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bi-writes · 22 days

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you get into big trouble, and you must pay the price. but bunnies should be terrified, and you are not.

mercenary!ghost x fem!reader (part 3/?)

notes about reader: she's curvy !!!! and she knows it.

cw: this is not a healthy relationship (you're both fucking insane), mature language and content, suggestive language and content, dark!ghost, mean!ghost, toxic!ghost, possessive + protective!ghost, kissing through the mask, mentions/depictions of violence + gore, innocence kink, corruption kink, size kink (reader is described as much smaller than ghost, can be easily manhandled by him), ghost is bIG, mentions of ghost's canon trauma, mw3 spoilers, fem!receiving touching + a little oral (18+), unprotected piv

his phone pings. he turns it over, narrowing his eyes at the text on the screen.

🐰: made some cookies. come over?

he runs his tongue over his teeth, clicking it lowly before leaning back in his chair. his ass hurts; he's been sitting here for hours, watching a dark window do nothing for hours.

💀: Working.

🐰: i have a surprise for you !!!

💀: Later.

for a moment, he thinks he should be nicer. give his puppy a bone. tell her he misses the taste of her pretty pussy, that he can still smell her on the mask he hasn't washed. and this is true, he knows it; he aches to go back to where she lives. he wants to see her again. put his dirty, gloved fingers into her mouth and watch her cry, soak her soft panties again, steal them, watch her cry harder when he finally gives her what she wants.

the most horrifying part is that he wants it. he wants to feel the warmth of her body. he wants to see her wide hips stutter, her pretty thighs open. he thinks about bending her over and kneeling down behind her, spreading the meat of her ass so he can watch her come undone against the velvet cushions of her couch.

you're so fucking pretty. and you're everywhere. when he grips the metal of his rifle, he thinks about how hard he was when he ate your cunt--fucking solid, balls so heavy and tight that he thinks he came for a full minute when he finally touched himself that night. when the sight of that rifle finds its target, he thinks about the way your pupils dilated when you came, the way your eyes rolled back into your head and the little sounds you made when he drank up the essence of you. when he swings his knife and plunges it into a soft neck, he thinks about your smile, the teeth you bared, the ones he wants to slide his tongue over when he kisses you again.

he had kissed you. kissed someone. the thought alone would normally make him vomit. to think of another person seeing his face, it bothered him, would usually make him feel sick--disgusted. his face wasn't meant for anyone to see, not even just half of it, and yet--he let you touch him.

and it didn't burn.

he remembers when he had taken a hand once for it. feeling someone's touch on his face, feeling scarred all over again by it, and taking flesh as their penance.

it was only fair.

there is something wrong with him. he should've killed you for it. your hand on his jaw, your lips on his, he should've killed you for touching him--and yet here he is, in another lonely room, staring at his target, thinking about how he can get your hands on him again. how he might coax you into kissing him just one more time.

he doesn't want to make it a habit. but he does want it to happen again. and it is enough that he knows he shouldn't see you again, but he will, because he's selfish. because he's hungry. because there is place inside of him, one that he thought was hollow and untreatable, that is just that much satiated whenever he is with you.

when he closes his eyes, he sees what haunts him. it isn't the memories of torture. he doesn't feel the wood of a coffin he once laid in. he doesn't feel the sting of pain when they carved layers into his face, he doesn't feel the holes they left along his chest when they rooted out pieces of him. he doesn't feel what he felt when they popped his fingernails off one by one.

no, he feels the ghost of someone's touch. he feels the rough callouses of skilled hands. he thinks of the bruised knuckles that used to scrape over the ridges of his uneven skin, and he thinks of the eyes that used to look at him as if he wasn't this mangled, forgotten thing.

he thinks of those eyes, and how blue they used to be. he thinks of what they looked like with that brightness in them, how they used to move, so fluid and easy. and he thinks of what they looked like with nothing in them. he thinks of them when they reflected nothing but the dull light over his head, and he thinks of the scream he let out when he was alone, when he still had his blood on his gloves.

ghost never begs. he doesn't beg, he never has, but he thinks he did that night. he thinks he begged, to who, to no one maybe, but he begged anyway, but it doesn't matter.

no one answered, and he knows there is a place inside of him so fucking hollow, that nothing will fill it again. a hole that only seems to be dug deeper and deeper with each thing he loses.

he never looked back when he left. he didn't say a word. he didn't even take his belongings, he just left. and the only thing he still carries with him from his past life is how good he is at killing and the extra dog tags that hang around his neck.

ghost isn't real. there is nothing about him that is redeemable, nothing about him that is good enough to love, and that is why he just doesn't care. and when he stopped caring, the nightmares went away. when he stopped wondering where they were, what they were seeing, if they would be disappointed in him, he no longer saw their faces in his dreams, watching them fade to black as the soft images turned into violent ones.

when he stopped being human, they left him, and he is so grateful for it. and that is why you were going to be a problem.

because he wants. he desires. he tastes, and he hungers, and you are sweet, and he wants to have you, and it isn't right. he knows this. he knows what it is he needs to do, but he won't do it--and there is a voice in his head that begs, from a far away place, for him to let you go.

but while he might not be human any longer, he is still a man, and men are weak.

as a man, he cannot close his eyes and forget your pretty face. he cannot stop thinking about your warm thighs, the softness of you, the unscarred skin that you wear. you wear your body as it is yours, and not like it holds you back, not like his does. your belly is full, and your heart is good, and you are warm. you aren't made of something else, you are real, and his blood runs so cold, he can't help but itch to feel you again.

there is something about you that makes that place inside of him feel like it isn't there, even for just a moment. and those moments remind him of someone else, of something else, something he once had that made him sick to think about having again.

the last time he had this, it killed him. the last time he found himself here, he didn't realize it had happened until it was too late--he was buried, deep, and there was no escaping a shallow grave this time because he thinks he loved the one that put him there. the last time he thought this way, he felt not himself, not enough, but it had been everything his life had been without, so he stayed, and he let it happen, and he didn't push him away, and now look at me--look at what I've done, look at what I've become--

men are weak. and men are lonely. and it was only a matter of time before ghost found himself there again, on his knees for something else. something soft and sweet and real, something that loves unconditionally and begs for attention and is never satiated until he looks at them and gives them what they need.

he doesn't know what he will become after you. he doesn't know what it will make of him. he knows you will go before him--he knows you will die before he does, because he isn't capable of dying, and even though he knows this as a fact, he wants to die again. but he won't try, because it won't work, even if he takes the blade strapped to his side and shoves it right through his heart.

he doesn't have one. he doesn't know what such a wound would even do. and he doesn't wish to see what color his blood will run if he does it, anyways.

you don't like the distance he keeps you at. it isn't fair. you do everything he asks--you go where he goes, you let him come and go whenever he wants, you spread your legs for him and let him have his fill, and you don't complain when he leaves even though your mouth waters thinking about getting your mouth on him and hearing him bask in his own pleasure for even a moment.

he gives and he takes, but he lets you do neither, and you want more. you know he isn't capable of more, you know he doesn't want more, but you want it, and he needs it. he needs you, despite what he says, despite how he acts, and you will give him what he needs.

you see it in his eyes. the things that aren't there, the things you think he once had but doesn't have anymore. sometimes he talks like you aren't there, and he mentions someone else.

another person. someone he used to know. someone he used to love, you think, but he isn't capable of love anymore, so you often wonder what they did to him to make him this way.

aloof. detached. so entirely fucked, he cannot make connections or hold the ones he has or let himself have what he needs. they have done something to him, and he wears the aftermath of it so clearly.

"he woulda liked you," he says sometimes.

"woulda loved the taste of y'r cunt," he murmurs once.

but they are gone. and you are not. and you know that there is something here. otherwise, he would never come back. he would not want to see you again. maybe he would have even killed you, but he hasn't, and he eats pussy like he loves you, so you decide you won't leave him alone. you won't let him go. this isn't fair, and you will get what it is you want--and give him what it is he needs.

you see him in the pub that you met in. he sits at the far corner of the bar, tucked in the dark against the wall, and he swirls a glass of bourbon in front of him. he wears a rain jacket over his dark hoodie, and you light up when you catch sight of him.

you wear something nice for him. a short skirt, a cotton shirt tucked into it, a cropped jacket over top, and your boots make you feel tall, but you know it won't matter--you'll never be taller or bigger than that large, hulking man you have your eyes fixated on.

but when he sees you, he doesn't react the way you expect. he doesn't sit up, doesn't get off his seat to come get you, he doesn't move at all. his eyes run over you, and then they move back down to his drink.

like he doesn't know what you taste like between your legs. like he doesn't know you at all.

your smile fades. you clutch your purse now in clammy hands, and you walk shakily to the bar and sit, swallowing hard as you try and hold in the shaky breath in your throat. your chest hurts a little; your heart has fallen into your stomach, and you shift on the bar stool, fidgety and uncertain.

you had been so happy to see him. you had been so excited to come here. you hadn't seen him in weeks--but the sparse texts he had sent you were enough to keep you hanging onto your phone whenever it made a sound, as if one of those notifications might be him, throwing you just enough attention to keep you on your toes, desperate.

your lip trembles a little as the bartender comes to take your order. you ask for a shot and a chaser, and you tell him to make it a double. you want to be drunk, and you want to be drunk quickly.

you tip the drink back, swallowing it down. it burns, holds a fire in your chest, and you chase it with a seltzer, swallowing down the contents of both until you slam the can back on the counter, hiccuping.

you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, and when you realize ghost is still not looking at you, you're drunk enough to test his limits.

there's a group of boys down on the other side of the counter. they're playing darts, and they're drinking, and you slip off the barstool with a little step before making your way over cautiously. you pull your shirt down, show off the swell of your tits, and you ask them if they'll teach you to throw darts.

they practically cheer with delight. you hear one of them drool over your ass in that skirt, you hear another whine about looking down your shirt and at the peek of the lace bra you wear, and you shiver when you realize all you ever wanted was attention.

someone to tell you that you're pretty. that you make them hungry. but it isn't all you want, and they can't give you what you want.

they won't die for you. they won't live for you. and certainly, you know, they won't kill for you. but there's a man on the other side of the room that you want doing those things for you, that has the fucking balls to do those things for you, that possesses no good bone in his body that would do those things easily for you.

you see him in your dreams, breaking necks and popping kneecaps and slicing soft skin just to please you, and it makes you ache inside. you know what he does. he's never lied to you, but he doesn't always tell you the whole truth, but you fill in the blanks of the spaces he leaves behind, and you know what it is he does.

there's blood on his boots and money in his pocket, and you should be so afraid, but you never could be. not with the way he touches you. not with the way he talks to you. not with the way he puts his tongue inside of you and holds your thighs apart, and not with the way he grunts when he disappears into your bathroom to fuck himself to the image of you on your couch, half-naked as you wait for a fucking that never comes.

why won't he touch me? why won't he fuck me? why doesn't he rip the rest of my clothes off and have his way with me? he doesn't seem like the kind of man to ask for permission, but he eats me, and then he leaves me, and i can't take it anymore, please, please, please--

you're dizzy. the room spins, and the boys laugh, and your darts are hitting the wall now, clattering to the floor as they all boo and snicker at the way you're stumbling in your heels.

they're too close. you can smell the vodka and beer too much, and it's too warm because they're too close to you. someone's hand is on your thigh, another holds you upright with a grabby grip on your back, and there's someone else playing with your hair. they hum and they talk, and when they say they want to take you home, all you can do is hiccup and smile.

but as soon as you turn and leave, there's a large shadow waiting outside the door, leaning against the wall. you giggle knowingly, because you knew he would be here, and when the boys notice him, they try to take you in the other direction.

"if y'blokes knew wot was good for ya, y'd let 'er go and be on y'r way." he isn't in a good mood. he clicks his teeth as he comes off the wall, stepping under the streetlight. it makes the shadows of his hoodie darker, but his eyes are clearer now, bright under the mask as he breathes hard. he's angry, and he doesn't seem like his patience will linger tonight.

"oi, mate, relax," one of them laughs, and you giggle again when you see ghost tilt his head to the side. fuck, he's deadly, and you're wet. you squeeze your legs together looking at him, and you want him to put one big hand on your waist and tilt your head back--you want him to push his mask up and kiss you, all sloppy and soft like he did all those weeks ago. you want him to put his hands up your skirt and fuck you with his fingers right in the street, the same hands he squeezed the life out of someone with, the same hands he was going to kill these boys with.

ghost steps closer, and he goes for the nearest. brings a hand up, smacking one big hand against their cheek until their head hit the side of the building, and he crumpled to the floor in a pool of his own blood.

they scatter like bugs. stumbling drunk over their feet, tripping, and they disappear into the dark as ghost tilts his head to the other side now, looking at you.

you smile. giddy, hitting your toes together, and when you step to the side, you don't notice you've stepped in that man's blood.

"y'think this is fuckin' funny, eh? hangin' about with lot like that, y'think it's fuckin' funny?" he spits, and you put your hands behind your back, biting your lip.

"you...you ignored me," you hiccup. "why did you ignore me?"

"that wot this is about?" ghost snarls. "me not givin' you a proper look?"

you bite your lip harder, nearly drawing blood.

"i missed you," you whisper, your lip trembling slightly. "m-missed you so much..."

"fuck off with that," he mutters, but you step closer anyways. when he doesn't step back, you step forward again, until you're flush against his chest, tilting your head back to look up at him. you go languid when his arm falls, slipping up the back of your skirt just like you imagined. he squeezes the flesh of your ass before he leans down, and you whine when he presses the front of his mask against your lips. you kiss, your soft mouth kissing him through the fabric.

"is he dead?" you ask when he pulls away. ghost says nothing at first, just smooths his hand over the lace of your panties. he grunts when he slides his fingers between the seam, satisfied when he hears the squelch of your wet pussy as he pets you there. you squirm a little.

"dunno," ghost murmurs, and you get wetter you think, at how nonchalant he behaves as he touches you shamelessly where anyone might see. "fuck, bunny, y'r soakin' my fuckin' gloves."

"why don't you like me?" you whimper. you reach up and put both hands on his chest, and you dig your nails there, but you meet resistance. the muscle and fat there barely give way, and he hums when you drag your nails down, anchoring yourself to him. when you meet his eyes, they are dull, and you know he doesn't care. "i-i like you...i-i like you so much..." he huffs in annoyance, but you keep going, "you like someone else," you whisper. "there's someone else..."

someone else. as if there is some kind of competition, and maybe there is, but it isn't what you think. there is someone in his head, someone that screams for him to leave, someone that begs him--simon, please, yer goin' to hurt 'er, please, she's so pretty, please--but it isn't because he loves someone else, it's because he did love someone else, and he doesn't think there's room for more.

but he also cannot explain what swelled in his chest when he watched you with those boys. the searing heat of emotion that bubbled in his throat, and how the only relief he feels is the satisfaction that the boy at your feet bleeds because he put his hands on you, that is good, make them suffer, touching what fuckin' belongs to me.

there's a breaking point. it's the law of physics. something as rigid as ghost could only bend so far back before it reaches the elastic limit, and then it is deformed, and then it snaps, and then it is two pieces instead of one that cannot be put back together--and he feels it. he knows this is it. the fine line between what was and what is, this is it, it's too late--shut the fuck up, johnny, it's too late, i have her, she's mine, get out of my head, get out of my fucking head, i'm going to have her, have her, have her sweet fucking cunt--

you are bliss. you are the air that allows him to breathe. you are the threads in the fabric, the water in the soil, the heat that warms the house and breaks the soul and drives the machine.

you are in his bed, on your back, and when he slides your skirt off, there it is. the soft place between your pretty thighs, glistening and so wet, puckering and pulsing as you spread your knees for him and slip your shirt off.

he doesn't remember taking his mask off. he doesn't know where it went, but it is gone, and your lips are on his, and your tits are bouncing as he grinds his cock into your soft, squishy folds. the tip catches sometimes, and it makes you cry, and you whine when he breaks the kiss to lick your tears and taste the salt of your pleasure. the tears are heady and desperate, and he knows this flavor, and he wants more of it.

he commits this to memory. when he sits up and feeds you his cock, he memorizes the way you moan. the twitch of your pussy, the leaking of your wetness, the way you clench and tighten and grip so he cannot do anything but force himself deeper inside of you.

what is it that he loves? what is it that he loves so much that he cannot look you right in the eyes? whose body did he have underneath him all that time ago that steals him away so much he cannot fuck you the way you deserve? the way you need, the way he wants?

you reach up and grip his dog tags. they jangle against his chest as he grips your hips and fucks you, and you use them to anchor yourself, tugging on the metal necklace as you focus on the way he thrusts. powerful, smooth, with ease--he's so big, but he fills you so well, and you can't help but wonder if he's losing himself because it's so familiar. to be inside. to be gripped and squeezed and milked for all that you are, the brute of a man so misunderstood that fucks like a goddamn pornstar.

he's so good at this. when he finds the gooey spot in your cunt, he knows how to get you there. hitting it just enough to bring you to the edge, and then slowing down to savor the wet mess your cunt has become, and then doing it again. he listens to the cries you make, the crescendo of moans that you sob out that come back down when he goes softer. he thinks about this, and he makes music out of you. the pretty bunny, so fucking dumb inside, but the thing he cannot be without.

when he fucks you, he sees in blue, and he knows this isn't a coincidence. the blue in your eyes, it doens't lie--he knows what this feeling is, and he prays to no one that he can fuck this feeling right out of himself.

you come so messy. you soak his thighs, creaming on his cock as you beg him to fill you, and he cages you between his arms as he fucks harder, faster, losing momentum as he nears the same glorious high. he's been so good, but this he cannot help--not the way this feels, so familiar, so easy, so freeing.

there are no thoughts when he is inside of you, and this is bliss.

he kisses you when he comes. cups both puffy cheeks of yours as he spurts hot cum inside of you, sliding his big hands down to grip your thighs as he nestles his hips against yours. you reach down with two hands and squeeze his lower back, keeping him inside. this feeling, the feeling of being so full and warm and enjoyed, it isn't natural to you, and it isn't one you feel often, and you chase after it. you lick into his mouth and whine, and he hushes you.

"easy, rabbit," he pants, licking over your jaw, and you close your eyes. if he is predator and you are prey, then so be it. you want him to have his fill--you want him to trap you, steal you away, tuck you into this den he keeps and never let you leave.

you don't mind the blood on his boots, stained on his clothes, under his fingernails. in fact, you think about it often. you think about taking a rag and cleaning the leather of his shoes. you think about teaching him the cold water and peroxide trick to getting the blood out of fabric. you think about taking the gloves off, letting his fingers wander into the warmth of your mouth so you can suck his skin clean, all while your eyes never left his.

you think about the thing that you are. the bunny you are, the prey you've manifested yourself into, and you think about the thing that he is. you think about the dark, dense places that must exist inside of his head, and you think about how you can't see them in his eyes.

you think about being the bunny in a cage and how he holds the key. and you wonder if you would even leave if he ever let you go.

ghost loves someone else. you don't know who they are or where they've gone, but he loves someone else. but that's okay. that's temporary. that's just for now. they didn't love him enough to stay.

they didn't love him enough not to die. you don't intend to die. you're going to carve him up, right along the scars that he wears, and you're going to slip inside of him and live there forever, nestled between the organs and the black of his blood and the heart you know he doesn't have.

ghost is a thing. but he's still a man.

and men are fucking weak.

#simon ghost riley #simon riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #ghost mw2 #ghost cod #ghost call of duty #ghost mwii #ghost x reader #cod #call of duty #simon riley smut #simon ghost riley smut #dark!simon

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i-drop-level-one-loot · 8 months

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Yandere!Monster X Barbarian!Reader

❤️ Barbarian Reader who seems to have put all their stat points into Strength/Dex, and completely forgot Intelligence

💀 thembo.exe

❤️ A huge sweetheart, and I mean huge

💀 Was always the tallest in their village, towering over both women and men alike

❤️ Due to their height (Reader) had a lot more placed on their shoulders from a very early age

💀 Some internal reflection could have led to a deeper understanding of their secret yearning to rely on another person, but that sounds like a lot of work... And thinking...

