#* You take the man out of the city not the city out the man for real!!! | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

smutmind · 2 days ago

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can u do twice nayeon for when it doesnt fit

When it Doesn't Fit ft. Nayeon

Idol X BBC

This was drafted a few weeks ago. Trying to write a little longer. Good thing someone also requested about Nayeon, so I guess this is the perfect time to post it.

The city didn’t stop for anyone—but it paused the second she hit him.

Nayeon had barely five days left in New York, and she was already out of patience. Her ice cream was melting down her wrist, Google Maps had rerouted her twice, and some asshole on a Citi Bike nearly took her out crossing 45th. She swore under her breath and dodged a group of drunk finance bros taking selfies in the middle of the sidewalk.

The moment she stepped off the curb into the crosswalk, her shoulder slammed into a solid wall of heat and muscle.

The impact sent her ice cream splattering onto her hand and her phone clattering to the pavement.

“Fucking hell,” she snapped in Korean, wiping the sticky trail off her wrist. “Watch where you’re—”

“Yo, maybe watch where you’re walking,” came the deep voice above her.

She looked up. The man stood at least a head taller than her, dark skin gleaming under the late-summer sun, shoulders broad enough to block traffic. He wore a sleeveless gray hoodie that clung to his sculpted chest, and his biceps flexed instinctively like he was ready to swing.

“I had the right of way,” she fired back, brushing her hair out of her face. “You were standing in the middle of the fucking sidewalk.”

He raised an eyebrow, lips curling. “Yeah, well, maybe don’t text and walk like a tourist with no GPS sense.”

“Maybe don’t loiter like the world owes you space,” she shot back.

They stared at each other, breathing hard from the jolt—neither backing down.

He looked her over. Not in the gross, lingering way she was used to in Times Square, but sharp, curious, a flick of his eyes from her legs to her lips. “Cute accent,” he said, like it was an insult.

She rolled her eyes. “Overgrown jock,” she muttered, bending to grab her phone.

“Say that again?” he said, stepping in close.

She didn’t move. “You heard me.”

A long beat passed. His gaze lingered on her mouth just long enough to make her pulse skip. Then he turned, muttering something she didn’t catch, and strode off without looking back.

She exhaled, hard, watching his back disappear into the crowd. Broad. Confident. Like he owned every inch of the sidewalk she’d just cursed him for blocking.

“Dick,” she muttered.

Still, her fingers itched. And not just from the ice cream.

The city should’ve let them go their separate ways. But fate—or something more fucked-up—had other plans.

Two nights later, Nayeon followed a borrowed invite to a Harlem rooftop party. Her friend Mina had met a DJ at a dumpling pop-up downtown who said the party would be “lit as hell.” She had nothing to lose, except sleep and maybe a little dignity.

The rooftop was bathed in string lights and sweat. The music pulsed low and heavy—afrobeats layered with deep bass. Someone passed her a plastic cup with something fruity and lethal. Nayeon sipped, scanned, and froze.

There he was.

Across the rooftop, laughing with some tall guy in a Lakers jersey, hoodie off, tank top soaked through. Same carved arms. Same effortless posture. Same infuriating face.

Jordan.

She didn’t know his name yet. But her stomach knew. It clenched on instinct.

He turned. Saw her. Smirked.

“Shit,” she muttered.

She tried to duck behind a group of girls vaping near the bar, but he was already moving. Casual. Confident.

“New York’s a small city after all,” he said, leaning an elbow on the folding table beside her. “You stalking me now?”

Nayeon scoffed. “Please. You wish I cared enough to remember you.”

His eyes dropped to her lips, then lower. “You definitely remembered the biceps.”

She refused to blush. “You’re just big. Doesn’t mean you’re interesting.”

“You looked interested when you stared after me the other day.”

She took a long sip of her drink. “That was disbelief. I didn’t know egos could walk upright.”

He laughed—low and real this time. “You got a mouth on you.”

“And you’ve got a face that deserves slapping.”

“That a threat or a kink?”

Her drink nearly came out her nose. “You are insufferable.”

Jordan leaned in slightly, voice dropping. “And you’re kinda hot when you’re mad.”

Nayeon blinked. Her heart did something inconvenient. His voice was smooth gravel—dangerous and warm, like whiskey poured too fast.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she said, and turned her back.

But the universe was committed now. The rooftop crowd thinned, and the music softened. She found herself at the railing, gazing out over the glowing sprawl of Uptown, half-drunk and just buzzed enough to feel bold.

Footsteps approached. She didn’t turn.

“I’m Jordan,” he said behind her.

She didn’t reply.

“Don’t worry. I won’t bite unless you ask.”

“You would be a biter.”

“Only when someone needs putting in their place.”

That made her turn. “Oh, so you’re a dom now?”

He grinned. “Only with brats.”

Her breath caught.

She hated how much her thighs clenched at that.

It was nearly 2 a.m. when they left. She wasn’t sure why she didn’t say no when he offered to walk her to the train. Or why she didn’t stop him when he stepped onto the platform with her. Or why, standing in the wet glow of a flickering overhead light, she reached out and touched his wrist.

“Come with me,” she said.

“No talking,” she added.

He didn’t ask questions.

Her Airbnb was a third-floor walk-up in Brooklyn with shitty locks and peeling paint. Rain had started again, the light mist clinging to their skin as they climbed the stairs. Inside, the air was thick and too warm, and the silence stretched between them like a snapped wire.

Nayeon turned to him, cheeks flushed, hair damp. “We don’t like each other,” she said, half a challenge, half a warning.

Jordan stepped forward. “Doesn’t mean I don’t want you.”

Their mouths collided.

It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t gentle.

It was teeth and tongue, her hands in his hoodie, his fingers at her waist, yanking her against his chest.

She moaned when his hands slid down and grabbed her ass. He lifted her like she weighed nothing and shoved her against the nearest wall. She wrapped her legs around his waist, grinding against the bulge already straining his shorts.

“I should hate this,” she gasped.

“You do,” he said, biting her lip. “So hate it harder.”

Her nails scraped his scalp. “Fuck.”

He carried her to the bed. Dropped her. Stripped off his hoodie.

And she finally saw him.

Broad. Ripped. Carved lines and sweat-slick skin. And when he pulled down his shorts—

“Oh my god,” she breathed.

Her eyes widened. He was huge. Thick, dark, veiny, heavy between his legs.

“Problem?” he asked, cocky but low.

She bit her lip. “You’re gonna break me.”

Jordan stepped closer. “That a complaint?”

Nayeon’s breath hitched as Jordan knelt in front of her, dragging her leggings down her thighs with slow, brutal patience. He kissed each inch of skin as it was revealed—inner knees, the dip above her ankle, her calf where it still glistened from the rain. She’d never felt so exposed. Not just naked—open.

He wasn’t rushing. Not yet.

She leaned back on her elbows, eyes locked on him. His gaze dropped to the soaked patch in her black panties, and his jaw flexed.

“You soaked for me already?” he asked, dragging a finger up the fabric. It came away slick.

She tried to sound annoyed. “Your ego’s showing.”

“My dick’s about to join.”

He hooked two fingers into her waistband and peeled the panties down. When her pussy was fully bare, lips flushed, wet, tight, his breath caught.

“God damn,” he murmured. “Look at that.”

He didn’t wait for permission—just lowered his face between her thighs and licked. Long and slow, tongue flat and warm. Nayeon jolted, a choked moan slipping out before she could catch it.

“Fuck,” she breathed, hips twitching. “You weren’t lying.”

He sucked her clit gently, then flicked, then circled until her back arched and her hands fisted the sheets. She tried to grind against him. He gripped her hips and held her still.

“Let me taste,” he growled. “Just take it.”

She did. She came within minutes, thighs shaking, her moan punched out of her chest.

Jordan stood, licking his lips like she was the sweetest thing he’d ever tasted. His cock was rock hard, pulsing against his stomach. She couldn’t take her eyes off it.

“Your turn,” she said, rolling to her knees.

He watched her crawl to him, eyes blazing. She grabbed his shaft, thick and veiny in her palm, and kissed the tip. One long lick down the underside had him groaning.

“You okay?” she teased.

“I swear to God,” he muttered, “if you don’t put that mouth on me—”

She did. Slowly. Taking the head in first, letting her lips stretch around the girth. Her jaw ached almost immediately, but she pushed farther, working him into her throat inch by inch. His hands gripped her hair, not forcing—just grounding himself.

“Shit, Nayeon…” he whispered. “You’re taking it like a fucking champ.”

She moaned around him. The vibration made his knees buckle.

When she pulled off, spit trailing from her lips, she was flushed and wild-eyed. “You ready to wreck me now?”

Jordan grabbed her waist, threw her onto the bed, and climbed over her in one fluid motion. He lined up at her entrance. Slid just the head in.

Her mouth fell open. “Jordan—”

He pushed deeper. Her pussy stretched wide, struggling to take all of him. Inch by thick, heavy inch, he filled her until his hips were flush to hers.

She whimpered, hand clutching his arm. “It’s too much—fuck—don’t stop—”

“You feel that?” he said, grinding slow. “I’m all the way in.”

Her eyes fluttered. “I feel everything.”

He started moving—long, deep strokes. Every pull made her clench, every thrust made her cry out.

“Shit, you’re so fucking tight.”

“And you’re—ah—so deep—”

He adjusted her legs, tossing them over his shoulders, and slammed in harder. The angle made her scream, the head of his cock hitting that perfect spot with each thrust.

Her moans turned to broken pleas. “Faster—don’t stop—oh god—”

He pounded her. Sweat dripped from his chest onto her skin. The wet slap of flesh filled the room.

“You like getting split open by this cock?” he rasped.

“Yes—yes—yes—” Her voice cracked as another orgasm tore through her. She clenched around him, body locking up as she came so hard she shook.

He didn’t slow. Just flipped her onto her stomach and pulled her hips up.

“You’re not done yet.”

Her face pressed to the sheets as he shoved back inside her, even deeper from behind. His hands gripped her hips, then slid up to her back, down her arms. He pinned her wrists to the mattress and fucked her hard enough to make the bed creak.

“Fuck, Jordan—”

“You love this dick now, don’t you?”

“I—yes—fuck—”

He reached around, rubbed her clit. She screamed again, hips jerking.

“Cum one more time for me,” he ordered.

Her body obeyed. She collapsed, moaning his name, eyes rolling back.

He groaned. “Shit—I’m gonna—”

And then he was cumming inside her, deep and thick, filling her. Hot pulses that made her gasp at the sheer volume.

He collapsed beside her, dragging her into his chest.

They lay there, breathing hard, sweat cooling.

Minutes passed.

Nayeon’s voice was soft. “You still think I’m just some lost tourist?”

Jordan kissed her shoulder. “Nah. I think you’re dangerous.”

She smiled, lips brushing his jaw. “And you’re addicted.”

He didn’t argue.

Nayeon woke to the smell of skin and sweat and New York morning—the faint noise of traffic, the low hum of life creeping through a cracked window. Sunlight spilled in across the sheets, catching on the curve of Jordan’s bare shoulder as he lay on his back, one arm slung carelessly over his head.

Her thighs ached. Her lips were sore. Her skin carried the prints of where he’d held her, fucked her, claimed her.

She blinked once. Then again.

What the hell had she done?

He stirred, head turning, eyes still closed. “You’re awake,” he mumbled.

She sat up slowly, covers slipping off her chest. “No thanks to you. I’m surprised I’m not in traction.”

Jordan’s lips curled into a lazy smile. “You’re welcome.”

She threw a pillow at him. He caught it one-handed, eyes cracking open to drink her in.

“You always look this good post-fuck?” he asked, voice rough.

She snorted. “You always talk like you’re starring in your own porno?”

“Depends. You filming?”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t stop the grin. The banter made it feel less real, safer—like if they kept talking shit, it wouldn’t matter that she’d just spent the night wrapped around a man she didn’t even like.

Did she?

She stood, stretching, completely unashamed in her nakedness. Jordan’s gaze followed every motion like he was still inside her.

“Bathroom?” she asked.

He nodded toward the door. “Down the hall. Don’t fall in.”

When she came back, he was still lying there, but something had shifted. His eyes had softened. The cockiness was still there—but dulled, like he didn’t know what to say next.

She pulled on her underwear and stood near the bed, arms crossed. “You gonna give me the post-coital speech or just awkwardly shuffle out the door?”

Jordan sat up. The sheet slid down, exposing his abs, the cut of his hips, the curve of his half-hard cock resting against his thigh.

“Wasn’t planning on leaving,” he said, then hesitated. “Unless you want me to.”

Nayeon opened her mouth. Closed it. Sighed.

“I didn’t think it’d be like that,” she admitted.

“Good or bad?”

“Intense.” Her voice dropped. “Real.”

He rubbed a hand over his jaw. “Yeah. Didn’t expect you, either.”

A pause.

Then she climbed back onto the bed, crawling toward him like gravity was stronger near his body. She straddled his lap, pressing her chest to his.

“You know what else I didn’t expect?” she murmured.

“What?”

“How much I want you again.”

Jordan’s hands gripped her thighs. “You sure you can handle it, baby?”

She leaned in, lips brushing his ear. “Only one way to find out.”

This time was different.

Slower. But no less intense.

She kissed him first—soft and deep. He responded in kind, hands sliding over her hips, fingers tracing the bruises he’d left hours ago. She lowered herself onto him with a gasp, his cock thick and hot, stretching her inch by inch.

Their eyes locked. No banter. No insults.

Just the weight of bodies moving together.

She rode him slow, grinding down with each thrust, her fingers digging into his shoulders. He cupped her breasts, thumbs circling her nipples until she moaned. He whispered things against her skin—nothing clever, just raw desire.

“God, you feel so fucking good…”

Her pace quickened. The slaps of their skin grew louder. Jordan sat up, wrapped an arm around her back, and held her while she fucked herself on him. Her breath hitched. Her nails dug in.

“I’m close,” she whispered.

“I got you,” he said.

He stood with her still on him, carried her to the wall, and fucked her standing—her back pressed to peeling paint, his hands under her thighs, his mouth at her neck.

She came with a strangled cry, full body shaking. He followed moments later, growling into her shoulder as he came deep inside her for the second time.

They collapsed back on the bed. Sticky. Sated. Quiet.

She rested her head on his chest. His fingers played lazily with her hair.

“Still hate me?” he asked.

She smirked against his skin. “Only a little.”

“You gonna disappear when your flight leaves?”

“Probably.”

A beat.

“You gonna miss me?” he asked.

She didn’t answer.

But her fingers traced lazy circles on his chest, and her legs stayed tangled with his.

That was answer enough.

#asks #nayeon #nayeon smut #twice smut #idol x bbc

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osarina · 1 day ago

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ᡣ𐭩 I'LL TAKE A QUIET LIFE

FEATURING: dazai osamu

SUMMARY: you didn't mean for things to turn out the way they did—you swear you really didn't. but when a certain someone decides to provoke you when you're trying to do the right thing… well. things take a turn for the worse. all you wanted was to peacefully borrow dazai for his birthday, whisking him away for a one-week getaway from the city and work, but you know how dazai is, and you couldn't risk any of his coworkers letting something slip. so, now, instead of a nice peaceful surprise and maintaining relations with the agency, you've had to resort to kidnapping. again. you'll make the most of it anyway.

(word count: 13.2k, fem!reader, port mafia executive!reader, dazai-typical suicide mentions, past suicide attempts referenced, oral (male receiving), a bit of face fucking, unprotected sex, a little overstimulation, minor implied ptsd episode/grieving (reader))

AUTHOR'S NOTES: HAPPY HAPPY HAPPY BIRTHDAYYYY TO THE CUTEST BOY IN THE WHOLEEE WORLD WAHHHHHHH take a cute little post-canon fic for the big day<33 i am so proud of how this fic came out. before you read, i do want you guys to take note that there's a bit of a time jump—i have this fic set around 5-6 months after the ada-pm swap fic. i have a lot to say about this fic so maybeee come back up here at the end to read this because there are some spoilers for it ... this is ur last warning ....... ANYWAY, so as you all know (even though you have no faith in me) pmreader universe DOES have a happy ending. to get to that happy ending, the biggest hurdle that needs to be crossed is what was addressed in one of the more recent pmreader fics (i think i've seen this love before): dazai struggles to find a reason to live. i can't really see him marrying pmreader when he still feels so hopeless about himself/living, for HER sake more than his mind you, because he knows he's very fickle with life and doesn't want to marry her and then leave her behind. so i do think that this is a necessary step to the happy ending: dazai needs to acknowledge that he does see himself having a future with her & their relationship gives him a reason to wake up in the morning. now, this of course doesn't take away from his depression—i dont want any of you to misunderstand and i dont think you will, but i just want to make it clear that him acknowledging this doesn't take away from his depression. it's something that i headcanon dazai struggles with his whole life, but i think this is a necessary step to the happy ending. also on another note, pmreader !!! i hope her whole thing doesn't feel like it comes out of the blue. once they get together again at age 22, i hc that the first few months of their relationship are so chaotic that neither of them can fully come to terms with their situation, and once she does, she really does begin to doubt things. because of course she loves him, and she wants him to feel like he's fulfilled odasaku's last request so he can feel better about himself, but she starts to feel like her presence in his life might be holding him back. so those lingering doubts + her doing something that reminds her of a past she can't remember puts her in a rlly vulnerable space. AND I THINK I CONVEYED IT WELL, but i just like explaining. ANYWAY if you guys got this far, i love you, thank u for entertaining my rambly thoughts

Dazai is over three hours late to work, but in his defense, it’s his birthday, and not even Kunikida is cruel enough to scold Dazai on his birthday. Still, he very much expects dirty looks from the man, and maybe a few loud comments about his terrible work ethic, but that’s just Kunikida. If he wasn’t giving Dazai dirty looks and making loud comments, Dazai would be concerned.

Which is why when he steps into the office at half past twelve and is met with dead silence, Dazai knows something is wrong. He shuts the door quietly behind him and looks around warily, trying to figure out what’s going on. There’s no sign of forced entry or any fighting—there’s an untouched stack of papers in the waiting area that he assumes are from a new client, and a hot coffee still steaming next to it.

It’s all so unassuming, it’s what he expects coming into work, but it’s too quiet. He can’t hear Naomi bothering Tanizaki, he can’t hear Yosano complaining about the stick up Kunikida’s ass or Kunikida promptly scolding her for her language, he can’t hear Kyouka, Kenji, and Atsushi chatting away whenever Kunikida is pulled away by something. There’s no furious typing from the clerks as they fix all of the mistakes in the reports being filed, and there’s no sighing when they think they finish, only to realize that there’s another report, likely one of Dazai’s, waiting for them to edit.

It’s too quiet, and that’s how Dazai knows something is seriously wrong.

When he steps into the office, he almost expects nobody to be there—maybe they were all called out to some emergency mission, and Dazai is going to have to race to catch up with them.

What he doesn’t expect is finding his coworkers all sitting stiffly and silently in their seats, and a heavy Port Mafia presence all over the room. Hirotsu is leaning against the far back wall, a cigarette dangling between his lips, Gin is hanging over Haruno, carelessly playing with one of her knives, and Tachihara is trying to convince Atsushi to play a game of cards with him as if Akutagawa isn’t looming right behind him.

If it were just the Black Lizards, Dazai thinks that they’d probably fight back, but naturally, the red-headed slug is here too, leaning up against the wall with Hirotsu, arms crossed and a bored expression on his face. Dazai’s eyes narrow when Chuuya gives him a smirk that’s far too smug, but the insult on his lips dies when his eyes land on the last person in the room.

You’re sitting on top of his desk, a pretty smile on your lips and a glitter in your eyes that promises no good. You look beautiful, and Dazai’s chest feels all warm and fuzzy—he hasn’t seen you in a few weeks now because you’ve been abroad dealing with pressure from some foreign organizations, and he didn’t think you’d be back for his birthday. He’s so enamored by the sight of you that he almost doesn’t catch the glint of metal on your lap or the way Kunikida is sitting tense at his desk next to where you’re lounging.

“Hey,” you say easily, like there isn’t a gun in your lap pointed at his coworker, safety off, finger firm on the trigger, ready to pull it at a moment’s notice. “Happy birthday.”

“What-” Dazai starts to say, baffled, but flinches when he feels something prick his neck, head snapping to the side to focus on a vaguely familiar figure now standing at his side—your new subordinate, Dazai can’t remember his name.

Whatever he injected Dazai with works fast, because he’s instantly dizzy, his gaze blurring, and his head all woozy. Just as his knees start to give out, he feels the kid grab under his arms to make sure he doesn’t hit the ground, and he hears you say proudly: “This is a kidnapping.”

---------

In your defense, you really did try to talk things out peacefully with the Armed Detective Agency before resorting to this.

You weren’t planning on kidnapping Dazai, but you knew he probably didn’t call out of work, and the last thing you needed was to be scolded by Mori for causing any more tension between the Armed Detective Agency and the Port Mafia if they realized that you were the reason Dazai didn’t show up to work.

Things have been rocky on both sides since the failed transfer—the Agency because the Port Mafia dared to take one of their own, and the Port Mafia because the Agency reneged on their deal and took their member back—but you can’t afford for things to be rocky when things are still incredibly unstable. So instead of just picking up Dazai and leaving for a few days and possibly pissing off the Agency for not giving them any forewarning, you decided to do the right thing and tell them before disappearing with one of their detectives.

Except the President of the Agency isn’t in town. So, you were stuck dealing with that bullheaded blonde who clearly still holds a grudge over the incident with Pushkin and he decided to act on his grudge by making your life as difficult as possible.

All too smugly, he refused to give Dazai leave for the week because they have an emergency case that needs all hands on deck, and when you offered up Klaus to replace him, much to the boy’s abject horror, he refused. Then you offered up Klaus and Akutagawa, and he still refused. You even proposed giving them Chuuya for the week, and that wasn’t enough, so that’s when you realized he was just being difficult to be petty.

And you doubt the man actually would’ve forced Dazai to miss out on time with you on his birthday, Dazai is his friend and he’s not that much of an asshole. He probably would've okay'd it as soon as Dazai showed up to the office, but he was clearly just trying to be a pain in your ass. And well, you didn’t take that kindly, obviously, so all thoughts of preserving the fragile peace went out the window as you quite promptly demanded all hands on deck for a possible conflict because you were not going to let Kunikida Doppo keep that smug expression on his face for a second longer.

Was Chuuya happy about it? No, you could tell when he gave you a side eye after he showed up, but you knew he wasn’t going to sit by and let the Agency get one over you. So, he was content to stand there as a looming threat, because you were pretty sure that the Black Lizards weren’t going to be enough to scare the Agency into backing down, but the threat of Nakahara Chuuya splattering one of their own against the wall so that there was nothing left for their doctor to revive was more than enough to keep them down.

The Black Lizards and Akutagawa didn’t have the authority to question your orders, and Klaus was more than willing to spill blood at any given moment, so the only thing you have left to worry about is Mori, and you’ll deal with that once you get back from your getaway with Dazai. If Chuuya’s feeling nice, he’ll probably handle it for you, but you don’t think he’s pleased with how you offered him up like a bargaining chip to the Agency.

Your lips curve up into a smile when Klaus tosses Dazai over his shoulder like a sack of flour. Was drugging him unnecessary? Probably, but you didn’t want to deal with his smug ass making comments about the lengths you go to so that you can steal him away for the week the whole way up to the house you and Chuuya bought on the coastline of Hokkaido. It wasn’t just for Dazai—it was your own pride on the line too, it was the principle.

