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pairing: god!satoru gojo x fem!reader

summary: you had prayed and prayed for the drought to finally end, for the village to finally be granted rain, so when meeting one of the gods you strike a deal and pay the price.

content: 4.4k, smut, pwp, big dick!gojo, virgin!reader, praise, degradation, dirty talk, cunnilingus (fem. receiving), ice play, bondage, gagging, fingering, squirting, orgasm control, overstimulation, public but also not public sex

note: have fun :D

The heat beat down on your face as you walked up the hill, buckets of water straining your shoulders. Your throat was parched and you were drenched in sweat. You were so thirsty it was unbearable. It had been months since the last rain and the nearest stream was miles away. Your village had long since lost hope, abandoning their faith in the gods. But not you. You knew they were up there. You believed they would help.

While everyone else assumed the drought would eventually end, as it had before, you couldn’t wait. Your brother was so young; he might not survive much longer. Water was life and without it survival was impossible.

“Hey, Ren.” You forced a smile for your brother. His face was flushed, and his clothes were tattered. “Come on, you need to drink this.”

Ren coughed, struggling to sit up. “Y/n, you’re back.”

“Yeah.” You brought the bowl closer to his lips, urging him to drink. He sipped weakly. “How have you been feeling?”

“I feel really hot.” You felt his forehead and sighed when you felt it even warmer than before. The fever he had was burning through his body. Ren wrapped his arms around your waist, clinging on you tightly. “Y/n you won’t leave me will you? Not like mum and dad.”

Brushing his hair out of his eyes, you felt your heart break a little. “Of course I won’t leave you. You’re gonna be stuck with me for the rest of your life, promise.” He grinned, giggling. There’s a small bit of you that wished that this would end soon but you knew better. 

“I love you Y/n.” Ren mumbled, eyes fluttering shut.

“Love you too Ren.” 

You were shaken awake and you nearly screamed when you caught sight of a beautiful face in front of you. His jaw was perfectly chiselled and his lips were plump, kissable almost. You felt your cheeks flushed. His eyes were what captured you most of all. Sapphire swirls painted his eyes, you felt yourself being pulled towards him. 

“You mortals really do sleep like - what’s the saying? Oh yes - like the dead.” His sneer transformed his handsome features into something far more menacing. “Don’t you know it’s disrespectful to spend the night at a temple?”

“I-I’m sorry, I must have fallen asleep by accident.” You tried to move away but it was like an invisible force was keeping you from moving your limbs. He smirked, crawling closer to you so that you were inches apart. “W-Who are you?”

“Little mortal doesn’t know who I am.” His tongue flicked over his lips. “You’re in my temple, little one.”

"Y-Your temple…" The cogs in your brain turned and you let out a frightened gasp. "Y-You're a God."  

He grinned, a low chuckle escaping his lips. "Smarter than you look. It's Y/n isn't it?" Words failed you and you felt your throat grow dry. He twisted a strand of your hair around his finger. "You've been praying for a heavy rain season for weeks. How could I not remember your name." 

"Does that mean you'll help me?" 

"I'm afraid the weather is in my brother's domain. I control the oceans, mortal." 

"I know who you are, Satoru Gojo, God of the oceans and earthquakes. Your brother controls the sky and its weather." You said meekly, feeling your cheeks burn at how close he was. The tapestries had always depicted him as a handsome man with bulging muscles. But something about seeing him in real life had you so enamoured. 

Satoru smirked, the blue in his eyes growing even brighter. His body glowed with a soft, golden aura. You gulped, unable to meet his gaze. "And yet you knew that, but still came to pray to me every day, making sacrifices as well."

"W-Well they say you're the most generous s-so I thought…"

"You thought I would help you?" Satoru cocked his head to the side. "Don't you know everything comes with a price?" 

"And I'm willing to pay that price." 

A silent pause passed between the two of you before a smirk crept up on Satoru’s face. You noticed his eyes grow darker, the bright pigment transformed into a much more seductive hue.

“My, my, little mortal’s brave.” You felt his eyes trailing over your body and you felt like you’re being hunted. “So you’ll do anything?” His fingers brushed over your thigh teasingly. You nodded. 

A wicked grin spread across his face. You squeaked in surprise when his mouth collided onto yours. The intoxicating scent of the ocean filled your senses and your eyes fluttered shut. Satoru’s lips moved ferociously against yours, it made you feel dizzy yet they tasted sweet at the same time. You could taste the sugary taste of leftover ambrosia as he delved into your wet cavern, tongue exploring each and every crevice. 

Your arms remained by your side, unsure of what to do. But when Satoru tugged you forward, they wrapped around him tightly, and you felt him smirk. Your hands wandered over his rippling muscles, trying to carve the feeling into your memory. He bit down on your bottom lip, drawing the slightest bit of blood.

The taste of your own blood mingled with the sweetness of ambrosia, created a heady mixture that made you gasp. Satoru pulled back slightly, his breath hot against your skin. "Everything comes with a price, little one." He murmured, his voice a velvety whisper. "Are you sure you're willing to pay it?"

You nodded, breathless and trembling. "Anything, just please help us."

Satoru's grin widened, his eyes gleaming with a mixture of amusement and something darker. "Very well, mortal. But remember, once a deal is struck with a god, there's no going back."

His fingers traced patterns on your skin, sending shivers down your spine. "You'll belong to me," he whispered, his lips brushing against your ear. "Body and soul."

You felt yourself growing hot as he ravaged your mouth, a soft growl emitting from his throat. You weren’t familiar with his actions, you had never been bedded, too busy tending to your sick brother. The people had called you many names but you didn't care. But now, with your minimal experience, you were nervous, scared even at the thought of a God deflowering you. Nevertheless, you started to grow wet, your pussy started to stick to the thin piece of cloth that covered you. 

Satoru pulled away yet again, a single strand of salvia connected the both of you as he awaited your answer. You panted, out of breath and slightly intoxicated from just the sense of him. 

“Do you accept?” His voice was deep and sultry, something about him was so deliciously seductive that you couldn't help the way your thighs squeezed together involuntarily.

"I accept." 

Satoru's eyes flashed with satisfaction. "Good. Then let our pact be sealed." He captured your lips again, this time more possessively, his hands roaming your body with a newfound intensity. You let out a moan as his tongue slithered back into your mouth. 

He sunk two fingers into your folds making you whimper at the stretch. Your hands gripped his biceps, nails digging down. Satoru licked his lips, continuing to pump into you, gradually increasing the pace. The lewd noises that filled your ears made a blush rise to your cheeks. Never in your life have you felt so dirty, so shameless.

"You're dripping, my sweet. Who would've thought you'd be this turned on." His tone was laced with unmistakable lust and hunger. "Been watching you for so long. Couldn't wait any longer to be inside you." He growled, fucking into you faster, drawing louder moans out of you. 

"S-Satoru…" You gasped as he plunged another digit into you, manoeuvring his fingers so he hit all the right spots. "I-I…"

He stared at your core, your juices all over. For a second he slowed down, giving you a chance to breathe and relax before he picked up the pace. Curling his fingers, touching your sweet sensitive spots in your velvet walls. His thumb rubbed your clit, playing with your sensitive nub. A tight hot rope seemed to wrap around your stomach as Satoru continued to fuck you harder. He smirked as your walls squeezed his fingers. You let out a gasp when he touches a particular spot within you. 

"Close my sweet?" He whispered, lips brushing against your ear and it sent you closer to your high. All you could do is nod fervently, the twisting feeling wrapping around your stomach tightened. You mewled as he fucked you faster, adding another digit. “You can’t cum just yet, got to make sure you’re ready for my cock.” He hummed.

You clenched around his fingers once more, tears pricked your eyes as you threw your head back at the pleasure you were receiving. Satoru surged forward, capturing your lips in a heated kiss. He swallowed your moans and whimpers. His lips trailed down your neck, leaving soft open-mouthed kisses in his wake. Your noises were like music to his ears as he drank in every moan, whimper, mewl - the breathy gasps and the lewd pants. 

“You know my sweet, there’s something that I love about being a God.” 

You gazed at him through your lashes, his lips curling up into a devilish smirk. An ice cube appeared in his hand. You weren’t sure what to think until he slid it up and down your hot wet folds, then you were gasping at the coldness that hit your core. There was a rush of newfound delight that filled you up and you were rutting your hips, asking for more.

Satoru simply grinned, pushing the cube of ice further inside you watching your reactions bloom in front of him. His fingers were dripping with both water and your arousal. You let out a soft hiss when the ice cube is pressed harder into you. The coldness contrasted with the warmness of your needy walls. It spiked through your body as it made your blood rise and your head became light at the overwhelming feeling. You were clutching onto Satoru with so much force that it would hurt him but he didn’t care, not when he was in the midst of unravelling you.

“Let’s see how many you can hold.” It shocked you into a frenzy when you felt another ice cube get pushed inside you, the last one still slowly melting. 

“Mmmph. Too much, ngh, feels weird, ‘s too much.” Your mind seemed to explode as you babbled incoherently. “F-fuckkk ‘toru it’s cold a-and-“

You were unable to finish your sentence as Satoru reached out his hands to pinch your clit causing you to jolt forward at the sudden gesture. You felt a rush as you gazed up at him. watching his smirk grow as he looked at your sopping pussy. 

“You’re so beautiful!” He teased your folds, rubbing against them harsher. “Take more for me okay? You’re such a good girl, my sweet, keep that dirty pussy dripping as I stuff you, okay?” Satoru’s lips brushed your ear. “Then I’ll let you cum.”

You felt yourself spiralling into euphoria when he slid his finger down your pussy. His tongue flicked over his lips as he admired your fucked out face. Morals left your body and you let your urges take over. All reason and thought left you as you were reduced to a whining needy mess. Your pussy clenched pathetically around the ice cubes, the cold still surprising you. Satoru did nothing but coo at you, tucking strands of loose hair behind your ear.

“Come on my sweet.” He urged. “You're doing so well. This pussy is so pretty, she’s just so gorgeous, fuckkk, wish you could see her.”

“A-Ah, ‘toru good f-feels so g-good.” 

You were writhing beneath his grip, a feeling of overwhelming pleasure surged through you as he continued his actions. Your pussy constricted around his fingers and you felt something grow within you. Your nerves and senses were heightened as you felt his fingers nudge at your swollen clit. 

“I-I feel somethingg, ngh, f-feels weird like I’m gonna burst-” You gasped out, unable to keep the noises within you.

“Awwww.” Satoru’s tone was mocking as he watched your tiny frame twist and turn under his grip. A wicked grin spread across his face. “You’re close, my sweet, beg to cum and maybe I’ll be nice enough to let you.” 

It was almost painful but the pleasure was so uncontrollable that it overtook any pain you felt. Satoru slid another freezing ice cube into you, making you scream. Your mind was dizzy and you could only feel yourself getting stretched repeatedly with the cold object. Your pussy walls were both cold and hot, the mixture that Satoru had concocted dripping from them. Sweat covered your body, glistening as the sun shone down. You felt like you were on the verge of collapsing, so desperate for an unknown pleasure to come to your saviour.

“S-Satoru...cum, p-please. W-Wanna cum…” You stuttered helplessly, silently shrieking at the contrast of temperatures.

“More, beg more.”

You screamed at the feeling as his fingers thrusted in you making your head light as you desperately gripped onto his shoulders, clawing at some sort of way to tether you to the present. His words were laced with seduction as he continued to tease you.

“C-Cum cum cum, please pleaseee, needa cum so b-bad ‘toru fuckkk! P-Please let me cum, ‘s too much need it s-so bad, please please please!”

Satoru laughed as he buried his head in your neck, placing kisses on the empty space. He loved your desperate pleas, the breathy moans that would fill the gaps and the tears that followed as you begged him for something you had never experienced before.

“You’ve been such a good girl.” He purred, his deep voice making you clench around him. “And good girls deserve to cum. Go on my sweet, let it all out on my fingers, make a mess of this pussy.” 

You felt a wave of ecstasy rush over you as he pressed his fingers down, biting into your neck. Your body shook at the sensation that overcame you. You rocked against Satoru as you felt your pussy squeeze and constrict. A newfound feeling gushed from within you and you felt yourself scream at the pleasure. Your mind was reduced to filth as you moaned, the ringlets of your release jolting through your body. Satoru groaned at the way your cum coated his fingers and he stared at your desperate cunt, watching the aftermath of the mess you had just created. You didn’t know what to think, your mind cloudy and confused. 

“You fucking squirted, dirty fucking girl.” His eyes were transfixed and suddenly you felt embarrassed at the wetness between your thighs. He reached his hands out forcing you to stay open for him, exposing your most private part for him to ogle at. “Who knew this cute little pussy was capable of such filthy things. You’re just a whore in disguise aren’t you?”

Your pathetic mewls convinced him of nothing. Satoru stared in wonder at your pussy, watching as you clenched around nothing. He slid his fingers in his mouth, tasting every bit of you. A low moan was heard before he dived down licking up your mess. Still sensitive, you cried in shock, threading your hands through his hair. He sucked harshly at your sensitive bud, lapping at your juices. The feeling made tears bleed from your eyes and you tug on his wispy locks. 

“Like it, my sweet?” His voice sent tingles down your spine and you held back the urge to scream. “Can’t hear you?”

“L-Like it so much ‘toru…” You let out a shaky breath, beads of your tears clinging onto your lashes. “P-Please…”

He lapped at your cunt greedily, swallowing every single drop. Your arousal dripped from his chin with a mixture of his salvia. His ears were blessed at the loud squelch that would emit from between your legs. Everything was so messy but he didn’t care as he continued to play with your pretty cunt. You could only whine and quiver at the feeling. Your legs shook, still sensitive from your previous orgasm. Blissful thoughts whizzed by as he kept you locked in an euphoric sensation. You struggled to not cry out and sob when white dots blurred your vision. 

Satoru flicked his tongue against your engorged clit, plunging the wet muscle inside. His mouth was hot and you felt his tongue circle your swollen clit messily while you stuttered out pleading moans. He pried open your thighs, desperate to access deeper into the precious new heaven he had discovered. You felt your eyes roll to the back of your head at the overstimulation, finding it hard to focus on anything as your senses overloaded. Your mouth hung open as sweet whines constantly fell from your lips. All you could do was lie there letting Satoru ravage your pussy like a man dying of thirst.

“C-Close, close so so so close!” You gasped when you felt him release with a pop before diving back down to continue to suck. “Too much, ‘toru ‘s too much, feels t-too goodddd…”

It wasn’t long before you were cumming again. Another round of your wet arousal coating his face and he licked it clean. You were drooling now, salvia running down your chin as you felt the tears run down your face. It was too much and you feel yourself fall into a new world of pure pleasure. You could feel Satoru’s lustful grin against you as he sucked your pussy. Your thighs shook, chest heaving up and down. Despite the fact you had just released it never stopped the god from indulging you in his carnal desire.

"Sweet little Y/n." He cooed as his thumb ghosted circles around your puffy clit. “Think you’re ready for my cock?” 

It was a question that didn’t need an answer but you still nodded your head lifelessly. Your body was limp in his grip and you struggled to hold yourself up, relying only on him. Satoru smirked from above you, pushing you down on the marble floor. His hands were big and warm and the simple touch had heat blossoming at your pussy. You barely registered what was happening until you had your hands tied together. A thin golden cord wrapped around your wrists and Satoru bit his lip. You looked so beautiful, so pretty, so submissive. 

“I like you this way my sweet. All tied up and ready to be used.” He frowned and you panicked, scared you had angered him. He snapped his fingers and you found a piece of cloth in your mouth, stopping you from speaking. “That’s better, as much as I love your noises I find this much more appealing.”

Your eyes widened when he reached down to release his cock from its confines. You had never seen something so big and dare you say pretty. Satoru’s cock was red and flushed, pre cum oozing out of the swollen tip, dripping like pearls as they rolled down his fat cock head. You felt yourself drool at the sight and you didn’t think you would want something in your mouth so bad. He grinned smugly at your reaction, knowing you were unable to say anything as you stared transfixed at the sight before you.

“Don’t worry my sweet, I’ll make sure to make you feel so good. I know how much this pussy loves to be filled up.”

The words are dirty yet you couldn’t help but let out a muffled whine as he picked you up. His tip pushed past your folds, nudging into your pussy hole. You shut your eyes letting yourself feel the stretch that he gave you. His cock was so big and every bit of your body felt like it was on fire as he continued to push inside. He paused letting you adjust, whispering into your ear quietly. Filthy praises that only made you drip and mewl. It felt like magic and you whimpered into your gag helplessly. Satoru’s fingers brushed through your hair and he peppered sweet kisses across your face. 

It was like your world had imploded as he thrusted into you. Nothing else mattered as you moaned and squirmed at his touch. Your senses went into overdrive as he quickened his thrusts. He pumped in and out of you. He filled every crevice of your sex. His pace never slowed even as you felt all the energy leave your body. You screamed into the gag when he hit that particular spot that had you keeling. You felt your eyes roll to the back of your head and you gasped for air through the gag. 

“Fuckkk you’re so tight, such a slutty virgin pussy. Look at how you’re gripping on my cock my sweet, she’s so loud.”

His words only made you keen with desire as you gave in to the carnal temptation that bloomed within you. 

“Mmmmph!” Your moans grew louder with every harsh thrust as his cock touched every part of your gummy walls. “Ah-Ah-Ah! ‘toruuuu!”

Satoru showed no mercy as he pounded into you. Cock plunging in and out of your pussy. Wet noises echoed through the walls of the temple and a small part of you felt bad for doing this, here of all places. It was inappropriate but it felt so good. Too good even. He continued his movements and the binds that once bound you vanished and you assumed that this was a sign that Satoru wanted you to touch him so you obeyed. Your fingers dragged down his back, sure to leave marks. Fingers fluttered from place to place, desperate for something to anchor you.

“You look so beautiful, pussy sucking in my big cock. Such a good girl for me.” He tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear. Everything he did felt amazing. “Moan for me my sweet, go on let me hear those filthy sounds.” 

You obeyed his command letting the lewd sounds tumble from your lips as you gasped for more. Your hands roamed the vast expanse of his body, the taut muscles that lay under your hands, each touch ignited sparks. His grip on you tightened, his fingers tangling in your hair, pulling just enough to make you gasp again. Every brush of his lip, every stroke of his tongue, every bite and nibble was a reminder of his power and you couldn’t help but give in completely. 

The vigor that he fucked you with was compared to no man and you couldn’t help the lustful sounds that escaped your lips as his hips snapped to yours. It made your mind reel with the feeling of pleasure. His hair fell into his eyes and you reached your hands to sweep through his locks. Satoru was so handsome. He was a god after all and you couldn’t help that your heart pounded whenever you looked at him.

You felt your orgasm approach and you clenched your hands around his toned biceps, nails digging into his skin and he hissed. You moaned repeatedly into the gag as your body shook frantically from the pleasure. 

“A-A-Ahhh! ‘toru ‘toru ‘s too much, nghh.” Your body thrashed in his grasp, wriggling and writhing as you felt the immense feeling build up again. Every movement magnified the intensity as you felt the shock ricochet throughout your body. 

“It’s okay my sweet.” Satoru whispered but his thrusts were unrelenting. His fingers brushed against your clit, circling the bundle of nerves as he drew out your orgasm. “It’s okay, let's cum together. Soak my cock Y/n, such a good girl.”

Your juices overflowed and you felt his cum pump into your body, filling you up until you were so so full. Warmth blossomed throughout your body and you felt yourself wringing his cock with every drop of cum. The feeling was incomparable and you gasped for air once he removed the gag with the snap of his fingers. Satoru kissed you, his lips were demanding, moving against yours with raw hunger. The taste of the ocean filled your senses, salty and intoxicating. He pulled out to place a kiss on your thighs, on your pussy. You were so sensitive and you felt his cum as it flowed out of you. He stuffed two fingers in your pussy and you squealed at the sudden gesture. His fingers curled in and out of you before he slapped your core. The sting sent shock waves through your body and you couldn’t help the moan that tumbled out of your lips.

“Keep it in there my sweet, I’ll be visiting again.” His voice was a husky whisper, deep and seductive. 

Then, with those words, he disappeared, leaving you a naked mess on the temple floor. You were breathless and reeling from the pleasure that he had just bestowed upon you. You had just given yourself to a god, one that had just stuffed you so full of his cum. You stared at the place where he had been in shock, your head felt light from all that had just happened. Your legs gave way when you tried to stand up, they were sore and achy, covered in splatters of both of your cum. His smirks and groans filled your senses once again and you felt yourself flush at the memory. 

Satoru Gojo had just introduced a lustful desire that you didn’t think you would be able to forget for a very long time.

You gathered your belongings with shaking hands, urgently attempting to steady yourself as you stood. The wet splashes that painted your body were a stark reminder of what had just happened, and you tried your hardest to conceal them along with your flushed, fucked-out face.

You hobbled your way back to the village, heart pounding in your chest. Every glance from a passerby felt like they could see right through you. The sheer thought that someone would stop to talk to you had you eager to get home unnoticed.

Unbeknownst to you, Satoru was watching from Olympus, his eyes never leaving your retreating form. He grinned, a sense of satisfaction washing over him as he saw your tiny self hurry home. The memory of your trembling body and flushed cheeks was seared into his mind and he felt his cock harden again at the thought. He knew you were thinking of him, longing for him, and that was exactly what he wanted. When the time was right, he would come for you again, and induce you in a pleasurable haze once more.

pairing: millions knives x gn!reader tags/warnings: knives is his own warning, knives tries to strangle reader, post '98 anime, trimax elements, reader sustains minor injuries, bullying by townspeople, slight possessive behavior, canon-typical violence, reader is called a "bitch" once, arson, jealousy, touch-starved knives, reader called "doc" as a nickname, hopeful ending, slice of life-ish genre: angst, slight comfort wc: 17,765 note: knives domestication arc real. there's a lot i could say about this fic (especially the word count…) but… i hope you all enjoy! please heed the warnings! 😭

The stairs creak with each step you take to the only occupied room on the second level.

In the quiet of an empty house, the light rattling of plates produces an ugly, jarring sound. But the minor inconvenience of improperly balanced dishes is nothing compared to the riots that’d taken place for nearly a full week prior.

It had taken a cumulative three hours of reassurance from Vash—making promises to keep the situation under control—desperate for the villagers to extend the barest amount of tolerance for bringing the Devil’s son to their settlement. Under it all, he faced cruel words and hysterical accusations—half the population furious at him for even considering letting such a demon to recuperate amidst their peaceful neighbors. Angry words came from every direction; at the previous homeowners, the doctor willing to stabilize this house’s only patient, the man who’d brought him here, and you—the single volunteer who’d offered themselves up as an extra pair of eyes to watch over the slowly recovering man.

Except, Millions Knives isn’t a man. The villagers had called him many things, and there was only so much they could comprehend—or be willing to understand—after the frightful demonstration of his gift he’d frightened the villagers with.

(“That Devil’s Abomination will ruin us!” they shrieked, clutching lit torches and pitchforks. “How could you think of bringing him here to our village!?”)

You can’t say that volunteering to look after Knives was due purely to satisfy a desire to help him, but you trust Vash: the look of relief he’d given you amidst the venomous cajoling of the crowd had been enough to win you over. And if you lived to tell the story in five or ten years, it would mean that the risk he’d taken of bringing his brother here hadn’t been for nothing, after all.

Millions Knives leaves no inch of his hatred to the imagination: just his glare is enough to raise the tiny hairs on the nape of your neck—his bloodlust potent enough to feel.

Maybe he thinks that enough insults will drive you away—will break your resolve. Maybe he’s hoping you’ll lash out and give him an excuse to kill you. But with the strict order from his brother—who’d been all too willing to accept your help, flourishing a wide, hopeful smile at your tentatively raised hand—to keep violence off the table no matter what, he was about as threatening as an aggravated child.

That didn’t stop Knives from reciting the most chilling threats at you, bearing sharp teeth all the while: lips pulling back until the pink of his gums could be seen.

But it hardly matters; you’ve been called worse by lesser men, and his vitriol barely leaves a dent when he’s fighting the lucidity of a fever—one stern, slightly disappointed look from his brother enough to send him crawling into the far corners of his bed, sulking like a feral cat.

According to Vash’s explanation of his brother’s special ability, it’s sharp enough to slice cleanly through steel—precise enough to sever nerves in a human body without damaging them.

(“I don’t want to scare you,” he’d said, voice grave, “but I don’t want you to be in the dark about it, either.”)

You’d been at the back of the crowd when Knives had lashed out, swallowed by the piercing shrieking screams of men, women, and children who’d been unlucky enough to witness it.

Knives himself hasn’t deigned to show you how deadly it is just yet, but you don’t doubt he’d hardly need much convincing to demonstrate.

“Human scum,” he sneers when you open the door, balancing the tray of food on one hand. “I’ll kill you.” His fever had broken yesterday, leaving him well enough to stay awake for a few hours at a time with little issue.

“The soup is good today—it would make Vash happy if you tried it,” you say, unblinking. “The bread might be a little stale, but if you dip it—”

“I don’t need to eat to live. Only your pathetic species needs to debase yourselves like that. You should know that much from my brother.”

“—I’m sure it’ll taste good,” you finish. “Vash has told me the necessary information. He’s hoping you’ll try some of the food while you recover.” You move the soup and plate of bread onto the table beside him, next to an untouched glass of water.

There’s a chair beside his bed. One you wouldn’t dare sit in: Knives had made it clear that seat would be reserved for Vash and Vash only.

“You probably think you’re special since Vash accepted your help—forget it.” Knives sneers, fists clenched so tightly in the sheets you’re certain they’ll tear. “Once I’ve recovered my strength, I’ll wipe out this whole village. Starting with you.” His threats are softened only by the fevered crease of his brow, the way his cheeks are blotchy with the lingering effects of his cold.

“That’ll make Vash pretty upset,” you remark, and watch his jaw move, teeth grinding his face into an exceptionally poisonous expression. The furrow in his brow reaching the bridge of his nose in its intensity. His lip curls up—in disgust or mockery, you’ve no idea. It matters not as you go to open the windows, hoping some birdsong or a breeze will placate him.

It had been unclear when Knives would regain his mobility—Vash had briefed you and the doctor about his brother. Namely that, though his body shared many similarities with human biology, his ability to regenerate put him well outside the expected recovery time of normal people. When he’d first arrived, he’d hardly been able to move his arms and legs. You thought it would be that way for at least a few weeks. But clearly you’d been underestimating his generative abilities.

You make the mistake of turning your back to him—an act Knives deemed punishable by death upon your first meeting—and look over your shoulder just in time to see him snatch the bowl of soup up from the nightstand. Eyes going wide, you’re frozen—meeting his wild, triumphant snarl as he flings it at you, its contents spilling all over the sheets and floor.

It all happens so fast—before you can even blink: the house creaks, a trigger is pulled. The bowl skews off course—colliding with the rubber head of a plunger dart and crashing into the wall.

The dish shattering doesn’t startle you as much as Vash’s appearance in the doorway. The toy gun in his hand is pathetically small and harmless. He twirls it, pretends to blow steam from the barrel; tosses a wink at you.

“If there’d been a gunshot, people would’ve panicked,” he explains to your wide-eyed expression. “Sorry about that, Doc. Can you give us a minute? Those insurance girls are here to say hi.”

“But,” you say, swaying—hands hovering towards the mess on the floor. The soup is still steaming.

“I’ll take care of it. Run along now, don’t keep them waiting,” he chirps, smile not quite reaching his eyes despite the sincerity of it. He looks tired.

You step over the soup and shattered bowl on your way out. Vash waves, shuts the door behind him with a gentle click. It’s tempting to linger and eavesdrop, but you know he’ll realize if you stay behind. You rub trembling hands on your legs with a sigh and head downstairs.

“Hiya Doc!” Milly greets you with a cheerful tilt of her head. She and Meryl are sharing a cup of tea at the kitchen table. “You’re alive!”

“Yes, somehow.” You give a wry smile in return. Take a moment to calm the rapid beat of your heart.

“We heard something break,” Meryl says, brows furrowed. “Was it Knives?”

You shrug. “He’s about as happy to be here as you’d expect. I don’t think stale bread alone is enough to convince him not to destroy the village when he recovers.”

“He said that?” Meryl pauses, face mapped with worry. You wave her off, pulling a hat onto your head.

“He did, but I doubt Vash would let him.”

“That’s right, Ma’am!” Milly beams, teacup raised to her lips.

“I’m going to buy a replacement bowl before going to work,” you say.

“I’ll go with you.” Meryl smiles, stands. “It’s safer that way, right?”

(“He shouldn’t try anything like that again,” Vash will explain to you when you return, bowl secured. “He’s promised to behave for the time being. If he tries anything, let me know, okay?”

“You don’t have to worry about that,” you’ll tell him, unwrapping the bowl from its paper confines to place into the cupboard.

“Sorry about this,” he’ll apologize, eyes downcast. “I know he’s not the friendliest.”

“There’s no need to look so gloomy,” you will say, bumping his side with your elbow. “As long as he doesn’t try to cut my head off it’s not an issue. I’ve handled worse.”

“He won’t… He shouldn’t,” Vash will say. “I just… it’s harder than I thought.”)

With tensions running high in the village, Vash had suggested that Meryl and Milly keep you company when running errands whenever he wasn’t available. They couldn’t placate the hateful words or glares of the villagers, but Milly’s huge stature and enormous stun-gun had been a deterrent for many of the unarmed citizens from trying to attack you.

Hostility, however, is one of those emotions that finds a way to sneak through the cracks, no matter how carefully monitored.

(It rises around you, like the thin spout of water in a slowly filling pond.)

At your job there is little protection: anyone with a gun can walk in. Though the owners make everyone forfeit their weapons before serving, you know there’s no such thing as an unbroken rule.

All things considered, you should be lucky not to have been fired immediately following the protests: plenty of people that come to the eatery for drinks and food glare at you. They’ll spit on the floor at your feet and whisper things under their breath. But you still get paid, your bosses give you sympathetic looks in private, after closing when no one else watches.

(It fills up, and spills over while you’re paying for groceries at the variety store.)

Even though you’d chosen the check-out line with the least amount of people, even though you have Meryl with you for safety, it does nothing against the sudden, rough pressure shoving against your back, forcing you to stumble. The cashier releases the change a second too late—or perhaps intentionally—leaving it to scatter on the floor at your feet.

“Hey!” Meryl exclaims, enraged. “How could you do such a thing?!”

You kneel to pick up the change. The heavy heel of a work boot steps on your fingers, crushing them against the floor. Air hitches in your lungs in a pained gasp, eyes squeezing shut.

Meryl lets out another angry shout, but the person is already hurrying away, heavy footsteps fading quickly as you cradle the injured hand against your chest.

“Are you alright?” she asks, hovering beside you, kneeling down to assess the damage.

“Move along, will ya? Yer holdin’ up everyone else!” a rough voice barks. The line that formed behind you hadn’t been there just a few minutes prior.

“‘Move along’?!” Meryl parrots, furious. You grab her arm, shaking your head.

“The bags,” you wheeze, grimacing. “C’mon, let’s go.”

“But they—!” Meryl protests.

“There’s no point. They’re gone,” you say, standing to move out of the way. “Let’s go.”

“It’s cowardly!” she argues, carrying the bags in her arms. “They shouldn’t be treating you like this simply for showing kindness.”

“It’s understandable,” you say, trying to flex your fingers and wincing at the throbbing pain. Your dominant hand too. What a pain. “It doesn’t matter to me. Vash has already sacrificed so much. I don’t want to let him down.”

Though the doctor checks your hand after you return, though you ice it to bring down the swelling and ease the pain, your fingers will be bruised and tender for some time. Nothing broken, luckily, but you’ll have a hard time carrying heavy things for a couple weeks at least.

But still you bring Knives’ meal up, trying to hold most of the weight with your uninjured hand.

Your appearance in his room is met with a frigid silence.

According to Vash, his brother agreed to cooperate to an extent: no more attempts to hurt anyone going in and out of his room. Not that the promise means much when out of the whole village, less than five people even go inside that house: you, the doctor, Meryl, Milly, and of course Vash himself.

“These are Vash’s favorite,” you tell Knives, setting down a plate of salmon sandwiches. Your fingers ache with a twinging, bruising pain. “And some soup.” At least when you move to open the windows, nothing is thrown at your head.

Knives is tight-lipped, but his glare is as chilling as ever. You ignore the prickle of it along your neck and busy yourself tidying up the room. The sheets and floor have been cleaned.

“You may hate me,” you say, facing away from the bed, “but I’m going to help you regardless. That won’t change.”

His expression is so furious when you look up, your breath stalls.

“You’re just a pathetic human,” he spits, face twisted with the force of his ire. “I don’t need your help. I’ll kill you, I swear it. I’ll wipe your pathetic existence from this planet.”

Silence befalls the room. Muffled outside, you can hear the sounds of people. The occasional bird call. Muffled laughter drifts from downstairs—Milly and Vash conversing in jovial tones.

You take a slow breath. “The soup will taste better if you try it while it’s hot.”

The bowl crashes against the wall when you leave the room. You consider it a win and head downstairs.

The next morning, there’s someone already in the kitchen.

You’re not a stranger to Vash’s early morning routine, but he’s already dressed, loitering without even waiting for the kettle to boil for coffee.

“Just in time for breakfast,” you tease with a smile, only for it to falter when he remains stony-faced, hovering in the doorway. “Vash? What’s wrong?” you ask, walking forward to meet him.

Your home is gone. Set aflame by villagers who wanted to teach you a lesson for putting your trust in Vash—who wanted to punish you for stepping forth. For your arrogance and baseless beliefs in a man who could kill the whole village in the blink of an eye. The neighboring rooms are vacant and untouched. Only your belongings are gone—consumed in that unforgiving inferno.

“I’m sorry,” Vash apologizes quietly, as you stare at the building from the adjacent street. He looks as stricken as you feel. “The insurance girls are trying to recover stuff now, but…”

The dream of making it out alive and keeping the quiet triumph alive disappears—swept away with the smoke as a breeze carries it up towards the cloudless sky. Tears sting your eyes under Vash’s solemn gaze. But you can’t cry yet. Not yet.

“We’re starting over,” you tell him, hoarse. “Me and Knives. There’s no…” your voice catches. “There’s no going back now.”

You can’t cry yet, but Vash sheds a tear for you anyway.

At work, no one can look you in the eyes. The eatery has gotten quieter lately: you’re sent to the back again to wash dishes, where the hot soapy water runs over your hands until the temperature no longer scalds you.

Sheltered in the back of the building, no one pays any mind to you. But in that house, showing weakness to Knives is not an option. You earn enough of his ire simply by existing.

