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osarina · 3 months ago

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ᡣ𐭩 IF WE WERE YOUNG AGAIN

FEATURING: osamu dazai

SUMMARY: your day was a mess from start to finish, and you knew it would only go further downhill when dazai inevitably called you up to his office once you got back to headquarters. still, you never could've imagined just how badly it would take a turn for the worse.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: AHAHAHAHAHA GUYSSSSS ARE U READY ARE U READYYYYYYYYY BEAST AU PMREADER AT LAST!!!!!!!! anyway there's not much to say yet, i shall be saying my thank yous and my full piece at the end of the last part, so ENJOY! this first part is a doozy dafuhsdiufh sorry the summary sucks i couldnt think of one and just wanted to get this out for u guys. be gentle on our girl reader, she's going through it. reblogs appreciated!

GENERAL WARNINGS: fem!reader, port mafia executive!reader, beast!dazai, tragedy, angst, canon compliant.

CHAPTER SPECIFIC WARNINGS: dazai is quite cruel in this first part (with reason of course but it still might be hard to read). alcohol & drug usage. unprotected sex. finger sucking. a bit of implied/explicit misogny & slut shaming.

SEE: TWO SLOW DANCERS SERIES MASTERLIST

Dazai Osamu is dead—that’s what everyone tells you, at least.

Chuuya is convinced he died somewhere between his fifteenth and sixteenth birthday, months before you ever met either of them. He tells you that if you’d seen the way he acted when he and Chuuya first met—if you’d seen how bright his eyes got whenever he insulted Chuuya and goaded him into stupid challenges, if you’d seen the way he was so careless with his life and how he’d laugh gleefully when Mori panicked trying to keep him alive, if you’d seen him compared to how he acted afterward, you would know that something happened in those months that killed the boy that once went by that name. Chuuya is vehement in his belief that Dazai has been long dead, and the thing that lives on the top floor of the Mafia’s main headquarters is only a husk that wears his ex-partner’s face.

The Flags agree with him—they never knew Dazai well, but they knew of him enough to know that something had seriously changed in those few months. You’d never been convinced of it, though. You didn’t know Dazai before his ‘death’ date, but you know that he wasn’t dead when you met him.

He was always odd; you could always tell that something heavy was hanging over him. There was an air of gloom and despair that clung to him like a second skin, and it made people keep him at arm’s length. Sometimes, when he thought no one was looking, he’d get a faraway look in his eyes like he was lost in some other world, and sometimes he became cold and standoffish for no reason at all. It would happen so suddenly that it would give you whiplash, and you never knew what triggered it. Still, you could see the way his fingers trembled with guilt after.

He was odd, but he was alive. You fought Chuuya tooth and nail about it for two years; he always tried to get you to distance yourself from Dazai, warning you that something was wrong with him, that he was not right, that something changed him for the worse, and every time would end with you slapping him and the two of you not speaking for days. Dazai was alive—it was so abundantly clear to you in every interaction with him. His eye shone brightly whenever you walked into the room. You could hear and feel his heart racing when the two of you were curled up on the couch or in bed. His cheeks would flush a pretty red whenever you teased him, his breath would catch when your lips brushed his—he was alive, and there was no one you wouldn’t fight about it.

Your partner, Itou, didn’t know Dazai before his speculated ‘death’ date either, but he too was skeptical of how adamant Chuuya and the Flags were about it because all he saw was the way he acted with you. It made you feel validated, you would vent to him about it whenever you and Chuuya got into fights because you didn’t want to tell Dazai what Chuuya was saying about him, although you had a feeling he already knew.

Then he hopped on the bandwagon two months before Dazai took over as Port Mafia boss. You don’t quite know what happened between the two of them—Itou and Dazai were never friends. Dazai was always cold to the older boy, and Itou always kept a distance from him, but they were cordial for the most part. Something changed at eighteen when Dazai picked up a mission that was supposed to be yours. He went with your subordinates up to Kyoto to handle Ihara Saikaku, who was undoing all the work you’d done up there before you came to Yokohama. When they got back, Itou could never look at him the same. He wasn’t quite as loud and adamant about Dazai as Chuuya and the Flags were, but you could tell that he wasn’t fully on your side anymore when you vented to him.

So you were alone in your defense of Dazai. Alone, and for a long time, you never wavered—Dazai was odd, but he was indubitably alive, and he was indubitably human. You fought Chuuya on it, you fought Itou on it, but eventually, you had to fight yourself on it, too.

Your throat swells as you look at the small metal trinket resting in your hands. It’s ugly, haphazardly made—a bunch of wires twisted into an indecipherable shape. It’s only because you remember the offended expression that crossed Dazai’s face when he saw the confusion on yours after handing it to you as a gift when you guys were sixteen that you know it’s supposed to be a crab, and he has his own to match. Had his own to match. Chuuya had one, too, but he destroyed it right before your eyes during one particularly bad fight three years ago.

Dazai had made them after watching a movie with you and Chuuya before their shaky friendship fell apart entirely toward the end of the Dragon’s Head Conflict. You’re not really sure what pushed him to make them, but Chuuya immediately called them ugly and said that he didn’t want a stupid crab, and Dazai promptly threw it in his face. The two of them started brawling on the ground for almost an hour, but even after they fell out, you know Chuuya took careful care of the stupid crab—it brought you solace for a time because you knew it meant that a part of Chuuya, however small, still clung to his old friendship with Dazai even if they weren’t on good terms anymore.

Until he used his ability to ensure that there wasn’t even dust left when he destroyed it, that is.

“You already finished up with Mishima? I thought you weren’t supposed to be back until tomorrow.”

You lift your gaze from the crab, eyes falling on Chuuya as he leans against the frame of the door to your office. There’s an odd expression on his face, and you realize that he’s not looking at you but instead at the object in your hands, trying to figure out what it is. As casually as you can, you lean back in your seat and bring your hands into your lap, giving him a wry smile.

“Dealing with Mishima never takes more than a couple of hours,” you say, quietly dropping the trinket in your desk drawer before sliding it shut. “I figured you’d be busy with the new recruits today. I heard they were incompetent.”

“Don’t get me started,” he replies dryly, pushing himself off the doorframe to make his way over to you. He sits on your desk and you give him a withering look when he carelessly moves the documents you’d been reading. “I left Iceman to deal with it.”

“How considerate.”

“Always,” he agrees with a sharp smile. He leans back on his hands, hair falling in his eyes and hat crooked on his head as he looks down at you, eyes curious—you know him well enough that there’s a question on the tip of his tongue, but it’s likely a question he already knows the answer to and just wants to see what you say.

“We’re meeting at the bar in Hodogaya—you gonna come?”

It’s a casual question, an invite out with friends, so unassuming, but you know what the underlying question is.

Are you going to answer him when he calls for you?

It’s a Thursday night. Dazai usually calls for you on Fridays because you’re not quite as busy trying to get together reports before the weekend—he knows you like to have them done before Friday morning—but you had a mission today, so you know, and Chuuya knows, that he’s going to use it as an excuse to call you up to his office tonight.

There’s a heavy look in his eyes as he stares at you, waiting for a response, and you know what he wants to hear. He wants you to say yes, he wants you to turn your back on Dazai at last and come out with them instead—and you think he has some nerve expecting that of you when he still acts like Dazai’s loyal dog, killing and destroying on his command. This is going to lead to an argument between the two of you, not the first and certainly not the last. Every time you argue about this, he tells you that what he does for Dazai is different, he throws things in your face that you regret ever telling him, and then he’ll apologize when he calms down later.

Then the same fight will happen next week like clockwork.

“Chuuya,” you say quietly, letting out a sigh as you lean back in your chair, looking away. “You know—”

You sit upright when Chuuya suddenly leans forward, using his foot to push the drawer he’s sitting over open to grab what you tossed in there before he entered the room—you hadn’t been subtle enough. Your heart rate spikes, hand darting out to grab his wrist, but Chuuya is stronger than you, and he wrenches his hand away, staring down at the twisted wires with a disgusted expression

“Give it back,” you say tightly, holding your hand out. The air suddenly feels very hot, the room is suffocating. “Chuuya, give it to me.”

He doesn’t.

“You still have this shitty piece of scrap metal,” he spits, hand tightening around it. The Tainted Sorrow responds to his anger in an eerie red glow that emanates around his hand. Usually, Chuuya has impeccable control over his ability, he has to otherwise, destruction will follow him everywhere he goes, but the topic of Dazai is the only thing that manages to rattle the careful control he’s built. The only thing that wakes up the sleeping calamity god inside of him. “Why?”

“None of your business,” you say tightly, rising to your feet. “Give it back, Chuuya.”

“What the fuck are you still holding onto?” he demands, voice raising as he too comes to his feet, holding the trinket tight in his hands as he comes face to face with you. “He’s gone. How many fucking times does it have to be shoved in your face for you to understand? Dazai is gone.”

“Stop it,” you tell him, voice quiet but it wavers in a way you wish it didn’t. You’re not sure if you’re trying to convince yourself or Chuuya when you say, “He’s still there.”

“Dazai is dead,” Chuuya hisses. You can see he’s trying to calm himself down, but the frustration is whittling at his self-control. You used to be able to have conversations about Dazai, discussions about your opposing viewpoints, but now the instant his name is brought up, it’s like guns being drawn on both sides. “He died years ago. Whatever that thing is up in that office, it’s not him. Let him go, for fuck’s sake.”

“Rich,” you say with a laugh that you know grates his nerves. “Then why are you still here, Chuuya? You’re the strongest ability user in the world. No one could stop you if you wanted to leave, but you still answer his every whim like a well-trained dog.”

Chuuya’s expression twists like you’ve physically slapped him. A hurt expression crosses his face, and then something closer to guilt as he looks down at the ground. You know why—you know he partially blames himself for how Dazai changed. He thinks that there’s something he could’ve done differently in those months he knew him before he ‘died’ that could’ve led to a different outcome, and that’s why he stays at his side.

“Because once you’re done holding out hope that he’s still there,” Chuuya says, voice low and threatening in a way that has your hair on end—you’ve only ever heard him take this tone with enemies, “I’m going to fucking kill him.”

“Watch your fucking mouth,” you reply, voice just as low. “He’s still the boss.”

“He’s a walking corpse.”

“Watch your mouth.”

Chuuya suddenly laughs, taking a step away as he shakes his head. His eyes are wild, and you tense, waiting for him to escalate the argument, but you can’t brace yourself for the words that fly from his mouth.

“Always running to his defense, all for him to treat you like a whore,” Chuuya spits, slamming his hands down on your desk. He’s loud enough that you know all of the subordinates wandering the halls can hear. You don’t breathe as you stare at him, words processing slowly. “He calls you up there because he wants to get his fucking dick wet, and you spread your legs for him every time. Where’s your fucking self-respect?”

Your hand shoots out before you can stop yourself, palm stinging painfully as you slap Chuuya so hard that his head snaps to the side. He doesn’t budge for a second, staring at the far wall, a guilty expression crossing his face as if he only just now realized the gravity of his words.

“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” you say, and you hate that your voice wavers. “Get out of my office.”

Chuuya says your name quietly, regretfully. “I—”

“Get out, Chuuya,” you scream at him, taking one of the books on your desk and throwing it at him hard. He could use his ability to stop it from hitting him, or he could dodge, but he lets it drive hard into his chest, grimacing at the pain. “Get the fuck out.”

He leaves without another word, placing the bundle of twisted wires back down on your desk and only sparing one last glance in your direction before shutting the door quietly behind him. As soon as he’s gone, your hand is flying to your mouth to muffle the ragged breath you take in. Your eyes blur with tears, but you don’t let them roll over your cheeks—you don’t even have the chance to because your phone is buzzing with a message you’ve been expecting since you got back to base.

What timing, you think dryly, desperately trying to calm yourself down.

Dazai: Come up.

———

When you reach the top floor, your heart is in your throat. You don’t meet the eyes of either of the guards in the hall leading to Dazai’s office. You can’t even if you wanted to—as soon as you stepped out of the elevator, they averted their gaze to the ground.

You only come up here once a week—you only see Dazai once a week. You can hardly handle being in that office, it reminds you too much of Mori. It’s been four years, and you still sometimes expect to see him when you walk down this hall and through the double doors at the very end of it. You still haven’t fully processed his death—how could you with no closure? Dazai never even let you say goodbye. He didn’t tell you what was happening and had Mori’s body dumped before you could even race up to the top floor to stop him. By the time you got to the office, the deed was done, and Dazai was sitting at his desk, blood still fresh on his face and Mori’s scarf draped around his shoulders—a spoil of war, a symbol of his conquest.

There was no apology. No explanation. Not even a hint of guilt over what he did—for keeping you in the dark, for not even giving you the chance to cry over your father’s corpse.

He looked at you and said, “You were slower than I expected.”

He let you yell at him, he let you cry, but he never rose from where he was sitting at his desk. He watched impassively as you screamed your throat raw and cried until there were no tears left to shed, and when you sat on the ground heaving, finally starting to calm down, he told you to pull yourself together. That he needed your help reconsolidating power because the weeks directly after the transition would be the most vulnerable to internal and external conflict. That you needed to reach out to Leo Tolstoy and Mishima Yukio to let them know about the power transition and to ensure they were vocal in support of him.

Sometimes, you wonder if Chuuya is right because you don’t understand how Dazai could be so callous. And to you of all people. You can’t reconcile the Dazai of that day to the Dazai you knew for years—the one who lived in your apartment, who failed miserably every time he tried to make dinner, whose fingers trembled when you kissed him the first time.

He adored you for years, he looked at you like you were his whole world—he was cold to everyone else, but never you. From the day he met you when the Dragon’s Head Conflict was raging through Yokohama, he was gentle, overly affectionate, he gave you silly trinkets that reminded him of you, and picked the shittiest movies on Friday nights. He couldn’t sleep unless you were near him—a week before he killed Mori, he was curled up in your bed and complaining when you took too long brushing your teeth. You’d known the night before it happened that something was wrong, but you never could have expected what happened. Not ever. Not from Dazai.

He never explained why he really killed Mori; he blows you off with some shitty excuse about how it was what was best for the Mafia. How Mori knew this was coming. How it was always meant to happen. But you know there’s something he isn’t telling you, and his refusal to do so is as much of a betrayal as the act itself was.

When you reach the tall wood doors leading to his office, you take a moment to collect yourself. You remind yourself that it’s Dazai behind them, that Mori is gone, Elise is gone—you do this every time you come up here, but it’s never enough to rid yourself of the hope that briefly swells in your chest before it’s crushed by the sight of Dazai.

After what feels like an eternity, you finally push the door open and step into the office. The air is cool, brisk compared to the stuffy air of the hallway, and Dazai is standing on the other side of his desk, back facing you, hands clasped behind him. The door slams shut behind you with a deafening thunk, and you stay rooted to the ground in front of it, staring at the back of Dazai’s head.

He turns his head to the side, looking at you from the corner of his eye. For a moment, you almost think that his gaze softens as it lands on you, but it’s wishful thinking. You brace yourself when you see the way the corners of his lips quirk up into a sharp smile, how his eye glitters with a type of amusement that can only be malicious. His hands slide from where they’re resting behind his back to his front, out of view, and he says:

“You were slower than I expected.”

The air whooshes from your lungs—you don’t know what you thought he would say, but it wasn’t that. You try not to let the pain show as you recover from the blow dealt, but you know you failed to stop a grimace from crossing your face with how Dazai’s eye crinkles.

“You’re lucky I came at all,” you finally bite back, hating the way your voice so obviously wavers.

It’s always him, only him, who hurts you like this—he’s the only one with the ability to do this to you. Even Chuuya’s worst doesn’t come close to the damage Dazai can do with a few words. With everyone else, you can fight back, you can match their cruelty, surpass their cruelty, but he leaves you at a loss for words. He always has. He used to tease you with it—he was sweet and flirty, and it left you flustered, but now he’s cruel. He digs his fingers into wounds that he created and twists, violently reopening them so he can watch you bleed, and the worst part is, you don’t know why.

“Is that right?” he drawls, voice low and languid as he finally turns to face you, gaze roving over your body once before settling back on your face. His lips are pale and chapped, cheeks a bit sunken, the bag under his visible eye is almost black—you want to find pleasure in the fact that he’s clearly not doing well, but you can’t. He takes a few steps closer to you, and it takes all of your willpower not to let him back you up against the door. He lifts two fingers to your chin, tilting your face up to him and forcing you to hold his gaze—his fingers are so cold that it makes you shiver. “As always, all bark, no bite—you and I both know you’re too obedient to go against a direct order.”

You slap his hand away hard. His lips curve up into an unsettling smile that doesn’t reach his eye. He takes a step back to put some space between the two of you, hands taking their place behind his back again.

“What do you want?” you ask him after a moment, shaking your head as you look away. You know what he wants—you just don’t know what game he wants to play before he gets it. Especially not right now; he’s been so irritable and unpredictable the past few weeks. Sometimes, he likes playing politics, asking you about missions and how relations are with the Port Mafia’s allies; other times, he likes testing your limits, seeing how cruel he can be until you finally break. It always ends the same way for you—bent over his desk. “Hm?”

Dazai tilts his head to the side, giving you a lazy smile. “So cynical. What makes you think I want something? Maybe I just wanted to see you.”

You know better than to fall for that, lips tightening before you say, “You always want something.”

He leans forward on the balls of his feet, head dipping down, and there’s a playful expression on his face that gives you whiplash. You shift back, and for a brief second you see the Dazai you remember. The Dazai who giggled as he held your phone out of reach and watched you struggle to get it back. The Dazai who teased you into giving him your first kiss when you guys were sixteen. The Dazai who learned the names and stories of all of the constellations in the sky for you.

The Dazai you loved.

The Dazai you desperately want to believe is still here.

“Do you know what tomorrow is?” he asks, visibly excited about whatever it is. But you don’t know what he means, so you don’t know how to answer, and your throat feels clogged with fear.

What is tomorrow?

You’re fumbling, taking too long to answer, you know it, but you want this Dazai, you want him to stay, you want to drag him down to Chuuya and shove it in his face, ‘I told you it’s still him, don’t you see?’, and you want things to go back to how they were. You’re frustrated and panicked trying to come up with an answer for him, and on top of everything, you’re angry at yourself because you don’t know why you still cling so desperately to the boy he used to be after everything he’s done.

His smile starts to fade when you don’t immediately respond, and you blurt out:

“We have a meeting with the Red Chamber tomorrow.”

It’s not the answer he wants—you know it as you say it, but it’s the only thing you can think of.

“Right,” he agrees quietly, smile gone and gaze lowering to the ground. For a moment, he looks disappointed but not surprised, and then he closes off from you again. His eyes empty of excitement, and his expression flattens—the Dazai you loved is gone again just like that. You know you shouldn't feel as gutted as you are, but you are. Not for the first time, you wish that you could rip out that traitorous beating thing in your chest. It would be so much easier if you could hate him. “Come.”

You don’t move immediately, a heaviness settling over you as you watch him pace back over to his desk, lithe fingers flipping through a manila folder lying on top of it. You swallow thickly before making your way over to him. He slides the folder in front of you and shifts so that he’s looking over your shoulder. He’s too close. You can smell the smoke on his breath from the cigarettes he chain-smokes, the whiskey staining his tongue, the familiar metallic scent of blood. Your gaze drags from the folder to the bandages that peek out from under the dark sleeve of his jacket and then up to his face.

He’s already looking at you through his lashes, eye half-lidded. His gaze isn’t empty anymore, it’s heavy, dark. You don’t know what he’s thinking—you used to be able to read him well, but you haven’t been able to in years. You wish you could now more than ever.

“What is this?” you finally ask, voice quiet as you force yourself to look back down at the folder he passed over to you. The file is of an executive of the Red Chamber—an acquaintance of yours who worked to get Cao Xueqin to meet with you and Dazai tomorrow. “Why are you showing me this?”

“This friend of yours—”

“Acquaintance,” you correct with a frown.

“Acquaintance,” he echoes with an empty smile. “I want you to kill him tomorrow.”

What?

You don’t even realize you speak the word that instantly flies through your mind at the order he gives you. You turn to look at him again, and he’s watching you carefully now. You don’t know if this is a real order or if Dazai is just saying something ludicrous to get a reaction out of you. You can never tell with him.

“You heard me,” Dazai replies, dark eye dancing with amusement at your confusion.

“What purpose does that serve, Dazai?” you demand, shaking your head. You want to take a step away from him but his presence is magnetic, a black hole that relentlessly pulls you in. “Baoyu Jia is the closest to an ally that the Port Mafia has inside the Red Chamber. We may as well be shooting ourselves in the foot. You—”

Your words falter when Dazai reaches up with his left hand to grab your chin. He tilts your face up again, but this time, his thumb rests on your lower lip, effectively silencing you. He doesn’t speak for a moment, and you know that it’s a power play—forcing you to look at him, silencing you, and then just holding your gaze, daring you to continue. You want to rip your chin out of his grip and scoff at him.

You don’t.

“Don’t question me,” he finally tells you, voice cold, eye flashing with something indecipherable when he sees the rage that crosses your face, but it fades into disappointment when you don’t say anything.

Did he want you to?

You don’t understand him.

“I don’t do assassinations, Dazai,” you say instead, voice hard. The pads of his fingers are so hot against your skin, and his thumb against your lip feels too heavy. “I handle politics. You know that.”

His grip on your chin tightens just a smidge, there’s a cruel glint in his eye that you don’t like. You brace yourself for whatever he’s about to say, but nothing can prepare you for what he does.

“You slit your own mentor's throat in her sleep,” he says casually, like it wasn’t something you confided in him about when you were at your lowest years ago. “Surely, you can handle an acquaintance.”

You rip your chin from his grip, taking in a sharp breath as you physically step away. You turn your back to him so he doesn’t see the way your throat spasms as you swallow the sudden lump in it, the way your eyes sting with tears at his words. You don’t know what you expect coming up here every time he asks. You don’t know why you still have hope that he’ll treat you the same way he did before he put a knife in your father’s back and draped his red scarf around his shoulders while his corpse was still warm.

You don’t know why you still want him to.

“I hate you,” you breathe out, hating how shaky your voice comes out.

Your breath catches when he takes a step closer to you, chest brushing your back, fingers ghosting your hips. His presence is deceptively warm, considering he has no heart to keep his blood pumping, and you hate the way it makes your hair stand on end. You hate the way he knows because you don’t have to look at him to know that his lips are curved up into an amused smile.

He leans down, breath fanning against the nape of your neck as he whispers, “Then leave.”

You won’t. You don’t. You never do.

One of his hands rests on your hip, fingers deceivingly gentle as he caresses you when his words feel like knives through your back. He lifts the other to graze your jaw, leaning in to brush his lip against where he’d touched before he lets his hand drop back to your side, sliding down your body to join the other on your opposite hip, holding you steady when your knees feel weak.

“Leave,” he tells you softly again. You press your lips together to hold back the moan that nearly tumbles out of your lips when his teeth graze that spot below your ear that makes your knees buckle. Luckily, you have enough control over yourself that your knees don’t give out, but you don’t think you were as successful at muffling the moan as you thought you were because you can feel Dazai’s lips curl up into a smug smirk against your skin. “Go, I won’t stop you.”

You should. You know it even as he resumes the slow, languid kisses down your jaw. You know it when you feel his hands slide from your hips to your upper thighs. You know it when he shifts you forward so that the front of your thighs are flush against his desk, the wood pressing uncomfortably into your skin, and you know how this is going to end. You should leave, you should shove him off of you and go back down to your office, you should give him a hateful look and tell him that the way he touches you makes you sick and you can hardly stand to look at him even if it is a lie just to see if he’s still human enough to be hurt by your words or if he’ll just stare at you with that unnervingly empty gaze that makes you question if Chuuya had been right from the beginning.

But you don’t.

