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ifonlyyuweremine · 10 days ago

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Terms of Lease

Johnny (Soap) McTavish x F Reader

Synopsis— After your landlord raised the price on your flat, you’re left scrambling for a last minute roommate. Luckily or unluckily for you, a certain Scotsman with a shady work background seems to be the perfect candidate for a flat-mate.

Word count: 22.3k

Tags— Smut, strangers to friends to lovers, mild violence, slow burn, mild danger, Scottish men with red flags, cannon divergence?

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Modern 2-Bedroom Co-Living Apartment in Manchester City Centre, Price: £1,060/month per room (all bills included).

Description: "Fully furnished ensuite rooms in a contemporary two-bedroom apartment. Shared kitchen and living area. Flexible short stays. No deposit required."

Your fingers hovered over your laptop's keypad, switching between sleek photos of your kitchen in good lighting and the empty spare room across the hall. Everything had been perfectly curated: the listing had gone up, pictures had been taken, and your contact information had been provided.

All that was left was to wait for someone to bite the bait and take the room.

You glanced back over your shoulder to stare at the door to the spare room, a slight grimace settling onto your lips. You hadn’t intended to have a roommate; the whole point of moving to Manchester was to get away from a poor living situation. Not bounce from one to the other.

But alas, private education was not free. Your psychology degree wouldn’t pay for itself, and neither would your apartment. You’d managed to snag a part-time job at the pub down the street to ease some of the financial burden.

However, your landlord had been so kind as to raise the rent. Which brought you here, stuck endlessly re-scrolling your apartment listing, hoping someone would click. There was a sour kind of irony in having fought so hard for your own space, only to be forced into sharing it with a stranger.

You subconsciously gnawed at your bottom lip in worry; what if you didn’t find someone in time? Or worse, what if the person you ended up co-living with turned out to be a psychotic serial killer?

You shivered as your mind dug up endless Reddit threads about roommate horror stories.

Note to self: conduct thorough background checks.

You sighed, your head lulling back against one of the couch cushions. Well, at least if your hypothetical roommate did end up axe-murdering you in your sleep, there was free healthcare to make up for it on the odd chance that you survived.

A small noise chimed from your laptop, interrupting your train of thought. You looked at the screen. A small red dot was attached to the message icon of your contact listing. You clicked on the icon.

Message: “Hi, I’m interested in the available room. Any chance you could provide more details?”

You stared at the text briefly, your fingers hovering motionless over the keys. “Seems normal enough,” You muttered. You glanced at the name of the messenger, “-Okay…Johnny McTavish, let’s see if you’re going to axe murder me in my sleep.”

Message (You): “Of course, I’d be happy to send you more of the details…”

. . . . . ◟੭

In hindsight, was taking the first offer for the spare room an intelligent decision? No, probably not. However, you had worked yourself into an anxious spiral, fearing that this was your one and only shot.

So much for conducting thorough background checks.

Whatever information you did manage to get seemed normal enough, nothing that screamed “roommate from hell.”

You thought back on everything you knew about your soon-to-be housemate. His name was Johnny, he was in his mid-twenties, and he was in Manchester to “sort a few things out, " whatever that meant.

He also had a job; what he did exactly, you didn’t know. The term “security” seemed like a pretty general job description.

But, as a fellow person with trust issues, you couldn’t fault him for being slightly vague. As long as he could pay his half of the rent and co-exist with you like a normal person, you didn’t quite care to learn the nitty-gritty details.

Despite his elusiveness, everything else seemed to check out. So, you went ahead and arranged a date for him to tour the apartment before he officially moved in.

Speaking of, you glanced back at the wall clock. Watching the small hand point to the four mark, as if on cue, you heard someone knock on the door. Your eyebrows furrowed together. Punctual.

You stood up, making your way over to the door and wrapping your hand around the knob to pull it forward.

You weren’t sure what you were expecting, but whatever it was, was miles away from the person standing at your doorstep. He was tall and broad, with large shoulders and pale skin. His hair was brown. It was shaved down at the sides, making the middle portion slightly longer. It was almost like he had decided to shave it into a mohawk and gave up halfway through.

His face was angular, with a strong jaw and soft stubble. His eyes were a shade of pale blue, almost grey, framed by dark eyelashes. And he was dressed in a simple cotton T-shirt and jeans.

By the time your mind caught up with your eyes, he had started to speak. His hand held a small piece of paper the size of a Post-it note with an address scribbled down. “Excuse me—Lass, don’t suppose you’re the one who posted the room ad?”

His voice was thick and deep, shrouded by a heavy Scottish accent. You had to force your jaw shut before you started gaping like a fish.

He gave you a funny look the longer you stood there, his eyes darting from side to side. “Hope I’m not early.” He said, breaking the silence.

You shook your head, regaining the ability to put thoughts into words. “No,” you said, blinking hard. “You’re-uh, on time.”

His face broke into a smile. “Oh, great, then.” He shoved the small paper into the pocket of his jeans. His other hand extended forward. After you realized he was offering a handshake, you extended your own to meet his.

“I’m Johnny,” he said as his hand squeezed yours.

“[Name],” You replied. As you pulled away, your palm tingled. His hand was warm and rough, leaving a lingering spark on your fingertips.

He brushed past you with an easy, practiced gait. Confident. Like he’d walked into a hundred strange rooms before this one. “Nice place,” he said, glancing around. “You decorated it yourself?”

“Yeah. And I clean it myself too. So, shoes off by the door.”

He paused, then gave you a mock salute before toeing off his boots.

You walked back in, shutting the door behind you gently. You folded your arms. “So, Johnny. What brings you to Manchester?”

Of course, you had already asked him that beforehand. However, you figured you had a better chance of getting a narrower answer if you asked him in person.

He smiled, looking back over at you. “Bit of leave. Needed somewhere quiet to crash while I sort a few things.”

Internally, you slumped. The same vague, useless answer he’d given you before.

“You mentioned you work in… security?”

“Something like that.” He walked further into the apartment, making his way over to the kitchen. “Won’t be around much, no late nights. No parties.”

This guy wasn’t letting up.

No matter, you had plenty of time to investigate later. For now, as long as he paid the rent and stayed out of your way, everything would go smoothly. Plus, the whole point of the tour was for both of you to suss each other out and get an idea of who you’d be spending the next few months with.

Johnny wasn’t hard to look at, so you supposed there was a pro there. Maybe a suspiciously attractive Scotsman crashing in your flat wasn’t exactly what you needed, but it wouldn’t hurt.

“Well,” you said, “feel free to look around. Only thing that’s off limits is my room, second door on the right.” You pointed to one of the doors further down the hallway from the kitchen.

Johnny nodded as you spoke, “Yes, ma’am.”

“If you’d like, I can show you where your room is.” You offered, to which he accepted, following closely behind as you pushed the spare room door open.

It wasn’t much to look at, an empty bed-frame, a closet, a window, standard stuff. You glanced back at him, “Sorry, it’s a bit barren at the moment. Hopefully, you weren’t expecting a fully furnished bedroom.”

Johnny shook his head, walking past you to stand in the middle of the empty space. His hands set firmly on his hips as he looked around, “No apologies needed, Lass. Looks exactly like the photo, s’all that matters.

“Though,” he said, looking back at you. “I wouldn’t expect my decorating capabilities to match up to yours. Just to keep expectations low.”

A slight smile grazed your lips, “Noted.”

Johnny looked back at you, brushing off his hands like he had just gotten through with a day's work. “Should do just fine,” he said, “-I can move in as early as Wednesday, no rush though. I’ll give you a bit to think about it.”

You thought about it, chewing on the inside of your lip. That was early, however, Johnny seemed like a nice guy. Who knew when another opportunity for a housemate would arise? Maybe you were rushing into things, but rent was due by the end of the month. And with that subtle push you nodded.

“Wednesday it is.” You said.

. . . . . ◟੭

The smell lifted your head from the pillow before you were fully conscious enough to know you’d woken up.

You shifted, hands fisting the thick material of your comforter. It was dim, a warm light flooding through the crack in your door. You bitterly brought your hands up to rub the sleep from your sockets. Your nose wrinkling up with the dismay of being conscious again.

Your scalp ached dully; you reached back to scratch it when you realized you hadn’t taken your hair out from its ponytail the night before.

You grimaced, shifting until you were in an upright position. Apparently, you hadn’t bothered to change into pajamas the night before either, considering you were still clad in your work clothes—black jeans and a matching T-shirt with the pub’s logo placed in the top right corner of the shirt. With the addition of a black apron that reached your hips.

You smelled like a brewery.

An unfortunate side effect of working as a bartender. You let out a deep sigh, rubbing your hand over your neck to work out the tenseness of the muscles.

After a beat, you smelled it again, not beer this time, it was breakfasty, like eggs. As soon as you registered what the smell was, you heard the subtle crackling of oil in a pan with a soft sizzling noise. You paused, had you been sleep-cooking and tucked yourself back into bed somehow? Was that even possible?

Images of a singed black countertop with a large flame hovering over a melting pan flashed before your eyes.

You shot out of bed in a panic.

Throwing open your door, you stumbled your way down the hallway, one hand leaning against the wall to hold yourself up. You were half-expecting to see your kitchen engulfed in flames, but instead, as soon as your eyes adjusted to the influx of light, you saw…skin?

Standing with their back facing you was a man, back on full display with loose grey sweatpants hanging around his hips. Pale skin accompanied defined back muscles and oddly cut brown hair atop his head.

You stood statue still, unsure of what to do. Whoever the person was turned around, most likely alerted by the unseemly amount of noise you had just made running into the kitchen half awake.

Blue eyes met yours. “Mornin’, sorry bout’ the noise, didn’t mean to wake you or anything, Lass.”

Oh.

Right, your mind finally seemed to catch up with the situation. You now have a roommate.

A very shirtless roommate at that.

You swallowed thickly. Last night was Wednesday. You were put on a last-minute shift because your co-worker called in sick. Your boss had called you begging for you to cover it, and due to your lack of backbone, you relented.

You thought back to the message you had sent Johnny:

Message (You): Hey Johnny, so sorry but I have to cover a shift tonight. Feel free to get settled in without me, I left the extra key under the welcome mat. Just let yourself in.

Message: No problem, thanks for the heads-up.

Somehow, the notion that he’d moved into your apartment had completely slipped your mind. You were so swamped last night due to the lack of help that you weren’t entirely surprised that you managed to forget another person was in your own apartment.

“Rough shift?”

You blinked, zoning back into the present moment. “I-uh, yeah, I guess you could say that.”

Now that he was facing you, you had a full view of his shirtless body. If he didn’t look big before, he sure as hell did now. His chest was wide, his abdomen carved from straight stone. It was like looking at one of those raunchy men’s-fitness magazine covers.

You forced yourself to tear your eyes away from his body and back to his face. “Sorry, I‘m just disoriented. Late night.” You said, swallowing thickly.

“No need for apologies, Lass. I get how it is.” Johnny shifted back to grab one of the spatulas sitting on the counter. Grabbing the pan on the stove and flipping the egg inside. “-You want one?” He said, gesturing to the egg.

You opened your mouth to refuse, but before you could, however, your stomach gave you away. A slight gurgling noise belched from your stomach, much to your embarrassment.

“Yes, that would be great. Thank you.” You muttered.

Johnny grinned at you, grabbing a plate from the overhead cupboard to place an egg there. Obviously, he had gotten acquainted with the layout of your kitchen while you were gone.

You gingerly took the plate with another small thanks, standing at the counter adjacent to him. Watching as he cracked the shell of another egg into the sizzling pan.

“You normally cook half-naked?” You mused, trying to fill the silence.

Johnny smiled, shrugging his broad shoulders as the egg cooked. “Sometimes, I can change if you’re uncomfortable.” He said, glancing back at you.

You shook your head, albeit a little too quickly. “Not a problem, just curious.”

Before you could grab a piece of cutlery, he beat you to it. Holding out a fork in your direction, you paused, extending your hand forward to take it. As you grabbed the metal, your fingers brushed against his. His hand was just as warm as you remembered.

Your fingers twitched, jerking back like the contact had burned your skin.

Johnny raised a brow at your skittishness. “You alright there?” He spoke casually.

“Just tired.” You lied, forcing yourself to look down at the plate as you cut your egg in half.

Maybe it was the lack of sleep. Or the surprise. Or the sheer warmth of his palm brushing against yours. Either way, it lingered longer than it should have.

You couldn’t remember the last time you had a man in your flat, nor could you recall the last time someone had cooked you breakfast…or touched you, for that matter.

As startled as you were, it wasn’t an unwelcome interaction. Just…unexpected.

Living alone had made you hyperaware of how foreign touch seemed to be in your life. Maybe that’s why you felt like you were being electrocuted when your fingers brushed.

You took a bite of your egg; “This is good, thank you,” you spoke.

Johnny nodded, “Got to earn my keep somehow.” He said, loading the last of the eggs onto his plate.

He stood parallel to you, plate in hand, as he ate. It was silent for a moment, filled with the sounds of metal cutlery clanking against the ceramic plates.

Johnny was the first to break the silence, “I’ll be out this evening. Probably get back late, but I’ll try my best to keep quiet.”

You looked back at him, curiosity in your stare. “Does this have anything to do with your job in ‘security ?’” You mused.

He didn’t respond for a beat, “Something like that, yeah.”

You ate in silence for the remainder of the morning. You weren’t sure what he was really doing, and he clearly wasn’t about to tell you. But the eggs were good, and for now, that was enough.

. . . . . ◟੭

You had never considered living with someone to be ‘nice.’ It was convenient at the best of times, downright painful at the worst.

Sharing a space with someone meant opening yourself up to a variety of ways your privacy could be violated. You’d promised yourself that after you cut contact with your family, nobody from beyond that point would be able to violate you in the ways they did.

With time, your distrust of people slowly subsided; it ebbed and flowed most days. But when you concluded you needed to find a random roommate, your anxiety returned, almost like it’d never left.

However, the minute Johnny walked in, with his stupid Scottish accent, his odd habits, and elusive work life. Your previous fears seemed to slip away.

And now you could afford to pay your rent on top of university, which was always great.

Somehow, in the span of a few weeks, you and Johnny settled into a shared routine. Three days a week, you would get up for your morning classes to find a coffee already waiting on the kitchen counter.

Johnny was a freakishly early riser.

You would go to your class and come back with lunch, which Johnny was always present for. You’d either eat at the kitchen counter or, more recently, eat while walking around the small park near your complex.

By the time you finished, you usually had enough time to shower or work out before getting ready for your late shift at the pub.

Johnny was home for most of the day; he worked mostly nights. So, you tended to get back to the flat from working around the time he would leave. Each time he left, you had a silent understanding not to ask.

You never brought up his work, the answer was always the same. He would either shut you down immediately or find a way to deflect.

That didn’t stop you from wondering, though, because you did. You watched him like a hawk, gathering small pieces of information to hopefully create a clear image of what exactly he did when he went to work. Unfortunately, you never got far.

You caught small things, his hushed voice on the phone in the late hours of the night, a stack of papers hanging messily off of his dresser, dog tags dangling from his neck, which were almost always hidden in his shirt.

Obviously, he didn’t work your typical 9-5, you were sure of that. However, his odd hours, which left him absent well into the night and into morning, left you grasping at strings, trying to put the pieces together.

You had your theories, sure, but it was just that, a theory. You couldn’t very well spy on him during the night either.

But spending so much time during the day at the apartment apparently gave him countless opportunities to fix the place up.

Johnny proved to be an excellent handyman. Within the first few days, he fixed your leaky kitchen sink—then the creaky floorboard near your room, then the flickering kitchen light, and so on.

You also managed to convince him to teach you Scottish slang like “Eejit” (Idiot), “Blether” (Chatter-box), and your personal favorite: “Yer lookin’ a bit peely wally” (Meaning you’re looking ill).

No matter how often you heard him mutter under his breath in Scott, you couldn’t hold back your snickers. However, apparently saying “it just sounds funny” wasn’t a good enough response when he inquired about the roots of your amusement.

Alas, all things considered, things were going well. It wasn’t perfect harmony, but things were quiet, even domestic.

It was a Friday, and you were scheduled for the late shift at the pub, from 10pm to 2am closing. You mentally prepared yourself to be accosted by swarms of people who were there to get shit-faced while watching football (or soccer, whatever you call it).

Friday was your least favorite shift because it was the busiest, but your boss seemed to enjoy taking part in watching you suffer. So, begrudgingly, you got dressed and put your hair up. Swiping your house keys from off the kitchen table, you announced your departure to the empty room, a habit you’d picked up from living with someone else. Johnny knew your schedule anyway, but it was the polite thing to do.

Just as you feared, the minute you walked into the pub, you were hit with the stench of body odor and brewery. It was a madhouse, with people packed in booths and standing in clusters on the open floor between tables.

The bar was packed, too, with people lining the stools and any open space they could. The TVs turned up to the max on the sports channel.

“Oh, thank god you’re here.”

You turned as someone grabbed ahold of your hand; a middle-aged woman dressed in the same uniform stood in front of you. She had kind eyes with slight bags and medium-length thinning hair pulled back into a claw clip.

“Janet.” You breathed, “What’s going on in here? Did all of Manchester decide to show up?” You spoke, taking in the state of the bar.

She let out an exasperated breath, “Looks like it, doesn’t it? No, just another one of those sports cups.”

You nodded in bewilderment; you knew there was a reason you should’ve been keeping up with British sports games. Maybe then you would’ve had the hindsight to call in sick.

She sighed, “You better get behind that bar, love. Before Arthur quits for good this time.” Pointing at the bartender currently behind the bar, a scowl plastered to his reddish face.

You gently patted her shoulder in sympathy, “He always says that, but he never does.” You said cooley, trying to ease her worries. You pushed her away from the rearing crowds as you went over to relieve Arthur of his duties.

You somehow managed to hold down the fort (more or less) with help from Janet and some of the other staff for the next 4 hours. The crowds had slowly depleted and all that remained was the stragglers.

You looked down at the counter, more specifically at the damage. Some of the syrups would need to be refilled, the trash was practically overflowing, and you didn’t even have the heart to look at the drip tray. Whatever mystery liquid was brewing inside that silicone tray was likely radioactive by now.

An hour till closing, and the minutes couldn’t possibly pass any slower.

You turned around, grabbing the trash and tying the top in a knot. Maybe getting started with clean-up would help the shift pass by quicker.

To say you were tired was an understatement; it was a miracle you were still standing.

However, the trash refusing to come out of the bin didn’t help your case.

You gave it a few sharp tugs, your frustration growing with each failed attempt. You were about to give it another go before you heard one of the stools being pulled out behind your bar.

Taking a deep breath, you tried to compose yourself. You brushed your apron off, turning around with what you hoped was a welcoming smile.

“Don’t suppose you could fashion me a drink, aye, Bonnie?”

You did a double take; you knew that voice. “Johnny, " you breathed. Lo and behold, your Scotsman was sitting on a barstool right before you.

His lips stretched into an amused grin at your surprise. Looking you up and down at your disheveled attire, he raised an eyebrow. “Jeez, I would ask how the shift’s going, but I’m not sure I want to know, " he mused.

You groaned, rubbing your hands over your face. “You have no idea.” You said, exasperated.

You leaned against the bar, shoulders slumped. “It was terrible; the sports cup was on tonight, so everyone and their mother came here to get pissed. I swear it was like a war zone in here; some guy almost puked on me while I was taking out the trash, and another one spilled his pint all over the counter.” You said, gesturing to the bar that you were currently leaning against.

“-Oh, and another one got all up in my face for giving him the wrong beer.” You recalled, making Johnny raise a brow.

“Did he now?” He said.

You nodded, rubbing your temples to soothe the ache that pounded at your head. “Yeah, he had to get dragged off by someone else.”

You let your forehead drop on the table with a soft thunk, not the most sanitary thing to do, but you were too tired to care.

Johnny let out a soft chuckle, patting the top of your head as to convey his sympathies. You looked up to meet his gaze, “What are you doing here? I thought you worked nights?”

He shrugged his shoulders, “Got tonight off.” He said. You nodded, figuring it was a good enough answer in your book.

“Now—uh, bout’ that beer…” He said with an impish smile.

You rolled your eyes, pushing off the counter to stand back up. “Yeah, you’ll get your drink.” You said, grabbing a glass and moving over to the beer tap. You caught one of the handles, putting the glass underneath the tap.

However, Johnny raised his hands to stop you. “Hey, I ain’t even told you which one I wanted.” He said, eyebrows pinched together in offense.

You shot him a look, “You’ll get what I give you.”

He seemed to have received the message, graciously accepting the glass with a smile and a nod. After a sip, he conceded a little, “Thanks, Lass.”

You waved him off, “Don’t mention it, doll face.” You said sarcastically, “-After all, you’re still paying for it.” You spoke as you returned to the trash, grasping the knot and pulling it hard.

By the grace of God, the trash bag was lifted from the bin, and you hoisted it up and onto the floor so you could drag it to the back door. There was already another one sitting against the door that you’d left hours prior, making the job just a bit more annoying.

You pushed the back door open, cold air hitting your face. It was dark. The back alley near the trash bins was poorly lit and smelled of cigarettes and rotting food.

You stood in the doorway for a beat. Then you shut the door.

Now, you liked to think of yourself as a strong, independent woman. But even strong women had their limits. And tonight—cold, tired, and alone behind a bar—it was starting to feel like yours was being tested.

You chewed on your bottom lip. Usually, one of the other bartenders or staff took out the trash. But they’d all left after the rush passed, leaving you to fend for yourself during the closing shift.

“Johnny.” You said, popping back from around the corner. “How about a deal?”

He looked over at you, his pale eyes scanning your face with skepticism. One of his dark brows raised, “Aye, what’s the deal?”

“You don’t have to pay for your drink, but you have to help me take out the trash.” You said, silently praying he would.

“Deal.” He said almost immediately. Standing up from his seat, he walked around to meet you.

You led him down the hallway to the back door, the trash bags sitting idle against the door. You reached down to grab one of them, “I’ll take one, and you can grab the other.”

Before you lifted it, he swatted your hand away. “Bonnie, who do ya’ take me for?” He said, amused. Reaching over and grabbing your trash bag with one hand and grabbing the second bag with his other hand.

He lifted the bags easily, the glass bottles inside clanking together. You looked at him, forcing your eyes to tear away his biceps. Clearing your throat, you pushed the door open, “Show-off.” You said under your breath.

The small rush of cold air hit you again, sending goosebumps pebbling against your skin. But now that someone was with you, your unease faded away into static.

Johnny made quick work of the bags. With you holding the bin's lid open, he easily tossed them into its dark mouth. You sighed, brushing off your hands. “Great, thanks for the help.”

You looked back up to meet his gaze, to which he was already looking your way. You held his stare for a brief moment, unmoving.

He looked good like this (somehow), standing there in the dark. His hair had grown a bit longer, making it look like a real haircut instead of a half-assed mow-hawk. His eyes were a dark shade of blue, almost grey. Small flecks of warm light from the dim streetlamp glassed over his pupils.

Johnny blinked, clearing his throat into his hand. “Aye, happy to help.” He said, walking back to the door and holding it open for you to go through.

You ducked inside, happy to be out of the cold night air. He followed suit, letting the door swing shut behind him. The air had gained a thick tension, one you didn’t understand how or why it was there.

Like a thick fog that lingered between your bodies, it filled your ears with cotton and clung heavily to your tongue like syrup.

Your brows furrowed; you didn’t understand it. He was just looking your way; why did the gesture suddenly feel so much bigger than it actually was?

Johnny seemed to have picked up on your sudden discomfort, bumping his shoulder with yours. “Penny for your thoughts?”

You weren’t exactly sure how to answer, so you shook your head. Chalking it up to your lethargic brain, “Don’t suppose you want to help me with closing now, do you?” You said to him instead.

Your voice holds a sarcastic but underlying hopefulness.

He eyed you, “Depends. What do I get for it?” He said with a wry smile as you walked back into the heart of the bar.

“My everlasting thanks,” You breathed humorously. “…And I’ll buy your next round.”

“You’ve got yourself a deal.” He grinned.

You nodded, eyes catching his for just a moment too long.

It was just a favor. Just a drink. Just a shift.

. . . . . ◟੭

Manchester was a grim scene, thick and heavy rainclouds loomed over rooftops. Shrouding the surrounding area in a dark mask of grey and blue. Soft raindrops hit against your window, progressively growing in size.

You looked up from the sink, hands soaked in steaming hot water mixed with dish soap. Various plates and cutlery sitting in the murky water.

Your small window wasn’t much, but even you could watch the streets pool with shallow puddles.

Johnny sat on the couch a few feet away in the living room area, sprawled in his usual corner, his long legs propped on the coffee table, one arm slung across the backrest. He was watching the telly, though his eyes didn’t really seem to be following what was on. Something old was playing—grainy black-and-white, probably for background noise more than anything else.

You looked back out at the window, taking in the sounds of the rain. You didn’t think much of it, Manchester had storms all the time. You liked the sound of rain, even. It was comforting, in a weird, nostalgic way.

Then the first rumble hit.

It was like someone had beat on a drum from far away, the sound reverberating off your ears and causing you to perk up again.

Another rumble followed a few seconds later, closer this time. The small overhead light above the sink flickered.

You looked up, squinting at the flickering light.

Withdrawing your hands from the sink, you grabbed one of the dish towels and wiped the soap bubbles from your fingers.

You turned over your shoulder and walked into the living room. Glancing at the TV, you threw the dishtowel on the edge of the couch's headrest.

“I think we’re gonna have a storm tonight.” You said, leaning over the edge of the couch slightly.

Johnny looked at you, “Yeah?” He asked.

As if to illustrate your point, another low roar of thunder came over the living room. You glanced back at Johnny, his fingers curling white-knuckled around the armrest. He grimaced, flopping his head back against the couch cushions. “Fuckin’ hate storms,” He breathed.

You raised an eyebrow at his grip strength on the poor couch, shrugging your shoulders. “Shouldn’t be too bad, just a bit of thunder and lightning. They would have sent out a weather alert if it were anything to write home about.”

Johnny gave a long sigh in return; obviously, he wasn’t thrilled about the weather. You opened your mouth to say something else when the overhead lights flickered again, causing you and Johnny to snap your heads up.

After another moment of flickering, Johnny looked back at you, “I hope you have candles.”

You hesitated momentarily, unsure if the single scented candle you kept in your room would do the job if the power went out. “I have a candle.” You replied.

He raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “A single candle,” he deadpanned. “What a’bout flashlights?”

“That I have,” you said, happy to give him some good news. You quickly returned to the kitchen, digging through a drawer of miscellaneous objects. You fished out a small flashlight, proudly walking back over to Johnny to show him.

“See?” You said, pressing the small button at the bottom of the flashlight. Unfortunately, the light remained out.

You clicked it again…and again…and again, but it failed to illuminate despite your efforts.

You sheepishly looked back at Johnny, who was now pinching the bridge of his nose between his pointer and thumb. “It’s fine, Johny,” you said, waving off his concern. “What are the chances the power will go out anyway?”

Well, the power went out.

Around eight or nine, everything plunged into darkness after a particularly close strike of lighting. Neither you nor Johnny were scheduled to work, so when it did go out, you were halfway through brushing your teeth.

You blinked—still dark. You felt around for the sink, spitting out the last of your toothpaste.

“Johnny?” You called out, pushing the bathroom door open. You could navigate pretty well in the dark since you knew the layout like the back of your hand. But you still felt around the walls and put your arms out blindly as to not run into anything.

The flat remained silent. Your brows furrowing together at his lack of response, “Johnny!” You called out louder, waiting for him to respond.

You listened for his voice, but it stayed quiet like the last time. You frowned, suddenly on edge from the silence.

Your fingers slid along the walls, feeling the slight grittiness of the paint. You didn’t understand why he wasn’t responding. “Johnny, where are you?” you called out, your voice tinged with frustration.

“Johnny, this isn’t funny! Talk to me.” You bit out, growing more frantic with each failed response.

You silently cursed yourself for not getting more batteries for that flashlight. Your voice was loud; there was no chance that he couldn’t hear you. Maybe he was ignoring you? But that wasn’t like him; your mind started to conjure up worst-case scenarios. What if he was hurt? Or passed out? What if he had a seizure and died?

You knew it was silly to overthink, but you couldn’t help it. Your mind proved to be your worst enemy sometimes, and this was one of those times.

Your hand slid over the familiar ridges of a door frame, Johnny’s room! You felt around for the knob, hoping that maybe you’d find him there. You pushed the door open, holding your arms out in front of you like a blind man. Your legs are shaky and slow, trying your best not to accidentally step on something or stub a toe.

“Johnny?” You breathed, voice lower.

You took another step, your arm dripping down to feel for a desk or the bed. Instead, your hand brushed over something warm and sturdy, you felt it flinch. Yelping in surprise, you drew back like an open flame had scorched your hand.

“Fuck!” Came a loud masculine voice.

Ah, so that’s where he was.

You heard something hard hit against wood, cringing when you realized it was probably Johnny. A slight hiss of pain confirmed your speculation, “What’s wrong with you?” He bit out.

You couldn’t see anything, but his voice came lower to the ground, deepening your confusion. “What? What do you mean by ‘what's wrong with me’? I was calling for you because the lights went out, and you didn’t answer me. I got worried and came in here.” You seethed, your heart palpitating from the adrenaline.

“I’m well aware the lights are out, [Name].” He responded, “You can’t just come up out of nowhere and scare me like that.” He said, his voice aggravated.

Your frown deepened. “I called your name, Johnny. Multiple times.” You huffed. “-What are you even doing on the floor?”

There came a beat of silence, “I’m…Y’know, grounding myself.” He said awkwardly.

You paused, “Grounding yourself.” You repeated.

You knew what grounding oneself meant, safely speaking. However, you were unsure if he was literally grounding himself, considering he was sitting on the floor from what you could tell.

You heard him sigh, “Yes, it’s like something you learn in therapy. Something a’bout dealing with stressful situations.”

You didn’t respond for a moment, your mind processing his words. Slowly, you crouched down to meet him on the floor. “You didn’t tell me you were stressed.” You said, hoping you were at least talking in his direction.

“I told you; I don’t like storms.” He responded.

For some reason, you had a feeling it wasn’t just the storm. You pursed your lips together tightly, trying to conjure up something to say. Yet, you were coming up empty-handed, the downpour from outside filling the room's silence.

Even with your knowledge of the human brain and the cookie-cutter steps to comfort someone, you didn’t think he deserved a rehearsed ‘I’m sorry about that; why don’t we dive deeper into the root cause of this fear?’

You sighed, “I’m sorry for scaring you. I didn’t mean to; I was just worried about why you weren’t responding.”

“It’s fine, Bonnie. I shouldn’t have yelled either.”

Another beat of silence followed, and you gently sat down, back pressed against the wooden bed frame. “I don’t want to force you into saying anything you don’t want to…” You started, your voice unsure. “But, if you want to talk about anything, I’d be more than willing to listen.”

“What’s there to talk a’bout?” He said avoidantly.

You tilted your head toward his voice; it was clear as day that he was dancing around whatever was bothering him. However, he seemed to have felt your stare through the darkness.

“I just…get like this sometimes. With loud noises, I’m usually better a’bout keepin’ it under control. S’just with the power going out and all…” He trailed off.

You didn’t need him to finish his sentence to understand. The message he was trying to get across was clear. But he kept going before you could respond.

“Maybe it’s not the noise,” he said after another beat. “It’s the waiting for it. Not knowing when it’s gonna hit.”

You sat there in stillness, the rain and wind outside filling the gaps of silence like static. “Is there anything that helps with it?” You asked slowly.

Johnny considered it for a moment. “Sitting down helps,” he exhaled. “Breathing does, too, the slow kind.” You nodded along with his words.

You inadvertently took a deep breath, breathing in for four seconds and holding it for the same amount of time, then exhaling for another four seconds. You repeated the steps, and the sound of your breath soon matched that of his.

You stayed like that, breathing, letting the seconds pass.

Eventually, the thunder softened to a low murmur, rolling lazily across the sky like a tired lion. The sharp cracks were gone now, distant enough to feel unreal. You weren’t sure how much time had gone by. Ten minutes? An hour?

In that time, Johnny had shifted and was now shoulder to shoulder with you on the floor, backs pressed against the bed frame. You hadn’t said much. You figured he didn’t need the noise.

Eventually, he spoke, voice low. “Didn’t mean to make it your problem.”

You glanced at him; even though the room was shrouded in darkness, you could make out the shape of his face. “It’s not a problem.” He gave you a half-laugh through his nose, not quite convinced.

You bumped your knee against his gently. “I just don’t want you going through it alone. That’s all.”

There was a long pause. Then you felt it—his hand, brushing against yours. Barely touching. A test.

You didn’t pull away. Neither did he.

Instead, he let his fingers hook around yours. Not tightly. Not completely. Just enough.

Just enough to say thank you, without saying a word.

. . . . . ◟੭

The weeks flow on after the thunderstorm without much change. Everything seemed to go back to normal. However, there was a shift in trust. It wasn’t much; barely even noticeable. But you could sense it, sense how the edge was taken off when he spoke to you.

And you held fingers with someone else for the first time in a long time. A small amount of intimacy that held more weight than you wanted it to.

Whatever you felt, you pushed it down. Burying its ugly head like an ashamed child because, in some ways, you knew it was childish.

It was childish to expect so much change from so little and to hope for something more to come out of it.

Because after Johnny “sorted things out,” he would be on his merry way. And you’d be left alone again.

You tapped your mechanical pencil against your temple, staring down at your notebook spread across the kitchen table. Surrounding it was your laptop, open to your lecture notes from the previous day.

Highlighters and sticky notes littered the space around the table, creating a colorful display against the brown surface of the wood.

Your environment was surrounded by material, but your mind was everywhere but what you were supposed to be studying for. You groaned, stabbing the eraser of your pencil harder into your temple.

It wasn’t like you to space out so much, but it had been getting more difficult to focus lately.

You glanced down at your phone, the time flashing at you again, reading 2:34 AM.

After spending so many shifts closing at the pub, you’d acclimated to the nightlife. Maybe you could change your career to that of a vampire. You probably had about another hour till you’d be able to sleep. Which meant forcing yourself to keep studying.

If you weren’t going to sleep, you could at least be doing something productive.

The warm kitchen light spread across the table, illuminating the area in a soft glow. Your phone at half-volume shuffling your study playlist.

Click.

Your face snapped towards the sound of the lock at your front door being opened. The doorknob turned slowly as the door was pushed open.

In stepped Johnny, clad in his jeans and boots with a solid color t-shirt and a thick coat-jacket. His keys dangling from his outstretched hand, and his blue eyes staring at you in confusion.

“You’re still up? Thought you didn’t work tonight.” He said, closing the door behind him.

“I don’t,” you said. “Couldn’t sleep, figured I’d study instead.”

“Ah, gotcha.” He said, toeing off his boots and shuffling off his coat-jacket. He hung it loosely off the coat rack, reaching behind his neck to work out the taut muscles.

His brown hair was slightly messy, no longer a mow-hawk but now a slightly disheveled short style. His sides were still slightly shorter than the middle chunk of his hair, but it looked good. He looked good.

You glanced away, feeling silly for staring at him. Warmth creeping up into your cheeks like the mere image of him set you ablaze.

He came over to where you sat, hovering next to you. He took one look at your note page before walking back over to the kitchen, “I would offer to help, but I can’t understand anything on that page, Lass.” He said humorously.

You sighed, scratching the back of your head. “I guess we’ve got that in common, " you said hopelessly, staring back down at your notes, which were progressively looking more like hieroglyphics than English.

He laughed, pulling a glass from the cupboard and going to the fridge to fill a glass of water. The soft hum of the refrigerator blending in with your music.

Your song ended, transitioning into a softer, more nostalgic melody. It was one of those old-school love songs with an upbeat tone and chorus, even with its slow instrumentals. Johnny drifted back to the dining room where you sat, watching you rub your temples in exhaustion.