When you climb the stairs later that afternoon, some hours before dinner, your eyes are dry despite the ache behind them. The lingering pain in your fingers has yet to fade.

Vash had offered to give you his room upstairs and take the couch, but you refused: there’s no way Knives wouldn’t raise a fuss over you suddenly sleeping where his brother was. It was better for you to remain downstairs so they could be closer together.

“I’ll be doing errands upstairs today,” you tell Knives, shucking the curtains open after collecting his meal—untouched, of course, except for the empty cup of tea. Vash often takes it upon himself to eat what his brother leaves behind, flourishing you with praises. “Not that I expect you would, but if you need anything, call for me.”

“What errands must be done in an empty shell of a house?” Knives’ lip curls. “Watching you scurry around here like a bug makes me sick.”

“…The situation suddenly changed,” you tell him, smiling apologetically. “If I’m here it’s a little easier on Vash. He’s only just settling down.” Knives snarls after you.

The day Knives moved in, the owners of the house had taken what they could in two suitcases and left the rest, moving out of this small settlement—driven by angry neighbors and the fear of retaliation from Knives himself. With your job and Vash’s help, you have the funds to take care of his brother.

Not a peep is heard as you tidy up the second floor rooms, making mental notes of what should be tossed and cleaned. In particular, there’s a study that overlooks the main street, giving you a clear view of the village.

The bookshelf in the room is full of untouched titles—left behind to collect dust. You’re not confident anyone would want them, and certainly not from you, but perhaps when things calm down they’ll find a new home.

Your deliberations are interrupted by a loud, heavy series of thumps from across the hall. Dropping the books you’ve gathered, you almost trip over your own feet to get to Knives’ room.

“Are you okay?” you ask, throwing the door open.

He’s in a heap on the floor, the blankets tangled around his legs. The food has fallen off the nightstand, though you suspect he likely swept the tray off as an act of rebellion.

“The doctor is coming to assess you tomorrow,” you tell him, stepping through the doorway, “please be patient until then—”

“Get out!” he roars, and you barely dodge in time to avoid the plate flying towards your face. It hits the wall behind you and shatters on impact, leaving a stain and a trail of food on the floor. “Get out! Get out! Leave! Don’t come near me! Don’t speak to me! Die, just die!”

His glare has not lost its potency. He’s breathing like a feral animal, chest heaving, the tendons in his throat and shoulders flexing, body trembling under the strain of trying to push himself up off the floor. A long, tense moment passes with your eyes locked.

“I can’t do that,” you say finally, quietly. “It would make Vash sad.”

His nostrils flare, teeth grinding. He grabs the nearby cup, the remaining drops of water spilling out to hurl it out into the hall. It shatters high above your head, glass bits raining down behind you.

“Don’t speak about him,” Knives heaves, voice trembling in his anger. “Disgusting human, pathetic—how dare you. How dare—”

Adrenaline pulses through your body. Instinct tells you to run. But instead, you crouch, begin to pick up the shattered pieces of plate, dropping them carefully into your palm. Your bruised, aching fingers throb in protest, but still you do it. Knives crawls back against the wall, looking not unlike a cornered animal. Fists clenched against the floorboards, glaring at you.

It’s agonizing and slow, and he watches you the whole time.

You call the doctor over to help Knives back into bed. The blond practically flies away from the touch as soon as he touches the mattress, buries himself under the blankets and doesn’t say a word. You thank the doctor and continue cleaning the mess, turning the floorboards spotless.

Vash returns later that evening with Milly and Meryl. They greet you with a smile. He manages to steal a sandwich from the plate of leftovers.

“Knives has been anxious to see you, I think,” you tell him honestly. Vash goes upstairs to visit his brother while you sit on the back porch with Milly and Meryl. There’s not much to see, mostly dry bedrock with a view of the vast desert planet. It’s sort of nice, in a lonely way; that even with the hostility you face in the village square and its shops, this house’s immediate perimeter has become an unspoken, off-limits area for everyone else.

Knives doesn’t seem to mind the quiet. From what you recall of his past—at least from what Vash has told you—he’s used to wandering alone.

“Well? Aren’t you going to tell Vash?” Knives sneers at you when you bring him dinner.

“Did you want me to?” you ask. He gives no answer except the tilting snarl of his mouth. “There was no reason to,” you tell him honestly. “The two of you have been through enough.”

You hadn’t even told Vash about what happened at the store, either. But the knowing, softened frown on his face tells you there was no need: Meryl already filled him in.

“You don’t know anything,” Knives hisses. At least there’s nothing dangerous within reaching distance.

“I may not know everything,” you tell him, pausing in the doorway, “but I’m not ignorant. I know what you’ve done. Why the village was so reluctant to let you stay here. But they let you because they trust Vash. And I do too.”

“You humans with your useless sentimental feelings,” Knives sneers. “That’s why you die.”

“It’s why we live, too,” you remind him.

Without a home to return to, when your hours are cut from washing dishes or taking care of other menial tasks at the eatery, you take care of the house as if it was your own, paying extra attention to the rooms that haven’t had much use.

Amongst the rooms downstairs, there’s a piano. Hidden by a sturdy leather cover, you peel it back to admire the sight of it. Except for a chair against the wall, the room is empty except for this instrument and its accompanying bench.

There’s not much you can do to liven the room up except get rid of the dust, but you lift up the fallboard to reveal the black and ivory keys. You test out a chord. The sound is twangy and a bit hollow. Not great, but not as bad as you thought. Playable.

For all the skills you’ve picked up over the years, tuning instruments is not one of them. But you remember that the doctor had an acquaintance that used to play during holidays and festivals. Maybe you could convince him to help you fix it up.

Knuckles rapping against the window nearly scare you out of your shoes.

It’s Milly and Meryl, peering at you from the other side of the glass.

“Hiya Doc!” Milly grins as you open the shutters to greet them. “What’re you doin’?”

“Dusting,” you say, waving the feather brush. “This room hasn’t been used in a while. It’s a shame with that piano there.”

“I’m sorry,” Meryl says, frowning. “It must be lonely.”

“It’s not so bad,” you say, leaning against the windowsill. “Knives aside, Vash seems to like it here. I think he’s enjoying finally having a place to settle down.”

“I think he would be happier if you played something for him!” Milly suggests. “I’m sure the piano gets lonely too. No one’s used it since we came here.”

“That thing’s been out of tune for a while,” you tell her, massaging your fingers. “They stopped doing regular maintenance on it a while back.”

“But that’s so sad!” she protests, lips turning a pout. “Can’t you play a song for us, Doc? Just one!”

“I’ve never really—” you try, but Milly leans into the window, puts her face close to yours. She smells like tea and sun and soap. You wither. “…Okay.”

The bench creaks as you sit. You try another few keys. Milly claps at the window to encourage you.

“This thing’s pretty busted,” you say, testing a few more notes. The sounds fill the quiet space of the room nicely. While you play, you imagine a happier future—the piano tuned and fixed up, the room full of happy, dancing people, and a cool evening breeze drifting in through the windows. A place where laughter is shared.

You try for a song from your childhood—something bouncy and trilling, fingers clumsily passing over the keys, memories filtering back to you. Meryl and Milly smile with you during the awkward pauses, the wrong notes accidentally pressed. The bruises on your hand have not completely healed, and it makes playing difficult. But you do all the same, unaware of how much you missed music before your ears crave for more.

The song’s ending is unsatisfying with the croaky notes, but Milly and Meryl clap for you all the same. They seem excited by the idea that it could be fixed up. You send them on a mission to ask the doctor’s acquaintance: they’ll probably have better luck than you.

Surprisingly, when you go to Knives’ room that afternoon, he speaks up about it.

“That was an awful racket,” he so graciously tells you. “You clearly have no ounce of talent.”

It takes a great deal of effort not to smile.

“Of course it was terrible,” you tell him matter-of-factly, “I’ve never had any formal training.”

He glares after you, but says nothing more.

Just a handful of days after that, the doctor deems Knives well enough to walk.

He would not accept help from anyone but Vash. And of course he’d bared his teeth at the doctor for trying to show his brother how to support him while walking.

So instead, the doctor asked for your help: posing as Knives for a demonstration. Vash had been all too happy to let you use him as a support, getting an arm around your waist like the doctor instructed.

Knives stared the whole time, stiff with what you could only imagine was barely controlled rage.

On the first attempts to get him to walk, he clings to Vash like a leech. Removing all hopes of mobility and nearly sending both of them tumbling to the floor. From watching them—taking in how Knives sneers and bares his teeth at you—you get the sense he’s leaning more weight into his brother on purpose. The arch of your eyebrow threatens to twitch up.

There’s not much he has to do to get better, but after a few weeks of bed rest, he needs to get strength back in his limbs.

The doctor had raised his eyebrow at the timeline Vash gave—an estimated length of time that would’ve been impossible for a regular human to imitate. But despite the relatively short period, it’s impossible for Vash to stick around at every waking moment.

It had taken nearly five days of convincing for Knives to even allow you to come within five feet of him. But Vash managed to convince Knives to at least let you walk the length of the room with him. Of course, it still meant Vash had to be there for the next few days.

Knives touches you as if there are strings attached to his limbs. His movements are stiff and creaky, made all the more difficult with his refusal to wrap an arm around your shoulders (though you don’t doubt he’d do it if it meant he could try choking you out), and as a result much of his strength belied in the painful grip he held onto your shoulder with, pushing tender spots into the skin.

He walks faster with you—likely to shorten the duration of having to rely on you for support—but Vash seemed to take that as a way to help Knives get better faster, using you as a motivator to improve his condition.

“Let’s try the stairs today,” Vash says with a smile, too cheerful and wide for Knives’ fingers that are digging bruises into your waist. “Those insurance ladies and I will be waiting at the bottom. See you soon!” He hums all the way down to the first floor, audible even after he slips out of sight.

You take a breath. “Shall we?”

Knives fingers dig into your shoulder. He tries to angle away from your body, but with an arm around his waist, it’s difficult.

“I have no idea what he sees in you,” Knives starts. His voice is different this close. You can’t tell if this is a good or bad development. The sound of it is nice even if it does rumble with the barely contained urge to kill you. “But I swear I’ll reveal your disgusting nature if it’s the last thing I do.”

“Can I at least get you down the stairs first?” you sigh. “Vash is waiting.”

“You dare mock me?” he hisses, dangerously close to bruising bone.

“You want to get this over with as soon as possible, right?” you ask, attempting a smile. “C’mon. After this you and Vash can sit together and I’ll get out of your sight. That’s ideal for you, isn’t it?”

His jaw audibly clicks as he snaps it shut, turning his face stubbornly away from you.

It’s not terrible, considering. Your shoulder aches from where his fingers are pushing bruises, but seeing Vash at the bottom of the stairs helps to loosen the knot in your chest. Knives goes first. You follow him slowly, tightening your arm around his torso at any signs that he might fall.

You’re not sure if Vash’s enthusiastic praise and encouragement helps, but having his brother there does seem to make Knives a little less hostile, his hold loosening slowly to a firm but less uncomfortable pressure.

He snarls at Meryl and Milly when they poke their heads curiously around the corner. And the downstairs trip hadn’t relaxed him by any means, but he re-tightens his grip on your shoulders when they appear, tensing up with all the intention and strength of a man who could kill if he wanted to. You send them an apologetic smile before they scurry away.

“Going up stairs is the hard part!” Vash chirps, bounding up two at a time. Knives scowls. You wait patiently for him to begin the climb.

Vash is right: going up is much slower than going down. Against Knives’ wishes, you end up leading, using the strength you have to half-lift him when his body falters—either under the strain of moving or lingering pains that have yet to disappear.

His jaw is tensed the whole way, the tendons in his throat flexing, teeth grinding. His gaze doesn’t waver, though, focused at the top of the stairs. It’s the most human you’ve seen him—the struggle and desperation he’s exerting to get better.

“Good job you two. I knew you could do it,” Vash says, greets the both of you with a smile. He’s leaned up against the door of Knives’ room, steps aside to let you in. “A few more days of that and you’ll be good as new, Kni.”

“Don’t patronize me, Vash,” Knives snaps. You elect not to mention the tremors in his arms, the strain of holding himself up, refusing to rely on you more than necessary. “The moment I’m better it’ll be over for this village!”

He and his brother share a look. When you’re within arm’s length of the bed, Knives all but tears himself away from you, throwing himself back onto the mattress with a snarl.

“Well! I don’t know about you, but I’m starved.” Vash beams at you. “Shall I get started on lunch?”

“You’ll burn the food without cooking it if you try to do it all by yourself,” you tell him, exasperated, resisting the urge to roll your shoulder. “Get Meryl and Milly to help—I’ll be down in a minute.”

“Mm… okay. Behave, you two,” he says with a flourishing wave, and hums all the way out of sight once more.

“Who do you think you’re fooling?” Knives sneers, sat on the edge of his bed, fingers digging into his pants. “Don’t expect any gratitude from me. It’s all your fault, trash.”

“You seem determined to hate me,” you say, staring him down. Even though he’s the patient, just his glare is enough to make the fine hairs on your neck stand. “You don’t have to thank me, but I think you’re mistaken: it’s true you may be different from us, but deep down, you want some of the same things.”

“What?” He glares, voice lowering to a deadly rumble.

“We both want to live. We both want to find a place for ourselves in this world,” you tell him, the fine hairs on your neck prickling under his stare. You think of the look on Vash’s face when he broke the news of the fire. You think of the look on Knives’ face when he learned he would be staying here to recover. “You can hate humans all you want, but you’re not as different from them as you’d like to believe. Neither of us are perfect.”

His movements are clumsy, but it catches you off guard all the same as he lunges with a snarl, hands outstretched to wrap his fingers around your throat. The weight of his body and the force at which he throws himself at you sends you hurtling back, landing painfully on your spine. It forces the air from your lungs, and Knives squeezes. Your hands automatically find his wrists, trying to pry his hands away from your neck.

“Shut up, shut up, shut up!” he bellows. Footsteps thunder up the stairs. “We’re nothing alike! I’m nothing like you! You filth! Garbage! Scum! We’re nothing alike! You’re all just a hoard of disgusting animals!”

“Kni!” Vash’s hollers from the doorway. “Knives, release them!”

“Get off of me, Vash!” Knives yells, jerks a hand off your throat to elbow his brother in the jaw. “I’ll kill them. I’ll kill them all right now!”

“Knives!”

Your knee comes up to slam against Knives’ abdomen. Vash grabs Knives by the collar to haul him back, snatching his fingers away from your throat.

Curling up to suck in wheezing, ragged breaths, you miss the immediate skirmish that follows after—the two brothers grappling on the floor, Vash winning the upper hand to wrestle his brother into submission.

“Mr. Vash! Doc!” Milly is at your side, a hand wrapping around your shoulders to support you.

“Kill…! I’ll kill you!” Knives is spluttering, red-faced, fingers reaching for you, clawing on the ground. “I’ll kill you!”

“Get them out of here!” Vash barks at Milly. “I’ve got him!”

“Vash!” Knives screeches, and aims a punch at his brother.

You scramble for the door, chest tight, adrenaline spiking through your blood as Knives’ scream reaches you even to the piano room.

(“I’m sorry,” Vash will tell you later, hunching with the weight of guilt and shame. “I shouldn’t’ve left.”

“It’s not your fault,” you’ll tell him, cradling a bag of ice against your throat and wondering when the bruises will fade this time. “I provoked him a little too hard, I think.” And he’ll look at you with a wilting, faltering smile, too many emotions to process flicking across his face.

“I’ll understand if you don’t want to continue looking after him,” he’ll say, a quiet offering to you. “We can figure something else out for you.”

And you’ll think about Knives, the furious agony in his face, and will shake your head.

“No,” you’ll say, voice creaky, a physical mark of Knives’ hands left behind. “I’ll stay. I made a promise, after all.”)

The following days leave Knives moody. But with Vash hanging around more and you busying yourself with taking care of the house, you don’t see him as much.

Except for one particular morning, you keep your contact with him at a minimum—strictly for mealtime while his brother and the doctor take care of other necessities.

Vash is sitting beside the door, watching you place Knives’ meal on the nightstand. There hadn’t been much talking even before you entered the room: you suspect Knives had been sulking at his younger brother for stepping in and preventing your murder.

Vash surprises you with the sound of your name.

Startled, you glance back at him. He beckons with a gesturing finger, a quiet smile on his face.

“Can you come here a moment?” he asks. You find no reason to refuse. His expression doesn’t change much, but you think his eyes flicker for half a second—just over your shoulder. “How’s the bruise here?” he asks, motions to his neck while staring at yours.

You resist the urge to glance back at Knives. “It’s fine,” you tell him, knowing his older brother is hearing every word. You hold your tongue against telling Vash what he was there to hear: that there would be no lasting damage, despite the slight hoarseness of your voice as the bruise fades.

“Can I have a look?” he asks. Perplexed, you tilt your chin up, allowing him to see your neck. You’re not expecting his touch, despite the wide motions to telegraph it, and the calloused pad of his thumb feels foreign against the column in your throat. Vash traces a thumb around it, looking oddly morose. And his touch is gentler and nonlethal compared to his brother’s, but your heart rate still jumps when his thumb passes over the dip of your throat, just at the base of it.

“Human,” Knives kisses mere feet behind you, beyond the limits of his patience. You swallow. Vash’s fingers move with the motion of it.

“It’s okay,” Vash reassures you, voice quiet. You’re not quite sure what he’s seeing: he can’t feel the lingering throb in your neck as his fingers pass over it, but whatever he does gather from this odd development must satisfy him, because his touch recedes. He leans back in the seat, smiling. “Thank you. I’m going to stay here a little while longer and chat with Knives,” he says, the dismissal not unkind, but firm despite its subtlety. “Those insurance ladies were talking about sharing some tea with you yesterday. The tall one was especially excited about restocking her pudding supply. I’m sure she’d be happy to have you tag along.”

Unable to rid your skin of the ticklish sensation, you raise a hand to rub the area lightly.

“I’ve never not seen Milly happy about pudding,” you say carefully. Vash’s smile widens. “I’m headed off to work. I’ll be back for lunch.”

“Mm. Take care.” Vash waves you off with a pleasant air. You do not make eye contact with Knives as you exit the room.

He’d been smug about nearly strangling you, and his smile—however leering and sharp, looks better on him than one of his angry, twisted scowls. You’re sure he would’ve been content to remember it as a victory over you. And maybe that’s why he doesn’t throw any more plates or bowls at the wall, why he agrees to be some watered-down version of civil when Vash is away.

“You really shouldn’t try walking on your own just yet.” You catch him mid-motion one afternoon: peeling back his blankets, looking half-caught. “Is there somewhere you wanna go? I’ll walk with you.”

Knives sneers, finishes tossing the blanket aside.

“I don’t need you,” he hisses. “I can get there on my own.”

It’s like watching a child walk for the first time. He sits on the edge of the bed, eyes down, bracing himself. He can push himself up fine, lips spreading into a victorious smirk. But then his knees buckle, and you lunge for him, hoping to catch him before he hits the ground.

“Don’t touch me!” he snaps, swiping at you. “Keep your filthy hands to yourself!” He curls away from you, this particular twist of his mouth looking different than you expect. Rather than looking angry, the tilt of his mouth carries the ghost of shame.

Slowly, you kneel in front of him. Vash is out—if Knives really were to try and kill you this time around, it’s likely he’d be successful.

“I’m sorry,” you tell him, “about kicking you. I did have a reason, though. You ever heard of that saying? That the mouse will attack a cat if it gets cornered.”

His lip curls, looking more like the Knives you’ve come to know.

“There’s no outcome for the mouse other than death. Because that’s what happens when you’re up against a power greater than yours. The mouse seeks death to escape the pain of living.”

You shake your head. “No, that’s not quite it. It attacks the cat because it wants to live. You want to live, and so you attack. I want to live, so I kicked you.”

Knives’ eyes narrow. “Clearly you don’t. Otherwise you would’ve left and never come back. You’re just feeling superior because there was a higher power on your side this time. But there won’t be next time.”

“So you admit your brother is a higher power than yourself?” you ask.

Knives hisses out a noise—a low snarl. Sat on the floor, though, he reminds you of the fussy stray cats, fluffing themselves up to appear deadlier than they are.

You stand. His eyes follow you. “I want to help you. That’s what I promised Vash. My feelings haven’t changed.” Your hands find your hips. “Now, about that piano—one of the doctor’s acquaintances has agreed to help fix it up, so it should be in better condition. If you wanna try playing it, I can bring you there. But you have to let me help you.”

“And why would I do that?” he asks, lip curling. “Maybe I’ll kill you now that Vash isn’t here.”

“Then I won’t be able to walk with you to the piano room,” you tell him. “Earlier you mentioned my playing, right? I figured maybe you’d wanna try it out for yourself. I bet it sounds better.”

Knives’ lips pull back to reveal his gums. “As if better sound will do anything for your lousy playing.”

“You should try it, then,” you say lightly, echoing Milly’s words. “I’m sure the piano is lonely.”

The look on Knives’ face tells you all you need to know about what he thinks of that sentiment. You try to keep your expression matter-of-fact, even as he tenses with clenched fists. Your throat tingles.

It feels like victory when he finally, finally acquiesces, easier to ignore the way he flinches when you help him stand, getting an arm around his waist. Out of politeness, you let him lead. He’s hobbling more than walking, but as long as he’s using the muscles you suppose it’s not a terrible thing.

The piano greets him with its sleek black cover. You can feel his chest expand with a quiet, long breath at the sight of it.

“Leave,” he commands when you help lower him onto the bench. It’s an act of mercy for you to comply without any remarks.

The house is quiet after wandering into the kitchen. Knives tests a few of the notes with a string of chords. The sound is better than you expected.

“Yo.” Vash greets you from the entrance. “Everything going well?”

“Vash,” you smile, “you’re back.”

“Those insurance girls are good at pestering people,” he sighs, drapes himself in a chair. You chuckle. “I’m always stuck with the hard jobs when they’re involved.”

“You seem to be having fun, though,” you say. “Are the… the villagers aren’t treating you poorly, are they?”

His smile is thin. “It’s alright. I don’t blame them for being upset. The insurance girls are good about keeping the damages under control.”

“Well, it is their job, I suppose. Old habits are hard to break. Besides, it probably makes it easier on them that you’ve finally settled down,” you say, smiling.

“You should keep them company too.” He pouts.

“I’ve got my hands full at the moment,” you say, gesturing to the direction of the piano room. There’s a song coming from it, now, a low, melodious hum that strikes a terribly nostalgic feeling in your chest. “Though maybe when Knives makes a full recovery we’ll finally be able to invite some people over.”

“I hope you have the funds for pudding,” he sighs.

“That depends on you, doesn’t it?” you tease through slight laughter. “Though I’m sure Milly would be just as partial to beer as she is pudding.”

“She’s terrible at holding her liquor,” Vash says, waves his hand in the air. “You’ve never seen her drunk, have you?”

“No, but I’ve seen you,” you say, moving towards the stove.

“I’ve never actually gotten drunk!” he protests, pout deepening. “Those other times don’t count.”

“You mean the times you vomited in public?” you tease.

“It doesn’t count!”

The moment it escapes, you realize it’s been a while since you’ve laughed. The sound of it surprises you, but it’s relieving to see Vash join in. It feels good—like stretching a muscle after a long period of stagnancy.

A loud, ugly sound from the piano room startles you out of it. Sharing a look with Vash, the two of you leave the kitchen to find Knives still at the piano, shoulders hunched, head lolled forward. His back is to the door. Vash angles himself in front of you.

“What’s the matter, Knives? Get bored already?” he asks with an air of nonchalance.

“I didn’t realize you were here,” Knives says. He looks over his shoulder to glare at you. “Were you enjoying yourself?”

Vash leans in his line of sight, hands up. You can hear the smile in his voice. “It sounded like you were having fun. I didn’t want to disturb you.”

“Take me back,” Knives says. You move into the room. He snarls. “Not you.”

“Now, now,” Vash says, puts a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “They just want to help, Knives.” He turns a smile to you. “I’ll take him back up, don’t worry about it.”

Though Vash seems content enough to help his brother, you cannot help but raise an eyebrow as Knives gives you a triumphant, leering grin on their way out the room.

From then on, whenever Knives picks up that his brother is in the house, he plays more passionately—gut wrenching songs filling the house. You think it must be a message from him—something Knives makes sure his brother hears before leaving.

And now that he’s more accustomed to walking, Knives makes it a point to fill the other rooms with his presence, too.

He watches you make dinner one night, seated in a chair by the door—having claimed he doesn’t want to sit at the table like a human—and sneers the whole time, watching you chop vegetables. Taking periodic sips of his drink, though never when your eyes are on him.

“Is that enough for the three of you pests?” he sneers.

“Hm? Well between the two of us”—you gesture between the two of you with a free hand—“and Vash, it’ll be enough.” His eyes narrow suspiciously at you. “…Oh, you mean Meryl and Milly? They’re limiting their time here.”

“Did they finally decide to leave my brother alone?” he snarks.

Your mouth quirks up. “No, but you didn’t like it when they visited, right? They understand. The porch is just as welcoming as the downstairs is.”

(Neither Milly or Meryl had been too put-off by your suggestion, waving off your apologies with an understanding smile.

“It’s the best course of action if it prevents Knives from becoming too violent.” Meryl had nodded sagely.

“Do we still get to eat pudding with you?” Milly’d asked. You laughed and told her yes, of course.)

Knives doesn’t say anything in response. When you glance back at him, there’s a split second before he scowls where his expression is less severe. Just for a moment, though, as if your eyes had reminded him of the hostility he was supposed to be spitting.

“Do all humans use these weapons as clumsily as you?” he asks snidely.

“This is a kitchen knife for cooking. I’m not using it as a weapon,” you tell him. “I’m using it for dinner.”

“You shouldn’t bother. I don’t need you poisoning my brother more than you already have. You’ll rot his brain.”

“I don’t wanna hear that from someone who won’t even eat the meals Vash helped make. He worked hard to help me, since I’m doing it all myself.” You sniff. Knives’ glare sharpens on your back. You’re lucky he’s not within arm’s reach, or you’re sure he’d test how well you could defend yourself with a utility knife. “Vash is coming back for dinner soon. You should try some of the food. I’m sure it would make him happy,” you say.

Knives merely scowls and looks away.

The more he begins to settle in, the more weight is lifted from your shoulders. The more he settles in, the more obvious it becomes that not everyone is as optimistic as you.

The assault comes before you have time to process what happens.

A gasp pulls from Meryl’s mouth—audible even across the street as a tomato pelts the center of your chest. It comes out of nowhere—soft and smelling slightly rotten from the sun, staining your clothes with the pulpy flesh. Another follows, splatting against your spine, the sound of it loud over Meryl’s protests. A rough set of hands shoves you off the walkway lining the grocery store’s front, sending you tumbling into the dirt. You can feel the bread get crushed between your shoulder and the ground.

“We’ll remember your face when that Devil’s Abomination kills our loved ones!” an angry voice hollers.

“You’re just like him! A curse on this village!”

“You should be ashamed to show your face around here!”

“Enough!” Meryl shouts, hovering protectively near you. “How can you all treat someone else like this?”

“Don’t bother, Meryl,” you say, pushing yourself up, using a hand to catch the groceries threatening to spill from the mouth of the bag. “Let’s go. Vash is waiting.”

“But—!” she tries. You turn to look at her, pleading.

“Let’s go. Please.”

No amount of scrubbing can get the stains completely out. With no other clean shirts, you’ve no choice but to wear it. The dirt will come out easily enough, but the tomato will linger as an odor and a visible mark. You’ll have to go to work in this shirt.

Knives clocks the stain for half a second before his eyes rise to meet your face, scowling from against the pillows.

“Are you so clumsy that even handling food is no longer a possibility?” he sneers.

You try for a smile. “You can tell?”

“Not only are you pathetic, you’re also a fool,” he snaps. “Even your measly skills couldn’t have regressed so much in such a short period.”

It’s not a question to ask what happened, but his eyes linger. You bite the inside of your cheek.

“Maybe I should ask someone for lessons?” you suggest.

“Human,” he growls, “don’t play games with me.”

“I’m not,” you tell him. “Vash will be here soon. I think it would make him happy if you ate lunch with him.”

Knives’ scowl deepens.

Even after switching shirts, you can feel the lingering imprints of the bruises, and Knives’ eyes flicker to the spot more than once, silent and observing.

Even with the extra eyes, you can’t completely swallow the trepidation in your throat, fingers tight around the scissors.

No matter how much time will pass, you get the feeling Knives won’t be very forgiving if you make him bleed—no matter how accidental the slip might be. If you’re not careful, you might clip the top of his ear.

When his hair had first shown signs of growth, he’d staunchly refused to let you come anywhere near him with hair clippers. It was only with continuous reassurance from Vash that he allowed his brother to carry him out the back door into a chair set out as a temporary haircut station.

Considering everything, his hair is surprisingly easy to work with. Soft, from what you can tell. He twitches with every quiet brush of your hand near him, likely disgusted from having your touch on him. But it’d been amusing to hear that he’d refused Vash’s generous offer to cut it.

Your nails accidentally scrape against his scalp—just a light touch, but it has Knives jerking his head away, turning to glare over his shoulder at you, body hunching. This close, he wouldn’t have to exert much effort to kill you. And it’s in the moments where you’re physically closest to him that you remember Vash’s warning about Knives’ ability.

“You can tell me what you want, you know. If you don’t say anything I won’t understand what you’re thinking.”

He’s completely tense in the chair, not even the muscles in his jaw relaxed as you continue to trim the pale blond strands.

“I doubt your small mind could understand anyways,” he snaps.

Your fingers pass over the curve of his ears. His lips pull back in a quiet snarl—more subdued than the one he would’ve given just a few weeks prior.

“Well, you never know until you try.”

“Pretty words from a hypocrite,” he scoffs. His ear is warm beneath your touch.

“It’s the human in me,” you say, trying hard to suppress a smile as his brow creases, visibly annoyed.

“When you’re done over there, can I get one?” Vash calls your attention over with a wide grin. He and Meryl are watching from the porch, their expressions carrying varying degrees of tension.

“Vash, I gave you one just the other day,” you say, raise an eyebrow at him as your fingers brush Knives’ nape. He twists, scowls. You move the scissors away from his head.

“When was this?” he demands. “I didn’t hear about this.”

“It was the beginning of the week,” you tell him. His eyes narrow, no doubt searching your face for any indication of a lie. “He asked for one.”

“Why wasn’t I informed?” he asks, sounding not unlike a child. Your hand runs lightly across his temple, separating the shorter hairs from the ones still needing a trim. His eyebrow twitches, lips pressing in an expression you daren’t call a pout.

“I didn’t think you’d care,” you say honestly. “Plus, you wouldn’t let me cut your hair until today. Else I would’ve given you both one on the same day.”

Knives scoffs, turns back around.

“Mr. Vash, I’m back!”

It’s Milly; waving with her whole arm, carrying a bright smile as she approaches. There’s a little package in her hands—it must be mail for him. You refocus your attention back to Knives. He hadn’t exactly told you what he wanted in terms of style, but you doubt he’d appreciate having anything that made him stand out—a simple trim would be enough.

“Doc!” Vash catches your attention with a loud, cheerful voice—his tone crooning the first notes of an off-key song. You brush stray hairs from Knives’ shoulders. “Can you come here a sec?”

“But…” you say, frowning. Vash smiles, beckons you with the wave of his hand.

“It’s alright—we have a delivery for you,” he says. “You can come here.”

You debate if you should leave the scissors with Knives. A half-thought you squash when you stick them in the apron’s pocket, giving his hair one last glance over. He’s not pleased—you can tell from the scowl in your peripheral. But he says nothing as you approach the porch.

“Here.” Vash’s voice is surprisingly quiet, his cheerfulness having mellowed into something soft—melancholy, if you had to pinpoint the lilt of his brow.

The packaging crinkles beneath your fingers. Vash prompts you to open it with a little nod. Milly and Meryl are smiling beside him.

It’s your pocket watch. The one you had tucked beneath your mattress—a parting gift from a figure of your past long ago. It’s yours, because of the etchings on the inside of the cover, though the watch itself looks new; shinier than you remember—even on the day you received it.

“It’s the only thing that survived the fire,” Meryl explains as you cup it in both hands, running a thumb around the circumference of it. “We brought it to the jewelers for them to fix up. Is it to your liking?”

The dusty air stings your nose. The fire hadn’t been that long ago, but you still mourned the loss of all your possessions: the ones that mattered, at least. Your pocket watch had survived, though, heralding the beginning of a new story for you.

“’s perfect,” you say, speaking around the thickness in your voice. “Thank you.”

They’re respectfully quiet as you inspect it: turning it over in your hands, running your fingers around the short, delicate chain. Snapping it shut and clicking it open, feeling the dulled, scratched out words on the inside of the lid. You raise a hand to your eyes, but they’re dry.

“It’s the least we could do,” Vash says. “You’re doing so much for us. And Knives.”

A smile touches your face. “Dummy, I don’t need anything in return for that.”

Vash’s eyes flicker up, glances behind you. He leans back in his seat with an easy expression. You pocket the watch and reach out a hand. He takes it—you squeeze his fingers gently, repeating the motion with Milly and Meryl.

“Thank you,” you say again, dry-eyed and soft. “I appreciate it.”

“Take good care of it, okay Doc?” Milly smiles.

“I will.”

Knives has a grumpy expression on his face when you return.

“We’re almost done,” you tell him, telegraphing the motion you make to pluck lightly at his hair.

“Finished mourning those burdensome sentiments?” he sneers.

The pocket watch is a comforting weight. You know he can hear the smile in your voice when you respond.

“Yeah. For now, at least.”

He doesn’t say another word, but he keeps that sullen expression on his face up until he makes Vash help him back inside as you tidy up the area. In the following days, however, you feel there is less resistance when you help him around the house.

Though you’d like to believe it’s because he’s finally come to tolerate you, the real reason is likely due to his recovery. The doctor had commented on the unusually smooth process.

“You’ll probably be able to walk on your own pretty soon,” you tell him, watching how he walks. Looking for any moments where he might falter. His posture isn’t as stiff, either. Though he’s not leaning into you more than he has to. “It’s impressive—most people would still need a few weeks to recover.”

“Of course,” Knives says, looking oddly smug. “You pathetic humans die so easily. It’s a wonder you’ve managed to survive this long.”

“We’re good at that,” you say, turning into the doorway to the piano room. “I know we’re nothing but greedy animals to you, but if anything, we’re resilient in different ways. The important ones, I think.”

His arm clamps around your shoulder, but his grasp loosens when he learns all it does it inadvertently pull you closer.

