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nyyxx · 1 year

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would a kiss be too much to ask?

KeigoxFem!Reader

synopsis: Keigo’s been planning on finally telling you how he feels, stupidly, he spontaneously decides to show you instead.

warnings: uses of drugs/alcohol, masturbation, drunken confessions, angst, cliffhanger, shorter chapter

song title inspo: Too Much to Ask by Arctic Monkeys

(pt. I) (pt. III)

“He seemed way too infatuated, plus, he wasn’t really my type.” You drone on, keeping your eyes trained onto the mug in your hands, the one he had made with you about a year ago. He watches as your fingers idally trace the colorful patterns edged into the clay. He can tell you’re disappointed and yet he feels guilty, happy it didn’t work out.

He can’t seem to ignore the rising ugliness of jealousy bubbling up inside him. All he can do is clench his jaw and hope you don’t notice. But you can’t, because you keep your eyes downcasted and away from him. He wants to shake you by your shoulders and shout in your face that: “He’s right here! He’s always been here.”

He listens to you complain about failed talking stages, dates that never seem to make it past the 2nd week mark, the people you seek out only to eventually be let down. He keeps thinking about how he could treat you so much better, better than those idiots who don’t know how to please you like he can. He takes you out, he pays for things you like even when you insist he shouldn’t, he showers you with compliments, hugs, affection, whatever you ask for! He does things for you without asking, stopping at little stores to buy you little gifts, tokens to signify your friendship. Yet still, why do you feel so out of reach, centimeters away from the tips of his fingers yet too far to grasp; you slip away just before he reaches you.

Is it because of his job? He’s aware dating a hero doesn’t compare to dating someone who isn’t, the risks of it all threatens even him to reconsider pursuing you. He also isn’t oblivious to how the media often likes to portray him. He doesn’t consider himself to be the uncommitted playboy the tabloids paint him as. Still, he understands why you might be hesitant to consider him as a partner. Even though you know he isn’t like that—there has to be another reason.

He ponders for a moment, questioning if you even see him that way at all. Although as soon as the thought comes it leaves just as quickly. No, he decides, that can’t be it either. He’s not stupid: he knows your relationship hasn’t exactly always been completely platonic. He wouldn’t do the things he does with you with anyone else, even if he had another best friend. He sees the way you sometimes look at him, your eyes tell him the truth.

He’s a good-looking guy, he knows. He takes pride in his appearance, taking time out of his day to stay clean and pretty. He knows the effect he often has on others: he’s a heartthrob. So how come it’s taking him this long to tie you down and make you his? He’s probably overthinking it, he’s considered that possibility for a long time. Yet, the mere thought of tossing everything he’s built with you down the drain isn’t far off from the idea of plucking each feather from his back, one-by-one.

The image of your face twisting into distress or pity, quietly telling him you don’t see him that way, that he’s just a friend and never anything more. Even worse if you just see him as some kind of brotherly figure, solidifying the concept of your relationship to never progress into anything more.

He knows that’s just how life is, people and relationships come and go but you, you’re different. You and your pretty face will forever haunt his dreams or appear every time he closes his eyes. He will always yearn for your touch, your voice, and your smell. And even though his throat tightens at the idea of losing you, his restraint is hanging on by a thread.

Because now, he’s home alone, fisting his cock as he mutters your name into the hem of his shirt gritted between his teeth. His pants hung low on his hips, unruly and unshaved pubes tickling his knuckles every time his fingers stroke his base.

He lets his thoughts roam from the memory of you, to imagining himself fucking you the way he’s been desperately craving. He’d hold you by your hips, pulling you backwards to meet his unforgiving thrusts as you beg for more. He’d whisper filthy nothings into your ear, forcing you to look at him as he fucks you harder.

He’d ask you to beg for him before he’s filling your pretty little pussy with his seed. The image of your cunt dripping with white has him coming with a shout, he lets his shirt fall as he tosses his head back, Adam’s apple bobbing as thick cum spills down his hand and spurts onto his stomach.

Slowly pumping his cock as he rides out his high, he’s murmuring your name over and over. He lets the shame wash over him, completely used to it by now but he’s done promising himself it would be the last time. His fingers itch to call you, drunk on the thought of your voice lulling him to sleep. Yet he refrains—he needs time to cool off anyway.

You’re both drunk, him more than you it seems. You decided tonight you’d rather get high instead, but the taste of alcohol was too sweet to pass up. He wanted to tell you mixing was a mistake—“Oh, let me live a little.” The memory of your grumbled bickering caused him to smile. Your droopy eyes and your puffed cheeks, pouty lips and twitching nose, he could never seem to say no to you.