He glanced down at your phone on shuffle play. “This what you study to, Bonnie?” he asked, a grin on his face as the cheesy tune played.

You brushed him off, used to his teasing by now. “Helps me think, " you murmured back, too tired to engage. Looking back at your laptop, you winced at the blue light, squinting as best you could so as not to get a headache.

Johnny stayed silent for a beat, looking down at you.

Without warning, he reached out and shut your laptop. Making you blink in confusion, you glanced back at him. “Wha-“

“Dance with me.” He said, cutting you off.

You stared at his face, eyes scanning his features to detect any signs of teasing or a joke. But you couldn’t find a trace of humor in his face. You raised an eyebrow, unsure what to make of his blatant command.

“What? Why?” You said, eyebrows furrowing together.

His face broke out into a boyish grin. Reaching out, he took your hands. “Because this is a good song, Bonnie, " he said smoothly.

The mechanical pencil you had been holding clattered down on the table. You hesitated for a moment, surprised by the contact. But you let him gently pull you up and out of your chair.

He pulled you over to where there was more open space, the song playing in the background.

Johnny guided your right hand until you looped it around his neck, holding your left as his free hand snaked around your torso. He was warm, like every time you had touched him, just like a furnace.

Your palm cupped the back of his neck, fingers brushing against the soft hair near his nape. Your other hand gently held in his, the pads of his fingers rough and calloused. He had the hands of someone who had grit, but the way he held you suggested everything but. His grasp on your hand and your side was light and gentle, like he was holding glass.

You sucked in a hollow breath as you started to sway, shuffling your feet to and fro with the rhythm of the song.

He was close. Like, really close.

Your eyes darted to meet his for a fraction of a second, scared to make eye contact for too long. Looking at him this close made you nervous and uneasy.

You felt stiff, the awkwardness of your movements stemming from your nerves. You breathed a half-laugh through your nose at your clumsiness. “Sorry, I don’t make a smooth dancing partner.” You said lightly.

Johnny’s lip curved up into a small smile, one of amusement and fondness. “S’okay, just relax. I got you.” He said, the raspiness of his voice sending shivers down your spine. His voice was so close to your ear, making it hard to focus on anything but his breath.

You swallowed thickly. Just relax, easy peasy.

You inhaled slowly, taking a deep breath to calm your growing nerves. You didn’t understand how you managed to get worked up so much in the span of a few seconds. But Johnny seemed to have that effect on you.

The music continued softly, letting you focus on something else besides the rising heat in your face. After a few moments, you loosened up enough to be slightly more confident in your swaying abilities.

His hand on your side gently squeezed your torso, the pad of his thumb rubbing circles into the fabric of your shirt.

You slowly managed to look up at him, “This isn’t so bad.” You breathed, “Especially for a first time.” You added on.

One of his dark eyebrows raised, pale blue eyes looking at you quizzically. “You’ve never danced with anyone like this?” He asked, surprised.

You shook your head, shrugging your shoulders lightly. “Guess I never got around to it.”

His smile returned, the boyish smirk that you knew oh so well. “Well, that’s a bloody shame. You’re doin’ just fine.” He said, lightly teasing.

You let out a soft breath, rolling your eyes. “I just-” You stopped yourself, unsure. But after another moment, you continued, “-I guess I just never let anyone get that far. Even the small stuff, y’know? I know it’s a bad habit being so…untrusting, but it’s just been easier to breeze by without letting anyone in. But-uh, it’s nice, dancing—I mean.”

You glanced back at his eyes, holding his stare. Watching the way his eyes softened at your little spiel.

“Yeah, it is nice, isn’t it?” He replied, his voice softer.

You held his gaze, forcing yourself not to tear your eyes away. It was strange; you felt pulled to him like an electric current. Yet simultaneously, you wanted nothing more than to run away and dig yourself into a hole.

You felt your body pulse. When did your heart start to race?

It was beating so loudly you could hear it ringing in your ears, sending warmth blossoming across your cheeks.

Your faces were so close you could see the wisps of his dark eyelashes. You could make out the gentle creases that lingered near his eyes or the soft crook of his nose. Your eyes trailed lower, dipping down to the outline of his lips.

You caught the way he swallowed, his adam's apple bobbing in place. Your gaze flickered up, back to his eyes.

Somewhere along the line, you stopped swaying. However, neither of you seemed to notice.

Both of you seemed to recognize the significance of the moment, the thick tension that had developed between your bodies. It seemed to spark randomly like an open cable wire, waiting for someone to touch it.

Before you could think about anything too thoroughly, though, your lips seemed to connect along the way.

You felt your breath hitch at the contact, his lips warm and smooth. But whatever initial surprise you had faded into the yearning to be even closer.

Your hand slid into his hair, grasping at the brown locks like he’d disappear. You felt him sigh against your lips, pushing deeper.

You let him in, eagerly parting your lips for him. The slow and soft noises of lips moving against each other rang in your ears along with the music. The hand that held your torso slid along your back, pulling you closer to him.

The kiss was sweet but deep. It held so much tension and built-up emotion, you didn’t know where to start, weeks of occupying the same space and subtle contact all to lead up to this.

You felt his stubble brush against your skin, the warmth of his body making you dizzy. He nipped softly at your bottom lip, pulling the skin between his teeth. You whimpered, preening for something, anything.

His other hand let yours go, traveling up your waist to slide under your shirt—

Bzzzr…Bzzzzr

The tell-tale jingle of a call vibrated against his pocket; you broke apart. Startled by the sudden interruption. Standing inches away, breathless and wide-eyed.

You stared at him, snapped back into reality. It felt cold again, and your breath caught in your throat like someone had knocked the wind out of you.

Neither of you moved for a minute, too shocked to do anything but stand there. Then, Johnny cleared his throat, awkwardly reaching into his back pocket to pull out his phone. As he looked at the caller ID, he snapped his face back up at you, his eyes remorseful and guilty.

“Sorry, Bonnie. I’ve got to take this, work call.” He breathed; his voice strained.

He ducked out of the room, stepping out to take the call, leaving you a standing statue. The song slowly faded into the background as it came to its end.

You inhaled, looking around the room, bewildered. Your chest was tight. Your skin still tingled where he'd touched you.

What the hell had you just done?

. . . . . ◟੭

You weren’t sure what was worse, how easily Johnny had kissed you or how easily he seemed to forget it.

The night of the kiss still played fresh in your mind despite how much you willed it to go away. Whatever chances you had of protecting your friendship with him slipped through your fingers like dust the minute your lips touched.

You weren’t sure what you were expecting to happen afterwards, a discussion? A confession? Maybe just a small acknowledgment that it was real and not a vivid dream?

Instead, nothing happened.

The world kept spinning even though yours felt like it was crashing down.

Confronting it wouldn’t have been a problem, but it was the lack thereof that perturbed you. It was like the kiss didn’t matter—like you didn’t matter. And that alone ate at you more than the silence.

The days that followed felt bizarre. You were living with someone else, but at the same time, you’d never felt more alone.

You still woke up to a hot cup of coffee, but there was nobody on the other side of the kitchen counter to greet you or make fun of your bedhead. When you brought home lunch, there wasn’t anybody to tear through the flimsy plastic to-go bags like a hungry bear.

Johnny still acknowledged you when you left for a shift or got back home, but he didn’t look at you. And when he did, it was brief.

Most times, you didn’t even see him; he was gone for long stretches of time that left you questioning if he’d come back. Sometimes, a day or two passed without you seeing him, leaving you alone.

Sometimes, you found yourself waking up to the sound of his footsteps in the late hours, listening to the way his steps creaked against the wooden floorboards. You would watch the front door to his room, silently observing the shadow that passed underneath the door. As if to remind yourself that he was still there, that you didn’t lose him, even if it felt like you did.

But it was the small moments in passing that hurt you the most; you had been carrying your laundry back to your room, walking into the narrow hallway to get to your door. Only for Johnny to be on the other side, just emerging from his own room.

His shoulders tensed as soon as he saw you. His lips pulling into a civil, yet tight, smile.

He nodded at you before twisting his body to the side to brush past you. Yet even with his back pressed against the wall, his chest still brushed against your shoulder as you moved.

The contact was light, obviously accidental, but it made your gut twist sourly. Like the ghost of that night, of his hands on your body could still be felt.

You had also caught him in the kitchen at the crack of dawn, which meant he was already brewing coffee. He had just set your mug on the counter like he always did when you’d marched in.

Already dressed in his work boots and coat you eyed him up and down. “Morning,” you said hesitantly, grabbing the cup, bringing it to your lips, and taking a sip. It was perfect. Like always.

Johnny glanced at you, pouring the scalding black liquid into his thermos. “Mornin',” He replied politely.

You leaned against the counter, arms crossed over your body, silently observing him go about his morning tasks. You needed to say something, to ease the awkwardness that lingered in the air like toxic gas.

You cleared your throat, “You-uh, you’ve been working a lot recently.” You commented, trying to bridge the gap between each other.

Once again, he gave you a sideways glance. “Keeping busy.”

You wanted to ask why, to scream and shout, cry out to him; why was he doing this to you? Why either of you were too scared to address what happened. But you didn’t.

You stayed quiet and watched him leave. Not wanting to be the one to bring up the elephant in the room.

Pride is a bitter thing.

And both of you had let it ruin your friendship or whatever you had going on with him.

You missed it, you missed him, so desperately it hurt.

And you hated yourself for it; you hated how easily you’d slipped down the path of caring for another. And having him retreat like he did was a brutal punch to the gut and a harsh reminder of why you struggled so deeply with letting people in.

You cursed yourself for getting involved with a man who was just supposed to be a roommate. But he wasn’t, not now at least.

You dug through your laundry hamper, fishing out your work uniform. It was around ten past noon, and you’d been placed on the midday shift. You had class the next morning and practically begged your boss not to put you on another late night.

You slipped your shirt past your shoulders, brushing out the slight creases from the fabric. While fixing your hair, you caught your reflection in the standing mirror by your closet. You had slight bags under your eyes and a slight worry line forming on your upper brow.

You frowned; you hadn’t been sleeping well. And the combined anxiety of your classes paired with the shit-show of your co-living situation had taken its toll.

Your hand unconsciously tried smoothing your face. Trying to wipe the frown lines from your skin. You sighed when it proved unsuccessful, glancing back over to your vanity your makeup bag caught your attention. You wore makeup, but it had been a while since you’d really dressed yourself up for a shift.

Checking the time, you realized you still had half an hour until you needed to be at the pub. You peeked back over at your bag, reaching over to unzip the opening.

Look good, feel good, you thought. Maybe switching up your appearance was just what you needed; it couldn’t hurt.

You finished with just enough time to spare. When you caught your reflection in the mirror this time, your lips didn’t settle into a disappointed frown. You stared at yourself for a beat, trying to muster up a realtor-worthy smile.

You looked pretty, even if you didn’t feel your best.

“Get it together.” You muttered, taking one last look at yourself before leaving your room.

You passed Johnny on your way out; he looked like he had just gotten back. Halfway through untying the laces on his boots. He glanced up as you passed, and for a moment, his lips parted like he was going to say something. But they shut just as fast as they’d opened.

You tried not to be disappointed, pursing your lips tightly as you closed the door behind you.

The pub wasn’t overwhelmed with customers, to your relief. Since it was the afternoon shift, most people were still working or doing something more productive than day drinking.

Your eyes caught wind of a familiar black head of hair tied up in a claw clip. “Janet,” you said, perking up.

She glanced over at you at her name being called, her thin lips pulling into a bright smile when she noticed you standing there. “[Name]! You didn’t tell me you were on; you usually only work nights.” She said, a tray of food in her hand.

You made your way over. “I’ve got an early class tomorrow.” You said, watching as she set the tray down.

“Ah, well, that’s nice Mike put you on the afternoon shift,” she said, referring to your employer. “-Good thing, too, you’ve been looking so tired this week.” She said, not in a mean way. More of a worried motherly way. Yet it still had the same effect as a normal insult would, making you deflate a little.

You breathed a half-laugh through your nostrils, “Thanks, Janet.” You said through your teeth.

She crossed her arms, looking you up and down. “You look good, though; did you do something different?” She asked curiously.

You shook your head, not wanting to tell her you had just covered up your tiredness with more foundation. “Just got more sleep, I suppose.” You lied.

After catching up with Janet, you slipped over to the bar counter, beginning your usual routine of making drinks and pouring craft beers for men in their late 50s sitting at the bar watching the television.

For the most part, you didn’t have much to do. So, you spent most of your time either helping Janet when she needed a second hand or slipping beers into the back kitchen for the line cooks in exchange for fries.

But during the last hour of your shift, things started to pick up a bit, by now most 9-5’s had ended. Which meant that everyone came flocking to the club for a pint, of course.

At least you were busy; there was no room to think about what awaited you when you got home.

You saw someone slip into one of the open bar seats, turning your body, and you faced them. “Hi, what can I get for you?”

The man sitting down was tall, at least, you think he was based on his sitting position rising above some of the others around him. Definitely not bad looking either, good facial structure and soft brown eyes.

His eyes scanned the counter, then back up to you. “What do you recommend?” He asked, his arms crossed and resting on the counter in front of him.

“Well, our craft beer is always a safe bet,” you said, turning over to your counter and browsing the collection of ales. “There are also some specialty beers, like our barrel-aged ale. But if that’s not to your fancy, I can always make you something else, like an old-fashioned.”

He sat there for a moment, mulling over his options. “Don’t suppose you could decide for me? You seem like a trustworthy source.” He said, the corners of his lips pulling into a soft smile.

You nodded, “Yeah, I can do that.” You turned to the beer tap, truth be told, you weren’t actually thinking about what this guy would like. Beer was just the easiest thing to make, which saved time. You could already feel other people starting to crowd around the counter.

You slid the pint over to him, “Alright, hope I made a good choice.” You said with a smile, a nice tip in the back of your mind. “Do you want to start a tab?” You asked.

He looked at you, “Yeah…think I’ll stick around.”

Once you opened a tab for the man, you returned to helping other people; however, the same guy seemed to bleed his way through every interaction. You started to make pleasant conversation as you made drinks, nothing inherently new.

Through the conversation, you learned that his name was Thomas, he was in Manchester for work, and he was originally from the States. You bonded with him over the shared experiences of moving to the U.K. and the differences and similarities between the States and Britain.

Overall, he was a nice guy. Maybe he was a little too confident in some respects, but he wasn’t a pain to be around.

“So, what time do you get off?” He asked after maybe thirty minutes of conversation. You raised an eyebrow, glancing back at him.

“Why do you need to know that?” You said back, a tad skeptical.

He smiled, looking up at you with a boyish grin. One that reminded you of Johnny. “Maybe I want to get to know you outside of a pub. Anything wrong with that?” He said, leaning forward on his arms.

You hesitated for a moment, unsure of how to respond. There wasn’t anything wrong with it, so why did it feel like there was? “No, nothing wrong with it.” You agreed, turning to the countertop to busy yourself with cleaning the surface.

“So then, do I get to know when you get off?” He said persistently, looking at you with a hopeful expression.

You glanced back at him, swallowing down the lump in your throat. He was an attractive guy, nice for the most part, and he wanted you. Something that you were lacking at the moment.

Your mind flashed back to Johnny. Your fingers twisted into the cloth of the rag you were using to clean the counter. You thought about the kiss, and then you thought about how he’d left you. A bitter taste bloomed in your mouth the longer you thought about it.

Fuck it, you thought.

You glanced back at the clock, “I get off in fifteen.” You said, turning your face back to meet him.

He smiled, a look of relief washing over his face. “Yeah?” He looked back down at his drink, finishing the last of the liquid. His cheeks were slightly rosy from the alcohol. “Guess that means you can close out my tab.”

You didn’t even make it out of the bar before he was on you. Maybe it was a little bit of both. You couldn’t really process anything.

He had gone with you to clock out; you were in the back hallway near the side door. Somehow, while walking, his hand slid over to your back to lead you out. Which spiraled into your back being pressed against the side wall, his body caging you in with his knee wedged between your legs.

Your hands were looped around his neck while his were on your body. Trailing his fingertips up and down your sides.

It started as slow kissing, but it progressively got more heated the longer you stayed. You could taste the beer on his tongue, the smell of his strong cologne, the sweat of his skin. It felt wrong.

You shut your eyes tight, trying to immerse yourself in the experience, trying to be normal about the fact that you were making out with a stranger you’d met only an hour before in the back hallway of a pub.

You sucked in a breath as his lips detached from yours, his face ducking down to your neck to suckle and kiss at the skin. You bit down on the inside of your cheek, trying to pretend that his wispy hair was slightly darker. That his brown eyes were a shade of light blue. That instead of his hands that were holding you it was Johnny’s.

You could feel yourself choking up. This was a mistake. Kissing a random guy wasn’t getting your mind off of Johnny; in fact, it was amplifying your feelings.

He seemed to have noticed your change in demeanor because he suddenly pulled away. Leaving you panting against the wall, he looked down at you. His cheeks are equally red, and his lips kiss swollen.

“Hey, you okay?” He asked.

You couldn’t look at him; you didn’t want to because you knew Johnny wouldn’t be staring back at you.

You cleared your throat, trying to muster up anything to say. “I-I don’t know.”

Your words lingered in the air, a twisted type of shame washing over you. You felt ashamed that you agreed to this and guilty for potentially leading this guy on. Even if he was a stranger, he didn’t deserve a lie.

You looked back up at him, “I’m sorry.” You breathed, guilty. “-I just can’t.”

A look of confusion crossed his features before morphing into a small amount of understanding. Whatever he was thinking, he didn’t say; instead, he nodded. Clearing his throat and backing off of you.

You managed to get in a soft goodbye coupled with another apology before he left you, standing with your back against the wall. You stared off into space, your hand subconsciously brushing against the area on your neck where he’d kissed you.

You felt like you were going insane, like Johnny had infiltrated every facet of your life without even trying. Just by a kiss you’d been doomed for who knows how long.

You looked back at the door, looking at the small glass square. It was dusk, the suns golden hue fading into a soft blue that cast a slight glow on window.

Maybe if you were lucky Johnny wouldn’t be home when you got back.

You got back to the flat around 7pm, pushing the door open and letting your bag slide off your shoulder and onto the floor. Toeing off your shoes and shrugging off your coat. As you hung up the garment you saw Johnny’s jacket was still hanging on one of the hooks.

So, he was home.

You heard someone walking out from the kitchen, turning your head, you faced Johnny. His keys dangling loosely from his hand. His head turned when he heard you, noticing you at the door. “Sorry, didn’t hear you come in.” He said in acknowledgment.

He turned away like he usually did, but halfway through he turned back. His eyebrows furrowed down his face like he was doing a double take, you stiffened as those blue eyes trailed up your form.

You couldn’t read his face, suddenly uncomfortable by the lack of emotion across his features.

“That a new perfume, Bonnie?” He said, his voice tight and curt.

You paused, caught off-guard by his words. Unsure of what to say for a moment before it clicked. Ah, the cologne. It was strong, no surprise it probably lingered on your clothes and your skin.

You swallowed, “Why, you like it?” You replied, playing it off.

He hummed; jaw clenched. “Not really.”

His face was hard, a silent judgment that left you wanting to hide. You felt exposed, like he knew your shame.

When you didn’t respond, he rolled his shoulders, clearing his throat. “Have a good shift?” He said, his voice betrayed the mundane nature of his question.

You didn’t enjoy the pointed nature of his words, “Yeah, it was good.” You snipped.

His laugh—if you could even call it that—was sharp, a slight exhale through his nostrils. His eyes darting away from you, “Right, looks like it.”

Your lips twisted into a tight frown, instinctively, your hand slid up to your neck. Your fingers brushing over the tender blooming heat of it—the mark you’d let someone else leave. Almost as if you were shielding it from his eyes.

Shame flooded your chest again, molten and ugly.

Your eyebrows creased, pinching at the bridge of your nose. “What’s that supposed to mean?” You snipped.

He looked back at you, as if he didn’t expect you to get cross with him. You saw the muscles in his jaw work slightly, tensing up, “Nothing.” He breathed, shrugging his broad shoulders. “None o’ my business.”

You crossed your arms, heat crawling up your face. “Could’ve fooled me.” You quipped.

His head snapped back at you, something you couldn’t pinpoint flickering behind his pale blue eyes. “You think I give a fuck who you let maul you in a back alley?” He said, his voice cold and cutting.

You flinched like he’d struck you.

Never had he ever spoken to you like that, not once. And it caused something to burn deep inside you like a lit match.

“What the fuck is your problem, Johnny?” You said, throwing your hands up. “You don’t get to do this with me, you don’t get to act all offended and like you care when you can’t care enough to even acknowledge that you kissed me.” You scolded.

His mouth opened, but no words came out.

So, you barreled on, voice cracking despite yourself. "You push and you pull and you flirt and you kiss me like you fucking mean it, and then you act like I’m a goddamn stranger the second it gets real!"

You shoved your hands through your hair, breathing hard.

“[Name],” Came his voice, strained and tight. “I know you’re upset, and you have a right to be mad. But you don’t know everything, I’m-I’m not doing this because I want to, I have my reasons.”

You could’ve screamed at him, “Then tell me!” You snapped back.

You saw him hesitate, “I told you- “

“You didn’t tell me anything. You just show up and expect me to know what you want. To be totally good with all of this,” you said, gesturing to the air around you.

Everything seemed too much and not enough at the same time, like the man in front of you was a lie. You huffed, looking around the room in bewilderment, at his pair of boots that sat on the shoe rack, at his spare coat on the hanger, the small traces of his presence he left in your home.

“I-I don’t understand how I didn’t see it, how I didn’t see you for what you are. I barley even know you. You can tell me your favorite color, but you can’t tell me where you work or why you disappear on me for days at a time?” You fired, digging up anything you could throw at him.

You saw his jaw work again, his hands bawling into tight fists at his side. “Then what, you want me to reveal my whole life to you? Fight off every guy that even looks your way?” He said, voice cut with disbelief.

You shook your head, practically in tears. “No. I want you to stop acting like I’m yours when it suits you, then pretending like I don’t exist when it doesn’t!”

Johnny threw his hands up this time, “You’re not mine, [Name]! You never were.” He snapped, his breath heavy. After another beat, he spoke, his voice slightly calmer this time. “Happy?”

You stood there, staring at him. The white-hot anger fading into a soft dread that pooled in your stomach and burrowed in your throat. It was silent apart from the sounds of your own breathing.

You swallowed thickly, feeling a burn in your throat. “Yes.” You lied.

For a second, one miserable second, something in his expression crumbled. Something small and helpless and so achingly human.

But then it was gone just as fast as it appeared.

"Won’t matter anyway," he said, voice flat. "-Works nearly sorted." He brushed past you to sling the strap of his jacket over his shoulder like it was a coffin he was carrying.

"I’ll be outta your hair soon enough, Bonnie. You’ll get your peace back."

He didn't wait for a response.

Just turned and yanked the door open, the heavy slam echoing through the flat as he left you standing there, blinking hard against the burn in your eyes.

As the dust settled, the full weight of his words seemed to dawn on you. You hiccuped, biting down on your fist as fat tears slid down your cheeks.

As far as you were concerned, your Johnny was gone.

. . . . . ◟੭

You offhandedly glanced back at the clock that hovered over the pub entrance for the fifth time in a few minutes; it seemed to stare back at you with a grin. Taunting at you as if you were a bird trapped in a cage, and these days, it didn’t feel far off from reality.

You had another few minutes before your shift ended, yet your fingers itched to grab your coat and leave.

Casting your line of sight down back to the bar counter, you thrummed your nails against the wood. It was a grim scene, a dead bar that only housed a few people. The television was playing re-runs of an old game show, and the yellow lights cast the bar in an almost sickly glow.

Most of your time now consisted of this, staring at the countertop of an empty bar. After all, it was better than staying in your apartment. But now you were starting to feel like a hamster trapped in the same cage.

The days following your argument with Johnny seemed to bleed together, like you were watching the days play out instead of living them.

You spent long hours slaving away over your laptop, fingers perched over the keys while your eyes scanned columns of text. You spent even longer hours at the pub scrubbing the bar counter and pouring drinks to old timers.

Somehow, though, throwing yourself into your studies and job did little to keep your mind off Johnny. You had gotten what you wanted, or rather, what you thought you wanted—an answer.

But it wasn’t the answer you wanted.

Something small and ugly inside you wanted him to fight for your affection, to run after you even after you’d told him not to. But whatever feelings you had towards him weren’t worth dwelling on, not now.

What remained in the absence of your ‘friendship’ was a cordial silence, one that spoke a thousand words and none at the same time. A harmony that felt like an open wound that wouldn’t close.

You pushed yourself off the counter, reaching behind you to untie yourself from the small black apron that hung around your hips, slipping back into the back kitchen to grab your coat from the hanger near the door.

You shuffled into the garment, grabbing your bag and keys hanging off the nearest hook from where your coat rested. As you pushed past the door to make your way to the exit, you heard someone speak up.

“You on your way?” Came a soft feminine voice.

You looked up to see Janet, who had been put on the closing shift and, therefore, still had a way to go before she could escape, too.

You gave a half smile, stuffing your apron in your bag. “Yeah. Not really any customers to serve, so I thought I’d get out of here.”

She nodded, the soft wrinkles near her eyes creasing. She looked at you with a hint of pity, like she could see how your life was somehow crumbling. You didn’t look back at her, not wanting to watch the sadness cross over her face when she saw how the bags under your eyes had deepened.

You heard her softly hum, “Get some rest, sweetheart.”

You nodded in acknowledgment, responding with a hum of your own. You slipped past her to leave through the front door. As you pushed it open, the bell jingled above your head.

“-And stay safe, it’s late.” She called after you.

The walk back to your apartment was short. However, you still heeded Janet’s words, the cover of darkness seemed to bring out seedy creatures no matter how quickly you managed to get home.

You climbed the up stairwell, walking down the hallway lined by doors until you came to yours. You were on autopilot as you fished for your keys, your eyes dully staring into the abyss.

As you reached out to slide the key into the lock, the door creaked open under the pressure—already unlatched.

You paused.

For a split second you stood still, staring blankly at the door. Huh, that’s odd. You hesitantly peeked your head inside looking around your empty apartment.

It was dark, and silent.

The partially open door obstructed your view of the full kitchen, you swallowed. “Johnny?” You called out into the room, still halfway through the door.

There was no answer, you glanced at the coat hanger at the entrance. His coat wasn’t hanging up which meant he was out. But if he was out, then why was the door open?

You unconsciously chewed on your bottom lip, maybe you were just being paranoid. The most likely scenario was that he just forgot to lock it on his way out.

But the small chance that it was something else moved you to grab your phone, you sheathed it from your pocket. Typing out a message to him.

Message (You): Hey, do you know if you locked the door on your way out?

It was brief, in the case of it being nothing more than an accident you didn’t want to seem panicked.

You stepped inside, flicking the lights on.

You were still weary, but you’d managed to talk yourself out of suspecting the worst like you usually did.

You shrugged off your coat, shutting the door behind you. But as you turned something caught your eye.

The first thing you noticed was that the kitchen cabinets were open, the drawers too. Pulled out with its contents scattered on the countertop as if they’d been rummaged through.

You paused again, eyebrows furrowed half-way down your face. “What the fuck,” you muttered under your breath. Johnny may have been slightly disorganized at times, but you’d never seen him leave your apartment in disarray.

You looked around, pulse beginning to quicken. Maybe he had been in a rush, you thought. But even that didn’t sit right.

Without thinking, you walked down the hall. Turning all the lights on as you went, the doors were open. Thrown ajar to reveal a state of chaos.

You stared at the inside of your room, your closet wide open and clothes thrown about the room. Your dresser, drawers, bookshelf, all rummaged through. You doubled back, running into Johnnys room to find it in much the same state.

You never went into his room; it was an unspoken rule between you that unless you were given permission it was off limits.

However, right now you couldn’t stop yourself.

You felt your heartbeat before you realized it was racing; your blood seemed to run cold at the state of your home. Whatever was in your apartment was searching for something, yet all of your jewelry was still in your room. Your TV sat in it’s proper place in the living room and small amount of cash you kept in your dresser had been untouched.

Were these not items of value? What could anyone possibly be looking for in your apartment if not money or valuables?

Your hand found your phone again before you realized what you were doing. You should’ve been dialing the authorities, but your trembling fingers could only seem to find Johnnys caller ID.

You held your phone to your ear, listening to the ring of the call. With each chime you felt your hands shaking harder, as if you had a sudden cold.

Doubt gnawed at your mind, you knew there was a slim chance of him picking up the call. And even slimmer chance of him being able to fix the situation in any way.

There was another ring before you heard the familiar static rustling of the call being picked up, you felt your breath catch. “Johnny?” You choked out, your voice breathless and trembling.

“[Name],” came his voice, confusion written in his tone. “What’s wrong? You know not to call me when I’m out.”

You swallowed your fear, trying to force the words from your lips. “I know, its—somethings wrong. The door was unlocked when I got home and everything’s a mess. I think someone was here.”

You felt a pause, the static of the phone buzzing in your ear. Then came his voice, sharp and cutting, “Where are you?”

“I-I’m in the house.” You replied.

“Are you hiding somewhere? Do you think there’s anyone still in the house?” He said sharply, his voice borderline panicked.

You blinked, “No I’m-“

“Get in your room and lock the door, I’ll call for help. When you find a place to hide, stay there, I’m coming to get you. Now.”

You stayed frozen for a moment after the call ended, your phone still clutched tightly to your ear like it could somehow anchor you. The line had gone dead, but your heart pounded in your ears loud enough to drown out everything else. You took a shaky breath and backed into your bedroom, locking the door behind you with trembling fingers.

A few minutes passed. Maybe more. It was impossible to tell, time had slowed into something warped and syrupy. Every small sound in the apartment made your skin crawl. The creak of a pipe. The groan of the building. Your own breathing, too loud in the silence.

Then you heard it—footsteps.

Not heavy. Not rushed. Measured. Controlled. You froze again, heart in your throat. The front door creaked open wider, hinges groaning.

“[Name]?” came Johnny’s voice, “It’s me.”

You flung the bedroom door open before you could talk yourself out of it. “Johnny?”

He was already moving toward you, clad in his jacket and work boots. His brown hair slightly tussled and his eyes scanning your face. You caught the way his hand lifted for a moment to cup your cheek, but at the last moment, it hesitated. Trapped in the air.

There was a slight pause between you, one that said too much and not enough at the same time.

As if the look on his face was screaming, belting out the words ‘I still care.’

Instead, what came out was a breathy “Are you hurt?”

You shook your head, swallowing thickly. “No. I-I didn’t touch anything-”

“Good.” He cut you off before you could finish, grabbing your wrist and pulling you toward the door.

You let out a strangled noise of surprise mixed with discomfort; Johnny’s grip was rough. Using the force of his strength to pull you like a rag doll. After your split-second of surprise wore off you tried resisting his grip, “Johnny-!” You huffed, trying to pull away.

You were already through the door, the cold night air nipping at your skin in the hallway. He didn’t look back at you. “We’re not staying here,” he breathed, “Come on.”

You had half a mind to slap him for his behavior, but you were so frazzled you could only let yourself be pulled along like a tugboat. “What about the police? They’ll need us to be at the apartment if we want to find out what’s going on.”

Johnny led you down the stairwell, his hand was cold and clammy. He stayed quiet as he dragged you out of the complex, making your skin tingle with nerves. You furrowed your brow, trying to dig your heels into the concrete to pull him to a stop.

“Johnny, you said you called for help.” You bit at him, your voice trembling. Forcing your body to lean backwards to stop him from moving any forward.

He looked back at you from over his shoulder, staring at your body resisting his pull. You saw something flash in his eyes, guilt? Fear? Hatred?

Johnny turned to face you, his hand leaving your wrist so both of his palms could clasp your shoulders. His fingers were trembling, “Do you trust me?”

You paused, “I-I don’t understand.”

You felt him squeeze your shoulders, his gaze pleading with you. “Do you trust me, Bonnie?”

Against your better judgement you nodded, “Yes.”

With your confirmation, he grabbed your wrist again. Pulling you forward towards the sound of a car engine. But this time, you didn’t pull away, stumbling after him, your mind catching up a beat behind your body.

Johnny pulled you into the passenger seat of a car, its headlights glaring in the night air. You sat down in the leather seat like it was made of stone, your body prickling with nervous tension. He situated himself in the driver’s seat, wasting no time pulling out and onto the road. His hands white knuckling the steering wheel.

You stared out at the road as he drove past the familiar landscape of your neighborhood. Your hands bawled into fists on your lap. You didn’t look at him; you couldn’t, not when he had hauled you into a car with no explanation of why nor where you were headed.

“Johnny,” you said, trying to keep your voice controlled. “-Where are we going?”

Out of your peripheral vision, you saw his hands shift on the wheel. The silence that followed made you want to scream. You wanted to get out of the car, to make him turn you around and drop you right back off at the apartment.

You sucked in a small breath, tears sliding down your cheeks and onto your shirt. You bit down on your cheek, “Johnny, answer me right now. Where are you taking me?” You bit out.

By now, you had turned your head to look at him, watching the way his jaw tightened at the sound of your sobs.

You stared at him, your gaze practically begging him to answer you. You were progressively getting more frustrated the longer the silence was prolonged.

“Say something!” you shouted, voice cracking. “You’ve been keeping secrets, dodging questions, making me feel like I’m crazy and now someone breaks into our apartment, and you’re dragging me god-knows-where, and I still don’t know what the hell is going on!”

His knuckles tightened on the steering wheel.

After a beat, he spoke. “We’re going to a safe house just outside Manchester, it's in Simister. We won’t be there for long; I just wanted to get you somewhere safer as a precaution.”

You blinked, “A precaution for what? We couldn’t have gotten a hotel or something?”

He blew out a small, apologetic, laugh from his nose, glancing at you from the corner of his eyes with a sorry expression. “Not exactly.”

“What do you mean ‘not exactly.’” You said, your eyebrows furrowed.

Johnny sighed, one of his hands reaching behind his neck to rub at his nape. “If whoever broke into the apartment is who I think it is, getting a hotel room wouldn’t do us any good.”

You felt your eyes narrow. Somehow, the more he told you, the less you understood.

“Were you anticipating this?” You asked in disbelief. “-and who would want to break in?”

When he didn’t respond, you found yourself speaking instead, “This has something to do with your job, doesn’t it?”

The silence was louder than any answer that he could have given.

“You have to understand,” he started, his voice heavy with guilt. “I was obligated not to tell you; it was never because I wanted to keep secrets with you or that I didn’t trust you.”

His eyes caught yours in the mirror again, eyebrows pinched together, and his glances quick. “My job, its- its not something I ever wanted you to come into contact with. The less you knew about it, the safer you were.”

You stared at him, unsure how to process what he told you. “So, what? You’re like a part of the mafia or something?” You breathed, half joking.

“British SAS.” He corrected.

You paused, staring blankly in his direction as he looked out at the road.

He spoke again before you could comment: “I operate on a team connected with US and British special forces. A year ago, one of our ops got screwed over, and I had to be put on recovery watch before I could go back. So, instead of sending me back out, they put me here for the time being.”

Johnny kept his grip on the wheel, “-For the past couple of months, I’ve been tracking an arms dealer operating out of Manchester. They’ve got ties to half a dozen paramilitary groups.” He glanced at you, something dark and regretful in his expression. “If someone hit our flat, it’s because of me. Because I live there. Because I live with you.”

Silence fell again, heavy and suffocating. You swallowed hard, blinking rapidly, the tears coming back, hot and fast.

You sniffled, raising your hand to cover your mouth, trying desperately to bite back the spill of a sob. It was so much to take in, knowing that you were in danger, that the man you thought you knew wasn’t who you thought he was.

