#no matter what you do from here I will never again be able to trust you to stay

[writingwisterias]

Ruined

Part 2

Kidnapper! Leon Kennedy x AFAB!reader

Warnings: DEAD DOVE: DNE, SMUT MDNI, Dub-Con, Sonomphila, Oral (F receiving), Cow-Girl, Unprotected Sex, Degradation Kink, Implied Abuse, Manipulation, Light Intox Kink, Isolation

Read Pt1

Taglist: @rigorwhoring

had a thought couldn't shake it = pt2, Lighter on the tags this time but only going to get worse ;)

Nature was your only chance for a brief moment of peace, being able to watch the water flow freely in front of you from where you perched on a fallen tree without the fear of anything. Most of your fight had left, the fear of him doing something worse lingered in the back of your mind. His strength seemed endless like there were no limits he wouldn’t go to just so you understood that he can easily overpower you. Nothing in this situation was fair and it never will be so you have accepted that you should just deal with it. You had still yet to see the full extent of your kidnappers' anger – it wasn’t like you wanted to, after all curiosity killed the cat. With how obsessed he was with you it wouldn’t be like him to go that far. At least you hoped not. It was a good thing, you suppose, that his tolerance was high you guess. 

If you sat here for long enough it was like you almost forgot where you were or why you were here. The nature changed around you, fresh leaves appearing on the tree now that spring had come around. The leaf litter being broken down by the mushroom colonies that had now appeared, their spores dusted the air giving the rays of sun an ethereal look. Occasionally animals would appear on the other side of the stream, the new babies drinking for the first time. You were just enjoying the sounds and sights of your new home you suppose, it wasn’t one that you wanted but it wasn’t terrible. It was nice to be here, like this. Until you heard the twig snap - his boots thudding on the floor as he approached you. 

The plant life squashed, its future growth now relied on its own will to live. 

“It’s getting dark now,” Leon said from behind you. One of his new rules he’s implemented. No time after dark, not when he nearly had a heart attack when he couldn’t find or see you. The orange sky was your warning. You didn’t reply to him, you never needed to say anything after all what he said was final. You’ve had enough handprints on your skin to learn that lesson. At least he was gentle this time as you walked through the door, his hand was holding yours softly instead crushing each bone. 

“The sky’s pretty today” You said, watching the ground carefully as you walked next to him. Shoes were still a privilege you have yet to earn back after the last attempt to escape a few months ago so the last thing you needed was a thorn or cut on your foot if the opportunity did present itself. Leon nodded, stopping on the porch to observe the orange hues. They were always his favourite. It didn’t matter if the sun was rising or setting - if he saw them it meant he survived to live another day. 

You watched carefully as his eyes scanned over them, his features calm as they fluttered shut. He looked peaceful – thankful even. “Don’t you think? I always liked the sunset” You prompted. He glanced over to you. He always did this, like he still didn’t fully trust you since your last escape. Trying to find any hidden meanings in your words.  His grip tightened ever so slightly, afraid in his moment of weakness you might dash away again. Still never fully convinced you wanted to be here, like you were hesitant. 

Upon entering the cabin you could already feel the heat of the fire, the crackles filling the room. The dinner he had made was already set out in front of you, vegetables he had gone out to collect, the ones from the garden not quite ready yet. Venison that he had also previously hunted. 

You hated the way that smell was becoming familiar, feeling like home to you after so long being here. Dinner as usual was eaten in silence, he preferred it that way. Spending his time making sure you actually ate everything until he began to eat himself. Once the clinking sound of your cutlery against the plate was heard you would be allowed to speak again. “There were a few animals at the stream today” You spoke watching him as he began to eat. 

He was methodic and gentle as he used the knife on the steak, scoring his lines in the meat before pressing harder to carve it. The actions mimicked familiar situations you have been in with him. The scar was now angry and red, you caught it in every window reflection or the bathroom mirror. A branding of where you belonged, like a horse or cattle to a cowboy. “What kind?” He asked, his eyes bore into you but they never really seemed interested in what you had to say exactly. More like he enjoyed the simplicity and domestic feel of the evening. “A few deer and rabbits. If I stay quiet enough they linger”

Your nails picked at the skin on your hand, your once perfect ones now were often seen with bloodied scabs. Despite your acceptance of your situation, the doubts and guilt you once had with your forgotten life are now gone – you still grew nervous in his presence. His control and dominance never faulted, always masking an element of him that you knew haunted him. It always slipped when darkness greeted him, when he was forced to sleep. His mind is plagued by nightmares of a side of him you didn't know about and he hoped you never would. After all he considered you his salvation, the only good thing he has managed to protect and gain. Conversations like this, despite his lack of interest, meant a lot to him. 

“Maybe I should take you hunting with me then” Leon commented. Everything was always so violent with him, something innocent like watching animals always involved death eventually, little do you know that his whole life has been violent. Apart from the slither of love you have given him during sex it’s all he’s ever known. You smiled and nodded, not exactly agreeing but the idea of seeing more of the surrounding area is tempting. You never got far enough in your times of escaping, the trees always looked the same beyond the stream. “What’s it like? Hunting I mean.” You asked anything to stop the impending silence that lingered if the conversation went dry. 

Leon always assumed you wouldn’t be interested in stuff like that. He would never admit that he hunted in a way to keep himself trained around a gun, after all anything could happen. “Peaceful” 

Seeing him describe such a violent act like this made himself cringe, he had never liked the idea of death. He’s seen it far too often but Leon was a provider – a career. You needed to eat and he had the skills to make sure you have plenty of what you needed. Maybe showing more of the beauty that surrounded you would make you happier. Keep that smile that showed itself very little, there a while longer. That meant it was easier for you to gather your surroundings. It had only been a season since your last escape. You promised not to fight anymore but he saw the way you hesitated still when he kissed you. You grimace as you look upon the mark he left on your chest in the mirror. 

The hesitation was still there and until he got rid of it you would be limited. You didn’t need him to explain his answer further, it would open up questions you were sure would get you punished in some way. Instead you both continued to clean up, manoeuvring around each other like a practiced dance. Your hums filled the air such a sweet tune he enjoyed so much. He watched as you lost yourself in your own mind watching the night grow closer through the window. He wondered where you were, wanting to know every thought you had and collect it like a dream journal. You jumped when you felt his lips on your shoulder, sucking the skin softly no doubt leaving another mark. 

His touch was always so confusing. His lips were demanding, greedy to devour your sweet taste whilst his hands were gentle as they lifted you onto the kitchen counter. His fingers dug in the flesh of your thighs as he pried them apart, the nightdress you wore hitching up towards your hips as you displayed yourself to him. Leon nibbled at your thighs, each bite slowly growing closer to your clothed cunt. Yet, when he reached his destination he only smirked, eyes flicking upwards to see your face. Your brows pinched in pleasure, your teeth tugging on your lips silencing your whimpers as if they were a shameful thing to do. 

Like it was such a terrible thing to enjoy what pleasure he treated you with. You felt his rough fingertips graze along the hem of your underwear, playing with the lace. “Don’t silence yourself love, you know how much I love your pretty song” He chuckled. You whimpered as his nose pressed against the fabric that separated him from your pussy. You could feel the tug on the fabric as he inhaled your scent, sucking on the gusset gently to gather the first taste. An appetiser of what you had to offer. You could feel the hint of a smile grow on your features as he pulled the fabric away exposing you. 

His tongue had insane accuracy as he swiped at the arousal that was already pooling. His moan vibrated around you at your sweet taste, if only he had a drink in this flavour. Your legs trapped him close to you ensuring that he had no choice but to continue to devour you. Your pleasure caused his cock to throb in his trousers, the hardness of it almost becoming painful. He realized a while ago you didn’t mind the sex with him as long as your pleasure came first. If it felt like you were getting something out of it before him. You never saw the damp patch on his boxers when he would stand up and pull out his cock. The taste of you was enough for him, the thrill of betraying you with this simple realization had him orgasming first. The taste of you was always comparable to a Michelin star dessert. 

Leon could feel the clench of your walls around your tongue as he brought you closer to your orgasm. His nose nudged against the sensitive bud eliciting deep guttural moans that sent the blood straight down to his cock. Just when you were about to cum, to give him the sweet juices he craved daily – Leon pulled away standing in front of you. Your cheeks were flush, eyebrows pinched in frustration. Complaints lingered in your mouth but came out in pathetic pleads and begs for pleasure again. Your own fingers frantically help him undo his trousers and free his leaking cock. “So desperate. I still remember when you pleaded for me to not give it to you. All that time you could have been getting all of this pleasure. Just for what? To not ruin your pride?” He chuckled as he lined it up. 

It felt like heaven as he slid it through your folds, you watched the tip appear – red and eager already beading with his cum. His lips brushing the shell of your ear “Admit to me that you’ve always wanted it. Even when you squirmed part of you enjoyed it. Admit it” 

It was a command. One that if you refused he would withdraw the pleasure you were clawing for. “Please, I was a fool before. I need it Leon” You begged. He laughed as he finally sunk himself into you. Groaning as you moulded around him, the tightness of your cunt gripping onto him like the nails you dug into his shoulders. He never seemed to get close enough, there was never enough skin contact for you. Leon moved slowly at first teasing you before his own pleasure coursed through him in a demand to finish. The usual silence of the home was broken with your moans, the sound of skin slapping before with one final thrust he finished. Pulling away to watch the cum spill out of you. 

“Beautiful” 

You didn’t hear his words, not when you felt his lips suck against the scar on your chest. The skin now angry and pulsing. Always leaving a reminder, making sure you never forgot. Sex was weird, the casual act of intimacy for normal people never felt quite right for the two of you. There was still reluctance on your part – the palms of your hands always pushed against his shoulders shoving him further away. Your mind always outwardly rejects him whenever you know it or not. 

You wouldn’t get a shower tonight, not as his cum still dripped down your thighs. He always left it there to grow sticky, the smell permeating your skin like a scent claim. You could imagine the look he would give you in the morning when he wakes you up with his mouth again, the smell of him lingering on your skin. 

Your nightgown was replaced with a fresh one, the stark white showing off an innocence you weren’t sure you obtained anymore. Leon did however – of course he did. You hadn’t seen what he had, felt the bones crush in your body as you continued to fight no matter what because it was your job. 

The two of you laid away in the dark, your head resting on his chest listening to his steady heart whilst his finger brushed through your hair. How did you get here? Why did he have to choose you? You wouldn’t have wished this on any other girl but what was his incentive. What was his goal? Did he really want you to just live here, in this lonely bubble? Your thoughts were loud to him as they were everynight. You understood he explained the basics of why he took you, his admission to finally having something good in his life. To provide a happy ending for the both of you. He felt your breathing change as you grew frustrated. You promised him to not fight anymore, to give in and appreciate the life he's giving you. Leon wasn’t stupid, not anymore, he could tell you still had a spark of rebellion in you. He was just waiting for it to appear.

He thought before about telling you about the horrors that plagued his mind. AFter all, he had only given you a brief explanation over what his job was. The gruesome details of the event he had experienced left him with nightmares. The things he had faced now lingered in the shadows of the room or the corner of his eyes. Maybe he would tell you about the ghosts of his pasts, the one that smiled at him from the trees when he was alone. He wouldn’t let you turn out like them; not when he had the ability to make sure you never did. 

You were special, Leon knew that from the moment he sunk his fat cock into your pussy. You stretched and clenched around him in the most perfect way he immediately became addicted that first night he had you. You had to be claimed somehow – so feisty that first time it was a hassle getting you to stay still, a fuck like you was too good to let loose. He still had the photo after he fucked your mouth; it was your fault the cock slipped out of your mouth anyway. The tip was lined up perfectly as he rubbed his cock until his load drenched your face. The translucent substance looked so pretty against your skin, giving it a soft glow that suited you. Eyes still shut as it coated your lashes; it created the perfect opportunity to form that photo. God you were perfect for him.

You felt his breathing even out the soft snores slowly releasing from his lips. It only ever happened when he was on his back trapped by you, for your own sleep you slipped away opting to face the window and the impending darkness that lingered. It never scared you, the unknown. The idea that something will happen to save you was one you clinged onto for comfort. You might have lost everything, became some mystery to the outside world but you knew your story wasn’t finished. Even if it was the reaper that came to write your final ending, that the darkness outside would sneak inside to take you away. Away from him. Unlike Leon the darkness didn’t scare you. 

His whimpers woke you up, the sheets ripped from your body as he shot awake with a sense of urgency. You didn’t even get time to react to the blinding light as he turned on the lamp beside you. His frantic eyes scanned the room silently getting rid of any danger that lurked in the corners. Until they fell on you. Your body looked so small in the sheets, eyes slowly adjusting to the light as well as his panicked form. His hands shook as they touched you, holding your shoulder tightly. “Leon-” 

You were cut off as he brought you into his arms, burying you in a hug. His scent intoxicated you, his skin layered with a sheen of sweat. You could feel him press kisses in the crown of your head, his mind using you as a grounding point. There was nothing you could do, you waited for his grip to loosen. The pain that flared along your skin was just a sign of more bruises to litter there in the morning. The tender spots would be hard to forget like always. Part of you felt sorry for him seeing him this affected by a dream. You would ask if there was anything more you could have done or if there was something in particular he needed. 

He was a horrible man, one that has stripped you of the essence of yourself but no one should be hunted in their dreams. Having nowhere to escape in a vulnerable moment. It was only when his grip loosened you spoke. “Do you want to talk about it?” 

It was normal to do that, he knew this. It's what normal couples do to comfort and talk to each other about what happened in their dreams, even the bad ones. He pulled away and looked at you, the sleep still lingered in your eyes. You slowly blinked them at him. He could tell you, perhaps in this state you would forget not to use his dream against him in the future. Allow a moment for his control to slip but that was riding on the fact you would forget. He knew you…you wouldn’t forget not with something like this. “You don’t need to worry about me” He spoke instead. It was strange to see the inner conflict so visible on your face as you had a silent conversation. You were never this expressive with him unless he was pounding his cock into you. 

“Does it happen often?” You asked again. Leon nodded his already messy hair now falling over his face. “Tonight was the worst. In a long while at least” 

You believed him, most of the time he woke up and snuggled back into you as if you being here actually helped him. Tonight however he jumped from bed, holding you desperately. It was different, the air had shifted. “I can make you tea tomorrow, it’s meant to help with sleep. I used to make it.” 

Your offer wasn’t instantly rejected which surprised you, maybe his troubles with sleep were worse than he led on. Leon nodded again, a smile growing on his lips at your offer to even help him. Maybe it was slowly developing into something he wanted, that time alone with just him was enough to ensure you created a bond with him. “Is there anything in particular you need?” He questioned, the house was stocked and he made sure of it. The kitchen had shelves of herbs and spices, in those cute little house jars that he assumed you would like. 

He didn’t tap into your devices for no reason after all, he wanted the perfect life for you. To spoil you with everything you wanted. He saw each little post you made online about how they made you feel, about how much you wanted to leave. Your pinterest boards filled with your dream items, the style you wanted, the hobbies or house decoration. He read it all like a book, like it was his daily news. It hurt you still didn’t notice or appreciate it all. “Valerian root, Lavender, Chamomile. I can forage for most of it, there might be some in the woods” 

He nodded, his heartbeat was steady again, a united front to prevent you from seeing too much. You had already seen enough weakness. “I’ll see what I can do” 

It was the next morning he approached you with the idea of going out further into the woods, you had told him the only one native was Valerian root. Also rumoured to be the most effective in achieving a deeper sleep. Leon would be lying if he said he didn’t feel unnerved with the idea of falling into a deep sleep, it had been so long since he’s not been plagued by nightmares and had a full body reset. Part of it felt nice, beginning to be able to just feel his muscles slightly looser in the morning. Maybe his head will be clearer and he’ll stop being so paranoid. He was aware of the effect lack of sleep had on a person – he just never had the ability to ease it. 

It shocked him last night at your admittance to using the tea yourself. Since you have been living here there was no evidence of your bad sleep. Perhaps that was another thing he has helped you with – his presence next to you at night fighting the nightmares you have now forgotten about. It was an unknown privilege to you that he no longer had to leave for the longer missions. It had been months since he was called into office. 

Leon knew how to make the activity harder since he insisted you held his hand the entire time. This was the compromise, he wanted you naked again – stripped bare so you wouldn't even think about leaving him. His hand was warm at least, a reminder that if you dared to edge closer to him you would feel the warmth of his body, a stark contrast from the morning frost. “I see why you like coming out here so much, the sun looks…magical” He spoke. You looked at him surprised to find his features relaxed, his eyes briefly closing just like he did yesterday evening. As if in his darkness the sun was his only light but now you caught him looking at you more, like you actually had an impact in his life. As if you helped him. If only you could know how. 

Your eyes remained firmly on the ground once he caught you looking at him, blush creeping in on your features. It wasn’t that Leon was unattractive that’s what confused you. He was fine until you miss behaved, you’ve learnt which of his buttons not to push and which of his moods to avoid to make your life easier. And yet still, you longed for that boring job which gave you endless headaches. The small meaningless things in life that still somehow gave you joy. He took that from you. You have learnt how to live without it, yes but part of you still craves it. 

“Your brain is working too hard again. Why?” 

He tugged on your arm, pain flaring as his grip tightened to halt your movements. You blinked at him like a deer in headlights. “I–I was just thinking about you” Your voice was quite unsure like you were aware of the hole you were digging yourself into. “What about me?” His smirk was suggestive, an eyebrow quirked up in amusement. Blush coats your cheeks as you attempt to think of any form of answer. “Um…s–sex?” Was that the best you could come up with?  

He barked a laugh, your response clearly pleasing him as his grip loosened slightly. “Never thought I’d see the day” His response was teasing. You felt your cheeks heat up, becoming flustered as you then began to actually think about him and sex. Heat pooling in between your legs. It wasn’t normal to feel like this, you shouldn’t. He was a horrible man – that’s all he should be left as. 

“I’ve found some” You muttered after a short while, pointing at the white flowers that decorated the stem you needed. He nodded, taking the combat knife that always stayed strapped to his hip. The green hilt was frayed and damaged - evidence that he has had it for many years. He let go of your hand briefly, watching you with an intense stare before walking around to the side of the plant so he could still see you as he cut it. “It would be pointless running away whilst you are right next to me” You spoke. It had been a while since the both of you had spoken about your old habit. He shrugged, watching you more carefully now. “I wouldn’t put it past you”. 

He was right, this was your first act towards loyalty that wasn’t just following his rules. You were optionally helping him, using your knowledge to treat him from unknown horrors to you. It was something he hadn’t expected from you. Not for a while anyway. “I like this. Being here. I just wish I could see or do more” You admitted. Leon nodded, perhaps it was time to allow you to have some freedoms that didn’t involve you sitting on the log opposite the house. Maybe you could learn how to sew or knit and begin filling the house with things that you made. Finally turning it into a loving home, warmth coming from something other than the fire that you both watched at night. You couldn’t tell what was going on through his head, and you weren’t sure if you wanted to. “It makes me happy to hear that” Was all he responded with accompanied with a gentler smile. 

Your usual routine was pretty much the same, your outside time was cut short from the orange hues. He didn’t hold your hand this time, he allowed you to walk next to him without guidance. It felt nice to have this small display of trust but your fingers itched for the warmth of his. To feel the rough skin on his palms against yours. 

After dinner, you boiled the water in the kitchen for you to make the tea, the valerian root was already grated ready for use. He watched as you prepared it, tasting it for yourself with a small sip on the side of the mug. Hands flickering over the spice jars to add what you thought it needed. You had a small smile when you presented it to him after dinner, the fire crackled behind the both of you. “We can go to bed when I start to feel sleepy” You nodded, understanding that he wouldn’t want you walking around the house whilst he slept. You still had to wake him up to let him know you were going to the bathroom at night. “And you are sure this will help?” He asked, swirling the liquid in the mug. It wasn’t like you could poison him, he had watched you prepare every step from where he sat at the table. “It should help you fall asleep. It won’t knock you out like a sleep med” You said, smiling softly. 

That was a good thing he supposed, eliminated one of his fears. You both moved to the fire, sitting on the sofa watching the flames dance around each other. The wood burns brightly leaving only the embers and ashes. To his surprise you leant on his shoulder. You had never done this before; maybe it was because he was finally trusting you and in return you trusted him. He watched the shadows dance along your features, your hair falling on his shoulders. You felt him tug you closer, silently offering a sense of protection. “Why are you crying?” He whispered in your ear. You hadn’t even noticed you were, the tear was a silent scream from the inside that this enjoyment was wrong. You shouldn’t want to be near him and be held like this, but your longing for freedom was fading.

It has been so long since you have been held, being able to weep in someone else's arms, not the pillow you used at night. “I’m not sure” you whispered, sitting up straighter to look at him. To watch his reaction. Instead of anger or disappointment genuine care laced his features. The last time you saw this look was after one of the first escape attempts and you tripped over a log. Your cries of pain hurt him deeply back then, now they were just another sound to him. Most of them coming from his punishments anyway. “Maybe sleep will make you feel better” He cooed. You nodded, holding his hand optionally. 

Leon felt the effects of your tea pretty quickly it seemed, his arm now dead weight against your waist. You watched the net curtain blow in the wind, the breeze that leaked through the small gap. You turned to face Leon, watched as the soft snores slipped through his partially open mouth. He was peaceful for once, nightmares that normally plagued him finally left him alone. Your finger poked at him, prodding him gently. He didn’t move, didn’t react. Normally his eyes opened immediately. He had never been a deep sleeper, you knew this from when you tried to chance an escape at night. Perhaps it could work this time. 

The floor was cold against your bare feet but you took no notice as you began to creep out the room. The front door was now in sight, as you crept past the dying fire that had now reduced to embers: to you, this was the prettiest part of a fire, burning a bright red, waiting for the opportunity to ignite again with the right fuel. Nobody ever thinks to drown them out with water, they just assume that they’ll burn out on their own, but that's how most fires restart. It just takes the right conditions for it all to spark up again…

Your hand gingerly touched the freezing knob, turning it slightly. It was unlocked. This was your chance surely? A sign you could finally get a good enough headstart and escape or die somewhere in the woods. Finally get away from this place. 

You couldn’t move, it felt too good to be true. The door was ajar, the cold breeze was harsh on your bare toes. You had finally settled here, everyone back home would have forgotten you by now. He would just find you again, he was a government agent. You couldn’t hide from someone like him. You would only be dragged back and your hard work to get him to trust you would be pointless. Your eyes glanced at his boots placed neatly next to the front door. The laces loose incase he needed to slip them on quickly. It didn’t take much to tug them out, holding the ribbons of fabric in your fingers. You closed the door, turning back towards the bedroom. 

Heat and excitement blossomed in your stomach alongside the fire, which now had a new lease of life, rejuvenated by the breeze. As you sashayed through the bedroom door, you noticed Leon now lay on his back. His chest is still slowly rising and falling with his sleep. He didn’t wake when you sat back on the bed, your knees pressed against his chest nor did he when you began to tie his wrists to the bed frame. You didn’t care if the string bit into his skin, he could have marks like he gave you when he first did this. You looked at the permanent red bracelets that now decorated your skin. Maybe you could carve your name onto his chest, give him the same treatment as you gave him. 

You felt the tears this time. What happened to you? You were just like him. Thinking of every way you could hurt him like he did to you. You weren’t any better. 

Not ignoring the heat that pooled in your stomach you hovered above him before sinking on his lap, feeling his soft cock underneath you separated by the duvet and underwear. He was vulnerable like this. Just as you were before. When he took you all those months ago. Leon broke you into the person you were now. Your family wouldn’t want you back, not after him. Not with these ugly scars that now littered your body, his stupid initials branded onto you. You were his now, there was no point in denying it. 

You moaned as you rubbed yourself along the length of him, feeling it harden even in his sleep. His need and reactions to your body only spurred you on more. There wasn’t anyone else that would react to you like he did; Made you feel like they needed you to just breathe. Your fingers shook as you pulled the fabric away, sliding his boxer along his legs exposing the length you now craved. Your eyes flicked towards his face, watching as his eyebrows pinched together slightly now his tip was exposed to the cold air but he didn’t wake. Your finger ran along the slit of it watching as beads of cum replaced the ones you wiped away. Even in his sleep he was desperate for you. Craving you. You slipped your underwear off, the nightdress discarded as well. The white fabric didn’t suit you anymore. Not after this. 

You whimpered as you sunk onto him, feeling yourself stretch and mold to accommodate him. His hangs tugged at the laces you began to move, eyes blinking as he panicked. Leon’s groan was wonderful, they always were. You were in control, it was exciting. He was whimpering beneath you. Your hips continued to wake him up, the slow circles causing him to tug at the restraints until finally he stopped. You faltered as he stared at you, keeping eye contact with you as you continued. “What is this?” He said, a slow smirk beginning to grow on his features. “Have I corrupted you? Tainted your soul to be as dark as mine?”  

You shook your head, the pleasure building up slowly as you continued to use him. He stopped tugging, stopped trying to break away. Eyes fluttering shut each time you lifted yourself along his cock only to slam it back down. “I thought you’d run away, finally get a head start but you finally figured out there was no point didn’t you” 

You jumped as his hand caressed your thigh, it shouldn’t be there. It was…tied up. Leon’s eyes darkened as you looked back at his wrists. “You were so close, love but don’t fool yourself now” He chuckled. You sped up, trying to finish before he ripped it away. Your desperation only fuels him further, his hip joining yours in an onslaught of pleasure. He couldn’t have given you this slither of power. Once chance to finally take what you wanted. No. That would have gone to your head, made you think your plan worked. You used his weakness against him. The fight has never left you now. No matter how many times you told him it had. That he had broken you down to this weak person who wouldn’t betray him anymore. 

“Please…just let me finish” You whimpered, you needed the release that was coming from your own doings. Your own pace. To enjoy the slither of freedom you gave yourself. He only smirked. “Leon– please” 

“Such a whore now. Begging for your release. I know it’s because you gave it. You made it happen” 

You whimpered again, nodding. Cursing yourself as your hips began to falter now the pleasure was getting too much, tethering yourself on the edge of overstimulation. “Such a whore for the bad man” 

He stopped, his fingers gripped at your hips holding you in place. He couldn’t give you this, you would do it again and again. He’d rather suffer in his nightmare than allow someone else take control of his choices, his life. You were flipped onto the bed. Head dangling off the edge causing the blood to rush there. Leon was unforgiving in his pace, his pelvis hitting yours and it turned into pain. Each thrust felt like a spank. Your hands gripped at his, desperately holding on as you became fuzzy. He felt your orgasm, the force of it pushing his cock out harshly. “I was wrong to trust you, to think you were changing and understanding what I do for you” 

You whimpered attempting to lift your head to look at him but his hand landed on your neck. Holding it in place. He was doing it wrong, crushing your windpipes instead of the blood circulation. You panicked squirming beneath. “After months we are right back where we started. If you had seen the things I have you wouldn’t. You would hide here like a good girl and be grateful for this. That you are alive to experience it” 

Leon finished with a grunt, his hand closing around your throat as he fucked his cum into your over senstive pussy. When you finally raised your head he stared back at you, his eyes dark daring you to do something. It was tempting. To become this little brat he couldn’t contain. “Continue like this…and see where it gets you. You are already becoming twisted using me like that” 

“Just took inspiration from you” 

He didn’t appreciate the bite in your words. You watched his fingers twitch each digit clenching into a fist and then relaxing. Your hips hurt, your throat hurts. He had ruined you now, your soul and actions just as bad as his own. He wasn’t wrong. It just made it all the more exciting.

[becausegraf]

Oh man, I love this analysis :)

Here be some thoughts this prodded out of me, about where Stolas and Blitz are at individually and as a romantic pair~

Spoiler alert:

This chaper of their story is not about their romance at all.

-

I very much appreciate that they're giving these two the time for the shock to settle, knowing that the whole situation is the result of Stolas' hand being forced and not something either of them maneuvered them into on purpose. As much as 'oh how neat we get the chance to get to know each other better and connect now' is the outcome, that's where the circumstances pushed them, and not something they decided they wanted.

Without the whole court debacle and a life-or-death situation they made it through alive but not without consequences, we don't know if they would have re-established contact to give this another shot already, or ever.

-

Ever since The Full Moon, Stolas' feelings have shifted from yearning and adoration for a version of Blitz that simply isn't the real deal, to the conflicted messy pile-up of being hurt and offended and disappointed and full of doubts about himself, while still very much caring a lot about 'this idiot'. He's gotten burned, he's gotten the ice cold shower, and he'll never be able to just go back to the way he used to view and feel about Blitz. He shouldn't, either.

Blitz isn't unchanged, either. He's finally opened his eyes to how his hissy fits and shots-fired do more than just keep people at a distance - he really causes pain to people whose main mistake was to reach over to pet a feral cat, meaning him no harm, and getting the claws. Blitz can act like a massive raging jerkass, and he's eagerly avoided truly registering the fall-out of his actions, but *he doesn't get any joy out of seeing people hurt and upset*. He's been self-absorbed, not sadistic.

-

It felt right to me, that Sinsmas didn't insist on dragging the two of them into a mushy dreamy tale of how fortunate they are to have each other, and how their close connection in and of itself is some kind of salvation.

