#....get it... because it's... a charity ball..........

You attend the same private academy he does. He tried not to care too much at first; you were just among the few others lucky enough to have the kind of intelligence eyed by his father's company. But that was the thing—you didn't. You were ordinary.

He wondered if his father made a mistake, choosing to sponsor some no-use nobody. Maybe you were a coal in the rough yet to be a diamond. But weeks into the first year of senior high and you showed no signs of blooming. Hell, you even placed at the bottom list in academic standing. You didn't fail; everyone else were just children of the wealthy who afforded private tutors. Maybe an appropriate scholar would have caught up just fine, but you weren't one.

yandere!bully who decides to approach you, frustrated with your mediocrity. Who is he kidding? He doesn't give two shits if his father made a mistake, he was fascinated with your mediocrity. Greatness no longer intrigues him, having been surrounded with it all his life.

Wow, is this a joke? You really aren't good at anything. Not at math, science, Latin, nada. You just do enough to get by.

He speaks to you about it, about that mediocrity. You interpret it as a threat. You can't lose this scholarship now, you just got it. You beg for his mercy that you may continue studying in this prestigious academy. The whole "I'll do anything!" "anything?" conversation ensues. Now he's got you in the palm of his hand.

yandere!bully who starts it small. Makes you his little errand puppy. To him you were like a little dog running around doing what he makes you do. It can't even be called bullying, everyone else interprets it as acts of gratitude for his father granted the scholarship to you.

But then it escalates. Soon he's making you do things that you hesitate to do. Sneaking into faculty to take a picture of the test answer sheet. Smuggling a bag of "stuff" in school (you aren't dumb, you know what these rich kids got their hands on). Forcing you to skip a day of school so you can be his little errand pup while he did golf, playing truant with his friends.

One time you're asked to kneel before him, right between his knees. You ask why. He tells you not to question him. He only wants to see you that way. He watches you for a moment, unfazed, before telling you to stand back up.

Enter his friends, and things turn for the worse. It's like they've been itching their whole lives to get their hands on a human being to torment. They've got their butlers and maids but they're paid workers; you aren't. Clearly, yandere!bully is dangling this scholarship thing above your head like a golden apple. It's enough to keep you in your place, make you go against your own survival instinct to retaliate against a threat. They can do things to you and not suffer the consequences, and they intend to take full advantage of it.

It starts small, too, this torment by his inner circle, but soon it evolves more than just carrying their shopping bags or retrieving the tennis ball whenever they go play.

Soon they laugh when one of them extends a foot to trip you. They steal the math homework you worked hard on even though they've already completed theirs courtesy of their private tutors. Pour water over your head, pinch your skin for fun with their filed, polished nails.

They heard him call you "errand puppy" once, so they had a collar custom-made with his name on it next to the phrase property of, its buckle 18k gold, leather lined on the edge with lab-grown diamonds. Then they made you drink milk like a mutt out of the cafeteria's metal tray.

The boys cornered you in the locker room once, made you pull down your bottoms. You were crying while they took pictures of your underwear, wet snotty face too. They shared it to the girls and it circulated within their friend group for a while. The next time that those specific guys encountered you, though, they seemed to hold back from picking on you. No one ever made a comment about that incident, not about the photos, the crying, the cheap underwear, and they grew quieter when yandere!bully entered the room.

With his friends it's always physically violent; never with him. You would argue, though, that he is the cruelest. Because he's got the power to make them stop and he chooses not to. He just watches. You gather that he likes watching you a lot.

yandere!bully plays soccer; he's a varsity player of your academy. Every after training you're tasked to carry his school and sports bag back to his luxury sedan which he drives to and from campus. Tonight he makes you stand in front of the goal net. His friends are lined up some meters before you, having gathered all the soccer balls the academy owns.

You're nervous. You know what's about to happen and you should run, but you don't, because you think the scholarship is worth all this.

"Don't let them score and I'll extend your scholarship to college," is all the warning you get.

You're hit everywhere. The arms, shoulders legs, torso—everything hurts. One ball after the other to your head, and you feel dizzy. Of course, you try defending yourself; you yell at them to stop, that it hurts, and all you get is: "don't you want that scholarship?"

What made you cease is the blow to your chest. It's a strong hit, delivering a pain so hot you think it shifted your ribs, and you cough and wheeze and they're still throwing balls at you until your form is thrashing on the grass like fish on land.

Your head feels so hot and prickly from the lack of air, you're sure it's bound to explode. Black spots your vision and you literally can't breathe but all you can think of is: did I get that scholarship?

You're hospitalized that night. Bandages on all limbs, tapes to hold the cuts produced from the skin being hit too hard. Nasal cannula around your face.

You wake up slowly. There's a mildly comforting heat on your bandaged hand that vanishes the moment you open your eyes. yandere!bully is seated by your bed, watching you as always.

His hand touches your face. He murmurs something, but it's muffled by the bandages wrapped around your head, ears included. Then his thumb tenderly brushes over your busted lip.

Finally, he leaves the room, and you're left to stare at the ceiling.

Upon discharge, you don't hear anything about dues from the hospital—a big relief for you. No warnings from the academy either for having missed a week of school. You speculate he's got something to do with it for the sake of reputation. No one is supposed to know that the son of the chairman of such a conglomerate beat its scholar to death's door.

School is different after the incident. You're no longer abused as much by his peers, although you still do their various errands. He still makes you do naughty stuff, like skipping classes when he feels like it. Only this time it seems only he's around to do errands for.

These errands are different now, too. It's not the typical labor-heavy tasks like before, fetching for his tennis ball or carrying his bags. You're more like an actual pet puppy at this point; he just brings you around wherever he goes. Almost like he has to keep an eye on you at all times.

yandere!bully who finds himself missing you during the summer. Everyone left for their own respective vacations, out of the country to Maldives or Monaco or Switzerland or whatever. You're back with your relatives in that quaint little downtown neighborhood of yours. He would know, having hired private investigators to stalk your ass. He is going with his family to the countryside estate.

Father, mother, eldest sister, older brother. He's the youngest. It's a quiet family. Sister grew up just to be like father, cold and austere. It seems he's on the way to becoming just like that, too. Only brother inherited mother's benevolence.

Father doesn't care about anyone and anything but mother. yandere!bully only ever talks to Father whenever it's necessary. Otherwise, both of them are content minding one's own business.

yandere!bully asks Father about you. As he suspected, Father makes no mistake. He says you were really meant for the scholarship.

"I had a feeling," Father says, "that you two would make very good friends."

yandere!bully who's touchier now, second and final year of senior high. Or he's become touchy, since he never was back then. He drags you by your wrist at short distances, a palm on your nape whenever he tells you to look at something. A hand on your lower back, sliding dangerously low every time before letting go. He also often fixes your collar, fingers always ending up brushing your neck.

He tells you to strip one time at some high-end clothing store. You stare at him, dumbfounded, before he gives some silly excuse that it's for a cousin with your same build.

He makes you try on different outfits. At first it's various tops and bottoms that complement your shape, colors that go well with your skin tone, all the like. You glance at yourself in the mirror and wonder if this is how you look born into that top 1%. You look nice.

Then he makes you strip back to your underwear, and lets you try on the white [dress/blazer]. There's a moment of silence before he tells you to come over to him, and he stands up, towering over you with his gifted height.

He looks down at you, seemingly lost in thought, like he's visualizing you in a certain light...

"Do you like it?" He asks.

You tell him that you think his cousin will. His expression is undisturbed, but he exhales almost like a huff. Quite suddenly he grabs you by the waist, thumb gliding circles.

"I asked if you like it."

You stutter out a pathetic 'yes.' Honestly you don't give a damn but you fear his negative reaction your comment. Although if you had to, you'd say it's a bit too fancy for your liking.

