#fingers

Dazai likes to brag constantly about how good he supposedly is with his hands and fingers, saying there isn’t a lock he can’t crack or a tense muscle he can’t relieve. You merely nod whenever he mentions it — not that you don’t believe him, you just didn’t necessarily… care. You have made the mistake recently, though, to ogle at his fingers when you two were sitting next to one another during an agency meeting. Something you never paid attention to before was then the only thing you could think about.

They’re long, elegant even, and his fingernails looked as though he had gotten a manicure, which raised a brow during your observation. The muscles flex and relax under his skin with ease when they move, skin white momentarily before returning back to its natural tone, and they never seem to be settled. Something occupies those digits, whether it be a pen, his sleeves, pushing up his glasses if he is in the mood to wear them, messing with papers, messing with other fingers, or sometimes lightly tapping or drumming them along the surface.

He knew you were staring, his fingertips lightly connecting with the table during the meeting you had lost all interest in, and you watched them move up and down, gaze trailing from his nail to his knuckles, then to his bandaged wrist. You inhaled, noticing his fingers were suddenly splayed out in front of him, at ease, on perfect display, and you carefully tossed one leg over the other before averting your attention back to the president as he discussed what current cases were going on. Dazai had to hide a wicked grin, his other hand coming up to subtly cover the lower half of his face, then grabbed his pen to feign enough interest in taking notes.

“Bella~,” he cooed, approaching you smoothly after the meeting, cornering you into the wall when you left the office to go to the bathroom. You stared at him, wide-eyed, and his head tilted. “I caught you staring earlier. What piqued your sudden interest?” He asked, playing coy, as if he didn’t already knew he had you wrapped around those beautiful fingers to settle in the palm of his hand. Your eyes flickered over his face, his hand coming up to push his glasses up, pointedly using his middle finger to show it off. Your cheeks bloomed instantly with color, then dropped your gaze.

“Sorry, you… were just making a lot of noise,” you hurriedly lied, pushing past him to run off into the women’s restroom where you’d be safe from him — for the time being. He chuckled as he watched after you, sliding his hands in his pockets then strolling back to his desk unphased.

He seems to have been bugging you more and more lately, coming up to your desk during working hours, distracting you from paperwork by purposefully slipping your pen from your fingers, holding it between his then offering a wink and a ‘sorry, bella, I need this’ then walking away; sitting next to you to lay his hand out beside yours, pinkies almost touching, and it makes your body still; making a show of Atsushi struggling to get into his locker because he lost the key to the padlock, so Dazai swooped in to show you that he could pick it in less than 10 seconds; and lastly, what you think may just be your mind playing tricks on you, having his middle and ring fingers together as he makes a “c’mere” motion when gesturing you over. You don’t know what to make of all of it, aside from the fact you’re now in a constant state of the human equivalent to being in heat at work — you stopped wearing skirts recently because you’re fearful you may just give in to whatever is soaring around your twisted mind and iced veins to lock him in the supply closet with you.

It’s evening after another day of trying to avoid him, an ache you can’t shake no matter how hard you try on your own eating away at you, and you lie in bed with your back flush to the mattress, sweat clinging to your skin. The summer heat isn’t helping, the blanket kicked off, wearing your pajamas that are next to nothing and doesn’t really help keep you cool either, and you sigh. It’s pitch black, not even the moon using her spotlight to illuminate the way, faint glows of street lamps and traffic lights occasionally catch the corner of your eye from the window, and you think you hear something — that you decide to ignore, like any other smart person would do.

However, the rattling continues, your brows furrowing, and you debate if you want to get up and check. You live alone, no pets, and you’re — kind of — certain you locked the front door. The sound goes on, irritating, and you roll your eyes as you force yourself up out of bed, against your better judgment, to see what’s going on and double ensure the door’s locked. Although, as your hand connects with your bedroom doorknob, the noise stops, and you’re even more confused. I’m already up, might as well still check. You still proceed with caution, hinges creeping as you carefully pull it back, peeking around in the short hallway before shuffling out to your living room, eyes trained on the front door, that is in fact locked.

You let out a small huff of relief, turning on your heel to go back to bed when you see a shadow on your couch. Your body tenses and freezes, wondering if it’s the late night hour playing tricks on your mind, and your eyes blink rapidly to adjust — just to jump and yelp when you make out a figure sitting leisurely on the couch with their arms spread out on the back cushion, and you cover your mouth.

