#((he continues to think such a thing is impossible))

[teaboot]

Question that I suspect is autism related

I have, on more than one occasion over multiple decades, been told that I “need to have the last word” and that I “have a response for everything”.

Additionally and in a similar vein, I’ve been told that ���everything is an argument with you” and I “always have to say something”.

When I was a little kid I was bad at conversations. People said stuff I had no opinion on or didn’t need follow-up and so I wouldn’t answer and they’d get bored. And eventually through trial and error I figured out that if someone said something to me, all I had to do was say something related back, and the interaction could go on as long as it needed to.

But then as a teen- and now as an adult- a number of people (mostly people I’ve found to be very delicate and particular about things in a sort of need-to-be-in-control authoritarian way) have expressed the identical observation about how I naturally try to converse, and I’m not sure what to do about it.

And the thing is, I have a sibling that talks like this too. We bicker all the time. He changes his own opinions seemingly at a whim for the purpose of being contrary, and it’s impossible to make a statement or observation out loud without him contradicting it, and even when he is demonstrably, factually wrong about something, he will dig his heels into the dirt and defend his stance to the grave.

And like. I hear myself responding, or adding on to people’s comments, but I don’t hear the ‘arguing’ they describe, or the contrarian habits of my sibling. Even when I’m paying attention and being bery careful not to follow up too much or speak too often or disagree or correct something that isn’t important, I get called out for “picking a fight”. They say something, I answer, they reply, I continue, then seemingly out of nowhere they snap. I think everything’s fine until suddenly it isn’t.

And so I guess my question is, how can you tell if you’re a contrary sort of person? How can you tell when to respond or follow up on a person’s statement and how do you know when to leave it in silence? Does everybody see me this way, and is it only people who are already short-tempered who are willing to say it?

I honestly don’t really have that much to say, and half the time I don’t even really want to talk at all, but I’ve been told countless times that I “just seem to like the sound of your own voice” and have to just be “tuned out after a while”. So if it isn’t necessary and I don’t even want to, why am I doing it?

Is there a reason I’m like this? Why is my sibling like this? How do I stop talking when there’s nothing to say, and how can I tell the difference between a conversation and an argument before the other person visibly snaps?

I’m a full grown adult

[midniqhtt]

comfort fic reads II 4k celebration

₊˚⊹⋆ main masterlist ꨄ︎ part two list ₊˚⊹⋆

a/n: list got too long and had me maxed out. so i shifted some fandoms to part two instead.

hi loves! i never do anything for celebrating but i thought i could make a big list of all my favorite fics i’ve read over the past few months/years and continue rereading. i can never get enough of showing my appreciation for writers and all their hard work, and i want them to know i think of these fics/series at least once a day ♡︎ i say ‘comfort’ but theres more angst lol

key- A: angst II F: fluff II S: smut II SB: slow burn II C: comfort

.𖥔 MARVEL .𖥔

𝑩𝑶𝑩 𝑹𝑬𝒀𝑵𝑶𝑳𝑫𝑺

ꨄ︎ loving you is easy two II @blank-potato II A + F

You and Bob are indifferent to each other, never seeming to mesh. But when you lose your memory, something new blooms between the two of you.

ꨄ︎ fooled around and fell in love II @flowersforbucky II S + A + F

you've never been one for commitment, and your teammates know it. when you and bob start seeing each other, it takes them by surprise and makes them worry about how he'll react to the heartbreak that they expect to follow. what they don't understand - you've never felt like this about anyone.

ꨄ︎ soft currents next to you II @nghtwngs II S + A + F

there is falling in love. there is also falling into another universe. there is also falling in love again.

ꨄ︎ home is where the heart is II @ilovemilestellersmoustache II A + F

Wanting to feel more included Bob decides to help on a mission but in efforts to protect you he injures himself leaving him with amnesia. Your boyfriend not remembering isn’t the biggest problem because he’s always going to find you again, even in a hundred lifetimes.

ꨄ︎ soulmate II @geminiwritten II A + C

you're engaged to bucky when you find out that not only are fated mates real, but you have one... and it's not your fiancé

ꨄ︎ we can’t be friends part two II @tfatwsbarnes II A

bob always wondered why you didn’t favour him over the rest of your team. until he learned that you had unsettled the bones of the tva.

ꨄ︎ cowboy like me II @goldenlikedayl1ght II A + F

you get a text from an old friend and think.. you could do worse than a book club.. with some benefits.

ꨄ︎ xerox two three II @ichori II A + SB + C

you had one last job before you were free. no more splitting, no more deaths. unfortunately, that job seemed to rope in four other assassins and a... a man in hospital-wear?

𝑩𝑼𝑪𝑲𝒀 𝑩𝑨𝑹𝑵𝑬𝑺

ꨄ︎ bad boys don’t buy flowers II @espinosaurusrexex II S + A + F

Bucky would have never thought, he’d be chasing after a girl. Not when all of them usually fell at his feet. But when he finds himself entangled in a deal born out of a desperate argument with his assistant, he realizes there is nothing he wouldn't do for you: The independent florist who is adamantly dragging him to the homeless shelter every chance she gets. There is just one problem: Bucky doesn't know how to tell you. And the teasing from his friends is certainly not making things easier for him...

ꨄ︎ come back to you II @buckyalpine II F

What happens when a time travel mission ends up with a version of Bucky from the 40′s standing on the time travel platform.

ꨄ︎ curiosity killed the cat II @queers-gambit II A + C

after rescuing you from kidnappers, you overhear your boyfriend-turned-savior complain about how clingy you've become.

ꨄ︎ you’re my desire part two II @marvelouslizzie and @notafunkiller II S + F

Your best friend drags you out on a double date. You were supposed to be Steve Rogers' date, but plans change pretty quickly and you end up in Bucky Barnes' arms.

ꨄ︎ graveyard part two II @wkemeup II A + C

As the unofficial healer for the Avengers, you pride yourself on the ability to mend heroes with the touch of your hand. Only, your gift comes at a heavy price ��� one you keep secret from your friends —and when Bucky asks you to do the impossible, they’ll discover why your gift is called a sacrifice, too. 

ꨄ︎ dreamscape II @/wkemeup II A + C

When Bucky falls under the spell of a Djinn, the line between fantasy and reality blurs. In order to survive, he must fight his way back to the real world - even if it costs him everything he's ever wanted.

ꨄ︎ blurred lines part two II @ellemj II S + A + F

When choosing a female agent to send back in time to gain young Sergeant Barnes's trust, everyone's in agreement that it should be Sharon. Until Bucky, the man that you barely get along with, speaks up and lets everyone know that it could only be you.

ꨄ︎ love language II @/flowersforbucky II S + F

snapshots of your relationship with bucky told through the five love languages.

ꨄ︎ flashing lights part two II @pellucid-constellations II A + C

Bucky’s worst fears come true when he’s called to a scene. If he’s the one with the dangerous job, then why is it your life that’s hanging in the balance?

ꨄ︎ stay still part two II @buckysknifecollection II A + C

What if your soulmate was the one person you had hurt the most?

ꨄ︎ saturn II @shurisneakers II A

you die. bucky tries to bring you back (or) close to a year after you die, bucky's desperation finally finds an answer. but it may not be the one he's hoping for.

ꨄ︎ bleeding heart II mournthebird II A + C

You're his assigned nurse.

ꨄ︎ 40s!bucky II @helaintoloki II A + F

after accidentally sending yourself back in time, you run into a younger version of the man you loathe only to find yourself questioning your feelings for him

𝑱𝑶𝑯𝑵 𝑾𝑨𝑳𝑲𝑬𝑹

ꨄ︎ under my skin II @/flowersforbucky II F

what first begins as a series of bad luck shows you a different side of the man who normally drives you crazy.

ꨄ︎ moral of the story II @starktonyx II A

You never expected to be blindly sent to kill your ex-husband, but when you cross paths again in looping shame rooms, it’s like going through the pain all over again.

𝑴𝑨𝑻𝑻 𝑴𝑼𝑹𝑫𝑶𝑪𝑲

ꨄ︎ without you part 2 II @foli-vora II A

You return after the 'blip'. Five years is a long time, and a lot of things can happen in that time.

𝑴𝑶𝑶𝑵 𝑲𝑵𝑰𝑮𝑯𝑻

ꨄ︎ for science II @projectionistwrites II S + A + C

In which the Moon Knight alter system presents a unique opportunity to settle the nature versus nurture debate, once and for all...

ꨄ︎ red flags II @astroboots and @thirstworldproblemss II S + A + F

Sweet as he is, dating Steven means you have to be willing to ignore a few red flags along the way. 

ꨄ︎ the jake problem pt2 II @bensolosbluesaber II S + A + C

Jake hates you. Like really hates you, which wouldn’t be a problem if you weren’t dating Steven and Marc. But maybe, just maybe, Jake doesn’t hate you.

𝑷𝑬𝑻𝑬𝑹 𝑷𝑨𝑹𝑲𝑬𝑹

ꨄ︎ sunset lovers II @duskholland II F

you’ve never met your soulmate, but you know his handwriting like the back of your hand—literally. every word your soulmate writes on his skin appears on yours, and vice versa. you’re desperate to meet him, but until the universe decides to introduce you, you’re stuck with scribbled smiley faces and chemistry formulae.

ꨄ︎ one more to see you II @waitimcomingtoo II A

in an effort to see Peter again, you Dream Walk and learn it’s consequences

𝑷𝑰𝑬𝑻𝑹𝑶 𝑴𝑨𝑿𝑰𝑴𝑶𝑭𝑭

ꨄ︎ silent treatment II @floral-and-fine II A + C

where the words their soulmate speaks first are tattooed on their arm.

𝑺𝑻𝑬𝑽𝑬 𝑹𝑶𝑮𝑬𝑹𝑺

ꨄ︎ watchful eyes II @/espinosaurusrexex II S + A + F

When your best friend gets you a new job, cleaning the apartment of the most successful man in New York City, you don't hesitate to accept. The pay is more than good, and the man himself is better than any eye candy you have ever seen. Unbeknownst to you, you've caught his attention just as much. Steve can't keep his mind off you, so much so, that he drives everyone around him insane with his grumpiness when you aren't around. It seems like he has to take matters into his own hands when he realizes, you're too shy to take things further yourself.

ꨄ︎ out of time pt2 pt3 pt4 pt5 pt6 pt7 pt8 II @after-avenging-hours II S + A + F

When Steve is poisoned on a mission, his only hope is a pure Super Soldier Serum. You travel to 1943 to find it—but without the infinity stones, your actions could change the future. Can you save him before time runs out?

.𖥔 TOP GUN .𖥔

𝑩𝑶𝑩 𝑭𝑳𝑶𝒀𝑫

ꨄ︎ the plan II @/geminiwritten II A + F

the squad are all pretty sure that bob has a thing for you, but you're not convinced, so you hatch a plan to tease him within an inch of his life until he snaps

ꨄ︎ the kind of girl i could love II @roosterforme II F

Bob has a secret admirer, but he's convinced it's actually Jake and Nat messing with him. 

𝑩𝑹𝑨𝑫𝑳𝑬𝒀 𝑩𝑹𝑨𝑫𝑺𝑯𝑨𝑾

ꨄ︎ love to lie pt2 pt3 pt4 II @/ddejavvu II A + F

Your worst fear is recognized when Bradley’s jet goes down with him in it. You’re not sure why you’re still his emergency contact, you’d broken up two weeks ago, but when you rush into the hospital room, you discover that you have a chance to fix the mistake you’d been cursing yourself for. The only problem is, you have to lie to Bradley, and you discover that you love doing it if it means you get to be with him again.

ꨄ︎ things unseen and heard II @bloatedandalone04 II S + A + F

the one where you overhear bradley talk about you to jake and decide to give him the space he apparently wanted.

ꨄ︎ playing games II @/geminiwritten II A + F

you've been best friends with rooster for years and you're both obviously in love with each other, but he refuses to cross that line... until you accept some help from hangman and he takes the game just a little too far

ꨄ︎ wrong number II @roosterforme II F

Bradley was planning on a quiet night at home with a beer and a basketball game on TV. When he receives a text from a wrong number, he's left looking at a beautiful photo of you. Now he just needs to persuade you to ditch the guy you meant to text and focus on him instead.

ꨄ︎ between friends II @sometimesanalice II S + F

Bradley and you don’t talk about that Spring Break. But a single question asked during a night out at the Hard Deck might just change things between the two of you forever.

ꨄ︎ trouble in paradise II @/sunlightmurdock II S + A

After the most painful break-up of his life, Rooster is stationed in Hawaii for the next six months. Alone, away from home and hurting, he finds comfort in the arms of a stranger.

ꨄ︎ i’ll show you good, restore your faith II @/se7entyrell II A + F

Your relationship with Bradley is new. Really new. Like, 'haven't let him smell your morning breath yet' new. But when he gets a call telling him that his mom is dying, you find yourself driving him to San Diego in the middle of the night, preparing to meet his entire extended family during the worst period of their lives.

ꨄ︎ terms of endearment II @ohtobeleah II A + C (heavy themes)

They always say when you aren’t looking for love it tends to find you. So when you and your daughter turn up in Fighter Town, Bradley Bradshaw is instantly infatuated. With reluctance to trust and harbouring a bad past, you don’t make it easy for the fighter pilot to love you.

𝑱𝑨𝑲𝑬 𝑺𝑬𝑹𝑬𝑺𝑰𝑵

ꨄ︎ domestic fantasy II @/geminiwritten II F

your ex is coming back to collect some things he left behind and you accidentally tell him that you have a new boyfriend, so hangman accepts the role of your new (fake) boyfriend

ꨄ︎ dirty laundry part two II @/geminiwritten II S + A + F

after a couple months of living together, you're still completely oblivious to how you affect jake and he's starting to spiral because now he's... feeling things

ꨄ︎ medical emergency II @marvelwitchergilmore II F

When Jake gets a call asking to pick you up from the hospital, it's safe to say he's confused. Especially considering neither of you were known for getting along with the other.

ꨄ︎ sign of the times pt2 pt3 pt4 pt5 pt6 pt7 II @se7entyrell II S + A

You're destined to die in Jake Seresin's arms. In every life, in every iteration, it's inescapable. Whether you loathe, or love each other, each ending stays the same. But what if it doesn't have to?

ꨄ︎ spring fling pt2 pt3 pt4 pt5 pt6 pt7 II @ddejavvu II F (in progress)

You should have known the ‘no refunds’ detail on the website for Spring Fling was a red flag. But you paid no mind to it, eager to be assigned a quick fuck for spring break. When the man that walks through your cabin door is none other than Jake 'Hangman' Seresin, your wildly infuriating fellow pilot, you have two choices: bicker the entire time and have a miserable spring break, or fuck.

.𖥔 MISCELLANEOUS .𖥔

𝑹𝑯𝑬𝑻𝑻 𝑨𝑩𝑩𝑶𝑻𝑻

ꨄ︎ odds are stacked II @sunlightmurdock II S

In which Rhett loses a bet and you lose your virginity.

𝑻𝒀𝑳𝑬𝑹 𝑶𝑾𝑬𝑵𝑺

ꨄ︎ all yours II @/geminiwritten II A + F

after being best friends and chasing storms with tyler for years, one night changes everything... now you're staring at a pregnancy test with two pink lines—and just as you're working up the nerve to tell him, tyler announces to the world that he never wants to settle down or have kids

ꨄ︎ orange juice II @ahsokaismyqueen II S + F

When it's time to interview a group of storm chasers for your new book, you get sent back to your hometown. You never would have guessed one of the people you'd be interviewing would be your ex boyfriend. And you might still be a little in love with him.

ꨄ︎ no hesitation II @briefinquiries II S + F

Tyler would be the type of guy that if a girl came up to him and said ‘this guy is creepy, pls pretend to be my bf’ he would be like ‘hell yay’ and scare the guy away

𝑪𝑯𝑹𝑰𝑺 𝑩𝑬𝑪𝑲

ꨄ︎ all the stars are closer II @kashimos-hajime II A + F

mark watney wasn’t the only one left behind on mars, and as you struggle to survive on the desert planet, hidden feelings come to light between you and your best friend, dr. chris beck.

𝑪𝑳𝑨𝑹𝑲 𝑲𝑬𝑵𝑻

ꨄ︎ all american boy II @scribes-of-valar II A + C

Your friend has been distant for months, all of a sudden he's a brand new man. He's practically a puppy dog following after you and you're not sure how to feel. What's a girl to do when she suddenly finds herself looking at not one, but two Clark Kent's?

ꨄ︎ no.1 party anthem II @sunsburns II F

what was supposed to be a night for work takes an unexpected turn when you run into clark kent—alone at a restaurant, waiting for a date who seems to have no intention of showing up. poor guy.

𝑴𝑰𝑪𝑯𝑨𝑬𝑳 𝑹𝑶𝑩𝑰𝑵𝑨𝑽𝑰𝑻𝑪𝑯

ꨄ︎ an itch you can’t scratch pt2 II @theonewiththefanfics II S + A + F

After taking a bad fall, Y/N gets rushed to the ED of Pittsburg Trauma Medical Hospital only to come face to face with a man she had a one-night stand with, and who ghosted her that same morning without a word - Dr. Michael "Robby" Robinavitch. As if her bad day couldn't get any worse than it was...

[iydiamartinx]

A STUDY OF RIVALS

Pairing: Damian Wayne x Reader

divider by: @cafekitsune word count: 4.7k synopsis: Damian meets his rival but perhaps he doesn't hate her as much as he thought. a/n: This one took forever!

Damian Wayne was infuriatingly brilliant.

But even more infuriating? So were you.

From the moment you stepped through the wrought-iron gates of Gotham Academy, you were a headline. The only daughter of your mother—billionaire philanthropist and formidable tech magnate—you had been raised in private academies scattered across Europe and Asia, groomed for excellence in spotless marble halls and classrooms with vaulted ceilings. You returned to Gotham only when your mother decided it was time to come home, bringing her empire and her heir with her.

You arrived polished and composed. Impossibly articulate for someone your age. And intelligent—almost scarily so.

The paparazzi did anything to get a photo of you and your mother

Despite transferring half way through the school year at Gotham Academy the prestigious school was more than happy to take you in. By first period, your name was already on everyone’s lips. Teachers adored you and students all wanted to be your friend. They whispered about your legacy. Your net worth. Your wardrobe. Your private driver. You were the closest thing to royalty Gotham had since the Waynes.

At first Damian didn’t bother to pay attention, you were just another socialite in designer shoes. However, that changed by second period when you dared to challenge him in literature class.

The teacher had called on Damian, who, without looking up from his annotated copy of The Raven, delivered a perfectly adequate—if not slightly bored—analysis of Poe’s narrative technique. He’d spent enough time reading Jason’s battered paperbacks to be familiar with Poe’s rhythm.

That should've been the end of it but then you spoke up.

“I actually disagree,” you said, your voice calm and clear for someone your age. There was no malice or the intent to belittle—just the unwavering tone of someone who had never once been taught to doubt herself. “I think the narrator’s unreliability was intentional. Poe used it to emphasize the descent into madness, not obscure it.”

The room had gone quiet. Even the teacher blinked, caught off guard by your boldness. No one ever dared to disagree with Damian, usually because he was always right, or because they were terrified of the consequences that would come from doing such a thing.

Damian turned in his seat slowly, regarding you like a hawk sizing up competition.

Your eyes met his calmly.

He stared back, impassive. “It wasn’t meant to obscure, no. But emphasizing madness through unreliability can still hinder clarity of narrative. The reader is left unanchored—intentionally.”

You tilted your head slightly. “But that’s the point, isn’t it? Poe wanted us to feel disoriented. He wasn’t just telling us the character was unraveling. He was making us experience it.”

From the back of the classroom, someone muttered under their breath, “Uh oh.”

The teacher cleared his throat, clearly unsure whether to intervene or just let the exchange continue. “Excellent… insight,” he offered cautiously, glancing between the two of you like a man tiptoeing through a minefield. “Both of you. Let’s move on, shall we?”

But you and Damian didn’t move on.

From that moment on, it was war.

The rivalry began innocently enough—almost imperceptibly at first.

He completed a pop quiz in twelve minutes. You finished it in ten.

He aced the physics lab. You beat him in algebra.

He turned in an essay on ancient warfare quoting The Art of War. You cited Thucydides, pointed out a flaw in his argument, and corrected his citation aloud when it came to peer editing them.

By the end of the week, you’d tied his calculus score. By the next, your name appeared beneath his on the school’s academic leaderboard. Only one point behind. The following Monday, it was on top.

Damian hadn’t lost a ranking since he started at Gotham Academy.

“Tt,” he muttered under his breath, glaring at the board.

“She’s impressive,” one of the teachers had said offhandedly. “Such a brilliant student. She reminds me of you, Mr. Wayne.”

Damian had scowled. You were not like him. There was no one like him, he had been raised to surpass excellence—to conquer it. Trained since birth by the League of Assassins, tutored by the world’s brightest minds, fluent in four languages by age six. He had Sun Tzu memorized before most children learned to read. And you? You were just some rich girl in a perfectly pressed uniforms.

Meanwhile, you couldn’t figure out what you’d done to earn his scorn—but his snide remarks and condescending tone had begun to gnaw at you. Irritating you to the point you made it a personal mission to beat him at everything. 

One afternoon, after an especially gruelling debate in History, the two of you were called to stay behind. The teacher then turned to face you both with a look that fell somewhere between exasperation and reluctant pride.

“I’ve never had two students correct me in the same breath,”  he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re both brilliant, but maybe next time let me finish the sentence before starting a turf war over Napoleon.”

You cast a sideways glance at Damian, only to find that he was already looking at you.

His sharp green eyes narrowed slightly. You looked away, lifting your chin and straightening your shoulders as you turned your gaze back to the teacher. You weren’t about to be caught admiring his infuriatingly handsome self. 

Once you two were dismissed, he turned to you in the nearly empty hallway, brushing nonexistent dust off his blazer.

“You know,” he started, voice dry, “you talk too much for someone who’s wrong half the time.”

Your eyes narrow. “Funny. I was about to say the same about you.”

And with that, you turned on your heel and stalked away—head held high, heels clicking, and more than ready for a Damian-free weekend.

Only… that wasn’t the case.

Not even twenty-four hours after your latest victory in the history debate, you found yourself being pulled from the backseat of your town car in front of Gotham’s most exclusive ballroom. Cameras flashed. Paparazzi shouted your mother’s name and yours. Your jaw locked the moment you stepped out, heels clicking sharply against the marble as you followed her up the steps.

“This is a waste of time,” you muttered under your breath, gaze fixed ahead.

“Nonsense,” your mother replied without so much as a glance over her shoulder, her tone breezy and clipped, laced with that ever-present note of amusement. “A little public goodwill never hurt anyone. Besides, it’s good to make connections. One day, you’ll take over my legacy.”

Inside, the venue glittered. Filled with polished chandeliers, soft golden lighting, and murmured laughter. Gotham’s elite mingled beneath banners for children’s hospitals and tech-forward philanthropy. Champagne flutes sparkled between manicured fingers. A string quartet played something classic in the corner. And you stayed precisely half a step behind your mother as she navigated the room like a queen surveying her court.

At some point, you stopped paying attention.

Your mother flitted between conversations with years of practiced charm. Making the rounds as she talked to important investors and socialites. It wasn’t until she said your name that you blinked back to the present. 

“Y/N.”

You looked up. Both your mother and a tall, dark-haired man were watching you expectantly. 

“Bruce, this is my daughter, Y/N,” your mother said smoothly. “Honey, this is Bruce Wayne.”

The name instantly grabbed your attention. You knew who he was, of course. Everyone did.

Bruce Wayne offered you a hand and an easy smile. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Y/N. I’ve heard impressive things.”

You returned the gesture with one of your own—polite but not quite warm. “Likewise, Mr. Wayne.”

His eyes, though friendly, were sharp—like he saw more than he let on. You recognized the look. You’d seen it in boardrooms, in interviews, in your mother’s own reflection when she touched up her lipstick before a negotiation. It was the look of someone sizing you up—measuring your potential. 

“My youngest son is about your age,” Bruce commented casually. “Perhaps you know him—Damian?”

Before you could respond, the devil himself materialized like he’d been summoned by name. “Father—”

“Ah, Damian, we were just talking about you!” Bruce said, his entire expression shifting as he reached to pull his son closer with a fondness that Damian met with stiff resistance. “This is Ms. L/N,” he added, gesturing to your mother, “and this is her daughter, Y/N.”

Damian’s sharp green eyes landed on you, his mouth tightening ever so slightly. “Yes. We share classes.”

“Oh, how wonderful,” your mother said smoothly, her voice laced with that signature diplomatic charm—the kind designed to make people feel flattered, even when they weren’t. “She’s spoken so highly of her classmates. I’m glad to know she’s surrounded by such… driven young people.”

You caught the subtle pause. Driven, not kind. Not friendly. Your mother had no patience for meaningless social niceties. She reserved her praise for those she deemed worthy, and the way she was now sizing up Damian said it all. Just like Bruce had done with you, she was assessing Damian with the same calculating precision she used on CEOs across glossy conference tables—because like you, he was a legacy.

“Likewise,” Damian said smoothly, though the tightness in his jaw betrayed any sincerity. “Y/N is… competent.”

You turned to him slowly, one brow arched. “Just competent?” you echoed, voice as sweet as honey, but the edge beneath it was razor-sharp. “Funny. I seem to recall consistently scoring higher than you on every major assessment.”

He scoffed. “Then perhaps your memory is askew.”

Bruce let out an awkward chuckle, and your mother’s brow lifted in amusement as the tension between you and Damian practically crackled.

“It seems our children have a bit of healthy competition,” Bruce remarked lightly, though his eyes flicked to Damian warningly but also filled with new understanding. So that was the reason for the sudden uptick in academic ambition. Before you, Bruce had to practically hunt him down and threaten to ban him from patrol to get him to go to school. “You’ll have to forgive him. Manners are still a work in progress.”

“I don’t know,” your mother mused, taking a slow sip of her champagne. “He reminds me a bit of you when you were younger. All sharp eyes and sharper opinions.”

“Mother,” you warned under your breath.

“Oh, come now,” she said with a smirk, eyes glinting. “I’m simply saying it’s nice to see you have a rival to keep you on your toes. Bruce and I were much the same in our youth. It’s good for you.”

Something unspoken passed between them, buried under years of power and poise. They stood too close for it to be entirely innocent, their glances too measured, their silences filled with unspoken words. You weren’t sure if you wanted to roll your eyes, gag, or start backing away before things got weird or well…weirder.

“Well,” Bruce said at last, raising his glass in your mother’s direction, “I’m glad they’re getting along... sort of.”

Damian let out a scoff beside you.

“Mmm,” your mother hummed, clinking her glass to his with a knowing smile. “Let’s just hope they’re nothing like us in our youth.”

You finally chose option three—and it seemed so did Damian.

Without a word, the two of you turned on your heels and made a clean, silent escape. You didn’t need to say anything. The moment your mother started reminiscing about her and Bruce’s youth—with that knowing look in her eyes—you knew it was time to evacuate.

You didn’t so much as glance his way as you moved, but you could feel him beside you, the stiffness in his posture betraying his quiet irritation.

The ballroom opened into a quieter hallway off to the side, lined with towering windows and heavy velvet drapes that muffled the noise from the main event. It was cooler here, the lighting softer, almost reverent. You paused near one of the window alcoves and plucked a glass of water from a tray left on a pedestal, the crystal catching the dim light as you took a slow sip.

Damian stopped beside you, arms crossed, jaw tight. “Does your mother and my father know they’re insufferable?”

You took another sip before replying. “I don’t think they care.”

He gave a soundless huff of agreement, eyes scanning the crowd judgmentally. “How long do you think they’ll keep us here?”

“Long enough to secure five new investors and two photo ops,” you muttered, setting your glass down.

He absentmindedly nodded. “An accurate assessment.”

You tilted your head, giving him a slow look. “Careful. That almost sounded like agreement.”

He scoffed without looking at you. “Statistically speaking, even you were bound to say something useful eventually.”

Your eyes narrowed, a sharp retort already forming on your tongue—but you didn’t get the chance.

“Y/N!” a shrill voice called, honeyed and eager.

You turned just in time to see a well-dressed socialite approaching, eyes alight with recognition. “I just have to say, your mother is such an inspiration—I’ve followed her work for years! And you’re her daughter? My goodness, the resemblance is uncanny…”

As the woman launched into a full-blown gush fest, you fought the urge to sigh—and instinctively glanced to your side.

But Damian was gone. 

Meanwhile, Damian had taken the opportunity to slip away, weaving through the crowd with practiced ease until he rejoined his siblings near the bar. Jason, leaning casually against the counter with a glass in hand, raised a brow and nodded subtly in your direction.

“Who was that you were talking to?”

Tim glanced up as well, curiosity piqued. “Yeah, I didn’t realize you had any friends, Demon Spawn.”

Damian rolled his eyes, arms folding across his chest in irritation. “She’s not my friend,” he muttered. “She’s an infuriating enemy I unfortunately cannot get rid of.”

He exhaled sharply, his gaze cutting across the ballroom to where you stood at the far end, still trapped in conversation. You nodded politely, offering a rehearsed smile while yet another socialite praised your mother’s latest tech innovation. Damian looked visibly annoyed just watching it.

“What’d she do?” Dick asked, genuine interest threading through his voice. It wasn’t like Damian to fixate on anyone who wasn’t a threat—or family.

“She exists,” Damian said flatly. “And insists on doing so at the top of every class ranking I hold.”

Tim let out a low whistle, dragging out the sound. “Ah. Academic rivalry. That explains the tension. Thought for a second you were flirting.”

Damian’s head whipped over to look at him like he’d sprouted a second head. “Don’t be stupid.”

Jason grinned behind the rim of his glass. “You mean to tell me someone’s finally smart enough to challenge you and you don’t like it? You’ve been whining about your classmates’ IQs ever since Bruce made you go to school.”

“They are stupid,” Damian snapped. “And she’s not a challenge. She’s just—annoying. Always has an opinion. Always needs to correct everyone.”

"By everyone, I'm assuming that you're referring to yourself," Jason smirked.

“You know all of that sounds a lot like you, actually,” Tim pointed out, shrugging with a completely unapologetic smile.

Damian shot him a glare sharp enough to cut glass. “Does not.”

Jason elbowed Dick, who had been quietly sipping his drink with a growing smirk. “Ten bucks says they get partnered on some school project and fall in love by spring.”

"You're on," Dick grinned.

Damian’s entire expression darkened.

“I will set you three on fire,” he said, dead serious.

Unfortunately for Damian, the first part of Jason’s prediction came true.

It was Monday morning, second period, and the classroom still buzzed with low chatter and the scraping of chairs as students trickled in and settled down. You had just taken your seat, already flipping open your notebook, when the teacher stepped to the front of the room, her expression far too cheerful for a Monday morning. That alone should’ve been your first warning.