He only hums before letting you go. You proceed to wear the next attire.

You shiver to think about how he views this certain cousin of his, having you wear a bunch of skimpy outfits. Some that showed your stomach too much, others exposing your legs. One top you're pretty sure can rival a tape going around your chest area, covering only what needs to be covered. He stays aloof the whole time, jaded eyes planted on you.

After that, things start to get kind of disgusting.

The touchiness escalates tenfold, and he isn't as insecure about it as you are, showing off to his friends. It's like the roles have switched: now he's the physical one instead of them. You're still a slave to their torment, of course, but only he gets to touch you like this. His friends don't find anything odd about it, in fact they look as if they enjoy your discomfort. They egg him on.

yandere!bully who brings you with him to a speakeasy, exclusive only for students of this certain private members club. The top one percent of the top one percent, they would say. It's like a den of iniquities, these kids doing all sorts of nefarious stuff: drugs, dealings, gambling, and most dreadful of all: whores.

Man or woman, they aren't obvious. You only know because they're distinguishable from the rich clients of the club who dress minimalistic. You suppose a more professional term for these people are escorts. They're conversing animatedly with their young clients, some linking their arms with them, a few already making their way to private rooms.

yandere!bully sits on the loveseat across his peer who's got two escorts in his arms. You only stand behind him, listening in on their conversation. Something about stocks and real estate. Networking. If he knew this, what he thinks about that.

You drone their voices out. The smell of weed is getting to you, making you feel all woozy.

yandere!bully tells you to sit on his lap. Dumbed down by the smoke, you comply a little too easily, like the puppy you are. His peer whistles lowly, eyeing you with a predatory glint.

He doesn't do anything about it because he knows they all can only afford to look. The truth is you belong to him, and only he gets to touch you this way, his hand now shamelessly gliding down your rear while you stay pliant. As long as you're after that scholarship, you belong to him.

He shifts you on his lap, his mouth feeling dry as he feels you press against him. You're really just asking for it, aren't you?

yandere!bully: he finds you in the library, when everyone else is in the school gym for graduation practice. This serves as your only safe haven from him, from his friends, from this whole aquarium filled with predatory fish. Oftentimes it feels like you're the only herbivore out there. The library happens to be the oldest part of this castle-turned-campus, which means: no CCTVs.

You scream when he pins you against the table, cut off halfway when he slams a palm on your mouth. The other hand encases both your wrists in one secure grip as his leg forces your knees apart, and he starts grinding against you like a dog in heat.

His eyes are half-lidded as he's watching you with his mouth parted, a sick grin forming. He thinks it's hot when you cry, if he knew this before he would have done better to get you to cry more often.

"Dumb puppy," he sneers, "dumb little errand pup, you're no good for anything at all, aren't you? Only at following your master and fetching balls."

Your panic discourages you from registering all the painful words he's saying, the names he's calling you. You try your best to escape his coil that only seems to get tighter the more you move like a boa constrictor. Arousal seems to give him inhumane strength.

Having had enough, he lifts you up momentarily, before slamming your back against the table, hard.

"Stop fucking moving, you stupid mutt!"

That does indeed get you to stop fucking moving. You even stop trying to scream, and stop... breathing? He pauses his ministrations and looks down at you. You're staring back at him, eyes wide, lips trembling. Then you start convulsing for air.

He doesn't know what to do, and for the first time in his life of luxury and wealth he's genuinely terrified. He's always seen you suffering, but this time, this time you're suffering and he can't put a stop to it. He can't control it.

You're grasping the sleeves of his uniform, still spasming. He gets the hint and aids you in sitting back upright on the table. He already has half the mind to pull out his phone and call emergency, but you're already breathing fine, trying to catch your breath.

Your hand moves to deeply rub the center of your chest.

Shit.

Was this... was this the soccer injury? Haven't you already recovered from that? The doctors said you'd heal eventually. The cuts, the deep bruises. Did you turn out to have an unattended rib fracture? Is this... chronic?

It's been almost a year since that incident.

Have you always had this pain, and kept it to yourself?

He's never felt this level of trepidation consume him, shaking him to the core. His heart is in his stomach as he looks at you, really looks at you, and sees the damaged he's done. You're tired. You're scared. You're miserable.

You are readmitted to the the same high-end hospital not long after. This time you're scheduled for surgery. He covers all the expenses, makes sure to get the best of the best of surgeons out there. You don't really have a say in the matter, you're not dumb enough to refuse such an offer just for the sake of your dignity. What left of it is there, anyway?

Father visits him during that period, noting the considerable dent in his son's bank account for that big of a purchase. He meets Father shortly after freshening up, having vomited at the thought of your broken countenance.

yandere!bully tells him everything except the attempted assault. Father only sits and listens, unnervingly silent, like he understands. It's the first time he's ever opened up to his dad. To his surprise, Father does not disappoint.

Likewise, Father also tells him everything. How, in this family, there is the tendency for some members to manifest passionate emotions in various ways. They feel so little they end up feeling so much for very specific things... sometimes persons. And they tend to be violent with it.

You were meant to be the recipient of this violence. Your father owed his father a great deal of debt, and so you were basically sold off, your purpose for him hidden under the ruse of scholarship. Not that you knew.

It all makes sense now, Father's devotion to Mother, and her aversion from him. His sister's fierce attachment to this one specific guy who also just so happens to be a scholar of the company. His feelings for you which he can't seem to make amends with.

"Once you find that someone," Father says, "you sink your claws into them and never let go, even when they bleed."

You're back to school in two weeks. Like back then, you didn't receive any disciplinary actions for your absence. You try not to wonder how you manage to keep your place as a scholar in this prestigious academy despite all the missed assignments on top of your already mediocre grades.

yandere!bully avoids you like the plague, and so do his friends. It seems everything went back to how it once was, how it was supposed to be. Everyone here ostracizes you for your socio-economic standing but it doesn't bother you at all, not when you prefer this over the active bullying.

The next time he interacts with you, it's already graduation. You're wearing the appropriate formal attire under your graduation robes, which you can guess is the cheapest out of everything in this venue where the school-sponsored grad party is being held. There's an afterparty held at some penthouse bar after this, hosted by one of yandere!bully's friends, but you aren't invited.

You exit the venue to begin the 20-minute walk back to your dorm, but someone stops you.

His hand is on your wrist. You get unpleasant flashbacks, but you keep it to yourself. He asks how you're doing, you say you're just fine.

He then asks if you want to celebrate this milestone.

No, you don't. Not with him. But you're not about to lose your diploma when you just got it.

So now you are in his Porsche and he's driving you both to one of his many family estates. It's smaller than most, he describes.

According to him at least. The whole thing is the size of your entire neighborhood. It's a long driveway before he even gets to arrive at the actual building. He parks right in front of the manor.

Inside, you're invited to have dinner with him. It's only the two of you in this large dining hall, where you're seated adjacent to him at the end of the grand table. But the selection of food nearly reaches down to half the long table, as if he had the chef cook every food that could possibly be your favorite.

Still, you end up eating light. He offers you to choose the brand of wine but you refuse, saying that it hasn't been long enough since your operation. A pause, before he nods, instead picking the wine himself.

Instead of alcohol you're served apple juice. It's freshly squeezed, you could tell by the bitter aftertaste.

Glass in hand, he leads you out of the manor and to the rose garden, where you can see the stars so clearly due to the lack of light pollution thanks to the vastness of his estate. There's a small pavilion housing a large couch. He leads you toward it, makes you sit.

You feel yourself deflate instantly on the cushion, exhausted from having your guard up around him at all times. If he noticed he didn't comment a thing about it. He's on his third glass and you're currently nursing the first glass of apple juice you're nearly finished with, when he calls out your name.