You turned your head away from him, staring out at the landscape of houses and stores as you passed.

“So, all of this,” you said, defeated. Gesturing to everything around you, “-Was just collateral? Is that what I am to you, Johnny?”

“No.” He snapped, turning his head sharply to give you a brief look.

“You-” a pause. “-You’re the only real thing I’ve had in a long time, Lass.” He breathed.

A silence hung in the air after his statement. You didn’t know what to think; you could barely process what was going on with your own life, let alone his.

You pursed your lips together in a tight line, letting your head fall against the car window. “You should’ve told me,” You whispered.

“I couldn’t.” His voice cracked slightly. “I didn’t want anyone finding you.”

You went silent after that, screwing your eyes shut to will away the tears. The drive grew quieter the closer you got to your destination. Johnny’s hands hadn’t left ten and two; his jaw clenched so tight you thought it might crack. You didn’t speak; afraid your voice would break if you tried.

Eventually, the city lights fell away, swallowed by the dark stretch of country road. Then the car turned off the main path, tires crunching against gravel until you saw a fence, tall and topped with security wire, surrounding what looked like a repurposed farmhouse. A floodlight clicked on as the car pulled up, illuminating the porch and front door.

Johnny got out first. You didn’t move.

It wasn’t until he opened your door and leaned down, voice softer than before, that you even looked at him.

“Come on. You’re safe now.”

His words did little to ease your worry.

You stepped out slowly. The air was cold and sharp, biting through your clothes and waking up all the dread in your stomach. The gravel crunched beneath your shoes, leaving footprints in its wake.

When you reached the porch, Johnny opened the door, letting you inside first. The place was clean but bare—minimal furniture, reinforced windows, no personal touches. It looked like a temporary shelter for someone always expecting to run.

You hovered near the entrance; arms crossed tightly over your chest as he locked the door behind you. For a long moment, neither of you spoke.

Then Johnny exhaled sharply, pulling off his jacket and tossing it across the back of a chair. “I know you’re angry.”

“I am.” You confirmed, your voice hollow. Vocal chords raw from crying.

You saw his jaw flex, his eyes sorrowfully looking down at you. A small worry line furrowed against his brow. “I’m sorry.” He signed, shoulders deflating.

Johnny raised his hand to pinch the bridge of his nose with his pointer and thumb. “I never wanted this to touch you.” His voice cracked, “Everything I did, it was to keep you away from it. I thought I could… separate both lives. Protect you. But I let you down.”

You swallowed hard. “You lied to me.”

“I did,” he said, stepping closer. You almost backed away from him, but you couldn’t. Not when he was looking at you like that, like a man lost. It was so human it made you sick.

You stared up at him, meeting his gaze. You parted your lips to speak, but no words came out, so he spoke instead.

“I cared about you more than I was supposed to. More than I should’ve.” His voice had dropped low now, steady despite the shake in it. “I know I was an asshole for kissing you and an even bigger one for pretending nothing happened. But I couldn’t let myself get attached. I thought if I pushed you away, you’d be safer.”

“Do I look safe to you now, Johnny?” you whispered.

He swallowed, a pained look crossing his features. “No,” he answered.

You huffed, holding yourself tighter. Your nails digging into your arm, tears burning in the back of your eyes for the third time that night. You frowned, brushing at your face angrily. “I can’t believe I let myself get here; I knew you were hiding something, and I still-“ You choked on the rest. “God, I hate you for making me care this much.”

You flinched when you felt something warm brush your cheek. You snapped your head back up to look at him. His hand was trembling, nervous, like you would scorch his skin if he touched you, yet it hovered an inch away from your face, almost cupping your cheek.

You watched his throat bob, eyes darting from your eyes down to your lips. “I never stopped caring,” He said. “Not for a second.”

The was air thick between you, and for a second neither of you moved. His eyes searched yours like he was still looking for permission. When you didn’t stop him, his hand slid to your cheek, his thumb brushing away the fresh tears.

Everything in you wanted to rip away; you were falling into the same trap he had put you in before. But you stopped yourself, your mind at war with itself.

“I’m so sorry, Bonnie.” He whispered. The sincerity of his tone beating you down, “I don’t expect you to forgive me, but I need you to cooperate. Just for a little while.”

You watched him hesitate for a moment, “-I thought I was going to lose you back at the apartment, I can’t do it again.”

You felt yourself crumbling, loosing the will to fight back.

You wanted to ground yourself in him, lost in what you knew you couldn’t have. Self-preservation be damned.

So, you surged forward first.

Your lips crashed into his with weeks of confusion, anger, and heartbreak behind them. You felt his breath hitch, taken aback by your sudden boldness. Like he was stunned you’d still want him. But you did. God help you, you did.

Just as quickly as his stiffness appeared it vanished, replaced by unbridled want.

He cradled one hand on your cheek, the tips of his fingers brushing against your hair. Johnny’s face tilted slightly so he could kiss you deeper, his lips warm and inviting. Despite everything, it felt safe. He felt safe.

You let your lips part, savoring the feeling of his tongue brushing against your upper lip. Your hands slid up his chest, one looping around his neck to pull him forward. It was tactile, the pads of your fingers brushing up against his nape. How his eyelashes tickled against your skin and his nose brushed against yours.

Johnny slid his other hand over your waist, drawing you in. Your body met his; it was warm and firm.

Each time you pulled away for a breath, he drew you back in, searching for your lips like a man starved.

Your fingers curled in his hair, grown out while still being short, fisting the brown locks between your fingers and tugging him closer. He groaned into your mouth, your hips brushing against his with each pull.

You didn’t realize you were moving backwards until your back hit flush against the front door, trapped between the wooden surface and his body. You broke apart for a moment to breathe, your foreheads pressed together.

Your chin tilted upwards, trying to find his lips again.

This time, Johnny pulled back slightly, hesitating to meet your lips. Your brow furrowed, confused to why he wasn’t reciprocating your advances. He met your gaze for a moment, conflicted.

“We shouldn’t,” he breathed. “-Not like this.”

He thumbed over the apple of your cheek as you shook your head. “Johnny, it’s fine.” You said, lips pulled into an impatient frown.

He opened his mouth to respond, before he could you silenced him with another kiss. Forcing him to meet your lips. He groaned into your mouth, your leg shifting in between his thighs to nudge into his crotch.

He was hard, achingly so.

You forced yourself to pull away, “You-“ you sucked in a breath. “-You put me in this situation. The least you could do is try to make up for it.”

He swallowed, pausing for a moment. “Is that what you want me to do, Bonnie? Make it up to you?”

You licked your lips unconsciously, fighting the heat crawling up your face. “Yes.”

You stood there for a beat, watching how his eyes dripped down your face and traveled lower only to flicker back to your line of sight. His hand slowly trailed down your cheek, the pads of his fingers brushing down the side of your neck to tilt your head back against the door.

You shuddered, the molten bloom of blush spreading up your face. You stood statue still as his face dipped into the junction of your neck, lips brushing against the burning skin.

He pressed a slow kiss to your neck, letting his lips linger against your flesh. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, pressing another one lower. “-I’m sorry,” another further down. “I’m sorry,” again, and again.

It was maddening, his breath fanning against the shell of your ear and his lips dragging down your neck. The warmth of his lips and tongue over your flesh felt like trails of molten lava.

You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to keep your breathing even. Your fingers digging into the back of his shirt and his hair.

He slid down your front, lips trailing down from your neck to your collarbone. Large hands mapping out your body as he went. Johnny dipped lower, littering soft kisses down your stomach, dropping his legs to kneel before you like he was worshiping the ground you stood on.

Your body buzzed with anticipation, pliant in his grasp. You almost couldn’t bear to look down, too scared and flustered to see what you had made of him. However, you didn’t need to look down.

Because you could feel it without even looking—his gaze on you.

His stare was blistering, he was sorry, and he wanted you to know it. To feel it. To watch you come undone.

Somewhere along the way, he had snaked his hands up your thighs. Wedging your legs apart until he knelt between them.

“Look at me.”

You tensed, your breath stilled. Blinking hard you forced yourself to tilt your head downwards, meeting his eyes.

Johnny’s lips were parted, cheeks and ears tinged slightly red. His hands squeezed the back of your thighs, “Atta’ girl.” He murmured, voice smooth and thick like syrup. He slid his hands away from your legs, dragging them over the front of your pelvis. Slowly taking his time in popping the button on your jeans and guiding the zipper down.

He slid your pants down, carefully helping you out by moving your legs. After discarding the garment, he directed his attention back to you.

You couldn’t help the slip of a moan as he thumbed a finger over your underwear, rubbing soft circles over your clothed clit. One of your hands grasping at the flat door, trying to curl your fingers on its surface.

His fingers slid down, pressing flat against you as he pressed another kiss to the fabric of your underwear.

You bit down on the inside of your cheek, holding back a whine.

Johnny curled his fingers slightly upwards, pushing the fabric against your entrance. Your breath caught, insides churning with the contact. “You’re wet,” He breathed against you. “-That from me, Lass?”

He glanced up at you, a small, proud, grin stretching his lips.

Without waiting for a response, he hooked a finger under the elastic. Sliding it down your legs before attaching his lips to your cunt.

You gasped, caught off guard. one of your hands gripping his hair, coiling your fingers into the soft brown locks. “Johnny-!” You choked out, shuddering.

He hummed against you, flattening the front of his tongue against your core.

Whatever you said fell on deaf ears, his hands clasped at your thighs to hold you up against the door. Preventing you from moving away. You bucked your hips into his mouth, unable to stop the small involuntary movements.

He groaned, circling his tongue over your clit while one of his hands returned to your soaked pussy. You could barley register that one his hands were moving before you felt the pad of his middle finger dip between your lips, gently prodding at your entrance.

You almost choked, throwing your head back against the door. “Fuck,” you cursed, voice slurring.

Johnny hummed against your cunt, slowly pushing a finger inside you. Curling it backwards until your back arched off the flat door.

He pulled back for a moment, panting. His lips slick and shiny with your juices, eyes slightly glazed over with a blush tinging his ears. “You’re so beautiful, Bonnie. You know that, right?” He groaned, staring up at you as his finger worked your cunt.

You could barley respond, fucked out on just his finger and tongue. “-You want another?” He asked, placing a soft kiss to your clit.

You could only manage a small nod, concentrating all of your strength into staying standing. Yet you couldn’t help the small buckle of your knees the second you felt a second finger dip inside you.

His digits worked you open, stretching your walls until he could easily pump his fingers in and out of you with ease.

“Taste so fuckin’ good, just like I knew you would.” He panted, his breath fanning your skin. He leaned back in, swirling his tongue over the bundle of nerves until you felt your toes curl.

Johnny was groaning as if he was deriving pleasure from eating you out. The front of his tongue flattening against your cunt, greedily slurping. He suckled against your clit, alternating between running his tongue up and down and side to side.

Whatever his tongue and mouth couldn’t reach, his fingers did. Long thick digits sliding in and out with ease, the pads of his fingers brushing against your soaking walls. The muscle of your core constricting around his fingers with each plunge.

You could only moan, trapped between the door and his mouth. His fingers curling inside your walls, leaving you gasping for air. Preening for the tension in your gut to spill over. A part of you wanted to be furious with him for screwing you over and then proceeding to giving you the best head of your life. Yet with the way his tongue worked on you, you couldn’t find it in you to care.

You were approaching your orgasm fast, much faster than you would’ve liked.

“Johnny—Johnny, I’m close. Slow down, please.” You simpered, begging for him to ease up so you could bask in the pleasure a little longer.

However, he had other plans. Doing quite the opposite as to double down, the pace of his fingers increasing in tandem with his mouth on your clit.

You felt the molten coil in your stomach tighten, threatening to snap at any moment. You couldn’t bare it, being stretched open by his fingers mixed with the sensation of his tongue mouthing over you clit. It was too much, too fast, too good.

Then it snapped. Thighs locking around his head as your orgasm spilled over, washing over you like waves against the sand bar. Your cunt fluttering around his fingers and your hands curling in his hair.

There was no moan, no cry, only a silent gasp for air. Your spine arched with your hips rhythmically pushing deeper into his mouth.

He didn’t let up, letting you ride it out until he felt you loosen around him. Leaving you a panting mess, legs reduced to jelly.

Your vision was blurry; you had closed your eyes so tightly you swore you were starting to see colors, patterns, and stars that crossed behind your eyelids.

As he pulled away, Johnny kissed the inside of your thigh.

You took a moment to recover, slowly managing to look back down at him. As the fog of your orgasm cleared, you were left speechless. You had just let Johnny put his mouth on you.

Worse, you didn’t regret it. Not even a little.

Maybe that was what scared you, you could never push him away completely. He somehow managed to always wriggle his way back into your heart, and in this case, your pants. You weren’t over the fact that he had been lying to you, nor how he had scooped you up only to drop you off at a safe house in the middle of nowhere.

However, your initial anger was starting to melt, gradually.

Your lips parted, trying to form the words. “I’m still mad,” is what came out. Your voice unsure, as if you were trying to convince yourself of your words.

Johnny nodded, the small scruff of his stubble brushing against the skin of your thigh. “I know you are.” He replied, blue eyes staring back up at you.

“But I’m willing to keep making up for it.” Johnny said, “-s’long as it takes.”

It was almost sickening how remorseful he looked; how genuine it all was. You wanted him to do something, anything that would even hint that this was all an act to obtain your forgiveness.

But it wasn’t. It was real.

You swallowed, his lips brushing against the inside of your thigh for a second time.

You couldn’t go back know, the damage had already been done. The lies, the kiss, the break in, and now this. Whatever it was, it pushed you further. A recklessness that snaked its way past your rational, if you were going off the deep end, you were going to make it count.

A hand slid down into his hair, your fingers curling into the soft brown locks. Tightening your hold, you slowly pushed his head back, forcing him to look up at you.

“Then keep going,” you said. His eyes scanned your face as you paused. “-Keep making it up to me, Johnny.”

Johnny’s palms spread out over your flesh pulled taut, grasping at you, not rough, but desperate to anchor himself. Then his lips parted, breath heavy. “You still want me to touch you?” He asked, voice low and frayed.

You nodded, holding in a breath. “Yeah, I do.” You confirmed.

With your confirmation, he dropped his head, forehead brushing against your knee. His nose and lips tingled on your skin as he dragged his head up your leg, “You’re killing me, Bonnie.” He said as he drew in a long breath.

Then he began to move again, slowly, with intent. His mouth traced a line up your thigh, higher, lingering like he didn’t want to rush it. Like he wanted to earn every second of it.

“Having you close like this, when I thought I lost the right to touch you?” He murmured into your skin.

His lips found your hips again, then your stomach, and then higher still, warm hands sliding up your sides. When he reached the side of your neck you let your hands snake around his nape, grasping at his broad shoulders.

His chest pressed into yours, your legs pushing up to wrap snugly around his hips. Johnny made quick work of your new position, large hands holding you up by your thighs.

You twisted your face to meet his, noses brushing together as your lips connected. You moaned into his mouth, tasting yourself on his tongue. You were pushing into him, desperate to create friction.

You offhandedly realized that he had stepped backwards off the door, holding you to him as he backtracked into the safe house. Lips still moving against yours.

After a few bumps on different pieces of furniture, he managed to find his way to another door, his back hitting against the wood as he blindly searched for the handle. It was a miracle he didn’t fall backwards as the door swung open on its hinges.

He stumbled in, barely breaking stride as his boots scuffed against the floor. The room was dark, just the faint outline of moonlight bleeding through the shuttered windows.

Johnny kicked the door shut behind him with a solid thud, the sound echoing in the quiet. Then you were falling, not hard, but a tad clumsily onto the mattress behind you. Sheets still cold, the room unfamiliar.

He hovered above you, chest rising and falling fast, like he’d just run a mile. His eyes searched yours again, pupils blown, lips parted. At the same time his hands wasted no time in pushing up your shirt, revealing the bare skin of your torso.

You aided in wiggling out of your top, your bra following shortly after.

Johnnys eyes dragged up and down your form, as if he were carving out the image of you underneath him into his mind. “Fuck me,” he breathed, in awe.

He slid his hands up your sides, cupping your breasts in his palms. The pad of his thumbs brushing over your hardened nipples.

You inhaled, back arching off of the mattress as he pawed and pulled at your chest. Your fingers twisted into the crisp white sheets as Johnny’s head dipped down, his tongue swirling over the hardened bud.

You couldn’t hold back the soft whine that escaped you as he suckled and kissed at your nipples. Taking his time in alternating between your breasts, savoring your flesh like a starved animal.

“I’ve wanted to see you like this,” he said in between kissing your breasts. “-Was a fuckin’ miracle I could keep my hands off you to begin with.”

Your front teeth dug into your bottom lip, holding back a groan at his words. You thought back to your days around the apartment, the subtle touches, the glances your way, wondering if he wanted you just as much as you wanted him. If he too spent his nights with a hand down his pants while the other covered his mouth.

Your pulse quickened.

“I didn’t realize you wanted me so bad.” You said between heavy breaths, almost joking.

Johnny glanced back up at you, blowing air out from his nose in a half-laugh. “Always, baby, always.” He exhaled, pressing one last kiss to the underside of your breast before leaning back to tug off his shirt.

You watched him like a hawk, gaze unwavering as the cotton slid off of his body to reveal the pale skin underneath.

Obviously, you had seen him shirtless countless times. Curtesy of his morning cooking attire (sweatpants and no shirt). But something about this was different, it felt more raw, private.

Your gaze fell from his abdominal muscles down to the V-line peeking out from his jeans, a light happy trail of brown hair snaking down beneath the waistband.

You couldn’t tear your eyes away even if you wanted.

A small grin stretched his lips, “Looks like I’m not the only one.”

You shot him a look, a heat creeping back into your cheeks. “Just take your pants off,” you said impatiently.

He nodded, reaching down to unbutton his trousers. “You’re the boss.”

Johnny made quick work of his pants, sliding them off along with his boxers. Whatever you had expected him to look like down under was almost insulting compared to what he shaped out to be.

He was big, thicker than the average male. Hard, and heavy.

You quickly snapped your eyes back up, flustered from the color in your face. Swallowing the dryness in your throat as discreetly as humanly possible.

He stood at the edge of the bed, an almost imposing figure. With one hand he reached down to pump his cock a few times, the weight of it in his grip made you shift. “You see what you do to me, Bonnie?” He rasped.

His jaw was taunt as he stroked himself, exhaling though clenched teeth. His dark, thick eyebrows knitting together, pinching the skin of his brow.

When you didn’t respond he leaned down, his free hand sliding over your knee to part your legs until he stood in between your bared thighs. You were braced on your elbows, fingers twisting into the sheets.

“Hm?” He said expectantly. “-You want me, Bonnie?”

You jumped as his dick hit your bare pussy, slapping his cock against your clit a few times. Your legs tensed at the contact, blood running thick and hot.

“Yes,” you breathed, sounding much more winded than you would have liked. “-Yes, I want you.”

Johnny groaned, let the tip glide over your soaked cunt with ease. Coating himself in your arousal. His dick was heavy against your entrance, now that you could feel the full weight of it pressed against you.

He gave an experimental, shallow, push. The head of his cock plunging into your cunt with a lewd squelch.

Your head fell back for half a second, gasping for a breath of air like your lungs had been filled with water. “Johnny,” you panted, voice thin and shallow. A hand placed at the side of your head tightened in the sheets, his body caging you in.

“I know.” He hushed, the free hand cradling the back of your neck to push your head forward. Your forehead met his, noses bumping together like a fitted puzzle piece. Your breath tangling somewhere in between.

You inhaled, waiting, adjusting.

After another moment, he pushed his hips forward. Your body was able to accommodate all of him by some miracle. Walls stretched open in such a way that you felt full.

You grabbed the back of his neck, nails digging into his skin. “Oh god-” you exhaled, lips brushing against his as you spoke.

Johnny groaned, voice thick with want. His face dropping into the crook of your neck and collar, heavy breaths fanning onto your skin, burning like hot magma. “So fuckin’ tight, so perfect for me.” He murmured.

It was silent for a moment, save for the heavy panting between you. A brief pause that left you aching for more, desperate for him to do something. A carnal desire for the man inside of you that seared white hot in your blood stream.

You couldn’t bare it, not when he was withholding such pleasure from you.

“Johnny, move. Please, I need you to move.” You simpered, nails dragging down his back.

He grunted, shaping out a soft nod. Leaning back slightly to grab your spread thighs, rough palms squeezing the fleshly underside of your hamstring. Carefully, he maneuvered your legs back, brining your knees up to your ears. Murmuring a gentle ‘that’s it,’ and ‘almost there,’ as you assumed your position.

Johnny held your legs in place as he set your legs over his shoulders, draped over his back like curtains. He drew his cock out of you, leaving just the tip inside. After a moment he sheathed himself back inside, slowly.

You moaned, eyelashes fluttering as your eyes rolled back. He thrust deep into you, again, slowly, but forcefully. Just enough to leave your toes curling and your heels digging into his trapezius. A steady stream of grunts and moans leaving both of you.

He gradually began to speed up the longer he fucked into you, fingers taunt as they dug into your flesh.

Your ears rang with the sound of skin slapping against skin, the air thick and heavy around you. Your hands tangling into his hair, pulling him closer. “So good,” you slurred, drunk off of his cock. “-Feels so good.”

The more you spoke the more vigorous he was, forcing his hips deeper into you, harder, faster. Eager to please.

“Keep talking,” He moaned, vocal cords raw from grunting and moaning. “-I like it when you talk. Sounds so fuckin’ sweet when you’re taking my cock.” He grit out.

If you could blush anymore, you would’ve. You weren’t very experienced at dirty talk but you supposed theres a first time for everything.

You whimpered, trying to form the words through gasps and moans. “You make me feel so good, Johnny. I want you to keep fucking me,” you exhaled, your bottom lip trembling.

He moaned, a confirmation that you were doing at least one thing right. You wanted to please him just as much as he wanted to make you feel good. Desperate for any shred of praise.

You felt the head of his dick press up deep inside you, sending your spine curling like a whip and the soles of your feel arching. “Oh-” You gasped, voice shrouded in a lustful haze. “Do that again, fuck.” You pleaded.

Johnny’s lip curved up, “Yeah?” Angling his hips to thrust back inside at the same area he did before. “-You like when I fuck into you like this?” He exhaled.

Your head fell back into the mattress, small sparks flashing behind your eyelids. Johnny letting out a tortured “Fuck,” as he spurred on. Nails, mouth, teeth, skin, hair, you couldn’t tell where it all began nor where it ended. A blur of lust and so much more, affection, was it? Love?

You couldn’t tell, but it felt like a live wire between you. An exposed cable that sent currents through your veins and left you gasping for air.

“So good to me, Bonnie.” He breathed, “-Dreamt ‘bout you for months, fucking wishing I could have you.”

The mattress caved around your body, molding to the shape of your body. Johnny’s hands leaving a bruising grip on your thighs.

You tried your best to shake your head, forcing your eyes open. “You have me,” You moaned. “-You have me.” You repeated, a broken record. Trying your best not to go too deep into the meaning for your own words, caught up in the moment.

You felt like you’d been reduced to one giant raw, exposed nerve. Molded to the shape of his cock, your limbs dangling in his hold like a sack of flour. The pressure in your stomach climbing, a lull of heat creeping down from your pussy all the way to your toes.

Johnny let one of his hands slide down to your cunt, thumbing over your neglected clit. Without warning he circled over the swollen bud, sending you convulsing.

You gave a sharp cry, the stimulation borderline painful. You never imagined that anything could hurt so good, a taboo sort of pleasure.

Sweat coated your skin, your clit throbbing and your pussy pounding like a heartbeat. It was so good, too good.

It seemed as if Johnny was in the same boat, his rhythmic thrusts had devolved into sloppy, and sporadic. You wanted him to stay inside, you wanted to feel the pulse of his dick when you came.

“Johnny, I’m going to cum.” You gasped, your body pulling taunt.

He nodded, sweat shining on the skin of his temple. “I want you to, I can hold out.” His voice was wrecked, raw, jaw clenched tight.

You seemed to slip out of yourself as you came, like you were floating. A current of euphoria that washed over you, head lulled back while your body strained. The drive of his cock into you combined with the pressure on your clit sent you spiraling.

You couldn’t help the moans leaving you, ears ringing and vision blurred.

You briefly registered him pulling out, his grunts sinking into you before you felt a sharp spurt of liquid somewhere on your stomach.

What followed after was a moment of silence, a bliss that lingered in the air and seemed to cloud the room in a warm glow. You didn’t even realize your eyes had been closed before you felt them open as a hand brushed over your forehead.

You blinked as Johnny brushed the stray baby-hairs from your face, sticking to your skin from sweat.

He gently set your legs off his shoulders, carefully placing them down on the bed. Everything about you felt heavy and sluggish, like your limbs had tuned into cinder blocks. Even so, his touch still managed to tingle your skin.

There was a calmness to it all, a domesticity that felt just as good as it was temporary. You knew of course that sleeping with him wouldn’t magically fix everything, it was still crumbling around you. But he was the safest thing around a place that felt unfamiliar.

You knew he felt it too, the tension setting back in. Responsibility, reality.

“So, what happens now?” you said, cutting through the silence.

There was a pause before he shifted, leaning back. “Well, I was going to clean you up.” He said, voice almost blasé, but you knew there was more to it. “-But I guess we can’t really go back to what things were before, not with the break in and all.”

Getting up, he reached into the bedside table, a box of tissues inside. Taking a few he wiped you down, carefully, guiltily. Tossing them out into the small bin tucked into the corner of the room, picking up his briefs on the way to clothe himself a little.

After, Johnny adjusted his position beside you, the mattress shifting under his weight as he sat down on the side of the bed. His eyes lingered on your face, torso twisted to face you. His eyes trailed down your body, slow, not lustful this time, just taking inventory, like he needed to confirm for himself that you were whole.

“Are you going to answer me for real?” you said quietly.

He stilled. His gaze flicked back to yours, and there was something unreadable in his expression. Guilt, maybe. Or fear.

You propped yourself up on one elbow, the ache in your muscles sharp but not unwelcome. “I mean… with us. After this.” Your voice faltered for a second. “I kind of got the message that we’re supposed to stay here for a day or two until you know for sure who broke in. But I just don’t know where we go after that.”

Johnny dragged a hand over his face, scrubbing at the stubble on his jaw. “I’m not sure if I have the answers you want.” His accent was thicker now, softened in exhaustion. “I’ve got no right to ask for more from you, not after the shite I pulled.”

“But you want to,” you said. It wasn’t a question.

He gave a short laugh, humorless and brittle. “Christ, Bonnie. I never stopped wantin’ to.”

You sat with his words for a moment, deciphering the meaning a hundred different ways. Caught between what you wanted and what you knew what was probably best.

“I still don’t know where I sit with this.” you whispered, “-I can’t exactly just forget what happened, I don’t think I could if I tried. And I’m still mad about the lying.” You spoke.

After a beat, you continued, “-But I also know that you were doing what you thought was best. Even if your best was shitty. I guess I’m just mad because I lost you for a good while there without even knowing why. And now I don’t even know if I’m going to lose you again once this blows over.”

Johnny looked at you, eyebrows creasing. “You’re not something I’ll be able to just move on from either, even if it all does ‘blow over.’” He said, frowning.

There was another beat of silence, this one gentler.

“But I meant what I said earlier. I’ll keep makin’ it up to you.” He reached over, his thumb brushing over the curve of your wrist as it laid on the bed. “Even if it takes the rest of my damn life.”

You turned your head toward him, eyes meeting his. “Don’t make promises like that.”

“I’m not.” His gaze didn’t waver. “It’s not a promise. It’s just the truth.”

You felt his fingers dip into the curve of your palm, running along the indented lines until his fingers tangled between yours. A soft squeeze that said, ‘I’m here.’ You squeezed back, a silent exchange that said so little yet so much.

Flickering your gaze back up to meet his eyes, you pulled on his hand, beckoning him closer. And for whatever reason, he let you. The mattress shifting under his weight once again as he crawled behind you; not hovering, not crowding, just close.

His arm slid beneath your neck, the other tucking around your waist. His touch was warm, not lustful, at least not anymore. It was something quieter. The kind of closeness that only made sense after everything had been said and done.

Johnny exhaled into your shoulder, breath fanning the damp skin there. “If it means anything,” he spoke, voice faint. “-What we had together…it was good. We’re good together.”

His voice was almost a plea, a last-ditch effort to show you he wanted it, he wanted you.

Your throat tightened.

You shifted back against him just a little more, letting your spine curve into his chest. His hand found yours again, fingers fitting into the spaces between yours with the same unconscious ease he had when brewing coffee in your kitchen. Like a habit he didn’t want to break.

“We are good, Johnny.” You agreed, turning slightly, just enough to glance back at him. You hesitated slightly before speaking again, “But I’m scared of waking up tomorrow and pretending this didn’t happen.”

His hand squeezed yours again, drawing you in.

“Then don’t,” he said. “Not this time, not again.”

You were quiet for a beat, then: “…One more chance. You get one more chance, Johnny. And when we figure things out, we do it together, no secrets.”

“No secrets.” He echoed. A promise.

You didn’t say anything after that, you didn’t need to. The room seemed to still too, a peaceful lull in its darkness.

His breathing evened out behind you, steady and slow. You could feel it where his chest pressed against your back, where his lips brushed your shoulder one last time before stilling.

Your eyes stayed open a little while longer, just to make sure he was still there.

And in the hush that followed, with his arms wrapped around you and your hands still laced together, the ache dulled, just a little.

Sleep found you like that. Quiet. Not fixed. But no longer alone.

. . . . . ◟੭

The morning settled, soft and muted against the walls, brushing over your skin in pale shades of silver and blue. Somewhere beyond the window, the world stirred.

You blinked awake slowly, the edges of your vision blurred with sleep, the air around you heavy with warmth. It took a moment to remember where you were and why you were there to begin with. Why your body felt weightless and sore all at once.

You unconsciously shifted, stopped by a weight draped over your stomach.

Johnny’s arm was still curled loosely around your waist, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm behind you. You shifted again, just enough to turn onto your back, the mattress caving slightly with the movement.

He was asleep. No tension in his brow, no dreams pulling at the corners of his mouth. The way his hand rested over your hip made you ache with a tenderness you didn’t expect.

You studied him for a long moment. The way his dark lashes cast faint shadows over his cheeks. How his hair curled ever so slightly at the nape of his neck. You could almost trick yourself into thinking this was normal. That this was something you’d done before, would do again.

It was almost odd; you didn’t feel the panic you thought you would.

You had expected regret. Or at the very least, that gnawing ache of uncertainty that always crept in when things got too real. You’d braced yourself for it. For the guilt. The fear. The voice in your head that always whispered, this is a mistake.

But it didn’t come.

All you felt was calm. Maybe not certainty—not yet—but something close. A stillness you hadn’t known you’d needed.

You exhaled slowly, letting the breath deflate your chest. Johnny stirred slightly behind you but didn’t wake. His grip around you only tightened, fingers curling softly against your side on instinct.

You let your gaze linger on him a little longer.

There was still so much between you. Things to say, things to fix. But last night hadn’t been about pretending everything was okay. It had been about choosing to stay anyway.

Your fingers drifted toward his, brushing lightly over his knuckles. A warmth dancing across his skin like the embers of dying flame.

You turned slightly, just enough to face him again, your forehead nearly brushing his. His breath was slow and even. Yours followed suit.

Your eyes drifted shut.

And for the first time in what felt like forever—

you let yourself rest.

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Hey wait don’t go!

First off, big thanks to all of you for waiting so long for another story. I know I totally disappeared for a minute, but unfortunately, life is just like that sometimes.

It would mean so much if you could like, repost, or comment under the story! I love hearing your thoughts and suggestions for later works!

Hopefully you enjoyed because I know I sure did, I know Soap doesn’t get as much love as the other characters but he makes for just as much of a good story.

Thanks for reading and I’ll see you in my next post!

Toodles! ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧

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901 notes · View notes

florexyy · 9 days ago

Text

𝓗𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓽𝓫𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓴𝓮𝓻 - ✗♡✗♡

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ♡ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

ㄨpairing: Playboy!San x Fem!Reader

ㄨsummary: Y/N never paid much attention to Choi San: campus heartbreaker, walking red flag, and notorious for ruining girls with just one crooked smile. He had a reputation for chewing people up and spitting them out before sunrise. Shes spent months avoiding his games. But one drink fueled night at Hongjoongs dorm changes everything. Lingering stares turn into something heavier. The tension snaps when theyre left alone and resisting him stops being an option.

ㄨcontent: nsfw! mdni!, smut, sexual tension, p in v, fingering, eating out, blow job, bite marks, dirty talk, san being rough, hair pulling, pet names(princess,good girl), ons, alcohol consume, san being possessive asf(and crazy jealous of hongjoong + mentioned while fucking) IF U DONT LIKE ANYTHING ROUGH DONT READ THIS(╥‸╥)

ㄨwc: 4k

ㄨa/n: hi guys im back with another smut story, since the last one literally blew up, tysm for all the reblogs n likes!! i hope u like it(˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶)

(also the ending feels a bit rushed mb D:)

The first time you heard Choi San’s name, it came like a warning soft, sharp, and impossible to ignore.

“Dont even think about it. He will flirt just to watch you fall.” “Hes hot as fuck, sure, but trust me, look away.” “He will say youre different. He says that to everyone.”

You never put much belief in gossip. But San? He was the gossip.

The cocky grin. The loose hoodie always half-untied. A girl curled up in his lap, or his hand casually splayed on someones waist, like it was his campus.

Youd only met him once, a half-asleep introduction when your best friend, Hongjoong, dragged you to his dorm to pick something up. San was shirtless on the couch, eyes heavy-lidded, like he couldnt decide whether to irritate you or ruin you.

He said your name once. Smirked. Went right back to sleep.

You still remember how he said it.

Lately, though… somethings changed. Or maybe hes just actually seeing you now.

Youve caught him watching from across the quad, by the cafeteria, leaning against some wall like time doesnt apply to him. And when your eyes meet?

He doesnt look away.

He holds it, just long enough to settle in your stomach. Then that damn smile, like he knows something you havent figured out yet.

Fucking jerk.

This morning, you spot him again, just outside the lit building as youre leaving class. Your notebook is clutched to your chest, your focus on not tripping down the stairs.

Hes there, leaning against a random wall like he always does waiting for the next girl to talk to him and end up breaking her heart, one earbud in, casually scrolling through his phone like nothing around him matters. Like the whole worlds moving, and hes just waiting for it to catch up.

Then he looks up.

Your eyes meet without thinking. Reflex. You couldve looked away. Maybe you shouldve.

Definitely shouldve.

But you dont.

This time, he doesnt smile. Just tilts his head, eyeing you slow and deliberate, like hes studying something hes seen a hundred times but never really looked at before. Like maybe youre no longer part of the background.

Which sucked.

Youre the first to look away. You feel it, tight in your chest. And you know he sees it.

He always does.

Later that day a message from your best friend pops up on your phone.

joong⋆˙⟡: “dorm hangout tn. bring urself + your tolerance lol”

You pause, thumbs hovering.

You already know San shares that dorm. And suddenly, your stomach flips.

You tell yourself its not about him.

Its just a chill night, with your best friend, and his friends...

Just drinks. Just games. Just a couch and some music and a few bad decisions.

Nothings going to happen. Probably.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ♡ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

You hadnt planned to stay long.

Well guess who was sprawled across the beanbag chair in the corner, already a drink in hand,

Right

San

His gaze lifts lazily from his red cup to your face, and that grin widens.

“Well, well… look who it is.”

You roll your eyes and walk in like hes not even worth acknowledging. The couch cushions dip as you squeeze between two mutual friends, and someone passes you a drink without asking.

Across the room, you can feel him watching you.

“You know San, right?” someone says to you, like youve never met.

“Unfortunately,” you mutter under your breath, taking a sip.

He hears it.

