#working is like breathing to this fucking guy

[emisluvr]

sucking off jake while hes tired from work

yes yes i love this idea anonn 🫶🏻 also can you guys tell i've been so horribly unmotivated.. i'm sawryyy agh

✧ tw. smut (18+ mdni!), praise, cum in mouth, oral sex (m. receiving), jake is rly whiny and lowk subby

jake's favourite way to wind down after a long day is for you to use him alll you want </3

he looks exhausted when he walks through the door—tie loose, tousled hair from running his hands through it, and an expression that screamed fatigue. he lazily walks to the couch, sitting himself down before resting his head down on the cushion and sighing.

you walk over to him, sitting on the edge of the couch, fingers brushing through his messy hair. “rough day, baby?” you ask softly.

he nods, eyes fluttering shut under your touch. “mhm. so tired, angel..”

“let me take care of you,” you whisper, fingers already tugging at his belt. he opens one eye, and you see the corner of his mouth twitch like he wants to smile but doesn’t even have the energy.

you lift his dress shirt enough so you can press a few kisses to his abs, before trailing them down to his v-line that was peeking out of his boxers. you unbuckle his belt and slide his boxers down so his cock springs free. his cock is already half-hard when you free it, heavy and warm in your palm. “poor baby,” you murmur, kissing the tip. “bet this has been aching all day, huh?”

“fuck,” he breathes out, hips jerking slightly. “baby, please…”

your lips wrap around the head, tongue swirling slow and teasing on his tip, and he lets out the softest whine—high and broken like he’s already overwhelmed. “a-ahh.. y-your mouth’s so—fuck, i needed this.”

you take more of him inch by inch, one hand stroking what you can’t reach as you bob your head, letting your spit drip down his cock and your chin. jake’s hand finds your hair, weakly tugging for support.

“please, please—don’t stop, fuck, i’m gonna—” he’s panting now, voice thin and whimpery. “feels too good, baby.. your mouth’s so fucking perfect..”

you hum around him, letting him slip deeper down your throat, your eyes all watery and locked on him while he completely falls apart. his chest is rising, abs flexing every time you swallow around him.

it doesn't take long before hot spurts of cum cover your mouth, hips bucking up slightly as he gasps your name—“nngh, baby—f-fuck, thank you…”—his voice so pretty yet desperate. he slumps back, breathing heavily, thumb brushing across your slick bottom lip.

“always take care of me, don’t you?” he whispers, eyes glossy as he pulls you up to kiss your lips. “my good girl…”

© emisluvr 2025. all rights reserved.

[moonstruckme]

Ohh now that I have permission to request, could I request newgirl au rommates!marauders with a reader who is very independent and tries to do and deal with everything on her own. I mean we know how codependent the boys are and I would love to see how they would interact with a reader who is the complete opposite

Thanks for requesting (you never need permission babe haha) !

roommate!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 1k words

Sirius lets out a low whistle, crossing his arms as he leans his hip against the couch to watch you. “Training to leave us for the circus?” 

“Ha ha,” you monotone. Your voice falters slightly as you wobble on the ball of your foot, standing on tiptoe atop a pile of thick books atop a chair in order to reach the uppermost shelf of the bookcase in your sitting room. “Do you guys never clean up here? It’s gross.” 

“Sounds like you’ve just answered your own question,” he says. “Why are you messing with it?” 

“Because,” you strain your reach, running a dusting wand along the shelf and stifling a gasp when your pile of books threatens to tip, “it’s the only empty shelf, and I have stuff to put here.” 

“Shit, babe, can’t your stuff wait a while? Remus will be home soon.” 

“So?” 

“So,” says Sirius, “he’s a tall bloke. He could at least reach up there without so much…peril.”

You make a dismissive noise. “I’ve got it.” 

You overextend your reach a tad, the books leaning precariously. The ball of your foot shuffles a few inches to the left in a semi-frantic instinct to regain your balance, but after a second you have to bail out, hopping down onto the chair and then the ground with a thunk that’s sure to win you favor from your downstairs neighbors. 

“Yeah,” Sirius drawls. “Looks like it.” 

You make a face at him. James comes out of his room as you’re moving the chair a couple feet to the left to climb back up. 

“I can’t decide…uhh…” He watches you ascend with brows drawing together in concern. 

“She won’t be deterred,” Sirius says swiftly. “What can’t you decide?” 

James’ eyes stay stuck on you as you pick up the dusting wand to try again. “I, erm, can’t decide what to have for tea.” 

“You said the other day that you were craving Thai,” Sirius offers. “Order takeaway?” 

Though you’re turned away, you can practically hear the smile enter James’ voice. “Genius. You want in?” 

“Sure. Pad see ew, please.” 

“Got it. What about you?” James asks you.

“No, thanks.” The duster looks suspiciously clean for how far you’ve gotten. You attempt a little hop to see the shelf. “I’ve got leftovers.” 

“Right, okay—god, please don’t do that.” James’ voice pitches when your books sway after another hop. “It’s a long way down the stairs if you break your neck and we have to call 999. Why did you say we can’t stop her?” he asks Sirius. 

“I tried telling her to wait for Remus—” 

“That’s a good idea. Remus is tall, love, let him do it.” 

“—but she wants to do it herself.” 

“Oh.” Similarly to how you could hear James’ smile before, now you can hear the lack of it. “I see. This is like the jar thing?” 

“The jar thing?” Sirius asks with mild interest. 

“Yeah. I found her struggling with a jar of spaghetti sauce the other night” —you roll your eyes; struggling seems a bit superior— “so I tried to help, but she wouldn’t let me. Accidentally shattered the whole thing in the sink trying to get it open.” 

At this point, you can feel both James’ and Sirius’ pointed stares at your back. You keep about your business as though you can’t. 

“We can’t have you breaking bones the way you broke the jar,” says James. “We don’t have liability insurance.” 

You huff a laugh. “I’m not totally familiar with how insurance works around here, but I don’t think you need that if you’re not employing me.” 

“Whatever.” Sirius’ voice is dispassionate. “If she wants to break her neck to prove a point, that’s her prerogative.” 

James sounds about to protest, but then you hear the door open. 

“What the fuck?” Remus asks under his breath, as though speaking to no one but himself. “What are you doing up there?” 

“It’s fine,” you insist, though admittedly it takes some willpower to continue dusting when your quietest roommate sounds so horrified. “I’m cleaning.” 

You hear the door shut and the lock click. There’s a papery shuffle as Remus sets down whatever he brought inside. “Why?” he asks, bewildered. 

“Uh, because I don’t want my books on a dusty shelf?” 

“Let me take care of that. Come down from there.” You start turning to give your rebuttal the same as you had to Sirius and James, but before you can Remus’ hands are at your waist. Your balance falters. 

“Careful,” he tsks, his grip on you tightening momentarily. “Step down, one foot at a time.” 

You find that, with his hands on you and his tone so resolute, you have a harder time refusing him. You put your foot down on the chair. 

“There you are.” Remus doesn’t seem inclined to release you until you have both feet on the ground, but he turns to give James and Sirius a look. “You were just going to let her do this by herself?” 

“We tried to tell her,” Sirius defends them. “She won’t have any help, she’d rather smash things.” 

Now Remus turns back to you, bemused. “Smash things?” 

“It was an accident,” you mumble. “I wanted to open my own jar.” 

“You’ve got to let James handle jars, babe,” Sirius tells you sagely. “He needs it, it makes him feel good.” 

James shrugs as though this may or may not be true. 

“Please,” Remus pinches the bridge of his nose, “no smashing anything while I’m away. Jars or bones.” 

“That’s what we were trying to tell her,” James says helpfully. 

You cross your arms, avoiding anyone’s eyes. “Fine.” 

Remus sighs. “Thank you.” He sets a fond hand on the top of your head, and the familiarity of the gesture sends a pleasant warmth all the way down to your toes. You feel a tad less aggrieved. 

“Thank goodness,” says James. “Hey, does this mean I can start opening your jars for you? And you’ll have takeaway with us tonight?” 

Your flatmates all look at you. “Sure,” you relent. “That would be nice, thanks. But I’m not going to start joining you for those bedtime stories you do in Remus’ room every night.” 

“I’m an unwilling participant in those,” Remus protests unconvincingly. 

“You should rethink that one,” Sirius advises you as he sits down on the couch, pulling out his laptop to begin ordering dinner. “We’re reading the Wrinkle in Time series right now; it’s riveting.”

[osarina]

ᡣ𐭩 I'LL TAKE THE NIGHT SHIFT

FEATURING: dazai osamu

SUMMARY: now that the chaos following the aftermath of the decay of angel incident has settled, mori intends on making good on the deal he made with the armed detective agency. and you have a very important decision to make.

(wordcount: 13.4k, fem!reader, port mafia executive!reader, angst with a happy ending (if u can believe it!!), port mafia business, a bit of arguing, depictions of dazai's depression, unedited.)

AUTHOR'S NOTES: one last age 22 fic before your girl goes on a slight break. the ada/pm swap YAYYYY, it honestly came out a lot less intense then i intended, and the happy ending was originally not supposed to happen BUT i think it's well-deserved for age 22 pmreader & dazai. they are grown now, and the whole theme of their reconcillation at 22 is that they're actually WORKING to make this work, so i thought it would be an injustice to not let this one end happily. ANYWAY, on another note, don't expect any fics from me in may! i'm going to be cracking down on civzai2 so i can have it ready to post for june! i hope you guys enjoy! reblogs appreciated!

Your phone has been ringing for the past twenty minutes.

You know it’s Mori frustrated at your absence, trying to call an executive meeting to discuss the upcoming parley with the Armed Detective Agency, where the Port Mafia will be taking one of theirs to drag into the dark. He can wait for all you care, you sigh as you lean back on your hands, the wind ruffling your hair as you look down into the window of the building before you.

You don’t know what you’re doing here.

You watch with a heavy, unwelcome feeling in your chest as Dazai laughs wildly at something a vaguely familiar man with purple and white hair says. The man looks distinctly put out by whatever Dazai is laughing at, as one usually is whenever Dazai is laughing because nine times out of ten, he’s laughing at someone else's expense. The other members of the Agency are hanging around too. You see the uptight blonde, Kunikida, pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose. Mori’s favorite, Yosano, sits on his desk cackling, slapping Kunikida’s shoulder. The weretiger has his face buried in his arms, hiding himself from the world, while the other traitor, the girl that Kouyou obsesses over, hovers over him. There are others you don’t recognize, but they don’t really matter to you.

Only one does.

You don’t think you’ve ever seen him like this before. You’ve seen Dazai laugh countless times—snorts that he hides in your shoulder, mocking jeers as he taunts Chuuya, muffled snickers that he tries to bite back when he’s caught by surprise—but you don’t think you’ve ever seen this type of carefree, reckless happiness before. The corners of his eyes crinkle in a way that’s so genuine that you almost question whether or not you’re looking at Dazai Osamu or some lookalike imposter who has stolen his place; he laughs so hard that he looks like he’s struggling to breathe, doubling over and slapping the desk he’s sitting at.

He’s never looked so at home before. So comfortable. Even with you back before he defected, when you guys were alone with no one else to bear witness, he couldn’t rid himself of all of the protective layers he wears, he couldn’t let himself be at ease. He never fully let his guard down, not even for a second, not even for you.

Well, that’s not entirely true. He did a few times, but you can count them on one hand, and they were never by his own choice—only when he was pushed too far, when his mind caved in on him no matter how hard he tried to weld together the cracks in the dam. 

It wasn’t like this.

“He looks happy, doesn’t he?” you ask quietly as soon as you feel the familiar presence behind you.

“Why the fuck are you torturing yourself with this?” Nakahara Chuuya’s gruff voice meets your ears, the roof shaking behind you as he lands on top of it. You hear him make his way over to you, but you don’t turn to look at him.

“I’ve never seen him like this before,” you admit, letting the pain seep into your voice to the only person whom you can trust not to use it against you. “When he told me Oda Sakunosuke’s final request, I doubted him… not that I was going to let him know that… but he really has changed, hasn’t he? You see it too, don’t you?” 

Chuuya lets out a noise caught between doubt and amusement. “Wouldn’t be too sure. Y’know what they say about tigers and stripes.”

“Don’t be bitter, Chuuya, it’s an ugly look on you,” you say dryly, eyes following Dazai as he pushes himself to his feet, dancing away as the purple-haired man tries to whack him. Your lips curl up into a small smile when you see the genuine glee painted on his face. “He’s changed. We, of all people, should be able to see that.”

“I’m not bitter,” Chuuya says roughly, “and if I was, I have every damn right to be. So do you. More than me, even. How the fuck can you see him living his best life and not be bitter? After what he did to us? To you?”

“Bitterness ages the skin, it’s probably why you’ve started developing wrinkles at the ripe age of twenty-two,” you quip, just to hear the aggravated noise that Chuuya lets out.

“I do not have fucking wrinkles, quit saying that shit,” Chuuya complains, flicking the back of your head hard. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“Purposely,” you note, but then let out a soft puff of air. “I don’t know, Chuuya. I thought I would be bitter and angry. Sometimes, I still am. When I’m alone, usually drunk, I resent him so much that it makes me sick, but then…”

Then you see him. 

You see him happy. You see him surrounded by people who love him. You see him thriving in a way that he’d never be able to in the Port Mafia. Every day that passed while he was there, he somehow became darker and colder; less human, and more of an unfathomable concept. You could see it in his face when he would come home to your apartment, eyes empty and expression blank. His blood ran darker than anyone else’s in those towers, his mind a treacherous place that few would dare to even think of treading or even just understanding. He was never Dazai back then, he was the Port Mafia’s youngest executive, the Black Wraith, Mori’s heir. He was something to be feared and admired. He was the Mafia, everything it stood for, its incarnate. He was not Dazai. 

Not like how he is now.

You told him you forgave him when he showed up at your apartment three months ago, and you knew you meant it then, but you didn’t realize how much you meant it until now.

“He never fucking deserved you,” Chuuya says so quietly that you think he’s talking more to himself than you. Before you can comment on his words, he speaks up again, changing the subject: “Let’s get out of here. Mori sent me to come get you.”

You sigh, eyes lingering on Dazai for a moment longer before you finally turn to look at Chuuya. Despite the rough edge to his voice, you can see the concern plain on his face as he looks down at you, brows furrowed and lips curved down. He holds a gloved hand out to you, and you sigh as you place yours in it, letting him lift you to your feet. You wobble a bit, but he steadies you with a hand to your waist.

“Thanks,” you say quietly and then give him a small smile that has his eyes narrowing in suspicion instantly.

“Whatever it is, the answer is no.”

“What if I say pretty please?” you offer, linking your hands behind your back as you tilt your head to the side.

“Stop tryna look cute. You’re not cute,” Chuuya scowls, and you scowl right back at him, dropping the act. “What do you want?” 

“Can you stall Mori for another… hour-ish?” you ask with a sweet smile.

Chuuya's face drops as he stares at you, and your eyes turn up as your smile widens. After a few moments of him just staring at you, as if trying to figure out if you’re being legit, he lets out a sigh of utter suffering. “You fucking owe me, you understand? That ‘45 Conti is going back up on the auction in New York in two weeks. I want it.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll get you your fancy wine, Chuuya,” you agree, leaning in to brush your lips against his cheek. “You’re the best.”

He scoffs and rolls his eyes, but you see the way his cheeks heat up. “Whatever,” he mutters. “What’re you even doing that’s so important? You’re not usually one to hold up meetings like this.”

You sigh lightly, gaze tracking back to the window to where Dazai is leaning into the weretiger, trying to use him as a human shield. He laughs again, tossing his head back and jumping away, throwing a pen at Kunikida as the man tries to swipe him, and your throat feels a bit swollen, your heart tight. Not with jealousy or bitterness, but rather with content because four years ago, you never would have been able to picture something like this.

“I… have a decision I need to make before the meeting,” you finally tell Chuuya, voice a bit hesitant.

Chuuya gives you a long look, a heavy one, as if he knows exactly what decision you’re trying to make. You think that he probably does.

“I hope you make the right choice,” he says quietly.

“Yeah… I hope so too.”

---

It’s a Saturday afternoon, and the graveyard on the west side of the city is unusually busy—it’s just your luck, truly. There’s a distasteful expression on your face as your gaze traces across the mourners as they visit their lost loved ones. You’ve never liked graveyards; you can count the number of times you’ve been to them on one hand. Being here reminds you too much of a past you can’t remember—even though the corpses are buried well below the ground, the scent of rot somehow still finds its way to you, smothering and nauseating. 

“What the hell are we doing here?” Klaus asks from next to you, looking distinctly uncomfortable. “This place is creepy.”

“What do you think we’re doing here?” you ask dryly, resting your head against the cool window as your driver takes you down a dirt path leading to a more secluded part of the cemetery, toward the grave you’re seeking.

Klaus pauses and then offers, “Meeting an informant?” 

You roll your eyes. “We are visiting a grave.”

Klaus is clearly offended by your tone. “Forgive me, damn, it’s not like you’ve ever been sentimental before.”

“I guess there’s a first time for everything,” you say flatly, although sentiments are the last thing that drew you to this place—resentment is far more fitting.

“Riiiiiight,” Klaus drawls like he doesn’t actually believe you. “Are we going to be here long? Cemeteries give me the heebie-jeebies.”

“What the fuck is a heebie-jeebie?” you ask, turning your head to look at him so you can shoot him a strange expression.

“Seriously?” Klaus asks, blinking. “You’ve never heard that expression before?”

Your squinted gaze lingers on him for a second before the driver rolls to a stop in front of the small hill leading up to the grave you’re looking to visit. You shake your head and roll your eyes again as you step out of the car, instinctively holding your breath the moment the cemetery air reaches you. You have to force yourself to breathe, hoping you don’t look as uncomfortable as you feel. Your fingers tighten around the small bundle of petunias in your left hand.

“Isn’t that—” Klaus begins, frowning at the figure standing in front of the grave.

“Stay by the car,” you order as you make your way forward.

“But—”

“That’s an order, Klaus.”

You hear him sigh in irritation, displeased by your words, but he listens. Each step up to the grave is agonizing—you want to turn on your heel and leave, but you’ve already come too far to do that. Plus, it would feel like a wound to your pride now that he’s seen you.

“You’re the last person I expected to see here,” Sakaguchi Ango greets once you’ve come close enough. He looks down at the bundle of flowers in your hand curiously. “Especially with those.”

“It’s rude to approach someone’s resting site without a gift,” you reply blandly, brushing past him to kneel in front of Oda Sakunosuke’s grave, eyes lingering on the mossy cobblestone before you place the petunias down in front of it. “I have something I need to say, that’s all.”

“Not to me, I presume,” Sakaguchi replies, amused with himself. 

You’re not quite as amused.

“You’re lucky I don’t put a bullet through your head, traitor,” you murmur, giving the older man a cold look from the corner of your eye. “You’re lucky I don’t do worse.”

“Hah,” Sakaguchi says, pushing up his glasses—a nervous tick that makes your lips curl up. “You know, I never personally saw what you do to traitors, but I heard rumors through the grapevine. They say the executions you handled were more barbaric than Dazai-kun’s and Nakahara Chuuya’s combined. I found it hard to believe.”

A humorless smile rests on your lips as you stare at the grave in front of you. A necessary price—you don’t have an ability like Chuuya’s or a reputation like Dazai’s. Once it became clear you were in the running for the next open executive seat, you had to prove you were more than just Mori’s daughter. That the position should be yours and it wasn’t because of nepotism, and it wasn’t because you spread your legs for Double Black, as people liked to whisper back then. The easiest way of proving that was to make an example out of people, and with an ability like yours, it was easy to shatter a man’s mind before putting him in the grave.

“Chuuya’s never liked playing with his toys, and Dazai got bored with them long before I ever did,” you say absently, looking over your shoulder to focus your gaze on him. “I don’t get bored until they break.”

Sakaguchi’s throat bobs, and you watch his hand slip into his pocket—surely getting ready to send some sort of signal to his friends in the government.

“Relax,” you say easily, sitting back on your heels. “I don’t disrespect the dead—not even him. I wouldn’t do anything here.”

“How reassuring,” Sakaguchi scoffs, but his hand drops back to his side. “What on earth do you have to say to a man that’s been dead for four years?”

His voice wavers strangely—he’s defensive and in pain all at the same time, like he has some urge to shield a dead man from whatever words you want to speak to him, but it hurts him to admit he’s gone all the same. Rich, considering you’re pretty sure the man played a part in his death.

“I could ask you the same.”

“That’s different,” Sakaguchi says tightly.

“Is it?” you ask, amused.

“It is.”

You let out a puff of air, but the smile on your lips doesn’t reach your eyes. “Leave so I can say my piece. I don’t want to be here longer than I have to be.”

Sakaguchi doesn’t respond, but you hear him walk away. He goes far enough that he’s out of earshot of you, but he lingers close, which tells you that he has more to say to you, much to your displeasure.

You inhale slowly, eyes fluttering shut as you try to figure out what exactly you want to say. You tossed the words through your head the whole ride here, but now that you’re actually before the grave of the man you intended to speak them to, you find yourself at a loss.

“You… cannot fathom how deep my hatred of you runs,” you finally say, voice quiet. You swallow thickly, tongue pressing against the back of your teeth as you try to quell your rising resentment. “You’re the reason Dazai left me. You’re the reason he’s going to spend his life chasing after a goal he’ll always see as unattainable. You’re the reason that he’ll never let himself be at peace. You ruined him.”

You take in a shaky breath, blinking away the tears that suddenly sting at your eyes. “You saved him,” you correct after a moment, voice cracking. “I’ve never seen him as happy as he is now—not with you and Sakaguchi, not with Chuuya, not with me. You… wouldn’t believe how much he’s thrived in the light, or maybe you would, I don’t know. Maybe you saw something in him back then that I couldn’t, but I see it now. You would be proud of him… I’m proud of him.”

You exhale, shoulders slumping as you look down at the ground. “The President of the Agency made a deal with Mori—one member in exchange for protection when they needed it. Mori wants Dazai,” you say bitterly. You know that Fukuzawa shielded Yosano, and it makes you sick with rage that he didn’t do the same for Dazai. “I’ll… do whatever it takes to make sure it’s not him, but in return, you’re going to give him a sign that you’re proud of how far he’s come, understood? He can’t see it for himself, and I know he doesn’t fully believe me when I tell him, but he’d believe you. So find a way. You owe me that much.”

You feel crazy talking to a grave—Mori is a man of science, he’s never been religious, but Itou believed that the dead lingered, whether it was because of unfinished business or they just needed to see their loved ones some more, to protect them from the other side. You never really cared to hear his supernatural nonsense back when he was alive, but now you cling to it in hopes that maybe he’s still watching you, guiding you along the right path.

The wind picks up a little, and you swear you feel a brief warmth settle on your right shoulder—it’s probably just your imagination, but you’ll let yourself believe it’s Oda agreeing to your deal.

