#and fall into a several week spiral

[talkingattumble]

I find it weird when people tell me they’re blocking me like. Just block me im not gonna respond to you anyways chances are if our some interaction was arguing over something then I don’t want to interact with you anyways?

[fortes-fortuna-iogurtum]

*sigh*

[satoruhour]

HIS FAVOURITE W— STUDENT !

a/n: dilly / @crysugu i am losing the pwp war i needed the lore to be in this HELP. anyway !!! professors bc i cannot stop my mind from spiralling while starting my university classes — im not entirely proud of this but eehhh ….

wc: 4k

warnings: ultimately semi-public sex for all, unprotected sex, cumshot, standing doggy, brief oral (m receiving), brief f! masturbation, brief fingering (gojo), geto is a professor who is also a camboy, camgirl!reader, f! and m! masturbation, mentions of bad dragon’s cumtubes, brief fingering, unprotected sex, creampie / breeding kink (geto), pussy slapping, spitting (on yo pussy), pet names, clit stimulation, oral / cunnilingus, tit play, fingering, implied f! masturbation (nanami), mentions of murder, stripper!reader, riding, degradation, calls you ‘slut’ and ‘whore’, calls you ‘mama’ once too, unprotected sex, oral (m receiving), deep-throating, slight face-fucking (toji), n*sfw under the cut

✶ GOJO

professor gojo was… an interesting teaching figure. he didn’t have a set way of doing lectures or tutorials, nor was his feedback on assignments entirely coherent, but he was fun and unorthodox. he was also hot as fuck, as you’ve heard from your friends, but you never really got the deal even after seeing his photo on the university website or from miles away entertaining some starstruck student. his classes were always left with no vacancies, too, only able to see what your friends meant after stepping foot first into the lecture.

you were a tad bit early, greeted with gojo sitting at the front with his legs propped up on the desk as he shot you a nonchalant greeting and you think maybe you should’ve signed up for another lecture group, but then he speaks and the air is knocked out of your chest. professor gojo is charismatic when he teaches about art, design and media, captivating everyone with the stark white hair and blue eyes, but he’s clever with his glances because you aren’t realising he stares at you more than anyone else.

aren’t you in your second year? how did he not see you anywhere last year? why did you just sign up? 

the smiles he gives you are sweeter than others, the words more sugar coated with lilts in his voice and you’re chastising yourself for not being any different from everyone else, soon turning into the girls who ask for extra tutoring sessions and sidling up to him on campus — at least you’d get the full experience.

“oh! sweetness, what are you doing here?” you’ve managed to get gojo just as he leaves his office, standing outside for quite some time thinking if you’d really want to do this. several lecturers and professors have already walked past asking if you needed anything, but no matter how much you wanted to say professor gojo’s name, it always turned into something like waiting for a friend.

“oh— uhm, professor gojo, just wondering if the grade for that major project is really set in stone?”

gojo makes a show of thinking, but you know you’re asking for the devil himself when he replies yes with a stifled grin and you’re asking if the two week period of appealing works for the major you’re in.

“you can submit other collaterals as an appeal but it might either boost your grade or bring it down,” the professor leans down with a sick smile on his face, because he’s had so many people outside just like this, nervous from his advances and yet not going through with what they thought they could do. but this time it’s you, the you who he imagined taking on his office desk or even in a lecture theatre for everyone to see, who wants the words to fall from your lips just so he could be your knight in shining armour.

“is there really no… other way to appeal?” you swallow when gojo switches the position and gets you in exactly where he wants you: your back facing his office, his face dangerously close to yours while his eyes slyly catching the way your thighs rub together.

gojo smirks to himself when you knock down yet another cup of stationery on his desk after “discussing” ways you could improve your grades, nails making unsatisfactory noises on the wooden desk while he can hear your cunt gush around him, made obvious from the squelch of your hole and he’s muttering praises into your neck from behind.

“this what you had in mind, baby?” just another girl in his roster, getting ruined just for a grade that wasn’t even that bad. what you didn’t know is that you were the only girl, getting professor gojo so hard in lectures and tutorial classes just from the sight of you that to finally have you — it’s a sweet reward. you shiver when his hand reaches to your front to rub at your clit and you’re grasping at nothing as moans leave your lips.

“y-yeah, professor—” gojo is filthy, lewd, lifting your leg to prop up on the desk just so he could get deeper in you, your pussy everything he imagined and more as he continues to fuck into you. you’re warmer than his hand, than some hookup’s mouth from the club, clenching around his cock so tightly his hips stutter.

“f-fuck, angel, tryna snap my dick off?” you let out an incredulous chuckle at that, hips moving back to meet his while the sounds of his balls slapping against your ass fill the room. your juices are coating his length so well, too, that gojo’s eyes lock on your cunt that sucks him in over and over again, the spread of your pussy lips just amplifying his moans. the other spreads your cheeks and sighs at the translucent ring of cum at the base of his cock, hips fucking up to hit your sweet spot that you’re cumming with a shock down your spine — so hard, so deep, so intense that you’re jolting from the orgasm with whimpers of his name. gojo never truly is done with you after pulling out to cum on your ass, however, and you aren’t either.

there’s a thrill that runs through his veins when you back him up onto the sofa, a glimmer in your eyes that suggest you’re as intoxicated on him as he is on you, a sultry gaze taking over your shyness from earlier before he’s pushed onto the cushions.

“thank you for the meal, professor,” you giggle and gojo swears he’s reached his death when your mouth first closes around his still sensitive tip and he whines loudly, hearing your fingers fill your drooling cunt as your hand squeezes out leftover cum from before. a hand runs through your hair and your cockdrunk face is enough for him to see white—

professor gojo thinks you look heavenly between his legs.

✶ GETO

you sigh echoes throughout your dorm room, ending the stream and collecting your keep for the day as you grimace at the mess you’ve made on your sheets. it’s not like it wasn’t pleasurable, but on some days you’re wondering how long you truly need to serve gross men on the internet for it to be enough to pay off your university fees. sure, there were a few attractive people who commented and tipped you, but that was the extent of it. it’s not long before you can only think about cleaning up and taking a big fat nap, but a video in the sidebar catches your attention.

it seemed like a casual stream — no script or planned storyline apart from a heavily tattooed arm taking up half the screen, his pelvis just slightly off the thumbnail. he was faceless, too, filming rather from the chest down which was also inked, something that sends a chill to your core.

it’s only later when you’re slipping your dildo back into you as you watch this stranger pump his cock, guttural groans and slick noises filling your airpods that you realise the dragon wrapping around his arm looks awfully familiar. you’re so blissed out by pleasure, focusing on the needy moans that the man lets out before he cums with a grunt, so much cum leaking out from him. you’ve reached your high too, but you have no time to admire the stranger because it seemed like he was in a hurry, but not before you’ve caught a glimpse of his lip ring.

you know why he looked so familiar, now, standing in front of him in his office while his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, something he doesn’t do often. geto suguru doesn’t wear his lip ring in lecturers either, and now you think you know why because they match the video you’ve seen just last night. you aren’t even entirely sure why you were called in, and you think maybe it’s because you “accidentally” sent a friend request, but you’re taken aback when he asks you if you’ve already selected a tutor to be your mentor throughout your major project.

“surprised? i sent out the email a week ago, love.” you try not to let the name get to you, and the confession lingers at the tip of your tongue.

“y-yeah! i saw it, professor geto, just—”

everyone was no stranger to professor geto’s striking looks, always turning heads with his unconventional gauges and long hair that probably should’ve landed him in a modelling agency in the first place. except, he’s opting instead to teach linguistics, a fitting major for him to talk of the history of language and its formation of it, even slipping in some latin and greek to show its origins but you can hardly listen when all you can focus on is the tight pull of his shirt around his body while his hair falls around his face and you think maybe it was a bad time to think if his hair falls out of his bun while he rails someone. you hope soon it’ll be you, just so you can confirm it for yourself with no other reason involved (you’re a fucking liar).

geto clears his throat and you swallow and the flex of his forearms only distract you further, the dragon on his arm seemingly laughing at your torment as it moves along his skin — the other doesn’t miss your dilemma, staring at you for your answer with a dark stare and enjoying the effect he had on you. your brain doesn’t respond fast enough, though, and you’re blurting out the first thing as you watch the curve of his mouth turn in either distaste or satisfaction; you weren’t sure.

“i saw you stream yesterday—” and you slap a hand over your mouth, wanting to run immediately, but you didn’t expect him to smile after a moment of recognition, making the connections to your account until his mouth falls open just a little.

“you’re the little cutie who sent me a request last night, aren’t ya?”

as he asks the question you hoped he wouldn’t ask, you find there’s nothing on your mind except maybe seeing his tattooed arms wrap around you — and you did. they looked so much better up close, leading from one thing to another in that stuffy office soon they’re looking especially good with how he’s currently dragging the tip of his cock along your folds, collecting your slick as you hold onto his biceps after confessing sin after sin about you from—

“i’ve jerked off to your videos.” a burn on your cheeks when geto sets you on his office table, palms leaving hot trails along your thighs and skin. he lets you play with his bulge, hands probably forming bruises on you from how you relieve the tension in his pants.

“the way your cunt wraps around that dildo — makes me wish i was there fuckin’ your pussy instead.” a gasp and a moan when he preps you with both fingers as he sucks hickeys into your neck and plays with your tits, pinching your nipple that has you clenching around him.

“didn’t miss how you like to be bred in your videos too. think maybe you need some real cum, princess,” geto’s button up shirt is pried open by now, trousers just barely pulled down below his hips because he has a lecture in about half n’ hour. though, he wanted your pussy all to himself and if 27 minutes was all he was granted, he was going to make full use of it. geto groans into your hair when your legs wrap around his middle and he’s reeling at how he’s been watching your videos for the longest time and yet, nothing compares to having you fall apart by his hands.

a quick glance to his watch tells him fifteen minutes, eyes flitting back to the squelch of your cunt around him and he smiles smugly at the whimpers he knows so well. he’s sure it’s imprinted on his brain by now but his dick still jumps at the many variations you’ve let out during the 27; he’d commit every single one to memory. “professor— s-shit!”

geto angles his hips up, the curve of his cock hitting that spot just right that your back arches and you let out a drawn out moan, “yes, baby?”

“w-wan’ your cum in me, suguru,” you’re pleading with a drunk little smile and your face is twisted into such pleasure he’s only seen through pixels that geto cums almost immediately with a pained laugh seeing the real thing, hips stilling as he fills you up, up, up to the brim with hot, white semen that geto feels embarrassed to climaxing so quickly. but what can he do? when his favourite camgirl and student asks to be bred, it’s only natural.

how could he possibly say no?

✶ NANAMI

“does that mean the poem is written from the cross’ perspective?” your hand shoots up in hopes of interpreting the text correctly, but also because, just maybe, that you wanted to impress a little someone at the front of the lecture theatre. beside you, you can hear the gasp of your friend along with the eyes of various other students. “sort of like— personification?”

nanami points to you with his glasses that he’s long removed, a small smile on his face. it’s not like you’re trying too hard, but of course you know your shit fairly well. you always have in every class, it was just a bonus you were so attractive that all nanami could think about was spreading your legs right on this desk. “yes, almost. anthropomorphism, something that was very common in poems or works written in old english.”

you were sceptical about professor nanami at first, especially since he was a lecturer who was transferred here from overseas only three months ago and is technically quarter of a white man, but he held command of the japanese language well enough for you to understand, both in speech and concepts. you were more interested in the lecturer himself though, piqued from the moment he explained his grandfather was danish and you turn to your friend, explains the blonde hair, doesn’t explain how he’s so insanely fine, giggling quietly to each other the first day.

as for your major, it was texts after story after poem, but you enjoyed it alongside giving your own input in class — something you knew would help your participation grades. you’ve raised your hand in more ways than one, always coming up at the end of lectures with a question, stopping him in hallways to show him the book you were currently reading. so that’s why you were confused when you were called to the front of the lecture theatre after everything’s over. it couldn’t be bad, right?

it wasn’t bad, it was much better, especially when nanami’s got your legs on either side of him on the lecture theatre desk while he takes his rightful place between your legs — somewhere he’s always longed to be. both the front and back doors are locked, with only your soft, muffled moans filling the room. but nanami has no shame, slurping up the juices that drip from your pussy loudly, possibly staining the desk below him. he’s cared before about the condensation of his drinks but when it comes to your sweet, sweet cunt? he doesn’t give one fuck.

“taste so good, sweetheart,” nanami moans wrapping a forearm around your thighs and just eats. he flicks his tongue over your clit, while the other hand goes up to squeeze at your tits, kneading and playing with them while you’re still at awe at the man on his knees, at how you’ve gotten one of the hottest professors in the university eating out of your pussy like it’s the last meal on earth.

you’re snapped out of your daze when nanami lands a few slaps onto your pussy, brown eyes boring holes into your skull. but this stare is different, as opposed to glaring down the mischievous boys who can’t stop making noise, this is…

“pay attention when i eat your little pussy, angel,” the demanding tone has you shivering, a small grin stifled when he nods in deserved approval and continues his assault. fingers slip in before you have time to react and your head is thrown back so hard it bumps against the wood but you don’t care, clamping down around his fingers. nanami’s pace is unforgiving, sucking hard on your clit while he pumps them in and out.

“feel good?” nanami asks through slurps as he catches your eye, licking one last stripe before gathering his saliva into a ball and he spits onto your clit, sight so lewd you clamp around his fingers. he admires how the way the glob of liquid runs down your cunt and mixes with your arousal that he can’t wait for it to be his cum instead.

“better than…” your voice trails off when he rubs in his spit, a thumb on your bud while he continues to move his fingers and your thighs are already trembling from how nanami knows all your sweet spots in such a short period of time. nanami simply chuckles at your sensitivity, meeting you halfway as you sit up to feel his lips against yours and he whispers against your lips—

“what were you gonna say, baby?”

you’re heaving for oxygen as he adds a third finger and you’re just hoping he’d show you his fucking dick already. hot breath fans across your lips and you smile to yourself seeing how your words affect him.

“better than fucking myself with my fingers thinkin’ it’s your cock, prof.”

✶ TOJI

it was nine in the morning, and toji could already feel a headache forming from the amount of absentees in his class, simply sighing before pulling up the details for today’s lecture, eyes unknowingly looking for you in the large lecture theatre. he finds that you’re already looking, clad in a cardigan and tired eyes — no doubt from trying to reach his deadline earlier than usual. toji found that you liked to do that, the first one to always submit your essays and assignments, so that’s why he knows what game you’re playing at when you’re asking the difference between first, second and third degree murder when you already know their definitions.

he would know — you got full marks the other time. 

“hm?” toji only hums when he sees your enthusiastic face and a quick look down to your lower half shows how your legs spread naturally for him. the professor only licks his lips before he spots your underwear, entertaining you for now as you stare on earnestly, while nothing is actually entering your brain. that’s okay, though, you’re smart.

toji can count on one hand the amount of times you manage to catch him off guard, but he didn’t expect both of those times to be on the same day. it was a busy night at the club, trailing behind professor gojo, bored, until the clock hits 11 and the shift changes, some dancers retiring for the night whilst others make their way out. they emerge with pumps and skimpy outfits, but toji still hasn’t found someone worth wasting his loaded bank account on until you’re stepping out in a corset and garters and toji whistles lowly, eyes travelling up your person unforgivingly before he hears a small gasp.

his curiosity is piqued at the small noise, only to be greeted with your widened eyes and taut muscles at having seen your professor at the strip club you work at, but with a clap from somewhere backstage your body moves naturally into a professional stance, and perhaps a little more sluttily than other days.

your professor was hot, of course you would work twice as hard, twisting your body around the pole while you show off your assets — things you were covering just this morning in professor toji’s lecture. he taught criminology, a minor that you were trying out in your second year of uni and if it didn’t work, you’d drop it, but no matter how much you complained about the class, the green eyes that bore into yours in lectures always seem to ask you to stay. you never really knew whether he was looking at you or not.

at least now, you’ll make him.

toji’s hands tightened around the wad of cash he planned to waste tonight, all put on hold just from watching the way you put your body on display. he wouldn’t have imagined seeing you tonight at the strip club he let gojo drag him to, but he’s almost glad he’s here when you seem to be only dancing for him, all focus on the other patrons lost.

your eyes are still locked with toji’s, reminding you of the times in the lecture theatre where green was all you could see, a smile creeping on your face when one of your girlfriends behind you whispers that the man with the black hair and tight shirt wants a private session with you.

that’s all it took before you feel toji’s hands on your ass later in the private room, pulling you to his front with a smirk. “what’s a sweet girl like you doin’ here?”

you roll your eyes as you feign annoyance. your heart was pounding along with the music, finally being able to feel his toned body from the front., “cut the crap, prof. you booked me for a reason. what, here to talk about my grades or something?”

“what? can’t see my favourite student?” you scoff with a small smile.

“and how did you know i work here?”

“i didn’t, but seeing you work that pole,” toji grins, landing a smack on your butt before grinding his very obvious, large bulge on you and he’s loving the way it seemed to stimulate your clit, “i need ya to show me what i’ve been missing, mama.”

toji groans later while you’ve got his cock in his mouth, on your knees in front of him while you’re fisting the places you can’t reach. you take most of him easily, feeling the tip of his length reach the back of your throat. there, your eyes flick up to him, doe eyed and pleading. it isn’t long before you feel his hips bucking into your mouth and the cute twitch of his cock in your mouth, moaning around him as you knead his thighs, dragging him closer with what little strength you had.

“dirty fuckin’ slut, huh?” toji mumbles out breathlessly, tightening his grip around your hair before you start bobbing your head again, a plethora of lewd noises alongside the slurp of your saliva and his pre-cum mixing only makes your panties wetter and sends your cunt clenching around nothing. “who knew my cutest student was such a whore?” your head reels at the degradation, sucking in your cheeks even more while you slobber over him. toji swears under his breath when your tongue sweeps over his tip, collecting his pre-cum.

“it’s s’big in my mouth, professor,” giggling, you bob your head faster as the other’s noises increase in volume, and he’s left to tap the side of your skull, causing you to tilt your head in question. the vibrations of your moans has him grinding into your mouth, shutting you up until he’s cumming down your throat with a loud groan. toji spills so much into your mouth that you have to swallow twice, pulling on your jaw as you show him the remnants of the cum still on your tongue.

“’m sure they have it somewhere in the conduct about professors not having sexual relations with a student,” toji chuckles when he sees you peel off your underwear, eagerly wrapping his arms around your waist. “or even something about cutting corners to get your grades up…” it’s a little soft, trailing off when he feels you drag his tip along your pussy and he’s mesmerised with how your dripping folds accommodate him easily.

you pout in dramatics, thighs tightening around his when you take inch after inch of him before you’re bottoming out. there’s a deep sigh coming from you before you’re moving your hips lazily, a certain slur to your words that already show you’re drunk on your professor’s cock and toji only smiles.

“yeah, but my grades are perfectly fine,” you whisper with a small whine when toji squeezes your ass, something he never thought he’d get a taste of.

“plus, we’re not in the classroom now, are we, professor?”

[grugruel]

Let the Light in

Pairing: priest!Bucky x f!reader

MDNI/NSFW

Masterlist

Summary: On the day of your wedding, you excpect to love your husband, not fall for the priest.

You'd never been a believer. But when your marrige spiraled into darkness, you had to find light elsewere. So you asked the Lord for help, and He answered.

Ironically enough, He gave you a most devout follower, the priest.

Word count: ca 4k

Warnings: fluff, angst, blasphemy, soft!priest!bucky, pinv sex, oral sex (f receiving), passionate sex, fingering, thigh-riding, adultry, praise (m receiving), priest kink.

AN: its been proof read! I dont understand how yall read it before the fact, my misspellings were crazy. I also edited it a bit, gave yall about 200-300 words more.

I stod silently on the sidewalk, with my back to the road. Numbly observing the scene in front of me as I waited. Cars were rushing past behind me, slowing as they noticed the crowd.

The chilly autumn winds blew my coat off of my stocking clad legs, revealing them to the elements. I couldnt be bothered to care.

The cold did not affect me anymore, I was strung out on feeling.

I watched my husband struggle, and the guests scramble to help him. They got him on his feet, and his best man slung an arm around him to keep him from falling again. My eyes brimmed with tears, ready to fall any second now.

I felt a hand touch the small of my back in silent support. A palm pressed firmly into the arch below, fingertips curling, rouching the fabric of my dress. I closed my eyes and all my troubles were wisked away for but a second, until I heard the guests approach and the hand left me. I opened my eyes to a grim sight.

We met in college, my husband and I. He'd been lovely and attentive when we first met, he made me fall in love with him. He proposed to me on our graduation, and i'd never been happier.

Unfortunately though, it didnt last that long.

As we were fresh out of school, both with stellar scores and brand new degrees. We got our dream jobs, and bought ourselves our dream home.

Everything was perfect, until he got fired. Why? He wouldnt tell me, he left me in the dark, refusing to tell me himself.

Naturally, I grew suspicious.

So I called his former boss, who told me that they'd caught him with his secretary bent over his desk. They said he'd gotten a reputation within his business and would be experiencing difficulties in finding a new job for himself. My crying increased gradually through out the call, this was the first time hed let me down after all. His boss was very apologetic and so was my fiancé.

He found me sat on the floor with phone in hand, a complete mess of tears and running mascara. Immedietly showing worry, 'Whats going on, whats happened?' He asked, thinking somebody died. But when I glared at him, repaying his silence with my own, he understood. He stuttered an apology, his words a flurry of explanations and sorrys, sounding truly regretful.

So I forgave him, silly me.

With time, bitterness manifested within him. Resentment over the fact that I was well liked and did good work at my own job. It led him down a pityfull path, finding solace in alcohol, resentment turning into lousey drunkeness. I should've left him, but chose to forgive him. I loved him, despite all.

Eventually he found a new job, nowehere near the prestige of his old one. But it calmed his drinking.

When he sobered slightly, he apologized continously. Telling me he promised to get better and told me he wanted to have our ceremony, because I deserved it. Foolishly, I belived him. He stayed sober several weeks before the wedding, and I thought it could be a new start.

But here we are now.

I stood behind the doors of the nave, inhaling and exhaling big shaky breaths, trying to gather strength for what I was about to throw myself into.

The priest, father Barnes. The one who would be marrying us, came to me before I walked down the aisle.

'Miss.' He began, his eyes pleading as he took my hands into his, 'Its now my place, I know. But your betrothed-'

'Youre right, its not.' I cut him off, the idea of discussing my fiancés indiscretions with the priest was not appealing. 'I apologize father.' I sighed and met his eyes, 'Hes drunk isnt he?'

The priest tilted his head to the side, realising I was already well aquainted with the vice, 'Well, yes. . .' He said, sounding apologetic.

I nodded my head, deep in thought, 'Alright, lets not waste anymore time then.'

'You're still going ahead with the wedding?' He asked me, an incredulous expression shaping his face.

I looked down, studying the intricate details of my wedding dress. Id picked it myself, my favourite flowers covered it. That man of mine doesnt know my favourite in anything, nor would he notice them on my dress.

A melancholic smile covered my lips, 'You must think me foolish father.' I whispered under my breath, chuckling quietly.

He shook his head and moved one of his hands to my chin, tilting my face to meet his. The other grabbed my hands, and squeezed them, 'I think youre strong.' He told me, a reassuring smile on his lips.

'He promised me he would get better.' My voice was meak, a tear streaking my face.

'You're a good woman.' He breathed, letting go of my hands to cup my face. He leveled his head with mine, his tall stature forcing him to hunch as his eyes locked with mine, 'Too, good.' He whispered, 'And, Its not my business, thats true. . .' Another tear fell, and he gently stroked it away with his thumb, 'But he does not deserve your kindness.'

My cheeks burned hot, a blush crept up my face. I had not heard such kind words in a long time. I could not controll my crying any longer, unstoppable tears came rolling down my cheeks, 'I have to believe him, father, I have to try.' I told him quietly, hating how desperate my voice sounded.

'I love him.'

He cringed at the words, furrowing his brows 'I admire your devotion.' He said gently, 'Do you want more time? Im sure we can wait a little longer.' He tried, but I shook my head.

'No, I dont want to keep the guests waiting.' I took a deep breath, 'Do I look ok?' I asked him.

He nodded, but pulled the cuff over his hand and dabbed my cheeks dry.

His eyes flickered over my face, studying my features, my wet eyes and rosy cheeks. He leaned in, kissed my cheek and whispered 'Angelic.' His hands fell to my bare shoulders and gave them a reassuring squeeze.

He turned around and as he was about the leave I grabbed hold of his wrist, carefully tugging him back. He faced me and I let go of him realising that perhaps it wasnt appropriate of me. 'I just-' I began, but my voice broke. He met my eyes and pulled me into his embrace, 'Thank you, father.' I whispered against his chest.

He rested his head on your shoulder and rubbed your back gently, holding onto the fabric of your dress, rubbing it between his fingers. Studying the beautiful pattern. He slid his hands up your arms, feeling a sudden urge to kiss the bare skin beneath him. He pulled back hastily, clearing his throat as he silently rebuked himself.

'I must take my place dear.' He said, stroking a piece of hair behind my ear. He gave me a last smile, then left, taking his place by the altar.

I heard the music starting and the muffled sound of the crowd standing up. I sighed, steadied my breathing, and opened the doors to the nave. Everyone turned around, looking at me. Whispers rumbled through the crowd as I began walking, their stares were making me nervous.

Through the gloom of the church, light shone through the windows at the altar. I looked at him for comfort, handsome as he was, I met his eyes and found it within them.

He could not tear his eyes from you, you were the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen, courageous and proud, you walked down the aisle. When your eyes met his, he smiled proudly. Hoping you would find some comfort in it, and you found it.

As I approached the altar, I tore my eyes from his and looked at my fiancé. His best man holding him upright, otherwise slumping over. He smiled sloppily at me, I gave him a strained smile back.

The ceremony was over quickly, my husband stumbled through his vows and his kiss tasted of smoke and whiskey. In fact, the entirety of him was drenched in the odor.

I smiled and thanked everyone as they congratulted us, and carefully, tiptoed around the subject of my husband.

I hurried to change into my reception dress, it was all black. Black coat, dress, heels and stockings. Fitting, I thought. As this felt more like a funeral than a wedding, burrying the woman I once was.

People were drinking, laughing and dancing. The reception was doing a wonderful job of keeping everyone cheery, everyone except me. I sat silently by our table, watching my husband as he kept drinking and his men trying to calm him down. He had barely spoken a word to me, he was to drunk to stand, to drunk to have our first dance. I felt myself sinking into oblivion as my polite smiles and thank yous were running out.

But someone approched me, snapping me out of the darkness. I looked up, and the light returned.

He reached his hand out to me, 'May I have this dance?' He asked, his white collar stark against his black shirt.

'You may.' I smiled, the first genuine smile I'd given anyone since the night begun.

I laid my hand in his and he led me to the edge of the dance floor, somewhere we could be at peace. In our dark colors we went unseen, tucked away from prying eyes.

I snaked my arms around his neck and his arms circled my waist, pulling me tightly against him. A bit unorthodox perhaps. But I didnt mind and neither did he, it seemed. I leaned my head against him as we swayed to the music, basking in eachothers prescence.

He sensed that you werent interested in talking, but rather needed a shoulder to lean on. Someone to hold you up, as your ungrateful husband couldnt even do that for himself.

For several songs, we just held eachother. Until the evening began winding down and we had to depart.

'I think this was a mistake.' He whispered.

'Which part?' I asked, and he sighed.

'Dont hesitate to come to me if you need anyhting.' He said quietly, 'Please.' he pleaded. I nodded, thinking id never take him up on his offer.

Now, I stood on the street. Still feeling the priests hand on my back although he'd already taken a few secure steps back.

I watched as my husband being carried to our car, as we were headed for our honeymoon. Two weeks in rome, I wish I could truthfully say I was excited. They shoved him into the back, and once again congratulated us with cheapish smiles. I walked around the car and opened the door, about to sit down when a hand slid into mine. I looked up and my eyes met his beautiful blues once again. He assisted me into the car, lending me his strong arm for support as I sat down. His hand slid out of mine, and a note was left in my palm, reflexicely I closed my hand around it. 'Anything.' He whispered and backed away, closing the door gently.

Our car drove off as the guests were waving us of, but all I could think about was the priest disappearing in the distance.

I opened the note, written down was his number and adress along with a few intricately drawn flowers.

I smiled to myself, quickly stashing it away in my pocket, afraid my husband would see. But as I looked at him, I realised. He was dead asleep, snoring even.

I opened my hand, tracing my fingertips along my palm. Trying to recreate the feeling of his hand in mine, his gentle, yet firm touch on my skin. I sighed, feeling my tears returning.

I cried silently, afraid to wake him. The driver looked at me through his rearview mirror, I met his eyes and quickly averted my gaze, crying even harder, but I couldnt even do that in peace. God, what had I done. I leaned my head against the seat, closing my eyes. When suddenly, I felt fingers on my knee. I shut my eyes harder, begging for it to be my imagination. But it wasnt.

'My, beautiful wife.' He drawled, tracing a finger along my jaw as his hand slid up my thigh. He sat forward, leaning towrd the drivers compartment and shut the hatch.

I opened my eyes and faced him, 'Aw, crying of joy sweetheart?' He asked, he was so delusional it was scary. I nodded, and feigned a smile which he returned lazily, then leaned in to kissed me.

I closed my eyes again, canceling out the taste and smell of liqour, shutting my ears to his voice.

And when his finger reached under my dress, It no longer felt like him. My husbands face was no longer my husbands, his voice and touch was someone elses.

All of a sudden my core was aching for more.

His kisses on my skin felt like heaven, his touch like fire and when he pulled me on top of him. I opened my eyes, and was met with blue, black and white.

Weeks went by and my thoughts never left father Barnes, whenever my husband made love to me, I made love to a priest.

Eventually his drinking subdued and he started taking care of himself, but grew more distant by the day.

It did actually make my existence bareable.

But there came a day, when I got home from work early and things were not as they should. The were heels in the doorway and clothes strewn on the floor. As I followed their trail, I found my husband and his secretary at the end of them. Naked, sweaty and monaing, in our bed, in our home. I was quiet, lost for words, but they mustve noticed my presence.

Because they stopped and threw the sheets over themselves, covering up. 'Sweetheart, its not what it seems.' He managed, struggling to clme up with an excuse. God, the stumache on that man. I felt like screaming, like cursing him and his entire bloodline. But he wasnt worth it.

I turned on my heel and he scrambled out of bed, dragging the sheet with him as he followed me out of the house, apologizing prefusely.

I shut him out, rage filling me as I got in my car and drove away. I drove to the only adress that came to mind.

I walked up to his house and knocked on the door, a few moments passed and he opened.

With wide eyes he looked at me, unable to hide his surpise. 'I uhm, I-' I stammered, my own surpise catching up to me. I hadnt had time to think this through, I acted on pure instinct. 'He cheated on me.' I got the words out, finally taking a breath as I finally understood their meaning. Misery overtook my rage, and my eyes welled as I tried to explain myself. 'I apologize for barging in on you father.' I started, 'Ive been thinking about you and I-' rambling, all my thoughts and feelings poured out of me. In the doorway of this poor mans home.

He reached out to me and pulled me into a hug, backing away from the door and let it fall shut behind me. He rested his head on top of mine as one of his hands held my head against his chest, stroking my hair. The warmth of his home embracing me.

'Can I confess something father?' I asked him as I laid my arms around him, much like our dance a few weeks ago.

'Anything.' He answered, kissing the top of my head.

'Ive sinned.'

He pulled back with a confused look on his face, but didnt let go. 'Lets hear it.' He ordered patiently.

'Ive. . . Been thinking of another man.' I whispered, looking deep into his eyes. 'During actions that should only take place between husband and wife.' I told him quietly, and his face grew pale. 'Ive had an emotional affair with this man, unbeknownst to him.' My breathing turned heavy, as my gaze switched to his lips, 'But, me and this man. Were both bound by vows you see.' I said and let go of him, understanding my words as I said them, and stepped back. Suddenly regretting coming here, as I felt rejection was imminent. 'Mine are already broken, but his are not and he cannot break them. He would not.'

'You should let the man speak for himself.' He said, serious in tone. His gaze locked in on me, as he stepped closer. 'I havent been able to stop thinking about you, no matter how hard I've tried.' He whispered, laying his hands on my hips. 'Ive never seen a woman so beautiful walking down the aisle, god himself mustve blessed you.' I snaked my hands around his shoulders, burrying them in his hair. 'Im hoping he would bless us, too.' Leaning in, his lips were a ghost over mine. 'I would care for you, in a way your husband never could. He does not deserve you.' He leaned his forehead agagaist mine, 'I'd work everyday to deserve your love, your kindness, your presence.' He said quietly against my lips, planting a gentle kiss on them and pulling back slightly to give me room. But I chased his lips, returning the kiss feverishly. Grabbing a fistful of his hair as I pulled him impossibly closer. His hands roamed my back, reaching under my shirt to undo my bra. It fell to the floor and he pulled my shirt over my head in one quick motion, making me gasp.

I removed the collar of his shirt with my teeth and ripped his black shirt open, burrying my head in the crook of his neck, 'Youre not a beginner, are you father? I asked, between kisses. Breathing heavily as I latched onto his skin, sucking at the sweet spot between his neck and collarbone.

He moaned, a smirk shaping his lips, 'Saints also sin from time to time.' he breathed, his hands falling to my ass and lifted me into his arms. I chuckled, letting go of his neck and circled my legs around his hips. I pushed my bare breasts against him and he burried his face in them, in turns taking them into his mouth. 'Where?' His voice came muffled by my skin.

'Everywhere.' I answered.

I could feel his grin against my skin, as he nipped my nipple with his teeth, making me yelp. He walked us toward his bedroom, and laid me down on his bed. He stood back, studying me as he took his shirt and pants off. I unbuttoned my own pants and shimmied out of them, raising myself onto my elbows, watching him as he took me in. His eyes roamed my body, thighs, hips, stumache, breasts. He loved all of me, 'Youre perfect.' He said, lust in his eyes as he climbed on top of me. 'I need you.' He whispered.

'You'll have me.' I told him and flipped him over. Positioning him against the headboard as I stradled his thigh, grinning wickedly and leaned forward, kissing his jaw. 'But first-' I whispered against his ear, 'I want to test your self control.' He looked confused, and I began grinding my clit against his thigh, a whimper escaping me. His hands flew to my hips to help me along, but I grabbed them and led them up to the headboard. I leveled my face with his, ghosting my lips over his as I had him hold onto the board, 'No touching.' I whispered and pecked his lips. I leaned back and my grinding resumed, I grabbed his thighs for support as the heat from the friction was making me swoon. I leaned my head back, biting my lip from the pleasure and when I looked back at him, he was holding onto the board for dear life. The muscles in his arms and jaw clenching as he fought himself to stay still, his eyes were running up and down my body.

The way your hips swayed and breasts bounced, it was sucking all the restraint out of him. His hands were itching to touch you, to just feel your skin under his fingertips for a moment. It would keep him fed for the rest of his life.

I hummed, 'Im- im gonna-' I stammered, my breaths frenzied as I was closing in on my orgasm. The crazy in his eyes made me smile devilishly, I felt evil, in the best way. My hips stuttered against his thigh, my ruts becoming faster and shorter as I was approaching my release. When I looked at him, his eyes were pleading, begging for permission, but it was to late. I rushed over the edge in a second, collapsing onto him, panting hard as I was catching my breath.

'May I?' He asked, his voice strained.

I kissed his chest and answered, 'Yes, please. You did so good.' He grunted at the praise, surprising me. He grabbed my ribs and threw me under him, hurridly kissing his way down my body until he reached my thighs. Spreading them, he kissed his way up the inside until he reached my panties. Without a second thought he ripped them apart and burried his face in my cunt. Tasting me, licking my juices, sliding his tongue through my folds and kissing my clit. A string of curses fell from my lips, as he pushed a finger inside of me, carefully sliding it in and out. Then adding another, and eventually a third, he thrusted them into me, my moaning telling him he was on the right track. He curled them into my spot and I nearly screamed.

'Just like that, good job.' I breathed and he moaned against my clit. What fun. He reached into his boxers and stroked himself, the sight made me mad. And for the second time, I came tumbling over the edge. He was not far behind, coming into his own hand, drenching himself in his seed. I grabbed his arm and pulled his hand closer to me, licking a stripe of his hand. He grunted at the sight, spurring me on as I took his fingers into my mouth. Sucking him clean as he watched, furrowing his brows, he became plagued by lust.

I pulled him closer to me, meeting his lips in another kiss as he pulled off his boxers. I reached down, stroking him as I lined him up with my entrance, 'You did such a good job, father.' His head perked at the praise, like a puppy being told hes a good boy. Gratefully pecking my face, cheek, chin and jaw, below my ear and neck. He put his weight on me, we couldnt possibly get any closer to one another. 'I need you in me father.' I told him bluntly, and leveled his head with mine, sliding inside. Kissing me mean while and I moaned into his mouth, sharing my breath with him. I laid my hands on his hips, telling him to move by pulling and pushing. Helping him set a gentle but firm pace, he lowered his head to the crook of my neck, his breath hot against my skin. 'Let me hear you father, dont hold back.' I whispered and appreciatively he grunted against my skin, moaning in my ear. It was fiendish, it was fantastic. 'Deeper, please.' I asked, pulling on his hips to drive him deeper and using the weight of his entire body he thrusted into me, in rythm with his grunts as our bodiess moved together.

'Tell me im good, please.' He begged, nuzzling his face into my neck.

I smiled, 'Youre being so good for me father.' I whispered into his hair.

'Thank you.' He whimpered, putting even more force to his thrusts as he traced my collarbone with kisses, all the way to my shoulder, repeating "Thank you." Over and over again inbetween his kisses. His thrusts were coming faster as he was closing in on his orgasm, driving me over the edge with him. 'I- im- im close.' He stuttered faintly.

'So am I, almost there father.' His pace hastened as his hand slithered between our bodies, finding my clit and circled it. 'God' I moaned, spots specking my vision as the priests thrusts became frenzied. He pinched my skin in warning, reminding me not to take the lords name in vain. Then we came together, and he collapsed on top of me.

'Im sorry for swearing, father. You bring it out of me.' I whispered.

He chuckled, 'Youre forgiven.' Throughout the night, we made love on the couch, the floor, the kitchen table and shower.

Eventually, we got back into bed. Holding eachother tightly as we drifted off to sleep.

When I woke up late the next day, there was a vase of flowers on the bedside table with a note under it, the letter "-B" was written on it.

I unfolded it and he had written me a message, "I had to go to church, but didnt want to wake you. I hope on seeing you later, please stay if you want to. Id love to come home to you. -PS, Your favourites."

I smiled happily and smelled the bouqet of tulips, a soft, warm feeling spreading throughout my body.

For a long time love had felt dark to me, it had felt cold and lonely, but now. . .

I had let the light in, he was my light.

[fastandcarlos]

Missing Piece : ̗̀➛ Oscar Piastri

summary: you’re supposed to be used to oscar going anyway by now, but no matter how hard you try, it still hurts just as much

“As soon as I land, I promise I’ll give you a call, make sure that you don’t have too much fun without me.”

Your head nodded as you buried it into the crook of Oscar’s neck, refusing to let him see you, scared of what would happen.

He smiles down at you, kissing against the top of your head.

Like you, he’s trying his best to hold it together, reassuring himself that it’s only a couple of weeks and that the two of you have spent longer apart before. You could still text, still call, but it was never quite the same. Oscar knew you masked a lot, you tried not to be bothered when it was time for him to go, but deep down he knew every time stung just a little bit more than the last.

A final kiss was pressed to the side of your head as Oscar unwrapped his arms from around you, taking a hold of his suitcase as your eyes fell to the ground.

Your voice was almost silent as you said goodbye to Oscar, unable to bring yourself to watch as he closed the door of your apartment. On the other side, he sighs, knowing that the silence is how it needs to be in order for you to survive.