“As you all know we have an upcoming literary analysis project,” she began, scanning the room like she was delivering good news and not the academic equivalent of a grenade, “and I’ve decided to personally pair you all up to ensure balanced collaboration.”

Around the room, groans erupted. A few students exchanged panicked looks or hopeful glances toward their friends. You, however, didn’t care much, prepared to do all the work to ensure the best grade. That was until—

“Finally, Y/n and Damian.”

You blinked once. The words taking a moment to fully register.

From a few seats over, Damian let out a noise that sounded almost like a choking cough.

The teacher—either oblivious to the knife-sharp tension that immediately spiked between your desks or possibly very aware—beamed. “I trust the two top students in our class will produce something exceptional.”

Damian looked like he’d swallowed a lemon. 

You offered your teacher a faux pleasant smile, tilting your head. “Looking forward to the challenge.” And then you turned to Damian. “Try not to fall behind.”

The look Damian shot you could’ve curdled milk. He scoffed but didn’t rise to the bait—not verbally, at least. His glare was sharp enough to count as a response on its own as he stood, gathered his things, and reluctantly moved his desk beside yours like he was being sentenced to death.

His books hit the surface of your shared desk with a muffled thud, and he sank into his seat like it physically pained him to be there, sitting stiffly beside you and crossing his arms almost as if he was pouting.

You didn’t so much as twitch. You merely turned toward him with a sickeningly sweet smile that didn’t reach your eyes.

“Shall we begin?” you asked. “Unless, of course, you’d prefer to sulk and pout this entire project.”

“I don’t sulk,” he muttered darkly.

“Sure you don’t.” You agreed sarcastically, before scoffing. “You’re the epitome of brooding.”

He glared at you like he was contemplating homicide—but wisely chose not to respond. Instead, he pulled out his notebook and clicked his pen with more force than strictly necessary.

Unbothered, you flipped open your own notebook, already prepared. “The prompt says we’re to write a five-page analytical paper on a theme of our choice from any of the assigned novels this semester. Preferably one with—” you glanced down at the rubric, “—‘literary merit.’”

Damian raised a brow, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Which rules out anything you picked, I assume.”

You rolled your eyes. “God forbid we write something that isn’t dripping in post-war existentialism and masculine angst.”

“I vote Frankenstein,” you continued, undeterred. “Morality, monstrosity, creation and consequence—it’s rich. And you can wax poetry about man’s hubris to your heart’s content.”

Damian ignored the jab and frowned thoughtfully. “Overdone. Everyone will be choosing to write about Frankenstein. It’s predictable.”

You turned toward him, brows lifting. “Predictable is safe. Safe is how we get full marks. Unless you want to take a creative risk and tank your precious GPA.”

Damian didn’t even flinch. “The greater the risk, the greater the reward.”

You snorted. “You once titled your essay ‘The Idiocy of Hamlet’s Entire Bloodline.’ I’m still amazed you didn’t fail on principle.”

He shrugged, entirely unrepentant. “And I stand by that.”

You sighed, resisting the overwhelming urge to pinch the bridge of your nose. “Fine,” you muttered. “What do you suggest, then?”

He drummed his fingers against the desk thoughtfully, gaze sweeping over the list of literature they’d covered that year. Once. Twice.  Then, without looking at you, he spoke.

“The Picture of Dorian Gray.”

You blinked. “Wilde?”

“Morality. Duality. Self-destruction,” he said smoothly. “All the themes you wanted in Frankenstein, only with better prose and far more interesting characters.”

You hesitated—just for a second. Then you gave a small nod. “…Not a terrible idea.”

He turned toward you slowly, eyes narrowing as though unsure he’d heard you right. “Was that an agreement?”

You smirked. “Statistically, even you were bound to say something useful eventually.”

Damian scoffed, rolling his eyes. “How original.”

Despite the initial tension, working together became… surprisingly seamless.

Over the next few weeks, you found yourselves forced into truce—and then, somehow, into something almost akin to a friendship. The first week was hell, of course. You argued over structure, disagreed on thesis points, and debated which citations to use  like the fate of Gotham depended on it. But somehow—between your scribbled annotations and his painfully neat footnotes—you found a rhythm. There were still jabs and snide comments, of course. You wouldn’t have expected anything less. But there were also late afternoons at the library, debates that turned into almost companionable, and quiet moments where you realized he wasn’t as insufferable as you first thought.

You were used to handling things alone. Your mother’s world was ruthless, and you’d learned early to hold your own. Trust was a currency, and most people were too quick to squander it. But Damian… he didn’t put you on a pedestal, didn’t flatter you or fawn over your name like the way other children of Gotham’s elite often did, eager to secure favour or avoid offence. He didn’t nod along just to stay in your good graces. If anything, he seemed allergic to the idea of appeasing you. 

Instead of charming you—he challenged you. Constantly.

As much as it pained you to admit it… your mother had been right. Being challenged was good for you.

Damian didn’t make things easier. Instead, he made you better—made you grow.

Soon, you found yourselves almost reluctant to call it a night. You began to look forward to your time together—your new routine. You always ended up at the same back-corner table in the library, shoulder to shoulder, your shared workspace a pile of chaos filed with overlapping notebooks, highlighters, and the book itself.

Your notebooks a mess of underlined passages, marginalia, and colour-coded tabs. Damian’s handwriting was immaculate and neatly written cursive. While yours was sharper, more angular—more chaotic, if you were honest—but it didn’t matter. Your minds clicked in ways your hands didn’t need to.

“Here,” you murmured, nudging his notebook. “You keep saying Dorian’s downfall was vanity, but I think it’s more about his willful ignorance. He chooses not to see the damage he causes. It’s not just narcissism—it’s self-preservation.”

Damian’s gaze shifted to the passage you pointed at, brows furrowing. He didn’t answer immediately.

“You’re saying he wasn’t blinded by ego,” he said slowly. “He blinded himself. On purpose.”

You nodded. “He wanted to live without consequence. The portrait just made it possible.”

He leaned back slightly, folding his arms as he mulled it over. His jaw was tight with thought, but when his eyes lifted to meet yours, something was different. There was no smugness, no bite, no thinly veiled disdain. He had genuinely considered your point of view and there was even a bit of respect.

“I hadn’t considered that,” he said finally. “That’s not bad.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Was that a compliment?”

He scoffed and turned back to his notebook, the moment gone as quickly as it had come. “Don’t get used to it.”

But you were already smiling to yourself.

And strangely—unexpectedly—you almost found yourself disappointed when the project finally came to an end.

The perfect scores had been inevitable.

With minds like yours and Damian’s, there was never going to be another outcome. The thesis had been sharp, the analysis layered and airtight, the presentation polished to the point of you could probably recite it in your sleep. When your teacher returned the papers—each one marked with glowing remarks and a rare, handwritten “Flawless work”—you barely reacted. Neither did Damian. There was no need for celebration when you both expected nothing less.

And with the project behind you, you assumed things would go back to normal. Cold glances. Sharp remarks. Mutual irritation and academic rivalry. After all, that was what you were good at—competition. Not… whatever the past few weeks had been.

You were just zipping up your bag at the end of the day, earbuds half in as you walked out of the class when a group of boys from your class approached you. You’d never personally interacted with them, but they were always loud a disruptive.

“Well, if it isn’t Gotham’s golden girl,” one of them drawled. “Did mommy buy that perfect score for you too?”

You straightened slowly, expression unreadable, already preparing a verbal lashing when another boy added, “Bet she made Wayne do all the work,” he said with a snort. “There’s no way she’s that smart. I bet Wayne was ready to hit his head against the wall working with her.”

The words weren’t new—God, no. You’d heard them all before. The digs, the undercutting, the suggestion that your success wasn’t really yours. Different faces, different schools, always the same venom. It never used to sting. But today… for some reason it did. 

Maybe it was because, for once, the accusation didn’t even come close to the truth. Maybe because—despite everything—you were genuinely proud of the work you and Damian had done. It wasn’t just about the perfect grade. Somewhere along the way, the project had stopped being a competition and started becoming something else entirely. Something collaborative.

You’d found yourself enjoying the process. The way your mind and his clashed and overlapped. The way your perspectives differed—and how those differences pushed you both further. And for once, the outcome wasn’t the reward. The understanding was. You felt like you understood Damian better and had enjoyed the time you two had spent together.

Everything you and Damian had built—every late night, every debate, every carefully chosen word in your paper—they reduced it to manipulation. To nepotism. To the idea that you weren’t enough.

Then much to your horror, the last person you expected to see had just approached. And your body tensed instinctively. The project was over. You and Damian had been companionable these last few weeks, maybe even—if you squinted—friendly. But now? You didn’t know. Would he say something? Join in?

Instead, his emerald green eyes narrowed—on them, not you.

“I suggest you walk away,” he said coldly, voice like cut glass.

You blinked, startled, watching as he came to stand beside you, arms crossing neatly over his chest.

One of the boys laughed, nervously. “Oh come on, Wayne. We all know you did all the work, the only reason she’s here is ‘cause Mommy made a generous donation to the school.”

Damian didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. “As did my father. And one call to him, and the lot of you will be expelled before the end of the day.”

And then—before you could even register it—one of them said something utterly vile about you. The implications of it made your stomach twist. The air went still filling with tension.

Damian’s fist flew before you could even blink.

It connected with a sickening crack against the boy’s jaw, dropping him like a rock. The boy lay groaning on the tile, already being dragged away by his friends, who looked more terrified than smug now, stumbling over themselves as they disappeared down the corridor without another word. Cowards, all of them. 

You stood frozen for a beat, blinking.

Damian’s shoulders were squared, his breathing steady. He didn’t even glance at you. He just flexed his hand once and muttered, “Tt. Idiots.”

You stared at him, eyes wide. “You punched him.”

“He deserved it.”

You bit your lip, your gaze flicking back to where he was standing stoically and glaring at the space where the group had been standing. Then—impulsively, heart hammering in your chest—you leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. “…Thank you.”

Damian froze.

His entire body went stiff, posture locked like he’d just been turned into a statue. A deep flush bloomed across his cheeks, colouring them a violent crimson as his mouth parted slightly in shock. For once, he had nothing to say.

Finally, he cleared his throat. “…You’re welcome.”

You couldn’t stop the smile that tugged at your lips. “Do you want to grab a milkshake?” you asked, trying to sound casual—like you hadn’t just kissed Gotham’s most emotionally constipated teenager. “We can study for finals too.”

He blinked once. Twice.

Then, in the stiffest, most painfully formal voice imaginable, he replied,

“Yes. That… would be acceptable.”

Grinning now, you slung your bag over your shoulder and started walking, tossing him a glance over your shoulder. Damian trailed behind you silently begging whatever gods existed to will the red dusting his cheeks to fade.

Somewhere along the line he realized his brothers had been right. He didn’t dislike you. Not even a little.

In fact, it was probably the opposite.

And he was already halfway through making Jason’s second prediction come true.

[osarina]

ᡣ𐭩 A DEAL YOU CAN MAKE ON A MIDNIGHT WALK ALONE

FEATURING: dazai osamu

SUMMARY: dazai's worst nightmare has come true, and with you standing before him once again, he has no idea how to act or feel. he's angry. he's resentful. hateful. sad. hopeful. yearning. in love. there's so many emotions clouding his mind that he can hardly think straight. but he's sure of one thing: his run-in with you makes him realize that he'll do anything to get you back again.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: PART TWO IS HEREEEEE HEHEHEHEHE I HOPE U ENJOY - i rushed getting it together skfaizsjf so hopefully it's all ok. let me know if im missing any warnings. reblogs and comments always appreciated!!

GENERAL WARNINGS: fem!reader, port mafia boss!reader, civilian!dazai, mentions of past war crimes, ptsd, mentions of alcoholism, temporary amnesia, dazai is mentally unstable, so is reader, both of them are struggling LOL, grieving (reader), a bit of suicide ideation (that's a given from dazai, a little bit from reader too tho), as always: reader is part of the mafia, expect mafia behavior from her, she is not a good person.

SEE: THE LAND IS INHOSPITABLE (BUT ARE WE?) SERIES MASTERLIST

God is famous for his coincidences and absurdism. Dazai is all too familiar with it. Time and time again in his life, it’s been proven over and over. You and he are even the prime example of this: everything from the part you played in his family’s demise eight years ago to you unwittingly saving his life last year. 

But this? 

This can’t be real. 

This can’t possibly be happening. 

Dazai stares at you like you’re a ghost, the air whooshes out from his lungs, and his vision blurs and tunnels until all he can see is you. All of the other patrons of the bar fizzle out of space and time until only the two of you are left in the room, and Dazai just doesn’t know what to do. He’s still half convinced that this is a hallucination, a cruel trick—even an ability working on him would make more sense than you actually standing in front of him.

When he doesn’t respond to you, you raise your eyebrows at him, but he thinks that even if he wanted to respond, he wouldn’t be able to. His voice is stuck in his throat, along with a lump shaped suspiciously like his heart. He can’t get a grasp on his surroundings, and he’s starting to feel dizzy; his ears are ringing terribly, and his fight or flight instincts are triggered, but Dazai is just frozen. He can’t push himself off the chair to leave, he can’t speak, he can’t do anything.

This can’t be real, he thinks again, more desperately this time, but the longer he stares at you, the more real you become. You’re wearing a sleek black suit, the same one you were wearing when you called for the meeting with Fitzgerald to get Dazai back, and a dark coat over it, the same one you would drape over him when you came home to him passed out on the couch, and you’re beautiful, you’re as beautiful as Dazai remembers. More. Impossibly more. Though your eyes are much more tired and vacant than he last remembered them being, and you now wear a red scarf around your shoulders and a ribbon around your neck, it’s you standing a few feet away from him—there’s no mistaking it.

“I’ll take that as a no, then,” you continue conversationally when he remains silent, and to his horror, you make your way over to him. “You’re really familiar, though, maybe we’ve met in passing. Do you come around here often?”

Your words feel like knives jabbing into his back, and Dazai almost wants to cry, but he refrains with a thick swallow and a deep breath. He’s had nightmares about bumping into you on the streets and being slapped in the face with his new reality this way: that you have no idea who he is, that he’s a stranger to you when you’re still everything to him. He’s had nightmares, but he never thought those nightmares would become reality. You’re the boss of the Port Mafia now, what the fuck are you doing at some random bar without any protection?

He’s drawn out of his trancelike state once you’re standing next to him, and Dazai is acutely aware of the number of eyes on him now. The bartender is looking between the two of you with a concerned expression, and the other patrons aren’t slick in the way they keep casting nosy looks in your direction. It’s only when your gaze snaps up, an irritated expression crossing your face, that they all look away, and Dazai realizes a bit dreadfully that this must be a mafia establishment. 

Of course, it is, he thinks bitterly, no wonder he met you here the first time. 

The irritated expression is gone as quickly as it appears, replaced with a far more pleasant one as you look back down at him. 

For a moment—just a moment—Dazai’s chest swells with warmth because he can almost pretend it’s the same way you’d look at him when you’d come home to find him sitting at the piano trying to teach himself a song that he could only vaguely remember. A small smile curling at your lips, a soft expression on your face, and a fond look in your eyes that would make Dazai’s breath catch.

But he can’t pretend because it’s fake. Dazai can tell it’s fake—the small smile on your lips is disarming, and the soft expression is enchanting, but it’s not enough for him not to notice the way it doesn’t meet your eyes. Maybe it would be enough if he were anyone else in the world, but he’s not. He knows you well enough to catch what others would miss, and he’s so used to you looking at him with all three that the absence of one is glaring and unsettling.

It’s not right—none of this is right.

“No,” he finally answers your question when it becomes abundantly clear that you’re not going to move on until he addresses you. Does he want you to move on? Dazai doesn’t know; he can’t even bring himself to look away from you, trying to memorize your face before you disappear again. “I don’t come around here often.”

His voice is unbearably hoarse, and as your eyes trail over him curiously, Dazai becomes hyper-aware of how sloppily he’s dressed. His clothes are rumpled because he was lying in his futon for hours, and he hasn’t changed his bandages in days, so the ones on his wrist are yellowed and frayed at the edges. He tries to pull the sleeves of his tan coat down to cover them, but you’ve already caught sight of them from the way you squint and then look back up to his face.

“Hm,” is all you say in response, pulling out the stool next to him to sit down. You rest your elbow on the bar top and your chin on your hand as you look at him. Dazai wonders what you’re thinking; you’ve always been hard to read, but never more than now. “What’s your name?”

That lump is back in his throat, and the air around him feels too thin. Dazai almost struggles to breathe, but he doesn’t want to make a fool of himself. He’s finally able to bring himself to look away from you, staring down at his lap—his fingers are trembling, he notices absently, starting to feel oddly detached from the situation. He forcibly stills them, trying to get himself together before answering your question, but each passing second only makes him spiral more. 

What’s your name? 

The question rings through his head mockingly, and at once, the resentment he feels is back with a fervor. What’s your name, asks the woman who almost died trying to protect Dazai less than a year before. What’s your name, asks the woman who Dazai lived with for months. What’s your name, asks the woman who sacrificed everything, killed her own father, just to keep Dazai safe. What’s your name, asks the woman who Dazai loves because she wiped her memories of him after he begged her not to. 

It’s like a joke, he thinks so bitterly that he can taste it in his mouth. It’s putrid, disgusting—his life has always been a joke, but things finally started looking up once he met you. You gave him hope for the future, you made him want a future, and then you ripped it away from him, worse than anyone ever has before.

A joke.

“Don’t wanna tell me?” you ask easily, leaning back in your stool. The smile on your face is teasing, but it still doesn’t meet your eyes—he’s a bit unnerved by it. When he first met you, you were cold and aloof; you wanted nothing to do with him. He didn’t think you were even listening to him while he rambled; he’d been surprised when he ran into you the day after, and you remembered what he’d been saying. “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”

Are you… flirting with him?

The teasing tone, the small, flirty smiles, the way you’re putting in just enough effort that any other man would’ve been charmed—he would’ve been charmed if he didn’t know any better—is that what this is? Dazai suddenly feels unsettled. He thought maybe you came here to relax… take a break from work, like the first time he met you here. Maybe you were even just coming to drown out your sorrows like him, although that may just be wishful thinking on his part. The realization that you might’ve come here to find someone to fuck away whatever is clearly eating at you for the night didn’t cross his mind once until now. He doesn’t like it—something in his gut twists, and he thinks he might throw up. He blames it on the whiskey he’s been drinking, but he knows that’s not the real reason.

What if he hadn’t been the one here?

How many times has he not been the one here?

His suspicions from earlier were confirmed just like that, and Dazai is miserable about it.

“Dazai,” he finally tells you, throat spasming like it doesn’t kill him to have to introduce himself to you again. “My name is Dazai.”

You give him your name in return, and it’s just another stab to the heart—he knows your name. It’s the same name that haunts his dreams. The same name he’d spent half a year cursing into oblivion. The same name he’d gasp when he was in bed with a stranger. He knows your name better than his own, it’s etched into his soul; he would never forget you like you’ve forgotten him.

Something strange crosses your face when Dazai looks back at you—a hint of familiarity that has his heartbeat stuttering. He sees the brief confusion, the way your mind races behind your pretty eyes as if trying to understand why his name and face were inexplicably familiar to you. For a brief second, he allows a speck of hope to bloom: your love for him is enough to overcome the ability that was used to wipe your memories of him. 

“You’re an author,” you say suddenly, finally realizing why he seems so familiar to you. The spec of hope that had begun to bloom withers in an instant—his throat feels swollen, and his mouth is dry. “I read your book.”

What.

“What?” Dazai asks hoarsely, voicing his thoughts aloud as he stares at you. “You—”

“That’s what it is. I knew your face was familiar, but your name is what made me realize,” you add more to yourself than to him. 

Dazai wants to be disappointed that it’s not just you subconsciously recognizing him, that your love for him is not strong enough to outweigh the effects of the ability used on you, but he can’t be because he’s frozen at the idea of you actually having read his book. He’s wondered over the past few months if you’ve seen it around—when he first published it, it started gaining a lot of traction. It’s still pretty popular; he has people come up to him to talk to him about it, and he always thought maybe you would see his face or hear his name in passing, that maybe when you did, a part of you would subconsciously miss him. That he could haunt you like you’ve haunted him. 

He never imagined you would’ve fucking read it.

“You read my book?” Dazai presses, his voice almost as faint as he feels. The ground suddenly feels uneven, and the stool he’s sitting on sways. He has to try to casually reach for the bartop to pretend like he’s not having to steady himself. 

“Yeah,” you say, and don’t add anything else. 

Dazai turns his head to the side to look at you. Did you think it was bad? Why aren’t you saying anything else? He wonders, a bit horrified by the thought. When you don’t make any effort to explain how you feel about it, Dazai grimaces and forces himself to speak up.

“And… what did you think?”

He’s not sure if he actually wants to know the answer.

“It was good,” you say simply, but Dazai can tell that’s not your full opinion. He can hear the unsaid ‘but’, and he doesn’t want to know what that ‘but’ is, yet he finds himself pressing anyway.

“But…?” he prompts, against better judgment. 

You look at him, that empty look that’s been lingering in your eyes is replaced, a bit more entertained now as you look over him curiously, as if trying to decide whether or not you actually want to tell him the ‘but.’ Dazai’s fingers thrum impatiently against the bartop as he waits for you to speak, and you notice from the way you glance down and then back up to his face. 

“The ending was interesting,” you finally say.

Dazai blanches. “Interesting?”

“It was cynical,” you amend, and Dazai’s eye twitches. “The whole novel was built up to expect a happy ending, and you had the main couple just leave each other at the end. It came out of nowhere. I didn’t like it.”

“Sometimes, people don’t get happy endings, and sometimes, it happens when you don’t expect it,” Dazai spits, a bit too bitterly from the way you raise your eyebrows, the corner of your lips curling up in amusement. Dazai isn’t quite as entertained, wondering where you get the audacity to say you didn’t like the ending that you gave him. “It’s realistic. People don’t get happy endings. Clearly.”

“Clearly,” you echo, sounding all too entertained by the conversation that has Dazai’s blood boiling.

“What? And you think it’s not realistic? Is that it?” Dazai turns his head away from you instantly, taking a long sip of his drink to try to quell the way his stomach churns.

“I think it’s cynical,” you repeat. “They clearly loved each other—there was no reason for them to split the way they did.”

Dazai’s head snaps back in your direction. “Well, that’s life—one minute, someone loves you, and you’re their whole world, and the next, they toss you aside. You’re forgotten, left behind. And they just move on like you never even existed.”

“Cynical,” you say again, and Dazai wants to throttle you for it, but he refrains. “People don’t just forget someone that they loved. It’s not possible—you can’t forget someone who was once so important to you.”

“Impossible?” Dazai asks through gritted teeth. “What about you? You’ve never forgotten about someone important to you?”

The amusement on your face fades as you study him a bit more carefully; Dazai realizes miserably that he’s being way too obvious with his resentment toward you, and you’re going to get suspicious. And you don’t know him, the last thing he needs is to be on the Port Mafia’s radar like this.

… Or maybe, it might not necessarily be a bad thing, he thinks, mind starting to race with possibilities. You told him how Ilya Repin’s ability worked while in the safe house. Now that you’ve followed through with your plan, the Three Deaths should officially be subsumed into the Port Mafia, meaning there’s a high chance that Repin is still somewhere in Yokohama, and with him, the painting that stole your memories of him. 

If he could find it…

“What do you mean?” you finally question, and Dazai’s drawn back to reality.

He averts his gaze from you immediately. “Nothing,” he replies quietly, the fight draining from him instantly when he sees your brows furrowed in confusion. “It’s nothing.”

Your lips part to speak, but you’re interrupted when the door to the bar slams open harshly. You don’t even turn around to see who entered before you roll your eyes, giving Dazai a wry smile. “I’m afraid that’s my cue, my keeper has arrived.”

You rise to your feet to leave, your drink still untouched on the bar in front of you. Dazai’s gaze lingers on you for a second before he looks to the door, eyes shooting open when he sees none other than Nakahara Chuuya standing there. The man is livid, and Dazai can hear the litany of curses about to spill from his lips, but tilts his head curiously when it never comes. 

It doesn’t come because he’s too busy staring at Dazai, eyes wide and lips parted.

Does he… recognize Dazai?

Dazai straightens in his seat, brows furrowing as he observes Chuuya carefully. You seem to notice the odd reaction, too, from the way you squint at your executive. This shouldn’t be possible, though—the plan was that everyone would have their memories of Dazai wiped in order to ensure that there was no evidence that he was ever connected to the Port Mafia. Connected to you. There’s no way Chuuya should know who he is, but that expression was damning; it’s like he knows exactly who Dazai is and knows the implications of you running into Dazai by chance.

“We’ll talk later,” Chuuya finally says, voice rough. “Let’s go.”

You sigh, looking thoroughly disappointed as you glance back at Dazai once, an odd expression on your face. He thinks maybe you’ll say something, but you don’t, and the bitterness he feels returns with a vengeance. 

He calls your name as you turn your back to him, and when you pause, he says, “Red is your color.”

It’s not a compliment, it’s him sharpening a knife that he’s preparing to jab into your chest, but he guises it as one because you don’t know that he knows what he does. You stiffen at his words, and Dazai’s suspicions are confirmed when Chuuya shoots him a vicious look behind your back. He knows.

“Yeah? My father used to say the same,” you say, voice a bit too tense to be casual.

“Used to?” Dazai presses, readying the knife against your skin.

You hum in agreement. “Used to. He passed.”

Passed, Dazai thinks mockingly. He makes sure to hide his scathing tone as he smiles sweetly and drives the dagger right into your heart, “I’m sure he would be proud of you.”

You don’t respond, but Dazai can see the way your head hangs a bit lower at his words, and your hand lifts to toy with the ribbon around your neck. For a brief second, Dazai feels gleeful—he’s glad that he can hurt you, even just a little—but the momentary satisfaction dissipates quickly. He doesn’t like hurting you, but more than that, he knows whatever pain he might’ve caused with his words is still nothing compared to the last six months he’s suffered. 

You leave without another word, and Chuuya follows after you, but not before giving Dazai another dirty look, one that promises that this isn’t the end. He sighs as he slumps over on the barstool. The satisfaction is long gone, the adrenaline rush that your appearance triggered has dissipated, and Dazai just feels sick again. He feels sick and lonely, but most of all, he just misses you. He misses you so bad that he thinks he might be willing to do anything to get your memories of him back

With that thought in mind, he fumbles for his phone and shoots a text to Ranpo before he can lose his nerve.

Dazai: ok. i’ll help but under one condition

Ranpo: knew you would :P deal

--------

Chuuya has been stiff since the two of you left the bar. You can tell that he’s waiting for you to say something, and that alone is proof that something weird is going on. You figure otherwise, you would’ve been scolded from the moment you stepped outside of the bar to the moment you slammed the door to your office in his face.

You don’t confront him right away—he’ll try to slip away if you make an attempt at cornering him, so you wait until the two of you are in the elevator going up to your office to say anything.

“Who was he?” you ask as soon as the doors slide shut, positioning yourself in a way so that he can’t reach the buttons without getting through you first. Chuuya stiffens as his gaze cuts to the side to focus on you. “The boy at the bar. You recognized him. How?” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says tightly.

Your eyebrows shoot up at the blatant lie, mind spinning as you try to figure out why Chuuya would lie to you about this. The only thing he’s ever lied to you about before is whatever it is he knows about the Port Mafia’s regime change that eludes you. Could it be related? You doubt it—you’re not sure what some random one-hit-wonder author would have anything to do with a mafia coup—but it makes you feel a bit nervous, it makes you unsure of where you stand with the one person who has always been your other half. 

Why is he suddenly so comfortable lying to you? 

Why is he lying to you at all?

“And you’re lying to me about it,” you say tightly, swallowing thickly as your mind races for answers to your questions. 

He’s been distant lately—is it because there’s something going on that no one is telling you about? You know Chuuya wasn’t happy about your decision to demote Kouyou. Has it left him more resentful than you initially thought? You suddenly feel very, very alone. If you don’t have Chuuya solidly at your side, then who do you have? Klaus? Is that it? 

History moves in such vicious circles, doesn’t it? You remember the amused words Mori spoke to you many, many years ago—back when you’d followed him to the underground clinic before he became a doctor for the previous boss, when he would sit you at his desk and force you to read old textbooks and recite them to him because he refused to have an uneducated protege.

Doesn’t it? 

The previous boss was the right-hand of his father and took power from him by force; you heard it was a brutal execution, and people whispered that it should’ve been the first sign of madness. The previous boss was killed by Mori, the man he trusted to take care of him, a man who quickly became his right hand when his mind continued to deteriorate, and then Mori took control. Mori was killed by you, his heir, his second-in-command, his right hand, and then you took control.

Your gaze slowly tracks over to where Chuuya still refuses to look at you.

Doesn’t it? 

“I met him before,” Chuuya finally says, shaking his head, oblivious to your spiraling thoughts. “He was a fucking asshole. Don’t waste your time with him.”

“When did you meet him?” you ask, voice coming out a bit sharper than you intended. Chuuya gives you a wary look, like he’s only now realizing that something is seriously wrong, and you try to smooth your face out. “Just curious.”

“At the same bar,” Chuuya tells you. “A couple weeks ago. He was a little shit—drunk and insulting me as soon as I walked in.”

“Is that so?” you question flatly, eyes settling on him, watching the way his expression twists in frustration.

“Why would I lie to you about this?” Chuuya demands.

“I don’t know, Chuuya, why would you?”

A hurt expression flies across his face as he fully turns to face you, arms crossed over his chest. When he speaks, you can hear the anger dripping from his tone, but more than that, you hear the hurt. “What exactly are you accusing me of?”

Your shoulders slump, the fight draining from you when you see how betrayed Chuuya looks by your questions. Your voice wavers as you whisper, “I don’t know.”

He sighs at your answer and then steps forward. Your eyes slide shut as he rests his hand on top of your head. He brings his other hand up to cup the side of your face, tilting your head up to force you to look at him. You want to cry when you see the pain in his eyes as he studies your face. You chew on the inside of your cheek and try to look away, but he forces you to keep your gaze on him.

“I’m on your side,” he whispers, thumb running over your cheek. His other hand slides from the top of your head to hold your face between both of his hands. The leather of his gloves is coarse against your skin, but it’s achingly familiar—you’ve missed Chuuya desperately. “I’ve always been on your side.”

“Then why are you lying to me?” you ask weakly, hands coming up to curl around his wrists. “Chuuya, I feel so lost. I don’t understand what’s going on, I—”

Chuuya sighs and steps away as the elevator reaches the top floor of the building. The two of you walk down the hall past your guards and step into your office quietly. You walk over to the door in the back of the office, leading to the penthouse apartment. The moment you get in there, you feel suffocated again. The air is too heavy, and when you try to breathe in, it tastes stale and rotted. You look back at Chuuya to distract yourself and raise your eyebrows.