You rise to your feet with another shaky sigh. 

“Goodbye, Oda,” you murmur, throat tightening as you think back to the man who wanted you to come by his place to talk to the young girl he took in because he wanted her to have a strong woman to look up to—the only person who ever acknowledged how hard you worked to keep your place in the upper echelon. “One day, we’ll meet again. Hopefully not anytime soon.”

Without another word, you turn on your heel to leave, pointedly ignoring Sakaguchi when he tries to intercept you, walking straight past him back toward the car you came in.

“Do you know who he plans to choose?” Sakaguchi calls after you, voice wavering.

You don’t stop for him, but you say quietly, “I know who it won’t be.”

---

“Thank you for finally joining us,” Mori says dryly as you step into the conference room where all of the rest of the executives were waiting for you. “We’ve only been waiting for over an hour. Chuuya-kun has been trying to keep our attention on… office issues, I figured he was only trying to buy more time for you.”

Chuuya’ face reddens. “I don’t like the paper we write our reports on,” he says immediately, doubling down on whatever bullshit he’d been spewing to stall for you. “It’s too thick.”

“Right,” Mori agrees with a thin smile. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Chuuya rubs the back of his neck and gives you a helpless look once Mori turns his attention back on you, but you don’t speak, staring down at the older man with an unreadable expression. You’d been wondering why he was so lackadaisical about filling Ace’s executive position—he blew you off every time you tried to bring it up. 

This was why. He didn’t need to fill it if he was just going to drag Dazai back and sit him in it.

You don’t say anything as you take your seat across from him at the executive table. He watches you curiously, like he has a feeling that you’re going to make things difficult for him today. He rests his elbows on the table, lacing his fingers together and resting his chin on top of them as his eyes drift between his four executives.

“I think it’s about time we call in on the debt that the Armed Detective Agency owes us, don’t you think?” he hums. “I, of course, have my ideas on who we should bring over, but I would like to hear your opinions.”

Verlaine waves his hand dismissively. “We all know who is coming back,” he says. “It’s best we keep this short so that I can go back down and prepare for when the Clocktower finally decides to make its move.”

“That boy is the only logical option,” Kouyou agrees flippantly, fanning herself as she leans back in her seat. “It’s best we get this over with.”

Chuuya looks distinctly uncomfortable, but he only averts his gaze to the table. You’re not actually sure what his opinion is on all of this—he could want Dazai back for all you know. He can’t safely use Corruption without him, can’t access the full extent of his ability, and you know Chuuya doesn’t like using Corruption, but he also doesn’t like the fact that he doesn’t even have the option of being able to use it. The two of you have talked about seeing if you could use your ability to put Arahabaki to sleep, but it’s all been theoretical; neither of you wants to risk actually trying it when there’s a chance it might not work.

“If you bring Dazai back to the Port Mafia, you may as well execute me now.”

Chuuya’s head snaps toward you, eyes wide, and Kouyou pauses mid-fan to look at you. Verlaine doesn’t react other than a slight raise of his eyebrows, but Mori’s lips curl up, amused.

“Oh?” he questions, “and here I thought you would be the most excited to have Dazai-kun back.”

“I don’t want him back here,” you reply flatly. “Bringing him back here when he doesn’t want to be here might as well be shooting us in the foot. He’ll work from the inside against us out of spite. I’m not going to sit here and watch while you make a decision that will cripple us. If he comes back, I will leave.”

Curiously, Mori tilts his head to the side, entertained by your words. “An ultimatum. You can’t possibly think that you’re worth more to me than Dazai-kun.”

You don’t think Mori means that. He likes saying things to get under your skin, he likes seeing how far he can push you until you snap, and nothing gets under your skin more than the idea of you being a second or third-choice to him. This time, though, you only hit him with the same amused smile he gives you.

“I know I don’t compare to either of your precious proteges,” you say, leaning back in your seat, and then pass the manila folder in your hand across the table to him. He looks down at it and then raises his eyebrows at you before humoring you, opening the folder to flip through the contents. You watch as his smile slowly falls as his eyes scan the profiles of six crime lords inside. “But you don’t think you’d be losing just me, do you?”

Oddly enough, Mori’s eyes gleam in delight at your words. “Is that so?” 

You exhale as you choose your words carefully. “Goldoni doesn't like you, Mori. He’s caught between the Port Mafia and the Order of the Clocktower, and it would be much easier for him to make peace with the Clocktower considering they’re on his border. The only reason why he chooses us is because of my friendship with him. Mishima might not outright betray you, but he’ll slowly start withdrawing support when you ask for it once he finds out that I’ve left. I was the one who helped Qu Yuan get her brother back from Cao Xueqin when the two organizations were on the brink of war. I was the one who made sure Paz got his foothold in the central U.S. while the Guild was here. I was the one who acted as the mediator for Nabokov when Bulgakov and the White Guard threatened to come down on the Pale Flame—he even gifted me his strongest ability user for it, offered me a permanent spot in St. Petersburg with him.”

Mori doesn’t immediately respond, squinting at you slightly as he listens to you speak. Kouyou looks between the two of you with an unreadable expression. Chuuya looks sick. Verlaine just looks like he wants to go back to his office.

“And you don’t need me to explain what Tolstoy would do if I asked him to,” you finish quietly. “He would do anything for me. He’s who I would go to after I leave here. He would give me an executive position, and in return, I would give him Japan.”

Kouyou says your name, aghast, but you ignore her.

“Without my connections, you lose your foothold in the government, you lose all of your major allies—you will be pushed out of Japan, and I would help him hunt you down to whatever dark crevice of the earth you try to hide in,” you continue, leaning forward. “You know better than anyone that I have the means of doing it.”

“The means, maybe,” Mori agrees, closing the folder to look up at you. Though his expression is serious, you can see the way his eyes gleam, like he’s pleased with the sudden turn of events. “But perhaps not the will.”

Your eyes narrow. “You think I’m bluffing.”

Mori shrugs, tapping his fingers against the closed folder. “I think you’re angry—anger is a fire that burns hot, but short. You’ve invested too much in this organization to truly walk away, let alone betray it. And you and I have been through far too much together, my dear.”

Your throat tightens at the reminder of your past with Mori, but you only raise your chin so as not to let the discomfort show on your face.

Chuuya exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. "Boss—"

But Mori lifts a hand, silencing him. “That’s not to say your threats are without weight,” he continues, tilting his head. “The depth of your connections is impressive, your influence undeniable. You’ve built something that hinges on your continued existence here. I recognize that.”

“I’m not the same girl I was back then,” you say, lips tightening. “I know my worth, no matter what you do to try to make me feel it’s less. You can’t afford to lose me—try to call my bluff. I dare you.”

Mori hums, resting his chin on his hand as he observes you, violet eyes glittering. “No, you’re not. That girl would have never had the guts to stand against me like this.”

You don’t reply to that. The tension in the conference room becomes stifling as the two of you stare at each other, each waiting for the other to concede.

“You should know by now,” he finally says smoothly, “that I don’t deal in ultimatums. I deal in opportunities. So tell me—who do you propose we take instead of Dazai-kun? There is no one there with equal value.”

This is it, you think, regret swelling in your throat as you meet Mori’s gaze head-on. There’s no coming back from this, and there’s no forgiveness for it. Dazai will resent you for this as long as he lives.

“Nakajima,” you reply after a moment. “The tiger.”

Mori stares at you for a moment, eyes widening slightly. All three of the other executives turn to look at you in shock, and you stiffen when Mori suddenly laughs. It’s a bright and amused laugh, one that tells you he’s genuinely surprised by your answer, delighted by it even. His hand flies to his mouth to smother his giggles, but his shoulders continue to shake as he slowly calms down.

“And I would argue that he’s more valuable than Dazai,” you say once he’s mostly quieted down. Mori raises his eyebrows, entertained, but nods for you to explain. “Every conflict Yokohama has seen over the past six months has been centered around him. The Guild had a bounty worth seven billion yen on him and started a full-blown war for him, destroying their organization. Dostoevsky and the House of the Dead and the Decay of the Angel were hyper-focused on getting their hands on him. According to Akutagawa’s reports from the conflict between him, Atsushi, Dostoevsky, and Fukuchi, Dostoevsky spoke of him being connected to the reality-altering book that’s apparently here in Yokohama. And I know damn well Christie is coming for it, and him, too. If we can get our hands on him and understand what exactly his connection is with that book, we might be able to get ahead of the imminent conflict with the Clocktower. I trust I don’t need to explain just how destructive it will be if it happens in the heart of our territory.”

Mori’s amusement fades, and none of the other executives reply, so you take it as an opportunity to drive the point home.

“Okay, I will explain then,” you continue flatly. “The Order of the Clocktower is a British state organization. They’re not part of the underground—not really—and they’re not a simple secret society like the Guild. They are backed and empowered by the English government, and the English government is backed and empowered by the entire Western world. If Agatha Christie gets her way, it won’t just be the Order of the Clocktower on our doorstep, it’ll be the American AASF and the French SFCCA—”

“That would start a military conflict with our government—” Kouyou starts to disagree, shaking her head.

“No, it wouldn’t, because Christie will call a meeting with our Prime Minister first. She'll frame the situation in a way that makes us the sole target of the military operations. They’ll say we’ve gotten our hands on an artifact that could alter the very fabric of reality, and because of it, we’re a major global threat. They’ll use the incident with the Decay of the Angel as an example and claim we used that book to bring back our members who were lost to the vampire virus and the detectives who were killed by Fukuchi.—it doesn't matter if it's not true because it'll be believable. They’ll back him into a corner to where he would either have to agree or be deemed just as much of a global threat as us, and when he agrees, we’re going to be facing the full military force of the entire Western world. How exactly do you think that is going to turn out for us?” 

“It’s all ‘what ifs,’” Kouyou says, raising her chin. “How are you so sure that’s what Christie will do?” 

Your gaze slides to the side to focus on her. “Because that’s what I would do. Christie is a political monster, more than I am, even. She won’t make mistakes—she’s going to keep her hands squeaky clean on the legal front.”

“There are still holes,” Chuuya says, leaning forward on the table to look at you. “Yeah, they could say we used it to bring back our members, but we could tell them that Stoker just canceled his ability. And there’s no proof that the detectives were killed—the only people that know that are the detectives themselves, who aren’t going to give themselves up like that, Fukuchi, who is dead, and…”

Chuuya’s expression suddenly shifts. He sits up right, gaze focusing on you. “You don’t think Dostoevsky is dead,” he realizes quietly. “Did you hear something?” 

“Not only do I not think he’s dead, but I would bet my life he’s with Christie right now in England planning out their next attack,” you say quietly. “It’s going to come soon—they know we don’t have that book yet, and they know Nakajima still doesn’t understand his ability. They need to make their move before we get any closer to finding it, because they know once one side gets their hands on it, it’s game over. Our best chance of finding that book is through Nakajima, and that’s why he needs to be the one brought over here. The Agency’s President gives him control over his ability, but not understanding—he needs to understand his ability so that we can understand his connection to that book, so we can find it before we’re getting fucked by the West’s military.”

Mori lets out a long breath, rubbing at his face as he leans back in his chair. “I have a lot to consider,” he says tightly, waving the four of you off. “Go. Meeting dismissed.”

Verlaine is the first out of the room—he always is—but he gives you a long look as he leaves, signaling to you that he’s going to want to talk to you soon. You sigh, but nod at him before he heads out. Kouyou is the next out, a grimace on her face and her shoulders a bit too tense as she makes her way out of the room. Chuuya waits for you at the door, leaning against the frame as you rise to your feet to leave.

When you turn your back to Mori, he finally speaks up. You knew he would. “You understand that he’ll never forgive you for being the reason his precious protege is dragged into the dark.”

He speaks the last two words mockingly, you don’t have to look at him to see the amused expression on his face.

“I understand,” you murmur, ignoring Chuuya’s heavy gaze. “I didn’t make my decision lightly. Nakajima is the best option for the Port Mafia.”

You make your way over to Chuuya, freezing when Mori speaks again, “Do you know why I’ve always held Dazai-kun and Yosano-kun in higher regard than you?”

You stiffen, ignoring how Chuuya looks away, pretending he can’t hear the conversation between you and Mori. A part of you wants to just walk away—you don’t need to deal with him taunting you right now, but you know he’s not going to let you leave until he’s made whatever point he wants to make.

“Why is that?” you ask tightly.

“It’s because they think for themselves. They take the initiative. You follow orders like a loyal dog, good for a lot of things, but not what I want,” Mori says casually. Your jaw tightens—like he didn’t make you this way, you think bitterly, but bite your tongue. “I’m glad to see you finally taking a step out of your shell, my dear. Fascinating that it only took threatening Dazai-kun for it to happen. I do wonder how far you will go to preserve his light.”

 You stiffen, gaze snapping to the side to focus on Mori, but he only gives you an easy smile in return, violet eyes glittering maliciously.

“I’m eager to find out,” he murmurs, before waving his hand dismissively. “Go. I’ll consider your alternative.”

You exhale sharply, head snapping back to look in front of you as you storm out of his office and into the hallway. Chuuya lets the door shut behind the two of you, reaching out to grab your wrist before you can get too far. He pulls you back toward him, forcing you to face him. His gaze is concerned as he looks down at you, a frown tugging at his lips.

“Are you okay?” he asks quietly.

“I’m great,” you reply sarcastically, giving him an apologetic look when irritation flickers across his face. “He’s going to hate me, Chuuya.”

“Nakajima might not even be the one chosen,” Chuuya says. “The boss has been set on that bandaged freak. You know that.”

“Well then I’m dead,” you say with a tight smile. “I literally just announced my plans to betray the Mafia if Dazai is chosen. Kouyou will execute me on the spot.”

Chuuya’s expression darkens, and his voice is low as he promises, “I won’t let that happen.”

“Then you’ll be a traitor too,” you say airly. “Is that what you want?”

Chuuya doesn’t like the idea of that, you can tell from the way his face twists, but he doesn’t waver. Instead, he says again, “I won’t let that happen.”

Your throat tightens as you swallow, and Chuuya’s expression softens. He glances down the hall quickly to make sure nobody is around, and then he steps forward, reaching out to wrap an arm around you, cradling the back of your head as he pulls you close to him. You let out a shaky breath as you bury your face in the crook of his neck, arms hanging limp at your side.

“What are you going to do now?” he asks quietly.

“I don’t know,” you reply, voice wavering. “Go to him, maybe. It’ll probably be my last chance.”

“Don’t say that,” Chuuya murmurs. “The bastard loves you. He always has—”

“And I’m repaying his love with betrayal, Chuuya,” you interrupt tightly. “This isn’t just us being on opposite sides. I put his protege—the kid that he saved—up on the chopping block. It’s too personal. There’s no coming back from it.”

“You did it for him, though—”

“And that makes it even worse. You know that.”

Chuuya sighs, but he doesn’t refute what you’re saying, which makes your heart feel even heavier. “Are you going to tell him when you see him?”

“I should,” you reply quietly. “So he isn’t blindsided.”

“But are you?”

“... I don’t know.”

---

Dazai isn’t in his apartment when you get there, so you decide to explore.

You’ve never been to it before—it’s messy, too small, and there’s a spoiled smell coming from his fridge. The futon on the floor is stiff, the padding is nonexistent, and the blanket is dirty, crusted; he probably hasn’t washed it in ages. Dazai has always liked soft things—he buried himself in fluffy blankets, plush pillows, and comfortable loungewear back when he lived at your apartment. He makes himself uncomfortable as a way of punishment. He would wear bandages that itched his sensitive skin until you stocked up on softer ones, and in his shipping container, he slept on a thin pad with an even thinner blanket until he moved in with you.

Now, he’s doing it all over again.

You frown as you kneel next to his futon, fingers brushing over the uncomfortable fabric, but your gaze is pulled away when you hear his door unlocking. You sit back on your heels, looking up as Dazai enters his apartment. A soft smile curls on your lips when you see the tired expression on his face—he doesn’t notice you at first, but when he does, he jumps so badly that his phone drops right out of his hands.

“Jesus!” he gasps, shooting you a withering look when he sees the amusement on your face. “What are you doing here?”

“Not happy to see me?” you drawl, rising to your feet and tilting your head to the side.

“Of course, I am,” he says immediately, voice quiet. He looks embarrassed as he glances around his apartment, eyes lingering on the mess around him. “I wasn’t expecting company.”

“Want me to help you clean up?” you offer, making your way over to him. Dazai immediately leans down to brush his lips against yours in greeting. It’s so casual, so domestic, it makes your heart ache knowing that it’s not going to last. 

“Can you?” he asks softly. “I just—I haven’t been able to. I’ve tried.”

Your hands settle on his hips, thumbs rubbing gentle circles over his hipbones through his pants. Dazai is never able to bring himself to clean when he’s in his head, and he’s always in his head. In his shipping container, he didn’t have enough belongings to actually make a mess, but once he moved in with you, he struggled to keep his room clean, so more often than not, you had to help him with it otherwise your whole apartment would start reeking.

“I know you have,” you tell him. “I don’t mind helping.”

Dazai lets out a puff of air, lashes fluttering shut and head hanging forward for a moment. You lift your hand to cradle his cheek, and he instinctively leans into your touch.

“Thank you,” he breathes out, kissing your palm.

You give him a small smile. “Go figure out what’s making your fridge smell,” you tell him before wandering over to a stray bag he has lying around so you can start picking up the empty bottles of sake and half-eaten cans of crab.

“I think everything is making the fridge smell.” You hear him say as you frown down at the pile of trash near his futon. 

“Then throw it all out,” you answer. “I’ll send you some groceries tomorrow.”

“My savior,” Dazai coos teasingly, but when you look at him to roll your eyes, you see the fond expression on his face as he looks over at you, dark eyes swimming with adoration. “How could I ever repay you?”

The words are still teasing, but there’s a breathy edge to them that lets you know there’s some truth to them. Your expression softens, and you hope that he doesn’t notice the way guilt suddenly clogs your throat. You think he might, considering the way he squints at you slightly, as if trying to figure out what exactly is going on right now. You should’ve just texted him to come over to your place, coming to his was too suspicious.

“How about you repay me by getting rid of this and getting yourself something more comfortable to sleep in?” you finally say after clearing your throat, nodding your chin at his futon. “Why do you have to punish yourself, Osamu?”

Dazai’s gaze instantly lowers to the ground. “It’s not—It’s not punishment,” he disagrees as he turns his back to you to start filling a trash bag full of all of the food in his fridge. “I just… I can’t let myself get comfortable. I’m scared if I get too comfortable, I’ll start slipping back into old habits and—”

“You’re too hard on yourself,” you whisper, shaking your head as you tie off the bag and put it down near his door. You make your way over to him as he grimaces and tosses a whole carton of rotten strawberries into his garbage. He rises to his feet, an unreasonable expression on his face, and you slip your arms around his waist, resting your forehead on his shoulder blade.

“What’s really going on?” he asks quietly, lifting a hand to cradle the back of yours. “I know you wouldn’t come here for no reason.”

Always too perceptive, you think wryly, pressing your lips together so you don’t let out a damning sigh. You feel his thumb stroking the back of your hand, and you think you might be sick—you don’t deserve it. You don’t deserve the tenderness from him, not when you know what’s coming and he’s oblivious to it.

“I’ve done something… really bad, Osamu,” you whisper.

“You’ve done a lot of bad things,” Dazai tries to joke, but you can hear the concern in his voice. You can feel the way his grip tightens on your hand. “I’m sure this is nothing extraordinary.”

“It is, though,” you reply, throat spasming as you swallow. He gently pushes your arms off of him so he can spin to face you. He cups your cheek to lift your face, but you slide your eyes shut so you don’t have to look at him. “It really is, Osamu.”

“I know the worst thing you’ve done. It can’t possibly be worse than that,” Dazai says dryly, desperately trying to lighten the mood. His thumbs stroke your cheek as he tries to get you to look at him, but you don’t. “Talk to me.”

“It is,” you say. “It’s something you won’t forgive me for.”

Dazai swallows thickly, fingers tensing on your face. “There’s nothing I wouldn’t forgive you for,” he tells you, leaning down to brush his lips against your forehead. “Tell me what’s going on.”

You almost tell him. You really do. The words are on the tip of your tongue, threatening to let loose, and his touch his so gentle, his gaze so soft and imploring. He deserves to know, he shouldn’t be blindsided when Mori inevitably calls this meeting in a few days, but you can picture the way his expression would close off once he processes what you’ve done, the way he would step away from you, and you just can’t. 

Even if he deserves it, you can’t. 

“Can you just… hold me?” you ask quietly, voice wavering terribly. 

You feel so weak. This was your decision, and you knew exactly what it meant for you and Dazai when you made it, but now all you feel is regret. You know you did the right thing. If Dazai were dragged back into the Port Mafia, he would never get out a second time. He’d sink back into the dark and would never let himself see or feel the light again. But it being his protege, you know he’ll do anything he can to get him back. Nakajima Atsushi will be back with the Armed Detective Agency within a month of leaving.

But Dazai never would’ve allowed them to risk trying to get him back. He never would’ve let them risk incurring the wrath of the Port Mafia for reneging on a deal on his behalf. He doesn’t see himself as worth it. You couldn’t let it happen.

“Yeah,” he finally says, voice soft. “Come on.”

He leads you over to his couch, carefully pulling you into his lap. You sink into him, burying your face in the crook of his neck as you cling to his shoulders. Dazai’s arms are strong around your waist, one hand splayed on the small of your back, the other cradling the back of your head. He kisses your temple once before resting his forehead against the top of your head. You’re not usually the one being comforted like this—sometimes Chuuya will hold you when you’re upset, but more often than not, you’re the one doing the comforting—so you can’t help the way your eyes well with tears. 

Being in his arms doesn’t make you feel better, though. If anything, it only makes you feel worse. It makes the guilt in your chest swell, it makes the nausea building in your throat threaten to come up.

Dazai must feel when your tears start to spill over your cheeks, because his hand starts running up and down your back soothingly, fingers carding through your hair. He hums softly—it’s a vaguely familiar tune that you can’t quite place, maybe one of the ones he used to play on the piano for you—it’s low in your ear, you can feel the gentle vibrations of his chest through your body.

You love him. 

You love him so much that it makes you sick. You love him so much that you would do anything for him. He asked you months ago if you would ever choose the Port Mafia over him, and you told him no, but you were wrong. You would choose him—you would always choose him. You know that you’re fucking over the Port Mafia with this plan, you know that its going to get the short end of this deal—you don’t care, because it means that Dazai will be okay.

“I love you,” you rasp, voice cracking as you bite back a sob. “I love you, you know that, right?” 

He pauses in his humming briefly to say, “Of course.”

He says it so easily that it makes you choke, and he quickly resumes his soft hums, now subtly rocking you back and forth, kissing your temple again. He doesn’t say it back, and although he doesn’t need to—you can feel it in the way he holds you, in the way his lips touch your temple, in the way he hums softly to try to chase away whatever is distressing you—you’re glad that he doesn’t verbalize it. You don’t think you could handle hearing it from him right now, it would be just what you need to send you spiraling over the edge.

