#I'm going to reread this one in bed

[gumnut-logic]

“What the hell were you thinking?!” Virgil ducked a fist aimed at his head, grabbed the guy around the belly and flipped him face-first into a wall.

“I dunno! Maybe I wasn’t?” Gordon darted out of the way of his own opponent’s fist.

Virgil grabbed a woman’s dropped scarf from a nearby table, his fingers brushing against broken glass. He shook the material and more glass tinkled to the equally strewn floor. The man in his other hand writhed and attempted to kick him in the shins with the heel of his boot. Virgil just shoved him harder into the wall.

Twisted scarf made excellent restraints, particularly when looped into a chair which was conveniently bolted to the floor.

It was a bar. It was supposed to be a quiet night with Gordon. A couple of brothers shooting the breeze after a hard day at work. It wasn’t often they got to sit down for a moment, have a meal and just talk.

There had been a false alarm. A reported mine collapse that hadn’t been as serious as suspected and after three earlier rescues in that day, Virgil had called a halt and invited Gordon out for dinner.

His fish brother had looked at him somewhat strangely for all of two seconds and then enthusiastically accepted.

Stashing Two at the nearest GDF base, donning casual clothes, they’d borrowed a car, driven into town, and after a couple of personal errands, found a decent looking bar and ordered steak and a couple of beers.

It had been really good. It wasn’t often that they got time to just relax and enjoy each other’s company.

The alcohol had been minimal as technically they were still on call. Gordon had a quite long and persuasive discussion with John as to whether he should drop down and join them.

John politely declined.

Gordon threatened his tribble collection.

John threatened a fish tank or two.

Gordon threatened a telescope.

John threatened to tell Penelope about Gordon’s fangirly underwear collection.

Virgil stepped in before Gordon exploded.

As it was, the couple one table over were staring over their shoulders at the two guys apparently arguing with their collars.

John was wrestled into a promise of some downtime day after next and asked to tally it up with the rest of the brothers as a family get together.

All was good and well and enjoyable.

Until they walked into the bar.

It wasn’t a rough bar. In fact, it showed signs of families visiting during the day and had a few older folks out the back playing the slot machines.

But every community had this type and every community had to handle their bullshit.

Five of them in total. Two of them decided to harass a woman sitting by herself at the bar. Gordon happened to be ordering some mineral water to follow up on their beers at the time and, of course, he stepped in.

And this was the result.

Of course, the entire situation split the bar into three camps – the Tracy side, the annoyance side, and the innocent bystanders who just wanted a quiet meal at the pub.

Virgil had a foot each in the first and last camps.

But he was a Tracy and a guy built even bigger than Virgil loomed over Gordon with all the signs of intending to smush his brother.

While Gordon was quite capable of wiping the floor clean with the guy’s head, Virgil hadn’t been comfortable with the four others paying far too much attention to the matter.

So, he had swallowed the last of his beer and, putting the glass down, wandered over to stand beside his shorter brother.

Now, Virgil wasn’t particularly tall, but where Gordon’s swimmer’s strength was mostly hidden by his shirt, Virgil’s heavy lifting strength most certainly wasn’t.

The loomer eyed Virgil with a little more respect, but unfortunately the man’s height must have outpaced his IQ, because he didn’t back down.

He had far too much confidence in his buddies.

Loomer threw a punch and Gordon educated him in WASP fighting techniques.

It was a very short lesson.

Virgil took on the four who didn’t like that.

God bless his wonderful sister for all that training, sans coffee at five in the morning or not.

Gordon finished off Loomer and took on two of the guys Virgil had been dancing  with.

From then on it had been dodge and attempt to restrain. Virgil had no interest in causing injury, he just wanted to contain the idiots.

They didn’t seem to want to comply.

So, there were bruises and broken furniture.

Virgil felt sorry for the bar owner. No doubt Tracy money would be fixing a few things. Scott was not going to be impressed.

Virgil walked up behind a guy who had thought it would be fun to team up with Gordon’s opponent in a semi-coordinated attack. He didn’t bother hitting the man, he just grabbed an arm and yanked. Spinning him around he used another convenient wall to bring his attack to a very abrupt halt.

The man’s language was explicit and quite offensive.

“Okay, now break it up.” Several police officers walked into the bar.

Gordon’s opponent was already on the floor. The aquanaut held both of his hands up and backed up to show he was no threat.

Virgil had to keep a hold of his still profane antagonist, so he was only able to hold up one hand.

A gun clicked. “Let the man go.”

A frown and Virgil did as he was asked, holding up his remaining hand.

Foul Mouth spun around and before the police officer could react, planted his fist in Virgil’s cheek bone.

“Hey!” And there were suddenly police everywhere. Hands grabbed Virgil as he attempted to shake the stars from his eyesight.

Goddamn, that hurt.

“We’re the victims here. He’s my brother, let him go!”

Blinking, he tried to straighten, but his arms were wrenched behind his back and handcuffed.

His head spun.

“Do you have any idea of who we are?!”

Gordon, shut up or we’ll be on the networks within minutes.

Then Scott would be really pissed.

Virgil wilted in the grip of the men holding him.

His brother was going to be apoplectic.

-o-o-o-

Reactions

[inkovert]

I don't make the rules but - if you don't get excited at the thought of going back and re-reading the story you wrote then you're writing the wrong story.

You are your first and most important reader.

[itsdefinitely]

do girl jeri and boy jerry exist explicitly to torment me

[mirrortouchedsea]

(CW for Suicidal Ideation)

Hinata’s breath was heavy as he landed the final move of their act. The tinny music playing from their speakers went quiet and the audience clapped politely. It was always the same song and dance as the crowd moved on with their day. A few of them tossed some yen their way but otherwise it was time for them to regroup for their next performance. Yuta knelt down by the hat with some coins and bills sticking out of it, counting their earnings thus far. 

“Hey aniki! We might be able to eat well tonight! There’s like 3,000 yen in here!” Yuta exclaimed. The idea of a filling dinner made Hinata’s mouth water. Oh what he wouldn’t do for even warm noodles not from a cup. 

Hinata turned to grab the iPod from its place on the speaker, choosing the next song to play. He put the phone back and turned the volume up a little more to play over the evening rush. The music started and he and Yuta moved in unison around their little stage, taking in the crowd. There were some regulars that Hinata recognized, the businesswoman who was perpetually tired but always stopped for their performances and a few kids who looked up at them in awe as their parents were trying to usher them away. There were always new faces too, of course people traveled across the country all the time or took new trains or moved cities, but there was something different about the boy with the bright red hair at the back of the crowd. His sky blue eyes pierced straight through to Hinata’s heart and made him stumble when their gaze connected with his own. 

“Hey, aniki focus! We’re almost done, don't fail on me now!” Yuta whispered, carefully shielding Hinata from the crowd as he regained his footing. Yuta was always so quick thinking. Hinata got back to his position and finished up the routine, eyes looking for that boy he had spotted earlier. He half hoped the boy would come talk to them afterwards while they were packing up for the evening, but when he finally saw that shock of red hair, it was moving away with the rest of the crowd. 

Hinata sighed, disappointed. Maybe that boy would come back someday. There was something about him that drew Hinata in. 

Someone bumped his shoulder, drawing him from his thoughts. “Hey, aniki, are you alright? You seem out of it today.” Yuta’s hand rested on his shoulder and Hinata couldn’t help but smile. Wasn’t it supposed to be the other way around, the older brother checking in on the younger one? 

“Hey hey everything’s fine Yuta-kun, don’t worry about me. I was just thinking about that delicious dinner you’re treating us too~” He playfully pushed back on Yuta, the red haired blue eyed boy all but forgotten now. 

“Hey! It’s technically our money so I’m not treating you to anything!” Yuta scowled but the smile in his voice was obvious to Hinata. 

“Hehe, then dinner’s on me! Say ‘thank you aniki!’” 

--- 

It was a week before Hinata saw the red headed boy in their audience again. He had all but slipped his mind, but those striking blue eyes were impossible to forget. Yuta was introducing their next performance which allowed Hinata to take a better look at the older boy who had made his way to the middle of the audience. He was tall and what Hinata could see of his outfit seemed ill-fitting at best, along with a headband holding his hair away from his eyes. 

Hinata scrambled to his position as the music queued up and let his instincts take over. Every so often he found himself glancing at the red haired boy, trying to see what he thought of their performance, but his face revealed nothing. 

Why was he so focused on this one boy? It’s not like they didn’t have strangers who watched them sometimes, and none of them had caught Hinata’s attention quite like this boy. He really couldn’t be much older than Hinata, maybe 17 at the oldest. Was he an older brother too? The boy’s eyes made contact with Hinata’s and it took everything in him to not look away. 

Once again however, Yuta snapped him out of whatever trance he had been in and everything was forgotten. 

“Are you really okay aniki? You’ve been out of it a lot recently…” Oh how it pained Hinata to see the concern on Yuta’s face. Nothing was even really wrong per se, but Hinata was distracted nonetheless. 

“I’m fine, Yuta-kun. Geez, can’t your older brother have some peace?” His mouth ran faster than his brain and he immediately regretted it. Yuta’s face flipped through several emotions; hurt, confusion, exhaustion. It wasn’t like him to hide things from his brother, so why was he doing it now? “Whatever, let’s get some dinner. My treat~” 

“It’s our money!” 

--- 

The boy continued to make appearances at the twins’ performances on the street, becoming something of a regular but disappearing before Hinata could flag him down. Hinata wasn’t even sure what compelled him to want to talk to the older boy, but he wanted to say something. He had even noticed that the boy seemed happier and his clothes fit a little better, not like they were just the first thing he grabbed out of a donation pile. 

Finally, after almost a month of trying to say something to the boy, Hinata saw him walk up to their hat on the ground and drop a few coins into it. 

“Thank you!” He said, walking up to the boy. “Hope you enjoyed the performance!” 

The boy froze as if he wasn’t expecting to be greeted like that. There was a slight flush to his face. “I-it’s nothing, don’t worry about it. You uh…you were great?” The boy seemed unsure of how to reply, though Hinata was happy with the compliment nonetheless. Maybe… 

“What brings you here? I mean--agh, sorry! I just mean…I noticed you don’t have a regular schedule?” The words were practically falling out of his mouth and Hinata wasn’t really sure what they were doing. “Like you show up a few days in a row but then go three weeks without stopping by at all!” He was just digging a bigger grave for himself! Great! 

“Ah uhm…I’m not from around here.” The boy scratched at the back of his neck. Maybe Hinata should back off. 

“O-oh, yeah of course. Duh. Are you visiting family or something?” 

“Not quite. I really should get going though. See you…later?” 

“Yeah, see you later.” 

“Hey Aniki, are you coming or not? The food’s gonna get cold!” 

“Coming!” 

---

It was almost a month before the boy appeared again. In the time between, Hinata had come up with a million different ideas for what his life was like. Was he a delinquent who skipped school to hang out on the street with gangs (how scary! But he looked strong enough to fit in)? Or was he a runaway from a city far away, somewhere Hinata only dreamed of visiting like Okinawa? Maybe he had a bad relationship with his dad and ran away, a thought that Hinata hated to admit had crossed his mind more than once. Or maybe he just passed through the city on the way to somewhere else. That seemed to be the most likely option, especially if he couldn’t come very often. 

When the boy did finally show up again, Hinata had to hold himself back from practically jumping him after the performance. Something looked…different about him though. His eyes seemed more tired? Like he hadn’t been sleeping well. Hinata thought of a fight he had with his dad a few weeks ago that made it hard for him to sleep and thought maybe this boy was the same as him in that regard. 

Hinata decided to wave him down after the performance, hat in hand (they had done pretty well! It felt heavier than normal and even without counting everything, they’d probably have enough for breakfast too). 

“Hey! You look tired, are you--did you want to get something to eat?” Please say yes please say yes please say yes--

The boy’s mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. Did Hinata mess up? Oh he overstepped and now there really wasn’t any chance of getting to know him. Why was he so interested in talking to the boy anyway? Hinata had been asking himself that for a while now and he still had no answer. 

“I…I can’t. I need to go.” The boy turned and ran off before Hinata could ask more. He just kept messing up, didn’t he? Maybe he really was just a burden to Yuta and their dad and the restaurant owner. He shouldn’t have been born and Yuta would’ve been better off--

“Aniki! Sheesh, get your head out of the clouds. How much did we make?” Yuta grabbed the hat out of Hinata’s hand and quickly counted out the coins and bills. “Woah! We could eat a whole five course meal with this…” 

“Think with your head a little Yuta-kun. We’ve got breakfast paid for if we don’t blow it all tonight!” 