Straight away the silence in your apartment makes you tense up, struggling to picture yourself getting back to life with Oscar by your side. Once you were sure his car had had enough time to drive away, you finally let yourself fall. First one tear fell, quickly followed by another, and then another, until you were laid out on your sofa relentless wiping underneath your eyes. The scent of Oscar’s jumper that you wore only made things worse, he was almost there with you, to comfort you, but not quite.

Several shaky breaths came from you as you looked around the place, little reminders of Oscar placed around the rooms as he had all but moved himself into your place.

The kitchen was still full of his favourite snacks, the music playing in the background was still his playlist that he had been so excited to show you, many items of his clothing were hung on your radiators, unable to dry them in the blistery winter breeze.

Each sight makes you weaker and weaker, makes your heart ache more, silently crying out for Oscar to return to you and end your nightmare.

Every time Oscar went away it was the same old story, you tried to convince yourself that this time would be the time when you’d crack on, prove to yourself that you didn’t need Oscar to survive, but each time you failed. Maybe you’d last a day or two at most, but then you’d encounter a job or a sign of him that would send you spiralling back to the beginning again.

You found yourself alone again, on the other side of the world to the true place that you called home.

Oscar hated himself for being the reason you left behind everything, as much as you tried to convince him that you loved Monaco, he knew you wanted more. Times like these, when he left you all alone, more than anything you wanted the comfort of your family with you to scoop you up and keep you going.

Whenever the two of you spoke about it you reassured Oscar that he was worth it, that you were willing to make the sacrifice in order to make your dreams together succeed. But a small part of you had also hoped that it would all get easier, and it was anything but.

Admittedly, you were lost without Oscar, he’d been gone two minutes and already you found yourself a crumpled mess in your living room, wondering if you were going to survive.

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

Meanwhile, driving down to the airport, Oscar isn’t sitting pretty either. He’s restless, going through his list in his head once again, sensing that something isn’t quite the way it’s meant to be. Beside him Lando watches him closely, wondering what’s got into him as Oscar frantically searches through his rucksack to find what he’s looking for.

“It’s got to be in here somewhere,” he whispers to himself, searching through every single pocket. “I knew I should’ve put it in a safer place,” he continued to scold, getting more and more stressed.

Lando kept his eyes on him, “what on earth has gotten into you? Surely it can’t be that important, whatever it is.”

Oscar shot a glare across at Lando.

It was more important than anyone could ever imagine, and he refused to go any further until he had it in his hands.

“What are you going to do?” Lando asked after Oscar asked for the driver to stop the car and let him think for a moment.

Oscar glanced back across at his friend, shrugging his shoulders at the fact that they were already running late for their flight.

“I’ve got no choice, I need to go home again.”

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

It had only been a few minutes, but already Oscar had missed you, already Oscar was excited to be reunited with you again. He sent his apologies to everyone before entering your apartment block, racing up the stairs.

He was bouncing on his heels, as if the two of you were going to see each other after weeks apart as he pulled out his key. He fumbled slightly as he placed the key into the lock, turning it sharply and bursting into the room.

Oscar shot into the room, glancing everywhere to catch a glimpse of you, only when he did, his heart sunk. The key dropped to the floor, expression shattering, words failing him. You were too wrapped up in yourself to even notice that Oscar had returned, your sobs being the only noise in the room.

Whilst silently, the guilt of it all ate away at Oscar.

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

“I can’t wait to tell you all about it.”

“I can’t wait to hear all about it,” you responded, smiling widely as Oscar told you about the fight that had happened during the McLaren team dinner that night, only wishing that you’d been there to see it.

“Luckily me and Lando managed to sneak out before we got caught in the crossfire,” he assured you, giggling away to himself. “It’s going to be so awkward at the team briefing tomorrow morning.”

As Oscar spoke, you were slightly thankful you weren’t there and a part of it.

It had been a couple of days since Oscar left, and after the scene that unfolded that he left, he promised to call you every free second of the day that he had, refusing to leave you alone with your own thoughts for too long.

“I bet things are a lot busier here than they are at home,” Oscar smirked, almost envious of the calm environment you found yourself in.

His eyes lit up, enough to bring a smile to your face too.

“Your mum has been ringing me nonstop, I don’t know what you’ve said to her.”

“Not a lot,” he chuckled, lying through his teeth, “I just mentioned things were a little bit tricky for you.”

“A little bit?” You challenged, raising your eyebrow at Oscar. “I think your mum thinks I’m on the verge of a breakdown, you know she’s forcing me to send her a photo every time I have something to eat.”

“Good,” Oscar responded, failing to see the problem with what you were saying. “No one’s there to check up on you love, at least if mum is keeping an eye on you then I know too that you’re taking good care of yourself.”

You gasped, hand over heart, offended that Oscar had taken his mum’s side rather than your own. He knew you were only messing as he mocked your reaction, stunned that you didn’t see how caring his mum was being.

“If it helps, would you like me to send you photos of my food too?” Oscar offered, continuing to tease you. “I know you love race day food.”

Your eyes narrowed at him, you didn’t just love race day food, it was your obsession. Secretly, it was the only reason you actually went and supported Oscar.

“I’ll block you,” you warned, “and then no one will be able to check up on me, I’ll just live in my own little bubble of peace and quiet in the apartment.”

Oscar’s head shook as he took a sip from the drink beside him, glancing on the clock at his bedside that was getting later and later. You knew that Oscar wasn’t brave enough to tell you what he was thinking, but you knew his expression well enough by now to know that he was starting to get sleepy and needed to rest for work tomorrow.

As he looked at the screen again, Oscar knew that you knew exactly what he was hinting at too.

“I’m sorry.”

Your head shook, refusing to listen to him. “Don’t be stupid, you’ve got work, it’s important that you’re ready for tomorrow.”

“I promise that I’ll speak to you in the morning,” Oscar insisted, shuffling around on the bed so that he was laid down, phone above his head. “I’ll keep you updated as much as I can with how tomorrow goes.”

He did a good job of keeping you in the loop, tried his best to share as many updates as he possibly could with you. It wasn’t always easy, and at times Oscar had to be very sneaky, but it would be worth it to get your reply and know just how proud of him you were.

“You’ll sleep soon too, won’t you?” Oscar quizzed, doing the math in his head to know that it wasn’t far off getting late for you either.

“I will now that I’ve spoken to you,” you hummed, happy to let Oscar go for the night, and happy to know that you’d been sleeping much more comfortably too.

“I love you, wish me luck for tomorrow.”

“You don’t need luck Oscar…I love you.”

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

He’s barely able to sit still as Oscar listens to yet another gate call, hoping this time it’s for him, but not quite. His frustration builds and builds, restlessly fidgeting whilst Lando sits beside him as if he’s got all the time in the world.

Knowing how close you were only hurt Oscar more now. He was desperate to be back where he belonged, back with his best friend and back in the place that he called home. He’d been away from the missing piece in his life for too long, and now he was ready to fix the jigsaw that was his life again.

The journey felt like an age, every slight stop tormented Oscar, knowing it was pushing the time of his arrival further and further back.

What hurt him the most though was the lies, the ignorance he had for you. When he landed and turned his phone back on he was met by dozens of calls and texts, most of them full of panic. He hated that he couldn’t tell you the truth, but his mum had assured him that she would try and keep you as calm as possible.

The car barely had time to stop when it pulled up outside your home, Oscar was out like a bullet, grabbing his belongings and racing up the stairs. Standing outside your door, he composed himself, taking a deep breath in and out before knocking on the door, hoping that you were home.

You weren’t expecting anyone, lazily moving across to the door. A sigh came from you as you took the latch off, pulling down on the handle and opening the door, slowly turning your eyes up.

Oscar’s smile was bright as your eyes met, a chuckle came from him, relieved to see you and see for himself that you were alright. It took you a moment to realise who was before you, but as soon as you did, you were stepping forwards, throwing yourself into Oscar’s arms and legs wrapping around his frame.

He barely had a moment to react, Oscar dropping his case and catching you just as quickly.

There were no words spoken for a while as you both let the reality set in. Your head was buried closely into the crook of Oscar’s neck, this time trying to compose yourself for a different reason. Your tears were no longer of sadness, but of overwhelming joy to have Oscar home.

“You’re not supposed to be here yet,” you laughed, pulling back and meeting Oscar’s eyes once again. “Y-you’re here early,” you commented, pressing a kiss against the tip of his nose.

Oscar nodded proudly, “we were finished and I couldn’t wait any longer, I just wanted to get back and be with you again. I’ve missed you so much, it’s been so hard being away from you this time.”

The grip that you had on Oscar was bone-crushing, filled with happiness knowing that you weren’t going to be by yourself anymore. It didn’t matter anymore where you were in the world anymore, just the fact that Oscar was back with you again was enough to make everything alright.

“How come you changed your mind? How did you convince Zac to let you come home?” You quizzed, feeling Oscar carry you across and down onto the sofa.

“I had my ways,” Oscar proudly joked, “I’m kidding, we had everything sorted so I could fly earlier. Told him that I couldn’t wait to get home any longer to my missing piece and he sent me on my way.”

You’re missing piece?”

Oscar nodded in reply to you, “of course, the one thing that was missing to make me my happiest. I had work, I was in my race car, but you weren’t there, so everything wasn’t quite fulfilled.”

“That’s cute,” you whispered.

And Oscar meant every word of it too, it was no understatement how important you were to him, and knowing that you’d been having such a tricky time of things recently only left him feeling worse whenever he had to go away.

“Please tell me you don’t have to leave now, or any time soon,” you whispered to Oscar, terrified that your moment was going to be cut short and he was going to be pulled off into another direction to complete yet another task.

“I’m all yours, I promise, I don’t plan on going anywhere for a very long time my love.”

“Good,” you smirked, cupping either side of Oscar’s face and pressing a kiss to his lips. You’d experienced the hurt, the longing, the bitterness and jealousy, but at last you were able to experience the happiness again, the relief that Oscar was back with you and he was right there to be able to take care of you.

And luckily for you, it was a job that he absolutely adored too.”

˗ˏˋ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ! ´ˎ˗

[fyorina]

ᡣ𐭩 FRANCESCA

FEATURING: beast dazai osamu

SUMMARY: fate will always find a way. {wordcount: 22.1k; fem!reader; romance & tragedy}

AUTHOR'S NOTES: wow guys i can't believe it's over. i won't lie this chapter was an absolute monster to write, i cried and rewrote several times, but i think it came out the way i was hoping. i'll leave some more notes at the bottom so as to not spoil, but i hope you enjoy, it's been such a crazy ride, ily all lots. as always, reblogs appreciated

GENERAL WARNINGS: mcd. dissociation. explicit mentions of past self-harm & suicide attempts. dazai describes his scars as "gross" and "ugly". implications of child abuse. suicide. i believe that's all, if there's any i'm missing, pls let me know, this is a heavy chapter obviously.

SEE: UNREAL UNEARTH SERIES MASTERLIST READ: BADLANDS SIDE A

“... You said you have a brother?” 

You look up from where your head is resting on Dazai’s chest, peering at him with furrowed brows. He raises his eyebrows, hoping the curiosity on his face comes across as innocent. In his defense, it mostly is—Dazai only wants to know because he’s wondering if he’s correct in assuming the mentions of your brother were in the present tense because he’s still alive. 

If that’s the case, then that’s another first in this universe, he thinks. As far as Dazai is aware, in every other universe, your brother has been long dead by the time Dazai meets you and if that’s changed, it had to have been because of something Dazai unwittingly did, otherwise what else would’ve led to such a drastic change from the norm.

He doesn’t recall if you ever mentioned anything of significance about your brother in any of the other universes. The most he remembers is that in some, he passed away when you were sixteen and that he was involved with some shady business. You claimed that it was something to do with underground rings but if Dazai’s right in assuming that he is still alive, then Dazai thinks that the underground ring business was a cover for Port Mafia business, because the only thing that so drastically changed in the years your brother would have died was Dazai coming into contact with the Book and upending the Port Mafia’s operations.

“I do,” you say, shifting to prop your chin up on his shoulder, you lean in to brush your lips against his jaw and Dazai’s eyes flutter shut, lifting his hand to caress the small of your back. “We don’t speak anymore.”

God, Dazai doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to this. He lifts his free hand to cup your cheek, watching as you lean into his touch. He lifts his shoulders up off the bed to tilt his head down, pressing a chaste kiss to your lips. He can feel you smile against his and he swears his heart is in his throat, hand sliding to hold the back of your head as he lets his fall back against the pillows. You settle back against his chest and Dazai cards his fingers through your hair as his mind spins.

It’s been two weeks since the event, and while the upcoming conflict with the House of the Dead and their allies has been eerily quiet, Dazai thinks it might be for the best because things with you have not been quiet. The past two weeks have been tense and strained, once the fog of the night the two of you spent together finally disappeared, the realization of your situation hit you hard. 

It’s been cycle after cycle of you shutting yourself off from him—curling up in the corner of his bedroom and staring out the window before sending yourself into a steep spiral of fear and paranoia. You haven’t dared to leave the headquarters in two weeks, even when Chuuya and Atsushi and half the Black Lizards offer to escort you, too scared to even step out of his apartment and go down to the lower floors. Sometimes you lash out at him, angry and accusatory; other times, you just cry, terrified sobs that rip Dazai’s heart right out of his chest, and he can only hold you until it passes. And it does pass, it always passes, and he gets a day or two with you like this, peaceful and pleasant. He can pretend that the two of you are just a normal couple in love with each other and not have to face reality.

He hasn’t been much better off. Every day that passes, the corners of the pages of the Book edge further into his vision. He knows it’s coming—his face-off against Dostoevsky, the first trial he has to face to ensure you can live in this universe—and he knows he can’t let himself falter even once or make a single mistake. He’s good at putting up a front around the executives—although he’s sure that Chuuya and Kouyou are realizing just how anxious Dazai really is—but he has to keep his hands beneath the table to hide the way his fingers tremble. He thought he would have more time to prepare for this, he doesn’t know why the timeline sped up so much in this life.

He tries to distract himself from the growing fear by keeping his attention focused on you because you need him right now. Desperately. He’s never seen you like this before. And it’s his fault, he knows it. In most of the other universes, you never knew his enemies were hunting you down; and in the ones that you did know, you’d been eased into a life with him already, you’d known what you were getting into. He threw you into this life without any regard for how it might affect you, like tossing someone who doesn’t know how to swim into stormy waters.  

Guilt claws at his throat again, as it always does when his mind drifts to what he’s dragged you into, so he forces his mind back to the conversation at hand. Another welcome distraction from the anxiety, a way to keep his fear at bay—trying to figure out who your brother is, a mystery that he hasn’t solved in any other universe. It’s easier to actively avoid the creeping fear than to face it upfront, especially when he’s not sure he’ll be able to overcome it.

“Why is that?” he finally asks, and then after a moment adds, “... I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” you say, but he can hear the strain in your voice and Dazai understands that it’s entirely not fine, and if your brother does happen to be part of the Port Mafia, Dazai is going to put him through the most excruciating and uncomfortable missions before forcing him back into your life because how dare he make you feel this way. “It’s been like this for like six years now. He cut off contact with me, I don’t know why, he never explained. He still sends me money but I don’t care for any of that, I just want to see him.”

Interesting. Six years ago. When he usually would have died in all of the other universes. Dazai’s mind spins as he tries to narrow it down. So many things happened that year. The Dragon’s Head Conflict, the incident with Verlaine-

The incident with Verlaine.

No.

Dazai shifts a bit and you instantly shoot him a disgruntled look, the apologetic smile he gives you in return is only half-hearted. He ghosts his lips across the top of your head before wrapping an arm tighter around you, fingers rubbing absent circles against your bare skin.

Of all of the events that occurred after Dazai came in contact with the Book, the incident with Verlaine had been the one that changed the most. Dazai had gone out of his way to ensure that the Flags survived the incident so Chuuya would still have people after Dazai finished the final stage of his plan, just like how he made sure to put things in place for Atsushi and Kyouka, Gin, pushing Akutagawa to the Armed Detective Agency. Everything would fall into place after the final stage, everyone could have their mostly happy ending.

Everyone but him.

His mind drifts a bit at the thought of his original plan, the phases that he’d enacted to ensure the preservation of this world—long, happy lives for you and Odasaku. Dragging you into his life shattered that and he still hasn’t figured out how exactly he needs to adjust everything to account for this.

You brought me here. I need you here with me. Don’t go off somewhere I can’t follow

Your words ring through his head. His eyes slide shut and the reminder of Phase Five flashes before his eyes. He can feel a headache coming on already, his throat swelling with frustration. No. Now’s not the time to focus on this. 

The incident with Verlaine. The Flags. Is it possible…?

It doesn’t necessarily have to be one of the Flags. He’s sure that dozens upon dozens of subordinates managed to live in this universe with the Flags still around, Doc especially, butterfly effect and all, but Dazai can’t help but hesitate, a gut feeling drawing him to them. You didn’t recognize Albatross or Piano Man, obviously it can’t be Lippmann. That only leaves Doc and Iceman. Doc doesn’t have a family, Dazai remembers the man mentioning it offhandedly after he was wrangled down into the infirmary for a checkup a few years ago, but Iceman…

“Nah, Iceman ain’t gonna be around this weekend, his kid sister’s graduating uni. He’s going to the ceremony. Hit me with whatever you needed him for, I’ll get it done.”

Albatross’s words from a year and a half ago echo through Dazai’s head. He fully sits up this time, eyes widening, ignoring the way he jostles you around. You scowl at him and shift into a sitting position yourself but Dazai is already fumbling for his phone. You claim you haven’t seen your brother since you were sixteen, and Dazai supposes that doesn’t entirely fit in with the fact that if his theory is right, Iceman went to your graduation, but he also supposes that the man didn’t necessarily have to make himself known to you to attend your graduation.

What other pieces is he missing?

Dazai should have recognized Iceman in the picture on your wall, shouldn’t he have? 

Not necessarily, he thinks—you and your brother had been young in the picture, no older than ten and fourteen, and Dazai doesn’t even deal personally with Iceman anyway. The man reports to Piano Man, and Piano Man reports to Dazai as the middle-man. He hardly sees Iceman more than once or twice a year, if even that. 

And…

Oh.

Dazai exhales, realizing that Iceman being your brother might explain more things than just some oddities in this universe. His mind races as he tries to mentally flip through the pages of the Book, remembering some of the stranger universes out there. Some are so distinct from this one that there are hardly any similarities to this one—universes where the world is still being torn apart by the Great War, universes where you and he had been born hundreds of years prior during an era of warring feudal lords, universes where the world is entirely flooded and universes where the world has become a wasteland.

But there are other universes so similar to this one, with just a few distinct differences, that Dazai struggles to understand what makes them turn out so outrageously different. Everything is functionally the same until the two of you are thirteen or fourteen, where it’s as if the timeline abruptly branches off into countless routes for no apparent reason. Sometimes, he ends up with Odasaku rather than Mori, but in that same universe, you somehow end up with the Port Mafia. In other universes, he ends up with the government as a member of the Hunting Dogs, you end up with the Port Mafia too in that one. Sometimes you have an ability that manifests, sometimes—like in this universe—you don’t. 

He never understood what causes the timelines to go down these routes when everything else is fundamentally the same. He assumed that he was somehow the root of it: it was a decision that he unwittingly made that caused the abrupt branching off of the timeline, but he was never entirely convinced of it because he couldn’t make sense of how him ending up somewhere other than the Mafia led to you joining the Mafia, or triggering the manifestation of your ability.

It makes a lot more sense if you already have a connection to the Mafia that he was unaware of.

That would leave your brother as the variable affecting where you end up, and whether or not your ability manifests. Not Dazai.

“What’re you doing?” you complain, flopping back onto the bed and tugging at his shirt as he puts together the mystery that’s been plaguing him for almost seven years.

“Gimme a second,” Dazai murmurs, only half-listening as he shoots a text toward Piano Man, telling him to summon Iceman back to headquarters from where he’s been dealing with a slippery target abroad for months, not bothering to wait for a response as he tosses his phone back onto his dresser and returns his attention to you, significantly more pleased than he was moments before.

The best way to test his theory is to drag Iceman back to base and see the man’s reaction to you being here. Is it smart? Maybe not, but Dazai doesn’t really care.

“What’s got you so happy all of a sudden?” you ask, eyes narrowing a bit in suspicion.

Dazai’s lips tilt upward as he leans down, half-rolling on top of you as he ghosts his lips against your forehead, nose, and then your lips before resting his head on your chest. “I’m spending my day with a beautiful woman.” He tilts his face up to kiss your jaw, relishing in the giggle you let out. “Of course, I’m happy.”

“Yeah?” you ask, nuzzling your face into his hair as you wrap your arms around him. Dazai thinks that if he died now, he would die in a state of bliss—tucked away in your arms with no threat of the outside world to weigh over him. You trace over the thin cotton shirt he’s wearing, drawing absent patterns over with the tip of your finger, up his chest to his shoulder, trailing down his arm.

“Mhm,” he agrees, eyes fluttering shut momentarily as he basks in your touch. He glances back down again when he feels your finger brush over the bandages covering his forearms, hesitating for a moment.

He peers up at you through his lashes, watching the curious expression cross your face as you look down at them, not noticing that he’s caught you staring—he knows what you’re thinking, how could he not? He’d known this was going to come sooner or later, that one day you’d wonder what was beneath the rest of the bandages. You’d never looked at him differently for it in any other life, but Dazai can’t help the lump that rises to his throat as he prepares for you to ask.

You don’t.

Instead, your gaze lifts back to his and you lean down to press your lips to his forehead. He hums lightly and tilts his head up, waiting to see if you’ll say something, but you only lift your hand to brush your fingers through his hair.

“Aren’t you going to ask?” he murmurs, eyes sliding shut again as you trace your fingers over his face, drawing along the slope of his nose down to his lips.

“I don’t plan to, no,” you say lightly, smiling as Dazai nips at your finger when you press it against his lips lightly.

“Why not?” he asks, gaze lidded as he looks up at you again. He almost frowns, wondering if you don’t want to see what’s beneath the bandages, but that would be ludicrous and makes him feel a bit insecure, so he waits for your answer instead.

“Because I figure you’ll show me on your own when you’re ready,” you tell him and the lump returns to his throat, bigger this time as he catches sight of the soft expression on your face.

He’ll never get used to it, he thinks again, breathless.

“What if I’m never ready?” Dazai questions quietly, watching your face carefully for a response.

You’re entirely unbothered by the prospect. 

“I hope one day you will be, but if you’re not, that’s okay,” you say as your arms tighten around him, leaning down to bury your face in his hair again—he can feel you smile against the top of his head.

His lips part to respond but no words leave them. Instead, he lets out a sigh and takes one of your hands into his, smoothing his thumb over your palm. “What did I do to deserve you?” he says more to himself than anything else as he lifts your hand to his lips so he can kiss your knuckles.

His eyes flutter shut for a second as he considers what to do, but before he can make a decision, he feels you shifting a bit behind him. He glances back at you, brows furrowing in confusion when he catches the sudden conflict plaguing your expression. He twists around to face you, lifting his hand to cup your cheek, frowning at the downcast look in your eyes as you lean into his touch.

“What’s wrong?” he asks you, wondering if he said something wrong but he has a feeling that it’s something running deeper than that. He keeps his voice soft as he searches your eyes for an answer. You don’t respond at first, and Dazai feels significantly more concerned, shifting to his knees to kneel on the bed next to you, tilting your face to make you look at him. “Talk to me.”

“... I have orientation in a few days,” you finally say and Dazai instantly knows what has you suddenly on edge, swallowing thickly. “For school. On Friday. I can’t not go.”

He runs his thumb along your cheekbone, hoping that the small smile on his face does not convey the nerves that eat at him—he doesn’t need to stress you out any more than you already are. A part of him wants to curse himself for being so selfish; none of this was supposed to happen. You were supposed to live out your life happily without this weight hanging over you; you were supposed to go to school and graduate, not be so scared to leave the bedroom that you hardly even want to go anymore.

God, the guilt is suffocating; it takes all of Dazai’s self control to keep himself grounded here with you and not lose himself in regret.

“Sounds exciting,” Dazai hums, careful to keep his voice light. “You’ll meet all of your new classmates, you better not forget about me.”

He finds a small victory in the way your eyes turn up slightly at his comment, but it’s only brief, returning back to that downcast expression that makes Dazai feel sick to his stomach. He brushes his lips between your brows before pulling back to look at you again, the tips of his fingers running through your hair.

“I’m scared,” you admit softly, “what if-”

“Don’t be,” Dazai cuts you off, doesn’t even let you finish the what if that’s been haunting his thoughts since he came in contact with the Book all of those years ago. If you voice it out loud, he’s scared that it’ll shatter the dam that’s been holding back all of the fear threatening to consume him. “You have nothing to be scared of. Nothing will happen to you.”

“You can’t promise that,” you say, trying to look away, but he forces you to look at him again. His heart feels like it’s in his throat when he sees the way your eyes have welled with tears, one spilling over to trickle down your cheek—he leans down to kiss it away, trailing his lips up to the corner of your eye before hovering over you.

“I can,” he corrects gently. He tells himself the same thing he told you the night he decided to see you again—he has the knowledge, power, and resources, and Dazai is never as motivated when he has you as an incentive. Already, his mind is racing, making plans to get his own men into the building, trying to figure out what would be the best course of action to maybe have Chuuya pose as another enrolled student so he can keep someone close to you. “I can.”

You don’t look convinced, your bottom lip wobbles as you look up at him doubtfully and Dazai is instantly leaning down to press his against yours. Softly. Gently. It’s an innocent kiss, a plea for you to trust him to protect you because he will protect you.

“Do you trust me?” he asks and then falters instantly, reminded of the argument the two of you had two weeks ago. He amends the question and instead asks, “Do you trust me to keep you safe?”

You stare at him for a moment and for a terrible second, Dazai thinks you might be about to say no, but after what feels like an eternity, you nod, and Dazai lets out a breath that he didn’t even know he was holding. He has to go talk to Kouyou, and the Black Lizards, and Chuuya. He doesn’t give a fuck if he turns this into the Mafia’s biggest operation since the Dragon’s Head Conflict, if that’s what it takes to keep you safe. 

Dostoevsky won’t win—not this time.

When he comes back to the penthouse after spending nearly the whole day trying to work out plans for your orientation on Friday, he can already tell that you’re teetering off of the edge. Dazai lingers in the door frame for a moment, the corners of his lips turning down and all thoughts of the upcoming operation fizzling away as he lets out a soft puff of air, studying you.

You’re sitting on the edge of the bed staring out the window blankly, hands sitting loosely in your lap. You’re still wearing the pajamas he’d left you in this morning, but there are stains on the front of it—he wonders if you tried to cook something but gave up halfway, it would explain the sudden influx of dirty dishes in the sink. 

You look beautiful—you always do, even when you’re littered with stains and half out of it—but you look so fragile that it makes Dazai sick to his stomach. He’s never seen you look so fragile before than he has the past two weeks. You’ve always been willful, the most fearless and headstrong person that Dazai has ever known. Seeing you like this because of him, nonetheless, breaks something in Dazai that he didn’t even know was still capable of being broken.

“I’m back,” he says quietly, so as to not startle you, but you don’t react to his words anyway. 

In fact, you don’t acknowledge his presence or even blink as he brushes his hand against your shoulder before coming to kneel in front of you, eyes searching your face. His throat tightens as he reaches up to cup your cheek and it’s only then that your gaze tracks down to him, but he can tell from the distant look in your eyes that you’re probably not even really seeing him.

“What’d you try to make earlier?” he hums, resting his free hand on your knee, drawing absent circles over your skin.

You stare at him for a moment and when your lips part to respond, he can barely hold back the sigh of relief—if you’re still responsive, maybe he can catch it before you steep down into your spiral, he just has to figure out how. He needs to distract you, obviously, drag you back from the ledge as you’ve done for him—not him—so many times before. 

“… Cupcakes,” you finally tell him softly. “They burned.”

His lips curl upward into a smile, hand sliding up your thigh to grab your hand, lifting it to press a kiss upon your palm. “We can try to make them together later, hm?” he offers. “I’ve never made them before.”

“... Okay,” you respond quietly after a few seconds of silence, and Dazai considers it a win—or, well, he does until you start speaking again: “I don’t think I should go on Friday, Osamu. Maybe I should just unenroll… at least until things calm down, then I can figure it out. I’ll just start later. It’s fine. A lot of people do it.”

Dazai’s eyes slide shut. He holds your hand to his face and rests his forehead against your knuckles—this time he can’t hold back the sigh that slips from his lips. This is his fault, he did this to you. In a world where you’re supposed to be free of the dark, fulfilling all of the dreams you couldn’t because of him in other lives, you’re too scared to even start school, wanting to drop out rather than step outside his penthouse.

God, what has he done?

He drops your hand back to your lap and looks back up to you, hand sliding from your cheek to the back of your head, fingers intertwining with your hair as he looks up at you. Your expression hardly shifts, watching him absently as you wait for a response, but he doesn’t know how to convince you yet so instead he gives you a soft smile that he’s sure doesn’t meet his eyes, but he doesn’t think you notice in your distant state. 

“Come take a bath with me,” he says, half a request, half a plea as he squeezes your thigh gently. “Then we’ll talk, yeah?”

You avert your gaze from his again, but you nod, so Dazai considers it another win. He stands up quickly, helping you to your feet before guiding you into the bathroom. You’d do this for him sometimes in the other universes; when he goes through really bad slumps and can barely bring himself to eat or move, you’ll coax him out of bed and into the bathtub, bringing him a tray of breakfast and letting him rest against your chest as he soaks in the hot water and picks at his food. Sometimes it brings him out of the slumps, sometimes it doesn’t, but it never fails to make him feel less alone so he figures it’s about time he’s able to return the favor to you. 

He hums a familiar jaunty tune as he leans over to get the water running in the tub—hot, you always like the water just a bit less scalding than he usually has it—before turning to you. He crosses the bathroom in three long steps, standing in front of where you’re still leaning against the counter. He cups your cheeks and purposely smushes them so he can lean down and place an obnoxious kiss right upon your squished lips. You don’t look amused by his dramatics, but your eyes are tracking him now—another win. He’s on a roll now, maybe he’ll be able to pull you out of this before it spirals.

“Let me help you get undressed?” he proposes, smiling as he lifts a finger to his cheek and waits for your response. 

“Okay,” you agree—a quicker response than the last ‘okay,’ a good sign. 

Dazai doesn’t waste time as he presses his lips to your forehead, fingers curling around the hem of your soft cotton shirt. He carefully pulls it up above your head, placing it on the counter behind you. You’re not wearing a bra beneath it, so Dazai only lets his hands settle on your hips before he props his chin up on the top of your head.

He lets out a soft breath, eyes tracing the smooth skin of your back in the mirror before he lets them flutter shut. Just as he’s about to kneel down and slip off your shorts and panties so he can get you in the tub, he feels your arms wrap around his waist, and oh. Dazai’s throat tightens as you lean your head against his chest and press your bare body against his clothed one; one of his arms curl around you, large palm splayed against your lower back, while the other cradles the back of your head.

Dazai would do anything for you. Build empires or burn them. He’d gift you the sun and the moon and the stars. He can feel your body trembling against his and he knows that he’d rot in the depths of hell if it meant keeping you safe. There’s no length he wouldn’t go to, no depths he wouldn’t stoop to. His arms tighten around you and he presses his lips back to the top of your head, letting out a shaky breath.

Fyodor Dostoevsky will die. Agatha Christie will die. Both of their organizations will burn. Anyone who’s a threat to you—whether it’s ten bodies or ten thousand, he doesn’t care.

“C’mon,” he says softly, “let’s get you in there.”

He feels you nod against his chest and with much reluctance, his arms drop from where they’re wrapped around you as he kneels in front of you. He kisses your navel as his fingers curl around the hem of your shorts; he pulls them down until they’re loose on the floor around your ankles. When he scoops you into his arms, your eyes widen and he tosses you a playful wink before easing you down into the tub.

Once you’re mostly submerged in the water, you draw your knees to your chest and prop your chin on top of them, staring ahead. Whatever light had managed to return to your eyes fizzles out almost instantly and Dazai bites back a sigh, intent on getting into the tub with you and distracting you from the thoughts plaguing your mind. He slips off his jacket and drops it onto the floor, pulling off his tie haphazardly. He reaches up to unbutton his shirt and-

Oh.

Oh.

Dazai has made a fatal mistake.

His vision tunnels in on the bandages peeking out from the sleeve of his shirt, envisioning the mess of ridged scars that stain the skin beneath them. Slowly, his gaze draws back to you. To the tub. To the water. If he wants to get in with you then-

You don’t seem to notice his sudden predicament, too focused on whatever spot on the wall you’ve been staring at since he set you down, but Dazai thinks that his world might be on the verge of collapse because he loves you, he does, but he doesn’t know if he’s ready to take off the bandages. Not yet. Maybe the fear is irrational, maybe it’s not—you’ve already done things in this universe that you’ve never done in any other, and he’s terrified that when you see the deep, ugly scars that litter his skin, you’ll look at him differently.

Shit.

His eyes slide shut, trying to figure out what to do.

He could leave the bandages on—he could, but they’ll become soggy and loose and they’ll probably slip off anyway, not to mention it’ll irritate his skin. And he’ll feel gross after. And he’s sure you’ll take notice of the fact that he won’t even take the bandages off to take a bath with you. He’s evaded it pretty casually up until now and the conversation yesterday morning, but this would be so glaring that there would be no denying that he’s actively trying to not let you see beneath the bandages. Yes, that is what he’s doing, but he doesn’t need you to be aware of that, though distantly, he notes that you probably are already at this point.

Or he could just… take them off. He’s going to eventually, he knows that; he’s not going to hide his body from you forever, but he thought he’d put it off for as long as possible. But maybe this is for the best—it happening now. Him putting it off for as long as possible is exactly what he tried to do with telling you about his position in the Mafia and that obviously blew up in his face—not only did it not happen on his own terms but it happened in the worst way possible. At least now, he can control the situation.

It is with great reluctance and severe anxiety that he finally starts unbuttoning his shirt. He fumbles a few times, fingers feeling extra clunky, but he pushes through because his comfort doesn’t matter right now, helping you does. He reminds himself of that over and over again. He can hardly even count the number of times that you’ve put aside your own comfort for him in all of the other universes, even in this one; he shouldn’t even hesitate to do the same for you. His shirt hits the floor and Dazai’s heart leaps to his throat, the first plate of his armor shed. His pants are next, and Dazai feels sick with nerves as his fingers brush the pin holding the bandages of his left arm in place.

Just do it.

His fingers work to unfasten the pin—he tells himself that he’s being ridiculous. That this is you. He wears his bandages like armor, a shield to hide himself from the rest of the world, but you’ve always been exempt from the ‘rest of the world.’ You’re you, the woman he’s loved since he laid hands on the Book when he was fifteen, the only person in the world who has accepted him for all of the good and bad and-

“How could I accept any of this?”

Your words from two weeks ago ring through his head and Dazai freezes from where he’s about to unwrap the bandages. Doubt sweeps through him—fear, cold and debilitating because he really doesn’t think he can handle your rejection. Not now, not ever, especially about this.

You won’t reject him, he insists again and forces himself to continue, but instead of looking down at the scars that line his arm, deep and discolored, lumpy to the touch—gross, he thinks again, ugly—he looks at you. You’re still staring ahead, oblivious to his rising anxiety and Dazai uses it as motivation to keep unwinding the bandages, letting them fall to the ground carelessly. 

First, his arms, then the bandages around his calves and thighs, his abdomen and chest, and finally his neck—he grimaces as his fingers graze the rough scar that circles his neck, one of the more prominent ones that mar his body, a reminder of his near-successful attempt at fifteen after he first got his hands on the Book and couldn’t cope with all of the knowledge of the different universes. With the knowledge of Odasaku. With the knowledge of you. He was fifteen. Lonely. In the worst mental state of his life, desperately searching for a reason to live and only finding more and more reasons why he should die. He’d found out he was just as isolated from the world in every other life as he was in this one, just as empty—and that the only people who could fill the gaping hole in his chest died because of him in every other universe. 

He was fifteen. It had been too much.

It’s still too much.

His gaze tracks down to the floor again, a heavy feeling settling over him. He’s second-guessing himself again, he’s feeling guilty again. He’s tired.

He’s so tired.

When he moves forward to join you in the tub, he’s hardly present; his body is moving on autopilot and it’s only when his toes dip into the hot water—a few degrees short of his liking, but the perfect temperature for you—that he’s finally drawn back to reality. He’s already in motion, so he can’t stop himself from joining you in the tub, but he is very hyper-aware now of the scars on his body, making an active effort to not let them brush your skin so as to not draw attention to them.

Luckily, his tub is large enough that you can sit comfortably between his legs without being too squeezed between them, so the deep scars that are littered across his inner thighs are not necessarily pressed against your outer thighs. But… the scars on his chest and abdomen are not as easy to evade, nor are the ones that line his wrists. His fingers brush your shoulder from where he was about to pull you back to lay against him and wrap his arms around you, eyes fluttering shut. 

There’s no way you won’t notice them when you lay back.

The largest scar that mars his body runs from his shoulder to his opposite hip—he doesn’t remember how he obtained it. It was from before he found himself in Mori’s hands, and everything before his time with the Port Mafia is vague and blurry, if not entirely blank. Either way, it’s deep and ridged, discolored. Gross. And there’s no way for you to lay against him without feeling it rough against your skin.

He barely withholds the sigh that nearly escapes his lips, but he forces himself to close his fingers around your shoulder to pull you into him. He reminds himself that your comfort comes before his insecurity, you’ve put your own wellbeing to the side for him so many times before—it should not be so hard for him to do it once for you.

For better or for worse, you don’t react when your back lays flush against his chest. For better because you didn’t have an adverse reaction to feeling the worst of his scars against your bare skin. For worse because he thinks it might only be because you’re still half spiraling into a dissociative state. He presses his lips against your shoulder, wrapping his arms around your body, and instantly he flinches because he realizes that he’s just rubbed the scars on his forearms right against you and that has seemed to catch your attention. For better or for worse.

He’s frozen when he feels you shift against him, head turning down toward where his arm is tucked against you. He’s angled it so that you can’t see them, hidden in the water and against your skin, but you’re undeterred and Dazai can hardly bring himself to breathe when he feels your fingers curl around his wrist, gently easing his arm off of you to cradle it between your hands like it’s something fragile, turning over so you can look at scars that litter his skin.

He can’t see your face. A part of him is glad, still plagued with the terrible fear that you’re going to see the scars and be disgusted, but the larger part of him wants to know, wants to see you, wants to-

His breath hitches when you bring one finger to his skin. Soft, gentle, you trace your finger across the ridged lines. Dazai’s lips part to speak, he has the distinct urge to say something, to explain even though you haven’t spoken a word, but he doesn’t know how to explain the emptiness that has plagued him ever since he was a child, that only became even more exacerbated once he made contact with the Book. He doesn’t know how to explain that he was so desperate to feel something that he resorted to this to distract himself from the void. He doesn’t know how to explain that the only reason he never actually killed himself was because he knew he had to survive to ensure you and Odasaku’s survival in this universe. 

But he doesn’t have to speak, because all of the air in his lungs whooshes right out of them when he feels you lift his arm up out of the water to your face—you brush your lips against the pulse point on his wrist before settling back against him, wrapping his arm back around you and covering his hands with your own. 

Dazai’s cheeks suddenly feel wet—it was a simple action, short and sweet, you didn’t even say anything, and he doesn’t know why it affects him the way it does. He should have expected this, right? You’ve never looked at his scars and found them off-putting, you’ve always accepted him for how he is but-

“How could I accept any of this?”

“No amount of time or charm would have made me accept this easily. Accept you easily.”

Again, your words shatter his thoughts and Dazai has to force himself not to physically react. As if you can sense his distress, you shift in his arms a bit to tilt your head back to ghost your lips against his jawline before settling back against his chest, eyes fluttering shut. His arms tighten around you, heart steadying in pace to match yours. He rests forehead against the top of your head, shivering when he feels you nuzzle your face into his skin, nose brushing the wretched scar that mars his neck.