❤️ Happy to be sent as part of their tribe's representation when meeting with a tribe of monsters despite knowing nothing about politics

💀 While the presence of the monster people caused visible discomfort in their fellow warriors, (Reader) was too busy being star struck to think about how easily this new species could kill them

Xyleth emerges from his tent, unimpressed with the shivering smooth skins before him. His form was only vaguely human in the front, with a gun metal blue chest and face, sparkling in the sun like his skin was dusted in finely crushed gems. However, his backside and limbs were armored in an inky black shell, spiked for protection along his joints and down his long tail, with bone colored claws adorning his claw like appendages. His eyes seemed black in the shade, but held a universe of stars in the light. Xyleth was born to be a leader, only the strongest of his species developed this coloring, separating him from the rest of his tribe whose shells were a sandy brown to hide in the desert of their home.

❤️ (Reader) didn't notice the congregation were speaking, still taking in the sights about them, before they finally looked forward, witnessing the tallest of the monsters

💀 (gasps) "Damn, you're huge!"

❤️ The barbarians gasp in horror, and flinch away from (Reader)

💀 Was this some sort of joke?

❤️ A tight smile formed on Xyleth's chiseled face. "Yes?"

💀 "Yeah, I thought I was big, but damn, you could crush me without breaking a sweat, huh big guy?"

❤️ What's this? Was this human attempting to flatter him? A war lord of a different species?

💀 No, (Reader) was genuinely impressed.

❤️ "And the point of you bringing this up, small one?" He asked, his on edge grin softening into an amused smile. Although he would have no interest in something not his own species, it was adorable how this human flirted with him so confidently (that's not what's happening)

💀 "Ah, no point. I'd love to wrestle you though!" (Reader) knocked their fists together, pumped at the idea of testing their strength against the beast

❤️ Xyleth and his guards were taken aback, Xyleth's tail smacking the ground with surprise. No one had ever been so brave, so brazen. Unknown to the barbarians, the armored monsters had a very unique mating ritual, similar to scorpions dancing while pressing up against each other to test the male's strength

💀 Despite (Reader) being taller than their fellow barbarians, they were still several feet shorter than Xyleth's shortest villager

❤️ But your personality... None of the women or men had ever approached Xyleth like (Reader) had (again, not what's going on..)

💀 Perhaps Xyleth would actually listen to the barbarians, instead of slaughtering them for having the audacity to request a conference with him like he originally planned

❤️ The barbarians were invited to stay with the rival tribe for a week as they discussed various topics (Reader) had no interest in

💀 (Reader) quickly became loved by the local children, the children adoring (Reader) as a human loves their pet puppy, allowing (Reader) to rough house with them and feeding them snacks like a stray

❤️ (Reader) did not find this insulting, and was enjoying the affection and attention they were receiving

Xyleth was bored in his meetings with the soft skins, upset that (Reader) wasn't involved. He had learned that (Reader) was brought in as the muscle, which irked him. Did they not research how giant his species were before arriving? What did they think someone as small and sweet and adora- Xyleth thumped his tail loudly, frightening the barbarians. Why couldn't he get (Reader) out of his head? "Let's continue this after lunch."

💀 Xyleth roamed his streets in search for (Reader). Although they weren't there as part of the 'debate team' it was a little upsetting that (Reader) wasn't at least waiting for Xyleth near the meeting tent seeing how enamored they were with him

❤️ (Reader) was found in a circle of chuckling adults, struggling with all their might to lift two children at the same time

💀 The sight immediately filled Xyleth's heart with warmth, seeing the children as their own for a split second, and picturing an entire future with the barbarian

❤️ He knew (Reader) would have no objections to becoming his mate, however their people might argue

💀 It didn't matter if he had to kill the other barbarians staying in his town, he had initially planned on slaughtering them anyhow, but it would be better if they enthusiastically supported their love

❤️ And they did support his proposal, especially since it was either trade (Reader) for their protection (from Xyleth's own tribe) on their hunting paths, or die right there and have their entire tribe extinguished

💀 What a supportive family (Reader) has~!

(Reader) didn't notice when the rest of their people left the village, still having the time of their life with creatures that more matched their strength and height. One of the kids gasped and wiggled his way out of (Reader's) arms, running away as his parents also turned back towards their homes. A large shadow approached the confused human, who got up, patting the dirt off their legs.

"Play fighting with young boys? Are you trying to make me jealous, little one?" Xyleth joked with a smile.

(Reader) felt their heart soar being called "Little One", relishing in the friendliness they experienced from the citizens the barbarians called monsters.

"Bwahahaha!!! Jealous? If I was as imposing as you, the only one who could make me jealous would be a god!"

Xyleth couldn't control his tail, whacking the ground in embarrassment over his love's honesty flirtatiousness.

"If it wouldn't be too inconveniencing, I would be honored to take you up on that wrestling proposition now.." He could hardly speak with how excited he was, fearful the adorable little human could hear his two hearts rapid beating.

"Really? Right now? I'm a little worn out, but I'll never turn down a challenge! Just don't be too disappointed!"

Xyleth picked (Reader) up in his arms, fighting every urge to take them right then and there in the center of his village.

"I could never be disappointed in you~" his deep voice vibrated against (Reader's) body, as he carried them to his tent, the poor human completely unaware of what he was about to do to them.

#yandere x reader #yandere x darling #yandere monster #gender neutral reader #not proofread #thembo #soft yandere #yandere #yandere oc #bad writing

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nicksolemnlyswears · 9 months

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DUDDDDE!!

I am in LOVE with your writing. I have been craving some good Han Lue works and you're filling the hole!

Everywhere is extremely lacking in quality Han Lue content bro 😭😭

But any whosies.

I was wondering if it were at all possible to request a Han work from you (from what I've seen you still have requests open so if you don't im sorry)

Specifically something about a reader who's fucking amazing at driving, and has been crushing on Han for a while, and the two decode to race (set in Tokyo) and whoever wins gets the loser to do what they want. Y'know classic setup.

You could choose where this leads to. Idc if we win or loose. All I want is a little bit of fluff sprinkled amongst some smut mayhaps. You could do this in headcannon format btw don't feel obligated to write the whole thing.

I'm just thirsting for any thing I can take 💀🙏🏼

Take your time! <3

pairing: han lue x racer!reader

words: 11.4k

warnings: some cursing and smut (pls wrap it before you tap it) don't judge my smut too much, it's been a while since i've written one

notes: hi anon! thank you for all your sweet, sweet words 🥺 i hope this is somewhere along the lines of what you were thinking of. as soon as i saw your request i was ✨inspired✨ it's been a long time since i've been so hooked by a oneshot. i have worked on it almost everyday since i received it so thank you! i changed the request just a little bit, i hope you don't mind.

trust me i know there is a ridiculous lack in han content! it's the reason i'm here writing over this man! there is not enough content for the speed i consume it, lol. i've read my own headcanons like 10 times already, excluding the times i was working on it.

anyways! might have gotten a little carried away but i enjoyed writing it so much! here you go! enjoy!

i really really hope you like it!!

Tokyo was the city where you learned how to street race. Weaving through the cars on the highway became second nature the harder you pressed the gas pedal. The neon lights turned into blurs as you sped down traffic, whether it was in search of a prize or a thrill.

You were meant to meet Han Lue. His presence became known as soon as he stepped foot in the parking complexes that serve as makeshift race tracks. He quickly became popular with the crowd, especially when he joined DK's crew.

His races were seen as exclusive, known to happen once in a blue moon. He was totally opposite to you. You took the opportunity to race any moment you could. It's what lead you to become a good racer. Practice makes perfect, after all.

'Good racer' is a bit of an understatement. You're one of the best right after DK. There's a debate about whether the second best is you or Han. Each person can take their pick. Many have suggested the idea for the both of you to race, but Han has shot down each and every one. He doesn't need to prove himself to anyone. Besides, he hasn't had anything to gain from racing you.

People like to call you 'Angel' because when you started participating in the races, you looked like an absolute angel, but soon after, they discovered you raced like the devil. You fool everyone around you, even with the way you drive. Whenever someone has to go against you, they think they have your strategy down, yet you switch it up every time.

The distinctive revving of your car alerts Han of your presence. He glances to his left, where you've parked right beside him. As you open the door and step out of your car, he opens a bag of chips, depositing one into his mouth.

You walk over to him, leaning against his car like he is. The bare skin of your back arching slightly as it touches the cool metal. "Have I missed anything?"

Han shakes his head cooly, watching his surroundings. He spares you a glance, taking in what you're wearing. A short, shimmery dress with an open back and high heels. Seems like you don't plan on racing tonight. You refuse to race in high heels. You've tried before and failed. You didn't lose, but you did break off both heels.

You feel his eyes trailing over your body, and you don't mind it. You like that you can catch his attention that way. Having a crush on a guy like Han takes work. He has every woman's attention in the racing underground. They often cling to his arms and bat their eyelashes his way, and he has gladly taken a few of them home.

"You done judging my outfit?" You say, looking at him.

"Not judging, admiring," he promptly replies with a small shrug.

That right there is what feeds into your silly little crush. Han isn't afraid of your comments or banter. If you look good, he'll say it. It's the way he says it that irks you, though. He is so nonchalant and aloof like he's commenting on the weather.

It doesn't help that he's never truly made a move on you. He considers you his friend and acts that way (most of the time, at least). You hate every moment because being his friend is the last thing you want.

"I take it you're not gonna race tonight?" He asks, already knowing the answer. He just needed an excuse to talk to you. Digging into his bag of chips, he grabbed another one to pop into his mouth.

"Not unless it's against you," you respond cheekily.

Han chuckles, "Not you too."

"Are you afraid of losing, Han?" You ask him, keeping your eyes on the race about to start. Why else would he avoid racing you?

Han props one arm on the roof of his car, facing you and saying, "If you're into racing, you can't be afraid to lose, Angel."

"Then why don't you spoil me a little and race me?" You hum, turning your head to face him. He's much closer than you anticipated, but you resist the urge to pull back despite the reddening of your cheeks. You want Han to know you like him even if you refuse to say it out loud.

"Maybe one day when I have something to race for," he responds simply, kissing your cheek and turning back to watch the race.

You release a shaky sigh and try to calm your pounding heart. Extending a hand, you dip your fingers into Han's nearly empty bag of chips and steal one for yourself. Han doesn't mind lowering the bag to make it easier for you. There's a smirk on his face as he fully well knows what he did. It's fun to make you flustered.

Han is out on the streets of Tokyo doing business or collecting his money from the greedy hands of wanna be gangsters. It's entertaining, to say the least, although sometimes it gets tedious. It's only fun when they get rowdy and want to intimidate him. They should know better than to judge Han by his calm exterior.

He's walking by the busy streets of Shibuya, the shopping district of Tokyo, minding his business. Han avoids the masses of people until he looks into a store and sees you. You're by the checkout desk, ringing out a client.

Han can't help it; he's drawn to you. Forgetting the wad money he has to collect, he enters the store. The bell on top of it chimes, prompting you to greet the customer in an abnormally cheery tone.

"Hello, welcome to-Han?" You stutter over the greeting, seeing his slightly mocking grin.

Han walks over to you and leans on the counter, there was barely anyone in the store now. Perfect timing. He assesses you and your overly pink clothes, bedazzled name tag, and glossy pink lips. It's unlike you to be so pink. He recalls you telling him you hate the wretched color.

"So this is where you work, Angel," he hums, toying with the trinkets on the checkout counter.

"Not everyone can survive with racing and sketchy side deals," You mutter. One hand on your tilted hip as you shoot him an annoyed look.

If racing made you enough money, you certainly would not be working in a store that makes you wear pink on every single shift. You could get more involved in the sketchy part of racing, but things are alright for now.

"True," Han stifles a laugh. He grabs a lollipop from the big jar filled with sweets for the paying customers and pops it into his mouth.

You extend a hand to throw away the colorful wrapping, and he places it gently on your hand, fingertips grazing your palm. You're not a teenager to be reacting over such minuscule actions, yet you do.

"What are you doing here, Han?" Han adores it when you say his name that way, pretending to be annoyed by his presence when in reality, you love having him around.

"Wanted to visit my favorite girl," he responds aloofly, carefully gauging your reaction. As he expected, your cheeks redden, and you try to hide it.

"Did you know lying makes your nose grow long," you scoff, rolling your eyes.

"Could be useful," Han says cheekily, causing your blush to deepen.

"If you're not going to buy anything, you can't be here," you shoot with a pout.

You weren't prepared to face Han this afternoon. You didn't get to repeat your affirmation as you do every night you encounter him. His constant playfulness throws you off, not giving you the opportunity to compose yourself.

"Oh no, consumerism got its claws on you," he jokes sarcastically. You glare at him and cross your arms over your chest, which only emphasizes the size of your chest. "Fine, help me find a new jacket?"

You round the counter and motion for Han to follow you toward the men's section. Your coworker will have no problem taking over the checkout counter.

You shoot Han question after question in search of the perfect jacket for him: colors, textures, durability, versatility, sizing, and so on. He responds just as quickly, propping an arm up and leaning against a rack of clothes as he watches you storm all over the store in search of the item that screams Han. He had no intentions of buying anything today but seeing how invested you got it leaves him no choice.

"I quite like this one," you beam, standing Han in front of a full-length mirror. You slide off the jacket he's wearing and replace it with the nice black leather jacket you found for him. Dusting him off, you look into the mirror seeing how perfectly it fits his broad shoulders.

"Why do I feel like you're giving me the most expensive one?" Han asks, looking at himself in the mirror.

He had to admit you picked well. He looks great in the black leather jacket. It didn't have too many buckles to make him uncomfortable, and it wasn't too warm either. The material felt nice and luxurious hence his comment.

"You asked for my help," you shrug, "It's not my fault I have expensive taste. Besides, you look hot in it." You wink at Han through the mirror.

Han tries to hide the smile forming on his lips. You were getting bolder and bolder. He knows about your crush on him; you're terrible at hiding it. Truthfully, he's felt the same from the moment he saw you race. You're oblivious, though, so he likes to tease you.

"I'll take it," Han sighs, refusing to look at the price tag. "Might even wear it on a date."

"Oh, you've got a date?" Your smile falters, quickly regretting picking such a nice outfit that makes him look so handsome. You'd definitely put out if a man wore that to a date and was as lovely as Han. All of your hard work just for another girl to enjoy it. If you catch one of Han's little friends wrapped around the jacket...you will burn it.

"Not yet," he says mysteriously, taking off the jacket and returning to the checkout counter. Han has to get going. He does have to collect his money. Especially now that you've convinced him to buy the expensive leather jacket. 'It's an investment,' he tells himself.

"She'll be one lucky girl," you huff, scanning the tag, carefully folding it, and placing it on a bag. "Don't worry, I'll apply the friends and family discount."

You watch Han go through the display window and hope he was just fucking with you on the whole date thing. You can live with your crush and have him as just a friend, but if he gets a girlfriend, you will not be able to manage it. You scold yourself silently for acting like a lovesick teenager. You're better than that. Right?

Taking the party to Han's club after a race is a must, especially after winning six thousand dollars. You won't have to worry about rent for at least six months, which is something to celebrate.

You park next to Han's car, and he waits for you to enter the plain-looking building. People greet him left and right as they go through the door that pours music and lights each time it's opened.

"You sure are popular," you tease him, leisurely walking towards him.

"Comes with the territory," Han responds without missing a beat. "Ready?" He asks, motioning for you to walk ahead of him.

"Always," you chirp. You purposefully accentuate the sway of your hips, giving Han something to look at.

Being a Friday night, the inside is filled to the brim, there isn't any space for more drunken people. Using your short height to your advantage, you easily find a way to the connecting hallway between this part of the club and the more exclusive one.

Han isn't as lucky constantly losing you from his sight. He's conscious that you are a grown woman capable of making your own decisions and caring for yourself, but he'd feel better being with you.

When he catches up to you at a point, he grabs your hips, pressing you against him, preventing you from getting lost again. You look back, startled, expecting to see a stranger rubbing against you. Noticing this, Han quickly calms you, "It's just me, Angel."

'It's just Han,' you repeat to yourself. You grab onto one of his hands, holding onto your hip, taking full advantage of the situation. Having Han wrapped around you feels like being on cloud nine. If this wasn't his club, you'd be going in circles, so he never pulls away.

With Han holding onto you, the way to the 'not-so-secret' hallway takes longer than usual. Not that you're complaining, though! Han's firm grip makes you fall harder for him. It fuels your imagination on how it would feel in other situations.

Han enjoys this position just as much as you do. He can pretend it's a safety thing as he steers you away from the sweaty bodies of drunks dancing, but it's for his selfish gain.

Having your body close to him reminds him of what he's missing and desperately desires. It started as a little innocent game for Han, knowing you had a crush on him, but then it turned into something more. He likes that you have feelings for him and wants it to stay that way. Han wants your attention on him all the time. His games are over; he wants you.

To your surprise, Han doesn't let go of your waist when you enter the hallway. Instead, he slings one arm around it as he walks beside you. "Maybe we should've taken the other entrance," he smirks.

"And miss the show?" You chuckle, finding a couple making out in the deserted hallway. Neither is willing to admit it's not about the show but about Han's proximity.

Unlike all the other times in the past you've partied with Han, he doesn't let go of you for more than two minutes. You dance all night together, just the two of you, no girls coming up to Han and no guys coming up to you. There simply wasn't a window of opportunity.

"You enjoying yourself?" He says in your ear over the loud music. Your back is against his front as your sway and roll your body to the beat. One of his hands is nursing a drink, and the other is right where it should be, on you.

"I won 6k and have a cute guy buying me drinks and dancing with me. What do you think?" You giggle, turning in his arms to face him instead. The drinks stop you from overthinking and let you wrap your arms around his neck. Faces close. You want to kiss him so bad you're not drunk enough, though, and it's not the way you'd like to do it, either.

"Just making sure," he smiles down at you, hand on your lower back.

The night is long, yet with Han, it goes by so fast. Sooner than you'd prefer, he walks you to your car, no longer holding onto your waist but your hand. There are only a few stragglers left behind who refuse to acknowledge the night is over. You and Han are two of them.

Reaching your white and red, modified skyline Han opens the door for you. With one arm propped against the open door and the other extended onto the roof, Han cages you against your car. Before you get in, you turn to face him, finding the bravery to do something you've been thinking about all night.

"Thanks for tonight, Han. I had fun," you say softly, suddenly feeling shy.

"Anytime, Angel," he responds smoothly, brushing his fingers on your naked shoulder. The jacket you wore earlier was discarded somewhere in the bar. An excuse for Han to see you outside the races.

"Well, goodnight." Gathering every particle of bravery, you stand on your toes and peck his lips softly.

It's only a tiny, innocent kiss, yet it makes Han close his eyes. It happens too quickly for his liking. You have been growing bolder, bold enough to kiss him. He needs to step up his game.

Taking advantage of his distracted state, you close your car door and rev the engine. On the drive to your apartment, you squeal in excitement. Fingers ghost over your lips, replaying the small kiss over and over again.

Another chance at a race becomes available only days after your win. Men love to challenge women, especially those who are winning, much like you are.

They hate seeing you be successful, but it doesn't bother you in the least. It's another opportunity to win cash or a car, which you can use for parts and sell what you don't need.

As you roll up to the starting line, Han approaches your window, leaning down to duck his head in.

"Come to give me a good luck kiss?" You speak playfully, lips turned up into a smile.

You two haven't talked about what happened at the club and have continued to act as you usually do. He's been more touchy with you, though, often trying to find a way to be close to you. Being the lovestruck fool you are, you've encouraged it, finding those ways to let him be close.

"We both know you don't need luck. You've got this in the bag, Angel." Han speaks encouragingly, "Tell you what, though. You win, and it's yours."

"Making me earn it, I see," you laugh, shaking your head. "Alright, you've got a deal. See you on the other side."

Han is confident you'll win. With a last reassuring tap on your door, he steps back, finding his place in the crowd.