“Relax, belladonna, it’s just me,” the voice calls out with a calming whisper, and your heart’s too busy hammering into your chest and pulse ringing in your ears to realize who it is. The voice is familiar, but you aren’t very coherent in understanding how it got here. In your apartment. The light suddenly flicks on, fingers delicately holding onto the lamp string, and it lights up the room, as well as Dazai’s smug expression as he peers over at you from his spot. Sitting comfortably, as if he lives there. Your heart rate changes then, but you’re still confused. “Hi there, sweetheart.” He wiggles his fingers in a wave, eyes dark, and you stare at him in bewilderment.

“What… What in the world are doing in my home?” You blurt out, the shock wearing off and slamming down face-first into the concrete of reality that while this situation has played out multiple times in your sick little fantasies, it’s actually quite daunting to see him in your residence, sitting on the couch, and eyeing you as if you’re his next meal.

“I told you, bella, there isn’t a lock I can’t pick,” his words are airy, tone matter-of-fact, pushing himself up to his feet and taking casual strides to reach in front of you. He seems to be wearing standard clothes, but his bandages remain intact, and there’s a change in his demeanor. “Is something the matter?” He asks, head cocking, smirk deepening as his pointer finger comes up to gently lift your chin. “Should I have called first?” He toys with you, fingertip now languidly gliding down the path of your throat, gaze following, until his eyes stop on your tank top — hiding hardly anything, and sees a drop of sweat trickle down your slightly heaving chest.

“Why did you break in?” You swallow, his finger now tracing down the valley of your chest, dragging the material with it to expose more of your bare tits, and you’re even more confused. You knew he was acting weird at the agency, and you knew your reaction to it wasn’t helping, but now he is in your apartment getting ready to strike.

“Seemed more fun,” he states, nonchalant. “Got tired of watching from your window.” He adds on, as if that’s a normal thing to say, and your eyebrows downturn. “I’m joking.” He reassures, his large hands now gripping your hips, closing the gap, and his answer isn’t enough.

“Dazai, if you wanted to come in—”

“Do you want me to get you off… or not?” His voice drops an octave then, tone flipping only enough at the end of his sentence to not come off as harsh as it was. His head lowers, lips to your ear, eyes big as you stare ahead, baffled by his blunt statement, and your shaking hands rest on his chest. “I’ve seen how you look at me, especially my hands. Do you… want me… to get you off?” He speaks slower, giving you time to process this, but it’s still such a strange situation you would have never thought you’d be in. “I only stop when I hear ‘no’, by the way.” He warns, hands lowering down over your very tiny shorts, palms gently squeezing your ass, and you jump some in your spot.

You swallow, fingers slowly curling into his shirt, and you’re at a loss for words. Eyes squeeze shut as he begins kneading into the covered flesh, biting down on the inside of your cheek as your head feverishly nods, the burn between your legs so unbearable that your own fingers and toys are nothing in comparison to what you think he can do to you. His petal-soft lips press a lingering, sweet kiss to your neck, a low hum vibrating on your skin while his hands snake up under your shirt to run his thumbs over your nipples, and your breath hitches before a shallow exhale escapes.

“You know, usually the ‘hard to get’ act pisses me off so bad,” he murmurs, back to your ear so every word is heard perfectly. The octave and tone and rasp make goosebumps form, riding up and down your arms, hairs sticking straight up. “But god I fuckin’ love a challenge. And you, sweet, sweet bella, have got me breaking into your house for you.” His tongue darts out to gently prod inside your ear before pulling away to look at your face: bright red, lips parted, pupils dilated and glossing over behind hooded lids, and more sweat is forming on your exposed skin. “So pretty.” He croons, making your lashes bat at him in an attempt to acknowledge you heard him. That causes him to smile, albeit dark, his usually shining irises deepening to match the midnight sky.

“Will… Will you please help me come?” You breathe out, fisting his shirt tighter, pressing your chest to his, and a bit of tears are forming on your lash line due to this creepy miracle happening that he’s with you right now, relieved he is going to alleviate your troubles — at least, that’s what you’re hoping. He stares down at you with the same expression you would give a pitiful, helpless animal you see on the side of the street. “I haven’t been able to on my own.” You confess, voice breaking. “I tried everything, even imagining you, and nothing works. Dazai, I’m gonna die, please help me.” Your lower lip trembles and he watches, a wicked satisfaction overcoming him that you’ve been buried in thoughts of him and his fingers that not even imagining them is getting you off with whatever methods you’ve been trying.

