#and things continue to get stranger from there.

[osarina]

ᡣ𐭩 A DEAL YOU CAN MAKE ON A MIDNIGHT WALK ALONE

FEATURING: dazai osamu

SUMMARY: dazai's worst nightmare has come true, and with you standing before him once again, he has no idea how to act or feel. he's angry. he's resentful. hateful. sad. hopeful. yearning. in love. there's so many emotions clouding his mind that he can hardly think straight. but he's sure of one thing: his run-in with you makes him realize that he'll do anything to get you back again.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: PART TWO IS HEREEEEE HEHEHEHEHE I HOPE U ENJOY - i rushed getting it together skfaizsjf so hopefully it's all ok. let me know if im missing any warnings. reblogs and comments always appreciated!!

GENERAL WARNINGS: fem!reader, port mafia boss!reader, civilian!dazai, mentions of past war crimes, ptsd, mentions of alcoholism, temporary amnesia, dazai is mentally unstable, so is reader, both of them are struggling LOL, grieving (reader), a bit of suicide ideation (that's a given from dazai, a little bit from reader too tho), as always: reader is part of the mafia, expect mafia behavior from her, she is not a good person.

SEE: THE LAND IS INHOSPITABLE (BUT ARE WE?) SERIES MASTERLIST

God is famous for his coincidences and absurdism. Dazai is all too familiar with it. Time and time again in his life, it’s been proven over and over. You and he are even the prime example of this: everything from the part you played in his family’s demise eight years ago to you unwittingly saving his life last year. 

But this? 

This can’t be real. 

This can’t possibly be happening. 

Dazai stares at you like you’re a ghost, the air whooshes out from his lungs, and his vision blurs and tunnels until all he can see is you. All of the other patrons of the bar fizzle out of space and time until only the two of you are left in the room, and Dazai just doesn’t know what to do. He’s still half convinced that this is a hallucination, a cruel trick—even an ability working on him would make more sense than you actually standing in front of him.

When he doesn’t respond to you, you raise your eyebrows at him, but he thinks that even if he wanted to respond, he wouldn’t be able to. His voice is stuck in his throat, along with a lump shaped suspiciously like his heart. He can’t get a grasp on his surroundings, and he’s starting to feel dizzy; his ears are ringing terribly, and his fight or flight instincts are triggered, but Dazai is just frozen. He can’t push himself off the chair to leave, he can’t speak, he can’t do anything.

This can’t be real, he thinks again, more desperately this time, but the longer he stares at you, the more real you become. You’re wearing a sleek black suit, the same one you were wearing when you called for the meeting with Fitzgerald to get Dazai back, and a dark coat over it, the same one you would drape over him when you came home to him passed out on the couch, and you’re beautiful, you’re as beautiful as Dazai remembers. More. Impossibly more. Though your eyes are much more tired and vacant than he last remembered them being, and you now wear a red scarf around your shoulders and a ribbon around your neck, it’s you standing a few feet away from him—there’s no mistaking it.

“I’ll take that as a no, then,” you continue conversationally when he remains silent, and to his horror, you make your way over to him. “You’re really familiar, though, maybe we’ve met in passing. Do you come around here often?”

Your words feel like knives jabbing into his back, and Dazai almost wants to cry, but he refrains with a thick swallow and a deep breath. He’s had nightmares about bumping into you on the streets and being slapped in the face with his new reality this way: that you have no idea who he is, that he’s a stranger to you when you’re still everything to him. He’s had nightmares, but he never thought those nightmares would become reality. You’re the boss of the Port Mafia now, what the fuck are you doing at some random bar without any protection?

He’s drawn out of his trancelike state once you’re standing next to him, and Dazai is acutely aware of the number of eyes on him now. The bartender is looking between the two of you with a concerned expression, and the other patrons aren’t slick in the way they keep casting nosy looks in your direction. It’s only when your gaze snaps up, an irritated expression crossing your face, that they all look away, and Dazai realizes a bit dreadfully that this must be a mafia establishment. 

Of course, it is, he thinks bitterly, no wonder he met you here the first time. 

The irritated expression is gone as quickly as it appears, replaced with a far more pleasant one as you look back down at him. 

For a moment—just a moment—Dazai’s chest swells with warmth because he can almost pretend it’s the same way you’d look at him when you’d come home to find him sitting at the piano trying to teach himself a song that he could only vaguely remember. A small smile curling at your lips, a soft expression on your face, and a fond look in your eyes that would make Dazai’s breath catch.

But he can’t pretend because it’s fake. Dazai can tell it’s fake—the small smile on your lips is disarming, and the soft expression is enchanting, but it’s not enough for him not to notice the way it doesn’t meet your eyes. Maybe it would be enough if he were anyone else in the world, but he’s not. He knows you well enough to catch what others would miss, and he’s so used to you looking at him with all three that the absence of one is glaring and unsettling.

It’s not right—none of this is right.

“No,” he finally answers your question when it becomes abundantly clear that you’re not going to move on until he addresses you. Does he want you to move on? Dazai doesn’t know; he can’t even bring himself to look away from you, trying to memorize your face before you disappear again. “I don’t come around here often.”

His voice is unbearably hoarse, and as your eyes trail over him curiously, Dazai becomes hyper-aware of how sloppily he’s dressed. His clothes are rumpled because he was lying in his futon for hours, and he hasn’t changed his bandages in days, so the ones on his wrist are yellowed and frayed at the edges. He tries to pull the sleeves of his tan coat down to cover them, but you’ve already caught sight of them from the way you squint and then look back up to his face.

“Hm,” is all you say in response, pulling out the stool next to him to sit down. You rest your elbow on the bar top and your chin on your hand as you look at him. Dazai wonders what you’re thinking; you’ve always been hard to read, but never more than now. “What’s your name?”

That lump is back in his throat, and the air around him feels too thin. Dazai almost struggles to breathe, but he doesn’t want to make a fool of himself. He’s finally able to bring himself to look away from you, staring down at his lap—his fingers are trembling, he notices absently, starting to feel oddly detached from the situation. He forcibly stills them, trying to get himself together before answering your question, but each passing second only makes him spiral more. 

What’s your name? 

The question rings through his head mockingly, and at once, the resentment he feels is back with a fervor. What’s your name, asks the woman who almost died trying to protect Dazai less than a year before. What’s your name, asks the woman who Dazai lived with for months. What’s your name, asks the woman who sacrificed everything, killed her own father, just to keep Dazai safe. What’s your name, asks the woman who Dazai loves because she wiped her memories of him after he begged her not to. 

It’s like a joke, he thinks so bitterly that he can taste it in his mouth. It’s putrid, disgusting—his life has always been a joke, but things finally started looking up once he met you. You gave him hope for the future, you made him want a future, and then you ripped it away from him, worse than anyone ever has before.

A joke.

“Don’t wanna tell me?” you ask easily, leaning back in your stool. The smile on your face is teasing, but it still doesn’t meet your eyes—he’s a bit unnerved by it. When he first met you, you were cold and aloof; you wanted nothing to do with him. He didn’t think you were even listening to him while he rambled; he’d been surprised when he ran into you the day after, and you remembered what he’d been saying. “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”

Are you… flirting with him?

The teasing tone, the small, flirty smiles, the way you’re putting in just enough effort that any other man would’ve been charmed—he would’ve been charmed if he didn’t know any better—is that what this is? Dazai suddenly feels unsettled. He thought maybe you came here to relax… take a break from work, like the first time he met you here. Maybe you were even just coming to drown out your sorrows like him, although that may just be wishful thinking on his part. The realization that you might’ve come here to find someone to fuck away whatever is clearly eating at you for the night didn’t cross his mind once until now. He doesn’t like it—something in his gut twists, and he thinks he might throw up. He blames it on the whiskey he’s been drinking, but he knows that’s not the real reason.

What if he hadn’t been the one here?

How many times has he not been the one here?

His suspicions from earlier were confirmed just like that, and Dazai is miserable about it.

“Dazai,” he finally tells you, throat spasming like it doesn’t kill him to have to introduce himself to you again. “My name is Dazai.”

You give him your name in return, and it’s just another stab to the heart—he knows your name. It’s the same name that haunts his dreams. The same name he’d spent half a year cursing into oblivion. The same name he’d gasp when he was in bed with a stranger. He knows your name better than his own, it’s etched into his soul; he would never forget you like you’ve forgotten him.

Something strange crosses your face when Dazai looks back at you—a hint of familiarity that has his heartbeat stuttering. He sees the brief confusion, the way your mind races behind your pretty eyes as if trying to understand why his name and face were inexplicably familiar to you. For a brief second, he allows a speck of hope to bloom: your love for him is enough to overcome the ability that was used to wipe your memories of him. 

“You’re an author,” you say suddenly, finally realizing why he seems so familiar to you. The spec of hope that had begun to bloom withers in an instant—his throat feels swollen, and his mouth is dry. “I read your book.”

What.

“What?” Dazai asks hoarsely, voicing his thoughts aloud as he stares at you. “You—”

“That’s what it is. I knew your face was familiar, but your name is what made me realize,” you add more to yourself than to him. 

Dazai wants to be disappointed that it’s not just you subconsciously recognizing him, that your love for him is not strong enough to outweigh the effects of the ability used on you, but he can’t be because he’s frozen at the idea of you actually having read his book. He’s wondered over the past few months if you’ve seen it around—when he first published it, it started gaining a lot of traction. It’s still pretty popular; he has people come up to him to talk to him about it, and he always thought maybe you would see his face or hear his name in passing, that maybe when you did, a part of you would subconsciously miss him. That he could haunt you like you’ve haunted him. 

He never imagined you would’ve fucking read it.

“You read my book?” Dazai presses, his voice almost as faint as he feels. The ground suddenly feels uneven, and the stool he’s sitting on sways. He has to try to casually reach for the bartop to pretend like he’s not having to steady himself. 

“Yeah,” you say, and don’t add anything else. 

Dazai turns his head to the side to look at you. Did you think it was bad? Why aren’t you saying anything else? He wonders, a bit horrified by the thought. When you don’t make any effort to explain how you feel about it, Dazai grimaces and forces himself to speak up.

“And… what did you think?”

He’s not sure if he actually wants to know the answer.

“It was good,” you say simply, but Dazai can tell that’s not your full opinion. He can hear the unsaid ‘but’, and he doesn’t want to know what that ‘but’ is, yet he finds himself pressing anyway.

“But…?” he prompts, against better judgment. 

You look at him, that empty look that’s been lingering in your eyes is replaced, a bit more entertained now as you look over him curiously, as if trying to decide whether or not you actually want to tell him the ‘but.’ Dazai’s fingers thrum impatiently against the bartop as he waits for you to speak, and you notice from the way you glance down and then back up to his face. 

“The ending was interesting,” you finally say.

Dazai blanches. “Interesting?”

“It was cynical,” you amend, and Dazai’s eye twitches. “The whole novel was built up to expect a happy ending, and you had the main couple just leave each other at the end. It came out of nowhere. I didn’t like it.”

“Sometimes, people don’t get happy endings, and sometimes, it happens when you don’t expect it,” Dazai spits, a bit too bitterly from the way you raise your eyebrows, the corner of your lips curling up in amusement. Dazai isn’t quite as entertained, wondering where you get the audacity to say you didn’t like the ending that you gave him. “It’s realistic. People don’t get happy endings. Clearly.”

“Clearly,” you echo, sounding all too entertained by the conversation that has Dazai’s blood boiling.

“What? And you think it’s not realistic? Is that it?” Dazai turns his head away from you instantly, taking a long sip of his drink to try to quell the way his stomach churns.

“I think it’s cynical,” you repeat. “They clearly loved each other—there was no reason for them to split the way they did.”

Dazai’s head snaps back in your direction. ���Well, that’s life—one minute, someone loves you, and you’re their whole world, and the next, they toss you aside. You’re forgotten, left behind. And they just move on like you never even existed.”

“Cynical,” you say again, and Dazai wants to throttle you for it, but he refrains. “People don’t just forget someone that they loved. It’s not possible—you can’t forget someone who was once so important to you.”

“Impossible?” Dazai asks through gritted teeth. “What about you? You’ve never forgotten about someone important to you?”

The amusement on your face fades as you study him a bit more carefully; Dazai realizes miserably that he’s being way too obvious with his resentment toward you, and you’re going to get suspicious. And you don’t know him, the last thing he needs is to be on the Port Mafia’s radar like this.

… Or maybe, it might not necessarily be a bad thing, he thinks, mind starting to race with possibilities. You told him how Ilya Repin’s ability worked while in the safe house. Now that you’ve followed through with your plan, the Three Deaths should officially be subsumed into the Port Mafia, meaning there’s a high chance that Repin is still somewhere in Yokohama, and with him, the painting that stole your memories of him. 

If he could find it…

“What do you mean?” you finally question, and Dazai’s drawn back to reality.

He averts his gaze from you immediately. “Nothing,” he replies quietly, the fight draining from him instantly when he sees your brows furrowed in confusion. “It’s nothing.”

Your lips part to speak, but you’re interrupted when the door to the bar slams open harshly. You don’t even turn around to see who entered before you roll your eyes, giving Dazai a wry smile. “I’m afraid that’s my cue, my keeper has arrived.”

You rise to your feet to leave, your drink still untouched on the bar in front of you. Dazai’s gaze lingers on you for a second before he looks to the door, eyes shooting open when he sees none other than Nakahara Chuuya standing there. The man is livid, and Dazai can hear the litany of curses about to spill from his lips, but tilts his head curiously when it never comes. 

It doesn’t come because he’s too busy staring at Dazai, eyes wide and lips parted.

Does he… recognize Dazai?

Dazai straightens in his seat, brows furrowing as he observes Chuuya carefully. You seem to notice the odd reaction, too, from the way you squint at your executive. This shouldn’t be possible, though—the plan was that everyone would have their memories of Dazai wiped in order to ensure that there was no evidence that he was ever connected to the Port Mafia. Connected to you. There’s no way Chuuya should know who he is, but that expression was damning; it’s like he knows exactly who Dazai is and knows the implications of you running into Dazai by chance.

“We’ll talk later,” Chuuya finally says, voice rough. “Let’s go.”

You sigh, looking thoroughly disappointed as you glance back at Dazai once, an odd expression on your face. He thinks maybe you’ll say something, but you don’t, and the bitterness he feels returns with a vengeance. 

He calls your name as you turn your back to him, and when you pause, he says, “Red is your color.”

It’s not a compliment, it’s him sharpening a knife that he’s preparing to jab into your chest, but he guises it as one because you don’t know that he knows what he does. You stiffen at his words, and Dazai’s suspicions are confirmed when Chuuya shoots him a vicious look behind your back. He knows.

“Yeah? My father used to say the same,” you say, voice a bit too tense to be casual.

“Used to?” Dazai presses, readying the knife against your skin.

You hum in agreement. “Used to. He passed.”

Passed, Dazai thinks mockingly. He makes sure to hide his scathing tone as he smiles sweetly and drives the dagger right into your heart, “I’m sure he would be proud of you.”

You don’t respond, but Dazai can see the way your head hangs a bit lower at his words, and your hand lifts to toy with the ribbon around your neck. For a brief second, Dazai feels gleeful—he’s glad that he can hurt you, even just a little—but the momentary satisfaction dissipates quickly. He doesn’t like hurting you, but more than that, he knows whatever pain he might’ve caused with his words is still nothing compared to the last six months he’s suffered. 

You leave without another word, and Chuuya follows after you, but not before giving Dazai another dirty look, one that promises that this isn’t the end. He sighs as he slumps over on the barstool. The satisfaction is long gone, the adrenaline rush that your appearance triggered has dissipated, and Dazai just feels sick again. He feels sick and lonely, but most of all, he just misses you. He misses you so bad that he thinks he might be willing to do anything to get your memories of him back

With that thought in mind, he fumbles for his phone and shoots a text to Ranpo before he can lose his nerve.

Dazai: ok. i’ll help but under one condition

Ranpo: knew you would :P deal

--------

Chuuya has been stiff since the two of you left the bar. You can tell that he’s waiting for you to say something, and that alone is proof that something weird is going on. You figure otherwise, you would’ve been scolded from the moment you stepped outside of the bar to the moment you slammed the door to your office in his face.

You don’t confront him right away—he’ll try to slip away if you make an attempt at cornering him, so you wait until the two of you are in the elevator going up to your office to say anything.

“Who was he?” you ask as soon as the doors slide shut, positioning yourself in a way so that he can’t reach the buttons without getting through you first. Chuuya stiffens as his gaze cuts to the side to focus on you. “The boy at the bar. You recognized him. How?” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says tightly.

Your eyebrows shoot up at the blatant lie, mind spinning as you try to figure out why Chuuya would lie to you about this. The only thing he’s ever lied to you about before is whatever it is he knows about the Port Mafia’s regime change that eludes you. Could it be related? You doubt it—you’re not sure what some random one-hit-wonder author would have anything to do with a mafia coup—but it makes you feel a bit nervous, it makes you unsure of where you stand with the one person who has always been your other half. 

Why is he suddenly so comfortable lying to you? 

Why is he lying to you at all?

“And you’re lying to me about it,” you say tightly, swallowing thickly as your mind races for answers to your questions. 

He’s been distant lately—is it because there’s something going on that no one is telling you about? You know Chuuya wasn’t happy about your decision to demote Kouyou. Has it left him more resentful than you initially thought? You suddenly feel very, very alone. If you don’t have Chuuya solidly at your side, then who do you have? Klaus? Is that it? 

History moves in such vicious circles, doesn’t it? You remember the amused words Mori spoke to you many, many years ago—back when you’d followed him to the underground clinic before he became a doctor for the previous boss, when he would sit you at his desk and force you to read old textbooks and recite them to him because he refused to have an uneducated protege.

Doesn’t it? 

The previous boss was the right-hand of his father and took power from him by force; you heard it was a brutal execution, and people whispered that it should’ve been the first sign of madness. The previous boss was killed by Mori, the man he trusted to take care of him, a man who quickly became his right hand when his mind continued to deteriorate, and then Mori took control. Mori was killed by you, his heir, his second-in-command, his right hand, and then you took control.

Your gaze slowly tracks over to where Chuuya still refuses to look at you.

Doesn’t it? 

“I met him before,” Chuuya finally says, shaking his head, oblivious to your spiraling thoughts. “He was a fucking asshole. Don’t waste your time with him.”

“When did you meet him?” you ask, voice coming out a bit sharper than you intended. Chuuya gives you a wary look, like he’s only now realizing that something is seriously wrong, and you try to smooth your face out. “Just curious.”

“At the same bar,” Chuuya tells you. “A couple weeks ago. He was a little shit—drunk and insulting me as soon as I walked in.”

“Is that so?” you question flatly, eyes settling on him, watching the way his expression twists in frustration.

“Why would I lie to you about this?” Chuuya demands.

“I don’t know, Chuuya, why would you?”

A hurt expression flies across his face as he fully turns to face you, arms crossed over his chest. When he speaks, you can hear the anger dripping from his tone, but more than that, you hear the hurt. “What exactly are you accusing me of?”

Your shoulders slump, the fight draining from you when you see how betrayed Chuuya looks by your questions. Your voice wavers as you whisper, “I don’t know.”

He sighs at your answer and then steps forward. Your eyes slide shut as he rests his hand on top of your head. He brings his other hand up to cup the side of your face, tilting your head up to force you to look at him. You want to cry when you see the pain in his eyes as he studies your face. You chew on the inside of your cheek and try to look away, but he forces you to keep your gaze on him.

“I’m on your side,” he whispers, thumb running over your cheek. His other hand slides from the top of your head to hold your face between both of his hands. The leather of his gloves is coarse against your skin, but it’s achingly familiar—you’ve missed Chuuya desperately. “I’ve always been on your side.”

“Then why are you lying to me?” you ask weakly, hands coming up to curl around his wrists. “Chuuya, I feel so lost. I don’t understand what’s going on, I—”

Chuuya sighs and steps away as the elevator reaches the top floor of the building. The two of you walk down the hall past your guards and step into your office quietly. You walk over to the door in the back of the office, leading to the penthouse apartment. The moment you get in there, you feel suffocated again. The air is too heavy, and when you try to breathe in, it tastes stale and rotted. You look back at Chuuya to distract yourself and raise your eyebrows.

