#like there’s a lot you can assume from that

[luveline]

oooh what about hotch's sister calling spencer to pick her up at the hospital after an accident or something because she doesn't want hotch to know since worry and go into protective big brother mode, but spencer tells him anyway and they both show up and lots of fluff ensues :)

adopted fem!reader, 1.5k

cw for panic attacks

You should call your brother. 

You think about it, even pull up his contact, he’s the first person you go to when you need help and he always has been, but lately Aaron has been so stressed you hesitate, clicking the text button by mistake. 

You read back his last message. 

I can feel myself being spread too thin but there’s nothing I can do to fix it, he’d text. I guess I’m frustrated. But how are you, working girl? New jobs are scary. I bet you’re doing better than you think already. Jack and I are super proud of you

You’d sent him a meagre response. You aren’t always sure what to say to him. Sincerity is easier in person, but even then, he can be terse and deflective; he looks after you and no one looks after him. 

You didn’t tell him about work, and you won’t tell him about now. You call Spencer instead. This is a good way to test the almost dating thing, right? 

He doesn’t answer. When you call again, he answers on the first ring. “Hey, are you okay?” 

“No. Are you busy?” 

“I’m not busy if you’re not okay. Two seconds.” There’s a pause where you assume he’s moving from one place to another, perhaps closing a book around his hand, or closing the lid on an early lunch. “What’s wrong?” 

“I’m, uh, in hospital. I had a huge panic attack at work and I… thought I was having a heart attack, so I–” You’re so embarrassed your voice turns to a thread. “Sorry, I know it’s so stupid.” 

“It’s not stupid, that’s not stupid. How do you feel now?” 

“Like someone hit me really hard in the chest.” 

“Are you calmed down?” 

“Mostly.” You wince. “They want to talk to me about medications. Uh.” You clear your throat. “I want to go home.” 

“Angel… I’m on my way, okay? I’ll get Hotch and–”

“You can’t tell him.” 

“What?” 

“Please, Spencer, he gets so worried, he’s worried enough. And if he finds out I had a panic attack he’ll try and make me take time off of work and that’s just another thing on his plate he didn’t ask for–”

“Hey, hey, hey,” he says softly, “please don’t panic. You’ve had a hard morning, panicking again is really gonna hurt. Try and think about things that don’t wind you up, alright? Is there anything you need me to get?” 

“You don’t have to come.” 

“That’s why you called me, right? I’ll be there.” 

You can’t know that he says goodbye and ducks straight back into Hotch’s office, where he’d been, to tell on you. It’s not to hurt you and it isn’t because you told him not to —it’s two parts concern, and one part self preservation. Aaron needs to know and you need him with you, and he also can’t imagine things going well for himself if he kept the news of your stay a secret. The shovel talk plays in his mind. 

Aaron’s shovel talk being, You won’t do anything to hurt her, said simply, and with an impassive expression that bordered terrifying. Not overly unaffected, just casual. 

You’re laying in your hospital bed with your hands clasped across your stomach when Spencer arrives. He frowns at you in your bed, worse when he sees your smudged makeup and the chafed inside of your wrist where you’ve picked and squeezed at your own skin. Your panic has left a physical mark, your chest aching as you force yourself to sit, and it hurts doubly so when your brother lets himself in behind your nearly-boyfriend.

You don’t have it in you to complain. 

“I’m sorry,” Spencer says, reaching down to give you a quick hug as you sit. “I had to tell him.” 

 Aaron’s hug is similarly apologetic, though much longer. “You weren’t gonna tell me?” he asks quietly, his hand settling at the place between your shoulders. “How do you feel now?” 

“I’m fine, I– I really thought I was having a heart attack.” 

“That’s common,” Spencer says, “it’s the feeling of impending doom, thousands of people mistake anxiety for medical issues every week.” 

Aaron holds you by the shoulders. “It’s okay,” he says. “Was it a doctor that checked you out, or a nurse?” 

Aaron probes the name of your nurse from you and promises to be back soon. He seems to have gleaned that the quickest way to get information today won’t be from you. 

Spencer goes in for another hug when he leaves, and then, to your delight, a very quick kiss pressed to your cheek. He ducks away after that and sits on the side of your hospital bed, his knuckles gracing the outside of your thigh. “Thank you for calling me,” he says, smiling at you, and better when you smile back.

“Thanks for coming.” 

“Of course. I know how it feels, okay? If they want to talk about medication it’s a good thing, but everyone has moments like this.” 

“I can’t believe you told Aaron,” you say, giving a weak but playful glare.

“I can’t believe you weren’t going to. He loves you, he wants to know what’s hurting you, no matter how much stuff is on his plate.” 

You bite the inside of your lip, contemplative for a few slow seconds. “You think so?” you ask finally. 

The hair flicked under his ears wobbles as he nods. “Absolutely.” 

You lean forward to readjust his collar and tie. He’s wearing one of his cutesy waistcoats, dark grey over a light blue shirt. His tie has patterns you trace with your thumb, like fish scales. “Sorry, I know you were working,” you murmur. 

“I think my boss will forgive me.” 

You let your hands fall. Spencer, perhaps picking up on a hint you hadn’t meant to give, takes them both into one of his and squeezes reassuringly. 

“It’s harder than I thought,” you confide softly. 

“It’s an adjustment period. But maybe it’s not right for you, there. That’s what started it, right? Your job.” 

“I’m not sure. I don’t know. I get panicky about all sorts of stuff, but I’ve never had one this bad before. I was a miserable kid, you can ask Aaron, but I really thought I was better.” 

He rubs over your fingers with his thumb. “I think we all have stuff that messes us up. Doesn’t mean you’re not better. You don’t even really have to be better. And I… I am here for you, I promise. I know you have no reason to trust me with it yet, but I’ll listen whenever you need me to.” 

You think about kissing him. Spencer kisses like he’s suffocating and your air, it’s cliche and undeniably true. Whenever you kiss him it’s like a shock —he steals your breath, he can’t stop himself from grabbing your face, and any other time you’d love it, but right now you just need a peck. You’re hoping he can do those kinds of kisses too. 

“Will you kiss me?” you ask tentatively.

He gets the memo on gentleness. You shouldn’t be surprised, your very first kiss was tame, his hand running up your arm as he encourages you forward. Your eyes shutter closed at the feeling of his lips on yours, and the exhausting thrumming that’s lived beneath your skin since you woke up numbs to a more manageable ache. 

Spencer breaks away. He cups your cheek quickly, dropping it immediately when the door opens. 

You shuffle backward nonchalantly. 

Aaron gives you a sarcastic look. Really? it says. I wasn't born yesterday. 

“They want to give you a prescription for Paxil, honey, what do you think?” He turns his attention to Spencer reluctantly. “What’s her best option here?” 

“Paxil could be fine. They didn’t suggest a benzodiazepine? Paxil is an SSRIs, it slows down the rate of serotonin reuptake, basically increasing the effectiveness of your bodies natural serotonin, which could decrease the risk of another attack, but taking it won’t stop her from feeling like this,” —he frowns at your location— “very quickly. Ideally she should have a medication for general anxiety and the option for quicker relief if this happens again.” He smiles at you suddenly, nearly shyly. “If that’s what you want, that is.” 

“What are you thinking, honey?” Aaron asks you. 

You have the two of them here to look after you while you decide. You take Spencer’s hand gently, desperate for reassurance. “I’m not sure.” 

“It’s okay, we’ll work it out,” your brother promises. 

Spencer squeezes your hand. 

[markrosewater]

Elegance

Here’s my original article for Elegance.

 This is a topic I’ve wanted to write about for a long time.  Ironically, the words needed to explain the concept kept the column from being elegant. So I did what all artists do.  I found a way to say a lot in a little space.

 Enjoy,

 Mark Rosewater

 [NOTE: EACH OF THE ABOVE FIFTY WORDS IS HYPERLINKED.  BELOW IS THE FIFTY HYPER LINKS.  THE HEADERS SHOULDN’T BE ON THE LINKED PAGE.  I’M JUST INCLUDING THEM SO YOU KNOW WHAT EACH LINK IS.]