“Osamu,” you finally say, voice soft. He hums in response, waiting for you to continue. “What I said the night of the event…”

Dazai’s throat spasms. He swallows thickly and tries to play off your words with another soft hum and a brush of his lips against your temple. He’s careful to keep his voice light as he speaks. “You had every right to be upset, I-”

“I… have had a lot of time to think the past two weeks.” You don’t even let him finish his sentence and Dazai is suddenly frozen, no air gets to his lungs as he waits for you to speak. “What I said that night… it doesn’t reflect how I actually feel. I said them in the heat of the moment.”

“… Yeah?” Dazai’s voice is too raspy, too quiet, the vulnerability in the single word is so palpable that it almost makes him want to curl in on himself. Without his bandages, without his masks, he feels as if he’s been stripped bare to his core, his rotted heart laying in your gentle hands, thumping erratically as he awaits your judgment.

“The past few months I’ve spent with you have been the happiest I’ve been since my brother left,” you admit, lacing your fingers with his. “No matter what happens, I wouldn’t give this up for anything. If I could go back in time and redo all of this, I’d still choose to meet you that night at the club, and every time after that.”

He’s grateful that you’re not looking up at him now. He stares ahead at the wall blankly, tears streaming steadily down his cheeks. His chest is warm, breath a bit shaky, and he thinks he might be holding you too tightly but you don’t complain.

“Nothing will happen,” Dazai promises you, voice cracking. “Nothing.”

“I know,” you say quietly, and he can feel the small smile on your lips as you kiss his neck gently, right over his scar. “I trust you.”

“I’m so nervous,” you laugh as you smooth out the dress shirt you’re wearing. Dazai watches as you keep glancing at yourself through the window of the elevator leading down to the first floor. He smiles to himself as he leans against the wall, observing you. “Are you sure I look okay? I don’t even know what the dress code is for this thing, they didn’t say in the email. What if people are just wearing jeans? I’ll look dumb all dressed up.”

“You look beautiful,” Dazai murmurs, lifting his hand to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “You worry too much.”

“I’m not the best at making friends,” you say, voice quick and riddled with anxiety. Dazai raises an eyebrow, lips quirking up because he thinks that might be the silliest thing he’s ever heard you say. “I hope I can at least find a few people to talk to. I hate going to events where I don’t know anyone. I wish you could come with me. What if they all hate me?”

Dazai has an answer to that question, but he doesn’t think you’ll like it, so instead he hums softly, fingers brushing your cheek and smiling lightly to himself as you lean into his touch. “I wish I could come with you too. If only to make sure you don’t forget about me when you find yourself surrounded by all your new friends.”

Dazai wishes that he could tell you that you’re worrying over nothing. That in every other universe, you were quite literally the center of your class. Brilliant, beautiful, kind, Dazai sometimes struggled to get you away from people because you always had someone wanting to grab coffee with you. Struggled even more to understand why you wanted him when you could have any man of your choice. But he can’t say that, and he’s definitely not going to be pleased if he suddenly loses all of his time with you to a bunch of undeserving nobodies, so he resigns himself to just making you feel better.

“Dazai Osamu,” you giggle as you turn your attention toward him. “Nothing in this world would ever make me forget you.”

Dazai’s cheeks heat up, lashes fluttering as he averts his gaze from you. You grin at him and hook your arms around his waist, tilting your head up to look at him. He leans down to press his lips against yours, letting out a pleased sigh against your lips when he feels you kiss him back, smiling against him.

You’ve been better the past few days, a bit more excited over starting school, spent all of yesterday trying on new clothes for him to pick out something to wear for today. Dazai, on the other hand, has been a nervous wreck, although he’s been doing his best to ensure you don’t realize that. 

Everything has been put in place—Chuuya should be waiting at the train station already, Albatross will be driving you there, the Black Lizards are going to escort you into Tokyo, and Mishima offered to have his men do sweeps of the streets to scope out for any enemies before your arrival. As long as everything goes according to plan, it’ll be fine. The riskiest part will be the train station with how busy it is, it’ll be easy for you to get separated from your escorts, but so long as Chuuya gets to you, no one will be able to touch you.

“Everything will be fine,” he unintentionally says out loud as he separates his lips from yours to kiss your forehead.

You look up at him, eyes searching his face for something, and he prays you can’t see his growing anxiety. Finally, you say without any doubt, “I know.”

Dazai lets out a soft breath as his eyes slide shut, reaching out to intertwine your fingers with his as the elevator comes to a stop at the first floor. He leads you out of the elevator and across the vast lobby, various lower-ranked members still linger around the room, but much less than there usually is considering he’s sent almost all of them out to ensure everything goes according to plan. For a moment, Dazai’s head throbs painfully—there are so many variables. He starts to question his decision of making this such a large operation but he knows that this is the only way. 

He knows Dostoevsky. He knows that he’ll leap onto this opportunity. Keeping this a small, secret operation would do more harm than help when Dazai is sure that Dostoevsky is about to use the full force of the Three Deaths, the Pale Flame and the House of the Dead to make his move. He’d be shooting himself in the foot if he didn’t use all of his available resources to keep you safe.

“Can I ask a silly question?” you suddenly ask, playing with his fingers as the two of you walk across the lobby.

“Ask away,” he says.

“Do you think there are other universes out there?”

Dazai almost laughs, but he refrains. “I do,” he agrees, and then smiles a bit to himself, repeating words spoken to another him by a different you, a joke only he’s privy to. “String theory, multiverse. I think the world’s a lot bigger than just ours.”

“Yeah?” you ask, looking up at him, a soft expression on your face. “Do you think we’re together in all of them?” 

This time Dazai does laugh, squeezing your hand gently when you jolt in surprise, giving him a dirty look. “I’m sure of it,” he says, trying to push away the smile that keeps threatening to rise to his lips. 

Your smile softens at the edges, gaze averting from him, but before he can ask what’s wrong, you ask: “Do you think there’s maybe one where things aren’t so hard?”

Dazai suddenly has no inclination to laugh, smile falling and throat swelling. He doesn’t know how to respond to that, but luckily, he doesn’t have to.

Kouyou and Piano Man are waiting at the entrance of the building, both having remained behind to guard him while most of the Mafia’s other forces are elsewhere. Kouyou doesn’t look pleased, Dazai can see it in the way her brows are furrowed and her lips are tight, but Piano Man still has the same easygoing expression on his face that he always has, gaze focused on you.

“Lippmann told me to pass along his regards,” Piano Man sighs. “He’s been lamenting all morning not being able to be here himself to send you off. The struggles of celebrity life, I suppose.”

You laugh. Dazai can tell from the way your lashes flutter that you’re flustered by the comment. “It’s not a big deal, really. It’s only orientation. I’ll be back in a few hours.”

“It’s exciting though,” Piano Man sighs whimsically. “We never have normal things to be excited about around here. It’s only ever bloodbath after bloodbath. It’s a nice change of pace.”

Dazai’s smile tightens and thins, eye twitching at Piano Man’s blase reminder of their occupation, noticing how you cringe a bit. Piano Man catches wind of Dazai’s irritation and his casual smile widens a bit.

“Sorry,” Piano Man hums, sounding not at all sorry and entirely amused. “But honestly, if you think this is bad, wait until your graduation. Iceman didn’t let any of us attend his kid sister’s graduation, we’ve all been dying to see what one’s like. I’m sure Lippmann and Albatross are already plotting out some type of party.”

“I haven’t even started yet,” you complain, but you look a bit giddy and Dazai can’t help but let his gaze linger on your soft smile, one rising to his own lips as he observes you. “It’s so far out. It’s a three year program.”

“I think they plan on making it the grandest event of the year, so it’s never too early to start planning,” Piano Man says easily, tossing you a wink before focusing his gaze on Dazai. “Speaking of Iceman, he’s on the way back now. Should be back in Yokohama in the next hour or so. Are you going to deign us with the reasoning as to why he’s been called back so abruptly?”

“Nope,” Dazai says dismissively, letting go of your hand to press his hand to the small of your back, leading you out of the building and toward the sleek, black car waiting for you.

Albatross instantly is rolling down the window, grinning wildly. “There ya are, doll. C’mon, let’s get out of here. We gotta make it to the train in ten.”

You suddenly look a bit nervous, turning back to look at Dazai as Tachihara steps out of the car and holds the door open for you to slide in the middle seat between him and Hirotsu. Dazai tilts his head, questioning as he lifts his hands to cup your cheeks gently. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you say with a sigh. “I just wish you could come.”

Dazai leans in to kiss your forehead one last time, hands settling on your hips, ignoring all of the gazes of his subordinates watching the two of you. “I know, I do too.”

Dazai thinks that the next six hours are going to be the worst of his life, only able to sit back in the meeting room with Kouyou and Piano Man and watch the CCTV, unable to do anything if something happens to go wrong.

“Stay with Hirotsu and Tachihara,” he finally tells you, voice taking a more serious tone. “They’ll stick with you the whole time. Chuuya is at the station already, went early to scope things out, he’s going to meet you there.”

“Mkay,” you agree, giving him one last long look before making your way into the car.

Tachihara nods deeply at Dazai before entering the car and shutting it behind him. Dazai feels a weight on his chest as soon as you’re out of sight, and he stands there waiting for the car to pull off.

It doesn’t.

After a few moments, the window rolls down, and Dazai watches fondly as you lean over Tachihara to prop yourself outside of it.

“I’ll see you later,” you say, leaning out the window of the car with a soft smile. For the first time in weeks, you look alive. Your eyes are shining, your lips curved upward, and Dazai falls in love with you all over again. The smile on your lips takes a more teasing edge as you push yourself out the window a bit more to grab his tie and drag him closer so you can brush your lips against his and whisper, “I love you.”

Dazai’s eyes shoot open, lips parting to speak but no words leave them, your words leave him caught off guard and dizzy, hardly even registering in his head. You let out a giggle and before he can even think of formulating a response, you let yourself fall back into the car, urging Albatross to start driving already. 

“To think I’d ever see the day that the infamous Demon Prodigy is ever rendered lovesick,” Kouyou hums, fanning herself as she watches Dazai curiously. “You’re actually happy now, aren’t you?” 

“Refreshing, isn’t it?” Piano Man sighs. “Now, we don’t have to worry about being shot in the head if he has a sudden mood swing.”

Dazai looks to the side to give Piano Man a look so withering that it has him instantly giggling to himself.

“Or maybe we do,” he sings, retracting his words. “Come, let’s go back inside. It’s gross out today.”

Piano Man instantly starts making his way back into the building. Dazai sighs as he casts one last long look to where the car is disappearing around the bend in the direction of the train station, gaze lingering before he turns his attention back to Kouyou, who’s still watching him with a contemplative look. Dazai is suddenly reminded of her late lover, who the old boss had killed after Kouyou tried to escape with him, and Dazai wonders if she’s feeling bitter.

As if she can hear his train of thought, she shakes her head and says, “I’m glad you’ve found someone, boy.” Then hesitates before adding, “For all of our sakes, I hope it lasts.”

Dazai doesn’t respond to that. Instead, he frowns and turns to make his way inside, but he doesn’t get more than a few steps before he’s freezing midstep, the sound of a familiar engine roaring down the street in the direction of the main tower reaching his ears. At once, everything tunnels around him, vision blurring and body stiffening. He can’t even bring himself to turn around. Distantly, he hears Kouyou asking him what’s wrong, reaching out to touch his shoulder.

He swears that his bones creak and ache as he physically forces himself to look over his shoulder, unfocused vision falling upon a familiar head of fiery red hair skidding to a stop in front of the building. Chuuya doesn’t even bother to turn his motorcycle off or prop it up, it thuds hard against the ground, metal screeching against the pavement as he rushes toward them.

“Chuuya,” Kouyou asks, as confused and caught off guard as Dazai feels. “What are you-”

“Get him inside,” Chuuya shouts. “Get him inside now.”

“Why are you here?” Dazai speaks the words so quietly that he doesn’t think anybody hears him. He feels Kouyou grab his wrist, Chuuya reaches them and pushes Dazai from behind, but their touches only feel like faint tingles. His chest suddenly feels cold, numbness spreading from his core to his limbs. “Why are you here?”

“Tolstoy just blew up our main port, Dazai,” Chuuya hisses, and just before Dazai’s shoved into the safety of the building, a bullet whizzes past his head, lodging into the sign behind him. Only a graze, but it stings, and Dazai can feel the blood seeping through the bandages of his left eye, sticky and uncomfortable. “This is happening now. I thought I could make it before they left. All cell lines are fucking down. That rat bastard Dostoevsky did something.”

No, Dazai thinks, head twisting to the side to look back toward the road you disappeared down with Albatross, Tachihara and Hirotsu, but before he can even force any words from his lips, he’s pushed into the building, listening as Chuuya gives sharp orders to immediately lock it down.

Dazai shakes his spinning head, body on autopilot as he’s ushered to the elevator and up to the most protected floor of the building. He tells himself to think, that now is not the time for him to start slipping up, for him to freeze. You’re out there—in danger—he has to think, he can’t afford to make a single mistake. 

“You have to go. Chuuya, you’re supposed to be at the station,” Dazai says, finally focusing his attention on the one person who is not supposed to be here. The one person he trusted to protect you. 

“You’ve sent three quarters of our forces out on a protection detail for her. She’ll be fine,” Chuuya spits, eyes wild as he turns to face Dazai. “You’re here in this building alone with a handful of men, Ane-san and Piano Man. You’re the one in danger right now. I told you—your head is mine to take one day. I’m not fuckin’ letting you go off and get yourself killed because you’re hyper-focused on your girl.”

“Get to the train station,” Dazai repeats, voice low and cold and entirely too steady compared to the way his mind is falling apart.

It’s happening.

It’s happening.

He knew this was going to happen. He knew it. He knew this was coming. He knew Dostoevsky would take this opportunity to make his move, that’s why he had everything planned so carefully. That’s why he sent everyone out. That’s why Chuuya was supposed to be with you, because Dazai isn’t Dostoevsky’s target. He never is. You are.

Chuuya ignores him, stepping into the executive meeting room. Dazai’s blood pressure spikes. Fear begins spreading through him, cold and debilitating. The mindkiller. He needs to focus, he can’t let himself freeze up. Not now.

“Chuuya,” Dazai says. “That’s a direct order. Go back to the train station now.”

At that, Chuuya finally turns a furious look into him. “Me not being there isn’t going to make a difference. Me not being here might. You’re all but fucking defenseless and Tolstoy and Nabokov are coming now. We don’t have time to argue about this. Hirotsu and Tachihara, Atsushi and Kyouka, all of the fuckin’ Black Lizards—they’re all with her or at the train station, she’ll be fine.”

If Dazai was any less riddled with fear and rage, he might laugh or maybe even cry, or both—he feels close to hysterics, really—because of course now, of all times, is when Chuuya decides to grow a fucking brain for himself. 

“And if you’re wrong?” Dazai doesn’t even want to speak those words, but Chuuya leaves him no choice. “If she dies because the dog thought himself smarter than the master? What then, Chuuya?”

Chuuya all but snarls at him, taking a step forward, but before he can say anything else, Kouyou clears her throat.

“Boys,” she calls quietly, eyes trained on one of the screens streaming the city’s CCTV feeds

Dazai follows her gaze.

On the top left corner of the wall of screens, one of the live footage is flooded with static—gray, shifting into a deep purple before a familiar symbol flashes onto it. The coldness in his chest spreads so quickly that Dazai almost shivers, dread anchoring his feet to the ground.

Dazai doesn’t have to look at the screen to know what’s coming next. 

Oda Sakunosuke is a patient man.

He is. He really is. It’s just that Ranpo Edogawa enjoys testing the boundaries of said patience. He bites back another sigh, watching as the man—man, he questions—complains loudly about an ‘entitled mother’ who had the nerve to ask for his candy to calm her upset child down. Oda has half a mind to step away out of embarrassment, acutely aware of all of the eyes on them, but he knows that if he steps away even for a second, Ranpo is going to find himself lost and then Oda is going to have to track him down again.

Oda sighs, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he tilts his head up to look at the ceiling, listening to the announcements over the loudspeaker, signaling the arrival of the next train. Two minutes until it pulls into the station, an hour to get to Tokyo—gives him plenty of time to go back over the files for the mission. Should be a quick in-and-out case, probably won’t even have to stay the night in the city; a string of ability-user murders in Tokyo that have the TMPD in shambles trying to figure out, so they reached out to the Agency to come take care of it.

Oda doubts it’ll take more than half a minute for Ranpo to put the pieces together once given the known evidence by the TMPD, but the issue will be actually getting the ability user in custody. From what Ranpo theorizes, he has some type of invisibility ability that makes him slippery. 

With Oda there, it’ll be an easy grab—with his ability, speed and reflexes, few people can outmaneuver him—but it’s just a matter of when he decides to show himself.

Oda frowns when he notices that Ranpo suddenly stopped rambling, gaze cutting to make sure that he didn’t wander off again, but he’s hardly able to turn his head halfway to the side before his ability is activated. Everything blurs out around him, watching as a girl a few years younger than him—panicked and not looking where she’s going—crashes right into Oda while he’s already off-balanced reaching for Ranpo, sending the both of them hurdling over the edge of the platform and into the tracks just as the bullet train comes barreling into the station.

Oda’s jaw tightens as he’s flung back into reality, surroundings reappearing. His head snaps over to where the girl had appeared from and he catches sight of you just as you’re about to throw yourself out of the crowd, eyes wild and anxious. He watches you trip, hands darting out to steady you before you crash into him; you look up at him, eyes wide and a bit starstruck, lips parting to speak but no words leave them.

“Are you okay?” he asks, voice a low monotone as he helps you stand back up straight on your own feet. His head tilts to the side curiously as he watches the way you stand a bit closer to him, eyes peering around as if you’re reaching for someone. “Hm?”

“Oh!” you suddenly say, looking up at him with a wobbly smile. “I’m sorry. Sorry. That was so rude of me. I… got separated from my friends. It’s really busy today, isn’t it? It’s not usually so busy.”

Oda hums, looking around curiously. It is a bit busier than it usually is—Friday trains are usually busy, but midday like this, people are usually at work. The late night trains are the ones typically packed and impossible to get on, people leaving from work and traveling for the weekend. Today’s not a holiday either, as far as he’s aware.

“It is, isn’t it?” Oda says, scanning the crowd once more before letting his gaze settle back on you. “You look rattled, is everything okay?”

Your smile wavers at the edges, and Oda frowns, eyes trailing over to Ranpo, who’s already frowning, green eyes squinted and trained on you.

“I’m just… not used to traveling alone! I’m nervous,” you answer, a blatant lie, but you don’t seem like a threat. In fact, you seem more scared than anything else. “I want to find my friends.”

“Is someone bothering you?” Oda asks carefully.

You hesitate, smile straining. Your eyes flicker around again, seeking someone out and Oda can see the despair in them when you don’t find whoever you’re looking for. 

“I’m okay,” you say finally, nodding. “I’m trying to get to Tokyo. I have orientation today for grad school. I don’t like traveling alone.”

Oda tilts his head to the side, he takes a step closer to Ranpo than you as an experiment, watching as you immediately match his step, sticking close to him as you continue seeking out your ‘friends.’ You don’t seem like a threat, and his ability has yet to be triggered, but it wouldn’t be the first time underground organizations use civilians as decoys to set up traps for the Agency. He spares another look at Ranpo, knowing the man must’ve figured out whatever is going on, only to find him staring at you with a tight jaw and an uneasy expression.

“What school are you attending?” Oda asks in an attempt to calm your nerves and hopefully get some answers out of you. 

You look at him, a bit more clarity in your eyes and smile more steady as you say. “Waseda,” you say, brighter now, more relaxed. “Their school of political science.”

“You tryna go into politics?” Oda asks curiously.

You nod. “One day, hopefully,” you say with an easy smile before giving him your name. “What’s your name?”

“Oda Sakunosuke,” he greets. “Nice to meet you.”

“You’re heading to Tokyo too?” you ask curiously, and Oda doesn’t sense any ill intent behind the question so he answers.

“Yes,” he says. “Going there for work.” 

“Oh? What do you do for work?”

Oda pauses for a moment, choosing his words carefully on the off-chance this is some sort of setup, before saying: “I’m trying to write a novel.”

You light up. “Really?” you ask, delighted. “That’s so impressive, what about?”

“… Humans. The human experience,” Oda answers, glancing back at Ranpo again with furrowed brows, but the man hardly budges, gaze pinned on you.

“Oh yeah?” you ask, the smile on your lips becomes a bit teasing. Oda finds his own lips twitching up in amusement. “What’s your take on the human experience then, Oda Sakunosuke? Will your story have a happy ending?”

“I haven’t decided yet,” he tells you honestly, and then tilts his head to the side and asks curiously, “How would you end it?”

You click your tongue as if to chide him. “Shame on you, Oda Sakunosuke, trying to poach ideas from broke grad students,” you say, voice taking a dramatic lilt, but there’s a light to your eyes that hadn’t been there before, so Oda thinks his plan at least partially worked.

“Almost grad students,” Oda corrects, matching your tone as he lets his eyes drift around again, trying to pinpoint what exactly had you so frightened before running into him. “Take pity on an old man plagued with writer’s block, won’t you?”

“I suppose I can grace you with my boundless wisdom,” you quip, and Oda snorts to himself, eyes drifting back down to you as you grin up at him. After a few moments, your smile falls a bit. “I think a happy ending is nice to imagine… We like to indulge in such fantasies because real life is never so easy. I think if you’re going for an accurate telling of the human experience, a bittersweet ending would be more realistic.”

“Bittersweet?” Oda questions.

“Bittersweet,” you agree. “I think many people die content, or even happy… I don’t think many people die without regrets. So, I think a story on an accurate telling of the human experience should have a bittersweet ending to reflect that.”

“Hm,” Oda hums, considering you in a new light now, the way your eyes are a bit sadder, the smile on your lips soft on the edges. He finds himself far more into this conversation than he expected to be, so absorbed that he hardly even realized that the train has finally pulled into the station. “What about you, then? Do you think you’ll die with regrets?”

“Who’s to say?” You shrug with another bright smile. “I think if I were to die right now, I’d die with one regret. But I’d be happy.”

“Only one?”

“Only one,” you confirm. “I… wish I’d met someone sooner. That’s all. What about you, Oda Sakunosuke? If you died right now, would you die with regrets?”

“Countless,” Oda says quietly. “... But I think I would also be happy.”

“See.” You wink. “Bittersweet.”

Oda’s lips flicker up into a ghost of a smile, lips parting to speak, but suddenly someone is calling your name frantically, loudly from across the train platform. You light up, head twisting in that direction and Oda follows your gaze to where a young man with short orange hair is waving his hand, perched up on a garbage can, looking around for you.

“That’s one of my friends,” you say, looking relieved. “I’m going to head over to him. It was nice meeting you, Oda Sakunosuke.”

“Nice meeting you too,” he replies.

You toss him another wide smile before turning to leave, but before you can even take the first step, Ranpo finally moves, fingers curling around your wrist to stop you in place. Oda looks down at him, alarmed, and you look back, surprised.

“You should… be careful,” Ranpo tells you, more serious than Oda has ever seen him before, and Oda feels a sinking feeling in his gut as Ranpo lets go of your wrist.

You look a bit disturbed, but you nod. “I-I will. Thank you.”

“What was that?” Oda asks, voice low and concerned as he looks down at Ranpo, whose brows are still furrowed. He still looks uncertain, and Oda doesn’t think he’s ever seen Ranpo Edogawa uncertain before.

Dread weighs heavily on Oda’s chest, his gaze turns back to where you’ve started to quickly make your way across the platform along the yellow line in the direction of your friend, who has finally caught sight of you and is rushing toward you, looking too panicked for someone who’d just found someone they lost.

“Something is wrong,” Oda murmurs more to himself than Ranpo, and at once, he activates his ability.

The world slows and grays out around him, but his gaze remains focused on you. He watches. 

One second passes, you take another step forward, your friend is still too far away. 

Another second passes, another step forward. 

A third second, and something is shimmering right next to you, a gold circle to your left, swirling with patterns—an ability.

A fourth second passes, and you turn, eyes wide and fear painted on your face as a gloved hand darts from the circle and wraps around your wrist; your friend reaches down to his waistband, revealing the gun strapped to his side. 

A fifth second passes, and you’re gone. 

His ability fades away, leaving him back reeling in reality, ready to act on what he’d seen. He rushes forward, heart racing in his chest, and he can hear Ranpo giving chase after him.

One second passes—you’re still too far away, you’ve made it across half of the platform already, Oda knows he won’t get to you in time, but he tries anyway.

Another second passes—Ranpo is yelling for him, Oda ignores him. 

A third second passes—the swirling gold circle appears to your left, and Oda knows that it’s too late.

Oda Sakunosuke is fast, but this time, he is not fast enough.

Chuuya knows that this is his fault.

The sickening scene taking place on the screens set up in the executive meeting room has his stomach turning inside out. He has to manually force himself to breathe, slow and steady, because if he doesn’t, he won’t get any air to his lungs. Next to him, Kouyou stands stiffly, gaze trained on the damning video and on his other side, Piano Man looks resigned, head turned to the side, attention focused on the blacked out windows looking over the city. 

Chuuya can’t see Dazai’s expression from where he’s standing, and he’s glad for it. 

You’re sitting at a table with Dostoevsky. It’s a small, square table in an equally small, unassuming room. Tiled walls, a thick steel door, no windows—it’s an abandoned office room down in the lower floors of the metro, emptied out besides the table, two seats, and you and Dostoevsky.

A small room. Unassuming. Enclosed and suffocatingly confined. Cold and damp. There is no sun, no warmth, and no life.

Not a place where anyone should die, much less someone as bright as you.

“Ah, there we go!” Dostoevsky smiles as if this is all some big game to him and Chuuya’s temper spikes, blood simmering in his veins and eye twitching as he glares at the Russian. “The cameras should now be connected.”

Chuuya did not hold you in high regard for a long time. He thought you were a pretty face, but more than that, you were a distraction. You showed up one day and suddenly Dazai couldn’t focus on anything but you. He evaded important meetings, and the ones that he attended were spent either zoning out or tapping away at his phone talking to you. It left Chuuya as the one to pick up the slack, so yeah, he certainly did not hold you in high regard, and he’s not entirely sure when it began to change.

Or, maybe that’s a lie.

He thinks back to the day he ran into you coming out of the elevator, when you dragged him around half of the city looking for a very particular brand of white chocolate for whatever sugary concoction you wanted to make Dazai; and the way you pouted and begged and pleaded with him to try some when you make it for Dazai to the point that he wanted to agree, if Dazai wouldn’t have tried to blow his head off for intruding on his time with you. 

He thinks that’s when his view on you started to shift, because it’s not often that Chuuya is treated like an actual human being, a twenty-two year old with a love for fine wine and music, instead of the mafia executive he is, a weapon of war that can bring down nations. As irritated as he was having to take time out of his day to babysit Dazai’s new plaything, he found you made for good conversation and that it was nice talking about things other than missions, politics and violence. 

You like talking about music with him and you ramble a lot about conspiracy theories and history—he thinks he’s learned more about the classical era of Europe and the Sengoku period the past few weeks joining you on outings than he’s learned in his entire life. Chuuya thinks you might be the first real friend he’s made since the Flags. You have more life in you than anyone Chuuya has ever met before, and Chuuya thinks it’s fucking sick that you’ll be drained of it by the likes of a soulless bastard like Dostoevsky. 

Chuuya also thinks, again, that this is entirely his fault.

“I had a nice talk with your lover, Dazai,” Dostoevsky says with a facetious smile. “She’s quite enchanting. It’s a shame that she ended up with the likes of you.”

Chuuya thought he’d be able to make it in time. He really thought he did. He thought he’d be fast enough to get back before you took off with Albatross, Tachihara and Hirotsu; he thought he’d be able to drag you with him and Dazai, lock the two of you up in the most well-protected room in the headquarters to wait out the assault of Dostoevsky’s tripartite alliance; he can still hear the gunfire now as they bombard the lower floors of the building. Chuuya should be down there helping his subordinates but he can’t bring himself to move, staring at what his decision had caused with a heavy heart and more guilt than his mind can come to terms with. It was never his intention to leave you out there to die. 

He wouldn’t do that to you.

He wouldn’t do that to Dazai. No matter how much he can’t stand the asshole, he wouldn’t fucking do that.

“I have offered a deal to her, Dazai,” Dostoevsky muses, head tilted to the side as he looks up at the camera in the corner of the room, thin fingers wrapped neatly around your wrist. “A fair exchange. But I leave it in her hands, not yours. Either way, I will get what I want.”

How the hell does that work? 

Chuuya lets out a shaky breath, gaze flickering over to Kouyou, who stares at the screen with a tight expression, brows drawn together and lips cut downward. He can hardly bring himself to look at Dazai, but he forces himself to shift to the side, looking down to where Dazai is sitting in front of the wall of screens, eyes trained on where you’re sitting with Dostoevsky.

Dazai’s expression is eerily blank, more so than Chuuya has ever seen it before. It makes his throat swell, the air to his lungs catching in his windpipe. He’s seen Dazai distraught before—the night on the roof years ago when he was drunk and screaming at Chuuya to just let him jump. He’s seen Dazai upset before—a few months after his sixteenth birthday, before the Dragon’s Head Conflict commenced, when he returned to headquarters with an expression so haunted that Chuuya didn’t dare utter a single snarky word to him.

He’s never seen him like this before. Visible eye entirely void of life as if whatever part of him that had been reanimated by your arrival in his life has been killed off. As if he knows exactly what’s about to happen, as if he knows there’s no stopping it. But Chuuya can see the way the corner of Dazai is pinched, the way his face, while blank, is hard, and Chuuya knows Dazai well enough to know exactly what that means: that if there’s any chance of preventing this, Dazai is going to do whatever it takes.

“Fair exchange is a funny way of saying I’ll die either way,” you say softly. Your voice is bitter; you’re not looking at Dostoevsky or the camera, instead your gaze is set on the wall next to you, an unreadable expression on your face. 

Dostoevsky turns his attention back to you, eyes curious. “I am no liar, I gave you my word that you’ll leave this room alive, myshka,” Dostoevsky hums, lips curved up into an entertained smile. Chuuya’s eye twitches at the pet name. “Go on and tell Dazai what I ask for in exchange… I am quite curious to see how far he’s willing to go for you.”

How far? 

Even Chuuya knows the answer to that, and from the expression on Dostoevsky’s face, he must know the answer too.

Ah, Chuuya realizes, his own question now answered. How does that work? Dostoevsky tells you the deal, and you have to make the decision of whether or not to tell Dazai. If you tell Dazai, there’s no lengths he wouldn’t go to fulfill Dostoevsky’s demands if it means saving you. And Chuuya suddenly understands why Kouyou looks so grave, because there’s only one thing Dostoevsky wants: Yokohama and the Port Mafia out of his way. Dazai out of the way. 

Dazai would hand it all to him on a silver platter if it meant saving your life. Yokohama. The Port Mafia. He’d let Dostoevsky put a bullet through his head if it meant you’d get to live.

“Dazai,” Kouyou begins, and her voice wavers. Chuuya doesn’t think he’s ever heard Kouyou’s voice waver in the seven years he’s known her. “You cannot-”

Kouyou doesn’t finish her sentence. Doesn’t need to. They all know what she’s going to say, and Chuuya doubts that Dazai is listening anyway. He looks at Kouyou from the corner of his eye and she meets his gaze, a heavy expression on her face.

“You gave me your word that I’d leave this room alive. What happens when I step outside?” you ask with a sigh, looking back over to meet Dostoevsky’s eyes. “You’ll get what you want from Dazai and kill me anyway.”

You look tired and Chuuya’s stomach weighs down with guilt again. God, what the fuck has he done? You were on your way to your fucking grad school orientation and Chuuya signed your goddamn death warrant. You had so much ahead of you. You never belonged in this shitty world, and an instinctual part of Chuuya wants to curse Dazai for it, for dragging you into this and putting you into this situation.

But even as the thought crosses his mind, he tosses it away, because how the fuck is he supposed to condemn Dazai for clinging to the only damn thing that makes him happy as if Chuuya doesn’t do the same? His gaze turns back down to Dazai, frowning when he sees that he’s no longer staring at the screen intently. He’s leaned back in his chair, still looking at the screen but his eyes are glazed over, as if he’s not fully present.

As if he’s given up.

“So meticulous,” Dostoevsky murmurs, he reaches to brush his knuckles against your cheek. The noise that Chuuya lets out is close to a snarl when he sees the way your lips tighten in disgust as you turn your face away from him only for him to pinch your chin between his fingers to force you to look at him. He glances down at Dazai, only to find that he’s hardly even reacted to what’s happening. “You are very intelligent… I would have loved to have a woman like you at my side.”

“People like you are fated to be alone, Fyodor Dostoevsky,” you reply, lips curved down as you stare at him. “What a terrible fate. I’d always prefer a short and fulfilling life than a long and solitary one.”

Your gaze draws back up to the camera as if you’re desperately trying to convey something to Dazai: I don’t regret this. If I had the choice, I’d do it all the same.

Chuuya doesn’t even think Dazai can understand it in the state he’s in.

Chuuya’s stomach twists and turns, he has to take a step away, breathing in a shuddered breath as he pulls his hat off to run his fingers through his hair. He presses his hand to his face, trying to calm himself down, but his ears are ringing and the black coffee he’d downed before heading over to the train station is threatening to come right up his throat.

And if you’re wrong? 

Dostoevsky’s hand drops from your face, but his other remains wrapped around your wrist. He smiles as if telling a joke that only he understands. “Maybe in another universe you and I can work together.”

Dazai jolts at the words and Chuuya looks at him again, watching the way he draws in a sharp, shuddered breath. Chuuya’s lips part. He doesn’t know if he’s trying to speak or force himself to breathe, but his eyes land on Dazai just as the man finally breaks.

If she dies because the dog thought himself smarter than the master?

It’s brief. His expression crumbles and he quietly wheezes for air, hand flying to his chest as if trying to claw his own heart out, as if his brain has only finally registered what was happening. Kouyou and Piano Man are too focused on you and Dostoevsky to notice, but Chuuya thinks if he stares any longer at the screen, he might fall apart. His expression smooths out again immediately after it shatters, his eye takes that distant look again, as if he’s totally separated himself from reality.

“Is that your decision then, myshka?” Dostoevsky asks, voice deceptively soft. Chuuya has to drag his eyes back to the screen, teeth grinding together when Dostoevsky’s hand leaves your wrist to cup your cheek, running his thumb over your bottom lip. 

To your credit, you don’t look scared and for a second, Chuuya doesn’t know what the fuck you’re doing. Dazai would do anything for you, give up anything, you have to know that. All you have to do is say what Dostoevsky wants and Dazai will do it no matter the cost. The irrational part of him, the one riddled with guilt and regret, almost wants you to just say what Dostoevsky wants, tell them and maybe they can figure something out, buy enough time to get you out of there. 

(Another part of him, deep down, knows that it’s hopeless. With Dostoevsky’s hand in contact with you, your fate is sealed. No one will get there fast enough to get you away from him before he can trigger his ability.)

Chuuya realizes, a bit dully, maybe you do know that and maybe that’s exactly why you’re not saying anything. Whatever Dostoevsky wants of Dazai is not something that you can allow him to give up.

Chuuya also realizes, chest sinking, that Dazai probably knows you well enough to know this too. To know that you’d give up your life for his. He looks over at Dazai, the vacant look in his eye and the hopeless air about him. He knew this would happen the moment Chuuya showed back up on base, desperately trying to get him to go back to you.

A crash against the heavy metal door leading to the room that you and Dostoevsky are sitting in shocks Chuuya out of his thoughts, gaze snapping up as Dostoevsky lets out an exaggerated sigh.

“It appears our time is up,” Dostoevsky hums. “What a pity. I would have liked to talk with you more.”

What then, Chuuya?

Chuuya’s vision spins as Atsushi and Kyouka burst into the room you’re being held in. Atsushi, half-transformed, throws himself at you, trying to get you away from Dostoevsky. Kyouka, with her cell to her ear, commands Demon Snow to sever Dostoevsky’s hand from where he’s touching you, trying to sever the physical connection between the two of you before he can activate his ability. 

Behind Dostoevsky, a gold swirl appears, a hand reaching out to grab his arm.

For a moment, Chuuya’s chest swells with hope, breath catching as watches raptly.

And they do it. 

Dostoevsky’s expression twists as Demon Snow cuts through his elbow, severing his lower arm from the rest of his body, Atsushi’s arms wrap around you as he tackles you away from the Russian onto the ground. Dostoevsky is dragged backward into the gold swirl—Gogol, the teleportation ability—and Kyouka and Atsushi focus their attention on you.

He watches with bated breath, waiting as Atsushi fumbles to shift you into a more comfortable position. He leans forward, eyes a bit wild and nails digging into the palms of his hands.

Kyouka kneels next to Atsushi, blue eyes wide, and Atsushi’s expression crumbles as he finally turns you over in his lap. Chuuya’s breath slows, he takes a step back as he shakes his head. 

What then, Chuuya?

Blood stains the corner of your lips, eyes empty, body limp in Atsushi’s arms. No one is faster than the triggering of an ability. Chuuya knew this. How many people have tried to kill him only to be thwarted in a split second by Tainted Sorrow? Still, he had allowed the hope to claw its way up into his chest, clinging to the thinnest thread that maybe, just maybe, his decision won’t have cost you your life, and in an instant, that hope is stripped and Chuuya is forced to face the consequences of his actions. 

Next to Chuuya, Piano Man lets out a shaky breath, turning away from the screen and pacing over to the window. Kouyou makes a soft noise in the back of her throat, eyes sliding shut.

Chuuya’s eyes drag from the screen back down to Dazai. Dazai stares ahead blankly, eye so black and void of light that if Chuuya didn’t know any better, he’d think he was staring into the eye of a corpse. 

Dostoevsky might’ve been your executioner, but Chuuya had been the judge to impose the death sentence.

Onto you, and onto Dazai.

You thought that you would be scared of dying.

Your mind is distant and dazed as you fall backward to the ground, familiar hands wrap around one of your arms and your waist as you’re dragged away from Dostoevsky. You taste iron in your mouth, red tints the corner of your vision, you don’t feel any pain but from the way your limbs become numb and heavy, you know what’s happening.

Maybe you’re just in shock, mind unable to comprehend what’s happening, but you don’t think that’s it. You’d known what was going to happen the moment you were pulled through that ability into this room, the moment Fyodor Dostoevsky told you the only way you’d make it out of here alive is if Dazai offered his own life in exchange.

Dazai would’ve done it. You know he would have. He would’ve accepted the deal and laid his life down for yours in an instant, but you couldn’t let him do that. He’d face pushback from his executives, they might even lock him up to prevent him from following through, and then he’d have to live with the fact that he had the chance to save you but failed. 

You couldn’t force that choice on him.

Your vision blurs and tunnels, eyes fluttering shut, but your body jolts as someone flips you around, hazy gaze focusing in on someone kneeling next to you, whoever is holding you in his lap. Two vaguely familiar wide swirls of violet, gold, and blue hover above you and your surroundings start to bleed out, the white tiles of the walls around you and the two people who’d barged into the room disappear, the violets and golds and blues spread across your vision, melding into a sunrise painted across the early morning sky.

The hand on your body falls limply to the ground next to you, the tips of your fingers brushing through soft white sand. Your head tilts to the side, something warm trickling down your cheek from the corner of your eye. 

You let out a weak breath, your vision clouds red and for a second, you swear there’s a figure laying next to you—lips curved up into a small, sad smile, dark eyes soft as he reaches out to brush a strand of hair out of your face. Dazai wears tan instead of the black you’re used to, both eyes uncovered as admires you. You can feel the ghost of his touch against your skin, warm and familiar.

Osamu… 

You can hear the commotion around you, more people bursting into the room. You can feel your body weakening, but all you can think of is him.

Maybe in the next life.

Dazai doesn’t know where he is. Doesn’t know when he is. Doesn’t know what he’s doing. Doesn’t know who he’s with. Doesn’t know who he is.

