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bratbby333 · 5 months

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i will possess your heart – satoru gojo

-this story contains very heavy nsfw content! please read at your own discretion!-

𓆩ᥫ᭡𓆪 content warnings dead dove fic- heavy stalking, violent obsession, manipulation, forced voyeurism, forced exhibition, drugging, mentions of blood, knives, use of restraints, plot twist, extreme dub-con 𓆩ᥫ᭡𓆪 synopsis for as cocky as Satoru is, it’s oddly fitting. in his mind, everything belongs to him, including you. 𓆩ᥫ᭡𓆪 word count 8k

Satoru fumbled with a tripod as he positioned his camera onto the stand and proceeded to hit record. He was thorough, making sure his chair was perfectly centered before he sat down, staring at himself in the viewfinder while he fussed with his hair, inhaling deeply. A wide grin cut across his face before dropping back into lackluster neutrality. He looked down at his lap, his fingers ran up and down his denim-clad thighs. He snapped back onto the camera blank-faced before a deranged smile pulled at his cheeks.

Click

January 16th, 4:06 AM

I woke up drenched in the feeling of lethargy again—another night of only an hour’s worth of sleep. Nothing feels real when you hit a certain point. I’m plagued by the shadows, my entire life enshrouded in darkness. I don’t remember what things were like before. Day by day, it’s all the same. I cannot escape it—this anchoring feeling of despair. The emptiness eats away at me. I’m in search of release…of some sort of freedom from this pain. I need to fill my life with meaning, to find purpose in this accursed world…I think I’ll go out for coffee today. People watching brings me so much joy. They seem to live much happier lives than me.

Click

January 16th, 6:38 PM

My daydreams must’ve blended into reality because there was no way I created someone as beautiful as she was outside my imagination. I’m certain of it. She was sitting at the bar of the cafe down the street from my apartment, dressed in business casual—she probably works nearby. How kismet. The coffee was bland, as were most things in my life, but she awoke something in me. I hope I see her again. She somehow managed to clear the cobwebs around my heart. I think my life has finally found purpose. She is my driving force. I wonder what her name is.

Click

January 19th, 6:11 AM

Feeling well-rested today. Four hours of sleep is my new record. I plan to go to the coffee shop again. Back to the place where my eyes were first blessed with the mirage of her…where I first fell in love. I hope she’s there. People are so fun to observe when they don’t think they’re being watched…it’s simple psychology. The Hawthorne Effect. When humans notice they are under observation, they change. So inauthentic. But her? She never notices. She sits so obliviously, allowing me to take her in with ease. So good to me. She’s a breath of fresh air. I hope to work up the courage to speak to her soon. My heart soars at the mere thought of being in her presence once again. It’s so refreshing to feel something after all this time. I’ve been numb for so long, but she has set my heart on fire. She is everything to me, my sole purpose for existence.

Click

January 19th, 8:27 PM

I saw her again today. She didn’t see me. Just how I like it. She typed away on her computer like normal…she’s a hard worker, it seems. Driven and strong. And here I was thinking such beauty was a thing of legend. It's refreshing to have been proved wrong–that rarely happens. Oh, how I crave her. I know she’d make me feel whole again. She can save me from all this, I can feel it.

Click

January 23rd, 5:13 AM

Only two hours of sleep tonight. But, for some reason, I feel better than ever… I normally do when I find a reason for living, again. It’s her…it must be because of her. She keeps me going; my muse, my inspiration. She’s worked wonders on me already and she doesn’t even know it, yet. I’m going to the cafe again today, I cannot wait to see her. Maybe today I will finally speak to her.

Click

January 23rd, 9:53 PM

She never showed up today…I wonder what’s going on. Maybe she had other things to do. It’s fine, really. I’m annoyed, honestly. I waited around all day. I’ll keep checking until I see her again.

Click

January 28th, 7:06 PM

My sweet girl has gone missing. I haven’t seen her in quite some time now. This is just ridiculous. The woman I love…is she avoiding me? No, no that cannot be.

Click

February 2nd, 8:31 AM

I haven’t slept well in days. I’ve been awake for twenty six hours now…my mind feels like it’s filled with static and yet, I feel sharper than ever. I’ve gone to the cafe every day. Still no sign of her. I’m slipping back into my old ways, the darkness is going to return any moment. I’ve begun to hear the laughter in the shadows again. They’re making fun of me, I just know it. I need her…oh, I need her so bad. How could she do this to me? Does she not know how much I suffer when she’s not around? If I don’t see her again soon, I will never recover.

Click

February 5th, 6:21 PM

I finally saw her again today. My heartrate spiked and I nearly leaped from my seat to kiss her, to hold her, sway her side to side in a deep hug. Instead, I slipped a tracker into her purse as I walked by her chair. I must know where she works, where she lives, and what she enjoys in her free time. She slipped away from me so easily…can’t let that happen again. I need to know every little thing about her. She is my one and only after all. It would be ridiculous to love someone so deeply and know nothing about them. She is too beautiful, I cannot let her wander around unsupervised. There are some crazy people out there—you never know what could happen. I can’t lose her. I must keep her safe. I will possess her heart. No one else can have her but me.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.

Satoru observed her for months, shadowing her all around town. He knew the woman’s routine like the back of his hand, before he ever learned her name. Sunday’s she went grocery shopping, Monday after work was her pilates class, every couple of Thursday’s she was at the nail salon, and Friday’s were seemingly payday–he picked up on her pattern of going out to nice restaurants every other week. Satoru eventually got an upper-level management position at a company that shared the office building with her job–he is incredibly intelligent and overqualified, after all; they would be foolish to not hire him. Now he could really keep an eye on her.

That was when he finally learned her name–the two of them taking the same elevator. She didn’t recognize him as the man who seemingly had the same routine as her–it’s one of the many reasons why Satoru loved her so much: her naivety. She looked into his eyes for the first time that day, her voice was soft and angelic, and the name that fell from her lips sent waves through Satoru’s body, the same name that would now be coupled with his gasping moans every evening as he stroked himself to the thought of her.

With Satoru’s new job that brought him one step closer to her, he knew he could no longer watch her in the way he used to. His movements had to be more calculated, putting more distance between them than he normally would or hiding behind the deep tint of his car windows. If she saw his face too frequently, she surely would have caught on. Satoru smiled at the possibility of her never catching on…how she’d greet him with a smile and a friendly hug each time they “coincidentally” bumped into one another, giggling about their lives' odd synchronicities. Such a sweet girl. If only she knew.

He stopped into her job, a small gift bag hanging off his slender fingers, desperate to watch her eyes light up with the sweet gesture of an unexpected gift. He asked to see her, only to be informed by the receptionist that she had the day off.

It was no worry, he didn’t let that dull his excitement. “I’m a friend of hers, brought this in to surprise her. Do you mind showing me to her desk, I’ll just leave it there for her when she returns to work,” he said kindly. The lady working the front desk blushed under his piercing gaze and handsome features, nodding shyly and walking him to his lover’s designated area.

Satoru thanked her, stepping into the cubicle to place his gift by her computer. His eyes glazed over her workspace. It was decorated with trinkets and family photos. He picked one up, his thumb tracing over her face. His pretty girl. That smile could bring about world peace; it definitely quieted the angered voices in his head. He scanned her desk, a moment of envy shooting through him at the thought of her dainty fingers dancing over the keyboard rather than tangling in his hair. He groaned internally, looking over his shoulder to ensure no one was around, before ducking down, rummaging through his beloved’s drawers. Stowed away in the bottom of the unit was a fuzzy, white cardigan. He brought the fabric to his nose, inhaling deeply, stifling the filthy moan that nearly echoed through the cubicle. He quickly tucked it into his jacket, took one last look around, and headed toward the exit.

In the safety of his vehicle, Satoru whipped the clothing out from under his wing, bringing it to his face once more. He undid his belt buckle with haste, shoving his dress slacks halfway down his thighs before his large fist swaddled his cock with the fuzzy white cardigan. He nearly sobbed at the contact, the smell of his car filling with her beautifully floral perfume. He brought the free edge up to his nose, taking another whiff as his hand worked furiously against his shaft. He had never finished so quickly in his life, staggered whimpers and choked moans fell from his parted lips as fat ropes shot up onto his abs and chest. His cheeks were flustered a violent red as he wiped his sticky shame away with her top. After he came, then did his clarity, and Satoru’s body ached with the thought of how good it would feel to finally be sheathed within her sticky walls, rather than her soft clothing. I’ll be with you soon. Soon, my love.

These feelings were getting unbearable. His overactive brain had him teetering on the edge of insanity. He needed more. His imagination was no longer enough to satiate the hunger that gnawed so deeply in his core, the distanced watching and hopeless longing for the love of his life created jagged rifts in his already damaged psyche. He didn’t know how much more of this he could take. A few deep breaths and the promise he made to himself to take action soon quelled his burning desire. But for how much longer could Satoru repress the demon that clawed through his body?

Satoru surveyed her while she ran to the bank, walked her dog, or took her car to the wash. But his most favorite place to watch her was from the bench just outside her bedroom window, engulfed in darkness. Pretty girl lived on the second floor, her silly little brain assumed she didn’t need curtains. She never saw him, but he always saw her. All of her. Drinking in the way her clothes were delicately removed from her pretty little frame, the way she turned and posed in the mirror–so good to him. How her skin glistened after she got out of the shower, the water droplets running along her body in the same way Satoru wanted to.

He fell into a state of bliss, feeling spoiled by the show he was getting tonight. The lotion that she worked into her body, the beautiful set of lingerie that she dawned. His eyes buzzed around his sockets, elation flooding through him. Gorgeous, gorgeous girl. But his body went rigid and his jaw locked tight at the appearance of another man behind the love of his life. He sat upright, shoulders stiff and heart pounding in his ears at the thought of his sweet being in danger, he cursed himself for not being more aware of her surroundings on her behalf. But when his darling girl turned to the unknown man with a smile, greeting him with a gentle kiss with the lips that were supposed to be just for Satoru, his heart shattered into a million pieces.

Oh, no. This just won’t do, my love. You are mine.

Jealousy coursed through his veins while he looked into her room, rage balled in his fists as he watched a random man have her in the one way Satoru couldn’t. Not yet, at least. He must’ve been new in her life, judging by the way his nervous hands explored every part of her skin. Satoru laughed at this–he knew he could please his woman so much better. But betrayal nipped at the back of his neck; how could she do this to him? Had his loyalty fallen on unappreciative shoulders? No, that couldn’t be. Satoru knew she was better than that, he picked her for a reason, after all. She was just playing hard to get.

You rejected my advances and desperate pleas, and now you throw your relationship in my face. It’s punishment enough that I can’t have you, but I won't let you let me down so easily.

Feeling at a loss, swallowed whole by his hungered desperation, he did what any rational person would. He moved in next door.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.

Satoru Gojo was your next-door neighbor. He moved in only a few months after you did. You were elated, chalking it up to a lucky roll of the dice that you had met by chance at your job; he had started working for the company that shared the office park with yours. It really seemed like things were on the come-up for you. He was kind, confidently intuitive, funny, and supportive. Mildly egotistical, but it worked for him. He always invited you over for dinner and movie nights and was a strong, dependable shoulder for you to cry on. You had just moved to the city, feeling utterly lost and absolutely gutted about being so far from your support systems now, and he was your first friend. You felt safe knowing he was just a wall away.

On a random Sunday, you opened your front door to see all the food you loved sitting at your doorstep–weird, you were just about to leave for the store. You turned your head, seeing Satoru peeking out from his cracked door, grinning at you.

“Was this you, Satoru? You didn’t have to…this is incredibly thoughtful,” you beamed, stepping over the grocery bags to give him a tight hug. “You’re the best, I don’t know how I could ever repay you.” But Satoru did, he knew exactly what you could do for him.

When you needed a ride to work, he jumped in to save you. The two of you worked in the same building after all. It was a crazy coincidence that your new neighbor turned best friend worked just a few floors above you. It’s such a small world, isn’t it? But it worked out perfectly for the two of you.

There was a month where you were short on rent, and there was Satoru, paying the rest on your behalf.

You weren’t catching on. Sweet, naive girl. Oh, how he loved you. I need to work harder to get her attention.

Satoru was not a patient man, but for you, he would do anything and everything to get you right where he wanted you, expertly playing the long game. It began with the fated sighting of you sitting in a cafe, and snowballed into something bigger. At first, he only ever observed you, maybe the minor occasion of overstepping, but as time went on, he couldn’t sit idly by. It was time to make his move.

His disruptions in your life started inconspicuously. Leaving for a date? You found your car tires slashed and windows shattered in the parking deck. Now there’s a police investigation. Bummer…gotta cancel the date. Had a guy over? Satoru’s apartment flooded. Weird… that was the second time this month.

“You gotta talk to the landlord about this, ‘Toru,” you sighed. He had to stay at yours that evening.

You cried on his shoulder, telling him that some guy stood you up on a date you had been anticipating for weeks. There was an electrical fire in that man’s apartment that night. Must’ve been faulty wiring...or something.

His apartment flooded again. He was back at your door. You welcomed him with open arms, of course. He’s so good to you, the least you could do is help him out, as well.

Satoru, you’re slipping. That’s too many times in one month. Ease up or she’ll catch on.

Friday night, in a wild happenstance, he bumped into you while you were out with another man, enjoying a nice dinner together. He smiled warmly at the two of you, before politely dismissing himself. His cheery smile dropped into a demented grin once he stepped out of the restaurant as he anonymously called in a bomb threat to the establishment. You were so shaken up at the entire ordeal you practically begged Satoru to stay with you that night. He’d be a fool to turn you down.

Satoru got everything he wanted. You were just a tough nut to crack, is all. No big deal. He loved a challenge. After all, how could you not love him by now?

But nothing was working. You couldn’t catch the hint, even with everything he threw at you. He was always the one there for you, even when you weren’t aware of it. What more could he do to prove that he was the only person you needed? I’m reliable, witty, and loving… how can she not see this? He finally snapped. The last straw? Hearing your pleasure-filled cries while getting fucked by another man, your “boyfriend”. The lewd sounds ricocheted around your room, shooting through the thin walls of your apartment and straight into his listening ears.

Tsk, tsk. Now you’ve done it. Always been such a tease.

For as cocky as he was, it’s oddly fitting. In his mind, everything belonged to him, including you. And with that, his demented plan was in full effect. He had hoped to spare you, prayed that you would fall in love with him before he lost his composure completely. But your sweet, naive nature had proved to be a difficult wall to break down.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.

Click

The sound of your front door’s lock disengaging echoed through the empty hallway. Satoru stepped in, inhaling deeply as he shoved your house key into his back pocket. It was far easier to gain access into your home than he had originally anticipated; he was fully prepared to break in, but all he had to do was tell your landlord you went out of town and you forgot to leave a key with him before you left. The manager of your apartment complex knew how close you and Satoru were, so it was an easy lie to tell. But it couldn’t have been further from the truth. You weren’t out of town, he wasn’t house sitting, and you had no intentions of having company this evening.

Seated at your desk, he opened your laptop and navigated his way to your iMessage settings, ensuring you could only send and receive texts from your laptop. Clicking on the messaging app, he stifled the gag that threatened to escape his throat as he clicked on the thread between you and your boyfriend, his contact name “my love” in your phone. He rolled his eyes, before drafting a quick text:

-Hey, baby. I have a half-day at work today…dinner and wine at my place tonight? ;)

He grinned at the quickness of your boyfriend’s response.

-I would love that. What time, my love?

Satoru scoffed at the pet name. He doesn’t deserve to call you that. Poor bastard needed to learn his place. Heat rose in his chest, jealousy emanating through his skin as he crafted his response.

-3pm…Can’t wait to see you.

Everything was going according to plan. Satoru glanced at the clock beside him: 11:17 AM. It was time to get set up, he had a big day planned for you, and his first guest would be arriving in a few short hours.

A knock rang through the apartment as Satoru finished lighting his final candle. He smiled wide, sauntering over to the door. He swung it open, grinning politely at your boyfriend. “...Hey, man…didn’t expect to see you here…” he said warily as Satoru stood to the side and gestured him in, a quizzical look painted on your partner’s face as he stepped through the doorway. The door shut and the lock was reengaged. “Where’s…” but before he could get his question out, his chin was met with Satoru’s right fist.

Satoru made quick work of dragging his body upstairs. He dug through the unconscious man’s pants, pulling out his cellphone. Satoru was disgusted to see that you were his lockscreen. This pitiful man wasn’t worthy enough to be with you. He rolled his eyes, unlocking the man’s phone and sending you a text:

-Hey, beautiful. Come straight home tonight. I’m making dinner for us. See you when you get off work.

You smiled at the familiar ding of your phone, the notification effectively distracting you from your tedious paperwork. Your heart soared at the message, sighing deeply and shifting your weight around in your office chair. Your hand rubbed at your face in an attempt to hide your blushing cheeks.

“What is it?” your coworker asked.

“Oh, nothing. I thought my boyfriend forgot our anniversary cause I hadn’t heard from him all day…but he just texted me saying he’s at my place and is making dinner for us tonight.” A giddy smile couldn’t help but drag across your face.

Satoru looked at the clock: 3:28 PM. You would be home in an hour or so. Just a few more things had to be done, everything had to be perfect.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.

Your heart rate spiked as you got closer to your apartment door, keys jingling against your palm as you fumbled with the lock, excitement making your movements a bit clumsier than usual. You entered and kicked off your heels, and as you turned to toss your keys onto the small table in your foyer, you noticed a small card that said “Read Me” placed perfectly in the center of the tray. You were perplexed as your eyes scanned over the note. “Go to the living room” was all it said.

You blushed, a nervous smile pulling at the edge of your lips as you crept to the other room. Your eyes went wide at the sight; deep red roses were placed in the center of the coffee table and every accessible surface around the couch was adorned with beautifully flickering candles. Another note was on the table, your fingers fumbled with the edge of the card as you opened it: “Have a seat, take a sip, and press play.” You settled on the couch, noticing a glass of alluring red wine to the right of the roses. You took a few deep, fulfilling swigs of your drink before grabbing the TV remote. Your face twisted a bit, examining the glass in your hand, the flavor of wine different than the one you were used to. It was a special night after all, your thoughtful boyfriend must have wanted you to branch out this evening. Where is he, anyway? As you pressed play, you called out for him, only to be cut off by your own confusion as Satoru’s face appeared on your TV screen. You watched with perplexity as Satoru recentered his chair, smiled, relaxed his face, and then smiled again.

No…no, no, no. What is this? You were locked in place, the melodious sounds of Satoru’s voice cascaded out of your surround sound system. He looked different though, his eyes were dull and low, his voice monotonous–his alarming difference in demeanor sent a chill down your spine. Your groggy mind inferred that this must’ve been an accident. Maybe it was casted to the wrong TV. I shouldn’t be seeing this…these are Satoru’s video diaries.

You so badly wanted to tear your eyes away from the screen, this seemed like such an invasion of privacy. But you were entranced, staring intently toward the TV, though you didn’t really have a choice, your body was completely numb now.

“January 16th, 4:06 AM

I woke up drenched in the feeling of lethargy again—another night of only an hour’s worth of sleep. Nothing feels real when you hit a certain point…” you fought to keep your eyes open, to piece together what the hell was happening, until your body eventually succumbed to sleep.

When you finally came to, you were laid out on your bed, fully nude. Soft grunts lingered in the air as you worked your hardest to refocus your eyes, your head pounding. You shifted your weight onto your forearms, your neck straining as it felt like your brain was filled with lead, eyes searching your bedroom for the culprit of the moans. One glance to the left, a quick look to the right, before you stared straight ahead at the wall directly across from the bed. Your body lurched in fear as your heart sank, the source of the sounds now looking you dead in the eyes: The man you had been seeing for the past couple of months, gagged and tied to a chair, his bloodied face twisted up in agony.

You tried to call out for him. Your feeble attempts to drag your heavy body closer in order to console him were interrupted as the room was suddenly illuminated with the streaming lights of a projector. Your movements halted as you shielded your eyes immediately, the bright interruption feeling like a flashbang to your sensitive head.

“We didn’t get to finish my show and tell,” a voice spoke up from the dark corner.

“Satoru?? Wha…what is going on?” you cried out, tears spilling from your eyes while your hands attempted to cover your modesty. You tried your hardest to sit upright, your head spinning, unsure if Satoru was the culprit or your savior. Your body felt like it was anchored to the floor, your head throbbing with every word that tore through your chest.

“There’s no need for all that yelling, sweetheart,” Satoru grinned, crouching down next to you. You winced as his hand cupped the side of your face, his thumb brushing away the tears that trickled down your cheeks.

Click

Metal cuffs clamped down on your wrists before you could even register what was happening. A million unanswered questions spun through the room as you frantically searched through his blue eyes, hoping to find any sort of insight into the torment he was inflicting upon the two of you.

“This is what’s gonna happen, okay? I need you to listen to me.” His voice was sickeningly sweet, each syllable that left his lips more damning than the last as he dragged your limp body up the bed, securing your wrists to the headboard and angling your body toward the projected video on your wall. A crazed grin lit up his dull face as he raised his hand, pointing the remote toward the projector. “You’re gonna sit here and look all pretty f’me while you watch these tapes, and if you move, if you stop paying attention for even a second…” Your stomach churned at how gently he was able to give such vile instructions. He turned his attention towards your partner, the blade of a knife twirling through the slender fingers of his free hand, “...He’s dead. Understand, angel?”

You nodded reluctantly, unable to do anything else but comply with his demands. Your head was spinning, trying to digest the fact that this was the same person who had paid your rent and entertained your rants after a hard day of work. You listened as his voice continued to drabble over the static of the projector, recalling how bland that day had been until he saw your face. How he must’ve dreamt of you because there was no way your beauty could exist outside of his imagination. To you, it had been a normal Tuesday afternoon. To him, it had been the start of the rest of his life.

The longer you watched, the more the realization set in that the sweet gestures he presented to you were not out of the goodness of his heart, but from the darkness of his spirit, driven by his wanton lust. Your face was slack, eyes wide in horror. Disappointment crawled through your chest at your own naivety. How could I be so oblivious? So trusting?

Satoru’s eyes bored into the side of your face as he sat beside you, his hands rubbing deep circles into your bare thighs, pure elation shooting through his veins at his sweet girl finally having a look into his mind. The look of terror that painted your beautiful face made his heart leap with joy. Satoru’s giddy demeanor dropped as pained grunts emerged from the tethered man against the wall. He stood, closing the distance between the two of them, his fist encircling your boyfriend’s throat. You began to protest, to plead with Satoru to leave him be, but the rage that filled his eyes made you shut your mouth. “Uh uh…eye’s on the screen, my love.” Your head snapped back toward the videos, fat tears rolling down your cheeks as the muffled wailing of your boyfriend filled the room.

As the final video played, Satoru returned to your side, kneeling on the edge of the bed as he stroked the back of your head and rubbed at your cheeks. “Can’t you see all that I’ve done for you?” He grabbed your face, digging his fingers deep into the space under your cheekbones, forcing your lips into a pucker. “You belong to me, my love.” A deep growl rumbled through his chest, “You look so fucking beautiful like this.” He leaned down and crashed his lips into yours, his hot tongue bullying its way through your tight lips. Small whines echoed through your mouth and into his, and Satoru greedily swallowed up your sounds with ease. Whimpers of protest came from the wall across from your bed, but they were quickly drowned out by the wet sounds of smacking lips and battling tongues.

He broke away, a thick trail of spit still connecting the two of you. Satoru released your cheeks with a gentle shove, throwing his leg over yours to straddle you. He dropped his head to your neck, his white hair brushing against your skin. You winced as he licked a thick line from your collarbone to your ear. “I finally get to have you,” he whispered, nipping at your flesh, “You ready to give yourself to me, princess?” Your eyes widened in horror, your gaze affixed towards your boyfriend, blood trickling from the fresh cuts on his cheeks. Your head shook side to side, tears brimming in your eyes once more as your thoughts raced through your mind, causing a traffic jam in your throat. “I…no, I can’t…he’s…” Satoru’s palm covered your mouth, a groan erupting from the back of his throat as his eyes rolled deep into his skull. He sat back, staring down at you, his free hand running its fingertips between your breasts. “This has nothing to do with him…It’s just me and you now, my love.” Your head snapped up to stare at your captor as the rough pads of his fingers brushed over your nipples. A stifled moan teased the back of your throat, an exasperated look of fear in your eyes as you stared up at Satoru.

Your cheeks flushed as you held his gaze. He grinned back down at you before rolling the hardened bud between his fingertips. Your chest arched toward him, a shameful hum dancing from your lips as he played with you. A deep laugh erupted from the blue-eyed man at your unintentional reaction, his head thrown back with pure joy as he continued to pull at your nipples. He leaned into your neck once more, his teeth grazing the outer shell of your ear. “I knew it,” he purred, “Knew you wanted me, too. You were just playing hard to get, isn’t that right?” You shook your head once more, your words constricted in your chest. “N-no…I never wanted you,” you retorted, head thrown to the side, attempting to distance yourself from him, but to no avail. The weight of him anchored your lower half to the mattress while your tethered wrists held you in place.

A deep chuckle rumbled through Satoru, “So if I feel your pussy, it won’t be absolutely soaked right now?” A pathetic whimper escaped your throat as you shook your head furiously. The rolling motion against your nipples halted and his hand trailed lower down your abdomen. “Hmm…let’s see then, shall we?” he taunted, tracing your skin before rubbing your folds and dipping into your core. “I knew it…you’re fucking drenched f’me, sweetheart.” He shoved two fingers in, shallowly teasing your hole before withdrawing, bringing his sopping digits between your faces, turning his wrist as the dim light of the room illuminated the wetness, making it glisten ever so slightly. He examined them before meeting your fearful gaze. “Why did you lie?” He sucked his middle digit into his mouth, his tongue lapping hungrily at your sweet juices as his eyes fluttered shut. A hum emanated from Satoru as his other soaked finger pushed past your lips, “Here, have a taste, pretty girl,” his long digit dancing around your tongue. “So fucking sweet. You have no idea how badly I’ve been craving this.”

“I’ll ask you again, princess…Why’d you lie to me? I thought you were better than that,” he teased, an insincere pout twitching at his lips as he cradled your chin. Your body thrashed as his hands pawed down your body, plunging two fingers deep inside you again. Your back arched toward him, his knee between your legs was the only thing keeping you open for him. “I…It wasn’t..ahh!– I wasn’t lying…I–”. Your words fell on deaf ears as a wicked smile crept across Satoru’s face.

“Shhh…shhh my sweet girl, just lay back and enjoy,” he smirked as he crawled down your body, laying himself flat on the bed with his head nestled between your legs. Satoru’s body no longer shielded you from your boyfriend, your teary eyes darted across his face, a silent apology being sent his way. Small gasps escaped your lips as Satoru continued to pump into you, the tips of his curled fingers toying with your sweet spot. When you stared down at him, the look of pure desire peered back at you, the dampness between your legs skyrocketing at the sight. A scarlet dusting of shame brushed across your cheeks at your clear enjoyment of all this, even though it betrayed every natural instinct you had. His tongue darted out from between his lips, the tip circling your swollen clit as his fingers dipped in and out of you, his movements spurred on by his own desperation.

He was delirious, suckling against your clit while his fingers worked into you with fervor, moans and growls echoing through the room as he drank you in. You so badly wanted to break away, to console your boyfriend who had an unintentional front row seat to you falling apart on someone else’s tongue, but you couldn't bring yourself to stop him, his digits hitting spots inside you that you didn’t even know existed. Pleasure ripped through your body as a tightening sensation crept its way into your stomach. The rattling of your cuffs echoed through your bedroom as you fought against your restraints, desperately wanting to tangle your fingers in Satoru’s hair.

Your hips bucked toward his mouth, your body aching for release as your pelvis thrusted against his flattened tongue. You didn’t dare look away from Satoru, for you knew there was another set of eyes affixed upon the damning scene that was unfolding. He continued to hum and suck and pump into your core as you tightened around him, his slender fingers quickly coaxing your orgasm from your writhing body. Your eyes screwed shut as your gushy walls spasmed around his fingers, your release painting Satoru’s overly-eager face. He lapped at you some more, working you through your orgasm as he cleaned you up with his wickedly talented tongue.

A deep growl broke through Satoru’s chest as he removed his head from between your legs, the back of his hand dragging across his chin, catching the last of your release before he licked you off of him. He sat upright, craning his neck to look over his shoulder, “Hope you were taking notes,” a smug grin on his face as he addressed your watching boyfriend. He redirected his attention to you. “Did so good f’me, angel. Dreamt of that for so long…” he grinned, his tongue darting out to trace along his lips, hoping there was still some of you coating his face “...I could do that all fuckin’ day.”

Your shaking chest heaved as clarity settled into your mind. Satoru untethered your wrists from the headboard, shifting your body so that you were on your hands and knees, head positioned toward the wall your partner was leaning against. Strangled sounds rang from your boyfriend’s chest as you finally met his gaze. Humiliation prickling under your skin at the realization of what you had just done. But you had no time to dwell on it as Satoru repositioned himself on the bed.