 ELEGANCE

 Merriam-Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary has five definitions for elegance:

 • refined grace or dignified propriety

• tasteful richness of design or ornamentation

• dignified, gracefulness or restrained beauty of style

• scientific precision, neatness and simplicity

• something that is elegant

 The common elements appear to be dignity, simplicity, and taste.

 THIS

 Elegance requires thinking, but it also requires feeling.  Elegant prose is judged by how it makes the reader feel. It needs to generate a sense of calm that puts the reader at ease.  Everything in your writing should feel as if it was carefully positioned to create the proper effect.

 IS

 Pound for pound, the writer’s greatest writing tool is the verb.  Nouns add substance and adjectives add flourish, but it’s the verb that drives the sentence.  Choose a strong, descriptive verb and the sentence has flair and purpose. Choose a weak one and the sentence lacks any sense of drama.

 A

 Here’s a little game to test an elegance relevant skill (based on an old game called Inklings).  Randomly choose a noun.  Try to convey that noun to the other players using the least number of letters possible. You’ll be surprised how much you can communicate in just a few letters.

 TOPIC

 One of the greatest stumbling blocks to elegance is the inability to choose a single focus.  Elegance requires simplicity.  Simplicity requires a single purpose of thought.  This means that elegance starts before you write a single word.  A good sculptor must know his image before he picks up his chisel.

 I’VE

 One of the common misconceptions of elegance is that it requires a writer to be fancy. Elegance though is more about familiarity than formality. You shouldn’t be afraid of friendlier language such as slang or contractions, assuming that such language adds an element of ease rather than one of laziness.

 WANTED

 An important element of elegance is a sense of passion.  Brevity does not mean pulling away emotionally from words, but rather the opposite.  When you find yourself limited to fewer words, you must pack each individual word with extra emotional punch.  You are not reducing your message, simply your messenger.

 TO

 A good tool in understanding elegance is studying poetry.  Poetry is the most concise of all written art forms.  It strives to maximize impact while minimizing expression.  Each word carries the burden of evoking some essence of the poet’s message. If it cannot carry its own weight, it is excised.

WRITE

 To be an elegant writer, you have to become a student of prose.  You have to study the mechanics of language to understand how it can be shaped.  Once you have learned how to transfer the feeling in your head into meaningful words, you are on the path to elegance.

 ABOUT

 Be careful not to fall in love with ambiguity.  While intoxicating in its beauty, it is the enemy of elegance. Remember, the goal is not to make the reader struggle for comprehension.  Rather it is to lead them to the obvious conclusion. Elegance should be used to illuminate, not confuse.

 FOR

 Elegant prose requires connecting with your reader.  To do this, you have to understand who that reader is.  Nothing should come before this task.  It needs to be done before writing can begin. I like to compare this to planning a trip.  Maps are useless until you know your destination.

 A

 Another major key to elegance is the understanding of the importance of the tiniest detail.  Just as a chain is only as strong as its weakest link, a piece of prose is only as tight as its messiest detail. A good writer doesn’t stop at the nouns, verbs and adjectives.

 LONG

 Don’t confuse elegance with brevity.  Elegant things are short not because they have to be but because the difficulty to craft an elegant piece of prose combined with the limitations of time forces writers to be brief.  Elegant novels, for example, do exist, but they are few and far between.

 TIME

 To quote Roman orator (and letter writer) Marcus T. Cicero, “If I had more time, I would have written a shorter letter.”  

 Simplicity takes more time not less.  Anyone can get a point across with ten thousand words.  But a true artist can do it in ten (or possibly fifty).  

 IRONICALLY

 Irony is a potent tool for commentary.  Its genius lies in the fact that it comments not on what is, but rather on what isn’t.  Like all good humor, irony makes you laugh.  But like the best type of humor, it also makes you think.  It’s both funny and funny.

 THE

 Elegance in writing is about more than words. Equally important is how the words are woven together. Tempo, pacing, rhythm – these are the tools that set the mood for the piece.  Try reading aloud your text.  The natural beat of language is more suited for the ear than the eye.

 WORDS

 To realize the power of words, you must first understand how they work. Art is expressive; words are connotative.  That is, words draw their power from their ability to extract different ideas from different people.  A circle is a circle, but the concept of “scary” varies from person to person.

 NEEDED

 Elegance is not the result of any one attribute.  It is the combination of numerous factors coming together in harmony. This is why it’s such a hard skill to master.  Most people can pat their head or rub their tummy.  But put them together and it’s not quite so easy.

 TO

 An elegant piece of prose needs to hit the reader at a gut level.  Often they won’t know exactly why they like it, but they will recognize that something about the piece moves them.  There are many types of writing where subtlety is lost.  Elegant writing isn’t one of them.

 EXPLAIN

 There are many ways for you to explain an idea.  The most elegant one though is not through definition but by example. By connecting your idea to one already known by the reader, you’re leaving the work of teaching to someone in the past.  Education is hard.  Comparison is easy.

 THE

 If writing is like building a house, the structure is like the foundation. Its design will dictate how the house is built.  If it’s faulty, no amount of fancy brickwork will undo the damage.  So take the time to ensure your structure is building the kind of prose you want.

 CONCEPT

 Never underestimate the power of a concept.  An important part of elegance is condensing big ideas into little words. This is far from an easy task.  It often takes a genius an entire lifetime to create a truly innovative concept.  So take advantage of all their hard work and inspiration.  

 KEPT

 A common barrier to elegance is the belief that only one way will work. Often a writer is unable to abandon a beloved piece of prose even when evidence demonstrates otherwise.  If something doesn’t add to the larger sense of the piece, you have to learn to let it go.

 THE

 Readers notice things at a minute level far beyond their mind’s ability to interpret. This means that although they may not consciously notice many of your tiny details, they will do so unconsciously. Aesthetics teach us that it’s this unconscious structure that will determine whether or not it feels “right”.

 COLUMN

 All communicators, whether through speaking or print, need to find a voice. A voice provides familiarity and it teaches the listener or reader how to more quickly absorb the information. Elegance is all about the conservation of ideas.  Having a pre-learned voice to guide you is a very valuable tool.

 FROM

 I’ve spent some time talking about understanding your reader.  But there is one more person who is even more important to understand – yourself. Writing is about sharing your ideas with others.  If you haven’t spent the time to figure out what you think, how can you possibly communicate it?

 BEING

 “A picture is worth a thousand words.”

 Or so the saying goes.  What the cliché forgets to mention is how many words a single word is worth.  For example, take the word “being”. To capture the essence of what “being” represents is tens of thousands of words if not more.

 ELEGANT

 What is the value of being elegant? Why should you care? Elegance adds aesthetics. It evokes poetry.  It grants beauty.  Elegant prose draws the reader closer because it gives them something to not just learn but to admire.  Good prose stimulates the head, but elegant prose resonates in the heart.

 SO

 Who, what, where, when, how - all important questions.  But for a writer they pale next to why.  If you don’t understand the reasoning beneath the surface, the other details are irrelevant.  The act of elegance is cementing the why.  It’s taking the purpose and engraining it into the piece.

 I

 Elegance is a very personal thing.  If something doesn’t resonate with you, there’s no way for it to resonate with your reader.  Writing is an art, not a science.  There is no rulebook for how things must be done.  If your instincts are telling you that something isn’t working, listen.

 DID

 An important tool in your toolbox is time. Elegance cannot be rushed.  Mental ruts only get deeper the harder you focus on them.  Make sure to work time into your schedule so you are able to walk away from your writing. An hour next week is worth a day today.  

 WHAT

 Don’t let attention to detail pull you away from having a larger sense of what you’re writing.  Take this column as an example.  While I spent a lot of time fine tuning each entry I never lost sight of the effect they created when all the entries were put together.

 ALL

 Elegance requires taking a holistic view of writing.  Every word, every sentence, every paragraph is a piece in a larger puzzle. It’s not enough to understand the impact of a single element. You must understand how any two elements interact if you want to understand the potency of your text.