As you motion for Klaus to bring Dazai out to the car, you rise to your feet and look down at Kunikida. You place your gun under his chin to tilt his head up so that he’s looking up at you; he swallows thickly as he glances down at where your finger is still resting on the trigger, throat bobbing before he glowers at you. You give him a too-sweet smile.

“Thank you for your cooperation,” you say, very pleased with yourself. You look back at Chuuya, signalling him to come with you as you put your gun away and start to make your way out of the Agency. You lift your hand in a lazy wave before saying, “I’ll bring him back in a few days.”

It’s only when the door to the Agency shuts behind you that he finally speaks to you, hands shoved in his pockets as he says dryly, “Mori specifically told us not to antagonize the Agency over the next few weeks.”

“The Agency antagonized me,” you reply airily. “It would’ve been a terrible look for us if we let them walk all over us and come out unscathed. There are already too many rumors circulating in the East about us being weak after the Guild Incident, and now, Dostoevsky, the failed transfer, and the Clocktower—preserving our reputation is more important than relations with the Agency.”

Chuuya barks out a laugh. “You can twist anything to fit your narrative, can't you? If you weren’t an executive, you’d make a great lawyer.”

You raise your eyebrows, unfazed. “It’s not twisting if it’s the truth.”

He scoffs, muttering something under his breath before shaking his head as he holds the door to the cafe open for you. “Right. Next time you decide to ‘preserve our reputation’ through a diplomatic disaster, at least give me a damn warning first.”

“There’s no fun in that,” you say with an easy smile. “Will you deal with Mori while I’m gone?”

“You’re shameless,” Chuuya tells you flatly. “No, I’m not dealing with Mori. You just tried to pawn me off to the Agency like a fucking mule. You can deal with him.”

“Please.” You flutter your eyelashes at him, pushing your lip out in a pout that has him rolling his eyes. You scowl and then offer, “I’ll take over your mission in Sapporo when I get back.”

“Deal,” Chuuya agrees immediately, reaching out to open the car door for you. You slide inside, and he shuts the door behind you; you immediately roll the window down. He gives you a sharp smile, resting his arms on the car door and leaning in. “I would’ve dealt with him either way.”

“I know because you’re a sucker,” you reply, raising your eyebrows and giving him an equally sharp smile. “I just thought I’d be nice and offer you something in return.”

Chuuya clicks his tongue sharply as he leans back. He stands up straight and gives you a side eye. “Bitch,” he mutters, but there’s a fond smile on his lips. “Enjoy your week with that bastard, you’re gonna be in for hell with Mori once you get back.”

“You don’t need to remind me,” you say dryly, turning to the side as Klaus opens the door to toss Dazai into the car. Literally. “Jesus, Klaus, be a bit more careful with him.”

“No.” Klaus says and then sneers down at Dazai before slamming the door shut behind him.

You shake your head and adjust Dazai into a more comfortable position. He should be out for at least two or three hours—you aren’t quite sure, he’s always had a freaky metabolism, but you don’t know if it’s gotten faster or slower in the four years he was gone. You rest his head in your lap, brushing his hair out of his face. You’ve missed him a lot; you’ve barely been able to see him at all the past few weeks because you’ve been so busy, and your chest aches just at the sight of him in your lap. You turn your gaze back up to the window to find Chuuya staring at you in disgust. Klaus is there too, scowling.

“What is your problem with him?” you ask the boy, giving him a weird look. “You’ve hardly even met him before now.”

“I don’t like him,” Klaus replies, raising his chin.

You stare at him in disbelief, but Klaus only huffs and stalks off, likely to cause chaos elsewhere. Chuuya snorts in amusement, trying to muffle a laugh as he turns his face away. You roll your eyes and fling your hand up dismissively. Klaus has always had something up his ass about Dazai, you never understood why. You’ve learned better than to question what runs through that boy’s head.

“You should get going,” Chuuya says, stepping back from the window. “The jet’s waiting for you.”

“Right,” you agree, stretching your arms and then resting your hand on Dazai’s forehead, fingers carding absently through his hair. “Thanks, Chuuya.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he replies dryly, turning his back to the car to walk over to where he’d parked his motorcycle. He lifts his hand up in a lazy wave. “See you next week.”

“See you next week.”

---------

Dazai wakes up to the whole world shaking. His heart rate spikes as he shoots up, disoriented and confused. His hand flies to his head, blinking hard to try to clear his blurry vision. He doesn’t even really remember what happened. He remembers waking up late for work and feeling smug because Kunikida couldn’t scold him because it’s his birthday, and he remembers…

Oh.

You.

Dazai glances around, trying to figure out where the hell he is. He’s laying on a white couch in a small room… or, this isn’t a room, is it? There’s a window next to him. Dazai squints at the sudden bright light that blinds him, but he shifts closer to the window so he can look out of it.

He is in the air.

Dazai blanches when he realizes that he’s in a plane. It must be close to landing because the ground is much closer than he expected. He doesn’t recognize the area—there doesn’t seem to be any big cities nearby, only forests and the ocean, so he’s not really sure where you’re bringing him.

He pushes himself out of his seat, stumbling a bit before he catches himself. Whatever you injected him with was strong, but at least now he has something he can whine and complain about. Maybe he’ll be able to convince you to make him the sweet buns you tried baking a few times back when you two were teenagers. You never liked the way they came out, but Dazai had been obsessed with them and was thoroughly upset when you refused to make them every time he asked.

He salivates a bit at the thought and decides to get a head start on his guilt tripping, making his way over to where you’re sitting. A smile unconsciously pulls at his lips when he sees you sitting a few seats away. Your back is facing him, but he can see you’re focused on your computer, typing furiously with earbuds plugged in your ears. He stumbles once more before kneeling on the seat behind yours, draping himself lazily over the back of it to rest his chin on the top of your head.

His lips part to make a complaint when he pauses, gaze focusing on what exactly it is that you’re doing on your laptop.

Are you on a… video call?

Dazai stares at the screen blankly, recognizing the several faces staring right back at him. Leo Tolstoy looks unbearably amused when he sees Dazai in the frame of the camera, hiding a smile with his hand. An older man who Dazai realizes is Carlo Goldoni raises his eyebrows, lips twitching. Mishima Yukio casually rubs at his lips, pretending he’s not smiling. There are three others, two men and a woman who Dazai doesn’t recognize—they must be new allies of the Port Mafia.

Well, Dazai thinks awkwardly, staring at the screen as he realizes that he just interrupted a meeting between you and several mob bosses. He doesn’t bother moving now, they’ve already seen him, and you don’t seem bothered, considering you don’t immediately shove his face out of view of the camera.

“I’ll contact you all when I’m available again to speak next week,” you say after a moment. “Thank you for meeting.”

You exit the call without waiting for them to answer, taking out the earbuds from your ears. Dazai lifts his chin when he feels you turning your head to look up at him. He gives you a sheepish smile.

“Did I interrupt?” he asks quietly.

“No,” you reply. “We’re almost here anyway.”

Dazai shuffles around to sit across from you, resting his arms on the table and his head on top of them. He looks up at you, eyes still a bit droopy from whatever you drugged him with. Your lips curl up into a soft smile, and warmth spreads through Dazai’s chest at the sight of it. His cheeks heat up, so he hides them in his arms and peeks up at you. The smile on your lips becomes a bit fonder, you place your arms on the table, mimicking him, and then rest your head down like he did, peeking up at him the same way as he is at you.

It’s a simple action. A nothing action, really. You’re just mimicking him. Teasing him for being flustered. He doesn’t know why his chest suddenly feels like it's about to cave in. He doesn’t know why he suddenly wants to cry. He doesn’t know why he’s so suddenly and violently reminded of how much he loves you.

Maybe it’s just because he’s missed you these past few weeks.

“Happy birthday,” you whisper.

A lump that’s shaped suspiciously like his heart forms in his throat as he looks up at you. He hides his smile behind his arms and says quietly, “You kidnapped me.” Then adds belatedly, “Again.”

“I did,” you agree, eyes glittering with amusement. “It’s a bit of a tradition now, don’t you think?”

“Where are we going?” he asks curiously, hand creeping forward to try to grab yours. He pokes your arm twice; you raise your eyebrows before realizing what he wants and putting your hand in his. Dazai’s fingers slide to your wrist to press against your pulse, feeling the familiar, even thrums and matching his own heartrate to to them.

“To a foreign countryside so I can kill you and dump your body,” you say without pause.

Dazai snorts, lifting your hand to his lips so he can kiss your palm, lashes fluttering shut when your fingers brush over his cheekbone. He says dreamily, “A woman after my own heart.”

“You’re such a freak,” you say fondly.

“Your freak,” he corrects with a flirty smile before setting your joined hands back down on the table. “I can’t believe you kidnapped me again. And drugged me. I still feel a bit woozy, y’know? How are you going to make it up to me?”

“A one week escape from work isn’t enough?” you ask dryly.

“Nope,” he agrees, popping the ‘p’. “How about you make me those sweet buns you used to make this week? I haven’t had them in ages, I miss them.”

You squint at him, leaning back in your seat but leaving your hand in his. “Maritozzi?” you ask, and Dazai faintly recognizes the name from back then, so he nods. “What flavor?”

Dazai pauses and then asks, “Strawberry? Or lemon?”

“Both?” you offer.

His eyes widen slightly. He didn’t expect you to give in so quickly. Back when you guys were teenagers, he’d whine and ask you to make them and it would turn into a six hour argument of him insisting that he deserves them and you refusing him.

“That was easier than I expected,” he admits sheepishly.

“It’s your birthday,” you say like it’s the simplest thing in the world. Again, Dazai’s heart flutters, and he squeezes your hand gently. “The first one we’ve celebrated together in four years. We can stop to get the ingredients on the way to the house.”

The house. Where is it that you’re taking him? Dazai’s mind bounces around with potential answers—far enough that you had to take him on a plane, but not so far that he’s just woken up and its already begun its descent. Dazai has a quick metabolism and a high tolerance for most drugs. You know this and probably would’ve accounted for it, but there’s a large margin of error. You don’t know if his metabolism has gotten quicker or slower over the years apart, and you don’t know if his tolerance has weakened, so you probably didn’t want to risk pushing the dosage anymore than you would’ve four years ago.

Which probably puts the time at… four hours after you injected him? Which would make sense from the position of the sun in the sky. Probably took forty minutes from injection to take off between getting him here and getting everything settled. So a three hour flight? About? Where would that leave you guys? Seoul? No, it couldn’t be—there were no cities anywhere in sight. One of the northern islands then?

“You didn’t answer my question,” he whines. “Where are we going?”

You hesitate for a moment like you don’t want to tell him, but he pouts and widens his eyes in the way that always makes you give in. You roll your eyes at him exagerratedly, and he gives you a sweet smile in response.

“A property up in Hokkaido,” you finally say. Dazai is smug, realizing his deductions were right, until you continue speaking. “It’s near a small village. Pretty. Me and Chuuya scoped it out and bought it a couple of months ago just to have.”

What. Dazai stares at you blankly, and you tilt your head to the side in confusion, unsure why he suddenly closed off. He narrows his eyes at you, willing away the bitterness that suddenly swells in his chest. It’s sharp and sour, and he definitely doesn’t like it, but when he tries to push it away, it only intensifies.

“You bought property with Chuuya,” he asks flatly. “You’re taking me to a property that you bought with the slug.”

You roll your eyes. “Stop that,” you say immediately. “I’m taking you to a property that I scoped out because I wanted to bring you here. Chuuya jumped on and offered to pay for half because he wanted a place to escape to outside the city.”

Dazai squints at you, and you raise your eyebrows challengingly. He immediately huffs and looks away, stomach lurching when the plane begins the final part of the descent to the ground. He decides to change the subject instead of pressing, maybe he’ll whine about it some more later.

“So,” he says slowly, voice dropping just enough to catch your attention from the way you tilt your head to the side. “You’ve kidnapped me away from the Agency… to bring me to a house in the middle of nowhere… and decided not to tell me about it until now…”

You hum in response, eyes narrowing, and Dazai leans closer over the table separating the two of you, lips curling up into a lecherous smirk that has you rolling your eyes. You already know what’s coming, but you must let him have his fun on his birthday.

“And we’ll be there for… how long again?”

You glance at him from the corner of your eye, seemingly intent on staring out the window. “A week.”

Dazai whistles, leaning back in his seat again. His eyes rove over you—it's been a hot minute since the two of you have been able to do anything intimate. He hasn’t even seen you in a few weeks. And before that, most days, you’re either too exhausted or he’s too in his own head about things to get in the mood. But this… Seven days. No work. No people interrupting. No reason to spiral in his own head. His lips unconsciously pull into another small smile, teeth scraping his tongue as his gaze lingers on the top few buttons of your dress shirt—they’re undone, just low enough for him to see a hint of…

You clear your throat. Dazai’s gaze snaps back up to your face. He gives you an innocent smile that makes you roll your eyes at him again.

“Pervert,” you accuse.

“Yeah,” Dazai breaths out, voice a bit raspy as he lifts your hand back to his lips. He kisses your knuckles and then the inside of your wrist, gaze flickering back up to your eyes. “I’m going to take advantage of this week.”

The corner of your mouth twitches like you’re fighting off a smile. “Oh, I counted on it.”

Dazai lets go of your wrist when the plane lands. He watches you tuck your hand back into your lap, pulling your phone out to shoot a text to someone before sliding it back into your pocket. His eyes stay on you as the plane rolls to a stop, watching the way the sunlight dances across your cheekbones. You look beautiful—always do—but you’ll look more beautiful tonight when he has you underneath him.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you tell him flatly as you rise to your feet. Dazai follows after you, standing too close, and when he leans down to ghost his lips to your neck, you swat at his head, but he immediately dodges and then drapes himself over your shoulders obnoxiously. “Osamu.”

Dazai lets his full body weight rest on you. You stumble forward, trying to walk toward the exit of the plane, but fail miserably because you’re dragging his dead weight with you. His lips curl up into a smile when he hears your frustrated groan, arms tightening around you.

“Get off of me, you freak,” you complain. “Walk on your own.”

“But I’m still so woozy,” he sighs dramatically. “You drugged me, take accountability and carry me to the car before I pass out and hit my head and die on my birthday. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”

He pouts against your skin, nipping your neck for a second before resting his forehead in the crook of it, right next to the small mark he just left. Vision obscured, he misses the way you motion for the pilot, who had come out to lower the steps to the ground, to grab him until he feels two hands around his waist lifting him off the ground. Dazai yelps and flails, trying to figure out what exactly just happened, and blanches when he realizes he’s being held princess style by a grown man.

“Watanabe-san, please make sure Osamu makes it down the steps safely. We wouldn’t want him to pass out and hit his head and die on his birthday, would we?” you say with a sweet smile.

“Of course not, hime,” the man replies gruffly.

Mortified, Dazai tries to worm out of the man’s arms, but his grip is too tight. He looks at you, betrayed, but you’re only fighting giggles as you make your way over to the car waiting on the tarmac, leaving him in the arms of this man.

By the time he makes it to the sleek black car waiting for the two of you, Dazai’s face is flaming red. The moment he’s placed on the ground, he throws himself into the car and turns his back to you. You laugh and climb in after him, pressing your lips to his shoulder.

“I hate you,” he whines.

“I love you too.”

---------

Dazai naps once the two of you get to the house, so you focus on getting everything together to make the maritozzi in the morning. You don’t really like making it—the pastries make you upset. Or, well, it’s not the pastries that make you upset, but the fact that every time you make them, you get this strange, aching feeling in your chest—a sense of deja vu so strong that it nearly brings you to your knees.

Your hands always remember what to do, even when your mind doesn’t. You knead the dough with a practiced ease that doesn’t feel like it belongs to you. You know exactly how much flour to dust on the board, how warm the milk should be, how to press your thumb into the dough to check if it’s ready.

It’s muscle memory, maybe.

You sigh as you rest your hands on the kitchen counter. You plan to start baking in the morning, but you already feel that… odd feeling spreading through you, both sharp and tender at the same time. A homesickness for a place you can’t name. Grief for people you don’t remember. It happens every time: a flicker of something just out of reach. A child’s gleeful laugh, a pair of warm hands guiding yours, a whispered promise that isn’t kept.

You lay your head in your arms for a moment, eyes sliding shut. You can never get the maritozzi right, regardless of how hard you try. You don’t know what you’re doing wrong, or even what’s wrong with them at all, but you know it’s not right. You hate making them. Each time, you can’t help the hope that swells in your chest that maybe this time will be different. Maybe you’ll get it right.

Each time you’re disappointed.

And yet, here you are again trying.

The things you do for love.

You feel a familiar pair of arms wrap around your waist from behind, hands slipping beneath your shirt. Dazai drapes himself over your back, pinning you to the counter. He sighs softly as he kisses the nape of your neck and your shoulder before burying his face in the crook of your neck.

“Good morning, sleepy head,” you whisper softly, a smile pulling on your lips as you lift a hand to rest it on the top of his head. You feel his heartbeat thrumming against your back, and his fingers tracing absent patterns on your stomach. “You were tired.”

“You’ve been away for a few weeks,” he murmurs, voice muffled against your neck. You feel him yawn before nuzzling his face against your skin, eyes sliding shut. “I wasn’t sleeping well.”

“My apologies,” you say with faux remorse. “How dare I go away for work and mess up your sleeping schedule.”

He hums in agreement. “A crime worthy of capital punishment, honestly,” he says, and you feel him smile softly, kissing your neck again. You let out a breathy sigh and instinctively tilt your head to the side to give him more room. “I had to sleep without my favorite pillow. You know, the soft, warm, breathing one that makes cute little noises when I kiss her neck.”

“Oh, shut up,” you scowl, but the expression quickly fades when you feel him trailing slow kisses up your neck, deliberately lingering just below your ear.

“How are you ever going to make it up to me?” he whispers playfully before he nips your skin.

You ignore his noise of complaint when you shift in his arms so that you can face him, resting your hands on his hips as you look up at him through your lashes. You give him a sweet smile before saying, “I can think of a few ways.”

“Oh yeah,” Dazai drawls, lips curling up into a lazy smirk as his fingers slip beneath the hem of your shirt again. “Is this the part where you beg for forgiveness?”

“Oh?” you hum, leaning in to ghost your lips against his jaw, kissing slowly to his ear as you murmur, “You want me to beg?”

He lets out a soft groan when you nip his skin. “I want you to convince me you’re sorry for leaving me to suffer all alone,” he corrects, breathing a little heavier when you start to kiss down the column of his throat. His voice catches over his words as you slide down the sweatpants he changed into and lower yourself to your knees in front of him. “Oh, fuck.”

“You poor thing,” you say softly, leaning in to press a kiss to his hip bone. “All alone for weeks. I bet you were just aching without me.”

“I—” His voice breaks into a groan as your mouth trails lower down the line of his ‘v’, lashes fluttering as he rests his hands back onto the counter and glances up at the ceiling before looking back down at you. His pupils are blown wide, eyes darker than you’ve ever seen them before. “You have no idea.”

“I think I have an idea,” you say more to yourself than to him, a teasing smile playing at your lips as you finally lift your hand to stroke his leaky cock. His hips jerk instinctively, he twitches in your hand like he’s already on the verge of finishing, and you lift your gaze. His chest is heaving, pink lips swollen and parted, head tilted back as he looks up at the ceiling again, desperately trying to gain control of himself.

God, you love him. You’ve loved him for years, since you were sixteen, even if you only started acknowledging the depths of your feelings for him when you were eighteen. He was always so flighty and unpredictable, you never expected one day he’d be yours the way he is now. You’ll never let him go now. You’ve missed him these past few weeks apart much more than you realized.

“I would do terrible things for you, Osamu,” you tell him softly, running your thumb over his tip just so you can hear the way he keens. “You’re mine.”

“Yours,” he pants. You’re not even sure if he fully hears what you say, already lost in the haze of pleasure, and you don’t really care. “Please.”

You don’t look away from him for a second as you take his tip into your mouth, flattening your tongue against his slit to lap up all of the precum that had beaded there. He lets out a ragged groan, but you can’t see his face, so you lift your hand to grab one of his and tug to get his attention.

His head falls forward, bangs falling in his eyes as he looks down at you. His tongue darts out to wet his lips as he breathes heavily, gaze entirely unfocused as need quickly fogs and dismantles the cogs of his quick brain. Having gotten what you wanted, you try to slip your hand free to hold his hips again, but his grip on your hand tightens, refusing to let go.

You hum softly, entwining your fingers with his instead as you slowly take him deeper into your mouth. His eyes half-roll back when his tip hits the back of your throat and your tongue presses against the vein on the underside of his cock. He almost lets his head fall back again, but your grip on his hand keeps him grounded to you. Even as fucked out as he is with his cock deep down your throat and your nails tracing patterns on his inner thighs, he manages to keep his gaze mostly locked to yours.

“I—haaah, fuck—you feel s’good,” he slurs, free hand coming up to cradle the back of your head. He lets you set the pace, and you pick a slow and steady one that you know kills him. You want to see how long he can last before he snaps. “I—so many nights…”

His sentences are garbled and mostly unintelligible. It makes you happy—you’re glad he lets his brain shut off when he’s with you like this. He used to try so hard to maintain control that you could tell it was stressing him out when he was supposed to be feeling good, but he doesn’t bother with the pretenses anymore, letting everything crumble away the moment he has you in bed with him. Or, in this case, in the middle of the kitchen.

You can’t respond, so you resign to letting out a soft hum of acknowledgment; the vibrations make him whimper, cock twitching in your mouth as he gnaws on his bottom lip, desperately trying not to cum so quickly. You can feel his thighs tense beneath your touch as holds himself back from fucking your face.

Your gaze traces his face, catching sight of the red flush of his cheeks, his wet lips, the way his expression is all twisted—he’s so pretty, so you decide to have a bit of mercy on him.

Plus, it is still his birthday after all.

You lift your hand to tap his hip twice, signaling to him that he can take control if he wants, and the effect is immediate. His eyes snap open fully, glassy and wild with need, and then he moves.

His grip on your hand tightens just a bit, and the hand on the back of your head slips down to cup your jaw, thumb brushing the corner of your lips, tracing how they’re stretched around his cock. He rocks his hips forward once—slowly, like he’s testing the waters, worried that you might change your mind, but you stay still and pliant, looking up at him through your lashes imploringly.

“Fuck,” he breathes out again. “Love you. So good to me. Always been so good to me.”

He thrusts again, this time deeper, more sure of himself, and you relax your throat for him, letting him set the rhythm. It's not rough or frantic—not yet—just a slow, needy grind of someone who’s waited for this too long. His hand slides back to cup the back of your head as he starts to pick up the pace; you gag a little on his cock, eyes tearing up, but you squeeze his hand encouragingly, telling him silently to continue. To give you more.

He does.

He rolls his hips forward sharply, cock thrusting deeper, harder, and you take it, eyes fluttering shut for just a second as your throat stretches around him. His thighs tremble under your hands, breath ragged as he fucks your throat. The noises in the kitchen—his low groans, the way you’re choking on his cock, each wet, sloppy thrust into your mouth—it makes your head all foggy, heat pooling in your lower stomach.

His free hand comes back to your jaw, thumb swiping at the drool spilling from the corner of your mouth before he squeezes your cheeks gently to feel his cock sliding in and out of your mouth. Your jaw aches, your throat burns, and still, you stay there, tears spilling freely down your cheeks, because he’s close. You can feel it. His thigh tenses under your palm, his fingers tighten around yours, his rhythm stutters and takes a more erratic turn, and his voice breaks on your name, groans shifting into pitched moans.