He pauses for a second. His hands go still on your thighs, his lips ghost your pulse point—he’s waiting to see if you’ll leave even though he knows that you won't. You never do. When you don’t move, you hear him take in a sharp breath, and you feel his grip tighten before he slides one hand up your back to fold you over his desk.

Sometimes, you wonder if he wishes you would leave, if he wants you to fight back, if he’s disappointed when you don’t.

You’re still wearing the black slip you wore to meet Mishima and his daughters. You purposely wore it because his daughters have wandering eyes and are prone to letting more information slip when they have something pretty to look at.

“You wore this for them.”

It’s not really a question, but there’s an edge to Dazai’s tone that makes you hold your breath. You turn your head to the side to look at him from the corner of your eye, hoping to catch something on his face, but it’s as blank as ever, entirely unreadable even with you bent over his desk in front of him, hands on your thighs as he slides up your short dress.

“What does it matter?” you ask, voice tight.

You don’t know how you want him to respond, but it’s certainly not with the way he does: “It doesn’t.”

His voice is as cold as it always is when he calls you up to his office for this. He’s never warm, never intimate—it’s always a quick fuck, it’s always over his desk and never in a bed, his fingers are always rough, and he never kisses you, not on the lips. He hasn’t since the two of you were eighteen.

But sometimes you’ll hear his breath hitch when he’s deep inside you, you’ll feel his whole body shudder, fingers digging into you so hard like he’s terrified of letting go, and when you look back, you’ll see Dazai. The Dazai you know, the Dazai you loved, the Dazai you can’t let go of. You see it in his eye when he looks down at you—the adoration and the desperation, the tears that he tries desperately not to let spill over—and in the way his lips part like he wants to say something but can’t bring himself to.

It’s why you keep coming back. It’s why you don’t leave when he tells you to. You cling to the idea that he’s still here like it’s the only thing that keeps you going. A part of you wonders if maybe it is the only thing that still keeps you going because the thought of your Dazai being gone leaves an aching hole in your chest that you don’t think will ever fill.

Sometimes, you wonder if you just imagine it. There’s no hidden intent. There’s no love that he pushes away because he can’t afford the weakness as boss of the Port Mafia; he’s not bringing you up here because he wants to indulge in something he shouldn’t be allowing himself to have. This is just another power play. He just wants to prove that he can have you whenever he wants—that you’re his even after everything he’s done.

You’re just as much of a spoil of war as the scarf around his neck.

He lifts his hand to shift your hair out of the way, and the tips of his fingers brush the nape of your neck. You hear him let out a noise akin to a scoff when he sees the ribbon tied neatly around your throat. There’s a pinprick of satisfaction that flies through you when you get the audible reaction from him.

“You still wear this thing?” He’s careful to keep his voice calm as he asks the question, but you know from the way his fingers are tense against your neck that he’s bothered.

“It was a gift,” you reply quietly, watching him intently. Your cheek presses against the mahogany of his desk. It’s cool against your skin, but you feel like you’re on fire with the fingers of one of his hands digging into your hip and the other resting on your neck. “Why wouldn’t I?”

He leans down a bit more, his chest to your back, weight pressing down on top of you. His hips are flush with your ass, and you can feel him straining against his black slacks. Your lips part in a silent gasp when he presses his lips to the underside of your jaw, trailing slow, wet kisses down your neck.

“You cling to the past too much,” he murmurs against your skin, teeth grazing your pulse point before he bites down far more gently than he usually does. “You need to let go.”

You have a feeling that he’s not just talking about Mori.

“Letting go has never been my strong suit,” you whisper, lashes fluttering shut when he sucks a dark mark into the crook of your neck. Your eyes snap back open when you feel him grab one of the ends of the ribbon, preparing to take it off. You grab his wrist to stop him. “Don’t.”

He pauses, you can feel his sharp gaze trained on the side of your head, but you don’t look at him this time. You don’t want to know what he’s thinking right now—you can tell from his body language that he’s about to make a comment you’re not going to like.

“What a dirty girl you are,” he murmurs, kissing the crook of your neck over the bruise he left on it. It’s deceptively soft, which lets you know whatever he’s about to say is going to twist the knife still lodged in your back. “Letting me fuck you over Mori’s desk while you wear the first gift he gave you… I’m sure he’d be rolling if he knew.”

You physically jerk at his words, head snapping around, a shocked expression on your face, but before you can get out more than a ‘you—’ he uses his foot to knock your legs apart, hand dropping from your hip to slide against the silk material of your panties. You inhale sharply, lips parting in a moan that you can’t catch as Dazai circles his index finger around where your clit is hidden beneath your panties, his lips trail from the crook of your neck to the top of your spine, and he uses his free hand to slide the zipper of your dress down, revealing your bare back to him.

He doesn’t take off the ribbon around your neck.

You almost wish now that he would.

“I hate you,” you say again, but your words catch over another gasp when he starts trailing hot kisses down your spine, fingers pushing your panties to the side so he can slide his fingers between your wet folds. You hate how your body is so quick to react to his touch. “I hate you.”

“So convincing, hime,” he drawls. You choke at the use of the title that Mori gave you as he sinks two fingers inside of you—it’s not his first time saying it, he used to tease you with it all the time four years ago. But it was always a soft teasing, you could see the way the corners of his lips curled up gently and the way his gaze was fond. This is mocking. It’s sharp. It’s the same tone people took when they used the title to insult you, to imply you weren’t worthy of your high-ranking position in the Mafia, that the only reason you had a seat at the table was because of your relationship with Mori. The ribbon around your neck suddenly feels too tight, cutting off the airflow to your lungs. “I can feel your hatred dripping all over my hand.”

“Fuck you,” you spit out, blinking away the tears of frustration that suddenly sting your eyes. Chuuya’s words ring through your head: where’s your fucking self-respect? “Fuck you, Dazai.”

You feel his lips curl up into an unkind smile against your spine. “In due time.”

A part of you wonders if the fleeting sight of the boy you once knew is worth dealing with who he’s become. If the pleasure you feel when he touches you is worth putting up with the cruelty. You enjoy the time you have with him—physically, at least. Dazai knows how to touch you in ways that no one else can compare to; he knows all of the ins and outs of your body and can bring you to the precipice with just a few touches like he’s doing now. You’ve tried seeking out others to warm your bed, but they paled in comparison to the way Dazai makes you feel.

But he knows your mind as well as your body; he knows all of the ways to make you hurt, and he knows how to make it as painful as possible. He reopens a wound slowly with honeyed words and sweet smiles before digging his fingers in and twisting. The hime was intentionally cruel—not just to remind you of Mori, of where you are, of what Dazai did, but also to remind you of who Dazai once was. He was shoving it in your face again, just like Chuuya always says he does—you cling to the past too much, you need to let go.

“I hate you,” you gasp again, but your lashes flutter as he fucks his fingers deep into you, slow and steady—the stretch is pleasant, familiar, dizzying in a way that no one can replicate. He hums against your skin as he drags his tongue back up the length of your spine after he’s left a trail of bruises down it, like he’s marking his territory on you. “I—hah—”

He kisses the nape of your neck at the same time as he presses that spot deep inside you that makes your eyes knockback. You claw at the mahogany of the desk you’re on top of, breath quick and thighs trembling as he leaves you on the edge.

“Things would be so much easier if you did,” he murmurs, and you think you’re not meant to hear it. You try to look back at him, and you catch an oddly resigned expression on his face as he stares down at the marks he left on your spine, the fingers of his free hand tracing them delicately. It’s so out-of-character that it draws you back from the edge, which is what finally pulls him out of whatever trance he was in, something strange crossing his face when he realizes that you caught him staring.

At once, his fingers slip out of your well-stretched hole, and you can’t stop the pitched whine that slips from your lips, breathing heavily as you try to regain your senses after having been brought so close to your high. Your cheek rests back down against the desk, vision a bit blurry as you reel from the loss of his fingers, but you know you won’t have to wait for long because you can hear him undoing his belt, pulling out his cock to use his drenched fingers to stroke his cock before he presses his tip to your entrance.

Your body shudders at the familiar feeling, eyes half-rolled back, just knowing what’s about to happen. You feel him lean over you again, chest to your back, and he lifts his fingers to press the two that were inside of you to your lips. It takes a moment for your gaze to focus on his expectant face, and you’re too out of it to consider turning your head away to be spiteful, lips parting so that he can push his fingers into your mouth, tongue instinctively swirling around them.

Where’s your fucking self-respect?

Again, the question echoes through your mind, but before you have the chance to answer it, Dazai fucks it away as he thrusts forward, hips flush to your ass as he suddenly pushes his cock deep into you. And fuck, if the stretch of his fingers was pleasant, the stretch of his cock is heavenly, the closest to rapture you’ll ever get. The moan of his name that spills out of your lips is garbled and unintelligible around his fingers, and he lets out a breathy noise—a scoff? a moan?—you can’t tell, too focused on the intoxicating feeling of being split open on his cock.

For the first time since you left his office last week, you feel whole, and maybe that’s the reason why you keep coming back. Dazai Osamu has ruined you to the point where you can’t feel whole without him—you need him in you, on you, around you. You want to be consumed by him, you want to consume him. From the day you met him when you were sixteen, you knew it would be him. It was always him, it could only be him. He loved you in a way that you never thought you’d be loved from the moment you met. He had you as early as that night he brought you to the rooftop to tell you the stories of the stars—you were his, and you thought he was yours.

You fell so hard for him, so quickly, it was almost unreal. He understood you in ways nobody else ever did. Sometimes, you swore it felt like he knew you before he ever actually knew you. You’d never felt so seen by someone before, you’d never felt so loved. You spent years alone in Kyoto, and before that, you were following around a man who was hyper-focused on your ability and your failures. Dazai was the first person who saw you for you. He was the first person to make you feel like your life had meaning beyond just furthering the interests of the Port Mafia for Mori.

And Dazai is observant, sure, but you've seen how he interacts with everyone. You studied it carefully because, at first, you were worried that you were reading into things you shouldn’t be, especially with Chuuya’s warnings about him ringing through your head. But the way he saw everyone else was different from how he’d seen you—he saw them for their weaknesses and their faults, so he could exploit them whenever he pleased, but he saw you. He knew you—he knew little things that he had no reason to know, that he couldn’t exploit: how you took your coffee, that you love thrillers and are bored by comedies, he knew your favorite book, your favorite constellation, your favorite color, he knew everything from trivial details to all of the fears that you could never bring yourself to speak out loud.

That’s why you cling to the past, that’s why you keep coming, that’s why you never leave. You can’t accept that he’s gone, you can’t accept that he sees you now the same way he sees everyone else: as a pawn, as someone to exploit. So even if it means having to endure his cruelty and the whirlwind of emotions that follow every meeting with him, if you can get a glimpse of who he used to be, any shred of proof that the boy you loved, the boy who loved you is still there, it makes it worth it. Because it’s easier to deal with cruel words than it is to deal with the loss of meaning in your life that would follow accepting that he's gone. It wouldn’t just be losing him, you would be losing the only other thing that’s kept you moving, too, because Dazai became the Port Mafia as soon as he took over as boss.

The breath you take in around his fingers is ragged. You don’t know why you’re suddenly thinking of this—maybe it’s because Chuuya’s words are haunting you, demanding to know where your self-respect has gone, maybe you just need to rationalize why you’re so dependent on someone who treats you like this. You don’t realize you’re crying until Dazai’s hips suddenly still, and he pulls his fingers from your mouth to grab your chin, turning your head to force you to look at him.

Something strange crosses his face—pain, guilt—and it’s only then that you realize that your vision is blurry, that your cheeks are wet. His throat bobs as he swallows, and he’s uncharacteristically gentle as he uses his thumb to wipe away your tears. His hand drops from your face, and you lay your head back down on the desk, taking in a shuddered breath when Dazai rests his weight on top of you. He kisses your shoulder blade, and he kisses up to the crook of your neck again before burying his face in it for a moment—it’s almost intimate, it almost feels like an apology, but you know better than to hope for that.

You don’t know how long you lay there with him like that, but you bask in the intimacy he rarely allows you. One of his hands runs up and down your side soothingly, his breath steady against your neck, you can feel his heartbeat against your back.

A reminder that he’s alive, a reminder that Chuuya is wrong.

For a second, your Dazai is back. The Dazai that loved you.

It’s only when your breathing starts to steady and the tears stop rolling over your cheeks that Dazai finally moves, but it’s not to pick up where he stopped. Your lungs are drained of the air within them when you feel him move away from you, when you hear him tuck himself back into his pants, when his fingers brush the small of your back to zip your dress back up. Just like that, you’re left hollow again, a shell, half of a whole without him to complete you.

“Dazai—”

“Get out,” he says, voice cold and sharp. It’s not the same teasing ‘then leave’ he says every time you come in. It causes a pit to form in your gut, uncertainty riddling you as you stand up unsteadily. His back is to you, hands out of sight in front of him as he looks out the window over the skyline of the city, only lit up by various buildings now that night has fallen.

“But—”

“Get out,” he repeats, harsher this time. “That’s an order. Don’t question me. And don’t make me say it again.”

Your throat swells as you stare at the back of his head in disbelief. “I—”

“Now.”

You feel sick to your stomach, straightening out your dress as best as you can, fixing your hair, and making sure your makeup isn’t terribly smeared. You don’t dare to look at him, you think you might cry if you do. So you set your gaze on the far wall as you fix yourself up, not looking back even when you hear him moving.

Once you feel somewhat presentable, you raise your chin and make your way out of his office, only pausing when you get to the double doors to spare a short glance behind you. Dazai is sitting at his desk, face buried in his hands, fingers trembling almost as much as his shoulders are shaking. Your throat swells—you want to say something.

You know better.

You leave his office quietly, making sure to hold yourself together as you walk past his curious guards. You know they must have an idea of what goes down in his office when you’re called up; they’re probably the reason why so many rumors circle around about you sleeping your way into an executive position, but you refuse to let them see you with your head hanging, so you only meet their curious stares with a cold one of your own before taking the elevator back down to your floor.

It doesn’t take long for you to get down to your office, and you inhale as you brace yourself for your subordinates’ attention, but you freeze when the elevator doors open and you’re met with an empty hall. This hall is never empty, and it’s only when you see Chuuya waiting for you at the end of it near your office that you realize he must have cleared them out.

His expression is taut, but his eyes are gentle as they roam over you, and you let out a wet, shaky breath when you realize that he’s here to make sure you aren’t alone even after the argument the two of you had. You take one step toward him, and then another, and then you’re breaking over a sob and rushing toward him a bit faster—he meets you halfway, strong arms circling your waist as you cling to his shoulders.

“It’s not—” You don’t even know what you’re trying to say as you choke over your words. “It’s not simple, Chuuya. I can’t just—you don’t understand—”

“I know,” he murmurs, turning his head to the side to press his lips to your temple. “I’m sorry. Let’s get out of here, yeah?”

“... Yeah.”

———

You’re already wasted by the time you get to the bar with Chuuya. The two of you went to his penthouse to drink away your sorrows before Albatross started spam-texting you, trying to get you to come to the bar with them. Chuuya was planning on ignoring him and spending the night relaxing with you, but you didn’t want them to think something was wrong, so, against better judgment, you ended up making your way to meet them.

They’re already there and several drinks in by the time you and Chuuya arrive. You’re still steady on your feet, but you can feel the wine that the two of you had been drinking getting to your head. You just want a nice night, you want to forget about Dazai, you want to get drunk with your friends, and maybe if you’re feeling especially spiteful, bring someone back to your bed because you know it will get back to Dazai because everything gets back to Dazai.

No, you remind yourself, no more thinking of Dazai tonight. Even in spite.

Unfortunately, your hopes are crushed the moment you approach the private booth where the Flags are drinking.

“Do you hear half of the shit they say about her?” Iceman asks, not realizing that you and Chuuya are approaching. “I beat the shit out of one of my own subordinates who thought it would be okay to say shit about her around me. When the fuck did they start getting so bold?”

“I’m just worried about her,” Lippmann murmurs as he takes a sip of his drink. “You haven’t seen her lately, she’s…”

Great, you think, teeth grinding together as you try to push their words out of your mind. Chuuya squeezes your bicep before his arm drops from around you, clearing his throat and giving Iceman a heavy side-eye. Iceman and Lippmann, to their credit, do go quiet when they realize that you overheard what they said.

You force a smile onto your face as you move forward to take a seat in the booth, knocking your hip against Albatross to force him to move in. Chuuya sits on your other side, squeezing you between the two of them. You reach out to take Albatross’s drink from him, not caring what it is or what it might be laced with knowing the older boy, you just want to fucking forget about Dazai tonight, and if that means consuming Albatross’s questionable choice of liquor, then so be it.

“You guys are so dramatic,” you say. “I’m fine.”

You can tell that they don’t believe you. Lippmann and Iceman exchange a long look with one another, and Doc’s gaze lowers to the table. The corner of your lips waver, throat tight as you look down at the drink in your hands before taking a long swig of it. The plain vodka nearly makes you gag, but there’s an odd sweet aftertaste that leaves you a bit suspicious. Before you can swallow, you feel Albatross toss an arm around your shoulders and drag you into him, causing you to nearly choke over the liquid.

“I knew you’d come out,” Albatross croons, pressing his face hard into the side of your head and nuzzling. He kisses your temple obnoxiously twice before licking your cheek; you slap him away with a scowl. “My favorite girl’d never let me down like that.”

His sunglasses hang off the bridge of his nose, and when you see the way his pupils are the size of nickels, you start to question what exactly is in the drink you just took from him. He seems to know exactly what you’re thinking from the way he tosses a wink at you and leans back against the booth, arm still snug around your shoulder.

“It’ll make you feel good,” he promises with a sharp smile before turning to Doc. “Hey, so about that…”

You tune Albatross out as you turn your attention back to Chuuya, who gives the glass in your hands a reproachful look but otherwise doesn’t say anything else. You give him a pointed stare before you take a sip of it, you don’t have to look at him to know he’s rolling his eyes at you.

You turn your attention to Iceman and say, “You should probably stop going out of your way to defend me. Otherwise, there’s just going to be more rumors about me spreading my legs for the whole upper echelon. They already say I’m sleeping with Chuuya, Albatross, and Piano Man too.”

Piano Man’s expression twists in disgust at your words, immediately taking another sip of his drink, and Albatross quiets down, looking at you from the corner of his eye. Chuuya only gives you a heavy look that you can’t bring yourself to look at him.

“So you just want us to let them talk about you like that?” Iceman asks with a frown, taking a long drag of his cigarette. “They’re tearing your reputation to shreds.”

“It works in my favor,” you reply, although your voice is strained as you say the words, lips pressing together as you look down at your drink. “It makes it easier during negotiations, our enemies aren’t as guarded because they think I wasn’t given my position through merit.”

“Bullshit,” Iceman snaps, the corner of his lips curling into a sneer at your words. You shoot him a flinty look, but he’s unrepentant. “You can sit there trying to convince yourself that to make yourself feel better, but not me. I’m not going to sit and let my subordinates disrespect one of our executives.”

“Rich, considering how you talk about Dazai behind closed doors,” you say lightly, but your fingers are tight around your glass as you take another sip. Dazai’s name feels like ash on your tongue, a heavy feeling settling over your chest as you remember what happened in his office—weren’t you supposed to forget about him for the night?

Always running to his defense, all for him to treat you like a whore.

You think Chuuya is reminded of his words from earlier, too, because you see his throat spasm as he looks down at the table. The moment Dazai’s name is spoken, the tension at the table spikes—sharp and sudden. You’ve never confronted them about their resentment toward their boss. It’s always been an unspoken rule, a line carefully danced around but never crossed. They respect him, acknowledge how he’s elevated the Port Mafia to new heights, but his name still leaves a bitter taste in their mouths—especially when it comes to his treatment of you and Chuuya.

But it’s more than that. It’s not just bitterness and resentment—they don’t understand him. They never did, even before he took over as boss. To them, Dazai is something cold, something wrong, something inhuman. They prescribe to the same belief Chuuya has: Dazai Osamu died seven years ago, and the thing living on the top floor of the building is a husk that wears his face. He doesn’t think like they do, doesn’t feel like they do. When they report casualties from missions, he turns a vacant gaze on them and tells them to leave; you don’t think they ever fully got over how he murdered Mori and how he treated you afterward. He’s a machine—a monster—in the shape of a man, all calculations and sharp edges where warmth should be. They might fear him, might even admire all he’s done for the Port Mafia, but they’ll never trust him, and they’ll never like him.

On nights like this, when you all have a few drinks in you, they get a bit bolder with their opinions—especially Doc and Iceman. You made a mistake bringing him up, you don’t want to argue with them—not tonight, not after you argued with both Chuuya and Dazai already. You’re so tired, you just wanted a nice night out after how shitty the rest of your day had been.

“Oh my,” Piano Man sighs airily.

“Come on, guys,” Albatross complains. “Can we not?”

But Iceman has a temper. The table shakes as his fist drops onto it, he leans over to get closer to you, putting his cigarette out on the ashtray. “It’s because of that bastard that half of the fucking Mafia thinks you’re a walking fleshlight—”

“Jesus Christ, Iceman,” Chuuya spits, interrupting him as he slams his hands against the table and rises to his feet. You don’t react to the comment—it’s nothing you don’t know, nothing you’re not used to hearing in whispers. You finish the glass of vodka, that sweet aftertaste lingering in your mouth. “Watch your goddamn mouth.”

“Come on, man,” Albatross complains again, rubbing his face. “Too far.”

“I’m only repeating what I have to hear,” Iceman says, holding his hands up before he lights another cigarette. You can tell he’s upset because it takes three tries for him to get it lit, fumbling with the lighter. “What I have to hear because of how he fuckin’ treats her, only for her to keep defending him.”

You should be angry, you think, but whatever was in Albatross’s drinks must be working because all you can feel is a dull haze as your fingers thrum against the tabletop.

“I have free will,” you say, voice distant even to your own ears. Doc raises his eyebrows and looks down at the table, not commenting but making his position clear with how he gives you a long look. “I choose to go up there, I let him fuck me. Albatross whores himself out like no tomorrow. He spends every night in a different person’s bed. Why is it an issue when I fuck one guy?”

“Yo, why am I catching strays?”

“Because of the optics of it,” Doc replies, ignoring Albatross as he fiddles with something under the table. “Because of who you are, who he is. Because of how it looks.”

“I know the first thing Kitada-san taught you was the importance of optics,” Lippmann agrees quietly. “He knows, too. He could have anyone he wants, there’s no reason for him to be letting the Mafia drag your name through the mud like this.”

The thought of Dazai with anyone else makes you feel distinctly unsettled to the point where the intoxicated haze starts to abruptly fade away.

“He could easily find a whore to fuck if that’s what he wants,” Iceman adds with a scoff. “He knows what he’s doing to you by making you spread your legs for him, he knows how it looks on you. On both of you.”

And just like that, lines are drawn. Doc, Lippmann, and Iceman are on one side; you, Chuuya, and Albatross on the other. Piano Man remains in the middle, ready to intervene if things escalate. Though you know Chuuya and Albatross agree with the other three, they’ll always take your side in public, and you know the other three are only angry because they’re angry on your behalf, but it makes you sick to your stomach to know that they think… they think what? That Dazai calls you up there, and you have no say in the matter, that you let him on you, in you, because you can’t say no to the boss and not because you want it.

“I don’t give a shit,” you say tightly. “He’s not making me do anything. If I want to fuck Dazai, then I’ll fuck Dazai. If I don’t want to fuck him, I won’t fuck him.”

“Right,” Iceman drawls sarcastically. “You think that piece of shit gives a fuck about what you want?”

The rage hits you suddenly—you don’t know if it’s the alcohol, the stress that’s been weighing on you all day, or whatever Albatross had in his drink, but it makes your vision go red too quickly for you to control. You rise to your feet, the table shaking as your palms hit it hard—you think it must be a combination of the alcohol and whatever was in Albatross’s drink because you don’t even feel the pain you should feel when a piece of glass cuts into your hand.

“What the fuck does that mean?” you demand.

