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pink magnolia, part two

washio tatsuki doesn’t need love. he needs drugs, women, and people to stop making him work so damn hard. a chance meeting with a daycare worker flips that all upside down and changes him—for the good and the bad.

pairing: mafia underboss washio tatsuki x daycare worker f!reader with hair, 7.9k, part two of two (nsfw, 18+, minors dni)

warnings: pregnancy, graphic depictions of murder/death, depictions of abuse, depictions of drug use, depictions of withdrawal, heavy degradation, breeding kink, mentioned pregnancy kink, implied stalking, family man washio?!

thanks to: i owe @vanille–kiss and @anime-nymph my life <3 <3 <3 betaing and ideas are mostly all them and i am forever thankful!

banner by the amazing @vanille–kiss — please go check out her works!! she is amazing!

tagging: @hqintheclub, @anime-central, @stargirl2898, @erinoikawa, @betheydochaos, @miyarinrin, @antique-remains, @theoriginaleclipse, @rinsangel, @sleepy-demon-baby, @jojowantstocry, sunaspillowprincess, bresilienne-ami, @kittycatkrissa, @scentedflower

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part one || part two || black petunia || red peony || white lily || mafia au masterlist

That’s all it was supposed to be. One date, one more chance to fuck you until all you could sob was his name. It started like that anyway—you bent over the love motel bed, the chair, the tub, juices flowing down your thighs and tears flowing from your eyes.

Then it was another and another. He convinced himself it was only right to wine and dine you before fucking you silly; it’s what you deserved for being his good little slut, for taking his cock so well, drool sliding down your chin as you sucked on his fingers. This was good enough for the both of you.

Until it wasn’t, because you were adamant you wanted more than that. You wanted someone to call your own; someone who had no problem calling you their girlfriend; someone who had no issue showing you off, arm slung over your shoulder, your waist, your ass, all to prove you were taken. Washio Tatsuki didn’t do ‘girlfriends’. He did late night fucks and lines of coke before gambling his money away, wandering hands groping at everything he could find.

And yet he said yes, God fucking knows why. Maybe it was how good you took him; maybe it was how you challenged him whenever he pissed you off. Or maybe it was the fact that he looked at his phone a lot more now, his face softening up whenever you texted him, heart racing whenever he skipped the poker parlors and went to your apartment instead.

So one date turned into one month that turned into one year. One whole fucking year, summed up into one expensive dinner, one tight black dress, one night where he didn’t let you leave bed once, making you cum over and over again on his fingers, his tongue, his cock. One year of you ignoring the red flags he knows you see—the lack of details about his “security” job, the amount of times he has to slip out late at night and comes back “acting strange”, the feigned ignorance about his tattoos, the refusal to move in together even though he’s basically living in your apartment anyway. One year of hiding who he is: the hits of cocaine, the hits on his winning poker hands, the hits that Suna sends him on in the name of the Raijin clan.

You don’t say anything when he comes to you, surely smelling like iron from whoever’s blood. You always welcome him with arms thrown over his shoulders, a smile after you kiss him, warm dinners that you made from scratch. It feels like home, not that Washio knows what home even means after the way he grew up. He thought Kana might know, but her shitty husband walked out a few months ago after stealing her money—well, Washio’s money—and running. (Though he gladly gave it back after Washio broke four of his fingers with a hammer.)

It’s not even a week after the celebration when you text him.

Can you come over? I need to talk to you.

Bad fucking timing, considering that he’s already on the tail of some businessman who decided that threatening to call the police after he lost hundreds of thousands of yen was a good idea. His phone sits heavy in his pocket as he follows the businessman home, and your message burns into his brain, even as he wraps his arms around the man’s neck and drags him into the nearest alley.

The fuck is that message supposed to mean? Are you really about to break up with him now? He’s not going to let you, if that’s what you want. He’s been happy; he never thought he’d be able to use that word in his goddamn life, never thought he’d be able to—

It’s the distraction the businessman needed. Washio didn’t realize his grip had become weaker until his head bounces off the brick building behind him and the businessman struggles to get free. Fuck, that hurt. His head sears with pain, radiating in his skull and spreading all the way to his eyes. The man is able to slip from his grip thanks to the dizziness in Washio’s head and his blurred vision, but it isn’t for long.

Washio lunges after him, tackling him to the wet ground and wrapping his arms around his neck. The businessman chokes and sputters, hands scratching at Washio’s long sleeves to no avail. It isn’t long before he grows limp and quiet in his strong hold, arms falling down to the ground and not moving. Washio hides the body behind a few garbage bags and dials Sarukui, ordering him to come retrieve it. Usually he’d do it himself but he feels like he’s about to throw up—whether from the smack to his head or your message, he isn’t sure—and he’s on the way to your place without waiting.

The pain only gets worse on the way over, and when you open the door for him, he nearly collapses in your arms. You gasp, pulling him into the apartment and helping him over to your couch. His phone and his wallet fall out of his coat when you tug it off for him, and you set them on the coffee table before examining his head.

“You’re bleeding, Tatsuki! What happened?”

“It’s fine, just need to—”

“We should go to the hospital, it’s—”

“I said it’s fine,” he growls out, taking a deep breath. It’s hard to think when his head is pounding this bad. “Just need meds and a shower.”

“Okay,” you relent quietly, helping him stand again. “I’ll get it for you.”

He takes the offered medicine before he wanders off to your shower, letting the hot water flow over his body for much too long. His head stings when the water hits his wound, but luckily it’s not bleeding anymore when he steps out. The pounding in his head has lessened, but he’s still tired, in pain, and ready to go the fuck to sleep.

But then he remembers why he rushed over here in the first place and curses.

He slips into an extra pair of his clothes from your bedroom before he pads back out to the living room, ruffling the back of his wet hair.

“What do you want to talk—”

“Who is Suna Rintarou?” It takes Washio a moment to realize the phone you're holding isn’t your own. It’s his, probably from when you helped him out of his jacket, and you’re clutching onto it so tightly he thinks it might break. There are tears in your eyes as you whisper, “He’s called you four times now. Who is he?”

“He’s my boss.”

“And… and why is he asking about a body?”

What?

It only takes two steps for him to be on you, ripping the phone from your hands and checking the message.

No body. You better find him quickly or you’ll be joining him. This is your only fucking warning.

“Fuck. Fuck,” he growls, stuffing the phone in his sweatpants’ pocket. “Fuck, I gotta go, I’ll be back—”

“Tatsuki!” You shrill, clinging to his arms so he can’t move. “What… what is going on, what is he talking about?”

Washio is silent as he stares at you, considering it for a moment. You were always going to find out sooner or later. There was no way he could keep up the charade of being a hardworking, innocent man forever. But he didn’t want you to find out like this, especially not after he fucked up and pissed Suna off.

You tug on his shirt with a quiet exhale.

“Tatsuki.”

“You already fucking know,” he answers.

Washio thinks he feels his heart breaking when your face drops and you stumble back, bottom lip trembling as you stare at the tattoos underneath his short-sleeved t-shirt. Your breathing picks up, an exhale turning into a sob when you put your hand over your mouth.

“You—…. You’re not…. You’re part of the… Everything you told me was a lie?”

“Not everything.”

“I believed in you.” Tears stream down your face as you stare at him. “Please tell me you aren’t part of the mob, Tatsuki. Please. Tell me you’re lying.”

He can’t. He obviously fucking can’t, but he sure wants to because he can’t stand the betrayed look on your face and the way you can’t even look at him.

“Look—”

“Get out.” It’s so quiet that he barely even hears it, but when it registers, his heart sinks to his stomach and anchors there. “Get out and don’t come back.”

He takes a step closer to you. “Fuck, I—”

“Get out!” You yell, small fists pushing him away before they strike his chest again and again. Your punches don’t hurt him in the least, but they feel like knives plunging deep into his heart over and over again. “You’re a liar and I trusted you. I trusted you, and you—” A sob cuts you off and you push him with surprising force, making him stumble back two steps. “I loved you. I love you, but I can’t be with you if our entire relationship was a lie.”

“For fuck’s sake, I told you it’s not, you have to believe me—”

“How am I supposed to believe you when—”

“Just shut the fuck up already and listen—”

A shrill ring and vibration cut you both off, and Washio looks down at his phone. Suna Rintarou. Fuck, he can’t do this right now. He needs to find the businessman and finish what he started before anything else, and then he can come back and make you listen to him. He nearly shatters his screen with how hard he clutches onto it, and he lets it go two more rings before he slides the answer button.

“Yeah, Boss.”

“Where the fuck are you? Sarukui has eyes on him at his house. If you aren’t there in fifteen minutes, consider yourself dead.”

“...Yes, Boss.”

“Get your head out of your ass and get it together.”

The line goes dead immediately, but Washio doesn’t move. He stares at your blotchy face, at the bags beneath your eyes, at the shaking finger you point towards the door.

“Leave. I don’t want to see you.”

He has to go. Washio knows he does or he won’t be alive to see tomorrow’s sunrise, but every single part of him is begging him to stay, begging him to grab onto your shoulders and bring you into his arms, just like always. Grumble that it’ll be okay, that you’re going to be okay, if you just listen to him.

But he can’t.

“I’ll be back,” he says quietly before he grabs his wallet and coat.

“Don’t—“

“I said I’ll be back.”

Then he slips from your apartment, leaving the echoing sound of your sobs behind.

It’s easy to slip into the businessman’s house; it’s even easier to pull the gun from his belt and shoot him in his bedroom. A quick glance through the man’s phone shows he hasn’t called or messaged anyone, so at least Washio isn’t a dead man walking just yet. Poor bastard probably thought he had enough time to pack and get to safety before calling for help. The bullet in his chest proves that’s false.

Washio calls for the cleaners, this time staying to supervise as they wipe all evidence of wrongdoing away. When the job is finished and the coast is clear, he slips out of the house, but doesn’t make it more than five steps before Sarukui whistles for him. Washio glances up at the CCTV a few yards away. He’s sure the forensic team they hired is already working on wiping the data to make it look like no one was there, so there’s no one to watch Washio slip into the waiting car and drive off.

The base is quiet when they arrive, and Sarukui says nothing as he leads Washio to Suna’s office. Last time he messed up, he lost a third of his ear thanks to insubordination. What will it be this time? His whole ear? A hand? Washio wouldn’t put it past Suna to stab him and leave him for dead like Washio mistakenly did with the businessman.

When he steps into the office and sees seven members of the Raijin clan standing against the wall, he knows it’s going to be so much worse.

Suna regards him from behind his desk, arms folded over his chest.

“Washio.”

Washio bows his head. “Boss.”

“Sit.”

The chair on the other side of the desk has been removed, so Washio lowers himself to his knees and sets his hands on his thighs.

“What should I do with you, Washio?”

The room is deathly quiet, tension as strained as the angry look on Suna’s face. He hasn’t looked this pissed off since Washio challenged him for the clan head role over a year ago. He leans forward in his chair, setting his elbows on the desk.

“Well?”

“You should kill me, Boss.”

“Hm.”

Washio can feel every pair of eyes in the room drilling in the back of his pounding head, his eyes crossing as he stares at Suna’s annoyed expression. The radiating pain in the back of his skull comes back full force, and the heat creeping through his veins threatens to suffocate him.

“Do you deserve to be killed, Washio?”

“Yes, Boss.”

“Why?”

God, this is embarrassing. He feels like a high school student again, powerless to authority, unable to do anything under Suna’s watchful eye.

“I didn’t finish the job and almost got the clan in trouble.”

“Right.” Suna drums his fingers against the desk a few times before he says, “I didn’t realize I had such a dumb fuck as my underboss.” The leather chair squeaks when he stands up, leather shoes clicking on the flooring as he comes to rest against the side of the desk. “Should I find someone else?”

Washio swallows. Maybe this really is it for him. Should he beg for his life? Say it’ll never happen again? Tell Suna the reason he was distracted and the reason his head won’t stop fucking pounding?

“Answer me.”

“…Yes, Boss. You should.”

“Who?” Suna glances around the room to the others standing around, watching the scene unfold. “Who should replace you?”

Washio thinks about it for a moment, but as soon as he opens his mouth to answer, Suna puts his hand up.

“Actually, don’t tell me who I should get. Tell me why it shouldn’t be you.”

How fucking humiliating.

Washio tries not to show the tremble in his voice or the anger lacing his words when he responds, “I’m irresponsible. Reckless. Untrustworthy.”

“And?”

Suna stares at him with those fox-like eyes, and Washio immediately knows what the boss is looking for. The one thing he swore to himself not to be anymore the minute he entered the clan. The one thing he promised Suna he wouldn’t be the moment he became underboss.

The one thing he hates admitting out loud.

“…Useless.”

“Hm.”

Suna disregards him as easily as garbage, eyes flicking to the men standing around the room.

“One hit each and you can leave.”

Washio sits there and takes it, punch after punch to his cheeks as the other clan members get their fill then shuffle from the room. He doesn’t say anything, even as his cheeks burn and blood trickles from his busted lip. Eventually it’s only him and Suna left, and the boss walks closer before slapping his left cheek, then his right cheek.

He keeps his eyes trained forward on the desk, fists tight on his thighs, or else Washio thinks he would fall over. Everything hurts—his head, his cheeks, his heart. But most of all, his pride. He’s spent the last decade of his life trying to become a necessary member of the clan, making sure he did everything he could to gain power and stay alive. Now he was only the underboss in name: he’d lost the trust and prestige that came with the title, regulated to just another useless recruit in the eyes of the others.

“Don’t disappoint me again.”

“Yes, Boss.”

Washio doesn’t look at anyone on the way out. He leaves the base, grabbing the first taxi he can catch at the late hour, and immediately tells the driver your address. It takes way too fucking long because he has to pull over to vomit on the side of the road twice. He’s shaking by the time he reaches your apartment, twisting your doorknob, and—

It won’t open.

It catches on a piece of furniture, only opening a few inches. He can see the lights are on and the shadow of something near the kitchen. He tries the door again but it catches no matter how many times he tries to slam it open.

“Open the door,” he says. Quietly at first, then louder when you don’t answer him. “Open the fucking door.”

He hears you. Hears your light sob, the stuttered gasp you’re trying to hide. Washio tries the knob again, slamming the door a few times to no avail.

“I know you’re there. Let me fucking explain. Just… just open the door so we can talk.”

“Tatsuki, please,” you whimper, deathly quiet and shaky with tears. “Go away.”

He doesn’t know what comes over him. Washio starts kicking and punching the door, throwing his shoulder at it over and over, determined to get it open and make you talk to him. The wood cracks; the door slams against the blockade; but it doesn’t budge more than a few inches.

“Please—just—fuck! Don’t fucking do this, let me in.”

“Tatsuki, stop—”

“I’m calling the police!” A shrill, old voice calls from across the hall, muffled by their closed door.

Fuck, this can’t be happening. You can't be doing this to him. He needs you now more than ever; needs you to wrap your arms around him and whisper that you love him, press a kiss to his forehead before you curl up to his side. But the room is silent as he stands there, heart pounding in his ears harder than the pounding in his head. You don’t say anything; you don’t move an inch, your shadow on the ground completely still when he checks one last time.

He punches the door one more time, swears under his breath, and turns around.

Washio always heard that there were some things worse than dying. He never believed it—what could be worse than sitting six feet under, forgotten by all those you care about, their lives continuing without you while your body rotted for bugs to feast on?

But as he descends the stairs, tears blurring his vision, he wishes Suna would have just fucking killed him to end the suffering he feels right now.

A shiver runs down his body as soon as he’s done snorting.

Washio wipes the tip of his nose with his thumb, licking off the excess cocaine before shaking his head. It always hits just right when he’s like this, always makes him feel the best when he’s at his worst.

You aren’t answering his messages or his calls, not that he expected you to. Still, he kept trying, kept calling over and over to no avail, sure that this time would be the charm. When one of the underlings at the parlor pulled the bag of white powder out and asked if he wanted a hit, his response was immediate. He needed something to take the edge off, something to make his head stop hurting so much.

His face is still slightly swollen and bruised from the punches, but he can’t feel it as soon as his high hits. His fingers shake as he grabs onto his phone again. 6:17 PM. You’re at the daycare now, like you always are. If you’re not going to answer his calls and texts, then maybe you’ll answer his knocks on the daycare door instead. He’s reckless as he drives over there, going much too fast to arrive in no time, taking up two spots in the parking lot.

As he stalks over, he sees you handing off one of the students to a parent in the middle of the walkway. They walk away just as you spot him approaching. You don’t have time to turn or run—his hands are around your upper arms and tugging you close, even as you struggle in his grip.

“Tatsuki, let me go!”

“Why the fuck aren’t you answering my calls, huh?”

“Not… not here, please—”

“There is nowhere else to go because you’re fucking avoiding me!” He yells before pulling back, hands so tight on your shoulders that it makes you wince. “What the fuck else am I supposed to do?!”

You stare at him strangely, head tilting to the right as you look at his sweaty forehead and dilated pupils. “Are… are you high?”

“That doesn’t matter—”

“It does matter!” You shout, knocking his hands away from you and taking a step back. Your face twists with a few different emotions—surprise, disappointment, hatred—until it settles into a melancholy frown, your lips trembling. “You need to leave. We can talk when you’re sober.”

“I don’t believe that for a minute.” He runs his hand through his hair, shaking his head a few times as he starts to pace around. “If I leave here, you’re never gonna fucking answer me again, are you? You’re gonna call the cops on me just like your fucking neighbor—”

“No, I—”

“Don’t lie to me—”

“Tatsuki, please.” There’s a sob in your voice, and you put a hand over your mouth to keep from crying. “Please stop this! I can’t be stressed right now. The doctor says it’s—”

You immediately stop talking, your eyes widening as you stare at him. It feels like someone dumped a bucket of cold water over him, his body going numb as he watches the tears cascade down your cheeks. He tries to formulate an answer, but the only thing buzzing around his mind is a horrified, “What?”

“You—you should go.”

“What the fuck are you talking about? What doctor? Are you sick?”

“No, I—” A pause. A deep breath. “I’m pregnant.”

Jesus fucking Christ. How is that possible? He’s always worn a condom because you said birth control makes you sick. There hasn’t been an accident or a condom break ever, so how?

“You fucking serious?”

You nod slowly, a protective hand over your stomach as you whisper. “I went to the doctor this morning. I’m seven weeks, but I had some bleeding so he said I shouldn’t be stressed—”

“Oh my God.” He’s pacing again, tugging at his hair as his mind whirls. Pregnant. Is this what you wanted to talk about last night? This can’t be happening. Did he do something in a past life to deserve all of his shitty karma? “Fuck, and you wanna keep it?”

You face pinches angrily when you reply, “Of course I do.”

“You gotta get rid of it.”

It tumbles from his lips so easily that for a second, it doesn’t even feel like he said it out loud. But he must have, because the hand over your stomach reaches out and immediately swings. The slap you send to his cheek stings when it makes contact, and your hand clenches into a fist before it drops down by your side.

“How dare you.”

“Fuck… listen, I didn’t mean it.”

“How dare you,” you repeat angrily, taking another step away from him. It feels like you’re fading away and if he doesn’t grab hold, he’ll never have you again. “I know this isn’t you, Tatsuki. I choose to believe it’s the drugs talking and not the man I fell in love with.” He tries to interrupt you again but you put your hand up and shake your head. “I’m keeping the baby, so don’t you dare try and show your face to me again unless you’re ready to be a father. Until then, I don’t want to see you.”

“Wait. Wait, just give me a goddamn second—”

“I’ll give you all the time you need,” you tell him quietly, dodging the hand that reaches out for you with another shake of your head. “Don’t contact me until then.”

Then you turn on your heel and rush back inside, leaving him alone in the walkway with only the chirp of the crickets and the flutter of the pink magnolias as they fall to the pavement.

Washio knows he needs to stop. Knows he needs to pull himself together, keep his nose out of the white powder, and focus on being a presentable man who deserves to stand at your side.

The problem is that he doesn’t know how.

It’s been five months since then. Five long months of no contact, of watching you from a distance as you work, of falling into bad habits the minute he turns away because he just isn’t ready. It’s easier to pretend his life is fine when he follows every single order Suna gives him, then goes back to the poker parlors and girls who used to make him happy. But he can’t bring himself to entertain them or sleep with them, even when they drape themselves over his lap and nearly beg for it—so he throws himself into the drugs instead, just so he can feel alive like he used to with you.

Except now if he goes more than a day without it, his body starts shaking, aching and tired until he gets his next fix to make the pain go away. But he doesn’t care—as long as he has his next hit, that’s all he gives a fuck about, because it’s not like he has you waiting for him at home anymore.

He goes to the daycare like he does every morning, watching you climb out of your car and walk up to the building so he can make sure you’re alright. Something about today is different. You get out of the car like normal, fixing your bag over your shoulder, and then turn back because you forgot your phone inside. It takes Washio a moment to realize what it is.

You’re showing.

It’s a warm September day so you’re not wearing a jacket like you have been the past couple weeks. Your long-sleeved t-shirt is enough, and it clings to your stomach as you walk inside and disappear behind the front door. Fuck, it’s real, isn’t it? He’s really going to be a father, really going to have a brat to raise in a few short months.

His own father had been a piece of shit, Kaito’s father just as absent now that the divorce was finalized. He can’t do that to his kid. While he probably won’t be the world’s greatest parent, he needs to be there to watch them grow. To help them stay on a good path because he was never able to. To make a happy place to come home to because that’s all he’s ever fucking wanted.

Washio sets his head against the steering wheel and closes his eyes. He doesn’t know how long he sits there but it’s at least a few hours. When he’s finally ready, he pulls out of the parking lot and heads to Suna’s apartment where he knows the boss will be. Lucky for him, Suna’s med school girl is also there, looking thoroughly fucked as she makes some tea in the kitchen.

“I need your help,” he says to her, eyes flicking over to Suna and back. It’s hard to form the words; hard to make himself spit it out. “I gotta detox.”

“From what?”

“Cocaine.”

“There’s not much I can do,” the girl tells him honestly. “Maybe an IV for fluids and keeping you monitored, but it’s more psychological than physical. Cravings will be intense and you might feel suicidal.” She pauses, glancing over at Suna before asking, “Do you have someone to watch over you?”

He swallows, looking out the large living room windows because he refuses to look at either of them. “No. I’m alone.”

“Then you should stay here.”

“He has his own apartment—” Suna begins to say, but his girlfriend tuts in annoyance.

“I can watch over him after my classes. Make sure he’s fine. It’s only for a week, Rin.”

“Goddamnit, Washio,” Suna grumbles as he stands from the couch. “Always have to make trouble, don’t you?”

Washio laughs, a bitter and hollow sound compared to his usual ones. Trouble. That’s been his middle name since he can remember, starting with the sandbox fights he used to get into as a kid and ending with a bullet in the chest of some businessman who is “missing with no leads.” Suna’s girl sets up a room for him and Washio doesn’t miss the irony. It’s the same one he was stuck in for days, watching over one of the sick, trafficked girls after he lost to Suna in that fight for power. Now it’s not some trafficked girl who is getting hooked up to a bag of fluids but him—the guy who complained that it wasn’t even worth it to help those women.

Karma’s a bitch, isn’t it?

It only takes a few hours for him to feel the first effects. His body is tired and achy, sweat pooling at his brow as he trembles. Suna’s girl gives him those IV fluids but it does jack shit. He sleeps the night away, tossing and turning with the need to get another hit. It’s early morning when his eyes pop open, cleared of the needle in his arm, and though he tries to force himself back to sleep, it’s impossible with his brain screaming at him to find more cocaine as soon as possible.

He’s about to leave the room when he hears Suna’s voice.

“Sakusa said he’d bought three times more than usual in the last couple months but I didn’t think it was all for him.”

“He’s going through something, Rin,” his girlfriend responds quietly. “I think he and his girl broke up a few months ago and he’s taking it hard.”

“Hm.”

“Oh, please,” the girl laughs. “Don’t look at me like that. I still remember how bad you looked after our break up. Love makes you do stupid things.”

Love.

Washio holds the doorknob tightly, setting his forehead on the wood of the door. Does he love you? He doesn’t even have to think about it. ‘Yes’ floats through his mind immediately. He’s never said it but he’s tried to show it—small gifts of jewelry he knows you like, holding you to his chest whenever you watch a movie, eating your cooking even when he hates the dish. Would things have changed if he admitted it out loud? Would you have forgiven him if he finally uttered those three fucking words?

He lets go of the doorknob and trudges back over to the bed, throwing himself down on it. He’s gotta do this for you and the baby, no matter how badly his mind is screaming at him to get more.

He lasts only two more days before he breaks.

If he stays in that room any longer, he thinks he might go insane. The walls have been closing in on him, making it hard to break and even think. The only thing running through his mind is darkness. His life was so much easier when he didn’t give a shit, when he didn’t have a care in the world and only needed to think about himself. Now everything hurts and he’s pretty sure he’s better off dead than stuck in a room that makes him feel claustrophobic for the rest of his life.

The minute he walks outside, he heads straight for the front door. It’s too much to handle; he has to have his fix, has to call Sakusa and get another hit before he loses it. He’s got one foot in his shoe when someone clears their throat.

Suna stands behind him, arms crossed over his chest.

“Where are you going?”

“I gotta go, Boss.”

“No, you don’t.” He looks as bored as usual, shaking his head. “Go take a shower. You don’t want to do this.”

“You don’t—” Washio clenches his fists at his sides. “You don’t fucking get it, Boss.”

“Tatsuki.” The use of his first name makes Washio blink in surprise. “I don’t need to understand to know you’re making a mistake. Take your shoe off.”

“Fuck you, Rin, as if you care about me.”

“I care enough, it’s why you’re still fucking alive after all the bullshit,” Suna counters with narrowed eyes. “Shower.”

“You don’t get to tell me what to do.”

“That’s an order, Tatsuki.”

Washio doesn’t know what comes over him. He throws his shoe off and charges at Suna, swinging at his boss. He’s tired, lethargic, barely on top of his game, so it’s easy for Suna to grab his wrist and twist it behind his back. Washio winces and tries to get free, but his body is betraying him, weak from withdrawal and days of non-use.

“God—fuck—just let me go, Rin, I need—”

“You need to go take a shower,” Suna repeats, squeezing down on Washio’s wrist so hard he winces. “Now. Before I knock your ass out and make you.”

Washio doesn’t look back at Suna when the boss pushes him away, toward the bathroom at the end of the hall. He sits under the spray for what feels like hours, letting scalding hot water nearly burn the skin of his back off until he’s ready to leave. How long is this going to last? He can’t keep going on like this, wishing for everything to end, wanting something to come and end his suffering.

He forces himself to stay in that room another few days until the shaking has subsided; until the cravings aren’t as intense; until he feels like he can breathe again, the fog lifted, a small light appearing at the end of a very painful and very fucking dark tunnel. When he walks out to the living room, Suna and his girl are leaning against the island in the kitchen, tongues shoved down each others’ throats.

“I’m leaving,” he declares before turning toward the front door, and the med student’s horrified squeak makes him chortle.

“Wait! Wait, Washio-san.” She approaches quickly, worry plastered all over her pretty face. “Someone should go with you, just in case.”

“M’fine.”

“The worst has passed but you can still fall back into bad habits if you go—”

“I’m not going to the parlor,” he promises. He doesn’t look at her as he slips on his shoes. “I’m going home and then I’m going to see her.”

It’s quiet for a moment before the girl nods. “Good luck.”

The worst has passed. Somehow, Washio thinks as the front door clicks closed behind him, he isn’t sure that’s true at all.

Three days.

It takes him three days to actually get out of the car and approach your daycare.

He’s been back to the parlors and clubs, keeping an eye on patrons and dealing with them if they get too rowdy. It was the most difficult thing of his life to decline the hit an underling offered him—he could taste the cocaine on his tongue, feel the rush through his system as he stared at the small baggie—but he did it. He fucking did it. He walked out of the place and immediately came to see you, watching your shadow through the windows to make sure you were doing alright until you locked up and went home.

Washio honestly doesn’t know if he’s ready to beg for your forgiveness but your co-worker forces his hand. It’s usually only you by yourself in the mornings, but today you stand outside with some older woman who looks like she ate some bad tamagoyaki for breakfast. He slips closer to hear what the woman is saying, blood boiling under his skin when he realizes it’s about him.

“—showing, I don’t think it’s appropriate to come to work.”

“I don’t see why it wouldn’t be,” you answer calmly. “Others have gotten pregnant with no issue.”

“They are married. Having an unwed mother is an embarrassment for our daycare and to our clientele. Do you even know who the father is?”

“Of course I do…!”

“Baby,” he interrupts without thinking as he steps forward. He’s never called you baby in his life, but this woman’s pompous attitude is pissing him off. If he were Raijin clan underboss Washio Tatsuki, he’d show her exactly what her sharp tongue would get her. But right now he’s only Washio Tatsuki, your former lover and father of your baby.

You both turn to him and your eyes widen when you see him, your voice a breathy whisper. “Tatsuki…?”

“You forgot your phone this morning,” he lies as he passes you his phone, keeping his hand clutched around yours even though he knows he should pull away. He can’t let go now that he’s finally touching you again, now that he finally is strong enough to stand before you and be the man you need him to be.

“T-Thank you,” you mumble as you use your free hand to set it in your purse.

“You’ve become so forgetful since getting pregnant with our kid, huh? Thought I’d drop it off but—” He glances at the old woman from the corner of his eye with a frown. He almost smirks when she gulps and takes a small step back. “We have a problem?”

“No, no, it’s alright,” you try to placate him, and he almost leaps out of his skin when your hand comes to rest on his upper arm, squeezing once. “This is the owner of the daycare. We were only talking.”

“Oh good, cause I thought I heard something weird.” He hasn’t taken his laser-like eyes off of the owner once, and his stretched smile grows when she quickly shakes her head.

“There’s no issue. Have a good day, both of you.”

As soon as the owner scurries away, you drop your hand from his arm, but he’s quick to grab it, holding onto it like it’s his lifeline keeping him afloat. You both don’t say anything, only staring at each other while the fall breeze whips around you. There’s so many conflicting emotions on your face, your eyebrows raising and dropping, your mouth parting and closing, and he’s sure he isn’t looking much better.

Washio takes a deep breath and immediately drops to his knees. You gasp at the suddenness of it, but he ducks his head down in apology, hands on his thighs.

“M’sorry.” Washio can’t remember the last time he apologized to anyone, but an apology here doesn’t seem like enough for what he’s put you through. “Fuck, I don’t know what else to say.”

“I want to hear everything,” you whisper, and he forces himself to look up and meet your eye. “Don’t lie to me anymore.”

So he does. He tells you about being underboss in the Raijin clan; talks about how he became addicted to drugs and went through withdrawal a few days ago; mentions his shitty father and his drug addict mother and how he refuses to become a useless man like that. You stand in front of him the entire time, listening quietly as he spills his heart like some lame ass romance novel, and when he’s finally done blubbering, you exhale softly.

“If I asked you to leave the clan—”

“I can’t do that. Suna would kill me the second I asked,” he immediately answers, hands clenching even harder on his thighs.

“I’m supposed to just accept this, then?” You whisper, and it hurts his heart to hear how defeated you sound. “Accept who you are and what you do?”

“You don’t have to. I can’t make you do anything. Fuck, if I could, we wouldn’t be here.” Washio runs a hand over his mouth before setting it back on his thigh. “But... what I can do is treat you right. I can protect you and provide for you. Give you everything you need. If you give me another chance, I’ll prove it every day of my fucking life.”

“Tatsuki, I don’t know…”

“I love you.” His sudden confession makes you gasp, and he finally reaches out, grabbing hold of your hands and bringing them in front of his chest. “I fuckin’ mean it, too. Give me a chance and I’ll show you.”

You let him hold your hands for a moment before you shift, lifting them so you can take his cheeks between your palms. There’s a half-smile on your face when you whisper, “Our daughter needs her father.”

“Daughter?” He looks down at your bump and exhales sharply. “Fuck.”

“Do you want to feel her?” You ask. “She’s kicking right now.”

Shit, he’s missed so much. You guide his hands to your stomach, and it only takes a moment for him to feel it. A tiny little shift, then a decently powerful kick that makes him pull back in surprise. You laugh, hands on his wrists when he leans forward to feel it again, his fingers shaking when the baby kicks one more time.

“She really is my fuckin’ kid, huh? Already a fighter.”

“You’re going to have to watch your mouth,” you complain with a pout. “I don’t want her first word to be ‘fuck.’”

“Don’t think I can do that,” he laughs dryly.

“Tatsuki,” you whisper, one hand running up his arm until your fingers are beneath his chin and his attention is on you. “I still don’t trust you… but I need you too, so don’t you dare do this to me anymore. I can’t go through this again.”

“Then you accept me?”

“No, and I don’t think I ever will,” you answer honestly. “But… I’ll try if you do because you’re not getting another chance.”

Washio can only nod, afraid that if he opens his big mouth, he’ll ruin the last chance he’s lucky to even get. Instead he leans forward, wrapping his arms around you and setting his forehead on your stomach, feeling the little kicks of his daughter growing in your stomach. Your fingers thread through his hair as he clings to you, and his quiet whisper of ‘thank you’ is lost in the breeze and chirping of the birds in the bare pink magnolia trees.

The house is quiet when he steps inside and slips his shoes off, locking the front door behind him. Washio pads to the bedroom, stretching out his sore neck on the way. The parlor had been annoying as fuck today, some stupid kids thinking they could swindle the dealer without him finding out. A few kicks to the sides and the stomach and the kids cried they’d never do it again before scurrying off. All he wants to do is shower and relax, but as soon as he opens the bedroom door, he immediately changes his mind.

You sit on the edge of the bed, pretty eyes blinking up at him as you play with the strap of your baby doll lingerie. It’s lacy red, hugging your tits and all the curves you gained after having his daughter three years ago. You bite your lip shyly, squeezing your legs together as you lick your lips.

“Welcome home.”

It’s amazing how easily you make him riled up, even after all this time. He’s on you in a minute, pushing you down to the bed and swallowing your squeal with a bruising kiss. It takes a bit of fumbling, but soon your hair is splayed out over the pillows and your fingers hurry to undo his dress shirt as he kisses and licks all around your neck.

“Where’s Mayu?”

“I dropped her off at Kana-san’s house,” you gasp when he bites down, nearly ripping his shirt open so you can push up his undershirt and feel his skin against you. You moan when he grinds his half-hard cock into your thigh, spreading your legs for him even more. “I wanted to—hng, to surprise you.”

“Fuck, you’re a needy slut,” he laughs, deep and hoarse into your shoulder.

You whimper at the name, wrapping your legs around his waist so you can rut your hips against his cock. “Wanted you so bad.”

“Yeah? You want me to fuck you until you can’t walk?” His fingers slip down your lingerie, playing with the high-cut edge near your thighs before slipping it aside. Washio runs his fingers up and down your folds, groaning when he realizes how wet you already are. “So fucking ready for me and we just started.”

“Tatsuki,” you whine, threading your fingers in his hair and tugging when he sucks on a sensitive part of your chest. “Fuck me, please.”

Washio can’t blame you for being desperate. It’s been so long since it’s been just the two of you. Nights have been filled with baby laughs and tears, exhausted naps, quickies in the bathroom and the kitchen as Mayu slept. But they’ve also been filled with smiles and squeals, stolen kisses, warm welcomes when he comes back to the house and falls into your arms, tired from the day’s work. He’s so wound up that he thinks he might burst in his pants, so he quickly undoes his slacks, jerking them and his underwear down so his cock can spring free.

“Fuck, you look so fucking pretty in this. Would be a shame to take it off.” He tugs the fabric even further to the side so he can run his cock up and down your folds, grinding against you as he smirks. “Wouldn’t it? You wanna be fucked in your lingerie like a needy little whore, don’t you?”

“Yes, yes,” you beg, fingers tugging off his shirt and undershirt, pulling him flush against you so you can kiss him. Your neediness shows in the sloppiness of your tongue and the way you hump his cock with a whine. Your tongue swirls around his, sucking when his cock bumps your clit, legs tightening around his sides. “Tatsuki, condom, now.”

Washio hesitates for a second, eyes sliding over to the nightstand where you keep the condoms. He could grab one, roll it on like normal, then fuck you seven ways til Sunday. But—

“Tatsuki?” You ask when he sits back on his haunches, fingers finding your clit and circling, making you whimper.

“I think I want another.”

Another little brat to dominate this place like it’s her little kingdom, the Washio family scowl on her face as she squeals, “Daddy, that’s my candy!” Another little girl to give uneven pigtails before daycare, holding her hand the entire way there. Another kid to watch play on the playground in between visits to businessmen who can’t keep their shit straight. Washio never thought he’d be saying that in his life, but here he is, two fingers slipping into your needy cunt, cock throbbing and begging to be inside and make it happen.

“How ‘bout it? Want me to make you a mommy again, huh? Stuff you full of my cum until you’re swollen with a second?”

“Yes,” you sigh, and there are happy tears lining your eyes when you spread your legs as far apart as you can, fingers holding open your lingerie so he gets a clear view of your needy and wet cunt. When you shift, the ring on your ring finger catches the light and makes him smile.

“Come here and give it to me.”

There’s no way he’s saying no to that.