That's a soap opera. That's oversimplified fiction. That's untethered from the reality that they're two guys with a complicated history and a lot that they don't know or understand about each other, and haven't even made up their mind about where they're at with each other now. Stolas was at a point where he'd withdrawn after Blitz pretty much broke his heart, shattered the illusion, and then yo-yoed rapidly between 'fuck you, I'm pissed off and unwilling to treat you with even basic respect' and 'fuck I take it all back, tis me who is the mess inside and I do want you to be okay'.

Stolas is taking a careful risk in giving Blitz a chance to do things differently, a chance to demonstrate that he can be trusted after all. A friend who occasionally kicks your emotional shit in, no matter what kind of issues cause them to behave that way, *is not a friend*. Stolas got the claws, and now he's, in a sense, 'doing the stupid thing' and allowing this feral beastie to come in close and beg for pets again.

Granted, the choice to try is more easily made given that he has nowhere else to go. He does need support right now, and Blitz and his crew didn't hesitate to offer it. They're making the best out of a bad situation, but Stolas' primary directive is to *simply get through this somehow*. He has other more dire worries. Blitz is fine - his daughter isn't.

His complicated fussy 'ex' is proving himself to be a mostly reliable and supportive friend, and that's far more relevant right now than having the 'are we ~together and in love~ or not' conversation. They'd never even had a regular casual honest open conversation before all this, and they've had their hands full with just stumbling through practical matters without annoying each other.

-

That they can coexist and not make each other miserable is already a huge deal! Plenty of prospective partners and close friends might find that the person they like spending time with isn't that easy to 'dance the dance' of daily life with at all. It takes patience and giving an earnest fuck about trying to accommodate each other without being overly demanding or making yourself uncomfortable. It takes at least somewhat letting your guard down and allowing someone else to see you as the person you are 'when no-one's looking'.

(Granted, Blitz is used to keeping certain aspects of himself pretty self-contained. He's let some of his feelings spill on Loona but he's also lived with her for somewhere North of 5 years if I got the timeline deets correct, *and* with her he's supposed to mind her needs more than she needs to bother herself with his, he's the parent after all.)

-

I guess, in short, I entirely expect Stolas and Blitz to have a pile of hurdles and conflicting emotions and needs to sort through about their relationship right now. They have beef with themselves and with each other that's gonna have to get resolved rather than pushed aside, and so far, they've (understandably) prioritised the basics over troubleshooting themselves and the romance between them.

To have a song skim completely over this not-so-fluffy reality would do the narrative a disservice, and I'm happy that the final version's song acknowledges the exhausting melancholy Stolas is steeped in so gently and compassionately. Our bird's having a real damn hard time of it, and although nobody can wave a wand and fix it for him or tell him what to do, at least he has people around him that stay near and welcome him and are willing to shepherd him around a bit. They're not letting him just drop off the face of the earth and wither, and honestly...

I think that's actually a first for him, too.

-

Whether he realises it or not, the biggest change for him isn't that he 'moved in with his sort-of-boyfriend', it's that he is no longer an isolated father left to raise a daughter without support - he's part of a family where people, despite it all, care a lot and are there for each other when it matters.

It'll sink in eventually, I'm sure. He has no clue what he was missing out on in the first place! Intimacy and romance has been his idea of 'where love happens', and that's what he'd been yearning for.

It's an amusing parallel with Blitz: 'I've never had a friend I didn't want to fuck/date'.

Blitz was his first friend - his first *puppy crush*. His daughter is not someone to bond with on a level of equal emotional give-and-take, a child shouldn't be their parent's emotional support.

His mother? Not a damn clue where she's been. His father? Absent. His caretakers? Subordinate and distanced. Stella's been at best 'around' and at worst an active detriment to be near.

This owl has been *painfully alone*, and that loneliness isn't being soothed by 'being with Blitz' specifically. It's becoming a part of 'Blitz and his family and friends' and being adopted just the way he is, by people that all together will care about him, and that Stolas can care about in turn without risking getting his soul crushed again.

wait, i don't understand, can u please if u want explain why they scrapped the "Stolitz Montage" song?

Yeah, I can explain! I actually have a lot of thoughts about these songs.

For context, at the beginning of Sinsmas, a song called Day By Day plays in the background while Blitz and Stolas run errands. Originally, a different song (untitled, so Sam Haft—the composer—unofficially called it Stolitz Montage) was going to play during these scenes, but they ended up scrapping it. I mentioned in the tags of a different post that I understood why they'd made this decision.

If you don't want to keep reading, my TL;DR is that I believe the tone and mood of Stolitz Montage doesn't fit Stolas' emotional journey in Sinsmas as well as Day By Day does.

If you do want to read my full personal analysis, keep reading below the cut!

-

(Note: I'm going to focus on the songs' lyrics, because I'm not knowledgeable enough about music to analyse the musical aspect of the songs. If anyone else wants to add their thoughts in that regard, be my guest!)

Let's start by taking a look at the lyrics of the scrapped song, Stolitz Montage:

So you're having a bad time

You're stressing and everything all seems much so

You've been having a sad time

And your family probably hates your fucking guts so

The song starts by describing Stolas' situation and emotional state in the days following the trial: he is sad and overwhelmed, everything feels like "too much", and his family probably hates him.

It's pretty clear from the get-go that they wanted a song for this montage that conveyed Stolas' struggle to adapt to life as a commoner, away from everything he's known, and having gone cold turkey on his depression meds (the lack of which is emphasised visually throughout the song).

The song is also in second person: Stolas isn't him, or me, he's you. This is something both songs have in common. It keeps the song at a slight emotional distance from Stolas. Whereas a first-person song would make the feelings too personal—would make Stolas too aware of his own struggle—and a third-person song wound be too distant, the second person allows Stolas to be only passively aware of his emotional state. He's not the one singing; he's the one being sung about. What he's feeling is being pointed out to him by an external, seemingly omniscient voice.

The song continues:

Ooooh-oh oooh ooh

I know you feel it too

You lost your way

And just can't fake it for another day

It's hard to take it

Just pretend you're gonna be okay

Here is where I think the tone of the song starts to deviate from what they wanted to convey in this montage.

At first glance, this is a continuation of the previous verses, and mostly expands on Stolas' emotional state: "it's hard to take it"; "you lost your way".

The key difference is that the lyrical voice now plays an actual role in that emotional state.

First, it states that it shares Stolas' feelings ("I know you feel it too"—implying that Stolas isn't the only one who feels this way). Thus, the lyrical voice starts shifting into an active character within the scene. And not any kind of character—one that can relate to Stolas and, more importantly, one that can offer some comfort.

Then, there's the line "just pretend you're gonna be okay". Now, I see two possible interpretations for this line. It can either be a piece of advice for Stolas (hey, I know it's hard, but just pretend), or another description of his struggle, a continuation of the previous line: "(it's hard to) just pretend you're gonna be okay". Personally, I lean slightly towards the former interpretation, especially because the lyrical voice's intention to offer comfort and advice becomes clearer in the next line of the song:

You're not okay and that's okay

This is where the focus of the song shifts fully towards a hopeful, even optimistic view of Stolas' situation.

Now, I get where they were going with this. "It's okay to not be okay" is a very powerful thing to say to someone who's struggling with mental illness and hard life circumstances, and it's one Stolas badly needs to hear.

In fact, it is a message that is conveyed to Stolas multiple times throughout the episode. By Blitz. Not through words, of course—but through actions. In the montage itself, as well as throughout the rest of the episode, Blitz constantly stands by Stolas' side, offers him company and comfort, meets him where he's at emotionally, doesn't pressure him to be okay, and (especially at the end in their apartment) gives room for Stolas' sadness and grief to exist. He hugs Stolas, puts his hands on Stolas' arms, and opens up emotionally about his own sister, and those are all ways of showing Stolas that it's okay that Stolas isn't okay.

But here's the thing. The knowledge that it's okay to not be okay is Blitz's, not Stolas'. That is Blitz's emotional state, not Stolas'. Stolas doesn't know it's okay to not be okay, and even though Blitz keeps conveying this message to him, he's not able to hear it just yet. Not this early in his descent to rock bottom.

In fact, learning that it's okay to not be okay is a journey that Stolas only begins at the end of the episode. By then, Stolas still isn't okay, but he begins to come to terms with the fact that that's alright. And he does this by allowing Blitz to sit in silence with him, to dance with him, to pry a laugh from him, to hold him without any expectations of being held back. The final scene of the episode is all about them both being okay even though Stolas isn't. We see this in the fact that Stolas lets himself stay in Blitz's arms, going as far as closing his eyes. He's there. He's finally in the moment. He's finally allowing the "not okay" feelings in his body to just be.

The Stolitz Montage song ends with:

You put one foot in front of the other

Then you take it day by day

Knowing you got nothing

You still got each other

Ooooh-oh oooh ooh

Again, most of these lines do match Stolas' emotional state. In fact, the notion of just living life one day at a time, just focusing on putting one foot in front of the other, is very representative of what a depressive episode can and does feel like.

But, in the very last line, the song shifts right back to a reassuring tone: "you still got each other".

Now, not only does the hopeful, optimistic sentiment of this line belong—once again—to Blitz's emotional state, it also goes directly against what the emotional arc of the episode aims to achieve.

Sinsmas isn't about them having each other—Sinsmas is about Stolas having Blitz.

It takes him all episode to realise this, too. At the beginning, when the montage takes place, Stolas is just going through the motions. As stated above, he's just focusing on putting one foot in front of the other—he's fully on survival mode. During the fight with Andrealphus, Stolas is shocked that Blitz came to save him, that he risked his life. That is the moment Stolas begins to truly comprehend that he can lean on Blitz. And then, after they get home, he slowly continues to learn it, as explained above. By the end of the episode, he's only just starting to allow himself to lean emotionally on Blitz.

And significantly, Blitz doesn't lean on Stolas. Because he's at a very different part of his own character arc, and he already had his opportunity to lean emotionally on those around him with Millie in Ghostfuckers, and to a lesser extent, with all his employees during their mission on Sinsmas.

Blitz has gone through enough pain, character growth, and healing to both understand exactly where Stolas is at, and be able to meet him there and be a rock for Stolas to lean on.

So the reason that line—that last line, positioned strategically to drive home its message that it's all gonna be okay—doesn't work for the montage is twofold. Firstly, because Stolas isn't ready to see that he has Blitz. Secondly, because it is now Blitz's turn to give comfort without needing to receive it in exchange.

And, if we take a look at the whole song, the reason it doesn't work for the scene is because it doesn't meet Stolas where he's at. The song says, "yes, you're sad, but—" and shifts to optimism. It doesn't fully allow Stolas to simply not be okay. To not be there yet. It doesn't fully allow his depression to just suck. The feelings of sadness and overwhelmingness are shadowed by a positivity and hope that belong to Blitz, and not Stolas.

Let's now take a look at Day By Day, and at which ideas from the original song were kept, which ones were changed, how, and why it works:

Ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh

You take it day by day

You got everything that you had thought you wanted

But you still feel so blue

And you don't know what to do

Right off the bat, the lyrics are very similar in tone to the ones at the beginning of Stolitz Montage. Once again, a lyrical voice in the second person describes Stolas' emotional state: he's blue (sad), he's taking it day by day.

But there's already a change. "You have everything you thought you wanted, but you still feel so blue".

The fact that Stolas had always wanted a life with Blitz is something the previous song doesn't touch on whatsoever. And it matters, because "what Stolas thought he wanted" is a central part of his arc in the episode. It comes back during his breakdown at the office: "and I did it for what?! These stupid, foolish fantasies?" And it comes back again when Blitz saves him from Andrealphus, and when Blitz dances with him and their eyes meet afterwards.

As stated above, this is the episode where it dawns on Stolas that he has Blitz. But he isn't there yet at the beginning of the episode, and so he still believes what he and Blitz had was just a fantasy of his. And because he's never had anything with Blitz that wasn't a fantasy, because fantasy is all he knows, he doesn't immediately know what to do with the real thing. With the domesticity, and the errands. He doesn't recognise the signs Blitz is sending his way that he's got Blitz to lean on.

These two lines are also important because they bring forth another aspect of depression that the previous song doesn't: that love doesn't cure depression, or make it magically go away. That going cold turkey on your meds and having a massive depressive episode is going to suck no matter how many good things you have in this life, because depression is a biological process, not a state of mind. Depression takes away your ability to find joy in things that used to bring you it. It takes away your feelings, your energy, your strength.

Notice that Stolas doesn't seem apathetic or hollow inside on the night of the trial and the morning after. Yes, he's had his title and power stripped, he's been physically assaulted in the street, and yes, he's worried about Octavia. Obviously, he shows signs of being dissociated, and he's exhausted. But, emotionally, he's still hanging on. He still thanks Blitz for everything, and he talks to Blitz in the morning, and smiles when Blitz offers to get him rats. Before the effects of going cold turkey on his meds start to kick in, he's grateful to be around Blitz.

It's during the montage, as the days go by, that he starts feeling blue. Because depression is very quickly taking away the joy he found in Blitz's company.

And that's why, even in the first few lines, this song conveys Stolas' state of mind so much better than the previous one. Because while the message in Stolitz Montage was "yes, you're sad, but—", the message in Day By Day is "yes, you should be happy, but."

It lets the sad win over the happy. It lets depression take Stolas down with it, it lets him feel helpless and lost. "You still feel so blue, and you don't know what to do."

The song continues:

You're sitting at the end of the rainbow, but the pain grows

And you can't help let the strain show

'Cause what else are you to do?

These lines emphasise the ideas presented in the previous ones: that Stolas should be happy, but he isn't. That the pain that has planted itself in Stolas is growing. So much so that he can't help but let it show.

Stolas' helplessness, his slow descent into misery, are given the room to exist. Everything around him seems fine, but he's not fine. And he's not told that it's okay to not be fine. Because this is Stolas' emotional state we're exploring, and for him, it's not okay to not be fine right now. He's too busy going through the motions to grant himself that kind of mercy.

The song finishes:

Keep it calm, life goes on, and on, and on

Nothing's wrong, nothing's wrong

So why do I still feel this way?

Ooh, ooh-ooh, ooh, ooh-ooh

You take it day by day

And, much like in the previous song, we get a small hint of what could be interpreted either as advice/reassurance from the lyrical voice, or as Stolas actively telling himself to pretend to be okay. "keep it calm, life goes on, nothing's wrong". In this case, though, I lean towards the latter interpretation for a very simple reason: the next line shifts to first person. "So why do I still feel this way?"

And that's the thing: once again, the hope and calm he's trying to make himself feel are immediately overpowered by his feelings of sadness. Once again, it's the sadness that wins over, and not the happiness. His depression is given room to drag him down, take him slowly towards rock bottom.

And once again, the last line—at least the last one before the chorus is repeated—is used to drive home the message of the song. But this time, the message is that, despite it all, despite having what he wanted, despite sitting at the end of the rainbow, despite trying to convince himself he's okay, he still feels sad. Because that's what depression does. No matter how many good things you have in your life, it drags you down.

And that message, in that last line, is delivered in the form of a question. "Why do I still feel this way?" This matters for two reasons. The first one is that it shows that Stolas isn't (fully) aware of what's happening to him. He obviously knows he needs his meds, he knows he should be taking them. We see him reach out for them. But he is also living his emotions, and not just experiencing them from the outside. And as the emotions take over, he loses perspective of where they come from, too caught up in how they're drowning him.

The second reason this matters is because the song and the lyrical voice don't offer Stolas answers.

In Stolitz Montage, Stolas gets an answer to his struggle: that, ultimately, [Blitz and Stolas] still got each other.

But in Day By Day, all Stolas gets are questions. What else are you to do? Why do I still feel this way?

Day By Day meets Stolas where he's at during the days leading up to Sinsmas after the trial. It allows for these questions to exist without an answer; it lets the answers come later in the episode. It lets his journey through the episode play out, allowing him to learn that he has Blitz, that he needs his meds, and that he has to be okay with the fact that things are not okay.

By the end of the episode, he can acknowledge that he made his choices and has to deal with the consequences. He starts to understand Blitz is by his side, willing to help him through this. That his relationship with Blitz might not feel like he thought it would, because he's too mentally ill and heart-broken to be there—but that they still have each other, they still love each other, and they'll be okay.

But during the montage, he's not there yet, and it wouldn't make sense for the song to be there, either.

So, yes, as cute and optimistic as Stolitz Montage is, and as glad as I am they released it anyways for us to enjoy, I believe the writers made the right decision by scrapping it for the episode.

If you read this far, thank you for your time! Please treat yourself to a glass of water for me, and feel free to share your thoughts ❤️

[suzukiblu]

WIP excerpt for S behind the cut; “from Andromeda to your eye”. (( chrono || non-chrono ))

“I’m so sorry,” she sobs, and Superboy squeezes her tighter. It feels–strange. Weird. She never would’ve–she never–she’d thought he might be able to help her get away. Thought he’d at least probably be willing to try. But she hadn’t thought he’d touch her face or try to make her laugh or let her cry on him or hug her. 

Hadn’t thought she’d be saying “sorry” so many times either, though that one she probably should’ve expected. 

“I know. Like–I get it,” Superboy says, rubbing her back a little. She almost starts crying harder. “Just . . . c’mon, babe. Come with me.” 

She goes, obviously. 

Obviously she goes.

.

.

.

Superboy takes the clone deeper into Cadmus, leading her by the hand. She manages to stop crying, though not really on purpose, and no one stops or questions them. No one seems to have noticed the clone isn’t Wonder Girl, and Superboy hasn’t seemed to see any point in telling anyone. She wants to tell him not to be so trusting, but she really, really needs him to trust her. 

She thinks she might just degrade into nothing and collapse into genetic scrap, if he didn’t. 

She doesn’t know what she’d do, if he didn’t, and she doesn’t want to have to figure it out. She doesn’t want to. The Agenda made her in the image of a superhero–made her from a superhero–but all she wants is for someone to save her. 

And she wants that someone to be someone like Superboy, if she . . . if she gets the choice. She’d take anyone, if it came to it, but she doesn’t want to. Doesn’t want saved by someone who’ll hurt her for it; who’ll use her for it. Who’ll make her pay for it. 

She wants saved for nothing except the fact that she needs saving, like someone might do for a real person. 

Like someone might do if they thought she mattered like a real person. 

Superboy doesn’t let go of her hand the whole way to wherever he’s taking her, and she–obviously–doesn’t let go of his either. Just–the holding cells so she’ll be contained, she assumes, or an interrogation room so Guardian can have her questioned, or . . . 

It’s someone’s personal lab, she finds out when they get there, and finds out whose when Superboy barges right into it without feeling any apparent need to knock and yells, “Hey, Doc, need you to take a look at somebody here!” 

He doesn’t say “something”, and of course he wouldn't, but the clone still nearly starts crying all over again. If she did, though, she definitely wouldn’t be able to stop doing it this time. 

“Oh, you got date night already, youngblood?” a voice says, and Serling Roquette rolls out from behind a row of computers in a desk chair, smirking up at Superboy and clearly having just kicked off the wall. She’s wearing cat-eye glasses, a knee-length leopard-print vest instead of a lab coat, and very loud jewelry. Her shoes are neon pink platform heels that lace all the way up to her knees and are definitely not OSHA-approved. The clone has no idea how she even walks in them, though rolling a chair around a lab environment doesn’t actually imply very much “walking” anyway, she guesses.

[insanechayne]

~ ~ ~

[mulloey]

the shop

your car has broken down for the nth time, but yunho’s there to save the day. just your luck you don’t have enough money to pay him.

mechanic!yunho x fem!reader

words: 2.7k

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warnings: dom!yunho, sub!reader, paying with your body trope, you already wanted to fuck him though, probably inaccurate pricing for car repair services cus i can’t drive tbh, unprotected sex, degrading, choking, slapping, creampie etc. not proofread

—

You’re dizzy and delirious, putty in his hands as he holds you firmly in place, right where he wants you.

“Y-Yunho!” You squeal. You writhe in his grip a little but it’s far too strong to resist.

He’s got you bent over the hood of the car—your car—while he pounds into you like a desperate, starving man. His overalls are hanging around his waist, just low enough for him to pull his cock out; his white t-shirt is soaked in sweat and the oil-covered gloves on his hands rub painfully against the skin of your hips.

“F-fuck,” he grunts. Your hips collide painfully with the hood every time he thrusts into you and your ass bounces and reddens each time your bodies collide. “What a fucking cock whore. You do this every time you can’t pay the bill? Huh?”

“N-no,” you sob. “Just you, Yunho. Just… hngh… just you.”

“I don’t believe you,” he snarls. His hand comes down on your ass again, raw and painful over the marks he left earlier and you find yourself looking back on everything that lead you here—lead you to being bent over your broken down car while the hottest man you’ve ever fucking seen is slamming his dick into you like his life depends on it.

You suppose the first part—ending up at the auto shop—was inevitable. The car was fucked when you bought it, honestly, but there weren’t many other options for a broke college student. You lived in another district where rent is cheaper, so needed a car to get to class. Didn’t matter how good it was, it just needed to run.

Trust your luck that that seemed to be the only thing it wouldn’t do.

For a period you managed to get by fixing it yourself; Youtube tutorials and favours from friends were enough to deal with all the minor issues that came up, but as minor issues tend to do, they quickly piled up on top of each other until, the morning your presentation was due, you put the keys in the ignition, started the car and—nothing. It did nothing. You were the unluckiest person in the fucking world.

You’d called your best friend immediately, hoping he’d be able to find and fix the problem, but really, you knew it was past that point now—and if you didn’t before, the shock on Hongjoong’s face when he’d popped the hood was evidence enough.

“Jesus, woman,” he said. “You gotta get this thing to a repair shop.”

“You know I can’t afford that,” you snapped back. Instantly you felt guilty for your tone, he was just trying to help after all, so you tried to soften up a bit. “Joong, can you really not fix it?”

“No, I’m sorry. But I know a guy who owns an auto shop. He’ll probably let me use my friends and family discount on you. I’ll give him a call.”

Relief flooded your chest and you hugged him tightly, thanking him profusely even as he walked away chuckling to make the call. In the meantime you called your professor; you thanked God you were such a good student, never missing class or assignments—you doubt she’d have been so forgiving otherwise. “Come by during office hours tonight and you can present it then,” she’d said, and you thanked her with a smile.

Okay, you thought. You just needed to deal with this, do your presentation and the nightmare would be over.

How wrong you were.

—

The auto shop was, well, pretty much how you pictured it. Cars in various states of completion sat in the spacious garage, walls piled with wheels and various other parts, the uses of which you probably would never have been able to guess. The only thing that took you by surprise was the tall, young looking guy who came up and introduced you as the owner.

“Hey, darling,” he smiled. “I’m Yunho. Let’s get you all fixed up, yeah?”

You blushed at his words, and the deep, sultry voice that spoke them. You imagined that was his intention; the way his eyes flickered up and down suggested the attraction was mutual. Or maybe that was just his personality; maybe the flirtatious tone, the innuendo of his words and his intense, intimidating gaze just came naturally to him.

He walked you over to where he had your car laid out and ready to go. Popping the hood, he surveyed the condition with a serious, focused expression. In the heat of the garage, his face was sweating slightly, and he swallowed thickly as he looked everything over. It made the vein in his neck bulge, tension obvious. When he stood back up again he seemed cool and assured; the opposite of you. You felt… confused. Hot. Tense.

“It’s not a huge problem,” he smiled. “Shouldn’t take more than an hour to fix it.”

You didn’t expect that. “Really?” You lit up, overjoyed and he chuckled.

“Yeah,” he said. “We’ve got a staff room if you wanna wait around. May as well, since I should be done pretty quick.”

“Oh, yeah.” That made sense; there didn't seem to be many cafes or places around here for you to wait in anyway—and even if there were, none of them offered the view that the staff room he led you to had; the large glass window looking directly into the garage. You’d be able to keep an eye on your car as he worked—and on Yunho.

He got to work straight away and though you knew next to nothing about cars, save for the Youtube tutorials on greasing brakes and whatever else, but his skill was obvious. His large hands, covered by thick, dirtied gloves, worked quickly and efficiently.

He clearly knew you were watching him, and he clearly enjoyed it; every now and then he would look up from the car, meeting your eyes and tilting his head with a small, smug smirk. When he stood up to unzip his overalls, revealing a thin white t-shirt clinging to his broad chest, you found yourself inching closer and closer to the window without realising. Only when your face was practically pressed up against the glass did you back away, blushing furiously as you sunk into your seat. What the hell was wrong with you?

You’d never been like this about a man. Not even close. No one had ever made you so needy, so hot, so desperate. You didn’t even know you could be affected by someone in this way, yet here you were; thighs clenched together, breathing heavily and your face so hot you were practically feverish. He’d catch your gaze now and then still, and the expression on his face told you he knew everything that was going on in your head—and your body.

The sight of him putting the hood back down was a mercy and a curse; your car was fixed, you could leave, and you could get away from this man; three things you’d been waiting desperately for all this time.

But…did you even want to leave? It would be the smart thing to do, and the sooner you could get him out of your head, the better. But everything in your body screamed at you not to go, to stay and see what happens—if nothing did, at least you’d know. At least you wouldn’t have to wonder for the rest of your life.

He gestured for you to come out of the staff room, proudly showing you your fixed car. Your attraction to him aside, Yunho’s skill surprised you; the old, battered vehicle almost looked new, and when he started the engine to check it worked it sounded clearer and healthier than ever. “Holy shit,” you muttered.

Yunho laughed. “Yeah, I’m pretty good. How do you wanna pay?”

You sighed. You never liked this part; who did? It was always painful to part ways with the little cash you earned at your god awful waitressing job, but you had to do what you had to do. “Card,” you mumbled.

“Alright,” he smiled. “It’s 250,000won. I’ll get the machine.”

He disappeared into what you guessed was another staff room and you stood awkwardly for a moment. Even with him gone the air was thick, sweaty; tense. He returned with the card machine, holding it out for you to take and you put your card in with shaking hands, pressing down the familiar numbers. Well, there goes the last of your mone—

The machine made a high-pitched, displeased noise that you knew all too well. Declined. You made a noise of shock, shaking your head in disbelief. It can’t have declined. You knew you had enough for this. You had to have enough. What the hell is—

Oh. Fuck. When they towed your car here this morning and you followed in a taxi with Hongjoong. When you insisted on paying the fare to thank him for his help. Fuck. You need to be a worse friend.

You didn’t realise you were crying until you felt hands on yours; he grasped your shaking hands carefully, holding them steadily. His face was blank, but he seemed thoughtful.

“Fuck,” you groaned. “Fuck, what do I– I swear I–”

“Hey, hey.” His voice was calm and soft but a little lower than before. “Relax, doll. We’ll work something out, yeah?”

“Work something out?” You echoed his words, voice shaking.

“Of course,” he smiled. He tilted his head and you saw his eyes raking over you again; but this time it felt less like leering and more like… an inspection. You knew exactly what he was thinking.

“Tell me.” His voice seemed to have dropped an octave, thick with tension. “Are you really out of money?”

You blinked. “What?”

“Are you really out of money?” He repeated it, slower this time as though he was trying to dumb it down for you. “Or did you do this on purpose?”

You shook your head fervently, your body heating up with embarrassment and desperation and shame and, well, pretty much everything honestly. “No, Yunho, I—”

“I think you did.” He was grinning now, eyes piercing as he stared you down. He was still for a moment, seeming to consider something before he grabbed your chin, yanking your head up to meet his eyes. The material of the gloves was rough against your soft skin and the tightness of his grip was even more painful. “I bet you put the wrong numbers in on purpose, huh? Didn’t you?”

“I…” You didn’t know what to say. You knew what he was saying wasn’t true, but fuck, you could already feel wetness pooling at the thought of what he’d do to you if it was. But he seemed to have made his mind up either way, so you decided to play his game—you widened your eyes fearfully, lip shaking as you said “I promise, I didn’t” in the most pathetic voice you could muster.

He knew what you were doing, and he fucking loved it. His smile widened as he leaned in closer to you. From this distance you could see his pupils were blown, eyes flashing with arousal. “I think you’re lying to me,” he whispers. “And you know what’s more, little girl?”

Your breath hitched. “What?”

He tightened his grip, yanking your head upwards again to expose your neck. His other hand wrapped itself around your throat like it belonged there. “I hate liars.”

—

You don’t even know how long he’s been fucking you now; your sense of time has blurred and muddied and it could have been minutes just as much as it could have been hours. All you can feel or think about is the feeling of his dick fucking you open, hitting your cervix over and over; and the strong arms that move and manipulate your body to increase his own pleasure.

He grabs your hair, yanking it back painfully and forcing you to look at him. “That’s it,” he grunts. “You’re gonna look at me while I’m fucking you, yeah?”

“Yes,” you cry. “Yes, Yunho.”

“Good fucking girl.” His other hand wraps around your throat again, choking you just this side of too much. The head rush it gives you only sends you further into delirium, amplifying the other sensations. His deep, strained voice is fire in your ears. “Fucking stupid whore, aren’t you?”

He punctuates it with an extra hard thrust and you cry out again, voice strangled. “Yes, Yunho!” You scream. “Yes!”

“Say it,” he growls. “Tell me you’re a fucking whore.”