“Awh, you poor thing,” he taunts, mocking, brushing some hair behind your ear. “You’ve been thinking about me while you touch yourself?” You pause, letting that settle between you two, so desperate before for the help that you said any old thing to him. A secret you previously swore you’d be taking to your grave slipped out in hormonal rambling. Alas, you can’t take it back, and he’s looking at you in a way that makes your knees shake. Slowly, you nod, grip loosening as embarrassment encroaches, and he lets out a light laugh, but it very much feels as though he’s laughing at you. “Say it!”

“Say what?” You stare up at him, brows knitting together.

“Say you’ve been touching yourself to me,” he demands, a delicate grip now under your jaw, and his mouth is immensely close to yours. “Say it, and I’ll see about helping you.” Eyes lock with one another, his expectant, yours pathetic as you stand there in silence. You would have never once expected this kind of behavior from him, the lighthearted guy who makes jokes and pesters everyone to no end, kind of a sweetheart when he wants to be, is actually… a sick freak. Your pulse jumps at that thought, and he can see physical hearts forming in your eyes as you gaze up at him in sinful longing, and he has to bite his lip to hold back from saying anything else to you, to prevent making fun of you.

“I’ve been touching myself to you,” you whisper, thighs beginning to rub together.

“Can’t hear you,” he says, tone flat, suddenly harsh, and the pit in your stomach is growing. He’s mean.

“I’ve been touching myself to you!” You say louder, breathless, leaning into his touch and can’t even be bothered to hate yourself for it. “I do it every night, and nothing works. I need you!” You add in hopes it will give you extra points for him to be more willing to stay. He’s the one that broke into your apartment, but you’re stammering like an idiot about needing him, how exactly does that work?

“Show me where you sleep, bella,” he gingerly turns you around, nudging you forward toward the hall, and you obediently lead the way to your bedroom, him following with his heavy footsteps close behind you. When he walks in after you, shutting the door, his head swivels around to take in the decorating, seeing that there isn’t much of anything aside from the ordinary standard, but he eyes the small mound of plushies sitting in the opposite corner, and he mutters a small ‘cute’ at the sight. You ignore him, climbing up into your bed, and you don’t know what to do.

The night replays in your head like getting slapped with a movie reel, sitting in the middle of your rumpled mattress, and everything zooms behind your eyes in seven seconds. Dazai — Osamu Dazai, your coworker and colleague, someone you’d deem to know well enough to call him a friend — is standing in your bedroom in the middle of the night after breaking and entering into your apartment. He blatantly asked you, straight up, if you wanted his help in achieving an orgasm, and you enthusiastically told him yes absolutely. He prowled around you like he had been hunting you down for ages, commanding you to tell him your dirty secret of touching yourself to thoughts of him, and mentioning he watched through your window. He said that was a joke, but there is a small voice in the back of your mind that is screaming he might not have actually been joking. And all you can seem to think about is having his fingers shoved so deep inside of you that it makes you cry from gratitude.

“Relax,” he eases, crawling on the bed with you, caging you beneath his body as your elbows prop you up. You’re both nose-to-nose, and you can barely make out the scar down his eyebrow, flickering your gaze from it to his eyes. The room is dark, neither of you turning on the switch, and he dares to kiss your cheek. “I’ll give you my fingers, but that’s all you get from me after all these games I had to play to earn your attention in the first place.” He explains, a hand sliding up your inner thigh, two fingers slipping under the material, and a shiver runs its way down your spine. “I don’t like to chase, and I’m getting awfully tired from running, sweetheart.” You blink up at him, not comprehending a single word he said to you, and he can tell from the dumb look in your lust-filled eyes.

“You always had my attention,” you attempt, not entirely a lie, but not the whole truth either.

“Then you would have invited me in instead of me picking your lock,” his tongue clicks, head tilting ever so slightly, and a shallow smile forms on his lips.

“I-I’m sorry… I just—”

“No excuses. I’m here now, and I’ll give you what you so badly want since you finally were good and told me,” he leans down, capturing your lips with his, the kiss firm, controlling, possessive — your eyes spin behind your lids, and you feel dizzy alone from it. His fingertips lightly graze along your skin, reaching your pelvis, and halting when there doesn’t seem to be anything stopping him from touching you — no barrier, just your warm skin. He breaks the kiss but your mouths are still together, feeling it as he speaks. “No panties? You were expecting me, hm?”