Your opponent finally drives up to the starting line, sending you an unnecessary nasty look you laugh at. The flag girl stands between the two cars, her dress leaving nothing to the imagination. You respect it. They are a lot more confident than you are in that department.

You are off when the word 'go' falls from her lips. You knew this track by heart, having raced it so many times. You knew exactly when to hit the gas and when to press the brake to get the car to swerve. Han's full attention is on your race, and when your car disappears to another level, he takes the elevator up to the top floor, where the finish line is. Watching you race is interesting. You always come up with ways to confuse your opponents.

With a bag of chips, he anxiously waits for your victory. Regardless of your ability to race and win, your races make him nervous. He cares about you, and so many things can go wrong.

The noisy crowd gets louder as the sound of tires screeching gets closer. In seconds, your car swerves onto the top floor, again marking you as the victor. There's not a scratch or bump in your car. Your opponent arrives shortly after with dents and long scratches in his paint.

The crowd cheers loudly for you, coming up to you to congratulate you and tell you how cool you looked. Your opponent comes up to you and hands you his keys with a scowl. You shrug it off. A deal is a deal.

Winning leaves you on a high, a feeling of invincibility wrapping around you. You've learned to control it because that feeling caused a big loss years ago. You get distracted by the people around you and forget Han's promise. It's funny because it was the only thing running through your head while you raced.

"Good job out there," Han says, catching up to you later in the night once the hype died down.

"Why, thank you!" You chirp, closing the hood of your car and leaning back to sit on it.

"I believe I made a promise," Han mentions, stepping close to you until you're face to face, only a few inches between the two of you. "You did," you nod, biting your lip.

Han notices this, bringing a hand up to cup your face, his thumb tugging your lip loose from the tight hold of your teeth. The other wraps around your waist, pulling you close. You slide on the warm metal of your car, placing a hand on his chest to brace yourself as Han settles between your legs.

"I'm a man of my word," he whispers, finally leaning down to press his eager lips against yours. Han is greedy for many things, and your lips are one of them. Ever since that night at the club, he's wanted to smash his lips against yours, to feel you close, taste you.

Your eyes instantly flutter close, fisting Han's shirt in your hand as if afraid he'll pull away too quickly. The kiss starts slowly as you both test the waters, but it soon becomes not enough. Han tilts his head, deepening the kiss.

It's an electric shock that consumes him and doesn't let him go. This is the result of Han holding himself back, and you made it worse when you gave him a taste the other night.

Han slips a hand under your shirt, feeling the warmth of your skin. You gasp against his lips, arching your back as his cold fingers catch you by surprise. It serves as an opportunity for Han, his tongue pushing past your pouty lips, savoring the moment.

You gave into him, offering everything you have in exchange for this moment. His warmth wraps around you, burning you from the inside out. The need to breathe makes itself present too soon and becomes far more demanding than the need for each other's lips.

Han pulls away, your bottom lip between his teeth. You're breathless, as if you ran a marathon. You feel lightheaded, intoxicated by Han, who continues to peck your lips softly. He might be addicted already. The tips of his fingers draw soothing circles on your lower back, grounding you in the moment.

"So this is what winning feels like," you breathe out, smoothing Han's shirt with your palms. A futile way to hide their shakiness.

Han laughs, pressing his face against your neck and leaving a fleeting kiss behind. "Appears so, Angel."

A perk of being Han's friend is using his garage whenever you want. The days of paying for a spot to fix your car in a stranger's garage are far in the past. At the moment, you've spent the most part of the afternoon upgrading your car. The car you won on your last race sits beside yours with the hood popped open as you switched around pieces. He had quality parts, and his driving still sucked.

Twinkie, Earl, and the others are scattered around the large garage, working on different things and chattering. You had purposefully picked a spot away from them so you wouldn't get distracted. With work, your time is limited.

Han is on the second floor, leaning against the railing and pretending to watch the first floor and what they are doing. In reality, he is watching you closely.

You're bent over the hood of the car, working on unscrewing a tight bolt, cursing at the man who installed it initially. It's a sight straight out of his dreams. Your Nike sweatpants hung low on your hips, framing your ass perfectly. If he focused, he'd see the dimples on your lower back. His mind ran wild at the thought of pressing his thumbs against them while taking you from behind.

It's been a while since he's slept around. He cut himself off when he realized his feelings for you. What was the point of sleeping around if he wouldn't be satisfied? Those girls weren't you. They were temporary relief. Now, his pants tighten at anything you do. It's like he's seventeen again and unable to keep it in his pants.

He followed the curve of your ass to your arched back and the cropped shirt you wore. The matching crew neck sweater you arrived in is discarded in your car due to the heat. The revealing shirt rose with each of your movements, revealing the band of your baby blue bra. You tug on it for the millionth time today, annoyed.

The strands of hair you curled to frame your face stick uncomfortably to your sweaty forehead. You regret not putting them back into the two braids that fell over your shoulders.

Han needed to rip his eyes away from you before the others noticed. He's been staring for too long, fantasizing about everything he could do to you. To Han, you looked even more beautiful than you did that night with your sparkly dress and makeup. A woman who knows her way around a car is instantly a hundred times more attractive in his eyes.

As he accidentally visualizes you taking his cock from that same exact position, car included, you groan and straighten up. "I need help," you whine to no one in particular. The bolt is not budging, no matter how hard you try.

Han snaps out of his fantasy and springs into action, quickly appearing by your side. You've bent over again, wrench in hand, to give it one more try before giving up. He leans beside you, a hand on your lower back for faux support.

"What's the matter, Angel?" He says softly, one hand propping him up as he looks at the machinery under the hood. It's better if he helps you. He can't continue listening to your whines and groans.

"I need to unscrew those," you point at the bolts giving you a hard time.

Han asks for the wrench in your hands, and you place it in his hand, annoyed. You don't need the help of a man to do this, but it's Han, so you'll take it. You watch him as he places the wrench around the bolt, his arm tenses, emphasizing his muscles hidden by the short-sleeved button-up he wore over a white wife-beater tank.

His hair fell around his eyes as he successfully unscrewed the bolts. Feminism died as you lustfully took in Han, biting your lip. 'What a man,' you thought. You would've instantly refused the help if he had been any other guy.

"There you go," Han says, handing you the wrench. When he spares you a glance, he laughs softly. Good to know he has the same effect you have on him.

"Whatever would I do without you," you purr, shooting him a mischievous smile, "You deserve a reward." That's what it has come to, silly excuses to kiss Han because you're just friends. Nothing more.

Han looks at your lips briefly before snapping back to your eyes. You grin at him, leaning closer to kiss him for his 'hard work.' You know that he's been watching you all this time; you saw it from the reflective surface of the toolbox. Seeing his quickness to help you makes you believe he enjoyed the show.

Your lips brush teasingly against his, and just before Han can grab the back of your neck to stop the teasing, a loud bang tears through the room. Both you and Han pull away to see where the sound comes from, but Han bangs his head on the car's hood in the process.

"What the hell was that?" Han yells, rubbing the back of his head. He's annoyed that he's been interrupted.

"Sorry! The motor I was working on fell!" Earl exclaims from the other side of the garage, unaware of the daggers Han is throwing him.

"Best I get back to work," you quietly say with a chuckle, taking the piece you needed out of the car to bring it to yours.

"Yeah," Han says simply, reluctantly leaving to do his own thing.

Each and everyone that's in Han's garage returns to their business after the noisy interruption. Twinkie turns on a radio, blasting music to drown out the silence and clanking of tools. You work without interruption for the next three hours, giving your car all the love it deserves.

You clean your hands free of the motor oil and grease and search for Han. Your work for today was done. Now that you took anything valuable from the car you won, you had to sell it. You figured Han could do that for you.

"Hey, are you busy?" You ask him, seeing him working on a part by his desk.

"Nah, what's up, Angel?" He questions, dropping the screwdriver in his hand to focus all his attention on you.

Leaning on the desk casually, you begin speaking, "After I replace the bumper and give it a new paint job, can you sell that car for me?"

"Shouldn't be a problem," glancing at the car, Han agrees. It's a popular car in the racing world, and as soon as he gets the word out he's selling it, many offers will pop up.

"You're the best, Han!" You beam at him, pushing yourself off the desk to return downstairs.

"Angel, wait," he calls after you. Being your friend has been fun, yet he needs more. You shouldn't have to come up with excuses to kiss him; you should be able to do it freely whenever you want.

"Yes, Han," you ask softly, tilting your head in question.

Standing up from the rolling chair, he approaches you, "Do you want to go on a date?"

A grin sneaks past your lips before you even process what he said. Instantly, you nod your head, "I'd love to." You could combust at that moment. Finally, after months of pining, Han asked you out.

"Let's go," he smiles, grabbing your hand and guiding you to his car.

"Wait, now?" You furrow your eyebrows.

"Yes, unless you have something more important," he asks, teasing you.

"Nothing is more important, but I'm a mess," you shake your head hesitantly. You spent your afternoon working on cars, sweating, and getting covered in grease. You didn't think it would be in sweatpants when you pictured going on a date. Not to mention the state of your hair.

"No, you're not. If you must know, you've had me distracted all day," Han whispers the last part in your ear, trying to convince you even if it means giving himself away.

"Am I supposed to apologize?" You question, the corner of your lip curving into a sultry smile. You had been right all along.

"No, just agree to the date. Be spontaneous," Han bounces his eyebrows cutely.

"Let's do it," you sigh, hoping you won't regret it.

"Atta girl," Han smiles victoriously.

Han tries to remember the last time he had a proper date. Even with his ex, they just sort of happened. No date ever officially branded as such. It's why rather than asking you and waiting for the day to arrive, he decided to do it spontaneously. It leaves him no time to be nervous or to overthink things.

You slide your sweatshirt back on on the way out to shield yourself from the chilly Japanese night. Han opens the door to his car for you, shutting the door when you slip in. The drive is short as he takes you to a small family-owned sushi place he swears by.

"I'm surprised you eat more than chips and crackers," you joke with him as the food arrives, and he takes a bite.

"I definitely eat more than that," Han replies nonchalantly, referring to something else entirely. It's something you don't catch despite your dirty mind.

A discussion develops when you discover Han always orders the same thing in the restaurant. He's in Japan. He needs to throw himself into the culture and try new things.

Starting easy, you grab a piece of sushi from your plate, "You need to try this."

"I don't know," Han grimaces as he looks at the sushi held in your chopsticks.

"That's not an answer. Open your mouth," you groan, gently placing the sushi roll in his mouth.

You watch him chew slowly, getting a feel for the new food. "It's good," he agrees, liking whatever you had ordered. It was delicious, actually.

"Better than yours, right?" You ask him, knowingly, pointing your chopsticks at him.

"Yes," he rolls his eyes, refusing to give you the satisfaction.

"Told you," you sing, grabbing both plates and placing them in the middle of the table. Now you could each grab from both and share your meals.

The date goes smoothly. It's a wonder why the two of you hadn't gone to dinner before today. You already know Han is attentive and funny but his wisdom surprises you. He's already lived through so much, more than an average person. Despite being a couple years older than you, he retains his youth. That may be why he appeals to a younger crowd as well.

"What was your life like growing up?" You ask him, taking a drink from your Coke. Han ordered another plate of sushi to share, the one you chose earlier.

"My upbringing wasn't the best," he shrugs, remembering his life in California as a teen. "I was always in trouble."

"Why does something tell me that you were the one causing the trouble," you say, narrowing your eyes.

"I definitely was," he chuckles, "But in the end, it brought me here, and I'm happy."

Han believes in the timing of life. He's been after Tokyo for so long. Before stepping foot in Tokyo, he had to go through the Dominican Republic, Rio, Germany, Shanghai, London, and many more places. It was supposed to happen that way, or he wouldn't have met you.

"I knew it," you sigh dramatically, "I've always been into bad boys."

"What about you, Angel?" He returns the question, curious about your past.

"I grew up in a normal Japanese family. My dad's a mechanic, my mom a nurse, and my sister a pain in the ass. I went to school for engineering and graduated with top honors," you tell him, reminiscing on your not-as-impressive past.

"You say that as if it's easy to graduate with top honors," Han chides you, to which you roll your eyes. "Why work retail? Doesn't engineering make you a lot more money?"

"Don't laugh, okay?" You point at Han. When he agrees not to laugh, you continue, "I wanted to be a Formula 1 racer when I was younger. My dad signed me up to participate in smaller competitions, and I was pretty damn good. My mom was totally against it and forced my dad and me to quit.

Fast forward, I'm in college, and engineering seemed like the way to go. Learned about street racing and figured that could be a way back into my dream. It's a foolish thought. The professionals spend years in proper circuits practicing and competing. No one comes with a background of illegal racing."

Han wasn't expecting that answer. He assumed you hated engineering and did it to appease your parents. He wonders why you thought he would laugh. Your dream is nothing to laugh at. Having witnessed your racing, you undoubtedly had the innate talent. "So retail?" He prompts, realizing you didn't answer the first question.

Snapping your fingers, you say, "Right! I figured I'd always have my degree. I'd rather spend my time having fun now; when the time comes, I'll return to that. I do like it, but I'm not ready to commit to a life of 9 to 5's. I prefer spending my time in the wee hours of the night racing. Since I can't be a Formula 1 racer, I'll be a street racer. Much cooler, anyways."

"That takes guts," Han tells you, "I'm glad you're doing it."

You give him a little shrug and a smile because you were too. Despite your childish dream dying when your mom forced you to quit, you're still happy with your life. Especially if you end up with a guy like Han.

Han, being a gentleman, pays for dinner. Before returning to the car, you stop by a convenience store for dessert. Han follows you buying snacks for himself. In search of something sweet, you find a shelf filled with Pocky. You grab the chocolate-covered ones with a plan in mind.

You and Han sit at a table outside the convenience store. It was getting late, so only a few people were around. You open the packet of Pocky, taking out a chocolate-covered stick.

"Have you ever played the Pocky game?" You ask, taking a bite of the treat.

"No. What is it?" Han looks at you curiously.

"Essentially, you grab one end of the Pocky stick, and I grab the other. We have to eat it, but if one of us pulls away, they lose," you respond simply, hiding the game's purpose.

"That sounds awfully like Lady and the Tramp," Han mentions, catching onto your intentions.

Offering him a stick, you say, "Want to play?"

Han smiles at you and grabs the Pocky stick placing the biscuit end between his teeth. You hold the chocolate-covered end and tap his hand to start. You both take it slow, Han opting to stay still as you near his lips. You tilt your head when you're close to his lips, giving him the perfect opportunity to kiss you when only a small piece is left.

You smile into the chocolate-flavored kiss. If you wanted to kiss Han, you could've done it without so many sneaky plans or excuses, but it wouldn't be as fun.

"So, who won?" Han asks when you pull away.

"Does it matter?" You cheekily say, pulling him back in for another kiss.

There's no flaw in your reasoning. Han pulls you close, lifting your legs to lie in his lap. You spend more time than you care to admit making out outside the convenience store.

Han offers to drive you to your apartment since your car needs to be finished. Throughout the drive, his hand is laced with yours in your lap. Small talk flows between you as you continue to learn about each other.

Smoke coming from your apartment building cuts that conversation short. Firefighters stand outside the building, spraying water into the source of the fire. Han steps out of the car with you to ask anyone what is going on.

Noticing the building manager across the street, you approach him. He quickly blurts out all the information he knows. You're one of many of the tenants to approach him. "There's a fire on the sixth floor. We don't know the damage yet. I understand this is your residence, but you need somewhere else to say for the next few days while we asses the damage and inspect the building."

"What am I going to do?" You groan, covering your face with your hands. You worry about where you'll stay and your stuff in your apartment. You have important documents in there.

"You can stay with me," Han offers without a hint of hesitation.

"Are you sure? I don't want to impose." It's nice of Han to offer you a place to stay, but would it be too much at this stage of their situationship. Last thing you want is to push boundaries.

"You're not imposing. Let me help you," Han insists, grabbing your hand to rub soothing circles in it. It's a given he has feelings for you, but before that, you are his friend, and he's not going to leave you out on the streets or sleeping in your car.

Han offers you calming words on the way to his apartment. Your apartment is on the twelfth floor and the other side of the fire. Chances are that your stuff will probably be fine. Whether the building will close for renovations is another matter entirely.

His apartment is just another level to the building he owns. Its entrance is on a more private side. Inside, it's very clean and organized, a surprise since you expect most guys to be messy. Picture frames and knick knacks are scattered throughout the space, giving you more of a glimpse into Han's life.

It's quiet between the two of you but comfortable. Han is giving you time to process what you saw in your building. He offers you his shower if you'd like, and when you brought up you didn't have any clothes, he searched for a clean t-shirt and sweatpants you could borrow from him.

A shower is just what you need as you let the water cascade down your body. Fire aside, it has been a great day, even before Han asked you on a date. Hope fills your being at the prospect of soon beginning a relationship with Han. So far, everything points out it can happen. There haven't been any red flags or hesitation from him.

You change into the oversized t-shirt Han picked out for you and the spare pair of underwear you always carry in your bag. Smart girls know to carry a spare in case of emergencies. You debate about wearing the sweatpants he left for you but choose against it. The t-shirt covers enough.

You shyly make your way out of the bathroom in search of Han. You find him in the bedroom, grabbing an extra pillow and blanket. "The bed is yours," he mentions, eyes briefly trailing your naked legs.

"Where will you sleep?" You ask, furrowing your eyebrows. If anyone has to sleep on the couch, it should be you.

"I'll take the couch," he responds, as you expected.

"Han, stop being a gentleman and get in bed with me," you say, taking the pillow from his grasp and placing it back on the top of the bed.

He offers you an 'Are you sure?' look, and you nod confidently. He doesn't need to be told twice. Han steps out of the bedroom for a few minutes and grabs a shower. Taking that time, you get on the bed to get comfortable, it's soft, and you sink into it.

You're snoozing off when he returns to the room. Han carefully peels back the sheets and gets under them. Feeling the bed dip, you turn to the side to face him.

Your sleepy mood makes you cuddle up to him without much thought. The smell of his soap invades your senses. Han naturally accepts it, throwing an arm around your waist and hugging you closer, legs intertwined. He kisses the top of your head, finding comfort in the position.

Thankful doesn't begin to cover how you feel. There's this overwhelming sense of security that comes with Han. There is something about him that makes you trust him. Deep down, you know he wouldn't intentionally hurt you.

"How are you feeling?" Han checks up on you before you fall asleep.

"I'm okay. I hope none of my things got damaged," you mumble into his chest, pressing a kiss into it afterward. "Thank you for everything, Han. Your help with the car, the date, letting me invade your bed," you finish with a soft laugh.

"Anytime, Angel," he responds truthfully. If he can help you in any way, he will. Sleep consumes both quickly after, and it becomes the best night you've both had in a while.

The following day you're the first to wake. Han's arms are around your waist, and you feel his breath tickle the back of your neck. He's warm, and you just want to sink into it even more. Your need to pee pries you out of his embrace, though.

As carefully as possible, you slip out of his loose grasp and head to the bathroom. Han had picked out a toothbrush for you the night before, which you're thankful for. Shuffling out of the bathroom, you cook breakfast for Han as a 'thank you' for his hospitality.

You pick the ingredients you need from his fridge, careful not to make too much noise. Your progress is slower than you prefer as you get used to the kitchen layout and localize everything you might need.

Soon enough, you drop pancake batter into the pan, and while that cooks, you scramble eggs with veggies. Since it's his kitchen, you assume he'll like what you make. It's his ingredients, after all.

Just after finishing the last batch of pancakes, you hear the patter of Han's feet entering the kitchen. You turn to glance at him quickly and greet him, "Good morning! I made you breakfast, sit!"

"You didn't have to do that," Han says, coming up behind you. He traps you between his body and the stove as if having you close last night wasn't enough.

"Yes, I did! You let me stay here, borrow clothes, sleep in your bed," you flip the pancakes as you count all the nice things he's done in less than 24 hours.

Humming, unconvinced, Han kisses your cheek and thanks you. It sends a tingle between your legs as his voice is raspy and deep from sleep. Your cheeks flare up, betraying you as always.