“Please,” he says, tired. “I can’t.”

You nod tightly and look around the apartment. It’s just as Mori left it—you’ve hardly touched it at all. You haven’t brought anything over from your own place. The walls are still black and empty except for some pinned-up crayon drawings of Elise’s, their bright colors feeling almost out of place. The living room is staged with gaudy decor, remnants of Mori’s taste, meant to impress any possible guest rather than comfort its owner. But the bedroom is stripped of everything personal, as cold and impersonal as a hotel room.

You like it this way. It’s easier to pretend you don’t actually live here, that this isn’t where you fall asleep at night, isn’t where you wake up to suffocating silence. You can almost pretend that Mori is still around, and you’re just occupying his space until he returns. But some nights, the weight of it settles too heavily on your chest, and the emptiness echoes too loudly for you to handle. Like tonight.

Chuuya follows you into the living room, expression unreadable as he glances around. “You still haven’t done anything with this place.”

“I haven’t,” you agree quietly, looking down at a picture on a nearby table. It’s of you, Mori and Elise—you were much younger then, it was taken when you were ten, still at the underground clinic, before he became the doctor for the previous boss. “Did I ever tell you how I met him?”

Chuuya doesn’t respond immediately. “How you met… Mori?”

“Mhm.”

“You didn’t,” he murmurs, taking a few steps closer to you to look down at the picture in front of you. “When you were still cute.”

“Hah,” you say, unamused, nudging his shoulder. “I lived on one of the main warfronts during the Great War before Tokoyami Island appeared and the fighting moved there.”

Chuuya lets out a noise of acknowledgment. “You told me that much.”

“It was a small village in a valley,” you continue quietly. “I don’t even… really remember where. The war was going on all around us, but the mountains and the forests kept us shielded from the worst of it. But we could hear it. Smell it. The gunfire and the explosives, the smoke was so thick that it reached our village. We couldn’t leave our houses without masks; there was a constant haze and—”

You cut yourself off as you look away, swallowing thickly. You feel Chuuya’s hand come to rest on your shoulder, concern rolling off of him in waves.

“I thought you didn’t remember any of this,” he says. “From before Mori found you.”

“I didn’t,” you reply, voice cracking. “Not until—”

Until you killed him. Until all of the memories you repressed came rushing through the floodgates without the one person who helped you hold them back.

“We weren’t supposed to leave the village,” you rasp. “They were scared that one wrong move would draw attention our way. I was seven, Chuuya. I didn’t understand, not really. I didn’t understand why my dad suddenly stopped bringing me out to the river—it was the only place where we could see the stars clearly, and I loved the stars, so I went to go see them on my own one night when everyone was asleep.” 

Chuuya says your name quietly, like he knows what you’re going to say, but he doesn’t. Your mouth is so dry that it feels like ash has built up in it, but you force yourself to continue.

“I didn’t even see him at first—the soldier,” you whisper. “He was hidden in the brush. Hurt. His leg was stuck in a bear trap, and he was dehydrated. He thought he was hallucinating when he saw me, thought I was an angel. He scared me, I wasn’t going to help him, but he was so young, Chuuya. He didn’t look any older than my cousin, and he was in so much pain, and he was so kind to me. Offered me the last of his food when he realized I was scared. I got him water and bandages and helped him free his leg. I was just a kid, I was only trying to help. I didn’t understand what I’d done.”

“That’s not your fault,” Chuuya says hoarsely. “Whatever happened wasn’t your fault, that’s—”

“By the next night, the village was burning,” you interrupt. “He got back to his regiment with my help, and he led them back to us. I don’t even remember his face now, but I remember him. I was playing with my brother by the well, and he stepped out of the tree line, and I didn’t even think I was seeing things right until my brother dropped his toys, but then the rest of his regiment followed, and the gunfire started, and the screaming. And he came up to me, and his eyes were empty. I’ve never seen anything like it before, it was—”

Chuuya starts to say your name, but you interrupt him, agitated. 

“Would you just listen?” you rasp, nails biting into your black jacket. “He didn’t kill me. I figured it was his way of repaying me for saving his life; he hit me over the head, and when I woke up, I was at the bottom of a pile of corpses.”

Chuuya inhales sharply. He reaches out hesitantly for your hand, and you let him hold it, but your hand remains limp in his.

“Do you know what death smells like?”

“I’ve killed—” he starts to murmur.

“No, the decay, Chuuya. For the first few hours, all you can smell is the blood,” you breathe out. “That’s what you smell. You never stick around for cleanup, and even if you did, cleanup always happens quickly. But after a day passes, the bodies start to decompose. It happens fast when it’s humid. And it was the middle of the rainy season. Hot. Muggy. By the end of the first day, all I could smell was rot.”

Chuuya looks sick, you can see it in the reflection of the picture you’re staring at, but his grip on your hand tightens.

“It’s so thick that you can taste it in your mouth when you try to breathe,” you say softly. “I tried to hold my breath at first, but that only made it worse because eventually I needed to breathe, and when I did, it was so…”

You don’t finish the sentence, lost in your own thoughts as you look up at the window looking over the city.

“And the flies,” you swallow thickly, almost gagging past the lump in your throat. “The flies showed up after the first day. The buzzing. There were so many of them, I wanted to cover my mouth, but my arms were pinned at my side. I still can’t take deep breaths without tasting the rot in the back of my throat. Sometimes when it’s too quiet, I can hear the buzzing of the flies around me.”

Chuuya lifts his free hand to wipe away a tear that you didn’t realize was rolling over your cheek.

“I could just barely see the sun rising and setting through the limbs above me. I was stuck beneath the corpses of my family members and neighbors for four days before a different regiment showed up—they saw the smoke. They started pulling the bodies off the pile to bury them, but I couldn’t even call out for help.”

You reach out for the picture on the table, brushing your thumb over Mori’s face.

“He was the first face I saw,” you whisper. “He didn’t even realize I was alive at first, but when he did, he pulled me out of the pile and carried me somewhere safe. I couldn’t speak or move for weeks; I was pretty much catatonic. His superiors wanted him to send me away, but he was the head physician and said I was better off with him. I don’t know if it’s because he realized I had an ability or if it was because he was worried about sending me away, that he knew I’d never be okay again back in the real world.”

 “He saved me, Chuuya,” you finish, turning to face Chuuya again. You reach out to grab his jacket, forcing him to look you in the eye. “Do you understand now why I can’t just accept I did what I did on a whim? On a suspicion that he used me as a scapegoat? Do you understand why I can’t just let it go—why I need to know what you’re keeping from me?”

Chuuya almost looks like he wants to cry when he looks down at you. You know his answer before he says it. “I can’t.”

“Why?”

“Because you asked me to,” Chuuya finally says, hands reaching up to cradle your face again, begging you to listen. “Please, you have to stop asking.”

Asked him to, you think, even more confused than you were to begin with. Your mind races to put together the few pieces of the puzzle that Chuuya gave you. But why wouldn’t you remember asking him unless—

Repin?

“Repin,” you realize softly, looking up at him for answers. The heaviness in his eyes is enough of an answer. “And… does this boy from the bar have anything to do with it?” 

He sighs heavily, hands dropping to his side as he gives you a long look.

“No,” he answers after a moment. “That little shit doesn’t have anything to do with it.”

“Is that another lie?” you ask with a slight smile that wavers at the edges.

“No,” Chuuya says quietly. “It’s not.”

You search his face for something—anything—that will make this all make sense. That will make it hurt less. But there’s nothing. Just that same pained look, the weight of everything he isn’t saying pressing down on you incessantly. 

Your fingers loosen their grip on his jacket, slipping away as your shoulders slump. You don’t know what you were hoping for. Answers? Closure? Neither would bring Mori back. Neither would fix whatever had broken inside you the moment you pulled the trigger. Neither would rid yourself of the rot in the back of your throat or the buzzing in your ears.

Your head tilts slightly, eyes flickering toward the window. The city outside is bright, alive—but you feel impossibly far from it, like you’re watching from the wrong side of a one-way mirror. The top of this building is a prison; the scarf around your neck is a shackle. 

A humorless chuckle slips past your lips. “It never ends, does it?” you murmur. Your breath hitches, and you tilt your head back to look up at the ceiling. “This will never end. I’m so tired, Chuuya.”

“I know,” he whispers, reaching up to brush your hair behind your ear. “I know, I’m so sorry.”

“I just want a break,” you say shakily, leaning into his touch for a moment. “I just need a break.”

Your lips part as you look up at him again, his eyes are dark as he looks down at you, entirely unreadable. You shift your weight forward, closing the space between you again. You lift your hand to trace the light scar on his cheek before sliding to cup his jaw. His lashes flutter as he turns his face into your touch like he always has, the familiar warmth of his skin seeping into your fingertips. You look at him through your lashes, studying his face carefully as you run your thumb over his bottom lip. 

“Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir?” you breathe out, thumb pressing down gently on his bottom lip. He swallows thickly, pupils dilating as his lips instinctively part for you. Your lips curl up into a teasing smile that’s a bit frayed at the edges. “Like old times?” 

He lets out a shaky breath, and your hand slides down from his face to cradle the side of his neck, thumb tracing slow circles against his pulse. You lean in to ghost your lips against his jaw before trailing slow kisses down the column of his throat, savoring the way his breath hitches and how his muscles tense beneath your touch. His fingers twitch at his sides like he’s not sure if he should reach out to grab your hip or push you away.

“Please,” you murmur, kissing his pulse point once before resting your head in the crook of his neck. Your hands slide down his body to rest on his waist before you slip them around him, holding him close. You press your body closer to his, your breath shaky against his skin, feeling his warmth, his presence—the one thing that grounds you in the suffocating haze of what has become your life. “Please, I need one night to forget. I can’t keep going like this.”

Chuuya tenses under your touch, and for a moment, he’s utterly still. The silence stretches between you, too heavy, and you hold your breath as you wait, heart hammering in your chest. His hands finally move—one settles at your hip, the other curls into a fist at his side. 

For a second, he doesn’t push you away.

After what feels like an eternity, he exhales sharply and grips your shoulders, pushing you back just enough to look you in the eye. His gaze is dark and conflicted, and your heart sinks.

“We can’t,” he says quietly. “I can’t.”

“Please,” you whisper again, voice cracking as you shift closer to him. Your fingers hook in his belt loops, clinging to him desperately. “Just for one night.”

You don’t wait for an answer—you don’t want to hear his rejection. You lean in to press your lips against his. They’re warm and familiar, tasting of red wine and nicotine—you’ve kissed Chuuya a million times before, you’ve always felt most at home with him, but it feels… wrong this time, and you don’t know why. 

Frustrated, you press yourself into him again, lifting your hands to cup his cheeks. You slant your lips against his to deepen the kiss, trying to remind yourself of what this used to be. You barely notice the wetness against your lips until the salty taste seeps in.

When did you start crying?

Chuuya kisses you back, but there’s no heat behind it—it’s empty, he’s just going through the motions. His lips move chastely against yours, never taking the step to deepen the kiss, and you know it’s another rejection. When he pulls back to rest his forehead against yours, you take in a ragged breath, swallowing a sob.

“I can’t give you what you want,” he murmurs.

A shudder racks through your body, fingers digging into his shirt as you press your face against his chest. His hand comes to rest between your shoulder blades, holding you close to him.

“I don’t know what to do,” you gasp, speaking the words out loud for the first time. “I don’t know what I’m doing, Chuuya. I don’t know what to do about Cao Xueqin. I can’t get him to back down. And the government is threatening to send the Hunting Dogs to Yokohama—I don’t know what to do. He would—he would, and he’s gone, and he’s gone because of me. I need him, Chuuya, I don’t know why I did this, I don’t get it, I—”

Your words break into another sob as Chuuya presses his lips to your forehead, arm tightening around you as you collapse into him. He shifts to he can sit down on the couch, pulling you into his lap and cradling you in his arms. He presses your ear to his chest so that you can hear his heartbeat, stroking your hair gently as you let yourself break down in his arms.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers. “I’ve got you. We’ll get through this.”

It’s not the first time, and certainly won’t be the last time, that Chuuya’s words of reassurance do little to keep your anxiety at bay. Paired with his gentle rejection, it’s useless against the war that’s raging within you. You need to quell the doubt in your mind, the paranoia devouring all of your logical thoughts, the voice in the back of your head that gnaws at your mind and tells you that this isn’t right. But you’re exhausted, so instead of searching for answers or seeking out a body to numb your mind, you allow yourself this moment to drown.

--------

Dazai knows what he signed up for when he agreed to help the Armed Detective Agency. He’s been warring with it since he got home from the bar last night. Helping the Armed Detective Agency means working against you—he knew this when he messaged Ranpo, but it was different actually hearing the plans happening around him.

“Getting the new mayor out of office or trying to apprehend and imprison one of the most dangerous ability users in the world, I think one is quite obviously less dangerous than the other,” Ranpo says dryly, sticking a lollipop in his mouth as he kicks his feet up onto the conference table. “One is also less likely to bring the entire wrath of the Port Mafia down on us. If only marginally.”

“How are we supposed to get the mayor out of office without getting information from the Port Mafia?” Yosano asks, shaking her head. “Pictures of him talking to suspected mafia affiliates aren’t enough to get the assembly to vote him out. We need actual correspondence. Proof that he’s just an extension of the Mafia.”

An extension of you, Dazai finishes when Yosano spares a look in his direction. His fingers are stiff in his lap—he should probably speak up, he’s not even supposed to be here, he’s only here to give some insight into the Port Mafia and he hasn’t helped with much of anything, but every time his lips part to speak, he tastes ash in his mouth.

“I could apply for a job in the city hall,” one of the office workers, Haruno, offers quietly from the corner of the room where she’s taking notes for the meeting. “There’s an open job posting for a secretary at the—”

“Out of the question,” Fukuzawa says immediately, raising his hand to silence Haruno. “We will not be putting our office workers at risk.”

“But President,” Haruno protests, setting down her notepad. “The best way to get this information is to get on the inside—”

“No,” Fukuzawa interrupts firmly, crossing his leg over his knee as he leans back in his chair. “Whether we’re directly up against the mafia or going at this from a side angle, this is going to be dangerous. Our detectives will be the ones to handle this, but—”

“Going through it that way will take too long,” Ranpo says dismissively, head tilted back to look at the ceiling. “Plus, it’s not reliable enough. There’s no telling if you’ll get the job, and if you do, if you’ll have the clearance you need to get the information we need. We need to be more direct than that—”

“We can’t just storm the city hall, Ranpo,” Kunikida sighs, pushing his glasses up. “That’s a great way to get us thrown in jail.”

“What about—”

“I met her the other night,” Dazai finally says loudly, too abruptly. He swallows thickly when all eyes turn onto him. His gaze flickers over to Yosano, who looks concerned, and then to Ranpo, who doesn’t look surprised. “Her.”

They all exchange looks with one another, and though Dazai technically knows he is an outsider, the Agency has never made him feel like one before now. He could only imagine what they’re thinking—wondering if he’s going to rat them out to you, wondering if their plan is doomed before they’ve even fully begun. He knows they don’t trust him; they don’t really have much of a reason to, but it still makes his stomach flip. His throat tightens, fingers tensing in his lap as he looks down.

“What do you mean?” Yosano demands after a moment of silence. “She sought you out?”

“No. No,” Dazai says immediately. “She… didn’t even know it was me. It was just by chance.”

“She didn’t know it was you?” Kunikida splutters. “How is that possible—?” 

“What happened between you two, Dazai?” Yosano asks quietly, and Dazai’s heart sinks, a lump forming in his throat as he stares down at the table. He knows there’s no getting out of it this time, and he has to brace himself as he decides what to say. “We have to know before doing all of this.”

“She wiped her memories of me. Her and everyone who knew about me. All traces of our—” Dazai cuts himself off, taking in a shuddered breath before exhaling. “That’s not the point. The point is, I know the places she frequents. I can get the information you need if I can get close to her again. I can—”

I can do exactly what I was accused of. 

The thought rings through his head too loudly; his stomach churns, remembering the accusations Mori hurled at him and the betrayal on your face. He would be doing exactly what he was accused of. But it’s for the better, right? If he gets close to you, he’ll have a better chance at finding the painting that Repin used to take your memories of him, and if he finds some information to help the Agency, then there’s less of a chance that the military police will be sent in to deal with the Port Mafia and less of a chance that you’ll be caught in the crossfires or targeted yourself.

“Out of the question,” Fukuzawa repeats, dismissing Dazai immediately. “You are a civilian. I was against even letting you stay here for mission preparation, but Ranpo insisted on it. We are not sending you into the heart of it.”

“I haven’t been a civilian in a long time, you all know that, and I have the best chance of anyone here,” Dazai argues, sitting up in his seat. He ignores the nausea creeping up his throat. “I know her. I know all the places she likes to go. If one of you tries to do this and gets caught, you’ll be lucky if she kills you. You have no idea what she did to the journalists trying to expose her. But I know her, so—”

“But she doesn’t know you, Dazai,” Yosano interrupts, voice unusually gentle. “You’ll be at risk.”

“No,” Dazai says, swallowing thickly. His pulse is pounding; he has to blink to clear his vision. “No, she wouldn’t hurt me, she—”

“You can’t be sure of that,” Kunikida says. “She’s boss of the most dangerous mafia in the eastern hemisphere—maybe the world right now. If she figures out that you’re trying to get close to her for information, she’ll kill you just like she would any of us.”

“She won’t,” Dazai insists. He knows it in his heart. Even if you can’t remember him, you’d never hurt him, and it would never get to that point because—“She made sure that her second-in-command kept his memories of me. If things go wrong, I can go to him and he’ll intervene—”

“This is ridiculous.” Kunikida shakes his head, expression twisted in concern. “There are too many holes. It’ll never work. If you get close to her and he notices and realizes what you’re doing, it’ll blow everything up. And there’s no guarantee that he’ll save you if you mess up—”

“No, it’s perfect,” Ranpo says as he sits up in his seat, glasses hanging on the bridge of his nose as he looks down at all of the pictures on the conference table. “Wiping conscious memories might not necessarily affect the subconscious. He’s right—she might not hurt him, might even be blind to his real intentions because her subconscious is at ease with him. And if things do happen to go wrong, he has an extraction plan that has nothing to do with us.”

“And if that extraction plan goes wrong?” Kunikida demands. “There’s no telling it’ll work—we’re betting everything, his life, on a maybe. Just because he thinks the second-in-command of a mafia boss remembers him, how do we know he’ll protect him if things go wrong?”

“Because,” Ranpo says, lips curling up into a smug smirk as he leans forward to look at Dazai, “this whole transition of power happened to keep you safe, didn’t it?”

Dazai stiffens. The weight of Ranpo’s words slams into him, knocking the breath from his lungs. His mind reels back to the last night he spent with you at the safe house—the resignation on your face, the anguish in your eyes when you realized what had to be done. You made the choice to kill the closest thing you had to a father to protect him.

And now, here he is conspiring against you.

He feels sick so suddenly that he has to physically steady himself by grabbing the arms of his seat. He tells himself again that this is for the best—he needs to get close to you anyway, he needs to find the painting that took away your memories of him because he needs you back, and if the government doesn’t get something, then there’s going to be a military operation in Yokohama that you’ll be at the center of. 

Going behind your back to get a few files to incriminate your friend is nothing compared to that.

Right?

“I was trying to figure out what the missing piece was,” Ranpo continues with a grin, looking mighty pleased with himself. “From what I knew about Miss Mafia Princess through Akiko, she never would’ve killed Mori without a reason. It was to protect you—she wiped her memories to not drag you back in, wiped everyone else’s to keep you safe, but let someone she trusted keep their memories to intervene in case she made a mistake somewhere along the way. It was all to keep you safe.”

Dazai gnaws at the inside of his cheek. This is too much for him in one day—seeing you yesterday had been too much, and now this—now working with the Agency, working against you, having all of this brought up again and thrown right in his face—

“I think I should go,” Dazai suddenly says, standing so fast his chair scrapes violently against the floor. “Let me know if you want my help.”

“Dazai—” Yosano starts to call after him, but Dazai is already tunnel-visioned on the door, making his way out of the conference room rapidly. 

“Dazai,” Ranpo repeats. Dazai pauses, but doesn’t look back. “Do it. Get close to her. See what you can find out.”

Dazai glances over his shoulder. Fukuzawa looks displeased, but Dazai has learned that they seem to know better than to question Ranpo’s decisions, so he’s not entirely surprised when the older man nods in agreement. 

Dazai exhales shakily before nodding in return and quickly making his way out of the office. He only gets into the hallway before he’s keeling over, hands on his knees as he breathes in deeply. His head is swimming, his chest is so heavy that he feels like he’s being crushed. He clenches his fists as he tries to push away the nausea rising in his throat, pressing his forehead against the cool wall. He squeezes his eyes shut, willing his mind to go blank, but the weight in his chest refuses to lift.

His fingers tremble as he exhales slowly, trying to force the ache into something manageable. It doesn’t work. His thoughts are relentless, whispering accusations in the dark corners of his mind.

Conspiring against you. Doing exactly what he was accused of. 

It’s unforgivable. 

But it’s for the best, he tries to convince himself desperately. He needs you back, and you need him. Dazai knows it; he could see it in your face just from that brief meeting—you’re lost and lonely, just like him. Despite your betrayal, despite his resentment, despite his desire to hate you, he still loves you. He’ll always love you. He needs to find the painting Repin created that stores your memories of him, so he can destroy it, so you two can have each other again. And he needs to help the Agency find something to get Lippmann out of office, otherwise the military police is going to rain hell down on Yokohama, on you.

It’s for the best.

Dazai presses his knuckles to his lips, biting down on the skin hard enough to hurt, desperate for something to anchor himself, but he’s drowning in memories of you now. The warmth of your skin against his, the way you would gently cradle his face between your hands, the adoration in your eyes as you looked down at him—he needs you back. Everything he’s tried to push away for months crashes onto him at once. 

The months of anger and resentment have drained for the time being—all he wants is you, and he’ll do anything to have you back again. 

Anything.

--------

The grand chandeliers of the New National Theater glitter like a thousand tiny stars, casting warm, golden light over velvet-lined balconies and the sea of elegantly dressed patrons below. The air is thick with perfume, candle wax, and the hushed anticipation of the evening’s performance. Usually, you wear your suits to your weekly trips to the opera house—you come here for business, not pleasure—but tonight, you’re dressed in a gown.

You move through the crowd easily, your heels clicking against the marble floor. Your executives think that you’re meeting with an informant for intel. You don’t give them specifics. You don’t need to—you’re the boss now. But you give them just enough that they’re not suspicious—that Chuuya’s not suspicious—you don’t need him, of all people, to know who you’re really meeting. 

Anticipation curls low in your stomach, fingers twitching in the silk of your gloves. You don’t know what you expect from tonight, but you know what you want, and that’s why you came dressed in your nicest gown and in the color he likes best on you.

You reach the box and pause in front of the heavy velvet curtain. A slow inhale, a careful exhale, and then you push inside.

He’s already here.

Seated in his chair with one arm draped lazily over the backrest, Fyodor Dostoevsky looks as unbothered as ever, as if this is simply another night at the opera instead of a meeting between enemies. 

“You’re late,” he murmurs when he hears you enter. “The show has almost begun.”

His gaze flicks over his shoulder to assess you, violet eyes widening just a smidge when he sees your attire. His lips curl up into an unreadable smile, something between amusement and curiosity, but he rises to his feet to greet you. He holds out his hand and you place yours in it, breath catching when he bows his head down to brush his lips against your knuckles. 

When he lifts his head back up, he doesn’t let go of your hand.

His fingers tighten around yours, cold despite your gloves. His smile remains in place, but his eyes are as calculated and knowing as ever. In spite of everything, you find yourself enjoying the weekly mind games and power plays that take place between you and Dostoevsky.

“You dressed up for me,” Dostoevsky hums, voice soft as silk, thumb brushing over the inside of your wrist, a feather-light touch that sends a ripple of heat down your spine. “I’m flattered. You look beautiful—I did tell you that red is your color, didn’t I?”

He has said those words to you before—the first time you met him here—but for some reason, your mind draws back to the boy you met at the bar instead. His face flashes through your mind—smiling, eyes warm as he meets yours, which is odd because he didn’t smile at all during your brief encounter with him, and he certainly wasn’t warm; he was angry and bitter about whatever was bothering him.

Weird.

“I dressed for myself,” you reply smoothly before your prolonged silence becomes suspicious. “Though I suppose it’s a happy coincidence.”

His lips curl up into a smirk. “How fortunate for me, then.”

He tugs lightly on your hand, guiding you a step closer. His touch is deceptively gentle, but there’s something beneath it—a quiet command, a reminder of who he is and what he’s capable of. 

He’s playing with you. He always is. 

You don’t usually entertain it, tonight you do.

You could pull away, but you don’t. You let him guide you forward until your chest nearly brushes his, and you don’t push away his other hand when it comes to rest on your waist.

His gaze remains fixed on yours, eyes lidded and pupils a smidge larger than they should be. “I wonder,” he muses, voice dipping lower, “what it is you truly want from me tonight.”

The question should put you on edge. Instead, it makes the heat spread from your abdomen to your chest, fire coursing through your whole body. You don’t answer right away, letting the silence stretch and the tension rise between the two of you. 

Will you admit it? Or will the two of you spend another evening dancing around what it is you both really want? 

He wants you to say it, you know that, but you fear it might cross a line that shouldn’t be crossed. Fyodor Dostoevsky is your enemy still, and it’s only a matter of time before he makes his move on Yokohama. It would not look good if word spread about your meetings with him when it happened, and it could be exactly what he’s plotting to smear your reputation.

“What I always want from you,” you say at last, tilting your chin up. His face is so close to yours that you can feel his breath against your lips. “Information.”

His smile widens, teeth glittering like knives beneath the warm lighting of the opera house, and the thumb on your wrist presses down, just enough for him to feel the steady, rapid beat of your pulse beneath it. “Is that so?”

“Maybe I just wanted to see you,” you offer, a lie, and he knows it from the way his eyes glimmer with amusement. “Would that be so strange?” 

“Strange?” he echoes, entertained. “Not at all. But terribly dangerous, don’t you think?”

You know what he means. You’ve known from the moment you started these little meetings, these clandestine encounters dressed up as you meeting an informant. You shouldn’t be here, standing so close to him, entertaining whatever this tension is between you. But the thrill of it—of knowing that you shouldn’t and doing it anyway—makes you stay. Gives you something to look forward to when you have nothing.

Dostoevsky leans in just enough that his breath ghosts the shell of your ear when he speaks. “You intrigue me,” he breathes out. The confession is quiet, meant only for you. “No one plays games with me quite like you do. I enjoy our meetings very much.”

You turn your head to the side just enough that your lips skim his jaw. His throat bobs at your brief touch, and your lips curl up into a pleased smile. You make your decision.

“Or maybe I want something else tonight,” you continue, like he didn’t speak at all, your voice quiet. He turns his face to look at you—you’re so close that your lips almost brush his when you speak, but you don’t let it deter you. “Indulge me?” 

His chuckle is soft, and he pulls back just enough to look at you again, violet eyes glinting under the golden light of the chandeliers. He lifts your hand again, pressing a lingering kiss to the inside of your wrist as the lights of the opera house finally start to dim, signaling the start of tonight’s performance.

“I will indulge you in anything, darling.”

[ramblin-tiger]

"You said you named it?"

A woman in a lab coat asked a man wearing a bulky radiation suit through a protective wall. It took a minute to get a response as he was so focused on the pile of scrap in front of him that he had almost not heard the question cackle over the small speaker. Looking up at the hanging camera, he simply nodded before continuing on as he worked his way deeper into the destroyed mess of circuits and gyros and mechanical parts.

"Michael." The name crackled back through the speaker mater-of-factly. "For he was to guard us all. And he succedded."

The woman shook her head slightly, even if they man couldn't see her. While she watched him rummage and work his way through the debris, she couldn't help but smile at the poetry behind the name. For what better name could have been given to the machine that had saved the entire city and future generations.

"Graceful Degredation, Catastrophic Functionality, Brute Will of the Machine... no matter what name you give it, 'Michael' managed to not only repair the critical failure, but also continue the emergency procedure manually. Something i personally never understood why we even had a procedure for. Until this week."

A small chuckle came across the speaker as the man looked back up into the camera, a small tungsten box in his hands. "Even if we didn't have Michael, thyere would always be someone somewhere willing to sacrifice themselves for everyone. As macabre as it is to say."

The man then walked over to a container labeled 'for radiation removal treatment', placing the tungsten box inside.

"It might take some time, but when they finally get this safe enough to handle, I want to see what Michael saw. I know he was all mechanical parts and code. But even so, I feel that there was more. 96%. He was designed to work up to 80% and YET, he pushed as far as 96% and managed the impossible for anyone else."

The woman nodded to the screen in front of her as she watched the man finish with his retrieval and began to gather the remaining parts for disposal. She had to admit that he had a strong point because, machine or not, Michael did far more than it was designed to.

"Now if only we could get all those smug bastards that make everything for the public to pivot away from planned obsolescence..." she muttered to herself, the gravity of the situation finally lessened enough to think about other things.

[ameriize]

Pt2 of that Anton smut please😩😩 need them to fuck

content! mentions of masturbation, touching ding dong indirectly, whiney anton, he just wanna be dommed fr, no sexuuuu!!! that’s next, but a whole lot of tension (my fav) esp at the end

no fucking in this one, i love a good buildup beforehand, but it will be in the next one🙏

i have no idea how to do warnings/content sorreh

pt1

it’s been about three weeks now since you last heard from your friend, anton. however, it’s not like you haven’t seen him around. he’s still in the same class but now he’s changed seats. he no longer sits two rows diagonal to your back, but right at the front. or all the way in the back. like he was trying his hardest to get further away from you.

lucky thing is you’re not stupid. you knew he was avoiding you but the only problem was why. why was it that when the lecture was over, he would always be the first to leave? it became a rare sight for him to be engaged in conversation with the group after class, and this bothered you. a lot.

you tried to text him but he would either leave you on delivered for an abnormally long amount of time or give you a response that was impossible to reply to. when you would text him asking what’s wrong, he’d reply with “nothing” after a couple of days. you thought it best to leave it alone, i mean after all you two weren’t really that close and only studied together a couple of times.

but why did it bother you so much? you knew you were definitely attracted to anton, cmon who wouldn’t be. i mean your cunt was definitely not foreign to the idea of being stimulated because of him. especially during those late slow nights. but you never thought it would bother you to this extent. not to the extent that you’d spend so much of your day, no matter what activity you were doing, wondering what it was that you did, or maybe you started it first with your horrid reply time?

either way, whatever it was, it was starting to piss you off. why couldn’t he just address the issue rather than ignore you? you knew he was a soft spoken individual but it reaches a point. something was boiling up inside you that needed to be released. and you chose today.

today, you arrive 15 minutes early to your lecture and sit right at the front, closest to the door. when anton comes through, he avoids your eye, as usual, but this time you let it go. because you know you’re going to get your answer.

so, the lecturer dismisses the class, and you, slightly imitating anton, bolt out the door. however, you wait by the side. then when he comes through, you grab his arm.