Iceman raises his chin, exhaling a cloud of smoke before he says coolly, “Exactly what it implies.”

“Fuck you,” you reply, eyes stinging with sudden tears as you stare down at Iceman. The older man has the decency to at least look ashamed when he sees your reaction, but he’s unapologetic otherwise. “You don’t know shit about Dazai, and you clearly don’t know shit about me either. This was a mistake.”

You move to leave, but Chuuya is in your way. Glaring down at him, you snap, “Move.”

“You’re drunk and fucked up on whatever Albatross is on,” Chuuya says, disagreeing, but when your face twists in frustration, he lets out a heavy sigh and moves out of the way. “Let me come with you.”

“I just need some air,” you say, voice rougher than you intended as you stumble out of the booth. “I’ll be back.”

Distantly, you hear Albatross spitting something at Iceman, and you can hear the anger dripping from his tone. Albatross never gets angry, and you don’t know why that makes you tear up more. You feel too suffocated in the bar; you can feel too many eyes on you, and you just can’t breathe. You slap away the hand of an attendant who tries to help you when you stumble, pushing the door open and greedily inhaling the cool air of the midsummer night.

You rest your back against the wall of the building, trying not to let the tears in your eyes roll over your cheeks. You don’t know why today has left you so emotional—it’s just like any other day you meet Dazai. You argue with Chuuya, you go to meet Dazai, and then you deal with all of the emotions that the meeting drags up. Maybe it’s just that you’re drained from dealing with the Mishimas all day, or maybe it’s because Chuuya didn’t have to spend hours trying to calm down before he came back to you, or maybe it’s because you don’t know what went so wrong earlier with Dazai.

You still don’t fully understand why you spiraled so much. More than that, you wish you hadn’t left when Dazai had told you to. The way his fingers were trembling, the way his shoulders were shaking—there was no hiding that he was crying, and you think that if maybe you’d stayed, if you tried to press a little harder, you might’ve been able to get some answers out of him at last.

You take in a wet, shuddered breath as you try to get ahold of yourself. You miss Dazai, you miss how things used to be, and you don’t know how much more you can take of whatever this is.

You hear noise from your left, and you think that Chuuya or one of the Flags came out to check on you, but you’re startled by an unfamiliar face staring down at you, expression unreadable.

“Who-”

You yelp when his hand darts out to grab your arm. He tugs you into his chest harshly, and you don’t even have time to scream for Chuuya before there's a rag being placed over your mouth. Your hand claws at his wrist when the familiar sharp scent meets your nose, but it’s to no avail. You find your vision darkening and your knees going out—and the last thing you think of before everything goes black is him.

#dazai x reader #dazai x you #dazai smut #dazai osamu x reader #dazai osamu x you #dazai osamu smut #bsd x reader #bsd x you #bsd smut #bungo stray dogs x reader #bungo stray dogs smut #bungo stray dogs x you

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garbageconnoisseur · 10 months ago

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Homeless LGBT couple needs help!!!

Hello everyone!

This month has been a real doozy and my little family could really use some support right now. We are still homeless, I'm still sick, and the heat has been devastating both our physical and mental health. Along with the recent loss of a loved one and the constant stress, things have been an absolute mess and I do not believe I can hold out much longer without something good happening.

While I'm looking for work and recovering from being sick, we need temporary shelter. We also need help with important stuff like vet visits, food, toiletries, and gas. I would really appreciate some relief so i can focus on getting out of this situation soon. Any help would be very appreciated.

Venmo: @garbageconnoisseur

CashApp: $garbageconnoisseur

PayPal: @garbageconnoisseur

(Please no hate or unsolicited advice. I can't handle it right now and I will block you.)

#homeless support #trans support #lgbt aid #aid

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mercvry-glow · 2 months ago

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In the cool blue

parings. andrew "pope" cody x reader

summary. while staying at the cody house, a small group of rivals takes you, j and nicky hostage while the other are out. pope helps you in the after math.

warnings. based off of season two late episode six/early seven (so spoilers but also eh), reader is at the house with j and nicky when javi shows up, assault, drowning, gun mentions, reader and j get beat tf up, pope is actually pretty chill in this he's a softie today, established relationship, angst and hurt/comfort, general animal kingdom stuff, let me know if there's anything else!

notes. this is now my longest fic 😭 idk what inspired me to get this out but I really hope y'all enjoy bc this is a doozy and my current magnum opus. as always any and all feedback is appreciated!

wc. 5700+

It was supposed to be a quiet night.

You were stretched out on a lounge chair by Smurf’s pool, your freshly painted toes resting on the edge, a silk robe sliding off your sun-warmed skin. The water glowed that dreamy blue under the patio lights, casting ripples of light across your legs.

J and Nicky were inside, supposedly studying—though judging by how quiet it’d been for the past hour, you figured they were either making out or asleep, but with Nicky banging Craig you didn’t know. Either way, it meant you had the place to yourself. For once, things felt… safe. Even with Pope gone, running one of those jobs he never gave you the full story on.

You liked it better that way.

Until you heard the gravel shift.

At first, you thought it was just the wind. But then came the unmistakable slam of feet on the driveway. Then another. Then voices—low, quick, male.

You sat up.

The voices weren’t familiar. They didn’t carry like Deran or Craig’s. They were sharper. Harder.

You turned, just in time to see movement at the side gate. Four shadows. One of them kicked it open without hesitation.

Your blood ran cold.

You were moving before you even realized it, sandals forgotten by the chair, robe trailing behind you as you bolted across the backyard and slipped inside through the back slider, locking it instinctively—too late.

Before you could even breathe, a glass behind you shattered.

You screamed—just a little, more of a gasp—and darted down the hall, barefoot on tile, adrenaline flooding your veins.

You ducked into the nearest hallway closet, pulling the door shut as softly as you could, heart pounding so loud you swore they could hear it from the kitchen.

Then came the noise.

Boots stomping on tile. Furniture dragging. A bottle shattering.

You pressed a hand over your mouth, trying to hold in a whimper.

“Where is it?” one of the men barked.

“Check the freezer! Smurf used to keep cash in the damn freezer,” another snapped.

Cabinet doors slammed open. A chair was kicked over. Something heavy crashed to the floor and shattered. They were tearing the place apart like they knew something was here—and they wanted it now.

You didn’t dare peek. You couldn’t even cry. You just stayed curled up in the dark, wedged between winter coats and some old duffel bags, praying your knees wouldn’t give out before it was over.

You weren’t cut out for this. You weren’t a Cody. You weren’t like Pope.

You were just the girl he liked to keep close.

And right now, you were alone.

You didn’t even know how long you’d been in the closet.

Seconds? Minutes? It all blurred. Your muscles were locked, knees tucked to your chest, the smell of mothballs and old leather coats clinging to you as loud crashes and shouted curses continued to fill the house.

They were everywhere—kitchen drawers being yanked out, bedroom doors thrown open. You heard the crack of something heavy hitting the wall, then the dull thud of furniture being flipped.

Your fingers gripped the hem of your robe, knuckles white.

“Nothing’s here!” one of them yelled.

Another guy laughed, a low, mean sound. “Bullshit. This is Smurf’s place. There’s always something here.”

They were getting closer.

The voices grew louder. Clearer. Footsteps pounding down the hallway—your hallway. You squeezed your eyes shut.

And then they stopped.

Right outside the closet.

Your breath caught in your throat.

You heard someone mumble something under their breath, and then—

Click.

The door handle shifted.

You barely had time to suck in a gasp before the door was yanked open, the bright hallway light flooding the tiny space. You squinted up at a man with a shaved head, a leather jacket, and a small scar across his cheek. He froze when he saw you—half crouched in the back of the closet like a deer caught in headlights, robe pulled tight across your chest, cheeks streaked with silent tears.

His eyes widened, and for a split second, you thought maybe he’d just back off.

But then he smirked.

“Well, well,” he said, voice low and oily. “What do we have here?”

You couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak.

He grabbed your arm, hard, yanking you up to your feet like you weighed nothing. You stumbled, your bare feet skidding on the hardwood.

“Thought this place was empty,” he muttered, almost to himself, eyes raking over you like he was trying to figure out if you were worth more than whatever cash they’d been looking for.

You tried to wrestle yourself back into the closet wall, like maybe you could disappear. But he faster, calloused fingers wrapping around your wrist like a vise once again.

“Let go of me!” you gasped, but it barely came out.

He yanked you to your feet with zero care, dragging you forward, your bare toes sliding on the hallway floor. You fought him, pulling back with what little strength you had, but his grip only tightened.

“Don’t make this harder, princess,” he snapped, dragging you through the house as drawers hung open, broken glass crunched underfoot, and the stink of beer and sweat filled the air.

“I didn’t see anything—I swear—” you tried, breath shaking.

“Bet you know where the money is, though,” he shot back.

“I don’t!”

He ignored you, hauling you through the busted slider door and out into the cool night air. Your robe flared in the wind, and you blinked against the patio lights still glowing around the pool. Just minutes ago, you’d been lying there, peaceful, content—now you were barefoot, bleeding from your heels, and being dragged across the stone like some kind of prize.

The others were outside now too. Three men, scattered across the yard, tossing things from the poolside storage chest, upending flowerpots, one of them even kicking at the filter cover.

“She was hiding inside,” your captor called out, shoving you forward a few steps. You stumbled, caught yourself just before you hit the edge of the pool.

“She know where it is?” one asked, barely glancing up.

“She will.”

You wrapped your arms around yourself, heart thundering so loud you swore it echoed off the water.

One of them walked up to you slowly—taller, older, colder-looking. His boots stopped just short of your bare toes.

“You got about ten seconds to tell us where Smurf keeps her stash,” he said. Not yelling. Just matter-of-fact. Like he wasn’t asking—he was waiting.

“I don’t know,” you whispered.

Wrong answer.

The one who’d dragged you out stepped behind you, grabbing your arms tight and jerking you back against him. The edge of the pool was at your toes now. You felt the chill of the water in front of you, the way your balance shifted just slightly.

“Think again,” the tall one said.

Tears burned in your eyes, but you blinked them back.

Someone would come.

You twisted in his grip, heels slipping on the wet tile, arms aching from how tightly he held you.

“Please—please, I don’t know anything!” you gasped, trying to plant your feet, but he kept pushing you closer to the pool’s edge.

The taller guy just stared, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

“I swear to God, I don’t—Smurf doesn’t tell me anything! I just—I’m just Pope’s girlfriend!”

“Which means you know something,” the one holding you growled, yanking your arms up hard enough to make your shoulders burn.

“I don’t!” you cried out, voice cracking as panic bubbled up into your throat. “I don’t even live here—I didn’t even want to be here, I just—they told me to hang out! I was by the pool!”

“Then you shouldn’t have been hiding like a little rat,” the man sneered into your ear.

Your breath caught. “I was scared,” you whispered. “You broke the door down—I thought you were here to kill someone.”

Another guy—shaggy hair, wide eyes like he was hopped up on something—laughed darkly from the side of the yard. “Might still happen, sweetheart, if you don’t start talking.”

“I don’t know!” You squirmed in the first guy’s grip, finally throwing your elbow back into his ribs. It wasn’t much, but it caught him by surprise and he grunted, stumbling just a step.

You broke free for half a second—just long enough to bolt toward the other side of the pool.

But the tall one was fast. He grabbed a fistful of your robe, yanked you back so hard your legs gave out.

You hit the ground on your knees, palms scraped raw from the stone. Before you could move, a boot shoved your shoulder, forcing you to stay down.

“Try that again, and I’ll throw you in face first,” he warned.

Tears spilled hot and fast down your cheeks now. You shook your head, voice high and broken. “Please—I’m not lying—I swear to God, please just let me go! I didn’t do anything!”

No one answered. The only sound was the water lapping gently behind you, and the soft clink of something metal being tossed into the grass.

They weren’t hearing you.

They didn’t care.

And Pope… Pope wasn’t here to fix it.

You curled in on yourself, trembling. You’d never been this scared in your life. And if they decided to stop being patient?

You didn’t know what would happen next.

Your wrists were burning.

The zip ties they had grabbed bit into your skin as one of them yanked your arms behind your back, cinching them so tight you cried out. “Shut up,” he muttered, like your fear was an inconvenience.

The others had gone quiet. Focused.

The tall one paced near the pool, agitated, eyes scanning the yard like he was waiting for something to appear. The guy who tied you up shoved you down roughly back onto a lounger, rope around your ankles now too. You kicked, once, but it only earned you another curse and a warning glare.

You were helpless.

And then… movement.

From the corner of your eye, past the broken slider door and toward the far patio table, you saw J—slow, careful, almost crawling—edging toward the backpack he’d left out there earlier. It was half-hidden under a chair, just slouched enough that no one had noticed it yet.

But you knew what was inside.

His gun.

Your eyes went wide, lips parting in a silent gasp as you watched him stretch a hand toward the strap, his body low, fingers just brushing the zipper. He was so close—

A shout cracked through the night like a whip.

J didn’t freeze.

One of the guys—shaggy hair, twitchy—was already rushed toward him, tackling him towards the pool. J tried to dive away, but the man cracked him across his ribs, sending him sprawling across the stone with a sharp grunt and into a chair.

“Don’t!” you screamed from the lounger, struggling against the ropes. “Stop it! He’s just a kid!”

“Yeah?” the tall one snapped, stalking toward J now with ice in his voice. “Then he should’ve stayed hidden.”

The man in the brown jacket went to grab some leftover rope as two of his men continued to beat up J. They ignored your cries, focused on getting the teen who knew much more than you did.

J coughed, curled on his side, one arm over his stomach. He looked at you—eyes wide, scared, like he was sorry. Sorry he got caught. Sorry he couldn’t stop this.

And all you could do was watch, wrists bound, robe soaked with your own tears, knees bleeding from the flagstone.

Inside the house, somewhere deep, a door creaked. Maybe Nicky was still hiding—maybe she’d heard it all.

God, you hoped she stayed hidden.

J was already coughing, barely able to get to his knees when they grabbed him again.

You tried to scream—tried to tell them to stop—but your voice was hoarse, useless against the chaos unfolding feet away from you.

The tall one grabbed J by the collar and hauled him. His shoes scraped across the tile, hands clawing at the man’s arm, but he was no match. Not like this. Not when he was winded and scared and outnumbered.

“J,” the tall one growled, voice calm in that cold, terrifying way, “who else is in the house man?”

“No one… just us,” J grunted, trying to gain his breath back.

Wrong answer.

“Go check the bedroom.” the man, who you assumed to be their leader, said as two of them left to go search the house again.

The silence was heavy, water sloshing up onto the patio as J’s body stayed on the stone. You curled instinctively, like maybe if you didn’t watch it would stop, but the zip ties bit into your skin again and you could barely even sit up, and it kept you in the moment.

The tall man knelt at the pool’s edge, grabbed J by the back of the shirt, and held his head. “Smurf isn’t here?”

“Sh-She went to meet you…”

You started sobbing quietly.

“She didn’t show.”

They didn’t listen to whatever the teen had to say, and two of them took J into the pool holding him up by his shoulders.

“Hey, Jay. Where does Smurf keep her money?” the bald man asked, brandeshing his revolver like it was no big deal. J could barely get his answer out before they shoved him under.

Your heart seized in your chest. “He’s not lying! He’s just a kid!”

They yanked him back up—J came out sputtering, gasping for air like a fish yanked from the deep, hair plastered to his face, chest heaving.

“One more time,” he asked, voice deadly quiet, “Where is Smurf’s money?”

J shook his head, water dripping down his face. “I swear to God—I don’t know—”

Back under.

The splash this time was smaller, like J didn’t even have the strength to fight it.

You were screaming now. Screaming and crying and twisting so hard your skin was raw from the rope, your knees scraped to hell from the concrete. “Please! He doesn’t know anything! Please don’t kill him!”

Finally—finally—they let him up again.

He floated toward the edge, wheezing, barely able to lift his head.

The tall one stood slowly, glanced over at you.

“You believe him?” he asked, wiping water from his hands.

You nodded frantically, eyes wide. “Yes! Yes, I believe him! I swear he’s telling the truth—there’s no money here! I-If it was, it'd be behind the dryer o-or shoe boxes!”

He didn’t move. Just stared at you for a long, uncomfortable second.

Then he said, “Maybe we’re asking the wrong person then.”

Your stomach dropped.

The twitchy guy who’d hit J first turned, stepping closer to you with a smirk, eyes running over your soaked robe, your trembling frame. They had dragged the poor boy out of the pool, beating him a bit more before turning their attention to you.

“Nah,” he said. “She looks like a real good liar.”

And then the tall one said it—flat, casual, awful.

“Next time, we start with her.”

You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t even think.

Just cry.

You didn’t even realize how loud you were until the tall one’s eyes snapped back to you.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “Shut her up.”

Your breath caught in your throat, panic curling deep in your gut.

“No—no, please, I didn’t—” You tried to scramble backward on the lounger, bound wrists twisting behind you, but you didn’t make it far. One of them—the twitchy one—grabbed your ankle and yanked you off the chair like it weighed nothing. You hit the stone patio with a painful thud, cheek scraping the ground, knees buckling beneath you.

“Get off me!” you cried, kicking, writhing in the ropes. “Don’t—don’t touch me!”

But he already had both hands on you, dragging you toward the pool.

“Guess she wants to take a swim,” he said darkly, like it was funny.

“No! Don’t—please, please don’t—!”

You thrashed harder, your robe getting twisted, legs scraping over the edge of the concrete just as your toes touched water. Cold. Too cold.

J was still wheezing, choking on his own blood, on the opposite side, watching in horror as they pulled you closer to the deep end.

“Leave her alone!” he tried to shout, voice wrecked from coughing.

The tall man didn’t even look back. “She wants to run her mouth, she can hold her breath.”

And then you were in the air—ropes tight, arms behind you, no way to break the fall—

Splash.

The cold hit you like a brick.

You sank instantly, robe ballooning around you, legs kicking uselessly as your wrists stayed locked behind you. You tried to swim, tried to surface, but the water kept dragging you down, twisting your body as you fought against it.

Your lungs burned.

You broke the surface once—gasped—only to be shoved back under again.

You didn’t know which of them did it. A hand on your head, a push between your shoulders. You couldn’t see. Everything was bubbles and blur and cold, cold, so cold.

Your scream was just a gurgle under the water.

You were going to drown.

And they didn’t care.

You came up again, coughing violently, gasping through sobs, and someone finally pulled you toward the steps, dumping you like trash onto the slick tile. You coughed, spit, choked on your own breath as you curled onto your side, sobbing uncontrollably.

“Now shut the hell up,” the tall one said, calm again, like none of it meant anything.

Behind him, J was still slumped on the ground, bleeding, soaked, and shaking.

And you—barefoot, half naked, shivering, and drenched—lay there helpless, your body shaking so hard it barely felt real.

You didn’t say another word.

The cold, sharp air felt like it might never leave your lungs. You shivered uncontrollably on the edge of the pool, the water dripping from your hair, your robe clinging to you like a wet sheet. The ropes around your wrists bit deeper into your skin, but you were too numb to even notice it anymore.

Then the door creaked.

You didn’t see her at first, just heard the shuffling footsteps—slow, dragging, someone stumbling.

“No one else in the house huh?,” the tall one said with a grin, eyes flicking over toward the door.

And then, like something out of a nightmare, Nicky was shoved into view.

Her face was swollen, bruised, blood streaking down her cheek from where someone had hit her. She was tied up too, wrists bound, her own robe in tatters from the way they'd manhandled her. She could barely stand, her knees buckling as they shoved her forward, her eyes red from crying, hair in disarray.

“No—no…” you whispered, horrified. Your voice cracked like glass under pressure.

She didn’t look at you, didn’t even try to. She was too dazed, too hurt, and when they shoved her to the ground next to you, she just crumpled, hands still tied, trying to curl into herself as much as possible.

“Nicky, please,” you begged, trying to push yourself toward her, but the ropes kept you in place, your body too weak to get far.

The tall one crouched down in front of J, who they had just pulled out of the pool one last time, was still trying to sit up from where they’d dumped him on the ground after you’d been thrown in the pool. He was shaking now—no longer the kid who thought he could hide a gun, no longer defiant. He was a ragdoll, eyes wide with fear yet dropping with exhaustion as he looked back and forth between you, Nicky, and the crew.

“Think I came all this way for twenty-five grand!?” the tall one said, eyes cold and calculating, smacking J in the face with the money you told them where to find. He drew another gun from his jeans, “Last goddamn time! Where’s the real money?!” The gun was aimed right on J’s face, locked and loaded and this guy wasn’t afraid to do it.

J’s lips parted. He didn’t say anything at first, and the silence was worse than anything else. “I told you I don’t know, I swear!” the blonde boy promised, desperate and pleading. They stepped on his bad leg, the one he hurt in the church hiest, as you and Nicky screamed in pain for him.

Nicky flinched when one of the men reached down and grabbed her by the arm, lifting her up roughly. She winced but didn’t cry out, just staring at the ground, her whole body shaking.

“Get her out of here?” the tall one said again, voice flat.

J didn’t respond. His hands were shaking, too, but he wasn’t answering.

The crew didn’t wait.

One of them grabbed Nicky, taking her god knows where after she left your sight as the two men kept arguing over the fucking money. J’s scream was guttural, and he collapsed back to the stone, curling in on himself, chest heaving with pain.

You gasped, heart hammering in your chest as you fought against the ropes, but you couldn’t do anything.

J tried to speak, but it was barely a whisper. “Smurf’s got a storage unit on Freemont!”

The tall one stood back, his eyes cold, hands in his pockets. “What’s the number!?”

J said he didn’t know but would take them as long as they didn’t take Nicky, begging them to stop before pushing him into the pool one last time. His body arched, another groan escaping his throat as he struggled to swim, just as you had. He wasn’t able to defend himself, wasn’t able to do anything but take it.

You could feel the heat rising inside you, your stomach twisting in knots. You wanted to scream, to help him, to do something—but you were just tied up, helpless, watching him be broken apart in front of you.

They left after that, leaving you on the floor barely conscious. Taking Nicky and leaving J to drown in the pool his grandmother owned. You tried to crawl toward him, wrists bleeding from the ropes, but your vision went white, then black, then nothing at all.

The Jeep rolled to a slow stop in the driveway, headlights washing over the front of the Cody house. The gate was open. The porch light flickered. One of the patio chairs was overturned on its side like it had been thrown or tripped over. Something about the stillness was wrong. Off.

Pope stared at the front door—it hung open just a crack, too quiet, too deliberate. His knuckles tightened around the steering wheel as his instincts kicked in. He killed the engine and reached down beneath his seat, pulling out his gun. “Stay in the car.”

Smurf started to follow, her hand already on the door handle, but Pope turned to look at her sharply, eyes already storm-dark. He told her to stay put.

She didn’t listen.

“I said stay in the car!”

By the time he was creeping up the walkway, gun low and steady, Smurf was already on his heels. Her voice was low but sharp, cutting through the heavy silence—there was no way in hell she was waiting in the damn car while something had clearly gone sideways.

The moment they crossed the threshold of the house, the sight hit them first—The living room was a mess. Chairs overturned. A shattered lamp across the floor. One of the barstools broken in half, splinters fanned across the tile. Picture frames cracked and crooked on the walls.

Pope’s eyes swept the scene, methodical, calculating. Smurf stepped over a smashed photo of Baz and Julia, heart hammering in her chest as her gaze caught the trail—scuffs on the floor, a faint smear of blood.

Pope moved room to room, clearing each space like the soldier he was, finger resting steady beside the trigger. The whole place was silent. Empty. But it wasn’t abandoned. Something had happened here. Something bad. And it wasn’t over yet.

Smurf made it to the back of the house first. She reached the sliding glass door and stopped cold.

Her breath hitched in her throat.

Outside, under the cold glow of the moon, two figures lay in the stillness. One, half in the pool—barely moving. The other crumpled on the concrete like a broken doll. She bolted, flinging the door open so hard it slammed against the wall. “Pope get out here!”