You know he wants to know what’s going on. Not knowing things makes him anxious, and he can’t hide the way his fingers are tense against your body, even if his touch is gentle—his hands have always been his tell. Four years ago, he would’ve insisted and insisted until the two of you either fought or you gave in and told him, but now, he’s content to hold you. Content to comfort you. Content to love you. Content to trust you.

And you’re going to repay him with a knife through the back.

It’s for him, you remind yourself desperately. It’s to protect him. He’ll be able to get Nakajima back, and everything will go back to normal for them, even if it won’t for the two of you. Dazai might never get over the betrayal, he’ll never get over the guilt of you putting Nakajima on the chopping block in his place, he’ll never get over the resentment. He’ll understand maybe after the initial shock why you did what you did, but he won’t ever get over it.

You should tell him. Warn him. It might not change anything, but he shouldn’t be blindsided, not by you, not ever. But he’ll try to convince you against it, or worse, he’ll go to Mori and offer himself up on his own once he realizes that his transfer isn’t guaranteed. You can’t risk that. 

“I’m so sorry, Osamu,” you gasp, fingers digging into his thin dress shirt as you cling to him. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he tells you, voice low and soothing. “It’s okay.”

But you know it’s not.

You know it won’t be.

---

The fateful meeting with the Agency comes too quickly. 

“Ah, Fukuzawa-dono,” Mori greets when the Agency arrives at the small park where you’re meeting them. It’s a neutral site as demanded of this type of junction. You would’ve preferred the tea house in Nishi-ku, but Mori waved you off and said that it wouldn’t take that long. “I hope everything has gone well on your front in the aftermath of Dostoevsky’s attack. I heard the Ministry of Defense was trying to cause trouble again. If you’d like, I could have our lovely hime talk to Tonan-san on your behalf… for a price, of course.”

Mori’s lips curve up into a cruel smile. He knows Fukuzawa will never say yes, not when his last offer of assistance came with the price of one of his detectives. The President’s gaze hardens on Mori as he raises his chin.

“Unnecessary,” Fukuzawa replies coldly. “Spare the pleasantries. We’re here to fulfill our end of the bargain.”

Mori hums in delight, but he doesn’t immediately speak. Your gaze cards across the small group—all of them are here. Kunikida Doppo stands stiffly on the right side of the President, and Edogawa Ranpo rocks back and forth on his heels on his left. Yosano stands with her back turned in the far back—Kyouka and the tiger stand near her, along with an orange-haired boy that you dimly recognize as the illusionist. 

Dazai is here too. He stands separate from the rest, arms crossed over his chest and an unreadable expression on his face as he stares down at the ground. He won’t lift his eyes, not even to meet yours. You’re glad because you think if he looked at you right now, he’d see right through you.

“Of course,” Mori agrees. “Very well, I must say, it was a much more difficult decision than I originally anticipated.”

A ripple of unease spreads across the detectives. Daza finally opens his eyes. His lips turn down into a tight frown, dark eyes seeking answers as he looks directly at Mori before his gaze flickers over to you. You avert your gaze, swallowing as you raise your chin and focus your attention on Fukuzawa. You can tell this unsettles Dazai from the way he immediately straightens, looking between you and Mori uncertainly—he thought his transfer was a given, he’s realizing that maybe it was not.

“Nakajima-kun, won’t you come over here?”

Mori sounds too pleased as he speaks the words. His smile widens when he sees how Yosano immediately whips around, eyes wide. Most of the detectives look shocked, but Nakajima himself seems like he hasn’t even processed what Mori said. You can’t bring yourself to look at Dazai—Mori hasn’t even mentioned your involvement in this decision yet, but you know that he will. You can imagine the way his eyes widened at Mori’s words, and you know Mori probably took glee in it, considering how difficult it is to catch Dazai Osamu off guard, and the image of it makes your stomach churn.

Fukuzawa looks displeased. His jaw is tight, and his expression is hard; you can see in his eyes that he wasn’t expecting Nakajima to be the one chosen. He doesn’t protest—he knows better than to openly renege on a deal with a Port Mafia—but he does lower his gaze to the ground.

“Come now, Nakajima-kun,” Mori hums, beckoning the boy over. “Since our hime was the one who insisted on your transfer, you’ll be working directly under her… I do hope you’re comfortable with that arrangement.”

“What?” Dazai breathes out. “What?”

You ignore him, keeping your gaze trained on Nakajima, who finally reacts. You watch as the waves of realization visibly wash over him, eyes widening slowly before they snap over to you. His hands clench into fists at his side, and his lips part in disbelief as he struggles to find his words. 

Although your attention is on Nakajima, your mind is on Dazai—you can feel him looking at you, waiting for you to explain what all of this is about. The betrayal won’t hit him yet; if only because he believes you’re the last person who would ever betray him like this.

“I—what?” Nakajima stammers, voice barely above a whisper. His eyes flicker between you, Mori, and Fukuzawa, pleading for an explanation.

You remain still, forcing yourself to maintain the neutral expression you’ve mastered over the years. But inside, your chest tightens as you will yourself not to look at Dazai. He’ll start to understand what’s happening now, what you’ve done, and you won’t be able to bear watching how the betrayal slowly writes itself across his face.

Mori chuckles, reveling in the tension, in the way your relationship with Dazai is crumbling in front of everyone like this. “Yes, she was quite insistent,” he continues smoothly. “I was set on… a different prize until she opened my eyes to your potential. The Port Mafia is eager to have you amongst its ranks.”

Nakajima takes a step back. “That’s not—” His voice shakes, and he stops himself, taking a deep breath before turning to Fukuzawa. “President—”

Fukuzawa doesn’t lift his gaze from the ground. His silence is an answer in itself. Nakajima’s breath hitches; he looks helpless, like he’s about to start crying.

“When you said you did something I wouldn’t be able to forgive, I didn’t think you actually meant it.”

Dazai’s words cut deeper than any blade. Your chest tightens, throat swelling as you fight to keep your composure. You knew this moment would come, you knew Dazai would look at you like this, you knew this would be the end of everything.

It’s for him, you remind yourself. He’ll get Nakajima out of the Port Mafia one way or another, and Dazai never would’ve let himself escape a second time. You did what you had to do—you’ll always do what you have to do, whether he agrees with it or not. He’ll understand what you’re trying to do, whether he ever forgives you for it… Well, that’s another matter entirely. 

Before you can open your mouth to reply to Dazai, Mori claps his hands together, voice laced with mock cheer. “Well then, now that that’s settled, let’s not drag this out any longer. Hime, take our newest recruit back home, won’t you?” 

A command. A test. A punishment.

You swallow hard, raising your chin as your gaze settles on Nakajima, whose body is tense like he’s on the verge of bolting.

“Come,” you say, voice even. “We’re leaving. If you try to flee, punishment falls on the Armed Detective Agency for reneging on a deal.”

Nakajima’s shoulders slump instantly, head falling forward—all of his will to run or fight dissipates at the mention of his actions falling on his found family. His hands tremble at his sides before clenching into fists again as he steps forward to stand at your side.

“Good boy,” Mori murmurs approvingly before turning his attention back to Fukuzawa. “Always a pleasure doing business with you, Fukuzawa-dono. Until next time.”

The Agency watches in heavy silence as Nakajima forces himself to move. His steps are reluctant, but he walks toward you, expression twisted in disbelief. You can feel the weight of every stare pressing into you, most of all Dazai’s. You don’t dare lift your gaze to meet his.

“Let’s go,” you say coldly, turning on your heel.

Nakajima follows.

Dazai does nothing to stop you, but you hear him call your name—quiet, angry, but most of all, betrayed. You hesitate for a fraction of a second before continuing forward. You don’t look back, you can’t afford to.

Mori falls into step beside you, too pleased with the way this played out. His satisfaction drips from his voice as he speaks. “I do hope you enjoy your new subordinate, my dear. After all, you fought so hard for him.”

You don’t answer. You simply keep moving, ignoring the betrayal burning in Dazai’s gaze and the suffocating silence left behind by the Agency.

You did what had to be done. Even if it did cost you everything.

It’s only once you get to the car that Nakajima finally speaks. His voice shakes, like he’s nervous to say anything but forces himself to anyway. You would give him props for it if you weren’t so distressed by how everything went down. “You did this to protect Dazai-san, didn’t you?” 

Your gaze shifts to the side, focusing on the weretiger, who looks up at you nervously, waiting for your answer. You didn’t take him to be so perceptive, so you only raise your eyebrows at him curiously. He shrinks a bit under your gaze, but then he squares his shoulders and takes in a deep breath.

“You picked me to protect him,” he says again. “It would’ve been him otherwise. You had to convince them to pick someone else, and I was the most convincing option.”

“What makes you think that?” you ask coolly.

“It just makes sense.” Nakajima shrugs, fingers twisting nervously in his lap. “I think that I’m glad you did. Dazai-san… he’s good. I’m glad he doesn’t have to come back here. He tried to pretend everything was okay, but I could tell he was upset. He didn’t want to come back.”

“Hm,” you respond, turning your gaze away to look out the window, but it’s only to hide the way your expression drops at the confirmation of Dazai’s anxieties about returning to the Port Mafia. It makes you feel better about what you did, but only for a second, because you remember that no matter how much he didn’t want to come back, he never would’ve wanted his subordinate to come here in his place. “I doubt you’ll be here for long.”

“What?” Nakajima asks. “What do you mean?” 

“Do you really think Dazai will let you become a member of the Port Mafia?” you ask dryly. “I give it a month max before he figures out a way to force us to give you back up to them.”

“Won’t you get in trouble for that since you were the one to insist on me?” he questions, and to your amusement, he sounds like he’s genuinely concerned on your behalf. 

“Probably,” you agree absently.

“You must… really love him,” Nakajima says quietly.

Your throat spasms at his words, lashes fluttering shut as your head hangs forward. 

“Yeah,” you say softly. “I do.”

---

You don’t expect to see Dazai for weeks. You think that he’ll pretend you don’t exist, he’ll block your number, and stop coming around to see you. That’s what he would’ve done years ago when he was mad at you and feeling too hurt for him to come to terms with what happened—that’s what he did do years ago when he was mad at you and feeling too hurt for him to come to terms with. 

Instead, that very night, he barges into your apartment. 

You’re three glasses of wine in, drowning yourself in your sorrows, when you get the notification that someone is coming up to your apartment. You know it’s not Klaus, because he has a mission with Akutagawa in Tokyo for the next three days, and you know it’s not Atsushi, because although you told him that he could come up to your apartment whenever he needed after you showed him his, you knew it would be a long time before he ever felt comfortable enough with you to take you up on that.

You assume that it’s Chuuya, because he knows how upset you are and he knows you’re probably getting wasted by yourself. So when you get the notification someone is coming up to your apartment, you drag yourself out of your bedroom and down the stairs, wobbly on your feet. 

You get down there just as the elevator doors slide open. “Chuuya, do you—” you start to say, but cut yourself off abruptly when it is not in fact your best friend standing in the elevator.

“Osamu,” you whisper, eyes widening, taking a step back in shock. “What are you—”

“What am I doing here?” he finishes for you when your voice falls off—the words are cold and mocking, a harsh jab to the gut. He stalks forward in your direction and you step back quickly to keep space between you. “You would like that, wouldn’t you? Would’ve rathered me stay away so you can avoid taking responsibility for your shitty decision. Well, surprise! All of those years of getting pissed at me for avoiding confrontation are over—why do you look so upset? Isn’t this what you’ve always wanted? You should be happy.”

Your lips part to speak, but no words leave them. Dazai backs you into the wall and doesn’t give you the chance to run when he reaches out to grab your dress shirt hard. Your wine glass slips between your fingers and shatters against the ground as he tugs you closer to him so that you have nowhere to run or hide. 

Your breath is shaky as you look up at him, and he’s livid. You can see it in the way his eyes are black—the same darkness and intensity you remember back from his years with the Port Mafia, but they’d never been directed toward you before. You can see it in the way the corner of his lips twitches in fury. You can see it in the way his shoulders are tense, like he’s having to physically hold himself back.

He’s also hurt. His hands have always been his tell, and they’re not shoved in his pockets, so you see the way his fingers tremble around the material of your shirt. And his throat bobs as he swallows thickly, waiting for you to say something.

When you don’t say anything, Dazai’s expression twists in anger. He pushes you back against the wall as he lets go of your shirt. He’s not rough with you at all—he never is, even when he’s blinded with rage—but still, all of the air whooshes from your lungs when your back hits the wall.

He steps away, turning his back to you and running his fingers through his hair, tugging at the ends as he lets out a frustrated noise. 

“How could you?” he finally demands, but the words aren’t harsh—his voice cracks over them, and when he turns to look at you, you can see the hurt written plainly on his face. “How could you? After everything I’ve told you, how could you push for Atsushi? You know that he’s the only thing I have that proves that I’m doing something right. Something that Odasaku can be proud of. How could you? You? Of all people, I never expected you to do this to me.” 

You want to blame your speechlessness on the wine, but you know that’s not the case. You want to say something, you really do, but you can’t find the words for what you want to say. An apology isn’t enough, and you hadn’t anticipated that Dazai wouldn’t have put together what your plan was. You figured that he wouldn’t until he calmed down, but he’s usually pretty quick to set aside his emotions to look at things logically—but you suppose he never really has when it comes to you. That was an oversight, but what you really didn’t expect was seeing him tonight. You thought that he’d go quiet for a few days, a large part of you genuinely wondered if you’d ever hear from him again.

“Osamu,” you murmur, taking a step closer to him, but he steps away from you.

“No,” he says, holding up his hand before turning his back to you. “Stay over there. Don’t come closer. Explain. I need you to explain, and I need to think. I don’t think straight when you’re near me, so just stay over there and tell me why.”

You halt in your tracks as you stare at him. You still don’t say anything, and you can see him getting more and more frustrated with each passing second. You try to tell him that you only picked Atsushi because you knew Dazai would get him back, that you couldn’t let Dazai back because you knew he would never let the detectives do the same for him, but you can’t.

“Was the idea of me being back so bad?” he demands, eyes wild as he turns on you again. “Let me guess, you finally proved yourself to Mori while I was gone and didn’t want to be back in my shadow again. That’s it, isn’t it? That’s all you’ve ever cared about. It’s only ever been Mori and the Port Mafia. Now that you finally have it—his approval, in track for taking over after him—you don’t want to risk me coming back and taking it from you again.”

You draw back like you’ve been slapped—you may as well have been, you think, throat tightening. Your lips part to tell him no, of course that’s not the reason why, but you can’t force the words out.

Is that what he really thinks?

“You don’t think I knew back when we were kids that you were jealous of me?” he asks, laughing breathlessly as he looks down at you. “I knew it from the moment we met. You resented that Mori kept me in Yokohama and sent you away, that I replaced you—you hid it well, but I knew. I saw the way your expression got all twisted whenever he praised me, when I got the open executive spot, how you’d never look me in the eye when I came back from meetings.”

You stare at him, speechless, and then whisper, “I loved you.”

“Not mutually exclusive,” he scoffs. “Love and resentment are two sides of the same coin.”

“Is that what you really think?” you ask him quietly. Dazai has always known how to hit you where it hurts, but this was… “That I wanted Nakajima because of… selfishness? Because I was scared you’d come back and upstage me?” 

Your voice cracks, your eyes wet with tears as you take a step backward. You don’t know what you thought he would think of all of this, but realizing that he thinks so little of you makes you sick to your stomach. Dazai’s expression twists at your question, like he only just realizes the gravity of the words he said to you, but then anger flashes through his eyes again.

“I don’t know what to think because you won’t explain,” Dazai shouts—you’ve heard him yell a handful of times before at his subordinates while he was with the Mafia, but never at you. “Won’t you fucking tell me why you picked him?”

“Because I knew you would get him back!” You mean to yell at him, but your words get caught on a sob that you just can’t bite back. You want to blame it on the alcohol, but you know it’s a product of the guilt that has been weighing you down for days and the newfound understanding of just how little Dazai thinks of you. “I knew you would get him back, Osamu, and I knew you’d never let them risk getting you back. That’s why I insisted on Nakajima. If you came back here, you’d never get out a second time, and you’re right, I don’t want you back here but it’s not because of jealousy, it’s because you don’t belong here.”

Dazai stares at you, expression unreadable, but before he can say anything, you continue.

“I told you that I’ve seen how much you’ve changed for the better, I’m not going to let you ruin everything because you’re going to throw yourself back to the Port Mafia to be a fucking sacrificial lamb for the rest of them,” you continue. “And you know what? You’re right, I am selfish, because I don’t give a damn about any of them. I care about you, and because you care about them, I tried to figure out a way for the whole fucking Agency to come out of this deal unscathed, and the only way of ensuring that is making sure Nakajima was the one picked. I knew Mori would jump at the chance to put a wedge between us by flaunting my part in this decision to you at the meeting, and I knew you would fight tooth and nail to get him back, so your precious Agency would be whole again by the end of the month.” 

Dazai says your name quietly, but you shake your head, stumbling over to the couch so you can sit down. You feel too dizzy—nauseous. You can barely see straight and your whole body feels fuzzy from the wine you’d been drinking.

“That time we met after you defected,” you whisper, taking in a ragged breath. “You were so drunk, you probably don’t even remember what we talked about. But you told me I never would’ve chosen you over the Port Mafia, and that’s why you couldn’t say goodbye.”

You hear him making his way over to you, but you don’t dare look up from where you’ve buried your face in your hands.

“I told Mori that if he brought you back to the Port Mafia, he might as well execute me on the spot,” you say, ignoring the way he inhales sharply as he sits down next to you. “I told him I would leave. I’d go to Tolstoy. I would bury the Port Mafia and then him. I convinced him to pick Nakajima because I knew you would get him back, even though I knew it was screwing us over. I chose you, I’ll always choose you, Osamu, no matter what the cost is, even if you hate me for it.”

“I could never hate you,” he tells you quietly, tugging your hand to beckon you to look at him. “Look at me. Please.”

You let out a shaky breath and lift your head from your hands to look at him. The expression on his face is conflicted—you’re sure that he has plenty to say, but just doesn’t know where to start.

“Why didn’t you just tell me when you came over?” he asks desperately, threading his fingers through yours and squeezing tightly. “If you just explained—”

You shake your head. “I didn’t trust you not to go running to Mori to offer yourself up once you realized your transfer wasn’t a given,” you tell him quietly, “I did what I had to do.”

Dazai’s expression instantly twists. “But if you’d explained—”

“No,” you insist, looking away from him until he tugs your hand again. You let out a heavy sigh, eyes landing on his. “No, Osamu. You’re too emotional when they’re involved. I couldn’t risk it, I’m sorry.”

Dazai blanches. “Too emotional?” he demands, offended. “E-emotional? That’s ridiculous, I’m not emotional.”

Your lips curl up softly when you see how flustered he is by the accusation. “A little emotional,” you disagree, expression smoothing out when he lifts your hand to kiss your knuckles before pressing your palm against his face. “It’s endearing, but I just couldn’t risk it.”

His lashes flutter shut as he sighs heavily into your palm. Your throat tightens when he turns his face into your hand, forcing you to cradle his cheek. He doesn’t speak for a moment, but when he does, it makes your chest feel heavy.

“Promise me that if something like this happens again, you’ll tell me,” he whispers, dark eyes sliding back open to look at you. They’re a light amber in the dim lighting of your living room—too soft, too gentle, too imploring. “I—I need you to talk to me. I can’t—you don’t understand how it felt at the meeting. I was mad that Atsushi was chosen, but it felt like—the thought of you going behind my back. Betraying me. I couldn’t breathe, I’d never felt anything like that before. It felt like I was dying. It felt like I was losing you. I’d only ever felt this way before when—”

When Oda died, you finish for him when he cuts himself off abruptly, pulling his face away so he can turn his head in the opposite direction. You let out a soft sigh and shift in your seat to turn toward him. You lift your hand to his face to force him to look at you again—when he does, his eyes are glassy like he’s about to start crying.

“I can’t promise you that,” you tell him quietly, thumb stroking his cheekone gently. “I told you back during the Pushkin incident that I won’t be able to tell you everything anymore, but can you just trust that I’ll always choose you?”

Even after everything that’s happened the past few days, it scares you how much you mean those words. You will always choose him, no matter what the cost of it is. Your breath is shaky as you hold his gaze, searching his eyes for understanding.

Dazai is quiet for a long time, the silence thick between you. He’s still holding your other hand, and though his hand trembles, he holds onto you tightly, like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded.

“Okay,” he finally says. “I can… I can do that. I can try.”

“I will always choose you, Osamu,” you repeat quietly, squeezing his hand. “I promise.”

Dazai suddenly looks guilty, averting his gaze to the ground. “I didn’t mean what I said before,” he murmurs. “I—I was just angry. I—”

“I know,” you interrupt. “It’s okay.”

You don’t want to think about what he said before anymore—he was wrong, but he was also right. You had been jealous of him when you guys were younger, a part of you resented him as much as you loved him, and though you tried to push it away, it was always there. A constant reminder that there would always be someone more valuable than you to Mori. That you’d always be his second, third choice. You should’ve known Dazai had always been aware of it, but you never expected him to use it against you.

“It’s not,” he whispers. “I shouldn’t have—”

“Osamu, please,” you say, eyes sliding shut as you look away. “Drop it.”

His throat bobs as he swallows hard, voice cracking as he finally whispers, “You’re all I have. You’ve always been all I’ve had. I just… can’t lose you. I can’t.”

“You won’t,” you promise, shifting forward. “You—”

You bite back a yelp when Dazai suddenly grabs you. He lays back against the couch and pulls you onto his chest. You tense for a second, but then he wraps an arm around your waist and brings his free hand up to cradle the back of your head. He holds you close, you can feel his heart thrumming in his chest, the erratic pace evening out to match yours, and you bury your face in the crook of his neck. He kisses your temple before resting his forehead against the top of your head as you sink into his arms. 

Your eyes flutter shut, suddenly all too tired—the wine, the stress of the day, and the stress of this conversation with Dazai finally getting to you. The weight of Dazai’s arm around your waist and the feeling of his fingers absently toying with your hair is quickly lulling you to sleep.

He hums in protest, but the vibration only makes you sleepier. “You can’t sleep—we need to set up guidelines about Atsushi.”

You let out a soft laugh, but you don’t open your eyes. “This isn’t co-parenting, Osamu.”

“I mean, it kind of is,” he says. “Atsushi is my little protege, you’re my girlfriend, he’s going over to you, and we’re technically separated in two different organizations. So it’s kind of co-parenting, and like good co-parents, there needs to be rules and the first one—”

“Tomorrow, Osamu,” you yawn, shifting to nose his neck before you kiss his pulse point gently. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

He lets out a dramatic sigh, but his arms tighten around you and he lifts his head briefly to kiss the top of yours again. “Fine, fine, I suppose it can wait until morning, but only because my sweet hime is sleepy.”

