purple hyacinth, part three

kageyama tobio was only supposed to deliver the weapons to ushijima’s best customer once every two weeks. he wasn’t supposed to fall in love with you—law student by day, top dancer and escort at washijo tanji’s club by night. when you ask the impossible of him, kageyama has to choose: his life or yours.

pairing: adlers underboss kageyama tobio x escort fem!reader (with hair), part three of three ; 7.2k, nsfw (18+, mdni)

warnings:depictions of sex work, actual murder, implied sexual abuse; the sex is tame, kageyama’s still and will forever be a simp

thanks to:@anime-nymphand@vanille–kiss for coming up with the ideas for me and helping me look into ways to murder and dick kageyama down like friends should LOL <3 also for betaing, and vani for the amazing banner as always!

written in conjuction with:@mrskenmakozume’ssimp me not collab! i had m for mafia :’)

part one||part two||part three||mafia au masterlist
bosses:black petunia||red peony||white lily
underbosses:pink magnolia||orange rose

Creating a plan is easy. Executing is the hard part.

No matter how well he plans or thinks of all the variables, humans aren’t predictable. Their schedules may be, their mannerisms can be studied and copied, but when presented with the possibility of death, everything can go haywire in a split second.

That’s why Kageyama knows it’s important to bend the outcome to his will.

After years under Ushijima’s liege and working in the Adlers clan, he knows exactly what to do. Remove outside variables, craft a plan that’s solid enough, and make sure the evidence is in your favor. Murder is easy. It’s simple enough for him to wait for a target, grab their neck from behind, and snap it in one swift movement. What happens after is the tricky part: making them disappear, making sure there are no traces of his presence left, making sure the police lose leads quickly and never pick them up again.

It takes him a few days to come up with the plan, and another two days to work on the kinks, but by the end of the week, Washijo Tanji is a dead man walking with only a few months left to live.

Kageyama’s involvement is easy.

All he has to do is continue coming every two weeks like clockwork, which is where he currently is. He sits in Washijo’s office, listening as the man brags about his “perfect” yacht, another girl he brought under his wing to “mentor”, and how you have a renewed spirit ever since he struck some sense into you. Kageyama’s hands tighten in his slacks as Washijo praises your work ethic, and it’s hard to keep his face completely plain when he laments,

“Sorry. I know you have a thing for our Daisy, but she’s out there fucking around on you, huh?”

Kageyama doesn’t say anything. He only nods and lets Washijo ramble about going out on his boat again this coming weekend.

Because Kageyama’s first target isn’t Washijo Tanji, but the bodyguard who stands outside the door to keep others out: Saitou Akira.

Akira is as predictable in his routine as anyone else. Every afternoon he gets an iced cafe latte and sandwich from Doutor. Every other day he visits the gym for almost two hours before showering and going back to his apartment. Once a week he visits the movie theater close to his place, and he shops at the local market multiple times a week, friendly with the old woman who runs the business. Every night, he takes the subway to work before acting as Washijo’s lapdog, keeping poor and needy women under lock and key.

There are plenty of people who need extra money, so it’s easy to find some underground fighters to do his dirty work. Kageyama makes sure that Akira doesn’t see his face, but he supervises the hit. One early afternoon movie, one abandoned alleyway by his apartment, one too many punches and kicks, and Saitou Akira lays broken and battered on the cold ground. It’s Kageyama who calls the ambulance from a burner phone, discarding it as soon as he hears the sirens coming from the distance.

When he steps into Ushijima’s office to discuss contraband business later that night, Kageyama clears his throat.

“Washijo is requesting one of our members to act as his bodyguard for the time being, Boss.”

“Where is his bodyguard?” Ushijima asks as he looks up from a file containing pictures of the next shipment. “Saitou Akira, wasn’t it?”

“He is currently in the hospital after being attacked earlier this afternoon.”

The Adlers’ boss studies Kageyama, his dark brown eyes all-knowing as they analyze Kageyama’s calm expression. Kageyama Tobio isn’t an idiot—he knows Ushijima can see right through him. He always has, starting from the night he approached him at the convenient store, to now when he leans back in his chair with a hum.

“Why is he requesting our assistance?”

“He says he trusts us thanks to our long-standing relationship.”

Ushijima goes silent at Kageyama’s lie, finger tapping on the top of the desk as he considers the fake proposal. The room feels suffocating, closing in the longer Ushijima thinks without uttering a word. Kageyama feels sweat drip down the back of his neck, and his hands clench and unclench again, but he keeps his face absolutely stoic until Ushijima nods.

“Take Sokolov. He’ll fit in with Washijo’s clientele anyway.”

Kageyama bows his head and turns toward the door, but Ushijima calls his name and makes him turn around again.

“Don’t bite off more than you can chew,” Ushijima warns evenly, his tone light and unmatching his serious expression. “If you do, you will be saying hello to Hoshiumi.”

“Of course, Boss.”

Kageyama bows his head again, avoiding Ushijima’s piercing stare as he shuffles from the room, his first part of the job complete.

ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ

“We heard about what happened,” Kageyama says as soon as he sits down in front of Washijo’s desk. Today the man is jumpier than usual, his old face looking even angrier and ashen than normal. Kageyama sets the briefcase on contraband on the desk before clearing his throat. “To Akira-san.”

“Those fucks are after me and my money,” Washijo grumbles, just like Kageyama expected. It’s why he paid the assailants handsomely to demand information on Washijo as they beat Akira within an inch of his life, after all.

“Ushijima would like to offer you a replacement for the time being.” The lie quickly gets Washijo’s attention. The man turns with a curious lift to his eyebrow. “Since you’ve been a valuable customer, it’s the least we can do.”

“As you should,” Washijo hums. “I pay you good money after all. Who do you have?”

As soon as Washijo sees the picture of the Adlers member, Kageyama knows he has him. Sokolov is tall, large, and has a meanness in his resting face that could scare off even the worst opponents. Kageyama knows it’s all a front, that Sokolov is actually a touchy-feely drunkard who loves men and women a little too much, but Washijo doesn’t, and that’s all that matters. The man readily agrees to have Sokolov watch over him until Akira is out of the hospital and fully recovered, whenever that may be.

“I’m sure it won’t be much longer than a few weeks,” Washijo says.

Kageyama knows that isn’t true, because he paid a little extra to make sure Akira’s hand was smashed enough that it would need rehab for at least three months.

When he bows and leaves Washijo’s office, he locks eyes with you immediately. You’re on stage, already halfway through your routine, breasts barely covered as you shimmy around the pole. You keep your gaze on him the entire time, a sly smile on your face as your clothes come off one by one the longer the song continues, until you’re finishing your set and disappearing into the backroom. Kageyama knows to follow, the night already paid for, the guards moving aside after so many times visiting.

He’s not even two steps into the room before you’re on him, your arms wrapped around his neck and your lips hastily pressed against his. Kageyama welcomes you, kicking the door closed behind him so no one can see, wrapping an arm around your waist to keep you close. He’s the one who purchased an hour of your time, but you’re the one kissing him like it’s not long enough, like if you don’t touch him now, you’ll never be able to again.

“Hey—” He tries when you pull away to breathe, but a quick shake of your head renders him silent.

“I want to forget,” you whisper before leaning forward again to fulfill your wish.

