#i just had to throw that one of them dabbing in there

[whytheylosttheirminds]

Don't Call Me Kid - Chapter 3

(Rafe Cameron x reader, series, 5.7k words)

series summary: You'd had a crush on Rafe Cameron since you were six years old, but he friend zoned you at every turn. Once shy and insecure, you found new confidence and self-love after high school. When your high school friends go on a reunion beach trip, Rafe finally sees what he lost, but he isn't going to give you up without a fight.

tropes: unrequited crush, glow up, she fell first/he fell harder

series content: some angst, eventual fluff, slow burn, tomfoolery and shenanigans, drinking, fem!reader has occasional insecurity and body image issues

additional chapter cw: suggestive language/themes, heavy drinking, mature readers only please

⇢ series masterlist

The game was on, and Carter wasn’t one to go down without a fight.

You however, were much less invested in her scheme to set you up with Tom, already feeling tired and confused after 24-hours of this little reunion trip. You laid in bed for quite a while replaying the almost-moment you’d had with Rafe in the kitchen in your head before taking a long, dreamless nap. It was the smell of the barbeque wafting through your bedroom window that woke you up. You threw your hair up in a bun, too groggy to care about putting any more effort into your appearance.

As you reached for the handle, you heard two hushed voices arguing behind your bedroom door. You opened it slowly to reveal Carter and Topper facing each other, both with their arms crossed as they carried on a heated whisper-argument.

“What are you even doing up here Topper?” Carter demanded.

“I don’t know, what are you doing up here Carter? Trying to get a leg up?” Topper snapped back, towering over her in height yet still somehow looking small under her glare.

They were so locked in on each other that neither of them had even noticed your appearance.

“Um, hi,” you waved your hand between their faces to get their attention. “Can I help you?”

They looked at you, startled as their arms fell and stances softened. Carter eyed your outfit up and down, trying to hide her distaste at your choice of leggings and a t-shirt.

“Well, I don’t know what he’s doing up here but I came to see if you needed help getting ready,” Carter replied.

“I am ready,” you said, eyeing her suspiciously.

“You’re, uh,” Topper scratched the back of his head uncomfortably. “Is that what you’re wearing?”

You squinted at him, you could understand Carter critiquing your outfit, knowing she was trying to set you up with Tom, but what stake did Topper have in your outfit choice?

“We’re literally just going downstairs,” you countered.

“Maybe throw on something a little nicer,” Carter urged gently.

“Okay, fine,” you gave in. “You two are being so weird today.”

Topper gave you a thumbs up as you closed the door in their faces.

A few minutes later you reemerged in a new outfit, a crocheted halter top and some cut-offs. You had let your hair down and ran a brush through it, dabbed on some mascara and lipgloss. It was the maximum amount of effort you were willing to put into a big night out in the backyard.

Despite everyone’s relentless teasing, Topper actually was a pretty good cook. The food was great and everyone thanked you, Rafe, and Tom for going out to get it.

“Tom paid!” you announced. “So everyone make sure to be really nice to him or he won’t bankroll us anymore.”

You smiled at Tom, who grinned back and waved you off in joking modesty. You let your eyes linger as he leaned over the firepit on the other side of the sprawling patio, skillfully stacking the wood before lighting a match and holding it under. He crouched low to blow gently on the kindling, causing the fire to roar to life. You could see a sliver of his toned lower back peeking out from his shirt as he reached for another log, dropping it straight into his newly sparked flame with a bare hand. The whole thing was unbelievably attractive.

The only thing better was the stoney look on Rafe’s face when you caught his eye, realizing he’d noticed the way you were looking at Tom like you wanted to have him for dessert. Good. 

Playing and replaying the scene from the kitchen in your head all afternoon, you came downstairs determined to freeze Rafe out. Sure, he remembered your favorite candy and maybe almost even apologized, but it wasn’t enough to erase the sting you felt when he pulled away from you like you had the plague as soon as anyone else entered the room.

After dinner, you were perched on the railing of the porch, sipping something strong and chatting with Carter and her childhood best friend, Maddie.

Maddie was nice enough, the Kook academy prom queen two years in a row, but she had never shown much interest in you. Until you showed up here looking much more instagram-worthy than you had in high school.

“So, omg,” Maddie started, playing with a strand of your hair like you were the closest of friends. “When are you gonna drop the workout routine? You look gorg.”

Never once had one of Carter’s friends complimented your looks. 

“Thanks,” you grinned, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “I play a lot of volleyball and jog a little.”

“Well it’s working!” Kelce hollered from across the porch, already wobbling slightly from his inebriation.

There it was again, your blush, always showing up at the least opportune times. All eyes were on you, such open talk about your body making your skin crawl with self-consciousness. You looked over the railing to the sand a few feet down, wondering how badly the jump would hurt.

As always, knowing you better than anyone, Carter felt like she could read your mind. Protectiveness roared in her chest, she set her hand over yours to silently tell you she understood before turning to the party and announcing, “okay, we’re playing a game! Everyone around the fire pit!”

No one argued with her wishes, they never did. The group gathered around the bonfire, each with a full drink in hand as Carter unnecessarily explained the rules to never have I ever as if this same group hadn’t played it a hundred times in high school. 

You appreciated Carter moving the attention off of you, but clearly she didn’t know this was your least favorite game in the world. The second the name of the game came out of her mouth, your heart dropped to your stomach, hit with memories of sitting off to the side while her friends played, all of your fingers embarrassingly still up, revealing you had done nothing interesting or scandalous in your life.

Sure, you’d definitely added a few notches to your belt since then, but you knew these people and had no doubt you were still way behind. The sad thing is you didn’t even care, but you knew they would and you couldn’t help that nagging desire to prove that you were just as cool as them. You sighed as you settled in your chair next to Carter, frustrated that just as you were starting to feel somewhat normal, you were transported right back to your loneliest days.

Carter went first, “never have I everrr…shoplifted.”

Sabrina took a giggly sip from her solo cup.

“Isn’t your dad’s networth like a billion dollars?” Kelce asked.

“Yes, but he never would’ve bought me those red panties, so I took ‘em,” she winked at him, and he scooted his chair closer to her.

Everyone else still had all ten fingers up, making you think maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all. 

But your relief didn’t last long. One by one they went around the circle, revealing each other’s secrets and leaving you with ten fingers up.

“Never have I ever done a body shot.” Your fingers stayed up.

“Never have I ever kissed someone of the same sex.” Your fingers stayed up.

“Never have I ever hooked up in a public place.” Your fingers stayed up. 

As the group got tipsier, the revelations got dirtier. You were sure some of them were lying and there was some temptation for you to put a finger down as a lie too just to level the playing field, but that was such teenage bullshit. You might not have as a high of a body count as some of them, but you still had your pride. 

The blood rushed from you face when Maddie said, “never have I ever been with two people at once” and Rafe put his last finger down, smirking as he finished off his beer.

A few more rounds passed and everyone else had put at least a couple fingers down while you still hadn’t done a single one of the things listed. You chewed on your lip, wondering how early was too early to excuse yourself to go to bed.

You were about to make a break for it, when a now sloppily drunk Sabrina pointed at you and slurred, “aww bambi’s still got ten!”

Bambi was another one of the many teasing nicknames they’d called you in high school, and it might just be your least favorite. 

“You’re still such a good girl,” Sabrina jibed. 

She must’ve been beyond wasted. She wasn’t necessarily nice, but she wasn’t usually this much of a bitch.

Your breaths got short, the anxiety erupting like fireworks in your chest. You could feel Carter’s mind spinning next to you, trying to come up with some way to defend you, but another voice beat her to it.

“Well,” Rafe said, drawing all eyes off of you and across the firepit towards him. “Never have I ever gotten so crossfaded at a boneyard party that I pissed my pants in someone else’s truck.”

He shot Sabrina a vindictive smile.

“Rafe!” She protested. “You said you wouldn’t tell anyone!” 

At her admission, everyone broke out into laughter, aimed at her.

“I didn’t tell anyone,” Rafe chuckled, “you just did.”

“Bruhh,” Kelce hollered. “That’s nasty!”

Sabrina went red, completely humiliated. You tried to be a girl’s girl, but after years of her teasing and making you feel like a loser, you couldn’t help but join in the laughter at her expense. 

As she emptied her cup spitefully, you caught Rafe’s gaze across the fire, the air between you wavy with the flame’s heat. He smiled a crooked, satisfied smile at you, and you mouthed “thank you.” He gave you a reassuring wink and your stomach did cartwheels. 

Carter straightened in her lawn chair next to you, kicking herself for giving Rafe the chance to save you before she could.

“I’ve got one!” she announced, and the crowd hushed to hear their queen. “Never have I ever skinny dipped in the campus fountain and got caught by campus security but successfully flirted my way out of a citation and ended up getting the cop’s number.”

Everyone looked around the circle quizzically, wondering who that incredibly specific anecdote was aimed at.

“No fucking way!” Topper shouted when he saw you put down your pinky finger with a bashful smile.

Topper and Kelce whooped, and the girls all gave you impressed looks.

“Okay baddie!” Maddie gasped. “Was he cute? Did you call him?”

“I mean he wasn’t not cute,” you mused, taking the obligatory sip of your drink. “We hung out a few times.”

“So does that mean you’re into handcuffs now orrr…” Kelce chimed in.

“Oops, I put the wrong fingers down,” you lifted your hand and theatrically put all down except your middle finger, aiming it at Kelce.

The crowd erupted with laughs and amused ohhhh’s. Even Rafe was smiling, and you couldn’t help but wish you knew what he was thinking, noticing his soft eyes on you as you bantered with his friends, all attention on you. This time, you weren’t blushing, you were just enjoying yourself. It felt so nice to have such a naturally fun and easy moment, but it was short lived.

“Never have I ever,” Sabrina interrupted, hiccuping. “Failed an entire semester of college.”

The crowd fell silent once again, no one daring to bring their eyes to Rafe, the clear target of her comeback. He just rolled his eyes, leaning back in his chair nonchalantly, like it didn’t bother him at all. But you could see the hint of shame in his eyes, a rare glimpse of vulnerability hidden under his tough facade. You used to spend so much of your time digging for those deeper layers that it was easy for you to pick up on them when they rose to the surface, even if it was just for a second.

Maybe you should let him flounder, leave him hanging like he’d done to you so many times before. But tonight, for the first time ever, he had jumped in to defend you, and maybe one act of kindness wouldn’t kill you.

“Fuck this game. Topper, didn’t you say something earlier about a beer pong tournament?” You prompted him, hoping desperately he’d see what you were trying to do and play along.

Topper looked confused at first, so you smiled tightly and flicked your eyes to Rafe and back as quickly as possible, urging him to understand.

Ever the king of subtlety, Topper’s eyes went wide as he mouthed “ohhhh!” 

Rafe saw the whole thing.

“Beer pong! Yes!” Topper said, excited to finally be in the loop. “Let’s do it!”

“I wanna play!” Sabrina stood quickly from her chair, immediately tripping over her own feet.

“Woah,” Carter caught her and held her up with some effort, Sabrina so far gone she couldn’t even use her legs. “I think you’ve had enough fun for tonight.”

Carter stabilized Sabrina and guided her towards the house. You knew she was pissed at Sabrina for picking on you, but Carter would never leave a drunk girl to stumble around a party by herself. She looked at you apologetically, but you nodded to let her know you were fine.

After they disappeared into the house, Topper and Kelce got to work clearing the long outdoor dining table for beer pong, filling cups and placing them with great attention to detail. You chuckled at the way they were arguing over correct cup spacing and fill levels as you reached down into the cooler for another drink. When you stood, Tom appeared by your side.

“I didn’t realize I was sharing a house with a criminal,” he drawled, mouth quirked with a crooked smile.

“Oh yeah,” you played along, popping the top of your drink. “I’m wanted in four states and Puerto Rico.”

“And Puerto Rico, wow,” he leaned his arm against the porch rail, his body angling towards yours in a way that made your skin prick with goosebumps. “I need to hear that story.”

“I’d tell you,” you lowered your voice and lifted your mouth towards his ear to whisper. “But then I’d have to kill you.”

“You’re in that deep, huh?” He placed his other hand on the railing on the other side of you, effectively caging you in, though he held himself back far enough to give you some space. You didn’t want space, though, the enticing scent of whiskey and the smoke from the fire drawing you to him.

“Mhm,” you leaned in so your chests were almost touching, a smile tugging his full lips when he noticed the way you intentionally closed the space between you. “If you thought the campus fountain story was bad…”

“I didn’t think it was bad,” he shook his head.

“No?” You grinned, eager to see where he was going with this.

“Not bad, kind of hot, but not bad,” he confessed.

“Only kind of?” You furrowed your brow in mock offense.

He broke into a smile and blushed, flustered as he said, “I mean, uh…”

You giggled. His bashful, dimpled smile was so painfully cute you were suddenly seeing the value to Carter’s matchmaking plan.

The alcohol in your system mixed with the warmth radiating off of him made your body go hot, tingles shooting up your spine as his eyes fell to your lips. He was so damn pretty. Warm brown eyes and messy hair you wanted to tangle your fingers in.

Rafe grabbed the fire poker and busied himself by tending to the flames, which didn’t really need it, considering Tom had built such a sturdy fire. The sound of your sweet giggles floating through the air as you flirted with Tom made him want to walk straight off the porch and into the ocean. He’d surely put his lifelong friendship with Sabrina on the line, not to mention his own pride, to keep you from running away in embarrassment, and now Tom was reaping the rewards of his chivalry. 

He remembered, though. Maybe you didn’t think he did, but he remembered. The nights you sat in the corner, lonely, pining, and the go-to butt of his friends’ stupid jokes. And he’d just sat by and let it happen, so many times. It’s no wonder you were leaned up against someone else, sharing stories about a whole chapter of your life he’d missed. He only had himself to blame.

Once the table was set up, Topper turned and frowned at the way the group had split, you and Tom cozy in the corner while Rafe stood by the fire alone, shoulders tense. He needed to step up his Cupid game, like, now.

He clapped his hands loudly, voice booming as he announced to the party that it was time to play. The startling sound forced Tom away from you just as you were about to ask him if he wanted to walk down to the water. Topper pointed right at you and pronounced you would be on his team. You were going to protest before you remembered beer pong was your idea in the first place, your ruse to protect Rafe. You couldn’t back out now.

Beer pong was another thing you’d added to your skill set in college. In high school, you were never asked to join when parties inevitably broke into a tournament. Instead you’d sit quietly and watch with hearts in your eyes as Rafe played with the competitiveness of an Olympian in a gold medal race.

He was known for his terrible sportsmanship, everyone expected a full tantrum if he didn’t win. The same went for school sports, you’d spent every night after a rare loss up on the phone with him listening intently while he ranted about all the ways the refs were wrong or the umps were blind. At the time, you took it as an honor that you were the one he wanted to find solace in. Now, grown and mature, you saw it for what it really was; no one else wanted to listen to him bitch and moan, so you were just his only option.

“Let’s go, Little Carter!” Topper raised his hand for a high five as you approached the table.

“If you call me that, I’m not playing,” you left him hanging.

“My bad, my bad,” he conceded.

You gave in and high fived him, stepping up to the table with your game face on. Kelce and Maddie stood across from you. They were both terrible shots, and you sunk every ball, but Topper was keeping them in the game with his many misses. 

Topper was great at beer pong in high school and you were sure he’d had plenty of practice at U of F, so there was no reason he should be playing so horribly.

“Dude, what the hell is up with you?” You scolded him after another throw that was way off.

“I dunno,” Topper said with an exaggerated drunken slur in his voice. “I think I’m just too wasted to play. You might need another partner.”

Before you could mock him for his dramatics, he had called over to Rafe, who was sitting back in a lounge chair looking at his phone, anything to keep his eyes off of you.

“What?” He grumbled, eyes lifting from his screen and avoiding yours.

“Need you to sub in for me,” Topper fake hiccupped and you rolled your eyes.

You were sure Rafe would see you were his proposed partner and pass on the opportunity, but then he and Topper had some kind of silent conversation with their eyes that you couldn’t interpret, and Rafe stood from his chair.

“You don’t have to,” you offered as he stepped up and took the ball from Topper.

You hated that your instinct was to apologize for inconveniencing him. He shrugged and lined up his first shot.

“Someone’s gotta show ‘em how it’s done,” he said with an easy grin that made your heart beat a little faster. 

If only your younger self could see how your night was progressing. Impressing everyone during never have I ever. Flirting with a gorgeous boy from another school. And now, Rafe smiling at you and acknowledging your presence in front of all these people, willingly agreeing to be your teammate. She’d have died and gone to heaven.

He had every right to be cocky; he was really good. And to his great surprise, so were you. You and Rafe made quick work of Kelce and Maddie, then Kelce and Jack, then Kelce and three more partners that tried to step up to the plate, Kelce’s aim worsening as he teetered on the edge of a blackout.

“When did you get so good at this?” Rafe asked you after a partcualrly skillful shot.

“I was always good at it,” you scoffed. “You just never let me play.”

After that comment, Rafe was suddenly an extra encouraging teammate. Before each shot he’d pull you back, leaning down to whisper in your ear conspiratorially about which cup you should call, like an NFL coach rallying his quarterback.

“I can’t hit the far corner, my aim isn’t that good,” you said when he proposed the risky shot. 

Self-doubt filled your face as you bit your lip, Rafe recognizing the nervous tick instantly.

“Nah you got it!” he grabbed you by the shoulder and shook you playfully. “You just gotta believe in yourself.” 

Despite yourself, you broke into a smile, making a feeble attempt to brush him away, though he could tell you didn’t mean it.

“Let’s go slugger,” Rafe placed the ball in your hand and guided you into position by your shoulders. He stood behind you and leaned in to bring his mouth close to your ear. “You got this.”

You loved it. You hated it. Your head swirled with conflicting thoughts, but when you sunk the ball with a flick of your wrist, they all faded.

“Let’s fucking gooo!” Rafe yelled.

He lifted his hand for a double high five and you stood on your tiptoes to reach. Your arms came down, but your hands were still in his.

“Told ‘ya,” he said tenderly, smiling down at you as his large hands enveloped yours. “You just gotta believe in yourself.”

Despite the alarms blaring in your head, telling you to run, you let it all linger. The deep sound of his voice in the air, his eyes on your lips, his rough hands folded in yours.

“Okay!” Carter chose that minute to emerge from the house after Sabrina finally fell asleep. “That’s enough wins for y’all, time for some real competition.”

The sound of her voice snapped you out of the moment, and you pulled your hands away from Rafe quickly, nervous about all the eyes on you for the first time since you’d started playing.

“I need a partner,” Carter said, surveying the group on the patio. “How about…”

You rolled your eyes, knowing exactly where she was going with this show and wishing she’d just fast forward to the end.

“Tom?” She raised her eyebrows in his direction, as if it was a crazy idea she had just come up with. “Do you play?”

“I may have taken part in a tourney or two,” Tom said humbly.

“Bullshit,” Kelce exclaimed, slumped in a chair as his head spun. “This guy was the Alpha Tau champion all four years. He’s got a plaque and everything.”

“Damn, I didn’t know we had Alpha Tau royalty in our midst!” Carter bantered.

“Jesus, enough with the fanfare, are you playing or not, dude?” Rafe snapped.

Carter eyed you, her lips twisted in a satisfied smirk. No one was surprised at Rafe’ gruffness, more than used to his competitive mean streak. It was not one of his more attractive qualities. The pull you’d just felt to him faltered a little at the reminder of this particular weakness. You were sure that’s exactly what Carter was hoping for.

“Alright I’m in,” Tom said, stepping up to the table and rolling up the sleeves of his sweater. “Don’t say I didn’t warn ‘ya.” He winked at you.

“Yeah, yeah, just call your shot, champ,” Rafe said.

The four of you reset the cups, not much work needing to be done on you and Rafe’s side of the table since almost no one had scored on you. As Tom lined up his first shot, he stuck his tongue out of the corner of his mouth in concentration, adjusting and readjusting his stance to get comfortable.

Rafe crossed his arms over his chest mumbling something along the lines of “this fuckin’ guy” and you couldn’t help but smile, admittedly also kind of getting the ick from how seriously Tom was taking this. 

Then he sunk every ball. After a few particularly good rounds, he made his third shot in a row, and Carter called “fire.” She handed him balls one after another like he was taking free throws, wiggling her eyebrows at you to make sure you were paying attention to his triumph.

You drank each cup obediently, ever the rule follower. After your fourth, you were getting so sick of the stale beer, you and Rafe’s cups had been sitting untouched all night and the cheap hops had soured significantly. When Tom sunk another one you grabbed the cup hesitantly, queasy, nearly gagging.

“It’s okay, I got it,” Rafe volunteered, grabbing the cup from you.

“Y’all don’t have to drink those if they’re really that bad,” Tom offered, pausing his next shot when he noticed how disgusted you looked.

“I got it, man,” Rafe waved him off, holding his nose and shooting back the beer as quickly as possible. He dropped the empty cup with a grimace.

“We can just call it a game,” Tom suggested, clearly feeling bad.

“Do you want to forfeit?” You asked Rafe, dropping your voice so Carter and Tom couldn’t hear.

“What and just wave the white flag?” Rafe replied, eyebrows raised. “Do you?

Your lips spread in a slow smile, “not a fucking chance.”

“Atta girl,” he nodded, returning his gaze to Tom. “We’re no quitters, hit us again big guy.”

And he did, over and over, until there was only one cup left on your side of the table. As he prepped for his final shot, Rafe turned to you, a playful, tipsy smile on his face.

“We had a good run,” He said, reaching out shake your hand. You took it with a smile.

When Tom and Carter won, high fiving each other in a loud celebration, all eyes fell to Rafe, waiting to see how he’d react to losing. You tensed, hoping his chipper attitude when you were winning would carry over into a graceful loss. But then he rounded the table, striding towards Tom, and you cringed in anticipation of a classic Rafe Cameron Temper Tantrum.

“Oh boy,” Carter mumbled under her breath. “Here we go.”

But there was no blow up, just Rafe extending his hand to Tom, who took it with a friendly shake.

“Good game, man,” Rafe said. 

“Yeah, you too, dude,” Tom smiled, not realizing this show of sportsmanship was a historical first.

Rafe tilted his head in a friendly nod towards your sister, “Carter.”

“Rafael,” she returned his sarcastic tone, purposefully using his least favorite nickname.

With that, Rafe walked away from the table, one last glance towards you as he returned to his seat by the fire. You watched him go, feeling sad not that you had lost, but that your fun night with Rafe had seemingly come to an end.

It was dizzying, your ever-changing emotional state, and you suspected it had very little to do with the beer. Thinking over all the events of the day gave you whiplash. One second you were about ready to ask Tom if he wanted to come back to your room, the next it felt like you and Rafe were finally sharing the moment you’d dreamt of for years. All the while, you weren’t sure you actually wanted either of them, or if you even wanted to be here at all.

“Wanna play again?” Carter asked, noticing the distracted look on your face.

“I’m good,” you smiled at her appreciatively, deciding you’d had enough excitement for one day. “I think I’m probably just going to bed now.”

“Aww, but it’s so early grandma,” Topper called over to you from the firepit.

You walked over to his chair and peched on the armrest.

 “Ah yes, another one of my favorite nicknames,” you joked. “No one’s called me that in four years.”

“Another inside joke?” Tom inquired, joining the circle, he and Carter each grabbing a chair.

“In high school, she was always the first to leave parties. She’d rather be at home in bed with a book by 9pm,” Topper explained to him.

You rose from his chair, eager to ditch this little trip down memory lane before it got too embarrassing. You almost made a clean escape, but then a very drunk Kelce decided to chime in.

“Unless Rafe asked her to stay,” he laughed. “Then she’d be there allll night.”

Embarrassed doesn’t even begin to cover it. You’ve been embarrassed a thousand times in your life, but this was something different. You looked down at your feet, not sure what you were supposed to do. No quick, face saving remark was coming to mind.

Carter smacked Kelce on the arm, while Topper shook his head with a disapproving, “dude…” 

Your eyes drifted to Rafe, who was looking down at his hands uncomfortably. Whatever protective instinct that had inspired him to stand up for you earlier was clearly gone as he left you to drown in the painfully awkward silence.

“Oh, were you two…?” Tom asked, pointing between you and Rafe quizzically.

“Nope,” you told him with a stiff smile.

He looked like he was about to ask more, but caught on at the last second, reading in between the lines. There it was, the last person here who didn’t know about your pathetic past was now caught up to speed. Yeah, you’d definitely had enough.

“Kelce, you’re such an asshole,” Carter began reprimanding him.

“Just stop,” you urged her. “It’s fine, I’m just going to bed.”

“Wait!” She called after you, but you were already walking toward the house, tears pricking the corner of your eyes. She gave Kelce one last slap and rushed after you.

Kelce, barely conscious, still hadn’t caught up with his own party foul.

“Where’s she going?” He asked Topper.

Rafe stood from his chair suddenly. 

“Will you get him out of here please?” He spat at Topper, sidestepping the fire as he stormed off toward the house.

Rafe followed your path into the kitchen, not sure what he was going to say when he caught up to you, but suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to make it right. He should’ve said something as soon as Kelce put his foot in his mouth. He’d deal with that dumbass later.

He slid the kitchen door open, headed towards the stairs that lead to the second floor, but he stopped short when he heard your voice. He stayed back, out of sight but close enough to hear your conversation with Carter on the stairs.

“Carter, it’s fine,” you sighed.

“No it’s fucking not, he made you cry,” Carter practically growled.

Rafe’s heart dropped. You were crying? He was gonna kick Kelce’s ass as soon as he was sober enough to feel pain.

“I’m just tired,” you sniffled. “Please, just drop it for now. I just wanna go to sleep.”

“I’m sorry,” Carter said, her voice starting to crack. “I shouldn’t have pushed you to stay.”

“It’s not your fault,” you assured her. “I knew he was gonna be here.”

Rafe frowned. Was the ‘he’ you were referring to still Kelce, or was it him? Was his presence really so distressing to you that you were in tears?

Carter reluctantly bid you goodnight, and Rafe slipped into the pantry so she wouldn’t see him when she descended the stairs back into the kitchen, storming towards the backyard, surely on her way to give Kelce hell.

He stood in the walk-in pantry for a minute, collecting his thoughts. 

Maybe he should be the one to leave. If his presence really was such torment to you, it would be the right thing to do. But you didn’t seem tormented earlier when you were playing beer pong with him, cheering each other on and laughing like friends. Or before, at the fire, when you’d come to each other’s defense. Even his two best friends hadn’t seen that Sabrina’s words actually hurt him, but you did. You always knew him better than anyone.

While he stood in the pantry, illuminated only by the single light bulb above his head, his eyes grazed over the shelf. Between a stack of paper plates and some hamburger buns, sat the candy he had picked out for you at the store. He smiled at the memory of your many car rides as teenagers, fueled by the snacks you had brought when you picked him up. Maybe you regretted those times now, but something about the fact that this was still your favorite candy made him feel better.

His stomach twisted with worry that after what Kelce had said, you would decide to leave. The only worse thought was that he might let you go without finding the courage to say the words he’d been holding onto since he saw you on the beach. Maybe you’d slam the door in his face, but he couldn’t let you leave without trying.

Rafe grabbed your candy off the shelf and climbed the stairs two at a time, eager to knock on your bedroom door before he lost his nerve.

(Chapter 4)

a/n: I LOVED hearing all your Team Tom vs. Team Rafe opinions!! The competition is heating up!!!! (not my outline for this chapter starting with “note: google rules to beer pong” lol)

Ch 4 predictions? 👀

please note, the taglist for this series is currently closed. For updates, follow @whytheylosttheirminds-works and turn on notifs 💕

[sugarcoatedstarkey]

Drunken mess

Pairing - Rafe Cameron x fem!reader

Summary - sleeping with your best friend’s boyfriend.

Warnings - unprotected sex, cheating, hair pulling, fem receiving oral/fingering, choking. (18+)

A/n- just a little thank you for 5k, thank you to anon for the prompt/idea.

The music was loud, vibrating against the soles of your shoes that bounced against the hardwood floor. The disco ball spun above you, the light ricocheting of the walls, smoke filled the air and your lungs. Your best friend was dancing wildly in front of you, your back pressed to some girl who’s hands held you tightly by the waist, your best friend moved closer and placed her hands on your shoulders. The three of you moved in sync, you could feel the eyes of the others around you.

Some looked on in disgust but most looked on in lust, especially Rafe. He knew his eyes should be on his girlfriend, your best friend. But he found them wandering to you, letting his eyes roam your body. He had to readjust himself multiple times at the sight of your thick ass pressed tightly to someone’s body, he had the urge to replace her with himself but he knew that would cause a shit fight.

“You're looking at the wrong girl” Topper tutted, his own eyes drank in your outfit. Neither of the boys could keep their eyes off you, the way your tight black dress hugged every curve of your smooth body. “She’s so fucking hot!”.

Rafe nods in agreement, he can’t find the words to say. He’s so obsessed with you right now, he can’t look away. He’s imagining the way you taste, the way you feel, the way you would moan his name when he filled your tight cunt with his cock. “I gotta ask her to dance” Topper states, Rafes hand is quick to grasp his wrist. Pulling him back down onto the couch, with one look Topper nods understanding you had been marked, even if he already had a girlfriend. No one was to touch Rafe Cameron’s girl.

Your best friend pulls away, holding her hand to her mouth. Eyes wide she darts out of the crowd, you follow closely behind. You find yourself in the bathroom holding her hair back as she throws her insides up into a ceramic bowl. “I feel like shit”.

You let out a laugh and grab a cloth, running it under the cold water you bring it over to your best friend and dab her face. “Let’s get you to bed yeah?” She nods and lets you walk her out of the bathroom and down a hall, moments later you're tucking her into Rafes bed and heading back to the party.

Your back on the dance floor, throwing back your drink and getting back into the music. You don’t take notice when a body stands behind you, strong hands pulling you close. You're used to people dancing on you, with you. You didn’t mind the attention, you just liked to dance and let loose. “You look so fucking sexy”.

Your heart skips a beat and you're quick to put the voice to the face, his breath is hot on the tip of your ear. You know you should pull away but you let him flatten his palm to your stomach, helping you move your hips against his. “Do you know how fucking hard it’s been for me to watch you and not touch you?”.

You shake your head, his hands brush down the length of your arms. Lacing his fingers with yours only to pull them up and around his neck, the angle gives him a nice view down your dress. His cock hardens even more within his shorts, he presses himself tighter against you. You can feel him between your ass cheeks, subconsciously you bend just slightly. “Naughty girl” he groans, holding tightly onto your waist. He slips one hand up the length of your stomach and palms your breast over your dress, a soft moan slips from your lips. “You like me touching you?”

“Please Rafe… I like it” your voice is too quiet over the sound of the music but your body is answering his question. Your hands slip from his neck, bending over even more and placing your hands to your knees.

He clenches his jaw, he could slip his cock out and fuck you right here, infront of everyone. Give them a real good show, let them see your heavy tits bounce as he pounds you on the dance floor. “So desperate for me sweet girl” he chuckles, his fingers lock around your hair and pull you up straight, a sharp sting runs down the back of your neck. He presses your body against his own. He begins walking you out of the dance floor, only a few eyes on the two of you. Topper watches on in jealousy, imagining himself behind you instead. “Ella is in your room” you find yourself saying as he walks the two of you down the hall you had been down not too long ago, his chuckle is deep and it vibrates against your back. “”Did you hear-”

“I heard you”

He opens the door to his room and pushes you inside, your eyes falling to your best friend who’s passed out in the bed. The dim light from the lamp in the corner casts a shadow of the two of you over her sleeping frame.

You turn quickly but meet his chest, he grips your jaw tightly and your eyes widen at the harshness. “You want to be a slut and let me touch you on the dance floor… well you can be a good little slut and let me fuck you next to your best friend”.

You grip his wrist and pull, he chuckles again and pushes you towards the bed, the back of your knees hit the bed and you use all your strength in your calves to stop yourself from falling onto the mattress.

“Are you going to be a good girl?”

Your mind is racing, you’ve wanted to fuck Rafe since you met him. You’ve always wanted to be in your best friend's shoes, you wanted Rafe for yourself. But you let her have him because she called dibs first. “Answer me”

“Yes… I’ll be a good girl”

“That’s what I thought”

His lips are on yours before you can change your mind, his tongue slipping between your open mouth. Your arms wrap around his neck and pull him closer, he tastes the way you expect him to. Whiskey and cigarettes, it’s intoxicating. You can’t get enough of him, he also can’t get enough of you. His hands are roaming your body, squeezing and kneading the flesh of your hips. In one swift movement he yanks the top of your dress down, your breasts spill out in an almost slow motion movement. “So fucking perfect”.

He grabs a handful and kneads, pinching and rubbing your hardened nipple between his fingers. Your back arches pushing your chest closer to him, his mouth envelopes your nipple. “Oh fuck”.

Your legs turn to jelly and your bum hits the mattress, your body frozen as your best friend turns in her sleep. Rafe doesn’t let up his assaults on your tits, his face buried between the two. Your heart is racing, scared she will wake up and catch the two of you. “Don’t worry about her… look at me”.

You turn your head, he slips his shirt over his head. Your fingers are running down the length of his stomach, staring at his hard pecs. “Like what you see?”

“So much.. I like it so fucking much”

His palm meets your throat and he pulls up from the bed, mouth on yours. You pull your dress down along with your panties, he pulls away from your lips but keeps hold of your throat, he takes a long hard look at your body.

“Shit… I knew I should have fucked you when I met you”

He drops his hand from your throat and steps back, unzipping his shorts as his eyes roam your body. You're not sure where this new found confidence comes from, you're pushing the thought of your best friend to the back of your mind. Stepping over you sit on the ottoman at the end of the bed, scootching back just enough. “What are you doing?” He questions, he’s standing naked and proud in front of you. Watching every movement you make, his cock is hard and bobbing as he steps towards you. “Touch me”.

You part your knees dropping your legs wide, his eyes zone in on your wet pussy. “Fucking hell”.

He can’t believe the sight in front of him, he’s sure he’s died and gone to heaven. Your pussy is perfect, arousal leaks from your tight hole. He drops to his knees in front of you when you reach down and spread your lips for him, his hand gripping your wrist before you can push a finger in. “Your going to fucking kill me”.

He’s breathing in the scent of your cunt, pressing the palms of his hands to the back of your thighs and pushing them to your chest. Your breasts pressed tightly against your legs, both holes staring him in the face. You clench when he flattens his tongue out and runs it up the length of your pussy. “Holy fucking… SHIT!” You cry out, head thrown back as he devours your pussy. He’s sucking hard on your clit, pushing two of his large fingers inside of your hole. “Oh god Rafe.. so fucking good.. yes oh yes just like that!”

He pushes in a third finger, spreading you wide for him. Your arousal coats his lips and hands, it's everywhere, you're making such a mess on him. His cock is throbbing, pre cum stains the floor, his fingers are pounding in and out of you with such force your back hits the mattress and causes your best friend to stir again. “Yes yes oh yes harder.. fuck! Rafe I need your cock.. please please give me your cock” your begging, tears are spilling from your eyes. “Such a needy little slut… can’t be patient can you”

“No no I can’t Rafe, please… I need you”

With one swift moment he’s pulling you down onto his cock, he’s stretching you wide. An almost burning sensation hits you but is quickly swept away with the rough thrust of his hips. He wraps an arm around your waist and brings you up to the bed, your eyes meeting your best friends closed ones. “Look at me”

His hips thrust deep and hard, your brain feels like it’s floating in water “I said look at me!”

He grabs your chin and pulls your head, you stare up at him as he fucks you into the mattress. You reach up to hold onto his shoulder blades “fuck Rafe… you feel so good”.

“That’s it sweet girl… taking my cock so well. Your pussy is mine. Do you understand me? Mine… your mine.”

“I’m yours Rafe”

“That’s right… fucking your best friends boyfriend hmm, how are you gonna tell her? How are you gonna tell her I only want this pussy and not hers”

The bed shakes under you, your breasts pressed firmly against his chest. He pulls out of you and spins you around, nudging his knee between your legs. You lean down on your elbows and push your bum out for him, he slips back inside of you. “Should we wake her?”

You shake your head, biting down on your lip as he slips into you. His heavy balls hitting against your sensitive clit, he leans over you slightly leaving kisses on your back. “Go on… moan my name into her ear. Wake her up”

Again you shake your head, his fingers pull at your hair until your back meets his chest, one hand palms your breast while the other toys with your clit. “Come on baby girl… I can feel your sweet little cunt clenching around me.. you close?”

“Mhmm”

Your cock drunk, arousal soaks your inner thighs and the bed. The sound of your skin slapping fills the room and your gobsmacked it hasn’t woken her up yet, you can’t hold onto your moans anymore. He’s pounding your sweet post so hard you're sure you’ll squirt. “Fuck your doing so well.. a little louder”.

Your toes are curling, body sweating, the familiar white spots appear in your vision. The butterflies in your belly are fighting hard, you are squeezing so tight around him he pushes you back down onto the bed.

Pressing the side of your face into the mattress as you cum around him. Your screams and moans are muffled by the duvet, your body shakes as he chases his relief. He’s quick to pull out of you and cum on your ass, clenching your hips as he jerks the last of his cum out.

Your body trembles as your orgasm begins to fade and the realization of what just happened settles in, you notice your hand is holding onto your best friend's leg and she still hasn’t woken. “What the fuck did I just do”.

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[stllmnstr]

sure thing – part one.

pairing: yang jungwon x f reader

genre: coworkers au, underground boxer jungwon

part one word count: 12.9k

warnings: swearing, descriptions/depictions of physical violence, blood and minor injuries, jealousy, a bit of a love triangle I’m SORRY, blonde boxer jungwon because yes I think that does warrant a warning, I had to split this into 2 parts because post block limit got me everyone say BOOOOO TUMBLR!!!!!!

note: this is what happens when you watch the no doubt music video and then also listen to too much chase atlantic. ALSO let me duck before the sacred monsters readers start throwing tomatoes at me I PROMISE I am working on part 4 I just... had this idea and it would not leave me alone. but cheers to another fantastic enhypen release (daydream and no doubt are both on repeat for meeeeee) and to my first jungwon fic. enjoy!

⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖

An employee in the marketing department of a large company, your days are filled with poorly worded emails, unrealistic deadlines, and passive aggressive friendly reminders from your superiors. On a particularly awful afternoon, a chance encounter with a coworker from the programming department down the hall is the first thing to make you smile in weeks.

But the more you uncover about Yang Jungwon and his mysterious injuries, flimsy excuses, and always occupied Friday nights, the more you begin to realize that you really don’t know him at all.

⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖���.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖

The printer is jammed.

It takes a very exaggerated eye roll and an embarrassing amount of self control to refrain from kicking the damn thing. Besides, you’re pretty sure your previous wording was too kind. 

Because a more accurate depiction of the situation would be:

The printer is jammed. Again. 

You’re not sure which cruel deity is responsible for the creation of Monday afternoons, but you’re sure they’re laughing at you now. Dressed in business casual and praying against all odds that the clock hanging on the office wall will start ticking a little faster, you almost wish the ground would open up and swallow you whole. Spare you from your misery 

And it’s not like a jammed printer is the end of the world. From a logical, unbiased point of view, you’re sure it’s nothing but a small, easily solvable problem. 

But it’s four pm on a Monday afternoon and you’ve had back-to-back meetings since you clocked in at eight this morning. The only real break you had lasted twelve minutes. Most of which were spent dabbing coffee stains from your blouse after Terry from accounting knocked into you in the staff kitchen. 

Your head is pounding and your feet are aching and your bladder is overly full and your left bra strap is starting to dig into your shoulder in a way that is entirely too overstimulating. 

And you really, really just need this report to print. 

After all, your boss made it very clear that you would not be clocking out for the day, no matter what hour of the evening it is, until said document is laid on his desk. Never mind the fact that you weren’t made aware of this demand until a handful of hours ago. 

So yeah, the printer jamming – again – does kind of feel like the end of the world. 

The screen is still flashing with an angry reminder to fix the paper jam in Tray 2. The instructions are starting to blur a little as you furiously blink away hot tears. 

You won’t cry at work. You won’t.

But your exhaustion is catching up with you, and the first thing it usually takes with it is your control over your emotions. 

The more you try to will them away, the more insistently they want to escape. 

Bent over the printer, you’re in the middle of trying to dislodge a particularly stubborn piece of A4 when the first tear finally does escape. It falls in a thick, wet train down the length of your cheek, settling for a moment at the base of your chin before dripping, a little pathetically, right onto the stack of papers in the printer tray. 

Your hands go slack on the sheet you’re warring with. 

For a moment, all you can do is sigh. Hang your head and hope some higher power takes pity on you. 

Stressed, burnt out, overworked. This was not how you thought you’d be spending your early twenties. But a salary is a salary, and fighting with an inanimate object on the worst day of the week keeps your lights on and your stomach full. 

Hunched over, you’re suddenly glad that the printer is kept in a separate room outside of the main office space. That there are no witnesses to your slightly pathetic meltdown.

Save for a few, it’s not like you care all that much about what your coworkers think of you. But the last thing you need to add to this day is a fresh bout of humiliation. 

Just one more minute, you tell yourself. One more minute of silence before you pull yourself together and finish dislodging the stupid piece of paper. 

It must be at least 4:10 by now, which means you have less than an hour to go. You can do it. You can. You just need one more minute of silen–

“Everything okay?” 

The sudden intrusion is so startling that your head jerks up in a subconscious reaction. Only, of course, to be met with the open printer tray you’re currently trying to troubleshoot. 

The clunk that echoes through the tiny printer room as your temple comes in direct contact with hard plastic is almost as loud as it is painful. 

“Ah,” you wince, hand instinctively flying to the side of your head. 

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry, ____.” You’re not sure if your hesitation comes from embarrassment or the fact that you head is still spinning. Either way, you’re slow to move as you look up at your sudden audience. 

Over your shoulder, Yang Jungwon has nothing but apologies written all over his delicate features. Brow pulling into a concerned frown, he’s quick to kneel to your level. 

If anyone was going to find you like this, you suppose you’re glad it was him. A recent hire fresh out of university, Jungwon has carved out a quiet kind of reputation for himself in the office. 

