#giggling and squealing like a schoolgirl | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

nichuuu · 11 months ago

Text

Lemon.

Word count: 13k+

You decide that you don’t quite like Balls (get your head out of the gutter).

Music: odd. Yes, it’s a fancy mansion—5 floors, the works… But you don’t know how to feel about the sole pianist in the centre of the foyer, the one that’s playing some classical piece that has the people around you murmuring about his technique and sound (whatever the hell either of those meant).

People: you don’t know a good half of them. Scratch that—it’s a sea of strangers

Drinks: strong, way too fucking strong for your liking. The drinks are free of charge, and the bartender clearly didn’t shake this Pina Colada well, but you have to drink it if you want to even try and get into the mood of the party. Around you, men in posh suits and women in flamboyant dresses skirt each other, talk to each other with placid smiles—hoodwinking each other with their highfalutin laughs and smiles to establish connections that probably won’t matter in a couple of days. The only person you’ve talked to tonight is the bartender, and that was just to order your drink.

This whole place stinks of capitalism, and you feel out of place in your cheaper suit and dress shoes. On your right, some guy is talking about how bitcoin and blockchain will make a grand return, some lady is gossiping about the latest Gucci handbag on your left. In front of you, a man and a woman are clearly flirting with each other, bashful grins on their faces as they hold their fancy drinks in their hands and talk about god knows what. You’re wondering if you should ask for a straw from the bartender just to dip your toes in social interaction.

Wonder why Cinderella was so hot on attending a Ball, thing seems pretty bland to me, you’re thinking, watching the tip of the ice that was shaped like an iceberg melt away and sink beneath the surface of your margarita. Some guy in a tux comes by, orders two glasses of Prosecco—one for him, one for the woman next to him. He’s talking loudly, disrupting your peace and quiet. Your solution: move seats.

From a distance—two chairs away from your original seat—you watch as he takes the two glasses from the hands of the bartender, hands one to the woman, then clinks his glass with hers. He’s preternaturally genteel, and you’d know because you recognised him as the guy that got slapped at the start of this whole thing because he grabbed the ass of someone’s wife. Impropriety, but it’s the behaviour of the newfangled rich.

Now he’s bragging about his car. Nissan GTR fitted with this engine, this ventilation, blah, blah… Whatever it is he’s saying, the woman’s having none of it. You’re no psychologist, but you can tell that she wants to get out of a conversation; her smile is awfully sweet, but you can see that she’s silently importuring him to shut his trap—her eyes give it all away. You pity her, silently sending her your best wishes as the man grabs her by the arm and leads her back into the sea of people. Personally, you’d be screaming if you were in her shoes.

(Off to your left, just at the edge of your vision, you see your boss talking to a woman. She’s getting touchy, really touchy and really flirty; her hand’s on his thigh, fuck me eyes out to play and on full display—A trite tactic used by these types of women to get lucky with a rich man at these type of events. Luckily for her, your boss is quick to bite on to such bait. God bless them both.)

For the record: you’ve never really enjoyed Balls or anything of the ilk, because quite frankly speaking, you’d much rather burrow up in your bed at home and binge Kimini ni Todoke till you were giggling and squealing like a little schoolgirl. Maybe I’m still young, I’ll learn to like these types of events later on, you tell yourself, I’ll need connections at some point, maybe I should start—

A sickly sweet fragrance crawls up your nostrils, truncating all thought. Perfume, you’re quick to identify, and then you’re aware of the presence of someone on your right. Your grip on your glass grows tighter in the slightest; you’re praying—Please just be ordering a drink, please be ordering a drink.

Frankly, you don’t know why you’d ever think anyone would talk to you, an unimportant cog that just tagged along with his boss because he had nothing better to do. Irrational fears are really a funny thing.

Sharp, clear, resonant—three words that came to mind when you heard the voice of the person next to you, the voice that delivered the simplest of orders: Yamazaki. I want it neat.

Your first thought is, Damn… Neat Whisky? Someone’s having a horrible night, as you turn your face away from her (if you couldn’t see her, she wouldn’t be able to see you, right?). And just as you’re wondering if she’s gonna take her drink and leave, your question is answered by the soft creak and even softer rustle of shifting fabric from your right. You bristle.

The glass makes a sound against the wood as it’s gently placed down on the table.

(Now would be an excellent time for a subtitle to come in, one that states in square brackets: Awkward silence.)

You can hear her swirling the liquid around in her glass. Fuck, now this is awkward… You’re thinking, and then you’re wondering if you should just get up and leave, absquatulate, skedaddle—any word that can convey the act of disappearing in an instant—right out of there. But as you start to slide your butt off the chair, that voice rings out once more.

“Not much of a talker, are you?”

She doesn’t know how her simple sentence has caged you in the most challenging position (to you at least). Now you’re sliding your ass back into the bar stool and you turn and face her—

(Now that you’re looking at her, your second thought about her comes in: God, she’s beautiful. Dark brown hair that falls just past her shoulders like velvet curtains, soft yet somehow piercing eyes, a smile that makes you feel fuzzy all over—probably one of the most attractive women you’ll ever meet. She’s the woman from earlier, the woman that you saw smiling and nodding placidly to that guy who got her the Prosecco. She must’ve found a way to slip away, and she has your full respect for that.)

—and you find that you’re drumming your nails against the base of your glass.

“Shy, huh?” she’s throwing out a guess, watching as the Whisky in her glass slowly swirls to a stop inside the chilled glass. “It’s been a while since I met a shy man. You’re a breath of fresh air.”

You shift in the stool, and your first instinct is to ask her if you two had met before. It’s only after that last syllable leaves your mouth that you realise how stupid of a question it is. You don’t know her, and judging by the fact that she hasn’t called you by your name: she doesn’t know you either. You let her decide whether to oust you as a fool as she scans you up and down.

(Update on your boss and that woman: She’s kissing him now, full on making out. It’s an unsettling sight to behold, and you attribute your queasiness to the fact that they’ve somehow found they’re way behind the woman you're talking to. Your boss doesn't see you; you choose not to see him. God bless them both.)

“Well… Considering that you don’t look the least bit familiar,” she sets the glass down, “and that you haven’t been introduced to me like some product by a crusty, old man… I think it’s safe to say that we’re.”

Now her eyes are on your drink. What are you drinking this fine night? She’s asking, using her chin to gesture towards your Pina Colada. You tell her exactly what it is, and she cringes slightly. They say Pineapple doesn’t belong on pizza, I say it doesn’t belong fucking anywhere. Oust it as a fruit! she’s telling you, making sure to add a little more emphasis on the word “oust” as she couches her firm belief, something you find rather hilarious considering that it’s your first meeting with her. She sips the Whisky, grimaces a bit, then sets the glass back down to say, we skipped past a lot of formalities, didn’t we?

And here comes the part of talking to strangers that you’re the most comfortable with—Introductions. You think that it is safe to assume that just about anyone would find saying hello and telling someone your occupation much easier than holding up a conversation, what more with a beautiful woman like her. You give her your name, tell her what you do for a living, the usual stuff. She listens, the gleam in her eyes that comes when you’re done talking ever so enigmatic and cryptic.

“Lawyer huh?” She’s playing with her glass again, “considering were we are right now, I really shouldn’t be this surprised… Yet I am. Little shy for a guy dealing clients on the daily, no?”

Somehow, by the grace of some supernatural force (you call it alcohol), you crack your first joke of the night—I know. The most I ever talked is in court—and you’re relieved that she’s kind enough to humour you (or maybe she really does find it funny. You’ll never know), and gives you an elegant chortle, one that makes your hair stand at their ends as your third thought about her goes through your mind: even her laugh is attractive. Is there anything wrong with this woman?

And when she tells you her name, you realise why she seems to be exuding this inexplicable aura; Minatozaki Sana, pleasure to meet you, she introduces herself with a generous amount of pizzaz. You’re scanning her up and down at this point, and only now do you take in the expensive dress that dons her slender frame, the same dress that’s accompanied by a glimmering necklace and earrings, 3 rings on her middle, index and ring finger respectively.

“You’re…” you begin.

“The host’s daughter? Yes.”

Now you’re at a loss for words. Well uh… It’s an honour to meet you, is what you plan on saying, but it comes out as a simple, more blunt manner: Oh damn. Sana’s giggling to herself, swirling her Whisky as she watches you struggle to find things to say to her.

“I take it that you don’t come around here often?” she asks. When you raise an eyebrow, she explains how her father hosts a Ball like this every other month to try and find her a “suitor”. Apparently, 27 years old is “too old” to still be single, so my Dad just gets a bunch of men together and parades me around, she’s carping. The glimmering chandeliers, the array of drinks and food, the vanity of all these people; the dazzling marble floor, the glass sculptures, the embroidered tablecloths; this event, in all its glory and prestige, is all about her.

Christ, you’re thinking to yourself, money really gets you to places, huh?

Now she’s explaining how some of the people here are frequent visitors. Mothers and their sons, fathers and their sons, young business men, old business men, middle aged businessman; whoever can afford to come to this lavish Ball—all of them frequent this mansion like moths to a flame, all looking for a chance to ingratiate with the Minatozakis so that maybe, just maybe, they get a chance to get Sana’s hand in marriage. It’s a glorified yet obsolete form of Tinder really.

(Your boss is nowhere in sight now, and you’re pretty sure that the two of them have gone off somewhere to get it on. Maybe this event isn’t just about Sana, it’s about finding a rich person that can spoil you for the rest of your life too. God bless everyone here.)

“So what brings a man like yourself here this fine night?” She seems oddly interested in you (and also very hot on using this fine night as well apparently). You give her the truth that carries your watered down emotions in your tone—My boss asked me to tag along. Apparently all attendees were to bring a male plus one.

Sana chuckles, but it’s one of bitterness.

“So Dad’s reverted to these tactics huh?” you hear her whisper before taking an alarming large gulp of Whisky. She swallows, then sighs, “wonder what he’ll do next… Maybe an arranged marriage?”

Past the frustration and utter disappointment, there’s amusement in her voice. It tells you: if I could, I’d kill my Dad. It’s more of an inference from your end than a message that you’re sure that she’s trying to imply. You always had a bad habit of reading between the lines—probably picked it up from your job.

Sana downs the rest of the Whisky in a flash, wincing as the alcohol burns her throat. She scratches her nose, then turns to you and asks, “say, you don’t look like you want to be here, and neither do I.”

Behind you, you can hear the voice of a man approaching. He’s talking to someone—my daughter should like you very much, you seem like a man that suits her taste—and Sana bristles. Her father, you deduce, noting the way that the woman before you is searching around for an exit. Then you blink, and in that split second, she grabs your hand.

“Let’s get out of here.”

Just like that, you’re running through a crowd of people, spewing a million-and-one apologies as you jostle your way through the crowd, in tow behind a woman you've known for a grand total of 5 minutes.

A very unlikely start to a romance really.

Now the gears in your head are whirring, your stomach’s churning—there’s no other way to describe how you feel when Sana’s looking at you like that from across the table: small smile, a slight gleam behind those eyes, hand under her chin and fingers tapping against her cheek… She’s got you in perdition just with a look. You’re a guy of relatively taciturn nature, and the last time you went on a date was in university. That date went horribly, and now you’re wondering if this one was gonna go up in flames as well. Your brain urges you to say something to her, but your mouth seems to be sewn shut.

On the other hand, Sana’s poised as ever. “What’s wrong?” she’s cocking her head and pouting slightly, “nervous?”

You're not ashamed to admit that you indeed are, and that you’ve never really gone out on dates in a long time. Sana seems tickled by this—It’s been a while since I’ve seen a shy man. I like it, she tells you—and assures you that she won’t bite. In fact, she’s glad that you’re quiet and not rambling off about some business venture. She tells you, I don’t recall the last time I’ve been with a guy like you, though I’d appreciate it if you assist me in starting some conversation, and you’re slightly ashamed of your reticence.

There’s a gleam in her eyes when you start asking her some questions on her personal life, and she finds it congenial to gesticulate in a moderate manner as she answers your questions. Her outgoing nature leaves you flummoxed, and there’s barely enough space in your brain to remember everything she tells you about herself. Born in Osaka, likes yoghurt smoothies, likes to take walks in the park, likes this, likes that… You vaguely remember her telling you this on the night that the two of you escaped that event.

(To jog your own memory: She took you to the garden, where the two of you spent the rest of the night strolling amongst shrubs and other greenery that thrived in Spring. The Pina Colada in your system allowed you to hold a conversation, one that lasted long enough for her to take a liking to you. At the end of it all, she gets your number, you get her’s, and a date’s been settled in some french restaurant she patronises.)

“Now, I don’t expect you to remember all of this,” she’s watching the wine leave streaks against the glass, “but if you do, I believe you're entitled to some extra points.”

“Points?” you’re keen on inquiring, “we’re keeping a scoreboard?”

Sana simply smiles. For asking that question, minus 2 from you, is her answer—not a very good one if you were to be blunt. You can’t suppress a chuckle as you take a sip from your own wine.

Unwittingly, Sana has eased you into her presence. It suddenly feels like you’ve known her forever (if forever meant 2 weeks that is).

A smooth start to a relationship if you do say so yourself.

“Sana, there’s people out there.”

“I know.”

“They might hear us.”

“I know.”

“We could get caught.”

“We won’t.”

It’s the confidence in her voice that irks you really. The lack of hesitance combined with the sheer lack of shame towards the fact that anyone outside the changing room in this damn Prada store could easily raise a phone over the door and start recording. It’s not that she’s not cognizant of this, but more of the fact that she doesn’t give two shits if someone captures a video of her blowing you in this dressing room. Shameless, aplomb, obstinate, are the three words that come to mind when dealing with Sana at the given moment, but there’s no energy in you to convey this to her, not when she wraps her lips around your cock. The outfits that she chose remain untouched behind her, fabrics still in light while the person that chose them remains active on her knees.

(Almost a year. Almost a year the two of you have been dating. You thought you’d learned all there is to know about her, yet she’s hitting you with new facts and surprises every day, left, right, and centre. There are probably many more things that you have yet to figure out, but they’ll all come to light in due time.)

Really, it’s on you for not exercising due diligence upon entering the store; you should’ve known better from the moment you saw that look in her eyes while she was looking at a dress. But there’s nothing you can do about it now, not when she’s already enraptured you with that damn gaze—the one that exudes want and lust, the one that’s the leaven to your morality in her eyes. She knows that she’s got you wrapped around her finger when your hand rests itself atop of her head as she slowly bobs her head over your crotch. She’s taking her time despite the situation that she’s placed the both of you in.

“This has always been on my bucket list,” she’s letting her hand run along your shaft, spreading her saliva with each stroke of her palm. Her nails, freshly done just over 2 hours ago, glisten under the light—partially because of her spit and partly because of the gloss. “Everything about this is just so… Eroctic, isn’t it?”

Christ, she’s really into this thrill-seeking thing, you note as you choke out a reply: Not particularly, but whatever floats your boat Sana (obviously, it doesn’t come out as smooth as it should. No one would be able to get out a full sentence with phonics properly strung together if they too were getting blown in a changing room). She’s got a glint in her eye, but it’s covered by your shaft as she slides her tongue down your cock, nose brushing against the base of your cock, just behind her tongue. She knows what she’s doing, she’s given you head before; she’s building up the suspense and waiting for you to beg for more. You really don’t want to indulge her, you really don’t, but there’s not much you can do when she starts placing kisses on your shaft—base to tip in a fervently slow fashion. How far is she gonna go with this, you can’t help but wonder, but you quickly have your question answered in the next second or so.

“Unenthusiastic?” she quips, “minus four”.

She wraps her lips around you and pushes her head forward, and you almost let the people in the store know that something’s going down in here.

You figure that the feeling of her lips wrapped around your shaft will never get old, not when it sends electricity up your spine and makes your hand ball into a fist in her hair. Her eyes seem to glint as you let out a sharp gasp. Yes, you could be caught by an employee at any second. Yes, you could very well be caught on camera by a customer at any second. There were a lot of things to consider when assessing the dangers of the circumstances that Sana has put the both of you in. Yet, none of them take anything away from the pleasure she’s bringing you, not as she starts to bob her head in beat to the metronome in her head. There’s no point in trying to figure out her pace.

“Jesus… Fuck… Sana I…” Your voice is—somehow—hushed as you struggle to convey how weak she’s making you, but it’s not like you need to anyway—she knows exactly what she’s doing, and she’s loving every second of the havoc she’s wreacking upon your senses. The slight tug in the corner of her lips is the suggestion of a smirk, and the muffled noise that rises from her throat is the implication of a giggle.

There's a knock on the door and you bristle; Sana slows down, but she doesn’t stop. Past the door, the voice of the staff that led you to this very room asks if everything is alright in there, and you’re praying that her eyes aren’t set on the floor. Sana locks eyes with you, then darts her eyes to the door to tell you—Answer it goddamnit. Of course, she doesn’t make it easy for you as you open your mouth, applying light suction to your tip as you find the strength to say: Yep, just give us a few more minutes please, making you choke on that last word and sending alarms blaring in your head. Thankfully, the store assistant is kind enough to leave you with a take your time sir, and the shadow of her feet disappear from the gap beneath the door. It’s then that Sana pops your glistening cock out of her mouth.

“A few more minutes, huh?” She’s got drool on the corner of her lips as she rises to her feet. “Better make this quick then. You gotta keep your word as a lawyer, don’t you?”

Her wit is certainly better than most of your colleagues.

(There are customers outside now, you can hear them talking to the store assistant. They sound vaguely familiar… Maybe you heard them at the restaurant? Or maybe they’re colleagues… No, that can’t be it, at least you hope so).

Now for the record: you’ve seen Sana naked on multiple occasions, be it voluntarily or not. The shower, the bedroom, even a public shower at the pool… You could name a lot more places where she’d shamelessly flaunted her nude body before you off the top of your head. “A body to die for” is a fitting expression for Sana; you’ve always wondered if you’d find her on the top of the Google image search if you were to look up “dream bodies”, and you figure that you can probably get her there if you could somehow take pictures with your eyes as she undresses before you. She’s more methodical than anything, straying away from her usual teasing nature for the sake of being quick (that’s what you infer from her behaviour, but really, she could just be extremely horny and desperate. There’s never a solid answer to Sana’s behaviour). Mini skirt, then top, then bra; she’s going through the motions that she’d usually drag out just to get a reaction out of you preternaturally quickly.

Why is she getting naked in a changing room? You have no clue. Your best guess: she’s doing it for the thrill of it. The thought of getting caught completely nude with her boyfriend speared inside of her must be sending lethal doses of adrenaline through her veins. A pretty solid guess if you do say so yourself. No time for anymore guesses anyway—she’s already brought your hand up to her right breast, and she’s closing her eyes to enjoy the feel of your fingers closing around the semi-firm flesh. Her top lip’s furling behind her front teeth, she’s letting her other hand rest on your arm. She’s telling you where she wants it—did you cum in my ass yesterday? Or was it the day before? Ah, whatever… Give me a fucking creampie—in this soft, low voice that sends a velvet chill down your spine. Then she's kissing you softly, sweetly, nibbling on your top lip as usual, all while pushing you to the corner of the room where your feet aren't visible to those outside, flushing your back against the wall. It’s an uncomfortable fit, but that quickly changes when she grips the middle of your shaft and lines you tip up with her slit. The hand on her tit is guided to that slim waist, your other hand quickly finding its place on that symmetrical, slim figure.

“I don’t care if I cum or not,” she drawls, trailing a finger down your chest, “I just want your load inside me, right here, right now. Just focus on that, nothing else.”