His lips only leave yours to tug his clothes off, yours following with barely a push on his hands. Your body is slightly sticky from your performance earlier but he doesn’t care, not when you sound so good moaning as he kisses and licks the column of your neck. His cock is hard and pulsing against your thigh, and though you’ve slept together a few times already, he’s still lost whenever he’s with you.

Your breathy sounds spur him lower, his tongue and lips wet as they slip down to your chest to take a nipple into his mouth. He knows how you like it now, knows how to make you arch into him and grind against his throbbing length for more friction. That’s exactly what you do when he sucks and circles with his tongue, fingers trailing lower to squeeze at your stomach. You part your legs for his wandering hand, and keen when his fingers brush your folds. You aren’t wet enough to push inside yet, so he offers his fingers to you, wordlessly begging you to open. You listen, hooded eyes on him as you suck his fingers like you would his cock, tongue running along the length and around the knuckles until a string of saliva is left when he pulls them out.

Kageyama is careful when he pushes his fingers inside, first one until you’re wet enough, then two just like you like. He already knows how to fuck you—as if you’ve trained him to always provide, and he’s happy to obey. His fingers scissor and curl until you’re a moaning mess, and when he moves his mouth from your stomach to your clit, you whimper his name. Shit, he loves that, loves how you make his name sound perfect, the end syllable lost to a needy ‘oh’ that’s drawn out as he sucks and licks your nub.

He works you until you’re practically humping his fingers, your fingers threaded in his hair to keep him on your clit. Kageyama knows you’re close by the way you gasp for breath, walls clamping down around his fingers as he fucks you. When he sucks harder, circling with the tip of his tongue before flicking over it, you cum all over him with a few lengthy moans. This is his favorite part: watching you fall apart for him, your lips parted, body warm and shuddering, thighs clenching next to his head as pleasure overwhelms you.

When you finally relax and sink into the plush bed, Kageyama pulls away, trying to catch his own breath. He’s about to blow just from your taste, and it grows worse when you beckon him between your legs. Once his cock glides against your swollen and glistening folds, you both make a quiet sound. He does it again, pitching your legs up so your feet are on the bed and you can match his pace.

“Fuck,” you whisper when he bumps your swollen clit with the head of his cock. “Tobio, please, now, I need you.”

You need him. He’ll never admit it, but those words send his heart soaring. Ushijima doesn’t need him—not really. If he betrayed the boss like Hoshiumi, he’d be six feet under and there would be another underboss within a day. His sister doesn’t need him either; though she calls nearly everyday, Miwa is busy with her salon, the one he helped her purchase. His parents never came back for him, his grandfather left the world a year ago, and the universities he applied to didn’t bother asking him to apply again. The only person Kageyama had was himself, keeping afloat in a world that never welcomed him.

Butyou.

You fish a condom out of the drawer to your right, and once it’s open and rolled on his cock, he pushes in. You make the most beautiful sound—a mix between a choke and a groan, your head tilting back as he bottoms out, pulls out, then does it again. Kageyama knows the positions you like by now, knows how you want to be fucked, but tonight he wants things hisway. He wants to memorize every pinch of your nose, the flush on your cheeks; wants to watch his cock disappear into your hole, slick with your juices thanks to how wet you are; wants to lean down and tilt your head up with a firm hand on your neck, making you meet his messy lips in a kiss full of tongues and moans.

The bed creaks with his movements, your breath hot on his face as you gasp his name. Your walls pulse around him as he moves faster, angling his hips to hit that spot you like, the one that makes you tilt your head back so he can lick and bite at the column of your throat. His fingers grab at your nipples, twisting and pulling with his urgency, goosebumps rising on his flesh when your pussy squeezes him and signals your looming orgasm. He’s the one that finishes first, burying himself into you when his orgasm slams into him faster than a bullet. His hips keep shallowly thrusting until he fully empties himself in the condom, his sweaty forehead pressed against your shoulder as he comes down from his high.

Your needy whine spurs him on, and he bites around your shoulder and neck as his trails his hand down. He helps you with a finger on your clit, rubbing circles until you’re tugging at his hair painfully as you lose yourself a second time. It’s hard to see at this angle, but he can hearyou: your moans right in his ear, your whines of his name, the way you pant and mewl and groan for him.

He stays like that for a moment, savoring the peace and quiet he barely gets anywhere else. Your heartbeat is fast but slowing, lulling him into a sense of security he hasn’t felt in a long time. Only when you shift and jokingly complain about him being heavy does he move, pulling himself from you, tying the condom off, and throwing away the evidence of your tryst. When he turns back back, you’re already slipping your see-through thin robe back on, not bothering to clothe yourself otherwise.

You flit around the room, grabbing the hair dryer Kageyama brought you last time from the drawer of the desk. You place it on top of the desk, next to a crystal statue of a swan that Washijo bought for you on the first boat ride. He spotted the little microphone inside immediately, barely a minute after you told him about Washijo’s “gift.” He’s trying to spy on Alders business—and yourbusiness—but with one flick of a button, your conversation will be drowned out by the ringing of the hair dryer.

You look beautiful as you saunter back over, and Kageyama has to force himself to pay attention when you beckon him over to the edge of the bed to sit next to you.

Now it’s time to discuss why he’s really here.

“We’ve been on the boat twice,” you tell him with a sigh, running a hand down your face as if you don’t want to remember. “Last time, I had to ‘earn my ride’.”

Your meaning doesn’t go unnoticed by him, and hot shame streaks in Kageyama’s stomach thanks to what he’s forcing you to do. Everyone has their role, and yours happens to be making Washijo invite you out on his boat over and over, no matter how you have to make it happen.

“Sorry,” Kageyama grunts, unsure of what else to say. He feels extremely awkward, sitting here in the nude, the high of your meeting fading into a coldness that he’s sure you feel too.

“I’m doing this willingly,” you remind him, just like you’ve reminded him multiple times since you concocted the plan on that stormy night in your apartment. With Washijo inviting you to his yacht again, that means the plan is going smoothly. “He asked me to come again next weekend.”

Kageyama nods. “A place for me to hide?”

“I’m still looking for the perfect spot, but there’s a pantry in the hold that I think you can fit into.”

“Cameras?”

You shake your head. “What happens on the boat, stays on the boat.” The sharp look you give him nearly makes him shudder. “Drugs, booze, and everything otherwise.”

Kageyama exhales, ruffling his sweaty bangs, trying to will away the image of you and Washijo together. It already haunts him when he sleeps—that, and the betrayed look on your face when he couldn’t do anything the night Washijo slapped you. It springs up the minute he closes his eyes, boring a hole into his skull until he wakes up in the middle of the night, head pounding and phone lighting up with a text from Ushijima about something you need to take care of.

“Check the harbor next time. Once our job is done, the police will pull the footage.” For usual Alders’ business, Ushijima asks their hired hand to wipe the evidence with the few clicks of her mouse. Since this isn’t Alders’ business, he has to go old school. “You have to get him—

“—on the boat the day before his contract ends. I know.”

An unspoken word passes between you as you stare at each other. There’s still about two months left, and he knows how difficult it is for you to let Washijo touch you. To let him think you’re loyal once more after the beating and abuse he gave you. Kageyama’s heart drops when you pull your gaze from his, and he reaches out, running a hand underneath your chin to tilt your head up. Your gasp is soft, almost drowned out by the whirring of the hair dryer. He isn’t sure what to say to make you feel better; he’s not sure there is anything he can say to take your pain away.

So Kageyama leans forward and places his lips on yours, soft, sweet, delicate. And you kiss him back just as tentatively, eyes slipping shut as he tells you everything he wants to say without breathing a word.

ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ

Kageyama isn’t sure if time passes quickly or slowly.

The days go quickly when he runs Ushijima’s errands, oversees Futakuchi and Aone’s work, and goes to the meetings of the clan leaders. They’re good distractions, because whenever he’s back in his apartment, time slows to a crawl, the ticking of the clock in the corner ringing in his skull.

He goes to the club, the restaurant, your private room. He meets Ushijima, Washijo, you. He goes back home and pretends he isn’t dying to off Washijo early. Now that it’s early summer, he’s taking his yacht out more often, rubbing it in his face every time they meet. Daisy is a little tease. Always knows what to say to earn another ride, doesn’t she? Can’t let anyone have her, she’s far too valuable.

Kageyama sits there, eyes focused on the pictures on the back wall. Washijo has one now that’s him standing next to his yacht, a proud smile on his face, the name Highwindnow in new shiny black font on the side. While Washijo rambles about the gun he bought this week, Kageyama imagines how he’ll feel when he finally climbs abroad himself in a few weeks. Excited? Nervous? Righteous? Now that he’s been in the Adlers so long, he’s grown used to violence, used to making someone “disappear” as easily as tricking the idiot sitting across from him. Will it be just another day at the office? Or will he finally be free of the torment of helplessness, knowing that he finally freed you and the other girls from your shackles?

“Isn’t that right, Kageyama?”

He blinks back into focus, glancing at Washijo. The old man looks like he’s expecting some kind of answer, but since Kageyama couldn’t care to listen, he can only stutter, “Sorry?”

“You’re not very bright, are you?” Washijo’s snort is pitying. “I asked if you know the reason I keep so many firearms on me.” Kageyama isn’t even finished shaking his head before Washijo rambles, “It’s because of the power. No one will dare question me with two barrels pointed right at their face, right? Not even you.”

“That’s right, sir.”

“Good, good, I’m glad you agree.” Washijo sets down the rifle and smiles in a way Kageyama wishes he wouldn’t. “Tell Ushijima-san that I’ll be extending our business contract in two months. I expect he’ll show up himself for the re-signing.”

“Of course, sir.”

“Good, now get out of my sight.”

Washijo dismisses him as easily as his girls, and Kageyama remains absolutely stoic as he bows his goodbye and exits the office. He gives Sokolov a nod as he passes by, taking a seat in the furthest booth so he can wait for you to appear on stage. As the music and lights pulse around him, Kageyama has to contain a laugh. After nearly a year of dealings, Washijo thinks he has the upperhand. Because of his money, because of his patronage, because of the contract—whatever the reasoning, he thinks of Kageyama as no more than one of his workers, someone under his tutelage that can be easily bossed around.

Only he’s forgetting who the Adlers really are, and Kageyama is more than happy to remind Washijo who he is dealing with.

Kageyama starts counting down by the Fridays he comes to see you.

Two weeks.

Four weeks.

Six weeks.

And then the day is here, a Saturday in July that is sweltering and muggy, perfect for a day away from the crowded city heat. He finishes his jobs easily, getting the blessing from Ushijima to go to the Kanagawa Prefecture to “celebrate” the end of Washijo’s contract on his yacht. Tomorrow, Ushijima will walk into Il Giardino, re-sign Washijo to another year long contract for contraband, and seal your fate. That’s why tonight has to go perfectly.

Kageyama stops at the store, picking up food and drinks that make it look like he’s going to a celebration. He makes sure his face is visible in the CCTV as he walks to the Highwind, climbing on board like he was invited. He ducks down inside, away from the cameras, away from the lies, and hides the fake groceries where Washijo won’t check. Inside the bag sit a pair of black gloves and a pocket knife for later, if everything goes right.

This is the part of the plan that’s the most tentative: Washijo can’t find him before the night is over; you have to be the perfect actress and feed him drinks while you fawn over him; your stories have to be solid when the police come knocking. There are a lot of variables Kageyama can’t control, things he can’t be 100% certain of—but there are things he can predict, such as Washijo’s penchant for wanting to “relax” with copious amounts of drinks and drugs, just like you told him over the last two months.

As soon as he hears Washijo’s voice, the shuffle of feet, and the rock of the boat as they climb abroad, Kageyama slips into the small pantry you mentioned weeks ago to hide. His heart thunders in his chest, louder than the heavy footsteps coming down into the kitchen that definitely don’t belong to you or Sokolov. Washijo talks to someone about club business—someone underpaying here, someone becoming a regular patron there—but it goes over Kageyama’s head. He’s too busy holding the pantry door shut as Washijo’s footsteps and sounds come closer and closer to his hiding spot. He can’t breathe, his lungs tight as Washijo’s voice drifts closer then further away again, only to return even closer than before.

Just when something heavy hits the table top, your voice cuts in like a saving grace. “Washijo-sama! Why are you making your own drink? Let me!”

“Finally,” Washijo grumbles. There’s a clang that Kageyama recognizes as an ice scoop. “I thought you’d never finish changing.”

“Do you like it? I bought it for you.”

It burns Kageyama’s veins to hear your giggle, to imagine what you’re wearing for someone other than him. Is it a new dress? A new swimsuit? He’s never seen you in a bathing suit, but he has seen you in far less. That’s what he thinks about to calm down, imagining the way you smile for him, whisper his name, and run your fingers through his hair as he leans against your shoulder and pretends you’re not both trapped in your choices.

“I’d like it far better off.”

Kageyama grips the pantry door handle so hard it starts shaking, but your flirty gasp and giggle mask the rattle. “Washijo-sama! Not until we get a drink to celebrate.”

One drink becomes two, becomes three. He can hear the roar of the motor as the yacht moves out to the ocean, the vessel rocking with the light waves of the summer breeze. He can smell the food you cook later, hear the sizzle of the meat mingled with the sounds of you mixing drink after drink for Washijo to become belligerent. Later he even overhears Washijo peeing, the owner complaining to himself that Sakusa’s cocaine was taking too long to have an effect before he stomped back upstairs to the deck.

Still Kageyama doesn’t move. He’s had it worse, like the time he spent days on a stakeout for Ushijima when some of his product went missing. With frequent cracks in the door for more oxygen, he sits perched in that pantry, waiting for the signal to come out to complete his mission for the night.

It comes in the form of your overexaggerated laugh.

“Oh, Washijo-sama, this view is to diefor!”

Kageyama is sure it is, because it’s going to be the last thing Washijo Tanji sees.

He’s quiet as he grabs the gloves and knife from the grocery bag, then creeps up the steps to the deck, catching the eye of Sokolov through the circular window in the door. Sokolov nods and moves out of sight, off to grab a bucket full of water to carry out his part of the plan. Kageyama dons the black gloves and remains still until Sokolov passes by again, this time not looking into the stairwell as he goes. He only needs to wait another minute until there’s a knock on the wall—the signal that everything is ready for him.

The door doesn’t even make a sound as Kageyama slips from it, his footsteps lost to the sounds of the waves and the boat rocking. You don’t even acknowledge him as he walks closer, but Kageyama knows you’ve seen him. You pull Washijo closer, murmuring something that Kageyama can’t hear, before you lean forward and kiss the old man.

It’s the perfect distraction. The perfect bait.

Washijo doesn’t even sense it coming when Kageyama grabs the back of his neck and wrestles him down, sticking him face first in the bucket of ocean water.