"Congratulations."

You congratulate him, too, since he also graduated.

He downs the rest of his wine in one go, sets it on the side table. Then he steps closer to you, fueled with liquid courage, sinking into the space next to you.

You try to sit up and scoot over. You can't.

"I was afraid for a moment," he starts, "that you wouldn't accept my invitation."

Afraid? He put you through hell, and only now has the gall to hesitate on you? A pit begins to form on your stomach.

He turns to you, taking your glass out of your hand and setting it down the ground, before holding that same hand with his own warmer one. He inches closer. You can't move.

You ask, "Would you have forced me to come anyway?"

He smiles at that. "You wouldn't have said no."

He's now hovering over you on the couch, same standoffish eyes tracing your face, your eyes, nose, settling on your mouth. You see his Adam's apple bob up and down.

He has so much to say to you. You look so pretty right now, basked in the moonlight, not fighting him. He's sorry for all the rough treatment, for hurting you and making you cry. He swears it's just his feelings for you manifested in the wrong manner. But now he knows, after his father explained everything it all makes sense. He's just in love with you.

yandere!bully kisses your trembling lips, tenderly. You try to fight it off but it's no use; you realized too late that he's done something to your drink. You're sobbing when he parts from you, terror and anger evident in your eyes. When he begins to pull off your clothes, he speaks.

"I would never do anything to hurt you." Your stomach churns in resentment. "Never again."

He kisses the column of your neck down to your chest, your surgical scars, where his lips stay longer. When he feels you're sort of hyperventilating, he rises and cups your cheek.

"Breathe. Breathe," he says your name. "Okay? Relax. I've got you. I promise I'll take care of you. You just have to breathe."

He rubs your chest. His own aches just at the thought of your distress. It's his fault you ended up like this, so he intends to make up for it for the rest of your lives.

He makes love to you that night. As promised, he did take care of you. It doesn't hurt when he slides it in, having poured a generous amount of lube all you feel is the pressure instead of the sting of his very well-endowed member intruding you. He's got a way with his hands, too, stimulating all the right parts just enough to get you unfolding beneath him within an hour. He would have done it within minutes but he took his sweet time just to get you so wet and ready for him.

He's so damn gentle with you like he was your lover for the last two years and not your bully. Of course, to you this wasn't 'making love.' For the most part you were delirious both from the drink and his expert ministrations, and are only hit with the the graveness of your reality when he finally spills his essence into you. His body quivers, and right then he pulls you for a deep, tongue-heavy kiss. When he pulls away, he mutters something in his frenzy: "I love you."

yandere!bully doesn't bother you after that. When he wakes up on that couch in the pavilion you're already gone. You left in a rush. A butler drove you off back outside of the estate, having received no orders to make you stay.

You've graduated. Your credentials will surely spark competition among universities for you, being a graduate from one of the most prestigious academies in the world. Still, you ask yourself if it was all worth it.

You aren't the same after those two years. You feel as if you've lost all purpose in life after that night. Like something valuable was stolen from you, and could never be returned. You don't want to keep going.

But reality will always dictate what you do. You can't afford to be like this because you're poor. Mental health doesn't exist to the poor, your father would insist. You've got bills to pay, mouths to feed. And you may be mediocre, but you're not dumb enough to seek justice against someone as powerful as your bully. You don't even have the money for that.

So you went on despite grievances to the next stage of your life: college. Countless scholarships from different sponsors. The same conglomerate that covered your senior high scholarship is offering you another full ride—living arrangements and all—to the country's number one university.

You refuse the offer this time. A thousand scholarships from that conglomerate isn't enough to repair the damage that's been done. Besides, you never want to encounter anything associated with him ever again.

Instead you accept to be sponsored by a different company; a smaller one (at least in comparison), but they covered your tuition of four years in the same prestigious university. Sure, no living arrangements, but that's more than what most sponsors give.

You enter the CEO's office, having been invited so she can get to know you more. There are two individuals in the room. She, and...

Your heart drops to your stomach.

The CEO introduces him to you, although there is no need for that. He's standing there in a tux, hair slicked back, jaded eyes glinting with mirth at the sight of you. It seems he's grown taller in the few months you haven't seen each other.

Apparently his dad's conglomerate is the parent company. How could you be so stupid?

Madame CEO excuses herself to take an important call, leaving you alone with him. He doesn't hesitate to walk closer, smiling as fondly as his austere face can manage.

"I missed you." He speaks, voice full of yearning. He takes your hand in his. "How are you after our shared night? Why did you leave so suddenly? Don't do that again, love."

Ripping your hand away, you asked why he was here. If he knew and orchestrated to have you accept this scholarship.

"I don't break my promises. I'd hate to start with you." He explains.

You demanded what he meant by that. He doesn't hide the fact that he's enjoying your turmoil, but you can't even find it in yourself to get it together this time.

"No one scored that night." He shrugs. "They were all so focused on hitting you."

...what?

"I promised you your college scholarship, remember?"

yandere!bully who follows you all the way to college.

Ursula had decided to throw a ball for her birthday. As much as she didn’t enjoy event planning, she had been invited to a birthday ball by her most notorious social rival last month. And when it was a success, she had been unfortunately socially condemned to host one of her own. Ursula had come up with the brilliant idea to have a silent auction and donate the money to charity, effectively one-upping her rival by putting on the mask of benevolence. You could tell that Ursula had surpassed the standard because of the tight smile on the rival’s face, pretending to be polite. 

The months since the polo game had been busy. You had been left alone in the house quite often. Between Ursula’s planning for the ball and Titus’ planning for his private hunt, your duties as lady of the house became more needed. The twins were out of the house, managing their own priorities and business dealings, which left you with non-urgent meetings with the attorneys or maintenance people. Of course, you were Titus’ wife, but it’s not like you knew the inner workings of all his business affairs. And that was on purpose. Titus didn’t want you to stress yourself out worrying about expense reports. So most of your meetings involved them asking you questions you didn’t know the answers to, and then connecting them with Titus’ secretary to make sure they scheduled a meeting with him. Not a difficult job, but tedious. And as the weeks went on, you grew more and more excited for the twins’ birthday. Primarily to celebrate them, yes, but also so that they would rescue you from the purgatory of waking up, putting on a smile, and apologizing for their absences. 

It wasn’t just the busy schedule that irked you. Titus hadn’t been with you in so long. Truly been with you. Sure, you both had dropped to your knees for each other on a few occasions, fingered you on the car ride home from lunch. But he hadn’t been inside you for over a month. Titus didn’t do quickies. In the heat of the moment, sure, they had happened. But if he was going to fuck you, he was going to take his sweet time with you. Worship you and tend to your every need, sometimes for hours on end. And neither of you had overlapping schedules long enough for it to happen. He’d be in meetings all day, leaving before you got up and coming back after you had dozed off for the night. Titus was so busy with work and with personal stuff that he just wanted to sleep as soon as he came home. Which was fine, you knew how much he had on his plate. But it caused tension between the two of you. You wanted him to touch you. You could tell it was killing him, but he upheld his standard. ‘Want to so bad, honey,’ he would say, tongue running along the seam of your mouth ‘But I can’t give you what you deserve right now.’ The moment the birthday festivities had concluded and your life could go back to normal, you would be pouncing on your husband like a cat in heat. And you looked forward to it.