(Half request, half demand—give her an award for being so damn ambiguous. Subtitles that could translate what she truly means would be really, really handy right now. Alas, such a system doesn’t exist.)

Describing how Sana’s pussy felt would be doing her injustice. The feeling was ineffable. From entering her to hilting yourself inside of her, there was never a second of that process where you had an easy time breathing or thinking. You’ve never been so reliant on your senses to keep you grounded in reality, nor have you ever been so glad that Sana’s nails are digging into your shoulder. This position—facing each other, standing and fucking against the wall of (all places) a changing room—is a stranger to the both of you, but the sheer tightness of her cunt working hand in hand with the intimacy of it all has you welcoming it with open arms.

Your hips are moving on their own, taking liberties without signals from your fried brain as you start thrusting into Sana. For long, wordless minutes, you're thrusting into Sana in a mindless, slow fashion, relishing the feel of her skin in your palms, the look on her face, the soft moans that are slowly slipping from her ever so slightly opened lips. Then your ability to think slowly returns, and you’re thinking like a damn neanderthal—tight, wet, hot, so fucking good—as your grip on her waist tightens. Your shaft glistens in the light of the changing room, slick with her sweet juices as it slips in and out of her slick, spearing into her with depth, making her legs weak. Sana cups your cheek, lifts your head, and it’s now that you see how her eyes have been completely glazed over with lust and want. Her face, her figure down to the sounds she’s making; everything about her, about this, is the phantasmagoria of a wet dream.

If you were being completely true to yourself right now: You couldn’t care less if you got caught.

And as if on cue, the voices approach as soon as you finish that train of thought.

“Do you provide altercation services?” It’s the voice of a man, closely followed by that of the store assistant: Of course sir. After you try on the suit, you can note how you’d like it to be altered to your liking.

A shadow of feet appears at the base of the door. Sana cups a hand over her mouth as the door rattles—the customer trying to open it. You stop your movements, breath caught in your throat as the store assistant tells him to use the other fitting room. Sana’s breath is loud in your ears as a second set of footsteps approach, followed by a female voice that asks, “Is my husband in there?”

Yes ma’am, is the assistant’s reply. Of course, this is hardly the end of it.

Now, as the woman engages the store assistant in conversation right outside your door, Sana lets the hand on her mouth drop. She flushes herself against you as the store assistant answers, and she whispers, “Keep going”.

Endlessly seeking thrill. Classic Sana.

The logical part of you warns you against doing as she says. Sadly, there’s not much room for logic in your head in the given circumstances, not when your balls-deep inside your girlfriend in a changing room. There’s barely enough room for dilemma to occur; Sana’s the sole occupant of your mind, rent-free, free-hold, and really: she’s the only thing that matters right now.

She almost, just almost, lets out a cry when you spear yourself back inside her. You didn't expect to start so soon, and neither did she. However, catching her by surprise is a novelty to you, and you relish in that brief rush of smugness before you restart your movements. Her mouth is frozen in a silent scream, but her eyes say all that she wants to: smug asshole, I’ll kill you later. You reply by letting your index and forefinger slip into her still-open mouth.

“Personally, I enjoy the Italian selection more…” The store assistant’s voice is barely audible to you over Sana’s small, muffled moans that manage to skirt your fingers and Sana’s closed lips, and as the lady starts talking about trench coats, Sana coats your fingers with a fresh layer of saliva, turning your fingers slick and slimy with her tongue as she looks you dead in the eye, as if challenging you: Is this the best you can do? Is this the riskiest you can be?

Every question from her deserves an answer, and your’s is to remove your saliva-slicked fingers out of her mouth, draw a circle with her spit just above her collarbone, then whisper right into her ear: I’m gonna mark you right there. The involuntary gasp that she lets out tugs the corner of your lips up into a perverse smile. Slowly your lips drift down to the glistening spot, and you wait just a moment to build up that sweet-sweet suspense. It’s a split second, but it’s a second too much for her to bear—the way her body tenses when you finally make contact is the clearest indication you will ever receive. And when you start sucking, God does she almost drive you over the edge: she tightens, she gasps, she starts twitching; she loves it, every second your lips stay locked around that sweet spot of skin is bliss to her.

You can hear the door to the other fitting room unlock, and you hear the man’s heavy footsteps as he walks out, no doubt in that suit he had earlier. The compulsory question comes: how do I look?

There’s a brief moment of silence, and you’re almost fearful of the fact that maybe, just maybe, their ears are picking up on the ragged breathing and slightly audible squelching coming from the other fitting room. All consternation dissipates when the woman starts to comment on how she looks, but Sana seems to have an answer to his question as well: So good. So fucking good. Harder, let me feel all of you, fuck me harder. Oh fuck, you’re so fucking deep.

You look dashing honey. The pitch of the woman’s reply harmonises with Sana’s soft whine as your lips leave her skin, the same patch where you’ve left your purple artwork on. I think we can afford to alter the pants—

Sana crushes your lips against hers, hot breath filling your mouth as you feel her lift her leg. You hold the back of her knee (like the gentleman you are), bring it to your side, hold it there. She bites your lower lip, hard enough for her to pull and tug it as you start losing yourself in her: her scent, her breath, her skin—all of it’s so deliciously addicting. You can’t get enough.

Then she’s going straight to moaning into your mouth, letting those muffled cries permeate in the small space and hopefully not outside the fitting room. She’s wet, she’s tight, she’s everything you need right now. You want, so badly, to pull her apart, ruin her till you can’t put her back together, get her begging at the top of her lungs for you to fuck her harder and harder.

And you’re almost on the verge of calling her a slut. There’s no need for that though, she knows what she’s made of herself.

—so that they’re a little shorter. I think we could also try—

Sana’s figured out the best way to moan: straight into your ear. She’s not letting up with them, and she’s giving you one hell of an array of sounds. There’s the common ah, the not so common, oh, and the very common shit, fuck, fuck me and so good. Her phonics are so loosely strung together that they’re just a jumbled mess, and you're perfectly ensconced with that; you love hearing those lazy, sloppy cries, and they only seem even more melodic at this volume, at this moment. Fuck, record them and play them as white noise as you sleep.

—changing the colours of the buttons? Ooh! Maybe we could even change the stitching around—

She tilts her head back, and you’re peppering her neck with kisses. She loves it, you know she loves it; all this attention, all this adrenaline, all this carnality she’s invoking—all of it for her. Each time you grunt, she knows that she’s the damn reason for it. Every time your fingers dig into her thigh a little more, she knows it’s because of her. Every kiss on her neck, every inch of her pussy you fill with your rock-hard meat, all of it’s for her. She isn’t vain, nor is she a pick me girl, but she sure as hell knows how to make you treat her like she’s the only girl in the fucking world, and you’re more than happy to give her what she wants.

Because it’s always like this with Sana: if she wants it badly enough, she’ll formulate a stratagem to get it, nip her cravings in the bud before they turn into desires that she can’t control. Mind you, she’s not dissolute; she’s just “riding the highs of life” as she calls it. Pretty bullshit and circumlocutory, but you always let her off the hook.

—the pocket area? That’s my two cents. What do you think darling?

Another moment of silence follows, and Sana seizes the opportunity to nibble on your earlobe. Her leg’s sweaty, slowly slipping from your grasp and trembling from the pleasure that’s giving her voice this lilt when she says: Carry me. Fuck me. Cum in me. Please. Pleasure, coursing through your veins, makes you comply in an almost servile manner. It’s precipitous, even fatuous to pull such a stunt in a fitting room of all places, but when your hands are supporting her by her ass and her legs lock around your waist, there’s no turning back.

And as the man starts going off on his own preferences, Sana’s wrapping her arms around your neck, letting you get a look at those bouncing breasts as you reach new depths inside of those slick, warm walls. If she could cry out, she would, but those damn customers outside are placing her in a box here, and it’s clearly frustrating her. If you were at your place, her hands gripping your sheets and her juices messing up your quilt, she could moan, mewl, cry and cuss however loud she wanted. In a way, it was funny to watch her hold back, but at the same time: you so badly want to make her scream, undo her right here and now and make her a mess in your arms, but you’ll settle for what you have right now. What the two of you have created is controlled chaos, and should it be released past that damn changing room door, God knows what will happen.

Now it’s the store assistant’s turn to speak, and she’s giving them a rundown of the pricings. Outside, they’re talking about the possibility of a discount; inside, Sana’s talking about how deep you feel inside of. Outside, the man’s trying to guilt-trip the store assistant by saying how exorbitant the price is; inside, Sana’s exclaiming and pleading in a hushed voice—Own me. For the love of God, fucking o-own me!—as each thrust you make into her pussy sends her further and further down this rabbit hole of pleasure. It takes guts to fuck in a fitting room, but it takes the guts of Minatozaki Sana to be this needy while fucking in a fitting room. The risks of being caught are high, the risk of being heard even higher, but neither of those affect her ardour. At a controlled volume, she’s pleading for you to fuck her harder, faster, unravel every single bit of her being while she tries to keep herself together. It’s one hell of a show, and it’s one hell of an experience too.

(The sight of her perfect body flushed against yours as she’s fucked in the air, the smell of her sickly sweet perfume, the feeling of that divinely tight pussy wrapped snugly around your shaft like a damned glove, the way those sonorously soft moans filter into your ears. Add these together with the fact that the people outside could hear you at any second, and you’ve got one hell of a recipe for a voyeurist’s wet dream. You’re no voyeurist, but everything about this moment is making you feel like one.

Right now, this is everything to Sana. Having you this close to her, feeling that cool Prada air conditioning against her bare body, listening to you grunt and sigh as you piston yourself in and out of that slick, wet slit… All her needs are being fulfilled, all of her senses heightened and primed, aware of every movement you make inside of her pussy. Sometimes, you feel so good and oh fuck, or maybe even oh god isn’t enough to convey how she feels, so she just opts to let out this strained, strangled gasps that tells you everything you need to know—a maelstrom of emotions and expressions compressed and compacted into one simple “hngh” is enough for you to know that you’re doing something right.)

“You like this Sana?” you find yourself whispering. “You like being fucked like a damn slut with people just outside, don’t you? You like everything about this, don’t you?”

Right now, she doesn’t have that capacity to reply. Of course, you know this, which makes you feel all the more smug as you watch, watching as she slips into a state of complete, utter bliss: her mouth hangs open, her eyes are unfocused, she’s barely holding on to you. The purple mark that your lips have left on her neck sears itself into your sight, and it’s joined by the breathtaking view of her breasts loosely bouncing each time you drive yourself into her. Loose strands of hair are flying, neither of you have any hands free to fix them. Her legs are quaking around your waist, neither of you want to stop just so that she can be back down on the floor. Her eyes are closing, you can feel her heartbeat in her pussy, she’s begging, pleading, fucking imploring you to keep going.

Christ. You want her to moan as loud as she can for you.

It’s hard not to get turned on by the sight of it, and it’s even harder to keep yourself controlled under the rapidly tightening grip of her cunt. Her breaths are shallow, her head is almost completely limp. She may not seem to be aware of it, but you sure as hell are more than cognizant of the fact that the both of you are about to hit that peak that you’ve been chasing for the past God-knows-how-many minutes.

“Sana.” Uttering her name is all that’s needed to bring her back to the real world. When you have her attention, you give her the sentence that she’s been waiting to hear for so damn long: I’m gonna fucking fill you, and It’s like the air gets heavier when she softly whispers, pleads for you to fulfill her new desire; cum with me. I need it so bad.

Controlled orgasm would take strength to pull off, and you silently pray that you have that strength as you send one final thrust between her shaking legs. Your cock twitches, spasms and the first rope of your warm seed that’s sent into her waiting walls is enough to send her over the edge. She bites down on your shoulder, quick enough to muffle the cry that escapes her throat. The tightening of her walls seem to coordinate with each spasm of your cock, and they sync up, working together to get every last drop of cum out of you and into her. She lets a soft moan escape her lips with each spurt, as though welcoming it, as though each one were something she long wanted and needed. You let out a single, soft grunt, as though thanking her, as though every twitch of her walls that sends a shock down your cock is a treasure to be relished.

So the scarf that she brought in to try is no longer just an ornament like the rest of the outfits. Even after adjusting her outfit, the fabric still can't seem to cover that hickey you left on her collarbone. The simple solution: Sana waits there, you buy the scarf, hand it to her, she puts it on and the both of you walk out of the store like nothing happened, like the both of you really were in there to try on some clothes, then leave.

It’s unsuspecting, it’s smooth. The store assistant wishes you a good day, and Sana smiles and waves to her, looking exactly like she did when she entered, plus a scarf. The only difference in Sana’s entrance and exit from the Prada store is the load between her legs.

But that’s a secret for the two of you.

“Hey. Could I talk to you about something?”

In your two years of dating Sana, never have you heard her this nervous in your life. The fact that your client isn’t responding to you a day before his trial plagues you no more, and your laptop is shut before she can close the door.

Your posture—arms crossed atop the desk and back straight—is all she needs. The message is implicit: I’m here, all ears, and she smiles softly as she walks over to the bed. The frame creaks a little as she settles down.

“My uh… My Dad is organising another one of those damned Balls again.” The way she intonates her words tells you that the Ball is the least of her concerns at the moment. “It’s gonna be at the usual time.. Usual place… Not like we can move it anyway.”

You offer her a chuckle to assuage her, diffuse the tension a little. She manages a half-forced giggle at her own joke. Is this a transitional opening? Or is this legitimately the subject of her conversation? you’re thinking, and as you sip from your cup, that subtle shift in her posture is shifting the atmosphere of the room.

She’s scared, but of what?

“I was wondering,” she drums her nails against her knees, “could I… Introduce you to him tomorrow? M-My Dad I mean.”

And now you suddenly understand why she’s on edge. She’s not scared for herself; she’s scared for you. The head of the Minatozaki clan, Sana’s father—you heard much about him, partly because of the stories that Sana tells you and partly from the things you heard through the grapevine at work. In your firm, there’s a whole box dedicated to storing suits that have been opened by him on the intern’s table (it’s a hilariously off-putting thing to say out loud), and from what you’ve heard: there’s another two in the storage room. Personally, you’ve assisted a colleague in one of his lawsuits, and the emails you billed weren’t pretty. You’d be throwing out a fib if you ever couched that you never once thought: It’s a pretty bad first impression of the man, could he maybe… You know… Stop suing people? Please? but you’re not going to let a mere few boxes and one night of reading through emails determine your perception of Sana’s father.

And hopefully, he won’t judge a book by its cover too.

“I have a trial tomorrow Sha,” you remind her, but it’s not like you actually expected her to remember this; you whispered it to her while cuddling on the couch a solid week ago. “I don’t know when I’ll end. It might be a little tight for me.”

It's undeniable that she sighs in relief. The blush that follows the breath is a clear indication. She’s glad, too glad. You can't help but ask: What’s up? Think I’ll flub everything when I meet him?

Sana does that thing where she wants to answer, but doesn’t know how to: her mouth opens, closes, opens again—longer this time, then closes again. It isn’t an easy thing to talk about; what your father will think of your partner is never not a touchy matter. All touchy matters should be discussed in comfort (Sana knows that you strongly believe in this, that’s why she’s situated herself on the bed), and you join her on the mattress.

“WIll he feel that I’m not enough for you?” You’re prodding, all while you gently reach for her hand and grasp it in your own. It’s cold, really cold. You’ll warm it up with your palms, keep them there while she replies, “it’s not that… I know that you’re more than enough for me, that’s what matters to him… At least I think so.”

She’s staring down at her hand, the one that’s slowly heating up via the warmth of your hand. Then what’s making you so worried? you’re asking. She folds her bottom in, past her front teeth. You rub her knuckle with your thumb.

“Yea I… I don’t know what’s making me so worried either,” she finally muses. “Guess I’m just… New to this practice. Never had to do it before...”

Because all the men that have tried to win you over have never lasted for more than a week, you complete in your head, smiling as she lays her other hand over yours. It’s cold too—that won’t do.

And as you set another hand atop hers, she’s asking you for a kiss. Luckily for her, obliging her wants is your specialty, and your lips are quickly travelling that small gap between the two of you. Connection is made, and you physically feel her relax. You know. You know that she belides a truth that she’s not ready to divulge. It’s in her kiss, it’s in her hands, and that’s fine with you. You can infer that it’s not something that’s going to be detrimental to your relationship, and whenever she’s ready to speak about it, you’ll always be available.

Now the kiss is done, she’s asking for fried chicken. You counter-ask if the kiss was to soften you up so that she could ask for her Famichiki. Of course, you get a classic Sana reply: a “maybe”, followed by that mischievous grin. You rise from the bed to grab your coat.

You're glad that the Konbini is just next to your apartment. Sana’s glad that she gets to be close to you as you walk through the snowy street.

“You know,” she’s whispering, “I really won’t mind if you propose to me one of these days.”

You laugh it off, kiss her on her forehead.

In your head: you note to start looking for a nice ring.

Money can get you to places, but it can also get you a private soundproof karaoke room in a club. Three and a half years of dating—that’s all you need to know: you can bet your left kidney that Sana is taking full advantage of that room.

The bottle of Whisky that she opened to get the room is hardly the main event; Sana, slowly slipping out of that tight black dress she’s wearing, foreground to the default music that’s on the TV, has your unwavering attention. The smile on her face could've been mistaken for a sweet one if it weren’t for the fact that she’s getting naked, and the lack of a bra really doesn’t help with her case either.

“There isn’t a time limit to the use of this room, right?” You know the answer to that is no, the lady at the counter told you so. The question is more of a gauge, an instrument that’s helping you assess her plans for the night.

“If you’re trying to know how long we’ll be here for,” she slings her dress onto the couch next to you, and in her stockings and panties, saunters over with a sultry sway in her hips, “my answer is a secret.”

“I have work tomorrow, Sana.”

“Too bad. Call in sick.”

She picks up the glass of Whisky, raises it to her lips. When she drinks, she lets some of that amber liquid trickle out past her lips, down past her chin and onto her tits. In the light, her wet skin glistens and shimmers, and you once again find yourself in absolute awe with the woman before you. And as she straddles you, glass in hand, the way she uses her fingers to tilt your face up to the light tells you that she’s in control. She takes a sip of the amber liquid, swallows it, then brings it to your lips.

“Be a good boy,” she’s tipping the glass as she speaks, a strong way to convey that there’s no room for disobedience, “say ‘ahh’ for me baby.”

The glass is cold against your lips, the liquor even colder on your tongue as it flows into your mouth at a manageable rate. When she stops pouring, you take the cue, and you swallow all of it in one gulp. The burn in your throat is oddly rewarding, probably because Sana’s smiling down at you, stroking your hair and telling you how obedient you are as you swallow. Then she makes you open your mouth again, pours another portion down the hatch.

How does it taste, she’s asking, cupping your right cheek as she swirls the glass. You give her a short honest review of it: It’s good. The answer pleases her, and she sets down the glass in her hand to pick up the bottle from the table next to you.

“Yamazaki, 12 year old single Malt.” She’s letting you see the bottle under the light, though you have to admit that her tits right next to the bottle are a horrible distraction. “My personal favourite.”

She unscrews the cap and takes a swig straight from the bottle, swallows it without even flinching. She’s always been able to hold her alcohol well, and you know for a fact that she can probably outdrink 5 of your colleagues and maybe, just maybe, your boss too. But you’ll never have a fair gauge on how well she can drink in comparison to your peers; she only drinks around you.