The old man flails for his life, kicking and jerking, managing to clip Kageyama in the leg with his boots. Even though his shin radiates with pain, the Adlers’ underboss doesn’t move. He holds Washijo’s head down, watching in disinterest as the old man scratches at Kageyama’s covered arms to no avail, as he fights the bubbling water for his quickly fading life. Eventually the jerks become less frequent, the bubbles less violent, and then they go silent all together. Washijo’s body slumps forward and doesn’t move, even when Kageyama lifts his hand and takes a step back. He stays there, unmoving, arms and legs bent awkwardly with his face down in the bucket.

Washijo Tanji is dead.

When Kageyama glances up, both Sokolov and you are staring at him. Sokolov nods and moves forward, grabbing Washijo’s lifeless body and dragging it over to the side of the yacht. Kageyama doesn’t even watch Sokolov throw it overboard; his eyes are on you instead, on the redness around your eyes from stinging tears, on the way your chest heaves for breath, on the way you catch his questioning gaze and give him a stiff nod before springing to action.

You have a job to do.

While you run off to grab your phone to call the coast guard, Kageyama grabs a pocket knife and grabs the life preserving ring that sits on the deck. He quickly saws at the rope keeping it tied aboard, fraying the center to make it look like the rope snapped during rescue. It can’t take too long because Kageyama can hear your frantic voice, begging the coast guard to hurry and come because your boss drunkenly fell overboard and is floating away.

When Kageyama is done, he turns to Sokolov.

“Jump.”

The underling listens immediately, not even shrugging out of his expensive suit before he jumps overboard into the ocean. He splashes in the waves, making it look and sound like he tried to rescue Washijo, though the man’s dead body floats further and further away with the tide. Kageyama yells nonsense to Sokolov as he works: grab him! Don’t let him go! Sokolov, come back, we can’t lose you too! It’s all an act—he knows you’re being recorded, knows that his voice will be heard behind your pleading and your begging.

The rope frays enough that Kageyama tugs it apart with his hands, making it look like someone ripped it. He throws it in the water near Sokolov, and the man dunks it a few times before tossing it closer to Washijo’s floating body. It’s far enough away now that the plan will be believable if you can keep the act up, and based on the way you whimper, fake tears roll down your cheeks as you keep talking to the coast guard, Kageyama knows it’s in the bag.

Eventually Sokolov comes back, and Kageyama slips off the gloves to hand them to him. Sokolov dons them, dipping them into the bucket of water before he throws the used water overboard and sets the bucket aside like it was never used. The pocket knife goes next, and the blade makes the faintest plopping sound as it’s swallowed by the water, drifting down into the darkness of the ocean, the last shred of evidence against him buried in dark blue.

Orange and yellow hues reflect off the waves, making the ocean shimmer in the setting sun. He can’t see Washijo’s body anymore, but he can see you. You, standing in the sunlight, the light around your head looking like a halo. You, in a pretty summer dress that ruffles with the breeze, the one Kageyama almost broke the plan to see. You, who is staring at him with wide eyes full of hope, because after months of working, planning, heartache and strife, your hard-fought freedom is finally a reality.

Kageyama has to swallow down the heat that rises up and grips his heart when he reaches out his hand and you immediately take it.

You were right earlier.

The view reallyis to die for.

ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ

The call comes right when Kageyama expects it to. The interview goes just how Kageyama knew it would.

You are allowed together in the cold and dingy interview room, your hands clasped together on top of your lap as you shakily recount the story for the officers.

“Washijo-sama invited us onto the boat to celebrate our engagement earlier that day. I had gone a few times before and thought it would be like all the other times. Only this time, Washijo-sama slipped and…”

Kageyama has to give it to you. The way you turn and bury your head into his shoulder to muffle your tears has his stomach lurching, even though he knows it’s all rehearsed and fake. While you calm down, Kageyama finishes the story: he slipped over while trying to pee off the side; the rope for the life ring snapped; Sokolov tried to save him after that, but Washijo went under too quickly; the waves carried him further out until he was gone forever.

“The body hasn’t been found,” the detective on the right says once Kageyama finishes the tale. “If it is, we’ll call you. Until then… maybe don’t get on any more boats.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Sorry it happened on your engagement day,” the female detective on the left says as she stands. She glances at you pitifully, and that’s when Kageyama knows for certain that the plan was a complete success. “I wish you both luck.”

“You’re too kind,” you recite, watery but thankful.

Kageyama keeps his hand in yours the entire walk back to his car, and he doesn’t let go even as he starts the engine and sets off back to your apartment. As soon as you’re out of the police station parking lot, you squeeze his hand and burst into laughter. It’s a deep-bellied laugh, one that has tears rolling down your cheeks as you gasp for breath, clutching the dashboard in front of you as you duck your head to contain yourself. Your body still racks with tearful laughter, long enough to tell him that these tears are real, raw, and everything you’ve kept inside for the past few years.

He doesn’t say anything as he pulls into the parking lot of your apartment building. When you’ve finally calmed down enough, you squeeze his hand one more time before letting go, muttering at him to follow you. The day is clear, the opposite of when he first followed you inside. The purple hyacinths are gone now too, past their prime for blooming now that the sweltering heat of summer hangs thick over the city. Your apartment is just as sticky, and the silence is drowned out by the whirring of your old air conditioner as you turn it on its highest setting.

“I’ll buy you a new one,” Kageyama mutters.

You pause midstride to the kitchen, turning back to him. You’re no longer crying, but your face is blotchy from your episode in the car, and there’s a scrunch in your brows that shows you’re thinking about how to answer.

“Will you?”

Kageyama nods.

“Before you go?” You ask again, a mirthless smile on your face.

“Huh?”

“Our time together is over. The three months are up. I won’t have a job at the club anymore, so you can’t—”

Kageyama takes a step forward. “What are you saying, dummy?”

“I’m not a dummy.”

“Yes, you are.” The air conditioning whirrs in the background; there’s a vibration in his pocket that’s probably from Ushijima telling him to hurry up. He ignores both to step in front of you. “Your job is… not all I wanted you for.”

“Then what?” Your voice is quiet, the most vulnerable he’s ever seen you, even after planning a murder together. “What do you want, Tobio?”

“You,” he grumbles, heat in his cheeks that he tries to hide by looking off to the dirty dishes on your kitchen counter. “Always just you.”

Your touch is light and tentative as you run your fingertips over his cheek, dancing down to his lips before you exhale. “What if you don’t want me anymore? What if you realize it was all…”

When you don’t continue, he cocks an eyebrow. “All…?”

“I don’t know!” You throw your hands up, turning away from him and setting your hands on your hips. “The thrill of the chase, a chance to help a needy woman, a… fuck, I don’t know, an attraction based on a common goal or something.” You turn back with a pinched expression that punches him right in the gut. “Any of those could be true.”

Kageyama stays quiet, but the phone vibrates one more time. You both ignore it, staring at each other like you’re trying to figure out a complex math equation. You’re not mistaken. Things change, hearts waver, and now that Washijo is dead, the future is murky. But the future is also long, and full of your own choices—something you haven’t had in a long time.

“You know…” The words come out awkwardly squeaky and he has to clear his throat. “I spent a lot of money buying your time.”

His admission makes you snort. “I know that.”

“What I mean is—I just—ugh.” Kageyama ruffles the back of his hair, a scowl on his face. “But now I don’t have to because you have that.”

“Have what?”