“what are you doing?! let me go!”

not listening, you continue to drag him to an empty room, also ignoring the looks from others around.

you close the door behind you, walk further into the room past anton then turn to face him. you sit on the edge of the lecturer’s table, setting your bag down, while anton remains standing, still avoiding your eye.

“so what the hell has been your problem these past few weeks.”, you start, then let out a heavy sigh “listen i know we’re not that close but i think i deserve a little more than just plain ghosting just because there may be an issue. i don’t know how you operate in other friendships but this can’t run here. if you don’t wanna be friends, then anton please just say that. but atleast tell me what i did.”

he tries to ignore how good it sounds when you say his name. it’s exactly how he imagines you’d say it when his face is buried in your wet core and you’re getting close, with your hands gripping his hair, or when you’re riding his dick with your hands tight around his neck. anyway.

“and furthermore-” , you continue until he interrupts you with a call of your name.

“wait, i don’t- i-i already told you that there was nothing wro-”

“anton. taken that you’ve not been speaking to me for three weeks, you can manage to stay quiet right now. so shut up and listen then i’ll let you speak.”

ohhhhhh fuck. he’s almost 100% sure he just came a little with that tone of yours. oh how he wished you ordered him around like tha-

so you continue to rant on about how crazed you’ve been over this whole issue. you tell him about your constant worries of potentially hurting him and not knowing, then telling him how avoidance is a stupid way to deal with issues. and you stress, like really stress, how much you wish he had just talked to you. then you slowly stop speaking, realising that you had stopped him from speaking in the first place, when that was the whole reason you brought him here. you were slightly taken aback by how honest you were being with him, and how much this issue had affected you. you didn’t imagine you’d go on for about 10 minutes…

“well, now you can speak. so… care to tell me what’s really up”

just for the record, anton listens. for the whole 10 minutes. first off, because he loves your voice, second because of how hot you look when angry, and third because he had no idea you even cared.

but now that your rant was over, he has to face the real issue. he knows he can’t lie to you, not after that. but how is he meant to tell you that he could no longer look at you without instantly getting hard. that the thoughts of you choking him, fucking his mouth with your slender fingers, while aggressively riding his dick, completely clouded his brain. even worse, was that he would spend almost everyday jerking off to your insta pics where your boobs were a very frequent guest feature. he craves every part of you, and that makes him feel guilty. you’re nice to him. you’re nice to everyone. you always talk to him if he’s around, whether it be in the cafeteria or in the library or at a friend’s party. sometimes you get him cute little gifts or snacks because you know he likes things like that. and here he was having these lustful thoughts of you. he feels so ashamed. so he had no choice but to ignore you. because maybe if he did, then his guilt would go away. and he’d stop thinking about you. but boy was he wrong. anton thinks he hasn’t craved you more than anytime, since knowing you, than in these weeks. his whole body ached for you, longed to be touched by you. essentially, he was having withdrawal symptoms. he came (😏) to the realisation that all those times you two interacted actually soothed down the urges. because then at least he’d actually be hearing that voice he’d imagine, and be seeing that figure he’d dream of fucking. but he just couldn’t handle how disgusting he felt for his thoughts. like some sort of sex-craved, lack-of-impulse-controlled perv.

“i can’t tell you.” he looks down at the ground.

“what? why can’t you tell me if it’s something i’ve done!”

“because it’s not you! it’s me. i’m fucked up right now and i can’t be around you anymore”

it may be a bit of an understatement to say your heart took a deep dive down when you hear that.

“anton, i don’t get it. is it specifically me you can’t be around? do i trigger something in you that others don’t? because i know you still talk to the rest like normal. so if it’s not a thing where you isolate from everyone then it must be something about me.”

he doesn’t speak.

you stand up fully from the table. you take a step closer. and another. then another. until there’s nothing but a breath in between you two. you stay looking at him, while his eyes are glued to the ground.

now you realise you really care for anton. you don’t want to hurt him. you want to make him laugh, smile, be happy. and if it’s something about you that’s stopping that then, as painful as it is, you’ll let this friendship end. shame really, you were hoping you could be more than that.

“i masturbate to the thought of you. almost everyday.”

silence hangs in the air.

“i-” you begin to say. but no words come out. instead…feelings. emotions…arousal. straight to your core.

“anton-”

“fuck. i’m so sorry. i don’t do this. i’m not someone who just stays home doing that. i know this is gonna sound so fucking creepy to you, because i’m just some guy you talk to sometimes.”, he rambles “i feel like a kid who can’t control his hormones, and i try. i really try. but it’s like my brain short circuits when i see you. and i just feel so- so- disgusted with myself. i’m sorry. i’m really sorry. i just hoped i would never have to tell you so you didn’t think i’m some sort of perv who just wants to nail you. so i ignored you because i thought all the thoughts would stop and this would just end. but it hasn’t. and i don’t know if it will. so i completely understand if you want to stop being friends. i would too. i’m so sorry. shit.” he places his face in his hands. well it’s done now, he thinks. but his heart is still hurting with the possibility of losing you.

you listen. it’s only right since he did the same for you. but you really wish you could just shut him up with a kiss on those plump pink lips that you had always low-key been dying to taste.

you can’t believe he’s been thinking about you the same you do too. on the off chance you have nothing to do in the evening, you’d normally lay in bed with your hands between your legs, rubbing your clit, trying to relieve the pressure.

9 times out of 10 it was anton who had set it off. but you always brushed it off as him just being exceptionally hot rather than any sort of feelings being the underlying factor. however now it’s different. it’s mutual. and you want to take advantage of that. you have to.

“anton. look at me”

he slowly lifts his head out of his palms and his eyes land on yours.

you miss this. you miss the feeling of his eyes landing on yours. you miss his handsome face, with his cute brown doe eyes. and he misses this too. he always thought you were pretty, from when he first saw you.

“do you hate me?” he says, lips slightly quivering.

“i don’t think that’s possible.”

“what do you think of this? of me thinking about…stuff like that about you”

“i’d much rather it be that than lose you as a friend”

now, he was going to take a big risk with what he’s about to say. but he just needs to know if you feel the same way about him like he does of you. and the fact that you haven’t run away makes him feel just that bit more confident.

“is friends… all you want us to be?”

“i want to fuck you. so…i think no.”

anton can feel his dick getting more stiff, stiffer than it was when you were angrily ranting. he feels his fantasies and desires getting close to being realised and he’s excited. so fucking excited.

you both stare at each other, then you look down at those lips of his. and he notices. he smirks slightly then leans in, with his eyes closed.

but then you hold a finger to his lips.

“what did you think about?”

“huh?”

“you heard me.”

“uh i- fuck do i have to say this here? in public?”

“there’s no one here tonnie.”

he’s going to forever remember the feeling he just got when you called him that nickname.

“just give me one thing you desperately thought of”, you continue. heat is increasingly building up in your core as you press and press for anton to say his desires. you just want to tease him, tie him up, bite him, suck him, lick him, mark him. fuck him. you really really want to fuck him. right now.

“please don’t make me say it. i really don’t want to. i think i might die”

“too bad.”

he runs his hand through his hair, trying to keep composed despite being as red as a cherry. you think it’s so cute.

“and look at me while you say it.”, you say, wanting him to feel even more embarrassed.

he takes a deep breath in. looks at you. then speaks.

“i- i always think of you… making me suck on your fingers and then thrusting them in and out of my mouth. hard.”

“just making you take it?”

“just making me take it.”

“i bet i could make you cum just by doing that.”

“i already have.”

fuck. if you get even a single bite of anton, you may never recover from the addiction that’s laid ahead.

you look at your phone and check the time. you remember you have another lecture later in the day, and while fucking a boy up is fun, studies take priority. and also you just want to make him wait.

“i have a lecture at 5 so meet me in my dorm at 9.”

“wait but we have time though. we can do something before your lecture”

“you’re too eager” you laugh out, and hit his shoulder lightly. you turn around to get your bag from where you left it and walk back up to anton.

when he realises you were actually serious about doing nothing, he gets a little bit sad. mainly about his raging boner and the fact that he just wants to be with you even longer.

“fuck you can’t leave me like this. please. look how hard i am for you” , he pleaded, with a whiney tone and furrowed eyebrows.

he starts to palm himself through his joggers and lets out the tiniest whimper. but not too tiny for your ears. he’s putting on a show for you and desperately hoping you indulge.

you walk up closer to him, and slightly tiptoe to place your lips close to his ears.

“oh anton, i didn’t know you were such a slut”, you say seductively in his ear, “makes me wish i could take you right here and now” you lightly tug on his ear with your teeth.

he whimpered, eyes fluttering shut. having your voice saying such dirty things that close to his ear was almost too much for him.

“so do it. please.”

he takes your hand, while keeping intense eye contact, and places it on his hard on. you indulge just a little, and give his dick a small but effective squeeze.

anton rolls his eyes shut, and bites his lip. his hips buck up a little, desperate for more.

“mnngh! fuck please do that again.”

“i will. at 9.”

you move past him and go towards the door, acting as if it didn’t take all your strength to walk away and not fuck him on the student desk. he pouts a little, completely unsatisfied that his plan didn’t work.

“think of grannies or whatever it is that you do to calm your dick down. but just don’t touch my dick. if i find out you do, i just won’t touch you for, let’s say… three weeks? be a good puppy for me, okay anton?”

and with that, you leave the room.

anton’s unsure of how well he’s gonna be able to calm down his throbbing dick, when he’s just experienced the most sensual thing in his life, that will almost definitely be on constant replay. but all he knows is that he wants to be good for you.

so he’ll wait for whatever it is you’re going to do to him at 9.

a/n: hii guysss. i hope you like this one. imma wrap it up in the next chapter, idk when that’ll be bc i wanna write for other people aswell, but it will definitely happen. this is soooo long, i got a little carried away in the details and story, but it’s only because i’ve had this thought before (except i was daydreaming about gojo lol) and i just wanted to make it exactly like it, with a couple add ons. idk if it’s acc good tho bc i was jus writing and writing but hopefully it is !! again, ask away for any riize members. i’ll make a pinned post soon detailing who i’ll write for and what i won’t write, all dat all dat. lemme know what you think in the comments pls!!! :33

[jeonsweetpea]

Desire Me, Damn Me (teaser)

KPOP Demon Hunters!AU | Jinu x Hunter!Reader

genre: smut, lil comedy, e2l

rating: explicit

description: You’d be damned if you owed that demon a favor. When he asks to meet, you make a salacious deal in exchange for his continued silence. You tell yourself it’s just business, but your denial gives way to a burning desire that makes you question your existence, your purpose, and worse… your heart.

word count: 5k currently, still writing! teaser is 700 words

warnings: cussing, kissing, oral sex (m & f receiving), virgin!OC, sneaky sex, stomach bulge (he’s hung in his demon form okay), balcony sex, it’s vanilla at first… → rough sex, claws, little blood, unprotected sex, creampie, lil comedy, probably more tags soon i dunno

a/n: Think of the reader as Rumi, who is half-human, half-demon! I also incorporated dialogue from the movie in this. PLEASE tell me what you think, enjoy the snippet below!

“Teddy bears and choo-choo trains? Really?”

Unbelievable. You’re on your knees on a rooftop of all places, trying to provide him a service, and all he can focus on are your pajama bottoms?

You look up at him with your mouth agape, stunned to silence. He closes his fist like he’ll pump it, but his voice suddenly drops to a whisper.

“Choo-choo…” he breathes, moving his fist slowly up and down.

Your confusion twists into a menacing scowl. As you extend your wrist, your hunter’s sword is summoned from an intricate swirl of neon blue and violet light beams. Once it materializes, you thrust it upwards with an aggressive grunt.

“Whoa!” the demon yelps as he dodges in the nick of time.

You stand up and lash out, swinging the blade in unpredictable arcs. Yet he evades each attack with infuriating precision, as if it were a dance.

“I could’ve told your friends what you are,” he reminds you as you slam your sword in a vertical slash. Unfortunately, he’s already vanished, disappearing into a swirl of magenta mist.

You turn around, scanning the rooftop in its entirety for him. Its four ridges form a square perimeter, rising sharply and dipping inward to a hollow courtyard. The ridge he stands on is directly opposite yours—a narrow spine of curved, blue tiles, providing just enough distance between you to make an attack impossible.

“But I didn’t, did I?” he continues, his voice cutting through the silence. “Because they don’t know.”

A low growl bubbles in your throat, but you swallow it, opting for revulsion.

“And I intend to keep it that way. Even if it means making a deal with someone like you.”

He paces along the ridge, arms loose by his sides. You match his steps, walking in tandem, balanced upon the narrow spine of the roofline.

“Someone like me?” he replies, a sharp edge in his words. “We’re the same. You’re a demon girl. A hunter. Hiding, walking around free in the human world.”

“Just hunter,” you correct, “not demon.”

He stops walking, looking back over the ridge. “Then how’d you get the patterns?”

Demons bear intricate marks across their skin—violet “patterns.” Did he expect you to dump your life story about how your mother was a hunter and your father was a demon?

You halt your steps, feeling your chest tighten. “That’s none of your business.”

His eyes soften, like he’s pitying you. It fuels your anger further. “I know what it feels like to have them.”

“Feel?” you spat. “You’re a demon. Demons don’t feel anything.”

He gives you an incredulous glare at the assumption. “Is that what you think? That’s all demons do. Feel our shame, our misery.” His wallowing in self-pity is brief, and a smirk soon breaks through, erasing his previous vulnerability. “Our… lust.” 

You tighten your grip on the blade. “Don’t misunderstand. This is simply a business meeting, not lust.”

“Oh? You could’ve offered me anything for keeping your secret,” he says with a teasing lilt. “Yet the first thing that you came up with was giving me a blowjob.”

You roll your eyes. “To get ahead is to give head, or whatever the saying is.”

He brings his hands together in a slow, deliberate applause. Though surprise glints in his eyes, he doesn’t flinch. “Wow… in all my 400 years of living, I’ve never heard such a saying. You’re horny.”

Words catch in your throat as you rack your brain to formulate a proper comeback. 

“No! I wasn’t thinking! Besides, you accepted the offer!”

He arches a brow. “Because you told me to shut up and take my pants off. Was I not supposed to obey?”

“You can forget about it now,” you huff. 

He shrugs, kicking at some loose debris on the shingles. “That’s fine with me. You’re not my type anyway.”

“What?! I’m everyone’s type!”

“So you offer this… salacious little deal to just anyone?” His low chuckle makes every nerve in your body ignite. You stiffen your stance, clutching the blade handle like your life depends on it, while he strolls across the ridge. The distance between your bodies closes until your sword rests against his chest, stopping him in his tracks.

He leans in just enough for the blade to kiss the fabric of his hoodie.

“Do it.”

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[kingkat12]

pornstar martini (roman godfrey x reader)

WARNINGS: spanking, blowjob, punishments, sub/dom dynamics, kinky mails, masochism, masturbation, throwing up (very briefly cause of a hangover), Roman is a fucking ass even though he's overseas ughhh, jealousy ploys

summary: Mr. Godfrey has been away in Geneva for a few days now without as much as a peep-- getting drunk and upset about it certainly won't help, but when have you ever been of sound mind?

word count: 7,710

← previous chapter |

a/n: I'm so fucking drunk while editing this rn, reader is drunk throughout this whole chapter, so... at LEAST I'll have a good representation of intoxication?? I've missed this story tho, thank you all for ALL THE LOVE AHHHH you give me hope, you give me life, so I give you this!<333 mwah, enjoy, you little freaks

"It's your cousin,"

Letha turned to me, slow enough for it to be a clip straight out of a comedy movie; "What?" she asked, putting down her cosmopolitan. 

I groaned into my palm, swirling my half-empty pornstar martini. The loud bar around us made my head pound, each beat hammering into a new part of my brain that I didn't know could feel pain. "It was his shoe," 

"The shoe you... humped?"

"Yeah," I breathed, hiccuping as I tried to force my eyes to open wider. It was impossible to concentrate when I was this drunk. We had been out for dinner around six, then we had met some of Letha's friends at some bar around eight, then we had met mutuals from college who had led us to wherever the fuck we were right now-- we had long broken apart from that group, and we were now sitting in some tent-like structure, having our fourth cocktails for the night. "He told me to, and I did it. Your cousin is hot, are you aware of that?"

Letha blinked over and over, scrunching her nose; "Nope," she said. "He's just Roman to me. He's the same guy who ate snow with me in my backyard when we were six, and I watched him go through his emo phase when he was fifteen. Also, if I ever say yes to that, shoot me, because I'm most likely possessed."

Mr. Godfrey, eating snow? What an odd thought. What an odd thing-- for him to be human.

I scanned Letha; her cheeks always got flushed when she was drunk, and tonight, she was properly drunk. Very, very drunk, and so was I, undeniably. "I don't want to shoot you," I mumbled, bringing my pornstar martini back to my lips. "Aren't you mad, though?"

"Mad? Meh," Letha shrugged. "I'd be mad if you fucked my father, but--"

"Ew, Lee, what the fuck!--"

"But!" She held one finger up in the air, effectively shutting me up. "This is sort of a win-win situation. If you get with my cousin, like, properly, then we could technically be sisters or whatever."

I cleared my throat, trying to straighten up as I pulled the most serious face I could in this state. Letha would've probably not have been so enthusiastic about this if she were sober. "I don't think it's like that," I mumbled, staring at the cocktail I had nearly finished. If this conversation were to continue, I'd need about three more of these. Why couldn't I just shut up? 

"So... what? It's a strictly hump-my-shoe sort of thing?" Letha chimed in, grinning from ear to ear as she watched my cheeks redden to the likes of hers. "You naughty girl! He's your boss, too!"

"Shut up!" I hissed, smacking my forehead twice. Why did my head hurt so bad? Maybe it was time to put down my drink. "It's the suit, and it's the green eyes. I die a little every time I look at him, and soon enough, there will be nothing left of me except my clit."

"... Ew," 

"I'm so fucking serious, Lee!"

"Oh, I'm not denying it," she said in between sips of her cosmopolitan. "Not that I want to know, but I'm drunk and not in the right mind, but do you do anything else? You hump his shoe, and he does?"

What the fuck was I supposed to say here? "Hey, okay, I did that once!--"

"Shut up!" Letha said, giggling uncontrollably. "You hump his shoe, and he does...?"

I blinked, trying to recover from her incessant teasing. I hump his shoe, and he does...? He gets me expensive gifts. He spanks me when I misbehave. He makes me cum when I'm being good, whatever that means. I'm never good, in theory. Mr. Godfrey didn't usually do anything except order me around, yet that was sort of the appeal-- the less I knew about him, what he looked like beneath that suit, who he was, the more I felt like he was a God-like entity. Hence, whenever I had his attention in any way, I felt beyond special. 

That was the appeal of Mr. Godfrey; he was nothing, yet everything at the same time. 

"He makes me feel," I mumbled, pressing my drink to my bottom lip as my eyes blanked. Mr. Godfrey's presence in my life felt like impact-play, but I couldn't say that out loud? "He looks at me, and I... I feel everything at the same time. I feel good, I feel like hell, and sometimes I even feel special. But honestly, sometimes it becomes so overwhelming that I wish he'd set me on fire just so that he could watch me in my very last moments and know that I have suffered for him."

Letha didn't move, didn't breathe, for long enough to make it unusual. Something told me I had told her too much, but just as I was about to clear my throat and try to explain myself, she spoke; "I could report you to HR,"

"You wouldn't do that to me, babe," I grumbled, finishing my pornstar martini shortly after. "You know I hate those people. Also, the HR lady is scary, but really darn hot. I don't want her running around Mr. Godfrey for long enough for him to notice her nice legs."

"Mr. Godfrey?" Letha repeated, choking down a giggle. "You can't even make yourself call him Roman, huh?"

Nope. 

Nope, no, never. 

That felt wrong, like it was something I needed permission for. I probably did, anyway.

Letha let my silence off the hook easily; "Or maybe that's the appeal? He's your boss, so you probably wear short skirts around him, and bend over his desk and purr sir in his ear or something--"

"No!" I cried, burying my face in my hands as Letha laughed. "I don't!-- Ugh." Liar, liar, pants on fire. The more I thought about the time Mr. Godfrey pressed me down into the wood of his desk, holding me steady as he inspected my underwear, made my ears burn; had I been shameless like before, I would've even crossed my legs right now and relieved the intense sensation between my legs, but no-- I had gotten a mental block about that, quite frankly.

"Just don't tell him I told you," I mumbled. "I don't think he even knows we know each other."

Letha's green eyes twinkled; "Don't worry about it,"

"But this sort of leads me to another point," In the middle of a new hiccup, I decided to just go for it. "Has your cousin called you from Geneva? He's been gone for two days, and he's, like...  completely out of reach."

"Oh?"

"Yeah," I breathed, swirling my empty glass. "I caught him calling in on some meeting earlier today, so I know he's not a missing person or whatever, but he hasn't sent me anything. Hasn't talked to me. It's like he's ignoring me, or-- yeah, I have no idea."

Letha's brows drew together; not out of concern, but intrigue. "Did he tell you he'd stay in touch?"

"... No, but he said he'd be available,"

"So maybe he's waiting for you to send something, then?" Letha's green eyes seared into mine, once again reminding me that they were related-- they had the exact same fucking eyes. Maybe if Mr. Godfrey completely iced me out someday, I could get over the heartache by looking at Letha. There was my backup plan. The shittiest but wittiest one to date. "But if this is strictly a sex-thing, I wouldn't put it past Roman to be completely unattached to it."

With that, my heart sank. "What?"

Letha shot me a look-- "Come on," she huffed. "He's a Godfrey. If I'm the way I am, can you imagine him? Do you not read those gossip magazines? They psychoanalyze him better than I could ever do, especially now that I'm drunk at three in the morning."

The only magazine I had formally read about him was the Forbes magazine I still kept tucked beneath my pillow-- not the proudest moment of mine. "I know I'm not his girlfriend or whatever, but... what we have feels special, y'know? Like it warrants a snarky email asking whether I've burned the office down or something,"

Letha sighed, checking out the guy to her left as she thought about how to answer me without stomping on my feelings. However, it was three in the morning, and after enough drinks, Letha Godfrey had the filter of a neurodivergent toddler; "Of course it feels special. Doesn't mean that you are to him, though,"

"... Letha, what the hell?"

"I'm just being honest," 

Her attention had completely left me, and she was now waving at the guy with that flirty shimmer in her eyes that I knew too well. It made me turn around to look at him properly, to see who I was battling against, and I couldn't contain the annoyed groan that left me. "Sometimes, he slips up and says things that allude to him thinking about me more than he lets up," I huffed. "I think I warrant an inappropriate mail from Geneva."

Busy flirting, Letha batted her long, blonde lashes at the guy. "Aha," she mumbled, nodding, clearly occupied. 

I gritted my teeth, wondering how long I could keep myself together before I had an angry, drunk meltdown. "What happened to Barty?" I whined. "Bartholomew? He-who-must-not-be-named? The guy you were dating?"

Letha shivered and turned to me with a grimace-- I knew that name would bring her back to me. "We don't talk about him. That was a slip-up in the Matrix," She put down her drink, letting out a sigh as she scanned me, disregarding the guy for now. "So, what, you're going to sulk all week because Roman's AFK?"

"AFK...?

"Away-From-Keyboard," she said, softening her gaze. "Don't let yourself fall apart because of some man. That's so lame. What happened to the girl I knew in college?"

How was I supposed to explain to Letha that it was this exact spiral that made me feel alive? That the way I burned in agony over being ignored satisfied me to some extent? It was too complicated to even begin to decode.  "I don't know..." I stared down at my empty glass, realizing my head was spinning. "I think I'm too drunk to think clearly about this. Should we maybe just get a cab home?"

Letha didn't answer, and instead, reached over the table to put her hand over mine. Like this, lit up by the orange heat-lamps above us, she looked beautiful as ever with her perfect blonde hair lying perfectly over her shoulders. She was so soft like this, so feminine, so gentle-- "Just mail him, babe," she murmured. "Or, call us a cab, and then mail him. Take charge."

Taking charge was Mr. Godfrey's thing, though. That was another thing that I wouldn't explain to Letha. "It's nine in the morning over there," I tried. "And what if he doesn't reply?"

Letha shrugged-- "Then you'll know,"

I looked down at my glass again, the stem sweating against my palm; somehow, knowing sounded so much worse. 

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

Ten minutes later, we were in the back of a cab, the windows fogged and streaked with rain, the city blurring into watercolor neon. I curled against the cold leather seat, phone clutched in my hand like it had wronged me. My makeup was smudged, my head spun like it always did after a night out with Letha, and everything inside me buzzed with that erratic, mortifying energy that came with four drinks and too many feelings.

Letha was already asleep, head tipped back, her phone unlocked and resting dangerously close to her cleavage. I stared down her blouse for a bit too long, and with one drunk thought after the other, I ended up slowly easing her phone down her bra, containing my giggles. 

So, with Letha's phone sticking proudly out from between her tits, I eventually stared down at mine in my hands. I had distracted myself for a moment, yet I couldn't distract myself forever.

Hiccuping, I opened my mail, clicking into Mr. Godfrey's account-- he had been online two hours ago. Fucker. He had probably already read yesterday's report. Probably dismissed it, too. Probably dismissed me. I was spiralling, but this spiral had edges. This spiral had teeth. This spiral was the same girl that Letha knew in college.

I opened a new mail. Then, without thinking, I started typing-- it poured out of me, fingers fumbling, typos aplenty, autocorrect working overtime like it had taken pity on me, but there was no stopping now. Fuck it.

From: You

Subject: Being Stupid

Hi.

Hi!!

I'm writing this in the back of a cab, so if you see any typos, no you don't. I might perhaps also be a bit drunk, but who cares!! Maybe you're in a conference room in Geneva rn while some old dude talks to you about trade routes and money laundering. You must do some money laundering, sir? Every rich guy does that. Probably? Right? Seems like it, these days. Capitalism!!!!!

Okay, so, I know you said you'd be available if there were any crisises crisies? crisi? but there are none except for me. Before you left, you said that I was an HR liability, and I keep thinking about that, because that's SCUHA A LIE. SUCH. I would never rat you out to the HR lady who is frankly too hot to be walking around like that, she has legs that are longer than the Chinese wall, and it's kind of disturbing. I wouldn't sir!!! I'm not like your last secretary, whether the fuck happened to her. I wouldn't sue you. I'm a good secretary. 

Btw I had a pornstar martini today!!! Three, I thin. k. Four! No, three. Four? Do you drink anything other than bourbon? You need to try a pornstar martini, sir. They are really fucking nice because they're sweet and you sometimes get a pomegranate in it and it's actually kinda inconvevnient inconvenient but it's cutesy!!! Maybe you don't like cutesy tho. Bet you don't. Okay maybe you should stick ot th e bourbon. 

YeahhhtThis message is embarrassing and long and I'll probably try to unsend it in the morning, but if you do read it please don't pretend like you didn't. I know how you are. Just say something. Anything!! Even if it's cruel. I might like it? I can take it. I'd rather have your cruelty than your silence. I'm a good secretary.

Happy money laundering!!!!!!!!

PSPSPS: plsssssss bring me something, I wasnt joking;(((

Click click click,

Your Secretary.

I didn't care to re-read it. It was too long, and at the moment, it felt like poetry that I shouldn't touch. This was genius, wasn't it? This would definitely make Mr. Godfrey pull himself together and send me a heartfelt message about missing me, I was sure of it. 

And then, because I definitely had the traits of an emotional masochist, and because Mr. Godfrey was probably out there, doing anything but thinking of me, I hit send. This was going to fix this. This was fucking genius.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ No, retreat, retreat-- not genius.

Oh...  my God.

Oh my fucking God?!

The next morning, seated behind my desk with the worst hangover known to man, I stared at the mail that I had sent last night. It was glaring back at me from my computer like a reminder that I was getting executed in a few hours.

Not genius. Not fucking genius! 

I so desperately wanted to die. That execution sounded really nice right now. Why couldn't I sink through the floor and haunt the building instead? Why did I have to live through the possible consequences of this stunt? Fucking Letha. 

But said consequences were painfully delayed-- my inbox was empty. This was worse than cruelty; silence. I imagined a ball of dry wheat rolling past my email like in those cowboy movies, a sinister whistle-sound coming from afar. Was Mr. Godfrey blatantly unaware of this, perhaps? Or worse, was he laughing about it? Forwarding it to legal? Telling the hot HR lady with the war-crime legs that I, in fact, was an HR liability?

I imagined Mr. Godfrey and his Forbes nose skimming the message with his unreadable, handsome face. Maybe he was sipping something expensive (and definitely made with Swiss skimmed goat-milk), scowling over my drunken meltdown. Maybe he had already shown it to some diplomat friend over lunch, and they were both laughing at it right at this very moment? "How fucking pathetic... Do you know how hard she cums when I call her a sick fuck?"

My palms were sweating, my stomach twisted with every movement of my spinning chair-- God, I had asked him to be cruel. Who the fuck does that? Who begs their boss for cruelty like it's affection? Why did I drink four pornstar martinis? Three? Four. Whatever.

I slammed my forehead against the desk once. Just once, dramatically, with a soft thud. 

Racking my hungover brain, I tried to figure out if I could get away with hiding in the archive room all day, but then a low voice, smooth and familiar, cut through the fog behind my eyes;

"Rough night?"

My red eyes snapped up, staring up at Peter. His hands were in the pockets of his dark, sleek coat, his hair slightly messy in a way that looked deliberate, clearly just having gotten to the office. He was smirking like he already knew exactly how rough my evening had been, like he had seen me hunched over my fourth pornstar martini telling Letha about the spiritual experience of humping her cousin's shoe-- God, just thinking about that right now made my head pound even harder. 

I cleared my throat, straightening with a slight hiss; the fluorescent lights of the office were killing me. "Remind me to never drink martinis ever again,"

"Oh, that's a shame," Peter murmured, cocking his head. "Martinis can be really damn good. Was it a sweet one?"

"Yeah, pornstar,"

"What?"

Blinking, I caught myself-- I couldn't just say that word without following it up. "Pornstar martini," I corrected, rubbing the back of my neck as I attempted a laugh. "Not saying you're a-- no, no, it's just the name of the drink, I-- ugh, you get it."