Han follows your orders and sits by the kitchen table, waiting till you're done to begin eating. With that time in his hands, he observes you. You're wearing the t-shirt he loaned you, which swallowed your frame. Each time you flipped a pancake, it rose slightly to reveal the light green fabric of your panties. Han soaked the sight in and wondered if this was what waited for him in the near future.

His eyes continue trailing down to your thick thighs. He wouldn't mind being trapped between them. Lower and lower, his gaze went from your pretty legs to your varnished toes. Back up, it went as you turned off the stove and approached the table. You weren't wearing a bra under the t-shirt, as your nipples poked through the thin fabric.

Han's glad he didn't notice these things last night, or he wouldn't have been able to sleep a wink. Spreading his legs, he tried to hide the hard-on he was sporting. None the wiser, you sit on the empty chair near him and tell him to eat up.

Shooing the dirty thoughts from his mind, Han thanks you one more time and digs in. It's a lovely morning, with light chatter bouncing between you. Han praises your cooking every chance he gets and even finishes the pancakes you left over but not before drenching them in more syrup. When both of you are done, you clear the plates and place them in the sink to wash.

"Angel, come 'ere," Han calls from behind you.

Mindlessly you walk over to him, wondering what he wants. Han grabs your waist, pulling you to his lap. "Han, what are you doing? I have to do the dishes!" You squeal, holding onto him, afraid he'd let you fall.

"No, you don't," he speaks softly, one hand cupping your cheek.

"I don't?" you prompt, leaning into his touch.

"Let me properly thank you," he offers, lips chasing yours. Han can't contain himself any longer. You've done a number on him, strutting around his kitchen in your underwear. He wants you. He needs you.

You lean into the kiss as you always do, pouring everything you have into it. Tasting the coffee on his tongue, you bring your hand around the back of his neck, softly tugging the long strands of hair. Han groans into the kiss, having missed that sensation.

Repositioning yourself, you straddle Han in the rickety kitchen chair. You feel his hands all over your body, trailing down your back to grasp your ass in his palms. Every so often, you'd resurface to breathe but dip down again and again to continue kissing him.

Han feels himself harden as you rub your center against him deliciously. It's clear as day you want him just as much as he wants you.

"Want to spoil me and fuck me?" You breathe heavily, kissing Han's neck.

"So bold," Han chuckles, his hands wandering under the t-shirt to feel your warm skin, his nails faintly scratching your back, sending shivers down your spine. "Six months ago, you would've been too scared to ask me that."

Six months ago, you would've been too scared to kiss him on the cheek, but you've come a long way. As time passes, you realize your feelings are not one-sided because Han means every word he speaks to you despite his taunting nature. Each and every complement is honest.

"I got tired of waiting around for you," you bite back, nipping his neck and sucking a pretty bruise on it.

Han hisses at the momentary sting, "I thought I was just a friend?"

You laugh sarcastically, picking your head up to stare at him, "I don't let friends kiss me or grope my ass."

"What does that make me then?" Han raises an eyebrow, cheekily squeezing your ass as a smirk forms on his lips.

"Special," you shrug, lips pouty and swollen.

"Because?" He wants to hear you say that you feel something for him. It's a last hurrah on giving you a hard time for fun.

You realize it's time to be honest and come out with it. You stopped hiding your feelings a while ago. Hell, you even asked Han to fuck you. All that's left is to admit your feeling out loud. "Because I have feelings for you, Han Lue," you whisper, brushing the hair that threatens to fall over his eyes.

"That's all you had to say," Han murmurs, catching your lips in a passionate kiss.

The heat rises with each passing moment. Your feelings have now come to a boil and bubbled over. Han picks you up easily and sits you on the kitchen table. He leaves his touch on your naked back to trace the outside of your thighs. It's time to give you precisely what you asked for and what he has been fantasizing about for far too long.

Grabbing the elastic band of your panties, Han slides them down the curve of your ass and your thighs until they are off. He throws them somewhere in the room, the information unimportant for now.

"Han, please," you whine, spreading your legs wider and giving him access to your most private part. You beg between kisses to feel his touch where you need it most.

"So impatient, Angel." Han jabs lightly as his right-hand touches the inside of your thigh. The pads of his fingers brush over your thighs repeatedly, nearing the apex more and more with each stroke.

You gasp as he finally dips a finger into your folds, gathering the slick that formed to spread it around your bundle of nerves. You gasp, breaking the kiss and throwing your head back.

Han sucks on your neck and collarbones as you moan into the air. Slipping a finger into your tight walls, he groans, thinking about how they'll feel around his hard cock.

"Fuck, Han, feels so good," you sigh when Han adds another digit into your soaking core and presses on your clit with his thumb.

"I didn't realize I made you this wet," he says into your neck as you grind your hips into his hand. You must've been wanting this for as long as he has.

"Liar," you respond, staring at him with hooded eyes. The nights you've touched yourself while thinking about him are many. The real thing is a million times better.

Han watches you intently, catching every little reaction you have to his touch. The moans and whines echo through the room and are music to his ears. Without a doubt, there's a wet patch in his boxers as his tip leaks precum from the erotic sight in front of him.

Your walls clenching around him alert him you're close, and promptly after you make it known as you beg him not to stop, except he doesn't listen and stops just as you're about to cum.

"Why did you stop?" You complain, eyes wide in desperate need.

"Want you to cum on my tongue," he responds, stealing a quick kiss before he kneels on the floor. Wrapping his strong arms around your thighs, he scoots you closer to the edge.

His words shoot another current down your legs, no doubt making more of a mess. You wait with bated breath as Han kisses the inside of your thighs, making eye contact with you as he delves into your pussy.

He licks up from your hole up to your clit. You grasp his hair with one hand, pulling the t-shirt up with the other to better look at him going down on you. Your eyes roll involuntarily when Han wraps his lips around your clit, sucking and flicking it with his tongue. His long fingers find your opening once more, sliding in effortlessly.

You try to maintain eye contact with Han through it all. If his hair fell on his eyes, you'd quickly brush it back, not wanting to miss his lustful gaze. It spurred Han on to see you crumbling over him, biting your lip as you tried to hide the pretty cries that wanted to fall from your lips.

Han stops licking your clit and slows his thrusting fingers each time you near your orgasm. Time and time again, he repeats this when you're near the edge. Only when your arousal coats his hand he keeps his pace, and as you whine out, 'gonna cum, don't stop,' he slips his tongue into your pussy, tasting your cum directly from the source.

He makes a great example of what his nose can do as it brushes over your clit while he tongue fucks you. You trap Han between your legs as your pussy clenches, your orgasm coming in waves. As you relax back onto the kitchen table, Han continues to lick your puffy center, being careful with your sensitive nub.

When he stands, you fist his t-shirt, smashing your lips together, tasting your essence. "Let's take this to the bedroom," Han pants. You nod eagerly and squeal when he picks you up, your legs wrapped around his waist.

You leave a trail of kisses on his neck as he makes his way to the bedroom. Once there, you both fall on the bed, Han hovering over you. He tugs on your t-shirt, "As much as I love seeing you in my clothes, this has to come off."

Without the shirt, he can admire your naked body. A lone finger slides down from your neck to your sternum. It slides to your side near the curve of your left breast, where a small sakura flower is tattooed.

"This is my new favorite thing about you," Han softly says, noticing you staring at him.

The tattoo was an impulsive thing to do. You had wanted a tattoo for years but never knew what to get. After your last breakup two years ago, you got the little flower instead of getting bangs and dying your hair. It has no real meaning to you. It's just a cute flower.

"You're the first to see it since I got it done," you tell him, a laugh bubbling from your lips as his touch on your ribs tickles.

"And I hope it stays that way," he responds. It's an unspoken promise. He wants you all to himself for the foreseeable future.

His finger continues the trajectory down your tummy, lightly going over your belly button before it traces over your mound and dips to touch your clit.

You gasp at the surge of pleasure as your clit remains sensitive from his previous actions. "Gotta say it's not fair that I'm the only one naked," you moan when Han continues to circle your nub.

"What are you gonna do about it?" Han incites you to see what you'll do.

Any remaining shyness you had is long gone as lust replaces it. You kneel in front of Han, who leans back to watch you. Your chest is close to his face, so when you lean closer to grab the hem of his shirt, he sucks one of your nipples.

"Han," you whine, arching your back," "Stop distracting me."

Ignoring his mouth on you, you grab his shirt and pull it off. Successfully making him stop his attack on your breasts. You peck his lips and kiss down his jaw.

You take your time kissing his toned chest and stomach. You wish to memorize every part of him. "You're so handsome, Han," you purr, glancing up at him.

Those simple words that spilled from your mouth made his heart flutter. Han is used to being the one to dish out compliments and praise the women he's with. To have you say that is like a breath of fresh air, and he can't wait to have more.

"Fuck, Angel," he groans, grasping your chin. You kiss his palm with a smile that's equally angelic and devilish.

You want to peel two more layers off Han's body and decide to do it all at once. Grasping the band of his pants and boxers, you slowly pull them down, building anticipation.

His cock springs out of its confines, landing on Han's abdomen. You don't hide your curious gaze as you take in his cock. It's so big it makes you bite your lip in anticipation. The tip is a dark pink as it drips with precum.

After you remove his pants entirely, you grasp his cock, feeling the warmth and weight of it. Han breathes out through his nose, a futile attempt to keep his cool. A string of saliva drips from your lips, coating his hard length. Each stroke you made caused a bead of pre to spill from him.

You take it as an invitation to taste him, wrapping your lips around his head your tongue licks the beads of white.

Han does the impossible not to push your head down to take all of him. The thought is present, though. You've barely teased him compared to how he teased you, but Han can no longer resist.

"I need you," Han groans, calling out your name, not the nickname you've been donned for the past three years.

You don't take it for granted. Hearing your name sends you into overdrive. Han pulls you up to kiss you and lies you down on the top of the bed. He comfortably gets between your legs that hug his waist to bring him closer. His cock brushes your wet pussy, and you both hiss at the sensation. Your pussy clenches around nothing at the thought of having Han fill you entirely.

"You ready, Angel?" Han asks you. One arm holding him up and the other wrapped around your thigh, giving you a comforting squeeze. Time stops ticking at that moment. It's just you and Han wrapped in each other.

"I've been ready for the past month, Han. Fuck me, please," you plead quietly, your fingertips running up and down his back.

"Just because you said, please." Han lines his cock up to your entrance and pushes past your lips into your warm center. Relief floods through the both of you, but it soon dissipates, and it's replaced by waves of unfiltered lust.

Han starts fucking into you deep, at the perfect pace. Your eyes involuntarily close as you feel Han's cock stretching you open and filling you like never before. Han kisses your temple and releases sexy moans into your ear with words of encouragement.

'Such a tight pussy just for me.'

'Taking me so good, Angel.'

'Can't get enough of you.'

You echo his words, encouraging him to keep fucking you. Your nails dig into his back as you try to hold on to anything, and your heels dig into his lower back. The closeness between you is intoxicating, your scents mixing and becoming one, his hair ticking your face, his warm skin heating up yours.

Han slows the pace momentarily, leaning back on his knees to see your pretty cunt taking his cock. He wants to commit to memory how your pussy spreads to make way for his cock, a white ring on the base of his cock, and how your little clit is exposed and vulnerable to his touch.

The other girls he's slept with only got part of his attention and dedication. He didn't mean to make a huge impression. He only did his job, often choosing to lie back and let them do as they pleased with him.

With you, it's different. He wants to give you his all and leave a great impression. He'll do all the work; you can just take it if that's what you want. That's the difference between you and the other girls. He lived to spoil you.

Meanwhile, you fall apart under him, moaning incoherent phrases he can barely make out. He loves hearing them, though. You reach for Han's hand as he increases his pace and grips it tightly.

Han slips his cock out of you, wanting to make his fantasy a reality. You shudder at the empty feeling and whine, "No, don't stop."

"Come on, Angel. Get on your knees," Han coo's at you, kissing your pouty lips. "Promise you'll cum soon."

Han positions you on your knees, your back arched as your tits rub against the bed sheets. You huff through it all, desperate to have him pounding into you again. He smacks your ass when you wiggle it to get him to do what you want.

Han enters you in one smooth motion, this position amplifying your pleasure as he hits the spongy spot inside of you more directly.

"Han!" You cry out, fisting the sheets underneath you.

"I'm right here, Angel," Han breathes, snapping his hips rhythmically.

Just as he visualized, he grabs your hips in his large hands and digs his thumbs into the dimples on your back. With a tight hold, he thrusts into you unrelentingly, and you push back onto him just as eagerly. Your cries are muffled by the pillow you're hugging to your face.

Your pussy swallows him with each thrust, even as it clenches to prepare for orgasm. He can't hold back any longer as his balls clench with each faltering thrust, and your walls squeeze him tighter than ever.

" 'm cumming," you squeal, your legs tense up and shake. Your walls contract and release in a rhythmic motion that sends Han over the edge, your name on the tip of his tongue.

Han pulls out of you, helping you get back onto a comfortable position, and lies beside you, catching his breath. He turns to look at you, and you do the same. You can't hold his gaze long as you furiously blush.

Han laughs, grabbing your hand to lace your fingers together. "You can't get shy now!"

"I can't control it!" You exclaim, hiding your face with the same pillow as earlier.

The rest of the day is spent in bed. Han ignores his daily responsibilities and stays in, getting lost in your touch and making promises he hopes to keep.

One Year and a Half Later...

You drive up to the empty parking complex. It's similar to the one you spend your nights on. Driving up the floors, you find Han where he told you he'd be. He leans against the familiar orange car, a bag of chips in his hands. A nice lather jacket covers his arms, making you smile when you remember how he got it in the first place.

"Hey, you wanted to meet me here?" You question, getting out of your car.

Approaching him, you kiss his salty lips and wait for an explanation regarding the random meet-up spot. In the entire year and a half of you dating, he's never asked you such a weird request.

"You feeling up to race?" Han asks you, holding your hand in his.

It's been years since the two of you met, and for the same amount of time, people have been pining you two to race. He denied every request, including the ones you threw every once in a while.

"It's about time," you exclaim, excitement filling your body. "What's at stake?"

There is something up Han's sleeve. You know that much. There is something he wants from you if he suddenly wants to race you. He could just ask. You'll give him everything he desires. You play along, though.

"Winner gets the other's car," he offers, pushing himself off the car to wrap his arms around you to hug you, his thumb soothingly brushing over the spot where your tattoo is. He last saw you when you left for your new engineering job early in the morning.

"You're willing to sacrifice your car?" You chuckle, implying you are going to win.

"It's only fair," he shrugs, kissing your cheek.

With one last peck, he lets you go and gets in his car. You follow his lead, lining up your car to the imaginary starting line. Han sets up a timer, and once it went off, both cars lurched forward at high speeds.

You focus on the race, forgetting it's Han you're competing with. You've been dying to go against him for so long, desperate to find out who was the better racer between the two.

As expected, Han makes it hard for you. The race is neck and neck as you drift up the floors of the building. Whenever Han takes the lead, you find a way to get ahead. You see the end near, and Han threatens to surpass you, but with one last boost, you keep your position, winning the race.

You leap out of your car, feeling the high of the race. No one has kept you on your toes for so long. It's a satisfying win. Han walks out of his car more calmly, smiling, happy to see you celebrate. It didn't matter to him that you were better. You deserved it.

"I can't believe I won," you exclaim, jumping into his arms as he spins you around.

"I can, and I'm so proud," Han says, kissing all over your face.

The race's prize is forgotten as you celebrate, but Han reminds you by handing you his keys, "A deal is a deal." You take the keys from him as a mere formality. You're not taking Han's precious car. Racing him is enough for you.

The weight of the keys is strange to you. They tend to be much heavier. Opening your palm to inspect them, you see that his keychains and spare keys are missing. In their place is a diamond ring.

"Han, what-" you stutter, whipping up to look at him.

"My car is yours. I figured I could be yours too. Will you marry me?" Han takes the keys from you, getting down on one knee and removing the ring from the holder.

From all the possible scenarios you had in mind from this clandestine meeting, Han's proposal was not one of them. Nevertheless, you have your answer instantly.

"Yes," you nod, choking back a sob.

Han grabs your hand and slides the ring onto your fourth finger. It's a perfect fit, just like Han. You drop down in front of Han, ignoring the dirty floor, to kiss and hug him.

Han kisses away your tears, a smile permanently etched on his face. He never thought he'd see the day he would settle down, but this past year has been near perfection with you, and he doesn't see himself with anyone else.

"Did you let me win to set this up?" You ask him later that night. His arms are wrapped tightly around you as you lie on his chest.

"No," he answers simply, kissing your head.

"You let me win," you then say assertively.

"No, I did not, Angel," he answers again, hiding his smile in your hair.

"I don't believe you. We have to race again," you tell him, lifting your head to glance at him.

"I don't have a reason to. I've got everything I want right here. Take the win, Angel," Han tells you sweetly, his fingers playing with your ring.

"For now," you huff, settling back down and cuddling up to him.

Fin.

thank you for reading! i didn't mean for it to be this long although i'm sure you guys are not complaining!

this was so much fun to write. guys like i am in love with han lue, i've spent hours on tiktok watching han lue and sung kang edits. i need help! tell me i'm not the only one like this!

requests are still open ❤️

#request #han lue imagine #fanfiction #fast and furious fanfiction #fast and furious #han lue fanfiction #han seoul oh #han lue x reader #han lue request #han lue #han lue imagines #han x reader #han x you #han lue smut #smut

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etherealstar-writes · 3 months

Text

I WANNA BE YOURS | LIONESSES X READER | PT 1

pairings: lionesses x reader

summary: in which you're accidentally added to a random group chat, not knowing they're all actually famous footballers, and obliviously end up having many of them competing for your love and attention.

part: one

warnings: none, it's just going to be very chaotic

✦ ——— ✦ ——— ✦

THE NATIONAL DIVING TEAM

elton added stairway, the karate kid, willybum and 15 others

elton

hey!

hello!

@everyone

brightness

what the hell is this groupchat name 😭😭

willybum

nope

i did not consent to this

CHANGE MY NAME RIGHT NOW TOONE

stairway

LMAO NOT WILLYBUM 😭

willybum

as if yours is any better stairway

rusty metal

i don't think i even wanna know why i'm here

elton

excuse me?

no hey or how i'm doing?

i could be dead you know

daily

you seem pretty alive

elton

well jokes on you

i'm dead inside

elton added lauren 1 and lauren 2

elton

lauren squared added!

heyo

lauren 2 left

stairway

LMAO 😭💀

JAMES REALLY SAID HELL NAH

elton

her finger probably just slipped

come on man

elton added lauren 2

lauren 2 left

stairway

SHE WASTED NO TIME 😭

earpsy

damn she completely violated you

willybum

that is so embarrassing

elton

what did i ever do to her :((

door knob

do i need to remind you about the prank you pulled yesterday?

elton

you know what

you guys are all mean

where's lessi when i need her

@ the karate kid

the karate kid

what the hell is this?

who even are you all?

and what are these names??!

elton?

who the hell names their kid elton

that's actually so sad

this is probably a groupchat with a bunch of teenage boys

elton

of course lessi is here

pretending that she doesn't

know us as usual

willybum

honestly

someone needs to slam her ego

with a truck just because

she's trending as fan favourite

brightness

damn sound a bit jelly there williamson

kie

well you can't lie, lessi is a pretty hot person

the karate kid

the hell??

am i supposed to be lessi?

i don't even know a lessi

meado

i didn't know you changed names lessi

elton

right??

who ate her food and put her in a sour mood?

it definitely wasn't me this time.

stairway

i'm putting on a movie

you all joining?

rusty metal

what are we watching?

stairway

harry potter

elton

DON'T START WITHOUT ME!!

also

less! where the hell are you?

we'll start the movie with you!

alessia???

✦ ——— ✦ ——— ✦

The majority of the squad were seated squished together in georgia's hotel room for their movie night. They waited for Alessia to join them, but the blonde striker was nowhere to be found or heard from.