Every step he takes, every second that passes, his surroundings become more and more indecipherable. He can hear the vague sounds of Chuuya, Kouyou and Piano Man talking around him but he can’t make out what they’re saying or what’s going on. He finds himself walking but he feels like he’s trudging through slush, as if time has slowed around him and he’s trying to impossibly push through it.

“Pull yourself together,” Piano Man murmurs as Dazai mindlessly moves forward, unsure of where he’s even being led to. 

Every time his eyes slide shut, he’s faced with the image of you in that room with Dostoevsky, the sight of his fingers on your skin. He turns to look at Piano Man and for a moment, he’s lost, wondering how a dead man is standing before him. His lips part to speak but no words leave them, the black walls fade into the vaguely familiar tan and brown walls of the Agency, the coat he wears lightens and Piano Man’s face morphs into Yosano Akiko’s as she tries to snap him out of the stunned stupor he’s left in after finding your body in your apartment. He’d figured out Christie’s plot, but he’d been too late, and his mind had been entirely unable to come to terms with it. Because Dazai never fails, everyone relies on him to know what to do but-

But when it comes to you he just can’t win. No matter how hard he tries, he’s never enough. He’s never quick enough. Never smart enough. Never enough. 

“...ey, hey, boss, are you even listening?” 

Dazai blinks, gaze focusing back on Piano Man and he notices that he’s in the elevator, heading down. Chuuya and Kouyou are watching him carefully but Chuuya doesn’t meet his eyes. Dazai realizes Piano Man must have said something—asked something—but he doesn’t know what.

“We’re heading down to the first floor,” Piano Man finally says again. “The onslaught from Tolstoy and Nabakov ended-” Of course it has, Dostoevsky got what he wanted. “Albatross and-Albatross and the others are on the way back… We must be there to meet them.”

Dazai doesn’t respond. Doesn’t think he’d be able to if he wanted to. His brain is slow, still hasn’t comprehended what happened, still doesn’t entirely know where he is. The pages of the Book keep piling around him, endless and suffocating. He jumps from one reality to the rest, each time seeing the same scene in different fonts. He sees Piano Man and Kouyou exchange a look with one another but Dazai’s gaze is already pointed ahead again, staring through the reflective surface of the elevator doors.

Dazai doesn’t even recognize himself.

They still talk around him but all of the words sound muffled and faraway, like he’s underwater and they’re speaking above the surface. As Dazai stares into the doors, he swears he can almost picture you standing next to him, tucked beneath his arm and leaning into his side as the two of you wait for the elevator to reach the first floor. You smile up at him, he watches it through the reflection, heart in his throat as you lean up on your tiptoes to brush your lips against his jaw and he swears he can feel the ghost of your lips, the warmth.

But then the elevator doors slide open and the illusion of you is shattered.

Dazai’s breath shakes as he forces himself forward but he’s careful to keep his expression flat, ignoring the lines of subordinates already awaiting his arrival. They kneel as he walks past but Dazai hardly takes notice of them, eyes trained ahead.

And then-

And then Dazai sees it.

Hirotsu is holding you, your body is limp and lifeless. Dazai stops dead in his tracks. You look small in his arms and Dazai feels bile rise to the back of his throat, threatening to burst from his lips. Even from a distance, he can see the blood staining the corners of your lips and eyes, can see the way one of your arms dangle loosely from your body, can see how you’ve been entirely drained of life by Dostoevsky.

He wants to move forward, wants to pull you in his arms and shield you from all of the prying eyes around you, hates the way everyone is staring at you, wants to scream and curse the gods above who play with human lives like they’re some sort of game, who are laughing at Dazai for thinking he could get away with defying fate.

Most of all, he’s tired, and he wants to be with you.

The crowds of subordinates who’ve gathered on the lower floor of the building whisper amongst themselves. Some of them, who havent seen you around the base with him, are trying to figure out who you are. Others, who know exactly who you are to Dazai, let out low murmurs as they watch Dazai carefully, waiting for some type of reaction from him. A few, likely those who’ve spoken to you personally, lower their heads in respect.

Dazai tries to make himself take another step forward, pull you away from Hirotsu into his arms, hold you close, stop them from taking you away, but his feet are rooted to the ground.

One voice rises above the whispering crowds.

“What the fuck?”

Dazai’s gaze slides slowly to the side, watching as a vaguely familiar figure pushes to the front of the crowd, walking in the direction of you and Hirotsu. He blinks slowly, not recognizing who it is until Chuuya and Piano Man start moving toward him, both with furrowed brows and concerned words.

Ah, he realizes. Iceman.

Dazai had called him back to headquarters from abroad—but why? The cogs in his mind move slowly as he tries to remember why he brought Iceman back, why the man is having such an adverse reaction to the sight of-

To the sight of you.

Dazai’s eye shifts back to you, all of the air pushes out from his lungs when he notices the way your head has fallen to the side. Your eyes are shut but your face is tilted toward him and you look so-

You look so dead.

Everything around Dazai begins to tunnel and crumble. The buildings around him blurting into indistinct blobs and all of the crowds of his subordinates melding into the background. Iceman’s arrival, Chuuya and Piano Man trying to settle him down, it all becomes white noise as Dazai stares at you blankly.

How did this happen?

He’d-

He’d done everything right, hadn’t he? He’d done everything to make sure you would be protected. He’d clawed his way to the position of boss, annihilated all of the Mafia’s enemies to ensure that Yokohama would be safe for you. He’d sacrificed everything, how did it still turn out like this?

The white noise, the buzz of people around him, it all slowly shifts to laughter. The sight of Hirotsu holding your body turns into Dazai—a different Dazai—hunched over your limp form screaming his throat raw in your apartment. It turns into him sprinting through knee deep water with Yosano Akiko at his heels to get to your lifeless form floating face down in the water of the same beach you met him at. It turns into Chuuya catapulting himself through the air, desperately trying to get to you as you fall because Dazai can do nothing but watch—he fails. It turns into Mori stepping out of the hospital room he was treating you in, Dazai can’t hear what he’s saying but he knows—then Mori turns into Fukuzawa, Fukuzawa into Ango, all the same grave expressions, all the same fate. 

It was never the Port Mafia’s enemies that were at fault for your death. Wasn’t Mimic or an affiliation with the Mafia, like it was for Odasaku. Wasn’t Dostoevsky. Wasn’t Christie.

It was Dazai.

Dazai is the reason you die in every universe. 

The only way for him to save you from your fate is to stay away from you, and he couldn’t even do that. The only chance for him to give you a normal life—a long life—squandered because of his own selfishness.

The laughter gets louder, more manic—they laughed at him when you stumbled into him at the bar, when he tried to stay away, when he gave in to meeting you again. They laugh louder now that things have played out exactly as they knew it would. Dazai danced along perfectly to their marionette strings, as they knew he would from the beginning.

Fate. 

Fatefatefatefatefatefatefatefatefatefatefatefate.

The word that’s haunted him since he was fifteen years old tears apart his mind, claws open his rotted heart from the dark crevice it’s slipped into the past thirty minutes. His vision goes spotty and his head feels light. He knew better. He knew this would happen. He knew-

“That’s my sister.” Again, Iceman’s voice rises above the laughter, a broken gasp that jolts Dazai from his spiraling thoughts. “That’s my sister—what the fuck?”

Ah. Dazai suddenly remembers why he called Iceman back to headquarters. Remembers laying in bed with you a few mornings ago—you were in his arms, warm and happy and alive, and Dazai was excited, figured out the mystery that’s been plaguing him for years. He put together who your brother was, wanted to give you the chance to see him again. Wanted to do something good for you.

And now-

Iceman whirls around, eye wild and expression feral as he focuses on Dazai. Dazai doesn’t know what Chuuya and Piano Man told him, but whatever it was has the man unhinged as he pushes Piano Man hard out of the way to throw himself at Dazai.

“What did you do?” Iceman roars. “What did you do?”

He reaches for the gun at his side, pulls it out and clicks off the safety in a split second—quick and efficient, as expected of the Port Mafia’s best assassin. Around Dazai, other members of the mafia raise their guns in defense of the boss, Dazai only distantly has the mind to raise his hand to order them to lower their weapons.

Chuuya stops Iceman before he can steady the gun at Dazai’s head and pull the trigger. He wrangles the larger man to the ground, using his ability to keep him down, yelling at him to calm the fuck down and explain himself. Iceman clearly has no intention of doing that from the way he futilely tries to throw off Chuuya and go for his gun again.

Dazai watches absently until Kouyou ushers him back into the building, not even giving Dazai the chance to hold you one last time. His chest caves in as soon as you’re out of sight, breath weak and ragged. Kouyou pinches his arm hard.

“Pull yourself together, boy,” she warns. “You cannot let them see you weak.”

Dazai wishes that Iceman had pulled the trigger.

Iceman has never been a good brother. 

He was four years old when you came into his life, and when his mother tried to introduce him to his newborn sister, he’d turned his nose up and pouted, upset at no longer being the only child. 

He was nine years old when his mother died, sacrificing herself to save a child in Motomachi Shopping Center when a drunk driver barreled down the sidewalk. When you tried to cling to him and cry, he pushed you away to mourn by himself, angry and grieving.

He was eleven years old when his father started to see his mother in you, taking out the bitterness he felt for her decision on you with cruel words and crueler hands when he would come home drunk after a long night of gambling away all of his money. A good brother would have stepped in to protect his little sister, but Iceman chose to turn a cheek and plug his ears when you would curl in bed at night and cry.

He was thirteen years old when he came home to you physically hurt for the first time, blood trickling down from a split lip as you curled in the corner of your shared room. Iceman had already started involving himself with the underworld by the point, so it only took a few sniffles and your fingers curling around his wrist for him to stay up all night, waiting for his father to fall asleep so he could press a pillow to his face, smothering him to death and leaving the two of you homeless without a dollar to your name.

He was fifteen years old when he officially joined the Port Mafia, desperate to get a roof over your head. Sixteen when he killed his second man. You never asked questions when he came home covered in blood and wounds, even though you definitely should have. He lied and told you he’d joined an underground fighting ring to try to make some money for you. You took care of him in a way that he never did for you, patching up his wounds with an easy smile and tender hands.

He was eighteen when he met the rest of the Flags after making a name for himself as one of the Mafia’s best assassins. He stopped coming around as much, spending his time at bars with the Flags, afraid that one day you’d figure out what he’s been doing for money, afraid that you would start to see him as a monster instead of the brother you still loved for whatever god forsaken reason.

He was twenty when he cut you off. After his near death experience at the hands of Verlaine, Iceman realized his life was much too dangerous to keep you in it. To provide for you and give you the life you deserve, he had to abandon his name and leave you behind, otherwise you would forever be at risk of people trying to kill you to get to him.

The best thing Iceman ever did for you as an older brother was cutting you off to let you live a long, fulfilling life away from the dark. Away from him.

And for what?

Iceman sighs as he fumbles in his pocket for another cigarette, already on his second pack of the day. He tilts his head back against the tree he’s leaning against, the muddy ground staining his pants. He lights the cigarette and takes a long drag, tilting his head down as a heavy feeling sweeps over him.

And for what?

It’s been two and a half weeks since he came back to Yokohama.

Two and a half weeks since your death.

Your death, the words still make him sick to his stomach, make him feel as if the world is collapsing around you. Iceman had always been sure of the two of you, he’d be the one to go first. The thought of outliving you—his little sister, the one person in the world he’d sacrifice everything to protect—was never even an option in his mind.

He’s spent just about every waking hour with you, trying to make up for the times he didn’t while you were still alive. You’d always hated the dark; he used to bitch and complain when the two of you shared a bedroom because you couldn’t sleep without a night light, and now he feels sick to his stomach thinking of you stuck out here in the dirt alone and in the dark. 

The Flags have tried to drag him away, Lippmann pleading with him to come inside and sleep and Piano Man trying to coax him back with promises of drinks and fine food, but Iceman refused to budge. Chuuya sometimes joins him, brings a nice bottle of wine, cracks it open and after three glasses, starts choking over air, apologizing and begging for forgiveness—sometimes to Iceman, sometimes in front of your headstone. 

Iceman enjoys their company—he does—but he thinks he prefers to be alone with you.

Which, unfortunately, seems to be a rare occurrence.

He sighs as he hears leaves crunching on the path leading up to your grave, gaze drawing to the side. At first, he figures it must be Chuuya dragging himself back to your grave, ready for another round of drinks and regret, but he pauses when he recognizes the long black cloak and red scarf donning the figure making his way over to your grave.

His fingers twitch down to the gun holstered down to his side, resentment and anger simmering dangerously beneath the surface.

Dazai Osamu kneels in front of your grave for the first time since your death. He did not attend your funeral. Didn’t come to see you laid into the ground. Didn’t pay respects. He’s spent two and a half weeks holed up on the top floor of the centermost building of headquarters with only Chuuya and Kouyou as company. 

Iceman thinks he has some fucking nerve, being the reason that you’re six feet under and not even bothering to come see you.

His first reaction is to make himself known, rise to his feet and pull out his gun—an offense worthy of execution in the eyes of the rest of the Mafia, pulling a gun on its boss, but Iceman’s self-preservation was thrown out the window the moment he came back to headquarters to see you dead in Hirotsu’s arms and Dazai Osamu standing there like an emotionless statute as if he didn’t cause this.

But he hesitates when he sees the expression on Dazai’s face, lips trembling and visible eye glassy. Iceman doesn’t think he’s ever seen the boss in such a sorry state before—his bandages are yellowed and grimy as if he hasn’t changed them in weeks, his coat is wrinkled, scarf dirty, lips chapped and cracked. Dazai Osamu is a man that most people see as untouchable and unflappable, and even Iceman, riddled with grief and fury, can’t help but pause at the sight of him breaking.

“I thought I could stop it,” Dazai breathes out. Iceman startles a bit, irrationally thinking that the man is talking to him, but settles down when he realizes that he’s talking to you, eyes slid shut as he kneels before your headstone. “I tried so hard. I tried so hard to stop it.”

Iceman’s eyes lower at the sheer pain in Dazai’s voice, the hoarseness of grief that has his throat red and raw, has him stripped him bare to the bone. From where Iceman is sitting out of sight, he can see the way Dazai’s fingers are trembling in his lap, shoulders shaking.

“All of this was for you,” Dazai’s voice wavers as he speaks, cracking over his words. “All of it was for you-I don’t-what am I supposed to do now? Shit. What do I do? It’s all gone to waste, I knew it. I knew I shouldn’t have-”

The noise that escapes Dazai’s throat is more belonging of a wounded animal than of a human. He curls over at his waist, blunt nails digging into the marble of your headstone, forehead resting against the cool stone. 

Iceman squeezes his eyes shut, throat swollen, letting out a full body shiver at the sound. He forces himself to his feet, fingers enclosing around the grip of his gun, and makes his way over to where Dazai is kneeling. The man stiffens when he hears Iceman approach, straightening and tilting his head to the side to look at Iceman from the corner of his eye. His mouth dries a bit when he sees the tear streaking down Dazai’s pale skin.

“Are you here to kill me?” Dazai asks, voice raspy and throat sore. There’s a mocking edge to it that makes Iceman’s jaw click, as if Dazai is purposely trying to antagonize him. “Go on then, I left Chuuya behind. There’s no one to stop you this time.”

“You think you deserve to go see her already?” Iceman asks coldly.

He stares down at Dazai, watching as the facade cracks at Iceman’s words. The corner of Dazai’s lips twitch downward and his eye goes a bit hazy as it tracks back down to your headstone. He takes in another shuddered breath and Dazai’s shoulders finally slump over, lashes fluttering.

“I knew this would happen,” Dazai finally croaks out, voice weak and wavering. Iceman’s lips tightens at his words, flicking the safety off on his gun and pulling it from his holster. “I knew this would happen and I still sought her out.”

“Even a blind person could’ve seen how this would turn out,” Iceman spits out, pressing the muzzle of his gun to the back of Dazai’s head. He doesn’t even flinch, doesn’t react at all. A part of Iceman wonders if this is what he wants—to be put out of his misery. “This is on you.”

“I know,” Dazai says hoarsely. “... I know.”

Iceman knows that you loved Dazai Osamu for whatever fucked up reason. The same fucked up reason you probably still loved Iceman even after all of the bullshit that he did, and didn’t do, during your childhood. He forced Chuuya to get him the tape after he’d calmed down, watched the way you sat there with Dostoevsky, accepting your fate. Heard that you were given a choice, and the choice you made. He hadn’t been able to understand it at first—you’ve always been so full of life, excited for the future even at your lowest, he couldn’t fathom what could’ve possibly made you so accepting of death.

So he dug further, got Piano Man and Lippmann and Albatross roped up in his schemes. Heard the way you would act with Dazai, how happy you were and how happy he was. Forced Piano Man to get him tapes from around the base; he saw the way you looked at him and the way he looked at you. 

You loved Dazai Osamu, and Dazai Osamu—a man that everyone had been convinced was incapable of emotion, a demon without a heart or conscious—loved you.

He takes in the dark bag beneath Dazai’s tired eye, the glassiness and lack of life within them, the sickly pallor of his skin, and the dirtiness of his clothes. His nails bleed from where he dragged them against the marble of your headstone and he can see a murky redness staining his yellowed bandages, peeking out from where his coat rode up his arm.

Iceman has not been the only one grieving you.

“Aren’t you going to kill me?” Dazai finally rasps out. Less of a question, more of a beg, a far cry from the cold and brutal mafia boss that Iceman has come to know, and Iceman knows that Dazai Osamu died in the same moment you did, only a walking corpse remains in his place.

Iceman scoffs, holstering his gun. “Nah,” he says. “Whatever you’re doin’ to yourself. That’s worse than death.”

“…oss. Boss.”

Dazai’s gaze drags from the photo on his desk to where Chuuya has entered his office, tilting his head to the side as he waits for Chuuya to say whatever he came here to say. Chuuya hesitates and Dazai’s jaw tightens in annoyance. He’s been like this since you-

For three and a half weeks. He’s been like this for three and a half weeks. Constantly hovering, afraid to leave Dazai alone for too long. If Chuuya isn’t hovering, Kouyou is. Dazai can hardly get a moment alone and it’s becoming increasingly hard to continue the preparation for phase five, the final part of his plan. Everything is set in place, if all goes according to plan, tomorrow morning will be the long awaited moment. 

In a little over twelve hours, he’ll be able to be with you again at last.

Four hours until Atsushi is to go to the Armed Detective Agency with the files that will antagonize Akutagawa into attacking the Mafia headquarters. Dazai expects that by three in the morning, the Agency would have managed to fully infiltrate the building, and Atsushi and Akutagawa will be clashing on the roof of the headquarters. 

By dawn, it’ll be time.

But one major obstacle remains. 

Dazai’s gaze draws back to Chuuya, who’s still standing in the door of his office, becoming increasingly more irritated by Dazai’s lack of a response. As long as Chuuya is around, Dazai is going to have trouble following through with the final step. The executive will do whatever it takes to prevent Dazai’s death, so Dazai needs to get him out of the way.

“Chuuya,” Dazai hums, “Wh-”

“We’ve captured Gogol.”

Dazai halts, fingers pausing from where they’d been thrumming against the desk as he thought. His gaze sharpens as he tilts his head to the side, “Is that so?”

Gogol. Gogol. The one who captured you, handed you to Dostoevsky on a silver platter. Dazai might’ve been the cause of your-

Dazai might’ve been the one at fault for all of this, but that doesn’t mean he can let your executioners get off scot-free. He rises to his feet, the pads of his fingers pressing into the dark wood of his desk. For a moment, he doesn’t move, his ears ring and his eyes slide shut. Dazai didn’t think he’d get the chance to handle either of them—he’d resigned himself to accepting that he would have to forfeit personal vengeance to ensure that at least Odasaku will be able to live out his life in this world.

But now…

From the corner of his eye, Dazai swears he can see you barge into his office from his apartment, a wild smile on your face as you wave around the TV remote, claiming you found a good movie for the two of you to watch. It’s only for a split second, but Dazai’s heart leaps from his throat, breath catching. He hasn’t dared step foot in the apartment since… everything happened—it’s too big now, too empty. Your coffee mug still sits on his kitchen table, clothes strewn across his room from where you’d been having a fit trying to find the perfect outfit for orientation.

“Dazai.”

Chuuya speaks and the mirage of you is gone. Dazai lets out a heavy breath before shaking his head and making his way toward Chuuya. Neither of them speak again as they make their way into the elevator—they’ve hardly had a full conversation with one another since… since Chuuya chose to disobey orders—heading down to the belly of the headquarters where Gogol will be held. Dazai’s mind spins, lashes fluttering as he thinks.

He knew that Dostoevsky would be well out of reach, that he would have to leave your justice for when the Russian makes his real move in the hands of Odasaku, Akutagawa and the Agency, in the hands of Chuuya, Iceman and Atsushi. There’s no way that Dazai would be able to get his hands on the man in a timely manner, and Dazai can’t risk being in this world any longer than he’s already been. The longer he remains, the more Odasaku is at risk of meeting the same fate you did, and then all Dazai has done and sacrificed over the past seven years would be for nought. The only chance he had to protect the two of you squandered because of his own selfishness and incapability.

But Gogol. He hadn’t dared hope—Dazai lost any semblance of hope the moment he saw Chuuya show up at the Port Mafia headquarters—but he couldn’t help but want.

Kouyou and Piano Man are already waiting in the torture chambers when Dazai and Chuuya finally arrive. Gogol has silver shackles around his wrists, military-grade ability nullifying cuffs that the Mafia had stolen from a government shipment a few months back, and when he sees Dazai, he laughs wildly as if he’s just been told a hilarious joke.

“It’s really you,” Gogol cackles. “Dostoy thought for sure you’d have offed yourself by now.”

Dazai hums, but otherwise doesn’t react to the words. He supposes that they’re not too off the mark, Gogol is only unlucky in that he managed to get himself captured the day before it’s meant to take place.

“Are you going to kill me?” Gogol coos. “Avenge your pretty little thing? Not many people manage to catch Dostoy’s attention, y’know? I was so curious about her.”

Dazai tilts his head to the side and smiles thinly, a cold one that makes Gogol look impossibly more entertained.

“I hear that you enjoy freedom,” Dazai says more to himself than to Gogol, but finds a bit of sadistic pleasure in the way Gogol hesitates. “What makes you think I’d ever give you the mercy of death? The ultimate freedom?”

Gogol does not respond, so Dazai continues, “So long as you live—and you will live—you’ll never take another breath of fresh air or feel the wind against your skin ever again. My men will ensure you live to a ripe old age. They will feed you when you try to starve yourself, force water down your throat when you refuse to drink, they’ll heal you when you try to kill yourself to free yourself of this prison. For the rest of your life, until you rot of old age, you’ll be caged in the basement of this building. A bird clipped of its wings, trapped forever behind gilded bars… I think that’s quite the fitting fate for you.”

Dazai relishes in the way that Gogol freezes at his words, but even that is not enough to heal the gaping wound in his chest caused by your absence. The pleasure is hollow, like the hole you left in him. Dazai is so tired, he just wants to get back to his office so he can finish finalizing the last step for the final phase.

He just wants to be with you.

Dazai turns to leave, motioning for Chuuya to join him, but as soon as he turns his back, Gogol is speaking again, letting out another manic laugh: “Aren’t you curious as to what the deal was? I can tell you.”

Dazai stills, Gogol laughs louder. 

“It was a life for a life. Your life for hers. I thought Dostoy was crazy for it, I mean, who would think a random girl’s life would be equal to that of the boss of the Port Mafia,” Gogol snickers. “But looking at you now?” 

Dazai’s jaw tightens, he looks over his shoulder as Gogol doubles over laughing and then says quietly, “Her life was worth ten of mine.”

He doesn’t hesitate this time as he walks back toward the elevator, ignoring the way Gogol howls with laughter even as Piano Man has his men drag Gogol back into the most secure cell in the Mafia headquarters. Chuuya follows behind Dazai dutifully, and it’s only when they reenter the elevator does he finally speak.

“You sure you don’t just want him killed?” Chuuya asks, voice a bit stunted and awkward.

Dazai doesn’t respond. “I have a mission for you.”

“Hah?” Chuuya demands. “Now? What’re you talking about?” 

“A meeting with Goldoni of the Family in Rome, he’s insistent that it’s done in person. It’s essential that it takes place as soon as possible. I’ve booked a flight for you, it leaves in two hours.”

“Two hours?” Chuuya hisses. “What are you planning, Dazai?”

Dazai doesn’t respond again. Instead, he turns his head to the side, looking at Chuuya dead on. “That’s a direct order, Chuuya.”

Chuuya draws back as if he’s been slapped, but he doesn’t speak up after that, and Dazai knows that he’s won. By the time Chuuya lands in Rome, everything will be over—the last step of the plan will be complete. His eyes flutter shut as he leans back against the wall of the elevator; he feels a type of contentedness that he hasn’t felt since he watched you drive off with Albatross, Hirotsu, and Tachihara.

Soon, he sighs to himself softly, eyes reopening to focus on his reflection. He swears he can see you again, feel the ghost of your touch against his skin as your fingers lace with his. All he has left to do is talk to Odasaku, and then he can be with you again. 

We can watch one last sunrise together.

“I had someone once, y’know?” Dazai Osamu says, expression distorted and eyes distant, drawing to invisible figures sitting at the stools with them. Oda stares curiously, watching as he opens and closes his mouth, as if trying to figure out what to say. “It was hard. Without you and her, everything was so much harder. I tried so hard to do things right, to protect this world; I did what I could, but I couldn’t stay away from her.”

Dazai’s words disappear with his ragged breathing, dozens of emotions crossing over his face as he stares at his lap. Oda doesn’t speak, trying to put together whatever piece he’s missing—figure out who this her is that Dazai is referring to so that he can understand what’s going on. He keeps his gun steady, pointed at the boss of the Port Mafia in case this whole thing turns out to be a trap even if he’s slowly starting to doubt it.

“I didn’t get to say goodbye to her,” Dazai says airly, talking more to himself than to Oda. “She said she’d see me later. Told me she loved me. I didn’t say it back. Do you think she knew, Odasaku?” 

The man in question chooses his words carefully when Dazai looks at him, black eye wide and imploring, much like a child seeking out advice from a trusted adult. After a few moments, Oda finally says, “Women are a lot more intuitive than men. If she said it, I’m sure she knew you felt the same.”

Dazai lets out a quiet laugh, a soft smile on his lips and a fond, but faraway expression on his face. “You always know what to say, Odasaku,” he murmurs softly, saying that odd nickname again. Oda frowns, but Dazai only continues. “She was good. A lot better than me… Deserved better than me. She was so smart, Odasaku, I think you would’ve liked her. She got into one of the best grad schools in the country, y’know? Was on her way to orientation when-”

Dazai stops talking suddenly, takes in a sharp and stunted breath, eye going a bit wild as if he can’t even force out the words. Oda is suddenly frowning, recognition sparking in his head as he remembers you, the sharp girl from the train station that he’d failed to save; the one who's been haunting his mind since the moment that golden swirl appeared and dragged you away. Ranpo had deduced it was mafia business rather quickly, but Oda couldn’t convince himself of it because he couldn’t figure out how someone like you was affiliated with the mafia.

This… It would make sense, wouldn’t it? Still, Oda couldn’t imagine you with someone like the man sitting before him, or maybe he could, he reconsiders, watching the adoring expression that paints the mafia boss’s face as he talks about you, the smile on his lips and the enamored look in his eye, the pride. Oda doesn’t think he’s ever seen a man look so entirely lovesick before.

Dazai looks at him curiously, must have caught the spark of recognition on his face. “Do you know her?”

Oda pauses, trying to figure out what to say. He doesn’t know if he should admit to seeing you in the moments before you were killed; Dazai Osamu is clearly not stable, fickle and capricious with his emotions, Oda worries that the mafia boss might abruptly turn on him, become hostile when he realizes Oda could have saved her but failed. 

“You did,” Dazai breathes out, excited suddenly, eye lit up like a child who has been told Christmas is coming early. “You knew her, you did, didn’t you? How did you meet? Wasn’t she incredible? Tell me.”

Oda inhales slowly, testing the words on his tongue before he says: “... I met her at the train station… that day.” Dazai’s smile wobbles at the edges, a glassy look in his eye like he’s looking right through Oda. Oda continues speaking quickly, “She was brilliant. She gave me a good idea on how to end the book I’ve been writing.”

Dazai’s smile softens, the childish appearance disappears as he looks down at his drink. “Will you use it?”

Oda responds honestly, “I think I will.”

Dazai looks as if he’s been given a precious gift and for a moment, Oda hesitates, gaze lingering on the expression that is somehow both sorrowful and content at the same time.

“It’s almost dawn, isn’t it?” Dazai says, a bit distantly. Oda watches carefully as an unfocused look clouds Dazai’s black eye, his head turning to look out the window of the bar. “She loved sunrises… I promised her we would watch one more together.”

The sun breaks the horizon in the distance, Dazai smiles wistfully as the colors spread across the morning sky. Endless pink clouds dance in the dawn, orange paints the skies; he stands at the edge of the roof where you sat with him that first morning, leaning your head on his shoulder as you watch all of the shapes the clouds make.

“Doesn’t that one look like a cat?”

Dazai hums in agreement as his gaze traces the sky; he’s never been able to see all of the figures you point out in the clouds, but he likes listening to you talk. Sometimes, you’d spin stories as you rest on his chest, and he’d doze off to the sound of your voice. He wants to look down to where you’d normally be sitting, but he’s afraid that if he looks, he’ll find you disappointed—sad eyes staring at him as if you know what he’s about to do. 

Worse, he’s scared that if he looks, you won’t be there.

Distantly, he can hear Atsushi and Akutagawa still arguing with one another, shouting questions at Dazai, but it all sounds distant and muffled—he couldn’t make out the words if he tried. He’s hyper focused on the sound of your voice in the billowing wind; he can almost imagine that each brush of the gusts against his skin is your touch.

He waits, even as he hears Atsushi creeping toward him, trying to get to him before he lets himself fall over the edge. He promised you one last sunrise, and it would be remiss of him to not stay long enough for you to watch your favorite part.

“She loved sunrises,” Dazai repeats again, this time for Atsushi and Akutagawa to hear. Atsushi halts at the words and he can hear a wavering ‘boss’ escape Atsushi’s lips. He closes his eyes and he can picture you in front of him, a soft expression on your face, lips curved up, and a dreamy smile tugs at his lips. “I’ve waited for this moment so long. I’m pleased, I really am… I just wish things had turned out differently. I wanted her to live, and I wanted to read his novel when he finished it, but I guess what I want doesn’t matter anymore… It’s enough to know that they were able to meet here.”

“Please wait,” Atsushi cries out, and Dazai can hear him moving again, stumbling as he tries to get closer. “Dazai-san, wait!”

“Atsushi-kun, Akutagawa-kun,” Dazai says. He opens his eyes again, watching as the sun finally crosses the horizon in its entirety, basking the world in an ethereal morning glow. His breath catches, and Dazai sees you again standing before him, haloed by the light. He reaches out hesitantly, but draws his hand back before his fingers can graze you, not wanting to taint you with his touch. “I’ll leave the rest to you.”

Dazai takes a step forward closer to you. He ignores Atsushi’s screams and Akutagawa’s shout. His eyes slide shut as he falls, the wind whistling in his ears and ripping the air from his lungs, but Dazai feels at peace for the first time in weeks. A smile curls to his lips, he swears that he feels your arms wrap around his waist, the familiar weight of your head resting on his chest. 

Dazai hopes, maybe a bit irrationally, that there might be a universe out there that he missed, one where the two of you are able to live out your lives. Maybe if he’s lucky, Odasaku will be around too. He’ll have finished the novel with your help, just like in this universe; and Dazai will pout and whine whenever you push him out of the room to brainstorm with the older man, but he’ll always smile as soon as he’s out of sight, content, happy. He’ll get to read the novel once it’s published—you refuse to let him get any peeks until it’s done and you yell at him and Odasaku when Dazai tries to guilt him into showing him it—and he’ll get to be with you.

He’ll get to be with you.

Find me again. Next time, I’ll make it right. 

I promise.

GUYSSSSSS WATERLOO IS OVER I'M ACTUALLY GOING TO CRY. this series has been my baby for so long i don't even know what i'm going to do with myself now that it's over. :(

some notes to share with u guys:

fyodor's ability. SIGH. the past few chapters fucked up my plans, so we're going to imagine that that his ability is still the kill on touch for the sake of my sanity. or maybe he used someone else's ability to kill her. who knows. i had this scene set in mind from waterloo day one so i didn't want to change it.

THE ODASAKU-READER CONVERSATION WAS ACTUALLY SO ANTICIPATED, i had the idea from side a when dazai chose to bring her to his grave, and then i was like ... wait, what if in side b... and i think it's a neat tie in to the beast movie too, because if i rmr correctly, he sought out fyodor later on and i think witnessing reader's capture & not being able to prevent her would give him even more of a reason to go after the man.

uu!chuuya hurts my heart truly. he really did care sm about reader the more he got to know her, and he blamed himself so much for her death. and then dazai uses the fact that he disobeyed orders and got her killed against him to make him leave so that dazai can kill himself. poor man will never not blame himself for everything

ICEMAN AS READER'S BROTHER. look, i know a lot of you wanted odasaku but it just didn't fit. she would've recognized his name in side a

badlands!reader -> i fear she is dead and gone, as you all probably have come to terms with by now at the end of the uu. but i want to add in HOW she dies because it's touched on in this chapter & i posted an ask about it a few weeks ago.

in badlands universe, fyodor isn't actually the one to kill reader, it's agatha christie when the order of the clocktower finally makes their move on yokohama for the book. for this, i also have to get into christie and what i think her ability might be - obviously we know it's based on "and then there were none" which is the mystery novel that involves 10 people w various accusations against them being killed/dying according to a nursery rhyme. i dont know exactly how i want the ability to be executed, but i know for the purposes of the fic that involves 10 ppl dying in various ways according to how they died in the book. christie targets various ppl that have been close to the agency/pm and reader is one of them. so over the course of 10 hours, the 10 people start dying. it takes to the 5th hour for them to realize that this is an ability user and not coincidences because by that point 2 ppl affiliated with the pm and 2 ppl that have close ties with the ada die and the two organizations approach each other about it, and obviously ranpo figures out during that meeting that it's an ability targeting ppl affiliated with both organizations. and that's when dazai starts getting a really bad feeling, tries to call her but she doesn't pick up, and then ends up ditching the meeting to go find her but </333 he doesn't get to her in time. her death is the death on the 5th hour and it parallels emily brent from the book: injected with cyanide after drinking poisoned coffee. dazai finds her in their apartment </3 he is too late to save her.

also a fun side note about badlands: reader and dazai were, in fact, engaged.

anyways, i love you all, thanks for sticking along the ride with me

(。♡ ‿ ♡。)

[lily-radiance]

Hazbin Hotel idea

- Fallen-Angel reader(Fem) x Alastor

The reader is doubting Heaven's actions and decides to take a trip to Hell to see for herself.

- Disagrees with the idea of senseless carnage but understands life is not so simple and split in two.

- Charlie, of course, takes her in, although she does not know the reader is an angel. The reader at first doubts the redemption idea but begins to see the vision.

- Reader is not a fan of Lucifer for many reasons, but mainly because he "betrayed" Heaven, and his relationship with Lilith/Charlie is strained.

- Imagine Hell's greatest Dad, but instead of y'know the whole dad part, Lucifer and Alastor are trying to make you pick a side.

- Alastor, chaotic as usual, tries to get the reader to accept being fallen and doesn't want her to go back. She tells him about her 'predicament' before anyone else, and you better believe he wants to fight the angels for you. He tells Charlie and the others about everything because he knows you won't do it yourself. You obviously get mad. Like big mad.

- In your spiral, he sees your wings at their total capacity, and your shaken demeanor has them changing from white to black at a high rate.

- Vox and Valentino get the terrible idea to hold you for ransom against Alastor and Angel Dust, and they do not go unpunished. Vox makes several derogatory comments about your "holier than thou image," Alastor won't let him get away with it. When it comes to you, he has no problem with your lineage, and honestly, he finds it charming that an angel of all creatures would fall for him.

One of your wings gets injured, and unsurprisingly, it happens to be one of the only angelic wings left. (Say the top and bottom wings on each side are black while the middle two are white?) You used to dye your wings to hide your angelic nature, but with an injury present, it is the least of your concerns. Alastor refuses to let you fly while in recovery, and he has to deal with your pouting. When you do heal, he's still weary, always accompanying you in case you need a helping hand.

"Al, I can fly on my own! Look, my wing is healed!"

"No."

"C'mon, just one lap around the hotel!"

"No."

- Husk thinks you're pretty chill company and likes to vent when you have nothing to do. Sure, he can't say much about Alastor without fearing for his soul, but when he can, the conversations are never dull. If you make him laugh, you'll never let him forget it.

- Angel and Nifty constantly tease you about your infatuation with a particular radio demon. Don't expect any worthwhile advice, even if it means no harm. Charlie really wants to see you and Al together, but she might need to be reminded about boundaries.

- Angel Dust once tried to hit on you to see what would happen and nearly got thrown into next week.

- When he says "Good Girl" to Charlie, you can't help but blush and be a little jealous. He isn't afraid to use the phrase to fluster you on purpose, although you would prefer he not.

- If you wear makeup/do your nails, he will be fascinated. He doesn't say anything because once, he spooked you and made you jump, ruining it. The next hour was spent with him memorizing every detail of your designs in case of another mistake. If he scares you again, it's his job to redo everything. Except for mascara. Never mascara.

- Chess and poker games when the staff has downtime. He will use his shadows to help you cheat, but only if he's not playing with you. Husk knows but says nothing.

- If you're listening to music with earbuds, he will occasionally slow the signal so he can bother you. At first, you were annoyed, but realized it was his odd way of communication. Plus, he still hates technology. (You will purposely play "Video Killed The Radio Star" to get him back.)

"Would you kindly stop playing that infernal song, my dear?"

"Not until you stop interrupting my music."

- The Egg Bois love you, that's no surprise. They always ask about you when being watched by Alastor. The radio demon has come to accept the many questions by now, but the first time, he wanted to spit out his coffee. You think fondly of the memory, occasionally bringing it up to lighten the mood.

"Are you and Mom fighting?"

- When you get into disagreements, expect a few dozen bouquets of white roses in your room. He's terrible at expressing emotions other than murderous intent, and Charlie does what she can to help. You're both stubborn, but it gets too exhausting to keep up the act, and eventually, someone has to cave. (Charlie isn't afraid to wear her horns when confronting him, and if he tries to avoid apologizing, Lucifer will make a daily phone call to annoy him.)

"Hey asshole, talk to your girlfriend, it's upsetting my daughter. Also, you suck."

- Regarding the Extermination day, you try your best to fight the Angelic invasion but struggle. Alastor is stuck between keeping you and the Hotel safe. When Adam nearly beats him, you don't know he's alive, but his reappearance at the new and improved hotel is a welcome sight. He's a little rattled that he almost died, but seeing you safe is enough to keep him going. He might be a tad crazier, but you love him to pieces anyway as you run up and hug him. Typically, he despises physical contact, but coming from you, he doesn't mind, even going so far as to hug you back.

"I assure you that I'm alright, mon cher."

"Are you sure, Al, because that was a difficult fight. Wait—your voice!"

The radio demon takes a moment to realize that without his staff, his voice is clearer than before.

"Oh, you must mean the radio feedback is gone. Yes, I suppose you've never heard my regular voice. I had forgotten what it sounded like. How is it?

"It sounds lovely. I couldn't imagine a better fit."

"I should return the compliment; that is what a proper gentleman does. Your wings look lovely as ever, (Y/N)."

You look over your shoulder to see the feathers no longer entirely black, but back to their ivory shade. A few straggled feathers remain, but you don't mind, overjoyed.

In the middle of your undeniably cute interaction, the rest of the staff is watching. It isn't until Husk interrupts with "get a room" that you two get the hint.

Bonus:

Ruffle this tall disaster's hair. He might complain, but he loves it.