“I’m a fucking whore,” you repeat. To hear the words from your own mouth, to taste them on your tongue as he forces you to degrade yourself sends another wave of pleasure through you that pushes you closer to the edge. Yunho makes a pleased sound, rewarding you by loosening his grip on your neck ever so slightly.

“You’re my fucking whore,” he whispers. “Yunho’s whore.”

“Yunho’s whore.” You repeat it without thinking and you feel him throb again inside you at your natural submission. “I’m Yunho’s whore.

“That you fucking are. Bending over for me over 250,000 fucking won. You’re a cheap little slut,” he spits. “But only for me, yeah?”

“Yes!” You feel yourself about to come undone and just as you finally reach breaking point he pulls out, cock hard and leaking; before you can protest he picks you up without a word, flipping you onto your back before shoving his cock back inside. “Wanna see you properly when I come in you,” he grunts. “Wanna see those eyes go fucking dumb for me.”

He lifts your legs and pushes them back towards you. The stretch is painful and uncomfortable but it’s hard to care about any of that when he’s fucking you so deep and hard. The weight of his hands pressing down on the backs of your thighs will surely leave bruises but you don’t mind—you’d probably love it, actually.

Now that you’re facing him you can see all the small details of his face while he fucks you; the beads of sweat pooling on his forehead, the black hair soaked through with it, the narrowed eyes and clenched jaw as his grip on your thighs tightens even further. He’s practically pressing all his weight against you now and it’s a delicious, painful pleasure. You reach out to him desperately—though desperate for what you’re not quite sure—and he grabs your hands, bending down to pin your arms against the car as he takes you in a hot, wet, messy kiss.

“Pretty girl,” he chokes. “So fucking pretty.”

“Yunho.” You feel tears pouring down your cheeks, overwhelmed with sensation, with the feeling of Yunho on every inch of your body. He pulls his mouth away from yours to press sloppy kisses across your jaw and neck, teasing the skin with his teeth. “Think you can come for me?” He murmurs. “Just from being used like this?”

“Yes, Yunho,” you whisper. “I’m gonna—”

“Do it,” he growls. He moves a hand down to press his thumb against your swollen clit, making you buck against him. “Come on my fat fucking cock like a good little girl. Earn your keep, baby.”

The heat in his words and the pressure of his thumb on your clit are enough to send you barrelling over the edge; you come with a noise you didn’t even know you made and he follows quickly, releasing inside of you with a strangled cry.

It’s silent for a moment and time seems to still while you process what’s just happened. You whine when you feel him pull out of you and he chuckles, gently slapping your pussy. “What a good girl,” he muses. “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.”

He sends you on your way with his business card in your pocket and his number in your phone. It takes you two weeks to find the nerve to call him, and that’s only because your car’s been making a weird noise that you can’t figure out. To be honest, it’s probably something Hongjoong or one of your other friends would be able to solve, but it’s too late now; you’ve already pulled up his contact and pressed call.

“Well hello, sweetheart.” Yunho’s voice is as deep as ever, his tone teasing. “Was starting to think I wouldn’t hear from you.”

“Yeah, um.” You clear your throat awkwardly, feeling yourself heat up again. “My car— it’s making a weird noise. Can you take a look at it?”

“Of course,” he says, and you hear the leering smile in his voice. “Why don’t you come down now? It’s a slow day at the shop anyway.”

“Oh, yeah. Sure.”

“Great. Oh, and baby?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t bring your credit card.”

—

requests open! comments and feedback appreciated. love🖤🖤🖤

tags: @pixie0627 @hon3ysun @bbdeongi @hwaromi

[gutsby]

Cowboy Killers

Pairing: Cowboy!Joel x Reader

Summary: On a mission to find—and fight—your best friend’s lying, cheating boyfriend at the bar, you end up throwing your drink in the wrong face and landing in a sticky situation with Joel Miller, who never plays fair.

Warnings: 18+. Drunk-Assholes-to-Enemies-to-Lovers. Oral (m!receiving). Road head. Age gap. Daddy kink.

Note: My favorite sub-genre of country music is ‘I’m Gonna Fucking Kill My Husband,’ and I think Miranda Lambert’s ‘Gunpowder & Lead’ is a perfect representation of that.

Word count: 4.1k

Forgive and forget.

Forgive and forget.

Forgive and—

“I’m about to lay this motherfucker out,” you announced.

Across the line, your friend laughed.

“Yeah? You see him?”

Of course you saw him. Who else would be wearing a Carhartt flannel and jeans in ninety-four degree heat? Not a soul in this world but your friend’s own lying, piece of shit, hopefully-soon-to-be-ex boyfriend, you guessed.

The game that Old Fuckstick Miller had decided to play tonight was a dangerous one—he was dumb as shit, and you were drunker than a skunk. He was dating your best friend, and she was not present at the Tipsy Bison to see the barefaced clusterfuck taking place before you now.

She was home, over thirty minutes away. He had told her that morning he would be working late, and not to wait up. You were here, at the bar, approaching one A.M. with a Redbull Vodka clenched in either fist and a Texas-sized frown on your face, seeing the very same man with his hands all over a woman that wasn’t your friend. You’d wanted to puke as soon as you saw them. You knew you could never trust a man who claimed to be an Austin native and couldn’t name a single George Strait song.

Your friend had only been dating the guy for a month, and you’d just seen his face in pictures up until now, but from what you could see less than twenty feet in front of you—slightly blurred from all the drinks you’d had—this guy was him. A dick. There, cheating on your best friend.

And no man would get to do that and walk out unscathed if you had anything to say about it.

Your grip tightened on either one of your fizzy drinks and, barely managing to cradle the phone between your head and your shoulder, you gestured over to another friend.

“Dave. Take it,” you said, words slurring a little.

Dave York cocked an eyebrow but said nothing as you passed him one of your RBVs and shimmied off the barstool. By the time he was able to pose his question, your ass, your phone, and your one remaining drink were already wobbling the other way. Vaguely, you heard him:

“Where ya headed, hon?”

You turned and raised your drink, then seriously doubted he would be able to hear you over the blare of the music, but yelled back anyway, ‘I’M GONNA KILL SOMEONE!’

The age-old pro-forgiveness aphorism continued to thump in your brain as you made your way over and began to contemplate every feasible method of murder.

A gun in the face would’ve been too simple—and besides, you’d never owned or shot a firearm in your life.

Poison could be fun, but from the way you were approaching the man now, you seriously doubted he’d ever let you get within a mile of his drink. You nudged the phone closer to your ear and took a sip from your own.

“Closing in,” you told your friend simply.

She’d already given you the go-ahead to execute the confrontation and beat his ass any way you pleased after the fact. Now it wasn’t so much a matter of ‘if’ but ‘when’ you’d finally get to encroach on this little loved up scene at the other end of the bar. The man had had his back turned to you, and the stunning redhead hanging off his neck, likewise, had no idea what was coming. You smiled.

“Promise you won’t go to jail this time?” your friend said.

“Will you bail me out again if I do?” Your grin got bigger.

“Well, duh.”

“Good deal. I’ll be the shitfaced inmate with ‘Fuck Men’ tattooed on her forehead. Wait for Travis County to call.”

“I love you, psycho.”

“Love you more.”

You ended the call.

And you were fully ready to end this man’s life when you saw him lean in to kiss the woman’s neck—that was sick.

You weren’t thinking straight. You weren’t seeing straight

You yelled out, ‘He-e-e-ey, honey!’ without blinking.

The couple turned.

As soon as the man had done a full 180, you flung your drink in his face and made sure the cup struck his nose.

“You cheatin’ FUCK!”

He flinched, sprayed by your vodka-infused energy juice.

The music overhead was loud, but not so deafening as to prevent the bar from hearing your shriek. From the front of the room, a band was playing ‘Gunpowder & Lead,’ and you couldn’t help but feel the song had been fate.

“What the f—” the adulterer started, evidently stunned.

You knocked the Shiner Bock out of his hand and spat:

“Working late, are we?!”

And spilled another patron’s beer reeling back.

“Got a little caught up on the way home?”

Gesturing toward the green-eyed beauty to his left. At first, the girl fixed her stare on you as if you’d sprouted another head, but then, by turns, she was tilting it to him.

“You have a girlfriend?” she hissed.

Cheater McFuckstick was wiping his beard with his hand

Shaking his head.

“Hell no, I ain’t never—”

“LIAR!”

Channeling your inner Representative Wilson circa 2009, you let your mouth fall open and stared at the big, burly man like the Congressman had once done to President Obama all those years ago. The semi-stranger in front of you was far less composed than his political counterpart.

“What the fuck is your problem?!” he snapped.

You felt your cheeks heat up.

“Is she your girlfriend?” would-be mistress said, shrill.

“NO!” you and been-knew asshole yelled together.

You saw the man’s nostrils flare, and at the same time, the woman beside him departed. Quickly. A few people around you cleared the way, while others still stared, gawked, and murmured amongst themselves. The Miranda Lambert cover band continued on without a hitch, though you could tell there had been a stir in the crowd. They probably thought the worst of it was over.

They thought wrong.

“You’re a dick,” you seethed, unrelenting.

You almost expected the man to turn and leave.

You thought wrong.

“You’re a cunt.”

And the man chucked a stray whiskey sour in your face.

The $15 spirits splattered on your skin like the meanest insult of all. His aim was better. Though he didn’t let go of the cup, as you had with him, he did make sure to coat the whole of your twisted look with the liquor, and once it landed, he had had the nerve to do something else, too.

He brought the glass to his lips then drank what was left.

“How’s it feel?” he sneered.

You stood in wet, sticky silence for half a second; arguably, you’d earned that cocktail to the face.

On the other hand, who the fuck did he think he was?

You grabbed a random can of Keystone Light and flung it at his chest to give him a hint—and catch him off-guard.

“You’re a bitch, Tommy Miller!”

“Wh—”

“Maria’s my best friend, you absolute f—”

“What—”

“—and you cheated on her for what? All so she—”

“What did you just call me?!”

“A BITCH!”

“No, the NAME!”

“TOMMY MILLER!”

“I’M JOEL!”

Oh.

Oh.

You and Joel were shortly escorted out of the bar.

Joel’s name, and a trace of bourbon, were still fresh on your tongue when you found yourself stranded in the middle of the Tipsy Bison parking lot two minutes later. You leaned into a car beside you and held your stomach.

“Someone drop you on the head as a baby?” Joel barked.

Presently, for you, the world was tilting sideways, and your head was throbbing at a nauseating tempo.

“Go around slingin’ drinks at any old man you—”

Green. Green must’ve been the color of your face as you braced your hands on your knees and assumed a stance as if to scream at the ground. Rather than expecting any noise to ring out, though, you had only to squeeze your eyes shut and hold onto a hunch for something much less pleasant. And viscous.

Reeking mostly of Red Bull and regret, if you had to guess.

Joel took a big step back, and then he took another.

“Da-a-adgummit, girl, what the—”

He turned away just in time to miss the sight of you emptying your guts on the ground, but not quite fast enough to be spared the sounds of you retching. They were loud. Joel Miller was known to be a largely imperturbable force around these parts, but even he was made to feel queasy hearing that. Out of habit, he clapped his hand to his own gut and stumbled off. He stared at the bar, then at his car, then at the gravel crushed under his feet for what felt like the longest time. Then his gaze lingered to his lower half, and he thought:

‘Please, please don’t gimme no daughters. Please.’

He was forty-five. The time for making babies and raising daughters to be anything like a woman of your ilk was probably long past him. All the same, he kept his gaze on his crotch and sighed. Balls, you better not betray me.

When he heard the crunch of rocks, he turned around.

“HEY!”

Oh, no. No. Not tonight.

You were staggering to your car, keys in hand.

“Hey!” Joel called again, jogging after you.

It seemed the second shout had done him no more favors than the first. You were fumbling to get the key inside the door, and you looked as determined as ever.

Over your shoulder, you tossed back, careless:

“You ain’t the boss of me, Tommy Miller.”

You got the key to turn. You opened the door. You were just about to climb inside what looked to Joel to be the ugliest Dodge Ram pickup he’d seen in his life, when he grabbed your arm.

“It’s Joel,” he growled. Pinching your elbow tight as he tugged it back, “And you ain’t driving anywhere tonight.”

Somewhere in front of him, tilted away from his line of vision, you must’ve been grinning, because the next thing he heard from you was the scoff of a laugh.

“Oh yeah?”

Joel flipped you around to face him.

“Yeah,” he snapped.

Feeling a bit like a kid for mimicking your tone.

What were you, twenty-two? Twenty-three? You couldn’t have been a patron of a place like Tipsy Bison for very long, or else he would’ve recognized you tonight.

Then again, you struck him as the type to have had a fake ID since you were fifteen, so he really couldn’t know.

“I’m twenny-wuh-un,” you slurred up at him, exaggerated, once he’d made you step down from the running board and onto the ground. Answering his last unspoken question with the same, sleepy grin as before. Then lifting one of your hands to wag a finger in his face, “I can drink legal anywhere I want to in this country.”

“Not there,” Joel nodded to the interstate.

You looked to where he’d gestured and whistled. Standing and staring, like he had done to his crotch.

“Well fuck me-e!” you said next, dragging out the sound a childish amount, “You the law or somethin’, Mr. Joel?”

“Ain’t no cop.” Joel rolled his eyes.

You kept smiling. Then you turned on your heels.

And instead of trying to climb back into your truck, you sauntered off—in what direction, Joel couldn’t tell. You were more so bumbling about, turning in circles like the world’s most scantily-clad, semi-intoxicated ballerina. And then you stopped. You put your hands on your hips.

“‘Cause I’m the law,” you resumed in a slow, deliberate drawl. The twang you used was mostly feigned, “And you cain’t beat the law. Don’t nobody get away with that, not even a bunch’a Alabama smart alecks, believe you me.”

Joel didn’t know what the fuck you were talking about. The man was Texas born and bred, and you knew it.

He communicated as much by pinning you with a wide, bewildered stare, and something in that seemed to amuse. You stared back, making your eyes bug out too.

“It’s a quote from a movie,” you said, after a beat, “You’ve never seen Fried Green Tomatoes before?”

Joel couldn’t say that he had.

Joel reckoned there was a lot more than just movies he didn’t share in common with you. Miss Twenty-One. Barely a year past the age he’d been when he’d moved out of the house and tried to make a living on his own.

This woman, this girl he saw twirling out in front of him now probably couldn’t pour piss out of a boot with the instructions written on the heel if he’d asked you to. Joel shook his head and moved his feet, frown etching deep.

“Alright, princess. Up.”

You didn’t seem to understand, until he’d lifted you. Up.

You were thrown over his shoulder and carried to a truck much nicer than yours in less than fifteen seconds or so.

“Stinks in here,” you said as soon as he’d set you down.

Then, sniffing the air—and grinning:

“Aw, hell, Miller…you smoke?”

Joel wished he’d said no.

Wished he’d rolled his eyes and told you to pipe down, stop asking him questions. It would’ve made the drive a whole lot easier, and more peaceful. Nowhere near as painful, either, if he were being perfectly honest—the strain in his jeans had already gotten to be more than he could bear, and all you’d asked for was a pack of smokes.

“They call ‘em Cowboy Killers,” you said, matter-of-fact.

“I know what they’re called,” Joel grumbled in reply. Flicking the radio on and hoping to find a tune that would drown out the too-lovely, cloying voice you’d assumed as soon as you thought you might win a cigarette off of him. More chatty now than ever.

And for one, blissful moment, Toby Keith had you beat. The calm was fleeting. As soon as ‘Who’s Your Daddy’ started to drift through the car’s old speakers, you reached across and turned the knob to the left.

“Gross,” you muttered.

“What?”

“Got a light?”

“Blow me.”

Joel’s harsh, clipped tone was deliberate. The way he’d made himself mean—meaner than he’d been around a woman in a long, long time—was a choice. He couldn’t let your faux sweetness win him now. Not after you’d thrown two drinks in his face, mocked his truck, and foreclosed any possibility of getting laid by way of all your publicized infidelity philippics and shit-talking. Giving in to your charms from where you sat in the passenger seat now would only sink him further in his own esteem. Simply put, Joel’s ego couldn’t take it.

“Okie doke,” you said presently. Shrugging.

“Now keep your—HEY!”

Joel nearly swerved his truck off the road and into a ditch. Your deft little hands had slipped into his lap—and started palming his crotch through the denim.

He’d just managed to right the vehicle before jerking a look your way, staring at your hand, then your face:

“What the fuck was that?!”

“You said ‘blow me,’ Joel!” you huffed, and you seriously appeared as distraught as he was, “Sorry for listening!”

Joel grit his teeth with all the force of a cold steel trap.

“You’re fuckin’ nuts.” He gripped the wheel even tighter.

“I’m aware.”

“Where the hell do you live, anyway?”

You told him.

Your hand slipped down to the seat beside him.

And just as Joel let out what felt like the tiniest sigh of relief—he knew where that was, and the address sounded vaguely familiar—he yelped again. This time, he managed to keep control of his truck, but it was hard.

Your fingers had returned, and they were kneading the bulge under his jeans. Joel flushed from head to toe.

He didn’t have so much as half a mind to make you stop. He didn’t want to see you slink back over to your side of the car. But you were twenty-one, and he was forty-five. And you were both under the influence to some degree. And he was driving, for fuck’s sake. Shit like that only worked in dreams—not on a highway in a town like this.

He turned the radio dial to 75. At length, he heard it loud:

‘WHO’S YOUR DADDY? WHO’S YOUR BA-A-A-ABY?’

He saw you cringe.

“C’mon, Joel,” you groaned, “That’s…yuck.”

The fingers of the one hand kept digging, rubbing, but the other reached out and turned the music down again.

Joel shifted in his seat, feeling the pleasure start to bloom from the pit of his stomach, but not wanting to let you off that easy. Briefly, he looked from the road to you.

“What? You got a problem with Toby Keith?”

“I got a problem with anyone sayin’ ‘daddy’ like that.”

You unzipped his fly. Popped the button of his jeans from underneath the soft shelf of belly hanging over it, and held him, finally. You could only cup his erection through his boxers at that point, but the friction was enough to send a shiver through the whole of the old man’s body. He hadn’t been touched like that by a hand that wasn’t his own in…he couldn’t remember how long. He sighed.

“That why you’ve got your hand down the pants of a man old enough to be your father?” Joel quipped.

He couldn’t help it.

Your hand only gripped him tighter. From the passenger seat, you’d leaned over and started crawling. Scowling.

Your knees swiftly planted themselves on the old, upholstered cushion of the bucket seat, and you slipped a touch beneath the waistband of his underwear. With a hand that was smooth and soft and eager to please, you wrapped your fingers around that base and leaned in.

“You sound like you want me to say it,” you whispered.

Under your hand, he pulsed. His gaze stayed on the road.

“Don’t make no difference to me, sweet pea,” he said, and was amazed how even he was able to keep his tone:

“But those ‘Cowboy Killers’ you wanted…”

Your fingers curled tighter. Your head sank lower.

“…they don’t come cheap, y’know.”

Oh, you knew. He saw a smile snag at the corners of your lips as you brought them to his lap, and he had to force himself to look at the road again. It was empty and dark.

The tarmac stretched out for days. The fields rolling past warned sternly, ‘Don’t let her win,’ and something more in between each tree seemed to invite deliberation—remembrance, maybe. Joel was far too focused on the feel of your mouth to give the woods a second thought.

You’d worked the first inch between your lips in a slick, obscene sort of kiss; you made room for just the head and then toyed with a bead of precum leaking out of his slit. You licked it, squeezed the shaft in your hand, and hummed while the first real moan rumbled through him.

Joel turned to putty with just that flick of your tongue. He didn’t have to see your face to know he was losing.

On the wheel, his grip grew tighter, and he choked out:

“Ain’t your fuckin’ lollypop, kid.”

Then, dropping one hand to push down on your head—make you take him to the back of your throat in one go.

“Daddy wants you to suck him like a big girl, hear?”

At the base of his cock, he felt you gag. From the bottom of his heart, Joel knew there was no sound sweeter than that. He ran his fingers over your skull and tapped gently.

“If you want those smokes,” he told you—and really, with all the warmth and moisture of your mouth enveloping him now, he’d had to try to sound rougher than he was, “You’re gonna do what daddy says and suck him right.”

You gagged again, then squeezed his denim-clad leg with the hand that wasn’t wrapped around his member.

Joel yanked you by your hair and made you look up.

Your cheeks were already smeared with spit and tears. Much to his surprise, he found your eyes alight and soft.

Suffused with desire, too, from what he could see.

“Yes, daddy.” You grinned up at him.

Joel knew if he let your gaze stay on his a second longer now he’d either crash his car, blow his load, or fall in love—and he simply refused to let you succeed on any of those fronts, so he shoved your face back down.

You sucked him obediently. Greedily. Mouth growing more pliant and wet by the second, as if your jaw and salivary glands had contrived to get him as close to release as possible, as quickly as they were able.

Joel took a left onto a road he had only a dim recognition as being connected to yours, and he got that feeling again. You were bobbing your head, taking him further, flattening your tongue along the bottom of his member when his pleasure swelled inside him. At the same time, he felt a sense of dread. His hands were shaking on the wheel. He didn’t dare steal a look down to the sweet, soaked, perfect little mouth sucking him dry, because he knew that feeling would only strike twice as hard. He had to cum, or make you stop, or bring his truck to a halt.

As it was, he felt five tiny crescents sink into his thigh as you gripped him tighter, and a noise bubbled up in your mouth. Your breathing went shallow, and your lips stretched wide—you were trying, and succeeding, in deep-throating his thick, throbbing, much-too-old-for-a-girl-her-age member down close to your windpipe, and Joel could feel it. He hit his blinker, not thinking, and saw a sign that marked your street. Trepidation hit him again.

Fully, this time, in a feeling that was more like terror.

He didn’t have another second to question it, either. By the time he had the old, lone farmhouse in his sights and his heart nearly halfway up his throat with fear, your own throat pulsed, and opened the last two inches to him in. Your nose found their home in the rough, grey, wiry hairs at the base of his belly, having swallowed him whole, and Joel quickly sensed the start of what he knew too well.

He came down your throat in one, two, three, four, five long spurts, and didn’t let his foot off the gas even once.

He saw your house, approaching closer now, and paled.

No fucking way.

You’d wanted to skip the whole way up your drive.

Spit still drying on your cheeks, cum resting comfortably in your belly, and a smile as bright as the sun on your face as you waved to the F-150 pulling off toward the road, you’d never felt more alive—or smug—in your life.

“Is your dad…Lucien Flores?” Joel had asked no more than a second after his dick slipped out of your mouth.

“The one and only.”

Somehow, his face got even paler. His jaw visibly clenched, and his palm hit the top of the wheel. Hard.

It was then that you’d learned your father had hired Joel Miller on as a full-time ranch hand sometime last week.

He’d remembered the address, vaguely, but didn’t connect the dots until he’d pulled up in front of your house and damn near punctured your windpipe with his pulsing dick from how fast he’d jumped up—and cum.

His spend had almost shot through your nose with the force of it, but you didn’t mind. Once he’d revealed the wild, gory, and admittedly hilarious details of his newfound employment, you were too busy laughing your ass off to care if he’d torn your throat in two with his dick.

“So you really are a cowboy, then,” you’d said, giggling.

Joel had scowled. Rolled his eyes. Practically turned the color of a tomato when you leaned in and kissed him.

Now you were waving to him from your front door.

Joel’s truck was slow to go. The taste of him was fresh.

And there, weighing light in your back pocket while you said goodbye was a brand new pack of Marlboro Reds.

2:21 AM

You were safely in bed. You checked your phone.

Aside from fourteen missed calls, you saw:

1:09 AM – Maria

DUDE

1:09 AM

TOMMY JUST CAME HOME

1:09 AM

THAT’S NOT HIM AT THE BAR

1:13 AM

IT’S JUST JOEL!! HIS BROTHER!!!

1:13 AM

ABORT ABORT ABORT

1:42 AM

DAVE SAID YOU BEAT JOEL UP???? CALL ME

1:54 AM – Dave York

Ur gonna fuck that old dude aren’t u

[osarina]

ᡣ𐭩 I LAUGH LIKE ME AGAIN (SHE LAUGHS LIKE YOU)

FEATURING: dazai osamu

SUMMARY: four years apart and the ultimate question is about to be answered: do you and dazai really still know each other, or are you clinging to a fantasy of the past? you decide to put it to the test with a game of wits and questions when dazai gets back to your apartment—but as the game drags on, dazai starts to wonder if maybe he was wrong. worse, if maybe he would prefer to be wrong.

(wordcount: 14.5k; ņsfw; fem!reader; port mafia executive!reader, jealous!dazai, possessive!dazai, smoking & drinking, unprotected sex, switch!dazai, switch!reader, undertones of angst (happy ending). lmk if anything is missing, im rushing to get this out!)

AUTHOR'S NOTES: guys here it IS - sorry it's late, but TRUST it's worth it. i'm so proud of this fic, genuinely one of the things im most proud of writing. this is technically a part 2 to he's my collar but can be read as a standalone

It takes far too long for Dazai to make it out of the Port Mafia headquarters, with both Akutagawa and Chuuya prowling about like the dogs they are. He wonders if you tipped either of them off—Chuuya, in particular—because the slug had been looking around like he was searching for someone. He thinks you’re entirely wretched for it, knowing that if he got caught, he’d be trapped in that damp and filthy torture chamber until he managed to finagle his way out, and he plans to make it known to you just how entirely displeased he is by the situation. 

The path to your apartment is achingly familiar, and the giddiness in his chest is something he hasn’t felt since the day he left. He knows that he should probably be more careful—he’s still in Port Mafia territory, your apartment spans the top floor of the easternmost building of the five towers—but he also knows that you’re the only one with direct access to the cameras in this building so he’s more reckless than he would’ve otherwise been. 

The floors tick up agonizingly slowly, Dazai swears that there must be something wrong with the elevator because it’s never taken this long before to get up to your place. His fingers thrum against his thigh, and his foot taps the ground impatiently. He paces from corner to corner within the small space like a caged animal. He thinks that maybe he should be taking advantage of the time alone, come up with some better excuses as to why he didn’t say anything to you before he left.

“I wouldn’t have left,” isn’t going to cut it. As true as it might be, it’s not the full truth, and Dazai knows you’ll be able to sniff it out in a matter of a few seconds with a clear head. He’s not walking into a cheerful reunion between old lovers, he’s walking into what’s about to be a stressful game of chess against a strategist whom Dazai has always considered a near-equal, a battle of wits against a woman whose whole life has revolved around political warfare. If he wants to keep his dignity intact and his secrets safe, he’s going to have to be incredibly cautious with what he says to you and even with how he reacts to what you say to him.

Still, he can’t help the giddiness. The excitement. He’s missed you. He’s missed you so much that it hurts. He’d thought that over time, the longing for you would go away, but it never did. If anything, it got worse because, over time, the pictures of you started to lack the soothing feeling they used to bring to the aching in his chest. Over time, he started to forget the sound of your voice and the sound of your laugh.

He’d known that you’d been sent away on foreign business not long after his last call to you, but he didn’t think Mori would actually keep you abroad for three whole years. He’d been hoping, maybe, that he could stumble into you one day. Or maybe just watch from afar, get close enough to hear the sound of your voice again. He’s been grossly denied of you for too long, and he knows that it’s of his own doing but that only makes it worse.

When the elevator dings, announcing his arrival on your floor, Dazai is sorely unprepared for the conversation about to take place. He steps into your penthouse, eyes drifting around the familiar vast space.

Like your office, not much has changed since the last time he was here. Your coffee table is still set down a few centimeters too close to the couch in the living room—the same couch he had his first kiss on with you when the two of you were sixteen and drunk on champagne celebrating a successful mission. You still hang your black jacket over a chair instead of properly on a hanger, it’s why it always has a crease on the back—he’d noticed it when you left your office, and he can’t help but smile slightly at the confirmation as his eyes linger on where it’s draped over one of your kitchen chairs. 

You tried to convince him that you’ve changed in the years the two of you have been apart, but Dazai doesn’t think you’ve changed much at all.

You’re leaning against the windows, looking down on the city—he knows you must’ve heard the elevator, but you haven’t bothered to look his way yet. There’s an indecipherable expression on your face and a glass of wine in your hand. You’re still dressed in your suit and Dazai notices there’s a glass of whiskey on the rocks untouched on the kitchen table. He shrugs off his trench coat and drapes it over yours, hoping that the scent of you seeps into it because he’s gone too long without it.

His fingers curl around the glass of whiskey you’d left out for him, and for a moment, he swears that he’s eighteen again. He’s making his way to your penthouse after a long mission with Chuuya, you’re expecting him—you always are—and he can never push away the fondness that squeezes his chest when he finds you lounging back on your couch, flipping through channels to find something to watch, a glass of his favorite whiskey set down on the coffee table next to where your feet are propped up as you wait for him to show up.

He wonders if you even care to remember what his favorite is. He wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t.

He makes his way out of the kitchen and back into the living room, and he’s reminded that he’s not eighteen and you’re not waiting for him to show up after a mission because you finally look at him, and his breath catches in his throat.

He thinks you look a bit older now than you did four years ago—to be expected, of course—and there’s a coldness to your eyes that hadn’t been there before. Impossibly, he thinks that you’re somehow even more beautiful than you were when he last saw you, and he realizes again, throat tightening, that even after three years of no contact with you, he’s just as in love with you now as he was the day he left.