Your face is back in her hand, and she’s got some more things to say—Drink it neat, on the rocks, add it to another drink, it tastes great no matter what—as she starts to lightly grind herself over your throbbing shaft in your pants. But you know what the best way to drink it is, she asks you. She’s not looking for an answer from you, just finding a way to transition from the Whisky to whatever it is she has in mind—you can tell because she leans down to capture lips right after she throws out the inquiry, kissing you deeply, her tongue playing aggressively on your lips before searching your mouth for its counterpart. The smell of Whisky is so damn strong on her breath, and the only thing hotter than the burning sensation in your throat is the fact that she’s using one hand to play with herself, the bottle of Whisky in the other. You can hear it slosh next to your ear as she raises it.

And as she breaks the kiss, the thin strand of saliva connecting the two of you doesn’t stop her from providing the answer to her question—it tastes the best when you drink it right off my body—as she straightens herself. The next second, still playing with herself, she’s bringing the bottle to her lips, tipping it just before it touches those red-tinted lips to let the golden liquid flow down her chest and breasts. There's no time to admire; you reach out and catch the rapidly falling liquid, your tongue pressed tightly to her skin to lap up as much of the bitter liquor as you could. Her skin glistens with the Whisky on it. It looks like gold in the snow. She smells like lavender and lust.

Your tongue, saturated with Whisky, finds and captures her left nipple. You close your lips around it, suckling deeply from her chest, enjoying the taste of her body and the liquor that made it spicy and bitter. Sana gasps and moans as you have your way with her chest, fondling her small mounds, suckling both of her taut nipples—roughly, hungrily. You could say that she’s wasted some perfectly good Whisky, but you say that she’s added complex flavours to an already exquisite meal. The blend of alcohol and Sana’s skin is not something you never knew you needed, but now you do. The novelty of it, the sheer lust she’s emanating, all of it makes her tits taste better than ever, and you find yourself leaving marks on her cleavage, the right side of her left breast, the left side of her right breast; every centimetre of skin that can be reached is marked and tasted—your attempt at dipping your toes in a little control in this karaoke room that is Sana’s domain.

Maybe you’re a little over-indulgent in her, maybe you’re just unaware, but you certainly can’t feel her slipping your tie off your neck. By the time you’re aware of the sudden feeling of freedom at your throat, she’s already wrapping your wrists, securing them together with an intricate knot. You know damn well that even the boy scouts couldn’t untie this one, even if they sent their best member. The theory is only enforced when Sana asks you to try pulling your wrists apart, and it feels like they’ve been superglued together. Satisfied, she feeds you some more Whisky off her body, then it’s time for her fun.

Palm flat against your chest, eyes flaring, wicked smile; Sana pushed you back against the couch with graceful authority—something that only she is capable of. Then it’s onto your shirt, and he’s unbuttoning it with practised dexterity: unfastening, pulling—motions so fast that she has your reverence for mastering the art. She takes a moment, parts the fabric covering your chest and runs a fingernail down the centre of your torso. The nail—painted black with little Sakura flowers adorning it—stops at your belt. It isn’t hesitance that keeps her finger there; it’s the innate cheekiness that makes her linger there a little longer, that makes her smile softly as the other hand joins in and starts undoing the clasp of your belt. Not a word is uttered as she pulls apart your belt, then goes straight for the buckle of your belt.

Then it’s back to kissing. Sloppy, passionate kissing. Sloppy, passionate kissing as she runs her fingers through your hair. The Whisky on both of your breaths mingle. Admittedly, you’re feeling a little floaty, engendering a pleasant tingle on your skin as she starts placing kisses on your cheek, then on your jaw. Next thing you know, she’s sucking hard at the nape of your neck, marking you with those lovely lips, as if she’s placing a wax seal on you, declaring: you are mine and mine alone. And when she successfully sears the shape of her lips onto your skin, she traces the slick outline with a finger, whispers softly, You have no idea how much I want to own you right now.

The excitement is palpable, the tension even more so. She’s whispering all sorts of things to you—most of them entailing what she’s about to do with your cock—all while she starts to slip your briefs off of your legs. Your cock springs out of your pants, slaps against her ass and twitches on the rotund flesh. The smile grows wider, devilish dimples appear. And for the record: no, she’s not gonna blow you. She’s gonna make herself cum before anything else happens, and she’s going to make you feel things you’ve never felt before.

She slides off you, gets back up on her feet. With her back turned to you, she bends forward at the waist, shaking her ass while she uses her thumbs to hook onto the waistband of her panties. She looks over her shoulder, eyes locked on yours. With a little hop, she pushes the fabric down and off her hips, kicking it to the side. She looks over her shoulder, eyes locked on yours. With a little hop, she pushes the fabric down and off her hips, kicking it to the side. Her pussy glistens in the light, flushed pink and folds tantalising as ever puffy and swollen with excitement.

She bends her knees, getting down on all fours.

She wiggles her ass at you, looking back at you over her shoulder.

“Bet you wished,” she gets on her back, spreads her legs to get the spotlight on her slit, “that you could absolutely own me like this right now, don’t you?”

She’s so cocksure. It’s driving you crazy. You swallow, your voice barely audible as you utter her name. She crawls to you, sits up, her face in front of yours, so close, so hot. Her hand touches the back of your head, her voice barely a whisper as she grips the base of your cock—but you can’t, and it’s so damn frustrating, isn’t it?—and rubs your tip between her dripping folds, lathering her juices all over your head and smiling all the way through.

And when you least expect it, she turns and sinks down on your cock.

You throw your head back, groan, the sound of her wetness as she takes your cock into her pussy loud and clear over the music. Your head falls forward again, watching her sink further and further, taking more and more of your cock inside her with every passing moment as she lets a long, drawn-out moan float through the air. When her crotch meets yours and you are fully embedded inside her, a soft, wordless cry of pleasure that leaves open lips. You meet it with a sigh of your own, somehow tearing open your own shut eyes to watch the expression on her beautiful face as you fill her.

Christ, fuck and god—just some of the words that you want to cry out as she starts to slowly grind herself against you. The ride she’s about to take is one that’s of perverse nature; it’s not going to be a slow, pleasant ride. Naturally, her habit of jumping straight into things leaves her unprepared for what she’s about to experience, so now she has to slowly slowly adjust to your size, like striking the flint over and over next to the fireplace as you hope to get a flame going. Usually, this would be a time where you’d caress that beautiful body, run your hands over that unblemished white skin and pepper kisses all over the places that she loves to be kissed. But she’s not in the mood for that, not when she has this room and you at her disposal.

Then the fire ignites, and it is merciless, a force of nature—untameable, unrelenting. In your bonds you are unable to resist. You never would’ve in the first place. She begins to move, her pussy tight and slick around your cock. She rides you like she was made to do this, like a pro. She rides you fiercely, roughly, taking you in and out of her tight wet heat, caring little for your comfort or much of anything aside from stuffing herself over and over with thick, hard meat. Throughout it all she is digging into your thigh, crying out like her life depends on it as she goes up, down, up, down—a lewd seat on a merry go round.

Yes, yes, yes—she throws her head back, auburn hair flying like streamers in the wind as she has her way with you—o-oh fuck I need this! I need this so fucking bad! The rhythmic, repetitive motion, her unbridled desire to be filled, it sends you reeling. The pressure on your leg is forgotten, the slight discomfort in your arms pushed out of the way. You can do nothing but watch her ride you. You can do nothing but marvel at how good you feel inside her, how the tightness of her pussy massages your shaft, how the way she takes you so completely into her folds, how you stretch her and make her quiver and quake.

A part of you wishes the mirror were visible from your current position, so that you could watch as Sana impales herself over and over on your cock. You want to watch the expression of pleasure wrangle her cute features, want to watch her full, round breasts bounce up and down, want to watch every muscle of her long, perfectly shaped legs work to throw her body again and again against your cock. But you’ll have to content yourself with the almost equally alluring view of her sweaty back (not that it was a particularly difficult position to enjoy. How could you call it “bad” with the view of her round, full ass as she slams it down against your crotch?). It’s not like you can change anything about this anyway. No—the only thing you can do is sit back, watch, and savour how her ass jiggles as it crashes against your crotch.

Oh fuck, oh yes! I’m so fucking full! I’m so stuffed with this cock!

You lose yourself to the sound of her voice, the feeling of her pussy as it swallows up your cock, the sight of her back arching and her hands shaking. As much as you try, you find yourself unable to move, as though your own pleasure has been drained out of your body, and you are just an observer. You watch as she pushes herself down further on your cock, impaling herself with every thrust of her hips, her voice growing louder and louder as she gets into that dangerous rhythm, the rhythm that makes you think she’s on Acid. Well-formed breasts bounce, you see them past her slender figure. Her shapely, luscious ass ripples. Long legs work overtime, cooperating with the stamina of the girl who is using them to drive herself over the edge like it’s her be-all and end-all. It’s exhilarating. It’s thrilling.

It’s so fucking hot.

Oh god. You’re stretching me out so good. This cock feels so damn good!

Two things are getting you at the moment: (1) The sweat glistening that’s building up on her back. (2) The fact that she’s pushing your thighs apart to get more of you inside her. The former sight is a breathtaking process really: beady moisture on that well built back, pooling at all the best places and making her skin glow as some of it slowly trickles down her spine. The latter’s no grain of sand either mind you, maybe even hotter than Sana’s sweaty back if you dare say. Freshly done nails sit just outside the insides of your thighs, the palms that they’re connected to pushing down against the flesh beneath them. They’re indenting the muscles of your thighs, it’s uncomfortable, but only for a second at a time.

I don’t wanna stop. I don’t wanna fucking stop!

In your restraints, your hands grasp at the flesh that’s so close yet so far, the skin that’s rippling and slapping against yours. Her ass taunts you, tempts you, teases you. It’s so frustrating yet so erotic; you aren’t sure if you should welcome this mix of emotions or reject it before it folds its wings and nestles itself in your chest. The mix of desire and vexation, exasperation and ecstasy—any two emotions that shouldn’t go together are mixing, blending, forming these bubbles in your chest that you can’t explain.

One woman; innumerable sensations.

You need more. More of everything. More of her.

You wish you could touch her.

You wish you could fuck her.

But all you can do is watch, watch as she starts going down harder, crying out even louder.

Her body, so flawlessly feminine, is in deadly motion, working you over from the inside like you’ve never experienced. The air is filled with the wet, lewd sounds of her pussy sucking you in your hips slapping against her ass, her moans and groans, her curses that seem to go on perennially, blending in perfectly with that shitty synth in the background.

And you’re just along for the ride.

You have no idea… How good this is.. Oh fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

And she wants you to see it, she wants you to watch her—it is exactly that kind of attention that she is basking in. So you watch. You watch her, the way she looks back at you, the way her eyes flare as she takes you in, the way her hands claw at your leg. The way she's moaning with that lilt back in her voice. Everything about this spectacle seems like it’s been scripted for some porno, and her body is certainly making you feel like you’re in one. The only grasp on reality that this situation offers is… Well, nothing. And it’s not that there really isn’t anything for you to root yourself in this real world, rather you’re choosing not to make that mental effort to do so; every little corner of your mind is being bled with whatever colour the image of Sana bouncing on your cock is. There’s no room for reality, and it's addicting, enthralling.

Fuck. You can't get enough of her, and you probably never will.

So deep! So fucking… Oh my god!

Your breath is ragged, and it takes every bit of control you have left in you to not cum right then and there. It takes every ounce of focus not to simply give in to her, not to simply melt into the couch, not to lose your mind to the sensation of her tight, wet slick as it swallows you in, pushes you out; fucking itself over and over and over again on your rock hard shaft. You don't know how much longer you can hold out for, and as if she can tell, Sana starts to move faster, her movements getting even more aggressive. The slaps of her ass against your crotch are louder now, and the wet smacking sound of her pussy's getting faster and faster. Her fingers are digging into your leg, her moans more frequent and more desperate. You can feel her tightening around you, the way her walls clamp down, the way her legs are trembling, the way her voice is going up in pitch.

(It’s the moments of privacy that really get her going; the moments where she can scream and cuss and moan like there’s no tomorrow are everything to her.

Yes, she likes fucking in public spaces for the thrill of it, but she likes it better when she can hold you freely as you fill her, not having to care for the fact that the way her body’s positioned engenders any discomfort or risk of being heard.

Yes, she likes it when there’s the chance that someone can walk in on the two of you, but the prospect of being able to own your cock, uninterrupted and unheard, thrills her like nothing else in the damn world.

Yes, she likes to see if she can hold in her cries while you’re rearranging her insides in a bathroom stall, but she prefers it much more when she can slam herself down on your cock—be loud and be proud of the fact that she loves every inch of meat that fills her till she can barely breathe.

Bottom line: she likes chasing that thrill of being caught, but she loves those moments where she’s alone with you in private even more. Now is one of those times, and God… She’s barely herself anymore.

She is a storm of pure, unfiltered lust. And you must say: it’s fucking sublime.)

Then the game changing sentence comes from her, and it's beautiful.

"I'm fucking cumming!"

The words ring out, clear and loud. And she doesn't stop; she keeps riding you, taking you into her wet hole and milking your cock, using you to bring herself off. It's not until the final second that she slows down, her back arching as she lets out the most satisfying scream that you have ever heard in your entire life. It is all that you can do to watch as she slumps forward, breaths ragged and body twitching as you hold yourself back. It takes everything—every fibre, every cell and every last bit of will—to not cum in her right there and then. And when the final spasm has passed and the shuddering has subsided, when Sana has collapsed against you, your cock still buried inside her, she turns to you.

There are no words spoken, just a mutual understanding of what comes next. She slips off the couch, takes your slick shaft in her hands. A few pumps are delivered, and they’re considerate and slow; she’s good at building tension.

“You’ve already marked my tits. Might as well cum on them.” She’s still got some cheekiness left in her, and that smile is really doing everything for you.

“Fuck, Sana, I—” “Do it. Paint me.”

You feel the semen gather in your balls before coursing up your shaft and erupting from its tip, landing in thick, wet, warm ropes upon Sana’s creamy skin. Your tip is directed between her cleavage, and the first spurt of cum shoots itself between those wonderful mounds. It’s quickly followed by a second rope, and the third lands on her upper chest. With grace, she manages to direct your spurting cock by the base so the fourth and fifth ropes cover the front of her tits, then the rest don’t matter anymore.

The last ropes of thick, warm semen land upon her face, staining her soft, blushing features with creamy white cum. Some of it lands on her cheeks, on her forehead and onto her open mouth and the thirsty tongue within it. When you finally open eyes you hadn’t known had closed, the picture of Minatozaki Sana, face and chest painted with your warm, thick cum, is one you never want to forget. And as she scoops up your seed with her fingers, she’s got a thing or two to say.

“Excellent load,” she whispers, watching as the cum slithers down her palm. “Plus two to you.”

Just two? Is your reply of false bewilderment. Sana chortles.

Maybe if you can give me a load up my ass, I’ll consider adding another three points.

Now the ring’s oddly heavy in your pocket.

Sana’s father seems more imposing than he should for a man his size, and looking at the Yamazaki bottle on the desk, you can tell that Sana gets her liking for Whisky from him.

“I’ve never met you in my life,” he begins, “and now you come here like a friend, asking for my daughter’s hand in marriage?”

Sana’s head is bowed. In the corner of the office she sits, hands clasped over one another as she listens in silently. No amount of trials or oral submissions could ever prepare you for this tension.

“Mr Minatozaki… I understand that all of this is sudden,” you begin, but you’re interrupted by a raised hand.

“You know boy… You sure do talk like you know everything about the situation.” His voice is nowhere near threatening as he speaks, and it’s absolutely terrifying. “For a lawyer, you sure do sound quite the fool. Guess I shouldn’t have been expecting much considering your background.”

And it’s that very statement that has you on tenterhooks. You’ve never met him, never even seen his face, yet he knows your occupation which you never even touched on, and from the sound of it, knows what went down in your family. Sana’s head snaps up, her eyes wide as she watches her father produce a file from under his desk.

“It’s not the suddenness,” the air quotations he uses hold more weight than they really should, “that doesn’t sit well with me dear boy. No, no… It’s more than that.”

The broad leather chair in his office grows constricting. As he rises from his seat, the foam that holds your butt up seems to depress. And as he begins—if you sauntered in here as just a lawyer, I would’ve let you take my daughter in a heartbeat!—his explanation of what’s grinding his gears, you start feeling uneasy. For context on the severity of this feeling: the last time you felt like this was when you first met his daughter.

But you’re not just a lawyer—he’s opening the file in his hands, flipping through its contents—you’re a disgrace to this very world. You shouldn’t even be in this damn house right now.

Into the file his hand reaches, and out from it: two mugshots. You bristle; Sana gasps (and it’s not that she didn’t know, rather because she was shocked that her father knew.)

So it’s the next sentence that seals your fate. Frankly, you kind of expected it, but it still doesn’t take away from the sheer bedlam that goes down in your head when Mr Minatozaki waves the mugshots of your parents before your face and shrieks at the top of his lungs.

This isn’t the way you pictured this going.

Honestly, you never pictured this happening at all.

“Do you seriously think for a second that I’d let the son of two druggies—two disgraceful, repugnant, filthy, druggies—marry my daughter?”

It’s hard to forget what she told you over the phone after your talk with her father (if you can even call it that): we’ll figure this out. I promise you, we’ll figure this out.

Money can get you a nice fancy Ball, some nice Whisky and a private Karaoke room. Naturally, it can grant you a means to keep the son of two convicted drug abusers that hung themselves in their cells away from your daughter.

So not even 12 hours after that fate-sealing conversation did you get a phone call from your boss. Next thing you know, you’re uprooted from your workplace in Osaka, transferred to the branch in Nagoya; Sana’s number mysteriously changes itself, none of your letters ever reach her.

It’s over the payphone, months after all of this, that Sana finally reaches you, and she’s ugly crying over the phone.

We can fix this, we’ll figure something out. We’ll figure this out. I promise you, we’ll figure this out.

In a way, she ended up being right.

And in your suit, you smile as you watch her walk down the aisle. She’s beautiful as ever, and you feel like that white veil over her face is doing her the biggest disservice ever. The little boy carrying the wedding rings seems a little confused, but it only adds to his adorable aura as he stumbles behind Sana. The flower petals are being scattered, the crowd’s on their feet. They’re clapping; you’re crying. Have you mentioned that she looks beautiful?

Oh? You have? Odd…

But just in case it slips your mind, you tell her how beautiful she is in your head, all while she walks right past you and continues to the stage. It feels like the ring boy’s acting stupid to taunt you for being the fool here.

In a way, she ended up being right. If “We” referred to Sana’s father and that man on the stage, “We” did indeed end up figuring things out. The invite broke you, and this wedding is breaking you even more. You know that this invite wasn’t sent by Sana—she isn’t cruel. This has the fingerprints of her father all over it: the seat close to the aisle, your wristband to authorise your access to the venue holding the same serial code as your father’s prisoner ID… All of it is him.

But there’s not much you can do about it is there? You chose to come, you chose this for yourself. There was the option to not come, to tear the invite up and go cry in your apartment in Nagoya, but you bought the Shinkansen ticket here, didn’t you? You walked through the doors of this damn place and took your seat, didn’t you?

And the Yamazaki doesn’t taste as good as it should, and the Spring air is sharper than it should be at the afterparty. They’re over there, congratulating the newly weds and wishing them all the best; you’re over here, sipping on your neat Whisky behind a bush as the music roars on.

It really shouldn’t be a question on how she finds you; she knows you too well to know where you’d go at a place like this. And in her wedding gown, she stands where she is, this look of a god-knows-what mix of emotions simmering on her face. You rub your nose with a thumb, sip on the bitter Whisky as your remedy. No words are spoken, not even a “hey” or “how have you been”—both of you know that there’s no use in starting a conversation here. It’ll go sob, fast, and this isn’t the place for it.