Are you feeling extra crazy? Boop him. Just boop the nose. He will do the same to you.

[iwillneverforgiveyousunghanbin]

bully⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

thursday, sung hanbin— poetry ii

⋆˙⟡ zbully1 smut series masterlist! hanbin, jiwoong, hao, matthew, and taerae included. game day (group) chapter here. all 7 endings here.

⋆˙⟡ wc: 3.5k (it's a doozy but it's worth it i literally am so happy with this one)

⋆˙⟡ reader: femme afab (listed first, she/her are used) // gender neutral (alternate version listed second, no pronouns used at all to describe reader— scroll down)

⋆˙⟡ series summary: five bullies. six days. it's gonna be a hell of a week, babe. stay hydrated.

⋆˙⟡ thursday summary: thursday. good news: the week is almost over. bad news: you're stuck in poetry class with sung hanbin as your desk partner. it's weird. sometimes you play off each other so well, you're nearly blindsided by his sudden flipping of the switch. if only you could steal a glimpse at his journal.

⋆˙⟡ warnings: explicit smut. 18+. minors do not interact. please read specific smut warnings under the cut! swearing. angst. slight dub-con. bullying. very toxic softboi/popular soccer star hanbinnie. guys THE LORE. you very well may not survive til the end of the week but we're already on this journey together so let's see it through!!! smut in gn and fem versions are slightly different due to logistics/circumstance. also there's two parts i wrote in here that made me laugh way too hard okay bye. xx

⋆˙⟡ bully scale: ★★★★☆(4.5)

EXPLICIT SMUT 18+ WARNINGS: choking (reader receiving and safely executed lmao), chest groping/brief nipple play (reader receiving; reader is wearing a bra and hanbin refers to you as having 'tits'), heavy petting (reader and hanbin receiving), fingering (brief, reader receiving), erotic humiliation and degradation (towards reader; about looseness of pussy after this week/disappointing chest but not the size of it he's just being a dick am i making sense), slut and whore used to describe reader, one slap across the face (reader receiving), slight dub-con but we know how reader rolls now lol. hanbin is insanely toxic. enjoy.

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　

scribble. scribble. scribble. 

the scratchings of your pencil in your poetry journal are growing increasingly violent. you don’t really care. you’d stayed up all night: tossing and turning and thinking and plotting. 

“hey, uh... you okay?” hanbin asks, tapping you gently with the end of his pen. your pencil falls from your fingers as you’re jolted from your anxious thought spiral. 

“huh?” you reply, blinking at the star of the soccer team. “oh, um. yeah. i’m okay.”

hanbin’s brow raises slightly at your answer as if it surprises him. “you sure?”

“yeah,” you reply as nonchalantly as possible. “why?”

you follow hanbin’s line of sight to the open page of your poetry journal. you’ve absentmindedly ripped a significant hole through several pages with your vortex of nervous scribbling.

you breathe an awkward laugh, closing your journal and putting your pencil down flat on your desk.

“you had a rough week,” hanbin says, grabbing his journal from his bag and placing it on his desk. you bite your cheeks to keep from grinning at the sight of your target. “or so i’ve heard.”

“i’m sure you have,” you mumble, glancing at the tile floor. “i’m sure everybody has.”

“they haven’t,” he replies definitively and you know he’s telling the truth. “i promise they haven’t.”

hanbin was a tricky one. the star of the soccer team and undoubtedly the most popular boy at your university, it comes as no surprise that he was also the makeshift ring leader of his stupid group of friends. keeping that spotlight also meant keeping up appearances. while your other bullies made their distaste for you known whenever possible, hanbin had a different preferred method of torture.

he liked to play nice. compliment your poems. share a laugh... reel you in.

until you were so close, you couldn’t escape. that’s when he’d flip the script on you. 

like when he sent your poem about the boy you liked to the entire university’s mailing list last year. you’d insisted you didn’t feel comfortable sharing it with him. you recoiled with embarrassment at the thought of junseo, your senior lab partner, finding out. but he pushed. made you think you could trust him.

the next day, it was pinned to every bulletin board across campus next to a picture of you that hanbin had taken on your class trip to the national library. like some sort of sick calling card.

junseo sunbae-nim never muttered more than a word to you ever again.

so that’s how all this started. hanbin recruiting his three (and then four) asshole friends in a sudden and violent quest to become the bane of your existence. 

sometimes you still can’t help but wonder if you’d done something to upset him. but you shake off that thought each time. you won’t let him get in your head again so easily.

you’ve about mustered the courage to give hanbin some snarky response when your professor’s chalk hatchings across the blackboard send a hush over the classroom.

“good afternoon, everyone,” professor choi greets happily, underlining today’s date on the board. “let’s jump right in today and start with our weekly journals. please share with your desk partner the poem that this week so far inspired you to write.”

your eyes fix on hanbin’s journal again, anticipation stirring as you think about the clues that could be hidden in his poem this week. could the answers you’re looking for really be inside that black, leather book?

“you should go fi—,” you start to suggest a bit too quietly before hanbin unknowingly cuts you off.

“do you wanna go first?” he asks brightly, smile lines illuminating his soft features. you know you shouldn’t indulge him, but you can never stop the corners of your lips from involuntarily turning up in response. no matter how much you hated him, his fairytale prince looks were undeniable.

“oh, uh,” you stammer, grabbing your journal and flipping it open to your entry from this week. you look at the poem you wrote, eyes scanning over the emotional stanzas as you bite your lip uneasily. “i dunno. i kind of got a bit too... personal this week.”

“oh, you know i don’t mind,” he replies calmly. “that’s what poetry is, right?”

“i’m well aware you don’t mind me spilling personal details to you,” you reply with a glare. “but i mind.”

“(y/n)-sshi,” professor choi’s voice suddenly rings over your shoulder. “let’s get reading, okay? time is limited.”

you swallow hard, looking down at your journal shamefully. “yes, professor-nim.”

“so what’s it called?” hanbin asks as professor choi makes her way back up to her desk, folding his arms across his chest and leaning back into his chair. “your poem?”

“the bird,” you answer softly. “it’s called the bird.”

he nods pensively before gesturing for you to start. you look back down at the page, fingers shaking as you try to hold your journal steady. clearing your throat, you recite:

“from her perch at the window, she will never be much. the vultures jeered at her as they circled above. then one flew down— with taloned-hand, he did touch. and a meek little finch turned into a dove. if a dove she can be, she will be it as such. til another vulture fell to his knees with a glove. parted her feathers and took her in his clutch. and from the fair bird, made a raven thereof. she needs to change back, so she tries to stay hush. but a third brash vulture throws her off with a shove. the reluctant truth is she’s filling with lust... and she’s growing quite scared of the bird she’ll become.”

you blink back tears as you close your journal and place it on your desk in front of you. maybe it’s your lack of sleep or the mentally and physically jarring week you’ve had, but reading your poem aloud had left you feeling quite vulnerable.

“that was beautiful, (y/n),” hanbin says suddenly, prying you from your regret. you turn to him, eyes wide as he nods thoughtfully. “i really appreciated the metaphor of the bird. the vultures are considered bad birds, but somehow they changed the subject from an unassuming bird into the more beautiful bird she seemed to want to be... but never thought she could.”

you stare at him as he glances up at the ceiling, those handsome smile lines crinkling his cheeks again.

“funny how things we could perceive as wrong or immoral can actually have a positive effect on us,” he muses with a chuckle. “but it’s only natural for the bird to question that change. she’s done more of that ‘bad’ thing and now she’s afraid it’s turned her into a raven. a bird that frightens her. or maybe a bird she can’t recognize anymore when she looks in the mirror.”

“it did,” you assert quietly. “it did change her.”

“but it sounds like she likes that change. at least part of her,” hanbin rebuts, meeting your gaze. “perhaps if she embraces that and sheds her own guilt— or molts, if you will— she’ll realize the raven is another distortion of her own making, just like the finch was. she’ll realize she is the dove and she always has been.”

your lips part as you gape at hanbin in awe. it was hard not to let your guard down with him when he always dissected your poems so intuitively like this. memories of intense public humiliation are the only thing that can keep you grounded.

“or,” he adds, a small smirk upturning the corner of his lips. “i guess she could also realize that ravens and vultures aren’t the bad birds she thinks they are. maybe she finds that, after all this worrying, she was meant to be a vulture, too.”

“under a minute left,” professor choi calls out from the front of the classroom.

shit. hanbin had talked so much about your poem that he barely had any time left to share his— the poem you desperately needed to be shared in the first place.

hanbin’s still rambling on about vultures, but you’re not paying any attention as a wave of panic rushes over you. 

“you should share yours still,” you prompt a little too eagerly, cutting him off mid-sentence. trying your best to dial it back, you add, “i’m sure it’s very interesting, what with the big game on saturday and all.”

hanbin smiles, holding your gaze for a moment too long. it’s suspicious, but his eyes give nothing away.

“if it’s okay with you, i’d rather not share this week,” he says, throwing his journal back in his bag. “i got a little too... how did you put it? personal.”

you blink at him. “but—. but that’s what i said and you—.”

hanbin mutters something under his breath that you swear sounds like, “not like you’d listen to me anyway.”

but you must’ve misheard him.

your heart sinks, your plan crumbling to ashes before your eyes as professor choi launches into a lecture about wilfred owen’s 20th century use of assonance. hanbin had to have written something about what his friends had been up to. that’s why he used up so much time focusing on your poem. 

your pencil moves across your paper, absentmindedly taking notes until you reach the only possible conclusion: you can’t give up. you’ll just have to amend the plan.

after class, you hurriedly gather your things and run out the door, pulling your phone out and typing vigorously as you make your way to the bathroom.

WHEN DOES THE BOYS’ SOCCER PRACTICE GO UNTIL TONIGHT!? mina: ??? NO QUESTIONS. JUST ANSWERS. mina: jiwoong oppa is picking me up at 7. so i assume about 6:30. THANK U BYE and... please be careful around him. mina: yeah, yeah, yeah i’ll use protection ily

totally not what you meant. and you’d hate to break it to her, but after his little stunt on monday, you’re not sure how fond her jiwoong oppa would be of that request.

6:30. practice would start soon, giving you plenty of time to slip into the boys’ locker room, read hanbin’s journal, and slip out undetected. 

you catch a glimpse of yourself in the bathroom mirror.

a raven’s beady eyes stare back.

~

you kill some time in the library, waiting until practice is well underway before making your way across campus to the gymnasium. your heart is already pounding in your ears just thinking about the little heist you’re about to pull.

but your legs keep propelling you forward.

pulling open the building door, you step inside cautiously. the women’s badminton team is stretching in the atrium of the building, but there’s no sign of anyone else. you head right down the hallway, walking past the cardio fitness center and the weight-lifting gym until you’re in front of the boys’ locker room door.

you put an ear to it, hearing nothing but the whirring of a fan on the other side.

fuck it.

you pull open the door and step inside, white and grey tiled walls and rows of blue lockers surrounding you. your heart races as you look back at the door, wondering if it’s not too late to abandon your mission.

you shake your head. no. you need to find that journal.

with a steadying breath, you begin to walk through the first row of lockers. when you don’t spot hanbin’s bag, you proceed to the second row. and then the next. and then the next until you finally spot it.

tucked under the wooden bench running down the middle of the aisle is a familiar brown, leather messenger bag. you run to it, picking it up from the floor and setting it down on the bench. you unclasp the latch on the front of the bag and lift the flap, opening it up and reaching inside it.

your hand hits something... fluffy. you grab the fuzzy item and pull it out, squealing when you see that it’s a tiny, cream-colored hamster plush. it’s the cutest thing you’ve ever seen in your whole goddamn life. 

and you are disappointed to find yourself thinking it bears a striking resemblance to its owner.

you stuff the little hamster back into the bag. as cute as he is, it’s not what you came here for. you gasp when you feel the cold leather-bound journal in your hand, pulling it out hurriedly and examining the cover.

you open the journal, flipping through the pages rashly until you locate an entry with today’s date at the top. it reads:

“if one is a vulture, it’s assumed they’re no good— despite all the research that they’re helpful to earth. does the finch know that if that vulture could, he’d hunt for a mirror and show her her worth? if that finch is a dove, there’d be something that would still keep her away from achieving true mirth. it’s the vultures, she’d cry before she understood: the vulture has always been a sign of rebirth. a dove, raven, vulture, or finch from the woods, the vultures will find her and double their search. but for someone who claims they feel misunderstood, it’s repulsive the lengths she would go to unearth... something that does not belong to that bird. seems the dove was a raven afterall.”

“pretty good, huh?” the sudden voice behind you makes you jump. “wrote it in, like, ten minutes after class. what can i say? i was inspired.”

you don’t turn around. your face is already on fire from how mortified you are. of course, you’d considered the possibility of being caught. but you hadn’t really realized the weight of that consequence until this moment.

“actually, i think it might be even better than the original,” he continues, footsteps echoing against the tiled floors as he draws nearer. “i mean, you really should’ve thought to flesh out those vulture characters a bit. and you didn’t even consider looking up the well-known symbolism behind them.”

a hot breath fans across the back of your neck, causing you to shiver as a hand wraps around the leather-bound journal and pries it from yours.

“i have to admit, i didn’t really think you had it in you,” he says with a chuckle, fingers suddenly hooking into your waistband and turning you around to face him. he’s in his red and white soccer uniform, skin glistening from the practice meet he should be at right now. “but just in case, i wanted to be prepared. write you something worth reading.”

“h-how did you know?” you stutter quietly. “that i—”

“well, you weren’t exactly subtle, now were you?” hanbin smiles but the light doesn’t reach his eyes. “‘you should read your poem, hanbin. i’m sure it’s exciting with the big game coming up’. like you give a fuck about my poetry.”

that last sentence reminds you of what you thought you’d heard him mumble in class today: not like you’d listen to me anyway.

what was that about?

“aw, don’t get sad now that your plan didn’t go your way,” hanbin coos, lifting his hand to caress your cheek. “i thought it was kind of cute. i can forgive you for stealing, right? you just wanted my attention so badly that you had to play a bit dirty.”

you shake your head quickly. “no, it’s not like that! i swear i wasn’t trying to get your attention, i just—”

“well then, jesus fucking christ, what do i have to do to—,” hanbin snaps before promptly cutting himself off. there’s something in his eyes you’ve never seen before: desperation. 

a large hand wraps around your throat in an instant, shoving you up against a blue locker. the motion knocks the wind out of you and you find yourself gasping for air. your hand flies to remove his from around your neck, but he catches it in his free one and brings it gently back down to your side. 

“i told you in class that if you needed help calling off the vultures, you should ask me while you still can,” hanbin rasps, rubbing his thumb up the left side of your throat. “but you weren’t listening, dove. the gulper got first bite. the rippers tore you apart...”

you breathe shallowly, glancing from side to side for some route of escape.

“but now the king has landed,” he says, tongue flitting across his teeth. “and he’s fucking starving.”

you blink at him, lips parted in stupid shock. “i—... i honestly had no idea you knew so much about vultures.”

“THAT’S WHAT YOU TOOK FROM THAT ARE YOU KID—,” he yells, finger pads digging in tighter to the skin of your neck. his gaze falls to your lips, supple and pretty even in fear. he trails down to your shirt, a button-up front that seems to entice him. “take it off.”

“b-but—.”

“take it the fuck off, (y/n). you should know by now how this goes,” hanbin snarls, grabbing your hand and bringing it to the trail of buttons. you start to fiddle with them, but you have some trouble under the pressure of his gaze. “can’t even undo a button? hm? too fucking stupid, dove?”

you find yourself nodding against all odds.

“need binnie to do it for you?” he coos, smile lines illuminating his face again.

you just nod. it seems to be what you do best.

hanbin unfastens the buttons one-handed and with ease. once your shirt is open, he undoes the center clasp of your bra and exposes your chest. then, he sighs with dramatic disappointment. “seriously? that’s it? got me all excited to see your tits and this is what you have to show?”

you look down at your incredibly normal and attractive chest. you’d never really doubted the allure of that part of your body before. should you have?

the humiliating comment causes a lump to form in your throat... and an embarrassingly intense ache to shoot through your heat. 

he tugs the center hem of your shirt, pulling the fabric further off your shoulders. “it’s a good thing the other guys didn’t see them. they’re far more superficial than me. you should be grateful you found a guy who can look past the disappointment. ”

hanbin’s free hand gropes your chest, thumb rubbing circles around one nipple and then the next as you let out a soft whimper.

“mm, i heard that,” he breathes with a smirk. “even though you never hear me. probably didn’t even fucking clock the first line in that stupid poem. but i hear you, dove. so let me give you what you want. all you have to do is ask.”

you gulp, softly responding, “w-want you to... touch me.”

“yeah?” hanbin affirms, finger trailing down your stomach.

you nod again, this time more assuredly under the guise of his encouraging smile. that is, until a harsh slap stings your cheek.

“well that wasn’t a fucking question, was it?” hanbin hisses, rubbing soothing circles into your cheek with his thumb. “you’re in an advanced poetry class and you don’t even know how to form an interrogative sentence? just must be doodling all the time, huh? about all the boys who’ve made a mess of you this week? like the dumb little slut you are.”

hanbin’s free hand slips under your skirt, fingers brushing over your clothed core before pulling it out again. you gasp when you see his fingers already covered in your arousal.

his eyes darken as he reaches up your skirt again, tearing a hole right through your lace panties and stuffing two fingers inside of you immediately as you cry out. 

“oh, dove, why would i wanna put my cock in here, hm? can already feel how much those other assholes have stretched you out,” hanbin says with another sigh of disappointment. 

another bout of worry clouds your mind. was that true? was matthew right? you thought he was just being a misogynistic pig, but... had you really been physically tainted from the events of this week?

“so fucking lucky, dove,” hanbin whispers, removing his hand from your heat and taking one of yours. he brings it down the front of his athletic shorts and then wraps it around his impossibly hard length. you look up at him, wide-eyed. “where every other man would see damaged goods, i see prime real estate.”

“what—”

“gonna fuck you now, m’kay?” hanbin interjects, pulling his shorts down and exposing himself to you. you hadn’t really seen the other boys up close or at all like this. hanbin’s cock is pretty, long with just a few visible veins and a pink head that’s leaking a bit of pre-cum. it makes your mouth water. maybe you are a dumb slut.

maybe you like it like that.

or maybe it’s just hanbin’s large hand covering your throat, pressing at the sides tenderly that’s making you start to feel a bit high. he brings himself to your entrance, lining up the tip and coating it in your juices. he’s about to push himself inside of you, when he suddenly freezes.

“you want me to, right?” hanbin asks, tone suddenly much softer than it was before. his eyes are locked with yours, holding you there with him against the wall of lockers. “you want me inside you? just me. not those other guys? not junseo hyung-nim or—”

BEEEEEEEEEP. BRRANG. BRRANG. BRRANG. BEEEEEEEE....

a fire alarm rips through the locker room, loud and annoying as ever. you try to jump out of hanbin’s grasp, but his hands stay fixed around you. 

“let me... let me go!” you assert, hitting his chest with your palm. the pressure on your neck that felt so good just a few moments ago is now filling you with fear, “are you trying to kill me or something!?”

his brow raises slightly, as if he only just noticed the alarm. his grip loosens and you take the opportunity to scramble away from him. 

“of course i’m not,” he replies dejectedly, re-situating his shorts before huffing, “like you have a body worth going to jail for.”

“oh, shut up,” you retort, rolling your eyes as you race to re-button your shirt. “this is all YOUR fault. whatever’s going on this week, i know you’re behind it. you’ve run out of ideas to keep me small. but i’m not small. in fact, i’m a much bigger person than you are! so... i’m sorry for whatever i did that made you hate me so much in the first place. now, please, let’s get out of here.”

you start to run down the aisle of lockers towards the exit door, but a lack of footsteps behind you causes you to stop and turn back.

“come on,” you urge as hanbin continues to stand in place and stare at you, unmoving. it might be the most infuriating thing he’s done all day. “oh, fucking burn then.”

the tangible anger in your voice startles both of you. hanbin blinks quickly back at you, wide-eyed as if you’ve just slapped him across the face. whoever gave him the right to feel that way is sorely mistaken. you turn back around, throwing over your shoulder:

“are there birds worse than vultures?”

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　

gender neutral version below

EXPLICIT SMUT 18+ WARNINGS: choking (reader receiving and safely executed lmao), chest/abdomen groping (reader receiving; no anatomical descriptions or gender specific language), heavy petting (reader and hanbin receiving), finger penetration (brief, reader receiving), erotic humiliation and degradation (towards reader; regarding looseness of hole (non specific) from desperation and disappointing chest/abdomen region (not related to gender or anatomical gendered parts he's just being a dick to you i hope this makes sense)), slut and whore are also used but not in a gendered context, one slap across face (reader receiving), slight dub-con but we know how reader rolls now lol. hanbin is insanely toxic. enjoy.

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　

scribble. scribble. scribble. 

the scratchings of your pencil in your poetry journal are growing increasingly violent. you don’t really care. you’d stayed up all night: tossing and turning and thinking and plotting. 

“hey, uh... you okay?” hanbin asks, tapping you gently with the end of his pen. your pencil falls from your fingers as you’re jolted from your anxious thought spiral. 

“huh?” you reply, blinking at the star of the soccer team. “oh, um. yeah. i’m okay.”

hanbin’s brow raises slightly at your answer as if it surprises him. “you sure?”

“yeah,” you reply as nonchalantly as possible. “why?”

you follow hanbin’s line of sight to the open page of your poetry journal. you’ve absentmindedly ripped a significant hole through several pages with your vortex of nervous scribbling.

you breathe an awkward laugh, closing your journal and putting your pencil down flat on your desk.

“you had a rough week,” hanbin says, grabbing his journal from his bag and placing it on his desk. you bite your cheeks to keep from grinning at the sight of your target. “or so i’ve heard.”

“i’m sure you have,” you mumble, glancing at the tile floor. “i’m sure everybody has.”

“they haven’t,” he replies definitively and you know he’s telling the truth. “i promise they haven’t.”

hanbin was a tricky one. the star of the soccer team and undoubtedly the most popular boy at your university, it comes as no surprise that he was also the makeshift ring leader of his stupid group of friends. keeping that spotlight also meant keeping up appearances. while your other bullies made their distaste for you known whenever possible, hanbin had a different preferred method of torture.

he liked to play nice. compliment your poems. share a laugh... reel you in.

until you were so close, you couldn’t escape. that’s when he’d flip the script on you. 

like when he sent your poem about the boy you liked to the entire university’s mailing list last year. you’d insisted you didn’t feel comfortable sharing it with him. you recoiled with embarrassment at the thought of junseo, your senior lab partner, finding out. but he pushed. made you think you could trust him.

the next day, it was pinned to every bulletin board across campus next to a picture of you that hanbin had taken on your class trip to the national library. like some sort of sick calling card.

junseo sunbae-nim never muttered more than a word to you ever again.

so that’s how all this started. hanbin recruiting his three (and then four) asshole friends in a sudden and violent quest to become the bane of your existence. 

sometimes you still can’t help but wonder if you’d done something to upset him. but you shake off that thought each time. you won’t let him get in your head again so easily.

you’ve about mustered the courage to give hanbin some snarky response when your professor’s chalk hatchings across the blackboard send a hush over the classroom.

“good afternoon, everyone,” professor choi greets happily, underlining today’s date on the board. “let’s jump right in today and start with our weekly journals. please share with your desk partner the poem that this week so far inspired you to write.”

your eyes fix on hanbin’s journal again, anticipation stirring as you think about the clues that could be hidden in his poem this week. could the answers you’re looking for really be inside that black, leather book?

“you should go fi—,” you start to suggest a bit too quietly before hanbin unknowingly cuts you off.

“do you wanna go first?” he asks brightly, smile lines illuminating his soft features. you know you shouldn’t indulge him, but you can never stop the corners of your lips from involuntarily turning up in response. no matter how much you hated him, his fairytale prince looks were undeniable.

“oh, uh,” you stammer, grabbing your journal and flipping it open to your entry from this week. you look at the poem you wrote, eyes scanning over the emotional stanzas as you bite your lip uneasily. “i dunno. i kind of got a bit too... personal this week.”

“oh, you know i don’t mind,” he replies calmly. “that’s what poetry is, right?”

“i’m well aware you don’t mind me spilling personal details to you,” you reply with a glare. “but i mind.”

“(y/n)-sshi,” professor choi’s voice suddenly rings over your shoulder. “let’s get reading, okay? time is limited.”

you swallow hard, looking down at your journal shamefully. “yes, professor-nim.”

“so what’s it called?” hanbin asks as professor choi makes her way back up to her desk, folding his arms across his chest and leaning back into his chair. “your poem?”

“the bird,” you answer softly. “it’s called the bird.”

he nods pensively before gesturing for you to start. you look back down at the page, fingers shaking as you try to hold your journal steady. clearing your throat, you recite:

“from it’s perch at the window, it will never be much. the vultures jeered at it as they circled above. then one flew down— with taloned-hand, he did touch. and a meek little finch turned into a dove. if a dove it can be, it will be it as such. til another vulture fell to his knees with a glove. parted it’s feathers and took it in his clutch. and from the fair bird, made a raven thereof. it needs to change back, so it tries to stay hush. but a third brash vulture throws it off with a shove. the reluctant truth is it’s filling with lust... and it’s growing quite scared of the bird it will become.”

you blink back tears as you close your journal and place it on your desk in front of you. maybe it’s your lack of sleep or the mentally and physically jarring week you’ve had, but reading your poem aloud had left you feeling quite vulnerable.

“that was beautiful, (y/n),” hanbin says suddenly, prying you from your regret. you turn to him, eyes wide as he nods thoughtfully. “i really appreciated the metaphor of the bird. the vultures are considered bad birds, but somehow they changed the subject from an unassuming bird into the more beautiful bird it seemed to want to be... but never thought it could.”

you stare at him as he glances up at the ceiling, those handsome smile lines crinkling his cheeks again.

“funny how things we could perceive as wrong or immoral can actually have a positive effect on us,” he muses with a chuckle. “but it’s only natural for the bird to question that change. it’s done more of that ‘bad’ thing and now it’s afraid it’s been turned into a raven. a bird that’s frightening. or maybe a bird it can’t recognize anymore when it looks in the mirror.”

“it did,” you assert quietly. “it did change the bird.”

“but it sounds like the bird likes that change. at least part of it,” hanbin rebuts, meeting your gaze. “perhaps if it embraces that and sheds it’s own guilt— or molts, if you will— it’ll realize the raven is another distortion of the bird’s own making, just like the finch was. it’ll realize it is the dove and it always has been.”

your lips part as you gape at hanbin in awe. it was hard not to let your guard down with him when he always dissected your poems so intuitively like this. memories of intense public humiliation are the only thing that can keep you grounded.

“or,” he adds, a small smirk upturning the corner of his lips. “i guess it could also realize that ravens and vultures aren’t the bad birds it thinks they are. maybe it finds that, after all this worrying, the bird was meant to be a vulture, too.”

“under a minute left,” professor choi calls out from the front of the classroom.

shit. hanbin had talked so much about your poem that he barely had any time left to share his— the poem you desperately needed to be shared in the first place.

hanbin’s still rambling on about vultures, but you’re not paying any attention as a wave of panic rushes over you. 

“you should share yours still,” you prompt a little too eagerly, cutting him off mid-sentence. trying your best to dial it back, you add, “i’m sure it’s very interesting, what with the big game on saturday and all.”

hanbin smiles, holding your gaze for a moment too long. it’s suspicious, but his eyes give nothing away.

“if it’s okay with you, i’d rather not share this week,” he says, throwing his journal back in his bag. “i got a little too... how did you put it? personal.”

you blink at him. “but—. but that’s what i said and you—.”

hanbin mutters something under his breath that you swear sounds like, “not like you’d listen to me anyway.”

but you must’ve misheard him.

your heart sinks, your plan crumbling to ashes before your eyes as professor choi launches into a lecture about wilfred owen’s 20th century use of assonance. hanbin had to have written something about what his friends had been up to. that’s why he used up so much time focusing on your poem. 

your pencil moves across your paper, absentmindedly taking notes until you reach the only possible conclusion: you can’t give up. you’ll just have to amend the plan.

after class, you hurriedly gather your things and run out the door, pulling your phone out and typing vigorously as you make your way to the bathroom.

WHEN DOES THE BOYS’ SOCCER PRACTICE GO UNTIL TONIGHT!? mina: ??? NO QUESTIONS. JUST ANSWERS. mina: jiwoong oppa is picking me up at 7. so i assume about 6:30. THANK U BYE and... please be careful around him. mina: yeah, yeah, yeah i’ll use protection ily

totally not what you meant. and you’d hate to break it to her, but after his little stunt on monday, you’re not sure how fond her jiwoong oppa would be of that request.

6:30. practice would start soon, giving you plenty of time to slip into the boys’ locker room, read hanbin’s journal, and slip out undetected. 

you catch a glimpse of yourself in the bathroom mirror.

a raven’s beady eyes stare back.

~

you kill some time in the library, waiting until practice is well underway before making your way across campus to the gymnasium. your heart is already pounding in your ears just thinking about the little heist you’re about to pull.

but your legs keep propelling you forward.

pulling open the building door, you step inside cautiously. the women’s badminton team is stretching in the atrium of the building, but there’s no sign of anyone else. you head right down the hallway, walking past the cardio fitness center and the weight-lifting gym until you’re in front of the boys’ locker room door.

you put an ear to it, hearing nothing but the whirring of a fan on the other side.

fuck it.

you pull open the door and step inside, white and grey tiled walls and rows of blue lockers surrounding you. your heart races as you look back at the door, wondering if it’s not too late to abandon your mission.

you shake your head. no. you need to find that journal.

with a steadying breath, you begin to walk through the first row of lockers. when you don’t spot hanbin’s bag, you proceed to the second row. and then the next. and then the next until you finally spot it.

tucked under the wooden bench running down the middle of the aisle is a familiar brown, leather messenger bag. you run to it, picking it up from the floor and setting it down on the bench. you unclasp the latch on the front of the bag and lift the flap, opening it up and reaching inside it.

your hand hits something... fluffy. you grab the fuzzy item and pull it out, squealing when you see that it’s a tiny, cream-colored hamster plush. it’s the cutest thing you’ve ever seen in your whole goddamn life. 

and you are disappointed to find yourself thinking it bears a striking resemblance to its owner.

you stuff the little hamster back into the bag. as cute as he is, it’s not what you came here for. you gasp when you feel the cold leather-bound journal in your hand, pulling it out hurriedly and examining the cover.

you open the journal, flipping through the pages rashly until you locate an entry with today’s date at the top. it reads:

“if one is a vulture, it’s assumed they’re no good— despite all the research that they’re helpful to earth. does the finch know that if that vulture could, he’d hunt for a mirror and show it it’s worth? if that finch is a dove, there’d be something that would still keep it away from achieving true mirth. it’s the vultures, the bird cries before it understood: the vulture has always been a sign of rebirth. a dove, raven, vulture, or finch from the woods, the vultures will find it and double their search. but for someone who claims they feel misunderstood, it’s repulsive the lengths it would go to unearth... something that does not belong to that bird. seems the dove was a raven afterall.”

“pretty good, huh?” the sudden voice behind you makes you jump. “wrote it in, like, ten minutes after class. what can i say? i was inspired.”

you don’t turn around. your face is already on fire from how mortified you are. of course, you’d considered the possibility of being caught. but you hadn’t really realized the weight of that consequence until this moment.

“actually, i think it might be even better than the original,” he continues, footsteps echoing against the tiled floors as he draws nearer. “i mean, you really should’ve thought to flesh out those vulture characters a bit. and you didn’t even consider looking up the well-known symbolism behind them.”

a hot breath fans across the back of your neck, causing you to shiver as a hand wraps around the leather-bound journal and pries it from yours.

“i have to admit, i didn’t really think you had it in you,” he says with a chuckle, fingers suddenly hooking into your waistband and turning you around to face him. he’s in his red and white soccer uniform, skin glistening from the practice meet he should be at right now. “but just in case, i wanted to be prepared. write you something worth reading.”

“h-how did you know?” you stutter quietly. “that i—”

“well, you weren’t exactly subtle, now were you?” hanbin smiles but the light doesn’t reach his eyes. “‘you should read your poem, hanbin. i’m sure it’s exciting with the big game coming up’. like you give a fuck about my poetry.”

that last sentence reminds you of what you thought you’d heard him mumble in class today: not like you’d listen to me anyway.

what was that about?

“aw, don’t get sad now that your plan didn’t go your way,” hanbin coos, lifting his hand to caress your cheek. “i thought it was kind of cute. i can forgive you for stealing, right? you just wanted my attention so badly that you had to play a bit dirty.”

you shake your head quickly. “no, it’s not like that! i swear i wasn’t trying to get your attention, i just—”

“well then, jesus fucking christ, what do i have to do to—,” hanbin snaps before promptly cutting himself off. there’s something in his eyes you’ve never seen before: desperation. 

a large hand wraps around your throat in an instant, shoving you up against a blue locker. the motion knocks the wind out of you and you find yourself gasping for air. your hand flies to remove his from around your neck, but he catches it in his free one and brings it gently back down to your side. 

“i told you in class that if you needed help calling off the vultures, you should ask me while you still can,” hanbin rasps, rubbing his thumb up the left side of your throat. “but you weren’t listening, dove. the gulper got first bite. the rippers tore you apart...”

you breathe shallowly, glancing from side to side for some route of escape.

“but now the king has landed,” he says, tongue flitting across his teeth. “and he’s fucking starving.”

you blink at him, lips parted in stupid shock. “i—... i honestly had no idea you knew so much about vultures.”

“THAT’S WHAT YOU TOOK FROM THAT ARE YOU KID—,” he yells, finger pads digging in tighter to the skin of your neck. his gaze falls to your lips, supple and pretty even in fear. he trails down to your shirt, a button-up front that seems to entice him. “take it off.”

“b-but—.”

“take it the fuck off, (y/n). you should know by now how this goes,” hanbin snarls, grabbing your hand and bringing it to the trail of buttons. you start to fiddle with them, but you have some trouble under the pressure of his gaze. “can’t even undo a button? hm? too fucking stupid, dove?”

you find yourself nodding against all odds.

“need binnie to do it for you?” he coos, smile lines illuminating his face again.

you just nod again. it seems to be what you do best.

hanbin unfastens the buttons one-handed and with ease. once your shirt is open, he tugs it to the side and exposes your chest. then, he sighs with dramatic disappointment. “seriously? that’s it? got me all excited to see how good you look under here and this is what you have to show?”

you look down at your incredibly normal and attractive upper body. you’d never really doubted the aesthetics of it before. should you have?

the humiliating comment causes a lump to form in your throat... and an embarrassingly intense ache to shoot through your heat. 

he tugs the center hem of your shirt, pulling the fabric further off your shoulders. “it’s a good thing the other guys didn’t see this. they’re far more superficial than me. you should be grateful you found a guy who can look past the disappointment. ”

hanbin’s free hand roams across your abdomen and chest, fingers ghosting sweetly against your skin until you let out the tiniest whimper.

“mm, i heard that,” he breathes with a smirk. “even though you never hear me. probably didn’t even fucking clock the first line in that stupid poem. but i hear you, dove. so let me give you what you want. all you have to do is ask.”

you gulp, softly responding, “w-want you to... touch me.”

“yeah?” hanbin affirms, finger trailing down your stomach.

you nod again, this time more assuredly under the guise of his encouraging smile. that is, until a harsh slap stings your cheek.

“well that wasn’t a fucking question, was it?” hanbin hisses, rubbing soothing circles into your cheek with his thumb. “you’re in an advanced poetry class and you don’t even know how to form an interrogative sentence? just must be doodling all the time, huh? about all the boys who’ve made a mess of you this week? like the dumb little slut you are.”

hanbin’s free hand finds it’s way into your jeans, fingers brushing over your clothed core before pulling it out again. you gasp when you see his fingers already covered in your arousal.

his eyes darken as he undoes the button clasp and zipper of your pants, shoving your underwear to the side with his fingers. he forces your legs a bit farther apart before stuffing a finger inside of you, causing you to cry out. 

“oh, dove, why would i wanna put my cock in here, hm? so desperate, i could slip right in,” hanbin says with another sigh of disappointment. “did the other guys really make such a whore of you?”

another bout of worry clouds your mind. was that true? was matthew right? you thought he was just being a red-pilled pig, but... had you somehow been physically tainted from the events of this week?

“so fucking lucky, dove,” hanbin whispers, removing his hand from your center and taking one of yours. he brings it down the front of his athletic shorts and then wraps it around his impossibly hard length. you look up at him, wide-eyed. “where every other man would see damaged goods, i see prime real estate.”

“what—”

“gonna fuck you now, m’kay?” hanbin interjects, pulling his shorts down and exposing himself to you. you hadn’t really seen the other boys up close or at all like this. hanbin’s cock is pretty— long with just a few visible veins and a pink head that’s leaking a bit of pre-cum. it makes your mouth water. maybe you are a dumb slut.

maybe you like it like that.

or maybe it’s just hanbin’s large hand covering your throat, pressing at the sides both tenderly and persistently that’s making you feel a bit high. he brings himself to your entrance, spitting in his hand and covering his length as he lines up the tip. he’s about to push himself inside of you, when he suddenly freezes.

“you want me to, right?” hanbin asks, tone suddenly much softer than it was before. his eyes are locked with yours, holding you there with him against the wall of lockers. “you want me inside you? just me. not those other guys? not junseo hyung-nim or—”

BEEEEEEEEEP. BRRANG. BRRANG. BRRANG. BEEEEEEEE....

a fire alarm rips through the locker room, loud and annoying as ever. you try to jump out of hanbin’s grasp, but his hands stay fixed around you. 

“let me... let me go!” you assert, hitting his chest with your palm. the pressure on your neck that felt so good just a few moments ago is now filling you with fear, “are you trying to kill me or something!?”

his brow raises slightly, as if he only just noticed the alarm. his grip loosens and you take the opportunity to scramble away from him, frantically zipping up your jeans. 

“of course i’m not,” he replies dejectedly, re-situating his shorts before huffing, “like you have a body worth going to jail for.”

“oh, shut up,” you retort, rolling your eyes as you race to re-button your shirt. “this is all YOUR fault. whatever’s going on this week, i know you’re behind it. you’ve run out of ideas to keep me small. but i’m not small. in fact, i’m a much bigger person than you are! so... i’m sorry for whatever i did that made you hate me so much in the first place. now, please, let’s get out of here.”

you start to run down the aisle of lockers towards the exit door, but a lack of footsteps behind you causes you to stop and turn back.

“come on,” you urge as hanbin continues to stand in place and stare at you, unmoving. it might be the most infuriating thing he’s done all day. “oh, fucking burn then.”

the tangible anger in your voice startles both of you. hanbin blinks quickly back at you, wide-eyed as if you’ve just slapped him across the face. whoever gave him the right to feel that way is sorely mistaken. you turn back around, throwing over your shoulder:

“are there birds worse than vultures?”

[jams-sims]

Because its so late, I think I can say this. As much as I fucking hate purgatory. As a DM to a story I think its the most natural out for characters and Muns. Oh! my character can have either lived or died on the purg island? Do I feel like coming back? If the answer no. Easy out, no over the top feeling, no need to do a final stream if I dont want to. Just a stark sad tragic exit that leaves it mark. Because no one expected people to die on this silly fucking island. But deaths, mark very important and poignant moments. The island is curel and its consuming its islanders.

Max's death is one of sacrifice for his friends and the eggs. He was in a hole of loneliness, I think that loneliness took him as well. But I think qMax's death was a simple stepping stone while q!jaiden death will be a full on turn. See-

Jaiden death is probably the most fitting for her character because it is the most tragic. Q!Jaiden died when bobby died. She speant her days in a home just cluttered with his images and his likeness. She was being used by the Feds and I think deep down she knew that. Her connections were severed do to grief, her platonic husband while also spiraling found hope. He got married had a new kid and while he made sure people put some respect on her name when it came to Bobby. He had moved somewhere she could not get to him.

