You know, the one you broke up with because he couldn't focus on anything but his career, the one you just couldn’t stand by and watch any longer as he nearly ran his health into the ground—not to mention your relationship—all to reach his goals.
He’d been so mean—meaner than you ever thought possible when you told him you couldn’t do this anymore—said it was a real class act of you to abandon him now when it mattered most. He’d made it about you not wanting a pipe-dreaming wannabe sportsman for a boyfriend, how you never believed in him anyway, how you never cheered for him, how he thinks you don’t even want to see him succeed.
He’d been so loud and so ugly you’d been in shock for weeks afterward, unable to wrap your head around it. You didn’t even dare tell anyone—feeling it was a beast of burden you ought to keep for yourself. Oddly enough, you felt that if anyone knew or saw him like that, it would be not just detrimental to him and his image but embarrassing for you both.
And you hadn't spoken to him since. At least not face-to-face. He’d sent you a few drunk texts then and there, which you’d replied to in short, though mostly ignored. You’d thought about blocking him at one point, but you didn’t want to be dramatic, either. And suppose, in some way, you were still waiting for an apology.
But months passed, and nothing like it ever came, and so, instead of being bitter, you accepted that was just how the two of you ended. And that was that.
Still, it's a little awkward. You wonder if you should congratulate him on his rise in popularity, how he’s finally getting all those long hours spent training back in full—but somehow, you feel it would just sound petty coming from you. And so, you don’t bother.
He’s got other people in his life cheering him on now—he doesn’t need a measly text from his ex. No, it's better to leave it be, is what you think.
Which is why it’s surprising when you get the dinner invitation.
And following the initial surprise, you don’t really know what to expect of it either. But you end up accepting—some part out of curiosity, wondering what he might want after all this time, and another part hopeful it was to finally address the awful break up so that the both of you could move on without it hanging heavy over your heads and hearts.
This, however, was the last thing you had in mind when sitting down with him for the first time in a long time.
“Will you marry me?”
Your whole body flares up with something reminiscent of the feeling when you trip and fall—that type of split burn that rushes through you from head to toe and then leaves you feeling cold all over. Heart in your throat, you’re speechless.
Or no, you just don’t know where to begin.
“What are you doing?” you end up accusing—a little too harshly, maybe, but who could blame you? Looking around, you’re glad your table’s in a more private sector of the restaurant before you look back at him, eyes wide and brows knit.
“I–we broke up a year ago and haven’t seen each other since—and you’re—” Your eyes fall back to the thing in his hands. It’s an outrageous ring. “Asking me to marry you?”
He makes no move to withdraw the offer—keeping his hands where they are, on your side of the table. “You said yes to the dinner. That must mean something. I thought—”
“Yeah. It means that I still worry about you,” you say. “It doesn't mean–”
“I fought my way up. I’m finally at the top,” he cuts you off in earnest. “I’m the best, and the world finally knows it now–”
“I don't care about any of that,” you state, feeling it should have been something you told him from the very beginning. “I'm sorry. But I never cared about you being the best. I just wanted…”
You just wanted the two of you to be like other couples—together and happy. You just wanted that to be enough, but it never was for him.
“Never mind…” you end up saying. “I think I should go.”
You’re about to get up when his hand, suddenly around your wrist, tightens in a harsh grip.
“I don't think you understand,” he utters, voice lowered with a hint of a growl. “It’s either this ring or I bury you in rumors that won’t leave you a moment’s worth of peace.”
You go stiff while looking back at him.
Did he just… did he just threaten you?
You blink. He's got that same warped expression you remember from the last time you saw him, that very odd look as if the guy you know has been switched out with someone entirely different.
Only this time, it just as quickly disappears, and he lets go of your wrist, quickly pulling his hand to himself.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that–I’m just—” he apologizes with a stutter, looking startled.
He puts his face in his hands. Then there's a sound—close to a sob.
“I’m just a mess without you.”
Goosebumps rise on the surface of your skin when hearing it. And swallowing thickly, you sit back down again, albeit a bit begrudgingly. But spotting how he trembles, you just can’t stop feeling sorry for him.
You sigh. “No, you’re not. You just…” Reaching across the table, you stroke his arm. “You just lose your head a little sometimes, that’s all.”
He peaks up from his hands. A sheen under his eyes reflects the ceiling light, and your heart twists in your chest.
He really is a mess.
“But I know you…” you try smiling. “You were always destined for greatness.”
He takes your offered hand in his, stroking it, then sniffs, voice fluttering weakly, “Yeah, well…”
He keeps his head low, resting it in his other hand as if he just couldn't muster the strength to sit straight or even attempt to pull himself together.
“If I'm so great, why wouldn’t you stay?”
He sounds as if he’s been holding things back for the entirety of the year since you left. Broken now... it's all spilling out.
“Because," you start, even though your throat’s tight and you’re fighting back tears of your own, your mind hasn’t changed.
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need to make a femme cockwarm my strap while watching a movie, keeping her held down by her hips and slapping her clit every time she moves.
tease her as we get further into it, run my hands over the sensitive parts of her skin, purposefully shift so she feels me move inside of her, whisper the filthiest things in her ear while i sit there and watch her get needier and needier.
“look at you, all dumbed out on my cock, i haven’t even fucked you yet, baby”
“do you always get this wet when you’re filled up, princess?”
“your clit must be so swollen by now, poor thing, can you feel it throbbing yet?”
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(i think its SO hot when your beloved comes back from the dead a little wrong and while their face still brings you comfort you slowly realize that all the warmth was replaced by cold cruelty but im not a writer so someone else should write it and make it hurt)
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For safe handling, always remember to clearly label whether your toxic yuri is neurotoxic, hemotoxic, infectious, corrosive, radioactive, carcinogenic, mutagenic, or other.
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