There will never be a place for it.

So why not substitute words with actions?

So in her bare feet, she hikes up her gown, runs over to you, lunges to close those years of separation between you two to hug you like she used to. The Whisky is knocked out of your hands; you’re knocked off your feet. And in the grass, she buries her head into your shoulder and weeps.

You always thought that only death would make you cry, but now as you hold her for what may very well be the last time, you realise: you're not as tough as you think.

Like a Lemon, the realisation that comes is bitter, and it has you bawling.

Cause maybe in a world that wasn’t so cruel, you could’ve been the one on that stage.

(Then the two of you could be in love, happier than ever.)

#minatozaki sana #twice smut #sana smut #kpop #fanfic #writing #smut

1K notes · View notes

starlovesganyu · 3 months ago

Text

praising them!

❀--❀--❀--❀--❀--❀--❀--❀--❀--❀--❀--❀--❀--❀

how they would react to you calling them "good girl"

various characters x gn!reader

characters: yae miko, keqing, kujou sara, furina, ayaka, hu tao, xianyun

warnings: none

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

yae miko -`✮´-

• absolutely no reaction

• i mean what did you expect

"hmm...? what was that little one?"

• will make you repeat it multiple times while she smirks at you, enjoying your reaction

"it's not nice to use my own tricks against me dear"

• will make you call her a good girl in the future just to tease you

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

keqing -`✮´-

• she visibly tenses and her cheeks instantly flush bright red

"w-what!? i'm not a little girl anymore!"

• the yuheng's cheeks puff out into the cutest pout when you laugh at her reaction

• might give you a very gentle shock as payback

• if you apologize and ask her if she disliked it, she gets all flustered and quiet

"no! no, i mean... it's not that i didn't...y-you can't just go saying things like that so suddenly, okay?"

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

kujou sara -`✮´-

• she freezes up and almost drops the glass of water she was bringing you

• when she finally processes what you said, she blushes from head to toe

"d-don't call me that!"

• quickly gives you the glass of water and runs off to hide her embarrassment

• takes a while for her heart rate to return to normal

• secretly enjoys it, but that's for you to figure out yourself

"you're lucky i like you...idiot"

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

furina -`✮´-

"h-hey! don't you dare call me a good girl!"

• she desperately tries to hide her grin, but it still gives away her inner happiness

• if you laugh, she will blush and turn her head to hide her embarrassment

• will then throw a book at you and retreat to her room

• in her room, she'll hug her favorite stuffed animal while smiling uncontrollably and kicking her legs

• if you catch her smiling randomly in the future, she's probably replaying the moment in her head

"what am i thinking about? n-nothing! nothing at all!"

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

ayaka -`✮´-

• her eyes will widen as a warm blush spreads across her face

• bites her lip to keep herself from squealing like a schoolgirl, but fails terribly to hide her grin

"a-ah...r-really? thanks..."

• fails to look you in eye for the rest of the day

• will gush about this moment to thoma many, many times

• desperately wants you to call her a good girl again, but is too scared to ask :(

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

hu tao -`✮´-

• does not have the flattering effect you hoped it would

"hmm? i'm a "good girl?" oh, you're just trying to flatter me, right?"

• she will giggle and thank you

"you're right! i am a good girl!"

• even if it doesn't seem like it, this becomes one of her favorite memories of you

• may ask you to call her a good girl when she does favors for you in the future

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

xianyun -`✮´-

• a faint pink will creep into her face

• attempts to play it down, clearing her throat and trying to regain her composure

"hmph! what nonsense... calling this one a "good girl"! One is a powerful adeptus you know"

• quickly takes a sip of her tea to hide her still rosy cheeks

• notices that you seem a little hurt that she brushed off your praise and will gently take your hand

"... apologies. one was simply not expecting to be called that, that's all...it's not that one dislikes... being called that..."

• will be staring at the ground when she says this

• ganyu and shenhe will definitely be hearing about this moment

a/n: i know i switched tenses like billion times im sorry

331 notes · View notes

charmandabear · 11 months ago

Text

Office Hours - Chapter One

Summary:

Your colleague Dr. Ancunin is a smug condescending bastard and you can't stand him. But you also can't get him out of your head.

Pairing: Astarion/F!Reader Rating: E Word Count: 5.2k Tags/Warnings: unprotected p in v sex, creampie, no breeding kink, masturbation, vaginal fingering, vampire bites, modern au, college/university au, urban fantasy, enemies to lovers, like the briefest mention of suicide while talking about Hamlet

This would not exist without @zipzoomzaria's gorgeous glasses screenshots because PROFESSOR, PLS. Go follow her bc her edits are out of this world. The masturbation scene is also heavily inspired by @astarionfreak's "Are You Satisfied, Darling?" If you haven't read it what are you doing???

Read on AO3 ~ Masterlist

There’s something about him that rubs you the wrong way. It could be his arrogance, or the condescending way he peers over his glasses at you and your other colleagues. It might be the overpriced cashmere turtlenecks that hug his figure perfectly or the stupid silver earrings adorning his stupid elf ears. But every time he opens his pretty little mouth you feel a snarl growing deep in your throat.

This is the first university you’ve worked at where the theatre and English departments shared an office. Theatre and music, sure, even theatre and dance. But theatre and English? It feels insulting, honestly. English PhDs are some of the snobbiest people you’ve ever met, and they always speak to you like a child. Is it because they’re unimpressed by your MFA, like it made you less deserving of your position? Who knows. But Astarion Ancunin is no different.

“Grace, would you mind making twelve copies of pages 219-254 when you get a chance?” You hand the administrative assistant the heavy book. “You can leave them in my mailbox, I’ll pick them up later.” Grace opens the book to the instructed page.

“Oh, Much Ado About Nothing! I love that one!” she squeals with delight. “That Beatrice and Benedick,” she sighs, stroking the Complete Works lovingly. You smile at her cordially.

“They’re great, they’re basically the non-problematic version of Kate and Petruchio,” you respond in agreement.

“How tragic that Taming’s writing is better.”

You whirl around to see Ancunin walking in looking at something on his phone. He doesn’t even look up as he inserts himself into your conversation. You glare at his interruption. He looks up at Grace, bypassing you completely.

“Good morning, Grace darling, how are you today?” He sweeps over to her and takes her hand in his, planting a kiss on her knuckles. Gods he’s fucking insufferable. Not to mention unprofessional. Grace, however, blushes and giggles like a schoolgirl.

“I’m doing well, Dr. Ancunin, and yourself?” The tiefling’s voice jumps up about three pitches and her tail starts swishing excitedly.

“Leagues better now that I’ve been blessed with your presence,” he coos at her, voice positively saccharine. It takes every ounce of your patience to keep from rolling your eyes. He casts his gaze to you, and even you need to turn away from those piercing red eyes.

“Good morning, professor. Starting Much Ado with your students, I take it?” he asks with a light smile that makes you bristle.

“Yes, it’s a great way for them to practice switching between verse and prose,” you respond coolly, more than a little defensive.

“Of course, one of his best.” He glances down at the volume still in Grace’s hands and his eyebrows raise, peering over the top of his round glasses. “Going with the Bevington, hmm? Interesting. I’m more of a Norton man, myself.” He runs a slender finger along the binding as you grit your teeth. Is he really patronizing you over your choice of edition of Shakespeare’s Complete Works? Of course, he’s an English scholar.

“The Norton is a great tool dramaturgically, but the Bevington is a much better resource for actors, so, yes.” Your voice is steady but there’s an undeniable venom in it. Can he tell how much he’s bothering you? Probably, he’s almost certainly getting enjoyment out of riling you up. His little smirk would seem to suggest it, at least.

“Well certainly, and who knows acting resources better than our resident classical acting expert?” he intones, voice still dripping with honey. You narrow your eyes at him, unsure if he’s taking another jab at your degree.

“Well, as much as I enjoy standing around and debating the merit of various editions of the Complete Works, I’m about to be late for a meeting. Grace, thank you so much, I’ll be back later to pick up those copies. Dr. Ancunin,” you turn to his smug face and he looks back at you innocently. “A pleasure, as always.” You grab your papers and leave the office, feeling the heat of his gaze boring into the back of your head as you leave.

***

“Yes, Thaniel, come on in, have a seat,” you call out to the freshman loitering in the hallway outside your office. He comes in and drops his overfull backpack next to the teal club chair across from your desk. You close your laptop and smile at him warmly.

“So, Hamlet, that’s ambitious! I think it’s a good choice for you, but it’ll be a lot of work,” you say, glancing at your own copy of the monologue.

“Yeah, that’s why I’m here,” Thaniel says nervously. “I’m fine with the scansion and stuff, that I get, but I still don’t get the actual words. And I know you said how important that is.”

“For sure, I can guarantee all of the bad Shakespeare you’ve seen has been because the actors had no idea what they were saying. Have you used the Lexicon?” Thaniel looks off to the side, embarrassed.

“No, I don’t really get how that works either,” he says, an air of chagrin creeping into his voice.

“No worries, it takes practice. Here, we’ll do a few lines together. So first off, to be or not to be, that’s fairly obvious, right?”

“Yeah, he’s talking about suicide, right?”

“Sure, but what is he actually saying about it? To take arms against a sea of troubles/And by opposing, end them. What’s ‘them’ referring to?”

“The sea of troubles?”

“Right, the aforementioned slings and arrows. So even though you might know what those words mean individually, look them up in the Lexicon to see if they have a different context here. But you’re right, he’s trying to figure out if it’s better to suffer through the shittiness of existence or to take your fate into your own hands and, well, end them.” You highlight the line and lean over your desk to show Thaniel. A voice pipes up from the doorway.

“That’s not exactly what he’s saying, you know.”

The paper crumples in your hand slightly as your fist instinctively tightens. You plaster a strained smile on your face and look up at him.

“Dr. Ancunin, thank you for gracing us with your presence. Care to elaborate?”

He’s leaning in the doorway, arms crossed, face in shadows. Your office is unusually dark because of the storm outside, and so the bright fluorescents in the hallway give him an almost ethereal halo effect

“It’s a common misconception that Hamlet is contemplating suicide here. Life and death, sure, but ‘to take arms’ isn’t metaphorical, it’s literal. He’s contemplating dying as a result of killing Claudius, not taking his own life,” he says, almost sounding bored. You stand abruptly, your office chair skidding backwards.

“How can that possibly be true? He says ‘to take arms against a sea of troubles.’ He’s using the active voice, deciding whether or not to continue his life or end it. To be or not to be. It’s the first line in the monologue. He’s not talking about the consequences of killing Claudius.” You try to keep your voice from shaking. You know that you don't sound nearly as eloquent as him, and it’s pissing you off. He shrugs nonchalantly.

“You’re oversimplifying it, it’s exceedingly more complicated than that. The whole soliloquy is filled with war imagery. He’s at war with himself, the part of him that wants to kill Claudius and the part of him that is afraid to die.” He pushes himself off the door frame and steps back into the hallway. “But apologies, please don’t let me interrupt your instruction.” And like that he was off, leaving you to stew in silence. Thaniel looks up at you and looks back at the doorway where he stood.

“Should I…” he starts, but you cut him off with a wave of your hand.

“Dr. Ancunin comes at this from a very different angle as an English academic. He’s more interested in the words on the page, rather than how they translate to the stage. But,” you sigh, loathe to give him any credit, “it’s a valid interpretation. We can go down that route, if you want, or we can look at it through this lens.” Thaniel chews his lip while he considers his options.

“I think what you said makes more sense, the suicide bit,” he finally decides. You nod and pull out your copies of the Shakespeare Lexicon.

“Great, let’s go over how to use the Lexicon again,” you say as you flip through the book, looking for the entry for ‘slings.’

***

You drop off your bag and toss your keys into a bowl on the counter. Fucking exhausting day. You unzip your boots and kick them vaguely in the direction of the shoe rack, stretching and curling your toes for relief. You hang up your wet coat and shake rain from your hair. Your eyes dart between the refrigerator, wherein resides a bottle of white wine, and the bathroom door, contemplating how good a hot bath would feel. Both? Both is good.

You pour yourself a generous glass of Riesling and strip your clothes on your way to the bathroom. One of the perks of living alone. Sitting naked on the edge of the tub, you sip your wine as the bath fills.

Fucking Ancunin.

You’re a little shocked at how much he got under your skin today. Normally you don’t think twice about him, excepting the few times you have the misfortune of passing him in the hallway. But today the fates decided to throw you together and your schedules aligned. Well, in your defense, you didn’t seek him out that second time, he was the one who decided to crash your office hours.

You don’t even like Hamlet that much. You certainly don’t care about alternative interpretations of “To be or not to be.” But you’re mostly annoyed because he had a fair point. His read makes Hamlet a more interesting character rather than a cowardly incel romanticizing suicide.

You slide into the bath, hissing slightly as the hot water flows over your chilled skin. Without prompting, Ancunin worms his way back into your thoughts. Hmmph. You take a gulp of wine to try to wash away the taste of the unpleasant image.

Well… not entirely unpleasant. He’s a good looking man, you’d be a fool to deny it. But gods he’s so smug. And interrupting your meeting with Thaniel was wildly inappropriate. Leaning your head against the edge of the tub, you try to focus your thoughts elsewhere. You’re not about to let him interrupt you again, and when he’s not even present, no less.

But there he is, in your mind, crimson eyes looking over the top of those metal frame glasses that you’re, like, 99% sure he doesn’t actually need to see. You take another swig of wine to drown his stupid face. With his stupid cheekbones. And his dumb fucking earrings that you want to bite.

Nine hells, what is happening? You’ve been drinking your wine quickly and aren’t thinking straight. You grab your phone and open Spotify, letting your daily mix play through the bluetooth speaker on the counter.

Now Playing: Hatefuck by The Bravery.

If I put my hands around your wrists, would you fight them?

If I put my fingers in your mouth, would you bite them?

By Mystra’s fucking grace, seriously? You growl at the growing heat between your legs. Between putting off dinner and chugging your wine, your head is swimming. You might be better off getting it out of your system.

The wine glass hits the tub edge with a clank as you angrily put it down and sink into the water up to your chin. You are satiating a purely physical need, nothing else.

You still shiver as you slip your hand between your legs, lightly running your finger up your slit. You can see his face, looking down on you through those glasses - those infuriating glasses - and your lips flutter. What does he look like under those sweaters? He’s so thin, but his clothes fit incredibly well. It’s not hard to imagine a sculpted body beneath. You spread your legs further and let the warm water tickle your folds.

His silvery curls would look so good between your legs, slender fingers wrapped around your thighs while he laps you up. At least then he’d shut up. A gentle moan escapes your lips as you run your finger along your inner lips, pretending it’s him. You could grab hold of those perfect locks, yanking on them to control where he can go, fucking his face.

You move your other hand up to your breast and start teasing your nipple, feeling his lips around it. You give it a little tug and groan, just like if he nipped at it.

You imagine sitting on his pretty face, pointed ears flushed and hair a mess. Your hips buck into your hand as they might on top of him and your toes curl. You make gentle circles around your clit, thinking of all the other uses for his silver tongue. You whine and squirm at the sensations of heat radiating through your body. You slip a finger inside and hiss as you can see his pale digits entering you in your mind’s eye. You curl it upwards and gasp, his imaginary eyes looking up at you through those long lashes and a smirk playing across his imaginary lips.

“Are you ready for more of me, darling?” You can hear him murmur into your ear.

“Yes, gods yes,” you reply breathlessly into the cold bathroom air. You slide another finger in and feel that delicious stretch. The ghost of him moans, coming undone at the sight of you. You could leave him speechless, for once.

You reach over the edge of the tub and grab the box of waterproof toys. You frantically sift through your collection of dildos, trying to find the right one. Here. It’s long and svelte like the rest of him, but bright shimmery purple. You suction it to the bottom of the tub and hover above it on your knees. It sways lightly in the water, tip of it teasing your pussy just like you’d love to do to him.

Gods, to see him beg for your cunt. To see him reduced to a babbling mess, pleading to let him inside you. Your breath quickens at the mental image of him pulling on his own hair waiting for you to satisfy him. You sink down onto the dildo and your groan of pleasure mirrors what you’d like to hear from him.

You start sliding yourself on the purple dick, feeling its ridges glide against the walls of your cunt as you continue to finger your clit. You imagine your hand splayed across his chest, your black nails standing in contrast against his pale skin. You claw at the bottom of the tub as you increase your pace, desperate to see the pink raised skin that your nails leave behind. The fingers on your clit speed up as well, and you can feel yourself getting close.

“Oh gods, Astarion, don’t stop,” the words tumble from your mouth unbidden. You will absolutely hate yourself for that later, but right now all that matters is your ecstasy. You bounce atop the dildo, disregarding the water that splashes over the side of the tub as you chase your finish. Your moans increase in pitch and fervor as the various images of him in all sorts of positions flash through your mind. Between your thighs, sitting on his face, riding his dick, even fucking pegging him from behind because why the hell not?

“Astarion!” You cry out his name as you crash over the edge, legs shaking and pussy pulsing. Your orgasm reverberates throughout your whole body as you ride it out. Eventually, your movement slows and the water gently sways around you. You look down at your hand, milky juices swirling in the now tepid tub water.

Shit.

***

The next day at work, you avoid him like the plague. You keep your office door closed, usually an unthinkable act but entirely necessary right now. You double check the hallway before leaving to go teach, and then after class you immediately duck back into your office and close the door again. You even avoid the main office for fear of running into him there.

You can’t look at his face right now. You can’t possibly look him in the eye.

When 5:00 rolls around, you glance out into the hallway. Most of the other professors are leaving. To play it safe, you decide to work until 6 so that you can be sure that he’s gone when you leave. You absentmindedly grade performance responses. After you’ve read one paragraph about Miss Julie maybe a half dozen times, you realize that it’s probably time to go.

You slowly open the door and glance out into the hallway. You can’t tell from this angle if his door is open or not. You grab your bag and coat, take a deep breath, and make a beeline for the stairs. As you approach his office you realize it’s open.

Fuck.

It’s fine. You’ll just walk past it and get to the parking lot and then you won’t need to worry about it. He might not even be in there. Or if he is, he probably has his head down and won’t notice you walk by. It’s fine. You’ve got this.

“Oh, professor, a word?” His voice floats into the hallway right as you’re passing his door. Are you fucking kidding? You turn to see him sitting at his desk, head down, writing something. He doesn’t even look up at you. Prick.

“Yes?” you ask, not budging from your spot in the hall. He glances up at you over his glasses. Those fucking glasses. You want to rip them off his face and throw them out the window.

“Do you have a moment? I think we need to talk.” His voice is low and cool. Does he fucking know? There’s no way he can know.

Right?

You tentatively take a step into his office. It’s surprisingly cluttered for a man who always looks so put together, but it’s still warm and inviting. You can barely see the walls for being covered corner to corner in bookshelves full to bursting. He’s got a big mahogany desk in the middle of the room - significantly nicer than the university-issued one. It’s covered in stacks of papers, books, weird little knick knacks; it’s amazing how he’s able to get anything done on it. There are two chairs facing his desk, much like yours, but a rich plush velvet instead of a scratchy cotton weave. He’s got a scent diffuser somewhere, giving the room an aroma like an earthy spiced tea.

“Have a seat,” he says, gesturing to the cushy red chairs across from him. You stand there, clutching your bag, staring at him like a deer in the headlights. When he realizes you’re not going to sit, he gets up and crosses over to the door.

“Do you mind if I close this? It’s… a bit embarrassing,” he asks with a crooked smile. You can feel the heat in your cheeks rising. Your mouth goes dry and you try to swallow the lump forming in your throat.