He knew it back then before he left, even if he never said it. When he was eighteen and could only feel any inkling of pleasure when he was with you; it wasn’t like he’d never tried to have sex with other people, he’d whore himself out for information at any given chance and slept around frequently after you started dating a civilian to distract himself from the bitter jealousy he felt, but he’d never known how good it was supposed to feel until he slept with you for the first time. When he was seventeen and could only ever feel comfortable in your presence, seeking you out at any given chance when he couldn’t handle being around people anymore; he’d curl up in your office with your orange blanket, napping as you did work, knowing that you’d keep people away from him. He thinks he might’ve even known when he was sixteen when the two of you first met on the streets of the Kanagawa prefecture.

He wonders if you even believed him when he said it earlier—he doubts it, you don’t seem too keen to believe anything he says, and he doesn’t blame you for it. 

But whether you believe it or not, it’s yours—that rotted heart of his, shriveled and shabby, riddled with holes and decay, half-eaten by maggots and worms it might be, but it’s still yours. He thinks that it was meant to be yours since the moment he was born, and it’ll be yours even after the two of you are long dead. He doesn’t know how he’s meant to go without you again—he doesn’t think he can. He knows that despite the tentative ceasefire, the Port Mafia and the Agency are still enemies, but he knows in his heart that he won’t be able to leave you again. Even just the sight of you has condemned him completely. 

Then you speak, and at once, his entire world falls apart.

“I’m leaving again in the morning,” you finally say, tone flat and eyes sharp and shrewd as you look over him. He reminds himself that this is not a reunion, that he needs to get his head on straight if he wants to make it out of your apartment in one piece, but it’s hard. “I was only brought back to smooth things over with the government after the whole fiasco with Fitzgerald and his American cronies. I’ll be leaving for Russia in the morning to meet with Tolstoy and Nabakov. Hopefully, gain some intel on Fyodor Dostoevsky’s plans before the man makes another move on the city.”

He… did not anticipate that you’d be leaving again so soon. Something cold and sharp latches to his heart, like jagged nails ripping it apart. He makes sure it doesn’t show on his face.

“Be careful,” he tells you quietly. “Dostoevsky… he’s not someone to underestimate. Just-Just be careful.”

You raise your eyebrows, unimpressed, “I’ve worked with Dostoevsky before. I don’t need you to warn me about him.” 

Your voice is cool. Sharp. Dazai sighs, knowing that anything he might’ve said to you earlier in the night is lost to you, and he doesn’t know if he’ll have it in him to bare his heart again, only for you to scorn it. He’s not meeting with you as he knows you—as his closest friend, as his lover; he’s meeting with you as the Port Mafia executive. Not the version of you that treats with allies, wining and dining them with glittering eyes and playful smiles as you use your ability to ensure they never turn on the Port Mafia; the version of you that sits at the round table with enemies, with a quick mind and calculating eyes as you decide whether or not they’re worthy of being absorbed into the Port Mafia or if Double Black will be sent out to eradicate them. 

“I told you everything I had to say back at the office,” Dazai tries, and he wonders if you’ll let him get away with it—he doubts it, but it’s worth a shot, and it will at least stall for a few moments as he tries to forcibly turn the cogs in his mind to figure out the best way of appeasing you. “I missed you. I… couldn’t say goodbye to you, not if I was to leave. I…”

I love you.

He doesn’t say it; he thinks he was only able to push it out earlier in the night in the heat of the moment, the orgasm-induced haze fogging his brain enough to let it slip out in desperation to make you give him a chance. And it worked because you gave him a second chance when you invited him back to your apartment, but Dazai doesn’t know how to make the most of the opportunity. He thinks he’s a fool for not preparing for this before getting here.

You click your tongue sharply, lip curling up in something close to disgust, and Dazai is glad he didn’t speak his ‘I love you’ because he thinks he might’ve actually cried if that was your reaction to him saying it.

“The only things you told me earlier in the night were half-truths and sweet talk. I didn’t invite you back to my apartment to hear you beg for another chance, Dazai,” you say coolly, and Dazai desperately misses the sound of his given name on your tongue. The corner of your lip curves up into a half-smirk, eyes suddenly glittering beneath the dim lighting of your penthouse as you add, “Although, I wouldn’t be opposed to it after we talk.”

He thinks the fact that you’re already considering an after might be a good sign. He can feel his cheeks flush a bit at your words, but instead of letting himself get rattled, he takes a step forward, well into your personal space, as he dips his face down so close to yours that his lips nearly brush yours as he speaks.

“I’d beg pretty for you,” he whispers, letting his voice drop an octave as his gaze tracks down to your lips. “I’d even get on my knees.”

Unfortunately, you are entirely unbothered by the proposition. “We’ll see, I suppose,” you say, and then raise your eyebrows, signaling for him to take a step back.

He does, and he feels distinctly put out and rejected by your reaction, but he sighs and asks, “What did you invite me here for then?” 

He very much does not like the way your eyes glitter now—shrewd this time, more amused, dangerous, as if you know the two of you are about to tread down territory that he’s going to be unfamiliar with. You nod for him to follow you into the kitchen, taking a seat at the head of the table and motioning for him to sit opposite you.

He does.

“We can play a game,” you finally concede. Dazai settles back against his chair, fingers still tapping rhythmically against his glass of whiskey, a terrible habit that Dazai has accrued whenever he feels cornered. Not a frequent occurrence, but damning when it is. Your eyes linger on them, and he knows you’ve pinpointed the tell. He forces himself to stop, but from the way your lips curl up, he can tell it doesn’t matter. “Ten questions each. Yes or no answers only.”

Dazai notices that you pointedly leave out any rule about the honesty of each answer—intentional, surely, so he probes.

“How do we determine the winner?” Dazai asks. He finally takes a sip of the fine whiskey you’d poured for him, and his question from earlier is answered. His favorite. There’s a warm feeling in his chest at the realization that you’ve remembered it even after all of these years.

Your lips curve up into a sharper and wider smile, teeth glimmering like knives beneath the soft lighting of your kitchen. The glass of wine in your hands is suddenly more reminiscent of a gun being pointed at him than your choice of alcohol, and he feels as if he’s already made some egregious mistake in your eyes.

“After we give our answer, the other has to decide whether or not it was truthful. In the end, we’ll both see how many the other got right. A test to see how well we still know each other,” is all you say in response. You’re mocking him and his insistence that the two of you are still the same, but Dazai intends to prove himself right. You tilt your head to the side and then say, “The prize is to be determined by the winner. I’ll ask the first question.”

Dazai winks, a lecherous comment already on his tongue about the prize, but the withering look you give him is more than enough to make it die before he can let it loose. He pointedly takes another sip of his drink and sinks in his seat.

He thinks that this should be an easy win. You’re quite the adept liar, but you’ve always had a glaring tell. Well, he amends, it’s glaring to him, at least. Not many others would be observant enough to catch it, and even if they were, only someone with an abundance of experience with you would be able to put it together. His gaze flickers up to meet yours, wondering if your lashes flutter right before you tell a lie. It’s such a simple and subtle tell, so casual that it took Dazai a year and a half to put together, but it was hard to miss once he did.

You hum to yourself as you give off the appearance of thinking about a question, but Dazai knows you better than anyone, and he’s certain that you already have all ten prepared, so he rolls his eyes at the faux show of uncertainty. 

“We both know you know what you want to ask,” he finally says. “Do us both a favor and quit with the theatrics.”

Your lip quirks up in amusement. “And here I was being gracious giving you more time to formulate whatever lies you’ll try to get away with,” you drawl, and Dazai nearly flinches.

“You know me so well,” Dazai sighs to hide how disconcerted he really is. “The question?”

You stare at him for a moment, and your lips curl up into a deceptively soft smile that almost throws Dazai off because, god, he’s missed you. And he knows you’re looking at him like this just for this specific reason because you’re a despicable bitch who knows that he’s always been easily unsettled when people show any semblance of affection toward him, but he can’t help the way he falters.

He tries to brace himself for whatever invasive question you’re about to ask regarding his reasons for leaving. Tries to prepare himself to lie cleanly because he’s sure you’re as aware of his tells as he is of yours. 

Then you ask: 

“Did you defect because of something Oda asked of you?”

Jesus. Right for the throat. You really don’t pull punches. 

Dazai’s throat tightens at the mention of his old friend, but he’s able to keep his expression clear of the sudden pain that your question brings on. You’re watching him carefully for reactions, gaze hawklike as you study his face, and Dazai is not about to let you pinpoint any more of his tells so early in the game.

He figures that this is an easy question; you already know the answer but want to hear the confirmation from his lips, so he decides to tell the truth.

“Yes.”

“The truth,” you say, an indecipherable expression on your face. He wonders if you want to ask what Odasaku asked of him, but that’s not part of the game and Dazai has no intention of answering that.

Be on the side that saves people. If both are the same to you, become a good man.

You might laugh in his face—Dazai Osamu, the Demon Prodigy, a good man? The idea is blasphemous, and he thinks it might actually hurt him if you scoff or laugh in response to hearing that, so he keeps his mouth shut and doesn’t give away more than he has to, hoping that you don’t just straight up ask him.

You open your lips to speak, and Dazai braces himself for the prying question, but instead, you only probe, “First question?”

He wonders if your whole first question and the implications of it was just a means of trying to throw him off because now he’s fumbling trying to remember what he wanted to ask you before you hit him with it. He wouldn’t put it past you to play dirty like that—bringing up his dead friend and his last request just to unsettle him to give you the edge.

“Did we meet during my underground years after I defected?” he finally asks, and yeah, he knows the answer to this question. The missing half of his ear and waking up in the old safe house he used to hide out at with you is more than enough evidence for him to come to a definite conclusion, but he wants to hear it from you.

“Yes.”

Dazai inhales sharply and then murmurs, “That’s the truth.” And then, more loudly and far more affronted, he accuses, “I can’t believe you shot half of my ear off.”

He expects you to toss him a wink and a sharp grin, unrepentant and even finding amusement in his offense, but instead, your expression falters for the first time since he’s arrived. Something strange crosses your face; for whatever reason, his words leave you conflicted and Dazai suddenly feels even more nervous than he already was because now he can’t help but wonder what he might’ve said to you in his drunken state. 

He supposes that’ll have to be another question, but first, he’s going to have to figure out how to phrase it to get a yes or no answer first, without being vague enough for it to be a waste of a question or easy for you to misconstrue.

You hum after a few moments, taking a pointed sip of your wine. Dazai watches curiously—you’re bothered still, you’re not even trying to hide it. He knows you have better control over your facial expressions than this, so he thinks maybe it’s a ploy to get him to start spiraling down a path of useless questions. Put off by his sudden inability to discern your schemes, a part of him wonders if maybe you were right because the him of four years ago would’ve seen right through you right now.

“I’m afraid it had to be done,” you sigh with faux regret, but he can tell from the way the smile on your lips doesn’t reach your eyes that you’re not into the banter. “Were you able to fulfill Oda’s request?” 

Fuck. This time Dazai can’t withhold the grimace that spreads across his face. He tries to keep his voice light with a deflecting comment, “My, bella, you’re really hitting with the deep questions tonight, aren’t you?”

You raise your eyebrows, tilting your head to the side as you wait for an answer, not giving him any room to formulate a response to your question. He finally sighs and shakes his head, taking a long sip of his whiskey. He wishes he had a pack of cigarettes on him, suddenly desperately longing for the pleasant burn of the smoke against his throat; he needs the buzz badly right now.

As if you could read his mind, you shift in your seat a bit and stuff your hand into the pocket of your slacks. It takes a few seconds but you fish out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, sliding them across the table over to him. If he wasn’t already so in his head over the question you asked, he’d make a quip over the fact that you still know him so well despite your insistence otherwise, but he only pulls out a cigarette and lights it, looking curiously down at the familiar brand.

“Since when did you start smoking these?” he asks quietly, eyes fluttering shut as he tilts his head back and takes a long drag of it. He exhales slowly and then adds, “Thought you liked the other ones, in the green box.”

“Teal,” you correct, and then frown a bit. “... Switched after you left.”

Dazai’s eyes flutter back open as his gaze focuses on you, wondering if the implication you left up in the air is something he can take at face value or if it’s just another way of trying to get him to lower his guard. But from the way you suddenly don’t meet his eyes, Dazai thinks you might be being honest: you switched because they reminded you of him.

Dazai’s chest suddenly feels heavy again.

“... No,” he finally responds to your second question. “Not yet, at least.”

“... Truth,” you say, and Dazai’s lips curl into a wry smile.

“Unfortunately.” The word slips out before he can stop it.

Your gaze flickers back up to him, curious, but Dazai doesn’t give you the chance to dwell on his comment, asking his next question: “Did I… admit anything to you that night that I wouldn’t have said while sober?”

His fingers tap rhythmically against his glass of whiskey, half-empty now; he’s anxious to hear your response.

“You did,” you confirm.

Dazai grimaces because that’s another truth, and that is not good. But just like how he doesn’t offer any context for his answers, you don’t either. He doesn’t know what he might’ve admitted or how you might’ve taken it—he’s going to have to waste another question on this topic.

“Truth,” he murmurs.

You hum and then ask, “Do you still blame yourself for what happened to him?”

“Come on,” Dazai complains sharply, tossing you a dirty look now. His jaw is tight. He wonders if you keep asking about Oda as some sort of sick revenge for him leaving, ripping open wounds that never properly healed so you can dig your fingers into them and twist around. You don’t look bothered by his outburst, waiting patiently for a response. He lets out an angry sigh, looking away and taking another long drink from his glass and another drag of his cigarette. 

He voices his first lie, “No.”

You let out a puff of air, rising to your feet and making your way over to the opposite counter, you grab the bottle of whiskey and bring it back over to him, topping off his now-empty glass before pointedly holding out your hand. He passes the cigarette over to you, tilting his head back to watch you bring it to your lips—a part of him longs to lean forward, to slide his hand behind your neck and cradle your head as he brings his lips to yours, inhaling the smoke as you exhale it, dizzy off the proximity to you, high off the buzz of the nicotine, just like the two of you would do when before he left.

He refrains, if only barely.

You exhale the smoke, a small cloud billowing around you—Dazai mourns the waste—and then you pass the cigarette back over to him. Your fingers brush his as you do, and a spark shoots through his arm at the touch.

“A lie,” you finally say, looking down at him with a frown. “You shouldn’t blame yourself. There was nothing you could’ve done to save him.”

“You don’t know that,” Dazai says tightly, averting his gaze from you as you make your way back over to your seat across from him. “If I’d been faster-”

“If Mori wants someone dead, then they’ll die,” you interrupt him, a grimace on your face as you look down at your wine glass. “Trust me, Dazai, there was no saving Oda Sakunosuke.”

Dazai pauses instead of snapping again, catching the expression on your face. Haunted, as if you’re speaking from experience. He tilts his head to the side and then asks quietly, “Are you talking about your ex-partner? Itou?”

If Dazai remembers correctly, he died on a mission when you turned eighteen. You never told him the circumstances, and he never asked, but it was the first and only time you ever broke down in front of him.

The corner of your lips tightens, “Is that your next question?”

Dazai barely withholds a frustrated sigh. 

“No,” he says quietly, and then asks, “Did I tell you why I couldn’t say goodbye? The real reason?”

He holds his breath now as he waits for your response. One way or another, this question is a double blade: if he did tell you why, then he’s at another disadvantage because he’s going to feel distinctly bare and vulnerable; if he didn’t tell you, he just admitted that he lied back at your office, at least partially. 

After what feels like an eternity, you finally say, “Yes.”

The truth. Dazai wonders when you’re going to utter your first lie, if you will, or if you’re trying to make some sort of point by being honest with him. He voices his answer and then waits impatiently for your next question as his mind races.

He desperately wants to know how you responded to him back then. Would you have come with him had he come to you before he left? Or would you have chosen the Port Mafia? He wonders if he should ask, make it one of his remaining seven questions, but he doesn’t know if he has the guts to hear your answer, so maybe he’ll just change the subject.

“Are you enjoying yourself at the Agency?”

For the life of him, Dazai cannot figure out your angle. First, the prying questions about Oda and now asking about the Agency. He doesn’t know what he expected at the start of the game—you’ve always been unpredictable, but even more so now. He’s never had such a hard time reading you or your intentions before.

He starts to feel even more doubtful, wondering if you were right.

Maybe he doesn’t know you as well as he thinks he does anymore.

But this is an easy question, so he says the truth with little hesitation, “I am.”

Dazai swears the corners of your lips curl up into a soft smile, but it’s gone so quickly that he might’ve imagined it.

“Good,” you say quietly. “I’m glad.”

Dazai’s lips part, a warm feeling spreads through his chest at the honesty in your tone. Desperately, he wants to know what’s going on—where’s the rage and the betrayal he expected from you? The hate? Why do you seem… okay with all of this?

Irrationally, he starts to wonder if everything from the office was just a heat-of-the-moment conversation. If now that you’ve had time to sit on your thoughts, you’ve realized… realized what? That you’ve moved on from him? That you don’t care what he does anymore? That you’ve accepted that he’s no longer a part of your life? The warmth in his chest disappears, edged away by a sudden coldness and desperation because he thinks he’d rather die than go back to a life without you.

Even more irrationally, he remembers the comment you made back at the office, the admission that you’ve slept around since he left. Oh god, what if you really have moved on?

He knows his next question.

“The people you slept with—were they all one-night stands?”

He doesn’t want to know the answer unless it’s a yes.

You raise your eyebrows at the abrupt shift in his line of questioning, and then, to his absolute horror, you say, truthfully, “No.”

“What do you mean no?” he asks angrily—he thinks if he was a bird, he’d be puffing his chest out in irritation. He feels antsy suddenly, he needs to move around. He starts tapping his foot against the floor, his fingers against the glass. And again, he thinks you’re a despicable bitch because you only look amused at his question as if he’s not beside himself with righteous fury.

“It’s not your turn,” is all you respond with, and Dazai has a distinct urge to throttle you. Then you ask, “Do you feel like you belong there?”

He halts.

His fingers freeze from where they’re tapping against the glass, his foot freezes mid-motion. His lips part as he’s confronted with the very question that he’s been struggling with for two years now. He wants to yes, if only to maybe be a little spiteful, to rub in your face that he’s somewhere good and he’s somewhere where he belongs, and it’s not somewhere with you. A cruel dig to get back for the aching in his chest at the thought of you being with other people, but he knows that you’ll catch the lie, and more importantly, he doesn’t want to hurt you like that.

Maybe he has grown a bit because the Dazai of four years ago nearly killed your civilian boyfriend when he found out that you were dating someone besides him and then promptly made a show of sleeping around to try to get back at you.

So, instead, he says quite honestly, “I don’t know.”

You tilt your head to the side. “Not a yes or no answer, but I suppose it works. How curious.”

He hates your cryptic comments. Pointedly, he side-eyes you as he takes another long drag of his cigarette. Already, it’s nearly down to the nub, so he puts it out on your table, ignoring the distasteful look you give him, and then reaches for another to light as he asks: “Were you in a relationship with any of them?” 

You roll your eyes at his prying, and he cannot hide the abject horror that crosses his face when you say, “Yes.”

“That better be a lie,” he complains, and when you look at him as if to ask if that’s really his guess, he makes a show of pushing out his bottom lip and looking away as he says: “I cannot believe you dated other people. Cheater.”

“We were never even dating, Daz-”

“Yes, we were,” Dazai protests instantly, entirely aghast at your words. “We absolutely were. What does that even mean? Of course, we were dating. Everybody knew it. Ask anybody. Ane-san knew. Gin-chan knew. Chuuya knew. Even Mori knew. We were so dating, you-”

“You never officially asked me to be your girlfriend, which is, unfortunately, the most fundamental step of dating,” you interrupt him, and Dazai stares at you in disbelief.

“I bought you flowers, we fucked exclusively,” Dazai complains, aggrieved. “We were definitely dating, and you definitely cheated on me because we never broke up.”

“If we were dating,” you emphasize the if very pointedly, and Dazai is distinctly put out by it, “then we broke up the day you left without saying goodbye.”

Dazai withers. He has no witty comment to return fire with, so instead, he just takes another sip of his whiskey, grateful for the combined buzz of the alcohol and the nicotine to distract him from the overwhelming guilt he feels whenever you bring up how he left you.

“Do you feel like you belong more with the Agency than you did with the Port Mafia?” 

Your next question is an amendment to your previous on, and it leaves Dazai just as lost.

He wants to belong with the Agency. He does. Desperately. He wants more than anything to feel as at home and comfortable in the light as he does in the dark. He doesn’t want to question his place among them anymore, he doesn’t want to wonder if he sticks out like a sore thumb. He wants to enter the office and feel like he doesn’t have to pretend to be someone he’s not, just so he can keep his place with them. He doesn’t want to have to fear at every corner that he’s going to revert to old habits, and they’ll see him for the monster that he is: a monster that should have never left the dark crevices that he crawled out from, a monster with blood so black that it strikes fear in even the most terrible mafiosos.

“No,” he admits the insecurity that’s plagued him to the one person he feels comfortable enough with to voice it aloud. He can’t bring himself to look up at you, wondering if the admission will give you some sort of sick satisfaction, if you’ll be happy that he’s not finding a place he can be comfortable in without you. Instead, he decides to rush to ask his next question: “The one you were in a relationship with, did you love him?”

He thinks that the question came across as far more timid than he meant it to be, and his eyes slide shut as he waits for your answer.

“There were multiple I had relationships with—” Dazai scoffs, of course, there were multiple. “—...but no, I did not.”

He lets out a soft puff of air, shoulders slumping a bit in relief. But his fingers are still tense around his glass, waiting for whatever question you’re going to ask next that’s going to dig deep into open wounds, stripping him of all of his masks and armor to force him to lay himself entirely bare in front of you.

“Did you really blow up Chuuya’s car before you left?”

His eyes fly open at the sudden change of pace in your questions, noting the smirk curling at the corner of your lips and the amusement glinting in your eyes. He accepts the olive branch quickly as he gives you a sharp smile and asks: “What do you think?” 

Your hand flies to your mouth to muffle a laugh, and the smile on Dazai’s lips becomes a bit softer as he watches you desperately try to get yourself under control. “You’re insane, you know that?” you finally say, still trying to bite back giggles. “He was so mad. Raged about it for weeks.”

Another question pops into Dazai’s head at the mention of Chuuya, and before he can consider whether or not he actually wants to know the answer to it, he asks: “Speaking of Chuuya, was he one of your trysts while I was gone?”

Suddenly, you are not laughing, and suddenly, Dazai regrets speaking.

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “Do not tell me-”

“He was,” you confirm.

Dazai’s glass of whiskey is empty. 

He grabs the bottle and drinks right from it, miserable.

“I think I would’ve rather been stabbed through the heart,” Dazai says mournfully, and though he keeps a faux-light tone with you, his throat feels like it’s swollen, and he feels a bit sick to his stomach.

He’s always been jealous of the bond you have with Chuuya. Absurdly jealous, even. You clicked with him quickly—you clicked with both of them quickly, and maybe it was a matter of the three of you being the youngest of the Port Mafia’s uppermost echelon, but Dazai doesn’t want to attribute it solely to that—but the way you clicked with Chuuya was different from how you clicked with Dazai. Two people so completely human locked away in the dark, clinging to one another to maintain some sense of normalcy; your and his casual humanity made Dazai’s lack of it irrefutable and glaring.

Regardless of the why, he never liked how close you were with Chuuya. 

Even before you were dating him—because you were dating him—a part of him had always felt sidelined whenever the three of you hung out together. Not because of either of your wrongdoings but just because it was hard for him to keep up with the two of you. He always felt a bit lost trying to, unable to follow along when the two of you would start laughing at jokes that he didn’t understand even when you explained them to him, when you would share glances with one another that spoke whole conversations he wasn’t privy to. The two of you got along in ways that Dazai would never be able to get along with anyone because there’s just something fundamentally wrong with him at his core. Chuuya, for all of his talk and fear regarding the question of his humanity, has always been so unfailingly human in ways that Dazai, to this day, cannot fathom to understand.

After you started dating him—because you were dating him—it only got worse because he’d see you with Chuuya and wonder if you were better off with someone like him instead. Dazai doesn’t know how to treat you right, clearly. He can’t even treat himself right; and Chuuya has always been the epitome of a gentleman, loathe Dazai is to admit it—Ane-san drilled that into the other boy where Mori only taught Dazai how to be cruel and unforgiving. The line between love and obsession has always been a terribly blurry one for him, and you have always wavered on either side of it—and Dazai, unfortunately, does not love healthily and obsesses so entirely that it would have most people running for the hills. 

For better or for worse, you’re not most people.

In his spiral of insecurity, he doesn’t catch the way your brows furrow as you put together some puzzle pieces. “Dazai,” you say suddenly, drawing him from his thoughts abruptly. There’s an accusatory look in your eyes that he really does not like. “Were you the one that booby-trapped my fucking apartment?”

Dazai snorts.

“You bastard,” you snap at him, and Dazai can’t help but bite the palm of his hand as a means of trying to stifle his laughter. “Mori thought it was a goddamn assassination attempt. He kept me under watch for weeks because of you. I couldn’t leave the towers without half of the Black Lizards with me.”

“Sorry,” he coos, not sorry at all. Dazai, because he clearly doesn’t know when to learn his lesson, then he promptly asks, “Am I better fuck than Chuuya?”

“Jesus Christ, Dazai, get off the topic of Chuuya and my sex life, it’s clearly only upsetting you,” you snap at him instead of answering the question. Dazai wants to argue and retain some dignity; he’s not upset, but then his entire world is shattered by your next words: “I am not answering this question.”

Dazai blanches. He can feel the blood drain from his face. He’d thought this was an easy question to make him feel a bit better. What do you mean you won’t answer? Does that mean Chuuya-

No. Dazai refuses to believe it.

 “No way,” he says, shaking his head. “He’s not a better fuck than me. You can’t possibly-”

“He’s not,” you finally say, and Dazai audibly lets out a sigh of relief. “But if you ever mention anything along the likes of that to him, you will never fuck me again, Dazai Osamu. Do you understand?”

Dazai is too relieved to even argue. “Yeah.”

“No more questions about my sex life,” you say firmly, and Dazai doesn’t respond, but he does agree internally because he doesn’t think his heart can handle any more scares like that. Your eyes sharpen again, and Dazai braces himself. “Were you the one to tell Mori I lied about being sick so I could skip out on the ball Mishima hosted when we were seventeen?”

Dazai’s eyes narrow right back at you and rather than answering, he shoots one of his own questions at you: “Were you the one to tell Mori I had his contact in my phone as ‘ignore’?”

You take his lack of an answer as an affirmative, correctly so. Dazai has no regrets about ratting you out to Mori because he was not about to attend Mishima’s event without you on his arm. He’d rather die. 

“You bastard, do you know the lengths I went to fake being sick? I wanted one night to relax without people breathing down my neck.”

“If I had to go, you had to go,” Dazai retorts petulantly. “I was not about to suffer with only Chuuya as company. You had no reason to tell Mori about the contact name besides to be petty. I fought with Chuuya for weeks because I thought he was the one to do it.”

You choke on a laugh. “Chuuya was so mad, he had no idea what you were talking about.”

“He tied me to a pole and swung me around for three hours,” Dazai complains, but there’s a smile on his lips as you burst into laughter, unable to stifle the giggles that spill from your lips.

“I know,” you wheeze, “I got it on video. We watch it sometimes when we’re bored and can’t find a movie.”

Dazai gapes, and you laugh harder, but for the first time in four years, Dazai finally feels… at home, he feels comfortable in his own skin again. He’s back in your penthouse, he’s drinking his favorite whiskey and smoking his favorite brand of cigarettes, you’re sitting at the kitchen table with him and laughing your head off at his expense, and for a moment, Dazai feels as if nothing has changed: he feels like himself again, eighteen and entirely enamored by the sight and sound of you, and you feel like you again, all of the doubt that had begun to rise to his chest as the two of you played the questions game long gone.

He falls in love with you all over again. Harder this time. Faster. He thinks he’ll fall in love with you again and again every day for the rest of your lives, each time more than the last, no matter how impossible it might seem.

He thinks maybe it’s not that he feels like he belongs with the Port Mafia more than the Agency. He thinks that it’s you. You’re the one he feels at home with. You’re the one he’s comfortable enough to be himself with. You’re the one he belongs with, always has, and always will.

After a few moments, you finally manage to get yourself under control, still giggling a bit as you look back up at him. Your smile is softer now, eyes gentle, more genuine than the smile you gave him before asking the first question. Dazai’s breath catches because when was the last time you looked at him like this—the last time anyone has looked at him like this? A warm feeling spreads through his chest; Dazai thinks he would stay in this moment forever if given the opportunity.

“Are you happy?” you ask quietly

Dazai blinks, startled, and an odd feeling spreads through his chest once your question registers. His lips part to answer, but no words leave them; he draws back as if he’s been slapped, a bit flustered and confused because that’s the furthest thing from what he expected you to ask. He wonders if you’d asked the last three questions to lull him into a false sense of security.

“I-” he starts to say but cuts himself off. “What kind of question is that?” 