The day had finally arrived. December 29th. There was a crispness to the air. It wasn’t really warm, and there were some patches of snow on the ground, but the majority of the winter so far had been rainy and mild. Thankfully, the rain had paused for an evening, but moonlight still struggled to break through the thick blanket of clouds that nestled in the sky. The windows of the ballroom were uncovered, heavy drapes pulled back, but no light came through them. They reflected the glint of the chandeliers and wall sconces that illuminated the room. In your opinion, it only added to the atmosphere. A perfectly dark ball. The gilded ceiling had panels of dark blue scattered among the gold and the floor was checkered with light and dark triangles. The empty room itself was a sight to behold, but Ursula had truly outdone herself with the decorations. Silk hung from the ceiling, creating aerial drapes that conjured up images of setting sunlight streaming through puffy white clouds. Red and black paper lanterns poked through the gaps. A perfect match to the centerpieces: engraved black goblets filled with red roses and burgundy dahlias atop lace navy blue table runners. Dinner had been cleared from the long tables flanking the walls of the ballroom, and most people were either conversing by the bar or swaying to the classical music that filled the room. Only the best band for the Danforth twins’ birthday, each player having first chair at the orchestra. 

Speaking of, you hadn’t seen the twins since dinner. Titus had barely finished chewing the last bite of his steak when Ursula rose and excused herself, tugging him along by the elbow. Ursula had mentioned something about freshening up. You figured Ursula had a secondary dress for the evening and was planning some grand entrance. As usual, you were correct.

You stood at one of the cocktail tables at the edge of the dancefloor, letting the noise of the night wash over you as you people watched. You swirled your cocktail in its glass before raising it to your lips and taking a sip. It truly was a beautiful evening. You had nice conversations with many of the attendees. Some you knew from past…festivities, some were business partners, some political connections. Overall it seemed normal. Like you were part of any old wealthy family in the world. You fiddled with your wedding ring and played with the way it reflected the light from the chandeliers onto the white tablecloth. It was a nice night, but it wasn’t over yet. Titus still had his hunt that he had planned, and as he grew more excited by the day, so did you. He had managed to keep most of the details hidden from you. All you knew was that, at some point in the night, he would ask you to meet him outside and your private hunt would start. You didn’t know what the hunt was, who the prey was, or anything beyond the fact that it simply existed as a concept. But you were so excited! Titus had invited you after all, and that made you happy.

The band quieted and the conversations lulled. All of the attention was focused on the main doors to the ballroom. A smirk tugged at your lips and you took another sip of your drink. Grand entrance indeed. Ursula had changed into a dress that took the entire room’s breath away, including yours. She stood in the doorway, hair perfectly pinned up, a wide smile on her face, and chest puffed out slightly with pride. The dress was black, a sheer section exposing the underside of her breasts and stomach. Teardrop diamonds were sewn into midline, crawling up her navel and chest before splitting into a necklace that held the entire gown up. A silk shawl, closely resembling a cape, was draped over her shoulders, cascading down her body and pooling at her feet. Her hands were clad in simple black gloves and clasped in front of her. Everyone was looking at her. Oh, and Titus was there, too. But he hadn’t changed, still dressed in his three-piece suit with red embellishments and ascot. Handsome, no doubt, but Ursula stole the show. Titus’ eyes were downcast slightly, fists clenched at his sides, probably peeved at the attention he was not receiving. 

“Friends,” Ursula’s cheery voice broke the spell of quiet admiration that had settled over the crowd. “Thank you so much for joining us on this very special night. The silent auction is still open, down the hall and in the room to your left.” She gestured behind her with her hand. “We have some excellent lots that have been so generously donated for a good cause. I trust that you all enjoyed dinner. Please, let us take advantage of the bar and good music. I hope to see you all out on the dance floor.” She nodded to the band, who began to play again. Ursula merged with the crowd, several women gushing with thinly veiled jealousy at the extravagance of her outfit. Custom made. You stayed put, watching as Titus weaved through the crowd and made his way towards you. 

“Wow,” you grinned as he stepped up beside you. He sighed and rested his weight against his elbow on the table, interlocking his fingers and shaking his head.

“Don’t let her fool you,” he scoffed, signaling for a caterer to get him a drink. “We’ve been waiting outside that door for ten minutes waiting for the right moment for her to walk in so ‘the light catches the diamonds perfectly.’ Give me a break.” He pouted his lip as he mimicked his sister’s inflection. The waiter presented a tray with a glass of bourbon. Titus took it gratefully. “Anything interesting happen while I was gone?” He tried to downplay his curiosity and you rolled your eyes. You knew him better than that. Titus was a terrible gossip. Never partaking himself, of course. But it was your job to find out all the juicy details and report back to him. Titus had sputtered about it when you confronted him, saying that it was good to know everyone’s dirty laundry, just in case. But you knew he just liked the drama. You finished your cocktail and swiped a stray droplet of the liquid from the corner of your mouth. You leaned closer to him, gesturing slightly with your head to a man who was laughing with the governor. 

“Mr. Robinson got his mistress pregnant,” You whispered, plucking a hair from Titus’ jacket. He furrowed his brow and gave you a side glance.

“His secretary?” He murmured “I thought we knew that.” Your grin grew wider, more devilish.

“And his CFO.” Titus’ eyebrows shot up. 

“Both of them?” He hissed. You squeezed his forearm to tell him to be quiet. Mr. Robinson’s attention shifted to the pair of you and Titus simply raised his glass to him. Mr. Robinson nodded in greeting and returned back to his conversation. “What an asshole.”

“Extremely,” you agreed. “Worst part is the CFO’s husband thinks it’s his. She’s not even going to try and make Robinson sign anything.” Titus hummed and took a sip of his bourbon, sucking on his teeth when he swallowed.

“Poor bastard.” You nodded.

“Oh and-” You were interrupted by the first note of a song you knew by heart. It was the waltz that played at your wedding. You gasped and clutched Titus again. He smirked and held out his hand. You blinked at him. 

“I made sure to personally request this song. Just for you,” He said, nodding to the dance floor. “May I have this dance?”

“You don’t dance.” But you placed your hand in his anyway.

“Only with my wife,” he corrected, “and only on my birthday.” Titus guided you to the dance floor, bowing and tucking you against him as the waltz began. The Danforths, like any well-bred family, had been classically trained in ballroom dancing. A skill that Titus tried to hide, even though he excelled at it. The pair of you glided around the dance floor with a precision that only came from decades of practice. He spun you away from him before pulling you back close, hand firmly placed on your waist. You allowed his hip to push you back and forth, following his steps as you felt the music settle in your chest. You leaped into the air when he picked you up, spun when he twisted you around, and all the while you looked at him. You noticed how, in the light of the ballroom, you could still see wisps of auburn in his greying curls. A color that you thought had faded. You noticed that the brown ring around his pupils had expanded further into his blue irises compared to a few years ago. That the freckles on his face were starting to mix with the wrinkles around his eyes. Wrinkles that you loved to kiss to wake him up. That crinkled when you told a bad joke and he was trying not to laugh. Fondness swelled in your heart. You loved Titus. And you loved seeing him like this. Your own personal version of him that no one else had access to. Ruthless to the world, a beautiful work of art to you. Titus seemed to notice your staring.

“What are you smiling about?” He asked, the corner of his mouth twitching in amusement.

“You,” you confessed, “You look so handsome. ‘n I love you.” A pink flush began to creep up into his cheeks and he looked away, a little bashful. Your praises always did that to him. He spun you again. “Are you enjoying your party?” He tilted his head back, considering the question and looking down at you over his nose.

“S’alright,” Titus shrugged, hand on your back slowly dipping lower until his pinky brushed the top of your ass. “I haven’t got my present yet.” 

“I gave it to you this morning?” You said it as a question, but your eyes flicked to his arm. The watch was there, the golden band wrapping around his wrist. In the center of the clock hands was a red quartz, formed with a crystalized drop of your blood. You had given it to him as a symbol of devotion. He would always have a piece of you with him. You thought it was clever. Titus, obviously, loved it, covering your face in kisses and declaring he would never take it off. 