Yuta nodded before handing the hat back to Hinata. “So, my pick tonight?” 

--- 

Hinata signed the note, trying his best to keep the tears from dripping on it and smudging the ink. After his blunder with the red haired boy, he hadn’t shown up to their performances for over two months. Hinata was certain that he had messed up and was too forward. He didn’t even know the kid’s name! Why did he think the two of them could ever be friends? 

And on top of all of that, Yuta had become more and more distant from Hinata, as if Hinata just existing was dragging him back from his full potential. Yuta would have been better off as an only child and maybe Hinata deserved this life. Thirteen years living with their father, who had treated them as nothing but monsters, blaming them for their mother’s death and everything bad that had happened since, Hinata had resolved to run away. He’d make his way to the mountains and maybe he’d find someone willing to help him or maybe he’d slip into an endless sleep. 

Dear Yuta-kun, the letter had started. I’m sorry that I’m leaving like this, but I know that I’m just a burden to you. I’m sorry for that. I wish I had more to say but I just want you to be happy and maybe father will treat you better without me. I love you. 

The other letter, already folded and placed on the table, was much shorter, addressed to his father. 

Dear Father, I’m sorry I couldn’t be a better son. Please don’t take this out on Yuta-kun, it was my decision. 

The less words he spent on that man, the better. Hinata folded Yuta’s note and placed it on top before quietly exiting through the front door. 

---

Everything was cold. Hinata slumped against a tree, head between his knees in a last ditch effort to keep warm. Sleep should come soon and he could painlessly move on, at least that’s what he hoped. He barely registered someone approaching him, but didn’t look up. 

“Hey.” The voice was vaguely familiar, but where did he remember it from? A warm hand shook at Hinata’s shoulder. 

“‘M fine.” The words were barely a whisper. The other voice grunted before walking away. It was another minute before Hinata felt something drape around his shoulders and a cup shoved in his hand. Whatever was in it was steaming, warming his fingers. 

“Drink.” The voice said. And he did, the tea was very, very bitter. That voice… 

Hinata looked up, meeting a pair of bright, sky blue eyes. That’s where he recognized the voice from. Did he…live? In the mountains? The boy seemed to recognize him too. He was wearing a headband and what looked like very warm clothes that Hinata wished he had. Hinata finished the tea, trying not to focus on the flavor. It helped at least, in warming him up a bit. 

“Why are you here?” The boy finally spoke again. It sounded like he was unsure if he should be mad or concerned, or both, but he offered Hinata another cup of tea, which he accepted if only to warm his fingers up. He pulled the blanket closer around his body. 

“I…ran away.” Hinata looked downward, as if admitting this out loud was a cardinal sin. The boy gestured for him to continue. “I guess I just…I was dragging my brother down. I’m not really talented at anything like he is and I’m the reason our dad sees us as monsters. He shouldn’t have to deal with a brother like me.” Hinata wasn’t really sure why he was spilling this so easily. The boy was a good listener though, hanging on every word Hinata spoke. Was he shaking? He’d never admitted this out loud before and it felt oddly freeing to say it to someone. 

He waited for a response, anything to chase away the uncomfortable silence Hinata had created with his confession. He really fucked up, didn’t he. He should have just kept that to himself like he always did instead of burdening a stranger like this! 

“I…” The boy started, barely audible above Hinata’s racing heartbeat. “I’m glad you’re alive.” He sounded unsure of his words. Was he just trying to be nice? Of course he was, how else do you respond to a kid telling you something like this? 

“You don’t have to pretend.” 

“I’m not. When I saw you singing and dancing…I think I realized something--” The boy cut himself off, the suddenness of it making Hinata look up. A moment later he heard his brother calling out from the woods behind him. 

“Aniki! There you are!” Yuta tackled him to the ground, squeezing Hinata like he might just blow away in the wind if they weren’t careful. “You scared me! I can’t believe you’d do something like that!” 

Tears pricked at Hinata’s eyes again. “I’m sorry, Yuta-kun. I’m really sorry.” He buried his face in Yuta’s jacket. His nose started to run, from the cold or the tears he couldn’t tell. 

“You aren’t a burden to me. I don’t know what I’d do without you around Aniki!” Yuta pulled back, hands gripping Hinata’s shoulders. “Promise you won’t do something that stupid again.” 

Hinata wiped the tears from his eyes, sparing a glance where the boy had been. It was as if he had never been there at all and Hinata had just hallucinated the whole interaction. He looked back at his twin brother. “I promise.” 

“Now let's get you home and warmed up. Where’d you get this blanket anyway? It doesn’t look like one of ours.” 

“I…” The boy had been real, and he told Hinata he was glad he was alive (even if his explanation was cut short by Hinata’s brother rushing in). “I guess I just found it. There must be people living nearby or something.” 

--- 

The chatter of the night club died down for the night as everyone was getting ready to go home. Hinata’s feet were sore from running around, but it was satisfying to be back in a restaurant like this. It reminded him of his childhood working for the Chinese restaurant with Yuta. 

Rinne, the leader of Crazy:B who had wanted to get closer to Hinata, and by extension 2wink, slid a drink down the bar. It looked like a horrible mix of syrups and club soda, but one sip was all it took for Hinata to drink it all down. 

“Great job tonight Hina! You’re a real natural at this stuff.” Rinne was washing the other glasses behind the bar now as Hinata finished the rest of his soda. 

“Yuta-kun and I used to work in a restaurant so it comes pretty naturally to us!” 

“That so?” 

“Mhm!” Hinata slid the empty glass back to Rinne, who quickly dumped the ice and washed it before tossing the towel over his shoulder. The entire week they’d been working the club together, there had been something bugging Hinata at the back of his mind. “Hey, Rinne-senpai…did you ever watch our shows?” 

“Huh? ‘Course I have, vice prez wants us to work together so I’ve seen a few of ‘em.” 

“That’s not what I mean. I mean like…back when Yuta-kun and I did street performances.” 

Rinne paused for a moment. “Why’re you askin’?” 

“Oh, it’s nothing. You just reminded me of someone who used to watch them.” 

“Well I’m sure whoever it was is proud to see you singin’ and dancin’ on stage.” Rinne had come around the bar and stood next to Hinata, ruffling his hair. “Let’s get goin’ or I’m never gonna hear the end of it from Niki-kun.” 

[tenderthreats]

my memory's so dogshit that i'm holding these different fandoms i write and doing my best to remember everything about each of them but i can tell about many different things that i'm just... blanking and it's both panicking and annoying rughietj

[mugiwarafan]

if non-op fans already think we’re insane about regular chapters they’re not prepared for what happens when shanks shows up

[stillgrows]

alright, all my former solo muses have been added here. i've only copied over espio's actual information so far, but everyone is at least in the muse list and i'll chip at those about pages over the next few days.

[the-busy-ghost]

Me: Ah nice I'll just have a little nap and then get on with my reading

My brain, an hour and a half later: 'Now let's go back and talk further about George Kirrin...'

[iamthepulta]

Sunless-Albion tasted like gunpowder and cinnamon.

If Westlie opened her mouth and breathed deep, she could ever-so-faintly taste hours on her tongue. A muted, earthy tang, like truffles stored in ice.

The sky was a deep pitch.

She hadn't gotten used to it, even after two years; even after near-death blowing up the sun; even after landing the Queen's final blow with her own two hands. None of it felt real.

Elijah's footsteps sounded on the stairwell and she turned as he made the final step. One mug was more carefully balanced than the other, lest it slip on his glass fingers. She took that one. They both settled against the railing.

She sipped. Elijah had made an Achlys blend of tea; dark, earthy, very familiar. She savored it. "... The sky's darker than I remember."

She couldn't see his smile behind the mug, but the skin behind his eyepatch wrinkled. "The Khanate has helped. There have been contributions."

"Contributions from you I hear."

His nose wrinkled. "Family contributions."

"Your contributions."

He ignored that, and Westlie dismissed it for another day.

"... How's Andy?"

"Brilliant." She smiled. "Still rough around the edges, but he learns quickly."

"You have an inordinate amount of patience for the most inexplicable things."

"Thank you," she sipped again. "I'll take that as a compliment."

"He needs it."

"He does."

"What about Arthur? Are you going to visit him?"

Westlie hesitated. "... Probably. At some point. I should."

Elijah hesitated, and Westlie could see the question on his face. She took another sip so she could hide behind her mug.

"Why haven't you come to London for two years?"

'Busy' was true, but it was also a lie. Westlie squinted at the stars like they would hold an answer and Elijah waited.

She admired that about him, as much as she hated it. That deep-sunken silence as she tried to reconcile her actions with words. She let her breath spiral in soft blotted clouds from the chill. "I... I don't know."

Elijah waited.

"Nothing's finished," she whispered. It sounded loud despite the noise of London. "There's so much to do- so many runs to make- we didn't finish."

"There's no sun in the sky. No throne of hours."

"Achlys-" Westlie's voice cracked; for a second she hated herself for sounding half her age. "New Winchester, Port Prosper- They took the brunt of London's invasion so we could have that chance. There isn't enough to repay them-"

She stayed quiet for a moment, hoping he'd read her mind- that she didn't want to sit. She had to do. Had to keep doing. She could help, she could fly, she was free, it was purpose, and whenever she was still there was that itch to keep pushing.

She wasn't Morgan- Gods knew where Marion and Sally and Morgan were off now to kill more Judgements- but she wanted to make things safe in the mess they were leaving. Which words said that?

"I- I just... I want to finish the job; and right now, it's not in London."

"I know." Elijah hesitated. He cleared his throat. "I mean, you have a ho- place here, if you want it. Somewhere to stay that isn't Arthur's."

"O-oh."

"I hoped you weren't staying away because of that." His voice softened a little. "I know you're not done."

"... how?"

"Your letters were happy." They'd finished their tea, so he couldn't hide the way his visible eye softened with understanding and the separation that lingered between them sometimes.

They stood there on the roof of the Fry mansion as gas lights shone through the mist and locomotives steamed to the docks.

"I missed you," Westlie blurted out. "It's not the same."

Elijah's face flushed a violent pink.

Her cheeks burned.

"I- fuck-"

"Yo- you have a home here, whenever you need-" Elijah's words were a little strangled but he managed. "I- I mean that."

oh fucking hell

In the middle of the night Elijah was still wearing his goddamn tie under his waistcoat and Westlie had parked in Wolfstack station and signed 29 pages of paperwork and after two years Elijah was still going to play dignified even though it was very, very attractive- and she dragged him into a kiss.

It was fierce and crushed and hurt, kinda, but she wanted it to hurt because she couldn't stop captaining, and there was a hole at her side where he once stood and that hole hurt, and she missed him and that hurt, and they were both gasping and red when she finally let go.

"... Ow."

"I love you." The words choked in her throat. "I love you- I will come home."

"You could have said that."

"I am- did."

"Gentler next time." But he was teasing now in his dry manner with the subtle up-quirk of the lip.

"Fine." Westlie waited for him to collect the mugs and face her again before she grabbed his tie.

She

gently

with

emphasized slowness

-pulled him down into another kiss that she did make softer that time because she was almost crying with relief. She didn't pull away at the end, and he rested his forehead on hers.

"I'm sorry," Westlie whispered, "for making you worry."

"Come home to me, Wes."

"I will."

[seekingthestars]

happy wednesday, going bss is the best thing and also i've been so tired this week i don't wanna do anything also i have a ton of projects at work and i'm just sorta. existing. vaguely.

[crowfeathers]

god I keep forgetting about the IAAC 80s anime. oh how it eludes me (currently trying to find and watch it)

[lilacgaby]

6:21 a.m

husband!bakugo experiences one moment of what you deal with everyday with your kids.

you were currently cuddled into katsuki's chest, fast asleep.

in between taking care of your newborn son and your toddler daughter, he knew you were exhausted out of your mind. he already had to return to hero work since he took a month off for your last few weeks pregnant, but he wasn't home all day besides the weekends. like today.

speaking her into existence, his toddler daughter slowly waddled over to your side of the bed, about to pat you on the back and awaken you.

"tsk. hey, no." he whispered, making her pout. "i wanna play." she said, crossing her arms. she rubbed her eyes, obviously still a bit sleepy herself.