"I do," Peter hummed, containing a laugh with a bite of his lip.

"The name is foul," I mumbled. "But it's the best drink ever. I always have one of those when I go out."

"Meaning, you're not gonna have your last one any time soon," With that cool ease he always had, Peter put his briefcase on my desk, leaning over my computer-- he knew that'd have me clicking out of whatever I had been staring at previously with anxious fervour. Chuckling, he shook his head. "Seems you've really let loose with bossman away."

Yeah... if only Mr. Godfrey would come back and pull at my reins again.

"That's slander," I muttered, minimizing my inbox. "I've been nothing but responsible. I'm a really darn good secretary, believe it or not." 

Peter raised both eyebrows, clearly amused by my mantra as he pointed to my scalp. "Uh-huh. That desk-shaped dent on your forehead would like a word,"

I glared at him and pressed a palm to the tender spot. "Dramatic expression of productivity," I mumbled. As much as I loved visits from Peter, I felt like too much of a mess to keep up with the banter-- my hangover was ripping me apart, limb by limb. I softened my gaze, rounding out my eyes in hopes of sympathy, so as not to sound too harsh; "Did you need anything, Peter? I'm drowning in work here, and my head is pounding, I'm-- I'm sorry."

Peter tapped his knuckle gently on the corner of my desk, then hesitated; "Actually, uh... there was something I was gonna ask you,"

"Please don't be about tech support. I'm one migraine away from throwing my monitor out the window,"

He laughed; "No, not tech support. It's, um... about the banquet."

I blinked-- huh?

"You know, the one on Sunday?" he quickly added, stuffing his hands back into his pockets like he regretted taking them out in the first place. "Mr. Godfrey's annual charity... whatever. Doubt he cares about the cause, but it's an excuse for everyone to get drunk on company money. Champagne, string quartets, awkward company small talk.... All very classy, very terrifying."

"Right," I breathed. My stomach clenched, and not from the hangover this time. Something in me moved, and it wasn't puke; I suddenly felt unimaginably warm. Was this really happening?

Peter scratched the back of his neck. "I wasn't sure if you were going, but I thought maybe, if you didn't have plans?-- or if you didn't want to go alone, or, like-- we could, I don't know, go together?" He rushed in to fill the second of silence that followed, not daring to let me hesitate; "Not, like, go go. Just-- go as, you know, not-alone people? Coworkers. Who dress up. And pretend to be functioning adults."

My lips parted as my mind buzzed; Mr. Godfrey was still in Geneva. Still silent. Still a fucking ghost. Was he even going to this banquet? He was still going to be in Geneva by Sunday, right? Yeah, he wasn't going to attend, then. What could be the harm? 

Or, actually... there could be a lot of harm.

To my ass, specifically. 

Just the thought of Mr. Godfrey storming back from Geneva after finding out that I had accepted the invitation from Peter, all broody and dark, jealous even, made my cheeks burn. I wondered what he'd do; he'd definitely spank me raw. Tell me how I was his submissive, his secretary, how he didn't like sharing. His big, rough hands would leave a large, pink, stinging mark, before he'd proceed to dip his fingers into me, easing them in one by one, pumping the shame of my actions deeper into me as he'd tell me how sick I was for even thinking I could get away with this. 

But back in real life, I realized a bit too late that Peter might've misinterpreted my blushing, and the tongue-tied silence. I looked blissed out right now, didn't I? 

He was still smiling that soft, hopeful smile that made my chest tighten with guilt; "No pressure. Just thought I'd ask. You know where to find me when you decide,"

"Okay," I breathed, swallowing hard as I continued staring at the way too hot paralegal in front of me-- were all the people in this office hot? Seemingly so. "It sounds really nice, Peter, but I don't even know if I'm free Sunday night, I might have plans with--"

"Sure, sure," Peter said, that charming smirk of his returning; something told me he was convinced he had secured me nonetheless. With that same classy, cool ease, he backed away, putting his hands in the air; "Think about it. Or don't. It might be a no-brainer when you get some water into your system."

Then, with secure steps, and that warm twinkle in his brown eyes that I secretly adored, Peter walked off down the hall with a confident stride, bag in hand. 

The moment he disappeared around the corner, the warmth in my belly bloomed, giddy and low, a little pulse between my thighs I couldn't stop; I would've, had I had the permission. Fucking freak. 

And for a split second, the idea of going to the banquet with Peter thrilled me.

But then, I imagined Mr. Godfrey walking into the room with that inhuman grace and sharp suit and catching me at Peter's side-- my stomach flipped.

No, it turned.

"Oh no," I muttered, gagging, hand flying to my mouth; I yanked the trash bin from under my desk and heaved into it. The sour burn of alcohol and existential shame hit my nose all at once, and I gagged again.

When I was finally sure there was nothing left in me but regret and stomach acid, I wiped my mouth with a trembling hand, panting, eyes watering. God, that was undignified. I needed to get rid of this thing, this trash bag of humiliation, before someone came sniffing around. Peter might've walked off looking suave, but if he doubled back and caught me hunched over like some hungover troll in a pencil skirt? No. No fucking way. Over my dead, spanked body.

The ladies' room was too far away. The kitchenette was too risky. I blinked through the fluorescent haze, heart pounding in my ears-- then, like a beacon from the divine, my gaze landed on his door.

Mr. Godfrey's office.

I knew a cleaning lady was coming there in about twenty minutes-- if I stuffed my little mishap in his trash, then I wouldn't be caught red-handed with it! Genius. So, clutching the top of the lined trash bag like a biohazard, I slid out of my seat, pulse hammering as I tiptoed toward the forbidden door.

Mr. Godfrey's chair sat in perfect alignment behind his desk, screen dark, blinds half-shut. The lingering scent of his expensive cologne remained in the room, and I let out a half-sigh as I closed the door behind me, engulfing myself in the sensations I had missed. Then, snapping out of it, I crossed the room fast, knelt by the trash can beside his desk, and tucked the bag of vomit inside.

Gone. Buried. Out of sight.

Yet... I wasn't. 

A loud pling came from Mr. Godfrey's computer, and I let out a horrified squeak as I slammed my head into the back of the desk. "Fuck!" I hissed, hand flying to my scalp. My heart thrashed against my ribs like it wanted out, and I whipped my head over the edge, eyes wide, to face the glowing screen of Mr. Godfrey's monitor, which had lit up with a single, new email.

Sent to... himself?

I got closer, skimming the top part of the mail;

From: Roman Godfrey

Subject: Re: Being Stupid

Dear secretary,

If you are reading this, you are more predictable than I thought. Did you really think you could sneak in here without me getting an alert? Nasty little girl, snooping around where you do not belong. 

Now, sit down. Legs crossed. Palms flat against the desk.

My breath caught, trembling, frozen somewhere between terror and a rush of heat that settled thick and low between my legs. I backed away slowly from the desk like it was wired to explode.

He knew.

Mr. Godfrey knew I'd come in here (probably not for the reason he'd have thought, though). He had set this up. Not only was I busted-- he had baited me. Something about that made my throat dry, yet a small smile spread across my lips. This was beyond hot. He knew me so well that he was sending scheduled mails to himself, knowing I'd read it. Holy fuck. 

With burning cheeks, I sat down, crossed my legs, and placed my palms flat against the desk; there was something so deeply satisfying about being bossed around like this. God, how I had missed it. 

My eyes skimmed the time it had originally been sent in my timezone; 07:32. Mr. Godfrey hadn't been ignoring me-- he had waited for me. Had he timed it with the alarm going off in his office? Whenever someone neared the desk? Risky. Hot. Pressing my thighs together, making myself comfortable (the best way I knew how), I proceeded to read the rest of the mail. 

Secondly— what the fuck did I just read?

A good secretary would not drunk-email her employer from the back of a cab while slandering global finance and confessing to three (four?) pornstar martinis. A good secretary would not admit, in writing, to being a liability, nor would she make vague, possibly actionable comments about her predecessor and the HR department.

I have read your email three times. Once at the hotel bar. Once in the elevator. And once again this morning, against my better judgment, in a boardroom while a Swiss man with an unfortunate moustache explained cryptocurrency regulation. I have no idea what he said. That is on you.

You are lucky I like chaos. You are lucky that I like the look of you in your little skirts in the morning. However, next time you decide to fall apart, do it in person, so I can deal with you accordingly. Also, the drink is called a pornstar martini— it can never be "cutesy", you fucking gremlin.

Also, you are not a good secretary. I am going to keep you, though.

PS: I will bring something back. However, if you ever ask for something that way again, I will indeed be cruel, and not in the way I know you like. 

PSPS: Cum before you leave. 

Entertained,

Roman Godfrey, CEO of Godfrey Industries.

And you best believe I did-- legs crossed, palms flat against the desk.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

After a really long day, I had spent some time in bed reading my beloved Forbes interview over and over, tracing the outline of Mr. Godfrey's nose and side profile before slowly nodding off. Sleep wrapped around me like a warm duvet, and I was sure I fell asleep smiling-- Mr. Godfrey hadn't fired me. Mr. Godfrey might even... like me? 

But when I was abruptly awoken by the loud buzzing of my phone, I tapped around my pillow to find it, and I realized I had drooled down onto the fabric-- I blamed that on the dream I just had, where Mr. Godfrey had told me to suck his cock beneath his desk. One day. One glorious day. 

I blinked at the screen when I finally found it. Unknown number, international code; +41, Switzerland.

My stomach dropped-- Geneva. 

I sat up with a squeal, the room spinning for a moment as the last wisps of sleep clawed at my brain. Smacking my cheek once, twice, trying to snap out of the rush of adrenaline that shot through me, I answered the call; "Hello?"

I knew who it was. Of course this was him. Who else would dare to call me at two in the morning? Still, as every CEO probably did, he went the polite route with me. "This is Roman Godfrey speaking,"

Prick. Now that he wasn't here to see me, I allowed myself to roll my eyes, suppressing a laugh at the predictability. "I know, sir," I mumbled, embarrassingly hoarse. This was beyond exciting-- what did he want? I didn't care. He was here. I could hear his voice again. He was here. 

There was a pause; the kind that crackled with suspense. Would he say something about me being a smartass? Would he command me to fling myself out of my window now? I might've even complied if he did.  "You sound terrible," Mr. Godfrey eventually said. "Are you sick?"

A sick fuck, perhaps, as he had so kindly diagnosed me before, but-- "No, sir," I croaked, flinging my duvets off of me as if that would help me think straighter. My legs were tangled in it, my shirt stuck to the back of my thigh from sweat. "Just tired. You, uh... woke me up."

"Mm. It's nearly nine here,"

Of course it was. Of course he would sound wide awake, clear-headed, as if he'd just stepped out of a glacier-fed shower and into a designer suit, and of course he had no remorse for my state. "I would've taken you to be the type to be up all night," Mr. Godfrey continued. "Have I caught you fixing your sleep schedule?"

Nah, you actually just caught me in the middle of gagging on your cock.  "I-- no. I was just... reading,"

"Reading?" he echoed.

"Reading, sir, I just started this one called--"

"Oh, I don't want to know," Mr. Godfrey huffed. "I just need you to send over the LVMH file. I don't have it on my hard drive here, and I'm meeting Bernard soon."

I scrambled out of bed and grabbed my laptop off the floor; I had to contain a sharp gasp when I opened it. Why the fuck had I not closed this tab before I went to sleep? It had frozen on a video I had dug into the depths of PornHub to find, in the category of men wearing suits-- I needed to get this out of my grid, stat. "The LVMH file... uh, yes, one second, sir,"

As I typed in my password with shaky fingers, the only sounds between us were the soft tapping of my keyboard and the hum of something muffled on his end. Was that... a news anchor? A coffee machine? The shuffle of hotel slippers over plush carpeting? 

But then, it hit me; I adjusted my phone between my shoulder and ear. "Sorry, sir, did you-- did you mean Bernard Arnault?"

Mr. Godfrey let out a small, humourless chuckle; "I didn't realize you were such a fan,"

"I'm not a fan, I just-- I mean, I know who he is. Obviously," I pulled the file from my drive, trying not to sound as shocked as I felt. "He's like... luxury fashion royalty. And you're just-- meeting him? Casually? In a hotel?"

"Yes," Mr. Godfrey replied, the warning in it unmistakable. "And now you're delaying it." 

I swallowed down my instinct to keep digging, to ask which one of his suits he'd be wearing to this meeting (so I could picture it for later, innocent purposes), and instead, I clicked send.

"Done," I mumbled.

I could still hear the faint background noise-- definitely a hotel room, definitely a coffee machine. "Good girl," Mr. Godfrey murmured.

Fuck, how I had missed him. 

But despite me having fulfilled all my tasks, he... he didn't hang up, like I had expected him to. Didn't he have a meeting to get to? Instead, a click of porcelain, a rustle. "You included the updated graphs from Friday's briefing?"

I blinked. "Yes. Of course," I checked, triple-checked, just in case; "Slide twelve, sir."

Another pause. "You corrected the typo in the Q2 earnings summary?"

Oh... So he was stalling too?

"Yes," I murmured, biting down on my growing smile. Couldn't do anything about my blush, though. "Changed the wordings here and there, and the margin line graph was widened, too."

"Good," Mr. Godfrey said, but it came slower this time. "You don't usually miss things... Although it seems you've missed me, based on your little email."

Oh no. 

I felt heat flood every part of me as my heart stopped; this was horrifying. "Sir, I... I sincerely apologize," I breathed, pressing my palm against my temple to soothe the pounding of my head. "I really, really-- I'm so sorry. I should go."

"Should you?" Mr. Godfrey's voice felt like a siren call-- warm, low, alluring, yet threatening. "No, I get it actually. You must've had a lot to drink to send me that email."

Why couldn't the ground swallow me whole? Judging by his tone and the sprinkles of amusement in it, I allowed myself to groan out loud, falling with my back to the bed again. "I'm so sorry, sir," I mumbled, tossing and turning. "Thank you for not... firing me."

"Now, why would I fire you?" Mr. Godfrey chimed in, probably cocking his head. "You mentioned pornstars, capitalism, and my bourbon preference in a single email. I should probably give you a raise, 'cause I haven't seen this level of compelling writing since Trump wrote me that he wanted to buy the company."

"I was joking--" My brows drew together; "Wait, what?"

"Were you?" Mr. Godfrey's voice dipped lower, ignoring that last part. "Because you also said you'd rather have my cruelty than my silence. That didn't sound like a joke."

"Sir, is the President buying the company?!"

 "That's not the--"

"I will not work as his secretary, I refuse! I quit if that's how it is!"

Mr. Godfrey let out a scoff, which sounded more like a laugh; "Don't worry. I told him no," he murmured. "The company is mine, and so are you."

My breath caught, and I sat up in my bed again, wide-eyed and sprouting like a rose. So are you. So are you. So are you. My ears perked up, and my free hand grabbed the duvet like it'd save me from the way his words wrecked my brain, gigabyte by gigabyte. 

Breathless, my answer fell out without a second thought; "Come back soon,"

Mr. Godfrey let the silence stretch, like he enjoyed hearing me flounder in it. I imagined him there, sleeves rolled up, shirt half-buttoned, sitting on the edge of a luxury hotel chair with that lazy, cold smirk he always wore when he knew he had the upper hand. "Contain yourself, now,"

"Don't wanna,"

"Oh, is that right?"

"Why should I contain myself?"

"Because I said so,"

"Yeah, but you're in Geneva," I whined. "What are you gonna do, huh?"

... Bad move. 

Bad fucking move. Don't snark, don't snark, don't be a brat, don't talk back, don't, don't, bad fucking move, bad move. 

Mr. Godfrey didn't answer at first, but then he... laughed? It wasn't a warm laugh, definitely not one that let me off the hook; it was low, breathy, and ominous, like smoke under a door, like something you don't hear until it's too late. I could practically feel it slinking through the speaker, curling around my throat like a rough, calloused hand.

And I knew, knew, I was fucked. My body had frozen, spasmed up probably-- this was that kind of stillness that only meant one thing with him; he was deciding what to do with me.

Then, just when I thought he might let it go, just when I started convincing myself I hadn't poked the bear--

"Distance won't keep you safe," he murmured. "I'll show you what I can do."

Click.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

I had asked for cruelty, and I had gotten it. 

For about forty hours, Mr. Godfrey completely vanished. He was nowhere to be found at the scheduled meeting with the logistics department, I was unable to reach him when Dr. Pryce slithered up from his dungeon (or wherever he came from) to discuss something with him, and he was completely off the grid all together.

I scoured the internet for some sort of access to watch Mr. Godfrey give his speech in Geneva (was that today?), wondering whether it was some sort of Ted talk-like arrangement on YouTube, yet nothing. What I managed to find was password-encrypted, walled off from the rest of the peasants in the world-- assholes. 

This was hell. 

One day. One day, and fifteen hours. It was three o'clock on a Friday, now. I hadn't heard from him since Wednesday morning/night. Where was he? What was he doing?

Sulking and beyond depressed, I clicked the snake on my screen, watching it eat the red apples one after the other. Life was so boring without Mr. Godfrey; I hated how I had come to depend on him to have a good mood. If only he'd appear, spank the hell out of me for snarking, and then jerk off on me again, I'd feel fine. He could even cum in my mouth this time, I'd take it. I'd swallow. I hadn't swallowed before, though, but I could try? I bet he tasted like nothing in particular-- then again, Mr. Godfrey was an avid smoker, so wouldn't it have some traces of that? Would I get nicotine shock from his semen? Gosh, I hoped not. Still, I'd swallow. I'd do it. I'm a good secretary.

"I'm a good secretary," I echoed out loud, whispering it under my breath, wondering whether to reach out to Mr. Godfrey again. No, that'd be pathetic, right? That'd be the most disgusting, filthy, pathetic thing, and I wouldn't sink down to that level, not again. Not when he was pulling this crap on me, not in the middle of our emotional warfare. Did he get a kick out of this? Did he get a kick out of... not talking to me?

Oh no...

Did he like not talking to me?

Maybe he enjoyed this. Maybe this was the perfect opportunity to get away from his horny secretary who wanted to do nothing more than hump his shoe and get spanked in his office. Maybe he went to Geneva to get away from me? Maybe he hated me? 

Groaning, I sat back in my chair, clicking out of snake, and that was when I got a new mail from someone who probably had never sent a mail before. I couldn't imagine that she even sat behind a PC to do this; she loved that darn pink phone too much.

From: Letha Godfrey

Subject: Familiar Cunts (Cunty!!)

hey girl!! 

how's work? hopefully you're rlly busy so you won't see this immediately, but... I thought it'd be best if you heard this from me. or, found it out through me, ig? anyway, you seemed really down the last time I saw you because of my dickhead cousin, and I'm sorry to be proven right about this, but I think you've got to see this... 

BUTTT for your information, Barty (yes we r talking again, big dick alert) has some friends I could introduce you to if you're up for a distraction!! god knows you'll need it

sending the link here, I know it's Daily Mail, I knowww it's trash, but they've got pictures and... ugh yeah, I'm sorry about this

https:///www.dailymail.co.us/celebritynews/article-69420/roman-godfrey-spotted-partying-at-supermodel-penthouse-in-Switzerland.httml

I'm really sorry:(( I have tequila at my place, come over after work<3333

smooches and hugs, 

Letha

Sent From My iPhone

I clicked out of the email, my heart already dropping, heavy and stupid in my chest like it knew what was coming. The link hovered in front of me, burning through every second that I hesitated, and I--

Of course I clicked it. I'm not a fucking maniac.

The page loaded fast, too fast, and I felt it in my throat, in my hands, in the tips of my fingers; I was about to have a heart attack wasn't I? 

There he was--  Roman Godfrey, half-lit by flashing cameras and city lights, standing on the balcony of a penthouse that probably cost more than my soul. Shirt half-open, hair tousled in that deliberate way that I hadn't seen before, one hand sunk lazily into the pocket of his slacks while the other held a glass of something visibly expensive.

And the girls... the fucking girls.

In the next picture beneath this one, he was joined by two of them. One was pressed to his side like she belonged there, laughing into his shoulder, and the other tucked beneath his arm, tipping her head back in a way that made it look like he was hers. 

I didn't even realize I was holding my breath until it left me in a shaky rush; fuck these damn supermodels. I so sincerely hoped he hadn't done just that, but... I wasn't stupid, 

My jaw locked as I scrolled down. There were more photos, many I scrolled past, many I couldn't bring myself to look at. Mr. Godfrey was smiling, actually smiling, at these models, and it wasn't that clipped, managerial half-smirk I was used to seeing from him; this was the kind of grin that was meant to charm, to put on a show. 

The worst photo was probably the one where he had wrapped his arm around a tall blonde, pulling her closer to him as he whispered something into her ear, his lips visibly touching her shell-- but just as I thought it couldn't get worse, the next photo practically shot a bullet straight through my forehead.

Because in the next photo?

Mr. Godfrey was looking directly into the camera-- this was him saying gotcha.

I jolted away from the screen, clicking out of the article as I gripped my desk with all my strength; this was my punishment. This. I wasn't allowed to touch him, yet the models could. I wasn't allowed to touch him. They were. They were supermodels-- I wasn't. 

I gagged. I gagged, over and over, until I was convinced I'd throw up in my bin all over again. 

Roman Godfrey didn't party by accident; he knew how to get away from the paparazzi, and he also knew how to get caught. He knew I'd see this. He knew. He fucking knew.

I pressed the heels of my hands into my eyes until my sockets ached, then dragged them down my face. I sat there in the silence of my office, chest tight, stomach rolling, mascara probably halfway down my cheeks as the words rolled through my head; he wanted me to suffer.

Well. I could do that.

Or, I could do something else.

I smoothed my skirt as I got up, combed my fingers through my hair, and reapplied a touch of balm to my lips as I passed my reflection in the glass-- just enough to look sane, just enough to look like this wasn't a declaration of war.

But it was.

This was war, and Mr. Godfrey had just shot Franz Ferdinand of fucking Austria. 

Rolling in my tanks, preparing the army for combat, I knocked on Peter's door four times, just as I knew a certain OCD freak would've hated it. 

The door opened a few seconds later. Peter stood there, backlit by his desk lamp, button-up sleeves rolled to his elbows, and with his box of snus in one hand. Clearly, I had caught him in the middle of important business. He looked like he had been working on something complicated, probably dense, probably foreign, but his expression shifted as soon as he saw me, his eyes rounding out with curiosity; "Well, if it isn't the fugitive," he murmured, leaning against his doorframe as he crossed his arms over his chest. "Running from the guillotine again?"

"Yeah," I breathed. It was impossible not to smile; Peter was the only fucking nice person in this office, apparently. "They're trying to hang me for something completely unreasonable,"

"What did you do this time, kid? Spit it out,"

"Nothing crazy. I stole a loaf of bread,"

With that, Peter snorted; "Good one,"

"And you, mister,just gave away that you're caught up on musicals," Oh, how I hoped my humour would distract him from noticing my real mood. "Anyway, before I'm taken back to my certain death, I wanted to say yes."

Peter blinked; "Yes?"

"Yes, I want to go with you,"

"To the... banquet?"

"Yes,"

He inhaled sharply, scanning me; he didn't ask why. He didn't need to, and I adored that about him-- how he always seemed to know when to speak and when not to. Lawyer. Peter stepped back, opening the door wider; "Come in," he murmured, grinning. "We'll go over the details."

I walked past him, spine straight, every inch of me rehearsing poise, but inside, something bitter and electric surged like a storm; I was going to look beautiful. I was going to smile all night, and Mr. Godfrey was going to hear about it from every loser in this goddamn office.

He wanted to punish me?

Fucking bite me.

(a/n: omfg... is it rlly a kingkat fic without some sort of prom or banquet tho?? nope. U R NOT READY. and have I finally written Letha as a supportive sweetheart? YESSSS I HAVE BEEN WAITING!!! thank you so much for all the love, you are too kind, and I LOVE YOU, MWAH<333)

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[beabatoru]

10 things I hate about you pt. 2 ｡𖦹°‧ hockey player! gojo x reader

pt. 2/2

pairing ⊹ ࣪ ˖ college au - hockey player! gojo x reader

summary : after the events of the hockey game where you found out you were the centerpiece of a bet between the boy you grew to like and his hockey teammates, you now also have to struggle with family problems miles away with your father on the verge of passing. piles of hospital bills are stacking up and you have no idea how to pay them off and on top of that, gojo is still begging for your forgiveness.

warning / tags ⟢ fluff, angst, smut, college au, this fic is based on the film '10 things I hate about you', partial angst with readers father regarding sickness, reader is low income. gojo is very pathetic.

w.c : 1.8k

a / n . hello everyone ! I hope you all enjoyed the first part of this fic. sorry it took me a while to put the second part out I just wanted to make sure it lived up to your guy's expectations. I wanted to take this time to announce that I have opened an ao3. im still learning how to use it so if anyone has any tips please reach out !

his hugs were warm.

thats the first thing you noticed when he embraced you, watching as your tears stained his shirt but he didn't care. he was quiet allowing your sobs to fill the room. something told him that he didn't even have the right to comfort you like this, but he did it regardless.

"I never found a time to bring it up to you.." you said between broken sobs. he didn't ask why, just letting his cheek rest on top of your head inhaling the sweet scent from your shampoo. "i'm here now. i'm not going anywhere." part of you wanted to believe him. part of you did believe him. but the other part was reminding you of what he did.

you pulled back to look at him, seeing how he too was on the verge of tears and the way his long white lashes were damp. "...you lied to me." you whispered reminding yourself. "you dont get to say that you're here for me. not after you played around with my feelings." your voice broke out of its previous soft whisper making gojo's eyes widen a bit, still holding onto you. "you said I wasn't something to play around with but it turns out this was just a bet. that I was just a bet."

"it started off as that." he interrupted. "but god, it stopped the second I talked to you." you shook your head, not wanting to believe anything that came out of his mouth anymore. "you told me-" it was impossible to say anything else with the way your voice was trembling. "you told me I wasn't something to play with.." you repeated. "baby listen to me.." he begged but you refused.

"I don't think me ignoring your texts and calls were enough so I'll say it now, I don't want you around satoru. I don't want you in my life anymore."

"can you just let me explain everything?" he sighed, moving his hands to hold your shoulders lightly enough that if you wanted to leave, you could. he would never force something on you. he couldn't bring himself to ever hurt you again.

satoru’s breath caught in his throat. “i meant every word, even when i shouldn’t have,” he said. “the bet was real. i won’t lie to you about that, but what happened after? that was real, too. i swear it.”

"do you even know what a promise is anymore?" you reached to wipe your cheeks but he beat you to it. his thumbs softly wiped them away the second they left the eyes he fell deeply in love with.

"im not the girl who will forgive you just because you suddenly realize you care." you continued.

"ive always cared." he looked down at the letters in your hands, reaching out to grab one bringing it up to his face to read it. it was the one from the hospital. "you're not.. sick are you love?" he asked, afraid that you were the one dealing with a bunch of health problems. you shook your head. "its my dad.. he has cancer and... and his bills are expensive and he's in the hospital and I dont know what to do."

the bills were expensive.

there was multiple zeros right after that two. ".. you dont have the money." you shook your head, placing it back on his chest feeling how his hand rubbed your back.

the mail room meetup was yesterday. you've been stuck in your dorm looking through american airlines, seeing which flight was the cheapest to fly back home to possibly see your father for the last time. no, you shouldn't be thinking like this.

he was going to be okay. you'll go back, pay what you can, hell you'll drop out of university just to pick up as many jobs as you can. and then you'll make your father and brothers the blueberry pancakes they love so much and join in on the hockey games they play on the tv.

satoru has been quiet. he hasn't reached out and you figured he gave up in wanting to explain himself to you. maybe he gave up because he really didn't care as he said he did.

your laptop screen blurred for a moment as your eyes welled with tears again, but you blinked them away immediately, determined not to fall apart at least not until you booked the flight.

$387. one way. non-refundable. leaves tomorrow. at 11 am.

you couldn’t afford this flight. but you couldn’t afford to stay either.

you watched the cursor hover over the 'pay now' button before it pressed down on it. 'thank you for your purchase ! a confirmation email has been sent to you along with your ticket. thank you for choosing american airlines and have a safe flight.'

"you're leaving tomorrow?" miwa's small voice spoke out behind you. she's been the only thing keeping you from having a full breakdown with her soft words and how understanding she was. you felt guilty for leaving her.

"..yeah just for a bit. until things get sorted out. I'll hopefully be back before next week."

she nodded. "I'll help you pack then."

"no its fine-"

"im packing." she repeated.

you gave her a small smile before turning to look back at your computer staring at the same message before a new one popped up.

"thank you for your payment of $25,000 at kaiser permanente hospital." your eyes widened. 'no way, did they take out money from my account? I dont even have $25k?!' you thought before reaching for your phone, opening up the Bank of America app to look at your account. nothing. just the amount you spent for the plane ticket. $387.

it showed nothing about a hospital or 25 thousand.

was it a scam? no, that was the hospital your father was staying in. and it was dressed to your name and the sender address was real. you looked through papers and letters trying to find the bill you grabbed out of your mailbox yesterday. it wasn't here.

"is everything okay?" miwa asked walking over to the desk.

"the hospital bill.. its not here. the one I got yesterday of the amount I owe for my fathers stay at the icu.." it definitely wasn't with you. thats when it hit you. satoru grabbed it from your hands and he never returned it.

your fingers were already moving, looking through your contacts before finding "my sugar daddy"

it rang.

once.

and he picked up.

"hey.." his voice was soft. your lips parted aware that you were crying again. "toru.."

"mhm?"

"what did you do?"

there was a pause. you could practically hear him turning away from wherever he was, like he needed to find a quiet place just to breathe. "paid for you. forgot to ask you to send over the rest of the bills to pay them off."

"no.. no you already paid so much.. why, why would you do that satoru.."

"cuz I love you? because I want you back in my life and I want to meet your father and personally thank him for making such a beautiful daughter like you."

"...we've known each other for how long? a month yeah? a month is all I need to know that you're it for me. is it wrong for me to say that im thankful I took on that bet?" he chuckled. "to me you weren't a bet baby. everything about you felt raw. you kept rejecting me and god, that made me want you even more."

you didn't speak, allowing him to finish letting out his emotions. "and I hated myself for liking you, for falling for you like a fucking idiot. because it meant it wasn't a bet anymore, it was love. and I hated how I took that bet. I hated your stupid hair, and the way you made me have butterflies. I hated the music you listened to, your dorky smile. I hate the way your voice softens when you talk about the shit you like. I hate that I dont know every detail about you down to you favorite childhood movie. but.. I hate how I don't hate you at all. and I hate how I dont regret doing the bet at all, because otherwise, I wouldn't have met you."

you smiled at his confession. "you can't just fix this by paying for my fathers medical bills.."