“Useless,” he gripes, but the severity of his leering is not as stinging as it had been when you first met. You mark it as another win.

Movement in your peripheral. The way the bench is facing, Knives can’t see behind him through the window. But you can—spotting a figure tiptoeing past, the silhouette belonging to someone other than Vash, Milly or Meryl.

A knot of anticipation twists in your arteries. Spine straightening, you glance down at Knives. He’s settling on the bench, stretching out his fingers.

“You’re fine here on your own for a little, right? Gotta bring the laundry in,” you say, lightly. He throws a scrutinizing glare at you, but you’re already moving towards the door, turning away before he can see the smile fall away from your face.

A hot dry breeze pushes into the house as you open the back door, beelining towards the figure.

You recognize the figure immediately: Marvin Goodrich—he’d been extremely vocal against allowing Knives to stay in the village ever since he arrived, carried over Vash’s shoulder like a sack of potatoes. If you recall, he and his brother Jonah had also been the ones to threaten the owners of the house into leaving. An encounter with either of them spells trouble.

“What are you doing?” you ask, voice strong and clear.

He fakes a surprised look, swinging a rusted shovel over his shoulder, doing very little to suppress the leering grins spreading wide across his face as you approach.

“Nothin’ much,” he drawls, the free hand on his hip, drawing your line of sight to the gun strapped there. “Just goin’ for a walk.”

“Where’s the other one?” you ask. Jonah might be an idiot, but he’d been one of the first to voice his protests at letting Knives stay—had cajoled the crowd into a heightened state of frenzy before Vash, Meryl and Milly were able to calm everyone down.

“Dunno,” Marvin shrugs.

The muscles in your jaw tighten. You gesture to the shovel. “What’s that for, then?”

“Just a little digging,” he says, looses a chuckling sneer. “Maybe I’ll hit a vein of water and become filthy rich.”

“That sounds nice,” you say, voice plain. “If you don’t mind I’d like to take the laundry in,” you tell him, gesturing with the basket in your hands. “Those sheets should be dry now.”

“Oh, are they?” Marvin hums, circling around one of the poles keeping the clothes line up. “It’s not very smart to leave them out like this. The wind could just”—he plucks the corner of one with a hand—“blow it away.”

“The winds have never gotten that strong around here,” you say, fingers tightening around the basket handles. “You’ve lived here as long as I have, Marvin. You should know that by now.” The smile falters on his face.

“Why don’t I help you, then?” he suggests airily, gesticulating with wide movements as he reaches up to release the clips attaching the sheet to the line. He mocks a bow. “More hands make light work. Plus, I know how tired you must be: looking after that Devil’s Abomination must be such hard work.”

“It’s actually quite simple,” you tell him. “I’m sure even you could do it.”

“Bitch,” he sneers, and rips the sheet from the line.

“Stop it,” you demand, and let out a startled gasp as arms wrap around your body, stopping your movements.

It’s Jonah. He snuck up behind you during the conversation with Marvin. He leers too close to your face. You try to cringe away.

Marvin takes it upon himself to strip the line completely of laundry, tossing each sheet to the ground and stepping on it on his way to the next one. Trampling the fabric into the dirt.

“Now, now, c’mon, just watch the master at work,” Jonah murmurs. You try to kick him in the shin. “Don’t be hasty,” he hisses, pulls out a short blade to hold to your throat. “We’re just trying to help you.”

“Funny, because to me it looks like you’re just throwing a tantrum,” you snap. He presses the sharp edge of the blade into your skin. Not quite cutting but close to it, the threat swelling at the base of your neck. Fuck, you shouldn’t have sent Milly and Meryl away.

“Well, that was fun.” Marvin sticks the head of the shovel into the ground. “But I think it’s missing something.” He starts to pile dirt onto the crumpled sheets.

“You—!” The knife digs into your throat. But Jonah pulls it back; he must not want to actually hurt you.

“Stop wriggling!” he barks, tightens the arm secured around your arms.

Marvin reaches for his gun. You freeze at the motion, thinking of Knives in that piano room. If they killed you, would they attack him next? You’re sure he’d be able to defend himself, but that’s not the issue—if even a single person outside of that house got hurt, not only would it increase the possibility of a revolt by ten fold, but Vash and Meryl and Milly would also face consequences.

But Marvin doesn’t point the gun at you. Instead, while he stomps the piled dirt into the sheets, he takes aim at the line strung between the two stakes.

“Don’t—” you try, but the gunshots drown your voice. The rope is shot clean through, dropping on top of the mess he and Jonah’d made with the sheets.

Satisfied, Jonah hooks a foot around your ankle to send you tumbling, taking the knife away from your neck in time as you collapse into a heap. You clamber up, racing towards Marvin. He takes a fistful of dirt and flings it at you. Your arms come up to protect your eyes.

“Doc! Duck!”

Without thinking, you drop, arms crossed over your head. The reverberating boom of Milly’s gun aches in your eardrums. Marvin and Jonah scatter with muffled curses, snatching up the shovel and escaping around the neighboring building.

“Doctor!” Meryl is the first to reach you, careful hands brushing dirt away from you.

“And stay away!” Milly shouts, mouth set in a firm line, chest puffed out. She rushes over when they’ve disappeared. “Are you alright?”

“I’m sorry we couldn’t get here sooner,” Meryl gasps. You lean into her touch, harsh breaths escaping your mouth.

“It’s okay,” you sigh, raising a hand to cup your eyes.

“It’s—” Meryl’s voice catches. “It’s not,” she whispers, furious. She and Milly stay at your side as you regulate your breathing.

“You really saved me there,” you say, raising your head to smile at them. “Thanks.”

“Your neck,” Milly says, frowning. The air stings it. You must’ve gotten nicked.

“Jonah has always been a clumsy oaf,” you say, standing. “I’m surprised they even thought to do this. It’s a miracle for them.” Your mouth twists bitterly.

“We’ll help you clean it up,” Meryl promises.

“I can’t ask you to—”

“Don’t worry about it, Doc!” Milly smiles at you, bright and kind. “It must be hard on your own. Besides, Mr. Vash wanted us to help keep an eye on the house anyways. This is part of that.”

She and Meryl won’t take no for an answer. Your shoulders sag.

“I guess I can’t refuse, then. Can I?” Milly’s smile widens. “Okay. I’ll get the bucket. It’ll be hard without the line to hang them up, though.”

Milly straightens her back, taps her fist against her chest. “Don’t worry about that! We’ll fix it up right away.”

“You should see to Knives,” Meryl says, picking up the nearest sheet and shaking out the dirt. “I don’t think he should be left alone for too long.”

You cast a glance towards the house. “No, I suppose not.”

You try to pat off as much of the dirt from your clothes as possible on the way in. It’ll be impossible to explain to Knives why you took so long. Why you’re covered in dirt. Not that you think he’d ask—or care, for that matter.

It’s quiet inside. Knives must’ve stopped playing a while ago. You expected him to wander off, no matter how difficult it would be for him to walk, but to your surprise he’s still seated at the bench. Hands in his lap, posture stiff.

“What’s wrong? Did you get bored?” you ask.

“You’re dirty.” He scowls. You offer a sheepish smile.

“The wind was stronger than I thought. It picks up a lot of dust.” His gaze sharpens.

“What happened.”

“Nothing much,” you lie, head tilting. “Something did come up, though. Lunch might be a little late today. Milly and Meryl—oh, you’ve probably forgotten. They’re the nice insurance ladies. They’re going to have lunch here so I’ll be making extra for them.” You move to close the fallboard.

Knives’ hand moves faster than your eyes can see. His fingers closing painfully around your wrist, but the pain is ambient as realization strikes you hot in the center of your chest: this is the first time he’s voluntarily touched you. Touched you, without the intention of hurting, if the fractional loosening of his grip is any indication.

Your eyes are wide as he yanks you forward, your other hand preventing you from falling face first into him by slamming onto some keys, creating an ugly sound that reverberates.

“I saw you,” he hisses. “I saw what they did.” His eyes flicker to your throat. “Why are you hiding it?”

“I’m not—” you protest. “It just—it’s not important.”

“It was about me, wasn’t it?” he snaps, voice rising. “You’re not showing me kindness by concealing it. I’m not weak.”

“It’s not that I think you are,” you argue, frowning. “I just—” Your lips purse. “I didn’t think you’d want to know.”

His lips pull back into a snarl. He releases your wrist.

“Useless,” he hisses, curling away from you. “Don’t touch me,” he snaps when you reach for him. “Leave me.”

On another day, you’d argue. But Meryl and Milly are waiting for you.

“We’re having pasta for lunch,” you tell him, and leave to fetch the bucket for washing.

He doesn’t speak another word for the rest of the day, content with expressing his dissatisfaction with varying degrees of snarled faces. It’s the worst mood he’s been in for a while—and you can’t for the life of you understand why. Maybe he misses the thrill of killing indiscriminately. Maybe he’s frustrated that he still hasn’t fully recovered, despite being quicker than a regular human.

He’s still sulking even when you return, electing to stay in the piano room while you make lunch.

After that, he takes to watching you. Not that he had any qualms about openly staring—choosing to follow your every move like a hawk, spitting all the vitriol he could at you into just his expressions alone. But it’s different now. No less deliberate but quieter.

You don’t talk about the incident with the laundry again, but it hardly matters when you can feel his gaze on you—tracing the front of your throat where Jonah’s blade had been: the tiny wound scabs the next day and is gone before the week is over, not even a scar left behind.

There are too many things to do—Milly and Meryl help you reinforce the clothesline. Their visits become more frequent, but they respect your wishes and don’t come inside, keeping to the porches and perimeter.

Now more than ever you want to create a home. Not just for yourself, but for Vash, who’s always smiling kindly at you no matter how much trouble you bring; even for Knives, who, despite his vehement denials and quiet leering at your insistence to keep everything tidy, belongs in a place he can think fondly of no matter where he goes—a place he deserves to call home.

When you next go to work, one of the owners stops you before you can make it to the back to get ready.

“I’m sorry,” Donna says, looking at least a little apologetic. “You should’ve seen this coming, though. We’re getting less and less customers. I think it’s because—well, it’s best if you stop coming here for work.”

There’s nothing you can say to change their minds. Not even offering to work without pay will get them to agree, and you walk back to the house, numb. When you get past the entrance, you sink to the floor in a crouch and stay there for the entire length of what should’ve been your shift.

It’s hard to try and keep things cheerful, but you do your best—testing out your luck with the piano when Knives isn’t playing it; getting Vash to help you with the mundane but necessary tasks like prepping for meals and deep cleaning the house.

One day, Vash surprises you by popping out of nowhere.

You’re fiddling with the piano keys when his head appears outside the window, much like Milly and Meryl had. You watch him with a raised eyebrow as he climbs in, pulling every inch of his lanky arms and legs through the opening.

“I don’t think Meryl will appreciate it if you make it a habit of coming in through the window,” you tell him, hands in your lap. “What about work?”

“They let me go early,” he says, nods to the piano. “Are you playing something?”

“Not really,” you say. “I don’t have formal training or anything—‘m just messing around with the keys.”

“May I join you?” he asks. You scoot over, smiling.

“You don’t have to ask, Vash. Though I didn’t know you knew how to play.”

“I learned a little on my own,” he says. The leather cover dips with his weight as he takes the spot beside you. “I only know one song, though.”

“Should I fetch Knives? I feel like he wouldn’t want to miss his brother’s grand performance,” you joke. Vash merely gives you a closed-lipped smile. He places his fingers on the keys.

The melody he plays is unfamiliar in its simplicity, but he strikes each key with such tender confidence you cannot help but wonder if he’s still even in the room with you. He and his brother share multiple talents, it seems.

Much of the song has the same repeated notes. You stay quiet on the bench, swaying with the music and looking between the keyboard and his face—taking note of the distant expression, the somber tilt of his mouth as he plays.

The music fades too quickly when he stops. You think, for a moment, the way the light catches his eyes makes them look glassy. Out of politeness, you look away.

It’s a quiet moment you don’t often get to spend with him.

“Thank you for playing—it was lovely,” you say.

He takes a breath. Sighs it out. “Yeah, it’s a good song. It’s—it’s my favorite.”

“Do you know any others?” you ask, gesturing to the keyboard. Vash chuckles.

“No, that was the only one I ever wanted to learn.”

“Does it have lyrics?”

“It does. Though I’ve… forgotten them,” he says. “Kni might remember, though.”

“Oh—” You jolt out of the seat. “Meryl and Milly are coming over for lunch—I nearly forgot. I’ll have to make extra. Want to help?”

He smiles—a fond, tired thing. “Sure.”

“I’ll let Knives know—maybe he’ll want to sit with us,” you say.

The stairs creak as you climb; propelled up by the subtle lightness in your chest. The door is closed. You knock.

He’s sitting at the edge of his bed, body bowed forward, elbows resting on his thighs. His head is down. In a t-shirt and loose pants, the sight is almost domestic.

“Oh, good, you’re up,” you say. “We’re getting started on lunch. Milly and Meryl will be dropping by, but I can bring you downstairs to sit with me and Vash if you want—”

“Quiet.” His voice comes out rough and scratchy. “Scum—where did you learn that song? What were you doing?”

“Song? Oh, you mean the one just now? That wasn’t me, it was—”

Knives reaches for you, closing the distance quickly to encircle your wrist in a tight grip.

“Don’t play it,” he hisses. “I don’t care who taught you—don’t.”

“Knives—” you protest, trying to pull your arm away. He yanks you forward, causes you to stumble into him, saved only by getting a hand up in time to brace yourself against his shoulder. “I’m not the one who played it,” you tell him.

“I don’t care—” His expression twists. “Scum… don’t.” The fingers around your wrist are warm. You have half a mind to reach out to find his pulse, to find it along the length of his neck and feel it jump beneath your thumb.

His breathing is loud. Forceful and uneven. You let him sit and listen to his breaths, waiting patiently for them to mellow.

“What’s wrong?” you ask plainly. He refuses to answer. “…Do you want to sit with us?” you ask. “I’m sure Vash would like to have lunch with his brother.”

Knives shoves you away, leaves you with the bare throbbing memory of his fingers around your wrist, squeezing.

“Leave,” he snarls, and crawls back onto the bed. “Trash.”

“I’ll bring you tea,” you say. Curled up with his back to you, Knives makes no effort to respond.

Vash doesn’t mention his brother’s absence, and you don’t bring it up when Meryl and Milly arrive, all smiles and grateful hands when you pass off their portion of lunch to them. The four of you eat on the back porch, and even though you know they can see how often your gaze drifts up to where Knives room is, the windows firmly shut, you can’t stop the worry creasing between your eyebrows.

Knives’ moodiness is nothing new. He keeps it to himself, though—unwilling to share with you or even Vash, who takes to visiting Knives after dinner. You think of the song Vash played on that piano. The significance behind it is lost to you—maybe a song from their childhood?

The chores keep piling, though, and the opportunity to ask Vash about it slips away. You take it upon yourself to repair little things—squeaking hinges in the kitchen and bathroom, loose screws of well-loved cabinet doors. You tidy up what you can and have Milly and Meryl help to put unused books and accessories away for later sorting. You fix up the creaky porch chairs that they love to sit in during visits. Milly helps you give the wood a fresh coat of paint.

And for the most part, Knives has nothing to say of it—though he does watch while you fix the stickiness that prevents the windows in his room from opening smoothly. Though you think that’s probably because he hates the change that happens without his knowledge.

“It’s empty in here.”

He sits stiffly on the couch—one leg crossed over the other, arms folded against his chest.

“I’ve been cleaning,” you say. There’s a growing pile of trinkets near your feet. The bookshelf nearly cleared off completely. Maybe Vash will help you redecorate it.

“…And this?” He nods to the folded up sheets hanging over the couch arm.

“Oh, I sleep on the couch—that’s my blanket and stuff.” He makes a face. “I put a sheet over it—it’s not dirty or anything,” you say, reflexively defensive when his mouth grimaces.

“I simply assumed Vash would’ve let you sleep on the floor or outside like a proper animal,” he says.

“Well, he did offer to give me the room he’s in now,” you say, “but I declined. Didn’t think it would be a good idea.”

“Most humans are content kicking someone else out for their own benefit,” Knives recites smartly.

“I just didn’t think you’d wanna be apart from him,” you admit. “And it seems that I was right.” His scowl deepens at the sight of your smile.

“Don’t push your luck, human.”

You leave him to his own devices not long after. He seems content enough to sip the mug of tea you brewed earlier, casting a critical eye about the room yet offering no insight to brainstorm about the next set of decoration.

“I was thinking about painting the study upstairs soon.” You speak into thin air. “Milly said she’d be able to help. You’ll probably want to sit outside while it happens, though. It doesn’t smell very nice.”

“Must be nice to be so carefree,” he says as you wash dishes, dragging a soapy sponge over plates. “Taking care of someone that could easily free the planet of the resource-sucking scum that lives here.”

You don’t spare him a glance—it’s obvious he’s frowning at you.

“I have no choice,” you tell him, solemn; the quiet leaving no room for a cheerful facade. “There’s nothing else for me here.” There hadn’t been—not after raising your hand to offer help, voluntarily separating yourself from the people you’ve grown up with, their faces carrying deeply etched disgust and betrayal at your willingness to help Vash. There would be no easing the hatred that developed in your hearts for you—cultivating into a visceral enough emotion to wish bodily harm upon you, no fixing the emptiness that’d made a home in your bone marrow ever since Knives’ arrival.

With no home or job, you must find other activities to keep yourself busy. And if that means helping take care of Vash’s murderous, abominable older brother, you’ll do it as many times as it takes.

“It’s not like… like I can suddenly go back after this.”

And even though you regretted it, you’d do the same thing over if it meant Vash had a place for him and his brother. Watching Knives get better day-by-day is the only way you can justify taking care of a man that has no qualms with murdering everyone in the vicinity.

“I can’t. I still… still have a lot of fixing up here to do.”

The soap is fragrant, but even with its scent clinging to your hands, you remember the char of burning wood—the devastation left behind by the fire that consumed your home. The space you called your own, the people you called neighbors—they were all gone now. Out of reach, never to be touched again.

The loneliness inside you peaks, and spills over outside of your control.

Tears sting your eyes faster than you can stop them. They fall silently, invisible to all but the dishes still in the sink. You take in a quiet, shuddering breath through your mouth. Face and ears hot with him staring at your back, despite trying to cry as quietly as possible. You can’t show weakness. You won’t.

The floor behind you creaks. Instinctively, you glance over your shoulder, jumping when you see Knives approaching, leaning a heavy hand on the table.

“You—you can’t walk,” you hiccup stupidly, and watch his chin tilt, eyes narrowing. Your hands are hot and soapy and your face is wet.

He lumbers forward, reaches out to support himself with a hand on the counter—caging you in. It’s not that you haven’t noticed before, but at this very moment you remember he is Vash’s twin beyond skill or reputation: looming impossibly tall over you, casting a shadow.

Your shoulders hunch, wanting to turn away. He reaches out with his other hand, grabs your chin to tilt your face up. You blink tears from your eyes. His irises follow their movement down your cheeks to your chin, then back up to meet your gaze, watery and confused.

“This is why I hate filth,” he murmurs. Your mouth opens to protest, but the words die in the back of your throat with a withering gasp as Knives dips his face to meet yours, his tongue darting out to run up the left side of your face, licking away the streaks of tears there.

Even with his hand gripping your face, your jaw goes slack, gaping up at him with wide eyes—speechless. His head tilts.

Mercifully, he does not repeat the motion on your right cheek, but you watch his jaw move as he runs his tongue over his teeth. He uses his thumb to smear the tears away from the right side of your face.

“Kni—Knives?” you breathe, only just remembering that the sink is still running. Without breaking eye contact, he reaches over to shut it off. The silence slams into you like a physical entity—you shudder audibly in the quiet. Knives presses closer. At this distance, he doesn’t need to rely on his limited mobility to kill you.

A series of knocks on the door shatters the moment. You jump, chin pulling from Knives’ fingers, dampening your shirt by clutching wet hands against your chest.

“Doc! You in there? We’re here for our nightly visit!” Milly’s voice filters through the door. “Also, I’m kind of hungry!”

Knives nearly visibly hisses, you can see the scrunch of it in his face, the way he pulls away from you to hobble into the other room. You want to protest, but your feet are frozen in place. Your face is still wet. Dumbfounded, you raise a hand to touch where Knives tongue had been.

“Doctor? Is everything okay in there?” Meryl calls out.

“C-coming!” You dry your hands on the towel and drag your sleeve across your face. “Sorry about that,” you tell them when the door opens. “I was just cleaning up.”

“It’s no problem, but are you alright?” Meryl asks, obviously taking in your teary-eyed appearance.

“Y-yes, I just—it’s been a long few days,” you say, smiling.

“Where’s Mr. Knives?” Milly asks, turning to gaze into the kitchen.

“He’s, uh,” you stammer. “I’m not sure. He wandered off on his own.”

Meryl blinks, surprised. “He’s well enough to walk by himself already?”

“Well, not quite,” you say, glancing behind you. “He’s downstairs, but I… I think it’ll be alright if you have a cup of tea inside.”

“Are you sure?” Meryl asks, frowning.

“Well, if he has anything to say about it, he’ll have to go through Vash,” you say.

“Yay!” Milly cheers.

The house is livelier with them here. Vash will be returning late.

“Knives hasn’t been cruel to you recently, has he?” Meryl asks, hands cupped around her mug.

“No, he’s been fine,” you tell her, offering a small smile. “I think… well, not that he’s been enjoying it, per se, but I don’t think it’s as agonizing for him as it used to be.” She looks unconvinced, but Milly’s grin widens.

“The two of you have gotten pretty close, huh?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” you fumble with the words, eyes dropping to the table. They can’t see the spot where Knives licked, but you can’t help ghosting your fingers over it at the kitchen table with them while they talk about other topics, smoothing a distracted thumb over the spot, face hot.

Knives continues his observation of you after that. With each day he regains more strength, and it seems he’s taken to not letting you out of his sight—entering each room after you, taking long periods to stare at you despite flashing that disinterested, disgruntled expression when you turn to look at him.

It might’ve been endearing had it been anyone else—had it not meant he was usually watching from some obscure corner, or through a window as you chatted with Milly and Meryl while elbow deep in laundry.

Though his tolerance of you has widened some, it hardly extends beyond simply making the conscious choice to overlap his presence with yours at any given moment.

He starts—to your delight—sitting in the kitchen when you and Vash eat dinner. There’s never a plate of food in front of him—only a mug with some beverage—but you enjoy seeing him there all the same. His stare becomes less overbearing, but his apparent interest manifests in other ways.

This is especially true when Vash is within the vicinity. The one time he had volunteered to help untie a knot in your apron, Knives had intercepted, reaching across the table and simply severing the strings off. The breeze of it barely touching your neck as it falls to a useless heap on the floor. He’d said nothing after the fact, merely leaning back in his seat and taking a sip of his drink, looking quietly smug and oddly satisfied while you and Vash gaped.

The music he makes has changed, too. On his next visit to the piano, he pins you with a look—brows furrowed and mouth pinched—and orders: “Stay” in an impressively flat tone, managing to leave no room for argument despite the way it made him look like he’d eaten something rotten.

The chords do not groan or protest as his fingers dance up and down the keyboard, body swaying with the music. For as ruthless as he’s made himself out to be, the scene unfolding before you is nothing short of breathtaking. It’s captivating, watching his chin dip, the tendons in his hands and wrist flexing as he plays, pulling sounds you didn’t know existed from the piano.

The experience threatens to choke you—emotion swelling in the back of your throat, not moving a single muscle through the whole performance.

You wonder what he sees in your face when he stops, his foot lifting from the pedals, shoulders drooping carefully as the last note feathers into thin air. You weigh the risk of him cutting off your hands for clapping.

“That was very nice,” you tell him sincerely, managing a smile. “I’ve never heard it sound like that before.”

Knives blinks slow, gaze unmoving from your face.

“Play something.” His command catches you just before your suggestion to sit outside.

You nearly bite your tongue. “On… on the piano?” you ask, stunned.

His eyebrow tics. “Are you testing my patience?”

“No, I just—it’s been a while and uh, well we both know I’m rusty and—”

Knives cocks his head at you. “Come,” he commands. With no choice but to obey, you try to swallow the flash of heat that sparks along your nape.

You sit as close to the end of the bench as you can. His gaze is heavy on the side of your face. Your lips part to take a breath. Though you’re not unfamiliar with this instrument, the keys look like nothing more than blank ivory and black buttons. But Knives is waiting, albeit with little patience, and you set out to find middle C, pressing the keys with a feathery touch.

It’s difficult to find the correct words: you settle for saying nothing at all, putting hesitant fingers on the keys and trying not to brush Knives with your elbow.

The song you play cannot hold a candle to the ones he’s coaxed from its chords, but it does well to chase away the anxiety of him watching you. And Knives says nothing the whole time you play, fitting perfectly into the polite picture of an audience.

Your arm stretches out as your fingers play up the scale, coming close to touching Knives’ chest. You try not to flinch away as your elbow bumps him: you’ve long overcome the novelty of touching him, but on the too short piano bench, it feels more invasive than even his attempt to strangle you had been.

When the song ends, you replace your hands in your lap trying to furtively adjust your position to put a few centimeters between you.

Knives takes the opportunity to lean into your space, a broad arm reaching for the lower register on the keyboard, coming dangerously close to touching you. The notes reverberate in the center of your chest—you’re sure they tremble in the very arteries of your lungs. He leans even more, his thigh shifting to press against yours. Heart in your throat, you try to fight for your claim on the bench, bracing your feet against the floor.

The corner of his mouth twitches. He plays a devastating run of notes, plucking them in time with the rapid pulse of your heart as he pushes against you, the solidness of his body threatening to shove you off the bench.

Instinctively, your hand shoots out to stabilize yourself, grabbing onto the edge of the piano. Your thumb catches the lowest key, startled by the low rumbling bass of it. Your other hand jerks uncertainly in the air, not wanting to grab into the only thing within reach to save yourself from falling.

Knives does it for you. Grabs your arm with his free hand, the contact tearing a quiet gasp from you. You’re nearly chest-to-chest with him, his body angled in front of yours to reach the lower register of keys. His eyes tilt down to glance at your mouth.

He’s close—closer than he’s ever been. Closer than he ever should be outside of the mandatory care you’ve been giving.

“Kn-Knives?” you ask, hardly breathing. He’s watching your lips move to speak, and this close you can count his eyelashes, watch them brush against his cheek as he blinks.

If you just tipped your head forward, you could meet him halfway. Your body tries it—coaxing you forward just a fraction, watching his eyes flutter. His head tilts, and you—

You fly off the bench, wrenching your arm from his loosened grip, retreating until your back hits the nearby wall.

Knives stares, eyes rounded, irises flickering after you. The meager amount of space you’ve put between you is nothing: he could cross it in an instant if he pleased. And for a moment, you think he will—his shoulders turning to face you, a hand supporting his weight on the bench. You hardly dare to blink—half afraid that if you do, he’ll be there in the next moment, leaving behind all pretenses to snap the tension building thick in the room.

“Kni? Doc? Are you playing hide and seek?”

Vash’s arrival helps the sudden numbness in your fingertips fade to an unpleasant buzz. You clench and unclench your hands, pushing blood back into your fingers as Knives stands.

“I—” Your voice catches. “I need to make dinner. It’ll, uh, take a while. Stew… stew takes a while. Wait… wait here. I’ll get Vash.”

The back of your neck prickles as you hurry away from the room, the distinct mistake of running away spidering across your neck, visceral and potent.

Knives takes dinner in his room. Or rather, after Vash comes downstairs, he gives you a bright little smile and says his brother doesn’t feel like seeing those insurance girls, who you all already know won’t be joining you for dinner. He takes up Knives’ meal, too, giving a dramatic little goodbye wave, humming all the way up. You can’t hear anything while all the way in the kitchen, so instead you busy yourself on serving up portions to give to Meryl and Milly later.

Meals with Vash are never a quiet affair, but you’ve known him to be extremely perceptive. All it takes is a too-stiff smile for you to know he can sense something is off.

“Why don’t you go see what Knives is up to?” he suggests while clearing the table. “I can hand off the containers to the insurance girls when they come.”

You’ve made the walk to Knives’ room many times before, but on this particular night it feels as though Vash has sent you into the maw of a beast.

The stairs creak ominously with each step you take—maybe it’s just the nerves that are choking you, the memory of his unmoving stare a distant threat.

“Knives?” The door is open, but you knock anyways. “Can I come in?” A grunt is your response.

You take it as a yes. He’s sitting at the table sipping his drink when you spot him.

“Do you want some more?” you ask, glancing at his tray of untouched food.

“No.” The cup bumps quietly against the table when he puts it down. “This is enough.”

“Vash helped make this stew. I hope next time you’re able to enjoy a bit of it,” you tell him, lamenting a bit. Vash will probably have no trouble eating it—you thought he would’ve volunteered to come up himself to do just that, in fact.

Knives hums. “The stew aside, you shouldn’t let the bread dry out like that. It was nearly too stale to chew.”

“This was our last use of it,” you tell him, pulling the curtains shut. “Tomorrow I’ll turn it into bread crumbs and—”

Your head spins so fast something in your neck pops. He’s not watching you, but his arms are crossed, stubbornly avoiding your eyes.

The piece of bread has a bite taken out of it. Just the smallest little chunk, but you can feel a smile spread across your face all the same.

“Did you dip it into the stew? Just the bread on its own is going to be a little bland,” you say, trying to diminish the excitement in your voice. “Vash didn’t say if there was anything you did or didn’t like aside from coffee, so I—I haven’t been thinking much about what to make. Or rather, I was hoping there would be something you’d like to try, so I’ve been making a bunch of different things—”

“Human,” Knives snaps, but he doesn’t sound truly angry—his mouth is pressed together, into what you can now confidently say is an embarrassed pout. Like this, you can see the resemblance he shares with his brother. Maybe if Knives practices that face a little more, it’ll be better at pulling on your heartstrings. “Stop it,” he says, glancing at you, no doubt referencing the wide smile on your face. “You shouldn’t concern yourself with that.”

“I wanted you to enjoy it,” you admit, resisting the urge to reach out and feel along the reddening curve of his ear. They were hot, too, that day you gave him a haircut. When you had an excuse to touch him.

And though he can’t read your mind, Knives looks at you, eyes narrowing, scrutinizing the expression on your face.

“Help me to bed,” he says instead. Not quite defeated—not Knives—but stiff.

“Okay,” you say, finally, finally giving yourself enough room to be quietly hopeful.

For the last time, you let him use your shoulder as support. For the last time, you get a hand on his waist to support him. He doesn’t flinch from your touch—you rest your arm on his back.

“Maybe due for another haircut?” you murmur, not letting yourself reach out to touch the strands. It hasn’t been that long since his last one—he knows it, too. There’s more you want to say to him, but the words are stuck in your throat as you linger.

It’s only a handful of steps to the edge of his bed, but those sparse moments melting away the tension and distrust left within the cracks—the warmth passing from his body to yours, yours to his in real time. The mattress creaks as he sits. You can feel everything. The drag of your fingers against his back through his shirt as he sinks onto the bed. The weight of his gaze, locked with your eyes and then dipping to your lips as they part.

“I think Vash will be happy to hear you tried some of the bread,” you say. “Even if it was a little stale.” His mouth thins. “Will you sit with us tomorrow, Knives?”

It happens before you can process it—his name as the precursor. The expression that crosses his face at the sound of it is hard to decipher: stricken and agonized. Then it settles into something hard, and his hands are reaching for you, hauling you onto the bed by your neck as his fingers wrap around your throat. The mattress dips with your combined weight as he climbs on top of you. Your own hands are limp by your head.

“I’ve been too soft with you,” he hisses, sounding distant. “I’ve been too lenient.” He doesn’t squeeze, but his entire body is tense; you can see his jaw tighten. “I could easily… snap your neck.” A thumb dips into the base of your throat, right above your collarbones.

“You could, but then I’d die,” you tell him plainly, “and I think that would make you sad.”

His fingers twitch. You know he can feel your pulse, the vibrations of your throat when you speak.

“No,” he whispers, a small tremor going through his hands, like he can’t decide if he should really strangle you or not. “No. I won’t let him have you.” Knives’ voice is quiet and distant—as if speaking to himself. He lets out a harsh breath. “I’ll never let him have you. He doesn’t need more of you.”

His grip tightens a fraction. Your hand lifts up from the mattress. His eyes snap away form your face to follow its movement, but he doesn’t let go. When you brush gentle knuckles across his face, the muscle beneath his eye jumps. He reacts to your touch like a frightened animal, but refuses to let you go.

Your fingers move along the curve of his ear. His fingers squeezing reflexively. But then your nails scrape lightly against his scalp, just like they had the first time.

“You have me,” you whisper. “I’m here.”

He blinks slow. You run the pad of your thumb just above his eyebrow, and he melts. His head drops, hanging between two broad shoulders. Knives makes a beautiful picture—closer to prayer and holier than even the mortal men that recite their hymns. The firm muscle of his chest presses into yours. His hands leave your throat; instead they cling to you, holding you beneath him.

Voices drift up from the floor below—Milly and Meryl are here.

“Knives, I have to get up,” you say. “I should greet them.”

“No,” he says, voice rumbling. “They should just disappear.”

“They’ve helped Vash a lot in the past,” you remind him lightly. “I don’t think they’re going anywhere anytime soon.”

He buries himself into you like a child, pulling you against him fully.

“Then they can wait,” he says, tucks his face into the crook of your neck.

It occurs to you that, though he’s had contact with a small amount of people, Knives has traveled mostly alone all this time. With no friends, no lover, no brother, you wonder how he’s managed with the loneliness—if he still considers himself above it all. Despite his hostility and cruel tendencies, there’s genuine love inside him for Vash. And no matter how hidden and locked away it may be, you hope there’s some of that same love left for humans.

Your fingers find his hair again. His body goes stiff, but all you do is drag your hand lightly from the crown of his head to his nape, threading your fingers through the short strands in a repeated path down, patting him to a loose and relaxed posture.

“Knives,” you murmur, “I have to get up eventually.”

He doesn’t budge. Merely slides an arm under your back in a near crushing move. Strong-arming you further against him, as if he could melt the two of you together—taking what he knows you’ll gladly give.

“Let them be,” he says.

“I have to go to sleep at some point,” you say. He scoffs. “Would you rather we sleep in the same bed?”

“…A bed would be an upgrade to that sorry piece of furniture, wouldn’t it?”

The laughter that escapes is surprising: it moves your bodies with the motions of it. You continue to stroke his hair.