"mommy is sleeping, she can't play it's bedtime. go back to bed." he said, hoping to every single deity that'd hear him that she wouldn't start crying.

she pouted even more now, before stomping her feet over to his side of the bed and pulling on him. "nooo, i dont wanna sleep!" she said, her voice getting loud.

"don't yell at me missy, use your inside voice." he rolled his eyes, paying attention to your body that seemed to always be on high alert stirring slightly. he soothed you back to sleep, before untangling himself from you and sitting on the corner of your shared bed, now face to face with your daughter.

"we're going to your room and you're going to sleep, unless you want to be put in time out." her eyes widened, her crossed arms dropping as she decided to start negotiating.

"two bedtime stories, go fish, and uno."

"one bedtime story, one go fish game, and i won't tell your mom this happened."

"and pancakes for breakfast." she ordered.

she nodded to herself, seeming happy with the arrangement. she grabbed onto his sweatpants, trying to pull him off to her room already.

"i'm going, im going."

he was heading out, until he heard the whines of his son start sounding out from the baby monitor, making both him and his daughter freeze.

she tugged on his pants, "the baby's crying."

he sighed. "i know." he was squinting his eyes in the dark environment trying to see if you had woken up. after he saw no movement, he ran to go get your son.

he picked him up in his arm and then followed his daughter to her room across the hallway. he proceeded to play go fish one handed, occasionally asking his son, who was drinking a bottle of formula, for 'help', which made his daughter say "you're cheating!"

he read them 'goldilocks and the three bears', which he kept having to reread pages because he 'wasn't doing the voices good enough' in his daughter's opinion.

his voice, still husky because he was half-asleep, soothed his son to sleep in his arms, and his daughter back to sleep.

he layed his son down in the cot in your shared room, too lazy to go back to the nursery.

like puzzle pieces, you fit back into one another, your head back in his chest and his laid on top of yours. he was glad you got to sleep the entire time, even though he knew you had woken up because of your daughter's loud nature, you managed to go back to sleep.

a win was a win, he thought as he went back to sleep.

and woke up with his daughter hugging your back, sticking her toungue out at him when he asked why she was even there again. making you laugh when you woke up to his scrunched up face of annoyance.

as he made the chocolate chip pancakes, your daughter clung to your side as your son laid in your chest, he thought about how having kids was one of the best decisions he'd ever made.

"hurry up and give me more! you always give mommy the better pancakes!"

most of the time.

[forsworned]

part one

cw: onlyfans!simon, canon universe, cybersex, solo sex/masturbation, being simon's good girl while he has some downtime, parasocial relationship???

author's note: and let me say this once to be clear, if you don't know how to ask for a part two properly without giving some sort of positive feedback and instead demand it from me you will get a verbal spanking from me and i will embarrass you, i do not care

Your breath catches as you gawk at your phone, rereading the message. The sensation of anxiety pricks at you causing you to perspire under your pits and the temple of your forehead.

The thought of him—TacticalHeat—or Ghost or whatever the hell his name is waiting on the other side, possibly stroking himself at the notion of you joining him on a private call sends a rush of arousal up your spine.

Ping!

TacticalHeat: You still there, lovie?

Oh, fuck. You card your fingers through your hair and let out a heavy exhale. It's awful timing really. Like getting caught with your pants down...literally.

Fingers sticky with lube and your own arousal, you stretch your limbs to open the drawer of your nightstand and pull out a wet wipe to clean off your hands and get a gander at the state of your appearance. It's slightly disheveled, but honestly? In a super sexy bedhead kind of way.

You wipe the corners of your eyes to remove the accumulated smudged mascara from your gruesome work day and let a sharp expire through your nose. Well, if you were going to do this, you'd at least look hot doing it.

You: Yeah, I'm here.

TacticalHeat: So what do you think, lovie...you up for it?

"Fuck!" You exclaim to yourself, not realizing that your dumbass forgot to reply to his original message. Your thumbs hover over the keyboard for a moment, tracing circles in the air as you try to unscramble your mind.

You: Now works...what do you have in mind?

The three dots appear almost instantly like he's waiting for your response with the same fiery intensity that has you gripping at your phone.

TacticalHeat: I'll send you a link. I wanna see you, too.

Ghost has invited you to a Zoom meeting.

Your heart pounds rapidly against your ribcage, and you feel the heat sidling to your cheeks. You hadn't expected this to escalate so quickly, to be pushed into the spotlight. And yet, the idea of him watching you is thrilling.

With trembling fingers, you adjust the lighting in your room and the camera on your phone to ensure you're getting the best quality. One last look in the mirror to smooth out your hair, and make sure your top reveals a little cleavage before you tap on the link, muddying your phone screen with oils on your finger.

Twiddling with the tripod that sits by the edge of your bed as the link loads, you clip on your phone and sit back while you wait to get accepted. He wastes no time getting you out of the waiting room and you watch as the screen shifts, and suddenly, there he is. Simon's half-lidded gaze fixates on you, his familiar skull-mask in place, but this time it's different. He's relaxed, clad in a black loose-fitted henley that outlines his taut physique, and he's manspreading in light-wash denim jeans, hands exposed and you're already aching at the sight. It's an intimate setting and the atmosphere shifts when he gets a real gander at you. His gravelly voice sends a frisson up your spine:

"There's my good girl," he purrs, and just like that you're hooked.

There's a moment where your heart drops to your ass, and you let out a little shaky breath before giving him a shy smile. His gaze doesn't waver. It's intense and focused as he drinks in every detail of your appearance. You're half wondering what he thinks of you and half focused on the hoarseness in his voice when he calls you 'good girl'. How the blood rushes to your face and your trepidation tingles on your skin.

"Hi," You finally muster up and you swear his dark eyes light up, or maybe it's the delusion that spikes into your prefrontal cortex. "I'm a bit, um, surprised that you wanted to chat like this."

His mask warps in the corner of where you assume his lips are indicating a smirk. "I like a bit of spontaneity," he says, leaning closer to the camera. "Besides I wanted to see how you would handle this."

You avert your gaze for a moment, feeling hot all over again. He notes how you suck in your bottom and how your dilated eyes flicker all over the screen, a subtle sign that your adrenaline is pumping. He wishes he could hear your heart beating through the screen.

Your fingers delicately trace over your collarbone, "what do you wanna see?" your voice drops to a sultry whisper.

His eyes darken and he takes a slow breath as fixates on you, taking in all your subtle gestures and the silkiness in your dulcet tone.

"Show me how you've missed me," he rasps. "show me what you've been doing while you've waited for me."

Christ, you want to melt into your mattress. You knew it was a playful gesture to create a more intimate atmosphere between you two, even if it wasn't true.

The challenge in his tone exhilarates you with a hint of collywobbles that infest your tummy. With a quick glance at your full-size mirror mounted on your closet door, you begin to tug at the strap of your skimpy top, teasingly revealing enough of your skin to keep him riveted.

And it works.

As you continue, you can hear the jingling of his belt being unbuckled and the sound of his zipper going down.

Your blown eyes are entranced by how he frees himself from the waistband of his briefs and you’re driveling over how the muscles under the porcelain skin of his cock twitches. He tilts his head back, transfixed on how you’re exposing your pebbled bud to him.

“Bloody hell,” he murmurs, swallowing thickly as you squeeze your breasts between your fingers. “Every inch of you looks perfect, lovie.”

You practically fawn over his compliments. He’s praising you, watching you, getting off to you. And that feeling is like nothing you’ve ever experienced. You feel liberated and exposed, knowing that he’s eagerly watching you as the lines blur. This feeling consumes you, consumes him, and soon you’re stripping off your panties and he doesn’t even bother to hide the groan that escapes his lips. 

“Look at you, absolutely stunning. Every bit of you…” His tone changes when you part your silken, glistening folds. “Touch yourself for me, lovie.”

It’s a demanding tone. One that sends a frisson up your spinal column and you feel the need to please, but there’s another side of you that awakens. The kind that crawls out when you’re being railroaded by a domineering man. 

“Say please,” You wave your wand around. 

He softly snorts at your attempt at trying to tame him, but he humors you, “Please, lovie. I crave ya.”

And that’s enough to inflate your ego. Your fingers switch on the vibrator and you tease it over your clit, bucking your hips at your sensitive clit. 

There’s a twitch in his eyes when they widen. Like the light in his head switched on. “So you’ve been playing with yourself, have you, pretty girl?” he coos, sitting up a bit more. Oh, you’ve really got his attention now. 

Your heart flutters at the same rate that your pussy does when you realize he takes note of your current over aroused state. “Maybe,” you give him a coquettish grin. 

As you take the initiative and push the boundaries with him, a rumbling growl emits from him. His gaze intensifies as they lock on yours with a mixture of surprise and approval. He loves a good brat.

“Is that so?” he susurrates, his tone oozes with amusement. He likes the way your pretty face glimmers with the excitement to satisfy him. “You wanna take control now, do you?”

He shifts in his seat. “Go on then, lovie.” he gestures to you, and oh how his dick creams at the sight of you shaking your legs on for, gasping at the vibrating sensation of your toy caressing your cunt. You’re really such a site for sore eyes.

“Such a pretty pussy,”he praises with a husky voice that makes your heart race. The saccharine moans that leave your lips as you spasms against the silicone while you instruct him to tug at himself. 

He obliges because how can he not when you’re looking so fucking luscious on the other side of the camera as you winsomely order him to smear the opulent precum that oozes from his angry, swollen tip. A little sob leaves your lips when you see how compliant he is, and how his chest shudders at your words and creamy cries of delight. 

“Just like that,” he encourages, pumping at himself and in an instant the tables turn, and you’re more than willing to let him take control. He pants at the sight of your parted, saliva-lacquered lips and lolled back eyes. “No one else gets to see you like this. Only me.”

And that sentence alone leaves you breathless. “Oh, you like that?” He chuckles, through his own labored breaths. The raw emotions in his voice makes it clear how much he’s affected by you, “God, you’re everything I want and more.”

And that does it for you because your orgasm rips through you like a hurricane and you feel your spine involuntarily arch in pleasure, peaked breasts splayed out as your pussy rapidly pulsates on full display for him. They bounce at your ragged breaths and throes of passion and he’s quick to follow, elongating the pleasure of your peak. His velvety, opulent cum spurts out in plentiful, white cords as he bucks his hips and throws his head back. His guttural moans are like music to your ears and you’re quaking at the pure rapture. 

There’s a long moment of silence as you both come down from your highs. A laugh leaves your lips, and a wry grin twitches at his features under his balaclava. You’re no longer dripping nerves. Your smile lights up the room, and his heart swells at the sight of your afterglow. Your confidence shines through and he’s still hard. Not a very common occurrence in the world of Ghost.

Your eyes flicker to his girthy cock and your grin spreads. His eyes follow yours and he chuckles and gently pumps himself, “not every day that happens.”

You cock a brow. “What the inviting me for a cybersex sesh, or the staying hard after cumming part?”

He barks out a hearty laugh, “Both I s’ppose.” he softly plashes. “Really got me goin’ there, lovie.”

And the nickname brings you back to life. Maybe you really were delirious because you can sense that his eyes display a different range of lingering emotions--persisting lust and a genuine admiration. You can’t help but to feel a little victorious as you watch him continue to stroke himself, even after the both of you reached your peak.

“Not everyday I meet someone who can keep up with me,” he rasps. He lets out a breath of satisfaction.

You tilt your head, a coy smile etches into your lips. “Guess I’m just full of surprises,” you reply softly. There’s that sensual confidence seeping into your tone and it shows on your body.

He chuckles. It’s low and alluring and it causes gooseberries to trail up your skin. “That you are, lovie,” he counters, fiddling with the hem of his shirt. His voice makes you feel warm and gooey. “Could get used to this…to you.”

The implication hangs heavy in the air making his interest in you clear and undeniable. Your heart skips a beat as the heat between you simmers again. It’s no longer the deviancy alone that tips him off, it’s the fact that he’s brought out a different side of you.  

“Maybe next time,” your voice is low and tempting as your eyes motion to his still-engorged length. “you’ll let me show you how much more I can handle.”

His smirk widens under his mask, and his hunger for you multiplies. “Count on it.” he replies with the promise of fulfilling that request.

You both share a yearning moment. The spark between you is electrifying and certainly obvious. You decide to make the first move as you sit up to hover your sticky thumb over the end call button, “Good night, Ghost.”