“She acts like she hates me” San tells the room, his voice smooth and loud enough to cut through the music, “but she never actually leaves when I show up.”

The room laughs. You don't.

You glance at Hongjoong, who raises his eyebrows like dont start. You wont. You swear.

But when your eyes flick back to San, hes still looking at you.

Not smirking now. Not teasing. Just watching.

You turn away.

A while later, the lights are lower. The drinks are stronger. A half-circle has formed on the floor for some classic chaotic college game, Never Have I Ever.

You get roped in.

People are already tipsy, confessions flying across the room like grenades.

“Never have I ever made out with someones ex.” “Never have I ever had a one night stand.” “Never have I ever sent a nude to the wrong person.”

Laughter. Groans. People are getting louder. Bolder. Sloppier.

And San, fucking San, is sitting directly across from you now, legs spread, leaning back on his hands like hes right where he belongs.

Your eyes meet.

He lifts his drink slowly, watching you over the rim of the cup.

“Never have I ever wanted someone I shouldnt have.”

He drinks. So do you.

Silence.

Then a couple people ooh and giggle, but youre barely listening.

Because San is still watching you. Like he knows.

Most people have cleared out.

The musics still playing in the background, but its quieter now, muted by the foggy haze of alcohol and half shut doors. A few bodies remain scattered across the couch and carpet, tipsy, distracted.

But you only notice him.

San is leaning against the wall, red solo cup dangling lazily from his fingers, eyes still fixed on you like hes waiting for something.

Thats it.

You slam your empty cup on the table and get up.

Walk straight across the room. Grab his wrist.

He lets you, doesnt resist for a second, just arches an eyebrow as you pull him down the narrow hall toward the back of the dorm.

“Y/N” he drawls, half amused, “you planning to fight me or fuck me?”

You dont answer.

You shove open the door to Hongjoongs room, thankfully empty and drag him inside.

It clicks shut behind you.

You release his wrist and turn to face him, jaw tight. Your hearts pounding, but you ignore it.

“What the hell is your problem?” you snap.

He blinks. “My problem?”

"Yeah, San. You stare at me all night like you own me. You say shit like that in front of everyone. What are you trying to do? Embarrass me? Make me part of your collection?”

I pause.

"Why are you so obsessed with me being next on your "who i played" list "

He’s quiet.

Too quiet.

Then… a laugh. Soft. Dangerous.

He steps forward.

“You really think Im trying to play you?” he says, voice low. “Youve been ignoring me for months. Dodging me like Im contagious. But the moment I look at you a little too long, you drag me into a room and ask me what my problem is?”

Hes in front of you now. So close you can smell the cologne clinging to his shirt, spicy, smoky, infuriatingly good.

You hold your ground, even tho you could practically feel your heart jumping out your chest.

“I dragged you in here to tell you to stop.”

“Then say it.”

“What?”

His voice drops.

“Say it. Tell me you dont want me. Right now. Ill walk out that door.”

Silence.

Your mouth opens. Closes. Nothing comes out.

And you hated yourself for that.

Because hes looking at you like he knows. And the worst part is, hes right.

He takes one more step, and suddenly his hand is on your hip. Gentle. Testing. Like hes giving you time to push him away.

You dont.

His breath ghosts along your cheek as he whispers.

“Didnt think so.”

You lift your head, looking up at the tall boy standing in front of you, your eyes meeting his. His gaze softens for a split second as he notices your vulnerable expression, but then hardens again.

“Those eyes... theyre going to be the death of me” he mutters before leaning down, his lips hovering near yours.

Your eyes flick down to his soft, plump lips, then to his Adams apple as it bobs while he swallows. Your face heats up a rush of alcohol and flusteredness mixing in your cheeks.

He holds the tension there, close enough you can feel his breath, but not quite touching. Then his voice drops lower “Say it. Tell me you dont want me.”

You can barely breathe, caught between wanting to push him away and the pull of every inch of him so close. The room feels smaller, the world narrowing down to just the two of you.

His lips press against yours, slow and teasing at first, then deepening with an urgent hunger that makes your heart pound. You reach up, trying to wrap your hands around his neck, but youre a little too short, and its harder than you expected. Your fingers barely graze the nape of his neck, but he just chuckles softly against your mouth.

Without missing a beat, his hands find your waist and lift you up effortlessly. You gasp, your legs instinctively wrapping around his hips to steady yourself.

“Wrap your legs around me. Now,” he commands, his voice low and rough, but there’s something almost desperate in it.

You obey, pulling him closer as your fingers finally find their way to the back of his neck, tightening your grip as the kiss deepens again.

He grunts in approval against your lips, the heat between you igniting something fierce. His hands tighten around your waist as he carries you forward, closing the small distance to Hongjoongs bed.

Without hesitation, he spins you around and slams you down onto the mattress, his body pressing against yours with delicious force.

Your breath catches, heart hammering as his hands roam, and the air between you crackles with raw, unspoken promises.

"So you did plan on fucking me?" He whispers between sloppy kisses.

Before you can answer, he leans back down and kisses you.

Sans eyes darken with lust as he looks down at your disheveled state, chest rising and falling, lips kiss swollen and parted. His hands grip the hem of your shirt, knuckles brushing the warm skin underneath.

His fingers trail upward slowly, brushing against your stomach, light, teasing touches that make your breath hitch. His gaze flicks up to meet yours, and for a moment, everything slows.

“Youre so fucking pretty like this” he mutters, voice thick and strained.

Your right hand grabs the back of his head, pulling him closer to your mouth as your lips brush his jaw, desperate and breathless.

“Cross me off your list” you whisper, voice trembling. “I dont care about it anymore… just take me already.”

You whimper the words against his skin, and it breaks something in him.

His body shudders, a low groan escaping his throat as he crushes his mouth back to yours, rougher this time, deeper, like hes been holding back for far too long and finally snapped.

A predatory grin spreads across Sans face at your words, his patience snapping completely.

“You asked for it, princess” he growls, his voice dark and full of promise.

In one fluid motion, his fingers find the hem of your shirt again, only this time, theres no teasing. He yanks it upward and over your head, tossing it somewhere behind him without a second thought.

Your breath catches, skin prickling at the sudden exposure, but before you can say a word, his lips crash back onto yours, hungry, wild, and unapologetic.

His hands slide over your bare skin like hes claiming every inch, fingertips burning trails across your waist, your sides, the curve of your back as he presses you deeper into the mattress.

You moan into the kiss, the sound slipping out before you can even think. Its not just from the way his mouth moves against yours, but from the way the tension thats been coiling in your chest all night finally snaps, spilling out in that one broken, breathless sound. Its messy, needy, and it makes him kiss you harder.

Your hands move instinctively, driven by something primal, sliding up his chest until they find his broad shoulders. Your fingers spread wide as you grip him, feeling the firm muscle flex under your touch. Theres something grounding in it, something solid and safe beneath the chaos. You cling to him, like if you let go now, you might fall apart completely.

His body reacts immediately, a low growl vibrating from his throat as your nails graze his skin. He pushes into you more firmly, the kiss deepening, hotter, rougher, like hes been waiting for you to unravel in his hands.

Sans hands roam up your back, fingers quickly finding the clasp of your bra. With practiced ease, he unhooks it, the soft click echoing in the quiet room as the straps slip off your shoulders.

You grow impatient, breath hitching as you lean closer and say, “San just do something already.”

His grin widens, dark and hungry, as he pulls you back into a heated kiss, eager to answer your challenge.

A dark chuckle escapes him once again as he slides your bra straps down your arms.

“Patience, princess. I want to savor this.”

But his hands betray his words as they roam greedily.

Your head falls back against the smooth fabric of Hongjoongs pillow. Fuck, were really doing this in my best friends bed, you mumble softly to yourself.

San pauses for a moment, a flicker of amusement flashing across his face before he leans down to nip at your neck.

“I dont care whose bed this is” he murmurs, biting harder, clearly unfazed by the location.

A-ah! San- you moan softly as his teeth gently sink into your skin.

He sucks on the bite mark, making sure itll leave a dark mark, his hands gripping your waist possessively, kissing down your chest.

You feel a familiar heat pooling between your legs. “Dont tease me” you whisper, voice thick with need.

Sans eyes flash with mischief as he notices your growing desperation, deliberately steering clear of where you want him most.

“But I love teasing you… its too fun watching you squirm.” He presses a soft kiss to your stomach instead.

Your hand quickly snakes into his hair, gripping a handful and pulling him closer down your body.

“Please” you whine, voice trembling, probably sounding needy as hell.

He lets out a low grunt at your boldness but finally yields, lowering himself until his face is just above the waistband of your jeans.

His fingers hook into the fabric, tracing the edge of your pants with deliberate intent.

There was nothing innocent in the way he looked at you. You whimper, hips arching up slightly.

San hooks his fingers into your jeans and underwear simultaneously, his breath growing heavier as he slowly tugs them down.

“Youre gonna regret being so demanding… Ill punish you for it.”

You quickly glance upward, suddenly finding the ceiling incredibly fascinating the moment he pulls your pants down in one smooth motion.

A soft ahem escapes you.

Embarrassment washing over you.

He catches your sudden shyness and smirks, swiftly pulling your pants all the way off and tossing them aside. "Dont act shy now, you were the one begging for this. Look at me" His voice is firm and commanding as his hands slide to spread your thighs apart.

You let out a soft groan as his strong hands spread your thighs apart, your pussy completely exposed and on full display beneath his touch.

Sans gaze turns almost feral as he drinks in the sight of you, pupils blown wide with desire. His thumbs glide in slow, teasing cirlces along your inner thighs, spreading warmth and tension with every pass. "So fucking pretty…and all mine to ruin" he mutters, voice low and wrecked. He leans in, breath hot against your trembling skin, making you twitch beneath his touch before he even lays his mouth on you.

He finally gives in to your pleading, lowering his mouth to you with a hunger he no longer tries to hide. His tongue slides out, giving you one slow, deliberate lick that makes your whole body jolt. "Mmm…you taste even better than I imagined" he growls against you, voice low and ruined. Without another word, his tongue begins to move with purpose circling flicking, devouring you like hes starved and youre the only thing thats ever mattered.

“Fuck, San… please” you gasp, your voice shaky with need as you throw your head back, sinking deeper into the pillow.

Your fingers stay tangled in his hair, gripping tighter, desperate to keep him right where you want him.

You bite your lip gently at the sudden contact of his tongue on your wet hole, a soft gasp escaping you as the sensation sends a shiver down your spine.

San flicks his tongue faster, one hand gripping tight to steady your wild movements as you try to buck beneath him.

“Dont hold back those sounds, i want to hear every one of them” he growls, voice thick with heat, before diving back in deeper.

You whine between broken moans, "Fuck, Sannie, please…use a finger."

He lifts his head slightly, a dangerous glint flashing in his eyes.

“Since you asked so nicely…” he murmurs, sliding one finger inside your as his mouth returns to worshipping your needy cunt.

"Oh fuck, please… yes", you gasp, bucking your hips upward with desperate need.

He slips another finger in, curling them expertly as he pumps in and out, "Youre so wet for me… dripping all over my hand" he growls, voice rough with desire. "My fingers arent enough, are they?"

“Mh, San… I’m gonna—cum!” you moan, struggling to catch your breath as waves of sensation overflow your body.

San doesn’t stop, his fingers repeatedly finding that sweet spot as he growls against your skin.

“Cum for me, Y/N. Cum all over my fingers and scream my name” he commands, voice low and urgent.

The familiar rush of your climax builds faster than you anticipated. “Shit- I-”

It doesn’t take long before you finally fall apart, your breath coming in heavy, ragged gasps.

He senses your approaching climax and presses down harder, his fingers coiling inside you as he watches your face twist with pleasure. "Let go, princess… Ive got you" he whispers, eyes locked on you as you unravel completely.

San slowly slides his fingers out, bringing them to his mouth to taste you as you catch your breath.

“That was just the beginning” he murmurs, wiping his chin before reaching for his belt buckle.

You swallow hard, your head still spinning from the alcohol as your eyes fixate on the noticeable bulge beneath his clothes.

He unbuckles his belt with deliberate slowness, savoring the way your eyes are locked onto the movement.

With a smooth motion, he unzips his jeans, releasing his hard cock from the confines of fabric.

Your eyes widen, saliva pooling in your mouth as you realize hes already leaking beads of pre cum.

San notices your reaction and lets out a deep chuckle, wrapping his hand firmly around himself.

“You look hungry… come here and taste it. Unless youre too scared,” he challenges, slowly stroking with deliberate intent.

You slowly inch forward, your hand wrapping around his shaft.

“Im not,” you whisper, voice steady and filled with quiet confidence.

His breath catches the moment your fingers brush him, but he keeps his cool, eyes locking onto yours with steady confidence.

“Prove it, then. Show me what that pretty mouth can do” he hums tilting his head back slightly, patiently waiting for you to make the next move.

You softly wrap your hands around him, stroking lazily before opening your mouth and shoving him in. A moan escapes as he hits the back of your throat causing you to gag.

Sans hips jerk forward instinctively at the sensation, his hand quickly gripping your hair. "Fuck… just like that. Take it deeper. Y/N. I know you can" He pulls your hair slightly, urging you on.

Tears welled up in the corners of your eyes as his cock twitched in your mouth, signaling he was already close.

He looks down at you with dark, intense eyes, noticing the tears gathering at the corners of your eyes.

“Youre crying, but you’re still sucking me so well. Such a messy girl” he groans, his thighs tightening. “I’m gonna cum…”

You quickly pull away, a thin strand of saliva stretching from your lips to the tip of his dick.

San curses under his breath, chest rising and falling rapidly as he watches the string break.

“Whyd you stop? I was so close to filling that pretty little throat” he growls, gripping himself tightly, struggling to hold back his release.

You whine softly, looking up at him with pleading eyes. “I want you to fuck me” you say, your needy hole throbbing painfully.

His eyes flash with raw desire as he grips your chin firmly, compelling you to meet his gaze.

“Turn around. Now.” His voice is sharp and commanding, thick with lust as he moves to position himself behind you.

You turn around in one swift motion, obeying him, arching your back and lifting your hips, presenting yourself to him without hesitation.

San grabs you firmly as he aligns his cock with your entrance.

“This what you want? My cock inside you?” he teases, pressing the tip gently against your wet folds but deliberately not pushing in yet.

You desperately wiggle your ass against his cock, eyes pleading.

“Please, Sannie,” you beg softly.

He roughly slaps your ass, making you jolt forward before he finally thrusts into you with rough urgency.

“Youre so desperate, its pathetic,” he growls, burying himself fully and setting a brutal pace as he moves inside you.

Your eyes roll back at the sudden stretch as he bottoms out.

“Fuck!” you scream, breath catching in your throat.

He pulls your hair once more, using it as leverage to pull you even closer, tightening his embrace around you.

You open your mouth, broken moans and whimpers escaping as he pounds into you, every movement sending waves of heat crashing through your body.

San leans down to bite your shoulder, his movements becoming erratic as he repeatedly hits your sweet spot.

“Youre so good… squeezing me so damn tight. Im gonna ruin you for anyone else.”

“Fuck, you feel so good… so big-” you gasp, clenching tightly around him.

He groans deeply as you clench around him, his grip tightening on your waist with just enough pressure to make you gasp. A crooked grin on his face despite the intensity between you. "Youre gonna cum again, arent you?" he mutter, voice low and rough. "I can feel it… your pussy is trembling" With that, he snaps his hips harder, driving deeper with every thrust.

“Ah- so good! I dont wanna cum yet,” you whine, voice trembling as your body fights to hold back the overwhelming release building inside you.

He lets out a dark, breathless laugh, slowing his movements but staying buried deep inside you, his chest pressed firmly against your back.

“Then dont. Hold it in” he murmurs, lips brushing your ear. “But Im not stopping until you break.” He grinds deliberately against your g spot.

You bite down on your lip hard, so hard, youre sure you can taste the faint metallic hint of blood.

His hand tangled in your hair tightens suddenly, slamming your head down firmly into Hongjoongs pillow, claiming control without hesitation.

The sharp scent of Hongjoongs cologne floods your senses as San presses you down into the pillow,

“Smell that?” he growls low in your ear. “Thats Joongs pillow. Makes me want to mark you even more.” His voice drips with eager possessiveness.

You feel the air catch in your throat, forcing muffled sounds to spill into the pillow as you struggle to breathe through the intensity.

San keeps you firmly pinned, his every thrust pressing you deeper into the mattress, your muffled sounds swallowed by the pillow beneath you, only feeding the fire in his eyes. "Thats it" he growls, voice low and commanding. "Let Joongs pillow muffle those screams… while I ruin you like this."

You couldnt help but notice how often San mentioned Hongjoong. Was it… jealousy lacing his voice?

He pulls your head up again, jaw clenched tight as his eyes lock onto the pillow with a sharp glare.

“Why do you always smell like him? It pisses me off” he growls, jealousy thick in his voice as he thrusts harder.

“H-hes my best friend” you moan softly, your voice trembling with a mix of nerves and need.

San lets out a low, dangerous growl, his eyes blazing with possessive fire.

“Best friend or not, you belong to me now.” He sinks his teeth aggresively into your neck again, leaving his mark.

You finally feel your second high building, clenching around him one last time.

“San, I’m gonna cum!” you gasp, breath hitching with desperate need.

He growls against your neck, teeth still harshly biting as he feels you tightening around him.

“Cum for me. Cum all over my cock” he demands, his own release drawing near.

“Cl-close!” you scream, your release spilling over his cock as you tremble with overwhelming pleasure.

San lets out a raw roar as he feels your release wash over him, his cum swelling deep inside you.

“Fuck yes, good girl.” He thrusts inside you one last time, locking himself firmly inside.

San collapses beside you on the bed, breathing heavily.

“Shit” you mumble quietly, still catching your breath.

He wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest.

“Don’t ‘shit’ me” he pants, breath ragged but voice firm. “You loved every second of it.”

"shut the fuck up youre an asshole" You whisper softly as your heavy eyelids begin to close.

Until you quickly drift off to sleep.

Was he still the schools heartthrob, the boy every eye chased and every rumor circled? Maybe to the outside world, he kept that title effortless, untouchable.

Or was he fully yours now?

Who knows.

523 notes · View notes

ds-angel1 · 1 month ago

Note

could you do a rafe!drugdealer x reader who is constantly talking about reader’s weight

cw: a lot of talk about weight, calories and scale mentioned, very toxic rafe, mention of sex, crying

It started small. Just a flicker beneath the surface, too subtle to name, too quiet to call out.

"You gonna eat all that?" he asked one night at Tannyhill, eyes locked on your plate as it had offended him. His tone was light, almost teasing, but his gaze didn’t waver.

There was something coiled beneath his words, something not entirely playful. You paused, fork halfway to your mouth. He tilted his head slightly, that smug half-smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Just saying. You looked better last summer.”

You laughed it off, cheeks burning with confusion. Back then, you still did that, smiled through the sting, convinced yourself it wasn’t a red flag, just a weird comment from someone who loved you. That’s what love was, right?

Honest. Raw. Unfiltered.

But it didn’t stop there. It never does.

At the gas station a few weeks later, you grabbed a bag of chips from the shelf, craving something salty. Without a word, he plucked it from your hands and dropped it back like it was poison. “Empty calories, baby. You already said your jeans felt tight, remember?”

His voice was low, edged with casual disdain. You looked around, embarrassed, but no one seemed to notice. Or maybe they did and just didn’t care.

In his truck, he’d reach over and rest a hand on your thigh, not lovingly, not protectively, but like he was inspecting something. Measuring. Evaluating. His fingers would press into your skin, hard enough to leave a dent. “Gotta keep this from getting out of control,” he’d mutter, almost to himself, like you were some project he was managing, some vessel he needed to sculpt into something acceptable.

Then came the scale.

He bought it one evening after dinner, setting it in your shared bathroom as if it belonged there.

“Step on.” When you hesitated, his voice dipped, smooth but dangerous. “Why? Got something to hide?”

On days the number dropped, he’d grin, pressing kisses to your shoulders, your collarbone, your lips. “See? When you listen to me, things go right, angel.”

His praise felt warm, intoxicating, like sunlight on your skin after a cold spell.

But if the number stayed the same, or worse, crept up, the warmth vanished. He’d go quiet. Distant. His silence stretched through the day like a wall you couldn’t break through. No goodnight kiss. No affection. Just cold detachment, as if you’d failed some unspoken test.

He noticed everything. Every bite, every bloated day, every extra helping. Nothing escaped his attention.

“Two desserts now?” he said once at a dinner party, his voice low but sharp, just for you. “Your greed sickens me.” No one else at the table reacted, your friends were too caught up in their conversations, laughter echoing while your stomach dropped.

Later, after sex, those dizzying highs he was so good at crafting, he’d lie beside you, fingers idly tugging at the flesh on your waist. He’d pinch the soft part of your stomach, chuckling. “I probably weigh less than you at this point.”

You’d flinch, shrinking under the blanket, trying to turn away from him. But his grin only widened.

The next day, you fasted. The hunger was sharp, almost holy, and when he noticed, when he told you how proud he was, you felt a surge of victory. Like his approval meant you’d won something. Like his love was a prize you had to keep earning.

You cried more often. Quietly, mostly. Into your pillow, in the shower, on your way to work. But every time you fell apart, he was there, arms around you like a savior, like the only person who could piece you back together.

“I just want you to be perfect,” he’d whisper into your hair. “You know I love you more when you take care of yourself.”

It sounded like tenderness. It sounded like care.

But it wasn’t about health. And it was never about love.

It was about control. About reshaping you into something that made him feel stronger, more powerful, more admired.

Because to Rafe Cameron, you weren’t just his girlfriend. You were a mirror. And any imperfection he saw in you felt like a flaw in himself. Every pound on your body wasn’t just weight, it was a crack in his image, a threat to the story he was trying to tell the world.

And that’s the cruelest part of it all: how he convinced you, little by little, that your body was never truly yours to begin with.

828 notes · View notes

bejeweledinterludes · 2 months ago

Text

who ya gonna call?

OR dean’s a ghost. he’s haunting you (but you are not complaining).

my masterlist

「 pairing 」 : ghost ! dean x established fem ! reader

「 word count 」 : 1.7 k.

「 content / warnings 」 : smut— again, more to come in the next few weeks too so BUCKLE UP, dean is a ghost, reader is very much aware. can’t tell if i love or hate this one tbh.

you have new messages from the author ! ↓

with the great @sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth (aka god)’s permission, i let my freak flag fly here (but when do i not, let’s be real). think spn s2 ep1 ; in my time of dying for this one. and if any of you say “well actually ☝️🤓 this wouldn’t make sense becuase of xyz” just know i am a horny woman and tumblr is my outlet. but inspo is from @sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth’s the swayze method of course. thank you very much for letting me run with this!

this is also my gift for 500 (+40 !;$3:!33&?!?!2?2(3&3&) followers, along with all the love on my touch starved ! dean fic thank you all so so so very much! part 2 for that should be out at some point <3

𖤐 ─────────────────────────

even though he hunted them, dean had to admit— being a ghost had its perks.

of course, dean had been one before— multiple times, actually. first when he got in that car crash with sammy and his dad, another when he busted out a bunch of locked up spirits in some old-ass house, and the other being more recently.

as in, now.

dean needed to stop doing stupid shit like this— but honestly? sometimes, being there, yet not being seen was pretty damn awesome.

dean had stalked you and sam all day— not that he thought you knew he was there, but you could almost… sense it. while digging through spellbooks, you’d looked at the spot he was (invisibly) standing in once or twice, furrowing your brows like you actually saw him. but you shrugged it off, thinking it was your mind playing tricks on you when the motel curtains blew a little like there’d been a small gust of wind. nothing was there, right?

no.

dean was there.

he was here now, too.

dean had been here for a while now— as soon as you and sam gave up for the second night in a row of not finding a single thing to help his… not-living dilemma, you’d gone back to what was yours and dean’s shared motel room (sam had gotten his own on the other side of the motel. and any guesses as to why?).

maybe it might’ve been seen as creepy, but dean enjoyed just watching you. didn’t matter what, or when. you’d pretended not to notice more often than not, but now dean could watch without any fear of you realizing.

well.

yet.

dean was now currently following you out of the steam-filled bathroom, your socked feet padding on the motel room’s carpet while in one of his shirts. you wore them frequently, but that didn’t stop the way a little pang of possession shot through his chest every time he saw you.

you slipped under the covers of your own comfortable blanket (because pro hunter tip: bring your own bedding to shitty motels), letting out an exhale you didn’t know you were holding in.

dean just sits and watches you for a little, perching himself on the side of the bed. damn, even with that worried, concerned look on your face, you were still gorgeous.

and you were worried. loving dean winchester had its perks, but fuck if it didn’t hurt every time he ‘died’. this was worse, too, because you knew he was a ghost— and the thought of him out there somewhere alone somewhere made your chest ache.

“wish you were here,” you whisper half into your pillow without even thinking about it, eyes on the window next to the bed.

dean’s heart broke a little at that. because he was here.

so even though he knew you wouldn’t be able to hear him, feel him— he shifts fully on the bed and scoots right up next to you, spooning you like he always did most nights.

suddenly, you were much colder than you’d been before. you squint at the window. it was only cracked a little bit for air. and for a second, you thought you felt something, weight surrounding you as if dean was really, truly actually there—

“‘m right here,” he whispers your name in your ear, his own chest hurting with the longing to just comfort you. “hell, you really think dyin’ would get you ridda me?”

then you gasp, and dean can feel the way your body tenses. but why in chuck’s name did you—

wait.

did you hear that?

you’re both silent for a moment, until you finally find the words to speak— surprisingly, the only thing that comes out of your mouth is:

“dean?”

dean mentally smacks himself upside the head.

ghosts’ emotions made them more powerful— so much so that humans could notice.

turns out, you had that effect on him.

big surprise, right?

“yeah, it’s me,” he whispers again, settling more next to you, afraid that if he spoke any louder, the bridge he’d somehow fostered might dissipate.

“jesus christ,” you breathe out a sigh of relief, still in your position on the bed while you can almost feel his breath on your ear. “have you— you’ve been here the whole time?”

“‘course i have,” dean almost sounds offended when he answers back, voice still low as his arm snakes around your waist. “where else would i be?”

you don’t answer. because now that you though about it, it did make sense. you almost wanted to ask why he didn’t say anything earlier—but instead, you whisper back:

“how are you doing that?”

dean’s brows furrow a little— until it clicks.

you felt his arm around you.

which meant you could feel him.

damn.

like he said.

this ghost thing had its perks.

“dunno,” dean honestly replies before pressing a kiss onto your cheek— and the way your eyes fluttered shut told him you felt that, too. “but i’m damn glad i can.”

“i’m dreaming,” you whisper more to yourself than anything as dean’s other hand trails down the curve of your waist through his shirt— and if you kept your eyes shut, it was like he was actually there.

but hell, he was.

“nuh uh,” you feel the warmth of dean’s breath on your ear again and his hand lingering on your hip when he presses himself completely against your back. you dared not to open your eyes, in fear of seeing nothing but darkness and empty sheets— because with you not looking, it was all the more real. “ya feel that? ‘s all me. ‘cause ‘a you.”

“fuckin’ hell,” you whisper again, pressing yourself right back into him as if—

no.

he was there.

you can feel the familiar roughness of dean’s hand slipping under the band of your underwear like he’s done a million times before— well, actually, this was a little new. because his hands were cold, not hot. but whatever.

“missed ya like crazy,” dean whispers again, fingers gently dragging across your already wet folds— because when were you not wet for dean winchester. “guess you did, too, huh?”

“always miss you,” your voice comes out breathier than you wanted it to, but that’s the effect dean had on you, too. he always made you cum like a horny teenager— too soon and too loud. but then again, you did the same for him. “always need you.”

god, what the hell were you saying? you’re a grown-ass woman—telling a man what, exactly?

well, you don’t know, because your thoughts are interrupted when dean’s skilled— albeit now ghostly fingers start rubbing. you tip your head back involuntarily, letting out a rougher exhale, because if this was a dream, you were gonna enjoy every second of it.

“dean,” his name rolls off your tongue before something between a whimper and moan escapes your throat as his fingers go a little faster. a tiny, annoying voice in your mind tells you that this really isn’t the best idea, but you don’t really care.

because dean kinda made you forget about everything else.

especially when his hands were involved.

“shhh,” dean’s not really shushing you though, because his tone is coaxing. the kind that says “i got you.”

but he still says that out loud, anyway.

so you relax more into dean— or rather, nothing behind you. you don’t think, because dean’s got you. he always does, even in the afterlife. and because if you thought about it too hard, you were afraid the tension building in your tummy would go away. you were afraid the oh-so familiar feeling of his fingers rubbing your clit would cease to exist.

you feel something cold on your neck, too— and it sends a jolt down your spine, adding to the bouts of pleasure only dean could seem to orchestrate for you.

you can’t moan as loud as you want to— because the old lady in the room next door had already given you a look when she saw the six-pack in your hands the other day. but then again, that’s when dean was in his meat suit. still, you didn’t need another look.

“oh, de,” you bury half your face into your pillow again, choking out a breath of dean’s name, eyes still shut and letting out a broken noise as the burning in your lower torso was getting more intense.

dean was enjoying this way too much, he thought. but then again, he always liked seeing you like this— even more so when it was because of him. when he actually died, he’d definitely turn down the sorry-ass reaper or death, or whoever was taking him to wherever he’ll be ending up just to make you cum, over and over.

that seemed like a good way to spend eternity.

and he wished at that moment that he could properly fuck you— but that was for when he was back in his body. so he could feel you, too.

you wished you could touch him— feel him more than what you were now, but your brain was starting to become fuzzy, your legs and what seemed to be every nerve in your body tingling.

dean felt it, too. he didn’t really know how, but it was something he’d learned over time. your pretty face scrunched up even more, and the sounds you let out were sounds you only made when you were close. you tried to talk— but all that came out was his name.

“dean— baby, please—”

he never had to ask you to beg for him. never had to ask to say his name, or for you to tell him that you’re his.

you always just did it.

“‘s okay, ‘s okay,” dean whispers your name in your ear, feeling you shiver against him. because right now? who was he to deny you? the woman who gave him anything and everything he needed— wanted. yeah, no way. “just go ahead.”

with that, he increased the pace of his fingers further while letting your hips continue buck on his hand— and the sounds you let out when you finally let yourself tip over the edge was almost enough to make dean lose it right then and there, too.

maybe there were a couple downsides to this though— because dean couldn’t lick his fingers clean of you right now. and he was hard. was that even a thing?

he could barely focus on his own thoughts right now, though— because your eyes were still shut, mouth parted and legs twitching as he lay pressed up against you.

but the first thing you said?

“just you wait ‘till you get back in your body, cowboy.”

───────────────────────── 𖤐

you have one ( 1 ) new message from the author ! ↓

felt wrong to post this on easter (yesterday) SORRY LMFAO i’m not even christian or anything like that but! faith now beating the monday scaries one smut fic at a time 🙂‍↕️🙏

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#faith’s works . . . @bejeweledinterludes!#supernatural #dean winchester #spn #dean winchester smut #dean winchester headcanon #dean winchester x you #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester one shot #dean winchester fanfiction

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supercutszns · 1 year ago

Note

Hi!! Just had to drop in and say I LOVED your Luke fic and I can’t wait for more. I would love protective Luke with hurt/comfort, if that sounds interesting at all. Thanks for sharing your writing!!! 🌸

fighting chance; luke castellan

wc + pairing: 4.2k, luke castellan x daughter of ares! reader

synopsis: when an enemy takes advantage of your kindness during capture the flag, luke intervenes with a sword in hand.

warnings: a creepy boy👎, threats/harm to reader, she’s going through it, blood/injuries (nothing major), angry ANGRY luke, violence, lots of fluff/reassurance at the end<3

notes: thank you SO much for your kind words & your request!! hurt/comfort is my bread and butter my favourite fic genre of all time i think. & protective luke is just a bonus bc he’s already crazy so it can go as far as i want🤭 i’m not exactly sure what this turned into but if i fix it any more i'm going to go insane so hope you like it!

You’re not much of a fighter.

That alone is a normal thing to admit—plenty of people don’t like violence, the frisson of a challenge, the bruises that come with them. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.

Unless you’re a child of Ares.

People at camp often ridicule your gentle nature when they see you with your half-siblings. They’re all gritted teeth and sharp edges, born warriors that take up all the space they can get. You, on the other hand, are lousy with weapons and even lousier with your fists. You’re quiet, attentive. While your siblings charge into battle without second thought you stay back, flitting around to adjust armour, change out weapons, oversee the terrain. Planning isn’t Ares’ style so you’re pretty much useless but nobody wants to admit it. You’re usually mistaken as a child of Hephaestus or Athena.

Unfortunately, you are a child of Ares, through and through—just in none of the ways that matter.

There are rare times your father’s influence peeks through. Not with bursts of rage or fists flying, but with thoughts. And sometimes those thoughts turn into words. Well, not sometimes. One time. This one.

The evening before the camp’s Capture the Flag game, every cabin gathered around the bonfire past dinner. To burn offerings, to chat, or in Luke Castellan’s case, to admire.

He watches you laugh with Clarisse from a distance. The Ares cabin leader always had a certain fondness for you. When Luke first started dating you he had to ask Clarisse for her blessing beforehand just to be sure she wouldn’t kill him. He’d do it a million times over just for the moment you look back, your face warming when you catch his stare. He rolls his eyes at you to lessen his smile, but he’s not sure it works. You giggle and turn back to your friend.

He’s always loved your softness; your capacity to defend and not attack. Your body rejects any skill you could possibly develop for violence. Believe him, he’s tried to teach you sword fighting, but the last time he gave you a lesson you nearly impaled yourself thirty seconds in. He loves your wit and your tenderness, your proficiency at preventing conflict, your refusal to argue. But a selfish part of him loves the fact that he’s your protector even more.

The night wears on with the flickers of fire and friendly banter. One of the times Luke looks back at you, his brows wrinkle. There’s a guy talking to you. A group of them, actually, but there’s one clearly leading the pack. Some Aphrodite kid. Luke’s jaw twitches.

“Hey, princess,” the voice makes you pull away from your talk with Clarisse, but you’re confused. Luke is the only one that calls you that.

“Um, me?” You ask when you see the boy in front of you. He’s tall, chest puffed out. It’s not an endearing silhouette. “What’s up?”

“You wanna be on my team for Capture the Flag tomorrow?” He asks nonchalantly.

You laugh politely, “Sorry, but I don’t think we’re allied with Aphrodite tomorrow. That’s your cabin, isn’t it?” You feel bad that you can’t remember—his face is so … plain.

He chuckles back, but it’s a lot less nice. “No, doll, that’s not what I mean.” He steps a little too close, and even though you know Clarisse is behind you it feels like she’s a thousand miles away. “Well,” he drawls, a smirk drawn out, “you meet me in the forest after we start, and then we can … you know. Confer.”

“Confer?”

“Yeah. You get what I mean, pretty girl, don’t play dumb.”

A revulsion coats your gut. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t call me that,” you say as firmly as you can.

“What, pretty or dumb? Why not both?”

It’s demeaning, the way he says it, and it stirs a temper in your stomach you know you inherited from your father. You’re not big on confrontation. Or embarrassment. But this weirdo is talking to you out in the open and people are starting to stare. He wouldn’t dish it out if he can’t take it, right?

“I’ll pass on your offer. I have a boyfriend and I’m actually on his team tomorrow, so I’d rather confer with him, sorry.” Your hands wring together but you do your best to quell them, imagining it’s the string of Luke’s camp necklace, threaded between your fingers. You try to look for him out of the corner of your eye.

He snickers, even though it’s common knowledge you and Luke have been together for months now. “So you are dumb, huh?” He tries to smirk and you assume is supposed to be sexy, but it’s just gross. His hand tries to slide around your waist.

“Don’t touch me, please,” you hit his hand away. Your skin is crawling and the knot inside you tightens.“Just leave me alone. People are looking, you know.”

“We could go somewhere where nobody looks,” he sneers, and the grin on his face is so sleazy that you just can’t stand it anymore.

You pray to your father for strength. And to yourself for forgiveness.

“I’m sorry, are you stupid or something? I told you, no.” You snap. “Maybe you’re the pretty dumb one, but for a child of Aphrodite it’s shocking how little the first one applies.”

His eyes are wide, and the posse he’d assembled behind him has attracted quite the view. You almost feel like crying, all these eyes on you, but you’re so sick of people thinking they can walk all over you just because you’re not like your siblings.

“What the fuck is wrong with you? I’m just trying to be nice—” He grabs your wrist as you leave but you yank it hard.

“Don’t. Touch me.” People are staring at you now, but the only one you care about is Luke, who looks equally ticked and equally proud, and all you want to do is kiss him. “Hope the only time we confer tomorrow is if somebody’s sword is at your throat.”

It’s the last thing you say to him. He starts to go after you but Luke is already at your heels. “Back off, man.” You can spot how all his muscles are already rearing themselves for a fight. You wrap a hand around his wrist, and he meets your eyes. Not now.

The altercation is lost the second the two of you leave the bonfire. Nothing matters when Luke has you in his arms, kissing you outside of your cabin, telling you how damn beautiful you looked.

You’re fixing a new Ares boy’s armour when Luke finds you. “Hey, angel,” he says, leaning down to press a kiss to your cheek. He relishes in the way your face heats up. “You ready for battle?”

You smile, “Always.” You pat the kid on the cheek and send him on his way. He gnashes his teeth and roars, joining his siblings at the front. Luke catches the longing in your expression.

“All good?” He asks gently.

It takes you a second for your eyes to meet his. “Mmhm,” you swallow. “Just hope his armour doesn’t fall off.”

Luke sighs for a moment, then wraps his arms around you. “He’ll be fine, sweetheart. Be safe, okay? Stay close.” He kisses your temple, rubbing circles on the nape of your neck.

“Yes sir,” you reply against his chest. His insides flutter.

He pulls your face up to his and kisses you, tender and wanting. “Let’s show these hooligans who’s boss,” he quips.

“You’ll show them. I’ll hide in the woods until some idiot comes along and tries to ambush you.”

Your dulcet tone has him wrapped around your finger, and you don’t even know it. “You’ve always got my back,” he croons, kissing your brow.

“And you’ve always got our flag.”

You kiss him again and he lets you slip out of his arms no matter how badly he wants to keep you there forever. He watches you vanish into the trees, and his heart goes with you.

He gears up with his team and the horn sounds. Game on.

There’s yelling, sweat, adrenaline, and Luke embraces it all like a man starved. This is his chance to be ruthless, to let all his untapped rage cycle through him. This is why he’s unstoppable. This is why he’s the best.

Clarisse is unusually cooperative today, but competent as always, and whenever someone’s weapon breaks or they lose their team she just barks at them to go find you. You, the smartest person in Ares, who can mend a weapon with nothing but blades of grass and determination. Luke is pretty sure your cabin would be lost without you. He wonders if you know.

The groove of the game has fully enthralled him. He’s alert, his wrist nimble, his sword a living, breathing part of him. There’s almost nothing that can take him out of his victory path until he hears one of the younger campers tell Clarisse he can’t find you anymore.

Whatever nincompoop he’s dealing with is left groaning on the floor. “What?” He barks, hand flexing around his sword. “Where is she?”

“Probably just moved,” Clarisse grunts as she kicks back an opposing camper. “She knows where everything is. Maybe she’s—oof—safer.”

“But how am I supposed to fix my spear?” The kid frowns.

Luke runs his tongue along the roof of his mouth, dry and laden with salt. He told you to stay close. Where would you go? “I’ll find her,” he decides, already sheathing his sword to walk towards the trees.

“Luke—”

“I’ll find her!”

He barely pays attention to the calamity going on around him. With a flick of his wrist he knows he can take out any person he wants. The second he gets to the trees, where the air is cooler, it’s startling how much quieter it is. No wonder this is your preferred hiding spot.

He thanks the quiet a thousand times over because if it had been any louder he wouldn’t have heard you scream.

It’s so short it’s almost indiscernible, but he knows it’s you based on how his body movies before his brain does. It snaps something in him, the adrenaline transformed into something acerbic, determined.

“Don’t fucking scream again.” A cluster of boys are stationed around you. You’re leaning back in the dirt. You barely feel the earth sticking to your skin. Just your heart jostling madly, your fingertips shaking in the ground beside you. “Okay, I won’t, just put the sword down—”

The snarling Aphrodite boy from last night takes a swing at you, and you scramble back just enough to avoid it. “No can do, doll.” His face is twisted with rage. The lackeys he had when you told him off are there too, cornering you against a cluster of trees like you’re some caged animal. There’s a dagger clenched in one of your dirt-ridden fists but you know it won’t do you any good. You can’t fight; you don’t have it in you. But these boys do. And they’re angry.

“Tell me where the flag is,” he orders. The tip of his blade comes under your chin, fogging up with the labours of your breath, your head pressed against the trunk of a tree.

You stutter, “You’re not—You’re not supposed to threaten like this—”

“You embarrassed me in front of all those people yesterday,” he cuts you off. “Thinking you’re so fucking smart. I didn’t even say anything that big a deal but you run your mouth to the entire camp and make me look like the idiot. I thought you were nice.”

The words are laced with poison. You know from the wild look in his eyes that this isn’t about the flag at all.

Tears sting your eyes and the sword grazes your throat. Of course this is happening to you. The one time you feel your father’s rage, when you exemplify the thing you’re told to be, you are punished.

You are never going to be the right kind of daughter.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” you try to say it evenly, but your breath is so ragged it’s barely audible. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said all that.” You mean it, but they won’t care.

The boy’s face looks pleased at your tears. It makes you inexorably ashamed. “Some fucking Ares kid,” he snorts. “Can’t even fight, can you? Can’t even pretend to.” His sword leaves your throat and travels up to your quivering jaw. You’re wordless, white-knuckling the dagger at your side, praying that Luke is somewhere nearby.

“No wonder they stash you back here. You’re useless.” His eyes scan every part of you, and the idea of him knowing what you look like forever is so revolting it makes you want to vanish. “Too bad you’re alone, though. Nobody’s gonna know I was here because nobody’s gonna hear you.”

Your eyes get wide, and something in your mind rumbles through you like an engine. An urge buried in your blood.

Your dagger tears into his leg just as his sword dashes your arm. The pain is sharp, stinging, but the boy winces and you know you hurt him too. It gives you just enough time to roll out of the way as he lurches forward. “The fuck is wrong with you?” He swears.

Blood drips onto your shorts, splotched with tears. You know you can’t go anywhere because his friends are here and you’re almost certain you’ll be maimed, but you tried. At least you tried.

The Aphrodite boy picks his sword back up, stalks towards you, and then freezes.

Because Luke has just spotted you. And he’s spotted the boy that has you on the ground.

And he’s the best fucking swordsman Camp Half-Blood has seen in three hundred years.

“If you don’t get away from her right now I’m putting this through your skull.” He emerges from the foliage, his sword raised, sweat dripping down his face. You have never seen anyone look angrier. He has never felt angrier.

The boy blanches, and Luke sees how easily his lapdog friends shrink in his presence. Good.

“Woah, easy,” the boy holds his hands up in mock surrender and tries to flash a smile but it’s just fucking pathetic. His arms are shaking and his throat bobs about a million times. “We’re just playing the game.”

“Like hell you are,” Luke spits. “You gang up on my girlfriend and you expect me to believe this is fair play? Want me to tie you all together and push one of you off a cliff to keep the spirit going?”

“Didn’t know she was yours,” the boy tries to shrug but again, it’s a miserable attempt that only makes Luke feel stronger.

“Not that it matters but yes, you do,” Luke chuckles thickly. “I beat your ass in sword training last week. You know exactly who I am. And I’m sure you know who you are, so it’s obvious you’re playing out of your league here.”

Out of the corner of his eye he sees you still cowering, blood dribbling down your arm. He wants to tear the world apart. “Apologize and maybe I don’t send you to the infirmary.”

“We just want the flag, man,” the boy swallows.

“And I want your head on a stick. Want to see who gets what first?”

It’s too provocative an insult for a moron like this to ignore, so soon Luke has the pleasure of disarming five bitter boys that have clearly never been good at a single thing in their life. He tears through them like sheets of paper, knocking them to the dirt, ripping their clothes. He thinks of you, just you, your honest heart and patient hands, and it’s enough to fuel him for a millennia.

The last boy, the leader, is at Luke’s mercy, and he has none to give. The flat of Luke’s blade is pressed horizontally against the boy’s neck, an angering similarity to the position he had you in earlier. “If you ever do this again, I’m going to kill you.”

“You’re—fucking—crazy—” The boy wheezes, the length of the blade squeezing his throat against a tree trunk. “I’ll—I‘ll tell Chiron.”

Luke has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep him from doing something he regrets. “Oh yeah? You want me to tell Chiron how you harassed and terrorised a girl in the middle of the forest all in the name of play? Want me to tell him what you said to her last night at the campfire? Because I’m sure it won’t take much for him to get rid of your ugly face as it is, and I’m a camp counsellor.”

He knows it’s not the most morally correct use of his title. He knows he might be stepping over the line. But he also knows you’re always being ignored or trampled over and he’s tired of pretending like he doesn’t give a damn. He’s tired of people trying to force you into something you’re not. Of you crying in his bed at night because they’re trying to drag a violence out of you that isn’t there. Always in the name of fucking play.

Luke takes the sword off the boy’s neck and shoves him backwards. His calf is bleeding, not a deep wound, but a wound nonetheless, and Luke is full of pride when he realizes you did that. The boy’s bad leg makes him wobble and fall at the force of the push. Luke enjoys watching the scramble. “I—I was just trying to be nice, it’s not my fault she took it the wrong way!” The boy flails his hands in the air, rising to his feet again, and Luke shoves him down twice as hard. A piece of his shirt tears off in Luke’s hand.

“You’ve gotta stop talking or I really am going to kill you,” he seethes. “Don’t touch her ever again. Go.”

Luke is sure he looks homicidal right now because the guy finally tumbles his way down the hill. His body fades into the distance, swallowed up by shrubbery and sweat.

The second he’s gone Luke tosses his sword and armour and gets back to you. “Shit,” he mutters, kneeling down. You’re still shaking, your head in your arms, and all his hatred morphs into a love so desperate it terrifies him. “Angel, come here. Let me see.” He lifts your face with his hands and scans you rapidly. “Did he hurt you anywhere else? Anywhere?”

“Just my arm,” you whimper. “My arm.”

He knows it’s not the cut that’s hurting you; it’s long, but thin, and it’s not bleeding too thickly. He takes the cloth from the Aphrodite boy’s shirt and wraps it around your arm, knotting it at the end. “All right, that should be better.”

You look at him with watery eyes, and he knows all you need is for him to hold you. He folds you in his arms and leans against a stump. You can’t get close to him fast enough. The tip of your nose buries itself in his neck and he feels the dampness of your cheeks on his skin. “It’s okay, sweetheart, you’re safe,” he soothes, pressing a kiss to your hair. “I’m so sorry.”

Guilt swaths over him for a brief moment; he wonders if he shouldn’t have done all that, if he should’ve been more sensible. Then your lips form a ‘thank you’ against his skin and all is forgotten.

You feel so small. The shock is still running its course, so all you can do is cry it out. Your hands still shake when you thread your fingers through Luke’s necklace to steady them. He soothes you the best he can, running his hand along your spine, all the sharpness of his voice softened just for you. “You’re all right, angel. I’m not going anywhere.”

You stay like that for a while. The sounds of the forest return to you; leaves in the wind, birds chirping, Luke’s breath tickling your hair. You crane your head up to nuzzle your nose against the faint stubble of his jaw. “My hero,” you murmur, and feel his skin shift as he smiles.

“Couldn’t have done it without you. Saw the cut you gave him on his leg.” He kisses your temple. “I hope it gets infected.”

You giggle weakly no matter how you try smothering it in his chest. “Gods, you’re awful.”

“He deserves it! I probably should have killed him!”

“You came pretty close, didn’t you?” You mumble. Luke’s expression is wary, but you smile to yourself and it dispels everything. “I was hoping you’d come.”

“Good. Serves them right, messing with you like that. Fucking idiots.” He kisses your face again for good measure, “You sure they didn’t get you anywhere else, princess?”

You nod but you know you look wounded. You nudge into the crook of Luke’s neck again. “They … you know, it’s just … the usual stuff.” Every word weighs a pound as it comes out. Your heart feels sore.

Luke tenses again instantly. “What usual stuff?”

“Um, just—” The shame gets caught in your throat. “They all think I’m useless, Luke. Why can’t I do this right?”

You start to cry again, but he just holds you closer. Sometimes it surprises you how much patience he has. He prides himself as the harsher one between the two of you, but you don’t know who he’s fooling with the way he always knows how to comfort people.

“I don’t know what to do,” you continue, blinking back tears, “I’m not—I’m just not good at this, I don’t know why I’m in Ares, I don’t know why I can’t … be that. Why is he my father? I’m no good at being angry. I want to be angry.”

Luke’s quiet for a moment. Nothing changes except his hand rubbing circles on the nape of your neck again. Then he sighs deeply and says, “You don’t owe your father a damn thing. You don’t owe anyone anything.” He’s resolute, firm, a sharp contrast to his gentle kiss on your hairline. “You’re the smartest, most generous person I know. You need those people in battle. You’ll lose if you don’t.”

The warmth of his skin prompts you to look up at him. He looks different so often, the way he can shift between so tough and so gentle. Sometimes, like now, he’s caught in the middle, the remains of a furious sweat hardening his face, but his eyes are nothing but tender. You think it’s how you like him best.

“Besides, we’re not our parents, right? Who cares about Ares anyway?” Luke shrugs.

“Luke! Don’t say that!” your tears turn into a giggle. “The Gods might punish you!”

“I’ll handle it. There’s enough fight in me for the both of us.”

“Okay, tough guy,” you mutter with a weak smile.

You’re still sniffling. He runs his thumbs across your cheeks, and his gaze softens. “You’re an Ares kid because you are a fighter, angel. You just fight a hell of a lot smarter than the rest of us. Best one I know. Well, other than me.”

It makes you smile. “So second-best?”

“Tied for first.”

He kisses you with that stupid roguish smile. It’s salty with tears and sweat, but it mends your heart anyway. There is nowhere in the world you’d feel safer.

“I love you,” he says against your cheek. “Be as sweet as you want. If anyone has anything to say about it I’ll mess ‘em up good.” Your face warms as his voice drops to your ear, “And I know you’re an Ares kid because you’ll encourage it every time. You might not have a violent bone in your body, but you sure don’t have a problem with me using mine.”

“Diplomatically, Luke. Diplomatically.”

“Sure, sure. Whatever you want.”

You can’t help but kiss him again. You’re not entirely sure why he loves you so much, why you love him so much, but you never feel quite as secure as when you’re with him.

Cheers boom from the other side of camp. Luke’s head perks up like a dog, and you turn back to search for spots of red or blue. “Did we win?” You ask, craning your head to get a better view.

“Don’t care,” Luke says.

You look back at him. His anxious face says it all. “Yes, you do.”

“Okay yes, I do, and I need to see if those douches found our flag so I can choke them out with it.”

You laugh, standing so Luke can jog off to see the state of your team. But before he goes, he picks you up and smothers you in kisses, holding you like you’re his prize.

You are not a fighter, but your boyfriend sure is. And you’re perfectly okay with that.

#perrie’s fics #perrie’s requests #luke castellan #luke castellan x reader #pjo #pjo x reader #charlie bushnell #luke castellan comfort #luke castellan x you #luke castellan imagine #luke castellan fic #luke castellan fluff #percy jackon and the olympians #pjo fic #i kind of hate this i think I’M SORRY #but some parts of it are interesting so oh well #luke castellan you are fucking crazy.

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osarina · 3 months ago

Text

ᡣ𐭩 TWO SLOW DANCERS, LAST ONES OUT

FEATURING: osamu dazai

SUMMARY: your one day of pretend with dazai is over, but something isn't right. there's more going on than what he's led you to believe, and you're desperately trying to figure out what it is before it's too late.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: WAHHHHHHHHHHH PMREADER BEAST AU IS OFFICIALLY DONE. CAN U GUYS BELIEVE IT. what was supposed to be a 15k one-shot turned into a 40k monster </3 one day i will learn to be casual about things, but i fear it is not today </3 and especially not with beast au. wahhhhhh guys this was such a pleasure to write & share with you all, thank you all for bearing with me throughout it and showing me so much love. i put my full heart into this one :') and a special thank u to miss river & one of my irls who beta'd this whole monster for me and cleaned it up for you all to read. if you guys had seen the number of commas that river had to fix for me naifhsaiudfhsdu HUMBLING TRULY. anyway i love the both of you so so very deeply this couldn't have been done without you. as always, reblogs appreciated! MWAH love you guys <33

GENERAL WARNINGS: fem!reader, port mafia executive!reader, beast!dazai, tragedy, angst, canon compliant.

CHAPTER SPECIFIC WARNINGS: mcd (suicide, canon), hints toward suicidal thoughts at the end.

SEE: TWO SLOW DANCERS SERIES MASTERLIST

The next morning, the two of you dress in silence.

You don’t know what to say—you don’t even know if you have anything to say. Or you suppose that’s not true, you have a lot to say, but most of it you’re sure will just be answered with more ‘I can’t’s and you just don’t want to deal with the disappointment. Plus, Dazai seems to be done with whatever day of ‘weakness’ he had yesterday. His expression has been cold and withdrawn since he woke up an hour ago—he’s hardly even spared you a glance.

He slept well, though. You couldn’t help but wonder if this was the first time he’d slept through the night in months—years, even. The moment he rested his head back on the pillow, one arm curled around your waist, Dazai was out for the night. He ended up shimmying closer to you so that he could rest his head on your chest, breath even, expression peaceful for the first time in… too long.

You were not quite as lucky.

Your eyes are heavy as you button up your dress shirt. You spent the whole night awake, restless as you watched him sleep; hours were spent carding your fingers through his hair, relishing in intimacy and trust he hadn’t given you in years, and hours were spent with your fingers curled around a paper-knife he left on the nightstand, considering the drawbacks of putting it through his throat while he slept in your arms.

You could’ve done it—you almost did do it. You had the tip of the small knife pressed to his pulse point for twenty minutes, fingers trembling, each breath he took making the sharp edge press deeper into his bandages. Dazai is usually a light sleeper, so you suppose it’s a testament to how tired he was and how much he trusts you that he didn’t even stir with a knife against his throat.

You weighed out the pros and cons. You would get away with it; who would even try to punish you for it? The Flags? Itou or Klaus? Chuuya? Over half of the upper echelon wants him dead, and the other half has no love left for him after he murdered Mori—Dazai is alone; he has no friends left, and he has no allies. The only reason people put up with him as boss is because of how the Mafia has prospered under his reign, and that will only be enough for so long. There are already whispers of incompetence and madness because of his recent decisions with the Armed Detective Agency. So, not only would you get away with it, but you’d be rewarded for it, you’d be given the seat and the scarf and full control over the Port Mafia. The worst you’d deal with is Chuuya’s irritation because he wanted to be the one to put Dazai down.

And Dazai deserved it, didn’t he? After the four years of hell he put you through, after murdering Mori—Dazai deserves to die, and you deserve to be the one to do it, Chuuya would understand that. Dazai treated him like shit too, but it was nothing like what he put you through. He’s only as insistent as he is now about being the one to do it because he doesn’t think you can handle it. You gave him better than he deserved—a whole day of being able to pretend nothing changed between the two of you, being able to pretend his actions didn’t ruin what you had with him… it was more than he deserved by all accounts.

You almost don’t know why you didn’t go through with it.

“What are you thinking?” he finally asks, voice still rough with sleep, all of the warmth from yesterday gone.

You look at him from the corner of your eye as you pull your suit jacket on. He’s not looking at you—he’s adjusting his scarf, making sure the ends are even in the mirror. His lips are curled down, bandages back over the left side of his face, and when you don’t respond immediately, his gaze flickers up to look at your reflection. You immediately look away.

“That I regret not putting a knife in your throat last night,” you tell him flatly.

Dazai lets out a noise, you’re unsure if it’s a laugh or a scoff. You stiffen when you hear him padding across the bedroom in your direction. You can feel his presence looming behind you, fingers brushing over your hips before he lifts a hand to your chin, tilting your head back enough to force you to look at him over your shoulder. His touch is light, but it’s so different from the gentle caresses from last night that it sends shivers down your spine. It’s almost… you aren’t even sure how to describe it—oppressive, possessive, taunting? It’s light, but somehow the weight of it is unbearable—like he knows he’s going to say something to upset you and he’s waiting for you to react just as he wants.

You’re back to the mind games and power plays.

“You’re so quick to say such cruel things,” he murmurs, breath warm against your skin. His eye glints with something unreadable—amusement, maybe, like he knows something you don’t—but all you care about is the confirmation that yesterday is really over. You know that for sure now with him looking at you like this. “But you always come crawling back to me, don’t you?”

You slap his hand away hard, but he doesn’t flinch.

“Fuck you,” you say coldly. “Do you want to know why I didn’t?”

Dazai tilts his head to the side, shoving his hands into his coat pockets. His gaze is half-lidded as he looks over you, but he finally raises his eyebrows, beckoning for you to speak.

“Because last night, I finally realized how fucking miserable of an existence your life is,” you tell him, but you don’t find any pleasure in the way he draws back ever so slightly. “Death would be too easy for you.”

For a moment, the air between you stills, thick with something neither of you wants to name. Dazai’s expression is unreadable, but you don’t miss the flicker of pain that crosses his face. Just as quickly as you catch it, it’s gone, replaced with that infuriating smirk.

“Oh?” he hums, rocking back on his heels. “And here I thought it was your inability to let go of the past kicking in again. You’re too fond of me to ever hurt me.”

“Fond of you?” you scoff, taking a step closer, ignoring the way your heart races when he doesn’t move away. “What is there to be fond of, Dazai? Chuuya is right, you’re a walking corpse. I haven’t been fond of you in years, I’ve been mourning you.”

You don’t mean the words; you’re just looking to hurt him, but his expression shifts again, something raw in his gaze as he looks down at you that he can’t quite push away fast enough. Your stomach twists, but before you can say anything, his sharp grin returns. “Ah, and yet, you stayed. How many times did I give you the opportunity to leave?”

You shake your head and move to walk past him. You can’t stay in this place any longer—it’s suffocating, too much of a reminder of what could’ve been. Before you can get far, his hand darts out to grab your wrist, stopping you in your tracks.

You turn your head to the side to look at him from the corner of your eye.

“Just out of curiosity,” he finally asks, a cruel edge to his voice that has you stiff, “how much of yesterday did you actually believe?”

His words and the implication of them don’t cause the pain that he clearly wants to make you feel. They can’t, not with the way you can feel his fingers trembling around your wrist. You look down at them pointedly and then drag your gaze back up to his face. Dazai snatches his hand back and shoves it into his pocket, but the damage has already been done.

“Not even you’re that good of a liar, Dazai,” you say quietly. Before you can change your mind, you turn to face him, lifting your hand to cup his cheek. His lashes instinctively flutter shut as he leans into your touch; the immediate reaction only serves to prove you more. “I don’t regret yesterday, but I hope you do.”

Dazai’s throat bobs beneath his bandages as he looks down at you. He looks young suddenly, even with the black cloak acting as a shield and Mori’s scarf hanging around his neck. He looks like a kid who knows he’s done something wrong but doesn’t know how to fix it. His lips part slightly, then press together again, as if he wants to say something but can’t find the right words. The usual playful glint in his eyes has dulled, replaced with uncertainty, fear even.

“I should,” he replies, voice hoarse. “I really should, but I’ve always been too selfish when it comes to you. I’m sorry.”

You exhale, thumb running over his cheekbone gently. “I wish I could hate you.”

Dazai’s lips curl up into a small, wry smile. “Me too.”

Your hand drops from his face as you look away, gaze lowering to the ground. “We should go.”

Dazai lets out a quiet hum of agreement, following you out of the bedroom and to the front door. As you step outside, the early morning air is crisp, biting against your skin. The world feels too quiet as if it knows the weight of what happened between you and Dazai. He walks a step behind you, subdued.

You pause when you see that there are two cars waiting outside, your throat tight. If you’re not going back to headquarters together, then… You can’t help the wave of panic that starts to claw at your chest when you realize what that means. You look back at him and ask too quietly, “Are you… sending me away again?”

His expression shifts into a softer one when he sees the genuine fear that crosses your face. His lips curl up into a small smile, and he reaches out to brush the back of his fingers against your cheek.

“Just for a meeting,” he says to ease your panic, voice low and soothing, fingers lingering against your face as if he’s reluctant to pull away. “The Family reached out, wanted us to send someone to Rome to meet with them. Didn’t want to disclose why over the phone.”

Your brows furrow. “Goldoni reached out to you?” you ask suspiciously, wondering why he wouldn’t have just reached out to you instead.

Dazai raises his eyebrows. “I am the boss,” he replies dryly, amused. “Why do you sound so surprised?”

You frown but decide not to press any further, letting it go with a shake of your head. You look back over to the cars—Albatross and Iceman are in one, two of Dazai’s personal guards are in the other.

“Itou and Klaus are already at the airport getting things ready,” Dazai answers your unspoken question. “Albatross and Iceman will escort you there.”

“Chuuya has a mission in Tokyo today, Lippmann is filming in Nagoya,” you say quietly, watching Dazai’s face carefully for any flicker of a reaction. “Who is going to be back at headquarters with you?”

“Don’t worry about me,” he says, much to your displeasure. When he sees the flinty expression cross your face, he smiles. “Atsushi-kun and Kyouka-chan will be there. So will Kouyou-kun and Piano Man. I’ll be fine.”

You’re still unsettled; something about it isn’t sitting right with you as you turn your attention back to the two cars. You take a deep breath, trying to shake off the unease creeping up your spine. Dazai is many things—careless isn’t usually one of them. He’s the smartest man you know, every action he takes is perfectly calculated. If he says he’ll be fine, then logically, you know he will be.

But logic doesn’t soothe the pit in your stomach.

“Fine,” you say at last, though it’s clear you don’t mean it. You step toward the car where Albatross and Iceman are waiting, but before you get down the front steps of the porch, Dazai speaks again.

He says your name. His voice is light, almost teasing, but there’s an underlying weight to it that makes you pause. When you glance back, his expression is unreadable, dark eye giving away nothing as he stares at your face, almost like he’s trying to memorize the picture of you beneath the early morning sun.

“What?” you press after a moment when he doesn’t say anything else.

“Will you… kiss me one last time?” he asks, his voice raspy and his gaze flickering with uncertainty as he looks down at you, fingers twitching at his side.

Your breath catches at the request, and for a second, all you can hear is the faint rustling of the trees, the distant chirp of a bird somewhere overhead, the engines of the two cars waiting for the two of you running. The morning light is soft, golden, and his eye looks like a pool of honey beneath it, gentle and inviting, warm.

You swallow, heart stuttering in your chest. One last time. He watches you carefully, waiting, fingers curling slightly at his sides as if he wants to reach for you but doesn’t dare. You’re acutely aware of the four pairs of eyes trained on you from inside the waiting cars.

You could say no. You should say no.

Yesterday is over, you’ve already given him more than he deserves.

But you step forward, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from his body. His breath hitches, the soft expression on his face shifting to something closer to yearning. You barely breathe as you reach up, fingers brushing lightly against his jaw as you tilt your face toward his.

Neither of you close the distance for a moment. You stand there, lips just almost brushing, dizzy with the feeling of sharing each other’s air. You finally lean in that last bit, lips grazing his. The kiss is soft, hesitant at first, and then he exhales shakily, pressing his lips firmly against yours. He shudders as your hands slide up to thread your fingers through his hair, kissing you with a type of aching desperation that makes your chest tighten. His hands find your waist, fingers digging into your skin like he’s afraid to let go. Like the moment is slipping through his fingers even as it happens.

When you finally break apart, his forehead rests against yours, breath uneven. His fingers linger on your waist, reluctant to let go.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m sorry.”

You don’t know what to say to that, so you just close your eyes, willing away the sudden tears that spring to them. You don’t even know why you want to cry—maybe because it feels too much like a formal goodbye, that this is Dazai telling you that things will never be the way they were again, and he needs you to let go.

“I love you,” you tell him quietly, voice cracking.

Dazai lets out a shaky breath, eye sliding shut as he finally pulls away. His hands drop to his side limply, and you pull yours to your body, wrapping your arms around your waist as you look up at him.

“I know,” he whispers. “You shouldn’t. I’m sorry. I love you, too. Always.”

You make your way over to the car, but before you can open the door, Dazai speaks again.

“I—” he starts to say, and when you look back at him, there’s a conflicted expression on his face that makes you concerned. “I’ll miss you.”

You hesitate. “I’ll miss you too. See you in a few days.”

A smirk that doesn’t quite reach his eyes tugs at the corner of his lips, but he doesn’t say anything more. You slide into the car, shutting the door behind you. Neither Albatross nor Iceman says anything as you get settled in the back, your chest feeling impossibly heavy as you stare down at your lap.

“I didn’t understand,” Iceman says after a moment, clearing his throat. “I’m sorry.”

“You still don’t understand,” you reply tightly, swallowing the lump in your throat as your gaze flickers up to the rearview mirror. Dazai hasn’t budged from his spot on the steps, lips curled up into a small smile as he watches you pull away. “You can’t understand.”

“I know,” Iceman agrees quietly as Albatross drives down the long driveway of the beach house, “but I understand enough to know that I was wrong.”

You don’t reply, resting your head against the window as you stare into the side mirror until Dazai finally disappears from your line of sight. You don’t see the way his smile fades as soon as the car turns out of view, but that unsettling feeling returns, curling deep in your stomach like a warning that you can’t quite decipher.

You exhale slowly, trying to shake it off, and prepare to meet Itou and Klaus at the airport. It’s more important for you to figure out what this meeting with the Family is going to be about before you get there, but the further you get from Dazai, the bigger that pit in your stomach gets.

———

Klaus has been insufferable since the plane took off. He’s excited to be going back to Europe—it’s his first time back since you brought him back to Yokohama with you three years ago. Every five minutes, he’s asking if you guys can go to Munich after business is handled with the Family, and you don’t know how to tell him no without feeling like a bitch, so you keep giving Itou pleading looks to make him be the bad guy, but the man has the audacity to blatantly ignore you, whistling as he looks out the window.

He’s calmed down for the most part now, though. He’s lounging back across the seats behind you and Itou, playing on his phone while you guys try to theorize why the Family wants to meet so suddenly. You’ve been dancing around the subject of what happened yesterday, and you know he wants to ask because he keeps side-eyeing you but just can’t figure out how to go about it.

“Just ask, god,” you finally say irritably when Itou gives you another long side eye before dramatically sighing. “Stop pretending to be coy.”

Itou lights up like a kid in a candy shop, straightening in his seat before leaning forward, green eyes gleaming. “Tell me what happened yesterday. You were with him, weren’t you?”

You roll your eyes, distantly noticing that Klaus stopped tapping away at his game and is probably eavesdropping. You shift in your seat, trying to decide what exactly you want to say—neither of them are particularly fond of Dazai. Klaus especially dislikes him and doesn’t even really try to hide it when the two of them are face to face. So, you have to put in an effort to ensure that Klaus never has to go up to his office, that way you don’t have to deal with the repercussions of him disrespecting the boss to his face. Itou isn’t quite as upfront with his feelings about Dazai, but you know and that’s why you also know that in spite of his gossip mongering attitude, he wants you to tell him that his suspicions are wrong because he doesn’t like you spending time with him.

“Why do you even care?” you finally ask flatly. “You already know the answer.”

As you expect, disappointment flashes across Itou’s face, and Klaus lets out a scoff of disgust, hanging above your seat to intrude on the conversation. You shake your head and look back down at your phone, frowning when you realize you still don’t have a response from Goldoni. It’s still the middle of the night back in Italy, but you’re becoming increasingly more concerned about all of this—the disconcerted feeling you’ve had since the beach house has only become more intense with each moment away from Dazai.

“I want to hear it from you,” Itou says flippantly, leaning back in his seat, arms crossed over his chest. “What happened?”

“Yeah, what happened?” Klaus parrots, tossing a leg over the other seat so he can climb over to sit next to you. He leans in obnoxiously before he’s even fully climbed over and says, “Tell us.”

“Yeah,” Itou agrees with a smug smile. “Tell us.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Oh?” you question with a smile that neither of them trusts from the way they exchange looks with one another. “You want to hear about how good he fucked me?”

Klaus recoils immediately, freezing mid-climb, knee awkwardly bent over the seat, and Itou stares at you aghast, like you’ve personally betrayed him.

“Gross,” Klaus gags, not even bothering to sit down next to you, going right back over the seat into his own area of the plane. He spits something else out in German that you can’t quite make out before sneering at you and saying, “You’re so disgusting. God. Don’t look at me, I can’t even stand the sight of you.”

“What is wrong with you?” Itou demands, looking thoroughly perturbed as he turns his attention back to the window. “That was so unnecessary.”

You laugh, delighted by their reactions. “But you asked,” you say sweetly, resting your chin on your hand. “You wanted details.”

“Not those details,” Klaus snaps at you from the far end of the plane, clearly trying to put as much space between the two of you as possible. “Obviously.”

“I was thinking more like, where did he bring you? Why did he bring you somewhere other than his office? Not—” He gestures vaguely, looking genuinely disturbed. “Not whatever nightmare you were about to unleash on us.”

Your smile softens as Itou rubs harshly at his eyes, still thrown off by your comment. You sigh as you look down at your lap. “I don’t know. It was… weird. He was acting weird.”

Itou looks up at you again, frowning. “How so?”

“I… I don’t know, I can’t describe it,” you say quietly, shaking your head.

You won’t explain it. How are you supposed to explain the stuff he was saying without him sounding insane? You trust Itou and Klaus with your life, but that’s exactly the problem. Their loyalty has never been to the Port Mafia, it’s been to you. They’re already of the opinion that Dazai is bad for you, you don’t need to fan the flames with information that could confirm all of the rumors circulating about Dazai’s deteriorating mental state.

Dazai doesn’t need more people working against him right now, so until you can figure out exactly what he meant at the beach house, you’re going to keep the information to yourself.

Klaus has drawn closer again, standing in the aisle next to your seat. He frowns, uncharacteristically serious, “Why not? What did he do?”

You hesitate, fingers tightening in your lap. “Just… off,” you say, knowing it’s not enough but not sure how else to put it. “Like he wanted to tell me something, but he wouldn’t. Or couldn’t.”

“That bastard never has an issue running his mouth,” Klaus mutters, ignoring the flinty look you give him. “What? It’s true.”

“Watch your mouth,” you tell him flatly, picking at your nails.

He isn’t entirely right—Dazai never has a problem running his mouth when it serves his interests, but he’s notoriously prone to withholding information from people when it doesn’t. You’ve known since the day you met him that there was something… odd going on with him, that he doesn’t tell you everything, but the things he was saying back at the beach house… they just didn’t make sense. You couldn’t understand the jumbled explanations he gave you, so there was no way anyone else would.

Itou leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

“Did he hurt you?” His voice is soft, but there’s a dangerous edge beneath it—one that reminds you just how serious he can be when it comes to you. Sometimes, you forget just how ruthless he is, how easily he’ll turn to violence if he thinks you’re in danger. Klaus might be the louder of the two and quicker to act, but Itou is the one who follows through without hesitation. Of all of the members of the Port Mafia, he’s the one with the most blood on his hands—more than Iceman, more than even Chuuya.

“No,” you say immediately. “No, he didn’t. He—he just… He said things. Things I don’t really understand yet.”

Itou and Klaus exchange another look, the kind that makes your stomach twist. They don’t trust Dazai, and you can’t even blame them for it.

“And you’re not going to tell us what those things were,” Itou sighs with a frown, but he doesn’t push more than that.

You shake your head. “Not yet.”

Klaus rolls his eyes but changes the subject as he nods down to your phone. “Goldoni responded.”

You sit up straight in your seat, turning your attention down to your phone. Itou shifts in the seat across from you, leaning forward as he waits for you to read the message. You almost fumble as you open your phone; the unnerved feeling that’s been clinging to you since you left the beach house returns so suddenly that it almost makes you sick.

Goldoni: We don’t have a meeting. Did I miss something?

“Well?” Itou asks, but his voice is distant, muffled, like it’s coming from underwater. Your ears ring as your eyes track over the words over and over again, trying to figure out if you’re reading them correctly. “What did it say?”

No meeting? But then why—

You feel sick to your stomach as you force yourself up to your feet. A cold wave of nausea crashes over you, head swimming, and Klaus has to steady you. His lips move—he’s saying something—but his words are lost in the deafening thrum of your pulse pounding in your ears. You blink down at your phone, fingers tightening around it as if the message might change if you stared hard enough.

Dazai lied.

But why?

“We need to get back to Yokohama,” you breathe out, voice hoarse and uneven. “Right now. We need to go now.”

“What?” Klaus demands, disgruntled, but concerned more than anything else. “What’s going on?”

“Just breathe for a second,” Itou tries to soothe you, but your heart is racing out of your chest, the dark claws of dread ripping you open. “Breathe, what’s going on?”

But you can’t breathe. Not when your stomach is twisted in knots, not when your mind is racing through the implications at a dizzying speed. Your thoughts are unraveling, and panic is clawing its way up your throat, heart hammering against your ribs erratically.

Dazai is moving pieces.

He sent you, Klaus, and Itou to Europe.

He made sure Chuuya was out of the city.

Lippmann is up in Nagoya.

Iceman and Albatross are occupied all day with missions.

Are Kouyou and Piano Man even at base? Atsushi and Kyouka? Or was that a lie, too?

It’s not a coincidence, not chance—nothing ever is with Dazai Osamu.

He planned this. He’s clearing the building out of all of the Mafia’s most capable members, all of the people who protect him.

But why? What is he trying to do?

Only one answer comes to you—your hand flies to your mouth to hold back the nausea that suddenly pushes at your throat.

“There’s no meeting with Goldoni,” you gasp, stumbling in the direction of the cockpit. Your body is moving solely on instinct, driven by fear. “He lied. We need to get back to Yokohama right now.”

Itou pushes past you to get to the pilot, not wasting any more time, and Klaus leads you back to a chair to sit down before you collapse. Your mind races, trying to piece together answers, dragging you through every interaction you’ve had with him the past two days, a whirlwind of fragmented moments flying around you. The lingering looks, the flashes of everything he refuses to speak in his eyes, the way he cried after he called you up to his office. The unusual tenderness, the beach house, all of the apologies, all of the regret, all of the refusals when you begged him to explain.

You’ll never forgive me.

You still don’t understand, I hope you never do.

You were never supposed to be the price of this.

I’m scared. I’m so scared for what comes next.

I knew how things were going to end from the beginning.

I tried to rid myself of you to make things easier on both of us.

How did it take you so long to realize?

Your hand flies to your mouth as you gag, vision blurring—you should’ve realized, you know Dazai. You knew something was up, it never should’ve taken you so long to figure this out. If you hadn’t been blindsided by everything at the beach house, caught up in the fleeting illusion of everything that could’ve been, maybe you would’ve understood sooner.

“That’s why he brought me there,” you gasp, trying to rock back and forth to calm yourself down as horror sinks into your chest. “That’s what yesterday was about. It wasn’t—he wasn’t—it was a distraction. It was to distract me. We’ll never get there in time.”

You can text Iceman and Albatross to go back, but Chuuya won’t look at his phone until his mission is complete. Dazai knows this—he planned this, he counted on it—and you’re sure he also accounted for you putting together that there isn’t actually a meeting in Rome with Goldoni, which means—

Which means whatever Dazai is doing, it’s already started, and you’re rapidly running out of time to stop it.

———

Headquarters is a mess by the time you, Klaus, and Itou arrive. The air is thick with gunpowder and the acrid scent of burning rubber. Muffled shouts echo from inside the building, and the crack of gunfire ricochets through the parking lot. Albatross and Iceman are in the parking lot shooting at an enemy you can’t see, crouched behind a line of abandoned cars, Chuuya hasn’t even read your text yet, you don’t know where Kouyou and Piano Man are, you don’t know where Atsushi and Kyouka are, you don’t know where Dazai is. He hasn’t read any of your texts either, and every passing second has your heart crawling up your throat.

“What’s going on?” you demand, yelping as Albatross reaches out to drag you undercover with him and Iceman. You hit the ground hard, barely catching yourself on one hand as bullets pepper the pavement inches from where you were just standing. Klaus and Itou follow quickly. “Al—”

“It’s the Armed Detective Agency,” Albatross snarls with a bitter expression, reloading his gun with quick, practiced movements. “I don’t know how the fuck they got inside headquarters. We can’t get in—every time we manage to take one down, that fucking doctor of theirs heals them right back up. They’re holding us at the entrance while their other members do… whatever the fuck they’re doing in our base. We don't—”

You go still. Albatross doesn’t notice your reaction, but Iceman does. His sharp gaze flickers to you, an unreadable expression on his face.

“Yosano is… here?” you ask, suddenly feeling too cold. You don’t really know what you were expecting—you knew Yosano was with the Armed Detective Agency, and you figured that with the rising tensions, you’d be forced to see her soon, but you didn’t expect it to be this soon. “Now?”

Iceman looks at you from the corner of his eye. “You know the Agency’s doctor?”

“It’s a long story,” you say distantly, swallowing thickly as you try to push away all of the old insecurities that claw their way to your throat. You can’t think about any of this now, you need to get to Dazai. You still don’t know what he's planning, but you know it’s nothing good, and if your suspicions are right… “I need to get over to her. I can convince her to let me through.”

A lie. Or at least a gamble. Yosano has always been sentimental, and you’re betting your life on her feeling guilty over having left you behind on Tokoyami Island when she blew it up, but you can’t let your uncertainty show; otherwise, Itou and Klaus will never let you try.

“You’re not going over there alone,” Itou immediately says, as you expect.

“They won't let all of us through, Itou,” you say quietly. “We don’t know how many there are. We can’t waste time fighting. I need to get to Dazai now. I’ll have an easier time convincing her to let me through alone than all of us. She knows I’m noncombatant.”

“No,” Itou snaps, his voice low but firm. “We’re not splitting up. The moment you stand up, they’ll be shooting at you—”

“I’m not asking permission,” you interrupt coldly. “Don’t forget who’s the executive here.”

His jaw tightens. Klaus shifts beside him, uncertain, glancing between the two of you. Albatross swears under his breath. The tension is thick enough to choke on, and you’re becoming increasingly more desperate—time is passing too quickly, and you’re already out of it.

“I don’t give a fuck if you’re an executive. I’m not letting you die for whatever fucked up scheme that bastard planned,” Itou spits at you. “You said yourself that he set this all in motion for whatever reason. You—”

“Let her go.” It’s Iceman who speaks up, expression grim as his gaze settles on you. “She knows the boss better than any of us. If she thinks she needs to get up there, then she’s probably right. I’ll cover you if they don’t stop shooting.”

Itou gives Iceman a betrayed look, but Iceman keeps his gaze trained on you. You think maybe this is supposed to be an apology for the argument that happened the other night. You nod at him in thanks.

You don’t give them time to change their minds. Before anyone can stop you, you brace yourself, inhale sharply, and then run right into enemy fire. You brace yourself for the pain—the bullets don’t immediately stop, one grazes your ear, another your bicep. It’s a miracle that you’re not struck in the chest or head. It’s an agonizing three seconds before the gunfire comes to a halt, and when it does, you almost wish that you had been shot because you turn your gaze to the doors of headquarters, and Yosano Akiko is standing there staring at you like you’re a ghost.

She doesn’t move. She just waits there, eyes wide, chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven breaths. The last time she saw you, she was being dragged off the Schwalbe Ritter after planting explosions that would have killed you, her, and everyone else still on the ship.

Behind you, you hear someone shift, but no one dares open fire. Your gaze drags behind her—you only see two gunmen, a boy with orange hair and a blonde man, but that doesn't make sense, does it? It seemed like there were far more than just two gunmen.

“You…” she breathes out, a haunted expression on her face. “I—”

“I need to get through,” you say, not wasting a second. You have to force your voice to stay steady. “Now.”

Yosano doesn’t answer right away, grip tightening on the weapon in her hand, but she doesn’t raise it. Her expression twists—guilt, disbelief, and hesitation all war in her eyes before something else creeps in. Something colder. Your stomach drops.

“I can’t let you through,” she says quietly. “We have people in there and—”

“I don’t give a damn about your people,” you interrupt. “I need to get to Dazai. Please, Yosano.”

The words taste like acid—you hate begging, but you especially hate begging her. You think you’d rather swallow glass; it feels like reopening an old wound with your own hands. Yosano is the last person you ever wanted to need anything from, and yet here you are, standing before her, forcing yourself to beg her to let you into your own headquarters. The bitterness in your chest is suffocating, but you force it down and lock it away. You can’t afford to let it cloud your judgment, can’t let it stop you from what matters most right now—Dazai. Getting to him before he does something stupid.

“Please, Yosano,” you force yourself to say it again, a hint of desperation clinging to the words this time. “I can’t lose him too.”

Yosano’s face cracks at your words. You see the guilt in her eyes and the way her shoulders slump, and you know you’ve won, but the sweetness of victory is tainted by her bitterness over the situation.

Her gaze lowers as she steps to the side. “Go.”

You rush past her, pausing just long enough to murmur, “In the future, you shouldn’t be so sentimental with enemies. This kind of hesitation will get you killed one day.”

Yosano scoffs, folding her arms. “You really are just like him now. Can’t even manage a simple ‘thank you’ without slipping into a lecture about emotions. Go. Before I change my mind.”

You let out a huff of laughter. “It’s nice to see you haven’t changed, Akiko-chan.”

“You have,” she replies quietly. “I’m sorry that things went down the way they did back then. If I had done things differently… maybe we both could’ve gotten out of there.”

Your throat spasms as you swallow. “I guess we’ll never know,” you reply, and before she can say anything else to unsettle you, you make your way into headquarters.

The detectives of the Agency haven’t actually killed anyone, you realize as you see the unconscious bodies strewn across the lobby. You think that’s more impressive than if they’d slaughtered everyone in here—the fact that they out-classed so many of the lower-ranking members of the Port Mafia to the point that they’d been able to fight with non-lethal force against lethal force is… unnerving to say the least.

It’s not something you can waste any time thinking about right now, though. You need to figure out where Dazai is. Because the emergency lights are on, you know that the building’s power must’ve gone out, and with it, the building’s elevators. You figure that it must’ve been Dazai’s doing because you doubt the conflict would’ve reached down to the electrical room. And if Dazai went out of his way to make sure the power was out, to make sure nobody could use any of the elevators, that leads you to believe he can only be in one place:

The roof.

You take off without hesitation, sprinting toward the nearest stairwell and throwing the door open with a slam. The air inside is stifling, heavy with the scent of concrete and dust. Your legs burn almost immediately, but you force yourself to push through, taking the steps two, sometimes three at a time.

There are forty stories in the main building of headquarters. It’s an impossible distance, you know that—you’re already panting as you drag yourself up each flight of stairs, but you can’t give yourself time to stop, to think even. You can hear the rapid thud of your footsteps, the harsh drag of your breath, and the distant gunfire from outside resuming. Your muscles scream for relief, and your heartbeat hammers in your ears, but you force yourself to push it away—each step you climb, you become more and more certain that Dazai is at the top, about to do something terrible.

By the time you get to the roof, your body wants to give out—tears sting your eyes, your legs tremble violently, and you can barely breathe. Sheer adrenaline gives you the strength to push open the heavy metal door that leads to the roof; you don’t even notice Atsushi and a detective lying slumped on the ground, gaze focused on the familiar figure behind both of them standing on the edge of the roof.

Dazai is breathtaking under the light of the setting sun—it’s almost enough to make you forget where the two of you are, that he’s on the edge of the building, that you’ll never be able to reach him in time if he steps off the side. The warm golden hues cast soft shadows over his features, his black hair taking on an auburn sheen in the fading light—his eye widens as soon as he realizes you’re standing there, the usual dark void closer to a shimmering amber in the sunset.

“You… got here faster than I expected,” he says breathlessly.

“What are you doing?” you ask, voice shaky. “Dazai, come away from there.”

His smile is soft as he looks over you, gaze lingering on every detail like he’s trying to memorize the sight of you. His fingers twitch at his side like he wants to reach out for you but knows he can’t, so he resigns to committing the image of you to memory. There’s something almost reverent in the way he studies you—like he knows that this is going to be his last chance.

Dazai tilts his head slightly, gaze focusing on yours. “You always did have a way of making things difficult,” he says fondly. “I thought it would be easier if you weren’t here.”

Your heartbeat thuds painfully loud in your ears. You try to take a step forward, but he tilts his head to the side, warning you silently that if you come any closer, he’ll step right over the edge. You feel sick, hands trembling because you don’t know what to do—you’ll never get to him in time, and once Dazai has his mind set on something…

“Easier for who?” you demand, stomach lurching as you fumble desperately for something to say to convince him to come away from the edge. “For you? For me? Did you think I wouldn’t care if I wasn’t here?”

His small smile doesn’t waver, but something in his expression cracks just for a second. You notice his own fingers are trembling at his side and you remember his words from last night: I’m so scared for what comes next.

How hadn’t you realized?

“I know you would,” he murmurs. “Don’t you understand now? That’s been the problem this whole time.”

You don’t dare take another step forward, but you find yourself leaning forward a little even though you know you can’t reach him from this distance. The wind whips around him, tugging at his long black coat and scarf. Each gust has your heart in your throat.

“Then come down,” you beg. Your cheeks are wet, vision so blurry that you can barely make out Dazai’s figure on the edge of the roof. “Please, Osamu. We can figure something out. I know we can. If you need to disappear, we can make you disappear—Tolstoy, his cousin’s ability, he can wipe everyone’s memories of you, and we can run. We can go back to the beach house or go to the countryside. We can get away from all of this. Nobody has to know, it’ll just be us.”

His smile softens, lashes lowering as he looks down at the ground. His voice cracks as he says softly, “That’s… a really nice dream.”

“Please just come away from there,” you rasp. “We can find a different way. Just—just explain everything to me, Osamu. Tell me what’s going on, what all of this is really about, and I’ll find a different way, you know I can. Give me that chance. Give us that chance. We deserve that, at least. I deserve that.”

Dazai exhales sharply, tilting his head back as the wind rushes around him, tousling his hair. The setting sun casts his silhouette in gold, and for a moment, he looks ethereal—untouchable, like something not meant to exist in this world.

“I know it’s selfish,” he says, voice raw with emotion as he looks up at the sky. “I didn’t want you to be here for this, but I’m glad I got to see you one last time.”

Your heart sinks in your chest as his words slowly register. You shake your head, desperation clawing at your throat, and your lips part to speak, but the words die on your tongue when Dazai tosses you a bright smile, a genuine one that hurts more than anything else. It’s the kind of smile you’ve longed to see on him for years, the kind that has haunted your dreams since he took over as boss—warm, bright, alive, happy. But now, you only feel dread at the sight of it.

Terror grips your chest. “Osamu—”

“Thank you,” he whispers, and though you know you should be racing toward him now, your entire body locks up, feet planted to the ground. “For everything. I love you.”

Your breath catches, and for a moment, time seems to slow. You scream his name as his body tilts over the edge, but instead of rushing to the edge, you turn back the way you came.

Five.

You know you’ll never make it—you studied physics with Chuuya when he was learning how to refine his ability. The force of gravity is 9.8 meters per second squared, the Port Mafia headquarters is forty stories, around 130 meters—you know the equation like the back of your hand; it was one of the first things you learned.

You don’t have more than five seconds before he hits the ground.

But you can’t accept what’s happening—your brain isn’t letting go of the futile hope that maybe Klaus or Itou will see what’s happening and they’ll do something, that maybe Chuuya got back and he can do something. You know they can’t. Logically, you know that they can’t use their abilities on Dazai, but you think maybe there’s a chance, that maybe you’ll get down there and Dazai will be—he’ll be okay.

Four.

Your heart races, the seconds stretching impossibly long as your feet carry you down the stairs with reckless speed. You leap down them three, four, five at a time, pain shooting up your shins to your knees with every jump, but you don’t let yourself lose momentum—you can’t because the moment you stop, you’ll fall apart.

Three.

The whole world narrows, your heartbeat thrumming painfully loud in your ears. The seconds count down, mocking your attempts to hope against the inevitable, but still, your legs push forward, faster, harder. You know it’s futile, you do, but that tiny thread of hope, the denial your heart clings to, refuses to let go.

Every time your eyes slide shut, you see him—you see his smile, you see the soft expression on his face, and you see him falling. You can still feel him, his hands on your waist, cradling your face, his lips brushing yours. He was in bed with you this morning, his body warm, curled up next to you, his breath against your skin in even puffs, and he was at peace. How did things go wrong so quickly?

You’ve barely eaten anything today, but you feel your stomach churning like you’re about to throw up. Each deep breath has you choking, your head feels dizzy because the air just isn’t getting to your lungs, but you can’t stop moving.

Two.

You could’ve done something different. You know it. If you hadn’t been so blind, you would’ve realized something was seriously wrong at the beach house. You knew it was some sort of goodbye, but this? You thought it was his way of indulging in one last day of pretending before he cut you off altogether, but you should’ve realized it was something deeper. The way he looked at you should’ve clued you in—he told you he was scared for what’s next, he tried to stay away because he knew he planned on dying. How didn’t you fucking realize?

If you had more time, you could’ve convinced him. You know you could’ve; you saw the look on his face when you tried to convince him to leave with you, you saw the yearning. He wanted it, and if you had more time to persuade him, you would’ve been able to. If you’d realized back at the beach house what was going on, you would’ve convinced him to choose another option. This was your fault.

One.

Your foot slips on the next step, and when you crash against the middle landing, pain shoots through your wrist and spreads—you don’t hear or see the impact of Dazai’s body hitting the ground, but you feel it. The pain in your wrist is sharp, a violent jolt, but it’s nothing compared to the agony that floods through you like a tidal wave. It’s like every bone in your body shattered the moment his body hit the ground, like his ribs, his spine, his skull fracturing on the pavement, is happening inside of you, too.

You can’t hear anything above the terrible buzzing in your ears, you think you must be screaming because it feels like knives are dragging through the inside of your throat, and you can taste blood in the back of your mouth. You feel it all—the way his body must have crumpled, the way his breath must have left him in one final, shuddering exhale, you feel it all.

A crushing weight slams into your chest, pressing down until you can’t move, can’t even breathe. The pain is unbearable—not just in your wrist, not just in your body, but everywhere. In your heart, in your soul.

Dazai is gone, you know it.

You don’t know how long you lay there—it could’ve been seconds, minutes, you don’t know. You don’t think it could’ve been that long because it’s when you start to regain your hearing and the numbness in your body from the pain starts to fade, you realize that the whole building is shaking. The rumble vibrates your bones; first, a low, resonant hum, but it becomes violent quickly.

Chuuya.

Chuuya felt Dazai’s death in the same way you did. Of course, he did. The three of you have always been bound together since the beginning. It was never just the two of them, and it was never just you and Dazai—whether it was a curse, a bond, or just fate, it didn’t matter. One way or another, the three of you have always been tied to each other.

The thread that bound you together was woven of something that transcended logic and reason, something that all of you had become too dependent on, something that none of you could live without, and the loss of Dazai causes it to unravel, causes you to unravel, causes Chuuya to unravel.

It was always supposed to be the three of you together—there’s no world where one of you can just die, and the other two go on with their lives. Maybe Dazai knew that, and that’s what his incoherent ramblings were about back at the beach house, but if that’s the case, and he tried to push you and Chuuya away so the two of you could live on after his death, then he did a shit fucking job at it.

The metal of the building shrieks, and the very foundation trembles with the force of Chuuya’s grief and anger. You don’t know where he is, but he must be close, and he’s losing control. You need to get to him before that shitty corruption god wakes up inside of him to take advantage of his loss of control.

You push yourself up weakly, wrist screaming in protest, but you don’t care. You drag your body forward, forcing yourself to move, forcing yourself down the stairs, because you can’t lose them both—not in the same breath, not ever, you won’t survive it.

Your legs threaten to give out beneath you as you stagger down the stairs, breath ragged and body screaming for rest—you can hardly see in front of you, vision blurry with tears. It takes too long for you to get back down to the lobby. Your whole body is trembling, and you’re so unsteady on your feet that when you push open the door out of the stairwell, you almost topple right into the room.

You’re not thinking as you make your way forward. Distantly, you notice that you don’t see the Agency anymore, and you realize that the Flags, Itou, and Klaus are in the lobby dealing with the now waking subordinates who had been neutralized by the detectives, which means the Agency either left or was driven further into the building. You don’t care about any of that—your brain has you on a one-track mission to get to Chuuya before you lose him too, and you don’t consider what you might see stepping outside until you catch a glimpse of red from the corner of your eye through the window as you approach the door.

Is that—?

You don’t even have a chance to focus your gaze on what you’re looking at.

Immediately, Itou is launching himself at you, only just now realizing in the chaos that you’ve finally arrived. He grabs your bicep hard and yanks you toward him, one hand flying up to cover your eyes as his other wraps around your waist, holding you close. The noise that escapes your lips is inhuman—animalistic, almost—something caught between a scream and a wail that rips from your throat before you can stop it. Every cell in your body screeches in protest, instinct demands that you tear yourself from Itou’s grip and look, but he holds you tight, fingers digging into your skin and hand firm over your eyes.

“Don’t,” he whispers, voice raw, desperate for you to listen. “You don’t want to see that.”

“Let me go, Itou,” you scream, thrashing against him, blind with grief, fury, denial. You know it happened. You felt it the moment it happened—the moment he hit the ground—but knowing and feeling is different than seeing. “Let me go to him, let me go!”

“He fell forty stories,” Itou rasps, voice cracking. “You don’t want that to be your last memory of him.”

You fight, claw, kick—anything to get to him—but Itou doesn’t loosen his hold. He shifts, adjusting his grip so you can’t break free, keeping one hand over your eyes and the other locked around your waist, pinning your arms to your sides.

“Please,” you choke out. “Please, I need to—”

“No,” he says again quietly. “There’s nothing you can do.”

A sob wracks through you, violent and gut-wrenching. You sag against him, body unable to take anymore as the weight of everything crashes into you at once, pressing down on your chest until you can’t breathe. When you stop fighting, Itou’s hand slides from your eyes to hold you more gently, but you don’t reopen them—you can see him, you can see Dazai bathed in the sunset, you can see the golden glow, his soft eyes, his smile.

You try to breathe in but end up gagging over the air. Itou is quick to make sure your hair is out of your face before you vomit what little you have left in your stomach onto the ground. You hear Albatross and Iceman shouting for all of the lingering subordinates to clear out of the room. Klaus is somewhere in front of you, expression fraught as he watches you fall apart. Your chest heaves as you choke down another sob; your mind feels disconnected from your body, floating somewhere between numbness and agony, trapped between the image of Dazai in that golden light before he fell back over the edge and the knowledge of what’s left of him beyond this wall.

“I should have—” The words crumble before you can finish them, dissolving into something incoherent. You should have known, you should have stopped him, you should have been faster—you’re always too slow.

“You did everything you could.”

A lie. You know it’s a lie.

Your hands tremble as you clutch at his sleeve, desperately trying to ground yourself, but all you can feel is the cold creeping in, the emptiness hollowing out your chest where his heart used to beat.

“I need to get to Chuuya,” you finally gasp. Your whole body is shaking, you can’t even bring yourself to sit up straight. “I need to—”

“Chuuya is gone.”

Your gaze lifts to focus on Piano Man, who looks grim as he steps into the headquarters with Kouyou, who can hardly even stand to look at you. Klaus dragged a table over to where you’d caught that glimpse of red, blocking your view of it.

“What do you mean?” Itou demands, arms still tight around you, hands running up and down your biceps to calm you down. “Yo, would you fucking—”

Piano Man doesn’t reply to him. Instead, his gaze focuses on you; there’s no trace of the whimsiness you’re used to as he takes a few steps forward to kneel in front of where you’re wide-eyed and shivering in Itou’s arms on the ground. His throat bobs as he swallows, and you can tell that he’s warring with himself before he finally speaks.

“You need to pull yourself together,” he finally says quietly. Itou tenses behind you, but you only stare at Piano Man, hardly registering what he’s saying. “The government sent a special ops squad to handle Chuuya. They sedated him and took him and are bringing him to a government facility to keep him imprisoned.”

“How the hell did the government react so quickly?” Klaus demands, voice shrill with nerves. “How does that make any sense?”

“We don’t know,” Piano Man answers flatly, keeping his gaze trained on you. He reaches out to hold your hands tightly as he focuses on you again. “You are boss now, and I am so fucking sorry it has to happen like this, but the Port Mafia is not in a good spot right now. Once word spreads about Dazai’s death and Chuuya’s imprisonment, we’ll have half of the criminal underworld on our doorstep. We need to get Chuuya back before that happens. Do you understand me?”

Your mouth is dry as you stare at him. You don’t think you could respond if you wanted to. You see the frustration fly across his face, and Itou tenses again, ready to intervene if Piano Man acts out of line, but his shoulders only slump as he takes in a shaky breath.

“You know what happened to him when he was a kid,” Piano Man says tightly. “He is the strongest ability user in the world. Every second we waste, we give them the chance to do that to him again—and they will do it again because if they could find a way to replicate his ability or understand more about Arahabaki, they could make themselves the most dominant military power in the world. They will keep him locked up in whatever facility they bring him to, and they will experiment on him night and day, and he will not survive this happening to him again. It will break him. Do you understand me?”

You nod, throat spasming as you swallow thickly.

“Okay,” Piano Man agrees after a moment. “Then pull yourself together. We need to get working.”

“Fucking hell, Piano Man,” Itou spits out. “She hasn’t even had the chance to process what just happened, let her fucking mourn, she just lost—”

“There is no time to mourn during transitions of power,” Piano Man says coldly. “She knows this better than anyone.”

The words cut through you deeper than a blade ever could have, and the silence that follows them is suffocating.

Your whole body begs for rest, for just one moment to grieve, to let the pain consume you—Dazai is dead, Chuuya is gone, and the weight of the Port Mafia is crashing down onto your shoulders before you’ve even had the chance to breathe. It’s only a matter of time before the rest of the crime lords of the Eastern Hemisphere catch wind of what happened here, and when they do, all bets are off.

You swallow hard and force yourself to sit up. Itou moves with you, steadying you, hesitant to let go, but you shake him off. You need to do this on your own. Piano Man watches you, unreadable, waiting to see what you say.

“We need to consolidate power first,” you say. Your voice is weak, too shaky. “I need to talk to Mishima and Tolstoy. Goldoni too. We need two executives to replace—”

You can’t even finish the sentence. You can’t speak their names. Your throat tightens again as you try to swallow down the lump of grief threatening to choke you.

“We need two more executives,” you say instead. Itou shifts closer to you, trying to remind you that he’s here, that you’re not alone, but it still feels like you are. You feel hollow, empty, alone in a world where both Dazai and Chuuya are gone—it was always supposed to be the three of you. It was never supposed to be just one. “I’ll reach out to Mishima and Tolstoy. We—we have to move quickly.”

Your gaze tracks back over to where you’d gotten a glimpse of red before Itou pulled you away. Your voice is far away as you whisper, “We can’t leave him there.”

“I’ll handle it,” Itou promises quietly.

You nod, taking in another deep breath, and at once, everyone gets to work. Everything around you is a blur, and you can’t tell if it’s a testament to how quickly everyone is moving into action or if it’s because of the tears that threaten to roll over your cheeks. You don’t let them—not now—you just need to keep it together a little while longer for Chuuya, and then, maybe, you can finally let yourself rest alongside Dazai.

———

Dazai Osamu is dead.

There’s no arguing with Chuuya about it because he’s gone, too. There’s no clashing with the Flags because they saw it happen. There’s no disagreeing with Itou and Klaus, because they were the ones who cleaned up his body. There’s no warring with yourself because you felt it the moment it happened.

Dazai is dead.

You haven’t been in his office since it happened two weeks ago—you haven’t had the time. You haven’t stopped moving, haven’t stopped making decisions, and haven’t let yourself feel anything beyond the fear of knowing that one mistake could lead to everyone else’s deaths, too. You’ve been in Tokyo talking to Mishima, you went to Vladivostok so you could talk to Tolstoy face-to-face and tell him what happened yourself, you’re leaving for Rome tomorrow to talk to Goldoni, and you’ve been trying to solve things peacefully with the government to get Chuuya back.

Everything is a mess—Mishima and Tolstoy are in conflict with Cao Xueqin, trying to buy you time to get Chuuya back before the Red Chamber is at your doorstep, and Goldoni is distracting the Guild, who evidently are preparing to come to Yokohama for Atsushi, but the government is refusing to hand Chuuya over. Atsushi and Kyouka are missing. The Agency has gone silent after causing all of this, and you don’t have time to deal with them either.

You haven’t had any time to grieve him, but standing in the space he left behind, it hits you all at once.

Dazai is dead.

“You’re such an asshole,” you breathe out to the empty room like he can hear you, staring at the desk he sat behind. “How could you just leave me with all of this?”

Everything is exactly as he left it. Papers stacked haphazardly, a pen resting at an odd angle, a half-empty cup of stagnant tea. It’s like he could walk through the door at any moment, like none of this ever happened—this is just another one of his games, sitting back with that infuriating smile, waiting to see how you’ll react so he can hold it over your head, mocking you for taking everything too seriously, teasing you for mourning him.

You don’t even remember why you came up here—you had a reason for it, otherwise, you would’ve avoided it for as long as possible. Your fingers ghost over the edge of his desk, hovering above the polished wood hesitantly before you finally let your hand fall down against it, fingers dragging across the wood as you walk to the other side of the desk.

You shouldn’t be here. You’ve avoided this room for a reason.

But instead of leaving, your legs decide to give out on you. You take in a breath that’s too ragged as you sit back in his chair, burying your face in your hands. The weight of his scarf around your neck is suffocating, a weight that you’re not strong enough to bear—it was the only thing Itou could salvage from his body, and as much as it makes you sick with grief, you can’t bring yourself to part from it. You swear you can almost still catch the faint scent of him on it, and if you close your eyes, you can pretend that it’s the weight of his arms draped around your shoulders as he hangs behind you, back pressed to your chest and chin on top of your head as he uses you as a shield to antagonize Chuuya without consequence.

You need to get yourself together. It’s only a matter of time before someone comes up here looking for you, and you don’t want to be spiraling when they get here. Now isn’t the time to mourn—Chuuya is still out there, trapped, waiting for you, tortured with god knows what horrific experiments the government is performing on him. You have to get him back. You have to keep the Port Mafia from falling apart. You have to keep yourself from falling apart. Now isn’t the time for this.

You exhale shakily and rest your hands down on the arms of the chair to push yourself up so you can leave the office, but you pause when you see one of his desk drawers not fully closed. You press your lips together, hesitating, before reaching out to open it the rest of the way.

Inside, neatly stacked and untouched, are documents, mission reports piled up, but your eyes aren’t drawn to that. They’re drawn to the single envelope sitting at the very top and the very familiar, small metal trinket sitting next to it.

It has your name scrawled across the front in Dazai’s handwriting.

Your pulse roars in your ears, breath catching.

Slowly, almost afraid that it will disappear if you touch it, you pick it up. The paper is thin beneath your fingers, fragile, like it's been sitting there for years instead of days. The weight of it in your hands is unbearable.

You don’t know if you should open it.

You shouldn’t open it.

You know you shouldn’t.

But your hands are already shaking as you slide a finger beneath the fold, breaking the seal with excruciating slowness. You hardly breathe as you pull it out of the envelope, swallowing at the address written on the back of the paper before you unfold it.

The handwriting is unmistakable. All across the page, you see characters crossed out and rewritten where water had blotted the ink. Dazai had been crying as he wrote it.

My sweet hime,

If you’re reading this, then everything has probably settled by now. I can already imagine the look on your face. Don’t frown too much—it’ll leave wrinkles.

Kidding. I wasn’t going to write anything. I thought a clean break would be easier for you. But after the day we spent yesterday, I realized I’d already ruined things enough. I figured a goodbye wouldn’t do more damage than anything else I’ve already done.

There was nothing you could’ve done differently to change what happened—I know that’s what you’re probably thinking. You’re going back through every moment, trying to find all of the places where you could have said something, done something to change my mind, but it wouldn’t have mattered. This was always how this was going to end. This plan had been set in motion long before you and I ever even met.

I wish I could’ve spared you from this. I really did try. I told myself for months leading up to our meeting that I wouldn’t let myself get close to you. There were so many plans that I made, so many ways I convinced myself that I could keep my distance. I wasn’t even supposed to go with Chuuya on the mission to pick you up, but when Mori dangled it in front of my face, I couldn’t stop myself.

Loving you was my biggest and only mistake. Not because you weren’t worth it but because I was never meant to have you. Not in this life. But you always made me weak. Reckless. I never think straight when you’re around, even when you’re not around, you’re always in the back of my mind. But I thought that knowing how things were going to end would be enough to keep me from slipping up. I thought I would be satisfied with admiring you from afar and knowing you would be okay when I was gone. I should’ve known better—I never should’ve let myself get close to you when we were younger, I should’ve been cruel from the beginning, I should’ve made you hate me.

But I was selfish. I let myself love you, and I let myself be loved by you, and now you’re alone dealing with the consequences of it.

I’m sorry.

Once I realized I let things go too far, I thought I would be able to make you hate me after I took over as boss. I thought if I could be cruel enough and cold enough that you would finally turn your back on me, but you are just too goddamn stubborn. You kept coming back again and again, and I was too much of a coward—too selfish—to push you away the way I should have.

You were right back at the beach house—I was frustrated and angry that I couldn’t stop myself from seeking you out, and I was even more frustrated and angry that you kept coming, and I put you through four years of hell because of it. I’m sorry for that, too. I’m sorry for a lot of things that I know you’ll never forgive me for.

I wish I could explain more, I wanted to tell you everything. Do you know how many times I almost did? How many nights I almost turned to you and let it all spill out? I know you would have believed me, I know you would’ve shared the burden with me, but this was never supposed to be your price to pay. I wish I had done things differently because it became yours anyway, didn’t it?

I hope you hate me. I hope you find a way to curse my name and let me rot in the hell I’ve made for myself. I don’t deserve for you to mourn. I don’t deserve to be remembered by you at all. But I know you, and I know you’ll mourn, and I know you’ll blame yourself even after reading this, so I hope you just remember that this was something bigger than you and I and the ending was never going to change no matter what you did differently.

I love you. I’ve always loved you, I’ve always been yours. In this life and every other one. I’m sorry we couldn’t be happy in this one, but I promise I’ll make it up to you when we find each other again in the next. I’ll love you better in that one, the way you deserve, I’ll give you all of me, every piece I held back in this lifetime. And in the next, I promise I won’t make you say goodbye. We’ll live a quiet life—we’ll go to the countryside, and we’ll grow old, and we’ll be happy. Maybe we’ll even drag the slug along, force him to be our farmhand, give him a new flock of sheep to herd.

Now to business.

Dark times are coming to Yokohama. I know you’re probably sick of me saying sorry, but I’m sorry that I’ve left you to deal with everything like this. There are foreign threats coming—the Guild, the Order of the Clocktower, and Fyodor Dostoevsky. All of the files below this envelope are full of information I’ve put together for you. Abilities, strategies they’ve used, how everything has gone down in different timelines—I’ve put it all together so you can figure out how you want to handle this. I left some suggestions, but it’s all very dependent on how things played out after everything settled.

The Armed Detective Agency will be a valuable ally going forward. Don’t blame them for what I did—they were only pawns I used to get everything set up. Everything that happens today is what I’ve planned, my actions and theirs. They’ll help protect Yokohama from the coming storm, and you’ll stand a better chance working with them.

I don’t think there’s anything else that needs to be said that’s not in the folders. Don’t underestimate Fyodor Dostoevsky. And I know you’re going to say ‘I spent many months with him when you sent me abroad blah blah blah’ but there’s so much more to him than you can ever imagine. You’ll understand when you read through everything.

There’s no perfect way to end this letter. I could apologize a million times and it wouldn’t be enough. Just know I meant what I said before—I’ll find you again in the next life, and we’ll be happy. I’ll love you better. I won’t leave you behind.

Live well. I’ll always be with you.

Yours always,

Osamu

———

beast au fun facts:

i think i made it pretty clear, but for those of you who read wykyk, essentially ages 16-18 were what wykyk would’ve been if dazai wasn’t emotionally incompetent. he was obviously still a little bit hot and cold with her, but he was quite clear with how he felt about her from day one, which is why it was so hard for her to reconcile how rapidly everything changed.

she finds mori at the address dazai left for her. the first thing she asks when she gets over the shock is if dazai is here too. she thinks maybe he too might’ve faked his death and is here with mori.

reader dies several weeks later. during the operation to break chuuya out of the government facility, they need all hands on deck. she stays behind in headquarters because it’s safest for her there. she ends up leaving headquarters to go visit dazai’s grave and is assassinated while she’s sitting at his grave. like with dazai, chuuya feels it when it happens but refuses to believe it until they find her body.

this was unfortunately intentional on reader’s part. this is actually something she does or has tried to do in multiple universe: she uses her life(/death) as a weapon for the port mafia. we will see it (or attempts of it) in canonverse and civzai. her death triggers multiple powerful organizations coming to the assistance of the pm, and she knows this, so when the pm is backed into a corner and threatened on multiple fronts, she’ll manufacture a situation where she’ll be assassinated because she knows the only way the pm will come out of it intact is if they get help, and the quickest and most surefire way of getting that help is if she’s killed.

make no mistake: it IS a last-resort option when there’s really nothing else they can do. although, i'll also say that i don't think the pm WAS backed into the corner here, but our girl was ... very tired after losing dazai and everything that happened afterward. she only wanted to push through things long enough to rescue chuuya.

it does indeed work btw. after she dies, tolstoy & the three deaths wipe out cao xueqin before coming to yokohama to help with the guild and dostoevsky. the family engages the clocktower in open conflict to keep them out of yokohama.

the conflict takes about a year to come to an end, chuuya only lets himself die once everything is settled. pmtrio indeed became the price of a world where oda can live.

this is the only universe where itou & klaus outlive her. this is also the only universe where they meet. idk if anyone guessed it, but the reason dazai sent her away after he took over was so she could meet klaus.

dazai genuinely didn’t think that his death would ruin her and chuuya the way it did since he ensured that the flags, itou and klaus were all here for them. he was wrong

#dazai x reader #dazai x you #dazai osamu x reader #dazai osamu x you #bsd x reader #bsd x you #bungo stray dogs x reader #bungo stray dogs x you

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hyacinthsdiamonds · 8 months ago

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A lot of you underestimate how prevalent British bias is not only in F1 but across sports generally, and even in other industries.

Max saying he has the wrong passport in the paddock is an accurate statement. Do you think he, Seb, or Michael would've been half as vilified by the British media if they had a British passport instead? Would Fernando? Do you think Yuki would get half as much shit about his radio "conduct" if he was British? Because it's the British commentators who consistently have issues with it, and say shit like it's "unbecoming" for a driver to speak that way, ignoring that 1 it's not his first language and 2 IT WAS ENGLISH PEOPLE HE LEARNT THAT LANGUAGE FROM. Sometimes people misspeak, but Yuki has always taken accountability and apologised if he has and if he caused harm. Martin Brundle did not get nearly as much backlash from the media when he misspoke and called an Asian driver a slur while commentating. He also never apologised for it.

Alex, one of the four Brits on the grid but who drives under the Thai flag, has said that the commentators only call him British born when he does well. He was completely excluded from the Silverstone publicity about the home crowd heroes, whereas George, Lewis & Lando were heralded, not only on race weekend, but for weeks leading up to it.

Alex's statement also reminded me of this Richard Harris quote, "When I'm in trouble, I'm an Irishman. When I turn in a good performance, I'm an Englishman." Genuinely, if I took a shot every time a British organisation/person claimed a talented Irish person was actually a Brit, I'd have died from alcohol poisoning years ago.

Hell, I see George wearing the poppy pin this weekend in the lead up to remembrance Sunday. Do you know the amount of shit James McClean gets every year because he refuses to wear one? And he has very valid reasons for choosing not to wear it, yet he's torn to shreds every year by not only random people on the Internet or on the streets but by commentators and the media too.

Because of how this sport became mainstream and because no one challenged Bernie Eccleston's monopoly on broadcasting rights back in the day (people were given the opportunity to buy a share of the broadcasting rights; the idiots said no), this sport has prioritised the British voice/perspective for decades. I know the other broadcasts are just as biased for their home team/drivers, but the British one is the biggest one, as it's the main broadcast for better and more often for the worst. It's the broadcast with the most reach and influence. Their bias has to be challenged eventually if this sport ever hopes to properly expand and grow. The British bias is so difficult to miss once you start noticing it.

#f1 #formula 1 #formula one #max verstappen #brazilian grand prix #brazilian gp 2024 #like europe is still classist as fuck #f1 reminds the world of that consistently #also idiots is a direct quote from someone who refused the deal re: broadcasting rights and regretted it big time #before anyone comes at me lmao #edit because i forgot: the British commentators used to say seb was only winning because of Newey's (a brit) designs #which Adrian has called out because they started using the same rhetoric with Max #and Adrian (+ his wife) have vocally criticised the british bias #also: adrian newey design 🤝 rb golden boy = lethal combination #because if it was just the designs as the British media claimed... why didn't their teammates have equal success with the same design?#but i digress #sebastian vettel #fernando alonso #alex albon #yuki tsunoda #michael schumacher #only tagging drivers i explicitly mentioned but theres many more examples

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alchemistc · 24 days ago

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Robbie slaps a glossy looking flyer on the table. Palm down, eyes narrowed, pretending like hell the slap of her hand against the wood grain didn't sting as she squares up, all four-feet-three-inches of her, like she's preparing for battle.

Tommy's slumped in his chair and still half a head taller than her.

He doesn't quite cower, at her glare, but at thirteen she's just about ready to explode at any given moment.

They don't talk about the time he sat on the floor with the bathroom door at his back and read the instructions for inserting a tampon in the calm, cool tones of a man so far out of his depth he might as well have turned into pressurized meat juice mist while Robbie had a panic attack just inside.

They don't talk about the massive argument they'd had in the middle of TJ's the first time Robbie back talked Evan with all the angst of a girl about to experience the pimpliest, testosterone fueled ragiest few years of her life. (Evan had gotten a kick out of it and Tommy had spent a week listening to his deep dives into the Beauty Of Puberty with the skepticism of an only child who never shared a bathroom).

Robbie rolls her jaw. Grabs the flyer and shakes it in Tommy's face. It's a riot of color, and Tommy has to squint to make out the words. Fuck, he does need those reading glasses.

"Why is the paper making you look homicidal?"

"We never go to Pride, dad!"

Ah.

Well.

That.

Tommy slumps further in his seat, which puts Robbie at eye level, and boy howdy is she gonna make his life a living hell until the hormones settle in...a decade or so. The glare is all Evan, emotions unchecked and just out there for the world to see. He's so fucking grateful neither of his kids took to his 'repress until you pancake yourself' way of handling a single emotion.

Tommy never bought into the rainbow crap, couldn't ever push himself into participating in a world he'd denied himself so long. Nothing against it, himself, just - a line he kept somewhere off behind and to the left where he couldn't look it in the eye.

And Evan...

Well. Being an 'ally' switched to throwing up the Bi Flag in his Instagram profile and he never really shifted any further than that.

"Are you trying to tell me something?" Tommy asks, because last week she'd spent an hour in the yard yanking weeds with the ferociousness of a terrier with a nest of rats over some kid in her class named Michael and to this point hasn't shown that her interests stray farther than that. Fuck. Has he missed something?

"Uh, yeah, that my gay dads are quiet homophobes who won't take their kids to a fuckin' parade."

Oh well that's a lot of different things to put in check, right there.

It's his own damn fault for laughing hysterically every time their toddler dropped an F bomb.

It's his own damn fault for blowing off the drag queens with petitions outside the library a month ago.

"Your father is a Kinsey two-and-a-half on a good day, and don't say fuck."

"Internalized homophobia is still homophobia, dad." She rolls her tongue over her teeth. Sends him a challenging look. "Fuck." She pronounces it like it has seven syllables.

"If you're gonna challenge me you better be able to use it in a sentence properly."

"I want to fucking go to fucking Pride with my fucked up not straight dads but they're both fucking repressed fucking losers."

"You kiss your mother with that mouth?" Tommy jokes, and the flyer crumples in his daughters fist. And - yep, there's the shriek.

Evan's gonna be pissed that he isn't curbing the language a little more.

Which he absolutely will do. Later. Once Robbie isn't a good leap away from the knife block.

His kids aren't violent people, by nature. Robbie has a mean left hook and an eye for taking people out at the ankles he encouraged far too much before she hit ten. Danny cradles spiders in the cup of his hands on the way out the door while giving Tommy a wide-eyed and judgemental berth.

Robbie crumples up the flyer a little more. Stares at him like she's wishing there was enough weight to it to cause damage to his thick fucking skull if she were to throw it.

She blinks, and those are - yep, those are tears.

"Sweetheart," Tommy starts, and Robbie launches herself forward, embraces Tommy just in time for some sobs to really kick in, nonsensical phrases leaking out of her as she cries, and cries, and cries.

He's good at this part. The part where they can't see his face, where he can cradle them to him and rub their back and murmur nonsense back while they do a better job feeling, and then regulating their emotions than he had until his late thirties.

"Ms. Frankie said she'd take me but I don't wanna go with Ms. Frankie," he gets, as another wave breaks, and he has to shift his weight against the onslaught of two sharp ass knees heading straight for his belly. "Ms. Frankie has a crush on Dad and I hate her."

Ms. Frankie absolutely has the hots for Evan. Ms. Frankie's son is a bully who thinks he's better than everyone else by virtue of accepting and picking on everyone equal-opportunity style.

Ms. Frankie is definitely not taking his kid to her first Pride.

Shit.

God damnit.

The tears dry up, eventually.

Tommy tries not to think about the fact that he's not gonna be allowed to comfort his pre-teen like this for much longer. Tries not to think about the fact that she's gonna stop asking for it, soon enough, and he'll have to make do with words from the other side of a slammed door.

"I'm not wearing rainbow anything," he says, like he's surrendering a crucial air base, and Robbie leans back with narrowed eyes.

"I have that face paint Jee gave me for Christmas."

"You get one cheek to work with," he negotiates, even though he's well aware he's gonna leave the house with more color than he's worn in twenty-five years.

"Dad let me do his whole face for New Years," she wheedles.

"Dad has better coloring than I do. Those jewel tones make his eyes pop. And Dad doesn't have to know how many times you dropped an F-bomb on me ten minutes ago."

He's fucking up his kids. Teaching an almost teenager how to properly blackmail someone is just one of many ways he's doing it while he digs his own grave.

At least they're not fucking scared of him.

"Two cheeks, and we post a picture on Dad's Insta because Ms. Frankie stalks him there and she'll be so jealous."

"You're diabolical," Tommy tells her, and her wet, snotty, lopsided grin makes something in his heart swoop. She's all Evan, and he loves her so fucking much he stopped trying to figure out where to put it the first time she latched a tiny little hand around his pointer finger and burst into the exhausted tears of something new to this world. "If you ever teach Danny how to manipulate someone like this I'm gonna start reporting you for war crimes."

"Danny's too nice, it would hurt his feelings to even think about it."

Yeah. Not sure where the fuck he got that from.

"You watch out for him, don't you?"

He's aware there's a dynamic at play here that he shouldn't overly encourage. Doesn't want her feeling like she's gotta parent her younger brother, it's just -

"He doesn't need it. Sometimes when he says nice things to people I think he destroys their whole world for a few days."

Tommy takes her out for ice cream and broaches the subject of the parade before Evan realizes Tommy's spoiled her dinner.

Danny's eyes go bright and gleaming and he sends a look at his sister that Tommy is absolutely certain he should be worried about, because they've clearly been plotting and scheming for days.

When June sixth rolls around Danny wakes up early, pounces on the bed, and hands Tommy the ugliest fucking shirt Tommy's ever seen, bright and lurid and awful, and Robbie doesn't even have the decency to hide her smug look when she stumbles blearily into the kitchen, following the smell of scrambled eggs Tommy spends an extra ten minutes dyeing with the organic shit Evan brought home last week.

#bucktommy #bucktommy fic #tevan fic #i have a bunch of kidfic drafts sitting around rn that are all in this 'verse #just know ms frankie is on bucks shitlist all the gd time #happy pride 🌈

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watchmegetobsessed · 7 months ago

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UNMATCHED II.

A/N: soooo you guys were just as horny for a part 2 to this story as i was so here we are, giving in to the temptation. disclaimer, i know their behavior is giving red flag energy but lets just put that aside for the sake of the story now lol

WORD COUNT: 3.8k

WARNING: sexual content, age gap, student-professor relationship

SUMMARY: Harry has been trying his best to forget what happened with Y/N, he is set on never making the same mistake, but it seems like fate has different plans for him.

PART 1 | MASTERLIST | SUPPORT ME!

That skirt. That goddamned skirt. That’s gonna be the death of Harry.

And also the fact that she went back to that asshole.

Sitting in the busy school cafeteria Harry has zoned out of the conversation at the table a long time ago, precisely when he saw Y/N stroll in wearing that short skirt with that dickhead she should have ditched already or better, she shouldn’t have even dated him in the first place. But now they are moving in the line with their group of friends and he has his hand on her waist and it keeps inching lower, just a few more inches and his hand could be slipping under her skir–

“Harry? Hello?”

Stella catches his attention and he is forced to move his focus back to his colleagues at the table.

“Huh? Sorry, what did you say?” He clears his throat and keeps his eyes on his half-eaten sandwich in front of him.

“What’s up with you? You haven’t been your usual self lately.”

“Just… tired. I’m behind with my research and have a bunch of papers to grade before winter break.”

“The joys of being a teacher,” Stella chuckles. “Don’t worry, it’ll get better with time.”

“Really?”

“No,” she smirks at him. “But you’ll care less.”

She soon returns to the conversation at the table and Harry finds himself looking for Y/N again. There’s no trace of her in the line, but he is quick to spot her at a table across the dining hall, sitting beside Dickhead who has an arm around her neck, keeping her close as he wants everyone to know that they are together.

And it irks Harry way more than it probably should.

It’s been a little over a week since Stella’s Christmas party and also that very heated and very wrong kiss he shared with Y/N. That weekend was like hell, he kept beating himself over and over about it, cursing himself out for being so stupid and reckless. He still has no idea what came over him that let him make out with a student, but he knew one thing for sure: it couldn’t happen again.

So when Y/N walked into the classroom before his first lecture early on monday he didn’t even let her speak before he got to the point.

“It shouldn’t have happened. I’m so sorry for it, but I can’t undo it now. I suggest let’s pretend nothing happened, it’s for the absolute best. No one can know about it and it will never happen again.”

She seemed taken aback by his outburst, but after a bit of hesitation she nodded.

“Okay. Nothing happened. It must have been the wine.”

“Yes,” he agreed right away. “We both drank more than we should have and made a mistake.”

She flinched at his last word, but didn’t protest, only nodded, holding her textbooks tighter to her chest. She looked so sad, even disappointed that Harry almost wanted to take back what he just said, but he knew he couldn’t.

“Are you… okay?” he dared to ask, but when she looked at him again, her eyes told nothing.

“I’m fine. I’ll see you in class, professor.”

And she was out of the classroom before he could say another word. In class she sat in the back and not even once did she look at him. He knows, because he kept looking at her.

He’s been trying his best to get her out of his head, but with not much luck. Not when all he can think about is how soft her lips felt against his, how insanely good she tasted mixed with the coldness of the night, how amazingly she fit into his palm, the curve of her neck, back, waist and hips… and how badly he wants to experience it again even though it’s the worst possible idea.

Harry thinks he is going insane. Genuinely.

He’s been burying himself into work, but his focus has been all over the place, so it’s been more like a waste of time. He is one of the last ones in the building today as well. Most professors left a long time ago, but the lights in Harry’s tiny office are still on as he is hunched over a stack of papers. When he has to read over the same line for the twentieth time he drops his pen with a tired groan and leans back in his chair. He takes his glasses off and rubs his eyes roughly, until he is practically seeing stars.

“Fuck,” he huffs, staring at the papers that are still waiting to be graded. Checking the time on his phone he is surprised to see that it’s already past seven.

He stands from his chair and steps to the window. The campus looks quiet at this time, only a few students are walking towards the dorm that’s next to the literature department’s building. It’s a wednesday night, the semester ends next week so some lucky students who have no more exams left in the year have already left for the holidays. Harry will be going home right before Christmas, he plans to use those few days of the break to work on his research in peace.

From his window he sees part of the parking lot next to the dorm, it’s quite dark there, he almost doesn’t notice the figures sitting in the car closest to him, but a few heartbeats later realization hits him.

It’s Y/N and the dickhead.

They are pretty far, but Harry can tell that they are in a heated fight, judging from how Y/N is gesticulating. Obviously he can’t hear them, but if he had to guess he would say she is shouting, from what he can see.

For a moment he tells him to just ignore the scene, it’s none of anyone else’s business, let alone his. But when he sees the asshole slap his hands against the wheel several times, making Y/N jump, Harry is moving before he could second guess his actions.

He practically sprints down that stairs, already trying to figure out how he’ll interject without appearing like a creep, but he forgets all his plans when he is marching towards the parking lot and sees the scene unfold from up close.

At some point they must have gotten out of the car, because Harry catches the dickhead getting back into the driving seat, Y/N is crying and tries to stop him from shutting the door, but he swings it with such force that she stumbles forward, holding onto the handle. When Harry sees her almost fall to the asphalt he starts running, just as the car comes to life and he drives away so fast, he almost runs over Y/N’s feet.

“Fuck you, Charlie! Fuck you!” She screams after the car, tears streaming down her cheeks.

“Hey, hey, hey!” Harry rushes over to her, grabs her by her shoulders and turns her away from the direction of the car. “Hey, what happened?”

She is gasping for air from the crying as she wraps her arms around her, those beautiful eyes that are usually filled with curiosity are now full of confusion and hurt.

“Y/N, look at me,” he begs and she hiccups a few times before she finally looks him in the eyes.

“H-Harry?”

He ignores how good it feels to hear her call him by his first name again and tries to focus on the situation.

“Yeah. Let’s get inside, okay? It’s freezing cold.”

She nods and lets him steer her towards the building and up to his office. By the time she sits in the old armchair in the corner of his office she has stopped sobbing, but her expression looks just as miserable as before.

“I’ll make you a tea. Do you like tea?” he asks, stepping over to the tiny side table where he keeps his kettle and tiny tea collection with two mugs. She nods and he is quick to turn on the kettle. He grabs a chamomile filter and drops it into one of the mugs and while the water boils he hands her a box of tissues that she accepts with a quietly murmured thank you.

When the tea is done he hands her the mug and sits in his chair, unsure what to say. He definitely did not plan to have her in his office anytime soon and definitely not like this.

“Go on, lecture me about being with him,” she says at last, staring into the mug in her hands.

“I wasn’t planning on it.”

“But you’d be right.” She looks up at him, eyes still red from the crying.

“Why did you go back to him?” he softly asks, not wanting to make her feel even worse.

“I don’t know,” she shrugs, looking away again. “He could be convincing, I guess.”

“Hope you won’t believe him after this.”

“No,” she chuckles bitterly before taking a sip from the tea, leaning back in the armchair. “Not even the sex will convince me to go back to him.”

Harry’s muscles jump at her words. Not because he is such a prude, but because instantly he is thinking about sex… and her… and his body reacts involuntarily. Clearing his throat he crosses his legs and looks anywhere but at her.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that,” she chuckles softly, but she doesn’t seem sorry at all.

“No, I… um…” Harry has no idea what to say. This feels like such an impossible situation, he is definitely walking on eggshells here and the fact that he is semi-hard does not help his case.

While he is looking for the right words she places her mug to his desk and crosses her legs, a curious look playing in her eyes as she is looking at him. She appears calm and confident suddenly, like she wasn’t sobbing ten minutes ago.

“I lied,” she then speaks up.

“About what?”

“I know why I went back to him.”

“Oh. Okay, why did you?”

She holds his gaze for one… two… three seconds before her lips part, then she hesitates for one more moment before answering.

“Because I couldn’t go to you.”

A shiver runs down his spine at her words, his body is betraying him already, but he hangs onto the last bit of his rationality.

“Y/N, don’t.”

“Don’t what? Don’t tell the truth?”

“We agreed that we are not talking about it again.”

“I’m not talking about that night. I’m talking about how badly I’ve been wanting you, but knowing I can’t have you I went back to Charlie even though I knew I shouldn’t have.”

“Y/N…” His mouth is dry and he feels ridiculously hot even though the heating hasn’t been working too well lately in his office. He is clawing at the arms of his chair, trying to keep the remains of his cool, though it feels like he is hanging on a thread.

“I won’t do anything about it, don’t worry. And I won’t bring it up again.” She sounds different this time, the confidence has turned into what feels like disappointment and it lurches something in Harry’s gut.

Standing she smoothes her clothes before looking at Harry, a tiny sliver of expectancy glistening in her eyes.

“Thanks for the tea. I better get going.”

She is already moving towards the door when Harry jumps to his feet, entirely lost about what to think, do or say. He strides after her and just when she is about to reach for the knob, he grabs her other hand, stopping her mid action.

But he has no idea why he just did that. His rationality is screaming at him, but with each passing moment he spends holding her hand, the noise gets farther and farther away until it’s lost somewhere in the back of his mind.

Slowly, she turns her head, eyes taking in the sight of their touching hands before her gaze meets his. He instantly stumbles back, letting go of her like she was on fire, but she doesn’t seem surprised. Instead, she turns around and just stands there, with a calm, but determined look on her face.

“Careful professor,” she then speaks up. “I might take your actions as a hint.”

“A hint…” he breathes out, almost mesmerized with her, he is convinced she’s put a spell on him, because he can’t move or think straight, he just keeps staring at her.

“Yes, a hint,” she nods shortly. “That you want me just as much as I want you.”

He swallows down a moan that almost slips through his lips at her words. His whole body is burning for her, palms sweating and itching to touch her and he can almost taste her on his tongue again, desperate to pick up from where they left off not long ago.

The tiniest smirk tugs on the corners of her mouth when she sees just how much he is struggling and she takes it as her queue to push her luck just a bit further. She takes a step closer to him, but still leaves some space between them, wanting him to close those last inches.

“You know you can have me.” She cocks her head to the side, blinking up at him innocently. “Right here, on your desk or in that armchair. I want to be your good girl and take whatever you give me.”

“Stop it,” he manages to breathe out, but all his strength is gone, it sounds more like a plea rather than an order.

“What if I don’t?” she sassily questions. “Will you punish me?”

Harry whimpers. They both know he is close to breaking and she is not stepping down now and she’s determined to push him over the edge. Slowly she reaches up, drags a finger across her lips before moving then down, tugging at her shirt at her chest, revealing more of the exposed skin there, then she starts playing with the top button, all while keeping her eyes focused on him. He sucks on his breath, his gaze keeps switching between her eyes and what her fingers are doing.

Then it pops open, revealing the delicious swell of her breasts and a bit of the lacy bra as well and he knows he is gone.

“Close the curtain,” he simply orders and a sudden rush of excitement washes over her as she quickly moves across the room, drawing the curtains on the window and turning around she is expecting him to be in the same spot, but to her surprise he is right there and before she could say a word, his lips crash down on hers with such force she would have fallen back if he didn’t already have an arm around her waist.

His other hand is quick to find its way to her throat first, then to her jaw, angling her head perfectly so he can devour her.

He spins them around and she gasps when her ass meets the edge of his desk, still kissing her he pushes forward, blindly tossing everything on the desk aside to make room, something clatters as it falls to the ground but neither of them cares to even look. His hands are on the back of her legs and he helps her up until she is sitting on top of the desk.

She eagerly opens her thighs and circles her legs around his hips, pulling him closer and when she feels just how hard he already is, pushing against her clothed center, she can’t help but moan at the sensation.

“It’s a one time thing,” he pants when her fingers start to work on his shirt and his hands find the button of her jeans.

“Sure,” she breathes out smiling.

“Just to get it out of our system.”

“Of course,” she nods eagerly, and a moment later she is tugging his shirt off his shoulders.

Buttons come undone, clothes are thrown across the room and soon enough all of his focus is on her naked chest, his hands exploring the tender, heated skin before his head dips down and his mouth meets her hardened nipples.

“Oh fuck,” she moans, head falling back as she has an arm around his shoulders, the other one planted behind her on the desk. All while his hands are tugging down her jeans, finally giving him the chance to touch her inner thighs, exploring the warmth and softness he’s been fantasizing about for so long.

He gently bites on one of her nipples, making her back arch, burying his face between her breasts before he leans back to get rid of her jeans. She has a moment to admire his naked torso, all the tattoos he’s been hiding under his clothes, his pants are hanging around his knees and his erection is throbbing through the fabric of his underwear. She can’t help but smile at the sight, it’s surely one she’ll remember forever.

When her jeans are discarded on the floor he plants his hands on her thighs and pushes them wide open, revealing her drenched panties. He brings his thumb over the wet fabric, lazily drags it over her clit, making her tremble under his touch. Then keeping eye contact with her he pulls his chair under him, sits down and rolls closer so his face is perfectly lined up with her. With his eyes still locked on hers, he leans forward, moves her panties to the side and places a sloppy, open mouthed kiss to her throbbing clit, making her moan so loud, he digs his fingers into her thighs pulling back.

“You need to be quiet,” he warns her and she just eagerly nods, watching him take her underwear off completely and go back to where he was a moment ago.

Harry drinks up her taste, he licks, kisses and sucks on the right spots, making her see stars as her orgasm is building up. When she feels two of his fingers slip into her she grabs a handful of his hair, tugging on it.

But right when she is about to tip over the edge he pulls back, leaving her in a heaving mess. Reaching into one of his drawers he grabs a condom and standing up he watches her lying on his desk, chest rapidly rising and falling while he rolls the condom on.

To his surprise, she gets up and jumps off the desk, taking the initiative by pushing him down back into the chair and straddling his lap. His hands are quick to move to her ass as his cock wedges between her drenched folds. He hisses when she starts rolling her hips, making them both even more feral for what’s about to come.

She leans forward and kisses him, her hand reaching down between them until it finds his cock. She gives him a few lazy strokes to which he hums lowly into her mouth. Then she stops her kisses, lips still brushing against his, eyes meeting again as she lifts herself up just enough to angle him underneath her and then slowly she eases down, letting him enter her inch by inch until she is filled entirely. She gasps at the feeling of her walls stretching around him and they both stop for a few moments, just savoring how perfectly they fit together.

She plants both her hands to the base of his neck, kisses him again and starts moving her hips.

“Fuck, Y/N, you feel so good,” he groans, locking his arms around her, fingers digging into her naked back and side as she starts to slowly pick up her pace, bouncing on him.

When he starts thrusting upwards, meeting her movements, her head rolls back from how deep she feels him inside her, his tip reaching the perfect spot.

“Yes, right there!” she gasps as he buries his head in her neck, kissing and sucking on the soft skin while keeping his rhythm. “I’m so close,” she breathes out, her hands raking through his messy hair.

Wanting even more friction she adjusts herself and then starts moving faster and rougher, aching for the release. She looks down, her eyes meet his gaze and she just knows he is as close as she is.

“Harry,” she moans and hearing his name fall from her lips is what pushes him over the edge.

Grunting, his thrusts get rougher and fall out of their fast pace, he pushes into her over and over again as he fills the condom and watching him fall apart helps her let go as well. He feels her walls tighten around him while he is still riding out the afterwaves of his own orgasm, her mouth hangs open, nails digging into his shoulders so harshly they surely leave marks.

Then they both slowly come off their high and she leans forward, capturing his lips in a much softer kiss than the ones they’ve shared just minutes ago. He gladly returns, their lips melt together and his fingers gently roam her naked back while he is still inside her.

They’re quiet when she moves off him and grabs a few tissues to clean herself up while he discards the condom. The clothes are picked up from the floor one by one and a sense of unsureness settles between them as they both get dressed.

She was the only thing on his mind just five minutes ago, but now that the sex haze is gone, his thoughts start racing. What did he do? What will happen now? This shouldn’t have happened but still, he wants to do it again and again and again.

As if she knew he was panicking inside, she steps to him, takes his face in her hands and pulls him into a long, passionate kiss that instantly makes him forget about everything else.

“Don’t overthink it,” she whispers against his lips. “We’re adults.”

“I’m your teacher,” he hums.

“The semester is almost over. Grade my last paper and we’re done,” she simply says with very little care about his current status. But he is not that sold on it just yet, hesitation and worry is all over his face. “Did you not want it?”

“You know how much I wanted it,” he admits defeatedly.

“Great. I wanted it too. And I want it again. So I’ll come by tomorrow again. You’ll bend me over that desk after I had your cock in my mouth, then tell me what grade I’m getting for the semester and we do it again after that.”

He is already feeling himself getting hard again. Deep down he knows he should say no, but he has no will left to fight with himself anymore. So all he does is nod and then kiss her.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, professor.” She grabs her coat from the floor and then walks out of his office like nothing happened.

Harry falls into his chair and assesses the mess on and around his desk, staring at the spot where she was sitting not long ago. He knows he is making his biggest mistake ever, but sinning has never felt this good.

And right now he is willing to take this risk.

Thank you for reading, please like and reblog if you enjoyed and buy me a coffee if you want to support me!

#harry #styles #harry styles #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fanfic #harry styles oneshot #harry styles one shot #harry styles fluff #harry styles x you #harry styles x y/n #harry styles x reader #harry styles blurb #harry styles smut

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sailornymph · 4 months ago

Text

never knew i needed; bllk boyfriends

synopsis — realizing you’re the one

content warning — aged up characters, insinuation of mature themes

♡ chigiri hyoma

clenching his jaw, chigiri kept his head straight avoiding all of the flashing cameras, as he left the airport. he should’ve been elated, his team had yet another victory, and yet all he could think about was you. hours after the shared success, while the others left to celebrate, he paced the floor of his hotel room, trying to resist the urge to scream. he couldn't even remember how the argument started, something along the lines of you telling him he had to calm down on the field, getting a flag after shoving a player who called him a pretty boy, he didn't want to hear what you had to say, passing words with each other leading to him being called cocky and sassy, he found himself becoming angrier. he certainly was not sassy, and cocky? he was better than nearly every player on the field, he had every right to be cocky!

going down the escalator, he furrowed his eyebrows still thinking about the stupid argument. nearly an hour passed and while the situation was long gone from his mind, he couldn't bring himself to back down, when you suddenly hung up. he tried calling you back, ready to have another reason to argue, but to his surprise, you had turned your phone off. by the end of the night, he was left feeling like a fool, worried about the state of his relationship. noticing his mom and sister, but you where nowhere in sight, he released a nervous sigh, as he met them halfway. accepting their hugs, he didn't say anything, following behind them, as they went on and on about how great he did, and how they wished they could've came.

approaching the car, he nearly cried like a baby, when he saw you leaning against the car, your arms crossed. you clearly had told his sister and mom about the argument, their expressions giving it away. taking his bag, they got into the car, while being nosey trying to read his lips.

“hey,” he mumbled. rolling your eyes, you pulled him closer, kissing his lips, his arms immediately going around you.

“are you still upset with me, hyoma?” you asked, smiling as he slowly shook his head.

“n-no”

“i know you're one of the best, one of the fastest, but you're more than a football player to me, and your aspirations are also important to me. yes, you have every right to have that ego of yours, but you don't need to do that again, for your well being and the sake of your career,” you told him, crossing your arms.

staring at you for a moment, he could only grin. how did he get so lucky? just hours ago, you were the reason he was screaming like a madman and now he couldn't stop grinning at the sight of you talking to him as if you were his boss.

“i thought you were going to break up with me, you turned your phone off” he smiled, as you furrowed your eyebrows.

“no, i just didn't want to argue with you, when you didn't want to hear what i was saying”

“you're right, i’m sorry,” he said, laying his head on your shoulder. this felt strange, but right. you were the one, he never believed in other half’s, soulmates, or any of that nonsense, and then you came along.

“you’re sorry? just like that,” you said, finding him unbelievable. the way he was suddenly bending at your will was quite interesting. it was like the idea of you potentially ending the relationship changed something within him.

“i’ll be good, for you,” he flirted, as your face burned at his shamelessness, before he pecked your lips, reaching for your hand, and leading you to the car.

♡ nagi seishiro

nagi was very discreet, his eyes moving over to glance at you. sitting next to him, one leg crossed over the other, lightly bouncing it to whatever you were listening to. occasionally opening your phone, to respond to a text message, before continuing to listen to your music. boredly playing his game, he didn't even move as you accepted the key to the suite the two of you would be sharing. releasing a sigh, he placed his phone into his pocket, standing as you stood. grabbing both of your bags, he followed behind you, as he became aware of his surroundings.

his teammates were talking with their partners who came along — most of them telling the players about their plans to explore the city, while the team would get rest for their early practice tomorrow. looking to you, you didn't pay them any mind, entering the elevator, holding the door open until he walked in. suddenly, his mind was all over the place, he was unfamiliar with this kind of situation.

you had been together for about six months now, and it was your first time traveling with him. he didn't plan on going anywhere, playing his games, before going to bed — but if going explore was something everyone else’s partners did — he wanted you to enjoy that luxury, he just didn't know how to bring it up.

unlocking the door, you walked inside, leaving the door open for him to carry everything in. taking your shoes off, as you shut the door, you plopped onto the bed, lying back. sitting your bags on the counter, he sat next to you, catching you easily, as you climbed into his lap.

“would you like to join me in a shower?” you asked, smiling at his rosy cheeks. pulling him off the bed, as he nodded.

leading him to the large bathroom, you bit your lip at how appetizing he looked, wearing his tracksuit, and you felt excited at how amazing he would look with it off.

“y/n, you don't have to stay in the room when we travel, everyone’s partners’ usually will explore the cities-

“do you want me to leave?” you asked, as he towered over you in the shower, water dripping down his hair.

“no, of course not, i just don't want you bored while i am on my phone or asleep,” he said tiredly, pulling you closer into his chest.

“i’m sure this city has many great places to visit, but i was going to spend time with you if that is okay,” you said, looking up at his dark eyes.

“you don't have to-

“i like our habits, it’s what makes our relationship so special to me, your games are a part of you, and i don't mind it,” you said, going on your toes to kiss his soft lips, before turning to face the water.

staring at you, he was unsure what this feeling was. love? not exactly, he knew he loved you for some time now, this was deeper. you were the one. he wanted to spend forever with you. he could be himself, the two of you could sit in complete silence and be full of contentment. he needed to cherish you, to provide the deepest most sincere form of love he could give.

allowing his hand to move between your legs, he pressed you even closer, as you moaned. it sounded like music to his ears.

“hm, marry me”

“seishiro, it’s a bit early to decide about something like that, you don’t think?” you looked up at him, with a worried expression.

“i couldn’t be more sure, i’d like to be with you forever,” he replied, his fingers determined as ever.

“i-if you win the game, then i will give you an answer,” you said, biting back to lewd noises.

“we both know we will be winning”

“fine, if you win, as soon as we are back in japan, i’ll marry you, but if you lose you have to wait a while longer”

“you should start looking at rings because we’ll be buying it as soon as we’re back home,” he smirked, kissing your cheek, before backing away to let you rinse off.

♡ bachira meguru

‘dude, you’re way too clingy’

‘for real, she’s going to end up leaving you for a real man if you keep acting like a baby’

‘yeah, she’s going to get the ick, then it’s over for you’

despite being at the lively social gathering, bachira was not feeling the scenery in the slightest. since he began dating you, three months ago, he had been getting a bit of negative attention. according to nearly everyone, except a few close friends and relatives — every time the two of you were seen, he was being annoyingly clingy. he had even seen it a few times on social media, he was being too clingy, he was too eccentric.

he didn’t want to run you away, he liked you, a lot! he hoped the feeling was mutual because he enjoyed your company. you just got him, unlike most people, his mother loved you, and he just couldn’t imagine how he had lived his life before, without knowing you. however, with all of this pushback, he found himself distancing himself from you. perhaps you did need your space sometimes, he didn’t have to sleep over every night. he didn’t have to invite himself to tag along when you were doing errands. but the space was killing him :( even hanging with isagi, it wasn’t the same as with you, he needed to learn to not be clingy.

“excuse me, have you seen bachira?”

“i think he was outside,” hearing your voice, his posture straightened. you were here? and looking for him? standing up, he excused himself, approaching your figure. you stood out like a sore thumb. while everyone wore their expensive clothing, you wore the cutest sundress.

“y/n,” he approached, his heart shattering when he saw the slight puffiness in your face. you had been crying.

“meguru,” you whispered, as his arm went around your waist, as he led you away into the nearest bathroom, locking the door.

“what’s wrong, y/n”

“meguru, are you cheating on me? or you'd like to break up?” you asked, making his eyes widen.

“what? i’d never cheat on you, and i certainly don't want to break up, is it rumors-

“then why are you avoiding me? i had to find out you were here through isagi. you don't come over, you don't call, and you're always busy. if i’m not what you want, just tell me,” you told him, frustratingly.

“you are everything that i want, and more. i don't want to run you away, being clingy. if i give you the ick, then it’s over for me”

“who told you that? that is not true, meguru. i love everything about you. i enjoy spending time with you and i don't feel like you are being clingy or giving me the ick, you're just being you”

“i'm sorry i had you worried, i am… in love with you, and i don’t want to lose what we have,” he shook his head, as his arms went around your waist.

“i love you too and you won’t, could i please have my old meguru back?” your eyes pleaded with his, and he knew immediately, that he could never hurt you like this again. he only wanted to see you smile, laugh, moan- within a matter of seconds he had vowed to himself to love you and bring you happiness, no matter what anyone thought of him or you.

not saying a word, he simply nodded, going to kiss your neck, going straight to your “sensitive spot” nibbling on your skin. as you began to giggle, trying to wiggle from his grasp, he held you close.

“what’s so funny dear?” he asked, as if he wasn't doing anything.

“you're tickling me,” you laughed.

“i did not, this is tickling,” he began to tickle you, before stopping. as your laughter ceased, he moved closer to you, softly kissing your lips.

“would you like to get out of here?” he continued.

“please?”

“do you think we could do that thing again, when we get to your place, in the shower?”

“meguru, i’m still suppose to be upset about you for basically ignoring me for weeks”

“but i love you and you love me and you look absolutely beautiful with my big c-

“don’t even”

“how about a foot massage?” he changed the subject, snickering, back to his usual self.

“now we’re talking”

♡ isagi yoichi

“yoichi,” you screamed his name from the top of the stadium, watching as he turned around, searching for you. as his eyes landed on your distant figure, he waved, watching as you came down the steps, joining him on the field.

before you could jump down the last step, he had already run over, catching you, spinning you around before letting your feet touch the grass.

“i’ve missed you,” he spoke, sighing. he wished you could travel more often with him, but you had only been together a few months now, and he wanted to respect your decision to continue working.

“i missed you too, am i interrupting practice? i didn't want to stay in my hotel-

“no, i was finishing up, why don't you sit on the bench, and we can go get a bite after?” he said, reaching for your hand, placing a kiss on your fingers as you nodded.

sitting down, you watched in amazement as he began to dribble the ball with his feet before he suddenly kicked the ball. gasping at how strong his kick was, the ball quickly flew into the goal. clapping, you cheered for him as if he'd actually scored a point. facing you, his face was red as he smiled, approaching.

“i’m just going to change and get my things,” he told you, mentally cursing himself for sounding like he was still a shy schoolboy.

“okay, i’ll wait here,” you nodded, watching as he left.

putting his things away, and grabbing his bag, the last thing isagi expected to see you doing when he returned outside, was attempting to dribble the ball. you tried to run, but you couldn’t move too fast, or you’d lose the ball. losing your balance, you fell, and hearing loud footsteps you yelped, seeing your yoichi drop his bag, and running to you.

“y/n, are you alright?” he hovered over you.

“am i hurt? no. embarrassed? extremely,” you said, making him chuckle.

“you were getting a bit of practice too,” he smirked.

“football has never been my forte, i’ve only been to a few games before and that’s including yours. the point i’m making is i’ve never wanted to get better at anything so badly. you love this sport and i’d like to understand what it means to be a striker, to understand you more,” you explained.

“come here,” he chuckled, helping you stand, placing his hands on your hips.

“you were doing good, and you’re at a perfect position to score, use whichever leg you’re more comfortable with, and kick,” he instructed, slowly backing away.

kicking the ball, you dropped your head in defeat as the ball flew, but then dropped and began to roll — still a good distance from the goal. jogging to get the ball, isagi brought the ball back, sitting it on the ground in front of you.

“you can do it, focus. concentrate on the ball and the goal,” he said, stepping aside. furrowing your eyebrows, you kicked the ball much harder than before, gasping as this time, it flew into the net, while not nearly as hard as yoichi’s kick, it still went in.

“i did it”

“you did it,” he cheered for you, picking you up, jumping around, before finally letting you down.

“it’s because of you, i’d like to learn more about what it’s like to be a striker”

“it means that much to you?”

“it means a lot to you and if i am with you, i want to see it from your perspective,” you said. something about your words made his stomach flutter in an unfamiliar way.

suddenly he could see life with you, beyond the present. marriage, children, and getting old together. he wanted to melt under your gaze, bend to your commands, and meet every desire uttered from your lips. his heart and mind were agreeing at the thought that the one for him had finally come along and stood in front of him, looking as perfect as ever.

“we can train as much as you want,” he muttered, blushing as you kissed his lips. pulling away, you turned your head in embarrassment as your stomach growled.

“let’s get some food in your tummy, princess,” he winked, jogging to get his back, before coming back, his fingers interlocking with your own, as you began telling him about a restaurant you saw earlier today.

#blue lock x reader #bllk x reader #chigiri x reader #chigiri hyoma #nagi x reader #nagi seishiro #bachira x reader #bachira meguru #isagi x reader #isagi yoichi

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malfoy-mrsdracomalfoy · 6 months ago

Text

The Quidditch Jumper

Pairing: Draco Malfoy x Fem!Ravenclaw!Reader

House: Ravenclaw

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI. Smut. Possessiveness. Ownership kink. Slight degradation. Intentionally provoking negative emotions.

Word Count: 5972

Summary: Draco and reader are determined to prove a point, and go to extremes to do so. In public. With both of their ex's eyes on them.

Author's note: I build up to smut. The anticipation is half the fun. Be patient, it's there. There's some fluff after, as well. Happy reading! <3

Reader's Point Of View:

I hold my breath and watch as Alastair Oliveira, our Ravenclaw Seeker, trains his moss-green eyes to the clouds above us, and promptly zips up. With a steady, practiced hand he leans slightly forward on his broom and catches The Golden Snitch. The sea of blue joins each other in cheers as the announcer proudly says, "Alastair Oliveira has caught the Golden Snitch! Ravenclaws are going to the finals."

The benches shake as my housemates jump and holler. The sea of blue scarves wave in the air like a victory flag. The Gryffindors have fallen silent, looking at each other solemnly. For many, such as myself, this is the last year at Hogwarts, and therefore, the last year to play Quidditch. I feel a tug of sadness for my fellow classmates. But then I lock eyes with a certain platinum head.

He is already looking at me with a smirk. I raise my eyebrows smugly, sharing a knowing look with him. We both made a bet that Ravenclaw would win this game and therefore go head to head with the Slytherins for the finals.

Dining Hall, 5pm

It's dinnertime and Harry Potter is standing in front of me in the doorway of Dining Hall, staring at me through his round glasses. His eyes are pleading with me to go and speak privately with him. I shake my head and begin to walk to my Ravenclaw table. He catches my wrist and tugs me back.

"Harry, knock it off. It's done." I'm angry at him for breaking up with me three months prior and then trying to come back when things didn't work out with his conquest, Pansy Parkinson. "I shouldn't have broken things off." He says remorsefully.

"You shouldn't have. I warned you Pansy only wanted to gain status by the means of you. I knew she would've left the second you caught feelings." He scoffs, his temper flaring. His voice gets slightly higher pitched as he says, "You know nothing." I scoff and yank my wrist back. I'm not arguing with him any longer. I walk to my Ravenclaw table, and slide into the spot next to Alastair.

"Good game." I tell him kindly.

He beams and says smugly "Those snakes don't know what's coming for them." I shake my head with a smile in response and begin putting food on my plate.

"Stop." I hear the commanding voice of the Slytherin Prince. I look at him, his tone catching my attention. Pansy is rubbing at his bicep with a pout. "Dracoooo!" She whines out like a spoiled child.

I avert my gaze with a sigh. He was just as affected by the breakup as me. Pansy was his girlfriend before she left him for Harry in a pursuit of status. "The Chosen One's" chosen one. It was all ego on her end.

Draco's Dorm 7pm

"Mon Chéri." Draco says playfully as I walk into his dorm, not even knocking.

"Dragon." I say simply back. I walk past him, perusing his book shelf for another one to borrow.

"You haven't returned the last three." He raises an eyebrow at me, watching as I ran my fingertips across the spines of the books.

"Must've slipped my mind" I respond, knowing his books are tucked safely away in my own book shelf. His neatly written 'Malfoy', crossed out and my name in its place on the inside of the front cover. They're mine now.

Picking up his wand, Draco says, "Accio book." calmly. Suddenly one of his books comes flying straight into his waiting hand from the open window. He opens the book and stuffs a bookmark in it.

"I-How did you get that?" I say genuinely shocked.

"You left your dorm window open." He responds casually.

"Yeah- wait, how do you know that?" I stare at him, astonished and a little envious of his abilities. "I'm just good at everything." He says arrogantly. I roll my eyes at him.

"Whatever. I didn't really like that one anyway."

"Didn't like it? You defaced it." He points at my name scrawled in cursive under his own crossed out one. I laugh sheepishly and quickly changed the subject, "Guess I'm getting a new book now."

"Oh no you won't. You'll just keep it."

"Only if I like it." I retort. He stares at me, blank-faced but I see some amusement flash through his eyes. Dropping my hand, I let my eyes browse his dorm. It is neat and tidy, pristine even. Just like him. He watches me curiously, wondering what I'm looking for. When I spot something, his eyes follow my gaze, wondering what caught my attention. "What are you looking at?" he asks, trying to sound nonchalant. I walk to a bundle of green fabric. It is the only thing out of place in this entire dorm, casually hanging from the top of his desk chair.

"Nice jumper." I pick it up.

"It's just a jumper" He shrugs dismissively, "Nothing special."

"Nothing special?" I say as I look at him.

"No, it's not special. It's just something I wear for matches."

"Ew." I drop it on the chair again, wiping my hands on my jeans. He scoffs.

"It's freshly washed. I'm not some unrefined bloke." I chuckle in amusement at his defense as I pick it up again, eyeing it with a hum. I think he knows what I'm getting at because he says "No." at the exact same time I say, "Can I borrow it?"

I ignore him, quickly pulling it on and doing a little twirl. "Comfy." His jaw drops slightly, eyes wide with disbelief- and something like attraction- and says, "That's mine." He tries to sound annoyed but I know him too well.

"But you said it's nothing special." I pull the sleeves down, they're covering my hand to just below my knuckles. "And it's been freshly washed." I step toward him, reaching up to muss his hair with one hand. He swallows hard, watching me mess up his hair. "Stop that." He says sternly.

I chuckle and give his hair a slight pull to make it stick up. I begin laughing while looking at him. He looks like baby Jack-Jack from The Incredibles. He feigns annoyance, fixing his hair easily with one smooth slide of his hand. I begin to leave, satisfied with picking on him. It is my favorite past time.

"Thanks for the jumper." I begin as I leave his dorm. "Oh and I'll return your grey hoodie tomorrow." A look of surprise crosses his face.

"My what?" He prompts. I laugh again. "Your grey hoodie. The one with the soft cotton lining." I look at him over my shoulder, grinning.

"How in the blazes did you manage to get that?" He asks, genuinely shocked.

"You left your dorm window open." I reply simply, mocking the earlier statement he made to me. He looks at me with a mixture of humor and begrudged admiration. I am now five steps from his door's threshold when I hear him call, "Wait!" followed by "Come back." I sigh and walk towards him again. "What? I have places to be." I say.

"You can't just leave wearing my-" He leaves the sentence hanging and a mischievous glint crosses his features.

"Oh?" I detect his mischief.

"If you leave wearing that you'll cause quite a stir..." His cheekiness clear as he wiggles his eyebrows.

"I will. Rumors spread quickly down the halls of Hogwarts." I say, starting to pick up what he's putting down.

"The Final Quidditch Match is tomorrow evening." He states.

"And it's Ravenclaw versus Slytherin." I say, my tone now turning cheeky.

"It is. If they see a Ravenclaw wearing a Slytherin's game day jumper..." He starts, his eyes now flashing with excitement. We definitely have the same idea planted in our heads.

"Shall we give them a reason to talk?" I say, feeling excited now. I had a long day that turned into a soured evening upon speaking to my ex. I want to be bad for the night. I need an outlet.

"You read my mind, Ravenclaw."

"Let's do it, Slytherin." I stand up straight, slightly bouncing on my toes. He laughs gently at my actions.

"Fancy a trip to Hogsmeade? It's only 6pm." He raises an eyebrow.

"Let's do it!" I squeal in delight. He stands up straight and grabs my hand, intertwining our fingers. "Come then." We step out of his dorm and begin walking down the hall. At first no one pays us any mind until they catch a proper look. I see a couple jaws drop, wide eyes following us. I suppress a giggle, heart beating in excitement. As we walked, I used my free hand to slide all my hair to one shoulder. His eyes follow the movement and it lands his gaze down to my back. "You have my last name on you and everything." He tells me. I beam and say,

"That's quite the scandal. Not only am I wearing a Slytherin jumper, but it belongs to their beloved Team Captain and Seeker." His whole body language shifts from arrogance to pride in a matter of seconds. I pull up the jumper's right shoulder sleeve just for it to bunch unevenly on my collarbones, I attempt to fix it and this causes the left side to look frumpy. I sigh. "Your jumper hates me." I complain.

"Right, because inanimate objects are capable of emotions.” He says sarcastically. “Maybe you’re just being a perfectionist like always." He reaches for the fabric on me and adjusts it so both sides are even.

"Or maybe your dumb broad shoulders and well-developed pectoral muscles stretched out the fabric." I fake complain. He laughs genuinely, an unexpected sound that seems to startle even himself.

"Blimey, if I'd known my shoulders were so incredibly broad and well-developed, I might have worn tighter shirts. Perhaps a vest?"

"That would be the day." I let out an amused sound before continuing, "Draco Malfoy wearing clothing that isn't perfectly tailored and pressed."

We've stopped at the entrance of Hogsmeade, standing near the stone wall that belongs to Gladrags Wizardwear. He leans against it with a casual posture that emphasizes his shoulders. "You're judging me on clothing fits? You can't even manage wearing a jumper appropriately."

I take notice of a couple people whispering and glancing at us, trying to be inconspicuous with it but failing. His eyes follow mine around the streets. He smirks, now pushing off the wall and pulling me toward him by my wrist. "It seems people have noticed your attire."

"It seems they have." We face each other with matching amused expressions.

"You know what would really give them something to talk about?" He starts, voice low and hinting. Before he finishes his thought, his eyes catch something in the window across the street. I look over to see what he's staring at.

"Fancy a drink?" He asks me, smirking deeply. We have taken notice that both Pansy and Harry are in The Three Broomsticks this evening.

"That sounds divine." I say dramatically, reading between the lines.

"We should make them really mad." He leans in, whispering.

"How?" I whisper back.

"Sit on my lap in there." He says plainly.

"Your… lap?" I question.

"Yes. My lap." My heart starts pounding at the thought but I give him a nod.

"I don't want to do it immediately. I want it to seem like it flows naturally." I scheme.

"Right. I'll get us the drinks and we'll warm up to it."

"Yes, they'll already be shocked at seeing me in this." I look down at his jumper. He nods. "Ready?" He takes my hand again, looping our fingers. I nod.

We cross the street and enter the tavern, the bell above the door signaling our entrance. There are several audible gasps as we step in.

"Sit." He says loud enough to be heard. He's got his arrogant facade on, commanding me- which shows me he’s started acting already. I nod and immediately turn to walk to a table. He slaps my butt as I walk away. I let out a quiet yelp and giggle. This reaction was authentic, I did not expect him to start off so strong.

I pretend to watch him intently but occasionally I sneak a sly glance around. I can clearly see people are shocked at this development, the two of us together. Me on his arm and in his sweater. My heart flutters in excitement. I bet the rumors have already started. Especially with the final Quidditch match being mere hours away.

There were two particular sets of eyes I want to find. Pansy and Harry. They are at separate tables across the tavern from each other. I guess they ended on bad terms, just as I predicted. I cleverly took the table directly in the middle of both of theirs.

Harry clenches his jaw but other than that he pretends he doesn’t notice me. Pansy's lips were in a pout, but she quickly looked away, feigning disinterest.

A few moment later, she breaks her facade and looks me up and down and rolls her eyes in true mean-girl fashion. I feel a fire begin to burn within me. Ladies don't start fights, but they sure finish them. That's what I am going to do, tonight. With Draco.

Draco returns, sliding me a Butterbeer. He sits on the other side of the small table, keeping his face neutral, and his ice-blue eyes trained on me- feigning possession.

"Thank you, sir. You're quite the gentleman." I say, quietly teasing him- making sure it’s not loud enough to eavesdrop on. He rolls his eyes dramatically at my teasing. "Don't start rumors I can't live down." He teases back, leaning towards me with an amused smirk. "Besides, gentlemanly behavior is hardly a Slytherin specialty." Feeling eyes on us, I glance over and see the staring eyes of both Harry and Pansy.

Turning back to Draco, I decide it's time. I give him a conspiratorial look, and he smirks and gives a very subtle head nod in return. He understands me effortlessly, as usual.

"You know what is a Slytherin specialty?" I say quietly, getting into character and giving him an opportunity to think of a sly way to beckon me to him. A gleam enters his eyes, and a knowing look crosses his face. It's clear he has an idea. He pushes the chair he's sitting in backwards casually and leans against the back of it- making space for me in a cunning Slytherin way.

"What's that, sweetheart? Come here." He says, his voice a deep and velvety tone that is just loud enough to be heard by our onlookers. I walk up to him, slowly, as if teasing him, bending down to his ear. His hand immediately comes up to cup my butt cheek, and I whisper, "Commanding attention." His smirk widens as he feels my breath against his ear. He begins to run his hand possessively on my entire butt, slowly roving cheek to cheek.

He is soaking up the attention we are getting from the nearby tables. "Oh yeah?" He says loud enough to be heard, voice sultry. I slide my hand down his chest and curve myself around the front of his knees, sitting on his lap. "And rebelling." I whisper. His breath hitches slightly as I sit. I can feel the eyes of the tavern guests on us, whispering and pointing now. A slow, wicked grin spreads across his face as he wraps an arm around my waist possessively, pulling me closer.

I slowly cup his jaw, wanting to make a show. Sliding my free hand down his shoulders. He leans into my touch, his eyes never leaving mine. The room has now fallen silent, everyone in disbelief at our brazen behavior. The shocked looks from Crabbe, Goyle and Blaise two booths over makes Draco chuckle. This is rebellion, pure and simple. He revels in it.

I move my hair to one shoulder, leaning forward so the embroided 'Malfoy' on my back was on full display. I dip my head, pretending I'm going to kiss him, and I feel his heart begin to pound, an uncontrollable response. He is staring at me, fully aware of the spectacle we're making. The sight of his last name on my back makes him feel proud and possessive, especially under the watchful eye of his housemates. He runs a finger down my spine.

I give him a fake 'shag me' look, pulling it off quite nicely, sliding my hand down his neck. I pretend that I am about to kiss his neck so I can whisper, "Are they looking?" while slightly grazing my lips under his ear. I know the answer, feeling it like a physical weight, and can hear the shocked whispers starting back up again. Draco turns his head slightly to keep up the illusion he’s letting me kiss his neck. "Staring."

I smirk, pleased to hear it. "I want you to grab my jaw from your neck down here, and turn my head to face yours." I whisper from my spot. I position myself, draping my hair to block the view of others, giving the illusion I was now fully kissing his neck. He slowly reaches up and grabs my jaw, gentler than I thought he would, turning me face to him. He pulls me towards his lips.

"Now give me your best 'I want you' look. Really sell it." I whisper as he pulls me towards his face. He deepens his smirk and drops his eyes half-mast, his lips parted slightly. He looks like he's going to devour me right there.

Pansy Parkinson has stopped pretending to be uninterested, now looking at us, jaw practically on the floor. "Unbelievable! Look at him." She says to her friends- extremely annoyed. I lean in slightly so she sees his last name on me.

I shift my body so my butt gently grazes his clothed crotch, slightly tilting my head back and looking down at him, copying his facial expression completely. He inhales sharply when he feels me, his hands tightening around my jaw. He is looking like he is actually turned on, his eyes glazed and longing, "Fuck." He quietly groans. Or maybe he really was turned on? I giggle.

I lean forward, same look and begin to stare at his lips. He swallows hard, his eyes flickering between my parted lips heavy-lidded eyes. I shift my hips to press down on his crotch once more, subtly. He lets out a low groan, his hands now sliding from my jaw down my neck. I feel him beginning to push up into me, wrapping his hand around my neck and squeezing.

"Is Pansy watching?" I whisper, wondering why he is suddenly taking this more seriously. He tightens his hand around my throat and nods slightly, now squeezing my throat and pressing his erection up against me. He grips my hips tightly to keep me in place, making it clear he is actually turned on. He is trying to get a little relief from how hard he is. He needs friction. I fist his shirt with a fake quiet gasp, and let him guide me closer to his face by tugging on my neck. I see something cross his eyes and I realize he isn't faking at all anymore.

He captures my lips in a rough, possessive kiss. He digs his fingers into my hips slightly as he presses up a few more times, lost in the moment now. He is losing sight of the plan, but I won't be. I tangle my hands in his hair, tugging on the root. "Draco." I whisper, trying to pull him back to reality.

He groans audibly this time, his chest moving up and down in slight pants. He grips my hips harder and begins to grind me against him and slips his tongue into my mouth, fully making out with me now. "Draco..." I say against his lips, tugging his head back by his hair to deepen the kiss. He kisses me passionately, ignoring my commentary.

I stiffen my body so he gets the hint to stop grinding. When he stops grinding and pulls back from the kiss, he grins wickedly. "Just taking advantage of the moment." He tries to play it off, but fails. I look into his eyes, making sure he is back on Earth again. Finding him back in the game, I ask, "Do you think I should push this further?" I lean in, kissing his neck while I wait for his response.

Fighting against the arousal haze, he looks at Pansy. Seeing her jealous reaction fuels him to press on. "Fuck it." He agreed, wits back on him. I laugh quietly, feeling victorious.

I swing my leg over so I can completely straddle him. I pull his hair again, forcing his eyes to look up at me. He looks up, eyes darkening with desire again.

I feel so rebellious and bold I could laugh out loud. I press my chest against his, breasts smashing against his pecks and I begin to kiss him deeply and sultry, slipping a tongue in his mouth. After a few moments of intense making out, he stops me by gripping my hips. I pull away, temporarily confused. "Why'd you stop me?" I whisper, smoothing out his hair and pushing it back.

"If I start again, I won’t be able to stop and I don't fancy finishing in my trousers here." He whispers back, trying to get less turned on by focusing on his breathing. I giggle, now sitting still on his lap as he begins pecking kisses on my face. "Is Harry still watching?" I whisper. He glances up for a second then begins kissing my neck. "Yes," he whispers "And he's fuming." I giggle giddily. He stops kissing my neck, and places his forehead against my own, pretending we are just having a romantic moment. But I can tell he is just trying not to get turned on again, by taking a breather. He fake whispers something in my ear by tilting his head up and rubbing his lips on my ear lobe.

I pretend to throw my head back giggling and decide to add a whiny "Dracoooo" to piss Pansy off more. I heard her friend, Astoria Greengrass, say, "You okay, Pans?" The only sound is something slamming down on the table. It sounds like the menu. Draco catches the interaction from the corner of his eye and he looks at me so amused I felt proud. I want to see how far I can push this. "I have an idea. Humor me?" I whisper in his ear. "Sure, sweetheart." I smile at the name but I know it is just a product of his smug feeling.

I kiss down his neck, this time staring right at Harry. "You are fucking trouble." He whispers, catching on. He tilts head back with a smirk and begins to look at Harry too. Harry's eyes are wide, his face a mix of anger, jealousy, and something else that I can't quite place. Ron, finally looking up from his oblivious haze, notices what's happening. His jaw drops at me and Draco. Draco chuckles darkly.

"Mate, let's just go." Ron says to Harry.

"They aren't going to make us leave. We were here first." Harry responds with carefully hidden fury. I detect it because I know him. Draco does as well.

Draco turns my face back to him. He hides his glee at getting under Harry's skin by kissing my lips passionately again. I begin kissing up Draco's jaw, eyes half-lidded feigning being turned on. I was no longer looking at Harry. I wanted him to see me completely doting on Draco Malfoy.

The anger that contorts Harry's features is incredibly satisfying and Draco stares at him amused. I lean up to Draco's ear, sucking on his ear lobe and tell him, "Taunt him." The look on Draco's face became so arrogant I felt intimidated for Harry already.

"Enjoying the show, Potter?" Draco begins, now addressing Harry directly. I kiss down his neck as he taunts. He smirks and tilts his head to the side to give me better access. He reaches for my hair, pulling my head back and leaving open-mouth kisses on my throat, looking at Harry with a smirk. He pulls back and laughs straight in Harry's face. I start kissing his neck again.

"Looks like I caught myself quite the prize wouldn't you say, Potter?" He sneers. I feel my arousal growing now, his claim on me causes me start to grind on him slightly. I kiss down one neck, across his throat and up the other side.

"I think she's quite fond of me." he purrs, rubbing his hand up and down my back possessively. I start to drag my lips slower on his neck. He wraps an arm around my back, and grips a butt cheek with his big, veiny hand and gives it a squeeze.

"Did she ever do this for you?" He asks mockingly. Giving my ass a harsh slap. I yelp and he grabs my jaw with his free hand and yanks me to him, giving me a sloppy kiss. Draco looks back at Harry while I keep my eyes trained on him, entranced. I am fully turned on and my face shows that clear as day. "Good girl." He tells me and releases my face. I place my hand on the side of his neck, sliding down it, slowly. Making a show of worshiping him. He has a hand holding one buttcheek, and the other is stroking my hair down to my back. "Such a good pet." He says to me, voice husky as he leans toward my face for a moment. I moan slightly at his comment, incredibly turned on.

"Hear that, Potter? I'm making her sound like that." He taunts. Harry is completely red in the face and all eyes are watching this interaction shamelessly.

I cannot take this anymore, I need to finish and I won't stop until I do. Draco notices how I move to straddle his thigh, dropping one of my legs in between his. He manspreads wider to give me space, and to assert dominance. He leans his back on the chair, a position of total power. The moment I sit and begin grinding, he starts bouncing his knee up and down. "Ah!" I couldn't help but let out a moan. Draco's smirk deepens.

"Bloody hell, she's like a cat in heat." I focus on one spot on his neck, sucking hard as I push my hips up and down his thigh, clit directly against his leg. He grips both of my ass cheeks now, knee bouncing rhythmically. I begin moaning softly in the crook of his neck.

"Hear that? She's purring." I feel a familiar tug in the bottom of my stomach.

"Look at her. She can't get enough." His tone is of complete mockery. I press my clit down harder while he keeps his rhythmic bouncing. My breathing comes out in pants, heart beating wildly. I grab his face, he looks at me with amused desire, watching as my eyes begin to slide shut, "I'm gonna cum." I moan out softly, just for him. I want him to know how good he is making me feel.

He looks over at Harry again, arrogantly, his smirk firmly in place. I grind faster, eyes trained on Draco's face. I want to cum while looking at him. I wrap my arms wrap around his neck, clinging on to him for support.

"Are you watching, Potter? She's going to cum right here. Look at my good girl." He coos, squeezing my ass cheeks. After his taunt, he looks up, directly into my eyes. His eyes are dominant, possessive and assertive. His voice comes out powerful, a command.

"Cum for me."

I feel the final tug. My body stiffens for a moment, then I begin trembling as I cum hard, my legs shaking. Seeing stars and feeling the waves of my intense orgasm wrack through my entire body, I throw my head back, chest heaving, eyes closed "Oh fuck!" I cry out, not caring who hears me. Draco watches intently. I open my eyes and look into his again, slowly rubbing my clit on his thigh, prolonging my orgasm. My body has two convulses before I finish.

"Did that feel good? I fucking bet it did." He says to me, his voice is low, husky and erotic. He runs his hands up and down my back. I close my eyes again, cheeks flushed with pleasure and ears ringing from the intense orgasm. I fall into his neck in post-orgasm bliss.

He looks at Harry victoriously. Harry storms out with Ron in tow, knocking the chair he was sitting on over and shoving the door open so hard it slams on the wall and echoes on the street. Most of the tavern had cleared, feeling very uncomfortable with the scene. Pansy left as soon as Draco said I was a prize he won.

Coming down from my bliss, I suddenly realize what I just did. My cheeks flush, and I cover my face with my hands. Draco's hand is still running up and down my back. He was letting me bask in the orgasmic haze. I sit up straight, looking at him to find his usual smirk.

"Have a nice time?" Teasing me.

"Oh Merlin I am mortified." I look around the tavern to see a few guys shifting in their seats, trying to hide their boners. Two people are looking at me in begrudged admiration and three are giving me disapproving and judgmental glances.

'Yeah, real classy y/n." I hear a girl say. I look over to the voice and find it belongs to a housemate of mine. She’s glaring at me.

"And with a Slytherin no less." Another girl from my house chimes in.

"While wearing his bloody Quidditch jersey! The night before our last game." A boy chimes in this time. Draco stiffens in anger, sneering at them immediately. I sigh, and slide off his lap.

"Let's go?" I ask quietly, not responding to any of them. He immediately stands and grabs my hand, a sign of unity. He holds the door open for me, and as I walk out I see him take out his wand for a brief second. Confused but too embarassed about my actions to question him- I walk on.

When we start down the street, I hear a shriek coming from inside the tavern. I peer in through the window to find the building swarming with snakes. I laugh joyfully, looking at Draco amused and he wraps his arm around my shoulders with a proud smirk.

"Tonight was... fun." He begins to tease me.

"Shut up." I tell him, rolling my eyes.

"You sure had a nice time." He looks down at his once-perfectly pressed slacks. They’re wrinkled on his left thigh now.

"I just didn't want to stop..." I whisper sheepishly.

"Because I made you feel that good? Wait until I actually touch you." He says non-chalantly.

"Actually touch me?" I press.

"Yeah. You enjoyed yourself tonight. Next time it's my turn."

"What do you mean next time?" I press further.

"I quite enjoyed tonight." He admits, looking at me.

"Yeah, I felt it." I tease.

He shoves me against the nearest wall, hand on either side of my head. He looks at my lips and back into my eyes. Sliding a hand up the side of my neck, he cups my face. I look up, curious what he is up to. He leans down and presses a sweet kiss to my lips.

Only, no one is watching anymore. He genuinely wants to kiss me. He slides a hand under my hair, pushing it to the side and over one shoulder. He cranes his neck to look down my shoulders, eyes finding his last name on me. He smiles, genuinely. I look up at the silhouette of him. It was night now so the streetlights bathed him in a warm yellow hue.

"I enjoyed that too. I meant something else, though." He quietly says, looking at me and raking his fingers through my hair, untangling a few strands with his fingers. "You need to brush your hair." He says, trying to return back to his snarky self. He begins to step back, but I wrap my arms around his waist and hug him. He stiffens at first, but slowly loosens up- wrapping his arms around me.

"Thank you." I say genuinely. He raises an eyebrow.

"For the orgasm?" He teases. I blush.

"You're never going to let me forget that, are you?"

"Never." He promises. He looks down at the jumper on me.

"I guess you need this back for tomorrow?" I ask, gently.

"No. I've got another." He says softly. He turns and we begin the trip back to Hogwarts. I poke his bicep and he fake scoffs at me, in return- I grab his hand.

"Didn't you get enough touching from me?" He remarks but slips his fingers through mine anyway.

"It felt nice." I say sweetly. He barks out one laugh.

"Yeah, I bet it did feel nice." He teases. I blush and pull my hand away, covering my face at the memory again.

"Hey. Don't." He says, prying my hand off my face and slipping it through his own fingers again. I smile at him and he pretends to be annoyed and rolls his eyes at me. I stop us half-way up the trail that leads to the castle. He looks at me confused, but stops anyway. I wrap my arms around his neck and pull him to my lips for a kiss. He kisses back immediately, hands wrapping around my waist. I plant one more lingering kiss on his lips, slide my hand down his arm, and intertwine our fingers again. He walks me all the way to the Ravenclaw tower.

Now in front of my dorm, I look down as I unlock the door, pushing it slightly open and turning back to Draco. He is looking at his jumper draped on my frame. "What, Dragon?" I look at him, curiously.

Before he answers, I watch his eye catch something in my dorm. He lifts an arm, putting his hand right by my head on the door, pushing it open.

"Is that my hoodie?" He asks suddenly. I look over and slightly blush, seeing my closet open with it hung on full display.

"Yeah..." I said quietly.

"I thought you said you had my grey one." He says, reflecting back on our conversation earlier this evening. I stiffen slightly.

"I do..." I say, trailing off.

"That one is black." He says, waiting for me to confess. I sigh.

"Okay! I have... both." I squeak.

"Both? Merlin, woman! How do you manage to accumulate so much of my stuff?" He acts annoyed but I know he's flattered. I laugh. He looks at my frame in his jumper again. A small smile spreading. I huff.

"What, Dragon? I know I'm still wearing your jumper. But why do you keep staring?"

"It suits you." He says genuinely before teasing again, "Look at you. My last name on you like you're my property." I gave him a heated look, remembering everything he said about me and what he did for me in the tavern tonight.

I pull him into my dorm, locking the door behind us.

Masterlist

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