“I love you,” you whisper.

“I love you,” he echoes softly as you drift off to sleep. “More than you could ever imagine.”

---

Chuuya is quite glad that he decided against bringing up his ‘97 Petrus when he gets up to your apartment and finds you curled up on the couch fast asleep with the very fucker that Chuuya was coming up here to console you over.

He really should’ve expected this.

He stands at the side of the couch, arms crossed over his chest and lips twisted in a deep frown as he looks down at the two of you. For a long, heavy second, he can only stare, thoroughly uncomfortable when a strange, warm feeling bubbles in his chest. The sight is too familiar—if Dazai’s bandages were wrapped around the right side of his face, he could almost pretend the three of you were eighteen again and Chuuya came up to your apartment for a movie only to find the two of you passed out already.

Then, with a low scoff, he runs a hand through his hair and whispers, “Unbelievable.”

Dazai’s face is half-buried in your hair, one arm snug around your waist and the other cradling your head, and you’re fast asleep in his arms. He can’t see your face, but he doesn’t need to—he can picture the peaceful expression on it, one that he’s hardly seen since the bastard left four years ago.

Dazai is sleeping too. Chuuya’s almost surprised he didn’t wake up when the elevator arrived on your floor—he’s always been a light sleeper. He supposes it’s just testament to how much Dazai lets his guard down around you. How much he trusts you. How much he loves you.

Chuuya sighs as he rolls his eyes. “Told you it would be fine,” he mutters to you as he snatches a blanket off of the armchair to drape it over the two of you even though he knows you can’t hear him. “Worried over fuckin’ nothing.”

You shift in your sleep when you feel the blanket on top of you, and Chuuya’s throat tightens when he sees the tear tracks staining your cheeks. He lets out a puff of air, lifting a hand to stroke your hair gently for a moment before he shakes his head to leave the two of you in peace.

“Both fucking freaks. Deserve each other.”

If there’s a small, fond smile on his lips, then he’s glad neither of you are awake to see it.

[cruel-as-sin]

what happens when you say “i hate you” to different versions of logan (gender neutral) (smut version)

inspired by a conversation with @lostinlovingrevery, hope you all enjoy!

70s!logan

you’ve been having a really bad day. a really, really bad day. the last thing you need is logan brushing you off because he’s “got shit to do, doll.” so you say it, with a stomp of your foot for dramatic effect. you don’t mean it, he knows that. but you aren’t expecting him to also know exactly what you’re asking for, rough hands grabbing you by the hips and shoving you down onto the couch. he grumbles curses under his breath, fumbling with his belt buckle, and you can’t even process what’s happening before he’s pushing into you. the stretch, the burn, the overwhelming fullness, cause your eyes to roll back into your head. upon seeing this, a pleased expression comes to his face. your mind goes blank within moments, no thoughts except the man pounding into you, cigar still perched in his mouth, smoke blurring your vision as he grunts. “there we go. finally fuckin’ quiet.”

origins!logan

you don’t hate him, you hate the grocery store and those assholes at work and the guy who cut you off when you were driving home. but it just kind of slips out- you’re stressed, anxious, and your sweetheart of a boyfriend unintentionally becomes your punching bag. you’ve barely gotten out an apology before he’s wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you flush against him. he studies you with a serious expression, hands rubbing circles against your hips. “you hate me, huh?” you try to reassure him that no, of course you don’t, but he won’t listen, the playful glint in his eyes betraying his true intentions. “seems like we oughta fix that.” despite your protests that you’re fine, he carries you to bed with ease, laying you down and using his tongue to work as many orgasms out of you as you need to be happy and satisfied. “feelin’ better, sunshine?”

animated!logan

it comes after he’s slammed you into the danger room floor for the twentieth time that day. you’re utterly exhausted, just wanting one fucking win, but he’s not letting up. he doesn’t take it easy on you- never does. you have a lot of respect for him for it, but goddamn does it piss you off. that was probably the wrong thing to say, though, given the way he’s staring down at you right now. “hate me? that’s harsh, bub.” something predatory flashes in his eyes. “must not wanna touch me then either.” you get to your feet, glaring daggers back at him. he draws it out with a smug smile, waiting for you to admit the truth- it’s not about if you give in, but when. you’re too proud to admit it- so instead you drag him to the nearest closet, sinking to your knees and unbuckling his belt. his hand fists itself in your hair, guiding your pace as he fucks your throat. he makes you take all of him, forcing you down to the base, grinning when you choke on his cock. “don’t worry. i’ll take this as an apology.”

trilogy!logan

you’re play fighting in the kitchen- a common occurrence as he tries to interrupt whatever you’re doing. today it borders on arguing, which is why the exasperated words direct themselves his way, punctuated by a “so much” for emphasis. he just looks at you, with his gorgeous face that has your stomach doing flips, taking a few steps closer until he’s invading your space. “that’s not what you were saying last night, baby.” the memory of last night, his touch and his filthy words in your ear, brings heat to your cheeks. his breath hits your skin, his mouth tantalizingly close to yours, the proximity making you squirm. before you know it, you’re upstairs, a smug smile on his face as he makes you fall apart with his fingers, begging and pleading for more. the way you writhe underneath him confirms what you won’t confess, and he hums in fake contemplation. “guess you don’t hate me that much after all.”

2013!logan

you want to go out into the city, he tells you it’s not safe. it’s a debate that’s been going around in circles for days until you finally let the words slip. his silence, paired with the flash of anger in his eyes, tells you that was a mistake, but it’s too late to take it back now. not that you would dream of it as he drags you to the bedroom, one rough hand grabbing your chin and forcing you to look in the mirror as he sinks you down onto his length. the other lifts your hips up then drops you back down again, a slow but brutal pace. it’s too much, and you feel lightheaded as he growls in your ear. “what do you say, sweet thing?“ still, you’re coherent enough to remember your manners, babbling incoherent thanks and apologies, reduced to a basic vocabulary as he impales you on his cock over and over. tears begin to stream down your face, and his firm hold keeps you there, made to see the way he wrecks you completely, the way you fucking love it.

dofp!logan

you’re tied down to the bed, silk rope binding your wrists and ankles. he’s been teasing you for hours. logan always likes to play with his food- slow, methodical, taking his time with you. and god, you enjoy it, but you’ve been good today and you just want your reward. the words are muttered, frustrated, and you’re grateful when he keeps going. you think must not have heard you by the way he’s bringing you closer and closer to that delicious peak, until his gravely voice is right next to your ear. “careful.” he takes your chin, making you look at him as he pulls his hand away from where you need it most. his eyes are serious, his tone a warning, one that only further turns you on. a whine escapes you, your hips bucking at just how close you are, how much you need this. “don’t want me to leave you here, do you, honey?” he smiles in satisfaction when you immediately shake your head, begging him not to do that to you. “that’s what i thought.”

old man!logan

you know you shouldn’t have said it. of course you know you shouldn’t have said it, but that didn’t stop you from doing it anyway. logan doesn’t move from the armchair he’s sitting in, whiskey bottle lowering from his lips. he raises an eyebrow, looking up at you with an unamused expression. “you done?” meekly, you swallow and nod, mumbling a sorry and thinking that’ll be the end of it. but you think wrong. he sets the bottle on the table, turning to face you again, something serious in his eyes. “c’mere.” he pays his lap. you move to sit, but he stops you with a firm hand against your thigh. “bend over, sweetheart.” your heart races as you realize what your punishment will be. you do as he says, and soon enough, your eyes are filled with tears from the spanking he delivers you. “you know better than to pull that shit on me.” he grumbles, clearly disappointed in your attitude. “don’t do it again, y’hear me? got enough to worry about without you bein’ a brat.”

worst!logan

you’re standing outside the door of your apartment when it happens. you’ve been lamenting to wade and vanessa about how much logan drives you crazy, with his stupid face and huge muscles and unfairly sexy voice. unbeknownst to you, logan is just down the hall, coming back from the grocery store. looking back, you’re fairly certain both wade and vanessa knew he was coming before you did, deciding to leave you to your cruel fate. it isn’t until you feel strong hands on your hips and warm breath on the back of your neck and a suspiciously familiar sexy voice in your ear that you realize the trap you’ve stepped into. “you’re hurting my feelings.” you turn around and are met with a fake pout. who knows where wade and vanessa went, all you know is that he’s backing you up against your door, continuing to get closer even as you stumble through apologies. “that’s it? you’re sorry?” he flashes a toothy grin, something predatory gleaming in his eyes. “come on, angel. i know you can do better than that.” he’s cornering you: nothing to do, nowhere to run- except, of course, his lips. so you give in, tongue crashing against yours, his body enveloping your senses. and trust me, he’s gonna make sure you never think a single damn bad thing about him again.

patch!logan

you’re in the casino, begging him to let you get in on a game. he says your job is to just “sit here and look pretty, darlin’,” but you’re getting really fucking bored. the moment the words cross your lips, you regret it. not just because you don’t mean it, but because you can see immediately that logan is pissed. he gives you a look the likes of which he’s never given you before, and nearly shoves you off of his lap. you wait by the edge of the table until the place empties out for the night, thinking maybe he just needed to get it out of his system. but even when the two of you are alone once more, he still doesn’t say a word, just leans back and spreads his legs- a command, and you must obey it. so you do. crawling towards him on your hands and knees, reaching up to undo his belt buckle. as you pull his cock out, beginning to stroke him, the tip of his boot presses against your thigh, and you realize what he wants you to do. you’ll do anything to make it up to him, including sacrificing your pride. so you do: grinding on his boot, pathetic whimpers leaving your lips, muffled by the way your mouth is wrapped around his cock. all the while he says nothing, staring down at you with a menacing expression, and the only thing you can do is pray that you’ll be good enough that he’ll show you mercy.

cowboy!logan

you don’t even remember what you were fighting with him about. no, that left your head the second the unimpressed expression took over his face and the words “that so?” left his lips. you nod- stupidly, you nod. then you step back, but it’s too late, his lasso wrapping around you and tugging you closer to him. “ooh.” he sucks air in through his teeth, shaking his head with a heavily disappointed expression. “that’s gonna be a problem, isn’t it?” he doesn’t let you answer, pulling on the lasso a little harder and sending you stumbling to the ground. he leans down to be face to face with you, jerking his head toward the empty farmhouse a few hundred meters away. “you’d better find a way to make it up to me, sugar. and fast.” when you still don’t move, don’t say anything, he frowns, clicking his tongue at you. “get to it.” and now his voice has that commanding tone, and suddenly you are letting him pull you towards the dirty mattress in the farmhouse, tying your wrists to the bedpost as he cages you in.

[thisapplepielife]

Written for @steddiesportsau.

We Know What You Can Do

Prompt #4: High School Sports | Word Count: 1348 | Rating: M | CW: Mention of Weed, Nearly Fade to Black Sex | Tags: Eddie Munson Lives, Time Skips, Pre-S1, Post S4, Steve Harrington Needs Something From Eddie Munson

1981

"Just ask him!" 

Eddie is standing behind the line of trees, cigarette pressed between his lips, listening to the bickering that's happening on the steps leading up into the woods, just outside the track, on the outskirts of school property. Usually he's alone out here, but today he's fairly confident Harrington and Hagan are trying to work up the courage to solicit his services. 

Fucking freshman. 

Well, tough luck, boys. He doesn't even have his lunchbox on him today, and even if he did, he doesn't sell to little goody two-shoes, anyway. Rich kid narcs. Not in their pressed polos and penny loafers. They'd fold like cheap suits if caught, and he's not stupid.

So, he doesn't step forward, doesn't do anything, because it's fun to listen to them argue back and forth, knowing they aren't gonna get what they want from him. Eddie relishes saying no. He's gonna savor the build up, only to crush their dreams.

Suddenly, Hagan is pushed forward into Eddie's line of sight.

Eddie just raises an eyebrow as Hagan wipes his hands on his jeans. Oh, this should be good. 

"We have a question," Hagan says.

"We? You have a toad in your pocket?" Eddie asks, taking another drag off his cigarette. 

Hagan reaches backwards, and pulls Harrington into Eddie's line of sight with a fistful of his shirt.

"Ah, we. The boys who think they're gonna rule the roost of Hawkins High."

Hagan scoffs like he's offended, but Harrington just smiles. But neither say anything. If they have a question, they have to actually ask it.

"Ask me what? Use your words," Eddie says, because he enjoys watching them squirm. And will enjoy it even more when he gets to say no and they walk away empty handed. 

"So, like, we've seen you. And we know what you can do," Hagan says, as Harrington shoves his hands deep into his pockets. "And if we paid you, we were wondering if you'd be willing…"

Hagan trails off, and Eddie's getting bored of this. If they can't say it, they can't smoke it. Those are the rules. Eddie has lots of rules, and he enjoys enforcing them.

"Uh, you know that Paul broke his ankle, right?" Hagan asks, changing the subject, and Eddie just stares at him.

Yeah, he knows Paul DeWitt broke his ankle jumping out of the back of a pickup. That's what Eddie heard anyway. But he's not sure why that matters. Do they think some pot is gonna fix him?

"I guess I've heard that," Eddie says. He's seen him on crutches in the hallways, but it's not like he knows the kid. 

"He was on our relay team," Harrington says.

Now Eddie's really lost.

"Okay, and…?"

"Would you take his place?" Harrington asks, looking at Eddie from beneath his coiffed, and far too hairsprayed, bangs. 

"Say what?" Eddie asks with a barking laugh. They can't be serious.

"You're fast! You used to win the blue ribbon during every track and field day in grade school! I remember!" Harrington says, voice getting louder and louder.

Eddie just laughs harder, "I thought you two wanted to buy weed. You want me to run? On purpose? No fucking thanks."

"C'mon. Please. We made it to State, but now we're one guy short. We'll give you twenty bucks," Hagan whines.

"Not my problem," Eddie says, and this is the dumbest thing he's witnessed in at least a month. Did they really think he was gonna join their little sports cult? For twenty bucks? Unreal. "The answer is no."

Hagan wilts, and starts bitching under his breath that they could have gone to state as freshmans and now if they go it'll have to be with Craig Pollard and he is slow as molasses. 

He can't believe they honestly thought Eddie was an option. He pushes off the tree, and starts walking away.

"Wait!" Harrington yells, "What if I paid you in another way?"

Eddie quirks an eyebrow. This should be good.

"What are you gonna do, Harrington? Suck my dick?"

Harrington flushes, a blush coloring his cheeks, "No! I mean, uh, Coach Griffin said if we could convince you he'd give you a C in PE. You'd pass."

Eddie pauses. He's failing Freshman PE for the second goddamn year in a row, and he really doesn't want to take it for a third time next year. 

God help him, he's actually being tempted.

"One race?" Eddie asks, and Harrington bounces on the balls of his feet.

"One track meet," Harrington says, "we'd have to practice the handoff. That's the only part that's hard."

Eddie thinks about it. One track meet, and a little practice time might be worth it if he doesn't have to take PE again. He can run. He is fast. They aren't wrong about that.

"Fifty bucks, the C, and no promises that we'll win."

Hagan pumps his fist in the air, and Eddie already regrets this decision.

1987

"Coast is clear."

Eddie slinks around the corner of the gym, and slides through the door being held open for him. He walks across the wooden gym floor, his shoes making the wood creak with every step. He still hates being here. He never thought he'd come back after everything that happened.

But here he is.

He looks up at the banner hanging in the gym. The one that haunts him.

State Track & Field. 1981. State Champions. Tommy Hagan. Steve Harrington. Tim Killan. Eddie Munson. 

It horrified him when it went up, and it horrifies him now. Nobody said there'd be a banner.

And now it's his greatest shame that he ever let those two doofuses talk him into running a fucking race for fifty bucks and a passing grade.

Eddie leans against the wall under it. This is another stupid decision, and if they get caught, they'll revoke his diploma that they very reluctantly gave him in the first place after that goddamn Spring Break from hell. 

Steve leans the ladder up against the cinderblock wall and climbs. Eddie holds onto it, and watches as Steve unhooks the banner, and tosses it over his shoulder before climbing back down. 

When he reaches the floor, he grins, "There. It's gone."

They'll probably replace it. Eddie knows that. But he appreciates the effort, nonetheless. 

Steve shakes it out, and wraps it around his shoulders like a cape. He grins, eyes all soft and locked on Eddie's. It's stupid, and silly, but Eddie's fucking smitten. God help him. 

Sometimes it's hard to reconcile that the kid who asked him to run in that race is somehow the same man that Eddie's so fucking in love with today. It doesn't seem possible.

"I think you asked for another form of payment," Steve says, and before Eddie can ask what he means, Steve is sliding to his knees in front of Eddie. Fingers working open his belt buckle, and then his jeans. "You wanted me to suck your dick. I guess I still owe you."

Steve Harrington doesn't owe Eddie anything. He saved his life. And then, for reasons Eddie still doesn't understand, he decided to stick around and love him. 

If they get caught doing this, the stolen banner will be the least of their concerns. But for some reason, Eddie can't find it in himself to say no. Not with Steve kneeling before him, that stupid green banner draped over his back, and his hand wrapped around Eddie's cock.

Then he sinks down, taking Eddie into his mouth. It's not the first time. It's not the twentieth time, but Eddie's never gonna get used to this.

"Goddamn, Harrington," Eddie says, and Steve pulls off and laughs. 

"I don't default on my debts, Munson."

Eddie touches the side of his face. He could say lots of things. Soft, mushy, sentimental things. He lived. Steve Harrington made sure of it. But Steve knows all those things. They've had those conversations during all the healing. Late at night, whispering in the dark.

Instead, he smiles.

"Well, then. You better pay up, Harrington. With interest."

If you want to write your own, or see more entries for this challenge, pop on over to @steddiesportsau and follow along with the fun! 🏃‍♂️

[windownextdoor]

NOT JUST YOU

plot + sfw + nsfw + fem!reader wc: 730 when your father retires, you take on the demanding farm work you’ve always loved. but- everything changes when a stranger arrives, saying your father hired him. pt. 2

another grueling day, another early morning and late night, another fucking day with simon.

you didn't know to react with another person around. another person to help you with chores that you always did by yourself. your dad said this was for your own good.

or was it?

changing routine was never in your books and now that you woke up and had someone alongside you, it was easier. something you'd never admit to your dad or simon. there wasn't a constant weight on your shoulders, you weren't that tired at the end of the day.

but, if simon still didn't get on your fucking nerves-

"darlin' y'gotta just tell me what to do."

"i'm trying to grab the hay for you and show you how to do it!" you were slightly exasperated. he'd been telling you since two weeks ago; when he started working here to just tell him what to do, not grab it for him or do it for him. you swore you heard him mutter under his breath once that, "fucking girl don't know how t'take help from anybody." his voice wasn't laced with annoyance, it was laced with cognizance that you hadn't had anyone to help you.

and it showed.

────୨ৎ────

"woman."

"simon."

"jesus fuckin' christ, y'hardheaded. give me a paintbrush and i'll help." simon said, extending an empty, calloused, large, veiny hand-

stop it.

"no, you can go home early today, you're already working way to close to christmas." you say, the paintbrush in your hand swatching back and forth on one of the smaller and shorter barn walls. your dad had expressed that the red was peeling off and definitely needed a new color.

so, you sanded some parts and started painting, until, of course-

"what was i hired for, sweets?"

"simon, it's fine, really, just relax and go home- fucking christ!" simon had grabbed your waist and hoisted you up onto his shoulders, like you weighed nothing.

you weren't small by any means.

you almost dropped your paintbrush, but one of your hands made it's way into his hair, to grab onto, so you didn't fall. your thighs were on the sides of his neck, his arms slung over your knees to keep you steady.

"'f i can't help y'paint, then i guess i'll give y'some height." simon, looked up, his eyes locking on yours, giving your knee a couple taps so you could keep painting.

you were still trying to make sure you weren't going to fall off the guy, you looked down, your eyes locking with his.

a moment passed.

two.

three.

four.

five-

"baby, start painting."

your brain short-circuited. you looked to the wall in front of you, and-

started painting.

────୨ৎ────

one hand staying atop his head, just to give yourself more balance.

totally not to feel his, unbelieveably soft blonde hair on his scalp.

you finished the wall and were itching to get off of his shoulders. they were probably sore. killing him. something. he crouched down and you got off quickly, "thank you, simon. but, you don't have to help me with that. it's just painting, and your shoulders are probably killing you right now-"

a hand was on the nape of your neck, making you look up.

"let me help you." simons rough voice was rough.

you were about to speak, before-

"yes, i was hired to work. but, i also was hired because your dad talked to me. talked to me about you. y'have someone else around now, sweets, let me help. you're going to burn yourself out at this rate, 's not good f'you."

his hand was subconsciously massaging the back of your neck, making you practically melt.

you blinked.

"so, h'bout this? i'll put the painting supplies up, y'go inside and take a hot bath. drink and eat something, and go to sleep f'me."

"my dad probably hasn't ate yet, and i need to wash dishes-" you started.

"he did eat. and he can do the dishes. he also believes that you need to take help from others." he retorted. his voice not wavering.

your blinks were getting slower as he kept massaging your neck.

"tha's it. go up there and do what i said, i'll see you tomorrow, darlin'."

maybe you could listen to him.

maybe you could learn to relax.

maybe, just maybe, you could take help from others.

────୨ৎ────

pt. 3 (soon!)

[bbyg4rl]

MAKING YOU MOAN ANOTHER MAN’S NAME

cw : jj x ARTSY!READER, smut, kinda public sex, wc - 600

warnings : public sex, its lowk perverted (?), moaning another man's name, exhibitionism, getting caught.

The bell over the boutique door rings as the door clicks shut, but JJ doesn’t wait. He grabs your waist and walks you back until your hips hit the counter, kissing you like he’s been starving. Paint jars rattle behind you, one nearly tipping, but neither of you care.

“You locked the door, right?” you breathe against his lips, even as your legs hook around his waist.

“Maybe,” he smirks, breathless.

And before you know it, he's got you bent over the counter, face pressed to the side, skirt bunched up around your waist, rough hands digging into your hips as he pounds himself into you. His mouth finds the curve of your neck, right below your ear, making you gasp.

“JJ—”

And then the bell above the boutique door rings again. You freeze. So does JJ. Panic flashes across his face for a split second before he silently mouths, shit.

“Hello?” a voice calls from the front. You recognize it — a regular, the guy who always lingers too long at the candle display.

JJ doesn’t hesitate. His hands are on your waist, gently but quickly helping you off the table. He’s dragging you behind the tall shelf near the back — He pulls you into the corner, pressing you gently against the wall, his body in front of yours as he lifts you up against the wall.

“You can keep quiet, right baby?”