“Haah,” he gasps, hips jerking. “Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck, please, please, baby, I—I’m gonna—”

Your nose is flush to his pubic hair as he cums deep down your throat—his cum tastes so familiar, too salty, after all of these years, he still hasn’t taken your advice of a better diet. Hazily, you remind yourself to scold him about it later, but right now, you’re too focused on trying not to choke over him, swallowing the copious amounts of cum he spilled into your mouth as he trembles above you violently, still feeling the aftershocks of the intense orgasm.

When he finally pulls out, he drops to his knees in front of you, hands cupping your cheeks as he leans in, kissing you deeply. He kisses you like he’s trying to devour you—claim you, even, like he hasn’t already, like you haven’t been his since the moment the two of you met. His breath is uneven, chest heaving, and there’s a flicker of something wild in his eyes as he pulls back to look at you, eyes roving over you. His eyes slide shut again as he rests his forehead against yours.

“You’re everything,” he whispers, hands sliding down to your sides as he ghosts his lips against yours. “God, you’re everything. You have no idea what you do to me.”

You lift your hands to cup his cheeks, pressing your lips to his again. You toy with the tips of his hair as your lips slide messily against his, letting out a soft moan when his hand slides to the small of your back, pulling your body flush to his. His hands dip lower, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of your cotton shorts, and you smile against his lips.

“I’m not fucking you on the kitchen floor,” you say, leaning back slightly. He chases your lips to kiss you again, a hazy smile on his lips as he gives you a half-lidded look.

“It would be hot though,” he murmurs, nipping at your bottom lip before letting out a low groan against your skin, dragging his lips from your jaw to your ear. You let out a shaky breath when his fingers slide down to your panties, pressing his finger down on your clit through thin silk and moaning again. “Have you face down, nails clawing against the tile, pinned between me and the floor—nowhere to go, can only take it.”

“Jesus, Osamu,” you say shakily, eyes sliding shut as his fingers curl into your hair, pulling your head back so he can kiss down your neck, kisses wet and lingering as he sucks at your skin. He traces slow circles around your clit, and your grip on his shoulders tightens as you try to ground yourself. “Not the kitchen floor.”

“Such a bore,” he complains. “Ruining my fun. It’s still my birthday, y’know?”

Before you can retort, Dazai’s hands drop to your thighs, and you yelp as he rises to his feet, bringing you with him. Sometimes you forget how strong Dazai is—it’s easy when he constantly acts like he’s helpless and drowns himself in long jackets and loose clothes. He used to be able to go blow-for-blow with Chuuya in combat, and although you know damn well he hasn’t kept up his training, you can feel the lean muscles of his biceps beneath his sweatshirt.

Your grip tightens on them; he’s still mouthing at your neck as he carries you into the back bedroom. You whisper softly, “You are so…”

When you don’t finish, Dazai nips your neck playfully and finishes, “Handsome? Charming? The image of your deepest, darkest desires?”

Usually, you would roll your eyes at him, but this time, you gasp, “Yeah. Yeah, you are.”

He nudges the door open with his foot before kicking it shut. He sets you down gently on the bed, pushing you back until your back is flat and hovering above you to steal another kiss. This one is slow and lazy as he settles above you on his elbows, tongue running along your bottom lip, and fingers dragging over your ribs reverently. You think you could kiss him forever and never get sick of it.

When he finally pulls back, it’s only by an inch, his eyes are half-lidded, and his breath is warm against your lips as he looks down at you.

“Still with me?” he murmurs, thumb circling your hip bone.

“Always,” you answer quietly.

His eyes soften as he looks down at you, lifting his hand from your hip so he can cup the side of your face. You lean into his touch, lashes fluttering shut momentarily as you bask in the familiar warmth of his skin.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

You give him a hazy smile as you look back up at him. “For what?” you ask, voice teasing, but Dazai’s smile only softens even more. He runs his thumb over your bottom lip, and you nip at it playfully.

“Everything.”

He doesn’t give you a chance to question him, leaning down to press his lips to yours again. This kiss is chaster than the last, like he just wants to savor in the taste of you rather than outright devour you. His thumb traces soft circles over your cheek, and his other hand slides down your body to your thigh, hiking your leg over his waist so he can slot his hips between your legs.

He kisses you and holds you so gently that you forget to breathe until your lungs start burning. When you push at his shoulder to get some air, he immediately leans down to keep kissing your neck, sliding your shirt up, and tapping you to beckon you to lift your shoulders so he can pull it off.

Once he has it off and flings it to the side, he leans back to let his eyes roam your body. His pupils are blown wide, and his fingers are a bit shaky; he slides them down your body, tracing your figure like he’s worshiping it.

“You are so beautiful,” he whispers more to himself than to you. “Divine. The kind of beauty that drives saints to sin and kings to kneel. You make the stars look dim, and the heavens seem dull. I still can’t believe you’re mine. There’s nothing that I wouldn’t do for you.”

“My god, Dazai,” you laugh, face heating up at his words. “A bit over the top with the poetry tonight, aren’t you?”

“Not nearly,” he says, voice low and serious as his gaze lifts back to your face. He repeats softly, “No, not nearly.”

Your throat swells as you look up at him, and he runs his knuckles across your cheek before trailing his fingers down your face. His thumb presses heavily against your bottom lip, and you give him a kittish smile before taking it into your mouth, swirling your tongue around the digit as you look up at him through your lashes.

His breath catches, and you hum around his finger when he presses down slightly on your tongue, rolling your hips up to grind against his clothed cock. He murmurs, voice strained, “You drive me insane.”

“Oh yeah?” you press, voice breathy. “Prove it?”

He kisses slowly to your collarbone, making sure to leave marks on his way down. “Gladly,” he rasps, swiping his tongue along your collarbone before biting over the bone lightly.

“You’re going to leave so many marks,” you complain, breath hitching when he slowly rocks his hips against yours. He’s already hard again; you can feel him through the thin material of your panties, and you want him desperately. Your walls clench around nothing, and the heat pooling in your stomach has your thighs trembling. “Shit, Osamu, will you just—”

“Good thing I have you to myself all week,” he croons, a smug smirk on his lips as he kisses down your chest to the swell of your breasts. He lets out a shaky puff of air as he pulls back just a bit to get an eyeful of your tits before his lips wrap around your nipple. He moans against you as he rolls it between his teeth, lifting his free hand to grope your other breast. Your back arches up as you press yourself into his touch, a keen escaping your lips. “Gonna mark you up all over, you won’t even have to hide them.”

“Please,” you gasp, head falling back against the pillows. “Please, Osamu, I—”

You choke over your words when you feel him slide your panties down your legs. He pulls his lips off your nipple with a pop before trailing wet kisses back up your chest until his face is hovering above yours. His thumb slips from your mouth so that he can pinch your chin between his fingers, forcing you to look him in the eye.

“Please, what?” he hums insufferably. “C’mon, baby, use your words.”

“You’re so—” You start to reply irritably, only to whimper when he rolls his hips again.

“So what?” he presses, giving you a cocky smile as he taps your cheek twice to get your attention again. “What am I? You’re so cute, I’ve barely done anything, and you’re already so close to finishing.”

“I hate you. I—haaaah, shit—” you moan, but your lashes flutter shut as Dazai slides his fingers between your wet folds. “Osamu—”

He lets out a ragged breath, hot against your skin. “Shit, baby, you’re drenched,” he groans. “All this just from letting me fuck your face? Fuck, I love you. Tell me what you need. Tell me. I want to hear you say it. It’s my birthday.”

“Fuck me,” you gasp, lifting trembling hands to cup his cheeks. “Please, fuck me, Osamu.”

“God, I love hearing you beg,” he breathes out, nipping at your jaw before his lips drag hot and slow up to your ear. “Love seeing you all worked up for me. Only I get to see you like this, yeah?”

His teeth graze your ear lobe, and you exhale shakily, shivering under his touch. He laughs softly, infuriatingly pleased with himself, and you can’t even hit him with a snide comment like you usually would, because your whole body shudders when you feel his cock slide between your folds.

“You don’t even know how good you look right now,” he goes on, voice low and smooth as he traces his fingers down your body again.

The noise you let out is embarrassing, something caught between a whine and a gasp of his name when he presses the tip of his cock to your entrance. Your hips jerk up, desperate for him to sink inside you again, but he holds your hips down. It’s been weeks since the two of you have done anything together, and your body is falling apart just at the idea of having him deep inside you again.

“Please,” you whisper again, voice coming out more of a whine than anything else. “Osamu, it’s been so long, I—”

Dazai doesn’t let you finish your sentence. The words are knocked from your lungs when he snaps his hips forward, thrusting deep inside you. Your hands slide underneath his sweatshirt, nails raking down his back as you writhe beneath him. His eyes are half-lidded as he looks down at you, and you’re pleased to realize he’s just as much of a mess as you. His lips are pink and swollen, his face is flushed, hair matted to his forehead, and dark eyes unfocused. He looks beautiful.

You love him. You’ve always loved him, but it hits you so suddenly that it makes your chest ache. You surge upwards to press your lips against his, and Dazai moans into your mouth, rocking his hips against yours suddenly as he presses you back down into the mattress, tongues sliding together messily. Each thrust is deep and even, less like he’s trying to chase release and more like he’s just savoring in the feeling of being with you like this again.

“Osamu,” you beg, and you don’t really know what you’re begging for, but your lashes suddenly feel wet, and he’s lifting one hand to wipe tears you didn’t realize were falling over your cheeks. “Osamu, I—”

Your words break into a moan when Dazai thrusts just a little harder, hitting that spot inside you that makes your vision go white at the edges. Dazai ghosts his lips against yours, laughing breathlessly.

“Aw, baby, you missed me, didn’t you?” His voice is teasing as he brushes kisses across your face, deceptively gentle when compared to the way he’s fucking the air right out of your lungs with every thrust. “I missed you too, we’ve both been so busy lately… Didn’t even know if you’d have time today with everything going on.”

Even with your brain fogged with pleasure, you can hear the brief waver of insecurity in his tone. You lift your hands up to cup his cheeks between your hands, forcing him to look you in the eye.

“Always have time for you,” you tell him softly. “Especially today.”

Dazai’s throat bobs at your words, and instead of responding, he buries his face in the crook of your neck, sucking and biting at the sensitive skin as he picks up the pace of his thrusts. The room is filled with the lewd sounds of skin-on-skin, breathless moans, and his cock driving in and out of your cunt. You gasp his name, hips bucking up to meet his, both of you now chasing release.

You’re so close that it hurts, abdomen coiled tight and thighs so tense that they’re shaking around his waist. When he slips his hand between you to rub tight circles on your clit, you finally fall apart. His name spills from your lips and your vision whitens at the edges, you let out a ragged sob that he swallows with a kiss as he fucks you through your high, gasping your name like a prayer over and over again. He’s close, too��you can feel it in the way his rhythm falters and how his breath hitches over every chant of your name.

Your walls spasm around him as he chases your high, pleasure shifting into overstimulation as he uses your body for himself now. You hiccup over a sob as your whole body squirms beneath him, but he holds you down, fucking you so hard that your body jolts further up the bed with each thrust. Your vision darkens at the edges a bit, your head feels woozy, and it’s when you really feel the pinpricks of numbness spreading from your fingertips up to your arms, that he finally finishes, burying himself deep inside you as he cums with a low, broken moan of your name.

He doesn’t move for a long moment, just breathing hard against your shoulder, body trembling above yours. He finally lifts his head, and with a lazy, sated grin, he says, “What a birthday gift.”

You roll your eyes at him, but the smile that curls at your lips is fond.

“I love you,” you whisper, reaching up to caress his face, thumb running along his cheekbone. “Happy birthday.”

“I love you,” he replies softly, eyes sliding shut as he kisses your palm. “Thank you.”

---------

You wake up early the next morning to make the maritozzi for Dazai. He’s still fast asleep in bed next to you by the time you wake up, tangled in the sheets and curled into your warmth. Slipping out of bed without waking him is no easy feat—he’s always clingy in the mornings, even more so when he’s exhausted. You know he hasn’t been sleeping well these past few weeks you’ve been away, and the last thing you want is to disturb the rare peace he’s found.

So, for a while, you stay. You hum softly under your breath, fingers trailing gently through his hair in slow, soothing strokes. It takes nearly half an hour before his grip on you slackens enough for you to ease out of his arms and tiptoe into the kitchen.

You’ve been up for a few hours now. Dazai is still sleeping, surprisingly; you underestimated just how tired he was. Usually, you can slip out of bed, but he’ll come wandering in, looking for you within the hour. His sleep rarely lasts when you’re not in bed with him.

The pastries are almost done now; though, you just took them out to cool, and you've put together a little basket for when they’re done. You think maybe you’ll drag him outside to eat. He needs to get some sun; all he’s been doing the past few months is rotting away in your apartment or his.

You hum softly to yourself as you grab a blanket out of the closet, folding it before placing it next to the basket. You need to clean still, too, but—

You jump slightly when you feel a pair of arms wrap around your waist. Dazai’s familiar weight settles on your back as he leans on you, burying his face in the crook of your neck to kiss your skin gently before resting his chin on your shoulder.

“Cheater,” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep. “Making my favorite, so I can’t be mad at you for sneaking out of bed. So unfair.”

You smile to yourself, looking to the side so you can see him. He still looks sleepy—his eyes are drooping shut and his breathing is heavy, but the bags beneath his eyes are lighter, if only a little. You lift up your hand so you can cup the side of his face before leaning in to press your lips against his cheek.

“Good morning,” you say quietly. “You slept for a while.”

His eyes slide shut when your lips brush his skin. “Come back to bed,” he whispers. “Lay with me a little longer.”

“I need to finish cleaning,” you tell him, ignoring the way he pushes his bottom lip out dramatically; he looks stupid pouting so hard with his eyes closed. Your chest bubbles with warmth. “It’ll be annoying to clean the cream after it hardens in the bowl.”

His eyes fly open at that, gaze suddenly sharp as he scans the counter. He lights up when he sees the two bowls on the counter in front of you, giving you imploring eyes and a sweet smile. You roll your eyes at him.

“You’re such a child,” you insult fondly, but you do reach forward to scoop up some of the leftover cream onto your finger, lifting it to his lips. Dazai immediately wraps his lips around the digit, sucking the thick cream right off your finger and moaning obnoxiously.

“Strawberry,” he says approvingly after he pulls his lips off your finger with a loud pop. He gives you a sharp smile before saying, “You taste better though. My favorite type of c—”

“Stop,” you interrupt before he can finish the sentence. He pouts again, but then presses a slow kiss to the back of your neck. You sigh, leaning into his touch despite yourself, and he hums softly as he rocks the two of you back and forth slowly, resting his forehead on the top of your head. You rest your hand over one of his, eye sliding shut and then admit, “I’ve missed you a lot.”

“It’s been a long three weeks,” he agrees softly. “I wish Mori would start sending someone else to handle business abroad.”

“I wish you could come with me,” you say with a frown. “The only time you’ve ever left the country, you were thrown in prison. There’s so many places I want to bring you.”

“You don’t know that,” he says petulantly. “I could’ve left during the two years I was underground.”

“Did you?”

“... No.”

“Do you like arguing for the sake of arguing?” you ask dryly, but you find yourself smiling fondly.

“Where do you want to take me?” he asks instead of answering the question, arms tightening around you. “Hmm? Tell me.”

Your lips part to list off all of your favorite travel destinations. Paris, the City of Love—Dazai would be horrendously obnoxious there with you, but he would love it, so it would probably be one of the first places you brought him. The Yucatán Peninsula too, you think, and maybe Egypt—he had a whole phase back when the two of you were teenagers where he would spend hours a day researching ancient civilizations, watching people explore old ruins with a pout and complaining incessantly about being stuck in Yokohama. You want to bring him to Zhuhai one day to show him the Chimelong Ocean Kingdom, but Qu Yuan and Cao Xueqin have been fighting for territory there for almost two years now so it won’t be any time soon.

But you don’t say anything, because your gaze draws back to the mess of bowls on the counter and then to where the maritozzi are cooling. More than anything, you want to bring him to a home that no longer exists. A home you don’t even remember. You don’t know why you’ve been yearning so badly for it lately; you went years without thinking of your past before you met Mori, not even once had it crossed your mind in that time, but over the last few months, it's crossed your mind frequently. You swear that you can feel familiar arms wrapping around you, a laugh that makes your chest ache that you can’t quite place; you find yourself looking up at the stars, and you can almost hear whispers of a voice you should know laying next to you, telling you all the stories of the constellations.

Dazai seems to recognize something is wrong, because he lifts his hand to your chin to tilt your face up and to the side so that your gaze lands on his. He frowns slightly, running his thumb over your skin before he says, “Dance with me?”

“Dance?” you ask, trying to laugh but it comes out too forced. Dazai only gives you a sweet smile in return before he spins you around to face him, one hand resting on your waist while the other reaches for yours, entwining his fingers with yours as he starts spinning to a song only he can hear, dragging you along with him as he dances the two of you around the island in the kitchen. “You’re so cheesy.”

“I prefer romantic,” he disagrees as he spins you beneath his arm, dipping you down slightly and holding you there for a moment so he can lean in and place an obnoxiously loud kiss right on your nose. “Isn’t this romantic?”

You laugh again, and this one is more genuine as you look up at him. His dark eyes are a warm golden color beneath the morning light, sickeningly soft as he looks down at you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters to him. Your throat suddenly feels too tight, and his lips curl up into a soft smile as he places another kiss on your face, this time on your lips.

He lifts you from the dip, and you slip your hand from his so you can hook both of your arms loosely around his neck. His hands settle on your hips as the two of you continue to sway slowly to an imaginary song.

“Why don’t you like baking them?” he asks quietly. It’s a question you know he’s been dying to know the answer to for years; you’re surprised it took him this long to ask.

Your gaze lowers. “I think… my mother was the one who taught me how to bake them,” you say softly. “I can never get them right. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.”

Dazai doesn’t say anything right away. His hold on you tightens just the slightest bit as he rests his forehead against yours. Your lips press together and your eyes sting with sudden tears. You think about how your hands move automatically through the steps, how your heart always sinks when they come out just a little too dense or the cream doesn’t taste quite right. It’s like there’s a version of the pastry that lives in your memory—light, sweet, perfect—and no matter how hard you try, you can’t seem to recreate it.

Like it belonged to another life. Another version of you. One that was pure, sweet, gentle, and this one doesn’t deserve it.

This version of you has seen too much, done too much. You carry too many shadows in your heart and have too much blood under your fingernails. You were softer then—before the Great War, before Mori, before the Port Mafia. Every time you make them, you’re reminded that you’ll never be that girl again. The one that exists now… you don’t even know if she can be considered human by most people. The pastries don’t come out right because they’re not meant to. You no longer know how to make something so sweet. You don’t deserve something so gentle.

You suddenly understand why you’ve been thinking so much of your past.

Your gaze flickers up to Dazai as he lifts his hands to cradle your face between his hands. His thumb brushes beneath your eye, catching the tear before it can fall. He gives you a small, sad smile before he asks quietly, “This isn’t about the pastries, is it?”

You try to look away but he doesn’t let you. Your voice is barely a rasp as you say, “They’re not right. They don’t—”

I’m not right. I don’t know if I deserve this.

“They’re yours,” he murmurs, cutting you off before you can finish what you’re about to say. He leans in to press his lips against your temple. “They’re perfect to me.”

You’re you. You’re perfect to me.

“It’s not what I want to give you,” you insist. Your voice cracks, much to your horror. You turn your face into his shoulder, not wanting him to see the tears that threaten to spill. “I feel like I’m holding you back, Osamu. That you’ll never be able separate yourself from your past as long as you’re with me, and you’ll never believe in your own goodness when you come home to me every night. I don’t want to be the reason you can never accept that you’ve fulfilled Oda’s last request.”

Dazai’s smile is unbearably soft as he gently pulls your face from his shoulder and forces you to look at him again. His gaze darts up to the basket you started putting together on the table and he asks quietly, “Did you want to eat breakfast outside?”

You nod, swallowing thickly.

“C’mon,” he nudges you. “Let’s finish getting it all together and go eat. We can talk out there.”

---------

Dazai has never had a reason to live.

The first time he tried to kill himself, he was eleven. It was when his grandfather had started pitting his siblings and cousins against each other, and Dazai first started questioning why he was even alive. He had no ambition for power like his siblings, he had no passion for any hobbies like his mother, and he had no friends, not even his own family liked him. His mother found him slumped over in the bathroom and rushed him to the hospital—she made him swear to never do something like this again. He agreed, but his promise to her died when she did when he was fourteen.

The second time he tried to kill himself, he was fourteen. His mother got caught trying to smuggle Dazai and his siblings out of his grandfather’s estate. Two of his siblings had already been killed by his cousins, and she was desperate to not lose anymore of her children. She got caught trying to escape with them, and his grandfather ordered his father to kill her. Dazai jumped from the rooftop that very night—that’s how he ended up in Mori’s clutches.

He’s not sure how many times he tried to die from fourteen to fifteen. More than he can count, and they got progressively more violent and desperate over time. When he met Chuuya and then Odasaku, he found his first friends—although at the time, he’d never been able to fully bring himself to believe that they viewed him that way. Dazai slowed down on his attempts after meeting them; he didn’t fully stop, he just became more… passive with it. Attempts to blow himself up shifted into recklessness during missions; instead of drinking various poisons, he would drink copious amounts of alcohol until his skin was gray and clammy and the room started spinning.

And then, he met you.

Dazai’s lips curl up into a soft smile as he watches you set up all the stuff you’d prepared for breakfast. He keeps trying to sneak one of the maritozzi buns, but you catch him every time, slapping his hand away and giving him an accusing look. You’re still upset, but you’re a bit calmer now as you focus on something else.

You drove him mad. You drive him mad. You didn’t flinch at his barbed humor or the way he suddenly and irrationally tried to push you away after worming his way into your life. You never gave up when he deflected conversation with a smile or silence. You didn’t recoil from the mess that he was; you just acknowledged it like it was something as simple as the weather, accepting it, him, into your life so easily. You saw through the cocky facade and self-destruction, and you stayed anyway.

It terrified him. He couldn’t fathom it for years—you didn’t lecture him over his self-destructive tendencies, and you never pulled the whole ‘please, stop for me’ shit that he hated so much. You just sat with him. On the nights when his hands wouldn’t stop shaking, and he couldn’t remember how many bottles he’d emptied, you were there. You didn’t touch him unless he asked, didn’t talk unless he initiated it, and over time, Dazai found himself relying on you in a way that scared him.

After meeting you, for the first time in maybe his whole life, he started to want things again—small, stupid things, but things nonetheless. He wanted a morning that didn’t start with a hangover so he could wake up early and have coffee with you before you left for your meetings. He wanted to come back from a mission in one piece so he could watch a movie with you before laying down. He wanted to be able to sit beside you and not feel like a grenade with the pin halfway out, ready to take you out with him. Dazai has never believed that he deserved you, and a part of him almost wants to laugh when he realizes that you feel the same about him.

He thinks back to the conversation he had with you a few months ago when you came back from Rome early to be with him, and he feels so silly.

“What are you thinking?” you ask quietly as you set the basket to the side, finally looking up at him, but only briefly.

“Do you remember the conversation we had a few months ago? When you came back early from Rome?”

You raise your eyebrows at him, and Dazai wiggles across the blanket so that he can sit beside you. He nudges your shoulder with his, beckoning you to look at him again. You turn your head to the side, gaze focusing on him.

“Yeah,” you answer after a moment. “Of course.”

“It’s us,” he whispers. “It’s always been us.”