And he was right behind her, and when his eyes landed on the scene, he didn’t hesitate. J was slumped at the edge of the deep end, one arm hanging limply into the water, lips blue, chest barely rising as he coughed out water. His skin was soaked and pale. They ran for him, dropped to thier knees, and hauled the rest him out in swift motion, dragging him onto semi-dry ground

You were collapsed on the pavement not far from him, your wrists still bound, rope burns angry and raw. Your clothes were damp and ripped in some places. Your head lolled to one side, blood matting the edge of your hairline. You were breathing—but it was shallow, strained, like your body was hanging on by a thread.

Andrew dropped beside you, hands still as he checked your pulse, pressed his fingers against your clammy cheek. There was blood, but it wasn’t fresh. Whoever had hurt you. Tied you up. Left you here like garbage. His jaw clenched as he tore the ropes free with his knife.

His own heart was racing now—not out of fear, but rage.

Behind him, Smurf was crouched next to J, trying to keep him awake, her expression darkening with every slurred word that came out of the kid’s mouth. Something about a storage unit. Fremont. Smurf’s name. Nicky. And a man—Javi. He’d given them what they wanted. It still hadn’t been enough.

Pope was tense, but not from the sudden adrenaline rush. From fury. From failure. From the sight of you lying there like that, and J barely clinging on.

Smurf pulled off her coat and draped it over J’s shoulders, and You flinched slightly as Pope tried to move you, a broken whimper escaping your lips, but you didn’t wake.

The air felt thicker now—like the violence hadn’t left yet. Like it was still sitting heavy over the house, waiting to be answered.

You woke to the low hum of an air conditioner and the faint scent of bleach and detergent—clean, sterile, unfamiliar. The world came back in pieces. The pressure in your skull. The aching pull of your muscles. The bruises blooming beneath your skin.

Your eyes opened slowly, adjusting to the dim light of a shaded living room. You were lying on a couch, a heavy blanket draped over your legs, the cushions dipping slightly beneath your weight. Your old clothes were gone. Replaced with a big, worn t-shirt that didn’t belong to you and a pair of sleep shorts. The fabric was soft. Smelled faintly like soap and someone else’s cologne.

Specifically the someone next to you.

You turned your head—barely—and saw Pope, sitting silent in the chair beside the couch, elbows on his knees, hands clasped in front of him. He hadn’t noticed you were awake yet. His eyes were fixed on the floor, brow furrowed, that same stormcloud expression carved into his face like stone.

There was a first-aid kit on the table nearby. A bloody rag beside it. A bottle of water, half-drunk. And your wrists—carefully wrapped in gauze. Clean. Tended to.

He’d done it. You could tell.

His head finally lifted. Eyes meeting yours.

He didn’t speak at first. Just stared. Not coldly—but intensely, like he was trying to figure out if you were real or maybe just what to say.

Your throat was dry. Scratchy. Every part of your body screamed in protest, but you managed a slow breath. You swallowed, trying to sit up slightly, and he was there in an instant—hand on the couch cushion near your arm, grounding you, steadying you without touching.

He didn’t ask how you felt. He didn’t need to.

The silence between you said enough.

You blinked at him, struggling to find the words. You remembered the pool. The ropes. The last thing you saw—J’s body going under, your own lungs burning, your screams swallowed by the water.

But you were here now.

Alive.

Pope leaned back slightly, never taking his hazel eyes off of you. His voice, when he finally spoke, was low and gravely.

"You’re safe now."

It wasn’t a comfort. It was a promise.

And in the look he gave you, you knew—someone was going to pay for what happened, every second of it.

The silence lingered, stretching long between you.

Heavy.

You kept your eyes on him, chest tight and aching in a way that had nothing to do with your injuries. There was this pressure building inside you—like your ribs were made of glass and every breath was another tap against the surface. The weight of it all pressed down until it cracked.

Your lip trembled before you could stop it. A choked breath caught in your throat. And then, without thinking—without asking—you pushed the blanket off and slid off the couch, barefoot and trembling, legs unsteady beneath you.

Pope moved instantly, as if to stop you from falling, but froze when he realized where you were going.

You stepped between his knees and just… folded.

Dropped down into his lap like gravity pulled you there, like it was the only place you could go. Your arms slid around his neck, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as you buried your face against his shoulder and finally let it go.

The sob came out broken and raw, like it had been hiding deep in your chest, waiting for the moment you were safe enough to let it out.

And Pope didn’t speak.

He didn’t stiffen or push you off. He just wrapped his arms around you, slow and solid, one hand bracing your back, the other cradling the back of your head like you were made of something fragile. He held you like that was his only job now. Like that was all he could do.

Your body shook with each breath, each silent sob that spilled into the fabric of his shirt. You weren’t even sure what part of it broke you—J being thrown into the water, the ropes cutting into your skin, the helplessness, the fact that no one came until it was nearly too late—or maybe just the simple weight of surviving it.

Pope stayed quiet. Solid. A wall at your back.

He didn’t shush you. He didn’t tell you to stop crying. He just held on tighter.

Eventually, your cries softened. Still trembling, but quieter now, worn out from the storm. Your arms loosened, head still pressed to his shoulder, breaths coming in uneven little gasps.

“I thought I was gonna die,” you whispered against him, the words barely audible.

Pope didn’t answer right away. But you felt the slow rise and fall of his chest. The way he breathed in through his nose like he was trying to keep it together, too.

“You didn’t,” he said quietly. “You’re here.” In that soft, impossible voice of his—rough and raw and honest—you could feel the edge of something else underneath.

You stayed like that for a long time, curled against him in the quiet. The sounds outside the windows were distant—cars passing, wind through the trees, the faint hum of someone’s music down the block—but none of it touched you here. Not in this little pocket of stillness, where Pope’s arms stayed around you like he was trying to hold your broken pieces together with his own hands.

Your breathing slowed eventually. You felt the exhaustion in every limb, every bruise, but you didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to let go. The silence between you shifted—less sharp now, more full. Safe.

Your voice cracked when you finally spoke again. "I thought no one was coming."

Pope’s hand moved slowly along your back, not soothing exactly—more like he needed the contact too. He let the silence linger a moment longer before he answered.

"I should’ve gotten there sooner."

You pulled back just enough to look at him. His eyes were darker than usual, rimmed with something unspoken. Not guilt exactly—something deeper. Regret. Rage. Fear. All the emotions he felt so intensely.

“You got there,” you whispered. “You found me.”

That mattered. It mattered more than he probably realized.

He looked at you for a long second. You could see it then—the way his jaw clenched, the slight shake in his hand as it rested against your hip. He hadn’t stopped replaying it.

Finding you like that.

Finding J.

“I didn’t know what I was gonna see,” he said finally. His voice was low, hoarse. “When I walked in.”

You swallowed hard, eyes stinging again. “They were gonna kill him. And they were gonna take me and Nicky too. I—I thought—”

Your breath hitched and his hand was already on the back of your neck again, grounding you, pulling you gently forward until your forehead rested against his. He didn’t kiss you. Didn’t say anything romantic or comforting. Just held you there, close.

“The guy…” you breathed, “he kept asking about the money. Smurf’s stuff. I don’t even know what the hell they wanted from me.”

“You didn’t tell them anything,” Pope said, more fact than question.

You shook your head. “Didn’t know anything important enough. I just… took the beating.”

His grip on you tightened for a second, like the thought of that was too much. Like he needed something to break. But then he took a breath, and when he spoke again, his voice was quieter.

“You did good.”

You looked at him—eyes puffy, cheeks streaked with tears—and almost laughed, but it came out cracked and sad. “I didn’t do anything.”

“You survived,” he said. “That’s everything.”

And you knew, in that moment, that if Pope had gotten there even five minutes later, he would’ve dragged bodies out of that pool himself. Not to save them. But to make sure they stayed under.

You let your forehead rest against his again, breathing in his warmth, the steady thrum of his presence. Not perfect. Not even close. But steady in the way only Andrew “Pope” Cody could be—quiet, fierce, unmovable when it mattered.

You closed your eyes.

“I don’t feel safe anywhere right now.”

His arms wrapped around you again, tighter this time. And his voice was soft enough it barely reached your ears.

“You are when you’re with me.”

mercvry-glow 2025

#animal kingdom #animal kingdom tnt #animal kingdom x reader #animal kingdom x you #andrew cody #andrew cody x reader #andrew cody x you #pope cody #pope cody x reader #pope cody x you #andrew pope cody #andrew pope cody x reader #andrew pope cody x you #shawn hatosy #❥ - Pope Cody

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daryltwdixon · 25 days ago

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Summary: The days blur together, a steady cycle of bottles, naps, laundry, a rhythm of new motherhood slowly reshaping you. Joel and Tommy orbit you in different ways, their presence both comfort and complication. Therapy brings things to the surface, but not resolution. And when the truth finally comes out over the dinner table, everything you thought you'd been holding together starts to come undone. || smut MDNI 18+, angst and fluff, therapy, mention of polyamory/throuples, tommy is still an ass, still aint kosher folks, sooo much kissing, pinv, dirty talk (!!), fingering, f!recieving oral, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, missionary (better to look into your eyes <3), 1 use of the word mama, please remember these characters suck at communicating, adding more tags later because I don't want to spoil! || a/n: woowee its a doozy. wc: 14k

“So, you’re back.”

In your arms, your baby squirms with a soft grunt, his little mouth puckered in protest. You shift him gently, rocking him with a practiced motion that’s more muscle memory than thought at this point. His weight is a comfort, solid against your chest. You breathe out a quiet laugh.

“Good to see you too, Dr. Servopulous.”

“Didn’t I say somethin’ about callin’ me Tess?”

Joel and Tommy both offer small smiles from either side of you. Tess returns them, her eyes warm as she leans forward, looking at the bundle in your arms.

“And look who we have here,” she says. “What’s his name?”

“This is Sammy,” you murmur, lifting your baby just slightly so she can see his round, pink-cheeked, bleary-eyed face. He yawns, clenching his fist around a lock of your hair.

“Samuel TJ Miller, ain’t that right, buddy?” Tommy adds with a soft smile, reaching to poke gently at the baby’s belly. Sammy squirms, kicking one foot free of the blanket.

“Thank you for joining us, Samuel,” Tess says with mock formality, then glances at the clipboard in her lap. “A lot has happened since I last saw you three.”

“Understatement of the century,” Tommy mutters.

You glance sideways at him, trying to read his face. It’s soft—eyes crinkled at the corners, tone easy with no bitterness. At least, not today.

Joel says nothing. He sits still on your other side, arm draped loosely across the back of the couch just behind your shoulders. His fingertips occasionally brush your upper arm when you shift, a quiet presence more than a participant.

Tess looks between the three of you, pen poised. “Tell me about your dynamic lately. We can start there and dig into what’s happened.”

You turn to Joel, exhaustion clinging to your bones, to your posture, to the deep, purple shadows carved beneath your eyes. Two months of near-sleepless nights etched into your skin like bruises. You look at him fully, wordlessly asking him to speak first.

Joel clears his throat and shifts forward, arm dropping to brace against his knees. “Uh, well,” he starts, nodding to himself. “We’ve been mostly focusin’ on takin’ care of Sam. Of her.”

Tess nods, encouraging.

“We’ve been a good team, I think.”

“It’s been quite the journey,” Tommy adds. “Feels like since Sam came into the world, things have been... I dunno. Easier, wouldn’t you say?” He glances between you and Joel.

“Define easy,” you scoff, untangling your hair from the baby’s fist.

“I just meant between us,” Tommy says, lifting a hand. “Not so much goin’ on dynamic-wise.”

“Then what brought you in?” Tess asks, calm and direct.

You pause, glancing between the two of them before your eyes land on the doctor again.

“I think... we’re trying to prepare. For when things don’t feel like survival mode anymore. When Sam’s sleeping through the night. When I’m ready to start…” You trail off, the words feeling distant, almost absurd. “Being intimate again.”

Tess nods, jotting something down. “And how have you been feeling? Emotionally.”

You hesitate, then shift Sammy in your arms and glance toward Tommy.

“Can you—?”

“Yeah, of course.” He takes the baby gently, already tucking the blanket around him just the way you like. You sink back into the couch, chest suddenly lighter without the weight of another body pressed against you. You exhale, slow.

“Obviously it’s hard,” you say finally. “Harder than I thought. I cry a lot. About nothing. About everything. I’ll lie awake wondering if he’s warm enough. If he’s eating enough. If he’s…” your voice falters, “...if he’s still breathing. I feel insane about it sometimes.”

“All very normal,” Tess says softly. You nod, staring at Sam as Tommy smiles down at him.

Tess gives you a moment, then adds, “And how about the dynamic between the three of you? How’s that felt lately?”

You look at the two men flanking you, and your mouth lifts slightly.

“Honestly... it’s been a gift. They’ve both been incredible. I’m never alone. They’re so good with him. I barely even have to ask, they just know.”

“Helps that you’ve done this before,” Tess says, smiling at Joel.

He chuckles under his breath, eyes down.

“My body still doesn’t quite feel like mine yet,” you admit. “But I feel... really connected. To both of them. And to Sam.”

“That’s really good,” Tess says. She scribbles a few more notes before shifting her attention.

“Now, Tommy,” she says, catching his eye. He straightens a little, as if realizing he’d tuned out, his mind and eyes having only been on the baby. “I want to talk about you for a moment. Last time we spoke, you were the one who had some reservations about opening the relationship. About all of this. How are you feeling now?”

Tommy looks between you and Joel, slow.

“I don’t really know how I feel,” he says. “Truth be told... things feel fine. Between me and her. Joel too.”

You let out a dry laugh and look to Tess.

“That’s ‘cause they barely see each other,” you say. “When Tommy’s at the site, Joel stays. When Joel’s working, Tommy’s there. We’ve got a rhythm. But it’s not... us. Not really.”

Tess nods slowly at your comment, the slight crease between her brows deepening.

“That 'rhythm' you’ve found sounds functional. But is it fulfilling?” she asks gently. “Or are you all just getting by?”

Tommy doesn’t answer. Joel doesn’t either.

Tess lets the silence sit for a moment before turning to Joel.

“Joel,” she says softly, “you’ve been quiet. I know that’s not unusual for you, but I want to check in. How are you feeling about all this?”

Joel shifts slightly, eyes on the floor. His voice is low when he answers.

“I think I’m just tryin’ to be where I’m needed,” he says. “Not stir things up too much. She’s been through a lot. The baby needs her calm. Last thing I want is to be another problem.”

“You think your presence is a problem?” Tess asks, head tilting.

Joel gives a one-shoulder shrug. “Sometimes it feels like it could be. I try to stay out the way.”

You turn to look at him then and there’s something in his face you hadn’t noticed before. A kind of quiet resignation. Like he’s still halfway out the door, even while sitting beside you.

“Joel,” Tess says after a moment, “that kind of self-erasure might feel noble. But it’s not sustainable. And it’s not honest, not if you care about them, which it’s obvious that you do.”

His jaw works for a moment before he nods, once.

“They…” you begin, fidgeting in your seat, fingers twisting into the fabric of your leggings. “They got into a bad fight. Right before I went into labor. I’d like to talk about that, if it’s okay.”

Joel glances over, his eyes meeting yours briefly. He gives a small nod, steady and quiet. You shift your gaze to the other side, to where Tommy sits. His arms are folded around the baby, posture rigid, a frown pulling at his mouth. But after a beat, he nods too.

“Um,”

You clear your throat, but the words won’t come easy. Because really, where the hell do you even start? How do you explain something like this? That Joel asked you to leave your husband, that you ignored him for weeks, shut him out like he hadn’t cracked something wide open in you, and then he showed up drunk, wild-eyed and full of hurt, and threw a punch at his own damn brother?

You shift in your seat, your chest tight, pulse fluttering. It's all there, still living in the back of your mind like a bruise you keep pressing, sharp and tender and unresolved.

“I acted like an idiot,” Joel says, cutting in when you still can’t find the words. His voice is low, rough. “Said things I shouldn’t have said. Did things I shouldn’t have done.”

You exhale slowly, eyes shifting to Tess.

She lifts her pen, not writing. “Care to tell me what those things were?”

Joel hesitates. His eyes meet hers, and when he speaks again, the words are quiet, nearly swallowed.

“I told her to leave him.”

The air seems to pull inward. The room holds its breath.

Tommy’s face doesn’t move for a second when you go to calculate his reaction. But then he blinks, a sharp laugh escaping his mouth, not a trace of humor in it.

“Are you fuckin’ kiddin’ me?” His voice slices the room open. The baby begins to squirm in his arms, face tightening, body fussing.

“That was months ago,” you say quickly, reaching over to settle your hand on Tommy’s arm. “And he regrets it. Don’t you?”

Joel’s eyes don’t leave the baby, his gaze a thousand miles away. His voice is flat. “I regret saying it out loud.”

Tommy turns sharply to look at him then, jaw clenched.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, Joel—”

“Okay,” Tess interrupts, lifting a hand, her tone calm but firm. “Before this turns into something I can’t break apart, I’m going to ask all of us to take a breath together.”

You nod and reach out instinctively, taking the baby from Tommy’s arms. He gives him over willingly, the baby's small hands clenching the fabric of your shirt. Joel stops you, taking him from your arms. You look at him with wide eyes.

He shifts beside you, holding out his arms. “It’s fine. I got him.”

You hesitate, caught between them. Then you hand the baby over. Joel lifts him gently, settling him against his chest. The baby fusses once, then quiets.

Tess watches the exchange closely. “All right. Let’s take that breath.”

You inhale together, slowly.

Deep breath in.

Hold, hold, and exhale all the way out.

Another.

And another.

Your heart rate finally begins to slow. You open your eyes, grounded just enough to keep going.

Tess glances down at her notes, then back at the three of you. “I appreciate you all staying here in this moment. I know that wasn’t easy. But this is why we’re here. Not to pretend things are fine, but to look at what’s underneath.”

She shifts slightly in her seat. “Would you be open to trying something together? It’s an exercise I use often with couples. Or, in this case, throuples.”

You glance at Joel, then at Tommy. They both nod, though a little begrudgingly.

Tess continues, voice steady. “This is about transparency. About seeing each other, not just reacting to old patterns. It’s called the ‘I see you’ practice. One at a time, you’ll each speak to the others using a few prompts. You don’t have to explain or justify what you say. The goal is just to be witnessed.”

She picks up a note card. “You can use these to start:

What I see in you right now is… What I need from you is… What I miss about us is…

And you’ll finish the sentence for each one, to each other. This is your time to be honest, to be open.”

She turns her eyes to you first. “Do you want to start us off?”

You nod slowly, your heart thudding beneath the weight of it all. You smooth your palms against your thighs, grounding yourself, then look to Joel.

Tess sees the hesitation on your face and offers, gently, “Why don’t you hold her hand, Joel?”

Joel shifts, eyes searching yours as if asking permission. When you nod, he reaches across the small space between you, careful not to jostle the baby who is already dozing against his chest, and threads his fingers through yours. His hand is warm, steady. You feel the weight of it go straight through you.

Your voice wavers as you begin.

“What I see in you is someone who’s scared to admit his role in all this.”

You glance up into his eyes. Joel doesn’t look away. His brow creases, just slightly, but his grip on your hand tightens.

“I see someone who helps, day in and day out. Who shows up, quietly, constantly. But only says what he wants when everything’s already blown up and it’s too late.”

Joel swallows, throat bobbing as he shifts the baby slightly, and you think the touch of your hand might be grounding him too.

“What I need from you is honesty. Not just in the aftermath. All the time. I need you to stop playing the martyr. You don’t have to earn your place here. You already belong. With me. With us.”

You feel Joel’s thumb move across the back of your hand, slow and steady.

“What I miss about us is… is the fun we had. I miss taking Sarah out for ice cream. I miss going to the fair. I miss being spontaneous with you…even if that feels like a lifetime ago now. I realize we can’t just do those things now with the baby but…I still miss it.”

He smiles, nodding along with you. You take a breath and turn to Tommy, letting go of Joel's hand as you do so. He shifts slightly under your gaze, like he knows what’s coming.

Tess says gently, “Maybe place your hand on his arm.”

You do. Your fingertips brush his bicep, and you feel the slight tremble there. He doesn’t move away.

“What I see in you is someone holding a lot of resentment.”

His brows lift slightly, but he doesn’t interrupt. His fingers twitch on his knee.

“What I need from you is consistency. I feel like one minute you’re with me, and the next you’re not. I just want to feel secure, to know you’re not going to pull back when this is hard.”

You press your fingers into his arm a little firmer now, a little more tender, “What I miss is… us.”

The words nearly catch in your throat, and you see Tommy’s eyebrows furrow in anguish.

“I miss the way you used to kiss me just because you were thinking about me. I miss the little touches like your hand on my back when we were brushing past each other in the kitchen. I miss being your best friend. I miss feeling like your wife. Your other half.”

Tommy’s hand comes to rest over yours, finally. He doesn’t speak yet, but his grip says what he can’t.

Tess gives a soft cue with her eyes, and Joel looks at Tommy.

Joel shifts slightly in his seat, adjusting the baby with one arm.

“What I see in you is someone who’s trying really hard to build a family. I see my brother. Someone I’ve known and loved my whole life. Since the day you were born.” He glances at Tommy, voice low.

“And I see you throwin’ it away with jealousy.”

Tommy stiffens, but doesn’t look away. His fingers curl around his knee.

“What I need from you is to stop pushin’ me out. I didn’t sneak in here. You asked me for this, and we all fell into it. And yeah, it got messy. But it’s happening. She wants me here. And I want to be here.”

Joel’s hand tightens protectively on the baby’s back as he continues.

“What I miss about us is knowin’ I could count on you. Maybe I haven’t earned that lately, but I need you to know you can still count on me. I’m still your brother, Tommy.”

Joel turns to look at you then, and your lungs catch.

His voice is soft, almost reverent, and his hand joins your fingers that are clammy and splayed on the couch, intertwining his with them again.

“What I see in you is... someone doin’ such a beautiful job bein’ a mother.” His eyes flicker over your face and your heart constricts.

“I see how tired you are. How you keep pushin’ through, even when you’ve got nothin’ left. Sam is lucky to have you. We all are.”

A long pause.

“When I see you... I see everything.” His eyes glint. “I see my future. I see the mother of my child—”

There’s a short pause as his eyes flicker over to Tommy, gauging the reaction, before gazing back at you, clearing his throat.

“What I need from you is to stop actin’ like you’re caught in the middle. You’re allowed to make a decision that might hurt us. But you chose this too, same as we did. You’re allowed to want both of us. To lean on us in different ways. We can work with that. We can make that work.”

“What I miss is... how easy it was. Bein’ near you, talkin’ to you. Just sittin’ in the same room and feelin’ like that was… enough.”

He glances at you, something flickering behind his eyes.

“It used to be simple. And I didn’t realize how much that mattered ‘til it wasn’t.”

The room quiets.

Tommy shifts forward slightly, his knees brushing yours. Tess watches closely.

“Tommy,” she says gently, “Why don’t you hold her hand while you speak?”

Tommy hesitates. Then he reaches out, lacing his fingers through your free hand. Your hands are linked between them, one held in each of theirs.

He turns to Joel first.

“What I see in you is someone who’s been trying to take my place.” Joel stiffens, but he lets Tommy keep going.

“I know how things got. How tangled up everything’s been. But I’m allowed to feel that way. You’ve been whisperin’ in her ear, turnin’ her against me when we fight. That’s what it’s felt like. But couples fight, Joel. They cry, they scream, they figure it out. It don’t mean it’s over.”

Joel opens his mouth, but Tess lifts a hand slightly: not yet.

“What I need from you is the truth. Not the quiet kind you use to protect people– to protect yourself more like. I need the real truth of it. Because if you’re gonna be here, then you better stop waitin’ for the bottom to fall out. Either be in it, or don’t.”