He tries to deflect instead of properly answering, frowning, but you only raise your eyebrows, pointedly keeping your lips sealed to let him know that you expect an answer. He shakes his head and then sighs, bouncing the question in his head a few times before going for a cop-out: “When I’m with you? Always.”

You’re not pleased by his decision, frowning as you look away from him—he knows that’s not what you asked, not really, but you should have been clearer with your question if you wanted him to give you the answer you expected. But he doesn’t like the sudden disappointment on your face, it leaves his skin itchy and his chest longing for the soft look to return.

So he sits there, ruminating on the question. Is he happy? He should be, right? He’s saving people. He’s on the way to fulfilling Odasaku’s final request. He has a whole group of people whom he can rely on without having to fear being taken advantage of or betrayed at every corner. He’s happy.

But is he trying to convince himself of it? Why is he still trying to kill himself if he’s happy? Why is there a part of him that feels lonely no matter how surrounded he is by people? Why is it that when he’s at his lowest points, the only two people he wishes he could be with are you and Chuuya? Why does he ache for the days he’d spend dragging the two of you around Yokohama, causing trouble for Mori—the closest he’s ever felt to enjoying life?

“I don’t know,” he finally amends his answer, looking down at the bottle in front of him and the cinders of the cigarette dangling between his fingers. He lifts it to his lips again, taking one last drag of it as he tries to figure out what his last question should be.

There’s only one pressing question he has left, but he hesitates, unsure if he really wants to know your answer.

He forces it out anyway.

“Would you… would you have come with me back then?” His voice is quieter than he intended, cracks over ‘me’, and to your credit, you don’t react to the question, expression as eerily still as it was before, as if you’re considering your words.

A yes or no. It shouldn’t take this long for you to answer. Each second that passes feels like an eternity, and Dazai suddenly feels anxious, he doesn’t know why he asked this question because if the answer is no—if it’s no, then…

Finally, you let you a soft sigh, taking a sip of your wine as if to prolong his agony.

Your lashes flutter before you speak.

You lie for the first time that night.

“Yes.”

Dazai’s voice sounds far away as he says, “That’s a lie.”

“I guess you were right,” you say softly, but you sound so distant, like you’re on the opposite side of a long, empty tunnel and not sitting right in front of him. “We do still know each other decently well; you got them all right.”

Dazai doesn’t care. In fact, he would have gladly conceded a loss in this game, and he would’ve gladly admitted that maybe the two of you don’t know each other as well as you used to if it meant that he got the last question wrong because then he would’ve just given you a coy expression and asked if you’d let him get to know this new version of you too. You would’ve said yes, and he would’ve made quite the pleasurable night out of it for the two of you. Instead, he had to insist that nothing has changed, and now he has to come to terms with the fact that he was right and he had known you well enough back then to know not to ask you to leave with him because you would have chosen the Mafia over him. 

He’s so lost in his thoughts that he doesn’t even notice you approaching him until you’re leaning on the table next to him, index and middle finger coming beneath his chin to tilt his face up toward you. He looks up at you through his lashes, eyes searching your face, but he only finds another blank slate that he can’t read. His breath hitches when your hand slides from his chin to cup his cheek, and he can’t help the way that he leans into your touch, eyes fluttering shut.

“I would choose you over so many things, Osamu.” You speak his given name for the first time in years, but he can hardly find any comfort in it because he knows he’s not going to like what you’re about to say. Your fingers card through the tips of his hair, brushing the dark locks behind his ear as your thumb sweeps over his cheekbone. “But not over the Port Mafia. Just like how you didn’t choose to stay for me.”

“It’s not the same,” he says, voice hoarse. “It’s-”

“It is,” you interrupt, voice deceptively gentle, and he thinks you’re entirely unfair because he can hardly focus with your touch distracting him. He’s missed it so much—he’s gone four years without it, without any type of touch that wasn’t him getting his shit kicked in by Kunikida or an enemy. “You didn’t choose to stay for me. I wouldn’t have chosen to leave for you.”

“Why?” Dazai asks tightly, and he hates that when his jaw tenses, you smooth your fingers over it, and he unclenches it immediately.

There’s a sadder look in your eye now as you give him a small smile. “You know why.”

Of course, he knows why. He feels the hatred deep in his gut as his mind draws back to Mori. Because that’s who the issue is. It’s not the Port Mafia. It’s not your friendship with Kouyou. It’s not even your friendship with Chuuya that’s the issue. It’s Mori and your undying loyalty to him. No matter how much you claim to despise him, bashing him every chance you get, sneering at him whenever he tries to treat you like his daughter, Dazai knows that when it comes down to it, you’ll always choose him. You’d throw yourself on a sword if he asked it of you, and not for the first time, Dazai wants to spit in the man’s face for making you feel as if you’re eternally indebted to him for rescuing you from that warzone so many years ago; for making you feel as if you’re nothing without the Mafia, nothing without him.

“You don’t owe him anything,” Dazai says tightly. “You have to know that by now—you don’t owe him anything.”

“I don’t want to have this conversation, Dazai,” you sigh, sounding tired. Your hand drops from his face, and Dazai longs for your touch again instantly. His fingers twitch from where they’re resting on his lap; he only barely stops himself from reaching out for you. You try to smile as you change the subject, but it hardly meets your eyes, “It’s a tie then. No prize for either of us, hm?”

Dazai is not so inclined to switch the subject. He wants to press on this now that he has the chance; he doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to rip you out from beneath Mori’s thumb, but he needs to at least try… but you’re leaving again in the morning, and Dazai also does not want to ruin this night with you. He doesn’t know when he’ll get another.

So, instead, he matches your half-assed smile as he looks up at you and says, “I didn’t say you got them all right. You only said that I got them all right.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Did I get any wrong?” you ask, amused.

No.

“Yes.”

“Liar,” you say, but there’s a fond lilt to your tone as you let out another puff of air, the smile on your face finally reaching your eyes as you look down at him. The soft lighting of your kitchen casts a pretty glow over your face, your smile is so entrancing that Dazai thinks he could stare at it forever.

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathes out, the words slipping from his lips before he can stop them. “I’ve missed you so much.”

He’s sure he must look like a fool right now, entirely enamored by the sight of you, unable to even fathom drawing his gaze away. He wonders if you’ll protest again, call him a liar, and shift away from him.

You don’t.

The smile on your lips falls, and a wrecked expression crosses your face as your eyes search his. Your lips part to speak, and he waits with bated breath for whatever you’re about to say—he thinks that if you deny him again right now, it might completely shatter all of the walls he’d so carefully built to protect himself.

“I’ve missed you too,” you whisper as if you’re scared to speak the words out loud—and how can he blame you when the last time you dared to speak them, he hung up on you, never hearing from him again until tonight.

God, the guilt he feels whenever he thinks of you returns with a vengeance, so intense that Dazai starts to feel sick to his stomach. He can’t handle it, so he does the only thing he knows how to do to distract himself from it.

His movements are clumsy as he pushes himself up to his feet, nearly tripping over the leg of his chair, and his fingers feel clunky as he lifts them up to cup your cheeks. For a second, he fears that you might move away from him, but you don’t, so he leans in to press his lips against yours.

There’s no tenderness to his kiss. Dazai kisses you like he wants to consume you, lips sliding messily against yours, blunt nails indent crescents into your cheeks as he holds you close. Usually, he would be embarrassed by his blatant desperation and lack of finesse—he’s never been a sloppy kisser, when the two of you were younger, you would always let out pleased hums into his mouth, lashes fluttering as he worked his lips carefully against yours, tongue sliding against your own as he traces his name on it. 

All of his finely honed skill is thrown out the window now as he kisses you like a man who has been starved for years. He has been starved for years—the quick fuck in your office did nothing to quell the longing he’s felt for you the past four years. He could kiss you for hours. Days, even, and it still won’t be enough. Nothing short of an eternity with you would be enough to make up for the four years he’s been deprived of you.

He lets out a low groan into your mouth as you nip at his bottom lip, hands sliding from your face down to your hips. He’d take you here. Right now. But he remembers the last time he tried to fuck you on your kitchen table, it ended with him choking on the barrel of your gun as you yelled at him for being gross (“I eat on this table, you heathen!”) and he’s not particularly in the mood to set off your temper now that he finally has you in his arms again, so it’s with much restraint that he grabs you by the hips to walk you back into your bedroom.

He can hardly concentrate as your fingers twist the hair at the nape of his neck, soft moans slipping from his lips, muffled against your mouth. It’s only sheer instinct and muscle memory that has him making his way from the kitchen and down the hall. He can’t bring himself to separate his lips from yours for even a second. And he’s a mess because he’s not coherent enough to force himself to breathe properly through his nose, so his lungs are burning and his head feels a bit light, but he doesn’t care so long as it means he can keep kissing you.

Turn left, turn right, second door from the end of the hall. 

His fingers fumble for the knob of your bedroom door, pushing it open a bit too hard, considering the way he hears it slam against the wall and how you tug his hair hard in retaliation. He doesn’t care, moans a bit louder even when your nails scrape his stinging scalp, and you let out a derisive noise against his lips before biting down hard enough to draw blood.

The taste of iron makes a slow smile curl at his lips, walking you back toward the bed, and it’s only when your knees hit the edge that you finally pull away from him. “If you broke my door, you’re fixing it, Osamu.”

Dazai’s smile is lecherous. “I’m gonna break something alright,” he croons, relishing in the way you immediately roll your eyes at him. It’s all so familiar—he can almost pretend that he never left, that nothing has changed since the two of you were eighteen, dumb, reckless, and in love.

Before he can press you back against the bed, he feels your fingers drop from around his neck to his waistband, curling around his belt loops. In an instant, you’ve twisted the both of you around, and suddenly, it’s the back of Dazai’s knees pressed against the edge of the bed as you push him down onto the mattress. He hits the sheets with an ‘oof’ and a hazy smile, surrounded by the scent of you, drowning in the sight of you. He thinks he might be in heaven. 

You shift on top of him, straddling his waist; Dazai’s hands instantly come to rest on your thighs, sliding up the sides to grab your ass and pull you more firmly onto him. He groans when he feels you grind down against his cock, and god, he’s already hard just from kissing you. He hears you snort above him, but Dazai doesn’t even have it in him to be embarrassed.

His lips part in a silent moan as you lean down to ghost kisses along his jaw, hands sliding up his chest. He feels you wrap your fingers around his bolo tie and tug it, you let out a sharp noise of distaste against his skin before murmuring: “I hate this ugly thing.”

He lets out a huff of laughter that quickly breaks off into a moan when your lips trail to the spot behind his ear that always makes him writhe. His fingers bite into your hips, pushing you down on him as he rocks his hips up into you—shit, he might be able to cum just from this. His cock is straining painfully against his beige pants, twitching as he grinds up against your clothed cunt. He thinks maybe if he fucks his hips upward a few more times, he might be able to push himself over the edge, but as desperate as he is to chase his release, he refuses to cum anywhere but inside of you.

Plus, he thinks he’ll be shamed to hell and back if he finishes in his pants with you hardly touching him. 

“Then strip me out of it,” he gasps, lashes fluttering as your teeth graze his pulse point right above the edge of his bandages. Fuck, he’d give anything for you to bite down—riddle him with marks he can’t cover so he can flaunt them off to everyone who looks at him. Dazai knows that there are countless men and women out there who’d die to be able to be called yours, he wants them to know he’s the only one who can take that honor. “What’re you waiting for?” 

You hum and then sit back on his hips—he bites his bottom lip raw as you unintentionally put even more pressure on his cock. He’s half dazed out, not realizing that your grip tightened on his bolo tie until you straight up yank it off of him, snapping the string around his neck.

“No!” he complains, watching with wide eyes and parted lips as you fling the now-broken bolo tie off to the side of your room. “Noooo, why’d you do that? I’m going to have to order a new one.”

“Boo-hoo,” you say dryly, hardly paying attention to him as your fingers curl around the hem of his vest, pulling it up over his head, snorting when he lets out a puff of irritation as his nose gets caught around the collar. 

“This is so unsexy,” he protests, rubbing his nose. “Shouldn’t you be more gentle?” 

“Stop wearing so many layers of clothes,” you retort, but Dazai is placated when you lean back down to kiss the corner of his lips, lashes fluttering as his eyes slide shut. He lets out a pleased hum as you kiss down his jaw, nimble fingers unbuttoning his final layer of clothing. He wishes he wore an undershirt just to watch you huff in annoyance. His breath catches as you nip at his skin and then murmur, “This better?” 

“Yeah,” he breathes out, voice wavering as you get down to the last button of his shirt, sliding it off of his shoulders and easing him out of it. His body shudders as your hands slide over the bandages wrapped around his abdomen. Fuck, it’s been so long since anyone’s touched him beneath his clothes, even with the bandages still acting as a layer between the two of you, his nerves are on end, sensitive to everywhere your fingers touch.

He wonders if you’ll pull off the bandages—it’s a line that the two of you only crossed once back then, and although the idea of it has him brimming with anxiety, he longs for the feeling of your skin flush to his.

He almost feels a bit embarrassed when you sit back again to admire him as if there’s not a scar-ridden body hidden beneath the bandages. You look at him like he’s beautiful, like he’s not a monster disguised as a man, like he’s human. Dazai has always felt distinctly seen beneath your stare like you can see through all of the masks he wears and see him for him, and that has not changed over the past four years.

He’s missed the comfort of it. He has. It used to unnerve him back then, thinking someone could see him so clearly when he tried so hard and so carefully to hide himself beneath layers of impenetrable masks, but after going four years alone, with no one for him to turn to, no one he could look at and have them just know what he’s thinking… 

Yosano once mentioned offhandedly that to be loved is to be seen, and Dazai thinks the only time he’s ever been seen—truly seen, down to his core, deep in his soul—is when he’s with you.

It was a very lonely four years without you.

“I thought about you every day,” Dazai tells you softly, the grip on your hips easing up as he looks up at you. “Made a list of places I wanted to bring you and then burned it because I never thought I’d get the chance to be with you again. Stared at old pictures of you all the time, couldn’t sleep without thinking about memories with you. Drank your favorite wine just so I could pretend I was tasting it off your lips.”

You bring your hand up to cup his cheek, and Dazai leans into your touch, eyes fluttering shut again. He kisses your palm, humming softly when your thumb runs along his bottom lip.

“There wasn’t a single day I went without you crossing my mind,” you admit quietly and Dazai’s breath hitches as he stares up at you, dark eyes wide and lips parted. He thinks he should say something, anything really, but it’s a lost cause. You don’t seem to mind, luckily, because you only lean down to brush your lips against his again.

This kiss is softer than the last, lips trembling against yours as your tongue dances along his inner lip. He thinks his cheeks might feel wet but he doesn’t dare acknowledge it; you don’t either, only using your thumbs to brush away the tears as they spill over his cheeks.

“Are you really leaving again in the morning?” he finally asks, and he hates that his voice cracks over the words.

You hum in agreement, still hovering over him, still running your thumbs along his cheekbone. His lashes droop shut, but he forces them back open as you speak. “I am. Bright and early. Flight leaves at six.”

His gaze flickers to the left, over to where your alarm clock is set up on your nightstand. 

12:35

He looks back at you, eyes swimming with desperation.

You give him a soft, wry smile. “We should make the most of the night then, hm?”

He doesn’t waste any time on that.

His grip on your hip tightens, and in one swift motion, he flips the two of you around, elbows resting on the mattress on either side of your head as he hovers above you. Your eyes glitter as you give him a coy smile, and again, Dazai falls in love.

Then, he ruins the moment.

“Tell me how you fucked Chuuya.”

Your smile drops. “Osamu, what the fuck?”

“Tell me,” he pouts, nudging his nose against your cheek and peppering soft kisses on your cheek and down your neck. His knees drop to the bed on either side of your hips, holding up his weight as he reaches down to unbutton your slacks, sliding them off your body. A smile flickers onto his lips as his fingers graze your panties—drenched, finally, evidence that he’s not the only one so affected by this. “Tell me. Were you on top? Did he take you from behind? Was he rough? No, it’s Chuuya-”

“If you care so much about how Chuuya fucks, Osamu, how about you go fuck him yourself?” you interrupt him.

Dazai gags.

“Don’t ever say that again,” he says and then returns to his mission, fumbling with his own pants now as he tries to yank them and his briefs off, unable to hold back the relieved sigh when he finally frees his cock, unceremoniously tossing them to the floor. “Tell me.” 

“Why do you care so much, hm?” you ask, reaching up to brush his hair out of his eyes. “I told you that you were better.”

You’re only trying to deflect from the question and he almost lets you succeed, partially placated, but he stays strong, leveling an unrelenting stare onto you as he waits for your answer. You sigh heavily, and he knows he’s won.

“Not rough,” you say as if Dazai hasn’t already come to that conclusion. Chuuya’s had a crush on you since the three of you were sixteen. Dazai assumed he had grown out of it, but evidently, he was wrong, considering he took the opportunity to sleep with Dazai’s girlfriend—because you were his girlfriend—the moment Dazai was out of the picture. What a little snake. Dazai needs to vandalize his apartment again. Maybe set up a few more bombs. He’s only drawn back from his mental spiral when you start talking again: “He took the lead. Wanted to see my face the whole time, make sure I was okay.”

“How gentlemanly of him,” Dazai says—he’s not bitter. He’s not.

“It was,” you agree, too genuinely.

Dazai squints at you hard. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” you say. “You asked.”

“You don’t need to sound so wistful.”

“Oh, shut the fuck up, Osamu, I’m not wistful.”

“How-”

“Are we going to talk about Nakahara Chuuya all night, or are you going to fuck me?” you interrupt immediately, looking increasingly incensed. Dazai only raises his chin at you pointedly—you’re the one that slept with Chuuya. “Time is dwindling, Osamu.”

Okay. 

Dazai’s gaze flickers back to the clock and then back down to you, withering a bit under your irritated stare. He sighs and leans back over you to kiss the corner of your lips, fingers curling around the hem of your panties to slide them off your legs.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs against your skin, his kisses linger against your skin now as he drags his lips down to your jaw. “The thought of him being with you…”

It makes Dazai want to do terrible things. The part of him that he locked up deep within rattles at the bars of its cage, furious and bloodthirsty. The trigger finger he’s been so careful to tame twitches with a desire he hasn’t felt in four years. The thought of anyone being with you makes Dazai sick to his stomach—Dazai is the only one who should get to see you like this, be with you like this—but the thought of Chuuya being with you is so much worse.

“You’re all I’ve ever wanted, Osamu,” you tell him quietly, fingers intertwining with his hair as he nips at your neck. “No matter how much I slept around, nothing was ever able to fill the hole losing you left. Not even Chuuya.”

Dazai exhales, shaky—the guilt returns, and so does the doubt because what right does he have sitting here being petty about what you did while he was gone when he was the one who left you behind without so much as a word? His eyes flutter shut, he spares a few more chaste kisses across your throat before lifting his face back to yours, kissing you gently.

“Let me make up for lost time then,” he says softly.

He doesn’t hesitate now, one hand dropping down to your thigh, lifting it to wrap around his waist as he presses his hips into you. His breath shudders when his cock slips against your folds, a low moan spilling from his lips. He has to reach down to angle himself properly, tip pressing against your tight hole.

The fingers of his free hands are shaky as he lifts them to cup your cheek. “Look at me,” he says, heat spreading through his abdomen when he realizes you already can hardly hold your eyes open, quick breaths escaping your lips as you try to keep yourself from cumming already. “Look at me, I want to see you.”

Your eyes flutter open, lidded and heavy as you look up at him, and Dazai thinks that maybe he could cum just from the expression on your face alone, inhaling sharply as his thumb drags across your bottom lip. He thinks maybe he should try to get ahold of himself, fearing that if he pushes inside of you now, he might cum on the spot, but his cock is aching so badly that Dazai thinks he might die if he doesn’t feel your heat around him immediately.

It takes all of his strength to keep his eyes from sliding shut as he pushes inside of you, desperate to see the way your face twists and your breath catches. Your lips tremble, chest rising and falling rapidly, he can feel your thighs tightening around his waist, and Dazai groans when your heels dig into his lower back, forcing his hips flush to you, burying his cock deep in your cunt. He chokes, grip on your thigh bruising; his abdomen tightens, and his head feels light.

No way, he thinks, gritting his teeth as he tries to hold back the waves of pleasure threatening to tear through him. He hears you let out a huff of laughter beneath him, and Dazai would shut you up with a sharp thrust of your hips, but he’s still desperately trying to regain control over himself, so he thinks that’s maybe not the best idea.

His forehead drops to rest on the pillow next to your head, lips brushing your ear as he lets out a low moan. He can’t even savor the way you let out a full-body shudder, fingers coming up to toy with the hair at the nape of his neck. Fuck, you’re so tight—Dazai can feel your walls tightening around him, spasming, his breath is shaky, and he tries to distract himself by pressing his lips to your skin, mouthing messily at your skin, sucking and nipping and counting to ten as he tries to settle down.

But it’s hard with the soft sighs you’re letting out, the way your fingers catch on his tousled hair, tugging enough to make his scalp sting. His head is so fogged that he can hardly think straight—god, he’s missed this, he hasn’t had the comfort of letting himself go like this in… since he left, really. His mind is always turning, plotting out ten, twenty, thirty steps in advance in fear of making a mistake, slipping up and letting the rest of the Agency see him for what he is, slipping up and their lives being the price just like with Odasaku. It’s only with you that’s ever comfortable enough to finally let the cogs in his brain slow and shatter, lose himself in carnal pleasures, lose himself in you; it’s been four years since he’s last had a reprieve from his own brain.

But he only lets himself slip halfway—tonight isn’t going to be about him, it’s about you. He has four years to make up for and he intends on getting a good start on it tonight.

He pants quietly as he lifts his head enough to bite your earlobe, tugging it gently before pressing his lips to your temple. “I’ve missed this,” he admits, voice raspy and clogged thick with emotion. “I’ve-”

He can hardly get the words out, and his breath catches when your hands slide from behind his head to cup his cheeks, forcing him to look at you. He thinks he must look wrecked—he can already feel the sweat beading on his forehead, and he knows his eyes are probably glazed over. You still look stunning, a soft expression on your face as you look up at him as if he’s not buried to the hilt inside of you. 

Unfair, he thinks mournfully. 

“What're you still holding onto, hm?” you ask, and Dazai only barely registers your words, sinking into your touch as you brush matted hair out of his eyes. He can finally bring himself to roll his hips—experimental, slow, trying to make sure he can actually move before trying to fuck you. Then you sigh softly, and he’s too out of it to try to make out the expression on your face as you say: “You work yourself so hard… always have. I’ve got you, you can let go, Dazai. C’mon.”

“No,” he hums, but his voice is strained, evidence of his struggle. “Tonight’s about my favorite girl.”

“Favorite?” you tease, lifting your shoulders off the bed to ghost a kiss against his lips that nearly has his hips stuttering—the conversation so reminiscent of one that the two of you had at seventeen it almost makes him smile.

“Only,” he amends quietly, kissing your nose, then the corner of your lips, and then nipping your jawline.

Just when he thinks he’s good to actually start picking up the pace, intent on fucking the thoughts out of you until you forget about your stupid flight in the morning, he catches a suspicious expression on your face, one that has his eyes narrowing.

“What?” he asks dubiously; your eyes are glittering in a way that he knows from experience is dangerous. 

You don’t say anything, just look pointedly at your thighs, then up to his shoulders. Dazai tilts his head to the side, recognizing what you want, and after a moment’s hesitation, he slides your legs up above his shoulders, folding them to your chest, eyes nearly rolling back at the new angle. Fuck, his hips do stutter this time, breath hitching. He has to readjust again, mentally focus on not cumming on the spot, and then-

And then you say: “He had my legs like this.”

A trick. 

Dazai knows it. 

You’re trying to make him let go of the thin thread of self-control he still has. To give in. To let all of the gears in his brain finally fall apart for the first time in four years.

He knows it.

He falls for it anyway.

Dazai’s jaw tightens, gaze snapping down to you only to catch a goading look in your eyes, a sly smile on your lips that Dazai has every intention of fucking right off your face. He inhales sharply, one hand sliding up your body to grab your chin, blunt nails digging a bit too deeply into your cheeks.

“Yeah?” he says, voice rough. 

Your lashes flutter and lips part as Dazai pointedly jerks his hips up. Your breath catches over a moan, and Dazai knows that this new angle is affecting you just as much as it is him.

“Mhm,” you agree, and just like that, the thin thread snaps.

He snaps his hips into you so hard that your bedframe bangs loudly against the wall behind it, quickly setting a steady pace, nice and deep, quick enough that you can’t even get a breath of air to your lungs before Dazai is fucking it right out of you. Already, he’s so fucked out that his mind is in shambles, one hand settling on your hip to hold you in place as he thrusts his hips into you, hitting that sweet spot with each stroke while his other hand, still cupping your face, slides down to your neck.

He doesn’t squeeze—wouldn’t dare to cut off the pretty noises spilling from your lips, moans of his names, choked gasps and cries between each rock of his hips—but the fact that you trust him, him, enough to have his fingers wrapped around your throat is always a quick way make him topple over the edge.

His eyes dart down to your chest, realizing, very unfortunately, that you haven’t taken off your button-up yet. He nearly bites down on his tongue in frustration as his hand comes down to your chest, careful to keep the pace of his hips as he hooks his fingers around the first button just to yank down, popping off half of the buttons of your expensive dress shirt and haphazardly pulling it off of you to toss it to the side before fumbling with the clip of your bra.

“Osamu,” you hiss, and Dazai revels in the way your voice wavers with each thrust, biting back moans. “That’s the second-”

You don’t get to finish your sentence. Dazai tosses your bra over with your discarded shirt and dips his head down to wrap his lips around your nipple, tongue swirling around the sensitive bud before rolling it between his teeth, and you’re gone—Dazai lets out a muffled groan around you as your back arches up into him, crying out his name, walls tightening around him as you cum on his cock.

“Oh-f-hah-fuck,” Dazai gasps as he rests his head on your collarbone, grip on your waist tightening. 

He has to physically force himself to lift his head, bracing his forearm on the mattress next to your head, desperate to see the way your eyes roll back, he can already feel himself teetering over the edge—the lewd sound of skin-on-skin, the sloppiness of his cock driving in and out of your cunt, he can feel your cum dripping down his cock, smeared on his pelvis.

His hand slides behind your head, lifting it from where you have it pressed against the mattress. Beautiful—the only thought that can run through his hazy brain is of you and how perfect you are, lips swollen and bitten raw, parted as pitched moans escape them, tears spilling from the corner of your eyes as he fucks you through your orgasm and right into a second. He’s the only one that should ever get to see you like this, with your clever brain fucked right and dumb, body writhing against the bed as you cling to him.

He leans down again, trailing sloppy kisses against your neck, gasping as he starts to feel his high approaching.

“No one makes you feel like this,” he says, or maybe he begs, he’s not sure if he’s making a statement or pleading for you to tell him it’s the truth. “Tell me. T-shit-tell me.”

“No one,” you sob over another moan, and Dazai can feel your pussy fluttering around him—he wonders if he’s already fucked you into a third. Usually, it takes longer. “No one, Osamu, you’re the only one.”

And that’s the only thing he needed to hear to give him that final push. His steady pace shifts into a more erratic one, sloppy and desperate, as he chases a high that’s just out of reach. His moans are muffled against your skin, teeth scraping your collarbone, mind a jumbled mess of thoughts of you. He feels your fingers trembling as you lift them to his cheeks, pulling his face up to press your lips against his, and that’s all it takes: he lets out a wanton moan against your mouth, pressing your legs further into your chest as his hips still against your ass, finishing deep inside of you.

Spots dance in his vision, head buzzing and ears ringing; he swears his orgasm lasts an eternity, body shaking and shuddering above you, letting out breathy moans into your mouth. He can feel his cum dribbling out of you, pooling onto the sheets beneath the two of you, so much of it that you can’t even keep it all in you. 

He doesn’t let his lips leave yours once—the kisses are messy and sloppy, devoid of all of the finesse that the two of you usually have, teeth nearly clashing, tongues sliding against each other’s. 

It’s only when his vision finally starts to clear and his head feels less on the verge of passing out does Dazai finally trails kisses from your lips to your jaw and down your neck before he finally collapses on top of you, mind entirely gone, like he’s floating on clouds. He pants as he tries to catch his breath, eyes lidded as he absently trails kisses along your chest and collarbone. He thinks the world could be ending around the two of you, and Dazai wouldn’t even have the capacity to notice. For the first time in four years, he really, truly allows his brain to rest.

He doesn’t know how much time passes, eyes drooping shut as he lets himself be enveloped by your arms, drowning in the comfort of your scent.

He doesn’t want to know. He’s scared to look at the clock and check.

“Tonight was supposed to be about you,” Dazai finally complains, burying his face in your chest as he pouts.

You only let out a soft laugh above him. “We have the rest of our lives for that… You deserved a break, Osamu.”

The rest of our lives.

Dazai’s throat tightens, vision blurring a bit at the thought—he can only barely bring himself to respond, and the words that slip out are not what he means to say: “I never thought I’d get to be with you like this again,” he admits, voice hoarse. “I never thought-”

“I know,” you interrupt, voice quiet, a bit shaky. “... I know.”

Of course, you know.

He can’t bring himself to say anything else, so he doesn’t, sinking into your arms and allowing himself the comfort he’s deprived himself of for so long. He almost starts to drift off—and god, he can’t remember the last time he’s dozed off willingly, only able to sleep after drinking copious amounts of alcohol or taking an even more copious number of sleeping pills. It’s not until you speak again does he stir back awake from the brink of sleep.

“What did he ask of you? Oda, I mean,” you finally ask, fingers brushing through his dark hair, lulling him further to sleep.

Dazai thinks that you’re cruel, asking him while his mind is still fogged from the exhaustion following his high, and he’s still half asleep in your arms, trying to regain his bearings. The words slip out before he can think twice, forgetting his fear of you laughing at the idea of him trying to be a better man.

“He asked me to be on the side that saves people… if both are the same to me, he wanted me to be a good man.”

The words dawn on him too late; he can hardly bring himself to look up at you, scared that he’s going to find an amused expression on your face or a derisive sneer. He wouldn’t blame you, he’s thought the same about himself ever since he left the Port Mafia, doubt and self-loathing riddling him with every step he takes in the light. He waits for the scoff, he waits for the laugh, he waits for-

“... I think he would be proud of who you’ve become, Osamu. I think you’ve fulfilled his request.”

Dazai does look up at you now, feeling particularly vulnerable, still scared that he might find a mocking expression on your face but he doesn’t. Only an uncharacteristically soft expression is painted on your face as you look up at the ceiling, a genuine one—a small smile and a look in your eyes that makes his heart feel warm. You don’t notice him looking until he lets slip out:

“I’ve missed you so much,” he whispers. 

(I love you, he means)

“I’ve missed you too,” you say back quietly.

(I love you too)

[xiaowhore]

equivalent exchange.

DRAFT. this fic is incomplete, as i've stated in this post. this has been sitting in the dungeon for a while, and i have no plans to finish them, but i posted these drafts to not let them go to waste. it is up to you if you still want to read them regardless of their incompletion :) i will be writing my original ideas for the fic at the end so you guys will have an idea of what the fic was supposed to be like.

premise. when ayato stumbles upon a drafted resignation letter on your desk, he doubles his efforts to show you the perquisites of staying by his side.

he doesn't want to lose a competent subordinate. that's all there is to it.

note. what's wrong with secretary kim au but it's definitely not the same because i stopped watching at episode 5 and have no idea what happened. anyways i think we were all expecting a ceo!ayato x secretary!reader fic at some point so here it is. (couldn't keep this gender neutral for plot reasons, so feminine pronouns were used.)

Kamisato Ayato considers himself a good boss.

Or as far as things go, he's a decent one. He treats his employees well, takes them to expensive restaurants for company dinners, and discourages overtime so they can head off early for the night. He doesn't care much for formalities, and he gets along with his colleagues fairly well. He's never heard anyone talk behind his back or complain about his attitude at work, and there aren't any rumors spreading about him (if he turns a blind eye to the conspiratorial gossip guessing his relationship status).

But he does have minor faults. Like showing a more mischievous side when work hours are over. Getting Thoma dead drunk during dinners because his half-conscious inebriated talking is a form of amusement, or riling up Itto in drinking games just because it's funny. Then he leaves Sara to clean up the mess for him, since Yae seems to enjoy the comedy sketch as thoroughly as he does and probably won't lift a finger to help even if he asked her to.

As his assistant, you're prone to falling victim to his shenanigans, silly stunts that coax out aggravated eye rolls and sighs of exasperation. Years of experience eventually shaped you up to be entirely immune to April Fools' pranks.

He's in the middle of planning another one when he spots a letter of resignation on your desk.

At first, he thinks it's your rebellious phase arriving a decade late. He always found it odd how you never retaliated against his tricks, and this may just be the long-awaited April Fools' prank of vengeance. If it is, it's particularly mean of you—Ayato does have feelings, you know? Even he would feel hurt if you told him you wanted to leave! You shouldn't take this kind of thing lightly!

Then he remembers you aren't the type to make jokes, April Fools' or otherwise, and it's that moment when he feels (proper) fear.

“[Name] wants to resign?!”

Ayato makes a zipping motion and Thoma's shrieks immediately die down, but the disbelief on his face has yet to wane. His brows scrunch together, brain hard at work in processing this piece of information, though it seems to short-circuit in utter confusion from the sudden blow.

Scandalized, Thoma lowers his head and levels his voice to a hushed whisper, “Are you sure you saw it correctly?”

“I have able eyes. Unfortunately, my optometrist confirmed my perfect vision and assured I saw it just fine.” Woe is he.

“Get them checked again.”

“No matter how much I check, it won't change the results, Thoma.”

“We don't know that for sure, sir!”

“Trust me,” Ayato deadpans, looking off into the distance, “I checked with him thrice.”

Defeated, Thoma leans back to his chair, crossing his arms while deep in thought. “You saw the letter, but she didn't turn it in, did she?”

“She didn't. No e-mail, either.” Ayato taps the table in a mindless rhythm, expression stern but the shape of his lips almost resembling a pout. “Do you have any idea why she'd want to resign?”

Thoma rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “Is that a genuine question, sir?”

Ayato's head snaps back to look at his companion. “Why wouldn't it be?”

“...Everyone in the office knows you... tease her for your own amusement.”

“It's my way of showing affection.” The corners of his lips curl up, stretching to a twisted smile as he rests his cheek on his palm. “Isn't she just so adorable when she gets angry?”

“You really do have a rotten personality.”

Ayato waves his hand in a noncommittal response. “We're straying off topic. What should we do next?”

Thoma hums, closed fist beneath his chin. “Since she hasn't turned in the letter yet, that means she must be hesitating. For what reason, we don't know, but it's keeping her here. So before she makes up her mind, we should dissuade her from quitting no matter what.”

Ayato laces his fingers together, brow in an inquisitive arch. “And we do that by?”

Green eyes sparkle with tenacity, clashing with blue irises twinkling in intrigue. “We bribe her, sir. It's time to show off your good points.”

--

“If a woman quits her job, what do you think her reasons could be?”

Ayaka blinks owlishly at her brother, taken aback by the abrupt question. It's a sudden thing to ask, especially odd given how their conversation hasn't led to that topic at all. “Did someone resign? I haven't heard anything of the sort, though.”

Ayato shakes his head, stirring the boba tea in his hands. “It's a hypothetical.”

Which means it's real.

Ah, whatever. At least he didn't go for the “my friend...” excuse.

Ayaka warily cuts a portion of her cake, scrutinizing each microexpression flashing on Ayato's face. It's one of their weekly lunch meetings, squeezed between hectic schedules, and they more or less have a silent agreement to avoid discussions involving work if they could help it. But this time, he brought it up himself.

How peculiar.

“Perhaps she wants to change workplaces? If she's exemplary, she might have been offered a better position or higher pay.”

Ayato nearly scoffs at the suggestion. The company, old-fashioned as it is, can only be inherited by a direct line of descendants. Outsiders can only go so far, and being the secretary for the chief executive officer isn't bad at all. Last time he checked, he's been paying you generously as well—how many figures was it? Six?

“Oh!” Ayaka exclaims, holding up a finger as she seems to have figured out something. “Or maybe she wants to settle down and get married? If her work is keeping her occupied, she'll most likely take time off to find a husband.”

Ayato proceeds to choke on a tapioca pearl.

“Or she got married and wants to be a housewife-”

“That's quite enough, Ayaka.”

Ayato would rather believe the Earth is flat.

--

If Ayato were any less desperate, perhaps he would have rationalized that putting together “give her what she wants to make her stay” and “she wants to get married” is a bad, bad idea.

Unfortunately for him, he is grasping at straws, so it leaves him no choice. Yes. Definitely. There is no other option than this, obviously.

(He does not delve deeper into the reason why he doesn't want you to leave, nor does he dwell any longer on why he was so quick to think he was fine with getting married if it was to you.)

“Don’t you want to get married soon, Ms. [Surname]?”

To clarify, Ayato does not spy on other people's conversations for a hobby, but he's always had impeccable timing. It comes with the job.

He stands by the door, reaching for the doorknob to the break room, but the mention of your name forces him to a halt.

“Why are you asking me that...?” You awkwardly dodge the question, sipping on your coffee. “I suppose I am at that age, though.”

“So you do want to!” The squeal rings with a note of glee, a stark contrast to Ayato's gradually dimming mood. “Wouldn't it be nice to marry a good man? I'm sure even you have thought of it at some point! Are you seeing anyone, then? Anyone you can imagine yourself marrying?”

“No, not yet.”

Before Ayato can even heave a relieved sigh, you follow with, “But my mother is making me go on dates to see people. Said if I didn't bring home a man soon, she'd come all this way to drag me back by my ear and introduce me to her friend's son.”

“Ah, I get that...” Your friend replies emphatically, nodding. “But those kind of meetings hardly go well. And you can't exactly tell your mother's friend you don't find her son attractive, right?”

“Why not just marry Mr. Kamisato, then?” Another one pipes up, to which Ayato gives a mental salute of appreciation. “You spend most of your time together. If you're not married to your job, then you're practically married to him.”

A cackle sends his heart dropping to his stomach.

“Not a chance.”

Can you at least expound why?!

“Huh? Why not? I mean, Mr. Kamisato is on another realm of existence and I can never hope to be on the same level as him, but you look good together!”

Your face pinches to a tight frown. “Look good together? In what way?”

“When you stand side by side, it just looks... right. And like I've mentioned earlier, you spend all your time with him. Why not seal the deal?”

“Mr. Kamisato is reliable, and if you marry him, you're set for life. He's handsome too, and we've all seen his muscles at our company sports day a few months ago!”

“I've never been so thankful for team-building events. Hallelujah.”

Ayato's face burns in embarrassment hearing the dreamy sighs. Even if they think there isn't anyone else listening on them (which is false), shouldn't they exert some restraint at work?

“Please don't lust over my boss,” you assert sternly, voice ice cold. “And we have a strictly professional relationship. So don't get any weird ideas from here on out, alright?”

“Fine. Tell me that again when I'm invited at your wedding, I dare you.”

“I said-”

They wave off your vehement protests at the statement. “Then if you're not into Mr. Kamisato, what do you plan to do?”

Ayato perks up, straining his ears in rapt attention.

“...I'm going on a date this weekend,” you sigh, rubbing circles on your temples. “I'll let you know how it goes.”

Oh no.

--

“-Dinner was nice. We didn't expect the rain shower, but he ran to the convenience store across the street to buy an umbrella because he didn't want me to get wet on the way to the car. He said it would be a waste if my hair got ruined since I-”

Slurp.

“...Styled it for the occasion. Then he drove me home. I found out we liked the same band from the music he played, and we agreed to-”

Sluuurp.

“-Go to their upcoming concert together. Then we somehow also like the same novel that's getting a movie adaption soon, so we also promised to see it-”

Sluuuuuuuuuuuuuurp.

“Could you please refrain from making noise when eating, sir?”

Ayato decidedly does not comply and only slurps his boba tea harder, nearly choking on a tapioca pearl yet again.

As always, you learn to ignore him.

“Concert... and a movie. I'm not sure about the concert, but the film you're talking about is the one coming out in the next two months, right?” Thoma confirms, sweating when Ayato's expression turns visibly grim. “You plan to see him for that long...?”

“Even if dating doesn't work out, we can always become friends, can't we?” You shrug, taking a bite out of your sandwich. “He seems like a nice guy. We get along really well, considering we've only met once. I ended up agreeing to a second date-”

The passive-aggressive slurping persists for the following afternoon.

--

“I've been meaning to ask for a while,” Thoma treads carefully, noticing Ayato's rapid-fire typing—no, striking—on the keyboard, “Ms. [Surname] is good at her job, but you seem really... eager to make her stay, sir.”

Ayato's fingers halt in their movement, and he takes a second to flash his business smile. “Of course. She's a valuable asset, and I'd be foolish to let her go.”

“Yes, I'm well aware, but...” Thoma scratches his cheek, looking off to the side. “You didn't go to such lengths when your former assistants resigned from their post. Or, uh... you fired most of them.”

“Yes,” Ayato simply agrees, still smiling, “she's competent. You don't find anyone like her easily, so it's only natural I'd want her to stay.”

“What do you mean by 'anyone like her,' sir?”

Thoma is awfully talkative today. Ayato might need to feed him something spicy to shut him up.

“Ms. [Surname] is special.” The words smoothly leave his lips. “Does anyone else have the meetings and company events scheduled for the next month memorized? She's the only one I can count on for work matters.”

Thoma's shoulders slump. “Okay, let me get straight to the point. Do you-”

“Mr. Kamisato?”

Thoma nearly jumps out of his skin at the sound of your voice, accompanied by the clack of your heels.

“What is it?” The cold smile on his face finally melts to something more genuine, softer around the edges and looking especially radiant. It's welcoming, like your arrival counts as a joyous occasion, and he is exponentially more attentive compared to the way he lent Thoma half his ear (the other preoccupied with a phone call, which he swiftly ends the moment you walk in).

“I came to deliver some files from Ms. Miko... did I interrupt something?” You gesture to Thoma standing idly by the side, dumbfounded from Ayato's inconceivable behavior.

“Not at all. Is there anything else?” Ayato accepts the documents, noticing your hesitance to leave.

“Ah, yes, I will be asking for time off tomorrow.”

That's... rare?

But it's not a hard request. Ayato's own schedule is blank for the most part, since the latest project wrapped up not too long ago, and the workload is lighter than usual. Missing one work day won't do any harm.

“It's fine, but could I ask why?”

You fidget, tentative as you reply, “I was invited... for a trip on a cruise. He insisted I come since his friend bailed on him and the tickets would go to waste.”

The warmth in his eyes freezes over.

“The tickets would go to waste...” Ayato repeats under his breath, mockingly cruel. The tone flies past your head but it hits Thoma full-force, making him sweat profusely.

Distasteful. An utter disgrace of a man. The magnitude of his ignorance is so awe-inspiring, I have to applaud. I must give credit where it is due, and the foolishness of this clown is truly impressive. “The tickets will go to waste,” he says? His money must worth more to him than his dignity. Inviting Ms. [Surname] to a date on a workday with no regard for her schedule is one thing, but making her out to be an afterthought as a substitute for his original travel partner is another. How shameful. This is no way to treat a lady. If Ayaka were to be with a man of his caliber, I would never allow it.

But what he says outloud is of course, “I see. I hope you have fun, then.”

--

Corporate events are, for the most part, adequately entertaining.

Preparing for it is not.

But the worst part isn't even brainstorming themes, or finding an appropriate venue, or planning the logistics, or writing the guest list.

It's choosing what to wear.

Actually, the cause for Ayato's headache isn't even what attire he'll go with. It's yours.

“That looks wonderful,” Yae praises, looking at the picture on your phone. It displays a silver necklace, a tear drop topaz encased in a diamond twist. It pairs well with the dress you bought with Ayaka last week, an elegant fit that accentuated your curves.

However.

“He chose that for you, didn't he?”

The stoic line of Ayato's mouth twitches and his eyes can't help but sweep over your screen, scrutinizing each grainy pixel.

Though he has plenty of insults prepared at his arsenal, he can't find anything to nitpick about. Damn it. It's a good choice.

“You'll look stunning,” Kokomi assures good-naturedly, smiling in delight. Ayato does not doubt that will be the case, but he's sure he would be in a foul mood the entire night if he were to see you adorning it.

He has already retrieved his coffee from the break room so he excuses himself to his office, long strides that lead him out of earshot.

As a result, he doesn't hear the following conversation.

“Why this, though?” Kokomi asks, looking closely at the accessory. “It's a simple design. Doesn't look like something a man would pick from the rest.”

You shake your head. “I just told him I wanted something blue, and I couldn't choose myself because there were too many that caught my eye...”

“Blue?” She echoes, a simple curiosity. “Why blue?”

“...It's a pretty color.”

--

It is an actual coincidence that Ayato runs into you in the middle of shopping.

You're hunched over a display stand showcasing a variety of earrings, deep in thought as you observe each one. You're doing that thing where you scrunch your nose in concentration, a habit Ayato doesn't think you even realize you have.

“Fancy meeting you here, Ms. [Surname].”

(He wonders what face you would've made if he said “You go here often?” instead. Probably some degree of disgust.)

You blink, correcting your posture and nodding in greeting. You don't look particularly thrilled to see him, but at least you're unbothered by the prospect of seeing your boss on a free day. “You're here to shop too, Mr. Kamisato?”

Ayato smiles amicably. “I am. Were you planning to buy earrings?”

“Yes, but...” Your gaze returns to the display, your own smile faltering. “It is a bit difficult to choose.”

He walks over, scanning the variety up and down. “Is it really? You only need to choose a pair that matches your necklace, right?” He focuses on shades of silver, bypassing the vibrant colors of reds and pinks. Not even fifteen seconds later, he picks out a card and holds it out next to your ear. “This one looks nice on you.”

“Huh? Really?” Perhaps surprised by his swiftness, it takes you a moment to react accordingly. You take the card from his hands and flip it over, eyes widening by a fraction. “Oh. It is rather pretty.” Then they widen further as big as saucers. “I can't say the same for the price tag, though.”

“Hm? What price tag?”

He plucks the earrings from your hands, walks to the counter, and pays for it without a second thought.

“M-Mr. Kamisato?”

“Pull up your hair.”

“Eh? Oh, okay.”

You're so caught off guard that you unwittingly do as he says, tucking your hair back obediently and still processing the last two minutes.

His fingers tug at your ear, warmth bleeding to your skin, and by the time you return to reality, he's already putting the earrings on you.

STORY FLOW.

ok i lied i actually can't remember shit about this fic so i will be making up stuff as i go lol

what i do remember clearly is that the resignation notice that ayato found on your desk is years old. you meant to submit it way, way back when ayato was tougher on you, and you weren't as well-adjusted as you are now to the job yet. as stated in the fic, being ayato's secretary is no easy task—he'd fired countless people he thought was incompetent.

you fought a number of times, and you didn't know if you could keep up working for a man you thought was simply incompatible with you (in terms of being colleagues/partners).

but over time, you learned to work together. ayato acknowledged your efforts and hard work, and you knew ayato had been trying to give you less jobs to reduce your workload, but you were going to prove that hou could handle it.

what truly made you appreciate ayato more was when you got stranded at the train station. you dealt with a far company they collaborated with, but work ended later than expected, and you'd missed the last train home. taxis were an option, but youd have to go through several of them to get back. right when you were thinking of checking into a hotel, ayato informed you he was already on his way and drove a couple of hours to get where you were to bring you home.

time continued to pass, and that brings us back to the present. you were on the process of cleaning up your desk and left the old resignation notice out in the open by accident, which led to ayato seeing it.

it is very apparent to the others that you two like each other, but the involved parties themselves are unaware of it. you currently aren't eager to get married, but you were trying to meet people so your parents would stop bugging you about still being single.

anyway, ayato bought those earrings for you. timeskip to the corporate event. you unconsciously picked a blue motif for your outfit because it reminds you of ayato.

when you get there, surprise, surprise. the man you were meeting, kazuha is a bigwig, heir to some other corporation. he actually owned that cruise he invited you to and pretended he didn't because you might be intimidated. ayato didn't think the kazuha he knew and the kazuha you knew were the same person, and now the advantage he had over him was ruled out (i.e being rich). (actually while i was rereading i was surprised i didn't mention that it was kazuha...? istg i was imagining him the whole time i wrote about him)

anyhow, as it became later in the night, ayato wanted to get you home before kazuha could offer to drive you back or worse, spend the night with him. ayato acted drunk so you'd tend to him and accompany him home while his driver was in charge of taking you to his apartment. as you were nagging at him, he compared your interactions with him to yours and kazuha's. you were certainly nicer to that man. smiled at him a lot more, too. did you really like him that much?

if you did, could he let you go?

he was ashamed that he couldn't answer it right away. as if he had any right to whatever you do.

you carried him to bed when you got to his apartment, but when you were preparing to leave, he hugged you from behind. do you like that man? why do you want to leave me? why can't it be me? ayato was just pretending to be drunk, but he felt dizzy now, soaked in your scent. he said things that he wasn't supposed to. things that he couldn't take back. things that would change your relationship forever.

slowly, you took away the hands wrapped around your waist. ayato figured that was a message of rejection.

but then you pushed him back down on the bed and you straddled his lap. his mind was silent for but a few seconds before he started screaming mentally.

i've always wanted you, but i knew it was impossible. you have a fiancee. i'm an ordinary worker. your family won't accept me. ayato's mind was in a daze because your face was so close to his, and all he could see was the red, glossy shade on your lips, but he managed to hear those few sentences.

it doesn't matter. nothing else matters. i can't marry if it's not you. if you accept me, i swear i'll make you happy.

from here on, it could be a happy, fluffy ending where turns out, you were tipsy so you were more honest with him and you fell asleep in the middle of kissing so he took it upon himself to change your dress into something more comfortable and end the night with a forehead kiss...

...or you could continue what you were doing and the first thing ayato takes off is the damned necklace so he could replace it with a smattering of hickeys. your choice ^^

[queensunshinee]

So sweet || Patrick Zweig x reader, Art Donaldson x reader

Rating: Explicit (18+)

Warnings: SMUT (p in v sex), drinking, mention of an eating disorder, again, I really don't know what's going on here. It's so weird. Just a small but important reminder: English is not my first language, so please don’t be mad if there are any embarrassing mistakes- I’m really trying my best!

Word Count: 7.3k

So sweet

Patrick wanted to know what is it about you that makes Art lose it. You're not the funniest, not the best at tennis—or at anything Patrick has ever seen you do, to be honest—and you're definitely not the prettiest. You're not the best. You're just not.

"She’s just so sweet," Art had said when the two of them were sitting in one corner of the Stanford cafeteria, and you were in another. Patrick didn’t see it; he thought you were scheming. That you were the least sweet person he knew. And because Art has known you for so many years, Patrick has known you long enough not to trust you. Who picks a college just because the guy she’s sleeping with also chose Stanford? Only a conniving witch. Someone who wants to pull Art away from him and Tashi. Someone who wants to pull Art away from his dreams. From tennis. Someone who wants Art all to herself. Patrick figured it out years ago. You can fool Art. Fuck it, you can fool yourself if you want. But you can’t fool Patrick.

And it doesn’t matter at all that you and Art have known each other since you were six. It doesn’t matter that all the evidence points to your parents being responsible for your academic choices. It doesn’t matter that it’s only since you got to Stanford that you started sleeping together; he never touched you inappropriately even once before college. Patrick didn’t like you before you two started having sex, so he sure as hell doesn’t like you now. You didn’t even bother to sit with them. You didn’t even bother to say a simple 'hi' to him. You don’t respect him enough to sit at the same table when he comes to visit Tashi and Art. You don’t respect him. Period.

“Do you think she’s ever eaten a burger?” Patrick suddenly asks, completely ignoring Art’s rambling about competitions and trying to inspect your plate from afar. He can’t see what’s on it, but he’s sure there’s nothing nutritious enough there. “I know for a fact she’s eaten more than one burger in her life,” Art rolls his eyes. “Why are you so obsessed with her?” he asks for the millionth time. He asked it every summer. He asked it after Patrick went on about how insane it was that you and Art were going to the same college.

“I’m not obsessed. I just think there’s no way her pussy smells normal with that diet,” Patrick says, earning himself a well-deserved elbow jab from Art. Art never talks about you that vulgarly. Art doesn’t talk about you much at all. That’s part of what annoys Patrick: that they can talk about any other girl, but with you, it’s never an option. Even about Tashi, he managed to talk to Art. He gave him the signal. He told him. But Art doesn’t share anything about what he does with you.

Patrick knows about Melanie from statistics that Art slept with. Patrick knows about Georgia or Regina or whatever her name is who works at the library and made it to second base with Art. He knows down to the exact books they leaned on. But he doesn’t know anything about you. Art keeps you to himself as if you’re some treasure he needs to guard at all costs. Patrick hates you and the broccoli you’re shoving into your mouth while reading a book, ignoring the outside world. You’re such a fucking smug witch. You won’t be able to fool him. . . . Art will never tell Patrick that there are moments when he thinks he loves you. Sometimes. Most of the time, he doesn’t. Most of the time, he knows he loves Tashi. The same Tashi that Patrick took for himself. Snatched her right out of Art’s hands.

But with you, it’s different. With you, it’s been building for years. You’re the one he smeared snot on when you were six, and somehow, you kept coming over to his house to watch cartoons with him. You kept showing up at the tennis court, reading a book while he practiced. You kept being an inseparable part of him.

Art knows you love him. It’s so clear to him, almost as clear as the fact that his first dog was named Jameson and that he died when Art was 8-years-old. You held his hand when he forced his parents to bury him. He didn’t want you to hold it, tried to shake you off for a few seconds, but you insisted. He never told you, but it felt nice.

Your first kiss was with Art. He insisted. Of course, he insisted. You love him so much, and you’re so, so sweet. Always polite and blushing at the right moments, and at 14, he kissed you. Explained to you that you couldn’t start high school without knowing how to kiss. He was doing you a favor. You said “thank you” afterward, like the polite girl you always were.

You kept kissing after that, as if it was the natural thing to do. Every time he came to visit in the summer and you’d come over. Every time he went to your place. You’d end your time together with his lips exploring yours. So sweet.

He will never tell Patrick that he knows you better than he knows himself. That he knows all your secrets just as you know all of his own. That sometimes he melts under your gaze and would be willing to tell you his ATM code if you asked. He will never reveal this to Patrick. Or you. He will never tell him that sometimes he feels like you’re such a deep part of him that you are simply him. And he is simply you. And when he thinks too deeply about that, he’s capable of barging into your lecture, telling the professor there’s been an emergency, dragging you into the janitor’s closet, staring for a second at your terrified face, and fucking you there on one of the shelves. Not that it happened. Maybe. He won't tell anyone.

And he will never give you the chance to go all in for him because it’s too terrifying. Because with you, he feels helpless, out of control, almost embarrassed. And because Patrick hates you. He’s never seen Patrick hate anyone as much as he hates you. And Art doesn’t think he can be in a relationship with someone Patrick doesn’t like. Which, in itself, is a crazy thought.

But Patrick loves Tashi, and Tashi has nothing sweet about her. No look that radiates tenderness or sweetness. She doesn’t smell like cinnamon and vanilla. She doesn’t have a soul that wants to share secrets with him. Tashi doesn’t look at him like he holds the moon. Tashi doesn’t look at him as if he could fill an empty space in her heart. Because she has no empty space in her heart. Tennis fills her heart. Tennis and Patrick. Art looks at her heart from the outside. He’s not a part of her story. He so badly wants to be part of her story. He thinks it's a need at this point.

And every time his mind fills with Tashi, he finds some random girl willing to stroke his ego (and his dick) just enough to make him forget. He never goes for the easy option; he doesn’t go to you. He only wants to be with you when he’s thinking of you. When you fill him so completely that he can’t breathe. When he physically needs you in front of him. Not when he wants someone else to touch him. Not when he wants Tashi Duncan so badly he could cry.

He looks at her and Patrick, unable to understand what she sees in him. What she finds in his best friend. The scatterbrained guy who doesn’t shower every day, who wears the same underwear longer than is acceptable, who snores while laughing, who eats whatever he wants, whenever he wants, like he isn’t trying to make a living as a pro. Like everything is a joke. Art doesn’t understand how Tashi can waste her time on a joke. . . . "What are you studying, Little Dove?" Patrick pulled out one of your earbuds when he found you tucked away in a corner of the library. He saw how you physically recoiled at the nickname he’d given you the first time you met. Not a nickname you liked. That only made him want to call you that enough times for it to be engraved on your gravestone when you die. For you to maybe one day think it was your real name. For it to become a part of you. Little Dove. He didn’t even know why he called you that. It wasn’t bad. It wasn’t good either. But it wasn’t necessarily bad.

"What are you doing here?" you replied, half-indifferent, reaching out for him to give you back the earbud he’d so brutally yanked. "Killing time. I had a fight with Tashi, so I can’t go to her match. Art’s obviously there because well, he’s in love with my girlfriend." He paused to study your reaction, wanting to see how you’d respond to the fact that Art didn’t love you. That he loved what belonged to Patrick, and you didn’t belong to Patrick, so he would never love you. Not really. Not entirely. "You’re the only person I know here. It’s your job to entertain me," he said, flashing a fake smile.

Everything about Patrick was fake. That was something you’d learned to be indifferent to years ago. Every time he jabbed at you or said something vulgar to disgust you, you knew it was fake. There was no point in taking him seriously. You pitied him the way you’d pity a little kid whose ice cream cone had fallen and no one was willing to buy him a new one. "I’m not a clown, Patrick. I have a test tomorrow," you said and snatched the earbud from his hand. He didn’t retaliate. He simply sat down across from you, examining you more intensely than you were comfortable with. His gaze pinned you like a scalpel. You tried to breathe evenly. He’s always like this. He’s always like this. Remember that he’s always like this, and everything will be fine. This is not the time to panic. Not in front of Patrick Fucking Zweig. He can’t win a war you’re not actively fighting.

"How’s life, Little Dove? Happy at Stanford with Art? Better now that he finally agreed to fuck you?" He was blunt to the point that it made you glare at him and wrinkle your nose for a second. That only deepened the smirk plastered across his face. "Do you need something?" you asked, trying to sound as though his vulgarity couldn’t faze you. As though everyone around you spoke that way all the time. As though your pathetic sex life wasn’t plastered on your forehead like a billboard. He was laughing at you. Patrick Zweig was laughing at you.

The thought that he might know every intimate detail of what you and Art did in bed made your entire body shiver. He could see it on you. He knew he’d won. But you weren’t even playing. You wanted to scream you weren’t even playing. No sound came out. He’d won. He knew it, and you knew it, and there would never be a draw again. Because you would both always know he’d won. That Art had told him how you moan. Maybe Art had even figured out that you fake all your orgasms because you’re probably broken so he told Patrick that too. Maybe it was all more humiliating than you could imagine. Maybe you wouldn’t be able to talk to Art ever again. Maybe-

"You’re overthinking it, Little Dove. I can see it on your face. It’s not that deep," he rolled his eyes and took a bite of an apple he’d pulled out (you had no idea from where). "You can’t eat in here. This is a library," you mumbled, grateful for the change of subject. Any change of subject. You’d be willing to talk about cactuses at this point if necessary. "I’m not a student here," he reminded you, as if you’d forgotten. As if that wasn’t the sole reason for your fleeting happiness- that you didn’t have to see his face here 24/7. Only sometimes. Only when he was visiting people who actually mattered to him.

You put the earbud he’d pulled from you a few moments ago back in your ear, signaling to him that the conversation was over and that you hoped not to see him again for the next year. Or ever, if you're being honest. You wanted to go back to studying in peace. To not think about the brazen guy in front of you. The one so emotionally entangled with the boy you loved that sometimes you felt there was no way to win. No way to beat Patrick Zweig. Because he came gift-wrapped in a package deal with Art. And once, you tried so hard to make him like you. You tried to fit into their conversations, laugh at the crude jokes, nod when Art nodded. Just so Patrick would stop looking at you with disdain, stop looking at you like you were a stray cat too wet to save. Like one that had rabies. Like one that needed to be put down.

He just kept staring at you, eating his apple as if rules didn’t apply to him. As if he were above what was allowed and what wasn’t. Making you hate him a little more, but admire him just as much because you would never have the guts to act like the world belonged to you. You thought it had something to do with the amount of money he grew up with. Art once told you Patrick had two pools (in one of his houses). Who needs more than one pool in a house anyway? But that was all you needed to know about him—he was privileged enough to believe he had the right to treat people like they were beneath him. And you’d never admit it, but you didn’t want to be beneath him. You didn’t want to lose to Patrick Zweig. You didn’t want to lose when you knew the prize was having Art. . . . He finds out that Tashi got injured completely by accident. He leaves you alone in the library because you bore him. You don’t let him sink his claws into you, something he realizes he liked doing only when he's around you. So, he goes out to smoke a cigarette, what else is there for him to do when he’s stuck here while Tashi plays and Art makes eyes at her from the crowd? What else does he have to do when you're sitting in front of a book and ignoring his existence and the nasty words? And then someone said something about seeing Tashi's knee fly through the air, and Patrick’s cigarette fell out of his mouth.

He asked three different people where the athletes' clinic was. Two ignored him, and one gave him wrong directions. He found the clinic on his own, trying to make sense of the campus signage. He felt like it was taking him forever. In hindsight, maybe it was better that it took him longer. Because Tashi looked devastated, Art looked lost, and both of them screamed at him. Art’s scream hurt more. He wouldn’t admit it, but he felt Art’s scream all over his body. It made him shiver.

And that’s how he lost Art Donaldson forever. Checkmate by Tashi Duncan. He didn’t expect that. He thought only you could take his place in Art’s life. Never Tashi. He thought you were the only one Art would lose control for. Maybe he looked at everything wrong. What a terrifying thought, to realize you spent years trying to beat someone without noticing the other players. Absolute blindness. He felt lost. Stuck in your disgusting university. Stuck in the loop that his life dragged him into. No matter how much he tried to think about it in the last half hour, he couldn’t find a way out. He couldn’t see a world where he and Art could be friends again.

‘I've got your bag, you forgot it in the library,’ his phone beeped with a message from you. Another message with your room number. He nodded to himself, even though no one could see. He wiped away some of the tears that had fallen from him, hoping no one would see that either.

He knocked on your door loudly, not caring about the other students living in the hallway. You opened quickly, intending to say everything you think about him, but in the hour and a half he’d been gone from your sight, something in Patrick’s gaze had changed. You’d never seen him like this, and it made you lean against the doorframe, mouth half open. You know for sure that he cried, the trail of tears was obvious. You know for sure that he was confused, his gaze zigzagging. The famous smirk he dedicates to you at every moment wasn’t there.

"Who died?" you asked quietly, because you couldn’t find any other reason for what you were seeing in front of you. He just passed through you, as if your room was his own. As if he had an invitation. As if you had to let him in. "Can I sleep here tonight?" he asked. His leg was shaking. He looked the worst you’ve ever seen him. "What happened to Tashi's room-" "Please (Y/N)," he used your actual name, "I’ll be out of your hair by morning. You won’t even feel like I was here, there are no more buses, and my car’s at the tournament site," he explained incoherently but clearly enough for you to nod. For you to understand that something terrible had happened. Bad enough that he couldn’t sleep at Tashi’s. Bad enough that he couldn’t sleep at Art’s. The thought of it made you cringe because the only thing that could have happened, the only thing that could have caused Patrick to fold in front of you like this-

"Am I overthinking this?" you asked after what felt like an eternity. When you were lying on the bed in the dark, and Patrick was lying on a makeshift pile of sheets and pillows on the floor next to you. You hoped he’d tell you that you didn’t need to think about it too much. That he’d tell you the same thing he said to you in the library. "Not this time," he said almost in a whisper, "I’m sorry," he added. Neither of you knew what he was apologizing for; For how he acted all these years or was he apologizing on behalf of Art? On behalf of the person who until just a few hours ago was his best friend. Patrick thinks an apology won’t be enough for either of you. He tries to sleep. When he leaves, he doesn’t write you a note. But there’s a flash of understanding when he looks at you before he walks out; Art was right, there’s something sweet about you. Patrick will never admit it. But what reason would he have to admit it now? Art is no longer part of his life, and he’s pretty sure Art won’t be part of yours just as quickly. You and Patrick both lost him, you just don’t know it yet. He almost feels sorry about how out of the loop you are. And what connection do you and Patrick have without Art? He thinks he’ll miss you. He saw you move slightly, one leg sticking out from under the blanket. He’s sure he’ll miss you. What a humbling thought. . . . You haven't seen Art for a week. And that's okay. Because he doesn't owe you anything. He made sure to remind you at every opportunity that he doesn't owe you anything. Not with words. Never with words. With actions. By acting like he doesn't see you, even though you both know he does. He never sat with you in the cafeteria. He never introduced you to his friends from the tennis team. He never introduced you to Tashi. He drew a very clear line about who you are to him, and you decided years ago that it's okay. That it's enough for you. That Art is yours in the summer. That Art is yours at night. That Art is yours when he wants to be yours.

He doesn't want to be anymore. You can see it in him because on the rare occasions you do see him in the cafeteria, he looks away the second your eyes accidentally meet his. On the rare occasions you do see him this week, his arm is half-wrapped around some girl you don't know. He's trying to tell you something without saying it out loud. Hurt you without really hurting you. He's trying to remind you that he doesn't owe you anything.

You'll never tell him it hurts. You'll never tell him that when you were ten, your mom, half-drunk, told you that to be loved, you'd have to sacrifice a lot. You don't know why you remember that, but you do. And since then, all you've done is sacrifice and sacrifice and sacrifice until sometimes there's nothing left to give. And now is one of those times when there's nothing left to give. You look at him from across the room, and he's a stranger to you, and you're a stranger to him.

You expected him to say something when it happened. You expected a hug, and if he were sensitive enough, a kiss. You expected life to flip upside down and for the sun to stop rising. But life went on, and your sacrifices stayed behind. Along with secrets and hugs and caresses and tears and memories. So many memories. All of it left behind. You can handle heartbreak. Everyone can. You won't be the first to sacrifice and not be heard by God. You won't be the first to starve yourself, and you won't be the first to wait for a phone call that never came. You won't be the first to cry and cry and cry.

After two weeks, you stopped waiting for a message. You stopped expecting a 'hello' in the hallway. You stopped hoping that Art Donaldson would knock on your door in the middle of the night. After two weeks, you looked at him one last time with pleading eyes. With an almost tortured look. After two weeks, you decided you wouldn't sacrifice anything more for Art Donaldson.

After two weeks, you ordered pizza and ate the whole box. He doesn't love you. He doesn't owe you anything. It's okay. You're okay. If not now, then soon you will be. . . . Art spent all his free time helping Tashi recover. He missed Patrick the way you'd miss a vital organ that had to be removed in an emergency surgery. He missed Patrick's messages from the tour. He missed his stories. He missed hearing him talk about a show Art had never watched and never planned to watch. He missed Patrick, but he had Tashi. He missed Patrick, but it was necessary, and one day he wouldn’t miss Patrick anymore, and he’d still have Tashi.

It’s different with you. He doesn’t just miss you—he’s hollow without you. He doesn’t know who he is without your admiring gaze. Without your nose brushing his in the middle of the night. He doesn’t know who he is without you ever since he learned how your skin feels under his touch. And he thought he’d be brave enough to walk into your room and just tell you that he can’t keep doing what the two of you have been doing your whole lives. He can’t keep playing this game. Because it’s not fair. Because he wants to be somewhere else. Because you weigh him down.

He knew he’d be in trouble if things got too serious with you, so he followed all the rules. He never introduced you to his friends. He never took you on a date. He never called you his girlfriend. He did everything right, and he’s still in trouble. That frustrates him more than anything.

He’s noticed that you don’t seek his gaze anymore. That you don’t try to catch his attention. That you’ve stopped sending him messages. He’s noticed that you understood the painfully obvious hint of “no,” and he hated himself for it. He showered that day for almost an hour. Scrubbed himself until his skin was red. As if trying to wash you off his body. As if trying to cleanse the filth he carries in his soul. As if trying to convince himself he’s not a bad person.

He found comfort in the fact that summer was almost here. That it wouldn’t be up to him. That there would be family dinners. That your parents would invite him, and his parents would invite you. That someone would force you both to be in the same room. He found comfort in knowing he wouldn’t have a choice. He didn’t want a choice. He wanted to see how you were handling it. He always sees you immersed in a book. Immersed in a conversation with someone he doesn’t know. Immersed. So immersed. Once, he thought that look -that ability to see into someone’s soul- was reserved only for him. How presumptuous of him. How foolish. How fucking selfish. . . . Patrick sent you a picture of a pigeon that wouldn’t leave him alone while he was eating pita on a bench in some park. He didn’t know why he did it. You’re not friends. You were never friends. But he saw that ridiculous pigeon and wondered if there was something about it that might remind you of him. He wondered if you and Art were still you and Art. He wondered and wondered until he sent the picture. Maybe you wouldn’t reply, but ignoring something wasn’t your style. You’re too good to ignore someone. You don’t have any malice in you. He doesn’t know when he started thinking you didn’t have any malice, because up until two months ago, he thought you were a scheming witch.

'You don’t know how to take pictures.' -(Y/N)-

'Look at you bothering me while I'm eating, little dove' -P- He smiled as he typed.

'Are you bored?' -(Y/N)-

'Maybe I miss you like you clearly miss me' -P- He didn’t know why he wrote that. He didn’t know what he wanted from you, if he was being honest with himself. But he wanted something. He wanted someone. Everyone deserves someone, and Patrick deserves someone too.

'You’re full of shit' -(Y/N)- He could imagine you rolling your eyes as you typed that. He knows you don’t talk like that. He thinks it’s something reserved just for him.

He decided to call because typing with food in his hand was too much effort. You answered quickly, out of breath. “Are you in the middle of sex?” he asked, unable to stop himself. “Why do you always have to say the grossest thing possible?” you shot back. He was glad you couldn’t see him because if you could, you’d hold the grin on his face against him. “What’s gross about sex, little dove? It’s natural-” “Why did you call?” you cut him off, not giving him any more points. “Just wanted to ask how you’re doing.” His voice sounded smaller. Embarrassed. You’re not friends. You never were. That’s not the nature of your relationship. There’s nothing he loves about you.

“I’m fine. Busy with school.” He could imagine you shrugging. “You’re going home soon, right? Summer break.” He knew what that used to mean for you and Art. He didn’t know what it meant now. He was fishing for answers, trying to figure out where things stood between you two. He wanted to know if Art had cut you out of his life with the brutality of a killer or if he was still keeping you wrapped in a ribbon, belonging only to him. He thought the former sounded more like Art.

“I’m probably staying at Stanford, for obvious reasons.” He could hear your voice, quiet as though you didn’t want to admit it. “It’s not fair,” Patrick said. “You’re supposed to enjoy your summer.” He added, growing frustrated with how inconsiderate Art was, with the monopoly Art held over your shared neighborhood. Bull-fucking-shit; “I’ve got two weeks off, and my parents are abroad. You could come to my lake house if you want a change of scenery,” he said, spitting the words out quickly before he could regret the invitation. Art was the only one who’d ever been invited there.

“That’s nice of you.” You said. He could hear the surprise you tried to hide in your voice. “I mean it,” he said, much more determined now. “It’ll be fun. My parents have the most impressive alcohol collection you’ll ever see.” He didn’t know what he was doing or which part of his brain was speaking for him right now. “I’ll think about it,” you said, wrapping up the call with a few more sentences. It felt like a win. And more than anything, Patrick needed a win. . . . "Is it true?" you heard Art's voice before you lifted your head from the book you were reading. "Hey, Art," you said with the most genuine smile you could muster, ignoring your racing heartbeat that only quickened. The truth was, you hadn’t seen him this close to you in two months. "You’re not going home for the break?" He sat down across from you without an invitation. "Nope," you said, as if it were obvious. As if that had been your plan all along. As if three months ago, you hadn’t whispered to each other in the dead of night all the things you’d do over the summer. As if you’d never loved him.

"You weren’t planning to tell me?" he asked, his gaze never leaving you. All you could do was raise an eyebrow because, honestly, where did he get the audacity? Where did he get the nerve to sit down across from you and make demands? Where did he get the idea that he owed you nothing, but you owed him everything? It’s your fault. You know it’s your fault. You taught him that you’d give every part of yourself for just a sliver of attention. But you don’t need that from him anymore. He’s a stranger. A stranger whose favorite scent you know. A stranger you’ve seen cry at Titanic. A stranger whose taste still lingers on the tip of your tongue. A stranger you know too well.

"No," you answered honestly. Because frankly, what else is there to say to him? "Are you serious? Why aren’t you going home?" he demanded answers. Demanded and demanded and demanded, after you gave and gave and gave. It’s your fault. Your mother’s fault and her foolish advice. You spoon-fed him love. "Because I have other plans. I’m sorry, am I missing something here, Art? We haven’t talked in two months, and I don’t understand what the issue is now." You didn’t want to be rude. Not to Art. Not to anyone. Sometimes to Patrick, but only because he was the most vulgar person you’d ever met. But Art was gentle and sensitive and beautiful, and harsh words had no place in your conversations with him.

"What plans?" he ignored your jab, but you could see him swallow hard, his eyebrows knitting together as if you’d sent him to work in a coal mine all summer. "I’m going to a friend’s," you found yourself shrugging. "Who? Someone I know?" he asked. "No," you felt guilty for the lie, "Why is this your business, Art?" you tried to make him leave or at least give you an answer. "We had plans too," he said quietly, as if revealing one last secret to you.

"I don’t remember." His expression changed in seconds. It was the look you’d only seen when he played tennis or tried to fend someone off you at one of the parties he told you to come to. Ice. He stood up and walked away within moments. Maybe this is the closure you two needed. Maybe it’s for the best. . . . Until the very last moment, Patrick didn’t believe you’d come. He waited for your bus by the side of the road, and when you got off, dressed in a floral summer dress and an oversized hat, signaling to the driver that you had a suitcase in the luggage compartment, Patrick stood frozen in place, his mouth agape. Because if someone had told him six months ago that he’d want to spend his free time in the summer with you, he would have laughed in their face. If someone had told him you’d show up in this remote place, in that ridiculous outfit, he probably would have snorted.

"Little dove, I was sure you’d chicken out," he said. Back when you talked about it, he treated it like a challenge. He spoke about your arrival at the lake house like it was a mission on a reality show. Impossible to pull off, with so much to lose. "I told you I’d come." You shrugged and smiled a smile he’d once seen you give to Art. Patrick had never received a smile from you, at least not a friendly one. Always a fake one. The kind he wanted to wipe off your face. "Are you going to help me with my suitcase, or are you going to keep standing there like a statue?" you asked with a chuckle. Patrick thought he was ready to sell the Porsche he’d come in, just to hear you chuckle again.

"This car is ridiculous," you said as you sat down beside him and raised your hands for emphasis. The convertible top was too much for you. Patrick had chosen this car on purpose. He wanted you to have the full Zweig family summer experience. He wanted you to feel what it was like to be in his inner circle. For a fleeting moment, he thought maybe he could buy your friendship. He didn’t know why he wanted it so badly. He went to sleep with your messages and woke up to them. Neither of you had any other friends, not real ones at least. It would’ve been sad if it didn’t make him so happy. He was such a loser. But it didn’t seem like you cared, and maybe the Porsche would grow on you by the end of these two weeks.

He showed you the rooms and the massive windows that let an unreasonable amount of light into the "cabin," which was supposed to be modest but was larger than most of the houses in your and Art’s neighborhood. Patrick knew that. He studied your reaction to everything he showed you. Watched as you stared at the lake right outside the cabin. Sat on the sofa in the living room for a moment. Placed your belongings in the guest room.

"We need to go shopping," you announced after opening the fridge to find it completely empty. "We don’t have to. You don’t eat anything anyway," he blurted out, and he saw you pale. "What are you talking about?" you mumbled, looking everywhere but at him. "Nothing, I’ve just never seen you eat." He tried to say it casually, but the truth was, it had always preoccupied him. Every time he visited Art in the summer and found himself at gatherings with you, you’d take food onto your plate but never actually put it in your mouth. He couldn’t understand how it didn’t bother Art. He couldn’t understand how Art just ignored it. As if it were completely normal behavior to sit with someone you called your best friend and not eat.

"I eat." Your entire face was scrunched up, the way he’d learned it does when you overthink. When you’re trying to get the most out of a situation you’ve found yourself in. When you’re trying to be nice to Patrick but don’t want to because he doesn’t deserve it. "Whatever, little dove. Let’s go shopping. I’ll show you the main street. There are some cool spots there," he concluded the conversation because he didn’t want to argue. And honestly, it wasn’t his place to comment on your habits. So he decided to let it go.

The main street of the small village you were in was almost empty. It could have been suspicious if Patrick hadn’t been here dozens, if not hundreds, of times since he was born. This was one of his dad’s favorite vacation homes. After an hour of wandering between stores, they found themselves sitting across from each other at a diner. Patrick watched as you ate fish and chips in front of him like your life depended on it. Like you had something to prove. He just rolled his eyes, shoved three fries into his mouth at once, leaned back, and chuckled.

Everything was peaceful. Patrick was sure it would be much weirder, at least at first. But no. You fit into his summer as if you’d always belonged there. From conversations with the elderly neighbors at the cabin next door to the meals you cooked together- it was domestic. Patrick was afraid to talk about how different this was from anything he’d ever done with a girl. He was afraid to mention that you were sleeping in the room that used to be only Art's. He was afraid to admit that he thought you were pretty in a way he hadn't thought before.

He thinks you’re most beautiful in the morning, before you’ve had your coffee. If he’s lucky and goes for a morning run, even before you’ve brushed your teeth. He’s discovered you’re funny. That you can deliver the funniest line with the perfect timing. He thinks it’s because you read a lot. Because you’re smart. Because you know things. He loves that you come to watch him train, even though you’re busy with your own things and only steal occasional glances his way. He thinks he could replace Art in your life. He thinks you think so too.

But deep down, you both know nothing could ever replace Art. And one of the times you’re sitting across from him at the diner, he takes a picture of you sipping a milkshake while smiling and uploads it to Facebook. Because Facebook is the new 'it' thing, and everyone has it. And if Patrick’s lucky, you’ll make it your profile picture. Then he can look at it and remember that he made you laugh, that he made you happy, and for two weeks, he beat Art Donaldson at something. And it felt sweet. So sweet.

The night before you plan to go back to university, you and Patrick get drunk on his dad’s fancy tequila. He’d never seen you drunk before, so like many things, this was new. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, and you were wearing shorts that were far too short because August’s heat was unbearable. And the more both of you drank, the fuller your lips seemed to him, the rosier your cheeks, the larger your chest.

He just wanted to touch something. To feel something.

When one thing led to another and you were straddling him, your lips on his, he let out a deep bassy groan he never thought he could produce. Patrick had been with girls before- God knows he’d been with enough girls not to lose his cool over someone agreeing to kiss him. But something about how delicate you were and how much he had hated you a few months ago, how much he’d wanted to erase every trace of you, made him so hard he found himself grinding against you like some kind of desperate dog. He fucked you on the couch in the living room, and though the couch was comfortable, he wasn’t proud of it. He thinks he should’ve restrained himself, taken you to a bed. He thinks you deserve more than him being lazy, drunk, and not at his best. But if there’s one thing Patrick Zweig is terrible at, it’s delaying gratification. And he wanted you so badly. You didn’t seem to mind the location, at least not outwardly.

His lips were everywhere, as if he was trying to swallow you whole in one go. The sounds coming out of you were pornographic. Every so often, the thought crossed his mind that Art was the only other guy who had ever heard you like this, seen you like this- so needy, so vulnerable. It made his cock twitch even harder than it already was.

When he touched you, you were so wet that he told you how dirty you were for him. He talked to you like he still hated you. Like it was all punishment. Like he was about to get up, point at you, and laugh at how pathetic you were. But you couldn’t think about that now. You didn’t have the bandwidth. Not when his hands were teasing your nipple. Not when his lips were marking your neck. Not when he entered you in one hard thrust, making you almost cry out.

At some point, your heels found their way to his shoulders. He looked at your face with the little focus he could muster, and it was a sight he needed to preserve. To remember until the day he died. And he pushed deeper with that thought, drawing sounds out of both of you that neither of you knew you could make. In the end, he felt you clench around him, making him release everything that had built up in his balls with one long groan.

He just lay over you for a few minutes, still wearing the condom. With the sweat, the tears, the marks- you looked so utterly fucked. And it was because of him. He hadn’t felt this proud in a long time.

“So this is what it feels like,” he heard you mumble. “What feels like?” he asked, finding himself playing with your soft hair. “To have an orgasm.”

He hadn’t expected that, so he shifted slightly to look at your face. Your eyes were still glassy. You weren’t focused. If you were, you probably wouldn’t have said that. “What did you say?” he asked, wanting you to repeat it. “I’ve never come before. I thought I was broken,” you chuckled like it was a joke. But Patrick’s heart pounded harder than he expected. He knew for certain that you and Art had slept together before. That wasn’t a secret. He knew you and Art had done things that weren’t just sex even earlier. “You and Art-” He was confused. “I’m not proud of it,” you sighed quietly. “I faked it so he wouldn’t feel bad. I read in a magazine what to do to make it seem real,” you explained quickly, as if saying it faster would make it less scandalous. “You don’t have to fake orgasms to make someone feel good, Little Dove,” he sighed. “You’re the one who's supposed to feel good. That’s the whole point of sex,” he declared, explaining it to you like reciting a rule to a confused puppy.

Patrick needed a win, and this—this was the biggest victory of all times. He had beaten Art Donaldson in every damn set, and it felt so fucking sweet.

It’s been such a long time since I’ve written anything, so this came out super weird and unclear. I hope you like it tho! Please DM me and let me know what you think. That’s it, byeeeeee

[lemonlover1110]

𝐅𝐀𝐂𝐄𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄

Toji Fushiguro

Pairing: Toji Fushiguro x babysitter!f!Reader

Summary: After not hearing from Toji for some time, he requests your services again. Too bad you now have a boyfriend...

Warnings: MDNI, babysitter!Reader, Smut, Cheating, Vaginal Fingering, Oral Sex (f. Receiving), Age Gap (Reader in 20s, Toji in 30s), Reader's Parents and Toji are friends, Cute baby Megumi is adorable, Reader literally cheats while her boyfriend is on FaceTime

10k Event Masterlist

Discord +18 - Twitter - Ko-Fi

*practically a continuation of babysitting service but you don't have to read the first part to read this gsohgsoh

After babysitting for your parents’ friend, Toji, you leave for college again. You forget about your hookup just as fast as it happened, since you don’t really see Toji. You’re barely in town, and when you are, you don’t see him. He doesn’t call for your services again, which disappoints you momentarily, until you meet someone new. 

This man isn’t just a hookup though. You spend almost every possible minute with each other and you go on dates. You’re happy with him, you swear he’s the man that you’ll marry. But sometimes you have to spend time away from each other so you don’t get sick of each other. 

So once a month you go back home alone for the weekend since your university isn’t too far away. You usually lounge around in your home and be absolutely lazy. It’s a well earned break after studying so much– But this weekend your parents tell you that someone needs you to babysit. You pray that it’s some new neighbors or a friend that you’ve never met before since you doubt that you can handle seeing Toji again. 

He creeps up in your mind sometimes, especially when you’re aroused. You hate how he comes into your mind when you’re having sex with your boyfriend. That’s the only time Toji comes into your mind. His touch still lingers on your skin even after so long. You’re convinced that Toji is just a hookup that you’ll never be able to forget, and you’ll compare every guy that you come across with him.

You’re disappointed when they mention Toji, and they can see the disappointment on your face, making them question why. Is Megumi a misbehaved kid or something? They’re taken back when you tell them quite the opposite, Megumi is great. You assure them that you’re fine, and you’re excited to take care of Megumi again.

When you get to his home, he’s ready to go on a date. He trusts you enough to know what to do since this isn’t your first time taking care of Megumi; maybe you feel a twinge of jealousy, and you feel unappreciated when the man doesn’t bother to look you up and down after you put on a special outfit simply for his admiration. 

But you move on past it. You don’t spend more than five minutes with him before he’s gone, leaving you alone with Megumi. You put on a jacket to hide the rather revealing outfit choice for the night, and you focus your attention on the boy who wants to play some board games with you.

“Daddy sucks. He never wants to play.” Megumi shares when you set up the game. Megumi has no one else in the house, and the boy can’t teach the dogs how to play a board game. It’s not as fun since there’s only two of you, and he barely comprehends the game, but you enjoy yourself regardless. 

You’re focused on the game so much that you don’t hear the front door open, and you’re startled when you catch a glimpse of Toji. You put your hand over your heart that beats at a rapid pace. You can’t help but ask, “Why are you here so early?”

“I forgot something.” Toji answers, and he’s about to head upstairs but his feet stop. He has the urge to go to the table and join you two, which is what he ends up doing. It’s sweet, and it brings a smile to your lips. Luckily, you’re not too into the game so he’s able to join without a problem.

His phone begins to ring, but he ignores it. He has bigger matters to attend to, like showing you two how he’s much better at the game. You have a feeling that it’s his date, and you feel bad for her for a moment. It doesn’t take too long for you to forget about her and focus on Toji and Megumi.

“Let’s order some food. What do you two want?” Toji offers, and Megumi shouts out what he wants for dinner, which makes you agree since you have no preference for anything at the moment. You continue playing until the food gets there.

You try to leave after eating since your service is clearly no longer needed, but Megumi asks you to watch a movie and you can’t refuse. His adorable little face doesn’t let you, so you stay to watch the movie until he falls asleep. Toji takes him to his room, and you pause the movie.

You doubt he wants you to stay considering the only reason you were here was to take care of Megumi– But he would’ve asked you to leave the moment he decided he wanted to play with his son. You grab your phone from your purse and look through it while you wait for Toji to come back. Toji holds a stack of cash when he walks back to the couch and he asks, “How much for tonight?” 

“Hmm… I guess tonight is free since you did stay. It was easy.” You answer as you stand up from the couch. You sweetly smile at him, and you begin to walk towards the door. When you walk past him, his hand goes to your arm which forces you to stop. Your sweet smile turns to a smirk, and you try to disguise it.

“You’re not done here.” He says, and you try to act innocent.

“How so, Mr. Fushiguro? Megumi is asleep.” You respond. You bite down your lip as you try to read the look on his face. His hand goes to the zipper of the jacket that is far too big for you, and he pulls it down to show your rather revealing outfit.

“You know damn well.” He finally acknowledges the outfit that you put on for him, and you purse your lips together. It was only for teasing purposes, that’s what you remember. It’s the first time that you’re sad because you have a boyfriend, one that you adore more than anyone.

“I have a boyfriend, Mr. Fushiguro. If I’m right, what you’re implying is inappropriate.” You share, and you watch as the man furrows his eyebrows. A boyfriend has never stopped Toji before, and this won’t be a first. 

“We can just make out a bit, nothing crazy.” Toji responds, and you tilt your head to the side. Toji raises his brow, “What? It’s just some kissing, does he think that’s cheating? Or would he be scared that I can do it better than him?”

You bite your tongue as you look Toji up and down. It is cheating. But maybe you’ll listen to him because your body begins to remember his every touch and you’re turning into putty at the mere thought of him touching you again. But you fight back the obscene thoughts that run through your head. 

“It’s wrong, and it’d break his heart.” You say. A sly smirk comes to his lips.

“It wouldn’t break his heart if you don’t tell. How is he going to know? I’m not going to tell.” Toji tells you, taking two steps toward you before he looks down at you. He licks his lips before speaking lowly, “Just some kissing between two friends, a secret within us.”

“Are we friends though?” You ask, and he nods in response. His hands go down to your waist, and you know that with him it won’t stop just with kissing. He wouldn’t want to just kiss. “Can you stop at kissing?”

“Yeah.” He responds, and his lips go down to meet yours. You’re hesitant before kissing him back, but you give in. Your tongue enters his mouth and presses against his. Toji picks you up as the kiss deepens, and he carries you to the couch. He lays down on the couch and you lay on top of him, knee on either side of him. He doesn’t stop at mere kissing as his hands roam through your body, his hands squeezing your tits before they go under your skirt. He doesn’t really touch your pussy, just playing with the waistband of your panties. 

You both hear a phone ring, but you ignore it as his tongue wanders around your mouth. The sound fades away, and Toji’s fingers begin to rub your clothed cunt. The last thought in your mind is your boyfriend, you’re about to let this happen again without a single problem.

The second time the phone rings, it irks Toji. It’s not his phone since he turned it off. He pulls away and orders, “Check who it is. They’re annoying.”

You do as he says, grabbing your phone and checking who’s calling. Guilt rushes through your body as you see the incoming facetime call from your boyfriend. You get completely off Toji and go to the armchair that’s in the living room, fixing yourself up before answering the call.

“Hey babe…” You try to be cheerful, putting a fake smile on your face. Toji clicks his tongue, and you pray that he doesn’t make his presence known. You watch through your peripheral vision as he gets off the couch and gets in front of you on his knees. “Sorry for not answering, I fell asleep. Waiting for this kid’s dad to get home.”

Toji smiles as your boyfriend assures you that it’s fine. Toji spreads your legs, pushing your panties to the side. You’re so close to hanging up the phone and asking Toji what the hell he’s doing since this is a bit more than just kissing– But he begins to kiss your cunt, and you never really specified. You’re not complaining.

His tongue licks up your folds, and you bite down on your lip for a moment. You try to continue having a normal conversation with your boyfriend, telling him about your weekend so far. Toji’s tongue begins to flick your clit.

Two of Toji’s fingers run through your folds, getting them wet with your slick before he pushes them in. His fingers are so thick and long, it causes a soft moan to leave your lips, and your boyfriend asks, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah…” You respond. You look down at Toji for a moment, and you see his mischievousness reflect in his eyes. He’s enjoying this. He loves hearing your boyfriend as he tastes you on his tongue. “How are you doing though? T-Tell me about your day.”

Toji’s mouth detaches, saliva connecting his tongue to your cunt. His thumb takes the place of his tongue. You have to bite down your lip to not moan as he makes you feel so good. Toji smirks before commenting, “You taste so good.”

“What was that?” Your boyfriend asks, and you could kill Toji. 

“What was what?” You act confused, and you play it well enough for him to drop it. Toji tries not to chuckle as his mouth attaches to your clit again. Your hand goes to his hair and you push his head.

Toji makes it his mission to moan against your cunt, wanting your boyfriend to hear. You can’t risk it anymore, you have to smile, and you tell your boyfriend, “I have to go, babe. Megumi woke up.”

You hang up the phone before he can say anything and toss it to the side. You glare at Toji’s hair while his mouth works wonders, and his fingers hit every right spot in your cunt, “You’re a piece of shit.”

He can’t say anything, he can only hum on your cunt. He knows he’s a jerk, but that doesn’t stop you from moaning as he eats you out. You throw your head back as you feel pressure build up in your lower abdomen. 

“Fuck– Toji.” You finally moan his name, and for once in his life he feels jealous that he doesn’t get to hear that every night. Your boyfriend lucked out– Even when you’re here cheating on him. Sure, Toji initiated it physically but you chose your outfit for a fucking reason. 

“Shit, shit, shit! I’m gonna come.” You announce, your hand gripping the armchair. You see white as you reach your climax, and Toji moves his fingers in and out of you a couple of times before taking them out. His tongue keeps flicking your clit since he just can’t get enough of your taste on his tongue. 

You have to pull him away from your overly sensitive clit, and Toji swears he could die a happy man. You come off your high and you frown, warning him,

“If you caused too much trouble, you’re going to be sorry.”

Toji has never wanted to be sorry in his life before, except now. You hate the smug look on his face, and you click your tongue, “You’re a fucking jerk.”

[thejakeformerlyknownasprince]

So I'm putting together an In Defence of Cassie PowerPoint for a PowerPoint night with friends. Do you have any arguments for or against her? I trust your opinion and am curious.

Let's see.

"She's too powerful, too unique, too far-seeing, and not good enough for Jake! What a Mary Sue!"

Counterpoint: May I introduce you to the reigning champion fan favorite, Sad White Boy Tobias?

Only nothlit ever to regain the ability to morph

Only known human-andalite hybrid ever to exist

Regarded as savior by entire hork-bajir species

Entire existence is a time paradox the war hinges upon

Pulls the canonically "most beautiful girl in our grade", who turns down 6 or 7 other offers in favor of Bird Boy

Correctly predicted planetary ecology 65 million years in advance

Believed to be immune to 2-hour limit

In conclusion: y'all wouldn't be crying "Mary Sue" if Cassie was a sad white boy, and I can prove it.

"She's too weak and hand-wringing, and she never helps the war effort!"

Counterpoint: First of all, the fact that the same people say this in the same breath as "she's too powerful" is... telling. Secondly:

She saved the entire team's lives in #24, in #29, in #44, and in MM1, among others.

Specifically calling out #44 — that ending shows she is willing and able to be ruthless when her friends are in need. She doesn't like slaughtering human-controllers, but if the alternative is everyone she loves dying, then she'll fucking well do it.

Much like Jake (see: Sad White Boy), she's more willing to risk herself than her friends, hence the end of MM1

Her medical knowledge saves Marco from rabies, Ax from brain!appendicitis, and Tobias from bird flu.

Her survivalist knowledge saves everyone in #25 (the Arctic), MM2 (Cretaceous Era), #11 (rainforest), and #14 (desert).

In conclusion: Cassie's only idealistic-looking by the standards of this extremely morally gray team.

"She's so unfair to Jake!"

Counterpoint: Jake? The Jake who refused to speak with her for weeks? Jake who proposes marriage while they're still broken up? Jake who announces he'll never trust Cassie again because she [checks notes] saved his brother's life? That Jake?

Also:

She gives him tons of emotional support in #16, #21, #47, and other times he's feeling low.

They have a healthy argument where they air differences and come to an understanding in #9.

Did I mention he doesn't just dump her but ghosts her in the middle of the war's endgame?

They're teenagers. Their relationship isn't perfect, but it is built on open communication and mutual respect which is more than Rachel and Tobias can say

She's fighting a war, and PTSD for that matter. No, she doesn't have infinite emotional bandwidth.

In conclusion: Their relationship is fine, their breakup is mutual, and her behavior only looks bad if, once again, you're holding Cassie to a different standard than you are Jake.

"She shouldn't have trusted Aftran!"

Counterpoint: friendly reminder that the alternative was killing a 6-year-old for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. If that's what you think Cassie should've done, that tells us more about you than about her.

"She spends too much time moralizing!"

Counterpoint: this is a book series about war, not a friggin' video game. If you want moral pornography, go play Call of Duty. If you want sci fi realism, then you're going to have to accept that a majority of humans prefer not to kill their fellow humans if at all possible.

"She's a ripoff of [insert character here]!"

Counterpoint: literally every single one of these says more about the commenter than about the source work. "Every dystopia is set in the U.S." is the kind of thing only people who only read books by American authors would think. "All epic fantasy is Eurocentric" => tell me you only read books by white people without telling me. I'm glad you think Cassie is too similar to Willow Rosenberg, but there are at least 6 other stories in the known world, and I hear some of them even feature sweet/dorky/caring characters who are secretly ultra-powerful.

In conclusion: You don't have to like Cassie as a (fictional) person, but 85% of criticisms directed at her are bad-faith attacks on one of the 1990s' only fat Black female gnc ultra-powerful superheroes.

[peachesofteal]

Through Me (The Flood) - secret baby fic Simon Riley/female reader

"Simon?"

Your voice wavers, rich with uncertainty, and he's around the corner into the kitchen before you can blink. "What is it?"

"I... do we still have the large blue mixing bowls?" Orion is between your legs, arms curled around each knee. He's been doing this since you got home, positioning himself so he's almost always touching you, a tether desperate to remain unbroken.

His nightmares are back, too. And yours are worse. Only Nix sleeps soundly, Simon hardly sleeps at all.

"I wanted to make muffins." He finds them in the top cabinet, and then shifts his attention to his boy who clings to you.

"Want to go outside for a bit Ry? Let mama make you some muffins for later?" Orion shakes his head, fingers tightening on your sweatpants. You give Simon a pained expression, and he crouches to be eye level with his son, knees cracking. "She'll be right here when you're done, little man, and I'm here, remember? We have to share." Share. It's the only concept he's managed to come up with that makes sense after Orion tearfully confessed he has to be able to see his mum in order to 'save' her.

So now they share the responsibility. Two men of the house. Two of Mama's protectors.

Simon doesn't know what else to do. He put him in therapy months ago, but his son is slow to trust now, fear and danger lurking around every corner in his mind.

"I'll push you on the swing. Want to get your jacket?" You pet his head soothingly.

"It's okay Ry. Go play for a little bit and when you're done you can have a muffin, how's that sound?" He shrugs, but finally unglues himself and toddles to the door to get his coat on.

Simon takes the opportunity to pull you into his chest. "She's due to get up soon," he murmurs, tracing your spine, "just yell and I'll-"

"I can- I'll get her."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah... I want to." You've been locked in a delicate dance with the baby. A slow, unsteady, hesitant dance. Sometimes, you hold her, you rock her, you change her. Sometimes, she's crying in her crib, and you're standing in the doorway of her room, frozen, eyes wide and wet. He catches you studying your body in the mirror when you think he's not looking, hand pressed to your belly, thumb stroking your scar.

"I can come back in." He presses a slow kiss to your forehead.

"It's okay. If I need you, I'll let you know."

You're tired by the time evening rolls around, and once the kids are down, he settles you beneath the covers beside him, enjoying the heat of your body, the way you fit to him. It doesn't take much to exhaust you, but the doctors assure it's normal, you're recovering well, you'll be okay.

It's a funny thing, to be told you'll be well, that you'll recover. He remembers it, how the words were so confusing when a war was raging in his mind, when he was being torn to pieces over and over again every time he closed his eyes.

"Do you think she knows who I am?" He does. The hospital encouraged as much skin to skin as possible, going as far as letting Nix live in your room for weeks just so she could sleep on your chest, and it soothed her like nothing else.

Those things don't matter. What matters is the reality of the situation, your losses. The loss of her first cry, her breath on this earth. The loss of watching her roll over for the first time, her first smile, her first giggle. All of these moments have been stolen from you, and there's no way to give them back, no matter how hard he tries.

"Yeah, mama. I think she knows." You lapse into silence, breaths slowing, limbs relaxing, and he thinks you might be asleep when you whisper into his skin.

"Does it ever go away?"

"No." He croaks. He can't lie, not to you. "No, it doesn't, but it does change. Eventually, it's not a wound, it's a layer. The pain becomes something else, but it never goes away." You sniffle, but don't respond.

It's the last thing he says to you before you fall asleep.

He wakes instinctively to an empty bed. Cold sweat immediately breaks out across his skin, stomach churning in a storm of panic.

Lightning rarely strikes twice, but that doesn't mean it couldn't. 

But before he can fully start calculating and preparing a plan, he hears your voice down the hall.

You're in Nix's room, in the rocking chair, baby tucked against your chest, cradled in your arms. You rub her back, twirl her hair, kiss her cheek, all while cooing into her ear, and when you catch his eye, he sees a well of emotion, love, longing, sadness. Grief. So much grief.

"Y'alright?" He whispers from the edge of the room, and you nod. It feels like a moment he shouldn't intrude on, a sacred, special thing not meant for him.

And that's good. 

"I'm okay." You reassure him, trying to imbue your words with strength. It's enough for him.

He takes one last look at his girls before he closes door.

And then he smiles.

[glitzglamgunpowder-if]

"You were destined for a life better than this. A life free from violence, from bloodshed. But here you are once again, it's like you never left."

YOU were a child destined for greatness, for your name to be written into the pages of history. Whatever happened in your past didn't matter anymore. You were born with raw talent and charisma that couldn't be wasted, that people can only dream of. But your innate gift didn't mean your path would be easy. After the circus shut down, you stumbled through life delivering each performance like it was your last. You thought you've reached your peak, until a mysterious offer suddenly throws you into a life of crime.

Play as a male, female, or nonbinary performer

Customize your MC’s physical appearance, façade personality, and choose a pseudonym for them

Befriend or Romance 4 ROs

Dedicate yourself to honing your natural talent

Choose your end goal and earn the fame you have craved your entire life

How do you want the public to perceive you? To be respected, or to be feared?

Learn more about the secrets of your dark past. Will you learn how the circus fell? How you ended up here of all places?

Will you acquire the fame you deserve, or will you fade into history?

Outline of Stats/Routes!!

Alistair/Alice Delacroix - THE RIVAL

AS you adjust to your new life, you hear rumors about your fated rival. One whose mind was poisoned to despise every fiber of your being. It's no surprise they're known for their ambition, their cunning, their ruthless nature. Their path led them to inevitable darkness, but will yours?

Trope: Forbidden Romance/Enemies to Lovers

Samuel/Samantha "Sam" Kaminski - THE BOSS

YOU are an acquired talent on behalf of the current wealthy owner of the elusive Spotlight Syndicate, one of the most popular bars of its time. They're one of the few people who don't question your mysterious past, who trust you as implicitly as the air they breathe. You know deep down they have a soft spot for you, one of their greatest assets, but they're motives are...difficult to discern. But is there a possibility your relationship could go beyond transactional business?

Trope: Boss x Employee/Age Gap

Hendrik/Helena Rietveld - THE BODYGUARD

YOU don't know much about them, nor do they seem willing to give you any more information than necessary for your safety. But one thing's for sure, they're loyal to the ones they serve. And given your new...circumstances, that may be exactly what you need: someone who would travel from heaven to hell and back if their duty called for it. Will you be the first to crack the unsolvable's code?

Trope: Bodyguard Romance/Potential Grumpy x Sunshine

Jesse Lê - THE FRIEND DETECTIVE

YOU never expected to see them again after...never mind that! They stand before you now, a completely reinvented version of themself. A stranger to everyone they encounter. Will you be able to slip off the carefully curated mask they've built and heal from your past together? Or will that smoking gun be laid to rest once and for all?

Trope: Childhood Friends to Lovers -> Detective x Potential Criminal

Physical Description of the ROs!!

Despite being a frequent IF player, this is my very first time trying to create an IF myself as someone with little coding experience (I'm more of a writer if anything). I'm definitely learning as I go, and I understand this may lead to mistakes or disappointment at times, so I preemptively apologize for them. I tend to become overly ambitious, and I want to make sure I always deliver on the promises I make. I say this because some of you may have ask about certain features being implemented and I will have to say "Sorry, I don't really know how to do that yet, but I'll try and learn how!" Hopefully, this will be a fun learning experience, and you all have a fun time on here! Sincerely, Mira <3

tagging: @interact-if

[chaoticwriting]

Danny X Cass part 1

The tension is high in the Watchtower currently. It is bad enough that the JL get news that Darkseid plans to invade Earth a few weeks ago when suddenly the Teen Titans contacted the JL that Trigon might actually invade Earth soon too.

Currently all the heroes are discussing possible scenarios and plans to counter the attack when suddenly a shadow moves behind Batman and pocks his sides.

Batman turns and sees his daughter, Cassandra, looking at him. She starts making hand signs and confused Batman momentarily.

'Call Friend. Might help.'

"Who's your friend? Is there anyone else that can help that isn't here?"

To that question, Cass stalls for a moment. She seems fidgety like she is nervous about something.

'Old friend. Also hero.'

Batman thinks for a moment and decides to give in. He might have a way to fend of the invasion of Darkseid and Trigon at the same time but not without heavy casualties. That plan is only for the worst case scenario.

Giving a nod to her daughter, Cass immediately beamed and goes to a far corner of the meeting room. Batman looks at her daughter that looks almost giddy for once. He doesn't know who she is calling but if she trust the other person, then he is also willing to try to trust whoever she is calling.

Cass sits in a corner where there is no one else near her and pulls out an old cell phone. A green light shines from the phone as Cass turns it on and a text is received just as she about to message the person.

Danny 🥰❤️🥰

Danny: Hey Cass, would you be free for a date? I wanna show you something cool I just get.

Cass: Can't go. Trigon and Darkseid are invading Earth. Very busy. Dad is stressed. Can you help?

Danny: Sure. I can go beat up Trigon and I'm sure Dan would gladly go and beat up Darkseid. He's been complaining about not being able to have a good fight since I have become too powerful for him. 😎😎

Cass: Come in Phantom. Introduce you to everyone.

Danny: Ok now you are making me nervous. Should I bring your dad gifts? Should I wear a formal wear or casual wear? Oh no! What if your dad doesn't like me? 😱😰😨

Cass: Don't worry. Dad will like you. Dad is paranoid. But he loves me.

Danny: Maybe I should gifts him an ecto-weapon? I heard he likes to make contingency plans. Surely he would like me more if I give him stuff to fund his hobby.

Cass: Hobby?

Danny: Y'know. Making contingency plan. I think that is his hobby. Like I understand if he has 1 or 2 contingency plans for each heroes but doesn't he have like 50 for each heroes?

Cass: 😂💕. No bringing ecto-weapon. Might hurts you.

Danny: It's fine. I will give it to him if he asks. Anyway, where should I meet you?

Cass: Watchtower.

Danny:Alright. See you in a minute. Bye 👋👋

Cass: 👋👋

Cass puts down her phone and is startled when a purple hoodie peeks from above her shoulders.

"Ooooo, is that your boyfriend? No wonder you are so protective of that phone. How dare you not tell me you have a boyfriend? Does our friendship means nothing to you?"

The figure clad in purple says dramatically. Cass push her away and stares at her angrily. Even though she is in full costume the purple still knows when she is mad.

"Steph. Bad peeking."

"Sorry, Sorry. I can't help it seeing you so secretive like that. I promise I will not do it again."

Lies. Both of them knows Steph is lying.

"Anyway, who is that? You know you shouldn't tell our situation to outsiders right? B might be mad if he knows."

"B says ok."

"Oh what? I never get permission to tell people stuff. This is blatant favoritism."

Cass looks at her smugly. Of course she knows she is the favorite. That's why she knows Batman will approve of Danny no matter what.

A commotion rises suddenly from the center of the room and Cass and Steph turn towards it ready for battle. They can see the members of JLD panicking about something when suddenly a green portal opens right in the middle of the room.

From the portal, a tall figure steps out with powerful presence emitting from him. His silver white hair falls down to his neck and his black and white hazmat suit gives of the feeling of awe whenever someone looks at him.

All the heroes in the room get into a fighting stance except a select few.

"Hello everyone. I am Phantom and I am here to help."

The figure's voice is not loud but everyone can hear it like it is spoken right besides them.

Before anyone could say anything a figure bypasses everyone and sprints towards Phantom. Unfazed, Phantom spreads his arm and the figure flies into his arm. Phantom gives the figure a hug and she replies with a tighter hug.

"I miss you." Cass says silently.

"I miss you too." Danny whispers and sends the voice to her only.

While everyone is still confused and stunned on what is going on, Constantine curses and brings everyone's attention back.

"Fucking hell. Whatcha doing here kid? I never call you did I."

The figure looks up and stares at Constantine. Everyone starts to become nervous and thought the figure is going to attack them when he just smirks.

"Of course it is not you. You only call me if you need my help to deal with your ex or something. You should really stop dating all these interdimensional demons y'know. There are only so many times I can save you."

Phantom's rebuttal gets a few snickers and gasps from the crowd.

"Fuck you, kid. What are you even doing here? And why are you holding one of the bats?"

"Do you hit your head somewhere in hell, Constantine? What does this looks like? I'm going to eat her?"

That comment makes a few figures in the crowd tense for a moment before Constantine next word baffles them more.

"No fucking way. You're dating one of the bats. Fucking hell. I don't want to be part of this shit anymore. Y'all can go fuck yourself."

Constantine then picks up his flask and opens a portal to return to House of Mystery. Just as he's about to step into the portal, Superman speaks up.

"Wait, Constantine. We still need your help in dealing with Trigon and Darkseid."

John stops in his tracks and looks at Danny. He chugs down all the remaining alcohol in his flask before replying.

"If that kid can't handle this problem, then we might as well just lay down and wait for our demise."

He then steps into the portal and disappears. Everyone looks at Danny that is still holding Cass in a hug and the awkwardness can be felt in the air.

Danny releases Cass that releases a whimper that is picked up by a few figures primarily the big bat.

"So, hello. I am Phantom and as I say, I am here to help."

Part 2

[lenaswritingandstuff]

Your Teddy ~ Theodore Nott x f!reader (Drabble)

Requested: No

Pairing: Theodore Nott x f!reader

Summary: Theo has only felt pain ever since y/n was kidnapped by Death Eaters, but her return might even be just as painful.

Word count: 811

Warnings: slight mentions of torture; angst; English is not my first language

A/N: I will post the second part on Friday, let me know if you want to be tagged! This is my first time writing for Theo and it's rushed, so I hope it's still alright. Comments and feedback are always appreciated. Sorry for the typos. Hope you enjoy it!

Tag list: @helendeath @im-jesus @wolfyychan

Ignoring the people around him and their confused looks, Theo ran through the corridors, with only four words in his mind - we found miss y/n.  

He had spent three months, three months waiting for her to come back, for her to give him any sign, for her to come back to him, for his whole body and mind to function normally again. It had been three months since y/n had disappeared, captured by Death Eaters one week before winter break. The image of her, defenseless and screaming as she was being tortured had been plaguing Theo ever since, and he hadn’t been able to think of anything else other than he didn't know where y/n was, if she was even alive or not, and what kind of atrocities she was facing. He had completely stopped going to class, stopped going to the Great Hall for meals - despite how many times his friends had asked him to come, saying y/n wouldn’t want him to be like that -, staying in his dorm instead, where even despite the constant closed shutters, he couldn’t even sleep, as he had terrible nightmares of y/n screaming for him as she was being tortured every time he tried to sleep. 

He had tried to look for her, of course. How could he not? But old Dumbledore had anticipated it, and had ordonned him to not leave the castle without a teacher. The first few weeks, Theo had been going almost every day to Dumbledore’s office, asking if there was new information about where y/n was, and he always got the same answer. I’m sorry to tell you that we do not. But trust, Mr Nott, that we are actively looking for her and that I am sure that we will find her. At the beginning, Theo had somehow managed to control his anger and frustration, but at one point, he had screamed at the headmaster, saying that it wasn’t enough, that no one could understand what it was like, and even had broken a few items. 

But, today, Professor Snape had knocked on his door, saying the four words Theo had been dreaming to hear. And now here he was, running to the hospital wing. He only slowed down when he arrived by its door, and, still breathless from the running, immediately opened the door, and then rushed inside to the only bed that was currently occupied. 

“y/n!”

“Mr. Nott, please don’t-”

But Theo ignored Mrs Pomfrey’s words and walked past her, instead going to sit on the bed and hugging y/n’s body as hard as he could. Mrs Pomfrey continued to protest and ask him to stop, but he couldn’t care less. All that mattered was here, in his arms. He gently stroked her hair, feeling his eyes burn with tears. All the pain, stress, fear and anger that he had felt from the moment he learned that she had disappeared faded away, replaced with her warmth presence and the feeling that fucking finally, she was safe, safe in his arms like she was supposed to be. 

“Cazzo, y/n, baby. I missed you so much.” 

You’re here. You’re here. I’m never letting you out of my sight again. 

He slightly detached himself from her but only to kiss her forehead and look at her, look at the face and eyes he had fallen so hard in love with. But instead of looking at him with warm eyes full of love like she always did, there was only confusion - which was also shown in her frowning - and that was the moment he realized she didn’t hug him back, or even touched him at all. 

“Um, I…I’m sorry, but…who are you?” 

If Theo thought he had known pain every second of y/n’s absence, that was nothing compared to the heartbreak her words caused throughout his whole body and mind. He was now also confused, and his arms dropped from her by themselves. 

“y/n…It’s me…Teddy.”

Your Teddy. 

“You…” He had never struggled to find his words so much before. “You don’t recognize me?”

y/n opened her mouth to answer, apparently embarrassed and turned to the matron for help. 

“I’m sorry, Mr. Nott, but Miss y/l/n lost all her memories. Professor Dumbledore and I are still trying to figure out why, and how to bring her memory back,” she said with a kind voice, before turning to y/n and putting a hand on her shoulder. “Miss y/l/n, this is Theodore Nott, your boyfriend.” 

No! Not Theodore, not Theo, fucking damn it. It’s Teddy for her. For her and nobody else. Teddy. 

Her Teddy.

y/n nodded and looked at Theo.

“I’m sorry for not remembering you. I can’t remember anything, really.”

Theo rose from the bed. 

“No, I’m sorry.”

Not wanting for an answer, he turned around and left the hospital’s wing, feeling more broken than when he entered it.

PART 2

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[choccy-milky]

LMAOO thank you for your efforts and also for putting this cursed image in my head....between being a beater AND making the trek up to the ravenclaw tower constantly/every morning to pick up clora, seb never skips a workout💪

@myfangirlinessononeblog BAHAHA DONT WORRY ABOUT IT GIRL!! ill admit tho when i got the preview for your ask which just showed me "id like to apologize for my previous ask" i was like oh god...what did she send me that warrants an apology???😰 but this was so funny to me LOOL esp bc i thought everyone already knew that "spoiler" of sebs "death" by now, so its always fun to see when someone hasnt been on my blog for long/reads my fic first and then gets to it HAHA. also i love the manic energy of not being able to wait between chaps and NEEDING to vent to me LOOL relatable... weve all been there girly🤝🤝 (and im glad u liked seb beating himself up over being dead for TOO long BAHAH that really is so him...😭bro needs to relax) BUT THANK YOU ALSO!! IM GLAD YOU'RE ENJOYING IT!!💖💖💖

@nerdycollectionstrawdewfan i want to do this so bad!! i just still havent got around to getting to that quest yet bc ive still barely started my second HL playthru bahha, and i want to experience the quest myself rather than watch it on youtube, BUT TRUST ME ITS DEFS SOMETHING IVE BEEN THINKING ABOUT/WANTING TO DO!! and THANK YOUU💖💖

@jax-the-kneecapper BAHAH AWW TYY RIGHT BACK AT YOU🫂💖💖😭 and i mean if its to keep someone alive i guess i have no choice but to continue🫡👩‍⚕️👩‍⚕️thank u for the excuse🥰

BAHA I DO!! idk if you saw my last ask but i have a pregnancy oneshot in the works!! but unlike what i say there, it probs wont be finished by this month at the rate im going😭 BUT IT IS COMING!! and after that i have a really reallllyyy short oneshot (probs like 5k words. short for ME, that is) thats kinda dark/about yandere seb. but also dont worry about pressuring me cuz IM GLAD YOU WANT MORE OF THEM, IT JUST MOTIVATES ME!! SO THANK YOU💖💖💖🥹

and speaking of motivation!! THANK YOUU im glad you liked it and that you not only got attached to my ver of seb but even to clora as well!!😭ill defs keep writing for them as long as the ideas are still there, thank YOU for reading and for the lovely message!!💖💖💖

decided to end this off with the most UNHINGED ask i have EVER RECIEVED LMAOOOOOO GIRLLLLLLLL???? ok a lot to unpack here first of all im OBSESSEDDDD with the fact that after seeing that sight, ONE OF THE FIRST THINGS YOU THOUGHT OF WAS SEB AND CLORA??? LMFAOO AND SEBS REACTION TO IT😭😭😭IM FUCKING CRYINN GGGG LIKE SERIOUSLY....and second clora will ALWAYS be sebs fav cave no matter what (how dare you make me read that with my own eyes) and also THE VAGINA IS A MUSCLE!! IT CAN LOOSEN AND BECOME TIGHT AGAIN!! ✨THE MORE YOU KNOW!! ✨ but also no seb will NOT be traumatized bc he will NOT be seeing that LMAO😇 in the pregnancy oneshot im writing he doesnt look down there😇 he already almost passes out from seeing clora in pain, so i think looking down there and seeing whats happening would actually knock him out/put him in a coma LMFAOOO (also congrats to your sister🥰🥰i hope her cave isnt too wrecked🥰(ok im sorry 💀💀but also YOU started this🫵)