You were leaning against your kitchen counter, laughing at your phone and eating away at a bag of chips. In his defense, he wasn’t exactly sure what came over him at that moment. There was only one thought echoing in his mind: He needed you to know.

Willing himself to stand, he makes his way over to you, not even hesitating to grasp the phone out from your fingers and onto the counter behind you.

“Hey!” You protest, seemingly irritated with his rude gesture. “What gives?”

Leaning into you, his arms snaking their way around your waist as his lips twitch against the shell of your ear: “You’re not paying attention to me.” He murmurs with a flirtatious grin before nosing your cheek with a happy sigh.

“Well you could’ve just said so…” You grumble, your hands reaching to scratch at his scalp, waiting for his hum of approval.

“You’re so pretty…” He’s backing away now to stare into you, face drawn serious yet pleading. His eyes are darting back-and-forth between your own, searching for any signs of discomfort.

You’re smiling, but your eyebrows are pinched together in confusion. You let out a chuckle: “You’re so drunk.” You opt to say, causing him to frown.

“But you’re still beautiful.” He’s holding you in a way a lover would, hands gently resting on your waist, thumbs massaging back-and-forth into your supple skin.

“Thank you Keigo,” you whispered after a moment. “you’re beautiful too.”

“Yeah?” His teeth glimmer against the faint blue light of the T.V. as his lips stretch into a smile. He’s adoring you affectionately, eyes only speaking in tongues of love as his nose crinkles and his dimples portrued. He knows he’s beautiful, but hearing you say it so matter-of-factly has him higher than any drug.

“Can I kiss you?” The question leaves his lips before he catches it, mouth already parted to carry out the action as his eyes flicker to yours.

“What?” You ask in a quiet, hushed voice, as if you didn’t really believe you had heard him correctly. He doesn’t repeat it though; he knows you heard him.

“Please?” He begs instead, he’d promise you just one but it would be a lie. He’s leaning into you now, face centimeters from yours, eyes meeting yours again for any sign of approval. You wait, the noise echoing from the T.V. combined with your shared breaths being the only sound to escape.

“I–“ You begin but fail to finish as he watches your attention divert to his mouth. He knows now that you’re considering it, but he needs to hear you say it.

“Yes?” He wasn’t sure if he was asking you to continue or your permission. Yet the hilt to his voice creates goosebumps to litter your skin as you shiver against him. Just as he thinks you’re going to allow him, your hand comes to push him away by his chest, turning your cheek and you stare at something other than him.

“You’re drunk.” You assert with less warmth, ears red and lip caught between your teeth.

“So?” Almost angry, he’s pinching you by your chin to face him again, he fights back the urge to force your lips against his.

“Stop. Let’s just go to sleep.” You coax his hand away from your face as you push past him, leaving him stunned and at a loss for words. Still, he follows you blindly and into your room like a lovesick puppy.

He calls your name as you leave him standing alone amongst your things to go wash up. You stay silent. Whatever.

He’s peeling away his shirt before slumping against your duvet, letting out a much needed drone of remorse. He’s beginning to regret his actions but at the same time, relieved he got to see you so flustered because of him. He knows now you at least wanted to kiss him.

You reenter the room demanding him to wash up because: “your breath reeks.” He wonders if that’s why you rejected him. He pulls himself up to do as he’s told, stalling as he watches you climb into bed.

Once he’s finished and has you wrapped around him, he’s shoving his face into your breasts and forcing your hand to pet at his hair.

“Will you kiss me when I’m sober?” He wonders aloud, half to himself. You sigh, your hand pausing in its menstruations. “You won’t even remember…”

“Yes I will.” He wants to continue arguing, but his eyes are falling in weight as his breath heaves for a long yawn.

“Just go to sleep.” You refuse him your usual nicknames, your voice holding a slight quiver as you wait for him to sleep. After a moment he feels you pull away from him and roll over with your back turned to him. He attempts to spoon your body but you simply stand up and exit the bedroom, sniffles following you.

He attempts to call after you but sleep seems to overtake him instead. And just as quick as it comes, it’s over, a bright blue sky greeting him instead of your face. Hungover and groggy, he sits up wondering where you were and what time it was. Pulling the sheets off of him, he rubs his palms into his eyes.

Creeping out of your room and into your living space, time slows as fear pools into his stomach at the sight of your body splain across the couch, memories of the previous night flood his brain. He went too far, he realizes as he stares at your dried tears and chewed lips. He’s going to lose you.

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