“Time.” He looks back at you, hand massaging the back of his neck to ward off the flush and awkwardness spreading through his entire body. “I… well, we. We bought you all the time in the world.”

You look like the cheshire cat, your lips splitting into a grin, a light laugh on your lips that Kageyama is sure is at his expense. He mutters at you to knock it off, but you shake your head, linking your hands together in front of your chest.

“What should I do with my new found time then, Tobio? Travel? Become an influencer? Maybe learn knife throwing?”

“Study. Get your degree since you’re almost done.” He waits for you to nod your confirmation before mumbling, “You can do whatever you want, as long as it’s with me.”

“I’m sorry?”

Your shit-eating grin means you heard him loud and clear, and Kageyama has to contain a groan. He isn’t good at this, not good at vocalizing his feelings or emotions when actions will do just fine. But you look expectant, a happy flush in your cheeks and a smile in your eyes, so he blurts it out anyway.

“Be with me.”

It’s quiet again, and there’s a moment where Kageyama thinks you’ll reject him. His heart is beating out of his chest, his palms sweaty as you take a second to answer, then another, then another. The wait is killing him, silence stretching from seconds to goddamn yearsuntil you finally open your mouth.

“You mean it? You really want me, even though I’m…”

There are a million ways to answer that sentence, and Kageyama can pick a few from the way your brows scrunch and your face crumbles. Broken, hurt, a mess. He’s sure he looked the same on the night Ushijima found him, a boy scared of the future and the pain of living. All he needed was someone to reach out their hand and offer him solace. Kageyama had found it in Ushijima and the Adlers clan.

With a stretched out hand to your direction, Kageyama hopes you find it in him, too.

“If anything, you’re mine.” The confession is clumsy and wooden, sounding foreign to his own ears. “Yes, I do.”

The air conditioner whines in the background; his phone vibrates one more time; you place your hand into his, interlocking your fingers so tightly that he can’t feel them for a second, not that he cares. Because he tugs you close by those same hands, cradling your head as he kisses you breathless, promising to keep his word over and over with slips of tongue and whispers of each other’s names.

Washijo Tanji is forgotten as easily as the garbage, his name sinking to the bottom of the ocean, joining his body in the dark and watery grave.

ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ

His knock on the door is quiet, but Ushijima’s answer is loud.

“Come in.”

The door creaks as he opens it, and Kageyama lets you step into the bosses’ office before following and shutting the door behind him. Ushijima glances up from a few photos on his desk, gesturing at you to take a seat in the leather chair across from his desk. Kageyama stands in front of the door, hands crossed behind his back, the stoic expression of an underboss plastered on his face.

You thank him quietly, fixing your skirt so you can take the offered seat. The ink had barely dried on your license before you called him, begging to meet with the head of the Adlers clan to discuss business. It wasn’t exactly a surprise to Ushijima that you wanted to speak with him, though Kageyama had expected the nonchalant acceptance after breaking the news of Washijo’s death and subsequent contract cancellation months earlier.

Ushijima had barely lifted a brow then, humming before sending Kageyama off with a flick of his fingers. He looks the same now, face plain and unreadable as he leans back in his chair to regard you.

“May I ask why you’ve come?”

“I was hoping to interview for a job opportunity.”

“An opportunity?”

Your voice oozes confidence when you answer, “Yes. I would like to protege under your current lawyer, if you would have me.”

Ushijima hums, glancing down at the pictures before him before asking, “Why?”

“I believe my experiences and expertise would fit in well with your type of clientele.”

“My clientele?”

“At the jazz clubs. Kageyama-san told me you own many around Tokyo and I’m sure you could use another professional who has expertise in dealing with powerful men.”

The Adlers’ boss glances at Kageyama for barely a second before he nods, rifling through a few of the photos. Out of a stack of papers, Ushijima pulls out a clipped newspaper article and slides it your way, tapping a line near the top of the first page. Kageyama doesn’t need to see the contents to know it concerns Washijo’s death. The man’s boat can clearly be seen in the black and white photo, even from his vantage point.

You look down at the article for a moment before looking back up, barely regarding the contents of the news report. “Yes, he was my old boss.”

“And my old client.”

“His accidental drowning must have been hard for some.”

Ushijima’s eyebrows lift in humored surprise before his expression drops back to its neutral mask. The article is gone, placed back in the folder to be forgotten, just like Washijo Tanji has been. It’s replaced with another paper that has your picture on it—a simple background check that Kageyama already told you would happen. You don’t seem fazed at all, your demeanor relaxed but professional.

“You’re a recent graduate.”

“Yes.”

“With plenty of recent volunteer experience.”

“I had more… time in recent months. I’ve been using it well.”

The admission makes Kageyama’s lips twitch in a grin.

Ushijima hums again, reading over your file before tapping the page twice. “I’ll offer you a choice. You can work under my current lawyer for a year to gain experience, or you can leave Tokyo and I will help you find work in another city.”

Kageyama knows it’s because you know too much. You’re too keen on the details of the Adlers, being his woman and working with him in the past. Sending you away will keep the Tokyo police out of their business should you choose to work against them, but allow the Adlers to keep an eye on you anyway. But on the other hand, if you choose to stay, you’ll be tying yourself to the mob, breaking your oaths as a lawyer to serve and protect the people of Japan. If you choose the Adlers, those are the only people you’ll end up protecting, perhaps at the cost of innocent lives.

There’s a beat where you don’t say anything, mulling over the two offers you’ve been given.

Then you turn around to face him, a bright smile on your face, and a twinkle in your eye that makes Kageyama’s heart skip a few too many beats. Your voice is strong, firm, resolved to the path you’ve chosen with the time you’ve been given.

“Kageyama-san, do you have a pen I could borrow? I believe there’s a contract I have to sign.”

purple hyacinth, part one

kageyama tobio was only supposed to deliver the weapons to ushijima’s best customer once every two weeks. he wasn’t supposed to fall in love with you—law student by day, top dancer and escort at washijo tanji’s club by night. when you ask the impossible of him, kageyama has to choose: his life or yours.

pairing: adlers underboss kageyama tobio x escort fem!reader (with hair), part one of three ; 4.8k, nsfw (18+, mdni)

warnings:depictions of sex work, mentions of violence and murder, mention of racism/slavery by an asshole character; oral (m!receiving), fingering, snowballing

thanks to:@anime-nymphand@vanille–kiss for coming up with the ideas for me and helping me look into ways to murder and dick kageyama down like friends should LOL <3 also for betaing, and vani for the amazing banner as always!

written in conjuction with:@mrskenmakozume’ssimp me not collab! i had m for mafia :’)

part one||part two||part three||mafia au masterlist
bosses:black petunia||red peony||white lily
underbosses:pink magnolia||orange rose

From the outside, Il Giardino looks like a regular establishment. The brick building is multi-leveled, but the place is on the first floor, filled with tables that look like they belong in an upscale Italian restaurant. The servers wear black vests and white aprons tied around their waists, serving couples on first dates that won’t go anywhere, or couples celebrating anniversaries that will probably break up later anyway.

It’s only when you ask for “the best seat in the house” that you’re taken behind the curtain leading to the kitchens. A server will take you to some stairs in the cellar, lead you down the cold and slightly dungy stairwell, and open the door to the real reason people come here: to book the escorts who dance around the poles on stage, shooting flirty smiles to old politicians and rich assholes who pay handsomely for an hour or two.