“Not that kind of present,” his lips curled into a smirk as confusion twisted your face. Before you could ask a follow up question, the music came to an end. Titus bowed ceremoniously and pulled you close again. 

“Just the one dance?”

“Don’t push your luck,” he hummed, leaning in. “Meet me on the East lawn in ten minutes. By the treeline.” He whispered into your ear, breath tickling the skin of your exposed neck. He leaned back just enough to press a long kiss to your cheekbone, right below your eye, before stepping back and fading into the crowd. 

Nervousness crept into your abdomen. Alright. It was time. You felt a bit of performance anxiety. Titus had spent countless hours planning this. You wanted it to be good for him, and you hoped that, despite your unpreparedness, you could give him a good show. You chewed the inside of your cheek and pressed your sweaty hands together, waiting a few moments before slipping out of the ballroom and into the cool night air.

ˋ°•*⁀➷

You clutched your arms close to your chest. It wasn’t cold outside, but the nerves and the slight breeze made you shiver. The moon was trying to peek out from behind the clouds and it caused a strange strobe-like illumination of the East lawn. You stood at the edge of the woods as Titus had told you to. Chirping frogs sang to you in the night air. You looked over your shoulder back to the house higher up on the sloped lawn, able to see into the large ballroom windows. The party was still going strong. Surely someone would notice Titus’ absence. It was his party, too. But then again, maybe not, it was a well-known fact that Ursula was the more amicable of the two. Titus was the spare Danforth twin when it came to social events, and honestly in general. The only reason he managed his own accounts with the estate was because Ursula settled to give them to him. A placating reward so he wouldn’t cause the entire family to crash and burn with his…tendencies. 

A shadowy figure caught your eye. It descended the stairs of the ballroom patio and onto the lawn. It held something over its shoulder. You knew it was Titus as soon as you saw the way he walked. Slightly arrogant, like he owned the place- which he technically did. He crossed the lawn and gave a little smile when he saw you waiting there. Waiting just for him. So obedient of you.

“Sorry I’m a bit late,” he apologized, which caused you to quirk an eyebrow. Titus never apologized for something as trivial as running on his own schedule. You could see flickers of anticipatory nervousness in his facial expressions. That explained it. And it made you feel better knowing he was also a bit anxious for the activities ahead. You realized he was carrying a hanger and he swung the covered dress over his shoulder, presenting it to you in his hands. You spared a cautious glance at him as your fingers slid the zipper down. Titus had a predatory glint in his eyes and a grin that told you he was much too proud of himself for whatever this was. You opened the dress cover and gasped at the sight. The dress was white, with a lacey bodice and flowing white skirt.

“Titus,” Your gaze snapped to his “is this-”

“Your wedding dress?” He finished “Technically, no. It’s a replica. I know how sentimental you get and I know you’d never forgive me if I ruined the real one, so...”

“Smart man,” you hummed. You ran your fingers over it. “Wait what…what’re you gonna do with it?”

“You’re going to wear it,” Titus said slowly. Condescendingly. “That’s typically what you do with a dress.” You rolled your eyes and sighed. Mischief curled in your chest. You stepped back and crossed your arms again.

“And if I say no?” You pushed, looking up at him. Frustration flashed over his face. He grabbed your wrist and pulled you close to him.

“Then I would gently remind you,” He hissed with a smile, voice artificially saccharine. “That it is your dear husband’s birthday. And that you know what happens when you disobey him.” You bit down on your lip to stop a bratty smile from surfacing. You nodded slowly and smacked your lips slightly. You took the dress from him and turned your back.

“Unzip me?” Titus’ fingers danced across the back of your neck as he found the zipper of your dress, carefully dragging it down your back and placing a kiss to the newly exposed skin of your shoulder blade. You thanked him, but didn’t pull down the fabric. “Turn around,” You told him, “I don’t want you ruining your surprise for later.” Titus humored you, rolled his eyes and turned to face the other direction. You took off your shoes and tugged down your dress, stepping out of the pool of fabric and into the wedding dress. It was soft against your bare thighs. And you noticed that the skirt was shorter than it was supposed to be, ending just above your knee instead of trailing along the ground like the one at your wedding did. You shrugged. You were about to go hunting, you needed to be more maneuverable. After securing your dress you told Titus he could look again. You went to reach for your shoes.

“Leave it,” he commanded, “You won’t be needing those.”

“Will you please tell me what we’re doing?” There was the smallest edge of annoyance to your voice. Titus snickered and took off his jacket, tossing it haphazardly onto the pile of your clothes. He unbuttoned the cuffs of his sleeves and rolled them up, exposing his forearms. You noticed he was wearing boots instead of the wing-tip dress shoes from earlier.

“We’re doing a simple game of chase.” He shrugged. Unhelpful. He shoved his hands in his pockets and didn’t elaborate.

“O…kay. And? Who’s the prey? What are we chasing?” The devilish smirk on Titus’ lips grew even wider, crinkling his eyes.

“You.” Titus said simply. Your eyebrows shot up and your mouth dropped open. You pointed to yourself in disbelief. 

“M-Me?” You spluttered “What d’you mean?”

“I’m going to chase you through the woods.” 

“You’re going to chase me.”

“That’s what I said, yes.”

“Wh…” You swallowed hard. “Barefoot? Through the woods?” Titus nodded, shit-eating grin still on his stupidly handsome face.

“I had the groundskeepers scour the grounds for any nails or big rocks or anything that would hurt. Just leaves and dirt.” He explained. Right. You remembered the day that you watched him supervise the groundskeepers with metal detectors. 

“What happens if you catch me?” You ask, hands growing clammy as the situation settled into reality.

“If.” he scoffed, “When I catch you, I’m gonna unwrap my present and play with my new toy.” The words sent a shot of heat straight to your lower abdomen and you felt your arousal begin to build. You nodded and swallowed. Anxiety flared between your ribs. He had obviously spent a lot of time planning this hunt, and you wanted it to go well. You wished he had told you earlier, so you could prepare. Run a bit more on the treadmill to get your lungs ready for the exercise. You picked at your thumb. You wanted to be good for him, make it worth his while. You would hate to give him an anticlimactic evening. To disappoint him. The thought alone made you sick. Titus read you immediately, brushing his thumb across your cheek.

“Hey. Don’t be nervous, sweetheart,” He soothed, voice dropping to a whisper “You’re gonna do great, okay? I promise. I’ll have fun no matter what. I love you.” He pressed his lips to yours. It wasn’t a passionate kiss but a grounding one, bringing you back from the depths of your mind. “Ready?” You nodded. “Good,” He flicked his wrist to check the time on the watch you had gifted him earlier in the day. “Because you have three minutes before I start chasing you.” He laughed as you scrambled to process the information and bolted off into the trees.

ˋ°•*⁀➷

The grass was plush beneath your feet. And somehow, Titus had overcome the rules of nature and plucked every stray twig from the forest floor. Drying leaves and softened dirt kicked up behind you as you ran through the woods. Flashes from your wedding night began to trickle into your memories. The same fear from that night, the fear of being caught and what would happen to you, mixed with the arousal that hummed in your blood. It pumped through you, carrying your legs as you ran between the trees, jumping over fallen logs and tree roots. You had absolutely been running for three minutes already. You slid into a small ditch, pausing to catch your breath and listen. All you could hear was the roar of the blood in your ears and you willed it to die down for just a moment. You heard an owl hoot and you pressed your eyes closed, getting your breathing under control. You had to give Titus credit, this was not at all what you had imagined would be happening tonight. The wind rustled the leaves above you but you didn’t hear anything else. Your throat burned from your heavy breathing and you cleared it slightly. You shouldn’t have done that. Even though it was a small sound, it carried just far enough.  