Your eyes widen at his proposition, but you don't get much time to react before he’s pushing into you again. Your head falls back, hitting the wall. You press your hand to your mouth, trying to muffle any noises that leave you.

But really, it was a futile attempt. The loud squelching erupting from between your legs was enough to let anyone within a mile's radius know what you and JJ were up to.

JJ squeezes your ass, pushing you up so he could fuck your sweet cunt harder, “Don't cover your mouth, sweetheart” He turns back to look at the man near the candles.

“He can hear how well this pussy's taking me anyway.” JJ grins at you, punctuating his words with a sharp thrust, the kind that makes you lose your mind. Your hand falls to the side as a loud whine leaves your mouth.

You're sure the man heard you when you see a candle slip from his hands. “Want me to call him over?” JJ pants, forehead pressed to yours, voice low and shaky. “Make him watch how good this pussy takes me?”

You bite your lip to keep from crying out. You didn't want to give JJ the satisfaction of knowing how much his words had an affect on you.

“You can't lie to me, mama. This pussy tells me e'rything.” He groans, rolling his hips enough to let his happy trail rub against your clit.

“What’s his name?”

You can see the gears in his head turning. Fuck, this wasn't going to end well.

“Jackson,” you whisper.

“Perfect. Moan his name when you cum.” He deadpans.

Before you can question him, his hand leaves your hips, finger quickly flicking at your clit. You were already close, the added sensations just pushed you over the edge.

And you do it. “Fuck, Jackson—” You half-moan, half-scream, throwing your head back, while your hands tighted around JJ's shoulders and your nails dug into his back.

You see the man's head shoot toward where you and JJ stood. He'd clearly heard you now. You close your eyes, tears prickling at your waterline as JJ fucked you through your orgasm.

JJ looks back at your customer, shooting him a look of warning that sent the man fearfully stumbling outside the boutique as if he was the pervert. All while JJ was fucking into you.

“You okay, Sweetcheeks?” JJ asks, slowing down enough to let you answer.

“I think I just lost a customer,” You laugh, breathless.

“You only need one Jackson anyway,” He chuckles, pressing a kiss to the top of your head before resuming his pace.

check out my other works ! masterlist

[sergeantbarnessdoll]

Threesome with Sam and Bucky??? 🤭

When Confessions Become Reality » Sam Wilson/Falcon/Captain America and Bucky Barnes/Winter Soldier

Pairings: Sam Wilson x Female Reader x Bucky Barnes

Summary: What happens when you confess to your two guy friends, Sam and Bucky, that you’ve always wanted to have a threesome? They make it become reality.

Warnings: Smut (18+), language, dirty talk, kissing, hickeys, kissing, female receiving, fingering, blowjob, hair pulling, unprotected sex, threesome, praise kink, Bucky’s vibranium arm vibrates, pet names

A/N: Thank you for requesting @marvelobsessed134 🩵

Written on my phone. My apologies for any mistakes.

Header made by @buck-star

GIF IS NOT MINE! Gif credit goes to the creator.

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!🔞

It all started one night when you, Sam, and Bucky were hanging out. You told them that you’ve always wanted to have a threesome. You don’t know why you said it. It just slipped out. It got Sam and Bucky to thinking. Friends help each other out, right? So they’re going to help your threesome confession become reality.

That’s what they’re doing today. They went to your house to hangout with you. Then one thing let to another and you three ended up in your bedroom, naked, and on your bed. Sam is in between your legs, eating you out and Bucky is behind you, playing with your breasts and kissed along your neck. Your mind is so clouded with lust that you couldn’t believe that this is actually happening. Sam was about to make your first orgasm come.

“You still with us, baby?” Sam asks.

You hummed and nodded. You squirmed against Bucky a little bit when Sam’s fingers fucked you a bit faster. Your jaw dropped and your eyes fluttered shut.

“You feeling good, doll?” Bucky asks softly in your ear.

“Yes! Oh god, yes!” You moaned.

Sam and Bucky exchanged looks, smirking at each other.

“Show her that setting on your arm.” Sam says to Bucky.

“What set- Holy shit!” You moaned loudly when Bucky put his vibranium fingers on your clit and it started vibrating.

You didn’t even know Bucky’s vibranium arm had a vibration setting. What you do know is that you like it.

“You like that, babydoll?” Bucky asks.

“Yes!” You moaned.

Bucky’s vibranium fingers vibrating against your clit and Sam’s fingers fucking you brought you even closer to coming any second. They could sense it.

“You gonna cum, sweetheart?” Sam asks.

“Mhmm.” You moaned, nodding your head.

“Cum for us, doll.” Bucky whispers in your ear.

Your eyes rolled back to the back of your head as you came, moaning their names loudly. They took their fingers away from your pussy and allowed you to catch your breath for a moment before doing anything else.

“You alright, baby?” Sam asks, rubbing his hands against your thighs.

“Yes.” You replied.

“Be a good girl and turn over.” He says.

Sam moved back just enough for you to turn over, getting on your hands and knees. You were face to face with Bucky’s hard cock while Sam positioned himself behind you. Sam rubbed his cock against your pussy, getting it wet with your slick before sliding in your pussy. Your jaw fell open and a soft moan left your lips.

As Sam started to fuck you, Bucky rubbed his thumb against your bottom lip. You parted your lips just enough for him to slide it in your mouth. You closed your lips around his thumb and swirled your tongue around it and sucked on it like you’re about to do with his cock in a few seconds. He strokes his cock with his free hand as you did so. He watches you intently. You softly moaned around his thumb before he slowly took it out of your mouth. You bit your bottom lip and grinned when he lined his cock at your lips, tapping his tip against your lips.

“Let’s put that pretty mouth to work, doll face.” Bucky says huskily.

You hummed in response. You wrapped your hand around his cock, replacing his hand. You stroked his cock while you kitten licked his tip. You then licked along the length of his cock, from the base to his tip.

“God damn…” Bucky moans softly.

You finally wrapped your lips around Bucky’s cock and started bobbing your head. Bucky gathered your hair into a makeshift ponytail, holding it in his hand as you sucked his cock. Your eyes flickered up at him, making eye contact with him.

“Fuck…” Bucky moans.

“Does her mouth feel as amazing as we thought?” Sam curiously asks.

“It’s better than amazing. Her mouth feels incredible!” Bucky tells him. “You should feel it.” He adds.

“Oh, I will.” Sam smirks, his hand patting your ass. “Isn’t that right, baby?” He asks.

You hummed around Bucky’s cock in response. Sam sped up his thrusts. Bucky’s vibranium hand pushed your head down for you to take more of his cock, making you choke on his cock. You didn’t mind it one bit.

“I’ve never seen her be this good.” Sam points out.

“Me neither.” Bucky said. “Are you being a good girl for us, babydoll?” He asks.

You moaned when you got called a good girl. It’s pretty obvious that you have a praise kink.

“Oh, you like being praised, don’t you, baby?” Sam says.

You hummed around Bucky’s cock in response, making him moan.

“You’re our good girl, aren’t you, doll?” Bucky asks.

You tried your best to nod your head whilst sucking Bucky’s cock.

“Use your words. We want to hear it.” Sam says, patting your ass cheek.

You took Bucky’s cock out of your mouth momentarily to answer them.

“I’m a good girl for you guys.” You tell them, almost sounding innocent.

You couldn’t help but bit your bottom lip as you looked over your shoulder at Sam and then looked up at Bucky, your hand stroking Bucky’s cock. Bucky’s hand left your hair and gently grasped onto your jaw. He gently pulled you up towards him and kissed you. After pulling away from the kiss, he pushed your head back down to his cock. You began sucking him off again. Bucky’s hand found its place in your hair again.

You moaned around Bucky’s cock when you felt Sam’s cock hit that one spot inside of you. Sam smirks to himself, knowing that he found that one spot inside of you. Sam then brought one of his hands down to your clit and began rubbing it in a circular motion. You moaned around Bucky’s cock again and curled your toes at the feeling. Sam could tell you were getting close by the way your pussy was squeezing around his cock.

“You gonna cum for me, baby girl?” Sam asks.

You hummed around Bucky’s cock in response.

“Cum for him, doll face.” Bucky says.

Sam was fucking you at the most perfect pace and his fingers continued to rub your clit. Your orgasm built up fast. The coil in your stomach felt like it was about to snap. A guy has never made an orgasm build up this fast for you, not that you mind Sam doing that.

A loud and muffled moan left your lips as you came on Sam’s cock. Sam fucked you through your orgasm. He gave your clit one last rub before focusing on his own orgasm. You bobbed your head faster on Bucky’s cock to help his orgasm build up as well.

With the way you’re making both of them feel right now, they’re going to cum any second. You decided to take Bucky’s cock out of your mouth and lick along the veins of his cock. That made Bucky throw his head back in pleasure. You grinned to yourself and did it again before putting his cock back in your mouth.

Sam’s thrusts sped up the closer he got to coming. He’s right there and then he finally came inside of you. Bucky came in your mouth a few seconds later. You took his cock out of your mouth and swallowed his cum, sticking your tongue out to show him.

“Good girl.” Bucky praises breathlessly.

You smiled at the praise. Sam pulled out of you and laid down on the bed. You laid down in between your two guy friends, laying on your stomach.

“Did you enjoy yourself, baby?” Sam asks.

“Mmm, I did.” You hummed softly.

You leaned up and kissed Sam before getting on top of Bucky, straddling him. Your pussy was touching his cock, which was beginning to harden again.

“Can we do it again?” You asked, biting your bottom lip.

“Hell yes.” Sam and Bucky answered in unison.

You thought you’d be embarrassed for confessing that you’ve always wanted to have a threesome, but you’re not. Having a threesome with your two guy friends made it fun and comfortable for you.

❤️🩵❤️🩵❤️🩵❤️🩵❤️🩵❤️🩵❤️🩵❤️🩵❤️

-Bucky’s Doll

[riverbends]

https://www.tumblr.com/andrewcodymybeloved/781526766708719616/fuckin-wrong-baz-i-will-have-his-babies

omg ok hear me out…

Imagine overhearing this convo or having pope sadly tell you about it. Imagine having to try to cheer him up and convince him that you would have his children.

Like I would let my man breed me on the spot… but that’s just me

YES. it terrifies him to think that baz might be right—that andrew cody can only harm, never nurture.

he probably wouldn’t tell you about it though. too scared you might agree with baz. you’d have to be eavesdropping nearby and you’d bring it up later in your own home, maybe sitting down somewhere. i reckon the couch, late at night. he’s got some NatGeo documentary on and you watch quietly with him. you’ve got your feet in his lap, your ankles locked under his hands.

maybe you ask him if you can have his baby. you say it like you’re trying to borrow his shirt.

(nsfw-ish stuff below the cut)

he just turns his head and looks at you with that signature frown of his. the question makes his throat go dry so when he says “what?”, you can barely hear him.

“baby or no baby?”

still staring at you, mouth a little parted. he’s utterly perplexed while you wait for him to answer.

“i don’t understand,” he whispers. then blinks. you shrug and lightly nudge a foot into his thigh before his hands tighten over your ankles. he wants to know what the fuck you’re talking about.

“i want a baby,” you say, so simply. “whenever it suits you, of course.”

you watch him breathe. the light from the tv licks at his face. he lets eyes his fall to your childless stomach, and then to the floor. and then his attention is back on the documentary without a word. but you smile to yourself because you know his brain is probably trying to compute the possibility now and he has to figure out if you knew what baz said to him earlier. and how. and why on earth you would want such a thing from himself of all people.

when you’re in bed, he still doesn’t address it. he just summarises something he’s supposed to do with the boys tomorrow. asks you what time you’re finishing work so he can pick you up after collecting lena from school.

in the dark, he rests on his back while you nestle into his side. his heartbeat thumps steadily under your open palm.

“what did you mean?” he murmurs into your hair and you lift your head.

“jesus, you know what i meant,” you laugh.

when he doesn’t say anything, you’re getting up and straddling him. he lets you, of course. he always will. you just have to adjust your clothes before you can take him to the hilt. pleasure swallows him as you ride your way up. his hands are iron on your thighs.

you lean down, rolling your pelvis against his while he’s still inside, and you just tell him to keep going until it takes. he nods like he’s obeying an order. and then he’s got you on your back. he’s going for a home run. he does exactly as he was told and keeps going until he knows it takes.

…….guys you have to put me down like an animal or i fear i will never stop WTF

[blood-smiles]

𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐂𝐎 𝐂𝐑𝐀𝐙𝐄 —-— ‧₊ ᵎᵎ 🍫 ⋅ ˚✮

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐋𝐀𝐖𝐘𝐄𝐑 𝐗 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑 - !! 18+ MDNI !! yandere . yandere gets down and dirty with darling . Chocolate aphrodisiacs . handjob . probably more . DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT..

The air was warm and the rich people laughing around you with their fancy champagne wasn’t making it any better.

You could just feel the luxury cars, expensive watches and decades of inherited fortune in their cackles.

You walked around like a lost duckling without its mother, you indulged in the chocolate fountains, the mysterious fancy meat and the delicious wine that somehow tasted like the tears of the poor.

You sipped your wine as you stared at a very particular sculpture decorated in jewels and silks, your commoner eyes never quite adapted to the strange and fantastical world of the wealthy.

You tilted your head at the abstract art, what shape did it have? You couldn’t quite put your finger on it. Was this the so called modern art? 

At least it’s a step up from taping a banana to a wall, you thought.

What kind of shape was this? A bottle? A banana? A cat? A curvy rock?

God. This was stressing you out, you were probably putting too much thought into thi—

“I see you are looking at my newest creation. This is my personal interpretation of.. the essence of.. A woman.” The voice of a man drawled in your ear, wow, a woman? You could have never guessed.

the rancid smell of the cottage cheese in his breath fanning right into your nose.

You suppressed the urge to gag and potentially throw up your fancy meat and chocolate coated strawberries on the ugly sculpture.

Instead you covered the disgust you were about to show with a tight smile.

“The curves of her body.. The jewels hanging over her childbearing hips just.. Speak to me.” The man spoke, facing away from you as he shallowly expressed his thoughts, his hands flailing around in the air as if he was the next man to change art.

To you it just seemed like a weirdly shaped rock that had been drowned in very expensive precious stones and jewelry.

But for the sake of his delusions you simply nodded along with his words, trying to distract yourself from his rotten breath.

“You are quite the beauty.. Say, would you like to try these special edition chocolates I have been working on?..” The balding male offered, passing you a single chocolate in his hand.

Well, that was awfully stingy wasn’t it? This man must be swimming in pools of money and riches, surely he can spare more than a measly square of chocolate.

Whatever, hopefully that chocolate will neutralize his disgusting pants.

Your hand reached out, eager to try the grandeur chocolate, only for a larger and slimmer hand to snatch the piece of heaven from the man’s hand.

You gasped, looking up at the aggravator, Alejandro.

The beautiful man shoved the candy in his mouth before you could even open your mouth to whine.

You turned your gaze to the artist, only to see that there was a fat glob of sweat trickling down his face. He had the most ‘oh shit. I fucked up’ look you had ever seen.

“Alejandro! Why would you do that?!” You huffed, pulling at his sleeve impatiently.

“(Y/N). Why are you taking things from strangers. Did we not go over this at home? Do I need to remind you?” Your partner scolded you, tilting his head down at you.

his hair had been styled differently for the event, his hair gathered loosely over his shoulders, flowing down his back in a straight fashion.

“And you.” He glared, his eyes narrowing into a disgusted expression. “Who the hell do you think you are to be offering your repulsive treats to my lover?” 

His garnet eyes almost glowed in anger, a small vein appearing across his jaw. His hands were balled in fists, knuckles straining his skin, veins about to pop.

Holy shit, if you were in the other guys’ shoes you would have wet your pants— Scratch that, your bladder would have unattached from your body and dropped on the ground with a loud splat.

Pretty people really are scary when mad. You furrowed your brows in a grimace, sipping your tasty wine quietly.

The artist fled in a time record, you swear you blinked and only an outline shape of him remained in his place.

You looked at Alejandro, who was staring down at you intensely. His hands shakily landed on your shoulders.

His forehead pressed against your right shoulder. Now what was wrong with him? These little mood swings he has been having lately are proving to be quite irritating.

“..That chocolate.. Was laced..” He mumbled, taking deep shaky breaths. You turned around, eyebrows high in surprise.

“W—Whu..? How do you know?” He simply raised his head, his cheeks glowing with red, eyes half lidded and desperate.

..What the helly.

“Alejandro? Are you okay? Did it have poison?!” You began panicking, grabbing him by his arms. He flinched as if your touch had just burnt him, his posture growing stiff.

He looked down, thighs rubbing together. Heat began pooling in the bottom of his stomach, the tent in his pants beginning to create a wet patch.

“..Aphrodisiac.” He simply said, air coming out in little gasps. Was the drug that strong? It had barely been five minutes since he ate it— How did it work so quick?

He let out a soft sound, leaning closer into your body warmth “..(Y/N), please h-help me..” he begged, long lashes wet with little tears.

“What? Here? Now?” You looked around, maybe this not humble abode had an unoccupied room? You knew you couldn’t leave him in this state.

Not when he was begging so nicely.

You sighed, his fingers interlocked with yours now, gently pulling him along. Your mission was to get him to a room to relieve him with hopefully no casualties.

Someone stopped the both of you, a beautiful woman in a silky red dress with a sensual slit.

“Alejandro! There you are! I have been looking for you for so long!” She giggled, getting on her the tips of her feet to peck his cheek in a greeting.

Ah, you knew her. She was one of the candidates that his parents had groomed for him.

She wasn’t all that interested in him, more like in his fortune.

Alejandro growled under his breath, pushing her away rudely. His mind was fogged with lust but even so he was physically unable to interact with someone that wasn’t you.

“Leave me be.” He cut her off, grabbing your wrist and pulling you with him, leaving the pretty woman in the dust.

You ascended up the beautiful staircase of the mansion, running into one of the many empty rooms.

Alejandro didn’t wait a moment more to strip, his hands working in his tailored coat, then came off his black button up along with his pants and undergarments.

His skin gleamed under the warm lighting, sweat enhancing his already breathtaking figure.

“..Please..” He begged, his violet hair sticking a little to his face, his glasses foggy and stained with tears.

“..aah~..” he shivered, hand coming down to stroke himself, the motion making wet squelching sounds.

He sat on the bed on all fours, putting himself on display, writhing on top of the sheets in discomfort. Even in such a ruined state he somehow still managed to look like model. God really does have favorites.

You didn’t hesitate to sit between his thighs, nails gently teasing the soft plush skin of his inner thigh.

He gasped a little, throbbing under your touch. You traced the beauty marks blessing his porcelain skin.

He was so impatient. He was about to grab your hand and just tell you to touch him. But he knew better, he was to be patient, he knew that you would probably punish him and leave him in this sorry state.

Your hand finally wrapped around his pretty shaft, veins pulsating in need. Pre-cum bubbled from his slit, your thumb cruelly rubbing over his sensitive pink tip.

He let out a high pitched cry, closing his eyes as to try to hold onto the last of restraint he had. 

“Haaan!..” he whined, eyes rolling back into his head, hands gripping the sheets so tight that the fabric could rip from under his grasp.

You sped up your pace, indulging his needs a little. The slick of his cum made your hand sticky, he smiled at that. This was one of his brandings on you, your hands were claimed by him, by his juices—By his love.

Saliva trickled down his jaw, his tongue lolling out from the sheer pleasure. Your hands wrapped around him felt like a blessing, something sacred only reserved for him.

His hips bucked into your fist with a new sense of purpose, his head felt fuzzy, like it was full with cotton.

He felt himself ascending to cloud nine, about to cum. 

“Agh—Nggg~..” he put a hand over his mouth, trying to keep his noises down, hoping that no others had heard him over the loud orchestra downstairs.

Suddenly your fingers intruded inside his ass, curling up inside his hole. He mewled in ecstasy, burrowing himself on your fingers even more.

The tips of your fingers pressed against his velvety walls, his prostrate being poked by your fingers in such a deliciously unfathomable way that he couldn’t help but let himself go.

White semen oozed from his dick, dirtying the expensive sheets in a web of cum. Tears rolled down from his eyes, chest pressed against the soft mattress and plump ass in the air. 

Slick running down his thighs all the way down to his knees. His limp dick twitching after a fulfilling orgasm.

His chest heaved, you could tell he was spent. He turned his gaze to you, opening his arms as if asking you to come lie down next to him on the soft sheets.

You dragged a hand down your face, this man truly is a handful.

The two of you went home not too soon after, but this time making sure not to accept any suspicious chocolate from anyone on the way out.

Your lover pressed a chaste kiss to your temple, silently thanking you for the strange but passionate night the both of you shared.