There’s no way he knows.

Right?

But something compels you to nod, so he closes the door and walks back to his desk, but rather than sitting behind it, he leans back casually on the front of it. He’s taken off the blazer he usually wears and is down to just the turtleneck, sleeves pushed up just below his elbows. He crosses his arms in front of his chest as you stare, waiting.

“I wanted to… apologize. For yesterday.”

You blink at him, the conversation not going in the direction you expected. You had been so focused on yourself, that it took you a moment to realize what he was referring to.

“It was inappropriate to barge in on your meeting with your student. You were mid-instruction, and I needn’t have inserted myself into your conversation.” He leaned back on his hands, stretching out his lean figure to impossible proportions. The grip on your bag slackened and you couldn’t help but drag your gaze over the length of his body. He looks at you quizzically.

“I get the sense that you don’t very much like me,” he muses.

Now it’s his turn to give you the once-over, and you feel practically naked before him the way he looks at you. “Then again,” he adds, and pushes himself off his desk. He slowly advances toward you, though whether like someone approaching a vicious beast or a predator stalking its prey, it’s unclear. You retreat while holding his gaze until your back is flush against the door.

No escape now.

He gets precariously close to you and takes an unsettling whiff. When he speaks again, his voice is a husky growl.

“I think it’s entirely possible you like me… quite a bit.” He’s got at least a half foot on you, and he looks down on you with heavy-lidded eyes. The heat in your face has fully reached the tips of your ears now, and your breath comes out ragged.

“I’m sure I-” you start, but it comes out thick and raspy. You clear your throat and try again. “I’m sure I don't know what you mean,” you finally manage with all of the composure you can muster. He cocks an eyebrow at you, then slowly takes off those infuriating glasses.

“No? Then perhaps I’m mistaken, and your heart rate hasn’t increased by approximately 20 beats per second in the past few minutes.” His eyes continue boring into you. “And maybe that smell between your legs is completely unrelated.”

An undignified splutter comes out of you as you press your thighs closer together. He takes a half step back to let you respond.

“If I am indeed mistaken, then I’ve said my peace and you’re free to go.” The seductive honey is gone from his voice, and in its place is a politely professional tone. You fully feel that he’s giving you an out, that you can both laugh on this as an embarrassing moment and neither will bring it up ever again.

But on the other hand…

“You’re not mistaken,” you choke out in a whisper. The lazy smile is back and he lifts your chin with his index finger.

“What was that? Speak up.” His command weakens your knees and you wither under his gaze.

“You’re not wrong,” you say more boldly, trying to meet his energy. His smile broadens, and for the first time you notice two pointy fangs slip out beneath his upper lip.

Fucking

vampire??

That explains how he could track your heartbeat, and even more his ridiculously keen sense of smell. Doesn’t make it any less humiliating.

“No, I don’t suppose I am,” he snarls and suddenly he’s kissing you roughly, hands twisting in your hair and one knee sliding up between your legs. He pushes you against the door and lifts you off your feet slightly. You’re desperate just to keep up as he devours you, hands weakly grasping at his hips, shoulders, neck. But he’s fully in control of the kiss, and after a moment you let him take you.

He breaks the kiss but doesn’t pull away, and you’re both breathing heavily, air cycling between your lungs. Your head feels full of a thick fog and you can’t fully see straight. His hands are still in your hair, tight but not pulling - yet. You get the sense that might not last long.

He drops to his knees and you nearly double over from the sudden lack of support. He runs his nose and lips across the hem of your black denim skirt, inhaling again. Your fingers lace into his hair, but not even remotely in the dominant way from your fantasy. At this point you’re just trying not to collapse.

He looks up at you, flashing another fang-bearing grin. His hand slips up your skirt and his thumb runs across your pussy, barricaded by your sheer tights and panties.

“Darling, you’re positively soaked,” he hums contentedly. “You’d have a hard time hiding this from anyone.” You bite your lower lip, trying to keep the needy whines at bay. But when he fiercely rips the crotch of your tights and presses the flat of his tongue against the drenched gusset, you can’t stop the cry from escaping your throat. He sucks lasciviously, the debauched slurping noise ringing in your ears. Your knees buckle and he grabs hold of your hips, hiking your skirt up to your waist to get better access to your dripping cunt.

He stands and kisses you again, the taste of you lingering on

his lips. He grabs your ass and digs his fingers into your flesh, spreading them until you gasp into his kiss. In one fluid motion he sweeps up your legs and wraps them around his waist, carrying you over to that incredible mahogany desk.

He plops you down on the hardwood and you hear books and papers tumbling onto the floor behind you. He presses his bulge into your mound, this time the sound of both of your moans mingling pleasingly. He tears at your chiffon button down, trailing hungry kisses down your chest as you throw your head back in pleasure. He makes quick work of fully removing your top, though you’re certain he sacrificed some buttons in the process. You hardly care as you paw wantonly at the back of his neck, desperate for him to get his lips onto every single inch of you. He pulls the lace cup of your bra down with his teeth and starts sucking on your nipple, pressing his hand into the small of your back. You arch into him, his hands working you like a soft clay.

So much for the pleading mess that you pictured last night. Instead, you’re the one who's been reduced to shambles, begging for satisfaction.

“Puh-please,” you stutter, and those devilish eyes lock onto yours again. He snakes his way back up your chest and bites your lower lip.

“Puh-please what?” he mocks your stammering, but makes up for it when he rolls his hips forward, dragging that delicious hardness against you. You squirm, trying to pull him closer but he’s got your arms locked in his grip. His lips leave yours and ghost over the flesh of your neck. He very gently scrapes his fangs across your jugular, eliciting a ghoulish moan from you in return. By all the gods, you hadn’t even considered that as a part of it. His movement made it clear that he won’t bite unless you want him to.

But holy hells do you want him to.

“Gods Astarion,” you gasp, and you swear you can feel his cock twitch at the sound of his own name. “Fuck me then bite me, or the other way around I don’t care, but please get in me!” The string of words almost sounds foreign to your own ears, but you’re well beyond the point of trying to sound clever. In an instant, he’s undone his belt buckle and his erection springs forth, bouncing and already dripping precum. He roughly shoves your panties to the side and sinks his cock and teeth into you simultaneously, drawing out your cry of both pain and pleasure. You wrap your legs and arms around him, trying to pull him in deeper. You can feel his mouth filling up with your hot blood just as your cunt fills up with his dick.

You’re panting as you grow more lightheaded, clinging to his neck. Unthinkingly, your fingers stroke his ears, playing with those tiny silver hoops. He lurches and pulls away from your neck, looking absolutely feral with your blood dripping down his chin, which only sets you off more. You angle your hips toward him, trying to get him to start thrusting into you. He pushes your back down onto the desk and hooks his elbows beneath your knee high boots. Then he starts pounding into you properly, and you feel like you’re close to losing it. You grab onto the edge of the desk as he revs up his pace, his cock stretching you out as he keeps your legs close to your ears. You can feel the heat mounting in your core and you know it won’t be long before you come. But at this point you’re just trying to hold on for dear life.

“Fuck, gods, Astarion, I’m-” You finish before your sentence does. He doesn’t relent as the orgasm wracks your body, if anything, he fucks you harder. Just as you’ve barely come down off your climax, he pulls out and yanks you off the desk, spins you around and pushes your face down into the smooth mahogany, warmed from where you had just been. He enters you again, this time from behind, and already you’re working your way up to a second one. Your bare tits squish against the polished surface and he grabs your hair, pulling your head up and arching your back into him.

For the first time you notice the mirror on the opposite wall across from his desk. But rather than both of you, you only see yourself, disheveled and well-fucked, lips swollen from his abuse. Your hair is pulled up by an invisible force behind you. Another unexpected aspect of vampire fucking.

You desperately wish you could see his face because you can feel his thrusts getting more uneven and erratic. You try to turn to get a glimpse of him, but his grip on your hair remains tight. But even if you can’t see him, you can hear him, his grunts and the low string of incoherent swears pouring out of his mouth. The sound of him getting lost in you is enough, and your own moans start building and mixing with his, an utter symphony of epicurism.

His hips give a few more broken thrusts and you can feel his climax, setting off yours. The throbs of his cock match those wracking your cunt, and you hold onto the edge of the desk as the waves wash over you. Once they’ve come to an end he pulls out, and you can feel his semen dripping out of the sudden emptiness and running down your leg. You quietly say a thankful prayer for your IUD.

You’re both panting as he collapses onto your back, planting a half-hearted kiss on your spine. You weakly push yourself up off the desk and see the devastation of papers, smears and fluids. You turn yourself around and relish in his appearance. Your blood is splattered on his fine cream sweater, his usually perfectly coiffed curls damp and sticking to his forehead. You reach up and wipe the remainder of your blood off his chin. He smirks and kisses you, significantly more gently this time.

“That was good,” you murmur through steadying breaths, “but next time, keep the fucking glasses on.”

#astarion #astarion fanfic #astarion fic #baldur's gate 3 #baldur's gate iii #baldurs gate astarion #baldurs gate fanfiction #astarion ancunin #astarion smut #baldurs gate smut #fanfiction #smut #professor astarion #astarion x reader #astarion x you #office hours

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guttednights · 9 months ago

Text

your bar.

You've worked in the same bar for the past 3 years. It's fairly common for military men to come in and get drinks together. It's always soap, gaz, price, and the one in a mask.

One night you finally speak to the guy in the skull mask. "your name is?" as he looks at you, his cold eyes lighten.

"ghost," he said gruffly when soap elbowed him, he shot soap a glare and sighed making eye contact with you. "Simon. simon Riley." he gruffs.

you can't help but smile. "well then Simon Riley. want your usual?"

"Please," he says coldly

you and your friend spent the rest of the night talking about simon. "god i dont know what it is about him but." "jeez.."

"oh ew! shut up" your friend replies walking to the other side of the bar

you giggle "ah cmon, its not as nasty as you and your thing for that old one.

she giggles. "price is hot because hes a gentle man. simon just looks like he could hurt anyone."

"thats what i like" "feels like hed go to jail for me"

She rolls her eyes "okay mrs delusional."

the next few days some tension between you and simon grew. he cant keep his eyes off you. your literal eyecandy to him. and you notice.

"sarah he keeps staring" you say entering the back to "refill something"

she squeals. "girl hes so into you!"

you roll your eyes, "oh whatever."

Later that night soap walks up to the bar,

"hey y/n, you know my big friend Simon? ya he wants ye number"

your heart practically stops beating. "uh.. yeah sure here" You quickly write it on a napkin and hand it to him. you watch as soap runs away like a schoolgirl giggling to Simon as he hands it to him.

the whole rest of the night you were shocked. The big huffy man you think is hot wanted your number?

around 2 am you jolt awake as your phone buzzes. you grab your phone, its him.

"hey gorgeous its simon, or "big masked man"

"Hi simon" god you cant believe this is happening is this real?

"you should be asleep. what you doing up?"

ur heart flutters, (GOING FERAL LIKE YES PLS BOSS ME AROUND) "couldnt sleep"

"any reason why?"

(yes Simon ur the reason why) "nope no praticular reason why, just one of those nights."

"alright. want to get coffee tomorrow?"

"coffee?!" you think to yourself "Omg it's happening.."

"id love to get coffee"

"great. ill see you at happy cafs tomorrow at 9 am."

"see you there"

your freaking out literally, the man of your literal dreams is asking to go out on a coffee date?! Is it a date..?

"is this considered a date?" you text him a few minutes later

"yes, sweetheart. it's considered a date lol"

you throw your phone across the room screaming and kicking your feet. you can't sleep the rest of the night. too busy thinking about what to wear. finally at 6 am you give up and hit the shower, then walk to your closet. "god do I wear a dress? jeans hoodie?" finally you decide on a long-sleeved black dress, perfect for winter. you straighten your hair, do your makeup, and hype yourself up.

8:55 and you're a minute away from the cafe when u see him pull up. your heart drops. you're so excited yet so nervous, u practically black out until you bump into him.

"op, watch out there" he chuckles, "looking at your feet while you walk sweetheart or?"

you chuckle, "Sorry lost in my thoughts." sweetheart?! You can't help but blush as he puts his hand on the lower part of your back and directs you inside. you both sit down at a booth and a waitress comes over. you both order and wait.

you can't help but stare at him, even tho you haven't seen his face his eyes just capture you.

"I'm not gonna lie, sweetheart,. I can't keep my eyes off you at the bar,"

"might as well claim ye before you are no longer available" he smirks as you blush and look away

you spend the next 3 hours just talking getting to know him. And before you know it, (in a few weeks of course) you are dating, officially his. the man of your dreams is officially yours.

side notes: i dont know if i like this tbh. it feels really long and i almost lost what else to say. if u want a part 2 (MAYBE SMUTTY VERS. i can do it lmk!!!)

#call of duty #cod mw2 #cod x reader #ghost cod #ghost fluff #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley #simon riley fluff #older boyfriend ghost #simon riley

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whore4abby · 1 year ago

Text

italian summer; abby anderson

prologue | part one | part two

warnings; younger!reader (20), older!abby (28), mndi

wc; 1.3k

a/n; inspired by call me by your name. set in the 80s

your parents had somehow convinced you to come and stay at a family friend’s italian villa in a small northern town for the summer, its not that you weren't grateful for the vacation or the break from college, it was the fact that you were staying in the middle of nowhere, isolated from all your friends back home, who were all probably spending their summer together having the time of their lives in your absense.

you were grateful for one thing though, the family friends who own the villa are the andersons, including your childhood best friend, lily, who you haven't seen since since high school when the family moved out of state. you had both kept in touch a little whilst in college and you were so excited to see her again, but you're not sure how much of her you'll be able to handle before you start to get a bit sick of her energetic antics.

you're in the backseat of the navy blue fiat 128, staring out the window at the beautiful italian scenery, the villa surrounded by towering cypress trees and lush, verdant grass. you dad eventually pulls the small car to a gentle halt and you all hop out.

you're practically bouncing up and down as you eagerly rush through the front door of the villa, squealing when you see your old best friend in the living room. a surge of excitement seems to take over her as she jumps up out of her seat and almost tackles you to the ground. “i missed you so, so much! you have no idea…” she giggles and squeezes you so tight you think your might burst. you pull back and look into her bright eyes, smiling widely, “i missed you too! so much…”

the rest of the morning is spent unpacking and spending time with your parents and the andersons, until lily had dragged you away to the pool. you both sit on the edge of the pool, your legs slowly wading back and forth through the cool water as you catch up on on each others lives. you laugh and reminisce together, telling each other every little nostalgic detail of your lives since the last time you saw each other.

lily rests her head on your shoulder as she looks out over the pool, admiring it quietly. you listen closely to the sounds of the calm wind and leaves rustling, the birds chirping and your parents laughter nearby. “i cant believe you guys spend every summer here, its so beautiful…” lily nods excitedly, glancing around at the abundant, flourishing grass around the large pool. “right?! this is my favorite place.”

“oh! also, abby should be arriving tonight.” lily smiles. your face lights up a little at the mention of her older sister but you try not to make it to obvious. you had a crush on abby when you were younger, a silly little schoolgirl crush on your best friends older sister, but the sound of her name still has you tongue-tied and babbling like an idiot.

“o-oh…i…didn’t know she would be here.“ you laugh slightly, trying to sound as casual as possible but the thought of this unexpected reunion and seeing abby again after all these years has your heart skipping a beat. it's a bittersweet feeling, as memories come rushing back, flooding your mind with sentimentality.

lily is completely unaware that you had a crush on her older sister when you were younger and maybe even still to this day. she begins to pick up on the little cues though, seeing how your voice strains and how you get flustered at the mention of her - but she chalks it up to the fact that you’re probably just excited and nervous to see abby again after all this time.

lily and you have spent the majority of your afternoon doing all sorts of activities. you’ve swam in the pool, sat under the sun and relaxed on the deck whilst drinking freshly made lemonade and nibbling your way through a platter of freshly-made food.

as the sun starts to set, shadows dance across your face and the wind rustles the trees melodiously in the distance. you’re still both clad in your swimsuits from the swim earlier, towels wrapped loosely around your shoulders as you both sit in the grass, taking in the gorgeous scenery and breathing in the crisp air.

“oh my god…is that abby?” you gasp as you watch a mysterious woman walk out onto the patio from inside the villa. she’s tall and absolutely gorgeous, her long wavy hair cascading down her back, almost touching her waist, wearing denim shorts paired with a classic black bikini top that shows off her impressive abs which are glistening in the low light from the setting sun.

abby approaches you both smiling smugly as she ruffles lily’s hair. ”it’s been a while, sis.” with her attention focused on lily, she didn’t seem to recognise you sat next to her. her attention is immediately being captured by you when her gaze directs itself to your beautiful face, her expression quickly shifts from one of smugness to curiosity as she stares at you for a moment before she realises who you are.

her eyes roam over every small detail of your appearance, drinking you in as if its the very first time she's ever seen you. “god you’ve changed…” you’re a little taken back and your heart begins beating faster as abby reaches out to you, your eyes flitting between her touchingly gentle hands and her playful but intense gaze. she looks at you for a moment with a curious smile before ruffling your hair with her big hand, an action that makes you shiver and smile shyly. your voice comes out a little breathless as you look up at her “abby….how’ve you been?”

”i’ve been good- busy with work, but in a good way.” she chuckles, tilting her head to the side as your eyes fix on her own. her voice is low and alluring, it only leaves your heart racing even more as she speaks.

abby smiles softly as she talks, her free hand moving to the small of your back. you inhale sharply as her fingertips move up and down your spine, her warm touch having you shiver momentarily. ”i work in ancient architecture. nothing too fancy, although i can’t complain about the pay…and i get to live here in italy!” she lets go of you, crossing her arms across her chest as she sits down in the grass beside you, looking back towards you briefly and smiling.

lily smiles at you both as she looks towards abby and rolls her eyes playfully. “my sister is such a weirdo. i still wonder sometimes if she actually lives in this century or not.” lily giggles while glancing over at you.

“hey! i think her job is very cool.” you smile and glance over at abby. her eyes quickly flick towards you as you glance in her direction, her lips curling up into a small smile as you praise her. ”oh, thank you! i have a lot of fun with it.”

as your two families join together, having decided to enjoy dinner outside in the balmy, summery night. crickets chirping and the sound of genuine laughter and hushed voices creating a murmur that echoes around the table.

you sit on one side of lily and you can see abby across from the both of you, her eyes twinkling under the glow of the moon and lanterns scattered around the dining table. her attention seems fixated solely on you, making you squirm a little in your seat.

everything seems to be going smoothly until that one dreaded question arises. “so, you seeing any boys lately?” lily nudges you excitedly. you freeze momentarily before forcing a smile onto your face that doesn’t quite reach your eyes, shaking your head. “im focusing on college right now…” you try to talk steadily but your fragile voice waivers a little.

abby picks up on your awkward mannerisms, the slightest hint of a smirk spreading across her wine-tinted lips as she watches the scene play out. she leans back in her seat, her eyes set on your own as she takes a deep sip from her glass.

taglist; @atomicami @zombholic @cinnamonmilf @doepretty @catfern @nyctophiliq @astralnymphh @mommysslvt @fleshunger @forthelostones @cryingcherries @macaroni676 @mcqueeferson @onlinelesbo @han4nah

#*ੈ✩‧₊˚ ⋆.ೃ࿔myfics⌨️#abby anderson #abby tlou #tlou abby #abby anderson x reader #abby anderson x you #abby the last of us #abby x reader #abby anderson x female reader #abby anderson smut #abby x fem!reader #abby anderson x fem reader #abby x you #tlou

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illegal-spiegel · 2 years ago

Text

You Take My Breath Away

Pairing: Dazai Osamu x gn!reader (x Chuuya Nakahara)

Genre: Fluff?, angst, hurt/comfort?