And now they were starting to lose their patience with her.

"Did she fall asleep again?" Mary sighed.

"I wouldn't be surprised. I'm gonna give her a call," Ella stated.

She scrolled through her phone to find her contact and pressed call, putting on speaker mode so everyone could hear.

They waited a few moments before the call was finally accepted, but there was only silence from the other end.

"Yo, Lessi, where the hell are you?!"

"What? Who is this?" An unfamiliar voice, that definitely didn't belong to Alessia, spoke.

They all shared a confused glance.

"What the hell happened to your voice, Alessia?" Ella chuckled. "Are you sick or something?"

You, on the other side, groaned. "Oh my god, how many times do I have to tell you I'm not Alessia! I don't even know a Alessia or Lessi!"

Ella was still suspicious that this might be a joke Alessia would be playing. "Well, are you at home with a girl called Alessia? Or well, bed ...."

"WHAT? Why the hell would I be at home with a Alessia?! I told you already, I don't even know her!"

Now they all were a hundred percent sure that you were definitely not Alessia.

Georgia was scrolling through her phone before her eyes widened. "Guys, that is not Alessia's number. Ella added a random number."

"Oh, well this is awkward ..." Ella chuckled awkwardly.

"Of course it is!" You stated. "Your group chat and usernames are weird. How old are you all?"

They all shared a glance seeing that it was fair to tell you that for blowing up your phone the whole evening. They answered that it varied from twenties to thirties.

"Oh, alright ... well I need to go so I'm gonna hang up. Goodbye."

Before Ella could reply, you ended the call, leaving the group in silence for a moment.

"Well that was something ...." Niamh broke the silence.

"Yeah no kidding. Of course Toone would do something like this," Leah said.

"Hey!" Ella complained. "It's not my fault Alessia got a new number!"

"Why don't I add the real Alessia to the group chat now?" Georgia suggested while everyone nodded in agreement.

part two here

#lionesses x reader #woso x reader #woso imagine #engwnt #engwnt x reader #leah williamson x reader #ella toone x reader #alessia russo x reader #georgia stanway x reader #niamh charles x reader #woso #woso fanfics

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2kmps · 7 months

Text

BAD HABIT

hitman!tōji fushiguro x reader | 17k

story summary; tōji wasn't expecting to find himself in the stairwell of an apartment complex after a hit went bad. you weren't expecting to take care of a handsome, wounded man in your bathroom. it was perfect alignment for very bad things to happen, especially once he started getting cozy on your couch and refused to leave. neither of you expected feelings to intertwine. for tōji, it was a waste of time; for you, it'd get in the way of caring for your young nephew. there's a steep price for loving a man like him.

story warnings; dark content, hitman!au, there is a plot, tōji is tōji 💀, implications of past negligence, tōji smokes, gunshot wound, descriptions of wounds, some graphic details, mc is a stand-in guardian for their nephew, mc makes bad choices but tries their best, parental abandonment, mention of institutionalization, tōji hittin' it from behind, implied stalking, guilt tripping, depression, tons of sex, prose + detail heavy, unpleasant names used (bitch, psycho, whore). dividers are used to break up scenes.

thank you, @ceruleansol for the wonderful proofreading. you're always a joy to work with 🩷

read the warnings above. events in this story are not indicative of personal viewpoints. mdni!!

if you enjoyed this piece, please reblog it!!

"Hey. There's a dead guy in the stairwell."

At first, there had been silence when Tōji walked in through a mangled-up door. He wasn't thinking about where it would lead him, only that it was pockmarked all over with indentations from someone's knuckles—a long history of them. He had put his fist into doors like that before. They weren't built as solidly as they used to be and collapsed with enough force.

He realized then, with some wrench of disgust, that the dents resembled the craters in skin. Those deep ones that some of his brokers had—ugly little men who sweat too much and smelled as bad as they looked. The sight of it no longer enchanted him, taking him from his trance to walk inside and look around.

Where he stood was lit dimly yellow, a sort of throwback to all of the sleazy hostels he had afforded a night or two in. A second or two later, contemplating it more as he backed himself into a wall and sunk down the length of it until his bottom hit the floor and knees split open, this murky lighting was just like all those backrooms where he made all his deals.

Another look around—he saw a staircase descending into darkness. The shift from hazy yellow to complete black was not a perfect gradient. The air just simply turned inky. Above him, more staircases climbed into a dark oblivion, perhaps even more ominous than the one that led down.

With spotting a couple of doors on the upper floors, numbers embellished into metal plaques that had lost their luster a long time ago, tarnished with speckles of rust as though water had sat on its face too long, he understood he had wandered into an apartment complex.

"This is fucking embarrassing." His voice reverberated back at him. It sounded as lonely as it did bitter. "Guess that's what I get for pissing off that slimebag."

Tōji had antagonized the wrong man this time, a hit gone awry. The order had been received in the backroom of some dirty bar in Shibuya. After catching an eyeful of some women nursing cheap drinks, some men crowding the billiards table while dropping yen into their pockets, he had made it through to the back at the end of a long hallway.

Whoever was hiring for this kill was too much of a coward to show his face and sent some shifty-looking guys in black suits to conduct business instead. One was broad-shouldered, bald, and wore blackout sunglasses in a scarcely lit room, while the other was a scrawny bastard with bleached hair put into cornrows. It wasn't a good look.

Either way, they said a few words—asking him who he was and who was sponsoring him before being handed a crisp envelope ready to burst at the edges.

With half the money in his hands, he didn't give a shit about any of the other details. He got a name, Morimoto Kazuma, and a couple of rendezvous spots to stake out.

He walked out while they were still talking, and now, after the fact, Tōji conceded they probably had something valuable to say. Because that sweaty jackass ended up coming with an entire army ready to grovel and suck his dick when he snapped his fingers.

What a joke. I can't believe that piece of shit managed to catch me off-guard. Now, Tōji was on the run, sitting in some decrepit stairwell with black and purple blooming beneath his clothes. He cradled thick fingers over his side, blood oozing through every crevice of his hand, filling the seams of his fingernails.

That was when he heard it—a kid's voice stirring life into the ghostly stairwell like the blare of a car horn. It was sharp and sudden, jolting him to attention, dark eyes tracking down the sound of it.

The brat was seven or eight at best, probably around the same age as—

Shit, what was his name? I keep forgetting. Hiromi? Kenji? Yuki? Nah, none of those sound right.

"Oh"—the kid frowned, tongue tutting as though disappointed by Tōji's movements—"never mind! He's not dead! He's just some bum sleeping in the stairwell!"

"Hey, who are you talking about?" Tōji still had enough left in him to put a kid six feet under. It wouldn't be the first time. "Little shit."

Heavier footfalls echoed around him, obliterating whatever semblance of quiet there once had been. Your feet moved hastily down the steps, body winding tight against the railing, hands pulling up flakes of black paint that had come loose with decay.

Tōji only looked at you once you slowed, coming to a stop on the same stair as the kid for a pulse before descending the rest of the way down to his side.

Maybe it was just the blood loss or the fact he hadn't eaten or slept in three days, but you were a sight for sore eyes. The air around him turned cold, a breeze sweeping his bangs around his face as the scent of you wafted under his nostrils.

He liked the way you smelled.

"You've had a rough go, haven't you? Holy shit—" You had scoured his body fast, suddenly keen to the crimson leaking through his fingers. His black shirt had adhered to the wound at that point, doing some little part in stifling the worst of his bleeding. "You need a hospital. You need an ambulance. Hinata, call an ambul—"

Tōji pulled you back to the floor when you tried to get up, large fist wound tight in your clothes. "No. I don't need a hospital. I need a bathroom, some antiseptic, and some food."

You sat back down to pry his dirty fingers off of your ironed blouse, surprising him by your agreeability when you lifted his armpit on your shoulder, waving down Hinata to come assist you.

"We don't need the neighbors calling the police," you said.

"I don't want to be late for school again." Hinata was two steps from the landing, palms wringing his backpack straps.

You sighed. "I'll buy you ice cream."

Tōji watched him lean his head a little to the left, just like a dog attuned to particular trigger words. Had it not been for the gaping hole nestled in his ribs and a surge of hard static filling the inside of his head, it might've been cute.

"I want cheesecake."

It was non-negotiable.

Your back teeth clicked anxiously, unprepared for the attempted bribery to go awry as it had. In the end, you agreed to get him what he wanted while gesturing viciously for him to take Tōji's other side.

There wasn't a lot an eight-year-old could do except use what little weight was in his body to push against Tōji's back. Hinata was average sized, teetering on bigger than his peers, so that leverage propelling Tōji forward kept him from stumbling back down to the beginning when his hand slipped on the crumbly railing a time or two.

"The bathroom is just over here." You grunted, barely able to keep yourself upright with the bulk of Tōji's weight now on you. He walked his palm along the adjacent wall as though it did something to help.

It was better than admitting he was at the mercy of some nobodies in their apartment.

"Hinata! Antiseptic!" you bellowed.

The front door shut and small feet shuffled across wood, a muffled thump, thump, thump following his motions until he appeared behind you with a frosted plastic bottle. "Antiseptic! Can I watch?"

You took the bottle, told him no and he obeyed, staying on the other side of the door that you nudged with your toes. Soon, Tōji was situated on the toilet seat. "Can you take off your shirt?"

He thought about making a comment; you had a nice face, so you probably looked good even when your expression twisted all around. But, instead, he followed your order and let you help slowly peel the second skin off of him. The black fabric had been so tight, gripping to sweat in every curvature, especially to where blood had seeped through and stuck to him like wet paper.

"Just about, just about"—your teeth were on show, gnashing until balls of lint were stragglers amongst a faint tint of red—"okay good. We got it."

He took a breath and picked up a pair of tweezers you had next to the sink. "Mind if I use these?"

Your teeth were dry behind your lips, licking them came naturally. "Is there something inside? Glass?"

"A bullet." Tōji smiled when you winced. "Make me feel better later. You should step out if you don't want to see this."

"I do!" Hinata cried, using his head to push the crack in the door wider. "You got shot?! What did you do? I wanna see!"

A surge of heat shot to your face, amazed by his lack of tact. All it took was a couple of flicks to his forehead and the door was slammed shut by the full force of your foot. "You're getting a day off from school and cheesecake. Chill out."

"Ugh!" he whined, weight folding against the paper-thin door. For a second, you thought it might actually collapse.

Tōji had ignored the exchange between the pair of you, background noise he found somewhat soothing in that moment. The bullet hadn't struck anything vital; that much was obvious from the fact he was alive and not spurting a geyser of rust red everywhere or vomiting it. It still went deep.

"How did you get shot?" You were coming at him with an old hand towel, fingers covered as you held it flush below the hole in his body. It wept blood and something viscous and tinged yellow. "I really think you need to get this looked at."

He kept reaching, face unflinching. "Nah."

After several minutes, the bullet was extracted and abandoned in the sink along with your tweezers. It left splatter against the white porcelain, reaching the drab beige backsplash behind the faucet and rectangular mirror just above that. You didn't want to think about cleaning it up later.

"Shouldn't you get stitches?" You weren't dissuaded yet, keeping the towel secured until it felt heavy and damp.

Tōji didn't like how much you were nagging, but this beat rotting away in a stairwell. "You got a sewing kit?"

"Wha—well, yeah," you hesitated, calling out for Hinata to get supplies from the utility cupboard in the kitchen. His bare feet padded away and returned in seconds; the door pushed ajar so he could wedge the convenience store kit through the slim gap.

"Cheesecake?" Hinata whispered into the slot, arranging his face against it so one of his eyes could peer inside. "Cheeeeeeesecake?"

Tōji took the kit from your hands, digging through it for the largest needle. "Hey, kid, you got any fishing line?"

You stared blankly. "Fishing line? No, he wouldn't—"

"Yeah! I do!" Hinata thrust himself away from the door with his arms, feet stomping all the way across the apartment to his bedroom where a greater commotion made you flinch. You were sure he was turning over totes of things in his closet, ripping them open, and spilling them out onto the floor.

It wasn't something you needed to worry about because Hinata was an impressively self-sufficient child; he liked to keep his space tidy and organized. When he was six, he had already started arranging his dinosaurs and animal toys by species. When he started school, he tucked away everything on his little desk so he could lay out his workbooks and pencils.

"He's pretty handy." Tōji said, impressed, when Hinata trotted back in. He steadied against your shoulders, hand outstretched with a spool of translucent thread that Tōji took and fixed through the eye of his needle.

He tied it off at the end, stopping short of piercing through layers of skin and subcutaneous tissue. You and the kid were observing with quiet anticipation, the whites of your eyes showing, breaths paced.

Tōji didn't think it was possible to be self-conscious, but now he felt the need to draw the shower curtain over himself.

"Weren't you getting cheesecake or something?"

Hinata used you as a launch pad and bounced upright, small fists bunched into the back of your shirt. "Yeah! You promised! I've been helping out all morning!"

"Oh my god, you're so impatient," you drawled, flicking him on the forehead again. "This is why your dad dumped you here with me and took off."

"Well," he said and puffed up, chest and cheeks inflating as he backed out the doorway, "Dad said he almost left me with Grandma and Grandpa because you have bad taste in men!"

He swiveled on his toes and sprinted away before a roll of toilet paper made contact. You had half the mind to chase him all the way into the streets, but you were already nursing a flush of heat in your face and neck when you noticed Tōji leering at you.

"Cute kid." He said, needle unsullied.

You tucked your lower lip inside your mouth, slowly letting it roll back out moistened. "I'll just—I'll just go. Do you want cheesecake?"

His shoulders sank forward, elbows perched across his knees. "Nah. I want real food. You got anything?"

"If instant noodles and fried cabbage are your thing." You expected the weird look he gave you. It wasn't the most orthodox combination to have sitting around, stinking up your fridge. "I work two jobs. I just haven't had the time to go lately. I usually just give Hinata money to grab what he wants from the convenience…"

Tōji twirled the needle between pinched fingers, dark eyes that same kind of lackluster Hinata's got when he had stopped listening to what you were saying.

"Anyway"—you got to your feet and pretended to dust off your knees—"it’s there if you want it."

"I'll take it."

A lull drifted in between you and Tōji. He had nothing else to say to you; meanwhile you were taking in the sight of everything for the first time. One thing you had always lacked in life was a sense of discernment, a simple wiring in your brain to know what to prioritize and what would inevitably put you in a corner. It made more sense to be on your toes, to act first, think as you go, try to haggle with repercussions later.

You still did it, even now, as an adult thrust into the workforce, and bills, and taxes, and looking after a kid who could already do arithmetic well beyond his age group.

A man was bleeding at the bottom of the stairs, and now he was waiting for you to leave so he could stitch shut a gunshot wound. Knowing that you had made a grave mistake by bringing him into your home—with a mouthy boy—was obvious, but now what were you supposed to do to rectify it?

"When you're finished doing that," you said, motioning to the oozing hole next to his ribs when he looked up, "It'd be best if you left."

Tōji didn't feel any conviction behind your words. There was an inexplicable attraction, like gravity pulling you towards him because you were curious—because he was something different, something fresh, something you hadn't seen before.

Life with kids meant getting swept into the endless cycle of mundane and menial things that always aged people faster. Tōji, in these moments, felt grateful he had gotten out of that mess before those kids—shit, he still couldn't remember their names—turned any of his hair gray.

You were ensnared, and all it had taken was a bleeding on your bathroom floor a little bit.

"You want me to leave?" Tōji smoothed two fingers along the length of the fishing line, tip of his tongue peeking out his lips. "Sure. I'll do that."

━━━━━━━━━━━

The whole of two weeks might as well have been consolidated into two days because you felt like you hadn't been able to take a breath. Between the demands of your jobs, and the tribulations following a school-age boy through life, you didn't have the energy to constantly confront Tōji about still being camped out on your living room furniture weeks later.

He rotated through an unpredictable schedule that had him asleep on your couch at odd hours and ambling out the front door right when you put Hinata to bed.

Some days he was a set fixture in your apartment, a lamppost equivalent meant to decorate the space between two seats—except for your couch. Other days, it felt like he had never been there to begin with, a figment you had dreamt of to take up space so you'd feel less alone.

"If you're going to stay here, you need to chip in with chores." It was a reasonable request, and Tōji must've thought so too in spite of a disdainful curl in his lip because he took the mop handle you shoved at him. "Hinata already does a lot because I'm always busy. Earn your keep."

That sort of talk went over two ways with Tōji—either he complied because it kept you from nagging him, and in turn, you'd pick up the odds and ends he asked for, or he tried flirting with you and pouted around all day when he'd be shot down.

"You need to find somewhere else to go, Tōji." At any chance you got, you'd remind him that his time in your home was short-lived, a blessed respite from whatever brought him to you in the first place. "I'm serious. You can't just keep hanging out on my couch. You're gonna make it sag."

He let his head loll sideways, arms sprawled out over the back of it. You were behind him, pinned by his eyes when he lifted his face to see you.

"You have a big enough bed to share." His smile was salacious, cheeky, even, but you doubted there was any real intent there. "It helps having me around to look after the place, right? It's not like I make it into a pigsty."

For how boorish Tōji turned out to be, you would give him the credit that he didn't dirty up things very much. Your bathroom had been an isolated incident, and one evening within the past two weeks, he left a few beer cans on the floor that Hinata picked up for recycling.

His only other offense was hovering like a vulture on the nights you'd cook dinner.

"Can't you make him leave? I want to watch cartoons but he's always hogging the remote." Hinata was telling you during an outing on one of your scarce weekends off. "He watches stupid stuff, too."

You sighed, scraping frosting from your slice of cake. It was a nice afternoon out with your nephew at a cafe some blocks from the apartment. A mellow breeze caressed the back of your neck, whipped around the hair over Hinata's eyes, and weaved through trees nearby, making the leaves whisper and tremble.

It was all beautiful, yet both of you were stuck on Tōji being a wedge in your lives.

"Why won't he leave?" Hinata tried again, fork plowing through thick layers of his strawberry cake. "Have you actually tried?"

You believed that if Hinata were ever tested, he'd probably qualify as a genius—or gifted, at the very least. His mother had been that way too, once, in her moments of clarity: smart and quick, eager to find patterns and problem-solve.

He was everything that his father and your entire side of the family never quite was.

It was hard, sometimes, to keep it in your mind that he was only eight. No matter where he was developmentally, he was still a child and still saw the world through the lens of one—not an adult, not a genius, not a boy with wisdom beyond his years—

A child.

This entire ordeal with Tōji was proof of that. It was hard enough for you to process on your own, let alone explain the complexities of it to an eight-year-old whom you asked to do basic addition and subtraction for you at the grocery store.

All he saw was a bulky, mean man who wouldn't let him watch cartoons—not the intricacies behind why that man had to pull a bullet out of his own body instead of getting help at a hospital.

"I think he's hiding." Hinata surprised you with that comment, teeth bearing down as he smiled around his fork. "I think that's pretty cool. He's like a secret agent or something."

It was an obvious angle. You weren't sure why you hadn't considered it before. "Why do you think he's hiding?"

"Well"—Hinata pulled a piece of his own hair from the next forkful he grabbed. He pocketed the cake in his cheek—"he’s super secretive and if you ask him about stuff, he'll act like he doesn't hear you. Sometimes, I get up in the middle of the night for some water, and he's leaving or standing in the kitchen eating."

You rolled a glazed strawberry to one side of your plate. "It is kinda weird, isn't it?"

"Really weird." Hinata nodded. "Do you think he's a bad guy? Do you think he's part of a gang?"

The one time you had seen Tōji's chest to help cover his wound, there had been no tattoos. It'd be lying if you said you hadn't tried grabbing eyefuls of him when you could. How often was it that you got to see something like that?

"I think we can rule out a gang." Your certainty seemed to reinvigorate Hinata as he slumped into his chair and took more eager bites from his dessert. "He doesn't really have the look or attitude. Whatever he does, I think it's solo."

"Oh, so like a hitman!" Hinata said.

Your utensil went cold as it lay abandoned next to the slice of cake you had barely carved a dent into. This was all some pretty heavy stuff you were discussing with a kid, but the insight he was giving you wouldn't have crossed your mind otherwise.

Tōji was a strange man—strange in ways that made you uneasy, made you wonder whether it'd be worth sticking Hinata into some extracurriculars, lodge him up with friends during longer shifts. That would be ideal, albeit unfair to him.

Hinata liked to play with his own toys, sleep in his own bed, and do things on his terms without your intervention into everything. He'd always been that way.

Some part of you felt so sure that Tōji, whoever he actually was, wouldn't dream of putting a hand on a child he playfully bullied with a television remote.

A week later, that conversation with Hinata still replayed in your mind while lapping your way through a tall can of beer. The door leading onto the balcony was wide, letting the brisk night air gush in, kept within earshot of the happenings inside. It was all muffled television chatter from a show Tōji had grown partial to and an occasional slosh of bathwater from Hinata capsizing ships because he was a kraken tonight.

Your apartment was on the sixth floor, a good spot just above the tree lines, so when you looked out, a glittering nightscape awaited with stuttering neon signage and warm light falling out like slanted pillars from buildings with windows. The tops of trees were thick, black silhouettes dancing fluidly with the wind, and you could hear sounds drift along with it as though ghosts whispered around you.

"Hey." Tōji's voice came with the acrid punch of smoke swirling under your nose. The wind took the smell away as fast as it had come, but you were already alert to him stepping out barefoot onto the balcony with you, the door sliding shut. "You've been out here forever. It's never a good sign if someone's thinking that deep about something."

You took a swig from your beer. "Keeping tabs on me now?"

Tōji had hijacked one from your supply as well, despite all the times you had told him not to. He pulled the tab and let it froth up. "Nope. I kept asking you to get me a beer, but you didn't hear me. Figured I'd see what was holding you up."

Your tongue probed along the back of your teeth in an act of restraint. Tōji was the type that got off on purposely antagonizing you just to see your reaction. He baited you with comments like that in his inflectionless drone—it drove you up the walls.

"How's that gunshot wound?" you challenged. "Healed up enough for you to find your own place soon?"

Tōji's eyes caught the shine off of the white fluorescent kitchen light spearing out through the glass doors, but they were still so dark—abysmal, almost. Two of his fingers were positioned weirdly around a cigarette, pinched like he didn't want the smell to seep into his skin. He kept his fist tight on that beer can.

"Still hurts like a bitch." He gave you an oily smile, a look that fit his face. "You gonna kick out a man still on the mend? That's pretty heartless."

It amazed you that he could unleash clapbacks like that without pause like he had memorized them from a book cover to cover and could recall them on command.

On rare occasions, you could do that too, be dealt a nasty comment about your child-rearing techniques from quiet tongues and sling back venom that was equally as unkind. With Tōji, on the other hand, you never could quite meet him in the middle—you'd sting with a rubber band, and he'd bring out a hammer and make you flinch.

That was how he kept getting away with using your beer to wash away the taste of smoke sticking to the roof of his mouth, how he still commandeered your living room and pantry—

You gave in.

He didn't take you seriously.

"I didn't know you smoked." Gray wisps and bright orange flickers sat right outside the corner of your eye, a good opportunity to change the topic. "Just don't do it inside."

"Yeah, yeah." Tōji's agitation was expelled with the smoke from his lungs. Despite how dark it was on the balcony, you saw the peaks of his chest sink inward as though he had been holding that breath for a while and finally needed to let it out.

Just then, he flipped the cigarette around with more of the brown filter exposed to you. He flicked ashes onto the floor. They dropped near his feet. "Here. You'd benefit from a few smokes with how uptight you are."

He wasn't holding it out to you like he wanted you to take it. You realized he was waiting for you to take a puff from his fingers, put your mouth over whatever he'd left behind.

"I'm good. I have my vice." Beer raised, you forced a smile.

Tōji pressed his lips back around the cigarette and shrugged. "Suit yourself."

Men like Tōji were plenty in the world, used to getting their way, relentless until they did. You knew this because you had already lived it before many times.

Bottom of the barrel, selfish men only looking out for their own interests. They came to you, not unlike gods descending to earth for those sad, wretched, and dying souls wanting to cling onto the fine fabric of anyone who'd save them.

You were desperate to be whisked away from the repetitious everyday grind. Their independence was revolutionary, eccentrism enticing like a starving rat lured to food molded around poison. You believed you could love them out of their egotism, and they'd give you the world because they had promised it.

But, in the end, you could bleed out on the floor while they watched red seep into grout in tile, and they would still demand more from you until your insides were dry and hollow and you were a husk.

"So, what's the story with the kid—"

"Hinata." you corrected him.

Tōji knocked ashes off over the railing. "Sure. What's the story there? He isn't yours, right?"

For a moment, you contemplated whether it was worth dredging up the past like that, especially with your audience of one being Tōji.

He had never cared before, so why now?

"My brother's kid." You said.

There was nothing better going on.

He seemed to want conversation.

Might as well.

"He showed up here one day, all dressed up in a suit with a briefcase. He said he had been promoted to an office overseas, and he couldn't afford to take Hinata with him.

"I don't know how much of it was actually because of that new job, and how much of it was to actually escape his family. Sometimes, people are willing to abandon everything to get away. He had been really good about sending money to me to help out with Hinata—in the beginning."

Tōji was hunkered down against the railing, his hulking size crunched sideways on one arm, cigarette snuffed on chipped paint. "Isn't that how it always goes?"

"Yeah, I guess"—you put your back to the railing and leaned hard—"that money was basically extra. All I had to do was work my regular job, make sure Hinata did okay, and that was it. My brother even made a point to talk to Hinata on the phone almost every night for a couple of months.

"Hinata had just turned six. He was already picking up after himself, getting dressed, making sandwiches when I'd sleep in. He was basically raising himself. I just had to handle the adult stuff." You continued, "I started wondering why a kid his age could already do all those things. Where was his mother? Why didn't he go to his grandparents instead? My life is shit; why is my brother forcing his young kid on me?"

Tōji wasn't looking at you anymore, but unlike other times, you could tell with how he paced his drinks that he was still tuned into the story. That felt good.

"The money stopped coming in about six months after I took over as Hinata's guardian. My brother stopped calling him around that time, too. I haven't been able to get in contact with him at all—phone, video calls, text, email, socials, our parents, his friends—nothing. He just… poof."

"He hardly looks bothered by it." Tōji meant Hinata, about how aloof he appeared to be to something that big looming over your lives.

You agreed. "He stopped asking about his dad a year ago. Hinata's a really smart kid, I think he knows—"

"—Dad's not coming home," Tōji finished for you. "Where's Mom during all of this? She dead or something?"

This time, you shrugged. "Last I heard, she was institutionalized somewhere. I think it started out as postpartum depression that just spiraled out of control after ignoring it for years. I don't know what the final straw was that put her in there, but I do know that Hinata does not speak about her."

Tōji had his cheek in hand. "Ah, another psycho bitch out traumatizing kids."

You didn't like how he said it but let the lukewarm bitterness from your beer settle on your tongue. "I wish her the best. It isn't easy."

"Right." He was staring at you now, a suggestive sort of look crawling up along his face. The sight of it made your stomach bunch and flutter, giving you the need to shuffle your feet around, tighten that area between your thighs to ease how much it ached. "Got any questions for me?"

"Do you have kids?" Clearly, it wasn't what he had anticipated you asking because it cleaned the expression right off his face. "The way you handle Hinata isn't the same as some other guys I've met. You have experience, don't you?"

Tōji settled back into an easygoing smile, confirmation enough.

"How old are they? What are their names?"

"He's around eight, maybe nine now. Lives with his mom outside Tokyo." If it hadn't been for him standing at full height and coming closer, you might have pressed for more. "I had a stepdaughter, but that's a mess I don't feel like getting into."

You considered widening the gap again, a wordless declaration to keep things cordial, appropriate for the sensitive situation he was in. He exuded more than an average man's mediocre confidence—this was power from knowing he had influence over you, having caught your eyes on him a few too many times lately for it to be a coincidence.

Tōji saw your longing and your discomfort sitting with it, a part of yourself you tried to deny for the sake of giving Hinata a good life—a better life than you had led for yourself up to that point. That was the thing about kids: It was no longer just about you and it never would be again. Some people couldn't reconcile that reality.

"Wait, Tōji." You couldn't look at him, the intensity of his eyes simultaneously too much to bear and electrifying. He was setting you on fire like a match to flame. "This isn't a good idea."

He had leaned down to your face, head stooped between his shoulders, lips so achingly near it would be nothing to drag him in. Hot air stirred across your skin, dampening it and smelling of stale smoke.

"So, what?" he said, echoing your thoughts aloud. "Push me away if you don't want it."

You didn't know if you wanted to be ravished by him or to assert yourself and shove him out of your space. One would lead to the ideal outcome, a solid boundary that let him know his place, but the other was what you really had your heart set on. You missed being wanted by someone.

Hinata made the decision for you by throwing open the sliding door so hard it rattled, dressed in clean nightclothes with a towel draped over his wet hair like a massive hood. That motivated Tōji to glance over, but he wasn't out of your face.

"You're not allowed to do that." Hinata said, brown eyes made smaller by a heavy brow and accusatory glare.

Tōji almost grinned. "Oh, yeah? Says who?"

Hinata stomped his foot and blurted, "The police! Kissing is illegal." He, of course, withered at the ridiculousness of his words after the fact.

"Wow." Tōji whistled, loud and slow. "That's a new one to me. You sure you're not just being a brat?"

Hinata simply bunched up his face while tossing his short hair with the towel, pieces of it defying gravity once he was finished.

He wasn't looking at Tōji anymore.

"I set three alarms for you tomorrow because I don't want to be late for school." This was a normal thing with him. Once, he had set six just to make sure you had no hope of getting that extra fifteen minutes. "I packed myself some curry for lunch. Can I get strawberry milk at the store tomorrow?"

He could ask you for water melted from the snowcaps of Mt. Fuji, and you would let your fingers turn frostbitten and black to get it for him.

"I'll think about it. I don't need the dentist to ask me why you're eight with a bunch of cavities."

Hinata spit through tightly cinched, vibrating lips, head hanging dejectedly, and led the way from the patio door and down the hallway to his bedroom. All at once, the arrest he had caused was lifted, and Tōji's weight and warmth pushed the bars of the railing deeper into your back.

His eyes lingered at the open space, maybe anticipating Hinata would come charging back to that spot. "Ballsy kid."

Your entire body flinched from the sensation of his large hand climbing along your spine, fingers squeezing together between your shoulder blades and splaying wide again to cradle the roundness of your head. He reeled your face back to him when you tried to turn away, struck with the same unease and excitement as before.

"What're you gonna do?" He could kiss you now, but your eyes were stuck to the sides, suddenly imbued with all the shyness of someone with far less experience. "Hey, you gonna look at me? You're not gonna tell me you've never been kissed, are you?"

Of course you had, just never by someone like Tōji. Something about his size, his confidence, his attitude—it just made you feel small, made you want to be malleable for him. Useable may have been a more daring word to apply here.

Tōji made a noise in his throat. It rumbled so hard you were convinced it coursed his arm and ran through his fingers on your head.

"It's pretty cute, not gonna lie." And then his lips were between yours. Your eyes shut, hands finding and gripping his strong biceps when more of his body pressed into you. Nothing about how he kissed you was gentle or clean; it was meant for him to convey how he wanted you, and that way wasn't chaste or wound in an embrace.

You let him maneuver your head however he pleased, let the strings of saliva linking your mouths snap and feel cold on your skin before he was back in for more. His tongue carried more of the smoke smell than the rest of his mouth, but you let him in eagerly and felt yourself stirring in your groin from how lewd the sounds were.

It was when your hands started to roam, sinking between your bodies to sneak the tie of his sweatpants loose that he withdrew from you altogether and took all his heat with him. He didn't care that you were cold in the dark without him, only that he was able to finally have your eyes on him, the shine of them gone as though covered by a veil.

"You have to work in the morning, don't you? Better get to bed." The tip of his tongue came out to put a gloss over his lower lip, tasting where you had been. "Don't let me keep you."

You'd never wanted a man so much in your life as much as you wanted Tōji right now. Maybe, after all his patience to kiss you, it was the same for him.

"Tōji"—you watched him turn back around, hands bulging from his pockets—"you never told me your son's name."

His face never changed. "I forgot, sorry."

━━━━━━━━━━━

One particular weekend had initially left you beside yourself in boredom because Hinata had gone to stay with a friend, and you were off from work. You experienced some distress knowing how enmeshed Hinata had become in your life, how nearly every waking thought was of him—where he was, was he having fun, was he eating, getting good grades, taking long enough baths, going to bed on time—everything always was for concern over him.

He had been with you right after turning six, right after you had emerged from the trenches of another relationship where you had been trodden over, proved to be unlovable, lost another job, failed your parents spectacularly, and regressed to every slovenly habit you had struggled to correct for years.

And then, you got a knock at your door and saw your brother standing there in an ironed suit and stiff-gelled hair, a shiny leather briefcase in one hand, and his other resting atop the crown of your very young nephew. You hadn't seen him since his third birthday party, which had quickly erupted into family politics, long-held grudges souring the mood instantaneously.

Hinata didn't care because he had cake. They had taken the feud outside and left you with him. All you did was wipe his face when he got too dirty, and he did the same to your clean cheeks in return, already displaying those heartbreaking signs of self-reliance.

You were sad for him but didn't do anything about it at the time. Because you had turned into the family disappointment who no one believed would amount to much, stuck in that perpetual cycle of self-loathing so debilitating from somewhere so deep within, you wanted to flay yourself alive to make it stop.

"I can't take him." Your brother didn't have much of an explanation at the time. You wished you had been able to pull the wool off of your eyes to see it had been a lie.

He blathered on, "My job won't pay to support him and me. You understand, right? He needs to stay here. I can't lose this opportunity or the money. It'll be good for everyone."

You didn't know his wife had been admitted to a psychiatric unit in Yokohama until much later.

You didn't know it had been because she had a complete mental collapse and wept and screamed until her throat and eyes swelled. She had planned to take herself and Hinata to the Shuto Expressway in Greater Tokyo with determination to find a way onto it one way or another.

You didn't know that your brother would never be coming back.

You didn't know how to take care of a child or how loving one would be so different from loving horrible men.

Six months in, you were so scared you wouldn't be able to survive caring for a broken boy and a broken adult, too. Before, you could get by for days without food in your stomach, weeks barely bathing, haggard and fatigued by doing something as simple as putting together a cup of coffee.

It wasn't the same for Hinata. He needed more than you did, and some days, he had to provide for himself. Something that still made you shudder in shame to this day. He navigated your messy kitchen and washed the dishes, threw away bad food if it looked funny or fluffy to him, tried to wrestle trash bags half his size, and learned your microwave so thoroughly that he always had something warm.

You had lain on the couch—the same one Tōji now occupied—most times, only moving to your bed with those random spurts of energy or when you needed to use the bathroom.

It wasn't like you didn't know what was going on around you because you certainly heard him struggle and cry, drag things across the floor, and break dishware because he had to climb on countertops to reach the cabinets.

You made sure he ate and didn't stink, used the wire transfers from your brother to keep food in the apartment and lights and water on, but not much more than that.

Everything changed when Hinata realized you weren't eating and made a bowl of soup for you (instant noodles). He sat on the floor, on the carpet next to where your head rested on some stacked pillows on the couch. You had been asleep all day and only roused because he called out meekly:

"Are you hungry?" He had hot noodles wrapped around chopsticks. "I can feed you. You're always feeding me."

His perception of what always meant split your heart in half, eyes feeling red all the way around as they burned, and your chin trembled taking those first bites of cheap cup noodles.

He smiled at you, and you cried. It sounded so horrid that it scared him, and he didn't know what else to do but bawl too. That had been your breakthrough moment, what finally made you uncover your eyes and put your arms around him, apologizing with a crackly voice.

Maybe it's what he had needed all along as well because he laid his body on you, holding tight, and only let your quiet shushing while rocking him against you calm him down.

In those minutes of stillness with his little heartbeat feeling less aggressive on your chest, head under your chin, eyes closed, you realized that the world had failed you both, but he was the one worth fighting for the most.

━━━━━━━━━━━

It was that very same weekend Hinata was absent from the apartment that Tōji kissed you again, right there on the couch after bringing you close to him. This time he held you flush for a while, giving you that luxury of melting into his body, hands covering every curve, valley, and peak through his clothes until he started taking them off.

You broke the kiss with him to, one, take in all his bareness and the expanse of him, reveling in the pleasure that he was everything you imagined he would be. His chest and shoulders were broad, so strong you got too wound up thinking he could handle your weight on top of him, on his face. Further down, his abdomen was just as defined, his waist that waspy taper, and you could see the angle of his hip bones offering a tease from under his sweatpants.

Second, you leaned over him to see the wound he had faux surgically closed himself. It was better than it had been, anything would've been honestly, but the fishing line had grown a brownish crust, and parts of the wound itself were thick with scabbing and swelled and red with the profundity of infection beneath the sutures.

Tōji saw your expression change and didn't want to hear about it, so he clenched his fingers around your jaw to steer you back to his lips, to touch him, worshiping how he felt under your fingertips.

"You up for it?" He gave you agency to tell him no, well aware that you wouldn't.

He liked that bashful look of yours, one steeped in inner turmoil and uncertainty, yet unequivocally wrapped in lust. You knew that you wanted him and were fighting it every step of the way. Maybe because of the kid, maybe from something else you hadn't told him about yet.

It didn't really have anything to do with him, so he didn't care what it was. Good for you, however, was that he was patient and had all the time in the world—between now and his next target, at least—so if you wanted to play coy, he'd let you.

"Come here"—Tōji took you by one hip and then through your thighs to hoist you onto his lap to straddle him—"this is a better view for me, especially if you take off your shirt. You've been giving me peeks since we've met, but I wanna see."

The way he spoke to you was unoriginal and reminiscent of recent comments you never believed were honest. He had been easing you into it—how courteous.

You still couldn't muster a full smile. "So, you want a show?"

"Sure do, sweetheart. Want help?" His fingers beat yours to the raw edges of your shirt, lifting it up and over your head without any difficulty. Everything else covering you went with it except your pants. "Much better. I like this."

Parts of sex always felt like a blur, some sort of innate, dreamlike fog that shut down your brain for a while. You liked it because life didn't seem all that bad in those moments when you were focused on the feelings, the pressure, the heat on your skin, and boiling in your veins. Tōji liked it because sex felt good, and he liked when the people he slept with were high off him—any part of him.

It got his mind off of the whole bullshit situation hunting down all of Morimoto's incompetent fleshlights. He'd managed to eradicate more than half of them, dwindling that impressive army down to the protected few that couldn't save themselves for shit.

Tōji fondled your body, led your hips over the rise in his pants over and over until he was hard, and could tell you needed yours off just as much as him by the way you sucked on your lips.

He really liked the sheen your saliva left behind, kissing you again to taste you with his tongue, laying you down on your side beneath him as he worked away those final layers on both your bodies.

"Got a condom?" On second thought, it was dumb that he asked because of course you didn't. That kid was always around, and you were too uptight to drop him at someone's house just to get fucked. "I'll pull out. It’s safe enough if you do it right."

You weren't convinced, not with how your eyebrows flattened out. "Tōji, you have a kid."

He smiled, dismissing you with a shrug. "Second time’s a charm. It isn't something we need to worry about here."

You were easy to convince right now, unusually so, given your history with him over the past few months. The transition had been interesting to observe—your suspicion and distrust of him softening into taste-testing your meals from a wooden spoon, glassy and hot stares from the room, evenings on the balcony with two beers and a cigarette, and sometimes charging him with packing lunch for Hinata in the morning.

Tōji watched you fall apart the second his cock hitched up inside of you. It was cute that you were so moldable for him, doing whatever he asked, holding positions for him like armature for a sculpt. It was annoying that, after this, he probably wouldn't be able to fuck you again until after he showed up on Morimoto's doorstep ready to blast his brains out.

"O—oh, shit, Tōji—" you whimpered from your side, torso twisted toward the cushions to hide your face from him, smothering your moans so you didn't sound like a loose whore getting something good for once. "Fuck—fuck me harder."

"You're into some stuff, aren't you?" He was halfway inside you, too big to fit all the way without rearranging you. "Bet you're the type who likes being tied up? Or do you just like being fucked out of your mind?"

Your noises snagged in your throat; he already had you figured out.

He moved your leg from his arm to the nice little seat on top of his shoulder, opening you wider for him, making sure you felt every bit of his cock stretching you, sinking in until your pelvises knocked together and skin clapped.

After the dry spell he'd had over the months, even before meeting you, this was total bliss to him. He wanted to go wild, plow into your hole so hard that you screamed, maybe cried a little, bruised up where the edges of his hip bones smacked into you repeatedly. It'd be nice to see you wobbling around the apartment for a while, too embarrassed to look at him.

He was halfway to achieving that now, listening to you go from performative, loud moans anyone could get from the streets to hard breaths and panting, your sounds mostly stolen away unless he hit a spot in you that made you gasp and writhe.

Tōji kept a hand on your ankle so you'd stay put, the other gripping the back of the couch hard enough that his knuckles turned colorless, fingertips deepening red. The most important parts were on display for now, giving him a show with how they bounced and your skin rippled when he'd slam you down on him.

That's how he fucked you for a bit—into the couch cushions where he slept, on top of the blankets you let him borrow from the kindness of your heart, sheathing himself so deep inside your body that your jaw looked permanently unhinged from how long you left it hang.

"Breathe." he reminded you, leg now off his shoulder as he took you by the ass and picked you up. His cock slipped out of you, a sensation that made you jolt. "Take five."

Your limbs surrounded him, thighs filling the notches in his hips, hands curtained by tousled black hair that glistened blue in the midday light. Tōji leaned into the little scratches on his scalp, flexing his fingers across your ass cheeks in pulses mirroring the cold static racing parallel down his spine.

He nearly bumped you into furniture trying to navigate your cramped bedroom, kiss full of fervor, spurred on by your own deprived desperation.

"Spread out." He said it to you after putting you on the bed, mattress bending to the weight of your knees as you went down on your arms. "Better bite something. Actually, on second thought, I wanna hear how loud you get."

His cock was a better fit the second time, girth filling you deliciously. It made your entire body shudder when he started thrusting again. There was just something about having a real person fucking into you that toys just couldn't achieve, no matter what shockwave orgasms made your toes curl and eyes roll white in their sockets.

This kind of vulnerability was one you missed, being under the tutelage of someone else's hands guiding you in ways they liked—groping, stroking, testing your body to see how you'd respond. The novelty of a new partner trying to find your sweet spots, what made you moan, drew up goose pimples and raised the hairs in your skin. You loved it.

"Shit—" Tōji's thrusts turned savage and sloppy, a man beginning to unfurl, one step closer to regrasping clarity. He watched the fat in your ass jiggle, muscles in your back clenching to secure you on your forearms. You whimpered at the thick fingers circling your throat, levering you up onto his thighs that twitched under your palms.

He was in your ear, still masking his pleasure and how close he was to bursting with nonchalance. You saw through it; he didn't try too hard to hide it. "Touch yourself. I don't need to see you moping around because you didn't cum."

You weren't fast enough to stroke yourself before his hand was already there. He started to slow, pushing hard so his cock reached greater depths inside of you; the strength of his hips and thighs rolled your body like being aboard a boat crashing through waves. You rode his rhythm, bringing him closer to his orgasm while he brought you to yours none too gently, the glide of his hand slick and wet and rapid.

It was so good, so familiar, so disgusting how all of it sounded together—moist pattering of his palm on you, hips beating you raw until he coaxed out that final moan, a crescendo above all the rest. He kept you seated on his thighs through every lurch, every husky breath, every way your hands pushed down on his when it became too much. His release was a subdued groan against your neck, nose in your skin while hot ropes of him moved in a sluggish stream from your back into the seam of your ass.

"Sometimes I worry if I'm doing a good job raising Hinata." Sober thoughts had returned in full force, and Tōji lay partially covered by the sheets you had burrowed under. "It's scary taking care of a kid on—"

"Not to be a buzzkill, but pillow talk really isn't my thing." He sat upright, thinking about the red and white pack of cigarettes he left on the coffee table. "This is the kind of stuff we save for the balcony."

You frowned. "Then, get out of my room."

Tōji actually rather liked the idea of taking sleep into a proper bed again, secured by four walls and a door that locked instead of being at the mercy of a vengeful eight-year-old who'd probably try to suffocate him to get the television remote. A warm body waiting for him under the covers after a long night had its appeal too.

The tiny slither of fabric fell off him as he stood from your bed, another chance to admire him. He was hewn from marble, articulated and ambulant art that you'd never be able to forget the feeling of. You immersed in sore disappointment when he walked out, tracking his whereabouts through confident heel strikes that made the floorboards vibrate back to you.

He came back a few minutes later, gray sweatpants over an arm, cigarette in his lips, and a lighter ready to go.

Your perking up was diffused by agitation that followed him across the bedroom, just another one of those things he acted like he didn't see. There was a small window you never opened that he did, raising it so his entire hand and wrist could fit through it.

"Why didn't you dump him with his grandparents?" Tōji blew smoke out through the gap. He was asking because it would've made sense to do so, given it sounded like it had been an option before. "You could still do that. Drop him off and walk away. You'd be rid of him, probably be happier."

There was cold indifference in his voice. He wasn't saying it from the mind of a lover but rather a man who didn't see the point in making things harder than they needed to be, a man who had managed to forget his own son's name and showed no remorse for it.

Hinata would be safe. He’d be in a financially stable household, given anything and everything without begging. He'd be loved by his grandparents—

"Because no one loves him more than I do." It was an easy answer. Tōji smiled like you'd given the right one. "If, someday, he says he wants to live with them, I won't stop him. If he asks about his parents, I'll tell him the truth. Right now, I'm all that he needs and he deserves—he deserves a chance to just be a kid."

Tōji flicked off ashes with his thumb, head turning to look out the window with nothing left to ask.

You did, though, stewing in transient silence for all of a few seconds. "Are you a hitman?"

He left a black smear on the outside wall when he extinguished his cigarette, dropping it wherever it landed six stories below before making his way back over to the bed. You tried not to move, not when you caught a whiff of smoke next to you when the mattress dipped and faked not noticing that he was erect again.

"How'd you guess?" Tōji shucked the sheets off of you, not particularly petulant that he didn't tell you first. "That kid's sharp. He's gonna be a pain in the ass in a few years."

The next moment his tongue was in your mouth, one leg hiked up his bicep and jostled your body with every thrust. He figured that fucking you out of your mind would soften the blow of reality—that you were sheltering a hitman, keeping one fed, drinking beers and swapping spit, memorializing how it felt to be split on a murderer's cock.

"T—Tōji, more…"

He put you on your stomach, fist wrapped up in your hair. "Come on, you can do better than that."

━━━━━━━━━━━

Hinata had the run of the living room again by that Sunday evening, an event both jarring and euphoric because it had been impossible to tear him away from cartoons for half the night. He went to school Monday morning exhausted and dazed, a self-satisfied grin stuck on his face all the way down the stairwell and even when he spilled out onto the sidewalk.

Tōji became a frequent guest in your bedroom, usually emerging in the early evenings around the time Hinata's favorite shows aired. Nothing came from it. He never asked, only studied the traffic to and from your door with inquisitive, furtive looks before he was hopelessly entangled by chaos on the screen—bright colors, loud noises, kooky shenanigans, all his favorite things.

"Stop letting him have the run of things after I'm asleep. I got a call the other day from his school." You managed most of what you wanted to say before Tōji's hips lunged from behind, throwing your chest into the wall your bed was nestled against. "A—Ah, Tōji, seriously, listen to me."

He came down onto his arms, using them to hold his weight off of you. The tips of his hair were a microscopic touch and akin to something crawling on your cheek.

"I'm listening." He didn't stop rutting his cock into you, a leisurely smile inching onto his face hearing your breaths splinter, moans suffocated behind the meat of your hand. Sex first thing after a good sleep was always rewarding, especially when there was something at stake—

Like another noise complaint from the neighbors.

"I can't hear you. You're gonna have to talk louder." Tōji said, balancing with one arm and tight core muscles to grope the front of you with his other hand. "You just wanna focus on getting fucked out instead? You've been bitching a lot lately. You could use it."

You weren't going to get anything in wordwise right now, at least nothing that mattered to him.

When Tōji was buried up to the hilt inside you, all he wanted were your moans that hit a certain pitch he liked. The kind that he had to work for, couldn't be fabricated and kept him bricked up for as long as he needed to get it out of your lungs.

His appetite for you like this had started to wane, however, because he couldn't see you. From this side, sweat beaded and slid down the length of your spine like dewdrops after morning fog, your fingers clasped and unwound like a blooming bud, and all your noises might as well have been from some peepshow whore's cunt on the opposite side of the wall.

"Screw this." He put you down on your back, not twisted sideways or thrown onto his shoulders—simply where your thighs could hold his waist while he knelt between them and pushed the curve of his cock back in, studying how your eyebrows sank inward and teeth gnawed color back into your lips. "Now this is what I want to look at."

That had been his unmaking, one of few times in his life where he had experienced genuine regret for something he had done. It had been a bad idea to see the inside walls of this apartment, to kiss you on the balcony back then, and feed false truths to the kid over pints of ice cream at 2:00 a.m. because he had more questions than common sense to be afraid of him.

"You just gonna lay there like that?" It was a different night, one less goon Morimoto could hide behind.

Tōji had showered the carnage off his body, smelled clean climbing into your bed, and pulled down your pants. It didn't take many strokes for him to get hard once he pushed your legs open and felt you kiss him back. "At least make it worth my while and take off your shirt."

It was late. You were both tired, but you registered his request and slipped the airy fabric from your body so you were as bare as him, a curated masterpiece behind velvet barriers that only he could touch, grooves in his pads rising and dipping and bumping textures that felt intentional, belonged there and made up the wholeness of you.

What had happened was he laid down on you with most of his weight, jarring you into greater wakefulness—this sort of closeness wasn't something he did.

He liked a ruthless fuck, a good time, and something nice to look at while pounding into it.

That's what he had believed, that's what you had learned—this wasn't that.

"What's wrong with you?" It could've been a rhetorical question had Tōji not known why you were asking it.

"Does it bother you?" He was on his forearms to look you in the face, still pinning you underneath while languid strokes rocked your bodies in unison. "I'm not really in the mood to bend you over the dresser, but if you need to be dicked down that bad—"

"Tōji, stop." That got a laugh out of you, the sort of sound he realized he was liking more and more as the days went on. "I don't know why, but it's embarrassing. Stop staring, it's weird."

"Nah"—his thrusts picked up speed and depth, finally shaking something good out of your mouth—"just deal with it and lay there."

You used your hands to bring him down to your lips instead, giving him every opportunity to change the pace of things, fuck you how he normally did. It would've been easier for you to deal with than this, an indescribable thing that you were too hesitant to put an actual term to.

"Do what you want." Your lips were wet, smacking every time they met his. "I'm awake now. I can roll over."

"I didn't take you for some one trick pony," Tōji quipped. "Leave that to the professionals."

Nothing else came to mind after that, finding all the tension in your muscles and bones ebbing, mind melting away those apprehensions as you concentrated on how heavy and good he was on top of you. Easing more under him, your arms circled around the width of his back, wondering whether or not to put your nails in his skin or keep them retracted.

You liked the firmness of his muscles against your palms, focusing on how they moved with his hips pushing into yours, joggling your body in a quickening sequence. His face never went away, kisses frequent and deep, taking your moans into his throat, and purposefully angled himself to get more of them out of you.

When he got close enough, he tucked his face between your neck and the pillow, the confined space left a hot, moist film as his breath jerked, and he finished with one last, very jarring thrust.

It made you gasp, feeling a foreign warmth shoot inside of you similar to a hot drink down your throat amidst the coldest December day in Japan.

That was the first time Tōji hadn't pulled out to finish, and his first time making love to you.

More often after that night, he left an arm open for you to shuffle onto, and he'd use it to cram you into his side. Slow, intimate sex didn't become his norm, and he was never particularly gentle, but that sort of mood seemed to strike him more as the weeks went on.

"I wish I could give Hinata more than this." It was weird that you were always ready to dissect the more unsavory facets of your life to him, despite every instinct telling you he probably wasn't the right person for that. "I've been saving money. I could probably scrape together enough to move us somewhere better. But, then, what happens if I do, and I can't afford the monthlies? I don't want to lose him… He's everything to me."

You still hadn't confessed the worst parts of yourself to Tōji for any other reason than he never confided in you about his. There was a looming itch in the back of your head, distant and insistent that everything about this was wrong, and you needed to stop before it happened again—before you were sucked in so deep you were lost without a light, before Hinata had to suffer through something once again.

"Where would you go?" Tōji had an unlit cigarette in his lips, a new habit he started right after lovemaking became his new interest. It was that point of compromise where he still had the feeling of something there, but you didn't have to smell anything.

"I'm not sure," you went on, "just something a little bigger. Maybe a kitchen with more cabinets. Somewhere on a lower floor, I guess? I want—I want him to bring friends over, instead of him always going to them. Not all the time, mind you. I'd lose my mind looking after a bunch of kids. But, maybe, they could study together? Play games?"

"Didn't take you for the type who wanted a cookie-cutter fantasy." Tōji said, dark eyes on the ceiling, cigarette now loosely rolling inside his fingers. "That kid could live in a box, and as long as you were with him, he wouldn't complain about it."

You shifted in his arm, feeling it stiffen around you as though to stop you from leaving had that been your intention. Instead, you flopped toward your stomach, chin digging into one of his built breasts, legs threading.

"Hinata hardly complains, and when he does, it's just because a lot is going on." You looked at his face, trying to gauge something from it. He just kept staring up. "I want to meet your son."

That brought him back around. "Say that again?"

"Your son. I want to meet your son." This was unsafe to say. The implications of it were steeper than just letting him live here and fuck you and occasionally be made to help out with Hinata. "I'd like for him and Hinata to become friends. They're a similar age, right? Kids aren't too different from each other when they're that young. They just go along with stuff."

Trying to integrate a more permanent piece of Tōji's life into yours was exactly what you shouldn't have been doing. You knew it, thought it with painful bursts in your chest, a rush of guilt that felt cold and clogged up your ears like you had dunked your head in a river.

Tōji, to your astonishment, smiled lazily and began with long strokes on your arm. "I don't think his mom is gonna give him up. That is not a mess I'd put myself in the middle of."

You frowned. "That's not what I'm saying, Tōji. I just want them—"

"—To be friends." He flicked away the unmatched cigarette somewhere on the floor, took his arm back, and eclipsed your view of the ceiling with his mass. "I heard you. Now, I just keep thinking about how I'd have to see you and my ex in the same place. That doesn't really get me off."

"I'd really hope not."

There were certain superstitious people there who believed that the longer you focused on all the good happening in your life, taking it for granted and trying to shape it into new normalcy, the more devastating the reverse would be to happen. You hadn't had much luck in your arguably short lifetime, and it wasn't until you picked up your second job that the folds began to smooth a bit, and routine felt less tiresome and less like an assault on your freedom and more like a necessity to keep things in order.

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All for Hinata and giving him the best possible chance to get somewhere in life that you'd never been able to—never would be able to. You had squandered enough of yours to know it wasn't fair to do it to him, a child who'd probably had it worse from the very beginning. His path hadn't diverged yet. Meanwhile, yours had a long time ago and by choice, however unfavorable your upbringing had been.

Tōji, sometimes, felt like a test for you—divine intervention as though meant to really try your mettle, rattle your conviction a little bit to see if you'd just cave inward like you always had in the past. Surrendering yourself to misplaced love and lust, losing everything and everyone to the great delusion because it always, always felt so right in the moment to love unfalteringly because it'd be all that mattered on your deathbed.

That you loved fiercely.

That you were loved in return.

You couldn't take the rest with you. Not money. Not prestige. Not even ashes you turned into when you'd be cremated. But those moments of final fading consciousness swathed in arms and warmth and tears—love?

It's everlasting.

But then, Hinata came into your life, and it was no longer about your pain. Suddenly, you had a purpose bigger than yourself, a purpose that actually meant something, not some desperate wish. You had been channeling every bit of your anguish, longing, anger, fear, and love into that dream to help him escape what you never could. Maybe someday, by some miracle, you'd be able to join him.

Tōji hadn't become a wrench but rather a missing oil can that slowed the gears and made them grind a little harder. The effects of him were inconspicuous, gradual, not really anything you'd believe would hinder you. In actuality, he probably had you wrapped up by the first night and completely ensnared by the first kiss on the balcony.

"We should do this more often." Tōji had both hands on your waist, helping you to ride a rough rhythm on his cock. You left prints of your teeth into the thumb-side of your hand, stifling moans so they wouldn't seep through the paper-thin walls. "It's sexier when you're loud."

You'd made it years without any noise complaints, and now you had three. The last one had been delivered not by letter or phone, but in person from property management. It had been a sheepish conversation for everybody that ended with them pointing out that's why people usually went to Kabukichō where love hotels ruled the strip.

Tōji had been standing in the doorway with you, arm over your head with a casual lean. He made sure to tell them he'd been to Kabukichō many times, and the quality there wasn't anywhere on par with what you gave.

Management scampered away, flushed and aroused, and you wanted to fucking kill him. But Hinata was at school and you weren't due for work at your second job for a few hours—so you just fucked again.

Now, you were straddling him, a sack of pudge in his hands kneading your waist, hips, thighs, gripping your ass to control how hard his cock rutted up into you.

He carried one of his hands up your spine, slow and lazy as though it were too much for him to do, circled your nape, and brought your chest down on his so he could kiss you, tease you with the stiffened point of his tongue.

Everything stuttered to a halt when Hinata's scream ripped into your bedroom from the slit under the door and made the walls tremble before you realized it was you and your heart lunging from adrenaline.

Tōji let you climb off of him, clumsily and hurriedly, to throw a discarded robe on the floor around your body and throw open the door without considering that the man was lying naked in your bed.

"What is it?! What is it?!" you tried shouting above the boy's cries. They had turned wild and dissolved into wails. The kind that only happened in response to true terror or pain.

You'd never heard him like this.

"Hinata, what is it?!" It was hard not to take hold of his shoulders and shake him. That was the first impulse, the reaction to quiet something making so much noise. But you simply crouched low, keeping your fingers tight in case he tried flailing. "What happened?!"

He sucked in greedy breaths, still crying in between them and hiccuping. Snot glistened down his nose, lips, and chin, turning the reddest you had ever seen possible in someone with his complexion. With a short finger, he turned and pointed to a brown box on the floor.

It looked like a normal parcel, just like something you'd receive from the post office that had a new toy or school supplies in it. Clearly, he had thought that was the case because he'd found a pair of scissors and opened it, all four flaps spread wide, insides speckled red. Some darker splotches had been absorbed into the tan cardboard.

"What—what the hell is that?!" You couldn't keep the quiver out of your voice. "Hinata, go to your room."

"No!" he hiccuped, wiping under his nose with a fist. "No! Don't make me!"

Your heart pulsed through you like a hammer that sent vibrations ricocheting off your bones and made your intestines squeeze. You thought you could hear the organ squelch in your ears, dampening Hinata's tantrum the closer you got.

The inside of the box was what you imagined red food dye exploding inside a microwave would look like, though darker, blacker like it'd had time to sit and settle into all the layers. In the center of it was something small, just as black as the blood and had that charred, shriveled quality to it.

You had to stare at it for a long time to figure out it was a human ear attached to a flayed chunk of flesh, likely where all the blood had originated.

"Hinata"—everything you had eaten in the past three days was journeying up your esophagus, mouth already salivating—"go to your room."

"No!" He choked through a sob.

Tōji came out of the bedroom in sweatpants and no shirt, having decided that whatever was happening was a big enough deal that he needed to be there.

He asked, gratingly, "What's all the screaming about?"

Anger rushed up your core all the way to your chest, neck, and to every last strand on your head. You thought you could sling the box at him, pick up a chair and gouge him on one of the legs, and filet him with the scissors Hinata had taken from the kitchen.

The funny thing about love is that just as fast as it could be ignited, it could be snuffed just as easily—especially when there was someone to protect, someone you loved more than you ever could him.

You were on fire. "This is your fault!"

With a forceful thrust from your toes, the box made a scuffing sound as it skidded across wood floors to him where he stopped it with his foot and glanced in at the macabre contents. He must've stared at it for almost thirty seconds, the light in his eyes never changing, never once wincing or reeling like he was appalled.

"I made a mistake." Why did it have to take something like this to see it? Why was it always so awful? "I can't believe I did it again. I can't believe I was stupid enough to let you in here."

"Calm down." Emptiness sat behind those words, neither comforting or threatening. It was one of those things you'd probably do in a room by yourself.

Hinata had never seen you flare in anger, so he stayed away but never considered going anywhere near Tōji. You didn't like that he was standing in the open.

"Go to your room." Third time.

He cried. "No! I don't want to!"

"Hinata." You never took your eyes off Tōji, and he never took his eyes off you. "Go to your room."

"No!"

That was the final prod to send your temper cascading, ears burning the hottest you'd ever felt them, and that uneasy stillness within the apartment shook with the sound of your screams. "I said go to your room!"

He shrank and obeyed, feet pounding away on the wood floor to let you know he was going. A door slammed, reassuring you that the only people left in your living room were you and Tōji, an unequal standoff.

"That's a bit harsh, don't you think?" Tōji had shoved aside the box with the ear, standing a little closer to you than he had been before. This wouldn't have a fair outcome—he was twice your size and strength, what could you do? "He's just a kid. He didn't understand what he was looking at."

"You're explaining child psychology to me now? Don't act like you give a shit." you said, walking backward to keep the space. "I should've kicked you out, Tōji. I should've kicked you out when you told me it was a gunshot. I should've kicked you out when you said you were a hitman."

Tōji's pockets protruded, round with his thick hands moving around inside. "Yeah, you really should've. You didn't, though. We're all selfish sometimes."

"You could've left on your own," you continued, "you could've healed and walked right out and left us alone. There was never anything for you to gain by staying here."

"I needed a place to stay." he said, shrugging one arm to his ear and kept advancing on you. "I could come and go how I wanted. Could sleep when I wanted. Free meals. Free beer. Eventually, good sex. Why would I leave?"

It wasn't like you to cry anymore, not like how you used to when there were days getting out of bed was too laborious. A permanent indentation of your shape had molded into the mattress from how long you'd lay there sometimes, dried tears tight streaks on your skin while staring out that little window in your bedroom where Tōji liked to frequent to smoke out of.

Once Hinata came along and fed you cup noodles from the floor, that overflowing well behind sore red eyes suddenly sucked dry, and there was no time for you to wallow, no time for you to try to stop to remember why it had hurt so bad to begin with. You had a sweet, gentle soul who needed strength and reliability.

Something, in the end, you now understood you weren't able to give him because you had relented to Tōji, likened sex as the only way to have love reciprocated. Nothing had changed from the last man you loved to Tōji, except for your desperation making you turn a blind eye to everything he was, all the danger you were bringing into that boy's life.

How utterly, disgustingly selfish.

"You're crying?" Tōji's expression rearranged as though startled, possibly the only time you'd ever seen it. "Is it because of what I said? What if I told you it was only half true?"

Each tear that wetted your face felt like it was burning an imprint into your flesh. "It doesn't matter. I should've put you out the second you finished stitching yourself up."

"That would've been the smart way to go about it, yeah." He smiled, though not confidently. "You love me."

If he had said that to you an hour ago while you were on top of him, stifling moans while being fondled by his rough hands, you would've fallen apart and confessed everything. You would've been stupid enough to kiss him again and again, gasping through raspy breaths that you'd never loved any man more than him.

And that was every bit true even now.

"I do, Tōji, I really do." You wouldn't give the luxury of a shallow smile but rather a dour look with eyes glaring determination through him. "But, I love Hinata more. More than I ever could you. It's time for you to leave."

His head leaned a touch to the left, still unperturbed by it all. "You gonna be okay?"

It was an unexpected response, not one you had an easy time holding a stiff upper lip to. "For him, I'll find a way to be. Goodbye, Tōji."

Once you walked away, you didn't stop to check what his reaction was, if it had even changed at all. Somehow, you doubted he did much besides follow you with black eyes and a swiveling neck, and that was fine. You left no room for him to doubt you this time, no chance to believe that he was still welcome in your bed, your and Hinata's apartment, or your lives.

"I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have yelled at you." To be safe, you locked Hinata's door after you entered and pushed into the floor with your knees to sit on them. "You were scared. I was scared. People who are scared sometimes do things they shouldn't. It doesn't make it okay, but it happens."

His face was completely dry, a damp washcloth twisted in his fingers as he peered down at you from his bed. They were still watery and red, but the worst of his fear had passed. Now, you guessed, he just wasn't sure what was going to happen next.

"Where’s Tōji?" He didn't ask fearfully, more bewildered since you had accused him of the ear in the box earlier. "Is he a bad guy?"

The impulse was there to paint him as the villain of this story, an effortless way to weasel yourself back into Hinata's good graces because children generally understand things were either all good or all bad. However, your nephew wasn't like them and could gather some of those more nuanced things, though still with much less perceptibility.

He would believe you, but your words were not gospel to him. That's the way it should be.

"Tōji's gone. I told him it was time to go." you said. A couple hairs on his head had fallen into a strange arrangement. You wanted to reach out and move them but stopped yourself and sat still. "I love him, so I'm not sure if he's all a bad guy. Tōji lives a different kind of life from us. It’s not meant for us. He's not meant for us."

Hinata put his feet on the floor and came over to sit on your lap. You crossed your legs so he had a spot, fingers already at work on his head.

"But, you love him. Shouldn't he stay?" he asked kindly. You prayed to whatever existed out there in the universe that he'd lever lose that part of himself to cynicism or cruelty. "We keep people we love close, right?"

"Maybe"—you nuzzled him, forehead to forehead, feeling that hot pressure build behind your eyes again—"but I love you so much more, Hinata."

"You're not mad at me?" He asked so hopefully, so brittle that you had to inhale sharply through your nostrils. "I'm sorry if I made you mad because of the scissors or opening the box. I know you said not to touch them."

You let out a laugh equal parts pained and humored, arms coming up to tuck him against your chest, and just cradled him there. He was almost too big to fit against you like that now. "No, baby, I'm not mad at you. I couldn't be mad at you. I just still have a lot of work to do on myself."

His head shifted away from your chin so he could see your face. It was a relief to see him smiling. "You're doing a good job. I'm really proud of you."

It took you a good, long while to stop crying after he said that to you. He fit awkwardly in your arms. Soon, he wouldn't be able to sit like this with you, and, almost as close as that, he wouldn't want you to hold him at all. Teenagers were just that way, pretending to be too jaded to be loved.

"He really left." Hinata walked into the living room with you later on, hand holding yours, a needed comfort at that moment. "Do you think he'll try to come back?"

"Maybe," you said. The possibility wasn't zero. "If you see him, just tell me so I can run him off."

"Okay—" He noticed something on the coffee table a few feet away. "What's that?"

You approached it first, getting a good look before giving Hinata the chance to come up along your side to also see it. On the table in front of your eyes was a clip of ten thousand yen banknotes. Even folded up and clamped with a piece of smeared metal, you could tell that's what they were. They were that shade of light yellow-green that reminded you of vintage photographs from the sixties or seventies with much less yellow and no curled edges or water stains.

"Holy shit!" Hinata darted from your side to pick it up, removing the clip to count through them all, missing a piece of white scrap paper that fluttered off of it. "This is so much money!"

You glanced uncomfortably at him, unsure of whether that money was safe to touch given the only person whom it could've come from was Tōji. But why?

Hinata counted while you looked around the apartment as if taking it in for the first time. The most important thing was that the box with the roasted ear was gone, and your front door was locked with the spare key in the doorknob. A certain look about it was a blow to your chest, crushing your heart in a vise as the finality of what it meant settled over you.

Tōji really wasn't coming back.

It was odd knowing there'd be one less person to pad around the floor, open the refrigerator, or even flush the toilet. Tōji had come into your life with nothing but the clothes on his back and a bullet in his ribs, and he had left much the same way.

"Oh my god!" Hinata's heels drummed into the wood underfoot with glee. Next, the money was shoved in your face. It smelled brand new. "There's two million yen! That's so much money! We're rich!"

"Not quite." You didn't want to deflate his enthusiasm, but this was not something you wanted him boasting about outside these walls. "We should really turn it in to the police. We don't know where Tōji got it, or if it's real."

Hinata spun around to a window filtering in the golden glow from midmorning light. Pulling a banknote taut in his thumbs, he held it up and, sure enough, all three vertical watermark bars appeared. "It's real! We're so rich!"

"I don't believe it…" You looked at the ground after finding a chair to lean on. It was then that you saw the scrap paper below, torn from the corner of an envelope, you assumed, and picked it up. "Did this come off the clip, Hinata?"

He was on your arm, gawking at it. "Uh, I guess? I dunno. What's it say?"

You flipped it to the side with black scrawl on it, finding that you couldn't read it aloud because of a snag in your throat.

Hinata did it for you. "'For the cookie cutter fantasy.' What's that mean?"

It was all you could do not to cry again.

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No one ever said that raising a kid would leave you without time to spare forever. For you, that came much sooner than expected, and you hadn't been prepared for it to happen. Hinata was nine years old now, going through a growth spurt, and wanted more to do with after-school extracurriculars with his friends than he did sitting at home or exploring a new town with you.

It wasn't anything you blamed him for. You were old and grounded in reality, plodding through the monotony of adulthood and sticking to things you knew now instead of always reaching out for everything—everyone that was different. People liked to say that, to thrive, you needed variety and change in your life, that next big move to circumvent stagnancy.

The thing about it was that your life had been in such constant motion you never learned how to slow down until the brakes were put on for you and forced you to sit in the unpleasantness of yourself and things from the past until you saw the patterns, the behaviors, and the thinking that always kept the wheels spinning.

Now, you were just lonely and comfortable in an apartment that felt too big for you most days. Hinata was still home every night for dinner, waved groggily in the morning before heading out the door for school, and brought his friends around to play games—it just wasn't the same.

"You should get a boyfriend and stop working so much." he told you during a train ride home from the sea, Kanazawa in Ishikawa Prefecture, a nice weekend getaway to get some distance from an endlessly bustling town and the emptiness of the apartment. "Akio's dad is single. Maybe…"

"He's, like, ten years older than me!" You flicked him on the forehead. "What are you trying to say? I'm old? That I should get together with old men?"

"No! No!" Hinata laughed, leaning out of your reach. "I just feel bad because you're home by yourself a lot. It makes me sad that all you do is work."

There was no simple, cheerful way to tell him it was better than the alternative. To regress into old habits.

"That money isn't infinite, Hinata. It got us someplace nice, but it's my job to keep us in it." you said, briefly glancing at another passenger walking the narrow aisle closer to the front. "I take that seriously. I plan on keeping us ahead."

His chest collapsed with a sigh, feet touching the floor even when he sat back in his seat. You didn't think you'd ever get used to it, nor just how suddenly kids can grow. It was torturous to think that one day, sometime soon, there'd be another adult sitting across from you.

"Whatever, I guess." He looked at you like he had something else to say. You could anticipate what it was about. "Do you think Tōji is doing okay?"

It was inevitable that he'd be brought up when the money was mentioned. Life had improved thanks to him, and in that way you were grateful he had come into your lives. He took a piece of you with him when he left. Hopefully he knew that and treated his memories of you kindly rather than embittered.

"I don't really know, Hinata. It's been six months." Hardly any time had passed, yet the seasons had turned several times, and it felt like years of wear had settled into the knobs of your joints. "What do you think?"

He shrugged all the way to his ears, peering out into the aisle hearing squeaky wheels on a food trolley approach. "Probably good. Oh, can I get a taiyaki? Please? Pleeeeease?"

You smiled at him, opening your wallet for a couple of banknotes so he could pick a few things he wanted. It made you happy to do things for him that made him resonate with such joy.

A six hour train and forty-five-minute taxi ride later, you were handing off a duffle bag to Hinata to take on ahead up the stairs to the second floor where your apartment was. The fact that you had an easy climb up and down from your front door was probably one of the best perks of a new place, slightly second to a fully remodeled kitchen and bathroom.

You had your own bag in tow, plus a few totes with souvenirs and snacks from the sea that made some pretty ugly scuffing sounds, drowning out the echo of your footsteps on the stairs.

Hinata's voice came barreling down to you, incoherent at first but in that high-pitched intonation that kids usually had. "He's back!"

You didn't miss the urgency. "What?"

"The freeloader is back!"

Just then, your heart gave a jolt as if renewed with vigor, thrashing to escape its confines behind your ribs, hurting for all of the five seconds it took to trudge up the stairs with your baggage. You stopped breathing once you reached the next landing.

Tōji stood there in front of your door, a much shinier one with gleaming numbers that caught too much light from fluorescent bulbs descending from above. This was entirely familiar to you yet completely different all the same.

"Hey." His smile was a little bit off and looked so handsome on him, just like you remembered it. A plastic bag rustled at his side as he lifted it into view, bringing your and Hinata's eyes to it. "There's a place here in town that has good takoyaki. Want some?"

"Oh, yesssss!" Hinata snatched it from Tōji, ducking around his large body to wiggle a key in the doorknob and burst inside.

All had been forgiven. All was well to a nine-year-old boy that evening.

Tōji held a hand out horizontally at about waist height, then raised it a few inches higher. Puzzlement moved his face around.

"Did he get bigger?"

You could do nothing except nod. What was the right thing to do here? Run him off or scream for help? This wasn't the kind of place where people turned a blind eye to ruckus. It wasn't an affluent area, just another company concerned about appearances and meeting the standards of everything they stuck in a brochure. They touted a safe and quiet neighborhood.

Tōji looked comfortable in a black sweatsuit several sizes too big, fabric hanging off him in a way that was slouchy but not unattractive. His hands ballooned in the pockets, something else that hadn't changed about him.

When you found the courage to speak, you did so cautiously. "What are you doing here, Tōji?"

"Morimoto's dead, so I decided to take a vacation." He said it like it was the most obvious thing, gave a little shrug in the same way you'd tell someone a friend had gone off somewhere.

None of it made sense to you right away. That name had never made an appearance in any conversation. A few seconds later, you understood that whoever Morimoto had been, he was the one who shot Tōji all those months ago and delivered the burnt ear to your doorstep.

It didn't alleviate all of your anxieties, but the swell of it in your chest abated somewhat. Looking at Tōji now felt less of a daunting task and more of an unwanted interaction between an ex you'd had less than an amicable ending with.

"That doesn't answer my question." The bags on your shoulders were beginning to feel like lead pulling you down into the floor. This needed to end quickly. "Never mind, it doesn't matter. Just get out of here, Tōji."

"I need someplace to stay." he said.

You bristled. "No, you don't. You left two million yen sitting on my coffee table. Stop trying to make me look stupid."

Tōji shifted then, hands still burrowed deep in his pants as he curled his back slightly for a quick peek past the front door that Hinata neglected to shut. He wouldn't be able to gauge much of the inside from that view, but even that was too revealing for you.

"Looks nice. Is that what you used the money for?" His eyes were back on you, his form growing in size as he came closer. "I want to hear about it."

You wondered how much it would stroke his ego if you told him that his money had truly been what afforded you and Hinata this modicum of comfort. A part of you worried that he'd try to weaponize it, use it like ammunition to wedge his way back into your lives.

"It's comfortable. Hinata has a bigger room, and his friends come over to play games." You didn't think it was necessary to tell him anything. It was simply a courtesy. He had invested and wanted to know what that investment went to. "I actually have enough kitchen space for my pans; remember how they'd have to stack on top of the oven?"

His lips were dry, pulling up tight and pale with the easy sprawl of his smile. "Yeah, that was a pain in the ass."

"Do you remember how small the bathroom was at the old place? Your knees would basically touch the wall when you sat on the toilet," you continued, "It's double that size now. Not the biggest, but Hinata and I can brush our teeth at the same time now."

Tōji stood inches away, hip braced against the railing that was made of stainless steel and glowed under all the lights. It was always cold beneath your fingertips, worse in the wintertime.

He didn't seem to notice it, though. "What's the view like?"

"Not my favorite thing about the place, but there's a lot more light that comes in. The patio is pretty small, but I have a folding table out there and a couple chairs. I like to sit out there and drink coffee in the morning, beer at night."

You let the bags slide from your shoulders down the length of your arms. "There's not a lot to see from the second floor, but it's nice to people-watch, I guess."

"It sounds like you got that dream life after all." Tōji reached for the totes on your arm and took them onto the bulk of his. "Good for you. Good for Hinata."

Hearing him use your nephew's name so casually with a sort of softness you had never known from him sent ripples down your spine. It was hard to navigate yourself through the tempestuous storm of thinking of how much you'd missed him this entire time versus reasonably distrusting his intentions with flashbacks of everything that had happened playing like flickering reels of cinema in your head.

"Mind if I come in? That takoyaki was expensive." Tōji had the nylon shoulder strap of your duffel bag wrapped in his hand now. He wouldn't be giving it back.

You told him he could.

The real answer was much more nebulous and complex, filled with uncertainty and waning courage and exhaustion from a life that had just never gone according to plan.

Tōji didn't go inside immediately, instead turning to block it with his body and the bags. You were just now taking notice of a dimming red scar over the corner of his lips, maybe from a knife of some kind. It was new enough to still have color, old enough to be completely healed.

"Ah, I almost forgot. I want you and Hinata to meet Megumi." he said, giving his temple a tap with two fingers. "Should be soon, I think."

"Wait. Who?"

Tōji guided you inside with a hand on your back, door clicking shut after him.

"My son. His name is Megumi."

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a/n: alrighty, story notes time:

this was a challenging piece for me for a lot of reasons. the biggest was probably including a child character and giving him actual significance to the storyline. I've written kids in the past, but usually only in passing or very briefly. arguably, most of mc's personal growth came from wanting to give their nephew a better life, but I also believe that hinata becomes somewhat of a coping mechanism for mc. sort of, like, mc drops one bad habit (bad men) for another (obsessed and worried about hinata's wellbeing).

my idea for tōji in this one-shot was keeping some canon elements (forgetting about megumi and his name), but also diverting quite a bit (e.g. megumi's mom is alive and well; tsumiki and her mother are a part of his past, but there's no current involvement with them. the scar on his lip resulting from morimoto and not something earlier on in his life.

I left the ending a bit ambiguous and slightly concerning bc I really wanted to drive home that progress and change are not linear. I think, for a character like mc with their history, being able to think more critically about the decisions they make vs acting impulsively as they had in the past is growth. it's all very nebulous and uncomfortable bc the ending doesn't imply something overly good, or overly bad. it sits in the middle where you know it could feasibly just turn back into a cycle, or it could be a chance at something better.

the door clicking closed could be as damning as a funeral bell, could be as hopeful as church bells during a wedding. it's up to you.

there are, obviously, some morals and ethics that go into this, namely the idea mc should let tōji around at all because of what he does—despite him never once causing (physical) harm to mc or hinata. could even be debated that the money he left for them was a way to keep his foot wedged in the door to get back in when he thought it'd be a good time, that may be giving too much credit to tōji tho lmao.

if y'all enjoyed this tho, please consider reblogging it so it gets around!!!❤️

#toji fushiguro #toji x reader #toji x you #jjk toji #toji smut #toji fushiguro x reader #toji fushiguro x you #toji fushiguro x y/n #jjk x you #jjk imagines #jjk x reader #jjk x y/n #jjk #jujutsu kaisen imagines #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu toji #2k write

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