His eyes drop to his lap.

“What I miss is feelin’ like I could count on you too. Even before all this. Before we both fell in love with the same damn woman and stopped talkin’ like we used to. I miss gettin’ wings at the Tipsy Bison with you an’Sarah on Wednesdays. I miss watchin’ the Cowboys, crackin’ a cold one on a Sunday. I miss us just bein’... just brothers.”

Then Tommy turns to you, his thumb sweeping gently across the top of your knuckles.

“What I see in you is someone stretched thin. Tryin’ to be everything for everyone. And I think in the middle of that, I forgot how to make you feel safe.” His voice shakes just slightly.

“What I need from you is to stop actin’ like stayin quiet keeps everything fair. Like not choosin’ is somehow keepin’ the peace. It’s not. All it does is make me feel like I’m a third wheel in my own marriage.” he sighs, sorting through his thoughts, “I just want you to be honest about what you feel, what you need. From me. Not just from him. I don’t wanna feel like I’m always a step behind, tryin’ to prove I still matter in all this.

You squeeze his hand, nodding.

“What I miss about us,” he finishes softly, “is that feeling I used to have when I looked at you. That certainty. Like no matter what, we’d figure it out.”

You pinch your brows together, an apology written on your face as Tess draws in a soft breath, folding her hands over her clipboard.

“Thank you,” she says, her voice a little quieter now. “All of you.”

She pauses, letting her gaze pass over each of you — Joel, still holding the baby, Tommy, knuckles a little white where his hand still holds yours, and you, sitting between them, strung out and seen for the first time in what feels like months.

“That was not easy. And you stayed with each other through it.” Her eyes are kind, earnest. “That matters.”

She leans back slightly in her chair. “You’ve given each other a lot to think about. There’s hurt here, but there’s also love and commitment, even if it’s messy.”

She nods once, thoughtful.

“I’m not going to ask you to do more today. You’ve all been carrying enough. For now, I want you to sit with what was said. Let it settle. Think about each other’s expectations. How you heard each other. What you want moving forward.”

Her smile is gentle.

“We’ll meet again next week. No homework. No pressure. I know you’ll be busy with the little one.”

Joel glances down at the baby still cradled against his chest, his palm softly cupping the back of Sam’s tiny head. A quiet hum of agreement leaves him, like he already knows you'll be awake every hour tonight.

Tess stands slowly. “Take care of yourselves. And each other.”

Outside, the three of you walk out into the cooling afternoon air. The sun is low, casting gold along the pavement. Joel still carries Sam, his big hand shielding the baby’s head from the breeze.

The silence between you isn’t necessarily heavy, but full and settling.

You stop beside the car and turn toward both of them.

Without speaking, you wrap your arm around Joel’s side and your free arm around Tommy’s back, pulling them both in. Neither resists. Joel leans his head against yours for just a second. Tommy's hand presses gently at your lower back.

The hug holds.

Then Joel shifts, adjusting the baby and glancing down at him. “Here,” he murmurs, careful as he lifts Sam and passes him back to you.

You cradle the baby close, resting your cheek against the top of his soft little head, breathing him in.

Then you glance up at Joel, your voice gentle. “Come over for dinner tonight?”

He raises an eyebrow, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Tommy’s cooking his famous chili,” you add, nudging your shoulder lightly into Tommy’s side.

Joel’s brow lifts a little higher. “Since when you got a famous recipe I don't know about?”

Tommy shrugs with a quiet laugh. “Since I started doin’ more of the cookin’ lately. But… could be nice,” he says, glancing at Joel, then at you. “Just to talk.”

Joel hesitates for a second, then shifts his weight, looking over to his truck, “Can’t tonight. I gotta get Sarah settled, junior year’s kickin’ her butt right now, wanna make sure she has a good night.”

You nod, trying not to let your disappointment show, but he notices anyway.

“I’ll be over first thing in the morning,” he adds, then looks at his brother, “You’re good to be on site, right? Got contractors comin’ to lay the framing before they pour concrete.”

Tommy nods. “Eight sharp.”

Joel leans in, kisses your cheek, just light and familiar in his farewell. Then he rubs his knuckles gently over Sammy’s cheek, careful not to wake him.

He meets Tommy’s eyes and gives a short nod. “See you.”

Tommy nods back. “Yeah. See you.”

“Goodnight,” you murmur, watching him turn away.

Joel smiles briefly before walking off toward his truck, the light stretching long behind him.

“I just don’t understand why everything has to be a damn therapy session,” Tommy mutters, rubbing at his face as he yanks a shirt over his head, his voice low but sharp in the stillness of morning.

You shift Sammy against your chest, adjusting your grip as he nurses quietly, his small body heavy in your arms. The weight of him is comforting and exhausting all at once. Your back aches. Your eyes sting from another night of broken sleep. You’re still in the oversized shirt you slept in, bunched up awkwardly to give the baby access as you lean into the headboard.

“Tommy, it’s not,” you say, voice hoarse with tiredness. “Tess says we need to communicate. And I was just saying—”

“Yeah,” he cuts in, bending to grab his boots from the floor. “You were sayin’ I don’t do enough.”

“That’s not what I said.” You exhale hard, slumping back as the baby shifts and latches again. “I said maybe if you were more aware of how you’re feeling, I wouldn’t have to pull it out of you every damn time.”

He lets out a soft, humorless laugh as he sits on the edge of the bed to tie his laces. “Sounds like the same thing to me.”

You adjust the blanket over Sammy’s back, trying to focus on the slow rhythm of his breathing, his tiny hand resting against your chest. Everything in you feels pulled taut. Between your body and your thoughts, there’s nothing left that belongs only to you.

“I’m not trying to fight,” you say, quieter now. “I just don’t want to keep playing this guessing game of how you’re feeling. We have to talk to each other.”

Tommy doesn’t answer. He finishes tying his boots, stands, and grabs his jacket from the hook by the bedroom door. For a second, it seems like he might walk out without saying anything at all.

But then he circles around the bed and leans down and kisses the top of your head, his lips barely touching your hair.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “You’re right.”

And that’s it.

Not tender but not unkind either. Just enough to move past it.

You nod, but your eyes stay on the baby. Tommy lingers for a moment longer, then heads for the door. The sound of it closing behind him is soft, but it feels louder than it should.

You adjust Sammy again, not because he needs it, but because you don’t know what else to do with your hands.

Downstairs, you hear the low murmur of voices, a few words exchanged, calm and indistinct. Joel, you assume. Then footsteps, slow and familiar, making their way up the stairs.

He appears in the doorway with a mug in his hand and that quiet, almost apologetic smile he gets in the mornings. His voice is soft when he speaks.

“Mornin’.”

“Hey,” you exhale, too tired to say more.

He comes around the bed just as you lift Sammy up to your shoulder, patting gently at his back. Joel sets the mug down on the nightstand and holds out his hands.

“Let me take him.”

You don’t hesitate. You ease the baby into his arms, and Joel takes him like it’s second nature, one hand cradling his head, the other curling protectively around his small body, patting him on his back.

“Get some more sleep,” he says, voice low, steady. “Tommy said you were up half the night. I got this.”

You manage a faint smile and murmur your thanks. Joel just nods, already rocking gently in place, gaze focused on the baby like there’s nothing else in the world that needs his attention right now.

And as he shuts the door behind him, you’re already drifting back to sleep.

When you wake again, the light in the room has shifted, warmer now and spilling across the hardwood in quiet streaks. You lie still for a moment, your body heavy and aching in all the familiar places—shoulders sore, lower back aching, and breasts heavy.

The house is quiet, but not silent. There’s a low, murmuring voice downstairs, rhythmic and gentle. You push the blankets back and stand, rubbing the sleep from your eyes as you shuffle barefoot to the door.

Once down the stairs, you detour into the kitchen, grabbing a piece of toast from the counter, half-eaten from a midnight snack during the wee hours of the morning. The murmuring continues closer now, just around the corner in the living room.

You peek in.

Joel is on the couch, legs bent with his heels resting on the coffee table. Sammy lies across his thighs, his head by Joel’s knees, arms flailing in slow-motion like he’s swimming through thick air. His little feet keep kicking up into Joel’s stomach, and Joel keeps pretending to be offended by it.

“Oh, alright,” Joel says softly, eyes on the baby, grabbing his feet gently after one good kick. “You’re feelin’ tough this morning, huh? Gonna try and take me out one toe at a time?” He leans in slightly, eyebrows raised, and gives the tiniest shake of his head. “You don’t even know how dangerous I am, buddy. One more punch to the gut and I’ll eat those toes right off.”

He scoops up one of Sam’s feet and presses a loud, smacking kiss to the bottom of it. Sam wiggles, blinking up at the ceiling, cheeks pulling into a half smile.

Joel grins. “Tough crowd.”

You lean against the doorway, smiling into your toast, watching the way Joel’s voice softens around the baby. He looks completely at home, like this is the only thing he was meant to do. He took to the caretaker role with ease, with a gentleness you knew was there but still pulled at your heartstrings to see. His hand rests gently on Sam’s belly, thumb stroking absent patterns through the fabric of the blanket.

Eventually he glances up and spots you there.

“Hey,” he says.

You step into the room, yawning softly. “I’m surprised he let me sleep so long,”

Joel nods. “Oh, yeah. We’ve been busy havin’ lots of intelligent conversations about how to build a house, how kickin’ your daddy is rude,”

Your feet still halfway across the rug.

It hangs in the air, the word daddy.

Joel doesn’t flinch, but he doesn’t look at you either. Just gently tugs the baby’s sock back into place like nothing happened.

You move toward the couch slowly, toast forgotten in your hand. He said it so easily, like it belonged to him, like it didn’t need discussion.

You’re not mad. Not even really surprised. But something knots in your stomach all the same. Not in a bad way, just… tight. Complicated.

Because what do you call him? What do you call either of them?

Tommy’s the husband. The legal father. But Joel’s the one who got you here, who made this all possible. He’s been here in the quiet hours, the one who holds Sammy like he’s always known him, the one who keeps showing up with soft hands and gentler eyes than he knows what to do with.

Is it normal for a baby to have two dads?

You don’t know. But somehow, it doesn’t feel wrong.

Joel finally glances up, like he can feel you thinking too loud. His eyes meet yours, uncertain.

“Sorry,” he says quietly, like he’s backing away from the thought.

You shake your head, sitting down beside him. “Don’t be.”

And just like that, you both look down at the baby again.

“He’s probably due to eat again soon,” you say, voice low.

Joel nods, “I figured. He’s been frowin’ at me for the last ten minutes.”

“He gets that from you,” you say around your last bite of toast as you brush the crumbs off your fingers, holding your hands out to take the baby. Joel transfers him gently into your arms without a word, just a soft look. You adjust your shirt and get Sammy latched, his small mouth working almost immediately. It still aches a little, but you’re used to that now. The sting fades fast enough.

Joel doesn’t look away from your face. He just watches you, like he’s still surprised by the whole thing. The way your body knows what to do. The way you cradle Sam like he was always supposed to be here.

“It suits you,” he says finally, “Motherhood.”

You scoff, “Not so sure about that,” then, tucking the blanket around the baby, you add. “I look like I got hit by a truck.”

Joel huffs a breath through his nose, almost a laugh. “Still.”

You glance up at him, cheeks warm, but before you can say anything else, he leans over and presses a kiss to your temple.

And then your cheek.

And then, gently, he kisses your lips.

It’s slow. Soft. Still tinged with that quiet affection that’s been simmering between you since before everything fell apart.

You let it happen, you even lean into it.

But when he pulls back, your mouth curls into a crooked little smile.

“Real romantic of you,” you murmur. “Kissin’ me with a baby attached to my boob.”

Joel laughs, real and warm, the sound vibrating from his chest. “Can’t help myself,” he says, eyes flicking over your face. “You’re just so damn pretty.”

You shake your head, but you’re still smiling. Sammy suckles contentedly between you, unaware of the way his mother and… whatever Joel is now… keep orbiting closer and closer.

You don’t have the words for any of it. Not yet. But it feels good. It feels okay.

The thing is, you'd already gotten the all-clear from your doctor. Physically, your body was healed, ready to be intimate again. But emotionally, mentally, you hadn’t felt ready. Not yet.

Not when your body still felt like a vessel. A machine built to feed, to soothe, to keep tiny lungs breathing steady through the night. You hadn’t really felt like you again. Not in the way that mattered. You were a mother now, and that shift had been swift and irreversible. Beautiful, yes, but altering in a way that left you grasping for pieces of who you used to be.

And now, everything had more weight. You weren’t just navigating your own wants, or theirs. There was someone else in the mix. A tiny person who would grow up watching you, learning from the way you looked at Joel, the way you touched Tommy. Watching the love between all three of you and making sense of it in his own way. That made you cautious. Careful.

Sarah came around too. Mostly in the afternoons now that fall was in full swing and she was buried in homework. She’d slip in after school, wave hello, drop her backpack by the couch and curl up to do her work while Joel rocked Sam or helped you prep dinner. She didn’t ask questions, not yet—but there were still answers you knew would have to come.

At least the chaos had begun to settle. Sam was four months old and sleeping longer stretches now, Joel coming and going with his usual quiet consistency. Tommy stayed most mornings, all of you still trying to find the rhythm of it all. You hadn’t lied to the therapist when you said you’d found a groove, something steady in the storm of new parenthood.

But where you fit in it...that still felt blurry.

This morning, Tommy’s home. You’d heard him moving quietly through the nursery, the soft creak of the floorboards and the hushed murmurs he offered the baby as he changed a diaper. And now, he’s by your side, handing Sam over with no more than a gentle brush of your fingers. He doesn’t say much, but he sits back in bed, yawning. The morning is still early, the sky outside a pale wash of gray and blue.

After Sammy finishes nursing, you hold him close for a while, letting his warmth soak into your skin, getting him to let out a little burp against your shoulder. His breath is slow and steady, his small weight curled against your chest like he still belongs to your body. But eventually, he’s out cold, and you carefully get up lay him back to his nursery and set him in the crib.

When you walk back to your bedroom, it’s still quiet. Morning light filters in through the curtains, the house hasn’t woken up fully yet, and neither has the day. It feels like one of those rare soft moments, the ones you’d come to cherish just between you and your husband.

So you climb back into bed and turn toward Tommy, watching as he stretches out beside you. You touch his arm, then his chest, letting your hand linger.

“Come here,” you murmur, your voice still gentle from sleep.

He does. He settles in next to you, his arm rising to loop around your shoulders and pulling the blanket over both your bodies. You nestle close, your face tucked near his collarbone. It feels good. Solid. Safe.

You kiss him, tentative at first, testing the waters. He kisses you back, warm and a little surprised, but you press into it with more urgency, craving that spark you’ve been missing. The one that used to live between you so easily.

Your body is finally feeling like yours again—or, at least, starting to. For the first time in months, you feel that ache in your belly that has nothing to do with pain and everything to do with having a man with his arms around you. With missing the feeling of being wanted. Your blood feels warmer, your skin more sensitive. You’re ready. You want this. You want him.

Your hand moves to his waist, slips beneath his shirt. You press your chest against his, mouth parting against his.

But Tommy pulls back a little.

Not completely or abruptly, just… enough. His hand stills on your hip. His eyes dart toward the monitor on your bedside table.

He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t need to. You can feel it, that reluctance. The discomfort.

You pause, breath shallow in your throat.

“…What?” you whisper, “You okay?”

Tommy shifts, pulling his hand away. “Yeah. I just—” He sits up slightly, dragging a hand down his face. “I dunno. It’s early. Gotta keep an eye on the monitor. And I just…”

He doesn’t finish.

You sit back against the pillows, heart sinking. The moment has slipped through your fingers like sand, and now you’re left holding the shape of something that could’ve been.

It’s been months. And within the past week, you’d started to feel like you again. And your husband said no. Maybe not outright, but not a wholehearted yes either. He’s allowed that, sure. You just…didn’t expect it.

You pull the blanket tighter around yourself and say nothing.

Tommy exhales and swings his legs off the bed. “I’ll make some coffee,” he mutters.

You nod, eyes locked on the ceiling, willing the sting behind them to go away.

You sit across from him at the dinner table that evening, a simple dinner between you, picked up while you and Sammy napped that afternoon.

Sammy kicks his legs with soft, erratic movements, his little fists in the air. He coos soft and sweet, eyes fixed on the ceiling fan, then flickering toward the two of you. When you lean over and tickle his tummy, his mouth opens in a gummy grin.

You smile back, brushing your knuckles lightly over his soft cotton onesie. “You’re in a good mood today,” you murmur.

Across the table, Tommy forks food into his mouth with one hand, scrolling something on his phone with the other.

“How’s work been?” you ask, trying not to let the silence stretch too far.

He shrugs. “Busy. Contractors finally started pourin’ today.”

“That’s good.”

“Mm.”

You push a piece of food around your plate before bringing it to your mouth and chewing slowly as you glance at him. His face is unreadable, focused somewhere far away. Not cold, just distant.

“You’ve been quiet,” you say. “Even this morning. I just… I don’t know where your head is lately.”

Tommy sets down his fork, wiping his hands on a napkin.

He doesn’t look at you right away. Instead, he glances over at the baby, at the slow bounce of the seat, the soft dimples pulling in your son's cheeks as he looks back at him. They both smile at each other for a moment, though Tommy’s doesn’t quite meet his eyes.

“Like I said before” you offer, “I just don’t want to have to guess what you’re feelin’, if you’d just—”

“I’ve been seein’ Maria.”

The words land like a weight between you. No preamble. No softening. Just like that.

You blink. The baby kicks again, cooing again for your attention.

The room goes still.

“You’ve been…seeing….” your brain feels like static, channels flickering through words as you try to piece them together, “Maria…”

Tommy sighs, rubbing his jaw. “Her an’ Frankie split, ya know. I’ve been stoppin’ by her place sometimes, see if I can help with anythin’. We got to talkin’. About everything—relationships, parenthood. It’s been nice, havin’ someone to talk to about all of it.”

“Okay,” you say slowly.

He looks over at you, “We’ve been sleepin’ together.”

Your eyes don’t move from him, but they begin to burn with a slow, simmering rage. “When the hell did you even have time for that? Between the site and bein’ here with Sam—”

He shrugs, jaw tight. “Made time.”

You blink at him. The room feels smaller.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Tommy.” you say, throwing down your napkin, the utensils clattering on the table.

His voice flares a little. “It ain’t like you and Joel haven’t—”

“Don’t,” you say sharply, standing up so fast your chair scrapes against the floor. “That is not remotely the same.”

Sammy fusses at the sudden tension, a little cry bubbling up in his chest.

“I’m not doin’ this right now,” Tommy mutters, shaking his head.

“You brought it up!” you shoot back. “You practically dropped it in my lap like some casual thing! Like it doesn’t wreck everything we’ve been trying to do!”

He doesn’t answer right away. He just looks past you, jaw tight, fingers flexing slightly against the table as Sam starts to cry again.

You take a breath. “How long?”

He finally looks at you. There’s no fight in his eyes. No remorse, either. Just tired acceptance.

“A few months.”

Your throat tightens. You push your chair back fully, bending down to lift Sammy from the bouncer, hitching him on your hip. He quiets as you lift him up, his little hands pressing into your collarbone, both of you looking at Tommy with red cheeks and glistening eyes.

“Well,” you say quietly, adjusting the baby's onesie with trembling fingers, “I was really trying to figure all this out. Trying to make it work.” You lift your eyes to him, something sharp creeping into your voice. “But I guess you’ve gone and made the decision for us.”

Tommy’s brow furrows, his jaw working like he wants to say something as he looks up at you from his seat.

“I want a divorce, Tommy.”

He flinches like you hit him. But he doesn’t argue or raise his voice. After a moment, he sighs and just nods. Like it’s something he’s already thought about.

And that somehow hurts worse than if he’d fought you on it. He doesn’t even ask for an explanation.

You hug Sammy a little closer, watching Tommy’s shoulders sag.

“Why the hell did we even go to therapy if this was already happening? Why’d you sit next to me and bother to pretend like you were trying?”

“I was tryin’,” he says, but the words are thin, paper-flat. He runs a hand through his hair and sighs. “I was tryin’ to be a good dad. And I figured…if I could just do that much…”

You hadn’t seen it. Not really. He’d been good with the baby, gentle and helpful, and you’d been too tired to notice how he’d already left you behind. Not physically. Emotionally. As a husband. As a partner.

And now, when you need him to show up and fight, there’s nothing left in him. Nothing but a shrug and a sigh.

You take a breath, force your voice to stay calm.

“Well, I hope Maria has room in her bed for you tonight,” you say, shifting the baby higher in your arms. “Get out.”

The next morning, you wake with a jolt.

The light streaming through the blinds is too bright. Not the soft pale glow of early morning, but that harsh, bright sunlight of the day already starting without you. You hadn’t woken up to the sound of Sam crying for his next meal. You shoot upright, heart hammering and hand already reaching towards the baby monitor on your bedside table.

But the crib is empty.

You sit up quickly. The covers slide off your legs. Your throat tightens.

Empty.

For a second, your breath stops. You forget how to move. Your entire body goes still, locked in place as the worst possibilities flash through your mind like a siren. The room tilts slightly before the static hum from the monitor finally catches up, and then a soft sound filters through the tiny speaker. A voice.

It's just a gentle murmuring from Joel’s figure, voice low and quiet, the familiar rasp of it slowed into something gentle. You blink at the screen. The camera has tilted slightly, off center, but just enough to catch the edges of the rocker in the corner of the nursery. Joel’s legs are stretched out, one ankle crossed over the other, his body relaxed in that way only he ever manages. Your son is in his arms, nestled to his chest with a bottle held steady in one hand.

You hear him singing.

“If I ever were to lose you…”

You sink back into the pillows, one hand pressed flat over your chest, trying to slow your breathing. The tension melts from your body all at once, leaving behind something else—something heavier.

“...I’d surely lose myself,”

You watch him on the monitor as the image flickers again. Joel is looking down at Sam like he’s the most important thing he’s ever held. His expression is so soft it makes your chest ache. The bottle is nearly empty. The baby’s fingers curl loosely around one of Joel’s thumbs, and Joel shifts just enough to cradle his small head more securely.

“Everything I have found dear, I’ve not found by myself…”

You stare and stare and stare at the monitor screen.

Your hand lifts to your mouth without thinking. Your palm presses firm against your lips, trying to stop the feelings before they start.

“Try and sometimes you’ll succeed… to make this man of me…”

You don’t mean to cry. You don’t even feel it coming. One second, you’re watching Joel rock gently with your son, and the next your eyes blur, your shoulders hitch. A sob climbs up the back of your throat, muffled beneath your hand as you try to keep quiet.

You tell yourself it’s the postpartum. The hormones. The sleeplessness. The residual ache in your joints, the rawness in your body, the way your heart seems too big for your chest lately.

But you know that’s not the truth.

Not the whole truth.

You know it in the deepest parts of yourself. In the spaces you haven’t had time to visit lately. The ones that have gone untouched while you learned how to be someone new. A mother. A woman who survived childbirth. A woman who stayed up night after night whispering lullabies in the dark, nursing a child while the man she married quietly drifted further and further away.

It had been happening for months. You see it clearly now. You were so consumed with survival, with getting through the day and the next one after that, that you didn’t realize how far gone he was.

Tommy found something in Maria that you weren’t giving him. Something easier, maybe something softer. You don’t even blame him, not really. You know you’ve been hard to love lately. Closed off, frayed at the edges. But he didn’t fight for you. He just went and found someone else. And now that you know, the hollowness inside you twists into heartbreak.

“...All my stolen missing parts, I've no need for anymore…”

Joel’s voice settles over you like a blanket. You close your eyes, clutching the edge of the plastic monitor in your hand, as your ribs ache from trying not to fall apart completely.

You think of the way he always holds Sam like he was made for it. The way he instinctively knows how to quiet him when he fusses. The way his voice drops into something softer, something warmer, even when he’s speaking to you.

