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inseobts · 27 days ago

Note

So I see 👀👀 requests are open! I really really love your writing and would like to request a scenario with Sabo. The fem!reader would be like some kind of investigator for hire and would do any job if the price is right, from finding out if your spouse is cheating to infiltrating a royal court to give you top secret info and Sabo is trying to get her to join the Revolutionary Army every time they come across eachother (which is a lot because spying on the bourgeoisie is a lucrative job 😏😏)

Blondie and Detective

sabo x fem!reader

a/n: this came out really really long but I kept getting ideas, so I hope you'll enjoy it aw

words count: 8.5k

tags: espionage, revolution vs profit, enemies to lovers vibes, tension, slow burn, action, banter-heavy

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

Rain taps on the rooftop like impatient fingers. A thick fog creeps over the city, a rich people’s kingdom, where gold means everything and truth means nothing.

You’re crouched on the roof of a fancy estate, watching the ballroom through your scope. Music floats up through open windows. Nobles dance below, laughing like they’ve never known fear. You’re not here for the music or the wine. You’re here for the letter.

Your client said the Duke is hiding something, military plans, maybe trade secrets. Doesn’t matter. You get paid to find things, not judge them.

You adjust the lens, zoom in on a stiff-looking man in a red jacket. Messenger. Sweaty hands. Nervous eyes. You watch as he slips a sealed envelope to a servant girl, who disappears through a side door.

“Gotcha” you whisper.

You slide down the gutter pipe, quiet as a cat. Through a second-story balcony, in and out like smoke. You’re halfway to the hallway when— “You’re getting sloppy.”

You freeze. That voice.

You turn, slow, annoyed.

There he is. Blond curls, black coat, arms crossed, goggles pushed up like he owns the place. He always shows up like this, out of nowhere, with that smug little smile like he knows something you don’t.

“Blondie...” you say flatly.

“Miss me?” he says.

You stare “You’re in my way.”

He glances behind you at the ballroom “You’re after the letter?”

“I was,” you snap “Until someone decided to start chatting in the middle of my job.”

“Someone just saved you from getting shot,” he says casually “Third window to the left. Look.”

You do. And yeah... there’s a guy with a crossbow, watching the hallway like a hawk. You mutter a curse under your breath.

“Fine,” you say “Thanks.”

Sabo grins “You’re welcome.”

He steps closer. Too close. You don’t move.

“So,” he says, “same question as always. Ready to stop chasing paychecks and join the Revolution?”

You raise an eyebrow “Same answer as always. No.”

“You could do more with your skills.”

“I am doing more. I’m doing everything. For the right price.”

He laughs “You really don’t care who hires you?”

“As long as the money’s good and the target’s worse than me? No.”

“That’s a short list.”

“Lucky for me, the world’s full of bad people.”

You sidestep him, heading toward the hallway. You don’t look back. You already know he’s following.

“You could work with me” he says.

“You’re not my type.”

“I meant on the job.”

“So did I.”

You peek around the corner. Two guards. One hallway. No problem.

“You know,” Sabo says quietly behind you, “we’d make a good team.”

You glance at him over your shoulder “You talk too much.”

“And you like it.”

You roll your eyes “Don’t push your luck, Blondie.”

He smirks “Lead the way, detective.”

You move. Fast. Quiet. Focused.

He follows. Loud in a way that’s not about sound, just there, filling the space with heat and chaos and questions you don’t want to ask.

Not yet.

Maybe later.

You’re halfway through a lukewarm cup of black coffee when the bell over the café door jingles.

You don’t look up at first. This job’s too easy to expect trouble. Rich guy thinks his assistant is stealing silverware. Real dramatic stuff. You’re here to follow the assistant and confirm if he’s a thief or just has a twitchy pocket.

You glance at the small mirror propped on your table. You freeze.

Of course.

Sabo slides into the seat across from you like it’s his usual spot. Black coat. Blond curls. That same casual look, like he just woke up in a castle and decided to crash your life again.

You squint at him “No way.”

“Hi to you, too.” he says, resting his chin on his hand like this is a date.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“This café has really good scones,” he says, then lowers his voice “And there’s something important going on.”

You stare “Important? This isn’t a revolutionary hotspot. It’s a bakery. My target is stealing forks.”

“There’s more to it than that” he says, calm. Too calm.

You narrow your eyes “You’re telling me this boring little fork-theft job is somehow connected to the Revolutionary Army?”

“I’m saying it might be.”

You fold your arms “That’s not an answer.”

He shrugs “I don’t give out answers for free anymore.”

You snort “Since when do you hold information hostage?”

“Since I realized it’s the only way to get you to work with me.”

You lean back in your chair, staring at him “So what—you want me to partner up again?”

He smiles “Just for this one. Could be fun.”

“Last time I nearly got a knife in the leg.”

“You didn’t, though.”

“Because I handled it.”

He lifts his coffee cup “Exactly. Imagine how easy this would be if we teamed up from the start.”

You shake your head “Nope. Not biting.”

“Even if it’s bigger than it looks?” he asks, voice lower now, just serious enough to make your gut tighten.

You hate that you’re curious.

You try to ignore the itch in your brain “If you’re so sure it’s something big, why not handle it alone?”

“I could,” he says, eyes locked with yours “But I don’t want to.”

That throws you off for a second. You look away, annoyed at your own pause.

He sips his drink like he hasn’t just dropped that weird little truth bomb.

“Still no,” you mutter “You don’t get to dangle mystery crap in front of me and expect me to follow like a puppy.”

“No puppy I’ve ever met carries poison darts in her coat” he says, grinning.

You smile in spite of yourself. Just a little.

Then you stand “Good luck with your important fork mission, Blondie. I’ll be watching from my own shadow.”

He stays seated, smiling up at you “I’ll be around if you change your mind.”

You turn and walk away, but you feel his eyes on your back all the way out the door.

You hate that he makes things interesting.

You hate it even more that a part of you wants to go back and ask what the hell is really going on.

You’re bored.

That’s the most dangerous thing in your line of work. Not bullets. Not knives. Not corrupt guards with itchy trigger fingers.

Boredom.

It makes your mind wander. Makes you look too long at the gold-plated chandeliers. At the delicate snacks on silver trays. At the man across from you trying way too hard to impress you.

And it makes you think of him.

You haven’t seen him in months. Not since that stupid fork job. At first, it was nice. Peaceful, even. No smug smile sneaking up behind you. No lectures about changing the world. No offers to join the Revolution.

But noow it’s weird.

You almost miss him. Not that you’d say it out loud. Or even admit it to yourself for more than a second. But the question keeps floating through your brain:

Why hasn’t he shown up?

And why are you thinking about him in the middle of a mission?

You blink and focus. You’re at a royal gala. Dressed like someone who belongs here. Elegant, expensive, bored out of your mind. Your target is a noble—round, rich, red-nosed, and currently getting suspiciously cozy with a foreign diplomat. You’re supposed to keep an eye on him, maybe follow him when he leaves.

Easy. Too easy.

Which is probably why your brain is being stupid.

“—and I said, if I wanted a real ship, I’d buy one, not borrow from the Marines” says the man in front of you, laughing at his own joke. You don’t remember his name. You never bothered to learn it.

He leans closer “You’ve been quiet. Thinking about me?”

You look at him like he’s a mosquito “No.”

He grins anyway “Come now, beautiful. A woman like you shouldn’t be sitting here alone.”

You’re about to lie or stab him with your butter knife, but then—

“Mind if I steal this beautiful woman for a dance?”

That voice.

Your heart stumbles. You look up.

He’s there. Blond, charming, annoyingly handsome in a formal coat that fits him too well. Goggles gone. Hair slicked back just enough.

He’s holding out his hand, smile calm but eyes watching you. Carefully. Like he’s not sure you’ll take it.

You don’t say anything. You just rise from your chair, take his hand, and walk away like the other guy doesn’t even exist. You don’t look back.

“Wow,” Sabo murmurs as you reach the dance floor “Didn’t think you’d actually shove him like that.”

“I didn’t shove,” you mutter “I guided.”

He laughs “Gently guided him into the furniture.”

“You’re late.”

“For the dance?”

“For everything.”

He twirls you, smooth, confident. Then pulls you close again. Too close. You suddenly realize how warm he is. How steady. How his hand fits perfectly at your back, guiding you toward.

“Let’s dance next to your target” he says quietly, like it’s a secret between only you two.

You don’t even ask how he knows. You just let him lead.

You move through the crowd together, twirling and gliding right into the perfect position. Your target is just over Sabo’s shoulder now.

Only when you’re in place do you realize how close your faces are. How his breath brushes your cheek when he speaks.

“I’m sorry” he says.

You blink “What?”

“I should’ve said something. Disappearing for that long, it wasn’t the plan.”

You snort “Why are you apologizing? It’s not like we work together. Or like we’re friends. Or something like that.”

He raises an eyebrow “Something like that, huh?”

You hate how your face warms.

You don’t answer. You look over his shoulder again, watching your target raise a drink and whisper something into a diplomat’s ear.

But part of your mind is still stuck on the weight of his hand on your waist. And the fact that he did come back.

You move across the ballroom floor like you belong there, like you care about this dance. But your heart is nowhere near your target anymore.

It’s stuck somewhere between the weight of his hand on your waist and the word he just said.

“Sorry.”

You glance up “You already said that.”

“I meant it.” His voice is quieter now “I’ve got… news.”

You raise an eyebrow “Let me guess. You’ll only tell me if I say yes to joining the Revolution.”

He smiles a little “I usually would.”

You sigh, already annoyed, then you freeze.

Because this time… He speaks.

“I remembered everything.”

You blink “What?”

“My past. My childhood. It came back.” He swallows, and for once, he’s not looking at you like he has the upper hand “I remembered my brothers. And I found one of them.”

Your mouth opens. No sound comes out.

“I met Luffy again,” Sabo says, voice soft but full “After all those years.”

Luffy.

You’ve heard that name before. That’s the kid... no, the pirate, who’s shaking the world right now.

Your brain struggles to keep up “Wait. You have a brother who’s… that Luffy?”

“I had two brothers,” he says, and there’s something heavy in his voice now “One of them… Ace… died.”

You feel the shift in him. In the room. Like all the noise and music fades into nothing.

“I never remembered him until now,” he continues “And when I did… I found out about his Devil Fruit. What was left of him. And I—”

He hesitates, just for a second. Then “I fought for it. And I won.”

You stare at him. Not just at the words but the way he says them. Like they’re not secrets. Like he wants you to know.

Like you’re someone who deserves to know.

Which is ridiculous.

You don’t ask about his past. You don’t share yours. That’s the deal. That’s how this works.

But he’s looking at you like you’re close. And that’s too much.

You stop dancing. Right there in the middle of the floor.

He blinks “What—?”

You take a step back, breaking the space between you. It suddenly feels hot. Too loud. Too much.

But then you see his face, open, confused, a little hurt.

Damn it.

You grab his wrist “Come with me.”

He lets you pull him without asking questions. You weave through the crowd, out the side door, into the cool, quiet air of the garden balcony.

He finally speaks “What about your target?”

You turn, facing him “I don’t care.”

His eyebrows lift “You… don’t?”

“Not right now,” you say, crossing your arms “Keep talking.”

He looks surprised. Really surprised. Then he smiles. Not his usual smirk. Something softer.

“You actually want to know?”

“Maybe,” you mutter “Don’t let it go to your head.”

He laughs once “Alright, detective. Where should I start?”

You shrug, trying to ignore how fast your heart is beating “Wherever you left off.”

The balcony is quiet. The soft sound of the party behind you fades into the background. You lean against the railing, arms crossed, as Sabo stands in front of you, looking for once like a man who doesn’t have it all under control.

He tells you everything.

Not just the facts, but the feelings, too. About losing his memories. About waking up with holes in his mind. About the strange weight in his chest when he saw Luffy again. About the funeral he missed, the brother he remembered too late. About the fire fruit. The tournament. The fight. The win.

You don’t interrupt. You just… listen.

And when he’s done, there’s silence between you. He watches you, waiting. You tilt your head slightly.

“Okay, Blondie,” you say slowly, your voice calm, almost teasing “I know about Ace. From the news. The whole world does.”

His eyebrows shoot up “First thing, my name isn’t Blondie but it’s Sabo. And then… you know?”

You nod skipping past the name thing he said “I mean… big fire guy. Big execution. Big mess. Sad ending. Even someone like me couldn’t miss it.” You pause. Then smirk “So now you got fire powers?”

He blinks “I—yeah, I do.”

“Prove it.” You lean in slightly “Show me.”

His eyes widen “Here?”

“Why not? There's no one else.”

Sabo stares at you for a second, like he’s trying to decide if you’re serious. You are.

He sighs once, smiles, then lifts his hand.

One finger rises. His gloved hand stills in the air. And then a flame sparks to life at the tip of his index finger.

Not just a spark. It burns. Bright. Alive. Orange and gold, like a piece of the sun. It dances, hot and proud, like it knows who it used to belong to.

You lean closer, eyes narrowing “Huh.”

“Huh?” he repeats, still holding the flame.

You smile “Didn’t think you were actually telling the truth.”

He gives a short laugh “I just spilled my entire life story to you.”

“I know. That was weird.”

He lowers his hand slowly, and the flame fades out. You feel the warmth linger on your skin, even though it’s gone.

“I thought you’d walk away” he says, watching you carefully.

“I almost did.”

“And now?”

You shrug “Now I’m just wondering what else you’ve been hiding.”

That gets a grin out of him “You’re not scared?”

“Of a little fire?” You smirk “Please. I’ve dealt with worse.”

He steps a little closer. Not touching you, just there “You’re something else.”

You look up at him “You’re just figuring that out now?”

The air out here is cooler, but your skin is still warm from the flame Sabo showed you. The fire’s gone, but he’s still close. Still looking at you like he’s seeing something real. Something he missed.

You’re not used to being seen like that.

He leans against the railing now, just beside you. The silence hangs between you, comfortable but heavy. Until he says,

“So… what about your target now?”

Your brain blanks for a second. You blink.

“…Target?”

You actually forgot. You. Forgot.

You straighten up a little, suddenly aware again “Shit—right. The guy. Cheating husband. Rich. Smells like fish. Probably still inside with his mistress.”

Sabo laughs quietly “You forgot?”

“Shut up,” you mutter, then pause. You look at him, narrowing your eyes “Wait a second.”

He tilts his head “What?”

“Blondie… why are you even here?” You gesture toward the ballroom “This wasn’t some world-changing event. Just a man cheating on his wife. I already figured it out. Mission solved. But what about your mission?”

He looks at you. And then, slowly, carefully, he says “You were my mission.”

Your heart trips over itself.

“W-what?” you stutter, and the sound of your own voice makes your face heat. You never stutter.

Sabo just smiles. Too pleased “That’s new.”

You frown “Shut up. What do you mean I was your mission?”

“I mean,” he says, leaning a little closer, “I was looking for you. That’s why I came.”

You blink at him again, confused “…To recruit me again?”

He shakes his head “No. I just wanted to talk. To explain. I didn’t like disappearing like that. Not without saying anything.”

You’re quiet. You weren’t expecting this. Not from him. Not tonight.

“So… you found me… just to say sorry?”

“Well,” he says, grinning now, “and maybe to see that look on your face when I said you were my mission.”

You roll your eyes, but it doesn’t hide the way your heart’s still racing “You’re the worst.”

“Maybe,” he says softly, “but I came back, didn’t I?”

You look at him. You hate how warm that makes you feel.

“Yeah,” you say, barely above a whisper “You did.”

“I just need a photo of him with his mistress,” you say as you push away from the railing “That’s all. Then I get paid.”

You shoot him a dry look “If you’re not busy, blondie… want to tag along?”

He grins “Lead the way, detective.”

You both head back inside. The music is still loud, the lights still too soft, the perfume in the air still expensive. You glide through the crowd, quiet, calm, focused. He walks behind you, hands in his pockets, like this is a stroll in the park.

You find the hallway the target mentioned earlier. Follow the plush carpet, past too many locked doors, until you reach a side room with long glass doors leading out to a small private balcony.

Perfect.

You sit on the floor in the shadowed corner just outside its small balcony, dress tucked around your legs. He sits beside you without asking.

You keep your eyes locked on the room inside. Your camera is ready. The lights are dimmed. No one’s here yet. But you know they’ll come.

Sabo… doesn’t watch the door.

He watches you.

You feel it after a while. His gaze. Quiet. Steady. Soft.

And then “You’re really beautiful tonight.”

It’s so quiet, you almost don’t catch it. You turn your head “What?”

His eyes go wide. Like he didn’t mean to say it out loud. Like the words slipped out and betrayed him.

“I mean...” he clears his throat, looking away, “you got all dressed up for a small mission. Just a cheating man. That’s a lot of effort.”

You smirk, letting him twist “Missions are all boring recently.”

He looks back at you. Eyes narrowing like he just heard something important.

“Missions are boring… recently, huh?” he repeats slowly “So what changed recently?”

You roll your eyes “Don’t start.”

He leans in, grin wide now “Wait. Wait. Don’t tell me.” He taps his chin “Could it be that without me, you got bored?”

You scoff “Keep dreaming, Blondie.”

“So I was your entertainment?”

“You were an annoyance.”

“A charming one.”

You bite back a smile “Debatable.”

But it’s too late. He’s grinning like a fool, clearly enjoying himself. And the worst part is that you don’t even hate it.

Not even a little.

Sabo is in the middle of his next line, probably something ridiculous like “I bet you missed me so much you cried yourself to sleep” when your hand shoots up.

“Shhh!” you hiss.

He blinks “What?”

You tilt your chin toward the room inside.

The door opens.

There he is. Your target. Same smug walk, same too-shiny shoes. And hanging on his arm his mistress, laughing at something he said. They head toward the balcony.

Your balcony.

“Shit,” you whisper “They’re coming out here—”

You grab Sabo’s wrist and pull.

Fast.

You barely have a second to think. Just behind you, near the edge of the balcony, there’s a thick curtain tied to a decorative pillar. It’s more for style than privacy, but it’s big enough. Barely.

You slip behind it, dragging him with you. The heavy fabric closes in around you both. It’s dark. Cramped. His back hits the cold stone wall. You stop moving.

You’re close... Too close.

You’re pressed chest to chest, your leg between his. One of his arms is braced against the wall behind you, the other lightly around your waist. It’s the only way to not fall over.

Your breath hitches. His does too.

Neither of you speaks.

The couple is right there. Just on the other side. You hear their laughter, the low sound of a kiss. You should be paying attention. You should be lifting your camera, snapping the photo.

But your body is frozen. All your focus is on the heat of him, his hand, the closeness, his heartbeat that you can actually feel.

And then his hand moves. Slowly. Carefully.

He brushes your hair away from your cheek. His fingers are light, like he’s afraid to push too hard. They trail along your skin, and then he tucks the loose strand gently behind your ear.

You look up. His eyes are already on yours.

There’s no teasing in them now. No smirk. Just quiet. Warmth. Something deeper.

You open your mouth to say something, anything, but the words vanish.

Outside, your target laughs again. The mistress pulls him inside. The moment is over.

You stay still a second longer. Neither of you speaks.

Then, very softly, Sabo says, “We’re going to have to talk about that later.”

And all you can manage is a whispered, “Shut up.”

You finally lift your camera. Your hands are steady, like always, even if your heart still isn’t.

The cheating man is kissing his mistress again, pressed up against the glass inside the room. They think they’re alone.

Perfect.

Three shots. Clear enough to ruin a marriage.

You lower the camera, your voice low “Got it. Time to go.”

Sabo doesn’t say a word, just follows you again like a shadow.

You grab the edge of the balcony, throw one leg over, and jump down like you’ve done a thousand times.

Except you forgot you’re wearing heels.

Your ankle bends awkwardly and pain shoots up your leg as your foot hits the ground. You hiss, stumbling slightly.

“Fucking heels...” you mutter, already yanking them off. One in each hand, and then you throw them down the alley without a second thought.

Behind you, Sabo lands light as a feather.

He watches the scene. Your bare feet. Your scowl. The heels lying sad and broken in the dark.

Then, his voice “Jump on my back.”

You glance at him “What?”

He shrugs casually “I’ll carry you. Don’t want you walking barefoot.”

You blink “You serious?”

He gives you that soft little half-smile “Completely.”

You snort “Nah. I’m good… but thanks for the offer, Blondie.”

And with that, you turn around and walk ahead. Not looking back. Definitely not letting him see the way your face is burning.

Behind you, he watches every step. And he’s smiling.

Not because you turned him down. But because you didn’t hesitate to throw away those fancy shoes. Because you didn’t care about being graceful or anything. Because you didn’t mind walking barefoot in a dirty alley if it meant freedom.

Because you’re real. And damn... he really, really likes that.

The alley behind you is gone now. Just stone paths and quiet shadows.

You’re walking through a garden, the party mansion behind. The only light coming from the stars above and the soft glow of lanterns hidden among the trees.

It’s quiet. Too quiet.

You want to say goodbye. You always do after a job. Clean cut, no mess, no feelings. But your steps slow. You don’t want to walk away just yet. Not this time.

You stop near a small fountain. The sound of water trickling fills the silence between you.

You cross your arms, not facing him “So… I was your mission, mh?”

Sabo stands beside you, close but not touching.

You glance at him “Well… mission completed. You’re free to leave.”

He tilts his head slightly, a small smile tugging at his lips “So are you.”

You breathe in slowly.

“But here we are,” he adds softly “Still.”

You stare at the fountain “Still.”

The word hangs there like fog.

You swallow and finally look at him “You could’ve gone without telling me anything. But you didn’t. You came back. Why?”

“I told you,” he says, voice lower now “I wanted to explain. I didn’t like disappearing like that. You deserved more than that.”

You shake your head slowly “I don’t need people to explain themselves to me. I’m not—”

“Yeah,” he cuts in gently “But maybe I wanted to explain. Because I missed you.”

The words stop you.

You stare at him.

He says it so simply. Like it’s just a fact. Like saying it might rain tomorrow. Like I missed you isn’t a damn earthquake in your chest.

You try to scoff. Try to play it off “That’s very dramatic, Blondie.”

He chuckles “I learned from the best.”

You roll your eyes, but you don’t move away. You don’t leave.

You’re still standing beside him. Under the stars. Just… there.

And he is too.

...Still.

The silence stretches. The fountain bubbles softly. Somewhere far off, the music from the party fades into the trees.

You glance at him. He’s looking at the stars now, like they might give him something to say.

You speak first “So, what now?”

He shrugs “I don’t know. I didn’t really plan past this.”

You snort “Bad planning for a Revolutionary, don’t you think?”

He smiles “I figured I’d improvise. Depends on what you do next.”

You don’t answer. Your eyes fall to the path in front of you. The wind moves through the leaves, cool against your skin.

You hate this.

The quiet. The part of you that doesn’t want to walk away.

You cross your arms, trying to sound casual “Well, if you missed me that much, maybe next time you disappear, leave a note. ‘Gone off to recover lost memories and beat up powerful enemies, back soon’. Something like that.”

He laughs “You’d burn the note.”

You smile despite yourself “Probably.”

Then the quiet slips back in. He turns toward you again. You feel it before you see it. His eyes on you. That look you’re starting to know too well. Like he sees something in you you’re not ready to admit is there.

And yet…

“I kept thinking,” he says quietly, “how many jobs you’ve taken since I left. How many stupid people you had to spy on, how many lies you had to fake-smile through. I wondered if you ever thought about me.”

You open your mouth. Then close it.

He doesn’t push. Just keeps watching you with that calm, steady warmth.

You scoff lightly, more to break the moment than because anything’s funny “Don’t flatter yourself. I was too busy following cheating husbands and hiding in bushes.”

But your voice is soft. Not sharp. Not convincing.

He leans slightly closer. Not touching. Just near “So… not even a little?”

You meet his gaze. You want to lie. You always lie. That’s your job.

But instead you say “Maybe once.”

A pause “Or twice.”

Another pause “Something like that.”

He smiles “Good. Because I thought about you more than that.”

Your chest tightens and you quickly look away “You should go before I punch you for saying things like that.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.” he murmurs.

You both laugh quietly.

Still not touching. Still not fully confessing.

But the air between you hums with something neither of you wants to name... Not yet.

And so you stand there a little longer. Under the stars. In the garden... Still.

You feel the weight of his words still in your chest. You have to shake it off. Do something, say something, or you’ll start thinking too much. Feeling too much.

So, you clear your throat and nudge his arm with your elbow “Hey… got any more fire tricks? Something cool. Or funny?”

Sabo blinks. Then a smirk tugs at his lips “You want a show?”

You roll your eyes “Don’t make it weird. Just entertain me, Blondie.”

He chuckles, stepping back a little “Alright, alright. Watch this.”

He lifts one hand. With a little flick of his wrist, a small flame spins into life at the tip of his finger, then flickers out and reappears in the other hand, like a magician’s coin. Then he makes a little fire butterfly, letting it flap its glowing wings before it floats up and fades into sparks.

You stare. Eyes wide. Mouth parted just slightly. Like a kid at their first festival.

You step closer, enchanted “And it doesn’t burn you?”

Without thinking, you reach out, your fingers heading straight for the flame still flickering in his palm.

“Wait—!”

He quickly closes his hand, putting the fire out in an instant. But it’s too late. You brushed against the edge of it.

He grabs your hand fast, holding it tight in both of his.

His brows furrow “Did it burn you?” he asks, voice sharp with worry “Let me see.”

You blink at your hand... your hand, which is now in his hands, and for a second you completely forget what you were even doing.

His touch is warm, gentle. He’s checking your fingers, your palm, his thumb brushing softly over your skin. Too carefully. Too tender.

You finally come back to your senses. Your heart stumbles in your chest.

You yank your hand away like it’s him that’s burning “I’m fine. Jeez.”

He blinks, stunned “I just—”

“I should go,” you say, voice too fast. Too high “Client’s waiting. Gotta report. You know, job stuff.”

He opens his mouth, probably to ask something, maybe to stop you. But then he just closes it again. His eyes follow you as you take a few quick steps back, avoiding his gaze, his hand, everything.

He doesn’t say a word.

He doesn’t chase.

Because he’s still there, stunned…

…realizing how fast his heart is beating, looking at his hands who were just holding yours.

You’ve been pacing the hallway for ten minutes now. Not because the job is hard... hell, you’ve done harder with a broken rib and a broken heel. But because you know he’ll show up.

He always does.

You’re even dressed for it. A sleek outfit, long coat, subtle daggers tucked under your sleeves. Not that he notices things like that.

Except he does. And that’s the problem.

You sigh, adjusting your collar. You’re here to spy on a nobleman, catch him trading information to pirates. But all your attention is pointed toward the nearest door like some lovesick idiot.

Which you are not.

“You really should stop standing in front of open doors.” comes the voice you’ve been trying not to expect.

You spin around, already scowling “Blondie.”

He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, smug grin in place “Miss me?”

You scoff “Like I miss being shot at.”

He straightens and walks toward you, looking way too casual for someone who just broke into a mansion “So... how many missions have you almost ruined since I last saw you?”

“I don’t ruin missions,” you snap “I finish them. Unlike some people.”

“Oh right, because hiding in a curtain last time was definitely the plan.”

“That was your fault! If you hadn’t distracted me with your stupid compliments.”

“You’re really bringing that up?”

“Yes! Because it’s your fault!”

He smirks “If I remember correctly, you were the one blushing.”

You point a sharp, gloved finger at him “That was heatstroke.”

He raises a brow “At night?”

You flinch. Damn. Walked right into that one. But you don’t answer. You storm past him toward the second hallway where your target is supposed to appear. He follows, like always, humming under his breath.

“Seriously,” you say, trying to focus “Why are you even here? This isn’t a Revolutionary job.”

“You’re here.”

“That’s not a reason.”

“It’s the only one that matters.”

You stop walking “You’re impossible.”

He grins “And you’re blushing again.”

You shove past him without another word.

Somehow, you still manage to finish the mission. You get your intel, threaten a butler, blackmail a merchant, and grab your proof. As you head out, Sabo falls into step beside you like this is routine. Like you always leave places like this together.

“Hey.” he says suddenly, and your stomach drops because of his tone, like he’s about to say something real. Something important.

You don’t like that.

“My brother’s in town. Wanna come meet him?”

You blink “Luffy?”

He nods, too casual.

You cross your arms “I don’t do dinner with strangers.”

“He’s not a stranger. He’s Luffy.”

“That’s literally the definition of a stranger to me.”

But he takes your hand.

Your brain short-circuits.

“What are you doing?” you snap, looking down at your entwined fingers.

“Holding your hand. You seem like the type to run.”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

“You’re not pulling away...” he says, almost amused.

“…I’m tired.” you lie.

“You’re not even trying anymore.” he says with a laugh, already pulling you toward the docks.

You don’t pull away. Not even once.

The Thousand Sunny is louder than expected. Lanterns swing gently from ropes. Someone’s playing music. Someone else is screaming about meat. The Straw Hat crew is mid-party and you don’t even want to ask why.

Luffy’s the first one to spot you. He runs over barefoot, grinning so hard it almost hurts to look at him.

“Oi, Sabo!!” he shouts “Who’s she?”

You already step slightly behind Sabo, not used to this kind of attention. Not used to people looking at you like you matter.

Sabo rests a hand on your back again. Gentle. Warm.

“This is Detective Y/N,” he says proudly “Soon to be a Revolutionary.”

Your jaw drops “Oi! Blondie! How many times do I have to say no?!”

Before he can reply, Luffy tilts his head, blinking at the both of you “So is this your girlfriend?”

You and Sabo both freeze like someone just tossed a grenade between you.

“What?!” you shout, face burning “NO!”

“LUFFY!” Sabo snaps, just as red.

Luffy shrugs “You were holding hands and stuff.”

“We—! I—!” You throw your hands in the air “That was not—”

“Don’t act like you didn’t want to come.” Sabo hisses.

“You invited me!”

“You didn’t say no!”

“You didn’t let me!”

Zoro, watching from the side, mutters to Sanji, “How long you think before they kiss or kill each other?”

Sanji smirks “I’m betting both.”

You cross your arms and glare at Sabo, still blushing. He rubs the back of his neck, awkwardly looking away, but the edge of a smile is tugging at his lips.

Neither of you corrects Luffy.

Neither of you denies it again.

And your hand still feels warm where his was.

You clear your throat, trying to reset your brain “So,” you say, turning to Luffy as casually as possible “You’ve known Blondie since he was little, right?”

Sabo shoots you a look “No. Don’t even—”

You ignore him “Got any embarrassing stories?”

Luffy lights up like a lantern “OH YEAH! There was this one time, he—”

“Nope!” Sabo says quickly, cutting him off with the speed of someone panicking. He grabs your wrist gently... always gently... and pulls you a step back “We actually came just to say hi.”

You blink “We did?”

“We’re leaving now, I planned something.” he says firmly, already starting to walk.

You don’t fight it, but you are confused “Why? What do you have planned?”

Before he can answer, Luffy shouts after you, mouth full of meat, “Are you two going on a date?!”

You freeze.

Sabo stops mid-step.

Sanji drops a tray.

You’re standing there, Sabo still holding your wrist, and you feel your heart slam in your chest.

Sabo turns slowly, managing a calm expression “No.”

You, on the other hand, are red again “Obviously not!”

“Sure looks like it,” Luffy says, grinning wide “You guys were holding hands again.”

“HIS FAULT... FOR BALANCE.” you shout, instantly regretting how defensive you sound.

Sabo mutters under his breath, “Not very balanced now, are we.”

You elbow him. He smirks.

Robin chuckles behind her book “Young love is so… chaotic.”

You cover your face “We’re not—”

But Sabo’s hand slides down your wrist and links your fingers with his.

You glance at him, startled.

He doesn’t look at you, just tugs you toward the edge of the ship “Come on, Detective. I do have something planned.”

You don’t say anything for a second. You just stare at your joined hands.

Then, quietly, you mutter, “It better not be a date.”

He finally looks at you with that maddening half-smile “What if it is?”

You hate that your heart skips. You really hate that you don’t have a snappy comeback this time.

He walks beside you in silence, hand still in yours.

You should pull away... You really should.

But the warmth of his grip is like something you didn’t know you missed. And the way his thumb brushes against your knuckles as you cross into town makes you forget, moment by moment, that you’re supposed to be good at keeping people out.

You frown “This doesn’t look like a hideout.”

“It’s not.” he says, almost too casually.

You glance around, brows furrowing. You're not far from the city square now, where lamplight spills soft gold. Music plays in the distance, a quiet violin, and the smell of grilled food drifts from the open-air restaurants lining the plaza.

He leads you toward one of them. A quiet place tucked between ivy-covered walls, glowing with soft lanterns. It’s... cozy. Intimate.

You stop in your tracks.

“Do you have a mission here?” you ask, suspicious “You needed me for something?”

He doesn’t meet your eyes “…No.”

You blink “Then why?”

“I wanted to take you out.”

Your breath catches.

He finally looks at you, and his cheeks are dusted with red. And suddenly, you’re blushing. Hard.

Your heart kicks against your ribs like it’s trying to claw its way out “I’m...” You glance down at yourself, then back at him “I’m not dressed for this. I didn’t even shower after the mission, I—I smell right now, probably.”

His eyes widen. Not at your panic, but because you’re not saying no.

You’re... making excuses.

His lips twitch, almost smiling, but there’s something soft under it too. Hopeful. Careful. “If you feel uncomfortable, we can come back another time.”

You hesitate.

You could take that way out. He’d let you go. But you don’t want to run. Not tonight.

So instead, you tighten your fingers around his. Not much. Just enough to tell him you’re still here. And then you meet his eyes.

“Let’s go somewhere else,” you say, voice quieter than usual “Somewhere less... fancy. Should we?”

He looks stunned for a second. Then a smile softens his whole face.

“Yeah,” he says, squeezing your hand back “We should.”

You’re walking side by side through the old part of town, the kind of place with cobbled streets and small lanterns flickering in shop windows. There's no mission, no lie to keep up, no identity to steal—just you, him, and this weird silence that’s more peaceful than awkward.

You chew slowly on a skewer from a food stall, the oil still warm on your lips. Sabo is next to you, carrying a second portion he insisted you try.

He walks close enough that your shoulder brushes his every few steps. You don’t move away.

And just when the warmth in your chest starts to feel dangerous, when you're thinking maybe the food's not the only thing softening you, he speaks.

"By the way… earlier."

You glance sideways at him “What about earlier?”

His gaze is ahead, not on you. His voice is careful, but not cold.

“I just… I wanted to say…”

You stop chewing. The pause is long.

He exhales like he's regretting even bringing it up, then blurts “You actually smell good right now.”

You freeze mid-step. Did he just...

“I mean...” he fumbles, ears turning so red it's almost funny, “...not like I was trying to notice that. Or, I mean... I did notice it. Not in a weird way, just...”

You stare at him. He won’t look at you.

“And you're beautiful,” he says, a little quieter, like the words hurt to say out loud “No matter what you wear.”

Your heart slams against your ribs so hard it echoes in your ears. You don’t breathe for a second.

Beautiful.

You blink once. Twice. Your voice is caught somewhere in your throat.

He's still not looking at you. Maybe he thinks if he doesn’t see your face, it won’t sting so much when you laugh it off. But you don't laugh.

You take a small breath and then you say, softly, “I’m sorry, Sabo.”

His head jerks toward you. Eyes wide.

It's the name. You never use it. He notices instantly.

You take a slow step closer to him.

“I’m not good at this...” you say again, quieter now. Like a confession.

Your hand lifts almost on instinct, your fingers brushing against his cheek before your palm rests fully there. The contact is warm, real. His skin is soft, just like you thought it’d be.

He doesn’t move.

Your other hand rises to his face too, like gravity’s pulling you in. His breath catches. His lips part but he doesn’t speak.

And before he can try you lean in.

Your lips touch his.

Just once.

Soft.

Quick.

A heartbeat and it’s over.

But when you pull back, your hands are still holding his face. And his eyes are locked on you like you just flipped his entire world upside down.

He doesn’t blink. He doesn’t speak.

You’re about to say something stupid. Or apologize. Or maybe run away, like you always do. But then his fingers slowly lift.

They rise like he’s in a trance, brushing lightly over his own lips where you just kissed him. Like he’s trying to prove to himself that it actually happened. That you actually did that.

You watch him, unsure what to say, unsure if you've gone too far or not far enough. But you don’t move. You wait.

His eyes meet yours again, still wide, still stunned, but there’s something fragile and flickering and new now.

You see it before he can even say a word.

Hope.

He whispers your name like it means something sacred. And you feel your heart stutter again. But this time, you don’t run.

You let the silence stretch. Let the night fold around you. Let yourself breathe in the moment like it might disappear.

You kissed him. And you want to do it again.

Sabo’s still staring at you like you just knocked the wind out of him.

Then, all at once, a grin pulls at the corner of his mouth. Something soft, but surprised. A little breathless.

And then he speaks, his voice lower than before, unguarded.

“…Oh.”

You arch a brow “Oh?”

“You said you’re not good at this but you’re actually damn good,” he says, like it’s just occurred to him “You make me nervous.”

You blink. And then you laugh.

It slips out before you can stop it, a quiet breath of a sound, half smile and half disbelief. You shake your head, grinning like he just said the most ridiculous thing in the world.

“Nervous?” you repeat, tilting your head “You?”

He shrugs helplessly, like he’s trying to pretend this isn’t a big deal while looking very much like a man whose heart is hanging off a wire “Yeah.”

You watch him for a beat, heart still beating way too fast for comfort. Then you nudge his arm lightly with yours.

“So, Blondie…” you murmur, a little smirk tugging your lips now “What do we do from now on? How does this work?”

He exhales slowly, looking at you sideways “Depends. Are you going to disappear again the second I blink?”

You scoff “You’re the one who vanished for months.”

He doesn’t argue.

You go on “I still won’t accept your offer, you know. I’m staying a detective. Better pay, more drama, less running around screaming about justice or whatever.”

That makes him laugh, and god it’s nice hearing him laugh like that, light, real, warm. Like this version of him exists only for you.

He leans his shoulder into yours a little “I don’t even care anymore.”

You glance at him “What do you mean?”

He shrugs, eating the last bite of his skewer “You’re always working with me anyway. We just keep bumping into each other mid-job. Revolution or not, we’re already a team.”

That earns another smile from you, though you roll your eyes “Ugh, don’t say it like that.”

He grins wider.

And then, softer “Say it again?”

You blink “Say what?”

“My name.”

You pause.

You know exactly what he’s asking for.

Your lips curve slowly. You fake a thoughtful expression, tapping your chin “…Blondie?”

He pouts. Full-on, eyes-narrowed, almost-childish pout.

You laugh again, a little too fond, a little too fast.

“Okay, okay—” you cave, pushing his arm gently.

You lean a little closer, voice playful but real.

“Flame Emperor Sabo.”

That makes his whole expression shift, his eyes widening a bit, like that title coming from your mouth short-circuits his brain. You say it like it’s not just a title, not just a name the world gave him. You say it like you know exactly who he is beneath it, and you still say it anyway.

He’s silent for a beat too long, lips parting like he forgot how to breathe.

You blink “Now stop acting like a baby.”

His mouth quirks into a smirk again, but there’s a faint blush under his eyes that he absolutely cannot hide.

“You’re dangerous” he mutters.

“Me?”

He nods, licking his bottom lip absently “Yeah. You don’t even realize it, do you?”

You open your mouth to respond, but nothing clever comes out. So you close it again.

He grins.

And the stars above keep burning. Just like the slow, steady fire growing between you.

The mission is simple. In theory.

Infiltrate a noble’s estate. Steal a sealed document before it gets shipped to the World Government. No casualties, no noise, no slipping up.

Simple.

Except nothing is simple when he’s with you.

Sabo walks beside you through the bustling garden party, dressed in dark formal wear that somehow makes him look more like royalty than a rebel. His hair is slicked back tonight, but one stubborn curl keeps falling in front of his eyes. You hate how much you keep noticing it.

“I told you we should’ve entered from the east wing...” you whisper through your teeth, smiling like a polite guest while your eyes scan the crowd.

He leans close, smirking “And I told you the west entrance had the least guards. What’s your plan, detective, run in heels again and scream ‘I told you so’ if we get caught?”

You don’t look at him but you can feel the smirk.

“I swear,” you hiss, “if this mission goes wrong, I’m blaming your giant ego and that dumb little curl on your forehead.”

He chuckles low “You like that dumb little curl. You looked at it twenty times already.”

You turn your head fast “You counted?”

He leans even closer, lips almost brushing your ear “You’re blushing.”

“I will punch you.”

“You’ll have to catch me first.”

And there it is again, that tension. That crackling space between you that’s always been charged, but now it’s like standing next to a fire and pretending you’re not melting.

Your heart beats a little faster as you both slip away from the crowd toward the private halls.

Inside, it’s quieter. Just soft footsteps and faint music echoing from the ballroom.

You’re meant to stay focused. There’s a vault. A document. A ticking clock.

But Sabo walks behind you with his hand ghosting near your back, and it’s suddenly hard to remember the full plan.

“You’ve been quiet” he says softly.

“I’m trying to think.”

“Mm. Dangerous.”

You stop walking. Turn around.

He nearly bumps into you, he’s that close. His breath catches.

You narrow your eyes “We’re in the middle of a mission, Flame Emperor. Don’t start.”

He lifts both hands like he’s innocent “I’m not doing anything. You’re the one who stopped.”

“I stopped because you were breathing down my neck.”

“You know what? I still can’t believe you kissed me first.”

You scowl “You want me to regret that?”

He smiles, cocky and soft all at once “Do you?”

You stare at him.

He stares back.

The moment hangs.

Heavy.

Then your gaze flickers to his mouth.

His does the same.

And like magnet to spark, you crash forward and kiss him.

Again.

Your hands grab the collar of his coat. His arm instantly slips around your waist, pulling you in, mouth hot and insistent. You kiss like it’s an argument neither of you want to win, messy, fast, like you’re both annoyed at how much you want this.

And damn it, you do.

You bite his lip lightly and he groans into your mouth, deep and low. His fingers tighten at your hip. One of your legs slides between his and you’re just about to press him up against the wall when...

“Focus,” he pants, breaking away just enough to whisper against your lips “Document. Vault. Revolution. Remember?”

You blink “…Right.”

You both take a deep breath.

He adjusts his cravat like kissing you hasn’t just fried his brain. You smooth your dress, refusing to look flustered.

“I hate how good you are at kissing” you mutter.

“I love how bad you are at staying focused” he grins.

You glare.

He winks.

And just like that, the tension resets, but it lingers in every step. Every glance. Every time your hands brush, or you lean a little too close to whisper, or he rests a palm low on your back to guide you around a corner like a gentleman with very impure thoughts.

But neither of you mess up.

The vault? Opened.

The document? Secured.

The guards? Unaware.

You slip out the west gate under cover of darkness, walking side by side through the city like two shadows.

Job done. Hearts racing.

And even though you don’t say it out loud, you both know you’re not just partners anymore.

You’re a storm.

And this is only the beginning.

410 notes · View notes

osamucide · 7 months ago

Text

BITCHBOY ⊹

ALL I WANT IN THIS WHOLE WIDE WORLD IS TO BE YOUR BITCHBOY . . . ft. Osamu Dazai

wc: ~6.8k

cw: 18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. icky pervy stoner roommate!Dazai <333 also pathetic wet cat mess of a man Dazai, afab+gn!reader, established roommate relationship, no established romantic relationship, implied bi!Dazai if you squint, referenced whore!Dazai, weed smoking+intox/noncon (reader says "stop" once and he does not stop), dubcon (becomes 'consenual' but Dazai's coercive+they're high), noncon elements can be interpreted (esp at the end) to be roleplay with prior consent! dirty talk, shotgunning, fingering, squirting, kissing, penetration, creampie, insulting nicknames (Dazai receiving), biting, this is depraved and I will answer for it on judgement day

reid: he’s all i think about.

tags: @kalsplace

You’re grumbling under your breath when you’re about to cross the threshold to your apartment because, as if the rest of your day hadn’t been annoying enough, your stupid key decides to give you extra trouble—as of late, it’s not working unless you jam it in the lock at a very specific angle and jiggle violently until just before you’re sure the knob will fall off, all whilst cursing your landlord’s neglect of the crummy old building like some enchantment or spell that ties the whole rage-inducing, access-granting ritual together.

Couldn’t your good-for-nothing roommate hear you struggling with it?

“Hey, sorry,” he chirps too brightly for the evening hour, floating out of his room as you shut the door behind you with a sigh—ever the mind reader. You forego your eye-roll this time; you’re convinced that one of these days they’ll get stuck in your skull what with how much you do it. You hear Dazai sauntering toward you as you’re shrugging your jacket off, hanging it up, tossing your bag on the table. “Was busy.”

You’re ready to turn and scowl at him, but when you face him, he’s waggling the little pipe in your face—the green one with blue flecks in the glass, undoubtedly what he was busy with while you broke into your own home—and you won’t admit that you already feel your irritation start to melt away when it slides from his fingertips to yours. You clutch it, latch onto the mouthpiece, and watch as the brunette flicks the flame out and lights you up.

You exhale gratefully, take one more pull, and hand the glowing bowl back for him to catch the remainder of before he lights it again. “Thank you," you croak before short cough leaves you. “Was real close to bitching you out for not leaving the door unlocked.”

Dazai blows his smoke directly back in your face with a small grin. “Redeemed by my weed once again.”

You chuckle and wave it away, making a point of sliding by him and toward your room to change. You need to unwind a second before dealing with him for the rest of the night. “‘S’all that ever redeems you. Crack a window, will ya?”

It’s really not a bad arrangement to have a live-in pot dealer—that’s basically what Dazai is and has been as long as you’ve roomed with him. Sure, he's also a pain in your ass; the man can hardly cook, you had to show him how to use the washing machine in the common area when you first moved in, and only a bit ago, after almost half a year of sharing a living space, have you convinced him to keep his mess of discarded socks and food packaging contained within his bedroom. It took a lot of harsh reprimanding about how you're not his parent and he's not your teenage son for you to realize it'd be a little of his own medicine to get him to start taking you seriously. Leaving your empty takeout box on the coffee table right where he liked to eat his, tossing your sweatshirt over his spot on the couch and refusing to move it for days—he took the message, albeit smugly, after that, and hasn't given you trouble since.

Even despite being a pain in the ass, though, especially now that he at least cleans up after himself, you have to admit you don't hate his presence in your home and in your life. You chalk it up to how infuriatingly charming he can be—you know he's a detective, and he's certainly got talents for sniffing out your emotions, solving your day-to-day problems, and smooth-talking, but all of that falls under being nosy and weird when he tries to guilt you into praising him for it. If he was any less annoying, you'd maybe even admit to yourself that he's kind of attractive; only physically, of course, which you've known since the day you met him, but any other way he might be—retaining a heavy air of mystery in spite of how bubbly he is, occasionally inviting you out drinking (mostly so you can drag him home once he overdoes it), smoking you up without asking for money—is just so overshadowed by what a fucking weirdo he is. You can’t separate it.

He certainly keeps you on your toes.

That’s really the worst thing about him. You know you’ll exit your room to grab your leftovers from the fridge and he’ll be pestering you to watch some movie with him—probably one of his cringy rom-coms (the fact that he watches and unironically enjoys them serving only marginally to make him a little more of an interesting character) during which he'll sling his feet across your lap or curl up into you so he can pinch your side once or twice just for your reaction, leaving you red in the face and mildly irritated while he giggles condescendingly at you. But as you always do, you think as you sigh and lift the hem of your sweater to curl it over and off, you’ll concede.

Your head’s caught in your sleep shirt when you hear your door creak open.

“Um, privacy?” you half-yelp—something you’re still figuring your way around with him. You jump out of line of the door as you poke your head through the neckline to shoot him that glare you saved from moments earlier.

Dazai just snickers, eyes wide and innocent. You're naked from the waist down. “Could’ve locked it.”

“As if that would stop you,” you snap back, stretching the hem over your thighs and ass as you skitter awkwardly back over to the edge of your bed where a pair of comfy shorts lay. “Get out!”

“Will you hurry up and put your pants on? I got My Big Fat Greek Wedding locked and loaded.”

“Yes, yes, just get out.”

He’s still snickering when he disappears behind the door. He doesn’t shut it all the way, and you mutter freak beneath your breath, secretly hoping he hears you.

You tug your shorts on and meander back out as the intro rolls, set on your leftover homemade tonkatsu; as you settle cross-legged with your plate on the couch, Dazai reaches over and plucks a piece of cabbage off it.

You side eye him as you chew. He’s already occupying himself with packing another bowl—he must've finished the first one himself. You'd half-expect him to reach for one of the prerolls he keeps in the coffee table drawer so as not to have to go to the trouble again, but he does.

“You eat yet?” you ask carefully.

He shakes his head as he uses the butt of the lighter to press it down. Of course not. Even weed doesn’t make him eat. You’ve expressed concern over his eating habits before, but he always dismisses you with a hum and that smug smile.

You make a point of tearing the remainder of your cutlet in half with your utensils. When he reaches out to pass you the pipe, you reach back, chopsticks pinching a hefty piece of pork.

Dazai raises his eyebrows at you.

You raise yours in reply, as if to say, take it, or I’m not smoking anymore with you.

So he does, reluctance veiled thinly by amusement. You know him well enough by now; or, you think you do, at least. As he chews, he balances the chopsticks back on your plate and turns to you with the lighter, curling his own legs beneath himself.

Only satisfied when he swallows, you set your plate aside, face him, and press the pipe to your lips again, looking to him. To his pretty brown eyes that search you owlishly, that you swear sparkle with a little more vigor after even the smallest bit of sustenance enters his system. Maybe you should just leave him to starve, but then where would you get your weed? You’re an idiot, you’d say if you weren’t waiting on his flame.

But before he can light it for you, he pulls the lighter away, and you chase it with a soft hey—he’s grinning at you again, like a devil, like always.

“You always do that, you know?” he asks.

“Do what?” you mumble impatiently against the piece.

He gives in and dips the flame down into the bowl; you inhale deep, flower crackling softly as you do, and he only answers when the smoke’s halfway down your throat.

“Look up at me all cute like that every time I light it for you.” Those brown eyes bore into yours and you become aware all too quick of the fact that you do—you do indeed peer up at him through your lashes; your eyes water as smoke burns your throat and you blink away, trying not to cough out your hit at how he’s gazing at you, but he doesn’t stop there.

He would never stop there.

“Makes me think bad things.”

So you cough out your hit anyway.

“Oh, yeah?” you ask, choked, face red from more than just the sting of the weed. You busy yourself with pulling another hit while it’s still lit.

“Mhm,” he agrees. “Lots of ‘em.”

Your head swims now—you’ve built up a decent tolerance from living with him, but forgetting to breathe at his words and zeroing the huge puff you take next surely doesn’t help. You cough again, and nothing leaves your lungs this time as you debate whether to take his challenge.

Another thing you’ve learned about Dazai—he loves to fluster people. If living with him wasn't enough proof, you’ve seen him do it millions of times to pretty bartenders, or on the off-chance his partner from work joins you drinking; off-chance, truly, because Kunikida already has to put up with Dazai all day at the office, and anything more than what’s required of him might be better off called torture rather than fun. And beyond loving it, Dazai demonstrates it like a long-honed skill—the exploitation of people’s humiliation, the monopolization on people’s most sensitive spots. He had previous work in it, he’s said, but you can’t imagine what job could possibly entail all that. You think he just doesn’t know when to shut his mouth—no, he’s smart enough to know when to; he just doesn’t like to. He’s what most people would refer to as an asshole.

And yet, you find yourself torn between feeling disgusted and entertained by him all the same. Although you often find yourself the victim of his little mind games, you’re not above jabbing back at him. What does that make you, you wonder? The question briefly crosses your mind, but you shake it off as, in your buzz, you swat away the bait; decidedly, you’d rather watch My Big Fat Greek Wedding in peace, finish your tonkatsu, and then go to bed tonight.

“You’re gross.” The scoff you let out sounds more like a chuckle.

Dazai tilts his head, flicking the lighter for you again; he sparks the bowl as he watches you, as if in exceptional contemplation, and you make a point not to do it again—you inhale and gaze straight down at the flame.

“You don’t wanna hear what it makes me think about?” he asks cutely, unwilling to let you get away just yet.

You ignore the slight flush undoubtedly on your own face as you slip the bowl back to him; doubly so, you try not to watch the way his lips wrap around the mouthpiece.

But right now, you can’t seem to help that your bleary-eyed attention is on him. Just as he exhales, you remember you haven’t replied.

You’re not quick enough. He doesn’t take your silence as an invitation; it’s an opportunity. You see it in his smirk, just a second too late.

“Makes me think about how pretty you’d be looking up at me like that from your knees.”

He’s good at his games—he invents them, after all. But you’d be damned if he thought you wouldn’t shut him down when you weren’t in the mood.

“Yeah, no, don’t particularly wanna hear about it, thanks.”

This might be a new low, even for him, you think. Who the fuck just says shit like that?

When you think about it a second longer, though, he really hasn’t brought anyone home to fuck obnoxiously (a boundary you were quick to set with him) in at least a couple weeks, so maybe he’s just pent up. Either way, his comment makes you wrinkle your nose, furrow your brow—hopefully negating the pink inevitably tinting your cheeks. Fucking weirdo.

“N’ now you’re blushing all cute, too,” he observes; you scoff again, more pointedly this time. “Thinkin’ about it?”

As if, you want to say, but the words get stuck against the roof of your dry mouth, so you conjure up some of your spit, swallow it down, and hope he doesn’t notice—but it’s Dazai; he will—that your high's settling onto your shoulders swiftly. He’s pointing the bowl back at you, and as you grab it robotically, you’re still trying to speak—a sure sign you should both shut up and keep your places on opposite ends of the couch and watch the movie and finish the tonkatsu, but instead you just balk. No matter what you do, you play right into his hands—that’s how it happens all too often, and you certainly won’t learn now or anytime when his weed’s coursing up to your brain and back down to your thumping heart. Dazai lights your next hit for you, laughing like it’s all some big joke, and maybe it is—maybe you’ll blow your smoke in his face this time and pick up your tonkatsu and shut up and just watch the damn movie.

As if you’d ever be so lucky with his antics.

You’re shaking your head in near-awe when you pass it back to him once more.

“I mean, we basically kiss through this thing all the time,” he says like it’s relevant, waving the pipe about. “I don’t think it’d be so weird if we fucked. Or if you sucked me off, at least.”

“It—it would totally be weird, Osamu,” and when you speak his name so lightly, blinking at trying to muster up your own laughter as a defense mechanism, his sight flickers up to yours. “That doesn’t even—I’m not sucking your dick.”

“Shame,” he purrs. “‘Cause I know how pretty you’d look. Your lips all wet and pouted against my t—”

“Oh, my god, shut up.” Now you laugh, out of pure disbelief at how far he’s taking it. He pokes at the tail end of what’s left in the bowl and chuckles, too, seemingly ready to let it go now that he has you laughing. "You're horrible."

The more you let him talk about it, the more you entertain him, maybe you can let it peter out.

“What about me? Do I look pretty when I do it?” he asks, batting his lashes as he pulls another hit off the pipe.

“Sure, yeah, whatever,” you let your laughter idle as he doesn't tear his gaze away from you. He looks pretty. Whatever. You cross your arms as you feel the familiar tingle of your high behind your eyes.

“Would I look pretty on my knees?” he prods.

You could slap him—if nothing else, just to make his face burn half as much as you know yours is. When he sets the bowl and lighter aside and goes back to observing you, eyes low-lidded and red, chin rested on his hands, propped up by his elbows on his crossed legs, you have half a mind to shrink away from him—but you keep cool, even if the way you're at eye level with his searing stare feels a little too intimate.

You mirror his position. “Hmm, I don't know.” You steal his thoughtful tilt, too, and tack on, “Maybe if you were begging like a little bitch.”

You're prepared for him to laugh tauntingly again and then let this die where it stands because he got a reaction out of you, right? That’s always what he’s looking for, so it’s about time he goes back to his corner of the couch where you'll bully him into a few more bites of tonkatsu.

But he stays locked onto you, quietly.

And then he's shifting forward off the couch and down to the ground.

“Osamu—”

“Uh-uh,” he chides you softly, crawling to situate himself directly in front of your figure. Looking up at you all cute. “I’m gonna be the one begging, remember?”

Your disbelief swirls with refusal as he paws at the hem of your shorts as if to say, turn, please, and fuck—what can you do other than turn red as a rose as he grabs your ankles, unfurls your legs, and props his chin on the cushion between your thighs? You feel alarmingly higher, blearier when his fingers creep up beneath the fabric, slowly, looking at you as if for reassurance.

“We're not—you can quit fooling around, seriously.” You want to laugh again but it comes out deadpan, strict; you feel heavier with each landing of his fingertips against your skin, and he just keeps looking up at you. Cute. Pretty. Taking it too far.

“I want to,” he mumbles, retracting his hands only for them to find your hips, your waistband. “Come on. ‘Wanted you so bad for so long. I know you want me, too,” he speaks your name slyly, quietly, and it prompts your breath to quicken a little; he traces circles into your hipbones with his thumbs, toys with the elastic at your waist, snapping it softly, and you squirm. “Please?”

For so long? you think. How long?

“I—I'm not high enough for this, Osamu,” you try to joke, but he just twists around to the coffee table drawer for one of those prerolls and his lighter.

“I can get you higher,” he offers—tone still much too innocent, motives still haphazardly veiled by what a big jokester he is, and he sticks the joint between his lips and lights it.

Before you can coherently protest, he rises, supporting himself on your thigh with one hand and removing the joint from his mouth full of smoke; when he leans into you, you catch his wrist to keep him from ashing on the back of the couch, grab his face in a half-attempt to stop him in his tracks—but ultimately, when his mouth meets yours, you open for him.

The plume of smoke he shotguns into your mouth is thick; you breathe it in. His palm like a brand against your thigh.

And he doesn’t stop.

“Osamu,” you whine against his lips, still mushing his face away and hating how your dry throat roughens your voice. He just kisses you, kisses you, and your fingers find the pulse point in his wrist—he’s a decent kisser, you think, at the very least. You have half a mind to let your fingers slide to the mess of brown hair beyond the apples of his sharp cheekbones, and—

You backtrack in your mind. You’re actually probably too high for this.

You have to detest the way it feels so heavenly when he squeezes the fat of your thigh, dodges your lips, and works steadily in a line from the corner of your mouth to your jaw, all tongue and teeth in his pursuit. You have to detest it. Fucking weirdo, you repeat in your mind. The joint burns between his fingers. You snatch it from his grasp and pull your head back, raising your feet to kick him weakly in the abdomen, and he relents—your toes feel asleep when they hit the carpet again, and you hoard the joint between your fuzzy fingers when he reaches for it back.

“Osamu,” you say again, stern, eyes wide. The weed. You're high. You're both high, and this is weird. He’s just your weirdo roommate and you got home wanting to end your stressful day without complicating anything else in your life today.

So why, when he looks at you like you’re a caged animal that’s just as afraid of him and he is of you and works the joint from your fingers to take another drag, do you let him cup your face and exhale more smoke down your throat?

Why do you chase his lips when he blissfully, needily, sinks to his knees once again and starts to traverse beneath your shorts?

With the right focus of mind, like staring at your hand when you’re spinning and convincing yourself that the world around you is actually moving and you’re staying still, you can almost pretend he’s a stranger—some sexy, enchanting stranger that you met on the train home after your shit day, meant to relate to you with docile nods and hums as you air your grievances about work or school or whatever, meant to kiss it off you like it’s just a little bit of dirt.

Getting out of your shorts is like getting out of second skin. You're taking another hit, unwise or not, because it's back in your hand and you don't know what else to do; you watch him in your haze with a mix of anticipation and distrust, but right now, anticipation is winning by a small margin. You’re high, you tell yourself—twitching already, in that way that has nothing to do with desire but rather just means you've smoked a little too much too quickly, and the idea that Dazai might still fake you out and send you to bed feeling half-hot and bothered, half-violated, with no pants on and a near-empty stomach bobs around in your inhibited brain—again, you expect him to laugh, say you’re fried, clap you on the shoulder and tell you it's a joke but he doesn’t, he cranes for a hit from the joint and you hold it to his lips shakily and he touches you on the exhale, the pads of two of his fingers nestling carefully between your folds over your underwear and when he brushes your clit it’s—

Fuck, it’s electric.

“Osamu, stop,” you say, hoarse and abrupt, grabbing his wrist. "I'm—"

“What?” he asks, teasing lilt to his tone. Beneath your hand his thumb comes up to replace his fingers, to loop circles around you, and you're shuddering, back bowing, and he's grinning at you wickedly.

“I—I'm high,” you admit, voice feeling thick, soupy as it leaves your throat.

“So? Me too.” He blinks at you, slow like a cat, in a way that you're pretty sure he's still mocking the way you apparently always flutter your gaze at him when he lights you up. “‘S the best way to do it.”

“Yeah, but—”

He doesn't interrupt you with but what?

And yet, you still don't finish your sentence.

You glance down to where he’s rubbing you gently, where you hold him at bay—where you could yank his arm and twist it uncomfortably if you really did want him to stop but the longer he circles over the fabric that’s growing increasingly, alarmingly wetter, the more you melt away from yourself and you think, fuck, he really is gorgeous as he’s resting his cheek against the inside of your thigh.

“Scoot forward f’me, please?” he almost whines; his voice changes, stricter when he says, “And stop letting that burn. Smoke it.”

And you comply, shuffling your hips forward and placing the filter between your teeth.

Dazai looks up at you. All cute. Heavy-lidded, red-eyed. Hungry.

And you look back, apprehension sparking but then fading with each drove of smoke you inhale. Heavy-lidded, red-eyed. All cute.

“Let me taste you, please,” he almost whispers. You almost find yourself a little endeared by his pointed pleases.

“This is fucking absurd,” you croak, but your resolve is leaving you. He’s a little blurry. “You’re such a sicko.”

His smile widens against the word. Sicko. Almost like he’s pleased to hear it leave your mouth. “Surprised it took you this long to figure out, baby.”

His touch is impatient and restless and crawling as your underwear goes, too—and you don’t appreciate how good it felt when his thumb was on your clit until it’s back again and you’re slipping the joint out of your mouth to let you jaw fall slack; you tangle a hand up in that messy hair that is much softer than you could’ve imagined and all but yank him back toward your cunt.

“Please,” you echo him, finally. “It felt so good—do it again.”

“That’s it, baby,” he encourages you in your whimpering, fingers prodding at your hole and tongue landing a feather-light lick to your wetness. “I know you want it.”

The sounds are lewd. Disgusting, really—fitting for how he’s acting. Dazai swirls his tongue in circles around your clit as he works his middle and ring fingers into you; cracked gasps leave you at the intrusion, and you can’t keep your eyes open when he curls them upward ever so slightly as he makes out with your clit. If you were sober you’d, of course, be embarrassed at how you’re already gushing for him, but all your mushy brain can think about right now is the sparks bolting to your otherwise-numb fingers and toes with each suction of his pretty pink lips against you—isn’t this wrong? Shouldn’t you feel weird? Yeah, probably—but you’re forgetting why, and you’re forgetting to care.

He hums against you and it sends a shockwave throughout your already-vibrating body; the moan you release into the air is like song, even to yourself. Is he really good at this, you wonder, or is it the weed?

Oh right, the weed. The weed, the weed, the weed.

You pull his mouth off you, almost dropping the joint that’s not much of a joint anymore—only the filter remains.

“I don’t think this is—”

Fuck, you keep going back and forth. You keep breaching the surface just for him to tug you beneath the water again and convince you the drowning feels nice. And it does, for a few seconds—until it starts burning your lungs to a crisp again, at which point you tear away from him kick up, and in the moments you spend sucking in air you don’t get how he stays beneath for so long, like it’s nothing, how he doesn’t stop—he doesn’t stop, his fingers still curling inside of you, and you’re going under again to the sound of his voice.

You feel suffocated. More delirious by the second. It’s nice.

“You already told me it feels good,” he mumbles against you, lapping at you, and you’re letting up on his hair, letting him become a weight again where you should float.

And the lack of oxygen must be getting to your brain because, even though you still don’t think you want to drown, you cease your kicking. For the last time.

“Osamu,” you cry. It sounds like a moan. It might be.

“I know, I’m such a sicko.” There’s no remorse in his words; there can’t be, not when he’s still curling up into your g-spot in just the way that makes you croon his name again—undoubtedly a moan this time—but when he comes into focus again, he looks so apologetic. “You can say it again, baby. It’s okay.”

“S—sicko,” you mutter disapprovingly, but rolling your hips all the same.

He smiles. Soft, kind, apologetic.

You’re scared to move. You know if you do, you’ll both be able to see the wet stain collecting beneath you on the cushion. You feel it.

So you barrage him with more.

“You—you’re a fucking pervert. You’re disgusting.” You feel wetness on your face, too. You deduce that it’s from how perfect his fingers feel inside you, goading that warm slick out of you and into his palm, onto the couch; regardless, you don't stop berating him, your tone harshly contrasting your wriggling hips. “You disgust me.”

“I think you like it.” He presses up, hard, and you gush, gasping. A short, clear spurt narrowly misses his face; he leans back down to lick it off, off the cushion, off your thighs, off your crying cunt. “I think you like how nasty I am.”

“Disgusting,” you whisper. “Disgusting. You're disgusting.” It’s a little chant you hold onto as he rises again to kiss you, messily—a means to replace his lips with his wet fingers, shoving them past your lips and against your tongue where you lap at them instinctually, like you’ve been waiting for it. It’s so wrong to be tasting yourself on his fingers, but your eyes roll back anyway, just to lurch forward as his hand retracts and you find him grinning once more as he slips his sweatpants and boxers down in one swipe. “You’re disgusting.”

“You’re disgusting,” Dazai mocks, giggling. “You just tasted how fucking wet you are.”

“Osamu,” you whine as he kicks his garments aside; you begin to draw your feet up, your knees to your chin, but his hands, stronger than you anticipate, pry you open and flip you to your back and he grins, biting into his bottom lip all the while. Why, you wonder, when the dim living room light glints off his teeth as he situates himself between your legs and leans down to cage you in between his arms, do your hips hitch toward his? Why are you so adamant to deny him?

“You gonna say it again? C’mon, I love hearing my name,” he breathes, ducking down to lick across your jawline. “But I love when you call me those words. Say it again. Tell me how nasty I am.”

“You’re the worst,” you groan, but it sounds comical, even to your own ears, because you’re scratching at his shoulders in a way that draws him closer to you rather than further away.

“More, baby,” Dazai hums into your neck, reaching down to swirl his tip against your wetness. When you feel him, you jump.

It feels good. It feels even better than his thumb and you don’t know if you’re still on your way up but you feel higher and higher by the second and the instinct to push him off is slipping further beyond your grasp. When he pulls back to watch your mouth fall open as he rubs himself into you, you almost let the word pretty slip past your lips—he looks so pretty, tongue flicking, eyes dark, and you catch yourself with your lower lip between your teeth, reflecting the desperation he conceals in everything but his words.

Pretty isn’t what he wants right now, though—and suddenly you feel compelled to give him what he wants, if only it means he’ll keep touching you like this.

“S’fucking nasty—degenerate fucking freak—” you eek out; you don’t know much longer you can tiptoe the line between repulsion and sheer need, but you’re tilting further and further with each circle of his dick and you can tell he’s getting off on the way you’re lurching into him now, running toward his touch instead of away from it.

You think you need him to fuck you, now, or you’ll cry.

“Osamu, please,” you continue, sounding on the verge of tears now—where you should’ve been before, when you genuinely wanted him off you, yes. You wanted him off of you before. Didn’t you? There was a time, a mere few minutes ago, when his fingers in your skin and his animalistic gaze were revolting. Right?

“What’re you beggin’ me for?” Dazai asks like he doesn’t know. He knows. He knows what you don’t want to admit to yourself and he’s going to dangle it over your head, he’s going to rub it in your face, he’s going to make you answer through your hazy high that he never should’ve come onto you through to begin with, and you’re going to give him what he wants—you always give him what he wants, even if you don’t mean to, even if you don’t want to, but now you think you want to. You want to, because it feels so good, and he’s slowing down, he’s stopping and when he takes his hand away to swipe his thumb across your chin, pull your lip from between your teeth and work your mouth open with his fingers again, the loss almost hurts. You want it. You want to.

It’s going to hurt even more to say it, but you want it. And before you can even get it out, before the words even hit what little air is between your lips and his, Dazai looks thrilled at what you say next.

“Please, fuck me,” you whisper.

“Well, since you’re asking so nicely—” He reaches back down, but the smugness doesn’t waver; his tip catches on your entrance—emitting a lewd squelch that should make you cringe but instead prompts your lip to fly between your teeth again—and you hook your tingling feet behind his back, legs astride his waist as you're pushing his bangs from his face all in one motion. “I guess I’ll fuck you, pretty baby.”

"Yes," the dreaded word falls from your lips when he finally works his way into you, past that tight ring of muscle, to nestle snugly inside you until the head of his cock kisses your cervix.

The noise you draw from him—something between a sigh and a moan—is heavenly. His nose nuzzles the trail he licked across your jaw before and you find your hands linked behind his neck, urging him down, onto you, into you—and when he recoils his hips to thrust back in again, quick and short, you keen against him, pathetically, in a way your past self—the one from four or five touches ago—would hate you for.

You should hate how gross this is. How gross he is for this.

But you don't, and you're not going to torture yourself with asking why anymore.

The friction inside you doesn't feel comparable to anything; for the first time in a second, you feel grateful for the weed pulsing through you. You let your eyes roll back and flutter shut without consequence.

Dazai moves against you like water. Water you're content to drown in this time; his touch doesn't crawl anymore as much as it seems to soothe and as he picks up his pace, brings a hand to your cheek to wake you back up, pull you back above the surface.

"You sound s'fuckin cute," he sighs; those eyes, predatory before, are now just brown and melty, honey-colored backgrounded with red fog, not so searching as much as they seem attentive, not making you feel so uncomfortably vulnerable as they do softly seen. He thinks you sound cute. You giggle through the unrivaled pleasure, giggling through your own moans which hit your ears and do sound cute—sound especially cute woven through his.

"Y'sound... so," you start, "so fucking—unh, Osamu, don't stop!"

He chuckles now, low and breathy, and you push his hair back from his face again; his eyes roll back when you do it, and you just do it over, over, over, drawing clipped groans out of him, stealing the words from his throat as he steals yours and you tug, you tug on his hair and the moan he lets out, broken between thrusts, is so raw and laced with need that you moan in reply, clenching around him because, fuck, he sounds so cute, too. "Wanted this for so long, baby. Pussy feels s—so much fuckin' better than I could've imagined."

"How long?" you finally poke back—you want to know. You want to know how long he's been holed up in the mess of his room, jerking off to the thought of his cute little roommate finally falling between his fingers—you want to know how bad he's wanted this, and if getting you high out of your mind just to get it was worth it. You focus your voice to ask him. "How long you wanted this, 'Samu?"

"So long—since—" he gasps, fucking into you harder, faster, deeper; you tug his hair again, exposing his neck, and yank him down to sink your teeth into his neck. You need the reprieve as he starts hammering against the deepest parts of you, eliciting wet smack! after smack! from between your writhing bodies. You jostle beneath him as he finds his breath; "Since I fuckin' met you. Always wanted you."

"Yeah?" You mean it to be a teasing little rhetorical question but it comes out more like encouragement amidst the bliss radiating from your cunt throughout your whole body, but you find it in you to continue— "You been—you been thinkin' of me under you like this? Like the sicko you are?"

Unbelievably faster and harder. You choke on a scream; Dazai's grunting above you, and it hits you that those names really do spur him on. You're far from offending him—you're bringing him closer and closer to filling you up with each and every insult and jab you throw his way and if you were any less cockdrunk you'd be hurling even more barbs at him about how that makes him so much worse, so much more gross but it just spurs you on, too, right now—and you realize, when he looks at you with those fucking eyes again how bad you want him, how bad you've wanted him, too, for so long; you couldn't—wouldn't admit it because he's just your weirdo roommate but really, maybe that's what you love about him. You certainly love the way he makes your toes curl when he reaches down to play with your clit again. You cry out against him.

"Osamu, fuck!"

"Say it again," he begs you, pretty brown eyes glassy as they fall shut, as the tip of his nose touches yours. "Say it again, please, baby."

You know what he wants.

"F—fucking pervert," you huff, doing everything you can to hold onto the rope that's uncoiling rapidly inside you, coming further and further undone with each slam of his hips into your ass. "Ah—you're disgusting. Disgusting."

You fall back on your mantra and it has his thumb moving faster, harder, just like his thrusts, just like his voice, even if it sounds unconvincing through the shockwaves of pleasure; you feel it, the unraveling, it's washing up on you so quickly, so much quicker than it should be at the hands of your weirdo roommate.

"Don't stop," he pleads like he's not the one fucking you to orgasm; you see white, you feel as light as air—god, has cumming always felt like this? Shouldn't you hate it? Shouldn't you hate that it might never feel like this again?

You do, you do—you hate weed and you hate sex and you hate your weirdo roommate Osamu Dazai for coaxing the most mind-blowing climax you've ever felt out of you, but you don't hate any of those things, not really; you hate that it's never felt like this before, and that it can again if only you can push your pride down for a few more moments and call him a—

"Freak—gonna—gonna cum in me?" you goad, breathless, lucky for speech as he fucks you through the otherworldly high, as you clamp down on him and screw your eyes shut until you can keep going. "Gonna fill me up like the nasty motherfucker you are?"

"Ngh—yeah, yeah, yeah...!"

Dazai, in all his depraved beauty, fucks his fat load into you mercilessly; you twitch, shake beneath him, driving strained sobs from his chest and talking him through with soft yeahs, want y'r cum, filthy fucking sicko freak, you disgust me. He loves it. He falls apart, and you tug on his hair once more as he slows, as he spills out of you, as he looks at you with so much adoration in his eyes.

"You—" Dazai's breathless, heaving. "You're amazing."

You giggle again, wiggling a bit and trapping him further close to you, fingers in the hair at the base of his neck. Soft. You don't feel any less high; just blissed out. "You're cute."

"Knew you thought so," he sighs, lopsided smile coming back; you don't know where in the pleasure he'd lost it, but its return has you tilting your chin up to kiss him once more. Soft. Gentle, sweet, no tongue; not gross, not hungry, just sweet. Satisfied.

"But you're still weird," you tease against his lips. Sly.

When Dazai pulls back, the hunger in those eyes sparks again.

"Want me to show you how weird I can get?" he threatens.

"I dare you," you taunt back.

And he grins, fully and wickedly, once more; you can count on it. He'll show you, alright.

#i want to first thank italics. id be nowhere without italics #dazai x reader #dazai smut #bsd x reader #bsd smut #bungou stray dogs x reader #bungou stray dogs smut #nnnsfw.ᐟ #mdni #with love—reid

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youmistme · 3 months ago

Text

Just for today, can I say I love you? HTS

pairing: friends elder cousin!Han Taesan x Y/N Pinewood. A bit of Cigar. Vinyls. Turntables. The ring. The smile. The eyes. Him. “Look at you, Y/N still listening to The Beatles and following me into the record store.” warnings: a bit of swearing a bit of crying 'das itttttt words: 4k

This is for my onedoor friend who is so dear to me💕 hbd!

‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.‧₊˚❀༉‧

Spring. 2025

The shabby record store in the quiet neighbourhood of Gwangju is somewhere you find myself reverting to whenever the wind of life takes turns too strong. Your hands trace the doorknob as you push the door open, letting yourself in.

The first thing you notice is the first thing you always notice here. Pinewood. Mixed with a subtle drag of a cigar coming from Mr. Choi’s chapped lips. The walls were covered with all sorts of records, rock, hip-hop, ballads, indie: you name it, he had it. The colourful walls bring you back to the summer of last year.

Your eyes habitually train back to the turn table on the corner to the right. You see a shadow casting near the shelves, the back of a figure switching a vinyl. Before your curiosity escalates, Mr. Choi huffs with a huge grin, setting his cigar down.

“Y/N! Ah, you finally came to visit eh? How’s college been treating ya?”His old frame wobbled out from the front desk and towards you.

“Mr. Choi! I missed you…college is well, you know, college,” you thrust a bag filled with the fruits my mother packed for him. “Mom and Dad say ‘Hi’ too!”

“Young-ins these days, enjoy your college time, yeah? Already complaining about it tsk tsk.”

I roll my eyes playfully as I settle down near the front desk. He gives me a light side hug and the pinewood cologne from his shirt deepens. You let out a sigh.

“This was my favorite place throughout high school… I could listen to whatever music I wanted and feel the music with whoever I wanted…” Mr. Choi chuckles, already peeling the tangerines I got for him.

“No customers today, look through whatever song ya want, kiddo. It’s on the house.”

He pats my head before tossing a slice of the tangerine into his mouth, and walking out of the door- probably to smoke again.

You start looking around the shop, it has been here all my childhood but I only gravitated towards it when You turned freshly fourteen. You remember following Woonhak’s cousin into the store. Your mind drifts back to the hazy yet fresh memories of the previous summer. You wander near the shelves picking up a vinyl when your eyes catch the figure from earlier, it is a man with black hair.

The vinyl drops from my hand, and you yelp. As you go to grab it, another hand picks it up first. A hand with a thin silver ring with the shape of two cat ears. A ring you can recognize anywhere in the world. Your eyes slowly flicker up to the man's face. He blinks before chuckling.

Pinewood. A bit of Cigar. Vinyls. Turntables. The ring. The smile. The eyes. Him.

“Look at you, Y/N still listening to The Beatles and following me into the record store.”

Dongmin. Han Dongmin. The boy who leaves your heart dangling at the edge of a cliff with curiosity.

A boy who was neither my friend nor a foe. Someone who treaded on the line of ‘what if’.

A boy you always noticed, even when the world didn’t care to.

Summer. 2024

“Can you pass the freaking controller to me already, Y/N! You’re losing…” I swiftly kicked Woonhak on the shin. This boy's nagging did not stop. A plate with half eaten pizza sits a little stale from your never-ending gaming.

“Ahhhhh it’s my controller dude, can I just play this round and-” another kick, this time a little above. “You bi-”

“Ya! Are you calling your Noona a bitch? Where did you learn these bad words from?”

“You are NOT older than me Y/N I’m ‘06!”

“Says who?”

“Says me.”

“My ass. I’m March and you’re December. Pipe down, child.”

“I’m not a childddddddddd!” You sigh once again, why were you friends with this absolute fool again? All he has done in your ten-year-long friendship is eat sand, eat your hair, eat his homework, and now progressively eat your snacks. And, maybe sometimes be a little kind and ward off other annoying kids.

As you frantically fiddle with the controller buttons with deep focus, finally you are victorious in your 20th attempt at Mario Kart. “Yes!” You yell in giddiness, Woonhak joining in in the celebration.

“So… you been doing music lately, Woonagi?” You pick up the acoustic guitar from the couch while Woonhak begins playing his round. The guitar looks used up and slightly familiar, the wood having slight scratches that you trace around with your finger.

“Hm? Oh yeah, Hyung is back in town so I asked for some music lessons. He gave me his old guitar too!”

“Hyung who?” You stare blankly for a second before your brain rewires and your eyes widen. You flip the guitar around and see the all-too-familiar letters on the bottom. Scratched unprofessionally onto the wood: HTS.

“Dong-”

“DONGMIN IS BACK?” you shriek a little too loudly for what you’d like to be considered nonchalant. Woonhak raised a brow and eyed you for a solid second.

“Yes. He is. Since when do you care? You know actually, I always found it weird you followed Hyung to Mr. Choi’s store whenever he was back in t-”

“I just really like listening to vinyl, you know?” you defend yourself without looking him in the eye.

“Sure, dude.”

Without sparing your friend another word, you take your jacket off and put your shoes on. You huff contently, glad you wore a nice T-shirt that day instead of your usual rags. Woonhak does not bother looking back, he already knows you are out of breath, running to the record store. Eagerly, he takes a bite out of your neglected pizza slice with a knowing smile.

You were nine years old when you first met Dongmin, it was purely by fate, you like to think. Among all your neighbourhood friends, this slightly taller and shy-er boy always seemed to be around yet never actually play with you and your friends. While playing tag, as everybody ran around, the boy would be found under the slide or near the seesaw, quietly looking at them yet never joining- never. He came and went with Woonhak and soon little you learned that this was his cousin.

As the years flew by you saw less and less of Dongmin until he started visiting in the summers again. The air was warmer and the days were longer. Your naive eyes that perched into the pool of adolescence could not wait for summer to arrive.

Every day at 5 pm, like clock-work you walked to the record store. Hair up in a pony tail, a few strands down, some stolen lipgloss from your sister smeared on your lips. A heart that beat so fast and cheeks that flushed so dearly- all for the boy in the record store. You convinced yourself that it was simply a physical admiration and nothing more.

Once again you’re here, entering your sanctuary called the record store. You spotted a mop

of black hair peeking from above the shelves. He was holding a guitar, it seemed new- you remember Woonhak’s words. He was wearing a pair of black baggy jeans and a band T-shirt, headphones secured around his neck. You stare a little too long at his hair, an oreo mixture with white and black streaks.

“So how many more years is it going to take for you actually to tell me you’re back for the summer?”

He doesn’t look up but you can see his lips perk up into a smile.

“You always seem to find me though.” He replies with a lightness to his voice. His legs are jittery and if you knew any better, you’d say he’s excited to see you too.

Before you can say anything else, he drags another chair and places it beside his. You look at it for a moment and he stares at you expectantly. You sit down.

He hands you an album, “Wanna listen to this? I remember you love Nirvana, don’t you?”

“Not really. I just like it because you do.” His eyes avert, his cheeks and ears get slightly pink. His hand trembles a little, fidgeting with the vinyl. “Oh…I-”

“Let’s listen to beatles instead.” you pick on his stead, he smiles and nods. “You and your beatles obsession.”

“Hey! They’re really good.”

“Yeah. Yeah. I only like ‘em ‘cuz you do.”

Your face crunches into a light scowl, but internally, your heart thumps the fastest it ever has. “Real smart, using my words on me, Dongmin!” You playfully nudge his side. “The hair colour is a look,” you add after a moment of silence. Dongmin bites his lip, flustered. “You like it?”

“Sure. Black suits you best, though.”

There are many reasons you come here annually, and you cannot help but feel a little grateful that you get to see this side of him. The shy smiles, little head scratches and all the things he likes. The four walls of this store just transform you two into a different world.

To everyone else, Dongmin might seem aloof but you could see a whole new side of him- a side only he ever showed to you. A little world with just the two of you. A world where you can notice him with all your might.

You lean into his neck a little, sniffing. “You smell different…?”

“Ah, it’s a new cologne…”

Your eyes narrow, sniffing even closer to his neck. You feel his body stiffening up, but he doesn’t pry you off of him either. “It smells familiar. Where have I smelled that before?”

He sighs a little dramatically. “Fine. It’s Mr. Choi’s.”

“He let you use his cologne?”

“No… I sorta didn’t ask…”

You try not to laugh, “So what I’m hearing is you stole his?”

He bites his lips and looks away, “Ugh, didn’t you say last time you liked the smell of Pinewood? Why’re ya complaining?”

“Why? You put this on ‘cuz I like it?” you say, fluttering your eyes at him and his face turns into a gradient of pink and red. “Well, if you hate it so much-”

“Who said I hate it? Next time just buy one on your own, silly!”

You both burst into fits of laughter, Dongmin smiling widely as he looks at you and back at his guitar. He looks at your smiling figure and his heart tugs, his body gets warm. “Also…I think I’m gonna be a musician, Y/N… I want to be one so badly.”

You stop laughing, a gentle smile replacing your lips. Dongmin who didn’t dare let anyone crack his firm walls, was opening up to you. Slowly shedding his fear and letting you in.

“I- I’m glad you told me this. Did you tell anyone else?”

“No”, he sighs deeply with down cast eyes. “I don’t know how dad will react to it. B-but music, Y/N- I-I i feel so alive when I do it.” His eyes widen and his hands move around, emphasizing.

“I wanna write songs and sing and produce! I wanna do it all, you know?” He continues before you speak. “I even have a stage name all planned out, Han Taesan! My friend Donghyuk and I decided on it a-

You gingerly place your hand over his and look into his eyes. They're round and wobbly, a sheen of moisture over them. You can see his sincerity and passion. You pull him a little closer, fingers intertwining with his.

“I think you should go for it. And I know that you’ll do well, too, Dongmin. I just know it. Or should I say Mr. Han Taesan?”

“Oh stop…do you really mean it though?” you nod again.

The scent of the stolen cologne fills your senses, his breath drawing closer and closer to your face. Now he’s just an inch apart, his long nose almost touching yours. His eyes droop down, looking at your lips. Instinctively, you lick them. Taking a deep breath in, he holds both of your clasped hands up.

It was him who pushed himself onto your frame further, sealing your lips with a haste kiss. The sensation burning you down, from your lips to your toes. You both look at eachother with hushed smiles, your lips touching again- this time more tender and soft. Like, he was trying to savour the moment of your sensation. The rising temperature of your body as his cold hands slipped behind your neck, pushing you close.

The rush of blood propells you two, stumbling down the chairs and ontot the floor. A thin beem of sunlight peeking through the blinds, recohetting over Dongmin's face. He had not looked anymore handsome than he had then, sharp eyes with a softness of a tear strand tirckling down, lips trembling ever so slightly. His gaze stuck on you, fingers gripping your T-shirt, he doesn’t want to let go.

This haven that he found between your arms and within your words, its a blanket as soft as a cloud.

“I-” you start.

“Sor-” he continues.

“That was my first kiss!” you both yell together, faces like two cherries with embarrassment.

“Glad to know I was your first…” you smirk a little as a response and pat his shoulder.

“Thank you for confiding in me, you know? I’m so glad that you trust me.”

He smiles, lips curving to the right a little more- another quirk you have habitually noticed.

The phone in his jean pocket rings thunderously, breaking the serene moment. His smile drops. “It’s dad.” He goes to cut the call.

“It’s okay, just pick it up and tell him where you are. It’s okay, Dongmin…”

He contemplates before swiping to the green button. You can hear all sorts of yelling from the other side of the line. Dongmin doesnt say a word, no, he looks down at his shoes and then to his guitar and then at you. You stay puzzled with his ambiguous expression, trying to touch his hand and mouthing “It’s okay”

He still stares and he stares. The call keeps going without him muttering much.

He slowly retreats his hand away, standing up. He doesn’t look at you anymore. The blanket of clouds that shrouded him now suffocates his very respiration.

“I’ll be back” he half-whispers half-shouts from over his shoulder. You nod eagerly.

You pity with time by watching the hands of the clock tick by, one by one. The sun’s rays have stopped intruding through the blinds, last glimmer of light getting tucked away as the sun sets away for the day. Yet, you keep waiting and waiting. Clinging on to the ambiguous phrase that is, “I’ll be back.”

By 8pm, Mr.Choi comes back, gasping at the sight of you sloutched over, not moving. It takes another hour for your mother to pick you up, a concerned plead over her face to know why her daughter’s eyes were bloodshot red, an apathetic mask.

You want to whine. You want to wait. But, for whom should you stay waiting for? The boy who already left the town? Summer’s endless breeze washed over your sweat ridden body, you carelessly wiped it away hoping it would wipe the memories of this day with it.

Spring 2025

You walking haparzardly in your dorm room, nearly tripping over your own undone laundry.

“I’m telling you, this is NOT a drill! I’m gonna jump out this window.” You want to rip your own scalp out.

Harin stares unfazed, “It’s only three stories, you’ll hardly break a few bones.” You glare but solemnly nod in agreement. “So, what’s this guy’s deal again?”

“I SAW HIM!” you roar out.

“Okay. Like we haven’t established that in the past two hours, girl. Whom did you see? An ex?”

That strikes another nerve, “NO! He’s not an ex. Infact he never dated me! HE.JUST.KISSED.AND.DASHED. UGH!” Your hands move, emphasizing.

“Sounds like an asshole, should I ki-”

“No.Harin. We talked about this. No killing boys.” your friend sulks down on her bed.

“What’s his name and where did you see him?”

“As I said, Han Dongmin and the record stoe near my childhood home.”

“There is no Han Dongmin that I know of. I doubt he goes to our college!”

“Hm…”

“Infact, just forget about him.”

“Not after I threw a vinyl on his face and rushed out the store this morning!”

Harin whinses in return, “Poor guy.” You side eye her. “Not so poor guy!”

You can only pray to the almighty that you don’t see him around again. You spent a good year not seeing him, you like to say to yourself. Feelings of distress and grief replace themselves as time goes on. Hurt turns to remorse and anger turns into melancholy. With the changing seasons and entering college, you decided to put your big-girl pants on and move on.

Near the campus court yard, you and your friends chat on about recent drama as one does. You try to pay attention but the events of this morning weaver your thoughts away.

“Are you even listening, Y/N?” one of your friends nudge your knee.

“I am!”

“What did she say then?” You stare blankly before giving a sheepish smile. “I’m sorry… just have a lot going on in my mind right now.”

“Yeah, Harin told me about your kiss n’ dash boo.” You laugh at the nickname.

“As i was saying, some new kids from Gwanju National University are transferring here. Mostly theatre, music and art kids.”

“Yeah! Ohemgee, did you see the ones in the band? I think they’re Junior years. So hot.”

Band? Since when did your school start caring about bands.

“Y/N weren’t you super into bands in highschool?”

You sigh. “Yeah. Grew out of it. Not my thing anymore.”

“Well it looks like it’s going to be again.” she wiggles her brows suggestively.

You scowl confused.

“Don’t look back but one of the guys from the band is standing there with his guitar and all and he’s been staring you down for the past 10 minutes. He just won’t stop looking!”

“What?” You are ready to turn back but your other friend stops you. “Shush no!”

“Isn’t that the Taesan guy?”

“Yeah I think so too, he’s the one the freshmen girls have been oogling over!”

“WHAT!?” you stand up abruptly, your drink spilling down. You can feel other groups of people pause to stare at you. Your friends look at you with sheer confusion too.

“Girl sit the fuck down, what’s up with you today.” Harin drags your arm down with her.

“Did you just say… Taesan?”

“Yeah… Han Taesan from GNU? Many music majors transferred here, including him. I’m surprised you don’t know this guy since he’s all everyone's talking about- him being so handsome and all.”

You can’t believe your ears.

With a shiver down your spine and a simple prayer to God that you hope it isn’t who you think it is, you turn down- craning your neck uncomfortably. There he is.

Han Taesan. As everyone calls him here. Girls flocked near him, not daring to go too close but still close enough to ogle at him. He was only a few days here and already had a “fan club” established, much unbeknownst to him.

He still wears those baggy clothes and that headphone swung around his neck.

His hair is black again. You frown. He takes a step back when he notices you looking back at him. Sighing for the nth time that day, you drop your bags- not caring about your spilled drink or your surrounding peers. You don’t want to see him- just the mere thought of him brings you back to that day. The warmth, the kiss, the songs and how he just didn’t come back.

You spent all these months mending the wound only for his presence to rip the bandaid open! You turn back, rushing down the stairs at the same speed you used to run to the

record store.

“Y/N- W-where’ya going?”

“Just- I don’t wanna be here.”

“Is it because of Taesan?”

You cringe. “That’s not even his name!”

Behind you, you feel foot steps approaching in a quick pace, slight huffing, and then a thud of something heavy falling. You eye the body of the guitar from your peripheral that was on the ground now.

“Will you please stop ignoring me, Y/N?” a voice pleads from behind you. A voice you know all too well. Your eyes scattered, seeing a crowd form around you. You can hear the freshmen whisper, and the seniors look worried. A snap from a phone shakes you back as you face him angrily. Someone took a picture.

“Listen, seeing you today morning was enough. Can you leave me alone? I don’t like this, okay? Not after what you did.” this part hits him deep.

“Y/N- no-please- I- just hear me out once. Let me confide in you one last time.”

“...”

“Then I’ll go. I won’t bother you!” You feel foreign moisture swell up in your eyes, looking at Dongmin’s state. The same Dongmin who didn’t ever bother correcting people about him or what others thought about him. The same man now stood like a boy with desperate round eyes pleaded before you.

“She played him… didn’t she?” a whisper emerges from the crowd around you two.

“Yeah she always thought she’s better than everyone else anyway!” another anonymous voice spoke. You couldn’t tell who it was, the cluster of people hiding them away. The voices continued to rise, many voicing their opinions on a matter that did not even concern them.

You could almost feel the teardrop fall down, you wanted to hold it in.

“Fuck- Dongmin? See what you’ve done? Now I’m the next rumour…!” you yell at him. He looks even more dejected.

“Dongmin? Who’s Dongmin…?

“Y/N’s probably got a nickname for the new guy or something..”

“Was she always such a slut, though?”

“Enough! You guys are crazy. I will not stand for someone treating Y/N like that.” His eyes grew darker. “Who do you even think you are?” he stares down at a particular girl in the crowd that you don’t know.

Without wasting another second, he grabs your hand, pitifully dragging you away. Gasps emerge, yet you only look down, right where both hands meet. His fingers interlock with yours.

He comes to an abrupt stop, cornering you in the area under a flight of stairs.

“I was scared. Please. I was so scared. I had never been so vulnerable a-and when I kissed you back then, Y/N I swear I felt so crazy. My hands were going to burst- you made me feel so special. Then my dad called and he found out I wanted to pursue music- it was a mess… I couldn’t handle you breaking my heart too I just left and I’m so so sorry I left you I-”

You crash your lips onto his, whincing when it lands on his teeth instead, but you don't budge- you still press on. He deepens the kiss and closes his eyes. A teardrop falls and melts onto your cheek. You get deja vu. After a few seconds, he gently angles out of it, chest heaving. You look at him puzzled. “Just one sec”

He reaches into his pocket to take out a cassette tape, it looked like it was straight out of the 90’s, a thin wired headphone attached to it. “Pfft. Where did you even get that thing?”

You take the cassette in your hands, the date March 31st, 2024 scribbled on it with a sharpie.

“I was gonna give it to you that day.”

He places the vintage-looking headphones over your head. You listen curiously as the tape starts playing. The lyrics have you smiling from ear to ear.

How pathetic

Yeah, I've got it bad

It's not like tomorrow I'll wake up as a brand new person

And to use my memories

To write another song

I just hate it more than dying

‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.‧₊˚❀༉‧

a/n: UNEDITED BECAUSE I LIVE LIFE ON THE EDGE

okay im not a onedoor so this might be ass I'm sorry LMAO hope the taesan lovers like it

#oneurmaniloveyouaisheiterusaranghae

#boynextdoor #han taesan #han dongmin #bnd #bnd x reader #bnd fluff #taesan #bnd imagines

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wings-of-ink · 6 months ago

Text

How about a little something extra for your reading pleasure?

Below is the little story (around 3800 words) I posted about doing here. It's a fictionalized retelling of how we found our little Shadow cat. It's not terribly dramatic or anything, but it's a bit cute, especially for those of you who are a fan of Nathanael in the story. You get to see a little more of him at a different stage of his life. ^_^

~~~

Nathan stretched, looking up at the clear sky. It was bright, big, and beautiful, as always. Puffy clouds were rolling by, occasionally blotting out the sun, but only for a moment.

"It's gonna rain tonight," a voice said behind him.

Nathan turned, spotting his friend, Andrina, as she approached carrying a crate. "You think?" he asked, turning his face back to the sky. "Doesn't look that way to me."

"Here, you oaf, take this – it's heavy," she chided, thrusting the crate into his hands. "That's the last one."

"Thank you, dear," he said, lugging it onto the back of the wagon with the others.

"I'm tellin' you, cover that shit with a tarp unless you want all your merchandise soaked." Andrina heaved herself up on the side of the wagon, light ginger hair flopping over her face, concealing her bright blue eyes. "You have one right? I'm not helping you dry all this shit when we get home."

"Yes, Mother, I'll get right on it." Nathan laughed.

"If you weren't so bad at takin' care of yourself, I wouldn't have to mother you!"

Nathan rolled his eyes as he began to unfasten the tarp from the other side of the wagon. He sighed. He really needed to get something with a roof. Not that selling out of the back of the wagon was difficult, but it was becoming a hassle this way. He paused for a moment as he fiddled with the ties binding the tarp together. That feeling was settling in again. Something felt like it was missing. He was anxious, restless, feeling like he'd long forgotten something. He had hoped this feeling would leave him for good, it seemed as though he was wrong.

How long had he lived here again? Four or five years now? He liked living with Andrina and Erik, they'd become wonderful friends and he didn't want to leave them just yet or maybe ever. It had been long since he had such good friends. Settling anywhere for long always left him with these odd feelings. He hated it and wished he could just settle somewhere like most people did. But, if he wanted to try to live a somewhat normal existence, this was the way it needed to be. Maybe one day he would figure out a way to live that didn't make his skin itch with dissatisfaction. Maybe he would figure out why it was this way for him. Someday.

"Nathan?" a soft voice asked.

"Hm?" His attention snapped to the figure standing next to him. Erik – dark brown eyes peeked through his messy black hair with a look of concern.

"You did that thing again. Are you sure you don't need to see a healer about that? Andrina said your name but it was like you couldn't hear." Erik's thin bony hand gently touched his shoulder.

"I'm sorry, I was just lost in thought. I promise I am well, my mind has just been loud lately."

Andrina reached across from her perch on the wall of the wagon. "Hand over the tarp, cloud-dreamer, and let's get on the road."

Nathan nodded, unrolling the tarp and giving the end of it to his friend as they all worked to secure it. Before long, they were on the road again and heading home. Andrina sat on the back of the wagon smoking her pipe as Erik sat at the front with Nathan while the horses walked the familiar path, not needing any guidance.

Erik nudged Nathan's shoulder. "I think I might know what's going on with you," his quiet voice said.

"Yeah?" Nathan raised an eyebrow. It was unlike Erik to speak up in such a way so casually.

"Yes, you should grow the beard." Erik smiled, trying to stifle a laugh.

Nathan snorted, raising a hand to feel along his chin. He'd kept it smooth for as long as he could remember. "Do you think I'd look good with one? Would it age me?"

Erik shrugged. "I think it would give you an attractive flair. Maybe make you look smarter."

"Ha!" Andrina laughed. "No, it'd make you look like one of those scammy so-called magicians that swindle kids for pocket money!"

Nathan pouted and Erik chuckled but notably did not disagree.

Erik went quiet again before taking a deep breath. "I think you're a little lonely."

Nathan almost laughed. "What? How could I be with you and Mother Hen always around?"

"There's different types of loneliness you know. There's a type for romance, for friends, for family – for silence…you just need to figure out which one tugs at your own heart. We've known you long enough to see the signs, even if you ignore them."

The conversation stopped there, giving Nathan a great deal to think about. Erik had a way of doing that to him. He was such a mild person but had a way of sneaking deep truths in without warning. And Andrina's uncharacteristic silence spoke volumes about her agreement.

Was it really that simple? Was he just missing out on something? But what could it be? He lived comfortably enough, had friends old and new all around, and his business was flourishing…what was missing?

"Hey!" Andrina called. "That little shop at the edge of town was opening today. We should eat there when we get home."

The men agreed and the rest of the way was filled with amiable silence and pipe smoke.

~~~

Andrina had been right.

It started raining halfway home. The bright sky slipped to grey as clouds blotted out the sun and a steady trickle began to fall. A cold chill clung to the wind from the north as well. When they arrived at the eatery, which appeared to be little more than a large shed with a stone oven in the center, they found a table without issue. It was late enough in the day, the rush of patrons clamoring for dinner had already gone. The warmth of the place was very welcome after their journey.

A clearly exhausted employee slapped three tankards on the table. "Welcome to Pista's Hut. We have ale. You get ale," they said, voice flat.

The three friends nodded, not about to argue.

"You're late for dinner, the cook will throw what we have left in the oven and that will be that. It'll be out in a bit." They walked away without another word.

Andrina chuckled. "Well, you two can never decide anyway, so this works in our favor. Ale's good at least."

Erik shrugged and picked up his tankard. "I'll eat anything."

Nathan sipped his drink, his thoughts still stuck on what Erik had told him earlier. The ale was good…

A while later, the server returned holding a metal tray and slapped it in the middle of the table. "Okay, we only had some dough, tomatoes, and a bit of cheese. The cook whipped this up for you. Smells good at least, and it's the best we got." They dropped a heavy cleaver on the table, making everything on it rattle. "Here's a knife to cut it. I'll bring more ale," they said before turning heel and walking away.

The three friends stared at their meal. What appeared to be a giant bit of flat bread was stretched wide on the tray, smeared with crushed tomatoes, bits of cheese melted on top. The bread was toasty in places and the top of the construction steamed, wafting a tasty fragrance into the air.

Andrina grabbed the cleaver, which Nathan quickly took from her. "Not after what happened last time, Andi."

She flopped back dramatically into her chair, cheeks puffing out. Erik covered his mouth as he tried not to giggle.

Nathan studied the food and began to cut the best way he could figure out. It was shaped like a pie or cake, so he split it into triangles. They each took a slice and began to eat silently.

After a few bites, they all looked at each other in silence, each waiting for the other to speak.

Erik began, "Is it just me or is this damn delicious?"

Nathan concurred, "It is absolutely delectable."

Andrina stuffed her slice into her mouth, working it around as it burnt her tongue.

The three devoured the construct, save for one small piece. When the server came to collect their dishes, they took the last bit, uncaring if strangers had touched it, and began to eat. The morsel seemed to cheer them up at least.

Thunder rolled outside as the friends finished their drinks. Home wasn't far at least, though they'd probably be soaked through by the time they reached it and put the horses and wagon away.

They piled outside after a time, huddled under cloaks as the rain continued. Nathan checked the cargo for tampering and the horses, slipping them a few sugar cubes for their wait, making promises of comfort to come.

He was about to load up when he heard a small clamor, like things falling, drawing his attention to an alley beside the eatery. It was dark, nothing but bins of waste scattered around.

"What is it?" Andrina asked.

Nathan shrugged. "Just thought I heard something."

He moved to the driver's seat of the wagon and was about to get seated when he heard something else.

Mew. Mew.

He stopped and looked again, still not seeing anything.

Erik leaned over. "Is that an animal? Look there by the bins."

Nathan couldn't see anything, so he went down the alley, walking slowly and listening.

Mew.

Mew…

Little squeaky sounds came from under a large bin. They ceased when Nathan reached it. He squatted low and peered under it, trying not to gag from the smell.

A little soggy ball of fur stared back at him with scared green eyes.

Nathan began to reach for it but stilled a moment. "Are you a rat? Are you going to bite me?"

Mew.

"No, you must be a cat…I think…" He scooped up the tiny thing.

Nathan brought the creature over to an awning with a lantern hanging so he could see. It was a tiny kitten cold and wet, no bigger than his palm. It mewed in distress but didn't try to get away from him.

"My, my you aren't very old. Is your momma around?" Nathan looked back down the alley.

"What is it?" Erik called from the wagon.

"A kitten!" Nathan answered. "I'll be a moment, I'm going to look for its mother!"

Andrina groaned dramatically and then laughed as Erik chided her.

Nathan held the kitten close to his heart to share his warmth as he slowly plodded down the alley, calling in a sweet voice for any critters. After peeking around to the back of the building and spotting nothing, Nathan headed back, finding that the disenchanted server from earlier was taking a crate into the alley.

"Excuse me, dear, have you seen a mother cat around here?" Nathan held the kitten up for reference. "This one appears to have gotten lost."

They shook their head. "Nah, that one has been out here all day. Saw it this morning. If the momma didn't fetch it by now, she's not coming back."

Nathan's heart sank. "All day? It's been raining…"

"Just leave it where you found it, nature will take its course."

"No!" Nathan suddenly spat. He held the little creature closer and then cleared his throat. "No…Sorry, I'll just take it then."

"Fine by me."

Nathan hustled down the alley back to his friends and hopped up into the wagon. Passing the reins to Erik, everyone stared at the little furball who had gone quiet.

"We have a cat now?" Andrina asked.

Nathan sighed. "We…have a cat now. For now, I suppose. I'll figure it out."

The little creature snuggled closely to Nathan's chest the whole way home. It didn't make another sound, happier now that it was warm and blocked from the rain. There was a pull at Nathan's heart, a clear sadness a the sight of the defenseless kitten.

Once home, they guided the horses and cart into the barn and Nathan left his friends in charge of the horses. This kitten was little and too young for solid food. They didn't have much to offer it, but if there was one creature who could help it was Jaala – the goat who hated him.

Erik seemed to be the only one whom the goat respected enough to milk her, but Nathan had some extra sugar to offer in exchange for a bit of milk to help the kitten. He found a crate, filled it with straw, and settled the kitten inside who began to mew as soon as the comfort of being held faded.

"Just a moment little one, I need to make sure I can feed you."

Grabbing the milk pale, he checked to make sure it was clean before facing Jaala. She glared at him immediately, snorting in displeasure and standing defensively in front of her sleeping kid.

"Sorry girl, just me tonight," Nathan said as he searched his pockets for sugar. "Here, to sweeten the deal." He held out a cube to the goat who glared as she plucked it from his hands, biting his fingers in the process. Nathan tamped down his reaction.

He placed the bucket down as the goat barely tolerated his presence. "I need just a little bit of milk. Do you hear the kitty? Just like your little one, he needs something to eat." Nathan offered another sugar cube which the goat snatched right away.

As she chewed, he positioned the bucket and knelt beside her, quick to offer another sweet to keep her agreeable as he began to milk her. He rationed the last two cubes to get enough for a good meal for the kitten, quickly packing up and giving the goat her space when he was done.

The cat continued to mew from the safety of its little nest. Nathan sat in the straw and plucked the furball up again, bringing it to his chest. Pulling a handkerchief from the inner pocket of his robe, he soaked a bit of it in the milk and brought it to the little kitten's mouth. It latched on right away, suckling hungrily at the cloth until it was practically dry. Nathan dipped it again and repeated the process until the little one had drank all there was. And with a full belly, it fell asleep in his hands.

Nathan took the crate and the kitten inside with him where his friends had started a good fire. He changed his clothes and put on something dry, keeping an eye on the little one. All of them sat around the fireplace, sprawled on the couches and rugs there.

"Sucker," Andrina chided with a smile.

Nathan sighed. "I couldn't leave the poor thing to die."

Erik's dog, a massive black and white hound, sniffed around the crate, wagging his tail happily before getting up on Erik's lap. "Reminds me of when we found you," Erik said, patting his dog's head.

Nathan wrinkled his nose. "Yes, yes, I'm akin to a half-drowned cat with no teeth."

Andrina began packing her pipe. "You gonna keep the thing?"

He shook his head. "No, I'll just make sure it doesn't suffer and I'm sure one of the shops or farms could use a mouser."

Erik and Andrina looked at each other and smiled. They knew better.

As the days went by, most of Nathan's attention was on the little kitten. Once it was all dried and cleaned up, fed and happy, it still didn't shut up – unless Nathan held it. He kept it close, swaddled around his chest in a sling since its little cries made him feel…odd. Many of the townspeople stared when they realized a small kitten was tucked close to his chest, but Nathan didn't mind. He was already the oddball in town as it was, he would be stared at and whispered about anyway, this just gave them something to actually chatter about.

He talked to the little cat most of the day, asking its opinion on prices and what goods would sell the best in the coming season. The little creature didn't have much to offer but helped Nathan think by just listening.

Jaala the goat even became a bit friendlier, she almost didn't bite. But thanks to her generosity, the little kitten grew quickly. It filled the little sling and was able to reach out far enough to tap Nathan on the chin with little claws. Once the little one was big enough, Nathan could tell it was a male, and quickly dubbed him, "Cat," and sometimes, "sweet boy" when no one was watching.

As more time passed and the cat outgrew his little sling, he instead rode upon Nathan's shoulders instead. The merchant was not short of offers to take the cat who was growing to be quite a handsome sight – completely grey from nose to tail with bright green eyes. He had a dignified appearance – a dignity which ended strictly at his looks, Nathan observed. He was rather inelegant for a cat, his timing for everything could not be worse and he had nearly killed Nathan no fewer than 15 times on the stairs. But the little thing had no fear of dogs, or any other creature large or small. Nathan knew better by now that it wasn't bravery – he was just too dumb to know better. Nathan turned all of the offers that he received down, of course, saying that the cat had a bit more growing to do…

A whole season came and went before folks stopped asking. Everyone but Nathan knew the little stray had already found a permanent home.

As he sat lost in thought in the barn, staring at his wagon, a little paw came up to pat his chin. Luckily, the scruffy beard there protected it from the wicked claws.

"What do you want, Cat?" he asked, absently bringing his hand to the cat's head and scratching. "Oh…guess I answered my own question." He laughed. "You have trained me well."

The cat reached up and rubbed his head against Nathan's new beard, enjoying the scratchiness against his fur. The rumble of purrs became loud.

Nathan smiled. "You really are my sweet boy, aren't you. What do you think we ought to do, hm?" He glanced at the wagon, the goods stored there were dwindling. The thought of traveling to refill his stock was a bit exciting, even if he didn't need to go very far. "I want to take you with me, but I worry…"

Moow?

"No, we tried the leash, you rolled around like it was a snake trying to eat you."

Mrrrr.

"You did too."

The cat huffed.

"And Andi says I'm the dramatic one…"

Meoooow.

"I do trust you, I just worry you'll wander off and get lost. You may look elegant, but you're not the brightest. And what if someone tries to steal you away?"

The cat turned fierce eyes on Nathan and stared.

"You are so strange."

"Says the man talking to a cat," Erik's voice responded, making Nathan startle.

"Blessed stars, you scared the shit out of me!"

Erik chuckled as he approached, sitting across from Nathan and his cat in the straw. "Well, I'm not sorry…I came to check on you."

"Check on me?" Nathan scratched down the cat's back, bringing back his purring.

"Mm-hmm, you're doing that thing again."

"Yes?"

"It's a little different this time. You're not completely despondent." Erik laughed. "It's been nice. You've seemed happier now that you have a pet."

Nathan shook his head. "I don't have a pet…I…" He stared down at the purring mess in his lap which was currently working its claws into Nathan's fine robe.

"No, no, you're right. You don't have a pet…You are the pet. That little grey thing has you completely wrapped around his paw. You wore him around in a sling meant for children for crying out loud."

"He was cold…" Nathan bit down on a smile.

Erik snorted a laugh. "You're sweet you know. And I want to say something as a friend. Something me and Andi have been talking about for a while now."

"Go on, don't hold back."

"We all have secrets. We all have private things that we desire – hopes and even dreams that we aren't always aware of…. In a strange way, I think you've found one of those things you've needed. You still try to deny it – you haven't even named the poor thing, and we all know that cat isn't going anywhere."

Nathan nodded.

Erik continued. "You're restless. I know you are. I don't know everything about you, but we've been friends for years now and I think you're trying to hide just how restless you are even from yourself."

The truth stung.

"I wanted to tell you that it's okay. Some people aren't meant to settle at all and others are only meant to settle once they've found what they need. Me and Andi aren't going anywhere, you know that. One day we may even go our separate ways, maybe partner up with a lover or something, but we won't wander far from here."

Nathan nodded.

"Figure out what works for you. You now have a little someone that will go with you now. You can always come home."

"Should I call you 'poppa' now? That was a lot of wisdom considering how much younger than me you are." Nathan laughed.

Erik lightly kicked him in the foot. "I don't know where it came from…I actually came out here to warn you."

"About what?"

"Your little bundle of joy took a huge shit in Andi's bed and she is furious."

"Again?"

Erik nodded.

Nathan tried to hide his grin. "Guess I'm on laundry duty today then…I'll get to it in a moment."

Erik stood, clasping Nathan's hand in his own for a moment before leaving him in peace.

The little cat reached up again, purring and rubbing against his beard. Nathan wrapped his arms around the little furball and lightly hugged.

"How do you do it?" he asked as if the cat could answer. "Are you a magic cat? Hm? You can tell me, just whisper your truth to me." Nathan turned his ear to the cat who only nibbled at it in response. "I don't think I've ever had a pet before…"

MOOW.

"Sorry, I don't think I have ever been a pet before." He sighed. "Fuck sake, Erik is right. I am horribly smitten, aren't I? And you do need a proper name…"

Nathan stared at the cat's expanse of grey fur. He recalled how whenever the cat chose to hide he was impossible to find. The only way to spot him in the darkness was to catch the glimmer from his eyes.

Nathan picked up his sweet boy, staring into his eyes. "You're impossible to spot in the dark, you are so completely grey that even your toes match, and you are always following me…you are always…in my shadow."

Meow.

"Shadow."

Mrp?

Nathan smiled. "My little Shadow."

#god cursed if #twine if #interactive fiction #extras #gc if extras #drabble #short story #sometimes your missing piece is a cat #gc if world

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archangeldyke-all · 11 months ago

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Sevika and reader being grumbly whiskey aunts together!!!

They just want to sit on their porch together. <3

this is EVERYTHING to me

men and minors dni

you spend your evenings on your screened-in front porch, passing a smoke back and forth, one of you occasionally getting up to grab fresh drinks and snacks from the house.

you're both total grumps, but the kids (vander and silco's ofc) know that if they're ever in trouble, the first house to call is their aunts'.

lmaoooo now i'm imagining jinx calling you for a ride home from a party she shouldn't be at-- and you and sevika showing up to pick her up-- grinding and making out in front of all her friends just so she learns her lesson adkfj;laskjd

over the years, you've hosted the kids in your house for all kinds of reasons. claggor spent a month living with you guys when the three little kids were bogged down with a flu they kept passing around. in a rebellion against his dads' video games ban on him after they caught him smoking weed at fourteen, mylo and his xbox moved in with the two of you. jinx and vi come over for 'girl nights' all the time when they're growing up, and when violet gets laid off from her first job, she crashes with the two of you until she can get back on her feet.

they're the only kids you tolerate though. neighborhood kids are terrified of you and sevika-- both of you are total grumps, and little slayer and sugar are the exact same.

(but you make up for your bad reputation in the neighborhood on halloween-- you're always the house that gives out full sized candy bars.)

your elderly neighbors though? they love you and sevika.

they appreciate that you're just as grumpy as them. they always wave to you from their porches, where they sit every evening along with you guys. they like that you don't give a shit about the home owners association, and that sevika sometimes even does shit just to piss them off. (she painted your fence hot pink after being told by the HOA that the natural wood needed to be painted white. she earned the hearts of all your grumpy old neighbors with that move.)

as a result, you're always being given plates of cookies and pans of casseroles by the old ladies in the neighborhood, the old men are always coming over to share a smoke with sevika and exchange books, gardening tips, and garage tools. (you and sevika repay their hospitality by shoveling their sidewalks and raking their leaves for them in the shitty weather.)

you're constantly being told by old folks that you're 'the nicest lesbians we've ever met.'

sevika always laughs at this, then asks how many lesbians they have met. the answer is always just the two of you.

(one time, though, a little old lady informs you that her granddaughter is a lesbian 'just like you two,' and that she was so happy when she came out to her because 'you'll be just like my lovely neighbors!' this one makes you cry... and even sevika tears up a bit.)

in the summer, you've got a big fan you can flick on to keep you cool on your porch.

in the winter, you've got a little space heater you can pull closer to your matching rocking chairs.

after a few years, sevika even builds you an outside bed, so that after an evening of drinking whiskey and sharing a joint you can cuddle in each other's arms outside and listen to the crickets and frogs chirping before heading in for the evening.

your porch is your favorite little spot in the whole wide world. sevika's planted a jungle of plants surrounding it, and it's like your little oasis from the real world. you've got christmas lights strung around the ceiling that stay up all year long, lighting the porch when the sun finally sets. you've got dog and cat beds scattered everywhere so your animals can join you. there's ash trays, pipes, books, and bottles littered everywhere, and there's always at least a dozen potted plants scattered around inside your little sanctuary.

it's heaven.

taglist!

@fyeahnix @lavendersgirl @half-of-a-gay @thesevi0lentdelights @sexysapphicshopowner

@shimtarofstupidity @chuucanchuucan @badbye666 @femme-historian @lia-winther

@ellsss @sevikaspillowprincess @emiliabby @sevikasbeloved @hellorai

@glass-apothecary @macaroni676 @artinvain @realgreeniebeanie @k3n-dyll

@sevsdollette @ellieslob @xayn-xd @keikuahh @maneskinwh0re

#sevika #sevika imagine #sevika arcane #sevika x reader #sevika x you #soft sevika

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somedudenamedruiz · 2 months ago

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Yknow, I've come to the conclusion that I think about what characters' mouths look like, maybe an abnormal amount.

As a certified fucked up teeth haver, every single one of my little guys gotta have SOMETJIN a lil fucked, you know?

Anyways, here's a list of JRWI charecters and their tooth headcannons caus I have a strange amount <3

Riptide:

Chip has an incomplete cleft lip, a chipped front tooth, extra canine teeth on BOTH the top and bottom, and a gold tooth somewhere on the bottom. He does not brush his teeth very much. Normally, only does if he's bullied into it. Depression is a bitch, man.

Jay Ferin has a minor overbite. Not a very bad one, but yeah. She also does not brush her teeth as much as she probably should. She will not be telling Chip that.

Gillion Tidestrider teeth that work like sharks and are constantly renewing. That does not mean he doesn't get fucky teeth, though. Sometimes, he'll just get an extra tooth or two before one falls out. And he'll just be kind of uncomfortable for like, a week until one falls out. (Extra: Chip has tried to play off some of Gil's teeth as shark teeth before, to sell them.)

Ollie has pretty spaced out teeth and just doesn't have one of his molars. Also chipped a tooth at some point. Honestly, probably during the Electrodon fight.

Gryffon has an underbite, and very prominent bottom canines. More so than bears normally do. They poke out like small tusks when he closes his mouth.

Arlin has extra canines on the bottom and a tooth gap. Also, golden molar.

Caspian has a snaggle tooth. Is this a fish joke? Possibly.

Lizze has a tooth gap and a gold tooth on her top row. Opposite of Chip's.

Old man Earl is missing several teeth.

Drey Ferin's scar that goes over his eye hits his lip as well. Also his canine teeth are further forward than the rest.

Prime Defenders:

Dakota Cole has buck teeth. Both are chipped and have had fillings put in SEVERAL times. The fillings keep getting chipped as well, though. (Me fr.)

William Wisp has a minor overbite. It used to be very bad. He had braces for multiple years. He has a permanent pouty lip because of the overbite. (May or may not just litterally be how my teeth worked. Sue me.)

Vyncent Sol has more teeth than a human does. Idk why. it just feels right. Weird fuckin elf boy. Also he gets a tooth gap <3

Ashe Winters has extra canine teeth on the top. After The Trickster, her teeth remained sharper than normal.

Mark Winters has a tooth gap, and the lizard half of his face has sharp teeth.

Malard Conway has just like, a couple too many teeth. Just enough to freak people out a bit when they notice. They are sharp. (I wnat to hit this bastard fuck with a pipe, bro, I hate him so much he's amazing.)

Apotheosis:

Peter Sqloint has generally misaligned teeth. They're just a bit wonky.

Rumi, when they are, yknow, Rumi, has perfect teeth. Cause, of course they do. Rumi is like that. When they are Elena, though they have shap teeth, and like, 4 extra teeth on the bottom, behind the regular ones.

Blood in the Bayou

Rand honestly has kind of gross teeth. He's been smoking for fuck knows how long, and is a depressed wet cat. He does not brush his teeth. Also, he has extra canines.

Rolan actually has pretty straight teeth. Had braces when he was younger, but not for a long time. Slightly prominent front teeth, though.

Kian Stone's canine teeth sit further forward than the rest of his teeth.

Becky had a tooth gap.

Rachel Rand has braces. Teeth were generally misaligned, and she had an overbite and minor crossbite.

Wonderlust

Runt canonically has buck teeth, and we love her for it <3 She also gets an overbite to me.

Troy had misaligned teeth as a kid and had braces because of it. He will deny it until the day he dies.

WD (MY GIRRLLLLL) Has a crossbite and extra canine teeth.

Riply has a tooth gap and is missing one of her premolars

Blink is a bird.

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orangechickenpillow · 2 years ago

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Wyll is the one who starts it. He hadn't been able to stop thinking about it since Karlach visited her parents' grave -- replaying her words over and over in his head, feeling them in his heart. One night it gets too much, the thinking, so he just does it. Karlach gets up from the fire, giving her usual cheery "good night" to everyone, giving her nightly hug to someone. It changes every night, but this time it's Tav. And she gets her usual mismatched chorus of replies from whoever's left around the fire. Sometimes it's only Lae'zel and Astarion who are still up, so she only gets a grunt and a "Yes, good night then." Sometimes it's a "Sweet dreams" from Gale or a vague "Night" from Shadowheart as she waves her away. Tonight, the chorus consists of notes sung by most of them, as they're all still up. And Wyll says it.

"Night, Karlach. Taters."

The woman stops, a smile frozen on her face even as her eyes express something else entirely a moment before tears start to well.

"Oh dear," Astarion hums from where he's lounged back like a cat, and the mild, uninterested concern seems to be more for the rest of them than Karlach herself. Karlach, whose face has begun to smoke as a few tears evaporate on her cheek. But they're gone just as quickly as they were there, and then she's making a noise that usually means someone is about to get crushed in a hug, or kissed, or both.

"I... I haven't heard that in-- ages," she chokes, reaching for Wyll -- hesitating for just a moment (she's come to understand that it's usually better to ask before touching someone -- a lesson learned quickly thanks to some of her more guarded companions) -- before grabbing the front of his nighrshirt and tugging him into a fierce, warm hug. His wine spills and he nearly drops the glass moving it out of the way so it doesn't get crushed between them. Shadowheart, sitting next to him, takes it on instinct, and then Wyll is hugging Karlach back (almost) just as hard.

"Awwwe, Wyll." She leanes back, a few more tears swimming in her firey eyes. Then she tilts her head down to bump their horns together. "Taters," she murmurs, cupping his face in her hand. Wyll feels warm and knows it's all the love coming off of his companion. All the love that's stored in a single word that doesn't really make sense, but means so much.

"Well," a familiar haughty voice pipes up. "Wasn't that just sickeningly adorable."

Astarion gets a light smack to either of his shoulders -- one by Gale and the other by Tav, who is watching the whole affair with some tears in their own eyes and a smile on their face.

Yes, Wyll is the one who starts it, but he's not the only one who does it. Much like Karlach's "good night"s and her doled out affection, taters becomes a thing, and her "good night"s often accompany the expression of love. And the chorus of replies occasionally include it, too. Hers and Tav's nightly parting involve whispered "Taters" to one another. Wyll continues to use it, earning him many a gentle headbutt from the woman. She even gets a sighr and a reluctant "Fine. Taters, Karlach" from Shadowheart, who tries to hide her smile at the firey woman's excited squeals -- the excitement barely contained within her body.

Some of her conpanions are more giving with the word than others.

"I don't understand," Lae'zel says one night, taking a rare break from sharpening her sword to join them by the fire. "This... 'taters'... it makes no sense."

"It just means 'I love you,'" Karlach replies, shifting enough to knock her boot against Astarion's. He's lounging between her legs, arm propped up on one of her bent knees.

"Chk! Love. It's bad enough that there is one word for it, let alone as one as foolish as 'taters.'"

"I think it's delightful," Gale announces swirling some wine in the glass that Wyll lent him.

"You would, wouldn't you," Astarion snorts airily. Karlach bounces her knee -- the one Astarion isn't leaning on -- a sure sign that she was stopping herself from hugging him.

"Yes, well," Gale continues. "Some of us enjoy feeling emotions like love and pleasantness."

"I enjoy feeling emotions. Carnal lust, animalistic pleasure, the glee of driving a knife into someone's throat, among other things." Astarion lists them out on his fingers.

"You walked into that one, my friend," Wyll says with a smirk, crossing his legs -- crossing one of his ankles over Gale's shin.

"Love is not something I've often considered," Astarion suddenly says, sounding like he's talking to himself. "Lust, of course. On rare occasions, I've even liked a few wretched souls, but love... Thats.... well--" He falters a little, tsks, and then lifts his chin. "It's new."

Karlach is practically vibrating now. Astarion opens his mouth, eyes narrowing-- and then he rolls them and says "Gods, you might as well do it or our little bonfire isn't going to be the only thing lit ablaze" and it's permission enough for Karlach to shoot forward and wrap her arms around him.

"Astarion," she draws out his name, her voice pitched higher with excitement and emotion until it's almost bursting. She hooks her chin over his shoulder and nuzzles into him. "Taters," she whispers.

From across the fire, Tav notices the briefest moment of vulnerability flash across his face. It's raw, and Tav can see it's heavy, but his eyebrows knit in a way that suggests it's not exactly unwelcome. But then it's gone, and their usual Astarion returns.

"I am not saying it back," he says with the air of one brushing off the front of their tunic. Which he would have done if Karlach wasn't still hugging him.

"That's probably for the best, fancy boy, 'cause if you did, I'd have to kiss your pointy face."

"Watch out, fire girl. Remember, I bite," he threatens, a dark smile on his face -- feeling much more comfortable with this kind of affection. Maybe it was his taters.

Because taters isn't just about taters. It isn't just a word to say "I love you," it's a way to show you care.

"I still find it strange and... repulsive," Lae'zel bordely comments.

Astarion clicks his tounge, rolling his eyes once again. "It's like how you feel about that damned sword, gith."

"Ah," Lae'zel nods. Rising to her feet, she holds the hilt of her sword up in gesture. "My sword offers much better company," she says, then without further comment, heads off toward her sharpening stone. Everyone around the fire groans.

"Now you've done it," Gale mutters.

"Me? I haven't done a damn thing. She was going to do it anyway," Astarion leans forward, propping an elbow on Karlach's knee to better point an accusatory finger at the wizard. Karlach is grinning like an idiot.

"Taters, Lae," she calls to the retreating githyanki.

Lae'zel stops, and for a moment, nothing happens. And then she turns around, an expression that could have almost been confusion on her stony face.

"Yes, I suppose that--" she pauses, her voice no less coarse than usual, but perhaps there's a bit of thoughtfulness in it -- like how one might consider a strange corpse to see if it held anything valuable. "...Taters."

It's nothing more than a word, and it's nothing more than Lae'zel trying it out, but Karlach's face is doing that thing again and Astarion can feel it a second before it happens -- too late to do anything but mutter a "Shit-- Gale!" as if the wizard could do anything to save him from Karlach throwing her arms around his middle and squeezing him like a giant teddy bear. A very pointy teddy bear.

"Did you hear that, oh my gods," she cries, burrowing into Astarion's shoulder. His limbs flail and his legs nearly smack her horns as she shakes him like a dog with a chew toy.

"Kuh--" his arms fly up. Gale is laughing. Wyll is laughing. Astarion swears he'll kill them both. "Karlach, please--"

"Oh right," she says, and at least she stops shaking him. "I always forget you're all tiny and breakable."

"I beg your pardon."

"I mean, she's not wrong," Wyll says from behind his glass of wine, and Gale whistles low.

"This is your fault," Astarion turns his pointy finger to Wyll. "If it weren't for you, none of this would be happening and we could go back to being perfectly cold, untrusting strangers with a common goal."

"I don't know, Astarion, I think you like it here with us."

The vampire straightens up and lifts his chin. "Don't think too hard, darling, your horns might fall off."

"Ha!" Karlach laughs. She's still got her arms wrapped around the smaller man's waist, but they're hanging loosely now. No one mentions how Astarion has rested his forearms over her's. "That's how I lost mine," she jokes, tilting her head in gesture to her broken horn.

"And no one's surprised," the vampire nods knowingly, giving her hand a pat.

Suddenly, the grind and scream of steel against stone fills the night.

Everyone groans.

"That's it," Gale says, rising to his feet. "I'm going to hit the sack. Preferably hard enough to knock me out so I might get some actual rest. Good night, everyone," he nods. "Taters."

"Taters." It's an echo as everyone replies automatically. Unconsciously.

Almost like it's become a habit.

Oops.

#bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #bg3 spoilers #bg3 karlach #bg3 wyll #bg3 astarion #gale of waterdeep #bg3 gale #bg3 tav #shadowheart #bg3 shadowheart #bg3 lae'zel #lae'zel #astarion #karlach #wyll ravengard #bg3 party banter #bg3 headcanons #writing drabble

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heart-0f-a-rebel16 · 1 month ago

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How do things go for Euan and Puck after their first meeting?

Hi!!!

Things go Very Fucking Bad for both of them. They manage to escape Coruscant by the skin of their teeth, with Euan’s ship heavily damaged in the fight. Add that stress onto a) the rebel operative Euan was supposed to meet with getting killed, b) the reason the rebel operative was killed was because she pushed puck out of the line of fire, c) now having to take care of a stuck up civilian with survivor’s guilt because they won’t let go of the data chip you were supposed to give to the operative (who is now dead) (because she saved puck instead of him) and d) not knowing what the fuck to do next because she’s a remote operative and has never seen the rebel base before

From Puck’s perspective, imagine you went outside for a quick smoke break only to get shot at, watch some random man die in front of you, then essentially get kidnapped in the middle of a show and forced to go on the run from the all-seeing government who now thinks you’re a terrorist, all while being babysat by a woman who’s got the emotional openness and tact of a lead pipe to the face

Suffice to say, their first month together is kinda like if you locked two territorial cats in the same room

#lots of yelling and slamming doors and arguments #they work it out eventually tho #asks and replies #insert original post tags here #oc: euan sland #oc: puck valentine #star wars rebels

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mushroomates · 1 year ago

Text

merry headcanons

as a child, he sincerely believed he could talk to cats. this ended at age 13.

can do cartwheels. pippin cannot. this is brought up in arguments more frequently that imagined

has a filter, contrary to some of what he says. he also acts as pippins filter

possesses an uncanny ability to sniff out weed. can tell the quality of such by smell alone. can also tell you where it may have come from, and how it was grown

has a small patch of cannabis growing in a back room of his estate. it used to be a sunroom but is now a greenhouse/weed lab.

merry religiously documents it’s growth, soil conditions, exposure to light, and most importantly: potentness

unfortunately this has manifested in a very strong but unpleasant tasting plant. this sort is hearty, can grow under any conditions, but really just tastes/smells. absolutely awful.

he did try and recruit sam into helping him until sam realized what was going on and wanted “no business in such a practice”

uses samples saved from the whole Saruman takedown and propagates what he can. also keeps some for comparison. he is very organized with this and has a whole spreadsheet he references frequently

merry also likes to know where everything is at all times. he’s not super weird about it but everything does have its place and he will know if you move it

got into furniture making. makes. questionable, ‘innovative’ ‘contemporary’ and ‘unique’ pieces

in reality it’s because he likes to make chairs that specifically make people want to leave because of how uncomfortable they are

like. he loves his family. but sometimes they get the squeaky chair. there’s a table with one leg slightly smaller than the rest that makes everyone uneasy. a couch that is just too low to the ground and cushy, so that you sink in but your legs are cramped. there’s a chair with the back curved slightly too steep, so when someone sits in it their posture is terrible. it also has a shorter than normal seat so you can’t scoot forward either

it’s not torture. people can endure it. it’s just mean to make sure no one does for very long.

this set is strategically in the foyer, so if he likes you well enough you’re granted entity into the living room with normal furniture. which is very tastefully decorated and has framed artwork of his many nieces and nephews.

he absolutely adores the littlest members of the shire and will spoil them however he can

draws maps of the most absurd things. just. maps that no one even asked for but are delightfully absurd

“directions to bagend, avoiding all dogs, aunts, sheep and red mail boxes” “brandybuck estate, but only the trees” “every pub in the shire, and who to avoid on your way back from a good time”

and, famously, “pippins brain”

this is a circle, and in it, two singular dots

one saying “pipe weed” and the other “bad ideas”

there use to be a third dot, that said “lack of cart wheels” but that has been a angerly scribbled out (culprit is still a ‘mystery’ )

decent navigational skills

of course, no one listens to him.

judges the annual pie contest

is actually. really good at it. has a very defined palette dispute the copious amount of weed he smokes

“is that rubarb? it adds a wonderful complexity to the strawberry and pistachio- though, i’d recommend not using molasses next time instead try brown sugar.”

like. merry. why do you know these things.

also judges the pie EATING contest. this is because there is a scandalous amount of cheating and he was part of a huge pie-in-the-trousers bust and now sits in the jury as an esteemed member

pippin thinks he’s a traitor to the cause. this is because pippin was a primary perpetrator in said pie-in-the-trousers bust.

has two pet rabbits. by pets i mean fellow members of the “raiding farmer maggots crops” club, who he saved from a few rodent traps and took home

merrys morals, to recap, does not allow him to permit pie-crimes, but he is totally okay with casual thievery

did not have the heart to said rabbits as they were cut from the same cloth. he let them out the back yard once he got home and they just. kind of. stayed

their names are gandalf and gandalf because ones gray and ones white. many hobbits have been taking after that and also naming their animals gandalf. this of course pisses gandalf off to no end.

is a great babysitter. mature enough to not get into trouble but still has a childish sense of adventure, and lots of stories

he is the trusted fun uncle. pippin being the reckless fun uncle.

he acts stories out more than tells them to the kids, as his way with words is not so great as his way with sound effects.

also makes his own sock puppets and will occasionally put on small shows for the kiddos during family gatherings. fan favorites are “merry takes down the witch-king” “the march of the ents” and “the hobbit who couldn’t cartwheel” (the last ends with the hobbit simply learns to accept that everyone has different talents- something not true to life because pippin still hasn’t accepted this)

is high key very smart. doesn’t do a lot with this. he prefers to enjoy the simple things in life, and has found that so long as he makes sure he and his are looked after, life can be very easy.

that being said. he is not as care free as he’d like to be

is very prepared and well organized. has rations for days and a go-bag, even in his later years. everyone mocked him for years but it took him maybe ten minutes to grab everything and join up with frodo and sam. he also has extra go-bags, which is why it only took pippin 15 minutes (an extra five because pippin lost his bag about two seconds after merry gave it to him)

merry got the “anxiety” hobbit gene that manifests in being (only slightly) a prepper. there’s cans of beans and fruit as well as bottled water hidden in the cellar of the brandy-buck estate. enough food to last nearly five years, but for a hobbit, three.

this gives him peace of mind, as he knows he is prepared for whatever life gives him

he also knows he has braved many things before and anything that may come now will be significantly less of a hardship

he will never have to face down another witch-king, or more importantly, go without second breakfast

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estellan0vella · 7 months ago

Text

Love In Print│Bang Chan

Chapter Nine: Stick With Knockoffs SS: 3 (ignore time stamps and dates) Word Count: 2.1K Content Warnings: nudity

Previous Next Masterlist

The shisha bar is wrapped in a sultry haze of smoke, its dim lanterns casting warm, flickering light across deep crimson walls. The air is thick with the mingling scents of fruit-flavoured shisha and spilt whiskey.

Ayame leans back on a plush velvet couch, her black mini skirt riding slightly higher as she crosses her legs, the sharp edge of her thigh-high boots glinting in the soft light. She exhales a slow plume of smoke, the tendrils curling lazily toward the ceiling.

Minho sprawls next to her, one arm thrown across the back of the couch like he owns the place. His shirt is unbuttoned enough to expose a tempting sliver of his chest, the faint sheen of his skin catching the light.

Across from them, Hyunjin lounges like a cat, his long legs stretched out, shisha pipe in hand, while Seungmin sits upright, as composed as ever, nursing a glass of neat whiskey. The four of them radiate a sort of chaotic elegance that turns heads even in this crowded room.

Minho takes a slow pull from his shisha, blowing out a perfect ring of smoke before turning to Ayame. "You know," he begins, his tone casual but laced with sincerity, "your idea was solid. Booze and painting? That's like therapy but fun. Team building and getting pissed? Perfect combo."

Ayame snorts, resting her elbow on the armrest and swirling her drink. "But no. Guns and ammo. Because that's what these assholes think is a good idea for fostering workplace camaraderie."

Hyunjin leans forward, his chin resting in his palm as he gestures toward her with his glass. "You deserved to win that one. You put in the work."

"Doesn't matter," Ayame replies, sighing as she sets her drink down and takes another drag from the shisha. The cherry-flavored smoke slides easily from her lips. "Haechul and Chan don't play fair. They play to win."

Seungmin tilts his glass, the amber liquid catching the light. "It's not over yet. The board's decision isn't final until New Year's, and it's an independent board. They're not going to let bribery slide."

Ayame barks out a short, humourless laugh, shaking her head. "You really think Haechul gives a fuck? The man literally pitched paintball as a way to resolve workplace conflict. Guns, Seungmin. Fucking guns."

Seungmin sighs, leaning back in his seat. "Alright, fair. He's insane. But Chan's not Haechul. You've got a shot."

"Chan's not Haechul," Ayame mutters under her breath, swirling the shisha hose in her hand. "No, Chan's just a fucking enigma wrapped in a condescending suit."

Hyunjin raises his glass, interrupting her spiral. "I propose a new plan: we all get drunk and forget these Miroh bastards exist. Aya, you especially need to forget about Bang Chan's annoyingly symmetrical face and his perfectly sculpted ass."

Ayame points the shisha hose at him like a weapon. "I don't think about his ass."

"You should," Hyunjin replies with a teasing smirk. "It's art."

Minho snickers, taking a long sip of his drink before chiming in. "Art or not, I'd like to stop thinking about shoving my cock down Jisung's throat every time he opens his mouth about font pairings."

Seungmin, who's mid-sip, nearly chokes. "For fuck's sake, Minho."

"What?!" Minho exclaims, grinning shamelessly. "It's a valid fantasy."

Seungmin sets his glass down, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You people are deranged. Meanwhile, I just want to forget how Jeongin's innocent little smile made me think about inviting him over to 'fix my Wi-Fi.'"

Ayame perks up at that, her grin wicked. "Oh, Oppa, don't be shy. You're living a bad porn setup. Let me guess: 'Thanks for fixing my router, now let me show you how to turn me on.'" She even winks for good measure.

Seungmin groans, hiding his face behind his glass. "Fuck off, Ayame."

"Come on," Hyunjin adds, laughing. "You want the Miroh IT guy to take his shirt off and crawl under your desk, don't you?"

Seungmin glares at him over the rim of his glass. "You're all terrible people."

"Terrible, but honest," Minho says, raising his glass. "And that's what makes us the best. To getting fucked up and forgetting about these corporate dickheads! Cheers!"

"Cheers!" they all echo, clinking their glasses together with varying levels of enthusiasm.

Ayame wakes to the unrelenting stab of sunlight slicing through her blinds, a dull pounding in her skull that feels like her brain is trying to escape.

She groans, rolling over to bury her face in her pillow, only to come face-to-face with a very naked, very unfamiliar man lying beside her. He's propped up on one elbow, his tousled dark hair sticking up in endearing chaos, and a smug, dimpled smile tugging at his lips. His deep brown eyes glint with amusement.

"Morning," he says, his voice husky from sleep. "I'm Chris. We had sex last night."

Ayame's eyes snap wide open, her hangover forgotten in the face of pure, undiluted panic. "Your name is what?!"

Chris chuckles softly, clearly entertained by her reaction. "Chris," he repeats, enunciating like she might be slow. "You brought me here. We had sex. Several times, if I remember correctly."

"Oh, fuck me," Ayame whispers, clutching the sheet to her chest and scooting back like he might explode at any second.

Chris grins, sitting up and stretching lazily, completely unbothered by his nakedness. "Pretty sure we covered that already, sweetheart."

Before Ayame can even figure out how to respond, the door to her room flies open with the force of a small hurricane, and in strides Minho, looking both supremely unimpressed and mildly murderous. He's dressed in sweatpants and a hoodie, his hair sticking up as if he didn't even glance in a mirror before barging in.

"I let myself in," Minho announces dramatically, then freezes mid-step as his eyes land on Chris. His gaze slides from Chris's messy hair to his bare chest and downward. "What. The. Actual. Fuck."

Chris starts to speak, but Minho cuts him off with a raised hand, his voice sharp enough to cut glass. "Nope. Not a word. Out of my little Aya's bed. Right. Fucking. Now."

Chris blinks, clearly caught off guard. "Uh, okay, but-"

"OUT!" Minho yells, pointing toward the door like an angry parent. "Defiling my maknae and thinking you can hang around for coffee? Do I look like I serve breakfast to dickwads who've been balls-deep in my baby Aya? No, sir. Get your naked ass up and out!"

Chris fumbles for his clothes, pulling on his pants while muttering, "Alright, alright, I'm going."

Minho's sharp eyes track his every move. But as Chris bends over to grab his shirt, Minho tilts his head, his expression softening just slightly. "Hmm," he hums thoughtfully, "nice ass. Decent dick, too."

Chris freezes mid-motion, glancing back over his shoulder, looking equal parts flustered and amused. "Uh... thanks?"

"Don't thank me," Minho snaps, his sharp tone returning as he waves toward the door. "Just leave."

Chris pulls his shirt on, his movements hurried as he backs toward the door. "Nice to meet you, Ayame," he says, flashing her a sheepish smile.

Minho scoffs, stepping between Chris and Ayame like a human shield. "Nice to meet her? Your tip already met her fucking cervix last night. Out."

Chris raises his hands in surrender, quickly slipping out the door. The sound of it clicking shut is like a gunshot in the now-silent room.

Minho spins around to face Ayame, his hands on his hips, his expression unreadable for a moment before it breaks into a wicked grin. "He looked like Chan."

"No." Ayame sits up, clutching the sheet tighter around her chest as her heart pounds. "No, no, no, no, no."

"Oh, yes." Minho's grin widens, his eyes gleaming with glee. "Don't worry. I fuck men who look like Jisung. It's called coping, honey."

Ayame stares at him, horror spreading across her face. "His name was Chris."

Minho's smirk falters for half a second before he bursts into laughter, doubling over and clutching his stomach. "Chris? Like Bang Christopher Chan?" He straightens, his laughter uncontrollable. "You hooked up with a guy who looks like Chan and has the same English name? Oh my god, Ayame!"

Ayame groans, flopping back onto the bed and throwing an arm over her face. "Why am I like this?"

Minho perches on the edge of the bed, tossing a clean t-shirt and panties at her. "Here. Get dressed, pabo. I'm making breakfast. My cooking fixes everything, hangovers, bad decisions, existential crises, you name it."

Ayame catches the clothes with a sigh, glaring at him half-heartedly. "Will it fix you being the literal worst?"

"Nope," Minho says cheerfully, standing and heading toward the door. "But it'll keep you alive long enough for me to keep bullying your dumb ass. Gold, Aya. Absolute fucking gold."

She hears him laughing to himself as he disappears into the kitchen.

Ayame groans again, dragging herself out of bed. "God, give me strength," she mutters, pulling the t-shirt over her head. The faint scent of Chris's cologne lingers in the sheets, and she freezes for a second before shaking her head violently.

"Not today, Satan. Not fucking today."

Ayame stumbles into the kitchen, oversized sunglasses perched precariously on her face, shielding her bloodshot eyes from the cruel, too-bright sunlight streaming through the windows.

Minho stands at the stove, his back to her, moving with the maddening grace of someone who clearly slept well and made good decisions. He hums cheerfully as he flips bacon in the pan, the sizzle of grease like an auditory assault to Ayame's pounding head. The smell of bacon, eggs, and whatever the fuck Minho thinks will cure her is making her stomach twist in protest.

Ayame groans loudly, dragging herself to the counter and slumping against it. "Minho. Kill me."

Minho glances over his shoulder, smirking like the absolute shithead he is. "Oh, no, no, no, honey. Maknae. My darling trainwreck of a child. This is what life lessons taste like." He gestures to the sizzling bacon with his spatula. "Delicious, greasy, artery-clogging lessons."

Ayame groans louder, clutching her head. "Not now, Oppa."

Minho spins dramatically, brandishing the spatula like a weapon. "No, listen to me. I've been exactly where you are. Once, I hooked up with a guy because he had Jisung's jawline. It's fine! It's healthy! Stops us from doing irreparable damage to our lives by sleeping with the actual enemy."

Ayame drags herself to the table, collapsing into a chair and burying her face in her folded arms. "The elevator kiss was too much."

Minho freezes mid-step, his eyes gleaming with unholy curiosity. "Oh, we're talking about the elevator now? Spill. Everything. Details. Were there hands in your hair?"

Ayame mumbles something incoherent into her arms.

Minho leans closer. "What was that, Maknae? You're going to have to speak up."

Ayame lifts her head just enough to glare at him from behind her sunglasses. "He pinned me against the wall."

Minho gasps, dropping into the chair across from her like he's just been handed a scandalous piece of gossip. "Stop. Stop right now."

"And," Ayame continues, "he lifted me up by my thighs."

Minho slaps the table with both hands, his grin so wide it's bordering on unhinged. "Fucking hell, Ayame, that's hotter than it has any right to be. What the fuck."

Ayame groans, her head hitting the table with a thud. "I hate my life."

"But wait," Minho says, holding up a finger, "how good was it?"

Ayame groans again, muffled by the table, before muttering, "Too good."

Minho clutches his chest, throwing his head back in faux agony. "No! The enemy isn't supposed to be good at kissing! That's against the rules. It's unethical."

"I know," Ayame mumbles, her voice muffled by her arms. "He's unethical."

Minho narrows his eyes, a wicked grin spreading across his face. "You could just make Discount Chan your regular. Avoid the main brand entirely. You know, stick with knockoffs. Like generic cereal, same taste, half the price."

Ayame sits up just enough to glare at him. "You're the worst."

Minho points his spatula at her triumphantly. "And yet here I am, feeding you, absolving you of your sins, and making your dumb ass laugh. You're welcome."

She groans, pushing her plate away. "I hate you."

"No, you hate yourself," Minho counters, sitting back in his chair and crossing his arms. "And that's why Oppa is here. To remind you that it's okay to be a fucking disaster sometimes."

Ayame glances at him from behind her sunglasses, her lips twitching. "Does this disaster come with more bacon?"

Minho grins, snatching a strip from his plate and tossing it onto hers. "Always, Maknae. Always."

As Ayame picks up her fork, Minho leans back, watching her with a satisfied smirk. "Now eat up. You're gonna need your strength for the day ahead."

"Why?" Ayame asks, narrowing her eyes suspiciously.

Minho's grin turns wolfish. "Because Chan is going to walk into the office, and all you're going to be able to think about is his hands on your thighs."

Ayame groans again, her head thudding against the table. Minho cackles loudly, his laughter echoing through the kitchen, filling it with chaos, affection, and the unmistakable energy of two best friends thriving in the messiest moments of life.

Taglist: @fackeraccount @ot8girlfie @nightmarenyxx @reimaybeidk

@ismelllikechlorine247 @drewsandsebastianswife @my-neurodivergent-world @rhonnie23 @hanji-coffee

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peskellence · 6 months ago

Text

have your cake and eat it

Explicit content (18+)

Pairing: RK900/Gavin Reed

Tags: M/M, Birthday Sex, Established Relationship, Domestic Fluff, Shameless Smut, Multiple Positions, Dom/Sub Undertones.

Read on AO3 here:

Summary: When Nines returns home early from a birthday outing with Connor, he finds himself in the midst of Gavin’s chaotic attempt at a surprise. Can they salvage this recipe for disaster—or will it lead to something sweeter?

(Originally written as a birthday gift for my beloved @faxaway)

Tag List: @sweeteatercat @wedonthaveawhile @gho-stychan @tentoriumcerebelli @negative-citadel @faxaway @moriahadi424 @unicorn4genocide @cptjh-arts

The lights were on when Nines arrived home, but there was no sign of anyone in the apartment.

Gavin was missing from his usual spot: reclined on the couch, aimlessly flicking through channels and periodically lamenting how terrible daytime TV was—the established ritual on his days off. Instead, the only occupant on the seat was their cat. A cantankerous mass of whiskers and fur, who was currently reasonably content. Curled into a ball, sleeping soundly atop a loosely folded throw blanket.

Their bedroom would have been the next logical search point, but this proved unnecessary. The door was ajar, and the space beyond was visibly empty, with no detectable vital signs.

“Gavin?” Nines called out, setting down the package he had tucked beneath his arm. A brightly wrapped, ribbon bound box he had received from Connor. “Are you home?”

There was no answer, although the android refrained from premature concerns. It was possible that Gavin had gone outside briefly, either to smoke or remove their trash. The cans had been overflowing for several days, but every time he moved to empty them himself, he had been met with vehement protests that his partner would “do it later.”

Perhaps the elusive ‘later’ had finally arrived. The apartment certainly looked tidier. A vacuum had been run over the carpets with modest effectiveness, and the coffee table, previously littered with debris, was now cleared.

Replacing the mess was a vase, moved from the windowsill to be placed in central focus. Nines had insisted they keep it during their last downsizing effort, admiring how the marbled glass caught against the light.

Gavin had criticised this choice. Claiming they weren’t ‘flower guys’ and calling it useless. Despite this, the narrow lip spilt over with a vibrant bouquet. Velvety petals cast shadows onto the table, as well as a small blue envelope tucked beneath the base.

His name was penned across it in a familiar, wide-lettered scrawl. Nines approached carefully, sitting on the edge of the couch cushions, mindful not to disturb their slumbering pet.

He pinched the corner of the envelope, gently freeing it from beneath the anchor. The contents were soon revealed as a folded sheet of card—edges raised with gold piping, framing a floral watercolour wreath in the shape of a heart.

There was a cursive inscription in the centre, which read:

To A Wonderful Grandmother On her Birthday

Unfolding it, Nines found a script more similar to that of the envelope. The letters grew smaller the further they descended, as if the penman realised too late he was running out of space.

This was the only birthday card they had in the store. It was this or Deepest Sympathies. Be grateful.

I’m bad with sappy stuff, so I’m not going to go on about how today’s special just because it’s your birthday—or whatever we're calling it.

But I will say thank you to Cyberlife for building my literal dream man in the form of a 6’2” Terminator knock-off.

Hope you have a good day. Love you.

Gavin

Nines smiled fondly, scanning the uneven letters, brushing his fingers across them several times—committing each jagged tracing and hastily-corrected spelling error in meticulous detail to his memory banks.

Then, he noticed the small, compressed addition in the corner of the page. So densely packed he had initially mistaken it for an ink smudge.

P.S. Hope the cake doesn't taste shit.

> Cake?

Suddenly, a crash could be heard coming from the direction of the kitchen. A harsh collision of metal pans colliding against tiles, followed by an equally sharp expletive.

“Shit—!”

With his boyfriend located, the android set down the card, standing up with much greater urgency than he had sat. The cat beside him was not impressed. She grumbled as the foundation of her makeshift bed was unceremoniously rocked, batting a disgruntled paw towards the culprit.

Apologies would have to wait. For now, Nines was focused on a more pressing directive: ensuring Gavin was uninjured.

As he went to open the kitchen door, something jammed under the lip, resisting any movement. A firmer press cleared the obstruction, allowing him to proceed inside.

The scene that awaited him was chaos: the aftermath of a cataclysmic nuclear fallout, tangled with the wreckage of a hurricane.

Discarded pans and utensils were strewn across the room in all directions, originating from several drawers that had been left hanging open. Multiple were caked with the charred remnants of an unidentified substance, while others seemingly had been accessed only briefly before being immediately tossed aside.

In the centre of the carnage stood Gavin, unharmed but visibly distressed as he struggled to stir and coordinate the temperatures of numerous pots. His efforts were proving ineffectual, inspiring the prolonged mantra of profanity erupting from his mouth.

“Shit, shit , shit —”

The sequence was interrupted as a silicone spatula slipped from his hold, joining the rest of the debris on the floor. Gavin barely spared it a glance before diving back into his losing battle with the stove.

The smell filling the room was strange. Undeniably foul, but not in a way that seemed consistent with traditional cooking. It was distinctly artificial, like burning acrylic, making it all the more disconcerting when one of the receptacles began to hiss, bubbling over with a viscous blue fluid.

Nines’ sensors flagged the substance as inert—but hazardous if heated further. It was at this point that he chose to step in. Not wishing to undermine his partner's ability to handle the current situation, whatever it was, but concerned about potential splashback.

He approached the man, placing hands gingerly onto his waist before gently guiding him away.

Gavin yelped in response to the contact, a sound more startled than it was annoyed. The reason soon became clear. Earbuds blinked on either side of his head, a heavy drum beat and distorted guitar riff cutting through the plastic. Nines quickly identified the song, belonging to a band he listened to frequently.

“The fuck are you doing here?”

"It is nice to see you too," the android said smoothly, reaching around the man in order to switch off the oven.

Gavin didn’t notice, attention now fixed on the phone discarded on the countertop. He stabbed repeatedly at the screen, which vehemently refused to respond. Unsurprising, given his fingers, much like everything else in the room, were coated in a thick layer of batter.

“No, I just—”

The man paused, grunting in annoyance before begrudgingly conceding the attempt. Instead, he removed the earbuds, ripping them from his person and slamming them down with a dull thud. “I meant, what are you doing back so early? Connor must’ve bored you to tears; I thought you were going to see a movie.” “While I wouldn't say his company was boring,” Nines spoke firmly, but with a playful lilt that indicated no real admonishment, “I declined the invitation.”

The hands, which he had propped loosely on his partner’s waist, gradually crept forward. Fingertips hooked onto his pelvis before guiding it closer.

With their bodies near flush, the android nestled his chin into the stubbled crook of his neck. Breathing in the musky warmth, a gesture that felt instinctive. “It was becoming increasingly difficult, keeping away from you.”

Gavin retched at the sentimentality. Despite this, his body betrayed him. The tension held in his muscles dissolved as subtly, he inched back, closing any lingering gap between them.

There was a slight return to tension as his head fell back and his attention flitted apprehensively to the previously abandoned phone.

The screen was still active—and while extensive smudging meant the majority of contents were hidden, a small margin remained visible at the top. It displayed a navigation interface flanked by the Cyberlife logo:

THIRIUM-BASED CONSUMABLES → CONFECTIONARIES → PREPARATION INSTRUCTIONS.

While this confirmation had not been needed, Gavin still appeared upset by the discovery.

“This was supposed to be a surprise…” he grumbled despondently, a sharp asshole tacked onto the end of the sentence.

“And a lovely surprise it is.”

“Don't lie to me. That’s what moms say when their kids bring them soggy pancakes for breakfast.”

“I can assure you I am being sincere.” The RK delicately traced the raised bone of his hip, intending to comfort him. “The gesture shows a tremendous deal of consideration, for which I am grateful.”

“Yeah, well, ‘the thought’ is about all I've got to show for it.” Gavin threw up his hands, accentuating his dejection with a tense grunt. “It's pretty much all gone to shit…I'm no better with actual baking, I don't think I can save this.”

Nines hummed in consideration, a sound which reverberated against the shoulder now poised at his lips. “Perhaps if we combine our efforts, something can be salvaged.”

His partner didn't agree initially, clearly reluctant to relinquish control. Then, one of the pans started emitting a strange sizzling sound. As though the mixture was still cooking, despite the burner being inactive.

Gentle sizzles soon transitioned into ominous rumbles as the contents rose higher, forming a large bubble. Its surface pressure built, prompting Gavin to take a step back. Then it gave way, releasing a thick torrent of sludge, spilling over in all directions.

The substance, paradoxically both viscous and runny, ran down the counter until it pooled in gelatinous globs at their feet. The man let out a beleaguered sigh. Carding fingers through his hair, inadvertently painting it with streaks of blue.

“Fine. You win.”

The two set to work soon after, with Nines establishing the lead. He scanned his partner's phone, extracting the necessary data from the website URL. A set of instructions descended on his HUD, forming a transparent overlay which guided his next steps.

“The issue here is that the mixture is overactivated.” Nines gestured to one of the neglected pots, an assessment informed by the minimal crusting on its handle.

He reactivated the burner with a swipe of his thumb before shifting the pot into position. Leaning forward, his chest pressed towards Gavin, moulding to the firm contours of his back. Hips followed suit, just enough to brush lightly against his backside.

This contact did not go unnoticed. Gavin bristled under the touch, and the RK900 detected a notable hitch in his respiratory patterns.

He couldn't help but find satisfaction in this—both flattered and faintly amused that such small, fleeting contact could provoke such a response.

Feigning obliviousness, at least for now, he continued to busy himself with his preparation, explaining the process as he did so:

“Adding a thermoconductive compound will allow the mixture to heat evenly.”

“Uh-huh.”

Sifting through the discarded wrappers plastered to the worktop, he was eventually able to locate a small plastic sachet. He opened the seal, dumping the contents into the now simmering concoction. It fizzled on the surface before sinking, lending a vivid pigment to the previously dull blue.

“It needs to be stirred for about ninety seconds to bind everything together. Otherwise, it will fall apart during the baking process.”

“Right.”

The android might as well have been speaking gibberish, as the dull, monosyllabic responses made it clear the human was no longer listening.

His body spoke with greater substance—muscles twitching, responding ardently to their proximity. Blood pumped through swollen veins with notable urgency as his temperature soared, for reasons the RK900 quickly identified had nothing to do with the stovetop. He began to stir, redistributing his weight accordingly as he did so. With every shift in step, Gavin mirrored the sequence. Pushing back against him, meeting the ghosting friction with far more flagrant force.

The salacious dance continued until the android grew daring, dotting delicate kisses along the expanse of his neck, moving upwards until he had reached the shell of his ear.

“You can see now,” his voice was a purr, mumbled low and rich, as he nipped at the sensitive cartilage, “the mixture is thickening; this means the stabiliser has fully blended.”

Bites synced to the stirring before both began to slow—and ceased completely. Nines hummed in satisfaction, ensuring the sound pushed itself through the delicate canal of the human's ear, filling the space, lingering there with the promise of more.

“And that,” the conclusion sliced through the vibrations, causing Gavin to shiver, “is how it's done.”

With the task complete, the man abandoned restraint, eager to claim his prize for having upheld it so long. He pushed back, creating the space needed to reorientate himself. Nines allowed this, smirking coyly as he watched him swivel to meet his gaze.

He did so with a glare, eyes blazing with accusation and unfulfilled need. “You smug mother —”

He never finished the sentence, as Nines sought to resolve these grievances with the firm collision of lips.

Their mouths moved with a ferocity that spoke of pent-up yearning but also familiarity—melding in a seamless, practised rhythm, the result of innumerable passionate encounters.

Nines wanted more, the facade of indifference slipping fast as Gavin arched forward. Rocking their hips together and demonstrating, with no uncertainty, just how excited the prior teasing had made him.

The android gripped the edge of the counter, nails driving like chisels into granite, threatening to break it apart—a risk they could ill afford, given the already tumultuous relationship with their landlord.

Gavin repeated the action with a long, languid roll. It enraptured Nines' senses, consuming his mind and branding each synapse until nothing of his own remained.

He adored it, craved it like nothing else. To claim, and be claimed in return.

The yearning the man inspired in him proved difficult to contain. It was something he was teased about endlessly, through accusations that his libido was permanently unchecked—rendering him unwilling, or incapable—of keeping hands to himself.

A reputation well-maintained; his grip leaving the counter, small chips displaced from beneath his fingernails as he found his partner's body.

There was certainly an element of projection in Gavin's accusations, as he hardly fared better. No more resilient to the call of want. They both relished it, the constant skating between innocent flirtation and a headlong dive into ecstasy.

Their descent was delayed, if only for a second. The man pulled back with a rich chuckle, swollen lips curved into a grin. “So I guess this was the real reason you came home early? Horny bastard.”

Nines captured one of the hands balling into his shirt, pressing it gingerly to his lips, sealed with a tender promise.

"Only for you.”

He planted an equally chaste kiss on the corner of his lips before dipping in, returning to the previous show of passion. Pushing forward, driven by unbridled lust, until his tongue had explored every crevice of the willing mouth.

An appreciative groan rumbled in the man’s throat, vibrating between them with primal resonance. One which only inflamed shared eagerness, as Nines felt hips bucking against him in desperate pleas for attention.

He responded without hesitance, hands sliding to his partner’s waistband before deftly unclasping the belt. The leather fell to the floor, whipping back like a snake before settling into a coil. He kicked it aside, ensuring it would serve no further obstacle.

Gavin was also moved, albeit with greater consideration. Nines cleared the area of other potential hazards, deactivating electronics once again before bracing the man securely against the counter. His feet parted obediently, commanded by a firm kick to his ankles.

For a moment, Nines did nothing. Studying closely, permitting anticipation to build until it coursed in charged pulses between their bodies. Then he advanced, slipping smoothly between the outstretched legs.

Gripping at thighs, which clenched receptively under his hold, the android controlled his descent—dropping to his knees, mouthing the line of an increasingly strained fly. Its zipper was captured between his teeth, pulled with the same fluid precision that had been used on the belt. Clearly, it was a sight that proved utterly mesmerising. Gavin gawped, his breath hitching before he leaned in for closer inspection. “ Jesus Christ. ”

Nimble fingers gripped his pelvis. Digging in and dissuading movement, with the implicit threat that their fun would end were he not willing to respond. The man did so urgently; head snapped back to its original position.

His compliance was rewarded, and his jeans slid down. Following the tensed lines of calves until the fabric gathered in a heap at his heels.

“You’ve been so good to me, so thoughtful.” The praise was punctuated by fluttered kisses on burning skin. Tendons pulled tight as the strained muscle fought to clamp inwards. A reflex scarcely resisted by his partner.

Frustrated grumbles leaked from his lips, only quashed as Nines spoke again. With the same rich tenderness as before. “Let me take care of you. Show you, without any doubt, how grateful I am.” “It’s your birthday, dipshit.” Gavin opposed, albeit with a smug playfulness. “Really, I should be taking care of—” The remaining protest died on his tongue as Nines dipped inwards. Skimming thin cotton boxers caressing the man’s concealed hardness with targeted puffs of breath.

Gavin whined—a sound that rolled organically into a moan—as the clothed length was claimed. Caressed with practised skill, in conjunction with tongue and teeth. The latter was used sparingly, with just the right amount of pressure to goad responses from delicate nerves.

Nines expelled any pocketed air in his cheeks. Staring up at his partner, continuing to work him through the boxers. He was captivated by the wanton pants, the involuntary contortions of the man's face. Each gripped by pronounced tension, brought to break when cool lubricant seeped through fibres. Moving until it had struck the searing flesh beneath.

“ Fuck—! ” Gavin hissed, head flung back, as his hand fisted desperately into the back of the android’s scalp. “Nines, please.”

Elaboration was not required. The RK900 drew back, digits hooking beneath the tense elastic of boxers, pulling down in a fluid motion until no barrier remained.

The chill of artificial saliva was quickly negated as rushing heat claimed the hardness. Moving slowly, arduously, tongue swirled across it with painstaking meticulousness. Nines ensured every inch was coated, with nothing left to impede the full brunt of sensation. Only stopping when the tip had struck the back of his throat.

He allowed Gavin to indulge in the silken tightness before slowly pulling back, stopping just shy of the man slipping completely from his mouth. Then he pushed down again. Harder—throat filled with such effortless completion that his partner almost claimed a large clump of his hair.

“Holy shit. ” He arched his back, moving in shallow bucks against the pliant heat. Greedily pursuing more, seeking permission to make full use of his mouth. “You feel amazing.”

Permission was granted in the form of a subtle movement against Gavin’s thigh. Fingers flitted in a neat, circular motion as the android widened his jaw.

Gavin fucked into him with mindless abandon. Unchecked and untamed, in the security that Nines could not be harmed by the callous actions. Both hands held the back of his head, anchoring it in place. All the while, Nines pushed back against his thrusts. Allowing his nose to strike repeatedly against the dip of his pelvis, lost in a nest of tight curls.

“ Shit, god, fuck—”

There was no discernable pace or rhythm—just raw, animalistic need. The RK900 permitted it until the solid grip on his skull started to wane. The body spearing into him trembled precariously, as the room filled with the sounds of increasingly laboured and strangled pants.

Nines identified the flags. Warnings that their enjoyment would end preemptively if he did not re-establish control.

In ensuring his partner would not careen mindlessly and carelessly into completion, the android pulled away. Breaking what loose hold lingered in his hair.

“That is enough.”

Admonishment came with a steely glare as he grabbed one of the man's legs, forcing it to raise. He propped the calf against his shoulder before grazing the expanded canvas of flesh with his teeth. “I don’t want you to come—not yet.”

Gavin whined, but before further protest could emerge, the defiance was penalised.

Nines sunk into him. Firmly, with little restraint, in the knowledge that the action would undoubtedly leave a bruise. He continued further until the skin had almost been breached, and his partner was howling in pain.

The RK relented, if only so he could admire the spoils of his efforts—the deliverance of salacious punishment formed in deep, purpled indents.

“As you said, it is my birthday, and I intend on enjoying my presents for as long as I can. Does that sound like a reasonable request?”

The man said nothing. Trembling and writhing desperately, quivering lips unable to form words.

Nines punished him again, leaving traces wherever he could. The marks of his teeth had become a signature, ensuring there would be no doubt on who, precisely, the man belonged to.

“Answer the question.” “Yes.” The voice came strangled and broken. Almost like a cry, but with a husky lilt that signalled concealed pleasure. “It’s reasonable; I just, fuck, I wanna make you feel good…” Nines paused the charge. Instead, planting a soothing kiss against one of the deeper impressions. A gracious reward—appreciation for the obedience.

“So, will you continue behaving while I have my fun?” he questioned. “There's no reason why we can't both enjoy ourselves, provided you choose your next words wisely.”

Gavin swallowed a lump suspended in his throat. Exhaling shakily before nodding his head. “I’ll be good.”

Nines frowned, tutting in performative distaste, as fingertips brushed the bites. Applying pressure to neatly formed lines until they were crosshatched with crescent-shaped grooves.

“‘I'll be good’, and what else?” He challenged, watching intently as his partner squirmed beneath his grip. “You hardly sound convincing.”

Gavin’s eyes widened, anticipative of the impending punishment were he not able to correct his mistake.

Despite this, a mischievous glint passed the startled gaze. Suggesting no real opposition to the threatened consequences, leading the android to suspect he might goad it deliberately.

It was a notion that proved far more exciting than it did irksome, although Nines thought valiantly to conceal this. A performance he knew came to their mutual enjoyment.

Then he stood, returning to his full height. Lauding his impressive stature over his partner, his head tilted challengingly before he reached forward, gripping his jaw possessively.

“If you truly want this, prove it to me.” He squeezed, kneading the bone, punctuating each authoritative syllable that rolled off his tongue. “Because we both know that you can do better than that.”

Gavin paused, lingering introspection colouring his cheeks. The creeping protest of the man he was outside of this, bravado and pride pushed firmly aside in favour of yielding to Nines.

“I’ll be good for you, sir—please. I need this. Need you.”

“Much better.”

The human was manoeuvred once more, twisted like a doll until he was slumped against the counter. His face pressed down, arms sprawled loosely above his head, as his knees bowed under the pressure of increasingly unsteady weight.

Nines slid between them, ensuring his partner wouldn't collapse before being beckoned closer by the tempting slope of his back.

A hand slipped under his shirt, as well as the tie of his apron, exploring the reddened flesh. His synthetic skin unsheathed, sensors awakening to the familiar landscape of scars and moles.

He indulged in each, lost in a spectacle that was unmistakably Gavin. Then he travelled lower, tracing the tender curves that led to his groin.

He stopped just shy of capturing a neglected hardness, much to the chagrin of his partner. Then, fingertips skimmed his entrance, moved with featherlight tenderness, and the man promptly forgot his frustrations.

Gavin grappled to restrain himself, unwilling to give Nines any reason to stop. His hands clenched into fists as he arched further into the counter, hips trembling with the exertion required to keep them still.

“S-Shit.”

After a few more brushes, Nines receded. Reaching up to find Gavin's mouth, hung wanton and panting against the granite. He pried at the lower lip, teasing it with his thumb before increasing pressure, compelling it to sink.

“Suck.” Gavin did as instructed, capturing the digit in a wet seal and pulling it in.

The sounds he made were obscene. Low whimpers and heady groans, the epitome of lustful enthusiasm. He traced the lines of exposed chassis, mapping each groove and notch as though afraid they might disappear.

More fingers were added, the man greeting them with matched ardour. Nines waited until each was sufficiently coated, a metric determined by the feedback triggering synthetic nerves. Then he removed his hand, albeit with reluctance. Struck by immediate yearning for the heat that engulfed him.

The disappointment was fleeting, deferred by his drive to fill the absence. This time, with shared satisfaction. Returning focus to the junction between quivering legs, the RK900 pushed forward. Breaching the seal of the man's entrance with one of his fingers.

Gavin cried out, unable to suppress the call of passion coursing through his veins. He reached weakly for his partner. Imploring him to sink deeper, claiming his body in its entirety. The android denied the appeal. Opposing the motion, refusing to relinquish any modicum of authority. Using his available hand to anchor the man in place, the finger sheathed inside him curled . Striking the top of the delicate walls and dragging across with merciless force. “Just look at how needy you are. Utterly shameless.”

Another curl and Gavin fell apart. Clawing at the grimy foundation holding him upright, whimpering pitifully. Nines delighted in the struggle, enamoured by just how incredible his partner looked like this. So beautifully exposed—and vulnerable—just for him.

“You'll want to be prepared for what I intend to do with you. Now stay still and keep quiet.”

Nines was certain he heard the sharp crack of his jaw as Gavin clamped down on his lips. Teeth pressed firmly into chapped skin, threatening to pierce through.

He began to work him open. Pumping slowly, coaxing tight muscles to yield and relax, until they had adjusted fully to the intrusion. Then, another finger was added, moving in line with the first to stretch him.

They extended their reach, increasing pace until they struck a familiar point deep within the man. One that caused his body to seize and head to roll.

The excursion required to keep silent became more apparent, spilling in large droplets down his temple. Nines struck the point again, fingers formed in a subtle V. Expanding gradually, pulled apart with torturous slowness.

“N-Nines—! ”

The utterance had been accidental, cursed as quickly as it emerged. Gavin winced, his bleary eyes brought to focus, filled with dismay as the android halted. Denying further stimulation and teetering on the brink of detachment.“I thought I told you to stay quiet.” “I know, shit — I’m sorry—wait.” The protests were clumsy and disordered, half-formed in desperation. “I’ll be quiet, I swear. Just, please don’t stop—”

“Why shouldn’t I?” The fingers lingered for a final, excruciating caress before they withdrew. “I think it would be rather entertaining to leave you here. Writhing, whimpering, begging for release that only I can provide.”

“Don’t you dare.” Desperation twisted into anger, the pleading replaced by something sharper, more incensed. “I said I was sorry, you plastic asshole.”

Nines did not receive the insult graciously. His hand shot to Gavin’s scalp, weaving clumps of sweat-soaked hair into a fist before wrenching back.

He leaned down, growling in low vibrations against the taut skin of his neck. Metallic reverberations rippled across it, chasing the frantic beat of a pulse.

“You will be sorry; I’ll make sure of that.”

His slacks were removed, practically torn from his body in a fervent motion. Underwear followed suit, with both garments left discarded at his feet.

Gavin attempted to glance back, enticed by the dull thump of clothes against tiles. In turn, Nines found his ass. Gripping tight, warning him not to proceed with the current motion.

The man whined but complied nonetheless, as his head slumped weakly back to position. He was dazed, desperate, unable to do anything but hump ineffectually at the cabinets in front of him.

Despite the failure of his attempt, the android ensured his disobedience was reprimanded—penance inflicted in an open palmed strike against raised flesh.

A searing imprint bloomed, raw and welted over marks already etched by nails.

“I'm going to fuck you.” His tone was lofty, dripping with entitlement that framed the intimacy as a courtesy. “Precisely as I see fit.”

It was all for show. They both knew just how deeply he craved their connection. Driven by the same insatiable madness as the man caged beneath him.

Nines aligned his hips, teasing a trail between mottled cheeks before pressing forward—applying steady pressure, breaching the taut resistance until silken walls enveloped him. Clamping down with such precision that they felt melded to his skin.

The delirium it inspired overwhelmed him, and Nines felt his systems falter. His vision was fractured, distorted by a kaleidoscope of flickering mosaics.

Sight eventually returned, but his grip on reality remained blurred—tethered only to Gavin. Every jitter of limbs and quiver of muscle felt so acutely that they could be mistaken for his own.

Once he was confident the man was ready, he moved, each drive laden with growing passion. Gavin wasn't delicate. He would not break beneath the exertion. Something made clear from the beginning of their relationship.

He wanted this. Rough and consuming in a way that surpassed any human. Frequently breaking down in the height of passion—crying, begging that the android use him to his fullest ability.

Which Nines did, albeit with a sliver of restraint. Ensuring the man would still be able to function adequately in the days that followed. A well-practised formula, precisely calibrated, that was being pushed to its limit.

Gavin was all but screaming. Wild and remorseless. Demanding full attention, making it difficult to focus on anything else. Nonetheless, Nines persisted, each thrust sending tremors through the counter, scattered utensils trembling as if gripped by an earthquake.

“God, yes— holy shit, baby , keep going —”

Nines no longer insisted the man stay quiet. It was an undesired restraint; now they had reached this stage of intimacy.

He wanted to hear him, to know precisely the pleasure inspired by each slap of skin. To hang onto each strangled octave as the man fell apart on his cock. A particularly brutal thrust caused Gavin to stagger as his lax grip slipped from the counter.

Arms flailed haphazardly in his struggle to keep himself upright, as Nines noted that—in his effort to clear the area of hazards—one had been missed.

A glaring oversight, leading him to curse his own negligence.

The wooden spoon, protruding from their finished cake mix, was catapulted from the pot, clipped by sprawled fingers. It spun through the air, grazing the RK900 across the ear as he smoothly ducked to avoid it. The wayward utensil was then halted by a nearby wall, which it struck with a dull clatter.

The pot, also displaced, teetered on the edge of the stove. It tipped precariously, with no time to stop the inevitable. Then it fell, with a resounding crash, contents fanning across the tiles in a cobalt halo.

Nines pulled Gavin back, attempting to spare him from the worst of the fallout. Despite the effort, glossy freckles splattered their way up his leg—with one particularly agile splash streaking the line of his jaw.

The man blinked, stunned periodically, before moving to wipe his face with a terse grumble. This only succeeded in spreading the mess, which now fanned into the conch of his ear. Slipping free from his blissful warmth, Nines reoriented their bodies. While initial analysis suggested the man was unharmed, he wanted to be sure. Advanced analytics checking for any minor scalds or concealed abrasions, that he may have missed from his previous view.

“Are you okay?”

While Gavin was able to tolerate the android's tendency to fret, there were limits to how much he’d endure. Ones that were reached as he swatted the hand delicately tracing his forearm. “Yeah, yeah. I'm fine. Just—”

Their bodies had been apart for a matter of seconds when the absence of security backfired. In his resistance, Gavin stepped back, breaking the circle of hazardous spillage. He lurched on the film, and his leg flung out, suspended precariously.

Before Nines could move to steady him, the counter was rediscovered in the search for support. This proved a mistake as his palm settled into a thick puddle of gunge, squelching audibly.

His limb was retracted, and Gavin grimaced at the gelatinous streaks trailing his skin. They clung stubbornly to every available line and crevice, mocking hopes of an easy cleanup.

“Maybe we should move this to the bedroom…before they ship me back to Pandora.”

If there was one benefit to be found in the unfortunate development, it was that Nines—for the first time since their intimacy escalated—could see his face.

The scrunched nose, with wrinkles gathering pockets of batter. Downturned lips, twitching disdainfully in a way that proved both amusing and endearing—

Really, this summed up the overall sentiments he had toward his appearance. Completely ridiculous. The visual encapsulation of every mistake made to this point. There was something disarmingly real about it; every imperfection laid bare.

It was too much, as Nines found himself powerless to hold back. Irresistibly and maddeningly attracted.

Given prior caution, he surprised even himself with the ensuing actions. Unwilling to accept a delay in resuming passion, branding their arduous surroundings as a minor obstacle.

If anything, there was an element of appeal to be found in it—the unpredictability of a situation driven almost entirely by carnal impulse and manufactured urgency.

“I don't think that will be necessary.”

Hands returned to their desired position on the human. Claiming his waist, as their bodies were pulled flush once again. Unresolved need pulsing between their legs—moved in a tight roll of hips. “Allow me to assist.”

Gavin was hoisted upward as though he were weightless. His legs left to dangle limply over the tiles as a surprise grunt briskly transitioned into a low growl of approval.

Ankles curled around Nines' midsection, with arms following suit. Locked around his collar, streaking the starched white with large amounts of thirium.

Nines was far from concerned, deftly manoeuvring the drag marks left by floundering feet as he carried his prize further into the kitchen. A more attractive location was established along the wall, which led to their balcony.

He propped Gavin against it, ensuring his back was supported. The man scoffed, smirking knowingly, as he extended an impish show of gratitude.

“Such a gentleman.” The crooned tone was punctuated with an exaggerated bat of lashes. Then coyness petered off, in line with the lustful gaze which drifted to his lips.

“...You’ve got me right where you want, tin can. What are you gonna do about it?”

Gavin knew all too well what this shift would inspire. How the low vibrations of his tone, dripping with lust and rolling with richness against his partner’s face, risked sending him into a frenzy.

Nines released his own lustful emission in the form of a charged, static rumble. The auditory intoxication, coupled with the dishevelled appearance of the man draped over him, proved impossible to resist.

He re-entered him without warning, and it wasn’t long until their previous pace was resumed. A cascade of long, rampant slams—deceptive in their brutishness—as every stroke was carefully measured, inching him closer to release.

Gavin soon became swept by a rising tide of euphoria. His eyes rolling back into his head, jaw hung slack, salacious droplets gathering on his lips.

His hardness was trapped between them, the force of each dizzying thrust levying it with friction. Despite this, swollen flesh twitched restlessly, awaiting release from coiling pressure.

Nines knew exactly the push required to achieve this. Encouraging the man to roll his head laxly to the side until cloudy sights met with the mirrored glass of their balcony door.

“Just look at you; so good for me.”

He delivered the praise slowly, drawing out every syllable in line with a strategic slowing of pace. Hips began to roll in long, exaggerated curls. Blatantly performative, as he noted fraught muscles clamping around him with renewed intensity.

“I could do this all day. Loving you, fucking you— ruining you for anyone else. Again and again until you are incapable of anything but screaming my name.”

Gavin chased their reflections, visibly entranced. The sight, combined with the slew of filth spouting from the android's lips, ultimately tipped him over the edge.

His body tensed, trapping Nines in a crushing vice; his euphoria peaked with a strangled cry. He bucked forward, release spilling in thick ribbons against lightly freckled skin.

His rhythm was lost, cognition slipping, as Nines speared into the tightness with frenzied, discordant jerks. Then it was over. His own climax reached, filling the body that gripped him until it could not be contained—leaking down his thighs.

Gavin continued to tremble, vibrations gripping his every nerve until his release finally tapered. Then he fell still, slumped weakly against the android's shoulder.

“ Jesus... ” He gasped hoarsely, struggling to catch his breath. “That was fucking incredible.”

Nines hummed in agreement. Revelling as soft strands of hair brushed against his clavicle. Leaning down, breathing in the familiar musky scent. “Far more gratifying than a trip to the movies.”

“Well, shit. Don't tell Connor that. I can hear his heart breaking from here.”

“Unusual for you to express concern for my brother. I fear you might be warming to him.”

The playful rapport was swiftly abandoned. Gavin grimaced, bristling in fervent opposition to the suggestion. “I just don't want to deal with his mopy ass skulking around the precinct. That’s all.”

Nines had never been so thoroughly unconvinced by a defence. Nonetheless, he accepted it. Carding fingers indulgently across the man’s scalp, slicking back strands plastered to his forehead, peppering kisses in their stead.

Biometric sensors were triggered, detecting more than sweat clinging to his temple. There was another—distinctly artificial—composition present, now leaking into his inputs.

One that he responded to strangely, evident in how Gavin pulled back, studying his face. Sights locked to his mouth, which Nines suspected was now painted with cool-toned flecks.

“Ahh, sorry about that,” he grumbled. “Some of that gunk must've got onto my—”

The sentence trailed off with a clipped wheeze as Nines planted a thumb between stained lips. Sweeping inwards, scooping the fluid through the gap before removing the remnants with a gentle flit of his tongue.

All the while, he stared at Gavin. Beckoning him to watch as the digit lingered longer than necessary. Accompanied by a low, rumbled hum as it emerged spotless.

Depraved cogs of reasoning whirred beneath the man’s clouded gaze. Contesting the limitations of his physicality, deciding whether or not he could engage in a ‘Round Two’ so close to the first.

The spent body ultimately succeeded over the willing mind. Instead, he enquired about the fluid that had just been ingested. “How does it taste?”

Nines paused, allowing the material to linger on his taste buds for a moment longer before swallowing back. “Polyethylene, with a subtle hint of cinnamon.”

Gavin did not seem concerned by the lacklustre feedback, with the RK900 uncertain if he had even registered it. He appeared far more entranced by the prospect of leaning in, claiming a stolen kiss from a now unblemished canvas.

And so, he did. Slow and lingered. Indulging in the pliant yield of lips before tilting back, parting with a contented hum:

“Happy Birthday, Nines. I'm sorry about the kitchen…and the cake…and your jacket.”

“I'll be sure to forward you the bill for my dry cleaning,” the android rebuked before abandoning the playfulness in favour of something more sincere: “It is quite alright. Although, can I suggest we take a shower? There seems to be a fairly large amount of ‘cake’ lodged in my ear.”

#dbh #detroit become human #dbh nines #reed900 #dbh gavin #dbh fanfiction #dbh fanfic #gavin reed x rk900 #dbh fic #rk900

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