Warnings: this fic contains dark content. if you don't like that, please keep scrolling and dni. S2 spoilers, strangling (bloodshot and swollen eyes, bruised and sore throat, can't speak, etc.), murder/death, throat slitting, blood, Dazai is overly protective ig, toxic behavior overall, typical su!cide mention from Dazai

Summary: Dazai gets protective over you when you get hurt, on more than one occasion, and takes matters into his own hands to make sure they never hurt you again.

WC: 7.5k

Read on AO3!

You giggle like a schoolgirl as Dazai tickles your sides, your face starting to hurt from how hard you’ve been smiling. That always seems to happen to you when Dazai is around. “Quit it!” you squeal, smacking at Dazai’s hands.

Dazai only seems to chuckle and continue his evil acts against you. “Say the magic words!” he bargains.

“Never!” you shout, leaning away from him and bumping into Atsushi who is sitting right beside you. He doesn’t seem to mind it though, he just watches you both with a fond smile on his face. “Atsushi! Help!” you cry, tears lining your eyes the longer and harder you laugh.

“No one can save you now! You’re at my mercy!” Dazai shouts back, waiting for you to say the magic words that will rid you of his tickling.

And listen. You tried to hold out, you really did! But you’ve known Dazai for more than seven years now and he knows all your most ticklish spots by now.

“Okay! Okay!” you concede. He slows his fingers but doesn’t stop them. “Dazai is the most handsome, funniest, smartest guy ever, and I smell like rotten eggs!” As soon as you finish, Dazai lets up. He stays hovering above you though from where you leaned away from him, a soft smile on his face.

“Awe, you really think so?” he coos, fluttering his lashes at you.

“No,” you wheeze, holding your poor, aching sides. “I mean yes! I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” you screech, a scared laugh escaping you when he threatens to tickle you again.

“Hm. That’s what I thought,” he says as he sits properly in his seat.

You pant as you sit up straight as well, waving your hand at Atsushi as an apology. Then again, the little traitor didn’t even try to help you. “The train is sure taking a while,” the white-haired man suddenly comments. You hum, pushing your hair out of your face as you nod in agreement.

You raise a brow as Dazai suddenly stands up, face blank and serious. “There’s an urgent errand I need to carry out,” he announces, staring out at the tracks in front of him.

“What is it?” Atsushi asks with great urgency, seemingly nervous. You can’t help but smirk. You’d bet every last penny you own that Dazai is about to say some dumbass shit.

“I need to use the bathroom!” he cries, hands going over his crotch as he starts to do a peepee dance. Atsushi’s face falls as he stares at the higher-up, unbelieving he just said that. You only end up cracking up, laughing as you watch him dance in one place. It makes your sides ache but in the best way possible.

“Well? What are you waiting for? Permission?” you tease, smirking at the man. He continues to stare you down as he dances from foot to foot faster and faster. You snort and roll your eyes. “Okay, go,” you say playfully, waving him off.

“Thank you!” he cries, zooming away. “Ah! I’m not gonna make it!” This causes you to snort again. You don’t know why he insisted on holding it for so long then. You look over at Atsushi and only laugh harder at how bewildered he looks.

“You’ll get used to it eventually,” you reassure him, patting him on the back. He turns to look at you now, giving you a small smile.

“I always thought Dazai was so cool and mysterious…but…” You raise a brow when he trails off, jumping to conclusions.

“But he’s a bit of a dumbass?” you guess, chuckling. Atsushi goes tense, nervous about referring to his higher-up in such a way, especially since it seems that Dazai has ears everywhere. He glances at the way Dazai went before slowly nodding his head with a laugh of his own.

“Yeah, something like that,” he agrees, his chuckles dying down when you both hear the train whistle a bit a ways. “Hey, can I ask you something?” he suddenly asks.

“Yes, I’ll help you hide a body, but only if you killed them with good reason,” you respond, completely serious. At his flabbergasted look, you snort and nudge his arm with yours. “I’m kidding.” He relaxes. “Sort of.” You laugh when he tenses up again, his body relaxing when he realizes you’re just messing with him again. You and Dazai love pulling pranks on him together.

Speaking of…

“How long have you and Dazai been dating?”

Your laughter instantly dies and you feel choked up all of a sudden. “Wait what-”

“I mean, I figure it’s been a while. You two share your affection so openly and he’s always going on and on about you-”

“Wait what-”

“So I was just curious how long it’s been. You two seem really happy together.”

At the last part, any reply you had ready to go suddenly dies on your tongue. You two seem really happy together. What the fuck are you supposed to say to that? You two aren’t even talking talking, let alone dating. Where did Atsushi get an idea like that? Have the others said something? Or is this a prank that Dazai is pulling on him and forgot to let you in on it?

Before you can think of a response though, the train is arriving. You sigh in relief as you two both stand up and walk towards the train, looking left and right for Naomi and Haruna.

“Haruna, Naomi!” you hear Atsushi shout. You turn to look at him before looking past him to see the two girls. You sigh in relief a second time, a smile coming to your face. Thank goodness. “Are you alright?” he asks when you get close enough to them.

“We are. I never thought they’d come after the clerks in the office,” Naomi responds with a warm, relieved smile.

“At least you’re safe now!” Atsushi says brightly.

“Yeah, I’m glad you’re alright,” you agree, giving the girls a smile to which they return. “We’re gonna escort you both to the extraction point,” you add on.

“Oh! I wanted you to meet someone!” You raise a brow at this, turning to look towards the train when Naomi motions towards it and turns to face it. “We got to know each other a little on the train.” With that, a small child comes walking out, holding a creepy doll. You raise a brow when he bumps into Atsushi and just starts laughing. Someone needs to teach this kid some manners…

Your brows furrow when the kid suddenly turns and rolls up their sleeve to show off…

What is that?

Are those…razor blades taped to his arms? Alarm bells immediately start going off in your head. Something isn’t right here.

“Wanna play a game?” the kid suddenly asks, a maniac grin on his face.

Before you could respond, Atsushi starts mumbling to himself. You turn to look at him, finding his eyes are leaking what appears to be blood. “Atsushi?” you say unsurely, reaching out toward him.

“You mentioned before that you came here to protect me…” Dazai says unsurely, trying to put the pieces together. When things suddenly click into place, he gasps before spinning to face the way he came. “Dammit!” he shouts before taking off. “No, no, no! Fuck!” he hisses, running back to you two.

He swears, if Q has done anything to yo-

He comes around the corner only to find you being dangled in the air, Atsushi holding you up by your throat while growling and grunting. Dazai lets out a growl of his own as he sprints toward the man. He’s not thinking clearly. What should he do?

He dashes past the two other women who seem to be harmed but overall fine. He wraps his arm around Atsushi’s throat and presses heavily on his windpipe. Now that he’s closer, he can see that your eyes are bloodshot and they’re starting to roll back into your head. How long has he been holding you like this? Why aren’t you using your ability? Do you not want to hurt Atsushi?

To his horror, Atsushi ignores Dazai and continues to strangle you. Dazai doesn’t want to hurt him since he knows it isn’t actually him, but he’s running out of options. His eyes flicker this way and that way looking for a solution.

This is when his eyes spot the doll.

Dazai quickly lets Atsushi go before bolting toward the hideous toy, picking it up, and instantly screaming, “Ability: No Longer Human!” His power surges through the toy and he turns to find Atsushi snapping out of it. He gasps as he lets you go, your body hitting the ground hard. Atsushi grasps at his throat where Dazai had choked him.

Dazai barely looks at him though as he hurries over to you. He lifts your body to cradle you in his lap, brushing your hair out of your face and his hands ghosting the marks on your neck. “(Y/n)?” he whispers, his whole frame shaking as he clutches you close.

You let out a wet, ragged cough before slowly blinking your eyes open, tears cascading down your cheeks. “I-” you try to force out, but it seems you can’t make any further noise.

“Shh, don’t try to speak. You might damage your vocal cords further,” he advises. He lifts his head and does a quick survey of the area. The other two ladies are indeed fine. Hurt, but fine.

But where’s Q?

“Your new friends are so fragile, Mr. Dazai!” he whips his head around to find Q smiling at him on the train as it starts to shift forward. “But don’t worry! What I really look forward to is breaking you–whether that be through you directly or your new love here!” Q giggles and continues to grin at him maniacally. “Remember how you made me suffer? Soon you’re going to feel that pain, Mr. Dazai!”

“And instead of capturing you next time and showing you mercy by simply ripping your heart out, I’ll torture you slowly and painfully until you're begging me to kill you,” he responds darkly with a sinister expression. Q had his mouth open to respond but goes quiet, eyes wide. He wasn’t expecting such a terrifying response for some reason. They stare at each other as the train takes Q further and further away.

You’ve never seen Dazai so angry before and you don’t even know why he’s so mad. The world sounds like it’s underwater, or like you have cotton stuffed in your ears. He isn’t mad at Atsushi, is he? It wasn’t his fault. You need to tell him that.

You reach up and loosely grip the lapel of his coat, weakly tugging on it as you try to speak. All that comes out though is breathy whines and wheezes, words unable to be formed. He turns to look at you, his grip suddenly tightening on you. “Shh, I know. It’s okay. I’ve got you. It’s all over. Everything’s alright. I’ve got you,” he whispers, pressing his forehead to yours. You close your eyes, the last of your tears falling down your cheeks. He pulls back when you suddenly go slack in his arms, his eyes widening a tad when he realizes that you’ve passed out. He sighs and closes his eyes for a moment, cradling you close to his chest. That was close, too fucking close.

“I'm such a screwup.” Dazai opens his eyes and turns to look over at Atsushi, finding the man crying as he stares at the marks blooming on your neck. “That should be me, not them. I shouldn’t even be alive. I don’t deserve to be alive…”

Dazai doesn’t know why, but hearing him talk like that angers him further. Yes, it should be him hurt instead of you. It should be Dazai. It should be any of them but you. You should never be hurt. You weren’t even supposed to come with them today.

Dazai watches for a moment as Atsushi pathetically cries and blubbers on about who knows what. Dazai slowly and gently sets you down on the concrete before moving in front of Atsushi. “Atsushi,” Dazai grunts, frowning down at the man.

Atsushi lifts his head, his eyes red from his crying. Before Atsushi could even blink, Dazai is slapping him across his face. Hard. “Pull it together. They wouldn’t want you talking like that,” he mumbles before instantly turning back to you. They need to get you back to HQ stat.

* When you wake up, you feel like your throat was run over by a motorcycle. And then they reversed over it again just to make sure they got the job done. Your hands shakily come up to gently clutch your throat, your vision a little blurry until you blink a few times. Even then though, things are still a little blurry out of one of your eyes.

You try to move your head only to be met with pain in your neck. You slowly take a deep breath, finding it a little hard to breathe, before trying again. You take your time in sitting up, making sure not to move your head or neck too much. Your eyes go wide when you see a head of brown hair on your bed, and a chair keeping him close. You smile and slowly reach over to card your fingers through his hair.

You barely get to do so though since he’s suddenly springing up. You gasp and rear your hand back from the shock, hissing when it causes you pain. “You’re awake! Woah! Stop! Okay!�� he screeches, going into panic mode when he sees your face contort into one of pain. You weakly laugh, it sounding nothing like your usual laugh. This one is all scratchy and hoarse, your throat sore and dry. Your laughter quickly stops when it becomes too painful.

“Wait! Okay! Everyone remain calm!” he continues to shout even though you two are the only ones in the room and he’s the only one panicking. You smile hard. “You want some water? Never mind, you need to drink some. You’ve been out for a while.” And with that, he’s zooming off to assumedly get you some water.

You’re not alone long before he’s back, offering you a glass of water with a stick poking out of it. You take the stick out to see a sponge at the end of it. At your bewildered look, Dazai explains, “Akiko said that you might not be able to drink very well, so the sponge will give you smaller amounts to drink and make it easier to swallow.” You smile at him and nod your head before starting to do just that. Your throat aches with each swallow, but the water feels good.

Dazai suddenly grabs something from the desk beside you and sets a notepad and pen in your lap. “I want you to use this instead of trying to talk, okay?” he says softly, hand resting on top of yours for a moment before letting go. You nod your head and hand him the water before picking up your pen.

Where’s Atsushi + the others? They okay?

You hold up the notepad for him to see, watching his eyes flicker over the words. His face hardens for a moment, just a split second, before relaxing again. He huffs out a laugh as he says, “Of course that’s the first thing you say.” He shakes his head and runs a hand through his hair. “Yeah, they’re alright. They’re all resting. It was a crazy day.” You nod your head, letting out a small sigh. Is Atsushi really okay? “You can see them soon enough. Akiko and I agreed that you need your rest and shouldn’t have any visitors until you’re better.”

You raise your brow at this. Then why are you here mister? You turn the notepad for him to see, smirking at him. Your smirk only grows when you see some color come to his cheeks and his eyes shift away from you completely.

“I’m your hot nurse, of course. All patients need one,” he replies playfully. Despite his joke, your chest flutters at his kindness. You smile softly as you reach out to him, setting your free hand over his. He instantly flips his hand over to properly hold your hand, weaving your fingers together. “Besides, I told you that you can’t die without me. You’re the only one I’ll commit double suicide with,” he jokes further, smirking at you now.

You let out a weak laugh and roll your eyes. Typical Dazai.

It didn’t take long for you to be up and out of bed. Everyone knows that you never stay down for long, even if you have the worst injuries of them all. You hate being bedridden, especially when something like this is going on.

Currently, you’re looking over some files of what’s been going on while you were out of commission. The Guild are some serious bad guys, and that’s coming from someone who used to be a part of the-

“I really don’t feel like working.”

You lift your file a bit to look down into your lap where Dazai has made himself home. His face is smushed into your tummy and his butt hangs high in the air. You smile at the position. He’s such a dork.

“Are you seriously going to mope around like this the whole morning?” You look up to find Kunikida there. You smile up at him and his hard expression relaxes when he sees your cheery face. “Good morning, (Y/n). How are you feeling?”

“Right as rain, Kida!” you greet. At your chipper voice, Dazai whines and wiggles his ass in the air.

“Any other time I’d be up for having this conversation with you, but not now, please,” he whines, shoving his face further into your body.

“What happened to the energetic young hero who just helped save this town from the brink of destruction?” Kida asks in a monotone, crossing his arms over his chest with a sigh.

“Boss has me lined up for this new job and I don’t wanna,” Dazai cries, giving a fake sniffle, causing you to roll your eyes. Dazai continues to wiggle his ass in the air and you grin wickedly as you reach out to slap it. Dazai jumps with a yelp, turning his head a bit with his jaw dropped. “Kunikida! I didn’t know you felt this way,” he playfully purrs to the shocked man.

Kunikida’s cheeks go red as he huffs, his hands now placed onto his hips. “Is that the same one Atsushi and the boss were talking about yesterday?” he asks curiously, completely ignoring Dazai’s comment.

Before anyone can respond though, the boss man himself is suddenly appearing behind Kida. “Correct.” Dazai lifts his face to turn and look at him, grunting as he rolls over to face the two now, keeping his head in your lap.

“Good morning, sir,” Kida greets the older man, reminding you of a soldier in the army with the way he’s acting.

“Dazai, (Y/n),” he says, completely ignoring the man and causing you to pout. Always so serious and straight to the point. “What’s the status of that meeting with the Port Mafia?”

“I’ve made the arrangements,” Dazai reports. You smirk when you see Kida’s face go into shock, eyeing the three of you.

“Do you think their boss will come?” he asks.

“I’m sure he will,” you answer.

“It’s the perfect opportunity for him to kill you, after all,” Dazai adds, smirking a bit.

Fukuzawa closes his eyes for a moment and gives a slight nod. “I’d prefer that to having bloodshed amongst our people,” he says as he walks off. You sigh and look down at Dazai when he groans, discovering that you’ve been combing your hand through his hair the whole time. Oops.

“Hey, Dazai, (Y/n)...” Kida starts softly as Dazai whines and wiggles around in your lap like a child when you stop playing with his hair. “What’s the secret meeting with the Port Mafia all about?” Kida suddenly shouts, causing you to jump. Dazai simply rolls to a stop in your lap, overall seeming unbothered by the man’s raised voice. Typical.

“Well, I have to admit that our little Atsushi’s idea has really snowballed,” Dazai sighs, staring out the window.

“Since The Guild is now our biggest threat, it only makes sense for us t-” you start to explain before Kunikida suddenly cuts you off.

“Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait!” he shouts, speaking a mile a minute. “I’m totally lost here…” Kida admits, rubbing the back of his head. “First of all, why are you guys the ones arranging this meeting?” You open and close your mouth, unsure of how to answer. You tilt your head down to look at Dazai, finding him a bit wide-eyed. He turns to look at Kida now as if Kida should know the answer to that already.

“Because we used to be with the Port Mafia?”

Kida’s entire face goes blank with confusion and shock. “Huh?”

“Oh!” Dazai suddenly realizes, expression lighting up. “Did I not tell you that? My bad!” he hisses, giving him a ‘sorry’ look.

“What?” Kida shouts, making you flinch back a bit. These two are always such a rowdy bunch.

“Sorry we didn’t tell you sooner,” you apologize, giving him a sorry smile. He just blinks and stares at you stupidly, making your smile grow. Yeah, guess it is some pretty shocking information.

“You were in the Port Mafia?” he asks you, jaw completely unhinged. “Dazai I can actually understand. But you?”

“Hey!” Dazai whines with a pout.

You and Dazai come to a stop in front of the abandoned building. You place your hands on your hips as you look around you. “Well, this doesn’t seem suspicious at all,” you say sarcastically.

“Are you sure you should be here?”

You turn to look at Dazai, smiling over at him. “As I told you a hundred times before, I’m fine.”

“I don’t want you here…” Dazai mumbles, crossing his arms over his chest as he turns to face you.

“And who’s going to stop you from murdering Q as soon as you lay eyes on him?” you respond, sighing as you place a hand on Dazai’s chest and the other staying on your hip, feeling him relax under your touch. Chuuya probably wouldn’t give two shits.

Before he can respond, lights are suddenly cutting on around you. You turn to look at the lights, squinting at how bright they are. You raise a brow when you hear many guns being cocked, your hand falling from his chest as you turn to face your enemies.

“Pleasant evening, isn’t it?” Steinbeck asks, eyeing you from afar. “You even brought a date!” he teases Dazai. You remain expressionless as you study the two men in front of you. Are these guys serious? “Hm, seems our strategist has hit the nail on the head once again in predicting your movements,” he continues.

Dazai slowly turns to face them, a smirk resting on his lips as he watches them with amusement. “Figures it’d be a trap…”

You two stand side by side as you assess the situation in front of you. Now if only a certain someone would show u-

A rock comes soaring from the air and crashes into the crowd of men surrounding you, taking out a big chunk of their numbers. “About time…” you mumble, tilting your head back to look up into the sky as the redhead slowly floats down to the ground. You hear Dazai grumble angrily beside you as he runs a hand through his hair and tugs on it.

“Let me set one thing straight,” Chuuya starts as he stares down the enemy, hands resting on his hips, “(Y/n) is not Dazai’s date.” You huff and roll your eyes at the man. That’s what he has to say right now out of all things?