An in a way, I think that's all she truly needed. Her last connection, Roier was happy living his full life in a castle. An what did she have to go back to? A sunset in a house full of memories in a field of flowers surrounded by nothing. The week spent in purgatory felt like a century of suffering.

Something in her finally broke and maybe she didn't make it to the final part where everyone else was. Maybe she walked slowly, legs and feet numb. An she got to a clearing, the world is doused in chaos once again. An her ears are rinning with sirens. An all of it fades away as she stops, she stops limping along, she falls back into sitting on the cold earth.

She realizes their nothing waiting for her back on the island. What was the rush for? What was all the screaming and crying, the begging the longing. She's tired. She so tired of it all. All of it and what was it for? A new start that would never truly be hers.

She relax for the first time in a long time and the sunset looks beautiful. And she hopes that roier stays happy that all the eggs get to live happy and healthy lives.

She doesn't even hear the explosion. She closes her eyes. An when she opens them she in the air, weightless and flying. She has food she hasn't eaten in a long time. She tells Bobby not to worry, she happy now. Only to feel a swift kick to her shins. As Bobby takes her hand and she gets to tell him about all the thing she did after his passing.

She finally get to go back home.

[delusionalfanficwriter]

accident

The morning sun cast a soft glow over the streets of Seattle as Y/N drove to her training session for USWNT. The familiar scent of coffee filled the air, but her mind was focused on the upcoming game and the challenges that lay ahead. As she approached an intersection, the traffic light turned red, forcing her to come to a stop.

Just as the light turned green, Y/N accelerated, her mind still occupied with thoughts of tactics and strategy for the game. The intersection was busy, cars moving in various directions. However, in the blink of an eye, a distracted driver ran a red light, colliding with Y/N's car from the side.

The impact sent Y/N's car spinning, metal crunching against metal. The sudden jolt left her disoriented, the world spinning around her. As the chaos unfolded, she heard the distant wail of sirens, and through the haze, she saw the familiar faces of Maya hopping out of the fire truck and the Station 19 team rushing to the scene before her eyes started to close shut. 

Maya takes in the scene,  her eyes fall on the license plate number she has seen dozens of times. Her mind jumps to y/n, who she knows is in Seattle for the game coming up later in the week. The y/n who she and Carina took under their wing after she showed up several times to clinic days. They opened their home for her until she was steady enough to be on her own and when she isn’t with USWNT she is home in the UK playing for Arsenal. 

Panic and concern etched across her face, as she sprinted towards Y/N's car. Reaching the damaged vehicle, she instantly saw y/n out cold. Reaching for the door handle, it wouldn’t budge. “Fuck! Guys it’s y/n. We need the jaws of life to remove the door and maybe even windshield for more access.” Travis went to grab it as Warren and Andy came with the med bag as they were on Aid car 19. “Y/n, I’m not sure if you can hear me but I need you to try to open your eyes. It’s Maya. You are going to be okay.”

Maya makes the decision to break the backseat window and enter through there before crawling front to the passenger seat. Andy did the same but remained behind y/n as she helped stabilize her neck with a c-collar after Maya checked for a pulse. 

With all the hands touching her, y/n started to stir awake, moaning in pain. “Shhh. Y/n, it’s going to be okay, just try to remain still for us.”

Hearing the familiar voice, y/n turned her head as much as possible with the collar on to the source. “Cap…” She whispered.

“Hey there, kiddo. You took quite a big hit. Andy and I are in the car with you. Can you tell me if you are in pain and where?” Maya scans over y/n as y/n thinks the question through. 

“Um. My head is pounding and the light makes it worse. Chest might be bruised… Maya…” y/n’s facial expression changes into a panicked one. 

“Y/n, what’s wrong?... Y/n talk to me…”

“...legs… I- I can’t feel my legs. Maya- no no…” Y/n begins to spiral as realization hits her. 

“Y/n, I need you to listen to me and breathe. We will figure it out but don’t focus on that right now. I need you to get your breathing under control.”

Warren assisted Travis in preparing the jaws of life while Maya focused on Y/N's immediate needs. Andy opened the med bag, retrieving equipment to monitor vital signs. 

"Y/N, I need you to stay with me. Andy's going to monitor your vital signs, and we'll make sure you're as comfortable as possible," Maya explained, her voice a steady presence in the chaos. “Nice deep breaths.”

Andy secured an IV line, administering fluids to address potential shock. Maya continued to assess Y/N's chest and abdomen, searching for any signs of internal injuries. 

"Good job, Andy. Let's keep an eye on those vitals. Y/N, I need you to let me know if anything feels off or if the pain increases," Maya directed, her focus unwavering. “Y/n pay attention to me. Eyes on me. We will worry about your legs when we pull you out.”

“Cap, my legs are everything. You know that.”

“I know, Y/n, I promise I know.” Maya is reminded of how soccer saved Y/N life and helped lift her from her rough past. 

As Maya reassured Y/N, the situation took a dire turn. A faint hissing sound emerged from beneath the wreckage, followed by the acrid smell of gas. Maya's heart sank as she realized the danger they were in.

"Warren, Travis, we've got a gas leak! We need to get Y/N out of here, now!" Maya's voice cut through the chaos, urgency evident in every word. With adrenaline coursing through their veins, the team intensified their efforts.

Travis and Warren redoubled their efforts with the jaws of life, while Andy swiftly prepared Y/N for extraction, mindful of the looming threat of fire. Maya coordinated the rescue operation with precision, her training kicking in as she assessed the risks and devised a plan.

Suddenly, a spark ignited the volatile atmosphere, and flames erupted, engulfing the front of the car. Time seemed to slow as panic surged through the team. Without hesitation, Maya made a split-second decision.

"Grab Y/N, we're getting her out, now!" Maya commanded, her voice unwavering despite the inferno raging around them. With synchronized movements, Andy and Maya carefully lifted Y/N, their actions swift yet deliberate.

“Stop it-it hurts! Maya, stop!” Y/n screamed and cried as her body was hastily carried out of the vehicle. 

“I’m sorry, Y/n but we need to leave now!” Maya screamed over the chaos. As they lifted y/n out and placed her on the stretcher, they ran as Vic and Jack foamed over the gas leak. 

“Leah… I was on a call with Leah before.” Y/n suddenly remembered having her girlfriend on the other end of the line before the crash. 

“Don’t worry, I will call her, right now.” Maya climbed into the back of the ambulance, her eyes never leaving Y/N. "You're doing great, Y/N. We're right here with you," she said, her voice filled with reassurance.

Andy followed suit, bringing the medical bag and equipment into the confined space of the ambulance. Y/N's eyes darted between Maya and Andy, seeking comfort in their familiar faces amidst the uncertainty.

“Speaking of the devil, Leah is facetiming me.” Maya says unlocking her phone but as the ambulance doors closed, Y/N's panic resurfaces. The confined space and the realization of the severity of the situation weighed heavily on her. "Maya, I can't... I can't breathe. It's too much," Y/N gasped, her chest rising and falling rapidly.

Maya quickly grabbed an oxygen mask from the medical bag. "Y/N, slow your breathing. This will help," she said, placing the mask gently over Y/N's face. "Deep breaths. In and out."

“What’s happening? Maya what happened to Y/n?!” Leah yelled through the phone panicked by Y/n’s panic. 

“Y/n look who I have on the phone, wanting to see you.” Maya tries to distract the woman in front of her. Y/n pauses for a second to see her blurred girlfriend on the screen.

“Baby, you’re going to be okay, Maya is with you and I am sure Carina will meet you in the hospital. I’ll be on the next plane over.” Leah reassured y/n. 

“Leahhh,” Y/n cried. “I can’t - can’t feel my legs. I’m so scared.” Leah pauses and a panic look crosses over her eye but she tries to remain as calm as possible. 

“Wait until the doctor’s check you out, it could just be from slight inflammation. Just focus on what Maya says. She is with you and looks like Andy is there too. You are gonna be fine, baby just remain calm.” 

“Leah, we are pulling into the ambulance bay in a minute so I am going to hang up and get her sorted for the medical staff. I’ll call you back as soon as I can.” Maya tells Leah knowing how protective she is of her girlfriend. With that Leah gives another word of love to Y/n before canceling the call. 

“I texted Carina as well, I am not sure if she’s in surgery or not but she’ll come to find us once she sees it.” Maya informs y/n knowing she is able to calm down more when Carina is around. “We are almost there, but it’s going to get chaotic. Just breathe, it’ll be alright.” 

The ambulance pulls up and doors open to reveal Amelia, Bailey, Kepner, Teddy, and Carina. 

“What do we have?” Bailey starts.

“23 year old female in a MVC, airbags deployed, head laceration, possible spinal injury, she says she can’t feel her legs. C-spine precaution taken. Y/n had two panic attacks already and is in pain but no pain meds given as unknown head trauma...” Andy trails off. 

“Alright, trauma 2.”

Y/n is rolled in as everyone takes on a role and several hands are trying to assess her injuries to the full extent. Y/n takes her deep breaths as she reminds herself they are here to help her. 

In the entrance of the room Maya whispers to Carina, “Carina, she said she can’t feel her legs. I tried to stay calm for her but it’s never good. She was freaking out…” 

A loud groan of pain takes them out of their moment as they see they have turned y/n on her side to check her back before placing her back down. Amelia does a head work up and then moves down to y/n’s legs. Carina steps closer to y/n for support as Amelia asks her if she can feel her touching her feet. 

“I can’t feel it.” Amelia moves up the leg and to the knee. “Nothing.” Amelia moves mid-thigh. “I barely feel that.”

“Okay, don’t worry, we will get a CT scan and check you out. Might just be inflammation on the spine that will go away.” Amelia reassured the girl Carina took under her wing. 

“And what if it doesn’t,” Y/n asks the question she knows the answer to. 

“Let’s see what the scans say and we will take it from there.” Amelia places her hand on Y/n’s hand but she pulls away. 

“I’m going to be sick.” With that, y/n turns her body as much as possible and only dry heaves. 

“Bambina, you are stressing yourself out. I know you are worried about playing soccer, hell even walking but one thing at a time. You can’t think of what ifs. I am here now. I will make sure things are in order. Maya and I will be there for you every step of the way. I am going to need you to practice the breathing exercises. I don’t want them to sedate you but if your panic gets in the way…”

“No, no I promise.” Y/n cuts her off and closes her eyes trying to regulate her breathing. The team talks to her about the next steps of imaging and makes her a priority case.

[tare-anime]

“Uuhh…. It won’t come off….”

It’s been almost 30 minutes, and yet the blood won’t come off Yor’s hands. 

She washes and washes and washes. 

The blood is still there.

Under her nails. 

Under the cuticles. 

She has to clean her dirty hands before she touches Anya’s head and tucks her to sleep

She has to clean these dirty hands before she washes Bond’s pristine white fur.

She has to clean these dirty hands before she tries to cook a new dinner recipe from that book Loid’s bought her. 

She has to-...

“Yor, that’s enough.”

Warm hands envelop her trembling one. 

“Ju-... just a bit more and-...”

But that hand turns off the faucet and soon envelops her hands in a soft clean warm towel.

“They are already very clean.” 

Her husband’s warm and calming voice pulls her from the spiraling thought. 

She blinks several times and tries to focus on Loid’s steady taps on her hands. A movement both to dry them at the same time a steady rhythm to guide her breathing. 

And it works. 

It always works. 

Taking several shuddering breaths, Yor finally lifts her face and looks at her husband’s face. 

His brows are furrowed when he concentrates on dabbing antiseptics to the scrapes littered her hands. 

“I’m sorry.” She is so ashamed. “They are dirty.”

“No, they are not.” Loid’s voice is so benevolent. “They do what they had to do: to raise a boy into a fine man, to keep a child feel safe, to caress a dog to his content, to cook a wonderful meal for a family, and to be the home of a wounded, tired soul of a man.”

Her husband brings her hands close to his mouth and places a kiss on her fingers. “These hands are the hands of the most amazing woman I’ve ever met.”

Yor blinks hard to keep the tears from falling. 

When she feels her husband's hand enveloping her own, she takes a good look at them. 

His hands are bigger than hers. 

Equally calloused. 

Equally bloody. 

And yet, his hands are warm. 

Strong. 

Steady. 

Safe. 

She feels his tugs. “Let’s go home. I’ll prepare a good bath.”

She manages a watery smile. “Okay.”

--------------

Ramblings:

My entry for day 2 of Yor-week: Hands (AO3) @twiyorbase

I've always love "Hand" themed story for Yor. My favorite stories are "Bad Omen" by @buf309 and this chapter of "Once More with Feelings" by @sometimesiship

Gosh. Both really left me on the floor sobbing. No matter how many times I reread them 😭😭😭

And of course, the panels from Endo's own work

Please let Yor get all the recognition she deserves 😭😭😭😭

[thebibliosphere]

This is your gentle ADHD/whatever flavor of neurodivergent you are to check your surroundings for possible visual stressors that might be causing you background distress.

I've spent the past week trapped in a "too stressed to write/work" cycle where every time I sat down at my desk to do something, I'd fall into an anxiety spiral. I was becoming so avoidant of the situation I made a "joking" post about having done a lot of labor-intensive chores just to avoid writing. And while brains sometimes need time to procrastinate as part of the rest/creative process, in this instance, it wasn't productive but distressing procrastination.

I could still write in bed or on my phone, but the work I needed to get done required me to be at my desk, so today, I sat down and really looked at my surroundings to see what was causing the dysfunction.

Was it the unpaid water bill I'd left in my line of sight so I wouldn't forget about it? My diary left open with several important dates, creating an impending sense of doom due to the spiral I was already in? Was it the journal I used for therapy sitting open? Was it the bag of chips/water bottle/mug/my ring splints/mobility aids/my meds sitting out/the two books I need to read this month/Holly's toys just visible in my line of sight??

The answer was likely all of the above. Individually, these things might not cause much background noise, but when you suffer from visual exhaustion, any minor mess can become part of a greater background radiation that seeps into your visual awareness and adds visual stress to your already limited capacity for processing.

So, what do I do about it? Do I take my time to sort everything out, use up more vital energy on dealing with the mess, and still risk not getting any writing done?

Nope. I prioritized paying the bill, and everything else got swept into a handy basket and moved to the threshold to be dealt with later. That way, things that belong in other rooms can be returned next time I take a trip around the house to get water/go to the bathroom/see whatever the Mop is up to. This is the system I use in every room to keep on top of my ADHD and reduce the amount of background stress caused by clutter. It might not work for your flavor of brain, but I'm throwing it out there (again) in case it helps someone else.

And now that I've done some helpful procrastination by writing this post at my desk, I've got the gears turning, and I'm ready to work. Success! See you all in a couple of hours when I surface from making my blorbos kiss.

[darlingdekarios]

bending to the honeysuckles.

rating: explicit. 18+ only. length: 17,216 content: William "Ironhead" Miller x f!reader, reader has a prior drug addiction, drug addiction recovery, drug rehab, mentions of past abuse in a relationship, pining, fluff, Will is a simp, smut [oral, unprotected p in v]

while you insist you don't want a relationship, Will Miller falls for you like it's his destiny to do so. he's willing to meet you where you are while he waits for you to let him love you.

Life had been hell for Frankie Morales since he’d returned from Colombia. While he was able to keep decent control of himself for the first couple of weeks, the things he’d done caught up to him – they always did. He’d retreated into himself, away from his friends and into the confines of his house, numbing his feelings with whatever he could. At first, it was several beers every day, and when that wasn’t enough it was liquor. When the liquor wasn’t enough, he’d remembered what could truly help him – cocaine – and it had all just sort of spiraled from there. 

Three months after his return home Frankie staggered into his birthday dinner with dilated pupils, a running nose and an air of confidence only to be met with an intervention from Pope, Benny, and Ironhead. The reminder of how pathetically few people cared about him stung initially, but he quickly remembered he deserved even less than that. He found himself in a rehabilitation program then, spending the next 90-days of his life with far-too-nice people trying to help him get his shit together. 

As he expected, Santiago had taken up residence in his spare bedroom in Frankie’s absence, deciding to stick around in the states to ensure his best friend actually recovered this time, found a career for himself, and didn’t lose his house. He’d started attending a group session for recovering cocaine addicts the same week, and that was where he’d met you. 

You were at least a decade younger, quiet until you were directly spoken to, and sarcastic and quick when it was your turn to talk. The message deciphered from your introduction of yourself was that you had just moved to take over your grandfather’s company, you were coming up on six years of sobriety, and you did not like to be around people. His second meeting, a week later and your six months of sobriety, you’d approached him at the end of the meeting to propose being his sponsor. 

The two of you had been friends since. Wednesday nights you met for dinner before you made your way to group together, and Sunday nights you had a quick phone call to check-in with one another. As much as it helped Frankie to have someone outside of the Delta Force to understand his situation – that he trusted to understand him – it helped you just the same. You had moved to the area a month ago and finding people tolerable was difficult. He quickly became your closest friend, and he was more than happy to introduce you to the other people in his life. 

When Will had first suggested coming along to group with Frankie to offer some support, it was a surprise when the older man agreed and mentioned you immediately, almost proud to have someone to introduce to the man he looked up to so much. You’d agreed it was fine to skip dinner that week so Frankie could come along with Will, almost relieved for the extra time alone between work and group. It gave you a chance to shower and change into something a little better than your pink work overalls, ready to meet the first additional person in Frankie’s life. 

Frankie walked in much later than he normally would, and while you would normally jokingly call to him from across the room for cutting it close, you lost whatever wit you’d planned on using when your eyes landed on the gorgeous blonde following behind your friend. When Frankie spotted you he raised a hand to wave, which you returned feebly, eyes a little too focused on the newcomer. 

“We’re cutting it close, I know,” Frankie breathed when he approached you, your senses suddenly returning and forcing you to your feet in politeness. “This is Will. Will, this is my friend I’ve been telling you about.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if you were late for your own birth, Frankie,” you greeted him with a quick hug, fixing your eyes on Will with a smile as you mentally swooned under the gaze of his blue eyes. “Nice to meet you, Will.”

William Miller did not get distracted.

When he had a responsibility – a job to complete – Will was laser-focused, in-control, and driven. Whether he was in an active combat zone or giving a speech to a group of veterans trying to rejoin society, he was always able to stay on the task at hand until he’d completed it – until he’d excelled at it. Tonight, his task was to support his friend, his brother, Frankie – and tonight was the first time in months he felt he’d truly failed at his task. 

He couldn’t pull his attention away from you for the next two hours. No matter who was talking, even Frankie, Will found his eyes glancing to you, eager to see your reactions and expressions and your body language. On one particularly long-winded monologue from a woman about how she had just tried cocaine for fun, and it ended up ruining her marriage (she cheated on her husband, that’s what really ruined the marriage), you rolled your eyes in Will’s direction while mouthing:

“Are you having fun yet?” Will nearly laughed at the question but opted to respond with a much more situationally appropriate light smile and subtle thumbs up. Your eyes flashed with mischief as you mouthed again. “Liar.”

He couldn’t get you out of his head after that meeting and found himself asking Frankie if he could go with him again the next week, and again, and soon enough he was a regular supporter of the meeting, showing up early to set up snacks and coffee and keeping track of the sign-in sheet. Each time he found himself falling more and more into whatever trap you’d seemingly laid out just for him, and even though he really didn’t get the chance to talk with you much, his interest was sparked enough to want to get to know you more. It was after the fourth meeting he’d joined that he lingered in the parking lot with you even after Frankie had left. 

That was the night he’d begun to understand the depth of his fascination with you. Sitting in his trunk bed drinking bottles of water Will permanently kept in his backseat he marveled in you as you opened up to him and showed him who you were…at least as much as you were willing to share. As much as he hung on your every word, you did the same for him, unable to look away from his face as he spoke and enamored by the things he told you about himself. 

“I like hanging out in parking lots with you, Will Miller,” you’d complimented, eyes sparkling under the full moon’s light. “You’re good company.”

“Yeah, we should do it again sometime,” came his reply before he could stop it. Reaching to scratch the back of his neck, he opted to continue – there was no going back now. “Maybe the parking lot of a restaurant…after dinner?”

You felt your cheeks burn immediately and, even more embarrassing, the smile that spread across your face like the sun breaking through clouds on a stormy day. All too soon, though, the clouds returned, the melancholy filling your voice. “I’d love to say yes but I…can’t. I’m not looking for anything serious right now with…well, everything. And I don’t want to give you the wrong idea.”

While it wasn’t the reason you’d given, on your drive home you had to think about the fact that Will Miller deserved far more than a recovering addict who was just figuring out how to really take care of herself. If you had only seen his thoughts on his own drive, about how long he’d wait until you were ready, you may have turned around and given into him. 

Things settled a bit over the coming weeks. You offered Frankie a job helping you out with jarring the honey and making local deliveries for you, which he’d been happy to accept in the meantime until he could get his license back. It was nice to have him around – he was often the one to remind you to take a moment to hydrate, but he never bothered you while you worked. He even took it upon himself to make some minor repairs to your barn in some of his spare time. Another month had passed faster than you could believe, the time filled with settling into your business and spending time with Frankie and his best friend, Santiago. 

Frankie had offered many times – at least once per week – for you to join them for drinks, or dinner, or at the beach. You’d refused every offer, unwilling to face Will again for fear of your wavering resolve. But this week, a Friday, it was different when Frankie asked you to join them before he headed out in the morning to spend his day making deliveries. The loneliness was finally catching up to you, and you figured some time out with other people would serve you well. Plus, despite the bickering you and Santi often found yourselves in, you knew Frankie surrounded himself with good people, and you could trust spending time with them. You agreed to let him pick you up at 7:30, and he agreed with a nod and a smile. Even if you had a miserable time, at least going would ensure Frankie’s happiness for the night.

By the time Frankie’s shitty truck had pulled into the driveway of the old farmhouse you now found yourself living in, you were moments away from sending a text that said you’d changed your mind, the nerves of your horrible day making you dread an unfamiliar place. As you pulled a jacket on and locked the door behind you a sigh released from your lips before you began to make your way to him. While you were finalizing your mental argument about whether it was too late to cancel you saw Frankie’s face peering out of the driver’s side window, an earnest smile on his lips. He was unrelentingly kind and made the decision you faced easy – there was no way you could cancel on Frankie Morales and sleep at night.

“Hiya, Crankie,” you greeted as you climbed into the front seat, rolling the window down before you’d buckled yourself in. Your use of the nickname you’d bestowed upon Frankie made the man shake his head, a quiet laugh sounding as he began the drive.

“Hi, abejita,” came his usual reply, glancing out of the corner of his eye to take in more of your expression. You’d obviously tried to get in the mood to go out, but the tired expression was one Frankie recognized – you probably just wanted to be alone tonight, and yet you were still seated next to him. “Didn’t sleep well last night?”

Of course he knew – he always did. The two of you had spent the last few months bonding over a similar addiction background, and it was nice to have someone that truly understood you. There were no niceties with you and Frankie, and it was the reason the two of you had become such close friends.

“Oh, you know me, Francisco…’I’ll sleep when I’m dead,’ yada yada yad,” you turned your head toward him, offering a falsely reassuring smile. “What’s your excuse? I swear there’s at least five more greys in your hair.”

“I only counted three this morning,” he matched your taunting, chuckling softly at your joking. 

“Yeah, well, I’ve told you that you need glasses, and this just proves my point,” you joked, rolling your head back the other way to rest it on the cool glass of the window. “I probably shouldn’t even let you drive me around…talk about self-destructive behaviors.” 

He laughed again and the comfortable silence set in, the rest of the drive to he and his friends’ chosen bar passing with light conversation about your days, and both of you agreeing to keep one another to the one drink maximum you’d set. Frankie thanked you for deciding to come with him, and it was a sincere show of appreciation – having someone unbiased and understanding of his situation there to support his recovery was important. And, truthfully – he was helping yours just as much. 

Plus, there was the promise of seeing Will again. While it was annoying, it was also impossible to admit that the mere thought of seeing his pale blue eyes again in the flesh caused your stomach to fill with butterflies. It was ridiculous – you’d meant what you said when he’d asked you out a month ago, you didn’t want to pursue anyone or be pursued right now. That didn’t stop you from thinking about his sparkling blue eyes, or the lines of his smile, or how he’d looked at you like you were the only thing he wanted to look at. You wanted to see him, and could only hope, maybe cruelly, that he wanted to see you as well. 

“What are you over there thinking about, abejita?” Frankie pulled you back to reality with a quiet voice as you pulled into the bar parking lot, glancing over at you briefly. “You didn’t complain about my driving at all.”

You smiled and shook your head, unwilling to admit to Frankie you’d been thinking about one of his best friends – one of his brothers. The question of whether Will had told them about asking you out flashed through your mind, and fortunately Frankie shifting his truck into park gave you a feasible reason to not answer his questioning. “Let’s go do this. And remember, if someone offers you cocaine in the bathroom…just say no.”

Frankie laughed in bewilderment nearly the entire way into the bar, a bright smile still spread across his face when the two of you made your way through the door. The sounds of Metallica from the jukebox confirmed Santiago was there before your eyes even landed on the mess of grey and black atop his head, drifting over to the golden locks of Benny Miller with his girlfriend sat beside him. As you walked toward their table you released a sigh of relief, though at the same time your stomach knotted in disappointment – no Will. 

After your hellos and introduction to Benny’s girlfriend, Frankie excused himself to grab both of you a soda from the bar to start with – it was refreshing to see that this group didn’t even bat an eye at the two of you not ordering alcohol, and you had to mentally commend Frankie for his taste in company. Leaning on the counter height table with an elbow you met Santiago’s lingering gaze. 

“You better not be standing to do what I think you’re going to do,” he warned, his words met with a mischievous smile from you. His arms crossed over his chest, eyes narrowing at your body language. 

“Oh, I’m definitely standing to do what you think I’m going to do,” you taunted, sticking out your leg slightly to block him into the booth. “And you are just going to have to deal with it, Santiago.”

His hand twitched toward the glass of dark liquid in front of him, taking a sip as his eyes stayed on yours. You offered another smile, lazily drumming your fingernails on the table beneath you. Benny’s voice interrupted the stare down, both of you turning to look at him. “I’m sorry, what is happening here?”

“I refuse to subject the people of this bar to Santiago’s Greatest Hits playlist all night. I’m picking the next song,” you replied, offering another smile to the man you were blocking in the booth. Benny was the first laugh you heard, but from behind you another laugh rumbled – and Frankie still hadn’t returned from the bar. 

“Nice to see someone keeping Pope in his place,” the older Miller brother commented from behind you, immediately sending a chill up your spine and a rush of heat to your cheeks. Forgetting to leave your leg planted you turned to greet him with a smile, eyes brighter than they should be for someone who’d turned him down a month earlier. He didn’t care to hide the smile he offered you back. “Sorry I’m late. Got a little hung up at work, hope I didn’t miss anything.”

Your willingness to spar faltered, and all you could manage under his gaze was a nod, your bottom lip pulling between your teeth. He turned to greet Benny, who had stood, with a hug before saying a quick hello to Danielle and offering her a gentle hug. Even Santiago got a quick version of a hug. You tried to ignore the jealousy that twisted your stomach. 

“You were just about to miss the musical showdown of the century,” Benny remarked, planting himself back into the booth with an arm around Dani’s shoulders. “Someone is finally standing up to Santiago’s musical monopoly.”

“Just because you people don’t know how to appreciate the American classics,” Santiago began, ready to fling himself into a grandiose monologue before Benny beat you to the punch, entering an argument with the older man about the definition of “classics”. You took that as your sign to exit to the juke box, unnoticed by Santi, but not unnoticed altogether – William had followed closely behind you. 

“Are you my escort for the evening, Mr. Miller?” you questioned, attempting a playful tone to cover the nerves you felt around him. “I don’t think I’d get lost on the way to show up Santiago. There’s too much at stake.”

Another laugh rumbled in his chest – it was nice to make someone laugh as much as you made him. “The buttons on that old thing stick sometimes, and I wanna make sure you can use it.”

You couldn’t help but smile a little slowing down your steps to join at his side and glancing up at him as you walked. He had to mentally remind himself not to wrap an arm around you, no matter how badly he wanted to. “You know, helping me figure out the machine makes you an accomplice. I wonder how Santiago will feel about your mutiny.”

“Probably about the same way he feels about most things.”

“Forlorn and personally affronted?”

He laughed again in response, siding up to the juke box with you. He allowed you a moment to get your bearings on the machine, and though you likely quickly realized his white lie about the buttons sticking, you didn’t call him on it. “I was happy when Fish said you were coming out,” he admitted, leaning on the machine on his side next to you. When you broke concentration to meet his gaze briefly, he had to remind himself to breathe. 

“I almost cancelled. Had a bad day at work and didn’t want to look miserable and stupid,” you replied with a shrug, returning your focus to the juke box and flipping through albums. What Will wanted to do was sit down somewhere quiet with you and talk to you about your day, to listen to whatever complaints you wanted to hurl to a listening ear – but it wasn’t the time or place. He lowered his voice as Santiago’s previous choice finished up. 

“Miserable may be one of the last words I’d use to describe how you look,” he drawled, removing his appreciative glance from you to focus on what album you’d sought out. He felt you glance upward at him and could swear he heard the quick catch of your breath. 

“You’re very distracting,” you joked, eager to break this tension. You pulled your bottom lip between your teeth slightly in an attempt to stifle the smile that was threatening to break under his attention, but it was to no avail – your burning cheeks gave away the fluttering in your stomach enough. “It’s impossible to put Santiago to shame when I can’t focus on this very important song decision.”

He hummed in understanding, nodding his head as he fixed his eyes on you again. Gazing up into the blue pools that waited expectantly you were met with a slightly raised eyebrow. It was infuriating how he managed to look effortlessly flawless. “Should I go back to the table and leave you to it, then?”

“No,” came an embarrassingly immediate reply. “No, just…shut up. Stand there and…keep…looking like a fucking magazine cover, but shut up.”

Will smiled first, a rumbling laughter sounding in his chest. It was impossible not to smile at the laugh you’d pulled from him, eyes taking in the lines of his smile at the corners of his mouth and own eyes. You felt the pull at your heart and had to swallow down the feelings building in your chest, forcing yourself to look back at the juke box – though the smile he’d earned lingered as well. He wanted to reach out to touch you in the short summer dress you’d worn, to hold you closer to him with a hand on your hip – but it wasn’t his place to do so.

Once you’d queued up your song choice you made your way back to the table with Will, glad to see Frankie had returned with a lemonade for you. When you slid into the booth you were delighted to have Will slide up next to you, the warmth continuing to pool from him. As he moved in a little closer, perhaps, than he needed to your song choice began to play over the speakers.

“No way she’s embarrassing you with Donovan right now, Pope!” Benny called, his laughter loud over the music. You smiled a victorious smile across the table at him, eyes bright now that you had confirmation at least one other person at the table agreed with you. 

“She thought really hard about her decision,” Will added, taking a drink of the bottled beer sat in front of him. You nudged him with your elbow lightly adding in a playful eye roll. 

“I took my duty serious,” you explained before turning your attention back to Benny. “At least someone in this group has good taste. Sometimes Frankie’s music is shit, too.”

“Hey now,” the named man intervened, offering a raspy laugh at your call-out. 

“You could try to tell me I’m wrong, but you haven’t reached six months of sobriety yet and your opinions are, understandably, questionable,” you joked, giving him a playful nudge to communicate you were joking if it wasn’t clear. 

“So, you have Frankie working down at the…is it called a bee farm?” Benny questioned, pulling Dani in closer to plant a kiss to the top of her head. In the far end of the booth Santiago rolled his eyes, scoffing out a laugh as Frankie nodded.

“Yeah, I took over the business…about five months ago now. It was my grandfather’s, and he passed away,” you explained, taking a drink of your lemonade and wishing you’d had Frankie get you something stronger to get you through the questioning. “I was looking to move, anyway so it…kind of worked out, though I’m not sure my grandpa would appreciate that phrasing.”

Will loved how easy it was for you to find your place in the group. 

“Where’d you move from?” Dani questioned, sipping on her hard seltzer to savor it. “I don’t hear an accent, really.”

“Middle of nowhere Montana,” you answered, anticipating the next question. Might as well answer it before someone asked. “I’d been in a relationship but…well, it wasn’t a good one. I left him earlier this year and ended up in a rehab program for cocaine addiction. When I got out…I had a couple of months in sanctioned housing, but I needed a change of scenery. It wasn’t long after that the family lawyer called to say the farm and business were passed to me in the will.”

Will caught the way you chose your words carefully as you spoke about your relationship, noticing how your voice had a slight shake to them. The possibilities of your cryptic words tore into him, festering in quiet anger as he ran through what that could mean. It was possible you’d simply been incompatible, perhaps fighting frequently. It was possible he’d broken your heart by being unfaithful. Or, and Will seriously hoped this wasn’t the case, it was possible your ex had been abusive toward you. The thought made him dig his fingers into the table’s edge.

As he allowed the thoughts to consume him for longer than he’d intended the conversation carried on, Benny beginning to understand why his friends had spent the last few weeks talking up this woman. His thoughts were broken by Santiago slapping his fist to the table quickly. 

“Let’s play a round of darts. Winner picks the next five songs. Loser deals with it,” he offered, reaching upward to run his fingers through his hair. With a shrug you finished your lemonade, offering a mischievous smile once again.

“Let me drag up a chair for you to sit in while we play so your knees don’t give out with all that standing, peepaw,” you joked, pulling a round of laughter from everyone at the table except for Santiago, of course, and none louder than Will. The latter took his cue to stand and let you make your way across the bar with Santiago, bickering back and forth as you went. His gaze lingered far too long to go unnoticed. 

“I know our mom taught us that it’s rude to stare, Will,” Benny chimed in first, throwing back the remainder of the whiskey in his glass. Will returned his attention to the men and woman still at the table, reaching to scratch the back of his head as he searched for an answer. 

“Just trying to hear her give Santiago a piece of her mind,” he attempted a cover, reaching again for his beer and swallowing a large drink. He immediately felt the familiar twist of guilt knot his stomach for his white lie. 

“Bullshit,” came Frankie’s retort, a scoffed laugh pulled from his chest. Admirably, only a water sat in front of him still. Benny nodded his head in agreement, and even Danielle raised her eyebrow at the blonde man’s lie. 

“You’re into her,” Benny concluded, setting his empty glass on the table. There was no point in trying to cover himself, and even if there was…it wasn’t in his nature to lie to his family.

“I’ve been into her since I met her,” Will conceded, directing another longing gaze in your direction. You stood with your arms crossed, the smirk on your lips evident even from the side as you watched Santiago struggle to take the perfect aim – his eyes weren’t what they used to be. He saw your mouth move and the glare Pope shot your way, and he wished he could hear what you’d chosen to taunt him with. “I asked her to dinner. A month ago,” he began, taking another drink. “Said she’d love to say yes, but turned me down anyway. Said she didn’t want anything serious right now.”

The genuine disappointment in his eyes had Frankie and Benny sharing a look – it had been a long time since Will Miller had acted so bent out of shape over a woman. 

“It’s a recovery thing,” Frankie offered some comfort, reaching to pat his back carefully. “She’s afraid if she doesn’t get far enough and the two of you don’t make it, the disappointment will make her relapse. At least…that’s what I’d think.”

“You should have seen her face when she realized you were behind her,” Benny added. “That’s not a woman who wants to turn you down.”

“I’m going to wait for her until she’s ready,” Will sighed, pulling his eyes away from you to look at his brother. “I don’t care if that sounds stupid, or desperate. I’m gonna wait.”

On the other side of the bar, you’d tied with Santiago and split the next five song choices – two from you, one decided together, and two from him. While he made his individual choices after you, you made your way to the bar to order yourself another lemonade to take back to the table. It was while you stood there waiting that a man decided to bother you, standing far too close and making incredibly lewd offers that no one wanted to hear from a stranger. 

“Why don’t you come on back to my table with me and my friends? We’ll show ya a nice time, darlin’,” he drawled, moving closer to run a hand down your arm. “Pretty thing like you needs something stronger than a lemonade, and a strong man to show you a good time.”

“Thanks, but no thanks,” you replied, taking a step back which he chased with a step forward. 

“’fraid I don’t take no for an answer, little lady,” he retorted, reaching to grab your arm and pull you closer to him. “You won’t regret it when I have you in my bed later, I can promise you that.”

A large, flattened hand on the back of the man’s neck cut his sentence off before more vulgarities could come through his lips. From behind the man, William Miller kept his icy gaze on your face, searching for any sign of true distress. When he saw the slight quiver to your lip his grasp on the man noticeably tightened, fingers digging into the sides of his neck. 

“Let go of her arm,” he ordered, his tone free of any room for argument. It was a tone you’d not heard yet from him, and one you felt bad for anyone that was on the receiving end. The man’s sweaty hand released your arm, the red mark from his tight hold prompting Will’s jaw to tick briefly, a deep breath releasing from flared nostrils. “I should kick your ass for that, but that would ruin our night. Instead, I’m going to give you the opportunity to apologize.”

His eyes were burning into yours, yet he still didn’t miss the man’s attempt to turn and land a punch on his jaw. Catching the incoming fist with his free hand he pushed the man’s head downward, forcing it to the bar top as he twisted his arm behind him. Shifting his intense eyes to look at the back of the man’s head he shook his head, taking hold of the man’s hair to twist his face to look at you. If he was angry before, he was irate now – but he was controlling himself for your benefit. The man’s nose was unbroken but bleeding, and he spit blood onto the bar as he began to beg. “Look, man, we were just having fun…just let me go and she’s all yours.”

“It doesn’t look like she was having fun,” Will corrected, his grasp unfaltering. “I’ll give you one more chance to apologize to her.”

“I’m…I’m sorry, okay? I’ll leave, just let me go, man,” the man begged, breathing shaky and anxious as he feared the wrath of the man behind him. Will used his remaining grasp to lift the man straight upward again, pushing him toward the door with disdain. 

“You should walk off this mood you’ve got yourself in,” Will began, moving to stand closer to you but keeping his eyes on the staggering man now. As the man made his way toward the door, Will left him with another parting threat. “If I see you back in this bar it won’t be good for you.”

Subconsciously William slipped an arm around your waist, turning you to face him as his other hand reached to lift your arm gently. The handprint around your wrist was now bruising lightly – barely there – but it was too visible for Will. His eyebrows pulled together in frustration, trying to steady his breathing and heart rate so he could ask you if you were okay. You beat him to the punch. 

“Shhh,” you soothed, removing your arm from his hold and placing your hand on his bicep gently. Your eyes met his again, releasing a shaky breath once you realized how close he held you to him. Chests pressed firmly together you could feel the rapid beat to his heart and his fight for a normal breath – he needed to calm down, and Will being calm was far more important to you than a bruise. It’s not like this was the first one in your life. “I’m okay, Will. I’ve had worse from bumping into the coffee table, it’s alright. Breathe with me.”

Storms darkened his eyes, his hands grasping at your sides now as his chest gave a solid heave. Brushing your thumb against his arm you reached your other hand to rest against his cheek. You pulled him backward with you toward the quiet hallway by the bathrooms, offering a gentle smile once you were alone. Drawing in a deep breath as your eyes remained locked on his you gave his arm a light squeeze, encouraging him to pay attention to you – only you, not on following the guy outside and knocking his teeth out. 

He could follow orders, though – that was something that no situation could turn off in him – and he soon began to mirror your deep breaths, hands still clutching you to him. By the time he’d released his fifth deep breath his mind was less clouded with anger, but that didn’t mean it was clear. If anything, it was even more clouded, but now it was clouded with you. You’d never been this close to him. He’d never felt the way his fingers could dig delicately into your skin. He’d never felt your chest pressed to his. 

He’d never been only inches away from claiming your lips with his – and that’s exactly what he did as the adrenaline rushed through him. Grasping your hips tighter he anchored you against him, his lips soft and rough as you stood frozen, a quiet gasp slipping through your lips in shock. The quiet sound brought Will back to his senses, immediately pulling away from the kiss with a shock-laced look of horror on his face. 