You pulled yourself from the ditch and dusted off your palms before deciding your next move. You decided to veer left, weaving between old growth oak trees and staying out of the beams of moonlight. You wondered briefly how many nights like this these trees had seen. How many bodies had fallen against them. You ducked beneath a particularly gnarly gorse bush, petals falling from the flowers. The initial shock of the game had worn off and your brain started to rationalize. If you just kept moving, what were the odds that he found you? Very likely, actually, but you ignored that realization. This was Titus’ idea of fun. You were running (literally) on borrowed time. You swerved around a trunk and burst into a small clearing. There was a log that bisected the area. You jogged up to it, preparing to climb. 

You were tackled to the ground before you could raise one of your legs, ripped away from the log and pressed beneath a heavy weight. The wind was knocked out of you and you heaved in oxygen, trying to regain your breath. When your eyes adjusted after being disoriented, you could see Titus’ face, moonlight glinting off his canine teeth.

“Twenty-two minutes!” He panted, holding you to the ground with the weight of his hips. Not unlike the way he had led you on the dance floor earlier. “Not bad, baby!” You struggled against him, trying to push his chest off you. You weren’t going to give up easily. He tutted at you and grabbed your wrists in his hands. A bruising grip, but not an unpleasant one. “Unfortunatley,” He huffed, lips inches away from yours. You could smell the bourbon on his breath. “I got you.” Excitement sparked off him as he shifted to his knees. You thrashed some more, but he was too strong. Titus flipped you onto your stomach with ease. He pressed your wrists against your back and untied his ascot with one hand. He tore the silk from his neck and wrapped it around your hands, tying a tight knot. You strained against it but it wouldn’t budge. The silk was smooth against your skin and it sent prickles of pleasure up your arms. Titus leaned over your shoulder.

“Color?” He whispered into your ear. It was a quick check-in. Not enough to bring him out of the fantasy, but accomplishing what he needed to know.

“Green.” You said, even though you still squirmed beneath him. He pressed a kiss behind your jaw and sat back on his heels before pushing himself to his feet. You stayed on the ground. If you really wanted to, you could probably get to your feet to keep running, but your lungs burned and the excitement of what Titus planned on doing to you dismissed the idea fast. Titus circled you, hand on his chin, admiring his work.

“You’ve been so patient, my darling, waiting for me. I know you’ve been needing me.” He beamed. “I’m gonna take my time with you. Use you however I want. S’what you wanted, right?” You whimpered and squirmed a bit on the ground. “Look at you,” he gushed, dropping to one knee. “So pretty in that dress. S’gonna get in the way, though.” You heard a flick of a blade and your eye caught the gleam of Titus’ hunting knife. He dragged the point of the blade down the side of your neck, hard enough to make its presence known without drawing blood. “Stay still for me, honey, don’t want to accidentally nick this pretty skin.” You obeyed, tensing your muscles as you felt his fists grip the fabric of your dress and tuck the blade into your neckline. He ripped the knife through the back of the dress, splitting it easily down the seam. You gasped as your back was exposed to the air, sweat instantly cooling on your skin. Titus wove his fingers into your hair, pressing against your scalp and pulling you up so that your chest was lifted off the ground. He tucked the knife back into his belt and tore the dress off from the front. He tossed it over his shoulder. He’d deal with that later. You watched Titus’ eyes darken as he got a good look at the matching set you were wearing under your dress. A maroon bra and panties with a little black bow sewn into the waistband, right above your mound. Titus let out a groan of approval and licked his lips. “Those are new.” His voice was tense, like he was doing everything in his power not to rip them off. too. 

“Yea,” you gasped, head still pulled back “Got ‘em just for tonight. You like it?” You batted your eyelashes at him. He was mesmerized by the way your tits rose and fell with each strained breath. He blinked hard and nodded before setting you back down gently on your stomach. Titus shifted to your lower half, running his hands over the globe of your ass and pulling it into his crotch. You sighed with contentment as you felt his hard bulge press against your core. Titus rutted himself against you and you felt the fabric of your underwear grow slick as it pressed against your folds. His hand went back to his waistband and got his knife. You felt the cold metal press against your hip before it sliced through the band of your underwear. Titus pulled your panties off you and pressed them to his nose, inhaling deeply and groaning, tossing his head back. His tongue poked at the wet patch you had left there and he licked a stripe up the fabric that was still warm from your cunt. He murmured something that sounded like your name under his breath before tucking the underwear into his back pocket. For later. Titus slid a finger between your folds and into your hole, cursing at the way you instinctively pushed back into him with a whimper. 

“Shit, sweetheart,” he cooed. Mocked even. “This all for me?” You could tell your juices were starting to run down his hand. He curled the digit against your walls and you cried out. 

“Please,” you begged. “Need more.”

“Oh, I don’t think you’re in a negotiating position right now,” Titus chuckled darkly and removed his finger. You felt his hands grip onto your hips. “You’re lucky I’m a gentleman. Can’t have my wife wanting for anything.” You yelped in surprise as his hands picked you up by your hips. He had bent down slightly so that your knees could rest against his shoulders. Your cheek was pushed harder into the ground at the new position, bottom half suspended in the air while your upper body was planted firmly in the dirt. A moan tore from your throat as you felt Titus’ tongue stretch the walls of your pussy. Small gasps of pleasure tumbled from your lips as it pistoned in and out, licking your insides. Obscene slurping noises filled the clearing and you noticed that the frogs had stopped chirping, likely too scandalized by the scene occurring in their woods. Titus occasionally slipped his tongue out of you to swipe at your clit, gently nudging the nub and sending inconsistent shocks up your spine. Eventually, he had mercy on you and lapped at your clit until your shaking legs tensed up around him. Your breathing became shallower and more high pitched. The storm brewing in your abdomen broke. Your thighs snapped against Titus’ ears and you rutted back into his face, riding your orgasm out on his tongue. After the last waves rolled through you, you tried to relax your legs, but Titus only pressed his fingers firmer into your skin, holding you in place. He kept licking at you, jaw moving ravenously as he continued to eat you out. You tried to squirm away from him, from the overstimulation, but he was stronger than you. Like a match restruck, the flame reignited in your belly and your second orgasm wasn’t far behind. Your walls clenched around nothing and your legs were jelly. When Titus finally pulled back from your pussy, he chuckled at the state of you. You were shaking uncontrollably and your face screamed ‘fucked-out’. “Stay with me, honey, we’re not done yet.” He gently rested your knees on the ground, but he had to help you support yourself as he pulled your underwear out to wipe his glistening mouth. You heard the clicking of his belt buckle behind you but didn’t have the energy to lift your head and watch as he lined himself up with your entrance. Titus pushed into you slowly, and the two of you moaned deeply in unison. You let out a whine as he pulled out slightly and gave an experimental thrust.

“I know, baby, shit.” He gasped, stilling and pressing his eyes closed. “You’re squeezin’ me so tight. G-give me a second.” Titus thought about everything, anything but the way your warmth gripped him so sinfully. He wasn’t about to blow his load that quickly. God he felt like a teenager trying to run math equations so he wouldn’t embarrass himself with a lackluster performance. You wiggled your ass slightly, desperate to get stimulation of some kind, but Titus smacked your ass. “What did I say?” You mumbled out an apology and took the break to even your breathing. Titus swallowed thickly and began to roll his hips. Gentle, at first, finding his pace. 

It wasn’t long before he was snapping his hips into you, grabbing your bound wrists to stabilize you so your cheek wasn’t scraping against the ground too harshly. The rhythm made your breath come out in gasps, perfectly timed with when his cock pounded into you. The sound of skin slapping and the smell of raw sex permeated the clearing. Tears stained your cheeks and a puddle of saliva was forming on the ground beneath you. You were blabbering incoherently, fragments of Titus’ name the only thing bouncing around your mind. Titus was growling behind you, putting his full strength and pent-up frustration into every single thrust. You needed this. Needed to be fucked so hard your brain melted. 