“Says who? Did you invite them here?” Dazai asks. Chuuya opens his mouth to answer him, but Dazai swiftly cuts him off. “No, I didn’t think so,” he sassily finishes. He sighs and tosses his head back. “Man, I knew there was a reason that today was gonna suck,” he mumbles. Ah, so it seems they didn’t fill Dazai in on this part of the plan. Probably a good idea, honestly.

“The hell?” Steinbeck suddenly shouts. “I never heard anything about this in the strategic forecasts!”

Just as Steinbeck starts to grow a plant from his hand to attack Chuuya, Dazai comes up behind him and touches his shoulder. “Sorry, I can’t let you do that,” Dazai sighs out, canceling the man’s ability.

“Gah! The canceling ability,” he huffs, sweat lining his forehead.

“This is such a drag,” Dazai groans, stomping his foot like a child. You giggle and bump his hip, causing him to almost fall over.

“At least you’re with me,” you coo playfully. At this, he instantly perks up and sighs dreamily.

“You’re so right, my beautiful (Y/n).” Your cheeks start to flush, but you’re pulled out of the mini moment by Chuuya.

“Hey! Stop flirting! We’re on a mission here!” Chuuya hollers as he flies into the air in front of Steinbeck using his ability and kicks the blond away from the three of you.

After this, Chuuya comes to stand at your other side, slipping his jacket off as he surveys the group around you. He drops it onto your head, to which you give an offended ‘hey!’ You smirk to yourself though as you start to slide it on.

“For crying out loud…this is the worst day I’ve had in years,” Dazai grumbles.

You brush off your hands as you follow the two men inside, Chuuya laughing at Dazai’s expense. “If the day comes when you two get along, I’ll know the world is ending,” you joke, starting to head down the staircase inside the building.

“What will you do on your last day on Earth?” Chuuya asks, throwing an arm over your shoulder. You turn to look at him, smirking as you lean into his space.

“Why? Got any good ideas?” you purr, bringing your face close to his. He sputters in surprise, opening and closing his mouth like a fish out of water, unsure of how to respond. You cackle as you pull away and walk ahead of him, your laughter calming down when you find Dazai glaring at you both.

“I’ll have you know that if there was only one day left on Earth, (Y/n) would be spending it with me and we’d be having a great time,” Dazai scoffs, leading the way down the stairs. You bite your lip to try and contain your smile as you follow after him.

“Ha! As if they’d want to spend it with you of all people!” Chuuya laughs, pointing at him from behind you.

“Yeah? And why not?” Dazai fires back.

“Boys,” you warn, coming to a stop at the bottom of the stairs and turning back to look at them to find them glaring at each other. You huff, blowing hair out of your eyes.

You then turn to look into the dimly lit room, finding Q pinned to the tree with his doll sitting right beside him on the chair. “He’s here!” you announce, hoping that will distract them. Luckily for you, it does.

Also unluckily for you though, Dazai comes marching right down the stairs and heads right for Q with a murderous intent in his eyes. “Dazai!” you shout, grabbing ahold of his arm and using all your might to hold him back. “Stop it!”

“What’s with him?” Chuuya asks confusedly. He’s never seen the brunet so worked up before, especially over this. Is there something he doesn’t know?

“Just help me!” you screech at the shorter male.��

Chuuya quickly jumps into action and grabs his other arm. “Hey, meathead! Would you cool it for a sec?” Chuuya shouts at the man.

To your relief, he lets up. To your disappointment, he turns his anger onto Chuuya. “No! Do you know what he did to them?” he shouts, backing the man up into the wall opposite from Q. You sigh as you rub your hand over your forehead.

“Dazai, enough-” you start. You go ignored though.

“No, I don’t know. Enlighten me,” Chuuya snaps. He reminds you of a cat who’s been backed into a corner and has its hair bristled.

“Chuuya! Don’t-”

“They almost died because of him, and I’ll be damned and sent right to hell if I let him get away with it,” he says lowly, fists shaking from the rage brewing inside of him. You walk over to the duo, setting your hand on Dazai’s back. You frown when instead of relaxing like he normally does, he only grows tenser under your touch.

“If you had to kill everyone who has almost killed me, half the population would be gone!” you exaggerate, trying to reason with him.

“Fucking good riddance then,” Dazai huffs, still eyeing Chuuya.

Chuuya silently stares up at him, debating his next words. “What happened?” he asks, eyes softening as he worriedly glances at you as if the attack just happened.

“They were almost strangled to death. They had bruises on their neck, eyes bloodshot and swollen, and they could barely swallow or breathe,” Dazai mumbles, eyes shifting down the ground as his knuckles become white with his grip. Your body goes tense at the recollection of what happened.

“I’m fine,” you reassure them both.

The room is silent for a moment after that, and Chuuya stares at you, at a loss for words. He’s relieved of trying to find the right thing to say though since Dazai is sighing and standing up straight. “Give me your knife,” he demands.

“Dazai-”

“Why?” Chuuya asks, hand resting where said knife is hidden.

“I’m going to kill the little bastard one way or another. Are you going to help me or not?” Dazai asks lowly, staring straight into Chuuya’s soul. Chuuya stares right back at him, going over his options. He slowly turns to look at you to find your rapidly shaking your head.

“Knock yourself out,” Chuuya says as he suddenly takes it out and tosses it to the younger man.

“Nakahara!” you hiss disappointedly, quickly reaching for the covered knife. You grab it at the same time as Dazai does, starting a power struggle with him over who gets the weapon.

“(Y/n), let go,” Dazai warns.

“No! This is the whole reason I came with you! To make sure you wouldn’t do something stupid like this!”

“Chuuya,” Dazai says, making your eyes go wide.

“No-” you start to argue, taking a step back from Chuuya as he comes towards you. “Chuuya, no!” you shout. You begin a power struggle with him now as he comes up behind you and grabs under your arms, preventing you from using them or getting away from him. “Chuuya, stop! Dazai, please!” you scream, struggling against the man.

They both ignore you as Dazai walks over to the kid who is still unconscious against the tree. “I’m surprised you’re helping me,” Dazai comments as he stops in front of the boy.

“My orders were to take him back alive, but hearing what he did to (Y/n)...” He pauses for a long moment. “I’d do anything for (Y/n)...” Chuuya confesses. “So, do what you want…”

“You aren’t doing this for me! You’re doing this against me!” you cry. You don’t know why you’re fighting so hard to save this kid’s life. Dazai’s right. He almost had you killed.

“Very well,” Dazai responds, ignoring your cries. “I will.”

“Osamu! Stop! Don’t do this! What would Oda say?” you scream.

This has Dazai pausing his raised hand, thinking over your words. You start to relax, glad you got through to him.

You go tense again though when his arm swipes in front of him in one fell swoop. Blood spurts from the new cut on the boy’s throat, covering the knife and Dazai in blood. You go limp against Chuuya, closing your eyes to prevent yourself from watching further as Q bleeds out from his sliced throat.

You shove Chuuya off of you just as he wraps his arms around you for a hug now. You shake your head as you head up the stairs, a frown heavily etched on your face. “(Y/n)...” you hear him mumble, following after you. You hear another set of steps follow you and Chuuya’s after a moment, and your body goes tense.

Just as you reach the entrance, something akin to a tentacle is wrapping around your throat. You cry out just as the tentacle silences you, picking you up and starting to throw you around like a ragdoll.

“(Y/n)!” you hear two sets of voices scream.

You’re suddenly thrown back to the moment when Atsushi was choking you. The anger in his eyes, the fear. You had no idea what was wrong with him other than the fact that he wasn’t acting like himself. He kept mumbling things, seeming to believe that you were the enemy. You couldn’t even use your ability against him, afraid that you’d hurt the poor man. That’s how you got into the situation.

Unlike Atsushi though, this bitch can face your wrath.

You use your ability against your opponent, causing him to grunt from the ground. You regain your ability to scream as you’re thrown into the building you came out of, the air leaving your lungs though as soon as you make contact. Feet pound towards you as they run at top speed, going from attacking the man to making sure you’re okay. You wheeze as you try to get your breath back, your hands holding your throat.

“(Y/n)!” Dazai shouts, collapsing to the ground beside you and cradling your face in his hands. You’re getting deja vu.

“Are you okay?” he asks worriedly, looking from between your eyes to down at your neck. He lets go of your face to move your hands to assess the damage to your neck.

“I’m fine,” you croak, gently pushing at his chest to get him to stop.

“Grantors of dark disgrace…” Chuuya begins to chant as he starts to slip off one of his gloves. As soon as you hear that first word, your eyes are going wide.

“Chuuya!” you shout, trying to gain his attention.

“Now you’ve done it,” Dazai singsongs, smirking to himself.

“Nakahara, stop!”

“You need not wake me again…” he finishes the chant before his ability is activated, red lines starting to appear all over his body.

“Shouldn’t have messed with our (Y/n),” Dazai continues to singsong without a care in the world. You punch his chest–receiving an “ow!” in response from him–as you stand up and move towards Chuuya.

“Nakah-”

Just before you reach him, he’s taking a step forward and causing a big crack in the earth around his feet, a gust of wind almost blowing you away.

“What am I even looking at right now…?” You turn to find Steinbeck leaning against a tree. Oh, so that’s where he went.

Before you can even blink, Dazai is coming up behind him and holding the bloody knife he used to kill Q up against the blond’s throat. “Want me to fill you in, worker bee?” Steinbeck gulps and turns his head a bit to look at Dazai over his shoulder. “That right there is the fully realized form of Chuuya’s gift. His corrupted form allows him to manipulate nearby gravitons, creating a black hole which swallows everything in its path. The drawback is he relinquishes control, attacking in a blind rage until he wastes away.” Dazai then pauses, the two men watching Chuuya attack the man-creature.

“And do you want to know why Chuuya is doing this?” he whispers into the man’s ear. You’re close enough to where you can hear them and you can see Steingbeck’s eyes flicker to you before Dazai even speaks. Steinbeck doesn’t even get to nod or verbally answer before Dazai is continuing. “Do you see the person right here with us? The beautiful one glowing under the light of the moon?” You tense when the attention is suddenly brought to you, your cheeks turning to fire at Dazai’s description of you.

Steinbeck tilts his head a bit and makes eye contact with you. You watch as his adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, a drop of sweat sliding down his temple. He gives a faint nod, eyeing you for a moment. “Well, your partner here made the mistake of hurting them. You know, this knife I have pressed against you right now is bloody because I just got done killing someone who harmed them. Then, not five minutes later, your partner goes and makes the same mistake and does something similar that someone had done to (Y/n) before.” He sighs and clicks his tongue while shaking his head from side to side. “People just never learn.”

“What does it matter if we hurt them or not? Y’all never got this worked up over other people!” Steinbeck mumbles, eyeing you warily as he speaks. He hisses when Dazai presses the knife even closer, a drop of blood gliding down his neck as Dazai presses the blade to his throat.

“Ah ah, that’s where you’re wrong,” he advises. He sets his head on the blond’s shoulder, also beginning to study you now. His eyes are completely different from Steinbeck’s though. Dazai’s hold what they always hold for you when he looks at you, no matter his mood, no matter the situation.

Adoration. Fondness. Love.

At least, you like to think it’s love.

“(Y/n) isn’t just anyone. We both love them, you see,” Dazai confesses, looking away from you to continue watching Chuuya. Your jaw completely drops at this, your heart suddenly going into overdrive. He can’t be serious. “Typically, I’d never say this out loud, let alone to the enemy. I don’t like people knowing my weaknesses, and neither does Chuuya,” Dazai continues his confession. “But, seeing Chuuya how he is right now, I doubt either of you will live for much longer,” he finishes his thoughts, picking his head up just as his partner figures out that he needs to attack the monster from the inside to defeat it.

He finishes with the man, blowing him to smithereens and almost blowing you away with it. Once the wind dies down, you open your eyes to find that Dazai has, once again, cut an enemy’s throat. You sigh and turn away, deciding you’ll deal with him later.

You quickly start running towards Chuuya as he manically laughs, watching as blood drips from his mouth and head. He starts to throw balls of energy around, causing small explosions when they land.

“Nakahara!” you scream as you near him. He suddenly freezes in place, the black hole he was forming in his hand dissipating at the sound of your voice. He turns around just as you launch yourself into his arms, hugging him tightly.

There are only two things that can snap him out of this. Dazai’s ability and you. Not your ability. You.

He’s stiff in your hold as you hug him, not back to himself yet. Your brows furrow when he pushes at your shoulders to get you to back up. Your eyes go wide when his lips are suddenly on yours, a gasp escaping you, to which he uses to his advantage to slide his tongue into your mouth. You taste the metallic of his blood, your hands pushing at his chest to no avail.

You gasp again when he’s suddenly forced away from you, Dazai holding his wrist as he activates his ability. “Bastard,” he growls, glaring down at Chuuya. “You’re lucky I don’t beat you to hell for pulling a stunt like that-”

“He can’t control himself. You know that,” you remind Dazai as you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand to clean Chuuya’s blood off of your lips.

“He kisses you every time! How is that an accident!” Dazai snaps, glaring down at the redhead as his red lines finish receding. Chuuya grunts as he falls forward, only being held up by Dazai’s grip on him.

You rush forward to catch him, letting him lean against you. “(Y/n)...” he mumbles into your collarbone.

“I’m here,” you whisper back, smacking Dazai’s arm to get him to let him go. Dazai glares at you but let's go, placing his hands into his pockets. Chuuya grunts and collapses into your arms completely. You grunt right back at his weight and quickly lower yourselves to the ground. You even take it a step forward and lay back, Chuuya’s head resting on your chest. “I got you…” you whisper, staring up at the starry sky. He lets out a pleased sigh before going utterly limp against you. The last thing you see is Dazai standing above you with a disapproving look on his face before you close your eyes.

When you wake up this time, it feels like deja vu again. You’re in the same room, in the same bed, with similar injuries, and with a worried brunet sleeping by your side. Only this time, he’s literally sleeping in the bed beside you instead of in the chair by the bed.

Your face is pressed into Dazai’s chest and you can tell he’s asleep by his slow breaths. You wonder how long you’ve been out. Has Dazai been asleep long or did he do that thing where he worries about you so much that he can’t rest until he knows you’re okay and then passes out from exhaustion?

Either way, you’re glad that you both were able to get some rest, even if it was accidental. You pull yourself back a bit to look up at him, noticing the few marks he has on him. Guess he didn’t get away scot-free either.

You look up at his messy bedhead and want to touch his hair so badly. You remember what happened last time and decide not to wake him. You slowly back up and sit up, letting out a heavy sigh as you run your hand through your dirty hair. You could use a shower.

Just as you’re about to get out of bed, a hand is grabbing your wrist, making you gasp. You swivel your head around to look at Dazai, only to find him seemingly still asleep. He looks like he’s asleep still, but you can tell he’s awake now. “Don’t leave me yet…” he mumbles, grip tightening on your wrist a tad. You sigh and lay back down, facing him and placing your arms between you both.

He moves his grip from your wrist to your hand, intertwining your fingers. He opens his eyes and finally meets yours, a weight lifting from your shoulders when you see his brown eyes. You give him a soft smile, watching as he returns the expression.

You watch as he opens his mouth, hoping he’s going to say something sweet and romantic. “Chuuya can suck it. I don’t see him sharing a bed with you,” he says with a pleased smirk. You scoff and let his hand go, rolling your eyes.

“You’re such a child.”

“Am not,” he argues with a pout.

“Are too,” you argue right back.

“Am not!”

“Are too!”

“Then so are you!” he fires back, smirking at you.

You open your mouth to retort before closing it again, squinting your eyes at the ex-mafia member. “Touché,” you cave, relaxing into the bed again. “But seriously, you two are like two friends fighting over your favorite toy,” you grumble. You purse your lips when he grabs ahold of your hand again.

“First of all, we aren’t friends-”

You snort. “Yeah, okay-” you respond sarcastically.

“Secondly,” he pauses, staring into your eyes, “You are our favorite toy.” He brings your hand to his face, kissing the back of it. “And I refuse to share,” he whispers decidedly, looking up from your hand to stare into your eyes with a determined look.

“Don’t call me a toy,” you decide to respond with, ignoring the rest of his words. You also ignore the way your heart flutters at how possessive he is over you. He chuckles at that, shifting in the bed to get closer to you.

“You started it,” he reminds.

“Did not,” you defend.

“Did too,” he coos, getting even closer.

“Did not,” you mumble, his nose touching yours.

“Did too,” he whispers, breath fanning across your face.

“Did-” your response is cut off by his lips meeting yours. You hum and lean forward, pressing your lips harder against his. His free hand comes up to cup your jaw, keep your head angled just right for him to kiss you.

“Don’t let him kiss you again,” he whispers once you two pull away.

“I’ll think about it,” you coo, winking at him. He glares at you, wrapping his limbs around you and clinging to you like a koala.

“Fine. You can’t ever leave this bed then.”

“Not even to pee?” you ask with a laugh.

“Nope.”

“What if I just invite Chuuya to this bed?” you argue with his logic.

“I’ll kill the ugly bastard if he even thinks about setting foot into this room,” he decides, making you laugh.

“Right, sure,” you say sarcastically, cuddling into him.

“I will!”

“Whatever you say, baby,” you concede, letting out a yawn.

“Did you just call me baby?” he asks.

You quickly close your eyes and let out a heavy breath, pretending to be asleep. “Hey,” he says as he pulls back a bit to look at you. “Hey! I know you aren’t asleep already!” he shouts, shaking you a bit. You whine and smack at his hands, burrowing closer to him and hiding your face in his chest. He huffs and lets your arms go to wrap his arms back around you. “You’re lucky you’re so damn cute,” he grumbles, pressing a kiss to your hairline. He rolls his eyes when he feels you smile into his chest. He knew you weren’t asleep.

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MASTERLIST

More with Dazai

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cl3fairyyy · 8 months ago

Text

routine : part 2 || edward nashton x GN!reader ⋆⭒˚｡⋆

summary || you and edward finally go on a date

warnings || eddie is a liiiittle more stalker-y in this one, smoking, mentions of drinking, mentions of edward following reader home and just overall being his strange little self, this fic does get a little suggestive (no actual smut) so please MDNI!!!! i think that's everything, if i forgot anything i am so sorry </3 this fic is mostly just fluff with a side of awkward first date small talk

word count || 4.5k

notes || i am so sorry for the long wait on part 2!! been having the worst writers block of my life and my job has been taking over my life atm </3 but it is finally here!! i had so much fun writing this one, definitely thinking of doing a part 3 if u guys want it :)) apologies if at any point eddie is too OOC, he's definitely a little more confident in this one hehe. also this pic of paul is EXACTLY how I imagined him looking while writing this

You arrive back at your dingy apartment later than you had planned and, admittedly, a lot tipsier than you had wanted to be.

You shove your key into the crappy broken lock that your landlord refuses to fix and jiggle it around for several moments until you finally hear a click. Opening the door, you sway on your feet a little before stumbling over to the couch, kicking the door shut behind you; when you plop down on the velvety throw you use to cover up the horrible cracking leather of your equally horrible sofa, you sigh and throw your head back, allowing a smile to play onto your face.

He had asked you on a date.

You keep replaying the interaction in your head, mentally swooning at how Edward had lit your cigarette for you, how he had been so close that you could smell the laundry detergent on his clothes. You giggle like a schoolgirl, hugging one of your cushions as you fish around in your bag for your phone. You have to suppress a giddy squeal when you are greeted with not one, but three messages from a random number, one you can only guess belongs to Edward. You feel dizzy unlocking your phone, and you don’t know if it’s the alcohol or your nerves.

Hi, it’s Edward. I hope you have a lovely rest of your night.

I really liked talking to you today. You’re a very interesting person.