You look at him, tilting your head to the side. You press your lips together tightly, an expression on your face like you understand what he’s saying, but you think maybe you’re misunderstanding and don’t want to get your hopes up. You set the napkins in your hands down, and Dazai continues, voice low.

“I didn’t understand it then,” he admits quietly. “I think maybe I haven’t understood it until right now, but it’s us. My reason to live—it’s you and me, has been for years. Since we were sixteen. I—”

“Osamu,” you start to say, and your voice wavers. You want to believe him, but you’re scared of being disappointed, like maybe he’s just saying this in the spur of the moment to make you feel better.

He shifts to sit on his knees, grabbing your hands and pulling them into his lap, squeezing them tightly. He can feel your fingers shaking ever so slightly.

“It’s true,” he insists. “Being with you… it gives me something to look forward to every day. You make me want things I didn’t think I could want. You make me feel things I didn’t think I was capable of feeling.”

He lifts one of your hands to his lips, kissing your knuckles and then your palm. His voice is shaking a bit now, but he continues. “You make me want to live. Not just survive. Not just keep breathing because I haven't figured out how to stop. Live. Really live. I want a future with you, I want—”

Dazai’s voice breaks, his grip tightens on your hand. Your eyes are wet with tears, and your lips are trembling, and Dazai loves you. He loves you so much that it makes him sick sometimes.

“I want to marry you,” he rasps. “I want to wake up every morning your husband. I want you to be my wife.”

He watches as you inhale deeply. He can feel your nails digging into his hands and it stings, but he doesn’t mind. He doesn’t realize just how much he means the words until he says them. And he realizes, a bit belatedly, that he doesn’t have a ring and this isn’t the proposal you deserve, but there’s so much hope in your eyes that he can’t take it back now.

“Don’t say that if you don’t mean it, Osamu,” you whisper. “Please, don’t say that if you don’t mean it.”

“I mean it.” He lets go of your hands to cup your cheeks. He lets out a broken laugh, blinking hard. “I’ve never been more certain of anything. You’re the only thing in my life that’s ever made sense. I want to live, and I want to live with you. As your husband. And I—I don’t have a ring. I didn’t plan this, I didn’t, uh, I didn’t think I was capable of ever asking anyone—of ever wanting this.”

He leans in to press his forehead to yours. He can taste the mint on your breath, and he can’t help himself from stealing a kiss, a brief brush of his lips against yours that makes his chest ache.

“But I want it with you. I want to be yours in every way a person can belong to someone. And I want you to be mine,” he says softly, hands sliding down from your face to cradle your neck instead. “This—it isn’t me asking, okay? I want to get a ring, I want to do it right, make it special, but I want you to know, because there is no world where you’re ever holding me back. You’re what keeps me going, so whatever silly thoughts you have going on in that pretty head of yours, they need to stop, okay?”

You take in a ragged breath and lean forward, pressing your face into the crook of his neck, and Dazai pulls you into his lap, holding you close, one hand wrapped rightly around your waist, the other cradling the back of your head. He kisses the top of your head and lets out a long breath, a weight lifting from his chest. Your body fits against his like it always has, like you’re made to be here, curled in his arms with the early afternoon light painting you in gold. He shuts his eyes and buries his face in your hair, breathing in the familiar scent of your shampoo.

“You don’t know what you do to me,” he finally murmurs, pressing his lips to your temple in a lingering kiss. “I don’t even fully understand it, but I know that I want you. I need you. You don’t have to change for me; you don’t have to be someone else for my sake. You as you are—it’s enough. You’re enough. You’re everything I’ve ever wanted; it doesn’t matter that you’re still with the Mafia and I’m with the Agency. None of that matters to me. What Odasaku asked of me… you being in my life doesn’t change anything. He’d never have wanted me to chase after his last request if it meant coming at the cost of you. Do you even know how many years he spent trying to get me to pull my head out of my ass and make a move on you? I think he was more relieved than either of us were when we finally got together.”

You let out a watery laugh, or maybe it’s a sob, Dazai can’t really tell, but he holds you a bit tighter, savoring in the feeling of having you in his arms. He thinks he could stay here forever if given the chance. Live a quiet life away from everything, just you, him and the rest of your lives together.

Maybe one day.

“I love you,” you whisper, brushing your lips against his throat before settling against him. The tension in your shoulders slowly dissipates, and you let out a heavy sigh. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what got into me.”

He kisses the top of your head again. “Don’t apologize,” he says. “I love you too.”

The two of you bask in each others arms, relaxing beneath the early afternoon sun. He toys with your hair absently, running soothing circles on your upper back. After a few moments, he glances back on the maritozzi you’d pulled out of the basket.

“... Can I have one now?” he asks, giving you an imploring look when you pull back to give him a deadpan one. “Please. It’s literally been five years, do you know how much self control I’ve had the past hour?”

Your lips curl up into a fond smile. “Fine.”

Dazai’s hand snatches out immediately before you can change your mind, shovelling the sweet bun into his mouth all at once. Your eyes shoot open in shock.

“Jesus Christ, Osamu,” you say, scrambling for a water bottle when he chokes over it. “What is wrong with you? My god, could you eat it normally?”

His eyes sting with tears, but he manages to give you a thumbs-up between coughs and wheezes. “So worth it,” he gasps, mouth-half-full, cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk.

You hand him the water, watching with a mixture of horror and amusement as he gulps it down. You shake your head when he finally manages to swallow, muttering, “You’re insane.”

Dazai leans back with a dramatic groan, collapsing onto the blanket like he’s completed a Herculean task. He reaches out for your hand, entwining your fingers again and tugging you to lay on top of him.

“So perfect,” he sighs dreamily, voice still a bit hoarse. He winks at you and gives you a flirty smile and then coos, “Just like the baker.”

“You’re so corny,” you complain, but you’re smiling when you look away from him.

“I’m so yours,” he corrects teasingly, kissing your knuckles.

Your smile softens.

“You are,” you agree quietly, “and I’m yours.”

Yeah, Dazai thinks, an adoring expression on his face as you lean in to brush some of the cream at the corner of his mouth away with your thumb. Yeah, this is definitely all he ever needs.

#dazai x reader #dazai x you #dazai smut #dazai osamu x you #dazai osamu x reader #dazai osamu smut #bsd x reader #bsd x you #bsd smut #bungo stray dogs x reader #bungo stray dogs x you #bungo stray dogs smut

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homoirrationalism · 1 day ago

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Brad Lander is currently running for mayor in NYC and you should absolutely be ranking him on your ballot next week! He is a better leader and example of what an elected official needs to be at this moment in history than the overwhelming majority of the Democratic party. We can’t keep voting for spineless, centrist fuckwads like Andrew Cuomo who take money from Trump-related PACs and don’t actually give a fuck about our city or the people who live in it.

From what reporting I’ve seen, Brad has consistently been doing these escorts at immigration court for some time now and when he got out of lock-up yesterday one of the first things he said at the protest outside the jail was asking for empathy for the man he was escorting. He actually cares.

(Also unrelated but he came out to support my union when we were on strike last year and we marched on the picket line together.)

We need more leaders like Brad right now and I personally plan on ranking him #2 bc I am a Zohran girlie at heart but Brad is right up there as well!

And don’t rank fucking Cuomo!!

Kinda wondering why all of those anti-authoritarian MAGA Trump supporters are so fucking quiet while the thing they said Democrats would do is literally being done by Trump’s administration… Oh, right! It’s because it was always about shitting on the Constitution to grab power. Because MAGA is a cult.

Oh, and for those of you, like me, fighting for your Constitutional rights…

“When everyone was warning about a slippery slope to authoritarianism under Trump, this is it.”

—John Oliver, Last Week Tonight

#nyc #new york #new your city #nyc mayor #Brad Lander #fuck ICE #abolish ice

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bellestarot · 22 hours ago

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Pick a Pile

NEW Things Entering in Your Life Soon✨️🆕️

♡ Take your time to choose

︵‿︵‿︵ʚĭɞ‿︵‿︵‿

Pile I

Pile 1, You're going to go through a major transformation over the next six months, starting now—June and July especially will kick things off. Big changes are coming into your life, and they’ll help shape who you're becoming. One of the first shifts I see is emotional growth. You’re someone full of energy, enthusiasm, and curiosity—you love to try new things and stay active. And something really exciting is heading your way that’s connected to travel. It could be a trip to another city, a different place, or even another country. Whatever it is, it’s going to leave a deep mark on you and push your growth even further.

You’re evolving, changing day by day, and all of this will lead you to become more grounded—someone who truly knows what they want. What’s coming into your life is movement, travel, and experiences that will push you to grow and transform. You’ll also receive an amazing opportunity that will bring you happiness. But here’s the catch: you might struggle with what other people think. The cards are encouraging you to take action anyway. Be bold. Chase your dreams. What you’re wishing for is coming—but you have to be open to receive it.

Maybe you've faced rejection or been hurt in the past, and you’re afraid of getting your hopes up. But what you went through made you stronger. It helped you become the person you are now—and now you’re aiming higher. So be courageous. Don’t hold yourself back. If you get the chance to speak or perform in public—do it. Say yes. Don’t limit yourself. Open your heart and do things that bring you joy and light up your heart chakra.

There may be something you want badly right now that doesn’t work out, but that’s not a reason to be sad. Sometimes things don’t happen because something better is on the way. What’s coming into your life is maturity, growth, opportunities to evolve, and become the man or woman you’re meant to be.

Pile II

Pile 2, you're deeply creative. I see powerful inspiration flowing into your life. Some of you may already work in creative fields like music or art—or at least feel really drawn to those things. In the next three months, you’ll experience a lot of new energy. But first, there’s a warning here: be careful with your reactions. Some of you might say or do things impulsively in the heat of the moment and regret them later.

Think before you act—especially during upcoming challenges. Something might trigger you and make you want to walk away or end something. It could even be a friendship. This person may not be toxic—maybe they’re around your age and have good qualities—but your lifestyles don’t align anymore. Maybe they party a lot or live a way that just doesn’t match who you are becoming. If you feel the need to let go, this reading supports that decision. It’ll be shocking to the other person, but you’ll know it’s right.

Another big shift coming: you may meet someone new who really excites you. This person will make your heart race. You’ll feel a strong spark—especially because you’ve been working on your self-love, and that energy is attracting the right people. This person has masculine energy and could be older or the same age. They might not be your “usual type”—they seem very grounded, maybe an earth sign like Virgo, Capricorn, or Taurus. You’ll feel a soul-level connection, but this isn’t something to force. Let it flow. The universe is aligning things so you can connect in a healthy, natural way.

Some of you may also have tension or unresolved issues with a father figure. If so, take time for self-care—meditate, do something just for you. Avoid absorbing all that stress. This might also be a sign to seek therapy or emotional support so you can better understand yourself and manage your emotions.

Spiritually, many of you are already intuitive and connected. The stronger your spiritual alignment, the more happiness flows into your life. Allow yourself to be vulnerable. Speak up. Open your heart. Don’t build so many walls around yourself.

Pile III

Pile 3, you have beautiful intentions.

Many of you just want to love and be loved—you want connection. The letter A may be significant for some of you, maybe the name of someone on your mind or from your past. Right now, you might feel a bit hopeless when it comes to love. Maybe your past experiences weren’t the best, or no one interesting has shown up yet.

But here’s the thing—you just need to be patient. Next year, someone meaningful is coming into your life. A lot of you also dream of becoming a parent one day, and I see that happening for many of you, even if right now you’re unsure or not ready. Family is in your future.

Just don’t rush things. Don’t jump into a relationship or marriage too quickly. Take your time to get to know someone and make sure they’re truly aligned with your values. You might attract someone older, or someone who seems emotionally distant at first—but they’ll have a quiet charm and sharp mind. You’ll find their intelligence incredibly attractive, and you’ll feel drawn to them.

Two men—possibly family or close friends—will play a key role in helping you stay grounded and make wise decisions. These people care deeply about you and will offer support and advice when you need it most.

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#Spotify #tarot #tarot reading #pick a card #pick a pile #pick a photo #pick a card tarot #pick a pile tarot #love tarot free #love tarot reading #love tarot spread #free tarot

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moesthoughts · 13 hours ago

Note

hear me out... smut with post!crash nat who sees her ex girlfriend at a club with her new bf and nat doesn't like that at all, and takes it upon herself to show up on readers doorstep later that night and remind her who she "belongs to" so to say

(this may or may not have been heavily influenced by like i would by zayn LMAOO)

ೃ࿔ one way or another

After getting rescued from the crash you wanted a new life, a blank slate. You distanced yourself from everyone, moved to the city, and even got a new boyfriend. One year after you were rescued, you and your boyfriend went to the club, you would never guess your ex girlfriend would be paying you a visit after.

pairing 𝜗𝜚 natalie scatorccio x fem reader

warnings 𝜗𝜚 angst, stalker nat lowk, addiction, drug mentions, cheating, smut with plot, fingering, cunnilingus r! receiving, overstimulation, praise kink

The club has always been overwhelming, the strobe lights that give you the biggest headache, the music that drummed against your ears, the heat from the amount of bodies, it sucks. Which is why Nat is sat at the bar, sipping on a cold glass of gin. She came alone, just how she likes it. Small talk with the bartender is all she needs, other than that she enjoys her alone time. Tonight feels different though, the alcohol doesn’t taste the same and the music isn’t as annoying as she remembers. A new DJ? Maybe that is for the better. Nat sets the glass down at the table and pushes it towards the bartender, muttering “put it on my tab”, for the fifth time this week, a broken promise, she won’t pay it till they personally knock at her door.

Nat is planning on leaving, well, she was. Until her eyes land on a familiar figure, she recognizes that body shape from anywhere. That hair, even if it’s grown a little different overtime, that style of clothing you never can seem to let go of, the shape of your nose, the dark red lipstick you wore to every party before that stupid crash, and most importantly that smile that kept her sane during the time in the wilderness. She stops in her tracks, it’s like time froze around her. Everyone around you is moving slow, all the colorful lights illuminate you, and some man beside you. Nat instantly clutches her hands into fists as she watches his hands grab your waist as you grind on him, he could just be some random guy at the club, and you’re really drunk. Her hopes are false once again as you turn around and wrap your arms around his neck, your lips interlocking with his. She swears she reads “i love you”, from your lips.

It makes her sick, but she can’t stop watching. You look so fucking beautiful with your makeup and hair done, that short dress that hugs your ass so well. You’re her ex girlfriend, you broke things off with her in the hospital after the crash, she still feels that sting in her heart every time you come across her mind. Now she has to watch you kiss this random dude with a big smile on your face. Nat presses her lips together, and finally pushes herself to leave. But she doesn’t, she sits in her car, lighting a blunt and smoking it, waiting for you and your boy toy to leave. She sinks into her seat once she spots you and your boyfriend get into a car, and leave. She starts up hers and follows soon after.

You live surprisingly close to the club, Nat wonders if you’ve been there at the same time and she didn’t notice your presence. Her eyes follow you as you walk to your apartment, open the door and enter it. She curses under her breath and presses her forehead against the steering wheel, contemplating her decisions. She’s already getting high, and stalked you all the way home. She figures she should finish the blunt, you’ll notice right away anyway. That same dizzy feeling graces her as she smokes, her brain becoming foggy, and her worries disappearing like her dignity. She opens her car door and drops the blunt on the ground, stomping it out. She stumbles over to your door, and knocks on it without hesitation.

You open the door, unknowing of who’s waiting on the other side to meet you. Nat relishes the sight of your eyes widening, the cute gasp that falls out of those pretty lips. She also observes how you aren’t slamming the door in her face, your eyes glued on her face, with that same thick eyeliner, lined lips, just with different hair. A sort of twisted smile plays on her face. She’s obviously under some influence, she’s swaying side to side when she’s standing still, her eyes look irritated and red. You sigh and grip the edge of your wooden door.

“Hey, pretty.”

Nat breathes the nickname that used to make you weak in the knees. She gawks at the sight of you up close, that tight dress, those familiar hips, your makeup that she wants to remove using her lips, she takes a small breath to compose herself. Unlike you, about to throw up at the sight of Natalie fucking Scatorccio, even if you made such a great effort to disappear from the rest of the survivors. Though, somewhere inside of you, you’re happy that it’s her and not anyone else. You take a glance into your apartment and step out, closing the door slightly.

“Nat— I.. how did you find me?”

Nat rolls her eyes and peeks into the small opening into your apartment, she doesn’t see any movement, she ponders if your boyfriend is even home. You seem so nervous, like you’re about to throw up at any moment. Some sick feeling inside of her likes that, she enjoys seeing you shrink because of her presence, akin to how she felt after that day in the hospital. You’re sweaty, nervous, you feel like you’re about to puke. The gut wrenching anxiety doesn’t leave you at all, you can only stare at her in awe, somewhere inside of you knows she won’t give you a straight answer.

“What? ‘Your boyfriend home, or something?”

She sneers, a toothy smile coming on her face, the dimples that you loved so much adorning her. You can only glimpse away, not wanting to melt at the sight. Nat takes a step towards you, and you don’t make an effort to move. Something comforts you about her presence here, like she is a missing piece to the puzzle you’ve been meaning to solve for over a year. She’s so familiar, unlike your boyfriend. He’s new, not the same as her.

“I— No. I’m alone.”

You stammer, embarrassingly. Nat chuckles lowly, causing you to sink even more into yourself. Her mood slowly changes as she watches you become more nervous, and detached. She softens up, feels bad for dumping herself on your doorstep all of a sudden, it has to be late, at least 2 am in the morning. She reeks of weed, blabbering drunkenly, she drags a hand over her face and averts eye contact.

“Listen— I’m here because of that guy, are you even happy? I mean— A dude? I thought you were into girls.”

She hits a weak point in your heart, and she was dead right with her words. You don’t even like your boyfriend, maybe only the thought of having someone that enjoys you. You purse your lips, trying not to let those pesky tears roll down your cheeks. Nat’s hand rests on your hip, you can only stare at it. She continues when you don’t pull away from her touch. Her other hand travels to your hips as well, pressing you against the door, making it creak slightly open.

“I don’t even know— Nat. I’m gonna be honest with you.”

“It’s okay baby, you remember who can actually make you feel good, right? Let me take care of you..”

You push the door open and drag Nat into your apartment, bringing her into a desperate kiss. She returns it instantly, kicking the door shut with her heavy boot. She paws at your waist like she’s trying to remember how you feel against her hands, that smooth fabric rubbing against her palms encourages her. Your fingers already tangle themselves in that familiar hair texture, the color darker than you recall it being. She moans into your mouth as you pull on her roots, your tongue plunges into her mouth, not bothering to explore, you already know your way around. You guide her towards your couch and fall onto it, taking her down with you. Nat breaks the kiss to catch her breath. She cherishes the sight of you being disheveled, your smeared lipstick that stains your chin now, your eyeliner slightly running down your pink cheeks.

“You’re so beautiful.. just how I remember.”

Nat’s voice is husky, you whimper as she bites down on your neck, sucking at the sensitive skin. You both missed this, each other’s lips, hands, everything. Your fingers hook under her shirt, she pulls away from you so you can slide it off with ease. She’s wearing a red bra, not the same one, but a lacey one that shaped her chest so well it has you drooling. Nat smirks and unclips her bra, before you can speak she attaches herself back onto your neck. Your grope her, relishing the whimper that vibrates through your neck. She wants to devour you, keep you in her grasp forever. She won’t let you worm out of her life again, she’ll give you a reason to stay and leave that boyfriend of yours.

“Such a pretty girl, I want you all to myself.”

Nat murmurs against your skin as she works your dress down your body. You don’t even have a bra on, small black underwear is all that covers you after she discards your dress somewhere in the room. Her teeth graze your chest while her hands smooth over your now exposed skin, nails digging into the softest parts. She worships your body, she missed how you feel against her palms, how you shiver whenever she caresses you. You realize how much you’ve needed Nat, how your boyfriend couldn’t compare to how she appreciates you as a whole. No boy has made you feel this good, or paid any mind to your pleasure but his own. She rolls your nipple around with her tongue and hikes down your panties, you’re already so wet and she hasn’t even touched near your core. You feel her gasp against your skin as she touches your soaked cunt, she pushes herself up to see you fully. A muttered “fuck” falls out of her lips as she circles your clit with her finger, obsessing over the way you’re already rolling your hips into her touch.

“Shit, you’re so wet.”

She barely speaks over a whisper, you arch your back into her fingers as she pushes them inside of you. Nat’s lips part, she forgot how good you feel around her. Slowly she starts pumping her fingers, moans spill from your mouth shamelessly. She remembers those nights in her hut, her fingers drowning in your pussy, how you’d cover your mouth so nobody could hear you both, she’d whimper like she was actually fucking you. She never got rid of that habit, panting like a dog while she ruins you. She curls her digits in the right spots that make you mewl, how she presses her thumb on your clit makes your toes curl.

“Such a good girl for me, just like that pretty.”

That nickname almost sends you over the edge, your hand wraps around her arm, you almost feel bad for your neighbors, you both have never been this noisy. You missed each other, you want Nat to know how much you’ve been needing her, and she can’t help herself from the noises that come from her mouth. You start approaching your high, that knot in your stomach tightening, threatening to burst. She notices instantly, and picks up her pace, rolling her thumb around your clit and pumping in and out of you relentlessly. It doesn’t take long for you to cum around her fingers, stammering out her name in pure bliss. What you don’t expect is her lowering herself down to your sensitive cunt, and licking up the juices, rolling her tongue around your clit instead.

“Wait— Nat.. Not yet—“

“Please, just one more for me, that’s all.”

And you can’t say know to her, all you can do is whimper as she laps your wetness up. It stings, but feels so good. You grind into her mouth, already feeling like you’ll burst again. Nat wastes no time and slides her tongue into your cunt, fucking you with a pace that gradually brings you over the edge. Her nails dig into your thighs, her tongue working on undoing you. You cum instantly, whining from the overstimulation. She cleans you up with her tongue as best as she can, but she stops when your voice starts getting shaky. Nat wipes her mouth while looking at you, tears stinging your eyes. You slowly sit up and bring her into a kiss, it’s hungry, still that same desperation you two had at the beginning. Your fingers graze her jawline in a way that has her melting under your touch.

“God, I missed you.”

You murmur into her lips, your hand putting the right amount of pressure on her back. She pulls away from you and presses her forehead against yours. Memories from the crash flood your mind, but they’re nice ones, the ones that remind you that Nat is someone you can rely on.

“Why don’t we run you a bath?”

“Only if you join me.”

Okay so i’ve been wanting to write for post crash nat for SO LOMG thank you anon🤍🤍🤍 HEARING U OUT ANYDAY

req me!

masterlist

#yellowjackets #yellowjackets x reader #natalie scatorccio x reader #natalie scatorccio #yellowjackets smut #yellowjackets imagines #yellowjackets x you #yellowjackets imagine #natalie scatorccio x you #natalie scatorccio imagines #moesthoughts #moeswriting

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sunrizef1 · 23 hours ago

Text

City Boy

Pairing: Daniel Ricciardo x Fem!Reader

Warnings: none

Authors Note: this gotta be the first time arch mannings been mentioned in a fanfic

Requested: Yes/No

Summary: Who does this city boy think he is? Coming around your home to “play cowboy”?

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ynln_tx

liked by lnranch archmanning and 2,074 others

ynln_tx back ‘round home 🤘

load comments…

yourfriend looks who’s finally back from slumming it with the city folk downtown

ynln_tx a girl can’t even get a degree these days?

yourfriend2 not when it involves leaving her friends and family to run the business themselves

ynln_tx the degree will help you losers!

user2 this divaaaa

liked by author

yourfriend2 you look cuter here than at those football games

ynln_tx girl…

user3 my fav cowgirl

user4 the city freed you from its grasps

archmanning the city already misses you

ynln_tx thank you!

yourfriend3 get out of here city boy

ynln_tx oh my god

user5 welcome back!

liked by author

yourmom glad you’re home sweetie!

ynln_tx thanks mama!

user6 🐮

liked by author

yourdad there she is! The cows missed you!

ynln_tx and I missed them!

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danielricciardo added to their story

liked by yourfriend

liked by yourcousin

liked by yourfriend2

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MESSAGES

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TWITTER

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INSTAGRAM

ynln_tx added to their story

yourfriend liked your story

yourcousin liked your story

user3 liked your story

danielricciardo liked your story

user4 liked your story

user2 liked your story

yourfriend2 liked your story

lando liked your story

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ynln_tx

liked by worthyyy danielricciardo and 1,214vothers

ynln_tx boots, bugs, and boys who don’t belong

load comments…

yourfriend I look so diva in the first pic

liked by author

user1 scout looks so adorable in that hat

ynln_tx I stole it from some loser

yourfriend2 send me that first pic

danielricciardo this town just got hotter. You’re welcome.

yourcousin slay

liked by author

worthyyy I need to come back and visit sometime

ynln_tx sure do! Get away from those nerds in Missouri

danielricciardo you’ve just fully cropped me out of that third picture… 🤨

user3 girl who took the first picture

yourfriend4 enemies to lovers

yourfriend5 is the guy in the comments the “loser” we’ve been hearing about non-stop

ynln_tx define “loser”

yourfriend5 tall, loud, boot too clean

ynln_tx then yes.

danielricciardo never wearing a hat again

ynln_tx good. It looks better on the dog.

user6 so many hats in one post

user7 touching grass

danielricciardo the bugs liked me better than you.

ynln_tx yeah, well, the bugs have bad taste too

yourfriend7 so much bullying

yourmom I need to thank him for bringing in the groceries!

ynln_tx mama.

danielricciardo no problem maam!

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ynln_tx added to their story

danielricciardo

They’re really fast :(

ynln_tx

I hope they eat you

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INSTAGRAM

danielricciardo added to their story

ynln_tx liked your story

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TWITTER

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MESSAGES

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INSTAGRAM

ynln_tx added to their story

yourcousin replied to your story

two hats… I know what you are

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danielricciardo added to their story

lando replied to your story

oh so we’re soft-launching now???

danielricciardo

not a soft launch

lando

Then whose noticeably smaller boots are those?

danielricciardo

a friends

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MESSAGES

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INSTAGRAM

danielricciardo added to their story

lando replied to your story

oh, Lando! It’s not a soft launch, I’m not in love with the girl who’s ranch I’m staying on who hates me! Even if she looks really hot while doing it!

oh, Lando! I didn’t find it attractive when she told me to “do something useful for once” with my “big strong arms!” That didn’t make me blush at all!

oh, Lando! I only wrapped my arms around her waist because she had tripped on that shovel! I didn’t want her to lean against my chest to get her balance back!

And when I sprayed her with that hose, it was because I hate her! Not because I knew she was going to take her shirt off and ask for my jacket!

And I also totally was not the one to take the picture of her in said jacket that she just posted on her story!

danielricciardo

I, in fact, did not know she was going to take her shirt off

lando

Yeah, but you liked it

danielricciardo

I’m done talking to you

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ynln_tx added to their story

danielricciardo liked your story

yourcousin replied to your story

yourcousin

I recognize that jacket

It’s the one that a certain city boy was wearing when he pulled up and turned ur life upside down

ynln_tx

sure

yourcousin

you’re not denying itttttt

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MESSAGES

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INSTAGRAM

ynln_tx

liked by danielricciardo yourmom and 12,987 others

ynln_tx storms, sheds, and stolen kisses ⛈️

load comments…

yourcousin is this not the guy you hated for two months?

ynln_tx I guess he’s not too bad

danielricciardo 😍

yourfriend I told you this would be enemies to lovers

yourcousin2 this is my favorite guy you’ve ever dated

user2 can’t believe you pretended to hate this guy

ynln_tx I was not pretending! (At least for the first few weeks)

yourcousin3 glad you’re keeping him! He’s the only one who knows how to work the grill with your dad

user4 did he ever learn that the horses are meaner in the mornings?

danielricciardo that explains a lot actually

yourmom he’s a lovely fellow!

ynln_tx I know he is, mama

user5 Daniel!! What are you doing here! 😭

user6 wait yall are so cute

user7 my fav cowgirl and cowboy

lando I like you!

ynln_tx thanks….guy!

yourfriend5 you picked a good one

yourfriend6 he’s better than the last one

ynln_tx why is everyone saying things like this

user9 this post is so pretty

yourcousin6 I don’t think i want to ask what that caption means

danielricciardo best thing I ever did was get locked in that shed with you

ynln_tx can’t believe I fell for a man who says “yeehaw” unironically

danielricciardo can’t believe you told me I’m “not supposed to matter this much” before you kissed me

ynln_tx I also remember saying that you look hotter in the pouring rain

danielricciardo I think I can arrange that to happen again… but if I get struck by lightning next time we kiss it’s your fault

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Tags: @evie-119 @casperlikej @dutifullyannoyingstrawberrie @freyathehuntress

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ethe-realfantasy · 1 day ago

Text

"I don't need time, I need you." (Part V)

(ANGST, slow burn, another man tries to touch you at a work event and you call Simon for help…

also the next part will be the last and I thought about incorporating some soft nsfw?? would you be ok with that?)

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The city is already dusk-blue by the time you step out of your apartment. You decided to wear the long, low-backed navy dress. The neckline’s soft, the fabric velvet-like, hugging and skimming you in all the right ways. You hadn’t planned on going initially, not until Emma practically guilt-tripped you at lunch yesterday.

“You can’t keep going from work to home and back again, y/n. Come on. Just for an hour. Dress up and have a drink,“ she said with pleading eyes.

What really pushed you to say yes, tough, wasn't the party or the networking that comes with it. It was the thought that you'd forgotten what feeling like yourself even means lately.

The venue is all low light and clean glass, warm chatter echoing off modern lines. People from the firm are already milling about with wine and small plates. You shed your coat near the entrance, suddenly feeling bare in the dress, like it’s a little too honest about your shape. Your skin hums with sudden awareness. It's not shame, but vulnerability.

Emma finds you quickly, complimenting you on your dress, while she grabs your arm and pulls you toward the crowd. There aren't many people you know on a deeper level... it's more of a networking event. But then there’s Shawn.

He’s at the bar, sleeves rolled, collar undone like he’s in permanent soft-focus. He notices you immediately and you see it, the slight double take. The look that says, Oh.

And then he walks over.

“Wow,” he says, handing you a fresh glass of wine without asking, eyes sweeping once down, then respectfully back up. “You look like you’re trying to ruin people.”

That catches you off-guard, but you smile politely. “That's dramatic.”

“It's observant,” Shawn counters, taking a sip of his wine. “I was starting to think you might ghost us tonight. Emma said you needed convincing to come.”

You shrug, trying not to look toward the entrance again. “I'm here, aren't I?”

“Let's see for how long,” he teases.

You don’t answer. Instead, you press out a grin and take a sip of your wine.

Shawn shifts a little closer, not inappropriate, but enough to be noticed. The bar is getting crowded and the music shifts into something with a pulse. He leans in, voice pitched low near your ear.

“You know, I was gonna ask if you wanted to grab a drink sometime…,“ he says with a grin.

There’s nothing wrong with Shawn. In fact, on another night, in another life, maybe you would even say yes. But you feel it like a pinched nerve: this isn’t that life. That man isn’t yours. Your man is someone else, somewhere else. Your man kissed you in your kitchen two nights ago like he’d die if he didn’t.

And right now, you can’t stop wondering where he is or what he’d think if he saw you like this, lit by low lights, dressed like a temptation and a man leaning just a little too close. You're dressed in a way you only ever used to dress for him. Your spine straightens a little.

You smile at Shawn, gracious but vague. “This drink’s enough for me tonight,“ you say, trying to make it sound like teasing.

The evening drags along with meaningless conversation and Shawn trying to impress you at every opportunity that presents itself. You've been sipping the same glass of wine for over an hour now.

Shawn hasn’t overstepped, he’s charming, polite and he laughs when people laugh, listens when he should. But every time you catch him watching you, there’s a possessiveness in his gaze that tightens your shoulders. It isn’t him that repells you, but rather what he represents. A direction you aren't walking toward and never will.

You drift away after a while, slowly and quietly. It’s not hard. Shawn is caught in conversation with one of the senior partner and you use the moment to vanish into the moving tide of laughter and cocktails. You find Emma near the buffet, chatting with two other women.

“Hey,” you say and Emma lights up, clearly relieved.

“There you are. I thought Shawn had swept you into some corner office,” she teases, elbow nudging gently.

“Thankfully not,“ you say as you smooth your hand along your arm, fingertips brushing goosebumps you can’t quite explain.

Emma tilts her head, noticing something shift behind your eyes but not pressing it. “Do you want me to stick with you?”

But it’s too late, Shawn's voice carries across the clink of glass and buzz of music, loud enough for you to flinch.

“Honestly, can you blame me?” he says to one of the corporate guys and though he doesn’t name you, everyone knows who he means. “I mean, look at her. She shows up looking like that and expects me to act normal?” A few light, male chuckles fill the room.

You stiffen immediately.

It’s not overtly crude, but it cuts. He said that... publicly. You're public now, being looked at and talked about. Suddenly your dress feels more revealing than confident.

You don’t say anything, you don't even turn to look at Emma, you just move, quickly.

You haste through the crowd, past the main room, toward the hallway that runs behind the event space. There’s a quiet alcove near the kitchen, it's low-lit and stacked with storage crates. It’s not a hiding place, but it’s private enough for you to catch your breath.

You lean back against the wall, while your hands grip the edge of the small service table beside you. Your heart is thudding, not because of Shawn's comment, but because of the storm it brings up inside you.

Suddenly, you think of Simon. The way he had firmly said, that he didn’t want to see you near that man again. And now you're here, in a tempting dress, standing in a hallway, hiding, because Shawn looked at you like you were his to want.

You squeeze your eyes shut and breathe in slowly. You wish Simon were here. You don’t know what he’d do or what he’d say, but you know that you would feel... safe.

You focus on your breathing. In, then out, slow and controlled. Your spine now presses flat to the cool wall behind you, trying to anchor yourself in the stillness, to let the discomfort of the humiliation wash off.

You don’t hear him at first. The sound of his steps is unsteady, too quiet to be casual, too deliberate to be harmless. But it isn’t until you see his silhouette at the edge of the hallway that your body tenses.

Shawn sways a little in the soft light, one hand braced on the wall as he looks at you, that same look he’s had a few too many times now. Lazy, half-lidded and possessive.

“There you are,” he says, voice slurred at the edges. “You kinda ran off on me.”

You straighten a little, but you don’t move. Your fingers curl around the hem of your dress. “I just needed a minute.”

He grins. “What, from me?” he says, laughing like it’s a joke, like it’s charming, but it isn’t. His steps bring him closer, too close.

“Shawn," you say, tone low and measured, “maybe you should go back to the party.”

But he doesn’t, he keeps walking until he’s only a breath away. You flinch slightly, almost imperceptibly, but he sees it and misreads it entirely. His hand reaches out, fingertips brushing your arm, then sliding too confidently to your waist. He slips it lower and it rests on your inner thigh.

Your body locks immediately.

“You look really, really good tonight,” he murmurs, leaning in and his breath is hot against your cheek, the press of his fingers insistent, uninvited. “You know that, right? Don’t act like you don’t know.”

You turn your face away and your hands press against his chest instinctively, not hard, but there’s resistance there. “Shawn,” you say again, firmer this time. “You’re drunk.”

He chuckles, low and stupid. “Not that drunk.”

His other hand lifts and you see it coming before it happens, the way his gaze drops to your mouth and the way his body angles forward. You jerk your face to the side again, but his hand is already forcefully sliding up toward your jaw, his thumb grazing the edge of your cheek. His other hand presses dangerously close to your…

“No,” you say, sharper now, a tremor of fear rising in your chest.

He doesn’t listen. Instead he pushes his body against yours and leans in for a kiss. You can feel his erection on your thigh. That’s when you push him away. Hard, with your flat palms to his chest.

“Stop it," you breathe out and your voice cuts through the corridor, quiet but hard-edged. It's final.

He stumbles a step back, blinking in surprise. You're shaking, but your eyes are clear. You stare at him: disgusted, disappointed and done.

“Don’t touch me,” you say with a firm voice, it's trembling only at the end. “Don’t ever touch me.”

Shawn blinks, clearly registering, finally, what just happened.

You slip past him fast, your body buzzing with adrenaline. Behind you, you hear him call after you.

"y/n, wait, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to..,“ he mumbles, but your heels click sharply against the marble floor as you continue walking away. Your skin is still crawling from what just happened.

You don’t know where you're going, not yet. You just need to get away. Maybe outside to get some fresh air, maybe even...

God. A thought slams into you like a wave. Simon‘s voice and the weight behind it, when he said, “I better not see that man near you again.”

You hadn’t listened, you hadn’t known. How could you possibly have known?

Now you do. Now you ache for the one man who would’ve never let anything like this happen. For the man whose presence alone would’ve sent Shawn ten feet in the other direction. You swallow back the tightness in your throat.

The moment you step outside, the cold hits you like a slap. You don’t notice it at first, not with your heart still hammering in your chest, your palms damp and your breath coming in uneven bursts that fog in the night air. But when the shiver finally hits you, it does so all at once, crawling up your spine, setting your teeth on edge.

You slowly wrap your arms around yourself tightly, as if that tiny embrace could shield you from the world. The city hums, taxis pass and people laugh just around the corner.

Your mind races and you not only think about what just happened, but what could have happened. The look in Shawn's eyes... it was clear what he wanted to do. You still feel his hand press against your inner thigh, dangerously close to the part of you that screams Simons name for over three months now.

Your stomach turns and a fresh wave of nausea rises. Your body just won’t stop trembling. He touched you. God. He was going to... You swallow hard, dragging in a shaky breath, but it feels like your lungs won’t expand, like the moment is still trapped in them. Your skin still feels tainted with his hands. You pace a few steps, but it won't do. Nothing helps to stop the shaking.

You fumble in your purse with numb fingers, digging for your phone like it’s your lifeline. Your vision blurs for a second and you don’t even realize you're crying until you feel the wet chill on your cheek.

There’s only one number your mind reaches for and you don't think. You just call. The line rings twice, then you finally hear his voice and your body relaxes.

“y/n?,“ his voice is rough with sleep. It's so familiar and grounding, you close your eyes for a second.

You don't say anything, you can't yet. You hear him sitting up and the rustling of the sheets.

“’s almost midnight,” he says gently. “You alright?”

„Simon…,“ you plead, voice breaking.

The silence that follows is immediate and sharp. He’s alert now. Fully awake.

“Something...,“ you say as your throat tightens. “Something happened. Can you... I... I need you.” You can’t even string the sentence together. “Can you come get me?”

His answer is instant. “On my way," he says, no questions, no hesitation.

You exhale loudly, like you've been holding your breath for hours. He hears it through the phone and tenses.

“Where are you?”

You give him the name of the place and he hums in acknowledgment, already moving. You hear him putting his jeans on by the sound of his belt.

“I’ll be there in ten,” he adds and his voice is tense with that quiet urgency that only ever comes out when it’s about you.

The call ends and you're left frozen in place, arms hugging yourself tightly again, but the fact that he's coming is enough to keep you grounded.

---------

Seven minutes later he parks half up on the curb, barely cutting the engine before he’s out of the car.

You stand there under the streetlamp, shivering with your arms crossed. Your lips are pale and your eyes are blinking like you're still coming back into your body. The wind picks up your dress, but you don't seem to care.

Simon’s boots hit the pavement hard as he strides toward you. He doesn’t speak at first. He reaches out for you and the moment he's close enough, his hands find your arms with a gentle, concerned touch. He still doesn't say anything, he's simply scanning you.

He’s checking you for injuries. His eyes travel over your face, your arms, the shape of your collarbone, the way your dress clings too tightly to your body. His gaze sharpens as he zeroes in on a red mark at the edge of your jaw. His body stiffens.

“Are you hurt?” he asks, his voice low and controlled. “Anywhere?”

You blink up at him, eyes glossy. “No. I.. no, I’m okay.”

But you're not okay. Of course he knows that. He sees it in the way you're trembling and in the way your voice cracks around the edges.

“I just didn’t know who else to call,” you add, voice shaky.

The steel around his expression softens instantly and his eyes lose their edge. He's wearing the mask.

“You don’t ever need a reason to call me. Y'know that," he says gently but urgently.

You want to explain, but you cut yourself off with a small, choked sound. Your arms wrap tighter around yourself and he notices the way your shoulders shake.

Without a word, Simon pulls off his hoodie, one of those soft, oversized ones he always wears, warm from him still. "Here," he says, as he guides your arms through the sleeves. It swallows you completely.

“Better?” he murmurs.

You nod with big, glossy eyes.

He adjusts your hood gently. "Smell's not too bad?" he asks, half trying to get a smile out of you.

You shake your head quickly, burying yourself inside his hoodie. He knows you love his smell.

“I was sleeping,” he mumbles. “Didn’t even take much time to change. Just… came straight ‘ere.”

Suddenly you start mumbling.

“I... I didn’t think it’d be like that,” you blurt with a shaking voice. “It was just a work event but he... he was... he followed me into this back hallway and I told him no, I pushed him away but he... he still tried, and I...,“ you stutter.

Simon’s face changes, like a switch being flipped: His jaw tightens again, his shoulders straighten, his breath deepens. That low, quiet fire behind his expression, it’s there again, hotter than before. It’s a version of him you've only seen a few times before. The one that comes out when you're in danger or when someone crosses a line.

“He still in there?” he asks. He's calm... too calm.

His body is already angled towards the building, as if he is getting himself ready. You step forward quickly, grab his arm and shake your head slowly, with teary eyes, as if to say: Please don't go inside. Please don't leave me here alone.

You feel his pulse and his heart is pounding. His body feels so unbelievably hot and you feel it, how he is vibrating with restraint. But when he looks at you again, all of that tension eases just slightly. You're still trembling and your eyes are still too glossy to fake composure. You're not okay and he knows it. So instead of turning toward that building, he turns toward you.

“Come on,” he says gently. “Let’s get you in the car.”

You let him guide you across the sidewalk and to the car, with one hand pressed gently to your back. He opens the door for you and shields you from the world with his massive frame, as he waits until you're seated before closing it with quiet finality.

When he slides into the car, he doesn’t start the engine right away.

“Want me to drive you home?” he asks softly, his hand already on the wheel.

You nod, throat tightening. “Please,“ you whisper.

The car hums to life and as Simon shifts into gear, you lean back into the seat, wrapped in his hoodie, the sleeves too long, the scent of him wrapped around you like a shield. For the first time tonight, you feel warm and safe.

Beside you, Simon drives silently, with a storm raging inside his mind. He doesn’t let go of you once the car stops in your driveway.

"You sure, you're alright?", he asks, one hand still on the wheel and the other resting on his thigh.

"Mhm," you breathe, as you reach for the door handle with a shaking hand. He's obviously not convinced.

“’m walking you up,” he says, his voice low and final, but never sharp. It's a tone you've come to trust completely. A tone you're grateful for tonight.

You lean slightly into the handrail as you climb the stairs, his hand hovering just near your elbow. He's not touching you, but he is close enough to catch you if need be.

When you reach your apartment, you fumble with the key. Simon gently takes it from your hand, unlocks the door and opens it for you like he’s done a thousand times before. Inside, the familiar dimness of your apartment finally folds around you.

He settles you on the couch without a word, grabbing a blanket from the armrest and draping it over your knees. Then he just stands there by the door, big and awkward in your small apartment, like a shadow that doesn’t know where to rest. His hands hover at his sides and his eyes flick over you again. Scanning again, looking for signs of injuries.

You try to smile. “I’m okay. Really. You don’t have to worry, I.. I already feel bad for calling you this late.”

His mouth tightens, but he doesn’t move. “Don’t,” he cuts in. “Don't feel bad. I mean it.”

You look away, rubbing at your wrists, but he sees your shoulders still shaking slightly. How tense they still are.

He crosses the room slowly and sinks down in front of you, kneeling. His knees brush the carpet, while his hands reach up and gently take yours.

His touch is so careful. His palms warm and his fingers are curling around yours like muscle memory.

“y/n,” he starts and looks up at you, his voice is almost too gentle. Your core tightens when his thumb strokes across your knuckle. “You really okay with being alone tonight?”

Your gaze flicks back and forth between his eyes for a moment, searching. Then you nod a little too quickly. "Yes,“ you whisper.

He watches the way you say it, like you want to believe it. Still, he nods in agreement.

“Alright,“ he breathes out and stands up slowly, releasing your hands only when he absolutely has to. And then he turns, stepping toward the door, already planning to sleep in his car, already ready to pace the sidewalk outside like a silent guard dog.

You watch him walk toward the door with his back to you. Your eyes glide over his massive frame, broad shoulders and strong back. Suddenly you feel nauseous at the thought of him leaving you.

He’s just reaching for the doorknob when your voice catches in the air.

“Simon," you cry out more desperately than you meant to.

He turns instantly and his eyes meet yours.

“Can you stay?” you whisper, eyes pleading. “I don’t… I don’t feel safe. Not without you.”

For a moment, he just stands there. Then he takes off his boots silently and moves toward you. He quietly pulls the blanket higher over your knees and sits down on the edge of the couch. He doesn't touch you, but he's close enough and you close the space by leaning your head gently against his arm.

You don’t say much after he settles in beside you. It's just past 2am now. The room is dim, the only light coming from the soft golden glow above the stove in the kitchen. The air is warm and still heavy from what happened hours earlier, but it's slowly loosening its grip.

Simon sits still on the couch, legs stretched out slightly, his body still humming with vigilance. At first he doesn’t lean back fully, not until he sees you stand up quietly, barefoot, taking of his hoodie and tugging the zipper of your dress down with trembling fingers.

You turn away, not out of shame, he's seen your body a thousand times before, he knows it like his own, but out of instinct. Then you slip out of the dress. It falls to the floor in a rustle of fabric. You put his hoodie back on, sleeves long past your fingers, the hem brushing your thighs and breathe in his scent again. You don’t say a word about it, you simply fold the dress neatly and place it on the armchair. When you return to the couch, you move slower, like your limbs are heavier now that you've let the pretense go.

He lifts your blanket without thinking and you slip under it. Then you’re splaying the blanket over him too and tucking yourself into his side without asking. Simon shifts slightly to make space for you, one strong arm wrapping around your shoulder, tucking you in with care. Your legs draw up, your bare feet nudging his jeans and you exhale. Your cheek rests just over his heart and he wonders if you can feel how fast it still beats.

Neither of you speaks and after a while, your breath starts to slow.

At one point, you murmur something too soft to make out and he hushes you gently, fingertips brushing your hairline. You settle again, your face nuzzled into the collar of his shirt. You smell like your perfume and something cold, like the night air still clings to you.

Simon’s eyes stay open. His gaze is fixed on the front door, sharp and unblinking. Every creak of the building, every shift of wind outside draws his attention. His body is still alert, coiled around you like a shield. He doesn’t trust the world right now. He doesn't trust what could find its way back into your life.

But slowly, after long minutes, your warmth and the rhythm of your sleeping breath starts to weigh on him. His hand around you loosens slightly and his jaw unclenches.

Finally, only once he’s sure you're deeply asleep he lets his head fall back against the couch, the tension bleeding from him in quiet waves. He falls asleep watching the door.

--------

The morning stretches slowly across the apartment. The city outside stirs faintly, but in here, it’s still. Simon is already awake.

He hasn’t moved much, not wanting to disturb you. You're still curled into his chest, your legs tangled with his under the blanket, your head tucked beneath his chin. The oversized hoodie has slipped slightly off to the side, exposing the curve of your collarbone to the morning air. His hand, large, calloused and still as stone, rests gently along the dip of your waist, guarding you.

He hadn’t meant to fall asleep. He’d meant to watch the door all night, but sometime after the quiet of you breath evened out and your fingers stopped twitching from whatever haunted you earlier, he must’ve slipped under with you. And now, he just… doesn’t want to move.

You stir faintly and a small sound escapes your throat as you shift against him, face nuzzling into his chest like it’s instinct. You feel his hoodie, his scent and you're still warm and sleepy, wrapped in the echo of safety.

“God… I have to go to work," you grumble.

Simon’s eyes drop down to you immediately. Your lips are brushing the fabric of his shirt and he feels it like a spark across skin. His jaw clenches.

Work? So that guy will be there?

He doesn’t say it, he doesn’t even blink, but it flashes across his mind in jagged, hard-edged shapes: the image of that man’s hand on you, the way you shook last night, how fragile your voice had sounded on the phone.

Instead, he clears his throat. “I’ll drive you.”

Your brows furrow against his chest and you lift your head slowly, bleary-eyed. “You don’t have to..”

“I know,” he says, cutting you off gently. “Still gonna.”

There’s no room to argue in his tone. He's never aggressive with you, but it’s that quiet, immovable kind of firm that says 'don’t fight me on this'. He’s already untangling himself from the blanket, hands moving carefully to make sure you're warm before he slips out from beneath it. You watch him silently. Suddenly you feel a warmth erupt in your chest. Yesterday.. he's shown you again that he's the only person you have ever felt safe with.

Simon doesn’t say anything about Shawn, but it’s written in the tension in his shoulders, in the flick of his gaze as you get ready for work. Its in the way he keeps watching the clock. He's protective and devoted in a way that doesn’t ask for praise or attention. There is only one thing he demands: No one touches what’s his. Not ever again.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

taglist:

@preeyas-world

@succulambb

@izzycstairs

@mindsofjade

@simonexxx1

@lovelycurls

@clara-geekhime

@kylies-love-letter

@fruitymoonbeams-blog

@syphlno

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bullet-prooflove · 2 days ago

Text

Deals With The Devil: Charlie Reid x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @littleesilvia @wrestlequeen @ahopelessromanticwritersworld

Summary: Charlie's fall from grace starts with an act of love.

WARNING: There is TORTURE in this fic.

Companion piece to:

Risk Management - Charlie realises the two of you have been keeping secrets from one another.

The first time Charlie makes a deal with the devil it’s for love.

He frames it as quid pro quo to Jesus Otero but the truth is he could not give a fuck who kills who for territory, he just wants the location of the gangbanger who walked right up to you in broad daylight and put two bullets in your chest.

“She lacked situational awareness.” The Chief of Detectives had said during the emergency meeting that was called over the shooting.

Already they’re trying to shift the blame. Apparently there had been chatter about the bounty on your head two weeks ago after you’d taken down Rik Morrow. The assholes in command hadn’t thought it was credible enough to give you the heads up. It’s just another reason Charlie’s lost faith in the system that has slowly been eroding him over the course of past two decades.

“She was at a fucking ice cream shop with her niece.” Charlie had snarled, his hands balled into fists inside the pockets of his jacket so he didn’t leap over the conference table and beat the son of a bitch to death. “The poor kid’s fucking traumatised.”

The only thing that kept you alive in the minutes after you were shot was the fact that Annika was a girl scout. She’d just gotten her First Aid Badge the week before and used her jacket to apply as much pressure as her tiny hands could to your wounds before the owner of the ice cream shop had taken over.

It takes two hours for Otero to come back to him with a location on Roland Franz. His crew had snatched him up at a stash house in Canaryville, where he had been trying to organise transportation out of the city, something Charlie has made virtually impossible with his OCD teams.

Franz is already waiting for him by the time he makes it to the abandoned steel mill on the outskirts of the city, his wrists are bound to the chair that’s been bolted to the floor. The barbed wire Charlie requested has been twisted around his wrists, the razor sharp edges slicing into his skin with every single movement Franz makes.

Already there’s a pool of blood growing beneath the seat, the plop of the droplets echoing through the empty space as Charlie takes a battered box of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket and flicks it open. He removes one before placing it between his lips, lighting it with the hula girl Zippo you brought back with you from that trip to Hawaii the two of you took in the Spring.

He takes a drag before leaning over and blowing the smoke directly into his captive’s face. Franz splutters as he inhales, his throat tightening and his chest constricting as it fills his lungs.

The asshole has asthma and cigarette smoke is a trigger. Right about now, his airways will be starting to swell, narrowing as they flood with mucus.

“The woman you shot...” Charlie begins as he reviews the glowing tip of the cigarette nestled between his fingers. “She likes to smoke a Marlboro in the early evenings. She sits on my back porch, watching the sunset with a bottle of beer and she tells me all about her day. It’s probably one of my favourite things the two of us do, sharing that cigarette, it helps us both wind down.”

He pauses before he looks at Franz, his whiskey coloured eyes glinting with malice as he stares at the other man, listening to his laboured wheeze.

“There is a very real possibility that I won’t get to do that anymore.” He tells Franz as he grasps his chin with his free hand so hard he can feel the divots of the other man’s jawbone underneath his fingers. “So you don’t get to see anymore.”

He drives the lit cigarette directly into the other man’s eye before he has the chance to close it, he hears the sizzle as it burns through the lipid layer directly into the cornea. The shriek he lets out borders on animalistic, a hoarse agonised howl that carries through the vacant space as he tries to wrench himself away. Charlie’s grip tightens as he drives it even harder into the socket until the cigarette crumples under his fingers, showering the skin around it with tobacco.

Clear liquid seeps from the obliterated eye as Charlie steps back towards the table where the rest of his tools reside, admiring his handiwork.

“That is just a taste of the rest of the night.” He hisses, pulling on his black leather gloves before picking up the blowtorch, igniting it. He can already feel the blistering heat from the flame, it burns white hot like his vengeance as he listens to the other man’s choked sobs. “Now open wide… I’m going to burn that tongue right out of your fucking head.”

He spends the next three hours torturing Franz, stripping away every single aspect of his humanity until he’s nothing more than a ruined, scorched mess simmering in that chair. He doesn’t feel a fucking thing when he looks at him, no remorse, no regret, not even vindication because at the end of the day it won’t bring you back, it won’t heal you.

He leaves the corpse there as a warning.

Cross Charlie Reid and this is what you get.

Charred flesh and blackened bones.

When he gets to the hospital later that morning, his burnished silver curls are still damp from the shower. He’s wearing his CPD jacket, the one with his name and rank etched onto the chest so people know he’s here in an official capacity. They don’t know he’s your boyfriend so instead he’s your commanding officer, a man whose interest in your wellbeing is purely professional.

“How’s she doing?” He asks Voight as he comes to stand alongside your Sergent.

They’re both lingering on the opposite side of the glass doors that block them out of the recovery suite. You’re surrounded by machines, and Charlie can hear the brisk beep of the heart monitor as you lay in that bed, so small, so helpless. It makes his chest ache to see you like that, his eyes start to sting and he blinks quickly as he clears his throat turning away from you.

“They’re hopeful.” Voight tells him, his arms crossed over his chest as he watchs the blips on the monitor. “They think she might just make it after all.”

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lowrisemiller · 2 days ago

Text

ᴠᴇʟᴠᴇᴛ ᴄʀᴏᴡʙᴀʀ

this one-shot is inspired by lana del rey’s unreleased song velvet crowbar

javier peña x DEA!fem!reader

javi gif from @perotovar divider by @uzmacchiato

you came to Colombia from New York with a badge, a mission, and no intention of getting attached. but months later when you’re scarred, restless, and unable to forget what you and javier peña went through—you’re not sure what’s left to hold onto. until one night, he shows up at her door, and nothing feels like duty anymore.

masterlist | 7.8k words | photos do not depict what reader looks like | mentions drugs, canon narcos talk, javi has a real bad drinkin problem, allusions of violence, reader gets kidnapped, slooowww burn, lots of javi pov!, smutty smut smut, he loves suckin on tits sue me, munch!javi duh, surprise surprise they hit it raw (DONT DO THAT), soft sex lots of I love you's, little bit of javi receiving head, & riding

I was addicted to you but I didn't know it .✦ You were afflicted by booze .✦ You didn't show it huh .✦ Life is a velvet crowbar Hitting you over the head .✦ You're bleeding but you want more .✦ "This is so like you," I said “Put yourself on back to bed.”

Bogotá smells like rain and grit, like wet stone and burnt coffee and something darker that never quite washes away. You step off the plane in the thick of the rainy season, boots hitting pavement slick with oil, and you already know the city will not be kind to you.

You’re DEA. Five years in New York. Undercover buys, dead drops, informants with trembling hands and blood under their nails. You were good at it, good enough to get noticed. Good enough to be transferred. Now you’re here, knee-deep in the worst war on drugs the agency’s ever seen, and they’ve dropped you into it like you’re a match in a powder keg.

They told you you’d be part of something bigger. That your experience was needed. What they didn’t say—what they didn’t need to say—was that you were walking into a man’s world. A dirty, blood-slicked one that doesn’t make room for women unless they’re bleeding, bruised, or biting back.

Not that you’re entirely surprised. You came from the Big Apple after all.

They talk over you at meetings. Call you mamacita under their breath. Smirk when you offer suggestions. You learn fast that respect isn’t given here. It’s taken.

So you take it.

You drag a cartel runner out of a brothel in the south side of the city, in the middle of the bustling street, cuff him with his pants around his ankles, and drive him back yourself with a cracked rib and half your blouse stained red. The next day, no one calls you sweetheart. They still don’t like you, but they know better.

The job is constant. Always moving. Surveillance, raids, interrogations, bullshit. Colombia eats agents alive. You see it in the eyes of the rookies, the twitchy ones. They come in wide-eyed and go home in body bags or not at all. You’re not sure which you’ll be yet.

You hear about Peña before you meet him. Always just out of frame, the center of every whispered rumor.

He’s the hotshot. The one who plays dirty, drinks harder than he sleeps, and somehow stays three steps ahead of Escobar’s men. Murphy says he’s bad news. Carrillo says he’s driven. Everyone else just says he’s dangerous—and not just to the people he’s chasing.

You try not to care. You’ve dealt with men like him before. Charisma surrounds him like smoke. Charm like a loaded gun. But the name lingers in your mind long after lights-out.

You see him for the first time at the embassy, late at night when the halls are empty and the fluorescent lights hum low overhead. He’s leaning against a doorframe, shirt wrinkled and stained with something too dark to be wine, tie hanging loose like a noose around his neck.

He looks at you like he already knows everything. You slow your steps, your gaze catching on the way his fingers twitch, like he’s halfway through lighting a cigarette that isn’t there.

“You’re the one from New York,” he says, voice low and rough around the edges.

You nod. “That’s me.”

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t even blink. Just let his gaze drag across your face, down to the holster at your hip, then back up. “Welcome to hell, agent.”

And then he’s gone, footsteps fading down the corridor like smoke curling under a door.

You stand there a moment longer, heart thrumming in your throat, before turning away.

Later, when you finally sleep, you dream of velvet and blood and a man with whiskey eyes who looks at you like he’s already seen the ending.

The first time you’re assigned to work with Peña, it’s a stakeout.

No briefing. No welcome. Just a sharp knock on your door at 6:12 a.m., and when you open it, he’s standing there coffee in one hand, cigarette in the other, aviators hanging from the neckline of a sweat-damp shirt.

“Grab your shit,” he says. “We got a lead in Teusaquillo.”

You don’t ask questions. Not because you trust him—hell no—but because you’ve learned that here, time spent talking is time someone else uses to get away.

The ride’s quiet. Bogota unfolds around you in soft gray morning light, all crumbling walls and rust-stained rooftops. Peña doesn’t speak, doesn’t even look at you. He just drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh, a half-lit cigarette dangling from his fingers.

You steal glances. You can’t help it. He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t care that you’re studying him.

You’d call it arrogance if it didn’t feel so... hollow. There’s something hollow in him. Like the violence carved out everything else and left a man made of leftover smoke and sinew.

He parks two blocks from a mechanic’s shop with boarded-up windows and an upstairs flat rumored to belong to one of Escobar’s lieutenants. You settle in. Binoculars. Radio. Notebooks. The usual. But the air’s heavy. The kind of thick that presses behind your eyes.

Four hours pass in silence. Five.

You learn the way he fidgets when nothing’s happening: thumb tapping his thigh, tongue pressing against his back molars like he’s chewing on words he won’t say. Every so often, he scribbles something in a small notebook. Names, maybe. Codes. You can’t tell.

Around hour six, you finally speak. “You always this quiet?”

Peña doesn’t look at you. “You always this nosy?”

You let the silence return, but this time, it hums with heat.

It rains at noon. Of course it does.

You shift in your seat and ask if he wants coffee, stretching your arms out, cracking your back. He doesn’t answer right away. He just exhales slowly through his nose, watching the rain hit the windshield, before he finally says, low, “Only if it’s black.”

You bring him a lukewarm cup from the vendor down the street. When you hand it to him, his fingers brush yours for half a second.

It feels like someone flicked a live wire against your skin.

He must feel it too. For the first time that day, he looks at you. Really looks. And you see it: the wreckage behind his eyes. The wear and tear. The man running on fumes and sheer defiance.

You think, fleetingly.

My baby’s on his eighth life, darling.

The thought disturbs you.

The bust happens fast. A kid leaves the upstairs flat with a duffel bag and nervous hands. Peña’s out of the car before you process the door slamming shut. You’re right behind him.

It unravels into gunfire in under three minutes.

You drop to one knee behind the car as bullets crack overhead. Peña’s already returned fire, teeth bared, eyes bright. He moves like he’s dancing with death, like he’s done this so many times it’s boring now.

Someone’s screaming. Maybe it’s you. Maybe it’s the kid with the duffel. You don’t know. You just fire and move and breathe until the world stills.

Three bodies lie crumpled in the alley. None of them are yours.

When it’s over, you’re sweating and shaking. Adrenaline still rattles in your bones.

You turn to him. “You good?”

He lights another cigarette with a trembling hand, breathes in deep. Then he mutters, almost absently, “You’ll get used to it.”

You want to scream at him.

Get used to it?

To the blood, the stink of it, the way your hands still feel the shape of the trigger even when it’s over?

But you don’t.

Because part of you, a dark, unspoken, shameful one is already used to it.

Maybe always was.

He walks off to talk to Carrillo. You stay behind, staring at the blood pooled in the gutter. Your hand still trembles as you try to light your own cigarette, but it slips between your fingers twice before you finally get it.

Peña doesn’t come back for you. He knows you’ll follow.

And you do.

That night, you can’t sleep.

You lie awake in your tiny apartment, sheets tangled around your legs, fan clattering in the corner. Your body’s sore. You smell like sweat and smoke and steel.

But it’s not the mission that keeps you awake.

It’s him.

His voice. The shake in his hands. The moment he looked at you like he saw every flaw and fracture and welcomed them. Like he wanted to press his fingers into your broken places and call it comfort.

You roll onto your side and stare at the wall.

You don’t want to want him. You really don’t. But already, it’s there. Rooting itself deep. Curling around your ribs like vines.

Javier Peña is a slow kind of ruin. And you—God help you—you’ve always been a sucker for a long fall.

It’s been four days since Peña showed up to work.

At first, no one blinked. He was known for disappearing—trailing informants or losing track of time in cartel dives but by day three, even Murphy was checking his watch more than usual. You tried not to care, tried to convince yourself that agents burn out all the time.

But when his informant turned up dead in the Zona Rosa and Peña didn’t answer his radio, something shifted.

Murphy looked up from his desk, jaw clenched. “Something’s wrong.”

He’s got one kid and another on the way. A wife who’s already half out the door. When another lead comes in at the last minute, he gives you the keys to the Ford Bronco and says, “Just check on him. Please.”

You don’t answer. You just drive.

His apartment’s in a building that’s seen better decades. Faded tile, dim hallway lights, a sour mildew smell that clings to the peeling walls. You knock once, wait, knock again—harder.

No answer.

You press your ear to the door and hear it. The dull clink of glass. The buzz of a radio left on some Spanish station, low and mournful. A body shifting against leather.

You don’t hesitate. You pick the lock and slip inside.

The place is dark, except for the gray-blue light spilling in through the window. A record’s spinning in the corner, half done. The couch is soaked. Not in blood—thank God—but in spilled bourbon and sweat. And there he is.

Javier.

Flat on his back, half-dressed, arm thrown over his face. There’s a bottle on the floor beside him and at least two more empty on the coffee table.

You stand there for a long moment, arms crossed, jaw tight. He doesn’t even stir.

Your voice cuts the quiet like a scalpel.

“This is your big plan, Peña? Drink yourself into a coma and hope Escobar turns himself in?”

He groans, low in his throat, like he’s just now dragging himself back to consciousness. Doesn’t open his eyes. Doesn’t move.

“Didn’t ask for a babysitter,” he mumbles, voice gravel-thick.

“No,” you snap, “you didn’t. But you stopped answering your radio. You missed the last two intel briefings. You didn’t even show up when Vargas walked.”

He shifts, turning his head toward the ceiling, one eye cracking open just enough to look annoyed. “Why do you care?”

That catches you. Harder than it should.

You don’t answer right away.

Because the truth—the real one, the one pressed up against your ribcage isn’t for him to know. That you do care. That you haven’t stopped thinking about him since that goddamn stakeout. That every part of this job makes you feel more numb, more wrecked, more like him.

You move closer, but not enough to seem gentle. You kick an empty bottle out of the way, hard enough to make it clatter against the wall.

“You don’t get to disappear, Peña. Not now. Not when people are counting on you.”

He laughs dry and mean. “People don’t count on me. They tolerate me.”

You crouch down in front of him, low enough that he has to look at you.

“Murphy’s worried. Carrillo wants you benched. And me? I walked into this apartment half expecting to find your rotting corpse.”

He flinches. Just barely. But you see it.

His voice is quieter now. “Then why the fuck are you still here?”

You pause. Let the air thicken between you. Then say, soft but sharp, “Because I didn’t want you to drink your own regrets alone.”

That lands.

His face tightens. The mask he wears that’s cool, untouchable, cynical slips, just for a second. Enough for you to see the exhaustion underneath. The guilt. The part of him that knows he’s falling apart and doesn’t care enough to stop it.

You stand again, dragging your gaze over the mess he’s let himself become.

“I’ll be back in an hour. If you’re still here when I return, I’m dragging your ass into a cold shower and then straight to Carrillo. You’ll wish you’d died when I found you.”

You walk to the door.

Just before you open it, he says your name.

Quiet. Hoarse. No apology in it. No plea.

Just your name, the way someone might say it in the dark to remind themselves they’re not alone.

You don’t look back.

You just say, “Sober up,” and leave the door open behind you.

It’s been a week since you found him in his own personal graveyard of booze and guilt. A week since he said your name like it was something sacred, then disappeared into silence.

He came back to work the next morning clean-shaven, wearing a shirt that didn’t smell like whiskey, hair combed and expression unreadable. Murphy gave him shit, Carrillo gave him orders, and you gave him nothing.

Not even a nod.

It wasn’t punishment, it was survival. Whatever passed between you in that apartment, it’s a crack in the wall neither of you knows how to patch. So you kept the silence and he respected it.

But he’s different now.

Not better. Not worse.

Just... watching.

You feel his eyes sometimes. When you walk past. When you speak in meetings. When you laugh, when you don’t. He’s not hitting on you he never did. It’s not sleazy or careless. It’s quiet. Careful. Like he’s waiting for something.

Like he’s still thinking about the fact that you didn’t look back.

You’re in the records room when he finally speaks to you again.

It’s late. The embassy’s mostly empty, the halls hushed. You’re surrounded by heat-stained files and the buzz of a dying fluorescent light. You’re tired, sweating under your blouse, hair tied back with a pencil you forgot to remove.

The door creaks behind you. You don’t need to turn around to know it’s him.

He doesn’t say your name this time.

“Didn’t think you were the type to stay late.”

You slide a folder back into its drawer. “Didn’t think you were the type to come back.”

He huffs something like a laugh, quiet and sharp. Then, softer, “Touché.”

You don’t face him. You just keep filing.

“You want something, Peña?”

“Just saw the light on,” he says, “and thought—”

You cut him off. “If you’re about to say something stupid like ‘thanks,’ don’t.”

Silence.

Then: “Wasn’t gonna.”

But he doesn’t leave. He steps into the room and leans against the metal cabinet nearest you, arms crossed. His shoulder brushes the edge of yours—just enough contact to feel it, not enough to call attention to.

“You ever wonder why we do this?” he asks after a beat. “Why we stay?”

You glance at him, frowning. “Because if we don’t, Escobar wins.”

“That’s the company line.” He meets your gaze now, his own unreadable. “I mean you. Why you stay.”

You should shut it down. Should tell him to get out and take his existential bullshit with him.

But instead, you say, “Because I’m good at it. Because it’s the only thing that makes me feel like I’m not wasting space. Because when it’s quiet, I start thinking about all the people I didn’t save.”

It’s too honest. It slips out raw.

You don’t meet his eyes again. You just move to the next drawer.

But Peña doesn’t flinch. He shifts closer. Not enough to crowd you—he never does—but enough for you to feel the warmth coming off him.

“I think about that night,” he says. “You kicking my bottle across the room like you wanted to kill me with it.”

You smile despite yourself. “I still might.”

“You could’ve reported me. Could’ve let Carrillo have my badge. Would’ve been easier.”

You close the drawer. Turn to him. “Would’ve been cowardly.”

His expression softens. Just barely. The hard angles of him blur under the soft buzz of the dying light.

“You scare me a little, you know that?” he says, voice low.

You blink. “That supposed to be a compliment?”

“It’s supposed to be the truth.”

You let the silence stretch this time. Let it sit.

There’s something simmering between you now. Not fire. Not yet. But heat. Potential.

He reaches past you, grabs a file he has no reason to touch, lets his fingers brush yours as he does.

This time, you don’t pull away.

And when you finally speak, your voice is quieter. Thicker. “This changes nothing.”

He nods once. Serious and firm. “I know.”

But he doesn’t move. Neither do you.

He can’t stop thinking about her hands.

That’s the thing. Not her mouth, not her ass—though God knows his brain’s tried to go there out of habit. But no. What keeps looping through his skull at night, in the dark, is the way her fingers looked pressed against his chest that night on the couch.

The callus on her trigger finger. The precise anger in her grip when she shoved the empty bottle away from him like it insulted her personally. The way her hand shook, just once, when she thought he couldn’t see.

It’s pathetic. He knows it. But he thinks about her hands when someone else’s are on him.

The woman in his bed tonight smells like coconut oil and cheap cigarettes. She’s some informant’s cousin—or maybe she said she worked at the bar in El Cartucho. Doesn’t matter. He doesn’t ask.

She moans his name like she means it, like she knows him.

She doesn’t.

He’s already halfway gone.

He rolls off her when it’s over and lights a cigarette he doesn’t want. She tries to cuddle. He gets up and shrugs his jeans back on, muttering something about early meetings. She doesn’t press. They never do.

By the time he’s back in his car, windows rolled down, sweat drying on his skin, he’s already thinking about her.

Not the woman he just fucked.

Her.

The one who hasn’t so much as smiled at him since she landed in Colombia. The one who walked into his filth-stained apartment and looked at him like he was still worth saving.

He’d rather be punched in the face.

He’s seen it happen to other men—DEA guys who get that wide-eyed thing about one of their own, fall into bed with someone who carries a badge and a temper, only to get left holding the guilt when the mission takes her out first.

Not him. He keeps his women outside the building, off the books, out of the way.

Except... Now he doesn’t want any of them. Not for more than a night.

And he doesn’t want her either.

He wants her gone. Out of his head. Out of his space. But every time she walks by—blouse clinging to her spine in the Bogotá heat, voice calm and sharp in meetings, he finds himself holding his breath.

And when she leaves the room, he has to exhale.

He watches her sometimes. He hates himself for it.

From the breakroom. From the side of a hallway. From the back row of a briefing.

She doesn’t even glance at him anymore. Not since the records room. Not since she looked him dead in the eye and said this changes nothing.

He believed her.

But it had. It changed everything.

He still flirts with the receptionist. Still lets his fingers linger when passing intel to the blonde who runs field logistics. Still makes some dumb comment when the ambassador’s wife brings lunch to the office.

But he never touches her.

Never jokes. Never asks if she’s free Friday. Never offers her a light for her cigarette when she’s outside, leaning on the brick wall like she’s holding the building up by herself.

Because she’s not like the others.

She’s the kind of woman who makes you want to quit drinking—not because she asks you to, but because you suddenly want to deserve to be seen by her again.

And that’s the most dangerous thing in the world.

He dreams about her sometimes. In the dreams, she never says a word. Just looks at him the way she did that night—tight-lipped, furious, afraid.

In the dreams, he always wakes up sweating. Alone.

Sometimes it’s the best part of his day.

He hangs on to all those little moments that occur during the day.

Like when she passes him a manila folder one morning during briefing—fingers grazing his knuckles, just barely. He feels it like a fucking static shock. He doesn’t flinch, but it coils deep in his stomach.

Later, he’ll forget what the folder even said. But he won’t forget the brush of her hand.

Another day. It’s hot. She’s got her sleeves rolled to the elbows and a smear of dirt across her cheek from a bust in the jungle. He watches her gulp down lukewarm water from a dented thermos, her throat flexing, eyes closed.

He has to look away.

When he lights a cigarette, she asks for one. Doesn’t look at him when he hands it over. Doesn’t thank him, either.

Still, he holds that image like it means something.

He dreams of her in that records room.

Not naked. Not moaning his name.

Just standing there, arm crossed, and sweat on her brow.

He wakes up hard anyway.

She starts wearing her hair down. Probably not for him. But maybe.

He watches it stick to the back of her neck. He thinks about moving it aside. He thinks about kissing the skin underneath. He thinks about what she’d do. How she’d slap him, shove him against the wall, maybe kiss him right back.

He doesn’t do it.

A month passes like that. And then, everything breaks.

It’s supposed to be clean.

In and out. Intercept a delivery. Get the courier. Bring him in before breakfast.

They don’t even get a scream on the radio.

Just static.

Then Carrillo’s voice: “We’ve lost eyes on the second vehicle. Peña, respond.”

He’s already grabbing his vest before the words finish.

She was in that car.

The wreck is still smoking when he gets there. Blood on the ground, no bodies. Signs of a struggle. Boot prints. Drag marks. Her weapon on the gravel, clip half-ejected, as if she’d tried to reload mid-scramble.

He finds a smear of blood on the passenger door.

Too much to ignore. Not enough to prove she's gone.

He doesn’t wait for backup.

He doesn’t wait for anything.

He just starts hunting.

Three men die in an alley within the hour.

He doesn’t even ask the first one a question—just shoots him in the kneecap and watches the others panic. The second gives up a name. A warehouse. East end. Off the grid.

He doesn’t thank him.

He doesn’t feel anything.

The warehouse is rotting, windowless, stinking of rust and piss. He doesn’t go in there quietly.

The first two men barely have time to look up. The third draws a gun. Javier shoots him in the throat.

He’s breathing like an animal now. Can’t hear anything over the pulse in his skull. His blood feels radioactive.

Then he sees her.

Tied to a chair. Hands behind her back. Duct tape on her mouth. Blood crusted at her temple.

But she’s breathing.

And she’s looking right at him.

He moves like he’s underwater. Crosses the floor in seconds but it feels like years. Drops to his knees in front of her, pulling a knife from his belt.

Her eyes are wide. There’s no fear in them.

Just recognition. Relief. And something else.

Something fragile.

He cuts the tape from her mouth, and she gasps in air, voice ragged: “You came.”

He can’t speak. He just cups her face, thumbs brushing dried blood, trying to convince himself she’s whole. Her cheek presses into his palm like it’s the only thing holding her up.

“I thought—” she starts, then chokes on it.

He shakes his head. “No. Don’t.”

“I thought I’d never see you again.”

And now he’s the one breaking.

“I would’ve burned this whole city down,” he says, voice shaking. “I would’ve leveled it.”

She closes her eyes, leans forward until their foreheads touch. Her breath fans over his lips. “You didn’t have to come.”

“I didn’t have a choice.”

The others arrive twenty minutes later.

He doesn’t let go of her until the medics make him.

Even then, his hands hover—like he might need to grab her again. Like she might disappear.

She doesn’t.

She looks at him over her shoulder as they load her into the van. And for once, she does smile. A small one.

Not wide. Not flirtatious.

But real.

And it guts him.

He goes home that night, covered in blood—some hers, some theirs, some his.

Lights a cigarette.

He doesn’t sleep.

He doesn’t dream.

Just stares at the wall and thinks of the way she whispered You came, like he wasn’t the one who needed saving.

She didn’t mean to start thinking about him.

It wasn’t part of the plan. Bogotá was supposed to be all work. Just another station. Just another hunt. Get in, track Escobar, do the job.

She’d dealt with worse than this before—misogynists, cartel hits, bad coffee. She could’ve handled it.

But not him.

Not Javier Peña.

It started small. The cigarette passed between my fingers. The quick glances over briefing reports. The way his eyes found you across rooms he had no business being in.

At first, you thought he was just another man trying to get under your skin.

Then he stopped trying.

And it got worse.

Before the mission, you’d dreamed about him. Not even a sex dream. Just a quiet one. His shoulder against yours on a bench. His hand on your knee. The kind of domestic nothing you didn’t let yourself think about anymore.

You woke up unsettled. Then got in the SUV. Then got taken.

And the whole time you were being dragged through that hell, wrists zip-tied, head pounding, all you could think was: I’ll never see him again.

Not your parents. Not Murphy. Him.

It should’ve scared you more than it did.

Now it’s three days later, and your apartment feels like a jail cell.

You’re healing. Bruised ribs. Scrapes. Nothing major, nothing deep. The medic said you were lucky.

You don’t feel lucky.

Your hands still shake when you’re pouring water. Your dreams are full of gravel and duct tape. And behind all of it is him..

Not the version from the office. The version who found you.

Bloody. Breathless. Eyes like thunder.

When he said I would’ve leveled this city, you believed him.

And you haven't been able to shake the way he said I didn’t have a choice.

It’s almost dark when the knock comes.

You don't expect it to be him.

You open the door anyway, and there he is. Standing in the hall like something scraped raw. His jacket’s slung over one shoulder. His shirt’s wrinkled. He smells like smoke, sweat, and aftershave.

For a moment, neither of them speaks.

Then:

“I should’ve called,” he says, voice low.

You blinked. “You don’t call.”

His mouth twists at that—something between guilt and a smile.

“I wanted to see if you were okay.”

“You saw the report,” you say, stepping aside anyway.

“I didn’t believe it.”

You stand awkwardly in your living room, hands stuffed in his pockets like he doesn’t trust them. You’re in a pair of shorts and an oversized tee, hair damp from the shower, still smelling faintly of antiseptic.

“Did you come here to check on me,” you ask, “or because you needed to see it for yourself?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

Instead, he looks at you—really looks at you—for the first time since the warehouse. Eyes tracing your bruises like they’re war maps. Stopping at the butterfly bandage near your temple. The tenderness at your ribs.

Then he swallows hard.

“I needed to see you,” he says.

You sit on the edge of the couch. He doesn’t.

The silence stretches.

Then you say softly, “You killed six men looking for me.”

“Seven,” he says. “One of ‘em just didn’t die right away.”

Your throat tightens. “That supposed to make me feel better?”

“No,” he says. “It’s supposed to tell you I’d do it again.”

You finally meet his eyes.

And there it is.

That shift. The thing they’ve both been dancing around since day one. It’s not about sex. Not anymore. It’s about something bigger. Louder. More terrifying.

He cared.

And now they’re both stuck with that truth.

“You scared the shit out of me,” you say.

He nods. “Right back at you.”

“You shouldn’t have come alone.”

“I always come alone.”

You snorted. “Yeah, I know.”

He breathes out a laugh at that. Runs a hand through his hair.

Then: “Can I sit?”

You gesture to the space beside you.

When he sinks into the couch, the cushion shifts. Their knees touch.

It’s the first time they’ve been this close since that night in the records room. But it’s different now. Slower. Like every inch is charged with memory.

You turn toward him. “Why are you really here?”

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t look away.

“I’ve been trying to forget about you,” he says.

Your breath catches.

“Thought if I slept around enough, drank enough, worked enough, I’d stop.”

You stay quiet.

“I can’t,” he says finally. “I can’t stop.”

Your voice is just above a whisper. “You respect me too much to flirt. But not enough to stay away.”

He closes his eyes for a beat. “That about sums it up.”

And then he leans forward, forearms on his knees, head in his hands.

“I fucked this up,” he mutters. “I let you get taken. I—”

You grab his wrist.

Not gently. Not softly. Just firm.

He looks up.

“You saved me.”

He searches your face like he’s not sure he’s allowed to believe you.

“I didn’t come out of that warehouse afraid of you,” you say. “I came out knowing exactly who I’d trust to come for me.”

Something in him breaks open then.

He doesn’t kiss you.

He doesn’t touch you.

He just leans in until their foreheads rest together in the quiet.

They stay like that. Breathing the same air.

And maybe that’s all they need right now.

He’s been to her apartment more times in the last three weeks than he has to his own.

At first, it was to check on her. Drop off meds. Bring her dinner when she wouldn’t remember to eat. Make sure she wasn’t trying to get back in the field too soon.

Then she started teasing him about it. Called him Nurse Peña. Said he should get her a little bell to ring when she needed things.

And somehow—somehow—he didn’t run.

She laughs more now.

Not a lot. Not like it’s easy. But it happens.

The first time she laughed at one of his stupid jokes, he almost dropped the coffee mug he was handing her. The sound startled him. It was warm. Unforced. Real.

He didn’t think he’d ever hear her laugh like that.

Didn’t think he’d deserve to.

There’s a new rhythm between them now.

She gives him shit about his taste in music. He tells her she grinds her teeth when she reads case files. They eat on her couch and sometimes fall asleep watching badly dubbed telenovelas with the volume low.

It’s not domestic. Not exactly.

But it’s the closest he’s had in years.

He flirts with her now.

Just a little.

She rolls her eyes every time. Calls him a menace. But she never tells him to stop.

He brings her a sandwich one night after a long debrief. She’s got her feet up on the coffee table, bandage finally off her temple, a yellow legal pad in her lap.

When he sets the sandwich down, she glances up. “Will you always feed me when I’m injured?”

“Nah,” he says. “Only when you look like you’re gonna forget to eat.”

“Oh, so now you care about my nutrition.”

“Wouldn’t want you to pass out mid-briefing. Then Murphy would cry and I’d have to console him.”

She snorts. “I’d pay to see that.”

He grins. “I’d charge you.”

She tosses a crumpled sticky note at him, and he dodges it like a pro. “So rude,” she says.

He shrugs. “You like me rude.”

And it’s there—again. That flicker.

She looks at him a second too long. Then shakes her head and opens the sandwich.

He watches her take a bite and pretends it doesn’t do anything to him.

He doesn’t fuck around anymore.

No informants. No girls at the bars.

He doesn’t have it in him. Not now. Not since every time he closes his eyes, he sees her in that warehouse chair and remembers how empty the world felt until she looked up at him.

She’s healing.

Not just the bruises. The rest of her. He can see it. In the way she stretches without wincing. The way she walks like she owns the floor again.

But there’s still a mark on her. Something permanent.

He knows. Because he’s got it too.

She catches him watching her one night, and instead of brushing it off, she asks softly, “What?”

He almost says I thought you were gone.

He almost says I haven’t slept properly since.

He almost says Don’t get hurt like that again. I don’t think I’d survive it.

Instead he says, “Just making sure you’re alive.”

She blinks. That’s all. Doesn’t make a joke. Doesn’t deflect.

She just says, “I am.”

And for the first time in weeks, he breathes like his lungs aren’t on fire.

She’s been cleared to return.

He knew it was coming. Could feel it in the way she moved it was less careful, more sure. The bruises had gone from purple to green to nothing. The bandages were long gone. Her eyes had that fire again.

But it hits him harder than he thought when she says the words.

“I’m cleared. Back in the field next week.”

He nods. Stubs out his cigarette in the ashtray on her windowsill. Says something like, that’s good, or you ready?

She doesn’t answer right away.

Just stands in the kitchen, twisting the ring of condensation on her glass of water. She’s in one of his old shirts again—says it’s softer than hers—and it’s hanging off her like it always belonged to her.

Then she says it, quiet, like a sin:

“I never wanted to get better.”

He freezes.

She keeps staring down at the glass like it’ll forgive her for saying it.

“Not really,” she murmurs. “I mean—I knew I couldn’t stay like that forever. I didn’t want to be helpless.”

“But?” he hears himself say, voice low, unsteady.

She finally looks at him.

“But if I got better… I figured you’d stop showing up.”

He could laugh. He could make a joke.

But nothing comes out.

Because something’s burning in his chest now ugly, raw, relentless, and it’s got nowhere to go.

He crosses the room without thinking. Leans on the counter across from her. Close enough to feel her breath.

“You think I only came because you were hurt?”

“No,” she says. “I think you only let yourself come because I was.”

That wrecks him.

Because it’s true.

He should say something else. He doesn’t.

Not for a full minute. Just lets the silence sit there between them, thick and humming like power lines in the heat.

She breaks it first, whisper-soft: “It’s been nice. Having you.”

And that’s it. That’s the moment.

That’s when the thing he’s been swallowing for weeks claws its way up his throat and refuses to die quiet.

“I love you.”

Her eyes widen.

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.

He steps back, like it’ll soften the blow.

“Fuck,” he says under his breath. “I didn’t mean to—”

“You did.”

“Yeah,” he rasps. “Yeah, I did.”

She still doesn’t speak. Just walked closer to him.

Stops in front of him.

And when she reaches out, he thinks she’s going to slap him or shove him or say something final.

Instead, her hand lands flat on his chest. Right over his heart.

Her voice is wrecked. “Say it again.”

“I love you.”

She closes her eyes. Like she needs it to settle. Like it hurts.

Then:

“I love you too.”

He doesn’t kiss her.

He could. He wants to—God, does he want to—but something tells him this isn’t about that. Not yet. Not tonight.

Instead, he pulls her in.

Arms around her. Her face against his neck. Her hand fisting in the back of his shirt.

He holds her like a man holding the thing he almost lost.

Like she’s air and blood and whatever’s left of his soul.

And she doesn’t pull away.

They stay like that for a long time.

No words. No next steps. Just the heat of skin against skin and the quiet promise: this is real now.

And when he finally leans back and presses his forehead to hers, he says, “You’re going back in the field. I can’t stop that.”

“I know.”

“But I’m not going anywhere.”

“I know that too.”

And somehow, that’s everything.

And when she pulls back enough to meet his eyes, her voice is barely there. “Stay tonight?”

He nods. Doesn’t even pretend to play it cool.

“I was already going to.”

He didn’t mean to fall asleep. But her body was warm beside him, curled into the crook of his arm, wearing his shirt and nothing else. And for the first time in years, his chest didn’t feel tight. For the first time ever, he wasn’t running.

So he let go. Just for a moment.

And when he wakes—it’s to her fingers tracing his chest, lazy and slow.

“Javi,” she whispers.

He blinks, meets her gaze in the low light. Her voice is hushed, but her eyes are wide awake. Wanting.

“I don’t want to wait anymore.”

She’s over him before he can speak, thighs slipping around his waist, mouth already on his.

And it’s soft at first. Like every kiss they almost shared. Like every moment that made him ache.

He wraps his arms around her waist, palms splaying across her bare back. She’s not wearing panties. Just his shirt, hitched up around her thighs.

And she smells like sleep, vanilla, and him.

“Baby,” he breathes against her lips. “You sure?”

“I’ve been sure,” she says. “Since the first time you bled on my floor and tried to leave without saying thank you.”

He huffs a laugh. And then he kisses her like he’s starving.

She peels the shirt off slowly. Her nipples are already hard, pebbled from the air and his gaze. He sits up, chest to chest, and buries his mouth between them.

“I dreamed about this,” he murmurs against her skin. “Fucking dreamed about your tits in my mouth.”

Her fingers tangle in his hair, tugging gently as he suckles at her breast, teasing the other with his thumb. She gasps when he scrapes his teeth lightly across her nipple, then soothes it with his tongue.

“I’m gonna take my time,” he says, looking up at her. “You deserve that.”

She lies back when he pushes gently at her waist, guiding her onto the sheets.

And he gets between her legs like it’s the only place he’s ever belonged.

Her thighs fall open for him without hesitation. And she’s soaked—slick and glistening, flushed with heat and arousal. He doesn’t touch her right away. Just presses a kiss to the inside of her knee, then higher, then higher—

“Javi—”

“I’ve waited too long for this,” he whispers, breathing hot over her folds. “I’m gonna taste you, baby.”

And he does.

Tongue dragging slow through her heat, lips wrapping around her clit like a kiss. She cries out—his name on her lips like a plea. He groans into her, drunk on her, grinding his hips into the mattress as he eats her like a man half his age.

She fists the sheets. Her back arches. He flattens his tongue and devours, letting her ride his mouth, letting her fuck herself on his face.

“You taste so sweet,” he groans. “Fuck, I could live here. Come for me, cariño. Give it to me.”

She does—with a sob, legs trembling, body shaking against his tongue.

And he doesn’t stop until she begs.

He’s on her before she can catch her breath. Mouth bruising hers, hand stroking his cock between them.

“Condom’s in my wallet,” he says roughly.

“No,” she gasps, wrapping her legs around his waist. “I want you. All of you.”

He nearly comes right then.

He pushes into her slow. So slow. They both groan—hers high and broken, his deep and reverent.

“Jesus, you’re tight,” he pants. “So fucking perfect. You’re gonna ruin me.”

Their foreheads press together. Hands clutch. Bodies lock.

He moves like he’s worshipping her—like she’s holy and he’s been faithless his whole life.

And she moans every time he bottoms out. Whimpers when he pulls out nearly to the tip and slides back in, thick and hard and home.

“I love you,” she whispers. “I love you so much.”

He chokes on his own breath.

“I’ve never—never loved anyone like this,” he gasps. “Fuck, baby. You own me.”

They come together, trembling and breathless, clinging like the world might end if they let go.

She’s grinning.

“What?” he asks, brushing her hair back.

“I’m not broken anymore.”

And then she flips them.

Her mouth is on his neck before he can blink. Her nails drag down his chest. She slides down, wraps her lips around his cock, and moans.

“Holy fuck—” he gasps, gripping the sheets.

She sucks him deep, slow at first—then faster, wetter, until he’s bucking up into her mouth.

But before he can come, she stops.

Straddles him.

Guides him back inside.

And rides him hard.

Her hands on his chest, hips slamming down, tits bouncing, his name falling from her lips like a threat and a promise.

He grabs her ass, helps her grind deeper.

“You wanted rough, baby?” he groans. “Wanted me to fuck you like I’ve been dreaming about every goddamn night?”

“Yes—yes, Javi—fuck me—”

He flips her, fucks into her hard and fast, hair fisted in his hand, her face buried in the pillow.

“You’re mine now,” he growls. “You hear me? Mine.”

She screams when she comes. Screams.

He spills into her moments later, biting her shoulder, whispering I love you again and again and again.

They fall asleep like that.

Skin to skin. Heart to heart. No lies. No walls.

Just them.

Finally.

divider by 🏷️ @zevrra @xodilfluvr @littlejoels @millersdoll @gothcsz @inbred-eater @grayandthyme @mysticalgalaxysalad @amyispxnk @aj0elap0l0gist @bluekat707 @yellowbrickyeti @romancherry @wayward-dreamer @xfanficluvrx @mystickittytaco @axshadows

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prythianpages · 3 days ago

Text

and it's all in my head | eris x reader

Eris x Reader ft Azriel | Eris has a nightmare.

a/n: surprise surprise! *insert little shimmy dance from the meme* Double update to make up for not updating this in awhile. I said I was going to write some fluff after the last update but I couldn't help myself with this one. This takes place somewhere between pt 9 to 11 and is 911 words.

warnings: angst, reader is pregnant, Eris being jealous of Az & having a nightmare that you got together with him

A soft lullaby-like tune drifted through the night and Eris followed it like a man under a spell. It was the only sound he could hear. Everything else was still, too quiet.

But as he followed the sound, he spotted you.

You stood at a balcony that overlooked the shining city below. There was a baby in your arms and you cradled it close as you gently swayed side to side, humming softly. Though your back was to him, Eris could see the smile blooming across your face. When you leaned down to press a kiss to the baby’s head, his gaze followed. It was dim but there was no mistaking that red hair. It seemed to glow like embers in the night.

His breath caught.

That was his baby.

Eris felt the world slow around him as he stepped forward, every instinct aching to reach you. But when you turned around and lifted your head, your gaze passed right through him.

You were looking at someone behind him.

He felt that unmistakable rush of cold air, that featherlight sweep brushing past his feet.

The shadowsinger.

Azriel moved past Eris like he wasn’t even there.

It was Azriel who crossed the distance, who came to your side, shadows curling protectively around the three of you like they belonged there. It was Azriel who made your face glow with a light so bright it rivaled the stars above.

He bowed his head and without hesitation, you leaned into Azriel’s kiss. His hand rose to cup your face, thumb brushing along your cheekbone before looking down at the baby in your arms.

Eris couldn’t move, feeling as if someone had a tight grip on his heart. He wasn't sure he was even breathing.

“I’m glad you came into my life,” you whispered, voice quiet so that you didn’t wake the baby.

But to Eris, the words roared, nearly unraveling him.

He could only stand there, frozen in place, heart pounding in his ears. You handed the baby–his baby–to Azriel. The shadowsinger pressed a kiss atop the baby’s head, just as you did earlier.

Eris could only continue to watch as the baby stirred, letting out a small, contented sigh.

The sky darkened at the edges and suddenly, Eris was in a field full of blooming flowers.

A little girl was running, laughing in a sun-kissed meadow. She paused, head lifting up to the sky, as a gentle breeze blew by, her fiery red hair flowing behind her. Eris’s heart clenched at the sight of freckles sprinkled lightly across her nose. Just like him. And her eyes–her amber eyes–shone with joy as she turned to him.

“Father!”

Once again, Eris stepped forward. And once again, he was brushed aside.

The little girl ran past him and straight into Azriel’s waiting arms.

Something sharp caught in his throat. His mate—not his anymore, some bitter voice reminded—stood beside the shadowsinger. Your hand rested gently on your stomach and Eris’s eyes began to sting when he saw the swell of your stomach.

Azriel picked up the girl effortlessly and she squealed in delight. He spun her around, pressing a kiss to her forehead before setting her down. His shadows brushed along her small form, engaging her in a game of chase.

And then—more children. They came out of nowhere, laughing and tumbling through the meadow. They were just as beautiful as the little girl. One had your smile. But the rest…the rest had Azriel’s eyes, Azriel's wings...

They were your children. With Azriel.

Eris looked at you, eyes wide and frantic. His mouth parted but no words came out. This couldn’t be happening. He was right there, right in front of you.

And yet… you didn’t see him. As if he didn’t exist.

You leaned into Azriel, the shadowsinger wrapping an arm around your shoulder to bring you close. “You know if Eris hadn’t broken my heart, I would’ve never met you.”

Azriel’s wing curled around you, brushing so close to Eris’s face it nearly clipped him. “In a way, I’m glad he did. You're mine now."

What? Eris thought. His heart pounded as if trying to punch its way free from his ribs. The world tilted. The air felt too thin. This had to be a dream. A nightmare.

Wake up, Eris. Wake up!

“I wouldn't want to be anyone else's” you said.

Wake up!

Eris jolted awake.

His chest heaved as if he’d been drowning, cold sweat clinging to his skin. His bedroom was dark. Too dark. He sat up and then used his magic to light the candles on his nightstand. It was only a dream, he told himself.

But his hands still trembled as they gripped his sheets.

Glowing eyes stared back at him from the foot of the bed. His hounds, alert now, heads tilted in concern.

“It was only a dream,” he repeated out loud.

Though, it felt like something far more cruel than that. Like the Cauldron itself had reached into his chest and carved out every hope he had left.

One hound padded forward and rested its head on the bed, blinking up at him with those wide eyes of his. Gravy. Eris reached out and buried his hand in its fur, trying to steady himself.

But the image of you with Azriel, of his child calling Azriel "father" refused to leave him.

And for the first time in a long, long while, the heir of Autumn felt cold.

a/n: This was inspired by The Killer's Mr. Brightside. So sorry to Eris bc I had fun writing this (he's going to get his happy ending dw) At least there was one accuracy in his dream, the gender of his baby was revealed to him before reader told him.

series taglist: @kodafics , @shinyghosteclipse, @marrass, @posierosie, @solanaaaaaaa

@tele86, @bubybubsters, @k-homosapien, @mariaxliliana, @kathren1sky-blog

@anainkandpaper, @icey--stars, @moonlovefairy, @hellohauntedturnstudent, @lucia-valentinaa,

@wrenisrad, @smol-grandpa, @sleepylunarwolf, @63angel, @anuttellaa

@anon1227 @paleidiot @thatacotargirl, @queenoffeysand , @slut4acotar @awkardnerd

@blueroseava , @lovetia , @historygeekqueen , @idk1027 ,@naturakaashi

@blightyblinders , @wolvesnravens , @galaxystern08 , @faeofthemoonandstars , @antisocial-architect

@elisha-chloe, @cwallace02sblog, @randomramblesfanfiction, @moonlitlavenders, @booksnwriting

@sunny1616, @holb32, @gamaranci

#eris x reader #eris x you #eris x y/n #eris fanfiction #eris vanserra x reader #acotar x reader #acotar fanfiction #the mark eris left behind

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matcha3mochi · 13 hours ago

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PROTOCOL Pairing: Doctor Zayne x Nurse Reader

author note: love and deepspace is my addiction guys LOL anyways enjoy!!

wc: 3,865

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

Akso Hospital looms in the heart of Linkon like a monument of glass, metal, and unrelenting precision. Multi-tiered, climate-controlled, and fully integrated with city-wide telemetry systems, it's known across the cosmos for housing the most advanced medical AI and the most exacting surgeons in the Union.

Inside its Observation Deck on Level 4, the air hums with quiet purpose. Disinfectant and filtered oxygen mix in sterile harmony. The floors are polished to a mirrored sheen, the walls pulse faintly with embedded biometrics, and translucent holoscreens scroll real-time vitals, arterial scans, and surgical priority tags in muted color-coded displays.

You’ve been on the floor since 0500. First to check vitals. First to inventory meds. First to get snapped at.

Doctor Zayne Li is already here—of course he is. The man practically lives in the operating theatres. Standing behind the panoramic glass that overlooks Surgery Bay Delta, he looks like something carved out of discipline and frost. His pristine long coat hangs perfectly from squared shoulders, gloves tucked with methodical precision, silver-framed glasses reflecting faint readouts from the transparent interface hovering before him.

He’s the hospital’s prized cardiovascular surgeon. The Zayne Li—graduated top of his class from Astral Medica, youngest surgeon ever certified for off-planet cardiac reconstruction, published more than any other specialist in the central systems under 35. There's even a rumor he once performed a dual-heart transplant in an emergency gravity failure. Probably true.

He’s a legend. A genius.

And an ass.

He’s never once smiled at you. Never once said thank you. With other staff, he’s distant but civil. With you, he’s something else entirely: cold, strict, and unrelentingly sharp. If you breathe wrong, he notices. If you hesitate, he corrects. If you do everything by protocol?

He still finds something to critique.

"Vitals on Bed 12 were late," he said this morning without even turning his head. No greeting. Just judgment, clean and surgical.

"They weren’t late. I had to reset the cuff."

"You should anticipate equipment failures. That’s part of the job."

And that was it. No acknowledgment of the three critical patients you’d managed in that hour. No recognition. No room for explanation. He turned away before you could blink, his coat slicing behind him like punctuation.

You don’t like him.

You don’t disrespect him—because you're a professional, and because he's earned his reputation a hundred times over. But you don’t like how he talks to you like you’re a glitch in the system. Like you’re a deviation he hasn’t figured out how to reprogram.

You’ve worked under strict doctors before. But Zayne is different. He doesn’t push to challenge you. He pushes to see if you’ll break.

And the worst part?

You haven’t.

Which only seems to piss him off more.

You watch him now from the break table near the edge of the deck, your synth-coffee going tepid between your hands. He’s reviewing scans on a projection screen—high-res, rotating 3D models of a degenerating bio-synthetic valve. His eyes, a pale hazel-green, flick across the data with sharp focus. His arms are folded behind his back, posture perfect, expression unreadable.

He hasn’t noticed you.

Correction: he has, and he’s pointedly ignoring you.

Typical.

You take another sip of coffee, more bitter than before. You could head back to inventory. You could restock surgical trays. But you don’t.

Because part of you refuses to give him the satisfaction of leaving first.

So you stay.

And so does he.

Two professionals. Two adversaries. One cold war fought in clipped words, clinical tension, and overlapping silence.

And the day hasn’t even started yet.

The surgical light beams down like a second sun, flooding the operating theatre in harsh, clinical brightness. It washes the color out of everything—blood, skin, even breath—until all that remains is precision.

Doctor Zayne Li stands at the head of the table, gloved hands elevated and scrubbed raw, sleeves of his sterile gown clinging tight around his forearms. His eyes flick up to the vitals screen, then down to the patient’s exposed chest.

“Vitals?” he asks.

You answer without hesitation. “Steady. HR 82, BP 96/63, oxygen at 99%, no irregularities.”

His silence is your only cue to proceed.

You hand him the scalpel, handle first, exactly as protocol demands. He doesn’t look at you when he takes it—but his fingers graze yours, cold through double-layered gloves, and the contact still sends a tiny jolt up your arm. Annoying.

He makes the incision without fanfare, clean and deliberate, the kind of cut that only comes from years of obsessive mastery. The kind that still makes your gut tighten to watch.

You monitor the instruments, anticipating without crowding him. You’ve been assisting in his surgeries for weeks now. You’ve learned when he prefers the microclamp versus the stabilizer. You’ve memorized the sequence of his suturing pattern. You know when to speak and when not to. Still, it’s never enough.

“Retractor,” he says flatly.

You’re already reaching.

“Not that one.”

Your hand freezes mid-motion.

His tone is ice. “Cardiac thoracic, not abdominal. Are you even awake?”

A hot flush rises behind your ears. He doesn’t yell—Zayne never yells—but his disappointment cuts deeper than a scalpel. You grit your teeth and correct the tray.

“Cardiac thoracic,” you repeat. “Understood.”

No response. Just the soft click of metal as he inserts the retractor into the sternotomy.

The rest of the operation is silence and beeping. You suction blood before he asks. He cauterizes without hesitation. The damaged aortic valve is removed, replaced with a synthetic graft designed for lunar-pressure tolerance. It’s delicate work—millimeter adjustments, microscopic thread. One wrong move could tear the tissue.

Zayne doesn’t shake. Doesn’t blink. He’s terrifyingly still, even as alarms spike and the patient's BP dips for three agonizing seconds.

“Clamp. Now,” he says.

You pass it instantly. He seals the nicked vessel, stabilizes the pressure, and the monitor quiets.

You exhale—but not too loudly. Not until the final suture is tied, the chest closed, and the drape removed. Then, and only then, does he speak again.

“Clean,” he says, already walking away. “Prepare a report for Post-Op within the hour.”

You stare at his retreating back, fists clenched at your sides. No thank you. No good work. Just a cold command and disappearing footsteps.

The Diagnostic Lab is silent, save for the low hum of scanners and the occasional pulse of a vitascan completing a loop. The walls are steel-paneled with matte black inlays, lit only by the soft glow of holographic interfaces. Ambient light drifts in from a side wall of glass, showing the icy curve of Europa in the distance, half-shadowed in space.

You stand alone at a curved diagnostics console, sleeves rolled just above your elbows, eyes locked on the 3D hologram spinning in front of you. The synthetic heart pulses slowly, arteries reconstructed with precise synthetic grafts. The valve—a platinum-carbon composite—is functioning perfectly. You check the scan tags, patient ID, op codes, and log the post-op outcome.

Everything’s clean. Correct.

Or so you thought.

You barely register the soft hiss of the door opening behind you until the room shifts. Not in volume, but in pressure—like gravity suddenly increased by one degree.

You don’t turn. You don’t have to.

Zayne.

“Line 12 in the file log,” he says, voice low, composed, and close. Too close.

You blink at the screen. “What about it?”

“You mislabeled the scan entry. That’s a formatting violation.”

Your heart rate ticks up. You straighten your spine.

“No,” you reply calmly, “I used trauma tags from pre-op logs. They cross-reference with the emergency surgical queue.”

His footsteps approach—measured, deliberate—and stop directly behind you. You sense the heat of his body before anything else. He’s not touching you, but he’s close enough that you feel him standing there, like a charged wire humming at your back.

“You adapted a tag system that’s not recognized by this wing’s software. If these were pushed to central review, they’d get flagged. Wasting time.” His tone is even. Too even.

Your hands rest on the edge of the console. You force your shoulders not to tense.

“I made a call based on the context. It was logical.”

“You’re not here to improvise logic,” he replies, stepping even closer.

You feel the air change as he raises his arm, reaching past you—his coat sleeve brushing the side of your bicep lightly, the barest whisper of contact. His hand moves with surgical confidence as he taps the air beside your own, opening the tag metadata on the scan you just logged. His fingers are long, gloved, deliberate in motion.

“This,” he says, highlighting a code block, “should have been labeled with an ICU procedural tag, not pre-op trauma shorthand.”

You turn your head slightly, and there he is. Close. Towering. His jaw is tight, clean-shaven except for the faintest trace of stubble catching the edge of the light. There’s a tiredness around his eyes—subtle, buried deep—but he doesn’t blink. Doesn’t waver. He’s so still it’s unnerving.

He doesn’t seem to notice—or care—how near he is.

You, however, are all too aware.

Your voice tightens. “Is there a reason you couldn’t point this out without standing over me like I’m in your way?”

Zayne doesn’t flinch. “If I stood ten feet back, you’d still argue with me.”

You bristle. “Because I know what I’m doing.”

“And yet,” he replies coolly, “I’m the one correcting your data.”

That sting digs deep. You pull in a breath, clenching your fists subtly against the side of the console. You want to yell. But you won’t. Because he wants control, and you won’t give him that too.

He lowers his hand slowly, retracting from the display, and finally—finally—steps back. Just enough to let you breathe again.

But the tension? It lingers like static.

“I’ll correct the tag,” you say flatly.

Zayne nods once, then turns to go.

But at the doorway, he stops.

Without looking back, he adds, “You're capable. That’s why I expect better.”

Then he walks out.

Leaving you in the cold hum of the diagnostic lab, your pulse racing, your thoughts a snarl of frustration and something else—unsettling and electric—curling low in your gut.

You don’t know what that something is.

But you’re starting to suspect it won’t go away quietly.

You sit three seats from the end of the long chrome conference table, back straight, shoulders tight, fingers wrapped just a little too hard around your datapad.

The Surgical Briefing Room is too bright. It always is. Cold light from the ceiling plates bounces off polished surfaces, glass walls, and the brushed steel of the central console. A hologram hovers in the center of the room, slowly spinning: the reconstructed heart from this morning’s procedure, arteries lit in pulsing red and cyan.

You can feel sweat prickling at the nape of your neck under your uniform collar. Your scrubs are crisp, your hair pinned back precisely, your notes immaculate—but none of that matters when Dr. Myles Hanron speaks.

You’ve only spoken to him a few times. He’s been at Bell for twenty years. Stern. Respected. Impossible to argue with. Today, he's reviewing the recent cardiovascular procedure—the one you assisted under Zayne’s lead.

And something is off. He’s frowning at the scan display.

Then he looks at you.

“Explain this inconsistency in the anticoagulation log.”

You glance up, already feeling the slow roll of nausea in your stomach.

Your voice comes out measured, but your throat is dry. “I followed the automated-calibrated dosage curve based on intra-op vitals and confirmed with the automated log.”

Hanron raises a brow, his tablet casting a soft reflection on the lenses of his glasses. “Then you followed it wrong.”

The words hit like a slap across your face.

You feel the blood drain from your cheeks. Something sharp twists in your stomach.

“I—” you begin, mouth parting. You shift slightly in your seat, fingers tightening on the datapad in your lap, legs crossed too stiffly. Your body wants to shrink, but you force yourself not to move.

“Don’t interrupt,” Hanron snaps, before you can finish.

A few heads turn in your direction. One of the interns frowns, glancing at you with wide eyes. You stare straight ahead, trying to keep your breathing even, your spine straight, your jaw from visibly clenching.

Hanron paces two steps in front of the display. “You logged a 0.3 ml deviation on a patient with a known history of arrhythmic episodes. Are you unfamiliar with the case history? Or did you just not check?”

“I did check,” you say, quieter, trying to keep your tone professional. Your hands are starting to sweat. “The scan flagged it within range. I wasn’t improvising—”

“Then how did this discrepancy occur?” he presses. “Or are you suggesting the system is at fault?”

You flinch, slightly. You open your mouth to say something—to explain the terminal sync issue you noticed during the last vitals run—but your voice catches.

You’re a nurse.

You’re new.

So you sit there, every instinct in your body screaming to speak, to defend yourself—but you swallow it down.

You stare down at your datapad, the screen now blurred from the way your vision’s tunneling. You clench your teeth until your jaw aches.

You can’t speak up. Not without making it worse.

“Let this be a reminder,” Hanron says, turning his back to you as he scrolls through another projection, “that there is no room for guesswork in surgical prep. Especially not from auxiliary staff who feel the need to act above their training.”

Auxiliary.

The word burns.

You feel heat crawl up your chest. Your hands are shaking slightly. You grip your knees under the table to hide it.

And then—

“I signed off on that dosage.”

Zayne’s voice cuts clean through the air like a cold wire.

You turn your head sharply toward the door. He’s standing in the entrance, posture military-straight, coat half-unbuttoned, gloves tucked into his belt. His presence shifts the atmosphere instantly.

His black hair is perfectly combed back, not a strand out of place, glinting faintly under the sterile overhead lights. His silver-framed glasses sit low on the bridge of his nose, catching a brief reflection from the room’s data panels, but not enough to hide the expression in his eyes.

Hazel-green. Pale and piercing

He’s not looking at you. His gaze is fixed past you, locked on Hanron with unflinching intensity—like the man has just committed a fundamental breach of logic.

There’s not a wrinkle in his coat. Not a single misaligned button or loose thread. Even the gloves at his belt look placed, not shoved there. Zayne is, as always, polished. Meticulous. Icy.

But today—his expression is different.

His jaw is set tighter than usual. The faint crease between his brows is deeper. He looks like a man on the verge of unsheathing a scalpel, not for surgery—but for precision retaliation.

And when he speaks, his voice is calm. Controlled.

His face is unreadable. Voice flat.

“If there’s a problem with it, you can take it up with me.”

The silence in the room is instant. Tense. Airless.

Hanron turns slowly. “Doctor Zayne, this isn’t about—”

“It is,” Zayne replies, tone even sharper. “You’re implying a clinical error in my procedure. If you’re accusing her, then you’re accusing me. So let’s be clear.”

You can barely process it. Your heart is thudding, ears buzzing from the sudden shift in tone, from the weight of Zayne’s voice cutting through the tension like a scalpel. You look at him — really look — and for once, he isn’t focused on numbers or reports.

He’s solely focused on Hanron. And he is furious — not loudly, but in the way his voice doesn’t rise, his jaw locks, and his words slice like ice.

Just furious—in that cold, calculated way of his.

“She followed my instruction under direct supervision,” he says, voice steady. “The variance was intentional. Based on patient history and real-time rhythm response.”

He pauses just long enough to let the words land.

“It was correct.”

Hanron doesn’t respond right away.

His lips press into a thin line, face unreadable, and he shifts back a step—visibly checking himself in the silence Zayne has carved into the room like a scalpel.

“We’ll review the surgical logs,” Hanron mutters at last, voice clipped, his authority retreating behind procedure.

Zayne nods once. “Please do.”

Then, without fanfare, without another word, he steps forward—not toward the exit, but toward the table.

You track him with your eyes, unable to help it.

The low hum of the room resumes, like the air had been holding its breath. No one speaks. A few nurses drop their eyes back to their datapads. Pages turn. Screens flicker.

But you’re frozen in place, shoulders still tight, hands clenched in your lap to keep them from visibly shaking.

Zayne rounds the end of the table, his boots clicking softly against the metal flooring. His long coat sways with his movements, falling neatly behind him as he pulls out the seat directly across from you.

And sits.

Not at the head of the table. Not in some corner seat to observe.

Directly across from you.

He adjusts his glasses with two fingers, expression cool again, almost as if nothing happened. As if he didn’t just dress down a senior doctor in front of the entire room on your behalf.

He doesn’t look at you.

He opens the file on his datapad, stylus poised, reviewing the surgical results like this is any other debrief.

But you’re still staring.

You study the slight tension in his shoulders, the stillness in his hands, the way his eyes don’t drift—not toward Hanron, not toward you—locked entirely on the data as if that can contain whatever just happened.

You should say something.

Thank you.

But the words get stuck in your throat.

Your pulse is still unsteady, confusion mixing with the low thrum of heat behind your ribs. He didn’t need to defend you. He never steps into conflict like that, especially not for others—especially not for you.

You glance away first, eyes back on your screen, unable to ignore the twist in your gut.

The room empties, but you stay.

The echo of voices fades out with the hiss of the sliding doors. Just a few minutes ago, the surgical debrief room was bright with tension—every overhead light too sharp, the air too thin, the hum of holopanels and datapads a constant static in your head.

Now, it’s quiet. Still.

You sit for a moment longer, fingers resting on your lap, knuckles tight, back straight even though your entire body wants to collapse inward. You’re still warm from the flush of embarrassment, your pulse still flickering behind your ears.

Dr. Hanron’s words sting less now, dulled by the cool aftershock of what Zayne did.

He defended you.

You hadn’t expected it. Not from him.

You replay it in your head—his voice cutting in, his posture like stone, his eyes locked on Hanron like a scalpel ready to slice. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t even look at you.

But you felt it.

You felt the impact of what it meant.

And now, as you sit in the empty conference room—white walls, chrome-edged table, sterile quiet—you’re left with one burning thought:

You have to say something.

You rise slowly, brushing your palms down your thighs to wipe off the sweat that lingers there. You hesitate at the doorway. Your reflection stares back at you in the glass panel—eyes still a little wide, jaw tight, posture just a bit too stiff.

He didn’t have to defend you, but he did.

And that matters.

You step into the hallway.

It’s long and narrow, glowing with soft white overhead lights and lined with clear glass panels that reflect fragments of your movement as you walk. The hum of the ventilation system buzzes low and steady��comforting in its monotony. The air smells of antiseptic and the faint trace of ozone from high-oxygen surgical wards.

You spot him ahead, already halfway down the corridor, walking with purpose—long coat swaying slightly with each step, back straight, shoulders squared. Always composed. Always fast.

You hesitate. Your boots slow down and your throat tightens.

You want to turn back, to let it go, to pretend it was just professional courtesy. Nothing more. Nothing personal.

But you can’t.

Not this time.

You quicken your pace.

“Doctor Zayne!”

The name catches in the air, too loud in the quiet hallway. You flinch, just a little—but he stops.

You break into a small jog to catch up, boots tapping sharply against the tile. Your breath catches as you reach him.

Zayne turns toward you, expression unreadable, brows slightly furrowed in that ever-present, analytical way of his. The glow of the ceiling lights reflects off his silver-framed glasses, casting sharp highlights along the edges of his jaw.

He doesn’t say anything. Just waits.

You stop a foot away, heart thudding. You don’t know what you expected—maybe something colder. Maybe for him to ignore you entirely.

You swallow hard, eyes flicking up to meet his.

“I just…” Your voice is quieter now. Careful. “I wanted to say thank you.”

He doesn’t respond immediately. His gaze is steady. Measured.

“I don’t tolerate incompetence,” he says calmly. “That includes false accusations.”

You blink, taken off guard by the directness. It’s not warm. Not even particularly kind. But coming from him, it’s almost intimate.

Still, you can’t help yourself. “That wasn’t really about incompetence.”

“No,” he admits. “It wasn’t.”

The hallway feels smaller now, quieter. He’s watching you in full. Not scanning you like a chart, not calculating — watching. Still. Focused.

You nod slowly, grounding yourself in the moment. “Still. I needed to say it. Thank you.”

You’re suddenly aware of everything—of the warmth in your cheeks, of the way your hands twist at your sides, of how tall he stands compared to you, even when he’s not trying to intimidate.

And he isn’t. Not now.

If anything, he looks… still.

Not soft. Never that. But something quieter. Less armored.

“You handled yourself better than most would have,” he says after a moment. “Even if I hadn’t said anything, you didn’t lose control.”

“I didn’t feel in control,” you admit, a breath of nervous laughter escaping. “I was two seconds from either crying or throwing my datapad.”

That earns you something surprising—just the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Almost a smile. But not quite.

“Neither would’ve been productive,” he says.

You roll your eyes slightly. “Thanks, Doctor Efficiency.”

His glasses catch the light again, but his expression doesn’t change.

You glance past him, down the corridor. “I should get back to my rotation.”

He nods once. “I’ll see you in the lab.”

You pause.

Then—because you don’t know what else to do—you offer a small, genuine smile.

“I’ll be there.”

As you turn to leave, you feel his eyes on your back.

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