『 R E Q U E S T S , C L O S E D 』AnimeCharacters x Reader

29. Aoba Seragaki x Reader | Exhilaration, In Illegality and In Scorching Tea

→character : Aoba Seragaki | DRAMAtical Murder

→ requested by : torin2014

→ 05052017

→ an AU wherein people with too much time and money on the callousness of their palms gather in stolen alleys to race instead of playing rhyme; and it's just as illegal and as unhealthily thrilling.

[a/n]: if you were referring to a different aoba from another anime, don't hesitate to correct me, and i'll make sure to write another x reader for you ^^! (although i'm mostly sure you're talking about this aoba.)

xx

The perfume of the nighttime city and the hush that swoops from above the gathering of faces has the thrill in Aoba's bones burning just right. The gorgeous shower of cheers and the pouring glitter of victory has the smirk of Aoba's lips tumbling just past the border of 'complacent' and into 'snarky'.

The car door thunks closed with a gentle push of his fingers and the skid of wheels against the shitty brick of the alley was a buzz that allowed the thrill to consume Aoba fully, searing into every network of his veins, from the gloved pads of his fingertips to the top of his head, gone light and dizzy from the overwhelming joy.

The skid of wheels and the slam of the door opening and closing were all several seconds too late of victorious, and the lips of Aoba's challenger twitching into a spiteful frown almost makes him laugh. He coughs into a leather glove instead, striding towards the younger male with purpose.

The challenger looks everywhere but at Aoba, the scowl excavating lines down the sides of his face, his fingers burying the frustration of defeat into the pocket of his jeans. It's his fault after all, Aoba thinks to himself, he was the one who bent sentences of self-glorification into a throne he rested that ripped jean-covered ass on, and the break of Aoba's car that sounded a few ultimate seconds before his unraveled the sentences with paws of falseness, and the challenger was left to peer up at Aoba from under a curtain of eyelashes and shame

"Cough it up," Aoba says, and he extends his hand. The audience exclaims their well-placed faith in Aoba's steady palms, and their praise and flung coins and bills knot together unceremoniously. The guy coughs for real, and Aoba would have thought it to be some chide if not for the way he drives his frustration to the side, slicing into the atmosphere as the edges of his worn wallet shimmy into view.

He drops money into Aoba's palm in muffled thumps, and he looks everywhere else, even at a congregation of starving cats dictating their agony in weak purrs over at the portion cold, dirty from the lack of the thrills of the audience and the other racers. He carries his calves and the fragility of his dignity, disappearing behind the dark tint of the window. Aoba catches the orangeness of a cigarette as it slowly withers into shortness, and he shrugs it off, pockets his winnings as another racer beckons him over.

It's another evening, another circle of bets that stink of overconfidence, another raise in octaves as the veterans of the illegality of the races cackle as Aoba finishes the race in certain victory.

It's repetitive; two times a week, three if Aoba desired an escape in the illicit burn of the rubber against the tracks tattooed with the marks of other cars. It's repetitive, but among the vines of smoke that discomfort the oxygen and the lifted bottles of cheap beer, the thrill always finds Aoba, even when he rests against the seat or when he's flying into the finish line with a blaze of neon and lights, and the thrill always settles into his bones; like the numbness of an overdose of moping and alcohol.

xx

"Flawless as usual, baby," (Y/N) clings to Aoba's side with a gentle purr the same way the exhilaration lingers one tied ribbon too close to his bones, and each exhale draws it closer and closer to untying itself. Aoba exhales with patience, but your hands are wandering too close to his face, and he fears his breath is going to spike the same way his heartbeat already is.

"You didn't even see me," Aoba shakes a laugh from his fluster, and it's served a bit too nervous than Aoba would have liked.

"Ah, but I don't need to see you to know you're still as sharp as ever," you say with a tone that Aoba's too familiar with- your own cover of smugness. Your lips dance in a smile that hums 'Don't even bother, sir, you know I'm right,' and you are. Right, that is.

"I've never liked the sweaty crowds or the smoke and the beer," you add, an argument Aoba doesn't mind hearing again, "seriously, how are they still not decaying in hospital beds."

"Anyway, how much did you win this time? How many little kids' dreams did you wipe in the dirt?" she asks, temporarily vanishing behind the walls of another room after a quiet diagonal of gentle knocks of her feet.

There's the smell of tea, and her soft humming. Aoba loves both. "Now, don't put it like that, you make it sound like I'm some elderly grump."

"Seriously, though?" She reappears with two cups of tea and a grin brighter than the lights that hang above them.

"Enough that four proven-wrong racers go home without some late night, post-race McDonalds," Aoba answers, accepting the tea with an excited twirl of his fingers. He blows an exhale over it, and he watches as the steam dissipates temporarily. It returns after in persistence, coiling to the ceiling finger by finger.

"What about we blow all my winnings on some post-racing post-tea McDonalds?" Aoba offers from behind a twirl of steam- he could feel the heat a few centimeters away, and he decides it's comforting, not yet scalding.

(Y/N) takes a thoughtful, solemn sip, and he enjoys the way her lips glisten from the drink under the spilled lights and the way her features turn a little too uncomfortable at the hotness.

"Have I ever told you I love you?"

"A few instances, yes," Aoba admits. He blushes from the flattery and from the lights that breathe into bright and dim, as if laughing at him. (Y/N) laughs a little at him, too, poorly concealed from her own steaming cup, and it tickles his blush into a more prominent scarlet.

He enjoys the wordless smile that plays its existence on your lips a little too much, and he drinks the tea as eagerly as a middle-aged drinker with too many frustrations he needed to forget about.

Aoba knows he's sick with infatuation, and millions of others that have fallen into the depths of romance before his own erratic tumble and yip, but he believes you truly deserve to be spoken about with international fondness, the way you're so casually, effortlessly admirable, sipping tea with an adult limited to teenage pleasantries like racing illegally at the back of hushed streets. The imperfections you utter so gloomily all appear as if they've been glazed by the golden, ageless ink that's run through the righteousness of the hands of the gods, and Aoba wishes he possessed the eloquence of a writer, of a poet, so he could speak the words he's always bottled lovingly onto the blank paper with wonderful loops, so the world, too, could see the splendor Aoba tinted you in each and every falling second of the day.

With a sip from the tea that's lowered to a heat more endurable for the agonizing taste buds on his tongue, with another piece of chatter traded with his ready consent, Aoba realizes: the exhilaration never really goes away- Aoba just enjoys the euphoric danger of illegality a tad too much.

xx

It's unpredictable; Aoba never knows which words tempt a melodic laugh from out from its cove underneath the heavenly instrument of your lips, and he's left to rely on guesses and the lines your face crafts whenever you smile a bit too widely. It's unpredictable, but through the ins and outs, the thrill always finds Aoba, when your lips devour his in a sudden storm of passion at the back of the McDonalds building, when you're near lapsing into sleep and Aoba steadies you with gentle caresses down the length of you arm, and the thrill always settles into his bones; Aoba knows it's ten lifetimes of kisses in different places, at different places before his system learns to reject the joy that consumes him.