Are you okay? It's late, did you get home safe?

It takes everything in you to not dreamily sigh like you’re in a fucking rom-com. He's concerned about me, you think, typing a reply with a lopsided smile on your face.

hiii yes im fine!! just made it home : )

im vry drunk lol

Immediately the grey typing bubble pops up and you launch your phone across the room, scrambling to the fridge to open the half-empty bottle of slightly too expensive rosé that you have been saving for the next time you rewatch Fleabag.

You hear your phone ding twice and gingerly pick it up from underneath the coffee table, your hands shaking.

Oh, good to hear that you’re safe haha. I was about to head back to the bar to see if you were okay.

That was a joke by the way.

You can’t stop a smile from spreading across your face. You take a swig from the bottle and begin typing.

yea im sure it was lol

it was nowhere near as interesting after u left. u were in such a hurry too are u ok??

Edward’s cheeks grow red when he reads your second message. You think he’s interesting? Are you hinting that you would’ve preferred if he stayed?

Wish I could have stayed for a bit longer haha, just had some work at home that I couldn’t get my mind off, so wanted to take another crack at it.

Obviously, he can’t tell you that his work isn’t just some simple tax fraud, but a potential money laundering scandal that ties all the way back to Maroni and your own boss. He knows at this point, though, that you’re too polite to question him.

u sure do work a lot!!!! idk how u havent burnt out yet.

try to get some rest if u can : ) its not like the work wont be there tmrw!!!!

Edward smiles. You are so lovely to him; the idea that someone like you could show so much kindness to him makes his heart swell and his eyes fill with tears. A few run down the tip of his nose and plop onto his phone screen.

I know, I know. Sometimes it feels like I can’t switch my brain off haha. It’s been in overdrive since I got home.

He cringes at himself. Is he meant to text so formally? You're pretty much the only contact in his phone besides his landlord and the office. He glances down at his screen, noticing that you’ve read his message but haven’t started typing an answer, and immediately begins to panic.

Of course someone like you couldn’t like him. He was a fool to think you were any different than anyone else in this shithole of a city. You’re probably still sat with your colleagues at that shitty bar, reading out his messages and all having a good old laugh at him. Everyone get a load of Nashton! you're probably saying, and he feels sick to his stomach.

soso sorry my phone just died out of nowhere!!! i srsly did not mean to leave u on opened

honestly i get u i can be like that. its probably worse for u tho bc ur so smart lol

whats been sending the brain of eddie into overdrive tonight??

Edward shakes his head at how silly he’s being. It would be funny if he didn’t feel so pathetic. He reads your messages over and over until his eyes burn; no one has ever given him a nickname before. Eddie. He rereads the nickname, trying to imagine how it would sound coming out of your mouth. His mind begins to wander, picturing you lying beneath him, bare chest heaving as you moan that name to him. Eddie.

He's snapped out of his thoughts when his phone lights up again with a notification from his news app. He attempts to push down his building arousal before it completely clouds his mind, and scrambles for his phone to send you a reply.

It’s a little embarrassing, but... I have been thinking non-stop about the conversation we had outside.

I really would like to take you out, if you’ll let me. If you’d like to pick where we go so you feel more comfortable, I’m happy with that. I’m sure you know much nicer places to go than I do anyway haha.

You squeal at your phone, kicking your feet in the air like a goddamn teenager. You hastily type a reply, and soon enough you’ve made plans for Sunday to go to a lovely downtown jazz club that plays live music. It's one of your favourite spots in the whole city.

You fall asleep fairly quickly after throwing yourself on your bed still fully clothed. You don’t think twice about how bad your hangover will be when you wake up, instead picturing your date with Edward and just how lovely he is.

Edward, on the other hand, stays up all night, his thoughts rife with anxiety. You'd had one conversation in a loud bar, and now he’s expected to keep you entertained for an entire evening? What if you didn’t find him interesting? What if he ran out of things to talk about? What if you stood him up entirely?

He shakes his head, trying as hard as he can to shake the thoughts from his brain entirely. He opens your social media, which he has found himself doing every time he seems to be on the verge of a panic attack recently. He finds his favourite picture of you, a candid photo of you in a coffee shop mid-laugh, your eyes sparkling and cheeks rosy. He loves your smile in this picture.

He hopes he can make you smile like that.

Saturday goes by painfully slowly for you. The dragging hours aren’t helped by your awful hangover that seems to have convinced your brain that any slight movement will have you vomiting. You cringe rereading the messages you sent Edward the evening prior, hangxiety hitting you like a train.

Eddie? Seriously?

You have one conversation with the guy and have already started throwing nicknames around- you're in shock that you didn’t scare him off with how forward you were being. If he brings it up, you can always blame it on how drunk you were, which isn’t exactly a lie.

He doesn’t text you until later in the evening, just a simple message confirming that you’re still on for tomorrow. You wonder if he’s as nervous as you are, if his anxiety manifests itself in the way he chews at his lower lip the same way you do.

When Sunday finally rolls around, you wake up extra early to give yourself as much time to get ready as humanly possible. You would never admit it to anyone, but you’d picked out your outfit the night before and laid it on your desk chair, your nervous excitement barely allowing you to get a wink of sleep.

Edward had offered to pick you up, but you really do not need him seeing the shithole you live in the first time he sees you outside of work. You both agree to meet outside the bar, and since it’s in walking distance from your apartment, you decide against getting a taxi.

Gotham is strangely beautiful in March, the last moments of winter finally coming to fruition. The sun is just beginning to set when you step out into the chilly air, casting an orange glow on the old buildings and warming your cheeks against the cold.

Edward’s heart races as he clumsily stumbles out of the subway station. He's almost twenty minutes early and grasps a cluster of lilies in one hand, the other of which he uses to steady himself against a lamppost. The lady from his favourite podcast whispers soothingly in his ear as he attempts to block out the loudness of the city and steady his breathing.

“You are strong, and you are worthy. Be the change you want to see.”

He closes his eyes, taking deep breaths before finally grounding himself. Edward is all too aware of how he must look right now: sweaty, clutching a bouquet of flowers while standing alone outside a bar. He glances at his watch. Still ten minutes until your meeting time.

He tries to ignore the lump in his throat and the stinging in his eyes. You will show up. You have to.

Edward jumps slightly when his phone chimes in his pocket. His heart drops when he realises it’s a text from you.

so sorry!!! running a few mins late :/ decided to walk today and ofc that’s the day that every traffic light in the city decides to break LOL

The light-hearted tone in your message doesn’t do much to comfort him. He types a short answer and sends it, trying to focus all of his energy on his podcast and not crying from how utterly terrified he is.

Ten minutes after your initially agreed upon meeting time, Edward hears a voice shouting his name. He looks up to be met with the image of you practically sprinting down the street towards him. You pull to a stop in front of him, smoothing your hair down and smiling bashfully up at him. Christ, you forgot how tall he is.

“Before you say anything, I am so sorry. First there was the traffic light thing, then one of my old college friends stopped me in the street and decided that she wanted to update me on every single day of the past three years of her life.”

You breathe in heavily through your nose, your hands on your knees as you try and keep yourself from keeling over. You make a mental note to begin using that gym membership you keep renewing. Quitting smoking would probably help, too.

You look up when Edward hasn’t responded for several moments, and his cheeks are very pink.

“Look, you have every right to be pissed at me. If you want to cancel-”

Before you can finish, Edward interrupts you by thrusting a bouquet of flowers into your hands.

“Th-these are for you. I, um, remembered you mentioning lilies were your favourite flower, so...” He stumbles over his words, talking just a little too fast.

You're quite literally lost for words. You examine the flowers, your cheeks growing warm; it's a lovely spray of pink, yellow and orange lilies, tied together with a cream ribbon. They’re a little crumpled, but nothing that can’t be fixed with a little plant food. You smile at Edward.

“Oh, Edward. They're gorgeous, really, thank you. No guy’s ever gotten me flowers before...”

A small, lopsided grin spreads across his face.

“I can’t imagine why anyone lucky enough to have you wouldn’t get you flowers.”

You flush at that, and loop your arm around his, leading him inside. You manage to find a nice booth in the corner, away from the stage and speakers that surround it while Edward heads to the bar. You anxiously drum your fingers on the table and scroll through your phone, not really paying attention to what you’re meant to be reading as your mind replays what Edward had said earlier.

Edward watches you from the bar, admiring the high flush on your cheekbones and the way your outfit hugs your body. By the time he’s ordered and heading back to your table, you seem a little more relaxed. You smile at him gratefully as you accept your drink and try not to make your staring too obvious.

He looks handsome. He's wearing such a basic outfit, just a simple button up shirt and some smart slacks, but there’s something about Edward wearing something so casual and making it look so good that has you crossing your legs under the table.

“You look lovely tonight, by the way.”

You smile shyly at him, tracing your finger around the rim of your glass.

“Thank you, Edward. I have to say, you clean up pretty good yourself.”

He laughs, and you don’t miss the way it sounds like it's one of disbelief.

“Well, I don’t know if I’d say that.”

You roll your eyes playfully, taking a sip of your drink.

“Well, I would. You look really handsome.”

Edward shakes his head, a bashful smile on his face as he looks down, taking a sip of water. The pair of you sit there for a few moments in awkward silence, trying to think of something to start a conversation with.

“So-”

“You-”

You lock eyes and both laugh, cheeks red. You wave your hand.

“Sorry, you go.”

Edward averts his gaze, fiddling with his collar.

“I, um, was just going to ask how you found this place? I’ve never even heard of it. Well, I suppose the fact I don’t drink and don’t listen to jazz music doesn’t help, but...”

Edward finds himself trailing off, kicking himself for how utterly awkward he is. The way you smile at him, unfazed, doesn’t help.

How could someone like you ever find any interest in someone like him?

“It’s a funny story, actually. My old roommate was on a date with this absolute dick, and she needed me to come save her. So, what happened was....”

As you tell him the grandiose story of having to pretend to be your roommates' partner who caught her cheating, and how you had to run away when her date attempted to fight you, Edward can’t help but admire the way your eyes light up as you gesture wildly with your hands, the way your laugh comes out as an adorable snort when you attempt to do an impression of her very flustered date.

You are so beautiful. He wishes he could capture this moment in a bottle and replay it every day, for the rest of his life.

He doesn’t realise how much he’s staring until you clear your throat a little awkwardly, clearly finished with your tale. He can feel the warmth on his cheeks.

“Ah, well, I do hope you don’t have some secret boyfriend who’s going to jump out on me like that.”

He bites his lip after saying whatever the hell that was, but to his complete disbelief you laugh. Not a pity laugh, not one of discomfort, but a genuine laugh, one that’s just a little too loud, one that disturbs some of the patrons around you.

You clearly don’t care, your head thrown back as that smile, that lovely smile from his favourite picture spreads across your face. Even as you speak, uncontrollable giggles escape you.

“Oh God, can you imagine? Lucky for you, I’ve been single for a while, so don’t worry about my secret boyfriend coming in and trashing the place.”

That makes Edward laugh, much to your pleasure, and just like that, the tension in the air has dissolved. You can see Edward’s tense shoulders visibly relax, and the next few hours are spent under the warm light of the bar’s lamps, your conversations hushed and filled with longing glances, and it feels like you’re the only two people in the world that exist.

The two of you step out into the bitter cold of the evening, hands fumbling for your respective cartons of cigarettes. Your shivering hands are somehow able to summon a flame from your crappy old lighter, and the alcohol in your system, as well as the way Edward looks at you with such adoration in his eyes, warm you from the inside out. He offers you his arm and you take it maybe just a little too enthusiastically as you walk through the city streets.

When you look up at Edward, he’s already got his eyes on you, the tip of his nose pink from the late winter air. You can feel the flush spreading across your face, quickly averting your eyes to the sparkling lights of the skyscrapers.

Edward retracts his arm from yours, and you look up at him again, confused and somewhat offended. He’s shrugging his parka off his shoulders and draping it over your own before you can even comprehend what’s happening.

“You’re shivering. You might not feel cold because you’ve been drinking, but I can see the goosebumps on your arms.”

He says this so matter-of-factly. Does he not realise how romantic and thoughtful his actions are? He opens his mouth to speak again, but you interrupt him.

“Thank you.”

He offers you that adorable lopsided grin that accentuates just how round and soft his cheeks are.

“It’s really no problem. I don’t want you getting sick.”

Maybe it’s the alcohol. Maybe it’s just how perfect the night has been. Maybe it’s the way he looks at you like you’re the most beautiful person he’s ever seen. Before you can second-guess yourself, you’re removing the cigarette from between his lips and replacing it with a kiss.

He's stiff at first, unsure, before you feel a hesitant hand on your face, thumb caressing your cheek. He pulls away first, pressing his forehead to yours, and you can practically see the stars in his eyes.

“...Wow.”

You suddenly feel bashful, pulling away from him completely and taking a drag from your cigarette.

“Sorry, I-”

“Why are you apologising?”

You meet his gaze again, his glasses fogged up, but not enough to conceal the way his brow knits with worry, the apprehension in his eyes.

“I don’t know, I- I should have asked first.”

He takes your hand in his own, his smile so comforting that you feel all your worries melt away almost instantaneously.

“You don’t ever have to worry about asking me something like that. The answer will always be yes.”

He kisses you again, softly, and you can taste the tobacco on his tongue, making your head spin. His other hand comes to rest on your hip, squeezing it reassuringly as he takes your breath away.

You pull away first this time, readjusting his glasses which have slipped down his nose.

“Do you want to come back to my place?”

Edward’s face goes entirely red at your suggestion, and he stumbles over his words as he tries to string together a coherent sentence.

“I- um, well...”

You smile patiently, and he returns it somewhat hesitantly.

“I’ve- I’ve really enjoyed our night together, and I, just, um... I like you so much that, ah, I don’t really think we should rush anything. You’ve had a bit to drink, and I would hate to take advantage of that.”

Your eyes sting at his rejection as you attempt to muster up a tight-lipped smile, nodding stiffly. Edward’s smile drops.

“Oh dear, I’ve upset you, haven’t I?”

When you don’t quite meet his eyes, he sighs and gently holds your hand, giving you the chance to push him away. When you don’t, he pushes a little further, holding your chin between two fingers and tilting your head up to meet his gaze.

“I’m not lying when I say I like you. I really do, and I would hate to rush something as important as... that... especially when you’re intoxicated. I don’t want you to have any regrets. You're too special.”

Your heart leaps at his words, and you give Edward a small smile. It was never about him, or his comfort. He’s worried that you’d regret sharing yourself with him.

“I... yeah. I guess I’m just used to guys only expecting one thing out of a date. I really like you too, Eddie.”

He presses a chaste kiss to your lips, offering you his hand.

“Let me walk you home?”

You nod, leaning into his side.

Edward, of course, knows exactly where you live, but feigns ignorance as you take the lead back to your apartment. He'd know your building anywhere, thanks to his tendency to follow you home after work to ensure your safety, but being in front of it now, with you by his side, feels so fresh and new that it’s almost as if he’s seeing it for the first time.

It's falling apart, of course. Every building in Gotham that isn’t owned by someone extremely wealthy is. Crude graffiti adorns the crumbling brick walls, and he feels you stiffen up beside him when you notice a couple of shady guys, probably dealing drops, only a few feet away.

“It’s not exactly... the best area. Will you at least wait for your cab in my apartment? I really don’t want you getting mugged, or worse.”

Even with his impressive height, you’re worried Edward could be a target. His smart clothes definitely don’t help.

Edward can hardly believe his luck at finally being able to see the inside of your apartment. Of course, he’s seen it from outside your window when he’s perched on your fire escape late at night, but this is different. This is intimate. Even though he’d turned down your offer for sex, you’re still revealing such a personal aspect of yourself to him.

You trust him.

You lead him into the rundown building, apologising for the elevator that has been broken for months. He already knows that, but nods anyway.

“That’s okay. Five flights of stairs won’t do me any harm.”

When you finally make it inside, he perches somewhat awkwardly on your couch, his height making the piece of furniture appear ridiculously small. You curl up on the other side of the sofa, giving him his space as he books an Uber home.

The silence is thick, but comfortable. Edward is so engrossed in his phone that you’re finally given the chance to really study his features. The curve of his strong nose that holds up his glasses, the roundness of his cheeks, the softness of his jaw. The warmth of the numerous lamps scattered around your apartment light up his face with a soft glow that makes him look almost cherubic.

Edward glances at you, clearly feeling your intense gaze. He doesn’t seem anywhere near as nervous as usual, his smile relaxed.

“You okay?”

You prop your head up with your hand and nod, content.

“You’re so handsome, you know?”

His cheeks grow pink, his smile a little more shy. His voice is a whisper when he speaks.

“Thank you.”

You lapse into another comfortable silence as he returns to his phone, the smile never leaving his face. His phone chimes and he stands reluctantly.

“Cab’s nearly here...”

You walk him to the door, and he lingers for a moment.

“Can I-?”

You don’t give him time to finish, tugging him down by his collar and pressing your lips to his in another soft kiss. His hands find refuge at your waist, pulling you closer to him. You run your hands up his sides, and he reacts with a delicious shiver to your utter delight. Gathering your nerves, you tease his lower lip with a nibble, and he chases your mouth with a soft groan when you pull away from him.

You grin at his flustered state, his cheeks red and glasses fogged up, his sandy fringe ruffled beyond repair. You press one more lingering kiss to his lips before unlocking your door.

“You said your taxi’s nearly here?”

A chuckle escapes Edward, an octave lower than what you’re used to, and your knees go weak at the sound. He runs his hand through his hair, adjusting his glasses.

“You are so cruel.”

You glance down, immediately realising what he’s referencing, and giggle giddily.

“You’ll just have to wait for next time, I guess.”

He sighs, a dazed smile on his face.

“So, you want me to take you out again?”

You roll your eyes playfully, standing on your tiptoes so that your mouth is on level with his ear. You run a hand down his chest, your voice a sultry purr.

“I thought that much was obvious.”

Edward breathes out heavily through his nose and you smile innocently at him before kissing his cheek. The tension is shattered by the loud sound of his ringtone and you both jump back, the spell broken. Edward smiles apologetically at you when he answers the phone before panic spreads across his face. You can faintly hear a very angry man shouting at him on the other side of the line.

“Yes, yes! Sorry! I’ll be right there! Sorry!”

The other caller hangs up and you snort, pushing him gently out the door.

“Don’t let me keep you any longer from the most awkward ride home of your life. Are you gonna tell the driver you left him waiting so long because you were making out with your colleague?”

Edward stumbles over his words, the flush on his cheeks somehow deepening.

“I, ah, will not be doing that. Christ, I’m going to have to tip him even more than I was planning to, aren’t I?”

You giggle and Edward laughs too, giving you one last quick kiss before practically throwing himself down the stairs.

You close your door, sighing dreamily like the protagonist of a cheesy rom-com. You shoot Edward a quick text and sink onto your sofa, your heart thrumming. You'd gotten him to open up. You're going to go on another date. You kissed him. As far as first dates go, you’d chalk that up to being pretty successful.

The rest of your evening is spent texting back and forth with Edward, and when you finally roll into bed your brain is clouded with thoughts of him, his smile, the feeling of his lips on yours. You’re so focused on the image of Edward’s silly flustered smile after you kissed him for the first time that your rational thinking completely skips over one minor detail that you’ll have completely forgotten by the time you wake up.

How did he know what floor you live on?

#dano riddler #dano riddler x reader #edward nashton #edward nashton x reader #paul dano #riddler 2022 #riddler x you #batman 2022 #edward nashton x you #riddler x reader #danocel #dano!riddler #danonation #danonator

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