“I’ve become attached to that couch,” you say around a smile. “Maybe I prefer sleeping on it.” Knives leans away enough to glare. “…Can I at least bring the tray downstairs?”

Knives’ glare softens to a muted scowl. He climbs off reluctantly, watches you until you leave the room.

Milly and Meryl are still here. You greet them and give the tray to Vash, meeting his eyes with a wide grin when he notices the bread.

When you return, Knives is waiting for you on the edge of the bed again. But this time, he’s sitting up—alert. You hover by the door.

“Are you sure?” you ask. His scowl deepens.

“Enough dawdling.”

You shut off the lights. He waits for you to get on the mattress and lays himself across you, leaving the other side of the bed completely open.

“You won’t get hot?” you ask.

“Quiet,” he mutters, and nestles his head on top of your chest.

It’s hard to tell who falls asleep first, but as the night stretches, you can feel both of your chests moving in sync, the rise and fall of each breath matching up to ensure not an inch of space grows between your bodies.

It’s hard to tell, but when your eyes next open, you’re tangled up in sheets and limbs. The room is still dark, but you’re almost too comfortable to move. Knives is nearly fused to your side, long arms wrapped around you, head resting on the pillow. Your eyes trace his face, the gentle curve of his lashes, the beauty mark beneath his eye.

(When he wakes, you’ll greet him with a little smile. He’ll frown and try to buy more time for sleep, turning his face into the pillow. But he’ll tighten his arms when you try to leave, refusing to relinquish you.

And when you’re finally successful in removing yourself from his clutches, he’ll frown after you until you tell him to come downstairs for breakfast.

“It’ll be better than the bread from last night,” you’ll tell him with a groggy little smile.

It’ll take some convincing, but when you finally go downstairs and greet Vash, he’ll give you a knowing little smile, will cheerfully ask if you slept well.

“Very,” you’ll say, a little shy, and Vash will laugh with the air of a man who’s finally willing to heal.)

But for now, you smooth your thumb across his cheek, and smile in the quiet privacy of early morning when his nose wrinkles—painfully human. You rest an arm across his waist, gaze at the wall, and think that maybe there is a place for him. Just like he’d always wanted.

“i think you missed a spot.” 

you don’t even know how you and dazai got to this point but you were definitely not complaining and neither was he.

it all began with you wanting to test make-up on him for fun, then demonstrating how to apply lipstick and now you’re sitting on the bathroom floor with your greedy boyfriend who won’t stop asking for kisses. the cherry red shade on your lips matched all the kissing marks covering his face. his eyes look dazed and dilated, eyes which were trained on you and accompanied by a lazy smile. his messy hair that managed to make him even more attractive. dazai quite literally seemed like he was drunk off your kisses.

“you sure?” you murmur as you inspect every detail of his face. there aren’t many places left that haven’t gotten your attention and you think maybe this would be enough. dazai begs to differ. he hums affirmatively to your query, tapping a finger on his lips as if indicating for you to kiss there next. he can never have quite enough, can he? a soft smile rises to your mouth and without a second thought, you lean in again.

you’re certain that your lipstick is smeared by now but you couldn’t care any less. your soft lips in touch with his is all you can focus on, his hands cupping your face to bring you impossibly closer. he slightly nibbled on your lower lip as you sighed against his mouth, running a hand through his hair. he’s much more needier this time, a type of desire that you’re not unfamiliar with. the kiss lasted until both of you were left breathless, dazai’s hot breath tickling your skin as your forehead is still in contact with his.

“i want more,” he mumbles to you and your heart skips a beat. you swear you can see small hearts in his irises as he looks at you. there is so much love in his gaze that it makes every single doubt you might have had in this relationship disappear. it wasn’t even the teasing kind of glint that you usually see, just pure devotion and yearning that only you get to witness in moments like these. you must’ve been admiring him for a long moment because what he says next catches you a little off guard.

“please.”

he says your name as well and his voice is so tender yet desperate. dazai almost never begs. and if he does it’s either to annoy you or to get you to leave the agency with him early. but this is neither of those instances. your kisses really did something to him. or perhaps broke him.

“i don’t know… you seem like you’re on a bit of an overdose right now.” you tell him with a breathy laugh as you brush some of his hair strands behind his ear, taking this chance to tease him a little. his reaction doesn’t disappoint, the subtle pout appearing on his lips not going missed by you.

“i think i’ll go crazy if you stop here. my love, please.” you can feel the butterflies in your stomach because god this version of dazai makes you fall for him even more if that’s possible. besides, how could you ever say no to him when he’s like this? before responding, you plant another tender kiss on his forehead, which already had a few kissing stains here and there. you decide to whisper your next words, your tone having more warmth than previously.

“then let’s continue this in the bedroom, hm?”

eeee very short but kinda proud of this one ! wishing everyone a good day/night ( ˶ˆ꒳ˆ˵ )

Kenji: Dazai? There’s a monster under my bed 😅

Dazai, ruffling his hair: Why do you think I chose the other room?

Unhoneymooners!? - G.S.

Synopsis. The universe was surely playing a joke on you. Here you were, trapped on a luxury getaway with your - dangerously handsome, extremely obnoxious - ex. Either you were going to kill each other or end up pinned beneath him, split apart on his cóck. You just didn’t know what would come first.

Pairing. Gojo Satoru x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, exes to lovers, unprotected, argument as foreplay, slight enemies to lovers, more like annoyances actually, cunnilingus, oral (male + female), spitting, creampié, one bed trope, rough, Satoru is still EXTREMELY down bad for you, and unfairly hot, forced proximity, cúmplay, pet names (sweetheart), swearing.

Word count. 8.5k

A/N. It’s impossible to not write Satoru without bullying him at least a little bit.

You broke up with Gojo Satoru exactly 5 months, 2 weeks, and 16 hours ago - not that you were keeping count, of course.

So why was he outside of your resort room blasting “Kill Bill” by SZA like he’s auditioning for the world’s most dramatic comeback tour? On what should’ve marked your fourth anniversary, no less.

Well, given you were the one to lock him out, but still - the stubborn bastard could at least have some decorum. 

With an exasperated sigh, you throw yourself onto the king-sized bed of your honeymoon suite, trying to will away that annoying, grating voice - not SZA, no, more so Satoru singing along at the top of his lungs to the chorus. 

How did you even get here? And with Satoru of all people - your Satoru. Or at least he was this time a little over a year ago. 

You first met Satoru when you were in university, back when he wore those pretentious circled sunglasses and waltzed around those halls like he owned the place. And after a single literature assignment together, he wasn’t just your (self-proclaimed) best friend; he was the reluctantly favorite thorn in your side. 

Like the rest of him, Satoru’s introduction into your love-life was anything but subtle. It wasn’t like he strolled in, gave a polite nod, and blended into the background. Oh no, he bulldozed his way in and dragged you to dance with him on the tables of some dingy frat party in what you could only assume was some joke from the universe at your expense.

And damn him, you think bitterly, you couldn't resist him that night. Spinning you into a dramatic dip, silver chain brushing your face as his half-lidded eyes bored into yours. You couldn’t not kiss him after the way his hands were just searing into your skin. 

God, you’ve never been able to listen to “Gasolina” the same way ever since.  

Satoru was in love as he was in the rest of life - a force of nature, and it was too easy to find yourself caught up in him.

That night at the frat party was just the beginning. From then on was a rollercoaster of everything from heated debates over the best flavor of ramen to impromptu road trips where you’d end up under a carpet of stars. Wrapped in each other’s arms and sharing whispered secrets for an unpromised future - oftentimes where Satoru would crack a joke or two about running away to Tokyo with him. To which you’d laugh it off with a “Yeah yeah, I’d leave everything I’ve known behind in a heartbeat for your dumbass, Toru.”

You just didn’t think that it would be the downfall to your relationship. All the empty promises. 

Because as those heavenly days turned into weeks and the weeks into months, eventually two years had gone by. The whirlwind romance settled into a comfortable rhythm, but with it came the looming promise of graduation and Satoru moving to work under his family company in Tokyo.

Under pressure, it wasn’t long before the cracks began to show, the arguments more frequent, and the silences more deafening. And as your relationship slowly turned into nothing more than a husk of what it used to be - so did the both of you.

Long story short, graduation was a bittersweet goodbye - and you think both of you knew long before it was actually over. Neither of you attended the afterparty - with Satoru on a flight straight to Tokyo and you at home to stuff your face with chocolate. Hey, at least you could blame your tears on finally leaving university, right? 

You had meticulously erased his name from your phone, your social media, and even your dreams - well, almost, the bastard still came around to bother you occasionally. It was messy, painful, and final.

But “final” really didn’t explain your current predicament. Because if there’s one thing you’ve learned about Satoru is that he’s always there - whether you liked it or not. He was there when you needed a partner for that literature assignment, and he was there to turn your world upside down at that dingy frat party.

Hell, he was even there to help you stubbornly chug mountains of ice cream and win that raffle for this five day-long getaway trip to the Maldives. Though, you think he might’ve chugged the ice cream without the promise of a vacation anyway.

But, when ultimately those shiny tickets came in the mail - Satoru wasn’t there. Oh well, it might’ve been a couple’s trip - but you could have a hot girl summer, right? Maybe you could even snag a hottie by the end. You’d almost forgotten that he’d be getting his copy of the tickets as well.

Yet, unfortunately - as the beginning notes of P!nk’s “So What” bursts through the heavy wooden door - you were inevitably reminded of the fact that he was here. Right now. Goading you into coming outside.

You find yourself groaning inwardly (and outwardly) because of course, why wouldn’t he come back even more obnoxious than before? You haven’t seen him in ages, yet here he is, crashing back into your life with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. Or - you furrow your brows at his purposefully off-key singing carrying over the sounds of the waves outside - with the subtlety of a manchild with a JBL and a premium account on Spotify.  

Rubbing your temples in frustration, you contemplate how much longer of this it would take before you’re both kicked out of this resort. And after you ate so many ice creams to win this getaway trip? No chance.

With a resigned sigh, you rise from the bed, smoothing out the bathing suit you’d just put on before the devil incarnate showed up knocking at your door. Something hot and prickly pools in your stomach as you approach it, and you can’t help but roll your eyes at the sheer absurdity of the situation. So like Satoru.

Taking a deep breath to steel yourself, you shakily reach for the handle. It’s fine. It’s not a big deal actually.

…

What’s the worst that can happen?

Slam! 

The door swings open, and there in all his smug glory stands a very shirtless Satoru. Gojo pain-in-your-ass Satoru, the same asshole you’ve blocked on even Gmail. 

Except, you’re momentarily struck by how high you have to raise your eyes to meet his. Are growth spurts even a thing anymore? You didn’t have a chance to take a good look last time before slamming the door shut at the first flash of white hair and a smug grin.

But right now, traitorously, your gaze catches on just how broad his shoulders look and…since when was he so chiseled? Damn you, Tokyo - you were doing him too good.

His hair is slightly longer too, curtaining those slightly more mature features, stopping just above that ever-immature grin. One which moves as he hums, “Well, happy fourth anniversary to me, If I knew this came with the suite then I’d have swam here myself.”

You scoff, suddenly feeling strangely self-conscious as he wiggles his brows, striking blue eyes sweeping your figure from head to toe. “I’d prefer if you swam back. What are you doing?” 

“Why, just showing up to our room on our lil’ honeymoon, sweetheart.” Satoru sing-songs, leaning against the doorframe to fully prevent you from slamming the door in his (admittedly) pretty face again. “And before you try to break my nose with that door again, I won that ticket here fair and square, y’know. I ate just as much ice cream as you did for it.”

“You ate most of those before you knew about the getaway raffle.” you sigh over his nonchalant shrug, pinching your nose, “And stop calling it our honeymoon, I dumped you five months ago.”

“Well aren’t you just the gift that keeps on giving. Keeping count?”

“No. Don’t be a pest.”

“Always thought you had a thing for pests. After all, you did date me.” As Satoru grins impossibly wider, you couldn’t help but roll your eyes. He winks, “And if I’m a pest then you’re an itch that just won’t go away.”

“At least I’m not the itch that shows up uninvited to someone’s honeymoon suite.” you hiss. And with that you start shutting the door ever-so-slowly, delighting in the panic that overtakes Satoru’s features as he reaches out frantically.

“Hey!” he sputters, “I didn’t know you’d be here! And besides this ‘pest’ forgot his slippers all the way in Tokyo and can’t stand on flaming-hot boardwalks for too long so let me in.”

And sure enough, you glance down to see that Satoru isn’t wearing any slippers on the scorching boardwalk. The realization almost brings a smirk to your lips. This idiot. 

“Wow.”

“‘Wow’ at my feet or-”

“I should leave you here to rot just for your pure idiocy.” you deadpan, eyes locked on the way he’s burning his soles off yet still has the audacity to flash you a cocky smile.

“But you won’t.” he hums.

A beat passes. One. Two. And Satoru’s grin almost falters, before you finally relent - opening the door just a crack, cursing his entire bloodline under your breath. “You’re incorrigible” you mutter as he saunters inside victoriously, dragging his hefty luggage behind.

“Why change perfection, sweetheart~” he calls out, heading straight for the bedroom, only to let out a delighted “OooOOo” at the sight of the king-sized bed in the middle. The only bed. “How scandalous, maybe you’ll even fall in lov-” 

“Don’t. I’d rather gouge my eyes out with a seashell.” you warn, holding up both keycards threateningly, “I get the bed, you take the couch.”

“But-”

“And I’ve got the keys, so slippers or not you’ll be back out on that boardwalk.” 

A slight smile tugging at the corners of your lips at the way Satoru looked so dramatically crestfallen, you continue - just to be petty, “And no more ‘Kill Bill’ that’s on my angry ex playlist.”

With a heavy sigh he sulkily makes his way to the bathroom, calling out as he does, “Fine. But I’m showering first.”

As he disappears from sight you throw yourself onto your bed, basking in what little peace and quiet you’ll have because of your unwanted guest. This was going to be a-

“And I’m using all of your body lotions.”

“...”

“I will use one of your body lotions.”

Groaning, you sink into the plush mattress, just wishing it would swallow you whole and spare you from this torment. And this was only Day 1? This was going to be a very long five days. 

---

The first night with Satoru, honestly, wasn’t too bad. 

You don’t know what you expected exactly - maybe for him to pour hair dye in your shampoo or something. But he actually stuck to his word, slept on the couch after only a bit of taunting, and used only one of your body lotions. Your best-smelling, most expensive one, but one nonetheless.

Feeling slightly more optimistic, you spent most of the second day at the beach, meanwhile he stuck to lounging by the pool. Add in a bit of pretending you didn’t know him by the salad bar at dinner and that made for an almost-perfect hot girl summer. 

Well, considering that you were rooming with your insufferable longtime ex - in a honeymoon suite of all places. 

The only catch came that night, fully content at the burning soreness from being pushed around by the waves outside. You got ready to splay out on your bed, humming along to the tunes of your playlist and…Satoru’s lamenting?

“I swear my back feels like it’s been run over by a truck. Five of them, and a zoo.” he complains from behind you, dramatically draping himself over the couch - his impromptu bed. 

“Good.”

“What if that was my last straw?”

“Even better.”

His exaggerated, disappointed whine is both embarrassing and almost-endearing as you roll your eyes, resisting the urge to suffocate him with a pillow. “Maybe call your chiropractor guy.”

Satoru shot you a pointed look, his expression a mixture of faux innocence and irritation, which you knew too well. “I wish but he’s trekking through the Himalayas. C’mon~ Don’t you think that lovely king-sized bed is too big for just one?”

“No, but the boardwalk sure is. Maybe you should try it out.” you monotone, getting ready to end this conversation once and for all. 

But when has Satoru ever let you off easy? He sits up abruptly, a devious smile curling his lips. “Ohh, I get it.” he taunts, batting his long lashes mockingly, “You’re scared to sleep in the same bed with me.”

Huh?

“Out of all the idiotic-” you cut yourself off by whirling around to face his smug grin, “Why would I be scared to sleep in a bed with you. I’ve done that far too many times already.”

“Exactly,” he chuckles. “And all those times you could barely last an hour before without keeping your hands off of me. Scared you’ll end up pinned underneath me and stuffed full like old times, sweetheart?”

You narrow your eyes at him despite the heat burning your face. “The only thing I’m scared of is your icicle feet on my side.”

He laughs, a sound that’s equal parts irritating and endearing, and stands up from where he was slumped on the couch. Making his way slowly, but surely towards you, “Oh, c’mon. For old times’ sake, admit it, you miss me.”

"Yeah, missed the peace and quiet I don’t have because of your big mouth,” you scoff. Finding it hard to meet his twinkling gaze as he comes close enough that you’re toe to toe with him. Your cheeks burn at the proximity - hot enough to match the heat radiating off his body. 

Satoru shakes his head, undeterred by your threats. And suddenly you get the overwhelming urge to throw him out the window and straight into the ocean. “You can deny it all you want, but you still have feelings for me.”

Your jaw clenches at his audacity. “You wish. I’d never.”

“Then prove it.”

Damn, he was good.

Which is probably how you found yourself lying in the same bed as Satoru, with a wall of all the pillows in the room erected between you two - and a few extra from room service just in case. 

“Sweetheart, this is a king-sized bed. Is the fortress really necessary?”

You wrap your blankets tighter around yourself, trying to ignore the figure radiating warm right next to you. Muttering out a muffled little, “Yeah, so you can keep your mitts off of me.”

Satoru groans dramatically, bed creaking as he shuffles what you can only assume to be closer to you. “You keep your mitts off of me, you lecher.” he quips, voice dripping with sarcasm as he inches closer.

You stiffen at his proximity, feeling his warmth seep through the layers of blankets and pillows as he chuckles softly, the sound sending shivers down your spine, “Oh, come on, don’t be like that. We used to share a bed all the time.”

“That was before,” you interject. God, you didn’t like where this conversation was going. 

“Before what?” Satoru presses, his voice low and insistent. 

Now, you might’ve let yourself be goaded into sharing a bed but these were old wounds better off left alone. You hiss, tone firm, “Before. Now sleep” 

Before when you didn’t have to make a wall of pillows. Before when he would hold you tight and whisper sweet secrets into your ear. That he’d buy you the biggest ring he saw and promise you the world. Before- 

“I missed you, y’know.” Satoru breaks the silence barely audible over the sound of your own thoughts. The word pangs through your mind and claws at your chest. And at your silence he continues, tone a little lighter, “And stop hogging all the blankets, I’m gonna freeze to-”

“Boardwalk.”

“My apologies, ma’am. Goodnight, ma’am.”

And he sinks back into his pillow with a huff, you let out a sigh of relief. Something hot coiling in your stomach as you close try to catch as much sleep as you possibly could with the bane of your existence laying right beside you. The suddenly taller, dangerously handsome, still as-obnoxious-as-ever bane of your existence. 

You just wonder if he remembered “before”.

Oh, how Satoru remembered “before”. So much so that he had sixteen different playlists dedicated to you even after the breakup.

It’s divine punishment - it has to be. Satoru thinks there’s no reasonable explanation for the series of unfortunate events happening to him other than punishment from his ancestors above for being such a pussy and losing the love of his life.

First he forgets his slippers, then he ends up locked out of his own honeymoon suite by said love of his life. Granted, all thoughts of his poor burnt soles went out the window the moment he caught a glimpse of you in that positively sinful bikini. God, were you glowing. A goddess upon Earth - he could really give the Gojo Satoru of five months ago a good, hard kick.

And now he’s stuck in a - very comfortable - prison with you just inches away, tossing and turning in that way he knows means that you can’t sleep either. 

Honestly, very funny universe, the great Gojo Satoru demands a refund. Way to punk’d him into confronting the feelings he’s desperately been trying to bury these past few months - ever since he got on that plane to Tokyo and contemplated faking a heart attack just to get off. 

Realizing just then that he lost the love of his life - and the only woman who’d tolerate his karaoke nights. But with that realization came another, more jarring one: he was too late. 

Every touch, every laugh, and even every time you rolled your eyes was etched into his very soul, and it felt like a montage from a sappy breakup movie directed by a sadistic screenwriter who had it out for him. 

And it really didn’t help that this was the exact suite he was planning once upon a time to propose in. God, how you’d feed him to the crabs if he said anything about that - nevermind the fact that he was actually one that booked this-

But still, some traitorous, annoying part of his heart interrupts, she still hasn’t made you sleep on the boardwalk yet.

Maybe - just maybe - he’ll wake up to a second chance?

…

Ha. As if.

“I can’t sleep.” Satoru groans out loud, more so to drown out his own thoughts than anything.

“Well, I can. Goodnight.”

Ah, his girl was such a lil’ liar. Undeterred, the mattress creaks as he shuffles his weight to excitedly face you, taking a moment to admire how pretty you looked under the dim moonlight. He plows on, “Hey, if you promise not to make me crab food, wanna walk along the beach and watch the stars?”

A beat of silence. One. Two. so deafening and tense that Satoru was half a second away from obnoxiously laughing it off as a joke and pulling out his Emo Times™ playlist. 

“Or I can go back to the couch and-”

“Shut up. Let’s watch the stars, Satoru.”

But what do you know - maybe the universe hasn’t given up on him just yet. 

And, well, if he woke up the next morning breaching your fortress - your warm breath tickling his neck and his arms wrapped tightly around your waist, like the lifeline he never knew he needed - then, neither of you mentioned it.

---

“Hey, Satoru. You think we’ll always be like this?” you hum into your boyfriend’s chest, barely a whisper as the looming fears of, well, everything ring in your mind. 

He pulls you close, flashing a mischievous grin before planting a dramatic kiss on the top of your head. “Duh, I’ll always be around to drive you dangerously close to a stroke, sweetheart.” 

You roll your eyes, yet bury yourself closer to his warmth anyway.

“Besides, it doesn’t matter if I have to drag you by the leg to Tokyo. Wherever you are is where I belong. ”

---

You’ve come to learn that a resort island is only so big when you’re actively trying to avoid your 6’3 manchild of an ex.

Now that you were rooming with Satoru, sleeping with Satoru (in a literal sense only, of course), and just-so-happening to bump into him at the beach - somehow, talking with him is a little easier, his presence just a bit more exciting than you’d care to admit. 

If the you of four days ago could see what had become of you, then she’d probably slap some sense into you faster than you could say “Kill Bill”. Sleeping in the same bed (still only literally), having dinner, watching the stars - with Gojo Satoru? You’ve gone completely off your rocker. 

But could you really be blamed? These last few days have you feeling like maybe you’ve been dropped into an alternate universe, where you and Satoru never broke up. 

Yet, reality is a persistent little bastard. And with the end of your trip looming dangerously closer, the past you would be cackling mockingly in your face, flashing a large sign in big, red letters reading “I TOLD you so.” 

Whatever. Maybe by this time tomorrow both of you could laugh this all off as a silly little adventure and call yourself somewhat begrudging friends. Maybe you’d even end up unblocking him by the end - on Gmail, at least.

At the very least, dinnertime was a solace - both from your thoughts and the smug bastard talking your ear off about how he could “make that spaghetti better than a thousand Italian grandmothers.”

Until the fourth - and final - night, that is. When the resort, deciding that your current torture wasn’t already enough, arranged a special candlelit dinner. A romantic one. By the beach. With Satoru of all people. 

Great. Wonderful. Perfect, in fact. Going out with a bang. Was this really part of the all-inclusive package? It was like the universe was playing some twisted joke on you - or some awful version of wingmanning. 

You grit your teeth silently as you’re ushered to the beachside table, thoughts barely audible over the waves crashing against the shore and the soft, romantic music drifting from the band nearby. 

The complete opposite of Satoru, who was already seated at the table and enjoying himself far too much for your liking. He lounged back in his chair, a self-satisfied smirk playing on his lips as he watched you sit opposite him uncomfortably.

You hated to admit it - but God was he dangerously beautiful in that crisp white button-up, one that you knew was from his overpriced collection for special occasions. You found yourself fighting to avoid the amber hues twinkling in his eyes as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting warm shadows that bring out his pretty features.

Pretty? So frighteningly pretty - until he speaks, that is.

“And here I thought our honeymoon couldn’t get any worse. You’re sweating bullets, sweetheart. This your first date with me or something?”

“We’re not on a honeymoon, Satoru. And no, it just brings back memories.” you scoff. Relishing in the way he inches his chair closer to listen, clearly not expecting this sudden sentimentality. “Memories of why I blocked you on every social media.”

All but slamming his head down on the table, Satoru whines out, “Ouch, straight for the jugular. That mouth is still as bitchy as ever, huh? Though I do prefer it choking on my-”

“I’m going to throw you into the ocean.”

“Ooo, kinky~” he hums, swirling his wine glass, “But you know what this reminds me of? That one time we had dinner under the stars.”

You froze, the memories suddenly flashing back to you despite your best efforts to suppress them. “Oh yeah,” you muse. A chuckle leaving your mouth despite yourself, “Wasn’t that where you spilled ketchup all over your shirt and then insisted it was a fashion statement?”

He leans in closer, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Hey! It worked, didn’t it? I got compliments from everyone including you.”

“I was just trying to stop you from bursting into tears.” you roll your eyes, shaking your head at the memory. 

“Exactly, sweetheart. Like moths to a flame.”

“More like to a bug-zapper.”

Satoru throws his head back and laughs, loud and unabashed. A sound that echoes across the beach and makes something warm and sticky strum at your heartstrings. And at that moment, that stupid, little part of you didn’t even mind that you were at a special candlelit dinner. A romantic one. By the beach. With Satoru of all people. 

And he didn’t even have to goad you into it with SZA this time.

As the orange glow of the setting sun melded into the cool blue of the night, it almost felt like slipping back into an old routine. The food had long since been finished. Jabs and shared memories flowing through the air like the gentle waves lapping at the shore.

The cool air was now thick with contentment and something so unknown yet so familiar that it made your heart race. 

 “I swear.” you groan over Satoru’s loud cackles, “He tried to charm his way out of the bill by flirting with the waitress. In front of me.”

Satoru doubles over, clutching his stomach as he laughs uproariously. “Classic move! If he’s going to be a cheapskate then he should’ve at least been successful with it.”

Damn, was he eternally grateful for these dim candles. Otherwise you’d surely have caught the rosy flushing tinting his cheeks. How dare you sit there so gorgeous and perfect in front of him. Perfect for him - you haven’t changed one bit.

“Right? She looked ready to fling us both out.” You chuckle, eyes catching on the little dimple just at the corner of his mouth as Satoru shoots you a sly grin. “Mhm, I know if it were me I would’ve charmed us out of the bill successfully.”

You raise a brow, retorting, “Oh please. I’ve had the pleasure of being on the receiving end of that ‘charm’. You’d probably end up charming us into washing dishes in the kitchen.” 

Ah, right now, he doesn’t think he wants to be anywhere but here - bickering with you. 

“Ouch, you wound me, woman!” Satoru feigns offense, placing a hand over his heart dramatically before leaning down to whisper, low and conspiratorial, “Besides, I doubt you even remember what pleasure feels like since being with me.”

A thrill goes down your spine as you realize the insinuation of his words, steady and searing - matching that of  Satoru’s fingers on yours - which had snuck their way across the table, lazily tracing patterns along your skin. 

When did they even get there? Sly bastard.

Your mouth drops into a soft oh! at the dangerous glint in his eyes. But you refuse to back down, “Don’t flatter yourself, Satoru. I’ve had other guys make me cum much harder than you have.”

Touch burning. Mapping every curve and dip he’d known so well, and this time - you graze them back. A challenge. God, you missed that warm little flutter in your chest. 

That seems to catch him by surprise, as those darkened blue eyes widen. But there’s a dangerous edge to his grin as he purrs, voice low. “Is that so?” 

And with that, Satoru’s chair is scraping softly against the sand as he stands up, “C’mon, you’re gonna regret that, sweetheart.”

Oh. 

Satoru knows that it’s been 5 months, 4 weeks, and 8 hours since you two lasted an entire dinner civilly - not that he was counting, duh.

So when he begged the resort staff into setting the two of you up on this special candlelit dinner, he was expecting you to drown him in the lobster tank halfway through or at least end the night with a slap. 

What he certainly did not expect was to end dinner with you shoved against the closed door of your suite, legs wrapped impossibly tight around his waist, and lips trailing hot, openmouthed kisses down your neck. He angles your neck, body pressing so impossibly close to yours.

Inwardly, you curse his button-up for being so goddamn thin that you could feel his abs rub against you with every little movement. Toned chest rumbling as he groans at your hands tugging at those soft locks - just a tiny revenge, for your body lotion. 

“S-Satoru,” you whisper, and he breathes it in with an almost-pained sigh - not wanting to part for even a second. Because fuck it took so long to get you back and he wasn’t going to waste a single moment. 

Pulling just a hair’s breadth away, “Tell me what you want. Always knew we’d end up-”

“Just shut up and kiss me, you smug bastard.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

And, well, who was he to deny you? So he does. 

His lips are searing on yours, hasty and greedy. With a tinge of something so painfully familiar. Your hands make their way onto his chest, feeling the thundering heartbeat against your fingertips - matching that of yours. 

Sweet. You tasted so sweet. Just like honey, and all the dreams where he didn’t leave you behind. Where he didn’t get on that damned plane but instead ran to you all the way from the airport like those sappy romcoms you love. 

He licks at the seam of your lips, drinking in your gasps as he intertwines his tongue with yours. Kissing you like he’ll never be able to again. Because, God, knowing his luck - he probably won’t. 

One hand cups your cheek so gently - a tenderness that doesn’t translate to his lips as he kisses you deeper. Meanwhile the other wanders the expanse of your body, leaving a burning trail of fire in their wake.

Satoru parts with a playful nip to your bottom lip - and before you realize what’s happening, the zipper hits the ground. He’s ripping your pretty dress off - mumbling something about “buying a new one” before large hands surge forward, groping and kneading your tits.

His mouth waters at the sight of your bra. Light blue - to match his eyes. “You evil, evil woman.” he mutters into the soft valley of your breasts as you giggle delightedly. Oh, how he couldn’t get enough of you.

And if there was ever a moment that Satoru thinks he could cream his pants right there, then this would be at the very top, followed very closely by the sight of that withering glare you shot after opening that suite door to him just a few days ago.

He unhooks your bra with one hand, throwing it blindly across the room as if it killed him to see you clothed. 

Immediately, Satoru drops to his knees with the desperation of a madman, coming face-to face with the heavenly sight of your clothed cunt, soaking through your thin panties. 

“Didn’t specify where I had to kiss, sweetheart.”

Your gaze pierces through him, as it always did. “What are you-” Your words get choked up in your throat as his tongue darts out. Licking a long, languid stripe over your clothed cunt. 

“Shit. So sweet f’me, jus’ like I remember. Just one taste and I feel like m’gonna cum in my pants.” Satoru groans, urgently sliding your wet panties down your quivering legs. 

“F-flattery won’t work.” you stammer out as his hot breath fans your quivering entrance as he waits just a second - one, two.

Drinking in the view of your pretty pussy with dazed, half-lidded eyes. Wet - so wet, he almost wants to tease you - just a bit, to see if you’ll get even wetter. Ah, he doesn’t have enough time to take in this view - probably never will. Would it ruin the mood if he took a picture?

“Oh, I’d say it worked pretty well.”

Cock twitching carnally, Satoru needed to taste you now. He immediately surges forward. Breathing you in so sinfully, pooling your juices on his tongue. Eyes rolling to the back of his head as he tips his head back back back to let it slide down his throat. 

Shit, if you were the forbidden fruit then he would gladly be cast out of the garden of Eden. 

Half-delirious thoughts running through his mind, Satoru flattens his tongue across your swollen folds. Leisurely sliding between them, catching on your throbbing clit up and down up and down up and-

“Oh- hngh, Satoru faster-”

“So bossy.” he hums prettily around your swollen clit, the vibrations stimulating it just right. But of course, what his girl wants, she will get. 

Lewd squelches and your mewls of his name ring in the heady room as he speeds up his ministrations. Rolling his tongue harshly along your clit, sucking so sensually. Licking at your sweet cunt, dipping just into your sloppy hole. 

You almost miss the long fingers that deftly slide their way up your thigh, spreading your folds with his thumbs. A low groan sounds at the back of his throat as your walls flutter so sinfully around nothing - aching for more friction. 

Urgently, Satoru bullies his fingers past your folds, sinking deep into your plushy walls as his tongue continues its abuse. So warm and wet around him. Curling his fingers just right.

“Ah- fuck, Satoru- Feels s’good.” you gasp as he starts thrusting his fingers back and forth. A ruthless pace that has tears stinging your eyes, hitting that spot over and over and-

“Oh yeah? Thought you didn’t like my ‘big mouth’?” he purrs, muffled around your clit, “Look at you, sweetheart, now falling apart cos’ of it.”

You scoff, fingers tangling in his silky hair, pushing him deeper into your dripping pussy - mostly because you needed it, but somewhat because you really needed him to shut up. “Yeah, I like it better when you shut the fuck up.”

And with a dark chuckle, his mouth is back on your cunt. Your slick glossy and dripping down the corner of his mouth as he alternates between sucking unforgivingly on your ravaged clit and fucking into you at the same time as his fingers. 

And in the delicious stretch of your cunt, you barely register the metallic clinking of a belt before Satoru presses his clothed erection into you.

Shit. You clench so obscenely around his tongue at the feeling of his clothed, painfully hard and throbbing against your leg. Fuck - as big as you remember. You weren’t gonna be able to walk for a while.

“You like this, huh?” he murmurs, speeding up the rhythm of his fingers. Vibrations sending white-hot jolts of pleasure down your spine.

Cracking an eye open you risk a glance downward. Greedily eyeing the hand wrapped tightly around the base, moving up up up. Pumping in small, jerky movements at the same pace of his fingers fucking into you. “Like the way m’getting off to tonguefucking my girl?”

“Like thinking about how this is what I thought about all those lonely fucking night without you?” You arch into his touch, fingers searing on his scalp and angling Satoru just right to make your knees weak. 

He’s so close that you can feel the precum smearing onto your leg. Mouth fucking you in a way you knew he wanted to with his cock right now. Rough and unrelenting. 

“Like thinking about how you’re all I can fucking think about.”

“Hngh- Yes, Satoru! Yes-” 

You see stars as you cum - or maybe those were the tears in your eyes. Pulling Satoru impossibly closer to your quivering pussy so that you could ride out your high on his pretty face. And he readily accepts it - letting himself be handled roughly with the conviction of a man that wouldn’t mind dying if it was suffocating in-between your pretty thighs. 

Your vision is hazy, blood still roaring in your ears as Satoru stands up. Not even bothering to wipe away the wet trail of your slick prettily glossing his lips before capturing yours in a searing kiss. 