He chews at the end of his cheek and his eyes crinkle signaling that he was smiling wide. “Good night, lovie.”

There’s no doubt in your mind that this won’t be the last time you’ll see each other like this.

taglist: @fallen-angelslove @cinnabeanz @pricesugarwife @daikongirlie @firesgod @marierg

@multifand0midi07 @surenotsorry @forgottensomewhere @teenagellamaangel @nijiru @deliverancesix

@milk-man3000 @russellsimp @madzzz0797 @kittykatgorl @nerd-without-a-cause @mikasakuchiki @haleyaaah

@hiken-no-stark @shellyshellshell @livingoutsidethetardis @jemomgershippingco @kruegerismymalewife

@ki-ssshot @essentialbeats-blog @dmitriene

[gottagobuycheese]

The great thing about night shift is I get to be awake at night and asleep during much of the day, but the annoying thing about it is that it’ll take me like half a year to be funcitonally diurnal again

[eldritch-spouse]

Going to be thirsty here for a moment-. But rereading Breg's fics made me wonder how he would be if Roomie started training herself to be able to take both of his dicks in one hole. Just to let him inside and hammer away. Like, please, sir, break me. 🤲🥺

[Love when people come here like "I hope I'm not being too thirsty". Fem reader. Ignoring anatomy for this because hhhnn-]

TW: Double penetration; Slight dubcon moment.

" Listen to me Breg. "

You start, and even if you're currently beneath the breeder on the bed, you still sound like a drill sergeant. Mostly because you have to, Breg's not to be trusted when he's excited.

" I've been working up to this for a long while- "

" I know! " He interrupts, the bottom of his face still covered in drool and slick when he dove between your legs after you were done with the stretching exercises.

Breg hates that you had to use toys to size yourself up for this, but the promise that you were doing it so you could welcome both of his members made him slightly more tolerant of it. Didn't change the fact that the breeder would often sit and watch, whining in jealousy of whatever you were stuffing yourself with.

" I'll be really careful! I'll be nice- I promise angel! "

His babbling is a waste of slaver, the monster isn't even looking at you, eyeless gaze perched entirely on the sight of your inviting pussy and the way both of his cocks frame it. The breeder looks like he's thrilling himself with the show, making a horny little noise of appreciation and biting at his lower lip. It's as if he's already envisioning himself deep inside you, not having to squeeze one of his cocks between you two. It's been a fantasy of his for a long time, even you have to admit that it's... Exciting to think about.

Now though, you need Breg to focus, so you grab the sides of his head and bring it closer to yours. " I mean it, listen to me. "

His happiness is infectious, you have to turn away to hide the smile tugging at your lips when Breg simply dips to place kisses all over your face, hearing that long tail sway and swat around.

" Breg! " Mercifully, he stops. " You have to pay attention to what you're doing when you start okay? If we do this wrong, it could hurt me a lot. "

" Yes. " He rushes. " Yes, okay. "

"Good. " With a pant, you spread your legs just a tad further, figuring you couldn't possibly be in a more comfortable positions for this, especially with the support pillows helping to angle you. " Now straighten up a bit, I need to see what I'm doing. "

When the breeder does, you note the way his breathing is already sped up, how feverish he's already become. It's impressive how Breg always manages to make you feel so hot, even when you think you look like a fresh mess. Gently, you reach down to grab both of his dicks, keeping them together as much as you can, and he helps the process by scooting forward to line up against your pussy.

Feeling both tips park there is enough to get you to blow a tense exhale, knowing it's going to be a stretch and a half. In sharp contrast, Breg moans like he's in heat, looking as if his self-control is hanging by a very thin thread currently peeling itself apart.

Some hesitant seconds pass.

" Please angel- Please! I want this so bad. It's going to feel so good, let me fuck you, please! " White claws rub at your thighs comfortingly while he pleads, tail thumping impatiently on the mattress behind him. And curse him, because the breeder's shameless imploring always rises a fire in you that's hard to put out.

" I- I want you to push slowly, okay? " You caution, hold still firm on him, your spare arm clutching the sheets.

" Uhuh! "

True to his word, Breg is careful, torturously edging his cocks forward. The lube helps immeasurably, and pretty soon, both heads pop inside, making you hiss and gasp, immediately clenching at the intrusion. Massive. Fucking massive, holy shit. A wave of warmth courses through you as a pleasant shiver moments later.

" Hhn- Ohh... " He's drooling. Like actually drooling on you. " Hahh. " You can tell by the visible flexing of his legs that the only thing Breg wants to do is buck and hammer the rest of himself in, but with an almost pained grunt, he just sits there statically so the two of you can catch your breaths.

" Good- Very good. " You praise his surprising discipline. " Just keep going like that. "

He makes what you think was an affirmative "Mmn" noise and lolls his tongue out when the next couple of inches are softly rolled into you. It's insanely filling on its own, your thighs squirm and you're not sure if you want to edge away from this or even closer. Breg's instincts kick in and he holds your hips down sternly, slowly sinking more of himself in and making deep, pleased moans that wash against you like waves.

" Ngh- Deep- Slow down, give me a second. " It's stealing the breath out of you.

It takes a couple of moments before Breg's brain registers the command, but he eventually pauses with half of his cocks buried in you. He physically has to tear his gaze off the sight of you stretched around him, chest heaving as he curves to blanket you.

" You're so tight, fffuck you always are but this- " He sighs shakily over your ear, and instead of calming down enough to relax, you only tense and squeeze around him harder, making the breeder growl and whine. " Mmnph-! If you keep doing that I won't hold it, angel. Please, can I put the rest in, please? "

One of these days his begging is going to burst a blood vessel of yours. Or maybe it's the way you feel so bloated already.

" O- Okay, but then you need to let me catch up, okay? "

" Mmmf- " You think he growled there for a second. " Yes! Thank you! "

You expected him to push in slowly the same way he did up until now, though you should frankly know better by now... Breg pulls away in a preparatory motion that should have given it all away, then slams home with a force you have no words to describe.

Your stomach bounces and your lungs knock into your throat, eyeballs jostled in their sockets from the strength of his wild horse piston into your cunt. The disgraceful wet noise that echoed in your bedroom doesn't help in keeping yourself grounded. Although you didn't have enough air in your body to do much more than choke and convulse at the intrusion, the breeder makes more than enough noise for the two of you, howling in delight at the way your poor walls all but crush him in an attempt to adapt to the brute size just forced into them. You can feel him perfectly hilted into you, cockheads kissing as deep into you as they possibly can. It's an indescribable fullness that has the two of you stunted.

" Oh gods fffuck- Hahhn I'm all in. " He mumbles amidst desperate noises. " Mmn feels so good so good- I knew it'd be perfect- Love you angel. "

Both lengths throb inside you. You couldn't respond even if you wanted to.

Although you can very well sense Breg trying to rock against you minutely, he keeps his promise, studying your overwhelmed features and giving you time to welcome him properly. There's some pain, you won't lie, but it's slowly ebbing into something forgettable. The pale monster's sweet cooing and trilling help steady you as he licks your throat and lets his teeth deform slightly to place a loving bite on your shoulder.

Eventually, the breeder shifts and looks down at where the two of you are joined, finding imprints of his lengths in you. His grin is so wide and self-satisfied it looks borderline manic. A large hand comes to palp at the bump in your lower abdomen, but the sensation causes your legs to twitch and you bat his arm away.

Breg whines, a trail of drool slipping down his chin to drip onto your skin. " Can- Can I start? "

Your eyes widen a little, though you nod and take a deep breath. " G-Gentle. "

And that's all it takes.

The monster admittedly has a bit of trouble moving at first, the drag of his cocks inside you bordering on painful until fireworks start firing in your brain from all the spots he has no choice but to stimulate with every minuscule motion. The first moan you let out, throaty and helpless, makes him shiver. Wetness gradually builds, helping along with what's left of the lube, and pretty soon Breg's huffing with every thrust, making noises that almost concern you and visibly sweating. You know he's doing his best to behave right now, and you appreciate it, because both at once is... An experience.

" Ah- Ghn so full- " You choke when he fills you out again, causing the breeder to wag his tail slightly and respond with shorter, faster bursts of movement.

" Does it feel good? " He pants.

" Y- Yeah. " Putting it lightly. Your breath hitches and you cling to his arms for support, unable to help the fluttering of your pussy as you get used to this brand new size.

" Angel... " He begins, in a tone you already know means he's going to ask for something. " Hhn- I know you said gentle but... "

He bucks his hips suddenly, the two of you crying out together, pleasure and shock.

" Breg! "

" B- But I know you like it rough! " He stresses. " You clamp around me so hard, it's so hot- " Your face burns. " Come on... Just this time? "

It's not going to be "just this time", obviously.

When you don't say anything, the breeder hums and drapes over you again, legs readjusting so he can plunge somehow even deeper into you now. And with no hesitation, Breg starts well and truly railing into you.

" AH! HN- Breg?! "

You have to hold onto his neck and back, each desperate slam of his thighs on yours digging his softly barbed cocks so far up into your hole he jostles you forward. But you can't deny that it's making your eyes glaze in rabid animal pleasure, mouth opening and hips grinding back onto him as much as they can, the sloppy noise of his every slam filling you with a gross sense of glee.

You don't like to admit it, but you love being under Breg. It makes you feel small in a very arousing way, trapped under his strength, his smell, hearing how fast he breathes for you, how much his body strains to breed you stupid even if the effort is always pointless in the end. You like that he's always just as enthusiastic, that he always fucks you like it's the last time he's going to get to do it.

" S- See? " He groans, looking down at your flushed, probably disheveled face. " I know you like it- I can smell it. " And just to accentuate the point, there's a snort-like sniff when he dips his head into the crook of your neck, rising goosebumps everywhere. " Gghn- I'm- I'm not going to last too long... "

That startles you a little. Breg's always had surprising stamina. Sure, the first time he penetrated you was a bit short, but he had never been with a human before. Still, this puts an incredulous smile on your face. " R- Really? "

" Yeah- " His words melt into slurred moans, previously speedy motions now interspersed by hard grinds that have your eyes rolling slightly. " 'M sorry, you're so good- Sorry. "

" It's- It's fine. " It's hotter than it should be.

" My mate is so perfect- " He growls in-between sharp, jutting thrusts. " So nice to me- " The whimper on the edge of his voice is more than a good tell of how close he is. " I'm so lucky I get to ahhn- Put both in! "

Even if he doesn't recognize it, Breg has a penchant for this very specific type of dirty talk that makes your brain pop and crackle in a hormone-fueled static, and before you can even beg him to fill you with cum, he fucks into your stretched cunt with three dizzying pistons before flexing and coming so hard you can feel it shoot into crevices you didn't even know you had.

It's too much for such a small space, coating both you and him before it has no choice but to squeeze out of you in depraved spurts. Even if you wanted to hear Breg's rattle of ecstasy, you were too lost in your own orgasm to do so, making something akin to a desperate, sobbing mewl at the overload of sensations.

When you can focus minimally, the breeder is planting amorous kisses everywhere on your upper body, still buried hot and wet inside you. His whole face is flushed blue and he's never looked giddier, shuddering as another glob of seed escapes around his still hard cocks.

" Thank you so much, angel. I loved it! "

Oh, you can tell. " ... Don't mention it. "

Breg chirps. " Tell me when you're ready to go again. "

Why are you even surprised...

[osarina]

ᡣ𐭩 OFFER ME MY DEATHLESS DEATH

FEATURING: dazai osamu

SUMMARY: one drunken encounter with dazai sends everything spiraling. suddenly, all of your problems are catching up to you at once and you're lost as to how you should proceed... or that's not entirely true—you know how you're going to proceed but it's impossible for you to come to terms with how far you've let this go.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: sorry that i haven't really been active this week </3 i've been so busy. ill try to get to asks and everything soon. forgive me</3 i hope you guys enjoy part 5, i rlly had fun writing this chapter. as always, comments and reblogs appreciated!

GENERAL WARNINGS: fem!reader, port mafia executive!reader, civilian!dazai, dazai's struggles w suicide & sh, reader partakes in mafia business, dazai isn't dazai without a bit of obsessiveness and possessiveness (the possessiveness doesn't come til later but the obsessiveness starts from day 0).

CHAPTER SPECIFIC WARNINGS: hardly edited - i've been busy. reader and dazai argue, reader is a bit intoxicated, dazai heavily implied suicide attempt (not outright said/described bc he can't remember, but he assumes that's what happened) & he dissociates, dazai is in a pretty bad mental state the first half of the chapter, i don't think i'm missing anything but pls lmk if i am, i didn't have time to reread

SEE: WASTELAND, BABY! SERIES MASTERLIST

You stopped seeking him out after that night.

Dazai sits in his apartment, knees curled to his chest and back pressed against the wall. He has to forcibly keep his breath steady—his homework for his engineering class is discarded somewhere to his left, he’d been working on it for class tomorrow before he made the mistake of checking his phone and seeing that you’d once again stopped reading his messages. 

Two days straight now of silence on your end. He could go to your apartment like he’s been doing for the past two weeks but every time he tries to push himself to his feet with the intention of going to you, he finds himself rooted to the ground. Your words ring damningly and persistently through his head—how you told Nakahara Chuuya that you’re only doing this because he found the proof of your occupation, how you told him that you tried to cut him off.

Dazai knew what he was doing by using the video as leverage over you. He knew he was forcing you into indulging him, that he was backing you into a corner, but he’d allowed himself to be blinded by your treatment of him. 

Even if it was coerced, no one has ever treated him the way you do—you remember the things he tells you off-handedly like he matters and you buy him the things he wants without him having to say anything like you care. You’re gentle with him—Dazai has only ever experienced bruising touches; Oda and Ango weren’t physical people and he can hardly remember his mother. He remembers the way his aunt dragged him out of the car kicking and screaming, tossing him to the ground in Suribachi before driving away. He remembers all of the nights he would get drunk at bars, ending up in strangers’ beds and waking up with a body that ached painfully and dark marks littered across his bandaged skin.

It’s hard to remember that you don’t actually want him when you treat him the same way he’s dreamed someone would treat him one day. It’s hard to remember that you turn your head away when he leans in to kiss you, that you ignore his lingering touches and change the subject whenever he almost gathers the nerve to bring the topic up to you.

You don’t want him. 

He’s forcing you to do this by using the video as leverage. 

You don’t want him. 

He rests his forehead on his knees. That gaping hole in his chest that had started to return that night after Nakahara Chuuya showed up at your apartment is all consuming now. His entire body feels numb and prickly, he feels uncomfortable in his own skin.

He needs to put a stop to this.

His gaze draws from his knees to the floorboard he’s hiding the flash drive under. He could just… get rid of it. Get rid of it and disappear—you probably wouldn’t even notice. Maybe you would, he remembers how you came to his apartment when you hadn’t heard from him after sending the couch. Then again, you might’ve only shown up because you wanted to lie about why you were cutting him off. Dazai just doesn’t know with you.

Maybe he should just go to talk to you. 

But if he talks to you… and the thought of leaving his apartment right now…

Dazai sighs, leaning back against the wall, tilting his head to look up at the ceiling, weighing both options carefully before coming to a heavy decision.

You’re not in your apartment when he gets there.

Dazai would usually wander around and find something to make himself busy with while he waits for you. You have a piano on the opposite side of the room that he sometimes likes to fiddle with—he’s taught himself a few basic songs while waiting for you to get back from work the past few weeks. He ordered a gaming console and a few games to go along with it when you made the mistake of leaving your laptop open last week, but he doesn’t even have the energy to go look for one; not that any are even particularly standing out to him. Sometimes, he just snoops around, but his legs feel like lead, like they’re bolted to the ground, so he just sits on your couch and stares at the black television screen as the minutes tick by.

He doesn’t even know how long he’s been sitting there—too long, it was still light out when he walked his way over to your building in Naka-ku and the sun had set a long time ago. He’s never felt lonely in your apartment before; in fact, he usually seeks out your apartment because he feels lonely and whether you’re here or not, it eases the void that grows in his chest.

But now? Each passing second, he feels colder and colder. A part of him thinks that he should take this as a sign and just leave, but his body is uncooperative, keeping him rooted to your couch as he awaits your return.

He’s planned out what he’s going to say to you; he’s rehearsed it in his head so many times that he thinks he could say the dreadful words while sleeping. Now, he just-

Dazai’s head snaps to the side when he hears the fateful ding of the elevator arriving at your floor. His eyes widen and his tongue swells with anxiety as he stares at the doors, his breath slows and his fingers bite into his pants as he waits to see you step into the room but when the doors finally start to slide open, he freezes when he hears laughter.

“I can’t stand you,” an unfamiliar male voice snorts and Dazai’s mouth dries as his gaze darts around, trying to figure out what to do. The last thing he wants is for a repeat of the other night—if this is another one of your mafia friends, Dazai has to move, but he doesn’t know where to go.

His gaze settles on a nearby hall leading to the bathroom and an unused room—it’s closer to him than the kitchen, he’d never make it to the kitchen because he’d have to go right past the elevator. His legs feel so heavy that it’s an effort for him to push himself to his feet. He almost stumbles right over them as he rushes into the spare room, keeping the door cracked open so he can hear and see what’s going on.

He peeks carefully through the crack, watching as two men enter your apartment—you’re with them and Dazai’s chest tightens painfully at the sight of you. You’re smiling as you lean against one of the men—Dazai recognizes him as the man who had come with you to his apartment complex the first time, he’d been waiting by the car for you—and you’re dressed prettily in a short black dress. You’re so dazzling to him that Dazai nearly tumbles right out of the room he’s hiding in, but luckily, he’s drawn out of his dazed state by another unfortunately familiar face: Nakahara Chuuya, the executive who had been at your apartment the other night.

Dazai quickly leans back into the room when the ginger’s eyes snap down the hall as if he could sense someone watching him. He lets out a puff of air as he looks around the empty room—he’d looked in here before when he first started coming to your apartment, but had been sorely disappointed by the fact that there was nothing in the room for him to snoop around in.

Now, he blinks because while the room is still mostly empty, there are some tools in here as if you’d had someone come in to take measurements to start building something in there. His gaze slides from the far wall to the one nearest to him, dragging his feet against the wood floors to slide his fingers against the lines drawn on the wall in pencil, realizing that it’s about the same size as the piano in the other room.

His throat tightens as he remembers your offer from the other day, wondering if you’d gone ahead and started having it done even after the argument with Chuuya and Dazai not showing up for two days. 

God, he doesn’t understand you—he doesn’t understand you at all. He starts to doubt every conclusion he’s come to the past two days because why would you go to these lengths for someone you don’t care about? For someone who’s forcing you into indulging him through blackmail? It doesn’t make sense, Dazai has never had so much trouble reading someone before you.

He leans against the wall, lashes lowering as he looks down at the floor. He doesn’t know what to think and now his well-rehearsed speech starts crumbling in his head. Distantly, he can hear the conversation between you and the other two mafiosos—you’re talking about something happening in Tokyo and Dazai wonders if it has anything to do with that argument from the other night.

But regardless of the topic of discussion, what matters more is that you sound happy. Your voice is light and airy, and you seem entirely unbothered by the fact that you hadn’t seen Dazai in days. Dazai doesn’t think you’ve ever sounded so happy with him before and why would you when he’s blackmailing you? Your laughter rings bright and pretty like a chime and Dazai feels sick to his stomach at the thought of you laughing like that for someone else; he imagines the way your laughter will fizzle when you see him, all of the liveliness in your face dying at his unanticipated appearance.

It feels like an eternity and all too soon at the same time when Dazai finally hears the two leave. He takes one deep breath, preparing to force himself out from where he’s hiding but then freezes at the sound of you raising your voice.

“Dazai, you can come out now.”

He blanches, staring at the partially closed door in front of him, half-debating on not even coming out because how did you know he was here? He thought he’d been careful, there’s-

“I know you’re somewhere in here, the cushion was warm where you were sitting.”

Dazai has half a mind to throw himself out of the window.

He takes in a deep breath as he pushes the door open, stepping out into the hallway that’s suddenly too cold and all too short. He swears it was twice as long when he was stumbling from the couch to hide in the spare room. His feet scuffle against the ground as he walks forward, not coming any closer than where the hallway meets your living room.

You’re laying on the couch he’d been sitting on, head resting back against the pillows and a curious expression on your face as you watch him. He can’t read it—if he didn’t know any better, he’d almost say it was fond, but he refuses to let that hope bubble up into his chest only for it to be crushed again. He thinks he should say something, tossing around a few options in his head, but he doesn’t get the chance to.

You hold out your hand to him. “Come here,” you say.

Dazai hesitates, eyes lingering on your extended hand before flitting back up to your face. He shouldn’t—he knows he shouldn’t—but he finds his feet moving forward before he can stop himself. He stands in front of you awkwardly for a moment, not sure what you want from him, but then his eyes shoot open when you reach out and grab his wrist, tugging him forward onto the couch with you. 

He pretends he doesn’t yelp when he lands on top of you, face flaming up when he shifts himself into a sitting position so that he’s straddling your waist, trying not to drop all of his weight onto you. He also pretends that he’s not entirely thrown off by the way your hands rest on his thighs, absently running them up and down the sides of them. 

“Where have you been the past few days?” you ask him quietly.

Dazai’s blood pressure spikes at the curious look you give him, as if he hadn’t been texting you for days with no response. He can smell the alcohol on you now that he’s closer and he wonders how much you drank—he thinks that’s probably why you looked so fond before and that’s probably why you’re suddenly being so touchy with him, it has nothing to do with him. That empty feeling in his chest starts to return.

He should have just left, should have just destroyed the flash drive and disappeared. 

“I texted you,” he replies tightly, feeling wildly uncomfortable as he’s unable to get a hold on the way he’s spiraling internally. “I can see you’ve been busy though.”

You tilt your head to the side as if you’re unsure of what he means and Dazai almost wants to get up and leave but the feeling of your hands on him, his lower body pressed to yours, it leaves him dizzy and slow. His breath catches as your hands slip beneath his sweatshirt, smoothing out against his bandaged sides, thumb drawing slow circles over the covered skin as if trying to calm him down.

Dazai thinks he might hate you.

He thinks he might hate himself more because it works. His heartbeat slows and relaxes into you a bit more. He wants to take you by the shoulders and shake you, wants to demand answers, wants to know if you actually care about him or if this is all just some big show for the flash drive. 

“I haven’t looked at my phone,” you finally say. “I’ve been the one dealing with the issues in Tokyo. It’s just been meeting after meeting the past few days. I thought you’d be here when I got back but you weren’t.”

Were you waiting for him? He wants to ask. Expecting him? Or are you just saying that because you can tell he’s unhappy and don’t want to deal with his attitude? Dazai just doesn’t know, it’s hard to concentrate with your hands on his body.

“Can we talk?” Dazai asks quietly after a few moments.

“What about?”

About the flash drive. About you. About him. Dazai doesn’t know—about everything. So, instead he just says: “About this.”

Instantly, you turn your head away from him and Dazai’s frustration rises at your attempt at blatantly ignoring him. He reaches out to grab your cheeks, forcing you to look up at him and Dazai’s breath catches when your lidded stare lands on him.

“I’m drunk,” you tell him flatly. “I don’t want to talk about this.”

“Bullshit,” Dazai immediately snaps, the pads of his fingers digging a bit too hard into your cheeks but you’re unfazed by it, staring up at him with an unreadable expression. “I think-”

Dazai doesn’t even have the chance to finish his sentence because you’re pushing yourself up from your laying position, one hand slipping out from his sweatshirt to cup the back of his head, the other still firm on his hip as you drag him down against you. Dazai’s breath catches when you press your lips against his, lashes fluttering shut. The hand on his hip slides around to his back, holding his body flush to yours—he lets out a low moan into your mouth when you nip at his bottom lip.

No, he thinks hazily, trying to push himself off of you but instead, his hands cup your cheeks and he tilts your head back to deepen the kiss. Your tongues dance in a way that leaves him dazed, it feels almost intimately familiar to him, somehow so in tune with one another that it’s like you’ve kissed hundreds of times before. 

He shouldn’t be doing this, he knows this. You said it yourself that you’re drunk, he knows you only kissed him to get him to stop talking but…Dazai sighs into your mouth when he feels the tips of your finger card through his hair, feeling you shift beneath him to let his hips slot between your legs.

But isn’t this what he’s wanted this whole time? 

Aren’t you finally giving him what you’ve denied him for weeks?

Your lips are intoxicating against his, and not because of the gin staining your tongue, he can hardly focus on anything with the way your tongue traces the back of his teeth, dragging against the roof of his mouth. He groans when you shift beneath him, one leg hooking around his waist. He separates his lips from yours to gasp for breath.

Shit, he thinks, lips parting when you kiss his jaw, trailing your lips to his ear to suck gently on the skin there before kissing slowly down his neck. He swears his entire body is on fire, breaths quick and shuddered; his mind feels so muddled and hazy that he has to actively tell himself to put a stop to this and even that is almost not enough.

It takes all of his willpower to push himself off of you, still breathing heavy, lips wet and swollen, his whole body tingling everywhere your lips and hands had touched. You stare up at him and Dazai’s body aches with need when he sees you’re nearly as breathless as he is, your own lips wet from his, eyes a bit glazed over. Heat burns in his lower abdomen but he can’t, not when he knows you’re drunk and not when he knows you’re only doing this to get him to stop talking.

Before Dazai can say anything, you look away from him again and he knows that it’s over.

“I’m tired,” you say. “Help me get to bed. We can talk in the morning.”

Dazai’s lashes lower as he nods, leaning down to help you to your feet. Even with your heels kicked off, you wobble on your feet, so he wraps an arm around your waist to keep you steady. The silence is almost foreboding as Dazai guides you up the stairs to your bedroom; you don’t make any move to break it, so Dazai does.

“We’re not going to talk about it in the morning, are we?” he asks quietly, looking down at you. You don’t look up at him and Dazai just wants you to at least look at him so when he gets you to the door of your bedroom, he stops and looks at you. You still don’t look at him. “Can you at least look at me?”

Dazai thinks he might be sick from the way you have to seemingly force yourself to look at him. Even drunk, he can see the displeasure plain on your face and it makes him want to curl in on himself again.

“I don’t want to talk about it, Dazai,” you finally say, your voice is tight. “I want to go to bed.”

“I want to talk about it,” Dazai stresses. “I-”

Frustration flies across your face, emotions loosened in your intoxicated state. You turn away from him and slam open your bedroom door and Dazai winces, taking half a step back.

“It’s always what you want, Dazai,” you hiss. 

Dazai’s heart sinks, shaking his head because he doesn’t want to hear where you’re going with this. “Stop.”

“For weeks, I have been catering to what you want and now I don’t want one thing and you throw a fucking tantrum over it. I don’t want to talk about this—I don’t want to talk about it now, I don’t want to talk about it in the morning, I don’t want to talk about it. Can you just leave it be?”

Dazai takes another step back, staring at you silently. His ears ring as your words echo through them and though he can watch your face shift from frustration to guilt, it doesn’t process in his head—not really, not when all he can hear are your words on repeat over and over again. 

You reach out for him, fingers curling around his wrist but Dazai pulls his hand back, taking a step away from you, closer to the stairs. All of his fight or flight instincts are triggered, his body itches to run, to flee downstairs and get out of your apartment, but his legs are uncooperative, feet rooted to the ground as he stares at you blankly.

“I didn’t mean that,” you say after a few moments. “I didn’t-I just-”

“It’s okay,” Dazai replies, voice a bit distant even to his own ears. “I’ll drop it.”

“Dazai-”

“Let me help you get into bed,” Dazai interrupts, forcing a smile onto his face as he pushes himself forward. His movements feel weird and clunky, unnatural almost, but he successfully leads you into your room, pulling back the sheets to help you into bed. “C’mon.”

He helps you slip into the bed and pulls the sheets over you, there’s still that hazy look in your eyes as you look up at him and Dazai tries his best to make sure that the smile on his face doesn’t look strained. He’s pretty sure you can see through it even while drunk. You reach out to grab his wrist again and this time, Dazai doesn’t pull away. 

“Stay here tonight,” you say quietly. “Lay down with me.”

“I have class in the morning.” Dazai shakes his head, as much as he might ache to stay in your presence, he thinks if he stays in it a moment longer, he might actually break down—he can’t get your words to stop echoing. Only a steadily crumbling dam is holding back the torrent of emotions ripping apart his chest. “I can’t.”

“I’ll drive you.”

“I have to get all of my books, and finish my homework,” he tells you. “I can’t.”

“We’ll leave early,” you press, leaning up on your elbows. “C-”

“I can’t,” Dazai stresses, taking a step back and shaking his head. “I can’t. I have to go.”

You look conflicted, but to his relief and distress, you finally let go of his wrist. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow. After your classes. You finish at three, right? There’s a restaurant in Minami-ku I’ve been meaning to take you to.”

Dazai’s throat spasms as he swallows, shaking his head again. “I’m busy after class tomorrow. I have meetings for group projects.”

“When are they over? I’ll pick you up after.”

He feels a bit sick to his stomach as he looks up at your ceiling, in turmoil and unsure as to what to do. He knows you’re not doing this because you feel bad—not really—he knows it has to do with the flashdrive. He knows it. He thought it would be easier having someone to talk to, someone to hang out with, even if it was only because of blackmail because at least he would have someone, but he was wrong because this is a type of torture that Dazai just can’t endure any longer.

“I’m not going to want to do anything after, I’ll be drained.”

“Then we don’t have to do anything.” God, you won’t stop trying. You won’t stop trying and Dazai knows that if it wasn’t for that stupid flash drive, you’d have laughed in his face and told him to get out. He thinks he might actually throw up. “I’ll pick up the food before going to get you. We’ll stay in. Watch a movie.”

“No,” Dazai says, raising his voice now. “No. I’m just going to go back to my place. I have to go.”

Though his legs feel like lead and his body still yearns to be near yours, he forces himself to leave your room. Doesn’t look back when you call his name. Doesn’t hesitate at the top of the stairs when you tell him to wait. He nearly stumbles as he makes his way down the stairs and when he gets to the bottom instead of rushing toward the elevator, he sits on the arm of your couch, resting his head in his hands as he tries to gather his thoughts.

You’re so frustrating. So impossible to read that it’s beginning to take a toll on Dazai. He doesn’t understand why you’re so adamant on not having a conversation about all of this. He thought you would’ve wanted to have a conversation about it for the chance of getting the flash drive away from him. 

You’ve done everything in your power to avoid any physical contact with him until now; only finally giving it to him when there’s an issue you really don’t want to talk about to try to distract him. Hell, you’d prefer to even talk to him about mafia business—you vented all about the issues with the Shimazaki-kai to him, and Dazai would think that’s the last thing you’d want to talk to him about. 

It doesn’t make any sense.

He’s drawn from his thoughts at the sound of something buzzing against the ground a few feet away, frowning as he looks around and spots your phone on the ground, probably lost in your drunken attempts to get to the couch. He hesitates before pushing himself off the arm of the couch, taking a few steps toward it before kneeling down to pick it up. 

He chews at the inside of his cheek as he stares down at the home screen of your phone, staring at Nakahara Chuuya’s name in the text notification. He knows that he shouldn’t go snooping. He knows it.

He does it anyway.

He spares one last glance up the stairs before unlocking your phone with the code he’s seen you put in hundreds of times by now, clicks on your message app and lets out a puff of air when he realizes that no, you hadn’t been lying. You have at least twenty unread message threads—Dazai’s is pinned at the top with Chuuya’s and someone called Mori, who you’ve never mentioned to him. There’s only one message thread you’ve evidently been reading the past few days considering there’s no dot next to it: Tolstoy, the last message being from a few hours ago.

He shouldn’t look. He knows he shouldn’t look.

He clicks on it anyway.

He bites down hard on his bottom lip as he scrolls to the top of the conversation—only a few message exchanges between the two of you, but they’re decently long.

Tolstoy: Do you still want Ilya? I can have him there by the end of next week, I just need him to finish up some business in Moscow first. You: Haven’t decided. You haven’t even given me the rundown on the side effects of his ability. I’m not going to use it if it’s going to fuck up his head—stop playing salesman and tell me what’s actually up with him. No ability comes without consequences. You know that. I know that. So stop fucking around. 

Dazai suddenly has a sick feeling in his stomach, vision tunneling on the ‘him’ you’re speaking of in the messages. A foreboding air settles over him, dark and oppressive, he has to physically force himself to keep reading.

Tolstoy: We don’t know of any side effects. Haven’t used it enough to figure it out.  You: So, you want me to use him as a lab rat? Be real, Tolstoy. Thought you had more respect for me than that. Tolstoy: I’m trying to help you. You want that kid’s memory wiped, I can have it done for you, it’s just a matter of how badly you want it done.

Dazai doesn’t read anymore than that. He drops your phone onto the couch, takes a step back, a step away. His mind spins, ears ringing as he stares down at—he doesn’t even know what he’s staring at. His vision is swimming and blurring—with tears, maybe? Or just from exhaustion? From panic? He can’t tell but he knows he’s not breathing properly and he knows he needs to leave, everything suddenly feels too suffocating, too enclosed. 

He stumbles over to the elevator, slapping the button and leaning against the wall as he waits for it to come up to your floor. It takes long—too long, each second that passes feels like an eternity and he can’t breathe. He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe.

There’s only one “him” that your texts could be referring to. And it makes sense—it makes sense, doesn’t it? It makes sense why you’re so willing to divulge confidential information if you don’t intend for him to keep the knowledge of it. Makes sense why you’ve been notably careless with leaving files around your apartment. Makes sense why you told him about your ability. He’d thought you were finally letting him in, letting him know you, but-but of course, you weren’t. 

Of course, you weren’t. 

You were just…you were just trying to keep him placated, feed him bits of information to keep him happy because you knew you weren’t going to let him keep the knowledge of it. That you were gonna wipe his memory of it, of you, and send him back into that cold, dark void that’s been following him around his entire life and-

The bing of the elevator startles him, he flinches and still, he can’t breathe. His skin feels numb and prickly, his bandages are scratching uncomfortably at the scars hidden beneath them and he can hardly see straight.

Dazai needs to go.

He needs to go.

You wake up with a dry mouth, a pounding headache and an oddly foreboding feeling hanging about you. You push yourself into a sitting position, grimacing at the sun blinding you through the window—you don’t remember much of the night. You vaguely recall leaving the club last night with Albatross and Chuuya, the two of them incessantly bitching about dealing with you while you were drunk but in your defense, you think you deserved it after three days straight of meetings with the Shimazaki-kai on behalf of the Sun and Steel. 

Everything after leaving the club is a blur. You grimace as you push yourself out of bed, glancing around to see if you’d dropped your phone anywhere near the bed only to come up empty-handed. You don’t even bother to go to the bathroom and brush your teeth, anxious to find your phone and figure out what happened once you left the club.

You pray to god that it’s downstairs and you hadn’t left it at the club, making your way out of the bedroom with a sigh. You doubt Chuuya or Albatross would’ve been dumb enough to leave it there, but you’re pretty sure they were both drunk too and neither of them are functioning drunks.

You’re not even halfway through the door frame when pain shoots through your head, sharp and uncomfortable and then-

“It’s always what you want, Dazai.”

Suddenly, that foreboding feeling you awoke with makes sense. You stare ahead blankly as you remember who exactly was waiting for you at your apartment after you got back from the club. You remember the argument, you remember the crushed expression that crossed his face when you snapped at him, you remember pleading with him to stay or to at least let you take him out today and you remember him refusing, his voice pitched and cracking, wobbly, on the verge of collapse because-

Because of you. 

Fuck.

It’s with increasingly more urgency now that you rush yourself down the stairs, a small lingering hope remaining that maybe Dazai had stayed in one of the guest rooms or on the couch, that you could do something to fix this before it escalates even more. 

You don’t even know why you said that—it’s not like you mind giving Dazai what he wants, in fact, you enjoy it. You enjoy it a lot. You like seeing his face light up when you do nice things for him, you like when he tries to hide the way he gets all flustered, you like that he’s allowed himself to have hope with you—something he’s clearly denied himself for too long—and you what? 

You ruined it because you got scared? 

You ruined it because you didn’t want to talk about… whatever you have going on with him? 

You ruined it because you were terrified he was going to force you to come to terms with the fact that you’re using his stupid flash drive as an excuse to indulge yourself in him. That it would take minimal effort to have it destroyed but you’re putting it off because you want to be able to rationalize what you’re doing.

You feel sick to your stomach when you realize that your apartment is empty, eyes darting around to try to find your phone. You need to call him—he told you that he wanted to be alone today, or maybe he didn’t say exactly that but he implied it, but you need to at least talk to him now that you’re sober and can think straight. 

A distant part of you, a cold and logical part of you, tells you to just use this as the excuse to cut him off—you don’t need to get Ilya to fuck with his mind if he just hates you, you don’t want Ilya to fuck with Dazai’s mind. The thought of it makes your chest feel tight with guilt, so maybe you should take this opportunity for what it is, no matter how shitty it might make you feel, but-

But you won’t.

Finally spotting your phone on the couch, you snatch it up and unlock it, grimacing at the low battery percentage and then grimacing even more when there’s not a single message from Dazai lighting up your home screen. There’s seven from Chuuya, three from Albatross, and two from Mori, but you’re more concerned by the missed call from an unknown number and the unread voice message.

The foreboding feeling that has been looming only grows more intense when you click on the message for it to play out loud.

“This is Doctor Okamoto of Keiyu Hospital calling on behalf of a recently admitted patient… listed you as his emergency contact when he was brought in last night… unable to disclose any information regarding his injuries over the phone… suggest that you get here soon…”

At once, your vision tunnels and everything around you becomes white noise, your gaze is pinned on the ground, a smudge on the tiled floors as you try to keep yourself grounded because what? Dazai is in the-he’s in the hospital?

Because of you? 

You hadn’t been subtle approaching him that day in the library, it’s been a lingering thought since then, wondering if unsavory eyes had caught sight of you talking to him. The bar and the cafe were different, he had approached you—if any of your enemies had happened to see it, they wouldn’t think twice about it. But you approaching him had been dangerous. 

It had been a mistake.

Had it been a mistake to cost him his life?

And it’s not just that—you’ve taken him out to dinners. Picked him up at his apartment building. Places that you or your trusted affiliates own but there’s always the chance… and if he left the Port Mafia building last night in a rush, upset and not thinking straight…

Oh, you might throw up.

You’re not dressed properly. You’re still wearing your dress from last night and you fumble to put on the heels you must’ve kicked off in your drunken state. You don’t even care to get dressed, more intent on getting to the hospital and figuring out if—nausea builds in the back of your throat—if Dazai is alive, if he’s okay. You need to re-listen to the voicemail because your hearing had been unfocused and you’d only been able to catch bits and pieces of the doctor’s message.

And-

And you don’t even get into the elevator because your phone is ringing again as soon as you click the button. You don’t even look at the number before picking up, fearing that it’s the hospital again—it’s not, it’s Chuuya, and you immediately regret your decision because you aren’t even able to bark out a ‘what’ before he’s speaking.

“Where the hell have you been?” Chuuya snaps on the other side of the line. “We’ve been trying to get ahold of you for hours, we-”

“I’m busy,” you hiss right back, interrupting him. “I can’t talk-”

“You can talk,” Chuuya says harshly. “Get to headquarters. The Guild is in Yokohama now. We don’t have time to fuck around anymore.”

You don’t respond to Chuuya, heart sinking to your feet at his words, distress clawing at your chest so painfully that you think it might be easier if you just carve out your heart and toss it out the window. You hang up the phone without another word just as the elevator makes it to your floor, but instead of going inside, you make your way back up to your room, numbly changing into one of your suits so you could at least look somewhat presentable. 

You hardly even recognize yourself in the mirror as you wipe off your smudged makeup from your night out. Your eyes are vacant and your expression so empty that you think you could almost be looking at a statue. 

War with the Guild. Dazai in the hospital.

Everything is catching up to you at the same time and your mind is fraying at its seams, collapsing in on itself as the weight of everything bears down on you. You do your best to compartmentalize, focus on one thing at a time but you can’t even concentrate on one issue. 

You try to figure out what to do about the upcoming conflict, try to determine what exactly Fitzgerald might be planning so you can figure out what the Port Mafia will retaliate with, and your mind drifts to Dazai, you wonder if he’s okay, if he’s in critical condition, if it was one of your enemies that got to him or if it was something else.

You think about Dazai, all of the fear and guilt and anxiety tearing you apart, and your mind shoots straight to the Guild. Because if Fitzgerald knows about Dazai—if he knows about Dazai—then it’s over. It’s all over. If the Guild gets their hands on him, they’ll kill him when you don’t give them what they want because you can’t give them what they want. They want Yokohama and you can’t give them that. 

You can’t, not even for Dazai.

You don’t even register that you’re standing in front of the elevator again until it bings, startling you right out of your thoughts. You can’t leave the building while you’re spiraling like this—you need to get a grip on yourself, you don’t even know where you’re going yet. You need to figure out if you’re going to go meet with Mori and the other executives or if you’re going to go find Dazai. 

As you step into the elevator, it takes all but five seconds for you to make a decision.

Dazai wakes up to the familiar scent of antiseptic and a citrus-scented floor cleaning solution, the air is too stale and the air-conditioning is cranked up too high. He forces his eyes open, lids heavy and uncooperative, but he immediately lets them fall shut again briefly when he’s met with too white walls and the steady beeping of the heart monitor next to him.

His throat feels swollen as he stares up at the ceiling—the last time he was here in the hospital he was seventeen and had nearly bled out in the bathtub in Odasaku’s house. The only reason he hadn’t was because Ango happened to stop by the house to pick up papers that Odasaku had left for him, finding Dazai unconscious and face half-submerged in the water. He woke up here to find both of them hovering over him, Ango concerned and Odasaku visibly upset for the first time since Dazai met him.

He wakes up alone now because Odasaku is dead and he hasn’t spoken to Ango in four years—doesn’t even know where the man is anymore, doesn’t even know if he’s alive, doesn’t want to know either.

“Dazai-sama.” He hears a nurse say from the door to his room. “You’re awake, how are you…”

The nurse’s voice becomes white noise with the beeping of the heart monitor and the vents blowing above. Dazai retreats back into his own mind—a dangerous place, but right now it’s safer than the white walls that surround him, knowing he’s going to be badgered with questions that he doesn’t want to have to answer. 

How are you feeling, Dazai-sama? 

What happened, Dazai-sama? 

We need to ask you a few questions, Dazai-sama.

Dazai feels defeated.

His head falls to the side as he stares out the nearby window, watching as a bird swoops down in view before taking off into the sky.

He doesn’t even remember what happened. He remembers leaving your apartment, he remembers… he remembers seeing your texts, your plans to wipe his memory. And… that’s about it? He vaguely remembers the familiar feeling of his lungs burning, remembers being tossed around by the rough currents of Tsurumi River. He doesn’t remember how he got there but it’s not exactly hard for him to piece together—even now, Dazai thinks he would rather be dead than have his memories forcibly erased.

“… to know what exactly hap…”

A dark and familiar cloud settles over him. His eyes feel heavy and his chest hurts. Dazai—he doesn’t even know what to think anymore. He’s so tired that his bones ache and his muscles feel so weak that he just sinks into the stiff mattress of the hospital bed.

He doesn’t know what he expected—he thinks that to some extent he expected you to leave him. Everyone has left him. His mother, his aunt, all of the brief friends he’d made over the years before they see him for what he is, Odasaku and Ango—everyone has left him, so he knew that you would too but… in this manner? Using an ability to wipe his memory of you?

Dazai has considered it before. He’s wondered if maybe his life would be easier if he could just… forget. If he could live without the memory of everyone who has left him hanging over him. Some days, on really bad days, he thinks it might be easier. To try to make himself feel better, he thinks that maybe he isn’t the issue, maybe it’s all just a self-fulfilling prophecy, that it’s his past experiences cursing him to make the same mistakes over and over again; that without them, he might stand a chance.

But then when he thinks about it—when he really thinks about it—he knows in his heart that it’s not true, and he knows that without the memory of them all, Dazai will only feel more empty. And to think that you were trying to take his memories of you from him… without even asking, without giving him a choice in the matter… it almost makes Dazai-

“Dazai.”

His gaze snaps to the side when he hears your familiar voice come from the door leading into his room. Instantly, he’s shaking his head and looking away again, he can’t even bear to look at you but you’re walking over to him, you’re coming to his bedside, you’re sitting next to him on the hospital bed and you’re reaching out to cup his cheek, forcibly turning his face to make him look at you. You look worried, something sharp and concerned in your eyes that makes his throat swell and he wants to spit at you and call you a liar but he can only sink into your touch.

“Why are you here?” he asks. His voice is hoarse, almost painful for him to use. 

“What happened?” you ask him quietly instead of answering his question—you never answer his questions, you always deflect, always maneuver around them. The ones you do answer, it’s only because you plan to- “Dazai, what happened? Are you okay?”

Dazai doesn’t know how you can look at him like this all the while planning the most diabolical betrayal that he could ever imagine. You’re either an actress deserving of international recognition or… or Dazai doesn’t even know.

“I’m fine,” he says, voice clipped. “Why are you here?”

“The hospital called me-”

“But why are you here?” Dazai cuts you off, grateful that his voice is firmer than the turmoil wreaking havoc through him. He must’ve given them your number while he was half-delirious when he was brought in—he figured that out already—but that doesn’t explain why you actually came. “Why did you come?”

“Because you’re hurt,” you say as if Dazai should believe you. 

And he wants to believe you. Wants to believe that you’d come running just at the mere idea of him being hurt, wants to believe that you would care enough to come for him. He wants to believe you so bad, but he knows what he saw. 

“Don’t lie to me,” Dazai tells you, finally gathering the willpower to pull his face away from where it’s resting in the palm of your hand. You don’t even let him shift away, hand slipping behind him to cradle the back of his head, fingers entwined with his hair. “Stop.”

“I’m not lying to you,” you say like a liar. “Tell me what happened.”

“I don’t want to talk to you.”

You sigh heavily and Dazai hates the way you’re absently drawing circles against the nape of his neck with your thumb, hates how it makes him feel at ease and especially hates the way his lashes instinctually flutter shut.

“I didn’t mean what I said last night, Dazai,” you say so quietly that Dazai almost believes you. Almost. “I was drunk, I didn’t… I don’t know why I said that. I didn’t mean-”

“I don’t care about that,” Dazai says, proud of the way his voice stays sharp and cold. “I saw the messages between you and Tolstoy. I know what you’re planning. I don’t want to talk to you, I don’t even want to look at you, just leave me alone.”

You draw back at his words, concerned expression melting into a blank slate as you pull your hand away to sit back straight. Dazai misses your touch instantly, longs for the warmth to return but he forces himself to ignore it all, keeping his gaze pinned on you, watching the way your mind races behind your eyes. He wonders if you’re trying to figure out if you can salvage this, wonders if you’re going to lie.

Instead, a heavy look settles over your face as you frown, glancing back at the way you came and for a moment, Dazai thinks you’re just going to leave. You rise to your feet and words lodge in the back of his throat, preparing to spit insults at you: he wants to call you a coward, a liar, wants to tell you that you’re cruel and vile and he can hardly even stand to look at you.

But then you look back at him and hold out your hand to him. “Come on,” you tell him. “Let’s sneak you out of here… I’ll explain everything when we get out of the hospital.”

Dazai wants to be spiteful, wants to turn his head away and ignore you, wants to slap your hand and tell you that there’s no explaining what he saw.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he places his hand in yours and lets that treacherous, treacherous spec of hope bloom in his chest again.

Dazai hasn’t spoken a word since leaving the hospital. You’ve tried to make small talk with him, but every time, he just turns his head away to look out the window. You gave up twenty minutes ago and Dazai is already regretting not indulging conversation with you because the silence is agonizing. He knows he should break it, but he doesn't know how to now. 

He glances at you from the corner of your eye. You’re leaning back against your seat, one hand on the steering wheel—he can’t see your eyes because they’re masked by sunglasses, but he can see the way your free hand rests on the gear stick, knuckles tense.

“What is this place?” Dazai clears his throat as he leans forward in his seat, peering out the windshield of your car to try to figure out where you’re taking him. He forces his tone to lighten, the smile on his lips strained. “Are you kidnapping me? Oh! Or are you taking me to some remote cabin to kill me? Bella, you truly know the way to a man’s heart.”

You let out a heavy sigh, one that makes Dazai toss a sweet smile in your direction. 

Some type of beach house, he recognizes as you pull up a windy road to the top of a cliff looking over the water. He can see to his left a path leading down to the water and to his right a nice view of a distant pier. It’s not a large house, but it’s nice—well-kept and refurbished with a view over Sagami Bay. It’s not too far out from Yokohama, probably only a little over an hour, but considering Dazai’s never left the city in his entire life, this might be the furthest he’s ever been. He can almost feel a bit of excitement bubbling in his chest. 

“I wanted to take you here, away from the city for a bit,” you finally say, fingers thrumming against the wheel of the car as you slowly guide the car up the gravel path. “So we can talk in peace.”

Your bland words whittle away his excitement and Dazai’s smile falters. He tries to distract himself with counting the strands hanging off the sleeve of his sweater but keeps losing count.

“Something you couldn’t have talked to me about in Yokohama?” Dazai asks airly as you pull to a stop in front of the beach house. 

He doesn’t turn to look at you, doesn’t move until you finally get out of the car, reaching into the back seat to grab two duffle bags, nodding for him to follow you.

Wow, he thinks dryly, you came prepared.

Dazai feels distinctly like he’s walking to his execution as he follows you to the steps leading up to the house, but instead of walking up them, you toss the bags on the porch and then continue up the path.

You’re going to push him off a cliff, Dazai thinks, feet dragging against the gravel as he follows you. This is it, all of the years that he’s longed for death and it’s finally about to find him at your hands. 

“I might not die from the fall,” Dazai says, words drawn long as he pouts. “You wouldn’t really leave me to suffer in freezing water, would you?”

“No,” you say, glancing back at him. He lets out a quiet breath of relief that’s quickly snuffed out when you add, “I’m not that sloppy with my kills. I’d kill you before dumping your body over the side of the cliff.”

Dazai blanches, but your lips curl up into an amused smile so he settles down, sighing as he purposely knocks his shoulder with yours.

“My bella is so cruel,” he sighs dramatically. “She hates me.”

You sigh as you reach the edge of the cliff, not turning to look at him. The wind whips around the two of you—it’s a cool, early spring night, the temperature just enough to be uncomfortable but you don’t seem bothered by it as you stare out across the water as the sun starts to set.

You’re beautiful, Dazai thinks, breath catching at the sight of you beneath the setting sun. The golden rays cast an ethereal glow over you, the wind ruffles your clothes and hair, and your expression is solemn in a way that’s become terribly familiar the past few weeks.

“I’m not going to do anything with the video,” Dazai finally says, voice quiet—finally taking the chance to say what he wanted to say last night. “You don’t have to keep… pandering to me because you’re trying to protect yourself. I was never going to do anything with it, I just… wanted you to give me a chance.”

When you look over your shoulder, you give Dazai a small, genuine smile that makes all of the air whoosh from his lungs. 

“Dazai, I’ve known you weren’t going to do anything with that video since day one,” you say, amused. “If I thought you were, I would’ve had someone confiscate it from your apartment.”

Dazai’s lips part, mind racing. “But then why-”

Your smile softens at the edges and you sigh as you lower yourself down to the ground, feet dangling off the edge of the cliff. Dazai joins you, thigh brushing yours and shoulders absently knocking together. Your hands rest in your lap and Dazai’s fingers twitch to reach for yours. He only hardly refrains himself.

“I don’t remember a life before this,” you say after a few moments, a distant look in your eyes as you stare ahead. “When I was seven… eight, maybe, I was pulled out of a warzone by the current leader of the Mafia. I don’t even remember my parents—anything about them. Their names. Faces. What they sounded like, what their job was. Mori… he found me in my town sitting in the middle of a whole pile of bodies and I couldn’t even point out which pair of corpses were my parents. I don’t remember anything before him… It’s all just black. Blurred.”

Dazai stares at you, eyes a bit wide as he listens to you speak. His lips part to say something but he decides against it, instead he seals his lips back shut and presses his shoulder against yours. Mori—that was the other name pinned up with Dazai’s message thread and Nakahara Chuuya’s—he must be the Port Mafia boss. His gaze traces your face as you stare ahead, catching the melancholic expression on your face. He itches to reach for your hand.

“I could hardly remember anything about myself. My first name… that’s just about it. My new birthday became the day Mori found me, my new surname—when needed—was his, he… he became my reason to live when I had none. Gave me a purpose,” you tell him faintly. “I spent two years on a warfront trying to figure out what my ability was so I could be the finishing touches of the immortal regiment that he was trying to create. As far as I remember, all I’ve known is… this. Him.”

Dazai wants to say something but every word he tries to push out dies on his tongue. Instead, he finally does reach out to grab your hand, fingers curling around yours tightly. You look down briefly, an unreadable expression on your face before it softens and… and for a split second, Dazai can see you, he can see you: not a hardened executive of a mafia, but an eight-year-old girl, lost and confused and landing in the arms of the wrong man, and it makes him sick.

The traitorous part of him wonders if you’re only telling him this because you still plan on following through with the memory wipe, so Dazai does what he always does when someone threatens to take one of the few things he wants—he digs his claws in and doesn’t let go. 

“The war ended before I could figure out how to use my ability and I followed… him to the underground. We ended up with the Port Mafia while the previous boss and his family were still leading. He was…” You trail off, frowning. “Dangerous. Yokohama was a terrible place under his leadership. He slaughtered civilians who spoke poorly about him and the Mafia, killed his own men for looking at him wrong… Mori became his doctor and for the good of the city, he decided to kill him.”

“I remember the old boss—what he did to the city,” Dazai says quietly—how could he not? His aunt was terrified of being in Yokohama because of him, was constantly talking about leaving the city… she finally did after dumping Dazai off in Suribachi and leaving him to fend for himself against the wolves. “It was bad.”

“It was,” you agree absently. “Mori—he wanted it to be as bloodless as possible. He tried every route, but the only way for it to be bloodless was if he had someone to corroborate that the previous boss died in his sleep and left the Port Mafia to him.”

Dazai almost scoffs.

“No one would believe that.”

“We’d hoped maybe one of his grandchildren would step up. Even if it was clearly a lie, people would have to listen because they were his blood,” you say with a wry smile. “They didn’t.”

“So, what happened then?” he presses when you don’t immediately continue. He frowns when he catches the sudden change in your demeanor, like you’re sick to your stomach, unable to push out the next words. He feels a bit dreadful, squeezing your hand gently. 

“We had to wipe out the whole family,” you whisper, looking down at your lap, “and any loyalists. I was fourteen when I killed someone for the first time. She was a girl my age—the previous boss’s granddaughter—she was asleep, had a bear tucked in her arm and a nightlight on the right side of her bed. I slit her throat, then both of her older brothers. They were kids.”

Oh.

Dazai’s throat spasm as he swallows, the picture forming in his head cold and chilling, but instead he forces out:

“You were a kid too.”

“No, I wasn’t. Hadn’t been for a long time,” you say, voice flat, leaving no room for argument. “We hunted down the whole bloodline, immediate to extended family. Mori was insistent on it, said we couldn’t risk one of them ever returning and upending everything we’ve built. He’s still searching for some to this day just to make sure.”

That’s… foreboding to say the least. Dazai watches you carefully, the grim expression on your face and the frown on your lips. He pulls your hand into his lap, tracing your fingers gently to try to ease you and he watches from the corner of his eye as your expression softens again when you look at him. It makes his chest feel tight and fluttery.

“I was sixteen when I met Itou.” The cold expression on your face warms at the unfamiliar name. Dazai watches as the corner of your lips curve up into a fond smile, as if you’re reminiscing. “He was seventeen. We were partnered up for years. This was his beach house—or, well, I don’t know whose it was but Itou took it. He was awful, honestly. A terrible fucking person, had more blood on his hands than any other member of the Mafia, found way too much joy in tormenting people. He was awful, but he was the closest thing I had to family. He tried to show me a world beyond just… bloodshed and violence. Took me to amusement parks on days off, snuck me onto school trips with random groups of kids and told me to ‘blend in’ as training for infiltration missions, showed me how to live, not just… survive. He died on a mission a few weeks after I turned eighteen, made me promise him that I wouldn’t go back to how I used to be without him, that I’d at least try to be happy.”

Double oh.

Dazai almost does throw up now, mind drawing back to a face that has been haunting Dazai for four years now, Odasaku’s last words ring through his head painfully—a reminder of his own inadequacy, of his failure to fulfill his friend’s dying wish.

He remembers the way your face shifted when he told you about Odasaku at Kido’s Boutique and he wonders if he’d reminded you of Itou back then when he spoke of the man and his promise, just like how he was reminded now. His grip on your hand tightens unintentionally—as if you can sense his thoughts, you squeeze his fingers gently. 

“I didn’t,” you say with a tight smile. “Threw myself into work, accepted that my fate was to live, breathe and die for the Port Mafia. I didn’t see the point of anything—well, not until I met you, at least.”

Dazai’s eyes flicker up to you, breath catching when you meet his gaze this time. And god, you look beautiful—so beautiful that Dazai thinks that if he dies now, he could die happy. He almost wishes that he could die now, fall off the side of the cliff with the image of you burned behind his eyelids. It would be a better death than he deserved.

“You made me happy. Make me happy,,” you tell him quietly and Dazai’s heart leaps into his throat. “So effortlessly that I can’t even understand how you do it, but it’s impossible for me to justify dragging you into this world just because I’m selfish.” Dazai parts his lips to disagree but you don’t even give him a chance to speak. “So when you came to me with your stupid blackmail, it was so… easy to just use it as an excuse for me to indulge in you.”

Dazai doesn’t get it. He still doesn’t get it. You’re sitting here talking to him, explaining everything, and Dazai still doesn’t understand. He makes you happy—he makes you happy and you make him happy, there doesn’t need to be any more complications than that. You don’t have to push him away, you don’t have to cut him off, you don’t have to use that memory wiping ability on him.

“I don’t understand,” Dazai says, voice hoarse. “You make me happy too, so why is…”

“Because Chuuya is right,” you say with a smile that doesn’t meet your eyes. “The risks… Dazai, you can’t ask me to put you in danger like this. It’s not fair.”

“It’s not fair to cut me off because you’re scared,” Dazai counters, voice a bit pitched. “It’s not fair that you want to wipe my memory without my consent. I don’t care about danger, I don’t-”

You look at him sharply, an intense expression on your face that makes Dazai hesitate.

“I never would have done it without talking to you first,” you say tightly. “Do you really think that little of me?”

Dazai looks away, not answering the question. “I never would have agreed to it,” he replies, voice equally tight as yours. “Never. It’d be a waste of your time.”

You sigh and Dazai feels you shift next to him but he pointedly keeps his gaze trained ahead, refusing to look at you. He feels your fingers brush his cheek before the pressure becomes a bit firmer as you turn his face so that he’s looking at you. You’re so close that his nose brushes yours, the pads of your fingers are warm against his skin; if he leans in just a bit, he’d be able to kiss you.

He wants to kiss you.

“You don’t know what’s at stake,” you say softly, breath fanning across his lips as you speak. He can almost taste the mixture of mint and nicotine on your lips—you smoke when you’re nervous, he’s noticed it over the past few weeks with you. The more nervous you are, the more cigarettes you run through; he wonders how many cigarettes you’ve gone through since you’ve gotten the call from the hospital. “The danger-”

“You want me,” Dazai whispers, squeezing your hand, leaning in a bit more. “No one has ever wanted me before. Not like this. Not for me. You want me.”

The last sentence—it doesn’t come out as a statement, it comes out as a plea. He wants you to say it. You didn’t the last time, but he needs to hear it now. Desperately. His nails dig into your hands, he doesn’t even dare to breathe as he waits for you to speak.

“I want you,” you agree, voice so quiet like you don’t even dare to speak the words out loud in fear of the consequences of them. “I want you. I want you so bad that it scares me, Dazai Osamu.”

And Dazai breathes. The breath he lets out is long and shaky, the relief that sweeps over him is almost debilitating. He searches your eyes to make sure you mean it and when he only finds honesty and a type of fear that he’s never seen in you before, Dazai knows.

“You think it doesn’t scare me?” Dazai asks you, voice cracking. “Everything I ever come to want is always lost. Ever since that first day we met, I-I knew that I wanted you more than anything I’ve ever wanted before and I’ve been terrified that one day you’ll leave me. Promise me that you won’t. Promise me.”

You stare at him and for a terrible moment, Dazai thinks that you’re about to shake your head and say you can’t, but then you swallow, nod and say, “I promise.”

Dazai kisses you. And then he kisses you again. And again. And again. Until his lungs burn and he can feel your lips curve up against his and even then, he kisses you still. Kisses you as the sun sets over the bay and the moon rises above the mountains. Kisses you until the wind becomes too bitter for the two of you to stay outside and still, he smiles as he peppers kisses across your face, walking back down the path to the beach house.

He ignores how your phone has been buzzing incessantly all night, praying for at least one day of peace before reality slaps the two of you in the face again.