 ARTISTS

 Elegance and art are very intertwined.  Both seek to achieve a similar goal: to illuminate and inspire with a conservation of expression.  If you’re trying to be elegant, I think it helps to think of yourself as an artist. The instinct for the latter mirrors the needs of the former.

 DO

 An important part of any writing is understanding the feeling you’re trying to evoke.  And then realizing what mechanic tools you have available to evoke that feeling. Diction, verb tense, sentence length, alliteration, word flow, phonetic juxtaposition – each of these will control the mood and tone of your piece.

 I

 A writer’s life is the ultimate fodder.  Don’t be ashamed to plumb your own experiences.  You understand them deeper and more personally than anyone else.  No painter would refuse to use his finest paints. And, as a bonus, by using your own experiences, you will become better educated about yourself.

 FOUND

 Don’t forget that the act of revealing is also an act of exploration.  Don’t be afraid if you learn more than the reader you’re trying to educate.  Writing is not an exact science.  (Or even an exact art.)  Often you will find that the road to salvation has a fork.

 A

 Your future is paved with your past.  If you want to learn how to grow as a writer, you need to look back at what you’ve written. With time and a detached eye, your will find your mistakes become clearer.  Remember that it’s failure, not success, that bests drives education.

 WAY

 The problem with looking for a single solution is that you’ll never find more than one.  And the first one isn’t always the best.  But if you’re open to the possibility that every problem has an infinite number of answers, you’ll have the freedom of choosing the solution you want.  

 TO

 Sentences are filled with freeloaders.  Because writers seem to love overwriting. (I include myself in this camp.)  Make sure to create time for the editor side of you to prune unnecessary words.  If a word can be excised without any harm to the sentence, it has no right being there.

 SAY

 I’m spending my time today talking about elegance in prose, but most of what I’m saying is applicable in speech.  The key difference is that prose has less defining attributes like appearance or tone.  The key to elegant speech is making people focus on the words rather than everything else.

 A

 It’s ironic that something designed to be so simple can be so complex.  But that, my faithful readers, is the joy (and mystery) of elegance. Like an onion, elegance has numerous layers that reveal themselves as you slowly peel them away.  Oh yeah, and it can sometimes make you cry.

 LOT

 An interesting exercise is to look at each word you’re using and think about how much content is loaded in that word.  Then explore what other words exist that fulfill the same role but with added content.  Once you’ve found the word you can’t best, move onto the next word.

 IN

 A good way to get better at understanding elegance is to look for it in every day life. I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised where and how often you find it.  Study each example carefully and try to see if you can put your finger on what makes it work.  

 A

 Writing is a shared endeavor.  No one owns the words.  If someone uses a technique that works, there’s no shame in borrowing it.  Like science, writing creates technology that’s brought back to the group to spur further advancements.  Elegance is hard enough to accomplish without refusing to use the toolbox.

 LITTLE

 How big should a piece of text be if you want it to be elegant?  The answer is as big as it needs to be – and not a word more. Just think of it as playing the game Jenga. Keep pulling words out of your prose until it collapses.  

 SPACE

 One of the most important lessons in art is learning the value of negative space, the idea that the eyes are equally drawn to what isn’t there.  Prose has a very similar quality.  When writing pay careful attention to what you aren’t saying. Often it will speak the loudest volume.

 ENJOY

 For some reason people tend to equate dignity with seriousness.  And as such they come to the false conclusion that elegance has no room for humor.  Ironic as humor is one of the most elegant of styles.  A good joke is no longer than is necessary to do its job.

 MARK

 As is always true when I head off the beaten path, I am curious to hear your feedback.  What did you think of this article?  Was it entertaining?  Was it educational? Did you actually read all fifty links?  And if not, why not?

 Tell me.  Inquiring mind wants to know.

 ROSEWATER

 I couldn’t end this week’s column without my trademark closing.  I mean, how inelegant would that be?

 Join me next week when  I go from being a letter man to a Letterman.

 Until then, may you learn to appreciate now just the “what” but the “how” and “why”.

 Mark Rosewater

[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

(。♡ ‿ ♡。)

[flemingsfreckles]

Physio’s Daughter Part 10

Read the rest of the series here!

Warnings: cursing, that’s about it

WC: 4.6k

A/N: it’s almost over yall

You woke up tangled in the bedsheets, blinking a few times before realizing your head was just on the mattress and your pillow was on the ground. You sit up slightly, reaching for the pillow to bring it back under your head. You roll over to check the clock and that’s when you remember this isn’t your hotel room. This isn’t your bed, this is Jessie’s bed. Only Jessie wasn’t in bed anymore.

Pushing up you look around the room, finding it empty, no signs of Jessie, you also didn’t hear the water running in the bathroom, she wasn’t anywhere you could see in the room. You notice her phone, wallet, and ID badge are all missing from the bedside table. She had left.

You feel your heart sink into your stomach. A twisted feeling building inside of you. She wasn’t here. You were waking up alone.

Unsure of what to do, you climbed out of bed, making your way to the bathroom. It seemed untouched from last night, both of your clothes still in a pile on the floor, her medal still on the counter, both of your toothbrushes in a cup. You brush your teeth and try to keep your mind from spiraling at the fact that Jessie was gone.

You decide to check your phone which you failed to charge last night, maybe she had texted you. You’re quickly able to check your phone. Disappointment fills your body when you see a few messages from family who were congratulating you on your hard work and a few messages from Olivia.

Olivia: I’m down to help

Olivia: What do you need?

Olivia: assuming you’re having a good night ;) and are too busy to respond, just catch up with me in the morning.

The screen goes black only a second later, the battery finally dead. You sigh, not even sure if you needed her help anymore, it seemed Jessie didn’t care to stick around to be there when you woke up this morning. Maybe she had media or a meeting but given that you were giving the athletes schedules, you knew that wasn’t true.

You wander back into the bathroom, grabbing out the clothes that are yours from the heap on the floor. Were you supposed to change and leave Jessie’s clothes? Deciding it didn’t matter and you could bring her back her clothes another time you just bundle them up in your arms before sliding on your shoes, not bothering to tie the laces and you head to the door.

You make the quick run to your room, you don't need to be caught wearing a UCLA shirt, giving everyone the wrong idea of what you two did last night.

“Well well well, look what we have here.” Olivia says, coming around the corner giving you a glance over. “I’d ask where you spend the night but the UCLA shirt and the fact that you two were practically inseparable last night is enough information.”

“It’s not what you think.” Out of insecurity you wrap your hands across your chest, covering the UCLA logo.

“I think you spent the night in a certain captain’s bed.”

“Okay then it is what you think, but it wasn’t like that, nothing happened.”

“Sure.” You can tell by Olivia’s tone of voice and the roll of her eyes that she doesn’t believe you at all.

“I’m serious.” You can feel your cheeks starting to heat up. “She was feeling too tired, so we just went to bed, nothing happened” Technically saying nothing happened was a lie, but if you told Olivia you had the captain grinding in your lap as you two made out, she would assume a lot more happened. You instead let her make up whatever she wanted in her mind.

“Whatever you say.” She gives you a wink.

“Olivia, I don’t really want to talk about it, nothing happened and then she left wasn’t in the room when I woke up.”

“Oh.” Olivia’s tone immediately shifts to one of sympathy.

“Yeah.” It was silly to be so upset about Jessie leaving, you two weren’t together, you didn’t even sleep together, there was no reason you should expect her to have stayed. Except that you had, you had envisioned waking up next to her, being able to roll over and cuddle into her body, you had pictured a quiet morning with the two of you under her sheets. But that was your fault, not hers.

“So what’s the favor you need anyway?” Olivia tries to change the subject, not knowing the favor you were planning to ask was related to Jessie.

“Oh right, well, I don’t know if I really need it anymore. What I was going to do was-” you get interrupted by knocking on the door.

Olivia makes the move toward the door, opening it a crack before she turns back to look at you, her face with an uncomfortable look on it. “It’s for you.” She opens the door more and now you see Jessie standing in the doorway, seemingly out of breath.

“Can I come in?” She asks, still panting slightly.

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea” Olivia starts as if she’s trying to defend you from Jessie, protect you. She then just looks at you.

“It’s fine.” You nod and Jessie steps into the room, the door barely closes before she starts explaining herself.

“I got pulled for drug testing this morning, that’s why I wasn’t in bed this morning.” Jessie then looks at Olivia then back at you then back to Olivia. You can feel the tension in the uncomfortable stare they give each other before they break eye contact and both look at you.

“She already knew where I was, it’s fine.” You reassure Jessie before giving Olivia a glance hoping she doesn’t do anything to make you regret not taking this conversation into the hall.

“I got pulled by the doping committee, randomized testing and all, they came to the door, I didn’t get time to wake you and then they don’t let you on your phone so I couldn’t text you, I wanted to leave a note but apparently that can be considered ‘tampering’ with the test, so I just had to leave.” Jessie rambles, her hands moving quickly as she explains where she was this morning.

She takes a breath. She’s telling you information you already knew, as a trainer you were well versed on the doping committee protocols. “I thought I’d be back before you woke up, that’s why I ran back. I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to leave you to wake up alone.”

“It’s alright.” You can’t help but hold back your laugh a bit. You were upset this morning when you woke up alone, but you believed Jessie’s story, given that she’s breathing hard you fully believe she sprinted here from the testing center, that she tried to make it back before you woke up. “That’s just how this is going, everyone and everything is in our way.”

“I know, but I felt terrible when I got back and saw you were gone. I sent a text on the way back, you never read it, though so I thought you’d still be asleep in bed, and then when I got there you were gone.”

It was obvious Jessie was a little panicked still despite your attempt to find humor in this situation. “My phone died.” You just now remembered, you stand up to go plug it in.

“Right, sorry I should’ve let you charge yours last night.”

To be fair to Jessie, charging your own phone wasn’t at the forefront of your mind when you were thinking about crawling into bed with her, so it was no one’s fault your phone had died. You were too caught up in getting to be in her bed, in getting to hold her, soaking in the feeling of her head on your chest, the smell of the hotel shampoo on her hair, the way her fingers twitched against your stomach as she fell asleep. No one was to blame for your phone being dead. “No worries.”

She looks up from where her hands are pulling at the lint on her shirt. “So are we good?”

“We’re good, no harm.” You reassure her. “What are your plans for the day?” You look over to the clock to see it was still early in the morning.

“I’m grabbing coffee with my sister this morning, then I think doing some touristy stuff with my family, they’re flying out this afternoon.”

That was your chance. She was going to be free this evening. You could ask her on a date. An actual date and not whatever you two have been sneaking around doing. “Cool.” You chicken out.

“What about you?”

“Probably going to do touristy stuff as well, I don’t really know, we have a lot of stuff to start packing too.” You quickly look at Olivia and then eye the bathroom door. She gets the hint and walks herself into the bathroom, closing the door behind her and turning on the shower. You take a breath in, remembering that she was the one who invited you into her bed last night, she wants this just as much as you do. “So then are you free tonight?”

“Yeah I think so, I should be.”

“Can I pick you up at 5 for something then?”

“Something? How descriptive of you. By ‘something’ do you mean a date?” She brings her fingers up to air, quoting your choice of words.

“I don’t know if what I’m thinking is really a date, but we can also grab dinner if you want, so that can be as a date.”

“Hmm mysterious,” the way she pauses makes you nervous. “Alright I’m in.” She says after thinking for a second.

“I’ll come by to get you at 5 then!”

“See you at 5.” She leans in, placing a delicate kiss to your lips. Her actions take you by surprise and you barely react in time to kiss her back before she’s pulling away. She steps out into the hallway and the door closes behind her.

She had never kissed you like that before. It was almost casual. As if you two kissed everyday, as if you hadn’t only kissed a few occasions, as if those kisses you had shared weren’t undercover, in secret. She kissed you as if everyone in the world already knew you were together. It was different.

Olivia comes out of the bathroom as soon as she hears the door close and you quickly grab her attention again. “Okay so change of plans, I will need that favor.”

You picked up Jessie at her door promptly at 5. She opened the door in a pair of black pants and a simple white shirt. It was such a simple outfit and yet she made it look incredible.

“Can I use your bathroom really quick before we go?” You asked, pointing into the room.

“Suuuure. Why didn’t you go in your own room?”

“I don’t know, I just didn’t.” That was kind of a lie.

When you came out of the bathroom you handed Jessie back the folded clothes you had worn the night before. “I also brought these back. I didn’t know if you wanted them washed or what, so I can take them back if you want me to wash them.”

“No, they're fine. I’m going to have to wash all my clothes when we get back home anyway.” She takes them from your hands and sets them on the bench in the room.

“Alright, let’s go!” You hold the door open for Jessie before leading her to what was your pre-date activity.

“Don’t peak.” You say as you walk Jessie through the streets. Your hand pulling hers behind you. It wasn’t much further you had only asked her to close her eyes when you were a short distance away. “Stop here.” You position her in front of you, your hands come to cover her eyes, gently shielding her vision. “Okay open.” You say softly into her ear.

“What are we doing here?” Jessie says when you uncover her eyes, revealing to her the same stadium she’s been playing in the past few weeks.

“I’ll show you.” You open the backpack you brought with pulling out Olivia’s media pass, scanning it to the door. You hear the door unlock and you hold it open, gesturing for Jessie to enter. She takes a step inside and then turns back to look at you. You close the door and walk up to her, giving her a smile as you walk to lead her down the hallways.

“Here.” You say again scanning Olivia’s badge and waiting for the green light, you open the door leading to the tunnel to the field. “Go.” You gesture to her to walk down the tunnel. She gets to the end and stops, just before reaching the pitch.

“Are we allowed to be here?” She turns back asking.

“Yeah, media access gets cut off tomorrow after closing ceremonies, they have free reign until then.” You get to where she’s standing and put down your bag. You unzip it and pull out the wrapped up sweatshirt that contained Jessie’s medal inside. You unwrap it and hold it out to her. “Plus who are they to deny the gold medalist access to the field?”

“Where did you get this?” She questions you as she takes it from your hand and puts it around her neck.

“Don’t worry about it. But also maybe don’t leave it just sitting on the counter in your bathroom, I’ve heard those things are in high demand around here.” You give her a wink before putting the sweatshirt back in the bag.

You point out to the field, the sun just starting to make the field glow as it begins to set. “Look, I know it’s not the same, but you said you missed getting the moment of peace, quiet, being able to soak in everything on the field, so I wanted to give you that. I know it’s probably not quite what you meant since your teammates aren’t here and the high of winning is probably pretty worn off but, I figured you could go sit, soak it in, enjoy that moment.”

“Yeah?” She’s got a grin across her face.

“Yeah, go!” You point out to the field again and Jessie turns away from you. Relief runs through your body, you had been worried Jessie would think it was weird, you bringing her to the field, but she seemed excited at the idea.

What you didn’t tell Jessie about the evening you had planned was that you also had set up a picnic, a blanket, a cooler with snacks, drinks, all tucked away, you and Olivia had come to the field earlier to drop it off. You didn’t want her to feel forced to share this moment with you, so you bit your tongue when it came to telling her about the picnic. You just stood by the tunnel and watched as she stepped onto the pitch, spinning around as she walked toward the middle.

She sat herself down, looking around again before lying back, her hands coming to rest under her head. You can’t help but just watch, out in her own little world you watch her shift around, sitting up, laying down, standing, walking around the pitch. Taking a moment at each corner of the field, you watch as she takes deep breaths, closing her eyes at each one for a couple moments before moving to another spot on the pitch. She sits again, this time in the spot from which she took her penalty. She’s got one hand clutched around the medal, the other by her side, playing with the grass below her.

“Hey!” She shouts at you before waving you over. She pats the grass next to her and you jog out to her and sit down. Her knee and shoulder come into contact with yours as you sit down completely disregarding her personal space. “Thank you.”

Not sure why she’s thanking you, you turn to look at Jessie. “Huh?” The sun is hitting her face just right, her skin glowing in the yellow and orange light, her freckles even more prominent on her skin.

“For this.” She waves to the stadium around you.

“Oh I mean it’s nothing.” It really was, all you had done was ask Olivia for her badge, other than that, there wasn’t much facilitating on your end.

“It’s not nothing, it was really nice of you to think of doing this for me. I know it was simple, but it means a lot to me, both being able to soak in the moment and that you remembered that tiny detail.” She lets a hand come and rest on your thigh.

Not wanting to make too forward of a move, you slowly let your head come to rest on Jessie's shoulder, leaning slightly into her body.

“This really is peaceful. I can see why you missed not having this.”

“Yeah it’s nice isn’t it?” She leans her own head to rest on yours. The warmth of the sun on your face and the feeling of Jessie’s body let you relax, closing your eyes and breathing in the fresh grass and the warm breeze.

Interrupting your peace, your stomach rumbles loud enough to send Jessie into a giggle fit. “Oh my, hungry are we?”

“Stoooop.” You lay back covering your face, feeling embarrassed by the noise.

Jessie glances at the watch on her wrist. “We can get going to dinner, sorry I didn’t realize how long we’ve been here.”

“Well, I actually packed a picnic, it’s just over there, but we can go to a restaurant if you’d prefer.”

“Why didn’t you say anything about the picnic, we’ve been here for almost 2 hours?” She turns back to look at where you were lying.

You sit up and look at Jessie. “I just didn’t want you to feel forced to spend your moment soaking it in with me, eating, so I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re really sweet, has anyone ever told you that?” Jessie tilts her head blinking a few times at you. You can’t help but have the urge to kiss her, her smile, her freckles,the way her hair framed her face, all of it, every aspect of her was perfect.

“Just my mom.” You say half jokingly a laugh coming out as you spoke to her, but you also meant it seriously. You’d never been described as an adult, by one of your peers as sweet. As a little girl people called you sweet when you’d go to work with your Mom and you’d try to help her. You other flings and girls you had tried to date never described you as sweet, you got called nice, or hot, never sweet. It was nice to be called sweet.

“No I’m serious, you’re sweet and caring, you pay attention to details, you’re just a good person, I know that’s maybe not the most descriptive way to put it, but just being a good person is so hard to find sometimes. Go get the picnic.”

You don’t have to be told twice, you’re scrambling to stand and running across the pitch to where the basket sat. You try to run back with it in hand but that fails when you realize it’s quite heavy. Jessie stands up and helps spread the blanket before she takes off her shoes, you do the same and both climb onto the blanket.

Jessie begins pulling throngs from the basket. “Where did you get all of these? They look delicious!” She holds up a container with some sandwiches in it and another with fruit.

“A place down the street, I got lunch there the other day, it was really good.” Nodding your head you begin to get out plates and napkins, handing them to Jessie.

Once you have all the food split except the dessert Jessie holds out up the croissant from her plate in your direction. “Cheers?”

“That’s bread.”

“I know, but still, tap yours on mine. Cheers me.” A certain seriousness in her voice told you she wasn’t going to let you not participate. Grabbing your own croissant you hold it up toward her.

“To a gold medal?” You offer as you’re not sure what Jessie wants to cheers for.

“No, cheers to this, to us, finally having our first date.”

“So is this our first official date then?”

“Yeah I guess it is.”

Tapping your bread to hers you then take a bite and watch her do the same. She lets out a satisfied hum. “This is incredible.” She takes another bite before even finishing her first.

Your first official date ends up being way less nerve wracking than you expected. It feels like you’re back in the training room all those months ago, just the two of you chatting and laughing while you worked on her calf. Only now it was the two of you, in regular clothes, no massaging, no pressure of work, no fears of being walked in on. Just the two of you, enjoying dinner. As the sunlight begins to fade, you and Jessie finish up your meal and break into the dessert. It’s a few small pieces of cake.

“I wasn’t sure what flavors of cake you liked.” You defend yourself as Jessie slowly turns to look at you and eyebrow raised questioning you silently as she pulls multiple containers with cake in them.

She’s got one in each hand and two in her lap. She looks down at the cakes and then up to you with a smile. “So you bought them all?”

“Not all of them.” You think back to all the options the bakery had. “Just most of them.”

The two of you dig into the cakes, taking bites off of each piece, claiming each one is better than the last piece you tried.

“Let me try that one.” You point to the container in Jessie’s hand with a strawberry piece in it. Expecting Jessie to hand you the container you hold your hand out. Instead she digs her own fork into the cake before holding it out to you. You hesitate for a moment before leaning over to take the bite, you’d kissed the girl, sharing a fork wasn’t anything you should be getting in your head about.

“That one’s the best one yet.” You say once you swallow.

“You’re saying that about all of them!” Jessie says. You notice her eyes catch on your face and specifically your lips when she talks to you.

“You got a little something.” Jessie points to the corner of her own mouth.

“Oh.” You attempt to wipe it with the napkin in your lap.

“Here.” Jessie reaches out, wiping below your lip with her thumb. You could feel your heart start racing as Jessie brought her thumb to her own mouth, licking it and letting out a soft moan. “Mmmm, strawberry frosting.”

“I didn’t peg you to have a sweet tooth.”

“Why? Because I’m an athlete? My parents used to tease that I only played soccer so that I could eat all the sweets I wanted. And while it’s not the only reason, it sure is a perk to the job.”

“I guess, I’ve just never seen you with anything sweet, except maybe your coffee order.”

“I obviously have a sweet tooth, I like you.” When you just squint at her she clarifies. “Get it, because you’re sweet.”

You can’t help but roll your eyes. “You’ll be a really good dad someday with those dad jokes Fleming.” You tease her.

“Shush.” She pushes you on the shoulder slightly. Giving into her behavior you pretend she’s shoved you a lot harder, you let yourself fall backward onto the grass. Jessie covers her mouth as she laughs. You loved the sound of her laugh. She’d laugh softly sometime, quiet and to herself, other times when something really made her laugh you could hear her laughing rooms away.

“I can’t believe you’d push me over!” You dramatically throw your hand across your forehead.

“I didn’t push you that hard.” She says between laughs. “Here.” She gets up onto her knees and climbs closer to you. Jessie holds out her hand to you, you take it but instead of helping yourself up, you take the opportunity to pull her down.

She lets out a yelp as she lands on top of you. Her hands land on either side of your waist, somewhat holding herself off of you. “Hey!” She scolds you, her eyebrows furrowed as she looks down at you. Your hands find their way to her waist, holding her steady as she regains her balance above you.

“Hey.” You barely whisper at her. You watch her tongue quickly pass over her bottom lip before she’s starting to lean down to you.

Your hands quickly move around Jessie's body, one caressing up and down her waist, the other on her cheek, pulling her into you slightly. Jessie’s lips have been soft every time you’ve kissed but it always took you by surprise just how soft they were. The feeling of her lips and tongue against yours mixed with the feeling of her body weight pressing down on you, the way her thigh was slotted between your legs, was making you buzz. It was giving you flashbacks to last night and her in your lap. A tingling feeling building in your stomach and spreading lower.

You feel Jessie hum against your mouth as you let your tongue trail along her lip. Returning the favor Jessie captures your bottom lip, tugging it gently before releasing it to kiss you again. Your hand on her cheek moved to the back of her head, tangling in her hair and holding her to your lips. She places a few more kisses to your lips before ending it with just a peck before she sits up. Your hand leaves her hair, finding its way to her waist. She presses her upper body up by placing her hands on your chest. Her hands are warm and you like the feeling of them resting on you.

She looks down and gives you a dopey smile. “You did that on purpose.”

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about.” Giving her a smartass response she rolls her eyes before sitting all the way up and moving off of you. Part of you wanted to just pull her right back onto you, you wanted to feel her body against yours again.

“You ready to head out?” Jessie looks around at the empty food containers starting to clean up.

“Yeah, I mean we’re done eating.” You climb up to begin helping her clean up. You both work to repack the picnic basket mostly in silence, quiet thank yous exchanged when you’d hand each other things. You both stand up and put your shoes back on before rolling up the blanket. Jessie offers to carry something but you shrug her off, this was your date, you were doing the work. She just got to show up and look pretty.

“Would you want to spend the night again?” Jessie asks when you start to head toward the tunnel to leave.

“Yeah if you’d want me to, I’d like that.” You had already been hoping that she would offer when you dropped her off at her door later that night, but the invite was even better.

Already feeling fuzzy at the thought of cuddling up in bed with Jessie again and hopefully getting to wake up next to her again. Her next words and the look in her eyes send a spike of adrenaline through your body. “Yeah I do, I want you to and I’m, um, unlike yesterday well, I’m not feeling tired tonight.”

[11rosebunny]

— CHARACTER WITH STUPID READER !!

content: f!reader, fluff

characters: Haruka Sakura, Hajime Umemiya, Toma Hiragi, Hayato Suo, Jo Togame, Tomiyama Choji

Haruka Sakura

He is equally as stupid so it's not surprising whenever somebody sees you two, they can expect one of you to start jumping from building to building like a monkey.

Nobody knows how you two are even living, especially with the way you meet new people could rub off the wrong way, you two are known for your notorious insults...

However, you are dumber than him which is terrible, when two stupid people pair up together, what do you expect? He sometimes gets frustrated if you two end up arguing, you can't even help each other when none of you know what to do, and the worst part is he can not have peace and quiet if you're around.

Hajime Umemiya

This boy finds it funny because of how stupid you are. If anything, he will still treat you well just like everybody else but sometimes, when he sees you mess up during an argument, say something abominable that could get you locked up in jail, start a fight because someone looked at you funny, or genuinely mess up any task your given, he does end up getting a bit annoyed, because how do you mess up watering plants?

It's like he has a personal dog, like a border collie that runs around in circles chasing their own tail, it's funny, cute, but also a lot of responsibility...

Toma Hiragi

He feels like he's raising his own child. Suo had noticed that he'd always have to pick you up and toss you over his shoulders like a sack of potatoes before you did anything remotely moronic that could lead you in a huge mess.

He needs double the stomachache pills when he's around you... which is all the time.

He still finds it cute and engaging to see you act all clumsy and oblivious to anything, the only down part is he doesn't like it when you can't read the room. He has to cover your mouth with his hand before you continue to talk about something that would get you beaten up, drag you away and apologize on your behalf before scolding you in a random alleyway, if it was from a different perspective, a person would have assumed he was babysitting his friend's younger sister.

Hayato Suo

Surprisingly, he deals with you very well.

He knows how to correct behaviours in a proper manner, something Toma lacks... he's learned the different tricks and plans to get you to stop acting like a nuisance whenever he doesn't approve of the way you're acting, and it works very well!

He'll tell you to stop and let you off with a warning, cherish the way you light up whenever you're speaking a little too loud in public, he even lets you insult someone as long as you don't take it too far.

Jo Togame

To be honest, he has the slightest interest in stupid girls.

He wasn't aware that that could be a type of personality he was interested in till he met you. Your outlook on situations, people, objects, drama, made him have to take a double guess on you, he convinced himself for a while you were maybe just outgoing, till listened to you speak one day that you used to think the moon would always follow you as a kid whenever you were in a very long car ride.

'Maybe she is just stupid...'

Like Umemiya, he will love the way how funny you are without even trying. If he were to just look at you from across the room and you were simply just standing there, he would start snorting to himself to refrain from bursting out laughing. But, instead of stopping you from doing dumb things, he lets you continue to do them. The only reason why allows you is because he knows he can always stop you whenever you go to far.

Tomiyama Choji

Everyone has to run and hide from you two if you manage to come in their sight.

Choji was already bad enough in the beginning, especially for Togame who had to withstand if from the very start, so once you rolled around, he oddly began to fall sick even more, weird...

You two are known for being trouble makers, because this boy does not stop you from doing stupid things, in fact, he might even encourage it if it's just you two alone and have no one else to tell you otherwise.

You're not alone when you do your stupid things, because 99% of the time, he's joining you. The only time he'll stop you is if he or you gets hurt, not even before you get hurt, it's only after.

He loves the way you're just as outgoing as him, he finds it amazing that you're able to keep up with his personality.

[sexhaver]

for clarification: is your stance that the *word* kink inherently refers to a sexual experience, and the activities themselves are incidental to the conversation? it isn't clear what exactly you're trying to say which is probably the source of a lot of the grief you're getting on the topic.

That's the only way I can make sense of "non sexual bdsm is just hurting people for fun" being posted as a gotcha, despite obviously (to me) being an implicit agreement with the argument that commonly "kinky" activities can be nonsexual depending on context.

anon bc I don't want to risk catching your "bizarre anons" syndrome, sorry if you think I'm a part of that lol

if you, personally, ever get sexually aroused by an activity/fantasy/power dynamic/lifestyle choice, then it is a kink (TO YOU) even when you aren't actively aroused by it

if you, personally, never get sexually aroused by an activity/fantasy/power dynamic/lifestyle choice, then it is NOT a kink (TO YOU), even if it's something most people would assume is "kinky". it is instead a "hobby" or "interest"

as alluded to in point 2, there are a lot of activities/fantasies out there (like BDSM, inflation, findom, etc) that most people assume are kinks. this is because they are, in fact, kinks to most people who participate in them. if you are into these topics without getting aroused by them, the solution is NOT to keep saying that you have that kink while redefining the kink in question as "not inherently sexual". the solution is to say that you have a "hobby" or "interest" in the topic (you can add "nonsexual" if you want to be clear, but remember, "nonsexual [x] kink" is an oxymoron)

people who insist on referring to their entirely nonsexual participation in a mostly-kinky scene (like leather or shibari) as "nonsexual kink" fall into one of two camps: either they want to keep using the word "kink" without having to associate with those yucky perverts who are only trying to get off (which is obviously morally wrong), or they are in fact deriving sexual pleasure from those activities but are also trying to groom minors into participating in them under the pretense of "no it's not sexual so it's totally fine" (see the infamouse "sfw inflation kink community" snafu on here last year)

tl;dr: there is a reason you have to specify "nonsexual [x] kink" and do not have to specify "sexual [x] kink", and the people who don't get this point are mostly just being obnoxious about not knowing what words mean but are occasionally using this confusion to harm people

[meazalykov]

the younger morgan

alex morgan x morgan!USWNT!reader

part one / part two / part three / part four / part five / part six

Growing up in the Morgan household, I was always known as my own individual person. Y/n Morgan. I am described by my peers as someone who’s kind, sensitive, and humble. However, to some of the public and people who barely know of me, I am known as  "Alex Morgan's little sister." 

It wasn't a title I despised while growing up. Being born 14 years after her, I was adopted by the Morgans at birth. My sister and parents have been my family for my entire life, even if we aren’t blood. They’ve surrounded me in a blanket of love while supporting my athletic, famous sister at the same time.

Alex won her first World Cup in 2015 when I was eleven. I remember sitting in the stadium, the air electric with cheers and chants, watching her lift that trophy high. Having my sister as my idol while growing up was a blessing that most girls would dream of.

The pride I felt was immense, but it was always mixed with a yearning.

I played as a striker while growing up, just like Alex. My feet scored goals in every match i’ve had minutes in. By the time I was old enough to transition into taking soccer seriously, it was clear I had inherited the Morgan soccer genes, even if I wasn’t blood-related. 

With the best coaches in the country guiding me, I quickly became one of the best U21 strikers in the world, just like Alex. Success in high school championships, the USYNT national team (before my senior team call up in November 2022), and in my first year of college landed me a spot on the San Diego Wave alongside my sister. I forfeited my college eligibility so I can jump into taking soccer seriously, which I did.

Yet, I hide the fact that the inevitable comparisons to Alex bothered me. Anytime I made a mistake, I had people on social media saying that “Alex at your age would’ve never made that mistake!” and more that were way harsher and mean. I felt a hollowness inside me because I had to accept that San Diego wasn’t the club for me. Something I didn’t realize until half-way into the season.

This wasn't about the love or support I received from my family or the fans. It was about forging my path, I wanted to be my own person away from Alex. I love her so much, but I wanted people to see me for who I really am. I needed a moment which would give me the reassurance that my career was truly mine.

One afternoon, after a particularly grueling training session, I collapsed onto my soft beige colored couch for a nap. I knew I had plans with Jaedyn, Naomi, and Maria later— but I knew I could fit in a good three hour nap before I had to get ready for the night. However the ring of my phone jolted me awake after an hour into my nap. My eyebrows knitted at the sight of my agent's name, Maggie, flashing on the screen.

Usually, Maggie never calls unless we are discussing deals or contract negotiations. However, I asked her two weeks ago if she could contact SD Wave about putting me on the transfer market. Maggie said that wasn’t needed since there was something else that would excite me– but she didn’t explain what. 

"Y/n, I have some exciting news!!!" Maggie began without giving me the chance to say hi, her voice brimming with enthusiasm as I clicked on the speaker option. I rubbed my tired eyes trying to pay attention to what she’s gonna say.

“What happened?” I ask, sitting up from my laid down position and sitting criss-crossed on my couch.

"You know how you asked about a possible transfer? Well I already had a few offers coming in for you before you asked—'' Maggie started as I heard a few clicks on her side of the call, I’m assuming she's clicking stuff on her computer while on the phone with me. 

“So– *click*--- *click* — okay! There are a lot of NWSL clubs that have put in an offer for you. Houston, Gotham, Orlando, Kansas, and Washington have sent in their offers— but I understand that you wanted to go to Europe, is that correct?” Maggie says as I bite the skin around my nail beds. Growing up, I’ve always admired European clubs and the different cultures  Europe has. Playing in Europe would expose me to a better challenge that I’ve wanted in my career. A good chance to (hopefully) play in the Champion’s League too, another thing my sister won in 2017.

“Yes, that is correct.” I say, trying to sound as normal as possible. I am nervous, knowing that this call could change my life. 

“Okay- well that's amazing because several European clubs are interested in you. You have many clubs to choose from— Chelsea, Manchester City, Arsenal, Tottenham, Real Madrid, Madrid CFF, PSG, Wolfsburg— those clubs in particular all offered you a contract. Barcelona showed interest too but you’re not a free agent and due to their financial struggles, they cannot sign you unless you were free. However—- Bayern Munich in Germany offered you a very great deal– a four year contract with add ons—the salary they’re offering along with the add-ons is way better than all of the others. I feel like you would love this club." Maggie commented. Outside of work, Maggie and I had a somewhat good relationship for people who try to remain professional. Maggie had a good intuition and can read people, which means that she knows how I work and how my personality is in detail. 

Hearing about the clubs– my heart pounded in my chest at Bayern Munich. The name alone sent a feeling inside of my body that I couldn’t explain. I placed my hands on my forehead as I felt overwhelmed from the amount of clubs I could choose from. However, my curiosity and intuition wanted to look more into the Bayern Munich offer. 

“Maggie— I can’t lie—Bayern Munich is sticking to me right now.” I say, dragging out my last words as my voice breaks into a yawn. Training was intense today. 

“Okay! Okay! Here’s what we can do— I can come over now and drop off the documents to you— you can look over them and we can have an in-person meeting on your day off from training next Thursday at lunch, deal?” Maggie said. I can sense her smile through the phone call as I felt relieved from having to make such a quick decision. It's Friday so I have six days to make a final decision. 

"Deal," I said, barely able to handle the fact that my nervousness turned into small excitement. I couldn’t tell anybody about this but that was okay with me.

Thursday came and I chose to move to Munich in June. I can spend the season, before the olympics, with San Diego then i’ll move to play for Bayern on the four-year contract afterwards. I couldn’t tell anybody the news until I got the green-light to do so from Maggie. 

Keeping this news from Alex and my friends was one of the hardest things I've ever done. Alex was not just my sister but also my mentor and my rock. But I knew I had to wait until everything was finalized before telling her. She should understand that part. Meanwhile, rumors swirled online, speculating about my potential move to Europe in the month afterwards.

One evening as I played with Charlie, in Alex's living room, I could feel the weight of my secret growing heavier. I look at my niece with a light smile as she colored in a fairytale themed coloring book I got her last christmas. I am going to miss seeing her every-week when I move to Germany.

Eventually, Alex finished what she had to do in her kitchen and picked up Charlie. The little girl complained before her mother explained that it was late and it was time for bed. Its 8:30 which wasn’t late in my eyes but Charlie is a child so— 

After Alex put Charlie to bed, and after I cleaned up after Charlies crayon mess, she joined me in the living room and sat beside me on the couch, her expression serious.

"Y/n— we have to talk.” Alex said. My nerves were on fire hearing Alex say that. I knew she was going to mention Bayern— I can’t hide it anymore. The rumors on social media are increasing and everyone knows my move to Munich is inevitable, even if I haven’t addressed it yet. 

“I know.” I respond, my right leg is crossed over my left one as I cross my arms together.

“Are the rumors online true? You know I don’t like to search the media for answers, but the rumors are increasing and everyone is positive that they’re correct on their suspicions— Are you leaving here to play for Bayern?" Alex asked, her eyes searching mine for answers.

I took a deep breath, steadying myself. I couldn’t lie to her "Yes, Alex, they're true. I'm going to play Bayern Munich in June."

After saying this, I thought Alex would be happy for me right away. 

However, her concern was palpable. "But why, Y/n? Why are you moving so far away? We have everything here."

"That's why, Alex," I replied, struggling to keep my voice steady. "I need to do this for myself. I want a new challenge and seeking something new has been my goal for since the off-season. I need to know if I can make it—-- without always being compared to you." I struggled to say the last part.

The argument that followed was heated but subdued, mindful of Charlie sleeping nearby. Alex didn't understand my need to step away, to find my own path. 

“Everyone knows you’re a great player, you have a higher record than me this season!! You don’t need to leave the country.” Alex argued. 

“Well you played for Lyon and Spurs at one point, which is outside of America—- the NWSL isn’t the only league in the world and I need to grow. If your concern is about safety, I promise i’ll be able to take care of myself. I need this Alex— You know I am a responsible person!” I stood up from the couch. Alex followed and looked at me with concern.

“You are– I’m not saying you’re not responsible– but you’re going to leave everything behind!” 

“No I am not? I will always come back during International breaks!” I argue. 

“Okay– but you shouldn’t “need” to move to Germany. You’re going to leave your friends behind too Y/n!” Alex continued to argue. My blood boiled at her words. 

"You know, Why can’t you just be supportive!!?? I can’t do this anymore–” I say as I ran to put on my shoes by the door, grabbing my tote bag with all of my items inside. 

“I'm glad I'm moving away Alex. Maybe they'll respect me as a good player and my own person– and not just Alex Morgan's sister!" I stormed out of her apartment, the rift between us widening.

We didn't speak after that night. Even at training with the San Diego Wave, we maintained a professional distance, our conversations limited to the bare necessities or anything related to Charlie. The silence was deafening, but I was resolute. This was my decision to play for Bayern, she needs to respect it.

When the SheBelieves Cup came around, Alex and I both made the roster, as usual. This was my last international break as a San Diego player. Since i’ll be living in Germany by the time the Korea friendlies happen in June. 

On the national team, I found solace in my closest friends Jaedyn, Sophia, Trinity, and Mallory. Jaedyn plays at San Diego with me so she has a better understanding about the situation. I told her that I am moving to Munich and we had a bittersweet moment, at least she was supportive of my decision. All of the other girls sensed something was wrong but respected my need for space, assuming that they shouldn’t come in-between family business. Especially if one of their captains is involved. 