[ihni]

(On AO3 here)

~~~

Billy absolutely refuses to accept gifts.

This is annoying for several reasons, the main one being that giving little gifts to his boyfriend is one of Steve’s greatest joys in life. Or rather it would be, if said boyfriend would only shut up and take them. But oh no.

“What’s this shit, Harrington?”

Strange how Steve is always ‘Harrington’ when Billy is pissed.

Taking a deep breath, Steve prepares himself for the upcoming battle.

“It’s a shirt,” he says, simply, as if it’s obvious. Which it is.

“I can see that,” Billy says with disdain and holds the offending item out in front of him. “Why did I find it on my car seat?”

Here we go, Steve thinks. “Because I bought it for you,” he says, keeping his voice light. Before Billy can speak he adds, to make his intentions perfectly clear; “It’s a gift.”

Billy’s face twists into a grimace and the red fabric crinkles as he grips it in his fist. “I don’t need your charity, Harrington.”

“It’s not –“

“I can buy my own shirts.”

“I know, but –“

Billy pushes the shirt into Steve’s chest. “And anyway, I don’t want it.”

That is a blatant lie, and they both know it. Steve was with Billy at the mall and saw the way he looked at that shirt. Watched as he ran his fingers over the fabric, took the hanger off the rack, and then finally put it back, wincing, once he’d glanced at the price tag. Steve knows with one hundred percent certainty that this particular shirt is right up Billy’s alley and he knows that his boyfriend would love it, and wear it, and would have bought it himself if it had been cheaper.

But of course now, since Steve was the one who bought it, suddenly Billy doesn’t want it anymore. Because god forbid he accepts a goddamn gift from his boyfriend. Who can very well afford it by the way, thank you very much.

But while Steve thinks all of this, he doesn’t say any of it out loud. Because he knows that he’s not going to win this one. “Fine,” he says instead with a sigh, giving in. “I’ll return it.”

(He won’t. He’ll keep it, and then after long enough time has passed he’ll try to sneak it in among Billy’s belongings like it was always there, and hope it goes unnoticed. He’s succeeded before, twice, and that accomplishment may or may not have gone to his head. The back of his closet is now full of things meant for Billy.)

Anyway, this whole refusing-gifts thing. It’s annoying, is what it is, and it’s getting to be a problem. Spoiling the people closest to him has always been Steve’s way of showing that they’re important to him. And Billy is important – perhaps the most important.

Robin says that it’s a pride thing, and that Billy wants to prove that he’s independent – which is crazy, because he doesn’t have anything to prove to Steve. The guy moved out the same day he graduated, for fuck’s sake, into the shittiest little apartment Hawkins had to offer that he had somehow arranged to rent beforehand without telling anyone, and he’s currently working two jobs to be able to provide for himself and to save up for the future. He cleans his apartment when it’s needed, unashamedly goes to the laundromat once a week, and pays his own bills. No one with working eyes or ears can ever say that Billy Hargrove is not independent.

(Meanwhile, Steve is still living at home – but he’ll argue that his parents are so rarely there, so it’s almost like he’s living on his own – and is lucky enough that he doesn’t have to pay his own way. Which is just as well, really, because Family Video doesn’t actually pay that much. But that’s neither here nor there.)

Independence is, objectively, a good trait, but of course Billy doesn’t do anything in moderation. His stance on gifts has forced Steve to get … creative.

Once, when Steve had found the perfect present – a silver dagger earring with a tiny blue stone the exact color of Billy’s eyes – he didn’t even try to give it to him. He simply poked it through the hole in his pocket so that it fell to the asphalt when he walked ahead of Billy across the parking lot outside the dinner, and let Billy “find” it. Pretended to be disgusted as Billy excitedly picked it up from the ground and everything, even though on the inside, he was preening at Billy’s delight over his “find”.

See? Steve can be sneaky, when he wants to or when the situation demands it. And when it comes to showering his boyfriend with gifts, the situation definitely demands it.

Luckily, there is one thing that Billy will grudgingly accept even if he hasn’t bought it himself – one thing in the world that Steve can give him, that Billy won’t reject outright or start a fight about – and that thing is chocolate.

Expensive, luxury chocolate, to be specific. The kind that comes in golden paper boxes, or wrapped in cellophane, or packed in high-end tin containers with etched pictures of cities on the lid.

Billy won’t say no to a cheap chocolate bar bought at the gas station either, but that isn’t quite enough for Steve, who by now has a burning need to spoil Billy somehow. So, luxury chocolate it is.

It was an accident, when Steve first discovered this exception. Billy was spending the night – like he so often does when Steve’s parents aren’t home, because while he has his own place now, Steve’s bed is both more comfortable and big enough for the two of them – and they’d been bickering about what to make for dinner. Billy was cooking, because of course he was, and he’d been rifling through the cupboards looking for the fancy pasta when he’d emerged with a crinkled plastic bag that he’d apparently unearthed from the very back.

“What’s this?” he’d asked, frowning at the little brown lumps inside the bag.

Steve had taken one look at it and made a face. “Oh, chocolate biscotti. Mom bought them from Italy last year. Give me that, I’ll throw it out.”

Billy had looked positively offended at that, and cradled the bag to his chest. “Throw them out? Why?”

“Uh, because she bought them last year?”

That hadn’t seemed to deter Billy though, as he’d snuck one out of the bag and bit into it. Steve grimaced at the dry crunch of it, and took the opportunity to yank the bag out of his boyfriend’s hand while Billy was busy chewing and looking thoughtful.

“Disgusting,” Steve said as he threw the bag of stale old cookies into the trash can. “You’re gonna get sick.”

Billy had just grinned at him and thrown the last piece of biscotti into his mouth, eating that one too. Had even licked his lips, after, and eyed the trash can like he maybe wanted to try raiding it for more of the stale cookies. Steve was a good boyfriend though and hadn’t let him – had, in fact, distracted him quite competently – but he’d already seen the way Billy’s eyes lit up at the taste, and the next time he spoke with his mother, he asked if she would bring another bag home with her.

(She had been in France at the time, but she’d been happy to call the hotel she’d stayed at in Venice the last time she was there and arrange for a couple of bags of biscotti from the ‘cute little bakery down the street’ to be delivered halfway across the world, as well as bring back a veritable smorgasbord of baked treats from Paris.)

It was a game of trial and error for some time, while Steve tested his theory. Baked goods worked, although Billy seemed to favor cookies over buns and flaky things like croissants. Sweet flavors went over better than savory in general, which were hit and miss. But the real winner was the chocolate. All kinds, all flavors.

The first time Steve had brought out a box of chocolates (Swiss chocolate, purchased in France), he’d put it on the table during a Party movie night, for everyone to enjoy. (Billy rarely refused food when it was obviously meant to be shared, although he never ate anything until someone else had done so first.) It worked like a charm – under the cover of the dark and in the low light from the TV, Steve saw Billy reach for no less than five pieces of chocolate.

Unbeknownst to everyone, Steve had gotten two identical boxes of chocolate. Over the next couple of days, he sneakily filled up the first box with pieces from the second box, and made sure to leave it out on the table whenever Billy was over. And as it had been established to be a communal box of chocolates, Billy didn’t have any qualms about eating from it, which meant that Steve was repeatedly treated to the sight of Billy closing his eyes and smiling around a piece of chocolate, visibly enjoying each bite. It was a win-win; Billy got his sweets, and Steve got to provide for his impossible boyfriend.

Since then, Steve has made a point to ask his mother to bring home chocolate from all the places she visits, as well as ordered from several specialty shops outside Indiana. His mother is happy to provide, as she has always enjoyed shopping for the finer things in life. She no doubt thinks that Steve is using it to woo some girl.

Well, she is half right.

Steve thanks her every time she brings something home, and then he puts it away until his parents leave again, at which point he will come up with increasingly convoluted ways of making sure Billy gets to enjoy it.

“Oh, that? Yeah, mom brought it back from New York. I don’t really care for it, to be honest. It’s too sweet for me” and “My aunt gave this to me – her boss gave it to her for her birthday but like, she’s diabetic so she can’t eat it. You want it?” and “I don’t know why mom insists on buying sweets, she should know by now that I’m not big on them … But I don’t want to hurt her feelings, you know? So I just smile and accept them” and “I think I’m allergic. It’d be a shame to throw it out, though. You’d honestly be doing me a favor if you just took it with you.”

Billy, who is ordinarily too smart to fall for schemes like this, miraculously hasn’t caught on yet. (Or maybe he has, but plays along because deep down, he wants what Steve gives him. Steve prefers that theory.)

Of course, Steve has to continue his attempts of gifting his boyfriend with non-chocolate items as well, even though it’s mostly for show, because a) he doesn’t want Billy to catch on his strategy and also b) one of these days, he’ll get Billy to say yes.

He’ll wear him down soon, Steve is sure.

Until then, he’ll just feed Billy fancy treats and fill up the back of his wardrobe – maybe Billy will get a pretty red shirt for Christmas. It’d be rude, even for Billy, to refuse gifts on Christmas.

[zepskies]

IF I STAY - Epilogue

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Plus-Sized!Reader

Summary: Your dream is to work with kids as an elementary school teacher. Dean is well on his way to becoming a firefighter, keeping things light and “strings unattached” as he goes. After a one-night stand you never saw coming, you and Dean are forced to deal with the consequences…and figure out if the connection between you is worth fighting for.

AN: By popular demand, I wanted to come back to these two for a hot minute, clear up some loose ends, and answer some questions Part 2 might have left behind for you. 😘

Song Inspo: “I Can’t Help Falling in Love” and “It’s Now or Never” by Elvis

Word Count: 6.4K

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only. Major fluff, some spice, angst, hurt/comfort, family feels

❤️‍🔥 If I Stay Masterlist

Epilogue: Soul Surrender

The low familiarity of Arrested Development playing on the TV is the only sound filling your bedroom…other than your giggles. They come out in short bursts even though your body doesn’t stop shaking, twisting away from nimble fingers.

“Dean,” you plead. Your cheeks hurt from laughing but no matter how you try to escape, he follows you. His broad frame and strong arms curl around your waist from behind. His face buries into your neck, and you feel the shape of his smirk there while his fingers slip higher under your shirt and map a constellation across your ribs.

Well, it’s actually his shirt, the white buttoned-down hanging loosely from your frame. It barely covers your ass, and he likes it that way. All the better to tease you with a playful smack of a nice round cheek when the fabric rides up.

Your squeal morphs into more peals of laughter. Involuntary tears well up in your eyes, and one slides down into the pillow underneath your cheek.

“Baby, please—can’t fucking breathe,” you manage to say, panting and wheezing all squeaky-voice.

Finally, his long fingers fall still against your skin. His head perks up, and his smirk softens into a grin.

“Baby?” Dean repeats, quirking a brow at you.

You pause. While you catch your breath, your gaze lowers in an uncertain shade. You shift onto your back, where Dean is only better able to loom above you. Staring up at his handsome face like this still feels a little unreal. Just a couple of hours ago, you were a crying mess in this very bed.

Then there was a knock on your door. When you found Dean standing there looking stressed and desperate, you just couldn’t turn him away; nor could you deny what your heart had been trying to tell you for far too long.

“Uh, sorry, it just came out,” you say with a chuckle.

Before you can ask if it’s too soon for cute pet names, Dean leans down to capture you in a kiss. It’s slow and thorough, sparking a tendril of heat down your spine as his hand slides along your neck, framing your jaw. He thumbs at your chin after he pulls away.

“I like it,” he says. His eyes hold a cheeky gleam.

Your smile gradually reaches beaming proportions. He moves his hand down to your waist, and you squirm a little. You’re still sensitive from how much he teased you before. You grab his hand and bring it back up to your cheek instead.

“You’re more ticklish than Robbie,” Dean remarks. His smirk is back.

“He probably gets it from me,” you confess. Though your hands do some wandering of their own, slipping under the man’s arms and prodding a tuneless sonata along his sides. “But I’m thinking you’re just as bad, tough guy.”

Just as you suspected, Dean flinches and laughs on reflex. “H-Hey! Foul move!”

His deep voice runs higher, full of censure, but it just makes you grin harder. Seeing this big man crumple like a wad of wet paper has you mounting a full-scale attack of revenge. You manage to get Dean twisting over and onto his back, where you take full advantage of his weakness and straddle his lap.

He grabs you by the wrists and pins them together while he pants for breath. You grin down at him victoriously. He chuckles just at that look on your face.

“Think you’ve caught me, huh?” he says.

“I hope so,” you reply.

You soften at your own admission. Dean does too, releasing your wrists so he can get a comfortable hold of your thighs wrapped snug around his hips. You dip down to kiss him just as nice and slow as he treated you, sweet even.

You soon find yourself tumbled down to the bed, rolling to his left side. You huff a laugh at his manhandling, but you let him hold you close and savor the feeling of being here with him. It all happened. It’s still happening. He’s yours.

But…

“What do you think Robbie’s gonna say when we tell him?” Dean asks.

You pull back far enough to see his face, and you stroke his cheek. It’s a little prickly with stubble, but you don’t mind. Actually, the rasp of it against your fingers reminds you of other places it had tingled against your sensitive skin. Your cheeks begin to warm up.

You try to break out of those thoughts, concentrating on answering his question.

“Aw, he’s gonna be happy,” you say. The kid had already been asking the hard questions.

Why aren’t you and Daddy married? Why can’t we all live together? Is Benny gonna move in with us instead?

You do sigh though. “We have to think about how we’re going to tell him. Benny’s been in his life since he was born.”

Dean breathes deeply through his nose, and he nods. He brushes your cheek with the back of his hand, a touch that returns the softer smile to your face.

“Dean, we need to do better,” you say. “From now on, we need to be honest with each other, or we’re not going to get through what comes next. We’re going to keep hurting the people we love, including each other.”

After a beat, he nods solemnly in agreement.

“Yeah, you’re right.”

“So,” you grasp his hand in both of yours. You draw enough courage to ask the question that’s been burning in your mind, ever since the haze of fraught emotions, lust, love, and passion began to ebb from the forefront of your mind, calming into a resting state of happiness and content. You stare up into Dean’s eyes.

“You said that you’ve loved me for a long time,” you say. “If that’s true, why were you with Lisa so long? Why didn’t you ever talk to me about this sooner?”

Dean hums low in contemplation, almost a rumble. He squeezes your hand, and he sighs.

“Aw, sweetheart. I was so fuckin’ stupid,” he chuckles half-heartedly. Your lips twitch.

“I was, what, twenty-six when we met?” he says. “You were even younger.”

“Twenty-two,” you supply knowingly. You and Sam had just graduated from college with Eileen and a couple of your friends. Sam had been about to start law school, with you starting at your first elementary school as a first-grade teacher.

“Yeah. In my case, young and dumb,” Dean says, with a shake of his head. He pauses in contemplation. Finally, he finds the courage to meet your eyes.

“All right, here it is,” he says. “After I thought you turned me down the first time, I met Lisa. Sam had mentioned some things that started to turn my head around on how I was living, all the hookups, the boozing, that kind of thing. I knew I’d screwed up with you, not calling you after we had our thing. So, I wanted to see if I could try something steady with someone, you know?”

He takes in a deep breath. “But after you told me you were pregnant, it all just fucking hit me, the way I’d totally changed your life, and mine. I was reckless. It made me want to grow the fuck up, I guess.”

You begin to rub his arm in comfort. “I was there too, you know. It wasn’t all on you.”

He smiles at you a little. You know he sees your point, even if he still feels responsible for knocking you up.

“The more I tried to make it work with Lisa, the harder it was.” He chuckles humorlessly. “Well, that part you know. Looking back, it was probably because I still wanted you. But every time Lisa and I broke up for some stupid shit, I felt like more of a fuckup. And every time I thought of you and me, and what that could be like, I uh…I guess I was afraid of being turned down again. Or worse, afraid of fucking up your life even more.”

Your frown trembles, with the sting of fresh tears in your eyes. Dean gives you a rueful smile.

“Vicious cycle, huh?” he says. “When you got with Benny, I thought I lost my chance for sure. So I guess I just…gave up. Settled for where I was.”

Another sigh falls from your lips, along with a couple of tears that bubble over and slip down your cheeks. You sit up in bed and take Dean’s face into your hands, a gentle hold, but a meaningful one.

“Well, first of all, I want you to understand something right now. I’ve said it before, and I’m going to say it one more time so you don’t forget it.” You look deep into his eyes. “You didn’t screw up my life. I’ve never looked at it that way, and I never will. Our son is best thing that could’ve happened to me, and I’m thinking to you too.”

After a moment, he nods. “Yeah.”

You nod as well. Glad to have that settled, you let go of his face so you can wipe the tear from your cheek.

“The last few years haven’t been perfect for me either,” you say. “But I love you, Dean. I want this to be the real deal, more than anything.”

Dean grabs your hand and gives it a squeeze. He’s tempted to drag you down for a heated kiss and a hell of a lot more—maybe a nice sequel for what you guys did on the couch, and two more times in your bed an hour ago. However, something you said strikes a small bell in his mind.

“You mean to tell me it wasn’t all Brady Bunch with Mr. Rogers?” Dean says, only half joking.

You give him a censuring look. “Hey, Benny doesn’t deserve that. He doesn’t deserve…any of this.”

Dean sobers. He knows you’re right, even if he has to stamp out a stab of jealousy. He feels sorry for his friend too…even if part of him selfishly can’t feel that sorry about getting to be with you.

But you rub at your forehead, a fresh load of guilt dumping over your shoulders. You know you’ll have to talk to Benny too. As incredibly happy as you are right now, you still feel horrible for how this all shook out. You never meant to hurt him or lead him on. From the beginning, you had really appreciated his help so much after Robbie was born.

“In so many ways, he was the kind of man I wanted. Kind, reliable, honest,” you say. Dean sits up with you now against the headboard. He listens intently, no matter how his stomach twists.

It takes you time to find your words, but you begin to explain.

You had loved Benny. You still do. But you realize now, only much too late, that you hadn’t been in love with him.

While your relationship with him had always been supportive and perfectly pleasant, a secret part of you had craved more. He wasn’t one to open up so easily about his day or his work, no matter how much you tried to coax it out of him. In fairness, you know he sees a lot of things on the job that aren't meant for civilian ears, but there are only so many monosyllabic answers you can deal with.

You, on the other hand, are a talker. You always have been. You just got the feeling, sometimes, that Benny was zoning out on you when you tried to connect with him. He even admitted once that you were a bit "too much" for him.

So you talked less. You bottled most of your thoughts inside…until they eventually spilled out with Dean. It’s always been easy to talk to him. On the whole, he’s seemed interested in your stories, even the ones from school. You feel comfortable sharing all the little things about your students that have made him smile, or laugh, or furrow his brows when you admitted your concerns or your fears for them, and especially for Robbie. Even if he was fixing your leaky sink or patching up a hole from when your son attempted some indoor practice with a slingshot made out of Lego and a tube sock, Dean listened.

He understands you. You appreciate that about him.

However, you know that you’ve been unconsciously comparing him and Benny in your mind.

No relationship is perfect, you often tried reminding yourself over the past three years, even through some of the tougher moments.

…Like in the bedroom. Benny was a patient man, and a generous lover. Of course there had been sparks between you two, certainly in the beginning.

However cliché it is though, you’d just never felt…fireworks. Electricity under your skin. The Godfather Thunderbolt kind of sexual connection that sunk into your blood and made your insides quiver.

Kind of like now. You’re blushing down to your neck trying to explain this part of it to Dean. He has a hand resting casually on your thigh, but once he works past his jealousy of even the thought of you and Benny between the sheets, the reality of what you’re saying finally hits him. A smirk slowly grows across his lips.

The way he brushes a thumb back and forth across your sensitive skin—it makes the hair on your arms raise and elicits another tingle down your spine.

“So what you’re saying is,” Dean says, his voice deepening like black velvet as he draws closer. “No one makes you come like I do.”

You snort, biting your lip in blushing embarrassment, as well as the prickle of arousal trembling in your core. Wetness blooms between your legs just at the sound of his voice. You can’t quite bring yourself to answer him, but it doesn’t matter. Your eyes give him all the confirmation he needs.

Dean lures you back into his arms, and into his kiss. He guides you onto your back and blazes a sensuous trail down your body, mapping every lush curve all over again with his mouth, tongue, and fingers, until you’re a writhing mess beneath him.

The next day, Robbie is confused when you and Dean go together to pick him up from your parents’ house. You called them ahead of time for a very important reason.

You sit Robbie down in the living room there in front of your parents, who are trying not to give away the punchline with their smiles (your mom stifling her tears). You take the spot beside him on the couch.

“What’s wrong?” Robbie asks, looking from you to Dean. There’s wariness and confusion in the boy’s eyes, just a couple shades of green off from his father’s. You and Dean share an amused look. The kid is so intuitive.

“Nothing’s wrong,” Dean says. He kneels down in front of him so that he’s eye-level with his son. “You know that your mom and I care about each other, right?”

Robbie quirks his head, but he nods. “Yeah. You’re friends.”

“Well, turns out…” Dean shares another look with you, this time a gentler smile as he takes your hand in his. “We realized that we want to be more than just friends.”

Robbie blinks a few times. He takes the information in faster than you would expect for a six-year-old, giving you his furrowed brows of confusion, suspicion…and hope?

“O-Oh. Really? Buuuut what about Benny?” he asks.

Again, smart kid. Dean looks over to you for guidance on this one.

You proverbially step in with a hand on Robbie’s shoulder. You take a steadying breath, but you explain in terms you know he’ll understand.

“I know how much you love Benny. I care about him too. I care about him a lot, actually…but he just wasn’t the guy for me,” you admit. You glance over at Dean, squeezing his hand. “Your dad is the guy.”

Robbie sits with his hands in his lap and visibly processes, his little face scrunched in thought. You don’t blame him for being confused, but you remain patient, softly smiling while you rub his back. You give Dean a guiding look, warning him with your eyes to wait for Robbie to ask whatever question he has next. You can see it brewing.

“Wait, so you guys like each other?” Robbie asks. “Like, like boyfriend and girlfriend?”

Dean chuckles. “To start with. I’m thinkin’ more like husband and wife.”

Your face falls into shock. Dean bites the inside of his lip. He hadn’t meant to say it out loud, but it’s already out of his mouth. Can’t put that toothpaste back in the tube, can I?

Robbie gapes at his dad, and then his mom. He looks at your joined hands.

Uh oh, Dean thinks. Did we break him?

Suddenly, Robbie’s lower lip wobbles, and he starts to cry. Your eyes widen further in surprise, and now dismay along with Dean.

…Until Robbie surges forward into his dad’s arms. Dean immediately wraps his arms around his son and soothes a hand over his head.

“What’s the matter, buddy? What’s wrong?” he asks.

Robbie sniffs. “Does this mean you’re gonna come live with us?”

Dean’s worry breaks—into abject relief. He smiles. When he looks up, he finds you smiling in relief as well, albeit with tears in your eyes. He holds Robbie closer and presses a kiss on the top of his head.

“You want that, huh?” Dean asks. “Want me to come live with you guys?”

Robbie nods, burying his face in Dean’s shirt. But there’s no hiding the way his little body shakes with quiet sobs. Dean’s own eyes are suspiciously glassy, even though he smirks at the way your lower lip wobbles too. He beckons you over with a hand.

You slip off the couch and kneel on the floor too, allowing yourself to get pulled under Dean’s arm. You rest your cheek against his shoulder and bury your weeping face into his neck. This moment is everything—everything you could’ve asked for.

Your parents come around the couch as well, with your mom lovingly squeezing your shoulders and your dad resting a fatherly hand on Dean’s.