"I know." he whispered.

"..and you lied to me." you continued, but at this point you were just playing with him.

"I did. but im not lying now. I stopped lying weeks ago."

"why?"

"because I fell in love with this really awesome girl. a girl I want by my side at all times. and a girl I really want to see right now. please, come over?..."

"yeah.. yeah ill be over."

"okay.. thank you."

you let out a shaky breath, a tentative hope flickering inside you. maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t the end.

miwa grinned as she saw you putting on your shoes to head out to his dorm.

"have fun!" she called out.

you reached the airport just in time with your luggage on one hand and satoru's warm hand on the other. "y'know this is my first time flying in like three years?" he whispered over to you.

"seriously? are you scared?" you teased.

he immediately shook his head. "not at all." but the way he was gripping your hand said otherwise. "glad you let me come with you.."

"well I think my family would like to meet the boy ive talked about and the one who took care of my fathers hospital bills."

"youve talked about me?"

"yeah when you lied to me."

"they're going to hate me."

you let out a breathy laugh, the sound reached his ears and it made him smile like a dork that has fallen for you all over again. you didn't let go of his hand once, not even when you were seated on the plane.

you didn't let go now, and maybe not for a while.

bonus

"so, you're the guy that broke my sisters heart." yuji stared down gojo at the dinner table. the white haired boy looked up with a mouthful of your blueberry pancakes. "I fixed it." he gulped down the food. "this is delicious love." he groaned reaching to grab the last pancake from the plate set in the middle of the table before it got snatched by yuji who stuffed it in his mouth while maintaining eye contact with gojo.

"you're right they hate me.." he whispered to you.

you shot yuji a look in which he only stuck his tongue out at you. "they'll grow to love you."

matt climbed over your lap to hand gojo half of his eaten pancake. "I think they already do" you whispered to him. he smiled, accepting the pancake from the little boys hand before placing a sweet kiss on your lips.

ending a / n . i completely raw dogged this in one sitting after seeing that 'part 2 of 10 things I hate about you' was winning. anyways i hope you all are satisfied with the ending ! I will continue to write little drabbles for 10tihay! gojo and reader, so if you have any ideas for that lmk ! ty for reading !

🏷️ @bakugouswaif @charlotterosea13 @levermilion @blackhawkfanatic @admmsatoru @einawnimie @k0z3me @cosmic-101

[just-my-latest-hyperfixation]

Boy toy

Written for @switcheddieweek, day 6, and for round two of the @steddiebingo

Prompts: Exposure | Switch, Sugar Daddy, Sub!Eddie

Relationship: Steve x Eddie

Rated: E

Words: 1,290 [also on AO3]

Tags: Switching; Sub!Eddie; Dom!Steve; Rock star Eddie; Movie star Steve; Modern AU; Blindfolds; Lace; Lingerie; Toys; Collars; Humiliation; Dirty talk; Finger sucking; Dry humping; Blow jobs

“Eddie Munson’s newest boy toy.”

Steve reads out the headline in the same bored drawl that he recited the last two articles in, but a faint tremble of amusement is creeping in. Even without being able to see, Eddie can picture him perfectly: phone balanced in one hand, the other fiddling softly with the remote on the armrest, the barest of smiles grazing his lips.

“Subheading, wait for it: … Who's the face behind that ass? God, who comes up with these? Do you think this is serious or some silly joke?”

Silence settles over the room, only disturbed by the low hum of the toy buzzing against Eddie’s prostate. Steve lets it linger, just long enough for the warm coil of arousal in Eddie’s belly to settle back in. Just long enough for the dull, painful tingle in his knees to start bothering him again, now that there's nothing to distract himself. Just long enough for him to start wondering if he should answer the question.

Then again, Steve was pretty clear in his instructions.

Kneel.

Head down.

Don't make a sound.

It's a bit strange. For all that Steve loves to test Eddie’s patience when their positions are reversed - always wiggling and whining and pleading at him with those big, wet eyes of his - he has no tolerance for disobedience when he's the one calling the shots, not even on a good day.

And today is not a good day. Today, Steve is pissed.

“It's common knowledge by now,” Steve reads, casually turning up the vibrations of the toy, “that Eddie Munson has a type. Corroded Coffin’s frontman likes his men young, athletic and shapely. And what can we say? His newest catch, spotted recently at luxury BDSM club The Hideout, clearly ticks all of those boxes.”

There’s another beat of silence. Eddie hears how Steve fiddles with the remote again, and this time, the pattern of the vibrations changes. Not a constant buzz anymore, but a slow ebb and swell, each crest sending delicious shockwaves of pleasure into his leaking cock. His fingers twitch, longing to touch himself, but he keeps his arms crossed behind his back just like Steve told him.

“There’s pictures, too,” Steve says. “I don’t need to describe them, I think?”

He doesn’t. Eddie has seen them approximately a hundred times since the first article came out this morning - and even if he hadn’t, he doesn’t think he’ll ever forget the way Steve looked that night. How the lace hugged his legs and thighs. Dark, shimmery black contrasting beautifully with his tan skin, matching the color of his shorts and collar. The broad lace blindfold - the same one Eddie is wearing right now - making his lips look all the more shiny and pink. Eddie still remembers how he begged and pleaded against it. Steve doesn’t like having his vision impaired, least of all when they’re out in public. He says it makes him feel exposed and helpless, but Eddie was feeling a little mean that day, so he stayed firm.

In retrospect, it was probably a good thing. Paired with the low light of the venue and the distance from which the pictures were snapped, the blindfold makes it near impossible to make out features - apart from Steve’s strong jaw and the spectacular swoop of his hair, maybe. Steve should be happy about it, truth be told.

Except he isn’t.

“Fans are, of course, dying to know who Eddie’s newest sugarbaby is,” Steve continues. “Knowing him, it’s probably only a matter of time until we find out. … Well, I’m sure they’d fucking love that, huh?”

A long, slender finger hooks itself through the o-ring of Eddie’s collar and pulls. Not very harshly, but since Eddie doesn’t see it coming, he still yelps in surprise and struggles to maintain his balance, not daring to bring his hands forward to support himself. The sudden shift in position nudges the toy a bit more firmly against his prostate. The next vibration comes reliably and relentlessly, and he moans, precome dribbling onto the fabric of his lace stockings.

“You told me,” Steve says, voice suddenly very close to his ear, “that place was discreet. You told me I didn’t have to worry about it, and look where it got us. What if anyone recognizes me, have you thought about that for a- … Are you smiling?”

Eddie shakes his head as well as Steve’s hold on the collar will allow, biting the inside of his mouth to get the treacherous little tug of his lips under control.

Did he plan for this? Fuck, no! The Hideout is discreet, usually. They’re probably moving heaven and hell as they’re speaking, trying to figure out who snapped the pictures and sold them to the press. Whatever poor bastard did it will rue the day he ever set foot into the club.

But no place is ever truly safe, and they both know it. Steve better than him, probably. Being the only child of Hollywood’s most beloved celebrity couple, he was practically raised on the big screen. Steve had his first movie contracts under his belt before he could even walk, way before Eddie ever dreamed of picking up a guitar. Hell, if anyone is anybody’s sugarbaby here, it sure as hell isn’t Steve.

“Well,” Steve sighs. His hand has released its hold on the collar and is travelling up, tracing the shape of Eddie’s bobbing throat, the curve of his jaw. “At least one of us seems to be enjoying himself. Now, how do you plan on making it up to me, huh?”

Eddie turns his head, searching and finding Steve’s thumb and sucking it into his mouth. Steve makes a low, pleased sound from somewhere deep in his throat and Eddie’s neglected cock twitches.

“That’s your solution to everything, huh?” Steve murmurs. A foot pushes itself between Eddie’s thighs, and he moans, swirling his tongue around the finger in his mouth. “Sucking my cock? Well, I don’t think you’ve earned that today, have you?”

Eddie hollows his cheeks, bobbing up and down on Steve’s thumb while he grinds himself against Steve’s leg. If he looks pathetic and desperate enough, maybe Steve will change his mind.

Steve, as if he read his thoughts, laughs softly.

“God, the sight you make. Wish the fucking tabloids could see you like this. Maybe that’s what we should do, huh? Maybe I should get the leash and take you out. Maybe I should let them see what a dumb little slut you are.”

He won’t. Eddie knows he won’t. Unlike him, Steve still cares about both of their reputation. It's cute, in a way.

But God, the thought of it? The thought of Steve parading him around like this, naked and exposed for everyone to see? Feeling a dozen and more eyes on him, even with the blindfold on, burning into his skin while he kneels at Steve's feet, the perfect picture of discipline and obedience?

“You're actually getting off on that, huh?” Steve’s voice is a low, awed rumble. Eddie whines when the finger slides from his mouth, but Steve makes a soft shushing noise, cupping a hand to the back of his neck to pull him closer. The scent of his arousal is strong and heady, and the tip of his cock is slick as it nudges Eddie’s bottom lip. He opens up and eagerly presents his tongue. Waits.

Steve sighs, and the grip of his hand on Eddie’s neck goes a little gentler. “Alright already. You know I can't say no to you when you're like that. If you make it worth my while, I might consider letting you come.”

Eddie has every intention of making it worth his while.

He always does.

More Steddie Bingo

Ko-fi

[nyoomfruits]

10 IS SO OBLIVIOUS ALPHA OSCAR CODED

i could not resist the lestapiastri of it all hehe

10. “Did you know it is very intimate to offer an Omega your pillow for nesting?” “…No I did not.”

Oscar hadn’t really been expecting any guests, which is why he’s in nothing but a ratty pair of shorts and a t-shirt with at least three holes in it. Which is a bit of a bummer, when the doorbell rings and he finds Max on the other side.

“Oscar,” Max says, as Oscar desperately tries to hide at least the armpit hole by keeping his arm tightly by his side.

“Hey, um, hey. What’s up,” He says, trying to casually lean against the door and nearly falling over. It’s so stupid, too. He might like Max, but it’s not like anything will ever happen. One because Max is also an Alpha, and two, because he already very much has a mate.

One who Oscar also has a crush on, but like. That aside.

“I came return the pillow,” Max says, holding a pillow out to Oscar with a raised eyebrow.

The pillow. A few weeks ago Charles had gone into an unexpected heat, Oscar the only one around to help him. When he’d gotten him to safety, it felt wrong not to offer him something, anything, not when Charles was clearly so upset.

So he’d offered his travel pillow. Just as a comfort. For his nest. He’d read somewhere once, that familiar scents can help Omegas in heat. And even though Oscar and Charles weren’t like, best friends or whatever, it still felt wrong not to offer anything. Especially because nesting supplies in hotels were usually pretty shit.

And Charles had taken it gratefully, after only a second pause, burying his nose in it with a happy purr that’s been haunting Oscar ever since.

After that, after knowing for sure Charles was safe and happy, Oscar had bolted. Before he’d done anything else.

He takes the pillow now, and has to suppress a full body shudder when he realizes it hasn’t been washed. It smells like Charles and Max and still an undertone of Oscar and he only just manages to suppress the whine that’s threatening to slip out of his throat.

“And to thank you,” Max continues, completely oblivious. “For helping him. We both really appreciate it.”

“Yeah,” Oscar says, voice hoarse, staring at the pillow. “Any time.”

“Good to know,” Max says, and then, after a pause. “Did you know it is very intimate to offer an Omega your pillow for nesting?” 

Oscar’s throat goes dry. “… No,” he says. “No, I did not.”

“Yeah,” Max says, “We are vulnerable in our sleep, so giving an Omega a pillow, especially your own pillow, is like, letting yourself be vulnerable with them.”

“I’m so sorry,” Oscar rushes out. “I didn’t know.”

“Don’t worry,” Max says, and he doesn’t look mad or upset, just slightly amused, fond. “Like I said, Charles really appreciated it. And so did I.” Max is looking at him intently now, and Oscar swallows audibly.

“Okay,” Oscar says. “Okay, yeah, that’s good.”

Max hums. “Did you also know that pillows are considered courting gifts? People used to give their pillow to Omegas, and then when the Omega accepted their courting, he would sleep on the pillow and then give it back.” Max looks pointedly at the pillow that’s now in Oscar’s hands. The one that very obviously smells like both Max and Charles.

“Oh,” Oscar says.

“You can think about it, of course,” Max goes on. “I know we are kind of dropping this on you, so if you-“

“Yes,” Oscar interrupts. “Yes, please. What am I. What is the next courting gift?” He feels a bit stupid, for not knowing these things, but he’s never wanted to court anyone before. All he ever wanted was to race. But now…

“Whatever you want,” Max says, smiling. “Charles likes flowers.”

“Ah,” Oscar says, filing that away. “And you?”

Max smile turns impossibly bigger. “Chocolate,” he says.

“Cool,” Oscar says. It’s a Sunday, but there has to be some place where he can get flowers and chocolate right? Besides, he’s a millionaire and he’s not above throwing money at this. “Cool, I will. Yeah. Thank you.”

“Oh, and throw in a hoodie or two. Worn. Charles was very upset he had to give the pillow back,” Max ads, with a  wink, before he disappears.

Oscar stand there, completely frozen, before he realizes he totally forgot to hide the armpit hole in his t-shirt halfway through the conversation. But he’s starting to think maybe Max didn’t mind.

[charmac]

hiiii! just curious because i love your thoughts, do you have any thing or things you’d like to see for each member of the gang this season?

Ooo yes thank you for the question!!

I think in some sense my “wants” are kinda warped by what we already know we’re getting, but also what we already know we’re getting are things I definitely was already hoping for, if that makes sense…

For Frank, I really loved how Inflates highlighted that businessman position of power/knowledge he has over the rest of the Gang, so I am really hoping we see a continuation of that this season (and Thought Leadership seems to be ticking that box) where he’s still clearly in a financial position of power over the Gang (and uses it against Dennis and Dee very clearly), and we see more into his fictitious businesses, shell companies, and real companies that are making money under Paddy’s front (Franks Fluids LLC return to me pleaseeee). I also want to see more CharFrank codependency / screwy relationship, which hand to hand into what I want for Charlie this season..

For Charlie, I want to see more of his confusion/exploration of who he is to Frank and maybe an attempt at growing beyond that toward independence… that’s actually impossible to get past and a good Charlie break down/freak out (looking at that trailer, it’s coming)… and along the lines of family, given Lynne’s passing right after they filmed (which obviously no one could have planned for) I really hope we get a good moment with Bonnie and Charlie. And I also hope Uncle Jack is murdered. Ok we can save that for 18 fine. We get them every season so it’s kinda a given but something I always want is just close-to-cartoon goofy, insane moments between Charlie and every member of the Gang.. also like, maybe hopefully, little inklings of his progress at Abbott Elementary coming through all season (him trying and actually succeeding to read small things)

For Dee, again something that’s been hinted at is giving her a good emotional episode, and I think that’s probably going to be Frank is in a Coma, which honestly I think is gonna be more "over exaggerated" gauntlet of emotions (which I’m sure will be a great testament to Kaitlin’s acting) as opposed to a MFHP/Corpse moment for Dee, so I am hoping we get something a little more in that direction in addition to a jokey-kinda thing. And more of Dee being above Dennis/seemingly "more adjusted" than he is when it comes to their shared reactions to, well, whatever is happening with Tammy's return but also their general plots together. I wanna see Dee stomping down on Dennis this season, please

For Dennis, then, well.. the opposite, in a way. I loved his characterisation in Season 16 and DTAMHD, of course, where he's clearly constantly attempting to regulate his bubbling anger. So more of him trying to attempt to do that and it's just.. not working given the situations he keeps having to face. I want to see manic pathetic Dennis again.. which I think we will be getting at least a taste of. And I want him to face erectile dysfunction sooo bad.. soo so so bad. Please. Weird sex stuff with Dennis is a given and I think we are on track for it to be very pathetic (in the good way). Also Dennis having a good time with Charlie and Mac in between it all.. just classic dumb fun for them is a dream

For Mac uhhh can I get a fucking hookup. STOP EVADING THAT ROB. Let a guy manhandle you on screen PLEASE. But really, be gay, commit crimes, pretend to be a badass while actually just looking and genuinely being dumb, all with those big doe eyes in play is all I need from Mac. Honestly I have anti-hopes for Mac. I hope he does not take too much charge this season/isn't a leader in the schemes.. Lap dog that acts as an attack/guard dog on command, please.

[maincharactermuse]

Exhibit A: Us.

Synopsis: Alexandra Rowe is sharp, ambitious, and known for keeping it together - in and out of court. Harry Styles is the calm to her storm, a fellow partner at the firm who has a habit of showing up exactly when she needs him. Over the years, they’ve built a rhythm - a quiet understanding, a few late nights, and maybe one too many moments that blurred the line between colleagues and something else.

When a high-profile trial takes an unexpected turn, Alex finds herself at the center of a mistake that could cost them everything. But Harry isn’t going to let that happen - not to her, not to them.

As the case unfolds and the pressure builds, so does the question they’ve both managed to avoid: what exactly is this thing between them?

———————————————————————————

The courtroom was silent, save for the rustle of fabric and the click of her heels against the polished floor.

Alexandra Rowe walked with practiced ease - not rushed, not slow. Just deliberate. Controlled. The kind of walk that turned heads not because it was showy, but because it was intentional. Like she already knew the outcome.

Her navy midi skirt hugged the curve of her hips, not revealing but impossible to ignore. Crisp white blouse, sleeves rolled to just below the elbow. No unnecessary jewelry, just a slim watch and the glint of thin gold hoops catching the fluorescent light. Her hair was pulled back into a low bun, not a strand out of place.

She stopped at the plaintiff’s table, laid a single hand on a neat stack of documents, and let her eyes travel slowly to the witness stand.

He was mid-forties. Expensive suit, but not tailored well. A man who made just enough money to think he was untouchable, but not enough to realize the room had changed.

“Mr. Daniels,” she said, voice calm and cool, “just to confirm - on March 17th, at 2:12 p.m., you received an internal memo regarding the termination clause in the contract. Is that correct?”

The man shifted. “I don’t recall the exact time.”

A faint smile curved her lips. Not cruel. Not warm, either.

“You don’t recall,” she repeated, as if tasting the phrase. “That’s interesting. Because in your deposition, you said, and I quote - ‘I remember it clearly because it came in while I was boarding a flight.’”

A pause.

She stepped forward, no notes in her hand, no hesitation in her voice. “Now, I don’t mean to point out inconsistencies, Mr. Daniels, but you also stated under oath that you were on a call with Mr. Felton from 1:45 to 2:30 p.m. that day. Would you like to explain how you were boarding a flight and on a call at the same time?”

The witness’s jaw tensed. “Maybe I got the date wrong.”

“Maybe,” she echoed, nodding slowly. “But let’s check.”

She turned, picked up a printed flight log from the bench behind her, and handed it to the clerk. “Your Honor, I’d like to submit the airline’s passenger log confirming Mr. Daniels boarded a 4:55 p.m. flight that afternoon not one at two o’clock.”

There was a murmur from the gallery. The judge barely suppressed a smirk.

The opposing counsel rose halfway from his seat. “Objection-”

“Overruled,” the judge said before he could finish. “Miss Rowe, please continue.”

She gave the faintest nod of thanks and turned back to the witness. Her tone never changed. Still soft. Still measured. But sharp as a scalpel.

“You see, Mr. Daniels, I think the issue isn’t that your memory is faulty. I think you’re trying very hard not to admit that you saw that termination clause. And that you deliberately ignored it.”

Daniels shifted in his seat. Sweat beaded at his hairline.

“Because if you did acknowledge it, you’d have to admit that my client acted fully within their rights when they withdrew from the agreement. And then this entire case”, she gestured lightly to the file on her desk, “would be little more than a performative attempt to save face.”

Silence again. This time, loaded. Daniels didn’t speak. Couldn’t, maybe.

Alex allowed it to stretch just long enough. Then, she stepped back. “No further questions.”

She returned to her seat without looking at anyone, her expression unreadable.

But she felt it - the eyes. The courtroom buzzed with it. Some from awe, some from irritation, some from straight-up jealousy. She didn’t need to hear the whispers. She’d been dealing with them since law school.

What she did hear, what she always heard, was the quiet scrape of a chair behind her.

Harry.

He’d been second chair on this one, mostly silent until closing. She hadn’t looked at him since walking in, but now she felt his lean as he brushed past her to whisper something low near her ear.

“Well,” he murmured, the corner of his mouth curling, “that was borderline erotic.”

She didn’t flinch, but her pulse jumped.

“Careful, Styles,” she replied without turning her head. “You’re going to get yourself disbarred for inappropriate commentary.”

“I’m already a lost cause,” he whispered back, and then moved on like nothing had happened.

She let herself exhale - just once, barely audible - and turned back toward the judge.

Professional. Composed. Unshakable.

But her lips curled, ever so slightly, into something that wasn’t quite a smile. Not for the room. Just for her. Just for him.

———————————————————————————

The sidewalk was still warm beneath her heels, the city buzzing in its usual chaos - horns, footsteps, voices blending into a low hum. Alexandra walked a step ahead, her coat draped over one arm, court file tucked against her side. The breeze teased strands of hair loose from her bun, but she didn’t bother fixing them.

Beside her, Harry fell into step like he always did. Relaxed. Unhurried. His tie hung loose, and the top button of his shirt had given up hours ago.

“You ever get tired of being that good in court?” he asked, glancing sideways with a smirk that knew it was charming.

“I don’t do it for fun,” she said, tone clipped. “I do it because we don’t lose.”

Harry laughed softly, shoving one hand in his pocket. “Right. But it’s also a little bit fun.”

Alex’s mouth twitched. She looked ahead again, eyes on the revolving glass doors of the building up ahead. “You think Daniels will settle now?”

“After that performance?” he asked. “He’s probably drafting an apology letter with tear stains on the envelope.”

She didn’t let herself smile, not fully, but the satisfaction was there, threaded through her posture.

“He walked straight into it,” she said. “Didn’t even hesitate.”

“He underestimated you.”

“They always do.”

Harry glanced over again. “That’s their first mistake.”

Alex didn’t answer. Just walked, eyes forward. But her heart beat a little faster. It always did when he said things like that - not because of the words, but because of how he said them. Like he meant it. Like he knew her better than anyone else in that building ever would.

They reached the front of the firm’s skyscraper - glass, steel, and forty-eight floors of pressure. The kind of place people sold their souls to get into.

He held the door open for her. She stepped through.

Security waved them by without question. Everyone knew their faces.

They moved toward the private lift - the one that bypassed the floors below and went straight to the top offices. As they stepped in, the doors slid closed behind them with a whisper.

Silence.

The kind that was always louder with him.

Alex exhaled, shifting her weight slightly. She was aware of the space between them - not much. Not enough.

Harry stood beside her, hands in his pockets again, head tilted slightly as he watched her from the corner of his eye.

“You ever going to let someone else take the lead on one of these?” he asked, voice low.

“If I see someone worth trusting, maybe.”

He made a soft noise, amused. “That a dig at me?”

“No,” she said. “If it were a dig, you’d know.”

Harry stepped closer, just an inch. It was enough.

“You’re glowing,” he murmured.

Alex rolled her eyes. “Don’t.”

“I’m serious. I watched you gut him, Lex. It was beautiful.”

She didn’t answer. Not because she didn’t have something to say - but because her mouth had gone dry.

He reached up, tucked one of the loose strands of hair behind her ear. His fingers brushed her cheek, light and familiar.

The lift kept moving.

“You’re going to distract me,” she said.

“I think we passed ‘distracted’ five months ago.”

His hand found her waist - not possessive, just steady and her body leaned into it before her mind gave permission.

His mouth brushed hers - soft, just once - and then again, deeper this time. Her hand slid up his chest, careful not to wrinkle his shirt too much. Not here. Not yet.

The kiss was slow. Controlled. No fumbling. Just pressure and tension and that aching undercurrent of want that never really went away.

She pulled back first. Her breathing was shallow.

He didn’t move far - just enough to whisper, “Still don’t like being called pretty girl?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Still don’t like being interrupted mid-trial?”

He grinned. “I wasn’t the one who lost control first.”

The lift chimed. They separated.

The doors opened to the top floor - glass walls, silent corridors, power humming through the marble floors. Most of the office had cleared out. The late hours belonged to people like them.

Alex adjusted her coat and stepped out, file still in hand. Harry walked beside her for a few more feet.

“Debrief tomorrow?” he asked, voice professional again.

“Early,” she said.

He gave a mock salute. “I’ll bring the coffee.”

“Bring the right one this time,” she said without looking at him. “Last time you brought oat milk.”

“That was a test. You failed.” He smirked again and turned down the hall toward his office. She kept walking.

Her own door closed behind her with a soft click.

Silence again. But her lips still tingled, and her heart still beat a little too fast.

———————————————————————————

The office was quiet in that special way it only got after 11 p.m. - all the noise gone, all the important people home. Just the low hum of lights and the buzz of a dying city below.

Alex had kicked off her heels somewhere between the conference room and the partner kitchen. Her legs were tucked under her, a slice of cold pizza balanced on one hand, contract notes in the other. Her blouse sleeves were rolled up, the top button undone. She looked like exhaustion personified - but elegant even in that.

Harry sat across the table, his tie tossed onto a chair, one hand buried in his curls. He was grinning - that annoying, relaxed grin she swore he used as a defense mechanism.

“You know,” he said, “most people would’ve called it a night three hours ago.”

“I’m not most people,” she replied without looking up.

“Yeah,” he said, and she could hear the smile in his voice. “I’ve noticed.”

She glanced up, just briefly. “What are you still doing here?”

“I told you. I’m here for moral support.”

“You’re here for free pizza.”

“That too.”

A pause. His eyes lingered on her face a little longer than necessary.

“You always this intense?” he asked.

She raised an eyebrow. “You always this annoying?”

He leaned back in his chair, hands folded behind his head, watching her. “You’ve got that whole ice queen reputation, you know.”

She didn’t flinch. “I’m aware.”

“But I don’t buy it,” he added.

Her eyes flicked back down to the contract. “Then you’re not as smart as I thought.”

He laughed, low and quiet. “I think you like having people underestimate you.”

“I don’t care what people think.”

“I think you care a lot. You just won’t let anyone see it.”

That made her pause. Not for long - just a second, a skip in her rhythm.

When she looked up again, he was already standing, walking to the floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked the skyline. His voice was quieter now.

“You ever just stop?”

She blinked. “Stop what?”

“Trying to be bulletproof all the time.”

Alex didn’t answer.

He turned, leaning against the glass. “I’m just saying. You’re allowed to… be.”

“Be what?”

“Tired. Messy. Human.”

Another pause. She held his gaze, long enough for the silence to feel like something else entirely.

When she finally stood, it was slow. Careful. She walked over, bare feet silent on the floor.

He looked at her differently now. Like something had shifted.

The overhead lights were still on, but the room felt dimmer - like the city had taken over, washing them in shadows and gold from outside.

“I don’t know what you’re doing,” she said softly.

“I’m not doing anything,” he replied. “You’re just finally seeing it.”

“Seeing what?”

He didn’t answer. Just looked at her. Like he was memorizing her face.

Then, gently - like it wasn’t even a question — his hand slid to her hip, and she didn’t stop him. She should’ve. Every part of her knew she should’ve.

But she didn’t.

And when his mouth found hers, slow and certain, it felt inevitable.

There wasn’t urgency. Not yet. Just the warmth of his hands and the quiet realization that this - whatever it was - wasn’t going to be a one-time thing.

Later, when she was sitting on his lap on the edge of the conference room table, blouse unbuttoned and hair undone, she’d murmur something against his skin that made him pause.

“I don’t do this,” she said.

“I know.”

“This isn’t…” she trailed off.

He looked at her, eyes serious for the first time all night. “It doesn’t have to be anything.”

But it already was.

And just before she pulled him back to her, he said her name - not Alex. Not Allie.

Lex.

Soft. Private. Like it was his.

And that was the moment, she’d realize later, that she’d already lost the game.

———————————————————

The courtroom wasn’t built for spectacle, but when Harry Styles stood at the bench, it kind of turned into one anyway.

He wasn’t showy. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t wear expensive cufflinks or pace dramatically in front of the jury box.

What he did have was presence - quiet, assured, and unshakably in control.

The kind that made opposing counsel sweat before the first question was even asked.

“Mr. Styles,” the judge said, adjusting her glasses. “You may proceed.”

He rose with a calm ease, buttoning his charcoal suit jacket with one hand as he approached the witness stand.

The courtroom air changed - not tense, but charged.

He stopped a few feet from the witness. An older man, graying at the temples, seated uncomfortably in a too-tight suit. Behind him, the defendant’s team shifted anxiously.

Harry offered a polite smile. “Good morning, Mr. Regan.”

The witness nodded. “Morning.”

“Let’s talk about your deposition,” Harry began. “You stated, under oath, that you’d had no direct communication with Arcadia Tech prior to the merger. Is that still your position?”

“Yes.”

Harry gave a thoughtful nod, then reached into his folder. “Then perhaps you can explain this.”

He handed a printed email chain to the clerk, who passed it to the witness.

“Please take your time,” Harry said gently. “Page three, specifically. Dated six weeks before the merger.”

Regan’s face tightened.

Harry waited, hands clasped lightly behind his back. His tone remained pleasant.

“Would you like me to read it aloud?”

“No,” Regan said. “I… I remember now.”

“Interesting,” Harry said, almost kindly. “Because the email is quite detailed. In fact, it outlines the exact terms Arcadia later claimed were their idea.”

Opposing counsel rose abruptly. “Objection. Counsel is speculating motive-”

Harry turned, smile faint. “Respectfully, Your Honor, I’m quoting the witness’s own words. If Mr. Jamison would like to argue with his client’s memory, he’s welcome to do so.”

The judge didn’t even look up. “Overruled. Continue.”

Harry gave a polite nod and turned back to Regan. “So which is it? You lied during your deposition… or you’re lying now?”

Regan fidgeted in his chair. “I… must’ve forgotten the email.”

Harry tilted his head, expression mild. “You forgot an email thread containing five separate messages, four attachments, and a subject line titled ‘Proposal Outline – Urgent’?”

A long beat.

Behind the defense table, Jamison stood again. “Objection, argumentative.”

Harry didn’t even flinch. “If it’s argumentative to question the credibility of a witness who’s admitted to contradicting his sworn testimony, then I imagine Mr. Jamison has evidence to support why he is credible.”

Jamison blinked. “Excuse me?”

Harry’s tone didn’t waver. “You’re objecting to me challenging your client’s honesty. Which would imply you have something concrete to back up his version of events. Otherwise…” He spread his hands slightly. “You’re objecting for the sake of saving face.”

The judge arched an eyebrow. “Mr. Jamison?”

Jamison slowly sank back down. “Withdrawn.”

Harry offered a gracious nod. “Appreciated.”

He turned back to the witness. “One last question, Mr. Regan. If the terms of the merger were discussed in this email… and Arcadia used those exact terms in their final negotiation… who do you suppose gave them the advantage?”

Regan hesitated.

Harry waited. One heartbeat. Two.

“You can answer,” he said softly. “Or I can bring the jury’s attention to the attachment labeled confidential.”

The witness cracked.

“I did,” he muttered. “It was me.”

Harry didn’t smile. Didn’t gloat. He simply gave a quiet nod and returned to his seat.

“No further questions.”

The courtroom was silent again - the kind that follows a clean kill.

Even the judge looked faintly impressed.

The jury shuffled, notes being scribbled. Behind Harry, a junior associate leaned forward, whispering something about how they’d never seen anything like that.

Harry didn’t respond.

He just loosened his tie slightly and glanced up at the gallery.

His eyes paused - just for a second - on the figure seated at the back.

Alex.

Arms crossed, expression unreadable. But her gaze was locked on him.

He looked away before it could mean anything.

———————————————————————————

Harry exited the courtroom with the same loose-limbed ease he always carried, though the air around him still pulsed with the heat of the win.

He tugged off his tie as he stepped into the hallway, the adrenaline finally starting to fade - but he paused when he saw Alex leaning against the marble column across from the elevators.

Her arms were folded. Hair in that low bun again, loose pieces soft around her cheekbones. She looked like she’d been standing there for a while.

“Were you watching?” he asked, slipping the tie into his pocket.

She pushed off the wall. “If I say yes, will you get smug about it?”

“I’m already smug about it.”

Alex gave the barest smile. “You embarrassed Jamison in front of a full jury.”

“He embarrassed himself,” Harry said, pressing the elevator button. “I just let it happen in public.”

The elevator dinged, but she didn’t move.

“I walked,” she said. “Figured you’d want to do the same.”

Harry didn’t hesitate. He let the doors close again.

They fell into step as they left the courthouse, the buzz of midday traffic wrapping around them. Horns, footsteps, the rustle of newspapers from sidewalk vendors.

“You looked calm in there,” she said.

“Calm is part of the brand,” he replied.

“You almost smiled when he objected.”

“I did smile. Internally.”

Alex glanced sideways at him. “I hate that you’re good at this.”

He grinned. “You love that I’m good at this.”

She didn’t answer - which was, in itself, an answer.

They turned the corner. The firm’s skyscraper loomed in the distance, glass catching the early afternoon light.

“So,” Harry said, slipping his hands into his pockets. “You weren’t just here to admire me in action. What’s the news?”

“Westmont called this morning,” she said, tone shifting.

Harry looked at her, brow lifting. “Charles Westmont?”

“Yes.”

“He barely speaks in full sentences.”

“Well, he used a full sentence this morning,” she said, “and it was that you and I are now point on background for the Perrin acquisition.”

Harry slowed slightly. “Seriously?”

“I told him we’re overloaded. He didn’t care.”

“That’s a billion-dollar client.”

“Which is why we’re not saying no.”

Harry exhaled. “Okay. Full background? Contracts, history, risk exposure?”

“Everything. And we’ve got forty-eight hours.”

He didn’t curse - but the tension in his jaw said he wanted to.

“Great,” he muttered. “No pressure.”

Alex glanced at him, her tone softening just slightly. “He trusts us. That’s why he gave it to us.”

Harry looked over, her hazel eyes catching the light. “Or he wants someone to blame if it goes sideways.”

Her mouth quirked. “That too.”

They crossed into the building lobby. Polished marble. Security guards who didn’t bother to stop them. Everything silent and slick.

As they entered the private elevator again, Harry leaned back against the mirrored wall.

“Let me guess,” he said. “You already started combing the contracts?”

“Last night,” she confirmed.

“Lex.”

“I wasn’t going to sleep anyway.”

He gave her a look - fond, exasperated. “You know this isn’t a one-person job.”

“I don’t need-”

“You don’t need help. Yeah, I’ve heard that one before.” He met her eyes. “But you have it anyway.”

The elevator doors opened. They stepped into the top floor.

She didn’t go to her office.

Instead, she veered left - toward the old library room. A quiet, often-forgotten space that smelled like aged wood, leather, and quiet panic.

Harry followed.

“God, I haven’t been in here in months,” he muttered, watching her flip the lights on.

The room lit in soft gold. Shelves lined the walls. Heavy wooden tables filled the center. No glass. No city view. Just books, files, and silence.

Alex moved like she belonged there. She dropped a thick folder onto the center table, flipping it open.

“I’ve gone through all the standard acquisition forms,” she said. “But Perrin used a boutique firm in the early years, and their contracts are… vague. I think the original patent license is still buried in here.”

Harry unbuttoned his jacket and tossed it onto a chair. Rolled his sleeves up to the elbows. “Guess we’re digging.”

They stood across from each other at the long table, papers and folders between them. For a while, the only sounds were rustling pages and the occasional clack of a keyboard as Alex searched the firm’s internal archives.

He looked up after a few minutes. “Hey.”

She didn’t look up.

“What?”

“You ever think about taking a vacation?”

“I took one. Last summer.”

“Two days in Montauk doesn’t count.”

She smirked. “We work in corporate law, Harry. The only vacations we take are stress naps between court filings.”

He laughed. “God, that’s bleak.”

“It’s honest.”

He leaned on the table, watching her. “You know, I like working with you.”

Her eyes flicked up. “That sounds dangerously close to a compliment.”

“It is a compliment,” he said. “Just don’t let Westmont know. He’ll start giving us more billion-dollar headaches.”

Alex looked back at her screen, but she was smiling. Just slightly.

The library felt like the only place in the world still awake.

It was nearly 1 a.m. The floor was silent. The city outside had dimmed to a soft hum, and the overhead lights were warm and low, casting long shadows across the open files.

Alex sat cross-legged in her chair, reading through a licensing agreement that hadn’t been formatted properly since 2009. A half-finished tray of sushi sat near the edge of the table, soy sauce spilled slightly in the corner of the lid. Her chopsticks had been abandoned hours ago.

Harry sat beside her, hunched over his laptop, the glow of the screen casting soft light on his face. His sleeves were rolled past his elbows, curls pushed back from his forehead, eyes focused.

“Did they seriously redline the same clause three times?” she muttered, flipping a page.

Harry smirked. “Either they’re idiots, or they wanted someone to miss it.”

“I’m voting idiots.”

She rubbed her temples, sighing quietly.

Harry looked over. “You need to rest.”

“I’m fine.”

“Lex.”

She glanced up. His expression was calm, but there was something behind his eyes - something that wasn’t just teasing or concern. He looked like he was watching her fray.

“You’ve read that sentence three times,” he said, gently.

She blinked. Had she?

“I’m trying to stay ahead of it,” she muttered.

“You already are. You’ve done more than most teams would’ve in a week.”

“I have to-”

“You don’t have to do anything tonight except sleep.”

She didn’t answer. Just looked at him.

He waited. Then, quieter, “Come back to mine.”

Her brow lifted, just slightly. “That sounds loaded.”

“It’s not. You need a real bed and eight hours of sleep. I’ve got both. Plus toothpaste.”

“You offering a sleepover, Styles?”

“I’m offering you a break.”

Another beat.

He stood, stretching. “I’m going either way.”

She hesitated. The thought of crawling into her cold apartment - lights off, silence echoing - made something twist in her chest.

“Okay,” she said softly.

The ride to his flat was quiet. Neither of them spoke much. The silence between them wasn’t awkward - it never was. Just full of things unspoken.

His apartment was in Tribeca. Clean lines, wood and glass, exposed beams and dark tones. Masculine, but warm. Minimalist, but lived-in. A record player in the corner. Two half-burned candles near the window.

Alex stepped inside and kicked off her shoes, shrugging off her coat. He offered her a hoodie without saying anything - just handed it to her with one raised brow.

It smelled like him. She didn’t let herself think about it.

They brushed teeth side by side in the bathroom. She tied her hair back again. He watched her do it in the mirror, but didn’t comment.

When she came out, he was sitting on the edge of his bed, scrolling absently through emails. Shirt off now, just sweatpants and tired eyes.

He looked up.

She crossed the room slowly, slipping under the sheets beside him. Warm. Soft. Safe in a way that made her chest ache.

They lay there for a while. No touching. Just the sound of breath and the soft hum of the city beyond the window.

Then-

“You ever wonder what this would be like if it was simple?” she whispered.

He turned his head to look at her. “This?”

“You and me.”

He didn’t answer for a long time.

Then, quietly: “Yeah.”

That was all it took. She leaned in first - a breath between them - and he met her halfway.

The kiss was slow. Familiar. No rush, no heat at first. Just mouths learning each other again, like a language they never quite forgot.

His hand slid to her waist. Hers to his chest. Then they were pulling closer, no space left between them, and the kiss deepened into something heavier, needier, inevitable.

He murmured her name against her throat, and she made a soft sound that cracked something between them.

Clothes were discarded in the half-dark, fingers dragging over skin like they were afraid of missing each other. They moved together like they’d done it before - because they had - but this time, it felt heavier. Like something unspoken had slipped into the room with them.

Later, breathless and tangled in sheets that still smelled like him, she rested her head on his shoulder. One hand pressed flat against his chest.

He didn’t ask what it meant. She didn’t tell him. They just lay there. And for once, neither of them reached for the clock.

———————————————————————————

Sunlight streamed through Harry’s apartment windows, golden and slow, painting long lines across the floorboards.

Alex stretched, the sheets tangled around her legs, the hoodie from last night now abandoned somewhere near the end of the bed. She was warm. Comfortable in a way she rarely allowed herself to be.

Harry shifted beside her, one arm tucked under his head, the other lazily resting across her waist.

“Morning,” he murmured, voice still rough with sleep.

She glanced sideways. “Morning.”

He smiled, slow and smug. “You know, I’m gonna be excellent at work today.”

She snorted. “Shut up.”

“I mean it. I’m thinking… top-tier legal performance. Big brain energy.”

“You’re unbearable.”

“And you’re blushing.”

“I’m not.”

He leaned in, nose brushing her cheek. “You’re absolutely blushing.”

She rolled onto her back to hide it, but his hand found her waist, slow and familiar. He kissed her shoulder, then her collarbone, and when she looked up again, he was grinning at her like he’d already won something.

“This is your fault,” she murmured.

“I’ll take the credit.”

His mouth found hers again - this time slower, deeper, more deliberate. She arched toward him instinctively, and within seconds, they were pulling each other closer, the world shrinking to the softness of the bed and the weight of each other.

After, they lay tangled in silence, her breath slowing against his chest.

“You really need to stop being so good at this,” she muttered.

He smirked. “Too late.”

By 8:30 a.m., Alex had gone back to her flat to change - freshly showered now, in a sleek black midi dress and a long tan coat. Her hair was smooth, the low bun back in place. She looked calm. Unbothered. Professional.

No one in the lobby even glanced at her twice.

Harry met her in the library ten minutes later, coffee in hand, a pen already tucked behind one ear.

He looked like a lawyer again - sharp navy suit, light blue shirt, rings back on his fingers. But there was something softer in the way he looked at her as he entered the room.

“Morning, partner,” he said, offering her the coffee.

“Morning.”

They settled back into the rhythm - folders open, laptops humming, case law surrounding them like armor. Everything from last night was tucked away, boxed up behind glances and the occasional flicker of memory.

But there were moments:

When she passed him a document and their fingers brushed, he held on a second longer than necessary.

When she leaned over his laptop to point something out, he looked at her, not the screen.

When she laughed softly at one of his remarks, her voice lower than usual, it made him glance up and smile without realizing it.

Still - they worked. Because they always did.

Hours passed. Notes turned into outlines. Drafts became strategy.

And beneath it all, something was brewing - not tension, but something tighter. A thread being pulled, just slightly, without them noticing yet.

———————————————————————————

It was day 5 of the trial and the courtroom was packed. Jury seated. Press lining the gallery. Tension buzzing between the marble columns and polished wood panels.

Alexandra Rowe stood at the center like a storm held in place - sharp lines, smooth voice, steady hand. She wore a tailored black midi dress, heels that didn’t falter, and that low bun that had become her signature. Her voice echoed with clean precision.

She was in her element.

The witness, a junior exec from the opposing side’s company, shifted in the box under her calm, surgical cross-examination.

“So, Mr. Decker,” Alex said, holding his eye like she wasn’t giving him room to breathe, “on January 12th, you approved the final language in the indemnity section. Is that correct?”

He hesitated, glancing to his team. “I… believe I reviewed that section, yes.”

Her brow arched. “You didn’t just review it. You initialed it.”

Alex stepped toward the jury box, displaying a blown-up copy of the contract on a screen, zooming in on the margin scribbles.

“These are your initials here, aren’t they?”

“Yes.”

“And you understood, at the time, that this clause limited your company’s exposure in case of third-party IP infringement?”

“That’s what was presented to me, yes.”

She nodded, laser-focused. “So you agreed to those limits?”

“I-”

“It’s a yes or no, Mr. Decker.”

“…Yes.”

A ripple through the courtroom. Alex didn’t smile - she never did in court. But the glint in her hazel eyes gave her away. She stepped back, poised.

“Nothing further, Your Honor.”

She returned to her seat, heart hammering with controlled adrenaline. This was what she trained for. This was why she worked 80-hour weeks.

Except-

Jeremy Cole, the opposing lead counsel, stood slowly, holding a slim black folder. Not the one he’d had earlier.

“Redirect, Your Honor.”

Judge Fairchild nodded, expression unreadable.

Jeremy approached the witness with too much calm. “Mr. Decker, when you say you agreed to those limits, can you clarify what specific clause you’re referring to?”

Decker blinked. “The… indemnity clause, I suppose?”

Jeremy nodded. “Would you be surprised to learn that in the executed version of this contract - the one filed with the court - that clause doesn’t exist?”

Alex’s entire body stiffened.

Judge Fairchild’s head tilted. “Counsel, clarify your point.”

Jeremy turned to the bench. “The version submitted into evidence by Ms. Rowe’s firm appears to be missing a key indemnity clause. The clause my client believes was struck in final negotiations. What we have is a signed copy - without it.”

He walked over to the evidence table and tapped a page. “It’s not just redacted. It’s absent.”

Murmurs buzzed from the press gallery. One of the jurors blinked fast, taking notes.

Alex sat up straighter, expression locked, heart jackhammering.

No. That’s not possible. She’d checked it. Three times.

Judge Fairchild’s voice cut through the noise. “Ms. Rowe?”

Alex stood. Her voice didn’t crack - not yet. “I’d like to request a short recess to verify the document’s versioning.”

Jeremy grinned. “By all means.”

The judge eyed her. “Fifteen minutes. Don’t make me regret it.”

BANG. Gavel down.

Alex exited fast, heels clacking down the marble corridor. Her fingers dialed before she’d even registered the motion.

Straight to voicemail.

Harry, I need you. Call me as soon as you’re out.

She hung up and turned sharply into a private room, dropping her bag onto a table and pulling out her laptop. Her hands weren’t shaking - but only just. She opened the firm’s doc vault, searching metadata, version logs, redlines.

The clause was there.

But it wasn’t in the signed copy.

She blinked, rereading the file.

How did this happen?

And then a quiet whisper in her mind, uninvited and cruel:

Did I send the wrong version?

The panic crept in slowly. This wasn’t just a slip. If it went unnoticed through signing and into court submission, it was either a colossal oversight - or something worse.

She stared down at the file and felt her breath catch. Because for the first time since the trial began…

She wasn’t sure she’d caught it in time.

———————————————————————————

The office was dim. Most of the floor had long emptied out, save for the faint hum of overhead fluorescents and the ever-present glow of legal pads, monitors, and half-eaten Thai takeout.

Alex sat cross-legged on the floor of her office, surrounded by boxes and contracts. Her blazer was off, sleeves rolled up. She wore one of those curve-hugging, modest dresses - professional, clean lines - but Harry had long ago decided she made every stitch of it look dangerous.

He stood in her doorway, hair slightly tousled, shirt half-untucked, takeout box in one hand.

“I’ve reread that clause five times,” he said, “and either I’m delirious or we filed the wrong amendment with the court.”

Alex didn’t look up. “You’re not delirious.”

There was a pause.

She finally glanced up. “We filed the wrong amendment.”

Harry let out a soft groan and leaned his head back against the frame. “We’re idiots.”

“Joint idiocy,” she said, rising and brushing off her skirt. “You signed it. I filed it.”

He pointed his chopsticks at her. “I was led astray by your magnetic confidence.”

“You were led astray by your inability to keep track of version numbers.”

He grinned. “Ouch.”

They stood there for a moment, both exhausted, both mildly vibrating from caffeine and tension and the fact that their fuck-up was, while not catastrophic, definitely going to earn them a firm-wide side-eye from Eleanor Chase if they didn’t fix it before morning.

“Copy room?” he asked, already turning.

Alex grabbed a folder. “Let’s clean up our mess.”

The copy room was cramped and overheated. Warm lights flickered slightly above as printers chugged and machines hummed. Alex stood at the far table, spreading out two versions of the contract, highlighting the differences, her hair slipping loose from the bun.

Harry stood behind her, scanning the files, both of them reading silently for a while.

“It’s such a stupid oversight,” she muttered, voice tight. “A subheader misaligned by one inch and the entire clause got bumped off the print version.”

He leaned beside her, shoulder brushing hers.

“We caught it before it hit the court. That’s what matters.”

“But it was sloppy. We’re not sloppy.”

“You’re not sloppy,” he said, and it was quieter than before.

She looked up at him. Their faces were close. Her hair framed her cheek in waves, and his eyes lingered there.

They didn’t move right away. That tension - that always-there, never-named thing - flickered brighter under the cheap lighting.

Alex blinked slowly, her voice lower. “We should finish this.”

“Sure,” he said, but didn’t move.

Seconds stretched.

Then he reached past her, slowly, to press the button on the copier.

She didn’t move back.

Their hands brushed.

Then his mouth was on hers - sudden, certain.

She kissed him back without hesitation, a sharp inhale against his lips, then a hand at his collar, yanking him closer. He dropped the folder on the table and spun her around, backing her gently into the filing cabinet.

It wasn’t frantic. It wasn’t reckless. It was controlled, calculated, like every time they’d looked at each other across boardroom tables and said nothing about the heat between them.

Her voice was breathless against his mouth. “This is stupid.”

He grinned. “That hasn’t stopped us before.”

“You say that like this is a thing.”

He kissed her again, deeper. “Isn’t it?”

She didn’t answer. Just pulled him closer.

The copier whirred beside them, printing fresh corrected copies as if pretending not to watch…

Alex leaned against the cabinet, flushed cheeks, hair a beautiful disaster. Harry stood beside her, half-buttoning his shirt, watching her with a stupid little smirk.

She looked over at the fresh stack of papers and let out a breathless laugh. “We fixed the clause. And somehow still managed to screw around in the copy room.”

“Multitasking,” Harry said, reaching for the documents. “We’re very efficient.”

She gave him a dry look. “This doesn’t leave this room.”

He held up a hand in mock solemnity. “Sworn to secrecy.”

She rolled her eyes and turned to gather the printed documents.

Then, just as she reached for the top sheet, he leaned in again - softer this time. A kiss to the side of her temple. Warm. Lingering.

She didn’t pull away.

She just said, quietly, “We’re not doing this again.”

And he just smiled.

“We’ll see.”

———————————————————————————

The knock was sharp - not hurried, but deliberate. The kind that made Harry pause mid-button as he stepped out of the shower, towel slung low on his hips.

He crossed the open-plan apartment quickly, tugging a shirt over his head as he went. The door creaked open to reveal Alex - heels still on, hair slightly windblown, eyes wide and unreadable.

“I called you three times,” she said, before he could even get a word out.

“I know,” he said, apologetically, stepping aside to let her in. “I’m sorry. I was in Connecticut for a client. Reception was shit. My phone barely loaded anything past New Haven.”

He closed the door behind her, still talking as he padded barefoot across the hardwood floor toward the kitchen. “I brought back those sea salt caramels you like from that place near the courthouse, by the way. The smug guy with the apron who-”

When he turned, everything slowed for a second.

Alex was standing in the middle of his living room, not moving. Not even pretending to be fine.

Her arms were crossed tight over her chest, like she was holding herself together. Her eyes were glassy, but dry. Hair half-down, curls looser than usual. She looked wrong - not unkempt, but not put-together either. And Alexandra Rowe was always put together.

“Hey,” Harry said softly, voice shifting instantly. He stepped toward her, concern flickering across his features. “Hey, hey- what’s going on?”

“I fucked up,” she whispered.

His brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“I really-” She sucked in a sharp breath, like her lungs had been hit. “I really fucked up, Harry.”

Her voice cracked, just slightly. “I missed something. In the filings. Something big. And I-I don’t know how, I checked them, but somehow I-I missed it and the judge clocked it and I-God.”

She took a few stumbling steps toward his kitchen counter and leaned against it, breathing hard, as though keeping upright was work.

“I’m gonna lose my job. I’m going to ruin the case. You’re gonna lose your job, and it’s all going to be because of me.”

Harry was already crossing to her.

“Hey- no. No, Lex, breathe. Just… breathe, yeah?”

She didn’t move. Her eyes were staring ahead, but not really seeing.

“I’ve never made a mistake like this. Not in court. Not where it counts. And now-” She finally looked up at him, and that was what really got him.

She looked frightened.

Not of the firm. Not of Westmont. Not even of losing the case. Of letting him down.

He gently touched her arm, grounding her.

“Sit down,” he said quietly, steering her toward the edge of the couch. “Just… slow down. Start from the beginning.”

She let him guide her, collapsing into the cushions like the air had been sucked from her body.

Harry sat beside her, close, but not touching.

“There was a clause,” she began, voice low, more steady now. “It was a subclause under the indemnity section of the acquisition contract. We’d rewritten it last minute, remember? To avoid any retroactive liability for the old board?”

He nodded. “Yeah. That was two weeks ago. Chase signed off on it.”

Alex gave a hollow laugh. “Yeah, except what I sent to the court… wasn’t that version. Somehow, I filed the draft before we amended it. The one that still holds our client accountable for all legacy debt.”

Harry blinked.

“That… that’s not nothing.”

“No,” she said bitterly, “it’s fucking career-ending.”

Silence.

She leaned forward, head in her hands. Her voice was muffled when she spoke again. “I don’t know how I did this. I’ve read every word on every page of that contract a hundred times. I don’t mess up like this, Harry. I can’t.”

He watched her carefully. “This doesn’t sound like you.”

“It’s not.”

And for a beat, she didn’t say anything.

Then: “Maybe I’ve been distracted.”

He tilted his head. “By what?”

Alex met his eyes. Long, unreadable. She didn’t answer.

Harry didn’t push.

He stood, crossed to his bedroom closet, pulled out one of his shirts - soft, black, worn. Handed it to her wordlessly.

She looked at it, then up at him. “You’re not gonna sleep?”

He gave her a half-smile, brushing a loose strand of hair from her cheek. “Hard to fix it if I’m horizontal.”

She let out a breath - something between a laugh and a sob.

“I hate this,” she whispered.

“I know.”

“I don’t cry.”

“I know,” he said again, soft and even. “You’re the strongest person I know.”

She pulled the shirt over her head, standing barefoot now in his living room, hair messier than usual, makeup smudged just enough to make her feel human again.

“Come on,” he said, nodding toward the bedroom. “Get some rest.”

She didn’t argue.

He watched her walk into the room, curling into the sheets like she’d finally run out of steam.

And as he turned back toward his desk - case files spread wide, legal pads waiting - she called out, voice faint:

“You don’t hate me?”

Harry glanced back, brow raised.

“I’ve never once hated you.”

He crossed back, pressed a kiss to her temple.

“You’re still light years ahead of everyone else.”

Then he turned the light off, grabbed the top file, and disappeared into the quiet hum of his study.

———————————————————————————

The sheets were soft. Crisp. Warm where her body had curled in on itself during the night. Expensive, probably. She could tell by the way they didn’t wrinkle easily, like they’d been pressed straight onto the bed. Typical Harry.

Alex blinked against the pale light bleeding through the linen curtains, disoriented at first. Her eyes settled on the soft grey of the walls, the tailored jacket slung over the back of a chair, the black watch resting on the nightstand.

It wasn’t the first time she’d woken up in his bed. But it felt like the first time it mattered.

Her throat was dry. She pushed herself up slowly, limbs heavy, the oversized black shirt she wore — his — slipping off one shoulder. She reached for her phone on the nightstand, bracing herself for the fallout.

One new message.

Harry [6:12AM]:

Coffee’s good to go. Had your dress dry cleaned — and there’s a bag in the bathroom with some beauty bits. Meet me in my office at 10. I’ve got us.

Her thumb hovered over the message. She read it again.

I’ve got us.

Three words. Simple. Uncomplicated. But they wrapped around her like a lifeline, tugging her breath shallow.

How was he so calm?

She stood slowly, feet meeting the cool floorboards, and padded barefoot into the apartment.

The space was modern but lived-in. Clean, but not fussy. The kind of place that belonged to someone who worked too late, but still had an eye for comfort. A suede jacket hung on the back of a dining chair. The scent of fresh coffee lingered in the air.

There, on the kitchen island, was the note - folded napkin, her name scribbled in capital letters. A to-go cup beside it, steam curling softly toward the ceiling. A croissant still warm in its paper sleeve.

She swallowed.

This man, who had every right to be furious with her, had instead made sure her dress was clean and breakfast was waiting.

She picked up the napkin, then the cup, and held it in both hands - grounding herself in the heat. But she didn’t drink.

Her eyes roamed the space. She hadn’t noticed much last night. Hadn’t been able to. She was too consumed by panic, by the weight of what she’d done - or failed to do. By the possibility that it would cost them both their jobs.

And Harry… he’d just stood there. Calm. Steady. Solid.

Not indulgent. Not dismissive. Just present in the way she’d always needed someone to be and never quite had.

She moved toward the living room, sinking into the edge of his charcoal grey sofa. From here, she could see part of the city skyline through the floor-to-ceiling windows. It was overcast, grey light bathing the room in muted tones.

She sat there for a while.

Thinking.

Not just about the mistake - though that still gnawed at her. But about what it meant to be her in this world.

She’d built her career on being the one who didn’t miss things. Who caught the clause others skipped. Who stayed two steps ahead. Not because it was easy, but because it had to be.

Because no one was going to catch her if she fell.

Because she didn’t come from legacy or connections or the kind of father who made phone calls on her behalf. She came from absentee parents and reheated dinners, from nights reading textbooks at the kitchen table while her younger brother watched cartoons on low volume in the next room.

She was the steady one. The solver. The one who made it work. Until now.

She closed her eyes.

Harry hadn’t told her she was stupid. Or careless. He hadn’t asked how she could have missed something so big. He hadn’t even looked disappointed.

He’d just… looked at her. Really looked. And said, “I’ll fix this. Get some rest.”

It was infuriating and comforting all at once. Because how could he not be mad? How could he still believe in her?

She stood up again, restless now. Walked over to the bookshelves lining one wall of the apartment. Law journals. Fiction. A framed photo of Harry and his mum, taken at what looked like an awards ceremony. Another photo, slightly older, of him on the steps of their firm - suit crisp, grin cocky. She smiled faintly, just for a second.

This wasn’t just about the case anymore. Not really.

It was about what they were to each other. What she was to him. And how dangerous it was to care this much. Because now, if they went down, they’d go down together.

And she wasn’t sure which part of that scared her more - the going down, or the together.

———————————————————————————

The city outside was still asleep, the skyline a blur of glass and grey as soft rain tapped against the tall windows. But Harry was very much awake.

His shirt sleeves were rolled to the elbows, tie loosened, black blazer slung over the back of his chair. Coffee, his third, sat half-finished near the corner of his desk, long since gone cold. A mess of files were spread across the surface like a crime scene, marked with yellow tabs, red-ink scribbles, highlighted blocks of text and narrowed Post-its scrawled in his usual capital letters.

The library printer had coughed to life an hour ago. He hadn’t stopped since.

Clause 17(d) — Contractual Termination Conditions.

He stared at it again.

They hadn’t missed the clause entirely. That would’ve been sloppy. No, it had been there - just vague enough, just ambiguous enough to seem harmless at first glance. But now, in light of yesterday’s courtroom hiccup, it stood out like a warning sign someone had tried to paint over.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling slowly.

He didn’t want to believe it. Not yet. Not until he’d checked every page, every source document, every revision note. But the deeper he dug, the more it looked like something had been slipped in - deliberately - after their last review.

Redlined versions don’t lie.

His eyes flicked between two versions of the contract, one dated six weeks ago, the other stamped final just four days before filing.

And there it was.

A subtle change in phrasing. Six words that shifted liability. Six words that turned the company they were defending into a potential scapegoat.

Alex hadn’t missed it. She’d been set up to miss it.

And the only person with clearance to revise those docs after final sign-off? Westmont. Senior name partner. The one who’d championed the case. The one who’d insisted Alex and Harry take point on the groundwork.

Harry sat back, fingers tapping a slow rhythm on the desk.

It all made sense now. The urgency Westmont had placed on that filing. The way he’d looped in the firm’s paralegal after the final edits, claiming the “junior team needed exposure.” The false familiarity, the charm - all smoke and mirrors. Westmont hadn’t just been sloppy. He’d been planting landmines.

And Alex had walked straight into one.

His stomach turned.

She’d been unraveling last night. Genuinely shaken. And he hadn’t told her. Because she needed sleep, not strategy. Because he needed to fix this before it ruined her - them.

A knock sounded at the door. He glanced up just as it creaked open.

Alex stepped inside, dressed in the same soft navy dress she’d worn yesterday, her hair pulled back neatly despite the exhaustion still etched into her face. She looked at him, then at the table strewn with papers.

“Hey,” she said softly.

He stood immediately. “Hey. You okay?”

She hesitated at the threshold before stepping in, her voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t know what to wear. So I figured… just pick up where I left off.”

Harry gave her a small smile, the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes but meant more than words. “You look great.”

She gave him a weak smile in return and glanced at the chaos on his desk. “Been here long?”

“Since 5:30.” He motioned to the coffee pot on the console table. “Made the mistake of drinking something from the break room machine. Pretty sure it was battery acid.”

Her smile flickered slightly stronger this time. “You didn’t sleep.”

“I’ll crash when this is handled.”

Alex took a slow breath, walking further into the office. She studied the files for a moment, then him.

“Did you find something?” she asked quietly, almost afraid of the answer.

He met her eyes, and in them, she saw it - the calm, steady certainty of a man who knew exactly what he was doing.

“I’m sorting it,” he said. His voice was gentle but firm, like he’d practiced the phrase a dozen times. “Right now. Just need to confirm something before I loop you in.”

Her brow creased. “Why won’t you just tell me?”

“Because I don’t want to be wrong. And because if I am right, this goes higher than us.” He stepped closer, took her hand briefly in his. “I just need to talk to Eleanor first.”

Her eyes searched his. “Harry…”

“Lex,” he said, squeezing her hand. “Trust me.”

She exhaled shakily. “I do.”

“Good,” he said softly. “Then sit tight. I’ll be back in fifteen.”

He released her hand and moved past her, reaching for the folder he’d prepped in the early hours of the morning - the one with marked-up contracts, timestamped document revisions, and a three-page summary of what he believed Westmont had done.

As he stepped into the hallway, he glanced back once - just for a second.

Alex stood at his desk, still holding the coffee cup he’d left for her. She looked small in the middle of all that paper. But she was still herself - even now. Sharp lines. Soft jaw. Fire in her eyes that hadn’t quite gone out.

Harry squared his shoulders. Now it was his turn.

———————————————————————————

Eleanor Chase didn’t believe in wasting time.

Her office was a pristine reflection of that ethos - sharp lines, muted tones, and not a single item out of place. Even the skyline behind her felt curated, the city below framed like a painting she’d commissioned.

Harry stood across from her desk, arms loose at his sides, a single manila folder in his left hand. No dramatic entrance. No preamble. Just facts.

“Westmont doctored the clause.”

Chase looked up from her monitor slowly, the soft glint of her silver-framed glasses catching the light.

“Come again?”

Harry stepped forward and set the folder down on her desk, flipping it open with quiet precision.

“There was a version of the filing signed off six weeks ago. That version included standard termination conditions - fair, mutual, clean.” He flipped to the next tab. “This one was uploaded four days before submission. Same document. New clause. Six additional words that transferred liability solely to our client.”

She picked up the contract page, scanned it once, then again, her brow tightening.

“And this was filed?”

Harry nodded. “Yes. Alex signed off under the impression it was the original. She wasn’t looped in on the redline. Because someone told our junior paralegal to handle final collating without sending it through the approval chain.”

Her eyes flicked up. “Westmont.”

Harry didn’t flinch. “He pushed for us to lead it. He wanted her to carry the weight. To crash and burn.”

“Do you have proof it was intentional?”

Harry reached inside the folder again, pulling out printed emails, internal logs, and a USB drive. “I’ve got metadata from the doc management system. Timestamps. Login trails. I called in a favor from IT this morning. There’s also an email from Westmont to the junior - vague wording, nothing explicit, but enough. And here -” he pulled one more paper out, this one clean and sharp “- is a statement from the paralegal. She didn’t realize what was happening, but she was directed to use Westmont’s version and mark it as final.”

Chase was silent.

She leaned back in her chair, her fingers pressed together just beneath her lips. For a moment, the only sound was the low hum of the city below.

Then, finally: “He wanted a scapegoat.”

Harry nodded. “One with an impeccable record and no allies at his level to fight back.”

Chase tapped her finger against the edge of the paper. “And you?”

“He wanted me distracted. I was buried in the Simmons merger while this was going on. He knew I’d trust Alex to handle it - and she did. But she was never shown this version.”

She closed the file. “And your goal, Harry?”

“To fix it. Quietly, if possible. But I’m not going to let her go down for this. We go to the judge, flag the discrepancy, and we file a formal motion to correct. The clause is buried deep - I can argue it was an administrative oversight, not malicious intent.”

“You’ll take the heat.”

“I’ll take all of it.”

“And Westmont?”

He met her eyes without hesitation. “Needs to be gone.”

Chase nodded once, slowly. “We’ll have to bring this to the board. But yes. If what you’re showing me is true…” she stood, smooth and deliberate, “-then he’s not just fired. His name comes off the wall.”

Harry didn’t let relief show on his face. Not yet.

“I want to be in the room when we talk to the judge,” he said.

“You will be.”

Chase walked around her desk, heels silent against the wood, her expression unreadable as always. “You’re sure this will hold up?”

“I’ve triple-checked it.”

“Good. Because I’m putting my name behind yours.”

That meant something. More than most people would realize. Harry gave her a tight nod, collected the folder, and followed her out of the office.

The hallway was quiet at this hour, the sharp click of Chase’s heels the only sound as she walked briskly toward the elevator. Harry walked half a step behind, every move calculated, focused, precise.

As they passed by his office, something shifted in his peripheral vision. He turned, subtly.

Alex.

She was standing inside, just past the glass door, a file in her hands - though she clearly wasn’t reading it. Her brows furrowed just slightly as she saw them pass, the line between focus and nerves blurring across her face.

She looked at him. No smile. Just waiting. He didn’t stop walking - didn’t need to.

He met her eyes. And winked. Just once.

Small, sly, and slow enough for her to catch the message.

I’ve got this.

Then he stepped into the elevator with Eleanor Chase, and the doors closed behind them.

———————————————————————————

The skyline blurred behind the glass, early afternoon light catching the curve of Alex’s jaw as she stood by the window, her arms crossed, coffee long forgotten. She hadn’t moved much since Harry left earlier that morning - except to wander around his office like a ghost, touch the edge of his desk, sit in his chair for a moment, then get up again. Waiting was agony. Not knowing was worse.

The door opened. She turned sharply.

Harry stepped inside, loosening his tie as he shut the door behind him. His coat was off now, sleeves rolled slightly up, but his energy had changed. Less tense. Something like purpose in his stride.

He gave her a long look, then nodded. “We’re good.”

Alex stared at him. “What happened?”

He moved toward his desk, grabbed the file he’d set down before leaving, and flipped it open - then seemed to think better of it, shutting it again. Instead, he looked directly at her.

“It wasn’t your mistake.”

She blinked. “What?”

“The clause. The missing language. You didn’t forget to include it, Lex. It was never there. Because Westmont replaced our draft with a different one - one he modified.”

Her mouth parted slightly. “I don’t understand.”

Harry nodded slowly, his voice even. “I didn’t either. Not at first. But once I looked at the metadata on the internal uploads, the version history didn’t match. There was a backdated upload that bypassed your final save - and it was logged in from his assistant’s workstation. Probably under instruction.”

She dropped into the nearest chair, staring at him. “He-he did that on purpose?”

“He sabotaged us.”

A beat.

Harry moved around the desk, perching on the edge of it near her. “And he’s got ties to the other side. Quiet ones. A holding company, financial interests… Eleanor and I took it to the judge this morning. He believed us. Quiet sanctions are happening behind the scenes. His name will be off the wall by the end of the week.”

Alex didn’t speak.

“Hey,” Harry said gently, leaning in slightly. “You didn’t mess up.”

Her voice came out hoarse. “But I believed I did.”

He nodded. “Because you’re thorough. And accountable. You don’t look for an excuse first. That’s why you’re good at this.”

Her fingers toyed with the edge of her sleeve. “I thought I was losing it. That I was distracted. That maybe - because of you - I didn’t see it.”

Harry’s brow furrowed. “Because of me?”

“I care about you,” she said, softly, like a confession. “And when that clause was missing, I thought, maybe I’d let my guard down. Maybe this-” she gestured between them, “-was blurring lines.”

Harry let the silence sit for a moment. Then, without a hint of irony: “You didn’t get distracted. You got targeted.”

She looked at him. “So we’re okay?”

His expression softened. “We’re more than okay.”

A breath escaped her. Not quite relief, but something close. “So I’m not getting fired?”

He smiled, small and fond. “No. I told you - I wouldn’t let that happen.”

Alex leaned forward, rested her elbows on her knees. “What now?”

“Well,” he said, getting to his feet and extending a hand, “I’m about to grab a drink and brief the team on how Westmont just torched the last of his reputation. Then, we prep for court tomorrow and win the damn case.”

She took his hand and let him pull her up.

As they walked toward the door, he turned to her and added, “By the way - your dry-cleaned dress looked great this morning.”

That earned a real laugh from her, soft and tired but genuine. “Thanks. You’re still the only person I’d ever let handle my coffee and my dry cleaning.”

He opened the door, let her pass through, and murmured behind her, “And your panic attacks.”

She looked back over her shoulder. “Don’t get cocky, Styles.”

He smirked. “Too late.”

———————————————————————————

The courtroom buzzed with the muted rustle of papers and the scrape of chairs. It was late afternoon; a soft golden light slanted through the tall windows, catching motes of dust that hovered in the hush. Everything had led to this.

Alex sat beside Harry, perfectly still, her hands folded, a pen idle between her fingers. She watched the judge settle, the jury shift, and across the aisle - Jeremy Cole leaned into Mr. Decker, whispering something smug behind his hand.

Harry tapped the edge of her notepad gently, a grounding nudge. She turned slightly, meeting his eye.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

“I should be,” she murmured.

A pause. Then she added, “Maybe you should do the closing.”

Harry’s brow ticked up. “Absolutely not.”

“I just…” She hesitated, looking away. “I’ve been off my game.”

He leaned a little closer, voice low but unwavering. “You’ve been running this case since day one. You spotted the clause. You connected the timeline. You held everything together even when the floor gave out.”

She still didn’t meet his eyes.

“Lex,” he said firmly, “Jeremy Cole thinks you’re rattled. Mr. Decker thinks this is in the bag. You need to be the one to show them how wrong they are.”

Her eyes flicked back to him. “You always this motivational?”

Harry smirked. “Only when I’m right.”

A breath left her lungs. Something settled. She straightened as the judge glanced toward the plaintiff’s table.

“Ms. Rowe,” the judge said, “you may proceed with your closing argument.”

She rose.

The room felt smaller as she stepped forward. Her heels echoed softly across the polished floor as she walked to the center, facing the jury. Her gaze was steady now, sweeping across each face in the box. She let a pause linger before she spoke.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” she began, “you’ve heard the facts. You’ve seen the records. You’ve heard the testimony.”

Her voice was calm, clear - strong.

“What you haven’t heard is accountability.”

Jeremy Cole shifted in his chair.

Alex kept going, walking them through the crux of the argument - the discrepancy in the contracts, the timeline inconsistencies, the misleading financial statements. She reminded them of the paper trail they’d uncovered. She didn’t embellish. She didn’t need to.

“This isn’t about a single missed deadline or an honest miscommunication,” she said. “This was deliberate. A systematic attempt to avoid contractual obligation under the illusion of misinterpretation.”

She turned, walking slowly, anchoring each sentence with quiet confidence.

“Mr. Decker’s team would like you to believe this was confusion. But confusion doesn’t rewrite clauses. Confusion doesn’t delete emails. Confusion doesn’t backdate filings.”

From the corner of her eye, she saw Jeremy Cole go still. That cocky smirk was gone.

“And when all of that failed - they hoped no one would notice.”

Alex let that sit with the jury. Let them feel the insult of it.

“But you did notice. You sat here. You listened. You saw it all. And now, it’s yours to decide.”

She stepped back, met the judge’s nod, and returned to her seat without looking once at the other side.

Harry didn’t say anything for a moment. Then, quietly, “You scared the hell out of him.”

Alex exhaled, a small laugh barely escaping.

Across the aisle, Jeremy Cole leaned into Mr. Decker again, but this time, his shoulders were stiff.

The judge turned. “Mr. Cole? Your closing?”

Cole stood, but the heat had left him. His argument was technical. Flat. There was no conviction. He avoided eye contact with the jury.

Alex leaned over to Harry. “Do you think we-”

“We’ve won,” he said simply.

The jury hadn’t even left the room yet, but she believed him. They didn’t need to blow up Westmont or drag anyone else down. They’d won clean. On truth. On law. On her words.

And that mattered more.

———————————————————————————

The private lift ascended in silence for a moment, just the soft hum of the cables moving behind sleek metallic walls. Alex stood with her back to the glass, arms crossed loosely, eyes flicking over Harry’s reflection in the mirrored panel.

He was leaning back against the rail, tie slightly loosened, the first real breath of ease settling on his face since the trial had begun.

“So,” Alex finally murmured, voice a bit hushed. “We won.”

Harry turned his head toward her, one eyebrow rising in the most casually smug way. “We did.”

“You don’t sound surprised,” she said, though her smile tugged at one corner of her mouth. Her arms dropped slightly as the tension in her shoulders eased. “I guess you always knew we would.”

“No,” Harry replied, more seriously now. “But I knew you would.”

Alex rolled her eyes, but there was a heat behind them, not irritation - something more tender, something unsure how to sit with praise when it was wrapped in that tone. “You’re the one who figured it out. You saved the entire case.”

He shook his head. “We don’t get to the end of the line if you don’t keep it together in court. And you did. You were… kind of incredible, actually.”

There was a brief pause, just the two of them suspended between floors, the weight of the week still clinging to their clothes.

She stepped closer, leaning lightly against the rail next to him. “You think Jeremy Cole knows?”

“About Westmont?” Harry asked.

Alex nodded.

“Oh, he knows,” Harry said, lips curling. “He didn’t look at us once after your closing. Just stared at his notes like they might save him. They won’t.”

The elevator chimed softly. They were at the top.

As the doors parted with a hiss, Eleanor Chase stood waiting just beyond them in the hall, her arms folded neatly, eyes sharp as ever.

“Did you do it?” she asked, wasting no time. Her gaze darted between the two of them, unreadable.

Harry stepped out first. “We did.”

Eleanor paused, studying them. “Good.” She gave a nod, crisp and precise. “Congratulations.” Then she turned on her heel and started down the corridor toward the executive wing, the heels of her shoes echoing faintly.

As she passed, Alex’s eyes followed her, catching sight of the gleaming metal plaque on the wall ahead—the one that had, until yesterday, read: Westmont, Chase & Langford.

Now it read: Chase & Langford.

Alex stopped walking. She blinked once, twice, as if just to make sure she wasn’t imagining it. “It’s real,” she said quietly.

Harry turned to see what she was looking at and nodded once. “He’s gone.”

Her lips parted. “I mean, I know it happened, I was there, but… it just feels surreal. Like, he’s been on that plaque since I walked through these doors.”

“Yeah. But now so has the sabotage.” Harry’s voice didn’t carry bitterness—just fact. “Eleanor didn’t want the firm’s name associated with that. And he didn’t fight it.”

“Because he knew we had him,” Alex murmured. “You had him.”

Harry glanced sideways at her, studying her expression. “How are you feeling?”

She took a breath, long and full this time, finally able to breathe from her stomach rather than her chest. “Like I’m not about to get fired. Like I don’t need to vomit into a trash can.”

“That’s improvement,” he said dryly.

She looked at him then, a real look - grateful and thoughtful and maybe still a little shaken. “I don’t think I would’ve survived this week without you.”

Harry’s face softened. “You didn’t survive it. You won it.”

She smiled, small and crooked. “So… what do we do now?”

He tilted his head toward the hallway. “Well, I had a little plan.”

Her brows rose. “Oh?”

“I was thinking…” He let the pause hang a little, a familiar playfulness coming into his tone. “Copy room?”

Alex’s mouth lifted at the corners. “Copy room.”

They walked side by side down the corridor, shoes quiet on the expensive carpeting, the tension of the past days finally starting to lift like steam from their bodies.

The elevator doors hissed shut behind them, sealing off the chapter they’d just survived.

But neither of them looked back.

———————————————————————————

The hum of the copier filled the silence like static - not loud, but persistent. The room was warm from the day’s activity, lit by overhead fluorescents that flickered with a slight, imperceptible buzz. The trial was over. The firm was quiet. And now it was just them - Harry and Alex, back in the one place they always seemed to end up after a win.

Alex leaned against the counter with two pens and a yellow legal pad in hand. She let out a long sigh, pushing a hand through her hair before looking over at Harry, who was crouched beside the copier, rummaging through the cabinet for something.

“Don’t tell me we’re out of post-its. This whole firm goes down and it’s because we ran out of sticky notes.”

Alex laughed softly. It wasn’t forced - the kind of laugh that had been missing all week. “Use the back of something. Or just use the pad. Same ritual, different stationery.”

He stood, holding up a half-torn notepad and wagging it like a prize. “Acceptable?”

She nodded. “Perfectly.”

They settled on the floor, backs against the wall, just like they always did. Shoes off, ties loosened. Heels discarded. Silence stretching between them, but not awkward. Just… full.

Alex started writing, chewing on the end of her pen like she always did when she was overthinking. Harry watched her for a second before jotting something down with a grin.

They passed their notes across.

Alex’s read: “The suckiest moment of trial was the moment I realized I’d missed it. The kind of mistake I never make. The look on the judge’s face.”

Harry winced, then handed his over.

“The suckiest moment of trial was Jeremy Cole’s smug, insufferable face every damn time he said ‘Your Honour.’”

Alex snorted. “God, he is smug.”

Harry gave her a sideways glance. “Noticed you smiled when I objected to him on that cross.”

“I wasn’t smiling,” she said, too quickly. “I was smirking.”

“Ah, my mistake,” he deadpanned, but there was something warm behind his eyes.

They sat for another beat. Alex started tearing the note into even little squares, her fingers busy while her thoughts weren’t.

Then Harry said, casually, “I’ve got something else.”

She looked up. “We’re doing best-of now?”

He reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a scrap of paper - not even from the pad. Looked like it had been folded and refolded half a dozen times.

She took it from him and opened it slowly.

“The best part of any trial with Lex: getting to work with someone I love.”

Alex blinked. She looked up. “Harry…”

“What?” he asked, half-smiling, trying to stay light even though he was clearly watching her closely.

She raised the note again. “What is this?”

“I think it’s… a piece of paper,” he said. “Possibly sentimental in nature.”

She gave him a look. “You know what I mean.”

He leaned back a little, resting his arm along the base of the copy machine. “I mean… it’s true. Always has been.”

Alex didn’t say anything at first. She glanced at the note again, then folded it once, carefully, and set it beside her.

“You know,” she started, voice quiet, “the other night I was crying in your bed, thinking my entire career was over, and you… got my dress dry-cleaned. You left a full set of makeup and a comb and coffee waiting for me.”

Harry said nothing, just watched her.

“That’s not… that’s not a situationship,” she said, almost to herself. “That’s not casual.”

“No,” Harry said. “It’s not.”

She turned toward him. “So what is it?”

He ran a hand through his hair and exhaled. “Lex, I’ve had a thing for you since the summer you transferred during our last year as Associates. You were barefoot in the office at 2am eating peanut butter out of the jar and yelling about tort reform, and I thought, ‘Yeah. That’s it. That’s the one.’”

She let out a sharp laugh. “You’re joking.”

“Swear to God.”

“So why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because we were always… us,” he said. “Flirting and fighting and winning and sleeping together sometimes and pretending none of it mattered.”

“And you were okay with that?”

“No,” he said. “But I didn’t want to push it. I didn’t know if you’d want more. And I didn’t want to risk what we already had. But the other night…” He trailed off.

Alex filled it in. “The other night changed things.”

He nodded.

She looked at him for a long time. Her expression wasn’t guarded - not like usual. It was raw. Open. She wasn’t pretending to be fine. She wasn’t spinning something clever.

“I don’t think anyone else would’ve done what you did,” she said. “I don’t think they would’ve noticed I needed help before I even asked.”

Harry tilted his head. “I hope you never go to anyone else. I hope you always come to me.”

Silence again. But it was a good silence. Full of something unspoken, but not avoided.

“Okay,” she said softly.

“Okay?”

“Yeah.” Then she cleared her throat and sat up straighter. “So… what do we do now?”

Harry grinned. “Well. For starters, I’d really like to hold your hand when we leave work today.”

She smiled, slow and surprised. “That’s allowed?”

“I checked the employee handbook. No clause against emotional intimacy or light hand-holding in shared spaces.”

She snorted. “You’re insufferable.”

“Yet here we are.”

He shifted slightly closer, held out his hand palm-up. She took it.

“And also,” he said, a little more serious now, “I’d really like to take you on a date. You know. With food. And not crying.”

She laughed again - this time full, head back. “Yeah, okay.”

“Is that a yes?”

“That’s a yes.”

“Good.” He stood and offered his hand again to help her up. “Now, unless you’d like to celebrate by sleeping in the mailroom again, I suggest we go find a drink.”

“Harry?”

“Yeah?”

She squeezed his hand. “Thank you.”

He leaned in close, pressed a quick kiss to her temple. “Always, Lex.”

They left the copy room hand in hand, the note still sitting folded on the floor.

[lancermylove]

Can I request a scenario with gn!mc being a contortionist or just really flexible and seeing how the brothers react? I just think it would be super funny seeing the bros watching their human bend like a literal pretzel and probably freaking out because humans normally should not bend able to bend like that. (Also love your work)

Pairing: None.

Warning: None.

A/N: Thank you! 💖

Word Count: 615

-----------------------------------------------------------------

The House of Lamentation was unusually quiet for a Saturday afternoon until Lucifer’s voice echoed through the halls.

“Y/n, are you sure you’re… supposed to bend like that?”

The brothers had gathered in the common room, initially to relax, but the conversation shifted when you casually mentioned that you used to practice contortion as a hobby. The brothers absolutely had to see a demonstration.

Now, you were balancing on your hands, one leg gracefully arched over your head while the other extended forward. You shifted smoothly into a backbend, spine arching in an impossible crescent as if you were made of rubber, not bone.

Lucifer stood with his arms crossed, brows furrowed. “I’m fairly certain that human spines are not meant to do that.”

His voice was calm, but a flicker of concern was visible in his eyes. Meanwhile, Mammon had his mouth open, eyes wide. “WH-WHAT THE HELL, Y/N? YA LOOK LIKE YA JUST GOT POSSESSED OR SOMETHIN’. Humans can’t do that! Can they?”

Levi clutched his Ruri-chan pillow tightly, his face flushed. “T-this is like that one rare episode of…! The main character’s secret move was extreme flexibility, but even that wasn’t this crazy! Y/n, are you part snake? Or an octopus? No, no, I take that back, it’s kind of… amazing.”

Asmo squealed, clasping his hands together with stars in his eyes. His mind was already racing through glamorous outfit ideas to pair with your unique ability. “Oh my goodness, y/n, you’re divine! So graceful! So flexible! The things we could do in photoshoots… oh, imagine the aesthetic possibilities!”

Beel was holding a plate stacked with sandwiches and paused mid-bite. “Are you sure you’re not hurting yourself? That doesn’t look safe.”

Belphie blinked slowly from his spot on the couch, head resting on a pillow. He yawned. “Huh… weird. But kinda cool, I guess. You’re like one of those bendy toys. I didn’t think humans were built like that… must be exhausting though.”

Satan, who had been observing intently with his usual scholarly interest, tilted his head. He was impressed. “Fascinating. The human spine has thirty-three vertebrae, yet you’re moving as if you have none. Your muscle control and flexibility exceed the standard biological limits by a shocking margin. Did you train for years to achieve this? Or are you naturally gifted?”

You chuckled as you slowly twisted into a pretzel-like knot. “A little of both. Lots of training, but I’ve always been pretty flexible.”

Mammon continued pacing back and forth. “I-I mean, that’s great and all, but what if ya snap somethin’? What if ya break your spine, and I’m stuck explainin’ to Lucifer why his precious human is in a full body cast?”

“You make it sound like I’m made of glass,” you laughed, now flipping over into a handstand with effortless grace.

Asmo clapped again. “Sweetie, you might just inspire me to take up yoga! But I doubt I’d ever be able to bend like that.”

Satan scribbled notes in a little leather notebook, muttering to himself, “Perhaps I should study more about contortionist techniques. This could make an excellent research topic.”

Levi was still flustered. “You… you’re kinda like a real-life anime character.”

Lucifer sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Just promise me you won’t practice these… stunts… unsupervised in the middle of the hallway, where Mammon is likely to have a heart attack and drag me into unnecessary panic.”

You grinned while lowering yourself into a full middle split. “Deal.”

Belphie yawned again. “Wake me up if they start spinning their head like in those horror movies.”

The brothers simultaneously glared at him while you burst into laughter, still folded in half like it was nothing.

[hastalahamon]

i'm gonna get so much shit for this, but honestly, i can't

did y'all really think this one dude was going to stop the death games with *checks notes* the power of friendship???

did we not establish in the first season that there is no escape from the horrors of capitalism??

this show had two possible endings. gihun becomes the new captain, or gihun dies. either way the games continue

yeah, hyun ju's death was tragic, but she was going to die either way. in episode 2, or 6, it didn't matter.

at least she died being true to herself, being kind and brave.

and even if gihun blew up the whole thing, y'all think there were no contingencies to this operation??

as long as there are monsters with money treating humans as trash, there will be squid games.

"he deserved to live"

NEWSFLASH, most of them deserved to live. most of them were there out of desperation. most of them were normal people stuck in impossible situations. THAT WAS THE POINT!

i'm getting worked up, i'll stop, i'm just soooo tired of all the squid game posts about how the show is bad because it's not sunshine and rainbows. watch hometown cha cha cha if you want a happy ending. even better, welcome to samdal-ri, y'all slept on it anyway.

[ketchuplover9070]

Test Drive

Part 2:

You take off to find another dragon for you to slay. Running around like a madwoman with tomahawk in hand while your helmet clanks around on your head. You ran into Dobber’s hut. He was the man you were working for. The past couple of years, you were Dobber’s apprentice. Making and sharpening swords and weapons, as well as some fun inventions of your own. One of these inventions being a homemade slingshot. Here’s the catch….its double barreled! As you rushed into Dobber’s hut you grabbed the slingshot machine and rushed out to go and find a beastly dragon to take down.

“COMING THROUGH!!!”, you shouted as you twisted and turned through the masses of people in the streets trying to hold their own. You ran up on the mountain, trying to get a better view of the baddest dragon of all. The nightfury.

A shadowy figure flew across the night sky, and you took aim. Pointing your slingshot machine straight at your target. Once you felt as though your shot was deadly, you pulled the trigger. A loud catapult sound came from the machine as the weapon shot through the air. You watched as it soared, and suddenly you hear the dragon whine in pain and you see the creature fall from the sky.

“Holy shit, I just took down a nightfury.”, You whispered to yourself, astonished by the moment happening before you. You tighten your vest and rushed down the hill to tell your father the news. As you make your way to him, you call out for him.

“DAD! DAD!”, You shouted. Only to be met by his piercing stare.

“What is it, Y/N?!”, He said sharply.

“I TOOK DOWN A NIGHTFURY!”, You exclaimed. Wide-eyed and grinning, you watched as his face contorted.

“What the hell are you spatting on about? A nightfury? Like you could take down a dragon. I have people that I need to tend to. We just had disaster strike our village and you are out here claiming you killed a nightfury?! Do us a favor and just go back to the house.” His voice was stern and his words hard to swallow.

“BUT DAD I REALLY DID!”, You didn’t ease up on your claim. Circling him, trying to get him to slow down somehow and just listen to you.

“OUT OF THE WAY, Y/N!” He boomed.

You expression dropped and you lowered your head.

“Yes sir.”, You walked away mumbling things under your breath. Until finally out of your father’s periphery you darted off into the woods.

While on your way to the woods, You hear a twig snap behind you. You spun your head around to find the reason for the sound. Only to see a flash of white hide behind a tree.

“I see you, Satoru.” You stated blankly.

“Um no you don’t actually. I’m invisible and so you must be crazy and seeing things woman.” He creeped out from behind the tree and started to circle you. Almost like predator and prey.

“Why are you out here?” You stared him down.

“I could ask you the same thing.” He snapped back.

“But I asked you first.” You retorted.

“True. I was following you. Interested in seeing if you actually took down a nightfury.” He said with his brow quirked up.

“Is it really that crazy that me, unathletic, no battle iq, clumsy y/n, could take down a dragon? Is it really that impossible for you people to conceive?” You said with a slight bit of anger behind it.

“Well it is actually. Y/n, i’ve known you since we were babies in diapers. You are the most unique, discombobulated girl i’ve ever met. So yea, when you go around shouting that you killed a nightfury, of course people are going to not believe you.” He said with a little bit of reason in his voice, inching closer to you.

You backed away from him.

“Leave me alone, Gojo.” You said roughly and continued to stomp farther into the forest.

“Wow, last names? That’s harsh. But fine i’ll go.” He spun around on his heels and headed off toward the village.

Climbing down a steep hill you muttered to yourself. “Stupid,stupid, stupid. Did I seriously think I took down a dragon?” You huffed out until you saw a big mud trail on the grass. “OR MAYBE I DID TAKE DOWN A DRAGON!” You hit a happy dance and then headed towards the scene. You looked over the ledge that lead straight down and saw it. The beast. The nightfury. “Holy shit!” You whisper yelled. “Okay time to kill a dragon. It’s easy right? My people do it all the time.” You took in deep breaths before you slid down the hill. Creeping up to the creature as to not startle it. You pulled out your dagger and held it up. Closing your eyes, until you peeked and saw the beast staring back at you. Suddenly it lounged at you, making you fall on your back. The wet grass cushioned your fall, but all you could think about was the dragon looming in front of you. Showing off its teeth as to warn you, until suddenly it just flew away. Or more like tried to. You took note on how it couldn’t seem to maneuver properly, you wondered if it was injured. “OMG DID THAT JUST HAPPEN?” You took off running back to the village. Once you made it back to your house you started to take note of what you saw. Until suddenly your father came home. He walked over and sat down next to you.

“Hey, Y/n,” He began. “I know i’m tough on you some times but it’s for good reason. You are clumsy and stubborn but I know you mean well. So that why i’m going to give you your dream, OF BECOMING A DRAGON SLAYER!” He beamed proudly like it was the best statement he had said all month.

Your face faltered, “Oh that nice and all, but I decided that I don’t want to kill dragons. Or more so that I can’t kill dragons. I’ll be useful other places like helping with the sheep or helping Dobber!”

The chief’s smile fell, “but y/n, you’ve been wanting this forever. I mean you and Satoru always talked about being the best dragon slayers on the Isle of Berk! I remember when you guys would go around, swords in hand and act like you guys with fighting dragons. And somehow you were always the slayer, which made Satoru have to be the dragon. He always let you win too. It was always the funniest and cutest thing to watch. I mean what happened to that dream?”

“It just went away dad. I mean it’s not like you don’t have a future chief. Satoru is the best thing for this village, we both know that. We both have known that for years. He will lead us to greatest after you leave your post.” You dropped your eyes as your father’s face dropped but then picked right back up again.

“You are just spouting nonsense. I know you want to be a dragon slayer. This is just a phase, you are going to training tomorrow. So rest up and eat well, I’m going back to find the dragon’s nest, so don’t wait up for me. I shall be back soon.” He grabbed a weapon and a sack and left. That was all. Didn’t listen to you at all. But I mean, what’s new? You went to change into some less heavy clothes and fell asleep, to prepare for dragon training. Like that was going to go well.

(Ok so i don’t know if i want to keep the story on track as the movie, or venture off a bit. cause i feel like it would be a bit boring to have a copy and paste story line. but let me know your thoughts or something’s you would like to see happen!!)