Joel has always been steady. Even in his silence, even in his desolation. He never once let you feel alone, even when you tried to push him away.

And now, as he rocks your child in the nursery, singing softly through the monitor, you feel something split open in your chest.

Because he never made you guess where his heart was.

He gave you everything without needing to be asked.

And it was never about obligation. He knew how to see you without looking away. He made you feel wanted. Desired. Not for what you could do. Not for the baby you could make, but for who you were.

Joel made it about you. Always you.

Tommy wanted a future. A family. A child. And in so many ways, he meant well. He was good. He gave you so much. But there had always been this sense, deep underneath it all, that you were trying to become the version of yourself he needed. That everything you were, everything you gave, was meant to fit into that shape he’d carved out for a life with you.

You curl onto your side, tears sliding across the pillow, the monitor still clutched in your hand.

“I believe,” Joel sings, voice quieter now, but still carrying through the static, “and I believe, ’cause I can see… our future days. Days of you and me.”

You sob quietly into the sheets, biting your knuckle so you won’t wake the whole house.

But eventually, a little while later, your body’s needs win over any semblance of staying in bed. Hunger gnaws at the edges of you, and the dull ache behind your ribs reminds you to get up. To eat, to do something. So you peel yourself from the bed with effort, padding barefoot into the hallway.

You expect silence, maybe Joel whispering to the baby in the nursery, maybe the sound of a lullaby or soft humming. What you don’t expect is the low hum of the washer and the sight of him shirtless over it, the laundry room door wide open. The soft light of the hanging bulb spills out around his frame, casting him in a light frame of gold.

He hears your steps immediately.

“Hey,” he says, glancing up.

Then he really looks at you, and his brow furrows. “Hey,” again, firmer this time, already stepping forward. His hands come to your face without hesitation, warm and steady. “What’s goin’ on, sweetheart?”

That voice, so kind and low and worried, is enough to split you wide open. Your chin trembles as your hands find his shoulders, curling into the back of his neck, fingers tangled in the curls at his nape. You don’t answer him. You just pull him down and kiss him.

It’s messy and desperate and tastes like salt and his minty toothpaste, but he meets you right there, mouth warm and open against yours, hands sliding around your head and into your hair to steady you.

When he pulls back, it’s just enough to breathe. “What’s—”

But you cut him off again. Another kiss, more feverish this time. You don’t want to talk. You don’t want to think. You just want to feel something that isn’t betrayal or failure or loneliness.

He kisses you back until he can’t anymore, and then he murmurs against your lips, “Baby, stop. Come on.”

You finally let him go, arms dropping limply to your sides. Rejection stings like vinegar in a wound. You know it’s not fair, Joel doesn’t owe you this, he doesn’t understand. But still, it’s there, sharp and fresh.

And he sees it, of course he does. He stays close, cupping your jaw, eyes darting between yours, steady and searching. “Talk to me.”

You deflect without thinking, looking down at the running wash. “What happened to your shirt?”

He blinks at the question, thrown for a second, but he lets it go. “Got spit up on by your son.”

“Your son,” you echo, soft and low. Your fingers brush over his chest, the hair there thick and coarse under your touch.

Joel huffs a soft laugh, and you feel his hands move to your ribs. He lifts you with ease, turning and setting you on top of the dryer, the machine quiet beneath you. He leans in, arms caging on either side of you with his palms flat, face close.

“Talk to me, please,” he says again, quieter now. He kisses the corner of your mouth, gentle and coaxing.

You drop your face into your hands. You can't look at him. Not yet. But Joel doesn’t let you hide, he takes your wrists carefully, the pads of his thumbs stroking over your pulse as he draws your hands away. He presses a kiss to one fingertip. Then another, and another. The tenderness of it threatens to break something open in you.

“I just… I feel like I do everything wrong,” you murmur.

Joel starts to shake his head. “You don’t—”

“I’ve been a terrible partner. To you. To Tommy.” Your voice wavers, thick with shame. “I pushed him away. I know I did.”

“Hey,” he says gently, leaning in, “no—”

But you shake your head, and Joel quiets immediately. He waits, still and steady, just like always. You can feel him holding space for you, not trying to fix it, not trying to rush you. Just being there.

You swallow hard, throat tight. “He told me…” You pause, breathing in a deep gulp of air, “Tommy told me he’s been seein’ Maria.”

Joel’s body tenses, the air goes very still, only filled with the sound of the washer, your uneven breathing, your sniffling.

“He what now?”

Your throat tightens. The tears burn again. You nod, swallowing hard.

“He’s been seeing her for months. Since her and Frankie separated.” You look down at your hands again, like maybe they’ll make this make sense. “He said they’ve been talkin’. About parenting. About everything. That it…just happened. And I just… I asked for a divorce, Joel.”

It takes him a long beat to respond. You watch the storm pass through him, one of anger, disbelief, something colder and harder. He closes his eyes, moving to press his forehead to yours. His breath is deep, slow, like he’s forcing himself to stay grounded.

His hands come back to your face, strong and warm.

“He’s got no idea,” Joel mutters, voice like gravel. “He has no clue what he’s got.”

You shake your head slightly, and Joel feels it, his grip only tightens.

“He has no fuckin’ clue what a prize you are,” he breathes.

Your hands find his wrists, clutching hard. Tears spill again, hot and fast.

“He’s a fuckin’ idiot if he thought he could do better. You are everything. I mean it.”

He kisses you, slow and sure, pressing into you like he’s trying to remind you with every breath who you are. Who you’ve always been.

“I don’t ever wanna hear you thinkin’ otherwise,” he murmurs between kisses. “Not ever. This ain’t on you.”

You let out a choked little sound that might’ve been a sob, might’ve been relief. His hands are so soothing as they begin to drag along your sides, your arms, warm against your waist, and you can’t help the way you lean into him. How your body starts to melt under his touch. You sigh, your lips parting under his, the kiss deepening all on its own. Your tongue meets his and something inside you shivers awake, slow and warm and wanting.

“I love you, Joel,” you whisper between kisses, your chest tight as the words spill out. “I’m sorry. For everything. For puttin’ you through all—”

“No,” he says quickly, firmly, pulling away for a moment to brush your hair back with a shake of his head. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Don’t start with that. None of that was on you.”

He trails his mouth down your jaw, warm and open, grazing your pulse with his lips. Then your neck. Then the soft curve just beneath your ear.

“‘Nough of that apologizin’,” he says again, barely above a whisper.

You close your eyes as he plants little soft kisses against you, and you feel that deep want inside you awaken, making your skin sensitive and belly flip beneath his touch. You grip his shoulders and pull him back to your mouth, needing more of him, needing everything.

“I love you too,” Joel murmurs, kissing you deeper now, his hands spreading wide over your hips. “And miss you. Missed kissin’ you. Missed havin’ you close.”

“I miss you,” you whisper, broken and breathless. “All the time.”

Joel groans quietly against your mouth, like it physically hurts him to hear that.

“I’m right here, baby,” he breathes, kissing you again like a promise. “Ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

Your breath shudders out of you, lips pushing against his. “Joel…” you whisper.

He stills, watching your face closely, his hands warm where they hold you.

“I’m ready,” you say, voice small but certain. “Please. I want you. So badly.”

His brow knits together, like he wants to be sure—completely sure. “You feel okay?” he asks quietly. “You sure you’re up for it?”

You nod, cupping his face with both hands now, the stubble scraping your palms. “I feel more myself than I have in months,” you say. “Please, Joel. I need you.”

And that seems like it’s enough for him.

He kisses you again, but messier this time, wetter, like he can’t hold back anymore. His mouth slants over yours with more hunger, more heat, like he’s trying to get closer than skin will allow. His hands slide under your thighs and pull you further to the edge of the dryer, crowding into you until there’s nothing left between you but heat.

He kisses your jaw, your throat, the hollow beneath your ear, each place drawing a little gasp from your lips. And when you sigh his name again, something soft and breathless, Joel growls low in his chest.

His mouth moves lower, dragging over your collarbone, your chest. He pulls at the hem of your sleep shirt, tugging it upward, exposing you to the open air and the warmth of his mouth. He kisses your breasts, slow and open-mouthed, tongue flicking softly as you arch under him.

“Christ,” he mutters against your skin. “Missed you so much. You’re so fuckin’ beautiful.”

You whimper, thighs tightening around him, and he kisses down the curve of your stomach, and you lean back to give him access as his lips press into every inch he can reach, his fingers slipping under the waistband of your panties.

When he tugs them down, slow and careful, his eyes flick up to meet yours again.

“You still sure?” he asks, voice low.

You reach for him again, threading your fingers into his hair. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

He hums softly, a little broken sound, and kisses the inside of your thigh and his hands slide down your legs, fingers grazing over your knees.

“Let me take care of you, baby,” he murmurs, breath warm against your skin. His hands guide your legs apart with care, spreading you open for him as he kisses a path up from your knees. His lips graze the inside of one thigh, then the other, slow and careful, like he’s savoring the moment. Like he’s savoring you.

Your breath comes quicker the higher he gets, chest rising and falling with shallow little pants, your skin already flushed and hot. It’s been so long—months— since anyone touched you like this, looked at you like this, and Joel is looking at you like you’re holy.

He glances up, eyes half lidded and dark. “Always so good for me,” he murmurs against your thigh, voice a low drawl that makes your belly clench. “You’re burnin’ up, sweetheart.”

“Joel,” you whisper, your voice nearly breaking on his name. You can’t sit still, your hips already tilting toward his mouth like you’re starving.

His hands squeeze at your thighs. “I got you,” he says, and kisses right at the crease where your leg meets your hip. “Just let me take my time with you. Been dreamin’ about this.”

Then finally, his mouth finds you.

You cry out softly, your head tipping back, eyes fluttering shut as his tongue parts you with aching slowness. Hooking your legs over his shoulders, a low hum of contentment rumbles from his throat as he tastes you. His fingers press into your thighs, holding you still as he works, mouth so gentle, so thorough it makes your legs tremble.

He pulls back just a little, breath hot against you. “So sensitive, baby,” he says, grinning a little when you mewl and try to press yourself closer.

Joel leans in again, licking a long stripe before wrapping his lips around you, tongue flicking gently before suckling around your clit.

“Gonna make a mess of you, sweet girl. Make you come so many times before I even get my cock in you,” he pants, one of his hands sliding upward, the pads of his fingers finding you and pushing inside of you with slow, careful movement, curling just right once pressed to the knuckle. The stretch makes you moan, your hips undulating against his fingers and mouth. He groans into you, loving the sound, the way you clench around him.

He licks and strokes you, teasing until you’re shaking, your thighs trembling around his shoulders. He keeps one hand firm on your thigh, his eyes never leaving your face as you come unravel above him. Every gasp, every cry, he drinks it in like he’s been starving for the sound of it.

That pressure, the kind only he ever managed to pull from you like this and always so damn quick, coils deep along your spine, winding tighter with every curl of his fingers. And then he finds it, just that one spot, and presses.

You wail, high and ragged, your body bowing toward him as the wave crashes through you, fierce and fast and blinding. You’re cresting, cascading, bursting at the seams, coming hard around his fingers with a helpless cry that rips from your throat.

Joel groans into your center, holding you through it, letting you shake apart in his hands.

His hands slow. One strokes your hip, the other smoothing gently over your thigh after he pulls it from your walls. He kisses the inside of your leg, then again a little higher, then higher still, trailing a path back up along your skin.

You feel his breath first, then the low rasp of his voice.

"How many more you think you can do?" he murmurs against you, lips brushing against your stomach.

Your head falls back, neck craning as you catch your breath, body limp and overheated, sweat clinging to your skin. You run your fingers through his hair again, a gentle tug, and sigh with a breathy laugh.

“Oh god,” you whisper, still panting. “I don’t know if I could take any more.”

Joel chuckles against your thigh, hot and smug and a little devilish. He lifts his head just a little, and you look back down at him to see a devilish glint in his eye.

“I don’t know, sweetheart…” he says, bringing his hand between your thighs. You jolt as his thumb begins brushing the lightest feather touch to your swollen, sensitive clit. “Our record’s five just from this. Think I could get at least six.”

Your eyes widen, your jaw dropping a little in disbelief, a laugh bubbling up in your chest. “Joel—”

But he just winks, and before you can finish whatever protest you were about to make, he dives back in, tongue and fingers working in tandem like a man on a mission. And all you can do is gasp, clutch his hair tighter, and try not to completely fall apart all over again.

But he makes you.

Again.

And again.

“Okay, okay, okay!” you eventually squeal, breathless and trembling, your whole body buzzing as you push him away from your soaked center. You're slick with sweat, flushed all over, and the insides of your thighs slide against one another, wet from your own arousal. Your skin is glistening, the aftermath of release painting every inch of you. Joel slowly pulls his fingers from between your legs, wet and glistening with the proof of your seventh—yes, seventh—orgasm.

You pant, trying to catch your breath, still twitching from his attack on you. “I’m only just getting back into this,” you manage, voice thin and hoarse with pleasure. “You gotta go easy.”

“That was me goin’ easy,” Joel mutters, standing and kissing you before you can protest. He tastes like you, tangy and sweet. His beard is damp, his lips sticky from the mess he made of you, and when he plunges his tongue into your mouth, you moan at the flavor of yourself on him. He wraps his arms around you, pulling you tight, then carefully lifts you from the dryer and carries you down the hallway.

As he passes the nursery, he whispers against your ear, “How much more time you think we got before he’s up?”

“At least twenty minutes.”

“Perfect.”

He nudges your bedroom door open with his boot and steps inside, the room dim and soft in the mid morning light. He lays you gently down on the bedspread and doesn’t move right away. He stays there, looking at you like he’s memorizing every part of you. One hand lifts to brush your damp hair back from your face. His eyes are still dark with want, but there’s something else there too, something quieter.

“I love you,” he says, voice steady and low.

You feel the words tighten in your throat, a rush of emotion sweeping over you. Your hands reach up to cup his face, fingers threading into his hair.

“I love you, Joel.”

He kisses your chin, your jaw, the tip of your nose, then finds your mouth again and kisses you slow and deep, like he’s sealing it in place.

Then he sits up, and you watch as he strips off what little clothing he has left. You don’t look away, taking in every inch of him.

“You’re so pretty,” you murmur.

He laughs under his breath, bending back over to kiss your neck, his beard rasping gently across your oversensitive skin.

“You’re so pretty,” he replies, voice teasing.

“I’m serious,” you say, smiling.

“So am I. Now shut your mouth before I start blushin’.”

You both go quiet then, but the smiles don’t fade. You just look at each other for a long, suspended moment, something soft and unspoken settling between your bare skin and the morning light.

“I’m sorry,” Joel says eventually, voice low. “About my brother.”

You shake your head, hands still buried in his hair, “I don’t wanna think about that right now.”

He nods, leaning down to kiss you again, slow and warm, like a balm.

“Just wanna show you how good you are,” he murmurs against your lips. “How perfect. For me. With me.”

You hesitate for a second, remembering the boundary you’d tried to put in place last time. No more messy comparisons or crossing wires. No more talk of Tommy during sex. But right now, with Joel hovering over you, his cock hard and hot against your thigh, your body still shaking from his mouth, all you want is to feel wanted. Claimed. Loved in the most primal, unshakable way.

“No one makes me feel like you do,” you whisper. It slips out before you can stop it, the truth of it curling in the space between you.

Joel stills slightly, lifting his head just enough to catch your eyes. “What was that?”

You look right at him, breath catching a little. “Tommy could never make me feel as good as you do, Joel.”

And maybe it’s petty, maybe it's mean and vengeful, but you don’t care. Because Joel’s eyes darken instantly. A low sound rumbles from his chest, and he leans in, lips brushing yours, voice barely held back. He nips at your bottom lip before murmuring:

“Say it again.”

You swallow, your pulse thrumming in your throat, your body still trembling from everything he’d already given you.

“You fuck me better than he ever could,” you whisper, breath hitching in your lungs. “Better than anyone ever has.”

Joel groans, low and rough, like it’s been pulled straight from his chest. He presses his forehead into the crook of your neck, the heat of his breath hot against your skin. One hand slides down to your thigh, gripping firmly, spreading you wider as he nestles between your legs. His other hand wraps around himself, thick and heavy in his palm.

You reach down, your smaller hand covering his, fingers curling over his wrist as you guide him to your center.

“You’re so warm,” he murmurs, his voice reverent as he rubs the head of his cock through your slick folds. “So wet.”

Your breath shudders out, your lips brushing against his cheek. “For you, all for you,” you whisper, words trembling on your tongue. “I missed you, missed the way you make me feel. Every time.”

Joel groans again, rutting forward just enough to press the head of his cock at your entrance.

“Fill me up, Joel,” you breathe, your voice soft and aching. “Please.”

He sinks into you with a groan that sounds torn between pleasure and pain, the thick stretch of him dragging against every hypersensitive inch of your walls. It’s too much and not enough all at once. He fills you up completely, your pussy fluttering and pulsing just trying to accommodate the size of him, the heat of him. You gasp as your back bows, your hands scrabbling at his shoulders for purchase.

“Jesus Christ,” you breathe, legs wrapping tight around his hips, anchoring him to you. “You’re so…so deep.”

Joel’s head drops to your shoulder, his mouth pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses against your skin as he slowly starts to move, moaning into your skin. He takes long, languid strokes that feel endless, like he’s dragging himself through molasses, letting you feel every inch of him, every vein, the blunt head catching just right.

“You take me so goddamn well, baby,” he mutters, voice thick and reverent. “Always do. Always so tight, so fuckin’ wet for me.”

His body eclipses yours entirely, shielding you from the rest of the world like he’s your shelter, your storm, your everything. His forearms bracket your head, caging you in, the muscles in his back working under your palms as he drives into you with slow, consuming force.

“Feels so good, Joel,” you whisper, mouth pressing into his as his head turns to you, and you let out a breathless laugh as you admit, “Feels like you’re splitting me in half,”

You kiss him deeper, your tongue sweeping through his mouth before you say, “You make me feel so good, so wanted. Like I’m yours.”

Joel pulls back just enough to look at you again, lips kiss bitten and his eyes wild with heat and something deeper.

“You are mine,” he says, jaw tight. “Look at you, baby. Look at how fuckin’ pretty you are. Laid out for me like this. All mine.”

His thrusts grow deeper, more purposeful, as he shifts the angle of his hips. The new rhythm hits something inside you that makes you cry out, your fingers clawing at his back. Joel’s lip snarls at the look on your face, that primal, possessive side of him clawing its way out as he growls low in his throat, a sound more animal than human. He dips his head to take your breast in his mouth, sucking your nipple between his teeth while his hips never stop.

Your body lights up at the sensation, pleasure ripping through you as you keen beneath him, sweat beading at your temple.

He releases you with a wet pop, panting against your skin, the sound making your walls convulse and flutter around him. “You feel that, sweetheart? That’s how much I missed you. Missed this tight little pussy. Fuck—” he bites down gently on your other breast, then kisses the sting away.

You whimper, your body jerking as his cock pulses inside you.

“You’re so fucking big,” you gasp, “I can feel you everywhere—Joel—oh my god—”

“That’s it,” he grits, one hand slipping down to rub slow, aching circles over your clit. “Come on, baby. Come again for me. Let me feel you squeeze me. I need it. Need to feel you.”

Your head tips back as the pleasure builds again, white-hot and unforgiving. Your thighs tremble around his waist, slick with sweat and arousal, the sound of skin on skin obscene in the quiet of the room.

“Joel, I—fuck, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he rasps, speeding up, fucking you harder now, his mouth at your ear. “You’re so close, I can feel it. Come for me. Right now, mama. Right on this cock.”

You shatter for him, again, your whole body locking up as your orgasm crashes over you like a wave, your vision blurring with the force of it. Joel curses, groaning as he watches you fall apart, his hips stuttering with the effort to hold back.

He doesn't stop.

Joel fucks you, his rhythm slow but steady as you milk him through your orgasm, savoring the stretch, watching your body open up around him. You’re soaked, still twitching and trembling as you come down, and he’s so thick but it doesn’t matter. You take him anyway. Your cunt flutters, pulling him in, and he grits his teeth at the way you clench down on him.

“Fuck,” he mutters, his voice wrecked. “You feel like heaven, such a good girl for me,”

Your nails dig into his biceps as he starts to move faster again, hips grinding deep and mean, dragging moans out of you with every thrust. The stretch, the pressure, the weight of him has you gasping again, mouth open, eyes fluttering.

“Joel—”

“Uh-uh,” he growls, hand wrapping around your jaw, not tight, just enough to hold your head still so you’ll look at him. “Don’t start with the whining, sweetheart. You wanted this. You begged for it. Said no one fucks you like I do, remember? Look at me.”

You do, whimpering and pulling his thumb into your mouth, suckling on it, and that only makes him smile, a little dark and wicked but a sweetness still there when he kisses you over it.

“That’s right,” he says, rocking into you harder, filthier. “You like it when I ruin you. When I split you open and stuff you full of cock. You fuckin’ love it.”

You cry out as his hips slam forward, the angle brutal and perfect. He pulls his hand away to watch your tits bounce with every thrust, swollen and heavy.

“Christ,” he groans, “Look at these tits. So full. So fuckin’ pretty. My girl. The mother of my goddamn baby and still beggin’ for it so pretty, too.”

You clench around him at that, and he laughs, low and breathless.

“Oh, I know you like that, like when I talk dirty to you, huh, baby? When I tell you how good you are like this, all open and wet and mine?”

“Joel—please—”

“You’re fuckin’ milkin' me,” he growls, deep and low and primal, pulling back to watch his cock disappear into you again and again. “Drippin’ all over me. Look at this pussy, baby. Takin’ what’s hers, tight as a damn vice.”

You’re spiraling, thighs twitching, body already racing toward another climax. Joel feels it, sees it, smells it on you. His hand drops between your legs and he starts circling your clit, fingers rough, perfect, practiced.

“What’re we at now? Eight? Wanna make it nine?”

You shake your head, hands gripping his wrist, pushing him away.

“But you feel so good, clenchin’ around me like that baby, I think she wants it, damn near loves it.”

You shake your head again, but it’s half-hearted now, your grip on his wrist already weakening. The moment his fingers start circling again—tight and relentless, exactly where you need it—you whimper, back arching, thighs quivering around his hips.

“You’re so goddamn perfect. Every inch of you.”

You exhale hard, trying to catch your breath. “Joel…”

He leans over you, brushing a thumb along your cheekbone, then down to your lips, which are swollen and slick. “Talk to me, baby.”

“I love you,” you breathe, blinking up at him.

“I know, baby, I know,” he says breathlessly.

Your eyes squeeze shut, and the tears finally slip free, clinging to your lashes before they fall. You nod, lips trembling as you breathe through it, the words cracking out of you like you’ve been holding them back for years.

“You’ve always made me feel safe. Like... like I’m home.”

You don’t even know where it’s coming from, only that it’s true. Maybe it’s the release. Maybe it’s the eighth orgasm. Maybe it’s the months of aching and wanting and feeling like you’d lost yourself. But now, with him, his hands on you, his body still buried inside you, you feel found.

His hand cups your jaw, steadying you. “You are home. Right here with me. Always.”

You whimper as he slows down, still just as deep, stretching every inch of you. It’s overwhelming, even after everything, but it’s perfect—he’s perfect—and you cling to him like you might fall apart without him.

“Look at me,” he whispers.

You do. You meet those heavy, hazel and honey-dark eyes, and he stares back like he’s memorizing you all over again.

“Mine.” he murmurs, not asking, just claiming. “Always have been.”

Your breath stutters, your thighs twitching again. “Yours,” you echo, and he smiles like he’s never heard anything better.

“Say it again.”

“Yours, Joel,” you whimper. “I’m yours.”

“Damn right,” he whispers, picking up pace again. “And I’m yours. Every piece.”

You hold on with everything you have, arms locked around his neck, legs trembling, ankles crossed tight at his back, but your body is barely hanging on. You’ve lost count more than once of your orgasms, your body exhausted. Every nerve ending is raw, every breath shallow. You’re shaking, soaked, spread wide and taken fully, your skin slick with sweat and his touch.

He fucks you like he’s starved for it, like every part of him belongs here, in this moment, inside you. And it’s too much. The way his body dwarfs yours, his broad chest brushing your flushed, sensitive breasts, the deep, aching drag of his cock that finds every part of you like it was made to. You feel him everywhere. In your lungs. Your ribs. Your throat.

“Please,” you whisper, or maybe you moan, it doesn’t matter. It’s all coming apart at the seams, your vision blurring with tears of pleasure and overstimulation. “Please come with me.”

Joel groans, low and guttural, his hand cradling the back of your head as he presses a kiss to your cheek, your jaw, your lips. “I will,” he breathes. “I got you. I always got you.”

Then you’re gone.

The world whites out. Your body locks, then convulses. Your thighs shake violently, clamping around his hips as your back arches off the bed. You feel everything and nothing—just heat, just pressure, just the overwhelming wave of pleasure snapping through your core and spiraling you under. You can’t breathe, can’t see. All you hear is Joel, panting and whispering your name like a prayer, his voice like static through the roar in your ears.

He follows, and you can feel it all. That deep, jolting pulse as he buries himself inside you and comes with a desperate, broken grunt. You feel every thick, hot rope of spend filling you, the warmth spreading deep, spilling from the seams. He twitches inside you, stilling as he empties himself completely.

Your eyes stay closed, the blackness of your lids soothing as your body pulses with the aftershocks of everything. You feel Joel, though. You feel the way his fingers press into your hair, tethering you to reality. His length still inside you, still pulsing, his lips still kissing you softly, over and over, like he’s trying to bring you back from wherever you just went.

“I got you, pretty girl,” he murmurs, barely audible over the sound of your panting. “I got you.”

You hum in response, tongue swiping over dry lips, lungs still trying to remember how to breathe.

“Holy shit,” you manage, voice hoarse, a dazed smile tugging at your mouth.

Joel chuckles, the sound rough and full of affection. “Too much?”

You shake your head slowly, the movement loose, hazy. You open your eyes to finally meet his, warm and swimming with something that settles you down to the bones.

“No,” you breathe. “Perfect.”

The crackle of the baby monitor cuts through the last of the silence, followed by a sharp, insistent cry. You both go still for a beat, like your minds haven’t quite caught up yet.

You groan softly, pressing your palm to your face. “Guess it’s my turn.”

Joel’s already moving, slowly sitting up and reaching for his pants at the foot of the bed. “Nah, I got 'em.”

You blink at him through the strands of your hair, still splayed against the pillow. “No, it’s okay, you were with him all morning—”

“I said I got him,” he says again, firmer this time, but not unkind. He leans over, brushes your hair gently away from your forehead, and kisses the space just above your brow. “You take a shower. We’ll join you in a minute. He needs a bath anyway. Little guy stinks.”

You raise an eyebrow, trying not to smile. “Oh, so like you?”

His hand stills on his belt, and he narrows his eyes at you. “Easy,” he warns, though you can see the twitch of amusement at the corner of his mouth.

You giggle, covering your smile with the sheet as he buttons his fly and finishes dressing. He’s half-disheveled, hair a mess, skin blotchy red and a sheen of sweat across his chest, but still. You think he’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.

Joel heads for the door, pausing just before the threshold. He glances back at you, eyes soft, a little smirk tugging at his lips. “You're gonna be okay. We will.”

You watch him go, heart aching in that strange, quiet way it does when you realize you're deeply, hopelessly in love. Not just with the way he touches you or how he fucks you—but with the way he remembers the baby needs a bath, the way he tells you to rest, the way he makes you feel safe and wanted and not alone in any of it.

The bed is warm around you, the room still thick with the scent of him, of you, of what you’ve just shared. You press your hand to your belly, smile against your wrist, and finally let yourself breathe.

It's going to be okay.

6 Months Later

Happy birthday to you, Happy birthday to you, Happy birthday dear Sammy, Happy birthday to you!

Applause erupts around the yard, a chorus of clapping and laughter and camera shutters. Sam just blinks, stunned by the attention, his round cheeks dusted pink as he stares at the sea of faces all beaming at him.

Joel steps up with the smash cake, all blue and white icing swirled across the top just like you made it the night before, carefully piping it under the glow of the kitchen light after Sammy had gone down. He sets it on the highchair, and the baby leans forward, captivated, pudgy hands curling into tight fists at the edge of the tray.

You guide him gently, pressing your own finger into the frosting to show him what to do. When you pop the sweet mess into your mouth, Sam follows, smashing his hand into the cake and shoving a generous amount into his mouth with startling determination.

You laugh, licking icing off your finger, glancing back at Joel beside you. “He gets that sweet tooth from you, you know.”

Joel hums in amused protest, slipping his arm around your shoulders. He dips a finger into the frosting and swipes it across your nose. You gasp, playfully scandalized, and he leans in to kiss it off with a quick, warm brush of his lips. Around you, no one notices. Phones are out, Sammy is being thoroughly documented from every angle, and the low buzz of chatter and laughter fills the air.

When the kiss ends, you linger just long enough to rest your head against Joel’s shoulder, soaking it in—an entire year of you and your baby. And Joel. Memories fly through your mind like a cinematic reel, first words, first steps, first tooth. He was growing too fast for his own good.

Then your eyes catch on something across the yard.

Tommy and Maria stand off to the side, a little tucked away but not distant. Maria has baby Abigail on her hip, the girl wearing a pale pink dress and matching bow, her tiny fingers waving excitedly in the direction of the cake. Tommy’s arm brushes Maria’s as they both smile toward Sam, and for a moment, it’s almost hard to remember how much it hurt—how messy things were.

“Dada!” Sammy calls out from the highchair, cake smeared from cheek to ear, holding up a sticky hand like an offering. Joel smiles, crouching to take a bite straight from his tiny fist. The baby squeals, delighted.

You leave Joel to play and cross the yard, dodging through guests of familiar neighbors, a few folks from Joel’s job, Sarah’s friends.

“Hey,” you say softly, coming to stand in front of Maria and Tommy.

“Hi,” they both say in near unison. There’s no tension in their voices, just tired smiles and that kind of weary, mutual understanding that only time can build.

You smile at the toddler in Maria’s arms. “Hi, miss Abby,” you coo, brushing a finger along her arm. “You enjoying the party? You get yourself some lunch?”

Abigail nods emphatically, then stretches out her arms toward you, open and wanting. “Auntie!”

Maria lets you take her without hesitation, and the baby settles in your arms with the trust of someone who already knows you love her. You hold her close, already sticky from something and warm, and glance back at your son, who’s now banging his fist against the tray while Joel pretends to be scandalized by every slap of icing.

“Thank you for coming,” you say to Maria, voice quiet but sincere.

“Of course,” she replies without missing a beat. “She’s been talking about ‘Sammy’s party’ for days.”

Tommy adds, rubbing a hand along Maria's back, “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

You nod, smiling, and shift Abby against your hip. “You wanna go help Sam eat some of that cake?”

“Yes!!!” she squeals, and all three of you laugh.

And as you carry Abby back into the fray of laughter and frosting and the remains of one-year-old chaos, you feel the ache in your chest shift.

It’s not what any of you imagined. It’s more complicated, more layered. But the love is still there. There's effort. There's presence.

It’s messy, but it's family.

And family matters.

you guys 😭 what a journey it has been! THANK YOU so much for everyone who has been along for the ride with me. Whether you've been here since the very start, where I'd listened to some podcast tell a reddit story about a brother helping a couple conceive and falling in love, or maybe you found it somewhere along the way, i'm so so grateful you're here.

I had no idea it would grow into something like this or that so many of you would love it the way you have. Your comments, reblogs, messages, they mean the world to me. You've made the story feel bigger than just some silly joel miller fanfic I wrote in my free time. you made this truly special.

thank you for reading, for sharing, for sending me all your feelings, for rooting for these chaotic characters.

I love you. I'm eternally grateful.

love, may x

taglist: @mrs-hardy-hunnam-butler-pascal @alidiggory92 @pinkylouise @izzy698 @doblasftcisco @devotedlypaleluminary @elsplayground @puduvallee @victoriaholland @legoemma @leenieweenie12 @possiblyafangirl @alitaar @mads198-9 @emmaoc10 @auteurdelabre @the-last-twin-of-krypton @lilasskicker2 @levislegislation @flowercrowns-goodvibes@starmurdock, @94namkooksworld, @staley83, @escapefromrealitylol, @starkleila, @ashleyfilm, @honeyydip, @timeladyrikaofgallifrey, @brooklynbbxo, @ratoonstown, @caroldxnvxrs, @lovelykat001, @snowlycanroc, @powellssaturn, @marylimlp, @pklol, @tomie-it-girl, @nayomi247, @joshylanefleet, @pedrospurplerain, @person-005, @beewithouthoney, @thegoldenhood, @aj0elap0l0gist

#family matters #the last freaking chapter omg :'(((#joel miller #tommy miller #joel miller x you #joel miller x reader #tommy miller x you #tommy miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller angst #tlou #the last of us #the last of us fic #tlou fic #joel tlou

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honeyhotteoks · 8 months ago

Text

an innocent man doesn't stand a chance (j.yh)

summary: it's halloween and your boyfriend has a fantasy. he wants to be the masked killer and for you to be the final girl, and he wants you to run.

note: this was written in a feverish haze of ghostface yunho brainrot, you can thank this fanart and this edit for making this one about yunho, but i have to give all credit for the idea to the nsfw audio creator augustinthewinter who's masked hookup audio killed me. also please read the warnings, this one is potentially very triggering.

warnings: ghostface!yunho x final girl!reader, boyfriend!yunho, hard dom!yunho, girlfriend!reader, sub!reader, sadism, masochism, knife play, primal play/chasing, threats of violence, heavy cnc that really looks like noncon because part of the play is that he wants her to struggle and say no BUT there are consent checks explicit throughout, rough sex, fingering, gloves, masks, breath play, impact play, mirrors, finger sucking don't look at me, dry humping, clothed sex, ripping off clothes, size kink, ass play, lots and lots of degredation including use of sl*t/wh*re/fvcktoy/c*cksleeve, yunho is seriously mean in this i'm not kidding, fear, forced orgasm, orgasm denial, creampie, subspace, there's more i'm sure but this one is a doozy. also lots and lots of aftercare!! after a scene like this i had to write detailed aftercare and confirmation of limits, so that's there too! yunho is v sweet when not in the zone.

pairings: yunho x reader

genre: smut and more smut, no plot in sight

word count: 7.9k

The party is in full swing when you arrive. The house bumping with music and every corner decorated for Halloween. You’re late enough that you can just slip in through the back door, and that was the plan from the start. Yunho arrived first, nearly two hours ago, and made excuses for why you were late, for how you might not even make it to the party. No one would see either of you come or go together, so when you both disappeared to play your game no one would ever know. You had come up with the plan in bed, whispered fantasies and what-ifs between the sheets as he rewarded your willingness to try something new with his tongue.

His fantasy is special, and to do it right you can really only do it on Halloween night.

You weave through a throng of drunk acquaintances, searching the crowd for him, but it’s not as easy to find him as you thought it would be. You’re not sure how a six foot something Ghostface killer could hide from you in the crowd of your friend’s house party, but no matter how many rooms you check you can’t see him. Nervousness pits inside you as you check your phone and see nothing. He could be caught up with friends, he could be changing his mind, but you can’t tell if you can’t find him.

Adjusting your very 90s costume, you dart away from the kitchen where a group of your girlfriends are pouring shots and weave your way into the back of the house. Maybe you can call him? Text him? Would that completely ruin the mood of psycho killer stalking? Maybe, but it’s been forty-five minutes and you haven’t so much as seen a sliver of his mask.

You flick through your phone, checking for any new messages, and then scroll to find Yunho’s contact card in your phone. Your finger hovers over the call button as you lean against the quiet hallway wall, and then in your peripheral vision you see it.

A dart of black, something looming, and when you finally turn your head, you see him. Ghostface, standing wide and imposing in the hall, blocking any way past him and back out into the party.

“Spooky,” You sigh, tucking your phone away.

Silently, Ghostface nods his head.

The hair on the back of your arms stands up. This is it.

“What? Are you looking for the bathroom or something?” You take a step or two towards him, leaning into the character you dressed for.

He shakes his head.

“Looking for me?” You bite the inside of your lip to keep from smiling.

Slowly, he nods.

“Mm,” You raise a brow at him, “what’s the line from that movie? You wanna play psycho killer?”

His head tilts slightly to the side and he nods once again.

“And who do I play?”

He takes a step towards you and you fade back.

Fear starts to spread through you, even with it all being pretend, you can’t fight the feeling that your subconscious drums up in your gut.

He takes another step, and then another, and then you’re running.

Spinning on your heel you push deeper into the house, away from the party and towards a line of doors down the hall. Your heart is pounding out of your chest, your stomach a bundle of nervous trembling knots, and your hands are so slick with sweat you can barely grab the door handle of the basement. It’s not as easy to run as it looks in the movies, especially not in a tight skirt and penny loafers, and you skid down the basement stairs taking them two at a time until you slip forwards and crash down onto your hands and knees.

You don’t have time to assess the sudden sharp pain as the skin of your palm drags over the concrete floor though, so you scramble up in a flash and in a panic you weave your way deeper into the basement.

It’s familiar enough to you, your best friend’s parent’s place. You know there’s a tiny half bathroom in the far back corner, a rarely used guest bed against one wall as you descend the stairs, a collection of old video games and movies, and then around the corner to the left more and more basement, more storage, more dusty nooks and crannies to hide. You’re frozen for a split second, trying to decide the best place to go where he won’t find you, but heavy footfalls on the stairs ring in your ears like drum beats and you don’t have time to weigh your options.

You take off towards the bathroom, fumbling with the door again when you reach it.

The masked man behind you doesn’t say anything, but you hear him moving. His feet are sure and quick, the heavy fabric of his robes making a whooshing sound as he darts forwards to try and close the space between your bodies.

A panicked sound leaves your mouth as you tumble into the sink, clocking your hip hard on the porcelain and bracing yourself on the wall. Turning you reach back for the door, if you just get it latched maybe you can give yourself a second to think, to shimmy out of the very small, high set window. Pushing yourself into action you grab the door, he’s so close you can hear his breath, seconds away. Seconds away.

The door stops abruptly as you throw your body against it, six inches from closing. You push again, but it doesn’t budge, and when you look down it’s clear you’ve lost this game. His heavy black boot is firmly set in the door’s path, and you know there’s no chance for escape.

He crowds you instantly, leaving you no time to recover, his body pushing into the cramped space of the bathroom and flinging the door backwards into the adjacent wall. You stumble into the sink and he moves right up against you, the firm length of his body pinning yours in place.

For a moment everything is still, completely and shudderingly still with only the sound of your hitched breathing and thundering heart filling the room. You’re not sure what you should do - beg? Plead? Stay silent and let him do what he wants?

The masked man’s head tilts to the side as if he’s observing you, something you can’t tell through the ghostly plastic of his mask and dead black eyes. You’re trembling for real, hands shaking as they grip the cool porcelain. Ghostface leans into you, one of his gloved hands reaching for your face, a soft brush against your chin at first that turns to pressure as his fingers slide up your jaw to push you face to the side. It’s like he’s studying you, his hand slipping lower and dragging down your throat.

Your breath comes faster, stomach tight.

Ghostface closes his hand around your throat and your eyes widen. He holds you like this for a moment, his other hand locking down over your waist and gripping you tight, pinning you in place.

When he squeezes, panic bubbles through your body.

Yunho’s never choked you before. He’s never even suggested it, despite all your little jokes about how nice his hands would look around your neck. It seemed pretty clear to you that within the bounds of your relationship that was one thing he just wasn’t interested in, but whoever has you in the bathroom knows exactly how to hold your throat and where to press. Part of the fun is not knowing who’s beneath the mask, but your body still locks up, and an anxious voice inside you starts to wonder - what if? It’s not as if Ghostface is that rare of a costume choice, you see dozens of them on the street every year. It’s not inconceivable to think that at this party there would be more than one.

Your heart beats in fluttering fits and starts in your ribcage as your mind turns over this possibility, and then he squeezes. The fight comes back into you full force when you hear him sigh, his hand tightening even more and cutting off your airway. You wriggle in his arms, pushing against his chest and trying to use your hips for leverage, a startled whine ripping from your throat, but fear laces through your body as you shove against him and realize just how immovable he is.

Ghostface releases your throat, the same gloved hand slipping into the back of your hair to hold you steady.

“No!” The word tumbles out of your mouth as soon as you can properly make noise again.

He crowds you more, masked face dipping by your ear, “Shh, shh,”

You freeze.

“Safe word?” Yunho’s voice is a balm in your moment of sudden panic, his tone low and hushed.

“T-treasure,” You manage it, the realization coming back into your body that this isn’t a total and complete stranger, it’s still him. Your fear starts to melt into anticipation.

He gives you a squeeze, just one gentle pulse with his hand on your hip to communicate that he’s heard you, “Color?”

You take a second to assess yourself. This game is intense in a way that you’ve never experienced. Yunho had tried to tell you how your body might react to this kind of manufactured fear, how it would play tricks on you, how even if you knew it was him your body would still have the urge to fight and flee. You knew it, but you didn’t really understand it until this moment.

Yunho’s gloved thumb drags lovingly over your cheek for just a moment, “Color?”

If he has to ask you a third time he’ll end the scene, you know he will, but the brief flicker of tenderness in his touch reminds you of everything you already know about him. He has you. You’re safe. This is a game.

“Green,” You finally answer, “I’m green,”

One more quick pulse to your hip, he’s heard you again. More than that, he’s pleased with you.

His shoulders straighten as he draws to his full height, his body filling the space of the tiny bathroom and caging you in. You swallow tightly, audible in your ears and then he moves fast.

His hands around your waist, lifting you up and then shoving you back until you’re sitting on the lip of the porcelain sink, uncomfortably balanced and pushed back flush to the mirrored wall behind you. You yelp when he moves you, hands scrambling for purchase on something, gripping the sleeve of his black cape in desperation. Fear and anticipation pulse through you, but he doesn’t give you a rest to get your bearings.

He shoves your legs open wide and slots between your thighs and shoves your face to the side until your cheek is squished against the cold mirror, his hand a controlling brace from your jaw to the crown of your head.

“You look so pretty running from me,” He strokes your face, but this time it’s not loving, it's possessive, it’s pure control.

You grip the edge of the sink and whimper.

“Should we play a little game?” He teases, “It’s Halloween, you must like scary movies,”

Your breath quickens, “Y-yeah,”

He drops his voice low, in a mimic of the movie, “What’s your favorite scary movie?”

You’ve heard Yunho do that voice before, lazing on the couch last October when you had yourselves a movie marathon, the day he realized something about your favorite scary movie that turned you on, the day you called him out for being hard during a kill scene. It took a year for you both to work up the courage to actually act on any of those fantasies, but here and now with his mask on and his voice low, you feel that mix of terror and arousal bleeding through your body in a way only he can elicit from you.

You can’t help the little smile that passes over your lips, “Scream,”

“Meta,” He teases, pinching you hard on the thigh, “for every question you get wrong, I’m taking something off you,”

You swallow hard again.

He reaches into his black robes and then you see it, shining in the reflection of the mirror and in your hazy peripheral vision. The glint of a real knife is unmistakable, the cool sharp edge of the steel crystal clear and you can’t stop the actual fear that jolts through you. You jerk in his hold, instinct driving you for a split second, and he pushes your face harder into the mirror.

“Tch,” He makes a disappointed noise with his tongue against his teeth, “the game’s no fun if you don’t play.”

He won’t hurt you, at least not in ways you don’t already like. You have to trust that.

Settling yourself with a slow breath you summon the act he wants, find the fear within yourself and let it inform your words to give him what he wants.

“Please, don’t,” You’re trembling is real, that you know.

He shifts between your legs, drawing the knife closer, shifting it in his hand so he simply presses the cool flat side of the blade against one of your nipples. You hiss at the sensation, tightness building in your gut.

“First question,” He drags the knife a little over your nipple, “What movie franchise is Jason from?”

It’s an actual quiz, of course it is. At least he’s starting off easy.

“Friday the Thirteenth,” You reply fast.

“Correct,” He lifts the knife, and with the blade pointed away from you, he pushes up your tight tshirt until it’s bunched above your breasts.

“I got that right,” You glance down at the way he’s touching you, breaking his own rules already.

“Just getting a better view,” He insists, and then the cool knife is against your nipple again, only the thin fabric of your bralette between skin and steel.

Your body is aching in this position, but you can feel the heat off his body, and the heady tone of his voice from under the mask still has you starting to ache in different places.

“Let’s make this a little harder,” He taps the knife against you and you shiver, “what movie has a group of teenagers being stalked on an island by a killer fisherman?”

“It’s,” You start to answer but he taps the knife again and you jolt, “fuck, it’s I Know What You Did Last Summer,”

You watched it with him two weeks ago. You remember it, clear as day.

“Wrong,” The knife twists, the tip gently skating over the swell of your breast.

“Wait,” You start but he tips the knife under the center of your bra.

“I Still Know What You Did Last Summer,” He clarifies the sequel, “they weren’t on an island in the first movie. I thought you liked scary movies,”

“I,” You press back into the wall as the knife edge kisses your skin, “I… I do,”

“You’re not very good at this,” He twists the knife and drags the sharp edge out so that it severs your thin bra in half, falling open and revealing your breasts to his wandering eyes.

A little gasping sound leaves your lips, a desperate noise you try to bite back, but he hears it.

He hums a soft, amused laugh and suddenly the knife is gone, sheathed and away and he leans into your space again, “You fucking like this, don’t you?”

“No,” You insist, despite the way your stomach is in tight knots.

“Did running away get you hot?” His gloved hand skims over your exposed body, “Do psycho killers make you wet?”

“Fuck,” You whine, “no, no,”

“Liar,” He whispers, and then he delivers a pointed slap to your thigh, “spread.”

Your legs widen instinctively at his command, but he doesn’t reward you or praise you like he normally would, this is different. He reaches under the hem of your taut mini skirt, finding the apex of your thighs, and his fingers gently rub up and down from the base of your slit to your clit. A tiny gasp bubbles out of your throat.

“Are you afraid?” He all but growls.

Your stomach flips and his hand tightens in your hair, “Y-yes,”

“Tell me you don’t want this,” He finds the edge of your panties and drags them to one side.

“I don’t want it,” You answer him, body shaking now.

“Tell me to stop,” One gloved finger presses into your entrance, the softness of the leather and the warmth of his skin beneath it making you tremble.

“Stop,” You beg, “please, please, stop,”

“Why would I?” He slowly pushes inside, stretching you around his finger, “When I know how wet being fucked by a stranger in a mask makes you,”

A tense thready sound pulls from your throat as he adds a second finger.

“If you don’t want this,” He pulses his hand once, forcing both fingers deep into your slick channel, “why are you panting like a dog in heat?”

“N-no,”

“If you don’t want it,” He whispers, “don’t come.”

Your eyes shut as his hand starts moving, a steady pulse of his gloved fingers inside your aching cunt, curled just right in the way he knows gets you off fast. A pumping drag against your g-spot, the sound of his heavy breath, the unmistakable sensation of your own wetness making a mess between your thighs.

“Looks like you want it to me,” He adds the circle of his thumb against your clit and you jerk in his hold.

“Stop, fuck,” Your nails dig into his forearm.

“You don’t want me touching you, but you’re soaking my fingers,”

“N..No, no,” You babble, heat pooling in your gut.

“Fight it,” He pumps his fingers faster, drumming against your sweet spot, “don’t come,”

You hiss sharply, pleasure dropping low in your belly, the sensation of his gloves and his hot hand too much to bear.

“Moaning like you want it,” He laughs, pulling his hand suddenly out from under your skirt and yanking your head back to center.

You yelp at the position change and the sudden lack of contact but he doesn’t make you wait for long.

“Open,” He smacks your cheek lightly.

Your mouth falls open and he shoves both gloved fingers between your lips. You choke against the suddenness, at the way he presses down on your tongue, blinking to clear the haze from your eyes.

“Suck.”

You shiver, your lips closing over his digits, the sharp taste of leather mixed with your fluids assaulting your senses and you can’t fight the moan, the way your eyes drift shut as you swirl your tongue.

He hums, pleased, “Does it hurt?” He asks.

His question doesn’t make sense, and you blink your eyes back open to look up at the cool passiveness of his ghostly mask.

“Pretending you’re not a whore?” He clarifies and your mouth stills over his fingers. He pulls them out, delivering one more pointed slap to your cheek, and dives back down to plunge them back into your aching cunt, “Moaning like that, your nipples rock hard, and this pussy,”

You choke, a bubble building in your core as he abuses your slick channel again.

“Clenching around my fingers, sucking me in,” He chuckles, “I can feel you, baby,”

“Fuck, fuck,”

“Hold back,” He doubles his efforts between your thighs and you keen, “if you don’t want it, tell me to stop, don’t come,”

“Stop!” You whine, giving him exactly what he wants, “Please, please,”

“No,” His thumb rubs fast, his hand practiced at making you fall apart at the seams, “you come, you keep your eyes open, and you come all over my fucking hand,”

Your breath is fast, heart pounding, and you feel the cord tightening in your belly in a way that makes you want to rub yourself back up into his touch but he has you pinned, stuck, at his mercy just like he wants.

“Come,” His voice is clear, authoritative, and familiar. Like a trained response, your body releases and cracks open into a desperate orgasm, crumbling in his hands as you pitch forward onto his shoulder and grind your hips down to take the last little bit of what you need from his fingers.

When his hand stills, you realize you’re still clinging to him and you jerk back, one hand over your mouth as you try to recover your breath.

He steps back, his hands sliding off you and body slotting out from your thighs. You can’t see Yunho beneath the mask, but you know he’s looking. You can feel his hot gaze sliding over your body and taking in every wet and shaking inch of you. Your body is throbbing with need, but the game isn’t done, he hasn’t even made you touch his cock yet, and you know there’s no way you’re making it out of this basement without that.

“Tell me again how you don’t like it,” He finally says.

You shiver.

“Cat got your slutty little tongue?” He prompts you again, voice hardening.

You swallow hard, finding your words, “I didn’t like it,”

“Mhm,”

“I d-don’t want you to touch me,” You lie.

“Yeah?” He teases, “Well then run,”

“W-what?” Your eyes flick up to the impassive plastic of his mask.

“If you didn’t like it, why are you still sitting there?” He takes a step to the side, clearing your path to the door and you slide off the edge of the sink, your loafers making a click onto the tile floor.

You swallow hard, eyes darting out to the rest of the basement.

“Come on,” He teases, and you can hear the sick smile in his voice, “try to get away,”

You look between him and the room ahead of you again.

He leans forward and you shiver, his gaunt stretched mouth at your ear again, “I can’t fuck you if I can’t catch you,” his gloved fingers yank your top down over your exposed breasts and he chuckles, “better run fast.”

You spring forwards, adrenaline pumping through your body and blood rushing in your ears. Leaping out of the bathroom he gives you a couple steps to get a head start, but he’s so much bigger than you, his stride so much longer, and he closes the distance with ease as you scramble in mock terror to get to the steps.

Yunho’s arms close around you, hauling you up off your feet and against his chest, his touch rough and probing as he drags you up into the air.

“No!” You shriek, “Fuck!”

“You think I’d really let you go?” He laughs, “After that?”

“Fuck you!” The words bubble up out of your mouth.

“That’s the idea,” His hand slides down your belly, closing over your cunt and cupping you tightly.

Your body is reacting before your mind, and you jerk in his hold, kicking back your leg and catching him in the shin with the flat heel of your shoe.

He groans and wrenches you higher in the air, “Keep struggling,” he pants, “I like it,”

You twist again, trying to free one of your arms, but he has them pinned tightly to your body, “Get the fuck off me!”

“Not a fucking chance,” He takes two wide steps to the mattress and then tosses you down.

You collapse onto the bed, the old and rarely used springs creaking under your weight, and your scramble forwards in some kind of an attempt to get your bearings, but he’s on you just as fast. He yanks you back with a hand around your ankle and in a flash he’s on top of you.

He presses one hand firmly between your shoulder blades, keeping you pinned face down to the bed, and then his body weight drops down as he straddles the backs of your thighs. Your hands curl into the bedding beneath you, rough sheets and scratchy camp blankets, nothing soft and soothing to take a moment of comfort in.

His free hand wanders, searching your body slowly. The sound of the party raging upstairs drowns out any competing noise, but you can still hear his heavy breath against the mask and your pounding heart, the sound of anticipation thick in the air around you.

Yunho presses his hips forwards and you feel the thick hard length of his cock through his costume nestled against your backside.

“Look at you,” He palms your ass, “shaking for me,”

A whimper leaves you as his fingers dig into your back.

“Do I scare you, baby?” He delivers a harsh slap to the back of your thighs and you yelp, “Are you fucking terrified?”

Another slap leaves you trembling and you hide your face in the mattress, pressing your eyes shut tight. You love when he touches you like this and he knows it. You bite down hard on your lip to keep from whining, wetness pooling in your core. He wanted you scared, he wanted you fighting, you can’t give in just because his glove on your stinging skin feels like sin.

He groans, his cock pressing down harder to your ass and you feel both his hands slide from your hips up to your back and back down again until he has a grip on your waist.

A whimper slips out from between your lips.

Yunho freezes above you, his thumbs massaging a quick circle into your lower back, “Color?”

“Green!” Your voice is muffled by the bedding but you know he heard it.

He groans, pulsing his hips to rut his cock against you again.

Even between layers of fabric, you can feel the heat of him, throbbing and ready for you. Your mouth waters as you picture it, cockhead leaking precum and Yunho’s familiar hand wrapped around the base as he directs it to your mouth.

“Little slut,” He chuckles and it pulls you straight out of your mental fantasy, “rubbing that ass on a stranger’s cock,”

Your stomach clenches, and you twitch under him.

“That’s fucked up,” He drops his body weight over you, one hand pushing your head to the side as he leans over you, “you’re so fucked up, aren’t you?”

Your breathing is fast, a thready sound in your throat.

“Aren’t you?” His voice is low, a shade away from a growl, and he rocks his hips again to rub his cock against you.

“N-no,” You try to shake your head but his hand tightens against your scalp.

“Liar,” He keeps grinding against you, his free hand snaking underneath your bodies to grope your breast, “I know a needy whore when I see one,”

You moan into the sheets as he tweaks your nipple, tears springing to your eyes as he palms you, taking you apart with every touch.

“Let’s see how you like this,” He pinches your nipple once more and you squeal at the sharp sensation that rockets through your chest, a sharp line down to your clit, and then he slides back and shuffles back to sit up over your thighs.

He pushes the stiff fabric of your mini skirt up over your ass and then you feel the cold metal again.

You jerk underneath him, and he tuts softly, the sharp edge of the weapon gently dragging over the curve of your ass cheek.

“Tell me,” He grips your flesh tightly with one hand, painfully pinching, “do you still like scary movies now that you’re in one?”

You shake your head, a whimper on your lips when the knife slips under the edge of your panties, “P-please, don’t,”

He yanks the knife up and splits one side of your panties with a taut snap of fabric, “Please?” He taunts, “Please?”

You sob softly in response.

“Is ‘please’ all you can say?” He delivers a sharp smack to your exposed ass check and you jerk under him.

“I can’t,” You shake your head into the sheets, “I can’t,”

He sighs, and you feel the knife shred the other side of your underwear and then you hear the sound of the blade clattering to the floor. With both hands free he palms your exposed flesh, squeezing you almost painfully and inspecting your exposed body.

Shivers run through you, and you try to hold yourself still for his touches.

“Which hole should I fuck first, hmm?” His fingers search you, probe you.

Your body locks up tightly, a gasp on your lips. You hadn’t discussed that, and you shake your head.

“Scared?” He ghosts his fingers over your rim.

“Please,” It’s all you can manage.

“Beg me,” He presses down with his thumb, “beg me not to fuck your ass if you’re so scared.”

You scramble in the sheets but he has you stuck, “Please don’t, don’t fuck me like t-that, you’re too big, it’s too,”

He massages one cheek and hums, “What should I do then?”

“What?” You crane to look back at him, at the masked man pinning you down.

“Beg,” He says it like he’s bored, like it’s obvious, “beg me to put it somewhere else, or I will fuck this pretty ass open and make you say thank you.”

Heat floods your belly, your body a sizzling live wire, and you fall right into step with a heady whine, “Please, fuck my pussy,”

“Again,”

“Fuck my pussy, please, I’m begging you,” Your voice sounds needy and strange even to your own ears, “I need it inside me, g-give it to me please, fuck my pussy, please,”

“Better,” His hands disappear into his robed costume and then he pushes forwards, his cock finally free and sliding up and down your slit to find your aching entrance.

“Y-yes,” You drop your head back down to the bed and in one sharp thrust, he pushes his thick length all the way inside you until his hips are flush with your ass.

Yunho groans, bracing himself with one hand on the back of your neck and the other on the bed beside you, the mattress creaking with every shift, “Needy pussy,”

“Fuck,” You moan.

“Greedy,” He punctuates his words with a sharp thrust, starting to pick up the pace now in earnest, “gripping my fucking cock like that,”

All you can do is hold on, bite down on the sheets and let him use you, focus on the sensation of his impossibly hard cock driving in and out and in and out.

“Are you crying for me? Hmm?” He rolls his hips, the fabric of his costume dragging against you as he fucks into you faster.

Your eyes are wet, pleasured tears bubbling up and you nod, a tiny sob passing through your lips.

“Good cocksleeve,” He presses down harder with his hand on your neck, forcing you lower into the mattress.

Your back arches instinctively, and you whine at the angle change. A few more thrusts and you’ll be done for, you know it.

“That’s it,” He pants, voice muffled by the mask, “come for me,”

“C-close,” The words tumble out.

“Come for me,” He stays steady with his thrusts, pushing your orgasm closer and closer, “come for me, come for me,”

“Ah!” You fist the sheets, legs starting to shake, “Ah, fuck, fuck!”

“Come on this stranger’s fucking cock,” He grunts, shuddering above you, his fingers digging into your skin and no doubt leaving a bouquet of bruises behind.

So close to the edge, just a little more will tip you over, and you whine, “Harder,”

He gasps, forcing his pace to clap harder, deeper, and it only takes two pointed thrusts of his cock into the deepest parts of you to send you careening over the edge.

“Coming,” You twist beneath him, moaning into your fist, “oh, god,”

“Fuck,” He curses as your muscles clench and flutter around him, “fuck, oh fuck,”

Your orgasm has your body locked up and shuddering, but when he pulls free suddenly you gasp into the bedding, “N-no, no, please,”

He yanks off any scrap of clothing you have on with frantic hands and then rolls you in the sheets so that you’re lying on your back spread open for him. You try to form a sentence, to ask what’s happening but suddenly he’s tearing off his mask and the world slows to a stop.

Yunho’s sweaty, flushed pink in the cheeks eyes blown wide with need, his plush lips parted and his chest heaving with labored breaths. In a flash he’s stripping off the costume, peeling off his gloves and kicking off his boots.

“Come here,” He spreads your thighs wider and presses down over you, his cock finding your entrance with ease as he sheaths himself again in one thrust.

You moan sharply and wrap your arms around his shoulders as he collapses over you.

“Need you,” He pumps his hips, “have to have you,”

Pleasure crackles up your body, “Yours,” you nod, “I’m yours,”

He presses his mouth to yours, kissing you hot and hard, “Fuck,” he groans.

Yunho gathers you closer, your slick bodies now flush together as he rocks into the warm cradle of your hips, “never heard you moan like that,”

Your walls clench around him.

“You wanted me to do this,” He groans between messy kisses, “you wanted to run,”

You nod, lips pressed together.

“You’re so fucking perfect,” He pumps into you harder, like he’s desperate to get as deep as possible, “my dirty girl,”

“Oh, fuck,” Your head falls back against the bed, a pleasured moan caught in your throat.

“My little fucking slut,” He groans, tipping your hips open wider, his hands tight on your skin, “so desperate to come on stranger cock,”

You whine sharply, nails digging into his back.

“Say it,” He threads a hand through your hair and tugs your head back up roughly, “say it,”

“Yes!” You whine, “Yes, I-I need it,”

His gaze darkens, the cool mask of your dominant returning, and he slaps your cheek sharply, just enough to give you a pointed sting, “Need what?”

Your brain is soft, fuzzy with pleasure, but the slap focuses you and you blink, “Need to come,” you pant as he thrusts into you, “on a stranger’s cock, need you to… fuck, need you to take it,”

He nods, lips parting open in pleasure, “That’s right,”

Your stomach tightens, pressure dropping low in your belly and you can’t stop feeling the way his cock punches into the deepest parts of you over and over again. Your eyes close tight and you hold onto him, one of your hands slipping up to his neck to tangle into his black hair.

“Oh,” You’re so close, almost there, “Y-Yunho, oh, god,”

His hips thrust forward once more, burying his cock impossibly deep and then he stops. That’s when you realize your critical mistake.

“Is my cock so good you forgot your manners?” He says and your eyes fly open.

You don’t know what to say, you don’t know how to recover, your head is too mixed up to know what’s up and what’s down and you’ve never played a scene where he’s a stranger before. You’re used to your rules, you’re used to calling him sir or daddy or master, but now you feel unmoored.

“Now you don’t get to come,” He leans back, taking your wrists in his hands and pushing them down flat to the bed.

You know better than to protest, but you’re sure he can feel you shaking.

He drops closer, pinning you open with the weight of his body, his head nudging yours to the side, “Maybe you’ve forgotten who’s in control here, baby,”

Liquid heat spreads through your body and you shake your head just a little.

“So drunk on cock,” He bites at your ear, “you forgot you don’t want this,”

Your pussy tightens, and you hear him chuckle.

“Filthy,” He maneuvers your arms above your head so that he can close both your wrists together in one of his large hands, “fucked up little fucktoy,”

Your eyes roll back and you fight the urge to move your hips, his words enough to put you on the precipice.

A sharp slap stings over your exposed breast, your nipple hardening even more and Yunho draws his hips back before slamming forwards, driving you deeper into the squeaking mattress. At the painful stretch, the sharp sting inside, you do cry out.

“Does it hurt?” He thrusts again, just as hard.

You struggle under him, a little for play and a little because it does hurt, but you love the way he groans when you please him and you can’t stop, “Y-yes,”

“Too bad,” His hand claps over your mouth and then he starts to fuck you again for real.

Pleasure and pain in equal parts spike through your body, a perfect combination to get you right up to the edge of orgasm, but you know you’re not allowed. You moan into his hot hand, the sound feral and taut, tears gathering in your eyes and slipping down your temples into your hairline.

Yunho slides the hand on your wrists up to clasp your hands together palm to palm, still pinning you to the bed but offering you a line of communication you desperately need in a scene like this. He doesn’t stop, but his eyes find yours in the dim light of the basement and he squeezes your hand once. You squeeze back just once, your silent sign to keep going.

He keeps driving into you, cursing every time you moan and clench around his thick length, the mask of dominance slipping again as he starts to rut into you with artless, needy thrusts. He’s chasing his own pleasure now, with no regard for your own release.

“No one’s coming to help you,” He groans, “you’re mine,”

You can’t hear everything he says, not with your mind spinning so close to a forbidden orgasm and his pants and groans punctuating every few words, but you hear it when he says he’s coming inside you.

Thrusting deep, he spills himself hot in your belly, hips grinding into yours to milk himself dry as he moans into your ear. The bubble of your own pleasure builds with every rock of his body and you whimper into his hand, tears spilling over as you try not to let it take you.

Yunho’s hand pulls away from your mouth and suddenly his fingers are rubbing fast and firm on your swollen clit, his cock still buried deep.

“Ah, n-no, please,” You grip his hand tightly and lock your eyes closed, trying to pull yourself back from the edge, “please,”

“Fuck,” He groans, overstimulated.

You’re going to come, there’s no way to hold back if he’s going to torture you like this and you thrash under him, “I can’t,” you’re sobbing in earnest now, “I can’t hold it,”

“Shit,” He curses sharply, “come, sweetheart, come, I’m so sorry,”

At his permission, your pleasure rips through you, a hot slice of rapture rocketing up your body. Your ears are ringing, black dots over your vision, and your body wrenches up with tight shakes in a way that only a soul shattering orgasm could do. You vaguely hear your own voice, a babbled string of ‘thank-yous’ and sobs, but it feels like someone else. All you know is warmth, and the deliciousness of earned pleasure.

When consciousness starts to creep back in, the first thing you feel is Yunho’s gentle hands on your cheeks. He’s murmuring something, but it takes your mind a second to process, and you blink your eyes open slowly to find his face.

“Hey,” He’s back to soft and warm, your tender lover, “oh, there you are,”

“Mm,” You manage.

He looks you over slowly, warm brown eyes flicking over your skin, “Does anything hurt, sweetheart?”

You shake your head, still boneless and trembling in the scratchy blankets.

“Hmm?” He nudges you, pushing for a verbal response.

“I’m okay,” You respond, but your voice is small.

Yunho, so attuned to you, looks back up and shifts up the bed to meet your eyes, “Feeling floaty?”

“Mm,” You nod, recognizing distantly that the intensity of your play tonight pushed you right into subspace.

“Ah,” He smiles warmly, “come here,”

He gathers you close, arms wrapping around you as he tucks you into his chest and pulls the plaid camp blanket up higher over both of your naked bodies. His skin feels so essential, a necessity like eating or breathing, and you nuzzle into his warm chest.

“You’re okay,” He soothes you, stroking your back, “you’re safe, you’re safe with me,”

A heavy breath releases from your chest.

“That’s it,” He kisses your forehead, “breathe with me, relax with me,”

Your muscles release one by one.

“That was just a fantasy,” He soothes you, easing the knotted up feelings in your body with practiced words, “it was just pretend,”

You nod.

“Just pretend,” He murmurs, lips tender against your forehead, “none of that was real, nothing I said. I love you, and I will always keep you safe, sweetheart,”

Your fingers relax, and you realize how firmly you were gripping his arms.

“There you go,” He murmurs, “I’ve got you,”

“Yunho?” You manage, your body feeling heavy once again as you start to center.

He shifts, cupping your cheek as he leans back to get a good look at you, “Right here,”

“H-hey,” You give him a lazy smile.

He nods, brushing your cheek with his thumb, “Tell me where you are?”

“Basement at the party,” You answer.

“Good,” He nods, “now tell me who you’re with?”

“You, Yunho,” You reply, practiced now at the routine he uses to help ground you out of the scene and bring you back into reality.

“Good,” He continues, “tell me three things you can see,”

You glance around the room, “Old playstation, bicycle,” you look back to him, “your necklace,”

He smiles as you touch the silver chain around his neck, “Good,”

You stretch your stiff limbs in his arms and try to snuggle back into his hold but he’s not done yet, especially after a scene that new and that intense.

“Any pain?” His hands slide over your body.

“No,” You assure him, “a little sore, but I feel good,”

He nods, but keeps looking you over anyway. When he turns your hands in his and finds your scratched palms a little line forms between his brows, “What’s this?”

You look down at the red skin, a few shallow cuts here and there, “I fell,”

“Fell?” His brow goes high with alarm, “when?”

“When I was running, I took the stairs too fast,” You tell him honestly, “but it doesn’t hurt, I promise,”

His fingers trace over the broken skin and he nods, “You promised you’d call the scene if you got hurt,”

For how rough this man can be with you, for how many times he’s bruised you and made you bleed, he never fails to surprise you at just how tender and soft he is outside of the bedroom.

“Baby,” You close your fingers over his, “you promised you’d trust me to know my own limits, I’m not hurt, I got a little scrape,”

His lips close as he considers your words and then he nods, leaning in to kiss each of your palms warmly, “I want to disinfect these at home,”

“Okay,” You murmur.

“Anywhere else?”

“Mm-mm,” You shake your head.

“But sore?” He confirms.

“A bit,”

His fingers find your jaw, massaging the muscle there, “When we get home, we’ll run a warm bath. I’ll take care of all your aches, I know I was rough with you,”

You sigh pleasantly, relaxing into the warmth of his hand and he nods, dipping his face towards yours and capturing your mouth in a soft kiss.

“You did so perfect for me, sweetheart,” he says softly, voice threaded with emotion, “I’m so… is it too lame to say honored? I… you were so amazing, and you trusted me like that and I,”

“Yunho,” You smooth back his hair and pull him closer, “I’m alright,”

His eyes flick over your face, “Yeah?”

“Yes,” You give him the clarity he needs to know he didn’t hurt you, “you made me feel very safe, even though I was kind of terrified,”

He stays quiet, like he’s gauging the honesty of your words.

“Even when I was scared,” You lean in, kissing him quickly, “I knew you wouldn’t take it too far, and you checked in with me. I’m okay, I liked it, I love you,”

“You didn’t push yourself too hard for me?” He always worries about that, the double edged sword of a submissive who’s desperate to please.

“No,” You smooth your hand over his cheek, “I liked it alot,”

He nods and snuggles you closer, his fingertips coasting up and down your back softly. He’s quiet for a few minutes, just letting you both come down as easy as you can with thrumming house music upstairs.

“You liked it?” He finally confirms, carding his fingers through your hair.

You nod, “A lot,”

“What I said,” He kisses the top of your head, “during, about you liking it, that was fantasy too, you know that right?”

You’re quiet, taking in his words.

“There’s nothing wrong with it,” He continues softly, “there’s nothing wrong with you for wanting it, all of that was pretend, okay?”

“I know,” You kiss his chest, nodding against his shoulder.

“I love you,” He squeezes you, “you know that too, right?”

You smile, wiggling up in his arms to see his face, “I do,” you kiss him softly, “I love you too,”

He nods and sighs, “I lost my head a little at the end there,” he admits, “I didn’t communicate well when you needed it, I’m sorry about that.”

Your brows knit together in confusion.

“I should have given you permission sooner,” He explains, brushing your cheek with his thumb, “I forgot myself in the scene, I didn’t mean to push you so hard.”

“Oh,” You smile, “Yunho, I’m alright,”

“I know you are,” He dips in for a kiss, “but I’m still sorry,”

“Thank you,” You murmur, pressing your lips back to his, staying warm and still and soft in this moment together, “I know you’ll always take care of me,”

He nods, his broad hand brushing down your hair.

“How was the party?” You nudge him a little.

He smiles, “Fine,” he shrugs, “I was too focused on looking for you, I think everyone thinks something’s up with me.”

“I’m sure it’s fine,” You laugh.

“Mm,” He nods, “and now I disappeared and we made a mess of this basement,”

“Fuck, I can’t believe you cut my underwear off, how am I supposed to get out of here,”

“I brought backups,” He grins wide, proud of himself for thinking that far ahead.

“You’re a genius,”

“There is a back door out of the basement though, right?” He looks up around the room trying to find one.

“Yeah,” You reach out, pointing around the back corner, “why?”

“It’s extremely obvious that you’ve been fucked within an inch of your life,” He presses a quick kiss on your forehead and stretches next to you, so casual about the way he just rearranged your insides, “and I’m not so sure you’re going to walk straight,”

You laugh sharply and shake your head, “Take me home,”

“Scary movies on the couch?” He squeezes your thigh as he rolls away, searching for his clothes.

You shiver, “Maybe, that might be too close to home,”

Nudging your knee he smiles, “Don’t worry, baby, it’s just a movie.”

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