Dean can’t help but smile, so hard that it nearly cracks his face. He didn’t think his heart could ever be this full.

Well. For once, that went better than I thought.

You tap your fingers around the wide cappuccino mug nervously. You sit in what you think is the most secluded corner of the café, a strategic choice. Your eyes flit to the door again when it jingles open, but it’s just a young blonde woman with a little Pomeranian tucked under her arm. She makes her way to the barista and places her order of a lavender matcha latte and an unglazed donut.

An unglazed donut? What’s the point? you think.

You shake your head and force yourself to expel a deep breath. You wish you could’ve done this over a week ago, but you respected Benny’s wishes. He’d needed more time, and really, that was the least you could do.

A few minutes later, the little bell above the door chimes again. The familiar footfalls of heavy boots alert you to the even more familiar black jacket and jeans combo. Benny comes into view, his eyes finding you across the room in mere seconds. His face remains stoic as he approaches you.

Even now, you have no idea what he’s thinking. Is he going to be icy toward you and not say a word? Is he going to shout at you, berate you, accuse you of wasting three whole years of his life? You would probably just sit here and take it, whatever it would be. You feel like you deserve it.

Instead, he just lowers into the chair opposite you at the table. He takes a breath and rests his elbows on the table. For a moment, he just stares back at you and takes you in, from your face, lightly done with makeup, to your pretty blouse, jeans, and ankle boots.

“You look good,” he says, his tone rueful. “You don’t gotta be scared though. Not like I’m gonna start cussin’ you out in front God and everybody.”

Your lips hint at a smile. His dry brand of humor briefly lightens you.

“You know me. Overthinking is my thing,” you say. Biting your lip, your gaze lowers to the way you toy with your fingers in your lap. “Look, Benny. I wouldn’t blame you for being angry with me. You can even hate me if you want.”

Benny crosses his arms on the table, contemplating. He eventually gives you a wry, melancholy sort of smile. “Part of me’s still mad at you, I won’t lie…but there’s no use in it. Not even hating you.”

He shakes his head, and he sighs.

“Truth is, Dean and I think a lot alike,” he says. His blue-eyed gaze meets yours. “Because the moment I met you, I liked what I saw. I just had the bad luck of him getting to you first.”

Your face burns with a blush. Once again, you bite your lip.

Benny huffs a wry chuckle. “This week, I’ve been thinking…maybe I shoulda seen this coming.”

Your brows furrow. “What do you mean?”

“Believe it or not, I noticed things. Things, I didn’t want to at the time,” he says. His eyes fall away from you after a moment. “You remember when you were pregnant with Robbie, and you came to the firehouse with some cookies for everybody?”

You blink at that. “Yeah, sure.”

That was the day you thought that…well, you got a hint that Benny might like you. You’d dismissed it at the time because you were so damn pregnant, waddling and sliding around like a parade float. You had wanted to test out your latest recipe of chocolate chip cookies on Dean, and the rest of the guys at the firehouse.

“Well, I knew you went there looking for Dean,” Benny says. “I saw the way your eyes lit up when he finally came by. And I saw the look on his face when he saw it was you and me together, laughin’, havin’ a good time.”

He shakes his head. “I saw that look again when I went to visit you at the hospital, the day Robbie was born… Come to think of it, this all could’ve ended that day.”

You leaned forward in your seat, now hooked on his every word. A frown pulls at your lips, while a wry one tugs at his.

“If a man wants something, he fights for it. That’s something I’ve learned, what I’ve always known to be true,” Benny says. “I thought I’d lost my chance with you before then. But when you told me you were afraid of being alone, and I saw the way Dean was all wrapped up with Lisa…I thought, shit, I could be the man you leaned on. Why not me?”

The man pauses, as if sorting back through the catalogue of memories, feelings, thoughts. He meets your sad gaze.

“But I was selfish,” he admits. “I should’ve gone to my friend and knocked some goddamn sense into him, tell him to talk to you if he really wanted you. To be the man you needed him to be. To truly be there for his family. Now, here we are.”

You fold your hands in front of your lips as you process all of this, trying to figure out what to think, let alone what to say. You do know that this is the most you’ve ever seen Benny open up.

“So if I blame you, ‘cher, I gotta blame myself just as much. At this point, all we can do is move on,” Benny says. He becomes contemplative, rubbing his bearded chin. “I gotta ask though. How’s Robbie doin’ with all of this?”

You brush a couple of tears away from your cheeks, swiping under your eyes for good measure. God, when will I be done with all this damn crying? But you take a sip of your coffee just for something to delay your answer. You knew the question would come eventually, but it still hurts you, knowing it’ll probably hurt the man in front of you.

“He misses you,” you say.

And it’s true. Your son loves Benny too—a strong, solid presence in his life since the beginning.

“You’ve told him…everything?” Benny asks. “About you and Dean too?”

You nod. “We told him last weekend.”

Benny snorts. “Y’all didn’t waste no time.”

“We didn’t want to keep it a secret. I think that would’ve been worse.”

“Nah, I get it,” he says. He drums his fingers on the table in contemplation. After a while, his blue eyes meet yours. “The kid’s happy though, isn’t he?”

You nod, giving him an honest answer. Dean is already living with you. He’s just in the process of moving his stuff out of his and Lisa’s apartment. She’s going to finish off the lease in a few months, then move out of there herself.

However, through all of the adult chaos and logistics, Robbie is all beaming smiles and excited chatter when his dad comes home. The three of you eat dinner as a family. You and Dean get to tuck in your son together at night, and wake up together the next day, sharing more than just a bed and a morning cup of coffee.

“He is,” you say. “But look, you can come by and see him, if you want to.”

“I’d like that,” Benny nods. “Just to say goodbye.”

“It doesn’t have to be forever,” you say. Once again, guilt threatens to eat you alive. “You and Dean were friends long before I came into the picture.”

Benny’s lips hint at a smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“That might well be,” he says, “but there are some things that are best left put to rest.”

You know then that he means more than just your relationship.

After a beat, he stands from the table. You attempt to take in a steadying breath as you get to your feet along with him.

“I’m sorry,” you say again.

“Me too, sweetheart,” Benny says. He takes your hand and gives it one final squeeze. Neither of you say goodbye.

It may not be the last time you see each other. It’s a small town, after all. But there’s a good chance that this will be the last time you and Benny will speak for a good long while.

A few weeks later, Benny’s cart crashes into something solid in the spirits aisle of the grocery store—another cart.

That bumps into a young woman’s ass, making her yelp as she loses her balance. The merlot she was considering slips out of her hand and shatters in a plummy spill across the linoleum.

“Aw shit,” she grouses. Her head swivels over her shoulder to find a wide-eyed Benny with a glare. “Bro! Are you serious?”

He snaps out of his reverie and immediately goes over to try and help. He pushes his own cart away goes over to her, mindful of the glass under his boots.

“I’m sorry, 'cher. My bad,” he says, reaching out a hand to her. Shards of glass surrounds her in her heeled wedges. They go nicely with her blue slacks and crème-colored blazer…which is now flecked with wine.

She accepts his helping hand, albeit with a raised brow. “Cher? What, the 'do believe in life after love' lady?”

Benny pauses, but embarrassment isn’t the only thing that makes him falter. He can’t help but notice her smooth, bronze skin, her hazel eyes, her shiny brown hair coiled in a soft wave. She’s beautiful. Her clothes are expensive. She’s entirely out of his league.

“Uh, no, ma'am. Just a token of where I’m from,” Benny says. He gestures to the spill at their feet while she manages to step away from it. “Here, I’ll pay for that bottle, plus another one for you.”

Her lips twitch upward. Cocking her head, she turns and points at the price tag under the bottle she’d grabbed up.

“You wanna buy me a $50 bottle of wine?” she says. Plus the one he spilled.

Benny smiles. “And dinner to go along with it, if you want.”

She blinks, her mouth parting in surprise. But he finally wins her smile too. She takes a $15 bottle off the shelf instead.

“Believe me, this one’s better,” she says. “Where are you from, exactly?”

“Louisiana,” Benny replies.

“Hmm, interesting,” she says.

He arches a curious brow. “You?”

Her eyes take on a playful gleam. “Greece. Yes, I’m new in town. Yes, there’s a semi-interesting story behind it. We’ll save that for dinner though.”

Benny chuckles. “Well, all right.”

When a grocery store employee comes over to assess the damage, Benny promises that he’ll cover it. He and the young woman make their way to the checkout together with their carts.

“So, uh, what’s your name?” Benny asks.

She glances at him with a smile. “Andréa.”

Six months later, Eileen tearfully accepts being your Maid of Honor. You go about asking her cautiously, knowing Lisa is still her best friend. Eileen is gracious though. She admits to you that she advised Lisa to break things off with Dean more than once in their “five-year rollercoaster.”

“She just had an idea of what she wanted for her life, you know? And she’s stubborn about it. She thought Dean was the One,” Eileen tells you that afternoon. You two sip from your wine glasses on her sofa while Robbie and his three-year-old cousin are with Sam and Dean, out at a baseball game.

“I told her that Dean seemed…well, divided. At least when it came to her,” she says. “But Lisa swore that he just needed time. Time to get the hang of balancing his job, Robbie, and his relationship with her. As much as I love Lisa, I just think she didn’t want to see the signs that he wasn’t in love with her. Not enough to make him stay.”

You feel conflicted for more than one reason. On one hand, you do feel sorry for Lisa. On the other hand, you wish she would’ve just let Dean go after the first time they had that blowout argument that got them kicked out of the local Denny’s.

You hesitate before you ask, “How is she doing?”

Eileen smiles, and she signs as she speaks, knowing you’ve been practicing your ASL.

“She’s good actually. She met a guy at a yoga retreat out in Sacramento. She’s moving there in the fall. Not really for him, but because she wants a fresh start.”

“I could see that,” you nod. It’s hard to move on with your life in a small town like Lawrence, Kansas, where everybody knows your business. You’re honest when you say, “I hope she finds what she’s looking for.”

Eileen nods in agreement. Then, her eyes shift with a conspiring gleam.

“So, did you hear about Benny?”

Your eyes widen. “No, what? Is he okay?”

“Oh, I can’t believe you don’t know.”

“Girl, what?!”

“He eloped with that girl from Greece. Sam told me. They’re on a plane right now, headed to meet her family in Kalamata!”

You gasp, covering your mouth with both hands. You laugh, mostly out of shock. Eileen laughs just at the look on your face. The two of you giggle and finish your gossip along with a bottle of wine.

You’ve never met Benny’s girlfriend…excuse you, wife. Your shock turns into concern, just for a hot minute. But the more you think about it, you know that the man isn’t impulsive. It’s not in his blood. So you also have to believe that he hasn’t made this decision lightly.

From the bottom of your heart, you’re happy for him.

You almost choke on a laugh when Dean doesn’t quite get the whole chunk of complimentary chocolate into your mouth.

“Come on, baby. I know you can open wider than that,” he teases.

You laugh harder, covering your mouth so you don’t drop anything. You have to set down your champagne glass on the edge of the tub, however precarious that might be.

“Babe, if you make me get anything on this dress, I may just have to kill you,” you say. Though your threat doesn’t have much effect with your shoulders shaking with laughter.  

You wiggle your toes in the hot water that’s risen up to your ankles in the tub while you and Dean sit on the edge. You’re severely regretting having a winter wedding, or at least just the part where you had to trudge through the snow on the way to your husband’s ’67 Chevy. Thank God it had just been a few minutes to the hotel.

For the sake of unfreezing your feet, the white satin and lace of your dress is bunched up high on your thighs, since you’re not quite ready to take it off yet. Dean has his slacks rolled up halfway to his knees while his feet warm up beside yours.

He looks edible himself. His suit jacket lies strewn across the edge of the king-sized bed, leaving his white dress shirt rolled up to the elbows. His tie is gone too, leaving quite a few buttons by his collar left open, and a tantalizing strip of tanned skin visible to your wandering eyes.

“What does it matter? Are you really ever gonna wear this again?” he says as he fingers the soft hem of your skirt. He then brushes the back of his hand against your arm, your shoulder, your cheek. You smile and lean into his hand.

“’Course I am. Whenever I wanna feel all pretty and bride-like,” you say.

Dean’s smile crinkles the corner of his eyes. He cups your cheek and brings you closer, but he stops just shy of your lips.

“Well, for one thing, you’re already beautiful. Two, you’re always gonna be my bride.” He punctuates that uncharacteristic cheesiness with a kiss that warms you down to your toes. You grab ahold of his collar and breathe into it, humming softly.

You part from him, just to tell him something that’s been burning on your heart.

“Can you promise me something?”

His thumb brushes against your lower lip, flashing you a little smirk. “Depends.”

Your lips press together, but you can’t help the smile trying to break through. You catch each button on his shirt with your nails to undo the rest of them, one by one.

“No matter what comes next, whatever arguments, fights, drama, all of it, promise me that you’ll remember right now. Tonight,” you say. “Remember that you’re my best friend. My love. The father of my kid. None of that ever changes.”

Dean pulls you in even closer by your waist. His long fingers run along the small round buttons lacing down your spine. Already he’s calculating how he’s going to pop every one of them open without ruining your pretty dress.

“It’s a promise, sweetheart,” he says. And just like the vows he made in that chapel, he means these words with every conviction. “None of it ever changes.”

Well, there are some things that change. They have to, after all.

One of the biggest ones happens almost a year to the day after your winter wedding. Your daughter is born on January 25th at exactly 12:05 A.M.

Dean calls her the best belated birthday present he’s ever gotten.

He wipes at his watery eyes when his brother steps into the hospital room, where only Dean and your mom had been allowed in during the delivery. (He wanted to avoid the clusterfuck of commotion that happened the first time you were in labor. You had wholeheartedly agreed.)

While Eileen stays behind for now with their son, Sam guides Robbie inside by his shoulders. The kid had been ambivalent about the new arrival when you and Dean first told him you were going to have another baby, but in the nine-ish months since, the eight-year-old has begun to come around to the idea of having a little sister. He approaches your bedside, encouraged by your tired smile.

“Hey, baby. Meet the baby,” you joke.

Dean welcomes Robbie over with a hand on his shoulder, squeezing warmly. Robbie hesitates, but he leans up on his toes to peer at the bundle wrapped in your arms. He considers her little face peeking out of the downy crème blanket. She wears a little pink cap to keep her newborn head warm.

“She’s beautiful,” Sam says, giving you a kiss on the cheek.

“She’s so tiny,” Robbie says. 

“You were just like that,” Dean says, “’til you sprouted up outta the ground like a stalk a’ wheat.”

Robbie gives his father an indignant look. “I didn’t pop outta the ground!”

You shush him softly, despite your shoulders shaking with laughter. Sam thumps his older brother’s back. The two share a look that’s suspiciously shiny, full of nostalgia.

Dean soothes a hand over Robbie’s head.

“You’re a big brother now, son,” he says. “It’s a big responsibility. Think you can handle it?”

Robbie looks a little uncertain. His gaze leaves his dad and falls on the baby. The more he stares at her peaceful sleeping face, the more she looks kinda cute to him. He smiles.

“Yeah,” he says.

He reaches out and gently touches her cheek. Her skin is soft and delicate. His fingertips are slow and careful.

You and Dean glance at one another. Your eyes blur over with tears, but your husband is there to lean in and press a kiss to your forehead.

“We still gotta decide on a name,” he whispers.

That, you know. It hasn’t been any easier picking your daughter’s name than it was your son. Sue you if you refuse to name your child after another rocker, no matter how badass Stevie Nicks is. 

You bite your lip, leaning your head on Dean’s shoulder as a giddy laugh pours out of you.

“Game on, baby.”

AN: And there we have it! We went a little deeper into some things that were implied and touched on in Part 2, but hopefully it feels like a more complete ending to this version of Dean and the reader's story, along with everyone else in between! ❤️❤️‍🔥❤️

In a couple of weeks, for those of you who read Smoke Eater, there will be a little sequel drabble that sees that version of firefighter!Dean getting another big piece of his dream...

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Blood Orange: Jesse Van Horn x Reader

Tagging: @caffeinatedwoman @cosmic-psychickitty @kmc1989 @happyfox43 @julius-ceasar

Companion piece to:

Geordie - Jesse makes one hell of a statement when your ex-boyfriend comes around.

Sex, Drugs, Rock & Roll - Jesse tries to convince you not to disrupt your trip during the aftermath of Pittfest.

Song 2 (NSFW) - Jesse tries to chase away his demons the only way he knows how.

Atomic - Jesse reflects on his HIV status.

Your neighbour across the street is a wanker.

It’s an adorable Britishism you use to describe the fact he likes to jerk off with a belt around his neck and the curtains open. Always at night and always when he knows you’re doing the dishes. The thing is it’s not just you he does it for, it’s Jesse too. The two of you often stand at the window, commenting on his technique and wondering which one of you he has the thing for.

“He’s gonna choke himself out one of these days.” Jesse remarks as he dries up the plates you used for dinner. “All it takes is one blood orange that’s not tart enough and he’ll end up killing himself. It happens to 1 in 1000 people.”

A slice of blood orange in the mouth during auto-erotic asphyxiation is meant to jolt the senses, stop you from passing out with your jaw relaxes and you bite down on the citrus.

The two of you have tried it a couple of times, playing together before Jesse became a nurse. You’d enjoyed the rush but the risk is too great if something goes wrong. Besides there’s other fun to be had if you mix that citrus with tequila and dab a little salt on your breasts.

“You wanna get into some trouble tonight?” You ask Jesse, your hip nudging his as you think about the limes in the bottom of the fridge and the bottle of Don Julio you have stashed on the antique drinks trolley. “We can put on a little Motley Crue and-”

“Shit.” Jesse erupts suddenly. “The wanker!”

You look up and there he is in his bedroom, his limp naked body arched forward towards the window, dangling by that belt, no blood orange in sight.

It must have slipped out of his mouth at that crucial point, you realise as you snatch up your phone to call 911. Jesse is already in motion, digging out the first aid kit from underneath the sink and snatching up the EMT scissors before he hurtles out the door and towards the house.

You watch through the window, describing the situation to the operator as Jesse picks up a decorative rock from the neighbour’s garden, using it to smash the glass door panel before he sticks his arm through the gap and let’s himself in. He disappears from view and your heart pounds in your chest. He reappears in the upstairs window, stretching up, using those EMT scissors to cut through the leather of the belt. He catches the neighbour before he falls, gently lowering him to the floor. You lose sight of them after that.

It takes 8 minutes for the ambulance to arrive and by that time Jesse has him breathing again, a healthy flush returning to his skin. He helps get him situated with the paramedics before he returns to you, shaking his head at the absurdity of the whole thing.

“His name is Dan and he’s invited us to dinner when he gets out.” He informs you, shutting the front door behind him.

“Dinner?” You ask before using bunny quotes. “Or ‘dinner?’”

“He wants to fuck us.” Jesse says frankly.

“He wants to fuck you.” You respond, considering the dynamics of the situation. “You’re the tall handsome guy who rescued him. He expects me to sit on the sidelines and watch.”

You don’t have a problem with bringing another person into the mix occasionally. You’ve shared lovers before in the past, both men and women but you have a very specific set of rules. Touching, tasting, teasing all of that is on the table but the fucking, that’s yours. You won’t let a single other person have that, not with Jesse.

“I told him that’s not gonna work for us.” Jesse informs you as he proceeds to wash his hands thoroughly in the sink. “You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

And you don’t, not until the bouquet of a dozen red roses arrives a few days later with a card that reads ‘For My Hero xxx’.

“I’ll talk to him.” Jesse says, pulling on his sneakers because you already have murder in your eyes.

“You better had.” You say picking up the pair of wire cutters he’s been using to re-string his guitar before you chop the heads off two of the roses. They fall onto the table, the petals scattering across the wood like droplets of blood. “Because he really won’t fucking like it if I do.”

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[darknight3904]

Every Breath You Take

Chapter Six- Good Vibrations

Summary: A prepper restores your little group's faith in humanity, and you and Tommy decide to spend your evening celebrating in bed together.

Warnings for this part: Canon typical violence, themes, language, gore, and horror. Smut 18+, use of a sex toy, p in v, oralF!receiving ,riding Tommy Miller like a horse (as nature intended, ofc). Check the Series Masterlist for expanded warnings.

Word Count 3.6K

Previous Part / Series Masterlist / The Last of Us Masterlist

April 2005, Allensville, Pennsylvania 

Robin Williams once said, “Spring is nature's way of saying, 'Let's party!'". And sure, there wasn’t much to celebrate these days, but right now you felt like you were on top of the world. With the snow gone, your little group had set out to canvas some of the other homes that were within a few-mile radius. An unassuming, puke green home was the last one for the day, you were all tired, and the baby was getting restless in his sling, a scarf that Lara held him with. You’re pretty sure all the kid wants is to be held, since he hasn’t cried once since she put him in there this morning. 

Joel pried the front door open with a crowbar, and you expected to see what you’d been seeing: an abandoned home, a few odd cans of food, and dusty clothes. Instead, you’re met with a gold mine. 

A prepper. A fucking prepper lived in this home. 

You could cry right now, break down, and never get up as you held a can of Campbell’s tomato soup in your hands. Even Joel looks surprised as he takes in the abundance of things. Perfectly organized in different bins and labeled bags, you swore you were seeing things. 

Tommy lets out a low whistle, his hands running over a huge box of ammunition, “How the hell are we gonna carry all this back?” 

“We’ll figure it out.” You hum, walking over to where he stands, handing him a jar of peanut butter, “How long has it been since you had a spoonful of peanut butter?” 

A chaste kiss is pressed to your lips, his dark facial hair tickling your face as he pulls away, “Too damn long.” 

Joel approaches the two of you, Tommy’s hands loosening from where they wrap around your waist to take the box Joel holds out. 

Trojan Ultra Thins Value Pack! 36 Count!

Your face goes hot in embarrassment as Tommy chokes on his spit, taking the box and quietly thanking Joel. 

“There’s a whole box of ‘em, can’t have any more babies running around,” Joel mumbles before walking off to survey the many bins of canned foods you now have. 

Tommy turns to you, a sly look on his face, “Guess we better start working our way through these, huh, hot stuff.”

For added measure, he wiggles his eyebrows, shaking the box in front of you as you roll your eyes. 

“You’re disgusting.” 

A loud gasp from Lara has all of you turning to look at the girl. She’s staring into a duffle bag, her hands shaking as she pulls a container out. As usual, she’s wordless, but she does do you all the courtesy of turning the can towards you, Similac Baby Formula. 

“I could kiss the fucker who hoarded all this to himself.” Tommy declares, a smile on his face, as Lara shows the baby the many cans of food. 

“You’re a really strange guy..” You poke his side 

“Yeah, I am.” He proudly accepts your tease, poking you right back. 

Joel claps his brother on the back, a loud smack resounding through the room, “Quit flirtin' with your girl, there’s a car parked out back, let’s go see if we can get it running.” 

Joel and Tommy disappear into the backyard, where a shed and hopefully a working car await them. You cross the room to Lara, who is trying to pick through the baby stuff, her boy letting out little grunts of discontent. 

“I can hold the baby while you look.” You offer. 

Lara had begun letting you hold her child recently. You could tell she was still hesitant to really give him her all, instead letting you take care of the nurturing while she simply fed and changed him when he needed it. 

The baby, who still has no name, kicks his feet happily when you pull him from the sling after Lara nods to you. You sit on the floor with him, balancing him on your knee as he looks at his mother with big blue eyes. 

“You’ve got a buffet now.” You say to him, “All you can eat. There’s like at least forty cans of formula up there for you.” 

The baby blinks back at you, a gurgle leaving his lips as drool falls down onto the floor below him. Your eyes scan his appearance, he’d gotten chubbier in the past weeks, Lara having a steady diet of half your food meant more breastmilk. Now, his once loose onesie was looking a bit snug as he sat on your lap, staring at you and his mother. 