“He’s gonna watch me destroy you, my sweet girl,” Satoru was kneeled behind you, lining himself up with your embarrassingly soaked entrance. He grasped your hips roughly, sinking into you in one fluid motion. You choked out a sob as you dropped your head in shame.

“You’re so pretty when you cry. He can’t help you…can’t save you. Go ‘head, keep cryin’ for him,” he cooed, his thrusts deep and slow inside of you. Jagged moans escaped your throat as the thick head of his cock brushed into your sweet spot. “He can’t make you feel as good as I do.”

He leaned down, reaching around to cradle your throat in his hand, squeezing tightly as he turned your head to the side, his sharp eyes running up and down your contorted face. “Can’t you see that you belong to me, how my poor heart aches for you? How badly I’ve needed you?” His thrusts were agonizingly slow but incredibly deep, the pressure in your tummy betraying your desire for this to stop. “That’s it, my love. Feel you clenching down on me…you’re getting off on this, aren’t ya?” His hips rocked deeper into you, the new depth had your hands clawing at the sheets of your bed as pleasure worked its way through your trembling body.

“He doesn’t treat you the way I do. He never will. No one is better for you than me, princess,” he seethes, his hand cupping your chin, holding your head up, “Now look in his eyes while I use you.” His pace picked up, pulling you back on to him with his anchored hand around your neck. A broken sob cut through your constricted throat as he fucked into you, the visceral sound of flesh smacking against flesh and whines and cries spun through the otherwise stiff air of your room. He palmed at the fat of your ass, pulling your body to meet his rough thrusts. A choked cry left your lips as you maintained eye contact with your boyfriend, crimson droplets running down his face, mimicking the pattern of your tears. You mouthed a silent “I’m sorry” to him before your eyes shut tightly, waves of sinful bliss pulsed through your body with every mean thrust of Satoru’s hips.

“Gettin’ so tight around me–f-fuuuck–you’re close, huh?” Your face contorted in shameful pleasure as you nodded, your back arching even more to take him deeper. “That’s it…c’mon, my love. Need you to cum on my cock,” Satoru begged, his voice airy as he got lost in your tight, sopping walls. “Show me how good I make you feel.” His words ricocheted around your head as the building pressure in your stomach finally snapped, your legs shaking violently as your orgasm ripped through your body, splattering onto Satoru’s thighs and the mattress below you.

A few more strokes met your dripping center before Satoru bottomed out inside of you, thick ropes of his pearlescent seed painting your spasming walls. He finally released his tight grip around your throat, your head dropping immediately as indignity plagued your trembling frame. He pulled out, spreading your cheeks as he leaned down, an animalistic growl pulling from his chest as he watched his cum dribble out of your pussy.

Satoru rubbed soothing circles into your lower back as you worked to regain your breath. “You’re mine,” he whispered. He unlatched the restraints from around your wrists, a coy smile tugging at the corners of his mouth at the purple bruises that marked your skin. He locked eyes with your boyfriend, a deranged smile dancing across his face as he reached for the discarded projector remote.

Another familiar voice flooded through the speaker, but this time it wasn’t Satoru’s. “...We broke up a few weeks ago. No, no. Really, it’s okay. She was kind of a bitch anyway.” Your pupils widened as you stared back at the man you had just been feeling sorry for minutes ago, rage mixing into the vast sea of emotions you were already feeling while you watched a grainy video of him snaking his arm around another woman’s waist. The two of them were laughing outside of his house before she leaned in to kiss him.

“My poor sweet girl.” Satoru’s hand brushed lightly against your cheeks, catching tears that you didn’t even realize had begun spilling out. “I didn’t want you to have to find out this way, but I didn’t have much of a choice, did I?”

There were a million other ways he could have broken the news to you, but that somehow wasn’t the most pressing issue at hand.

“An eye for an eye, right?” The same haunting grin that you’d grown to know all too well spread across his face again, his blue eyes slicing into your ex-boyfriend’s. “I can’t believe that my entire world was in the hands of someone so undeserving…” he redirected his attention back to you and recaptured your cheeks in his hands. He leaned down to meet your gaze, unexpected softness replacing his usual sinister demeanor. “What do we do now, baby? It’s your call.”

Your pulse was ringing through your ears. “My call?” your voice was reduced to a whisper as you repeated it back to him.

“I’m going to kill him either way, but I want you to tell me how.”

You pondered for a moment, still coming to terms with the chain of events that lead you to this one vengeful moment.

Satoru stood, sauntering over to your boyfriend, stooping down to his level while his hands hovered over his gag. “When I take this off, I don’t want to hear anything other than remorse come from that pathetic fuckin’ mouth of yours.” Your boyfriend’s eyes shifted towards you, then back to Satoru, as he nodded pitifully. The tie was pulled from his mouth. His words were broken, barely audible. “I’m -” he choked out. “I’m sorry, I -”

Your stomach lurched as a sharp smack met his cheek, the painful sound resonating through the room. “You can do better than that. You got one more try,” Satoru spat, his eyes burning into your ex-lover’s bloodied face as he wrapped his fist around his throat, jostling his head around in a fit of rage.

“Satoru,” you hardly recognized your tone let alone the thoughts that were racing through your head. The last few hours of your life had been a blur. The words you heard earlier made perfect sense now, “Nothing feels real when you hit a certain point.” You were officially at that point. “Satoru, don’t. Let’s just end this.”

It was the first time you’d ever seen the silver-haired man look surprised. His eyebrow raised, a mix of curiosity and amusement glinting in his eye. “Tell me how,” he repeated. “I need to hear you say it.”

You were in a dream. Nothing more than a figment of Satoru’s imagination, just like he had said. It was the only thing that made sense to you because there was no way any of this was actually happening.

“Rip his heart out,” your voice emotionless as you gazed toward the blue-eyed man. Satoru groaned deeply, his dick twitching at the sound of your pretty voice speaking his dark language. The same depraved grin pulled at the edge of his lips as he looked back at your ex.

“Well,” he smirked, “looks like it’s decided then…” Adoration swam through his ocean eyes as he looked back at you, “I knew I picked the right one.”

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.

Click

The lock of your front door unbolted as your bodies pushed through the door frame, giggling as four glasses of wine danced through your systems. Satoru wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you into a deep, passionate kiss. “Happy anniversary, my love,” he mumbled against your lips. His hands grasped yours as he led you toward the couch.

You nestled into the warmth of his chest, his arm secured around you while you gazed around the room. Your head spun from the wine-induced nostalgia that this day had inevitably brought on. You were still in the same apartment, only it belonged to both of you now. A blend of sentimental gifts decorated your bookshelf that the two of you had collected over the last year. A camcorder, pressed red roses, framed vacation photos, and the first set of diamond earrings he’d bought you stowed away in a heart-shaped jewelry box. But out of all of the memories that tied you together, there was one that stood out the most.

“Should we open it?” you whispered, drawing lazy circles into his shoulder.

You didn’t have to see his face to feel his smirk. He knew his girl and he knew her well. He stood wordlessly, retrieving a jar from the highest shelf. He presented it to you, a smug grin gracing his ethereal features, the same look that was permanently etched into your brain the night he got it for you.

“Be my guest, princess.” You unscrewed the lid, peering into the jar as the strong scent of formaldehyde tickled your nose. You smiled longingly into the container, the overwhelming feeling of love reverberating through your chest. There was something so beautifully poetic about Satoru’s limerence, the lengths at which he went to steal the heart of another in order to fully possess yours.

author note: im so sorry for not posting my sweets,, i had the worst case of writer's block and i was actively trying to work on six different WIPs...i was losing my mind.

this was quite the heavy fic to write...i hope i didn't scare anyone away with it lol

alsoooo!! sending out the biggest thank you to @remlionheart for forcing me to finish this...my editor, my co-writer, the love of my life ♡ ⋆｡˚

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dollfacefantasy · 2 months

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toji fushiguro x crybaby!fem!reader

cw: nsfw (18+), smut, p in v, dacryphilia, size kink, daddy kink

Thinking about the first time Toji lets his sweet, sensitive girlfriend ride him...

It happens around a month after you and him start dating. It's the first time you have sex. He hadn't had to wait that long to take that step since he was younger, but for you, he was willing to do it again.

He liked you a lot, and he also figured it'd be worth it. Not only were you beautiful, but your nature - sweet and shy, eyes always downcast with cheeks hot from timidity - made him crave the moment when he'd get to see you come apart. When your eyes would be rolled back in your skull, your lips parted and wet, those warm cheeks slick with tears rolling down them.

On the night you agree to go all the way, he offers to let you ride. He tells you it's because you'll have more control that way. He's a big guy after all, you'll want to set the pace. On top, you can decide how much you take and how fast you go. So you agree. It seems like the most logical choice in this situation.

In truth, he suggests the position for far more selfish reasons. Reasons that make themself apparent as soon as you finish swiping his swollen tip through the wetness of your folds. He suggested it for this view. You, sinking onto his shaft, forcing yourself lower while whimpering. He could see it all over your face in the way your brows were furrowed and your nose scrunched. The stretch of him inside you stung, but you wanted more of that painful pleasure.

He watches with lust blown pupils as you lower atop his thighs. Your cunt swallows each inch of his cock one by one, the walls squeezing around him a blissful massage. He can feel your slick leaking from you, dribbling down to his sack.

"Toji. It-" you start, cut off by your own whimper. God, your eyes were already brimming with tears. He has to restrain himself from blowing his load in that moment. "I can't move. It's too much."

The scarred side of his lips curves upward into a smirk. "Too much? But your pussy's takin' it so well, princess," he croons.

His hands find your hips, fingers wrapping around your waist and thumbs petting your skin in small strokes. He keeps you steady as you adjust to the thick length filling you up.

"It's too big. Can't do it," you pout, a droplet of water falling from your eye. Your lip wobbles and his dick throbs inside you.

"Yes, you can. Do you need some help?" he asks, gently mocking you.

You're quick to nod, no shame behind your agreement. Those hands on your midriff grip tighter and tenderly lift you up. And then they drop you back down.

He goes so slow, but from the sounds you're making, you'd think he was jackhammering up into you. You choke out moans and mewls while your fingers dig into the spheres of his shoulders, leaving little crescent indentations on the smooth surface of his skin.

"That's right, baby. Hold on tight. Daddy's gotcha," he grunts.

You were so fucking wet. Gushing down his length, marking the sheets beneath him with a darkened splotch of arousal. He keeps bouncing you in a steady rhythm. Your head had fallen back, leaving your throat exposed to him.

He takes the opportunity presented with no real hesitation. His mouth latches onto your neck and kisses the skin, licking at the warmth and nipping love bites onto the flesh. While he's doing this, the frequency of the lewd noises between your legs increase in frequency. You're starting to bounce yourself too now.

More whimpers fall from your lips in between hiccuped sobs. He watches in awe. This is why he wanted you to ride. He could be involved and control things when needed, but he could also watch you fuck yourself dumb.

You keep rising and falling, bouncing up and down on his lap. Tears pour from your eyes as if they're coming from an endless reservoir.

"Atta girl," he murmurs, his hands sliding up to your breasts. He pinches and tweaks your nipples, savoring the extra whines it brings out of you. He watches the little buds perk up, almost calling out to his mouth to engulf them.

"Am I- 'm I doin' good?" you whimper, pulling his attention upwards.

"Mhm, doing great. You keep bouncing on daddy's lap. We gotta break in that cute little cunt, yeah?" he says. Not that you notice it, but he grins. Of course you wanted his approval. Just like when you'd take him to the mall with you and come out of the fitting room in a new skirt to show off, you wanted to know that he thought you were doing something right.

You nod, your eyes bleary from tears and the mental fog you were fucking yourself into. His palms fall down to your hips again to aid your movements when needed. One of them slides to your center though to give your clit a few little rubs. The bundle of nerves was aching for his touch. He could tell because when he touched it, your face practically went lax the way you melted from the fiery pleasure in your core.

"F-fuck," you stutter. Your waterline overflows with tears while your eyes droop from your proximity to release.

He chuckles and guides your body close to his. Your hips still try to maneuver up and down, but he knows he has to take over now. Your face slots into the crook of his neck, and he leans back, tilting your body upwards into a position that he can thrust in.

"Such a good girl. You did such a good job for your first time riding," he coos. His cock starts sliding in and out of your hole. You're soaked, so there's no resistance. Just his skin on yours, his fat balls swinging with each pump of his hips.

"Thank you," you whine.

"Let me finish it out, baby. It's too hard for a pretty thing like you. Y'got nothing in that little head of yours right now, just hot air between those ears, hm?" he asks.

You nod lazily and hum, a low and pleasured pitch vibrating from your throat.

"Thought so. We'll get you going longer eventually. Gonna have this pussy trained to take me however I need," he grunts.

He keeps fucking into you. His heels dig into the ground for leverage so he can rock up and down, smack his hips against yours. The pace is fast but deliberate. Each stroke strikes a pleasure spot and knocks you closer to the edge. Every swivel of his hips caresses a vein on his shaft and brings him nearer to shooting his hot, sticky cum inside you.

He can feel your body getting taut with the need to explode, so he starts hammering faster. It cracks whatever resolve you had left and brings full-fledged cries from you. Tepid tears trail down your cheeks and throat and pool against the column of his throat. It drives him wild.

He fucks you over the edge, not stopping at all when you squeal out 'daddy' for him. His eyes roll back because your cunt gets impossibly tighter. It feels like you want to milk him, want to squeeze every last drop of release from him. Lucky for you, he's willing to give you all that he can.

His hips sputter as they dart up, instinctively seeking the warm embrace of your pussy to unload into. His motions get messy now; some cum is fired into your center while some smears and leaks to the outside from the erratic nature of his thrusts.

You both pant when the afterglow washes over you like sun through a beautiful stained glass window. Your body melts on top of his. It feels like you're one and not just because his cock is softening inside of you. Your cries quiet to sniffles and tears stop flowing. He holds you tight and rubs your back.

"If you cry like that while riding, I can't wait to see what you do when I get your legs over my shoulders," he mutters with a smug lilt to his voice.

#toji fushiguro x reader #toji fushiguro x you #toji fushiguro smut #toji fushiguro imagine #toji x reader #jjk x reader #jjk smut #jjk imagines #jujustu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen smut

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sonofatoasterwaffle · 3 months

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I know there's a lot of people in the fandom now who didn't watch from the beginning/don't watch s1, but I just can't express to you how important it is to me. For every character.

Hen cheating on Karen is a stupid, stupid thing but it tells us so much about who she is and who she wants to be and it makes HenRen so much better because you know they FOUGHT to get there. Hen saying she's scared she isn't the woman she wants to be, and then still choosing to chase after that??? To confront Eva and to tell her that it was never Hen who tore them apart. That woman is made of iron and soft edges and love.

And Chimney? Man, Chimney is such an incredible character for so many reasons, and Madney is one of my favorite TV pairings ever, but watching that man live through being single. Trying to teach himself that being himself isn't a bad thing. That he really will find someone who loves HIM and not whatever version of himself he's created for the Girl of the Week.

Bobby is so fucking suicidal in s1 it's not even funny. That man is nothing but a ball of regret and shame and yet he STILL BUILDS A FAMILY AND HE ASKS FOR HELP AND HE MEETS ATHENA AND LOVES HER SO GODDAMN MUCH EVEN THOUGH NEITHER OF THEM IS EVEN REMOTELY HEALED. Goofy Bobby who wants to shoot the Roomba with Athena's gun and goes on shenanigans with Michael doesn't EXIST without s1 relapsing raging Bobby. Without Bobby asking Hen and Buck for help and them immediately pulling him into their arms and promising that they will.

And Buck?!?!?! That boy is such A Mess. He's an absolute Mess who doesn't really stop to think a single thought for most of the season. But when he does?? He works hard to become a person who can be relied upon. He builds empathy not only for the people around him but for himself. You start to love him when he's trying so hard to become a better person, but 1x10?? Finding the man who's been using Buck's face to catfish women-- in such a spectacular way that it very nearly blows up Buck's life--dead, and having so much compassion and empathy for him that he stabs a bloated corpse to make sure that man has dignity in his own death??????? Are you serious????

S1 is worth it man. If you haven't seen it, you should.

#don't mind me just finished s1 on my rewatch #911 season 1 #hen wilson #chimney han #evan buckley #bobby nash #i started to love buck when he started to love bobby #but when he pulled that shit with the coroner??#that was it for me

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osarina · 4 months

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

FEATURING: dazai osamu

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I love you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He does.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then you ask:

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

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

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

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

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dazai’s chest suddenly feels heavy again.

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

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

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

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

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

“You did,” you confirm.

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

“Truth,” he murmurs.

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

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

He voices his first lie, “No.”

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

He refrains, if only barely.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dazai barely withholds a frustrated sigh.

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you enjoying yourself at the Agency?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Good,” you say quietly. “I’m glad.”

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

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

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

He knows his next question.

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

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

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

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

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

He halts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We were never even dating, Daz-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He was,” you confirm.

Dazai’s glass of whiskey is empty.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dazai snorts.

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

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

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

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

No. Dazai refuses to believe it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you happy?” you ask quietly

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He forces it out anyway.

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

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

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

Your lashes flutter before you speak.

You lie for the first time that night.

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No.

“Yes.”

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

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

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

You don’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was a very lonely four years without you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

12:35

He looks back at you, eyes swimming with desperation.

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

He doesn’t waste any time on that.

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

Then, he ruins the moment.

“Tell me how you fucked Chuuya.”

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

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

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

Dazai gags.

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

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

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

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

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

“It was,” you agree, too genuinely.

Dazai squints at you hard.

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

“You don’t need to sound so wistful.”

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

“How-”

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

Okay.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Unfair, he thinks mournfully.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A trick.

Dazai knows it.

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

He knows it.

He falls for it anyway.

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

“Yeah?” he says, voice rough.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The rest of our lives.

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

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

Of course, you know.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(I love you, he means)

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

(I love you too)

#dazai x reader #dazai x you #dazai smut #dazai osamu x reader #dazai osamu smut #dazai osamu x you #bsd x reader #bsd smut #bsd x you #bungo stray dogs x reader #bungo stray dogs smut #bungo stray dogs x you

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babyleostuff · 4 months

Text

"silent treatment prank" on their s/o | ot13

. . . how long svt can maintain their "silent treatment prank" after their s/o apologize even though they don't know what they did wrong

natalia's note: i don't think any of them would be able to hold out for long (as you'll see). it's a whole another thing when they give you the silent treatment when they're actually angry, but as a prank. never.

❥ seungcheol

[ ˚˖𓍢ִ໋🦢˚ ] one minute

at first he wanted to try out this prank as a way to see you sulk and whine, as he usually does when you give him the silent treatment, and he thought he was being such a genius after he came up with the idea. mhm, yeah - genius my ass. the second he sees your puppy-like expression after he doesn’t reciprocate your hug, it’s over for him. it was clear to him that you thought he was bothered by you, you even apologised for entering his personal space and hugging him. thus not even a minute in, he’s all over you again, kissing you all over your face and apologising (with his noot noot pout) for his silly behaviour because come one - seeing you upset over his stupid prank is the last thing he wants to see.

❥ jeonghan

[ ˚˖𓍢ִ໋🦢˚ ] ten minutes

as much of a menace as he is, he wouldn’t be able to ignore you for more than ten minutes. first of all - he simply gets bored. that’s it - bored. you’re right next to him, and he can’t talk to you, which is so??? he loves yapping when you’re next to him. second of all - he needs to touch you. yoon jeonghan needs his cuddles and kisses, and how is he supposed to get them if he’s ignoring you? third of all - he might be a bit mean (with love) sometimes, but there is no way he’d ever pull a prank on you which would involve you getting genuinely upset. like - making your partner insecure? mhm, not with hannie. so, he’d kind of try to ignore you for a bit (and failing miserably because he’d answer you half of the time anyways), and so after ten minutes he just gives up.

❥ joshua

[ ˚˖𓍢ִ໋🦢˚ ] twenty minutes

joshua is a bit similar to jeonghan with this (who would have guessed), the only difference is that shua is a bit more perseverant. ignoring you had never come easily to him and it never would be easy for him, but he had to admit that your slightly pouty lip was adorable, and he could practically see your brain trying to figure out what was going on. however, when he saw the first signs of you being actually upset, the entire bubble around this "funny" prank disappeared. no joke was worth your sadness, no matter how cute it made you look. shua quickly realised that the prank itself didn't make much sense and that he would much rather hug you right now than pretend that you weren't there at all.

❥ jun

[ ˚˖𓍢ִ໋🦢˚ ] one hour

he didn’t come up with that prank on his own, he’d never, but a lost bet is a lost bet, and he had to take the punishment. he felt so bad avoiding you, when you asked him about his day, if he was hungry, if he needed some rest, and when you started to ask if he needed space, some time alone, and if he wanted you gone for a while - jun’s heart broke. but he felt like it was too late to take everything back because you looked so sad and upset, and you probably hated him now too, so he couldn't say anything. an hour would be his breaking point - fuck it if you hated him, he needed you, and he needed to apologise, and damn the person who came up with this stupid prank.

❥ hoshi

[ ˚˖𓍢ִ໋🦢˚ ] 1.5 minute

when his friends told him about this prank, and how they pranked their significant others, soonyoung thought it was such a brilliant idea, and he couldn’t wait to try it out on you. as it turned out - it was not brilliant, it fucking sucked. ignoring you, your kiss you always gave him when he came back from work, your questions if everything was okay, was one thing - seeing your upset expression was a whole nother story. you even apologised for being so all over him when he barely entered the apartment, clearly feeling bad, and that would be the end of hoshi’s prank. this man is the simpest simp to ever simp, he cannot stand seeing you sad, especially over something you didn’t even do.

❥ wonwoo

[ ˚˖𓍢ִ໋🦢˚ ] 0.2- 0.3 seconds

when wonwoo heard about this prank he was baffled to say the least - what’s so fun in ignoring your significant other? like, what’s the point? wouldn’t you rather hold them close, and spend some precious quality time together rather than ignoring them? somehow, seungcheol and jeonghan managed to persuade him into giving the prank a chance, and wonwoo decided to say yes just to please his friends and get them off his back. no surprise - wonwoo wouldn’t last a second. he’s physically unable to ignore you, a single quiet “wonwoo?” makes him go “yes, baby?” *cue in attentive eyes and a puppy like expression*. besides, he’d never be able to stand you being upset, knowing he was the reason behind your small pout and eyes lacking their usual spark. (also, ignoring you equals no hugs and kisses, and that’s something wonwoo cannot stand).

❥ woozi

[ ˚˖𓍢ִ໋🦢˚ ] fifteen minutes

does not see a point in this “prank”, thinks it’s very stupid and not fun. the only reason he did it in the first place was to stop hearing the constant nagging of hoshi and seungwkan, and if that was what it took to satisfy them, then whatever. he held out for fifteen minutes just because he was working on a lyrics when you came to his studio, and whereas he ignored your first hello because of the prank, he ignored your next questions just because he got distracted by his work. you were used to your boyfriend spacing out during work so that didn’t really bother you, though he never ignored your “hello” so you got a bit scared that he might’ve been angry with you or whatever. it took only one glance at you for woozi to remember that he ignored you when you came in, and he immediately dropped whatever he was doing to apologise and properly greet you with an extra kiss.

❥ dk

[ ˚˖𓍢ִ໋🦢˚ ] 0.001 second

not happening, never in a million years. come on, do you really expect seokmin out of all people to ignore you on purpose? over his dead body. the thing was - he overheard about the prank during rehearsals and thought it sounded a bit fun? like, he’d get to see you extra pouty, and he loved nothing more when you got cute like that - so the prank had to work, right? no. when he got home later that night, and you greeted him in the hallway with his hoodie draped over your body, rubbing your eyes with the sweater paws because it was way too late for you to be up, all of his intentions of executing the prank went out of the window immediately. later that night, when he held you close to his chest he felt so silly for even thinking that the prank would be a good idea.

❥ mingyu

[ ˚˖𓍢ִ໋🦢˚ ] 2 minutes

this man is too big of a yapper and too big of a clingy puppy to ignore you, besides he’s not that big on pranks, especially if it involves you getting upset. just try to imagine mingyu ignoring you, even though you didn’t do anything wrong. you can't, right? that’s the thing - mingyu has to touch you at all times, and he loves nothing more than talking to you, so why on earth would he go around ignoring you, wasting your precious time together on a silly prank? he tried it out just to see how many minutes he’d last, and well - he didn’t hold out for long, definitely not when you dropped your head and left the bedroom, thinking he was annoyed with you. he’d immediately follow you and explain that it was just a stupid prank (in return you’d give him a silent treatment ☺️)

❥ minghao

[ ˚˖𓍢ִ໋🦢˚ ] two hours max

the trophy goes to xu minghao - he’s the strongest of them all, though that doesn't mean it’s any less painful for him. when minghao decides on doing something he commits, he pours his heart and soul into whatever he does, even if it’s just a stupid prank. he wasn’t sure how he even ended up in this situation - him in your bedroom, trying to occupy himself with reading, and you in the living room, probably trying to figure out what you did wrong for your boyfriend to be ignoring you. he would have ended this stupid prank a long time ago if it wasn’t for his pride and stubbornness because now he’d have to admit to coming up with this stupid ass prank, and making you feel bad just for his entertainment (which he was not entertained by). when the clock struck the second hour after he locked himself in the bedroom, he threw away the book and practically ran out to you, an apology speech ready.

❥ seungkwan

[ ˚˖𓍢ִ໋🦢˚ ] half an hour

his stubbornness to admit the defeat of his prank would be the only reason why he’d hold out half an hour, if not for that he’d be running back to you after a minute. seungkwan was sure this prank would be the perfect way to get back at you for your last joke that you pulled on him, but surprise surprise - it wasn’t. he was still going strong when he saw your small pout - he thought the prank was working, and he’d get his revenge, but it wasn’t before he saw how sad you actually got that he started regretting everything. you started avoiding him like fire, you didn’t even dare to look at him, and that’s when seungkwan realised the prank was a bad idea after all, like - he didn’t mean for you to get so upset, he just wanted to make you a bit whiny and pouty for him, but none of that happened. after half an hour he was like “fuck it” because he wasn’t able to stand seeing you sad.

❥ vernon

[ ˚˖𓍢ִ໋🦢˚ ] five minutes

to be honest he just gets bored with the prank. he didn’t come over to your apartment to spend his day off ignoring you, and whoever came up with this “silent treatment prank” is plainly stupid. for one, vernon hates seeing you upset - obviously. like, who would want to ignore their partner just for funsies, and see them upset over something they didn’t do and make them self conscious? besides, it was his day off, and he wouldn’t spend it ignoring you, so after five minutes he was ready to curse out his friends that made him try out this “prank”, and apologise for acting so silly.

❥ chan

[ ˚˖𓍢ִ໋🦢˚ ] 0.5 seconds

yeah, no - thank you next. this man, this man is a simp and he’s so in love with you it’s a bit worrying, there is literally nothing that could ever convince him to ignore you, for what - entertainment? because that’s what the prank sounded like, ignoring your significant other for entertainment. there were so many other things you could do together without either of you getting upset, so why not do them? one of his biggest goals in life is to keep you safe, loved, and happy - so he will not indulge in his friends' antics with this stupid ass prank. even the thought of ignoring you on purpose makes him sick, like… why? he would not be able to stand your upset expression, or the thought that you’d get self conscious about yourself. hell. no.

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freedomfireflies · 9 months

Text

Infinite You*

Summary: The one where Harry is in an open relationship with your best friend, and maybe you have more in common than you realized.

(Based on this request! There is no third, just Harry and Reader!)

Word Count: 8.6k

Content Warning: 18+, smut, choking, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, Sir Kink

You’ve never noticed how incredibly attractive Harry Styles is.

Granted, that’s because you’ve never really allowed yourself to notice how attractive he is, but you notice today because that’s why you’re here. To notice. To study. To decide if this is worth it.

He’s not making it easy on you. Walking around the apartment with his shirt off, and his sweatpants low, and his hair wet. Reaching into the refrigerator and showcasing all the stunningly hard muscles in his back. The scattered tattoos. The chunky rings on his fingers.

You swallow.

You hadn’t planned to entertain this idea. You thought it was weird—strange in more ways than one. But you agreed to talk to him, see if it was a good fit, and now…here you are.

“So,” he calls as he straightens up and turns to face you. “What do you wanna know?”

“Uh…what do you want to tell me?” you call back. You wish you were smoother.

But he only smirks. He knows you’re nervous. And he knows you’re staring, which seems to amuse him. “Well, first things first, nothing happens that you don’t want.”

He’s kind. Considerate. Hot. It makes your stomach flip.

“Okay,” you say before swallowing thickly. “Great, I mean. That’s…that’s good.”

He walks back to the living room. He’s still amused. You’re still sweating. “If you do decide you want to, we can talk about ground rules and boundaries. Decide what you’re comfortable with. Go over when and where. Things like that.”

“Okay…okay, good.”

“Yeah. And if we don’t want to, we won’t.”

“Right.”

He takes a sip of his water. He’s hiding his smile. “Do you have any questions for me?”

You purse your lips and shake your head. “Nope.”

He’s unconvinced. Hesitating a moment before crouching down near your legs and glancing up at you as though to implore you and chastise you all with the same look.

“Kitten,” he murmurs, and your heart just about beats out of your chest. “If we’re going to do this, I need you to be honest with me. That’s one of my rules. I need you to be vocal. Tell me exactly what you want and what you don’t.”

And you understand. You do. Consent isn’t a question. And you admire that he’s so adamant and unwavering. But that doesn’t mean you know what you want to say.

“I know,” you whisper, and his presence is different. Before, he was Harry: Rebecca’s boyfriend.

Now he’s Harry: the guy you might sleep with.

And it’s strange, and it’s new, and it doesn’t make a lot of sense. And you’re having quite the time trying to wrap your head around it.

But his presence is soothing. Calm. Doing more for your nerves than you initially realized.

“It’s okay,” he whispers back, reaching a hand toward your knee. Long fingers squeezing it once. Comfort. “We’re just talking, yeah?”

You nod and force the first question out of your throat. “Do you…do you guys do this a lot?”

“No,” he answers coolly. He’s relaxed, and it helps. “Not with friends. Not really at all. Not unless it’s right. We don’t force it. If we find someone, we find someone.”

“Ah.” You nod again like you understand but you don’t. “And…you guys are both okay with this? Really?”

He smiles. Squeezes your knee again. “Yes. As long as you are.”

You smile back, and you realize your heart isn’t racing as much anymore. “Right. And…you don’t think this is weird? I mean…her pimping you out just to help me?”

He laughs, and you decide right then and there that you love the sound of his laugh. “No, I don’t,” he admits. “She’s not pimping me out. I offered.”

You lean back. “You offered?”

“She told me you weren’t having a good time with the guys you were meeting, and I said I could help.” He shrugs once. He’s so calm. “She liked the idea and told me she’d bring it to you.”

And you remember when she did. Remember how casually she’d said, “If you ever wanna use Harry…you’re more than welcome to.”

And you’d blinked at her because you couldn’t understand it at all.

But she explained, “He and I have always been in an open relationship. And if you need a bit of…practice or just need someone to scratch that itch, I think he’d be really good. You could talk to him, see what you think?”

You were sure she was messing with you. You weren’t desperate and horny enough to go fucking her boyfriend, but she was more than all right with it. She assured you of that many times. Suggested you just talk to him and see how it made you feel. She gave you his number. You made a time to meet.

And now here you are, wondering if you really are about to go through with it.

“You…you want to help?” you ask him again, and he nods.

“If you want me to.” Another squeeze to your knee. “Kitten, there’s no pressure here. It’s just a conversation. And if we decide no, then we won’t, and it’ll be all right.”

“But it’s…I mean, won’t it be like cheating?” Your hands begin to twist together on your lap. “What if you regret it? Or what if she regrets it?”

“We won’t. We agreed to this,” he says, and he’s still so calm. “This only works if she and I are honest. We know that. And we want to try new things, new people. Plus, she adores you. I do, too. But if you think it feels like cheating, then we don’t have to. We can end the conversation right now.”

A beat. He lets this settle.

“But if you want to try,” he continues softly, “then we’ll ease into it. We’ll go at a pace you’re comfortable. Yeah? This is all up to you.”

You feel your cheeks growing warm. He’s so good. “What if I’m not any good? And you’ve wasted your time? And I made this weird for no reason?”

He smiles, and his eyes are like meadows. Soft and serene. He straightens up just enough to brush his thumb along your chin and relax you.

“There is no possible world where you aren’t good,” he murmurs, and somehow…you believe him. “But if you’re nervous, we’ll plan for that, too. We’ll communicate. I can help you find what makes you feel good.”

You walked into his apartment—into their apartment—sure you wouldn’t be doing it. Sure that there was no way you’d ever believe this to be a good idea.

But here you are, seriously considering it. Teetering on the edge of agreement, ready to fall into his arms.

“Are you sure you want to?” you ask him again. “Are you sure you don’t just feel bad for me?”

His brows pinch together, and he seems confused. But he’s still smiling. “Kitten, believe me. There is nothing I have ever wanted to do more. Sex is intimate and it’s tricky and it’s confusing. And you should only ever be with someone that makes you feel good. Feel safe. And if I can be that person for you, then I want to be. As long as you want me to be, too.”

And you do. You do. You aren’t sure if you even realized how badly until now.

You nod, and his touch lowers. “Okay,” you decide. “Okay, I want to.”

He does his best not to appear too excited, but you can see it there behind his grin. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You straighten your shoulders. “If…I mean, it’s just once, right? We do this, it’s over, we all go back to how it was before, and we don’t talk about it.”

Another beat. “If that’s what you want.”

“Oh, it is,” you assure him with a soft scoff. “No, I’m already gonna have a hard time looking you in the eye. And Rebecca. This is…it’s just…it’s weird.”

He drops his hand to your knee and squeezes it once more. “We don’t have to do this—”

“No, I do want to,” you assure him. “I really do, I just…it is weird. Maybe a good weird, but still weird. And I’m okay with that. I just…I want to, and we can, and then we don’t have to talk about it. Okay?”

He nods. “Okay.”

The living room grows quiet. You aren’t sure what to do now. You aren’t sure if you’ve offended him. You don’t think he ever gets offended. He never has before. As Rebecca’s Harry.

But today he is Just Harry and Just Harry is very calm as he waits for you to continue.

You swallow again. “So…now what?”

“You tell me.” He stands, and you’re eye-level with his bare, toned stomach.

“Uh…okay.” You shift. “Do…you wanna do it tonight?”

“Sure.”

“Do…do you wanna do it at my place?”

“Sure.”

“Do…I need to pick up…condoms?”

He smiles. “I’ve got some I’ll bring.” He nods at you. “And I’m clean, too. Got tested right after she told me.”

God, this is all so real. “Good. I did, too. Not that there was really much…chance. Since it’s been, like…three years.”

He doesn’t have a reaction to this admission. Most guys do. They think it’s weird you’ve been so long without sex. They think you’re a virgin again. They don’t want anything to do with you.

Harry has no reaction. He doesn’t seem disappointed, or relieved, or embarrassed for you, or even repulsed.

“Good,” is all he says before running a hand through his damp curls. “What time would you like me to meet you?”

“Uh…5? No…7?” You wince. “I don’t know how long it’ll take, but…if it’s just a few minutes, then—”

“A few minutes?” Now he’s amused. “Is that all you think I can last?”

Your expression drops. “I…no. No, I just…I don’t know. Most guys tap out after a bit, so I figured—”

“Kitten,” he chuckles, and the sound goes straight to your cunt. “I plan to last as long as you’ll let me.”

Your stomach drops next. “Uh…okay. Great. Then…5?”

“Five,” he repeats, and you’re thrilled. Nervous. Thrilled. “We can talk more about what we want when we get there, yeah?”

You nod. “Sure. That’s…good. That’s good.”

He smiles, and just like that…the date is set.

4:58 comes and you’re a nervous wreck. He’s already here—you’ve just buzzed him in—and now he’s walking up your steps. And you are standing in your kitchen, pacing, tugging on your robe, and trying not to sweat. Again.

When you let him in, he’s…breathtaking. Somehow, in the few short hours since you last saw him, he got exponentially hotter.

His hair is dry, and his curls are styled in a way that makes you want to run your hands through them. He’s wearing a shirt, but it’s oversized and soft. Easy to slip out of. His jeans are ripped but they hug his hips perfectly.

He’s…sex. He’s beautiful. He’s stunning, and you are so incredibly nervous, you don’t know what to do with yourself.

“Hi,” he smiles as he slips off his shoes and shuts your door. “Sorry I’m late.”

“No, you’re not,” you argue quickly. “You’re perfect. You’re—fuck. No, you’re…this is good.”

He laughs and lets his eyes trail down your covering. “Are you…did I interrupt something, or—”

“No. No, sorry. I, uh…I figured this would be easier,” you explain, now absentmindedly playing with the tie. “You know, I could just slip this off, and we could go.”

He hums, but you can tell he’s biting his tongue. “I see. And…is that how you’d like to proceed? You just want to rip the band-aid?”

“Um…” Shit, do you? “I don’t…know. I was kind of hoping you could tell me.”

He nods now and asks for your hand. You give it to him—rather shyly—before allowing him to lead you toward your sofa. He sits you both down and brings your attention to him.

“I will do whatever you want me to do,” he begins. “But…I’d like to know what you really want. What you fantasize about, what makes you feel good. When you’re with someone, or when you picture being with someone, what are they doing? What are you doing?”

You feel your face grow warm. You can’t believe you’re having this conversation with him, and yet…he feels so safe. You trust him. You don’t mind admitting some of your weirder preferences. After all, Rebecca has told you before about what he’s like in bed. He’s…good. Very good. And into some weirder things, too.

And maybe now you understand why she was so happy for you to ask him.

“I…I guess I like…to be taken care of,” you admit quietly, instantly glancing down at your lap to avoid his reaction.

But just as quickly, he’s slipping a finger under your chin and bringing your eyes back to his. “Yeah, Kitten?”

Your stomach wrenches. You nod.

“Tell me more,” he encourages gently.

You fumble with your robe again. “Uh…I don’t really like…to make decisions. A lot of times. I…I feel better if I’m being told what to do.”

The corner of his mouth quirks up. “Okay. I can do that. What else, baby?”

Baby. You think you might die. “Um…I think I like it rough. Or…rougher. Like…spanking, and…hair pulling, and choking…and stuff.”

He’s so entertained by your timid demeanor, and he chuckles again as he squeezes your jaw. “Is that right? D’you want me to spank you, Kitten?”

You really might die. “I…yes? I think so?”

“I need you to do more than think,” he says now, a bit firmer. “When I ask, I expect a clear answer. Is that understood?”

You nod, and you don’t even realize.

“So do you want me to spank you?”

“…yes. I do.”

“Good girl.” He brushes his thumb along your lips, and your mouth parts for him. “What else? What kind of positions do you like? Do you have any particular porn you like to watch?”

You look back down at your lap, and he smirks. “I…I don’t really watch it as much as…I read it.”

“Oh?” He dips down, looking for your attention. “You like to read it, baby? What do you like to read?”

Fuck, fuck, fuck. “Just…just smut.”

“Yeah? Tell me about it.”

And you’re so embarrassed, yet somehow so enamored, and you tell him before you can stop yourself. “Just…sometimes it’s rough. And…taboo. And…dangerous, I guess.”

He hums again, considering this. “Like to be naughty when you’re alone, don’t you?”

And you feel like you’re on fire, burying your face in your hands with a soft groan until he immediately tugs them back down.

“Uh-uh,” he warns, and goosebumps dance down your skin from where he’s touching you. “What did I say, hm? None of that. Come on.”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I just…I’m so nervous.”

Another soft smile as he cups your cheek and scoots closer. He’s everywhere. You can smell him, you can feel him. You can practically taste him and it leaves you with this insatiable need for more.

“I know,” he says calmly. “But it’s just me, yeah? You’ve known me forever. You know I’d never want to hurt you or scare you or embarrass you. And I’d never judge you.”

“I know,” you echo. “This is just all so…real.”

He hums and seems to consider something. Then, he nods his chin at you. “I wanna try something. Would that be all right?”

You swallow. “Okay.”

“Close your eyes.”

Your lashes flutter. “What?”

“Close your eyes. Just for a minute.”

So, you do. And the living room falls eerily quiet as you wait for whatever instruction might come next.

But it never comes. He has no instruction. He’s quiet.

And then…

He’s kissing you.

Soft lips ghost across your own. They tease and they taunt. You can’t see him, but you can feel him—can taste him. He’s kissing you, and he’s taking your mouth against his, and he’s so…he’s so.

And not being able to see him does wonders. Because you lose all inhibitions and simply take. You accept what he’s offering and you delight in doing so.

He was right.

You grow hungrier—needier. You let your hands find his shoulders and hoist yourself up onto your knees. In turn, he takes hold of your hips to keep you steady and helps bring you onto his lap. It’s like you’re one. Like you’ve rehearsed this, done it a million times. A fluid, lustful, heavy dance that ends with pants and whispers of each other’s names.

And you forget how strange this might be. You forget your hesitations and your concerns. You allow yourself to have him and to enjoy it.

And it’s perfect.

When you finally open your eyes, you feel much braver. Ready to do what he came here to do.

His cheeks are flushed. His lips are pink and slightly swollen. His pupils are dilated and he’s wearing the softest grin—like a warm sweater.

“Please?” you whisper, and his Adam’s apple bobs.

“Where?” he asks.

“Bedroom.” It might sound like a demand, but you’ve never felt so submissive. “Please, Harry—”

He picks you up. Carries you down the hall and toward your bed. He’s been here before, seen it a hundred times when he and Rebecca would come over for movie nights or dinners.

But it’s different now and you both know it. He treats your space with reverence. Treats you with reverence. Awe. You are…everything to him in this moment. He makes you the center of his world, the focus of his attention.

And you have to remind yourself not to fall in love with him.

He drops you onto the mattress with care but just a bit of roughness. Exactly the way you like.

He follows after you. Slots his body between your thighs and brings his lips back to yours. You kiss until you feel dizzy. It’s quick and eager and tantalizing. He moves to your neck while your fingers move for his shirt. He nips at your throat and you fumble with the hem. And he only stops kissing you so you can slip the shirt over his head and toss it toward the floor.

You’ve seen his body before—saw it just today. But now it’s here, in your hands, in your bed, in your room. And it’s glorious. Tan, strong, firm. Covered in tattoos that make you want to drool and rippling with muscles you didn’t even know someone could have.

You want to gaze but he’s already back on your neck, sucking bruises below your ear. And then…his hand is on your thigh.

You’re tempted to freeze—to be reminded of how odd the situation—but you don’t allow yourself to succumb to the overthinking. You enjoy the feeling of his fingers moving up toward your robe. You enjoy the way they play with the tie as if teasing you. And you enjoy the warmth of his palm as he whispers, “May I?”

You nod until you get a headache. Practically flinging the robe open for him.

He’s gentle as he pulls it undone. Considerate as he pushes it back and reveals your naked body to him.

And there you are. Bare before your best friend’s boyfriend and it’s…

It’s…

Not nearly as strange as it should be.

His expression softens like your nakedness hurts him. In the best way. He groans and he stares and he parts his lips as if dying to take you in his mouth.

And who are you to deny him?

You nod again, allowing him to do whatever he might like, and he’s grateful. So very grateful for you as he guides the robe away from your body, disposes of it, and dives in.

He kisses from your shoulder to your chest. From your chest to your tits. To the valley between and down your stomach. He is practiced, he is patient, he is beautiful. And he feels like heaven.

“Harry,” you nearly whimper, eyes falling shut as you settle back onto the bed.

He squeezes your hips so you know he heard you. “It’s okay, I’ve got you. Just lay still for me, Kitten, okay?”

He’s telling you what to do. You listen.

He pulls your legs apart and scoots back. He wants to taste you. You can see that he wants nothing more. But he stops to look up at you. Wanting permission. Wanting to hear you say that he’s allowed and that you want it, too.

“Yes,” you manage to choke out. “Yes, go. It’s fine.”

He rubs his thumbs along your skin to soothe you. “Can you do something for me, baby?”

Anything, anything, anything.

“Want you to grab my hair,” he tells you. “Want you to pull it, yank it, whatever. Want you to show me what feels good. Yeah?”

“Okay,” you agree breathily. “Promise.”

He grins and it’s all teeth. He returns his kisses to you. He starts at your bent knee. He goes down your inner thigh. He travels across your hip.

And finally…finally.

He’s gentle with your clit at first. A few kisses, just to prepare you. Getting a feel for your body, letting you get a feel for his mouth. For his face between your legs.

You bring a shaky hand to his hair and card your fingers through, fulfilling your vow. His hair feels good against your palm. Like butter. You gather him in your fist and tug.

His lashes flutter in response. He hums again—louder. You can feel it against your pussy and it makes your toes curl.

His hands keep you from bucking up, but he seems pleased when you try. He likes that you feel good. He likes that he gets to use his power to keep you still.

“Har…Harry,” you whimper, and he groans again. He likes the sound of his name in your mouth. “Shit—”

He slaps your hip. A warning. “Good girls don’t use bad language. Do they?”

No. You shake your head. Your heart is racing. “Please…”

He’s happy again. Moving his mouth down your cunt until he can taste the beginnings of your arousal beginning to gather. “You’re so good for me, Kitten. You know that? Being so well behaved.”

You love his praise. You always have. Winning his approval means the world, and now, in this moment, it means that much more. You want to make him happy. To please him. To do what he wants.

You yank on his curls and he seems to melt between your thighs. He moves back to your clit and sucks. Flicks you with his tongue and basks in the sound of your whiny cries.

“There you go,” he says, and it’s more to himself. “I’ve got you.”

You’re shaking. Overcome by this feeling and by the impending release. It’s really going to happen. Harry is going to make you cum, and you never thought you’d see the day.

He knows you’re close. Knows you can’t fight it and he doesn’t want you to. He steadies his technique. Goes harder, faster. Gives you everything you’re asking for. You are puddy in his hands. Clay for him to mold. You are whatever he wants you to be in this moment and you’re more than all right with that.

He brings a finger to your hole and gently slips it inside. The fullness of such a large digit makes your brain turn to mush and you whimper again as you yank on his hair. He’s pleased.

“That’s what you needed, hm?” He sinks to the knuckle and starts to pump. “Just needed my fingers, yeah?”

“Yes…yes.” He’s so good. So very good.

“I know,” he hums, and it’s almost condescending. He feels bad that you’re so easy. “Take whatever I’ll give you, won’t you?”

You will. He knows it. You know it. If all he did was look at you, you’d feel grateful to be under the warmth of his gaze.

“Tell me, Kitten,” he continues, dragging his tongue up the length of your cunt. From his finger to your clit. “Do the boys in your books do it like this?”

You don’t want to think about your books at a time like this. Not when you have him. Real and here. In your bed. Your clit in his mouth.

“Do they?” he pushes and adds a second finger. How does he expect you to speak? “Hm? Is this what you dream about? When you fuck yourself in this bed? You dream about someone tasting you? Burying their face in your sweet pussy?”

You whimper. You writhe. You cling to his curls and try not to disappear.

“Speak,” he murmurs, and slaps your inner thigh.

You whine again and pant, “Yes.”

“Yes, Sir,” he corrects you, and lifts his head. He’s glistening in you. He’s beautiful. “M’not your friend here, Kitten. I’m the one making you cum. You will remember that.”

And you will. Because he is better than your books. He is considerate, and he is good, and he is making you cum before you can stop yourself.

Your back arches from the bed. Your chest caves in on itself. Your legs squeeze the sides of his head and he fucking loves it.

He releases your hips so he can grab onto your thighs and press them hard to his cheeks. He wants to suffocate in you. You want to let him.

“Harry—” you gasp. He slaps your leg. “Sir…I…”

You can’t say anything else. He knows. It’s okay. He rides you through. Takes every drop on his tongue. Swallows you down. Feeds on you. Indulges in you.

Today you are his.

And still, he’s not through. He begins again. He knows you’re sensitive and he knows it won’t be long before you give him another.

He adds a third finger and begins to thrust inside your quivering cunt. He says, “How many times do they make their girls cum?”

You glance down. “What?”

“Your books. Your fantasies. Your dirty smut that gets you off. How many times do they make the girl cum?”

You think. You can’t think. “I…I don’t know—”

“You do,” he argues and nips at your pussy. “Because I bet you wish it was more. I bet you make yourself cum for every time they do. I bet you fuck yourself while you read and pretend that it’s you.”

He’s right. You hate that he’s right. You hate that it’s so obvious.

“How many?” he repeats. “Once? Twice? Do they give up after that? Are they as good as you want them to be?”

You can’t hear him through the pounding in your ear. The second one is close. You’re shaking, trembling, dying. It’s already unraveling. You’re too far gone.

He pumps you through your second and carries right on to your third. “Shame you never called me. Shame you never read your little books and thought to ask me for help. Should’ve known I would have.”

Your cheeks are growing warm again. You’re embarrassed and sensitive to the touch.

He notices. “You thought about it, didn’t you?” he realizes aloud, and he sounds almost proud. “Thought about me when you touched yourself.”

You shake your head but it’s a lie. You both know it.

“You did,” he repeats, and he’s smirking. “Did you picture me when you read? Picture me in your dirty little taboo fantasy? D’you picture my cock? My hands? My mouth?”

You did, and you’re embarrassed, and he loves it.

“Did I make you cum?” he whispers, and slips a fourth finger inside. “Hm? Did I have you coming all over your pretty hand? All over your sheets? Or did you use a toy, baby?”

You squirm. You try to fight him, try to fight this orgasm, try to fight what he’s making you remember. But it’s useless.

“How many times did I make you cum?” he nearly purrs, and it’s over. It’s all over. You are powerless to him, and you embrace it. “How many times did you cum for me while you were reading your naughty little books—”

You don’t hear the rest. You’re unraveling for the third time before he can find his answer. But that’s more than all right because this was the answer he really wanted, anyway.

He strokes your skin as you come down. Then, he pulls his fingers out, takes them in his mouth, and swallows you. Waiting until you’ve caught your breath before he’s crawling back up your body and slipping his tongue against yours.

He kisses you, and you taste everything. Him, you, and five years of memories shared between you. Rebecca slowly starts to dissolve from the picture and now it’s just the two of you. In every flashback, every moment. Maybe it was always him and you.

You reach for his belt. You want his jeans off. You want your hands around his cock. You want to hold him, ride him, gag on him. You’re impatient and he’s amused and it feels as though time is moving far too slow.

“Easy,” he tuts, but he kisses you again. “M’gonna give you my cock, Kitten, just have to wait for me, yeah?”

You pout. He kisses it away. “Can’t wait, Sir. Need it.”

Sir makes him grin, and this seems to work in your favor. “You can’t, hm? Well, what if I wanna take my time?”

You groan and you whimper and you fling your arms around his neck to pull him close and plead with him. “Please,” you whisper, kissing along his neck, and his skin tastes divine. “Please fuck me, Sir. I need it. Might die.”

He chuckles, and the vibration of his chest makes your insides twitch. “I bet. S’been a long time, hasn’t it?”

Three years, and while you know sex isn’t necessary to survive…now that you’re here…you feel rather insatiable.

Because it’s not the fact that you haven’t had sex in three years that’s making you anxious. It’s the fact that you haven’t had sex with him. And you need to. You need him to scratch this itch that only he can scratch. And you need him to do it now.

“Are you gonna let me take care of you?” he asks, and you want to cry. He’s so good. “Can I do that, Kitten? Can I make it better?”

You nod, and you’re dizzy, and you’re dripping onto your sheets below. You feel so empty without him.

He laughs again and it’s heaven. “Good girl. Take off my jeans, okay?”

You do, and you do it well. They’re off in under thirty-five seconds and on the floor, next to your robe and his shirt. Your clothes look good together. It makes you smile.

He nods at his boxers, the only thing left between you. “Take ‘em off.”

You do. You roll the dark band down his gorgeously strong thighs and help him slip out of them before they’re joining the collection on the ground.

He’s got a large tattoo on his left leg that’s just begging to be licked and muscles in his calves that make your pussy clench.

You stare at him and you probably drool and he’s laughing again.

He slips his finger under your chin once more and lifts your head until your eyes meet. He is a meadow. Gentle and calm. “Do you want a taste, Kitten?”

More nodding, more drooling. He kneels and you scoot closer, grasping onto his thighs to brace yourself as you stare at him.

He’s hard, and big, and leaking in a way that makes your throat go dry. He is better than you wanted him to be and he is better than the books and he is real.

You dip down and you allow your lips to graze his tip. He smiles and puts a hand on your head to guide you. Comfort you. Control you in just the right way.

You extend your tongue and drag it up the side. He tastes good. More so than you expected. It’s like candy, and you lick and lick until you needily begin to take him into your mouth.

He squeezes your scalp lightly. Easy. You’re going fast and he wants to go slow. He wants you to enjoy yourself.

But you are. How could you not? He’s heavy in your mouth and you never thought you’d enjoy sucking someone’s cock as much as you do his. Maybe it’s true what they say. Maybe you really do get pleasure out of pleasing him.

You take more. As much as you can bear. Your eyes flutter shut. You’re tempted to gag but you don’t, not yet. You don’t want him to think you can’t take him. You want to be good. As good as he was for you.

He slips his fingers into your roots and tugs. “Baby,” he warns softly. “Don’t push yourself—”

You keep going. You groan around him and he curses at the feel of your throat. You go further. Until your eyes are screwing shut and your breathing becomes labored.

Suddenly, he’s yanking on you. Pulling you off as a string of saliva drips from his cock to your mouth.

“Hey,” he grunts, and he looks at you. You want to shrink. “I told you to go easy, yeah? You have nothing to prove to me, Kitten. This is not about doing something you think I need you to do. I want you to do it because you want to do it. It’s not a competition. I’m not gonna be disappointed if you can’t take much of me.”

You frown. “I know, but…I want to. I really do want to. I just…you’re big, Ha—Sir. You’re so big.”

You’re feeding his ego (but you’re also telling the truth) and he exhales a soft laugh. “I know,” he repeats. “But forcing yourself will only hurt. Besides, this is about you, yeah?”

Your expression falls. Another reminder that he’s only here as a service. To get you off and then get out. He won’t be spending the night, and he won’t be calling you tomorrow to set up the next time, and he won’t be promising that he’ll train your throat open to take his cock.

You nod. You concede. Bring your hands to your lap and pull yourself away.

Now he’s frowning. He smooths his palm down the back of your neck and tugs you to him. He looks at you and he’s looking for what you’re really thinking. Something shifted. He wants to know what. Why.

“This is about you,” he says again, and you wish he’d stop. “Believe me, I’d be happy to have you gag on me, but that’s not what we’re doing tonight, okay? Not tonight.”

And it’s not a promise of next time. You know that. But not tonight implies something more open-ended than before and you finally smile. “Okay.”

He sweeps his thumb along your throat. “Can I fuck you now, baby?”

“God, yes,” you breathe, and nearly drag him on top of you.

He smiles again and you feel whole. The dance continues. He kisses you and situates himself between your thighs, and you are so very ready.

“Shit, wait, hold on,” he says, and you almost burst into tears. “I need to grab the condoms—”

“No,” you nearly shout, and his brow raises. “No, I…we’re both clean. And I’m on the pill. Why…why don’t we just…not? Maybe?”

It’s selfish, you know it’s selfish. But you want to feel him. You don’t want something keeping him from you and you want to know that he actually fucked you.

You like condoms. You prefer condoms. But not now. Not with him. You have to know he really did this. You need to feel him in your pussy for years to come.

He looks at you. “You’re on the pill?” He doesn’t answer your question.

“Yeah. I take ‘em for cramps and regulation and stuff.” You wince. Talking about cramps is not sexy. “The point is…if you want…I mean, I want, but if you want…?”

He thinks about this. Brushes your hip with his thumb. Thinks. “I don’t mind, but only if you’re sure.”

“I’m sure,” you exhale. “God, I’m sure. Honestly. As long as you are. And…and Rebecca. I don’t know if you guys have a rule…or anything.”

You wince again. You don’t want to bring up Rebecca, either. But you know you have to. You know she’s your friend, and she’s Harry’s partner, and this has to be asked. It has to be considered.

So, he considers it. “Most of the time we have a rule, yeah. For safety and peace of mind. But that’s when it’s other people. She doesn’t mind if we do or don’t. She said it’s up to me.”

“You talked about it?”

“Yeah.” Of course they did. Honesty. “When I was grabbing the condoms. I asked if you had a preference, she said she didn’t think so. Said we could just go without if we wanted. As long as I got tested after.”

“Right.” You almost feel weird knowing they talked about you. But what did you expect? “And…do you want to?”

Another beat. He looks at you. Really looks at you. “I want to fuck you. I want to feel you. I think we’ve taken all of the right steps and I feel comfortable going without. As long as you do.”

“I do,” you assure him again. “I really, really do.”

He smiles. “Good.” He drags his tip down your cunt, gathering your arousal. “Then I wanna start like this. Wanna see your face. Make sure you’re doing all right.”

You nod quickly.

“And I wanna see you when you cum on my cock for the first time,” he whispers huskily before steadying himself above you.

You are giddy. He is everything. He is so much better than your books and he is lining himself up with you and he is big, and ready, and beautiful.

He kisses you again. “Deep breath, okay? Try to relax. Don’t want to hurt you.”

You do breathe. You do try to relax. You let your mind wander to a world where he does this to you every night. Where your pussy happily accepts him and knows him and molds to him.

He pushes in. You reel.

Still, he is good, and gentle, and kind. He kisses you more. He distracts you, even though he doesn’t need to. You pretend that he’s imagining a world with you, too.

He sinks in further, and life is perfect. Your nails claw at his back—at the many muscles that tense beneath your touch. Your leg hooks to his hip, your heel against his ass. You draw him in. You plead with him for more. You say his name, you moan, you shiver.

“Shh,” he coos, and he wraps his hand around your throat. He remembers what you like, and he squeezes gently. “Let me do this, don’t rush me.”

You whimper, “Sir,” and he kisses you again. You are addicted to his tongue.

He finally buries himself all the way, hips against yours, chests flush together. He’s heavy and he’s warm. Like a weighted blanket and you feel so safe. You’ve missed the feeling of another body on top of you. Of that connection and intimacy. That protection. It’s even better when it’s him.

You cling to him and ask every star in the sky not to take him from you. “Please move, Sir.”

He draws back. He begins to fuck you, and he’s so big. He stretches you, claims you. Owns you, truly. He sucks your tit into his mouth and you melt between his lips. He nips, and pulls, and groans. And you hate everyone he’s ever been with before. You wish you were his only.

He starts going faster. But not too fast. He wants to make you anxious for it. He wants you to beg. Wants you to unravel yourself from need alone. And you’re so close to doing just that.

“Good girl,” he praises, and your heart cracks down the middle. “Taking me so well. Is this what you needed, Kitten? Needed someone to fuck this tight little pussy until you felt better?”

You nod and you whimper again. He’s fucking you back to life. What happens when he leaves?

You shake the thought free and focus on now. His body feels good against yours. His teeth are perfect on your throat. His curls are soft and his skin is tan and his cock is fucking magic.

He’s relentless. Thick. Splitting you open and drawing you in. Your tits bounce from the thrusts and your back arches from the bed and his face is delicious.

He’s watching you closely, just like he said. He’s studying your reactions, your noises, your gasps for air and mercy. He wants to know he’s giving you what you wanted. He wants to know he’s doing it right.

And of course he is. He has to know that. He has to assume he’s better than the average man. You wonder if he learned this from Rebecca or someone else. You wonder what would happen if you were his. Could you be okay with him sleeping with other people? Could you accept that he still wants you?

You close your eyes and scrunch your nose. You’re doing it again. You’re letting yourself imagine a world you can’t have. You aren’t being present; you aren’t enjoying what you’re being given now.

Suddenly, his hand is back on your throat. He’s squeezing, but pointedly. Asking for your attention.

“Hey,” he murmurs, just as stern as before. You look up. “What is this? What is this face for, what’s wrong?”

You blink and then realize your expression is still bunched. You relax. “Nothing, sorry.”

“Hey.” Firm. Unrelenting. He stops thrusting and you want to die. “Baby, you can’t do that. I told you I need communication, I need honesty. If I’m hurting you, you have to tell me—”

“No,” you insist quickly. You take hold of his shoulders and then his hips as though to get him to continue. “No, that’s not it. I promise. Don’t stop.”

He doesn’t move. “Then what was the face for? What’s wrong?”

You huff. Sigh. Squeeze his waist. “Nothing, I promise. I was just…thinking about something I shouldn’t. And I wanted to stop.”

“Stop fucking? Or stop thinking?”

“Thinking. I wanted to be here. With you.”

He relaxes now and you feel his cock twitch. “Kitten, I want you here with me, too. If you’re not, we can stop for a while—”

“No,” you groan. You feel like a child about to throw a temper tantrum. “No, I swear. I am here. I am. And if you stop, then I won’t be, and it might kill me.”

He sighs now. It’s heavy. “Nobody else exists outside of this room except you and me, yeah? Just us.”

You melt. “Yeah…”

He kisses you. “I want you here with me, baby,” he exhales, and it’s like he’s breathing the sentiment into your lungs. “I need you here. With me. On my cock. Don’t want you to think about anybody else. It’s just us.”

You nod again, and you claw at him, and you beg him to keep going. He does. It fixes everything.

When your fourth hits you, you see the stars. Even if they aren’t in your favor, they are bright, and warm, and they carry you through to the other side.

And once you’ve caught your breath, Harry pulls out.

You’re tempted to wither, to cry, to beg him to stay but he’s already flipping you around onto your stomach and driving himself back in.

Now you understand. And you’re ecstatic. He’s rough. Pulling your hair, forcing your cheek to the bed, slapping his palm against your ass.

“Give me another,” he demands, and he sounds angry, but he’s not. He’s ready. “Just like you would for your little book boys. You fucking cum for me, right now. Let me feel you. Let me cum with you.”

He slams into you and it’s so full. You could cum for a lifetime and still never feel finished.

He spanks you again. Grips your hair. Forces your nose into the duvet until it’s hard to breathe. It’s rough. Deep. And still…he’s caring for you. You know he’s making sure he isn’t pushing too far. Just enough. You love it.

“What a sweet little pussy,” he seethes, but it’s thick with lust. “Can’t believe you’ve fucking kept this from me for five years. All this time and you were right here.”

You’re glad he can’t see you now. He might be afraid of how happy that sentence makes you.

“S’all I’m gonna think about,” he says. “Tasting you. Fucking you. Feeling you. Gonna dream of this pretty pussy every goddamn night.”

You moan. You hope he does. Hope he dreams of it when he’s lying next to her.

No. You scrunch your nose. You reject it. You ignore it.

He spanks you. Kneads your ass in his hand, then spanks you again. “Gotta promise me something, Kitten. Yeah? Gotta promise me that you’re gonna think of me, too.”

And you are. Of course you are. You always do. “Yes…yes, Sir. I promise.”

Another slap and squeeze to your scalp. “Good fucking girl. Now cum. Fucking cum for me, baby.”

You want to. But not before he does. You need to feel him, too, and you hold off as best you can until you feel him twitch.

“Kitten,” he says, and you’re ready. “Want you to make me another promise, yeah? Want you to take my cum…and keep it. Keep it in your little pussy, even after I leave. Okay?”

You nod quickly. You will. Of course you will. God, how could he think you wouldn’t?

Your promise tips him over, and he cums, and he’s loud, and it’s the most beautiful sound you’ve ever heard.

You wish you could see him. It’s so cruel that you can’t, and you try to glance back to catch even a glimpse. You see his brows scrunch together, see his mouth drop open, see his cheeks flush from the force.

And seeing him tips you over. You cum together, a mess of moans, and pants, and nicknames. Sweaty bodies connecting as he collapses on top of you, further burying you into the mattress. And it’s so hot and you can’t breathe, but you have never felt more alive. This moment is infinite. He is infinite, and you are infinite with him.

“Shit,” he says, and you have to agree. “You’re so good, baby. So fucking good. Can’t believe you’ve kept that from me.”

It’s the second time he’s said it. You wonder if he realizes. “I didn’t do anything, this was all you.”

He snorts. “Kitten, I had nothing to do with how fucking good that was. Believe me. You…are fucking perfect. Every cute little flutter of your cunt. Your tits. Those big eyes…”

The room falls silent. You imagine he wants to turn you around and see you, but he doesn’t. He’s keeping himself inside you for as long as he can.

“Thank you,” you whisper, and the sentiment doesn’t feel strong enough. “For…for doing that, I mean. And…for not making it weird. I know I was probably kind of…rusty and nervous, and I just—”

“No.” He shakes his head. Squeezes your hip. Kisses your bare back until you fall silent. “You are perfect. Okay? That was perfect. I really, really enjoyed it.”

You smile. You are happy and miserable all in the same moment. “Me, too.”

You want to ask if you’ll be doing it again. You want to pretend that he’s not gonna leave you and go back to her. That he’s not Rebecca’s Harry or Just Harry.

That he’s Your Harry.

But all good things must come to an end. He will leave. And you will let him.

“Now what?” you dare to ask.

A small beat. “We don’t have to talk about it after I leave…if that’s what you still want,” he says next, and your chest feels heavy. “I just want to make sure you’re all right before I do. That you pee, and you drink your water, and you take it easy. I know I went kind of hard on you.”

“But it was good,” you tell him, and you grin at the memory. It feels so far away. “Really good. Everything I wanted.”

“Yeah?” He kisses you more. The space between your shoulders. Your neck. Your cheek. “Any notes?”

You laugh. “No notes. God, no. You’re like a sex god.”

“Better than your books?”

“So much fucking better.”

“Hm.” More kisses. “Don’t tell me that. I’ll get a big head.”

“You already have one,” you attempt to tease, and he laughs, too. “Both of them.”

The room fills with giggles until you both fall silent again. He doesn’t leave. You don’t make him.

“Do we…tell Rebecca?” you ask. “Like…the details and things?”

“Only if you want to.” He stops kissing you now but rests his cheek on your head. “She doesn’t expect us to, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

You nod. You like Rebecca. You can’t imagine you’d be so relaxed if you were in her position. “And this…works for you guys? The open relationship?”

“Yeah.” He smiles. Nods. “We have a lot of love and trust and I think that’s why. It’s what we both want.”

You resist the urge to scrunch your nose. You’re happy for him. For both of them, you are. This really is what’s best and you’re so glad they have each other. And you’re glad that they’re both willing to explore it with you and still keep you in their lives.

“Is it just sex?” you ask next, despite your better judgment. “Or…like, what if you wanted to date someone else? Or is that not what it means?”

“We can date around if we want. We haven’t in a while, just because we can’t seem to find people we like enough to keep around.” He smirks. “But we could. It’s not as rigid as it sounds.”

He finally pulls out and you want to cry. You feel cold and empty.

However, he’s quick to scoop the dribbling cum from your pussy and push it back in. Just for a little while longer.

You close your legs and smile. “I don’t think it’s rigid as long as it’s what you want.”

He smiles back. “It is.”

You shift now. You feel nervous again. “So…then, I guess by the rules and things…it wouldn’t be…totally weird to see if you wanted to do it again? Not that we have to—we could, I mean. Or not, if you don’t want. Or maybe I should ask her. Or you can. Or…actually, it’s dumb, never mind. I don’t know why I thought—”

He grabs your chin. Presses his thumb to your lips to quiet you. “Kitten, breathe.”

You do.

“We can do it again,” he says, and you have never felt so happy. You feel as though you were just set on fire. Your skin is tingling, and your insides are twisting, and your pussy is clenching. “We don’t have to ask permission. We’re adults. We can do whatever we’d like. That’s the point of an open relationship.”

You nod. You want to kiss him. “Okay. Are you…I mean, do you want to? We don’t have to just because I do, honestly. I just…we both liked it, so I thought maybe we’d want to. Unless it wasn’t really that good for you, which I would understand—”

“Kitten.”

You stop. You breathe.

He chuckles. “I would love to fuck you again. And again. And again. As many times as you’ll let me.”

You’re practically shaking. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He grins. He can tell how giddy you are. “What are you doing next Friday?”

“I am doing whatever you want me to.”

The expression that splits his face is like sunshine. He loves this answer, and he loves your pussy, and perhaps one day…he’ll love you, too.

“Good fucking girl,” he breathes, and surges forward to kiss you.

And maybe…this wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

Next Part:

~ Insatiable You*

~ Full Infinite You Masterlist

~ Main Masterlist

Amazing divider by @firefly-graphics! 💞

Taglist: @walkingintheheartbreaksatellite @keepdrivingkisses @swiftmendeshoran @tiredinwinter @straightontilmornin @justlemmeadoreyou @harrysdaydreams @tiaamberxx @peterparker1sgf @myfavfanficsever @littlenatilda @vamprry @fdl305 @tchalametishot @ssaama @indierockgirrl @likeapplejuicenpeach @vane28282 @lukesaprince @closureesny @lc-fics @0nlythrowharrybeaux @hannahdressedasabanana @iguessyourejustwhatineeded @dylanobandposts21 @butdaddyilovehim-hs

#harry #harry styles #harry edward styles #harry styles x reader #harry styles imagine #harry styles x you #harry styles blurb #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fan #harry styles smut #harry styles request #harry styles concept #smut #concept #friend!harry

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smileysuh · 7 months

Text

Love Plug

🌙 starring. Johnny Suh x afab!Reader

🔮 preview. “The only things Johnny’s horny for are things that come in green: money and weed. He doesn’t date, babes, and you two are on a date.”

tw/cw. weed/drug use, shotgunning (kissing after John's taken a hit from a joint), reader likes wine, alcohol, plug!Johnny, unprotected sex, oral (f/m receiving) face riding, big dick john, 69-ing, size kink, grinding, multiple reader orgasms, fingering, pussy stretching, dirty talk, praise, ass groping, hand job, creampie/filling kink, cumming together, etc… I pet names: (hers) angel, sweet thing, good girl

👹 rating.18+ explicit I wc. 7.9k

🍭 aus. plug/drug dealer!Johnny, semi-strangers to lovers, Valentine's Day, etc…

☀️ mlist + an. I know this is slightly late, as it's Valentine's Day themed, but I hope ya'll like it anyway! big thank you to @sehunniepotwrites, my beta reader, my fellow John lover, my bestie- Love you girlie, thank you for helping me edit this to get it posted on time 💕

Being alone on Valentine’s Day is never fun. It would be one thing if you were with your girlfriends, but today, you’ll truly be alone. Everyone is busy, people are working, or with significant others- you feel like you’re the only person without plans, and it’s driving you completely insane.

Your apartment is spotless, you’d gone on a cleaning bender to distract yourself from today’s date, but as three o'clock rolls in, you find yourself sitting on your couch and staring at the ceiling.

There’d been a time in your life when boredom would make way for addictive traits. Dopamine-filled hobbies that you’ve since done your best to squash. But as three becomes four and you have nothing to satiate yourself - not even the pink bottle of wine in your fridge has been able to drown your loneliness - you begin to consider more drastic measures.

You’d never been a stoner, per se, but you’d gone with your cousin a few times to pick up from her run-of-the-mill dealer. If anything can help you relax and watch a movie, you think it might be some Grade A Indica.

Unknown number: Hi John, are you out today?

John: define out. Who is this

Unknown number: shit

Unknown number: my cousin gave me your number, I’ve picked up from you a few times

Unknown number: You probably don’t remember me but my name is y/n

John: I remember you

John: how much do you need?

Unknown number: I’m thinking $100 worth?

John: I’ll bring my shit. Text me your address and I can be over within the hour

Usually, when your cousin has gotten in contact with John, he comes to her apartment and the two of you go outside, filing into his truck. He has a duffle with jars full of weed, shatter, and the like. You give him money and he helps you decide what your night is going to look like.

When John calls you half an hour after you’ve texted him, you’re already almost at your door. “I’ll be down in a sec,” you tell him, searching for your keys.

“How about you buzz me up instead?” he suggests. “I’m outside the front door.”

You freeze for a moment. As far as you know, John’s never come up to your cousin’s apartment, and the idea of inviting the sexy local plug up into your one bedroom is sketchy… but at the same time, you’re feeling kind of desperate.

“Okay, type my apartment number into the keypad and I’ll let you in. The elevator will take you to my floor.”

You hang up, and a moment later your phone rings again. You press the buzz-up key and hold your breath.

You’re not sure if you’re scared of being alone with John because he’s a drug dealer or if you’re frightened of your own lack of self-control. John’s one of the sexiest men you’ve ever seen and this is Valentine’s Day. You’d been planning on maybe getting a little high, pulling out your vibrator, and having a good time with yourself… but if you could have a good time with him…

You give your head a shake, reaching for your bottle of wine. You pour the last bit of it into a cup, lifting it to your lips while you wait for the local plug to arrive at your door.

When he knocks, you practically jump, heart lurching in your chest. You scurry to your door, not wanting to make him wait- not wanting any of your neighbors to see the tall, sexy, tattooed man standing outside your home.

John greets you with a grin. “Special delivery,” he jokes, stepping past you and into the apartment and looking around. “You’ve got a nice place.”

“Thank you.”

You watch him head into the living space. He walks as if he’s been here before, as if he belongs here. The duffle makes a thumping sound when he nonchalantly sets it onto your small dining table, but John doesn’t immediately open it to show you the product like he does when you’ve bought from him before.

“Is it just me, or does it feel kind of sad in here?” John asks, turning to look at you.

“Hmm?”

“I just mean…” he gestures around, “spotless house, a pretty girl alone on Valentine’s Day… you haven’t bought from me in a while, sweet thing, I kind of thought you’d quit.”

“I did quit-” you stutter, “I mean… I was never a huge stoner or anything, so I wouldn’t say I quit-”

John grins while watching you search for an explanation. He leans back, palms flat on the dining table. The black v-neck he’s wearing shows off some of his chest piece and the tattoos on his neck are definitely a distraction as you try to formulate words.

“Look, all I’m saying is… I’d hate for you to lose your sobriety streak because you’re feeling lonely on Valentine’s Day.”

“I’m not exactly sober,” you scoff, reaching for your glass of wine.

“Is that a rosé?”

You look down at the liquid. “It’s a pink strawberry sparkling wine.”

“Sounds nice. Give me a taste.” He holds out a hand, and it’s clear that it’s more of a demand than a request, so with a sigh, you hand your cup to the local plug.

John swirls the glass, then he lifts it to his lips. He doesn’t sip, doesn’t take his time, he simply tilts his head back and downs the wine in two large gulps. When he’s done, he wipes his hand across his mouth, grinning mischievously. “Yummy.”

“That was the last of it,” you groan. “Now I have to hit the liquor store too.”

“Is it usual for you to get crossed, sweet thing? Weed and wine? You must really be feeling some type of way today.”

“So says the drug dealer working on Valentine’s Day.” You roll your eyes, annoyed that he’d downed your whole glass and isn’t cutting to the chase of your transaction.

“Ouch,” John laughs. “When did you get such a mouth on you?”

“Since you just drank an entire cup of wine in two seconds and started talking about my sobriety streak- are you going to sell me some weed or not?”

“For a girl with nowhere to be, you sound like you’re in a rush,” John muses. “You want to get me out of your home that badly, huh?”

“I mean, I would have preferred meeting you at your car,” you admit.

John simply shrugs. “And I wanted to see how dire your situation was. Clearly, it’s pretty fucked. Listen, we can still go down to my car if you want.”

“Will you sell me the weed if I go with you?”

“Nah, but I can take you out for a drink instead.”

His words hang heavy in the air, and your mind does mental gymnastics to make sense of the suggestion.

Is he asking you out?

Finally, you ask, “Aren’t you working?”

“The good thing about being your own boss is you can always say fuck it, I wanna go to a bar,” John points out. “So are you going to come with me and let me distract you better than weed would? Or are you going to mope around here with no wine, no weed, and no sexy plug to make you feel better?”

You definitely have a sexy plug or two hidden away under your bed that could make your day better- but you don’t tell John that. Instead, you let out a sigh. “I guess I have nothing better to do.”

“That’s the spirit, sweet thing, now let’s go on an adventure.”

The place he takes you to is a complete dive. It’s a dark ambiance, and as you settle onto a bar stool, you notice the stickiness of the counter in front of you. John, however, seems completely at home here. He doesn’t mind the alcohol-stained wood, leaning over it to speak to the bartender over the loud rock music that plays through the establishment. “Two shots of the regular,” he announces.

“You got it, Johnny,” she laughs, turning to grab a bottle of whiskey from one of the higher shelves.

“So I guess I don’t have to ask if you come here often,” you breathe.

“And I don’t have to ask if you’ve been here before. You stick out like a sore thumb, sweet thing. Relax a little.”

You let out a sigh. “Are we really going to do whiskey shooters?”

“I’m buying so I’m choosing,” John insists. “But if you want a cocktail or something, you can get that too, on me.”

So instead of taking your money today, he’s spending his money on you.

John is an enigma, and the confusion you feel has you more curious than ever.

“So how’d a guy like you get into your line of work?” you ask.

“He’s eighteen, gets stupid tattoos on his neck and hands, is rejected from other lines of work, and then discovers he has a talent for growing the best weed in town,” John responds. “Although, between you and me, I’m pretty good at growing orchids too.”

You had not pegged him as a plant guy. He’s always seemed so one-dimensional, and you realize now that your stereotype of him had been wrong. You’d never have thought John was the one actually growing the product he sells, and the idea of him nursing an orchid - a famously difficult flower - has your heart softening.

The bartender returns, setting two shots in front of you and John. “How’s your day going, Hyuna?” John asks, picking up a conversation with her.

“It’s going,” she sighs.

“Ouch, that doesn’t sound good,” John muses, pushing one of the shooters in front of you. “I thought you were seeing that new guy- the finance bro. Figured you’d be with him today.”

“I’m not sure he’s the commitment type.” Hyuna brushes her long dark hair over a shoulder, looking between you and John. “Besides, someone has to run this lonely hearts club here. You’re ruining the single vibe by bringing a date.”

“My bad for not introducing her, by the way,” John grins. His arm comes around the back of your chair, and he pulls you closer. “This is sweet thing, I’m saving her from making bad decisions today.”

“Yeah? And how are you doing that?” Hyuna laughs.

“By substituting one drug for another.” John picks up his shooter, turning to you. “To bad decisions.”

With a sigh, you grab your own shot, lifting it to clink against John’s. “To bad decisions,” you echo.

The whiskey is like fire as you shoot it, and you have to do your best not to sputter from how bad it tastes. You feel your face scrunch up involuntarily, and it earns laughs from Hyuna and John.

“I think we can all agree Johnny’s taste in alcohol is a bad decision,” Hyuna muses. “What can I get you, sweet thing?”

You order your drink of choice. John asks for three more shooters. When Hyuna sets them all down in front of you, John holds one out to her. “This one’s for you. I’m sorry it’s not working out with finance bro.”

Hyuna assesses the shot, then, with a groan, she grabs it. “I shouldn’t be doing this.”

“No one’s gonna care,” John insists. “And we both know your manager is in love with you. Just take the shot, babes.”

Hyuna rolls her eyes and downs the drink. She sets the glass down, her perfectly manicured black nails dragging along it momentarily. “You and your annoying tastes.”

“You’ll learn to love this,” John assures her. “You learned to love me, right?”

“After I got over how annoying you are.”

John only laughs. He downs another shot, bringing his total to three. Then he stands up abruptly. “Vape break,” he announces. “You girls better not have too much fun without me.”

You watch him leave, sipping on your cocktail.

“So how did you two meet?” Hyuna asks, half turning to remove some glasses from the washer so she can polish them while you chat.

You lean forward, whispering, “He’s literally my plug.”

“John’s everyone’s plug,” Hyuna laughs.

“How about you? He’s a regular?”

“Yeah, but I also dated his sister once upon a time,” Hyuna explains. “He was her annoying kid brother. I did my best to be nice to him but things didn’t end so well with her- then three years later he came in here, all tattooed and wreaking of weed- He recognized me right away, and he’s been coming in here ever since. Tips good too.”

You’d been wondering about the specificities of their relationship. Hyuna’s gorgeous, like- one of the prettiest bartenders you’ve ever seen. Her lean arms are covered in intricate tattoos, her nails are filed to points, her hair is perfect, her cheekbones are prominent and her lips are puffy like pillows-

Who wouldn’t have a crush on her?

“He’s an interesting guy,” you muse finally.

“Don’t let his tattoos fool you,” Hyuna says, meeting your eye. “He’s a sweetheart. He just likes to look all tough because of his job.”

You consider what she’s just said.

“So…” your throat feels a little dry. “Does he often come in here with girls?”

“Never. And especially not on Valentine’s Day.” Hyuna sets a cup down, leaning over the bar top to get a good look at you. “So tell me, sweet thing, what’s the end goal here?”

“Hmm?”

“Johnny might be an annoying plug, but like I said, he’s a good guy. I’m not dating his sister anymore, but he’s still like a kid brother to me. I don’t want to see him get hurt.” There’s a beat of silence. “He’s giving you heart eyes, and he let you choose your own drink. John doesn’t even let me choose my own drink once in a blue moon when we go out. He’s also never cared about what drugs I do, so why does he care so much about you? What makes you so special?”

“I…” you set your cocktail down. “I really can’t answer that.”

Hyuna cocks her head, pursing her lips. “Girl to girl, don’t be a bitch to him. I’m the one he’s going to come crying to if you reject him really hard. Let him down softly, if you have to.”

“Honestly, girl to girl, I don’t even know if he’s into me that way.”

“Sweet thing,” Hyun scoffs, “you must be blind as a bat. Don’t you see the way he’s looking at you?”

“I sort of thought he was just horny for Valentine’s Day.”

The bartender lets out a barking laugh. “The only things Johnny’s horny for are things that come in green: money and weed. He doesn’t date, babes, and you two are on a date.”

Your lips part to respond, but the door to the bar opens and John comes back inside. He lumbers over with a grin, taking the seat next to you. His arm slides around the back of your chair and he leans forward, looking between you and Hyuna. “So what did I miss?”

“Nothing important,” Hyuna lies.

“In that case, I think I’m going to order a-”

“You’re aware that at some point I’ll have to take your keys away, right?” Hyuna raises a brow at John. “I just gave you three shots, you have one sitting in front of you still-”

“We both know I’m a heavyweight,” John insists.

“Sure you are,” Hyuna rolls her eyes, “and your skin is naturally pink.”

You assess John. Hyuna must have good vision, because in the shitty lighting of the bar, you can hardly tell that John has definitely flushed from the alcohol. His cheeks are a rosy hue, and he looks as boyish as ever, a stark contradiction to the neck tattoos that are also beginning to blossom with color.

“How about this… two more shots,” John bargains, holding up three fingers.

Hyuna scoffs loudly.

“How about… two more shots,” John continues to hold three fingers, “And I’ll buy dessert so my body doesn’t turn into a complete whiskey barrel.”

“Two desserts and you have a deal,” Hyuna sighs.

“Two desserts it is.” John sits back in his chair. “What are you thinking, sweet thing? This place has a really good brownie, although, there's no weed in it.”

“We’ve also got apple pie with ice cream, tiramisu from the Italian place next door-” Hyuna does her best to be helpful, and you’re beginning to appreciate the tough love elder sister act thing she has going on.

You order the dessert that sounds most to your liking, and as you wait, John begins to ask about your cousin. “She’s a trooper,” he muses. “I sold her this massive thing of mushrooms last week and she texted me like two days ago asking for more.”

“She’s a heavy hitter for sure,” you agree.

“She told me once that she only does things like weed and shrooms because they come from the Earth,” John continues. “Never asks for links to cocaine or MDMA or anything- just the Earthy shit. She told me it’s cuz she’s a Taurus.”

You laugh. “That’s my cousin.”

“It was interesting meeting you for the first time,” John continues. “Your cousin gets into the car, knows exactly what strains of weed she wanted- pretty sure she was buying shatter. And there you are, asking for a blunt. Didn’t know if you wanted indica or sativa or a hybrid…” John shakes his head, as if it was the most baffling experience in the world. “In the end, I gave you some indica. Could tell you had a lot of anxiety and shit. I was kind of happy when you stopped buying, I’d hoped you’d found some other outlets or something.”

“I picked up wine,” you say, only half joking.

“Look, on our way back to your place to drop you off, I’ll stop and pick up a bottle for you to make up for what I drank earlier, deal?”

“Deal.”

John grins, and then you see his hand dipping down into his pocket. “Vape break.”

You watch John lumber outside again, and you release a deep sigh, meeting Hyuna’s eye. “Boys and their vapes.”

Dessert had helped mellow John out somewhat, and he’d actually been pretty law abiding while driving to the liquor store after. The two of you are now walking around the aisles, with John asking you all sorts of questions about your preferences when it comes to booze.

It feels shockingly domestic, especially when people go to move past you and John’s hand finds the small of your back, gently prompting you in front of him to make way for others to go by.

“What if I get us two bottles, and you let me come up for a movie,” John suggests as you reach for a replacement wine from earlier.

“What sort of movie?” you ask.

“Anything you want.”

“Are you sure I’m the only lonely one today?” you tease. “You’re being pretty clingy, John.”

“Anxious girls love a man that clings,” the plug insists. “Here, I’ll sweeten the pot for my sweet thing. Three bottles of wine, on me, and I’ll hand roll a blunt that will blow your socks off.”

“What happened to not wanting me to lose my no-weed streak?”

“I never said I’d let you smoke it, I just said I’d hand roll it and you’d be super impressed by my skills.”

You let out a laugh. It’s shocking how much your opinion of him has changed in a few short hours. You can’t believe how comfortable he’s making you feel.

“Fine. Three bottles,” you agree.

John grabs two more to join the one in your hand, and you head to the checkout. As you’re waiting in line, his phone rings, and he brings it to his ear.

“Hey, Mark…” John’s eyes meet yours. “I mean, I’m kind of busy… You really need it huh? Okay, give me a sec.” The plug presses his phone to his chest. “I’ve got a buddy who wants to link up. He lives pretty close by. It would take like… ten or fifteen minutes max. You good with that?”

“Yeah,” you agree. “Sounds okay.”

John lifts his phone back to his ear. “Okay, I’ll be there in ten minutes. You better be waiting outside though, I told you I’m busy.”

A short while later, you’re sitting in the front passenger’s seat of John’s truck as he pulls up in front of an apartment building. A man in a hoodie and baseball cap is standing there, and he quickly gets into the back, giving you an odd look.

“Mark, this is sweet thing. Sweet thing, this is Mark,” John says smoothly.

“Dude. I didn’t know you had a girlfriend.”

John ignores the comment. “How much are you spending today?”

“Five hundred.” Mark pulls a wad of bills out of his pocket.

“The usual?” John asks, reaching down for the duffle by your feet.

“Half shrooms, quarter indica flower, quarter butter or shatter, whatever you think is best today.”

“You got it.” John sets the duffle gently on your lap, rifling through it. He begins to pull things out, like a jar full of weed. As John sections it off into bags, Mark leans forward to get a better look at you.

“Sorry for interrupting your plans,” he says sheepishly.

“That’s okay,” you assure him.

“You guys up to anything fun?”

“Movie night,” John answers, tossing a baggie of weed back at his friend.

“Nice.” Mark nods to himself, waiting patiently.

Soon, John’s fulfilled the order. Mark hands the cash to the plug, and with one final nod and half smile, he gets out of the car.

“So…” John’s hand returns to the wheel. “Movie night?”

You’re two glasses of wine into the movie when John begins to roll a joint. He’s seated next to you on the couch, his thigh just touching yours as he bends over the coffee table. For a guy with such large hands, he’s more adept than you would have thought he’d be at the fine-tuned movements needed to make the perfect joint.

You’re more enthralled by him than the movie at this point, and you can’t help the way your body reacts when he lifts up his nearly finished product to swipe his tongue across the paper. He seals the joint masterfully before turning to meet your gaze. “I’m gonna pop onto your deck for a moment to smoke this.”

“I’ll join you,” you tell him immediately, pausing the movie to stand up.

You follow him outside, momentarily taken aback by how cold it’s gotten.

John pulls a lighter out of his pocket, and after one sharp flick, he begins to smoke the joint.

You like the way his jaw looks in the shadows of light from the deck lamp. He’s so handsome and regal-

The cloud of smoke he exhales is bigger than anything you’d ever be able to do yourself, and even that is sexy in some odd way.

“You’re really not going to give me a hit?” you ask.

“Nope.” John looks at you with a lazy expression and a half smile. “You’re the good girl, and I’m the bad guy, remember.”

“Bad guy,” you scoff.

“Why are you laughing, sweet thing? I’m a plug with tattoos. I’m bad.”

“You’re a softie.”

Now it’s his turn to laugh. “Says who?”

“Says me,” you insist.

“Yeah? And how do you figure?”

You think about it for a moment before responding. “You’ve taken care of me today… even though you didn’t have to.”

“Well, I wanted to.” John takes another puff, blowing it in your face. “It was pretty self-serving actually.”

You roll your eyes, waving away the smoke. “Sure it was, John.”

“Johnny,” he says quietly. “Call me Johnny.”

You stare at him, taking in his pretty face, the way his perfect lips wrap around the joint when he takes a puff. “Johnny… be for real. Why are you here?”

He lets out a laugh, but there’s little humor in it. “Isn’t it obvious?”

You shake your head, holding your breath while you wait for him to elaborate.

Johnny sighs. “Look. I’ve always liked you. I liked having you come around, needing an explanation about weed, and joints versus blunts, and indica versus sativa- it was like… it was like having a little bit of sunshine every once in a while. Then you stopped buying, and I was happy about that, but I also wasn’t. Hadn’t heard from you in months, didn’t have your number, couldn’t ask your cousin about you- you texted, and it’s Valentine’s Day, and I came up and saw you were alone- and… I don’t know… I just hate missed opportunities, and I couldn’t let this one pass me by.”

You’re really not sure what to say. His demeanor is usually kind of joking, he’s the type to always have a smile- but right now, he’s not smiling, not joking- he’s being dead serious.

“I’m happy I messaged you.” You feel stupid as the words leave your lips, but they bring back Johnny’s boyish grin.

“Yeah?”

“Uh huh,” you step closer, looking up at the tall plug. “Thanks for taking me out for drinks.”

“It would have been a crime to leave a sweet thing like you alone on Valentine’s Day, and trust me, I know all about crime.”

God, he’s such a goof. Why is he so endearing?

“Do you know about shotgunning?” you ask.

Johnny’s brows furrow for a second. “I’m shocked you know about shotgunning.”

“Do you wanna try it?”

The plug looks you up and down. “Is this a ploy to get at my joint?”

“Nuh uh,” you shake your head.

Johnny leans forward, meeting your eyes as his lips almost brush past your own. “Liar.”

He pulls away, slotting the joint in his mouth. He watches you while taking a long drag. Then he’s removing the joint and bending down again, meeting your gaze.

You lean forward, reaching to gently grab at his shoulders. Your heart is racing a million miles a minute in your chest, and you do your best to exhale, although it comes out shaky.

“Kiss me,” you whisper.

Johnny doesn’t have to be told twice, he closes the distance, pressing his lips to yours in an open-mouthed kiss. He exhales the smoke into your lungs and you do your best to breathe it in, but Johnny’s so much bigger than you, and you have to pull away before he’s completely finished his breath.

You sputter a little, feeling tears in your eyes. There’s a rush through your body, and you feel a little wobbly, but your grip on Johnny keeps you standing.

“John-” As soon as you’ve recovered, he’s kissing you again, but this time, it’s not for the purpose of shotgunning.

This time, he’s kissing you like he means it.

Like he needs it.

His large hand cups your cheek, and he releases a soft groan when you kiss him back, wrapping your arms tighter around his shoulders to pull him closer.

He tastes like weed and wine, and oddly enough it’s not a bad combination. As his tongue swipes past your lip and you open your mouth for him, you find yourself releasing a groan of pleasure.

Johnny returns the sound. In the periphery, you’re aware of him flicking the joint to the ground in favour of grabbing you with both hands. First, he cups your hips, pulling you flush against him, but after a moment, he reaches down to squeeze your ass too.

You go for a breather, and he takes the opportunity to kiss your throat, teasing his tongue against your skin and making you shiver in the cold evening air.

“You know…” you thread your fingers through his hair, “if you won’t give me drugs to use for happy chemicals, the least you could do is give me an orgasm.”

Johnny chuckles, pulling away to look at you with eyes that somehow sparkle. “I thought that was a given, sweet thing.”

“It better be,” you tease, cupping the back of his neck to bring his lips to yours again.

This time, when the kiss deepens and Johnny bends down to cup your ass, he lifts you off the ground, prompting you to wrap your legs around his hips. He pushes the door open behind you, taking you back inside.

You’re so lost in his lips you almost don’t realize he’s moved past your couch, and then he’s gently laying you onto your bed. “So how do you like it?” he asks, pulling away so he can tear his hoodie and shirt off, revealing a toned chest, and all the tattoos you’ve been itching to see.

“I like it any way you want to give it to me. Dealers choice.”

Johnny lets out a laugh. “You’re cute.”

“You’re cute,” you retort, hooking your fingers in his belt to draw him closer again.

Johnny presses a hand to the bed by your head, bending over you so he can kiss you. Your thighs wrap around him, pulling him fully on top of you while you’re locked in the hottest tongue battle of your life.

He’s just so big and sexy- the weight of him is enough to have you gasping, even though he’s still holding himself up with his elbow now propped into the bed.

His free hand finds your hip, slipping under your shirt to trace your skin. Each brush of his fingers builds the fire in the pit of your stomach, and as he slowly moves to grasp your breast, you find yourself almost dying with need for him.

You whimper lewdly against his lips, pushing your chest up toward his palm. With a bra in the way, you can’t get the proper stimulus against your nipple, and within moments of him massaging your tits, you begin to tear your shirt off, needing more.

Johnny helps you remove the fabric, tossing it to the side so his mouth can find your throat. “You’re so pretty,” he muses, reaching under you to undo the clasp of your bra. “Can I take this off?”

“Yeah, fuck- let's get naked.”

Johnny chuckles, pulling away to look down at you. “You sure you didn’t drink too much wine, sweet thing?”

“I’m mostly sober.”

“And that shotgunning didn’t make you needy?”

“You make me needy,” you insist, cupping his face. “You know how you said you were into me months ago? When we first met, I swear I thought you were the sexiest plug I’d ever seen.”

“Probably the only plug you’d ever seen,” Johnny points out with a grin.

“John,” you meet his gaze, “earlier, when you first got here, I wasn’t even sure if I should invite you up. I was worried I’d lose my self-control and jump you or something- trust me, the physical attraction has always been there, but… getting to know you today, I like who you are inside too… so, just fuck me, yeah?”

“Happy fucking Valentine’s Day to us lonely hearts, huh?”

Instead of answering, you kiss him again, tangling your fingers in his hair. Johnny groans when you tug gently, and he grinds his hips down against your own. You can feel the bulge of his cock as it drags against your core, and you’re pretty sure your panties are going to be ruined after this.

You can’t help yourself, you trace your hand down from his shoulders to his chest, then his abdomen- then you cup his cock, applying pressure that has him moaning again, thrusting against your hand for friction.

“I think I kind of want you in my mouth,” you admit breathlessly.

“That’s funny, I want you in mine.”

You think about it for a moment. “Sixty-nine?”

“Fuck, you’re a girl after my own heart, aren’t you, sweet thing?”

You can only grin, heart thundering in your chest as you push at Johnny’s shoulders, prompting him to roll onto his back.

“You take off your pants, and I’ll take off mine,” you suggest, getting off of him so you can work on your jeans.

Johnny doesn’t need to be told twice, and you watch the way his muscles ripple under his skin as he hurries to get naked.

He’d never actually taken off your bra, so you do that yourself. In moments, you’re both completely nude.

You stare at Johnny, taking in his cock.

He’s rock-hard and huge. It makes you excited, but you’re also not sure how well you’ll be able to take him. He must be at least seven or eight inches, and thick too, with a pretty mushroom tip that’s already leaking precum.

He grins at your reaction. “Think you can handle this, sweet thing?”

“Something tells me you’ll make it fit.”

“You got that right,” he laughs. “Now come sit on my face, wanna taste that pretty pussy.”

There’s something so suave about half-baked Johnny. He speaks with an almost melodic tone, it’s deep and sensual, and your pussy throbs just from the words coming out of his mouth.

As you crawl onto the bed, getting into position, his hands are careful against your form, helping you settle as you swing a thigh over his head, hovering your core over his mouth. Instead of waiting for you to sit down, Johnny lifts himself up a little, burying his face in your pussy before you can even touch his cock.

“Fuck-” you whimper, grabbing the base of his length as he pushes his tongue deep inside of you, licking the length of your slit.

You would love nothing more than to enjoy his mouth on you for hours- but you have your own job to do, and you’re already drooling. You bring his mushroom tip to your lips, gently licking at him.

Johnny’s large hands find your ass, and he squeezes you gently. “No teasing,” he mumbles, and the vibration against your clit has you squirming down on his face.

You take him into your mouth, sucking on the tip and twirling your tongue. Johnny immediately releases a groan before diving back into your pussy. He grabs your hips pulling you down tighter against his face.

It’s hard to know what to focus on. He feels so good with his mouth worshiping your pussy, but at the same time, you’re kind of obsessed with sucking his cock. He’s so huge, and you want to see how much you can take. You sink further onto his length, feeling your lips stretch at the intrusion-

God, he’s going to absolutely wreck your pussy. You can’t even fit half of him in your mouth before he’s hitting the back of your throat, and as you constrict around him, he releases lewd sounds of pleasure that have your core practically throbbing with need.

You pull off of him, if only to collect your saliva as lube so you can stroke what your mouth can’t reach. Taking a breath and steadying yourself, you grind gently against his tongue, moaning loudly. Then you take him past your lips again, getting lost in the act of simultaneous giving and receiving.

You’re lost in him, so lost that you don’t even know how long you’ve been in this position- but you can feel an orgasm bubbling in the pit of your stomach every time Johnny focuses on your clit.

You find yourself grinding harder against his face, and as the feeling builds, you can’t help but pull off of his cock, gasping and moaning. “Fuck, Johnny, I’m gonna-”

“Cum for me,” he groans, squeezing your ass as he kitten licks your clit. “Don’t hold back. Cum on my face, sweet thing, give me everything.”

You’re stroking his cock mindlessly, your muscles tensing as Johnny takes your clit into his mouth, sucking and licking-

“Oh my God-” you whimper, toes curling-

Your orgasm washes over you like a wave. It tingles through every inch of your being, throbbing out from your core. You and Johnny both release groans of satisfaction, and the knowledge that he’s enjoying having you cum on his face only makes your pussy clench tighter.

You’re practically riding his tongue now, chasing the last inklings of your high until you’re absolutely breathless.

Johnny presses one last kiss to your clit, and then he’s tapping your ass gently. “Gonna roll onto your back and let me fuck you like the good girl you are?”

“God, yes,” you groan. Your legs are shaky but you get off of Johnny’s face, collapsing next to him.

“Damn, sweet thing, that was a good one, huh?” Johnny laughs, sitting up and stroking your thigh.

“So good,” you whimper, still feeling the aftershocks.

Johnny gets between your legs, elbow pressing into the bed next to your head as he dips close to kiss your neck. “The way you were grinding against my face was so fucking hot.”

“Johnny-” You wrap your legs around him, feeling absolutely desperate for his cock.

“You’ll have to be a little patient for me, sweet thing,” Johnny sighs, one large hand cupping your breast and teasing past your nipple. “I’ve gotta stretch you out before you can take me.”

“What if I want you now?”

“Like I said,” his breath is hot against your throat, “you’ll have to be patient.”

“What if I want you to wreck me?”

Johnny laughs, pulling away to look at you. “You’re not as innocent as you look, are you, angel?”

You trace your fingers along the fine line, black and white, Japanese Oni mask tattoo that sits on his chest between his defined pectoral muscles. “Not when it comes to you.”

The plug simply grins at your words, his hand trailing down until it reaches your core. Two thick fingers prod at your opening, and you spread your legs even wider to accommodate him. He teasingly dips the first digit inside of you and you release a moan at how good it feels, but he’s quick to pull it out and circle your clit.

“You know what you said earlier?”

He lets out a humming sound.

“About not teasing?” you correct. “If you’re making me wait for you to prep me, you better not take your sweet time with it.”

“You’ll have to let me take my time with you next time then.”

“Next time?” You cock a brow.

“Yeah,” Johnny ghosts his lips over your own. “Next time.”

“Deal, now finger fuck me open then give me your cock.”

“Jesus, I love it when you talk dirty,” Johnny groans, dipping his finger into your core again. “Tell me more.”

“You just feel so fucking good,” you groan, swiveling your hips. “Even one finger- you’re just so big- Johnny, how are you so big?”

“You haven’t really experienced the Big yet,” John points out, adding a second digit that he scissors inside of you, stretching you out for him.

In response, you reach down and wrap your hand around his cock, pumping him gently. “I’m gonna feel you inside me for days after this.”

“Especially if you let me fuck you tomorrow, and the day after- you could feel me forever if you wanted to.”

“Forever, huh?” You let out a whimper as his digits work harder inside of you, crooking up to stroke your g spot with shocking precision.

“I’m still a little high, it’s making me… too honest.”

“I like honest,” you admit, cupping his face with your free hand, drawing his lips to yours. “I like you.”

“I like you too,” he whispers, kissing you deeper as he finger fucks you faster. “Okay, sweet thing, I think you’re just about ready for me- dripping all over my hand.”

“I’m ready,” you assure him, staring into those beautiful chocolate-brown eyes.

“Should I grab a condom?”

“Are you clean?”

“Yeah. Contrary to popular belief, I don’t fuck around that often. I’m not a one-night stand kind of guy.”

You giggle. “I’ve sort of noticed that.”

He kisses you again. “I can still grab a condom though.”

“No, I’m on birth control. I want you to fill me up with cock and cum until it’s all I can think about.”

“I can do that.” Johnny pulls his fingers out of your pussy, and before he can lick them clean, you grab his wrist and guide them to your own mouth. “Fuck, you’re so fucking hot, angel.”

You groan around his digits, sucking them clean. When you’re done, Johnny grabs your jaw, drawing your lips to his so he can taste you, his tongue gliding against your own.

You’ve still got his cock in your hand, and you pump him gently, adjusting against the blanket to get closer to him so you can guide his tip toward your core.

Johnny takes the hint, and he breaks the kiss, pressing his forehead against yours. His gaze dips to where your bodies meet, and he allows you most of the control as you drag his cock through your folds. “You really want this?”

“Just fuck me, John. Please don’t make me beg.”

He pushes forward, the tip of his cock sheathing in your tight core. “Holy shit,” Johnny groans.

“More.”

Johnny can only laugh, rubbing the tip of his nose against yours as he thrusts deeper into you. The two of you hold your breath as inch after inch stretches you open. You’re so wet, and it makes the process easier, but you can still feel Johnny everywhere.

You’re a wriggling, moaning mess by the time he’s fully inside of you.

Johnny’s breath is hot against your skin, and his chest is rising and falling with effort, his bicep bulging next to your head. “You good?”

“Yeah,” you nod, swallowing thickly.

“Can I-”

“Rail me. Break my back. Murder my pussy.”

Johnny laughs, pressing his lips to yours to shut you up as he begins to move his hips, pulling out only to thrust back in. You can feel your insides practically quivering with each drag of his length against your walls. He’s so big, and you’re stretched to the brink- the vein along the underside of his cock is an added stimulus that has your toes curling already.

You’ll never be the same after this.

No one’s cock is ever going to compare and you just know it.

Johnny’s lips can’t muffle the sounds of pleasure still escaping you, and you grab at his broad shoulders, tracing your nails against his skin.

It’s so easy to get lost in Johnny. He makes you feel safe, and the pleasure he’s giving you has time flying by like nothing else. Johnny’s mouth goes to your throat, teasing the spot that has you moaning even louder.

“Can I flip you over? Wanna see that ass.”

“Do anything you want with me,” you tell him, and you mean it.

With one last kiss, Johnny pulls out of you. His large hands find your hips. He manhandles you over, pulling your ass back and up so he can push into you again.

“Fuck,” you groan, grabbing at the bed sheets. “You’re even deeper like this-”

Each time his front meets your ass, the slapping sound turns you on even more. He’s practically rearranging your guts like this, and you don’t mind it one bit.

“Do you wanna rub your clit for me, sweet thing?” Johnny asks. “You’re so fucking tight around me, and I’m so sensitive when I smoke- not sure I’ll be able to last long, and I want you to cum with me. Wanna feel this pretty pussy all clenched and dripping-”

Every word has your body tingling, and you bring your fingers to your clit, rubbing in quick circles.

“Johnny-” you whimper.

“That’s it, angel. You feel so fucking good- so fucking good for me.” He grabs fistfuls of your ass, squeezing in a way that has you crying out. “Who’s my good girl?”

“Me!”

“Who’s taking this cock so fucking good?”

“Me!”

“Fuck-” Johnny lets go of your ass, wrapping a hand around your throat. He helps lift you up until your back is curved, shoulders pressed to his chest. His lips find your neck, hand dipping down to grasp your breast roughly, pinching your nipple.

“I’m gonna-”

“I know, sweet thing, me too-” He’s fucking into you like a god damned fuck machine, and each circle of your fingers on your clit has you closer and closer to the edge- “Fuck, okay, I’m there- shit, yeah, I’m there- you’re gonna cum with me, right? Gonna cum on my cock and let me fill you up?”

All you can do is whimper, your body fulfilling his ask before your brain can even fully process it. Your core clamps down hard on his cock, and Johnny releases a deep groan in your ear. He holds you close, squeezing you as his thrusts get erratic.

You can feel him cumming deep inside of you, and you’ve never felt this cock drunk in your life.

Nothing matters except Johnny and his huge cock filling you up to the brink. His lips are hot on your throat, and he fucks you through your highs, your pussy fluttering around him as wave upon wave of pleasure rocks through you.

As you both finish, he pushes himself fully inside of you. You can feel his cock throbbing, and his groans are music to your ears.

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” he whispers, letting out a soft laugh as he nuzzles against your cheek.

“Happy fucking Valentine’s Day,” you giggle, grabbing the hand on your breast and lifting it to your lips so you can kiss his palm.

He holds you for a few more moments, then he gently lowers you to the bed, cock still inside of you. “I’m gonna pull out,” he says, smoothing a hand over your ass. “You don’t mind if I watch it drip out of you for a second, right?”

“I’m just laying here,” you smile against the quilt.

Even so, it feels like a loss as he takes his cock out of your aching pussy. His hands are on your ass and he spreads your cheeks. “Fuck, sweet thing. This is the prettiest view in the whole fucking world.”

When you’d texted Johnny earlier for a link-up, you’d never expected this. Never expected to see this softer side of him.

You’re so fucking happy you reached out- he provided more than what you’d asked for.

“I busted a fat load in you, angel,” Johnny laughs, his thumb moving to rub your clit, causing you to whine and push back against him. “How about we go for a shower. I can wash you up, eat you out some more-”

“Damn, Johnny, are you pussy drunk?”

“Uh huh.” He leans over you, kissing up your spine and to your shoulder. “Valentine’s Day isn’t over yet, we should make the most out of it, right?”

You get the sneaking suspicion that you’re going to be making the most out of it with Johnny for many days to come, Valentine’s Day be damned. God. Your cousin is going to have a freak when she hears about this.

☀️ mlist + an. Thank you so much for reading! I know it's late by three days but this John still has me in the Valentine's Day spirit

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🔮 preview. “You’ll like this. You always like this. You love cumming on my cock. But you don’t get my cum unless I get yours, that’s the deal, right?”

cw/ tw. Unprotected sex, grinding on his thigh, hand job, oral (m receiving) blow job, he spits in y/n’s mouth, spit as lube, masturbation, y/n touches herself while blowing Johnny, fingering masturbation, y/n rides his cock, multiple reader orgasms, praise, gentle degradation, dirty talk, breast worship/tit sucking, etc… I petnames. (hers) angel, sweet thing, good girl.

👹 rating. 18+ explicit I wc. 2.6k I teaser wc. 250

🌙 starring. Johnny x afab!Reader

bonus

You’ve gotten accustomed to your plug boyfriend. You’d only been dating for a month when he’d officially asked you to be his, but you know the two of you were exclusive to each other since that very first night you’d fucked.

Being with John is pretty easy- but his odd work schedule can be a bit of a pain. He never knows how busy he’s going to be, so you can plan date nights, but sometimes he has to push it back a few hours to do unexpected late-night deliveries.

If you’d been cock drunk for him after the first time he’d fucked you, you’re even more dependent on him now.

No drug in the world could fill you up and give you the pleasure that Johnny’s cock does, and you’ve become a little impatient when you have to wait for him to complete deliveries… although, you’d never bring it up with him

You know being a plug is his job. It’s what pays the bills and allows him to dote on you in ways you’d scarcely been able to imagine before meeting him.

Even so, you can feel your skin crawling, pussy practically aching with anticipation as he completes the last handful of orders for the night. He’d initially wanted to be over at your place by seven, but it’s nearly ten now, and you’re three hours behind on the fuck marathon you’d planned.

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2K notes · View notes

gay-dorito-dust · 6 months

Note

Can I request headcanons for Sunday, Boothill, Welt, Gallagher, Blade, and Dan Heng react to his gn s/o asking him randomly if they can hug him in private?

Sunday: adheres to your every want and need without complaint.

He’d easily have a room cleared for you within seconds and make it known that no one should dare disrupt his ‘meeting’ with you, unless it was absolutely necessary.

And even then he’s the one making the final decision on whether or not the issue at hand was really worth his time and resources; which for most of the time they weren’t.

Sunday would more than likely make private hugs a thing in the future. He knew how busy he was and how little time that gives him with you that he felt as though somethings had to change as a result; Also it acted as the perfect guise for him to keep an close eye on you as you held onto him tightly.

He’s selfish and greedy with you and your affection and will take it whenever he felt necessary. Sunday was a hoarder in his own right but mainly with you and who he was forced to share you with because if Sunday had it his way, you’d never leave the room nor his arms unless he said so.

Boothill:

Smirking bastard this one.

Despite the fact that -apart from his face- he couldn’t actually feel anything, he wasn’t one to ignore you wanting to hug him because of it.

He, much like Gallagher, is the kind who’d thoughtfully enjoy just spending the day having you in his arms as having you close was his remedy for almost everything.

However he would be the type to tickle your sensitive spots for the fun of it, and getting to hear your squeals of excitement followed by the sound of your laughter as it makes him happy seeing you happy from something he did.

Does he hate that he can’t feel you against him? Yes.

Will he try to squeeze you closer in a desperate attempt to feel you, even if it that if was faint? Also yes. He just hoped that he could one day trick himself into thinking that he could feel you, but he spent too long coming to terms with that fact that he had lost that ability long ago.

But he keeps this all as far away from you as possible and decided to focus on the warmth your smile brings him instead to compensate.

Welt:

Is more than willing in giving you a hug.

He might think that something was wrong and that you needed some privacy so that you could confess to him your worries in confidence.

So upon arriving somewhere void of anyone and anything, Welt would ask if there was something that you wanted to get off your chest, only for you to tell him that you just wanted to hug him without having so many eyes on you when doing so.

Welt, being the most understand man ever, completely understands where your coming from and would let you hug him for as long as your heart wished. For he simply wanted you to feel as though he was there for you, regardless of how silly or stupid you might think your issues were, he wanted you to know that someone cared and that someone was him.

You’d probably end up sleeping him his arms as he was just so comfortable to be pressed up against and warm. Welt would find himself staring at you for far longer than he probably should, smiling dopily, before helping you to his room or yours where he would soon fall asleep also.

Dan heng;

Isn’t that great with PDA but is more expressive of his emotions behind closed doors. So the moment you asked for him to give you a hug in private, Dan Heng was more than willing to oblige.

After all he’s more prone to giving you affection and sweet words when you were away from everyone else. Not to say that he doesn’t shows that he cares for you in front of other people, but it would probably be a small group of people you both know, whom Dan Heng would feel comfortable with showing that side of himself towards.

Other than that rare expedition, most -if not- all affection was reserved for when you two were alone together.

His inner dragon noodle thrives off of your affection and warmth to the point where Dan Heng becomes flustered and embarrassed by it. You on the other hand thought it was extremely cute that he softly purrs when you burrow yourself into his arms.

‘You’re purring.’ You’d muse, kissing under his jaw.

‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’ Dan Heng says, face extremely flustered as the sound of his purrs continued.

He may not be all that vocal but he didn’t need to when his body told you everything you needed to know in the moment. He loved spending quieter moments with you and holding you close as it gave him his much needed reassurance that you very much appreciated him still. That he still had a purpose in your life to fulfil.

Gallagher:

Will agree within a heartbeat because any time with you is time well spent in his opinion.

He may or may not use you as an excuse to have the day off, just so he could hold you for the rest of the day, to the point it might as well become a cuddle session.

Give him any opportunity to cuddle and be lazy with you? Count. Him. In.

Also he’d probably would bite you at random points but you were made more then aware of this habit of his. So you’ve had enough time to make your peace with that fact, unfortunately you were also left with the unenviable position of having to explain why you were covered in bite marks, but that’s neither here nor there.

Gallagher would more than gladly spend the rest of his day with you in his arms no matter what and you weren’t one to argue with him as he was practically a walking furnace, and he made for an comfortable pillow on top of that too. Not to mention that he -in general- smelt amazing, which may or may not have been a primary cause for you to somehow manage to fall asleep in his arms a hundred percent of the time.

Blade:

Blade only accepts to hug you in utter privacy because PDA isn’t his thing. So at first he might not seem at all interested in giving you a hug, but the moment you mentioned that you’d want the hug in private, Blade grunted as he grabbed your arm and dragged you elsewhere from prying eyes.

‘This should work.’ He’d then say to himself before looking back at you and raising an eyebrow. ‘Well?’

‘Well what?’ You ask.

‘Aren’t you going to hug me?’ He relies.

‘Well you never really agreed to be hugged, you just grunted and dragged me here so…’ you trailed off as you were then brought against his chest as his arms kept your in place.

The hug itself was stiff, rigid and was a little awkward but all you have to do was practice a little patience and soon you’d feel him slowly start to relax under your touch. He’s not the type whom people feel as though they could come to him for affection or comforting, affirming words because that’s just not Blade, and he will agree to this also for it not being his forte.

For you however, Blade will try to compensate for those shortcomings by any means necessary. He doesn’t try for others nor put in the effort because why would he when it would ultimately amount to nothing?

but you? His partner? He genuinely tries but is secretly happy when you show compassion as to he just can’t.

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luveline · 19 days

Note

hiya jadey! A hotchner!reader x spencer request for you <3 Maybe Spencer comes home a little tense/snappy from a case and reader misinterprets it as anger towards her so she starts clesning and catering to what she thinks Spencer needs so he isn’t angry at her anymore? (even thought he never was.)

She sort of regresses into what she did when her adoptive parents weren’t pleased with her :(

love you love you love you superstar!

i love u <3 | fem, 1k

cw past emotional abuse

The door to Spencer’s apartment closes with a distinct clunk. Certainly shut too hard.

It sends a horrible feeling deep into the very pit of your stomach. Like you could cry, then and there. You frown at the odd feeling and stand to shake it off.

Spencer’s home.

“Hey,” you say, calling without seeing him, making your way into the living room from his kitchen to find him at the door.

His bag looks heavier than usual on a slouched shoulder, his hair puffy. He must’ve showered before they flew back into Virginia and air-dried his short curls. He drops his bag on the floor, scrubbing his face, nose and eyes screwed up tightly as his glasses push up to his forehead.

“You okay?” you ask.

His face flickers. “Fine.”

It’s not the greeting you’d wanted. Maybe you’re egotistical or something but you’d at least expected a hug. He’s the one who invited you over, surely he wants to see you?

The queasy feeling worsens.

You give him a little kiss on the cheek to test the waters. “Missed you.”

“Yeah, I missed you too.”

You aren’t convinced. Spencer rubs his face again, trudging to the couch to lay down.

You send yourself into a tailspin. Looking around the apartment, you can see why he’s unhappy. You left your cup on the coffee table, your handbag on the armrest, there’s so much to clean up and put away.

His silence means you did something wrong.

He asked you to be there. He left you the key. But maybe he didn’t really want you there after all.

When you were younger, you’d get home from school, and a half hour later your father’s car would park in the driveway. You’d get this feeling, then, a tenseness, not necessarily fear but anticipation. Some days it wouldn’t matter, and most days he’d come through the door like a animal to be coaxed into softness. You’d convince him to be angry at something else. Enable his fury, agree with every word he said.

Smiling, calmed, he’d walk into a spotless kitchen and find a pan soaking in the sink. I just wish you’d have some fucking consideration, he’d say. Or, Really? Or he’d sigh like he couldn’t believe it and slam a cabinet door.

Nothing was right. You weren’t worth any patience.

“Dove?”

You peek around the doorway again, your tidying having taken you to the kitchen to wash your cup. “Yeah?” you say.

“What are you doing?”

“Just– just cleaning up.”

“It’s fine. It’s clean, don’t worry about it.” He frowns at you. “Are you okay?”

“‘Course.”

His frown deepens. Spencer only ever frowns when he’s confused. When he’s upset he tends to press his lips together in an accidental pout, and when he’s angry, he’s stony. Spencer’s good at profiling because it’s his job. You learned it at home. Seeing anger in things most of all.

“I’m fine. Are you okay?” you ask, wiping your hands on your shirt. “Sorry, I should’ve asked how the case was. It was tough, right? It– I mean, they’re all tough.” You smile as you sit on the couch beside him, one leg tucked underneath you.

He shakes his head. “I’ve missed something. I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s wrong.”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“You’re not acting like yourself.”

“Sorry.” You wince. “I thought you were having a bad day?”

“I am. Or, I was.”

Spencer holds out his hand. When you take it, he pulls you toward him with the care of someone who knows what it’s like to be startled, shuffling toward one another to be knee to knee. He holds your arm like it’s all of you, pressing you to his chest.

For a while, you just sit there. Quiet, almost silent, the apartment rests around you. Spencer frowns at your hand as he draws lines up and down your arm, but slowly his frown softens, and you realise your stress has faded with it. Spencer isn’t angry. And if he were, it’s not with you.

“Sorry I shut the door hard when I came in,” he says.

You feel caught. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine. Today was really bad, I got into it with Emily and the case… I don’t know. But coming home to you…”

Spencer curls your fingers over his hand and presses them to the underside of his chin.

“Thank you for coming over,” he says. “Did you eat?”

You can’t help smiling, turning your hand slowly to cup his cheek, to hold him still. “I was waiting for you.”

“Well, you decide and I’ll go pick it up.”

“I can’t come with you?”

“Do you want to?” He turns into your touch, glasses pushed against his eye, his lashes on the lense.

You take back your hand. “Sure.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, we’ll walk. It’ll be nice, the weather’s not too bad.”

“You feel okay?” he asks.

“Worried about me?”

“What your brother might do to me,” he says, nodding into the joke. Then he cracks just as quickly and tugs you in to hug you sideways. “Worried about how I made you feel.”

It wasn’t Spencer’s fault, but you don’t want to talk about it anymore. You push up taller than him to encircle his head and neck, pressing your nose into the soft crop of his hair. He squeezes the small of your back with similar gusto. “Got my wires crossed,” you mumble.

”Want me to uncross them?”

You say, Please, and Spencer pushes you away from him to put your arms firmly on the right sides of you, uncrossing you, and kissing you on the nose.

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid oneshot #spencer reid scenario #spencer reid drabble #spencer reid fic #spencer reid fanfiction

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atlabeth · 6 months

Text

(not so) simple pt 4 - anthony bridgerton

masterlist

summary: coercing lord bridgerton into pretending to court you to avoid the affections of a baron is very simple — that is, until it isn’t.

a/n: SO. UM. once again this took fucking forever to come out which is kind of insane when you think about it because i've had 7000 words of this chapter written for like 4 months. truly wild. 2 babies have been born in the time that it's taken me to write this mini series but anyways there’s a lot happening here, shoutout to anthony for finally getting some more pov parts, the fun thing about your mc being out of commission for a while is that you have no choice but to write for the other characters. equality we love to see it. anyways most of it is angst, but it’ll all be wrapped up with a little regency romance bow i promise

wc: 7.6k

warning(s): aftermath of the end of last chapter which is angst. stab wound, talks of death, mentions of edmund's death, quite a bit of crying, anthony bridgerton's inner angst, miss worthing makes poor decisions. not a happy chapter but WHAT CAN YOU DO

“What were you thinking?” Violet demanded.

Anthony could barely hear his mother over the sound of the blood pounding in his ears, the pure terror gripping his heart. He’d no idea how to respond to her. He doubted she would like to hear that he, indeed, was very much not thinking.

And he was certainly not thinking much now, what with you on the brink of death with their doctor and his apprentice the only thing there to stop you. He could be of no help to you, bent half over in his chair, head in his hands, the image of you collapsing burned into his mind.

“Anthony Bridgerton, answer me.” Violet stood over him, her face flushed and eyes filled with anger and fear. “What were you thinking, bringing Miss Worthing out into the city?”

“I cannot deal with your questions right now, Mother!” he snapped, something letting loose inside of him. Anthony would have been ashamed had he any sense. “My future wife is in that room fighting for her life, and it is because I was not able to protect her. I am hardly able to form words at the moment, Mother, so please—” Anthony’s voice broke, and he ran a shaky hand through his hair. “Please just be quiet.”

It took a bit of nerve to be such an ass in front of his very own mother, but Anthony apparently had plenty of nerve at the moment. After you collapsed, he’d done the only thing he could think of in the moment and brought you back to Bridgerton House—it was closer than your residence, and if their physician had been able to keep his mother alive through eight pregnancies, then surely he could bring you back.

Now, though, he was not so sure. Every other option seemed to be plaguing his mind, for your blood still stained his hands and his clothing and Anthony didn’t know if he would ever be able to get it off.

His father died in his arms from something so small as a bee, and yet you had been stabbed. How were you meant to come back from that?

The door suddenly slammed open, and when Anthony glanced up, his insides twisted.

“Where is she?” Eloise demanded. Her windblown hair matched the wild look in her eyes, and the flush of her cheeks and haggard breathing told him everything. She was meant to be promenading with Penelope Featherington—her speed on foot was admirable.

“With our physician,” Violet responded. She seemed more subdued now, and though Anthony knew he would apologize profusely later, he could not find it in himself now. He could hardly find anything in himself apart from panic.

“With our physician—” She turned on Anthony, her gloved hands clenched into fists. “What in God’s name happened, Anthony?”

He allowed himself a moment to breathe before he responded. “She was stabbed.”

“Stabbed?” Eloise cried. “She was with you! How could she have been stabbed?”

“I was not with her when it happened—”

She scoffed. “That is a likely fucking story.”

“Eloise,” Violet said, “language.”

“I do not care about my language,” Eloise spat, gesturing wildly with her hands. “My best friend has been stabbed— I will say whatever I please!”

And then, as if to just add fuel to their fire, Benedict rushed in. Anthony held back a slightly unhinged laugh and shook his head. You were dying and they were out here arguing.

“I’ve made sure this hallway is off limits like you said, Mother.” Benedict looked just as shaken as the rest of them, and in a strange way Anthony was grateful. You’d grown closer to his family than he’d known. “Your lady’s maid is outside the door alongside a footman ensuring privacy, and your driver is on route to the Worthing residence to alert her parents. They’ve all been sworn to secrecy—no one will be disturbed, least of all Miss Worthing.”

“Thank you, Benedict.” Violet sighed, and she collapsed into an armchair. “At least one of us is in order.”

Benedict sat down on the sofa, his words coming out in a mumble. “I am hardly in order.”

The fire seemed to have died down in Eloise, for however temporary a time, and she settled down next to Benedict. She leaned her head on his shoulder, and he wrapped an arm around her.

“She’ll be okay,” Eloise whispered, “right?”

No one answered for a moment. At last, Anthony looked up, his hands clasped in front of him.

“Yes,” he rasped, hoping with everything in him that his words would be true. “She will be okay.”

He would not have been able to live with any other outcome, not when it was his fault in the first place that you were in this position.

Anthony didn’t know what he should have done, but he should have done something. He should have brought you to your senses and suggested a promenade in the park instead. He should have called on you at your estate, safe and sound in your drawing room. He should have been arm in arm with you, his heart steadily melting as you smiled and laughed and made him aware of all things good in the world.

He could not lose you. Not when he still had so much to tell you, so many words left unsaid.

Not when you didn’t know he loved you.

“I’m sorry, Anthony.” He looked up at the sound of Eloise’s voice—though she did not look at him and her arms were still crossed, the sincerity of it was not lost on him. “I know it was not your fault.”

His chest tightened. It was his fault.

“You clearly care about her,” she said. “It is not fair to pin this on you.”

“Sometimes we hurt the people we care about,” he said, his voice hollow.

“Sometimes,” she agreed. “But not this time.”

His eyes shimmered with unshed tears. Eloise had been at odds with him for nearly this entire season because of their ruse. Though she knew of its falsity, she still chastised him for taking up time that could have been spent with her, still rolled her eyes when he announced his leave to go see you, still questioned why he had to go after her best friend.

But Eloise was driven by her emotions, no matter how red hot or icy cold they may have been. At this moment, her concern for you outweighed anything, and she recognized the same in him.

So Anthony nodded. Once, twice, hardly moving but a clear acknowledgment. He glanced at his mother and brother, both unfocused with glassy eyes. His mother’s were red-rimmed, and she held a handkerchief tightly in one hand. The guilt hidden from earlier struck.

He silently thanked their governess for keeping Gregory and Hyacinth occupied, thanked that Francesca was on an outing of her own. The last thing he needed was for his littlest siblings to find out that the woman they believed to soon be their sister was one misstep away from death. And thank God for Colin’s decision to spend the day with Mondrich—one of his younger brothers in the heat of the moment was enough.

Anthony let out a shuddering sigh, screwing his eyes shut for a moment before he ran a hand through his hair then planted his palms on his knees. He could hardly sit still but he hadn’t the slightest idea of how to get his nervous energy out.

All he could think of was you. Of how the last word you spoke was his name. Of your dried blood on his hands, staining his clothing where he had held you. Anthony barely kept you from hitting the ground when you collapsed, and he nearly did the same once he reached his residence.

Yelling at any servant in the proximity to call for the physician, unaware of his mother trying to calm him until she shook him by the shoulders, having to literally be forced out of the room by the physician’s assistant once they arrived because he refused to leave your side.

It all felt like a blur, and yet he remembered it perfectly. It all played on repeat in his mind no matter how much he tried to block it out.

The door slammed open this time, and when Anthony looked up, he felt as if he could wither away.

“Where is my daughter?” Cecilia Worthing demanded, her husband trailing after her. She was all out of sorts, with an even wilder look in her eyes and a deathly grip on her skirts. Mr. Worthing’s expression made his heart sink, with his haunted eyes and taut lips.

“I am so sorry, Cecilia,” Violet rasped, and she crossed the room and enveloped her in her arms. It took a moment for your mother to respond, but she returned the hug as a sob escaped her.

“Your footman said she had been injured,” your father said levelly, though his voice shook ever so slightly. “How?”

“She was stabbed,” Anthony spoke up, forcing himself to look at your parents. “Some zealot in the city. I brought her here as quick as I could.”

“The city—” your father started.

“Stabbed?” your mother interrupted, halfway into hysterics. “How?”

“We got caught up in the midst of a riot,” he said quietly. “We were separated, and I assume it happened then.”

Mrs. Worthing let out another sob as she pulled her husband into her arms, and though he kept a semblance of solemnity as he whispered to his wife and held her close, Anthony could see the fear in his eyes.

How could he possibly offer reassurance? It felt different, staring at the desperation of your parents. The horrific realization that they might leave a family of two, might have to bury their only child.

His stomach twisted and Anthony’s head fell into his hands again. He couldn’t.

Eventually, Philip helped his wife onto the couch, and she remained curled into his side. No one said a word—how could they?

Apart from whispered reassurances between your parents and even shorter conversations between Benedict and Eloise, their saddened group continued in silence for the better part of an hour. No one spoke louder than a whisper, no one rose and left—they just sat together in their fear, hoping and praying that the inevitable could be denied.

Until the door creaked open and each of their heads snapped towards the noise. Anthony shot up at the first glimpse of their physician’s assistant.

“What news?” he asked immediately. The tension in the room had grown to be near palpably thick.

“The surgery went well,” the assistant said, and all the air dissipated from Anthony’s chest. “Miss Worthing lives. The doctor is ensuring a final few things, but provided our treatment is followed, we believe she will recover fully.”

Anthony fell back against the couch with a breathless laugh, and Mrs. Worthing sank against her husband, wrecked by thankful sobs. Eloise’s smile was enough to brighten the whole room, Benedict’s relief just as obvious. Violet just let out an exhausted sigh, her hand pressed to her heart.

“Thank you,” your father said. “Can we see her?”

“Miss Worthing is resting,” he said. “You will not be able to speak to—”

“We do not care,” your father asserted. “I need to see that my daughter is still alive.”

The physician’s assistant nodded after a moment, and the tension lessened in his shoulders. He helped your mother up, their hands clasped tightly together, and Mrs. Worthing looked at Anthony. You truly had your mother’s eyes.

“Will you come with us, my lord?” she asked.

“Oh, I—”

“You are family,” she said softly. “You’ve a right to join us.”

Emotion swelled in Anthony’s chest, and it took a moment for words to come to him.

“Of course,” he finally said, inclining his head. “And it is just Anthony between us. Please.”

The slightest smile spread across her lips as she nodded, and they all stood up together. Anthony took her offered arm and they started down the hallway together, your father on her other side.

How strange it was to be arm in arm with your mother. She thought the man beside her would be her future son-in-law, when he was truly nothing but a liar.

No, he thought, not wholly a liar. Not anymore. Because they believed that Anthony was to be your husband. And if there was anything this had proven to him, it was that he wanted nothing more than for it to be true.

Anthony just had to figure out a way to tell you. How strange that it would be the most difficult part of this ruse.

Violet’s maid and the footman stepped aside when they arrived and the assistant opened the door. Anthony followed your parents in, and his heart nearly stopped upon seeing you.

Your mother’s eyes filled with tears as she approached your bedside, and, after a nod from the doctor, brushed a loose strand of hair behind your ear and laid the back of her hand against your forehead.

“She’s burning up,” she whispered.

“It is typical after surgery,” the doctor said. “With any luck, she will sweat it out. I will monitor her throughout.”

Your mother nodded, a shaky sigh escaping her, and she took your hand.

“I am so sorry, darling,” she whispered. “I am so sorry I was not there for you.” She brought your intertwined hands up and lightly kissed the back of your hand. “I love you more than anything. Please, come back to us soon.”

Your father joined her, and he pressed a kiss to your forehead. “I do not know if you can hear us,” he said, voice slightly shaky, “but we are here for you. We will be here when you awaken, and every moment onwards.”

Mrs. Worthing looked back at Anthony, inclining her head towards you. Anthony swallowed his doubt as he moved forward, but the breath was stolen from him when he could fully see you.

Your eyes were closed. Your chest rose and fell just so, hardly noticeable, thin linens provided by the doctor rested over you, and sweat beaded on your brow. Alongside the discoloration of your skin, you looked…

You looked as if you were dead.

And Anthony knew that you were not—for God’s sake, you were breathing—but all he could think about, all he could see, was his father, all those years ago, dying in front of him while he could not do a single thing to stop it. And he felt that same helplessness with you; just standing there, watching, unable to do anything but hope.

“We are here for you,” he whispered. “...I am here for you. No matter what, I am here for you. Just know that, if nothing else.”

Your mother’s watery smile made him look to the doctor for fear of the same emotions eliciting even further in him.

“When will she wake?” Anthony asked. His voice sounded almost foreign to him.

“In a few hours, with any luck,” the doctor said. “At the very most, it will be the end of the day.”

“We will gladly host her until she is able enough,” Anthony said, looking at your parents. “And we have plenty of spare rooms for you to choose from if you wish to remain by her side during those days.”

“Thank you, Anthony.” Your mother placed her hands on his shoulders, though she had to look up at him, and she smiled. “You make her so happy. It will be my greatest pleasure to officially welcome you into our family.”

Anthony’s throat bobbed. God above, he hoped that was the truth.

“Thank you,” he murmured. “She… she means a great deal to me.”

“You’re a good man, Bridgerton,” your father said. “I’m thankful my daughter will end up with someone like you.”

“Your approval means the world,” he said, and he found he meant it wholly.

The doctor cleared his throat. “It would be best for her visitors to be limited as of now. The parents can stay, but…”

Anthony nodded, smoothing his lapels. “Of course.”

“We will alert you of anything,” your mother said. Anthony nodded again, and he allowed himself one more moment to look at you before he left.

You were alright. You would be alright. That was all that mattered.

Still, when he found himself alone in the hallway, finally able to breathe again, he still had that weight on his shoulders.

A revelation such as the one he’d had should have been a blessing, a relief. A man in love was meant to be a happy one. But a man in love did not usually find his feelings in the midst of season-long ruse whilst his beloved fought on her deathbed.

Anthony blew out a loose sigh, shaking his head as he continued through the halls. Being on his own, he found, was worse than sitting in silence with his family. He was trying to think of something to say, trying to gather his emotions and push them aside so he could be the man of the house as he was meant to be, but when he reached the room from before he was only met with Eloise.

She looked up from the floor, and he noticed the puffiness of her eyes, her slightly blotchy skin. His heart sank yet again.

“Benedict helped Mother to bed,” she explained, her throat bobbing. “All of this exhausted her. I’ve no idea where he is now.”

Anthony nodded, his mind still wandering. “Ah.”

“How is she?” Eloise asked, her brows knit in concern.

“As well as she can be.” Anthony sighed. “She has a fever, but she’s resting. Her parents are with her and the doctor is watching over her. He said she should awaken before the end of the day.”

The furrow softened as she smiled. It was good to see her smile. “Good. That— that’s good. I’m glad.”

“And how are you, Eloise?” Anthony asked, folding his arms.

“As well as I can be,” she responded wryly. Anthony’s lips twitched in a momentary smile, but she leaned against the couch and let out a sigh of her own. “This all certainly ended in the best way it could have.”

“The best way would have been for it to have never happened,” he said. “I should have prevented it—I was meant to keep her safe.”

“Brother,” she said wearily, “I already told you that you cannot blame yourself.”

“And I’ve never been one for listening to you,” he said dryly, “have I?”

Eloise huffed a laugh and shook her head. “I am not a fool, Anthony. I know what is happening between you two.”

Anthony frowned. “Eloise—”

“You love her,” she said bluntly. “Do you not?”

He tried to say something, but no words would follow. He could only stare at his sister and her nerve, resulting in a small smile from her.

“You are not that talented an actor, brother,” she said. “It is easier for me to believe the two of you are truly in love than that you could actually trick me in such a way.”

He blinked. “You believe she loves me?”

Eloise laughed, turning her head slightly. “I do,” she said. “And seeing as you are not denying it, I believe that means you love her.”

Anthony bit the inside of his cheek. So the two of you could fool the entirety of the ton for over half the season, but apparently not Eloise. How typical.

He walked over and took a seat on the couch next to his sister, leaving a bit of space between them. He took a deep breath before he spoke.

“I do.” He glanced at her. “I love her.”

Saying it aloud—admitting the truth of feelings he’d been fighting for so long—brought him an unexpected lightness. One other person knew both truths: that they had been lying about their love, and that Anthony had been lying about his lies.

It would have been laughable had he not been so unsure of everything else.

It took Eloise a moment to say anything back. For a while, she merely looked at him, unreadable depths in her eyes. He didn’t think he would ever be able to fully decipher his sister.

“I know my blessing means very little in the scheme of things,” she finally said. “But know that if this does come into fruition… I will support you two. Every step of the way.”

The smile that spread across Anthony’s lips was brighter than anything he’d experienced today, and he inclined his head. “Truly?”

“Yes, truly,” Eloise said, a smile of her own growing though she tried to hide it as she glanced away. “It is not a big deal. Do not make it out to be one. There are far worse men that she could end up with.”

“Alright,” he said, unabashed in his joy. For such a solemn day, Eloise had turned his mood around.

“And I will also keep your secret,” she said breezily, “again, so do not worry about that.”

“You say it does not mean much,” Anthony said, “but you are wrong. Your support means more to me than you know.”

She shifted, seemingly bolstered ever so slightly by his praise. “...I’m glad.”

He smiled as he stood back up, smoothing out the wrinkles in his outfit. Anthony grimaced as his hands came into view. He was in dire need of a bath and some new clothes. He could not deal with your blood on him for much longer.

“I must be going,” Anthony said. “I need to clean up. And,” he sighed, “ensure that none of this has spread to the rest of the ton.”

Eloise hummed, and Anthony was nearly at the door when she spoke up again.

“...Thank you. For being here for me.”

His expression softened as he glanced back at her. “I will always be here for you.”

Her lips curved just so. Anthony had never been so thankful to no longer be at odds with one of his siblings.

Your head hurt.

That was the first thing you could truly understand as your eyes slowly cracked open, squinting while you came to. You blinked a multitude of times, trying to regain your bearings and relieve the dryness of your eyes.

It took another moment for them to adjust to the darkness—the curtains were closed, but no light filtered through. How long had you been asleep?

You grimaced as you shifted ever so slightly, a dull but constant ache in your chest leaving you stiff, but there was a weight of a hand in yours. You glanced over and recognized your mother, asleep but still grasping your hand.

You smiled. She came for you after all.

But as you tried to shift further in the bed, you groaned, a sharp column of pain shooting through you. Your mother’s eyes shot open, her body starting from instinct, but it took a moment for her to truly realize it all.

“Nice of you to wake up,” you said wryly.

“You—” tears sprung in her eyes, and her lips spread in a grateful grin— “You must be alright if your first words are to antagonize your mother.”

“I am still here,” you said. You didn’t want to tell her you didn’t think you would make it. That you thought your fate was sealed when you pulled your hand away to nothing but blood.

“That you are,” she said breathily. “Are you alright, though? How do you feel? Does it hurt?”

“I believe I am alright,” you responded, “I feel… tired. And my chest aches.”

“The doctor said that would be expected,” she murmured. “What do you remember?”

“...That depends,” you said. “What do you know?”

Your mother gave you a look as she said your full name. “This is not the time for games.��

Your cheeks heated and you averted your eyes. “I was in the city with Anthony. I was stabbed after a riot broke out. That is all I remember.”

“Lord Bridgerton is the reason you are alive,” your mother said. “He brought you back to Bridgerton House, and their doctor saved your life.”

Somehow it was possible for your face to burn even more. You dragged Anthony out to that meeting, and you repaid him by making him drag your near lifeless body all the way back to his estate.

You were the worst fake fiancee a man could have.

You felt your eyes begin to fill with tears and you rapidly blinked them away.

“Where is he?” you asked quietly. “Where is Anth— Lord Bridgerton?”

Your mother gave you a knowing look. “It is alright to call him by his name, darling. It is quite clear how much he cares for you.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat. You could not do this. “Where is he?”

“He is with his family,” she said. “You caused everyone quite a fright.”

“I can imagine,” you said hollowly.

“Would you like to see him?” she asked. “Because I am sure he—”

“No.” The haste with which you sat up drew out another wince. “No— I…”

You closed your eyes, biting down on the inside of your lip. You could not do this.

Your mother said your name softly. “What is it?”

You opened your eyes, ignoring the wetness around them as you looked at her. “Anthony and I cannot marry.”

She blinked. It looked as if it took a moment for your words to sink in. “What?”

“We cannot marry,” you repeated. “We— we never could marry. Our courtship is a ruse.”

Your mother blinked again, this time wholly taken aback. “What?”

“It is a ruse,” you repeated, more forcefully. “I wanted to escape the baron, and Anthony wanted to escape a thousand desperate debutantes. I proposed a mock courtship between us, and he accepted.”

Her brows furrowed deeper than ever before, as if she still couldn’t fully believe it. “You lied to me.”

“To everyone,” you said. You hadn’t a clue what had gotten into you, tearing apart a story carefully crafted throughout nearly the entire season, but something burned inside of you. You couldn’t keep going with this—you couldn’t keep stringing Anthony along, not when your feelings were far more real than they had any right to be.

“I don’t understand,” she said. “Why would you do such a thing?”

“Because I did not want to marry,” you repeated. “The baron is nothing more than a lecher, and the thought of any sort of marriage to him disgusted me, but you and Father refused to listen to me. The only way to get out of it was for you to believe I had caught the affections of someone better. Anthony Bridgerton’s word was certainly better than mine in the eyes of the ton.”

Your mother stared at the floor for much longer than you anticipated, and you could not tear your eyes away from her.

“Mother,” you said quietly, “say something. Please.”

“I do not quite know what to say.” She finally looked at you, and your throat bobbed. “All of our plans have hinged on this marriage for the entirety of the season. What am I to tell your father?”

“Do not tell him,” you begged. “Please. It is enough that you know— I could not handle the shame if he were to as well.”

“I do not keep secrets as well as you,” your mother snapped. “Marrying into the Bridgerton family would have saved us, both in riches and name. Even your dowry would have gone to use for something of your choosing.” She shook her head, clasping her hands together. “And now you have almost died and we will have to control this and I just—”

“I will marry Lord Cardew,” you interrupted.

That ceased her arguments quite quickly. “What?”

“I will marry Lord Cardew,” you repeated. “He has both riches and name.”

Your mother frowned as she gripped your hands tighter. “You despise him. You got yourself into this entire mess in order to avoid him—you’ve said so yourself.”

“What choice do I have?” you asked desperately. “His name is enough to weather the scandal I’ve created. His money will secure a life for you and Father, and he has a fine pedigree. It is the only way to save the Worthing name.”

“Have you not considered the very man who has been courting you this season?” Your mother gestured with her hand. “Look where you are, darling! Lord Bridgerton has offered up his estate to us so we can be near you as you heal. Your courtship may have started as a ruse, but the man clearly feels something for you!”

“We have become very good friends over the course of the season,” you said, “and I am thankful for it. But I cannot taint the Bridgerton name further.”

“Dearest—”

“It is necessary,” you interrupted, but your quick movement brought on a sharp thread of pain in your chest and you winced.

“Do not push yourself,” your mother whispered, and you nodded.

“It is necessary,” you repeated, though slower. “My rebellion was just… naivete. I will not be the reason for our family’s ruin borne from my own stubbornness. I will secure our legacy, I will secure my future—I will marry Lord Cardew, and… and I will finally stop trying to resist my fate.”

Your mother stared at you, and you stared back. “You said it yourself—our family’s well being hinges on my marrying into wealth. What sane man would consider me after what I’ve done?”

She continued to look at you long and hard, her expression one of unreadable depths. “You are sure?”

No, you wanted to say. You had never been less sure of anything in your life. But you could see no other choice. So you nodded.

Your mother glanced away from you with a sigh, eyes searching the room for a moment before she nodded as well. “...Alright. If that is what you wish, your father and I will contact him once you are recovered.”

“Mother—”

“That is non-negotiable,” she said, and she smiled at you. “You may be blossoming into a true lady, but you are still my daughter. And I will not allow my daughter to do anything until she is fully healed.”

You nodded. “Alright.”

“I am sure that it goes without saying that you are never going to be allowed out of our sight until you are married and settled?” your mother said, and though it caused a sharp pain in your chest, you couldn’t help but laugh.

“I assumed just as much, Mother.”

Dearest Reader,

It is a fact well known throughout Mayfair that the social season requires the full attention of every single person, frantic mamas and bored bachelors alike. It is a game of wits unlike any other, and this season has proven no different. The middle of our merriment marks many of the most eligible debutantes as engaged — this author pays special attention to the season’s diamond, Lady Adelaida Kennington, who has found her happy ending with the young Earl Pembroke.

Though congratulations may be due to another lady of the ton, one of the simple yet highly discussed Worthing family — as it seems, Miss Worthing has tossed aside the much desired Viscount Bridgerton for the hand of the Baron Jonathan Cardew. One can only be left to wonder what Lord Bridgerton must have done to go from an obviously incoming proposal back to his rakish ways in little more than a night, but it most certainly has to do with Miss Worthing’s recent disappearance from society. Word has passed around of her frequent visits to the lesser parts of London, engaging in activity that can only be described as scandalous. Perhaps it was not the fault of the viscount indeed—Miss Worthing may have finally pushed Lord Bridgerton to his limits.

No matter the reason for the ending of the courtship, this author must extend her thanks to the pairing for providing such material for my pen. It is not every day a nobody in the ton manages to bring down two families at once. Perhaps Miss Worthing deserves congratulations for conducting this fantastical feat all on her own. If it was outrage she was searching for, she has certainly earned it.

Yours Truly,

Lady Whistledown

You huffed a sigh and threw the leaflet across the room, letting your head fall back against the wooden headboard. It was one thing for Lady Whistledown to criticize you, it was another thing entirely for her to bring your family and the Bridgertons into it. You deserved everything that came towards you for what you had done, but your parents, the Bridgertons, Anthony— they were not a part of any of it.

Especially when all your father had done was visit the Cardew estate to have a conversation with the man, see if he was open to the possibility of a marriage with you. Nothing was at all set in stone, but the way Whistledown told it, you were already steps from the chapel with a ring on your finger.

So now, as if it weren’t enough that you were bed bound until your physician deemed you recovered for regular activity, as if it weren’t enough that you were likely set to be married by the end of the season, as if it weren’t enough that you were constantly denying Anthony’s requests to visit you, every single one of your idiotic mistakes was revealed to the ton through a woman too cowardly to write without a pseudonym.

If you ever found Lady Whistledown, you thought bitterly, you would strangle her.

The silence in your room was broken by the door opening, and when you looked up you were greeted with Julia’s face. The usual smile she bore when around you was not there, but before you could ask she answered your unspoken question.

“I apologise for the interruption, my lady, but you have a visitor. He insisted on seeing you.”

A small part of you knew who it was even before she stepped aside, but when Anthony Bridgerton walked into your room your breath still hitched the tiniest bit.

“What are you doing here?” you asked immediately, holding back a grimace as you pushed yourself into a sitting position.

“I had to see you,” Anthony said.

“And you chose to do so by invading my privacy.”

“I have not heard a single word directly from you nor your pen since the accident,” he said, his voice not without a slight barb. But underneath it all, an uncommon hurt festered inside of him. You could not see it, exactly, but you could sense it. “Forgive me for wanting to confirm with my own eyes that you were still alive.”

“I will remain here as a chaperone,” Julia said, closing the door behind her. “You may talk as freely as you please — I will not repeat a single word.” Anthony nodded and pulled the stool away from the vanity so he could be closer to you, then sat down.

Despite Julia’s reassurance, neither of you spoke a word. The silence began to weigh heavily, the tension growing so thick it could be cut with a knife. For so long you had been rejecting Anthony’s requested meetings, not wanting to see him after what you had done. You feared for how he would react, both to your complete ignorance of him after your nearly fatal injury and your acceptance of Lord Cardew’s courtship.

You left Bridgerton House without a word mere hours after your ill-fated decision despite the protests of your parents—you could not stay there for another moment under Anthony’s good graces, not when you had doomed any possible future with him. You did not deserve a single millimeter of Bridgerton good will.

You stared down at the covers you laid under, fidgeting with your hands in your lap as you focused on everything except your visitor. You could not bring yourself to meet Anthony’s gaze, though you’d felt his own on you for the past five minutes.

“Is it true?”

You finally looked up at his sudden question, meeting the intensity of those dark brown eyes you’d lost yourself in so many times. “Is what true?”

“Your marriage to Jonathan Cardew,” he said stiffly. “Is it true?”

Just as quickly, you glanced away. It was near impossible to even be in the same room as the viscount since you had made the decision, even more so to think of the reason why it was that way. So instead, you just nodded.

“Yes. If all works out, we are to be wed at the end of the season.”

“Why?” Anthony leaned forward, his arms resting on his knees as his hands clenched into loose fists. “You openly despise the man—you asked me to court you to avoid him. Why in the name of all things rational would you willingly enter a marriage with him?”

“He will provide for me,” you said. “He has money, he has land, and he is a respectable member of society. He has already been content with the possibility of marriage once, and his name is enough to weather the scandal I have created. It is the smartest choice available.”

“And what of us?” He had an almost wild look in his eyes, and the worst desire took root in you to root your fingers in his hair and ease the troubles you’d caused him. “We have spent the near entirety of the season becoming closer, and you are willing to just throw it all away for a man like Cardew?”

“I could not trap you in a marriage you do not want,” you insisted. “You deserve more than a woman you share no love for, Anthony, and to be married to the woman who made a fool of your entire family. Lord Cardew is the only option.��

“Even if all of that is true, that does not mean it is a smart choice!” he exclaimed. “He is not a safe man to be around! If he has been pursuing you so strongly and only backed off because of my influence, what do you think will happen when you are his legal wife with no sort of protection?”

You swallowed thickly at his words. “He is not that sort of man, Anthony. He may be… horrid, and a complete egoist, but it will be a life of comfort. And that is the life that I need.”

Anthony laughed breathlessly, completely devoid of mirth as he frowned. “You cannot be serious. I have been by your side for an entire season of feminist rants and marriage complaints, half of which revolved around Cardew himself, and now you are telling me that you are just— just alright with this sort of compliance?”

“Nearly dying because of my own idiotic choices has forced me to reexamine my life,” you said plainly. “If I had been even the slightest bit unlucky, I would have perished on those streets, and what would I have had to show for myself? A rebellion that I was only able to take part in because of the privilege I so often fought against?”

“You have made a difference,” Anthony insisted. “You provided for women that no one has the gall to look out for. You’ve spoken out for your own rights, you’ve stood up for your own interests rather than sit around and take what you have been given.”

“I have been fighting against a life that so many less fortunate than myself would kill for,” you said. “I believed death to be a better fate than being forced to marry a man I did not love, but when I was on death’s door, I realized how foolish I was— how utterly selfish.”

“You are not selfish,” Anthony said, but you shook your head.

“I am. Unbelievably so.” You huffed a mirthless laugh as you looked at him. “My parents did not love each other when they married, but they were friends. They could tolerate the other’s presence, and neither of them were fortunate enough to be able to care about anything else. They have grown to love each other in their own way, of course, and they are in a better situation now, but they could not have known it would turn out that way. They did what they had to for the sake of their families and themselves, and it is time I do the same.”

“Love matches are rare,” you murmured. “And even if I were granted the opportunity… I would not deserve it.”

Anthony shook his head. “Do not say that.”

“It is the truth,” you said, letting out yet another humorless laugh. “I have been horrible to my mother when all she has ever wanted is a better life for me than she had. I have fought her for every step of the way for no other reason than my hubris and the dim belief that I deserved different than everyone else simply because I wanted it, no matter what the greater good was. How can that not be selfish, Anthony?”

“You do not have to do this,” he insisted. “You said you dreamed of unmarried life! You told me your fantasies of escaping from society, of living on your own and depending on no one but yourself. You are willing to give all of that up, just like that?”

“I was a fool for ever doing so!” you exclaimed. “Anthony, this world is hard enough on its own for married women — what do you think will become of my family if I do not marry? What do you think will become of me?”

“But you are strong.” Anthony leaned forward, his brow knit in determination. “You are strong, and intelligent, and fully capable of managing on your own. Spinster brand be damned, if it is what you wish, you will flourish completely!”

“Will I?” you questioned, and you gestured at yourself. “I am bound to this room of my own doing because I refused to see the truth of the world around me. I was young and naive to believe I could achieve anything of the sort I dreamed of without consequences, and I will be naive no longer.”

“If you insist on marrying, at least find somebody else,” Anthony begged. “You will be miserable for the rest of your life if you marry Jonathan Cardew.”

“I cannot afford to marry for love, my lord,” you said simply, “and even if I could find a man who loved me, I could never love them back. I would not force anyone into a marriage they did not want, not when…” You trailed off, the words catching in your throat.

You shook your head, choking them down. “It is not important.”

“Please do not marry him,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper, “I beg of you.”

“Then who should I marry?” you asked, almost brazenly. “Who should I marry, if not him? I am certainly not one for options.”

You did not know what you wanted Anthony to say. To marry him? That he felt the same for you as you did for him? That, while you were indeed a fool for falling for him, he was one as well. That he would not leave you, not now, nor ever.

But instead he just stared at you with those dark brown eyes that even now could make you melt, a million emotions brewing inside of them yet none of them being given an outlet.

“I do not know,” he murmured, and your heart sank. “But I beg of you, do not let it be him.”

“It is not your decision to make,” you said quietly. “Soon I will be engaged to Lord Cardew, and I will be out of your life.”

There was an underlying desperation in Anthony’s eyes as he looked at you now, that storm of emotions thundering inside of him begging to be expressed. “I do not want you out of my life.”

The words felt like poison leaving your lips. “You do not have a choice.”

Before Anthony could protest any further, you stood up and looked over at your lady’s maid. “Please escort Lord Bridgerton outside. I wish to be alone.”

“My lady, are you—”

“Julia,” you said, your voice strained, “please.”

She nodded and she gestured for Anthony towards the door, but he did not move a centimeter.

Anthony said your name with such pain that you could not even stand to look at him, the inside of your lip drawn so tightly between your teeth that you could taste blood all in the effort to prevent tears from emerging.

“Do not make this harder than it has to be,” you whispered. “I beg of you, Anthony.”

“Lord Bridgerton,” Julia said quietly, “please obey my lady’s wishes.”

He stared at you with desperation before he finally nodded and walked out the door, Julia closing it behind him.

You screwed your eyes shut as you dug the heels of your palms into your forehead, letting out a frustrated sob as your hands dropped back down. The pinpricks of tears were already starting, and while you were thankful you were alone, you already longed for Anthony’s presence.

You wished, more than ever, that things could be how they used to be. You wished you’d never even made this ridiculous deal with him—then you would not be in such pain, yearning for a man you could never have while the reputation of you and your family was destroyed and your life fell to pieces around you. You could not do a single thing about it, and you could not blame a single soul for it other than yourself.

You’d never felt so useless.

taglist, only bc this series has been going on since i still had a taglist lmao. pls dont ask to be added because i do not do tag lists anymore!! follow me or rb the masterlist or something idk @ifilwtmfc @readers-post @fangirling-galore @funkydinosaurs @baby-i-am-fireproof @mess-is-my-aesthetic @likeballet @mdkfh @brezzybfan @magical-spit @lafy-taffy @miss-celestial-being @mercurysrhapsody @evilsailorsenshi @mainstreambitchlife @aangsupremacy @chloepluto1306 @lostaudfound @panhoeofmanyfandoms @blhemmings @my-acrylic-heart @seninjakitey @vlodi @arianagrandes-things @preciousbabypeter @youraliendaddo @stupidlittlebei @illuminwtesz @eringaitskill @otheliesstuff @users09 @chloepluto1306 @lady-loki-barnes-djarin @m-rae23 @the-horror-and-the-wild-simp @diemdurantia @theyoungestchild0w0 @mschievousx @alwaysreading1019 @ibelieveindragons141 @pretzywetzy

#this is so soap opera of me #anthony bridgerton x reader #anthony bridgerton x you #anthony bridgerton fic #bridgerton x reader #bridgerton fic #anthony bridgerton fanfic #x reader #bridgerton imagine #sadie writes

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ghostofhyuck · 26 days

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NCT Dream and things in your shared apartment that makes sense.

Mark Lee ; subtle spiderman decorations.

It was a silly fandom joke but Mark took it seriously like lol okay spidermark we see you. So it makes sense that your shared apartment with him has some subtle spiderman decorations. And it's not like you two thought about it, it just happened that when you two go shopping and saw something spiderman-related, you two would buy it impulsively. There's a lego spiderman both in your apartment keys. A small spiderman figurine lay silently on the corner of bedside table. Or maybe there's a "I love Spiderman" magnet on your fridge too. Either way, it's cute and reminds you of your boyfriend so much.

Huang Renjun ; touches of your favorite color.

When you two first bought the shared apartment, you and Renjun discussed about the overall design of the flat, especially the color combination. Making sure that you two can come in terms, your apartment felt like a light spring because of the color combination. You two made it worked and it feels like home for the two of you! Also, you two are very meticulous with the design, like it took you guys a week to fully designed the whole apartment but it was worth it because it turned out so beautiful! <3

Lee Jeno ; everything comes in pairs!

Like. Literally. Everything. Is a pair. That's why the Dreamies would complain why you two only have two sets of plates and utensils, and Jeno would shrug, it's not like you two need more lol. The first thing you'll see is two pairs of home slippers, and key holder only has two hook. There's one long couch that only fits two people, and in the bathroom, there's a pair of toothbrush rest idly on the holder! But it's a cute way to show that the apartment is owned by a couple who's very minimal and tranquil with their life. <3

Lee Donghyuck ; mismatched decorations

I feel like the overall aesthetic of your shared apartment with Haechan is kinda chaotic but the more you stare at it, the more you think that hey, it's not that bad at all. Like it's fine that your collection of sonny angels is right next to Haechan's pc set-up. Or how a lego figurine of a sportscar is line-up on top of a cabinet and then, there's this cute miffy lamp next to it. Everything's just mismatched but it's your shared apartment, and no one seems to bat an eye at the confusing aesthetic of the apartment.

Na Jaemin ; photobooks as coffee table center

Okay mr. narcissism, it's no surprise that you have a set of photobooks on top of your coffee table. It probably contains: (1) pictures of you two on a vacation together, (2) portraits of the people he love the most, or (3) portraits of Dreamies! He swells in pride whenever there are guests and they would look into the photobook and just admire the portraits that he captured. Plus, it's placed in your shared apartment! He was just happy that his three kids hasn't chew the photobook yet, (and hopefully not!)

Zhong Chenle ; scattered bitten objects

It's not like your apartment's messy, but Daegal is such a hyper dog despite being your princess. She just loves to play and even though her teething phase is finished, she still lovesssss carrying objects to bite. You'll just go home to your apartment and find that Daegal had reached the throw pillow and now it's on the floor, ripped open with a few cottons on the floor and you couldn't be angry with her because she has her puppy eyes waiting for you. <3 Plus, you know how your boyfriend tolerates Daegal's biting habits lol.

Park Jisung ; a bed full of plushies

OH. Your bed with Jisung is just full of plushies and that's because you're obsessed with plushies and couldn't sleep without cuddling one. (Jisung would complain that you should just cuddle him instead.) He only have a few plushies there but you tend to just fill the bed that when morning comes, some of the plushies were already on the floor. You would pick them up and apologize for pushing them off the floor while your boyfriend just stares at you. But at the same time, he doesn't mind because it's like you two have a big family whenever he goes home and sees the pile of plushies on the bed.

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tropicalcryptid · 11 months

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Ok so She-Ra pulled such a great hat trick with Hordak's characterization, and I LOVE it

One of my favorite things about 2018 She-Ra is Hordak's story and development (and Entrapdak cough but that's not the point of this particular post), and the cleverest thing is that so much of it is actually being set up and told to us in seasons 1 and 2 before we even realize that that's what's happening.

When we first see Hordak in the show, he's giving "generic evil overlord" vibes. Garden-variety baddie. Maybe a little more reasonable than some and clearly capable of long-term thinking, but that just serves to make him intimidating. Everything about him--the way he runs his empire, his armor, his color scheme, his minion, his Villainous Eye Makeup(TM), even his name--are all projecting to the audience "yup, Acme Bad Guy here. Move right along."

But then, backstory. And everything snaps into focus. Not only is it one of the first big oh SHIT moments of the show, where we suddenly zoom out and realize that there is SO much more going on than we realized--it's also the start of the audience seeing Hordak as a character rather than an archetype. Suddenly we realize that he's not conquering Etheria because he wants power, or hates happiness and sparkles, or whatever--he's doing it out of a desperate attempt to prove his worth to his brother/creator/god. This moment where Hordak lets Entrapta in is also the moment the show lets us in on what makes our favorite spacebat tick.

On top of that, we've also seen him bonding with Entrapta and opening up to this person that he respects and trusts...probably the only person he's ever respected or trusted apart from Prime. And she's Etherian--someone of a lower species, someone he's supposed to subjugate, someone who he has been raised and trained and programmed and mind-controlled into believing is below him in every way.

But instead she's brilliant and creative and mesmerizing. She's not afraid of him, and she's fascinated with his work. For the first time since being abandoned by Prime, Hordak finally has someone that he can talk to, who is on his level and both understands and cares about the science! (because he is a giant nerd). She's kind to him, a mere defect. And it just sends his whole worldview into a spin, and that's all before--

Bam, mans is a goner. Entrapta's "Imperfections are beautiful" comment punches right through all the toxic bs that Hordak has been steeped in his entire life. You can see on his face here--I think it's the moment Hordak fell in love with Entrapta, but this is also the face of a spacebat reevaluating his entire worldview. If Entrapta, who is amazing, believes something different from Prime...what does that mean? If Entrapta, who is brilliant, believes that he is worth something, and that she herself is a failure...

Well. We know what happens after that, and how Hordak begins to doubt, and eventually fights back against Prime (and remembers his love for Entrapta after TWO mind wipes help my heart ack). But we also get to see what life in the Galactic Horde looks like: the only life Hordak ever knew before coming to Etheria.

It's not nice.

It's really not nice.

Prime operates in a very specific way, and we learn a lot about it in season 5. Prime expects complete obedience, devotion and worship from his clones. He allows no individuality from his subjects, not even a name. Failure or deviations are punished, mind-wiped, or destroyed. We even learn from Wrong Hordak that facial expressions are considered a privilege reserved for Prime (apart from, presumably, expressions of rapture caused by being around Prime).

And once we learn all of this, suddenly thinking about season 1 Hordak becomes very interesting indeed. The time we spend with the Galactic Horde and Prime throws absolutely everything that we know about Hordak into a whole new context. Now all those traits that made him a generic villain are actually hugely effective characterization! And what that characterization is telling us is that Hordak had already moved much farther away from Prime than we (or, probably, he) had realized, even long before he met Entrapta.

Horde Prime does not allow his underlings to have names, personalities, or any differences of appearance. Not only does Hordak allow this among his own troops, he chose a name for himself as well! Season 5 tells us that his very name is an act of blasphemy against his god. And yet Hordak took one for himself, and that name is part of the core identity he is able to hold on to when rebelling against Prime.

Horde Prime cast Hordak out when he showed signs of physical imperfections. Hordak not only keeps Imp (who is by all appearances a failed clone or similar experiment) around, he treats Imp more gently than we see him treat anybody or anything before Entrapta. Imp is not simply "generic evil guy's minion," he is proof of Hordak's capacity for compassion, and evidence that Hordak cannot bring himself to cast aside "defects" as easily as Prime. Considering where Hordak came from, Imp's existence is a huge, flashing neon sign telling the audience this guy here is better than the hell that molded him, and we don't even realize it until 4 seasons after it's been shown to us!

Very cool, ND.

There's more, though. Hordak's red and black color scheme? His dark eye makeup and lipstick? Very Evil Overlord chic. But nope! Actually these are actually expressions of individuality on a level that Hordak knows would be abhorrent to Prime!

Reading between the lines, I see this as Hordak desperately trying to reconcile two diametrically opposed beliefs in his head: (1) devotion to Prime, whose approval he desperately craves, and (2) maintaining some degree of unique personhood, of Hordak, from which to draw strength. Because a failed, defective clone cannot survive on a hostile world, cut off from the hivemind and from Prime's light. A failed clone cannot create an empire to offer Prime as tribute, nor build a spacetime portal from scraps and memory to call Prime back. A failed clone cannot create cybernetic armor to keep his hurting, weakened body alive; to force himself to keep going no matter what, to fight through the pain and the doubt by sheer force of will.

But maybe Hordak can.

And so there it is. Hordak had plenty of time to gain and explore his individuality while separated from Prime, but I think the reason he did it so effectively (while still deluding himself that Prime would forgive him for these little sins, if only Hordak could prove his value) is because he had to.

Wrong Hordak gained his individuality surrounded by kind, quirky people who took care of him; Hordak was ripped from the hivemind by Prime himself and had to fight for his survival against all odds. And that produced a dangerous and damaging foe for Etheria. But it also produced the one clone with the strength of will to defy Prime himself.

This is long and rambling, but ultimately my point is that 1) I love Hordak, and 2) I love love love love that the show was so clever about his characterization. We learn so much about him and how much progress he's already made in breaking from his psycho abusive cult upbringing, and we don't even recognize it until the show wants us to. Hordak had come so far, all on his own, before he met Entrapta. She just helped push him over the edge and finally realize (at least consciously) that Prime's worldview might not be the correct one.

Idk, I just don't know if I've ever seen all the trappings of Basic 80's Villain(TM) so successfully subverted, where looking back 4 seasons later is actually a smack in the face with the "effective character building" stick. Amazing.

#spop #she ra #she ra and the princesses of power #hordak #entrapdak #entrapta #horde prime #Spacebat #Deep character analysis #Gotta love clever writing #Seriously I could go on about this show for ages #I just love the characterization for everyone but especially Hordak #Best spacebat #I mean I love Wrong Hordak too but you know

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fvsm4x · 1 month

Text

𝐦𝐚𝐲𝐛𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞 - 𝟓

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠. ex! gojo s. x fem. reader

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭. Your boyfriend, who you loved more than anything, who was your will to live, broke up with you.

𝐜𝐰. angst / happy ending for reader but not gojo / wc. 4.1k / last chapter / kinda rushed

part 1 / part 2 / part 3 / part 4 / part 5

But it wouldn‘t hurt to give him a second chance, right.?

But as much as you wanted to believe that a second chance could heal the wounds between you, doubt gnawed at the edges of your resolve. The pain he had caused was not something easily forgotten, and the memories of the betrayal still stung like fresh wounds. You had to consider what giving him another chance would mean—not just for your relationship with him, but for your own self-worth, your own sense of dignity.

"Gojo," you began, your voice steady despite the turmoil inside, "you say you want another chance, but can you honestly tell me why? Is it because you've realized what you lost, or because you're afraid of being alone now that she's gone?"

His eyes widened, as if the question had struck a chord deep within him. He struggled to find the right words, his expression a mix of desperation and confusion. "I... I just know that I don't want to lose you. I made a mistake, I see that now. I was stupid, selfish, but I swear, I’ve changed."

"You’ve changed?" you echoed, the skepticism clear in your tone. "How can I trust that? Last time, you promised me the world, only to break me apart when it suited you. How do I know this time won’t be the same?"

Gojo remained silent for a moment, the weight of your words sinking in. You could see the conflict in his eyes, the struggle between his desire to make things right and the reality of the pain he had caused.

"I don’t know how to prove it to you," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "But I want to try. I want to be the person you deserve, the one who won’t hurt you again."

You let out a soft sigh, the tension in your chest making it hard to breathe. His sincerity tugged at your heart, but the scars he had left made it difficult to simply accept his words at face value. You had to think about what was best for you, not just what he wanted.

"Gojo," you said slowly, choosing your words carefully, "I need to understand something. What would be different this time? How do you expect me to believe that you're not just saying these things because you're hurt and vulnerable right now? That you won't just fall back into old habits the moment things get tough?"

He looked down, his hands trembling slightly as they gripped yours tighter. "I’ve learned from my mistakes," he said, his voice laced with determination. "I know I hurt you, and I regret it more than anything. I took you for granted, and I was wrong. I can’t take back what I did, but I want to show you that I can be better—that I can love you the way you deserve to be loved."

The sincerity in his voice was almost enough to break down your defenses. Almost. But the reality of the situation loomed large in your mind. You had been here before, heard these promises before, only to be left shattered in the end.

"Do you really understand what you're asking of me?" you asked, your voice soft but firm. "You're asking me to put my heart on the line again, to risk everything for the chance that you might actually change this time. But what if you don't? What if I let you back in, only to find myself back in this same place a few months from now?"

Gojo's expression faltered, the weight of your words sinking in. He knew you were right—he was asking for a lot, maybe too much. But still, he refused to give up.

"I can't promise that everything will be perfect," he said, his voice raw with emotion. "But I can promise that I’ll fight for us, that I won’t make the same mistakes again. I’ll prove to you that I’m serious this time. Just... please, give me a chance to show you."

Your heart ached at the sight of him, so vulnerable and desperate for your forgiveness. You wanted to believe him, to believe that he could change, that he could become the man you needed him to be. But the fear of getting hurt again was a powerful force, one that you couldn't simply ignore.

"I don't know if I can do this, Gojo," you said, your voice trembling with the weight of the decision before you. "I don't know if I can put myself through this again, not after everything that's happened."

He looked at you with a mix of hope and despair, as if he knew he was teetering on the edge of losing you forever. "Please," he whispered, his voice breaking. "Just one more chance. Let me show you that I can be better."

You closed your eyes, the tears finally spilling over as the emotions you had been holding back crashed over you like a tidal wave. The love you had for him was still there, buried beneath the pain and betrayal, but it was overshadowed by the fear of being hurt again.

Finally, you opened your eyes and met his gaze, your heart heavy with the weight of your decision. "Gojo, I need time," you said, your voice barely above a whisper. "I can't just jump back into this like nothing happened. I need time to think, to figure out what's best for me."

His face fell, but he nodded, understanding that this was as much as you could give him right now. "I’ll wait," he said, his voice filled with a mix of sadness and determination. "I’ll wait as long as it takes."

With that, you slowly pulled your hand away from his, the warmth of his touch lingering even as you stepped back. The distance between you felt like a chasm, one that might never be bridged again. But for now, it was what you needed—to find your own path, to heal in your own time.

As you turned to walk away, leaving him kneeling there in the cold, you couldn’t help but wonder if you had made the right choice. The future was uncertain, the path ahead filled with doubts and unanswered questions. But one thing was clear: you had to choose yourself this time, even if it meant walking away from the man you once loved.

As you walked away, the echoes of your footsteps reverberating through the quiet night, the weight of your decision settled heavily on your shoulders. Each step felt like an eternity, as if the very air around you was thick with the tension of what had just transpired. The distance between you and Gojo grew, but the connection, the history, and the unresolved emotions hung in the air, clinging to you like a shadow.

You couldn’t help but replay his words over and over in your mind. The desperation in his voice, the sincerity in his eyes—were they enough? Could a person truly change, or was it just wishful thinking? The memories of your time together flooded your mind, both the good and the bad, each moment tinged with the bittersweetness of what once was and what might never be again.

But as you walked further, a different voice began to whisper in the back of your mind, a voice that questioned your own choices, your own feelings. You had been hurt, yes, but was there a part of you that still longed for the love you once shared? Was there still a flicker of hope that things could be different this time, that the man you had loved was still in there, waiting to be rediscovered?

You stopped walking, standing there in the dim light of the streetlamp, your breath visible in the cold night air. The silence was deafening, your thoughts swirling like a storm inside your head. You had asked for time, but the truth was, you didn’t know how much time you would need. The wound was still fresh, the trust still shattered, and yet, beneath all that pain, there was a part of you that wanted to believe in second chances.

What if you were being too harsh? What if, in pushing him away, you were closing the door on something that could be beautiful again? The questions gnawed at you, each one more persistent than the last. Could you really walk away from him, from everything you had built together, without giving him the chance to prove himself? Was it fair to judge him solely on his past mistakes, without considering the possibility that he had learned from them?

As you stood there, lost in thought, the memories of the love you once shared began to resurface. The way he used to look at you, the way his laughter would fill the room, the warmth of his embrace on a cold night—it all felt so distant now, yet so painfully close. You remembered the moments of joy, the times when it felt like nothing in the world could come between you. Those memories were precious, and they weren’t so easily erased by the pain he had caused.

But then, there were the darker memories, the ones that cut deep into your soul. The lies, the betrayal, the feeling of being second best—those wounds were still raw, still bleeding, and the thought of reopening them was terrifying. You had worked so hard to rebuild yourself, to find strength in your own company, to remember who you were without him. Letting him back in meant risking all of that, risking everything you had fought so hard to regain.

A small voice inside you, however, urged you to reconsider. People could change, couldn’t they? Life wasn’t black and white, and relationships were messy, complicated. What if Gojo truly had realized the error of his ways? What if he was genuinely remorseful, ready to make amends and to be the partner you needed him to be?

You shook your head, trying to clear the confusion. You had to be sure, had to know that whatever decision you made, it was the right one for you. Turning around, you saw Gojo still kneeling where you had left him, his form barely visible in the distance. He hadn’t moved, hadn’t given up, even though you had walked away.

Was it really fair to expect him to change? Could you risk your heart again on the mere possibility that things might be different this time?

The truth was, you weren’t ready to forgive him. Not yet, and maybe not ever. The wounds were still too fresh, the scars too deep. Giving him another chance felt like inviting more pain into your life, a pain you weren’t sure you could endure again.

You took a deep breath and forced your feet to move, each step taking you further away from the man you once loved. The night was silent, the only sound was the soft crunch of gravel under your shoes as you walked down the empty street. The distance between you and Gojo grew, but so did the clarity in your mind. You deserved more than empty promises and second chances. You deserved someone who wouldn’t make you question your worth, someone who wouldn’t break your heart over and over again.

Gojo remained on his knees long after you had walked away, the chill of the night air seeping into his bones. He stared at the spot where you had stood just moments ago, as if by sheer force of will he could bring you back. But the empty space before him was a harsh reminder that you were gone, that he had lost you once again.

A dull ache settled in his chest, spreading through his entire body as he tried to process what had just happened. He had begged, pleaded, laid his heart bare before you, and yet it hadn’t been enough. You had looked at him with such pain in your eyes, a pain he knew he had caused, and that knowledge cut deeper than any rejection.

He slowly rose to his feet, his legs unsteady beneath him as he tried to regain his composure. The night felt colder now, the darkness more oppressive as he realized how truly alone he was. He had gambled everything on the hope that you might still care, that you might still see the man he was trying to become, but the truth was undeniable—you were done with him. And maybe you were right to be.

As he started walking, his mind replayed every word you had said, every look you had given him. Your voice, so full of hurt and doubt, echoed in his ears, a constant reminder of the mistakes he had made. He had taken you for granted, convinced himself that you would always be there, waiting for him to get his act together. But now, standing in the aftermath of his own selfishness, he realized just how badly he had miscalculated.

Gojo’s footsteps were heavy as he walked back to his own place, the streets eerily quiet. For the first time, he felt the full weight of his actions, the depth of the hurt he had caused not only to you but to himself. He had ruined something beautiful, something that might never be repaired, and the regret was almost too much to bear.

He reached his apartment and fumbled with his keys, his hands shaking slightly as he unlocked the door. The silence inside was deafening, the emptiness of the space mirroring the emptiness he felt within. He collapsed onto the couch, burying his face in his hands as the reality of the situation washed over him.

He had wanted so desperately to make things right, to prove to you that he had changed, but deep down, he knew it wasn’t that simple. Change wasn’t just about saying the right words or making promises—it was about action, about becoming a better person, and that was something he hadn’t truly grasped until now. He had hurt you, deeply, and no amount of pleading could erase that.

The truth settled heavily on his shoulders: he had lost you, maybe for good this time. And the worst part was, he had no one to blame but himself. He had played with your heart, made you question your worth, and now he was paying the price. The realization that he might never have another chance with you, that you might move on and find someone who would treat you the way you deserved, was almost too painful to bear.

But as he sat there in the darkness, Gojo knew that this was his moment of reckoning. He could no longer hide from the consequences of his actions. If he truly wanted to change, it had to start now—with or without you. He had to learn to be a better person, not just for you, but for himself. And if that meant letting you go, if that meant accepting that you might never forgive him, then so be it.

Weeks had passed since that night, but for Gojo, it felt like a lifetime. The days blurred together, a monotonous cycle of work, training, and sleepless nights. He threw himself into his duties, trying to drown out the memories of you, but nothing seemed to work. Every quiet moment was filled with thoughts of you—your laughter, your smile, the way your eyes had softened when you looked at him, before everything had fallen apart.

He hadn’t tried to contact you since that night. He knew better than to push, to force himself back into your life when you had made it clear that you needed space. Instead, he focused on himself, trying to understand where he had gone wrong, trying to become the man he had promised he would be. But no matter how much he tried to move forward, the emptiness where you used to be haunted him.

One chilly afternoon, Gojo found himself wandering aimlessly through the city streets, his hands shoved deep into his pockets as he watched the world go by. It was one of those rare days when he had no obligations, no missions or responsibilities to distract him from his thoughts. The city was bustling with life, people rushing past him with purpose, but he felt disconnected from it all, as if he were watching from a distance.

As he walked, he turned a corner and stopped in his tracks. There you were, just a few steps ahead, standing at the entrance of a cozy little café. For a moment, his heart leapt at the sight of you, his mind racing with the possibility of speaking to you, of seeing how you were doing after all this time. But before he could take a step, he noticed that you weren’t alone.

Standing beside you was a man—tall, with dark hair and a warm smile that reached his eyes. He was holding your hand, his thumb gently brushing over your knuckles as you both laughed at something he had said. The sound of your laughter, so light and carefree, pierced through Gojo’s chest like a dagger. It was the same laugh he had fallen in love with, the one he had thought he might never hear again.

Gojo’s breath caught in his throat as he watched the two of you. There was an ease between you and the man, a comfort that spoke of familiarity, of something more than just a passing connection. The man leaned in closer, and you responded with a soft smile, one that Gojo knew all too well. It was the kind of smile that came from genuine happiness, from feeling safe and cherished.

He felt his heart constrict, a mix of emotions swirling inside him—regret, jealousy, sadness. But most of all, there was a deep, aching sense of loss. He had known this day might come, that you would eventually move on and find someone who could give you the love and security you deserved. But knowing it and seeing it were two different things, and the reality of it hit him harder than he had expected.

Gojo stood there, rooted to the spot, unable to tear his eyes away from you. He knew he should leave, walk away before you noticed him, but something kept him there, some part of him that needed to see this, to accept that you were no longer his.

As you and the man turned to enter the café, Gojo’s eyes met yours for the briefest of moments. Time seemed to freeze as recognition flickered in your gaze. There was a flash of surprise, quickly followed by something else—something softer, perhaps understanding or even sympathy. But you didn’t stop, didn’t call out to him. You simply gave him a small, polite nod before turning away,

As the door of the café closed behind you, Gojo hesitated for a moment, debating whether to follow you inside. He knew he should just walk away, let you enjoy your time with the man who clearly made you happy. But something stronger than reason pushed him forward. The unresolved tension between you gnawed at him, a silent torment that demanded closure.

With a deep breath, Gojo pushed open the door to the café, the small bell above it chiming softly as he stepped inside. The warm scent of coffee and baked goods filled the air, and the soft hum of conversation surrounded him. He quickly scanned the room, spotting you at a table near the window, the man still by your side.

You noticed him immediately, your eyes widening slightly in surprise as he approached. The man beside you looked up, clearly sensing the change in your demeanor, but remained silent, his expression polite but questioning.

Gojo stopped a few feet from your table, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides as he struggled to find the right words. He felt the weight of the moment pressing down on him, the significance of what he was about to say looming large in his mind.

"Can we talk for a minute?" he asked, his voice low and tentative, trying not to intrude too much on your moment with the other man.

You hesitated, glancing at the man beside you. He gave you a small, understanding nod, standing up to give you space. "I'll be right over there," he said softly, before stepping away to another part of the café.

Once he was out of earshot, you turned your attention back to Gojo, your expression guarded but not unkind. "Gojo, what do you want?" you asked quietly, your tone not accusatory but rather cautious, as if you were bracing yourself for whatever he might say.

He took a deep breath, struggling to meet your eyes. "I just... I just wanted to say I'm sorry. For everything. For the way I treated you, for the way I made you feel. I know I can’t undo the past, but I need you to know that I regret it all, deeply."

You looked at him, your expression softening slightly at his words, but there was still a distance in your gaze, a wall that hadn’t been there before. "Gojo," you began, your voice gentle but firm, "I appreciate you saying that. I really do. But what’s done is done. We can’t go back and change what happened. We both know that."

He nodded, swallowing hard against the lump forming in his throat. "I know," he said, his voice cracking slightly. "I just… I wish things could have been different. That I could’ve been better for you."

A small, sad smile tugged at the corners of your lips. "Maybe in another life," you said softly, your words like a bittersweet melody that hung in the air between you. "Maybe in another life, we were meant to be. But in this one…"

You trailed off, your eyes shimmering with unshed tears. The unspoken truth between you was palpable—no matter how much either of you wished it could be different, the damage had been done. The love you once shared was irreparably broken, and no amount of apologies could fix it.

Gojo felt a sharp pain in his chest, the finality of your words cutting through him like a blade. He had known, deep down, that this was how it would end, but hearing it from you made it all the more real.

"I understand," he murmured, his voice barely audible as he looked down at the floor. "I just… I hope you find the happiness you deserve."

You reached out then, gently touching his arm, the gesture both comforting and heartbreaking. "I hope you do too, Gojo," you whispered, your voice filled with a kind of tenderness that he hadn’t heard from you in a long time. "Take care of yourself."

He looked up at you, his eyes filled with a mixture of sorrow and acceptance. He knew this was goodbye—not just for now, but for the life you might have had together. It was the kind of parting that left an indelible mark on his soul, a reminder of what could have been.

With a heavy heart, Gojo nodded, turning to leave the café. As he walked away, he didn’t look back, knowing that doing so would only make it harder to let go. The door closed behind him, the cool air outside hitting him like a wake-up call. He stood there for a moment, trying to steady his breathing, trying to process the finality of what had just happened.

Inside, you watched him leave, your heart heavy but resolute. There was a part of you that would always care for Gojo, that would always wonder what might have been. But you knew, deep down, that you had made the right choice. Sometimes, love wasn’t enough to bridge the gap that had grown between two people. Sometimes, the kindest thing you could do was let go.

As you turned back to your table, the man who had been with you returned, concern etched on his face. He didn’t ask what had happened—he didn’t need to. He simply took your hand in his, offering silent support as you both sat down together.

Gojo walked down the street, the sun beginning to set, casting long shadows on the pavement. The ache in his chest was still there, but so was a strange sense of peace. You had found your path, and now, he had to find his own. And maybe, just maybe, in another life, things would have been different. But in this one, it was time to move on.

End

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THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR STICKING WITH THIS STORY\(^ヮ^)/ new gojo series soon<33

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skbeaumont · 5 months

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Five for Five | Joel x Reader Oneshot

“I ain’t stupid.” His tone is heavy now, words grating out of his throat like rusty razor blades. “Last I checked, we had one hundred and two. There’s ninety-seven here. That’s five missing.”

Summary: It was probably a stupid idea to trade five ration cards for a tiny bottle of perfume, and it's not surprising that Joel is angry, but you think it might just be worth it. Tags/warnings: fem reader, smut, dubcon, spanking, punishment, dom!Joel, sub!reader, first time, oral (m receiving), fingering, pet names, unprotected p in v, aftercare. Word Count: 4k

A/N: Forgive me father for I have sinned. This is pure filth. Please mind the tags/warnings.

“Where are the rest?”

Joel’s voice cuts through you as soon as you step inside the apartment. It’s late, already dark out, and the dangerous edge to his words makes you jump as you step inside, shoulders aching, feet numb from the long walk back home through the QZ.

“Jesus fuck, Joel. What are you doing here?”

He doesn’t answer, just holds up his hand and shakes the stack of ration cards that are clutched in his fist. The only light is coming from the wonky reading lamp in the corner and it casts an amber glow over the apartment and Joel’s stern face.

“I said,” his voice is steady, clear, but you can already hear the frustration that’s buried underneath it, the anger that’s so quick to rise in him threatening to bubble over, “where are the rest?”

“They should all be there,” you reply, letting your eyes fall down to your boots, toeing them off so that you don’t have to look at his face.

“Well, they ain’t.” He takes a step toward you, his own boots heavy on the worn linoleum floor. “And I wanna know where they are.”

“Did you check under the floor?”

Of course he’s checked under the floor, and of course they aren’t there, because last night you took a handful – five, max – and traded them for a tiny bottle of perfume that’s now stuffed under your mattress. Joel rarely checks the ration cards – he lets you deal with that side of the dodgy business you’ve been running together for the last year and a half – so you’d thought you could get away with it. That he wouldn’t notice. But this is Joel, and he’s noticed.

With this last he slams the pile down on the kitchen side next to you, stepping right up into your space so that you feel his breath – hot and tinged with the scent of cheap bourbon – on the side of your face. You’ve seen him angry so many times, but it’s never been directed at you before, and you’re starting to understand why most people avoid his gaze in corridors, why men cross the street when they see him coming.

“Did you miscount?” You ask, fighting to keep your voice level, light.

“Did I miscount?” He repeats, slow, each word enunciated like it’s a full sentence on its own, and you realise it was probably the worst thing you could have said.

His fingers are hot on your chin when he grabs it, tilting your reluctant face up, dragging your eyeline to meet his. His face is a sight to behold: eyebrows furrowed, deep groves carved out in the lines that surround them, his jaw tense, a muscle twitching as he grinds his teeth. There’s danger in his eyes; a fire behind them that burns as he stares down at you.

“No, I didn’t miscount.” He spits the last word out, eyes tracing the blush that’s crawling up your throat, the way your eyes dart away from his, the flicker of your pulse – fast, rising – in your throat. The trace of the misdirection, the lie, so obvious.

He can read you like a book, always could. But you’re stubborn. You’re not giving anything away if you don’t have to. Those cards are yours as much as they’re his, and this one thing you’ve allowed yourself in eighteen months is worth the way his fingertips are digging into the sides of your face.

“What did you trade ‘em for?” He asks.

“Fuck you.”

He laughs at this, lets your face go and takes a single step back, swings his arm to his side and lets it carry him into a half turn. You slump back against the door, peeling paint sticking uncomfortably to your back. But it’s a short-lived reprieve.

“Fuck me?” He repeats, turning back to you. “After all I’ve done for you, all the shit I’ve taken for you-”

“I didn’t ask you to!” Your voice is shrill compared to his gruff curses, but you continue, adrenaline spiking, “And you’ve been the cause of at least half of that shit, Joel. Don’t make out like you’re some knight in shining armour when we both know the truth!”

The truth: that he’s brutal, feared by almost everyone in the QZ; that people only trade with the two of you because of your hard work and negotiation skills. Joel’s good for enforcing things, for smuggling things in and out, and for sending a message when anything goes wrong, but he’s also a broken man whose anger has got him into more than a few scrapes that you’ve had to get him out of with nothing more than your sharp tongue and quick thinking.

He lets you rally this outburst at him, doesn’t blink in the face of it, until you’ve finished. Then he’s striding back to you, slamming the hand holding the cards hard against the door behind you. It makes you flinch away but his other hand’s back on your jaw, grip tighter this time, forcing you to look up at him.

“Where are the rest?” He repeats, brandishing the ration cards so that they’re inches from your face.

“They’re mine as much as they’re yours.” You say, quietly defiant despite the way your voice shakes.

“You trade them?”

“What does it matter?”

“Nuh-uh,” He twists his hand, turns your face away so that you’re forced to look to the side instead of into his face and he can say the next words into your ear. “This ain’t how this works. I ask the questions, you answer ‘em. Did. You. Trade. Them?”

His face is so close to yours now that you can feel spit landing on your cheek as he speaks, his breath hot in your ear. It shouldn’t turn you on, but it does. You can feel yourself getting wet, slick pooling unbidden between your thighs. It’s hard to ignore a man like Joel, but it’s even harder to get close to him. You don’t think he’s ever been so near to you before, not even when you’ve tended each other’s wounds after a run went south.

You’ve always wanted him to; held a secret flame that’s grown brighter and hotter over the last few months. There’s something undeniably attractive about Joel. The way he moves, the quiet confidence he exudes and the brutal, coiled power of him. You’ve watched him set his fist into another man’s jaw and wondered what it would be like to be on the receiving end of his temper, his passion.

Now, with his face so close to yours, his thick fingers digging into your jaw, you feel yourself sinking into it, relaxing despite the tension of the situation. You want this, you want his anger and razor-sharp focus. It’s overwhelming in the best way, and you feel tears burning at your lower lashline.

“Yes. I traded them.”

A tear slides down you face and Joel’s eyes trace its path as it glides over your check, pooling in the corner of your mouth, salty and unrepentant.

“What for?”

“Perfume.”

He laughs again, but this laugh is full of derision, not mirth. It’s a punch of a laugh, straight from his chest, catching in his throat and distorting into a growl that sends a shiver up your spine and a bolt of lightning through your cunt.

“Perfume.” He repeats, turning your face in his hand so that you’re looking at him again.

His pupils are blown wide, his face a mask of fury and something else that has you pressing your thighs together, seeking friction. He notices you doing it, lets his eyes follow the movement of your hips, the desperate, needy breaths you’re sucking in. He grins, teeth bared.

“And what, exactly, do you need perfume for?” He asks, not giving you time to answer before he’s bending down and pressing his nose into the side of your neck, inhaling deeply, stubble scratching your throat. “Smell sweet enough to me already.”

“Joel, please,” you say, but you’re not sure what you’re asking for, because he’s licking a thick stripe up the side of your throat and you think if he stops you might scream.

“Buy it for those boys I see sniffing around you sometimes? Huh?” He asks, drawing back from you and shaking your face in his hand roughly. “Knew you were nothing but a fucking slut.”

“I just- I wanted something nice.” You try to explain, the words catching in your throat as he slides one thick thigh between yours.

“Something nice? What makes you think you deserve something nice, hmm? Ain’t nothing nice in this place, you should know that as well as I do.”

And you do, God knows you do. The QZ is dark and twisted and fucking soul-crushing, but you’d wanted the perfume, wanted it with a deep yearning that matches the way you want Joel to keep going now, to push you and punish you and take what he wants.

“I think you need to learn a lesson, baby.”

You’re nodding into his hand, tears rolling down your face, splashing onto his thick fingers. He lets go of your jaw, takes you by the wrist and pulls you into the room, toward the sofa, over his knee when he sits. Your stomach is pressed into his thighs, face buried in the dirty sofa cushion and he’s got one hand pressing into your spine, the other searching out the button of your jeans. He undoes it, wastes no time in dragging the worn denim down your shaking thighs.

“You’re gonna lie there and take it, you hear me?” He says, splaying a hand over your bare ass cheek, moving the line of your knickers out of the way so that he can squeeze the meat of you, fingers dipping between your thighs, finding the slick liquid that’s leaking from you.

“Jesus Christ, you’re soaked already. Fuckin’ filthy little thing, aren’t you?” His accent is somehow thickening, vowels lengthening, the twang of his consonants increasing.

“I asked you a question.” He says when you don’t immediately reply, and you nod your head, wipe your wet eyes against the sofa.

“Count for me.” He says, and before you can take a breath to prepare, his hand is coming down sharply on you.

The sting is sharp; delicious.

“Count.” He hisses, and you whisper a faint one, breaking off into a moan when he lets his fingers graze the side of your puffy lips.

You wish you could see his expression, see if this is affecting him as much as its affecting you, if he’s watching with something like ecstasy on his handsome, haunting features.

The second smack is harder than the first, sharper and sweeter for it. It makes you jerk against him but he’s holding you down firmly with one solid hand in the middle of your back, pressing you into his thighs, into his lap. The denim of his jeans is rough against your bare stomach, scratching you skin where your shirt’s risen up. The third slap makes you yelp, harder again, but he soothes it immediately with his palm, rubs the flesh of your ass.

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you? Enjoying being bent over my lap and spanked like the dirty whore y’are, huh?”

You can’t believe the filth that’s dripping from his lips. Sure, he curses plenty, and you’ve heard him cuss out entire rooms full of angry men, but this is something else entirely. This is animalistic and derogatory and indecent. And God help you, its sending rushes of hot liquid practically gushing down your thighs.

“Be so easy to slide myself inside you, you’re so goddamn wet.” He says as he sends another harsh slap onto your ass. “Open you up and press myself inside this soaking cunt, hmm? Bet you’d let me, too, let me do fucking anything to you.”

“Yes, Joel, please, anything.”

His third laugh of the afternoon is throaty and coarse, full of self-indulgence. It makes the hairs stand up on the back of your neck, makes you clench your thighs together and grind your teeth to stop you from crying out again.

“You gonna come like this, baby?” He asks, sliding his hand over the meat of your ass, down between your thighs to press at your entrance, slipping beneath your ruined underwear. “Come on my lap like the dirty fucking slut I know you are?”

The sweet sting as he pushes two thick fingers inside you almost pushes you over the edge there and then, but you bite into your lip – probably drawing blood, but you’re too distracted to notice. He curls his fingers, drags the pads of them over the soft flesh inside you, seeking out that spot that makes you almost black out, pleasure ratcheting up so suddenly that you gasp, coming hard in his lap, muscles shaking and contracting, cunt squeezing his fingers tight.

“There she is,” He hisses, curling them again, chasing you as you shift against him, overstimulated.

How is he so good at this? You’ve never seen him with anyone – he’s always given the impression that he has no interest in sex, in relationships, friendships, even. But the expert way that he’s playing your body like an instrument, chasing your moans and gasps like they’re the air he needs to stay alive, tells a completely different story. And when you jerk in his grip and he presses you harder against him, shifting on the sofa, there’s suddenly a very clear indication of just how much of an affect this is having on him, too.

“Shit,” His voice is ragged now: This outburst isn’t controlled in the way that the rest of the curses he’s been spewing into your ears have been. It’s unexpected and bitten back behind a grunt as your hip comes into contact with his cock – a solid, hot weight that fills the front of his jeans, pressing the button of his flies into you, his pocket a line of stitches on your stomach.

The next smack is all the harder for the tiny huff of a giggle you let out, which turns quickly into a hiss of pain when his palm comes down hard against you.

“Concentrate,” He warns when you don’t immediately count the spank aloud. “’m teaching you a fuckin’ lesson, here, remember?”

“Four.” You say, pressing your face harder into the cushion, rolling your hips just slightly so that his cock twitches against your stomach.

“Five for five.” He says, soothing your heated flesh with the palm of his hand before bringing it down one final time. “Five. Think you’ve learnt your lesson?”

You twist round in his lap, eyes dancing when you see the flush that’s tinted his cheeks, the way his gaze is lingering on the swell of your ass cheek in his hand, perspiration beading on his heavy brow.

“I don’t know, Joel, do you?” You say, voice teasing, and he snaps his eyes up to your face as he hisses through clenched teeth.

“Fuckin’ mouth on you, you insolent little slut,” he curses, fisting the collar of your shirt and pulling you upright, opening his legs so that you slide between them onto the cold lino floor.

“Think we can find a better use for it, hmm?” He leans back against the couch, pops the first button on his jeans. Your eyes follow the movement hungrily, unable to look away as he slide the zip down painfully slowly, tooth by tooth, the clicks loud in the silent apartment.

He doesn’t take the jeans off, just pushes them far enough down his thighs that he can fist his cock where it sits, heavy and thick, in his underwear. There’s a dark stain at the tip that makes your mouth water, and when he drags his briefs down, too, you lick your lips greedily.

He’s painfully hard – head flushed a deep red, veins standing out boldly against his thick shaft. There’s a thatch of dark hair at the base, and his balls are heavy and full when he tucks the waistband of his briefs underneath them.

He strokes himself lazily a few times and you let yourself look up to his face. His eyes are dark, pupils eating into the deep brown irises, brows furrowed slightly. The amber light of the lamp is casting his face partly in shadow and it only accentuates the strong, curved line of his nose, the deep creases that lines his eyes and forehead. He’s looking at you like you’re the only thing that exists, his gaze so sharp and focused it makes you dizzy.

“C’mon then,” he says, running a hot hand up your jaw to grip the back of your neck, pulling you in towards him. “I got no doubt you know exactly what you’re doing here.”

The scent of him is musky and something distinctly masculine, and you bury your nose in the thick hair at the base of him, place a heated kiss to the side of one thigh. This alone make him moan, a deep, throaty sound that lights you up from the inside.

You press your lips to the tip of him, flick your tongue out to kitten lick at the slit.

“Fuck,” he curses.

He’s sensitive. When you wrap a hand around the base of his cock and place your lips around him he hisses, fingers tightening their grip in your hair, free hand fisting the loose cover of the worn couch. You take him further in, suck your cheeks in to caress him, work your tongue over the delicate ridge at the head of his cock. He tastes like salt and sweat and something distinctly Joel, masculine and heady. When he hits the back of your throat you try not to gag, try to swallow him down, throat contracting around him so that he groans and curses.

“Jesus Christ, baby. Your mouth is fuckin’ filthy.”

You grin around his cock, work your hand over the part of him that won’t fit, then pull back and lick one long strip up his shaft, letting your tongue follow one of the thick veins. He presses himself back into your mouth, tightens his grip on the back of your neck and raises his hips off the sofa.

“You want me to fuck that pretty little mouth, baby?” He asks, and you nod, feel hot tears prickling in your eyes when he starts moving, dragging his hips back and then forward, forcing his cock into your mouth, down your throat so that you feel like you’re choking, like all that exists is Joel and his hard cock, his breathy moans and filthy mouth.

“Got such a clever fuckin’ mouth, baby. Just needed to find a way to put it to good use- shit, yeah, that’s it.” He pushes you down once more, groans as he bottoms out on your throat, then releases the back of your neck so that you can pull back.

You’re a mess, tears rolling down your face, saliva pooling in your mouth and joining your lips with Joel’s cock in long strings. Joel’s looking down at you with fire in his eyes, his dark gaze flicking from your mouth to your eyes to the open buttons of your shirt and the swell of your ass.

“Get up,” He says, wrapping his hand around your upper arm and pulling you to your feet.

Before you’ve time to get your balance he’s bending you over, forcing you onto your hands and knees on the sofa. He lines himself up behind you, drags the blunt head of his cock through your soaking folds and presses himself inside your cunt.

The stretch is intense. You squeeze your eyes shut, press yourself back against him as he inches inside. He pauses for a split second when he’s sheathed himself fully inside, then pulls out and begins a punishing pace, fucking you into the sofa, his hands gripping your hips so hard you’re sure he’ll leave marks in the shape of his fingertips.

“Pussy’s gripping me so fuckin’ tight, darlin’” He says, and something in your chest swells at the sound of ‘darlin’’ rolling off his tongue like that, full of something that’s dangerously close to fondness.

He’s a cacophony of contradictions, greedy hands gripping your hips possessively, then smoothing up your back under your shirt before sliding back down to slap the soft flesh of your ass. His thrusts are hard and intense, cock hitting that spot inside you that makes electricity jolt in your stomach with each movement, but then he bends over you, slows his hips so that he can kiss the skin of your throat. His voice – deep, husky, reverberating in his chest – keeps up a filthy chorus that has you whimpering into the couch, but he’s praising you, offering you gentle encouragement, his words warm and dirty and entirely overwhelming.

Being so good for me, baby, pussy’s so fuckin’ wet and tight around me. Can feel you getting close, you gonna come like this, huh? With my cock buried deep inside this pretty little cunt?

Without waiting for an answer he wraps an arm around you and finds your clit with two of his thick fingers. He starts rubbing confident circles over it, bringing you closer and closer to your inevitable climax. You grip his arm with your fist; fingernails digging into hard muscle.

Then suddenly you’re coming apart, white noise blocking out the sound of his hips slapping into yours and his voice and the low level hubbub of the other apartments, until there’s nothing left but your pleasure and his cock and his clever fingers, his nose pressed into your throat, teeth nipping the tendons there.

The world fades back into existence as you come down, muscles jolting. You feel yourself clenching around him with the aftershocks. Joel gasps into your neck, squeezes your tits over your shirt.

“Fuck, just like that, gonna come in this sweet cunt. Shit, that’s it.” His thrusts falter, hips slamming into yours.

You feel him twitch inside you as he comes, ropes of hot cum painting the inside of you, his stuttering breath at your ear.

You stay as you are for a moment, both gasping for breath, hearts hammering in your chests. His embrace is suddenly tender, muscles shifting as he relaxes against you. You don’t say anything, but he presses a kiss to the side of your neck, and that simple gesture opens a floodgate in your chest.

He pulls out of you but keeps his arm around you, guides you both down to lie on the couch, your back pressed to his front. The light in the apartment feels different than it did earlier, the orange hue warmer, kinder than it was.

Joel peppers kisses along the back of your neck and over each shoulder, his strong arm keeping you firmly against him. He wraps a thick thigh over both of yours and tightens it, anchoring you in place. You sigh in contentment, head quieter than it’s been for months, years, possibly.

“I didn’t hurt you?” He says into your hair, voice low.

“No, Joel.”

“You sure? I’m sorry if I was too rough. I don’t- I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“I liked it, Joel.”

He chuckles darkly, hooks his chin over your shoulder and teases the skin under your ear with his teeth.

“Fuckin’ filthy, aren’t you? Always knew you were.” He presses his nose to your neck, inhales deeply. “Perfume’s nice, by the way.”

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