Kageyama Tobio doesn’t even have to ask anymore.

The servers at Il Giardino know who he is and why he’s there. The briefcase he brings twice a month under the guise of being a “businessman” is filled with weapons from new shipments they received the day prior. As soon as he makes it into the basement showroom, he’s ushered into Washijo Tanji’s office, and the briefcase is exchanged for cold hard cash that goes straight into his inner pockets.

“This week’s even more special,” Washijo hums as he inspects the antique pistol he purchased from the stash. “Flintlock Muff. Do you know what year it’s from, Kageyama?”

“1804 according to the records, sir,” Kageyama answers robotically. He learned very early in his tenure as Adlers’ underboss that uninformed answers wouldn’t cut it for Washijo. The John demands an audience, a conversation for his musings, unlike so many of the other big shots around Tokyo. Hoshiumi had played that part well.

At least until he was buried six feet under by the Black Jackals’ boss, with Ushijima’s blessing, of course.

“Right you are, boy,” Washijo agrees as he shines a spot of dirty iron. “The kind of weaponry that meant power back then, meant to put the slaves in their place.” He hums in gleeful thought before looking Kageyama straight in the eye. “A perfect addition to my collection.”

Kageyama’s worked with a lot of assholes in his time as Adlers’ underboss, but Washijo Tanji might just take the cake.

He gives a stiff nod and sees himself out of the old man’s office, promising to come back in two weeks like he always does. Some weeks he’ll leave right away, glad to be out of the basement establishment and back in the real world where everything isn’t covered in a neon red glow. Other weeks, he’ll linger in a back booth, staying for exactly an hour before sliding out to go back to the base. Kageyama tells Ushijima it’s because Washijo sometimes goes on tangents about the guns and won’t shut up, but that’s not the real reason.

The real reason strides out on stage not even a minute after he sits down.

You always look so pretty, no matter the hairstyle you start with. Today it’s a high ponytail that’s tied with a shiny silver band and matches the short sequin dress you have on. Kageyama knows by the end of the night, you’ll only be in panties, the rest of your clothing discarded behind you as you twirl around on the pole. Then, after your set is over, you’ll walk off stage with your head held high and one last flirtatious smile and wink to the crowd.

It’s crazy to think you’d notice someone sitting far away who only comes in once and a while, but Kageyama lets himself imagine you do. Lets himself imagine that it’s him who books you, that it’s him you walk in to see, to touch, to moan for. It’s not like he doesn’t have the money—no, he has plenty of that ever since becoming underboss of the Adlers—but he doesn’t have the time. And if he’s honest, he doesn’t have the guts to go through with it and ruin the facade of admiring from afar.

Only you do that forhim.

Tonight your eyes land right on him, and he sucks in a breath when you smile at him, as beautiful as ever. Your gaze is heavy as you keep it on him, even as you peel piece by piece off of your flimsy little outfit until you’re only left in a skimpy little thong. Your breasts jiggle as you move, hands tracing over your body as you dance to the music. It makes his breathing more labored, making him shift in his seat and forcing any fantasies about you away.

There are bills on the stage in front of you, men catcalling you from the booths near the front, but you don’t pay them any mind. Whenever your focus isn’t on climbing and twirling around the pole, it’s on him, that flirty little smile directed right at him without any reservations. When your set is over, you send a flirtatious little wink to the crowd—to him—and disappear backstage.

He knows you won’t come back out tonight, not with the way one of the middle-aged men in the front booth waves over a server, but Kageyama wishes you would. Wishes you would do more than send him smiles or winks because then it would mean you want him as a person and not a potential client. He knows how these things operate—you’re working. Playing the game to save up for something, whether it’s family, or a kid, or just trying to survive in a world that makes it nearly impossible.

He waits another ten minutes staring at the back door, silently wondering if you’ll emerge and prove him wrong, but you don’t.

So he leaves, already counting down the days until he’s back in that basement club so he can see you again.

ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ

The next meeting with Washijo is easy. He’s pleased with the product, placing the gun on an empty holster on the wall before shooing Kageyama out for “other business.” He’s about to leave the place for the night when there’s a soft call of, “Wait!”

Kageyama turns and sees you coming right for him.

He’s not ready for this. A kill? Easy. Sneak up behind them and wrap an arm around their neck, and the victim is none the wiser. A deal? Even easier. Read the room, read the vibe, and you’ll have them wrapped under your finger in a moment. A girl? Terrifying. He doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know how to act as you come up to him with your sparkling smile and stop right in front of him.

“I was hoping I would see you today,” you tell him as you tuck your hair behind your ear.

It’s down today, flowing behind you in pretty waves, your gold-painted eyes shining in the lights. The name tag on your chest reads “Daisy”—your stage name, he already knows—and the blouse is tight around your tits, skirt even tighter around your thighs. You’re a hostess today, not a dancer, a deviation from the norm.

It takes everything in Kageyama not to stare.

“I’m… not sure why,” he answers awkwardly.

“A mysterious handsome stranger I only ever see once every two weeks? I love a good mystery.” You grin, and Kageyama wishes you wouldn’t because he feels like he’s drowning in the ocean without a life jacket. “I’ve asked around but no one knows who you are.”

“Er… you’re asking about me?”

“I’m interested,” you giggle. “Is that wrong?”

Not wrong, but dangerous. The way his cheeks are coloring, the way his heart thumps in his chest, the way he’s itching to reach into his jacket and book you right then and there. It’s all so dangerous.

“I don’t know why you would be when you have plenty of suitors.”

“I wouldn’t exactly call them suitors,” you grumble as you cross your arms over your chest. “Clients would be more apt, wouldn’t it?”

Kageyama takes a look around the area. There’s no dancer on stage yet, but a woman comes out of the backroom and he knows it won’t be long now. No one is looking this way; Washijo sits at the bar talking with another older man in a crisp suit, but his eyes flick over for just a moment before returning. It’s just you two in your own little fucked up world of unspoken truths and discreet business.

“Then you probably don’t need another.”

“I don’t need another, but I wantanother.” Your smile is genuine even with your proposition. “What’s your name?”

“Kageyama Tobio,” he answers immediately, voice barely audible over the music that now pounds out of the speakers. “Your name?”

“Daisy.”

It isn’t your voice but Washijo’s. The owner stands next to you, a pressed smile on his face, arms tight behind his back. Kageyama notices the light in your eyes go out almost immediately, your smile slipping just a little bit as the old man lifts a hand to your chin and grabs tightly.

“You should be serving drinks now. That’s your job tonight.”

“Yes, Washijo-sama,” you respond robotically, like you’ve done this song and dance thousands of times before and know exactly what he wants to hear. “I was only welcoming your esteemed guest.”

“Daisy’s my best girl,” Washijo says as he slaps your cheek a few times none-too-gently. “Always makes me a pretty penny, doesn’t she?” He laughs like he’s not talking about you selling your body to make him money. It makes Kageyama’s eyes narrow as he flicks between Washijo’s smile and your souring and tightening expression. “If you want to book her, you’ll have to—”

“I’ll do it now.” Kageyama’s response is immediate, and he knows he pissed Washijo off by the way the man glares, but he doesn’t care. He’s got more pull in this city as the Adlers’ underboss than some old John with a hard-on for weapons anyway. He stares at you and your raised eyebrows when he says, “One hour, two weeks from today. Right after our meeting is finished.”

“Okay,” you whisper, trying to suppress your grin so Washijo doesn’t see it. “Two weeks from now, Kageyama-sama.”