“Who do you belong to?” He snarled, digging his nails into your hips. You were too deep in your bliss to answer. Another slap to your ass. You cried out. “I asked you a fucking question.” 

“You!” You choked out.

“Yea,” Titus hissed “Me. You’re mine. Say it again.”

“I’m yours, Titus!” You cried, tears flowing again “I’m always yours!” Titus grabbed your wrists and pulled you up, back flush against his chest. You could feel the buttons of his shirt rubbing against your bare skin. One of his hands stayed on your hip and the other flew to your neck, squeezing lightly and keeping you pressed against him. He readjusted his knees slightly before fucking up into you, the new angle drawing new sounds from your raw throat. You felt him falter slightly and you clenched your pussy around him, spurring him on. With a broken, deep-throated growl, Titus came inside you, pressing his cock even deeper so that his spend coated every inch of your insides. The two of you stayed there a moment, chests heaving and fluids dripping down the inside of your thighs. Titus bent forward, softly lowering you back to your position on the ground and removed his softening length. The absence of him made you cringe. Your pussy was so puffy, so overstimulated, and you could still feel the rivulets of his cum dripping out of you. Titus stood up and rifled through his pants pockets. You heard the click of a camera and you jolted. You looked up at him to see his phone pointed at you, capturing the divine image of how well he had fucked you. Hole weeping with both of your juices, leaves in your hair, dirt on your skin, eyes swollen from crying from pleasure. Titus ran a hand through his hair and took a deep breath. He held up his phone for you.

“That was my present.” He said, accomplishment brightening his eyes. You hummed in acknowledgement. The adrenaline was starting to wear off and you began to feel the physical ramifications of your little game. Your wrists burned and your knees ached. You could feel scratches on your legs and arms and even your cheeks. Titus seemed to recognize your discomfort and remember where he was. He dropped to his knees immediately and masterfully undid the knot of his ascot with a single pull. He swore under his breath when he saw the scrapes on your hands and knees.

“Shit, I’m so sorry,” Titus soothed, taking off his shirt and helping you into it. He gathered you into his arms. “I’m so sorry, honey. Did I…fuck…was I too rough?” You lolled your head against his shoulder and shook your head.

“No,” you eased him “m’so good, Titus. I love you.” You grabbed his face with your hand and pulled him down for a kiss. You swiped your tongue along his lips and he let you in, wetly kissing you in return. You pulled away and saw so much care in his eyes. “Happy birthday. Did you have fun?” Titus gave an amused noise.

“Baby, that was the best birthday I’ve ever had.” He pressed a kiss to your forehead “I love you so much.” He lifted you bridal-style and plucked the leaves from your hair. “C’mon let’s get you a bath and clean you up.” Titus began to walk you back through the woods. He murmured your name softly. 

“Hm?” Your eyes were closed and you were comfortably nestled into his chest, arms around his neck.

“Thank you,” he said “For indulging me. I know I’m not always the easiest man to love. But you never make it seem like you regret marrying me.” “I don’t.” And it was true. Throughout everything, you never once regretted your decision to marry Titus.

“I know,” He smiled “Thank you for sticking with me.” You knew the unspoken gratitudes. Thanks for not abandoning him. For not trying to make him feel like he was some freak of nature. For fully devoting yourself to him. For letting him devote himself to you. For accepting him and loving him despite knowing the worst parts of him. You kissed his nose. 

Even free kicks bend like the ball is scared of disappointing him. First-time finishes look pre-planned. Through balls cut past defensive lines like an arrow. 

His passing is even better because he does not pass unless he has decided, mathematically, that you deserve the ball. And when he does, it lands exactly where he meant it to. Commentators are always like, “That is frightening precision,” and the camera cuts to Dex looking completely dead behind the eyes.

So no, he does not just kick a football. He selects a target and executes.

The weirdest part to most people, is that Dex doesn’t even celebrate his goals.

Not because he is humble. But because what is he celebrating for?

It’s his job.

He scores, turns around, and walks back to the halfway line like he just filed paperwork. Everyone else is screaming. The stadium is shaking. His teammates are chasing him, trying to jump on his back and get him to celebrate, and Dex is just standing there, blank-faced, waiting for the match to restart.

Commentators hate it. Fans are obsessed with it. The club media team wants to die.

Because how are they supposed to market this man?

“Here is our star striker, Benjamin Poindexter. He has scored twenty-six goals this season and smiles once every three months.”

The club is exhausted.

They have tried everything: Media coaching, charity shoots with children, behind-the-scenes videos where he is supposed to seem approachable. It never works. He stands there and says the most mundane things in the most unsettling tone anyone has ever heard.

What is the club supposed to say?

“Our striker is a psychopath but at least he scores goals????”

C’mon.

And then the press conference incident happens.

Some journalist asks, “Dex, do you think people overstate your finishing ability because the team is built around giving you so many chances?”

And Dex just stares.

He should’ve said something flattering about his team and his manager, something like, “credit to the lads” or “our coaching staff is wonderful”

But no. Flat-faced, he says, “No. I think if your job is watching football and that’s what you saw, you should be embarrassed.”

The whole room goes silent.

It’s not even the rudest thing a footballer has ever said, because footballers say insane things all the time. It’s because Dex says it like he’s already decided where the journalist would be buried after he kills him.

So the club panics and assigns him to you.

You, the PR manager everyone loves. You, who can charm the press, calm agents down, make a scandal sound like a “miscommunication,” and somehow convince angry sponsors that Dex is “passionate” and “misunderstood” and “just very committed to the game.”

And Dex needs you. Badly.

After your first meeting, you start by printing off a list of safe answers: 

“We take every game as it comes.”

“The boys worked hard.”

“I’m grateful for the support.”

“The manager has a plan and we trust it.”

“I don’t listen to outside noise.”

You even add notes:

Smile here.

Mention the team.

Do not stare for more than three seconds.

Do not correct the journalist unless I say you can.

Dex takes it way too seriously.

He practices in the mirror after training, still in his club tracksuit, hair damp from the shower, face empty, saying, “I’m proud of the boys,” like the boys are being held hostage off-camera.

Then the next press conference happens.

Reporter says, “Dex, how do you feel the team handled the pressure today?”

Dex leans into the microphone, dead-eyed and emotionless.  “The boys worked hard.”

And you think, okay. Fine. He’s trying.

Reporter: “You scored twice today. Do you feel like you’re in the best form of your career?”

Dex glances at you, and you give him a tiny nod.

“We take every game as it comes.”

Okay. Robotic, but it’s okay, I guess.

Reporter: “There’s a lot of talk about the title race. Do you listen to outside noise?”

Dex pauses, as if trying to remember the sheet of paper you gave him. “I don’t listen to outside noise.”

See, technically, he’s doing it right. The answers are safe and no one can accuse him of being rude.

But he’s saying it like an assassin reading an insulting birthday card. 

Then a journalist asks, “You seem calmer with the media lately. Has something changed?”

Dex looks directly at you. Directly. In front of everyone. And says, “I’ve been taught to behave.”

You facepalm so hard you nearly concuss yourself.

The journalists start typing like wolves.

Dex looks pleased because he thinks he nailed it.

So after that, you stop trusting the list and start practicing with him properly, in person. You sit across from him with your notebook while he sits there like a cat being taught not to scratch the scratching post.

“No, Dex. Less… murder-y.”

He tries again.

“No. I— why does that sound like more of a threat? Can you say it normally?”

He blinks. “That was normal.”

“It’s not.”

He tries again.