On the pitch against Japan for the first she-believes game, my performance was excellent on the pitch. In my mind, I knew I wanted to do good so Bayern fans would be excited about my transfer to their club. 

After scoring twice against Japan, we were now in a penalty shootout with Canada. This is the second-time we’ve gon into penalties this year together. Once in the gold-cup a few months back. 

Emily Fox made the penalty against the Canadian goalkeeper, and the next Canadian kicker’s shot was blocked by Alyssa (Secretary of Defense). Everyone looked in my direction as the ball was passed into my hands. If I make this shot, I win the shebelieves cup for the United States.

My hearts pounded like a drum in my cheat as I looked ahead at Kailen, my San Diego teammate and friend who plays for Canada. She knows how I kick, and I know how she blocks shots coming her way. 

I took a deep breath, trying to calm the storm inside of me. I had practiced penalty shots countless times throughout my time in soccer, but this was different. This was the final. This was for the win.

The referee blew the whistle, signaling it was time for me to shoot. My body stepped forward, and my mind was clear. As I closed in on the ball, I locked eyes with Kailen, who was poised and ready, her eyes fierce with determination.

My foot struck the ball cleanly, sending it soaring through the air. Time seemed to slow as the ball arced towards the goal, the world holding its breath. Kailen dove to her right, stretching out in a desperate bid to stop the shot.

But it was too late. The ball sailed past her outstretched fingers and hit the back of the net with a satisfying thud. The crowd erupted in a roar of triumph, the sound crashing over me like a wave. I scored the winning goal!

Before getting a chance to process what had happened, my teammates rushed towards me. All of their faces showed joy and relief. They enveloped me in a jubilant embrace, lifting me off her feet as we celebrated the victory together. I looked around, taking in the ecstatic faces of my friends, the adoring fans, and the sparkling lights of the stadium. I looked to my right and saw my sister’s bright smile looking towards me, this made my heart warm up a little bit. 

After everyone broke away from me, before the trophy celebration and the part where I’ll be rewarded as SheBelieves MVP, Alex approached me. Her expression was softer than the last time i’ve talked to her at her apartment. Her eyes reflected a mix of hope, sadness and understanding.

"Y/n, can we talk?"

I nodded, and we found a quiet spot away from the rest of the team on the pitch.

"I'm sorry," she began. "I was selfish. I was thinking about how much Charlie and I would miss you, not about what you need."

Her words broke the dam of emotions I'd been holding back. "I know. But Alex— I just want to be seen for who I am, Alex. Not just as your little sister."

She pulled me into a hug, and for the first time in weeks, I felt a sense of peace. "You will be, Y/n. You'll be amazing, and I am so proud of you and that gorgeous penalty kick." Alex squeezed me and I laughed at her gesture. 

“Thank you, Thank you! I have the best sister who showed me what good penalty kicks are.” I smile. 

As the middle of June approached, after the Korea friendlies, I prepared for my move to Germany with a mix of excitement and nerves. Alex and I grew closer again, our bond strengthened by the fact that this new routine will give us a chance to miss eachother. 

The day I boarded the plane to Munich, with three suitcases and one carry on bag with everything I need for my apartment I found while spending a week in Munich last month—  Alex was there, cheering me on. 

“I’ll miss you sweetheart.” Alex hugged me. I hugged her back before hugging my smaller niece who stood beside us. "I will miss you both the most." I respond.

Later as the plane took off, I looked out the window, my heart full of hope. This was my chance to prove myself to the world and to the fans that I am more than just my sister. 

-----

part two here

<3

[harrywavycurly]

Secret Rendezvous Part 19: Good Idea

Masterlist: Here

CW: Language

Tag List: @emma-munson @aol19 @tlclick73 @prestinalove @kailey-firefly @fromasgardandback @therealgothamguardianfr @peaches-roses-sins @hiscrimsonangel @furiousladyking @angelina16torres-blog @sofaritsalrightt @josephquinnsfreckles @starrywhitenight @mrsjellymunson @witchwolflea @jasminelafleur @ohmeg @comeonatmebruh @missmarch-99 @arthurcerverogf @disassociationdive @123iloveyou456 @perplexing-vex

A/N: This takes place the same day as part 18, and the next part is the last one for this series and I’m sad but I know y’all will love it✨

“Jesus I’ve been looking everywhere for you…why are you out here?” “I was hoping to be alone…what do you need Emerson?” “I need you to tell me why you thought asking her to fucking prom was a good idea when the two of you haven’t talked in-” “Chrissy said I needed to show her I didn’t give a fuck about what other people think about us being together so why wouldn’t I ask her to prom? That’s…what…normal couples do isn’t it? Go to dances and shit?” “Uh yeah Eddie key word there is couples…you two aren’t even friends!” “We are now…we talked about it at lunch today…” “Oh…well that’s….that’s good.” “She hasn’t listened to the tape yet…thinks it was fucking Henry who gave it to her.” “Yeah she’s going to figure it out pretty quickly it wasn’t him…assuming you actually sing the songs right? Or did you just-” “Yes I actually sang the songs I’m not going to half ass this shit…I can’t risk fucking it up again…” “So…you love her don’t you?” “What?” “Oh come on man you asked her to prom with a mixtape of songs you covered yourself…you totally fucking love her.” “Okay…and what if I do?” “Uhm…you should tell her.” “I’ll wait and see how she feels after listening to the tape…did you know she was co Captain of the cheerleading squad?” “Yeah…I saw it on her jacket she wears on game days.” “Oh…I guess I never noticed…” “there’s a lot of shit you don’t notice about her…but If you’re serious about wanting to be in a relationship with her and if you’re in love with her you gotta get better at just…being interested in the things she’s into.” “I know…I uh actually watch her perform sometimes at the games I just don’t sit in the stands.” “That’s not creepy at all…” “fuck off…I just…I’m going to try and be there for more things when…or if…she even wants me there…she could really tell me to go fuck myself and I wouldn’t blame her.” “I doubt she’ll tell you that…but I’m glad you’ve finally come to your senses because it was hard watching you fuck this up so badly…” “yeah?” “Yeah it was like watching a car wreck in slow motion…totally brutal.” “Well you could’ve tried to stop it at any point ya know?” “Uh I did try…but you’re so stubborn you just refused my help…but look at you now man…hiding from the girl you’re in love with outside under the bleachers…” “that’s what some people would call progress.” “Exactly….I’ll uh let you have your alone time now but uhm…really don’t let too much time go by before you tell her how you feel okay?” “Yeah I won’t…don’t worry.” “Oh please…you two manage to get into these weird fucking scenarios and all I can do is worry.” “Emerson…get outta here before I kick your ass…” “Right…leaving now…see you later Eddie.”

[toniiswrld]

i've arrived to talk about big dick boyfriend! Anton (BDBF!Anton if you will 🤓)

Anton didn't have sex with you for the first 8 months of your relationship bc he was afraid of hurting you. at first, you thought he was a virgin and was just nervous about you being his first. for a while, the most you two would do was make out. that was perfectly fine, of course, you loved Anton and would only go as far as he was comfortable with.

it was safe to say that the day he offered to go down you, you kinda cheered a bit on the inside. that was when you knew Anton couldn't possibly be a virgin. no one who has never eaten pussy before would eat it like that. then you assumed maybe Anton's just insecure about his dick size. (❌️WRONG❌️ lmao) so from that day forward, you would tell Anton how perfect he is and how you love him no matter what. you also devised a plan around that time to get Anton to have sex with you. it wouldn't be too difficult, he's a boy after all.

the convoluted plan of a week-long seduction was thrown out the window one drunken night. Anton was tipsy enough to let you straddle him as you made out (something he never does). you had only ever seen how hard he was, but never felt it. the moment you ground down on him you understood why he was so weird about sex. he was hung like a fucking horse. your immediate alcohol-induced response was to exclaim "oh my god Anton, you're fucking hung and you've been hiding it from me!?" