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peachdues · 7 months ago

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COMPASS / CHAPTER 3

bad boy! Sanemi x Reader ✦ gang AU

A/N: eat up, loves. Enjoy the filth and domestic bliss of this chapter now, because we’re right back to the seedy violence of the Corps in Chapter 4.

CW: explicit sexual content • MDNI • period sex • grinding • lots of tit play • brief cervix fucking • creampie • Sanemi is a certified yapper in bed • light angst • humor • two idiots helplessly in love • mentions of a gun • mentions of gang violence • bookshop AU • gang AU

MASTERLIST HERE

COMPASS – CHAPTER 3

It’s hard to notice the way time stops when you aren’t paying attention to it; when you have no reason to bother.

Life hasn’t always been this way – lonely. In fact, your upbringing had been on the cushier side of comfortable, and you’d thought you’d been surrounded by love, from both family and friends alike. High school hadn’t been any different, You’d had a social circle, you’d been involved in extracurriculars, and you had a good relationship with your parents and siblings.

Or, so you’d believed. Because then you graduated and everyone moved on while you were left behind.

That was when time stopped.

Not literally, of course. Birthdays came and went, as did Christmas. Your hair changed, and so did your living arrangements. Six weeks after you graduated, you moved out of your parents’ place into your current apartment, and enrolled in the local university. Your siblings continued growing up and apart, each making their way through school and setting out on their own. At the time, it felt natural. They each had their own lives, as you did, so you hadn’t paid it much mind.

That’s the tricky thing about it; it wasn’t something that happened all at once. It was slow, a trickle of sand in an hourglass you didn’t know had been turned. Only when the last grain fell did you realize the clock had been running at all, and by that point, it was too late.

It started as an exodus of sorts from the city, right after graduation. Leaving home behind in search of greener pasteurs elsewhere wasn’t uncommon, so it hadn’t seemed all that surprising that communications with those you’d once called your friends, dwindled. But then, those who left never came back, even to visit, and the few who did never lingered for long.

Had there been signs that the cancer was spreading? It’s hard to remember. Violence and crime has always been a party of life in the City, just as it is in any metropolitan area. The adults in your life always claimed such things were contained, an epidemic confined to the Silo and its poverty. As though the destitution of the neighborhood was somehow justified, a punishment befitting of those who had the misfortune of being born on the wrong side of a junkyard.

Growing up, you’d eavesdropped on more than your fair share of adult conversations. At least, enough so to know that income lines did not curb misdeeds; it only changed them, gave them modifiers like white collar and organized, as though somehow that softened the brutal reality. As though the covert whispers behind the hands of adults at school functions or neighborhood gatherings whenever a family came into a sudden abundance of wealth or someone sported an injury they couldn’t explain, changed anything at all.

If the crime in the Silo was the pot, then the crime bubbling under the sruface of neat shrubs and cobbled streets in your area of town had been the kettle. And the Corps had its hand in both.

In hindsight, you often find yourself wondering whether your former friends had simply been lucky to get out before the empire began to crumble, or whether they’d simply seen writing on a wall you hadn’t known to read. Because once the turf wars between rival gangs began to escalate and spill over from their confinement in the Silo, those visits from friends fizzled out all together, and you never heard another word. Not from any of them.

Your family, apparently, also had sensed whatever metamorphosis lingered on the City’s horizon, even if they hadn’t bothered to warn you, too. Once your youngest sister set off for university in a distant town – the very one who’d brought Sanemi to your family’s stoop that day, years ago – your parents swiftly packed up the townhouse you’d grown up in and put it on the market.

They only told you they were moving after the place sold.

They didn’t offer to take you with them, and you didn’t bother to ask. You didn’t even have their mailing address until that Christmas, when a festive little card arrived in the mail, bearing only Season’s Greetings from Mom and Dad.

Sure, maybe you’d realized a hair too late that you were only a transient presence in the lives of those you’d once considered friends, but the relegation to the background of your own family’s portrait had stung. Not important enough to be remembered, but too significant to forget.

You tried, for a while, but it hurt even more that they never bothered to check in. After the second birthday without so much as a card or a phonecall, you stopped altogether.

Alone, with nothing but a semi-failing bookstore to keep you busy, you quickly faded into the skyline of the city you’d once loved. And even it couldn’t keep itself from rotting. You tried not to resent it; decay, at least, still meant change. You just remained stuck. Frozen.

When monotony is your only companion, it doesn’t take long to lose the senses that risk breaking it up. After a while, your eyes learned to stop seeing. Sounds folded together and became muffled, fading to little more than a single, dull buzz humming in ears that forgot how to pick out the chirping of morning birds or the incessant honking accompanying morning rush hour.

Some days, you wondered whether you might be a ghost; others, you had to convince yourself you weren’t.

And then he came along.

———

“Come again!”

Your farewell falls well short of the customer already halfway down the street, instead smacking right into the wood of the door as it slams shut behind him.

Sighing, you slouch against the top of your counter, your fist propped underneath your cheek. Great. Of course the first customer finally to grace your store after a whole day’s worth of nothing ended up being as dull as the hours you’ve spent bored behind the cash register. From the moment he’d stepped inside, he’d barely acknowledged your existence. Your helpful inquiries into whether he was looking for anything in particular, or how his day was going as you rang him up when unanswered, save an odd chuff.

And so, out the door goes your first brush with human contact in several days. Pathetic, but even more so when you consider how long it might be until you saw another person again. The hours spent laboring at the store didn’t offer much in the way of free time, and you don’t really have a social life capable of filling in the gaps, anyways.

Well, maybe you did. You had, up until a few days ago, at least. Whether that is still true now, however, isn’t something you’re particularly interested in unpacking.

Thus, you’re left alone. Again.

Disheartened, your head slumps against your arm. You could always go back to your novel. It’s a crime fantasy; a latest release from an author you’d gotten into a few weeks earlier, the first book snagged off the shelf right before you closed up for the night. Rolling your head to the side, you eye the book, face down on the other end of the counter.

You scrunch your nose before rolling your head back the other direction, ignoring the book. Reading is the last thing you feel like doing right now, considering it’s all you’ve been doing. Once, you would’ve been thrilled at the prospect of having an entire day to spend behind the counter, flipping through a novel or two, completely undisturbed by the ringing of the store’s bell. But that was before you’d grown accustomed to a certain impish, foul-mouthed gang member who enjoyed hanging around the bookstore almost as much as he relished being a pain in your ass.

What you wouldn’t give to hear a snarky comment or scoff from him, now.

Without Sanemi loitering around, a disquieting stillness has settled around the store. The distant howl of police sirens almost feels welcome, if nothing more than for how it breaks up the nearly suffocating silence of the store.

Maybe it’s time to harass your boss about store advertising again. If you have to endure another week of silence this loud, you might just shove your head through the wall.

Realistically, you only have to tough out the summer slump for another month or so. Foot-traffic tended to pick up in the last weeks of August, when grouchy parents dragged in their children to buy the listed assigned reading books conveniently forgotten until the dwindling days leading into a new school year. And even once the back to school rush finally subsisted, you only had a few weeks to catch up on all the cataloging and ordering you’d missed fielding pissy parents before the holiday season began. As though the sudden shortage of certain titles was your fault, and not the consequence of their snot-nosed kids’ procrastination.

But August is still weeks away. June has barely settled, the summer heat only just beginning to ramp up. The days have already become unbearably warm, the only relief coming at night, but even that would soon come to an end. Before long, everything would be intolerable — the weather, the silence, the lack of anything and everything that had made life for the last year enjoyable.

You crane your neck around to squint at the old-fashioned clock hanging beside the front door. It’s only half-past four, and the store doesn’t close until eight.

Groaning, you thud your head against the counter. Three and a half more hours to go.

You could scroll endlessly on your phone, but that would require looking at it, and that would be pointless. You know there are no missed calls; no texts, no pictures of a recent read with a scarred hand giving a thumbs-up or thumbs-down. If you look at it, you know you’ll see nothing and you will still be disappointed. Might as well save yourself the trouble, even if you can no longer avoid acknowledging the root cause of your terrible mood.

What a stupid asshole he is. What a stupid, idiotic, moronic asshole.

When Sanemi Shinazugawa first exploded into your store last summer, you’d known you’d have to contend with a number of possible consequences as a result of getting involved. There’d been the obvious: the potential for arrest as his co-conspirator, for example, despite having not seen him in the three years following high school graduation. You’d devoted plenty of hours at the store reading crime novels, enough to know the police weren’t particularly careful about who got caught in their crosshairs. It would be almost too easy to deem you guilty by mere proximity to the scowling criminal you’d stuffed under your counter, even if the only association you’d ever had with him had been a decade earlier, when he’d been playing hero.

Of course, that outcome hadn’t been the only slot on your bingo card, and once you’d pulled off your little stunt of hiding him away, you’d been forced to consider other options. Perhaps he would demand free pick of your store’s inventory with the same casual arrogance he’d had striding out that day, book in his hand and not a damn dollar paid for it. Maybe he’d want your shabby bookstore to become a front for whatever nefarious dealings he did on behalf of the Corps.

As time went on, the fallout options from your budding friendship with Sanemi began to evolve. The closer you grew to him, the more dismal the potential ending: maybe you’d end up seeing something you shouldn’t, and he’d have to cut you out to prevent any further harm. Hell, you’d even grappled with the very real possibility of getting tangled up in something you shouldn’t, only to disappear without a trace, right alongside him.

Years spent in relative isolation meant you had an imagination that could outpace most others, so really, there was no shortage of possibilities that getting involved with Sanemi Shinazugawa might entail. It was pragmatic, on your end. Know what to expect and that way, you wouldn’t be caught off guard in the event whatever you had with him ended in a blaze of glory. Or gunfire.

As wild as your imagination could get, not one damn time had it accounted for you falling in love with the stupid asshole. And yet, here you are, just as much an idiot as he is, but with nothing to show for it.

Not entirely true, you think with a small snort as you start up the store’s computer, clicking through a catalogue of upcoming releases eligible for the next shipment. He’d left you that morning with a dozen knots in your hair and a soreness between your legs that lingered for a few days afterward, even when he didn’t. Now, here you are, six days out from Sanemi taking your virginity, and you haven’t heard a god damn word from him.

Not that you’re bitter about it.

As you scroll through the website of the store’s main distributor, one title manages to catch your eye. It’s newer, but it’s only you’d already stocked a few days earlier, having reserved a handful of copies the moment the publisher opened up preorders to smaller retailers.

You’d created an alert on your phone for that very reason, one set to go off the second the order window opened, so you could be sure the early releases arrived as quickly as possible. All because of a certain, low-life felon and his fat mouth.

Whaddya mean I gotta wait another four months ‘til the next one? Sanemi had whined, tossing his book onto your counter. It was the third installment in a fantasy series you’d turned him onto, and he’d rapidly devoured it with the same veracity as he’d had the other two. That’s bullshit.

That’s publishing, you’d snipped back, shoving his arms off the freshly wiped-down surface of the store counter.

Undeterred by your roughness, Sanemi only winked and re-settled himself, a preening smirk tugging at his lips as he plopped his elbow right back where you didn’t want it. Guess you’ll have to think of somethin’ else to occupy me with, Princess.

Oh? You leveled that insufferable smugness with a sly grin of your own. What do you suggest?

You got brains that match all that beauty. ‘M sure you’ll come up with something. He’d replied, tapping your nose with your finger, and snorting when you jerked away.

In retrospect, the blatant flirting made you want to crawl under your counter and never emerge again. He’d been so damn obvious, and you’d eaten every bit of it up. Perhaps that’d been his plan all along, and you’d fallen for it, hook, line and sinker.

It’s hard not to let insecurity gnaw at you but you’re only human, and your edges are becoming more jagged.

You exit out of the web browser, unenthused. Nothing had particularly caught your eye, but then again, not much was capable of holding your attention, lately. Nothing, save the constant replay of that night and the next morning, and you’d picked that particular bone clean. There was nothing left to dissect, not even the marrow, but that didn’t stop you from returning to it, again and again.

You roll your shoulders. The best thing you can do for yourself is to find a distraction.

The back stock room sits full of new releases, and it’s been a few weeks since you updated the store’s colorful display of fresh titles. A bonus of having nearly total control over the bookstore is that you get to decide how displays are arranged, and it’s something you’ve grown to take pride in. With a sigh, you grab the circlet of keys from its peg beneath the store counter and head for store room. Might as well speed along the last two hours of the store’s operation, and give yourself something else to do that isn’t this – feeling hopelessly, pathetically sorry for yourself.

Two trips between the back room and the store’s merry front later, and you set to work. At first, the chaos in your head is smoothed blissfully over as you focus on clearing the shelf of its its previous New Releases, stacking the books up in neat piles to be shelved in their proper sections later. But your concentration is weak, at best, and a task as tedious as this makes your mind go blank, leaves behind a clean slate upon which it can map out all your insecurities.

Logically, it isn’t hard to imagine why Sanemi’s giving you the cold shoulder. He made it obvious that night, when he tried putting on the airs of a big, scary monster he imagined himself to be, though you’d long since learned how to see right through the facade. Even if he’d made good on his empty threat to handle you roughly, he would’ve regretted it — so much so, you doubt he would’ve been able to keep the charade up through the end. Sanemi didn’t seem like the type who got off roughing up his partners.

Given how gentle he’d been in the hours that followed, it seemed you’d been proven right. If only he could realize it, too. Maybe then, he’d figure out how to get his head out of his ass.

Sighing, you toss the last of the previous display’s books aside, and set to work on dusting down the shelves. The venom in your thoughts has less to do with your scar-speckled best friend and more to do with the bruise to your ego you’ve spent the last five days nursing. For all the ways Sanemi’s experience between the sheets greatly outpaces yours, it’s also limited. Affection wasn’t something he’d been known to give. In fact, you’d spent a fair deal of time wracking your brain, trying to remember whether you’d ever heard of him being in a relationship – as teens or otherwise – only to come up empty-handed.

In this respect, at least, he’s no smarter than you are. Actually, he’s probably more of an idiot for it, given how he seems to lack the tact to send a basic courtesy text. A casual, hey, talk soon.

Casual, you snort, as you begin restocking the New Arrivals section. Sanemi Shinazugawa might be better known for his casual dalliances, but nothing about what transpired between you had been casual. Not even fucking close.

An hour passes, and you almost feel at ease, finally left alone by the constant whizz and whir of intrusive thoughts you know better than to indulge. You’re nearly finished with a row of new romance titles, when the title of one in particular snags your attention.

Only Casual. A resounding fuck you from the universe if you’ve ever known one. You wouldn’t have been more surprised if the letters leapt off the book’s glossy front cover to smack you square in the nose.

The longer you stare down at the title, the more doubt threatens to creep back in, lapping at the shore of your mind with its seductive hiss. Maybe you haven’t heard from him because you never will again. Maybe it was only casual. Because that’s Sanemi’s nature, and you’d given it up for someone who would never be capable of anything more than that.

“Stop it,” you chide yourself, taken aback by your own venomous thoughts. That’s not him; at least, you’re almost certain it isn’t. Sanemi’s no-strings attached reputation had been well-known, and that has to mean he was transparent with his past partners about his intentions. If you truly were another notch in his belt, he would’ve said something, and he’d never struck you as the dishonest type. But Sanem’s persistent silence has bred a foreign sort of doubt in you that you haven’t quite figured out how to shake. “Where’s spiraling going to get you, stupid?”

Casual wouldn’t have been Sanemi trying desperately to scare you away when you’d asked the most of him. It wouldn’t have made him insist – quietly, resignedly – that you deserved someone better than him. And somehow, you don’t think it was very casual for him to fuck you without protection or sleep naked with you in your bed.

I love you, Sanemi.

That certainly hadn’t been very casual, either, nor was the torturous look in his eyes that followed. The pain could very well have been born from a place of rejection, sure. Another punch to an already throbbing bruise because you were again crossing a line you’d already asked him to blur. That, despite the sheer possession embedded in every movement of his body and lips, he could not and would not love you back.

Books fully stocked, you turn your attention to the pile of titles that need to be assigned to their proper sections. Your eyes flick to the clock on the backwall, and with joy, you see that it’s already five-past closing. Satisfied, you flip the Open sign in the front window to Closed and turn the top lock on the door. The pile will have to wait until tomorrow morning. It’s time for you to get the hell out of this asylum.

Closing time at the bookstore is a monotony you never mind, because it always means you’re leaving. You complete your tasks with ease, cashing out the register and taking the funds to the safe in the storeroom, to be picked up by the owner at the end of the week.

As you gather your water bottle and bag, you chew absently on your thumbnail, mind still working through the mess your isolation has created.

It’s only been five days. In the grand scheme of your friendship, that was nothing. Sanemi said you’d hear from him, and he’d never given you a reason to doubt him.

So, you’ll continue doing the only thing you know how to do, where he’s concerned.

You will wait.

———

Waiting, as it turns out, is far easier said than done. Or, maybe, Sanemi is just more of an idiot than you gave him credit for.

Either way, your phone is still silent and you are still alone.

Perhaps your self-assurance that you need only wait for Sanemi to come slinking back had been too optimistic. Because as five days become six, seven, eight, that certainty becomes tainted by doubt. Admittedly, it’s only a little, but it’s still substantial enough to form a pit in your stomach. One that gnaws at your edges just enough to irritate you, an itch you can’t quite scratch.

At first, it’s easy to ignore; after all, gaps in Sanemi’s communication aren’t uncommon. In fact, you’re fairly used to going days or sometimes even more than a week without hearing from him. Usually, he broke his silence with some dumb meme or an abrupt you eat yet? that let you know he wasn’t dead in some ditch.

But the more days that pass leaving you with nothing but your thoughts for company, that sourness festers. Because, beneath your irritation lingers the faintest trace of insecurity.

Is it irrational? Maybe. And you’re not so stupid that you can’t draw the very obvious connection between his silence and your anxiety. No, you’re painfully aware that your insecurity has everything to do with how the two of you left things after that night.

You don’t bother wondering whether you might feel differently had you not blurted out those three words that meant nothing between you would ever be the same. That particular ship sailed the moment you fell back against your sheets, naked, and begged him to make you his. The moment he agreed.

The constant reminders of him aren’t helpful, either. Every ding! of the store bell sends your heart pounding only for the bitter taste of disappointment to fill your mouth when you realize the newest patron is without the mop of silvery white hair or priggish smirk you so desperately long to see.

Does your ridiculous pining inspire you to reach for your phone? Of course not. Sanemi’s the one who owes you that; it’s his rules that have dictated whatever it is that’s blossomed between you in the last year. You can’t make his choice for him, not when he won’t so much as clue you in on the options. The why.

But god, do you wish you knew.

—

The ninth morning arrives just like the previous eight: hot, humid, and without a goddamn word from Sanemi.

The day passes like all the others. You rise at six, dress, and try to pretend there isn’t a headache blooming behind your right eye. You make it to the store by seven, and do your opening duties, make shitty coffee in the store’s shittier coffee pot, and settle in behind the counter. Customers trickle in throughout the day and you greet them with the same, plastered smile, carefully perfected over the two years you’ve spent shackled here.

The hours whiz by, and every tick of the clock hand becomes duller. Even the sirens that set off every so often in various directions around the store seem muted, despite their persistent wailing. The faces of shoppers blur together, and by midday, you’ve forgotten how to see them at all.

You wonder whether you’re falling right back into that frozen stasis in which you’d lived before Sanemi exploded into your store, dragging in with him a string of felonies, his foul mouth, and the sun. It’s a frightening thought, but not frightening enough, it seems, to keep the color from leeching out of the world around you.

You shake your head. No, you won’t do that again. Whatever you’d been doing before Sanemi hadn’t been living; it was barely more than existing. As bright as your world had been since he’d become a part of it, you can’t chalk your happiness up to him. It isn’t a burden he asked for, and it would be unfair for you to dump it on him. After all, he must’ve been just as lonely, if he’d sought a friend in you.

You’ll survive without him; you know you will. After all, you’ve managed just fine, these last few years.

But you’d be lying if you said you haven’t enjoyed seeing the world in technicolor again. And that is enough to make you hope (desperately) that Sanemi might think of his world as a little brighter with you in it, too.

—

By the time you close up for the night, your dull headache has blossomed into a raging migraine that threatens to split your skull in two. A perfect shit cherry to top off this wonderfully shit day.

Of course, your headache could have everything to do with the fact you’ve gone the entire day without a meal, but it’s easier to blame Sanemi and his silence, so you do. Still, the thought of cereal yet again churns your stomach.

Twilight has settled over the city skyline when you leave the store, dark and locked up tightly. The neon lights of the city have already switched on, bathing the sidewalks in their artificial glow. The air has thankfully cooled, but it’s still sticky, and sweat beads around your temple before you’ve made it down the block.

There are few things in this city that make life enjoyable. The closet you loosely call home is egregiously overpriced and in the summer, damn near uninhabitable. The bookstore pays far too little to justify the amount of work you do. And, it’s not like you have ties to anything or anyone here, save a criminal who can’t be bothered to shoot you a goddamn text.

But the diner on Twelfth Street? That dingy hole in the wall with the best breakfast menu in town is almost enough to make up for all of the City’s shortcomings.

The promise of buttery pancakes and salty bacon makes your mouth water, and that alone is enough for you to change course. Home can wait; you deserve to treat yourself, for once.

You make the turn down Market, treading the familiar path toward the diner. Sanemi once told you that the safest times to walk these streets was dawn and dusk — the transitional periods of the day, when regular nine-to-fivers went about their daily commutes. For one, blissful hour at sunrise and sunset, the City returned to the bustling metropolis of your memory. Office workers crowded the streets, stopped in at shops lining the sidewalks for last minute errands or quick dinners, as they pretended to not hear the distant sirens over the honking of impatient cars and beeps from the crosswalks.

Though, you think as you eye a group of young adults crowded around a table outside one of restaurants, perhaps none of them are pretending. Maybe they’re painfully aware that they’re stranded on a sinking ship. Maybe they’ve decided to just enjoy what few precious moments they have, before it all goes down for good.

Or, maybe they haven’t noticed there’s any water rising, at all.

In fairness, it’s not like you’re any better than they are. Here you are, playing at a cozy (albeit, boring) life, working at a bookstore that has no connection to either the Corps or its rivals. No protection.

Arguably, that means you’re worse; you know all too well of the danger life here poses, but here you are, clinging to the fraying vestiges of normalcy like it might be worth salvaging.

Oh well. If the merry twenty-somethings gathered outside and toasting to overpriced wine haven’t caught on by now, they never will. Not until their favorite restaurant goes up in flames, or the sharp crack of gunfire shatters their pretty stemmed glasses.

Just as it happened in the other boroughs of the City, like the Western Wing. The Kizuki, you recalled Sanemi saying, spitting the name like a curse. Don’t fuckin’ go near the Western Wing, you hear me? Off limits. Silo, too.

If he eventually came back, how long before he’d be warning you about your own small corner of the world? Where else could you go, once the bones of the City finally went up in flames?

The place Sanemi would: its ashes.

—-

The diner is teeming with rush hour patrons, and you have to force your way through a gaggle of teens to reach the pickup counter. Despite how cramped the inside is, one of the waitresses manages to spot you, calling out your name in greeting. A few seconds later; and she appears just behind the counter in a whirl of pink and green, and hands off your to-go order with a beaming smile. You pass her your money, and waive her off when she tries to give you change.

She could use it; you’re all too familiar with the strain of meager wages.

You make to depart the diner with a cheerful “thank you!” called back to your waitress, though you can’t tell whether she heard you. Your voice is hoarse, your throat, scratchy from days of non-use, and your farewell barely rises above the hum of the other patrons. The lump of self-pity sitting that’s been sitting in your gut hardens. You’d anticipated the mental toll from your utter lack of human connection, but you hadn’t expected any physical effects from it. If nothing else, let Sanemi’s absence be your very obvious sign from the universe that you need to find yourself a friend. Preferably, one who isn’t habitually involved in illegal activity that may or may not land you in jail as his unwitting accomplice.

Takeout secured, you work to squeeze through the thick clusters of dine-in patrons, eyes fixed on the exit as you dodge an odd elbow here and there. Right as you reach for the metal bar on the door, your foot stubs into something hard. It’s enough to nearly send you flailing, your hands crinkling the brown paper bag containing your dinner before it can spill all over the sticky tile.

You barely have time to finish sputtering your curse when a hand grabs your forearm, steadying you. The thing responsible for your collison is a man, one apparently trying to decide whether he wanted to order or chance somewhere else, given how he lingers in the doorway.

Inwardly, you know he’s in the wrong because he’s blocking the exit, but that doesn’t stop you from rushing to apologize, anyway. To his credit, he waves you off. Eager to make your escape, you ready some nicety that will allow you to slip out the front door.

The moment he meets your eyes, any platitudes you might have offered dry right up on your tongue.

Here, in a city surrounded by skyscrapers and streets lined with buildings jam-packed together like sardines, there’s little room for space, and it’s not something you’ve ever particularly missed. But as you stare into his eyes — black and cold — you finally realize what it means for something to be empty; how it feels, to look into an abyss.

Perhaps it’s because this man has within him, a void, that his eyes reflect the neon signage cluttering the diner’s walls. That’s the only explanation you can ration, given the way they seem to blend and swirl together in those depthless pools, creating an odd blend of colors. Unnatural and unnerving. He grins and it’s sharp, wicked thing. His mouth is too wide for his face, hungry and full of teeth that gleam far too bright. A wolf ready to rip into its prey.

Some deep, primal part of you waits for him to do just that, to sink those too-sharp teeth into your skin and shred you apart. Instead, he only inclines his head toward you, a mocking sketch of civility.

“Ladies first.”

You fumble around your words, searching for something — anything — to say, but there is only cotton in your mouth. Worse, the longer your paralysis persists, the more you’re forced to study him, even though everything about him — from his pale hair to his unusual eyes — sets your teeth on edge.

A too-red tongue flicks out to wet his lips, and the sweat gathering at your temple freezes. Maybe it’s a trick of the light, or maybe your nerves have you searching for shadows that may or may not exist, but you swear there’s something on his tongue. A tattoo of sorts, perhaps.

Whatever it is – light tricks or you own over-imaginative mind – it’s nothing you need to look harder into. If anything, your friendship with Sanemi has taught you there’s no safety measure more important than minding your business. And, it’s getting late. You need to get home, before it gets dark.

Sanemi hates when you walk alone in the dark.

“Sorry again,” you manage with a squeak. You try and push by him once more, doing everything in your power not to brush up against him, when a hand grabs at your forearm.

If your heart could somehow unstick itself from your throat, you might have been brave enough to demand to know what his problem is; but it won’t, so you aren’t.

All you can do is stare into those soulless eyes.

“Pretty girls shouldn’t rush,” he chastises with a saccharine smile, and his fingers squeeze your arms. His skin is cold and clammy.

At last, you find your voice and you imbue it with all the steel you can muster. “My boyfriend is waiting.”

The lie rolls easily off your tongue and gives you enough courage to wrench your arm free. The man lets you go, easily, that too-sweet smile never once faltering as you hastily push through the diner’s exit.

The air outside opens up, yet still, you find it difficult to breathe. Every one of your senses is on high-alert, trained toward the door at your back and the unshakeable feeling of eyes watching you as you hurriedly cross the street.

You don’t dare look back.

Iron pumps hot in your legs as you half-walk, half-jog toward home. You still feel him watching you even as you reach your street, and you won’t dare to let him see where you live in the event your paranoia proves correct.

You walk around the block — twice — and feint down a side alley, not caring for the food steadily growing colder in your bag. Only when you confirm the man is no where in sight, only when you’re certain you can’t feel eyes bearing into your back any longer do you finally loop back around to your building.

The deadbolt on your door is a comfort you’d never thought to appreciate until now, and you hurry to slide it into place the moment you step inside your apartment. Door locked, you slump back against the lacquered wood and sink to the ground, your heart thumping uncomfortably in your chest as you work to steady your ragged breath.

For once, Sanemi’s paranoia doesn’t feel like a burden.

—

All your life, you’ve known that anxiety is an ailment best cured by food. Twenty minutes later, you sit at your kitchen table and eat your takeout in silence, save the odd squeak of your fork scraping against the plastic bottom of the container, the encounter at the diner, forgotten.

Instead, you’re left to chew on bits of scrambled egg and your own loneliness. You’ve never had a roommate — never wanted one, for that matter. Your apartment has always been your space, a place where you could go and just be, without a thought or care in the world. Your perfect sanctuary where you could fill the emptiness of your life with books, the lovely stories so delicately crafted by those perhaps as lonely as you.

Overpriced and temperamental as your apartment could be, it’s still home.

And yet, somehow, home feels emptier than you remember, despite the fact you’ve always lived here alone.

Normally, you’d turn on the TV or listen to something in order to distract from the utter stillness in your apartment, but tonight, you can’t even bring yourself to do that. Not when the repetitive cycle of commercials and the same four reruns airing seemed only to amplify the monotony of your solitude.

So, you continue to eat in silence.

Later, after you’ve shoved your empty takeout containers to the side, you sit at your kitchen table and fiddle with your phone.

It’s been a few days since you’ve bothered to look at it. It has remained on Do Not Disturb, shoved to the bottom of your bag, with you too unwilling to look at the hateful little reminder that without Sanemi to talk to, you are utterly and completely alone.

You have few contacts saved, so finding Sanemi’s name takes little time – but not before you scroll past the entry marked simply, “Mom.”

You don’t even want to know how long it’s been since you last talked to her – or your dad, for that matter. Somehow, you doubt your phone has kept any record of those few and far between calls. They barely ever lasted long enough to make a dent on your phone bill, anyway.

Oh, Mama, you think bitterly. What would you make of me, now?

Knowing her daughter had fallen helplessly in love with a season criminal might very well do her in. She’d have a conniption, at the very least, especially if she learned of Sanemi’s reputation among women. There’d be no chance to deny what you’d let him do – what you’d asked him for, and it wouldn’t matter that you loved him any more than it would that he’d rescued her other child, once upon a time.

Though, you suppose you’re getting ahead of yourself. All of your spite rests on the presumption that she remembered to care.

She doesn’t, so it doesn’t really matter.

You snort. Maybe you should mention it to your parents somehow, even if through a lie. Perhaps in your next Christmas card; a cheerful, Merry Christmas! I’m dating a known gang-banger – talk next year!

God, their faces when they realized you were nothing more than some felon’s whore. You’d be written off faster than the ink on the card could dry. That alone might be worth it, if only to not have to continue playing this tedious game of pretend.

But, if Sanemi never speaks to you again, you’d rather not have all your bridges burned. At least the annual check-in with them confirmed you were alive – if those ended, you’d truly have no one.

So, you scroll on, finding the object of all your ire – and heartache – and tap on its entry.

Your thumbs hover over the keyboard as the cursor in the blank text box blinks at you, Sanemi’s name just above it.

Hey. You type before deleting it with a wince.

That book you’ve been waiting on just arrived. I’ll leave it on the restock shelf for you.

No, no, that won’t work either. You don’t want him to think you plan on ignoring what happened, and neither do you want to give him the out. You two will have to talk about it eventually, even if it’s to establish it can never happen again.

The thought of losing him makes your heart crack, the fissure spreading across your chest until you’re not sure whether you can keep yourself together.

If you’re cutting this off, I at least deserve to know.

Your thumb hovers over the arrow to send, your cursor blinking expectantly at you.

You don’t want to be hateful any more than you want to appear insecure. After all, Sanemi said you’d hear from him, and it’s only been a week. He’d promised you would hear from him.

He’d promised.

With a frustrated grunt, you hurl your phone at your couch, anger melting into numbness as you watch it slide between the cushions and out of sight. You do not retrieve it; instead you throw your takeout into the garbage with more force than necessary and strip yourself down to your underwear.

Summer has arrived fast and hot, and you know that the ancient air conditioning unit groaning and guttering in your window is due to short out on you any day now, as it does every year. Already the air in your apartment had become sticky and warm; it’s only a matter of time before sleeping became downright unbearable.

Though no one is around to hear, you snort. Figures that Sanemi’s sudden disappearance from your life coincides with your yearly descent into renter’s hell. If the universe has decided to you need to be dragged through shit, it’s doing a thorough job of it.

As if on cue, a familiar pang of pain shoots through your lower stomach. You glance at the date on your phone, and groan. Great. The last row of this month’s birth control card should’ve been your warning. Your already shitty mood is about to get even worse.

Your new prescription is already in your drawer, and you half-contemplate skipping the half-row of sugar pills, but you hold off. You’d already suffered a stern lecture from your doctor for doing that in the past, and you know it’s not good for you. No matter how great the temptation to spare yourself from debilitating cramps, you’ll just have to suffer through it.

Besides, this period probably isn’t the one to try and skip, anyways. Not after the events of that night. You’re better off making sure you’re getting your money’s worth out of birth control that, admittedly, costs more than you reasonably can afford. If nothing else, it’s worth it to avoid having to eat crow and admit you should’ve taken Sanemi up on his offer to get you the morning-after pill.

You tie your hair back as best you can, grateful to get it off your sweat-dampened neck and glance toward your couch. Perhaps you’ll muster up the courage to text him tomorrow, but for tonight, you’ll remain a coward. So, you leave your phone there, straddled somewhere between the cushions, and switch off your kitchen light before burying yourself in bed, the ache blooming in your lower belly matching the one in your heart.

—--

The first ray of morning light streaking through the cracks in the cardboard stuffed in his window is nearly blinding, but Sanemi is already awake. He has been for a few hours now, unable to find much peace in a night filled with distant sirens and plagued by thoughts of you.

God, he feels like shit. It’d been after midnight by the time he’d cruised back through city limits, and it was nearly two before he returned to his apartment, Sanemi having gone out of the way to drop off Rengoku’s car so he wouldn’t have to deal with it come sunrise.

Despite the emotional taxation of his visit with Genya, however, Sanemi had been hard-pressed to find sleep. Now that the sun’s up, though, he can’t avoid facing it any longer. His phone has been blissfully quiet all morning, and he has to take advantage of that silence while he can.

Today is the day, he decides between splashes of tepid tap water against his face once he forces himself out of bed and into his bathroom to wash up.

Today is the day he muscles up the courage to talk to you.

Not like he’s really got much of an excuse to put this off longer than he already has. Genya had told him as much.

The bristles of his toothbrush flatten against his teeth under the force of Sanemi’s brushing, toothpaste foaming in the corners of his mouth. Embarrassing. So fucking embarrassing. His teenage shithead of a brother — who couldn’t even talk to girls, let alone date one — had been able to see the obvious answer to the very predicament Sanemi had spent the better part of a week running around like a headless chicken.

Then again, nothing in Sanemi’s life has even been simple, so it figures he’d try and complicate something as straightforward as this. You.

A hearty spit into the sink later and Sanemi wipes his mouth clean with the back of his hand.

He supposes it was inevitable; he can’t avoid you forever, and he owes you some sort of explanation, an in-person one, at that. No matter how new this is to him, he at least knows you deserve more than a measly text or phone call.

The bones of the Silo give way to the rusted shipyard marking its outer limits, the landscape whizzing by in a blur of rust and decay as Sanemi speeds past. Though the wind tears and whips at his cheeks, it hardly offers much in the way of relief from the heat of the sun bearing down on him from high above.

Sweat rolls down his back as Sanemi guns through the city’s East Wing, opting to zip down back roads instead of dealing with the traffic on the main streets. It feels strange, to be speeding towards a decision that will fundamentally alter everything in his life, when everything right now feels the same as it did a year ago. Here he is, gunning down the same path to the bookstore he’d taken then — down an alley, out of sight from laying eyes. Summer in the City carries the same, weighted heat from year to year, and this one is no exception: oppressively hot, the air soupy and thick with humidity.

And Sanemi is still as hopelessly shackled to the Corps as he was then – as he’s always been.

The brand between his shoulders itches.

Still, he supposes he can count his lucky stars that he’s not on the run from the cops as he’d been last summer – at least, not currently. And he takes comfort in knowing that he won’t find himself being pushed and shoved under your store counter, your lip curling in disdain even as you made good on a decade-old favor.

At least, he hopes that’s the case.

In all honesty, Sanemi knows he may very well find himself on the receiving end of that cold, unforgiving stare just as he had last summer. Only this time, the daggers you shoot his way might actually shred his heart to bits.

You have to be pissed at him. You’d be stupid not to be, and while your unfathomable affection for him suggests otherwise, you are smarter than he is – infinitely so. He’s ghosted you for more than a week, and you can’t possibly think you have to accept that kind of idiocy on his part, no matter his excuses. That means this talk has to be about damage control – however much of it you’ll allow.

He should start with an apology, that much is obvious. And he’ll follow it up with something he never deigned to give anyone who didn’t have the name of the Corps’ boss family attached to them: an explanation.

Though, he notes with a grimace, an explanation supposed you’d give him long enough to make it through his apology without lobbing a well-aimed book at his head. Given your responses to his bullshit in the past, assault and battery are very real possibilities.

The closer he draws to your bookstore, and the gnawing pit in his stomach grows wider. If you’re angry, then he’ll let you be. You can curse him all you want, throw as many book-bound projectiles at his head as you’d like, as long as you’ll hear him out.

There is another possibility, however. One that he can only label as a worst-case scenario, one that he hasn’t dared let himself consider even though he knows it’s a very real — and very understandable — outcome. The one where you have no reaction at all, only utter indifference to him and his absence. After all, you’d only asked one thing from him, and he gave it to you. Even if you’d told him you loved him, you hadn’t asked him to love you back.

Maybe you’d said it knowing he was a lost cause, and now that you’ve gotten what you wanted — the loss of your virginity and the weight of your confession off your shoulders — you could move on from him, even if that meant taking the misshapen lump of his heart with you as you left him behind.

Deep down, as devastating as that outcome would be for him, indifference is the best option for you. You’re better off without him; he knows this. So, he’ll pick up the pieces of himself and he’ll figure out how to glue them back together on his own.

Mind spiraling, Sanemi turns onto the street leading to you, a nauseous mixture of dread and anxiety churning in his gut.

About two doors down from the bookstore sits a coin laundromat and a repair shop. It’s here that Sanemi’s bike gutters to a stop, his eyes sweeping the streets for any out-of-place faces, anyone who might seem too interested in his movements.

All is quiet.

He stashes his bike in the gap between the two buildings. Normally, he’d pull into the alley behind the bookstore and come in through the back exit, but he doubts you’ve left the door unlocked for him. Not when he’s dropping by unannounced. He can’t imagine you’d take kindly to him pounding on the emergency exit, and the fewer opportunities he has to piss you off, the better. He’ll have to use the front door.

Kickstand in place and key tucked safely in his pocket, Sanemi shuffles along the sidewalk. Anxiety twists his stomach into knots, and it takes effort to force himself to breathe normally. But when he reaches the shop’s entryway, Sanemi stops cold.

The store is dark; there are no lights on inside, and even the way the door sits shut seems uncharacteristically cold.

He frowns. Perhaps you’re in the back, dealing with some delivery issue. Sanemi reaches for the door’s knob, ready to call out your name —

It’s locked.

Sanemi’s heart begins thudding uncomfortably in chest. The store is never closed. In the year he has known you, you are at the bookstore seven days a week, except for Christmas. But it’s midsummer; the store should not be closed. The lights shouldn’t be off, it shouldn’t be empty.

You should not be missing from behind the clerk’s counter.

Some semblance of sanity remains and encourages him to hurry around to the back alley, where he knows you accept deliveries. But the alley is as dark and as barren as the inside of your store, and the emergency exit is locked tight.

No store. No you. No sign indicating that you might have stepped away for a moment, or detailing some issue with the store and apologizing for any inconveniences to your customers. No explanation.

Sanemi’s hands are dialing your number before his mind can fully process the action.

“Answer your fucking phone.” His voice trembles as the phone rings and rings. “Now.”

It goes to voicemail.

He tries again. Voicemail.

Again.

Voicemail.

His body breaks into a run even before his mind can fully piece together the action, his bike forgotten. Riding it would require a coordination Sanemi doesn’t have anyway, not while his thumb is busy jamming repeatedly at the call function on his phone, as Sanemi sprints for your studio.

The line rings and rings but his desperation goes unanswered. And each time he hears the automated machine instruct him to leave a message, Sanemi grows more frantic. The burn in his legs barely registers; he is consumed only by the need to move faster, to close the distance between him and your apartment as quickly as possible.

Answer your phone. He wills you, pressing the green phone icon yet another time, and then another. Answer your phone. Answer your goddamn phone.

You never do.

He makes it to your place in record time, his fist hammering on your door. His panicked call of your name echoes around the empty halls outside your apartment.

You don’t answer.

Sanemi does not relent; one hand finds your name on his phone while the other continues pounding away at your door. He brings his phone to his ear and listens for the sound of your voice.

It does not come — but your ringtone does. Faint; muffled from its place inside your apartment, but unmistakable.

The sweat on the back of his neck turns to ice.

Sanemi’s breath comes hard out of his mouth in short, panicked gasps. Of all your eccentricities, Sanemi knows there are exactly two things you’re never without: lip balm and your phone.

His chest constricts. Your phone ringing inside means only one of two possibilities. Either you are in your apartment, hurt or captive, or you’ve been taken.

Swearing viciously, he jerks against the locked knob of your apartment door, a frustrated growl tearing deep from his throat. He spins away, a frantic hand raking through his hair, before he turns back.

Eyes wild, he considers your door.

It really is a flimsy piece of wood. Even if your deadbolt was somehow latched, Sanemi wagers he could kick it in fairly easily.

Whatever has happened to you, it’s his fault. Whether someone had figured out who and what you were to him, or whether it was because you simply lived in a shitty part of town and he hadn’t taken enough steps to ensure your safety, your blood is on his hands. That means it’s his responsibility to fix it — even if he has to tear this rotting city apart, brick by crumbling brick.

He backs away with a crazed expression. Fuck what your neighbors might think. Fuck what you might think, he thinks, getting into the stance he needs to rip your doors from its hinges. He’ll fix your door after he finds you and makes sure you’re safe. After he takes care of whoever dared to lay a hand on you, his you —

Just as Sanemi is readying his leg, he hears the distinct rattle of a chain unlatching, and then the door swings open.

Shocked eyes, blissfully familiar, blink at him, standing posed to kick in your door just as he stares back.

Sanemi doesn’t think; his hand seizes tightly around your wrist and he yanks you into the hallway, slamming your door shut with the other hand.

“What the fu —?” You start but you’re cut off with a muted oomph! as Sanemi whirls you behind him. An indignant half screech squeaks out of you as Sanemi kicks your door open, one arm keeping you at his back.

His other hand has his gun drawn and cocked.

Your eyes bulge. “Sanemi, what —?”

“Who else is here?” His voice has a deadly sort of authority you’ve never heard, and it makes a lump of cold fear lodge in your throat. “How many?”

He flashes a quick look at you over his shoulder. “Are you hurt?”

“What are you talking about?” you snap, following closely behind and pounding at his back as Sanemi systematically makes his way through your apartment, gun pointed and ready. But your flailing fists do little to stop him. “What are you doing, you psychopath?”

He doesn’t answer; not until he clears your kitchen, that deadly hunk of metal still braced before him.

“The store was closed.” He says shortly, eyes scanning the shadows. “You weren’t answering your phone. I called and called and you didn’t answer —“

“I’m on my period!” You burst, hands dragging down your heated cheeks. “I’ve been here dying from cramps, you idiot!”

The hand holding the gun drops limply to his side, as Sanemi turns to blink dumbly at you.

“I told you, you imbecile, that my periods suck!” Your face feels hot and your voice has taken on a distinct squeakiness in the wake of your mortification. “I have pain meds to manage my symptoms, so I’ve been in and out of sleep all fucking day! I wasn’t answering my phone because I didn’t feel well enough to answer it, you — you —“ Your eyes screw up as you wrack your brain for something that can express the depths of his idiocy. “You — stupid!”

Your lackluster insult is enough to break Sanemi’s blank stupefaction. “I didn’t know.” He finally offers after a long moment, a hint of pink rising in his cheeks.

“So, your first instinct was to do what — act like a goddamned maniac?” You demand as Sanemi hastily puts the safety back on his gun and tucks it into the waistband of his pants. “You don’t speak to me for more than a week, but you think it’s a good idea to come beat my door down? Because I don’t answer a few texts?”

“Not a few texts,” Sanemi spits back. “I called and messaged over and over -- I was worried —“

“You were about to kick my door in!”

He squares his shoulders at that. “Yes,” he says hotly. “Yes, I was. Because I was fuckin’ terrified for a moment that something had happened to you. Because of me. Do you know what went through my mind when I heard your phone ringing, after I’ve spent the last half hour trying to get a hold of you? What the fuck else was I supposed to think?”

“That you would decide I was sick or busy or maybe dealing with something and couldn’t respond, like a normal fucking person –”

“You say we’re friends and you still haven’t figured out that there ain’t nothin’ normal about this? About me?”

Something flashes across your face, your eyes tightening at the word friends, but it’s gone before he can blink. Sanemi doesn’t let himself linger on what it means. Nor does he listen to that small voice in his head that coolly whispers that he knows damn well you two are more than friends, no matter how deeply he tries to bury his head in the sand.

You open your mouth, ready to unleash of slew of insults or perhaps give him the good verbal lashing he knows he deserves, when you double over with a wince.

“Oh, fuck me.” You groan, pressing a hand to your abdomen. You wave him off, dismissive. “I’m going back to bed. You know I’m not dead, so do whatever you want. You know where the door is.”

With that, you shuffle miserably back to your bed, hunched over in on yourself, your arms wrapped firmly around you middle. Sanemi watches, bemused, as you crumple into your mattress in a resigned heap, your knees drawn nearly to your chest.

He stares hard at your bed, nostrils flaring as he works to calm his breathing. Safe. You’re safe, nothing is wrong, you’re okay. He repeats this, again and again, a mantra that slowly eases the tension in his shoulders, soothes the violent fury in his veins.

A groan of frustration sounds from beneath your blankets and pillows, slightly muffled. “Well? What do you want?”

He considers you for another moment before he rocks back on his heels, clicking his tongue.

Fuck it. Fuck the Corps, fuck the rules, fuck it all.

“Where’re your keys?”

“Huh?” You lift your head just in time to see him start rooting through your bag where you’d left it looped it over the back of your kitchen chair.

Sanemi pulls out the woven keychain you used to attach a cluster of mismatched keys – ones to the store, the register, and most importantly, your front door. He tosses them in the air, triumphant, before snatching them up tight, pocketing them without so much as a look back at you.

“Later.”

Silence, and then, “you’ve gotta be fucking kidding me —“

He’s out the door before you finish your indignant sputtering.

—-

If any doubts lingered as to what exactly Sanemi’s decision was when it came to you, he’s fairly sure they’re resolved here, in the pharmacy’s period care aisle. Because, really, what else can he call this – him, standing before shelves lined with an array of boxes and tampons and pads, trying to figure out what the fuck he’s supposed to get – if not a commitment to you?

A clear choice as any, he supposes. It’s you, or it’s nothing – no one – else. Whatever it is the two of you are though, is another matter.

Rule Three: don’t get attached.

Admittedly, that rule went right out the fucking window the moment he decided to pursue some sort of friendship with you, all those months ago. Even if it somehow survived the fall, he’d funcationally ran it over, again and again until nothing remained, the second he put his dick in you.

Whatever the label, he supposes he at least has to pretend to give some semblance of a shit about Corps’ rules, if nothing more than because of his title within it. Plus, that caution probably serves to protect you as much as it does the Corps. And that means he can’t outwardly call you his girlfriend anymore than he can openly date you.

He grimaces at the thought as he peruses the snack aisle, tossing a random assortment of your favorites into his basket alongside the variety box of tampons he’d settled on. Leave it to him to mull over shit like what to call you, now, when he’s got far bigger fish to fry. Never mind that for all the ways he’s decided he wants you to be his, he doesn’t yet know whether you want him.

He did ditch you for over a week. Eleven days, to be exact.

Oh, well. If somehow you don’t throw him out on his ass, then it doesn’t really matter what he calls you. It’s not like he’s particularly attached to labels, anyway. Not when girlfriend is far too casual a way to describe what Sanemi feels for you.

He tries ignoring the pang of want in his heart as the word boyfriend flits through his mind. While he can’t call you his girlfriend to anyone within city limits, you don’t wear the same shackles that he does. You’re not bound by the same code. And damn, what he wouldn’t do to have you call him your boyfriend; to finally belong to something – someone – other than the Corps. It’s the sort of brand he’s gone his entire life craving even if he didn’t quite know it. One he’d wear proudly on his heart, even if no one else would ever see it.

Finally, he reaches the front of the checkout line and tosses the contents of his basket onto the counter. Though, if you do decide you want his sorry ass, you’ll have to be careful enough to not link boyfriend to his name. While Sanemi may not give a shit about his own safety, yours is his priority. He won’t let you put his target on your back.

Whatever labels do or do not await him, nothing changes the fact he cannot be a normal – whatever – to you. The only way you stay safe is if Sanemi lets his paranoia dictate the lines of your relationship, and even then, he can’t guarantee it’ll ever be enough.

He pays for your stuff, gathering the bags in one hand while he rummages his pockets with the other until he finds your keys. So many uncertainties remain, far more than what makes him comfortable. Yet, in spite of it all, the bubbling, hot panic he’d felt sprinting to your apartment has given way to an unfamiliar lightness. One that makes him feel like he’s floating even as he stops at a small kiosk near the pharmacy’s exit and feeds your apartment key into the machine.

Yeah, he’s fucking attached to you even though he knows better. But if you accept the metal the kiosk spits back out after a moment of whirring, it’ll be worth it.

—-

Less than an hour after his dramatic exit, Sanemi slips back into your apartment. The plastic handles of his shopping bags looped unceremoniously around his wrists dig uncomfortably into his skin, and he dumps his bounty on the floor just inside your entryway.

A soft thump against the wall to his right snaps his head up.

Years of training to dodge fists, projectiles, bullets, enable Sanemi to duck right before one of your ridiculous little throw pillows smacks into his head.

Across the floor of your small apartment, Sanemi spies you sitting perched at the end of your bed, eyes wild and hair a mess, another pillow cocked in your hand, ready to be launched his way.

Bewildered, Sanemi demands, “The fuck is your problem?”

“You!” The fluffy cushion sails through the air, but Sanemi knocks it easily aside. His casual avoidance of your targeted rage only serves to infuriate you more, and he watches, with some amusement, as you whip your head from side to side, searching for something else to chuck at him.

Finding nothing, you jab a finger toward the door. “Get out!”

“Nah,” he folds his arms across his chest and levels your fury with a cool stare of his own. “Don’t feel like it, and I know you don’t want me to go, either.”

Your right eye twitches and Sanemi smirks. If you really wanted him gone, you would’ve fought harder when he took your keys. Probably would’ve chased him out the door, hurling all kinds of venom his way. If nothing else, you would’ve blown his phone up, calling him every name in the book, leveling every threat you could concoct.

You’ve forgotten, it seems, that he’s spent the past year learning you; being your friend. He’s far too used to your stubbornness; he knows when you’re full of shit.

“You’re impossible.” And with a huff, you turn your back to him and throw yourself back down on your mattress, yanking your blankets up to your chin.

He stomps over to your side of the bed and glowers down at your back, put stubbornly to him.

Fine. You wanna play this way? Sanemi can deal in pettiness, too.

An edge of your blanket peeks out near your feet, a small sliver you hadn’t managed to tuck into place. A mistake, on your end, given that it only takes Sanemi hooking his fingers under it to rip the blanket clean off you.

He tries not to linger on the whiff of your scent that slaps him in his face. An intoxicating mixture of your perfume and shampoo that socks him in the gut.

While the loss of the blanket’s security forces you to curl in tighter on yourself, you offer no reaction. Not even a spiteful little glare over your shoulder, or some half-hearted insult, and for some reason, that pisses him off even more.

“You’re not ignorin’ me,” he growls, balling the quilt in his hands. “I can be a bigger pain in the ass than this.”

Still nothing.

After a moment, Sanemi’s irritation finally boils over. “Can I just fuckin’ hold you, please?”

You flip over to gape up at him, returning his pinched glare with outrage of your own. If Sanemi’s silence since that night was a bruise to your ego, the earnestness belying the arrogant annoyance in his eyes is a finger jabbing mercilessly at it.

Because he actually means it.

Part of you wants to laugh at the absurdity of his request, and another part wants to launch every obscenity you can dream of right at his stupidly handsome face.

You go for the in-between. “No!” Your voice is shrill. “No, you can’t hold me. You ghost me for almost two weeks, nearly break my door in half, steal my keys and fuck off for over an hour, and you think you get to hold me?” You throw your hands up over your head in exasperation before dragging them down your face, exasperated. “Are you stupid?”

Never mind that’s exactly what you want to happen — it’s all you’ve wanted, actually. But Sanemi’s idiocy has to cost him something, and despite the way your stomach dipped in excitement when you heard him sliding your keys into the door’s lock, he owes you an explanation. And until you get one, he can keep on sitting at the very top of your shit list, all by his lonesome.

Some of the hardness in his eyes softens as your words hit their mark. In its place emerged a shadow of disappointment, one that has you reconsidering your previous stance, your hands itching to reach for him.

Gently, Sanemi tosses your bunched up blanket to the foot of your bed. “Fine.” He gestures vaguely behind him. “But I’m still gonna put all this shit away, and then you and me are gonna talk.”

That makes you sit up. “What shit?”

Sanemi doesn’t bother dignifying you with an answer; doesn’t so much as spare you a glance as he stalks back toward your door. He totes the plastic shopping bags to your shabby kitchen table as you trail behind him, your curiosity outweighing your desire to remain rotting in bed.

“Wait,” you frown, reaching for his arm. You try and still him as he unloads aspirin followed by a fresh box of tampons. “Sanemi —“

“Just shut up and let me take care of you.” He pulls a frozen pizza out of the shopping bag and glances at you. “Did you eat?”

You hesitate but then you slowly shake your head.

He snorts, depositing the box on your counter. Figures.

Bemused, you watch as he lugs the rest of his bounty into your kitchen and sets to work organizing his purchases. It’s a strange sight. Sanemi bustles around as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. He navigates your cabinets with a confidence that only comes from familiarity, his movements more akin to something like muscle memory.

His comfortability makes sense, given how much time he’s spent here over the last year. Still, you never imagined a hardened criminal could look so…domestic.

What doesn’t make sense, however, is why. From the moment he’d thundered into your apartment in a murderous rage to his abrupt exit with your keys and sudden reappearance with groceries, Sanemi’s erratic actions have you in a tailspin you can’t begin to find your way out of. Because none of it makes sense.

Too much; this is all too much.

“Stop, stop, stop!” Your hand snatches around his forearm, stilling him. Annoyed, Sanemi huffs down at you only to be met with your own frosty glare.

You cut your eyes to the spread of snacks and period products atop your kitchen counter. “What is all this, Sanemi? I mean,” you gesture helplessly between him and the bags. “What are you doing?”

Sanemi grabs the frozen pizza box and turns it over, eyes skimming the instructions. “Taking care of you.” He monotones, like it’s supposed to be obvious. Like him sifting through a bag full of snacks — all your favorites, you note — was normal, part of some unspoken ritual.

You know better; because the sidelong look he casts you is one of remorse; guilt.

He’s stalling. And it’s precisely because of his own hesitancy that you can’t be the first one to give in; to open the very obvious can of worms that sits between you.

You will not make his decisions for him; you won’t shoulder the burden of any blame should this go tits up.

“Why are you here, Sanemi?”

He busies himself with your oven’s settings, fiddling with the knobs until it clicks on, preheating. Wordlessly, Sanemi slides the pizza into the oven and sets the timer.

“Sanemi.” You press.

Instantly, the rest of his arrogance deflates. He turns back to you, shoulders heavy, slumped forward with something like shame.

“‘M sorry, I just…” he trails off with a helpless shrug. He drops his head, staring hard at the cracked linoleum of your floor.

You shift, settling in against the empty doorway to your kitchen, arms folded across your chest. After another moment, he raises his head, and takes a tentative step forward.

“For months, I haven’t been able to think about a damn thing but you.” Sanemi begins, his expression uncharacteristically grave. “Can’t sleep, can’t eat, can barely fuckin’ breathe without thinking about you. Without thinking of how fucking badly I want you.”

A tired hand runs through his hair. “Haven’t even been with anyone else in months. Not when all I can think about is you.” He snorts, though it’s without humor. “Started picturin’ you when I was with the others and everything. Nearly called out your name with one of ‘em one night, and knew I couldn’t do it anymore.”

That little revelation nearly knocks the wind right out of you. Since your friendship with him began, you’ve kept your ears steadily tuned toward any mention of Sanemi’s name. Part of you rationalized it was out of concern for his wellbeing, but in truth, you’d been nosy.

Not once had there been a whisper of the infamous Sanemi Shinazugawa settling down, of him slowing his antics.

Then again, the moment you’d begun catching the details of his wild reputation among the women of the Silo, you’d tuned out all the noise, too embarrassed to admit your own interest.

“I was selfish, kissin’ you.” Sanemi’s hoarse voice calls you back. “Swore it was only gonna happen once, and couldn’t even keep that promise. And then, what we did that night — that only made it worse. D’you know why?”

He chances another step toward you and the air between you thickens. Suddenly, there’s little space left between your bodies, and you’re all too aware of the heat rolling off his body, drawing you in, a moth to a flame.

A hand reaches for you, his fingers nearly grazing your hair, but his arm drops back limply to his side. “‘Cuz I shouldn’t have been able to have you. Not like that. But I did, and —“ he swallows, hard. “I knew I wanted more before I slept with you. Knew that if I ever crossed that line, I wasn’t coming back from it. Couldn’t.”

Your lips part. “Sanemi —“

“I can’t be your friend, Y/N.” Sanemi says heavily. “I just can’t. I knew that way back when I first started comin’ around, but I wanted to try. But I sure as hell can’t be your friend, now."

A crack splinters across your chest, and by the way Sanemi’s eyes tighten, you wonder if he heard it; the sound of your heart breaking.

It was only ever going to end this way. You should’ve known — a part of you did know. But that hadn’t stopped you from trying, from loving him, anyways.

You open your mouth, ready to voice your resigned acceptance; to cut him loose, save yourself the devastation of any further explanation, when Sanemi shifts.

With a gulp, he shoves a hand into his pocket, rummaging. Whatever it is he searches for, he finds and holds out his closed fist before letting it drop.

A glint of light bounces off the object dangling from his fingers and from your periphery, you can tell it’s metal. Frowning, you tilt your head, inspecting.

Your heart gutters to a halt as its shape takes form.

A key. A single silver key, plain and unassuming, yet somehow, the entirety of your future rests somewhere between the neat little grooves you know perfectly match the hardware of the lock on your door.

“I had it made while I was out.” Sanemi’s confession is breathless, and he swallows hard before adding, “If you don’t want me to have it, then take it. It’s yours.”

For a long moment, you say nothing; you only stare at the key hanging in the air. Half a heartbeat ago, you’d believed this — whatever it was — with Sanemi was over. That whatever brightness he’d brought to your dreary little life had faded, and he’d leave you behind, just like everyone else you’d dared to love.

“If I tell you to keep it,” you start carefully, gaze trained so pointedly on the key dangling from his fingers that you don’t notice the way his eyes round. “Then what does that mean for us?”

He needs to say it. After a week of nothing from him, he at least owes you this. A label.

His throat bobs. A beat passes, and then, “It means I’m all yours. Only yours.”

Not good enough. “My what?”

Sanemi’s fingers tense in faint agitation and your eyes cut to his.

“Yours,” he insists again, more hotly. “Your boyfriend, your partner, your whatever-the-fuck-it-is that you call someone who’s all in and wants to be with you, and only you.”

Air hardens in your throat, forms a lump you don’t know how to swallow around.

He says it so simply, as though it’s obvious; like he hadn’t avoided you without a damn word for more than a week, leaving you to fight against insecurity you hadn’t known to have, before him.

I love you, Sanemi.

He hadn’t said it back, then. Initially, you thought it was because he didn’t feel the same. Sure, he cared for you, that much was obvious, but perhaps that consideration didn’t rise to the level of devotion you held for him. You were okay with that; you hadn’t said it out of expectation, anyways. You’d only wanted him to know your heart, to know that as long as it was beating, it would be his.

Now, this key is his answer to your admission that night. And while it may not be the three words part of you longs to hear, it’s just as much as a confession on his part.

You could kick him out; tell him no, tell him that he, under no uncertain terms, could fuck right off after leaving you on silent for more than a week. You could.

You don’t.

Because, he came back. Maybe in a whirlwind of murderous, seething violence, but Sanemi came back. No ulterior motives, no conditions; he came back for you and you alone.

He saw you and all your monotony, all your inexperience, and he came back anyway.

He was the only one who ever had.

Quietly trembling fingers latch around his wrist and for a moment, Sanemi thinks you’re going to take it from him. All at once, the earth crumbles and faces beneath him, plummeting him right into the hell he knew he was venturing into the moment you looked him in the eyes and asked him to do the impossible.

A buzz settles in his ears and Sanemi braces for the rejection he should’ve known was to come. He’d screamed it at himself that night, his head warning his stupid heart that this was precisely the only way this could go. You’d gotten your fill of him, loved him even, but this — he — is too much. He should’ve known better, he did know —

Your fingers close his fist around the key and squeeze it tight. Wide-eyed and breathless, Sanemi finds that for once, he does not resent the way the metal presses into his skin.

“Keep it.” Your hands are warm where they embrace his. “I’m yours.”

It takes him a moment to remember how to speak; to realize the static in his head has quieted. His world comes back together just as quickly as it fell apart, its pieces realigning with you at its center.

Relief, he thinks, has never felt so fucking sweet. “Thank fuck.”

The key clatters to the floor but no one pays it any mind; Sanemi is too busy surging forward, his hands planted firmly on your cheeks as his mouth crashes eagerly — desperately — into yours.

The kiss is little more than a frantic clash of lips and teeth, but everything about it is so fucking right that neither of you can be bothered to care.

You fling an arm around his neck, anchoring yourself to him as Sanemi’s enthusiasm threatens to send you stumbling back. Some small, distant voice hisses that you should’ve made him work for it a little longer, should’ve made him grovel for forgiveness. But then his hands are dragging down your front, and he’s pulling you into him by your hips with a possessive grunt and suddenly, you can’t remember why any of it matters.

Neither of you are aware that you’re moving, not until your back bumps up against the entryway of your kitchen. Even then, your small gasp of surprise serves as nothing more than the chance for Sanemi’s tongue to sweep into your mouth, branding you with his claim.

It was always going to end this way — him, pressing you into your kitchen doorframe, his hands shoved under your t-shirt to rest on your bare waist while you pull him closer, your fingers twisting in his hair. Sanemi is a weak man; no matter how his better judgment snipped and snapped at him, all roads led right back here. It was inevitable.

Even if he hadn’t chosen your bookstore to hide in that day, somehow, the universe would’ve found another way to throw him into your life.

Sanemi breaks away with a pant. “Fuck, Y/N,” he moans against your lips. “You don’t know what the fuck you do to me.”

“Took you long enough,” you chastise between quick pecks. “I was beginning to think your head was perma-lodged up your ass.”

A sound of exasperation accompanies the nip of his teeth at your lip. “God forbid the Princess has to wait on anything.”

You hum into his mouth. “Not anything,” you correct, breaking away from his lips in favor of brushing your nose against his. “You, asshole.”

This time, it’s Sanemi who moans. “Bullyin’ only turns me on, sweetheart. Thought you knew that already.”

“And deflecting doesn’t help your cause. You still have some making up to do.” You scoff, lowering yourself back down to your normal height. Sanemi’s hands linger, cradling your face, and you can’t help but nuzzle into his palm.

“Yeah, well,” Sanemi murmurs, his thumb stroking your cheek. “‘M here now, and I want you. And I’m a fuckin’ idiot for thinking this is a good idea, and so are you for wantin’ me, but that’s where we are. Can’t go back.”

The corner of your mouth twitches up. “You mean, you can’t unfuck me.”

“Nah,” he agrees, though his eyes darken. He takes your chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting your head toward his. “Wouldn’t wanna take that back, anyways. Not in a million years.”

Not when you’re his.

This time, when Sanemi recaptures your lips with his, it is slower; more sensual. His tongue slides seamlessly into your mouth, languidly stroking yours.

Raw desire, sharp and electric, shoots between your thighs when Sanemi moans again. Despite the neediness of his lips, his touch, Sanemi quickly recovers some of his self-confidence, the excitement of his kiss giving way into something more measured, more fervent that already has you panting for more.

Oh, he’s far too good at making you melt.

Large, warm hands skirt down the back of your thighs, gripping you under your legs. You gasp when the floor disappears from beneath you as Sanemi easily carries you deeper into the kitchen.

The pizza baking in the oven goes forgotten as Sanemi sets you on the ledge of your counter, his hands sliding up your sides, bunching the fabric of your shirt between his fingers.

The warmth of his hands makes you gasp and arch into him, and he huffs a quiet laugh against your lips.

“Yeah? You want me to touch you?” He teases, pausing only to trace the tip of your nose with his, before he leans back in. “Tell me where.”

You’d love to, except the greedy asshole’s greedier lips are right back on yours, and you don’t have the willpower to argue. You sigh into him, and Sanemi’s tongue sweeps easily into your mouth, flicking against yours.

Those damn hands of his manage to sneak beneath your t-shirt again. “Mmm. Here?” He teases when you arch, his thumbs brushing along a sensitive part of your waist that makes you squirm.

He kneads against your ribs. “How ‘bout here?”

Your nails scratch the nape of his neck in warning. “Sanemi —“

Those devilish fingers of his inch higher beneath your shirt until he’s cupping your bare breasts.

“My bad. Here, right?” He smirks, catching your lower lip between his teeth.

He palms at your chest until you’re whimpering into his mouth. The tender, swollen ache of your breasts is soothed by Sanemi’s clever touch as he teases you with alternating flicks and pinches. He breaks your kiss to whisper your name, each syllable dripping with a reverence that makes you feel damn near sacred. He murmurs it again and again as his lips trail down your cheek, your jaw, his hands pushing your t-shirt higher and higher —

The oven timer buzzes.

Your head snaps toward the sound, hands fluttering against his chest in a reluctant effort to push him away, but he pays you no mind. Sanemi’s lips are still teasing under your jaw as he grips your chin between his thumb and forefinger and turns your head back toward him.

He silences your building protest with another kiss. “Let it burn,” his teeth nip at your bottom lip. “We’re busy.”

You give into the persuasion of his lips for a moment, too greedy for his kiss. But the beep of the timer seems to grow louder by the second, and you find yourself too distracted by its noise to continue ignoring.

“‘Nemi,” you murmur between heated kisses. There’s a low vibration in the back of Sanemi’s throat in response, something akin to a growl of approval at the way you shorten his name. His hold on your waist tightens as he pulls you harder into him. “The oven —“

His tongue licks at the roof of your mouth before his lips break away from yours. “Fuck the oven,” he moans before he claims your lips again, his kiss every bit as needy and possessive as touch.

He can’t fathom stopping now — not when you feel so damn good in his hands, not when he’s so giddy that he gets to keep you all to himself, selfishly.

He feels like a teenager again, feels that same excited flutter in his stomach he used to get from sneaking off with girls between classes to make out, to let hands explore under shirts in the dark corners of abandoned classrooms or under the bleachers, more thrilled by the prospect of being caught than of actually succeeding in getting into one another’s pants. Only now, Sanemi’s got the girl of his dreams moaning with a few clever movements of his fingers as he explores your mouth with his tongue, your hands just as greedy as they roam the planes of his chest and tug at his hair.

He’s about to suggest moving to your bed, eager to continue because he can, you’re actually his --

A loud rumble from deep within your stomach slices between you like a knife. Sanemi’s hands freeze, right atop your bare breasts.

A beat passes, and then he murmurs against your lips, “when did you last eat?”

Before you can feed him your bullshit, he adds, “a real meal.”

You fiddle with the ends of his hair, wincing. “…Last night?”

Even if you could protest, could claim that you weren’t all that hungry, your traitorous stomach roars again. You snatch your hands away from him, pressing them to your middle as though you can silence the way your belly gurgles with hunger.

Busted.

“Sorry,” you mutter, too mortified to meet his eyes. “Ignore that, we can keep going –”

“I’m not competing with your stomach. If I’m gonna have you moaning, I want to hear you.” Sanemi kisses the tip of your nose and untangles himself from you, dragging his fingers teasingly along the bare skin of your thighs before he steps back entirely. “’Sides, you need to eat.”

You rub a hand over your grumbling belly. “It’s not that bad –”

“You’re an ass when you’re hungry.”

You can’t fight him on that, no matter how your cheeks warm. Sanemi has experienced your hungered wrath far too many times. Still part of you itches to wipe that triumphant smugness right off his face as he dons one of your frilly, thrifted oven mitts and fishes the pizza out of the oven.

—

Once he’s ensured you’ve eaten enough and washed your dishes, Sanemi sets to work on your bed, righting the mess he’d made of your covers. The moment everything is back in its place, even the obnoxious throw pillows you’d hurled at his head, he turns to you, expectant.

“Well?” He pats your newly remade bed. “Come on. You said you don’t feel well, so get over here and rest.”

For once, you don’t fight him, nor do you so much as attempt to snark back at him for trying to boss you around. You simply slink back to your bed and flop down without a shred of grace or care.

Sighing, Sanemi kicks off his shoes and slides in behind you. Admittedly, when he’d played out the number of ways tonight could go in his head, he hadn’t envisioned nursing you against the debilitating side effects of your period as one of those possibilities.

Still, Sanemi can’t imagine any place he’d rather be.

His body fits against yours with ease, and the way his arm winds around your waist feels natural; automatic. For so long, he’d been navigating the world, unaware that something was missing; that he was incomplete. Sure, maybe he’d felt off to some extent — like there was a gap somewhere among his parts, one that he never knew quite how to fill.

But here, in your bed, his body half-draped over yours, his face, tucked into the crook of your neck, Sanemi finally knows what it means to feel whole. It fills him with such giddiness, such joy, he almost can’t quite figure out what to do with it. There’s a lightness in his chest he’s never felt before, a weightlessness to his limbs. He is floating, and there is nothing to bring him back down to earth; no chain, no binds, no obligations. There is only his desire to be here, with you, however you want him.

Your hands reach back and latch around his wrist, tugging his arm over you. You then slide his hand beneath your shirt, pressing it flat to your lower belly.

Sanemi smiles against the nape of your neck as you sigh in relief. “What’s that about?”

“You’re warm,” you groan, snuggling back against him. “Heat helps cramps.”

He squeezes you close and presses a kiss against your ear. “Use me as much as you need, then.”

Your soft laugh is intoxicating. Finally, some of the tension in your limbs eases and you relax into him, seemingly having found the right position to quell the throbbing ache in your stomach. Happiness. This must be happiness. Because here, he finally gets to just be Sanemi. Your Sanemi.

——

For a long while, you lay together in comfortable silence. The fading light streaming through the great, arched windows over your heads is his only measure of time, and soon, the lighting of your apartment dims. Now, there is only the soft, yellow glow of your various lamps and strings of fairy lights that coat your studio, creating a cozy cave he never wants to leave.

Curled behind you as he is, Sanemi can’t quite tell whether you’ve finally succumbed to sleep. Your breathing is slow, and while you haven’t spoken in a while, you could just as easily be basking in the relaxed comfort of his arms, lingering somewhere in between sleep and consciousness.

It’s how he wishes he could be; at ease, half-heartedly fighting a losing battle to keep his eyes open. But no; Sanemi is wide the fuck awake, his body stiffer than a board.

Despite your tentative relaxedness, you still squirm every so often,

struggling to find a position that will allow you the most relief from the throbbing ache in your lower stomach.

He doesn’t think you’re doing it intentionally — in fact, he’s almost certain you aren’t. But if you don’t stop grinding your ass against him, Sanemi might just snap.

He’d already had to quietly fight off the pain in his groin after getting hot and heavy with you in the kitchen, before he’d realized he needed to take care of your grumbling stomach at the expense of his blue balls. But here you are now, rotating your perfect ass right into his crotch as he grows harder than a fucking diamond, with no relief from the onslaught of your wiggling in sight.

It just feels cruel.

“Knock it off,” Sanemi finally grumbles into your ear, arms squeezing once around your waist in warning. “You tryin’ to make me cream my pants?”

“It’s not my fault,” you groan miserably. “I can’t get comfortable.”

“Don’t you take meds?”

Another groan. “Already did.”

Sanemi fights the swear building on his tongue. He’s acutely aware that you’re not at fault for the way his traitorous body reacts to your movements, but he finds himself wavering dangerously close to losing mind. Each twisting movement of your ass is barely more than a whisper of the contact he craves and yet somehow, it’s just enough to make his cock throb for more.

It takes a great deal of self-restraint for Sanemi not to grab your hips and grind you back against him properly. But he manages to cling to that fraying thread, almost proud of his astounding commitment to his self-control, when you swivel your ass right against the crotch of his pants, groaning in frustration.

That’s when Sanemi snaps.

With a disapproving click of his tongue, he flips you to your back and under him. You’re his woman now, after all; that means it’s on him to take care of business.

“You still got cramps?” He hovers close over you, nose nearly bumping yours.

Wide-eyed and blushing at his proximity, you nod.

“You took your meds already?”

Another nod.

“And they ain’t helping?”

This time, you slowly shake your head.

A smile, a wickedly devious smile, spreads across his lips. “I know what will.”

Sanemi sits back on his knees and grabs a fistful of his shirt. In a single, smooth movement, he yanks it clean over his head.

“What are you --?” You sit up on your elbows, cheeks heating as your eyes roam the rocky planes of his chest and abdomen. Your mouth waters. “What are you doing?”

Sanemi crawls back over you, shutting you up with another kiss. Before you can break away to repeat yourself, he presses his hips to yours and grinds.

He’s harder than stone.

Silky lips dance down your chin before sliding to explore your jaw. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“I told you, I’m — oh — on my period!”

“So?”

“So, it’s — it’s — messy!” You stammer, your cheeks turning crimson as Sanemi’s lips continue their heated path down your neck.

He snorts against your collar bone. “You got towels, don’t you?”

The cockiness of his tone stuns you silent. Sanemi huffs in triumph and busies himself with sucking a bruise into your skin, right over your throat.

“Sanemi,” you squirm under his mouth, hands tugging at his hair, though even you don’t know whether you’re trying to command his attention or push him back.

With an annoyed grunt, Sanemi tears his mouth away from your skin to glare at you. “If you want to say no because you’re uncomfortable with it, then we can stop.” And, despite the faint, irritated twist of his mouth, his eyes are sincere. “But if you’re only complaining because you think I’ll mind —“

“I’m not uncomfortable,” you murmur, shyly looking away. “But, Sanemi —“

Your protest is smothered by a warm, firm hand closing over your mouth. Sanemi leans down until his forehead nearly touches yours. “Do you want me to stop?”

You blink up at him. After a moment of hesitation, you slowly shake your head, eyes wide.

“Then shut up.”

His hand slides away from your mouth and skirts down the length of your arm. His fingers close around your wrist and he wraps your arm around his shoulders.

He leans in to resume attacking your neck with his mouth, descending down your body with heavy, open mouthed kisses. When he reaches your navel, he shifts his hold to your waist and in a single, swift movement, he flips you atop him.

You gasp into his mouth as you settle against him, his hardening bulge pressing into the apex of your thighs. A deep, gravelly moan vibrates in Sanemi’s throat when you begin pushing your hips down to meet the hardness protruding into you, your movements out of your control.

For a moment, you remain like that, your body pressed flush to his as you gasp and grind against each other, your kisses little more than a desperate clash of lips and teeth and tongue. Sanemi is the first to break away, his mouth trailing hotly down the column of your throat.

One arm stretches up the length of your back, his broad hand curling around your shoulder as the arm locked around your waist tightens. His hold on you sufficiently sturdy, Sanemi forces you to grind harder against him, his teeth nipping across your collarbone as you whimper above him.

The ache between your legs is sharper, more intense than usual; closer to a burning throb than a mere flicker of desire.

The hand he’d kept on your shoulder slides down your back, his fingers dragging teasingly along your spine until he reaches the waistband of your shorts. He snaps it once, twice, savoring your little jolts each time the elastic bites at your skin, before he pushes below it to grip your bare ass.

Your fingers fly to his hair as he fondles the plush curve of you in his hand, alternating between gentle massages and rough squeezes. Each pleading little mewl that slips past your lips only drives him wilder with need, his cock throbbing where it strains against the seat of his pants.

He sucks a bruise into the juncture between your neck and shoulder. He will not give in; not yet, not before you beg him for what he’s been itching to give you for the last week.

With a fierce whine, you circle your own hips, unsuccessfully trying to maneuver his hand away. Your own hand drops from his hair to cup his jaw as you pant against his ear.

He hides his smirk against your collar bone. “You got somewhere you want me to be, Y/N?” He croons, bucking harshly into your clothed center. His fingers dip to the crease between your ass and the top of your thigh, playing dangerously close to where he knows you need him most.

He can feel the heat radiating from you, beckoning him to closer, a beacon meant only for him. “You just gotta ask, Princess. I’m right here, waitin’.”

“S-Sanemi —“

Without warning, Sanemi sits up, forcing you to scramble to lock your legs around him for support. He scoots to the edge of your bed, his grip on you firm, until his legs drape over its side. With you in his lap, he throws a steadying arm behind him as you sit perched atop his thigh.

“There. Wanted to see you properly.”

He traces the tip of his finger around the tightened bud of your right breast, just over your shirt, eyes bright and crinkled in amusement as you squirm.

It’s not enough; not nearly so.

With a wicked grin, he leans in, resuming his torturously slow exploration of your neck. Your reaction to him is instant, as you grind and squirm atop him, your fingers fisting at his hair.

But, even he grows tired of this constant teasing. Impatient, he plants one hand at the base of your spine, pressing your body flush against his, while the other slides down your front, his fingers playing with the hem of your top.

Right now, there’s only one thing – well, two things – he wants, and your damn shirt is getting in his way.

The moment you shudder against him as his fingers brush the skin below your nazel is the moment he yanks your t-shirt up, revealing your peaked, aching breasts right to his hungry gaze.

He presses its hem to your lips. “Hold this.”

Your pupils blow wide at the cockiness of his demand. Slowly, you part your lips and allow Sanemi to latch the bottom of your shirt between your teeth.

He gives you only a warning look, a stern narrowing of his eyes that says, don’t even think about dropping it, before he turns his attention back to your chest, pausing to whistle appreciatively at the sight of you, bare before him.

In addition to being stuck with murderous cramps, one of the other terrible side effects of your period is how damn sore your breasts get. Often, you can hardly stand to wear a bra, the burning ache in your chest damn near unbearable.

And there his mouth is, so close yet so far. The memory of just how expertly he’d navigated you the last time with his mouth makes your nipples stiffen, adds gasoline to the fire burning hotly in your lower belly.

With a whimper, you thrust your chest toward him.

“Oh?” Sanemi raises an eyebrow in mock surprise. Idly, his index finger traces a circle around your right nipple, followed by another. “Sensitive are we?” He smirks. “Looks like you’re achin’ for some attention, sweetheart.”

His breath fans hotly across one of your stiff nipples, and you swear it throbs as Sanemi exhales against your skin again, teasing.

You could cry. Aching, indeed.

He smirks against your breast. “I can help with that.”

His lips part and Sanemi sucks your breast right into his mouth, groaning between sloppy, wet smacks of his mouth. The ache between your legs intensifies with every suck, every graze of his teeth and flick of his tongue.

“Pretty,” he hums against your nipple, and the vibrations from his mouth make your thighs clench together. He takes the breast not occupied by his mouth into his hand, lavishing it with the same worship as he gives the other, squeezing and rolling it until you’re whimpering over the mouthful of your shirt.

He pulls back, a thin strand of saliva connecting his lips with your nipple that breaks when he speaks. “Prettiest I’ve ever fuckin’ seen, just like the rest of you.”

Sanemi’s mouth is wet and hot as it trails across your sternum, taking your other soft mound into mouth while his hand migrates to the other, his fingers swirling the saliva he’d left behind into your flesh. He pinches your nipple in time with the graze of his teeth over the one sucked between his lips.

It’s too much; the pulsing ache between your legs has grown too riotous, too incessant, and you’re desperate for relief. The muscles of his thigh notched between your legs flex like he knows; baiting you.

You fall for it, hook, line and sinker, just as he wanted, your hips beginning a tentative grind against his leg.

Drool leaks from the corner of your mouth as you find a steady pace, rocking and grinding against him. It soaks the fabric of your shirt as you fight to keep from loosening your jaw. Everything Sanemi is doing feels so fucking good, and you’ll be damned to mess that up for yourself.

There it is again — that familiar knot in your stomach, one that rapidly pulls tighter and tighter the more you circle and grind against his thigh. Through your lashes, you can see Sanemi’s gaze locked heatedly on your face, a ravenous hunger in his eyes.

“You gonna cum just from this, sweetheart?” Despite his attempt at derision, his voice is rougher than gravel. His hands latch around your hips, shifting you until you’re perched right over the rock-hard bulge that has formed beneath the seat of his pants.

In answer, you grind even harder against him, riding him with abandon as your nails dig into his shoulders. Moaning, Sanemi wraps his lips back around your tender nipple, and soon, he’s bucking up into you with equal fervor, the two of you gasping into one another.

The hand pressed to your ass squeezes, Sanemi pushing you harder into him. You might just come like this, grinding against his bulge, Sanemi, mouthing hotly at your swollen breasts, tugging and nipping at your skin with his teeth. Everything feels heightened, your senses overwhelmed by him and his mouth until you buzz with the need for more. The knot in your stomach tightens, tightens —

The stiffened seam of his pants catches your clit at precisely the right angle, and you fall apart. The whine that vibrates in your throat is nothing short of pathetic; a keening little plea as you fist at his hair, pressing his face into your chest while you grind desperately into him. Your orgasm sweeps over you, both a relief and a taunt; a hollow echo of the release you crave, the high he’d given you that night that you’d pathetically chased since without success.

Sanemi only sucks at you harder. He finally releases you when the last feeble wave washes through, when he feels the tension in your limbs, settle.

“God damn,” he says roughly, imparting a final few flicks of his tongue across your nipple. “That was fuckin’ beautiful.”

With a last, harsh suck, Sanemi’s mouth leaves your sore chest with a soft pop. You barely have time to push the dampened hemp of your shirt from your mouth before the muscles of his arms ripple and flex around you. In an instant, you’re back under him, caged against your mattress by his hulking mass.

It’s thrilling, how easily he manhandles you, his touch firm and assured. Yet, no matter how capable he is of throwing you around — no matter how easily he can overpower those ever bigger and meaner than you — his gentleness with you never wavers.

Sanemi wastes no time guiding your shirt over your head, throwing it somewhere over his shoulder. His mouth trails after his hands, and faster than you can blink, he rips your shorts down your legs, tossing them carelessly off the side of the bed.

His fingers slide over the front of your underwear, circling. “There,” he marvels with a satisfied click of his tongue. “You’re fuckin’ soaked.”

You don’t bother to tell him the wetness he feels might very well be from your period – after all, you’re wearing your speciality underwear, the kind that doesnt’ require you to wear tampons or pads. But you also don’t think Sanemi would care much either way, given how he continues circling your clit, savoring the way your legs spasm and jerk beneath him.

Moaning, your thighs widen for him and Sanemi continues the languid turn of his fingers. You think he means to make you come again, and it’s embarrassing how quickly your body commits to that effort, but he pulls his hand away.

Your whine needles some remorse out of him. He ducks to press a sweet kiss against your knee. “Be right back.”

His weight on your bed lifts, and Sanemi quickly vanishes around the corner of the wall that blocks your bed from the view of the small hallway containing your bathroom, one cabined by your laughably tiny linen closet.

He reappears a few seconds later, one of your towels in hand.

“Hips up,” he orders, motioning for you to lift yourself from the mattress. Wide-eyed, you obey, your heart fluttering in your throat.

“For the record, I don’t care if we use a towel,” Sanemi tells you as he spreads it beneath you, creating a barrier between your body and your blankets. “I’d wash the sheets for ya once we finished. But if you prefer to use it, that’s fine by me.”

His hands guides you back down against the bed and linger once you settle, his fingers teasing along the jut of your hip. “But a period ain’t gonna stop me from helping my girl feel good.” He bends down to seal his promise with his lips against your thigh.

Off the side of your bed, Sanemi straightens, his movements easy and self-assured in every way you aren’t. Keeping his eyes locked with yours, he unbuckles his belt, the click of metal sending an electric current right between your legs. Wordlessly, he shucks his pants and briefs down his legs.

Your mouth runs dry; his cock looks somehow bigger, more imposing than it had that first night. Ramrod straight and leaking, the thick head of him smacking up against his abdomen.

He pauses in front of you, close enough that you can feel the heat rolling off his body, and yet he maintains the smallest distance between you, holding back just enough to drive you mad.

You want to snap at him; to demand he ease the fire he’d ignited in your blood, to touch you in that way only he knew. But your desire for him makes your mind blank, and though you know your vocabulary is better than most, you can’t remember the words necessary to form your demand.

For Sanemi’s part, his eyes are locked heatedly on your face, alight with the hint of a challenge; baiting you to see how long it will take before you crack.

His voice is as coarse as gravel. “Come here.”

Normally, you’d balk at his attempts to order you around, and instead offer him some snappy retort or a petulant roll of your eyes. Here, however, Sanemi has the upper hand, and your need is too great to try and wrestle it back from him.

Careful not to disturb the towel spread so carefully atop your mattress, you rise. Sanemi watches your every movement with a hunger he doubts can ever be fully sated. His fingers find yours, and slowly, he pulls you into him, your chest squishing lightly against his abdomen.

You gaze up at him through heavy-lidded eyes as his hands slide over your hips, marveling at the silkiness of your skin. With a teasing languidness, he loops his fingers under the band of your underwear, one at a time. Slowly, he drags them down the length of your legs, lowering himself to his knees as he slides it over your feet. All the while, his gaze remains locked with yours, pressing his lips reverently to the fleshy part above your knee while his hands run up and down your calves.

Your scent makes his mouth water: a sweet musk, tinged with the faintest trace of iron, and utterly intoxicating. The temptation to lean in and taste the paradise between your thighs is strong, but Sanemi resists. Instead, he rises back to his full height with the same slowness as before, his nose nearly touching yours.

His eyes drop to your mouth right as your tongue flicks out to wet your lips, and Sanemi descends upon you like a tidal wave.

“Fuck.” He growls, hand closing around the back of your neck as he jerks you forward and crashes his mouth down against yours.

Whatever remained of your self-doubt and uncertainty fizzles under the weight of his intensity. All at once, you feel like the most alluring creature ever to grace the planet, a temptress worthy of the great epics gathering dust at the store. Sanemi’s kiss is feverish and urgent and all-consuming; he kisses you like a man parched, your lips his only salvation.

Eager hands wrap under your thighs and haul you up, up, up. Your gasp of surprise at your sudden weightlessness is swallowed up by Sanemi’s tongue sweeping into your mouth.

Down the two of you fall, a breathless heap of tangled limbs and shared moans landing on your bed. This time, your legs part for him without his guidance, and Sanemi settles easily into the cradle of your thighs.

Only your second time and already, your bodies are moving together like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You’re drawing him in like a magnet, your body his North Star.

What a fucking idiot he was, to not have realized it sooner.

Your kisses turn sloppy and he feels you draw your legs up, your knees braced against his sides. He hisses as his bare length grazes your wet center, the head radiating from you making him throb.

He rubs his cock against your damp heat again and again, his nails biting into your sheets as he resists the urge to thrust forward before he’s properly lubricated for you.

Beneath him, you tense. “N-now?” You squeak, your nails digging into his shoulders as he rubs himself against the slick heat of you.

He almost groans. “Yeah, now.” If he has to wait any longer, he might go insane.

“But — but — don’t you want a condom —?”

Sanemi scowls as he drags his tip up and down your slit before pressing against your entrance. Fuck no, he doesn’t.

“Shhh. What’d I say?” He quells your worrying with a mighty thrust of his hips. The coppery slickness of you mixed with your arousal means there’s no resistance, and so, Sanemi sheathes himself to the hilt inside you in a single, fluid movement. “Shut up and let me take care of you, yeah?”

You answer him with a high-pitched cry, one that almost borders a small scream, and he’s hard-pressed to restrain himself from joining you.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Sanemi grinds out. “Holy shit, sweetheart.”

He thought he’d been close to losing his mind that first time, but the feeling of you now, tighter and hotter than before, and so fucking wet, threatens to untether him from reality all together.

In fact, he realizes as his hips begin moving on their own, he’s likely already lost control. He begins with slow, shallow thrusts, but his movements quickly melt into hard, deep rolls of his hips that are little more than base instinct. He is driven only by the need for more, to push himself as deep as he can possibly go until the two of you fuse together as one.

You’re writhing beneath him, toes curling against your mattress, too overwhelmed by the feeling of him being buried inside you. Not that Sanemi is faring much better. It’s taking him a surprising amount of self-restraint to keep himself from coming right then, too lost in the heaven of your body.

Amazed that he’s still able to form a coherent thought, he manages to ask, “You still on that pill?”

He has no intentions of using condoms ever again, not after experiencing the euphoria that is your bare pussy. But your answer will determine where he comes.

He feels you nod as your teeth catch his bottom lip, beseeching him for a kiss he’s only happy to oblige. He grunts into you, a needy, guttural sound as he works to set his pace. “You want me to pull out?”

You pause for a moment and then with wide eyes, you slowly shake your head.

Sanemi smiles against your mouth. “Good. Me neither.”

Sure, his rule against having children while still entrenched within the Corps’ operations threatens to go up in smoke, but you’re on birth control. And, as he’s learned, he can’t follow rules for shit when it comes to you.

He nudges your head to the side, burying his face against the exposed length of your neck.

“Jesus Christ,” he inhales deeply, mouth pressed to your skin. “I fuckin’ missed you.”

For the past week, his body has been rebelling against him, too restless to sleep, to think, to do anything but roar its discontent with him. But here, buried to the hilt inside you as he is, a calmness trickles through his veins, steadying him, bringing him back into himself.

He should’ve known, he thinks as he rolls his hips with yours, working to set his pace. It’s you. It has always been you.

Beneath him, you fare no better, just as overwhelmed by your reunion with his body as he is with yours. That burning stretch is still there, just as it had been that first night, but it’s nowhere near as sharp as it had been then. Still, it takes a moment to adjust to his intrusion, despite how ready you’d been to receive him. After all, Sanemi is on the larger end of the scale; not that you have anything in particular to compare him to. But his cock is a little longer than the length of your hand, and thick.

And god, does he know how to use it. No wonder he’s so insufferably smug all the time. He’d earned his bragging rights a hundred times over.

You’re both panting, his forehead pressed to yours as your noses bump together. Your fingers twist in his hair, desperate to find an anchor the more Sanemi threatens to to send you over the edge of your sanity.

You try, bless you, to meet his movements, your hips tentatively jerking to meet his thrusts, to help him plunge deeper.

Your effort makes him melt. “Just let me do all the work, sweetheart.” He coos, pressing you firmly into your bed, limiting your movements with his weight. “You ain’t gotta do a thing but take it.”

Truth be told, Sanemi is dreaming of the day you’ll ride him. In addition to reminiscing how fucking good your pussy tastes, Sanemi also hasn’t been able to stop thinking about how you will look perched atop him, your hips rolling and dropping frantically against his, tits bouncing. But right now, you’re the one who needs to be taken care of, and he’s more than happy (if not downright insistent) that he’s the man for the job.

You give into him easily, sinking into the mattress and letting your legs spread wider, relaxed. Sanemi smothers his throaty hum of approval into your neck, sucking and biting his claim into your skin.

The air between you grows thick with the scent of iron and sex, clouding his head and further loosening whatever hold he pretends to have over the monstrous, feral thing inside him. The one that only wants to pin you down and take you harder, rougher, until you can’t fathom being anything else but his.

He’s only able to cling onto that last bit of self-control because he’s so focused on you, all too aware of your limits. Those big, watery eyes of yours are pools he can drown in, and the wobble in your lower lip as he hits deeper nearly drives him insane. God, he can’t believe he denied himself of this for so long – of you, of the privilege of taking care of you, of making you cry out his name and beg for more.

“God, you’re perfect.” He moans out in praise. “You’re fuckin’ perfect.”

Though it’s only your second time, your bodies slide together like it’s the most natural thing in the world; easier than breathing. You are an extension of him as much as he is of you, and he can’t even chalk it up to his eye for detail. The observations he’d made of you last time had nothing to do with survival. It was instinctual. Sanemi hadn’t needed to work to memorize you; he’d known you the second your skin met his.

It’s this familiarity that guides him now, Sanemi’s lips and teeth and hands finding every spot that makes you moan, gasp, bite your lip until it nearly bleeds while you scratch at him and urge him closer.

Though he’s admittedly half-fucked out of his mind with euphoria as you clench and pulse around him, Sanemi does note that some of your uncertainty toward your own body has returned. Your hands drift from his hair to his face before dropping to clutch at his shoulders. As Sanemi’s movements gain momentum, making you bounce against the mattress, your nails lightly – hesitantly – crest into his skin.

He chuckles against the shell of your ear. “You can cling to me as much as you want, darlin’. I don’t mind.” He rolls his hips more purposefully this time, the arm around your waist tightening, forcing you to arch harder into him. “I’ll take good care of my girl.”

His knees shift forward and Sanemi pulls back to study you. It’s hard to know where to rest his eyes; you look fucking incredible under him like this, hair fanned out, framing your head like a halo; your breasts, peaked and mouthwateringly full, bouncing perfectly in time with his movements.

But it’s your face that catches his attention; the way you tug your bottom lip between your teeth, coupled with how your inner walls flex around him, as though in answer, your pupils blown wide with desire.

His free arm pushes under your knee and your pretty mouth falls open at deepening the reach of his cock. “You like it when I call you that, huh? My girl.”

Tears cling to your eyelashes. You manage only a hurried, jerky nod of your head, incapable of making any sound more intelligent than a few whimpers.

“Yeah?” And he pins you down harder into the mattress with a snarl, his arm pressing your leg nearly to your shoulders. “Good, ‘cause you are.”

The lewd squelching of Sanemi’s cock bullying relentlessly against your swollen, aching walls grows louder. He untangles his arm from under your leg to move above your head, bracing his weight on his fist where it’s balled into the mattress. He uses his new position to increase the force of his thrusts, his legs straightening out behind him, his feet digging into the bed as he draws his cock nearly all the way out of your heat, before plunging right back in.

“And this is all mine, too, isn’t it?” A free hand wedges between your bodies, Sanemi slapping lightly at your clit. You cry out as he repeats the action again, but when he presses down at the next contact of his fingers and circles them, a howl of his name rips free.

He tucks his dark chuckle into your throat, his teeth nipping just above where your pulse flutters. “Yeah, it is. ‘Cuz you’re my girl. My good fuckin’ girl.”

Your cunt clenches around him in steady pulses, every fleck of your slick warmth fogging his brain. It’s unreal, the way you respond to the filth pouring from his mouth. It nearly drives him insane; here he is, someone who has only ever known hell, yet he’s managed to steal away his own piece of heaven.

Rough fingers tighten around your hip, pulling you harder to meet him. Sheer desire may have clouded his head in those first moments, his delight in getting to have you making him over-eager to get you naked, but the fog is rapidly dissipating. Instead, as he moves, Sanemi’s dizzying pleasure becomes edged by solemnity.

Sure, sex has always been an easier way to work through emotions he wasn’t allowed to feel, but that sort of self-distraction can’t fly anymore. Not with you; not when you mean everything.

He was your first and he wants to be your last. Your only.

None of this is temporary; he hadn’t told you he was all in until he got bored, or until one of the thousand reasons couples break up came along to give him the first pass to skip town. He didn’t attach any strings to that key. You need to know. You need to know how fucking serious he is about this. You.

But in case any ambiguities remain, let him clear them up now.

“Can’t believe I wasted all that fuckin time on the others when I could’ve had you. You used to smile at me, you remember that?” Sanemi draws his hips back, leaving only the tip of his cock inside before slamming back into you. “When we were in school. Used to make me go dumb in the head when ya did.”

The wet, sticky squelching where your bodies connect only grows louder as Sanemi increases his pace. “And then I’d see you smile at others and it drove me nuts. But then I realized you were smilin’ special for me — and not just because you were bein’ polite. You meant it.”

He tucks his head into the crook of your neck, his mouth sucking a harsh bruise into your skin that he soothes with his tongue. “Should’ve made you mine back then.” He growls, and below him, you tense. “Should’ve made you my girl and taken you far away from here. Might’ve even become a better man, if I had. I would’ve, if I’d known. That you were fuckin’ made for me — fuck!” Sanemi throws his head back as you squeeze tighter around him.

He drops his gaze back down to your face. Though your eyes are glassy with pleasure, there’s recognition there, an understanding that parts your lips as the weight of his words settles.

I would’ve wanted you, then.

Judging by the dent that appears between your eyebrows, he knows his silent confession isn’t lost on you, even as a sharp cry tears from your throat.

Sanemi leans down and kisses you, roughly, in confirmation. “And I don’t just mean your body,” he breaks away from your lips with a pant. “You were fuckin’ made for me. Wish I’d known it back then.”

He gives a sharp twist of his hips on his next plunge in, making you bow away from the bed and into him with a cracked moan. But Sanemi lets his weight press you right back down, your bodies rolling together as one.

There’s a limberness to your body that hadn’t been there that first time; a relaxedness in your limbs now that you know what to expect, one that has you opening your thighs a little wider, an invitation for him to hit deeper that he’s only too happy to accept.

“Oh fuck — that’s it, baby. Yes.” He can’t be bothered to feel embarrassed by the way his voice strains as he shouts, “Fuck!”

As tight as you’d been when he’d first entered you, nothing compares to the way you’re squeezing his cock, now. You’ve sharpened the arch in your spine, smushing your breasts into his chest as you offer him to take more and more. So firm is the hold of your body over his, that Sanemi finds it increasingly difficult to thrust, and he resigns himself instead to holding hard by the hips and grinding.

A too familiar tingle at the base of his spine prickles. He going to come and soon, and that’s unacceptable. His entire sexual history has been predicated on two rules: no unprotected encounters and no cumming before his partner.

He’d thrown the first rule to the wind with enthusiastic ease; but he’ll be damned if he starts reneging on the second. Not when he’s promised to take care of you.

Sanemi’s hand unlatches from its place above your hip to push between your bodies. Your eyes roll back into your head and your jaw goes slack when his thumb finds your aching clit and swirls, coaxing you to relax into the bed and ease some of your iron-tight grip.

“S — San —“ you try, but whatever thought you’re trying to string together dies in your throat under a keening wine as Sanemi shallowly thrusts into you.

He grits his teeth. Not enough; he’s still too damn close. His balls have become painfully tight, and the electric prickle he feels has bled into his stomach, forming a know that’s becoming tauter by the second.

He won’t be able to hold off for much longer.

“C’mere, baby.” He manages with a croak. “Need ya to cum for me.” And with some remorse, he withdraws his hand. It joins the other in smoothing down the sides of your thighs, bending each leg at your knee. “Keep ‘em up. I’m gonna get real deep, okay?”

He anchors himself against your sheets and settles. The adjustment pushes him deeper inside your warmth and a small moan escapes your mouth. Sanemi begins rocking into you, gentle at first, but gradually faster. “Might feel a bit strange, but I need ya to trust me. I’ll take care of you.”

Knees nearly to your chest, you nod. Tentative whimpers soon melt into steady cries that pace with his movements. Before long, your hips are rolling up and away from the bed with his, your toes curling in the air.

The hand he has braced next to your head fists at your sheets. This new position means you’re even tighter than before, and the extra slickness from your period has him bumping up against all the right places in record time.

Below, you squirm and claw at him, but your moans only grow louder as Sanemi continues to reach deeper within your swollen, tender walls, searching for the spot he knows will have you unraveling.

“S-Sanemi,” you whine, your nails digging into the corded muscles of his back

“I know you’re feelin’ sensitive, baby, but you’ll feel better if you cum. Can you do that for me?”

Eager to ease you into agreement, he rewards you with a trail of slow, open-mouthed kisses down your neck. The knot in his stomach tightens, but Sanemi resists; his self-control used to be a source of pride, and he’s determined to cling onto whatever thread of it remains.

Thankfully, you flutter and clench around him, a broken moan lilting out of you in answer.

Relief courses through him. “Yes, baby — that’s it. Shit.” His eyes squeeze shut and he focuses on the sharp sting of your nails raking down his back, willing the pain to ground him as he fights off his own orgasm. “You’re close, aren’t you? I can feel it.”

He hasn’t dared forget how it feels when you’re at your breaking point; sweet, slick walls pulsing and clenching wildly around him, every muscle in your body strung tight as you wait for that coil in your gut to spring.

It’s all he’s thought about for the last eleven days.

And when you confirm with a jerky, frantic nod, Sanemi leans in and presses his lips to your forehead. “Let’s make it a big one, yeah?”

Without waiting for a response, Sanemi drops his head to the pillow below. Slowly, he allows his weight to sink into you, pushing him further into your warmth. You cry out when his tip kisses a spot deep within you, a slight tinge of pain sparking through your lower abdomen that intensifies when he hits it again and again. Your nails rake down his back and tears well hot and fast in your eyes as Sanemi begins rutting hard and fast into you, no sound leaving your mouth but a series of strangled, choked gasps.

It hurts, the way he hammers away at that spot. You can’t deny it. But it also feels so fucking incredible that you can’t fathom him stopping now. Ever.

He churns harshly with every brutal snap of his hips, the coarse, rough hairs of his base scraping right against your clit, until that coil behind your navel cinches impossibly tight.

“Sanemi —“ you squeak, but nothing else follows, save a single, choked gasp.

It’s over and he knows it.

“Go on, sweetheart.” His voice husky and warm, murmuring in your ear. “Show me who you belong to.”

That’s all it takes; with a guttural gasp, you seize around him like a vice. Your limbs tense even as a warmth bursts deep from within your stomach.

Your first orgasm with him had been powerful; this one is a cataclysm.

Climax rips through you like a hurricane; an explosion of pleasure that fractures you apart, shatters you into hundreds of fractals that all sing one name until your throat burns.

Sanemi only fucks you harder.

Everything falls away; the industrial iron piping on your ceiling, the faint golden glow of the fairy lights woven around your headboard, even the rough fabric of the towel spread beneath you. All of it fades to white as you freefall into an endless ocean that’s precisely the color of the eyes you love most.

Thick fingers close around your jaw, urging your face towards his. Far away, in the deep throes of your own ecstasy, you hear his soft whisper of your name, a string tugging you through the waves. You follow it all the way back to where you lie, sandwiched between your bed and his body. Through pleasure-bleary eyes, you find him watching you with a hunger that only intensifies the harder you come around him.

Somehow, despite the fact he has now seen every inch of your undressed body, the way his eyes hold yours has you feeling stripped to the bone. Beneath his ravenous, dark gaze, you are flayed open, no part of you left hidden. Truly naked.

He has to see it, you think even as you continue to wail his praise. He has to, spread beneath him as you are. He has to know every corner of you bears his name.

A brutal snap of his hips sends Sanemi’s cock right into that wonderfully painful place, your back arching hard off the bed as another great wave picks you up and slams you against the shore that is him. Tears leak from the corners of your eyes as you continue to sob from the force of your orgasm until finally, the tide recedes, sending you plummeting back to the mess of blankets below.

Sanemi’s arms catch you before you land.

He lets your legs drop from his shoulders and replaces them with your arms. Though limp, you manage to summon your residual strength to tighten your hold around his neck, clinging to him.

Satisfied, no longer does Sanemi try and hold back his ragged moans and grunts as he chases his release. Not that he’d given much of a shit about it before, but Sanemi finds that he really can’t muster one now.

His hands curl around the edge of your mattress above your head, Sanemi using his grip for leverage, deepening the reach of his cock until he can’t tell where you end and he begins.

“Oh fuck — oh fuck —“ Sanemi can’t stop the filth pouring from his mouth as the familiar prickle at the base of his spine grows hotter, more electric.

He’s going hard; the entire bed creaks and rocks with the force of his movements, the bedposts rhythmically knocking up against your wall with pronounced thumps. “Fuck, I’m gonna come — baby, I’m gonna come —“

Beneath him, your moans have resumed though they now carry the faint cadence of a whimper. Somewhere, in the back of his pleasure-addled mind, Sanemi knows you’re probably overstimulated, but his pace only increases. He can’t stop, doesn’t want to stop, not when he’s so fucking close, not when it’s been so fucking long —

Unintentionally, you graze the raised skin of his brand, and Sanemi tosses his head back, hissing in approval. More, he wills, fucking into you harder. Do it more, carve your own claim into him. The Corp’s mark doesn’t mean shit to him, now.

Whether you understand the bruising demands of his hips or whether you’re simply reacting to their quick, hard snaps, you comply, your hands raking down his spine, Another powerful thrust throws your arm up his back, and you fumbles for purchase right in the dip between his shoulders.

Gasping, you sink your nails right into his mark, and Sanemi loses control.

With one last mighty push of his hips, Sanemi comes undone with a roar, his balls flush against your ass as his climax slams into him.

A strangled cry of your name is all he can manage before stars explode behind his eyelids. His jaw slackens, and his lower body moves on its own, his hips canting as his release barrels through him and into you, hot and thick. He’d sworn the first time he finished in you had been the hardest he’d ever came in his life. But then, your legs jerk around his waist, your shins locking together at the base of his spine as your thighs squeeze his hips, and his vision goes white.

For someone who has spent most of his sexually active years doggedly refusing to consider the idea of barebacking any of his former partners, Sanemi has a bitch of a time trying to remember why that is. Because nothing, not a goddamn thing at all, will ever compare to this.

Below him, you begin to mewl and whine, your hands clawing lightly at his chest in an effort to push him away. A voice blooms in the back of his head, a faint reminder that you’re likely overstimulated to the point of discomfort.

But it just feels too fucking good.

“Sorry, sweetheart, I’m still —“ Sanemi struggles against the deep groan vibrating in his throat as he continues to fuck you through his release. “Not — ngh — not done yet —“

He shifts, allowing his full weight to sink into you and still your squirming. He pushes your arms away from him, his hands wrapping around your biceps, pinning you down in place.

If you truly wanted him off, Sanemi would have obeyed, regardless of how badly he wanted to finish coming inside you. But though he has you held down, you still manage to rock your hips with his, your walls pulsing around him as his cum continues to fill you.

His cock twitches one last time, leaving Sanemi lightheaded and trembling as he finally finishes spending himself in you. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he drops his forehad against yours, panting. “You got me fuckin’ shaking.”

He unlatches his grip from your biceps in favor of bracing his forearms against your mattress, mindful to ease his full weight off you. Your fingers sweep through his hair, your other hand resting against the side of his neck, scratching at him until his eyes flutter open to reveal you craning your head up, a silent request for his kiss.

Sanemi obliges, and once he starts, he can’t stop. He doesn’t break the connection of your lips even as he pulls out, soothing your responding wince with a flick of his tongue. He stretches out on his side next to you, no room between your bodies as his arm nestles in the valley between your breasts, his hand cupping your cheek, kissing you all the while.

He lays with you like that for several moments until wetness graces his cheeks. Sanemi pulls back to see tears sliding down your face, more clinging to your eyelashes like tiny, glittering jewels.

Worry, hot and frantic, surges in his gut. “Hey, hey,” he kisses away the tracks staining your cheeks. “Was that okay? Was I too rough?”

You shake your head, turning it away from him to face your ceiling, your hand wiping tiredly at your eyes. “Not at all. I feel better – so much better. Less achy.” You roll your head back toward him, your eyes still watery but bright. “It’s just that – that was so fucking good. I didn’t expect it.”

That does little to assuage some of his concern. “What, it wasn’t good last time?”

You roll your eyes. “Not what I’m saying. I mean, I know I’m more sensitive than usual on my period. I’ve used toys before to help, but nothing has ever reduced me to tears from how good it felt.”

Instantly, his anxiety is washed away with a surge of pride that wells in his chest; a smugness that comes from the knowledge he’d fucked you so well you cried, but he keeps his boasts to himself.

Instead, Sanemi snorts. “Told ya I’d take care of you.”

You click your tongue, fidgeting as another gush of his cum leaks out of you. “Feels like you needed to be taken care of, too.”

“Haven’t jacked off in almost a week. Too much shit goin’ on.” He frowns before adding, “Plus, you’re all I wanted. My hand couldn’t compare to you.”

You roll your head back to face your ceiling, your eyes sliding closed and a blissful smile spreading across your lips. A smile that makes Sanemi’s own mouth part, his eyes growing wide, his cheeks, warm.

He doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to your beauty.

Sanemi settles back down next to you, his body slightly lower on the bed than yours. He remains on his side, eyes tracing every detail of your serene expression as he presses kisses along your bare shoulder.

Moments pass, or maybe hours, and still, Sanemi does not tear his eyes away from you. Eventually, your breathing slows under his adoring gaze, and Sanemi knows you’re moments away from sleep.

He whispers your name and you crack an eye open. “You feel up for a shower?”

Sleepily, you nod, but you make no effort to rise from the plush comfort of your bed.

Sanemi sighs through his nose. “Need some help?”

“My legs don’t work anymore.” You can’t hold back your giggle as you roll to watch Sanemi shake his head at you before rising, his hand rumpling his hair. The blankets fall away from his lower hips, giving you a premium view of the world-class ass of Sanemi Shinazugawa, and you can’t help but smirk at the faint, red crescent marks dotting his skin, left behind by your nails. But the remnants of your post-sex haze dissipate the moment Sanemi and turns back to you, revealing the extent of the mess you’d left behind.

You blanch; his groin and cock are both covered in a sticky redness, a residue of your period blood mixed with both your cum and his.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” Your hands flail as you try and wipe away all traces of blood from his groin and his softening cock, desperate to erase the evidence before he can see, before he can be disgusted by it, by you —

“Hey, hey — watch it —“ he growls as you brush your hand against his overly-sensitive cock. Sanemi’s hand snatches your wrist away from him, halting you mid-air. “Cut it out.”

Your cheeks burn with shame. “But —“

“Will ya stop worrying about it?” His fingers loosen around your wrist, and you retract your arm. “Look — see —“

Sanemi swipes his own hand through the mess you’d left behind and holds it up, your blood smeared on his fingers. “I don’t give a fuck. Kinda hot, actually.”

There is a mess of pink between your thighs, a combination of crimson mixed with his white that leaks out of you, staining your skin and the towel beneath you. He knows he’s wanton because he can’t stop thinking about how fucking pretty your pussy is.

Especially when it’s covered with him.

His tongue flicks out to wet his lips. “Definitely hot. And you’re gonna let me have a taste next time.”

Your thighs press together at the very obvious hunger in his stare. “Sorry my period interfered with your oral fixation.”

“Didn’t interfere with shit. When I say ‘next time’ I mean, next time you’re on it.”

You gape at him. “You’re not serious –”

“Very.”

Heat creeps up your neck. “Sanemi, it’ll be bloody –”

“I told you, I don’t give a shit. Only reason I didn’t do it tonight was ‘cuz I was worried you might stroke out.” He shoots you a naughty wink. “I’m still breakin’ you in, after all.”

The smugness in his tone ignites a fire in your cheeks, but before you can respond, the bed and blankets disappear from beneath you.

“C‘mon,” Sanemi grunts as he gathers you up in his arms. “Let’s get cleaned up.”

—

There is a stark contrast between sleeping with Sanemi Shinazugawa and showering with him.

Moments before, he’d been committed to fucking you senseless, seemingly not satisfied until you were reduced to a soggy, pleasure-drunk mess, only capable of gasping his name in stilted syllables.

None of that ferocity is present here, under the warm spray of the shower. Instead, Sanemi’s touch is soft, almost hesitant, as his arms encircle you, locking you in against his chest. His hand finds your face, and then his lips, and you melt into him. His kiss is not the passionate, possessive clash of tongue and teeth that it had been only moments before; this time, it is gentle. Chaste.

Any doubts which might have lingered in you as to the status of your relationship with him are quickly washed away, sliding down your legs with the water before mixing with the bubbles that slip down the drain. This is not a speck of softness marooned among an oasis of lust; this is not a temporary moment of affection between two people desperate to know it.

This is intimacy.

It is tenderness which warms Sanemi’s eyes as his mouth breaks from yours, that turns them into twin pools of amethyst as he brushes a wet strand of your hair away from your face. It’s adoration; a vulnerability he’d never dare show to just a hookup. This — he — is meant for you and you alone. And it is that silent understanding which passes between you that your hand moves to lay against his cheek, parrroting his gentle touch. And it is what makes you surge up boldly on your toes, your mouth slanting over his once more.

—-

By the time Sanemi wrenches your bathroom door open sometime later, allowing the steam from the shower to billow out into the open area of your studio, both of your fingers have turned wrinkly. He wagers you would’ve stayed in there longer, had your hot water supply not run out, your shower head dousing you both with water he reckons was dangerously close to freezing.

He’s the first to step out, though only because your bathroom is laughably small. He’s lucky the two of you managed to stand comfortably in your tub, but he doesn’t think that good fortune extends to you both drying off in the narrow space between your toilet, counter, and tub. Better he peel away now, and avoid starting a fight because you can’t mind your elbows.

Sanemi pads back to the bathroom, towel looped around his waist. “Took care of the towel on the bed. Threw it in the wash.” On cue, you hear the familiar click of your washing machine as it settles into its cycle. “Nothin’ got on your sheets, but I know some people can be picky. You okay sleeping on ‘em?”

“It’s fine,” you call from the bathroom. “Can you do me a favor? Top drawer of my dresser — there’s a row of black underwear. Throw me a pair?”

He returns a moment later, smirking as you hover in your bathtub, wrapped in an overlarge towel, waiting for him to bring you your panties. Like some internal code of decency prevents you from traipsing around your apartment in your towel like he does, even though he’s seen every inch of your body.

You emerge from the bathroom a moment later, still wrapped in your towel, right as Sanemi fishes something dark from its place on your floor.

He tosses his shirt to you. “You can wear that to bed, if you want. Not that you’ll hear me complain if you decide to sleep naked.” He shoots you a wink as he towels his hair. Pride wells in his chest at the sight of you slipping his tee over your head, and it soothes that hot, possessive streak within him. “Hope you don’t mind if I do, though. I’m not big on puttin’ dirty clothes back on after I’ve showered.”

“You’re —?” The surprise in your tone stills his hands, and he lifts his head. “Are you staying?”

Sanemi quirks an eyebrow at you. He’d thought it obvious he was, given the shower and how you’re now wearing his shirt. He studies you for a moment, notes how your hands twist together and the anxious shift of your weight from foot to foot.

A sudden sobriety settles over him. Of course; you’ve said you’d never been in a relationship before, which means all of this — having him over, showering with you, and sleeping in your bed — is brand new. As ready and committed as he is to you, perhaps this is all too much, too fast. It’s only natural for you to want to hit the brakes; to feel out this unfamiliar road.

“I don’t have to.” Embarrassment creeps up his neck. “We can slow this down, if that’s what you want. I’m not in any rush.”

Dumbass, he chides at himself. Granted, this is new territory for him as well. He at least thought his years of rotating partners in and out of his bed would’ve meant he had some tact, but here he is, jumping the gun.

Your eyes widen in alarm. “N-no! That’s not what I meant. I want you to stay -- I do. I just didn’t want you to think you had to.”

He can see how your cheeks darken as he draws near, can see the bob of your throat as you keep your eyes firmly glued to his, a concerted effort to keep from looking down, as though you haven’t seen, touched, felt every inch of his nudity.

A small smirk settles at the corner of his mouth.

Silently, Sanemi takes your chin between his thumb and index finger, keeping your face tilted up towards his. He leans in and feels your eyelashes flutter against his nose in anticipation of his kiss.

Only millimeters separate your lips when he pauses. “Who else is gonna slobber all over me ‘til I fall asleep?”

Your eyes fly open. “Y-you—! I —!”

He silences your indignant sputtering with a quick peck to your lips. “Yeah, I’m stayin’. That key wasn’t just some empty gesture, idiot.”

You smack his chest half-heartedly, but laugh as you kiss him again. “Just get back in bed. I’ll make tea.”

Sanemi steps back with a cheeky smirk and lets his towel drop to the floor. “Yes ma’am.”

He must know your eyes are glued to his ass as he walks away, for he offers you a little wiggle as he retreats back to your bed.

“Don’t forget to pick your jaw up off the ground, sweetheart.” He calls smoothly over his shoulder, focused on meticulously peeling back the covers of your bed, layer by layer. “Can’t make tea if you’re drooling everywhere.”

Rolling your eyes, you disappear behind the half wall of your kitchenette. Maybe you should kick him out, naked ass and all.

Out in the main area, Sanemi has settled back into bed, his arms folded behind his head.

“There’s another reason it took me so long to see you, you know,” Sanemi stares up at the black pipes striped across the high ceilings of your apartment as you busy yourself with the kettle in the kitchen. “I went to see my brother.”

“Genya?” You poke your head out from the doorway. You disappear only when the kettle beeps, mugs clinking together as you pull them from one of your cabinets.

“Yeah.”

You reemerge a moment later, two steaming cups of tea clutched delicately in each hand. “He doesn’t live with you, right? He’s someplace far from here?”

Carefully, you set the mugs on your small bedside table. You crawl back into bed beside him, Sanemi’s arms opening to allow you to settle in against him, your head coming to rest against his pectoral.

“He’s enrolled in a boys’ boarding school.” He puffs his chest out in pride. “A damn good one, too.”

Boarding school. You’d known that Genya attended school in another city, and spent most of his time there at Sanemi’s insistence, but you’d assumed he’d had his brother stay with a friend or a local family.

Now, you think of Sanemi, with his patched-up leather jacket and worn boots; of the apartment you know he keeps in the Silo that he never lets you visit, and try and square that with the Sanemi who pays for his brother’s private education. “Do I want to know how you manage to afford boarding school tuition?”

“He’s on scholarship — wasn’t hard to get, considering our family’s finances. Found the proof easily enough.” Sanemi stares off into the empty space of your apartment with a shrug. “But I also started saving as soon I started makin’ money. The minute I had enough put aside, I sent Genya away. Paid for his uniforms and school stuff. I send him cash every month now so he can do extracurriculars and shit. I want ‘im socializing. The more friends he makes, the more connections he’s got.”

Sanemi’s voice then softens. “The more chance that he’ll stay far away from here, y’know?”

You trace your index finger along one of the jagged, silvery scars that cuts across his chest. “Was this before or after your father died?”

“Tch. After.” Sanemi snorts. “The old man’s death was never reported to the cops, so there ain’t a death certificate for him. I forged his signature on the transfer paperwork.” He thinks before adding, “had someone I know get me the paperwork to become Genya’s legal guardian, once I hit eighteen. Not like it changed all that much. It’s always been me ‘n him, even before our old man bit it.”

A year ago, you hadn’t imagined Sanemi Shinazugawa was capable of anything other than brash self-service. He’d been so good at pretending to care about nothing, acting as if the only thing keeping him tethered to this world was a heart that refused to quit beating.

Time and again, Sanemi has proven that his actions are far louder than even his most obnoxious words. While he shrouds himself in arrogance, it’s a cloak that’s flimsy, at best. Once again, all it takes is a little effort, a little more initiative, to see what lies beneath it.

Under the beast’s mask lies the endless beauty that makes up Sanemi Shinazugawa: all his selflessness, all his fierce love and devotion. So gentle, so pure, and so worthy of the love he won’t let himself believe he deserves.

Emotion prickles behind your eyes. As if anyone on earth could be more worthy than him.

“‘Sides, I like havin’ someone to fuss after. Reminds me that some part of me is still human.” He continues, oblivious to the way your throat works to swallow around the lump lodged in your airways. “Now, I’ve got two people I get to care about.”

His hand holds up yours and he turns it over in his palm, admiring the shape of your fingers; the softness of your skin. He smiles and it’s the most devastatingly beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. “I’m pretty fuckin’ lucky, if you ask me. All things considered.”

Your silence shakes him out of his indulgent appreciation of your hand. But when his eyes find yours again, it’s his turn to be stunned silent.

You’re doing it again — looking at him as though he is the sun; such adoration feels nearly impossible to accept, especially by someone like him.

And yet, he wants to try; for you, he’d try anything.

For a long moment, the two of you hold each other’s gaze, neither daring to break the bubble that’s formed over your heads. What passes between you has a name, and both of you know it. It’s what slipped off your tongue that first night together, the confession whose weight you could no longer bear.

It remains unspoken, for now, but it’s there. Both of you know it; both of you feel it.

“I think the tea has cooled.” You murmur shyly. But you make no effort to reach for it, so neither does he. Instead, Sanemi leans forward and presses his lips softly against yours.

He can’t get enough of kissing you. This small act of intimacy was one he’d always left confined to the bedroom. Something he only ever did in the heat of the moment, when clothes were being shed, or when his hand was wound in someone’s hair, wrenching their head back to tease their lips with his as he pounded into them from behind.

Not since he was a teenager has he kissed anyone for kissing’s sake.

And he’d certainly never had anyone of his own to kiss whenever he wanted; with whom he could give into his desire for physical affection. But now that he’s tasted your lips, Sanemi finds he cannot get enough.

Minutes pass, or maybe hours. Time doesn’t seem to matter here, wrapped up in each other, kissing and talking and being together. As tired as you are, you can’t fathom falling asleep now.

Chin propped on his upper abdomen, you reach for him. Your fingers brush through his bangs, and Sanemi’s head bows into your touch. His hand smooths up and down your spine, charting your skin.

Your head suddenly lifts up, a playful smile on your pretty lips. “What do I call you now, anyways? You never answered.”

Sanemi’s fingers pause their lazy exploration of your back. “What do you mean?”

“I mean this. Us.”

A dent appears between his brows. “I’m your fuckin’ boyfriend. What else?”

That smirk widens into a full, teasing grin. The mirth in your eyes is beautiful, but Sanemi can’t help but feel like you’re making a joke he’s not in on. “What?”

“Nothing, it’s just — you don’t seem like the type to care about labels, that’s all. In fact, I thought you’d be against them.”

Sanemi’s tone turns indignant. “Why the fuck wouldn’t I want a label?”

“I don’t know.” You reply drily. “Maybe I assumed you didn’t want your bad boy image to take a hit.”

“What fuckin’ bad boy image —?”

You settle your head back down against him, your lashes tickling above his abdomen. That faint smile lingers for a second longer, but it disappears when you twist to press a kiss against his skin.

Instantly, Sanemi’s griping quiets and his knuckle ghosts over the curve of your cheek. For a moment, he studies you. He traces over every detail of your face, as though you’re nothing more than a fleeting indulgence. Like he needs to savor you, before someone comes and plucks you away.

“It’s weird, y’know?” His fingers play absently with the damp ends of your hair. “‘M not used to going to sleep with anyone. My bed’s always cold.”

You snort against his chest. “That’s not what the rumors said.”

“I didn’t let them spend the night,” you can hear the faint defensiveness in his tone. “Didn’t even cuddle with ‘em, either.”

“Yes, I heard you were quite the gentleman,” you reply airily. “Gave them just enough time to get dressed before you pushed them out the door.”

He chuffs. “You’re makin’ me sound like some sorta player.”

“Name one person you’ve slept with besides me.”

He taps his finger to the tip of your nose. “A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell.” He tucks a stray lock of your hair behind your ear. “And besides, there’s only one who matters.”

This time, it’s you who flushes, heat pooling in your cheeks. “You don’t have to seduce me. You’ve already talked your way into bed with me.”

“You’re the one who cornered me, Princess.” Sanemi counters. “In fact, you were pretty damn insistent about it. You haven’t seen all the ways I know how to seduce a woman — not yet, anyway.”

“Oh?” Your hand teases down the length of his torso, your fingers pausing just at the edge of the blanket, where it’s pulled over his lower half. Lightly, you drag your nail over his skin, and Sanemi bites his tongue to keep his hips from twitching under your touch. “Care to share with the class?”

“I might.” And he snatches your hand by the wrist, stilling you before you can sneak below the blanket and start something he knows you can’t finish. “But I think you’d prefer it if I showed you.”

Your giggles are intoxicating as he flips you back under him, his lips peppering your skin with kisses everywhere he can reach.

It’s incredible; he’s never felt so at ease with another. But the weight of his choice soon settles over him once more, and his face turns serious.

“I can’t be here every night,” and there’s something like regret in his eyes as they search yours, and the thumb stroking your cheek feels repentant. “My…job won’t let me be, as much as I might want to.”

His expression darkens. “And I don’t want to risk anyone following me. No —“

“No patterns,” you finish with a small, understanding smile. “I didn’t think that part would change, even if you decided to come back.”

“It’s not fair to you,” Sanemi admits, his mouth thinning into a hard line. “Nothin’ about this is fair to you. I can’t take you out on dates. We can’t move in together. I can’t even see you everyday. I—.”

He cuts himself off with a sign, and the hand that was playing with your hair falls to your back and stills. “I don’t blame you if you decide it’s too much. I told you, you deserve better —“

A press of your finger against his lips stifles his self-loathing. “And I told you, I don’t want anyone else.”

Sanemi’s hand closes around your wrist and he presses your hand more fully to his mouth, but he does not speak.

“I told you how I felt about you, and I meant it.” And then, you add more quietly, “I know what I signed up for.”

He winces at that. “No,” he reaches to stroke your cheek with his knuckle.

“No, you don’t. I know you think you do — and I’m gonna do my damnedest to keep you far away from my shit — but there are risks to bein’ with me, Y/N.”

Risks he never should’ve brought to your door to begin with.

“Like what, to my safety?” The bluntness of your words is softened by the inquisitive tilt of your head. “I don’t know if that’s as bad as you might think.”

“But —“

“Do you think I was somehow safer when I was all alone? Do you think anyone would have noticed if I’d just disappeared one day?”

Your fingers trace circles in the dip between his pecs, toying with the faint smattering of pale hair that lies there. “My siblings don’t call. I haven’t seen my parents in over two years.” You give him a wan smile. “At least now if something happens to me, there’s someone in this damn city who would give a shit.“

The thought makes his gut turn, and yet, the nausea he feels at the prospect of anything happening to you pales against the sorrow he feels that you’ve been left alone for so long.

It made sense, he thought, for someone like him to have no one. Until you, he’d been a staunch observer of the Corp’s creed; he’d sent his little brother as far away as he could, and resigned himself to an existence of self-imposed isolation. He’d known his future – how little of it likely existed – would be too hostile to forge any bonds, the soil of his life too acidic, too toxic for anything real to take root. The idea that he could have anyone to love and to keep had never been his to claim and so, he’d not known to mourn its loss.

But you hadn’t been raised the same way he had. By his own observations, you’d grown up safe and warm and loved in a nice house that sat situated on a row of other nice homes. Ones built with brick and mortar; where you never had to worry about the lights shutting off or whether you would be warm come winter.

And your parents seemed like they’d given a damn. He’d never forgotten the relief on their faces that day, when he’d returned your little sister to them; how they’d clung to her, tears of relief and gratitude shining in their eyes. That was something else Sanemi hadn’t known: the love of a parent. Not apart from his mother, but she’d died not long after Genya was born, leaving her two boys saddled with a man who couldn’t spell the word father, let alone understand the duties of one.

You’d been given everything he hadn’t, and yet, you’d ended up exactly like him: alone.

Worse, Sanemi realizes, he’d secured more than you had in his adulthood. He’d grown a network. His position in the Corps meant he had comrades who would at least know if he turned up dead. Who might even secure justice down the business end of a steel bat or the barrel of a stolen gun.

You didn’t even have that.

You shrug. “I don’t know. I think you knowing and caring I exist makes me a little safer.”

How could he not? You’re the axis upon which his world now turns, the only stabilizing force in his life.

A lump builds thickly in his throat. His arms form a protective cage around you, tightening until you lay your head back down against his chest.

His hand cups the back of your skull. “Alright,” he says hoarsely after a moment. “As long as you’re fine with someone like me, I won’t push it.” His fingers comb gently through your hair.

“Mmm. I’m pretty content with my choices.” You hum sleepily against his skin. Sanemi glances down to see your eyes fighting a losing battle against sleep. “’Specially when you do that.”

A ghost of a smile forms on Sanemi’s lips. “You can go to sleep, y’know.”

You nestle into his chest. “Will you be here when I wake up?”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Yeah. I promise. The felonies can wait.” He settles in deeper against your pillows, his fingers still stroking along your scalp. “‘Sides, I wouldn’t leave my girl before kissin’ her goodbye.”

You snuggle happily into his skin, and before long, your breathing slows and you grow still, your fingers curled limply on his chest. He didn’t think it would take you all that long to fall asleep, and here you are, safe and sound and his.

“Sleep, baby,” he murmurs quietly against your hairline, though he knows you can’t hear him. “I ain’t lettin’ you go, now.”

For a long while, he holds you, his fingers continuing to drag up and down your spine. It’s strange to be touched with such affection; such reverence. He hadn’t the words to quite sum up how he’d felt that night, but now, Sanemi realizes just how starved for intimacy he’d been.

He hadn’t let himself do this with the others – quietly lay in bed, letting hands roam for something other than lust as he breathed them in. Relax. This is a side of him for your eyes only; a byproduct of him now being yours.

Besides, why shouldn’t he relax? He’s home. Because home, as he’s come to realize, is not some dingy box in the SIlo or even some place far, far away from the Corps and everyone in it.

Home is a woman he’d known for most of his life, yet not at all, not until the universe forced him back into your orbit. Home is your fingers twitching against his chest, still guided by the compulsion to touch him with the same gentleness he shares with you; the warmth of your body curled around his.

Home is wherever you are.

REBLOGS, COMMENTS, AND LIKES APPRECIATED!

#demon slayer #kimetsu no yaiba #sanemi shinazugawa #kny #kny x reader #kny fanfic #kny sanemi #sanemi x reader #kny smut #demon slayer smut #shinazugawa sanemi #sanemi x y/n #sanemi fanfic #sanemi smut

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retroaria · 4 months ago

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♱ sinner! ♱

⛧ college!au michael kaiser x fem!reader

summary: kaiser finds himself swallowed up by guilt as he struggles to maintain composure around his oh so sweet girlfriend, a task which would be simple if his mind wasn't in the gutter...

cw: MDNI nsfw 18+ content, virgin/celibate!reader implied, virgin!kaiser as well, this is pretty nasty i won't lie, religious referencing and dialogue, yearning, wet dreams, masturbation, edging, groping, no p-in-v sorry y'all, proofreading goes against my religion.

⛧blue lock m.list x as always, reblogs are appreciated!

"Lord, please guide me once again into your light, for I have allowed myself to be led astray. I woke up this morning in a pool of my own filth, I have let the forces of darkness take over my will in the night..."

A pool of filth is exactly what it was. His body shivered as the morning blue began to creep in through the windows, reminding him that he was no longer alone with the dull light of his phone beside him, your face smiling on the screen. A photo of you in a pretty white dress, a dress that kept you modest, yet cute. The hem fell just above your knees, teasing the skin of your supple thighs, the sleeves hugging your arms, showing only a sliver of your shoulders. You looked adorable, a kind and innocent young woman, adorned as such.

Tonight, it only took that one photo. It kept him wired until morning, until he could barely move without a spike of sensitivity running through his lower half. Michael slowly sat up on his bed, looking down at the mess before him in disgust. His face twisted and his stomach churned. His mouth slightly open as he groaned, forcing himself up and off the bed. His cock hung between his thighs, soft and wet, his tip still slightly leaking. His eyes darted over to the clock on his nightstand, it read "6:52 A.M.", and he had two hours before you were to arrive. he needed to clean up this mess, clean up his dick, recenter his mind, and hot iron his church clothes before you got here.

It's been awhile since Michael made a mess like this, for a moment, he found himself feeling pleased, satisfied with the pleasure he brought to himself. As he stripped the sheets from his mattress he let the memory of each release playback in his mind.

The first one, where he focused his gaze to the dresses ruffles that laid across your chest, cupping your breasts in a way that feigned between the line of sultry and slutty. He let his fingers only graze up his length, imagining the feeling of the fabric on his skin, the feeling of your skin on his skin. His cock fitting perfectly between the gap of your tits squeezed together around him. He grabbed his cock in a gentle hold, stroking lightly as looked up at your smiling face on the screen, thinking of how your eyes would glaze over as you watched him fall apart above you. Your hands pushing your tits together to milk him for all he's got. He closed his eyes when he came, so he didn't have to see it spurting out all over his comforter, envisioning the hot ropes of cum dripping down your smiling face instead. He repeated this three more times, until the tip of his cock was red and swollen, leaking out on its own.

The sheets made it to the washing machine and Michael made it to the bathroom. His hands gripped the edges of the sink as he wearily scanned his reflection in the mirror. He looked at his face as if it were unrecognizable, quickly falling down to his knees and clasping his hands in front of him.

"...Allow me to face this new day a better man than I was yesterday. It is the knowing of your love and compassion that brings me to my knees to confess…”

Fresh, clean, composed, and just in the knick of time. Michael opened the door to your shining face, smiling at him. He let his hands gently grip your waist as he leaned down to place a chaste kiss to your cheek. He let his arms snake around you gently as he pulled you flush against him. He breathed in the scent of your hair and firmed his grip to feel the outline of your skin beneath your dress. He held you there a few strung moments, just long enough for your warmth to beginning trickling over him.

When he pulled back his eyes roamed your body. They widened as they took in your figure, your body draped elegantly in that god for forsaken white dress. He felt his mind begin to wander, but you looked at him expectantly and he did his best to remain calm.

“Good morning, Liebe…”

“Good morning, Micha!” by the time you words made their way around his spinning mind they sounded almost taunting, yet you gazed up at him with a sickeningly sweet smile, unbeknownst to his inner turmoil. His eyes searched your face for a few moments before wandering south.

“Michael…?” your tender voice pushing aside the silk white distraction tickling his brain.

His eyes flew up to meet yours, his body stiffened. “S-sorry, are you ready to go?”

“Yup, let’s go!” so sweet, so innocently eager - you grabbed his hand in yours and pulled him from the doorway. He trailed behind you, eyes glued to the subtle sway of your hips, the fabric of the dress flowing in the gentle breeze, revealing parts of your thighs that lived further up. He imagined his hand gliding against the skin of your thigh, slowly pushing the fabric up until it revealed to him what laid between your legs. Then he imagined tugging at the dress with his teeth, tearing it off you like a wild animal. His mouth so close to your skin, he wondered what you tasted like.

Before he could conjure up a full fantasy, the two of you had reached his car. He quickly jogged to the passenger side, opening the door for you with a charming smile. He took note of how quickly the car filled up with the scent of your perfume. At every red light he’d take a moment to glance over at you as you rambled on about your week, laser focusing on the parting of your lips - the subtle strings of lip gloss and saliva connecting them almost sent him into a frenzy. He thanked the lord the guy behind him had honked just in time so he could focus back on driving.

Pulling into the parking lot - he parked the car and got out of his seat, swinging around the back to open the door for you. Michael uses his unprecedented chivalry to remind himself you’re a respectable woman, one whom he loves deeply. He’d hate to admit that he’s hoping it’ll get him brownie points. Maybe one day you’ll appear before him in his room; “I don’t want to wait anymore Micha~ I want you now.”. You’d tell him he deserves it, he’s proven his worth - every opened door and every doting action inching his face closer and closer to the flowered heaven between your legs.

He reached out his hand for you to grab as you swing said legs out of the car and stand before him. Is he truly so depraved that the way your knees flex and the muscles of your thighs and calves clench in this subtle motion makes his cock twitch? Absolutely. He guides you, your hand in his, as you step out of the car. The door shuts behind you and you both make your way towards the entrance.

Michael never was a church goer before meeting you. He’d gone on the occasion holiday with his family growing up, slugging through the long hours and asking god for much simpler things than he does now. You’ve been a loyal member of this specific church for a long time, your family as well. You handed out your greetings as you crossed paths with familiar faces on the way to the entrance. Michael had only become your Sunday morning plus one within the last few months, so he always opted for a smile and an awkward wave.

The two of you made your way inside, sitting in the pews. You mingled with the people around you for a bit before the pastor took to the chancel and began the mass. The both of you shifted your attention to the front of the church. Michael let his body rest a bit, slugging slightly in his seat and let his weight fall to your side a bit. You leaned into his as well, crossing your legs and placing your hand on his left thigh. Michael noted that you’d never done that before, it was an innocent gesture of course, but it made danger signals go off in his head at a time like this.

You’ve been together for five months and not once has any part of you been this close to his groin. As he went through the motions of his internal reaction, he was also faced with the self awareness of his own insanity for feeling aroused by something so minuscule. It felt as though he could feel the short distance between your fingers and his cock, like strings of electricity.

He took a deep breath and attempted to relax himself. It was unfortunate that he never truly did pay much attention to the pastor, he’d usually spend these few hours lost in his own thoughts, but he’d like to refrain from that at this moment. He thought about the colors he could see around him, the way his chest heaved up and down, anything to distract him. He tried to think about the way the church smelled, but could only pick up notes of you beside him. Thinking about the way his body felt would only worsen things. The memory crept up like a serpent slipping through the cracks of a tarnished wall - Michael unfortunately recalled a dream he’d had about this once.

Just after the crowd makes their way out of the church, Michael holds your body still in front of him pushing you roughly over the pew in front of you. Your moans and pretty sounds bouncing off the pillars and mosaic tiles, bringing him to the point of sensory overload. His hips rammed into you like a filthy dog in heat, thrusting in and out of you with primal need. His hair laid buried in your neck, which adorned his grasp like a rosary as he held you up against him. With every slap of his hips against your ass he felt a flame inside him burning through every inch of his nervous system. Just as that flame was about to make its way out through his cock, he woke up, sore and sweaty.

You could feel him stiffen next to you. He let out a nervous cough before leaning towards you a bit to whisper in your ear. “E-excuse me…” he spoke frantically, standing from the pews and quietly making his way to the stairwell leading him down into the basement of the church and towards the bathroom. Without even getting in a stall - sure that no one else would enter - he pulled down his pants and let one of his hands fly over his bulging cock. Just a swipe of your skin against his had it struggling against the fabric of his dress pants. He rubbed over it a bit, taking deep breaths and imagining the damning face of his lord and savior as he fell into the arms of unholy desires - in a place of worship at that. Pulling his pants back up, he glanced at himself in the mirror, a disgusted look already painted his face.

The walk back up the corridor to the main hall was an opportunity for him to recenter himself. He quickly shuffled himself back over to you in the pews, sitting down a bit awkwardly. You beamed a bit as you saw him return, only to be met with a look of sternness you hadn’t seen in him before. His jaw clenched slightly as he felt your eyes on him - he looked straight ahead, building up the strength to meet your eyes. When he did, it was with a smile. One you hadn’t seen coming, or seen forming at all, but it was the Michael you know and love with that sweet, handsome smile.

As you recall, Michael spent the rest of that day chauffeuring you around to miscellaneous errands. He carried your bags for you, opened every door for you, his gentle hand on the small of your back guiding you about. Then, he dropped you off at home, a soft peck to your lips, a smile, and a small wave as he watched you enter your home before driving off.

He crawled into his bed, his right hand slithering under the covers, tugging the waistband of his own boxers teasingly as he scrolled his camera roll. You, everywhere, so much fuel for his fire, so much build up for his desire. His fingers slip past the fabric. Michael knew no matter how hard he prayed, or how honestly he’d repent, he couldn’t fight what he needed the most. When the room is lit only by the light from his phone and the sheer twilight beam through the window. When he lies next to no one, alone, desperate. He’ll fall to the sight of you every single time. The cycle repeats.

“….please, be merciful to me, a sinner.”

i should probably add that i have never been to church other than for a funeral once and i lowkey blocked that out so i am not a credible source for catholic practices (not that it’s ever that serious)

thank you for reading and i hope you enjoyed!

networks: @bllk-tv + @pixelcafe-network

dividerz: @toastray

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rothpie · 5 months ago

Text

❝FIDELITY❞ |part11

MASTERLIST -`✮´- Rafe Cameron x Kook!Reader x JJ Maybank

Summary: Kook!Reader’s world is upended by betrayal, and her only way forward might lie with the most unlikely person—JJ Maybank. But as they build a new life together, old flames and past mistakes refuse to stay buried.

Warnings: time jumps, slut shaming(kind of?), daddy issues, pregnancy and everything about that, breakdown.

previous - next

5 Months and 1 Week Pregnant

It was one of those rare times when everything felt like it was going well. There was no need to lie; you were happier than usual. In the past, you’d wake up late and force yourself to cook, but now, it was like you had an internal alarm clock. You were up on time every day, and you even found some joy in cooking.

You preferred waking up to some noise in the house rather than silence. Having someone else there, hearing the sounds of cooking—it felt like loneliness had disappeared completely. And even though you knew it wouldn’t last forever, you were starting to get used to it. Instead of dreading the day it would end, you chose to focus on the moment.

Living with JJ wasn’t hard. If anything, it made life easier.

You hadn’t thought of him as so helpful before. The way he’d try to do anything you asked, the way he made you laugh effortlessly—it all deepened your bond with him.

He never asked for anything in return. Not a single thing. Yet, he was always there for you, without expecting a thing. That made you feel awful. You wanted to do something for him, to not leave his kindness unanswered. But deep down, you knew JJ didn’t expect anything from you; he’d help you regardless.

Despite growing up with a lousy father in terrible circumstances, JJ had developed a sense of compassion that made you question so much about yourself.

Not just yourself but the world around you. It was absurd how people raised in luxury and privilege often saw helping others as a sign of weakness.

If someone lacked the capacity for kindness, what kind of success could they truly achieve in life?

To you, the answer was nothing. They could own yachts, mansions, and cars—but without a pure and kind heart, what was the point?

These thoughts stayed with you, especially during Sarah and John B’s wedding.

It wasn’t anything overly extravagant, not that you expected it to be. Just a few close friends were there, and most of the faces were familiar. Seeing Cleo and Kiara as Sarah’s bridesmaids in their blue dresses was adorable. On John B’s side, JJ and Pope stood as groomsmen, both in suits with matching blue ties.

You never thought you’d see JJ in a suit in your lifetime. It just—wasn’t his style, and imagining it had always seemed impossible.

You followed every update on Instagram, curious. Everything looked sweet, perfect even. But what really surprised you was seeing the entire Cameron family at the wedding—even Rafe.

You had no idea they’d reconciled. You couldn’t have known; you hadn’t been close to Rafe for months. Still, you always had a sense that he regretted the distance he’d put between himself and his sisters when he was younger.

Even so, you never thought Sarah would be brave enough to reach out. Especially when you saw him sitting almost front and center.

But—it wasn’t your problem. You were glad they’d worked things out, and that was it. You didn’t want Rafe occupying even a corner of your mind, despite the fact that you carried a piece of him inside you.

The two days without JJ felt long. You couldn’t believe how quickly you’d gotten used to his presence, but apparently, you had. When he returned, you couldn’t help but feel relieved. You’d gained a housemate—it was just how things had turned out. The guest room you’d prepared for visitors had become JJ’s room.

When you saw him standing there with a suitcase in hand, you realized this was really happening—he’d moved in.

As the days passed, you got even more used to each other. It was...endearing. Until the day you woke up to the smell of something burnt.

You had no idea what was going on downstairs, but the house reeked. When you went to the kitchen, you found JJ trying to make breakfast.

He must’ve heard your footsteps because he turned to you with a half-smile, looking unsure of himself. Holding out a plate of slightly burnt pancakes with an open hand, he grinned proudly. “Ta-da!”

Your eyes darted to the table, where fresh orange juice and a few other things were set out, but you quickly looked back at JJ. “Don’t get the wrong idea—it’s not for you. It’s for the baby.” He set down the spatula and gestured to your belly before turning back to the stove.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t suppress the smile tugging at your lips. Walking over to check the pancakes, you saw they were, in fact, burnt. “You know… I have a master’s degree in culinary arts. My specialty is actually being a chef, but... if you want to keep going, I’d never say no. My pancakes are perfect, of course, so you won’t top them, but—”

Your eyes fell on the charred pancakes again. You grabbed the spatula from his hand. “Step aside.”

He smiled as he moved without protest, leaning against the table to watch. There was no way you were letting either of you eat those burnt pancakes. Still, it was a sweet gesture. He didn’t have to do anything at all.

“By the way.” You glanced over from the stove to see him holding out a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. Smiling, you took it. “Since you hate tea now, I thought maybe you’d like some orange juice. I squeezed it myself.”

You turned down the heat on the stove and smiled as you took the glass from him. “Thank you. That’s so thoughtful.”

JJ shrugged, his eyes wandering around the kitchen as you took a sip. You loved oranges—honestly, you couldn’t imagine life without fruit.

“Of course.” He leaned against the counter, watching as you flipped the pancakes.

“You seem a little off.” You glanced at him. He wasn’t his usual energetic self. It felt like something was weighing on him.

“I talked to John B.” His eyes were still fixed on the pancakes. You always forgot how good he was at hiding his emotions—except now. He looked too upset to mask it. “He kept saying he hadn’t seen me on the island. So, I told him I’d moved here.”

You waited, hoping for some kind of positive reaction, but his face gave away nothing. He didn’t look at you; his eyes stayed fixed on the frying pan. You couldn’t help but wonder what was going through his head, what kind of conversation he had just had.

And more than that, this was the first you were hearing about it. You’d been with JJ for days now, yet not once had John B—or any of his other friends—called him, as far as you knew. Or maybe they had, and you just hadn’t noticed. “What did he say?”

You set the perfectly cooked pancake on top of JJ’s charred pile, then turned to face him. One hand ran through his hair, ruffling it in that way he always did when he was feeling off. “He wasn’t exactly thrilled.”

When his gaze finally lifted to meet yours, you felt like you could finally read the expression on his face. He looked hurt—genuinely hurt. You wished you could read his mind; it would make things so much easier.

“Did you tell him why you’re here?” you asked, your voice softened intentionally. You didn’t want to sound harsh, not even by accident. JJ straightened up quickly, shaking his head with conviction.

“This is about you. I’d never do that.” His eyes stayed locked on yours, like he was silently making a vow.

The last thing you wanted was for JJ to deal with this because of you. When you’d asked him to stay, you hadn’t thought too far ahead, hadn’t considered what it might mean. But you didn’t want things to turn out like this. These were people JJ trusted, and you trusted JJ. You didn’t want them to fight because of you.

Eventually, everyone was going to know. One way or another, the truth would come out. There was no reason to keep it a secret, not at least for JJ’s sake. And honestly, seeing how upset he looked put a dull ache in your chest.

“You can tell them,” you said softly. “If you trust them, then I trust them too.”

JJ’s eyebrows shot up, his surprise plain as day. He clearly hadn’t expected you to say that. But if they could be understanding, and if it would help JJ feel better, then it was worth it. After all, this wasn’t the end of the world. It was just five more people knowing.

6 Months Pregnant

Everything had escalated so quickly. Even you hadn’t seen it coming. The day you told JJ that he could share it with his friends, he refused. But, of course, you pressed him until he gave in.

He couldn’t hold out and ended up telling them. No one could deny the initial shock; it was written all over their faces. Still, you were relieved when you noticed how it seemed to smooth things over between JJ and his friends afterward.

“You got her pregnant?!” John B’s voice boomed through JJ’s phone, loud enough to reach you in the kitchen where you were washing dishes.

“Have you never heard of a condom in your life?!” Pope chimed in, equally loud. You couldn’t help but overhear their chaotic exchange. JJ was trying to explain himself, but each time he opened his mouth, someone else interrupted. You pressed your lips tightly together, suppressing a laugh as you loaded the dishwasher.

“Can you guys just stop for a second? Of course not! She’s just a friend—I’m helping her out!” JJ finally managed to get a word in, and the corners of your lips twitched into a smile. Peeking through the window, you saw him sprawled on the porch sofa, legs stretched out, his backward cap completing the look of pure exasperation.

“Helping her out as the baby daddy?!” Cleo shouted in disbelief.

“Oh my God, Cleo! I literally just said no!”

From that day on, JJ’s interactions with his friends seemed to pick up again. Sometimes, yours did too. JJ often FaceTimed Sarah and John B, and while Sarah’s cheerful greetings to you felt a bit awkward, you appreciated the effort. After all, she was technically your daughter’s aunt.

The real awkwardness came when JJ mentioned his friends wanted to visit—now that they knew he wasn’t on the island anymore and wouldn’t be for a while. At the house.

When JJ first brought it up, you hesitated—not because you didn’t want them over, but because they’d see you. Pregnant. And at six months along, there was no hiding it.

But saying no wasn’t really an option, especially since you’d been the one to suggest JJ stay with you in the first place. You were living together now. How could you tell him his friends couldn’t come to see him?

Neither of you was particularly skilled in the kitchen, so you settled on ordering pizza and turning it into a casual pizza night. Simple, easy, and quick cleanup.

“Hey there!” JJ greeted them at the door while you hung back a little, watching the scene unfold with a soft smile. John B pulled JJ into a bear hug, followed quickly by Pope, who practically launched himself at him. It was sweet.

After everyone had taken their turns hugging JJ, they turned toward you. Cleo was the first to approach, arms wide open like she’d known you forever.

“Oh my God, hi! You look amazing!” she gushed, pulling you into a warm embrace.

When she stepped back, you couldn’t help but beam. Compliments like that hit differently when you were pregnant—and when you secretly felt the same way about yourself.

“So do you! I hope the drive wasn’t too hard to find us,” you replied. Cleo nodded with a grin, stepping aside as Kiara came into view. She wasn’t as exuberant as Cleo, but you didn’t hold it against her.

“Hi,” Kiara greeted you, offering a brief but friendly hug.

“Hey,” you responded with a small smile, chuckling as Pope called out from behind, “Now this is what I call a house…”

As Kiara moved aside, Sarah came up, her bright smile almost startling you. The tension you’d been holding onto crept back in. Of course, there wasn’t a person here who didn’t know who the father of your baby was. After all, after years of dating, there was no way it wasn’t Rafe. And you were certain Sarah knew that too.

“That pregnancy glow thing? It’s really working for you!” Sarah said with enthusiasm, extending the greeting dramatically before pulling you into an unexpected hug. “Look at you! Hi!”

You hadn’t expected it to go this smoothly, let alone for everyone to be this sweet. It was either because they genuinely were nice or… JJ. Just like you were being nice to them because of JJ.

Fair enough.

If you were still living on the island and weren’t pregnant, this would’ve been a completely different vibe. But here you all were, playing nice for someone else’s sake. And honestly? You didn’t hate it.

In fact, you kind of loved it.

The house filled with laughter as everyone settled around the table. You watched them reconnect over slices of pizza, their camaraderie so genuine it almost warmed your heart.

You loved how their laughter filled the space, how JJ kept drawing you into conversations even when you felt like a bit of an outsider.

You’d always hated curious stares, but their looks didn’t feel like that. They felt like they were listening—like they actually cared about what you had to say. It did wonders for your confidence.

“I’ll clear the pizza boxes; you guys can move to the couch if you want,” you offered with a smile, gripping the edge of the table for support as you got up.

“No way!” Cleo was already on her feet, grabbing the box in front of her. Kiara and the others followed suit, practically springing into action.

“You’re pregnant! No way we’re letting you do anything,” Kiara added firmly, cutting off your protest before it could start.

A warm hand rested on your back, and you turned to see JJ smiling down at you.

“I’ve got it,” he said.

For a moment, you considered pushing back but gave in with a small nod. Something about the way he looked at you made it impossible to argue. Reassuring.

As they cleaned up, you couldn’t help but feel a twinge of guilt. You were the host, and having guests do the work felt… wrong.

The feeling lingered even as you made your way to the bathroom. Pregnancy had turned every trip to pee into a race against time, and you’d grown to hate how often you felt like you might not make it.

After finishing up, you washed your hands and glanced in the mirror, checking your makeup. When you opened the door, you nearly bumped into Sarah, standing just a little down the hall.

“Sarah…” you said, eyebrows lifting in surprise. She smiled nervously, brushing her blonde hair back with one hand while the other fiddled with her nose.

“Hey,” she started hesitantly, eyes flickering between you and the floor. “I just wanted to check… Are you okay?”

Her concern was sweet, and you shrugged lightly, feeling oddly touched. “I’m fine.”

“Not like that. I mean… after everything. JJ didn’t give us much detail—neither did Rafe. So,” she looked a bit uneasy. You could tell the concern in her voice was genuine. She wasn’t trying to pry or make you feel bad.

“I still don’t trust Rafe, and I don’t know what went down between you two, but I was worried about you. And after finding out about you and the baby, I swear I didn’t tell him a thing.” She placed her hand on Sarah’s arm in reassurance, and the tension in Sarah’s face softened.

For reasons you couldn’t fully grasp, Sarah looked panicked. It was like… she was acting as if Rafe didn’t know. Because she didn’t know he knew. Maybe she thought she’d kept this from him, even ran away from him.

“He knows, Sarah.” Her brows relaxed, but the shock on her face was undeniable. Her lips parted as though to speak, but no sound came for a moment.

Sarah was grappling with how Rafe could know and still let you leave. Everyone knew you two were in love—so much so it was nauseating at times. You’d been the girl who stuck around the longest in his life, especially on the island. So how did he let it go? How did he accept it? She couldn’t wrap her head around it.

She couldn’t hide the growing frustration toward her brother. It was almost incomprehensible.

“But—” Her lips moved again, but nothing came out. She was lost for words, ready to storm back to the island and give Rafe a piece of her mind—or more than that. She could practically picture herself shouting at him.

How could he leave a pregnant woman—especially the mother of his child—on her own? And not just anyone. It was you. Not just the mother of his baby, but the girl he claimed to love.

“He found out right after I did. He… didn’t want to do this together. We agreed to separate—kind of. I thought moving to the mainland was the best thing to do.” Sarah pushed the loose strands of hair from her face. She looked genuinely upset, enough to make you want to comfort her. But it was in the past, and there was no use in dwelling on it. You were looking ahead now, and you were happy with that.

“How? That bastard—ugh, I hate him.” Her words were filled with anger, and you couldn’t help the small chuckle that escaped your lips. Seeing you smile seemed to brighten her mood too. She felt better knowing you weren’t as upset about it anymore.

Still, Sarah felt an odd shame, almost like she was the one who’d wronged you. The fact that it was Rafe, her own blood, who had left you to fend for yourself—and with a baby—made her cringe.

“Please don’t.” You looked at her, your voice soft but firm. There was no need for her to hate him, especially now that you’d begun mending bridges. “He wasn’t ready, and I was. That’s all there is to it.”

Her brows shot up in disbelief. You couldn’t believe how quickly her emotions shifted—she looked ready to murder Rafe on the spot.

She was furious, even livid. She couldn’t fathom how he could shirk such a responsibility. She’d be angry with anyone who did that, but knowing it was her brother made her blood boil. “So, let me get this straight—he was ready enough to finish inside you but not to deal with the consequences? Is that it?”

You didn’t reply. There was no point. These were the thoughts you’d worked so hard to bury. Of course, you’d had them too, but if you were going to move forward, you couldn’t dwell on them.

Holding onto the past wouldn’t let you live your future. What was done was done. There was no undoing it.

Sarah noticed your change in mood and quickly reached out, placing a hand on your arm. She looked worried, as though she’d said the wrong thing. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.”

“No, don’t apologize. You’re right. But I just want to move on—I don’t want to waste any more time feeling sad about it.” You gave her a small smile, trying to reassure her. No matter what, you were determined to hold onto your happiness. You wouldn’t let any fight or rejection overshadow the joy waiting for you.

“Of course. Whatever you do, I’ve got your back. You know you can always call me. I mean, I’m going to be an aunt, after all.” Sarah’s giggle was contagious, and you found yourself laughing along with her. It was comforting, even grounding, to know she was there for you.

“Of course you are. Just… can we keep this from your family for now?” You still couldn’t help yourself—you were protecting him. If Ward found out, he’d strip Rafe of everything, and even knowing that, you were shielding him. Stupid.

“If it were up to me, I’d tell my dad just to watch him beat Rafe into the ground—but I won’t. For you and the baby.” Sarah wrapped her arm around your waist, and you slung yours over her shoulder. As you both walked toward the living room, a quiet “thank you” escaped your lips.

“There you are!” A voice rang out as you entered the room. Your eyes followed it to see JJ standing up from the couch and walking toward you. “We were starting to worry.”

You watched as Sarah slipped away and joined John B. A moment later, you turned back to find JJ standing close, his hand resting on your waist as he leaned in. His presence was a little unnerving, though this wasn’t unusual for him. This was just how things had always been.

“You’re okay, right?” His voice was quieter now, meant for you alone. His eyes searched yours as if he were ready to whisk you off to the hospital at the slightest sign of trouble.

Your hand found its way to his arm, squeezing gently as if to reassure him. When you nodded, your other hand instinctively rested on your belly. “I’m fine.”

JJ smiled, glancing over at the others. His hand lingered at your waist. “So, who’s up for a game?”

7 Months and 1 Week Pregnant

Sleeping had become a challenge. You missed the quality rest you used to get, the kind that actually left you feeling refreshed. You longed for the days when you could sleep on your stomach, or even just roll over in bed without feeling like a beached whale.

Now, falling asleep required effort—serious effort, like you were training for some sleep Olympics.

Waking up drenched in sweat had become your new least favorite thing. The nights felt as hot as mid-summer, and every single one included at least one trip to the bathroom or the kitchen for water.

Even getting out of bed was an ordeal, just as tough as getting back in. Your back was always aching, and it felt like life itself had become one giant workout session. Exhausting in every possible way.

It was one of those nights again. You woke up, groaning internally at how much you hated this pattern. You wanted nothing more than a good night’s sleep, but of course, that was out of the question. Everything felt like it was conspiring against you.

Pushing your hair out of your face, you sat up, gasping for breath like you’d just finished running a marathon. The sheer size of your belly still caught you off guard sometimes.

When you noticed your bedside glass of water was empty, you groaned. Of course. The universe wasn’t cutting you any slack. With a resigned sigh, you got up and shuffled toward the door, making your way downstairs.

In the kitchen, as you poured yourself a glass of water, a faint buzzing sound caught your attention. You paused, straining to listen. Was the TV still on? You had gone to bed early, and now you were wondering if JJ had forgotten to turn it off.

With the glass in hand, you wandered into the living room. The only light came from the flickering TV screen. The scene before you wasn’t one you expected: JJ was sitting on the couch, his elbows on his knees, his hands cradling his head.

Your eyes flicked to the clock on the wall—3 a.m.

As you walked closer, it seemed like he either hadn’t heard you or was pretending not to. He stayed frozen in place. “JJ?” you called softly, placing a hand on his shoulder.

He looked up, finally noticing you, and turned his body to face you fully. For a moment, your eyes locked. Normally, JJ was impossible to read. He was a master at keeping his emotions hidden. But now? His face betrayed a heaviness that made your chest tighten.

“Hey,” he said softly, straightening up. His eyes dropped to your belly, and he rested a hand on it gently. You perched on the edge of the couch, facing him. “Are you okay?”

His voice was low, almost hollow. Concerned, you ran a hand through his messy hair, and his eyes fluttered shut at the touch. He leaned back slightly, allowing you to continue.

“We’re fine. Are you okay?”

He didn’t respond immediately. He stayed still, eyes closed, seemingly trying to ground himself. You wanted to beg him to tell you what was wrong, the tension gnawed at you.

When he didn’t answer, you leaned forward awkwardly to set your glass on the coffee table. Noticing your struggle, JJ opened his eyes and silently took the glass from you, placing it down himself.

You settled beside him, watching as he intertwined his fingers and stared at his hands. “What’s going on?” you pressed gently.

JJ hesitated, his mouth opening and closing like he was testing words that didn’t feel right. His hands fidgeted, a clear sign of his unease.

Just as you were about to ask again, he finally spoke. “They called me from police station.”

Your eyes widened, alarm flashing through you. Why? What could he have possibly done? He’d been staying with you for the past two months, barely leaving your side. If someone had falsely accused him of something, you’d have your family’s lawyers on it in seconds.

“They arrested my dad,” he said, his voice flat. “And he decided to call me.”

A humorless chuckle escaped his lips, and it made your heart ache for him. He looked awful—his eyes red and tired, his hair a mess, and his clothes disheveled. This wasn’t JJ, not the one who always found a way to laugh, even in the worst situations.

“Now he remembers I exist,” he muttered, the laugh leaving his voice entirely. It was eerie, almost unsettling. Anger and hurt swirled in his expression, clear as day.

You opened your mouth to speak, but his hand shot up. He dragged it through his hair harshly, and you grabbed his wrist to stop him. “Hey, JJ—don’t.”

He stilled, letting his hand fall into yours. You could feel him trying to steady his breathing, his shoulders rising and falling deeply.

“It’s been almost four months. Four whole months, and he didn’t notice I was gone. And now he calls? I don’t even care about him anymore, I swear. He hasn’t mattered to me for years. But if I hadn’t seen my kid in months? I’d feel like I was dead inside.” His voice cracked, and you squeezed his hand tighter. “I’d cross an ocean to find them.”

When he looked at you, his eyes were bloodshot, the veins painfully visible. “JJ…” you whispered, his name barely audible. He dropped his gaze back to his lap.

“I hate that I still care. I hate that he’s the only family I have,” he admitted, shaking his head as he closed his eyes again.

Unable to stop yourself, you wrapped your arms around his neck. He didn’t hesitate to pull you close, clinging to you like a lifeline.

Right now, JJ didn’t need words. He just needed you—your comfort, your warmth.

You felt his body tense in your embrace, so you ran a soothing hand up and down his back. “Do you want me to get him out?” you whispered softly.

Even though you despised the man for how much he’d hurt JJ, you’d do it if it meant bringing him a fraction of peace.

“No,” JJ’s voice was firm. He shook his head sharply and buried his face in the crook of your neck.

“What do you want me to do? Just say the word, and I’ll do it.” In that moment, it felt like every wall between you had crumbled. There was no pretense, no filters—just raw, unguarded honesty.

“Just stay like this,” he murmured against your neck.

So you did. You leaned back into the couch, holding him close, your hands rubbing slow circles on his back. The faint hum of the TV filled the silence as the two of you stayed there, tangled together in the stillness of the night.

8 Months Pregnant

"JJ, put it down." You tried to sound firm, but your voice cracked slightly. JJ looked at you, confused, holding the offending object in his hand. You couldn’t bear to look at it for more than a second without feeling nauseous. Standing there in the middle of the grocery store, you were dangerously close to losing your lunch.

"What? This?" He held up the banana, inspecting it like it might hold the secrets of the universe. You quickly averted your eyes. Once upon a time, you had been all about bananas—team banana all the way. Now? Now they made you gag. The smell, the texture, even the thought of eating one was enough to make your stomach churn.

Pregnancy had turned your entire palate upside down. Foods you used to love? Hard no. Foods you couldn’t stand? Suddenly your favorites. It was fascinating in a completely horrifying way. You hadn’t even known this was a thing until it started happening to you.

"Okay, okay, relax." JJ put the banana back like it was a ticking time bomb and stepped closer to you. You deliberately avoided looking in its direction, shifting your focus to the other aisles as you tried to erase its image from your mind.

"Please don’t puke here," JJ teased, his tone light and playful. You shot him a glare, but it only seemed to amuse him further. His lips twitched, and before you could come up with a witty retort, he turned away, a muffled laugh escaping him.

You knew he was trying not to laugh outright, but you decided to let it go. He’d been in this mood all day—overly playful, overly JJ.

Your face scrunched up as a sharp movement in your belly caught your attention. Your baby was unusually active today. A small groan escaped your lips as you felt another jab, and almost immediately, JJ’s hand found its way to your back.

"What’s going on? Is it happening? Are you giving birth?" His voice was so over-the-top, you couldn’t even muster the energy to respond. You turned to him instead, searching his face to see if he was actually serious.

It was one of those days. Your baby girl was unusually hyper, and JJ seemed determined to match her energy with his relentless joking.

"No," you finally managed. "We still have a month to go. You know that."

JJ smirked, clearly unfazed. "You’re super tense today," he remarked.

"It’s just... she’s moving so much." You rubbed your belly in small circles, hoping it would calm her down. She felt like she was trying to punch her way out. JJ’s joking demeanor melted as concern crossed his face.

"Should we go home?" he asked, his voice softer now.

You shook your head. "No, it’s fine. She’s settling down." And thankfully, she was. The movements were starting to ease.

Convincing JJ that you were fine was always a bit of an uphill battle. When it came to you and the baby, he was constantly on high alert, acting like every little thing could be the moment. But your doctor had reassured you just last week—your due date was still a month away.

March 29th.

That was the big day, circled in bright red on your calendar. Time had been speeding by for the past eight months, but now that you were in the final stretch, the days felt like years. Every tick of the clock seemed slower than the last.

You’d started counting down the days since your doctor gave you the date. It didn’t help that waiting made you restless. The anticipation was almost unbearable.

Shopping trips with JJ had evolved too. It wasn’t just groceries anymore. You were now stocking up on diapers, baby wipes, and tiny clothes that made your heart melt. It felt early, but preparing in advance made you feel calmer—and, if you were honest, even more excited.

You were counting down to the moment she’d finally arrive. Your little girl. A happiness unlike anything you’d ever known was just around the corner. You could feel it.

"An important question: Which one do we pick?" JJ held up a tangerine in one hand and an orange in the other, his face comically serious. You couldn’t help but roll your eyes.

“Both,” you replied, shaking your head. A victorious grin spread across JJ’s face as he nodded like he’d just solved the world's most difficult puzzle.

“Team Vitamin C,” he announced proudly, tossing both bags into the cart.

You were about to respond when a familiar face caught your eye. Instinctively, you turned your back and stepped closer to JJ, hoping to blend into his shadow. But your hopes were dashed as soon as you heard your name, loud and cheerful, coming from behind.

“Sweetheart! What a surprise! Look at you—you’ve grown so much! You’re glowing!”

Viola.

She practically bounced over, her smile so wide it could’ve been painted on. Behind her, a shopping cart waited, along with the little girl you’d seen with her at the park a few months ago. The child was quietly playing with a toy, blissfully unaware of the impending awkwardness.

“Hi, Viola,” you greeted her, your voice betraying none of your inner cringe. You could feel JJ’s presence close behind you, his chest lightly pressed against your back. Oh, he was doing this on purpose.

Viola’s gaze flickered briefly to JJ, but her focus quickly returned to you. “How are you, darling? I haven’t seen you at the park lately.”

It was almost funny how sweet she sounded, especially considering how your last interaction had gone. The thought of voluntarily seeking her out again had never even crossed your mind, especially knowing she was always there with her daughter.

“Haven’t been going out much,” you lied effortlessly, giving her a polite smile. Viola’s grin widened, but it was so fake you almost felt secondhand embarrassment.

The silence that followed was unbearably awkward. Viola’s eyes kept darting back to JJ, sizing him up like he was some new exhibit at the zoo. You couldn’t quite place the urge to drag him away, but it was growing stronger by the second.

Viola, who looked like she was pushing forty, seemed to be giving your “friend” the once-over, and it made your skin crawl. “I thought you said the baby’s father didn’t want to be involved? Did I remember that wrong?”

You briefly considered staying silent in the hopes that she’d get bored and leave, but her expectant gaze made it clear she wasn’t going anywhere.

“He’s a friend, helping me out,” you finally said, glancing over your shoulder at JJ. His expression was unreadable, but the slight furrow of his brow hinted at annoyance.

Viola’s smirk widened, and she nodded like she was completely on your side. “Of course. You’re only twenty, after all. It makes sense you’d need support. Though, I’ll admit, you’d feel much more secure with a ring on your finger and the father around, don’t you think?”

Her tone was all sugar, but her eyes darted back and forth between you and JJ, waiting for a reaction.

“If she wants a ring, she’ll have one. If she doesn’t, she won’t,” JJ cut in, his tone calm but firm. “And honestly, it’s better for a child to grow up with one stable parent than two miserable ones.”

You nearly bit your lip trying to hide your grin as JJ stepped closer. His hand brushed your arm, a subtle yet protective gesture.

Viola’s smile faltered as she took in his words. Her face twisted briefly in irritation before she smoothed it over with forced politeness. Giving you both one last look, she muttered something under her breath and turned to leave, her daughter trailing obediently behind.

“Who is that woman?” JJ asked, his tone dripping with disdain as he stared after her.

“Don’t ask,” you muttered, rolling your eyes.

8 Months and 4 Week Pregnant

The thoughts wouldn’t leave your mind. You had assumed you’d feel calmer as your due date approached, but instead, all you felt was a growing knot of anxiety.

You wanted to be a mom more than anything. You couldn’t wait to hold your daughter in your arms, to breathe in her scent, to feel the weight of her tiny body against you. But as much as you wanted it, you couldn’t shake the nagging doubt: Would I be a good mom?

When you confided in your own mother, she’d assured you that this was part of being a mom. She’d said that motherhood was about being consumed with worry while loving them with everything you have. It was about constantly questioning if you were doing things right.

And that was exactly what you were doing.

On top of that, your mind couldn’t stop racing about the future. JJ was going to leave. You knew it. Whether he’d head back to the island or stay nearby, you weren’t sure, but the five months you’d spent living together were almost over.

“What’s got you all worked up?” JJ asked as he joined you on the porch, draping a blanket over your shoulders. His usual energy was intact, his carefree vibe so familiar it made your chest ache.

You didn’t know how you were going to say goodbye. For months now, he’d been there, in your space, filling the silence. You could barely remember what it was like to live in this house alone. It felt like he’d always been there, like he’d been a part of your life since the beginning.

“What’s going to happen after the baby’s born?”

You were tired of tiptoeing around the subject. No more guessing games or dancing around what you really wanted to say. You weren’t going to hide behind vague questions anymore. This was normal. It was okay to ask.

You needed to know—not just for yourself, but for your daughter’s future.

When JJ gave you a soft smile, your eyebrows shot up. He sipped his coffee, his gaze wandering off to the backyard like he was gathering his thoughts.

“I was actually going to talk to you about that,” he said, sitting up a little straighter.

You took a deep breath, bracing yourself for the inevitable conversation about him leaving.

“I’ve put in a few job applications,” he continued. “I’ll stay here as long as you need me, but after that, I think it’d be better if I found my own place nearby. You know, give you your space.”

His voice was serious—no teasing, no jokes.

When his eyes met yours, you knew he wasn’t kidding. It was written all over his face: he meant every word.

You stared at him, stunned. Was this the same JJ you’d met months ago? The wild, reckless boy who didn’t seem to take anything seriously?

Back then, you didn’t even need to know him well to guess the kind of guy he was: someone who loved parties, getting drunk, maybe even picking a fight or two. After all, his reputation had preceded him. But since he’d come into your life, he hadn’t been drunk, he hadn’t fought anyone. It was like someone had waved a magic wand and transformed him.

“Really?” you asked, still skeptical.

JJ grinned, his signature playful smirk lighting up his face. “Really,” he said, nodding.

You couldn’t believe it. Without thinking, you pushed off the blanket and made a clumsy attempt to get up, forgetting about the massive baby bump that had been your constant companion for months.

As you threw your arms around him, you heard him laugh softly. “Whoa, easy there,” he said, but he hugged you back tightly.

“Thank you,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. And you meant it. More than he could ever know.

April 3rd

“JJ!” His name escaped your lips as you stared at the floor. Finally—it was happening. You couldn’t believe it. It was a bit past the due date, but it didn’t matter. The day you had been counting down to, with so much anticipation, was here.

“What? What’s going on?” JJ’s voice echoed through the house, and within seconds, the rapid thuds of his footsteps on the stairs filled the air.

This was it. The moment had finally arrived.

“My water just broke.”

When you looked up at JJ standing frozen in the doorway, a huge smile spread across your face. His eyes darted from the floor to you, growing comically wide as the realization hit him.

“Fuck.”

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elizabethrobertajones · 9 months ago

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summer scions!! I absolutely love the new portraits for all their smug happy expressions. Except Y'shtola, who is not going to deign to give a camera a proper saucy look because that's silly. Urianger is smirking twice as hard on her behalf.

Glam review under the cut!

I unlocked Alphinaud first of the twins and didn't know Alisaie had a little necktie yet, so I'm deducting a point from my first impression because the sheer delight that he had a silly little necktie of some sort no matter the situation delighted me so thoroughly. Since they're still engaging in matchy twin dressing to some degree, I have to assume they either like it and won't admit it after digging in so hard, or Ameliance sent them off with cute outfits and matching backpacks, and they still don't really shop for themselves.

He's got the practical watch/compass gloves which are good for a technically proficient Sage and probably the most practical gear he's ever worn except for when he was poncho Alphy, but wearing ankle-length jeans seem like the least weather-appropriate choice of the Scions if we assume their average skin coverage is a good weathervane for the temperature in Tural. I chalk it up to teenage awkwardness.

8/10 unless he and Alisaie chose their outfits themselves, in which case it's a 9/10

I think Alisaie is the only Scion to keep a single piece of their default gear, and those are her usual gloves. She's colour-matched around it.

Because of the gloves and boots, she looks the most ready for hardcore hiking, somehow, and her matching Alphinaud with a cute button down shirt with rolled up sleeves along with that particular choice of baggier shorts (when she normally wears more form fitting shorts) do give me the closest to butch vibes it's probably likely to get for main characters. So I'm giving her an extra point I stole from Alphinaud for the lesbian vibes.

9/10 or 10/10 if she made these choices all by herself.

Everything about this cracks me up, from his portrait above to the image of him tanking open shirted once he pulls mobs.

Believe it or not, he's getting an additional point for those shoes simply because the competition in practicality in tanking is G'raha.

I had a moment of excitement when I thought the necklace was pink because that's always a cute Ryne/Minfillia thing fanartists give him with ribbons and such, but once I got zoomed in on him it was red, so I guess he's just been shopping. Although, the turquoise shorts are her eye colour and the actual large diamond shapes are secretly Mothercrystal coded in those colours, which just cracks me up that you can pick out one of the worse days of his life (Urianger's grand Warrior of Darkness plan) in his Chill Summer Beach Vibes look.

Douchebag beach bro shell bracelet as well, which really makes me double down on him and Urianger spending way too much on tourist bait along the stalls in the Famous Turali Market. The hat and sunglasses are giving him one of the Most tourist-y looks thematically reflecting how a lot of the Scion guys were just here to hang out, narratively or literally. Maybe he's trying not to get such an intense tan again, which is the only reason he's not entirely topless.

11/10 I could not stop laughing when I got him and Urianger to 100 and Beheld The Brilliance in the same moment.

Please note the raised sunglasses in Urianger's portrait, which are not the model his character uses.

I am delighted that I had been incorporating that island watch into my healer glams on both the logic you need to know your clock positionals but also they're largely the smarty pants jobs (WHM being vibes only aside - it gets its own glams :P). And here's Urianger and Alphinaud both using watches.

Now, I had a moment of being vaguely disappointed he had trousers not a skirt or something else swishy and androgynous, but then I did realise that I, a nonbinary weirdo who relates to Urianger since he made me nonbinary, have actually gone to a couple of garden parties dressed in some variation of this exact outfit of light trousers and a nice button up. Plus, the earrings are in both ears, so no "Google, which ear is the gay one?", these are just straight up cute femme dangly earrings with his favourite little dudes on.

More importantly, the colours he's repping are those of Lopporit Radio. He probably tunes in every night for his broadcasts :')

Mirrored sunglasses for the guy notorious for keeping thoughts and plans close to his chest and choosing deliberately to be enigmatic even when it serves zero purpose except for I guess gender affirming care. (The gender is Weird Bitch.)

I can't tell how I feel about those dad sandals. I suppose it depends if he's wearing them like a fashion model (brand new and clean with perfect pedicured feet) or if those are REALLY dad at the beach-like and, since I'm not a foot person, this for me is only a choice between "not off-putting" and "AURGH".

9/10 the proximity to Thancred hauls him up several points of misgivings I had, and the lopporit shout outs are killing me :')

I unlocked Y'shtola last and holy fuck I am a lesbian. I don't even recognise where those boots come from, so either a really expensive glam or something I just have not stumbled on. She has toe rings I think? And painted nails? I have no idea if the garter (?) is part of the boots glam or a custom thing as result of not recognising the boots and how much of them is normal. I feel like they customised a lot on her anyway - the back of her top has purple beads that match her staff (not dyable on the real piece)

and I think the necklace has to be part of the top instead of a separate necklace piece with the way it hangs, AND the bracelets are a glove piece with the original summer glam, but I assume they're layered with the false nails, also in the glove slot. All in all it's giving the sort of effort which is starting to creep up to what I'd expect from the modding community not the game. I mean, not THAT good but getting close. Baby steps towards what fandom can make :P

She really is god's favourite meow meow.

Anyway I can't really judge this fairly because it's really hot and I love her so I'm just going to give it 100/10 and move on. :)

how did I get a picture where Estinien looks like he's stooping to get in the frame...

The fact he has Azure Dragoon Blue Top and then Violently Nidhogg Fuchsia shorts is the colour theory that absolutely killed me. When he lights up during his burst and starts glowing pink all over his shorts are like. Taking him over like the eye once did I think.

love a guy who can embrace his past trauma and dress to match all that has passed before and all that he intends to do now (kill something large and tasty, grill it on the beach, fall asleep with a beer in hand until the waves come in and wake him up).

I gave him that wooden bracelet in the glam he has on my desktop screen so once again I'm feeling weirdly vindicated.

Other details: no ponytail despite the warm weather because he's got enough ventilation. The fact there's cactaurs on his shirt when he's on record for eating them is amazing. We should imagine he's wearing his jobstone like that pendant (since he's one of the only guys with a confirmed jobstone despite being the Guy Without A Job notoriously that one time.)

Unlike Thancred's hat and sunglasses combo, which seems fun and boisterous somehow, he seems the most walled off of all the sunglasses wearers even though he's not the most mysterious. The visor really helps make it a sort of wall. Maybe just because his terse upfront personality and somehow despite his clothes horse habits THIS amount of whimsy seems the most out of character at first glance, but he DOES look uncomfortable to me.

Somehow I find everything about this outfit excellent for his character but also like maybe he was forced into it, everyone cornering him and telling him the Scion Beach Party was a mandatory work event and he was not allowed to beg off of it and he did put some work in expressing himself but also is going to go find a much quieter corner to lurk in for the day, when not competing with Thancred (can't grill, loves it) for the barbeque (Estinien can grill, would only do it because the threat of Thancred doing it wrong is too high).

confused 7/10 mostly because I think Krile is blackmailing him and not because I don't love everything about this.

Here's how G'reenha Tia can still win -

Anyway here's the deducted point for tanking in flip flops (PERFECTLY acceptable BLM gear btw but he's Mr Versatile.)

(I joke but the main character of my novels is a flip-flop wearing menace who could and would tank in them)

Between the padlock and key necklace and the woven bracelet right after we all went feral over the Thavnarian bracelets for couples thing so recently (and Corvos is just across the water!) he's absolutely dripping cutie pie love interest coding yet again.

(Also yes I know the lock and key thing is very funny because we were introduced to him learning he was a fancy key to a big door.)

Gains a point back because the other green g'raha thing is I'm pretty sure people use this shirt glam because it kinda looks like it has weed on it.

Don't quote me on that, vibes only.

Anyway he came colour coordinated (with his original eye colour and hair colour not the bright Allagan dalamud red dye that goes with his normal outfit) so so precise and neat, like he's going to some sort of formal event, and even with flip flops he really does seem incredibly put together like the twins or Y'shtola, just for full outfit cohesiveness.

As someone who would hold G'raha's hand on the romantic gondola vibe, 10/10.

3 out of 10 and a huge cringe if you would not. He's got to stop Striving.

Hey it's the star of the show!! Adorable hairstyle out, cute plot-important earring on, and wearing her exact character colours but adorable beach wear :)

I love that she looks kind of like she went to the girls for advice and got the top from Y'shtola and the shorts from Alisaie, and she probably was very serious and stressed about getting this right even though there's no rules and no one's judging her -

oops.

Anyway the ballet shoes are adorable and go with all the cute picto spins and twirls :)

I think the strict colour scheme does speak to the slight lack of fleshing out she got so far in the story (we don't really have any real character reason that picto in particular spoke to her and this glam isn't one of the many fun takes people had on how to dress to meet that brief ). I don't think DT did more than just repeat that she's serious and sweet and trying really hard to get out of her shell and be more fun and creative and also she's been practicing dodging really hard she shouts mid-Trust combat (bless her). But ALSO getting out of the shell is really hard and she only found out everything and got some closure in the final level 100 quests so there wasn't really much to do with her after that.

This is like her First Non-Plot-Critical Whimsy Moment and losing the hood or any cat ears entirely (and there are perfectly functional cat ears to wear in game) is a good step considering we know she wears it precisely because she needed a sort of advance PR campaign to make her look cute and approachable before she opened her mouth and started bringing down the vibe (serious scary children are SO funny though and i love that for her). Having the same top as Y'shtola is a good thing for trying to make her less childish and have her trying to show that now as she takes this huge step out from the background. I mean, it still has a slight sense of her costuming herself and pushing herself out of comfort zones as she always does, but it's 100% in character so I adore it.

1000/10 because Krile is great and there's so much going on here and it's so fun when a character's whole personality is a costume and then they're like aurgh wait do I even want that??

#ffxiv #dawntrail spoilers #I love these goobers #enough to level all the jobs through Trust rather than more varied and faster means :')

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ennn · 7 months ago

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Things I Liked About the Agatha All Along Finale - Initial Thoughts

Wooooo boy. Hey look I'm a bleeding heart shipper but I'm old and have been in enough fandoms. Let's process shall we?

Alice! Alice echo-ing what so many fans are saying about her lost potential. Rio actually being kind in reminding Alice her death did have purpose. "You're a protection witch, you protected someone."

The development of Billy's extremely complicated relationship with Agatha. Kid's not loyal to Agatha, he's understanding her, or starting to at least. He sees her being a relationship with Death and he's curious about the story there. He cares enough to connect the dots and see Agatha as a full person. And we see that developed as the finale goes.

"That's it? That's all the time that I get?" The show reminds us that death sometimes just happens – "Sometimes boys die" – I wonder if one of these writers is a Sandman fan because I immediately clocked a parallel to Death of the Endless taking a baby's life in her first comic appearance.

Death of the Endless is of course much kinder than Rio is with her (iconic) reply to that eternal question. "You lived what anyone gets... A lifetime."

That whole convo we got in the preview clip. And then them just sitting down and talking more? Albeit with layers of manipulation but y'know that's them.

Agatha telling Rio that she'll hand over Billy if Rio leaves her alone: essentially making Rio once again choose between her duty and her feelings towards Agatha. The deepest cut Agatha could make – which we see echoed with "If you do this I'll hate you forever." They know each other and the best ways to hurt each other.

I laughed waaaay too much at Agatha ragging on Jen's last vegetable name.

Jen's unbinding ritual was powerful and a fantastic moment for the character. She recognised and embraced her power. Agatha's mask slipping a little at the end as well. Amazing. Sasheer killed it.

The whole scene with Agatha working with Billy to bring Tommy back was beautiful and emotional and well put together and showed the side to Agatha that cements her as a great mentor (when she's not being the biggest murderous asshole).

Agatha using what she learnt from her Alice and Jen – and what Lilia told her – to hold her ground with Rio... okay it lasted like 10 seconds but it was a nice callback! Agatha's such a shameless survivor.

Incredible kissing. We knew Hahn and Plaza would deliver and they did. When it comes to kissing women, these two absolutely go for it.

Rio looking absolutely gutted with having to take Nicky away. Plaza really delivered with Rio's pain in these eps. Agatha calling her "my love", cursing and then begging.

Rio being soft about Nicky despite her job. Nicky willingly going with her with no fear, no hesitation – suggesting that they did bond somehow? Nicky knew she was a friendly face and trusted her. It was really a good death, all things considered. He wasn't sick, he wasn't in pain, he wasn't scared he simply fell asleep and just went.

Rio reminding Nicky to kiss his mom goodbye. She cares so much, as much as a personification of death can. It's funny how some people thought Rio was going to be this manipulative big bad but no, Agatha's the more toxic one in this relationship.

Okay like imagine Agatha finally dying and just straight up BOOKING it before Rio pops up. Rio hates ghosts. The number of times Agatha deliberately pissed her off this finale was amazing.

"I'm sure he'll forgive you for... whatever you did." Aw Billy is a good kid. Just like Nicky was. Agatha needs that reminder, that anchor to not be the Worst.

Chemistry aside, Agatha and Billy being mentor-pupil makes a ton of sense because these Maximoffs do the most fucked up shit (unintentionally) with their magic and Agatha's got the knowledge, charisma, cynicism, and the morals of a spinning compass to support him.

Alright when are they announcing the sequel / spin-off? I know there's a rumour of it happening. Rio's got 2 abominations and one endlessly aggravating ghost of an ex to deal with now.

#agatha all along #agatha all along spoilers #agathario #agatha harkness #rio vidal #tv: agatha all along #aaa meta #we actually got a bunch of great things y'all

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cruel-hiraeth · 27 days ago

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꒰ BEAUTIFUL TORMENT ꒱ OKKOTSU YUUTA X READER

warnings ⟢ dead dove: do not eat. minors, blank blogs, and ageless blogs do not interact—i will block you! yandere. captivity. stockholm syndrome. mental unwellness. dub/noncon. pet play. omorashi + piss play. cunnilingus. butt plug mention. food mentions. afab + gn reader. pet names are: bunny, my love, baby, sweetness. reader refers to yuuta as “yuuta-sama.”

word count ⟢ 2.3k

notes ⟢ this is my (incredibly belated) birthday present to yuuta! it was a massive undertaking to write; what initially began as a tiny drabble spiraled into...well, this. please heed the warnings before reading! and if you do read, be sure to let me know what you think! mwah <3

It’s impossible to tell the time of day in a room with neither clocks nor windows—not that you need to worry your precious little head with keeping time.

Time is not your master, after all.

Your existence is split in two—not unlike that of the earth: ever rotating on its axis, kissed by sunbeams from dawn until dusk, then solemnly accepting the moon’s company. Waiting for your master’s light to cut through the shadowy pitch of night is lonely; basking in his presence during the day is suffocating. You are either with or without him, for he is the extent of your life.

There is nothing else.

Lifetimes ago, you resented him. Aimless yet headstrong, you were a feral stray to others and yourself. You spat in the face of his kindness, biting his hand with all the strength you could muster—a wilfull thing, he affectionately called you, unphased by the bloody rivulets coursing down his forearm. His was the only hand that ever deigned to feed you, but compassion was foreign to your frozen heart. It made your chest ache uncomfortably.

(He still dons the scars you gifted him; memento vivere. Sometimes, when you cling to the euphoria of being cradled as he slumbers, you lick each gnarled patch of tissue—repentant before your sins.)

While your spirit was difficult for your master to forge, he recast your body with ease. Quickly, your nerves memorized the savage shock of pain and the satisfying hum of pleasure. Even though there was a disconnect with your unyielding mind, your body was obedient when you faltered; honest when you lied; meek when you resisted. It was a steep adjustment—melting down and fitting into the mold he created for you.

But you now bear the invisible marks of his torment beautifully.

Reflecting on your past cruelty and ignorance is excruciating. While you’ve done your best to forget, memories claw at your psyche when you’re swathed in starlight, solitary and susceptible. Though you know you belong with him—at his feet or by his side, whatever he deems fit, until death do you part—your subconscious is less convinced.

Dreams are never a reprieve; they haunt you. Remnants of your hatred linger on, your shadow self gnawing on the thought of ripping him to shreds when he’s at his most vulnerable, hair falling across his closed eyes—a picture of soft, boyish innocence. It’s an exhausting ordeal, feeling as though you’re at war in your sleep, never able to relax. Once you awaken, your lungs burn. Something within you cracks open and yawns.

Do you not deserve peace?

Curled up in your bed, half-delirious and longing for daylight, your ears perk at the thump, thump, thump of footsteps descending the staircase.

You would recognize the distinct vibrations of his footfalls even if you were deaf; the reverberations resonate in your bones, thrumming from your crown to your toes. Each muffled thud sets your dormant body alight, kindling the snuffed embers in your core—Pavlov’s tinkling bell. If you had a tail, it would be twitching in anticipation. Your weary heart beats only for him.

My sun.

My sun my sun my sun.

One by one, the chain lock, deadbolt, knob lock, and padlock that keep you sheltered and secure click and clink into place. The doorknob twists as the door creaks open, gingerly shutting seconds later.

“How’s my bunny?” Yuuta’s mellow voice rings out.

Approaching you, he soaks in your huddled figure with a distressed frown. On the nightstand, he notes your empty snack plate and drained water jug.

(When he first takes you in, you outright refuse sustenance, launching a hunger strike. You fail spectacularly, of course. Yuuta pivots with finesse; he makes you taste the bitter dehumanization of being strapped down and force-fed.

Afterward—though you do eat of your own volition—you exercise what little willpower you have, pitching fits during mealtimes.

Secretly, he finds it endearing.

“It’s important that you’re healthy and strong; I want us to spend the rest of our long, happy lives together,” he implores as you eye the food suspiciously.

Fresh apple, carrot, and celery—all sliced into small, bite-sized cubes. It’s how you would prepare food for a toddler to prevent them from choking.

Indignantly, you turn your nose up at his offering, the sight of it making you nauseous. “This is rabbit food,” you spit. “And I’m not your fucking child. I don’t even want to be here.”

“You don’t mean that,” he states with finality.

Refusing to ask for the thousandth time why it has to be you sitting here in his care, you dejectedly open your mouth, allowing him to feed you a tiny piece of carrot.

As you crunch and grind the morsel into a pulp, the sweet, earthy flavor coats your tastebuds. You can’t help but wonder: What good will all these vegetables do if I never see the light of day again?)

Yuuta leans over the bedside, chilly fingertips unfurling around your neck. He slowly brings his lips to your forehead and pauses, testing your temperature—normal.

After he leans back, he speaks. “What are these tears for, my love? They hurt my heart.”

Tender lips sweep away a dewdrop that slides down your cheek; you hadn’t realized you were crying. Under his intense appraisal, you feel small. You feel fragile. You feel safe.

“I missed you, Yuuta-sama,” is all you manage to utter.

At your admission, the fingers on your neck tighten imperceptibly. His thumb strokes your jugular—featherlight. “Oh, my poor bunny,” he sighs, dropping his head to nuzzle the sensitive spot beneath your ear. “I’ve made you suffer.”

Wrapping your arms around his broad shoulders, you protest, “Please don’t say that, Yuuta-sama. It’s my fault…I’m too needy.”

I missed my sun.

Looking up at you from beneath a curtain of ink, he tsks, nose skating along the curve of your jaw. “No, you aren’t. You’re perfect. My precious—” you gasp when he nips at your pulse point “—most perfect love. There’s nothing I’d rather do than be with you all day every day, endlessly adoring you.”

With a pout, you mumble, “Then why don’t you?”

“You know I have to work to protect you.”

Every bit his spoiled pet, your voice wobbles. “I wish you never had to leave.”

“One day I won’t,” he soothes, dotting a kiss to your cupid’s bow. “But until then, we have to enjoy every moment we have together—right?”

“Mhmm.”

For a few breaths, you lapse into syrupy silence. Your fingers weave through the hair at his nape; his head tucks beneath your chin, his balmy exhales tethering you to the present.

When he withdraws, something like a promise glints in his eyes. Your stomach flips. “Will you allow me to help you feel better?”

Sniffling, you nod, and sit up. The blanket slips down your shoulders, revealing the swell of your breasts. While your room is always an optimal temperature, you’re warmer now that you have relished Yuuta’s sunlight—revitalized.

He sweeps a hand through your hair, and you lean into the calming pressure of his touch. His lips curl into a fond smile. “Up, bunny.”

Without hesitation, you obey, leaving the cosy nest of your bed to stand on the cold concrete. No longer wrapped in linens, your nude form is on display. Yuuta’s lapis gaze sweeps over every sliver of your flesh, ears to soles.

Once, his inspections—both visual and physical—made you cower in humiliation and bristle with anger. Now you preen, your lovely features a placid lake. But a storm stirs the glassy surface as you shuffle awkwardly, suddenly aware of how overfull your bladder is.

Seemingly omnipotent, Yuuta’s hand grazes your belly. “Do you have to pee? You had a lot of water to drink while I was away.”

You grimace. “I do, Yuuta-sama.”

“Let’s get you taken care of.”

Reaching out to grasp your hand, he leads you straight to the bathroom, a pristine pee pad already laid out on the tile. While you know what comes next, you await his orders like an obedient pet, fidgety with expectation.

He caresses your head. “Situate yourself, okay?”

Wordlessly, you drop to the floor. Embarrassment prickles your flesh as you lean back on the palms of your hands, balancing on your tiptoes, legs spread wide apart. Your hips jut out, presenting your slick, needy cunt to Yuuta. He towers above you in this position, irises an oil spill—unfathomable in their iridescent depths.

Shame leaves you in waves and lust takes its place, blurring the edges of all your senses. You look up at his handsome face through drooping eyelashes and swallow the urge to whimper; your clit throbs in wanton need. A sparkling bead of desire drips from your hole, rolling down the cleft of your ass.

Returning to your side, he kneels behind you. His gravity is reassuring. You nearly dribble when he hums, encouraging, “Go on, bunny.”

The dam bursts.

A small stream shoots out of you, experimentally, before a steady jet arcs through the air and hotly puddles on the pad. Head cottony with clouds of relief, your limbs feel heavy yet unmoored—a bee drowning in its own honey. Unbidden, a gasp escapes you, luring Yuuta’s pointer and middle fingers to your petal-soft lips. A flash of slick pink, you accept them inside with a sloppy, wet suck, diligently laving each digit.

Perhaps you could survive on the salt of his skin.

“Such a good bunny,” he coos.

You frown when his fingers pop out of your mouth, but your pathetic whine turns into a shriek as he begins to rub slippery circles on your swollen clit, your piss spraying everywhere. While your flow ebbs to a trickle, the insistent pressure on your bundle of nerves continues. A flower scorched by the sun’s rays, you wilt against Yuuta, inhaling the familiar smell of his detergent.

“Y-Yuu—tah—s…s-ama!” Buzzing like a live wire, a jolt of electricity skitters down your spine.

“Gonna cum? Let go, sweetness. Show me how pretty you are when you just let go.”

A beast of an orgasm ravages your body, tearing its way out of your lungs and core, clear liquid spurting out of you. Only the whites of your eyes are visible as you scream, hips wildly bucking. You soon crumple beneath the weight of your climax onto the sodden pad, the aftershocks tingling through your extremeties, pussy unbearably empty.

Beaming, Yuuta proceeds to suck his dripping fingers clean, his groan stoking your pride. “You did so well.”

Pulse thundering in your ears from the intensity of your high, you shudder, twisting your fists into the fabric of his slacks—an attempt to ground yourself.

“May I have a taste?” Yuuta asks sweetly, maneuvering around you before your leaden tongue can string together a response. He lies between your quivering, piss-splattered thighs, uncaring of the urine that seeps through his dress shirt and pants.

“You’re so messy, bunny,” he teases, breath curling deliciously against your heat; you warble, clenching in anticipation. “Don’t worry—I’ll clean you up.”

He fondles your pubic hair with both hands, smearing a kiss on your mons. Thumbs gliding down, he gently spreads your labia, exposing your still-aching clit. The tip of his nose grazes the delicate tissue, forcing a squeal from you. But it’s as though your reactions don’t reach him—he’s so entranced. He sniffs deeply.

“Beautiful…” he whispers, ardent as a prayer.

Unhurried, he licks a searing stripe from your ass to your tender bud. The sound you make is premature—guttural and half-formed, a hideous thing. But it’s Yuuta’s favorite hymn.

After repeating the silken motion until he has thoroughly savored the tang of your cunt, he settles in and laves at your drooling hole, lapping up your juices. Never keen on making you suffer, though, he soon kisses his way up to where you need him most, bumping his nose against your clit before latching on with a firm suck.

The simmering warmth in both your bladder and your womb rekindle into roaring flames, the smoke signaling your inevitable climax. You thrash and wail and yank at Yuuta’s hair, speech reduced to nonsensical babbles as he switches between suckling your clit and tugging your folds. In a final act of torment, he slides two lithe digits inside you, crooking them upward, plucking the pleasure from your innermost place.

“G—otta, n-nngh…go,” is all the warning you manage before you crest.

You piss again, hurtling right into your second orgasm. Yuuta suctions his mouth to your sex, greedily guzzling the mixture of fluids—cum, slick, and urine—until you’re dry. As he parts from your pussy, a silvery thread still connects you; it pulls taut, then snaps. Yuuta’s smile and praise lulls you to sleep.

The sun is smiling at me.

It takes nearly half an hour for you to regain consciousness.

Ever efficient, Yuuta cleans the bathroom and washes you both before you rouse. When you wake, your limbs are entwined with his, face buried in his strong chest. Despite feeling physically and emotionally drained, you purr, bathing in his attention.

“There’s my bunny. Will you sit up for me?” Without waiting for you to move, he pulls you onto his lap so that you face him; you try to ignore the way his bare cock rubs against you. “We need to get you hydrated—yeah, that’s it, baby. Drink it all. Good, good.” He holds the glass for you as you chug its contents, stray droplets dribbling down your chin. Keen on pleasing him, you finish it without complaint, ignoring your stomach’s protests. “Perfect.”

He wipes the excess water away, a mother tidying her child. No longer able to neglect the hardening length against your ass, you rock your hips, pulling an airy laugh from Yuuta.

“So greedy,” he murmurs, massaging the fat of your thighs. “Does my bunny need their tail?”

Shyly, you nod, lips parting as a single fingertip grazes your tight rim.

Yuuta doesn’t need to ask for permission. You would do anything for him, even if it meant your ruin. He’s your savior—your everlasting sun; simply being in his presence is more than enough.

And if you’re bound to get burned? At least you’ll be eternally his.

#i’m very nervy to post this :’-)#it got to the point where i hated how everything sounded and flowed so i’m sending it into the universe and hoping for the best #whatever you do: PLEASE MIND THE TAGS!#— from the desk of #— okkotsu yuuta #— jujutsu kaisen #— beautiful torment #yuuta x reader #yuta x reader #yuta okkotsu x reader #yuuta okkotsu x reader #okkotsu yuuta x reader #okkotsu yuta x reader #cw dark content #cw dead dove

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kissracing · 4 months ago

Text

Everyone’s favorite, carlos sainz jr,

summary. various instagram posts from the goddess, beautiful, multi-talented, writer, yn ln &&. her husband carlos sainz jr.

featuring. carlos sainz jr x fem!poc!reader (faceclaim, orion carloto)

this fic includes the following. . . yn &&. carlos are married, google-translated spanish, read the end for more info!!

yourusername • instagram

liked by alexandrasaintmleux, carlossainz55, and others

yourusername Love life 🖼️🍒💍

♥︎ 764k 💬 65.8k ➢

view more comments. . .

carlossainz55 📌 Cielo mío ❤️

⤷ yourusername Mi viejo 🤍

⤷ carlossainz55 VIEJO? Oh please 🙄😐 I’m 3 years older than you.

user MY PARENTSSSS

user mama y papa

landonorris Who took that photo of you two at the gallery..???

⤷ yourusername … No comment

⤷ landonorris It was the camera timer huh

⤷ yourusername Blocked.

user they’re so aesthetically pleasing

user WHERE ARE THE RINGS FROMMM

⤷ yourusername The clock & flower looking one are from a thrift store in spain! The other ones are from my wonderful in-laws 🫶🏼🤍

⤷ user AHHH you actually replied HEHE

user they compliment each other so well oh em gee

user the day they got married, lives were changed fr

user the beautiful, gorgeous, multi-talented, yn ln-sainz 😍😍 and carlos ig

alexandrasaintmleux The prettiest 💞💐 We must go to a gallery together!!

⤷ yourusername Says you??? 🤨😭🤍 And yes we must haha!

yourusername • instagram

liked by landonorris, carmenmundt, and others

yourusername It’s a work in progress :) ☕️

♥︎ 802k 💬 78k ➢

view more comments. . .

user 📌 one thing yn will do.. is make sure her feed matches LOL

⤷ user SHE PINNED MY COMMENT ARHEHEHD

carlossainz55 📌 Mi bella esposa 🫶🏼🌷

⤷ yourusername Mi guapo marido 🫶🏼💐

user SHES WRITING CHAT. WE’RE GETTING A NEW BOOK

user the brown aesthetic >>>

user your handwriting is so gorgeous im so sick

user carlosyn supremacy

landonorris Oh so no photo credits 🤨⁉️

⤷ user LANDO YOU WENT WITH THEM??

⤷ landonorris YES and it was the worst “hangout” of my life 😒 They were just on each other.. so gross. They have no compassion for single people

⤷ carlossainz55 ?? You tagged along after seeing us in the coffee shop, That’s your fault cabrón 😂

⤷ yourusername Plus, we paid for your food and shoes that you wanted !!

⤷ landonorris SHUSHH THEY WERENT SUPPOSED TO KNOW THAAT

⤷ yourusername … Okay 😭?

user lando’s their son fr

user MOTHER

alexandrasaintmleux Who’s the gorgeous girl in the first slide 💘

⤷ yourusername Love you Alexx 👩🏼‍❤️‍💋‍👩🏼

text messages • yn &&. carlos

yourusername • instagram

liked by carlossainz55, landonorris, and others

yourusername Welcome my favorite addition to the Ln-Sainz family!! Milo Ln-Sainz. 💘🥺💌 Thank you Carlito

♥︎ 893k 💬 62.6k ➢

view more comments. . .

carlossainz55 📌 As long as you’re happy, I’m happy Mi Corazon

⤷ yourusername Oh how did I get so lucky 🥹

⤷ carlossainz55 I ask myself that everyday ❤️

⤷ user CON😭GRA😭TU😭LA😭TIONS😭

user GREY CARR

alex_albon All I’m hearing is… PLAYDATE!! 🗣️

⤷ maxverstappen1 NO I MEANT TO CALL DIBS FIRST!!

⤷ yourusername Gentlemen, no need to fight!! We’ll all have a playdate together 🥺🤍

user OH MY GODDD MY SHAYLA 🥹🥹🥹

user he’s so eepy oh my god 😭😭😭🤏🏽

⤷ yourusername Best napping partner 🥹

user please tell me yall are gonna make an instagram for him

maxverstappen1 Jimmy, Sassy and Donatello are extremely excited to meet their new friend Milo 🙂‍↕️

⤷ alex_albon Stan, Blue bear, Gigi, Hippo, Tiger, Duckie, Goosie, Frooky, MooMoo, Looky, Sasha, and Gucci are ALSO extremely excited to meet Milo 🙃!

⤷ maxverstappen1 Did you really name all of your cats to prove a point?

⤷ alex_albon …Yes

user max and alex fighting over milo is the best thing LMAO

user He’s so cute 🙁🙁

carlossainz55 • instagram

liked by yourusername, lilymhe, and others

carlossainz55 Escapada con Mi esposa 🩷

♥︎ 1.1M 💬 72.6k ➢

view comments. . .

yourusername 📌 Best trip ever 🤍 Thank you Mi marido

⤷ carlossainz55 You’re welcome cariño 🩷

user MY SHAYLA 😖😖😫😫

user THE SECOND SLIDEEE

user She’s everything.. and he’s ken

⤷ carlossainz55 Exactly

user literally how is she so perfect

user pinterest girlies finna go CRAZY

⤷ pinterest Can confirm, We’re going crazy!

user God.. it’s me again 😫

user SHES SO GORGEOUSS

user YALL LOOKIN FOR A THIRD

⤷ carlossainz55 Nope!

alexandrasaintmleux Bring her back! We (Milo, and I) miss her!!

⤷ lilymhe Count me too, quit holding her hostage Sainz!!

⤷ carlossainz55 Did I hear “extend our vacation to another week?” I mean if you say so!

⤷ lilymhe YNNN ＠yourusername

⤷ yourusername Ooh sorry Alex and Lils.. I’ll take that extended vacation.. Love you guys tho!! Kiss Milo for me!!

⤷ alexandrasaintmleux Carlos Sainz Jr, you will pay.

⤷ lilymhe I’ll see you in williams Sainz Jr.

user the first photo 😩>>

user I WANT THIS KIND OF LOVE PLEASEE

yourusername I love you Carlito 💘

⤷ carlossainz55 I love you so much more hermosa 💐💝

amera speaks. 2ND FIC!! and first fic for the new year!! yippee :D. i really didn’t know wtf to title this LMAO. i searched the web a little bit to figure out what orion’s ethnicity is. i know she said that she’s half hondurian from her mothers side which would make her latina(?). i also read that she’s half italian & portuguese. i only say this because i have “poc!reader” and i just wanna make sure that orion herself is a poc. let me know if i should change it!! i wanna be accurate as possible <3. okay BYE!

#carlos sainz jr x reader #carlos sainz x reader #f1 x reader #formula 1 x poc reader #formula 1 x female reader #formula 1 x reader #f1 x female reader #carlos sainz x female reader #carlos sainz jr x you #cs55 x reader #amera.writes

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theorist-fox · 1 month ago

Text

Compass

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

Crossposted on AO3

Previous << || >> Next

Word count: 5.2k

Summary: where Simon finally gets it.

18+

CW: angst, hurt/comfort, canon typical violence, fluff

Masterlist �� | In The Walls Masterlist 🦊

Staring straight at the screen won’t make that form fill in, yet it’s all you’ve been doing.

The office is cold. Freezing. Your fingers are stiff when you punch the keys, rough skin tight at each knuckle.

Price has asked you to do it. He’s tired and needs to lean on you for a moment. You know how hard it must’ve been for such a proud man to ask for help, so you don’t have the heart to refuse him. Even if you’re just as exhausted, just as worried, because the op went tits up so quickly and suddenly that you’re still recovering from it.

Faulty intel. Ambush. Tactically placed C4 blew the place up into smithereens. Mayhem ensued—you all lost sight of each other and then met again.

The ringing in your ear still sounds fresh. A new cut on your brow your new shiny scar, the crescent of speckled mauves under your eye yet another reason for the brass to come and shower you with meaningless praise so you’d keep up with this unforgiving job without rest.

Chest candy as a prize. As if you care.

Your eyes burn. They squint at the unforgivingly bright screen; bloodshot sclera and a healing bruise, cheekbone swollen and tender.

Casualties And Damage Assessment.

The cursor on the document blinks right next to it.

Write above the dotted line. Do it. It’s there. It’s not hard, it’s just a name—a name among thousands. You could be typing John Doe, and it should feel the same.

So do it, love.

Type it in.

Type “Simon Riley”.

You feel your eyes sting wet.

Johnny is still out there, searching for his whereabouts. Kyle’s with him, probably trying to be the voice of reason—the only one with a head still on his shoulders. The one who grabbed you and handed you to Price so he could slam you in the helo for takeoff. It left without Gaz and Soap in it.

Without Simon.

Crystal clear is the memory of Price’s finger pointed at your face as you huddled your knees to your chest—glossy, bloodshot eyes seemingly lost as they looked back at him, trying to find a compass to guide you through this dreadful darkness, through ice cold fear.

Instead, you found a scowl that struggled to mask a quiet threat beneath it, something you knew he’d been almost impatient to tell you.

Something you knew he knew.

You should’ve known better than to bring feelings into the job. I trusted you and your judgment and you failed me. You failed us.

But now all that feels so unimportant. Price’s disappointment is only another notch to your belt of failures, and you know it’s gonna get even thicker and tangled if you don’t type that name into that form.

If you don't prove to him and everyone else, yourself included, that you’re still somewhat sane. That you didn't lose your marbles on that day, only a chunk of your heart.

Nails tap nervously on your desk. The clock ticks out of beat. Your eye twitches restlessly, but you punch the keys.

Simon Riley — MIA

A weary breath escapes you.

Good girl.

And the leftovers of your heart crack something vicious, a perpetual hairline fracture that will not go away. Your molars grind until your head hurts. Your eyes water, because it’s all happened so rapidly, that you don’t think you’ve had the time to metabolize it.

S’alright. S’alright. You did right.

You sniffle. Wet your lips. Your face screws up to keep it all inside because you can’t have him see you like this—he’s not here, and yet he might as well be, with how clear his voice is echoing in your head.

Why shouldn’t it be? Your last talk was barely a week ago. Your last kiss not even ten days prior.

Softer than the ones he’d given you before. Wet lips stealing your breath, big hands holding you tight by the waist.

The slow, purposeful drag of his cock inside of you as he flattened his chest to yours. The wordless whispers tumbling out of his mouth—uncontrolled, reverent of you.

His lips on your skin, both selfish and selfless: descending to your throat, where the taste of you intoxicated him—and where you shivered, moaned, sunk your fingernails into his back, painting it red.

Your brows pull tight, but you can’t stand it a moment more, as that name typed black on white looks at you expectantly, like you could pull it out of there and bring it in your arms.

Don’t, sergeant. Need you sharp.

You cry, because logic is knocked back into you, and there is no Simon Riley if not the memories rushing in your head.

If not the weariness with which he’d invited to his flat for the first time. Burnt the eggs he cooked for you the next morning, as you slept soundly in his bed. Asked you to stay, even if you were as cautious as can be—a gazelle in the lion’s den.

“Not fuckin’ it up, this time,” he’d told you.

And even in your caution, you could recognize that silent pleading—that almost a year without you has taught him the pains he would endure to not go through it again.

It didn’t soothe your worries, but it did smooth down the line carved between your brows.

You slump back on the chair and think of the times he’s told you there were no strings attached between you two, and how those strings inevitably formed.

How he’s annealed them, as time passed, going against everything he’s ever vouched for.

How he watched you snoop around his bedroom, allowing you to study his home and his habits—voluntarily and without an ounce of reluctance in him.

Sobs wreck you as you recall that night: you hadn’t even bothered wearing something, just tiptoed around naked the way you left the bed.

You tinkered with the few framed photos he had on the shelves, recognizing the people in them: the team, your face squinting at the sun while wearing khakis, and the family he told you about as the muscles of his jaw jumped with tension.

How you scoured through his books, giddy when you double-tapped those you’d read too.

Or how you smiled when you found the wrinkly receipt of that drive-through, dated on that day, being used as a bookmark in the novel you’d recommended him ages ago.

You glanced his way every once in a while, just to make sure he was still asleep. Instead, you found a man bathed in moonlight and lazily wrapped in wrinkled sheets—a knowing smirk on his lips, one that made warmth bloom on your chest, all the way to your cheeks.

He’d patted the spot next to him on the bed, inviting you back beside him.

That was the first night you held each other for no other reason than the pleasure of being close.

In the days that came after, there were countless nights just like it.

And now, drowning in your own tears and snot, you don’t know if there will be more.

If you’d feel his thumb run along your jaw again, his fingers brushing down your spine—or pinching your cheeks to make you take a breath when you rambled on.

If you’d feel his lips on yours, tasting you and your voice, with the veiled excuse to make you quiet.

Wondering if he’ll ever smear greasepaint on your brow, if he’ll ever fix the straps of your vest.

Each tear that falls now is chock full of memories, old and lost. The ones you could’ve had but you’re not sure they’ll ever be. You cry, as you hold yourself together—arms around your chest, nails digging into your biceps, painful enough to anchor you back to earth.

You cry until your throat burns, until your eyes yield, and you fall asleep; the document blank on the screen, only his name as the blatant proof of your failures.

A hand rests on your shoulder.

It’s soft at first, a thumb brushing against your collarbone. When you only shift, the grip gently tightens in a brief shake.

“Sergeant,” you hear.

Your eyes blink open, then, struggle against the crust formed between your lashes. They focus on an equally as tired pair of blues, a mouth that breathes some relief in your weary bones.

“John,” you croak, stretching your limbs behind your head until you hear a sequence of pops in your spine.

You look around to assess where you are. The sunlight, dimming behind the windowpane, tells you that you’ve slept on your chair for half of the day.

Your neck tingles as it wakes, aching from the awkward position in which you fell asleep.

Blinking away the drowsiness, your eyes land on the document plastered on the screen.

Your stomach turns into a boulder once again.

“What is it?” You say, returning your focus to Price standing next to your chair. You press your thumb between your brows to dispel a migraine sure to fall upon you. “Almost done with the report, gimme a few more ho—”

“He’s back, darling.”

Your body deflates pitifully. Dread clogs your throat with ice, because Simon being back doesn’t necessarily mean he’s back alive.

Your hands tremble as they land limp on your thighs, and you don’t care if you’re giving too much away; John already knows, after all, doesn’t he?

And he senses it: the gnawing fear, the supplication in your eyes.

“He’s in the med bay, overall lookin’ fine.”

You stand up so quickly that the chair is knocked back.

Your vision gets spotty, and suddenly the poor nutrition of the past days rears its ugly head in the form of low blood sugar.

John senses it and places a hand on your bicep when you wobble on your feet.

“Bit dehydrated, few scraps here and there, but eh—" A tired smile stretches his lips as he squeezes your shoulder. “We both know it takes a lot more to bring down tha’ bastard.”

John can’t even finish his sentence that you’re curled on your laptop, typing something he can’t see. You stand upright, and with a rush of thank yous that barely make sense, you bolt out of the door.

The captain huffs and rubs his face in exhaustion, before his eyes swivel to the screen.

Casualties And Damage Assessment.

Simon Riley — MIA & found

He sits there, hunched on the gurney like he’s too big to fit on it. His uniform has taken a lighter hue because of sunlight and dust from the unforgiving desert. A nurse is fumbling with a tube on his arm, a needle already inserted in the crook of his elbow for rapid hydration. There are two crumpled bottles of water on the shelf right next to the gurney, and even though Simon's still hiding under the mask, you're sure he's just finished chugging on both.

Johnny stands by his side, arms crossed and a lazy smile on his face. Sunburnt cheeks and a dusting of freckles on his nose.

Kyle talks to a doctor, fiddling with his cap in hand—you catch words like “bruised ribs” and “sunstroke” and something about his ankle but you’re not sure. They get lost in the chatter surrounding you when Simon lifts his head and clocks you at the door.

You stare at each other for what feels like centuries, his eyes always sharp as those of a hawk—yet a little more tired, this time. A little more rough.

When the nurse moves away to tinker with the IV bag, Simon’s hand on his thigh twitches, and he subtly beckons two fingers at you.

It’s all you need.

You beeline your way through passing doctors and nurses alike, until you come to stand in front of him, long legs dangling off the gurney. He’s subtly parted them for you, but Johnny has noticed it and he’s sporting a smarmy grin because of it.

You decide he can have it for today.

Jaw clenched, you swallow before you speak. “Gave us a scare, yeah?”

He doesn’t answer, because his eyes are locked to the thin white bandages taped to your brow. His focus shifts to your cheekbone, then, and the mauve shade it’s taken after the bombs went off out of the blue.

“Quite the shiner you got.” He drawls.

His voice is raspier from disuse, almost a croak. It makes your heart soar and your spine shiver, because it feels like years since he’s gone radio silent.

You gesture vaguely at it, a slight shrug of your shoulder as you try to hide how tight your throat has gone at the realization that he’s alive and kicking, and not an unnamed corpse under some rubble.

“Yeah,” you reply, “Shrapnels—uh, something hit me when those things went off. Just a bruise.”

A sentence he’s heard more times than he cares to count, but he seems unfazed by it this time around. Maybe the relief of being safe has finally set his priorities straight.

You smile wearily, uncharacteristically quiet even as you try to make light of it. “Reckon purple’s my colour, eh?”

He nudges an admonishing foot to your knee. You lose your balance for a moment and blink back at him with a frown.

“Reckon it ain’t.” He grunts with a pointed look, as if you said something unbelievably stupid. But then his voice softens. “But it’s hard for things to look bad on ya, eh?”

His eyes are crinkled at the corners. Simon smiles through them at you. “Still, tha’ bruise ain't it, if ya ask me.”

You huff.

“Flatterer.”

“Thought we’d established flattery worked jus’ fine with ya, mh?”

You choke on a laugh, running the back of your fingers to your lips.

“Yeah, yeah.” You clear your throat, trying to dissipate the warmth in your cheeks. "Got it."

If you two weren’t so lost in this conversation, you wouldn’t have missed the baffled look Johnny was giving you both, talking like he wasn’t there to witness it all.

But now Simon looks at you with such an intensity that Johnny’s behavior falls into the background.

There is no discovering Simon Riley, today; he’s taken the toll of discovering you, because while you’ve always cared and he’s always known, your eyes are telling him that there’s something he’s yet to find.

Or perhaps he’s found it already, ages back, when you called his name in his sheets, when you bit a promise on his fingers, when he coloured your skin with his own—kisses and sweat and grease.

When you left, and he inevitably drifted—a demagnetized compass that couldn’t find its north again, and you were just as adrift.

Good luck, you’d said. And fucking hell he’s needed plenty of it—found it too, it seems, since he’s back where he’s safe. Where he’s home.

“You alrigh’, yeah?” You ask, causing his mind to flounder back to earth.

His throat bobs.

Simon nods stiffly but doesn’t speak.

Johnny sighs heavily and takes the burden from his shoulder instead.

“Aye, he’s a big lad, hen.” He rumbles from your side, and you turn your body to him to give him your attention—wide-eyed like you’d forgotten he was there at all.

Johnny snorts.

He starts to ramble on, and you listen intently to how they found Simon crawling blindly towards them, as he and Kyle ran in his direction.

Simon’s eyes, however, are on you.

And so are his fingers.

Leaning forward, he rests his elbows on his knees and starts tracing subtle patterns on the back of your thigh.

A tickle that would normally make your knees jerk, but you push through and stay still—because what if he stops, then. What if he believes you don’t want him to touch you, after almost a week with no clue about his well-being.

God forbid he pulls away.

God forbid he thinks you don’t want his hands all over once again, and from this day on.

As Johnny tries to fit some light in the dusk of your eyes, Simon discretely hooks one of his fingers in the pocket of your fatigues and doesn’t let go—holding onto you as much as you are to him. In fact, one of your hands lands on his knuckles, thumb rubbing soothing circles on the inside of his wrist.

“Doc said you can go rest in your room for tonight,” Kyle’s voice pitches in. “Just come back tomorrow for a checkup.”

Johnny beams at that. The world weighing on your shoulders suddenly lifts an inch, and you manage to take a breath.

“No injuries, then?” You ask, turning between Simon’s parted legs.

His forefinger stays hooked at the hem of your pocket even when you do.

“Nope.” Kyle smiles. “A concussion, maybe, since he’s not being chatty—oh, wait.”

Simon grunts. “Piss off.”

It’s only when he's done with the IV bag that you’re finally helping him carry his things to his quarters.

Johnny and Kyle don’t bat an eye when you offer to take the lead, and you stop wondering whether they’re aware of your and Simon’s thing the moment Johnny gives you a glaringly obvious wink.

Simon tries to hide a limp as you walk through the hallway, and you’d love to keep his stupid pride intact for his sake, but yours has gone and drowned in the shitter the moment you broke down into sobs in front of Price.

So, you don’t see why his can’t be a little bruised too, tonight.

You hook your arm around his waist, mindful of those eventual bruised ribs you heard the doctor talk about with Kyle. Simon only looks down at you but doesn’t put up a fight—instead, he leans into you and unexpectedly accepts your help.

When he hands you his key, you try to fit it in the keyhole and fail a few times, until you force your hand to stop shaking and the lock clicks. You two stumble inside, as the heavy door closes with a loud thud.

His backpack is dropped carelessly, key on the floor next to it.

“Easy, there.” You whisper, noticing how he almost tumbles onto the mattress.

A deep, drawn-out sigh escapes him as his whole body deflates now that he’s sitting somewhere comfortable.

You crouch in front of him.

No words are exchanged as your fingers work with the straps of his vest on each side. Simon carefully lifts his arms to help you help him, and it’s the first time in years of camaraderie in which he’s actually cooperating.

Vest on the floor. Gloves off. His tac belt is carelessly tossed behind you, as you unlace his boots with his eyes burning holes down at you.

“You need a shower,” you mumble as you slide one boot off his foot. “And then I’ll check those bruises myself, see if I can help somehow.”

Simon is deadly silent.

Or maybe it’s you who can’t quite catch any sound, as the blood rushes in your ears, your heart a violent drum.

“Gonna take a look at your leg too.” You go on, relentless, as your voice cracks unbidden. “It’s probably just a sprained ankle, but it’s better to ma—”

His hand cups your jaw, then, stopping your endless ramble.

You stain the cracked skin of his palm with tears you didn’t know were falling. Simon holds your face until you find it in yourself to look up at him.

He peers down at you through the eyehole of the balaclava, ripped and singed in various spots as a testament to his survival.

He presses a thumb against the corner of your mouth, forcing it into a plastic smile. But those teardrops are still regrettably streaking your cheeks, your lips still trembling in a fruitless attempt to keep quiet.

His other hand comes to grab your bicep to help you up.

You’re on shaky legs, probably worse than the stagger he had when walking down the hallways. You come to a stand right between his thighs nonetheless, pressing your palms on his shoulders for balance.

Simon doesn’t speak as he looks up at you—doesn’t have the strength to do it, nor does he know what to say when you look so vulnerably lost.

He uses actions, instead.

Languidly, he slides the balaclava off his head, showing the cuts on his skin that match the rips on his mask. His forehead is ruddy and chapped, flaky skin peels off the bridge of his nose right where it gets redder and inflamed. His lips look thinner and pale, like he hasn’t had a good gulp of water in a while.

Your brows pinch and you instinctively lean forward until your noses brush.

Simon takes a generous look at you, taking note of all the things left unsaid that are so clearly etched into the fine lines of your face.

He nods softly, like he knows you need him to give you the green light.

And so, you kiss him right then, not wasting a moment longer. You both don’t bother to pretend to build up the tension when the rubber band has obviously already snapped. He parts his mouth for you and tilts his head until you can only breathe him in.

You taste the salt of your own tears, and his acetone breath of days spent without having a bite. You reckon yours isn’t much different—fear and hunger your only companions in his absence. Similar desperation in his hands running up your spine, in the panting of his breath, clogging your lungs already filled with a cocktail of dread and relief—poisonous, yet so comforting.

His arms are sore, muscles taut, but he uses them anyway to wrap around your thighs, bringing you in.

But it’s then that you stop: when your knees dig into the mattress on each side of his hips—your hands softly pressed to his chest to push him away.

His eyes land on your lips, already swollen and glossy after he’s kissed them to bits. He watches them move when you speak, entranced, as tears trail into the corners of your mouth.

You think he’s a bit lost in that moment, possibly not entirely listening to what you’re saying, yet that doesn’t stop you from rambling like time is running out.

“You have to shower and rest; we can’t be doing this now.” You’re stumbling over your words. “What if you got a broken rib that might puncture your lung, I gotta be careful.”

He blinks, snapping out of his head. Brows tight in a frown, he lifts his arm and grabs the nape of your neck, pulling you in.

“No, you gotta come 'ere.”

Your lips crash onto his.

The salt of your tears stings your tongues, dancing together just because your mouth is already open, busy mumbling something under your breath.

“Simon,” you’re saying, but not in the way he likes. “Listen—”

He stops. Sighs like the world has been dropped on his shoulders, breath heavy in your mouth.

His eyes shut close, lips to lips ready to ravage yet both stand still and anticipating. His fingers flex at the back of your neck, others dimple the fat of your thigh through your trousers.

Anxiety has your stomach in a clutch, and you fear he knows because he can read you like a book, easy as anything, like he’s taken notes through your pages firsthand.

When Simon gazes back at you, his eyes are close enough for you to distinguish the bloodshot whites, the enlarged pupils eating at the chestnut irises. You don’t look at his lips, but you feel with yours how he tentatively opens his mouth a few times, as if he wants to say something but thinks back on it every time.

Until he speaks.

“Please.”

You want to give in. Have him show you he’s still alive in the only way he knows: with the touch of his hands, the flawless glide of his body with yours.

But you’re relentless, and you mimic him—if not even more desperately. “Please.”

He sighs, completely disarmed.

Both his hands come to cradle your jaw, then. He starts tracing a path with his lips—kisses so tender you can barely feel them, landing blindly on your cheeks.

“Just a few days out there, just—” he murmurs, voice low and breathy. “Fuckin’ sweltered all day, then soon as the sun fucked off—cold as a witch’s tit.”

He breathes a hoarse chuckle, such a weak one that instead of stealing a smile it pulls and knots at your heartstrings.

You gulp. It’s fruitless, there’s something lodged in your throat so thick you abandon any effort to identify it. Fear peaks, however. Cold as the harshest of winters.

You stay silent. You listen. No questions asked, no interjections of any kind. A dance you’ve learned over time, from past mistakes you promised to never make again.

“Been through worse, y’know?” he mutters to your skin, words interrupted only by his own kisses on your cheeks. “Much bloody worse—an' this? This was nothin’. Part an' parcel of the job, love, bound to happen sooner or later.”

He pulls back, his gaze meeting yours as though he could show you what he’s endured, like snapshots unfolding in a reel of film.

Your fingers lace through his hair, and specks of sand and grime settle under your fingernails as you scratch his scalp. Slowly, you lean in, and press a kiss to his forehead.

Simon imperceptibly softens against you, like his body wants to but his head won’t allow him. The muscles in his shoulder are taut but the ones in his neck are loose and flaccid, head bowed to your lips.

“But fuck—” he breathes. “Never been so bloody scared.”

When he takes his hands away from your face to wrap his arms around your waist, you know better than to move—as if the ghost of his fingers still lingers at your jaw.

He holds you closer. Fists your shirt between his fingers until it’s pulled tight around your middle.

Seconds pass, in which you do nothing but wait with bated breath for him to elaborate further.

“But not f’ me.” He sighs. “Don’t care if I live or die, yeah?”

It’s not a surprising statement. It doesn’t leave you as floored as it should’ve.

It’s one you’ve internalized so long ago, even before you two engaged with this nonsense of a thing that only ended up hurting you both.

When you first got to know him, it fell upon you not slowly like a setting sun, but more so like a comet crossing the sky—quick and sharp. Burnt itself into your bones, in the crevices of your heart: that in front of you was a man who didn’t care for his life. A ticking time bomb bound to blow up.

And this knowledge properly slapped you when he went MIA.

A handful of days of nausea and shaking limbs.

Days in which you bit your nails until they bled, refusing to mourn a dead body you couldn’t see.

“You listenin’?” He asks hoarsely.

Gingerly, you nod. Your lips brush his forehead. They’re wet. Tears are falling again, salt as needles puncturing the cracks of your lips.

“You get it, yeah?” He murmurs, and this time it’s him who guides your eyes back to his. They’re dark and heavy with sorrow and, for once, not chained shut.

Days in which you didn’t know where he was—if he was at all.

His eyes search for yours. Palms to your cheeks like you’re made of glass and might shatter if he holds you too tight.

“You get it?” He asks again, low and breathless.

Days in which he didn’t know where you were—if you were at all, too.

“I do,” you croak.

There's a sense of grounding, then—tectonic plaques settling back after the earthquake. The needle of your compass locks back into place, finally pointing North—no longer caught in an erratic spin.

And it’s so quiet after that.

Two words that hang in the air and cut the tension in half, until it finally dissipates when he brushes the hair off your forehead.

Simon holds your eyes for a moment more before he brings your lips to his own.

He kisses you slowly like he doesn’t know the way you like it, like he’s doing it for the first time.

And maybe, he is.

That night, Simon doesn’t fuck you.

He’s naked, just out of the shower you helped him take. He sits at the edge of the bed, fists curled around the blanket haphazardly thrown over it, towel crumpled at his feet.

His skin is damp, glistening under the low lights—gentle highlight of scars you’ve traced, and newer ones. The knotted lines and the inflamed cuts. The pale stretches of skin interrupted by speckled purples, greens, yellows—entire galaxies blooming on his shoulder, on his ribs, on his abdomen and on his thighs.

If that isn’t enough to make your knees buckle, enough to make your heart crack, it’s his request that does it.

“Stay,” he croaks.

That’s just how he says it, blunt as ever—gritted through his teeth, still coarse in the attempt at tenderness. Trying to fit in a role he’s never thought he’d get the chance to play; where he's not a killer, only a man.

That night, Simon doesn’t fuck you, no.

Simon holds you to his side, deaf to your protests when he guides you to lean your cheek to his heart—all the be careful’s stumbling out of your lips tossed out the window by the very man they were meant for.

Still, he brushes your hair, fingers gently lacing through it. His hand faintly trembles—discomfort in the unfamiliar, you think.

However, even in their uncertainty, the gesture’s enough to make you fall asleep, lulled by the warmth of his body tucked under the duvet with you. Pine needles of his body wash, vestiges of tobacco, antiseptic you smeared on his cuts—the strange familiarity of it, the comfort you hope he's found too.

And maybe you’re dreaming. Maybe it’s the delirium — the adrenaline crash, the hunger, the sleepless nights. Or maybe it’s just the overwhelming relief of having him here, real and warm, alive with blood that still runs.

You feel it rumble in his chest first, before it properly travels to your ears.

A curse. Drawn out, rouged with tender resignation, with honeyed surrender. A beautifully dreadful feeling, conveniently compacted into a single, wretched word.

Wet lips touch your forehead. They brush left and right but never press in a proper kiss.

“You get it, uh?”

A sigh, then. Or a hoarse chuckle, maybe—you’re not sure. Warm breath grazes your forehead, tickles your scalp until shivers tiptoe gently down your spine and you unconsciously huddle closer.

Simon only holds you more thoroughly.

“Can't fuckin' believe it,” he whispers.

There's something feather-light in his voice that betrays a hint of careful awe—jarring, misplaced, especially after days scraping by on the very edge of life.

Something akin to hope.

A lot from a man who insists he doesn't care if he lives or dies.

Still, Simon doesn’t bother to conceal it—perhaps because he thinks you're long asleep, perhaps because he doesn't care about hiding at all, not anymore. It curls into his vowels, bleeds golden into his tongue clicking at each t.

“Yeah,” he breathes. Kisses your forehead. “Now I get it too.”

#simon riley #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #call of duty modern warfare #cod #cod mw2 #fanfic #archive of our own #ao3 #ghost x reader #angst #cod angst #x reader #call of duty #Simon Riley is bad at feelings #but he got better didn't he #foxy

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baigepueckers · 1 month ago

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Paige Bueckers X Reader

National Champ

The arena is on fire, a humming of noise, but your heartbeat is louder.

You can barely hear the person beside you. The announcers sound like they’re underwater…the crowd is a blur of colors and energy but all your focus, all your love, all your breath is locked on the hardwood court where she stands.

Where Paige stands.

The clock reads 1:26, fourth quarter. It’s everything people dream official moments, legacy on the line. And Paige? Paige is standing at half-court like she owns it. Like she’s been here before in some dream and already knows the ending.

You’ve seen that look on her face a thousand times. When she doesn’t talk, doesn’t blink, just breathes differently…like she’s entering another realm where nothing exists but the ball and the basket. That’s when you know something’s coming.

And it does.

A cross, a jab step, the kind of movement that makes the defender freeze for a second too long, and that’s all she needs. She launches. Deep. From way beyond the arc.

The net barely moves.

Three.

Your mouth opens in a scream that doesn’t make a sound. You’re on your feet, hands covering your mouth, tears already pressing behind your eyes. Everyone’s going wild, but Paige just jogs back on defense with the faintest, cocky smirk. She doesn’t need to celebrate. That shot was the celebration.

The final minute crawls like it knows how much is riding on it. One possession, one stop, one last stand. Your hands are trembling, and you’re squeezing your necklace…the one she gave you before the tournament. “To bring me luck” she said, slipping it over your head with a kiss to your forehead. “But really, I just need to know you’re wearing something that means I’m always with you.”

And God, have you felt it. Every second. Every game. Every heartbreak that came before this one.

The buzzer sounds.

UConn wins.

You don’t even remember how you got out of your seat. You think maybe you flew. Because one second you’re surrounded by screaming fans, and the next, you’re stumbling down the bleachers, eyes locked on her.

She’s crying. Laughing. Screaming. Collapsing into teammates’ arms, her jersey soaked, her shoulders shaking. But even in the chaos of celebration, you can see it…she’s looking for you.

Her eyes scan the crowd like a compass that only knows your direction. And when they find you?

It hits you like a tidal wave.

She runs…full speed, through the madness, pushing through people, mouth open in a sob. “Y/N!”

You barely have time to catch her before she’s in your arms, wrapping herself around you like she needs your body to remind her this is real.

“We did it,” she cries into your neck. “Baby, we did it.”

You’re sobbing. You don’t care how you look. You don’t care that cameras are everywhere, catching every angle. All that matters is her…her voice, her arms, her heartbeat against yours.

“No,” you whisper, pulling back just enough to cup her face, your thumb brushing over the smudges of black beneath her eyes. “You did it, Paige. You came back. You proved them all wrong. You said you would…and you did. You’re a national champion.”

Her face crumples eyes glassy and wide. “I kept picturing you, you know? Every time I felt like giving in. I’d think about looking up and seeing you in the stands. I kept thinking… ‘I want her to see this. I want her to remember this moment for the rest of her life.’”

You smile despite the tears still wet on your face, and glance up at the Final Four Champions hat now sitting crooked on her head. She hadn’t even realized someone had tossed it to her mid-celebration.

“Well,” you murmur, tilting your head and brushing a finger along the brim of her hat. “Not to take attention away from your win or your entire legacy or anything… but this hat? Baby, this hat looks insanely good on you.”

She huffs out a laugh, eyes closing like your flirtation is both exactly what she needed and something she’ll never get used to. “Y/N…”

“No, I’m serious,” you tease, leaning in closer until your lips are just grazing her ear. “It’s giving… national champ realness. Like, I might need you to keep that on when we get back to the hotel.”

Her face turns a shade of red that has nothing to do with exhaustion. “Oh my God.”

You giggle, and she buries her face in your neck again, still shaking with laughter and adrenaline and something softer…something sacred.

“You’re insane,” she mumbles.

You grin. “I’m in love.”

Her arms tighten around you, and her voice drops to a whisper. “I want forever with you, Y/N.”

Your heart stutters.

“You have it,” you say, barely above a breath. “You’ve always had it.”

Later, in the locker room, she’s still wearing the hat…because you told her to… and every time she catches you looking at her, you shoot her a wink that makes her blush so deep her teammates start teasing her for it.

“Let ‘em laugh,” you murmur when you finally get her alone, sitting between her legs on a bench, her arms wrapped tightly around your waist. “They’re just jealous their girlfriend isn’t a walking championship fantasy.”

She groans, burying her face in your shoulder. “Stop.”

“Never.”

And she laughs again, because the truth is she wouldn’t want you any other way.

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chaoticforever · 29 days ago

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When Perfect Cracks | Eddie Diaz x Male! Reader

Summary: To the outside world, it seemed like everything was perfect. Y/n had a boyfriend who loved him, a job he worked hard for, and a life finally falling into place. But Y/n had learned long ago that perfection often came with a price.

A/n: Shoutout to the person who requested this. It’s been fun writing for the 9-1-1 fandom and I liked writing this.

It's often said that time flies when you're having fun, but being in love and sharing those happy moments with that special someone takes it to a whole new level, making time pass by even more quickly.

One year.

That’s how long Y/n L/n and Eddie Diaz had been a couple. Looking back, it was almost comical how they started dating, considering the two hadn’t exactly gotten off on the right foot. In fact, Y/n couldn’t stand Eddie, to say the least. And Eddie? Oh, he hadn’t been too fond of Y/n either.

It all started with the parking lot incident at the grocery store. Y/n could still hear Eddie’s exasperated tone, accusing him of backing into his truck when, in reality, Eddie was the one who hit him, leaving a nice, ugly dent in Y/n's car. The man had the audacity to argue, crossing his arms with that infuriating, know-it-all look like he had never been wrong a day in his life.

Realistically, Y/n should’ve called the cops, but he’d been in a rush and didn’t have time to deal with it. He just hoped he’d never have to see that dude again.

Fate, though, had other plans.

On his day off, thanks to some saved-up PTO, Y/n got a text from his best friend and roommate, Buck, asking if he could drop off the lunch he’d forgotten at their apartment. Being the good friend he was — and knowing how much Buck liked his cooking — Y/n agreed and headed to the 118 firehouse to drop it off and bounce.

And that’s when Buck introduced him to the team. Surprisingly, one of them was the one who dented his car — Eddie Diaz. The moment Eddie saw him, he let out a little sigh, as if Y/n’s mere presence was some kind of personal inconvenience. It probably was, but that was Eddie's fault. Their conversation that day? Well, it was nothing but passive-aggressive remarks.

So, yeah, Y/n was not a fan. He thought Eddie was arrogant, pompous, and far too smug for someone who acted like being a firefighter made him superior.

As it turned out, the animosity was a two-way street. Y/n later found out from Buck that Eddie had called him stuck-up. Annoying. Said he didn’t understand why Buck was friends with someone like him.

Y/n knew It would have stayed that way — two people who did not tolerate each other, held together only by their mutual friendship with Buck — if it hadn’t been for that one sunny afternoon at the park.

The 118 had been hosting a community event for local kids, setting up obstacle courses, fire safety demos, and fun little challenges. He had only agreed to attend because Buck wanted him to help out, and Y/n figured it was a decent way to spend a Saturday. He wasn’t one to pass up an opportunity to give back, so he set up a barbecue station, grilling sausages, burgers, and hot dogs for the attendees.

And then he saw Eddie with the children.

A little girl, barely six, had stumbled and scraped her knee. Y/n went to help, but Eddie got there first, kneeling down with a gentleness that caught him off guard, to be honest. Eddie's voice was warm and reassuring as he told her she was strong, it was just a scratch, that he’d had worse but always got back up. She sniffled, nodded, and, without hesitation, held out her arms for Eddie to pick her up after he finished bandaging her knee.

Y/n hadn't expected Eddie to be so kind. It was one thing to know that Eddie's job as a firefighter involved helping people, but it was quite another to see him do it off the clock with such genuine warmth and compassion. Y/n had anticipated a more gruff, no-nonsense approach, but instead, Eddie was gentle, patient, and encouraging. Just like he encouraged a nervous young boy to climb up the mini firefighter obstacle course. He certainly hadn't expected to see that little display. And Y/n definitely hadn’t expected the way his own heart softened at the sight.

Maybe Eddie wasn’t the arrogant jerk Y/n had thought he was. Eddie, it seemed, had misjudged Y/n as well. He assumed that Y/n was too stuck-up to bother with something as humble as volunteering at a community event. Yet as he watched Y/n flip burgers and hotdogs on the grill, he was surprised to see that Y/n was not only present but also actively participating and helping out.

But somewhere between setting up activity stations together and laughing at a group of kids who somehow ended up covered in paint, the tension between them shifted. And later that day, the two talked — really talked. No snark. No jabs. Just two people realizing they had been wrong about each other in the beginning.

That day changed everything.

What followed was polite conversations that quickly turned into playful teasing. Then, Y/n and Eddie were hanging out with each other. Soon, they had late-night talks, both in person and over the phone.

Before either of them fully realized it, something more had started to form. Feelings they hadn’t anticipated. Eddie was the one who made the first move by both asking him out and kissing him first.

Now, a year later, here they were, celebrating their first anniversary. Who would have thought? Certainly not Y/n. However, he surely wasn’t complaining because he had fallen in love with Eddie. And that was one thing he’d never regret.

Y/n slipped on a deep, rich blue shirt over his white tee, fingers working the buttons just as Buck nearly walked past his room. He had just gotten in, heading toward the bathroom, but paused when he caught sight of Y/n getting dressed.

"Well, look at you," Buck stepped into the doorway and gave him an exaggerated once-over. "Dressed up. Got big plans?"

Y/n rolled his eyes. Buck was more than aware of his plans tonight and what day he was celebrating. Hell, Buck has been celebrating today more than Y/n himself.

In fact, Buck had been making sure that Y/n knew he was aware, by sending him a barrage of "Happy Anniversary" texts — fifteen, to be exact — early that morning. But that wasn't all he did, not even close. His roommate had also brought him a cake with a sappy anniversary message, posted a shoutout to him and Eddie on his Instagram story, and recommended the restaurant they were going to. Granted, Buck mentioned it months ago and they decided to check it out tonight, but still.

Regardless, Y/n decided to play along, a small smirk tugging at his mouth. "Nah, Buck, I just enjoy wearing dressy shirts while lounging around our apartment."

Buck chuckled. "Right. Because nothing says 'lazy night in' like a button-up shirt and cologne I can smell from the hall."

"Maybe I want to smell nice for myself."

"Or maybe you just want to smell nice for Eddie," Buck teased, wiggling his brows.

Y/n shook his head as he finished buttoning up his shirt and started adjusting his collar. Okay, fine, Buck wasn’t exactly wrong. He’d chosen this new Versace cologne because he knew Eddie would like it, but he wasn't going to admit that to Buck, not out loud, at least. "You're impossible," saying that showed how Buck was right on point about Y/n.

"And yet, you continue to put up with me," the blue-eyed firefighter fired back. "So, where are you and Romeo going tonight?"

"That place you wouldn’t shut up about — Desiderata," Y/n replied, smoothing down his shirt. "And before you say anything, yes, I made the reservation a month ago."

Quickly, Buck held up his hands in mock surrender. "Hey, I’m just making sure you don’t mess this up. One year with Eddie Diaz is a big deal. The man practically had a heart attack picking out your gift."

Y/n paused mid-motion, turning to Buck with narrowed eyes. "Wait, what?" Eddie got him a gift? Even after Y/n had made it abundantly clear he did not want a gift.

Blue eyes widened as if Buck had let slip a secret he hadn't meant to share. Upon realization, Buck quickly shook his head. "Nothing. Just forget I said anything." The words tumbled out in a rush, and he didn't wait for Y/n to reply before turning on his heel and walking out of the room.

"Oh, no you don’t." Y/n grabbed his phone and then followed Buck into the kitchen, where his friend was already rummaging through the cabinets, pulling out a bag of chips. "Buck, spill it. What did Eddie get me? It better not be anything expensive."

"I am sworn to secrecy." Buck zipped his lips, making a show of locking them shut and throwing away the imaginary key. "Besides, it’s better if you see it yourself."

Y/n groaned. He really hoped Eddie hadn’t gone overboard. He wasn’t a fan of receiving gifts in general, but if Eddie had gone all out, Y/n was going to have words. That money could’ve been spent on Christopher or on something actually important rather than getting him stuff.

"Fine. I’ll just wait and see for myself." He checked his phone, noting the time. If he wanted to make it to the restaurant on time, he had to leave now. But before heading out, Y/n had one last question. "Yo, weren’t you supposed to go out with, uh... the reporter chick? Tyra?"

"Taylor," his roommate corrected, as he opened up the fridge and grabbed a can of Pepsi. "And she had to cover a story tonight, so our date's been rescheduled."

Y/n opened his mouth to respond, but before he could pry further, his phone buzzed in his hands. He looked down at it and saw Eddie’s name flash across the screen.

Eddie: I’m at the restaurant. Take your time, but just know every second you make me wait, I’m mentally judging you.

A chuckle escaped Y/n as he shook his head and pocketed his phone. "Alright, I’m leaving. You good if I head out now?"

"Yeah, yeah. Go have your disgustingly romantic evening," Buck waved him off. He picked up the soda can and the bag of chips and headed into the living room, clearly ready to spend the evening doing his own thing. "I'll be here, watching the game," he plopped down in the armchair with a comfortable sigh. He reached for the remote and turned on the TV before adding. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do!"

"That doesn't leave room for much, man, especially the good stuff." and that little comment was definitely a dig at Buck's playboy past before he toned it down.

"Hey!"

Y/n’s laughter echoed as he grabbed his keys from the metal hook and left their apartment, locking the door behind him. The drive to the restaurant wasn’t long, but his mind kept drifting back to Buck’s slip-up about Eddie’s gift. He really, really hoped Eddie hadn’t gone overboard. Y/n didn’t need anything fancy. Spending the night with Eddie was more than enough.

Pulling into the restaurant’s parking lot, he shifted the car into park and checked himself in the rearview mirror. His shirt? Smooth and crisp. Hair? Decent enough. Lips? Soft and chap-free. He was ready.

When he walked inside, Y/n realized that Buck wasn't exaggerating — this place was fancy. The restaurant featured gold chandeliers that hung above the patrons, pristine white tablecloths covering the tables, sleek lanterns with LED candles, a violinist playing soft, classical music, and even a waterfall inside, cascading down rocks with a soft, calming sound.

And he quickly spotted Eddie, who was sitting at a table near the waterfall. Dressed in a black button-up with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, Eddie was focused on his phone, completely unaware of the effect he was already having on Y/n. Eddie looked really good.

He is doing this on purpose, Y/n thought. He has to be. Eddie had to know how good he looked, how those damn rolled-up sleeves highlighted his toned arms, the ones Y/n had admired more times than he’d ever admit out loud.

Y/n walked over, stopping at the chair meant for him. "How’s the date so far?"

At the sound of his voice, Eddie looked up. The moment their eyes met, a small, knowing smirk curled at his lips, the one that never failed to make Y/n’s stomach flip. His gaze lingered, taking in the deep blue shirt, the way it complimented Y/n’s skin, the way he smelled — Y/n could tell from the look in Eddie’s hazel eyes that the cologne choice had been a success.

"So far?" Eddie teased, locking his phone and setting it face down. "Pretty boring. But I think it just got a whole lot better."

"Smooth Diaz."

"Only for you." Eddie gestured to the seat across from him. "Now sit before people think I got stood up on my anniversary."

Y/n huffed out a laugh and slid into the seat, taking another glance around. "You know, Buck wasn’t wrong — this place is nice. It almost feels like we should have worn tuxes or a suit jacket." He reached for the menu but didn’t open it, instead letting his gaze drift back to Eddie. "And you look handsome, by the way. Though I see you went with the ‘roll the sleeves up and make Y/n suffer’ look. Bold choice."

Eddie smirked, casually leaning forward, and resting his forearms on the table. “Oh? You noticed?” His voice was all feigned innocence, however, his expression gave him away, revealing the truth behind his words. Eddie knew exactly what he was doing, and he was doing it on purpose.

Y/n scoffed, opening the menu to avoid looking at Eddie too much. "Hard not to."

The h/c hair male let his eyes skim over the food options, debating what to order. Normally, he’d go for something simple when he went out, such as a burger or a cheesesteak, but tonight, he figured he’d try something new; different. Something a little more fitting for tonight's occasion.

"How was work?" Eddie suddenly asked.

Y/n let out a deep sigh, setting the menu aside and rubbing his temple as if trying to massage away the stress of the day. "Very exhausting," he answered, his voice laced with a mix of frustration and relief. "I had to spend most of the day working out a strategy to close the Morgan deal. It's been dragging on for weeks, and my boss was breathing down my neck for a solid proposal by the end of the day." He sighed again, his shoulders sagging a bit as Y/n relived the monotony of his day. "So, basically, I spent my day working on the Morgan deal, staring at spreadsheets, crunching numbers, speaking to clients, and pretending like I didn't want to throw my computer out of the nearest window."

Eddie nodded. "So, a typical finance day?"

"Pretty much," Y/n muttered. "Except this time, if I screw up, we lose a multi-million-dollar deal. No pressure, though."

Except all Y/n had felt was pressure. He knew that he couldn't afford to screw up this deal, not when so much was riding on it. If he failed, he would not only lose the deal, but also his chance at getting a promotion, and that was something Y/n had desperately wanted for a while now.

The promotion would bring with it a significant pay increase, more benefits, and, most importantly, a private office, something Y/n always wanted. No more cramped cubicles, no more distractions, no more shared workspace. Just his own four walls and a door with his name on it.

Eddie studied Y/n, his head tilting to the side in a subtle, thoughtful gesture. "You don't screw up," the words that followed were a statement, not a question, and they were laced with a quiet confidence that was reassuring in Y/n's intelligence.

Y/n's eyebrows shot up, his expression skeptical. "You sound pretty sure of that." Judging from his tone, Y/n, undoubtedly, wanted Eddie to explain the basis for his confidence in him, and the man sure did.

"Because I am." Eddie shrugged as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "You’re a smart guy, and you always work hard. If anyone can pull this off, it’s you."

Hearing that caused Y/n to feel warmth blooming in his chest. Eddie had a way of making him feel like he was capable of anything, even when he doubted himself. This guy sure did have a way with words.

"Thanks," he gave a small, grateful smile. "Hopefully, my boss feels the same way."

Just then, a waiter approached their table. A young man with a friendly smile and an immaculately crisp uniform. "Good evening, gentlemen. My name is Nathan, and I’ll be your server today. Can I start you guys off with something to drink?"

Eddie turned his attention to Y/n with a questioning look. "What are you feeling?"

"Hmm," Y/n's e/c eyes scanned the menu once more, his fingers tracing the edges of the page as he deliberated on his drink of choice. "I'll take a whiskey sour."

Both of Eddie's eyebrows shot up from Y/n's choice. "Going strong tonight, huh?"

"Yes, sir," Y/n confirmed without missing a beat. "I deserve this after the day I had."

Eddie's head nodded to the side as if to say that he agreed with Y/n's decision to treat himself to a stronger drink without verbally speaking. His gaze then shifted to Nathan. "I will take a Maui margarita."

Nathan's pencil moved, the tip gliding smoothly across the small notepad in his left hand as he quickly jotted down the drink orders. "Alright, I'll be back with your drinks shortly." He sent another grin.

Once the waiter left, Y/n asked about Eddie's Saturday, and Eddie explained that had spent the day watching movies with his kid and baking cookies with him.

However, their little baking endeavors had been less than successful, with the cookies emerging from the oven burnt to a crisp. In fact, they were so severely charred that even Christopher, who was typically eager to taste Eddie's food, had declined to take a bite. So, he pretty much spent his time baking for nothing. Even then, he couldn't blame Christopher for not taking a simple bite out of them.

After all, when Eddie, himself, had mustered the courage to try one of the cookies himself, he had been forced to concede that they were, indeed, inedible, which was the kindest way of putting it.

That is precisely why Y/n had taken it upon himself to handle all the baking duties whenever he visited Eddie's place. He had even assumed the role of head chef, not because Eddie was a bad cook — on the contrary, Eddie was quite good at cooking — but Y/n had always learned to appreciate the value of edible food.

Pretty soon, their drinks arrived, and Nathan set a whiskey sour in front of Y/n and a Maui margarita in front of Eddie. Then, Nathan took their food orders, jotting down Y/n's selection of the Grilled Chicken Alfredo and Eddie's choice of the New Orleans Pasta, before leaving to put their orders in.

Once the waiter left again, Y/n lifted his glass to his lips and savored a slow sip of his whiskey sour, eyeing Eddie over the rim of the glass. He had been trying to resist the urge to mention the surprise gift Eddie had gotten him, knowing it was to be a secret until the right moment. He tried to respect the surprise. But yeah, he couldn't do it. He had to say something.

"So…" Y/n's lips parted and the word left his lips in a languid, drawn-out manner. "Word on the street is you got me a gift."

Eddie's eyes widened in surprise, his finger, which had been absently tracing the rim of his glass, stilled as he blinked in reaction to Y/n's words. A sigh left his mouth and he shook his head. "Damn it, Buck," he muttered to himself, his voice low and resigned. "I should've known he wouldn't be able to keep his mouth shut," the firefighter found his gaze on Y/n. "I specifically told him not to say anything."

"Yeah, well, it’s Buck," Y/n said matter-of-factly. "Keeping secrets isn’t exactly his strong suit." He pushed his drink aside and leaned forward. "What did you get me? I told you not to get me anything."

"And I ignored you," Eddie replied smoothly, unapologetically disregarding Y/n's wishes. "Because I wanted to get you something special. And before you start, no, what I got you is not expensive."

Y/n’s lips flattened into a thin line and he shot him a look. "That's what people say when it is expensive. So, what is it, huh?"

Eddie could see there was no way out of this. He had planned to give Y/n the gift after dinner, but he knew how persistent Y/n was, and there was no chance he’d drop it until he saw it. With a sigh, Eddie reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, neatly wrapped box, setting it on the table right in front of his boyfriend.

Y/n stared at it like it was a ticking bomb. He wondered what was inside there. It had to be some type of jewelry, judging by the box. And for one panicked second, the e/c-eyed man's brain jumped to the craziest possibility that there was a ring inside. Oh, he hoped not. He loved Eddie, but the idea of marriage, at least at this point during their relationship, was not something he was ready to consider.

All of a sudden, his thoughts screeched to a halt. He paused, his eyes still fixed on the box, as a new comment formed in his mind: now wait a damn minute—?

"This looks expensive."

"Shut up and open it, Y/n."

Without waiting another moment, Y/n picked up the box and lifted the lid open. He let out an internal sigh of relief when he saw that it wasn’t a ring. Thank God. Nestled inside was a sleek silver chain necklace, simple yet elegant, resting on a soft, red cushion. His eyes traced over the delicately engraved plate in the center, reading the words etched into the metal.

Siempre contigo.

Y/n looked up at Eddie with a questioning look in his eyes. "What does this mean?"

Eddie's expression underwent a subtle transformation, his features softening into something more... affectionate. He reached for his drink and took a slow sip of it. "It means: Always with you."

Always with you. It was three little words, but the meaning behind them, especially in this context, carried so much weight. Y/n stared at Eddie, something in his chest tightening. He glanced back down at the necklace, then back at Eddie, who was watching him with that steady gaze — the one that meant he was waiting for Y/n to voice his opinion on the necklace.

For a moment, Y/n didn’t know what to say and was rendered momentarily mute. He simply held the necklace in his palm, feeling the cool weight of it against his skin. Eddie wasn’t usually the most openly expressive guy, but he had a way of showing how much he cared without needing to say it outright. And this? This was exactly that, and it was so touching.

The words tumbled out of Y/n's lips in a soft, barely audible whisper, as if he was still attempting to process the reality of the gift. "You really got this for me?" and Y/n's voice lacked its usual teasing edge.

Eddie's head nodded, a gentle, affirming motion as he replied, "Yes. I know you're not big on gifts, but I wanted you to have something from me. Something you can wear every day — if you want to, that is." He just shrugged and he looked almost sheepish, his eyes dropping to the table before rising back up to meet Y/n's gaze head-on. "I just… I wanted you to have something that reminded you I’m always here. No matter how crazy work gets, how tough life becomes for you, or how stressed you are — I’m with you. Always."

Y/n swallowed. He wasn't typically the emotional type, but there was something about Eddie's words, about the necklace, that had touched a deep chord within him. And dammit, Eddie really knew how to get to him, how to slip past every last one of his defenses and make his heart ache in the best way possible. He ran his finger over the smooth silver, tracing the engraving with his thumb. It was perfect.

He really, really liked it.

Actually— "I love it," Y/n said, pulling the necklace from the box and unclasping it. Eddie's hand shot out, taking the jewelry from his hands. Moving around the table, he quickly fastened it around Y/n’s neck.

"There we go," Eddie murmured once it was secured. Though, his hands lingered for a moment, grazing the warm skin at the nape of Y/n’s neck before he settled into his seat. "Now you’re stuck with me."

Y/n laughed, adjusting the necklace so it sat just right. "I’ve been stuck with you since the day you put that dent in my car."

"You put that dent in your own car."

"That’s debatable," and it was funny how, even after all this time, neither of them had backed down from blaming the other for that infamous parking lot incident. It was a lifelong argument now, one they’d probably continue to have decades down the line. "You know, this is kind of unfair, right? Now I feel my gift for you sucks."

Eddie looked genuinely surprised. "You got me a gift?" he sounded shocked, too.

“Of course," Y/n confirmed, "I did. What kind of boyfriend would I be if I didn’t?"

Eddie chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “And here you were, giving me a whole speech about not wanting a gift, only to turn around and get me one, too."

"Yeah, yeah," Y/n dismissively waved Eddie off, reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out a black box. "Guess I’m a hypocrite." And, honestly? Y/n knew that.

Eddie took the box with a curious look before opening it up. Inside sat a sleek, silver watch with a deep black leather strap. It was classic, elegant, and exactly Eddie’s style. Eddie's lips parted slightly as he traced the edge of the watch face.

Y/n studied Eddie’s expression closely and he could tell that he liked it. "I know you’ve been wanting another watch since your old one broke. I figured I would save you the trouble of having to shop for one."

Eddie was still staring at the watch like he couldn’t quite believe Y/n had gotten him one. "Y/n, this is — this is amazing."

"Oh, I know," for a watch that cost eight hundred bucks, it better be nothing short of amazing. "I have great taste, don't I?"

Eddie's eyes lifted, meeting Y/n's gaze as a soft, breathy laugh escaped his lips. "You really didn't have to do this," he said.

Y/n tilted his head slightly. "And yet, I did."

Following that, Eddie's face broke into a wide, joyful smile as he removed the watch from its cushion sliding it onto his wrist. He fastened the buckle, making a slight adjustment to get the fit just right, before holding his arm out to admire the way the watch looked on him. "Perfect," he declared. And then, without warning, he leaned across the table, and grabbed Y/n's face, his fingers wrapping around Y/n's jaw. Before Y/n could even react, Eddie's lips were on his, pressing into a brief, but intense kiss. It was enough to make Y/n’s heart race as he kissed him back, his fingers gripping Eddie’s wrist before the firefighter finally pulled away.

"Happy anniversary, Y/n," Eddie laced his hand with Y/n’s as his thumb traced a soothing pattern over Y/n's knuckles.

The h/c-haired man gave a little squeeze to his hand. "Happy anniversary, Eddie."

And yeah, Y/n was happy that night. Really happy. It was one of those rare, perfect nights where everything aligned just right, where nothing felt off or out of place. However, sometimes, Y/n worried when things got too perfect. Life had this way of pulling the rug out from under you and throwing curveballs when you least expected it. He’d felt that firsthand when his ex-boyfriend of two years, Brant, had cheated on him the moment Y/n had let himself believe things were solid. Brant's infidelity had left him shattered and for a long time, he had struggled to trust again.

But Eddie was different. He wasn’t Brant. He was steady. Reliable. The kind of guy who said Siempre contigo and meant it. Y/n knew he didn’t have to worry about that with Eddie. Not tonight. Not ever.

The gift was thoughtful. The restaurant was beautiful. And the company? Well, that was the best part. Or so he thought. Because later, when the two men ended up in Eddie’s bedroom after their dinner…

Yeah, Y/n had no choice but to revise his previous stance. That was the best part.

XXXXX XXXXX

Y/n stood before the mirror, making a slight adjustment to the cap on his head to ensure it was perfectly straight. It had been weeks since he had a Saturday off from work, and he planned to make the most of his free day. Eddie suggested spending the day outside, and Y/n had thrown out the idea of going to Pacific Park on the Santa Monica Pier, a place he had always wanted to visit but never had the chance to since moving to L.A. it seemed like the perfect way to spend the day with both Eddie and Christopher.

A timer beeped from the kitchen. Turning away from the mirror, Y/n sauntered into the kitchen, where he slipped on a pair of orange mittens before opening the oven. He pulled out a tray of chocolate chip cookies, setting them on the table as he kicked the oven door closed behind him. Since Eddie's previous attempt at baking had resulted in a batch of burnt cookies, Y/n had taken it upon himself to make a batch of non-burnt ones for Christopher.

Right on cue, Eddie strolled into the kitchen, his eyes immediately locking onto the cookies like a man on a mission.

"Finally, they're done. Smells so good," Eddie’s hand reached out, intending to grab a cookie and shove it down his throat. Just as his fingers were about to make contact with the tray, Y/n swooped in and slapped Eddie's hand away with a playful swat. Eddie's eyebrows furrowed in surprise, and he looked up at Y/n with a mock-offended expression from being denied one. "What did you do that for?"

"These cookies are for Christopher," Y/n answered. "Besides, they just got out of the oven, so they need a minute to cool."

"These cookies are for me too. Sharing is caring, as they say, cariño." Eddie's hand, once again, reached for a cookie, as if hoping to sneak one past Y/n's defenses by using the affectionate term to try and melt Y/n's resolve. But Y/n was having none of it and smacked Eddie's hand away a second time. "You know," he crossed his arms, "you’re kinda cruel for making the whole house smell like fresh cookies and then not letting me have one when I am clearly in need of a cookie fix."

"And I'm in need of some sunscreen for today. So how about you go check if you have some? Then you can have a cookie."

Eddie's face scrunched up in a scowl, and he muttered something under his breath as he turned to leave the kitchen. Y/n didn't quite catch what he had said, and he thought he was in the clear. Just then, Eddie paused and suddenly turned around. In a flash, he snatched a cookie off the tray and made a run for it, dashing out of the kitchen before Y/n could even react and, at least, attempt to stop him. That damn man.

Shaking his head, Y/n grabbed a spatula and started transferring the cookies into a plastic container. Prior to sealing it, he picked one up and took a bite, deciding to try for himself and... wow. He mentally patted himself on the back. The cookies turned out really good. Christopher was certainly going to love them. And Eddie—

The sudden knock at the front door broke the spell of Y/n's cookie-induced reverie, and he was jolted back to reality. I wonder who that could be, Y/n thought as his feet carried him to the front door. When he opened it, he was greeted by a woman with green eyes and brown hair that fell in loose waves down her back. What caught Y/n's attention, however, was her impressive height — she was very tall for a woman. Y/n didn't know who she was. He had never seen her before.

"Hi. Can I help you?"

In return, the woman threw him a friendly smile, but it was tempered by a hint of confusion that danced in her eyes. "…Hi," her greeting was polite, courteous, but slightly hesitant, as if she was unsure of herself. Her gaze briefly dropped to the phone in her hand, as if double-checking something before refocusing on Y/n, "I'm sorry, I think I might've gotten the wrong address. I was looking for Eddie Diaz...?"

"Oh, then you have the right place. I’ll go get him. Who should I say is here—?" He ended his question in a curious manner. It wasn’t just for introductions. Y/n was also trying to figure out if Eddie had ever mentioned this woman before, and if so, what their relationship was like. Was she a friend of Eddie's? Or a family member?

The woman's mouth opened to answer Y/n's question. However, her attention was caught by the sound of approaching footsteps, which was getting louder by the second. She stopped mid-breath, with her head moving slightly to the side.

Eddie sauntered into the living room, a bottle of sunscreen clutched in his hand, eyes fixed on the label. "You're in luck. I still have a lot — well, some — sunscreen left for you. I think I’ve earned another cookie, don't you?" He looked up, but his expression faltered as his gaze landed on the woman standing in the doorway. His eyes widened in shock, and Y/n saw a flicker of some expression on Eddie's face. Anger or, maybe, annoyance if Y/n had to guess. "What are you doing here?"

The woman, whose name Y/n still didn’t know, stared at Eddie in the way people do when they haven’t seen someone in a long time. Her eyes roamed over his face, reacquainting herself with every feature.

Then, with a subtle straightening of her back, she swallowed hard, and a small, tentative smile began to shape on her lips. The smile was hesitant, almost shy, and it seemed to tremble on the edge of her mouth, testing the waters. And it was accompanied by a greeting: "Hi, Eddie."

Y/n shifted uncomfortably by the door, his eyes darting back and forth between Eddie and the mysterious woman. A sudden sense of awkwardness washed over him. Y/n felt like an intruder in this home as if he had now stumbled into a private conversation that wasn't meant for his ears. "Uh, who is this?" He asked, evidently directing his question to Eddie.

"This is Shannon," Eddie answered, his gaze never leaving her face as he spoke.

Oh. This was Shannon. As in Eddie’s ex-wife and Christopher’s mother Shannon. Well, this has caused Y/n to feel even more awkward. This is the woman who had left Eddie to raise their son on his own. Y/n had heard the painful story from Eddie, about how Shannon had abandoned them to care for her mother, but also to get away from Eddie. She disappeared, leaving Eddie to pick up the pieces and raise Christopher by himself. What really stuck out to Y/n was the fact that she had never come back to visit her own son or called to check in. Not even once, and that was messed up.

"Oh," Y/n said, the word escaping his lips as a default response because he didn't know what else to say at this moment. After a beat, more words tumbled out before he could stop them. "Well, uh… come inside." Y/n stepped aside, allowing her to enter.

Upon doing that, Eddie's eyes snapped to his, a look of warning or perhaps even annoyance flashing across his features. Y/n met his gaze with a sheepish shrug, apologizing silently, but he genuinely did not know what else to do in this type of situation. He didn't have a script for how to handle the arrival of Eddie's ex-wife at this moment, and he was simply trying to roll with it. Besides, Shannon was clearly here for a reason, and the two men had a good idea of what that reason might be.

Shannon nodded her thanks to Y/n as she stepped across the threshold, into the house. Y/n closed the door behind her, his eyes darting to Eddie as he tried to read his reaction. Eddie's shoulders were tense, his jaw was clenched, and his entire demeanor screamed that he was not pleased to see Shannon as he watched her walk into the living room.

Shannon's eyes roamed the living room, taking in the surroundings. It was as if she was trying to reassemble a puzzle, piecing together the fragments of a life she had purposely left behind years ago.

Her attention lingered on the framed photographs, though. Some of the photos showed Christopher alone, his bright smile capturing the camera's lens, his school photos, snapshots from the park, pictures at the carnival, and other moments from his childhood. But it was the photos of Christopher with Eddie that seemed to hold her attention the longest.

There was tension. The kind that settled heavily in the air and made the silence feel unbearable. But the silence was broken by Eddie’s voice cutting through, finally. "Why are you here, Shannon?"

"I—" Shannon let out a tiny breath, finally shifting her gaze back to Eddie, meeting his stare head-on. Her green eyes locked onto his hazel eyes. "I wanted to speak to you. And I wanted to see Christopher."

Once Shannon's words escaped her lips, Eddie's head began to shake to convey his disagreement. What exactly he was disagreeing with, Y/n couldn't tell. Was it the idea of talking to him, or the notion of seeing Christopher? Or was it both? It was most likely a no to both statements.

Just as the tension in the room seemed to be reaching a boiling point, the sound of soft footsteps echoed down the hall, as if an unseen force had been watching the interaction and decided to intervene. Christopher appeared in the living room with a bright smile on his face. He had his Dodgers cap on and his excitement for the day was obvious in his features.

Christopher's bright smile and energetic demeanor came to an abrupt halt as his gaze landed on his mom, standing in the room with them His eyes widened, taking in the sight of her after all these years.

"…Mommy…?" he breathed, his tone uncertain, as if he was unsure if he was seeing things, if this was all just a dream or a trick of the mind. He took one step forward, never letting his eyes leave Shannon's face. "Is that really you?"

Shannon felt her heart tighten in her chest. She nodded, her voice thick with emotion. "Yes, Christopher. It’s really me."

Without another second wasted, Christopher rushed forward. Shannon immediately knelt to meet him, wrapping him in her arms as tightly as he held onto her like he was afraid she’d disappear if he let go, leaving him with the memories of this fleeting moment. It was intense.

"I missed you so much," Christopher whispered into his mother's shirt.

"I missed you too, baby," she responded, as she lifted Christopher up into the air. She squeezed him tightly, never wanting to let him go, never wanting this moment to end. Tears formed in Shannon's eyes and she buried her face in her son's hair.

Finally, Christopher pulled back slightly, just enough to look at her. His face was bright with excitement. "I have so much to tell you! Dad and I were going to the pier today! And Y/n was coming too!" He turned to Eddie. "Can she come with us?"

The room seemed to freeze. Eddie didn’t answer right away. His jaw was tight, but his gaze did soften slightly upon seeing how happy his son was at this moment.

Seconds stretched unbearably. Shannon turned to Eddie, too. "I would love to go," she said gently. "If that’s okay with you."

Eddie's sharp exhalation through his nose was a telltale sign of his internal struggle, as he stood there, his eyes cast downward at the floor. Y/n could almost see the battle raging inside Eddie's head. He didn't want Shannon to join them on their little trip. That much was obvious. However, Christopher was looking at him with those big, hopeful eyes — the ones Eddie had never been able to say no to.

And Shannon must've known that too, because she wisely chose to wait, to let the situation unfold without forcing the issue. She didn't try to persuade Eddie, didn't attempt to guilt trip him or beg for his permission. Instead, she allowed her son's excitement to do the talking for her.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Eddie sighed and dragged a hand over his face. "Alright," he finally surrendered to the inevitability of the situation. "You can come with us to the Pier." He added.

Christopher's face lit up with a radiant grin as he turned back to his mother. He grasped her hand and Shannon dragged him towards the door. Eddie, meanwhile, grabbed Christopher's two crutches and followed them out the door. Then, Y/n moved, trailing silently behind the trio.

Outside, Eddie locked up the house before heading towards his truck, while Y/n made his way to his own car, parked behind Eddie's. Truthfully, he wasn’t sure he should be going with them anymore. Now that Shannon was coming, this felt like an outing that had nothing to do with him. More than that — this is family stuff.

Eddie, Christopher, and Shannon had issues to work through, and Y/n didn't feel like he needed to be a part of it. As much as he loved Eddie and Christopher, It wasn't his business, and he didn't want to intrude on their personal problems or overstep any boundaries he shouldn't.

Just as Eddie was finishing up helping Christopher into the car and stowing his crutches in the back, he noticed that Y/n was standing by his own vehicle, making no move to get into the passenger seat of Eddie's truck. Eddie frowned. "What are you doing, Y/n?" he asked, his voice low and questioning, as he walked over to where Y/n was standing and stopped.

Y/n paused, his hand wrapped around the car door handle. "Well, I just figured that..." he rubbed the back of his neck, choosing his words with care. "Maybe I should sit this one out. This seems like a family thing and I don't want to get in the way of—" Y/n's words died on his lips as Eddie suddenly grabbed his hand, the one wrapped around the car door, and dragged him towards the truck without a word. The sudden movement left him stumbling to keep up with Eddie at first, and he almost lost his balance as Eddie propelled him forward. "—or I could still go with you guys, sure. That works, too."

XXXXX XXXXX

Night had fallen, and accompanied with it were a million stars that lit up the dark sky in an ethereal manner. It was such a beautiful sight that it could put someone to sleep from being so mesmerized by it.

And for Christopher, it had.

He had fallen asleep in the truck on the drive back from the pier, his head resting against the seat. Y/n couldn’t blame him. After a long day of riding roller coasters, playing games, and eating more sugary snacks than any child should probably have, exhaustion had caught up to him.

At least, he had a good day.

But Y/n had a feeling that what truly made this day special for Christopher wasn’t just the fun — it was the fact that both of his parents had been there with him. Despite the tension and the history between them, Eddie and Shannon had put their differences aside for the day to give their son the gift of a perfect day.

When they arrived back at Eddie’s house, Y/n was the one who volunteered to take Christopher to his room, scooping up the sleeping boy into his arms and carrying him inside. It served as an excuse that gave Eddie and Shannon the opportunity to talk alone without them being present.

Carefully, Y/n laid Christopher down on his bed, making sure not to wake him up. He reached out to remove Christopher's cap, lifting it off his head and setting it aside on the nightstand. Next, Y/n slid his glasses off his face, folding them up and placing them beside the cap before tucking the blanket up to his chin. In his sleep, Christopher mumbled something incoherent, fingers curling into the fabric.

With a final glance at Christopher's face, Y/n soundlessly stepped out of the room He left the door, slightly ajar, just in case Christopher woke up in the middle of the night, then made his way to the kitchen. He grabbed two beers from the fridge before heading into the living room, where Eddie now sat alone on the couch. Shannon was gone.

Wordlessly, the h/c-haired male sat down beside Eddie on the couch. He didn’t ask what had been said between them. Not yet. Instead, he extended his hand, offering Eddie one of those beers, and Eddie accepted it with a small nod of thanks. His eyes never left the TV that wasn't even on as he twisted off the cap and took a quick chug, downing half of it.

Y/n took a swig of his beer, letting the cool liquid settle on his tongue before swallowing. "So, what did Shannon say to you?" He asked, breaking the silence.

Now, Y/n's curiosity was piqued, and he patiently waited with bated breath for Eddie to share what had been discussed between him and Shannon. The fact that Shannon had left so soon suggested that it had been brief, and Y/n wondered what could have been talked about in such a short amount of time. At the same time, If Eddie didn't say anything, Y/n wouldn't pry or try to force the issue. Eddie would talk to him about it when he was ready.

"She wants to meet with me on Monday," he answered, "Said she wants us to talk."

Y/n glanced over. "And? What’d you say?"

"I told her 'We’ll see.'"

"That’s a way of saying 'probably not.'"

"Yeah, well…" Eddie took another sip of his beer. "I don’t know if I want to hear whatever she has to say, Y/n." His voice was quieter now, more uncertain and his index finger tapped absently against the bottle. "She didn't just leave me. She left Christopher. The one person who needed her the most. And now, out of nowhere, she wants back in his life? Just like that? After never reaching out to us?" he shook his head. "I don’t know if I can trust that."

Y/n nodded slowly, letting Eddie’s words and his frustration settle between them. He understood, deeply, where Eddie was coming from. How could he not? The pain of Shannon's departure served as a double-edged sword, cutting deep into the hearts of both Eddie and Christopher. The hurt was still raw. She had left Eddie to pick up the pieces and left Christopher with nothing but questions and an empty space where his mother should’ve been. Now, just because she had decided she wanted to come back, Eddie's supposed to just let her? No, It wasn’t that simple.

But still...

The silence between them had stretched out briefly. Then: "You should talk to her." Y/n suggested, his words a gentle nudge in a specific direction for Eddie to reopen a door that had been locked for so long.

Eddie’s eyebrows furrowed slightly as he considered Y/n's suggestion. "Should I?"

"Yeah." Y/n’s voice was unwavering and he was sticking to his assertion. "Look, man, I’m not saying you have to forgive Shannon or even put any trust in her. But don’t you think it’s at least worth hearing her out? Not for her, but for Christopher."

Eddie did not respond right away, but he also didn’t immediately argue, which Y/n took as a good sign for him to continue.

"You saw how happy he was today. It’s been a minute since he’s seen his mom, and despite everything, he still loves her. That’s not gonna change." He turned his body slightly to face Eddie fully. "I know you don’t want to talk to her, but ignoring Shannon will not make this situation go away. If she’s serious about being in his life again, then you'll need to lay down some boundaries. Figure out what this means for Christopher. And the only way to do that is to talk to her. Face to face."

Hazel eyes drifted over to meet e/c eyes. "Speaking from experience, aren't you?"

There was no denying it. "You know that I am," the words slipped out Y/n’s mouth, quiet and tentative, his gaze drifting off.

It was a well-known fact that Y/n's childhood had been far from traditional. His mom had left when he was just five years old, abandoning him and his two siblings to be raised by their dad alone. He was forced to play the role of both mother and father to three chaotic boys.

Y/n didn't have a lot of memories of her. But one thing that remained etched in his mind was the overwhelming sense of sadness and hurt that had engulfed him when his father broke the news that she left and would not be coming back.

The concept of abandonment had been beyond his comprehension. All he knew was that his mother — the woman who was supposed to love and care for him, had chosen to leave. The confusion and pain had been suffocating, and Y/n had struggled to make sense of it all. He had wondered, as many children do when it comes to those types of situations, if it was something that he had done wrong.

Had Y/n been naughty? Had he not been good enough? The questions had swirled in his mind, fueling a deep-seated fear that he was somehow to blame for this. He even thought maybe it was his dad's fault or his siblings'. Or maybe they all had done something to drive her away?

Whatever it was, he had been convinced that if she just came home, everything would be okay and that they could work through their issues and be happy again.

Things that are broken could be fixed.

Despite the pain and confusion of his mother's departure, Y/n's love for her had never wavered. He had held onto the hope, the desperate wish, the silent plea, that she would one-night return to the family she had abandoned. Y/n had often found himself lying awake at night, long after his dad had tucked him in and turned out the lights. He would sneak out of bed and make his way to the window, pushing back the curtains to keep watch. He would be ready when she came back.

But she never came, and Y/n's hopes had faded. His desire for reconciliation gave way to a sense of resignation, and eventually, to a deep-seated indifference.

He stopped idly waiting for his mother to come back, stopped wondering what had driven her away, and stopped caring about the situation altogether. Or, that's what he told himself after all this time.

Thinking about it now, Y/n... wasn’t sure if that wound had ever truly healed. But if there was one thing he was sure of, it was that he didn’t want Christopher to go through the same thing he had. Because, unlike Y/n’s mother, Shannon had come back to reconcile with Christopher. She was trying. That counted for something.

A quiet sigh slipped past Eddie’s lips. He couldn’t deny that Y/n had made a pretty good point, particularly when it came to his son. He noticed how Christopher kept grinning all day, barely letting go of his mom’s hand, talking her ear off like he'd saved every story just for her. That kind of happiness? It mattered to Christopher, and because of that, it mattered to Eddie too. And yet— "What if she leaves again?"

There it is. That was the real fear, wasn’t it? That Shannon would step back into Christopher’s life, make him believe she was staying, and then disappear all over again. That she'd give him hope, only to rip it away. That she’d hurt him. Again. And Eddie would have to deal with the effect that would have on Christopher.

"I don’t know, man," Y/n admitted gently, not pretending to have all the answers. They're not psychics. They can't predict the future, but they can control how they respond to the present. "Maybe she will. Maybe she won’t. Regardless, don’t you think it’s better to hear her out? To see if she’s serious about making things right?"

Eddie looked away, his lips pressing into a thin line as he turned Y/n's words over in his mind, weighing them against all his fears. Silence took over, and, when Eddie didn't respond after a minute, Y/n placed a hand on Eddie's knee. "Talk to her. Not for Shannon's sake, but for your sake. And, most importantly, for Christopher’s."

Eddie took a deep breath and held it before exhaling slowly through his nose. Y/n always had a way of cutting through the noise and making hard things sound simple, even when they weren’t far from simple. But maybe that was because this situation was something Y/n understood better than anyone since he lived it, too.

"Yeah. Maybe you're right," he muttered.

A small smirk appeared. "I usually am."

That pulled a tired chuckle out of Eddie, and he shook his head. "Don’t get cocky."

Y/n gave Eddie’s knee a squeeze before leaning back onto the couch. "Too late."

The two fell into another easy silence, and after a moment, Eddie took another sip of his beer. Y/n did the same, and for the first time since Shannon showed up, Eddie was allowing himself to breathe.

And that? That was one step forward.

XXXXX XXXXX

Monday morning had arrived, and Y/n was settled into his cubicle, surrounded by the familiar trappings of his workday routine. He was hunched over a glowing screen with his business activity reports spread out in front of him, half reviewed and half waiting. His half-drunk cup of coffee sat to his left, lukewarm by now, while a notepad filled with bullet points, reminders, and scribbles lay on his right.

With a pen in hand, Y/n's handwriting flowed effortlessly across the page as he added a few more important notes to his list, eyes flicking between the screen and the page until a soft chime from his computer pulled his attention away. A message popped up in the corner of his screen from his boss, James Thompson.

Please come to my office immediately.

Upon reading that, Y/n felt his heartbeat quicken slightly. It wasn't that he was afraid of his boss, or that he had a bad relationship with him. On the contrary, James was a kind and understanding boss, and Y/n had always appreciated his supportive and encouraging nature.

Y/n respected him both personally and professionally. Despite their nice working relationship, Y/n's mind couldn't help but wander to all the possible reasons why he might be summoned to James's office since the message had no context and no pleasantries.

Was it something good, or something bad? Had he done something wrong, or was it just a routine meeting? Or worse, did he screw up the Morgan deal in any way? He hoped not, but the only way to figure it out was to go to James' office and face whatever was waiting for him.

Pushing away from his desk, Y/n stood, adjusted his tie, and smoothed the front of his shirt. He took a steadying breath, then made his way toward the executive offices. His feet came to a sudden stop in front of the familiar gray metal doors and Y/n raised his hand, knocking on it.

There was an immediate: "Come in."

Y/n turned the handle and stepped inside. The curtains were drawn wide, letting in slats of golden morning light. James sat behind his desk, fingers mid-typing until he gazed up to see Y/n enter.

"You wanted to see me, sir?" Y/n asked, closing the door behind him with a quiet click since this conversation was meant to be private. His tone was even, though, his nerves were bubbling hotly in his gut.

The dark-skinned man sat up in his chair, steepling his fingers together as he studied Y/n with a neutral expression, one that was impossible for Y/n to read. His silence stretched for just a beat too long, making Y/n shift slightly where he stood. "Have a seat," James finally said, gesturing to the chair in front of his desk.

Y/n did as he was told and sat down in the seat, his hands resting on his thighs, and he waited for whatever was coming.

James studied him for a moment before letting out a sigh. "Y/n, do you know why I called you in here?" and here we begin.

Y/n swallowed, the dryness of his mouth making his tongue feel like sandpaper against the roof of it. "I, um… not really, no." I didn’t do anything! He screamed in his head. Well, I don't think I did anything.

James hummed, nodding slightly. "Well, let me ask you this." He leaned forward, "Is there anything you’d like to tell me?"

Y/n’s brain went into overdrive. Shit. That sounded like something a parent would say when they already knew what you did and were just waiting for you to confess. And James's tone implied he already knew something and was just waiting for Y/n to finally spill the beans.

Y/n's mind scrambled to review every possible mistake he could have made.

Had he made a critical error in the financial reports? Or perhaps he had accidentally sent a sensitive email to the wrong client, compromising confidential information? As he mentally reviewed his recent work and interactions, Y/n did not think it was anything that mundane. He was a diligent and competent employee, always careful to double-check his work and follow procedures. He got along well with his coworkers, and his performance reviews had always been glowing, so no write-up or a serious talking-to. So, what could it be, then? Suddenly, it struck him.

The Morgan deal, Y/n thought. He hadn't received any updates on how it went. And, judging by the way James was looking at him, Y/n had this sinking feeling that he might have screwed it up. He needed to be certain, of course, but he couldn't help but think that he had blown it, that he had made a mistake that would have serious consequences for the company.

Y/n cleared his throat — a nervous habit that showed his otherwise unconfidently calm demeanor. "Uh... not that I know of."

James’s eyes narrowed. "Are you sure?"

Y/n nodded quickly. "Yes. I-I think so..."

The silence that followed was deafening. James just studied him, unreadable, for one… two… three painfully long seconds before breaking into a wide grin. "Well, that’s good," he said casually, "because I was just about to congratulate you, man."

Say what? Y/n blinked rapidly as if trying to clear away the disbelievement and the confusion that had suddenly descended upon him. "Wait... what?" Just moments ago, he had been bracing himself for bad news, for criticism or disappointment, and now... now James was smiling and about to congratulate him? What the hell was happening—? He was very confused.

James chuckled, clearly amused. "Relax, Y/n. I was messing with you." He opened a drawer, pulled out a thick folder, and placed it squarely on the desk. "I called you in here to personally commend you on finalizing the Morgan deal. You handled it better than some of our senior managers would’ve, honestly."

Immediately, Y/n let out a breath he had been holding in. His shoulders, which had been tensed up in anticipation of bad news, sagged slightly, relaxing into a more natural position as the tension seeped out of his body. "Oh," he exhaled a soft laugh. "That's good. You seriously had me thinking I was about to get fired."

James' face broke out into a smirk. "If I ever plan to fire you, I promise I won’t be so dramatic about it." He tapped the file. "The Morgans were impressed with your professionalism and strategic approach. So much so that they officially signed the contract this morning. The deal's closed."

Relief flooded Y/n’s chest, followed by a sense of pride. He did it. He actually did it. Guess all those eleven-hour shifts, six days a week, had paid off in the best way possible.

"Wow…" he breathed. "That’s… incredible."

James nodded. "It is. And because of your hard work, this firm just secured one of the most lucrative partnerships we've had in years." A deliberate pause followed before adding: "Which means, you have more than earned a promotion."

Y/n’s head jerked up. "I’m sorry — what?" His voice might've gotten a tad higher as he grinned at the man behind the desk.

James chuckled at his expression. "You heard me. I’m recommending you for the Hedge Fund Portfolio Manager position."

Y/n blinked twice. "You're serious?" He needed to confirm that he heard James correctly, that this wasn't just some kind of cruel joke or a misunderstanding. The position that James had mentioned was a highly coveted one, a role that Y/n had never imagined he'd be considered for, especially not at this stage in his career.

Y/n was aware that there were others in the company who had been working towards a promotion like this, who had more experience and more seniority, and yet James was offering it to him. This is insane. Y/n hadn't been gunning for this role, but he would gladly accept the offer.

"Completely. You have proven yourself capable of handling high-profile clients and complex negotiations. It’s time you get the title and the paycheck to match."

For a moment, Y/n was left speechless. This was something he had been working towards for almost seven years, since he had first walked through the doors of the company as a secretary, fresh out of college and eager to make his mark.

He had always known that it wouldn't be easy, that he would have to put in the long hours, endure the stress, and pour over endless spreadsheets and financial reports. But he had never thought that it would pay off so soon. He had assumed that it would take a few more years, even a decade before he would be considered for a position like Hedge Fund Portfolio Manager. Guess he had been wrong.

"I… I don’t even know what to say."

"A ‘thank you’ wouldn’t be a bad place to start." James teased, loving his reaction, layers of amusement laced in his voice.

Y/n laughed under his breath. "Thank you, James. Seriously. This means a lot." He couldn't stop smiling. But as he was basking in the glow of his good fortune, a sudden thought occurred to him, and his expression turned curious. "I didn't even know that position was available."

The sentence had a profound effect on James' expression, causing his features to shift from a warm and congratulatory grin to a more serious and introspective look. It had caught Y/n off guard. "That's because the position isn’t available here."

Y/n's face scrunched up in confusion, his brows furrowing. "What do you mean?"

"The Hedge Fund position is available at Bridgewater Associates in Austin, Texas."

For a moment, Y/n just... stared. It was like someone had hit pause. His brain stalled, like a car engine sputtering on a cold winter morning. And then, suddenly, his brain kicked back into gear. "Texas?" he said, "As in... not Los Angeles, Texas."

James gave a single nod. "That’s right."

"That’s… that’s pretty far." Like really far.

"It is pretty far." James’s tone softened. "And I know how much you like working here, how much you’ve built a life in L.A. But this is an incredible opportunity, Y/n. Bridgewater is one of the top investment firms in the country. Getting in with them at this level? It’s not something that comes around often. It’s the kind of break people wait decades for. This is a chance to take your career to the next level, to work with the best of the best."

Y/n's mouth opened, then closed, as if he was trying to find the right words to express his thoughts, but they seemed to be stuck in his throat. Then, it opened again like a fish out of water and he was about to speak, but still, no words came out. This was not what he had expected when he walked into James' office today.

A promotion? Yes, that had been a possibility, a welcome surprise, even. A promotion that required relocating to a completely different part of the country? That... was something entirely different.

James must’ve sensed the storm of his thoughts because he continued, "I'm not asking for an answer right this second. I just wanted you to be the first to know. You’ve earned this, Y/n. But I get it. It’s a big decision. Take a little time to think it over." Then came the kicker. "But not too much time. If you accept, they will want you in Austin by the end of next month."

The end of next month. Seven weeks, barely any time at all, to make a decision that would change the course of his life. Regardless, Y/n forced himself to nod to give James some indication that he was taking the offer seriously. "Sounds good."

James slid a folder across the desk. "Here’s everything you need to know about the position, the firm, the salary—" he shot Y/n a knowing look, "—which, by the way, is extremely generous. This also includes relocation support and benefits. Look through it and weigh your options. And whatever you choose, just know I’m in your corner. We’d hate to lose you, but we’d be damn proud to see you move up."

Another nod from Y/n. "I appreciate it."

"Of course." James stood and extended a hand. "No matter what you decide, just know that you’ve done exceptional work here. I know you’ll keep doing good work, whether it’s here or it's across state lines."

Y/n stood and shook James' hand, firm and steady. He picked up the folder and left the office, walking toward the break room with a mind that was spinning way faster than he could keep up with. Gosh.

Austin, Texas.

Y/n could practically feel the weight of this choice pressing on his shoulders. He knew that James was right. This was a rare opportunity for someone like him. Most people would jump at the chance to work for such a prestigious company without hesitation and he felt grateful to have been considered for the role. But on the other hand, accepting the promotion would mean leaving everything behind. His friends, a job he genuinely enjoyed, and the city that had become his home.

Amidst the pros and cons, one thought stood out to Y/n above the rest. Leaving Los Angeles would mean leaving Eddie, the man he had fallen deeply in love with.

Fuck.

What the hell was he supposed to do?

Y/n didn’t have the answer. Not yet. But he knew he needed to think. Really think. That’s exactly what he was going to do.

Stepping into the break room, Y/n grabbed his lunch bag from the fridge and made his way outside. The sun was out, the breeze was light, and it felt like a waste to eat indoors on a day like today. Jela, his best friend, was already waiting for Y/n at one of the patio tables, waving him over as soon as she spotted him.

Jela asked what took him so long to arrive here, even though he was only five minutes late, and Y/n gave her a recount of what happened inside James's office.

"You can’t move to Texas, Y/n," Jela exclaimed, immediately rebuking Y/n’s possible future plans to leave California.

"Oh, really?" Y/n snorted, stabbing a fork into his container of mac and cheese. "And why not?" He had to hear this.

"Because you can't leave me here, that's why not!" she took a slow sip of her drink, Sprite — with extra ice — before adding, "Besides, you won't like it in Texas. It's not your scene, Y/n. You're a California boy, through and through. You thrive on the laid-back, sun-kissed vibe of LA, the overpriced coffees, the late-night tacos, and the traffic-related rage we have. Not the cowboy boots and country music of Texas," Jela then drove home her point. "More importantly, there's no me there."

"I’ll come back and visit."

"Nope. Visiting isn't good enough. You're staying here," she declared as if she had the power to make that decision for him. Y/n couldn't help but chuckle at her bossy tone, but he knew that she was only looking out for him. Jela took a bite of her sandwich, chewing quickly and swallowing before continuing. "I doubt your little firefighter would be happy that you moved away," she set her sandwich down on her plate. "Speaking of that, how was your little weekend with him? Did y'all go to the Santa Monica Pier?"

"Yes," the h/c haired male confirmed. "we did. Christopher was there too along with…" a slight pause formed on Y/n’s lips for a second. "along with Eddie’s ex-wife."

All of a sudden, Jela froze, the chip in her hand hovering in mid-air, more than halfway to her mouth. Her eyes flickered over to Y/n, and she blinked. "Eddie's ex-wife is back?" she questioned, and Y/n nodded. "And what is she doing back?"

Y/n's shoulders shrugged in a casual, nonchalant manner, "She wanted to see Christopher and talk to Eddie. If I had to guess, I'd say that she wants to be back in the picture and be a part of their lives."

The brunette's eyes never left Y/n's face as she searched her friend for any signs of unease or discomfort. "And you're just okay with her being back in the picture?"

"Uh, yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?" Y/n’s tone took on a bit of perplexity and confusion.

He didn't understand why Jela was questioning his reaction to Eddie's ex-wife being back in the picture. He didn't feel like he had any reason to be upset or concerned, but Jela appeared to think otherwise. Y/n could tell Jela was trying to imply something, but he couldn't quite put his finger on what the implication was.

"Oh, I don't know," and Jela's tone implied that she did know something. "Maybe because ex-wives have a funny way of suddenly stepping back into the picture and messing things up? You don't think there's even a chance that Eddie might... I don't know, start re-evaluating things now that she's back. You're telling me you're not even a little worried that if she sticks around, you'll get pushed aside?"

Y/n's mouth fell open slightly. Her words hit him. He hadn't even considered the possibility that Eddie's ex-wife's return could threaten his own relationship with Eddie. Maybe it was because Y/n knew Eddie loved him. Maybe it was because he trusted that Eddie wouldn’t just drop him like a hot potato if Shannon decided to stick around Eddie and Los Angeles.

Sure, yes, Eddie and Shannon had...well, history. A marriage. A child. They shared something that Y/n could never fully be a part of, no matter how much he loved Christopher or how close he was to him.

But still, he shook his head, pushing that thought aside. “Eddie and I are solid. I’m not worried about that," and he wasn’t. Or at least, he hadn’t been until Jela put the idea into his head. "And Shannon sticking around doesn’t change that."

Jela's eyes narrowed slightly as she studied Y/n, her expression skeptical. She didn't seem convinced by his words at all and Y/n could tell that she was still concerned about the potential impact of Shannon's return on his relationship with Eddie. "Mmm," she popped a chip into her mouth. "Just promise me one thing?"

Y/n placed his fork down. "What?"

"Put yourself first. Always. Don’t let yourself be the last priority in your own life. You are worth much more than that."

Y/n didn’t answer immediately. He stared down at his lunch, his appetite suddenly not as strong as a minute ago. But after a long pause, he finally nodded.

"Yeah," he murmured quietly. "I promise."

It was a reasonable promise for Y/n to make, but he had nothing to worry about.

Oh, how he hoped he didn’t.

XXXXX XXXXX

By the time Y/n pulled up to Eddie’s house that evening, the sun was slowly dipping below the horizon, casting long, golden streaks across the wide sky. He had come here tonight to see how the talk with Eddie and Shannon went. Y/n hoped that it went well and that the two had come to some sort of an agreement.

When he unlocked the door and stepped inside, he was immediately struck by the quiet atmosphere of the house. He didn't see Christopher anywhere, which was a bit unusual, but his attention was quickly drawn to Eddie, who was standing near the couch, eyes glued to his phone. He looked up when he heard the door open.

"Hey, cariño," Eddie greeted with a smile, crossing the living room and planting a kiss on Y/n’s lips. "Didn't expect you."

"I wanted to check in to see how the talk went with you and Shannon," Y/n replied, taking a small step back. "How did it go?"

"It was fine. We had a long talk," Eddie gestured for Y/n to sit with him on the couch. Once they were settled, Eddie continued recounting the conversation with Shannon. "We went over everything. Why she left, why she stayed away, what she wants now. And in the end, I decided that she could co-parent with me. Full Time. Christopher wants her in his life, and, as much as I hate how things went down, I can't deny how happy he was to see her. I can't take that away from him."

Y/n nodded slowly, processing Eddie’s words. "That’s great, Eddie," he said, and he meant it. He was truly happy they had been able to actually have a productive conversation and come to a decision that would benefit Christopher. The kid deserved to have both of his parents in his life, and Y/n was glad that Shannon, for all her past mistakes, was making a conscious effort to be a part of it now. That's more than Y/n ever got from his.

Eddie gave a small smile. "Yeah. Me too."

Still, Y/n could tell that, despite the small smile and the words of agreement, Eddie was carrying some uncertainty. The decision to co-parent with Shannon wasn't going to be an easy one, however, Eddie was trying for Christopher’s sake. That was the only thing that mattered.

All of a sudden, Y/n's gaze drifted from Eddie's eyes to slightly downward, and he took note of what Eddie was wearing. Tan dressy shirt, paired with black pants that accentuated his lean physique, and — Y/n's nose sniffed the air — Eddie was wearing cologne. If Y/n didn't know any better, he would have thought that Eddie was getting ready for a night out on the town, perhaps, even a date. But Y/n was certain they didn't have any plans tonight.

Curiosity hit Y/n. "Going somewhere?"

Eddie cleared his throat, a slight nervousness creeping into his voice. "Yeah, actually. Christopher said that he wanted me and Shannon to take him out to dinner tonight..." and he watched Y/n attentively. "I hope that's okay with you."

"Oh! Oh, uh, yeah — of course that’s okay with me," Y/n hated how high-pitched his voice came out as he reassured Eddie. "I actually have... plans myself," that was a lie. He didn't have any plans with anyone. "Buck and I were actually going out to a bar tonight. Grabbing food, hanging out, having fun... you know, just a guys' night out. I should probably go and get ready."

It was a bullshit excuse, but Eddie didn’t seem to pick up on it. And that gave Y/n the opening to leave. He stood, heading towards the door, but Eddie reached out and gently grabbed his wrist, his fingers wrapping around it in a firm but gentle hold, stopping him from leaving just yet.

"Wait." Eddie stood too. "How was work?"

For the briefest moment, Y/n hesitated in answering the question. He could tell Eddie now — he could tell him, right here and now, that he had been offered a job in Texas and had a big decision to make.

But he looked at Eddie, dressed up for dinner with his son and ex-wife, finally starting to rebuild something important. He realized that he just… couldn’t. Y/n didn’t want to ruin his night. He couldn’t drop that bomb right before Eddie went to dinner. It didn’t feel right. Not tonight. Not when Eddie deserved this moment of peace from having figured out the co-parenting situation, dealing with his ex, and giving Christopher what he wanted.

Therefore, Y/n pasted a smile on his lips, trying to seem nonchalant and carefree. "It was good. I closed the Morgan deal."

Eddie’s face immediately brightened, his mouth curling into a proud smile. "That’s amazing," he said, his grip on Y/n’s wrist loosening as his hand slid down to lace their fingers together. "I knew you would."

Y/n massaged the back of his neck. "Yeah, well… wasn’t easy, but it’s done." And it earned me a job offer in another state, went unsaid. "You should probably get going. Don’t wanna be late for dinner."

"Yeah," Eddie nodded, adjusting his shirt. "You should go get ready, too," he leaned in, pressing another kiss to Y/n’s lips softly. "Have fun tonight. Text me later?"

"Sure," the word slipped out of Y/n's mouth with ease, as he backed towards the door. "I will. I hope you have fun, too."

And with that, he left.

As he drove away, Jela’s question from earlier echoed in his head, looping like a song he couldn’t turn off, a lingering itch he needed to scratch. You’re telling me you’re not even a little worried that if she sticks around, you’ll get pushed aside?

Would Y/n get pushed to the side by Eddie now that Shannon was back into the fold? What if Jela was right? What if Shannon did threaten their relationship?

No, Y/n shook his head. Just because Shannon's back, doesn't mean anything. Eddie loves me. He would never do that.

Too bad the man didn't feel confident at all saying that inside his own head. The reassurance did not land. It felt hollow; forced. And as time went on, Y/n would find himself returning to Jela's question, and his unconfident reassurance, again and again. There were moments, three in particular, that would make Y/n question everything. Moments when he didn’t just feel pushed aside. He was pushed aside.

The first time it happened, Y/n had tried to brush it off as no big deal. It had been a long, exhausting week for the two men, and they had planned a much-needed night in. Just the two of them. Takeout, a fun action movie, and some peace and quiet. Shannon had said she would have Christopher at her apartment that night, therefore. It was the perfect opportunity. Y/n had even stopped by Eddie’s favorite Mexican place after work, grabbing their usual order of soft tacos and quesadillas.

Unfortunately, just as Y/n was pulling up to Eddie's house, his phone buzzed with an incoming text message. He glanced down to see Eddie's name on the screen.

Eddie: Y/n, I have to reschedule tonight. Shannon wants to take Christopher out for ice cream, and he wants me to come with him. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.

Y/n stared at the message before letting out a tiny breath. It’s fine, he texted back.

He told himself it’s fine as he went home with enough Mexican food for two. It’s fine as Y/n ate alone in his apartment, scrolling through Netflix with no real interest. It’s fine because, logically, Eddie was doing what a good dad should do, being there for his kid, making sure Christopher got time with both his parents. He could not, in good conscience, be upset with that.

Yet, despite the rationalizations, despite the understanding that Eddie was doing what was best for Christopher, Y/n still felt disappointed and frustrated. He just wanted to spend some time with Eddie. That night had been for just them. And suddenly, it wasn’t. Ever since Shannon had come back into the fold, they hadn't spent any real time with just each other.

The second time it happened, the hurt cut deeper. It was during one of Bobby's famous firehouse gatherings, a monthly tradition that brought the 118 together to unwind, share some good food, and enjoy each other's company in a more relaxed setting. Family and friends were always invited. Y/n, himself, had been to a few of these gatherings before. It was something he always looked forward to.

So, when Buck mentioned the upcoming firehouse gathering, Y/n had assumed that he and Eddie would attend together, just like they had done previously. It was a natural assumption, given their history and the fact that, well, they were dating. Except, two days before the event, Eddie casually mentioned that he was bringing Shannon along with Y/n and Christopher.

"She's been getting along with Buck and Hen really well," Eddie didn't even look up from his phone as he spoke. "Figured it’d be good for her to meet my entire team."

Y/n had nodded, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "Yeah. Makes sense." It did not make any sense. He had felt a pang of disappointment and hurt, but he didn't want to show it, didn't want to give Eddie a reason to think he was being jealous or unreasonably possessive over him. Stop.

And that's how Y/n ended up walking into the gathering alone that day. It was a weird, disorienting sensation like he was observing the scene from outside his body. Eddie was there, of course, but he was nowhere to be found, at least not in the way that Y/n was used to. Instead of being together, sharing drinks, talking with the team, stealing touches when no one was looking, and laughing together, Eddie... he was glued to Shannon's side.

The entire time.

Y/n was annoyed.

Because, suddenly, Shannon was the one laughing at his jokes. She was the one sitting next to him at the table. She was the one who Eddie turned to when someone casually mentioned their son.

She had, seamlessly, inserted herself into their little world, and Mr. Diaz was more than happy to accommodate her. Well, he supposed it was her world, too.

And Y/n? He felt invisible.

But what made Y/n's annoyance spike to a whole new level was when he was making some small talk with Bobby and Athena. His eyes suddenly drifted over to Eddie and Shannon, Eddie had his hand on Shannon's back, with his fingers gently resting on the curve of her spine, and Shannon was leaning into his side.

Y/n frowned. What the hell was that? It’s fine, he had to tell himself that yet again.

But this time, it didn’t feel fine.

The third time, though? That was the one that broke something inside of Y/n. He had known for months that his dad and stepmom were planning something big for his birthday. He didn't want a huge party. Just a small gathering, something low-key, but they had insisted. Thirty is a milestone, his father had said. You only turn it once, son. So, his dad rented out an upscale rooftop venue in downtown LA, with a breathtaking view of the city.

Fancy lights, good food, and a ridiculous guest list. Okay. Fine. He could deal with the whole "big party" thing. It wasn't his ideal way to celebrate his birthday, but if it made his dad and stepmom happy, he was willing to go along with it. But the one thing he did want? Eddie there. So, he had told him weeks in advance and made sure he put it in his calendar. Y/n had even reminded Eddie multiple times.

Eddie had promised he'd be there.

And yet. As Y/n stood in the middle of an expensive rooftop venue, surrounded by friends, family, coworkers, and unfamiliar faces, Eddie was nowhere to be found.

At first, he gave him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe something came up with Christopher. Maybe he was running late or had an emergency. Y/n sent a quick text.

Hey, everything okay?

No reply.

Minutes turned into an hour. Then two. Y/n checked his phone — no messages. He tried calling — no answer. Voicemail.

Not even a simple Happy Birthday. The thought echoed in Y/n's mind like a cruel joke, and it hurt more than he expected. Even if Eddie couldn’t make it, he should have remembered. Y/n’s older brother had flown in from Maryland to celebrate. And Eddie, who lived in the same state, couldn't even be bothered to send a text.

The party carried on, but a quiet sort of numbness settled into Y/n’s bones as went through the motions. He accepted hugs and well-wishes from his friends and family, thanked them for their gifts and kind words, smiled when he needed to, laughed when someone made a joke, posed for pictures, and even danced to the music. But all he could think about was the fact that Eddie wasn’t there.

After Y/n blew out his candles and the party picked back up, Y/n, surprisingly, managed to sneak out of his own party without anyone knowing. He wanted to check on Eddie. If something had come up to where he couldn’t make it, then Y/n could accept that. He just needed to see for himself if that was the case.

Inserting a key into the lock, Y/n twisted it to the right and pushed the door open, stepping inside. Relief washed over him first because Eddie was home. He was safe. He looked perfectly fine. Oh, thank God. And then, just as quickly, that relief turned into something sharp and painful.

Shannon was with Eddie on the couch. And Eddie was kissing her. On the lips.

"…Wow," he breathed. It came out small, nearly silent, but enough for them to hear.

The soft whisper startled them apart like they had been caught in a guilty act. Eddie jerked back so fast like he’d been burned. His eyes snapped to Y/n, "Y/n—"

Y/n's hand shot up, palm facing Eddie as if to ward off any further explanation or apology. "Don't," he made sure to keep his voice calm, even, somehow, despite wanting to scream and cry. "Just don’t."

He didn't want to hear the lies, the half-truths, or the rationalizations that would only serve to further hurt and betray him. Y/n didn't want to talk to Eddie at all. He ran out of the house, not stopping until he reached his car, where he flung open the door and slid into the driver's seat. Y/n could hear Eddie's voice, calling out to him, pleading with him to stop, to talk, to listen. But Y/n was beyond listening. He started the car and quickly drove away.

When Y/n pulled into his apartment complex and turned off the engine, Y/n allowed himself to feel. The scream that tore out of his throat was anguished and raw and spoke of how he was currently feeling. He let it rip, allowing himself to release all of that pain and hurt that had been building up inside him for weeks.

Tears fell down his face as he cried, racking sobs shaking his entire body. God, he felt like he was falling apart like his world was crumbling around him. Y/n slammed his fist into the steering wheel. Again and again, until his knuckles hurt.

Eddie. His Eddie. The man he loved with every fiber of his being. The man he had trusted with his heart, secrets, and fears. This same man had cheated on him with his ex-wife. Eddie forgot his birthday to be with Shannon. Y/n had spent all night making excuses for him. Had bent over backward convincing himself there had to be a good reason Eddie didn't come. As it turned out, the only reason Eddie hadn’t shown up… was because he was with her. Y/n felt like an idiot. He was one.

And he felt like he was going to be sick.

His phone buzzed in the passenger seat, jolting him out of his current state. Y/n glanced at it and wasn’t surprised to see Eddie’s name flash across the screen. Y/n stared at it before pressing the decline button. Not now. He put his phone on silent mode, silencing the ringing and the notifications before putting it face down on the seat. He didn't want to talk to him.

He didn’t give up, though. For days, Eddie made a concerted effort to reach out to Y/n, to apologize and explain and make amends for his betrayal. He called Y/n's phone, but it went unanswered. He sent text message after text message, but Y/n never responded to them. Eddie even left him voicemails, but they went unacknowledged. He even showed up at Y/n's apartment, hoping to catch him off guard and force a conversation. But Y/n avoided him at all costs. He made sure to leave for work early and come home late to avoid any chance encounters with him.

It wasn't until the hazel-eyed firefighter showed up at Y/n's workplace, bursting into an important meeting and causing a scene, that Y/n finally felt compelled to confront him. The interruption was embarrassing, to say the least, and Y/n's colleagues were shocked by the sudden appearance of his estranged partner. Eddie's timing couldn't have been worse, and Y/n's professional reputation was at risk of being tarnished by the drama that was unfolding. When Eddie threatened to return the next day, and the day after that, until Y/n agreed to talk to him, Y/n decided to give Eddie that conversation.

Which was how he found himself sitting at the kitchen table of his apartment, with Eddie choosing to sit next to him. Buck was out, leaving the two of them alone. Y/n had agreed to talk to Eddie, but he hadn't agreed to make it easy for him. He avoided eye contact, refusing to meet Eddie's gaze, instead, focusing on the lines and creases on his own hands.

Eddie was the one to break the silence.

"How have you been?"

How has he been? Was Eddie serious right now? That’s what he was leading with? Y/n’s jaw clenched and he finally looked up at him. "What did you want to talk to me about?" he asked flatly, cutting straight through the small talk. He didn't even bother answering Eddie's question.

Eddie shifted in his seat and cleared his throat. "I... I wanted to apologize to you."

Y/n didn’t say anything. He just stared at him, waiting for more words to spill out.

Eddie swallowed, running a hand through his hair. "I fucked up," he admitted, "I should have been at your birthday. I should have at least called. There’s no excuse for that. And I sure as hell shouldn’t have—" He cut himself off, shutting his eyes for a brief second as if he couldn't bear to say the words out loud before exhaling heavily. "I shouldn’t have done what I did with Shannon that night."

There it was, verbally spoken. The thing Y/n had been replaying in his head on a loop since that night. Y/n inhaled slowly, holding his breath for a moment before letting it go. Then, softly, he asked, "Did Shannon kiss you… or did you kiss her?"

He wanted to know if Eddie had been a willing participant or if Shannon was the one who initiated the act. The distinction may seem insignificant, but to Y/n, it was everything. It was the difference between a moment of weakness and a deliberate choice, between a mistake and a betrayal.

Eddie’s lips parted slightly, and Y/n could see the shame and guilt flicker across his features before he even answered.

"I kissed her."

Y/n felt a piece of his heart break from the admission, but he didn’t let his face betray his feelings. Not visibly or audibly. He had been hoping, desperately hoping, that Eddie would voice something else. That he would claim it was all a mistake, that Shannon had kissed him and he was going to push her away. But no, Eddie had kissed her. He had made a choice, a deliberate choice to betray Y/n's trust and hurt him in the worst possible way.

Don't do it. Don't you dare let him see you cry! He screamed silently to himself. He would not give Eddie the satisfaction of seeing him break down, of seeing him vulnerable and weak. Instead, he gave a slow, numb nod, letting the words settle between them. Let it sting. And then, he asked the question that had been eating away at him ever since that fateful night.

"Why?"

Eddie's hands rose to his face, rubbing over his eyes and cheeks as if trying to scrub away the exhaustion and guilt that marred his countenance. "I don’t know," he muttered at first. But when Y/n shot him a look that said he was full of shit, he sighed. "That’s not true. I do know."

"I've been..." he paused, his eyes darting around the kitchen, seemingly searching for the right words, the right explanation. His gaze finally settled back on Y/n, and he took a deep breath before continuing. "...spending so much time with Shannon these days. Mostly because Christopher wanted us to. And it's been... just... easy."

Y/n felt his throat tighten, but he did not say anything. He just let Eddie talk freely.

Eddie exhaled. "She’s different now. More present. More committed to being there for Christopher. And for the first time in forever, we felt like…" his voice trailed off before he finally admitted, "Like a family. And I liked it. A lot. It made me... happy."

The truth was finally out, laid bare and unvarnished. Y/n had been too afraid to acknowledge it, too afraid to confront the possibility that Eddie's heart still belonged to someone else. But now, it was impossible to deny. Eddie still had feelings for Shannon, feelings that went beyond mere co-parenting or friendship. And Shannon, well, she clearly still had feelings for him, too. That was evident.

"You know, I thought we were good," Y/n said quietly. "I thought we were solid."

"We were," Eddie replied quickly. "We are."

The sound that escaped Y/n's lips was a quiet, bitter laugh, a harsh and mirthless thing that seemed to cut through the air like a knife. "No, no, we're not. You don’t forget your boyfriend’s birthday if things are solid. You wouldn't have ignored my calls, left me hanging and wondering if everything was alright with you. And you sure as hell wouldn't have kissed her."

Eddie didn't argue. He couldn't.

"I get it, though," Y/n continued softly. "She’s Christopher’s mom. You two have history. After everything, you want that family unit and to give your son what he needs. And that’s okay." His lips pressed together. "I can’t be in the middle of that."

"Y/n—" Eddie’s voice cracked.

"We can’t be together," Y/n said, even as it broke him to say it. "Not after this. Not after you kissed Shannon and made me feel neglected. You still love her. I see it."

Eddie's shoulders sagged. "It wasn't—" he started, but then stopped himself, as if realizing that any excuse or justification would be useless. The words died on his lips, and he was left with only the truth. "I do love you, Y/n. That hasn't changed."

Y/n looked away, blinking hard before meeting his eyes again. “Maybe not," he honestly didn’t know if he believed Eddie loved him. "But that's not enough, is it?"

Eddie looked like he wanted to argue. Like he wanted to fight for them. But the problem was, Y/n could see the truth for what it was now, and he deserved to be someone's first choice, not their second. He deserved to be loved with a love that was whole and complete, not a love that was fragmented and divided between him and someone else. He's worth more.

Y/n stood up, swallowing past the ache in his throat. "I think that you should go."

Eddie hesitated, his eyes searching Y/n’s face as if looking for some sign that he could fix this. But Y/n didn’t give him one. After a long pause, Eddie slowly stood, too. He looked like he wanted to say more, but in the end, all he said was:

"I’m sorry."

Y/n nodded once. "Me too."

Eddie lingered for a second longer before turning and walking toward the door. The moment it closed behind him, Y/n immediately headed up to his room. The closing of the door was like a final note to a song he hadn’t wanted to end. His e/c eyes landed on the photo sitting neatly in its frame on the bedside table.

He and Eddie.

It was one of Y/n's favorite memories. A candid shot of them at the carnival, taken by Christopher. The two of them were laughing as they stood in front of the Ferris wheel. Eddie’s arm was slung around his shoulders, pulling him close. Y/n remembered exactly how he had felt in that moment — happy, safe, and loved.

His fingers trembled as they reached for the frame, gripping it tightly as he sank onto the edge of the bed. His eyes clung to Eddie’s smile, so familiar, so beautiful.

And then — finally — he broke.

Y/n had tried to hold them back, tried to swallow down the lump that had been forming in his throat, but it was useless. The first tear fell, hitting the glass of the frame with a muted sound, like a single drop of rain landing on a still pond. And then another tear fell, and another. Y/n didn't try to stop them, didn't try to wipe them away. He just let them fall, freely and unashamedly, as he let go of all his inhibitions and allowed himself to feel the full weight of his painful emotions.

"Why wasn’t I ever enough?"

The question slipped from his lips in a whisper, cracked and broken, lost in the stillness of the room, barely audible even to himself. Why wasn’t he ever enough for someone to choose him?

He wasn’t enough for his mother to stay. He wasn’t enough for Brant to stay loyal. Now, he wasn’t enough for Eddie to not do the one thing that would shatter him.

A sob tore its way out of his throat, raw and painful. All of this is too much. The betrayal, the loneliness, the heartache — it collapsed on top of him like a wave crashing over someone who'd already stopped swimming. He had given Eddie everything. His love. His trust. His whole heart. Somehow, that still wasn’t enough.

"I just wanted to be loved."

A plea to no one. The universe? Maybe. That’s all he ever wanted. Not something conditional. Not something temporary. Just love. Someone who wouldn’t forget he existed. Someone who wouldn’t look at him and think of him as replaceable. Someone who wouldn’t see him as second place. Someone who would stay.

But maybe that was too much to ask for. Maybe he was destined to be almost enough. Close, but not quite. Worth holding, but not worth keeping.

He wanted to hate Eddie, to direct all his anger and hurt towards the person who had caused him pain. He wanted to hate Shannon, too, to blame her for being the surprising yet unsurprising catalyst that set off the chain of events that led to his heartbreak. He wanted to hate his mom, to lash out at her for being the first one to make him feel like he wasn't enough. But all he felt was tired. So damn tired of being almost enough. So goddamn tired of being the one people moved on from.

His fingers tightened around the frame, and for a brief moment, he considered throwing it. Smashing it. Destroying it the same way Eddie had destroyed both him and their relationship. But he didn’t.

Instead, he set the picture face-down on the small table. He couldn’t bear to look at it anymore. Then, he reached up and unclasped the silver necklace Eddie had given him: Siempre contigo. This was a lie. He yanked it off and threw it across the room, where it hit the wall and fell to the floor with a muted thud. Eddie lied.

Then, Y/n's eyes wandered to the desk, where the folder James had given him lay waiting. Bridgewater Associates — Austin, TX, the cover read. He picked it up and opened the file, flipping through the pages. The job details, the salary, the benefits, and the important information.

Maybe this new job in Texas wasn’t just an opportunity. Maybe it was an escape.

They say time flies when you’re having fun, but when you’re heartbroken, time seems to stop altogether, trapping you in the ache of yesterday with no escape.

XXXXX XXXXX

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