“Hot,” you mumble, hips squirming when his middle finger carefully rubs circles on your pelvis, close to your clit but far away enough to tease.

“Yes, you are,” he whispers, another forceful kiss meshing you two together, it knocking you backwards then into the pillows, causing your arms to wrap around his neck as his hands frantically, greedily, tug down your shorts and soft groans escape his mouth right into yours. He wastes no time, believing he’s messed with you long enough, sliding his ring and middle between your slick lips, feeling how wet you are from him merely teasing you this whole time. Your hips stutter upward into his touch, a hushed and muffled moan of relief leaving your throat right into his mouth when his tongue slips between your lips, pressing the pads of his fingers on your clit.

Every last tense muscle you had in your body washes away when they move in gentle, circular motions, the same ones you had done to yourself that feel predominantly better. Your own fingers are tangled in his shaggy hair, unable to breathe as he steals all of the air from your lungs with his tongue wrapped around yours, his knee nudging your thighs further apart. You feel as though you’re drowning, being pulled down deeper and deeper into the abyss, welcoming it as the currents caress your skin into ease, and the rope that is tied around your wrist to pull you back up is slowly thinning already.

His mouth finally releases yours, gasping for breath as his lips move down from your cheek to your jaw, finding a path down your neck, kisses wet and tongue darting out to lick the sweat from your skin. His fingers continue their slow drawl, lashes fluttering shut and hips rising from the bed to follow his movements, his other hand gripping your thigh and nails digging down into your flesh. The sting is welcomed, forcing the reasonable thoughts of him even being there out of your mind, and nothing burns anymore. As if his touch alone put out the fire that had grown in your abdomen and set ablaze through your whole body.

You shudder when his teeth find your pulse point, sucking harshly, working hard to ensure a dark purple hickey is left behind, and his middle finger applies more pressure on your clit as it draws narrow circles over it, and his own body has begun to melt into a strange calm, not realizing he has been just as tense as you, able to finally touch you, your body, your poor neglected cunt. “I’m so sorry.” He rasps, a faint laugh bubbling out that he can’t hold back. “I should have come here sooner.” His tongue trails a long stripe from your collarbone up behind your ear, spit trickling down to the sheets, and your head is spinning. “God, look at you, fuckin’ shameless to let me break into your apartment just so I’ll touch you.” His free hand glides up your stomach, slipping under your shirt, and his middle finger is fondling your nipple in the same motions as your clit, making your head fall back and eyes roll into your head.

You’ve been fairly quiet, used to needing to keep it down to avoid embarrassing yourself, not wanting anyone to know what you’re doing alone in your room, so all he is hearing from you are tiny squeaks and broken, whispered whimpers. To him, you do sound like a helpless animal underneath his body, caged in with nowhere else to go, dark eyes scanning your every move, seeing your neck’s pulse protrude with each rapid heartbeat, and his cock hurts from neglect. With how difficult you were for him to nail down, he didn’t think you’d turn into a puddle this easily for him, loving every second of it as you writhe under him simply caressing your clit and nipple — the simplest of foreplay.

“S-So go-od,” you barely get out between breaths, grasping at your pillow and sheets, trying not to move any further since your hips are angled for his finger to continue rubbing over you clit, the pressure perfect, your leg twitching once, and he has an idea you’ll come in no more than two minutes if he keeps this up. His hungry gaze slides down to watch his hand move, your clit disappear and reappear from under his fingertip, hearing your panting grow heavier, weak, and he notices you’re trying not to squirm. “Dazai… Dazai, I wanna come.” You plead, peeking at him through hooded slits, and his eyes snap to meet yours. His expression has been stone-cold now, jaw tightening, fingers having minds of their own as they keep caressing and fondling your nipple, and your mouth falls open as you cling to your pillow.

“Go ahead,” he encourages, though his voice is monotonous, rough. “Come for me, come like the dumb, desperate slut you’re acting like.” His head raises some, eyes never leaving your face, and his middle finger starts flicking upward repeatedly on your swelling clit. You gasp, hand quickly covering it, and your thighs start to shake. “C’mon, I thought you were dying from not having an orgasm?” He’s mocking you worse than before, voice dark, tone harsh, and a part of you that was hidden away is now unlocking to find out you might really like this side of Dazai.

You whimper and whine behind your hand, pitched, eyes squeezing shut and back arching as your hips thrash around, his finger following every movement to stay touching you, that high hitting you out of nowhere like a ton of bricks. You can’t breathe for a moment as your legs kick on either side of him, his ministrations not stopping, back to circling your sensitive bud, and not bothering to still or soothe you. “That’s it, pretty. Doesn’t that feel good?” He coos in that haunting octave, leaning back down to press kisses on your neck. His breath catches and shudders near your ear, your free hand fisting the hairs at the nap of his neck, and your thighs clasp around his hand — silently telling him to stop as you gasp for air and grab his wrist to make him still.

“Oh my god,” you whimper, but he doesn’t allow you time to recoup, to come down. He’s forcing your legs apart with both hands before slotting himself between them, a human wall, then shoves his ring and middle fingers straight into your soaked cunt. “Fuck! Dazai, wait—!” You squeal, reaching down for his wrist, but he snatches both of yours in his one large palm, pinning them down above your head, and those lithe, slender digits are pumping in and out of your overstimulated and overly sensitive pussy without intentions of stopping.

“Damn, cunt’s tight,” he murmurs under his breath, a labored sigh following, twisting repeatedly to feel and caress every inch of your clenching walls. If my fingers are struggling, wonder what it’d be like if I do ever use my dick on her. His fingers spread wide inside you, stretching you out, and your wrists wriggle as you bite down on the inside of your cheek and hope you can get through this. “You can be loud, baby. I wanna hear those pretty sounds.” He tells you, giving you permission, but you can’t. You shake your head, sucking in your lips, and arch your back when his fingertips find your G-spot. “Fine, be stubborn. I’ll pull them outta you anyway.” His body leans and hovers over yours then, his weight on your wrists, and you look up at him with glassy eyes, tears clinging to your lashes, and your lip trembles. Fuck, she looks so pathetic. He ogles and admires you, the ghost of a smirk casting over his shadowed features, and in the dark, he is shrouded with a ruthless aura, having total control over you. His expression menacing. The warning bells ringing toward danger. If you didn’t know him, you’d be scared — if he could read your mind, he’d argue you still should be.

You lay there, helpless, subjected to learning how skilled his fingers are, the bragging infuriatingly warranted, and he does rip one small moan out of you when his fingertips start pressing upward continuously, treating that spot like a button that makes more tears form in your hazed eyes, your abdomen to tighten, and little squeaks sound from your throat. Involuntarily, your hips begin to raise and ride on his fingers, following his movements, his caress, his thrusting in and out, pumping your body full of pleasure for your next orgasm already. You give in finally to everything that’s happening, no resistance, no wondering why or how he knew where you lived and decided to let himself in, no cares in the world other than focusing on his agile and expert fingers knowing all the different places that turn you on without ever previously touching your body.

Dazai watches you, mesmerized, the way your lashes lay on your cheek when your eyes close; your lips, lightly swollen from his prior kisses and biting down on them, parted beautifully that he could slide his other fingers in your mouth if he wanted to; your wet tongue barely poking out; your cute tits rising and falling as your chest heaves from panting and riding his fingers; the sound of your pussy dripping wet, swallowing his fingers down to the knuckles, curling his them up so his fingertips can pet your G-spot. The sudden burst of moans erupted from you that you aren’t holding back anymore, growing into a crescendo of want and need and burning and loneliness cured by his presence. His hand rushes to release your wrists, digging it down into his pants, past the waistband of his boxers, and grips onto his shaft, leaking from watching you. Hot from being untouched.

“If only you could see yourself right now,” he grunts, stroking his cock in time with his fingers pulling in and out, pretending he’s fucking you instead. “You’re going this insane for my fingers. I never lied to you how good I was, baby. Why’d you wait so long?” He asks this question again, similar to the ones he’s asked before, and you can’t comprehend that he is essentially begging to know why you weren’t begging for him, like he is so used to happening with women he pursues. Your only response is a loud moan when he picks up pace, fingertips brushing that swollen spot each time they plunge back in, and unaware that his dick is out as he jerks off to you. His eyebrows twitch, resolve starting to crumble, and a tiny whimper emits from the back of his throat as he watches you, his fingers pulling out long enough to swipe your come and arousal all over his length, then forcing their way back in. “So mean, baby. Made me want you then ignored me.” He confesses, and that comment flies over your emptied head.

“D-Dazai…” you breathe, the rope previously anchoring you to the surface inevitably about to snap in half, the white-hot fire in your abdomen aflame and trying to course its way up and down your bloodstream, hitting every vein in your body, and your legs trying locking around his narrow waist. Pulling him closer. And he has to refrain from removing his fingers and replacing it with his cock. “Dazai, Dazai, make-make me come a-again.” You beg, eyes opening to stare at the blank ceiling, hearing his huffing and quiet, broken moans that he’s trying to stifle, and the rocking of his body could only mean one thing to you. A couple tears slip from the corner of your eye, falling down into your ear, and he buries his fingers in as deep as your cunt will allow them to, curling and uncurling them in succession, calloused pads petting your G-spot, and his knuckles drag along your walls and around your sensitive opening. “O-Osamu, please!” You accidentally call out his given name, fingers desperately searching for something to hold onto now that they’re free to do what they please.

His movements falter, only for a second, at the sound of his given name spilling from your lips in the most lustful, sinful, neediest tone of voice he has ever heard from you. He lightly shakes his head, make himself come back to his senses, both hands working overtime to not only give you another amazing orgasm, but so he can finish now too. “I-I hear you, baby.” His tone’s gravely, the same thread he is apparently tied to about to snap any second, his head falling back and eyes squeezing shut when he gently squeezes around his shaft a few times. “Touch yourself.” He demands, blurring vision falling back between your legs.

“I-It won’t work!” You lament, but your hand is inching toward your pelvis anyway.

“It will. I’m right here now with you,” he encourages, impatiently watching your middle finger connect with your clit. “That’s it, good girl. You’ll still come.” He reassures you, his endurance feeling as if it’s dwindling, and his arm stops to fondle at your spot again. When he sees your eyes roll back into your head again, your finger moving on the bud and his paying close attention to the spot behind it, he knows that is the best move. Allowing him to get you on the edge while continuing to stroke himself. “Yeah, that pretty cunt will come all over my fingers.” He croons, losing his focus, balls tightening suddenly as his stomach coils, and he bites down on his tongue to hold back a deep groan. Her first, her first.

You lay there for a few seconds, sharing together the quiet midnight hour, exchanging hushed moans and hitched breaths, listening to the mess he’s making of you, when your second orgasm is peaking, panting and moans and whines getting louder, chanting his given name over and over again, and yours starts falling out of his mouth, stumbling over his tongue, and you’re both singing to each other as his load shoots out onto your stomach in a few strings, and you’re squirting into his bandaged palm and down to the unmade mattress.

“‘S-Samu—!” Your moan catches in your throat, neither of you stopping on your bullied cunt, him watching intently as another string of squirt gushes out, and the sensation is absolute ecstasy; you can’t bring yourself to stop touching yourself. Your groans are guttural, brain muddled down to mush, and he laughs at you.

“Oh, not finished?” He taunts, catching his breath, borderline assaulting your insides now while your middle finger is relentless on your aching clit. “What else could possibly be—” He cuts himself off when he notices you aren’t making any noises anymore, thighs quaking before quickly locking his hand in place, and your entire body shakes. He can’t move anymore, looking down at you with curious puzzlement, and a weak whine with more tears streaming down your scorching cheeks emits from the pit of your stomach. His other hand, gently, soothing, runs up and down your stomach, smearing his load all over your skin, and presses a kiss to your forehead. “Awh, you had another one still in you?” He catches your dazed expression, you unable to answer with another kiss landing on your shoulder, before carefully slipping his fingers out of your body as it jolts with the aftershocks.

You somehow end up rolled on your side, curling up into yourself, and trying to come back to this reality, this plane of existence. His hand rubs up and down your spine, shirt clinging to your sweat-coated back, and eyes your lack of recovery. “Why don’t we take a bath, yeah?” He suggests, and you’re now definitely not sure if any of this is real.

Especially when morning comes, you wake up to the other side of the bed still warm, slept in, wearing different pajamas, and a sticky note left behind on the pillow. The suns rays pour in, casting its light on your entire room, and your lids are barely cracked open to read what is says:

Morning bella, I helped myself to your dirty laundry and snuck a pair of panties that I thought were cute. If you want them back, you’ll have to come get them. See you at work~

- O.D.

You blink once, thinking the note will disappear, then blush furiously when it’s still between your fingers as you sink down under the blanket and feel a giant wet spot on the sheet.

this was supposed to be short but i got carried away because i like making him a pervert <3

- ghxst

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