“Please,” he says, tired. “I can’t.”

You nod tightly and look around the apartment. It’s just as Mori left it—you’ve hardly touched it at all. You haven’t brought anything over from your own place. The walls are still black and empty except for some pinned-up crayon drawings of Elise’s, their bright colors feeling almost out of place. The living room is staged with gaudy decor, remnants of Mori’s taste, meant to impress any possible guest rather than comfort its owner. But the bedroom is stripped of everything personal, as cold and impersonal as a hotel room.

You like it this way. It’s easier to pretend you don’t actually live here, that this isn’t where you fall asleep at night, isn’t where you wake up to suffocating silence. You can almost pretend that Mori is still around, and you’re just occupying his space until he returns. But some nights, the weight of it settles too heavily on your chest, and the emptiness echoes too loudly for you to handle. Like tonight.

Chuuya follows you into the living room, expression unreadable as he glances around. “You still haven’t done anything with this place.”

“I haven’t,” you agree quietly, looking down at a picture on a nearby table. It’s of you, Mori and Elise—you were much younger then, it was taken when you were ten, still at the underground clinic, before he became the doctor for the previous boss. “Did I ever tell you how I met him?”

Chuuya doesn’t respond immediately. “How you met… Mori?”

“Mhm.”

“You didn’t,” he murmurs, taking a few steps closer to you to look down at the picture in front of you. “When you were still cute.”

“Hah,” you say, unamused, nudging his shoulder. “I lived on one of the main warfronts during the Great War before Tokoyami Island appeared and the fighting moved there.”

Chuuya lets out a noise of acknowledgment. “You told me that much.”

“It was a small village in a valley,” you continue quietly. “I don’t even… really remember where. The war was going on all around us, but the mountains and the forests kept us shielded from the worst of it. But we could hear it. Smell it. The gunfire and the explosives, the smoke was so thick that it reached our village. We couldn’t leave our houses without masks; there was a constant haze and—”

You cut yourself off as you look away, swallowing thickly. You feel Chuuya’s hand come to rest on your shoulder, concern rolling off of him in waves.

“I thought you didn’t remember any of this,” he says. “From before Mori found you.”

“I didn’t,” you reply, voice cracking. “Not until—”

Until you killed him. Until all of the memories you repressed came rushing through the floodgates without the one person who helped you hold them back.

“We weren’t supposed to leave the village,” you rasp. “They were scared that one wrong move would draw attention our way. I was seven, Chuuya. I didn’t understand, not really. I didn’t understand why my dad suddenly stopped bringing me out to the river—it was the only place where we could see the stars clearly, and I loved the stars, so I went to go see them on my own one night when everyone was asleep.” 

Chuuya says your name quietly, like he knows what you’re going to say, but he doesn’t. Your mouth is so dry that it feels like ash has built up in it, but you force yourself to continue.

“I didn’t even see him at first—the soldier,” you whisper. “He was hidden in the brush. Hurt. His leg was stuck in a bear trap, and he was dehydrated. He thought he was hallucinating when he saw me, thought I was an angel. He scared me, I wasn’t going to help him, but he was so young, Chuuya. He didn’t look any older than my cousin, and he was in so much pain, and he was so kind to me. Offered me the last of his food when he realized I was scared. I got him water and bandages and helped him free his leg. I was just a kid, I was only trying to help. I didn’t understand what I’d done.”

“That’s not your fault,” Chuuya says hoarsely. “Whatever happened wasn’t your fault, that’s—”

“By the next night, the village was burning,” you interrupt. “He got back to his regiment with my help, and he led them back to us. I don’t even remember his face now, but I remember him. I was playing with my brother by the well, and he stepped out of the tree line, and I didn’t even think I was seeing things right until my brother dropped his toys, but then the rest of his regiment followed, and the gunfire started, and the screaming. And he came up to me, and his eyes were empty. I’ve never seen anything like it before, it was—”

Chuuya starts to say your name, but you interrupt him, agitated. 

“Would you just listen?” you rasp, nails biting into your black jacket. “He didn’t kill me. I figured it was his way of repaying me for saving his life; he hit me over the head, and when I woke up, I was at the bottom of a pile of corpses.”

Chuuya inhales sharply. He reaches out hesitantly for your hand, and you let him hold it, but your hand remains limp in his.

“Do you know what death smells like?”

“I’ve killed—” he starts to murmur.

“No, the decay, Chuuya. For the first few hours, all you can smell is the blood,” you breathe out. “That’s what you smell. You never stick around for cleanup, and even if you did, cleanup always happens quickly. But after a day passes, the bodies start to decompose. It happens fast when it’s humid. And it was the middle of the rainy season. Hot. Muggy. By the end of the first day, all I could smell was rot.”

Chuuya looks sick, you can see it in the reflection of the picture you’re staring at, but his grip on your hand tightens.

“It’s so thick that you can taste it in your mouth when you try to breathe,” you say softly. “I tried to hold my breath at first, but that only made it worse because eventually I needed to breathe, and when I did, it was so…”

You don’t finish the sentence, lost in your own thoughts as you look up at the window looking over the city.

“And the flies,” you swallow thickly, almost gagging past the lump in your throat. “The flies showed up after the first day. The buzzing. There were so many of them, I wanted to cover my mouth, but my arms were pinned at my side. I still can’t take deep breaths without tasting the rot in the back of my throat. Sometimes when it’s too quiet, I can hear the buzzing of the flies around me.”

Chuuya lifts his free hand to wipe away a tear that you didn’t realize was rolling over your cheek.

“I could just barely see the sun rising and setting through the limbs above me. I was stuck beneath the corpses of my family members and neighbors for four days before a different regiment showed up—they saw the smoke. They started pulling the bodies off the pile to bury them, but I couldn’t even call out for help.”

You reach out for the picture on the table, brushing your thumb over Mori’s face.

“He was the first face I saw,” you whisper. “He didn’t even realize I was alive at first, but when he did, he pulled me out of the pile and carried me somewhere safe. I couldn’t speak or move for weeks; I was pretty much catatonic. His superiors wanted him to send me away, but he was the head physician and said I was better off with him. I don’t know if it’s because he realized I had an ability or if it was because he was worried about sending me away, that he knew I’d never be okay again back in the real world.”

 “He saved me, Chuuya,” you finish, turning to face Chuuya again. You reach out to grab his jacket, forcing him to look you in the eye. “Do you understand now why I can’t just accept I did what I did on a whim? On a suspicion that he used me as a scapegoat? Do you understand why I can’t just let it go—why I need to know what you’re keeping from me?”

Chuuya almost looks like he wants to cry when he looks down at you. You know his answer before he says it. “I can’t.”

“Why?”

“Because you asked me to,” Chuuya finally says, hands reaching up to cradle your face again, begging you to listen. “Please, you have to stop asking.”

Asked him to, you think, even more confused than you were to begin with. Your mind races to put together the few pieces of the puzzle that Chuuya gave you. But why wouldn’t you remember asking him unless—

Repin?

“Repin,” you realize softly, looking up at him for answers. The heaviness in his eyes is enough of an answer. “And… does this boy from the bar have anything to do with it?” 

He sighs heavily, hands dropping to his side as he gives you a long look.

“No,” he answers after a moment. “That little shit doesn’t have anything to do with it.”

“Is that another lie?” you ask with a slight smile that wavers at the edges.

“No,” Chuuya says quietly. “It’s not.”

You search his face for something—anything—that will make this all make sense. That will make it hurt less. But there’s nothing. Just that same pained look, the weight of everything he isn’t saying pressing down on you incessantly. 

Your fingers loosen their grip on his jacket, slipping away as your shoulders slump. You don’t know what you were hoping for. Answers? Closure? Neither would bring Mori back. Neither would fix whatever had broken inside you the moment you pulled the trigger. Neither would rid yourself of the rot in the back of your throat or the buzzing in your ears.

Your head tilts slightly, eyes flickering toward the window. The city outside is bright, alive—but you feel impossibly far from it, like you’re watching from the wrong side of a one-way mirror. The top of this building is a prison; the scarf around your neck is a shackle. 

A humorless chuckle slips past your lips. “It never ends, does it?” you murmur. Your breath hitches, and you tilt your head back to look up at the ceiling. “This will never end. I’m so tired, Chuuya.”

“I know,” he whispers, reaching up to brush your hair behind your ear. “I know, I’m so sorry.”

“I just want a break,” you say shakily, leaning into his touch for a moment. “I just need a break.”

Your lips part as you look up at him again, his eyes are dark as he looks down at you, entirely unreadable. You shift your weight forward, closing the space between you again. You lift your hand to trace the light scar on his cheek before sliding to cup his jaw. His lashes flutter as he turns his face into your touch like he always has, the familiar warmth of his skin seeping into your fingertips. You look at him through your lashes, studying his face carefully as you run your thumb over his bottom lip. 

“Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir?” you breathe out, thumb pressing down gently on his bottom lip. He swallows thickly, pupils dilating as his lips instinctively part for you. Your lips curl up into a teasing smile that’s a bit frayed at the edges. “Like old times?” 

He lets out a shaky breath, and your hand slides down from his face to cradle the side of his neck, thumb tracing slow circles against his pulse. You lean in to ghost your lips against his jaw before trailing slow kisses down the column of his throat, savoring the way his breath hitches and how his muscles tense beneath your touch. His fingers twitch at his sides like he’s not sure if he should reach out to grab your hip or push you away.

“Please,” you murmur, kissing his pulse point once before resting your head in the crook of his neck. Your hands slide down his body to rest on his waist before you slip them around him, holding him close. You press your body closer to his, your breath shaky against his skin, feeling his warmth, his presence—the one thing that grounds you in the suffocating haze of what has become your life. “Please, I need one night to forget. I can’t keep going like this.”

Chuuya tenses under your touch, and for a moment, he’s utterly still. The silence stretches between you, too heavy, and you hold your breath as you wait, heart hammering in your chest. His hands finally move—one settles at your hip, the other curls into a fist at his side. 

For a second, he doesn’t push you away.

After what feels like an eternity, he exhales sharply and grips your shoulders, pushing you back just enough to look you in the eye. His gaze is dark and conflicted, and your heart sinks.

“We can’t,” he says quietly. “I can’t.”

“Please,” you whisper again, voice cracking as you shift closer to him. Your fingers hook in his belt loops, clinging to him desperately. “Just for one night.”

You don’t wait for an answer—you don’t want to hear his rejection. You lean in to press your lips against his. They’re warm and familiar, tasting of red wine and nicotine—you’ve kissed Chuuya a million times before, you’ve always felt most at home with him, but it feels… wrong this time, and you don’t know why. 

Frustrated, you press yourself into him again, lifting your hands to cup his cheeks. You slant your lips against his to deepen the kiss, trying to remind yourself of what this used to be. You barely notice the wetness against your lips until the salty taste seeps in.

When did you start crying?

Chuuya kisses you back, but there’s no heat behind it—it’s empty, he’s just going through the motions. His lips move chastely against yours, never taking the step to deepen the kiss, and you know it’s another rejection. When he pulls back to rest his forehead against yours, you take in a ragged breath, swallowing a sob.

“I can’t give you what you want,” he murmurs.

A shudder racks through your body, fingers digging into his shirt as you press your face against his chest. His hand comes to rest between your shoulder blades, holding you close to him.

“I don’t know what to do,” you gasp, speaking the words out loud for the first time. “I don’t know what I’m doing, Chuuya. I don’t know what to do about Cao Xueqin. I can’t get him to back down. And the government is threatening to send the Hunting Dogs to Yokohama—I don’t know what to do. He would—he would, and he’s gone, and he’s gone because of me. I need him, Chuuya, I don’t know why I did this, I don’t get it, I—”

Your words break into another sob as Chuuya presses his lips to your forehead, arm tightening around you as you collapse into him. He shifts to he can sit down on the couch, pulling you into his lap and cradling you in his arms. He presses your ear to his chest so that you can hear his heartbeat, stroking your hair gently as you let yourself break down in his arms.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers. “I’ve got you. We’ll get through this.”

It’s not the first time, and certainly won’t be the last time, that Chuuya’s words of reassurance do little to keep your anxiety at bay. Paired with his gentle rejection, it’s useless against the war that’s raging within you. You need to quell the doubt in your mind, the paranoia devouring all of your logical thoughts, the voice in the back of your head that gnaws at your mind and tells you that this isn’t right. But you’re exhausted, so instead of searching for answers or seeking out a body to numb your mind, you allow yourself this moment to drown.

--------

Dazai knows what he signed up for when he agreed to help the Armed Detective Agency. He’s been warring with it since he got home from the bar last night. Helping the Armed Detective Agency means working against you—he knew this when he messaged Ranpo, but it was different actually hearing the plans happening around him.

“Getting the new mayor out of office or trying to apprehend and imprison one of the most dangerous ability users in the world, I think one is quite obviously less dangerous than the other,” Ranpo says dryly, sticking a lollipop in his mouth as he kicks his feet up onto the conference table. “One is also less likely to bring the entire wrath of the Port Mafia down on us. If only marginally.”

“How are we supposed to get the mayor out of office without getting information from the Port Mafia?” Yosano asks, shaking her head. “Pictures of him talking to suspected mafia affiliates aren’t enough to get the assembly to vote him out. We need actual correspondence. Proof that he’s just an extension of the Mafia.”

An extension of you, Dazai finishes when Yosano spares a look in his direction. His fingers are stiff in his lap—he should probably speak up, he’s not even supposed to be here, he’s only here to give some insight into the Port Mafia and he hasn’t helped with much of anything, but every time his lips part to speak, he tastes ash in his mouth.

“I could apply for a job in the city hall,” one of the office workers, Haruno, offers quietly from the corner of the room where she’s taking notes for the meeting. “There’s an open job posting for a secretary at the—”

“Out of the question,” Fukuzawa says immediately, raising his hand to silence Haruno. “We will not be putting our office workers at risk.”

“But President,” Haruno protests, setting down her notepad. “The best way to get this information is to get on the inside—”

“No,” Fukuzawa interrupts firmly, crossing his leg over his knee as he leans back in his chair. “Whether we’re directly up against the mafia or going at this from a side angle, this is going to be dangerous. Our detectives will be the ones to handle this, but—”

“Going through it that way will take too long,” Ranpo says dismissively, head tilted back to look at the ceiling. “Plus, it’s not reliable enough. There’s no telling if you’ll get the job, and if you do, if you’ll have the clearance you need to get the information we need. We need to be more direct than that—”

“We can’t just storm the city hall, Ranpo,” Kunikida sighs, pushing his glasses up. “That’s a great way to get us thrown in jail.”

“What about—”

“I met her the other night,” Dazai finally says loudly, too abruptly. He swallows thickly when all eyes turn onto him. His gaze flickers over to Yosano, who looks concerned, and then to Ranpo, who doesn’t look surprised. “Her.”

They all exchange looks with one another, and though Dazai technically knows he is an outsider, the Agency has never made him feel like one before now. He could only imagine what they’re thinking—wondering if he’s going to rat them out to you, wondering if their plan is doomed before they’ve even fully begun. He knows they don’t trust him; they don’t really have much of a reason to, but it still makes his stomach flip. His throat tightens, fingers tensing in his lap as he looks down.

“What do you mean?” Yosano demands after a moment of silence. “She sought you out?”

“No. No,” Dazai says immediately. “She… didn’t even know it was me. It was just by chance.”

“She didn’t know it was you?” Kunikida splutters. “How is that possible—?” 

“What happened between you two, Dazai?” Yosano asks quietly, and Dazai’s heart sinks, a lump forming in his throat as he stares down at the table. He knows there’s no getting out of it this time, and he has to brace himself as he decides what to say. “We have to know before doing all of this.”

“She wiped her memories of me. Her and everyone who knew about me. All traces of our—” Dazai cuts himself off, taking in a shuddered breath before exhaling. “That’s not the point. The point is, I know the places she frequents. I can get the information you need if I can get close to her again. I can—”

I can do exactly what I was accused of. 

The thought rings through his head too loudly; his stomach churns, remembering the accusations Mori hurled at him and the betrayal on your face. He would be doing exactly what he was accused of. But it’s for the better, right? If he gets close to you, he’ll have a better chance at finding the painting that Repin used to take your memories of him, and if he finds some information to help the Agency, then there’s less of a chance that the military police will be sent in to deal with the Port Mafia and less of a chance that you’ll be caught in the crossfires or targeted yourself.

“Out of the question,” Fukuzawa repeats, dismissing Dazai immediately. “You are a civilian. I was against even letting you stay here for mission preparation, but Ranpo insisted on it. We are not sending you into the heart of it.”

“I haven’t been a civilian in a long time, you all know that, and I have the best chance of anyone here,” Dazai argues, sitting up in his seat. He ignores the nausea creeping up his throat. “I know her. I know all the places she likes to go. If one of you tries to do this and gets caught, you’ll be lucky if she kills you. You have no idea what she did to the journalists trying to expose her. But I know her, so—”

“But she doesn’t know you, Dazai,” Yosano interrupts, voice unusually gentle. “You’ll be at risk.”

“No,” Dazai says, swallowing thickly. His pulse is pounding; he has to blink to clear his vision. “No, she wouldn’t hurt me, she—”

“You can’t be sure of that,” Kunikida says. “She’s boss of the most dangerous mafia in the eastern hemisphere—maybe the world right now. If she figures out that you’re trying to get close to her for information, she’ll kill you just like she would any of us.”

“She won’t,” Dazai insists. He knows it in his heart. Even if you can’t remember him, you’d never hurt him, and it would never get to that point because—“She made sure that her second-in-command kept his memories of me. If things go wrong, I can go to him and he’ll intervene—”

“This is ridiculous.” Kunikida shakes his head, expression twisted in concern. “There are too many holes. It’ll never work. If you get close to her and he notices and realizes what you’re doing, it’ll blow everything up. And there’s no guarantee that he’ll save you if you mess up—”

“No, it’s perfect,” Ranpo says as he sits up in his seat, glasses hanging on the bridge of his nose as he looks down at all of the pictures on the conference table. “Wiping conscious memories might not necessarily affect the subconscious. He’s right—she might not hurt him, might even be blind to his real intentions because her subconscious is at ease with him. And if things do happen to go wrong, he has an extraction plan that has nothing to do with us.”

“And if that extraction plan goes wrong?” Kunikida demands. “There’s no telling it’ll work—we’re betting everything, his life, on a maybe. Just because he thinks the second-in-command of a mafia boss remembers him, how do we know he’ll protect him if things go wrong?”

“Because,” Ranpo says, lips curling up into a smug smirk as he leans forward to look at Dazai, “this whole transition of power happened to keep you safe, didn’t it?”

Dazai stiffens. The weight of Ranpo’s words slams into him, knocking the breath from his lungs. His mind reels back to the last night he spent with you at the safe house—the resignation on your face, the anguish in your eyes when you realized what had to be done. You made the choice to kill the closest thing you had to a father to protect him.

And now, here he is conspiring against you.

He feels sick so suddenly that he has to physically steady himself by grabbing the arms of his seat. He tells himself again that this is for the best—he needs to get close to you anyway, he needs to find the painting that took away your memories of him because he needs you back, and if the government doesn’t get something, then there’s going to be a military operation in Yokohama that you’ll be at the center of. 

Going behind your back to get a few files to incriminate your friend is nothing compared to that.

Right?

“I was trying to figure out what the missing piece was,” Ranpo continues with a grin, looking mighty pleased with himself. “From what I knew about Miss Mafia Princess through Akiko, she never would’ve killed Mori without a reason. It was to protect you—she wiped her memories to not drag you back in, wiped everyone else’s to keep you safe, but let someone she trusted keep their memories to intervene in case she made a mistake somewhere along the way. It was all to keep you safe.”

Dazai gnaws at the inside of his cheek. This is too much for him in one day—seeing you yesterday had been too much, and now this—now working with the Agency, working against you, having all of this brought up again and thrown right in his face—

“I think I should go,” Dazai suddenly says, standing so fast his chair scrapes violently against the floor. “Let me know if you want my help.”

