Laito Sakamaki was a flirt. A freak of nature amongst men that was like a constant blood stain on a white shirt - staining and spreading. One droplet in the wrong spot and you’d ruin the entire cloth, there was simply no cutting him out.

Let his ideals spread, and he’d catch like wildfire, burning under the belief of sexual rage and unfitting desire. Carnal and ravaging at best. Screaming and crawling at its cage like a trapped dog, every filthy word that left his lips was another attempt at digging under someone’s skin - he was never picky with his options, but he certainly had his favorites.

But there was always this off look about him. Under the constant charade of lust and lying, there was a trace of something - barely noticeable. It would take a person to be really close with him - not the kind of close where he’d have them in bed, bare and sweaty with foreheads pressed together.

But the kind of close it would take for a child to open up about its biggest fear, like a nightmare that’s plagued them, like the first time they ever told mommy or daddy they hated them - just to see what was wrong. It was miserable, getting this close means you’d have to kick the dog, and nobody wanted that, nobody wanted to see the hurt they’d have to face from a starving dog’s ribs being shattered.

But littered in those jade green eyes, beyond the sadistic gazes and biting you with his words (or his actual fangs), you’d just see a little boy. A little boy who just thought he was making his mother happy - who simply thought he was being a good boy. But every good boy can only go so far before the look in his eyes change - before the look of hope and excitement at praise can wither, but it was long since gone, the excitement he felt for when his mother would praise him.

Desperation, and a want to survive.

—

It was always shocking when Laito would stumble into your room late at night, no matter how many times he’d done it before. The arm that snagged around your waist, chest pressing strongly to your back. Even the soft sniffling of what you could only presume to be crying. It was something you could never get used to.

His quiet begging for you to not look at him - to grant him the one luxury despite him taking so much already. He always felt so guilty for his actions the day of. But he’d always resort to them, once again. A constant and never ending loop.

It was barely surprising anymore, the shifting of your hair on his fingers - his eyes so mockingly looking over you, like he could rip you apart at any point and you would just have to thank him - you wouldn’t doubt he’d do it, too.

He stared at you, just like a wolf would, and you were unfortunately his prey.

“Why don’t you spend the day with me?” He practically purred.