You teach him where to pause, when to smile, how long eye contact can last before it becomes a problem. How to say “credit to the team” without making it sound like the team owes him money.

You even physically stop him from answering “what went wrong in the first half?” with “our midfield kept making bad fucking decisions.”

Unfortunately, he’s right. But he cannot say that into six microphones.

After a while, Dex gets obsessed with you because you’re nice to him.

You’re not even fake-nice or club-mandated nice. You talk to him like he’s a person. Like his brain is strange, yes, but not broken beyond understanding.

One day, a reporter asks about his parents.

Dex freezes, because he has never been briefed on this yet. What the hell was he supposed to say?

Before Dex can answer, your voice cuts in, sweet as sugar.

“You don’t have to answer that.”

Oh?

You even smile at the reporter, “We’re keeping questions focused on the match today, thank you.”

You didn’t even flinch. You just stepped in front of the question like it was nothing.

So Dex fixates on you.

How could he not?

He watches your mouth when you explain things. He copies your tone. He stands perfectly still when you fix his collar before interviews.

You chuckle, “Relax.”

And his body listens to your command. 

It becomes a problem. Especially when that stupid midfielder asks you out.

And he’s not even a good midfielder! Why the club even signed him is beyond Dex’s understanding.

Like, that’s the part that really makes Dex feel insane. The guy kills every counterattack by taking one extra touch. He sees a perfect run and passes backwards. He overhits simple balls. He cannot cross to save his life. Last game, he sent one so badly behind Dex that Dex had to stop in the box, turn around, and look at him like he was deciding whether murder was worth the red card.

That guy gets to go out with you?

Well. You keep saying it’s not a date. You say it’s just friendly drinks because you work with all of them and you are friends with all of them.

But Dex thinks you’re amazing. And he knows his teammate thinks that too, that creep. He knows he has a crush on you.

Ugh.

Dex feels sick.

So he follows you. Secretly, obviously. He tells himself it’s for safety reasons, which is fascinating because you are literally just sitting in a bar, laughing politely over a mojito, while Dex stands across the street in a hoodie, glaring through the window like a widowed mafia wife.

And then the midfielder kisses you goodnight. Not sweetly, and not in the way Dex has imagined kissing you, careful and shaking and half-ruined by wanting you so badly.

The idiot leans in like he’s earned it, and you push back almost immediately, startled and uncomfortable, because you thought this was friendly. You thought saying “not a date” had been clear enough.

And Dex remembers it forever.

Next match, he simply refuses to pass to him.

The midfielder makes run after run. Dex sees every single one. Of course he does. Dex sees everything. Dex could spot a gap in a backline during a thunderstorm with one eye closed. He could make that midfielder look brilliant if he wanted to.

He doesn’t want to.

The midfielder points. Dex ignores him.

The midfielder shouts. Dex turns the other way.

The midfielder is wide open in the box, practically begging for the easiest assist of Dex’s life, and Dex takes the shot from a worse angle and scores anyway.

The commentators call it confidence. The pundits call it hunger. The fans call it ice in his veins.

By the time the transfer window opens, Dex walks into the manager’s office and says, “He doesn’t fit the system,” talking about the midfielder, of course. 

And what are they going to do? Upset the league’s most accurate finisher? Their star striker? The man who scored four goals in two games this week and made every single keeper look stupid?

Bye bye, stupid midfielder. Sold to a second-tier club for pennies. 

Anyway.

With the only competition removed Dex starts making his moves.

He brings you coffee with your order memorised. He asks if you have eaten, like, every twenty minutes. He starts giving better interviews only when you are in the room, because he’s not really speaking to the press anymore.

He’s performing being good for you.

Then, after one press conference where he actually sounds almost charming, the club management praises him for finally learning how to handle the media.

Dex barely reacts.

He just waits until you are walking beside him in the corridor, away from the cameras and staff, then leans close enough that his shoulder touches yours.

“Did I do good?”

Oh. My. God. 

Pathetic star striker. Six-foot-something nightmare of a man who can ruin an entire back line’s confidence forever, make world-class defenders second-guess every step, send keepers home questioning their career choices, and he’s still standing in front of his PR manager with those hazel eyes because if you don’t tell him he did good, he might actually die.

And he looks so earnest about it!! So hungry for it!! 

It’s as if  all the goals, all the chants, all the headlines mean nothing compared to you looking up at him and saying, “Yes, Dex. You did so well.”

His face changes. His shoulders drop. His eyes flick to your lips and stay there.

And sure, maybe you should step back.

No. Actually. Obviously, you should step back. He’s the club’s star striker. You are his PR manager. This is a bad idea. A terrible idea. A “you should know better” idea.

But then he says, almost embarrassed, “I like when you say it.”

And that’s it. You kiss him first, and you feel him freeze under your hands, all that frightening control going useless the second your mouth touches his.

Then he kisses you back like he has been waiting through every practice interview, every press conference, every time you fixed his collar and told him to breathe.

It’s not casual. It’s not smooth. It’s very Dex.

So of course it feels a little insane.

His hand finds your waist carefully at first. And then you make this tiny sound against his mouth, and when you don’t pull away, he presses harder, and suddenly the league’s most clinical finisher is backing you against the corridor wall like this is the only target he has ever been afraid to miss.

You whisper between kisses, “This is a bad idea.”

Dex kisses the edge of your jaw. “Yeah?”

“We work together,” you point out 

He kisses you again, slower this time. “And that’s bad?” He asks, genuinely confused. 

“It is,” you breathe, even though your hands are already in his hair. “Starting a relationship in the workplace is always bad.”

Dex pulls back just enough to look at you.

His mouth is wet, eyes are dark. He almost laughs in your face. “What are they gonna do, fire me?”

No, actually, they won’t.

Dex knows how valuable he is.

What are they going to do? Sack the man carrying them through a title race? Bench the striker who treats goalkeepers like training cones? Fine him for kissing the PR manager when he is the only reason half their sponsors are still smiling?

Ha! Of course not!

They are going to sigh and panic and schedule another meeting with HR. And Dex is going to score anyway.

So when he drags you into the empty locker room after the next match, you know you should really stop him.

You don’t.

Because he scored twice and still came off the pitch looking for you before anyone else. Because he stood under the floodlights with the whole stadium chanting his name and didn’t smile once until he saw you waiting near the tunnel.

The second the door shuts behind you, he is on you.

His hands are at your waist, your back, your hips, like he is trying to convince himself you’re real. He kisses you against the lockers with all that bottled-up focus, metal rattling behind you. 

You tell him, “You were brilliant today.”

And Dex makes this ruined sound against your mouth.

You say it again, because now you know exactly what it does to him. “So good, Dex.”

His head drops to your shoulder as you both desperately and frantically take every piece of clothing off.

The lockers rattle again.

And yes, this is reckless. Yes, anyone could walk in. Yes, later you will have to fix your lipstick in the mirror while Dex stands behind you looking smug and so completely in love and the club owner has to pretend like he doesn’t know what’s going on. 

But in the moment, all you can think about is him pressing you against cold metal, kissing you like winning meant nothing until he got to come back here and be with you.

Then the next week, he scores again.

And for once, he doesn’t just walk back to the halfway line.

For once, Dex celebrates.

The stadium goes wild. His teammates barely know what to do when Dex scores, turns, and points straight at you.

Like what else would he celebrate for?

The goal is his job.

You are the reward.

—end. 

Note: Yes yes, I know I will eventually do a pro baseball Dex AU because that is literally his sport, but I have no idea how baseball works. I do know football, though. Also it’s the World Cup, so this is topical!!! Leave me alone 🫠🫠🫠I also lowkey am thinking about turning this into like my full-length Bucky football au fic. Thoughts?

This is also inspired by this variant cover of the upcoming Daredevil #4 by Geoff Shaw: