut yourself off with a frustrated hiss. He can’t help but chuckle.
“Sorry? I didn’t catch that.”
“Fuck you,” you bite out.
“No, that wasn’t it.”
You sigh, smoothing your cheek against the pillow beneath you. “I’ve thought about it, too,” you say quietly. “Since the first time I met you.”
“Really?” He enters you. Slowly. Just the tip at first. He is going to have you begging for mercy by the end of this. “You’ve thought about me fucking you prone, with that pretty little face of yours shoved against the pillows?”
“Yes.”
“Thought about what it would be like to have my cock inside you?”
“ Yes.”
He’s fucking you in earnest, now—not too fast, yet, not too rough. Just long, easy strokes. You’re still getting used to the size of him, he thinks, because he doesn’t quite fit all the way. But you’re wet enough that the friction, at least, isn’t a problem. “Did you ever think about me while you were with him?”
You nod. Your eyes are squeezed shut, and you are trying—not very successfully—to muffle your moans in the arm of the couch. He takes hold of the base of your neck for a few strokes, before running his hand down between your shoulder blades, all the way down to slap your ass again, and you moan out. “ Yes. Yes, all the time. Thought about you all the time, Tsukki.”
“Kei,” he corrects you, picking up the pace and replacing the silence of the room with the slap of skin on skin. “It’s Kei when I’m inside you.”
You moan his name in assent, and his cock twitches at the sound.
“Do you have any idea how difficult it was? Having to watch the two of you? All those boring dates, all of that disappointing sex—”
“Yami’s s-sweet,” you insist, though the way your voice shakes undermines your supposed conviction.
“Sweet.” He laughs. “Yeah. I know. Too sweet to realize his perfect girlfriend really just wanted to be treated like a bitch in heat, isn’t that right?”
You answer with moans instead of words. He takes that as a yes, and picks up the pace again, getting deeper with each thrust until he finally bottoms out, your moans joined by the sound of his hips slapping against yours, your ass rippling in time. You’re getting wetter. He wouldn’t be surprised if you end up dripping onto the couch, at this rate. Through the open window, the sky is beginning to lighten, the sun just barely peeking over the horizon.
You must notice, too, even with your face half-pressed into the pillow, because you between whimpers you manage to choke out, “They’ll—be back s—soon.”
“Yeah.” He slows down to press as deeply into you as possible, press the whole length of his body against yours, and his cock twitches at the gorgeous, fucked-out sound you make. “Guess you’d better cum quickly, then. If you don’t want to get caught.”
“Nng—” You’re holding back a little. He can tell. You’re still grinding back into him, still moaning—but there’s a hesitation, a nervousness. “Shouldn’t.”
“Shouldn’t what?”
“Shouldn’t cum.” Even as you say it, you press your hips back up into his. “You’re right, I’ve been—awful. This week. Don’t deserve to.”
He kisses your neck, hot, open mouthed, sucking so hard he hopes he leaves a mark, before pressing a kiss against the damp skin of your temple. “That’s fucking stupid,” he murmurs. He pulls out, flips you over. He takes a second to drink in the sight of you, flushed and panting and cock-drunk; dewy-skinned, your makeup smudged, your hair splayed out against the couch. He guides himself back inside you, paying close attention to the way your eyebrows scrunch up slightly, the way your lips part further. “I’m not here to help you punish yourself. I’m here to help you get over him, and if that means making you cum hard enough that you forget his name, then that’s what’s going to happen.”
You let out a gasping laugh, grasping at the couch cushions beneath you. “Highly doubt you’ll be able to make that ha— ohfuck .”
This last bit is in direct response to him sitting further back and pulling you up so that you are straddling him again, tight and wet around him, and he’s so deep in you he swears the tip of his cock is kissing your fucking cervix. He pulls your nightgown up and over your head, tossing it off the side of the couch, and the feeling of you, your skin, your chest flush against his, is a fucking religious experience.
He bounces you on his cock a few times, and pulls you in to kiss. It’s like finally finding an off switch for your brain, the endless quips and snark and bedroom eyes replaced by incoherent half-moans as you try to kiss him back, messy and imprecise and perfect. You are perfect like this. With one hand on your hip, he’s able to bring his thumb to your clit, just enough pressure that you have even more trouble kissing him back, until you’re just pressing your forehead against his, clinging to him.
“Huh,” he says, rubbing your clit faster, guiding your hips as you grind into him with increased desperation. “You’re right. Maybe I won’t just make you forget his name. I’ll make you forget your own, too.”
“Shut up,” you grit out, though your jaw goes slack when he changes angles slightly.
“God, those fucking moans.” He captures your mouth with his again. “Can’t believe you wasted them on him. Those moans, and this perfect fucking body, this perfect little cunt—wasted all of that on him for years. But not anymore, hm?” You shake your head, side to side, and he smiles. “No, not anymore. C’mon, baby. Let go for me.”
When you do—legs shaking, pussy clenching around him, toes curling against the couch—he pulls back to watch. See all the twitching muscles, the sweet arch of your back, the little divot that appears behind your brows as you finally release for him, good girl, finally get out some of that pent-up energy. As you come down from the high, still grinding against him slowly, your nipples still hard against his chest, he cups your jaw in his hand and pulls you in to kiss again.
“Thanks,” you say, when you’ve finally got your breath back enough to speak.
“Don’t thank me yet.” He bucks up against you again, watching your eyes widen as you realize he’s still hard. “You thought we were done? That’s cute.” He squeezes your ass, then slaps it. “C’mon. Get up.”
Your breath catches in your throat as he slips out of you, and your legs are shaky as you stand. Poor baby. He’d almost feel bad, if it weren’t for the way you bend over to pick up your nightgown, your juices running down your thigh, arching your back to look back at him over your shoulder. “How do you want me?” you ask, mimicking his tone from earlier.
“For starters? On the bed,” he says. “On your back. Hands on the headboard. Legs spread.”
“And?”
He catches you by the waist, and bends down to kiss you again, lazy, with just enough tongue to have you standing up on tiptoe to press yourself more completely against him. With one final nip at your bottom lip, he pulls away to rest his forehead against yours. “And we’ll go from there.”