“Dazai—” Yosano starts to call after him, but Dazai is already tunnel-visioned on the door, making his way out of the conference room rapidly. 

“Dazai,” Ranpo repeats. Dazai pauses, but doesn’t look back. “Do it. Get close to her. See what you can find out.”

Dazai glances over his shoulder. Fukuzawa looks displeased, but Dazai has learned that they seem to know better than to question Ranpo’s decisions, so he’s not entirely surprised when the older man nods in agreement. 

Dazai exhales shakily before nodding in return and quickly making his way out of the office. He only gets into the hallway before he’s keeling over, hands on his knees as he breathes in deeply. His head is swimming, his chest is so heavy that he feels like he’s being crushed. He clenches his fists as he tries to push away the nausea rising in his throat, pressing his forehead against the cool wall. He squeezes his eyes shut, willing his mind to go blank, but the weight in his chest refuses to lift.

His fingers tremble as he exhales slowly, trying to force the ache into something manageable. It doesn’t work. His thoughts are relentless, whispering accusations in the dark corners of his mind.

Conspiring against you. Doing exactly what he was accused of. 

It’s unforgivable. 

But it’s for the best, he tries to convince himself desperately. He needs you back, and you need him. Dazai knows it; he could see it in your face just from that brief meeting—you’re lost and lonely, just like him. Despite your betrayal, despite his resentment, despite his desire to hate you, he still loves you. He’ll always love you. He needs to find the painting Repin created that stores your memories of him, so he can destroy it, so you two can have each other again. And he needs to help the Agency find something to get Lippmann out of office, otherwise the military police is going to rain hell down on Yokohama, on you.

It’s for the best.

Dazai presses his knuckles to his lips, biting down on the skin hard enough to hurt, desperate for something to anchor himself, but he’s drowning in memories of you now. The warmth of your skin against his, the way you would gently cradle his face between your hands, the adoration in your eyes as you looked down at him—he needs you back. Everything he’s tried to push away for months crashes onto him at once. 

The months of anger and resentment have drained for the time being—all he wants is you, and he’ll do anything to have you back again. 

Anything.

--------

The grand chandeliers of the New National Theater glitter like a thousand tiny stars, casting warm, golden light over velvet-lined balconies and the sea of elegantly dressed patrons below. The air is thick with perfume, candle wax, and the hushed anticipation of the evening’s performance. Usually, you wear your suits to your weekly trips to the opera house—you come here for business, not pleasure—but tonight, you’re dressed in a gown.

You move through the crowd easily, your heels clicking against the marble floor. Your executives think that you’re meeting with an informant for intel. You don’t give them specifics. You don’t need to—you’re the boss now. But you give them just enough that they’re not suspicious—that Chuuya’s not suspicious—you don’t need him, of all people, to know who you’re really meeting. 

Anticipation curls low in your stomach, fingers twitching in the silk of your gloves. You don’t know what you expect from tonight, but you know what you want, and that’s why you came dressed in your nicest gown and in the color he likes best on you.

You reach the box and pause in front of the heavy velvet curtain. A slow inhale, a careful exhale, and then you push inside.

He’s already here.

Seated in his chair with one arm draped lazily over the backrest, Fyodor Dostoevsky looks as unbothered as ever, as if this is simply another night at the opera instead of a meeting between enemies. 

“You’re late,” he murmurs when he hears you enter. “The show has almost begun.”

His gaze flicks over his shoulder to assess you, violet eyes widening just a smidge when he sees your attire. His lips curl up into an unreadable smile, something between amusement and curiosity, but he rises to his feet to greet you. He holds out his hand and you place yours in it, breath catching when he bows his head down to brush his lips against your knuckles. 

When he lifts his head back up, he doesn’t let go of your hand.

His fingers tighten around yours, cold despite your gloves. His smile remains in place, but his eyes are as calculated and knowing as ever. In spite of everything, you find yourself enjoying the weekly mind games and power plays that take place between you and Dostoevsky.

“You dressed up for me,” Dostoevsky hums, voice soft as silk, thumb brushing over the inside of your wrist, a feather-light touch that sends a ripple of heat down your spine. “I’m flattered. You look beautiful—I did tell you that red is your color, didn’t I?”

He has said those words to you before—the first time you met him here—but for some reason, your mind draws back to the boy you met at the bar instead. His face flashes through your mind—smiling, eyes warm as he meets yours, which is odd because he didn’t smile at all during your brief encounter with him, and he certainly wasn’t warm; he was angry and bitter about whatever was bothering him.

Weird.

“I dressed for myself,” you reply smoothly before your prolonged silence becomes suspicious. “Though I suppose it’s a happy coincidence.”

His lips curl up into a smirk. “How fortunate for me, then.”

He tugs lightly on your hand, guiding you a step closer. His touch is deceptively gentle, but there’s something beneath it—a quiet command, a reminder of who he is and what he’s capable of. 

He’s playing with you. He always is. 

You don’t usually entertain it, tonight you do.

You could pull away, but you don’t. You let him guide you forward until your chest nearly brushes his, and you don’t push away his other hand when it comes to rest on your waist.

His gaze remains fixed on yours, eyes lidded and pupils a smidge larger than they should be. “I wonder,” he muses, voice dipping lower, “what it is you truly want from me tonight.”

The question should put you on edge. Instead, it makes the heat spread from your abdomen to your chest, fire coursing through your whole body. You don’t answer right away, letting the silence stretch and the tension rise between the two of you. 

Will you admit it? Or will the two of you spend another evening dancing around what it is you both really want? 

He wants you to say it, you know that, but you fear it might cross a line that shouldn’t be crossed. Fyodor Dostoevsky is your enemy still, and it’s only a matter of time before he makes his move on Yokohama. It would not look good if word spread about your meetings with him when it happened, and it could be exactly what he’s plotting to smear your reputation.

“What I always want from you,” you say at last, tilting your chin up. His face is so close to yours that you can feel his breath against your lips. “Information.”

His smile widens, teeth glittering like knives beneath the warm lighting of the opera house, and the thumb on your wrist presses down, just enough for him to feel the steady, rapid beat of your pulse beneath it. “Is that so?”

“Maybe I just wanted to see you,” you offer, a lie, and he knows it from the way his eyes glimmer with amusement. “Would that be so strange?” 

“Strange?” he echoes, entertained. “Not at all. But terribly dangerous, don’t you think?”

You know what he means. You’ve known from the moment you started these little meetings, these clandestine encounters dressed up as you meeting an informant. You shouldn’t be here, standing so close to him, entertaining whatever this tension is between you. But the thrill of it—of knowing that you shouldn’t and doing it anyway—makes you stay. Gives you something to look forward to when you have nothing.

Dostoevsky leans in just enough that his breath ghosts the shell of your ear when he speaks. “You intrigue me,” he breathes out. The confession is quiet, meant only for you. “No one plays games with me quite like you do. I enjoy our meetings very much.”

You turn your head to the side just enough that your lips skim his jaw. His throat bobs at your brief touch, and your lips curl up into a pleased smile. You make your decision.

“Or maybe I want something else tonight,” you continue, like he didn’t speak at all, your voice quiet. He turns his face to look at you—you’re so close that your lips almost brush his when you speak, but you don’t let it deter you. “Indulge me?” 

His chuckle is soft, and he pulls back just enough to look at you again, violet eyes glinting under the golden light of the chandeliers. He lifts your hand again, pressing a lingering kiss to the inside of your wrist as the lights of the opera house finally start to dim, signaling the start of tonight’s performance.

“I will indulge you in anything, darling.”

[sophrosyncc]

— what's up bro ?

you call the chrysos heirs bro. how do they react to it?

warnings/tags : slight story spoilers (you'll only notice them if you squint your eyes), gender-neutral reader, crack, slight ooc behavior (for the comedic effect) author's note : apologies for suddenly disappearing out of nowhere. I have severely underestimated how busy I'd be 🥀🥀 a bit of silly stuff before the dreaded 3.4 arrives. might edit this later characters : aglaea, anaxa, castorice, phainon.

aglaea

in her many years of leading the flame-chase journey, the last thing she expected was to be called bro.

no. you aren't the first one to call her that. both children and teenagers in the recent age of amphoreus have approached her with that nickname. cipher and phainon are definitely at the scene of the crime as well.

if she dislikes you, she'll ignore you or politely tell you off. unless you're elder caenis which is an entirely different situation on it's own.

compared to the next person on this list, she doesn't mind it if you call her that around others. it'll be a bit awkward at first but she gets used to it. there are far worse names or titles that others have given her, and she's glad that yours comes from a place of no ill intent.

if you are associated with phainon and cipher to a good extent, expect her to ask you if you were dared to do that.

maybe she'll give you an amused smile or laugh a bit after you call her bro. aglaea enjoys the unpredictability you bring in her life filled with daily routines and responsibilities. it's a nice break from what she's usually used to.

the only time you shouldn't is if she's doing something important.

on the other hand, if you're her lover, she'll be a be more playful with you. she may or may not call you bro when you least expect it. what's even worse is that no one will ever believe you if you tell them. the demigod of romance calling you bro out of nowhere sounds more impossible than completing the flame-chase journey.

can you really blame her? it's funny to see you surprised. aglaea can and will be a tease.

if you try to catch her off guard, it won't work.

call her garmentmakers bro as well and she'll enjoy it.

"hm? I don't remember calling you by that nickname. perhaps you have mistaken the voice from one of my garmentmakers for me — some of them can be playful."

anaxa

first of all, why would you call him bro?

are you asking for a death sentence? an early entrance to the nether realm?

or to catch his attention?

we're talking about the man who doesn't want to be called anything but anaxagoras. the same one who corrects everyone to the point he's made it a personal rule — he has a voiceline ranting about his own name.

if the two of you are strangers, he won't hesitate to tell you off. if he dislikes you, he'll give you a glare too or straight up ignore you. he isn't going to waste his time on you when he has better things to attend to.

however, if you're friends or lovers with him, anaxa will stare at you for a few good seconds. the scholar's silently judging you. he doesn't know whether being called bro is better than being called anaxa. to put it simply, it's awkward. he still corrects you in the end.

continue calling him bro after the first time and he'll eventually get used to it.

no. he's not calling you bro. it'll only happen in your dreams.

the era nova will happen before anaxa calls you bro.

call him bro in the classroom or anywhere near his students and he'll give you the nastiest side eye you've ever received. anaxa does not need the troublemakers getting ideas from you. that includes the other chrysos heirs as well.

a huge emphasis on the other chrysos heirs. entertaining the thought of phainon, cipher or aglaea hearing about that gives him dread. give this man some peace please.

"first of all, that's anaxagoras to you and remember that well. secondly, i'm not your bro. refrain from referring to me with such nicknames next time."

castorice

she... doesn't know how to react.

speechless. quiet.

a bit flabbergasted, even.

no worries, you didn't offend her at all. castorice simply doesn't know how to reply.

you are most likely the first one who's ever called her that. congratulations!

not a lot of people approach the hand of death and call them bro casually. people have called her by many names or titles as well, similar to aglaea, and the last thing that comes to mind is a casual nickname. castorice is also aware that she isn't the liveliest person around.

whether you're a stranger or someone she dislikes, she'll give you an awkward nod or ignore you. if there's others around her when you call her bro, she'll think you're talking about someone else. anyone but her.

however, if you're a friend: despite the silly nickname, she likes it.

being called bro isn't something she's definitely used to, but it's a nice and pleasant surprise. it gives her a sense of normalcy and comfort. it'll take more time for her to get used to it compared to the others. call her that with other people in the area and she'll be a bit confused if you're talking about her or someone else.

castorice won't call you bro often, but sometimes she will.

not a lot will change if you're her lover. she'll still react the same for the most part, but I can imagine her surprising you with another silly nickname of her own. it has to be mutual.

please just don't call her that in front of aglaea or tribbie.

she will be a bit embarrassed.

"it's... alright. there's no need to apologize. I enjoy the nickname quite a bit actually. please— don't be scared to call me that again, or other similar words."

phainon

phainon takes it extremely well. too well.

in fact, he'll even reciprocate it.

no one is surprised at all.

it isn't the first time he's heard others call him like that or the first time he's called others bro. call him bro and he's calling you bro as well. equivalent exchange.

he has also called some of the other chrysos heirs bro as well. both of you are guilty of that.

the only time he won't do it is if he dislikes you a lot. if you've played the 3.3 story quest. depending on the situation and how much he dislikes you, he'll either firmly tell you to not do that next time, pretend you didn't call him that, or glare at you.

worry not, it takes a lot to have the deliverer hate you.

if you tell him to stop calling you bro, phainon will respect that. however, he'll find other silly nicknames to call you, ones that you don't mind.

if you're his friend or his lover... good luck. one way or another he'll turn it into a competition on accident or purposefully, and it'll only get more heated if you're just as competitive as he is. get ready to have bets over who can come up with the most absurd nicknames in one minute or something else.

just be careful to not drag anyone into it, lest the two of you want to replicate chaos that could rival penacony's disaster.

"bro? haha! I didn't expect that but I'm not against it either. I guess that means you're my bro now as well. what? don't look at me like that."

masterlist

[nadvs]

escapism .* part one

pairing rafe cameron x socialite! female reader

rating explicit 18+

summary you live a turbulent life in the public eye as an unruly heiress from a controlling family. you thought you had your future all planned out, until you learn that your trust fund hinges on marrying a stranger.

tags arranged marriage au. canon divergence. reader is bratty and volatile. rafe is the calmer one for once (but not by much). they hate each other at first. six-year age gap. plot contains alcohol abuse, toxic family dynamics, chronic illness, trauma bonding, mentions of death, and smut that starts off as hate-sex oops!

» masterlist

author’s note i typically make reader inserts vague for relatability, but this is the most detailed one i’ve written. she’s misunderstood, guarded, and has a short fuse. she has trauma from childhood neglect and lives with a chronic illness, resulting in poor coping mechanisms and a desire to feel free. i enjoyed exploring a fmc like this and i hope you enjoy the read just as much <3

Rafe sits in the backseat, fingers grazing the edge of his jaw. The wrought-iron gate creaks open to reveal a long, manicured drive that curves out of sight, the estate lingering beyond the bend.

His loyalty to his father knows no limits. It’s why he agreed to go along with this ridiculous publicity stunt.

Yesterday, Ward told him about the unusual proposal one of his business partners made. Kal is the powerful patriarch of a high-profile family and apparently, now that his wife is entering politics, his family’s reputation has never been more important.

The only thing standing in their way to a respectable image is their daughter.

Rafe thumbed through every tabloid he could find last night. The headlines followed the same formula, all about a spoiled, wild socialite, the epitome of old money royalty, getting wasted at parties, dating around, and never backing down from any sort of altercation.

Kal had promised that with his corporate influence, this arrangement would give Cameron Development an edge it’s never had before.

And Rafe is determined to pull it off. He wants to make his dad proud. He’s been working for him for a few years now, eager to prove himself and move up the ranks.

This is an unorthodox way to do it, but he’ll take what he can get. And he might even like you. You seem like you have some charm to you to say the least, even if it is centered in chaos.

The driver pulls up to the front doors of your family’s home right on time for the meeting. When a butler welcomes Rafe into the foyer, every footstep and shuffle of clothes echoes through the manor’s enormous, gleaming frame.

The butler rushes away to fetch Kal. Rafe stuffs his hands in his pockets and takes in the vacuous, characterless space. His eyes land on a thick-framed image hanging between two rounded staircases.

He squints, sizing up the five figures. It’s not a photo, but a painting of the family that calls this place home.

He studies it from afar, already having committed your face to memory from all the research he did on his phone last night, eyes travelling over the brushstrokes of an older couple, two men, and his future wife.

Wife.

This is insane.

“Great to meet you,” Kal’s voice booms through the foyer. He crosses the room, offering a tight handshake.

Rafe follows him to his office. He expected you to be here, but the only other person in the brightly lit room is an older woman typing on a laptop. Kal introduces her as Celeste, the family’s publicist.

The door shuts and Kal settles in his place behind his desk, tearing right into business before Rafe even takes his seat.

“I know this is unconventional,” he says, “but Nora is announcing her intention to run for public office in two days, and it’ll be a rigorous campaign.”

Celeste nods with widened eyes, gaze still glued on her screen.

“I’m sure your father has told you that we need all the good press we can get,” he continues. “I don’t know how familiar you are with my daughter, but she isn’t the representation we want for our family.”

He clasps his hands together.

“And before we bring her in, there is something I need you to do.”

Rafe waits, tense.

“She’s unpredictable and secretive. It leads to bad surprises and even worse press,” he says. “I need to know her plans, her activities, absolutely everything you can find out. Can you keep me informed without her knowing?”

Rafe imagines his father’s expectant stare, the one he’s sure he’ll be wearing when he asks him how this meeting went. The familiar ache to impress him radiates through him, a desire he’s shouldered all his life.

He still remembers the look on Ward's face when he told him about his plans to go back to college, long after he’d dropped out as a freshman. It was the first time he seemed convinced that his son was turning his life around, that earning a solid education wasn't just another stint Rafe would give up on.

With enough time and effort, finally, Rafe had a shred of his father's approval. He graduated and now, at thirty, he’s back on track to take over Cameron Development. The job had practically been lined up for him since birth and he'd nearly squandered it through his rocky adolescence, a trainwreck in response to losing his mother.

He refuses to fuck anything else up. He crawled his way out of the hole he’d once been in and he has no intention of falling back into it. He won’t stop for anything.

“I can do that,” he agrees.

Kal nods, then presses a call button on his desk, instructing the butler to bring you in. As the air fills with silence, the suspicion that you haven’t even been told about the arrangement yet gnaws at Rafe.

“Does she know about any of this?” he asks, a slightly disbelieving chuckle spilling from his lips.

“She’s about to,” your father says.

▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱

Your eyes follow the words in your textbook as you type on your laptop, music softly buzzing from your speakers. The house is always so quiet, forcing you to listen to your own thoughts.

You need the noise. Any distraction.

You’re in your last few months of working towards a master’s degree in business, taking advantage of the schooling you have access to, all in an effort to prove yourself and be set up for success for when you can finally leave this place in the rearview.

Most of your life has been a waiting game, and you’re in the homestretch to getting your trust fund. All you need to do is make it to your next birthday. You can’t survive without that money. Your medical expenses are too high.

The dream of walking out the front door and never stepping foot in this house again consumes you. You long to be your own person, away from the gossip rags, free from your family’s restrictions.

You’re not proud that you don’t have the self-restraint to quietly wait out your time. You’re driven by anger, by the pull of escapism, constantly getting out of control with your drinking.

But it's too addictive and the spiteful side of you enjoys knowing you’re a PR nightmare, publicly embarrassing the people who gave you your last name.

A month ago, as a result of your mother’s sudden interest in politics, you’ve been put under harsh restrictions to avoid any and every risk of unfavorable press. You were ordered to give back your credit card and live at home instead of on campus, with no access to transportation unless a driver has been appointed to take you somewhere.

You’ve still found ways to rebel, sneaking out to see friends, partying to numb your pain. Your parents try to keep you under control because they care about public perception. About notoriety. Not you.

You learned long ago that you’re just a thorn in the family’s side.

Knuckles tap on your bedroom door. You stand and swing it open to meet Mathieu’s tired eyes.

“You’re needed in your father’s office, miss,” the butler says.

“You know my name, Mathieu,” you say with a gentle smile. “I can’t. I’m in the middle of an assignment.”

“He said your attendance is required, miss.”

He winces, correcting himself for calling you that again, saying your name instead. You’ve seen your father’s staff on edge all your life. He runs a tight ship, and it’s one you’ve wanted to jump off of for a long time.

Because of that, you have a soft spot for the people who work in your home. At least they’re nice to you. Even though it’s their job to be.

You agree, simply because you don’t want Mathieu to have to deal with the collateral damage of your father being told no.

▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱

Three heads turn towards you when you enter the office.

You meet your father’s eyes immediately, clenching your fists at your sides because, like always, being in the same room as him triggers an onslaught of anger through you.

“What is it?” you say curtly.

“Have a seat,” Kal says, his voice clipped.

“I’m busy,” you answer.

“Sit.”

Rafe’s gaze follows you as you cross the room and settle in the chair next to him. There’s a sudden heat in his chest, a frustration in how he can’t pull his eyes off of you.

The photos he saw online, the painting in the foyer, they do you no justice. You’re stunning, radiating confidence, moving like you expect the world to get out of the way for you.

Maybe liking you won’t take much pretending after all.

“You know Celeste,” your father says.

You return her pointed frown. You didn’t mind her at first, but then, she realized she could get away with ridiculing you, safe from any of your family members coming to your defence.

Once she knew that her job was secure, she’s passively jeered at you many times, calling your antics fodder for the rags, calling you shameful and childish.

“And this is Rafe.”

Your eyes flitter towards the stranger. You’re in awe of how near impossible it is not to melt under his gaze, his eyes piercing, every plane of his face strong and refined.

You didn’t know what you were expecting coming in here, but it wasn’t him, staring like he’s waiting for you to do something.

“Hi,” you say stiffly, then look at your father. “What do you want?”

“You’ve been an embarrassment,” Kal says.

You remain perfectly still, no stranger to your father scolding you no matter who’s in the room.

“You’re kidding,” you say, your tone flat and sardonic. “What is it this time?”

Rafe gathered that you’re difficult, and he’s no saint himself, having had many disputes with his own dad, but he always had the sense to argue behind closed doors. He didn’t expect you to be so bratty from the get-go, so openly abrasive towards someone you’re supposed to respect.

“We can’t have you causing any trouble,” he says. You sigh, feeling Rafe’s gaze on you. He must be the latest bodyguard your father’s hiring, yet another man you’ll drive to quit his job. “I refuse to let my wife’s campaign be ruined.”

“Wait, so, if she loses, it’s my fault?” you breathe a laugh.

Your mother’s step into politics is just another line on the list of her meaningless ventures. It reeks of boredom masked as ambition; a move made only because she can afford the luxury of trying everything once.

“I’ve had the conditions to your inheritance amended,” Kal says.

Rafe watches your smugness fade away, your brows pinch together.

“What?” you say. The cockiness you wore has slipped, nothing but unease in your features now, as if the existence of your trust fund was the only thing granting you any sense of poise. “What do you mean?”

“You’re tarnishing our reputation,” he says. “I’m not allowing you to continue to drag our name through the mud. Your brothers have set good examples. It’s time you do the same. If you don’t, your inheritance is void.”

“No,” you say. “The terms are that I get access to it when I turn 25. You can’t just change that.”

“Yes, I can,” Kal says. “The new conditions–”

“This is all because Mom decided she wants her name on people’s lawns?” you interrupt with a humorless laugh, straightening in your seat. “You’re insane.”

Rafe catches on that you call her your mom, while your father refers to her as his wife.

“It’s important to her,” Kal says evenly.

“Sure,” you say in a huff. “Whatever. Fine. I’ll be good.”

Rafe would laugh if this wasn’t so awkward. He wants to get the hell out of here. It’s bullshit that this isn’t already all settled. But when he thinks about his dad, who’d told him how important his cooperation in this is, he doesn’t budge.

“You think I can believe you?” Kal asks. “You need to convince the public you’ve grown up. Represent us well for once. You won’t have access to your trust unless you get married.”

“Married?” you echo.

Kal’s eyes dart to Rafe.

“Rafe has already agreed to pose as your husband.”

“What?!” you half-shout, glaring at Rafe. “Are you serious?”

Your father sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Either have your tantrum and lose your trust,” he mutters, “or agree. Everything’s already in place.”

“We have appearances scheduled and an engagement announcement and a wedding in the works,” Celeste pipes up. “All you have to do is show up. And behave.”

Dread sinks into you slowly, wretchedly. Everything’s already in place. And you’re just the pawn expected to go along with this.

Your heartbeat thumps in your ears, any safety you felt when you entered this room erased. Your trust fund is your ticket out of here. Now, that ticket is being torn to shreds right in front of you.

“How long would I have to go along with this?” you say, blinking.

“Until the end of the election cycle,” he says.

“About six months,” Celeste clarifies. “And we can’t risk faking it. Marriage licenses are public records. It’d take one diligent reporter to blow everything. It will be real. And quietly annulled afterwards, of course.”

Half a year of pretending you’re fond of the stranger sitting next to you, of acting like you’ve suddenly been tamed because you fell in love, with your trust fund hanging in the balance. This has to be a bad dream, a nightmare you’re having up in your bedroom.

“Why a marriage?” you breathe.

“Cameron Development is a distinguished company,” Kal says. “They’re respected by our community, and our families publicly joining will benefit their bottom line and our reputation.”

“A wedding is a great photo op,” Celeste adds. “And an opportunity to invite everyone with influence. It’ll help with polling, too.”

You stare down at your lap. This is unhinged. Your hunger for an upper hand, for some kind of rebuttal, twists in your core. You refuse to just stomach this.

You do have some power here. You know how bad it’ll make your father look if you outright defy him and leave everyone in the lurch. He cares about his reputation way too much.

This is how all your communication with your parents goes. It’s a battle. A struggle for control.

“I have terms,” you say, an imperceptible tremble in your voice.

“This isn’t a negotiation,” your father responds.

“Actually, it is,” you say, staring at him. “If you don’t level with me, I’ll leak things to the press that would never redeem this family. I’ll do so much damage that you can never fix it.”

Rafe is floored by your viciousness, by the way you have no loyalty to the people who raised you. Now he can see why your father had to go to such extreme measures.

“Your inheritance will be gone,” Kal states.

“And Mom will lose,” you threaten. “And we’ll all be left with nothing.”

Your father’s silence is enough for you to know he’s backed into a corner, waiting to hear your demands.

“I can move out immediately,” you state. “I get my credit card and my car back. And the second this is over, I get full access to my trust fund.”

You lean forward, your rage deafening. You reach for the quiet thread of strength buried deep inside you, grasping it the way you always have, even as a child.

“I’ll follow the rules,” you say. “I’ll go to every event, pretend I want to be there, and stay out of trouble. I’ll go along with this only if you agree.”

Kal sucks his teeth, frustrated, but left with no choice but to comply.

“Fine. You’ll do everything Celeste says, do you understand?”

“And you can’t tell a soul,” Celeste explains to you. “One leak could ruin everything.”

She pulls out two stapled stacks of paper, neatly placing them on the desk in front of you and Rafe. The words at the top are heavy and bolded: Confidential Marital Agreement.

Another chill floods your system. You’re being controlled in yet another way, jammed under your parents’ thumbs, all while everyone else is acting like this is completely normal.

“You need to convince everyone that this is real,” Celeste emphasizes. “The public has to believe that you’ve grown up and had a complete change of heart.”

“Yeah, I got it,” you mutter.

You look at Rafe again, this time with nothing but disgust. You regret having thought anything good about the man who’s helping your father humiliate you like this.

“But don’t expect me to be civil about it in private,” you say to Rafe, rising from your seat, swiping the contract in a tight grip. “You’re an asshole for doing this.”

You storm out, itching to punch something.

▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱

You sit in the front study of your home as the smooth, plastic clamp squeezes your forefinger. Iris notes the numbers on the small monitor.

You know the order of the tests, how each one feels, how the fifteen-minute appointment is bookended by the worst part. It’s a cycle you go through with your nurse every month.

After a string of respiratory infections as a child, you were diagnosed with a chronic lung disease. Your treatment plan calls for frequent check-ups, aggressive medication, and an inhaler on you at all times.

It’s apparently genetic, and why your lungs won’t work right while your two older brothers breathe easy in every way is a constant, twisted reminder of your place in your family.

All you know is the feeling of limitation, of being near suffocation. In every possible way.

“Time for the worst part,” Iris says. You pull up your sleeve, giving her access to the inside of your elbow.

She sanitizes your skin and you make a fist, staring out the window into your family’s enormous, manicured backyard, a sliver of the sea visible behind the trees lining the back of the estate.

The prick of the needle makes you wince, and she apologizes, and you tell her it’s not her fault, just like every other time. You usually make conversation with her, but you’ve been in a daze since the ambush in your father’s office this morning.

“How’s Milo?” you finally ask.

“Good,” she says proudly. “He made the basketball team.”

You can only imagine the excitement her fourteen-year-old must have felt.

You wish you were a better person, that you could just be happy for others, but your chest pinches in jealousy. You fear your envy will always remain a wound, a flaw in your character you can’t rid yourself of.

And you know how out of touch it is to be jealous when you were born with a silver spoon in your mouth, but there are some things money can’t buy, like a parent’s love, like the freedom to play a sport without worrying your lungs will give out, and the emptiness rooted in your soul is proof of that.

“That’s amazing,” you tell her. “Can I get him anything?”

“Absolutely not,” she quips, gently pulling out the needle. “You’ve spoiled him enough.”

You smirk. Your track record for spoiling her son started the day she became your nurse over five years ago. There’s satisfaction in spending money this way - not for show, but for joy, for the quiet delight of a little boy and his mother who never ask for anything.

“How are you, sweetheart?” She puts a cap on the tube, putting away the blood sample and shutting her case. “You’re quiet today.”

You look away and think of Rafe’s heavy gaze, of the edges of his face, of how you didn’t even hear him speak.

It’s absurd that you’re expected to pretend he’s someone you fell into a whirlwind romance with, a man whose voice you don’t even know, a man who conspired with your father to degrade you, to rip away your free will.

You’ll have to deceive everyone, even the people you care about. And it makes you feel rotten.

“I’m fine,” you lie.

▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱

Rafe likes to think that he’s improved over the years. He’s not as helpless against his own temper, not giving into impulse every opportunity he gets, not as reckless as he was when he was younger.

He’s better. Not perfect, but better. Yet when you called him an asshole yesterday, it’s the closest he’s come to snapping in a long time.

You’re beautiful, but you’re a nightmare.

He didn’t think it would be like this. Yesterday caught him off guard. It left him speechless, and nothing leaves him speechless, but the weight of what’s at stake hit hard. One wrong move, and everything, his career, his future, could start to crack.

He didn’t know you’d be threatened into this arrangement. But putting your trust fund on the line was obviously necessary if you’re this unwilling to stay out of trouble.

He’s not looking forward to dealing with you.

You enter one of the spare offices in your home, the scowl on your face hard as you settle at the desk next to Rafe, across from Celeste.

“Hello,” Celeste says. “How are you?”

“Don’t pretend like you care,” you murmur. You’ve been dreading this meeting since you were told about it just last night. “Just get on with it.”

Celeste’s brows inch up in irritation, but her shrug tells you that you’re right. She slides two pages across the desk, housing identical color-coded calendars.

“This is how everything will play out,” she explains. “You’ll pretend to meet for the very first time at the investor gala on Thursday night, where Nora will announce that she’s running for office. You’ll be seated next to each other.”

It’s been so long since you were last seen with your family that you can’t even picture it. Back when skipping out wasn’t an option, you were dragged along to countless events, ordered to pretend like everything behind the scenes wasn’t fraying at the edges.

It makes your stomach turn, thinking of sitting with your parents and older brothers, subject to their vitriol.

“And then, you two will fall so in love,” she says, the sarcasm in her tone thick, “that you’re constantly spotted together. You’ll get engaged two months in, and have a beautiful, quaint summer wedding three months later.”

“God,” you sigh in frustration, sick just thinking about what a stupid farce this is going to be. You hate that you have no say, that you’ve always been smothered by what other people want, that you’re just a puppet on a string.

“You’ll need to look the part,” Celeste says flatly, her eyes darting between you and Rafe. “Right now, you two couldn’t look more miserable.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t appreciate being called an asshole,” Rafe mutters, his gaze catching yours.

You scoff as his deep voice reverberates through you. It’s more cutting than you anticipated: cold, precise, aimed to dominate.

“I don’t appreciate you being an asshole,” you reply, your features strained in anger.

“I thought you knew the plan,” he says. “I came here yesterday thinking you were ready to do this.”

You still for a moment, the hatred you have for him almost dulling. Almost.

“You just assumed that?” you ask, eyes narrowed.

His hesitant glare makes it clear that he did.

“If you knew my dad, you’d know he’d never give a shit about who’s ready when he wants something done,” you scoff. “You should take the time to see who you’re working with instead of blindly kissing ass.”

The stab at his ambition, his pride, makes his blood boil.

“You don’t know shit about–”

“Please,” Celeste interjects, her palms up. “Can’t you be adults about this?”

“Can’t you admit that this is idiotic?” you say to her. “All for what? Good press?”

“You’ve made it clear that you don’t care about how you represent your family,” she says evenly. “But your actions affect them. And they affect the business that gives you the amazing life you live.”

“Amazing,” you echo with a snarl. “Give me a fucking break.”

Rafe grits his teeth. The tabloids are right. You’re nothing but an ungrateful princess, and you’re damn near unbearable to be around.

“Classy,” Celeste mumbles under her breath, handing you a small manilla envelope. “Let’s just get through this. Your credit card. You’ll notice the limit’s much lower than before.”

You sigh, taking it from her. She pulls out two envelopes next.

“And here are the keys to your condo,” she explains. “It’s confidential that you’re living together. Keep it that way. We’ll make it look like you moved in after the engagement.”

“What?” you snap. “What’s the point of us living together right away, then? When I said I wanted to move out, I didn’t mean with him.”

Celeste’s eyes flash to Rafe, the promise he made to Kal an unspoken secret between them. You can’t know Rafe has been tasked with keeping an eye on you.

“I just relay your father’s decisions,” she says. “You know that.”

You sneer. Of course he finds a way to only partially meet your demands, while ensuring your misery. You can’t believe you considered doing this. Nothing will be on your terms, not entirely. It’s how it’s always been.

“It’s a sizable penthouse,” she says. “You practically have your own wings. All you share is a kitchen.”

“And it’s not like I’ll be there much,” Rafe mutters. “Some of us work.”

This earns a snort from Celeste and a murderous look from you. He can usually keep this type of disdain in, especially in what’s technically a business meeting, but it’s like you undo all the work he did on himself.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket before you can ream him out. You check who’s calling, tilting the screen towards you, but Rafe sneaks a look at the contact name to see Family Law at the tailend.

“I have to take this,” you say, rushing out of the room.

▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱

When you come back into the office, you’re even angrier than you were when you left.

Your lawyer just confirmed over the phone that your father’s amendments were entirely fair, that he had failsafes set up in case he needed to make changes to the conditions of your inheritance.

You settle next to Rafe, listening to Celeste continue to drone on about how you’re expected to present yourselves as a couple in the public eye.

Every bit of you aches. You hate that you’ll have to pretend you’re fine being around your family, when all they do is hurt you.

You hate that you’ll have to fake happiness at Rafe’s side, a man who’s a prime example of the type of smug, heartless opportunist that you’ve been avoiding all your life.

You hate that yet again, you’re powerless.

There’s no getting out of this. Not unless you get Rafe to back out. It’s worth a try.

▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱

“That should cover everything,” Celeste says, concluding the meeting. “Contact me if you have questions, but if you follow the schedule, you’ll be fine. I’ll be in touch.”

She smooths down her skirt and collects her things.

“And I still need both of your signed contracts,” she says, but her eyes are fixed on you, the only person in this equation making things difficult.

Her heels click as she strides out of the office. You’re still in your seat, the lump in your chest refusing to dissipate.

You can’t allow your parents to weaponize your trust fund just to satisfy their own ruthless agendas, just to appease their malicious need for control.

And living with Rafe isn’t an option. If he witnessed your steady rotation of medical visits, it’d shatter your carefully maintained illusion. You’ve hidden your illness from everyone outside your family, even close friends and past boyfriends. Not out of shame, but survival.

The press would twist it into something ugly, weak, marketable. It’s the one thing you’ve managed to keep private, and you’re not about to hand Rafe and the press another piece of you to tear apart.

You can’t go through with this. You’re too consumed by the price you’d have to pay.

There’s always been a voice whispering to keep going, that the finish line is close. But another angrier one is so much louder, demanding to know what the point is if you leave your self-respect behind. Screaming at you that without dignity, you’ve already lost.

Rafe stands, adjusting the lapels of his jacket, rounding his seat to leave.

“Wait,” you say, your voice thin.

He stops, his hand on the back of his chair.

“What?” he says sharply.

You don’t make eye contact. You continue to stare ahead, settling into the realization that this is the first private moment you’re having with the man you’re expected to marry.

But he hasn’t signed his contract. There’s still time.

Rafe lingers. The fierce anger he’s seen in you has shuffled away, replaced by quiet tension.

“Do you really have to do this?” you say.

He gets the sense that you rebel against everything you’re told to do just for the sake of it. And he’s not a fool who’ll give in to you after all you’ve done is insult him. He can’t believe he thought he would like you.

“It’s just showing up to a few things,” he mutters, his grip tightening on the chair.

You stiffen, frustration etched into your face as you turn to look up at him.

“How do you not see how ridiculous this is?” you ask, your anger back in full force.

“I do,” he scoffs, “but it’s a smart move. It benefits everyone.”

You stand up to face him, crossing your arms. Anyone who calls something your father thought up as smart is an idiot in your book.

“Back out,” you say evenly.

He smirks. It’s satisfying, getting revenge on someone who’s done nothing but make digs at him, telling her no when she’s so used to getting her way.

“So, you don’t want that money?” he says, his tone teetering on mockery.

You groan, infuriated.

“What are you really gaining here?” you snap, your chin pointed up at him. “Is he paying you? Does he have something on you?”

If Rafe ever were to admit to someone just how badly he wants to impress his father, to prove his allegiance to him and the company, it wouldn’t be to you. Someone who would never get it, who has no sense of loyalty, who is so childishly spiteful.

“It’s just six months,” he replies curtly.

You’re desperate, willing to say anything to get him to refuse. Willing to beg as much as your pride will allow you to.

“Please,” you say. “If you refuse, they’ll respect it. They won’t respect me.”

He glares down at you. Of course they won’t respect you. You’re intolerable. You’re trying to sweeten him up, make him pity you, and it’s not working.

You stiffen under his stare, uncomfortable that you have to plead. He’s not giving in. You can tell by the coldness in his eyes.

“I’ll make your life hell if you do this,” you threaten. “Just six months will feel like an eternity.”

He dismisses you, stepping away with a condescending chuckle. But he wholeheartedly believes you.

(to be continued)

new parts of this series drop at 9 pm eastern on thursdays. my update account is @xorafe-library if you want post notifications.

[clairewritesfanfics]

Old Friends

Your Character Settings: AFAB, Jason Todd's childhood friend, civilian, famous author

Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader

“When the cops told me they’d be sending over a bodyguard, I didn’t expect them to send in a superhero,” you said, setting down the frog-shaped pitcher on the coffee table. 

You then took a seat directly facing Red Hood. Tall. Bulky. Vigilante. Alleged colleague of the Bats if you were going by the giant red bat logo across his chest. He looked almost comical on your thrifted loveseat, but he kept his knees together and folded his hands politely over them, as though that would help make him look smaller. 

“I was told you were getting death threats,” he said. 

“Authors get that kind of mail all the time.”

“But it got worse, right?”

You shrugged. “I can deal with that type of thing, I called the cops for a different matter.” You gestured at the envelope on the table.

Red Hood examined the contents. They were photos of a shattered library window, specifically, the Jason Todd Collection, which was a library that doubled as a shelter full of secondhand sofas and couches and two bathrooms. It’s been around for three months and completely owned and funded by you. 

“I’ve heard about this place,” he said. “It’s amazing.”

“Thanks, I’m glad you think so because I want help finding the son of a bitch that broke in and beat up the people sleeping inside.”

“I’m pretty sure the cops already dealt with that.”

“They said they were going to deal with it, but a few officers took some pictures and didn’t even bother interviewing the victims.”

“I understand your concern for the victims and I don’t mean to be rude, but I came here to ensure that you were safe. It’s not exactly a secret that you own the Ja…” he paused briefly before continuing, “that you own the shelter. An attack on the place could’ve been a way of getting your attention. The shelter was attacked after your latest book release, correct?”

Your growing temper simmered and you reclined on your armchair. He was right. “Okay, I see where you’re coming from.”

“Ma’am–”

“Don’t call me that, makes me feel old. Just call me by my first name.”

He hesitated before saying your name and, “your new book’s controversial.”

“Yeah. Not everyone’s happy that I brought back a character from the dead. He was a fan favorite so half of my readers were happy to see him again, but the rest think that resurrection cheapens the plot.”

“I think you foreshadowed Hector’s return pretty consistently.”

“You read my books?”

He tilted his red helmet and you could feel him smiling under that thing. “I like love stories.”

“That–Jason!”

His whole body stiffened, but then a giant, furry thing emerged from behind his loveseat and started sniffing his shoes and thighs. 

You sighed. “That’s Jason. He usually hides in my room when I have people over. C’mere, boy.”

Instead of running to your lap like he always did, your seventy-kilogram, stranger-fearing rescue folded its legs and laid its heavy head on Red Hood’s boot. 

“Huh. That’s never happened before.” You eyed the hero suspiciously. “Can you talk to animals or something?”

He chuckled. “No superpowers, I’m afraid, guess he just likes me.” He bent down and gently rubbed the dog’s head. 

Your throat rumbled lowly with mild jealousy. It took you a whole year before Jason would let you approach him without peeing.

Red Hood then asked, “So…Jason?”

“What?”

“Was that always his name?”

“No. According to the shelter that found him he never answered to a single name. When I got him, I refused to just call him dog or it, so I reinforced the name Jason.”

“...you named him after Jason Todd?”

“Yes, I did.” You crossed your arms. “Now, can we please discuss the reason why you’re here?”

“I didn’t mean to get on your nerves, I was just–”

“–curious, I know.”

“You must’ve really cared for this Todd.”

You thought of Jason, beaming as he handed you a cheeseburger, laughing at a joke you told him, and you smiled. “He was my best friend.”

Red Hood said nothing.

“He died a few years ago. He was the smartest person I knew and he… he didn’t even get to finish high school.” You exhaled and looked at your bookshelf. “I want the world to remember his name, even if it’s just from the dedication pages in my books and a small library.”

***

Red Hood made himself comfortable on the rooftop overlooking your apartment. You may not have cared about several death threats but he did, and he wasn’t about to leave you alone unguarded.

“So this is where you’ve been,” a sing-song voice interrupted his thoughts.

Jason clicked his tongue.

Nightwing wrapped his arm around his brother’s shoulder. “Heard everything from Babs. I can’t believe you approached her as Red Hood before you showed up as Jason.”

“Go away, dickhead.”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Tsk.”

“She’s really cute, are her books any good though? Never found the time to read, well, anything. But Babs said–”

Dick’s words merged with the city’s usual background noise as Jason continued to watch you behind your balcony door.

He watched as you knelt down to help Jason the Dog slip into a red hoodie before pressing a tender kiss between its eyes.

He then opened his phone and scanned your weekly schedule. You were too reckless. You left a lot of your things out in the open. What if a freak found your planner?

He made a mental note to install some cameras when you leave to get groceries tomorrow.

Disclaimer: The image of Red Hood used in this post does not belong to writerclaire. It's by Dexter Soy and was lifted from: https://www.reddit.com/r/DCcomics/comments/h0iavp/cover_from_red_hood_and_the_outlaws_20_by_dexter/

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[wrotebymii]

EVERYTHING HAS A PLACE | Date Everything x Autistic!gn!reader

Summary: How life is with the objects and their autistic homeowner.

Warnings: Fluffy, minimal angst, reader doesn’t know their household necessities are sentient at first, I’m autistic but low-functioning so a lot of what I wrote is how I go about my day/how I act. Not edited. Reader is also slightly demi-romantic coded. Lost the plot a few paragraphs in I’m sorry I’m sleep deprived.

Timothy, Penelope, and You are like three peas in a pod. Using each keeps you relatively relaxed for the upcoming day or eventual break in your neatly put together schedule—which gets increasingly difficult to think about when said break comes.

Sorry, Sam, but your hang session is place obscurely in our data monthly pin board since it’s pushing too close to workout and the everything shower. —Signed Penelope

They all try to accommodate your needs; Kopi making the coffee the exact same every time, Freddy keeping the fridge nice and cool so your comfort foods don’t spoil just yet, Teddy being found under your bed when you’re having a difficult time regulating, even Lux and Barry collaborating reluctantly together to find the perfect hand lotion that doesn’t give you sensory headaches.

Everyone thinks you’re charming, not in an infantilizing way. Every single person adores you but with respect and understanding.

Most of them love that you have a routine you stick by, it’s easy to remember and gives them chill periods in between. Its a nice break because they too can get tired, so when there’s a detour in the schedule that wasn’t place advanced. They worry.

Koa and Mateo would immediately be there with you, letting you curl in the comfort of your bedding and focus on yourself. While Telly puts on a rerun of your favorite show.

But this time it’s different. An immediate change in your entire routine when you got the Dateviators. Forcing yourself to ignore the urge to clean the broken glass of your door window because a drone had so rudely forced the box in. You picked them up, they were cute a little tacky but cute nevertheless. Internally, you were still freaked out that an unknown person knew your address and sent you a pair of sungla— holy shit.

You put them on and you’re not sure how it happened but there was a very beautiful smiling pinked haired stranger standing a few feet away from you. She was practically buzzing in excitement as she explained what was happening. Causing you to…

Quickly take the glasses off and pace.

You couldn’t believe it, almost didn’t want to believe it. Within the comforts of your own home every object, appliance, knicknacks, and the literal embodiment of concepts are all sentient. It made you feel all types of ways wrong that you quickly took laps around the house before collapsing on the floor of your living room.

…this could be a good thing? You mean…it could help with your social skill and facial recognition. Hell, maybe you’ll get a friend out of this?

Slowly you put them back on, your world being brightly lit up by rose tinted specs. It hurts your eyes. Though, Skylar shows up again, looking down at you with a strained smile and wave. Easying you up without touching you to your feet and continuing what she was saying. Before another bomb shell hit you.

Dateviators…dateables

The whole point of these glasses was to date multiple of your household items which freaked you out more. However, you were truly thankful that you met Dorian first. His announcement that friendship was also an option made it less daunting on you.

Thus began the 102 way to get everything to be friends with you!

Sure, the first few days was stressful and near exhausting but long talks with Timothy and Pen helped greatly. They helped with creating an entirely new schedule color coded as well that allowed time for your humanly needs and getting to know everyone.

Jerry and You got along great, earning his friendship fast when you told him to up-cycle.

Lux was easy to hate, but with your inability to know when you’re being insulted you became their unlikely friend they hurt your eyes.

Teddy was amazing, you were little embarrassed that he knows deeply about your breakdowns but the silly advice and stories made it go away.

Barry is probably your best friend, you help him with his memory by saying he can use things he’s interested in to aid him in keeping track of things.

Chance is your second bestie, nearly tackling him in feral hyper fixation so you could yap his ear off about the game you both like. He’s the most likely to fall for you. Besides Wallace.

However, the best place is Break Box Club, but only when it’s after hours. You can only sit through terrible act before you want to put cotton in your ears. The club is soothing at closing, lights dimmer Volt and Eddie do that just for you and you get to drink a lot of mocktails Eddie teases you.

You do your share, of course. Not wanting to free load off the two. You have knowledge on the breaker box because you were frantically cleaning one day and found the manual which you spent the next hour reading through and forgot the cleaning which you regretted later.

Currently, you’re seated at the bar working on a project you and Jerry are doing while chatting to Eddie about a new dateable, questioning the person initial reaction to you. Volt was to your right.

“They were flirting…” He said, cleaning a glass with a shake of his head. The corner of his lips turning up. You give him a once over and hum in thought.

“Nah” You say flatly, not believing it.

“The hell you mean nah?” He raised an amused brow. You shrug and sit up straight, gathering your words.

“They seemed…rude? And pushy” You concluded.

“That doesn’t mean they weren’t…” Eddie pauses and places the glass down, rubbing between his eyes like he has a headache.

“Sometimes…insults can be meant in different ways, live wire.” Volt says, chuckling. They aren’t teasing you for your like of awareness but amused by the conversation overall.

“But, that’s not how it’s like in Betty’s books” You say, maintaining strict eye contact with Eddies hands as the wipe down the counter. Enjoying the rhythmic nature of it.

“How was it shown in these books?” Volt asks with more interest.

“Flashy, and oddly poetic. Like you’d sing a ballad if you saw your lover in front of you” You say remembering the way Betty gasp and sigh wishfully when she read it out loud. You thought it was pretty, and by definition romantic, but not something you think you’d like.

“Ah of course, lovey-dovey shit…” Eddie mumbles, he leans on the bar his hands on the counter supporting his weight. Volt hums.

“Betty is the overtly romantic type.” Volt looks at you, multitasking on the project and the conversation.

“-what about you?”

“Huh?”

“What is your romance like, your love language?”

“You don’t have to answer, tap your fingers twice if you want me to stop him” Eddie teases, his voice drowning out with Volts as they banter back and forth.

What is your romance like? Love language? You aren’t sure, but you know you like foundation a connection to someone. Similarities but not too many.

“I think I like just being near someone…we don’t have uh-don’t have to speak or do anything but just be there in each other presence, I enjoy that. Looking up and seeing that they’re there and I get to be there with them…” The room is silence, it’s not awkward but settle.

Then it’s broken.

“I enjoy the firey and beautiful passi-“

“You ruined it” Eddie huffs.

“Oh-ho I did not, I’m merely adding onto-“ Volt defends himself, electricity tingling over his arms—the zapping noise of it pleases you.

You giggle as they continue, adding the last bit to the Jerry project. Watching as Eddie and Volt blabber on as Eddie begins to walk away from the conversation to go on and do workaholic things.

You might not fully understand where you are in romantic relationships but you’ll take anything if it meant being in the presence of any object within this house. If they’re flirty, hateful, passive, aloof.

You don’t mind, being around them is enough for you.

[houseofhyde]

I LOVE MANCHILD BUCKY SO MUCHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!! can u pretty pretty please do something literally anything where he picks the reader up and he's so strong and whatnot 😛😛😛 love ya thankssssss ur the best

wine, dine, whine. a manchild drabble.

pairing. bucky barnes x fem!reader. synopsis. bucky's plans go to shit on the night of your birthday. yet, beneath city lights and raining skies, he learns how little you require to have a good time. it turns out, all you need is bucky's strong arms. warnings. smut ( unprotected piv, strength kink, sex against a door, clothed sex, creampie bc i'm a whore with a very specific kink 🧍‍♂️, fingers are getting put in pussies and mouths!, the bucky barnes begs agenda 2025™ continues, lowkey sub!bucky ), protective!bucky aka guard dog!bucky, anger issues, banter, unlabelled relationship bc i like torturing these two losers, angst, fluff, the overall vibe when it comes to the narration of this is a little bit different to manchild due to this being told from bucky's pov but hopefully it's still enjoyable! reader inclusivity. bucky is able to pick the reader up (which, duh, he's a super soldier, bestie <3) and one mention of his jacket being too big for her. wordcount. 3.6k (we're playing fast and loose with the term 'drabble') hyde's input. i've realised i have a strange obsession with having it rain a lot when it comes to these two ( as y'all will see in the next full-length fic i'm writing abt them ), but they just give me such rainy couple vibes, y'know? ( i sound stupid 🤠 ) i hope you enjoy, anon! thank you for requesting, you are the best <33

Fate is either a gigantic cunt, or she simply hates one James Buchanan Barnes.

Every little thing that should have gone right tonight has taken the left exit into wrong-ville. First, it was the missed reservation — Bucky tried to argue the ten minute delay was out of your control but the restaurant had already handed your table off to someone else. Before the soldier could choose between grovelling and threatening, your hand clasped onto his and you dragged him someplace else. Just when he settled into the perfect routine of sipping his wine and admiring the glow of you across a candle-lit table, your dinner arrived and, with it, more problems: the edge of your plate had been ‘decorated’ with crushed almonds. While he was red with anger, you were calmly apologising to the waiter for not having mentioned your allergy. In the end, you both ate the food off his plate.

Slipping off to the bathroom at one point , he’d been confronted with a crooked tie and the fact he’d put his cuff links on wrong — meanwhile, back at the table, you were the image of a goddess, elegant and effortless, wrapped in a pretty black dress and a pair of stilettos. Another disaster struck after dinner, back out on the streets, when a stranger shoulder-checked you and caused the ice cream you’d just bought to fly out your hand; while he wanted to grab the stranger by the scruff of the neck and force them to apologise, you busied yourself with stealing a bite from his cone.

Then came the rain. Unwarned, unreported. The sky simply gave a deep cry and the heavens opened up, dropping buckets worth of water down. Bucky hurried to cover you with his suit’s jacket and you used the downpour as an excuse to tuck yourself into his side, arms curling around his mid-riff and head finding rest against his shoulder.

Now here you both are walking the rainy streets of New York, clothes reduced to soaked rags that cling to each inch of skin, and Bucky’s wondering if this is all his fault.

When he’d first learned it was your birthday this morning, a confession that cut off any loose threads of sleep still clinging to him, you had been adamant that it wasn’t a big deal.

“Birthdays are like assholes, Barnes,” you swat at his butt with the tea-towel you’ve been using to dry the dishes — this is the routine as of late, he washes them and you dry them. “We all have one, doesn’t mean we need to go around announcing it.”

Looking back, he should have left it well-enough alone. But he hadn’t been able to ignore that something that wouldn’t sit right in his chest when you told him you had no intention to celebrate yourself. As far as Bucky is aware, your existence is a blessing, an admittedly irritating flickering light illuminating the tunnel of infinite dark he’s spent most of his life wandering through.

How could he possibly sit back and not let you shine?

“I spy my with my little eye,” your voice pulls him out the pit of guilt he’s digging for himself, drags him back up to street level where you’re soft and present at his side. An arm over your shoulder, he encourages you to burrow deeper against him. “Something beginning with… P!”

You must not be very good at this game, as the likely answer is glaring at him from across the street in red neon lights: Pizzeria.

“What are you, four?” Bucky’s rolling his eyes and fighting off the red of endearment rushing to his cheeks.

“Watch it, soldier,” one of your fingers pokes into his side. “You’re already towing the line of predatory with our age-gap.”

The rain is but a drizzle now, and Bucky despises the way it has you stepping out from his embrace, curious and excited to let feel the drops of water run down your face.

“You can’t say I’m not the strongest centenarian you know,” he states, without even knowing the reason why.

Perhaps a part of him craves to prove to you he’s a worthy choice, more than just a nighttime companion but someone you can let yourself rely on, rest against, plant new roots in your life with.

He’s been thinking about it lately, more often than a man of his nature would dare voice aloud, how much of your time he’s allowed to pollute, and how much of your heart he’s allowed to consume. For all his wondering, he can’t bring himself to ask, in fear of finding out the story of you two he’s been writing in his head ends sooner than he intends.

“You’re the only centenarian I know,” you’re ahead of him on the sidewalk now, walking backwards and turned towards him to see his reaction as you tease him. “Not even my grandparents, rest their souls, would be as old as you.”

“Okay, that’s enough,” he’s trying to reach for you, feigning annoyance as the excuse to pull you back against him, where he wants you to belong.

But you’re nimble, faster on your heels than he expects you to be, and he marvels at how easily you evade his hands, feet moving so easily they almost seem to dance along the ground.

“Don’t worry, give me the greenlight and I’ll happily call you great-granddaddy while you hit it from the back-”

Like a lion pounces on a gazelle, he dashes to close the distance between you and swoops you up into his arms.

“What have I told you about watching where you’re going?” It’s an empty chastise, one that not even he pays any mind to, not when he’s so enthralled with the weight of you clinging to his neck, a vibranium arm holding up your back while his flesh one is tucked beneath your bent knees.

Your eyes are watching him, a smile upon your face that tells him you have no intention of looking at the river of a puddle he’s just rescued you from stepping into, sacrificing the polished leather of his shoes and the hem of his trousers as he walks you both across it.

“It’s more fun when you do it for me,” you wink at him, and Bucky’s in pain.

He’s known war. He’s known torture. He’s known what it means to lose every thread of autonomy, becoming nothing but a vehicle through which to kill. Never has he known ache quite like the one you carve into his heart, with something as simple as a smile and as soft as a kiss.

Deflecting his own thoughts, he jolts you higher up into his hold, closer to his chest, and renews the grip his hands carry you with. No puddles lay ahead anymore, left behind for you to finally spot over his shoulder, yet the soldier shows no intention of putting you down.

“You just had to prove your point, huh? Strongest man I know.”

The breeze brushes the skirt of your dress a little too high for Bucky’s comfort, not when there’s a group of men spilling out from a bar across the street. He readjusts his right arm, making sure the fabric stays caught beneath his iron grip.

Maybe that’s why it takes him a moment to notice you’ve altered his earlier claim, taking his age right out of the discussion.

“I never said man-”

You gasp, Bucky freezes.

“Put me down,” a command he obeys with heartbreak yet no hesitation, returning you gently to the pavement and keeping a hold on you until he’s sure you’re steady on your feet. Before he can step back, you shake your head, “Come here.”

Like a puppet, he gives himself up to you. Lets you tug him closer by his tie. Watches you place his hands firmly around your waist. Relishes in the squeeze of your arms interlocking behind his head.

Standing right in front of him, Bucky feels like he’s seeing you properly for the first time tonight.

Rivulets of rain run rampant down your face, smudged mascara paints an image of modern art across your cheeks, your lipstick has faded away to reveal the real hue of the lips he’s forever longing to kiss, the pretty shape of your dress has melted into your figure and the sleeves of his jacket keep sliding down over your hands. For every sense of the word, you’re a mess. A completely and utterly different woman to the one he stepped out onto the streets with hours earlier, before everything had gone wrong. And you’ve never been more beautiful.

Or more demanding, “Ok, now spin me.”

“Spin you?”

“Yes.”

“You want me to spin you?” It’s not outrageous, he’d argue, to seek confirmation when faced with such a strange request.

“Am I speaking fucking latin? S, P, I, N me, Barnes!”

Let the record show that there’s not a single thing, no matter how confused or skeptical it may leave him, that Bucky wouldn’t do for you. So, of course he spins you.

Gripping on tight to your waist and straightening his back, he lets his feet shuffle around in a circle and watches how your own lift off the ground.

“Happy?” He asks, his own existence hinging on your answer, as he puts you back down.

“No,” you shake your head, lips splitting in an eye-twinkling smile. “Again!

He does it again, and again, and again. Until you’re a twirling, giggling, grinning mess surrounding him. Until he feels himself begin to struggle for balance. Until a group of strangers are holding up their phones and recording the private bubble you two are living in. And, for a moment, he can almost picture it.

The before, the normal. A 1940s kind of New York, stained in the smell of cigarettes and gunpowder, and playing main stage to a love story for the ages. He imagines all the ways he would have won over your family, all the old-fashioned traditions he’d play privy to just to earn your hand. His sister would have loved you, and not just because she’d always complained at being stuck with only a brother, but because you’d be as loud, and as outspoken, and as crass as she’d always believed women should be. The kind of life where he’d leave for war with a promise to return to you, and he’d make damn sure of keeping that promise, arriving back at shore to greet you with a kiss and a ring.

When the fog around his wishful eyes clears, he’s left with the blinding lights of modern New York and the smell of your perfume. There’s no bitter feeling, however, no hatred towards the life he finds himself in now, leagues and bounds away from what could have been. It’s not perfect but there’s you, and that seems about as close to it as Bucky can imagine.

“Oh no!” You exclaim, laying a hand across your forehead as you pretend to fall faint against him. “I’m just ever so dizzy, Mr Barnes, I think you’ll have to carry me home!”

“Do you think I’m some sort of walking cab?” Despite the annoyance put behind his question, he’s eagerly offering you his back to hop onto.

“No, no,” you’re swatting him around, pulling on his strings again to command him just how you want him. He willingly gives himself to you every time. “Do it the same as before.”

One arm at your back, the other at the back of your knees, he’s lifting you against him again. For a moment, the creative part of his brain, that had painted a picture of another decade, tempts him with the thought of how this is the very same way a man carries his bride. The thought of such devotion makes him sick with shame and anticipation. 

“Everyday you sound more like a spoiled brat,” and he’s the one to blame, giving way to your every whim and plea.

Your response is physical, a hand grabbing onto either side of his jaw and giving his head a shake, “God forbid a girl wants to enjoy the view of this handsome face!” 

Even though he tries to frown, he can’t help the way he turns to putty with your touch.

The rain comes to a complete stop and leaves behind a satisfying freshness in the air, one that smells like hope and tastes like possibility. Or maybe that’s just the effect of having you pressed up against him, not only seeking safety in his arms but finding rest, head atop the very point where metal welds into flesh.

Here he is, a creature more disjointed than anything Frankenstein could create, and wanted only ever for causing harm, providing respite to a soul he’s spent months trying to save from herself.

Perhaps fate doesn’t hate him so much.

“The answer was party-pooper,” you interrupt his dwelling, like you do best, and make quick to clarify for his questioning glance. “To my I-Spy prompt.”

“What kind of answer is that?”

Carrying you is child’s play, as easy as breathing to the super soldier. That doesn’t stop him from putting on a show of readjusting his grip, jolting you enough into the air to earn a huff out of you.

“I don’t know, you tell me,” a finger trails over his mouth, catching on his lower lip and giving it a gentle tap. “You’re the one that’s been sulking up a storm all night.”

“I wasn’t sulking-”

“You literally were pouting at me from across the table, James.”

“I just wanted you to have a good night.”

Do you notice blood staining the tips of his ears with a blush? And, if you do, would you believe him if he said it was from the bite of the wind?

“I am having a goodnight, how could I not?” As your arms secure themselves around his neck again, he feels the brush of your lips atop the collar of his shirt. If only your lipstick were still intact, he could wake up tomorrow to a visceral stain of your kiss on the fabric. “I’m wearing a pretty dress and being carried by a hunky man.”

“Sometimes I think you only want me for my biceps,” a sarcastic comment feels easier than letting himself sink into the knowledge that he’s made the cut in your requirements for a good time.

“Guilty as charged! I’m using you for this hot bod and fine piece of ass.”

Just when he’s thinking of kissing you, you beat him to it, pulling yourself up to press your lips against his.

It’s short, it’s sweet, and it’s chaste. The kind of kiss one could blink and completely miss, but Bucky savours every second of it. Even if it does cause him to stumble with his next step.

Drawing nearer to your apartment, he wonders if you notice the way his pace is slowing, the way his feet are beginning to drag, the way he’s stretching out each step for as long as he can.

When he grows tired of the sound of passing cars and the muffled music from bars, he seeks out your voice.

“Tell me what’s on your mind.”

“Depends what you want to hear,” you’re back at his shoulder, eyes slipped closed as you enjoy the subtle sway of your dangling legs. “There’s two things I’m thinking about.”

“Two or a million things,” his own voice is falling into a whisper, something sacred he wants to save for your ears only. “I want to hear all of it.”

For a moment, there’s only the tread of his footfall, and the calm of your breathing, and the wind singing a solemn tune. Then you speak and drown him deeper in his melancholy.

“You don’t need to get angry for me,” a montage of deep breaths, flaring nostrils, clenching jaws, all from tonight and completely selfish, born out of an ire that you had met only with kind eyes and forgiving words. “I don’t want a weapon, I just want you. And if that anger is the real you, then I want it too, but not if you’re forcing yourself to get worked up because it's what you think I expect.”

“Anger kept me safe,” and, if it could do that for him, then surely it could keep you safe too. “I don’t know who I am without it.”

“Then we can find out together,” you say it so sincerely he wants nothing more than to make it a reality.

Not just the prospect of relearning himself, but the togetherness of it all. A unit, a pair, a couple. Not just a man and woman living under the same roof. Would you want the same, though? Or is the way he touches you just something you enjoy, no deeper feeling buried beneath layers of skin?

“Do you wanna know the second thing I’m thinking?” There you are again to pull the brakes on his train of thought.

He nods, too afraid of the tight feeling in his throat to speak. But you, his little spitfire, are afraid of nothing and lean up to shamelessly whisper into his ear.

“About how good you’re gonna fuck me when we get home.”

The two of you barely make it past the threshold of the door.

Despite the fact his hands are on you, you’re the one leading the charge, pulling him in by his tie to meet your welcoming tongue. There’s a noticeable thud as your back hits the door but your grip tightens him against you before he can worry.

“Want you to show me how strong these arms are, Buck,” you hiss against him, clutching onto the bicep of the arm that’s snuck itself beneath your dress and writhing as his fingers swipe over your soaked folds.

Sanity has long departed from him, abandoning him to the wreckage of you. He’s barely cognisant of his own undoing, losing himself in the way you react so perfectly to his fingers curling into your cunt. You don’t let him enjoy it for too long, barely a moan ripped out of you before you’re unbuckling his belt and setting his dick free from the confines of cotton.

Following your orders, his arms hike your legs up around his waist and settle your back a little higher up the door, forcing him to gaze up at you in worship. It’s a blessing, he concludes, to watch your mouth drop into an ‘o’ as he guides you down fully onto his cock.

There’s no time for teasing. Everything is desperate and reckless, teeth clashing against teeth, hands digging into hips, skin slapping against skin. The hinges of the door shake at your back, in perfect tune with each thrust of Bucky’s cock, and, when he catches your hand gripping onto the handle, he redirects it to his shoulder and relishes in the sting of your nails digging into his flesh.

“Please,” he’s not sure what he’s asking for, but his mind tells him to grovel, to plead, to pray. “Oh, please, fuck!”

“Yes James, that’s exactly what we’re doing,” you somehow find the time to giggle, and he swears he might just lose his mind when he feels your walls squeeze around him. “I didn’t think you’d have a senior moment so soon.”

You’re so irritating, and maddening, and endearing. Bucky’s all confused, mind oscillating between turning you around, pressing your face into the wood, and showing you just how ‘unsenior’ he is, or focusing on how ridiculously breathtaking you are to gaze up at.

If you’re a siren, then he’s a sailor who’s more willing than ever to drown in the waves with you and your melodic moans. Hungry eyes pull up the hem of your dress and seek out the sight of your pussy fucking itself down onto his cock. Lost in the sight of your bodies syncing together, he’s none the wiser to his open jaw until he tastes your fingers sink inside it.

“Look at you,” you coo, and he loves it, works harder and fucks deeper to hear more of it. “A big, bad soldier who’s whining for me.”

And he is. Pathetically, unabashedly, lips wrapped around the girth of your two fingers and letting you feel the vibrations of his pleasured whines. 

Bucky is the first to crescendo, with a fractured whisper of your name followed by stuttering hips. His eyes roll back as your legs lock around him and force him to deliver, devote every last drop of himself inside of you. He comes through just in time to press his thumb to your clit and guide you off your own edge into paradise, squealing and cheering against the door before he swallows your sounds with his lips.

In the dark of the apartment, you two search for a single breath between you, lazy-boned against the door as hands simply trail over one another’s outline.

“So,” your hand in his hair, tugging lightly until his chin rests on your chest and his hazy eyes stare up at yours. “Was tonight our first date?”

“No,” he almost laughs at how quickly the smile falls off your face, but he’s too busy rushing to fight away the disappointment that seeks to replace it. “You won’t have to ask when it’s our first date, you’ll know.”

And there it is again, the smile he likes best.

“Aww, does that mean I’m not getting a goodnight’s kiss?”

This time he does laugh, slowly bringing your feet back onto the ground and bumping the tip of his nose against yours.

“What you’re getting is tied to the bed and ruined until you forget your own name.”

+ extra hyde

· reader really loves to walk bucky like a dog (as she should!) · also its been a week since i posted manchild &, i don't mean to sound pathetic and emotional but i'm on my period so give me a break, i'm really happy that you all liked it enough to not only give me really kind feedback but to want more of them :( i love writing so much but i kind of hit a wall creatively about 8 months ago. i'm currently getting a degree and part of that degree requires me to not only write a lot but to write outside of my comfort zone (romance) and, despite achieving a first, it really just drained me and sucked the fun out of writing. so it's been really nice to feel myself slowly chip away at the writer's block & a big part of that has been thanks to every like, comment, reblog, and ask you guys have sent. thank you for making this loser (me) happy <3

[nikiexe0]

Imagine the kids are mad at Bruce because he couldn't be a decent father (for them at least) and they say mean things to him and expressing their hate and Bruce is barely holding back his tears before swallowing. Then dick not being able to take it anymore got Carried away and punched Bruce while Bruce is there just accepting it.

The kids are too angry to even feel bad btw

Them heading out and exiting the manor, Bruce breathing harshly before collapsing in to a sobbing mess once they were gone.

———

A week passed, the kids avoiding Bruce and not meeting him except on patrol and that was also scarce. Then them getting called into an all hands on deck justice League mission

The mission were as usual - high-stakes action, life-threatening danger. Batman saw an alien aiming for Nightwing and did not even think before jumping in front of his son. Just as Bruce took the hit that pierced through his abdomen, they were hit by a spell zattana casted and was sent to the manor, but something was different. the place was cleaner and far more cold and Lifeless than any of them remembered.

they were barely able to think about that as they heard Bruce cough and the blood pooling beneath him, Bruce curling and trying to make himself smaller because he didn't want to upset his kids and make them hate him even more

Them hearing a clatter of a tray falling to the ground and seeing a man that's unmistakably alfred, far younger then they had ever seen him. Hair still without an ounce of white and hands steady without tremors.

In the moment they froze, a deep voice broke through, a middle aged man with a moustache was standing by the grand staircase, brows furrowed, he looked exactly like Bruce yet different, him asking with a booming voice

"who in the hell are you?"

The kids recognized him from the potraits on the manors hallway as Thomas Wayne, Bruce's father.

Ps: Thomas here is cold and stern btw :3

Thomas feeling anger and confusion as these strangers showed up in his house but deciding to push it back for now and focus on stabilizing Bruce, his voice Stern and cold with the precision of the surgeon he is

(He was a tad bit abusive and neglectful as a parent so he was mad at Bruce instinctively)

( i feel like the younger Bruce in here is still about 6 years old)

Them moving Bruce to a guest room and suddenly the sound of small footsteps could be heard, a young boy peeked his head outside the door, it was none other than Bruce himself, tho the kids didn't have time to look at him longer as Thomas snapped at the boy,

"what the hell are you doing here?! Scram before I make you, don't you know not to disturb when I'm busy?"

Little Bruce flinched hard as he apologized repeatedly and was pulled away by a woman who looked like martha, the woman chiding Thomas for his harsh words, saying they were un needed, Thomas just huffed and continued working on older Bruce.

The kids eyes widening as they saw what had just happened before them, the picture perfect image of Thomas Wayne as a loving and kind parent shattering right before their eyes

🧍‍♀️

Lemme know in the comments if you guys want a part 2👉👈

(Also I know I'm not creative since it's always Bruce had a fight with his kids then something bad happens but there's just too many ways to hurt him and idk why I really like hurt bruce..)

[backwardshatnick]

in which they never define what they have in high school, but they were confusingly happy.

Her thumb tapped repeatedly over the black ballpoint pen, the click sound resonating throughout her bedroom which almost drove her crazy when it echoed. Laid out in front of Bloom's eyes was her journal, a stretch of words written– no, scribbled in cursives only comprehensible to her as she continued to decode what was it that she had with Matt.

The scent of the lavender candle that she had lit continued to waft in the air, the gentle crackle of the fire slowly, but surely calming her nerves down as she tried to reread what she had already written down.

He’s not my boyfriend. We don’t even talk about stuff like that. But he sits next to me every Tuesday at the bleachers when his coach tells his team to hit the showers early. He ties my shoelaces when I’m carrying too many books. He notices the different shades of red when I wear a new flavour of Chapstick. And he gets weirdly quiet when I compliment his stupid middle-parted hair. His stupid, middle-parted, fluffy and soft hair. It’s like… we orbit each other. I think maybe he’s the only person who really sees me, but he also disappears sometimes. I don’t know what we are but I keep waiting for the moment we’ll look at each other and just know that we're definitely not strangers, but instead something else.

Her phone subtly lit up when a Snapchat notification popped up, the screen showing the time: 02:19. It was not a a school night, so Bloom was definitely not surprised that her best friend was still up during her late-night journalling session. Clicking on it, Stella had sent a photo of her watching Shrek, with the caption "donkaë".

She laughed at the caption, her humour clearly broken, as she typed out a response, Stella's Bitmoji now floating at the corner of her phone.

stella, do u think that when i save ur texts and snaps on here that it means smth a lot more?

whats with the deep question r u ok bloom this is about matt isnt it im getting my earbuds hold on a sec n we can def talk

"It's about the Matt thing again, right?" Stella said, her face only lit up by the blue glow of her phone.

Bloom slid further into her chair, blowing out the loose strands of her hair, "It's not a thing."

She rolled her eyes before giving Bloom a knowing look, "Girl, he's the reason why you started buying and wearing more cherry-flavoured Chapstick. You know you've always liked the vanilla and coconut ones."

"Well, maybe I'm just evolving. Nothing's ever wrong with that, right?" Bloom laughed.

"Ugh, whatever you say then," Stella answered, her tone stretching out and teasing before panning her phone's camera to her laptop screen, "Want to watch the rest of Shrek with me?"

"I can never say no to my favourite short king."

Like parallel lines, Matt was also not asleep. Instead, he was inside of his car at an empty car park of a 24-hour Burger King with his brothers, Nick and Chris.

The cool air accompanied them as it blew onto their faces and in between bites of day-old chicken nuggets and slurps of ice-cold root beer, Matt finally voiced out.

"We're never a thing, you guys know that, right?"

"Sure, keep on lying to yourself, Pinocchio. Hand me some more fries, please?" Chris asked, hand held out to the seat behind where Nick was sat.

"I don't know what it is that you guys have, but thing or not, you literally made her a bookmark using mum's flowers from the backyard. Told everyone you pulled out the roses as a joke, but that doesn't sound like a joke to me..." Nick chimed in, his voice trailing as he gave his younger brother a side-eye.

Matt sat the paper cup back down to the console box and groaned, "She doesn't like me like that!"

"You're such a fucking buzzkill."

"And a pussy too at that," Chris added to Nick's remark.

"Because I know she's going to another state for college and I'm not brave enough to ask her to stay," Matt uttered, his forehead now resting on the steering wheel, "Or wait. Or choose me."

"So we just exist and not talk about it. And I'm just taking whatever I can get while we're still happy."

Everyone thought Matt was the funny and confident golden boy of their team. Always down for parties and always the first one to charm a girl into cheering for their team. But they never paid attention to the small, subtle ways he had used to guard himself. The way that he would fight back the urge to argue when someone makes fun of the "nerds of the Geography club", the way he would constantly check his phone at practice, or the way he would try his best to hide the smile by biting the inside of his cheeks when someone makes a joke about 'blooming' flowers.

Or even the way he would dip out of the post-practice hangouts at the diner earlier than the rest.

Until one day, a friend of his saw Matt pack his bags carelessly, his sneakers just thrown blindly in the drawstring bag as he continued to crumple his jersey into the backpack.

"What's with the rush, Sturniolo? Got a secret, impatient girlfriend that we don't know about?"

His heart beat rapidly against his ribcage, threatening to jump out but Matt simply responded with a grin that was too fast, "What? Pfft, nah. Got a lot of homework to do at the library. Mrs. Clarence's already grilling my ass about it."

Matt was not fully lying, and while he did have a free period with Bloom waiting inside of the chilly library, he never told anyone that he had left in his car to quickly fetch her favourite snacks during study time, listening to their co-curated playlist as his head bobbed to the beat of the song.

But his mind was not fully committed to keeping the rhythm as a thousand and one thoughts circled his head, starting off fully onto the party that their midfielder is hosting to celebrate their first victory against a neighbouring school. Matt had decided against coming, adding on further to the suspicions of his friend when the reason he gave was to finally have a proper night's sleep after weeks of constant training at the field.

"She wouldn't fit in with my friends," Matt mumbled under his breath, despite being alone in the car with the music now long forgotten.

"Not because she's not cool, but because she's Bloom. She's too cool for them. The Bloom I know won't laugh at Spencer's awful drinking games, nor would she appreciate the dumb lacrosse party rituals we have after every win. She'd probably just subtly cuss them out and leave without anybody noticing."

"But then what? They'll all know just how much I like her if I disappeared after. She's her enough that it makes me feel safe to stop faking it. I want her in my world. But I just... don't know if my world even deserves her presence."

His train of thoughts finally came to a halt when his car similarly stopped upon the red light. Matt inhaled deeply and let it linger in his chest until he felt ready to let it go.

"Nick and Chris were right, I am just a fucking buzzkill and a pussy."

notes: middle part matt you will always have a special place in my heart 💞💞💞💞 edited this on my phone so apollocheese if it looks weird..... the grudge i have against the mobile tumblr app is really smth else.

masterlist for this au can be found here :)

gif credits to @mattsturnioloarchive <3

ꫂ❁ @oopsiedaisydeer @bbgirlmatt @courta13 @mattspillowprincess @loverboysturn

[lexdelioncourt]

I have 2 fears regarding Devil's Minion

- that they would focus less on past DM and more on present DM (there have been a lot of hints with Eric and Assad, but almost nothing w Assad and Luke)

- that they would focus more on the toxic aspect (re Rolin's comments that it will be majorly fucked up) rather than the domestic part

But I love love love your hopeposting, its so refreshing

Hey! I'm so glad you enjoy my hopeposting! Don't get me wrong, I have my fears too (these two own my ass) but I'm always trying to remember things that we know, while trying to tap into as much media analysis as possible in order to keep the hope alive. So let's inject some hope, shall we?

Personally I believe there are too many things that have been teased in S1/2 that don't really make sense to me if past-DM didn't happen. The main and most obvious one to me being the weirdly soft moments Armand has with Daniel (stopping Louis from messing with him, comforting Daniel when Louis brings up the Alice thing, apologising on behalf of Louis after he did that, the soft conversation at the beginning of Episode 2.3, the long companionable silences that are emphasised by repeated shots of Daniel's audio recording program). This is not the way someone would behave towards a total stranger they met once 50 years ago, tortured for a week, and then never saw again until now. SOMETHING has changed in this relationship between 1973 and 2022. Before and after having fallen in love?? Hopefully!

I also think that these softer moments hint to us that we will hopefully see their relationship as equal parts messy and soft (like we've seen with Loustat), because the writers are doing a great job of giving us some well-rounded characters and complex ships and I hope that they will continue to do so. Rolin's comment about something "majorly fucked up" between them could go any way I think. I mean it's majorly fucked up if Armand did wipe all of Daniel's memories! Chasing him around the world is also pretty fucked up! A lot of stuff they do is fucked up! But they have those soft moments too, soft moments I think show Armand is still having in those scenes I mentioned above. Also, it's always key to remember that showrunners talk shit all the time to keep from spoiling their shows. He's going to be trolling and redirecting and trying to keep a lid on things as much as possible so I don't think we should worry too much on that front.

On the Alice thing, I'm not gonna beat a dead horse, we all know the theories but I think the key takeaways are

The "she felt freer to hold her hand" line (because there has been throughout the entire show a repeating refrain of "European sensibilities", "they care less about what you look like or who you're looking at").

2. The very intentional editing of that scene ("what did she *flashback of Armand* say when you asked her to marry you *shot of Armand*". I think this is a VERY intentional editing choice. This isn't subtext, this is just THE TEXT.

Also the fact that the show has kept the past timeline the same as the book timeline (OG interview in 1973) and mentioned the failed proposal as happening in 1985 (the year Daniel is turned in the books) also gives me hope that essentially the show is going to do a book canon divergence thing where, instead of young Daniel's turning, we get the breakup/mindwipe thing and we see an alternate universe where Daniel lives his full life.

Finally, purely from a storytelling point of view, I think objectively the only completely satisfying way to show Daniel and Armand's relationship is if past-DM happened. I make it no secret that I am a romance girlie (in fact I am writing my PhD dissertation on a niche subgenre of popular romance), and I have posted before about how the Devil's Minion chapter meets all the genre requirements for a romance. The second chance romance trope (for those who don't know) is a super fun trope in which a pair of exes finally get their second shot at a happily ever after. This trope often involves older protagonists purely because of the whole second chance thing. The show version of Devil's Minion TO ME has all the hallmarks of a second-chance romance and I will shout about it unapologetically!! Also speaking of tropes, never forget that the amnesia plotline is an EXTREMELY popular telenovela trope.

I'm not gonna get to into all the reasons why I think past-DM happened (because there's plenty of posts and analyses out there and you didn't even ask for that lol). But I do think the main reason we've seen a lot of Eric/Assad and not really a whole lot of Luke/Assad is because Luke is a walking, living, breathing spoiler. While we are all choosing to believe past-DM happened it still isn't show confirmed and if they start parading Luke around too much, then that's basically confirmation that they're doing past-DM because why the fuck else would they pay to drag him back if they weren't?

I also think they'd be crazy to not keep utilising him, because he is so incredible (also, the more I think about it the more I think that the very idea of setting this as a second interview and showing young Daniel at all leads me to believe in past-DM, simply because showing the young/old Daniel dichotomy probably wasn't even 100% necessary to the broader storyline if past-DM didn't happen).

I'm so sorry, this reply totally got away from me haha. But I hope it made sense and injected some hope!

[lucianachen]

Chapter 1 - What the Hades....

???? POV:

*We did it...

We created life, life from just a few particles in Deepspace, life from a few particles found in protocores known to be both toxic and poisonous to anyone with even an ounce of contact with human skin...

But we did it, WE created *her* Asphodel X03...

Our greatest creation yet, just like what we did with Maia X01.

She will be our ascension to immortality, she will be what this world needs to achieve the impossible. It's just a matter of time...*

Asphodel POV:

My head.... What the....

Where am I? What is this place?

I continued to look at my surroundings, wondering why I have this blistering headache and why in Hades' name can I not remember anything?

Wait

.

.

.

.

.

Hades? Who was that? Why did a random name just pop in my head?.... Nvm, what's important is to process my surroundings better so I can get the hell out of here.

But... Hold up, something isn't right.

Why can't I remember anything? Why is the only memory in my mind a place of darkness and suddenly being thrust into the light?

"Doctor, she's awake" wait she? Are they talking about me? I look to the side of the room to see a large window with people on the other side in white lab coats taking down notes.

"E-excuse me?" My voice came out rather hoarse, as if I've been screaming for the past hour. "W-where am I?" I asked, "hmmm, note it down. Awoken after a few hours of rigorous testing both in organs and skin. It seems her body is adapting quickly from all the chemicals injected in her body and not only that but she's regenerating rather quickly unlike the other two."

What.

Testing?

Chemicals?

Regeneration?

What the hell are they doing to me? I stared at them in both shock and horror wondering what they were doing to my body, mind you my body, from what I can see, is the body of the child. Are they sick or something? Doing experiments like that to a child? A child who just woke up not even a few minutes ago?

.

.

.

.

.

A week has passed, how do I know that? Beats me, I know a lot of things that even I can't explain. But they continue to do these tests on my body, seemingly hoping to find more answers to whatever it is they're finding.

Somehow after a week, they let me go. Some guards are escorting me to a room from the back of the facility, some of the scientists who experimented on me told me I would meet the others who're just like me.

And now here we are... After opening the door, the guard just threw me into the room with no regards whatsoever for my health btw and shut the door from behind. I look across the room to find not only one but two other kids like me, a boy and a girl.

The boy, who looked at me with wariness in his eyes, feels familiar to me somehow. Like I've seen him before. The girl on the other hand is looking at me with curiosity, both so familiar to me but I can't just place where I've seen them before in my head.

"Uh... Hello?" Finally saying something to them, I nervously greeted them with a wave of my hand. "Who are you?" The boy asked, holding his hand out in front of the girl seemingly protecting her from my presence and glaring at me as if I was the one hurting them in the first place (which I get, I mean scientist experimenting on you suddenly brought in another child to your room without explanation? I would be wary too but jeez turn the glare down to a minimum would ya?)

"Um, I'm Asphodel X03? That's what they call me anyway" I shrugged, I didn't know how I was so nonchalant with everything that's been happening tbh, all I know is that when I woke up during my first day here, they continued experimenting on me and somehow I can't feel even an ounce of pain from all the cutting and stabbing they did, all I felt was a itch in my skin that never seems to go away.

"A-are you just like us?" The girl asked stepping around the boy's hand without an ounce of fear. The boy watched as the girl went around his hand staring at her shock, as if to say that she should be more wary of strangers. "I guess so? I mean yeah, they did experiment on me more times than I can count." I replied to her shrugging, the boy stared at me in shock.

"Y-you! You can't just say something like that like it's nothing!" The boy shouted ( Jeez calling him "the boy" is getting old ) "What's wrong with what I said? Is it not the truth?" Ok maybe I'm being arrogant here, but you would too if you've experienced what I've experienced so far, being experimented on but feeling nothing more than an itch that you can't ignore.

"It is! But still you can't say something like that so blunty!" He shouted again, his eyes darting from me to the girl beside him, like it's telling me to think and look at her expression. Which I did, and oh boy.... Her face looked so pale, her eyes terrified. "Oh."

"Yeah 'Oh'" he rolled his eyes at me, bringing the girl closer to him to comfort her. Now I feel bad, "Hey, I'm sorry.... I didn't know that this would be your reaction...." I moved closer to the two, looking at the girl with apologetic eyes conveying my apologies to her. The boy on the other hand.... Looked at me skeptically.

"Look I'm really sorry" I looked at both of them. "I-its fine" the girl finally spoke up after a few seconds. "I'm X01, I think that's what they call me..." She said, her face is laced with confusion as if somehow forgetting her name every time, "tsk..." The boy looked at me still skeptical "02..." She said, tugging on the boy's sleeves and looking at him with eyes so doe like, you could've mistaken it for an animal's eyes.

"I'm Caleb X02... But they don't call me that here, it's just 02 I guess." He looked to the side after introducing himself... That's weird, why does that name seem so familiar? Where have I heard that before? "Agh..." Suddenly, as if electrocuted by a lightning bolt ( SIDE NOTE: future Asphodel here everyone! Seeing as how I remember my memories from the past life, this line was quite ironic seeing as how who my friends were. Alright back to the story! ) I started convulsing and dropped to the floor. The two in front of me suddenly panicked, while the girl wanted to come close to me, the other one wouldn't let her afraid that maybe she would be affected by the sudden electric current radiating from my body.

Then two guards emerged from the closed door taking the two in front of me by surprise, "You're now situated with each other, now let's go. They're waiting for you" one of the guards suddenly grabbed my forearm tightly, dragging me to the close door while I continued heaving after getting electrocuted so suddenly.

While the guards were dragging me through the door, I looked at the two still inside the room seeing them both so afraid of the guards just barging in and taking me away.

.

.

.

.

.

.

That happened around a week ago, now I've been a constant presence to both X01 and X02 inside the room, they even started trusting me once I figured out I could heal their injuries from the experiments those Dam ( future Asphodel: get it? Dam?.... Ok I'll stop ) scientists did to all of us. Though for some unfortunate reason, I can't seem to heal myself but I can heal others just fine.

"Jiě jie are you ok?" I looked up startled as I heard X01 call out to me. "Oh, I'm fine just thinking about something" I replied to her.

"You don't look fine" someone from behind me said, I looked back to see X02 standing behind me with his newly bandaged arms crossed and looking at me with narrowed eyes. "I'm fine X02, just thinking about my healing powers again." I looked at my arms as I said that.

X02 sighed "you know you don't have to heal me right? I know it takes a lot of your energy to just heal one of us, let alone two people." He shook his head, arms uncrossing and putting them to his hips.

"Yeah Jiě jie, Gege's right. You don't have to heal both of us." X01 said, looking at me with those soft doe eyes. If she keeps looking at me like that I won't be able to stop myself from pinching her cheeks. Why does she have to be so cute.

"You know I don't want to stop healing you guys, besides... They do more damage to both of you than they do to me." I look down onto my lap, thinking about the times wherein X02 comes back with open wounds on his arms and scars on his back and us watching how they tortured and killed X01 more times than I can count.

*WARNING*

*WARNING*

*WARNING*

*WARNING*

*WARNING*

Suddenly, alarms start blaring out the facility, issuing a warning never have I heard before ever since I got to this place.

"What's happening?" X01 looks afraid, clinging onto my arm tightly. "I don't know" I replied back, this hasn't happened before. Why are there suddenly alarms blaring out a warning? What's going on?

"Both of you stay here" X02 looked at the door with suspicion.

Wait, where was he going? I thought to myself as I saw him walking towards the door slowly. "X02" I called out to him "where are you going?" I stretch my arm out to catch the ends of his shirt holding him back from going towards the door.

"I'm going to check what's going on out there" he replied taking my hand out of his shirt and walking to the door, but then it opened.

All three of us froze, but once we saw who the figure was X01 relaxed slightly. There in the door, was one of the scientists tasked to experiment on all three of us, especially X01.

If I remember correctly, her name was Josephine. She looks disheveled. Like something dangerous was happening and for some reason I could feel a sense of death outside the room.

"We have to get out of here X02 grabbed X03 and lets go" she said stalking towards both X01 and I who stood up a few minutes ago, and grabbed the girl from behind me and pulled her towards the door looking at X02 and then at me.

"W-wait" X01 looked up at her then to X02 and me and said "What's going on? Where are we going?"

"There's no time to waste, come on you three." Josephine said, still tugging X01s hand to get through the door. X02, sensing that something was amiss, grabbed my hand and followed the two of them outside. Once through the door, all I could see was a sea of red light, the siren blaring out warnings so loud that caused my ears to hurt.

All three of us continue to follow Josephine through the corridor and after a few twists and turns we finally see a door just up a head.

But unfortunately, things don't always go according to plan.

A sudden explosion from behind us led to us being separated, my hands slipped from X02s grip and I was thrown back to a wall while I heard both X01 and X02 screaming for me.

I can tell my head was bleeding from the impact that explosion caused, and my ears were still ringing from it.

But a sudden warmth spread through me, I could feel hands start to carry me from where I laid and brought me through the door. With my eyes still blurry from the impact and explosion, I could see a blueish - silvery mask of the stranger who saved me.

Seemingly sensing someone staring up at him, he looked down at the girl in his arms and brought a hand out to her eyes "sleep, you're safe now."

With that reassurance, I was out like a light.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

When I came to, I saw two familiar faces up close, one more closer than the other. Which surprisingly, isn't X01. "Wha-"

"Jiě jie!"

"X03!"

They both exclaimed at the same time. "Jeez, tone it done a little would ya? My head's killing me" I said as I clutched my throbbing head. "Of course your head would hurt dumbass, you have a wound on it. If it weren't for me you would've died from the amount of blood you've lost!" X02 exclaimed while helping me up from my position. From this angle I could see both of them more clearly than before.

X01s eyes were red, which I guess comes from all the crying, while X02 is glaring at my head as if it offended me to a serious degree. "Wait... Where's that woman?" I questioned, now realizing that it was just the three of us here in this run down building.

"She went to find supplies for all of us" X01 replied, sensing my confusion.

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A few days have passed with Josephine having come back from finding those supplies, we ventured away from the building we've stayed in for the past 3 days. At least that's what they told me seeing as how I was unconscious for 2 of those days.

Then, we found a shelter with other victims of the catastrophe that happened a few days ago, Josephine decided to let us stay here for a few days, that is until she finds us a permanent place to live in.

The days felt like a routine, waking up, eating, cleaning ourselves, contemplating what to do next, and then sleeping again. It just keeps repeating for almost a week, until Josephine finally found a place for us at Whitesand Bay.

(A/N: Yes I know that's where Rafayel lives in but, bear with me for a second, I don't actually know where Mc and Caleb lived in before the main story started, and it's been a long time since I've read the earlier chapters of the game so excuse me guys if any information stated in this chapter feels so fanon coded, when really I've just been relying on the information I still have stuck in my head. Could I have just read the story again? Yes. But it's time consuming and I don't have a lot of time for it with my Research and school projects coming along as well. So I'm very sorry if there's any misinformation in here, but I would be so grateful to people who decide to comment on things that I've gotten wrong and to correct me for them. Now let's go back to the story.)

It was a two story house with 5 bedrooms in it, 3 upstairs and 2 downstairs. Josephine told us to take the upstairs bedroom while she stays on the first floor. After we settled ourselves in, she told us to come to the living so we could talk about what to do from now on.

"Since we're now living together, why don't the three of you decide on a name?" The three of us looked at each other with weariness in our eyes, X01 being less weary than us but still weary nonetheless. I didn't trust to say the least, she might've saved us from whatever it is that happened back there, but that doesn't erase the fact that she was one of the people who partook in the experiments those scientist did to us.

"M-mira" both X02 and I look at X01, well I guess Mira now, in surprised. Then we looked at each other and sighed in resignation. "Caleb..." X02, now Caleb said after a few minutes of silence. Then I quickly followed with "Asphodel"

Josephine smiled, as if quite pleased with the names both Caleb and I chose. "Alright then, hello Mira, Caleb, and Asphodel. I'll be taking care of the three of you from now on. You three can call me grandma." She smiled, portraying a sense of comfort I didn't know if I could trust, but for now I'm letting my guard down.

We aren't in that place anymore, it's time for a new beginning. One filled with happiness, laughter and maybe perhaps love.

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???? P.O.V

Your journey is just beginning Asphodel Chen. Just wait and see.

We'll be waiting for you up here, see you soon Pretty Girl.

Word count: 2.8k

A/n : so here's chapter 1, finally posted after a half month hiatus from me. Sorry about that Guys, it's just been so busy with school and at home lately that I haven't gotten the time to finish chapter 1 a few weeks ago. But here it is! The finished product, if there are any spelling or grammar mistakes in here, please forgive me. I'm running on a cup of coffee with about 4 hours of sleep last night so I might've been out of it when I made this chapter. But nonetheless it's finished and finally posted! Thank you guys for being so patient and I hope you enjoy this chapter, as much as I enjoyed writing it. See you all on the next one!

Taglist: @leftpoetrymoon @animelover18 @animegamerfox @jolixtreesunn

[moonlight-yelena]

wrong number | y.b.

yelena belova x reader | 0.6k

Warnings: mentions of cheating (reader's past relationship}

any and all feedback, comments, reblogs etc are very appreciated and welcome <3

It had been a few months since you found out your now ex partner had been cheating on you, and with your best friend of all people. The two of you had been in a serious long term relationship and for it to end the way it did, it broke you. Though after months of crying and your insecurities eating at you, along with bursts of anger, you felt like you were beginning to be in a better place both mentally and emotionally.

Today was your birthday, you woke up feeling the best you had in a while. A genuine smile danced across your face at the thought of seeing your friends, you hadn’t seen them in a while. While you were getting ready to meet your friends for lunch at your favourite restaurant you heard a knock on your door.

Being you, you had a mess surrounding you so it took a few minutes before you were able to answer the door. To your confusion there was no one there, just a plain box with a small ‘happy birthday’ handwritten in the corner. You picked up the box and brought it inside you instantly opened it, to which you immediately regretted doing so. Your ex had very kindly decided to hand deliver the rest of your things that was left at their place.

You weren’t going to call your ex. You weren’t going to make a big deal about how your ex knew it was your birthday and still decided remind you of all the hurt and pain you went through. But seeing items that you knew weren’t yours and belonged your best friend is what let the anger and impulsiveness out and drive you to pick up your phone and dial your exes number. Though you had to type it in seeing as you deleted the number.

'Hello-’

'Don’t just 'hello’ me, I think you know why I’m calling. I can’t believe you would do this, on my birthday. Though you probably don’t care anyway. You probably just thought it would be funny, a joke to give me their things amongst mine. Stay away from me, if I ever see you again…know it won’t be pretty,’ You let out a shaky breath, your anger wearing away. You go to hang up not wanting to hear what your ex had to say, but when the voice on the other end started talking and it wasn’t your exes you started to panic.

'That’s no way to say hello, especially to someone you’ve never met,’ You couldn’t miss the thick Russian accent that boomed through the phone.

'What?’ You whispered quietly pulling the phone away from your ear to check the number you dialled. Just as you thought, you typed one number wrong and now you just yelled at a complete stranger. For all you know they could be some assassin.

’…and you?’ You were lost in your thoughts you completely missed what the other person had said.

'Look I’m sorry,’ You took a breath before continuing, ’I wanted to leave one last message for my ex to tell them to fuck off but oops wrong number, didn’t mean to yell at you instead,’ You let out a shaky laugh to try and lighten the mood.

'I can make sure your ex never bothers you ever again. I can take care of them,’ Your eyes widened and you coughed slightly choking on the sudden air intake.

'What do you mean?’ You whispered out, automatically thinking this stranger means she could get rid of your ex for good.

'Wouldn’t you like to know,’ The confidence from the stranger could definitely be heard, and being honest she intimidated you just from a few words spoken to you.

'I-,’ You were stunned, trying to speak but you couldn’t form the words. On the other end you heard her laugh lowly at your reaction.

'Save my number, I think you’ll definitely hear from me again soon,’

'I don’t even know who you are’

'Let’s just say I’m your new best friend,’

[sydwritess]

The Life of Racing Pt. 2

Lando Norris x fem!reader

Summary: through it all, the racing, the media, the meetings. What matters to Lando the most is you. His home life is just as important as track life. Some days, he doesn't balance it easily. But through it all, the both of you try. Going through some challenges, but always coming out together, hand in hand again.

Second Person POV

Notes: my first F1 series! Requests are open!

01 02 03 04 05 06 07 08

You woke up early to your alarm. You pick your phone to turn it off. You look at the time 5:30 a.m.

You get up slowly, the sun slowly rising. You go over to your suitcase which was in the corner of the room, getting a pair of clothes out for today.

You turn back around to walk to the bathroom, only to find Lando in your bed. You quickly rush over to him, shaking him awake.

"Lando! You need to leave."

"What? Why?"

"You need to go, you didn't wake up early like you said!" You say, pulling the covers off of him.

"So?"

"So you could get caught leaving my god damn room."

"So I could just say we were talking about work." He said, smirking and standing up.

"At 5:30? In your clothes from yesterday? Seriously?"

"What? I do have multiple shirts you know. I could say I have extras."

"Go, now. I'll just- see you at work." You say, walking into the bathroom and changing.

"Jeez, you act like you have a secret boyfriend or something." He said through the door.

You open the door slightly, brushing out your hair. "Not funny."

"It's a little bit funny." He said, stepping closer to you.

"Not. Funny."

"Relax, you're too... high strung." He said calmly wrapping his arms around your waist.

"And what are you going to do when you get fired? Get hired by Nascar?"

"I could." He shrugged.

"Cute."

"I know I am." He says, smiling sweetly.

You continue doing your hair. Lando still clinging on to you like your going to fall off the face of the earth. You make your way out into the kitchen area, grabbing water and some food today, packing your work bag to leave.

"You should seriously leave." You say.

He sighs deeply. "I know, I know." He says, going over to the door and getting his shoes on.

"I'll see you at work." You say. He walks over to you, pulling you into a big hug.

"I'll see you there." He says quietly. You can't help but giggle at him.

He pulls away from the hug, walking over to the door and quickly leaving.

You finish packing the last of your things, giving Lando time to get down the hallway at least. You walk over to the door, putting your shoes on, grabbing your keys and heading out of your room.

You walk down the hallway, stopping in front of the elevators in the middle. You quickly go on your phone, going through notifications as you click the button on the elevator. It slowly rises down to your floor and opens.

You walk in, still on your phone, you go to press the lobby button but noticed it's already lit.

"Morning stranger." A deep voice says. You turn your head to see Lando and Oscar standing there.

"Morning." You say.

"Late night, early morning?" Lando asks. You look at him confused. Really, confused.

"What?" You genuinely ask confused.

"Are you two okay?" Oscar asks, looking between you and him.

"Yeah, well I'm just asking a question. We do work together right?" Lando says.

"Right." Oscar says slowly.

"Well, I see your fashion sense has changed." You say, looking at Lando's clothes. He has on a matching leather jacket with pants.

"What does that mean?"

"Oh you know. Better from what you were wearing yesterday? Actually, who helped pick that out for you?" You ask, playing his game.

"I-"

"Well whoever it is, they have good fashion taste." You say. The elevator finally comes to a stop.

"Who ever she is must be one lucky lady." You say, smirking as you walk out of the elevator.

You walk through the lobby. There were only few people in there. You walk outside, the sky painted many warm colors.

You open he car door, throwing your bag in the backseat.

"Fancy car mate." Lando said, walking up next to you.

"Better then your Porsche 911?" You ask.

"Hmm. That need's some thought." He said, putting his hand to his chin.

"What is this?" He asks.

"BMW M5, 2023." You say.

"Wow, you know your stuff."

"What can I say?"

"You know- we should ride with you." Lando says loudly.

"What?" Oscar asks, closing his car door.

"What are you doing?" You whsiper.

"Well, we're all going to the same place."

"I leave later then you."

"It's okay."

"No- no."

"Yeah, watch it's fine." he says calmly.

"No-"

"Osc, were going with y/n today!" Lando shouts, walking over to the passenger side.

"Uhm- okay." Oscar says, getting his things and walking over slowly.

You get in the car as Lando stands on the passenger side, waiting for Oscar.

"Wipe your feet off." You say, Oscar does before he get's in the car. Lando starts to wipe his on the inside mat

"On the outside not the inside!"

"Oops sorry." He said. You roll your eyes.

"I feel like Oscar should be in the front. He always get's left behind." You say.

"Thanks y/n. At least someone appreciates the well being of a human." Oscar says.

You start the car, and slowly back out of the parking lot.

"That was clean." Lando says.

"What?"

"The engine. Sounds good."

"Okay, you sound like a total weirdo." Oscar says, leaning forwards.

You continue to drive through downtown, the traffic seemingly getting heavier. You drive over Pont De La Concorde bridge, slowly coming to a stop due to traffic.

"Wouldn't it be cool if a shark just jumped out of the water just now?" Lando asked. His voice cutting through the silence.

"Mate, are you high or something?" Oscar said.

"Just... having a good day." Lando smiled.

Oscar then turned his head towards you. You saw him through the rear view mirror. You looked at him through it and shrugged, focusing your eyes back on the road.

Traffic had started to lighten up, and you were moving slowly across the bridge again. You exited off the highway and pulled into the circuit. You went towards the other side, driving to the employee parking lot and parking the car.

All of you got out of the car, grabbing your bag's before walking down to the paddock past the many garages.

You made it to the McLaren garage, setting your stuff down at one of the desk.

You got your laptop and notebook out, copying down notes from last night and creating them into and article.

"Did you get those published yet?" Zak asks, walking up next to you.

"No, I just have a few more things to do." You say.

"Alright. Maybe try working on them on the plane ride tonight." He says.

"The plane ride?" You ask quietly.

"Yeah, to New York. For the Premier?"

"Oh right. Yeah I can do that."

"Okay, cause I really need these done."

"Yeah I know. I'm sorry." You say. He nods and walks away, back to where Lando and Oscar were sitting.

You turn your focus back to the computer, but not before meeting Lando's eyes.

You continue typing away for an hour straight, not lifting your eyes off of the screen. One article published after another.

You lean back in your chair, looking over the last paragraph you wrote when Zak had sat next to you. He logged into the computer and started reviewing some data sheets.

"I'm going for a quick walk." You say, standing up and grabbing your phone next to you.

"Alright. We have a team meeting in an hour. You don't have to come if you don't want to." He said.

"Okay, I'll be back." You say, walking out of the garage.

You walk down through the paddock, walking among the crowd. There were still media tents set up, and camera's everywhere, which you didn't expect for the last day.

You were coming to the end of the garages, media still going down the strip. There was little commotion going on in one spot. It was pretty loud throughout the paddock, but this was somewhat louder. You walk ahead through the crowd, seeing what was going on.

In the middle, you a little girl crying next to a camera man, he looked like he was trying to talk to her.

"Everything okay?" You ask. The man looks up at you quickly.

"I don't know, I- I found her crying here but she won't talk." He said nervously. You crouch down to her level, the guy stepped aside, letting you to her.

"Hey sweetie, are you okay?" You ask gently. She shakes her head.

"What's wrong? Are you lost?"

"I don't know where my mom is." She said, her voice shaking. You look back up at the guy, he looked at you and took the hint to leave.

"It's okay, we can find her. Do you mind telling me your name?"

"Adeline."

"That's a pretty name Adeline. Where did your mom go, do you remember?" You ask carefully.

"No. I don't- it's to loud." She cried. Your heart broke.

"Okay. It's okay. What does she look like?"

"Her hair is brown, and she's wearing a blue shirt, and black pants, and she has my backpack on her back." She said.

"Okay. Do you want to come with me? We can look for her." You say. She nodded and took your hand.

You walk through the crowd, walking along the garages to see if she was there. You walk up and down the strip, eventually walking back to the McLaren garage.

---------------------------------------

Lando's POV:

"Yeah, I don't know." Oscar said. Me and him were talking about this upcoming meeting in the garage.

"Are you going to the premier?" I ask.

"Yeah, flying right out..." Oscar said. He continued talking. I blocked him out.

I look over his shoulder to see Y/n come into the garage, a kid attached to her hip.

"What- Lando!" Oscar claps.

"What?"

"Did you hear anything?" He asked. I shook my head. He looks back at Y/n to.

"You like her don't you?" He asks.

"Shut up." I mumble.

"Did you know she has a kid?" He says, looking over at her again.

She looks panicked.

Stressed even.

"She doesn't"

"And how would you know?"

"Just a guess."

Hey loves! Pt. 2 is here! Comment to be added to the tag list! Requests are open!

Tag list:

@landofotographyy @latay7

@mimisweetz

[eta-volantis]

omg they are pushing Selena really strong romantically to the point you can't even opt out with dialogue options without it railroading you. It's just too early??! We, as Commandant, BARELY got to talk to her let along significantly spending time with her in the main content like MSQ and the EX and ER extra stories which lays a lot of groundwork for lore and continuation. Again, even Lucia doens't have this and it would have made sense in her case that they could be romantically involved in another timeline/dimension considering how deep and intimate their relationship is regardless of it being platonic or romantic to the player (and not intimate as in sexual, but just how close they are). The biggest problem as well is that Selena is insistant on it even though our Commandant doens't know her. They're strangers who have met like days ago as far as our Commandant is concerned. The fact that she's getting this treatment over Lucia, Liv, or literally any other women we've been constantly around and had some crazy adventures with is wild to me. Using another timeline as an excuse just feels lazy because it steps over the type of character development they're very good at previously. Hell, I'd believe Commandant has a thing for Vonnegut from their convo in Shaper's Ripples more than what's going on here atm and that is the first time the two had a proper chat with each other. At least there is complexity in their relationship that made it interesting.

I'll keep playing for now and come back with full thought of it after I'm done.

[amarathegreat]

Amara can't help but laugh. "I'll have to get business cards made that say, 'I helped track and tag great whites' in big typeface. Just hand them out..." Her amusement it clear, from her smile, to the sparkle in her eyes. She dies a little inside at the idea of starting a bunch of conversation with strangers that way, not usually one to like being the center of attention. Her expression becomes more thoughtful as Conrad talks. A sympathetic little frown surfaces when he mentions the breakup at thirteen. "Aw. It's so easy to get a broken heart at that age..." Her gaze stays on him as he continues, talking about the teens, and she can't help but smile again. "You know, you think I'm brave for the shark thing? I would be terrified in a room full of fourteen- fifteen-year-olds every day. I was nervous around teens when I was one, and I still don't feel like I'd be able to handle the drama and tension that comes with adolescence. Throw me to the sharks!" Her expression softens again, Amara quickly adding, "I bet they appreciate having a teacher like you they can talk with and feel safe around. I know those ones always stood out for me, too... The ones who saw the kids as just... people." There's an a-ha moment in her eyes as he mentions the planet thing. "Oh! I kind of remember that, actually! Mars, Jupiter, Saturn... Probably others..." Amara can't help but giggle. "I swear I'm not just naming planets now to sound like I know! Oh, wait... are Cupid and Eros counterparts, too? I have no idea which is which... No planet to rely on." @forrestxconrad

“It sounds amazing,” he says, aware that he must sound so repetitive but too stunned to formulate any better words. “I’d never stop talking about it if I’d done something like that. It would be the first thing I ever mentioned to anyone I ever met!” He chuckles as she talks about the sharks wanting to get away. “I can imagine!”

“Oh, absolutely,” he says with a nod. “I was the same when i was a kid. Swore I’d marry the girlfriend I had when I was thirteen, and then we broke up two weeks later.” He laughs. “I think I’m only really realising just how deeply teenagers feel things now I’m working with them. Before that, I think my Romeo and Juliet views would have been similar to yours — but half my lunch breaks are spent with students telling me about their dramas, and the play takes on a slightly different meaning then!”

He nods as she talks about her knowledge of Greek and Roman mythology. “That’s fair enough,” he says. “They both borrowed a lot from each other, anyway. Heracles and Hercules, Odysseus and Ulysses, Narcissus and Echo, Arachne… they all leant on each other a bit.” He shrugs. “If a planet was named after them, they were probably a Roman deity,” he adds with a small chuckle.”

[kennahjune]

ALRIGHT BUT

I’ve been having flustered Steve thoughts.

The Party has NEVER seen Steve flustered. Steve’s always the one flirting and no one ever flirts back anymore so Steve’s never actually flustered.

But then Eddie Munson comes slithering along and he flirts with everyone just cause he can but nobody’s flustered by his attempts because he’s not trying to actually fluster them.

But for some reason he really flusters Steve.

Eddie uses this to his advantage and actually puts forth effort when he flirts with Steve.

Steve is flustered, bashful, embarrassed. He’s twirling his hair and giggling and he does this thing where he taps his fingernails on his front teeth when he gets distracted.

The Party was NEVER seen Steve like this.

Not even Nancy when they were dating.

Steve has described what he was like when he was flustered to them, calling himself stupid and saying he acted like an idiot to try and get them to just lay off.

All anyone sees is an absolute sweetheart.

Steve blushes really bright, starting with his ears and it just travels down from there. And also he’s really bad at hiding his smiles and he smiles so BIG when Eddie flirts with him. Like you can see every tooth and his eyes crinkle so much they basically close and his nose scrunches up.

And Eddie fucking THRIVES in it.

Because NO ONE else gets Steve like that.

Eddie’s witnessed Steve flirting with the girls of Hawkins. Has seen them all flirt back with varying degrees of bluntness.

None of them have gotten Steve nearly half as flustered as Eddie has.

UNTIL.

Eddie has Steve come over to the trailer to hang out. Steve by some turn of events ends up cooking and making grilled cheese and tomato soup.

Wayne comes home right as Steve is playing everything and Steve is DISTRAUGHT. Like “no Wayne it’s alright, really. I can make you some to it’s ok I like cooking you’re really doing me a favor.”

So Steve makes Wayne a grilled cheese to and refuses to let Eddie eat until they can eat together.

So they’re all sitting and then they start eating. And obviously it was a damn good grilled cheese— Eddie knew Steve could cook but good GOD.

And then Wayne puts his grilled cheese down, looks between Steve and Eddie, and tells Eddie “If you don’t marry ‘im I’m adoptin ‘im.”

And Steve BEAMS.

It’s that same smile he gets when Eddie flirts with him and Eddie is only somewhat livid.

Cause he totally gets the rush of having Wayne compliment you for the first time. He’s just such an honest man.

And it goes from there that the only people who can fluster Steve are Eddie and Wayne (Eddie romantically and Wayne platonic-fatherly).

They both go out of their way to compliment him constantly just to see him smile like that :)))

Aaahhhhh this makes me so happy!!!!

[wavesoutbeingtossed]

I don’t love the TTPD shoot because I feel like it misrepresents the standard album. She lowkey told the story of a manic episode, and no part of the shoot showcased that.

You are certainly entitled to your preferences! Different strokes for different folks.

However, I don't personally agree. I also absolutely adore the photoshoot and think it represents the album beautifully.

The standard album encapsulates *everything* first of all, from the sorrow that led to the mania that led to the depressive episode after. The mania didn’t exist in a vacuum, and moreover, I suspect some of the ways in which it presented for her absolutely do show up in the mood conveyed.

The photoshoot to me absolutely *does* represent so many of the themes on the album. I'm not sure how you think a manic episode should be represented visually, but I think the larger themes of the standard album (as well as the album at large) are absolutely represented: loneliness, worry, depression, despair, grief, sex/sensuality, marriage, yearning, reflection, etc.

(all photos can be found here)

Here are some examples to me:

Emotional turmoil

I’m using this in a loose, broad term to denote feelings of unease, worry, restlessness, sleeplessness, depression, etc. that filter their way through so many of the songs.

To me, these photos are excellent examples of inner conflict and battling demons. She looks like she's tortured. She looks pained. She looks withdrawn and like she's withdrawing. Throughout it all, she looks incredibly vulnerable.

This is the person who sat in the dark and wondered if it's time, and is now finds her mornings stuck Mondays stuck in endless Februaries like the narrator in Fortnight. It's the who's thinking "once I fix me, he's gonna miss me" (that first photo in this set feels especially that to me) in My Boy Only Breaks His Favorite Toys. It's the person down bad crying in the gym or waking up in blood in Down Bad. It's the entirety of So Long London. It's the person abandoned in loml and left ashamed in The Manuscript. I could go on, but you get the point.

Sensuality/Sex

This is a huge theme on the entire album, very much so in the standard, because of the ways in which it is used to tell the story.

The way the lack of intimacy with one partner leads her to fantasize about a new lover in Guilty as Sin? — and the conflicted feelings that brings up. (Am I bad? Or mad? Or wise? Turns out all three.) The way she feels experimented on after being used for it then abandoned in Down Bad and Smallest Man and The Manuscript. The way she yearned for the connection she once had with her partner (including sexual intimacy) that is now dead and feels the weight of her wasted youth in So Long London. To me, these ALL are reflected in the standard album cover:

As Jaime I believe coined it, it’s giving “icky sex.” It’s sensual, but it’s also vulnerable and even pained.

These photos too also feel like they’re in that same wheelhouse: there’s an intimacy to them, but also an unease:

There’s also the way in which sex is seen as a tool for power, a way to keep men, but realizing it comes at great personal cost, which is seen in songs like I Can Fix Him and Fresh out the Slammer and Clara Bow and The Manuscript, and to me the set of photos this one is from is very much in that vein:

(beauty is a beast that roars…)

It’s sexy and seductive and vulnerable (we rarely saw Taylor in lingerie before this), but there’s also a deep undercurrent of unease and pensiveness. It’s “I'll show you heaven if you'll be an angel all night” and “you’ve got edge, she never did” and “he said that if the sex was half as good as the conversation was soon they’d be pushing strollers, but soon it was over” and “once your queen had come, you treat her like an also-ran” and so on.

Marriage/Commitment

This one is a little more... esoteric. I've actually written about this in the visuals before, both about the wedding dress imagery and the ring imagery.

I know there's no way of knowing for sure, and this is all a guessing game, but imo, the rings are deliberate and meaningful, because they feature so prominently in nearly all the visuals. Everyone knows what gold bands typically imply, and the fact that she switches hands to make sure they are noticeable across the board to me is no accident, and I don't think it's just to add visual interest to the composition, especially now that we know the events she's depicting on the album.

(Yes, I know there are some photos that show three or four rings, so I'm not saying this is a slam dunk. But I am saying it's noteworthy to me that many, if not most of the photos choose to mainly display bands on two fingers.)

So across the board, you see a pair of matching/complementary gold bands in the visuals in all the various settings. When she's lost in thought, when she's in bed, when she's fresh-faced in a sundress or donning a funerary black gown. And that's because the question of marriage looms all over TTPD. (Need more proof? Here is a collection of lyrics about marriage and children on the album.)

The rings are a pair, but they never land on the fingers they're meant to. It's the abandoned wife in Fortnight ready to give it all up. It's the tantalizing ring ready to be moved from the middle finger to the ring finger in little TTPD. It's being sacrificed at the altar after giving away her youth in So Long, London. It's the imaginary rings in the park in Fresh Out the Slammer. It's the shit-talking about rings and cradles in loml. It's the wondering if this is what's actually "holy" in GAS?. It's "he said he'd love me for all time/all his life" in I Can Do It With A Broken Heart. It's "soon they'd be pushing strollers, but soon it was over" in The Manuscript.

(I actually love the series of photos of her touching her throat with the rings on full display-- because they're very sensual, yes, but also to me there's an air of almost like, this is suffocating me, too.)

In brief, like in the album, it's symbolic of the unfulfilled promise of marriage or commitment, this thing she kept holding onto but never sliding into place.

And following that theme, this set also speaks very loudly to me:

Because yes, I know it's just a simple sundress. (Also, that last photo is one of my favourites.) But to me, it's also giving youth and innocence and yes, wedding. It's the girl from But Daddy I Love Him who's waiting to dance in the sun at the wedding you're not invited to, because her family finally loves Him. (And how this contrasts from the other white dress visuals I mentioned in the referenced post above.)

Which brings me to...

Grief

Grief is all over TTPD. Again, if you need a primer on loss in the album, here's a selection of lyrics. And this image, to me, is a stark contrast to the lightness and wistfulness of the white sundress photo:

Where the other look is youthful, light, breezy, this one to me denotes the passage of time-- which is one of the many things she mourns on the album. It's formal, it's grown-up, it's somber. It's the woman who waited for the sailor who never came home from sea, the woman who gave up her youth to the man who abandoned her at the house by the Heath in So Long, London. It's the woman who was supposed to be sent away but was left alone in Fortnight. It's the woman who's seen the field of dreams go up in fire and will grieve it until she dies in loml. It's the woman who finally understands what the agony she's felt since she was a girl was for in The Manuscript.

This one doesn't necessarily fit the theme, but I love it and she's dressed in black so I'm adding it here anyway:

it's kind of like the dark side of the white dress earlier, idk. (it's just an excuse to post it because it's one of my favourites.)

Rumination and retreat

I love love love the composition in this one, because it says so much to me:

Staring herself down in the mirror, it feels like she's confronting something. Herself, her demons, her intrusive thoughts, they're all staring right back at her. (It's actually kind of giving Anti-Hero and Midnights to me tbh.)

It's being stuck wondering about the neighbour in Fortnight. It's wondering if she's the guilty one in GAS?, but also wondering if she's allowed to cry. It's wondering if she's going to die in Down Bad. It's being barricaded in the bathroom with a bottle of wine in Florida!!! It's "is it a wonder I broke?" in Who's Afraid of Little Old Me.

It's staring yourself down and wondering if you can stand the person staring back. Which is aaaaaaaaall part of the entire album. And yes, to me, also includes the parts that drive you mad. Or manic, if you will. Because staring down all these things at once: grief for your wasted youth you won't get back, grief for your relationship that has imploded, grief over the very real life you've lost in multiple ways, coping mechanisms that are no longer available to you or working, cratering mental health dovetailing with conflicting messages about your desirability and worth and ability to love across all facets of your life, all while on the biggest stage of your life? It leads to a very internal struggle that ends up manifesting in a whole host of thoughts and behaviours. Again, I'm not sure what "manic" is supposed to look like in photos, but she certainly captured the events and the headspace that leads to it.

So, yes, I absolutely do think the key art matches the album. In fact, it may be one of the closest matches to do so. Add in the fact that everything is grey scale or sepia, and it perfectly encapsulates the story before she gets the colour back into her face in The Alchemy. TTPD is a deeply bare and at times barren album, one that cuts Taylor to her core, and the very sparse setting in decor highlights how this is just her. All her of her vices and her struggles and her pain and her dreams. And it's why it speaks to me so loudly.