“I’m…so sorry,” he began, though he still hadn’t released his hold on your hips, his eyes transfixed on yours. The concern behind his eyes was unmistakable – he was terrified of how badly he’d just messed things up with you – and yet that didn’t stop his cheeks from darkening slightly, or his tongue from running over his bottom lip briefly for another desperate taste of you. “I shouldn’t have – mmph.”

Your hungry lips cut off his words quickly as you grasped at his bicep, the hand you held against his cheek sliding to the back of his head to hold him closer. He returned your kiss like it was something he’d been waiting to do for years, his hands sliding to rest on your lower back and pull you into him completely. A pleasant sigh slipped through your lips as he ran his tongue across the seam, granting him access to explore your mouth. When he’d kissed you breathless, he withdrew from your lips, his own curving into a smile as he bumped his nose against yours lightly. Leaning his forehead to rest against yours he took in a deep breath, savoring the moment he'd fantasized over for weeks.

“I still don’t want anything serious,” you whispered, eyebrows pulling together in frustration at so many things, none of which were Will’s fault, all of which fell on you and your past. ‘Live in the moment!’ a voice screamed in the back of your head, begging you to see that the man in front of you was a direct pathway to happiness. You’d silenced that optimistic part of you long ago. “I’m sorry I just…don’t. I can’t.”

“Sh,” he cooed, sliding one of his hands to rest on the top of your back to hold you closer. He bumped his nose against yours again lightly, pressing a gentle kiss to the corner of your mouth before looking deep into your eyes. “I know. I don’t care.”

Your teeth bit into your bottom lip lightly, a sign you were nervous and uncertain. “It’s not fair to you.”

“I don’t care.”

“I can’t even promise…what this would look like, Will.”

He shushed you again, shaking his head before he rested his forehead against yours again. “I will take whatever you want to give me for as many days as you want to give it.”

He’d followed through on his word throughout the weeks that followed, thankful that he had turned out to be a very patient man. Even with the generally negative outlook on life you maintained, always finding a fault in every situation – you couldn’t find one with Will. Yes, it was adorable that he’d show up at the farm during lunch to see you, wanting nothing more than to simply see you in “work mode” and to kiss you as he ran a thumb across your cheek to wipe the dirt away.

Frankie didn’t mind at all that you’d started up this…whatever it was with Will. He enjoyed the fact that both of you were happy, and he wouldn’t complain about the lunches Will dropped off when he visited. Frankie wasn’t the only one in the group to know about the time you spent with Will, of course – Will didn’t believe in keeping secrets between the four of them. 

You’d joined them for nights out a couple of times since but remained purely friendly with Will while in the view of others. The car rides home were when he would kiss you breathless in your driveway, holding you close, greedy for every moment you offered him. Things had never escalated past heavy kissing and touching, and that was comfortable – you still felt you could quit him any time you needed to, and it was safer that way. 

It was Frankie that had asked you to take a Saturday off with him to spend time with them at the beach before the weather started cooling off a bit for the winter. You weren’t really one for the beach, not having lived anywhere near the ocean or going into the ocean much for most of your life, but Frankie’s pleading brown eyes won you over. It would be cruel to leave Dani alone with the men, anyway. When you’d walked onto the beach with Frankie that Saturday afternoon, Will thought his heart was going to burst from his chest. You and Frankie had elected to keep your presence a surprise, which worked in your favor as he smiled the brightest smile he’d offered you yet as you made your way over to their umbrellas, chairs and towels. 

“You didn’t tell me you were coming,” he greeted, unable to help himself from hugging you. His voice was teasing as he continued. “You know I don’t like secrets.”

“Oh, well I’m full of ‘em,” you smiled, wrapping your arms around him and tilting your head to look into his face. “Like…I actually assassinated JFK, and I helped fake the moon landing. I admit it. All me.”

He smiled at your joke and allowed a soft laugh to leave his chest, shaking his head slightly as he released you before the hug lingered too long for your comfort. “I wish I’d known you were coming; I could’ve grabbed some lemonade for you. I’ve got water in the cooler, though, and I’ve always got a pack of those cashews that you like in in my truck.”

You nudged his arm lightly with your shoulder, cheeks turning red under his thoughtfulness and sweet intentions with you. Before you could thank him, Benny had joined up with you, picking you up in a crushing hug as Danielle said hello from behind. Will had never really envied his brother until he got to witness your effortless acceptance of him, and the way Benny could hug you however he wanted. 

“Benny, Jesus, you’re going to crack one of my ribs, you behemoth,” you laughed, gasping for air through his hug as you attempted to wiggle free. Benny placed you gently back on the ground and offered a wide grin, immediately draping his shoulder back around Dani who rested her head on him gently. “Hope you guys don’t mind Frankie bringing me along. I couldn’t leave Dani alone around all you men all day.”

“And that is so appreciated,” the named woman replied, here signature sincere smile on her face. “I am going to work on catching up with Benny’s annoying natural tanning abilities, if you want to sit with me. You don’t seem much of a ‘get in the ocean’ kinda gal.”

You did sit on the beach for most of the day with the woman, getting to know one another more deeply, your conversations free of the hindrance of men being present as the group of four gallivanted about the shore and in the waves. Every so often, Benny would yell a quick “hi, baby!” from the water, causing Dani to smile, roll her eyes and wave, a small laugh falling from her lips. It was well past 4 p.m. and the seventh time he’d done it when she gave a different reply.

“He’s an idiot!” she yelled back, her voice full of laughter and love for the man she’d spent just less than a year with now. She quieted her voice back before she added to you. “I knew that when I agreed to date him, though. I can’t complain.”

“You’re perfect for one another,” you asserted, watching as Benny smiled and blew her a kiss before returning to the group. Your eyes wandered, briefly, only to confirm Will had stopped in his tracks to gaze at you, too. Danielle wasn’t the only one with attention focused on her today. Several times now Will had reminded you – gently but firmly – to reapply sunscreen and drink water. As the men set to work on building a fire, he had called to you again to remind you about the water, pulling a quiet giggle from Danielle.

“That’s five times for that one, then,” she counted aloud, watching as you grabbed the water from beside you to take a large drink. “Benny and I aren’t the only ones perfect for one another. That man loves you, you know.”

You felt the heat in your cheeks and knew they must be several shades darker. You finished the bottle of water and released a deep breath before you chose your words, not wanting to be taken off-guard and say something stupid. “He doesn’t…love me. We just…we get along well.”

“He loves you, and no amount of self-deprecating denial from you is going to change that,” she remarked, taking another drink of one of several hard seltzers she’d had that day. You knew those things barely contained alcohol, but you also had to wonder if it was contributing to her willingness to be so open. “You should let him.”

“I should let him what?” you questioned, feeling the answer in your stomach before she spoke it. 

“Love you. You should let him love you,” she replied, rolling her eyes with a soft laugh. “He seems pretty good at it.”

As you pulled your bottom lip between your teeth you turned your face away from her, noticing that the other half of this conversation’s topic had found his way back into the water alone. Finally cracking under the pressure you felt to be alone with him for even a minute you decided the ocean couldn’t be that bad, really, and made your way to the chilling water. You really didn’t want to find your way into the ocean, but if it meant time with Will, so be it.

You’d almost made your way to him when something touched your leg, sending you into an immediate panic as you made your way to him, essentially launching yourself into his arms as you screamed his name. William immediately cradled you against him, smiling down at you with an all-too amused smile.

“I’ve got you; I’ve got you,” he cooed, raising a thumbs up to the shore so no one worried after your scream before he brought that arm to hold you as well. “What’s the matter?”

“Something touched my foot,” you whined, unused to being in the ocean like this. The chuckle that rumbled through him shook his chest, his reminders to reapply sunscreen not influencing him – he’d gotten some color on his cheeks and nose. Even in your distraught state, it was impossible to not recognize how handsome he was. 

“Well, there are fish in the ocean, honeybee,” he drawled, his voice full of amusement. His nickname for you caused your stomach to flip in the most annoying way, and you felt yourself curl into him more despite yourself. “What do you want me to do, hmm? How can I fix it?” 

“I want to get out. Carry me out,” you stated, clinging to him. Whether it was him holding you that felt so good or genuine fear keeping you to him, he really couldn’t say. He nodded, but instead of going toward the shore he moved away from it, swimming out with you further. “William! I said OUT!”

“I thought you said you wanted me to take you further out!” he replied, his tone too full of amusement. You moved to wrap your legs around his waist instead, narrowing your eyes at him and setting your face to be serious, eyebrows furrowed. He wanted to lean in to kiss the lines. “Hey, hey, hey…” he cooed, turning his back to the shore and leaning his forehead against yours with a light smile. You could see the light freckles on his cheeks that the sun had brought out throughout the day, his eyes light in the fading sunlight as he gazed longingly at you. No one had ever talked to you as soft as he did. “’m not gonna let anything happen to you. You don’t need to worry about a thing as long as I am right here with you.”

His lips pressed to yours in a gentle, reassuring kiss briefly before he returned to simply leaning his head against yours. You lightly bumped your nose against his, resting your hands on his chest gently. It was impossible not to believe him. “Still not nice, William Miller.”

“I know, I just wanted you alone for a minute,” he conceded, angling his head to press a kiss to the corner of your lips. You couldn’t help but smile under his affections, maintaining that hard exterior proving difficult as his kisses chipped away at it. “I’m sorry, honey. Let me make it up to you?”

You tilted your head and raised an eyebrow in curiosity, slipping one of your hands to his bicep. “How do you plan on doing that? I was pretty distraught.”

“Let me take you home,” he offered, his eyes so sincere it hurt. He pressed a gentle kiss to your lips before he continued further. When you didn’t give him a response, he continued. “I have feelings for you.”

“Well…stop it,” slipped from your lips before you could stop it, your cheeks immediately burning at your own callousness. It was second nature to push people away now…especially Will, who was getting closer than anyone was allowed right now. Instead of being hurt, Will could only smile at your attempt. 

“Yeah?” he questioned, pressing a gentle, lingering kiss to your lips. His words came between kisses as he spoke. “You want me to stop?”

As the kisses grew deeper and you felt the warmth of arousal spreading through your body you had to shake your head, knowing he’d recognize the longing in your eyes and call your bluff if you insisted. He smiled as his hands slipped down from your sides to grasp your ass under the water, pressing you into him firmly as you shook your head and released a defeated sigh. 

“You can take me to your house,” you conceded, running your fingers through his hair as you looked at him through your lashes, devouring him with an unashamedly lascivious look. His eyes lit up even further, finally listening and carrying you closer to the shore so both of you could leave the ocean and get to his truck as soon as possible. As you wrapped yourself in a towel and gathered the items you’d brought with you in a bag you ignored her quiet giggles, unwilling to even consider the conversation Will was having with the men behind you. You supposed you owed Frankie a conversation as well on Monday. Dani called to you to have fun as you walked to Will’s truck. 

When he had you secured in his truck, he leaned to press a kiss against your lips as he buckled you in. He was a safe driver and had incredible reflexes, you reminded yourself of this frequently as he drove back with one hand rested on your thigh, kneading his fingers into the soft flesh occasionally. He pulled into his driveway sooner than he should have – he’d never speed with you in the car again – and immediately had you cradled in his arms again as he carried you into his house.

When he began to make his way up the stairs he finally spoke, trying to cover the happiness in his voice with seriousness. “You’re sure this is what you want?” You responded by reaching your head to plant kisses on his shoulder, trailing them to his neck as best you could as you nodded. As he opened his bedroom door, he gazed down at you finally, not taking another step forward just yet. “Have to hear you say it.”

“Yes, Will,” you confirmed, and those two words melted his resolve. He placed you on his bed carefully before he crawled between your legs, keeping one hand on your hip and cupping your cheek in his hand as he kissed you deeply. You returned his kiss immediately, just as desperate for him as he was for you at this point. His fingers began to work at the ties of your bottoms as he traced the seam of your mouth with his tongue, groaning appreciatively as he slipped his tongue into your mouth. When he was satisfied with the taste he’d received he released your lips, trailing his kisses to your jaw and neck as he removed the bottoms. 

His kisses trailed lower on your neck, Will fighting the urge to suck purple marks into your skin in such an obvious place. Your hands ran up his back to the back of his neck and head, holding him closer as he trailed his kisses to your chest just as he’d worked that tie free as well, removing the fabric from your body and leaving you finally bare for him. He leaned back to run his eyes down you appreciatively, one of his thumbs rubbing gently over one of your nipples slowly. 

“You look so fucking pretty in my bed,” he complimented before leaning forward again, claiming one of your nipples in his mouth with a flick of his tongue. He happily familiarized himself with each of your breasts, earning the most beautiful moans that had ever graced his ears from you as your hips pressed up into his in desperation for friction. When your hot core was met with his obvious erection in his swim trunks you moaned in unison, Will pressing his waist into you further. He released your nipple from his mouth to trail his kisses downward again as he whispered. “Bet you’re gonna taste fucking delicious mixed with salt water…”

His hand that had been holding your hip moved to spread your legs as his lips reached your hip, smiling against the skin before kissing it gently. Experimentally he spread your already soaking folds with a swipe of his fingers, groaning appreciatively as you gasped. “Will…”

“All this for me, baby?” he cooed, lowering his head to swirl his tongue around your clit before sucking the sensitive bundle of nerves lightly. “You always get this wet for me? Is this pretty pussy this wet every time I kiss you?”

You whined your confirmation as he ran his tongue through your folds, an appreciative groan rumbling in his chest as he finally tasted you. His name fell from your lips again and he nodded in encouragement before setting in on his first task of the night, devouring every inch that your hot core had to offer him. For as many times as you’d imagined Will’s head between your thighs, nothing compared to the way he tended to every inch of you, groans and grunts vibrating through his mouth as he fucked his tongue into your velvet entrance. 

He had your legs shaking on either side of his head in no time, his lips curving into a smile as he connected his thumb with your clit, continuing to swirl his tongue inside of you as best he could. When your breathing became erratic and your hands reached to grasp his hair, he knew he had you on the edge, nodding in affirmation when you warned him you were going to come. When euphoria rocked through you with a loud moan your hips arched off the bed, giving him a much better angle to appreciate the nectar he’d earned.

The ceiling above you turned to a white light as pleasure rushed through you, your moan turning to a scream when he didn’t relent at your entrance or clit, continuing to stimulate you through your orgasm. By the time he’d crawled his way back up your body and removed his trunks you had come down somewhat, only enough to be somewhat aware as he rubbed the head of his cock through your folds with a low groan. 

“I can get a condom…” he offered, whatever his full sentence was intended to be cut off as you pressed a lazy, half-aware kiss to his lips as you shook your head, quiet please leaving your lips. Briefly arguing with the responsibility of the decision he was about to make. When you quietly begged him to fuck you again all reason escaped his mind, lining his already throbbing cock at your entrance before thrusting in carefully. Your wet heat welcomed him in like you were meant to do so, the heat of your velvet channel caressing him inch by inch until he was buried in you. He groaned low in appreciation as he pressed his lips to yours in a loving kiss, stilling his movements to give you both a moment to savor the feeling of him filling you. “Better than I could have fucking imagined…”

One of his hands slid carefully up your body to rest on your cheek, pulling you closer as gently as he could to claim your lips in a kiss as he withdrew from you almost completely before thrusting back in, grunting as your walls fluttered around him. As your lips and tongues entered a dance they had done so many times now your bodies came together fully for the first, his cock massaging your walls with each of his well-purposed thrusts. You wrapped your legs around his waist to draw him in closer, holding him against you as close as his thrusts would allow you. He pulled away from the kiss to bump his nose against yours gently before running it along your cheek affectionately, placing a kiss just below his ear when he’d reached the sensitive spot. 

“Like you were made for me,” he whispered in your ear, his thrusts increasing in pace as he neared his finish much sooner than he wanted to. He reached to grasp one of your legs, sliding it so your ankle hooked over his shoulder so he could angle into you deeper. The new depths he reached pulled you closer to the edge, his thumb connecting with your clit again, causing your walls to flutter around him. 

“I’m on the pill,” you offered, feeling a second orgasm approaching you as he rubbed steady circles around your clit and the velvet head of his cock brushed against the coveted spot inside of you, sensing the end approached for him as well as his thrusts became more erratic and desperate. Your quiet suggestion pulled a groan from his chest, his head turning to claim your lips again in a messy kiss. 

“You want me to fill you up, princess? That what you’re asking me for?” he questioned between deep thrusts accompanied by deep breaths, his hand sliding from your cheek to your neck as he pressed soft kisses to your lips. “You tell me that’s what you want and I’ll give it to you. I’ll give you anything you ask for.”

You could only bring yourself to nod as you kissed him deeply, your own orgasm rushing through you as you moaned against his lips. Feeling your walls tighten around him he couldn’t hold his own release back, spilling his seed into you with a groan as he pulled away from your kiss to lean his forehead against yours. He could have told you that he was falling in love with you right then. 

As you both came down from shared euphoria he rolled to his side next to you, wrapping his arms around his waist as he went to hold you against him gently. You listened to your instincts by tucking your face into his neck, breathing in deeply to steady your breaths as Will pressed gentle kisses to the top of your head and whispered quiet praises and thank yous to you. One of your legs slid up between his to cuddle closer, your arms wrapping around his middle as your eyes slid closed. 

You probably could’ve fallen asleep right then, if his words hadn’t woken you from your peaceful lull. “I’ve got extra clothes and…we can shower before you change if you want.”

The sweet suggestion snapped you back to reality, and you forced yourself to let him know you'd have to go home now. In all honesty, it was the last thing that you wanted to do, but you were unwilling to relent just yet on your insistence to not pursue something serious. Will, of course, didn't want to tell you no because he wanted you to feel comfortable with him - he wanted you to know that he would listen to you, and support whatever you felt was best for yourself. That included you leaving him for the night, even when he wanted you more than he had any night before.

Not hearing anything about accepting a ride home from him, insistent on being independent for the night, you sent Frankie a text to grab you on his way back from the beach if he hadn't made it home already. 15 minutes later Frankie was in Will's driveway, a sympathetic look on his face as he waved to the younger man through the windshield as you climbed into the truck.

Will watched silently as the truck backed out of the driveway and you disappeared down the street, mentally vowing to himself that he would willingly spend as long as you needed waiting.

When November’s curtain call came and the evening chill of December rolled in, you’d found your match with William Miller, who was acting by his promise and providing you with consistency, with reverent tenderness. No matter what distance you tried to maintain from him he was just as unrelenting, finding ways through your obstacles day after day. He never pushed, never overstepped, but he was always there, ever willing to cherish you in entirety whenever given the chance. Lately those opportunities had grown, proliferating into prolonged post-coital kisses and embraces that could hardly be passed off as anything less than adoration any longer.

Falling wasn’t enough to describe the feeling – falling was too subtle. A plummeting nosedive, a cascade…an avalanche, a crashing meteor – so consuming it swallowed you until all that was left was Will, his affections blanketing you with unwavering warmth.

“Honeybee!” Will called as he entered through the front door, the sound of him removing his boots and setting them by the door causing you to smile as you crushed candy canes in the kitchen. All your meetings had been reserved for his home but today you’d offered to host him and his friends at your farmhouse for dinner – Christmas Eve dinner.

“In here, Will,” you replied from your place at the counter, taking a deep breath as you started sprinkling the candy canes atop the cupcakes you made for dessert. An immediate advantage to having Will in your home was the sound of the creaking floor beneath his large frame – even without shoes – meant you could hear him coming behind you. “Don’t mess me up, Will. This is serious business.”

A laugh rumbled through him as he delicately wrapped his arms around your waist anyway, resting his chin on your shoulder for a moment before turning inward, burrowing his face in your neck with a deep breath. He pressed a gentle kiss behind your ear, assessed your response, and then repeated the motion when he realized you remained focused on your task, smiling into your skin lightly. When you finished you slid the cupcake stand back further on the counter for safety before turning in his arms, a playful smile lighting your features. It was only now Will noticed what remained of a candy cane in your mouth, his mind spinning already at the thought of what your lips must taste like now.

“Did I mess you up?” he questioned, leaning forward to press his lips to your forehead with a quiet hum of appreciation as your arms found their way around his neck, not before your hands slid over his chest. He opted to forego the ugly sweater party – you knew that was coming – but he did at least wear a red sweater, the color bringing out the coolness of his eyes. Even in the winter he was managing to keep up plenty of color, but not enough to hide the redness to his cheeks as you held his gaze.

Sometimes he couldn’t decide if it was better you could hold his eye contact now or not – he still hadn’t grown used to feeling somewhat embarrassed just under a woman’s gaze. The way you removed the candy from your mouth          with a pop and placed it in the trash behind you certainly didn’t help.

“Nearly, but I’ll let it slide seeing as it’s Christmas and all,” your fingers found their way into his hair, pulling him closer so you could press your lips to his in a gentle kiss. One thing he would never grow accustomed to was the clench in his heart whenever you initiated affection – some of his favorite kisses sparked by you.

“Christmas Eve, honeybee,” he replied when you released him, pressing a kiss to his cheek as best you could from standing on your toes. He tightened his hold on your waist to hold you against him tighter, relishing in your attention and uncaring about the inevitable mess that would transfer from your apron to him.

“Mm, you look handsome in this little red number, Will,” you teased, bringing more color to his cheeks. It was too easy for you now – you loved it.

“I wore it just for you,” he drawled, seeking out another taste of peppermint on your lips with a gentle kiss. The fact that you knew that was true only made your chest swell more.

“Well, you’ll have to wear something else for me, too, since technically…you are out of dress code,” you remarked, eyebrow raised slightly in a manner he knew to be playful. Whatever you had in store he would play along with, as long as it meant this mood you were in would continue, particularly with how the two of you had left things last time – an argument that had been eating at both of you for days.

"You’ll have to make a decision sooner or later,” he’d stated as he leaned against his truck in the parking lot after one of Benny’s fights, trying to appear much cooler on the outside than he was on the inside where frustration bubbled under his skin. He’d slipped – called you his girlfriend, and it had been too much of a reality check for you to handle. Despite his harshness he reached a hand toward you, beckoning you closer – you did not follow.   A wild animal backed into a corner – hissing and feral and scared. So many questions remained in his mind about why it was so hard for you to accept love, but he’d never push for those answers. You’d give them freely in your own time. The topic at hand remained to be that Will had spent weeks earning your affection, and while he was patient, it had been worn somewhat thin. “We don’t spend the night together…months now and I’ve never woken up next to you,” he continued, eyebrows pulling together as he crossed his arms again. “And if that’s not frustrating enough, I can’t even slip and call you my girlfriend – to my brother – without you getting upset. I’m doing everything I can here, I just need you to give a little back. Anything.”   Your lip had quivered, tears pricking at your eyes. Will hated to see you that way, hated to have caused it – it would gnaw at him in the days that followed, as would all the words that followed, so unimportant now. As much as the argument shredded his heart day after day the same was true for you – perhaps if he knew how guilty you felt because you were still resisting what was right in front of you, he could have gone easier on you.

Even now the guilt festered.

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, unwilling to spark any sort of disagreement today. You reached behind you to the counter to grab a Santa hat before lifting it onto his head, smiling a sweet smile before flattening his hands against your lower back to pull you closer. He offered you a smile in return, withholding any fussing about the hat as his eyes met yours again. One of his hands left its position to lift to your cheek, callused fingers lightly dusting across your cheekbones. “I’m sorry about Friday night, honey. I shouldn’t be pushing you like that…I knew what I asked for when I asked for it.”

It was in your nature to lean your head toward his hand, your eyes drifting shut briefly to enjoy the moment. You only met his gaze again when you’d chosen your response, words leaving your lips quiet and sincere. “I’m the one who should be sorry, Will,” you sighed, leaning forward to lay your head on his chest, calmed by the familiar rhythm of his heart. “I do need to make a decision, you were right.”

“Yeah, but I…lost my temper. I raised my voice,” he rested his hand that had been on your cheek on the back of your head, stroking your hair and internally smiling at the streaks of flour leftover from your day in the kitchen. “I should never do that to you, there’s no excuse.”

“Apology accepted,” you whispered, burying your face into his chest to inhale the smell of him – saltwater and oak, subtle and resolute. He leaned to press a kiss to the top of your head, holding you for a moment before the day needed to continue. “Can you help me get the star on the tree and put presents underneath while I set the table? Dinner should be done by the time everyone else shows.”

He nodded, pressing a final kiss to your forehead before releasing you so you could get back to work. “You know at least one of ‘em will be late.”

“I included an extra twenty minutes on the cooking time to accommodate,” you quipped back cheerfully, removing your apron and hanging it on its rightful hook, giving the kitchen one final look over to ensure nothing was forgotten before setting off into the living room, remarking how Will needed to hurry because you had everything planned to the minute.

He’d never been more certain he loved you.

“Why’d you get a tree you couldn’t reach the top of, shortcake?”

You turned to throw him a look, cheeks burning with heat despite the amused smile that broke out across your face. He returned it with one of his own, straightening the Santa hat on his head before walking over to where you stood by the tree. He adored the mood you were in today, and wondered briefly if you were this way every Christmas. Your playful tone had returned. “Size does matter with some things, love. No one wants a wants a tiny tree with no needles.”

It wasn’t the first time that nickname had slipped, yet his chest still tightened. He wrapped his arms around you again, unable to resist pressing a kiss to your forehead as he pulled you in close before lifting you up so you could situate the star atop the tree. Satisfied with the state of the living room you tasked Will with starting the fireplace, putting music on via the record player in the living room, and lighting some candles while you finished cooking.

It was easy being domestic with you.

Everyone’s arrivals staggered from there forward. Benny arrived next, early and eager to spend time with his brother, with an arm slung around Dani, smiling and remarking how fantastic your house was before giving himself a tour. By the way his eyes kept raking over her you could only assume they found a hallway to defile. Dani joined you soon after with a smile and offered to help in the kitchen, which you accepted with some relief.

As Will and Ben broke into a bottle of bourbon and eggnog (Benny had threatened not to come if there was no eggnog available), Santiago showed up – surprisingly not in an ugly sweater after weeks of talking trash about how his was going to put yours to shame. You opted not to even bring it up given the expression on his face – today was clearly not the day to pick at Pope – and instead greeted him with a sweet smile instead. Frankie was last – really to no one’s surprise – and everyone had found a seat at the table as you loaded it up with food.

Santiago had jokingly requested an entire turkey – the largest one you could find – perhaps as a challenge, and you’d agreed to make it without second thought. Frankie was simple and asked for macaroni and cheese, Benny sheepishly requested sweet potatoes and dinner rolls, while Dani was sensible and requested “any kind of vegetable.” Will had shown his sweet tooth by requesting something sweet for dinner, hence the cupcakes you’d finished earlier.

“This looks incredible,” Benny complimented, pulling his eyes away from the food in front of him to look toward where you sat at the head of the table. Frankie and Dani both voiced quick words of agreement while Santi nodded, checking his phone quickly. “You have to give a toast.”

“Oh, no,” you laughed, waving your hand dismissively as you shook your head. Your face burned so badly you felt like all your head had become was a flaming ball. “No one wants to hear me do a toast, seriously. Dig in before it gets cold.”

Ben crossed his arms and Frankie’s face set into concrete resolution. It was the younger Miller who spoke, tone unwavering and serious. You weren’t entirely sure you’d heard him be so serious before…even before his fights. “We’re not eating until a toast is given.”

“Will can give a toast,” slipped from your mouth, nervousness causing the words to spill freely – maybe a little too freely. With a nervous laugh you continued. “He’s basically the man of the house.”

Will’s eyes noticeably widened up at you to your right, his mouth falling open slightly in surprise as his cheeks mirrored the fire in your own. Ben’s head snapped toward Will, giving a light smirk as his brother stood, never pulling his eyes from your face as he lifted his glass from the table.

The toast he gave was short, and yet he still struggled to make it through its entirety. Several times he cleared his throat, feeling the tingle in his tear ducts that threatened to pour with each passing moment, each beat of his heart causing a tightness in his chest.

“And…” he began the final sentence, releasing a shaking breath as he looked around the table. His eyes settled back to you like it was the most natural place in the world for them to be. You reached out to where one of his hands grasped the edge of the table, sliding your hand atop his and giving a gentle squeeze. The simple act spurred him through the rest of his speech. “And here’s to hopefully many more Christmases with all of us together.”

Dinner went smoothly from there, the table’s mood lighthearted and happy as everyone ate, light conversations being passed around – which included stories from both Will and Ben about their Christmases growing up and the trouble they used to get themselves into. Once the table was clear the group relocated into the living room to sit around the tree to complete the Secret Santa gift exchange you’d all planned.

Santi gave Frankie the gift he’d gotten him first – a new fishing pole, a hat (it was the same one he’d always worn, just a new version – you had to wonder how many times he’d been gifted the exact hat), and a pack of new socks. Frankie was enthralled by each of them, saying they’d have to plan a trip soon. As a result Frankie went next, handing Danielle her gift in a bag (he’d tried to wrap it, truly…he gave up when half the roll had been used). Danielle’s face lit up at the various candles and candy inside the bag and waved the spa trip for two pass in your direction with a smile.

Dani gifted Santi with tickets to a concert he’d been complaining for weeks he didn’t secure tickets to, which brought his trademark soft smile to his face as he thanked her profusely. Not before multiple comments were made about how the group hoped there was seating in the venue, so he didn’t have to stand on his shitty knees the entire time, you announced you’d go next since Santi had already handed out his gift. Passing a sizeable box to Ben with a wink and a smile you leaned back against the fireplace, watching as the younger Miller tore into it with excitement.

“You did not get me an original Nintendo 64,” he exclaimed, eyes wide as he pulled the old console out of the box. As Will watched on his chest tightened as you smiled at Ben, the word family seeming to repeat itself in his mind.

“You’ve been complaining about how the new model isn’t the same,” you explained with a shrug, taking a drink of the cider you held in your hand. “I can’t wait to kick your ass in Mario Party.”

“Next weekend, you’re on. Hope you’re not a sore loser,” he smirked, digging through the games that littered the bottom of the box as well. Wrapped up in admiring his gift he almost forgot to pass the envelope he was holding to his own brother with a playful smile. Will laughed – your heart swelled – and as he opened the envelope, he shot his brother a smile. “I know we usually say no gift cards…but you’re impossible to buy for. Figured you could use it on dinner or…somethin’.”

The brothers shared another knowing look and smile before Will reached out to pat his back, mentally noting to give him a proper hug when they weren’t sitting later. Which left Will to give the gift he’d purchased for the only person that remained without…you.

He moved closer to you on the couch, draping an arm around your shoulders and pulling you in close as he slipped his phone from his pocket, glancing down at you first to offer you a smile. “So, you’ve been saying that you miss the snow…”

As his sentence trailed, he turned his phone screen so you could see it, the sight of a small, warm-looking cabin surrounded by snow and pine trees filling your eyes. You turned your head to look up at him, eyebrows furrowed in slight confusion and questioning as your mouth opened briefly. Will beat you to talking.

“Now, obviously…I didn’t buy it, but I did rent it for a weekend…next month when there still should be plenty of snow,” he offered, crystalline eyes transfixed on yours as he spoke. “I thought we could take a nice trip…together, especially since that weekend will be your anniversary of going to rehab. It’s big enough for people to join –“

“Not a single one of us wants to be in that cabin with you two that weekend,” Santiago interrupted, quickly dismissing the thought with a shake of his head.

“…no offense, of course.” Frankie chimed in, elbowing his best friend.

“Oh, full offense intended,” Ben joined in, his words chased by a laugh. “You two in a cold ass log cabin somewhere in the fuckin’ Rockies? Count all of us out.”

Your cheeks burned at their teasing and yet you couldn’t bring yourself to look away from Will, your bottom lip pulling between your teeth briefly as you grasped his hand gently. There were a lot of words that ran through your mind in appreciation – three not-so-little ones squeaking quietly in the back of your mind. You tried to silence them – something you had to do often now. It was getting more and more difficult to do.

Everyone else was ignored, even their taunting. As was so often the case, it was only you and Will.

“Thank you,” you whispered quietly, melting at the gentle curve of his lips. Without thinking you leaned upward to kiss him once quickly and gently, a small action that quickly silenced the group. They knew it happened, but seeing it was far different than hearing about it.

It was thanks enough for Will.

Now the gifts had all been received you excused yourself to gather plates and cupcakes from the kitchen. Once everyone had plates with multiple cupcakes each, it was time to watch a movie – the choice of which was yours.

The movie you chose really didn’t matter – your focus was almost entirely on Will. Taking the loveseat close to the fire, Will had his arms wrapped around you tightly seemingly from the moment you’d sat down, pulling you back against his strong chest to support you while he balanced a plate of cupcakes on his knee. He left no room for you to protest such an obvious display of affection, keeping one arm slung around your shoulder and seemingly pulling you closer and closer by the second.

After everyone had eaten their cupcakes and really settled in, you had to wonder if the other men and woman in the room minded the state you found yourself in with Will. His arm remained around your shoulders, your hand reaching up to lace your fingers with his…which allowed you the ability to press kisses to his fingers with ease. Several times Will turned your head, to press a gentle kiss to your lips, your nose, your forehead…smiling earnestly each time and pulling at your heart.

Halfway through the movie Will leaned to whisper in your ear, his breath hot against the shell. The mint lingering on his to his breath and huskiness in his voice send a chill up your spine – you knew he felt it when a quiet chuckle rumbled through his chest. “Let’s split the other cupcake on the plate.”

You turned your head to flash him an amused look, raising an eyebrow. “That’ll be your third one.”

“We’re splitting it,” he defended with a shrug of his shoulders, his other hand reaching for the aforementioned plate on the table beside the couch. “It doesn’t count.”

“Mm,” you smiled, taking the cupcake to unwrap it before taking a slow bite. When you offered it to him his eyes flashed with a look entirely indecent for company, his voice lower as he held your gaze. A subtle shake to his head confirmed what your mind had already begun to infer. “Gimme a bite.”

You fed him a bite slowly, eyes locked with his as you pulled your bottom lip between your teeth slightly, watching his pink tongue dart out to run along his bottom lip to collect the peppermint icing there. He offered another smile with an appreciative hum

“Would you two get a room?” Benny questioned over the movie, shooting his older brother a playful look. He wasn’t serious, he truly didn’t mind seeing his older brother finally loosen up a bit and be happy – but that didn’t mean he couldn’t give him hell. It was, after all, the responsibility of being a younger sibling.

“They’re all my rooms, Benjamin,” you taunted, shooting the man a bright smile that Will took the moment to cherish. Taking another bite of the cupcake with a smirk on his lips he opted to settle back in then, wrapping his arms around you and resting his chin on the top of your head.

The two of you remained that way for the rest of the movie, his arms clutching you against his chest and rubbing gentle circles on your stomach occasionally. There was nothing stopping him from pressing kisses to the top of your head, either – which he considered fair, given that you were irresistible this close to him.

Santiago cleared out first in a haste, jaw clenching through his goodbyes which he seemed less-than-focused on as he checked his phone’s screen several more times. It was then that you offered a room to anyone who wanted to stay, which was quickly shot down by both Ben and Frankie who shared a knowing look.

“We do not want to be in this house when your…canoodling escalates,” Ben asserted, glancing between his older brother and you, who were now standing a few steps further from Will in an attempt to be less obvious. It was far too late for that.

With a hug and kiss on the cheek from Frankie and a promise to call you tomorrow, Dani gave you a gentle hug which was quickly contrasted by a crushing hug from Ben, who then only had to hug his brother goodbye before the two of you were alone. Will immediately wrapped his arms around you when the front door was shut, pulling you into his chest while releasing a deep breath.

He loved his brothers – but solitude with you was bliss.

“Let’s go clean up that kitchen,” he began, pausing his sentence mid-way through to press a kiss to your forehead. “Get it over with so we don’t have to worry about it, darlin’.”

You’d do almost anything he asked so long as he asked in that molasses thick tone.

You pressed a gentle kiss to his lips, teasing him by pulling away slowly with a light smile on your face before you removed yourself from his arms, making your way to the kitchen with him following. When you began to run the sink to fill it you glanced to watch him lean against the counter to wait, his arms crossed like he was trying to control himself. Following his gaze your eyes landed on the cupcakes that remained (you’d made extra knowing he would be this way), and a smile passed over your features.

“I see you eyeballing those cupcakes, Mister Miller,” you teased, smiling further when he turned to you with red cheeks and a bashful gaze. You leaned across the counter to grab one, taking a slow bite as your eyes stayed on his. He wasn’t quite sure the cupcake was so important anymore. “C’mere and share this one with me before we do the dishes.”

He was good at following orders.

He didn’t need to tell you to feed him bites this time, you gladly taking up the task with adoration pooling in your eyes as you fed him almost the entire cupcake. He offered you a gentle smile as you reached upward to remove icing from the corner of his lips, popping the digit into your mouth with an appreciative hum before handing him the kitchen towel.

“I’ll clean, you dry.”

The rhythm the two of you entered was the same as every other way the two of you seemed to effortlessly fit together these days. Will could reach cabinets you couldn’t which made the task go much faster, and while he found himself quietly humming seasonal songs you soaked in the relaxation the sound brought.

“Today was good, yeah?” Will questioned from beside you, drying off another dish before placing it in its rightful place in the cabinet. “I think that’s the best Christmas this group has managed in years.”

“Benny said he’s going to pay me to make him those cupcakes every week. That Miller sweet tooth is something fierce,” you joked, rinsing out another glass. His cheeks reddened at your teasing. “Did you talk to Santiago? Something was up with him, he looked at his phone at least twenty times an hour, and he was bragging for weeks that his ugly sweater would put me to shame and then he just…didn’t wear one.”

“Mm,” he mused, taking another glass from you to dry it. “Pope is doing a poor job at keeping a secret he thinks he’s doing a great job at. He’s on edge.”

“Doesn’t he know better than to try to keep secrets from you?” you questioned, handing the last dish and turning to fix your attention on him as he dried it. At some point, damn him, he’d rolled the sleeves of his sweater up, and he looked so natural in your home it was starting to make you feel sentimental. Whole. “But today was great. We did a good job.”

“We, like I had hardly anything to do with it,” he hummed, smiling lightly as he put the dish away before leaning on the counter with his hip to face you. “It was practically all you. But…I’ve been telling you we make a good team.”

He reached out his hand gently toward you, pulling you closer to him to press a kiss to your forehead, not expecting a response. Wrapping your arms around his waist you stepped in as close as you could, resting your head on his chest and closing your eyes. He held onto you tightly, shifting to lean his back against the counter to hold you closer. Flashes of the day spent together ran through both of your minds –you’d sat in his lap on the couch in front of everyone – because the living room didn’t have enough seats (lie) – but the feeding him bites of your cupcake was entirely optional.

Will loved you. It was a fact that was growing harder and harder to ignore by the day, the ache in his chest growing every time he heard your name or saw your face.  He didn’t want to say his next words, but he had grown so used to them – so used to this routine now that he accepted when they needed to be said.

“It’s getting late. I should probably head out, before the idiots get out on the road.”

It was a long pause, putting William on edge for a moment as he waited for your words. Even hesitation like this wasn’t normal for you. Your voice was soft, slightly wavering as you tilted your head back to look up at him.

“I don’t remember asking you to leave.”

Will paused, brief confusion flashing on his face before he smiled lightly, clearing his throat as he gave a slight nod. He was truly doing his best not to look overjoyed, though that’s exactly what he felt. “Are you asking me to stay, honeybee?”

“I thought it’d be a good Christmas present.”

“Maybe the best one I’ve ever gotten,” he smiled, leaning closer to brush his lips over yours again. His hands slid lower, pulling you closer to press a kiss to your lips gently. You couldn’t help but smile into the kiss, at his desperation to be close to you now that the two of you were alone, and his poor attempt at hiding how happy he was. His hands slipping lower still he ran his fingers over your thighs, eyes searching your face for a response. You were getting far too good at the poker face you’d developed against him.

“Are you trying to take me up to bed this quickly, Ironhead?” you cooed, looking up at him with a hooded gaze through your lashes. You hoped your face remained straight despite the burn that surged toward your core – feeling a bit proud of yourself again as you noticed him swallow hard. “You’ll miss out on the matching pajamas I picked up for us…”

“I’ve waited all day,” he pointed out, dragging one of his hands upward to push your skirt up, trailing kisses down your neck and chest. You grasped the edge of the counter to steady yourself, his eyes glancing up into yours again as he began to sink to his knees, using one of his hands to lift your leg over his shoulder. “I’m still starving.”

An embarrassingly wanton moan fell from your lips, one of your hands reaching to slide your fingers through his hair as his hand slid up your thigh to push your underwear to the side. “Is this what you thought about all day, Will?”

“You know it is. That little stunt you pulled earlier wasn’t very nice,” he drawled, eyes hungrily running over your already soaked cunt. “Look how wet you are for me, honeybee. You’ve been thinking about me today too, haven’t you? You sweet thing.”

You whimpered as he ran his fingers through your folds, his lips curving upward into a light smile as he taunted you slightly – waiting for you to answer. “Thought about me all day and now you can’t stop talking.”

He chuckled as he leaned forward, running his flattened tongue through your folds with a low groan as you rocked your core against his face, his nose bumping your clit and causing you to moan. He set in on his task then, satiating the hunger he still felt by licking and sucking and kissing every inch of your sex he could, relishing in your fingers tangling into his hair as you threw your head back with a moan. “God, this is a Christmas present…” The muffled laugh he released vibrated through you, the sensation causing you to buck your core into his face with a gasp as you pulled his hair slightly. “Fuck, William, you’re so fucking…so good at that.”

He removed his mouth from fucking his tongue into your entrance to smile up at you crookedly, his lips and facial hair glistening with your arousal. Slipping a finger into your tight channel he turned his head to press a gentle kiss to your inner thigh. “Love when you tell me how good I make you feel.”

He began to thrust his finger into you as he connected his mouth with your clit, giving the sensitive nub a flick with his tongue before sucking it gently. You whined his name quietly, keeping a hold on his hair as you moved your aching core against his face and hand, already desperate for more. He groaned against your skin with a particularly slow swipe of his tongue, adding a second finger to begin to stretch you.

The tips of his fingers massaged against your walls perfectly each time he pushed them back into you, particularly against the perfectly blinding spot behind your clit. You cried out, hands grasping his hair to steady yourself as you rutted against his mouth desperately. His tongue circled around your clit again, one hand slipping behind you to cup your ass and hold you against him closer, his blue eyes still burning up at you.

“Fuck, Will, I…” you began, words trailing off with an uptick in pitch as your thigh began to shake behind his head. Ensuring he tightened his hold on you he nodded, flicking his tongue against your clit with more fervor. Not long after you moaned his name again loudly, your eyes rolling back as heat rushed through you.

He removed his fingers but continued to lap at your folds, groaning appreciatively at the taste of your release coating his tongue. When he’d drank enough of you down he began to kiss up your body again, holding you close by the hips with one hand and undoing his belt and pants with the other as his lips connected with yours again. You tasted yourself on his tongue and – damn it – all of the cupcakes he’d eaten that lingered as well. After pushing his pants and briefs to the floor and kicking them aside.

Before he could lift you to the counter you broke the kiss, trailing your kisses down his neck before sucking a light mark above his collarbone with a smile. His chest rumbled with a groan, his hands slipping to your lower back to hold you closer. Your hands moved to hold his shoulders, applying pressure to encourage him to swap positions with you, smiling as you looked up at him through heavy lashes.

“Where you goin’, honeybee?” he asked, voice heavy as he reached his hands toward you again. Widening your smile you reached to wrap your fingers around his hardened length, eyes flashing with adoration when his hips jolted forward to meet your touch, a low groan sounding in his chest again. As you continued to rub along his length you sank to your knees, not breaking eye contact as you ran your tongue along the slit of his velvet head to taste the precum leaking from him already. His hands immediately grasped behind your head, fingers lacing into your hair. “Fuck.”

You removed your hand, running your nails down his thigh lightly as your tongue traced the thick vein on his cock, a light smile tugging at your lips when he moaned out another profanity. You continued to lick up and down his length and suck only on the head briefly, enjoying the frustrated huff to his breath that grew as you teased him slightly.

His usual sense of self control was obliterated by his need to feel the warmth of your mouth around his length. Before you could pull your lips free of him again he grasped your hair tighter, holding you in place as he slipped more of his length into your mouth. “Do you like teasing me, sweet thing?” You moaned in affirmation around his length, managing to run your tongue around as much of his length as you could manage. He pushed more of his length into your mouth, head falling back briefly before he corrected himself, eyes meeting yours again. “This is what you want? For me to fuck your mouth?”

You moaned again and he took his command, thrusting his length into your mouth greedily and with almost embarrassing speed. He seldom got to enjoy the feeling of your mouth around his length as he’d always opt to bury himself in your tight cunt before he got the chance, but on these occasions when you insisted – when you wanted him to bruise your throat – he was never one to resist. When his velvet head hit the back of your throat and you gagged slightly he huffed out a deep, sustained groan as his cheeks flushed, one of his hands moving from your hair to cup your cheek and stroke it gently.

It only encouraged you further.

You reached your own hand to cup his balls, fondling them gently as he began to thrust repeatedly into your mouth – gentle as he could manage in his clouded mind. “Fuck, baby…” he began, hitting the back of your throat again and holding your hair slightly tighter to keep you in place for a moment. “God, you’re doing so good. You look so pretty. Going to make you feel so fucking good soon.”

You moaned around his length which spurred him to brush your cheek again before he returned to fucking your mouth, some part of his brain keening at the sight of you drooling around his length. He may have been a clean freak, but there were some messy sights when it came to you that he loved.

He continued to praise you while he enjoyed your mouth, lasting for several more thrusts before he removed his cock from your mouth, gently tugging you upward to your feet again. “Let me fuck you right here. I can’t wait for the bedroom.”

There was something so intrinsically commanding – and sexy – about his tone that had you scrambling to allow him to lift you onto the counter, removing your skirt and underwear and tossing them to the pile with his pants as you went. “You’re fucking me in every room in this house, William Miller. This is just the start.”

He used his hand gently to raise one of your legs and hook it over his shoulder, his other hand fisting his cock to smear your remaining spit around his length as he groaned at your words. Leaning forward he lined his cock up with your tight entrance, releasing his length to grab the hand towel on the counter beside you, holding the fabric behind your head gently as he pressed a kiss to your lips gently.

“Don’t want you hitting your head,” he explained before beginning to push his throbbing cock into your velvet walls, groaning deeply as he leaned his forehead against yours with his eyes screwed shut in concentration. You leaned your head back, grateful for the cushion of the towel and his hand rather than the cabinet as you gasped, keening at the feeling of his cock splitting you open again.

When he’d bottomed out in you he stilled for a moment, kissing you again deeply and hungrily as he enjoyed the feeling of being fully wrapped up in you again. When he released you from the kiss he lowered his head to burrow into your neck, breathing in the smell of you deeply as he began to thrust into you carefully, perfectly. Even with you on a counter he knew the perfect angles to enter you, each thrust knocking the head of his cock against either the spongey spot that made you moan or your cervix, which always made you cry out his name.

It was impossible for him to say which he preferred.

After thrusting slowly and carefully for a while, enjoying the steady beat of your heart against his chest and your pulse beneath his lips. He raised his head to kiss you again, picking up the pace as his tongue danced across your bottom lip again, a deep groan sounding in his chest when your walls fluttered around him. He was unwilling to release you from the kiss fully so he muttered against your lips – how beautiful you were, how good you felt, how wonderful you sounded moaning for him, how fucking perfect you were…

He was burrowing into your mind and heart now. You were letting him.

You intentionally clenched your walls around him slightly, wrapping your other leg around his waist to force him deeper into you, pulling what was practically a growl from his chest. His hand on your hip grasped tighter as he gave several deep, pointed, slow thrusts, his forehead falling to lean against yours as he released a shaky breath.

“Wanna fill you up again,” he breathed out desperately, fingertips digging into you roughly as his pace became sloppy. “Can’t stop thinking about seeing my cum leak out of your pretty pussy.”

“Will, fuck…” you moaned again, hands grasping his shoulders to help ground yourself somewhat, feeling the building pressure again and knowing euphoria approached. His hand left your hip to slide lower, his thumb rubbing quick circles around your sensitive bundle of nerves to coax you over the edge.

“You like that? You like hearing me talk about filling you up, my love?”

“Yes, Will, fuck, f-f-fu-fucking love it,” you moaned out, your eager-to-please tone scratching an itch in his brain and causing his pace to increase – he now pounded into you relentlessly, knowing full well you wouldn’t walk well tomorrow. He’d be here to care for you anyway.

“I know ya do,” he groaned, nipping at your bottom lip lightly. “Means you’re mine.

”You could only nod up at him as your lips stayed open, eyelids heavy. He managed a light smile at the sight, losing himself in the fantasy of filling you so often that one day it would really take and that the two of you would fill this big farmhouse with a family – one day, he thought. For now, he could at least enjoy claiming your womb in practice.

Your orgasm washed over you quickly and powerfully, walls tightening down around his cock causing him to stay buried to the hilt as you cried out his name loudly, eyes rolling back. He ground his waist against you best he could with your tight, hot walls spasming around him until his own release came, ropes of his hot seed spilling into you. He kissed you throughout your orgasms, pulling you in closer to his chest to have you as flush against him as possible.

He continued to kiss you repeatedly, gently, reverently, worshipful as both of you came down from your shared high.

“You still want me to stay?” he questioned quietly against your lips when both of you seemed to have your breath returned to normal. You offered a gentle smile, pressing a kiss against his bottom lip – it was lazy, tired. Some of his favorite kisses from you were such – when you had no energy left and you still tried to give it to him.

“Only if you carry me to bed, soldier.”

He smiled – one of his pure and genuine smiles – as he scooped you up into his arms bridal style, holding you closer to his chest as he nodded. Flipping the lights off, Will began to exit the kitchen to make his way to share your bed for the first time, before a final thought ran through his mind. For a moment he questioned if he should voice the thoughts – but he knew you wouldn’t judge him.

“…You want me to grab more of those cupcakes before we go up?”

masterlist.

[sapphire-writes]

Thin Ice (modern!HOTD)

pairing: Aegon x Reader & Cregan Stark x Reader

summary: The end of the fall semester is a week away! One game left before winter break, and you decide to send Aegon a message.

rating: 18+ (detailed warning below the cut)

series masterlist

previous chapter ~ Ch. 7: Superstitious ~ next chapter

warnings: p in v, choking, thigh riding, angst, spanking, hair pulling, language

note: hope you enjoy this chapter! don't hate me too much for the angst you know I can't help myself!!

dividers by @firefly-graphics

“I have to go home,” Helaena tells you, dropping her bag and joining you and Sara on the blanket you’ve laid out on the quad.

Sara lowers her sunglasses. The days have turned significantly colder with the end of the semester looming, but today the sun had decided to show itself, leading to many students skipping their afternoon classes to sunbathe on the quad.

“What are you talking about?” Sara asks, eyebrows furrowing together with confusion.

“There’s still a week left before winter break!” you exclaim, motioning to the books you held in your lap.

Finals season. Finals season was killer. 

Aegon had passed his midterms. He’d sent you an appreciative text that sent you spiraling and then hadn’t texted you since. It had been a couple of weeks. You were sure he’d reach out, especially after his annoyance at you avoiding him. 

But he hadn’t.

You wished it wasn’t eating away at you, but it was. Even when you hung out with Cregan, went on several more dates to dinner, the movies, and ice cream. Your mind constantly wandered back to Aegon. 

Bastard. 

“My dad’s getting worse,” Helaena admitted, crossing her legs as she sat.

You and Sara exchanged a pained glance. You knew Helaena’s father wasn’t doing well, his health had been steadily declining the past few years. He seemed to be pretty stable the past year, Helaena hadn’t shared any updates. 

Aegon hadn’t shared anything with you.

Not that he needed to. What were you even? Friends? Classmates? Lovers? You cringed internally at the thought. 

“I wanted to stay for Egg’s last game before winter break,” Helaena said, shaking her head, 

“But..I don’t know. I just have a feeling.”

“What kind of feeling?” Sara probed.

Helaena pursed her lips, eyebrows knitting together. She looked past you and Sara as though seeing something far away that the both of you could not see. 

“Just like…it may be sooner than I thought,” she tells you both, “and I want to be able to say goodbye.”

“What about Aegon?” you blurt out, unable to stop yourself.

Helaena glances at you, but there’s no suspicion in her eyes even as she takes in the blush blooming on your cheeks.

“He’s in the family group chat,” she tells you, “He sees Mom’s texts. I can’t corral all my brothers, they can come if they want to.”

You nod, pulling your eyes away from her gaze.

“Has he mentioned something?” she asks.

“What?” you answer, “To me? Why would he mention something to me?”

Sara grimaces at the defensiveness of your tone. You can feel sweat beading on the back of your neck. 

“You’re his tutor, aren’t you?” she questions.

“We sort of stopped that.”

“Oh,” Helaena says, picking at a loose thread on her jeans, “That’s a shame.”

“Is it?” you ask, “Aegon wasn’t super serious.”

“He was really proud of his midterm, look,” Helaena says grabbing her phone.

She turns the screen to you and you’re greeted by a selfie of Aegon holding the blue test packet up next to his grinning face. His eyes are crinkled with how hard he’s smiling, and his finger points to the B- written in red on the top corner. You can’t stop the smile that tugs at the corner of your lips or the way your heart begins to beat furiously in your chest as you stare at Helaena’s phone.   

“He worked really hard,” you tell Helaena, “But my tutoring days are over.”

“Maybe Lydia will help him,” Helaena muses, swiping through her notifications.

You tilt your head, curiosity gnawing at your insides. 

“Lydia?” you ask, trying to keep your tone neutral.

Sara flicks her gaze toward you, raising an eyebrow. Helaena hums, still scrolling through her phone. Sara bites her lip, fighting a laugh before making a curious face.

“Are they dating, Hel?” Sara asks, and you widen your eyes at her.

Sara merely shrugs. 

“Um, well Egg doesn’t really date, but they’ve been spending a lot of time together since formal,” Helaena tells her, finally glancing up from her phone, “Why do you ask?”

“I’m curious about all the hot men on campus,” Sara says, smiling.

“Gross,” Helaena answers, “Shouldn’t you only be concerned about Jace?”

“I’m very concerned about Jace,” Sara says, placing a hand over her heart, “Concerned about his gorgeous, thick, co-”

“Enough!” Helaena interrupts, covering her ears. 

Sara snickers and you rise from the blanket, gathering your things.

“Where are you going?” Sara asks, watching you pack your bag.

“Class.”

You head out, leaving your friends on the quad without saying another word, stomach churning at the thought of Aegon and Lydia. 

You don’t see Aegon as you’re sitting with Sara in the bleachers before the game. Both of you are clad in Cregan and Jace’s jerseys. 

It’s tradition, the last game before winter break, the end of the first half of the season. 

“You’re dating the goalie, you wear his jersey,” Brandon Karstark had told you.

“Silly superstition,” Arryx argued.

“It’s not like she’s his girlfriend,” Reese Bolton had said.

It was true. You and Cregan had been on several dates and made out in his car, but you hadn’t gone any further. In any way. 

“Doesn’t matter,” John Umber told his friend, “She still has to wear it.”

I see you at another game in his jersey, I’m fucking you in it.

When the team comes onto the ice, the crowd roars, the sound of cheers almost deafening. You watch the team do a lap around the ice, Cregan sparing you a wave, and the flash of a smile, Jace close on his tail. You spot Aegon, he’s hard to miss, at least to you. 

I see you at another game in his jersey, I’m fucking you in it.

His threat lingers in your mind, sending an ache between your thighs. When he looks up at the stands, his violet eyes meet yours. You cross your arms over your chest, trying to make sure your face doesn’t give away any of the mixed emotions you’re feeling. 

Aegon drags his eyes down your face to your chest, drinking in the outfit you’re wearing. You dressed it up, the jersey falling right to the middle of your thighs completely covering the biker shorts you paired underneath. Fishnet tights decorate the rest of your legs and Aegon’s gaze hungrily follows the pattern down to your ankles. 

As he brings his eyes back up to meet yours, you can feel your cheeks burning. Aegon grins, showing all his perfect, pearly white teeth, cocking his head to the side. No words are exchanged between you, but you understand what that look conveys.

You fucked around, you’re about to find out. 

Naturally, after the team wins they head to the hockey house. You’d hoped to cling to Cregan at the party to avoid Aegon, but your plan came crashing down in the last five minutes of the game. A fight broke out on the ice leading to a broken nose and Cregan headed to the ER. 

He insisted you not wait around for him.

“These things take hours,” he told you, voice muffled from the soaked rag pressed against his face, “Seriously, not the first time not the last. Don’t waste your night in the ER.”

So you ended up clinging to Sara instead, effectively cockblocking your best friend to her dismay. 

“Where are you going?” you ask Sara, as she heads upstairs. 

“I’m just running to Jace’s room, will you chill?” she tells you, “Aegon is nowhere to be found. You’re good.”

“Sara,” you begin, but trail off.

What are you supposed to say? Aegon threatened to fuck you, and you went and poked the bear? 

“Relax,” Sara tells you, “I’m going to grab my coat, grab Jace, and then we can go back to the apartment.”

“Promise?” you ask.

“Give me five minutes,” she says and disappears upstairs. 

Five minutes go by. 

Then ten.

Then fifteen.

You text her several times. Nothing.

“This fucking whore,” you mutter, heading up the stairs. 

You’re not sure which room is Jace’s. Last time you were in the hockey house you were wasted before you passed out in Aegon’s bed. You try the first door. Locked. You bang on it for a moment, hearing only giggles, none of which sound like Sara. You move down the hall.

An empty room, a bathroom, two girls who throw a shoe at you when you interrupt their rendezvous. And then a silver-haired boy, sat on a small couch next to his bed, violet eyes meeting yours when you open the door.

Aegon.

Shit. 

“Hey bunny,” he says casually, closing the book on his lap, and tossing it onto a side table. 

He leans back, arms spread over the back of the couch. He’s freshly showered, hair still slick with water, droplets falling onto the white t-shirt he wears. He grins at you, eyes falling to Cregan’s jersey you’re still wearing. 

“I’m looking for Sara,” you tell him, going to close the door.

“Funny you should say that,” he says, standing suddenly.

You frown, trying to avoid glancing down, instead focusing on the dark black of his pupils. 

“Why?” you ask.

Aegon walks toward you, slowly, like a lion stalking its prey. He makes his way in front of you, reaching behind you and pressing the door shut. He’s so close you can feel his breath on your cheek, feel the warmth from his chest. 

“I think she’s preoccupied,” he tells you, grimacing. 

“Do you and Jace have telepathically communicate?” you ask, frustrated, “Seriously? Why is he so okay with your scheming?”

“He’s my bro,” Aegon says, feigning offense. 

You roll your eyes. 

“Where are they?” you ask.

“Don’t interrupt their fuc-”

“I don’t care if he’s balls deep Egg!” you say loudly, “Where are they?”

“Your apartment, jeez,” he says, laughing at the groan you release, “They left out the back.”

“I’m going to kill her,” you tell him.

“Don’t be mad, bunny,” he says, reaching for your hand.

Aegon laces his fingers through yours, watching them for a moment before bringing his eyes back to your face. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” you tell him, but you don’t pull your hand away.

“Like what?” he asks, swaying slightly.

“Like you’re going to fuck me,” you tell him, “Not happening.”

Aegon sinks his teeth into his lower lip.

“If you didn’t want me to fuck you,” he begins, “Why did you wear that?”

Your face flushes as he motions to the jersey.

“I was very clear,” he tells you, “And you’re a very smart girl.”

You swallow as he brings his hand to the collar of the jersey, rubbing the material between the pads of his fingers. 

“You just trying to be a tease, bunny?” Aegon asks, eyes roaming down your figure, “Cause you look fucking amazing. You know how hard I was on the ice?”

Your breathing has turned shallow, coming out in short pants. 

“You wanna feel how hard you make me?” he asks softly, bringing your hand to his crotch. 

You can feel him, hard and wanting, straining against the jeans he’s wearing. Your lips part slightly as he rocks his hips against your hand. 

“You want to go?” Aegon asks, “This is your chance.”

He rocks against you again, pressing himself against your hand. You can already feel the heat pooling between your thighs, the dull ache beginning. You stare at him and swallow the lump forming in your throat. 

“I don’t want to go,” you breathe and Aegon smiles.

He looks up at you as he begins to sink to his knees. He places a kiss on your stomach, down the tops of your thighs, on your knees, before parting your legs. He drags down your biker shorts, throwing them to a corner of his room.

“I’m going to tear these off with my fucking teeth,” Aegon murmurs, mouthing the fabric of your fishnets, swirling his tongue along the smooth skin of your inner thighs. 

You squirm against his mouth as he presses a kiss to your barely clothed core. You grab a fistful of his hair, yanking him away from you suddenly. Aegon looks up at you, the picture of perfection, an angel on his knees for you. 

“Get up,” you tell him, and he moves to his feet, his hands never leaving your thighs, traveling over the swell of your hips, up your ribs. 

You move his hands off of you, pushing a hand against his chest to push him down onto the couch. He sits, head tilted back watching you as you straddle his lap. Aegon wraps his hands around your waist and you remove them once more. 

“No,” you tell him, holding his hands above his head. 

You know you must be blushing furiously, you’ve never been this domineering in bed before. Aegon looks up at you as you grind yourself against him, feeling him grow harder beneath you. His jaw is slack, violet eyes are blown black with lust, never leaving your face with every roll of your hips. 

You tilt your head to the side. Fake it till you make it, that’s what Sara says. Pretend you’re confident.

“Why should you get to touch me?” you taunt, wetting your lips.

Aegon’s eyes widen slightly, surprised by your sudden dominance. He smirks, a small laugh leaving his perfect lips. 

“Oh, you’re so gonna get it,” Aegon says softly, fire in his violet eyes.

He doesn’t stop you though, doesn’t twist his wrists from your grasp. 

“No, I don’t think so,” you tell him, “I don’t share with anyone. Got it?”

“There’s no one else,” Aegon answers immediately, “No one but you.”

You tilt your head to the side, a smirk sliding onto your face. 

“You’d lie to my face?” you tease, “I know you’ve been seeing Lydia, Hel told me.”

“I’m not seeing Lydia,” Aegon tells you, “Well, I’m not anymore.”

You narrow your eyes at him.

“What about you, hypocrite?” Aegon asks, tilting his chin up at you, “Still walking Cregan like a dog, I see.”

Then he tugs his wrists free, snaking a hand around the back of your neck, pulling you closer so his lips ghost the shell of your ear. 

“He fuck you like I do?” he murmurs, pressing a hot kiss below your ear. 

Your eyes flutter shut as his free hand moves to grab your ass. 

“He make you cum as hard as I do?” he asks, kissing a trail down your neck. 

You wet your lips, fingers tangling in his hair pulling him closer.

“Yeah, he does,” you breathe and you can feel Aegon smile against you.

“Fucking dirty little liar,” he says, pressing your lips against his.

The kiss is hungry and desperate; Aegon’s hand holds your neck so you couldn’t move away even if you wanted to. Not that you want to. When Aegon kisses you, you want him to consume you completely. 

He slips you almost completely off his lap, so you’re straddling his thigh. Your eyes widen as he presses you down against him.

“C’mon ride it,” he tells you, “I know you know how.”

You meet his eyes and he grins. He fucking knew. Of course, he did.

You roll your hips against him, just like that first night at the hockey house. His hands cup your ass, squeezing and kneading the soft flesh as you grind against him. 

“Just like that, there’s my good girl,” he purrs, dragging a hand up your back.

You whimper as he wraps his hand around your throat, squeezing just enough for your air supply to be deliciously depleted. The friction is perfect as his jean-clad thigh presses against your warm center, every roll of your hips sending sparks of pleasure dancing throughout your body.

“You gonna cum? Or do you need an audience like last time?” he teases, referencing the party.

“Fuuuck,” you choke, as Aegon tightens his grip and your curse turns into a high-pitched keen as your orgasm floods through you. 

Aegon releases your throat, picking you up and standing, moving to throw you on the bed. He roughly turns you onto your hands and knees. You push onto your forearms as Aegon’s hands move near your center, tearing through the fabric of your fishnets. 

“I liked those!” you hiss, feeling him move the lace of your thong out of the way.

You hear him chuckle darkly, hear the zipper of his pants and feel the tip of his fat cock sliding through your slick folds.

“You’ll like this more,” he tells you, “Promise, bunny.”

Then he’s sinking into you and every witty retort you can think of slips from your head. Aegon rocks his hips against yours and your hands clutch the comforter seeking purchase. You grit your teeth, trying to not give him the satisfaction of a moan. 

“Oooh, you are mad at me, huh?” Aegon teases, delivering a harsh thrust.

You bite the inside of your cheek, falling from your forearms, cheek pressing against the bed as Aegon continues to pound into you, bringing a hand down to slap your ass. The mark stings and Aegon rubs his hand over it before delivering another blow. 

A whimper escapes your lips when he angles his hips just right, the head of his cock bullying into your sweet spot. Your eyes nearly roll back into your head when he leans forward, focusing on the spot he’s located. 

“C’mon tell me how good it feels,” Aegon says, snapping his hips.

He brings his hand to the back of your head, pulling you up by your hair. 

“Tell me,” he whispers in your ear. 

“Fuck,” you moan, unable to help yourself.

“Touch that pretty little clit, right now,” he demands, and you bring your hand between your legs.

You rub nice slow circles around your aching clit, fingertips brushing against Aegon’s cock each time it slides in and out.

“There’s my good girl,” Aegon croons, “Even when she’s mad she listens so well.”

Gods there’s something about his voice, something about the way he talks you through it, it has your back arching, moans and whines spilling from your lips as you’re thrown over the edge once more, cunt spasming around his cock. 

Aegon slows his thrusts as you cum, still painfully erect as he pulls out, tapping the side of your ass. You turn around, laying on your back, panting as you look up at him. 

He holds his tongue between his teeth, eyes falling to your chest. 

“Take that fucking thing off,” he tells you and you move the jersey over your head. 

“And that,” he says motioning to your bra.

That lands on the floor as well, leaving you in your ruined fishnets and thong. Aegon climbs on top of you, dragging his mouth across your breasts, stopping to roll your nipples between his teeth and tug on them harshly. 

He continues to worship your body with his mouth before he slides himself back into your warm, tight center. You lock your legs around his waist, raising your hips to meet his thrusts. 

“Do I fuck better than him?” Aegon asks, “Tell me.”

You meet his eyes then, and you know your facade has faded. Aegon smiles then, showing all his teeth.

“You haven’t even fucked him, have you?” Aegon asks.

You don’t answer, trying to capture his lips in a kiss. Aegon turns his head from your needy lips.

“You are my good girl,” Aegon tells you, sending fire pooling in your belly.

“Yes,” you whimper, “Yes, I am.”

Aegon kisses you then as a reward, slow and sensual as he thrusts deeply into you. He’s so deep inside you, your denials from earlier spill past your lips.

“You fuck me so well,” you whimper, “No one could fuck me like you.”

You know you might regret the confession, but you can’t find it in you to care at the moment. 

“I know baby, love fucking you,” he murmurs against your mouth, “God this pussy, fucking made for me.”

“Fuck yes yes right there-!” you whine as he presses himself into you.

Tears blur your vision as your legs begin to tremble with the promise of your third release. 

“Oh god, oh fuck-” you squeak as your third orgasm rips through you, Aegon never slowing his merciless pace all the while.  

“So fucking good,” Aegon moans as your pussy clenches, milking his cock until you feel him twitching inside you, the warmth of his release painting your inner walls. 

He kisses you slowly and passionately, with his cock still nestled deep inside of you. As he pulls out of your warmth he keeps his arms around you, dragging you to lay across his chest. Your breathing returns to normal, your limbs feeling like jelly as you listen to the steady drumming of his heartbeat. 

“You can’t have it both ways, you know,” you tell him, not looking into his eyes. 

You expect to feel him tense beneath you, to tell you to stop being jealous. Or dramatic. Or not as easygoing as other situationships. Something Jason would say. Something Jason had said to you. 

“You can’t get mad at me for seeing Cregan and then go screw Lydia Tyrell,” you continue, nervously chewing on your lip. 

You feel Aegon’s hand on the back of your head, smoothing your hair. 

“I know,” he tells you, chest rumbling, “I just wanted to see you sweat a little.”

You lift your face, resting your chin on his chest to look at him. He glances down at you, a sly smile on his face. 

“What?” he asks.

“You’re not seeing Lydia?” you ask, heart beating erratically. 

Aegon shakes his head and you whack him on the chest. 

“Ow!” he says, wincing. 

“You’re such a dick!” you tell him and he rolls until he’s on top of you.

He presses his lips to yours and the rude words slip from your mind as his tongue caresses your bottom lip. Aegon presses his body against yours, the weight of him against you bringing a fresh way of arousal to your center. 

“I’d like to be seeing you,” he murmurs against your mouth.

Your fingers tangle in his hair as he nips your lower lip, eager for him to sheath himself within you once more.

“Helaena is going to kill us,” you tell him, kissing him back nonetheless.

“We don’t have to tell her,” he murmurs between kisses.

You freeze suddenly, pulling your lips from his. 

A secret. You’re going to be a secret. That’s almost worse. Shame twists in your gut, and Aegon senses a shift in your mood as you rise, slipping Cregan’s jersey back over your head and your biker shorts back on. 

Aegon sits up slightly, cocking his head.

“What?” he asks, but you shake your head.

“Nothing,” you tell him, running a hand through your hair, “I just have to go.”

“Now?” Aegon asks, his voice breaking into a whine, “Y/N, stay with me-”

“No I have to go,” you insist, grabbing your shoes. 

Your tights are ruined, hanging on you in tattered pieces but you don’t care. You need to get out, need to leave before the tears blurring your vision spill over. 

Aegon’s brow creases, he stands up taking the bedsheet with him, clutching it against his stomach to cover himself.

“Y/N what did I do?” Aegon asks, concern lacing his tone.

You sigh, hand on the door before forcing a smile on your face and turning to him.

“Nothing. You’re just being Aegon,” you tell him, “Forgot who you were for a minute, it’s all good.”

Pain flashes across his features for a moment and a tear escapes your eye. You wipe it away furiously before pulling his bedroom door open.

“I’ll see you around,” you call, not looking back as the dam within you breaks.

You hurry down the stairs and out of the hockey house into the cold night air, hurrying down the quiet streets of your college campus eager to get back to your apartment.

You can’t help but cry, cursing as you pass a group of drunk girls who stop when they see you, insisting you tell them what’s wrong. Finally, you make it home, walking into your dark apartment. You’re greeted by Baela on your couch, who rises as you enter.

“Y/N-” she says, biting her lip.

“Bae? What's wrong?” you ask.

“Helaena called…her dad…” Bae starts, tears falling, “He passed away tonight.”

Your heart nearly stops beating. You dig mindlessly into your purse for your phone, hands shaking.

8 missed calls.

She tried calling you. For the past hour or so. The entire time you were with Aegon. Guilt pours through your limbs and you’re sobbing earnestly now, Baela holding you against her. There’s one more missed call, more recently, just about ten minutes ago.

Aegon.

note: I hope you enjoyed my loves! Again, don't hate me too much for the angst I truly cannot help myself!

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[jedi-enthusiast]

I haven't made a post in a while, so here's my think piece on why the "Anakin was sleep deprived and thought Padme was going to die" excuse for his actions in ROTS is bullshit, since I feel like tossing my two-cents into the conversation.

----------

I have really bad anxiety and, when I am without my medication, that anxiety turns to extreme paranoia. I am also in a near-constant state of minor sleep-depravation, since I suffer from insomnia, but when my paranoia kicks in, I will go days on end with little to no sleep.

Some backstory, so that all of you understand exactly how and why my anxiety when it comes to death/sleep is so severe:

I had cancer a couple of years ago- (about three I think, but my memory from that time is very foggy) -and, during that time I suffered from something called Methotrexate Toxicity, which is when chemo leaks into your brain---or, at least, that's how the doctors explained it to me.

In short, I went to sleep one night and woke up paralyzed, and for a week I was certain that I was going to die.

I'm better and am no longer paralyzed, but now when my paranoia kicks in I become convinced that---if I go to sleep---I'm going to either die in my sleep or wake up paralyzed again and then die. Depending on how severe the paranoia is, sometimes I also become convinced that my mom and dad will die as well if I sleep, usually in a car crash---since my dad has almost died in a car crash twice.

I become physically unable to sleep because I am so terrified of doing so.

Now Anakin, as he's portrayed in Lucas canon, has no such issues---he only suffers from occasional nightmares, not the sleep depravation/paranoia combo that I suffer from. I'm sure we can all agree on which is worse.

Even if he did suffer from the same issues, though, it still doesn't excuse his actions.

I have had times where I've been up for almost 3 days, running off of 3-4 hours of sleep and convinced that the moment I fall asleep I'll stop breathing, and still I have never thought of harming other people. Mass murder, genocide, whatever! None of it has ever seemed acceptable to me, even during my worst spirals.

So I don't give a fuck whether Anakin was sleep deprived or running on fumes or what, he's still responsible for his actions!

[buckymorelikefuckme]

an evened score

jake jensen x fem reader

part two of a helping hand

words: 1.3k

warnings: jake motherfuckin jensen, explicit sexual content so **18+ ONLY** pls and thank, guided masturbation, use of vibrator, dirty talk, brief unprotected sex (don’t do that), crying during sex, multiple orgasms… uhhh, i think that’s it? but let me know if i missed anything!

a/n: this one is for you @bigtreefest 🫡♥️ i have no excuse for this except for the fact that i’m whipped for this man and can’t stop thinking about him. not proofread so any and all mistakes are my own! feedback is encouraged and greatly appreciated 🥰 xo

❀ part one

“Jake, please.”

Your voice is thin and weary, nearly a whine, as your chest heaves for breath.

Time has ceased to exist and has left you to spiral into a mindless, pleasure filled haze. Yet, even in the midst of the overwhelming good you’re feeling, there hasn’t been a chance of following those tingly, sparkly sensations to completion. No hint of satisfaction yet.

Perhaps you created a monster when you offered to lend a hand to your sweet Jakey, all those weeks ago, when the two of you easily slipped into more-than-friends. He’d been so shy still during the first few weeks, always taking what he was given and only sometimes asking for more, until you sat him down and told him you liked when he asked for more, when he took more. After that, he got a little more confident. More assured.

And now, in the present, you’re putty in his hands. He’s got you in the same position you first had him in; your chest resting against his back, settled between his muscled thighs. Jake asked you to show him how you get yourself off and it sent a new type of thrill down your spine, so you eagerly agreed.

Oh, how naive you’d been.

“Keep going, baby, you’re doing so well,” he murmurs in your ear, his lips brushing the cartilage tantalizingly.

You do whine this time, needy and drawn out. You’ve got three fingers in your pussy, thrusting them at an uneven pace, face full of heat at the audible squelching sounds it creates. In your other hand is a small bullet vibrator that you’ve been lightly grazing on and around your clit, not wanting to put too much pressure on such a sensitive spot, especially when you’ve already come twice. You’ve been torn between begging to stop and begging for him to fucking do something already, especially since he’s—

“Just thinking about how warm you are inside,” he says, gruff, his chest rumbling beneath your back. “How your pussy squeezes me so tight. Never felt anything better in my life.”

As if it’s responding to his words, your pussy clenches around your fingers, and you bite your lip to hold back your whimpers. He’s been whispering all the things he wants to do to you, all the ways he finds you sexy, everything he loves about fucking you, and you’re reaching your breaking point. You can feel his cock, so fucking hard and pulsing at the small of your back, but he won’t do anything, fuck, you’re almost crying out of pure frustration. Your skin glistens with a light sheen of sweat as you struggle to keep your legs spread.

“I’ve had so many fantasies about you,” Jake confesses next, softer in this admission in a way that highlights his lingering trepidation of being so bold with you, but all it does is make you finally let out that whimper and have your head falling limply back onto his shoulder. “Wanna… wanna try so many things.”

“What—“ You stop and gasp when the vibrator hits such a perfect spot, body locking up before you force yourself to relax. “What kind of things?” you manage to get out several seconds later.

He hums, dragging his lips across your neck, stopping occasionally to lick and nip at it. “Thought about seeing how many times I can make you come on my tongue only, in one night. Thought about fucking you against the windows, so everyone could see how well I take care of you. Wanna bend you over the couch, or the counter, or any other flat surface so I can watch your ass bounce while I fuck you. Wanna—god, I wanna spank your beautiful ass and leave my handprint there like a fucking brand.”

His hands finally begin to wander your skin, his own breathing picking up as he voices his imagination. Your fingers have since stopped moving, mostly because your arm is tired, but also because everything he’s saying is making you lose your goddamn mind and you can’t focus anymore.

“Wondered if you could keep my cock warm in your pussy while I finished up some work. Or maybe in your mouth. You’d be such a good girl for me, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes,” you cry, nodding and turning your face into his neck to desperately mouth at whatever you can reach. “Jakey, please, I need more.”

He coos, kissing your forehead. “Your fingers aren’t enough, are they?”

You shake your head and whine, because he’s right. Your fingers are nothing compared to his. They’re thin and kind of dainty, where his are thick and so good and long. But even his fingers don’t compare to his cock. Oh, sweet merciful jesus, his cock. You’d write and perform sonnets about it if you knew Jake wouldn’t combust from embarrassment.

“Okay,” he relents, “c’mon, you can have my fingers.”

The moment the words leave his lips you’re removing your own and lifting them to prod at his mouth, which he opens immediately. He groans, guttural and greedy, as he sucks every bit of your taste off of them. Yours still trapped between his lips, he wastes no time plunging two of his fingers into your dripping wet pussy, moaning when you flutter around them straight away. Your jaw slackens from the switch, hips fucking forward into his hand before you even register that you’re moving and your own fingers slipping free from his skilled tongue.

“Keep being good for me,” he instructs, “keep using your toy on your pretty pussy.”

Tears gather in your eyes when you touch your clit with the vibrating tip of the toy. It’s so much, too much, and it’s not nearly enough either.

“Jake,” you cry, bringing your knees up and fighting against the urge to close them.

“Look at you,” he muses, free hand gliding down your torso and back up to pinch and tweak at your nipples, then sliding downward once more to wrap around your hand and guide your movements, applying even more pressure to the vibrator that has you jerking and sobbing his name louder than ever. “So fucking perfect. Fantasy can’t hold a candle to reality, baby.”

Your tears spill over as you cry and beg and writhe, for more, for everything. Jake shushes you gently, curling his fingers inside you to rub incessantly at the spot that makes you sob pathetically, keeping those vibrations directly on your clit.

It’s sensory overload and your orgasm rips through you almost violently. Every bit of your being trembles and spasms, lungs aching as you sharply search for your breath, pleasure pulsing through you from the top of your head all the way down to your curled toes. The fingernails of your free hand dig into his meaty thigh as he coaxes you through the hardest orgasm of your fucking life.

It seems like it drags on and on and on. Your vision starts to go fuzzy and the noises pouring out of you become quieter and smaller, legs shaking as tremors wrack through your body. Jake continues murmuring sweet praises in your ear as he slowly stops moving his fingers and removes the vibrator. Like the strings of a marionette being cut, you fall back into his embrace, fighting to keep your eyes open.

“Baby,” he’s whispering urgently, and the last functioning brain cell you have takes note of the way his hips are twitching upward into you, “baby, please.”

You hum softly in assent and he’s carefully, yet eagerly, scrambling to get you flat on your back.

“I’ll be quick, I promise, I just need you,” he mutters as he lines up his gorgeous, thick, huge, fucking perfect cock and thrusts inside. You let out a pitiful cry and he kisses you. “I know, I know,” he croons, setting up a rough pace from the start, “we’ll take a rest after this, okay? But then I have more plans.”

You’d hit him if you had the energy. You’d protest and call him an insatiable fucking monster… but you both know you’d be begging for him within minutes, so instead, you let him wipe away your tears and suck on his tongue while he fucks the breath out of you.