His presence isn’t commanding, but it is steady. The kind of person that you never see get worked up or angry or even annoyed no matter how many last minute deadlines are assigned or how many printers get jammed when he really needs to use them. 

And from what you’ve gathered, he mostly keeps to himself. It’s not from a lack of effort on your coworkers’ behalf. You know firsthand that he’s been invited to multiple post work gatherings and weekend events. 

His popularity doesn’t exactly surprise you. Even with his quiet demeanor, he has a striking presence. One that makes you curious, leaves you wanting to know more. 

Never mind the fact that he’s absolutely gorgeous. 

Still, despite their efforts, you also know that he’s politely declined each and every invitation without ever giving any real explanation. 

In all honesty, you’ve always just assumed there was a girlfriend he was eager to run home to. 

But even that is nothing more than a mindless assumption. After all, you’ve only had a few interactions with him, and nothing beyond the typical small talk all office workers develop a talent for. 

Even now, he makes the simple button down and slacks he’s wearing look like they came right from a runway. 

You’re not quite sure why, but it almost makes you want to cry harder. 

At the very least, you’re pretty sure you don’t need to worry about rumors of you having a minor meltdown in the printer room spreading through the office. Jungwon might be a hot topic of office gossip, but he’s not one to spread it.

“I am so sorry,” he repeats, “I didn’t mean to startle you.” His words are spilling out a bit too fast, blurring into each other around the edges. “I just saw you in here, and I couldn’t tell if you were okay or not, so I wanted to–”

“Jungwon,” you interrupt. There’s no kind way of telling him that his rambling is only making your headache worse. That it’s only making your tears fall faster. Instead, you abet his misplaced guilt. “It’s okay. I’m fine.”

A bit shakily, you muster up your most convincing smile. But your smudged mascara, slightly puffy eyelids, and still visible tear track suggest otherwise. 

Jungwon’s brow just pulls together a little further. “Are you sure?” He’s unconvinced. Taking a wary glance at the printer tray, he looks back to you with concern in his eyes. “That sounded like it hurt.”

“Really,” you force another weak smile. “I’m sure.”

“Can I at least take a look at it?” Guilt is still written plain as day across his face. 

Assuming he’s referring to the printer, you nod before taking one big scooch to the side. Within the confines of this tiny room, it only puts you closer to him. 

And it takes less than a second for you to realize your assumption was wrong. Because Jungwon doesn’t reach for that stupid piece of A4 still jammed inside Tray 2 or even the printer tray that just nearly concussed you. 

No, instead, his long fingers trek a steady path towards your hand. The one that still rests against your temple. Gently, he pries it away, replacing it with his own careful touch.

You’re all but immobile as gentle fingers press lightly against the side of your face, adjusting it slightly. His fingers are cool, soothing as he turns your injury towards the overhead light. 

Pliant in his hands, it’s all you can do to watch as his brow furrows in concentration, eyes scanning over your skin. Taking the skin of your bottom lip between your teeth, you pray he doesn’t notice the sudden heat in your cheeks. 

From this angle, with this proximity, you can practically count his eyelashes. They’re long, you notice. Long and wispy where they frame his dark eyes. 

“No broken skin,” he finally asserts. You can feel his breath against your skin. It takes nearly all your concentration to suppress the shiver that threatens to trace your spine. “But I wouldn’t be surprised if it bruises. There’s a bit of swelling, too. Keep an eye on it these next few days, and let me know if it doesn’t go down on its own.” 

You’re not exactly sure if Jungwon – quiet, gentle Jungwon – would be the first person you’d go to for first aid advice, but you nod anyway. 

And you’re not sure where it comes from, the sudden urge to cry again. But somewhere between the pain in your head and the soft probing of his fingers against your skin, emotions are starting to bubble beneath your stoic facade. 

It’s subtle, barely perceivable, but you can feel your bottom lip beginning to quiver. 

Much to your unending humiliation, you’re not the only one who notices. 

You’re not sure how he does, but he does. 

“Hey,” Jungwon tries. His hand is still on your face. His voice is impossibly soft, and it only makes you want to cry harder. You feel like a skittish kitten he’s trying to lure in from a rainstorm. 

His lips part as if he’s going to continue. They fall shut again before he can. 

Something in his brow softens. Concern is replaced with empathy. 

Hand falling back to his side, he suddenly changes the subject. “You’re in the marketing department, right?”

Lips still trembling, you turn your eyes towards the floor before giving him a small nod.  

From this angle, the only thing you see are his shoes. Standard leather work shoes, they’re slightly scuffed where they rest against the carpet. 

They still look formal, of course. Nothing that would raise any eyebrows in a professional setting. And from far away, you’re sure they appear pristine. 

But from this close, you can make out all sorts of rough edges. Little marks and dents and scuffs that serve as evidence of where he’s been. 

“Why don’t you head home for the day,” Jungwon suggests gently from above you. “I’ll let your team and your supervisor know that you’re not feeling well.” 

You take a deep breath, do your best to make sure your voice is steady before you respond. Shaking your head, you point out, “It’s almost the end of the day anyway–”

“Exactly,” Jungown nods, kind but firm. “There’s nothing that can’t wait until tomorrow.”

“Actually,” you grimace, trying not to let the truth inspire another round of tears. “I need the report I was trying to print. I have to turn it in before I leave today.”

There’s a beat of silence. You’re worried that Jungwon will keep offering you too much kindness, so you rush to fill it. “It’s fine, though. I think the paper jam is almost fixed, and I already sent the report to the printer, so I’m sure it will come through in a minute–”

“Perfect,” Jungwon interrupts again. “I’ll take it to your boss, then. Alan, right? I’ve spoken with him before. I’ll also let him know that you went home for the day.”

“Jungwon, you don’t have to–”

“I know.” At the interruption, your eyes snap back to him. There’s an intensity in his eyes when you match his gaze. Something so sincere that it’s hard to look away. Even though you know your eyes are still shiny with tears you wish you’d hidden better. Even if the stress and exhaustion and weariness are probably written plain as day across your features.

“I know,” he repeats. “I want to. Go home and get some rest, okay?”

It’s probably stupid, to agree so easily. But something in his eyes has you believing, even if just for a moment, that everything will be just fine if you do what he suggests. That all of your concerns and worries will work themselves out and you’ll be able to come into the office tomorrow feeling refreshed for once. For the first time in a long time. 

So you nod. You let him help you up off the floor and don’t bother hiding your face as you wipe the last of your unshed tears from your eyelashes. It probably only smudges your mascara further, but you can’t find it in yourself to care about that, either. 

The printer is still jammed and your report isn’t turned in and you’ll have to walk past your entire team back to your desk to get your things on your way out. 

But for this fleeting moment, those worries feel small. Distant. Manageable. Able to be tucked away and saved for later. 

You still don’t know much about Jungwon. The only knowledge you have comes from speculation and wishful thinking. But now, more than ever, you really wish you knew something of substance. 

But you have no idea how to tell him that. Don’t know if you even should. So instead, you say what you can. 

“Thank you, Jungwon.”

For a moment, all he does is smile. It’s small, but it reaches his eyes. Makes them sparkle a little brighter. 

His voice, like the rest of him, is gentle when he says, “Sure thing, ___.”

…..

Despite the fact that it accounts for roughly eighty percent of your job, you prefer to avoid your email inbox like the plague. 

Most days, by the time you do get around to checking it, it’s already jam packed with unreasonable requests and last-minute changes and passive aggressive friendly reminders from your superiors. 

When you sit down at your desk on Tuesday morning, you’re extra reluctant. After the printer fiasco yesterday, you’re feeling particularly sensitive to all of the potential bullshit. And you have the distinct feeling that a rather nasty message about leaving the office early unannounced is surely waiting for you. 

But the inevitable can only be delayed so long. With a wince and a final swig of coffee, you muster the courage to give the mail icon on your desktop a double click. 

The top of your inbox is filled with the usual nonsense. A request for a meeting tomorrow morning on a project idea you’ve had finalized for months. An RSVP form for the optional, but highly encouraged, upcoming staff party. A reminder from your boss that final quarterly reports need to be submitted by Friday at the latest. 

A few lines down, though, something out of the ordinary catches your eye. Checking the time stamp, you see that it was sent right as the day started. 

From: yangj@vesselsoft.co 

Subject: Printer Issue Follow-Up

Contemplating for a moment, you frown. The first floor of Vesselsoft is no stranger to printer jams. They’re typical occurrences, not major problems to be resolved via email. You didn’t think there was a printer issue to follow up on. 

But it’s far more intriguing than anything else on your work account. So, ignoring all of the other messages, you open the email from Jungwon. 

Good morning ____, 

I hope you’re doing well. I wanted to let you know that the workroom printer jam has been fixed, and your report was delivered safe and sound yesterday evening. I also wanted to check in and see how your head is feeling. 

Best, 

Jungwon

You reread it. Once. Twice. 

It’s a simple message, all things considered. But it has you searching for subtext where there likely isn’t any. If anything, this serves as a confirmation of what you already knew about Jungwon. 

He’s kind. Considerate. The type of person that would help you fix a jammed printer and check in on you the next morning. Right when he clocks in. 

The type that could probably tell that your head was the least of your concerns yesterday, but still chooses to ask how you’re doing  without drawing excess attention to it. 

For a moment, you almost wish he would make a habit of attending after hours work events. You have the distinct feeling that sucking up to your superiors would be a little less awful if someone like him was around to do it with you. 

From: You

To: yangj@vesselsoft.co

Subject: Re: Printer Issue Follow-Up

Good morning Jungwon, 

Thank you for resolving that printer issue! And thank you for checking in. My head is feeling much better today. 

Thanks again, 

____

After a final once over, you press the send button, watching as the animation shows the message flying out from your inbox. 

You imagine it flying into his. It’s subconscious, the way you start to picture what his face will look like when he sees it. 

You know he’s in the programming department, which is on the same floor as your office. Honestly, you’re a bit surprised you haven't seen him around more. 

Will he smile, you wonder. Will he have that same, gentle fondness in his eyes he seems to carry with him everywhere?

You don’t get an answer to that particular question, but you do learn that Jungwon is an incredibly prompt communicator. 

It’s barely been ten minutes before your inbox is chiming again. 

From: yangj@vesselsoft.co 

Subject: Re: Printer Issue Follow-Up

Sure thing, ___. Glad to hear it. 

Jungwon

You can’t hide the small smile that threatens to turn the corners of your lips upward. It’s not like he’s done anything particularly groundbreaking. But even bits of kindness have become a bit of a rarity for you these days.

You can’t think of anyone else in the office that would insist on sending you home thirty minutes early and offer to finish up your work for you. You can’t think of anyone else who would have navigated yesterday’s fiasco with as much gentle care as he did.

You can’t remember the last time someone bothered to consider you. To lighten your load when they noticed you starting to sink under the weight of it. 

So you’re smiling. Despite the fact that it’s still a Tuesday morning and you have a long week ahead of you. Despite the fact that you’re still very much locked into a job you mostly despise. 

Mentally, you make a note to give some gesture of your gratitude. To do something that will brighten his day a bit, too. 

But you don’t know him. Don’t know how he takes his coffee or if he has a favorite brand of ballpoint pen or if he could use an extra favor from someone in the marketing department. All the sorts of things that coworkers do to show a little bit of appreciation. 

But the universe, at least in part, seems to be on your side today. 

When you head into the staff kitchen for your mid-morning coffee refill, you find it already occupied. 

It’s a bit ridiculous, the way you suddenly feel flustered. Have the urge to smooth your hair, fix your blouse. 

He has his back turned to you, and it takes you nearly half a minute of contemplation to decide whether or not to say something. In the end, the decision is made for you. 

Your phone lights up with an urgent request that you check over the second half of the report you – well, Jungwon – submitted last night. 

Sighing, you turn away from the kitchen. Your second cup of coffee, and a conversation with a certain programmer, will just have to wait. 

You do, however, notice one last thing before you go. Watching silently, you can’t help but smile a bit as you watch Jungwon add two sugar packets to his mug. 

Sweet, you think. Just like him. And now you have at least one bit of information to work with. 

After submitting the edits on your report, you decide to use your recently earned knowledge. Deciding that he’s worth the splurge, you open the delivery page of the cafe down the street, the one that’s ridiculously overpriced but undoubtedly makes the best coffee in the area. 

And when you order it in his name, a hot coffee with two sugars, you ask the barista to attach a note. 

Thank you again for yesterday. I hope this is how you like your coffee! 

An hour later, your inbox chimes with another message. 

From: yangj@vesselsoft.co 

Subject: Thank You

You’re too kind, ____. Thank you for the coffee. How did you know just how I like it?

All the best, 

Jungwon

If his words make you smile a little too hard, well, you figure no one ever has to know. 

The universe, however, would seem to have other plans. 

Of everyone in the marketing department, you find your coworker Grace to be the most bearable. A few years older than you, she was by far the most welcoming when you joined the team. 

And you have the sneaking suspicion she has just as much disdain for your supervisor as you, even if the two of you have never openly discussed it. 

Unfortunately, she does have the fatal flaw of never being able to finish her work day without getting herself involved in someone else’s business. For the most part, you’re spared from her nosiness. 

Mostly because your life doesn’t carry the same flair for drama that she loves most. But today, she decides to give it a shot anyway. 

Standing behind your office chair, she nearly startles you out of your seat when she asks, “Who’s got you smiling like that?”

Closing the email as quickly as you can, you turn to face her. 

“No one.” It’s too rushed, too evasive. She sees right through it. 

“Mhmm.” 

Heat rising in your cheeks, you double down. “No, really.” Scrambling for a lie, your eyes land on one of your desk photos. One that shows your childhood cat, affectionately named Mr. Snuggles by your elementary school self. “I just heard from the vet that my cat is feeling a lot better. I was worried she was really sick.”

It’s a bold faced lie. Mr. Snuggles has been dead since your third year of high school. 

“Ah,” Grace says. Her features fall slightly as she realizes she won’t be getting a worthy scoop from you. Realizing that’s probably not an appropriate reaction, she forces a smile. “That’s great! I’m happy for you.”

“Thanks,” you nod, hoping it will mark the end of the conversation. 

But Grace isn’t quite ready to let it go. “That does remind me, though. I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”

Uh oh. 

“You’re not seeing anyone, right?” You’re not sure how a sick cat would remind her of your dating life, but you suppose there are larger mysteries to be solved. 

And on second consideration – oh. Is it really that obvious? “No,” the syllable drags as you attempt to tread carefully. “Why?”

Grace shrugs, but the conversation feels more calculated than nonchalant. “I was at my friend’s baby shower a couple of weeks ago, and her younger brother just moved back to the city. He’s been living abroad since high school. He’s around your age and a total catch. I didn’t talk to him much, but he reminded me of you a bit. I think the two of you would get on.” 

“Oh,” is all you say. Your uncertainty must be written all over your features, because Grace is quick to continue.

“No pressure, of course. But let me know if you’d like me to pass his number along.”

Do you? It’s been ages since you went on a date. And even longer since you went on a date with someone you’d describe as a total catch. 

And apparently, your single-ness is painfully visible to the people around you if Grace was able to pick up on it so easily. 

Besides, it might be nice, you think. To have a conversation with someone that isn’t about quarterly reports or upcoming deadlines or jammed printers. 

But then your mind wanders to the last conversation you had about a jammed printer. To a set of pretty, dark eyes and a pair of gentle hands. 

To a string of email conversations that don’t really mean anything. But you almost wish they did. 

It’s messy, you think. Far from ideal. JUngwon might not be in your department, but he still works just down the hall. Inter company relationships aren’t forbidden, but they do carry a certain amount of risk.

Jungwon isn’t petty. He wouldn’t make your life a living hell if things were to end badly. But you might start feeling awkward in the staff kitchen and you might have to start timing your walks to the parking lot so that they don’t coincide with his.

Small adjustments. Minor inconveniences more than anything.

Besides, it’s all conjecture. 

You can count the conversations you’ve had with Jungwon on your fingers, and the majority have been channeled through your work email. 

It’s hardly romantic. 

But even as you try to see things from a detached, logical perspective, one thought keeps swimming back to you.

You think you could talk about jammed printers forever, as long as it was with him. 

Sighing, your heart can’t decide if it wants to sink to your stomach or crawl up your throat at the realization. 

Turning back to Grace, you just offer her a tight smile. “I’ll let you know.”

…..

In the coming weeks, your coincidental run-ins with Jungwon start to become more and more frequent. 

First, it’s the two of you just so happening to need a coffee refill at the same time. When your path cross in the staff kitchen, you raise an eyebrow at the sugar packets he adds to his mug and he shakes his head as you take a long sip of your plain, bitter drink of choice. 

Then, it’s the morning in the parking lot when the two of you just so happen to arrive at the same time, pulling into adjacent parking spots. His smile is gentle, albeit a bit sleepy, when he bids you, “Good morning.” 

Your heart flutters a bit when you return the sentiment. You do your best to ignore it. 

Next, you stumble across him in the staircase on an otherwise quiet afternoon. This time, however, he’s already deep in another conversation. Or, you realize at second glance, trying very hard to wiggle his way out of another conversation. 

For all intents and purposes, Jenna from the legal department is a sweet girl. A bit overbearing at times and doesn’t always take well to being told no, but she’s harmless for the most part. Smart and driven and you admit a little glumly, quite pretty. 

Even underneath the overhead fluorescents in the stairway, she manages to avoid looking washed out. 

They’re already talking by the time you get there, and the only thing you catch is the tail end of their rather one-sided conversation. 

“It’s a great place, really,” Jenna insists, smiling a little too brightly. “And the food is to die for. They’re always running really unique specials. I think you’d really like it.”

And you could just turn around and pretend not to have seen anything. You could just take the elevator instead. In fact, you probably should. 

But suddenly, it’s as if your shoes have been filled with lead. Feet frozen to the earth, all you can do is watch. 

“Oh,” Jungwon reaches for the back of his neck. “Thanks for thinking of me, Jenna, but I don’t think I’ll be able to make it.”

“Oh, really?” she pouts. “Is there another night that would work bett–”

“Jungwon!” Your voice is too loud, reverberating off the walls of the stairway in a way that has two pairs of eyes immediately darting towards you. And interrupting had seemed like a good idea a few seconds ago, but now you realize your fatal mistake. 

You have no plan. No idea what to say next. 

Still, you force a smile. “Just the person I was looking for.”

You don’t think you’re imagining it, the immediate wash of relief that colors Jungwon’s features. 

“Hey, ___,” Jenna waves, a bit dejectedly. She doesn’t exactly look pleased to see you, and you can’t really blame her. “Could you give us a minute? I was just in the middle of–”

“Sorry, Jenna,” you shake your head. “This is kind of urgent.”

“Right,” Jungwon nods, looking at you again. “We’d better go then.”

“But I–”

“See you around, Jenna.” You’re tone is too bright as you spin around, making a beeline back towards the door. A flicker of satisfaction warms in your chest when you realize Jungwon is right on your heels. 

He waits until the two of you are back in the empty hallway, closed door serving as a barrier between you and Jenna, before he speaks. 

Looking at you, he quirks his head to the side. “So, what’s the urgent thing you need help with?”

Oh. Right. 

Sighing, you decide honesty, or at least partial honesty, might be your best bet. 

“Sorry,” your smile is sheepish, “did I read that wrong? There’s nothing urgent. I just…” you trail off, searching for the words. “It just looked like you might have needed an exit.”

For a moment, he says nothing. The silence gives your mind too much room to spin

Maybe you did read things wrong. Maybe he was enjoying a perfectly pleasant conversation with perfectly pleasant Jenna. Maybe he was looking forward to going to a nice restaurant with her and trying all sorts of unique specials and–

“Thank you.”

“What?”

Jungwon’s eyes soften. If you didn’t know any better, you’d almost describe his expression as… fondness. “An exit,” he clarifies. “I did need one. So thank you.”

“Right.” Your voice is suddenly breathless, and you can’t think of a good excuse for it. Feigning a nonchalance you don’t feel, you wave off his gratitude, “Anytime.” 

“Careful,” Jungwon warns, but the same hint of teasing, the same glimmer of affection, is still there. “I just might take you up on that.” 

“It’s a good thing I meant it, then.”

Jungwon’s features soften into a smile. A small one, meant just for the two of you. Reaching up, he pushes a stray strand of hair from his eyes. 

It’s only natural that you follow the movement. His hands are nice, you think. Long, lithe fingers, and–

You frown, eyes zeroing in on the knuckles of his right hand. 

Bruises, you realize. Dark, purple bruises span the length of his knuckles. Angry and mottled and from what you can tell, recent. 

And so many. You can’t imagine what he could have possibly done to earn them. 

Gaze still trained on the injury, your eyes widen. “Are you okay?”

It’s Jungwon’s turn to be confused. “What?”

“Your hand,” you nod at it. “Are those bruises?”

“Oh.” He shrugs, brushes it off like it’s nothing. But his hand falls to his side, obscured from your sight, all the same. “Yeah, I just slipped the other day trying to hang a picture in my apartment. The frame caught me funny when it fell.”

“You… slipped.”

Your disbelief must be apparent, because Jungwon is quick to add, “My hand slipped, really. My phone started ringing, and it caught me off guard.”

“Ouch,” you grimace. “That sounds like it hurt.”

Again, Jungwon shrugs. But his eyes are doing that thing again. Sparkling. “It’s not so bad.”

“Still,” you insist. “You should be more careful.”

“Yeah,” Jungwon agrees. It’s just the two of you, alone in a dimly lit hallway. His gaze is trained on yours. The distance between you is respectable, appropriate. Suggests that the two of you are coworkers and nothing more. But you have the distinct feeling that he’s not entirely talking about hanging pictures when he says, “I probably should.”

…..

The next morning, Grace is the first person you see as you walk into the office. And she’s already waiting for you. As soon as you come in, she hands you a coffee with an apologetic smile. 

“Uh oh.” You hang your coat, accepting the cup from her hands. It’s not unusual to receive coffee from a coworker, but it usually comes as a form of consolation. “What’s this for?”

“It’s from Alan, actually.”

Your lips flatten. “That doesn’t make me feel better.”

“It’s not that bad, really.” Grace’s smile is less than convincing. “He just wants us all to get together this Friday night after work at that bar down the street. Y’know, to network.”

You groan internally. There go your plans for a relaxing Friday at home. 

“How is it networking if it’s just our team? We see each other every day.”

“That’s the other part,” Grace nods towards the cup in your hand. “Didn’t you notice he pulled out all the stops? That’s from the shop down the road. The one that charges eleven dollars for a small latte.”

“Oh god,” you groan, this time audibly. “What else does he want?”

“We’ve all been strongly encouraged to invite people from different teams around the company.”

You suppress a strong urge to roll your eyes. “Of course we have.”

Privately, you think that if Alan wants to network so bad, he should be responsible for creating the guest list himself. Outwardly, you just sigh. 

As if you didn’t have enough on your plate already. Now you need to schmooze some other poor employee into wasting their Friday night talking about work. 

Sitting down at your desk, you take a sip of your coffee. It is admittedly delicious. The thought only makes you want to bang your head on your keyboard even more. 

The problem of finding a plus one follows you all the way through the afternoon. All the way to the workroom, where you once again stumble into a certain blonde programmer that’s beginning to feel like part of your daily routine. 

This time, Jungwon is alone. 

He’s frowning at the printer, brow furrowed. 

“Don’t tell me it’s jammed.” 

When he sees that it’s you, his features immediately soften. He smiles and something tugs at your heart. It’s enough to have you forgetting about Friday night, even if just for a moment. 

“No, thankfully. My computer just doesn’t seem to want to connect to this printer.”

“Mm,” you hum. “Send it to me, and I’ll try printing from mine.”

Jungwon shakes his head. “You don’t have to do that. I’ll just go up to the accounting department and try their printer.”

“Jungwon,” you level him with a look. “You are the last person to be telling me I don’t have to do you a favor. It’s really no problem. Just send it over.”

“Okay,” he finally relents. 

Waiting for it to ping through on your end, an idea suddenly strikes you. You’re not sure if it’s a good one or if your judgment is starting to be warped by all of the toner cartridge fumes, but here, in a quiet workroom with nothing but Jungwon and a half-working printer to keep you company, you find a bit of your bravery. 

“I know this probably isn’t your idea of a perfect evening,” you start. Your words feel too loud in this tiny space. “But the marketing team is getting together after work for drinks this Friday night. We’re also encouraged to branch outside of our department and invite other company employees, so if you’re free, we’d love to have you.” The more you say, the worse it sounds to your own ears. Why would anyone, much less Jungwon, want to come to a work event for the marketing team. Suddenly embarrassed you even brought it up, you find yourself rambling. “The bar is actually pretty nice. It’s not super fancy or anything, but it has, uh, really great chandeliers. It’s a nice ambience, and–”

“___.” Jungwon interrupts with the sound of your name. 

“Yeah?” You’re trying not to sound too hopeful, but you have the distinct feeling that you fail miserably. Despite your hesitance, you realize something. 

You want him to say yes. 

You want him to give you a different response than he gives everyone else. A different response than he gave Jenna. 

You want him to say yes, even though no one wants to go to a work event for the marketing team on a Friday night. 

You want him to say yes anyway, because it’s you. 

“I’d love to, really.” He reaches up, scratching at the back of his neck. “But I’m busy Friday night.”

Short. Succinct. To the point. He doesn’t spare any extra details. 

You already knew it was a long shot. But it stings all the same. 

You wanted to be the exception to the rule. Someone that would finally get him to say yes. Or at the very least, someone he would bother to give an actual reason for his absence to. 

“Oh.” Your voice is smaller than you mean for it to be. “Of course!” And now it’s too loud, too bright. You can’t find the happy medium, can’t find your natural tone. “I’m sure whatever it is will be way more fun, anyway.”

Jungwon just gives you a small smile, not bothering to affirm or refute your assumption. Not deigning to add any more details. 

It kind of makes you wish that the ground would open up and swallow you whole. 

“Well, I should probably get back to my desk.” You don’t know why you’re scrambling for excuses. Jungwon clearly doesn’t feel the need to provide any. “Did everything print okay?” You nod towards the small stack of papers in his hands. 

Jungwon is still looking at you. His lips part, as if he wants to say something. Brow creased, it’s as if he’s at war with himself. As if he can’t decide what to say or how to say it. 

After a beat, his mouth falls shut again. He gives a minute shake of his head. You watch as his hair sways in time with the movement. 

“Yeah,” he tells you. But he still hasn’t bothered to look down at the document between his fingers. “Everything printed fine.” 

“Okay.” You nod again. “Good.” Your voice sounds hollow in your ears. “Well, I’ll see you around, then.”

I’ll see you around?

I’ll see you around?

It takes all of your willpower not to cringe outwardly. It’s the most awkward, stilted thing you could have possibly said, but you’re not sure how else to fill the stifling silence. 

“Of course,” Jungwon nods. “Have a good day, ____.” The worst part is that he looks like he genuinely means it. “And enjoy your Friday night.”

“Right.” Your smile is feeble, doesn’t reach your eyes. “You too.” 

You’re so caught up in your own humiliation that you don’t notice the way his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes either. “Sure thing.”

…..

Changing your clothes in the last stall of the office bathroom kind of feels like a new low for you. But by the time Friday evening comes around, the last thing you want to do is attend a mandatory – scratch that, highly encouraged – work event at a bar still wearing your blazer and slacks. 

The jeans and sweater you replace them with are still nice by any standard, but they’ll feel a bit less stifling after a handful of drinks. 

Grace, at least, seems to have the same idea. Deciding she’s by far the most bearable person of the evening, you slide down next to her in the booth. 

Of course, that thought only makes you think of another person you’d invited. Someone whose absence feels especially notable as you nurse the remnants of your first cocktail. 

You don’t really want to get drunk tonight. You don’t want to be here at all. 

You put in your forty hours of work this week, and the only place you want to be is at home in a pair of sweatpants. 

The only person that would have made it a little more worth it made it very clear that he had better things to do. The details of which, of course, he didn’t bother to share. 

The thought spurs you to take another long sip. 

You don’t want to get drunk. But you don’t want to think about him either. 

Besides, Grace doesn’t seem to share your reservations. 

It’s barely been forty minutes when she pulls out her phone, thoroughly tipsy, and decides that you are the best person to help her sort through her list of matches on her favorite dating app. 

“He’s cute, right?” She flashes her phone screen towards you. 

He is. You nod and tell her as much. 

His eyes might not sparkle very much. And his hair might not fall perfectly over his forehead. And he might not furrow his eyebrow in concentration whenever the printer in the workroom gives him a hard time –

No. 

Tonight is not about him. He made it very clear that he had no interest in being here tonight, and the last thing you’re going to do is spend the evening fixated on him. 

Grace, at least, seems willing to help on that front. 

“Oh,” she suddenly interjects from your side. “That reminds me. I’ve been meaning to show you a picture of my friend’s brother. You know, the one I mentioned a couple of weeks ago?”

It’s a bad idea, probably. You’re still feeling slighted and bitter and no matter how many times you tell it not to, your mind keeps wandering to Jungwon. 

Despite your reluctance, the cocktails are catching up with you. There’s a pleasant, slightly numb haze in your mind. It makes resistance feel futile. 

All you do is nod, and Grace starts searching for his social media profile. It takes her a few more tries than it would sober, but she does eventually find it. 

“Here,” she says, offering her phone to you. “His name is Jay. He grew up here until he left to go to an international high school. He’s been living abroad ever since, but he recently moved back. Their dad is pretty high up at a software development company. I think he came back because he landed a job there too.” 

You do your best to absorb the information, to nod along with what she says, but in all honesty, you’re quite distracted. 

Jay is quite distracting. His feed is well-curated without being overbearing. Covered in travel photos, unbelievably flattering candid shots, and stunning nature pictures, he immediately piques your interest. 

Not to mention the fact that he’s stunning. Maybe not quite as stunning as –

No. Again, you refuse to go there. 

You’re not sure if it’s the drinks or the photos or the spite that makes it suddenly feel like a good idea, but you’re telling Grace to pass your number along to Jay before you can think better of it. 

And if nothing else, at least he doesn’t seem like the kind of person that will make you wonder. Or even wait for long. 

You’ve barely gotten home, mind mostly clear even if it is still a bit muddled from the exhaustion of a long week, when your phone screen lights up with a notification. 

It’s just a string of numbers for now, but you’re quick to create a new contact. 

Hey, the message reads. This is Jay. Grace gave me your number. I hope that’s alright!

A few seconds later, another text comes through. 

Jay: How do you feel about art exhibitions? There’s one opening this weekend right next to one of the best coffee spots in the city. I’d love for you to join me. 

It’s simple. Straightforward. Not something you’ll search for subtext or pick apart for weeks. 

And it’s easy to respond to. 

You: That sounds great! I’ll look forward to it

…..

Another week at work passes with the same monotonous, sluggish flow as any other. But this time, it’s interspersed with messages you’ve started to look forward to. 

You’ve just sat down with your third cup of coffee on Monday morning when the first one chimes through. 

Jay: Good morning, ___. I hope your Monday is off to a better start than mine. 

A second message comes through. This one is an image. One that unmistakably shows a stack of papers covered in a dark brown stain you recognize all too well. 

You: Oh no! 

Pausing for a moment, your teeth worry at your bottom lip. Deciding to go for it, you send your own picture in return. 

The image of your full coffee cup goes through, along with another message. 

You: I think it might be. My coffee is still in my cup, at least

It takes him less than a minute to respond. 

Jay: Black coffee! Oh, you mean business. I’ll deny it if you tell anyone, but I always have to add sugar and cream to mine. 

You can’t help the smile that starts to spread over your lips. Sugar and cream. An aversion to bitterness. It reminds you of someone else that always adds a little sweetness to their –

Shaking your head, you force the comparison away. Putting the other man firmly out of mind, you decide to return Jay’s lighthearted message with one of your own.

You: Don’t tell anyone, but this is my third cup of the morning. 

Jay: Third cup of straight black coffee. Whew, remind me not to get on your bad side today. 

Jay: Speaking of which, do you always drink it black or could you be persuaded into something a little sweeter? 

He’s talking about coffee, yes, but it feels just a little bit like flirting. Biting at your lip again, you decide there isn’t much to lose.

Besides, it’s kind of… fun. You can’t remember the last time you were well and truly flirted with. 

You: Depends who’s asking

Jay: Hmm

Jay: I’ll have to work on my persuasion skills then

Jay: The place I’m taking you to on Saturday has an insanely delicious caramel latte, and I need to know what you think of it

You: Tempting

You: But I’m not sure I’m convinced 

Jay: I’ll work on that, then

You can’t hide your smile this time. 

A minute later, two more texts ping through. 

Jay: Duty calls, unfortunately

Jay: The rest of my Monday is stacked, so if I am slow to respond to any messages, that’s why. Enjoy the rest of your day, ___

He’s straightforward. Communicative. You appreciate the notice. The fact that if you do send another message without a response, you won’t have to waste your day wondering why. 

You: Ugh, don’t you hate it when you actually have to work at work?

You: I hope all goes well! Enjoy the rest of your day too, Jay

Setting your phone down, you return your gaze to your computer screen and unfortunately very full inbox. 

Your focus, however, remains half-occupied by a message thread sitting dormant on your tucked away phone. 

…..

Jay’s messages begin to become a highlight of your work day. Despite the fact that there’s often a large lapse in time due to both of your busy schedules, you start to anticipate every text he manages to send. 

And they only serve to build more excitement around your upcoming date. 

By the time Thursday comes around, you’ve all but mentally clocked out for the week. Refilling your water bottle in the staff kitchen, your mind is so occupied that you almost run right into the person coming through the door the same time you’re leaving. 

“Oh, I’m so sorry! I wasn’t looking where I was–”

“___.” The sound of your name stops you in your tracks. “Breathe,” Jungwon is smiling, but there’s a hint of concern there, too. “You’re okay.”

“Jungwon,” you exhale. Your frantic apology begins to subside, replaced by an overwhelming surge of self-consciousness as you tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. 

You haven’t spoken to him, haven’t even seen him, since he rejected your invitation last Friday. 

He’s not trying to pick at old wounds, but it still stings a bit when he asks, “How was Friday?”

“Oh, you know,” you shrug, “It was a typical work gathering.” Then again, it occurs to you that he might not know. Since he never bothers attending any of them. 

Not that it really matters. Besides, you’re lying a bit anyway. Typical work gatherings don’t usually end with you setting up a date. Not that you want Jungwon to know about that either. 

You can't pinpoint exactly why, but the thought of him knowing doesn’t sit with you quite right. Besides, it’s not like he’s ever shown any interest in your personal life, anyway. He would find it weird, most likely. Annoying, if you were to divulge any details. 

“Oh, well, I’m sorry again that I couldn’t come.” Just like that day in the workroom, he reaches back to scratch at his neck. You have the distinct sense that he’s the one who suddenly feels a bit awkward. “Friday nights are…” he trails off, “Friday nights are hard for me, usually. I’m always pretty free on Saturday mornings, thought, so if–”

“Don’t worry about it.” Oh god. Your intention certainly wasn’t to make him feel guilty for having a social life outside of the office. Suddenly worried that you read the situation all wrong, you’re quick to assure him, “You don’t have to come to anything that you don’t want to. And especially if you have plans already. I just asked you because my supervisor wanted us to invite people from other departments.”

If his face falls slightly, you’re too caught up in your own rambling to notice. 

“And, you know,” you continue, “since you helped me that day with the printer.” 

“The printer,” he echoes, voice suddenly hollow. “Right.”

“Right,” you echo. The room falls into silence again, and this time, it’s weighted with a horrible awkwardness neither of you can shake. 

“Well,” you finally say, holding up your bottle. “I got my water, so I’m gonna head back to my desk.”

“Yeah,” Jungwon nods. “Okay.”

“I’ll see you around?” It’s just as stilted as it was before, but you’re desperate for any way to exit this conversation. 

“Yeah,” Jungwon repeats. “Sure thing, ___.”

…..

By the time Saturday morning comes, you’re a mess of anticipation and frayed nerves. 

You’re early to arrive at the address of the coffee shop Jay sent you a few nights ago, but he’s already there waiting for you. And his social media might have painted an impressive picture, but one look tells you that it still doesn’t hold a candle to the real thing. 

Jay is gorgeous.

Almost as gorgeous as –

You kill the thought as soon as it comes. This day isn’t about him, and comparisons will do you little good. 

Instead, you refocus on your date. 

He’s polished and put together in an effortless sort of way. The kind of person that you see once in passing and then can’t stop thinking about for the rest of the week. His features are angular, sharp. But they soften into a warm smile the second he lays eyes on you. 

In the end, it doesn’t take him much convincing at all to persuade you to try the caramel latte. And he’s right. It is absolutely delicious.  

It was easy to fall into a natural rhythm over text, and your face-to-face conversation flows even better. 

He tells you about life abroad and all of his favorite parts of living in another country. He tells you about his family and what he missed most about this city he’s learning to call home again. 

He listens, actively, while you tell him the more mundane details of your own life. His questions are well-timed and never feel like interruptions. 

His kindness doesn’t feel like a facade. His interest doesn’t feel like a cheap trick to get what he wants from you and then disappear without a word. 

And when it becomes painfully apparent at the art exhibition that he’s far more well-versed in the subject than you, he doesn’t make you feel stupid. Instead, he takes his time explaining each piece. Highlights the aspects that would be most interesting to someone without any kind of background in art. 

He’s kind, considerate, and the day passes by in a blur of fleeting glances and shy smiles. At the end of it, he offers to drive you home and opens your car door for you. Small gestures that make you feel seen, considered. Valued. 

When he says goodbye with a hug that doesn’t last nearly long enough, the smell of his cologne is something you hope will linger as long as the memories of the day do. 

It’s easy, you think, as you watch his car drive away from your window. Jay is someone that’s easy to be around, to spend time with. 

And when he messages you later that night, reiterating his enjoyment of the day and asking to meet again, he’s easy to say yes to. 

…..

You’re not sure how, but the only person that seems even more excited than you about you and Jay is Grace. 

Despite the fact that your communication as of late hasn’t involved anything scandalous, she feels the need to rehash every detail until she’s heard it one hundred times. 

It doesn’t matter how many times you tell her that the last text message he sent you wasn’t anything to swoon over. In fact, it was rather short and unexciting. 

Jay: Have you seen my ring by chance? I remember wearing it that day I was in your car, and I haven’t been able to find it since then. 

But Grace won’t hear it. You’re not exactly sure what she heard from Jay’s sister, but she spends the rest of the coming week hounding you over the details regardless. 

The staff kitchen is hardly the place for conversations about your personal life, but the setting doesn’t seem to bother her at all. Instead, she pretends to be busy washing an already clean coffee mug while she asks again, “So you went out for the first time last Saturday, right?”

“Mhm,” you nod. 

“And then you got dinner together Wednesday night after work?”

“Yep.” You’re pretty sure she’s already asked the same question at least six times. 

“And he’s planning to take you out again this Saturday?”

“Right.”

“My god, you two are practically married.” She punctuates the absurd claim with a wistful sigh. 

“We most certainly are not.” 

“Okay, but you literally just met, and you’ve already seen each other twice with plans for a third.”

She does have a point there. Never mind the fact that you haven’t dated anyone in a while. It is a quick timeline, no matter how you look at it. But you’ve been itching to spend time with him ever since your first date, and Jay seems to be on the same page. 

It feels fast, yes, but it doesn’t feel forced. For you, that’s what matters most. 

That, along with the fact that a certain someone has been noticeably absent from your mind the more time you spend with him. For now, you’ll choose not to read too much into that. 

“God,” Grace sighs again. “I miss going on dates.”

“What are you talking about? Didn’t you go on one a couple weeks ago?” You distinctly remember helping her set it up that night at the bar after work.

“Well, yeah, but I mean good dates. You know, getting properly wined and dined and all that. I guess I’ll just have to live vicariously through you.” 

“We went to dinner once, and there was hardly any wine involved.”

She rolls her eyes. “You know what I mean. All I’m saying is you’re lucky to be seeing someone that actually puts in effort for your dates and doesn’t just take you to the closest bar to his office and hope that buying you a handful of drinks means he’ll get lucky.” Pausing for a moment, she looks up, eyes landing somewhere just over your shoulder. “Right, Jungwon?”

Immediately, it’s as if you’ve been submerged in ice cold water. Because there’s no way she said–

“Jungwon?” Turning around, you’re put face to face with the last person you wanted to overhear this particular conversation. 

“Hey, ___.” There’s a smile on his lips. Small as always, but something feels wrong about it. “Grace,” he nods at the girl over your shoulder. “Sorry,” he’s still looking at her, “were you asking me something?”

“No, we were just leaving, actua–”

Grace pays you no attention. “Just telling ___ how lucky she is that her man actually puts effort into their dates, since it feels like such a rarity these days.”

“He is not my man.” The glare you send your coworker is lost as Jungwon turns back to you, eyes wide, gaze indecipherable. 

“You’re dating someone?”

“I…” The easy, most available answer is yes, but you’re having a hard time getting it out. And there are other semantics involved. 

Are you dating? Not really. That usually indicates some kind of commitment, exclusivity. Going on dates might be a better way to put it. But clarifying that miniscule distinction for Jungwon feels strange for some reason. 

“My friend’s brother,” Grace supplies unhelpfully from the corner. “What can I say? I’m a natural born matchmaker.” Her proud smile is lost on the both of you. You’re only looking at each other. 

“Oh.” Jungwon’s voice is small, hollow. “That’s nice. I’m happy for you.”

You want to scream, just a little bit. Or maybe cry. You can’t make up your mind. 

And you’re not sure where it comes from, the sudden, overwhelming surge of guilt that begins to build in your gut. You can’t even decipher who it’s directed towards. Towards Jungwon? Towards Jay? Towards yourself? 

Grace, despite her self-proclaimed talent for setting up dates, is apparently incredibly inept at reading the room. With no prompting but her own, she’s pushing forward. “He lived abroad for a while and just moved back to the city, which is like, the perfect scenario for going on dates. And he’s always had a flair for romance. I remember–”

“Well,” you interrupt, desperate for an out, “we better get back to the project we were working on—“

“What project?” Grace, it would seem, is determined to be anything but helpful.

“You know,” you glare at her, “our project.”

“Right!” She looks sheepish, finally catching the hint. “That project.”

Turning back to Jungwon, you can still see the rigidity of his features. The tension that has yet to ease. “I’ll…” you’re not sure how to part ways now without making things worse. But it feels wrong to just leave without saying anything. For the third time in the span of days, you tell him, “I’ll see you around.”

And for the third time, he agrees, “Yeah.” This time, however, his eyes still flickering with annoyance, shoulders still set with residual frustration. “Sure thing, ___.”

It’s what he always says, you realize. But this time, it’s missing that easygoing, genuine lightness he usually says it with. 

This time, it sounds like rejection.

Yours or his, you’re not entirely sure.

…..

You manage to avoid Jungwon for the rest of the week. It’s ironic, almost. You were so worried about pursuing a potential relationship with him because you wanted to avoid this exact scenario. 

Now, a handful of dates with someone who is very much not him tucked under your belt, you still feel the need to turn and walk the other direction whenever you think you hear his voice or get a glimpse of blonde hair. 

But the office is only so big, and there are only so many corners to duck into. Barely a week has passed the next time you unwittingly bump into him. 

“Oh,” you startle slightly, walking into the workroom and already finding it occupied. And of course you’d run into him here, of all places. Kneeling in front of the printer, his brow is furrowed in concentration as he tries to dislodge yet another paper jam. 

“Sorry.” You’re not sure what you’re apologizing for exactly, but it feels warranted regardless. “I’ll just leave, and—”

“___,” he cuts you off with the sound of your name. Looking down at him, you're met with the expanse of his back. A button down shirt tucked into dark pants. Standard work attire that has no business looking this ridiculously good on anyone. “You’re fine. You don’t need to leave. Just give me a second, and the printer’s all yours.” 

You nod, even though he can’t see you. If the lack of a verbal response bothers him, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he busies himself with the jammed printer, muscles of his back flexing slightly underneath the fabric of his shirt as he tugs at the stubborn papers. 

Cheeks heating slightly, you force your gaze elsewhere. 

“There,” he says after another minute of adjustments. Standing to full height, he turns to face you. “All fixed.”

Looking up at him, you’re about to offer a quiet thanks when your eyes land on his right cheekbone. Specifically, the fresh cut that spans the length of it. 

The gasp the spills from your lips is entirely without permission. But you can’t quite help it. The wound is quite superficial, surface level at most, but it mars his otherwise perfect skin in a way you weren’t prepared for. 

Without your permission, your fingers start to reach towards the injury. They make it halfway before you remember yourself, before you regain your sense of reality. Your hand falls limply back to your side. 

“What happened?” You breathe. 

Jungwon’s brows draw together in confusion for a moment before a flicker of realization dances across his features. 

“Oh.” He exhales, fingers tapping against the broken skin of his cheekbone lightly. “Nothing. I just, er, fell the other day.”

“You fell,” you echo. Like all of his other excuses, it’s vague. Flimsy at best. 

“Yeah,” he confirms with a slight nod. Again, he says, “I fell.”

It’s evasive. And it feels like more than just an explanation for his injury. 

It feels like confirmation of the distance between the two of you. His final assertion that you’re nothing but a coworker to him. Someone that he tells edited versions of stories to, someone that he keeps firmly planted an arm’s length away. 

Fine. If he wants to give you shitty excuses for his Friday nights and his absences at work events and now his injury that very obviously did not come from a fall, that’s just fine with you. 

After all, he’s nothing but a coworker to you either. The upcoming date you have planned with Jay is enough to prove it. 

“Well,” you tell him, forcing a smile. The fake, disproportionately bright kind that you only ever use with your coworkers. “I hope it heals quickly.”

And then you’re brushing past him, making your way towards the printer as if he’s nothing but an obstacle in your path. 

Collecting your freshly printed document, you turn and walk out the door without so much as a backward glance. 

…..

Sliding into the passenger seat of Jay’s car Thursday evening, you feel the stress melting from your shoulders the second the door shuts behind you. 

This is something else he makes easy: forgetting about whatever woes you managed to acquire after a long day of work. Jay just smiles as you sit down next to him, turning down the volume on the radio as he asks about your day. 

Tonight, the two of you are headed to one of your favorite diners. Somewhere where you can chat and laugh and relax over a pile of french fries and obnoxiously gaudy decor. 

But before you turn down the street that leads to the restaurant, Jay asks if the two of you can make a quick stop. 

“I left my bag at the gym last night,” he explains apologetically. “Do you mind if I swing by and grab it real quick? It’s on our way.”

You reassure him that it’s no problem, and a handful of minutes later, the two of you are parked outside of a rather nondescript, faded building. 

Frowning slightly, your eyebrow quirks up in surprise. Although he hasn’t outright disclosed anything, from what you’ve gathered so far, Jay’s family is quite well off. The kind that pays for expensive memberships at bougie gyms with saunas and swimming pools. Not the kind that frequents dark, run down gyms in the middle of a random residential area. 

Pulling his key from the ignition, Jay turns to you. “You can wait here, if you want.”

“That’s okay.” You’re already unbuckling your seatbelt. “I’m tired of sitting, anyway.” You really are. Plus, you have to admit that you’re kind of curious. 

You fall into step at his side as the two of you make your way towards the building. The closer you get, the more decrepit it appears. Paint is peeling from the exterior, leaving it an odd, mottled brown color riddled with rust marks. 

Even the sign, Kang’s Gym, is small, faded, and only visible once you’re nearly to the entrance. 

Jay steps in front of you, holding the door open for you to enter. 

The inside, you realize as you step in, is in no better shape than the outside. The wall closest to you is lined with weightlifting equipment that looks as if it were pulled from past decades. 

Padding is torn in places, and questionable stains cover the place, accumulated from years of use. 

You’re about to ask him outright why on earth he patronizes such a run down place when your eyes land on the far wall of the gym. There, you think you find your answer. 

There’s no weightlifting equipment or cardio machines. Instead, the majority of available space is filled with several sets of boxing rings. Like the rest of the gym, they’re equally faded and worn with years of use. 

But the lighting in that part of the gym is noticeably better. Far brighter, more intentional. As if the rest of the gym is just for show and that is the true purpose of this building. 

You’re suddenly overcome with the urge to take a second glance at your date. 

He has a lean, athletic build, yes. The kind that you assumed came from some kind of regular exercise regiment and not his office job. 

But boxing wasn’t exactly what you expected. 

Jay turns to you. His expression gives nothing away, holds no indication that this is anything out of the ordinary for him. “I think I left it over by the locker rooms.” 

Encasing your hand in his, he leads you towards the rings. Several of them are occupied, mostly by one-on-one sparring matches. 

Walking past the first one, the two men inside the ring turn to look at you and Jay as you pass. 

“Hey, man,” the first one offers with a nod of recognition that Jay returns. As his eyes slide over to you, they widen slightly in surprise. Gaze falling to your intertwined hands, the man just shakes his head slightly before returning to his sparring partner. 

Moving past them, you shake the odd interaction from your mind. 

You spare fleeting glances for the rest of the people you pass. For a moment, you try to imagine Jay in the ring instead of them. It’s an odd contradiction with what you’ve come to associate with him. 

Easygoing. Considerate. Even tempered. They’re traits that feel at odds with the kind of stark physicality required in a boxing ring. 

Then again, the more you consider it, the more you start to make sense of it. Jay is all of those things, yes, but there’s also an undercurrent of something else. 

A quiet intensity he carries with him. Something he has control over. Something he can channel when needed. 

The more you think about it, the easier it is to picture him in the ring, throwing precise, calculated punches until victory rests on his square shoulders. 

You’d be lying if you said the mental image didn’t pique your interest. You’re about to ask him if he’ll let you watch next time he’s in the ring when a flash of color in the last boxing ring, the one closest to the locker rooms, catches your attention. 

It’s unlikely. It feels impossible. Even more so than the thought of Jay in a boxing ring. But as you draw closer, you confirm your suspicions. 

After all, you would know that shade of blonde anywhere. 

It takes everything in you not to stop dead in your tracks. But even as you continue forward, hand still encased in Jay’s, your eyes are trained solely on the space between Jungwon’s broad shoulders. 

It’s almost inhuman, the feline agility that he moves with. He’s smaller than his opponent, but he’s faster. Lighter on his feet. 

The punches he throws are dizzyingly accurate, and his sparring partner seems to think the same. A muted thud is followed by a string of expletives that become more clear the closer you get. 

“Jesus, Jungwon.” The man across from him is still a bit breathless as he recovers from having the wind knocked out of him. “Bad week at work or something?”

“C’mon, Heeseung.” It doesn’t sound anything like the Jungwon you know. Gone is the quiet friendliness you’ve always heard from him. His voice is still gentle, but it carries an unmistakable command. “Stop going easy.”

“I’m not,” the other man – Heeseung – argues. “What has gotten into you? It’s like you’ve been insane since that match last week.” 

“Whatever,” Jungwon scoffs, shaking his head. “Let’s just take five.” 

“Make it ten,” Heeseung goads across from him. 

Jungwon sends him a warning glare, but says nothing. Instead, he reaches for his water bottle at the corner of the ring, leaning against the ropes that enclose it. 

All you can do is watch, suddenly fascinated by the way sweat darkens his hair, trails down the length of his neck. Jungwon gives a quick shake of his head, sending his hair scattering over his forehead as he leans further into the ropes behind him.

Tipping his head back, his throat works against a swallow as he takes a long drink from his water bottle. 

Jungwon sets his water bottle down, turning towards Heeseung like he’s about to say something else when movement catches his attention. 

More specifically, your movement. His eyes fall on you, and for a moment, you’re rendered just as immobile as him. His gaze widens in recognition and then suddenly, he’s standing. 

Long strides eat up the length of the boxing ring as he crosses it, every step bringing him closer to you. With a distinct sort of grace and practiced ease, he jumps over the side of the ring, landing on his feet just as you and Jay pass him. 

With a hand on your shoulder, he stops you both in your tracks. His touch is gentle, but commanding. It leaves little room for argument. 

“This is the guy you’ve been seeing?” Jungwon’s eyes are molten lava. If you thought that day in the staff kitchen was the most visible emotion he was capable of mustering, you were sorely mistaken. The Jungwon that stands in front of you now is simmering with it, vibrating with barely contained emotions. 

At your side, Jay turns back. With your hand still enclosed in his, Jay’s gaze goes straight towards Jungwon’s hand on your shoulder. 

“Jungwon,” he nods coolly. 

Jungwon ignores him entirely. His gaze is still trained directly on you. 

Glancing between the both of them, the tension between them is palpable. Over Jungwon’s shoulder, you can see Heeseung leaning against the edge of the boxing ring as if he can’t decide whether to intervene or not. 

“Well,” you say, attempting to diffuse a bit of the rising animosity, “I guess I don’t need to introduce the two of you, then.”

This time, it’s you that Jungwon ignores. Turning to Jay, he’s all venom. “And you brought her here? What the hell are you doing?”

“Relax, man.” Jay rolls his eyes. “We’re just grabbing my bag.”

“I don’t give a fuck what you left here,” he bites. “You know better than to–”

Shaking his hand off your shoulder, annoyance makes itself visible across your features. It’s one thing for Jungwon to be pissy towards your date, but it’s another entirely for him to assume that you can’t handle something as mundane as a boxing gym. 

And if you're honest, the whole overprotective act just rubs you the wrong way. Why does he think he gets to ignore you all week at work and then act like he knows what’s in your best interest?

“I think I can handle watching people throw a few punches, Jungwon.” Your voice is all ice, and it changes his demeanor immediately. The anger begins to dissipate, leaving him with wide eyes that beg for your understanding. 

The frustration is still there, though. “That’s not what I meant, ___.”

“I don’t really care what you meant.” You’re not sure if it’s true, but you want it to be. For now, that’s enough. “Why don’t you go back to your friend and pretend like you never saw me. You’re good at that, right?”

It’s a low blow. And it has his features falling immediately, eyebrows slackening as if you’ve slapped him. 

His voice is notably gentler when he says your name. “___…”

This time, it’s Jay that speaks. “I suggest you listen to her, man. We’ll be out in a few minutes.”

Jungwon wants to say more. You can see it in the way his mouth twitches, in the way his shoulders still rise with tension. Finally, he relaxes. Just a fraction of an inch, but you know it’s over. At least for now. 

He doesn’t say anything, but he does take a step back. And then another. 

His eyes are still on you, even as Jay keeps walking, pulling you gently along with him. 

By the time he finds his bag and the two of you make your way back out, Jungwon is nowhere to be found. 

You can still feel eyes on you, though. 

This time, it’s Heeseung’s gaze that follows you all the way out the door. 

Back in Jay’s passenger seat, you turn towards your date, a million questions swimming in your mind. 

“What on earth was that all about?”

Jay just frowns, knuckles white against the steering wheel. Instead of answering, he asks a question of his own. “How do you know him?”

“What?” Too confused to protest, you answer. “We work together.” Then you repeat, “What’s going on?”

Jay sighs, leans his head back against his seat. “He’s in marketing with you?”

“No,” you shake your head. “Programming. I don’t want to ask you again.” This time, you can’t help the expletive. “What the fuck was that?”

“We…” Jay trails off, searching for an explanation. “We know each other.”

“Yeah, no shit. How?”

“We went to the same middle school, before I left for high school. He was a year behind me.”

“And what?” You ask, trying to think of what kind of feud middle schoolers could possibly have that would warrant tonight’s interaction. “He stole your lunch money and you never got over it?”

“Not quite.” His lips are tight. “Look, ___. I know you can’t help who you work with, but Jungwon… he’s not who you think he is.”

“And you are?”

Jay turns to you, hurt clearly written across his features. “That’s not fair.”

“No,” you argue, doubling down. “What’s not fair is giving me vague half truths about my coworker and expecting me to just agree blindly while you evade all of my questions.” A moment of silence passes. Jay says nothing. Finally, you tell him, “If you’re not going to be honest with me, then I think you should just take me home.”

“Wait, ___–”

“I’m serious, Jay. I’m not about to go have dinner with you and pretend that this didn't just happen. Just take me home.” Softening a bit at the obvious distress on his face, you add a quiet, “Please.”

You won’t compromise your boundaries, but you don’t have it in you to be needlessly cruel, even if his evasiveness bothers you to no end. 

Jay just sighs, pulling into an empty parking lot before turning around and heading in the opposite direction. Towards your apartment. 

The rest of the car ride passes in stilted silence, neither of you willing to break it. 

Jay is the first one to speak, but it’s not until you’re sliding out of his passenger seat, back turned towards him. 

“Good night, ___.”

For a moment, you consider just ignoring him. But it feels petty, even for these circumstances. For now, you’ll just have to trust that he needs time to find a way to tell you the truth. 

“Good night,” you tell him. But you still don’t look back.

⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖

READ PART TWO HERE

⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖

note: I AM SO ANNOYEDDDDD this was all supposed to be one long fic, not two parts, but tumblr's post block limit got me. Honestly I don't know how I avoided it this long. Anyway the second part is written and will be posted soon. In the meantime, let me know what you're thinking so far! As always, thank you for reading ♡

[dragon-ascent]

Imagine being able to see people’s elemental aura. If they bear a vision, the energy around them takes the color of the corresponding element. So Pyro users have a burning red-orange energy flickering about them while Dendro wielders are draped in a calm deep green. Only you can see their aura, perhaps just a special (but mostly useless) gift you were born with.

Which is why when you start working for Wangsheng Funeral Parlor and are introduced to Zhongli, you’re freaking out that you can’t tell anyone he’s actually the Geo Archon who is supposed to be dead.

Shimmering golden rays with a glare so intense they may just be exploding stars suspended in sunlight…yes, the aura around him is simply unmistakable. The Dendro Archon’s wavelength was of a similar intensity back when you attended the Sabzeruz festival. The appearance of the Raiden Shogun during Irodori had you beholding a similar feeling.

Zhongli’s every action only confirms it, not that confirmation was ever needed. His knowledge is too vast to be that of a young man, his mannerisms more ethereal than worldly, his gait steadier than stone.

Soon enough, he takes notice of the way you’re always so jittery around him – but he chalks it up to you being a naturally skittish thing. So he tries to alleviate your nerves by talking to you any chance he gets…not that that helps because his every word has you even more on edge.

“So true, bestie!” you blurt out after he’s told you something that’s gone in one ear and out the other. “Speaking of, isn’t it so sad that Rex Lapis is dead?”

Zhongli pauses, eyeing you curiously. “My dear, this is the third time this week you have brought up the topic of the Geo Lord’s death. Has it affected you so? Please take comfort in that He remains in all our hearts, watching over us common folk from the afterlife.”

He’s mocking me, I just know it! you think, your cheeks heating up as you try not to stare at the divine golden aura crackling around him.

One time, as (un)luck may have it, you accidentally bump into him and spill coffee on his beautiful suit. “Oh gods! Forgive me!” you wail, getting onto your knees. This time…this time he’ll certainly show you his godly wrath…maybe skewer you with his spear…or summon a fissure to swallow you…

But Zhongli is chuckling softly, dabbing at the stain with his lovely embroidered handkerchief. “Please do not fret, my friend. This is nothing a wash will not fix.”

You then insist you’ll cover the cost and get it cleaned, to which he eventually accedes. Holy…when he takes it off to reveal his cream-coloured shirt underneath, it’s like his aura gets even more blinding. It takes everything in you not to just throw yourself at his feet and sing his praises.

(How gorgeous he looks as he works the rest of the day with his coat off.)

He warmly invites you over to his place for tea when you come to return his coat, now cleaned; the house is as well-kept as he is. As night falls, the glow around him only strengthens in response. You can’t stop yourself from asking, mid-sip of your well-made tea:

“What’s Rex Lapis doing working a salaried job?”

[bbhyeoliskooks]

𝐒𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐉𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐲 | TXT

TXT's reaction to you being jealous *:ꔫ:*

❈ genre: bf!txt x reader (gn), fluff, slight angst

❈ warnings: insecurity, unedited, probably got worse bc i'm tired :(

yeonjun *:ꔫ:*

yeonjun knew something was off when your shoulders immediately deflated with a barely noticeable pout on your face. for a while, he was catching up with a childhood friend that he hadn't seen in a while, laughing about inside jokes and memories they made in the past. you were polite when meeting them occasionally joining in, but now you were dead silent. sometimes you would look at the ground or toy with your fingers while you waited for them to finish talking, but now you felt your insecurities getting in the way. they had so much history together, growing up and becoming so close that anyone would think it was concerning. when his old friend gently rubbed his shoulder, talking about some meet up, you couldn't help but sigh, feeling inferior thanks to the lack of attention. after a while, that friend went away (thank gosh!), and you huffed, crossing your arms together as the two of you walked home. yeonjun noticed the silent treatment immediately, grabbing your hand so you would stop walking. he had finally put two and two together, the clenched jaw and awkward tension in your body finally making sense- you were jealous. and luckily, since you had a great boyfriend, he knew the exact way to cheer you up.

"silly baby," he pressed a kiss against your forehead tenderly, "i only love you."

you softened against his warm touch immediately, your insecurities melting away as he kissed every part of your face. kisses were magic; they made you feel better after all, especially when they came from yeonjun.

soobin *:ꔫ:*

soobin and his makeup artist got along pretty well. too well, actually, in opposition to your comfort. as you sat across the room, brooding and blatantly staring at the scene in front of you where they were laughing and cracking jokes, you felt your heart drop for every second that passed. truthfully, you knew soobin loved you since he made it apparent in all of his actions, but that didn't help when jealousy inevitably came up in the relationship. she dabbed some more eye shadow onto his delicate lid, and you only felt like throwing up. there was no reason to be jealous, no reason at all, so why were you feeling this way? when soobin came up to you, demanding a comforting hug for good luck- you were his good luck charm to ensure a satisfactory performance, he was genuinely surprised to see you sulky. nonetheless you tried to act like everything was okay, plastering on a smile as you leaned into his hug that almost made you feel completely better. now worried, soobin demanded what was wrong, hoping it wasn't a case of you catching a cold or even worse- breaking up with him!

his concerns eased a little when you came out with the truth, ashamedly saying you were jealous of his friendship with the makeup artist. soobin couldn't help but laugh, petting your head as if you were a child. you had nothing to be worried about; to soobin, you were the most dazzling light in his night sky, and no one could ever take your luminescence away. he loved you the most and after the special stage, he was going to show you the amount that crossed the size of planets and galaxies.

beomgyu *:ꔫ:*

when a random person came up to beomgyu on the beach, asking for his number, you immediately felt possessive. it was silly to say the least, sending them glares to get away from your man(!) or else you would have to throw fists (just playing...). you decided to stay silent, watching the whole ordeal yourself- so ridiculous that it could make you laugh- before interrupting and putting a foot between the person and your boyfriend. you were surprised that they didn't get the hint that gyu wasn't interested because of his cold answers and declines, and it didn't help that his significant other was right there! that person was as dense as a rock and you shooed them away, letting them skidaddle through the sands and to hell where they came from. beomgyu couldn't stop laughing at how you intervened, sizing the person up and down as if it was an old comical movie. he didn't seem to notice that you were actually pretty pissed off as the two of you meandered through the gentle waves, cold water splashing against your sand covered feet.

it was only after 5 minutes of his teasing that he finally got that you were jealous when you didn't respond to any of his harmless jokes. that only made him poke more fun at you, acting flattered and batting his eyelashes as if he was in a romcom. inside, beomgyu was actually shocked that you were jealous, ultimately reinforcing his feelings for you to be even stronger. you sighed asking him to knock it off, clearly annoyed, when he actually got serious, grabbing your hand with the utmost love in his eyes.

"y/n, you're the only one i want and will want. don't be upset with me, please?"

taehyun *:ꔫ:*

taehyun, ordering his usual caramel frappuccino alongside your favorite coffee, didn't seem to notice the cashier's flirty advances towards him. he just chucked it up as something the worker had to do, asking incessant questions about his favorite coffee and whether he prefers them bitter or sweet. it was pretty refreshing, actually, talking to a normal person instead of ordering on an ipad. on the other hand, you watched on the sidelines, close enough that you could hear what they were talking about. it wouldn't take a genius to understand that the cashier had a crush on taehyun, smiling whenever he said something or laughing a little too hard. you rolled your eyes every time they would wave their hand, trying not to giggle because they believed they had a chance with him. you obviously knew taehyun loved you very much; although he wasn't too affectionate in public, he still loved you through his ways, memorizing everything about you because you were fascinating. even so, that didn't help the green monster in the back of your throat, fizzling as the cashier's face got closer to his.

finally, taehyun realized what was going on and it was as if a switch had turned. he immediately became cold, asking if the drinks were done. the cashier, stunned at his bluntness and switch, apologized and handed the drinks to him after their coworker finished blending. it's as if the cashier didn't get the hint, meekly asking for his number while he raised an eyebrow. you waited for his reaction, squinting to try to read his reaction. he simply grabbed two straws, signaling towards you. you felt your heart warm at the certainty in his voice as well as pride, something you could never mistake when he talked about you.

"that's my significant other, thanks."

hyuka *:ꔫ:*

frankly, you were quite annoyed with how friendly kai got around others. you knew it wasn't his fault and perhaps it wasn't how friendly he was, it was how friendly others got with him, sometimes touching him if he said something funny. it also wasn't your fault that your boyfriend was remarkably handsome, earning some looks from strangers and definitely one of his friends that you got weird vibes from. you could tell the moment they entered, spotting hyuka, and immediately striking up a conversation with him. you saw the admiration in their eyes as they examined his face and tried not to stutter. you sighed, looking at him from afar. he was a perfect angel as always, and it didn't help that he believed everyone had good intentions. your stare darting away, you tried to focus on getting something to drink until you saw him calling you over from the corner of your eye. confused, you walked over and he held your hand, softly squeezing it when you stood beside him.

"oh, by the way, this is the love of my life, y/n."

the way he held you close, his scent comforting you as you leaned into his chest eased your insecurities. though he wasn't aware of your jealousy, his physical reassurance melted it away, alleviating your heart in the most hyuka loving way possible.

❈ Released: June 27, 2024 (2:03am CDT)

❈ Thoughts: hope it was good y'all <3 I am getting pretty tired since it's late here on vacation, but hopefully you enjoyed! as always, I loved doing this and I will create more in the future :)

❈ Tags:

[osarina]

ᡣ𐭩 IF I WAS BORN A BLACKTHORN TREE

FEATURING: dazai osamu

SUMMARY: it's finally the night of the event you've been preparing so ardently for. it's going as well as it can be considering the circumstances—or it is until dazai osamu shows up and throws you off your game. suddenly confused and concerned, you can't help but wonder if maybe things aren't what they seemed with the civilian you've grown so attached to.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: PART THREEEEEEEEE!!! hehehe we finally have some major plot development here <.< i was rlly excited for this chapter it was one of the ones i was looking forward to most when plotting the series. anyway, tae some more of reader being THE it girl ever - actually i was rlly excited for this because i havent really had the chance to showcase pmreader in her element the canon universe so i had fun with it here

GENERAL WARNINGS: fem!reader, port mafia executive!reader, civilian!dazai, dazai's struggles w suicide & sh, reader partakes in mafia business, dazai isn't dazai without a bit of obsessiveness and possessiveness (the possessiveness doesn't come til later but the obsessiveness starts from day 0).

CHAPTER SPECIFIC WARNINGS: lots of politics, dazai has the beginning of a panic attack, jealousy on both ends

SEE: WASTELAND, BABY! SERIES MASTERLIST

“Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?” Chuuya asks, leaning over the center console to look at you, watching as you dab on lipstick in the mirror. 

In the driver’s seat, Albatross snorts, and he sees how you hardly refrain from rolling your eyes—Chuuya has half a mind to use his ability to rattle the car while you’re finishing up your makeup just to piss you off, but he has a feeling that you’ll lose your shit if he does that. You’re about to head into the event being hosted by the government for that agency in Tokyo, and Chuuya is just not feeling good about it. He’s felt this way since you were finishing up preparations at the headquarters an hour ago, forcing his way into the car with you and Albatross before you left.

“Chuuya, your face has been plastered all over Japan’s most wanted for three years. How do you propose you walk in with me without confirming that the Mori Corp. is a front for the Port Mafia?” you sigh heavily.

Chuuya bristles. “I just don’t have the best feeling,” he says defensively. “Forgive me for being worried. Damn.”

Chuuya settles back against the middle seat in the back row, letting out a sharp puff of air and pointedly turning his head away. He stares ahead, mind racing—it’s barely been a week since the operation against the Ingawa-kai. His body is still sore, and he should probably still be on bed rest, but he wasn’t going to laze around his apartment while you’re out here still healing from having your stomach sliced open.

By him.

Well, you won’t say what caused the almost lethal injury, but Chuuya knows it was from when he was in his Corrupted state. Whether it was by accident or because Arahabaki targeted you when you approached him, it doesn’t matter—the guilt he feels remains the same.

“It’s just a government event, Chuuya,” you say, looking back at him. “I’ve been to hundreds of them, relax.”

Yeah, but never so soon after a major operation against a Yakuza syndicate. Tokyo is Shimazaki-kai territory—they’ve always worked closely with the Inagawa-kai, and he doubts they’ll take kindly to Port Mafia presence in their heartland after they just annihilated one of the branches of their biggest ally. 

“Just be careful,” Chuuya says quietly when he sees you’re about to step out of the car. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

“I’m not Albatross,” you say dryly.

“The fuck did I do?” Albatross demands once the abrupt and uncalled-for insult registers, head snapping to the side to look at you.

You only give him a sharp smile and wag your fingers in a mocking wave before stepping out of the car and making your way to the steps of the city hall. Chuuya only feels slightly relieved at the sight of Kiyomasa Daichi of the Sun and Steel immediately making his way over to you to escort you into the building.

As soon as you’re out of sight, Chuuya is gnawing at his bottom lip, grateful that his gloves are preventing his nails from drawing blood from his palms. You’re right—you’ve done this hundreds of times before, attending these types of events since you were fifteen with Lippmann chaperoning, taking over them alone when you were sixteen just because of how impressed Lippmann was with how easily you were able to navigate the intricacies of political webs and veiled conversation. 

So, why is that nagging feeling still-

“Yo, what the fuck?” Albatross suddenly says, straightening up in his seat, eyes pinned on a figure making their way into the city hall.

Alarmed, Chuuya follows his gaze quickly, eyes widening when he registers what Albatross is seeing. “Isn’t that…?” 

Dazai Osamu. 

That civilian you’d been seeing for a few weeks. You cut him off a few days ago, Chuuya doubted it at first when you said you’d done it, but then he’d seen how much withdrawn you’d become the past few days. How you bought yourself a new phone with a new number. Chuuya feels guilty over that, too. He can see the way it’s tolled on you—you’ve been uncharacteristically quiet during meetings, constantly glancing down at your phone as if expecting messages from him—but Chuuya would also prefer this than to make you go through the same devastation he felt years ago that still weighs to this day.

“Yeah,” Albatross says, jaw tight. “The fuck is he doing here? It’s going to throw her off—there’s no way she knew this. What do we do?”

“We can’t do anything,” Chuuya says, pulling out his phone to warn you that your civilian is evidently attending this event even though he knows damn well you don’t check your phone while on missions like this. “Fuck. The Shimazaki-kai are attending this event. The Boss is still trying to settle things with them after our conflict with the Inagawa-kai—it’s not going well.”

“Yeah,” Albatross scoffs. “Apparently, the oyabun’s daughter was married to one of the Inagawa-kai’s shatei. We’re probably gonna end up at war with them too—heard that they took in most of the Inagawa-kai’s refugees from our operation.”

Shit. 

That Chuuya didn’t know. Family is everything to the Yakuza syndicates—if the head of the Shimazaki-kai married off his daughter to one of the sons of the head of the Inagawa-kai… they’re a lot more tightly aligned than Chuuya initially thought. Attack on one is attack on all, or however that saying goes. Even if they don’t know that you’re the one that ordered the operation, they know you’re an executive of the Port Mafia, and that would be enough…

“They’ll be watching her like a fucking hawk,” Chuuya says, his throat swollen. “If they’re smart…”

If they’re smart, they’ll take you out now.

“I should go in,” Chuuya says, fingers curling around the handle of the door.

“Don’t,” Albatross tells him, giving Chuuya a short look. “If you blow her cover in there, it’ll fuck the Mafia over completely. We can’t lose our foothold in the Diet. Not with this bill about to pass through.”

Chuuya takes in a short, shaky breath, pulling off his hat and running his fingers through his hair. “If they see her with him-”

God, he can’t even finish the sentence, looking down to see his hands covered in familiar blood, a cold body in his arms. He-

“Chuuya,” Albatross says, twisting around to face him, reaching back to grab Chuuya’s hair and force him to look up and away from his bloodied hands. “She’s smart, she’ll be fine. She won’t seek him out.”

“And what if he goes up to her?” Chuuya hisses.

Albatross looks away grimly. “… Let’s just hope he doesn’t.”

Dazai feels distinctly out of place as he makes small talk with two House Representatives. He plays his part well, that’s for sure—he can feel Hinami hanging off his arm, watching him with wide eyes, stammering over words whenever she’s addressed by either of the politicians—but he feels like he looks like a fraud. Like everyone can tell that he’s just talking out of his ass and hoping for the best. Like everyone knows that he doesn’t belong.

He knows that he’s only in his own head about it. The two Representatives he’s talking to treat him like he’s one of their own and not a college student who doesn’t know jack shit about what he’s talking about. He supposes he has you to thank for that—knowing what to look for, it’s easy to pick out who belongs and who doesn’t, and because of that, it’s easy for him to figure out how to belong. Ayato sticks out like a sore thumb from where he’s trying a little too hard to talk to one of the Councillors, Dazai thinks Hinami would be too if she wasn’t attached to him.

He misses you. It’s only been a few days, but he misses you badly. His lips tingle from where you’d kissed him that night, and he can still feel the weight of your body on his. He misses you, and this event just makes him think even more of you. All of these people, this whole event, it all reminds him of you and Dazai can’t help but wonder if he’d feel more comfortable here with you at his side.

“I have to ask, Dazai-san,” one of the representatives—Hayashi, if Dazai remembers correctly—suddenly asks, drawing him from his thoughts. “Where did you get your suit? The tailor that works at the warehouse I usually get mine ended up quitting recently, and I’m looking for a new one.”

“Kido’s boutique in Nishi-ku,” Dazai tells him, a bit surprised when he watches the man’s eyes widen a bit in astonishment. “You know about it?”

“Who doesn’t? How did you manage to get a fitting with him?” the other man—Sato?—sighs, envy edging into his tone. “Kido-san is so selective with his clients. He turned me away when I went in for a fitting.” 

Oh, Dazai thinks, surprised. He figured that Kido’s boutique was high-class, but the fact that even people like Hayashi and Sato, who were very clearly well off with notably important positions in society as two of the more vocal members of the House of Representatives, couldn’t even get a fitting with the man leaves Dazai a bit put off.

“My brother-in-law got a fitting with him a few months ago for his son’s wedding,” Hayashi says, looking more at Sato now as he speaks. “He’s on the board of the Age of Blue Company and even he had to pull strings to get the appointment. Cost him nearly a million yen.”

Dazai has to physically force himself not to blanch at his words. Nearly a million yen—that’s more than what Dazai made in two months back when he was working full time and for a suit that he’s probably going to wear once. 

Ridiculous. 

Dazai hates rich people.

He can feel Hinami’s eyes on him, the way her arm tightens around his. Dazai wishes it was you on his arm instead. Or maybe him on yours, he’s not picky. He doesn’t even know why she’s attached herself like this to him—they’d make more progress splitting up. They’re seriously limiting their scope by only having two opportunities to talk to people but Hinami has been intent on staying at Dazai’s side no matter how much he urges her to go off and talk to people on her own.

Observe. Small talk. Gather information.

Not hard, not really. Dazai is good at putting on masks and blending in with people, and you certainly made it easier by making him look the part, but it doesn’t change the discomfort he feels, the lingering fear that people can see right through him. He likes to play the role of the clown because it distracts people from looking too deep, but that’s not an option in a setting like this, and he thinks people are still seeing him as a clown but for all of the wrong reasons: he’s dressed up in clothes that feel more like a costume than an outfit, he’s talking about subjects that go over his head even after he’s studied them in preparation for this, his face is stretched into a smile that feels foreign on his face. 

He hasn’t made much progress with gathering any useful information. Either he’s prodding at the wrong people, or they’re being extra careful not to let anything slip—could be both. Professor Ui gave them an overview of the important figures that are going to be in attendance and the ultimate goal would be to eventually talk with the majority leader in the House of Representatives and the minority leader in the House of Councillors. They were warned to keep a wide berth from Kiyomasa Daichi, an executive of the Age of Blue Company’s board—evidently the Ivory Eagle’s biggest target for this event. So Dazai supposes he’s among the right people right now, at least, because Hayashi just mentioned that his brother-in-law is on the board of the company.

The right people. Unless they find out what Dazai is here for and then-

“Tendo-kun,” an unfamiliar female voice calls from behind the two men he’s making conversation with.  “I was hoping you’d be here.”

Hayashi immediately cuts off his conversation with Sato, whirling around with a wide smile to face a pretty young woman with dark hair and darker eyes, red lips curled into a too-sweet smile as she comes to stand between the two of them, giving both Dazai and Hinami a curious look. 

“Noriko-san, I didn’t think you’d be here tonight. I thought your father was only sending Kiyomasa to rep the company,” Hayashi says easily, hooking his arm into the woman’s and looking down at her, enamored.

Kiyomasa. Dazai has to force himself not to react to the name. Hinami is not quite as subtle, drawing in a sharp breath that makes Dazai nearly wince because the woman, Noriko, clearly catches it from how she tilts her head to the side, looking over the two of them. 

Your father was only sending Kiyomasa…

Her father must be Mishima Yukio, the CEO of the Age of Blue, and that means-

Mafia. 

Exactly what they were meant to avoid right in front of them and Hinami is not being slick. Dazai can feel her fingers trembling from where she’s holding his arm.

“You know I only come to these events for one person,” Noriko laughs airly, leaning into Hayashi as she looks up at him before turning her attention back to Dazai and Hinami. “Who are your friends? Unfamiliar faces…”

Luckily, Hayashi is more focused on the first thing Noriko said. “No way,” he says, eyes bright and voice low and conspiratory. “She’s here. I thought for sure she wouldn’t show at this after everything that happened between this agency and the Mori Corporation a few months ago.”

“I think that’s exactly why she did come,” Noriko hums with an easy smile, lashes fluttering as she looks back at Dazai. “Mishima Noriko. And you are?”

Dazai doesn’t even get the chance to respond—which is for the best—because in an instant, there’s a commotion on the other side of the room, drawing the attention of all of the attendees of the gala. Noriko, Hayashi, and Sato all turn around, and Dazai takes a slight step forward to peer around them, trying to see what’s going on.

It doesn’t take long for Dazai to pinpoint it, mouth drying and heart stilling in his chest as his eyes land on you at the center of all of the attention.

You walk away from your previous company feeling grim, sure this is what you came here for—to meet with the more influential individuals attending the event tonight and help ease them into an opinion more aligned with the Port Mafia’s interests—but your heart’s just not in it. It’s easy to keep the smile on your face as you make casual conversation with House Representative Yamamoto, one of the key swing votes you have to bring to your side, but it’s much harder to make the smile reach your eyes.

Kiyomasa claimed that most of the swing votes are already falling in your favor, so long as Yamamoto’s and a few other controlling ones can be secured, you’ll be on a quick path to ensuring that the military bill is quashed in the Lower House. 

But you find yourself distracted. Your thoughts drift mid-conversation to a familiar pair of warm brown eyes and a soft smile, your heart yearns for something you know you can’t have, and it makes you feel sick. Luckily in situations like these, your body works on autopilot—you smile when you’re meant to smile, you laugh when you have to laugh, you make witty comments and sly remarks to push the swing votes your way—but you just want to go back to your apartment.

“I must say, I didn’t expect you to be here tonight,” Representative Yamamoto hums, waving down a server to grab the two of you flutes of champagne. He looks amused as he turns his attention back down to you, dark eyes glittering. He’s handsome, you think, with dark hair and darker eyes, only a few years older than you—maybe if you can’t convince him with your words, you’ll convince him in bed. “Not after everything that happened between the Mori Corporation and this… what is this agency called again?”

You laugh—genuinely this time, not one of those airy automatic ones. You take a sip of your champagne and look at Yamamoto. “Ah, Yamamoto-san, how terrible of you, not even knowing the name of the agency we’re all here to celebrate,” you tease lightly.

“Shame, shame, I know,” Yamamoto sighs, leaning against the pillar where the two of you are standing.

“The OCDA,” you tell him, looking up at him through your lashes as you study his face. 

Organized Crime Defense Agency, Mishima is truly taking far too long to eliminate them. The Sun and Steel were supposed to put them in the ground months ago after they drew attention to the Mori Corporation, trying to accuse the business of being a front for the Port Mafia. You had to lay low on business for months because of it, knowing that one wrong move could lead to a huge exposé from one of the big journalism groups in Yokohama, and if that happens, the government will have no choice but to intervene. The OCDA didn’t have proof to back their allegations, but if one of those journalism groups managed to get their hands on some…

The Port Mafia isn’t exactly in the position to be dealing with wars against major Yakuza syndicates, the Guild, and the government all at once. It could spell the end for it.

“Ah, yes, that’s it,” Yamamoto says absently. “The Commissioner has been staring at you since you walked in.”

Of course. Five months ago, you dedicated every waking moment to ruining the reputation of the OCDA—you had to do it. If people started believing their accusations, even if there was no evidence, it could cause trouble for the Port Mafia. You’d tarnished their public perception so completely that it literally took until this operation against the Scarlet Gang and the government going above and beyond to commemorate their success for the public to start viewing them in a better light. 

“I’m not surprised,” you tell him. “He still clearly holds a grudge over what happened a few months ago.”

“Unjustly, too,” Yamamoto notes. “They were the ones that chose to target the Mori Corporation with no grounds. I don’t know what they were thinking and to act like the victim after being the one to start it… Deplorable.”

Interesting, you think. 

You look at Yamamoto under a new light, tilting your head to the side. 

Is he just saying that because he knows it’s something you want to hear? 

Or is that how he really feels? 

The whole incident between the OCDA and the Mori Corporation has been a hot topic amongst the members of the National Diet. You’d feared that the allegations were going to severely harm your position amongst the Representatives and Councillors. To some extent, it had; a lot of the people who wanted the Mori Corporation to lose sway over the members of the Diet used it as a way to try to turn people against you—but you’d been able to salvage it. Still, even to this day, it’s a contentious topic that most politicians don’t willingly bring up. 

Just as you’re about to open your lips to respond, pry a little bit more into his mindset before you say something riskier. You catch sight of an achingly familiar face from the corner of your eye.

What-

All conscious thought leaves your mind as you turn your head to the side, trying to figure out if you’re seeing what you think you’re seeing.

Dazai?

Your gaze settles on none other than the boy who has been plaguing your thoughts since you left his apartment a few days ago. He’s standing off to the other side of the room dressed in the suit that you bought him—you can hardly bring yourself to draw your gaze from him. He looks… stunning, actually, at ease in a way that you never would have expected him to be in this setting. 

He’s talking to Hayashi, Sato and Noriko—three people that have close ties with the Port Mafia, much to your distress—the smile on his lips is easy and casual, body language relaxed. He looks right at home. A part of you itches to walk right over to him, but you know you shouldn’t. There are too many eyes on you at this event, enemies and allies alike. You don’t want to draw unwanted attention to Dazai, not when you’ve cut him off to protect him from this very sort of attention. 

Your eyes linger on him as he laughs at something Hayashi says, breath catching in the back of your throat—and god, you know you’re being obvious. You need to force your attention back to Yamamoto and at least try to remember what you were talking about to play this off. But-

But then he looks at you.

Dazai’s eyes drift from Hayashi right to where you’re standing with Yamamoto as if he already knew you were standing there. He looks surprised, and you realize that he’s probably more surprised that you’re looking back at him, like he didn’t expect you to notice him. 

How could you not notice him? 

And as soon as his gaze meets yours, you know that’s all an act. You can see the way his eyes are a bit lost, lonely. You know he feels severely out of place and you long walk over there to him. All thoughts of keeping attention off of him out the window if it means he doesn’t look so uncomfortable—you yearn to see the bright look in his eyes that you’d become so accustomed to, feel his smile against your lips. You’d known it was a mistake to kiss him that night, that you’d already let yourself indulge too much, and taking that next step would just hurt you both but…

Just like now, all reasonable thought seems to be thrown out the window whenever he’s around.

You watch as something akin to hurt flashes through his eyes, and you withhold a wince as you remember all of the lies you told him—leaving the country, not having time to text him. You’d even gotten a new phone and a new number so you wouldn’t be tempted to read his messages. Fuck, why does he always show up at the most inopportune moments? This must’ve been why he’d asked you about the military bill. This was the event his journalism professor wanted him to attend. How did you not put this together sooner?

Then, his gaze hardens, and he looks away, shifting to the side as if to pointedly show off someone you hadn’t noticed before—a girl hanging off of his arm. Pretty. Big dark eyes and light brown hair, a soft expression. Pretty, you think again, sickeningly civilian, probably another student at the university he attends. Even being dolled up in a gown and makeup can’t hide that.

Perfect for him, then. Sickeningly civilian. Just like Dazai. They’d be good for each other—live out long, sickeningly civilian lives with each other. Go to cafes and talk about all of their sickeningly civilian classes, discuss all of the books and poems they read. It’s perfect, it’s what you want for him, it’s why you cut him off. So he’s not in danger by being associated with you, so you don’t drag him into the dark and get him killed. 

So, where is the anger coming from? 

Your jaw is so clenched that you can feel your teeth grinding together, knuckles tense around your flute of champagne. Your tongue feels itchy, your throat feels swollen, your chest is unbearably tight—you have to force yourself to remain rooted next to Yamamoto, and your body twitches to walk over there. You’re so lost for logic that you can’t even fumble for an excuse to explain the sudden bout of anger. 

You try. You tell yourself that you’re angry because he shouldn’t be at an event like this. You tell yourself that you’re angry because his journalism professor should know better than to send college students to gather information at an event where several mafias are going to be in attendance. You tell yourself that you’re angry because he’s always coming around to fuck things up for you, that he shouldn’t have wormed his way into your life.

But it’s all flimsy and weak because the color flooding you right now isn’t red. 

It’s green. 

“I think you should go over there,” Yamamoto says, amused, nodding over to where you’re looking as he leans in closer to you. He keeps his voice down, luckily, but you can’t help the distress that sweeps through you when you realize that you are being that obvious.

“Allow me to pretend not to be so obvious, Yamamoto-san,” you sigh.

Yamamoto laughs, tossing you a wink. “I’m not that kind,” he says lightly. “I’ll send you an email later if we don’t get to talk again tonight. I’d like to discuss the more… minute details of the proposition you were offering.”

Your smile is a bit more genuine now as you turn your attention back to him.

“Of course,” you say easily. “A pleasure talking to you, as always.”

“And you,” Yamamoto replies. “Talking to you is always a highlight of these dreadfully boring galas.”

“You flatter me,” you laugh, waving off the compliment.

“Me? Never.” Yamamoto winks at you again, then leans in to murmur, “Best of luck.”

Yamamoto wanders off without another word, and your gaze drifts back over to Dazai and you find yourself actually contemplating it. You contemplate going over there and forcing that girl away, forcing him to spend the night at your side instead. You contemplate ruining everything by drawing all of the attention in the room onto him. You contemplate putting him in danger just to make this ugly green emotion go away.

You grab yourself another drink instead.

Dazai can hardly pay attention to the conversation at hand. No matter how much he tries to keep the conversation going between the two Representatives and Mishima and Noriko, he finds that his gaze keeps drifting back over to where you’re standing on the other side of the room. 

You look beautiful. You always look beautiful, but there’s something… different tonight. You’re dressed in a sleek black dress rather than the expensive suits he’s become used to. It hangs off your shoulders, a slit up your thigh; there’s a pretty smile on your face and a playful glitter in your eyes as you entertain conversation with people. You’re always beautiful—whether you’re in one of your ridiculously expensive suits or an equally expensive dress—but there’s something different tonight that makes him unable to keep his attention off of you for long.

In your suits, it’s a polished type of beauty. Cold. Untouchable. There’s an air about you that few would dare try to disturb. He noticed it that first night when everyone at the bar gave you a wide berth. At the cafe, it was the same—your presence screams that you’re someone important and someone who should not be bothered. Even at the library, though his classmates clearly wanted to approach you and talk to you, they were all too intimidated to try. Everyone waited for you to leave before badgering Dazai with questions.

This is different. Just as refined but untouchable in a different way. Your smiles are sly and inviting, your body language smooth and languid; people gravitate toward you rather than avoid you, but none dare to draw too close. If intimidation was the factor in other situations, nerves are in this one—you’re warm and enticing but still too elusive for anyone to dare to try to capture. Dazai can see it in the way they watch you longingly, fingers itching to reach out toward you, but they freeze before they can, like you’re some otherworldly being that they think they shouldn’t taint with their touch.

And Dazai is so conflicted. 

He yearns to go over to you. He wants to be the one to draw close to you, wants to see the expression on everyone else’s face when he’s the one that breaks through that invisible barrier, wants to slip his arm around your waist, hold you in the way that he knows other people are fantasizing about right now. He’s missed you the past few days; he can still feel the weight of your body on top of his, his lips tingling from where they’d been pressed against yours. If he closes his eyes long enough, he can almost imagine your fingers entwined with his hair, holding him close as your lips slide to his jaw. 

But he’s angry. Or maybe he’s not angry, maybe he’s just hurt. Maybe both. Dazai can’t tell. He’s never been good at understanding his own emotions, he just knows that he doesn’t like it. Wants it to go away.

Wants you to explain.

Why did you lie? The thought makes his stomach churn so uncomfortably that it makes the alcohol he’s been drinking come up his throat. Why did you lie? Since he saw you before, he’s been on the brink of collapse. He wants to go back to his apartment and forget all about this shitty event and your betrayal, wants to curl up in his futon and sleep before the gaping hole in his chest starts to spread.

He should have known this would happen. Every time Dazai Osamu has ever come to want something, it’s always lost the moment he obtains it. This has been true since the moment he was born, but somehow it eluded him the weeks he spent pining after you, eluded him the night you spent at his apartment sharing kisses and gentle touches. 

The cloud that’s been hanging over him since the night he met you at the bar, the one that you’ve successfully pushed away twice, is heavier than ever and Dazai wants to be rid of it. He’s so tired. Everything feels amplified now that he’s been given a taste of what he could have had with you, only to find you lied to be free of him just like so many others have. Ever since Odasaku died, he’s been alone and Dazai just doesn’t know how much more of it he can take. And he feels selfish, he feels selfish for wanting to go before he can fulfill his friend’s final request but he just can’t do it anymore.

It’s just too much for him, and Dazai isn’t going to finish this novel anyway. It doesn’t matter how many English classes he takes, doesn’t matter how much time he spends reading to teach himself how to write—Dazai will never be able to finish Odasaku’s book. How can he? A book focused on the human experience? Dazai is, unfortunately missing a key characteristic necessary to successfully write this novel.

Dazai has always struggled to understand the minds of people around him. He’s smart, and he can read people easily, but he’s never been able to understand them. It’s why he’s found himself an outcast time and time again: no matter how hard he tries, and he does try, he tries so hard, people can tell something is… off about him. His laughs are too loud and too hollow. His eyes are too black and too empty. His smiles are too wide and too fake. 

When he was younger, kids were cruel about it—they would point it out and laugh at him, and when he tried harder to fit in with them, they would point that out too. He couldn’t win, no matter how hard he tried. Now that he’s older, people aren’t quite as blatant with it, but Dazai is far from stupid and he can see the looks people give him, can see the way they actively avoid him, the way they whisper.

Dazai’s gotten better at masking himself. It’s hard for people to tell at first glance now that something is off about him—his smiles have become smoother and less strained, and he’s taught himself to laugh light and airy. He can make do with small talk and acquaintances, even able to charm people into his bed, assuming they aren't put off when he keeps the bandages on.

The trouble comes when they stick around too long, when they start noticing the cracks in his mask; he can evade it at first, become loud and funny, take on the role of a clown so they can focus on that instead of the gaping void within him, threatening to consume anyone that dares to come near. But he can only play that role for so long before people realize something is up; whether his smile fades at the wrong moment or he talks a bit too long, something clues them into the fact that something is wrong with Dazai, and they inevitably disappear without a word, avoid him on the streets if they happen to run into him.

Or they lie to him and tell him that they’re going abroad for a while just to be rid of him.

Dazai is drawn out of his own thoughts when he realizes that all four pairs of eyes are on him—Hayashi, Sato, Noriko, and Hinami are all looking at him expectantly, and he realizes, anxiously, that one of them must have directly addressed him but he was so lost in thought that he hadn’t even been listening. He racks his brain for a response, desperately trying to figure out if he’d subconsciously picked up on the conversation, but the longer the silence draws on, the harder it becomes for him to push away the numbness spreading from his core to his limbs.

Before he can fumble out a non-response, an achingly familiar voice intrudes on the conversation.

“Hayashi-kun, Sato-kun, I’ve been meaning to speak with you two,” you say with an easy smile as you make your way over to the small group, and Dazai can hardly breathe at the sight of you so close, unwittingly rescuing him yet again. “Noriko-chan.”

Your smile is fonder as your gaze lands on Noriko and the cold and aloof woman suddenly looks starstruck by your presence, enamored. Dazai’s chest tightens as he looks between the two of you.

You ignore his presence completely.

“Hime,” Noriko breathes out. Dazai startles at the honorific—it was startling hearing Kido, and the attendants call you it at the boutique, but it’s even more jarring hearing it come from a woman that Professor Ui suspects of being a mafia heiress. “I heard you would be here. I convinced my father to let me come.”

“Just for me?” Your voice is light and teasing, you reach out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind Noriko’s ear, and Dazai’s blood pressure spikes. “You’re so sweet, Noriko-chan.”

“You didn’t come to Arima-kun’s wedding,” Noriko pouts in a way that’s so exaggerated that it nearly makes Dazai roll his eyes and gag. “I’ve missed you.”

“Ah,” you sigh. “I’m afraid I was busy. I heard it was fun. I regret not being able to be there.”

You notably don’t tell Noriko that you also missed her, and it makes Dazai’s lips quirk up in smug amusement. 

No, he stops himself, reminding himself that he’s angry at you and he should not care about any of this. In fact, he should walk away. He should. But his feet betray him, they keep him rooted to the ground when you finally turn your gaze onto him.

“Who are your new friends?” you ask casually.

Dazai has to physically stop himself from flinching at your words, the way you pretend you don’t know him, just like so many people have before. His chest aches, his throat feels swollen, and he feels embarrassed—he doesn’t even know why he feels embarrassed, but he can feel heat spread across his cheeks at your words. For a second, Dazai swears he sees regret flash through your eyes, but it’s gone so quickly that he thinks he imagined it.

“Koda Hinami.” Next to Dazai, Hinami stumbles over her words, face pink as she bows her head in respect, “It’s, uh, a pleasure to meet you…”

You don’t even acknowledge Hinami, your gaze doesn’t budge from Dazai, and you don’t offer your name at Hinami’s unspoken request for it. Hinami lets out an embarrassed noise in the back of her throat as she looks away. Dazai has half a mind to stay silent, to ignore you in the same way you ignore Hinami, but he finds his lips moving before he can stop them.

“Dazai Osamu.” He’s grateful that his voice is steadier than how he feels, cool and short, unlike the rampage of emotions tearing through his chest. 

You tilt your head to the side as you look over him. You reach out, pinching the material of his suit jacket between your fingers—as you do, your knuckles brush his bandaged skin, and Dazai has to physically withhold a shiver at the touch.

“One of Kido’s,” you note, and there’s a small smile on your lips as if you’re sharing an inside joke with him. “You must have friends in high places—he doesn’t often take appointments without referrals.”

You’re mocking him.

As if pretending he’s a stranger isn’t enough, you’re standing there mocking him too. Dazai doesn’t know if he wants to laugh or cry, everything feels all twisted inside of him—he wants to go home.

“Not a friend.” 

The jab is cold and pointed. It goes over the head of the other four, but he watches the way your smile falters at it, and he savors it even if he does know it hardly stings you in comparison to the knives he feels being jabbed into his chest and back.

“Hm,” is all you say in response, gaze sliding away from him as if he’s no longer of any interest to you. You look back at Hayashi and give him a smile that makes Dazai want to throw up. “Dance with me?”

Hayashi rushes to take your extended hand, fumbling over a yes, and you don’t even bother to spare another look at Dazai as you lead Hayashi onto the floor, where a few couples are already swaying around. Dazai can’t even force himself to look away from you, eyes pinned on how Hayashi’s hands rest on your hips as you wrap your arms around his neck.

Maybe he’s a bit petty when he turns to Hinami and offers his hand to her. For a second, the girl looks as if she’s going to shake her head no, too nervous to go to the dancefloor, but then other couples start taking your cue, grabbing a partner to take to the dancefloor.

“I don’t know how to dance,” Hinami whispers, panicking. “I don’t-”

“You’ll be fine,” Dazai says. “Follow my lead.”

Dazai also doesn’t know how to dance, but he thinks it should be easy enough. He observes the few people already settled on the dancefloor, watching their steps and the way they sway to the slow beat and then matches their pace and hand placement.

“I don’t know how you’re so good at this,” Hinami says quietly as he leads her in the dance. Dazai hardly pays attention to her, gaze cutting through the growing crowd of couples to find you. “I feel so in over my head. I have no idea what I’m doing.”

“You’re doing fine,” Dazai tells her absently, stiffening when he finally spots you not too far from him in deep conversation with Hayashi. “I don’t know what I’m doing either.”

“I don’t know if I believe that,” Hinami sighs. Dazai’s eyes linger at how low Hayashi’s hands dip down on your hips, how your heads are bowed together as you sway, speaking quietly in one another’s ear. It makes him sick, he can feel his stomach turn inside of him, he can feel something ugly and green spreading through his chest. “You look like a natural. Like you’re meant to be here with these people. I can hardly speak to any of them without stumbling over my words. I mean, did you see how that woman ignored me? … So embarrassing…”

Dazai’s breath hitches when you lift your face up a bit, so close to Hayashi that your noses almost brush. He can’t see the expression on your face, but he can see that you’re making eye contact with him, and it looks so intimate that Dazai feels that void in his chest start to spread to his limbs, his fingers feel numb and clunky against Hinami’s waist, and he nearly stumbles over one of the steps in the dance.

You look like you belong with him. High-class. Smooth. Charming. Wealthy. Dazai’s known you were out of his league since the day he met you at the bar, but actually getting a visual of what you would look like with someone of the same class as you—the people you interact with on a daily basis—makes him feel sorely inadequate. Any of the people at this event would kill for just a few seconds of your time, all of them wealthier and more influential than him, way more worth your time than a broke college student who can hardly talk himself off the edge of a bridge.

Why would he have ever thought he had a chance with you? Why would you waste any time with him? Why wouldn’t you pretend not to know him? Dazai would be embarrassed to associate with himself too. He can hardly even stand to look at himself in the mirror. 

He shouldn’t be as upset as he is. He should’ve expected this from day one. He doesn’t know why all of this hurts as much as it does.

Because it’s the first time he’s allowed himself to hope since Odasaku’s death.

The air getting to his lungs is thin and shallow. Dazai feels like he’s at the peak of a mountain where oxygen is few and far between. Hinami doesn’t seem to notice his distress from the way she’s still complaining about the event, but it’s hard for him to ground himself to the present. 

He’d allowed himself to hope.

The way you had immediately noticed his discomfort with the bandages and moved to try to make him more comfortable—no one has ever done anything like that for him, not since Odasaku died. 

The way you came to him when you were hurt. 

The way you helped him around his apartment and didn’t question the filth and mess, buying him food, replacing what he’d broken in his depressive episode.

The way you looked at him. 

The way you touched him.

The way you kissed him. 

He’d allowed himself to hope that maybe someone would accept him for who he is instead of running as soon as they see beneath the mask.

He had let himself hope. A fatal mistake. Always has been. Dazai should have known better.

Dazai needs to get out of here. He can hardly feel his fingers anymore, can feel the numbness spreading to his legs. His vision is blurring, his lungs are burning. He needs to go back home so he can let the black hole consume him in peace. He needs to be alone. He needs to-

Dazai doesn’t even notice the music tempo changing, nor the way people are swapping partners until he and Hinami are separated and drawn into a new dance. Dazai’s breath catches, caught off guard and still trying to ground himself.

“Why are you here?” 

Your voice meets his ears, quiet so as to not be heard above the music, you forcibly guide his body to move in step with yours. He stares down at you, brain not processing who’s standing in front of him. He can see the concern thinly veiled behind your eyes, the way your lips curve down.

“Dazai, snap out of it. Breathe.”

You. You’re here. You’re always here when he feels as if he’s finally going to let the void win, and Dazai just-

Dazai wants to scream.

Why are you always here to rescue him when he knows you’re just going to leave him?

“Why am I here?” Dazai finally forces himself to say, grateful that his voice is steadier than how he feels. “Why are you here? How was your trip abroad, hime?”

Any concern in your eyes disappears, and the grip you have on his waist tightens in a way that makes his breath catch. “Don’t call me that.”

Now a bit more coherent than he was when he was dancing with Hinami, he thinks he should be mortified by how you’re taking the lead. All of the other men are leading their partners in the dance, but he can’t even bring himself to be embarrassed because he’s so focused on your hand on his waist and the way your fingers are laced with his. He’s mad at you, yes, but he has to actively remind himself of that because of the way you’re holding him. 

Dazai fears he is a weak man at heart.

“How was your trip abroad?” Dazai asks again, leaving off the title this time. He wants to know if you’ll lie to him. Again.

You watch him carefully for a moment, and then you sigh, shaking your head. “Don’t ask stupid questions,” you tell him.

Dazai’s jaw tightens, throat bobbing at your words. Doesn’t know if it’s a good or bad thing that you didn’t even try to lie. Does know that it hurts hearing you admit that you lied to him. That you made up a shitty excuse so you could cut him off, ghost him like so many others have before. He lets out a shaky puff of air, shaking his own head as he tries to take a step away from you, intent on creating some distance between the two of you, but you don’t let him, your grip on his waist tightens again, hand sliding to the small of his back to force him flush to you again. His face heats up.

You tilt your head to the side as you look up at him as if daring him to make a scene. Dazai wants to. He does—just to embarrass you in front of all of your rich, upper-class friends—but more than that, he wants answers.

“Why?” he asks tightly.

“Stupid questions annoy me,” you say with a thin smile, being purposely obtuse.

“That’s not what I’m talking about.” Dazai refuses to humor the non-answer. “Why did you lie? Why didn’t you just tell me you didn’t want to-”

Why didn’t you just tell me you didn’t want to be with me?

Why did you have to give him hope?

Why did you have to be like all of the rest?

“It has nothing to do with what I want,” you finally sigh, voice quiet as you lead him into an outside spin, keeping him in pace with all of the other couples. “It’s complicated, Dazai.”

“Then uncomplicate it,” Dazai says immediately, body tense. “What did I do wrong? I thought-”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” you tell him, which only frustrates Dazai more because if he’s about to get the ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ speech, he thinks he might storm right off the dancefloor, leaving you here. “It’s just complicated, Dazai. I can’t uncomplicate it.”

“That’s not fair,” Dazai murmurs. “You kissed me, you-”

“You kissed me,” you correct.

“You kissed me back,” Dazai hisses, getting annoyed, “and you initiated the second kiss.”

“Dazai-”

“You know what,” Dazai laughs to himself, shaking his head. “It doesn’t matter. You’ve made it abundantly clear that you want nothing to do with me.”

“That’s not true,” you say immediately, but Dazai is already taking a step away, brushing your hand off of his waist and pulling his hand back. He can’t listen—he can’t—he can’t let himself hope again. He doesn’t know if he’ll survive it this time. “Dazai-”

“I need to go,” Dazai interrupts. 

He doesn’t wait for a response from you as he turns to walk off the floor, leaving you standing there alone. He can hardly breathe in the crowd, with you so close—he needs air. It feels shallow again, like it’s not getting to his lungs. He tells himself that this was to be expected, again, but the thought doesn’t calm him down this time. You don’t follow him off the dancefloor—he doesn’t know if he wanted you to or if it would just stress him out more.

“You’re so lucky,” a familiar voice sighs as soon as Dazai is off the dance floor. He feels unfocused as he looks at Sato. “I was trying so hard to position myself to switch with Hayashi for the partner swap.”

Dazai is annoyed. He is annoyed, and he is jealous and he is once again very acutely reminded of the fact that every single person in this room would kill for a few seconds of your time, once again very acutely reminded of his own inadequacy. He had known from day one that he didn’t have a shot with you but-

No. 

He’s not going to go down this rabbit hole again. 

“Well, she has no partner now,” Dazai says with a strained smile, ignoring the tightness in the chest and the way his vision blooms green. “You should go ask her to dance.”

Sato brightens. “You’re right,” he says, sparing a haste ‘thanks’ before rushing off to the dance floor.

Dazai doesn’t let himself linger long enough to see if you accept his extended hand, making his way out of the event room and down a nearby hall, hoping for some fresh air.

You don’t know where Dazai went, but he’s a sneaky bastard for sending Sato your way to distract you. You couldn’t blow him off without looking like an asshole, so you had to entertain him for a song before making an excuse. Dazai is nowhere to be seen now—not hanging near the walls, not hovering near the apps or drinks, not making small talk with any of the other politicians or businessmen in attendance.

Did he leave? 

No, he wouldn’t have. Your eyes trace around the room again as you make small talk with Noriko—he had to have gone somewhere, but where? You focus on a hallway leading out to the back of the city hall, tilting your head to the side. There, maybe? There are bathrooms back there, if you remember correctly, most people will probably use the ones in the entrance hall, but if he’s looking for somewhere quiet…

You excuse yourself from the conversation with Noriko and make your way across the room, careful to avoid the eyes of any of the other attendees who might try to steal you away for a talk. You get there without incident, luckily, because you think if someone tried to interrupt you, you might shatter the carefully crafted reputation you’ve built over the past six years. 

The hallway is dim and cool, a welcome reprieve from the stuffiness of the other room. You head straight for the men’s bathroom, hoping that your hunch is correct. Also hoping that there are no other men in the bathroom because that would be awkward—and you’d have to do some serious explaining because you can’t have anyone know you’re seeking out Dazai. 

You think you’ve done a pretty decent job in making sure people don’t realize you knew him before the event. Noriko and Hayashi have no suspicions, and if anyone was going to pick it up, it would be those two. You were casual enough with the positioning of the partner switch that it didn’t look like you were intentionally seeking him out, but you could see the way he was thinking himself into a panic attack, the girl with him obliviously babbling on as Dazai struggled to breathe. You suppose him being mad at you is preferable to him thinking himself into an abyss, but it’s just not settling right with you. 

You think that this is a mistake—you should let him think that you want nothing to do with him, should let him hate you and resent you so he can move on with his life—so why are you still turning down the hallway to get to the men’s bathroom? 

You blame Dazai. If he hadn’t shown up at this event and all but shoved himself in your face, purposely antagonized you by shoving that stupid civilian girl in your face, then everything would be fine. You would’ve evaded the places he frequents in Hodogaya-ku, and you’d have never crossed paths with him again. Both of you could’ve moved on with your lives as if you’d never met each other—but now-

You’re almost angry as you shove open the door to the men’s bathroom. 

No, you are angry, and it isn’t just because he’s shown up to the event and fucked up your plan to keep him out of your life. It’s also because you know why he’s here, and he’s a lot stupider than you thought he was. The suit for the event he’d mentioned his journalism professor wanted him to attend and the question about the bill… He’s here to gather intel for that professor of his, and the only reason why a bunch of students would be sent to an event like this in lieu of the actual journalists themselves is because they’re trying to seek out information that wouldn’t be easily acquired by known faces. Whether that’s information about insider opinions on the new bill or something else, it’s dangerous business. If the opinion of the wrong person gets out to the media and the public, there’ll be a witch hunt trying to figure out who let it loose, and all eyes will be on the unfamiliar faces. 

All eyes will be on Dazai.

He’s stupid.

The door slams against the wall hard, and your gaze cuts to the side, hardly focusing on Dazai’s surprised expression as he straightens from where he’s leaning over the sink. Your attention shifts from him to the stalls, making sure each of them is empty before shutting the door behind you and locking it.

“No,” Dazai says, shaking his head, jaw tight as he moves to leave the bathroom.

Your eye twitches when he tries to push past you and all of the rising frustration you’ve felt the past few weeks snaps like a taut cord that has been pulled at too much. Your hands dart out to grab his waist, fingers hooking in the belt loops to stop him before he can get past you. You watch as his eyes widen as you tug him closer before slamming him back against the bathroom door hard.

“What are you doing here?” you ask again, ignoring the look he’s giving you, lips parted in shock and pupils blown wide as he stares down at you. “Dazai, what are you doing here?”

Finally, he’s drawn out of whatever stupor he’s in, scoffing and looking away from you but not pushing you away.

“Really? You just came here to interrogate me some more?” he says bitterly. “Don’t you have better things to do? I’m sure there are plenty of people out there more worthy of your time.”

“What are you even talking about?” you ask, irritated. “I couldn’t care less about any of them. Stop avoiding the question, why are you here?”

Dazai looks conflicted at your words, and you don’t know why, but it’s really starting to piss you off. You feel like you should step away from him, give some space, but you can’t bring yourself to move. In fact, your grip on his slacks tightens.

“I told you I had that event to attend for my journalism class, I-”

“You didn’t tell me this was the event-”

“You didn’t ask! What does it matter?” Dazai demands, glaring at you.

You inhale sharply and let go of his belt loops, taking a step back, but Dazai doesn’t move to leave. He stays leaning against the bathroom door, staring at you as he waits for a response, but you don’t even know how to respond.

“It matters,” you finally say without giving any context, which evidently pisses him off from how he lets out a sharp puff of air.

“Why does it matter?” Dazai asks, raising his voice in a way that stresses you out because if anyone happens to come down this hall and find you in the bathroom with him, it’s going to cause issues. “Why does-Why won’t you explain anything? Why did you lie about going abroad? Why does it matter that I’m here?”

“Because you shouldn’t be here,” you hiss, not wanting to expand on it, but you can see the frustration rising on Dazai’s face, and you think it’s more important not to have him screeching for people to overhear. “Dazai, don’t you think there’s a reason that your professor didn’t come to this event himself and with his trained colleagues?”

Something shifts onto Dazai’s expression that you don’t like—a strange look caught between suspicion and wariness that you take note of. You misspoke somewhere but where? This conversation is risky—you don’t even know what his professor sent him and his classmates to get information about, how they were prepped for it, or what information they were given. What a mess.

“What are you talking about?” Dazai asks in a way that lets you know that he’s onto something.

You don’t respond for a moment, choosing your words carefully. “What do you think will happen if an unsavory opinion of one of these politicians gets out to the media, Dazai? These people have more money than you could ever dream of, connections with-” You cut yourself off abruptly, staring at him for a moment before saying tightly. “Connections with all types of people. Good and bad. They’ll find out who spread what was spoken at this event.”

“Isn’t this suit supposed to help me blend in?” His voice is so snide that you almost want to smack him. If he were anyone else-

You don’t even finish that thought. He’s not anyone else. He’s Dazai Osamu, a stupid civilian who has managed to worm his way into your life, for better or for worse. 

“Sure,” you agree tightly. “It makes them less concerned about your presence at the moment. But once they have something to be concerned about, you know who they’re going to remember? The boy in a poorly tailored suit who spoke too loudly and with far too many people. The girl in a thirty dollar dress from Muji who stumbled over all of her words and the boy that she latched herself onto.”

“And what exactly are they going to do if they figure out who leaked their shitty opinions?” Dazai asks, a challenging expression on his face as if he knows what the answer is but wants to hear you say it out loud. “Ui-sensei said-”

Ui. There aren’t many journalists with the surname Ui and if they’re here at this event…

“Ui?” you ask cooly. “Don’t tell me you mean Ui Koutarou.”

The surprise that flashes through Dazai’s eyes tells you all you need to know, and you can’t help the scoff you let out, a bitter feeling spreading through your chest. Ui Koutarou, one of the senior journalists at the Ivory Eagle—a group that’s been relentlessly trying to pin down the Mori Corporation as the business front for the Port Mafia. 

Is that what this is? 

The thought is as haunting as it is jarring, realizing that maybe this has all just been some giant scheme that you fell right into. You know the man has been trying to expose you as an executive of the Port Mafia—the first stepping stone of taking down the Port Mafia. Is that why Dazai attached himself to you so quickly? Pushed into it by his professor as a means to get proof of your affiliation with the Mafia? You’d assumed maybe it was your ability at work, making him more comfortable around you, and since he was so lonely, he ended up attaching himself to you but… this would make more sense, wouldn’t it? 

Dazai is a lot smarter than he makes himself out to be, a lot more observant and perceptive; you knew that day when you showed up at his apartment wounded that he was seeking out information about you. He could’ve been asking about the military bill to prepare himself for this event but… could he have been asking about it because Ui Koutarou is using him as a puppet to corner you? To get the proof that he needs?

You don’t want to believe it, but the passive form of your ability isn’t strong enough to create such a dependency even on the weakest of minds… and this makes a lot more sense than someone liking you for who you are.

You don’t say anything else, unwilling to incriminate yourself anymore than you already have. You’re sure Dazai must have some idea of who you are by now—maybe not exactly, but there’s no shot that he doesn’t have a clue as to your real occupation, and if you keep running your mouth, it’s only a matter of time before you hand him the proof Ui Koutarou needs on a silver platter. 

So, instead, you shake your head and walk back to the door, unlocking it so you can go back to the event hall.

Dazai grabs your wrist before you can. His grip is weak enough that you could pull out of it if you want, but you don’t. You don’t turn to look at him, waiting to hear what he has to say.

“Can’t you just tell me what I did wrong?” His voice wobbles a bit as he speaks, you can feel the way his fingers are trembling on your wrist. God, it’s so believable—you remember the way he kissed you, unsure and hesitant, breath shaky. No one is that good of an actor. “I did something again just now, why won’t you just tell me? I want to-”

You don’t want to hear the rest of that sentence, so instead, you look back at him and watch as the words die on his tongue. The look he gives you is confused and desperate, pleading with you to help him understand.

“If you know what’s good for you, Dazai, you’ll forget you came here tonight and won’t do another job for a man who’s willing to put three stupid kids on the line to save his own ass,” you say and Dazai’s brows furrow, he looks impossibly more confused as he waits for you to explain, protests and questions on the tip of his tongue.

You leave before he can get any of them out.

Dazai’s head spins as he leaves the event hall. He tries to seek you out again, but you’re nowhere to be found, so he finds himself wandering the edges of the event hall, unsure of what to do. Mishima Noriko is missing, too, he can’t help but notice with a tight feeling in his chest. Hayashi and Sato are speaking quietly to one another by the refreshments table, heads dipped together and serious expressions on their faces.

“Dazai,” Ayato calls, making his way over to where Dazai is standing.

After your words, Dazai can’t help but wince at how loud his voice is in comparison to the other attendees of the event. It’s glaringly obvious now that it’s been pointed out to him—even when he lowers his voice, there’s a jarring cadence that’s stark compared to the smooth tones of the other people here. 

Hinami is with him too, Dazai realizes, watching as the girl comes over to Dazai’s side, looking between the two of them before asking: “Are you ready to head out?”

No, Dazai wants to say, throat swollen and stomach churning. He doesn’t know when he’ll see you again if he leaves now. Doesn’t know if he’ll see you again. This might be his last chance and he’s so frustrated and lost. He wants answers from you—more than that, he wants you. 

He wants you.

You didn’t explain why you lied to him. You hardly explained why you were so mad about him being at the event. You clearly know who his professor is, you’re clearly unhappy about Dazai working with him, and you made a cryptic comment about how he’s putting Dazai and his classmates on the line to save his own ass.

Does that mean you know? Do you know what information that they’re trying to uncover at this event? You kind of implied it, didn’t you? You implied that a lot of the politicians in the Diet have affiliations with criminal organizations because what else could that ‘good and bad’ comment have meant? But how could you possibly know that? How could you know unless-

Dazai’s mind drifts back to all of the suspicions that had been floating through his head, letting out a heavy breath. Shit, could you really be-

“Dazai,” Hinami prods, nudging his shoulder, but before Dazai can make an excuse about staying longer, the entire building shakes.

Dazai nearly topples right over, barely catching himself on the wall behind him. His eyes are wide as he looks around the room, watching as people shriek and dive for cover. Again? The second one in a few days?

“Come on,” Ayato grabs his wrist, and Dazai instantly draws back, not expecting the sudden touch. “Dazai, come on. Ui-sensei’s been texting. He’s panicked about something, we’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

“Texting about what?” Dazai asks, casting one last longing look around the room, a last-ditch attempt to seek you out, only to find himself empty-handed again, shaking his head as he follows the other two out of the building. “What’s going on?”

“We don’t know,” Hinami says as they slip out of the building into the front parking lot. “Just said we needed to get out before things started going down.”

“Crazy that the earthquake happens right as he tells us that,” Ayato notes. “What are the chances?”

What are the chances? 

Unless it’s not an earthquake, Dazai thinks, taking a deep breath of the cool air outside, mind racing as he thinks back to the day you showed up at his apartment, the cryptic comment about the earthquake. You acted like you didn’t know that it was an earthquake, but Dazai had a strong gut feeling that you knew exactly what it was and it wasn’t an earthquake. And Ayato is right; what are the chances it happens twice, and both times you’re around for it? The first time, you seem to know what’s going on but try to evade talking about it; the second time, you mysteriously disappear right as it takes place.

It’s suspicious. Everything about this is suspicious, and Dazai just doesn’t know what to think. He wishes that he had more time to talk to you, that you hadn’t rushed off as soon as he mentioned Professor Ui—and that’s suspicious, too, because Professor Ui sent them here to try to get some intel on one of the big mafias in Tokyo so…

Dazai can’t even finish sorting out his scrambled thoughts because a familiar van is pulling up to the front steps of the city hall. The door is sliding open and Dazai can’t stop himself from looking back one last time before he’s being ushered into the back of the van by Hinami and Ayato. Professor Ui is already waiting inside for them, brows creased and a frown on his lips—an expression that instantly has Dazai on edge. 

“Ui-sensei, what’s going on?” Hinami asks softly as Ayato pulls the back doors of the van closed. Slightly alarmed, Dazai watches as Professor Ui instantly motions for the driver to get going. “Is something wrong?” 

Dazai’s stomach lurches as the van flies over a bump, gaze focused on Professor Ui as he taps furiously at his phone. His voice is a bit tighter than he intends for it to be when he asks, “Aren’t you going to tell us what’s going on?” 

“We got a tip-off that the Port Mafia was going to be in attendance at this event at the last second,” Professor Ui finally says, sitting up in his seat as he focuses his attention on the three of them. Dazai stiffens, mind racing back to Mishima Noriko and her last minute attendance of the event when she heard that you were attending, mind racing back to his piling suspicions of you. “We also got a tip-off that there was going to be a major conflict between them and one of the Tokyo-based Yakuza syndicates tonight. We wanted to get you out of there before it happened.”

“What?” Ayato sounds far too excited for Dazai’s liking; he gives the other man a heavy side-eye before focusing back on Professor Ui. “A gang fight is breaking out tonight? Wouldn’t that have been the best chance to get the proof?”

Best chance to get killed more like it, Dazai thinks, hardly withholding an eye roll as he keeps his gaze pinned on their professor. He can’t help the way his heart is skipping around with anxiety; he finds himself nervous for you, remembering how you abruptly disappeared from the event.

“Too dangerous,” Professor Ui shakes his head. “The fight has already broken out. Did you feel that quake?” 

“The earthquake?” Hinami asks curiously.

“Not an earthquake,” Professor Ui says dryly, grabbing his laptop and clicking a few times before turning the laptop to face them. Dazai’s gaze focuses on the screen, frowning at the blurry image of a man with red hair and an ugly hat. “From what we know, that was the ability of this man. We believe he’s an executive of the Port Mafia, the gravity manipulator. He’s been at the top of the country’s most wanted list for three years since he leveled all of Izumi-ku; hard to track down because he’s frequently in the west. They say he’s currently the strongest ability user in the world.”

“Tacky hat,” Dazai mutters absently, ignoring the looks he receives for the comment.

He’s ignored.

“I didn’t see him at the event,” Ayato announces, leaning back in his seat. “I made a lot of rounds too. Maybe your tip was off.”

“He wasn’t the executive in attendance,” Professor Ui says firmly.

Dazai’s heart drops to his feet. His professor flips the laptop back around, and Dazai can hardly breathe as he clicks through again. It feels like an eternity before the clicking stops, and he can hardly even drag his gaze back to the screen. 

Dazai knows what it’s going to show him before the computer is even turned toward them again. Doesn’t need to hear him say your name. Doesn’t need to see your face on the screen.

He looks anyway.

Your smile is foreign—unkind, almost—and the expression on your face is much cooler and unapproachable than what he’s become used to. You look beautiful, you always look beautiful, but he feels sick to his stomach at the sight of you when he’s usually dizzy with how much he’s enamored by you. His ears ring as he tries to tune into what Professor Ui is saying.

“... presents as vice-chair of the board of the Mori Corporation, suspected of being an executive of the Port Mafia… -sing her position within the Mafia would be the easiest way of exposing the Mori Corporation for what it is considering how public of a figure she is… say that Mafia affiliates tend to refer to her as hime in recognition of her position as heir…”

Dazai doesn’t care to hear anymore. He ignores the way Hinami stares at him with wide eyes, ignores when Professor Ui asks if any of them managed to speak to her at all, ignores everything as he stares at the damning image of you on that screen, confirming all of the suspicions he’s discarded over the past few weeks of knowing you.

Suddenly, for better or for worse, all of the peculiarities that he’s noted about you begin to make sense—everything from your ungodly wealth to how evasive you were about why you lied to him about going abroad, saying it’s too complicated to explain when he begged you to tell him why you lied. 

Shit.

There are too many emotions ricocheting through his chest and mind for him to pinpoint all of them, but as he looks back to the direction they’d left, knowing that whatever conflict is taking place there, you’re at the center of it, one emotion stands out above all of the rest—fear.

[maxlarens]

lando + bandaging/stitching up an injury :)))) i love love love your writing!!!!!

i think about his nose scar a lot. i know he’s told some details about what happened but i’m throwing most of that out the window for fic purposes. also thank you🥰

tw blood, mild descriptions of a wound

You’re on the way back with drinks for you, Lando and another friend when there’s suddenly a commotion coming from the direction you’re headed. Glass shattering, someone that sounds a lot like Lando swearing loudly. The moment you hear it you’d really like to rush over there— but it’s a bit difficult with three full pint glasses held in your hands.

You charge through the crowd, elbowing and shoving as much as you can without spilling your drinks— you find Lando with his hand clutched over his nose, blood running through his fingers, down his wrist. There’s a loose gathering of people around him but you’re barely paying attention to them. You put the pint glasses down on the nearest table and shove through to Lando, indiscriminate of who you’re forcing out of your way.

“Lan,” you put a hand on his shoulder, a hand gently on his elbow, “Lan, what happened?”

He says something you can’t understand. There’s music, chatter, and a person you’re not particularly fond of is trying to take charge of the situation. Saying irrelevant things to people, directing them places and then trying to pull you away from Lando. Suddenly they’ve got a hand tugging on your elbow, saying,

“Dude, give him space, give him space.”

Then they’re shoving dirty bar napkins into Lando’s unoccupied hand and you’ve had fucking enough.

“Give me one sec, Lan,” you pat him gently on the shoulder and then whirl around to face the source of your ire, “First of all, do not touch me,”

Their hand slips from your elbow immediately as they reel back a few steps, something shocked passing across their face.

“Second,” you bite, “If you want to do something actually useful, go to the bar, ask for the first aid kit and bring it to me right now. Can you do that?”

They blink, half-stutter, “Yeah, yeah, okay. Done.”

You’re glad to see them turn tail and push through the crowd. You sigh, ask another friend to “please tell Martin about Lando. He’s over on the decks,” and then tell everyone else they need to back off unless you ask for help. You turn your attention back to Lando, grateful for your experience wrangling teenagers which is apparently a lot like wrangling drunk adults around an accident.

“Sorry,” you sigh, hands back on him, “Can you tell me what happened?”

“Er, my glass broke.”

“Your glass broke?”, you repeat, and then, “Lan, babe, can you move your hand please?”

“Mm. I dunno.”

“Sweetheart,” you say, the pet names you try not to use for him slipping out of your mouth with alarming frequency, “C’mon.”

Someone stuffs a wad of apparently clean napkins into your hand and then the first aid kit you’d asked for is on the table next to you. You unzip it, flipping it open and gathering supplies as Lando finally musters the courage to move his hand from the injury.

“It’s bad,” he says matter-of-factly, now fixated on the blood trailing down his arm, “It feels bad.”

“I’ll look,” you sigh, shuffling your high-stool closer to him so your thighs are touching, “Don’t freak out.”

You can hear him, breathing a little ragged with nerves. His unbloodied arm grabs at your jumper, clutches there. You lean into him, using a napkin to dab at the blood spilling down his nose. It’s not that bad— or it’s not bleeding profusely anymore. You don’t see any glass, just a two-centimetre wide gash on the bridge of his nose.

“Lan,” you say, reaching for a cotton ball to press there, guiding his hand to hold it, “Lando. It’s fine.”

He scrunches his nose, winces when it hurts, “Are you sure?”

You nod, grabbing napkins to wipe up his arm which you meant for him to attend to, “Promise. It’s not deep. Just need to wait for the bleeding to slow down a bit.”

You wipe blood off the tan skin of his forearm, but it’s dried a bit so you’re more just smearing it around. You manage what you can, leave the rest for later.

“Okay,” Lando says finally, sounding a little less shaky now, a little more reassured by you.

You cant help but smile to yourself as you move Lando’s other hand and the now red cotton ball. You pour a bit of saline on the cut and you’re pleased to spot no glass residue. And to find that it’s not too deep— it’s a sizeable gash but it hasn’t done anything scary like hit bone and it’s not bleeding much now. It seems to have just scraped a good layer of skin off.

You lean back and level Lando with a look. He returns the look with apparent apprehension, mouth curled into a frown, green eyes wide with worry.

“What?”, he asks.

“I’ve gotta put antiseptic on it, bub.”

He groans, grits his teeth and tips his head back instead of wincing.

“Okay,” still through gritted teeth, “Do it.”

You ready a cotton swab with a good glug of antiseptic on it. Moving again to loom over Lando. You steady his head with your fingers on his chin, not gripping hard but enough to remind him to stay still.

“Y’know,” you say, going for it right away with the cotton ball— he hisses through his teeth, a prolonged thing, “This’ll leave a scar.”

“Ugh,” he groans, less at what you’re saying, more at the way you’re covering his entire nose in antiseptic, “Girls like that don’t they?”

You shrug, letting the antiseptic dry, letting the sting subside. You ready a bandaid— they’re Disney Princess themed, thrown in there with the standard first aid kit bandaids. You’ve made an executive decision that he needs to have Princess Aurora plastered across his nose for the rest of the day.

“I guess,” you answer, imagining Lando’s nose with a permanent mark on it, “It’s cute. Quirky.”

“You think?”, he looks at you expectantly.

You snort, peeling the bandaid from its wrapping, “I have no idea, Lan. Maybe it’ll be horrific.”

He makes an offended noise, shaking his head as you tip forward to press the Aurora bandaid across his nose. You smooth it down on both sides just as Martin materialises from the crowd, carrying new drinks for the three of you. Condensation rolling down the sides of the beer glasses.

“Ah, mate,” Lando admonishes, reaching around you to take a beer, “You didn’t have to stop the set for me.”

Martin shrugs, “Eh,” he practically forces a beer into your hand, eyes shining with something that’s maybe a little mischievous, “It’s no worries. But, you clearly have someone taking care of you.”

He winks slyly at you— you feel the urge to punch him bubble up in your chest. You take a gulp of your drink to stymie the feeling, try to step away from Lando.

Lando grabs you. His arm going around your shoulder as he slips off his stool, pulling you to him. You knock your shoulder into his, bounce back and try not to press into his side.

“You don’t mean that,” Lando says later— once Martin has been filled in, you’ve been told the sequence of events leading up to the cut, and you’re another beer deep.

“Huh,” you raise an eyebrow, your mouth on the straw of your tequila apple juice, “Whaddya mean?”

“That it’ll look horrific?”

You sigh, giggle a bit, “No, Lan. Course not.”

“You think girls will like it?”, he’s smirking a little, pleased at the idea, then, hands on your shoulders, “Would you like it? You’re a girl.”

You roll your eyes, ignoring the thing in your gut, “Well, babe. It’s covered by a princess bandaid right now, but sure, yeah— it’ll be cute. Hot even.”

He smushes you to his chest without warning and if his smile stretches even wider for it then so what.

✨lets discuss: best friend!reader using so many pet names when lando needs reassurance because its her internal dialogue that she usually has the presence of mind to filter out— but when she’s taking care of him she’s not bothered to focus on cutting them because her only priority is lando😁😁😁 on that note best friend!reader would be a total wreck if lando got in an accident on track 😋

send me a prompt/request + a driver and i’ll write something. pls check if my requests are open 💖

[peachdues]

BIRTHDAY SURPRISES — NSFW

Sanemi Shinazugawa x Reader

A/N: there is nothing redeemable about this. It’s just 7.9k words of pure filth in honor of my man’s birthday.

My husband got a boner reading this, so enjoy you whores.

CW: MDNI • Explicit sexual content • daddy!kink • elevator blowjobs • creampies • rough sex • kinky sex • brat-taming/mild dumbification • overstimulation • fluff at the end followed by more smut • not proof read lmao

Sanemi Shinazugawa has never liked the month of November.

For starters, the stupid month can’t decide what damn season it wants to be. It’s somehow too cold to really qualify as autumn and the leaves have usually fallen to the ground, brown and dead and useless, but it’s also still too warm to snow.

And November is such a tease — smack dab between two great holidays yet offering nothing but a restlessness that persists until the end of the year.

So no, Sanemi Shinazugawa isn’t fond of this time of year. But the universe has never shied away from giving him the middle finger, so Sanemi supposes he shouldn’t be surprised his birthday falls during such a bullshit month like November.

He’d been content to spend the day of his birth like he did every other year — hunkered down in his apartment with some cheap takeout, alone, without anyone to make a big fuss about it. That was the plan — his goddamn plan.

So how the fuck did he end up here?

The “here” in question is a suite at one of the city’s most exclusive hotels. The room is stuffed full of faces, some familiar but most not, packed together like sardines. The music is loud and pulsing and it threatens to give him a nasty headache.

It was Tengen who convinced him to allow this — though, Sanemi doesn’t suppose he was given much of a choice in the matter. But his friend group learned of his impending birthday a few weeks earlier, and before Sanemi could level a few, well-backed threats against any party planning, Tengen had booked the massive suite in which he now found himself, and promised Sanemi that he wouldn’t have to buy a single drink.

Sanemi agreed only on the condition that he be allowed to book a separate hotel room — several floors below where this godforsaken party now raged.

At least Tengen had meant it when he promised Sanemi wouldn’t have to spend a dime on alcohol. He took care to run up his friend’s tab by ordering several shots of Grey Goose, throwing them back as easily as water.

Hey, it was his birthday, after all.

The hotel suite is a blur of lights and colors and bodies pressed together in dark corners. Truthfully, Sanemi really can’t find any one thing to pay attention to; it’s ironic that this party is supposedly for him, and yet he feels like the most invisible person in the room.

But then he spots you — beautiful, witty, and charming you — seated in the lounge area, surrounded by both shared friends and strangers, and it’s like a spotlight has been pointed directly at you. All else seems to fall away, recessing into the shadows of the room, and his attention is locked solely on you; the star of the show that is his birthday party.

The feelings swirling in Sanemi’s chest are dangerous; lethal. He knows he should look away and accept the fact that you, with your endless pick of eligible women and men, would never deign to chase after someone like him, someone with as many scars on his heart as are seared into his skin. He knows that. He knows he’s only setting himself up to get more pissed off — to hate his birthday more than he already does.

But he can’t stop watching you.

And even if he could, he doesn’t want to. He’s only been in love with you since the moment Shinobu tugged you into a booth at a bar they all frequented. There hadnt really been any room for you to sit — not with seven of them already packed tightly onto the bench — but you’d taken one look at him and grinned, something that could only be described as mischief lighting your eyes.

“You don’t mind if I sit here, do you?” You’d asked him sweetly as you plopped your ass right down on his lap. “You look like you’re the comfiest one here.”

Sanemi, who was known for having a quick temper and an even quicker mouth, had been stunned into silence by the presence of a beautiful woman, perched on his knee like it was the most natural thing to sit on a stranger’s lap. His friends had been hard-pressed to suppress their smirks at the way Sanemi gaped at the back of your head, and he was fairly certain it was because you’d been so ballsy that you’d secured a permanent spot in their weekly bar rotation.

That had been over a year ago, and Sanemi’s infatuation with you grew deeper by the day.

Not that he’d ever done anything about it — even though, at times, it felt like you were all but baiting him into acting on his feelings. He wanted to believe the way your eyes followed him wherever he went in a room meant something, that your lingering touches were an invitation for more, but he could never bring himself to find out.

That cowardice, he supposed bitterly, was exactly what led him here, sitting alone at the suite room bar, watching as countless others flirted with you and you, right back.

A few times your eyes had tracked him across the room; one time, you looked as though you were about to push through the throng of people shoved into Tengen’s suite to come talk to him, but a hand on your bicep caught you and diverted your attention.

It’s then that Sanemi snaps. The moment he watches as the asshole in question pulls you against him for a slow grind, that jealous, monstrous thing in his chest rears its ugly head, growling and gnawing to be let free.

He’d hoped, for one pathetic moment, that you would push the man away, shake your head, do something that indicated you weren’t the least bit interested in him, no matter how fascinating his multi-colored eyes were, or how charming his feral grin was, but you didn’t. And the moment he sees the douchebag pull your hips flush against his, Sanemi knows he needs to get some air.

So with less grace than he knows he probably should show, Sanemi shoves his way towards the door leading out the suite and into the hallway.

Fuck it, he decides. He would go back to his room, several floors below, take a shower and hit the fucking hay. His birthday was bullshit, anyways.

He storms towards the elevators, slightly tipsy and certainly angry. He stabs a finger against the down button, his leg bouncing as he waits for the elevator to come and save him from his own party.

“What’re you doing out here, birthday boy?”

His stomach sinks to his ass at the familiar cadence of the voice behind him. Reluctantly, he turns and sees you making your way down the hallway wall, a smirk on your pretty lips and looking downright sinful in that flimsy, silvery dress that barely reaches the middle of your thighs.

That damn elevator can’t come fast enough.

“Go back to the party,” he says tightly, though he still won’t look you directly in the eyes. “Don’t let me interrupt your good time.”

You draw up short. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Sanemi only scoffs and jabs frustratingly at the elevator button, willing for the telltale ding that will allow him to step into the lift and get far the fuck away from this rager he didn’t want.

From you.

“What’s wrong with you? Did something happen?” You push, resuming your advance on him and shortening the space between your bodies. “Sanemi —“

“Save it,” Sanemi bites, and because he cannot help himself, he adds, “I just don’t particularly feel like watching you spread your legs for some lowlife asshole who can’t be bothered to remember your name.”

You blink, comprehension dawning on your face before melting to anger. “That’s what you’re so pissy about?”

Sanemi silently begs the elevator to hurry the fuck up, because now you’re only a few feet away from him and he doesn’t want you to see his fraying restraint.

You fold your arms across your chest, hip jutting out to the side. “You’re acting like a bitch because some jackass tried to grind on me? Why do you even care?”

Sanemi dodges your question with ease.

“You’re the one who fuckin’ followed me out here.”

The elevator dings and Sanemi is damn near falling to his knees in gratitude at its timing. The double sliding doors have barely finished opening before he’s already inside, jamming his finger into the button marked 26, praying it’ll move faster than it arrived.

The doors start to close but a pair of hands slam against both sides of the doorway, preventing them from joining in the middle.

You stand in the center of the threshold, eyes bright and nostrils flaring, the elevator doors half-closed around you.

“It wasn’t easy to throw this party together y’know,” you snap at him, and dully, Sanemi thinks the glare you give him is strong enough to wither plants. “Everyone went out of their way to try and make you feel special, but you’ve been nothing but an asshole about it.”

“I didn’t ask you all to do this — I begged you not to,” Sanemi retorts just as hotly, his arms folding across his chest. “I didn’t want a fuckin’ party.”

“Well, what do you want?”

the silence that stretches between you is more telling than any answer he could have given. By the way your lips part, you seem to realize it at the same moment he does, and that’s when Sanemi knows he’s fucked.

The two of you stare at one another for a moment, the weight of Sanemi’s unspoken admission hanging above your heads like the sword of Damocles.

But then, the blade drops, and it must impale you both, because suddenly your hands fall from the elevator doors and are tangling in his hair at the same moment Sanemi’s fingers latch onto your waist, and your mouths slam together in a fiery clash of lips and teeth.

The elevator doors slide shut behind you right as Sanemi presses you up against the paneled wall and slides his tongue into your mouth.

At the first stroke of his tongue against yours, you tense, and for one panicked moment, he fears he’s gone too far. But then you’re melting against him, and the way you tug on his hair and whimper his name against his lips makes Sanemi loses his goddamn mind.

Time stands still and there are no thoughts in Sanemi’s brain but the feel of your hands running down his arms, his chest, pushing under the open collar of his shirt to dance along his burning skin.

They can’t get to the 26th floor fast enough, no matter how fast the numbers tick past, bringing them closer and closer to privacy —

The elevator jolts to a stop, somewhere between the 29th and 28th floors, and does not move.

It’s just his fucking luck; the girl of his dreams is pressed flush against him, her lips at his ear as she begs for him, and the goddamn elevator has forgotten how to work. If his hands weren’t so busy pushing under the hem of that slip you call a dress to fondle the curve of your ass, he might’ve put a hole through the one of the doors.

He punches the button for the 26th floor again and again, his sanity fraying with each urgent jab of his fingers, yet the elevator still does not move.

If the idea that the pair of you are stranded in a metal box of death suspended over twenty stories high bothers you, Sanemi wouldn’t be able to tell — not when you’ve decided to turn your attention someplace else.

“What’re you —“ Sanemi’s voice is hardly more than a croak as your hands busy themselves with the buckle on his belt, fumbling and tugging until the leather fastened around his hips gives way.

“Shhh!” A press of your index finger to his lips silences him. “Birthday boys shouldn’t worry!”

Your fingers hook under the waistband of his pants and suddenly they’re following you down as you slide to your knees before him.

Sanemi’s eyes nearly bulge out of his head at the way your half-lidded gaze drifts from his face down his body, coming to rest on the tent of his briefs, jutting out from between his thighs.

Your voice is syrupy and warm as you whisper, “I guess I should let you have your first gift,”

Sanemi forgets how to breathe when you peer back up at him, your eyes suddenly round and wide; he nearly forgets how to stand when you lean forward and press your cheek against the side of his cock where it strains against his underwear.

Sanemi sucks in sharply through clenched teeth at the sudden rush of cold elevator air against the heated, sensitive skin of his bare cock, your fingers having tugged him free from the confines of his briefs.

“F-first?” He can’t stop the way the question stutters out, not when your lips, just barely gazing against him, drag from his base to his tip. The soft exhale of your warm breath up his length has his hands shooting behind him for something — anything — to grip.

You hum in confirmation, and Sanemi’s vision almost blacks out when your tongue peeks past your glossy, red-stained lips to trail over his leaking head.

“But you’ll have to wait ‘til we get to your room before you can unwrap the next one.”

Sanemi swears he’ll set the entire hotel building on fire if the elevator doesn’t start working in the next fucking minute. His vicious promise, however, fades to the back of his mind, along with every other coherent thought he’s ever had as your lips part around his head and you take him into your mouth.

“Holy fuck,” Sanemi hisses and his head falls back against the elevator wall with a dull thump.

You him pleasantly around his cock and Sanemi nearly cums right there, the vibrations from your mouth too sweet, adding gasoline to the already raging inferno of his desire.

At first, you keep your hands primly folded behind you, only allowing your mouth to work his shaft. Every time you slide up off him, you curl your tongue against the underside of his cock and every time, Sanemi has to draw upon every morsel of self-restraint he possesses to not buck further down your throat.

But soon, your hands pat their way to his, and you bring his hands against either side of your head. You hold them there for only a moment, just long enough for Sanemi’s stomach to flip as he realizes what you’re giving him permission to do.

You peer up at him with those big eyes, so wide and deceptively innocent, and he knows you’re trying to kill him.“Motherfucking — Y/N,” he moans, threading his fingers through your hair. “Fuck.”

With his grip in your hair secure, Sanemi begins to fuck your mouth. His cock slides in and out of your heat, every push shoving a little more of himself further into your mouth. You only relax your throat, your tongue still curling against the underside of his shaft in a way that makes Sanemi see white.

Sanemi’s hold on your hair tightens. “Fucking take it,” he pants, hips bucking against your face. “My little cock whore.” From his position over you, Sanemi can see the way his words make you squirm with need, your answering moan long, and deep.

Your hands flutter to the side of his thighs, and Sanemi almost winces at the prick of your nails against his skin. But despite the saliva steadily trailing down your chin and the guttural sounds choking in the back of your throat, you’re tugging him closer, your fingers inching around to grip his backside, pressing him closer and closer to you until your nose brushes his groin.

The elevator jolts with movement and resumes its descent, but neither of you notice. All Sanemi can focus on his the way his tip bumps against the back of your throat, and how your cheeks hollow against him as he ruts into your mouth.

Sanemi makes a strangled noise in the vague shape of your name. “I-I’m gonna —“

You only need to swallow around him once before Sanemi is filling your throat with his cum. With a deep groan, his head drops back, his hand splayed across the back of your skull, keeping your nose pressed against his base as he rocks his hips, his cock twitching violently in your mouth.

His eyes fly open when he feels the wetness from your tears against the sensitive skin of his groin, and he’s quick to pull out of your mouth. Your hands bracing against his thighs as you gulp down air in heavy, shuddering gasps.

“Fuck — I’m sorry,” his hands smooth worryingly over your hair. “That was too rough, I’m so fuckin’ sorry-“

Your head snaps up, and Sanemi feels a brief moment of panic at the sight of your mascara, streaked down your cheeks from an onslaught of tears. Bht then you’re smiling at him, a big, triumphant, radiant smile, and Sanemi feels almost as dumb in the head as he had when your mouth was around his cock.

The elevator slows and Sanemi hastily tucks himself back into his pants. The moment his belt is refastened, his hand is on your arm, gently guiding you up to stand right as a ding! sounds, and the doors slide open to reveal the 26th floor.

You step out first, turning back to him expectantly. “Well? What room?”

Sanemi’s heart falls to his ass as he beholds the assured confidence blazing in your eyes. “2602,” he manages to croak.

You tug him out of the elevator and for a few moments, he’s dumbstruck by his good fortune. It almost feels like a dream, that your here, leading him down the winding hallway of this oversized and overpriced hotel, eager to get back to his room and do whatever the hell it is that’s lit that fire in your eyes.

Sanemi’s awe is short-lived, replaced by a crashing wave of need and boiling desire, hot and furiously bubbling under his skin. His hand tightens around yours and he jerks you around, spinning you until you’re caged tightly between the hallway wall and his chest.

His mouth attacks your neck, biting and sucking his claim into your skin, no matter how temporary. Your leg hikes up to hook around his hips, your foot pressed against his calf, and it seems neither of you care that you’re very much still on an open hallway as opposed to the privacy of his hotel room.

“I’m not holding back with you,” he whispers against the hollow of your throat. His hands slide hotly down your sides, fingers toying under the absurdly short hem of your dress, kneading just beneath the curve of your ass. “You asked me what I wanted — I want this. You.”

Your sultry giggle in his ear chokes off as Sanemi’s finger dips under your ass from behind to run firmly over your clothed slit. A breathy fuck falls from his lips as he feels the wetness seeping through the fabric of your underwear.

“That’s your main gift,” you’re tugging on his hair again until you’ve pulled him away from your throat so that you can slant your mouth over his. “Me. However you want me.”

You take his bottom lip between your teeth and suck, and Sanemi swears he’s died and gone to heaven. “As many times as you want.”

“And in whatever positions you want.”

Sanemi has never been a particularly religious man, but he thinks he’s about one nanosecond from dropping to his knees in worship of you.

Sanemi wastes no time in hauling you over his shoulder, throwing any and all cares to the wind of being seen as he slaps your ass and books the remaining trek back to his hotel room. Youre lucky his room is only around the corner, given that you won’t stop groping his ass.

Somehow, Sanemi manages to fumble for his keycard and swipes it, and he has you inside his room and pushed up against the door before it even fully latches shut.

You’re moaning and panting just from his hands, and Sanemi can feel himself already growing hard once more. His lips are feverish as they roam from your lips, to your neck, and down to the hem of your dress concealing your soft breasts from sight. His hands are even greedier, bunching the tissue-paper-like fabric of you dress between his fingers as he explores the curves and dips of your body.

“God you feel so fucking good,” he mutters against your lips between kisses. “I can’t get enough of you.”

From the way your hands drag down his chest, fingers sliding between the undone buttons of his shirt to explore his chest, he knows you’re just as starved as he is.

With a slight whine, you push him back, breaking your kiss. Sanemi looks at you, but the question building on his tongue does as you kick your heels off, your fingers flying to the straps of your dress.

Sanemi feels locked in place by the heat of your gaze, and he swears he can feel his pulse tick in his neck. One by one, you push the straps of your dress from your shoulders, letting the satiny material fall down your waist and puddle around your feet.

If Sanemi thought he was losing his mind before, he knows for certain that he likely needs to be committed now.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Sanemi’s stare is unabashed and gaping. For beneath that flimsy scrap of shiny fabric pretending to be a dress was not your bare skin, but dark green lace and mesh and corset paneling.

A teddy.

You twist slightly so you’re looking over your shoulder, fully exposing your ass and the thong-like back of your one-piece to the slack-jawed birthday boy.

“I figured you would like this one.”

Your words knock Sanemi right off his axis, his head spinning so fast, it’s a miracle it’s still attached to his shoulders.

You’d worn fucking lingerie for his party.

For him.

You’d gone out of your way to wear something you thought he would like on the mere chance you’d end up as you were now, here in his room. You’d planned for it.

You didn’t leave him any other choice; he was going to fucking ruin you.

His hand flies behind his neck to grip his shirt, ripping it over his head and throwing it unceremoniously to the side.

Sanemi doesn’t fail to notice the way your tongue darts out to wet your lips, your pupils blowing wide at the sight of the sculpted planes of his chest and abdomen.

He kicks off his shoes and his hands shove his pants quickly down his legs, grateful that he hadn’t bothered to refasten his belt or button after the stunt you pulled in the elevator.

“C’mere,” he orders, roughly. Left in just his black briefs, he lunges forward to take you into his arms once more.

Your peal of laughter as Sanemi throws you onto his king-sized hotel bed is the prettiest thing he’s ever heard. He wastes no time pouncing on you, eager to reconnect your lips, to kiss you until you’re left as breathless and wanting as he is.

Between messy kisses, Sanemi’s hands make their way down your body, squeezing and marveling at the way your body seems made for his touch. And as if the feeling of your skin beneath his palms isn’t enough to drive him wild, you’re so responsive to his touch. Every stroke of his hands seems to bring you alive until you’re practically thrumming with want and begging him for more.

His fingers slide over your lace-covered cunt and he swears at the dampness he feels clean through the fabric of your teddy.

“Eager, are we?” He hums, his lips following down the path he traced with his hands. “Tell me what you need, sweetheart.”

Your hips buck impatiently against him as his face settles between your thighs. He grins at your desperation, trailing open-mouthed kisses across your inner thigh until he reaches your covered slit.

He lets his tongue peek out between his lips and drags it over until he reaches your other thigh, groaning at the faint taste of you dampening the lace.

Sanemi’s fingers push under the edge of the teddy, a breath blowing past his lips when he connects with your dripping cunt.

“Look how fucking soaked you are,” he says in awe, marveling the way your slick coats his fingers. “Is this all for me?”

You groan, pushing your hips down to grind harder against his hand.

“Just fuck me already,” you huff. “I’m ready now.”

Sanemi tsks softly at you. “You need to ask a lot nicer than that, sweet girl.”

Your impatient demands taper off into soft moans as Sanemi sinks a single finger into your entrance, his cock growing impossibly hard at the feeling of you clenching easily around him.

Sanemi practically trembles at the thought of sinking into your heat, of how you might feel clenching and pulsing around his length while he fucks you the way he’s been dreaming since he met you.

But while he might be pent up, Sanemi isn’t so much of an asshole that he wouldn’t make sure you were good and ready to take him.

So he simply tugs the crotch of your teddy aside and without any further teasing or torture, he latches his mouth to your cunt with a deep moan.

As his tongue darts between your folds, Sanemi realizes that all the cake in the world couldn’t compare to how fucking sweet your pussy tastes.

You cry out, his name stuttering out between a staccato of moans and cooes for more. Your hands twist in his hair, alternating between pulling his face closer to your core and pushing him away, the pleasure almost too much for you to bear.

Sanemi thinks he could get drunk on your taste. His eyes open to watch the way your face pinches, how your jaw goes slack to let his name drip from your tongue.

Your hands unwind from his hair to tug at the sinful draping of lace fitted against your body like a glove. “Off,” you whimper. “Off.”

It takes him a moment to realize what you want. But after another plea of “off,” Sanemi’s hands are already working to push the teddy down your lithe form.

“I’ve got you, baby, I’ve got you,” he soothes, dragging the lingerie off your legs. Sanemi swears softly at the sight of you, bare and spread out on his mattress, your body pliant and ready for him to use however he chooses.

“S-Sanemi,” he can’t suppress his grin at the apparent whine in your tone. “I feel so — so empty —“

He doesn’t try to hold in the groan resounding deep from his chest. Youre asking — practically begging — for his cock, and Sanemi doesn’t have the willpower to deny you.

“Fuck this,” he snarls, and suddenly your body is caged under his, his hips slotting perfectly into the cradle of your thighs. “I need to be in you.”

His lips dance feverishly up the side of your neck until they reconnect with yours.

For a moment, your kiss slows to something more sensual and passionate, as opposed to the heated and frantic kisses you’d exchanged earlier. The sigh you exhale against his mouth is the sexiest thing Sanemi has ever heard, and the feeling of your fingers latching in his hair is a sensation he never wants to forget.

Your tongue swipes along his lower lip in a silent request for entry that he’s only too happy to grant. You moan against the taste of yourself on his tongue.

Sanemi knows he’s been head over heels for you for a long time, but the way your tongue dances languidly with his has him utterly undone.

If you wanted to, he’d let you swallow him whole.

Your kiss melts into something more needy and frantic, and Sanemi feels your wetness grind down against his thigh, a pleading whimper building on your lips. With an eagerness that makes his head spin, your legs shift to lock around his waist, and one of the hands you’d had latched in his hair drifts down his abdomen until it finds his cock, heavy and hot in your palm.

“I’ve got a condom —“ Sanemi manages between desperate kisses. “In my wallet —“

But your legs tighten around his hips and your hand pumps harder at his stiffened length. “Don’t need it,” you murmur against his lips. “On the pill.”

Sanemi thinks he might pass out. “Fuck — are you sure?”

You nod, eyes bright and alert even in spite of your sleepy, fucked-out smile. “Wanna feel you, baby.”

Don’t have to fucking tell him twice. Especially not when you’re calling him baby, even if it’s a pet name you’ll only use on him for the night.

With deft hands, Sanemi flips you so that your front is pressed against the mattress. You scramble beneath him to plant your knees, raising your ass high in the air, your cunt held out in an offering he could never refuse.

He gives one of your pert ass cheeks an appreciative smack before he shuffles forward on his knees. He rests one foot on the outside of your leg, parallel with your hip, and slots his other knee between your parted thighs. One hand grips the base of his cock while the other kneads at your hip, holding you steady while also keeping your limbs relaxed as he lines his tip up with your dripping entrance.

“Unless you say otherwise, ‘M goin’ hard,” he warns, his voice rougher than gravel. “Been waiting too long to do this.”

Ever the devilish little minx, you wiggle your hips back against him, and his breath chokes in his throat when your wet heat catches him at his tip.

You look back over your shoulder and Sanemi’s gaze darkens at the challenge in your eyes. “Give me everything you’ve got.”

Sanemi decides to respond to your taunt not with his words, but with his body. In a single, fluid movement, he plunges his cock deep into your heated core, his fingers tightening around your hips with bruising force.

“Jesus fuck,” he pants once he’s fully embedded to the hilt inside your warmth.

It’s unreal; the feeling of your silken, pleasure-soaked walls moulding around his cock like you were made to take him sends a bolt lightning surging down his spine, making him shudder.

A cross between a cry and a scream tears from your throat, muffled only by the press of your mouth against the starchy blankets of his hotel bed. He’s about to ask if you’re okay, if you want him to go slow for a bit since he knows he’s a larger than average. but then you’re throwing your hips back against him, circling and grinding and mewling for more.

“Fuck me,” you moan. “Fuck me, Sanemi — please.”

“God fucking damn,” Sanemi hisses through clenched teeth. And he knows he can’t deny you, not when your whining so prettily for him; nor when your pussy feels this fucking good.

He draws back, his cock sliding out of you until only his tip remains. He lingers there, for just a hair’s breadth of a moment, teasing.

Your impatient whine doesn’t last long as Sanemi slams you back onto him, the sound choking off in your throat. He doesn’t give you time to recover; he digs his fingers into the flesh of your hips and drives his cock into you again and again, pounding a relentless rhythm into you that has you sobbing into the mattress.

“Yes, yes, yes!” You blubber, your fingers fisted into the blankets below for purchase as you push yourself back to meet his frenzied thrusts.

Sanemi can’t tear his eyes away from where his cock, shiny with your wetness, disappears in and out of you. “You’re taking me so fuckin’ well,” he says in awe. Your pussy is gripping him like a vice, practically sucking him back into your heat. “You like letting me use you, huh?”

Sanemi shifts so that his weight is on the knee resting beside your leg, allowing him to push harder and deeper into your cunt. You try to lift your head, but Sanemi’s hand leaves its place on your hip to press down on the back of your neck, squeezing lightly.

“Oh f-fuck,” you groaned, voice slightly muffled from where your face was half-pressed into the mattress. “Oh god — just like that — D-daddy, yes —“

Sanemi’s hips stutter. Daddy. No one has ever called him that in the bedroom before, but fuck if it doesn’t somehow make him harder than a fucking diamond.

Especially because it seems like it slipped out of you without much thought, your eyes too busy staring at the back of your skull as every punishing thrust of Sanemi’s cock into your pliant cunt makes your body bounce against the mattress.

He likes it. A lot.

“Should’ve known you’d have a daddy kink, filthy little thing,” he groans, his hand reaching under you to toy with your swollen clit.

You only moan in response, and Sanemi can’t help but to swirl his fingers around that nub, savoring the way it makes your thighs quiver beneath you.

The hand still pressing against the back of your neck slides up to grip your hair, and Sanemi pulls your head up from the bed. “Do you call everyone ‘daddy,’ sweetness, or just those who fuck you the way you like it?”

“Not everyone” you gasp, voice strained against the tight arch of your neck. “Just you — ah! Only you.”

With a growl, Sanemi’s arm locks around your middle and hauls you up until your back is flush against his chest. One hand wraps around your jaw, his fingers squeezing your cheeks to keep your head back as he continues pounding into you.

“Look at you,” his exhales hotly against your ear, his teeth grazing your lobe. “Daddy’s pretty little toy.”

Your thighs quake in their effort to keep you up. Your moans raise an octave, warbling out of your throat as you settle heavily against him, utterly helpless against the pleasure rolling through your body.

Sanemi’s hand drops from your jaw to drag teasingly down your torso. When he reaches your lower belly, he presses his palm flat, the pressure allowing the blunt head of his cock to rub against that sensitive spot that makes you sing his name.

“You feel that, baby?” And the whine that slips out of you is one he wishes he could bottle up. “That’s all me — that’s how deeply I’m fucking you.”

He’s practically holding you up, your limbs little more than jelly, but he doesn’t mind. He only increases the pressure of his hand, rubbing slightly over the softness of your stomach.

“And that’s where I’m gonna fill you up, ‘til you’re nice and full, hm?”

A stilted cry of his name is dragged from your lips, and Sanemi swears he’d marry you tomorrow, if you’d let him.

It’s not lost on him that this is likely a one-time thing; that you’ll likely leave his hotel room and the two of you won’t speak of it again, but he can’t find it within himself to give a shit.

It doesn’t matter if this is just a slightly drunken hook up — it doesn’t matter to him if it’s just sex. You’re letting him use your body for his pleasure, and that thought is enough to make his brain turn to liquid between his ears.

Sanemi falls back against the bed, bringing you with him, your back still pressed against his chest. He winds an arm around one of your thighs, holding it open to allow himself to continue fucking up into you with the speed of a racehorse.

“God you’re so fuckin’ tight — don’t want me to leave, do you, precious?”

He chuckles in your ear, catching your lobe between his teeth. His hand wedges between your thighs to play with your clit again, and the way your pussy flutters around him signals that you’re right on the precipice of your orgasm.

The first of the night, if he had anything to say about it.

“Maybe I should make you my own personal cocksleeve — would you like that, sweetheart?” You’re mewling, nodding frantically as you squirm and thrash atop him.

“Would you like to sit on Daddy’s cock all day, keep him nice and warm?”

“Yes!” You sob, and Sanemi’s fingers circle your clit even harder, determined to to make you cum. “Yes, ‘Nemi, please! I’ll be your good girl — I’ll be so good —“

Sanemi’s pace falters slightly at your words, a new idea — a wicked idea, forming fast in his mind. “You will, huh?”

He abruptly pulls out of you, though the anguished cry that rattles out of you at the loss of his warmth tugs at his heartstrings. After all, you’d been so close.

Sanemi wastes no time flipping you under him, hooking both your legs over his muscled shoulders until the underside of your thighs press flat against his chest.

“You’ll cum when I say so,” he shoves his painfully hard cock back into your pulsing warmth, his knuckles turning white under his grip against the rumpled blankets as he fights to keep his eyes from rolling back at the feeling of being sheathed back inside you once more.

“And you’re gonna fuckin’ look at me when i fill you up,” Sanemi snarls between ferocious snaps of his hips. “I wanna see that gorgeous face when I cum inside this pretty little pussy.”

“Yes! Yes s-sir.”

“Yeah? And who’s fucking you this good?”

“Y-you,”

He ducks his head down to nip sharply at your breast. “Try again.”

“You are — D-daddy,”

Sanemi’s pace only increases. “Still not what I’m looking for, princess,” he’s borderline cruel and he knows it, but he also knows what he wants. “Tell me whose pussy this is.”

You don’t answer; you can’t, given how slack your jaw has gone, your mouth frozen in a perfect “o” as Sanemi pushes the head of his cock right at that spot deep within you that makes you seize down on him hard enough that he sees stars.

He growls your name and when you still don’t respond, he snaps his hips particularly hard against yours.

“Say it.”

His hand shoves between your bodies, and Sanemi pinches your clit harshly between this thumb and index finger.

“Sanemi!” You wail, writhing under him. His fingers rub soothing circles against your clit, though the relentless thrust of his cock does not ease.

“That’s my girl,” he praises, and the pressure of his fingers against your throbbing nub increases. “Now cum on this fucking cock.”

That does it.

Your back arcs sharply up off the mattress, thighs tightening around his hips as your cunt clenching around him with earth-shattering force. Sanemi feels a smug wave of pride as a surge of fluid springs forth and coats his abdomen and groin.

You fall back against the bed, limp and spent, but Sanemi isn’t done with you yet; you won’t be, not until Sanemi has left his mark.

He shifts over you, his full weight pressing you down into the mattress; his hands pushing your knees up until they’re level with your chest. You sigh and hum, still wading through the haze of your orgasm, but given the way you let your thighs spread a little wider, you’re aware enough to know that Sanemi is readying you to take his release.

It’s not enough; Sanemi doesn’t want you lost in the aftermath of your euphoria — he wants you crying out for his.

His hand grips your face, your cheeks squishing together beneath his fingers as he forces your head to tilt toward him. Your eyes flutter open, bleary and unfocused before the clouds part and your attention is locked wholly on him.

“Beg for it,” he grits out, his hand smacking against your clit until you howled. “Beg for my cum.”

“Please!” Your cry is shrill and desperate, your hands tightening weakly around his shoulders. “Please f-fill me up — oh, Sanemi —“

He nearly loses it at the way you say his name, like it’s some damn prayer and he, your salvation, but he holds back. It’s not enough — he wants you as filthy and wanton as him.

“Use your words,” his words leave him in a single, inexorable command.

Your lower lip wobbles. “Your cum — please, please fill this pussy up. Fill me up, fuck it into me —“

Sanemi cuts off your babbling with a single, bruising kiss. He feels his balls tighten, and the prickle at the base of his spine grows hotter, signaling just how close he is to nirvana.

His hand finds one of yours where it clings to his shoulder, a fruitful attempt to anchor yourself, and he pulls it away. Sanemi presses your hand back against the mattress, interlacing his fingers with yours.

Your pussy flutters around him in time with your thumb stroking over his knuckle, and that’s all it takes.

“Oh fuck —“ Sanemi grunts before he feels himself explode. With a strangled yell, Sanemi’s hips slam into yours, pushing his cock as deep as it can possibly go, and his release crashes into him with mind-blowing force.

it’s the hardest and the most he’s ever come in his entire life. Nothing else has ever or will ever compare to this.

But even as his release spurts heavily inside your honeyed core, Sanemi doesn’t relent in his pace. His hips keep rolling steadily into you, prolonging his release to the point his toes curl, and he wonders whether his nose might start bleeding.

The corners of your mouth tilt up, a pleased groan vibrating loud and wanton in your throat as you feel him fuck his hot seed right into the Eden of your body.

Despite the mind-numbing pleasure of his orgasm, Sanemi won’t let himself look away. The face you make as he fills you up is the prettiest damn thing he’s ever seen.

Sanemi stays buried in your heat for several more moments as he comes down from his high, his head dropping into the crook of your shoulder. With a grunt, he pulls out, dropping down next to you in a flurry of messy blankets and pillows.

You push yourself to your side, a hand coming to push the sweat-dampened ends of his bangs from his eyes. “Good birthday?” You tease, your cheeks flushed bright red, your eyes bright.

“The best,” Sanemi agrees, his eyes scanning your face, committing every detail of you and your post-sex glow to memory.

The two of you lay next to one another for a little while, talking and quietly laughing. Neither one of you seems eager to leave the bed, and Sanemi in particular finds himself hoping today never ends.

Eventually, nature calls and he excuses himself — reluctantly — to the bathroom. When he emerges, he’s greeted with the sight of your ass, bare and exposed as you nestle into the bed, one leg kicking lazily up into the air behind you.

Fuck, you’re too beautiful, and he is far too weak.

He approaches the side of the bed, stretching out one hand to drag teasingly down your spine, until he reaches your ass, knuckles kneading the soft flesh.

His eyes flit to the small clock perched on the hotel nightstand. Sanemi’s grin turns lupine as he reads time reflected by the green-tinted digits.

Sanemi’s fingers skirt down to your ankle, gripping it firmly in his hand. He tugs you over the side of the bed until your head dangles off the edge, your hair stretching towards the ground. “Looks like it’s still my birthday, darling. I ain’t finished enjoying my present yet,” he grips the base of his half-hard cock and taps it against your lips. “And I’ve been dying to cum all over this pretty face of yours.”

—-

True to his word, Sanemi takes him time ravishing his birthday gift. When the clock on the nightstand finally reads 12:01 AM, he flops down next to you, chest heaving as he works to catch his breath.

You lay beside him, panting in tandem with him from the exertion of the night’s activities. There isn’t an inch of you that isn’t sticky as a result of the heady mixture of your sweat and Sanemi’s cum.

You feel his eyes searing into you as you trail a finger through the milky white splattered across your chest — a favorite place of his to cum, as you’d learned, second only to spilling inside of you.

Sanemi hardly holds back a whimper at the way you bring it to your lips, letting your tongue lick your finger clean of his pleasure.

“You’re trying to drive me wild, woman,” he throws a tired arm over his face, shrouding his eyes. “You torture all your hookups like this?”

He’s surprised at how quickly you sit up in bed, your eyes flashing.

“Hookup?”

Sanemi props a fist under his cheek. “Well, yeah,” he winces slightly, searching for more careful words. “I don’t expect anything from you. I appreciate the birthday surprise, though.”

Your gaze is leveled, and your voice even. “I don’t buy lingerie for one-night stands, Sanemi. That shit is an investment.”

His eyes blow wide, and he feels the erratic thrum of his heart stuttering in his throat.

“I want you,” you say firmly. “And I had every intention when I followed you in here tonight for this —“ your hand waves back and forth between your chests. “— to continue.”

It’s a miracle Sanemi is able to speak at all. “I’ll take whatever you’re willing to give.”

You grin. “Well, now that you’ve fucked me, I guess you should take me on a date.” You pause, trailing one delicate finger down his chest. “But I won’t make you wait until we’ve been on three before I let you fuck me again.”

Your hand dips below the edge of the blanket and glides teasingly over his cock, already beginning to stir once more. “You’re far too delicious.”

Sanemi snatches your hand and rolls you under him before you can blink, your answering giggle the sweetest music ever to grace his ears.

“Y’know, in other parts of the world, it’s still the 29th,” he murmurs huskily, grazing his lips against yours. “So by that logic…”

You nod, eyebrows drawn together in seriousness. “We’re obligated to keep celebrating.”

Sanemi’s lips are already trailing down your body, savoring the taste of himself on your skin. He settles back between your legs, marveling at the way your thighs fall to the side so easily to accommodate his mass.

He presses a sweet kiss against your clit. “You’re just the gift that keeps on giving, aren’t you, darlin’?”

[delirious-donna]

The Best Worst Father’s Day [Nanami Kento]

an: I wrote this in like 20 minutes because i was ‘inspired’. Kento deserves a fantastic Father’s Day but let’s be real… kids are not always willing to deliver

pairing: Nanami Kento x female reader

warnings: fluff, mention of a child, suggestive at the end, kids being assholes, tantrums (not just the kid), Kento being a fucking hero, breeding kink (if you squint)

Masterlist

It was Father’s Day and it also marked the day that your precious bundle of not-so-small joy decided that they were going to be a nightmare. All day.

The morning started out on the right foot, Kento snoozing peacefully with his sleep-soaked face pressed into the spill of your cleavage, a subtle drunk smile plastered to his face. Awoken by the telltale stomps of what your child affectionately tried to pass as tiptoes grew closer to your bedroom door, you blinked away the dregs of sleep just in time. A head peeked inside, drowsy and rubbing their eyes with a beloved teddy bear tucked under one arm like a newspaper.

You smiled and whispered a good morning before pressing your finger to your lips and pointing to their sleeping father. The answering giggle melted your heart as you heard them scamper downstairs, awaiting their breakfast and entertainment for the morning.

Lost in a kaleidoscope of rose-tinted memories that led to this moment, you combed softly through the blond locks of hair hanging low on his brow. Kento shifted, his eyebrows pinching and smoothing out until he rolled over and continued to sleep. He deserved it, he really did.

All those nighttime feedings, endless nappies changed, hours of reflux and windings that never seemed to yield results. The skinned knees and the tears. A million cups of tea at your bedside table before your bleary eyes even opened for the day. Car seats researched to the nth degree for safety reviews and practicality. First steps. Their first word, and of course it was ‘dada’.

The years had sped by at an alarming rate, feeling as those dark tortuous hours in the depths of winter were only yesterday. There had been far more good times than bad, and without Kento by your side the whole time, you weren’t sure how you would have managed. He might not be your Father, but you were determined his day would be one of the best.

However, that slice of idyllic tranquility would be the last, although you did not yet know it.

Whether the stars had misaligned or some demonic imp had decided today was the perfect day to toy with the emotions of a young child, you didn’t know. What you did know was that they were ‘on one’, and no amount of coaxing or reminders of whose special day it was would deter their rampant destruction.

Kento, diligent and steadfast as ever, refused to back away from the plate. He smiled through the gift giving which consisted of a beautiful handmade card by his darling angel, the very same darling angel who was kicking off because they couldn’t watch their favourite tv show right now. Aptly, the bottle of whisky could not have been a better choice, and he glanced surreptitiously at you with a knowing smile.

From there it went from bad to worse. Tantrums and tears, and not only from the hellspawn, ensued. Your sobs of “you’re meant to be relaxing today, not doing all of this” fell on deaf ears. No amount of cajoling or attempts by you were working, leaving Kento to swoop in like a hero just minus the cape and with the addition of a garish tie.

You watched from the kitchen door, enormous mug of tea in hand and a tissue dabbing your puffy eyes as Kento chased your child around the garden. The laughter broke your heart, but in that way that a happy ending in a movie also broke your heart.

There he was, the man infamously referred to as stoic and reserved, growling like a lion and throwing your little darling around to hollering whoops of laughter. If only they could see what you saw, if only they had known right from day one that behind the cool facade was a man that would do anything for his family—for his wife.

With energy levels finally depleted and the boss level of bath and bedtime tackled and won, you fell into his open arms. Your nose buried in the collar of his shirt, inhaling the spice from dinner on his skin and drinking in the warmth he exuded.

“I’m sorry, Kento,” you mumbled, lip wobbling from the stresses of the day. The anger that had sizzled in your veins only hours ago defused into a mass of misery.

“For what?”

“For the shitshow that was today! Don’t ‘for what’ me.”

Kento tilted your head up, his thumb beneath your chin and his lips upon yours in a soft rush that surprised you. The red wine from dinner melted onto your tongue, pushed deeper as he took and took, only to give back everything and more.

Finally, he pulled back with a contented hum. “Father’s Day is all well and good, but you gave me the best gift you ever could years ago… a baby that has grown into a wilful little mischief maker just like their mother.”

If you weren’t already emotional, you sure were now. Tears brimmed in your eyes only to be caught on the pads of his thumbs. Soft kisses decorated your cheeks and you grasped fistfuls of his shirt in earnest.

“Better stop talking like that, or I’ll give you another one, mister.”

“Mm, now that has made my day. I’ll give you to the count of ten to strip and kneel on the bed,” he breathed in your ear, biting the shell and playfully grabbing at your backside.

“One… two…”

[writeonwhiskey]

the skz house: ch 31

a/n: the word count on this chapter is 8,729. i kept adding to it and tweaking it for so long, but i am happy with this conclusion to the story. thank you to @bahablastplz and @chanssoftgalaxy for editing!

[ read chapter 30 here ]

Chapter Thirty-One: Of Vets and Contracts

It takes a while for you to compose yourself during the ride to your new apartment. The driver, an older gentleman in his 40’s—if you had to take a guess—makes no attempt at small talk. He keeps music playing softly in the background and at one point produces a small pack of tissues for you.  You accept them and thank him, ripping open the pack to dab at your eyes.

He pulls into the parking lot, coming to a stop in front of the leasing office. You let out a deep breath in an attempt to calm yourself before exiting the vehicle.

“I just need to get the key, and then I’ll come back to take everything out,” you stop at his rolled down window to speak to him.

“I’ll be taking care of that for you, sweetheart.” he replies.

You furrow your brow as a wave of panic courses through you. No doubt thanks to you and Hyunjin having started watching Abyss the other night. You can almost see the headlines now—Girl Moving Into New Apartment Brutally Murdered By Her Driver. You’d taken the safety for granted you felt living with your ex and then at the SKZ House. You’ve never been on your own like this.

“That’s okay but thank you,” you politely decline his offer.

“Well, that young man gave me a couple hundred bucks to do all the heavy lifting for you,” he informs you.

Realization dawns on you then: that’s what Chan must have gone up to talk to him about. Still, it leaves you feeling uneasy to accept a stranger’s help. Not to mention letting him know where you are going to be living, by yourself.

“He told me to text him once you made it here safely,” he continues, “and was extremely clear that if I tried anything immoral, he and every other one of those guys at that house would come find me and make me regret it. Said they have the resources to do it, too.”

You let out a small laugh and shake your head at that. It fills your heart to know Chan wanted to ensure you were taken care of, since he can’t be here to do it himself. Yet, it also pains you to think you can’t even text Chan or Hyunjin yourself to let them know you’ve made it here.

“I have a wife and kids to make it home to. I think they will appreciate it if I’m still alive when I show up.”

You offer him a kind smile, but still choose to exercise caution.

“You can take them to the elevator inside, but I’ll get them the rest of the way.”

“Deal,” he nods and exits the car.

As you walk towards the leasing office, he starts taking your belongings out and carrying them into the actual apartment building.

An hour later, you have the key to your new place and have brought everything inside. At first, you just stand there. Alone. It feels eerie. It’s too quiet. You’re tempted to throw yourself on the bed and lose yourself in the sadness of it all, but you resist. You have to be productive.

You get to work unpacking, stopping occasionally to compile an amazon order for groceries and household items you’ll need whenever they come to mind. It isn’t until around 9:00pm, when you’ve ordered takeout and you’re sitting on the sofa, eating in silence that everything starts to hit you again.

The tears come out in waves and you push your food aside, suddenly losing your appetite. You hug your knees to your chest, rocking yourself and willing the thoughts and memories to simply erase themselves from your mind. But they’re not going anywhere. Not for a while.

As time passes, you start adjusting to your new normal. You have the bus times memorized to make it to class on time and some days you splurge on an Uber. For a while you feel nervous about crossing paths with any of the members, although you don’t have classes with any of them this semester and it’s a huge campus. You hadn’t run into them often before, why would you now?

So, of course, it happens when you least expect it. You spot Seungmin in the cafeteria with other players on the baseball team one day. He locks eyes with you, offers a subtle smile and a wink before turning his attention to the group. It’s over so quickly, you don’t have time to wave or smile back. He doesn’t look your way again.

The days turn to weeks and Chan’s last words to you play on a loop in your head, whenever you’re alone. They leave you feeling hopeful for a call or text or knock on the door, but it never happens.

The one surprise you do get is a large envelope in your mailbox one day. There’s no return address but your name is written on it, and you immediately recognize the handwriting as Hyunjin’s. Your heart starts racing as you make a dash up the stairs, not wanting to wait around for the elevator. As soon as you’re inside your apartment you tear open the package and pull out the sketch paper inside.

There’s a post-it note on the back that you see first which reads ‘Breaking the rules one last time. Happy Birthday’. Your face instantly contorts as you flip it over to see a charcoal mixed with watercolor portrait. You examine the image closely—it’s definitely supposed to be you, but this is how Hyunjin sees you. He somehow captured a beauty within you that you’re unable to see in your own reflection. There’s a sparkle in your eyes, a coy smile on your lips, and beautiful, vibrant splotches of blue and purple surround you. It’s breathtaking. You have to hold it away from you to avoid ruining it with your tears.

In the back of your mind, you can’t help but wonder if Chan will send you something, too.

He never does.

The last month and a half of the school year, you start spending time with some of your old friends again. They poke and pry to get information out of you about your time at the infamous SKZ House, but you never say a word. You can’t, really, but you wouldn’t even if you could.

When graduation comes around, your eyes constantly roam the packed auditorium. The seating arrangement is split up by degree type, and you have no idea where the Business majors are. You do, however, spot your parents in the stands and give them a wave. They were certainly not pleased when they found out you’d been living on your own all this time without telling them, but they were proud of you for making it work, nonetheless. Of course, you left out the part about spending seven months living with eight men, to spare their sanity.

Your name is called, and you walk across the stage—the roar of applause is much louder than you expected. And though you can’t see them amongst the sea of faces, you know it’s them. You accept the congratulatory document from the Dean, pose for a picture, then return to your seat.

Your knee starts bouncing uncontrollably when they announce the Business majors are next. As they line up to approach the stage, you finally see them, lined up alphabetically amongst the other graduates. Chan, Minho, Hyunjin and Changbin. Your heart starts to flutter at the sight of them looking all studious in their cap and gowns.

You may not be permitted to speak to them, but you sure as hell can support them, as they’ve always done for you. You watch in a trance, cheering and clapping as loud as you can, as each of them cross the stage. This is, after all, probably the last time you’ll ever see any of them.

ONE YEAR LATER

Deep inhale. Long exhale.

You got this.

You repeat the phrase in your head like a mantra.

“It’s your show today, y/n. Tell us what you need.”

You nod curtly in response to Dr. Hayes. You expected to feel more nervous—heart palpitations, perspiration…but you don’t feel any of that. You are incredibly calm and focused, most of which you attribute to having had Dr. Hayes as your mentor this past year. You’ve watched and helped her spay and neuter plenty of cats and dogs, but this is your first time performing it solo.

Your patient is Buster, a four-month-old tabby cat. He was not happy upon his arrival and has already been given a small dose of sedatives to stop him from hissing and clawing any time someone approaches. The veterinary assistant is currently shaving and sterilizing his left paw as well as the surgical surface area in preparation for you.

It’s hard to believe that you’ve finally reached this moment—that it’s been one year since you graduated and 14 months since…

No, you can’t allow yourself to go down that road today. Not right now.  

Dr. Hayes observes from a distance as you administer the anesthesia to Buster. All the other equipment is prepped as you monitor his vitals and make sure he’s ready for the operation. You give her another curt nod when you’re ready to begin and she says nothing as you get to work, calling out the equipment needed and the steps you’re taking.  

“Excellent incision, y/n,” she comments.

You smile behind your surgical mask at the praise, but don’t let it distract you. The procedure is fairly quick—but you take your time to ensure it’s done correctly. After twenty minutes, Buster has been snipped, sutured, and moved back to the recovery area. You stay in the operating room with Dr. Hayes, removing your gloves and mask, positively beaming.

“Remember this moment,” she tells you as you wash your hands together side by side at the sink. “Your first solo surgery—and you nailed it. You’re going to do amazing things, y/n.”

“Thank you, Dr. Hayes,” you tell her.

Catelyn, the receptionist, pokes her head in through the door just then.

“Uhm…Doc?”

“Everything okay?”

“This guy says he needs a checkup for his dog before they fly back home, but it’s past the time we accept walk-ins. He’s making it sound urgent, though.”

“That’s not a problem, we can do it.”

“But…he’s asking specifically for y/n,” her eyes flicker over to you.

You furrow your brow at that.

“Why me?”

“He wouldn’t say,” she shrugs.

“You got this,” Dr. Hayes offers a reassuring nod. “I’ll check on Buster. Call me if you need me.”

You follow Catelyn out to the front waiting area, wondering what’s going on. You haven’t exactly made a name for yourself in the veterinary world that someone would come in here and ask for you specifically.  

“Ah, shit,” you hear someone say, followed by the sound of objects clattering on the floor.

Your ears perk up. You know that accent…you know that voice.

Your eyes are then drawn to the dog on top of the counter, sniffing the area where countless other animals have been placed. Her fur is predominantly white with light brown patches along her back, surrounding her eyes and covering her ears.

You know this dog. You’ve seen this dog…but never in person.

Your eyes dance around the room for the owner as your heartbeat picks up in a way it hasn’t in over a year...but you don’t see him. But you did hear him, right?

You let out a sigh and shake your head. You haven’t experienced a phantom event like this—hearing his voice—in such a long time. A twinge of disappointment rattles you, and you’re puzzled by it. Both the feeling and this predicament. Perhaps this dog just looks familiar. There are plenty of King Charles Spaniels out there. But Catelyn did say someone asked for you…

And then, from beneath the counter he rises.

“Sorry, knocked these over,” he says, trying to put all the pens back into the jar where they’re kept.

Your eyes roam over his face, instantly drawn into strikingly handsome features. He’s wearing a black ball cap with his dark curls poking out in tufts beneath it. His russet brown eyes are alight with a twinkle that wasn’t there the last time you saw him, the nose he loved to hate, but you adored so much, and those plump pink lips. Oh, how you dreamed of those lips. Pressed against yours, kissing every inch of your body.

He doesn’t look the same as you remember. He looks even better than what your memory could recall. Since you couldn’t take any pictures of the members while in the house, that was one thing you struggled with the most—their faces started to fade with time.

“Chan?” you say in disbelief.

Maybe it’s a doppelganger…somehow here with a doppelganger Berry, too. 

But when his eyes snap over to you, you know it’s him. You know instantly by the way your body forgets how to handle normal functions, like breathing. You’re momentarily paralyzed. You’re trapped in his gaze, unable to look away…not wanting to look away. The building could catch on fire right now and you wouldn’t have clue, wouldn’t be able to drag yourself to safety.

The thoughts you pushed out of your mind earlier come crashing back with a vengeance. The same thoughts that cause you so much pain and joy when you think of them—Chan, Hyunjin…everyone in the house. You missed them terribly, at first. Alone in your studio apartment, you often cried yourself to sleep over what you abruptly left behind. The first couple of months were the hardest. However, eventually you were able to get past it. After graduation, you kept in touch with the other girls for a little while, but eventually life dragged you all in different directions.

You focused all your attention on your studies and the vet program, keeping yourself so busy that you didn’t even have time to think about anything else. Memories would creep in occasionally, usually happy ones, and you were able to accept them for what they were and keep going about your day. Other times, though, you’d be plagued with wondering what they were doing now, who they were with, and if they had found anyone else.

You tried dating. Once. He was nice…but with everything you had going on, he simply wasn’t a priority, nor did he hold your attention or satiate your desires. Not in the way Chan had, simply by being near you. You feel the familiar emotions only he can evoke from you begin to stir, and you suddenly feel warm.  

What is he doing here? Your inner voice of reason steps into the spotlight. There’s no way he should be here asking for you. How did he even know where to find you? Perhaps your first surgery was actually a disaster. You accidentally injected yourself with the anesthesia and you’re dreaming. That has to be it. Although tragic, that would make more sense.

“Y/n, you okay?” Catelyn asks.

You blink at him standing in front of you, pulling yourself out of your thoughts.

“Y-yeah. I’m fine. I got it, Cat. Thanks,” you lie.

You’re not fine. Your body is very much on edge, in fight or flight mode.

Catelyn nods and scurries off to the back.

“What are you doing here?” you ask incredulously.

“It’s nice to see you, too,” he feigns offense while smiling.

That fucking smile. You never thought you’d see it again. It conjures up the long dormant butterflies in your stomach, sending them into a frenzy. You are not prepared for this.

Berry yips and you instinctively go to her, stroking her soft fur. It feels surreal, looking down at her in real life after only seeing her pictures and videos and hearing the stories Chan told you about her. Her curious brown eyes look up at you as she sits on the counter. You rub behind her ears, and she scoots closer to you, moving her head around to sniff you.

“She likes you,” he says.

“What are you doing here?” you ask again, looking back up at him.

“We’re flying home in a few days and the airline requires a certificate issued by a veterinarian for pets traveling internationally.”

You have so many questions at that—who is we? How long has he been here? What brought him back?

“But…why here?” you attempt to clarify.

“Dr. Hayes is USDA certified, right?”

“Chan…”

“I wanted to see you,” he finally admits.

Again, so many questions rush through your head in an instant. You had done so well putting the thought of him in the back of your mind, burying it deeper and deeper with each passing day. To see him again like this, caught so off guard, is unnerving.

“Is this even allowed?” you ask warily.

“Well, technically Berry needs this to get back home. And it’s the perfect excuse to come see you.”

You sigh softly. What are you meant to do with that response? You’re not supposed to have any contact with him, or you could face legal action. That thought sparks a bit of anger within you. Why would he put you in this position? Maybe he hadn’t learned anything after all.

“We close soon,” you tell him, “This is extremely last minute, Chan.”

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes, “I was hoping to catch you at the end of the workday and take you to dinner after…to catch up.”

You blink at him again. Not even five minutes into seeing him and he’s already got your head spinning. He’s behaving way too cavalier for the consequences and repercussions this little visit could have on you. And he wants to just take you to dinner?

Instead of responding, you shift into work mode. The front counter has a slightly lowered section, where Berry is sitting, that serves as a scale for smaller animals. You turn it on, keeping her attention on you as you weigh her, then go to the computer to start entering the information from the paperwork Chan had filled out. He moves in front of Berry, and she takes a few steps across the counter to him, tail wagging as she stands on her hind legs, pawing at his shirt. He hugs her to him, rubbing her back and talking to her sweetly.

When you’re done at the computer, you walk back to them and extend your hand for Berry’s collar, which he hands to you. You gently pick her up and she nestles into your arms, head moving around as she continues to take in her surroundings.

“Dr. Hayes has to complete this…I’ll be back in a second—wait outside.”

You turn and exit the main room. Walking down the hall towards the backroom, you feel like you can take a breath for the first time since you saw him. You find Dr. Hayes and explain the situation to her. Thankfully, she agrees to handle it on such short notice. You pass Berry to her and make your way back to the front.

You exit the building to find Chan and spot him sitting on the curb next to a black Tesla. You walk to the car and lean against the passenger door, crossing your arms in front of your chest as you look down at him.

He’s looking up at you with a smile on his face, eyes raking over yours, down your body, then back up again, making you feel very much like a meal he could easily devour.

Would you let him?

The fact that you have to question your resolve and all the work you’ve done to put him in the past after just one look is upsetting. His showing up so randomly makes you think you’ll have to start the process of forgetting him all over again. And it may hurt even worse this time around, which only stokes the flame of anger brewing inside of you.

“How have you been?” he asks casually.

“Good, I guess,” you answer with a shrug. “Why did you come here?”

“I really did want to see you, y/n, is that so hard to believe? I’ve missed you,” he stands from the curb and walks towards you.

You should probably put a hand up to stop him from getting too close, but you don’t. You can’t. Your body wants him nearby. His presence is like a drug you’ve gone too long without, and you were once an addict.

He stops in front of you, close enough for you to inhale his scent. He smells different. A new body wash or cologne, perhaps. It’s nice.

“You came to find me under the guise of needing this certificate for Berry?” you ask to make sure you understand him correctly. “Where are your parents? I don’t want to get into any trouble for this.”

You can only assume they’re here too—why else would he have the family dog with him?

“You won’t,” he shakes his head. “My parents are preoccupied, it’s fine.”

“Is it? I don’t understand, Chan. It was stated quite plainly that we could not see each other again…why would you do this? You shouldn’t be sneaking around to find me.”

“It’s a lot to explain,” he says. “I could elaborate over dinner. If you’ll let me take you.”

You remain quiet at that, looking down at your feet. Your body and heart are screaming for you to say yes whilst your brain is warning you to be cautious, to protect yourself.

He hooks a finger under your chin and your insides begin to churn at the physical contact. He tilts your head up and when your eyes meet again, it takes everything in you to resist launching yourself forward to embrace and kiss him.

“What was the last thing I said to you?” he asks.

You chew on your bottom lip, you remember what he said all too clearly. It was those three words that made moving on so difficult. They kept you up at night, wondering if there would be a knock at your door, but there never was. Those three words made it feel impossible to move on at first, and it broke you to have to chop it up as an empty promise. After a few months without hearing anything from him, you had to start putting him behind you, for your own sake.

“This isn’t over,” you finally answer him.

“And I meant that,” he cups your face gently in his hands. “I know it’s a lot so suddenly, but I couldn’t contact you or find you until I was sure about a few things.”

He piques your interest with that, but you’re still unsure if this is a good idea.

“Let me take you to dinner when you’re off,” he continues, “I promise I’ll explain everything and after that, if you never want to see me again, I’ll accept it.”

“Yeah…you’re so good at accepting my decisions, aren’t you?” you ask with an arched brow.

“I’ve grown,” he drops his hands to his sides with a soft smile.

He takes the smallest step closer to you, and you feel his hips against yours causing your breath to get caught in your throat. This isn’t fair. How can he undo literal months of progress in under twenty minutes?

“Let me take you to dinner. Please.”

You stay quiet as you mull over his offer. It would probably be best to just give Berry back to him when Dr. Hayes is done and act like this never happened, go back to the life you’ve created without him. But standing here, this close to him, how could you decline? You want to know what he’s been up to, what they’ve all been up to, and most of all how and why he tracked you down.

“Okay,” you finally say, to which he smiles widely again. “I’ll come back out with Berry in a few minutes.”

“Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”

Thirty minutes later, you’re riding in Chan’s presumably rented car, with Berry seated comfortably in your lap, wondering what the fuck is going on as he navigates seamlessly through the streets.

“We’ll drop her off first then go eat, yeah?”

“Sure,” you shrug absentmindedly.

Your brain is running at what feels like a thousand miles per minute with thoughts. You’re just going with the flow at this point, feeling wildly out of control of the entire situation. It’s been a while since you felt this way; letting someone else take the reins. A large part of surviving this past year was due to relying heavily on structure and routine.

Chan brings the car to a stop in front of a hotel downtown. You see a dark haired, fair-skinned female in sunglasses, baggy jeans and a loose-fitting t-shirt walking towards the car.

“That’s my sister,” he nods to the woman while unlocking the doors.

Your eyes open wide. Sister? As in Hannah? Now you really don’t understand what’s happening. How can he be taking you anywhere near his family?

She approaches the car and reaches for the door handle, swinging it wide open. She lowers herself a bit and pushes her sunglasses down the bridge of her nose, peering at you over them. Berry instantly stands in your lap, panting and wagging her tail, but doesn’t make a move to jump out of the car.

“This is her?” she asks in a thick Australian accent.

Chan nods.

“Hi,” you say awkwardly.

You feel terribly under dressed in your scrubs compared to how fashionable she seems.

“’sup,” she replies coolly. “Nice to finally meet you, y/n.”

“You too?” it comes out as more of a question than a statement.  

How does she even know who you are?

She extends her arms forward to take Berry from you, cradling her like a baby.

“You kids have fun—don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” she says, taking a step back onto the sidewalk. “Which isn’t much.”

She throws a wink at you before pushing up her sunglasses.

“Hannah—gross,” Chan chastises her and she just shrugs.

“See you later,” she replies with a wave before turning around and sauntering into the hotel.

“She’s a nuisance,” Chan says as you close the door.

He puts the car into drive and takes off down the street.

“You hungry for anything in particular?”

“I’m not hungry for anything at all, if I’m being honest. I’m just confused as fuck right now, Chan.”

“Do you want to come up to my room?”

He’s stopped at a red light, and you look over to him. Your heart starts beating furiously behind your chest at the proposition. And, also, remembering the events that took place the last time you were in a hotel room together. Talking to him in a private room sounds much more appealing than in a public restaurant, though.

“Okay,” you reply.

He rolls down your window a bit, honks the horn and waves his hand to get the attention of the driver next to you. The window of the expensive looking, grey SUV rolls down to reveal an attractive woman.

“Mind if I cut in front of you? I need to turn here.” He throws a dashing smile at her.

“That’s fine,” she says, with a flirtatious smile.

“Thank you,” he replies.

“Oh, you’re welc—” her reply is cut off as he rolls the window back up.

When the light turns green, Chan accelerates to maneuver in front of her and turns into the parking garage. He takes the car to the valet and your door is promptly opened by an employee. You step out of the vehicle and Chan is at your side in seconds, taking your hand in his as he passes them the key fob.

He pulls you towards the hotel and you blindly put your trust in him to guide you safely, since you can’t stop looking down at your joined hands. Another sight you didn’t think you’d see again. You don’t look up until you’re in the elevator.

“You swear this is okay?” you ask.

“Of course…you’re safe with me.”

You want to believe him so badly.

He presses the button to his floor and turns around to face you, his back to the doors. He cups your face, stroking your cheeks with the pads of his thumb.

“You have no idea how much restraint I’ve had to exercise since seeing you,” he whispers. “I missed you so fucking much, y/n.”

You nuzzle your face against his right hand, allowing his words to wash over you. He starts to lean closer to you, and you feel yourself moving towards him too. What’s the point in resisting? Every part of you missed him just as much. You already know you’ll have to start the Chan-detox process again so, even if it’s just for a night, maybe you can get your fix of him.

Just as his lips brush against yours, the elevator chimes and the doors open again. Chan spins around and steps back, realizing you’re not on the correct floor.

“Going down?” the man outside the elevator asks.

“Up. Sorry mate.”

Chan presses the button to close the doors and resume your upward journey. He turns back around to face you, cupping your face in his again. This time, though, in a moment of clarity you resist, turning your head away from him slightly, eyes downcast.

“Fuck,” he says, seeing your response. “I’m gonna fuck this up because I can’t keep my hands off of you.”

He drops his hands from your face and takes a step to the side. He turns around to face the doors, looking down at the ground.

“I really missed you,” he mumbles. “In every way you can miss a person.”

There he goes. Saying the sweetest things that make you want to melt.

“I missed you too,” you admit. “I just…I don’t know if any of this is a good idea or not.”

The elevator chimes again and the doors open. Chan looks up to confirm you’re on the right floor before stepping out and holding the door open for you.

“Let’s get inside. I’ll keep my hands to myself, unless you say otherwise.”

“And if I don’t?”

“I’ll drive you home with my hands at two and ten the entire way.”

You chuckle at that.

He stops in front of a door near the end of the hall and takes a keycard from his pocket. He uses it to unlock the door and pushes it open for you to enter first.

You step inside and walk down the short hallway. The room is massive, initially making you panic at the thought of who else is staying here. This still feels wrong and sneaky in so many ways that you cannot afford to be in trouble for.

“Are you staying here with your family?”

“Mom, Dad and Lucas are a few floors up. Hannah is down the hall,” he tells you. “Relax, I promise it’s okay. Take a seat.”

You sit down on the sofa, attempting to relax. He sits next to you, leaving mere inches between you, but he keeps his hands to himself. Still, it’s not enough to calm your nerves.

“You keep saying it’s okay, but I don’t understand how it can be.”

“I’ll answer any questions you have,” he moves back a little so he can turn to face you, one leg resting on the couch.

“How long have you been in town?”

“A few weeks…for Jeongin, Seungmin, Han and Felix’s graduation. Everyone is here.”

Everyone? Your first thought is of Hyunjin. You’ve missed him so much, too. You think of the portrait he sent you and how you could never bring yourself to frame it and display it anywhere. You wished so badly that you could thank him for it.

“How are they?” you ask softly.

“The kids?” you nod. “They’re good. Everyone’s just trotting on the path laid out before us.”

You resist the urge to scrunch your face up at that. It never quite sat right with you that their lives are so heavily planned out for them. It reminds you, though, that even Chan is subjected to that. As much as he’s trying to make you believe otherwise right now, whatever he wanted to find you for is moot. You still cannot be together. His parents would never approve of you.

“I spent the majority of my time here trying to track you down, you know,” he says. “I wasn’t sure if you went to vet school somewhere close to home.”

“The programs here are better,” you tell him with a shrug. “Why did you need to find me?”

“I told you this wasn’t over, y/n. I’ve spent the past year fighting for this…for us.”

You furrow your brow.

“There is no ‘us’…there can’t be. I assumed you would move on like I had to. We can’t pretend we have any other options.”

He lifts his hand as if he’s going to reach for you but catches himself halfway through and drops it.

“Give me a sec,” he stands from the couch and takes off towards the bedroom.

You hear him unzipping something, presumably a suitcase. Then he comes marching back in the room with both hands behind his back.

“Pick a hand.”

“What?” you ask, confused by his antics.

“Pick. A. Hand.”

“Right.”

He pulls his right hand from behind his back and presents you with a CD. You take it in your hand and see an intricate white and green maze with the ‘The SKZ House’ written in the center. You flip it over, and see a list of song titles: Broken Compass, Connected, I Hate to Admit, Collision, Leave, and Waiting For Us.

“Is this…” you trail off.

“You left before it was completed, and Hyunjin wouldn’t fork over your address…and he refused to send it to you. Said it probably wasn’t a good idea.”

You let out a sigh. He was still in your corner, even when you were away.  And he was absolutely right. Receiving this would have been drastically different than the portrait. Hearing Chan’s voice singing and, judging from the song titles alone, this would have stirred up emotions you wouldn’t have been able to cope with. You know, once you actually found something to play a physical CD on.

“Thank you,” you mutter, setting it aside. “What’s in your other hand?”

“When you left it felt like the worst thing ever…” he says, sitting back on the couch as he presents the stack of papers in his left hand, flipping through the pages. “It still does, to be honest. But you were right—you deciding to leave early really was the best thing you could have ever done for us.”

He hands you the papers and your eyes are immediately drawn to the highlighted section on the page. You recognize it as a portion of the contract you signed.

“Once the assignee completes the duration of the school year, or leaves the home with a proper two-week notice, she will have no further contact with any member listed herein…”

“When I tell you I poured over the contract to find something…this is it.”

“I don’t understand…”

“You didn’t complete the duration of the school year with us, did you?” he asks.

“No, but—”

“And you didn’t give a full two-week notice, did you?”

“No…but—”

“It’s a technicality, sure. But it’s a fucking rock solid one.”

Your brain is rattling inside of your skull as he speaks, and you try to comprehend.

“I spent months meeting with lawyers to confirm that it is. I wanted to make sure this was an airtight loophole before I told my parents and before I came to find you,” he continues. “They knew something was off when I came back home, I was brooding more than usual. But when I found this, it was like a complete 180 for me. This was a chance. This was hope that I could cling to.”

Your eyes roam over the words on the paper again.

“My mom didn’t really put up much of a fight, she wants to see me happy above all else but my dad…” he trails off.

You sigh and close your eyes as you lean back against the couch. This is a lot to take in. It’s the information you sought, but still feeds into the original worry that him being with you would cause a rift in his family.

“He wasn’t so enthusiastic about it initially, and to be completely honest with you he’s still not fully on board, but he’s starting to accept it. I’ve been adamant. I’ve made it clear that I won’t settle for anyone else. I want you.”

You open your eyes and turn your head to face him. The look in his eyes punctures your heart. You can see the hope and light brimming within them. The mere thought of being with you again has kept him going all this time.

As he takes in your facial expression—one of confusion and pain—he furrows his brow and retreats from you slightly.

“Is there someone else?” he asks, sounding concerned.

“Right now? No…”

“But there has been?”

“Chan,” you say his name softly, not wanting to meet his gaze.

“It’s okay,” he reassures you. “I’m just asking.”

“Yes, there was. A few months ago, but it’s over, and it was never anything serious.”

He seems to relax hearing that.

“May I ask what happened?”

You squeeze your eyes shut and shake your head, feeling the brunt of everything hit you at once. You grit your teeth as the familiar prickling in your eyes starts up. The man you had been seeing was wonderful. He was smart and kind, and treated you so, so well. There was just one resounding problem. You open your eyes to look at him and a lone tear escapes down your cheek, the last you have left to cry over this man.

“He wasn’t you,” you answer mournfully.

Chan lurches towards you, but catches himself again. He curls his hands into fists and places them on his lap, like he’s fighting everything in him to not wrap you in his arms.

You sniffle, wiping at the tear on your cheek.

“I’m not here to force you into anything, y/n…I Just want you to know that it’s an option. We are an option.”

He opens his hands, palming his jean clad thighs and rubbing them vigorously.

Here he is—the man you fell so deeply in love with in just seven months. It’s ironic that you’ve now been without him longer than you even had him in your life. And yet…here he is. Professing his feelings for you. Telling you how he’s fought for you. Visibly restraining himself from touching you until you grant him permission.

You don’t know how to respond. You don’t know what to do or say.

You have to ask yourself, though…how could this work? He’ll be flying back to Australia or Korea or wherever the fuck soon and you’ll still be here. He knows that. He wouldn’t have come all this way, put himself and you through all this without a plan though, right? He has more forethought than that. Could this actually work? Could you actually get the chance to be with him, free of contracts, free of expiration dates?

You reach your hand out to cover his and he immediately stops rubbing his thighs.

Before you can stop yourself, you move his hands out of the way and climb onto his lap, straddling him. He exhales a sigh of relief, seeing you on top of him. You cup his face in your hands, while his remain limp at his sides.

“Touch me, Chan,” you whisper softly.

His hands swiftly gravitate to your waist, squeezing so tightly it may leave a mark. He runs his hands up and down your sides as you caress his face, letting your hands slide up to his hair, pushing off his hat. He shakes his head, and it falls to the side. You smile down at him softly, and he returns the gesture.

“How could this even work?” you finally ask aloud.

“It won’t be easy,” he answers truthfully. “But I will make it work, y/n, I swear to you. I’ll come and visit as often as I can until you graduate vet school. If you want to work in the states after that, I’ll set something up so I can work remotely and be wherever you are. If you want to move to Australia with me, I’ll find out what is required to get you licensed there—I don’t care what it takes or what it costs. I will make it work.”

Hearing his determination, you feel a sense of calm washing over you to ease your worries. While it’s not quite a concrete plan, it feels like enough. He understands the challenges you will be up against, and he will be by your side through the entire process.

You attempt to quiet the voices in your head, screaming out all the ways this could still end badly. You actually have a shot at this. You want to believe him. You’re choosing to believe him.

“Jeeze, you really missed me or something, didn’t you?” you tease lightly.

“More than you’ll ever know,” he responds in all seriousness.

And you have no doubt in your mind that he means it.

You lean down and allow your lips to fully connect with his. It’s a chaste kiss, but it’s enough to remind you just how much you’ve missed him. You pull away, then lean forward again, repeating the process several times as his hands grip your waist. His right hand slides up your back, stopping at your neck. He squeezes it gently and pulls you away from him.

“We don’t have to do anything,” he reassures you. “I didn’t come find you for this.”

While that is comforting to hear, you haven’t been able to shake the thought of having this kind of moment with him since you laid eyes on him. Waking up this morning, this certainly isn’t how you saw your day concluding. And there’s still so much to talk about and figure out, but you can’t deny the way your body is calling for him. The throbbing between your thighs is incessant.

“So, you don’t want to fuck me?” you arch an eyebrow, rolling your hips against his.

He groans, “It’s not about what I want, right now. Tell me what you want.”

You bite your bottom lip, feeling so many familiar sensations returning to you.

“I want you.”

He pushes your neck forward until your lips crash together again, more passionately this time. You part your lips and allow his tongue to enter. He slides his tongue against yours and you moan at the taste you’ve missed so much.

“You have me,” he says, breaking the kiss. “Tell me what you want.”

“I want you to fuck me, Chan.”

His eyes all but roll into the back of his head as he grips your hips and repositions you on the couch so that you’re laying beneath him.

“I was worried I’d never hear you say that again.”

His mouth claims yours once more and you succumb to all the feelings you still have for him as they soar throughout your body.

You still want him. You still need him.

As your tongues collide, he grinds his hips against yours, allowing you to feel how hard he is. You moan against his lips, unabashedly satisfied with the effect you still have on him. You reach for the ends of his shirt and tug upwards on it. He sits upright on his knees and takes it the rest of the way off.

“I was convinced I’d never see this again,” you say while your hands move of their own accord to touch him.

You drag your fingers up and down his defined abdomen—he’s even more toned than the last time you saw him, which you didn’t think was possible. You slide your hands up, across his pectoral muscles, lightly grazing his nipples along the way. You clasp your hands behind his neck and attempt to pull him back down, wanting his lips on yours again.

“No,” he says to stop you, pulling at your hands. “I need to see you too. Sit up.”

You raise the top half of your body from the couch and let him take your shirt off. He wraps one arm around your back, holding you to him as he effortlessly unclasps your bra with his other hand. You pull the straps down and slide it out from between you before dropping it on the floor.

Instead of laying you back on the couch, he keeps holding you close, your tits pressed against his abs. You wrap your hands around his waist and hug him back, turning your face to rest your cheek against his chest. He lets out a sigh and presses his lips to the top of your head.

You stay like that for a moment, wrapped in each other’s embrace—you listening to his deep, thumping heartbeat and him continually kissing your crown.

“You okay?” you say after a moment.

“Yes,” he responds immediately. “Just bracing myself. I know I won’t be able to hold back once I see you like this.”

You smile at that and pull away from him, lowering yourself back down onto the couch and resting your arms above your head.

“Fuck me,” he breathes.

He lowers himself on top of you, one hand grabbing a hold of your breast while the other grips your wrists, holding them together. He kisses you on the lips, then your chin. You tilt your head back to let him make his way down your neck and all the way to your breasts.

He kisses around the breast not currently occupied by his hand, before taking your nipple in his mouth. You let out a moan as he swirls his tongue around it, teasing you. He starts rhythmically rocking his hips into yours as his teeth clamp down on your nipple.

You gasp at the feeling, trying to pull your hands from his grip to tangle them in his hair. He grunts, holding them in place as he switches to the other side.

“Chan, please.”

The sound of your voice begging him feels both foreign and natural at the same time.

He continues to suck on your nipple a moment longer before releasing it from his mouth. He releases your hands at the same time, and they route themselves straight to the button of his jeans. He kisses you as you unbutton and unzip them, struggling a bit to remove them at this angle.

He sits up to do the rest and you watch mesmerized as his hard cock springs out from its confines. You reach out for it, wanting to feel him in your hands and take him in your mouth but he stops you.

“Later. I need to be inside you right fucking now, y/n,” he says, hooking his fingers into the waistband of your scrub pants and underwear. He yanks them down to the middle of your thighs and you help push them past your knees, then use your legs to kick them all the way off.

You place one leg up on the back of the couch, exposing your pussy to him.

“So god damn beautiful,” he remarks as his eyes soak in the sight of your completely naked body.

He grips the base of his cock and you both groan as he rubs the tip up and down your slit.

“Are you still on the pill?”

Your eyes open wide—you were so used to not using protection with him, that it had momentarily slipped your mind. You shake your head.

He slaps his cock against your clit, making your body jerk each time.

“We can get Plan B tomorrow,” you tell him breathlessly.

“Yeah? You sure you’re okay with that?” he asks, and you can hear the restraint he’s exercising in his voice.

He lowers his cock to your entrance and your hips begin to undulate in anticipation.

“Yes, it’s okay.”

He hooks your legs over his shoulder and slowly starts to push his way in.

“I fucking love you, y/n. You know that right?”

You could have assumed but even after all this time you never knew for certain. Hearing him actually say it is something you never imagined.

He fucking loves you.  

And knowing all he’s done to bring you back into his life, you don’t doubt him for a second.

“I do now,” you tell him, cupping his face. “I love you too, Chan.”

Saying it back feels like a burden has been lifted. You wanted to tell him all those months ago, but he cut you off. And it feels safer to admit now, knowing he feels the same, if not stronger, for you.  

Without another word he thrusts his hips forward. You gasp then moan, reveling in the feel of him being fully inside you. You don’t ever want to try convincing yourself that this isn’t right again.

The second and third rounds take place in the bedroom.

When you both need a respite, you lay tangled up in bed while Chan orders room service. You stay intertwined until there’s a knock at the door. The food is brought in and you cover yourself with his shirt before taking a seat in the living room. Chan places all of the trays out on the coffee table in front of you.

“What have I missed? Fill me in,” he asks.

As the two of you share a meal, you tell him what you’ve been up to since he last saw you and vice versa. He’s been working under his dad at the company as an intern. He enjoys the work, but still works on his music in his free time. He tells you about the others and all they’ve gotten into since you last saw them. Hyunjin has been traveling nonstop, nearly pushing his parents to the limit in what they’re calling his ‘tortured artist phase’. Your heart hurts for him, hearing that.

“Was there anyone else for you? Between now and then?” you ask.

“No.”

“Not even after I left the house?”

“It would have taken a few weeks to post an ad, find candidates, screen them, have them tested—too much hassle to have them in for just a month.”

The overwhelming sense of relief that washes over you feels wrong. Hypocritical, even.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize…”

“Don’t be.  Hyunjin and I were okay without an assignee. Our hands were probably working overtime, but, it was fine,” he shrugs with a teasing smile.

“And no one after graduation?”

“I can’t speak for Hyunjin, but for me…there never was anyone else. And there never will be.”

You take a deep gulp to swallow the food caught in your throat.

You don’t feel bad that he didn’t move on and try to find anyone else, per se, but hearing that does take you by surprise. Thinking back on his behavior, though, you never once saw him even remotely entertain another female. Even the one earlier from today outside of the hotel.

His commitment is unparalleled.

This man chooses you.  

He fought for you.

He carved a way for you.

The two of you finally have a chance at something real, and you don’t want to pass it up. Worries about telling your parents and your career are already on your mind, as well as if his family will truly accept you. You force them aside, not wanting to burst the bubble the two of you are in right now. You have the entire weekend ahead of you to talk more and figure things out.  

You don’t know how this can work and that unnerves you as you don’t quite see the vision yet—but you do trust him and feel safe letting him take the reins. You always have.

You always will.

[ read chapter 32 here ] (coming soon)

a/n: *cries* i can't believe it's over. i also can't believe this idea came to me on such a whim and turned into something that so many of you have enjoyed. i wasn't sure at all where it was going in the beginning, but i'm amazed at where it's ended up. i've been fighting for my life not to give out spoilers along the way to cheer you up through the angst. i've known for a couple months that it would be a loophole in the contract, that y/n would have to leave early and on short notice for it to work. it would break them, but also end up saving them so all of that tension and turmoil had to happen.

we still have the epilogue left to look forward to, though! where do you think they'll be?

[ekingston]

A chef!AU, maybe? In any case, a story in which Kara and Lena meet through one of them preparing/serving/etc food for the other and build their relationship based on that.

(also on ao3.)

“I’m telling you, Alex. It’s her.”

At three pm on a Tuesday their restaurant is characteristically dead, save for the one lone customer Kara is spying on from behind the kitchen doors. The woman is perched, a little perilously, on a barstool at the counter. It’s the one that’s closest to their register, the one with the wobbly leg that Alex keeps telling Kara to fix. One of her red-soled heels is dangling from an impatiently bouncing left foot.

“This is the fourth time this week she’s come in here,” Kara says. “You don’t think that’s just a little bit suspicious?”

Alex shrugs, fully committed to her task of mincing onions. “Maybe she’s just a big fan of Italian food.”

“No way,” Kara says. “No woman who looks like that would put something in her mouth that wasn’t clearly marked gluten-free and vegan. Give me your phone.”

Alex rolls her eyes dramatically as she elbows it over. “Tell me again how you’re totally over Siobhan.”

“Oral sex isn’t a moral issue!” Kara takes a decisive breath while she unlocks her sister’s phone with practiced ease. “Whatever. Water under the bridge.”

“Uh-huh.”

“A love for pasta also doesn't explain why I heard this woman answer a call yesterday with a different name than the one that’s on her credit card,” Kara points out, before snapping a quick picture through the porthole window.

“Okay, now you’re being creepy,” Alex says.

“Shut up,” Kara tells her. “I’m texting Winn.”

Kara eyes the woman at the counter while she waits for his reply. The subject of her suspicion—Lena, she’d called herself on the phone; Tess Mercer, it had said on her mastercard—twists a soft-looking lock of dark hair around her finger as she studies their menu. The way the sunlight sets it ablaze almost makes Kara take a second picture, purely for its artistic merit.

Alex dabs at her onion-induced tears with the cuff of her sleeve. “Let it go, Kara,” she sighs.

“Let it go? Let it—” Kara whirls back to face her, throwing her hands up in frustration. “Do you want The Tower to end up like Winn and James’ steakhouse? Or are you fine with getting swindled by this—this… villain?”

“Of course not.” Alex looks at her like she’s stupid. “But even if this woman is your so-called ‘food influencer’, what do you suggest we do about it? It’s not as if we can bully her into giving us a fair review.”

Kara squares her jaw and sets her fists firmly on her hips. “No,” she declares, her tone grim. “But we can teach her a little about journalistic integrity.” She blows at a lock of hair that’s fallen in her face. “And also, possibly, credit card fraud.”

Alex narrows her eyes at her. “Kara,” she warns, putting down her knife. Her voice is low and cautious, as if she’s talking to the rowdy raccoon that moved into their dumpster three weeks ago instead of to her baby sister. “Let’s just take a breath and think about this for a m—”

Kara is already gone, the doors to the kitchen swinging closed behind her. Sliding into the cluttered space behind the counter, she crosses her arms and then drops her elbows on the bar, leaning what she belatedly realizes is probably a little too close to her adversary. She’s close enough to make out the individual downy hairs on her chin and the lines in her painted lips, which are still pursed thoughtfully in what Kara is sure would look like an attractive pout to someone who didn’t know any better.

But Kara knows so much better.

“Let me guess,” she remembers to get out, much less biting than originally intended. “Today you’ll be having the fifth entrée down the list.”

As soon as their eyes meet over the miniscule amount of space left between them, Kara knows leaning in was a fatal mistake. Her nemesis blinks up at her with wide, startled eyes that remind Kara of the glass pebbles she finds on the beach on her morning walks, not-quite-blue and not-quite-green, and for a moment Kara’s brain sputters out as if someone abruptly turned off the flames that kept it cooking.

But the woman recovers fast, like the scheming scoundrel that she is. She guiltily shutters her eyes behind thick, charcoal lashes, and Kara’s temper revives at the observation that her enemy isn’t as good of an actress as she thinks she is.

“I’ve actually been thinking of breaking my own rule,” she says, with a smile that lands somewhere between self-deprecating and apologetic. “I may give in and order the same thing you served me yesterday.” Kara goes hot all over with righteous indignation at the rich timbre of the woman’s voice, the almost flirtatious lilt it takes on when she adds, “I haven’t been able to stop dreaming about it.”

Kara pulls back a little in an effort to escape that curious gaze, the enticing scent of the woman’s perfume. It’s sweet enough to drown out even Alex’s mountain of onions. “I know what you’re doing,” she blusters.

The—frankly unfairly beautiful—soulless grifter stares at her, stricken. “I’m—I’m sorry?”

“You should be,” Kara says. “I know who you are.” And then, as if she’s putting down the last card in a game of Uno, “Lena.”

The woman goes very still for a moment, and then the corners of her lips tug down in a bitter semblance of a smile. “I see,” she says. She’s rigid, regal; she’s royalty perched on a wobbly wooden stool. “And am I to assume that’s enough for you to turn down my patronage?”

Kara’s resolve wobbles, too. She hadn’t expected her adversary—Lena, she now knows—to roll over so easily. “Well, yeah, obviously,” she flusters, her energy suddenly too large and lumbering in the face of Lena’s deference. “Winn and James are family.”

“Family.” There’s a flicker of wistfulness in Lena’s voice, before confusion colors her features. “So the cold shoulder,” she says. “It’s personal?”

Kara scoffs. The fraudster doesn’t even remember the names of her latest victims. Typical. “It was their steakhouse that you razed to the ground last month,” Kara reminds her.

Lena blinks at her. “The establishment just up the road?” She raises a critical eyebrow. “I’m pretty sure they set themselves up for failure when they decided to name their restaurant Misteak.”

Kara huffs. Her air quotes are appropriately vicious when she says, “They were doing just fine before your slanderous ‘review’ went viral.”

Lena does a remarkably convincing impression of someone who is genuinely flabbergasted. “I don’t even know what that means.”

“Liar.”

Lena’s shocked laughter is bright but brief. It’s the first time Kara has heard her laugh. It’s maddeningly attractive and deeply annoying.

“Okay,” Lena says. She folds her arms in front of her chest and leans back a little in her seat, unaware of its delicate disposition. A smirk tugs at one corner of her mouth. “Tell me,” she says, her eyes narrowing. “Who do you think I am, exactly?”

Kara leans in close again, refusing to allow Lena to get the upper hand. She’d like to wipe that smirk from Lena’s face—manually, if need be—preferably, even, if it means she’d get to smudge that infuriatingly immaculate lipstick with her thumb—

“You,” Kara charges, in an effort to drown out that unhelpful thought, “are a fraud. You call yourself a ‘mystery food critic’ on TikTok, but really you’re blackmailing businesses into buying a favorable review.”

“Hey, um.” Alex has followed her out of the kitchen, holding her phone. “So. Winn texted back, and he says—”

But Lena laughs again, her guarded posture melting down to unmistakable relief. “I’m so sorry,” she says, her voice a high warble. “That sounds awful. And also extremely illegal. Have you reported this person to the authorities? I can get you in touch with an excellent lawyer, if you’d like.”

Kara doesn’t know if she feels more outraged or confused.

…Or possibly some secret third thing.

“So you’re telling me—” Kara barks out a disbelieving laugh. “You’re saying you’re not her.”

“This, ehm— Tic Tac person?” When Lena’s dark lashes flutter, something in Kara’s chest flutters too. “No.”

Impossible. “Then why have you been in here every day this week?” Kara interrogates, the full force of evidence she’s collected behind it. “When neither one of us has seen you here even once, since we opened?”

Alex rolls her eyes. “I told you I wasn’t sure whether I’d seen her here before,” she points out. “Also, Winn says—”

“Oh please,” Kara scoffs, her eyes fixed on Lena, who has propped her elbows on the counter again, closer now than she’d been the last time their eyes met. “As if you could forget a woman as beautiful as—” Kara’s gaze drops to Lena’s mouth, unbidden, when Lena parts those rude, ruby lips. “...You.”

Alex stares.

Kara swallows.

Lena blinks; two times fast, and then again, after a beat, slow and sticky, her eyes darkening.

“So you may as well come out with it,” Kara croaks out what little remains of her anger. “There’s something you want more than our fettuccine.”

Lena’s cheeks have turned a treacherously charming shade of pink. “I suppose you’re right about that one, at least,” she admits after a beat.

In Kara’s peripheral vision, Alex frantically slides her hand across her throat. Kara frowns at her, telegraphing a wordless what is your problem but finding no satisfactory answer in the crimson shade her sister’s face has taken on.

“Yeah, well,” she says, almost disappointed, fumbling to fill the space left by Lena’s confession. “I’m telling you right now that it’s never going to happen.”

Alex clears her throat with startling force. “Winn wants to know,” she says, reading from her phone, “Who’s the hot chick?”

When Kara returns her gaze to the woman on the other side of the counter, she gulps. Lena is somehow even closer than she was before. She’s also fully propping herself up now on the laminate surface between them, granting Kara a glimpse of freckled cleavage that in no possible universe could be interpreted as unintentional.

“So,” Lena drawls. “What you’re saying is you’re not going to give me your number?”

Kara’s throat is suddenly very dry.

“Huh?” she manages, but only just barely.

“I was hoping,” Lena says slowly, that maddening smirk once again tugging up the corner of her mouth, “that you’d maybe like to—”

Lena shifts in her seat, crossing her legs in what is bound to become a devastatingly seductive pose, but the barstool decides in exactly that moment that's it’s finally had enough. Lena yelps as it gives out beneath her with a dramatic snap, one of its rickety limps flying across the floor as if celebrating its first taste of freedom, and Kara’s never considered herself to be very quick, but here she is anyway, on the other side of the counter in what feels like less than a second, one hand gripping Lena’s forearm, the other slipping smoothly around her waist.

“—fuck,” Lena gasps up at her. She feels good, in Kara’s hands, slight but pleasantly heavy, like the santoku knife Alex has forbidden Kara from touching ever again. “Well,” Lena says. “That’s. Perhaps not the way I would have phrased it, especially in front of your friend—”

They both glance over at Alex, but she’s disappeared, the swaying of the kitchen doors the only indication she was ever there.

“O-kay,” Kara says.

Lena grins. “Okay?”

Kara mentally rewinds the conversation and feels her ears burn at the realization of what she just agreed to. “I mean,” she amends. “We could, maybe, grab something to eat first?”

Something devious sparks in Lena’s terrifyingly gorgeous face. She glances down at Kara’s arms before blinking back up at her again and smirking. “I thought you already had.”

And, goodness gracious.

Kara is about to be in so much trouble.

[merakiui]

promising young man.

yandere!riddle rosehearts x (gender neutral) reader cw: yandere, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, one-sided student/teacher relationship, obsession, dark thoughts, jealousy, delusion, brief descriptions of blood/gore, violence, death, murder, brief nsfw note - riddle's perfect world comes crashing down with the arrival of foreign exchange student azul ashengrotto.

He meets him in Intro to Psych.

Azul Ashengrotto struggles to parse English, but he’s dressed like a businessman with his pressed suit and leather Oxfords. The only thing that reveals his status as a student is the black backpack he carries to class. Riddle’s seen him around campus a handful of times. It’s hard to miss him when he seems to throw himself into social circles with practiced grace.

This is the first time he’s ever had class with him, though, and so now he gets to see him in a classroom setting. There isn’t much about him that immediately strikes Riddle as odd. He’s well-dressed and prompt with a polite tongue. Every time he speaks in his thick accent, the one that just commands admiration and attention, that tiny Italian flag pinned to the strap of his bag becomes even more apparent.

Riddle’s not sure what he’s doing in this class. Perhaps he’s aiming to study law as well. He’d hoped to find more people with similar academic hobbies and interests and, while he’s yet to form any lasting bonds, he’s been wondering what sort of person Azul is.

On the first day of class, he introduced himself with confidence: “Buongiorno, amici. I am Azul. I look forward to the year with all of you.”

Though the structure and pronunciation of English proved awkward in his mouth, that didn’t stop him from opening himself to others. He’s friendly and outgoing, always welcoming conversation when it’s thrown his way. Riddle finds it impressive. If he were in Azul’s shoes, he’s certain he’d feel just a little lost attending school in a new country, far from home, surrounded by people who speak a completely different language. But Azul is resourceful, a dab hand at communication despite the barrier in vernacular. Perhaps that’s where his charm comes from.

Riddle thought the two of them might get along.

But then Azul proved academically formidable, and then you began to pick his brain after class, during time that was specifically reserved for Riddle so that he could discuss psychology with you.

So now Riddle sits in his seat, impatiently awaiting his chance.

“The law over in here is fascinating,” Azul says, leaning closer as you show him something on the desktop computer. 

“What’s it like where you’re from?”

“Mm. How to explain… The law is…”

“It follows a civil law tradition,” Riddle pipes up, casually flipping a page in his textbook. He does it for show. He’s aware it probably makes him look like an arrogant know-it-all.

You peek past the screen at him. “Oh! Riddle, you’re still here. Hello!”

He hums, warming under your gaze. “I always am.”

“What was it you were saying about the Italian legal system?”

Azul stares at him. An unhappy frown tightens on his face.

Uplifted with pride, swimming in the clouds, Riddle elaborates: “I’ve only just started researching it, but it’s very interesting. In the realm of criminal law, trials are often led by judges or a select few to form a panel unlike the juries we have here. Of course you’ll find differences everywhere. All countries have justice systems and law enforcement. Still, it’s fascinating to compare and contrast the fine details.”

From across the room, Azul’s stink eye has never been more obvious.

“Ah, that’s right. I’ve heard a few things regarding the way cases are handled over there. From what you know, Azul, would you say the system is harsher here than it is there, or is it the other way around?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Azul says, and that polite mask of his slips for a second. “I’ve never done crime.”

Riddle snaps his book shut and rises from his seat. “Let’s hope not. You’ve a promising career ahead of you.” He smiles sweetly at Azul like he’s particularly stupid.

Azul tracks him as he packs his belongings away and strides towards the door. His brilliant blue eyes are dark. “Ci fai o ci sei?” he mutters, clicking his tongue discreetly. “Rompipalle…”

Riddle will later learn these are slang phrases. He’ll learn a lot of things later—things he thought he’d never need to learn.

Thinking it a joke, you laugh and wave your hand about dismissively. “Aren’t you going to stay, Riddle? I watched the first episode of that podcast you recommended.”

Riddle perks up at that. “You watched it?”

“This past weekend, yes. It’s a riveting series. They really dig deep into the facets of a criminal.”

“Don’t they just?” He hugs his textbook close to his chest, nearly vibrating out of his skin. Finally, the moment he’s been waiting for—an opportunity to speak with you. “I’m amazed at how much time and research goes into each episode, and they always treat each case with tact. It deserves so much praise.”

Azul glances between the two of you. Riddle is sick with satisfaction. Once more, his blue hues land on him.

“You like criminals?”

“Not in that way, of course not.” Riddle shakes his head. What a preposterous assumption. “I find their minds to be exceedingly, bewilderingly captivating.”

Azul blinks back at him, owlish. He doesn’t seem to grasp most of what Riddle’s just said.

“In short, I think they’re a fine learning experience.”

“An experience? Non capisco.”

“For those wishing to pursue a career in criminal justice or law. Think of it like watching a tape from a criminal investigation. It’s important to study the interview techniques and tactics utilized by detectives to understand what’s most successful in gathering a proper confession.”

Azul nods along. “Ah, capisco.”

“We’ll cover things like that later in the semester. Don’t feel so overwhelmed, Azul.”

“I’m not. I learn as I go. Grazie, Professor. You’re very kind.”

“I’m happy to help. If you ever need anything, my office hours are on that sheet I gave you. I had a colleague of mine translate the syllabus for you. If you have any questions or need accommodations of any kind, let me know.”

“I will.” He fixes the strap of his backpack and, after bidding you a final farewell, stalks past Riddle out the door. His footsteps echo down the hall until eventually they’re no more.

“Riddle, if you have a moment, I’d like to speak with you.”

“Of course. Anything,” he says hastily, his heart stumbling in his ribs. 

“If you wouldn’t mind, could you help Azul out? I notice he struggles taking notes during lectures. If you’d be willing to share your notes with me so that I can get them translated, that would be great.”

Riddle doesn’t want to share, but this is an opportunity to be praised in spades. “I’d be glad to. I’ll scan and email them after each class.”

“Thanks, Riddle. Your notes have always been so organized. This is a huge help. I’m sure Azul will be just as grateful.”

I’m not doing it for him, he thinks, bitter and envious.

But he just smiles, standing a little taller when you compliment him.

Your notes have always been so organized.

What is he getting so territorial for? He’s had you for four classes in past years. Azul’s only known you for a few measly weeks. That’s nothing compared to the special bond you have with him.

Riddle isn’t worried.

1 September, 20XX.

Dear Diary,

(Name) Rosehearts has quite the lovely ring to it. Far more musical than that of (Name) Ashengrotto. I’m almost certain he sits there in class, silently drooling over Professor. Just last week, he took my seat at the front. The gall to do such a thing! Can you imagine? He must know that seat is the best for getting a perfect view of Professor. It’s childish to bicker over seating arrangements and I refuse to stoop to his level. That said, the seat is mine. Professor’s time is mine.

I’ve deigned to share my notes, but only because Professor put such faith in my abilities by personally asking me. Even though it’s foolish, I’m tempted to sabotage the notes so that Azul will have incorrect study material. But that would be unfair and an infraction upon all that I stand for when it comes to academic fairness. Thus, I’ve refrained from doing anything of that sort. I’m certain Professor would disapprove.

It makes me happy to know Professor listens to the podcast I recommended. I wish we could discuss it at length, but Azul is always there and he takes up so much of what little time there is. It’s infuriating. I wish he would just drop out of the class. That way it will be just Professor and me, as it was intended.

Perhaps he will once the coursework comes knocking.

Sincerely, 

Riddle Rosehearts

Riddle slumps forward over his desk and combs his hands through his hair.

“That rotten Azul…” he sneers, his face scrunching into something sour. “He’s always monopolizing your time… Does he not realize how important it is to me—how much I look forward to talking to you? And you smile at him… You look at him with those sweet eyes of yours and he’s completely undeserving of such treatment! It never does anyone any good to be greedy, yet there he is…”

He inhales deeply, holds it for a few seconds, and then exhales.

What am I supposed to do? How can I make this right again?

Azul isn’t breaking any rules. It’s not a crime to seek you out for conversation after each class ends. But therein lies the issue. There is nothing wrong with that. It would be wrong if, say, there was an illicit exchange between the both of you. Like a taboo relationship of sorts…

Riddle startles in his seat, his eyes blown wide.

Azul isn’t having a secret affair with you, is he? Not that it could be considered cheating when you’re not yet married (and Riddle intends to keep it that way). He has a plan. When he graduates, there will be no formal barriers holding him back from starting a relationship with you. He can email you freely without the need to circle back to academics. He can invite you for tea or coffee and the two of you can chat about things that aren’t school, and it won’t be weird or overstepping boundaries. Because he won’t be your student anymore. He’ll be Riddle, your former student. And former students have better odds than current students, do they not?

He’s thought it out carefully. He was raised to be responsible, to do everything right.

And though he’s thought of it in passing—considered what might happen if he were to try to play at being a seductive siren—he’d never truly act on such folly. But Azul… It isn’t too impossible to theorize he might be sleeping with you for a better grade. What if he’s forced you into it? What if he has some sort of wicked blackmail? What if you’re holed up in your office every day, scared for your career, while Azul bends you over the desk and uses that boyish charm of his, that silky-smooth accent, to coax the sweetest of sounds from—

Riddle shakes himself free of that thought. He’s not going to imagine it any further. He doesn’t need to be plagued with graphic imagery, gross as it may be.

Even though he chases the fantasy from his brain, it returns to poke at him. He gazes at his lap, noticing the substantial strain in his pajamas, and groans.

It would be easier if he wasn’t where he is now. Logically, he’s aware he doesn’t have much of a chance. Neither does Azul. Unless he’s sleeping with you in secret. Then he has a chance. But he’s not. He can’t. That’s against the rules.

And even if he was, it wouldn’t be very fair for him to do the very thing Riddle’s abstained from.

His hand closes around his dick. He feels pitiful as he pumps himself to scandalous visions. 

It’s not fair.

He should have a chance. In a perfect world, he’d have you. He’s earned this, hasn’t he? He’s worked so hard. So why isn’t he allowed to have you?

It’s not fair.

Why does Azul get to relish in your attention when Riddle’s left alone in the shadows? Why can’t you look at him like you used to? Why can’t you praise him for knowing all the answers? Why can’t you tell him good work when he does just that? Why must you coddle Azul? Riddle thinks he can speak perfect English. He’s just playing it up to look weak and pathetic—to garner your sympathy!

It’s not fair. It’s not fair. It’s not fair.

He’s the good one. The one with perfect marks. The one with perfect attendance. The one every professor holds in high regard.

Riddle squeezes himself and sucks in a breath through grit teeth.

He’s not funny like Azul. He doesn’t have that awkward charm Azul has. He can’t speak another language fluently. He’s never traveled out of the country. He thinks he knows everything, but he only knows so much.

He can fascinate you with the intricacies of his mind, each fold primed for education, but Azul can do better because he has social experience.

Riddle can’t believe it. He, of all people, is jealous of someone.

Cum oozes from his dick and coats his fingers in a pearly-white. It isn’t satisfying.

Right then, he thinks his world would be better if Azul stayed in Italy.

Or maybe it would be better if Azul wasn’t in his world at all. 

On his way out of class, Riddle stops Azul in an empty corridor.

“I know what you’re doing,” he says, pointing an accusatory finger at him.

He blinks back, oblivious. And then he smiles, revealing a row of perfect teeth. “What I’m doing?”

Riddle won’t say it. He can’t. Because then he’d be admitting the truth Azul’s trying to pry from his heart, whether that’s his intention or not.

“You know very well what you’re doing.”

A silent head tilt is his reply.

His temper is nearing its boiling point. It’s been on a low simmer ever since Azul first bewitched you, and it’s threatening to spill over.

“I see the way you and Professor look at each other during class. You may think it discreet, but I know.” Riddle folds his arms over his chest, feeling very proud of himself for successfully playing Sherlock. “I can tell there’s nothing formal about it. So how long has this been going on? How long have you been flouting the rules?”

Azul stares at him. His shoulders shake with his chuckle. “You’re funny.”

Riddle startles. His accent—

“I’m here to learn just as you are. What I do outside of the classroom is none of your business, so it would please me greatly if you could stop prying.”

His eyes narrow into vicious slits. “If you lay a hand on—”

“Oh, I’ve done more than that.” Azul smooths the nonexistent wrinkles in his sweater vest. The same brand of sweater vest that Riddle wears. “But you have no proof. The courts here will want that, won’t they? Or is it harsher here? Will you need to peer inside Professor to see for yourself? I wouldn’t know. I’ve never committed a crime.”

Disgust pools in his stomach. He feels like he could vomit, and it isn’t because he’s appalled by the conspiracy Azul’s proposed. It’s because he should’ve been the one to do it if it was that easy. Instead, he musters a mean glare.

“Who are you, Ashengrotto? What do you want?”

“I’m just a student like you. I want to learn lots from Professor.” He brushes past Riddle, his voice a melodious hum. “And some things can’t be taught in the classroom.”

Riddle opens his mouth to let the angry tirade fall, but he chokes on the words. There’s so much he wants to say, but all of it will come out accusatory. And that’s where Azul has him pinned. It’s all baseless accusation.

He doesn’t want to believe it. Surely you wouldn’t… It’s impossible! An academic and social infringement! It’s wrong!

It should’ve been him.

Later that evening, cooped up in his room, Riddle scrawls furious lines in his diary: He’s a liar. A cheat. An embarrassment to this institution. I should be the one who holds Professor. I should be there in Azul’s place. I’ve worked so hard. I deserve it. I’ve earned it!

He can’t let this madness go on any longer. He won’t tolerate it.

Looking at it logically, Riddle has illustrated the negatives and the positives in his notebook.

If Azul’s insinuations are true, then all Riddle needs is valid evidence. Unfortunately, that would mean you might lose your job given the circumstances. If it’s consensual, both of you are equally at fault. If it’s not, Riddle hopes Azul will burn in a terrible blaze.

But if you do happen to lose your job, it would relieve some of the weight burdening his situation. He could start a real relationship with you. It’s plausible! Perhaps not very realistic, but there’s always a shred of hope to be found in misfortune. 

Riddle wonders if he should just ask you and save himself the headache.

He gazes sidelong at Azul, who has since claimed that seat for his own, and chances a glance at his open notes.

That’s Riddle’s handwriting.

He’s sure of it. That’s his handwriting. He writes his notes in cursive. He writes in a perfect, elegant slant. His letters always connect. There’s no denying it; that’s his handwriting on the page.

A disturbing thought crosses his mind: Has Azul been practicing my handwriting?

It sounds impossibly silly. Who would devote so much time to something so witlessly fraudulent? Riddle wracks his brain for a reasonable explanation. Why would he need to practice someone else’s handwriting? Riddle could understand if Azul struggled to write in English. Most of his work is submitted in his native language. You allow this exception even though Riddle finds it unfair. Maybe it’s because you treat Azul’s work like it’s something special, and you jump through all of these hoops just to get it translated. Why can’t you treat his work with that same amount of care?

Riddle drags his pen along the page, scribbling mindlessly. Why is he doing that? He has nothing to gain from writing like me.

But then Riddle realizes the notebook is the same as his. The same color, in fact. He wonders when Azul purchased a new one. Did he purchase a new one, or has he always had this one?

Riddle looks down at his notebook.

That’s Azul’s handwriting.

He blinks twice and rubs frantically at his eyes. When he looks back at Azul’s notebook, it’s to a page filled with Azul’s stylish scrawl.

Have I…been copying him this entire time?

No, surely not! He would never plagiarize. That’s one of the biggest sins of academia. He couldn’t live with himself if he did that!

Besides, he’s not the copycat. It’s Azul in his sweater vest, boasting the same writing implements as Riddle, using the same brand of notebook. Riddle’s not copying him. It’s Azul. It must be.

It can’t be Riddle. He’d never do such a thing.

After class, you call Riddle up to your desk. He hesitates, his heart thrumming wildly, and shuffles over.

“Yes, Professor?”

“Riddle, I’ve been wanting to talk to you about something.” You withdraw last week’s assignment from a folder and set it down. “You wrote this, did you not?”

Riddle scans the typed document. “I did, yes.”

“May I ask if the Italian was intentional?”

“The Italian?” he parrots, confused. “I don’t understand what—”

In between brilliantly articulated paragraphs, he’s sprinkled in Italian words and phrases.

He coughs out a rattled laugh. “I must have been studying it for another assignment before I did yours. I…can’t believe this happened. It was fully unintentional. I’m very sorry.”

His face is flushed cherry-red. He’s never felt more humiliated.

“It’s not a big deal. I just wanted to ask. It definitely confused me.” You take the paper from him, smiling that understanding smile he loves so much. But then, rather intrusively, he wonders how many times those soft-looking lips have been on Azul, wrapped around him, sending him to cloud nine… “I actually asked Azul to translate it for me. He said all of it was written correctly. You must be very adept in your Italian.”

“I… I suppose I am,” he answers after a tense minute.

His brain is swirling like sediment stirred up on the ocean floor. When did I pick up Italian? I’m not taking any language courses this semester. I don’t even own an Italian dictionary… Just what in the world is happening?

“Ah, you don’t have to look so pale! It’s not going to affect your grade. I only wanted to fulfill this nagging curiosity of mine. Thank you for all the good work you do.”

Riddle nods mechanically. When you ask if he has time to stick around and discuss more psychology podcasts, he shakes his head and mumbles a feeble excuse.

He tears through his desk and all of the drawers in his room in search of it. If it’s not there, he can relax. If it’s not there, he can chalk it up to stress. If it’s not there—

It’s tucked away in his bookshelf. A little pocket dictionary. English to Italian. And it’s been bookmarked and annotated.

Riddle pulls it from the shelf in a baffled daze. When did he get his hands on this? More importantly, when did he read through it? In a hurry, he empties the contents of his backpack and flips a few pages in his notebook.

His notes from class. Dated for today. Written in Azul’s script. And at the top of the page, an exact copy of his signature, a name that isn’t Riddle’s: Azul Ashengrotto.

Riddle peers at his trembling hands. He flexes his fingers, curls them into a fist and then unfurls them.

He seizes his psychology textbook next and skims the chapter index in search of an answer. He lands on it. Page 371. Dissociation.

Two minutes into a phone call with Trey, he’s asked a simple question: “Are you speaking with an accent?”

Riddle bristles. “Of course I’m not. Of…course I am not,” he says, sounding the words out. His brow furrows. Why does my tongue feel so clumsy in my mouth? “I’ve always spoken this way, have I not?”

“I can’t say. I mean, come on, Riddle. You’ve gotta be pulling my leg.”

“You know very well I don’t pull legs, Trey.”

“You told me buongiorno when I picked up.”

“I did not!” he snaps, scandalized. “I said good morning as I always do.” And then he pauses. “I… I did say good morning, didn’t I?”

Trey’s silence is answer enough.

Riddle sucks in a sharp breath. Neither of them says anything.

Eventually, Trey speaks. “Do you want me to come up there? I could bring you a tart or…something. You sound…tired.” He chooses his words carefully. “Silly question, I know, but I’ve gotta ask. You’re not overworking yourself?”

“No, not at all.”

“And you’re getting enough sleep? What about food?”

Riddle frowns even though Trey isn’t there to see it. “I’m fine, Trey. Midterms are coming up. I’ve got to focus. I refuse to fail.”

Again, the other end is quiet. A minute later, Trey says, “Do you have time this weekend?”

“This weekend?” Riddle flips his planner open to this week. “I do.”

“All right. Is it cool if I visit?”

Riddle almost declines, so it surprises both him and Trey when he replies with, “Please.”

“I’ll be there,” he promises, and the call ends before Riddle can say grazie.

Trey brings six strawberry tarts. Riddle shares three with him over tea at the campus café.

“So what’s up?” Trey points his fork at Riddle. “You sound like yourself, but you don’t seem…fine.”

Riddle chews thoughtfully. He can’t confide in Trey because Trey wouldn’t understand. Because he’d apply Trey Logic to everything, and Trey Logic is almost always sensible. Riddle doesn’t want to hear it.

“I submitted an assignment in Italian,” he says instead, casually, as if it’s not a big deal.

Trey looks at him like he’s grown a third eye. “Since when do you know Italian?”

“I dabble.”

Trey laughs. Upon seeing Riddle’s serious expression, the humor sticks in his throat. “Oh, you meant that. Well. That’s…good then? If it’s for a foreign language course—”

“It was for psychology.”

“You…wrote in Italian…for a psychology assignment?” he reiterates, attempting to parse it. He drags his fork through his cut of tart, but he doesn’t bring it to his lips. “Why?”

“I couldn’t say. It perplexed me to no end when I realized it. My professor thought it was curious.”

“It is. I mean, you don’t find that just a little…unusual?”

Riddle stares at him over the rim of his teacup. 

Trey tries again. “Was the Italian correct, at least? It wasn’t all nonsense?”

He nods. “It was as if I was translating and switching between words. Like using the Italian word in place of an English word.”

“Huh…”

“It’s not very impressive. I can do much better than that.”

“I’m not doubting your capabilities. I’m just…trying to understand why.”

Riddle smiles. “Why not? I think it’s very good to study another language. It opens more doors for opportunity, and it’s a challenge that proves rewarding in the end.”

“Is that it?”

“Precisely.”

The conversation comes to an abrupt halt there. Trey changes the subject. They chat the afternoon away.

Later, Riddle returns to his diary.

He writes an entire entry in perfect Italian. Workbooks pile up on his desk; he’s not sure when they got there. He’s filling them out so fast his hand gains new calluses. 

Azul visits your office around the same time Riddle used to. Now it’s Riddle who trails after him, hoping to catch him in the middle of a nefarious scheme. He’s not sure he’s ready for whatever he might learn, but he swallows his rage and carries on.

Azul turns just as Riddle ducks around the corner, perfectly out of sight. He waits until he hears the tell-tale click of those pristine Oxfords against linoleum before continuing. Azul walks right past your office and then he’s gone. Looking both ways, Riddle creeps further down the hall.

Where is he?

There’s a tap on his shoulder. He whirls around, startled, and is about to unleash verbal tyranny when he stops short. You stand there, looking positively puzzled. 

“Are you looking for something, Riddle?”

“No… I—” He cuts himself off. “Actually, I was hoping I might discuss something with you. The final project.”

“Oh, of course! Did you come earlier? I stepped out of my office for a second. Sorry if my absence had you looking all over.”

Riddle falls into step with you. “It’s quite all right.”

He’s not sure what he hopes to find by sitting in front of your desk, gazing at the familiar interior of your office. He manages to get through all of the questions you ask him regarding the final project.

“I have too many ideas,” he lies, “and I’d like assistance in narrowing the topics down to one.”

He glances slyly at the floor. Would Azul be bold enough to hide a voice recorder or a camera somewhere? Or is there something of Azul’s left in here? A cheeky means of marking his territory, maybe?

Riddle turns up empty.

He stalls the conversation expertly for ten more minutes. During that time, he can’t locate anything from his semi-thorough observations.

Maybe it’s hidden in your desk. Maybe there’s nothing at all.

No. No, there has to be something.

He thanks you for your help and, shouldering his backpack, leaves.

Just as he turns down the hall, Azul steps into his path.

“Your mind is exceedingly, bewilderingly captivating.” He snickers like a devil. Riddle wants to punch him. “So many ideas. Where do you have the space for all of that?”

“It’s not polite to eavesdrop.”

“Oh, is that so?” Azul taps at his phone and then turns the screen towards Riddle. There’s a picture of him in the hall, looking awfully disoriented. “It’s not very polite to stalk now, is it, amico?”

Riddle narrows his eyes. “How easily that accent comes. Almost like flipping a switch.”

“Non capisco.”

“You should know you’re going to ruin your life and Professor’s.”

“I’m not.” He smiles cryptically. “You’re going to ruin it for me.”

Fed up with his attempt at mind chess, Riddle stalks past him in a huff.

You walk into class five minutes late, disheveled and breathless. You’re babbling about a meeting that ran late, but Riddle can’t trust that.

Meetings don’t end in frazzled hair and crooked ties.

What’s even more damning, perhaps, is when Azul Never-Late-to-Class Ashengrotto walks in fifteen minutes after you. He sits in the seat beside Riddle. There’s not a hair out of place on his person. Except there is. The glass face of his luxury wristwatch is smudged with a fingerprint.

Riddle wonders what forensics would have to say about that.

He phases in and out of focus during the lecture. He can’t stop searching you for fine details. He can’t stop questioning Azul’s presence beside him.

How dare you? he thinks. How dare you defile my professor? What makes you think you have the right to do such a thing when I’ve been working hard all this time? When I’ve been nothing but perfect…

He glances at his notebook. A single phrase has been scrawled over and over, so manically that the lines loop and overlap in angry criss-crosses. Lo voglio morto.

At the end of class, Riddle catches Azul in the hall.

“I would like to review with you for our upcoming midterm.”

“What an honor.”

Riddle hums. “Let’s compare our notes tonight. You can stop by my room after dinner.”

Azul grins like he can read through Riddle. Like he’s in on a joke Riddle’s not privy to.

“I would be happy to study alongside you,” he says, his accent thick.

Riddle imagines a rope around his neck. A rope of thorns and barbed wire, pressing into his jugular until, inevitably, it severs his head clean off.

Azul arrives on time. He really does feel like an echo of Riddle. Same school supplies. Same notebooks. Same fashion style. Same manner of writing.

Riddle shuts and locks the door behind him. He doesn’t waste time waltzing around the subject.

“You’re the reason Professor was late today.”

“You’re mistaken. I simply lost track of the time.”

“That’s not true.”

“Then what is? I had nothing to do with Professor’s tardiness. If it bothers you so much, why not tell Professor to be more conscious of the time?”

Riddle grits his teeth. He’s sick of this. Sick of these mind games. Sick of all this mental chess.

Sick of the fact that he gets to have you when you should have been Riddle’s from the start!

“You’re a liar! Do you know the gravity of your actions—the severe consequences that’ll undoubtedly befall Professor? Do you know you’re jeopardizing a brilliant mind all for your own immature fun?”

Azul holds his hands up in mock surrender. “Those are harsh accusations. They could ruin my life, you know.”

“Oh, like that’s such an issue.” Riddle scowls.

“Your room is quite nice, I must say.” Azul looks around, his hands in his pockets. He spies the many Italian workbooks lining Riddle’s shelf, and a slimy smirk pulls at his lips. “Imitatore,” he marvels, his eyes bright with an eerie sort of joy. As if he’s just discovered a particularly filthy secret and can’t wait to tell someone.

“If it isn’t the pot calling the kettle black.”

“And what makes you think Professor would ever entertain you?” Azul rounds on him, still smiling. “Professor loves me most. There was never any room for you.”

Riddle hears the distant crackle of something fraying. “You’re wrong.”

“Am I? All I did was take your best characteristics and make them even better. Italian lovers are a romanticized ideal abroad. You were never an option, let alone a consideration.”

How dare you. How dare you. How dare you!

Azul steps towards the door. “Addio. Le mie condoglianze.”

That something inside Riddle finally snaps, and with it goes his restraint. He grabs Azul’s wrist and yanks him to the floor. There’s a struggle for survival. During the scuffle, Azul claws at Riddle’s arm and face. Riddle kicks him down. And then his fingers wrap around his psychology textbook—all 800-something pages, a hardcover—and he brings it down, brutal like a guillotine.

“How dare you walk away in the middle of a conversation!” he berates, lips curled in a monstrous sneer. “How dare you touch what isn’t yours—what you didn’t earn!”

He thinks he sees a real smile on Azul’s face, but in the midst of blind rage he can’t tell.

He sees red. He feels red. It splatters his room in a mess of broken bone and pulpy gore. It flecks his face, warm and thick and soupy.

It all ends with Intro to Psych.

Riddle is bathed in blue light, afloat on a chaotic sea.

Distantly, in the back of his mind, he can hear his mother in hysterics: What have you done?! Do you have any idea what you’ve just done—the future you’ve so carelessly thrown away?! All of my hard work?! Do you realize what you’ve done?!

And he does.

If there’s anything Riddle has ever been one-hundred-percent certain of in his life, it’s this. He sits on the steps to his dormitory, battered and bloodied, and bites into the strawberry tart clutched between crimson-stained fingers.

Despite the crisp autumn air, he feels warm.

An officer approaches him just as he’s licking his fingers clean of strawberry and blood.

He holds his arms out before the woman can say anything. He already knows what comes next.

Riddle has always wondered what criminals think and feel in the aftermath of grisly crimes. He can’t feel much of anything other than hollow relief. Maybe that’s just the adrenaline snuffing logical thought and remorse. He thinks everything and nothing all at once. He’s sure he’ll feel it all come crashing down when he’s sat in the station for questioning and then the reality of his actions will seep in, awakening him from a vile, murderous dream.

Right now, he isn’t concerned with that.

You lived filthy and you died just the same, Riddle thinks as he’s led to a police car. And now there’s no part of you Professor will ever want.

[sugarcoatedstarkey]

Firsts

pairings - Rafe Cameron x fem!reader

summary - Rafe was always there for your firsts.

warnings - drinking, drugs, language, fem receiving oral. (18+)

An/ I have other fics I should be finishing but this came to me this morning and I needed to write it!

Rafe Cameron.

Rafe Cameron was your first everything.

First friend, first girl boy hug, first kiss, first touch, first time, you hadn’t expected him to be your first heartbreak though.

Having been friends with him the moment your eyes landed on the quiet boy who sat on the browning grass, staring out at the kids playing. You can still remember the slight scowl on his chubby little face, you took it upon yourself to be friends with him.

Surprisingly he wanted to be your friend just as much as you wanted to be his, from that moment on the two of you were inseparable. It helped that you moved in next door to him, your parents becoming fast friends.

Throwback to the ripe age of 18, the night he broke your heart. You weren’t together, you were just best friends. Best friends that shared each other's firsts and seconds and so on. Neither of you put a label on the love you shared.

You wished you had though, the moment your eyes landed on his hands laced through Rebecca Jones’s tiny delicate hand, you knew that was the end.

He didn’t greet you that night, didn’t pull you into his famous bone crushing hug or whisper about how annoying everyone was. Instead he ignored you, Rebecca and his friends followed behind him as though he was royalty.

He wore a frightening smirk on his face the whole night, shoved at JJ Maybank who was hired as wait staff along with a fair few other pogues. Made a scene and called them names, at one point his father even had to get involved.

You felt sick to your stomach at the sight of the man in front of you, no longer the person you wanted to share your firsts with.

Fast forward to 21, you haven't spoken to him in three years. You couldn’t deny you missed him deeply, his picture still hung from the thin string lining your bedroom wall. But it was only one photo compared to the 300 you had tucked under your bed along with other memories.

It was your birthday, your eyes skimmed the people in the garden setting up for your party. Your eyes shooting to the silk black dress that hung in the doorway of your ensuite, darting your eyes back over the lawn and up at the tall house beside yours.

Your eyes search for a glimpse of Rafe but no life was found in the windows or the balcony. Letting out a soft sigh, you pushed yourself to stand. You didn’t have much time to get ready, your friends would be here soon and would want to start drinking the moment they stepped into your room.

45 minutes later you found yourself on the back porch, nursing a pornstar martini that your friend Elle had made. People had started to arrive and the sun had begun to set, your eyes searching through the sea of people for Rafe. You knew he wouldn’t show, even though at the age of 12 he promised to throw you the biggest 21st, just like the people on tv.

“Hey!”

You jumped slightly in your seat at the brazen voice, eyes landing on your friends who stared at you with worry. “What?” You questioned, grabbing a napkin you dabbed at the liquid that ran down your chest.

“I said, Barry is waiting for you by the side gate”.

All you do is nod and stand, Elle passes you the envelope of cash and keeps her eyes on the people around her. Tucking the folded up envelope in your bra, you make your way to the side of the house.

The music is loud and everyone is having a good time, your parents have gone out for the weekend to give you some space. Your friends had decided they wanted to buy something stronger than weed but were too scared of Barry to organize it themselves, but you apparently had no fear these days.

“Princess”

You knew you made a mistake instantly, Barry lent against the fence in a wife beater and ratty shorts. Smoke surrounded his face, stepping out of the dark he stopped in front of you.

You stood at the same height as him, if you had opted for heels you would have towered over him. “That dress looks good on you”.

“Here’s your money”

He cocked his head and kissed his teeth, eyes roaming your body unashamedly. You take a step back but he’s quick to step forward, gripping your wrist that held the envelope. “How about I give you something that’ll blow your mind but you pay a different way”

You shook your head instantly, you knew what he wanted. You weren’t stupid, the way his eyes darkened at the sight of you. “No I don’t think so… take the cash”

A throaty laugh escapes his lips and he tugs you towards him, your palm smacks his chest to keep you from falling into him further. You can smell the cigarette on his breath, scrunching your nose up when his lips ghost your cheek. “How about you get on your knees and put that pretty little mouth to good use”.

You tug on your wrist but his grip tightens, slipping his tongue out to wet his lips. “I have the cash, please just take the cash”.

His palm meets your shoulder, he uses all his strength to push your body to the floor and your knees hit the gravel. “Barry” you grit, your clenched fist meets his stomach and he doubles over in pain. “You bitch!”.

He coughs loudly and the little baggie falls to the floor, you're quick to grab it and jump up, throwing the envelope to his feet you step back but meet a hard wall. “Do we have a problem?”

All words that sat on the tip of your tongue vanished at the sight of Rafe, his eyes are hard and pointed at Barry. “I have the cash to pay him” your voice is just above a whisper, the skin of your bicep tingles at the feeling of Rafe’s fingers gripping tightly. “I don’t want the cash.. I want her on her knees” Barry growls, he stands up straight and steps towards you again. Pressing your back firmly against Rafe’s chest, he’s quick to pull you behind him. “She’s with me Barry”

“Oh shit man… I didn’t know she was yours!”

“She’s mine”

The goosebumps are back and butterflies swarm your belly, you zone out for what feels like a second but when you come back down to reality, Rafe is ushering you away from the scene, eyes cocking to see Barry hopping on his bike and the envelope you had for him inside his back pocket.

“I didn’t need your help”

You're not sure why you even said that, of course you needed help. There was no way you were leaving with anything unless you sucked Barry off. Rafe ignores you, pushing you forward by your lower back until you're back with your friends. Your fingers tighten around the baggie, hiding it from Rafe’s eyes.

You didn’t care that he knew you were buying drugs, it’s not like you hadn’t seen him snort lines at every party. It just felt strange, your first time doing something harder then weed wasn’t with him.

All your friends' eyes are on the two of you, mouths opened in shock. Before anyone can say anything he’s walking away, slipping into the crowd of people and disappearing. “What just happened?”

“Let’s get high”

The four of you lock yourself in the bathroom, opening the small baggie you pour the contents into your palm. “Did he say what it was?”

You shook your head, placing a small pill on the tip of your tongue. Each of their eyes watch as you swallow, holding out your palm for them to grab.

“I’m scared… I feel like we shouldn’t trust what he gives us”

“It’s fine, if it had been anything bad he would have told Rafe.”

“How do you know that?”

“I just do Elle.. take the damn pill”

Each of them grab a pill and swallow, you put the rest back into the bag and hide it under the toilet sink inside your tampon box.

You're out the door before any of them can stop you, grabbing a bottle of champagne from the bench and heading back outside. Your feet take you further into the party, looking for Rafe. You hadn’t expected him to show up, your parents made you invite him since it would have been rude to throw a party next door without inviting your oldest friend.

You spot Rafe instantly, sipping on a beer and leaning against a pole. Topper and Kelce stand beside him as the two of them chat, Rafe’s eyes meet you for a brief moment before turning away from you.

Anger bubbles in your chest, storming back through the party. The bottle of champagne now half empty by the time you make it to your bathroom, the anger fuels the stupidity in your brain.

Grabbing the pills from the tampon box you take another, wanting the effects of the drug to hit you faster. But by the time you’ve taken the last step of the patio you're swaying, throwing your arms out to brace yourself. “Shit” you laugh, the empty bottle of champagne hitting the grass with a thud.

“Come dance!” Elle shouted, her tiny arms waving above her head. With wobbly legs you make your way to your friends, dancing wildly with them until a hot body comes up behind you and circles their arm around your waist, pressing you firmly to their crotch. “Hey”

You let the person dance against you, hands wandering your thighs and your stomach. The fingers of the stranger behind you brushes the underneath of your breasts before groping a handful, your mouth parts just a tiny bit and your ass presses firmer against him.

“What the fuck?”

Spinning on the spot at the loss of warmth behind you, the guy who had been dancing with you was on the floor. Rafe towered over you once again, his fingers grip your bicep and he’s pulling you away from the party. You notice no one watches the two of you, music drowning out any chatter around them.

“Rafe! What the hell is your problem!” You growl, wriggling in his grip only causing further pain to your arm. You give up rather quickly and let him drag you back into the house, pushing you through the door of the downstairs bathroom and closing the door behind him.

You press up against the bathroom sink and cross your arms, your eyes drift up and down his body. You can hear the harsh breaths Rafe was letting out, his forehead creased in anger. “I haven’t spoken to you in 3 years… you can’t just show up and manhandle me”.

His eyes meet yours finally and he takes a step closer, not close enough for you to touch him though. His cologne invades your nostrils and your cheeks heat from the memories of his hands on your body. “If you're not going to talk I’m leaving… it’s my birthday”.

His eyes finally drop from your eyes and he takes in your body, starting at your sneakers, drinking in the sight of your slender long legs, stopping for a tad longer on your breasts and then back up to your eyes.

You can hear your heartbeat in your ear, Goosebumps litter your skin and you have to brace yourself against the vanity table, legs wobbling from his gaze. “Happy birthday”

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, your shoulders relax at the sound of his voice. A voice you hadn’t heard up close in so long, a voice you dreamt about every night. “Thanks”.

The both of you are silent again, the sound of the party behind the door grows louder as the drugs start to lose their effect. “You look nice”

“Thanks”

He takes a step closer again, the toes of his shoes meet yours. The two of you look down briefly and then back at each other, you can smell the scotch on his breath, it's intoxicating.

“Rafe” your fingers touch his bicep softly, electricity flows through the tips of your fingers all the way to your heart. “I’ve missed you” he whispers seconds before his lips are on yours, all the memories you share together hit you like a tidal wave. Your knees buckle but he’s quick to wrap his arm around your waist and pull you closer to his chest.

“Missed you so much” he grunts, lips peppering kisses against yours. Down your jaw until they meet the base of your throat and he sucks hard, a soft whine escapes your parted lips. “Fuck”.

He grips your hips and drops you on the vanity table, pushing himself between your parted thighs, the heels of your shoes press firmly against his backside, pulling him closer to you. “You taste so fucking good”.

“Fuck Rafe… just like that” you whine, his hips roll against yours. His fingers grope and massage the skin of your thigh, pushing up the length of your dress to expose your nude thong. Your arousal soaks the front of your panties, your knees try to lock together in embarrassment but his thick frame holds them out. “I still make you as wet as I did 3 years ago” he groans, with one swift movement he’s ripped them at the crotch. Your pretty wet pussy exposed to his hungry eyes, his large hands tug you closer to the edge of the sink, dropping to his knees in front of you.

The sight has you clenching around nothing, arousal weeping from your needy hole. He places your feet on his shoulders and situates himself between your thighs. “Be a good girl for me y/n… let me eat your pussy for your birthday”

You pull your bottom lip between your teeth and nod frantically, the tip of his nose brushes your delicate clit. Your hips jut up to his face, a wicked smile paints itself on his lips. His tongue drops out slowly, the sight of the wet muscle has you whining. “Happy birthday sweetheart”

His hot tongue glides between your folds, your head falling back against the mirror in pure delight. “Oh fuck” you cried, pressing the balls of your feet into his shoulders. His hands grip the outside of your thighs, pulling your legs further apart until he can see your cunt in all its glory, glistening from your arousal. He could see your inner muscles clenching at the sight of him watching you. “Please Rafe” you begged, his lips dropped back to your pussy. Sucking and licking your overly sensitive nub, two of his fingers slip between your opening. Your back arching as he tapped at your g spot, you're sure you can see stars as he works himself on your pussy. “Sweet Jesus… Rafe! Yes yes yes”

The grunt of his approval vibrates against your clit, grinding your hips into his face. Your arousal coats his lower half, nose red from pressing himself so deep into your cunt. “I’m close! Rafe… right there! Holy shittt” your screams can be heard outside the bathroom door, the grip on your thighs are tight as he holds you close to him. You ride out your high, a thin layer sweat coats your chest and forehead. The back of your head hurts from the brutal force of you pushing against the mirror to steady yourself, you watch in silence as Rafe pulls away from you. Just as you open your mouth there are loud bangs on the bathroom door.

“Rafe! Man! Rafe quick Rebecca is outside looking for you!”

He’s out the door in seconds, leaving you alone and feeling dirty. Pressing your thighs closed you let out a silent sob, tears stream your face as you clean yourself up and throw away the ripped panties.

You take a few moments to calm down and slap some sense into yourself, you should have known Rafe was still seeing her. You should have told him to leave the moment he turned up, he was the Rafe you knew.

You exit the bathroom quietly and rush back downstairs in search of a drink, grabbing ahold of the tequila bottle.

As you step onto the patio, your friends quickly greet you. Your eyes stay on Rafe though, ignoring the chatter behind you, your eyes fall to the hand of Rebecca’s, it lay upon his chest in a gesture of adoration. A beautiful diamond placed upon her ring finger, the butterflies in your belly all but die. The beating of your heart is the only thing you hear, he notices where your eyes have landed and he is quick to place his much bigger hand over hers, hiding the beautiful ring from your vision.

He’s engaged.

Rafe Cameron got engaged.

Rafe Cameron had his first engagement and it wasn’t with you…

“Come on let’s go dance” Elle says, noticing the way both you and Rafe stare at each other. You squeeze your eyes shut for a brief moment when Rebecca reaches up to kiss his cheek, bringing the bottle of tequila to your lips. The alcohol burns your throat in the most satisfying way.

Your eyes open to catch the worry that finds its way onto his features as he watches you throw back way too much alcohol for your small body.

“Let’s get fucked up” you exclaim, walking away from your friends and towards the bar your parents had hired for the night.

“4 shots please… actually, just give me that bottle of whiskey”.

🏷️ Tag list- @laylasbunbunny @maybankslover @h34rtsformilli @hallecarey1 @outerbankspov @cameronmedia @crunchy-leaves77 @vigilanteshitposting @pedrisgatorade @rafemotherfuckingcameron @s-we-e-t-t-ea @rafesthroatbaby @alltoomay @moremaybank @mrssturnioloo @darleneslane @tierra-0604 @gabys-gabs @starkey-zegras @definitelynotholly-blog @renmpsworld @delicatepiratecloud @speedycomputerfury @tiacordelia02 @bbycowboi @jscameron @rafegirly @drudyslut @drewstarkeyslut @loverofdrewstarkey @ijustwanttoreadlols @spookyscaryspoon @ailee-celeste @ashpeace888 @xo-hayleyy-xo @ethereal0810 @tayygriffith @pankowperfection @oceandriveab @slut4ani @spideysimpossiblegirl @kamninaries @rubixgsworld @pickingviolets @wearemadeofstardust0 @one-sweet-gubler (if I have forgotten you please let me know)

[kaminocasey]

A Great View

WARNINGS: TBB S3 SPOILERS. 18+ MINORS DNI; Smut, fresher sex, possessive/jealous Crosshair, fingering, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex between partners (Wrap it up friends), p in v, maybe slight angst?

Summary: Crosshair gets jealous when Howzer flirts with you.

Pairing: Tbb s3!Crosshair x f!reader

WC: 2k

A/N: How GOOD were episodes 6 & 7?! SO GOOD right? I've missed this man so so so much. So excited for next week. When Cross said "Oh, I'm much worse." I couldn't BREATHE. And not to mention, seeing him in his old armor again???? Forever crying over him.

“Did you like the attention Howzer gave you?” Crosshair’s smoky voice is in your ear as he pushes you up against the fresher sink on the way back to Pabu so he can tend to your wounds. 

Normally, this would be your job, tending to the batch’s wounds. And normally, if you had any wounds yourself, Tech would-

“No.” You shake your head.

He lets out a noncommittal grunt, his hand traveling up into your hair to move it out of the way so he can help clean the blood off your forehead. “Is that so?”

Crosshair was right earlier. He is worse than Hunter. But that’s what you love about him. Kriff, you’ve missed him so much…You flinch when he dabs at the cut. 

He pulls his face back some and looks down at you with a raised eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. You’re telling the truth, though.

You tell him, firmly. “I just…”

“What is it? Tell me princess.” He hums, tilting your chin up toward him so he can search your eyes.

You can feel the other clones’ eyes on you as you sit with Omega, Wrecker, and Batcher at your feet. Howzer passes by, smirking. You look up at Crosshair, who’s suddenly more tense, and then look back down at your datapad. A few moments later, Howzer brings you a drink and you thank him. 

“No problem. If you need… anything else… don’t hesitate to come find me.” He winks. 

Oh. Uh oh. 

You look up at Crosshair again, just knowing his eyes are on you at all times. He’s shooting Howzer a glare so hard you think it could usually break a normal person in half. Crosshair walks over to you, leaning against the table, next to you and then tilts your chin up toward him and kisses you so deeply, it makes your insides go warm and fuzzy with need. 

You and Crosshair had been apart for so long, he wasn’t about to let anything get in his way again. When he pulls away, you feel slightly breathless, both yours and Crosshair’s pupils are blown and you think you may need to sneak away. Except Rex breaks up the moment, needing him and Hunter for something. 

Howzer throws Crosshair his own glare and joins them, leaving you warm in the face, thinking about what you’re going to do to him tonight. Wrecker’s laugh snaps you back to reality, so you ignore him, going back to your datapad. 

You look up at Crosshair, the burning need for him returning low in your stomach. 

“I like when you’re jealous. It’s hot.” You smirk up at him as he puts a small bandage over the cut on your forehead.

Crosshair lets out a low chuckle, smirking. “I would say it’s more protective than anything.” 

“Call it what you want, it was hot.” You shrug, running your hands across his stomach, landing on his waist, gripping his shirt. 

He leans in close, his warm breath ghosting over your ear. “Yeah? You like when I let people know what’s mine?” 

You nod. “Yes.”

He hums, kissing your neck and you let out a soft moan at the feel. He lifts you up, sitting you on the sink. This sink is bigger than the one on the Marauder, so there’s more room for him to stand between your legs without feeling cramped. Not that you mind the cramped feeling. 

“You want me to take you right here? Remind you who you belong to?” Crosshair murmurs, squeezing your thighs. 

“Yes, please.” You look up at him, eyes wide with need. 

Crosshair crushes his lips to yours, finally, hands traveling to cup your neck so he can reach you better. A soft moan escapes your lips, traveling right to his, making him smirk. 

The two of you had been together the entire war and then when he chose the Empire over the batch, over you, your heart shattered and you thought you’d never love again. 

And then he got off that freighter with Omega and your heart soared. You belong to him, and he belongs to you. It’s the only thing that’s ever made sense in these dark times. 

You and Crosshair have snuck away every chance you’ve gotten since he’s come home to you, making love, desperately and passionately. So this would come as a surprise to no one, being locked away in the fresher on Echo’s ship. 

He pulls away to help you down off the sink and spins you so you’re facing the mirror. His lips turn up in a soft smirk. 

“I look rough.” You notice.

Your hair is a mess, you’re caked in blood and dirt and desperately need a shower. 

“Doesn’t matter.” He leans down and kisses your shoulder. “You’re still beautiful.”

You roll your eyes with a teasing smile. “If you say so.”

He starts to ease your pants down until they hit the floor, taking your underwear with them. “I do say so.”

And then he places a swift smack to your left cheek, causing you to let out a sharp gasp. 

“Go on. Say it.” His smoky voice fills your ears and you close your eyes, savoring the sound of it as he rubs the spot on your cheek that he smacked.

“I’m beautiful even when I look like I had the shit beat out of me?” You tease.

He chuckles. “Brat.” 

“You love me.” You open your eyes only to meet his own in the mirror.

“I do.” He nods.

It’s a promise.

He lifts your shirt up over your head, unsnapping your binder next, with slightly shaky fingers. You notice when he looks down, frustrated at his hand, so to distract him, you back up against his hardened length, making him groan softly. His hands fly to your hips, pushing you down over the sink. 

“Tell me how bad you want it, princess. Go on.” He urges you, smirking down at your naked form. 

You don’t think there are words to describe how badly you need him to fuck you right now. 

“Fuck…” You whisper. “Please… I need it.” 

“Didn’t tell you to beg. Told you to tell me how bad you want it.” He purrs, sliding two fingers through your already soaked folds. 

“I- I need it.” You whimper. “So bad. Please Cross… I c- I can’t tell you how bad.” 

His fingers find your clit and your back arches up as you moan and his grip on your hip tightens. 

“What would you do if I just got down on my knees instead of fucking you?” He teases.

All you can do is whine. 

“You really want me to fill your pussy that bad, huh?” You can hear him drop to his knees and you whine again.

“Hush.” He whispers. “Let me make you cum and then I promise I’ll fuck you as hard as you want me to. Deal?” 

He knows that his voice alone is enough to make you fold. You’ve never been able to tell the man no. Not to anything. 

“Deal…” You sigh. 

“Thank you.” He places a quick kiss to your rear cheek. 

The moment that you feel his hot tongue against your warmth, you have to put your hand over your mouth so that no one will hear you come apart above your partner. He licks stripe after stripe over your folds, getting you nice and wet for him. Your shaky breaths only spur him on.

Crosshair’s arms snake around your thighs, giving you extra security to keep you held up and you silently thank him. Unable to help yourself, though, you push back against his face, the stubble against his cheeks causing a delicious friction against your inner thighs. 

Having Crosshair on his knees like this reminds you of the first night he was home. The two of you snuck away to the beach almost immediately. Hunter hadn’t been happy about it, but it was worth it. Cross had pushed you up against a rock, kissed you until both of you couldn’t breathe and then he dropped to his knees and ate your pussy for over an hour. You lost track of the amount of times he made you cum that night. 

There hadn’t even been any apologies until after. The need for each other just… outweighed the bad. 

And now, here he is, a couple weeks later and you have a lot of lost time to make up for. 

“Fuck, right there.” You whisper.

He hums against your cunt and then sucks your sensitive clit between his teeth before latching his lips against it, making you smack your free hand against the mirror. He chuckles and pushes a finger into your tight warmth, making you groan against your palm. 

“Yeah? You gonna cum on my face, cyar’ika?” He encourages you, thrusting his finger in and out of you. 

You both know it’s not as good as his cock, but his long slender fingers have always been able to reach into you so perfectly.

“Mmhmmm.” You whine as he curls his finger against the spongy part inside of you, making that familiar warm feeling start to take over. “So good.”

The blinding white hot feeling rips through your body like a volcano, sending you over the edge, dripping down Crosshair’s face. 

He stands up, gripping your hair and pulling back so that you’re forced to watch as he pushes his cock roughly into you, making both of you moan so loudly that he has to place his free hand over your mouth so you’ll be quieter. You don’t mind though because it brings you physically both closer. You make eye contact again in the mirror and he kisses your bare shoulder, thrusting roughly into you.

“Mm.” He sighs. “You know you’re mine, don’t you?”

You nod, mumbling around his hand, answering him.

“And you don’t mind if I make everyone else aware that you’re mine?” He whispers.

You shake your head.

“Good. Fuck… So good to me.” His thrusts become sharper, more purposeful as you clench around his cock.

You know you’re going to feel it later. But it’s alright because you know he’ll take care of you later. 

“Where do you want my cum?” He grits between his teeth.

“Inside.” You mumble through his fingers. 

He buries his face in your neck, biting back a growl the best he can as he empties himself inside of you, painting your walls with himself, just how you love it. Deep and rough. You’re sure to have bruises in the shape of long slender fingers on your hip in the morning, but you don’t mind.

“Shower.” You whisper.

“Shower.” He agrees. “But first…”

He spins you around to face him and kisses you again. This time, more gently, cupping your face so carefully, he almost seems afraid that you could break. His tongue slips past your lips, dancing along yours and you cling to him, wrapping your arms around him. 

When he pulls away, he rests his forehead against yours. “Thank you.”

“For what?” You look up into amber brown eyes, confused.

“For taking me back, even when I didn’t deserve it.” He whispers.

You pull away, staring up into his eyes, your favorite eyes, holding his face so that he looks at you. “Listen to me, Cross… Everything you did… all the mistakes you made… they don’t define you. You have to let go of the past so that we can build our future. Okay?”

You’ve seen how much he’s changed. You see the way he is with Omega. How affectionate he is with Batcher. And more importantly, how he’s apologized to you and promised to be better. You believe him. You believe in him. 

He nods, tears nearing the brim of his eyes, so you kiss him again. 

“Speaking of our future…” You murmur softly, smiling against his lips. “A couple days ago, Shep showed me a house I thought could be perfect for us.” 

“Oh yeah?” He guides you into the shower, starting the water.

“It’s got a great view.” You wiggle your eyebrows.

“Doesn’t every house on Pabu have a ‘great view’?” He raises a dark eyebrow.

“Yeah, but not every house in Pabu has you.” You shrug. For the first time, you think since before he left, he lets out a genuine laugh. It reaches your soul and you know you’ll do anything to hear that laugh for the rest of your life.

TAGS: @rebel-finn @rexandechosandwich @madameminor @dumfanting @corona-one @tecker @ladykatakuri @brynhildrmimi @the-sith-in-the-sky-with-diamond @zoeykallus @maulslittlemeowmeow @littlemousedroid @arctrooper69 @rexxdjarin @padawancat97 @hated-by-me @sleepingsun501 @idledreams @redheadgirl @themcuwriter @ashotofspotchka @sunshinesdaydream @crosshairsimp73 @ariadnes-red-thread @rosmariner @heyitsaloy @starstofillmydream @high-ct5555 @echos-girlfriend @sleepywych @nekotaetae @justanothersadperson93 @aconstructofamind @book-of-baba-fett @chopper-base @palliateclaw @501st-rexster @dead-poolz @nahoney22 @where-is-my-mind-tho @jediknightjana @erishimoon @witching3 @queen-of-many-fandoms @wizardofrozz  @burningfieldof-clover @rebelsriley

[wandamaximoffsbadgirl]

Beautiful Stranger

I've Never Seen a Mouth That I Would Kill to Kiss (2)

Mommy!Wanda x Beefy!Fem!Reader

Summary: You've been helping out with the boys for a few months and getting closer to Wanda

Word Count: 3.8K

Warnings: 18+, MDNI, Thigh riding (W to R), R is referred to as Daddy, fingering (R to W), subspace, Dom/sub dynamics

A/N: Here is part 2 because this is all my brain can work with at the moment is fixing this up for you guys~

August 28,2023

The end of summer flew by as you continued to babysit the boys on occasion while Wanda worked out things with her soon to be ex-husband.

Wanda hadn't told you when you first met her, but she did eventually when you woke up in her bed one morning to her throwing up in the master bath. Rushing over to hold her hair and sooth her by rubbing her back.

“Did you eat something bad last night?” You asked with concern in your voice, but she shook her head, looking at you with tears in her eyes. Some of them rolled down her cheeks, staining them with makeup from the night before. You helped wipe them away enough that she could calm down and say it,

“I'm pregnant.” She told you letting you know it had happened before her and her husband had talked about divorce. She was about three months when you found out.

You grabbed a cool face cloth, dabbing her face, wiping the new tears that had formed and finally cleaning her mouth. You leaned back against the sink counter, holding her hand.

“We'll figure something out. Whatever it is,” You shrug, letting your thumb brush against the back of her hand a soft smile on your face. “I'll be here for you Wanda.” Wanda started crying and you blamed it on the hormone because you didn't think much about what you said, but in that moment it was exactly what Wanda needed to hear. That someone, anyone was on her side and you? You were on her side the moment you met her.

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September 11,2023

As you started up college and the boys started up school you came over every weekday morning to help get them off to school.

Wanda was starting to show ever so slightly, especially when she still wore these tight tank tops from the heat. She was currently leaning over the kitchen island talking to the boys as you tried not to stare at her boobs that were practically spilling out of her tank top.

“Okay boys. Off you go. Y/N will pick you up from practice and I'll be home at six for dinner.” Wanda tells the boys.

“I'll be making dinner so think about what you want otherwise I'm picking!” You call as they head out the door.

Wanda and you both had a few hours before having to go your separate ways. Recently it felt like the two of you were closer than ever with tantalizing brushes here and there against each other. She'd find excuses to brush past you, her ass rubbing against you, making you want to just grab her and fuck her.

It honestly made you wonder if it was her pregnancy hormones. You had read about it affecting your libido so maybe Wanda was just as horny as you were?

You moved over to Wanda, helping her with the dishes, bending over as you stacked the plates from the bottom rack and moving around Wanda to go put them away in the cupboard next to her.

“Oh sweet girl you don't have to do that.” Wanda says.

“I know Wands, I want to help you. I told you I'm here for you.” Wanda bit her lip looking away,

“Pretty girl?” Wanda's voice was soft and gentle, making you turn towards her.

“Hm?” You asked, realizing just how close the two of us were as you looked down at her. You were almost a whole head taller than her. She looked up at you still biting her lip. You just want to…your hands moved with your thoughts, setting on top of her hips and pulling her against you. “What is it beautiful?” You’re surprised by your own forwardness. You'd never called Wanda a nickname other than Wands. You saw the blush on her cheeks as she tried to form words, taken aback by your words.

“Y-you think I'm beautiful?” She asks in utter disbelief.

“Do I think you're beautiful? Of course I do, but more than just beautiful. You're gorgeous, you're intelligent, you're kind and caring, and an amazing mother. Wanda you are so many things I can't even begin to get into it all right now because it would take me all day to count the ways that I think you're amazing.” You confess, Wanda licks her lips and you cup her cheek.

“Please…” she pleads softly.

“Please, what beautiful?” You ask, tilting your head.

“Please kiss me.” She does not have to ask you twice as you lean down to capture her lips and suddenly it's like everything is right with the world. Like your world was in black and white, but now with this kiss you can see in color. The pieces of a puzzle coming together to fit perfectly and fireworks are going off to celebrate.

We pull apart for air, but you lean your forehead on hers. She leans up giving you small, soft pecks until you can't stand it, you lift her up by her thighs, setting her on the countertop. Keeping her just at the edge so You can grind into her. She moans into your mouth.

“Ah…ah…Y/N…Y/N/N...” fuck hearing her moan your name with that accent. You let your hand slip past her waistband finding her panties soaked as you rub through them.

“That's not fair, beautiful using my nick name like that.” You growl against her neck, trailing kissing. “There was a reason I told you not to use my nick name with those pretty lips of yours.” You had Wanda moaning and mewling for you as you pulled back to look at her. “Fuck…you are absolutely gorgeous…” You captured her lips once more, rubbing small circles against her clit through her panties.

Just as the two of you were getting into it there was a knock at the door making both of you freeze up before Wanda’s eyes went wide.

“Fuck...it’s Vis. I forgot he was coming by to finally grab the last of his things.” Wanda whispered.

“I haven’t seen him come by once all summer and now of all days!?” You whisper hiss more to the air than to Wanda as she got down from the counter.

“Just stay here. Continue with the dishes and go along with what I say, okay? Can you do that pretty girl?” She asked cupping your cheek and you nodded. Going back to the dishes keeping your back to the kitchen’s opening as you heard the two of them talking faintly before the two voices got louder and your anxiety rose.

“Wanda who is this?” He had an British accent, finally you turned around. He didn’t look happy, but you felt comfortable saying that he didn’t have any height on you and you definitely had more muscle than him. He was dressed in a suit, light brown, blonde hair, and blue eyes.

“Oh this is Y/N, Y/N Y/L/N from next door.” Wanda tells him. “She and her parents moved in at the beginning of the summer. She’s been the boys babysitter throughout the summer and she’s also helping with them after school before I get home from work.” She tells him.

“So why is she here now?” He questions, he’s clearly upset.

“Oh I was just finishing up the dishes before heading off. I have class in an hour so I told Wanda I’d take care of this so she didn’t have to stretch and bend so much.” You told him, a fake smile plastering your face.

“Well she could use the exercise.” You felt your face physically twitch at his response. Biting the inside of your lip and your fist clenching up. How fucking dare he?

“It’s no trouble at all. I really enjoy doing dishes.” You somehow manage out. Wanda is staring at me shaking her head. She must see it on your face how you just want to punch him. “Well anyways I know you two need a moment. I’ll finish up soon and head off so please don’t mind me.” Another fake smile before turning away. Grabbing the silverware as the two made their way to Wanda’s room and you finally let out growl that was deep in your throat. “Fucking bastard.” You muttered under your breath finishing up before leaving, probably slamming the door a little harder than intended, making note to apologize to Wanda tonight.

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“Go Billy! Go Tommy! Come on you got this boys!” You called out from the stands as they played a practice game of soccer.

“Are the twins yours?” An older woman asks.

“Oh uh, no not really, I’m good friends with their mom.” You tell her. “I pick them up from practice for her because she works late.” She nods.

“They’re lucky they get to have you cheering for them.” As she said that you turned your head back to the field as Billy took a shot and made a goal.

“BILLY! WAY TO GO BUD!” You called out as he smiled big at you.

As the boys finished up Billy ran up and you picked him up, putting him on your shoulder. “Billy Maximoff makes the goal and wins the game! The crowd goes wild!” You bounce up and down making Billy laugh. He’s come out of his shell and Tommy comes over You wrap your arm around him. “Alright boys what do we want for dinner?” You ask.

“Mac and cheese.” Tommy says.

“Chicken nuggets and fries.” Billy says.

“Okay normally I would say no to making two meals but those are both incredibly easy to make so we’ll let it slide for tonight. Let’s stop at the grocery store so I can grab some things to make for your mom and I for dinner and you two can pick out what you want.” The boys are overjoyed as you let Billy down the two scrambling to your car, getting inside as soon as you unlocked it.

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When Wanda gets home she mentions all the different scents as she walks to the kitchen in a lovely looking pantsuit. You smile at her in your tank top, sweat pants, and apron. “Welcome home.” You say, “It’s going to be a little bit longer for our dinner. I let the boys pick two different things for dinner. We had a hard time deciding when we were at the store if we wanted regular mac and cheese or the fun shapes for Tommy then Billy couldn’t decide if he wanted the dino nuggets or the star shaped ones and which fries he wanted to go with them.” You explain to Wanda as you move to the stove stirring the contents of a home made stew, adding a bit more of a rue to thicken it up.

Once September hits you get in the mood to make all different soups and stews. Wanda walked over, wrapping an arm around me, the boys upstairs working on their homework. You melted slightly into her.

“It seems like Daddy had a day with the boys.” She whispered in your ear, making you throw your head back against her shoulder, rolling your eyes to her,

“Oh don’t do that right now. I can’t even take you right now.”

“All the more fun later when you can.” She kisses you quickly. You groan in response, You were impatient and wanted her now after your little interruption this morning.

“I’m sorry about this morning. I almost jumped the island when he made that comment.” You apologized.

“No it’s okay. He isn’t wrong.” You turn your whole body to face Wanda now, backing her into the island. “Y-Y/N?”

“Don’t. Don’t you even for a second entertain his idiotic, red flag walking, ass of comments about your appearance. Remember what I said this morning? You’re beautiful and gorgeous and so many other things Wanda. Please don’t listen to his words.” Your hands are gripping at her hips, You swear You might leave bruises from how tight you’re holding her right now.

“Y/N...” Her voice is breathy. You lean in and whisper in her ear.

“Tonight I’ll show you just how beautiful I think you are and I’m not going to stop until you agree.” You kiss her jaw just by her ear as you hear the oven go off. “Oh that would be Billy’s nuggets and fries!” You turn on a dime turning back into the house-dad role you’d been in, leaving Wanda reeling as you pull them out, taking one nugget and fry to test them. “Okay those are done for him,” You look at the mac and cheese in the shape of SpongeBob characters, “That is also all done.” You take a taste of the stew, “Mmmm needs a little more paprika.” You mumble, taking a pinch and adding it.

“My favorite.” Wanda kisses your shoulder.

You get everything set up with Wanda and call the boys down for dinner. As you all sit down and start eating you tell Billy to tell his mom about practice today. Wanda being thrilled to hear about it.

Soon enough it’s 8pm and the two of you are tucking the boys into bed. You tuck in Tommy, Wanda gets Billy then you switch. “Mommy? Y/N?” Billy asks as the two of you are at the threshold of their bedroom.

“Yes Billy?” Wanda answers for us.

“Now that you and Daddy aren’t together anymore are you and Y/N going to get together?” Billy asks and Tommy laughs.

“Billy they’ve been together all summer!” He answers his brother and you chuckle. Wanda give you a playful smack.

“Boys, Y/N and I aren’t together. Yes she spends a lot of time here, but her and I are still figuring things out. Daddy and I just ended things so Mommy would like to be able to think about things.” You knew Wanda was making excuses, but it still hurt a bit.

“We’ll let you boys know if anything happens. If fact you two will be the first to know, okay?” You tell them, both of them smiling, looking at each other.

The two of you were finally able to leave the two alone, you head back down stairs while Wanda goes and takes a shower. You clean up the mess of the kitchen, loading the dishwasher and cleaning up papers from the boys, take out the trash.

All while thinking about what Wanda said, having your music playing just loud enough that You wouldn’t disturb the boys. The song ‘Nothing Hurts Like a Girl’ starts playing and I’m singing and dancing while cleaning up.

“I hope you aren’t singing about me.” You hear Wanda’s voice, making you jump, gripping the counter.

“Jesus fuck!” You hiss. “Don’t sneak up on me.” She laughs as the song continues to play. “Also excuse you that is a song about loving woman and yes also about getting hurt by them, but damn it women are hot and a shit ton better than any guy I’ve been with.” You admit Wanda crosses the kitchen until her body is pressed against yours, she isn’t wearing a bra, a loose shirt and sleep shorts.

“How many people have you been with?” She asks and you feel like this has to be a trick question. “I won’t get upset. I don’t mind if you’ve been with a lot of people.” She reassures, wrapping her arms around your waist.

“Promise?” Wanda nods. It takes you a moment, tilting your head back as You list them in your head, using your fingers to keep track. “Uh off the top of my head, not including nights where I blacked out and woke up with someone 10.” Wanda looks surprised, but not upset.

“All your age?” She asks and you nod.

“Yeah nothing ever lasted all that long. It’s like I had this attraction until I had them I guess. Then I’d kiss them and be like nah this isn’t it, but I’d still end up sleeping with them. I usually wouldn’t even let them touch me.” You find yourself explaining to her. “With you though it’s been different. Your touch feels addictive, it’s like fire dancing on my skin. I can’t get enough of you. I felt like I was broken before I met you.” You tell her, looking into her eyes.

She blushes and laughs letting me guide her and kiss her getting her up on the counter next song to come on is perfect, ‘Taste of You’

You let your hand into her shorts brushing her clit, “Y/N/N don’t you dare tease me right now.” She growls in your ear and your eyes roll back.

“Oh beautiful it’s cute that you think you’re in charge.” You put pressure on her clit. “You aren’t calling the shots right now; I am. You were the one that called me Daddy earlier beautiful.” You let your teeth scrap her neck, nibbling on her ear lobe. “Daddy’s in charge. Understood?” Wanda nods, “Words beautiful.”

“Yes Daddy.” She speaks softly, voice shaking.

“You’ve never done it like this have you beautiful?” You ask, picking her up by her thighs which she’s a little surprised You can do still as You bring her to the couch, sitting with her in your lap. She shakes her head, cheeks turning scarlet. “I’ll be gentle and you tell me if you want it harder or faster. You can set the pace. I like to use the color system of safe words. Green means you’re okay and we can keep going, yellow is slow down, red is stop no questions asked.” You explain and her face gets even more red, burying her face into your neck, making you smile. “Can you repeat the colors for me beautiful?” You ask while rubbing her through her panties, feeling how wet she’s getting from just talking about all this.

“Green is keep going, yellow is slow down, red is stop.” She repeats.

“Good girl. Can you tell Daddy what you want?” You ask softly in her ear.

“I-inside...” You push her panties to the side, letting your fingers slide over her wet folds, enjoying them until she’s shaking a bit, pushing two fingers inside her pussy, your fingers being wrapped up in her as she moans against your skin.

“You’re absolutely soaked beautiful. You took Daddy’s fingers so well.” You kiss her neck.

“M-more...” She whines.

“You want another finger?” she nods.

“F-fill me up Daddy...” You add a third finger moving a bit faster and a bit rougher instinctively. She bites into your shoulder to stop a moan ripping through her. Her hips are rocking against your fingers as she bites and sucks on your skin. You knew she was leaving marks on your skin.

“Oh that’s my beautiful girl. Look at you moving against Daddy’s fingers so well. Maybe next time you can take Daddy’s cock, would you like that? Daddy to fill you with her cock?” Wanda moans, nodding as she covers her mouth. If the boys weren’t asleep upstairs you’d be upset with her for stopping her moans like she was.

“Yes...yes Daddy, please...I’m gonna cum...” Her eyes are blown out from lust,

“Not until you tell me you’re beautiful.” You slow your movements much to her dismay, mewling, moving her hips to try and keep the high going. “Tell me that you’re beautiful and I’ll let you cum and we can keep going until you tell me to stop.” You tell her, she bites her lip.

“I-I’m beautiful...Daddy I’m beautiful, Daddy’s beautiful girl.” You smile, leaning up to kiss her.

“That’s right beautiful girl. Now cum for Daddy.” You pick your pace back up until she has to once again muffle herself by biting into your skin. You feel her tighten against your fingers, gushing, but you don’t let up your movements,

“D-Daddy...I came...” You smirk.

“I know beautiful girl. You can give Daddy another, right?” You ask and her head nods. “Good girl.” You keep your movements up making her cum again, soaking your hand and thigh. She’s a shaking mess in your lap. “Such a beautiful good girl. Daddy is so lucky.” You whisper holding her against your chest. You keep whispering praises in her ear, she’s moving her hips against your thigh, rutting into it and you chuckle. “Oh my beautiful girl do you still need more?” You ask and she looks up at you, you can see it in her eyes. You’ve dropped her so deep into subspace, somewhere she’s never been.

“More Daddy please...it’s been so long since I’ve cum...please...” She begs pulling at your shirt, tugging it up over your head, your breast bouncing a bit as she leans down, playing and sucking and biting.

“Mmmm good girl.” You let your head tilt back against the couch. You’ve never felt like this with someone and it sinks in that you never actually loved any of those people. Well you loved some of them, but not like this. Not like how it feels with Wanda.

Wanda’s hand finds its way past your panties as she continues to rut against your thigh, rubbing you as you let out a breathy moan. “Good girl. Make Daddy feel good while you rub against her.”

Wanda builds you up along with herself until we cum together. You have to cover her mouth as she doesn’t have the thought process right now to do so herself.

You slowly pull her out of subspace, getting her off of your thigh, grabbing a nice fluffy blanket, grabbing some water for both of us, and turning on a comfort show of Wanda’s as you pull her back against your chest.

“You did good for your first session Wands.” You tell her, kissing the top of her head. You can see her smile before she looks up at me.

“Y/N?” She asks.

“Wanda?” You tease back, kissing her nose.

“I love you.” Your breath hitches in your throat. “When you had me admit that I was beautiful. I knew that you meant what you said all day. I actually think I’ve loved you for a while, but it wasn’t until that moment that I realized it fully.” She rambles and you pull her into a deep, passionate kiss.

“I love you too Wanda. I’ve love you basically since I met you, but seeing you like this for me, making me feel good like no one ever has...I can’t deny it anymore.” You feel tears pricking the sides of your eyes and blink them away. “I don’t care that you’re older than me. I don’t care that you’ve already got kids, I don’t care that you’re divorced. Wanda Maximoff I love you and no one is going to stop me from loving you.” You admit. “I want to be here every day with you, with the boys, with this little bundle on the way. I want us to be a family.” Wanda is crying and smiling and You kiss her cheeks. “I mean it Wanda. I promise.” She nods.

“I want it too Y/N. I want you here with us. I want you to help me with the boys and live life together if you’re sure you want all of this with me.”

“I do.” You kiss her with everything that you are.

[wolven91]

The Eyes Are On The Front

Wesk snarled as he dabbed at the openly bleeding wound across his forehead. The shrapnel had obviously done damage to his face and eye. No matter what he did, the canid just couldn't see out of it.

At least he'd retrieved the human from the slaver camp. This was meant to have been a silent break in, snatch and run. So much for that plan...

Wesk had cased the tiny outpost for several days. All their comings and goings. Knowing where the guards were, how they patrolled, which ones took their job seriously and which ones liked to sit on the hidden chair behind the depleted uranium rod holders.

Chained avians, damaged chintians by the crate load. All more than enough evidence with recordings to count as a payday per head for each slaver Wesk removed with his high powered rifle.

It was only when the human appeared through Wesk's scope that his plans had changed so suddenly. The canid recalled blinking several times just to confirm the bounty hunter was indeed, seeing, what he was seeing.

Gone from merely picking them off one by one, now there was a hostage to rescue. One that Wesk had successfully pulled off, if not messily.

The human, a grubby but still feisty thing, was glancing around the den that Wesk had been using as a base. It was embedded into the side of the cliff that overlooked the outpost nestled and hidden in the valley.

Wesk held what amounted to a medical stapler to his forehead and pinched the flesh closed.

"They're coming..." The human quietly warned.

Wesk dropped the stapler and nearly bowled the tiny creature over as he tried to focus through his scope.

But he couldn't see through it. Aberrations in his vision caused it to swim and blind him to the magnified images of his scope.

"Dammit, I can't see! We jave to run." Wesk decoded and span away from the rifle to quickly grab his bug out bag.

The crack of gunfire caused the canid to throw himself down onto all fours and spin round, fully expecting to launch himself at a threat.

Only it was the human that had shouldered the deployed rifle and was now peering through its scope with her finger on the trigger.

It was far too large for her and was not calibrated for one if her kind!

"Hey! You're giving away our pos-"

"One down."

The canid blinked as he watched the human breathe out and squeeze the trigger again. The whole device lurched into her shoulder which took the blow.

"Second down."

"But you need... you need a predator's eyes for that. You're a.."

"Eyes on the front mate. My eyes are on the front."