“Hey, I’m gonna go upstairs to see if there's something new for him to wear.” You say, perhaps this nameless prepper had also snagged some baby clothes. 

Lara waves you off, motioning for you to leave the kid on the floor. You hesitate for a second, technically you know he shouldn’t be left alone, afterall she isn’t going to watch him. But, he also couldn’t even crawl yet, he’d only accomplished sitting up recently. 

So, you left him on the carpet handing him a still closed bag of fruit to marvel over, its shiny packaging should have him enamored for at least twenty minutes. 

Upstairs is pretty boring, empty of things, it’s a simple two bedroom home, one of which was pretty much empty except for a box filled with old tax documents and a busted lamp. The furnished bedroom has a small full bed pushed up against one wall, a dilapidated nightstand beside it, holding a bottle of lotion and box of tissues. Gross. Guess whoever lived here was a dude. 

Clothing apparently wasn’t a top priority for this man, simple jeans and shirts lined his closet, a couple of sweatshirts and a big winter coat were shoved in the way back. The dresser drawers are pretty much the same deal, socks, underwear and a few pairs of well loved sweatpants. One t-shirt says “Best Dad Ever!” its faded and nearly falling apart A hazy memory of Joel wearing something like this came to mind, a fathers day many years ago, you had taken Sarah to the mall and both of you bought one for your dads, convincing them to wear them out at the same time had been a whole ordeal. 

You return the old shirt to its place in the drawer, something else catching your eye. A polaroid camera sits on a bookshelf, beside it a dusty picture of a woman, her long hair a tangled mess of dark curls. She smiles at you, her eyes crinkling as she lounges on the beach. You pick up the polaroid, the film counter reading that it still had four photos left. 

The loud sound of a thump has you rushing back down the steps, ducking your head through the camera so it dangles off your neck. Back in the living room, you find Lara, standing over a knocked-over box of old magazines, her eyes fixed on something at her feet. The baby remains where you left him, his hands slapping the bag of fruit like it’ll open for him like that.

You walk over to Lara, and at her feet is a fitness magazine, a young man poses, his arms confidently crossed, showing off tanned biceps as he smiles, his teeth an unnatural white. 

10 ways to lose that gut! Mike Leeds shares his secrets!

“You uh okay?” You ask her softly, the man’s sandy blonde hair and bright blue eyes suspiciously match the baby’s, who sits a few feet from you.

Lara moves fast, faster than you’ve ever seen her move, even that day she jumped Tommy, she didn’t move this quickly. Grabbing Mike Leed’s magazine, you watch as she rips the cover off, proceeding to shred the entire thing into a thousand pieces at her feet, her chest heaving as she does. 

Fat tears begin falling down her freckled face as you watch with concern. You stare at the destroyed magazine for a moment then look back at her. Lara’s arms wrap around herself, and quiet sobs leave her lips as she stands there, her chest rising and falling abnormally. Before you can even think about it, you pull her into you, her wavy red hair tickling your nose as you hug her, her head resting on your shoulder. 

“Shhhh.” You soothe, “You’re alright. You’re safe…” 

You run a hand up and down her back, holding her tight as she cries. The baby stares up at the two of you, the bag of fruit still in his hands. 

The sound of the backdoor has you looking away from Lara for a moment, she’s still wrapped in your arms when Tommy enters. 

“Hey, Joel got the…What happened? Why’re we huggin’?” 

You wave him away, pointing at the door. Your boyfriend spins on his heel, a sigh escaping his lips as he goes. Lara pulls away from you after she hears the back door swing shut again, wiping at her red eyes as she bends down to pick the baby back up. She moves to grab the bag of formula cans, her hand brushing yours as she moves. 

“Hey, you ever wanna talk about it, let me know, okay?” You prompt wishing she’d make eye contact. All you get is a soft grunt from her as she walks off, the baby humming as he stares at you from over her shoulder. 

It takes the rest of the day to get everything from the puke green home to your little blue one that’s only four miles away. Joel and Tommy do a lot of the heavy lifting, loading shit up in wheelbarrows and tossing it into the Toyota 4Runner they had resurrected. Some of the most exciting things consisted of more batteries, about a million packs of toilet paper, the formula, and of course the seemingly endless canned goods and bags of rice. Oh, and the seven boxes of condoms, that was cool too.  By the end of the day the kitchen and attic of your home looked just like the preppers did, although you were actually going to get some use out of it all. 

“What do you think happened to the guy who owned all this shit?” You ask as the four of you slurp up cans of beef ravioli from your new favorite man, Chef Boyardee. 

“Ah well…” Tommy scratches his head, staring at Joel who shrugs in return from his spot across the room in the wooden rocking chair. 

“What?” You ask cluelessly, knocking your knee against Tommy’s as the two of you sit on the sofa together 

Lara spins around, she’s sitting at the kitchen table, her notebook in hand, baby at her feet, a bottle in his hands, the nipple stuffed in his mouth. Her spindly hand writing stands out against the paper. 

Tell us

“He was layin’ out in the shed, all decomposed and shit,” Tommy says

“What, like he killed himself?” You ask 

“Nah, we think he slipped and fell. There’s this big stack of cinder blocks out there, he was layin’ next to one that was all bloody. Probably tripped on his untied shoelaces.” Joel chimes in before Tommy can speak again. 

“Oh.” You say, thinking of the best dad ever shirt and the dusty photo of the woman on his bookshelf. You’re a bit sad for this stranger, tripping and bashing his head open, no one in his home to rush to his side to save him. 

After dinner, Tommy helps Joel unload the last car full of stuff from the man’s home. Arguably, this might be the most important of them all, the weapons. There’s a decent pile of about 10 new guns in your house now, plus seven big boxes of ammunition to go with them. Joel says it should last well over two years of hunting, as long as no big groups of people or infected find you out here. 

That night, you lay in bed, safely tucked away from the world and stomach full, your eyes should flutter shut. Instead, you squirm around on the mattress, Tommy’s figure beside you, his light snores filling the room as you try to sleep. 

You turn on your side, pulling open the drawer of your nightstand. A few months ago, when you’d gotten settled here, you tossed a few miscellaneous items into the drawer, not really bothering with them until now. Over a year ago, you’d found a still packaged vibrator in the drawer of a home you, Tommy, and Joel had stopped in. Of course, you didn’t have any batteries for the damn thing so it sat forgotten at the bottom of your backpack. Now, thanks to the nameless prepper, there was an overabundance of triple-A’s, enough that you’d been able to sneak two of them into your pocket without Joel taking note earlier. 

A soft hum filled your ears as you clicked the toy on, softly sighing as it met the delicate flesh between your legs. You press the button again and a noise leaves your lips, your hips canting up towards the soft silicone as you rub your clit. You’d always had a hard time getting off yourself, your fingers never hitting the right spots to get it done. 

Since you’d gotten together with Tommy, self pleasure hadn’t been necessarily needed. You’d probably been overactive while living at the cabin but recently not so much. The past few weeks had been spent busy trying to survive, rationing and trying to catch licks of sleep when the baby wasn’t crying. This left you with very few moments for lust would take over, resulting in the lack of lying next to him, breathless and sweaty, between damp sheets. 

To put it bluntly, you were needy. You missed the regular feeling of Tommy in you, pleasing you til’ the sun came up some days. You bring your spare hand up your shirt, gently tweaking your nipples as another quiet whimper escapes your lips when you bump the toy’s settings to go higher. Fuck, you were close, you were so damn sensitive just a little bit more…

“What the fuckr’ you doin?” 

“Nothing!” You gasp, regretfully ripping the toy away from your body, clicking it twice to turn it off 

Tommy shifts a click being heard before light floods the room from the lantern he kept on his own nightstand. A squeal leaves your lips when he pulls the covers partly off you, staring between your legs at the discarded toy, a harsh, bright pink that stands out from the light green sheets that were on your bed. 

Tommy reaches between you, careful not to touch your aching center as he picks up your contraband, rolling the small bullet vibe between his fingers as he stares at it in the light. 

“This is why you took those batteries? To power up a sex toy?” 

You squirm guiltily on the soft mattress, perhaps you hadn’t been as discreet as you thought you were, “No…” 

Tommy’s brows shoot up at your blatant lie, an amused smile working its way across his face. “Yeah, alright.” 

“Quit embarrassing me, go back to bed so I can finish.” You say, plucking the toy from his big hands. 

A quiet chuckle escapes Tommy’s lips as he leans in to press a kiss to your cheek, “Nah, think I’ll stay awake. Besides, clearly I’ve been neglecting my girl if you’re stealing precious batteries.”

“But aren’t you tired? You helped unload all those boxes of supplies today.” You softly say 

Tommy slots himself between your thighs, pushing your shirt up so your navel is exposed, he presses kisses to the skin, slowly leading down to where you want him the most, “Never too tired for you, darlin’.” 

He leans back down, a trail of kisses pressed to your skin as he finishes his path with a kiss to the bundle of nerves between your legs, already raw and sensitive from earlier. 

“Quit teasing me.” You mumble, hands fisted in the sheets 

“Yeah, yeah, needy girl.” Tommy waves you off, his hand reaching for the toy that lays in the sheets, “It seems like I have some competition, wanna tell me who’s better?” 

You scoff and roll your eyes, men and their egos, “Well, the toy doesn’t talk back, so…” 

“Oh, so it’s like that?” Tommy asks 

“It’s like that.” You confirm arrogantly 

“We’ll see about that then…” 

Twenty minutes later, you’re strung out, your bottom lip is probably bleeding from how roughly you’re biting down on it. Tommy has a big hand splayed across your middle, you wrap your own hand around it, squeezing tightly. He’s been alternating between his tongue and the bullet vibe, always switching off when you were close, laughing into your cunt whenever you’d quietly whine in protest. 

“Let me cum…” You tiredly mumble 

Tommy pulls away from you, a nip of his teeth have you yelping when they brush your soft folds. 

“Think you deserve it?” 

“Yes.” You huff 

“Dunno…you seemed pretty eager to get off on a piece of rubber. Why don’t you try asking nicely?” He asks, a thumb gently running across your thigh. 

This fucking guy. You were so going to kill him when this was over. You tug on Tommy’s arm, feigning a pout as you pull him up towards your face, his dark eyes roaming yours as he moves for you. 

“What’s wrong?” He asks concerned 

Before he can ask you again, you catch him off guard, flipping the two of you around so his back is on the mattress. A grunt leaves his lips as you clamor on top of him, determined to get your release. Pushing his underwear down, you sigh loudly when the warm skin of his cock touches your soaked hole. 

“Fuck, wait, wait!” Tommy groans 

You freeze, worried you’d overstepped and that he wanted to stop, “Fuck, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to-I’ll get off you.” 

One of his hands flies to your hips, keeping you above him, “Just needed to grab one of these.” 

You glance down to where a small silver square sits in his hand, a condom from the box Joel had shoved into his arms earlier today. Tommy rolls it on with practiced motions as you watch. 

“Condom number one is officially in use.” He declares proudly

“You’re fucking weird.” You comment 

“You lov-ahh fuck…”

Tommy’s mouth snaps shut as you sink down on him for the first time in two and a half weeks. His name falls from your lips as you desperately try to keep quiet, your hips immediately beginning to rise and fall while he grunts below you. You’re utterly wrecked as you roughly roll your hips down into his, reveling in the friction from his pubes on your clit. Tommy’s whispered, frantic voice fills your ears as slick noises leave where the two of you are connected.

“S-Slow down, M’ not gonna-Fuck!” 

You lean down, slamming your lips into Tommy’s as he brushes a sensitive spot inside you, your cunt clenching as it does. 

“Mmm you feel so fucking good.” You mumble into his lips, drunk on him 

Straightening back up, you continue your movements, tasting blood as you bite down on your bottom lip when Tommy’s hands run up your body and under your shirt to your soft chest. 

Tommy’s back raises slightly from the bed, his hands falling to your hips, slowing your motions down exponentially, a quiet whine leaving your lips. 

“Not, fuck, gonna last like this, you’re killin’ me here.” 

Your hands land on his still clothed torso, nails biting through the fabric as he winces. You gently push him back down, no real malice behind it, if he wanted to he could toss you off him at any second. 

A chuckle leaves his lips as you stare down at him, silently pleading for him to just stay put. 

“Alright, you win.” He concedes 

Rough hands resume their place on your waist, squeezing as you stifle your moans, wishing that the two of you were alone in this damn house. 

“Good fucking girl,” He groans, knowing how you love it when he says that. Tommy’s hand falls off you, searching the bed sheets for something. 

Your lust riddled brain barely registers as he finds the vibrator, you only react when he places it on your needy clit. Your mouth opens to scream just as Tommy places his hand across your mouth, sitting up as he muffles the cry. 

“Fuck, Fuck..Cum for me.” He mutters into your neck, sucking at the soft skin there 

A muffled moan escapes his hand as you stare at him, too fucked out to really speak. 

“C’mon darlin’, use me, let me feel it.” 

Three more rolls of your hips and then you’re gone, shaking above him as the toy’s soft hum fills the room. Tommy grunts below you, spilling into the condom as he brings his lips to yours, his hips jerking with erratic movements. 

Tommy rests his head in the crook of your neck, his chest heaving as he catches his breath. 

“You almost killed me, girl.” He smiles dopily up at you as you press a kiss to his damp forehead, “Damn near lost my mind with you on top like that.” 

“Mmm, good.” You giggle, his nose brushing your chin 

Tommy wraps his arms around you, holding you close as the two of you come down, sweaty skin sticking to your t-shirts. You’ll have to boil water for a bath tomorrow, perhaps he’ll even join you if you beg hard enough. 

“Remind me to never neglect you in the bedroom again.” Tommy says 

A laugh escapes your lips, kissing him as you lean into his touch. 

“Seriously, I think you just stole a piece of my soul back there. It’s probably trapped in the condom or something.” 

You laugh, climbing out of his lap, falling into the messy sheets, pulling the covers up your body, “You’re so fucking weird, Tommy.” 

Next Part- Coming Soon

I really need to eat more vegetables and fruits. I'm gonna end up with scurvy or something crazy one of these days.

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[dragoneyelashart]

I MISS YOU, I'M SORRY 𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚

authors note: not a part 2, but another angst! love u guys! warnings: mentions of cheating, breakup, slight toxicity if you squint

it’s been a year, and somehow, the silence between you two is worse than any argument you’ve ever had. a year since billie walked away, a year since she shattered you, since she broke everything in ways you never thought possible.

you don’t even have to relive the details anymore—they haunt you in your sleep, a broken record that skips over and over. you know what she did. you know how it felt when you found out, when everything in your world came crashing down. but no matter how many times you tell yourself that it doesn’t matter, that she doesn’t matter, the ache never quite leaves. it’s there, gnawing at the pit of your stomach every time you hear her name.

billie cheated. it wasn’t a simple mistake. it wasn’t a single moment of weakness. no, she chose someone else. chose them over you, over what you shared. the betrayal still stings, even now, but that’s not the worst part. the worst part is that even after everything, you loved her. you loved her in a way that was deep and desperate, that burned your chest and made your throat tight whenever she’d whisper something sweet to you, something that made you forget about the mess of your life, your insecurities, the things that were broken inside you. you loved her first, and you still do, even if it hurts to admit it out loud. and maybe that’s your curse.

you tried to hate her. tried so fucking hard. told yourself it was just another toxic chapter in your life that you needed to close, to walk away from. but it never worked. there was always something inside of you that clung to her, something desperate that whispered, you can’t walk away from this. because no matter how many ways you tried to spin it, you couldn’t stop craving her. she felt like home. she was home.

now, here you are—staring at the screen of your phone. your heart’s racing in your chest, your thoughts tangled in a mess of guilt, confusion, and longing. the name on the screen isn’t hers. it’s someone else, someone you’ve been seeing, but they don’t feel right. there’s no spark. no warmth. no fire. it’s like putting on a coat that doesn’t fit right—it’s just not the same. and you know why. because she’s not billie.

it’s almost laughable how obvious this all is, but you can’t seem to pull yourself out of this cycle. you’re stuck. and the only thing that makes sense in this chaos is the thought of seeing her again. you need her. maybe you don’t even know why anymore. maybe it’s because you’re weak, or maybe it’s because you’re still in love with the version of her that made you feel invincible. that made you feel like you could take on the world, as long as she was by your side.

you reach for your jacket without even thinking, your heart pounding harder, your hands trembling just a little. the cool night air hits your skin when you step outside, and you don’t even feel it. the only thing you feel is that pull—stronger now than it’s ever been. you know what this is. you know you shouldn’t be doing this. but you can’t stop yourself.

you knock on her door, the sound sharp and hollow in the stillness of the night. your breath catches, a wave of nausea rising in your throat. you know this is a bad idea, but you’re too far gone to turn back. too far gone to listen to the voice telling you that this will only hurt more. you need her. more than you’ve needed anything in the past year.

when she opens the door, it’s like you’ve been transported back in time. like nothing’s changed. she’s still the same—effortlessly beautiful, her hair falling messily around her face like she hasn’t tried at all, and yet she looks perfect. the world feels like it’s holding its breath as her eyes meet yours—surprise, confusion, but something else, too, something softer and more dangerous. fear. because she knows. she knows what this could do to both of you.

“what are you doing here?” her voice is quiet, almost uncertain, like she doesn’t know how to handle this. doesn’t know how to handle you.

you take a shaky breath, but before you can stop yourself, the words spill out.

“i miss you. i… i need you, billie. please.” your voice breaks, and you hate yourself for it, hate that you sound so small. but you don’t know how to be anything else right now.

there’s a moment where she just stands there, looking at you, and you see it. you see the conflict in her eyes—the way her shoulders stiffen, the way she’s trying to figure out how to handle this mess of you standing in front of her. you wait, your heart hammering in your chest, praying for something—anything—anything that feels like it used to feel when she was yours.

she looks away, closing her eyes like she can’t bear to look at you for too long. and then she sighs, a sound so full of regret, of something broken.

“y/n… you can’t keep doing this. we can’t. i’ve told you—i can’t do this again.” her words are soft, but there’s something sharp behind them, a truth you’re too afraid to face. she’s trying to protect you, and you can see it in the way she steps back, the way her arms fold across her chest like she’s trying to shield herself from you.

“i know what you did, billie. i know. you cheated, and it… it fucking destroyed me. but i can’t stop wanting you. i can’t stop loving you.” you take a step forward, your voice trembling. “i tried to move on, but she’s not you. she doesn’t feel like you. i don’t feel at home with her. i feel… lost.”

billie’s eyes flicker for just a moment, and you catch the way her breath catches. she wants to reach for you. she does. you see it in the way she hesitates. but then the guard comes back, stronger now, and she pulls away.

“y/n…” she whispers your name like it’s a plea, like she’s trying to make you understand something you don’t want to. “what we had—what we are—it wasn’t healthy. i wasn’t healthy, and i’m still not. you think you need me, but you don’t. i can’t keep hurting you like this. i won’t.”

the words hit you like a slap, but you don’t let it show. you’re so tired of pretending. so tired of being strong. of being the one who doesn’t let the world break her down. so you give in. give in to the weakness, the yearning. you take another step closer.

“i don’t care if it wasn’t healthy, billie. i don’t care. i can’t breathe without you. please. i just need to know if you still love me. if you can love me. even just a little. i’ll do anything. i’ll change. i’ll become whoever you want me to be. just… just don’t let go of me.”

her eyes darken, and for a moment, you think she’s going to pull you into her arms and make everything feel right again. but she doesn’t. instead, she shakes her head, tears brimming in her eyes now, too, but they’re not the kind you want. not the kind you crave. no, they’re the kind that say goodbye.

“i’m sorry, y/n,” she says quietly, her voice breaking. “i’ll always care about you. but it’s not enough anymore. i can’t be the person you want me to be. i can’t do that to you again. i won’t.”

you want to scream. want to beg her to stay. to take you back. to fix everything that’s broken. but there’s nothing left to say. the truth has settled in, cold and final. you can’t make someone love you. not when they’ve already let you go.

billie swallows, her lips trembling, but she holds your gaze one last time. “i don’t want to hurt you again. i’m not the person you need me to be.”

and with that, she closes the door softly. not with force. not with anger. but with a quiet finality that leaves you standing there, a broken version of yourself, out in the cold, alone. again.

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[sthilarions]

(We’re working in a slight AU where cats can see ghosts but can’t talk because otherwise this would get weird. I considered a bunny or a ferret to avoid the issue but - whatever. Anyway)

Charles faced Edwin’s empty chair behind the desk, addressing it, in the empty office. “Edwin. So - I know you’re going to be kind of mad. And I know about the Puppy Debacle. And that was bad all around, you were all the way right that time, I’m not saying you weren’t. But after the case at the shelter today - it’s just, he reminded me so much of you, with that little head tilt, yeah?”

He paused. “And we have Crystal and Niko around now anyway so it’s not like we’re still keeping the no living rule, at this point, and, he’s got this little marking on his neck like your bowtie, and he came right up to me to play but then this big guy came in and he curled up against the wall and he looked just like you did in - and there’s no version of this where I don’t come get you, is there, even if you’re a cat, and - ”

He smacked himself, hard, on the head, with his free hand. “Fucking stupid, Charles, why would you even say that? You’re gonna have to come up with something way better than that. Fuck.”

There was a sound from behind him and Charles jumped violently and hid his cargo in his coat. He did not turn around.

“Charles,” Edwin said, from behind him. “You are not stupid, fucking or otherwise. However - ” he paused. “I don’t suppose you could turn around?”

Charles shook his head. “I’d rather not just at the mo’, mate,” he said, holding his coat shut.

“As you wish. As I was saying, to you instead of to an empty chair, I will note, I, ah, I know I was the one to initially stand against the Infamous Puppy Debacle of ‘94, but it has been thirty-one years since then, and our lifestyles have shifted, and the circumstances are rather different now than then. She’s not a hellhound, to start with - ”

“Wait, hang on,” Charles said. “Whaddayamean, ‘she’?”

Edwin took a deep breath. He was getting better at doing that without being told. “When we were separated, at the shelter. And I was looking in their Special Care area. They said she had been - ” Edwin broke off.

“Hurt,” he continued, “for a while, but she’s ready to adopt now, they just hadn’t moved her out yet to keep things familiar for her. And she came up to me immediately, even though she looked so scared when I walked in, and you know dogs can’t see our disguises so she must have had a near-death experience before, and she licked my hand, which was a very slimy experience but we can find a way to protect the books and ingredients and other items, I’m sure there must be an anti-drool charm somewhere, and when the poltergeist started attacking she tried to get in between it and me even though she was trembling, you may have heard the barking before I got back to you? And they said that Saint Bernards are actually quite good in flats, so long as they get walks, and - ”

Sometime partway through that monologue Charles had spun around. He wasn’t quite sure when, because he’d immediately had his brain go almost completely blank at the sight of the absolutely massive dog standing, jowls in what looked kinda like a loose grin, dangling long trails of drool, at Edwin’s side.

Edwin finally cut himself off, looking down towards Charles’s chest, where his coat had fallen open when his arms loosened as a result of his shock. “And they said she’s very good with cats,” Edwin concluded. “So that’s all right.”

Charles bent over in delighted laughter, careful not to squeeze the cat in his arms. “Well,” he said, after getting the laughter under control a bit, “they told me this little guy was very good with dogs. So I guess that works out.”

Charles looked at the dog for a minute, and Edwin looked at the cat for a minute, and then they both spoke at the same second. “Crystal’s going to be furious.”