“Y’know, sweetheart,” he gasps in between heated kisses. “We got a king-sized bed so we better make use of it, hm?”

Your back hits the mattress before you can even react. Reeling from shock and the audacity as you bounce at the sheer force of his throw. 

“Next time you do that you’re-” 

Whatever insult at the tip of your tongue melts away immediately at the purely pornographic sight of Satoru stalking his way towards you from the foot of the bed. Eyes hooded, cock rock-hard, kiss-bitten lips parted slightly in a way that was so fucked-out.

Unhurriedly approaching you with such a predatory glint in his darkened eyes as he fucks his fist slowly - so agonizingly slowly. Eyes locked on you.

Despite cumming not even minutes before, your pussy jumps in anticipation. Immediately reaching over as soon as he’s close enough - as if in a trance - to replace his hand with yours. 

He was big - so mouthwateringly big. Flushed your favorite shade of pink at his leaking tip, pulsing veins glistening in the dim light - every part of Satoru was so unfairly pretty.

So hot and heavy in your hand as you pump him at a steady, methodical pace. Precum smearing on your palm, trailing down your wrist as you pump. Tighter on the base, thumbing teasingly under his slit the way you knew he used to like. 

“Oh fuck, sweetheart. Still remember, huh?” he hisses lowly. Ah, the way he still likes. 

“Mhm.” you hum absentmindedly, thighs clenching together at the way his hips grind in shallow, mindless little motions into your soft hand. Meeting your strokes as if trying to fuck something so delicious out of him.

And, well, you just couldn’t resist a taste. Bending down in one, fluid motion to delicately lick at his angry, hard head. Slightly salty taste on your tongue as you swipe at the droplets of precum pooling on his tip. Tracing lightly - ever-so-lightly - down his prominent veins. 

Satoru groans, low and hoarse with desire, “Shit, hah- you don’ ngh- have to-”

“Shut up, Satoru.” 

And with that, you’re shoving down as much as you can of his throbbing erection down your throat. Cunt clenching at the way he hardens impossibly as you choke and gag around him.

“Shit, oh- Oh fuck, m’girl. Yes yes yes-.” Satoru lets out a guttural moan. Fingers threading through your hair as he uses it as leverage to fuck himself slowly, deeper and deeper into your heavenly mouth. Hips stuttering and jerky with pleasure. Yeah, he definitely missed this. 

Half-delirious and cock-drunk, you take him all the way till your nose was buried in the tufts of white at his toned pelvis, already so wet with saliva and precum. 

Still got it, some smug, utterly debauched part of yourself titters. 

It was dizzying, the way he was pulsing in your throat, his heady scent filling your senses. Beginning to move up and down up and down in hasty, desperate bobs of your head. Pulling such lewd gasps and moans from his lips. 

You moan around Satoru’s thick cock, clawing at his toned hips for some semblance of stability. Some truly animalistic part of yourself relishing in the neat, red lines down his milky skin. The sight hazy through the tears that spring to your eyes at the way his fat tip hits your abused throat. A relentless, sinful tempo you were steadily losing your mind to.

Messy.  It was so fucking messy.

You just wondered if his orgasm would be the same…

But, alas, one can’t always get what they want. Because Satoru pulls you off of his achingly hard cock with a lewd pop! that rings in his ears and makes your cunt twitch. 

“Shit, sweetheart. Any longer and I’ll have to start thinking about ol’ Prof. Gakuganji to not cum.” he pants through ragged breaths, flashing you a deceptively innocent grin. “Now, lay back and spread ‘em f’me and let me see if your pretty pussy can still handle me.”

And that you don’t argue with. 

It’s almost embarrassing - the way you scramble desperately to sink back into the mattress. Letting Satoru manhandle your legs open so shamefully for him, throwing them over his muscled shoulders. But that’s a problem for the future, not lust-drunk you. 

Right now you couldn’t give less of a fuck as his hungry gaze locks on your glistening pussy. Pausing for just a split-second before spitting once. Twice. Thrice onto your waiting cunt. Making you feel more and more like an object as the warm saliva mixes obscenely with your slick, trickling down to form such a sinful pool on the sheets below. 

And you liked it.

Almost as much as you loved the way Satoru drags his tip along your swollen folds, catching so maddeningly on your clit. Teasingly pooling your slick on his leaking head. It was so sloppy. And too slow. 

“Satoru, I’ve waited five months too long for this. If you’re going to fuck me then fuck me like you mean it.” you grit out, frustration and pure need boiling over within you. 

“Oh? So it’s like that, huh?” 

And maybe you were a mastermind, maybe you were an idiot - probably both. Because Satoru immediately pushes in one, long thrust into your dripping cunt. Your words catch pathetically in your throat as he loses grip on whatever semblance of restraint he had - or his sanity - whichever one would break you first. 

Fuck, it feels so heavenly. Oh, how you missed him.

Bowing his body down down down till his damp forehead met yours. Folding you completely underneath him in the way you’ve found that only the smug bastard, Gojo Satoru can. 

You could almost sob at the stretch as he presses in - deliciously painful, borderline insane, and exactly what you’d been trying to deny that you’d been craving all these past five months. Being split apart on his throbbing cock, feeling like you were about to be absolutely devoured underneath him. 

It seems Satoru was just as needy for you, hot and throbbing agonizingly inside you, each little bump bump bump against your walls matching that of your heart thundering against your chest. 

Or was that Satoru’s? At this point you couldn’t even tell. 

“Oh, god yes-, jus’ like that ah shit shit shit-”

“This what you wanted, yeah?” A low growl leaves his throat at how sinfully your walls were milking him as he pulls back. All the way till his leaking tip was just innocently kissing your sloppy hole - only to ram his cock all the way back into your snug cunt. “To be split apart on my cock?” 

Shit, he could just about pass out right now with the way your cunt was sucking him in so greedily like she never wanted to part. 

Guess she missed him too, he thinks deliriously. Not even having to think about it as he starts fucking into you in shallow, mindless little thrusts. Pushing himself deeper and deeper into your plushy cunt. 

“Äh- fuck, yeah. S’all I’ve wanted.” you mewl, feeling so vulnerable and exposed under the hungry eyes boring into yours. A dark gleam in them as he grins, “Then take it back.”

Disoriented, you gasp out a strangled, “What?” before Satoru’s hips become rougher, chasing his high as much as yours. 

“What you said at dinner.” your lips fall into a soft oh! as you realize just what he’s talking about, “Admit that no man makes you cum as hard as I do.”

God, you don’t think you could answer even if you wanted to, choking on the harsh, purposeful movements of his hips just to fuck your soul out. 

Heavy balls stinging your skin, the lewd sounds of skin-on-skin fills the heady air. Driving you to insanity. An absolutely unforgiving cadence that has the bed creaking in protest. Ah, whatever, he could buy them a new one anyway if this one just so happens to break.

“Take it back yet?” He had to break you first though.

Slick gushes out of your heated cunt, dripping down his length and pooling at his heavy balls, stinging your ass at each merciless thrust. “No.” 

A large hand hastily makes its way down to draw rough, frenzied little circles on your throbbing clit. Voice strangled, sweat beading on his forehead, thrusts becoming increasingly sloppier. “How about now?”

“Ah- hngh- oh fuck. Satoru!” You could only moan softly in response, broken whimpers leaving you each time his tip kissed your cervix. Angling his hips just right to expertly brush against that one spot he knew so well would have you keening and bucking up into his cock. Your face almost burns at the sheer familiarity of it all. This bastard knew you too well. 

And something about that made such an uncomfortable, prickly feeling pool in your stomach. 

Something which you knew would only be sated if you looped your arms around his neck. Nails digging into his sculpted back as you pulled him impossibly closer.

Kissing his flushed cheeks as he murmurs, “Take it back, sweetheart.”

Despite the thick cock splitting you in half till you probably couldn’t walk tomorrow morning, you find it in yourself to huff out a soft laugh at the way Satoru’s tone teetered on just that endearing side of sulky. “Fine. You win, Toru.” you whisper into his lips,

And then you’re cumming. White-hot pleasure flashing behind your eyes and Satoru’s lips gently slotting against yours as he fucked you through your high. Acting as if the fucked-out whimper of his nickname is one he’ll never forget. 

As if he couldn’t cum simply from hearing it leave your pretty lips. And he does, shooting thick, hot ropes of cum painting your plushy walls white with a raw groan of your name. It oozes out of your cunt and onto the mess of sheets below as he fucks his seed into you as a lover would. As he would. 

It was intoxicating - everything from the way you milked his cock so sinfully, to the arms tight around his shoulders. Pulling him close, running soothingly along his skin as Satoru collapses onto you with a final, fucked-out thrust. 

And despite being a lightweight, Satoru’s never been so easily drunk off of something than he was off of you. God how he missed this - how he missed you. 

So much so that he can’t put it into words - and probably won’t ever be able to. But it’s alright, because your sticky body snug against his, and Satoru arms tenderly around your waist - but you didn’t mind. Both of you understood.

Satoru traces his fingers lazily along your side, neither of you bothering to tackle the mammoth task of cleaning up for now. Each movement slow and gentle, as if any sudden movement might shatter the delicate balance between you. 

All is quiet in your little haven, and you could almost fall asleep. The most contented one you’ve had in a while - 5 months, 3 weeks, and 7 hours ago to be exact.

But, of course, Satoru can’t keep his mouth shut for nothing. You jolt out of your reverie as he hastily tries to stifle the startled laugh that huffs out of him. Your dazed eyes meet his in the dim lighting, raising a brow in question.

“It’s just…” he starts, voice soft, “You still call me Toru. Feels like home.”

Ah.

You find yourself chuckling softly with him. Heat rushing to your cheeks, burying yourself deeper into his warm chest, to hide the embarrassingly flustered smile breaking out across your face if anything. 

Chuckling, Satoru shifts closer, touch now feather-light against your cheek, tracing the line of your jaw with his fingertips. Faltering ever-so-slightly as you mutter out, “Happy anniversary, by the way. I didn’t say it earlier because someone was being a public menace.”

“Hey! It’s not my fault that someone locked me out of my own honeymoon suite.” he laughs, drinking in your pretty lil’ smile. 

Ah, you were perfect. As you always were. Satoru can’t help but utter out a little, “Hey, if I tell you something absolutely stupid, would you promise not to make me fish food?”

“Absolutely not.”

He knew you’d say that. So he flashes you an easy grin, a hint of nervousness in it that he’s sure you see through - you always do. 

“So…” he begins, “First thing’s first, I’m thinking of expanding my father’s company further overseas and it might just so happen that I’m leading the branch development and get to pick where exactly.”

God, you made him feel like such a teenager. At your stunned silence, Satoru could barely raise his eyes to meet yours as he plows on, stumbling so uncharacteristically over his words, “You, I picked where you are.”

You’re breathless, words barely audible as his sinks in. “What? Toru that’s-”

“And don’t be mad but you kinda sorta didn’t-win-the-raffle-so-instead-I-planned-this-getaway-when-we-were-together.”

Any and every trace of breathless euphoria leaves your tone as you narrow your eyes at the very guilty Satoru beside you. Fidgeting under your intense scrutiny. Finally - after what seems like an eternity - you find your senses after his whiplash-inducing information dump. 

A hand immediately shoots out to squeeze his side, right where you knew he was dangerously ticklish.

“You sneaky little-” you scold over his laughed out yells of, “Mercy! No murder on our honeymoon!” squirming helplessly beneath you.

“I can’t believe you let me chug all that ice cream.”

“Exactly- hah- help! You w-would’ve been so sad that you ah- didn’t win.” he manages to choke out under your attack.

Finally relenting, only once you’re sure he’ll be feeling the burn of laughter until your flight tomorrow, you release him from your grasp. A satisfied smirk playing on your lips as you lean in close. “You’re lucky I still love you, you smug bastard” you deadpan.

“Aww, you beat me to it.” Satoru whines. Yet he reaches out to cup your cheek, “And I love you,” words hanging in the air like a promise. “With every fiber of my being.”

You let yourself be begrudgingly pulled into his embrace again, hands caressing along your skin like the highest form of worship. Satoru sighs out a contented, “Best honeymoon ever.” 

But of course, you couldn’t help but bully your idiotic boyfriend. “This is not a honeymoon, Toru.” you mutter into his heated skin.

He only presses you closer to him. Yeah maybe not, fingers deftly dancing along your left hand. But maybe next time. 

“Wanna watch the stars and tell me all about that branch development?”

“Of course, sweetheart, but first can you at least unblock me on Gmail now?”

“...”

You broke up with Gojo Satoru exactly 5 months, 3 weeks, and 12 hours ago. And as for how long it’s been since he won you back - well, you think it might just be one of the few things you didn’t keep count of.

A/N. Based on my vacay at Lily Beach except I didn’t meet my future husband there :0

Plagiarism not authorized.

᯽ wet dreamz • osamu dazai

synopsis • you’ve been having some dubious dreams about one (1) osamu dazai and you let it slip.

warnings • swearing, lucid dreaming, fem!reader, ņsfw, dazai (he needs his own warning, yes), nickname “bella” is used, hair pulling, some light hand stuff/teasing, oral (f -> m), no set dynamic (both parties switch), masturbation (f), clothed sex, edging, finger sucking, slight choking, creampie, overstimulation, pussy drunk dazai, this is a long one >.<, also mildly unedited

wc • 6.8k

a/n • ahahahaha i don’t know

his hands are all over you, all at once, but it’s still not enough. you can’t pinpoint why because in all honesty it should be borderline overwhelming. but it’s not.

maybe you’re just greedy. you’ve been waiting for this for so long that you’ve been dreaming about it. dreaming? something washes over you and, once again, you can’t place it. you shake it off internally. how could you pay anything much attention when what you should be paying attention to is the man underneath you pawing at your skin.

he’s demanding all of your attention and you’ll gladly give it to him. you don’t remember how you got here, or how you got his shirt off but you dip down and kiss his exposed and surprisingly sun kissed skin. everything is blurry, the feeling of his skin under your lips, the image of him shirtless underneath you and the sensation of his nimble fingers kneading at your ass. 

before you can overthink it, he gets impatient and guides your hips to grind down on his hardened crotch. your mind is the next thing to become blurry. you straighten up and throw your head back as the sensation of the friction overtakes your senses. you want more, need more.

as if the brunette could read your mind, he’s tugging at your panties. it’s only then that you realize, he’s pantless as well. things felt like they were going too fast and also too slow all at once. you sit yourself back down on his length and continue to grind down on him.

your head is swimming and distantly you hear ringing in your ears. you ignore it though, the sounds of his moans drowning out any other noise. his grip on your bottom tightens and he lifts your hips up expertly aligning himself with your entrance.

he’s about to sit you back down and stretch you out but the ringing gets louder and everything goes white.

᯽•᯽

you woke this morning in a pool of your own sweat — thighs rubbing together desperately seeking out the same sensations you experienced in your dream. 

now you’re sitting at your desk feeling extremely embarrassed and, frankly, frustrated that you had yet another wet dream about your coworker, dazai osamu. 

you let out a huff while typing up a report on yesterday’s case. of all people in this office it just had to be the most insufferable of them all. why did he have to be so gorgeous? why couldn’t you think the same of kunikida? hell, even ranpo would have been a better choice than dazai. you think your subconscious is cruel. laughing at you, making fun of you by giving you wet dreams. you felt like a fucking teenager. hell, you don’t think you even had wet dreams when you were an adolescent going through puberty. how utterly embarrassing.

you let out yet another exasperated sigh, brows furrowed and fingers typing furiously. you were making a spectacle and your deskmates had long since noticed your sour mood. atsushi and kunikida were the smart ones, they simply let you be, figuring if you wanted to talk about it you would bring it up. 

dazai, however, is nosey. his natural curiosity always getting the better of him. he builds a simple paper airplane and shoots it through the air. it lands right on your keyboard and your aggressive typing finally ceases. you stare at the airplane as if you’ve never seen one in your entire life. you refuse to look up, fearing that if you look at dazai you’ll be reminded of what your subconscious thinks of him. you don’t think you can handle that quite yet.

dazai watches, slightly perturbed, as you seem to try to make his little creation spontaneously combust. no matter how unsettling, dazai still isn’t deterred. atsushi shoots him a warning look, as if to say this wasn’t a good idea. the brunette blatantly ignores the boy and wheels himself over to your part of the desk, which was a show in itself since you’re on the complete opposite side of where he was sat. that means dazai has to push himself past either atsushi or kunikida. of course, him being the menace that he is, dazai chooses the harder path of going around kunikida.

you don’t see it because you’re still having a staring contest with your little gift but kunikida’s eye twitches as dazai swivels past him. the blonde was going to take the high road though. he was going to let it slide since you seemed to need the distraction. but dazai was clumsy and clipped his wheels on the ones of his partner’s chair. kunikida’s eye twitches and he can’t help himself.

”dazai…” it’s a simple warning. one that the brown eyed detective promptly ignores.

dazai makes it to you without another hitch and gingerly reaches over to replace the airplane with a paper rose.

you blink. stare some more. then finally look up. “dazai, what the fuck?” 

“oh c’mon, bella. you’ve been in a mood all day. i thought a rose would cheer you up enough to tell me what’s got you in such a sulky mood.” dazai pouts at you and it takes everything in you to look away for your sanity.

you can feel your cheeks heating up by just the small interaction. if these dreams persist, you’re not sure you can keep your composure. you were barely hanging on by a thread as it was. you distantly think maybe it’s your subconscious telling you that you need to get laid. you almost scoff at the thought.

yes. it has been some time since you last slept with someone, but there is no way that was causing the dreams. if that was the case you would be having dreams about more than just dazai. he was simply plaguing your mind and you think you might go insane if this kept going on. 

so instead of dealing with it like a sane person, because you aren’t right now, you decide to take it out on the very man that has been haunting your mind. “i’m trying to get my work done and i’m certainly not in the mood. go bother atsushi if you’re bored, dazai.”

you hear a small complaint come from across the desk and look up to see atsushi giving you an accusatory expression. you immediately feel guilty for throwing him under the bus and finally relax for the first time all day. you toss the weretiger an apologetic smile then whip around to glare at dazai for a moment.

”i changed my mind. you’re buying me lunch at the cafe. let’s go.” you don’t give dazai any time to answer. you save your work, shut your laptop and promptly stand up and walk off. you weren’t going to give dazai any room to argue. you figured if he didn’t follow then he wasn’t that curious and you got to enjoy a break in silence.

unfortunately you hear dance-like footsteps coming from behind you, indicating that dazai was, in fact, following. you both step into the elevator and about halfway down dazai finally opens his mouth.

”so, what’s got a beautiful woman such as yourself in such a mood today?” his smile is lazy and eyes dull.

you hate this. you hate when he acts like this. you do genuinely like dazai, just not this version of him. the shut off version, the one that puts on a facade and plays with people for fun. you don’t have much time to think about it though. the elevator jolts to a sudden stop and dings, indicating that you’ve made it to the ground floor. you scurry out of the small space and make your way to the cafe. 

when you enter your mood instantly sours seeing that it wasn’t lucy in today, but rather the waitress dazai is always making eyes at and wistfully requesting her to perform a double suicide with him. you muster up a smile to offer the owner and wave at him before taking your seat at one of the booths. dazai plops himself on the other side across from you.

the waitress comes over and you brace yourself for the encounter that’s about to transpire. dazai watches you closely, head tilting to the side curiously. 

“welcome, detectives, what can i get you started with today?” her smile is sweet and you feel bad for your previous annoyance. it’s not her fault dazai doesn’t understand the art of subtlety. 

dazai speaks up before you can get a chance to. “go on, bella, you order whatever you want.” dazai addresses his attention to the waitress next. “everything will be going on my tab, miss waitress.”

”how very generous of you, mr. dazai. i assume you finally invested in that life insurance policy i recommended?” her smile is sweet but her words are clipped and condescending. you let out a little snort as dazai starts to sweat a little. 

before dazai can quip back, you order. “i’ll take an iced latte and the sandwich of the day, please.”

“of course miss. what about you, mr. dazai?”

dazai almost shrinks at her faux warm demeanor. “i’ll just take a cup of coffee.” 

you raise your brow at him disapprovingly and before the waitress can scurry off you quickly get out, “can you make sure my sandwich is cut in half?”

she smiles at you genuinely and nods her head. after she walks off you catch dazai staring at you once again. you know he’s about to speak again and you dread whatever it is that’s going to fall from those surprisingly full lips of his. 

“so, are you going to tell me what’s gotten your panties in a twist all day?”

nice.

how eloquent of him. 

you scowl at him and hiss out, “could you not refer to it as that?”

”sorry, bella. would you rather i ask why you’ve been so sour all day in a different way?” dazai grins at you clearly pleased at getting a rise out of you. 

you huff and roll your eyes. “would you believe me if i told you it’s because i had a dream of you?”

”oh? did you now? what was the dream about? you must regale me with all of the details.” dazai sets his elbows on the table in between the two of you. his fingers intertwine and he rests his head atop his hands. 

it’s almost eerie, the way he’s looking at you but you can’t quite place why. you wince internally realizing your mistake. how the hell are you supposed to tell dazai that you fantasized about— no. you didn’t fantasize, it was a dream. a creation of your subconscious. not of your control. you want to shrivel up and die. 

how the hell are you supposed to explain that to dazai?

you don’t. it’s the only sane reasoning you can come up with. but now you have to scramble to come up with something to dazai. the longer you just blankly stare at him the more suspicious he’s going to get. you can see it in the way his eyes become hooded and his right brow shifts up.

dazai perks up a bit and, oh god, here it comes. the realization you’ve been dreading. “don’t tell me you dreamt about me in that way.” he hums dramatically. “what a naughty girl, thinking about your colleague in such a way~”

you involuntary freeze. sure you knew this was coming but there is no way he saw through you that easily. he came to that conclusion so fast and you know for a fact you aren’t an easy person to read unless you want someone to. he couldn’t have just picked up on your thoughts like that. no, you have to remind yourself this is dazai osamu. he could have done exactly that. regardless, you refuse to admit it to yourself, let alone dazai.

“absolutely n-“ you’re cut off by the waitress dropping off your drinks and the sandwich. 

clearly she understood what you meant by your earlier request because she brings you an extra plate. you thank her one more time before she walks off. placing the slightly bigger half of the sandwich on the extra plate and scooting it towards dazai.

“eat.” he looks at you curiously but obliges when you give him an expectant glare.

you know he won’t drop the previous subject but luckily for you he’s too busy with eating to make much conversation. you both enjoy your respective halves of the delicious sandwich in silence. it was peaceful, a stark contrast to what usually transpired when you’re with dazai. you observe him quietly, subtly, as you chew on the last bite of your food.

he’s picking at the bread after only two bites. his coffee was finished within the first few minutes of it being set in front of him. a clear avoidance. keeping himself busy with sipping on his coffee so he wouldn’t have to eat. the few bites were to appease you. unfortunately for him you know all of those tricks, maybe a little too well.

you cross your arms over your chest and think about this tactically, you know if you scold him outright he’ll brush it off easily. you have to think like him for a moment. what would he do if your positions were switched.

playing dumb. “you know, it’s not very polite to let a lady eat more than you…” 

you pout and look away from him, trying to seem embarrassed. you’re not sure if it’s worked. you’re honestly too nervous to look. you think it must look real because you’re now actually embarrassed by the probably god awful acting you just displayed.

but then you hear distinct chewing and peak over to something that pleasantly surprises you. he’s taken another two bites, significantly larger than the last two, because he’s almost finished with the sandwich by the time you fully turn to look at him. 

for the first time all day you finally crack a smile at him and let out a fit of giggles. dazai almost chokes on the sandwich from the sound alone. it’s a sound he’ll never get used to nor will he ever get tired of it. you’re too busy trying to calm your giggles to notice dazai’s internal struggle as he finishes off his own food all the while staring at you in amazement.

you take a few calming breaths and look at him, still all smiles. dazai resists the urge to clutch his chest, something in it stirs — an extremely alarming and foreign sensation for him. dazais nerves are suddenly on fire. he suddenly recalls what you said earlier, how you dreamt about him. he knows you planned on denying his earlier implications but the way you paused makes him think you were having those types of dreams about him. 

dazai’s fingers twitch at his sides. he’d be lying if he said he didn’t think of you like that. hell, he’d probably have the same types of dreams if he actually dreamt. dazai’s breathing shallows and he need to get away from you. his self control thinning with each passing second he thinks about you in the most intimate of ways. 

he knows it’s wrong. at least in your case you can’t control it. but here his is, shamelessly fantasizing about you like you aren’t sat right in front of him. dazai disgusts himself. he wants to bash his head in, his thoughts swimming, making it hard for him to focus. vision blurring and ears rushing like there’s water stuck in them.

dazai abruptly stands up and announces, “we should get back to work. kunikida will get on us if we take any longer.”

you’re so perplexed because when has dazai ever cared about what kunikida thinks about? then you notice it, the unmistakable bulge straining against the crotch of his pants. you swear you didn’t mean to look, it was just currently at eye level. you’re suddenly given an opportunity, something you need to make a decision on and quickly. 

as calmly as you can, you slide out of the booth and wave to the owner and waitress before grasping onto dazai’s hand and dragging the brunette away with you. dazai is far too dazed to protest at how assertive you’re being. you lead the way to the elevator and the ride there is painstakingly quiet and slow. the second the contraption dings and the doors begin to open you’re slipping through with dazai still in tow.

the lanky man is thoroughly confused when, instead of going back to the office, you shove the two of you in the supply closet. he wants to ask but something tells him he doesn’t need to. your body language gives way that you’re going to explain yourself.

thank god there’s a lock on the inside of this room. you really did not want to relocate to the bathroom for this. dazai is still dazed, unsure of what’s happening, just letting you toss him around like a rag doll. everything is still on fire making him feel detached from his body. the sensation is almost numbing.

“you know what’s so frustrating?” your breathing is just as shallow as his is now. the ride on the elevator working you up far more than it should have. 

although he’s detached, your voice anchors him. he looks down at your flushed face and he almost whimpers at the sight. he croaks out, “what is?”

“you. you’re so frustrating. your stupid act, your stupid need to play dumb, your stupid big brown eyes, your stupidly long fingers, your stupidly handsome face and your stupidly careless actions. y’know, you’ve had a hard on since you stood up at the cafe. practically shoved it in my face.” you have him trapped, his back is hitting the end of some shelves.

you don’t touch him yet. you look up at him and gauge his reaction. he seems to be battling with what he should say and you could laugh in triumph. you’ve never seen someone render the dazai osamu speechless, but you just did it with a few suggestive sentences. 

dazai takes a shuddered breath collecting his wits before grinning down at you after fully processing your words. “my apologies, bella. that wasn’t my intention, but what is yours? this is quite the damning position you have me in.”

your confidence falters but you quickly recover and click your tongue. “it would be rude of me to not help you calm down… especially if i was the cause.” 

you look away, embarrassed by your own proposition. dazai takes a moment. he knows what you’re implying, he’s sure of it, but he’s having a hard time wrapping his head around it. after what feels like an eternity— it’s not, you’re just being dramatic— it finally clicks in dazai’s head. you’re being serious, if the look on your face is any indication. 

the detective hums and reaches out. his hand cups your face and glides up into your hair, fingers tangling with the strands and tugging just a little too harshly to be considered gentle. he was needy, you could see it in the endless sea of honey that are his irises. something was stirring. 

“how am i supposed to say no to that? i’m a weak man, unable to deny a beautiful woman when she makes such an enticing offer.”

you don’t have time to bite back with a witty comment because his lips are quite literally crashing into yours. the second his chapped lips make contact with your own every single touch and action from him comes from a place of desperation. although skilled, his actions are sloppy and almost rushed. his free hand grips your waist and draws you even closer. 

your hands land on his chest to brace and balance yourself. you try to catch your breath but dazai is proving that difficult with how his tongue dances along your own. his actions steal your breath away from you and make your lungs burn, screaming for relief and air. 

the lack of air and the sensation of dazai’s tongue tangling with your own dizzies your head. you can’t get a proper thought out. instinctively your mouth is moving with his, tongue smoothing over his, and hands fisting at the cloth on his chest but you couldn’t move out of your own volition. 

dazai pulls your head back by once again tugging at your hair. you let out an involuntary whimper, making sure to stay quiet as you gasp for air. dazai dips his head down and speaks in between littering kisses on your neck.

“i thought you were going to help me calm down, bella. so far i’m doing all the work and now i’m far more worked up than i was in the cafe.” 

his words bring you crashing down to reality and you scowl. of course he would still tease you. he loves getting a rise out of you. 

you don’t entertain him, though. instead your hand travels down his torso and starts tugging at his shirt. you pout at him mockingly. “i didn’t realize some mild kissing would work you up so much. ‘didn’t realize you were so sensitive -- so needy.” 

dazai wants to quip back at you but as you’re talking you’re undoing his pants and your last word is emphasized by you shoving your hand down his pants. your hand almost falters when you realize he’s not wearing anything underneath. instead, though, you take your index finger and teasingly run it along his length. it feels endless, he’s long, you realize. you briefly wonder just how far, how deep, he could reach inside of you. 

dazai shudders at the feather like touches to where he needs attention the most right now. you lean up and with your free hand you tug on dazais collar to bring him down to your level. your breath fans over his ear and, god, he shudders again. 

you hum. “‘s this where you need attention right now?”

“yes.” dazai breathes out the word. clearly affected by the way your finger is twirling around the leaking tip of his cock.

you maintain eye contact with dazai as you sink to your knees. the implication alone has dazai’s nerves coiling tighter. he brings his hand up to cover his face, head falling back as he groans. his breathing becomes more erratic as you withdrawal your hand, he barely contain a whimper from falling past his lips at the loss of contact. but you make quick work of shocking his pants halfway down his thighs and finally freeing his strained length.

your mouth begins to salivate involuntarily. his cock is surprisingly pretty and just as you suspected — his length is impressive, definitely above average. the leaking tip is flushed pink and his veins are visibly throbbing. you want nothing more than to choke on it but first, you think you need to tease him some more.

you rest your cheek on his trembling thigh and stare up at him innocently. “osamu.” he could cum, right then and there with the way you say his given name.

dazai looks down at you. the sight in front of him bringing him embarrassingly closer to release. all dazai can muster is a hum of acknowledgment and even that sounds a little pained.

you smile at his obvious desperation. “if i help you out here you need to follow a couple rules. be quiet and no touching. think you can do that for me?”

dazai tries so hard to pay attention to your words but barely registers them. did you say no touching? no touching what? and him being quiet? a bold request of him.

you seem pleased with how quick he is to nod at you in obedience. you waste no time, ready to indulge both of your fantasies. you lick a long stripe along the vein on the underside of his cock. dazai is twitching at the one action alone. how embarrassing of him — you both have the same thought. 

the brunette’s fingers itch to touch you but his mind is coherent enough to remember your stipulations. no touching. how cruel of you. to resist that temptation when you’re making him feel this good is just downright wicked.

you don’t miss the way his fists clench in a desperate attempt to keep his word. how could you not reward him for that? listening to you like such a good and obedient puppy. your tongue darts out to swirl around his flushed tip. the taste of his precum floods your tastebuds and you’re instantly hooked like an addict to their drug of choice. dazai’s taste was your new vice. 

your lips wrap around his head and you hollow your cheeks. dazai is panting. his head spinning from the pleasure at just the slightest of touches from you. his head hangs back and he brings his fist to his mouth and bites down. he wants to groan, wants to whimper, wants to moan your name. but you’ve denied him that privilege and he has a feeling that you would be merciless if he gave in and disregarded your requests. 

you take more of him with each bob of your head and with each stroke of your tongue you unravel the tight coil that had formed in dazai’s stomach. he was already so close. what a sight it would be to watch you choke over him as he spills everything he has directly down your throat. the thought almost undoes him. he bites down on his fist harder and he thinks he may have broken skin.

you observe dazai and it’s all so hot. his pants, his facial expressions, the way sweat is starting to form on his face and cause his hair to stick to it. you can feel yourself getting worked and you’re impatient. thank god the weather permitted you to wear a pencil skirt instead of the usual slack you usually wear. you use your free hand to bunch up your skirt at your waist. the actions makes your movements on dazai’s cock a little sloppy. he hadn’t noticed yet but his brows furrow as if he’s starting to. you try to fix your pace but it’s too late. he is already picking up his head and peering down at you. 

you were trying to touch yourself. if his head wasn’t already spinning this is what would be what sent him into a spiral. you had the audacity to call him needy but then in turn do something like this. it was unfair. 

Dazai can’t help himself. “bella, are you trying to touch yourself?” it comes out as a teasing whisper. you don’t miss the amusement in his voice. 

you suppose you asked him to stay quiet, not to stay silent.

still, your brows furrow and you ever so slightly graze your teeth against his cock. the sensation is something dazai sickeningly loves. his eyes are rolling back into his head and he let’s out a short moan. it’s quiet and you’re quite annoyed that he’s found a loophole. 

you can’t deny that his noises aren’t doing something for you, though. you’re even more desperate than before to slip out of your panties. you maneuver around and manage to shimmy them off. it’s almost embarrassing how wet the crotch of them are. you try to care but you just can bring yourself to do so when dazai’s hips begin to thrust and force the small bit of his length you’ve been unable to touch down your throat. 

you gag around him and dazai’s grasping at the shelves behind him for leverage. you spread your legs the best you can, being on your knees like this and sneak your hand up your thigh. you can feel the heat radiating off of you. you run a finger through your slick and moan around dazai when the digit brushes your clit.

“fuck, fuck, fuck ‘s so good, bella. your mouth ‘s so perfect for me.” his voice is hushed and breathy.

you’re not even listening to his babble as your nose continues to brush against his pelvis every time your sucking him back into your mouth. gagging, choking, on his cock. your eyes are watery, tears spilling from that and the sensation coming from below your pelvis. your finger makes expert work of your clit.

it’s too much.

you can’t breath right, dazai can’t think right, you gag with every thrust, dazai can’t control his stuttering hips, your one hand is playing with yourself and the other reaches up to cup dazai’s balls. 

it’s not only too much for you, it’s too much for dazai. the added sensation makes nerve, every cell, every fiber that makes up dazai ignite. he was about to cum, he needed to warn you. he needed to open his mouth and say something but it just flapped, no noise was coming out.

you bob your head back and peer up at dazai, his erratic breathing becoming suspiciously loud. the look on his face is absolutely breathtaking — it’s flushed, almost beet red, tears of his own trickle down his cheeks in droplets. he looked like a fallen angel, beautiful and dangerous all at the same time. 

you moan at the sight. fingers traveling down to your entrance and slowly pushing through. you suck in a breath and fold your lips over your teeth to keep yourself from grazing his length with them. the initial stretch feels divine but your fingers themselves aren’t enough. you need dazai’s twitching cock inside your cunt.

you note that dazais cock is throbbing painfully and starts to twitch quite a lot.

oh, you realize, he’s going to cum. 

you smirk deviously. you push your mouth down on dazai until his tip is hitting the back of your throat. with your eyes still on him you hollow your cheeks and swallow. dazai almost yelps at the added stimulation. his head snaps up and finally his attention is on you.

“shit.” he hisses, this time a little louder, so you glare up at him. “sorry- sorry but- fuck- gonna cum, please, ‘m so close.”

the second those words leave his mouth you’re backing up and removing your fingers from yourself. dazai let’s out a mangled noise, something between a sob and laugh. it was almost unnerving but the blissed out look on dazai’s face tells you he’s enjoying this game far more than the average person.

you watch his chest heave, his breathing heavy. his face is as red as a blooming rose. you think it’s a sort of beautiful sight to see. dazai never gets flustered, so seeing him like this, you can’t help but to feel special. 

you stand up as you pout at him, mock empathy written all over your face. “sorry, did you wanna cum? don’t think i can have that quite yet. not when you haven’t even fucked me. right, osamu?”

there it is again, the sound of his given name falling from your lips. something in dazai snaps. the thread of his sanity that you’d been stretching thin ever since the cafe finally tore in two. his eyes darken dangerously and you only have a moment to realize the shift before he’s picking you up by your thighs and wrapping them around his thin waist. you can feel his stiff cock lightly bouncing against your ass as he flips you around and pins you against the shelves.

his head dips down and he lips scant across the skin of your neck. he’s careful to only leave feather light touches. scraping the rough skin of his mouth on one of your most sensitive areas sends a shock of electricity through your body. you so badly want to tug at his hair but you’re coherent enough to realize your fingers are still coated in your own slick. 

you smile slyly at the detective as he peers at you through his ridiculously long lashes. you grab his chin delicately and bring your soiled fingers to his lips. his eyes light up in immediate realization. he wordlessly opens his mouth, tongue lolling out a bit as he happily waits for his treat like a puppy, you can practically see his tail wagging. you let out a breathless laugh, because you think you may be screwed. dazai osamu has you wrapped around his pretty and lithe fingers and you think he already knew that. 

you think about making him beg for it but you’re so momentarily mesmerized by the brunette that you find yourself leaning in and gently interesting the digits into his mouth. dazai is quick to appreciate your offering. his lips encase your fingers and his tongue makes quick work of lapping up and savoring your taste.

dazai’s hip involuntarily rut into yours and you can’t help yourself. all the pent up frustration you’ve felt since the dreams started finally gets to your head. you’re desperate to feel him inside of you. a sensation you were always denied of, waking up before actually getting fucked by the very man holding you each time. you reach down to guide his cock then expertly shift your hips and he becomes perfectly aligned with your entrance. dazai is sucking on your fingers but his actions become sloppy as he watches what you’re doing with intense concentration.

you waste no time sinking yourself down on his length, he’s already well coated in your slick and eases into you. you bite on your lip to avoid making any obscene noises but dazai snaps you into reality when he carelessly moans loudly. you panic and shove your fingers further into his mouth. he hums appreciatively and if his hips rocking into yours didn’t feel so good you’d hop off his cock right then and there and leave him blue balled. you could bring yourself to do that though, not when you’ve been waiting for this for so long.

you settle for hissing out, “shut the fuck up, dazai.” 

dazai gives you a shit eating grin as he snakes an arm under your ass and squeezes before slowly shifting his hips away from yours, leaving you virtually empty, before sliding himself back into you at the same painstakingly slow pace. he repeats the slowed movements a few times before you’re slipping your fingers out of his mouth and bracing yourself on his shoulders. you try to move your hips on your own but dazai is quick to catch you.

“ah, ah, bella. can’t have you doing whatever you want right now. unless you want me to get louder, you’ll let me set the pace.” his voice is slightly strained and hushed, but despite his seriousness, you can hear the tiniest bit of teasing mixed in.

you let out a whine but resign to him setting the pace. in the meantime your fingers find their way to his hair and tug. dazais hips stutter, showing you that he is far too needy to take full control. taking full advantage of just how distracted he is, you grind your hips into the detective’s with each thrust and dip your head to leave sloppy wet kisses along his jaw and down his neck.

“shit, you’ve been so wound tight all the time lately that even your perfect cunt has a vice grip on me. it’s so perfect, feels so good.” you can tell how hard dazai is trying to be quiet and you note that you should reward him for that later.

it doesn’t take long for his pace to increase, his rapid movements making the shelves behind you rock and creak. dazai still seems displeased with the pace, his brows knitting together in concentration. you catch his eyes flitting to your neck and lingering there. 

you’ve always worn your tie loose, the first couple buttons if your dress shirt undone. it drives dazai mad. your neck and cleavage are always on display in the most tasteful way. he wants nothing more than to run his hand over your velvety soft skin and wrap his nimble fingers around your neck. now that he has the chance to do so, he can’t pass up the opportunity.

your grip in his hair tightens as he shifts you, keeping you up with one arm as he keeps his pace. you have no room to question him when the new positioning has his cock nudging your sweet spot so deliciously. your head becomes dizzy and your mouth falls open in a silent moan. 

dazai’s hand travels up your body, palm flush with your skin so he can feel every bump and curve. he starts at your upper abdomen and slithers it up. he completely ignores your breasts which you vaguely think was his goal. you have no time to act surprise over it bc his hand is gently wrapping around your neck. he wants to squeeze, fingers twitching, but he resigns to a light grip to simply test the waters. 

your response is something he wasn’t expecting. your eyes roll back and you let out a hushed whimper. that’s when he realizes, he wants to do this forever. he wants to fuck you senseless so he can see that beautiful expression on your face forever. so he can feel you tightly wrapped around him forever. dazai wants you forever. the fleeting thought scares him just a little but he has no time to dwell on it because the coil in his stomach is unraveling once again.

“dazai-“ your interrupted by him bringing you in for a sloppy kiss. you think the noises from the kiss alone are far more obscene than the noises from him bullying his cock into you, which is a hard feat considering those are, by no means, quiet or pure. 

when the brunette detaches himself he breathes out. “osamu- shit- ‘s osamu…”

“osamu. ‘m gonna cum. so close- please.” you let out a quiet sob as you babble.

dazai has no time to respond. it’s embarrassing, the way he can’t even give you any other warning but him shoving his face in your shoulder, grip tightening around your throat ever so slightly. the whimper he lets out tells you everything you need to know before he starts spilling his cum inside of you.

the throbbing of his cock and sensation of him filling you up has your walls contracting and you’re diving off the deep end yourself. you bite your lip hard. desperate trying to keep yourself from making more noise than the whines sticking in your throat. your vision blurs and and hearing goes muffled as your senses become overwhelmed by your high.

dazai is still rutting his hips into you, guiding you through your orgasm despite his twitches and obvious overstimulation. when you come back to your senses, dazai is whimpering a lot louder than previously. his grip on your neck is lost as he leaves soothing strokes on your side. you tug at his hair to lift his head so you can look at him.

his face is somehow even more flushed than earlier, you’re almost concerned. the look in his eyes though makes something stir inside of you. his glazed over and hooded eyes, completely unfocused. his lips parted as he’s letting out short and shuddered puffs of air. dazai has lost all senses but the feeling of him inside of you. 

“osamu. hey- look at me. you need to calm-“ you his when his rutting becomes more intense, thrusts becoming less shallow but hips and cock still twitching wildly, you have to stop him otherwise you’ll both lose yourselves in this supply closet and you can’t afford to do that when everyone is still in the office next door. “osamu we need to get back.”

dazai seems to have regained some of his consciousness. “again.”

you let out a breathless laugh, eyes glimmering in genuine amusement and adoration. “not right now. later. we need to get back. i have a case i need to finish working on.”

dazai finally fully comes back to you and he lightens up at the promise of later. that means this isn’t just a one time thing. something in that back of his head always told him if he crossed that line with you, things wouldn’t be the same, he’d only have one shot. but your words are such a relief he could cry. he can’t help himself, he has to clarify.

“later? after work and… again anytime after that?” his eyes are pleading and hopeful and you can’t help but melt under his soft gaze.

you nod and open your mouth to affirm his statement but you're rudely interrupted by a loud rapping at the closet door. “you two better have not done any of that by my emergency snack stash and you better clean up after yourselves. hurry up, i can't keep stalling and kunikida needs staples.”

ranpo’s voice rings throughout the room. you groan in embarrassment and bury yourself into his chest. dazai lets out a gleeful laugh still dizzyingly drunk on the idea of your promise.

“You think your plushies get jealous watching me fuck you?”

“Satoru, please, it’s 3 o’clock in the morning.”

“I’m just thinkin’ about their feelings, baby.”

“They’re little stuffed animals, ‘Toru, they don’t have feelings.” You blink your eyes open as you squint at him in the darkness of your room, just barely making out the silhouette and one of your squishes.

“Don’t listen to them, Carmelita, they didn’t mean it.” He loudly whispers to the squish squeezed in his arms, and you quickly sit up as you blindly reach out for him.

“Give me her! Why is she in the bed? I put her on the shelf earlier!”

“Because I wanted to hold my daughter, that’s why! Don’t be stingy!”

“You’re gonna get her dirty, Satoru!” You fight to pull her from his arms, and he whines and flips over, trapping her between his chest and your mattress while you push at his back.

“Then I’ll give her a nice bubble bath.”

“You can’t just wash her, you’ll ruin her fabric and softness. It’s a very gentle, precise process that I absolutely do not trust you with, so give me her.”

“No.”

“Yes!”

“No~”

“Satoru!”

“If you two don’t shut up, I’m going to release every single disgusting curse I’ve swallowed up to this point and let them level this entire block.”

“Suguru,” you lean over the side of the bed, making out yet another dark figure laid on the floor. “As long as the curse takes him out first then I would be okay with that.”

“Hah? You’d just let him kill your boyfriend?”

“Without a doubt, yes.”

Want to learn something new in 2022??

Absolute beginner adult ballet series (fabulous beginning teacher)

40 piano lessons for beginners (some of the best explanations for piano I’ve ever seen)

Excellent basic crochet video series

Basic knitting (probably the best how to knit video out there)

Pre-Free Figure Skate Levels A-D guides and practice activities (each video builds up with exercises to the actual moves!)

How to draw character faces video (very funny, surprisingly instructive?)

Another drawing character faces video

Literally my favorite art pose hack

Tutorial of how to make a whole ass Stardew Valley esque farming game in Gamemaker Studios 2??

Introduction to flying small aircrafts

French/Dutch/Fishtail braiding

Playing the guitar for beginners (well paced and excellent instructor)

Playing the violin for beginners (really good practical tips mixed in)

Color theory in digital art (not of the children’s hospital variety)

Retake classes you hated but now there’s zero stakes:

Calculus 1 (full semester class)

Learn basic statistics (free textbook)

Introduction to college physics (free textbook)

Introduction to accounting (free textbook)

Learn a language:

Ancient Greek

Latin

Spanish

German

Japanese (grammar guide) (for dummies)

French

Russian (pretty good cyrillic guide!)

step 1: break into aperture science

step 2: coat myself in blue gel

step 3: discover how to bounce to the moon

i definitely will break all my bones, but for one brief and glorious second it will be so worth it

Decided to make a google drive folder for the good people out there so here yall go

<< Bungo Stray Dogs Stageplays with English sub >>

it’s rot girl autumn! we're decaying alongside the trees!

i can see you | ellie williams x reader

“ i can see you in your suit and your necktie

passed me a note saying, "meet me tonight"

then we kissed and you know i won't ever tell ”

summary : frustrated from the monotonous nature of your job and relationship-status alike, you decide it's high time that your co-worker, who happens to be the philosophy professor realizes what she's missing out on. warnings : mdni. librarian!reader, professor!ellie, sexual tension, workplace romance so [kind of] forbidden, traces of loser!ellie if you have the vision, semi-public risky sex, fingering & oral (r!receiving)

a/n : i'm proud of this one and spent ages writing so you guys better read the fuck out of it and tell me how it was (affectionate)

It's a surprisingly calm day at Greenwood High, which you take as an opportunity to bask in the few minutes of silence before a nerd comes shuffling through the rusty doors to disturb your sense of peace with the usual banter. Quite a few of the students have assumed you take pleasure in it, spilling their guts out informing you of details you couldn't care less about. So much for the bewitching nature of the profession that had drawn you here ages ago.

Now, you're the cheerful librarian. The one adolescent girls find to ramble about their new favorite novel or their clueless boyfriends looking for help with the same department, the one who has to endure listening to the Non-fiction Loyalists as they go on and on about historical facts and of course, one of the few people of the staff who's much respected by students yet somehow disregarded by the co-workers. It isn't often you spend time in the pantry with them, not that you'd have similar occurrences to share even if you did. Long story short, you content yourself with the run-of-the-mill library with your books and bite-sized snacks.

The loud electric bell breaks the trance of calm, your head tipping up as you pinch the bridge of your nose and raise yourself from the uncomfortable seat to get something for lunch. A heavy breakfast had left you full already, so just a cheap pack of chips from the vending machine would suffice for the time being. There's something strangely appealing about those local brands the school can afford. Moreover, it's pretty beneficial with balancing your budget. All the aesthetically pleasing aspects of the job you'd anticipated come with a price, and boy is it costly. If it wasn't for your undying affection towards books, you'd have quit months ago.

Even the corridors are surprisingly quiet. If you catch a pair of adolescents making out near the gym, you're too unbothered to mention it. Being the adored staff member among students often brings you to moments that make you seem way too lenient about certain situations, you've got the hang of it quite easily. Your wedge boots thump over the granite floor, the evident sound of it slowly diminishing as you descend towards the noisier and much chaotic ground floor. The mere sight of enthusiastic hugs and chants across the hall makes you feel fortunate about the silence on your floor. It would be really exhausting, having to deal with that. Almost makes you sympathize with the ground floor teachers.

Five aggressive punches to the vending machine and you're already exhausted, stomping your way to the parking lot. It's the one place you can find solace in without having to worry about being too clumsy for the teachers and too unentertaining among the students. For the few minutes of lunch break you can enjoy your bag of chips and the summer breeze. That is, until you bump into Ellie Williams— Professor Williams is what the students call her. Although she never seemed like the kind who would force them into it.

She's leaning against a brick wall, one arm crossed over the other as you take notice of her trying to hide the cigarette she'd been holding on to. Smoke break. Seems fair enough, she takes three classes on the ground floor. The flicker in your eyes between her hand and back to her face shows she's aware of your having noticed it, but there's no sense of nervousness. Good, you're not quite sure how you'd have handled her being agitated over being found out. You'd probably be more scared than Ellie herself.

"Want one?"

You wave her off and join her up against the wall, looking back to ensure the brick isn't leaving any idling dust behind. Nope, safe. With a gentle nudge, you offer her your bag of chips. Ellie squints at it as if the snack could possibly be more life threatening than her cigarette.

"Cream and onion? I'd rather eat my own flesh."

You roll your eyes at what's hopefully a hyperbole, brushing your crumb collected hands over your pants. They need a wash today anyway. Ellie offhandadly puts out the cig under her converse shoes— quite an odd match with the those pants, as you stand staring in disbelief. It's her turn do the eye-rolling as she bends down with a grunt, picking it up and shoves it in her pocket. If she feels any shame from her act, she's quick to sneakily mask it with a "what now?" face.

You're not sure what's next, usually you finish the snack in your car listening to some music but it's too late to go for that option. Moreover, it would feel awkward leaving Ellie hanging around even though you're familiar with her preference towards being left to her lonesome. While you chose not to mingle with the teachers, Ellie was almost treated like an outcast. You'd heard the rumors from a few students— arguments after a meeting, negotiations being made. While it offered as an entertainment to them, a part of you sympathized with her before you came back to your senses and realized you were better than that.

She hadn't exactly felt sorry for you on the field trip a few months ago, when she kissed you against a tree after everyone was asleep. You'd felt your stomach doing somersaults, knees giving away as she helped you back up against the uneven bark. You'd never been kissed that way by anyone before and then she proceeded to avoid any confrontation whatsoever about it. It wasn't as if you were any desperate for her attention back then, just out of a long and dreadful relationship. But a small conversation about what led to it in the first place would've helped.

"I— uh, needed a book from your library," Ellie breaks the deafening silence. "Think I sent one of my students earlier? Had to do with Pragmatism and all that, 'm not sure if you'd want to..."

"Next time you should show up in the libary with your own card, Professor." You realize how dumb the emphasis sounds after the words are out. "It's just one floor, shouldn't be a pain in the ass."

You're amused by your own response. Ellie seems too, or at least she's satisfied enough to pass a smug smirk with a tilt of her head in acknowledgement. You decide that's enough conversation you can have with a co-worker you happened to kiss without any explainable reason and decide to finish the rest of it in your comfort zone, the one place you don't have to worry about past situationships— if that's what you'd term this— disturbing your sense of calm.

"Fine," She mutters as you begin to walk away. "I'll be there, since it's not a...pain in the ass. You should refrain that language around in campus, though."

It's surprising to note she does in fact show up the very next morning, leaning in the same manner by the hallway before you've even made your way to open the library door. Early morning and her first thought is to grab a book about whatever she takes interest in teaching, existential crises and all that. Ellie stands behind you as you unlock the door, hands buried deep inside her pants' pocket. The door greets you with it's usual creek followed by orbs of dust, you realize it's time for the monthly cleaning soon.

"They about to give away the upper floors to some horror house for public expeditions?"

Your eyes roll at her remark, fingertips brushing through a bookshelf as you stalk towards the wooden desk that sticks out of the comparatively older furniture. You'd had it changed a few months back, your taste clearly clashing from that of the builders from a few years ago. It's fortunate Ellie doesn't come up with more comments about the library's condition by the time you're on the other side of the table. She's giving herself a tour through the shelves, which you're sure would keep her busy enough for you to go through your daily paperwork.

She's back with not one but three books in her hands, two of which are thick enough for it to be difficult for her to hold them out. She allows you to help herself quite politely, so you decide it's only fair you try and ignore the brush of her fingers against yours when you reach for the books. She does clear her throat when it happens, but you turn a blind eye to it by focusing on making her an issue card.

"I didn't know you had that big of an erm— of a collection going on here."

"You don't show up here that often now, do you?"

Ellie's eyes visibly glint at that and you're yet again reminded of those few seconds it'd happened behind the tents what now feels like forever ago. It's worse how you'd had enough time to acknowledge it, make a mind map back when you had the chance but took it for granted. But how far could you blame yourself? You'd expected more. Of course you had. When a kiss knocks you off your feet and has your fingers digging into the arm of someone you shouldn't be caught kissing in the first place, it's natural to expect more.

And then— just like that, not a mention of it again. Despite the numerous times you'd walked into her by the corridors or that awkward bus ride back school, she'd never brought it up again and clearly neither could you. There didn't seem a proper way to start the conversation anyway. Everything about it was improper and wrong and...forbidden. You'd guessed Ellie suspected the same and realized it would've been a mistake in the first place.

"I will, now." You hear Ellie speak sheepishly. "Show up more often— for the books, of course."

An awkward pause follows right after, your pen scribbling her name over the card as she stands tapping her fingers on the wood. Her eye catches the succulent you keep by it and like everyone else, she muses at the over the top pot shaped in the form of what appears to be a goblin. Ellie is grinning by the time you hand her the card, and you're left with the urge to groan over the prospect of repeat the same old sob story to defend yourself. Maybe not the entire thing today, it's clear she has a dozen more tasks to tend to.

"It's a gift," You mumble. "And no, that's not Shrek."

"I wasn't even thinking about Shrek."

Her grin turns into a devious smirk that you wish you could wipe off her mouth, it'd almost be irritable if you weren't secretly attracted to it. There were quite a lot of scenarios you could play out that involved her smirking shamelessly at you. Some more vulgar than you should be allowed to imagine, at least not at this place and time. Or ever— provided you're the only one thinking of it and Ellie couldn't care less. She's clearly more interested in having conversations about...Shrek with you instead. Which you would have to settle on for the moment.

"Must be a special gift," She muses, absentmindedly running her tip over it's pot belly. "If you're still keeping it around. And here of all places."

"Making an effort to be nice."

Give it a try, you want to add. But that feels too mean— hence a contrast to your statement as well. Ellie doesn't owe you anything after that kiss and it's high time you make yourself believe the same. If anything, you should be grateful things didn't turn out the way you could've expected. Why should you worry about risking your job towards something unprofessional if the person involved hasn't considered it in the first place?

"You are nice." Ellie mutters under her breath, taking you by surprise. "I— uh, my students...well, you often get brought up in our conversations. They think you're kind."

"And what do you think?"

She didn't see that coming. It's concerning how prompt you are at making Ellie lose her composure over a question. What's more concerning is her ability to blush over a simple question, you notice with a peek at her ears that are close to turning pink. Maybe she isn't as full of herself as you perceive her to be. Either that or your massive deficiency in physical affection has caused your flirting skills to elevate in a manner that never existed before.

"Me? I– I guess you're sweet?" She stutters, then laughs. "Haven't had the chance to know you enough to judge that."

It almost makes you want to bring up the conversation about that kiss again, how she casually mentions she didn't happen to have the time for it. As if there wasn't enough on that field trip or the unbearably awkward bus ride home. To this day you're convinced that if it wasn't for your headphones, you might've just jumped out of that bus' window. Undoubtedly better than having to sit next to her without being able to utter a word about the fact that her lips happened to be on yours the previous night.

"And books!" She speaks again. "You've got decent taste in books. Book club's words, not mine."

"Ellie," Your voice sounds more stern than you'd expected it to. "I specifically asked you for your words."

She chuckles, then proceeds to rub the back of her neck. It should be an act of embarrassment but Ellie manages to make it seem calculated. Or maybe you're reading into things. It would be sensible enough considering your urge to gather some personal information— even if it's a grain of it, through her.

At this point it doesn't necessarily have to involve that secret kiss. Yet you can't stop yourself from recalling the first brush of her lips, surprisingly bold for someone who didn't feel the urge to mention it over again. You catch yourself staring at her mouth and have to physically pinch your own arm under the desk to control yourself. And it's still not enough. You're already finding yourself lost in the loophole of daydreaming about that mouth and the hundred thousand things she could do with it.

"So," You force yourself to utter some probably futile words. "No words from your side, Professor?"

That somehow does it for her. It's visibly obvious how you can notice something switch inside of Ellie at the term she should be acquainted with by this period of time. Her eyes flicker behind you before she makes eye contact that you'd feel lasts long enough for your own eyes to find some newfound interest in the dull grey floor as if on accord. Your pulse is already racing and she hasn't even touched you.

"I could give you mine from a psychoanalysed point of view," Ellie responds. "Or I could go for a more...layman approach, if you prefer that? Not sure about it."

"I'm not your student, Ellie. Just tell me what comes to your mind."

"I agree with the kindness part. Same with the books. Guess I could say your lips—"

"May I come in?"

Fucking awesome.

It is when Ellie practically shoves herself off from against the desk that you notice she was invading your personal space in a manner so comforting it didn't even occur to you before she pulled away. You feel a surge of emptiness while greeting the student that's stepping in before you've even answered the request, a tick in Ellie's jaw brings momentary satisfaction.

You haven't even diverted your attention to the kid dressed in all black and Ellie is already stepping her way out towards the hallway while you're left to stand dumbfound. The faint sound of some recommendation for a fantasy novel ripples in your ears but your main focus is on the professor before you turning to leave. The professor and her fantastic ass.

"You said you needed more chaperones."

Early March. The assembly room is more crowded than ever, unmistakable scent of sweaty bodies and axe deodorant causes your nose to scrunch up as your head twists in Ellie's direction. With the amount of staff memebers surrounding you with similar expressions of disinterest, it's unlikely there could be a lack of chaperones.

Ellie shrugs but keeps her attention focused at the dancing couples. That gives you the opportunity to not-so-sneakily take a look at her outfit. You're left with an open jaw as you take a look at the suit she's worn over the usual crisp white shirt that you've seen with her sleeves rolled up, a new look on her and yet just as insatiable. Fortunately no converses under her dress pants either, you take notice within a blink while also becoming self-conscious of your own outfit.

"And the outfits," She turns when you speak this time. "I thought you said casual worked. Look what you've done to me."

She whistles a low tune as you wave a hand in front of the peach sundress you'd just pulled out. It must've stood out among the black everyone else happened to be wearing the moment you stepped in. Ellie's gaze drops to the floor and back up in a manner that couldn't count as nonchalant and you're left with a tingling sensation down the pit of your lower belly.

"But this works just fine," She mutters under her breath, head leaning next to your ear for her words to make more sense when the music picks up. "If I'm being honest, the color suits you better than these darker shades."

It's safe to say the vague compliment floats around in your head as you help yourself to some confiscated 'fruit punch' behind the pantry's door. You're still responsible enough to make sure the alcohol doesn't get to you, specially considering the unimaginable drama that took place in last year's prom. Reckless as you could get on crowded occasions, you wouldn't risk your job for it.

Or at least that's what you had in mind until you found Ellie stalking towards you as you walked back towards the room. You stop short in the hallway, hands dug into the luckily present pockets in your dress. She's imitating your actions but pulls her fist out on noticing the same. You don't seem to mind, choosing to clear your throat and wait for her to speak up. It's a surprise she doesn't utter a word and instead takes another step forward to stand right by your side.

You watch with utmost attention as a pair of girls pass the two of you, hands linked together and leaving an air of extroversion with their loud laughter. Ellie waits for them to leave before nudging you on the shoulder, your head lifting to find her eyes guiding your own down. As you do, you notice she's attempting to hand you a piece of paper. Couldn't be grades, too small for that. Not the library card either, it's colorful unlike what she's holding. You peek at the scribbled letters as soon as the crumpled white in your palm.

'Meet me tonight. Janitor's closet. Half past nine.'

So you do. Seven minutes after the assigned time as an attempt to not come off as too eager, even though the rhythmically loud beating of your heart states otherwise. She's already leaning against a wall, the familiar punch in one hand while the other rests against a rusting cabinet. Ellie passes you the first smile of the night when you get sheepishly lock the door behind yourself, unsure of whether it would even be necessary but going along with the decision anyway.

"I'm an idiot."

"Hello to you too, Professor."

She rolls her eyes at your statement but between the back and forth flirting you've had over the last week by your library desk, the flicker of a different emotion in her eyes doesn't go ignored by you. Someone else would barely notice it even while squinting, your regular conversations have led to something different though. You've learnt just the right things that make her flush, the innumerable ways to rile her up as well.

"You're not letting that go, are you?"

"You don't seem to be complaining."

And complain she doesn't. Instead she leaves the plastic cup against a cabinet and steps forward close enough for your back to press against the cold wood of the door. Your breath catches in your throat— all the flirting and stolen glances aside, you've never been this close to Ellie. Well, at least not until the night of the kiss that's occupied your mind ever since.

You're taken aback when her hand raises only to rest next to your head instead of how you'd have expected her to cup your jaw instead. She notices your surprise but doesn't act on it, choosing to lean in close enough for her hot breath to fan over your face. You wonder if she can feel yours as well— if you're even capable of breathing in the first place. Shaking the thought off, you focus on how she has so sneakily draped the other arm by your waist that it went disregarded by you.

"I think I want to kiss you," She mutters almost as if in thought. "It's unprofessional and forbidden and wrong and— and I'm fucking tired of giving myself this speech every night. So yeah, I'm gonna kiss you now."

You'd like to ask her what it is that has her conjuring up speeches in her own head at night but by the time your mouth opens, her own captures it skillfully and swift as an arrow. That's not bad, in fact you'd rather have her kiss you over quite literally any other activity in the whole world. So, you happily return the favour by kissing her back with more enthusiasm. The gentle hand by your waist pulls you closer not-so-gently, your chest pressed flush against hers.

The kiss lasts long enough for all concerns regarding your professional skills or hers to evaporate off to replace much filthier thoughts. There's no other way out, not when she's nudging a knee between your legs and you have to fight back the urge to clamp your thighs. It's as if Ellie already sees it coming without your mentioning it because right when the thought crosses your head, she's pressing you up by your thighs against the door and spreading your legs open to rest between them.

It creaks behind your back, leaving you to hope the sound is muffled behind the music outside. Likewise for that of your loud gasp when she squeezes your thighs between her fingers. Your eyebrows furrow out of fear, the hand that's wrapped behind her neck probably squeezing in a manner that catches her attention.

"Worried about getting caught?" She questions. "Just try to be quiet, yeah? Shouldn't be that difficult with all that time you spend in the library."

Calloused as her fingers are, when they find their way between your legs it's effortless how they slide their way under your panties. Skillful, even. Your head falls against the door with a thud, the aftermath of that ache being nothing close to the unattended one between your legs. Fortunately, Ellie's tending to the one you'd rather have taken care of.

Your fingers thread through her hair when she runs a thumb vertically all the way over your slick folds. One gentle tug and she's already going animalistic, pressing a side of her hips over your own to keep you in place. You were somehow still squirming until she did it, blame goes on her for being that damn attractive. If that wasn't appealing enough, a strand of hair sticks to her forehead damp with sweat. Your fingers itch to brush it off, but you're distracted by her middle finger stretching you out following an obscene sound.

"More— please,"

Your breath picks up when she adds another with no hesitation or teasing, the metal of her ring cold between your legs. You don't have to look down to ensure her fingers are glistening at this point. Surprisingly, she's the one who helps you with it. Your eyes widen as Ellie's fingers pull out and she brings them up in front of your face. Dumbfound, you stare in confusion until she taps them over your lips and you realize exactly how nasty she is.

"Suck," She orders. "Then I'll give you more."

Your mouth falls open at the prospect of that, closing in around her fingers as you taste yourself. She stares like it's a sight she's never witnessed, chewing on her bottom lip hard enough for you to be worried about her drawing some blood. Just chapped lips, you notice when she releases her bottom lip. Tears well up in your eyes when she pushes her fingers further down your mouth, gentle but insistent.

A string of drool sticks from your lips to the tip of her fingers when she roughly pulls them out with a grunt, probably blaming the whimper you'd let out somewhere along. Your eyes trail down out of embarrassment but unlike you, Ellie is shameless enough to grasp your jaw with the same spit-covered fingers to force your gaze back on her.

"Watch."

Eyes forced open, you watch as she bends to her knees down with a grunt. Your tongue swipes over your lips in anticipation, mouth falling open when she lifts your dress up to press a gentle kiss over your soaked panties. You're taken by surprise from the affectionate gesture, but you never know when it comes to Ellie. By the time you're registering it, she's already pushing them to the side with her thumb. You almost close your eyes but remind yourself of her command, trembling fingers closing into a fist as if that would somehow diminish the urge to do the same.

"Look at you," She whispers, breath warm against your cunt. "Bet you could just hump my mouth if I stopped right now."

"No— no, please don't stop—"

Stopping is the last thing in her mind right now. No, she won't stop until you cum on her mouth. Then she'll have to take you back home because what else is supposed to happen when she gets a taste of what's she's been craving since months?

Her next kiss is on your inner thigh, not the teasing kind despite the placement. It's open mouthed and messy, Ellie's mouth trailing from the sensitive skin towards her much anticipated destination. It takes a lot of hard work not to allow your head to fall back again. Yet you squint your eyes open to look at her darkening ones, and being the cocky professor that she is, Ellie smirks presumptuously. You're almost planning on begging your way through some more blabbered words when Ellie helps you gulp down your words by wrapping her lips around your pulsing clit.

There's no time to waste now, she hints by sucking— hard. Your fist falls open, one hand scratching it's way to her scalp and tugging the ends of her hair to have her proceed further. You're panting already, then realise that the quivering exhales aside, you are kind of bucking your hips over Ellie's mouth. Humping. It should be embarrassing. The location, the timing, your lack of morality in the moment, the unethical nature of your act. But it doesn't matter now. You need to let go. Fortunately for you, Ellie's more eager towards having do the same.

You release a gasp of relief when she pushes you open with two fingers, rough and hasty this time. She's simultaneously careful not to hurt you, squeezing her other hand over your thigh to keep your legs parted. If it wasn't for that support, they'd be wriggling like noodles at any point of time. You're physically pulling at her hair when she begins to pump them with an even, unrelentless pace. It's commendable how despite all the attention hitting that spot might require, she has equal expertise in sucking your clit while doing it. The faint slurping sounds amongst the louder thumps of beats make your knees buckle, forehead creasing as you make an effort towards maintaining eye contact.

"It's okay," Ellie stops for a moment to respond in a composed tone. "You let yourself enjoy it now, baby."

Breathing a sigh you'd been holding on to since minutes, you find relief upon squeezing your eyes shut. Your brain feels like it could shut off from the pleasure itself, all mush with various versions of curse words and Ellie's name. When she curls up her fingers further while barely grazing the front of her teeth over your clit, you realize your whole world is spinning upside down. Clenching around her fingers with a whine, your vision blurs as you feel yourself practically blacking out. Ellie's rhythmic pumping forces you to stay conscious as you bring yourself to push her away once the pounding in your head subsides.

After much grunting and some inaudible murmurs, she pulls herself up while the popping of her knees makes you laugh through your glossy eyes. Ellie laughs along, smirking when you pull her close by the end of her necktie for a kiss. She cups your jaw so gently that it confuses you whether the same person just did something impermissible to you seconds ago. Not that you're guilty, it was definitely worth it. Ellie's face doesn't carry any signs of regret either.

She does have something more complex in mind— that part you can assume by the now familiar glint in her eyes. Instead of calculating her next move, you run the back of your hand over your sweaty neck. Things are far more comfortable and cozy now. Almost as if you keep your eyes closed then the fact that you just had an earth-shattering orgasm in the janitor's closet would cease to exist. Little do you know that it's the first of many she'll reward you with tonight. Or ever, at that.

── ⋅⋅⋅ ────꒰ ୨ ♡ ୧ ꒱───────

ellie : @thatgiraffefromtlou @nicolicht @alexpritch @violetsellie

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abby and ellie : @loviingsunflower @abbyskitty @simiinthemirror @chatitajens @rivtlou @dykefromstatefarm @angelanderson @mikasasbabygirl @ellabsprincess @ailuigatsoc @feelsoseencantdream @endureher @elliessknife @sweet-lover-girl @erin-is-here @tlouadditc @starxao @hi2647 @mqddieas @m-3-ijiworld @ourautumn86 @feeeeebbb @littletinyladybugs @eleactric @shady-lemur @ratdungeon @abby1vr @yohibmbi

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Courted by a… Hero?

synopsis: Diluc has feelings for you, but is under the impression that you do not reciprocate - his courting attempts show as much. But he comes to find out, that you are at ease around his alter ago… 

It won’t hurt to try and court you as the Darknight Hero. Right?

pairing: Diluc x fem!reader

tw: fluff, pining, courting, seemingly unreciprocated feelings, Darknight Hero!Diluc

word count: 3k words

a/n: this was suggested by a lovely anon~

Diluc Ragnvindr is enamored with you.

Diluc Ragnvindr thinks he is not that subtle about his affections. But it seems that he actually is, because otherwise the Master of the Dawn Winery does not understand how you manage to miss all the clues, all the longing gazes, all the small compliments and acts he does for you in attempts to hint that he’d like to court you.

Аpparently the longing in his eyes is lost in his regular stoic and a bit mournful expression, small compliments are so polite that it’s not hard to mistake them for his gentlemanly antics, and his other actions are just a thread away from acts of service and help, which, given his сhivalry nature, do not stand out too.

Diluc doesn’t get many opportunities to see you, since you do not visit the tavern often, but he tries so hard to make the meetings more numerous. An invitation to play cards at the Cat’s Tail here and there, an insistence to walk you home, an offer to accompany you through the market as you go grocery shopping, always coming with an excuse of checking on the goods to tell Elzer later what purchases they should change for the Winery and its workers. Adelinde always smiles at him knowingly whenever some new dishes are added to his menu.

He is trying to show his affections to you, he really does, but he is too dense for that to come out exactly as he pictured it in his head. However, when you smile at him softly, accepting his offers, when you vent a little to him about a stupid coworker, when you stop at the Good Hunter to have supper with him - he thinks that the long process is worth it.

It’s a great surprise, but the first time he gets an opportunity to hold you close is not a part of you dating him. No, your relationship is far from that, and his persona is hidden under the mask and a hooded cape, as he carries you bridal style. He is well aware of you staring up at him, but he can’t make himself lower his gaze and meet with yours. He is just bringing you to a safe place after you twisted your ankle on a late evening run to catch a cat for your neighbor - a sweet old woman, whose pet seems to love escaping on an almost daily basis.

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WELL.. DAMN!! HES SOOSOSO BABYGIRL

cherry chapstick | akiko yosano x gn!reader

content: no manga spoilers, suggestive ig (just making out with wifey)

word count: 0.3k

navi | bsd masterlist

five minutes.

you told yourself you’d leave in five minutes 4 minutes ago, yet you couldn’t bring yourself to let go of the woman that was straddling you. aikiko yosano had her bare hand tugging at your shirt as she deepened your kiss, resulting in a quiet groan from you.

hands were all over each other the moment she came back from work. you had a night shift at your own job, but you couldn’t resist her. work had been piling up for both of you, and her lips on yours were the stress reliever you needed.

your hands, firmly on her waist, held her a bit tighter as you turned her onto her back. she lay beneath you with one of your legs in between hers, and you lost your breath at the sight of her. the tips of her fingers lightly held your chin as you pressed your lips against hers again.

your tongue brushed over her lip and your hand down her waist. your touch sent shivers down her spine, and her back arched slightly at the feeling. she let out another moan, causing you to press your body further into hers.

and as your lips traveled along her jawline, planting kisses of affection, she intertwined the fingers of one of your hands together and held the wrist of the other arm. oh, she had missed the feeling of this intimacy more than she thought.

4 minutes ago turned into 10, and that turned into 20 minutes passing by. it had taken many kisses of hers to convince you to go, considering that you didn’t mind the idea of continuing this for the rest of the night.

you were zipping up your jacket when you felt her place her hands on your shoulders, her lips by your ears. “by the way, was that a new flavor, darling?”

“you guessed it,” you rubbed your lips.

when you gave her a kiss goodbye, you went outside to your car. you sat down, fishing for the small stick you carried in your backpack. before you left, you made sure to reapply your cherry chapstick.

note: oh katy perry, you've inspired me... i want yosano so bad you don't understand sljksdn

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In the heat of the night

synopsis: it’s a bit unusual to get drowned in the waves of pleasure outside the bedroom, yet the feeling of warmth enveloping your bodies is the same.

pairing: Diluc x fem!reader

tw: established relationship, smut, oral (fem receiving), fingering, pussy drunk Diluc, face sitting/riding, kind of semi-public

word count: 2.6k words

a/n: fun fact - both Sandra and e-rotic have a song named “In the heat of the night”

Your back arches and a quiet moan escapes your pretty lips, sending another flutter through Diluc’s heart. Here, basking in the dim light from a fireplace with all the other candles and lamps in the mansion being out, you look heavenly. Shadows and flames dance across your sweat glistening skin, nestle in the trembling lashes of your lidded eyes, hide the sacred parts of your body in a tantalizing mystery.

The first floor, the grand space of the hall, seems lifeless, but the only bright corner proves it wrong. There, on one of the couches, two bodies are laying together - a man and a woman - relishing in the proximity of each other after being apart for a whole day. The man - in an unbuttoned black shirt and equally black pants is the one resting underneath with his back leaned onto the armrest, while the woman is tucking her face in his tense neck, back flash to his chest, and legs flexing between his bent ones.

Another quiet moan disappears in the night, when rough fingers teasingly roll a nipple for who knows which time. The redhead is dragging the hem of your cozy dress even higher, completely baring your chest to the warm air and returning to brush the very pad of the thick digit against your stiff bud. You slightly jolt.

Keep reading

Chuuya Nakahara x afab!Reader

wc: 14k+

general warnings: afab!reader (gn pronouns/nicknames, afab genitalia), mer!chuuya, eldritch mermaid au, author plays fast and loose with the definition of eldritch, thunderstorms, injuries, tension, strangers to lovers, cult references, island survival, hunting, descriptions of food & preparation, unedited writing

nsfw warnings: MINORS DNI, fingering, oral & penetrative sex (all reader-receiving), unprotected sex, handjobs, multiple orgasms, biting & blood, mild dacryphilia

written for the teahouse server's mermay collab, hosted by @petrichorium !!

Rain has notoriety amongst humans for a plethora of reasons.

Some people find it calming, revitalising, a sweet nurturer of life from the heavens. Others live in fear of the rain’s tender lovers, the thunder and the lightning, who join their sweet peacebringer when turbulence rages through the skies.

And one thing that you have learned about rain in particular is how such a gentle nourishing sensation can feel just like shards of glass against your flesh when you’re caught in the throes of a storm. 

Soft droplets that kissed your skin when the clouds were still close to white turn sharp and violent as the wind picks up, whipping them around in a frenzy and sending them hurtling back at you. 

The small rowboat you’d taken out with you isn’t by any means well-suited for these elements, swaying and sloshing through the ocean with such fierce turbulence that you’re surprised its still holding out on you as you desperately try to navigate your way towards the eye of the storm. By now, the floor of your vessel is drenched, puddling, soaking your poor feet even further. Surely the wood will crack under the damage, the interior not made to withstand contact with water like the hull. 

For now, you grit your teeth and carry on, oar so tight in your hands you may very well contract splinters. You are rocked and shaken from side to side within the confines of your little boat, battered by the torrential downpour above and bombarded from all angles by the sea below. 

A sharp crack splits from under you. 

You are sinking. Fast. 

The water rises higher within the body of your boat, reaching your ankles now. Each splitting strike of thunder from above resonates through your body with every desperate oarstroke, and you fight against the elements with all that you can muster. 

Foolish of you to think that you could power through against the inexorable rampage of the rain and her tempestuous partners. 

Contact with land is inevitable, you suppose, with how long you were drifting on the splintered remains of your boat. Weeks, or even months could have passed with how fragmented time feels when you are on your own out at sea. Of course, the fact that you’re still alive reminds you it has been shorter. But several days must have gone by at least, floating in and out of a hazy state of unconsciousness, becoming aware of yourself for the scarce moments you could drag some soggy old rations from the bag you’d kept around your person before zoning out once more. 

And then there is something beneath you, suddenly, a rocking motion that rolls you from the planks of wood you’d clung to, forces you onto something hard that does not bob atop waves. 

Whilst the rain from the previous storm continues to drizzle, the winds have ceased on land and the storm itself has all but ebbed. Thick, wet sand clings between your fingertips as you anchor yourself on your palms and rise to your feet. The tide pulls waves up to the beach, which lap at your toes as you double over and catch your breath. 

You're lucky not to have drowned out there.

Some machination of fate must have a watchful eye out for you, perhaps. It's a rather daunting prospect to dwell upon. 

In the distance, there lies a forest. Small, like the island itself, but you are sure to find decent sustenance within. Through the other side, poking out above the trees like a beacon, is the top of an old lighthouse. You’re sure it probably works, but the light inside is off and moss lies encrusted in thick patches around the walls. If it does still run, it’s surely abandoned by now.

The first order of business, you decide as you make your way along the beach, circling the forest to get to the lighthouse with less issues, is to see if you’re alone on this island. 

And hopefully soon, before night falls. 

Having a secure shelter is a blessing. Some of the lighthouse walls have holes from years of dilapidation, but there are whole floors still perfectly intact, and the entire top half of the building is still in one piece. 

The storage room is the most well-preserved, though the metal barrels and wooden crates that line the walls are all strangely void of contents. Almost as if it was the least used, which you’d think is strange for a lighthouse that clearly must have been operated by someone at one point. At least, you think, there should be some old canned goods that might just about still be edible. But there’s no food stock in sight, nothing more than a few bags of salt- supposedly to cure fresh meats. 

It doubles as some sort of records room, you realise when you find the neatly stacked collection of papers on the shelves. These must be the documentation of past keepers, all penned in a language you don’t have a clear grasp over. Similar to writing you’ve seen in older treasures you’ve witnessed over the years, but with scripture that doesn’t fit the patterns you’re used to. Maybe ancient, or perhaps from a lost civilisation you’ve never come across. Either way, you quickly have to give up trying to decipher it. 

Your journey through the lighthouse brings you further up to the next undamaged room, what must have been the keeper’s living quarters. It’s almost uncomfortably scarce, no more than a single thin bedroll in the far corner with a handful of crumpled sheets piled on top. You’ll have to try and wash them before you use them, you think to yourself with a crinkle in your nose as you bypass this floor to try and find the control room. 

As you ascend the spiral staircase that skirts the inner edge of the lighthouse, you can’t help but notice the strange symbols etched into the walls. They’re scarce on the lower levels, but increase in frequency the higher you climb, until they reach a point where they cover the surface of every single brick. 

They lead to the control room, far darker than the other floors so far, only a few small portholes filtering daylight through. There are switches all around, some across the walls and more still upon the various short plinths that stick up from the floor. It looks like they’re arranged in a circle of sorts, with a taller and thicker pedestal in the middle. 

Unease settles into the room with you like an old friend, your most constant companion since you had washed ashore. But you need to try and get this thing running, and these switches seem to be the way to do it. 

You’ve never had to operate a lighthouse before, and judging by the type of writing you’d found in the other room you’re sure there won’t be any useful instructions around to give you any sort of help. The best you can do for now is try, and surely turning everything on would be a good start. 

Making your way to the nearest plinth, you turn one of the switches and another one starts to emit a faint light from beneath. Like a trail of breadcrumbs, you weave your way around the room lighting each plinth in turn. It doesn’t quite follow the circular shape they’re laid out in, criss-crossing over one another as you move from one to the next, but it’s the best possible lead you have to getting this working. There’s surely no harm in keeping up with it. 

As the final toggle switch is flicked, the center console glows an ominous deep red. Light runs like a stream of blood along the grooves etched through the room, filling up the various runes and circles until you are surrounded on all sides by bright lines of claret. 

There is a resounding shutter-like thunk! from above and, through a tiny porthole window near the ceiling, you can see the lamp at the top of the tower come to life and flood the sea with brilliant white light. Intense and blinding, it shifts to fill the control room and you shield your eyes with your dominant arm to avoid any lasting damage to your vision until everything fades. 

By the time you can finally peel your limb back to your side, even the red lines have dissipated. Everything seems to the naked eye like it has returned to normal. And yet, the air is thick, causing each breath you take to feel rougher, heavier. Like something is pressing against your lungs with every single inhale. 

It is night-time now, and colder still than it had been. Though the rain has subsided, a sharp chill whips through the building and bites through to your very bones. Each step you take away from the control room is accompanied by an unnerving sensation, something grander than yourself, a malevolent force that is encompassing and suffocating. There is an errant humidity that lingers in your lungs, thick and heavy and far too warm. 

Despite the atmospheric clemency, you need to get some air. 

It floods into you all at once when you breach into the open, the juxtaposition dizzying as you find yourself able to breathe again. The sounds of waves crashing against the beach, of birds making their way home for the night, distant leaves rustling, all bring you back to your center as you force through several deliberately paced inhales and exhales. 

Upon the beach stands a man. 

Unremarkable in stature, yet with an aura surrounding him that fills you with a strange sort of dread deep in the pit of your stomach. A creeping sort of fear, that lingers in the corners of your mind and holds on tight to your shoulders, wraps around your wrists and your ankles, keeps you where you are in the sand, frozen. 

Something within your subconscious tells you not to entertain the notion of interacting with him. 

Something incomprehensibly stronger entices you to take a step forwards. 

“Who are you?” you call. “What business have you here?”

“You don't know?” barks the man, incredulousness in his tone. “You summoned me here.”

“I fixed the lighthouse,” you correct. “I did not summon anything.”

The moonlight reflects the jewels that hang around the stranger’s neck on silver chains, bounces off the iron buckles of his boots, and drapes along the hints of white undershirt that frame the dip of his chest, deep and v-lined. Around his waist, you can make out the tinge of bright red, a thin scarf belt decorated with little chains and common gems. He wears a black coat and a tricorne hat hemmed with silver, smaller and less fancier than the ship captains you have seen in the past, but grandiose enough to tell you that this man is important to his crew. 

He has frowned at you for so long now that you’re certain it’s a permanent feature of his visage. The downturn of his lips is deep-set above his chin, disapproving, and a frustrated huff slips through them as he observes you. 

“What I’m taking from this is that neither of us have a way to get off this fucking island, yeah?”

“For now, pretty much,” you say, “yeah.” 

“Brilliant.” His arms raise in exasperation, and he turns away from you. “First I’m woken up late, and now I’m here in the middle of nowhere with some idiot who can’t recognise a pharos when they see one.”

“Pharos?” you repeat. “What do you mean?” 

He sighs. “You really are clueless, huh?”

“That’s mean.”

“Get used to it, sailor.” 

Your pointed jab of the tongue in retaliation goes ignored, sidelined as he continues to speak.

“A pharos,” the stranger says, “is an ancient lighthouse. A lot of them got used for rituals, for summoning eldritch deities to do their bidding. They got taken over by a bunch of cults a few centuries back. This one-” he takes a quick respite in his explanation to turn his attention to the building behind you- “seems newer, but still at least a hundred years old.” 

“So why are you here then, if these were meant to summon ancient gods?” You mean it more genuinely than it sounds, but you can’t help taking a bit of a jab at the man who has been nothing but abrasive towards you until now. 

“Why do you think?” he returns. 

“You can’t be,” you chuckle, disbelief riotous through your tone. “You’re human.” 

He scoffs, focusing his gaze somewhere far past you. “You’d be surprised.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Come on then,” the stranger interjects, swiftly changing topic as he walks towards you, and then passes you by. “Let’s see the damage you’ve caused, we’re going inside.” 

“Hey,” you call out as you catch up, legs starting to burn a little from all the exertion of running around the island that you’ve undertaken today. “If we’re going to be stuck together, can I at least get your name?” 

“Call me Chuuya.”

“Alright.” You introduce yourself in turn, giving him a name you actually won’t mind being called. “No more of that nickname stuff, okay?”

“You got it, sailor.” 

Oh, this is going to be torture.

The trip to the lighthouse- the pharos, apparently- is less daunting when you’ve already taken it once before. You know what you have to expect, and pretty much remember which parts of the early levels of the staircase to avoid so that your foot doesn’t come crashing through the wood. 

Though it still seems to stretch upwards endlessly on your way up, the runes on the walls let you know that you’re closer. They’re not glowing any more, and you assume they must have faded once the pharos’ work was complete. 

For a moment, you watch the way the Chuuya walks around the space, approaching a wall and running a gloved fingertip across the divots, tracing the shape of one of the runes. You wonder if he’s able to understand them. If maybe he can even read the scriptures you found downstairs. 

“You fixed this place up?” asks Chuuya after a while, hands resting on his hips as he continues to idly observe the control room. “Tell me you noticed the cult runes on the walls when you did it.”

“I was a little busy,” you huff, “trying to get help so I could get the hell off this island.”

“And now we’re both stuck here,” he retorts. “Genius work, sailor.”

“Like you could do any better.” Frustrated, you cross your arms over your chest. “Aren’t you supposed to be some fancy eldritch being? Why can’t you just magic us off of here?” 

“It doesn’t work like that.” 

“Of course it doesn’t,” you scowl. “Well, what are we supposed to do, then?”

“Why are you asking me? You’re the reason we’re here, you think of a way out.”

“The only thing I can suggest is building a boat. Or at least a raft.” 

“Then it looks like you need to start collecting some wood.”

“Oh no you don’t, mister. You’re stuck here too, the least you can do is help us both get out of here.”  

“Why should I?”

“You’re a pirate, right?” You gesture vaguely towards his outfit. “You know the importance of teamwork. We’ll get this over with quicker if I’m not the only one working my ass off.” 

“Fine,” he concedes. It seems you struck a nerve. “I’ll help. On one condition.” 

“Yes?”

“I get to be the one that gathers our food. I don’t trust you.”

“Okay,” you agree. “If you’re taking control of that, we’ll both prepare whatever you bring back. And I’ll take the lead on finding things to make a decent raft in the meantime.”

Chuuya doesn’t dignify that with a response, instead turning on his heel to leave. “Let’s get started. The sooner we’re done, the sooner we can get the fuck out of here.” 

“It’s nighttime, you really want to start now?” You have to jog a little to catch up with him, taking a few stairs at a time until you’re closer. “Do eldritch deities not need sleep, or something?”

“No, we don’t,” he replies smoothly, and you barely just catch a glimpse of the amused grin that flickers across his lips. “Better get to work, sailor, you’ve got a lot of late nights ahead of you.” 

As it turns out, building a raft from scratch isn’t as easy as it looks. 

Only a few planks of wood tied together and something to function as a sail would be needed, you’d thought. Simple design, easy to carry out, that’s why it was the go-to survival plan for being stranded at sea. 

But when you have to scrounge for the wood yourself, because somehow this lighthouse doesn’t even have spare logs lying around for firewood, things become substantially more difficult. Thankfully, you’d been taught how to chop lumber in your youth- a friendly face when you’d first been out on your own, a skill you’d never forgotten. That doesn’t stop it from being absolutely gruelling work, though. Especially when you then have to haul those very same logs you’ve felled from the forest to the beach. And then try to tie them together with the rope you’ve managed to salvage from one of the busted lower floors of the lighthouse. 

In a turn of fate, Chuuya ends up being more helpful than you first expect of him- considering how he’d treated you upon first meeting. It’s still abrasive, clipped speech and thinly veiled insults, but it’s help. You’ll take it. 

Besides, he’s not all bad.

You catch him one night finally settling down to sleep long after you, having stayed up late to do… well, he’d never quite told you. He pads into the room quietly, and you assume that he’ll immediately head to his side and fall asleep without any fuss. That’s what he’s been doing lately, and it’s not like you’ve any reason to expect anything different. 

And yet this time, he stops. 

After a few moments of quiet, you feel a soft weight drape across your body and then the footsteps retreat at last. A blanket rests atop you now, something to fend off the harsh chill of the breeze that cuts into the bedroom from the lower levels of the lighthouse. You don’t know where he found it, you’re sure you scoured this building top to bottom for things like this, but you’re certainly not about to complain. 

It’s small things like this that remind you that Chuuya is just out here trying to survive, just like you. It wasn’t his fault he got stuck with you here, and all things considered he’s taken to your new forced dynamic as well as he could. 

If you’d been thrust into the same position, you know you wouldn’t have taken things in stride the way he has. It was one thing to have been washed ashore upon an island in the middle of nowhere with no way to escape when it was your own seafaring misdeeds that had brought you here. It’s another entirely to have been going about your day as normal only to have been plucked right from it and dropped into this situation by somebody else. 

Even so, he doesn’t seem to hate you. Not really. 

He may make the odd quip that seems purposefully vicious, a jab here and there designed to hit hard, but it’s just for show. At least, that’s what the hidden smiles formed from exasperated laughs when he thinks you aren’t looking seem to tell you. The playful gripes that weave their way in with the hounding until the entire ordeal feels like something far more endearing. 

Chuuya’s just trying to get by, you think, the same as you. When this is all over, you’ll likely never see one another again- and that’s fine. But you’re still glad that he’s trying to make things somewhat pleasant in the meantime. 

One of the few pleasantries of being stranded out in the midst of nowhere is certainly the scenery. A small island like this is the best place to find views unlike any other, to see the beach and the sea spread out in front of you like a feast for the eyes, a veritable buffet of colour and feeling. 

The sand crunches between your toes with each step, your shoes swinging gently in your grasp, and the feeling of fresh sea air is as refreshing to your senses as it always has been. 

You can practically taste the salt upon your tongue as you reach the waves, the timid little things lapping at your toes in cautious flowing motions. Gulls cry overhead, desperate shrieks that sound like home. 

As you stand there at the edge of the water, you look out to the horizon. 

It takes the breath from your lungs with ease. Such a grand sight, the ocean stretching out endlessly in front of you, reflecting the array of reds and golds, pinks and purples that paint the sky in the wake of the sun. Spots of white twinkle where the light hits at its strongest, and the unfathomable depths of the water already feel like the blanket of night that is set to descend. 

And then something moves, breaks the gentle cresting of waves. 

A fin, by the looks of it. Large, but bright; a striking orange shade you’ve yet to see on any sort of shark. 

It slices through the water effortlessly and then dips back below the surface once more, proof of its existence only found in the ripples that fade out from the epicentre of the breach. 

This creature, whatever it is, is a hunter. Skilled and deadly, if the silent precision of its movements is anything to go by. 

You step back, your toes suddenly far less safe this close to the tides, and hold your breath in anticipation. Whatever is lurking beyond the shoreline, close enough for you to see it so clearly, is new. It’s dangerous. 

Despite your self-preservation instincts screaming out to retreat as fast as you can into the safety of the lighthouse, you are so very intrigued. 

But the mysterious being never resurfaces. 

One beat, and then another, you hold on just to see. Just in case. 

Perhaps it had noticed you and is now in hiding, just as bemused by your existence as you have been by it. Maybe it is biding its time, sizing you up as its next potential prey. It was certainly large enough to make swift work of you. If you had been unlucky enough not to spy it beforehand, you could very well have become its next meal. 

Or, perhaps, it had simply swam away. 

Before you have the chance to dwell on it for much longer, your new begrudging acquaintance is approaching. Bucket in hand, which sways to and fro as he walks, you are met with a bewildered look. 

“What are you doing out here?”

“I was bored,” you explain. “I came out to see where you’d gotten off to.”

“There are more fish down by the cliffs,” Chuuya says, jutting his free thumb over his shoulder for emphasis. “I went over to catch them.”

The bucket is practically bursting with fresh fish, some still writhing as the light of their life is snuffed under the intensity of the beating sun. It’s difficult to ignore the gleam of red that lies embedded within the grooves of the wood, as though some of the poor creatures were caught by something far more violent than a simple fishing line, but you’re not granted the opportunity to dwell upon it when Chuuya walks past you, lugging them along with him towards the lighthouse. 

“I’m impressed,” you call out, jogging to catch up with him. “You caught a lot, there’s enough here to feed us for at least a week.” 

“I told you,” he shrugs, “there were more of them over there.” 

As you get inside and start to help him prepare the fish to store them away for the week’s meals, salt-curing the ones you didn’t plan to eat that day, your mind wanders back to the creature you had seen upon the beach. 

“Hey,” you speak up, “do you think we’re really alone on this island?”

“Of course we aren’t,” Chuuya scoffs, deboning one of the fish in a singular fluid motion. “There’s a forest, there’s bound to be all sorts lurking where we can’t see them.” 

“I mean something sentient- “ you throw your hands down dramatically, small particles of salt flying across the room from the motion- “something big. Not just little bunnies or whatever in the woods.” 

“Why are you convinced there’s something out there?”

“I saw something at the beach. A creature, in the water.” 

“A shark?”

“No, this was different. I’ve never seen something like it before.”

“Whatever it is, I’m feeding you to it first.” Chuuya rolls his eyes, tossing the last of the fish onto the tray to move to the storeroom.

“And here I thought we were finally making progress,” you sigh dramatically. With a cheeky smile and exaggeratedly batted lashes, you turn back to him. “You really wouldn’t save me from the big scary sea monster?” 

“Nope,” he hums, hauling the tray into his grasp and walking out of the kitchen. He throws one last glance over his shoulder towards you, a grin playing upon his lips. “You’re on your own, sailor.”

A few days later, you find yourself making decent progress on your escape plan. 

The raft is all but ready in terms of the base materials. You’d spent the best part of a whole week cutting down enough trees to provide sizeable logs that will bind together to float two people- with a little help from Chuuya along the way- and now the next step would be to try and assemble them all. 

With any luck, you’d be done in only a few more days. 

That is, at least, if you didn’t keep running out of rope. 

The lengths you have managed to scavenge from inside the lighthouse are heavy, but deceptively short. By the time you wind them securely around two logs, it’s all but run out. Which leaves you running back in and out of the building more frequently than you’d like to as you try to work in order to look for more. 

On one of your trips, you don’t notice that Chuuya has decided to sit horizontally across the platform that joins one floor to the next, taking a rest from his own duties. 

Before you realise what’s happening, your weight has been displaced from under you. Arms splaying out to brace your fall, the rope you’d been holding tangles itself around you and makes for a whole new level of accident as you tumble your way back down the stairs. 

Luckily enough for you, the plateaus between each floor are rather wide- so you don’t end up falling all the way back down to a lower level. Not to mention, leaving the ordeal with nothing more in terms of injury than an ache in your lower back, though you just know it’ll persist for the rest of the day. 

“You should look where you’re going,” snickers Chuuya, looking down at you with an amused simper. He goes to hold out a hand to help you up, but you petulantly bat it away. 

“You shouldn’t have been in the way!” you exclaim with an exaggerated pout, folding your arms across your chest and huffing. “Who even sits on the stairs like that?” 

“I thought you were out working on the raft.” 

“I was, but I came back to find some more rope.” 

“Seems like you’re really tied up with that,” he jibes. 

“I’m going to kill you,” you threaten halfheartedly, picking yourself back up off the floor. 

It’s more of a hassle to get yourself out of the mess of ropes you’ve dropped than it was to stand, and you find yourself stumbling around the plethora of loops in some haphazard sort of dance as you struggle to maintain your balance. 

“Here,” Chuuya says, “you’re going to fall again if you keep that up.” 

His hand comes to your shoulder to make you stop moving, and the other grabs onto the rope and starts to untangle you. On instinct, you cling to his forearms for stability. 

They’re tense to the touch, firm, but you don’t get much of a chance to focus on them as you’re instructed to lift your leg so that you can step out of a particularly perplexing knot that had made its way all the way around your knee. The tips of his fingers brush against your thigh as he slides the rope from your body and an involuntary chill passes down your spine. 

Something about this current proximity brings a searing heat to your chest, and the gentle look that he gives you when his gaze flits back up to check on you holds enough power to still your damned heart entirely. 

He’s far more caring than he gives himself credit for. 

Even now, as he mumbles under his breath about how ‘we’re never going to get off this island if you keep playing with the ropes instead of helping build the raft’, his touch is so tender and cautious. Making sure that you’re entirely safe before he takes a step back starts to loop the rope around his arms to make it easier to carry. 

“Thank you,” you say quietly, taking the rope back off him.

“Of course,” he nods. “Now, get to work sailor. I’ll go hunt for tonight’s meal.”

With the raft mostly ready, but a bad rainfall hitting for a handful of nights in a row, it takes several more days until you’re next able to head out to the beach to work on it. 

You let yourself get up a little later that day than you have been, a luxury you grant to yourself knowing how near you are to your goal. Only a few hours of work at the most if you apply yourself- and even less if you can cajole Chuuya into giving you a hand. He’s far more agreeable now than he first was, and more often than not you barely even need to bully him into helping you out these days.

Running into Chuuya on the beach as you step out is a welcome surprise. 

When he leaves before you in the mornings, he tends to spend the majority of the day fishing or in the forests scavenging. Either way, he ends up entirely out of your sight and you tend to not see him until you’re ready to prepare food for the night. 

Now, he’s sat by the edge of the shoreline. A stretch of hope assumes he might be there waiting for you, but as you step closer you see that he seems oddly… elsewhere.

He’s taken his hair down from the low ponytail you’re used to seeing, ginger strands splayed across his shoulders like a waterfall, slightly damp from the fresh sea air. 

Salt clings to your tongue as you watch him quietly, settles in your throat and keeps you silent, savouring the peaceful moment. 

The muscles of his bare back tense and contract as he shifts, not incredibly defined but prominent enough to know that he clearly must be strong. He leans forwards, fingers dipped into the water below his makeshift seat upon a large flat rock. It ripples out from the point of contact, tiny little disturbances that flow and change as his hands brush through the liquid. 

There is a contemplative rhythm to his movements, as though he’s deep in thought. Pensive, you think, is the best descriptor for it. Somewhere lost between wistful and sad. 

Chuuya’s sights are set firm on the horizon in the distance, the sun dipping low and painting the sky orange in its wake. You wonder briefly what he must be thinking about. 

An idle crab wanders past your feet and you walk around it carefully, not wanting to risk a nipped toe whilst you’re out here. The last thing you need whilst you’re trying to get off this island is something that stops you for a while. 

But now that your angle is adjusted, a few steps forwards and to the side, you can take in the full sight of what is in front of you. 

No longer does Chuuya have the steady pair of legs you had accidentally barrelled over the other day. In their place lies a mesmerising fishtail, scales of orange and white and black dappling the surface reminiscent of the koi fish you have seen on travels to the Caspian Sea. Each one reflects the light, iridescent and shimmering, practically twinkling like the night sky under the radiant sun. 

The shape, however, is unlike any of the typical fish you have seen in your lifetime. This is larger by far, tapering towards the end, extending out past the rockpools and swaying idly in the water, more akin to some sort of eel or sea-snake. 

A webbed caudal fin splays out at the tip just above the water’s surface, stirring up tiny waves that froth and foam and fade away, ochre spines thick and long and extending out past the membrane to curl softly at the ends. It’s easily as big as your torso and as broad as your armspan, if not moreso, not to mention the several feet of tail that it is attached to. 

“Wow,” you breathe out quietly, coherency lost to you as you watch each subtle shift of Chuuya’s tail. 

He startles at the sound of you, a loud splash as he scrambles back from the water and onto the beach. As the scales begin to dry off from the tailfin up, they shrink and morph back into human flesh, until two bare legs greet you once more. 

It is now that you realise what has been piled beside him, what you had assumed at first glance were simply more rocks, or perhaps some loose seaweed. Chuuya’s clothes are folded neatly, shoes resting on top to weight them down, and he is entirely bare before you. 

“What?” he snaps. A scarlet blush buds on his cheeks and blossoms along the entire length of his body, betraying his tone. “This the first time you’ve seen a guy naked, or something?”

You avert your eyes, though the temptation to take another peek is almost overwhelming. “You caught me off-guard, is all.”

“I caught you off-guard?” he laughs. “You’re the one sneaking up on people on the beach.”

The scoff of retort you were about to release quickly gives way to a sigh. “Okay, you’ve got me there. I just didn’t want to interrupt you. You looked… peaceful.”

“I was just thinking,” he says.

“About home?” you ask.

Chuuya laughs. “I don’t have a home.”

“Everyone has a home.”

“Well, where’s yours?”

“Hm.” You pause. “Can I turn around yet, or are you still just weirdly naked behind me?”

“You’re good.”

Chuuya is still in the process of slipping his arms through the sleeves of his shirt when you turn to face him, and you’re stilled by the sight of a few stray water droplets rolling down his stomach. The sunlight beating down from above bends and twinkles and reflects the image of those pretty orange scales back towards you in each trailing drip, as though even the slightest contact with the water is enough to spark his transformation. 

His lips are pursed in concentration as his head pops up through the collar of the shirt and you can’t deny that you’re almost disappointed in how the rest of the fabric falls across his skin and obscures it from view. 

And then you’re hit for the second time as he grabs hold of his hair ribbon and places it between his teeth, keeping casual eye contact with you when he gathers up the loose ginger strands and ties them back into place. 

There’s only one thought running through your mind- he’s beautiful.

“Well, come on then. Out with it.” He stands where he is, in stasis with his hair half-tied, hands still stretched back behind his head. 

You have to force yourself to snap out of your distraction to finally respond with a half-assed “what?”

“Your home, tell me about it.” 

“I don’t remember a lot about my home,” you admit. “I’ve been on my own for a while, going wherever the sea takes me. I’ve spent time with crews on ships here and there, travellers and explorers, researchers and the like, but none of it ever felt right. So I’d always end up alone again.”

“Anyway,“ you interject yourself suddenly, barely allowing Chuuya the chance to process your words, “what about you?”

“I don’t have a home.” He turns away from you, finally lets go of his hair and looks out towards the horizon. “But I found people, and they’re good to me. I like being with them.” 

A wistful ache tugs in your chest at his words, how clearly dichotomous his life is to your own. “That sounds nice.” 

“It is,” he nods. “I… miss them, sometimes.” 

“We’ll get you back to them,” you vow. “I’ll make sure of it.” 

“Do you have anywhere to go once we’re off this island?” 

“I’ll probably keep travelling. I’m going to stick to the land for a while though, I think. Don’t particularly want to get stuck in the middle of nowhere and accidentally summon any more eldritch gods, you know?” 

Your speech is light, tinged with gentle laughter, but you can’t hide the way that your inflection cracks at the end. You only hope that Chuuya doesn’t catch on to it, or at least that he will choose to ignore it. 

You don’t know him well enough to be acting this vulnerable. He’s still a stranger to you at the end of the day. A stranger who has abilities far beyond your comprehension, who isn’t even human. 

And yet, he’s been more realistic with you in the past few weeks than anyone you’ve ever met. Everyone has an agenda, a reason to strike up a conversation with you. He’s no different- you’re supposed to be helping him get out of here. But despite all of that, there is something so undeniably relieving about his presence, especially in the quieter moments like this. Something that, try as you might to tell yourself otherwise, makes you feel comfortable. 

Besides, for being the vessel of an eldritch being, he’s not exactly been intimidating towards you. In fact, he’s been downright kind through all of this. Helpful, co-operative, like it’s his natural state of existence. Like he needs to be useful like this with others. It’s sweet, and you can definitely see why he’s the type of person to prefer other peoples’ company if he’s like this. 

Chuuya laughs, an unrefined sort of noise that sounds far more natural than the times he’s chuckled teasingly at you before. There’s a little snort to the end of it as he tries to stop himself, and an embarrassed flush to his cheeks as he realises you’ve just witnessed this. 

“I don’t think you’re gonna have to worry about that any time soon.”

Three more weeks pass before you’re finally content that the little sailboat you’ve put together is sea-ready. The decision to try and upgrade the initial from a raft to something more sturdy had pushed your escape date further back than either of you had wanted, but it was acquiesced at the potential that this way you were more likely to actually make it off the island and far enough to reach land- or at the very least some other ship that could help. 

When you first tried to float the raft you’d built, the poor thing was barely suited for the type of journey you’d need to make. Even in the slightest of breezes, it swished this way and that upon the water, barely controllable. There was nowhere to keep hold of any rations you’d have to bring with you for the trip- who knew just how long you’d end up at sea before you come across any more land? Worst of all, despite your efforts to make the floor of the raft large enough, you’d still ended up practically sat on top of one another when you’d set up for your test run. 

But now you had something better, stronger, more resilient to face the turbulent sea and come out of the other side of it unscathed. 

Or, at least, that’s what you’d both thought. 

The little boat you’d put together was surprisingly well-made considering your limited resources, and it had held strong for the first ten minutes of rowing out. As the island grew smaller and smaller behind you, you’d even let yourself imagine that maybe just maybe this time would be the one that worked. 

Angering the spirits of the skies seems to be something you’re uncannily good at, without even trying. A storm, fiercer even than the one that you’d faced that had landed you on that island in the first place, strikes up with a deadly intention. Lightning flashes and thunder roars, and even the sea itself is in fear of their power as it whips and frenzies in an attempt to escape their wrath. 

Your poor craft is caught in the middle, tossed from side to side until it fractures and cracks. 

The rain no longer merely kisses your cheeks. It spits and slashes, stinging your skin and biting into everything it can reach. 

Making a pair of oars for both yourself and Chuuya was a godsend now in hindsight, as it gives you a better semblance of control as you force your boat to stay upright even with the water that rushes in from a gash along the side. His arms gleam with each new flash of lightning from above, iridescent scales making themselves forcefully known as they abrase the fabric of his clothes. 

Though his shins have been folded below his thighs as he kneels to get more traction with the oars, by now it’s no surprise when you start to see the flexing orangey tips of a tail poking out from behind him. 

The water starts to lap higher and higher along the sides of your sinking ship, and distant waves crash ever closer, building up ever taller. If the storm doesn’t ease up soon, it won’t be the integrity of your boat you have to worry about. 

It’ll be the water itself that claims you. 

“Listen,” you say tersely, deliberately avoiding eye contact. “If uh… we don’t get out of here… I just want you to know. It’s not been all that bad being stuck with you.”

“We’re going to be fine,” Chuuya promises. He goes to reach out to place a hand on your knee comfortingly, but another oncoming wave has him recoiling back to grasp his oar harder. “You don’t get to get rid of me that easily, you know.” 

One incredible rush of water comes up like a goliath, hulking its way towards the boat with a deafening roar that pierces through your eardrums and reverberates against your very soul. You can feel it consuming you internally before it even reaches you, and you’re thrown into the depths with the most ungodly of crashes. 

Something whacks against your side, probably a part of the boat as it fractures underneath the pressure of the tidal wave that’s assaulted you. It screams pain through your body, numbs out your brain until you can’t think straight, close to blacking out. 

In the distance, as you force yourself to maintain consciousness and desperately kick your legs to bring yourself up to the surface, you think you hear a familiar voice cry out. 

When you feel like the last of the air is leaving your lungs, another hefting weight slams you up to the surface. 

It almost feels like you’ve come face to face with the afterlife. Everything’s too bright, too painful, and the view that greets you as you slowly peel your eyes open, rain still falling slick down your cheeks, is something you’d never encounter in the mortal realm. 

Chuuya is the one who’s saved you, that much is clear. 

But he looks different, in more than the senses you’ve grown used to. This is more severe than the simple manifestation of a mer’s tail that you witnessed weeks prior. 

This is something ancient, dangerous, the type of creature you hear horror stories about from passing tradesmen. 

Fins run the full length of his back, and the outline of several more protrude from where his ears and hair used to be. You can’t make out any clear details, especially not with your head tucked against his collar like this, but it is incredibly clear that he is no simple mer in this moment. 

His hands are webbed now too, thick membrane joining fingers that are clawed and dangerous. The scales that litter the edges of his palms are rough like sandpaper as he grasps onto you, biting into your flesh and leaving small abrasions in their wake. 

You cling to his shoulders as he drags you up to the surface, forcing your head above the water to take a sharp inhale of air. It rushes into your lungs like lava, setting your body ablaze as you gasp and splutter. 

And it hits you. This is what you saw that day at the beach, not the subtle transformation you had witnessed days later. 

This is a version of Chuuya at the peak of his eldritch influence, so far changed that he barely seems the same man whom you accidentally summoned to your side all those weeks ago. And yet, it is still so unequivocally him before you now. 

Though it isn’t easy to see him under the quickly falling blanket of night, he feels like the man you know. It is something intangible, unexplainable, and overwhelmingly real. 

Bobbing above the water like this, you can finally see more of the man in front of you as you try to stay afloat. You already know that this is more than the form you had seen in the rockpools, monstrous in comparison, but he is astoundingly beautiful in a way you can’t quite comprehend. 

Chuuya’s irises have narrowed into slits and his eyes are framed with more scales, spreading out across his forehead and cheeks, all the way up to his hairline and around to where his ears used to be. They are the same dark orange of his tail, but the edges of these scales are lined with a deep crimson that catches the occasional flashing of light like blood. 

In place of his ears sit two fins, similar in shape to his tail, but smaller and thinner, translucent and pinkish in the rising moonlight. His hair has been replaced by these as well, gossamer-looking fins that scintillate and lay like bunches of silk all the way down past his chin.

Upon his neck, below the jawline, a set of gills idly flex open and shut as he breathes. His teeth are sharp as well, barely contained within mostly-human lips. They peek diamond-esque out of his maw, like the enticing light of an anglerfish in the deep. 

Weaving across his torso are familiar red markings, though rougher around the edges than the smooth carvings in the lighthouse, jagged and visceral like scars cutting into his flesh, these are without a doubt the same sort of glyphs and runes you had been surrounded by for the last month. The skin here is thicker- calloused like the rest of him, but not as rough as the scalier areas- a thin salty sheen catching the starlight and making him all but glow in front of you now. 

“Sorry,” he rasps, voice lower and harsher, like the words find themselves trapped in this body. “Didn’t want you to see this.”

“It’s okay,” you say, hands bracing themselves against his chest as you keep one another afloat. You run the pad of your thumb across his pectoral, water slicking below your touch and running in a rivulet past your nail. Quieter, with tenderness as you meet his troubled gaze, you repeat, “it’s okay.”

You dip closer and press a comforting kiss to his cheek, surprised by how cool the rough skin feels on your lips. Around you both, tiny star-studded waves lap at your sides and keep you swaying gently upon the water’s surface. Like a dance in its own way, slow and intimate, and the fond look in Chuuya’s dark slitted eyes beckons you with all the allure of a siren guiding you towards your final perfomance. 

“You’re strange,” Chuuya says quietly, breaking the silence. “You aren’t scared.”

“Why would I be scared of you?”

The sharp rows of teeth peeking out from behind his lips practically gleam in the moonlight, large and powerful. They could bite through you in a single, swift movement, with no resistance even against your bones. 

“Why wouldn’t you be?”

You drift ever closer, until your chests bump together. Your nose brushes past his own, lips less than a hairsbreadth away. This close, you can feel the erratic beating of his heart, and you’re certain he can feel yours in turn. 

“Because I know you won’t hurt me.”

“I’ve hurt people.”

With a steadfast deliberation to your movements, you reach up to cradle the sides of Chuuya’s face and press your lips onto his. Just once, pulling away as quickly as you had swooped in, but affirmingly, leaving him endearingly bewildered as he stares at you like you’ve sprouted a second head. 

“You won’t hurt me.” You release a breath, shakier than you’d like it to be, and shift your hands down along his arms until you reach his webbed hands. “Come on, let’s get back to shore.”

Clumps of seaweed try to cling to your ankles as you’re guided back to land. The injury you’d sustained from the crash can’t be anything serious if you’re still able to kick your legs like this to keep yourself afloat, now no more than a tentative hand on your back from Chuuya to make sure you’re still with him, but it’s still enough to slow you down and tire you out faster. 

It’s a slow swim. Arduous, even. 

The large presence at your side is soothing. Chuuya is colder than he has been when you’ve made contact in the past, in part due to the rain still pounding from above and the other part due to his more monstrous form at present. Occasionally, an exposed patch of your skin brushes against his and it’s rough, enough to make you grimace with how otherwise tender you feel right now, but you’d take it over a potential lack of company. 

“Thank you,” you utter when you finally see the shoreline coming close. “I think I might be dead without you.” 

You don’t get a response, but Chuuya’s arm moves from behind you to encircling you, squeezing lightly. Like he doesn’t quite want to face the fact that, yes, you really could have perished out there. You suppose you shouldn’t dwell on it too much, either.

As you haul yourself onto the sand, you notice that Chuuya deliberately tries to slip from your grasp. He frowns at you, though it’s far more toothy than you expect it to be, and it seems more like he is just… staring. 

“You can’t change back.”

He shakes his head. The upper half of his body has started to dry, and yet not a single scale has returned to flesh. As if stubbornly proving his point, the thick lines of red that cross his chest glow brighter. 

“Too hard,” he rasps. “Went too far.”

“You’re going to be okay, right?” you ask. “You will change back eventually… right?” 

“It’s never been this bad.” 

He’s distressed, though he’s trying to hide it. You can tell in the way that he keeps looking over your shoulder, not quite bringing himself to make eye contact. In how he shifts uncomfortably within your arms and leans towards the sea, desperate to reach somewhere that he can escape from this situation. 

“We can worry about it later,” you declare quietly, pressing a deliberate kiss to his forehead. “For now…”

A contemplative hum leaves you as a new issue arises. You glance over your shoulder towards the lighthouse, then back to Chuuya, who watches you with his eyes narrowed in curiosity. 

“Do you need any food? Or… anything?” 

He shakes his head. “No.”

“Okay,” you nod. “Well, I don’t think we’re going to be able to do much to help you whilst it’s so dark out. I should head inside, and we can figure something out in the morning.”

A more aggressive shake, a firmer “no.”

“No?” you echo. “You want me to stay out here? I can get some sheets from the lighthouse and sleep on the beach.”

“No!” 

“Stop saying ‘no’! What do you want from me, Chuuya?” 

“Stay with me.” 

“I will,” you say, “but I can’t do that if you don’t let me sleep on the beach.”

“It’s not safe for you out here,” he says. 

“So, what do you suggest?”

His gaze shifts towards the lighthouse and you stare at him blankly for a moment as you process just what he’s insinuating. 

“You want me to carry you inside? Seriously? You’re going to be heavy!” 

“You can do it,” he states. “I know you can.”

“I don’t like you right now,” you huff, stepping towards the shoreline. Taking a knee, you offer your arms out to heave him up onto the land. “Come on then, let’s get this over with.” 

He’s unfathomably heavy, but you’ve gained a unique set of skills over the past few months- namely, dragging massive bulking trees across the island. Though he’s bigger than any log you’ve had to haul to date, the technique is mostly the same. Lift from the knees, don’t put your back into it too much, take advantage of the soft shifting sand below to readjust when you need to. The bulk of his weight is balanced around his upper body, so even though the length of his tail is utterly tremendous, you find its no more hassle than some sort of trailing veil. 

“So,” you say after a moment, “what’s with the blunt speech, anyway? I noticed you’re even more straightforward than normal.”

“This form,” Chuuya explains, “isn’t for talking. It hurts.” 

“Oh,” you say, “I didn’t realise. You don’t have to keep talking if it’s too much for you.” 

“Worth it,” he says, “for you.” 

Getting to the lighthouse itself is a little more of a struggle, namely trying to drag him up the stairs to reach the washroom. With the wooden banisters, he’s able to support himself better without your assistance- which allows you room to breathe and rest. But for all you’ve taken this very same trip on the regular, it seems to stretch on immeasurably now. 

You take a small break upon one of the plateaus between floors, resting back against the wall to catch your breath. Your muscles ache and burn, and the thwacking you’d taken from the capsizing boat earlier starts to throb from all the latent flooding adrenaline in your system, but you can’t give up just yet. There’s nothing you’ve learned from all of this lately if not how to be incredibly resilient. 

“I feel like,” you say between heaves, trying to break the tension in the silence that has descended, “I’m trying to sneak you past my parents, or something, like a kid. Silly, huh?”

Chuuya hums quietly, as if he doesn’t really share the sentiment, and you have to wonder for a moment just how much of a childhood he was really allowed to have. Being a human vessel for an oceanic eldritch deity since you’re barely fresh from infancy probably isn’t conducive to a warm and fulfilling life.

Though he hasn’t divulged much about his past to you, you’re sure it wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows. He seems happy enough with his place in life now- with the Port Mafia crew, if you remembered correctly- but whether he had been with them this whole time or not is unknown to you. 

You’re sure he’ll tell you whenever he’s ready. He’s opened up to you enough lately as it is. 

Finally picking yourselves up again, the washroom is reached at last and you start to run the water in the tub so that Chuuya doesn’t have to worry about drying out. 

“Do you know if that… actually will affect you whilst you’re like this?” Your question earns a uncertain headshake. “Well. Better safe than sorry, right?”

The running water echoes in your ears as it sploshes around the tub. There won’t be enough to cover Chuuya entirely, but it’ll be adequate at least. By the time he’s in and the fluid has a chance to displace around him, it’ll work. He’s mostly quiet as you finish up, and you don’t even have to help him to lift up and lower into the tub when you’re done. There’s a bit of a far-off guilty look in his eyes as he sits there at first, as though he’s feeling bad about you having to be here like this. 

“I like this side of you,” you admit quietly, idly trailing your fingertips across the scales on his upper arm. “You’re not as mean… and more honest.” 

That earns you a splashing of water, a loud thud echoing through the room as the ends of his tail thwack against the walls of the tub. 

“Alright, you’re just as mean!” you gasp out as the coldness hits you all at once, blinking droplets out of your eyes. 

Flashing his sharp fangs at you, Chuuya is smiling now; giving you the best approximation of a self-satisfied smirk that he can manage. 

He looks utterly ridiculous crammed into the tub in the washroom. It’s surprisingly spacious, really, especially considering it’s part of a lighthouse that clearly didn’t see regular use- just not when an oversized eldritch mermaid is occupying it. 

“You know, we could have stayed on the beach,” you chuckle, perched on a stool near the side of the bath. “But someone insisted I take him indoors because I wasn’t allowed to stay outside at night or leave him alone.” 

“It’s fine,” he insists. 

The constant fidgeting tells you otherwise. In your peripheral you catch the idle shifting of his caudal fin like that time you had seen him at the beach. The muscles of his upper arms flex and contract as he tries to keep his torso comfortably upright. His hands, webbed as they are and far less than suitable for their current task, grip tight to the edges to keep him from sinking too far into the tub. 

“It’s clearly not,” you note, trying to keep your tone light and non-confrontational. Sparking up an argument right now wouldn’t do the situation any good, and would probably only leave Chuuya in a worse state than he already is. “Please, if there’s anything I can do to help. Let me.” 

“Anything?” he repeats quietly, almost shy at the prospect of whatever he has in mind. 

Perhaps the room has heated up too much from the bath you’ve drawn, because your head starts to spin at the realisation of such a complete lack of proximity between the pair of you. It hadn’t been a problem before, when you had been so focused on making sure Chuuya would be safe. Now, at his insistence, at the situation unfolding between you, it’s hard to ignore the fact that you have your knee pressed up against the thick muscle of his tail. That he is bringing a clawed fingertip towards your shirt, hooking against the fabric and pulling you closer. 

That he has brought your face towards his, and that you can now see every single smattered red freckle that has persisted upon his cheeks through his change of appearance. Every individual scale, each of which shift hues so subtly in the dim candlelight of the washroom, sparkling at you enticingly, urging you to lean in. 

He stops you before you’re too close, splays out the hand that was holding onto you so that it spreads across your chest. “You can say no.” 

“I know,” you nod eagerly. “I don’t want to, though.” 

Chuuya’s mouth is cold as you press your lips to his, the sudden sensation almost enough to make you withdraw quickly. But something snaps in the moment that you connect, a tension that has broiled away for the better part of a few months. 

The first kiss you share is tentative, cautious. The next is hungry, impassioned, and your shirt is being fisted once more as Chuuya tries to bring you closer, to the point that you’re practically hanging over the edge of the washtub, nearly falling in. You bring your arms out to steady yourself, bracing against his shoulders, clinging onto him. 

“You sure you don’t want to be comfier?” you ask, thinking of the way you’d seen him shuffling only moments prior. “This can’t be nice for you.”

“Don’t care,” he says, stealing a third kiss from you, “not anymore.” 

He must be fine, you think, by the way that he takes hold of your hip with his free hand and pulls you onto him. Your own earlier injury declares its continued existence through a prolonged throb, but it’s the last thing on your mind when something else starts to stir within your core. 

The water in the tub splashes up your thighs, soaks your knees, drenches your clothes thoroughly as you fall onto his chest. You don’t miss the way his slitted eyes trail along the folds of wet fabric, keenly observing how it now clings against your skin and outlines your figure. If you weren’t in such a compromising position, you could be fooled into thinking the look he gives you is that of a hunter seeking out its prey, ravenous, and you are his prized meal.

If there had been any lingering doubt in your mind before about the creature you’d seen at the beach weeks ago, this was by far your most decisive proof. 

“This might be a bad idea,” you say between each feverish kiss, but Chuuya is desperate in the way that he clings to you, claws skimming the fabric of your shirt and threatening to tear it to shreds. 

“I want you,” he says simply. Kisses you again.

And you’re not exactly in a position to argue with him when he has you all but pinned to his body like this, one arm snaked around your waist and the other still pressed in between you, firmly sunk against the flesh of your chest. Not that you’d want to anyway, you think, as heat swells in your stomach and a fervent desire pleasantly clouds your mind. 

“Okay,” you agree against his mouth. “I’m yours.” 

Your declaration seems to spark something feral within the eldritch mer, fiercer than the behavious he’d already exhibited, and far more exhilarating. One of his claws tears into the fabric of your shirt and rends the poor thing straight off of your form, the remains falling off your shoulders and into the tub below the pair of you. 

Having your body exposed to him like this is thrilling, a chill running along your spine as he takes hold of your flesh within his large hands and squeezes tentatively. A rough thumb runs across the bud of your nipple and it rouses at the touch, pebbling in the cool air of the washroom. His mouth finds your neck, tongue lathing along your throat, making you arc forwards into his touch. 

“Can I?” he asks hoarsely, hand stopped just above where you need it most, and you grind down against the pad of his fingers in response. 

“Please,” you whine, “I need you.” 

The pressure of his thumb against your clit is fucking heaven as he brings his mouth back to yours and kisses you hard. The heady intoxication of sex in the air combined with the powerful friction brings you close to your first orgasm far quicker than you could have expected. And yet, despite his clear thirst for you, Chuuya manages to take his time to fully coax that first tantric climax from you. It bubbles up slowly, quietly, blossoming from your core until your entire being is consumed by flames, hot and heavy, and so damn good. 

He isn’t neccessarily skilled or not at the act, in fact you wouldn’t be surprised if he’s only done this a handful of times before- and most likely not at all in this current state of being. But there is a abstruse emotion that dances with you as you move together, reaches its peak with you and flows out between you. It wouldn’t matter even if he was bad at this, you think. It’s simply the fact that it’s him making you feel this way that has everything so very heightened. 

The same man you’ve spent the past few months with such a budding tension growing between you, who you’ve shared late night talks with and vulnerable conversations- even though he’d been so standoffish with you upon first meeting. You’d gotten to know him, as much as he’d let you. And he had in turn learned about you. 

Sure, part of it feels like it was a necessity to ensure your continued survival on this island- there’s no way you’d have made as much progress on your inevitable escape if you’d continued to be at odds- but you won’t deny that it feels like so much more than that. 

And that is why, as you come for the first time that night, crying out your partner’s name as your nails find scaled flesh and dig in tight, riding out your high against those thick rough fingers, you are already so very desperate to seek out more. 

Continuing to grind against his hand as your afterglow washes across you, thoughtless movements that ebb and flow and pulse your orgasm away with them, you shift to balance yourself against his chest with your palms. 

The new angle brings about a new sensation with it, something warm and hard pushing against your ass. His cock has released itself from the confines of the slit it was previously tucked away in, still humanlike in size but textured with ridges and bumps that press into your skin and give you a precursor of what’s to come. 

It’s not huge, but it certainly isn’t small either. And the prospect of being stuffed full of it is so very enticing. 

Indulgently, your hand slips between your bodies to take hold of the organ. 

To the touch, it’s far slicker than you’d expected, and Chuuya hisses at the sudden contact, his mouth finding your neck to stifle the noise. There’s a moment of pressure as his teeth graze your skin, and then a release, the sharp fangs puncturing the first few layers and drawing small wells of blood into your clavicle. It’s by no means deep enough to do any real damage to you, but it certainly causes you to gasp out in shock at the sensation, making you grip onto his cock harder. This in turn has him run his tongue against the wound, eliciting another salacious whine out of you. 

“Fuck,” you exhale, a bubbled laugh catching in your throat, “you’re rougher than I thought you’d be.”

“You thought?” he echoes, unable to quite bring himself away from you for long enough as his mouth finds your jaw, then your cheeks, then your lips again. 

“Mm.” You roll your hips down absently, indulging in his kiss, pulling away to pepper smaller ones across his cheeks. “I thought about it a lot recently, how this would feel. Admittedly, I didn’t expect you to be-” you run your fingertips across a small patch of scales- “quite like this. But I’m not complaining.” 

With his cock still in your hand, you move to align it underneath you. The anticipation of what you’re about to do builds within your chest, exciting, enthralling, and you pause right on the very precipice. 

“Is this okay?” you check. 

He nods.

“Alright, tell me if you want me to stop.”

“I won’t,” he assures, leaning in to place a kiss to your forehead. 

The tip alone is thicker than it looked, and it spreads you apart far more than his fingers had. Your jaw tenses as you try to adjust to the sensation, and Chuuya notices this. Leans down and kisses along the tightened muscle to try and soothe you, trailing absently along your neck and all the way back up again. 

“I can stop,” he mutters against your cheek. 

“Please don’t,” you beg. 

To prove your determination, you try to sink yourself down a little lower, and both of you keen out at the sensation. It had been a while since you’d had sex like this, a few months even before you’d been stranded out here let alone after, and the fullness is such a profound experience. 

Once the initial discomfort has passed, a euphoric bliss takes its place. 

Feeling bold enough to start moving, you set a slow pace. Lifting yourself up just a little, barely enough for him to really shift inside of you, but enough to feel that delicious drag of his cock in your cunt. The descent feels even better, the slight rub of your clit against the hard scales that surround his sex, and you let yourself sit there, speared by his full length, eyes shut tight to sink into the sensation. 

“You feel amazing,” you coo out, stealing a kiss as you move again. His hands come to your hips to keep you in place, purposefully gentler around your side injury. “Wanna make you feel good too.” 

Fucking Chuuya like this brings a warmth to your veins, holding onto one another like a lifeline as you clench around him and ride your way to another climax. It’s tantric, emotional, and every single thrust of your hips makes you feel closer to him in a way you’d never imagined. 

Your second orgasm starts to creep up on you unexpectedly. A combination of the perfect friction, the angle you’ve sat at where his cock curls against your g-spot each time you fuck down onto him, and the ardour that seeps into the air between you, all building up within you until you’re close to exploding. 

As it hits, you curl forwards into Chuuya, bracing yourself hard against his chest with your palms. He takes over the brunt of the work, gently fucking up into you as you pulse and throb around him. When his own climax peaks, he pulls from you, releasing onto your stomach with a breathy pant. The worst of it becomes one with the water you’re sat in, and you grimace at it briefly, knowing you’re going to need to change that out when you’re done. 

But for a moment, you can rest, basking in the afterglow of your sex. 

Empty now, but emotionally sated, you rest your head against Chuuya’s chest as his arms wrap around your torso. But it’s not to let you relax, you find, when he lifts you from below the arms and sits you down on the edge of the washtub. 

“What are you doing?” you giggle breathlessly, heart still pounding. 

“Want to taste you,” he says simply. 

Exactly how he plans to do that, you don’t understand at first. Until, that is, he picks you up again, firmly grasping your thighs to keep you stable, and shifts so that he is on his front and your back has been pressed up against the washroom wall. It’s freezing cold and your body jolts at the contact, but it is very quickly replaced with an overwhelming warmth when Chuuya dips between your thighs and kisses your clit. 

You’re still sensitive from the two orgasms you’ve already had, but that isn’t about to stop him. His tongue is hot as it flicks out to swipe along your folds, slowly, teasingly. He really is going to take his time to savour you, you think, and your head comes to fall back against the wall as your back arches forwards to lean into the friction. 

It feels like he’s swallowing you whole as his tongue eases into your cunt, so incredibly long and just textured enough to drag against your insides in the perfect way. The tips of his fangs graze across the outer skin of your pussy, gentle like he’s actively trying not to hurt you. Your hands find the back of his head and push him against you harder, working with his mouth to bring you to the edge once more. 

This orgasm takes longer to peak, even with how desperately you grind with him to reach it. The overstimulation in your core has all of your nerves feeling like raw electricity, frazzled and intense. 

When it hits, it courses through you slowly. Bubbles up from the pit of your stomach until it crescendoes into a bursting supernova, a cry of utter bliss falling from your lips like a holy mantra. A song of worship, all for the archonic mer that is settled between your legs, swallowing every last drop of your essence like its the first morsel of real food he’s ever had. 

There are tears welling up in the corners of your eyes as you come down from this third high of the night. Your hands don’t know where to put themselves as your spent energy dissipates into the musky, sex-steamed air of the washroom. You settle for idly running along the sides of Chuuya’s body as he pulls away and balances himself in front of you, chest to chest now. 

Traces of a glossy sheen linger around his mouth, and not from the water in the tub. It awakens something possessive in your soul, seeing parts of you across him like this. With the way his own eyes sweep the expanse of your body, it looks like he’s thinking the same thing about the marks from his teeth and claws that now litter your skin. 

“Was that good?” he asks, voice notably less raspy than it had been earlier but still tinged with something gravelly. 

“It was wonderful,” you chuckle. Your head falls into the crook of his neck and he holds you there just like that with him. The steady beating of his heart echoes in time with your own. “Thank you.” 

“Thank you,” he echoes with a grumbly laugh. “I needed that.” 

You press a kiss to the scaled skin beneath your lips and pull back. For just the smallest moment, everything feels so unimaginably right. 

Then the bruise on your side starts to pulse again. It has blackened now, a bristling purple that spreads across the tender skin like a cluster of flowers, made far worse from all the jostling about of the last hour or so. 

Now that you’re coming back down to reality, every muscle in your body seems to be aching tenfold. 

“I think I need to get some sleep,” you say lightly, giving a squeeze to his shoulders. “Are you going to be okay like this?”

“I’ll be fine,” he replies, leans in to press a kiss to your cheek. “Get some rest.” 

You clamber out of the washtub as adeptly as you can manage given your condition. Before you have the chance to leave him fully, Chuuya takes hold of your unhurt side and pulls you back. Spreads kisses along your neck and collarbone as he takes hold of one of the washcloths settled nearby and tries to clean you up. It’s a little difficult and unrefined with his hands webbed like they still are, but the effort is unbelievably sweet, and you let him do the best he can before you finish the job yourself. 

“Good night.” The tiles on the floor are cold as your damp feet press against them, and you jump a little at the contact, almost slipping and falling from the momentum. But you gather yourself up before Chuuya even has the chance to worry, laughing it off. “Yeah, I really need to go and rest, huh?”

As you turn back one last time, a sleepdrunk smile on your face, you could swear the eyes that gently smile back at you have more of a human gleam to them. 

It’s still dark when you first wake up, the faint silvery light of the moon idling through the porthole window above the dingy little mattress you’d settled on. Only a couple of hours had passed, but that didn’t seem too strange. Sleep has been a bit of an anomaly for you ever since you’d first washed ashore on this island. 

You find that you’re alone, which isn’t a surprise. After the events of last night, you’d dragged yourself back here to get some ample rest- but it feels almost too quiet on this level of the lighthouse. 

There’s no sound of moving water coming from the washroom, unlike how you had fallen asleep, and you bolt upright to check on Chuuya. 

Missing. The water in the tub has been thrown out and any mess that had splashed around is long gone from the bathtowels lining the floor, cleaned up deliberately. So he must at least be okay, but that doesn’t answer the more pressing question of just where he’s managed to run off to considering you’d had to haul him up here in the first place. 

Your search drives you out to the beaches, the most sensical place to look. The early morning sunlight starts to edge its way above the horizon, the post-storm air still just chilly enough to warrant you wrapping your arms around yourself to hold in your body heat. 

Below your bare toes, the top layer of sand shifts and molds itself to your footprints, clinging onto your skin each time you lift your feet. You’d lost your shoes to the storm, unfortunately, and hadn’t found the time to fashion yourself new ones between returning to land and the other… events that had unfolded the night prior.

You were right, though. He’s out here just as you had expected. With his back to you, looking out towards the horizon, the same way you’d found him near to the start of your time together. 

“Figures I’d find you out here,” you say loudly enough to alert Chuuya to your presence. “Did you even get any sleep?”

He sits the same way you’ve seen him before, legs morphed into a pretty tail as they lay submerged in the rockpools. Smaller than what you’d seen last night, more controlled. It’s a relief to see his eyes back to normal, lighting up upon sight of you as he turns around. In fact, his entire upper half is notably human again, and you can tell he’s just as relieved by the change as you are. 

“Sorry, I didn’t want to wake you up.” 

“That’s fine, I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

You step carefully around the sharp rocks and make your way to his side, sitting down and letting your toes dangle in the water. It’s cool, refreshing, and the view of the horizon stretched out as far as the eye can see before you makes the entire experience all the more relaxing. You can see why Chuuya likes to do this. 

His shoulder presses against yours at this proximity, but it’s pleasant, warm even, a nice contrast to the sensation of the flowing tides below. Impulsively, you give in to the urge to rest your head upon his shoulder. In turn, he rests his against you. 

“I’m glad you’re back to normal,” you say, hand finding his and fingers interlocking. “I was worried for you.” 

“I think you helped,” he admits. “I’ve never been stuck like that for so long, but you being around made it all feel like it wasn’t going to be the worst thing in the world if I couldn’t turn back.” 

“I’d have stayed with you, you know,” you confess, “if you had to stay that way.” 

“I thought you didn’t get along with people,” Chuuya teases, bumping his shoulder against you and making both of you sway gently. 

You push him right back, stifling a giggle. “You’re not exactly ‘people’ are you, mister vessel of an eldritch deity?” 

He squeezes your hand pointedly, “okay, you’ve got me there.” 

The air between you quiets, but there’s no awkwardness. It’s pleasant, this silence, relaxing. Morning breaks above your heads and showers you in comforting sunlight, warm, inviting. If it weren’t for the fact that you were both actively trying to leave this place, you’d almost feel inclined to stay. 

“Hey…” you speak up after a moment, fiddling with the hem of your shirt, “can I ask you something? It’s a little personal, so I don’t mind if you say no.” 

“After last night?” Chuuya laughs. “Ask away.” 

“Okay,” you nod, bracing yourself for the topic you’re about to broach. “Why didn’t you just… stay with the cults when you were younger? Let them worship you as a god, be revered and adored by so many people?”

“You could have had it all,” you continue. “Riches, power, people worshipping you and laying their lives down for you. Whatever you wanted.”

“It's all bullshit,” scoffs Chuuya. “You know what happens when you have a bunch of people at your feet? There's nobody left to see eye to eye.”

“That’s why you found a crew.”

“I may have subordinates on the ship, but more importantly I have their respect. Not their fear.” 

There’s a far-off look in his eyes as he speaks, reminiscent and light. Clearly, he misses these people- cares for them greatly. You know he’s the type of person that thrives around the company of others, unlike yourself. He’s built himself into a community, into a life that works for him. And it happens to be so very different from the type of life you’re used to. 

But you can’t say it isn’t the sort of life you wouldn’t try to give one final chance to. At least, certainly not when it also involves the company of someone you’ve very much grown to enjoy over the past few months. 

“Well,” you say, breaking the silence at last. “We’re no use to anyone moping around on this beach. Let’s scavenge what we can of our old boat and start to fix it up.”

“You want to try again?”

“What else would we do?”

“And if it fails?”

“We try again,” you insist. “And we keep trying until we finally get out of here. Or until someone finds us, whichever comes sooner. I’m sure your people are already looking for you, if they’re as family-oriented as they seem to be.”

You almost miss what Chuuya asks next, words much quieter and fragile. They slip from him as if involuntary, and he silences himself immediately after. 

“Would you come back with me?”

A determination fills your soul, resilience surging through your veins. And you smile. You smile so brightly that it is your turn now to be envied by the elements, by the rain and her lightning and thunder.

“What else would I do?”

author notes: i've popped these down here bc the warnings are SO LONG they were already making all the pre-cut stuff horrendous lmfao. anyway, i hope if y'all made it to the end that u liked it <3 i personally feel like it gets rather ooc in parts because of how much i was fighting this tooth & nail in the writing process, but i'm still very proud that i finished this and that's good enough for me >:)

I went to tidewater comicon this weekend, it was my first time cosplaying in almost a year!!! I had so much fun. Can’t wait until next year!

on the cruelness of fifteen

@/petrichara // the shape of a girl, joan macleod // @/cowboyvamplikeme // fifteen, taylor swift

trigun stampede is so realistic cuz the final big battle is between two brothers who are kicking and screaming and biting each other over a cube and they decimate an entire city. this is exactly how sibling fights go speaking from experience