“Then if you’ll excuse me.”

He bows his head before he can change his mind, before he can see how pissed he made Washijo, before he can get pulled into your cute little smile even more.

ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ

No matter how many times he’s been here, Kageyama has never been in the back before. Washijo’s office sits next to the bar—chosen on purpose to keep an eye on his “merchandise”, he’s sure—so it feels strange to follow an attendant past the stage and through the steel door. The hallway looks like it could belong to a casino, a carpeted hallway housing large wooden doors that lead to private rooms labeled after flowers. Lotus, Bluebell, Tulip. Finally the attendant stops in front of a door labeled “Hyacinth”, knocks once, and bows on his way out.

“Come in,” comes your dainty voice from inside.

His heart races faster than a rabbit as he turns the handle and opens the door.

You’re dressed in a beautiful black babydoll onesie that sits tight around your breasts and hips. Overtop is a translucent pink robe, fuzzy on the ends and cascading down to the floor. It’s tied around the waist, making you look like a present made for him to unwrap. You look at him through the mirror of the vanity, turning to him with an alluring smile that makes him swallow.

“Kageyama-sama,” you murmur as you stand and show him all of you. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

He isn’t sure what to say or do. He’s never done this before; agreeing to come see you was a spur of the moment decision that’s been on the forefront of his mind the last two weeks. As enticing as you look, Kageyama isn’t here for what the other men are. While the thought has crossed his mind—more times than could be considered healthy, if he’s honest—he doesn’t want to be just another client you see once every two weeks then say goodbye to.

So when you start to walk over to him, he puts his hand up and makes you falter.

“I…” He clears his throat. “I’m not here to sleep with you.”

“Hm?” The hum sounds more confused than anything. “Then—”

“I only want to talk.”

“…Talk.” You’re looking at him like he’s grown another head. “You paid for an hour to… talk to me?”

Kageyama nods stiffly, cheeks warming when you laugh. You cover your mouth to quiet yourself, apologizing for your outburst before tilting your head.

“Okay, Kageyama-sama. What would you like to talk about?”

You both sit on the bed, and Kageyama lets you do most of the talking. You’re guarded, he can tell, but he’s the exact same. It’s like the conversation is stilted, both of you dancing around anything of substance.

How’s work? Fine. The usual. What’s your favorite food? Pork cutlet. How do you spend your time? Relaxing.

Only when he asks, “What do you do during the day?” do you slip up.

“Study.”

You look immediately regretful, even more so when he asks, “What do you study?”

You take a deep breath, looking contemplative for a moment before sighing, “Law. I’m in law school.”

Well, that certainly isn’t good for him.

“How do you balance your studies and working here?”

“You have so many questions,” you murmur, leaning into him so your fingers can trail up his left thigh. It makes him swallow, chest tight when you finish: “If you want to get to know me, why don’t we do it on a more personallevel?”

You’re so close to his cock that he has to shift his thigh away to keep his composure. You follow, manicured fingers running over his inner thigh, and you’re about to trail up when he grabs onto your wrist.

“I don’t want—” He swallows. “Okay well, I do. I want you, very badly, but I don’t want—” Fuck, this is frustrating. “I’ll come back in two weeks,” he blurts out instead. “Bring your study materials.”

“What?”

“Bring your books,” he repeats slowly. “I’ll buy your time so you can study.”

“Are you insane?” is the first question you ask, eyes wide as you drink in his stoic expression. “My fee is the highest in this establishment and you’re willing to pay that so I can study?”

“Money isn’t an issue for me,” he insists, sharp eyes on your slowly changing expression—morphing from confusion into something more annoyed, something more bitter. He’s seen it plenty of times at Suna’s clubs with the overly flirtatious women here, and something clicks in his brain immediately. “But it is for you, isn’t it?”

You ignore his question, eyes flitting over to the front door as if you’re expecting a knock any time now.

“Isn’t it?” He presses, hand on your wrist tightening and forcing your attention back on him.

“Who doesn’t have money problems?” You laugh, but it’s hollow and slightly forced. “I’m not the only one, Kageyama-san.”

That sounds so much better than that fake -sama bullshit from earlier.

The knock you were waiting for comes not a moment later, and you answer daintily, practiced composure as you stand up, eyes still locked on his. He follows you, fixing his coat as you set a hand on the door knob. You pause before turning it, taking a few breaths before you question,

“Two weeks?”

He nods twice and you open the door, smile on your face forced as you hand him over to the attendant waiting outside.

“Until then, Kageyama-sama.”

ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ

As soon as the gun is out of his hands and in Washijo’s collection, there’s a clap on his shoulder. Washijo’s bodyguard Saitou Akira stands next to him, his usually soft face firm as he stares down at him. Kageyama doesn’t even grace the two men with a response or an acknowledgement on his face. His expression is stoic as ever as he sits back and waits for Washijo to speak.

“You’ve taken a liking to our Daisy, I’ve noticed,” the old man drawls as he runs a hand over his clean-shaven jaw.

Kageyama can’t refute that. Every two weeks, he’s booked you and your time for an hour, letting you catch up on school work. But you always leave at least fifteen minutes (though lately it’s been nearly a half an hour) to talk to him about this and that. Kageyama has never mentioned the Adlers name, has never mentioned that his day job includes tracking down men who owe Ushijima money and beating them into submission, but he’s given you a rare glimpse into his life that he isn’t sure is a good idea.

You aptly listened to his old stories of high school sports, of being the model for his sister’s cosmetology license, of his “hat” phase when Miwa really fucked up his locks (that he’s never really forgiven her for.) In exchange, you’ve told him stories about yourself: about your hobbies, your past, your drive to create a better Japan, one that treats its people—all of its people—equally. Kageyama thinks that sounds like a pipe dream but he lets you speak anyway, because you don’t look any prettier than when you’re gushing.

“Yes, sir.”

“She’s one of the best in the business,” Washijo hums, and Kageyama pretends that business doesn’t include what you’re normally booked for. “So you’ll understand if her prices have to be increased, don’t you?”

He doesn’t, and he’s about to say he doesn’t when he hears Ushijima’s voice in his mind loud and clear: Keep our contractors happy.

Four more months. That’s how long is left in the contract, how long he has to think of a way to make Ushijima cut ties with this asshole.

“Of course,” Kageyama stoically responds, keeping his face neutral even when Washijo’s smirk could rival a sharp knife.

“Good, good, I’m glad we could do business. Tell Ushijima hello for me.”

It’s a jab, he knows. He’s only the underboss—the man sent to do his boss’s bidding. If he ever steps out of line, he’ll be gone and forgotten as easily as Hoshiumi. Kageyama doesn’t give Washijo the satisfaction of an answer. He brushes Akira’s hand off his shoulder, stands, and pays the additional fee directly to the John himself.

Then he lets the attendant take him back to the Hyacinth room without even glancing back.

You’re already there, dressed in your pretty lingerie, hair high up in a styled and curled ponytail. Your bookbag is hidden underneath the black robe you’ve started to wear under the guise of “being his favorite thing to see you in.” As soon as the door is locked, you take your normal positions: you hunched over the vanity as you pour through cases, him flicking through his phone until you say you’re finished.

“Kageyama-san,” you whisper not even 25 minutes later, and when he looks up, you’re already putting your notes and books away.

“Done?”

“Mhm.”

Usually you pull your chair over and he’ll sit on the bed so you can chat, but today you stand, untie your robe, and begin to walk over. He looks at you funny, narrowed eyes on the way you saunter over, your breasts pressed up against the lacy black bra, the matching panties highcut and showing off your legs.

“Wha—”

Your giggle cuts him off as you swing your leg, settling yourself in his lap.

“I don’t want to talk today,” you murmur as you play with the ends of his hair, and Kageyama feels like he can’t breathe, lungs as tight as his pants. “You’re paying a pretty penny for me, so why don’t you have me?”

“Even more now,” he replies, forcing himself not to touch you. Not just a client, he wants to say, want me as a man. But all he can do is stare as your confused expression twists.

“What are you talking about?”

“I had to pay an extra fee,” Kageyama says, face scrunching up to match yours. “Since you’re his favorite.”

There’s a long pause where he can see the anger in your expression, in the way your lips twist like you ate a lemon, in the way your eyebrows crease like you’re studying your law books. Then it’s gone, replaced with a light smile as you drag your fingers from his temple to his jaw, tilting his head up.

“Right,” you whisper as you lean closer, a hair’s width away from his lips. Hovering, not touching, your breath warm on his lips. His chest is tight with the need for breath when you add, “So why don’t we put your money to good use, Tobio-kun?”

Fuck.

The second you press your lips to his, he eagerly responds, a firm hand on your back pushing you against his chest. Your lips move against each other’s quickly, months of pent up want flowing in drags and tugs of lips. The little sound you let out when he pries your mouth open with his tongue rings in his mind, and he clings to you even tighter, keeping you pressed against his lap and chest. You match rolls of your tongue with rolls of your hips, your fingers quickly undoing the buttons of his dress shirt so you can push your hands inside and cling to his shoulders.

Manicured nails dig into his flesh when he bucks his hips up and you feel his hardening cock against you. You break the kiss to heave for breath, sloppy kisses trailing down the side of his neck to lick and suck at his skin, hastily tugging at his undershirt to get it out of his slacks.

“You—” He tries to say, but it’s cut off with a grunt when you grind down on him, your little whimper vibrating against his neck. “You can… slow down.”

“I can’t, actually.” He can feel you grin against his flesh, a light giggle on your lips. “You don’t know how badly I’ve been wanting you.”

Is this for real or for work? He should stop and ask, but then your fingers find his belt and he forgets all about it. Your fingers brush over the bulge in his pants as you unbutton his pants and drag the zipper down. Kageyama groans when you cup his cock through his underwear, teeth sharp on his exposed shoulder a juxtaposition to the soft way you squeeze and run your fingers over his bulge until he’s hard.

He immediately misses your warmth when you pull away from him. You settle between his legs, and he helps you drag down his pants and underwear to his ankles, hard cock springing free and bobbing against his stomach.

“It’s as pretty as you,” you compliment slyly, a grin on your lips. Kageyama nearly jerks into your touch when you grasp his cock in your hands, your thumb dragging over the tip and smearing his precum into his flesh. “I want you to say my name, Tobio-kun.”

“Daisy.”

“No,” you whisper as you lean up, your tongue following the circular pattern your thumb was just drawing. He exhales, shifting his legs even wider so you have more room. “My real name.”

You murmur it like a song, and he repeats it, the syllables sounding perfect in his rich baritone.

“Good boy,” you compliment before taking him into your mouth.

Your mouth is so warm, sucking him in as you twirl your tongue around his tip. Kageyama doesn’t know what to do with his hands; he keeps them curled up in the bedsheets and tugs when you suck hard, eyes staring up at him hard enough to make him shiver. It’s not that he’s inexperienced, but you make him feel like putty under your touch, his thighs jerking when you dig your nails into his flesh and take all of him.

The room is filled with his harsh breaths and your sucking sounds as you work him, head bobbing up and down quickly. When you hollow your cheeks, it makes him grunt and lean back on one hand, the other coming to grip your ponytail. You moan when he tugs, rewarding him with another harsh suck that makes him jerk into your mouth. Your fingers ghost over his balls, squeezing and fondling while you suck, and Kageyama feels like a teenager again—ready to blow any second if you keep sucking like that.

Kageyama gets lost in the pleasure, lost in the way you pump his cock when you need to breathe then immediately go back down on him like you can’t get enough. He can’t either, your mouth intoxicating and making him wonder if your pussy is just as good, if it’s just as tight and warm. The thought of being inside you spikes heat in his stomach, his balls tightening and spine tingling as his orgasm looms. He warns you with a low moan of your name, but you only suck harder, tongue running over the slit of his head until cum spurts out and fills your mouth completely.

He doesn’t realize he’s holding your head down until you tap his thigh a few times, then he immediately untangles his fingers from your ponytail with a quiet sorry.

“You can spit it out.”

But you don’t.

You climb into his lap again, slotting your mouth against his and feeding him his own cum. It’s strange and Kageyama is pretty sure he hates the way he tastes, but it mixes with your scent and your taste, and he kisses you back anyway, tangling your tongues together with urgency. You both swallow, shallow breaths panting against each other’s mouths, your nails raking down his undershirt-covered stomach with a whine.

“Touch me, Tobio-kun,” you whisper as you grind against his limp cock, flush high on your cheekbones signaling how much you want him.

He complies immediately, fixing your hips so you’re straddling him, high enough where he can lift your bra and start flicking over your nipples. You moan, fingers curling in his hair and tugging when he starts to suck, when his fingers start to wander over the wet crotch of your panties. Holy shit, you’re soaked, all from just sucking his dick. He’s able to push one finger into you no problem, and after a few strokes, he adds another. It makes you groan, grinding down onto his hand as he keeps sucking on your nipples, tongue dancing all over your skin as he switches between both.

You cry out lightly when his thumb finds your clit, and your pussy spasms around his fingers. His cock jumps at the tightness, already ready to be buried deep inside of you to drag along your walls, but he doesn’t stop fucking you with his fingers. You look too good on top of him, sound so good whimpering his name, that he wants to make you cum over and over and remind you who is giving you the pleasure. Not some broke loser, not some nasty John. Him.

Your cunt is so loud, pussy squelching as he scissors his fingers, lips and tongue dragging all over your chest. He can’t mark you—not with your job and the clients he’s sure will be seen when he’s gone—but he can pretend he’s the only one you have, leaving a trail of his saliva all over you as if saying that no one else can touch you. When you shudder and tug at his hair, he knows you’re close and he speeds up, curling just right. His breaths are hot against your chest, cock half-hard and twitching, begging to be in your cunt and—

There’s a sharp knock on the door, and a loud swear on your lips.

“No, don’t, don’t stop, please,” you whine above him, clinging to his hair as you hump against his hand. “So close, so close—”

“Come on,” he urges against your neck, fingers working even faster. You’re right there, squeezing him so tightly that he feels like he’sthe one about to cum, but—

Another knock on the door, an annoyed huff of your stage name, and you’re climbing off his lap with frustrated tears in your eyes and a scratch in your throat.

“Coming.”

You take a moment to catch your breath, watching him fumble to get dressed again and hide the bulge in his pants, before you swallow.

“Two weeks,” you whisper. Kageyama hates it. It’s broken, needy, and he’s about to pay for another three hours of your time so he can satisfy you and never have to hear it again.

But the third knock on the door seals his doom.

“Two weeks,” he repeats before exiting the room, fire burning in his veins long after he leaves Il Giardinobehind.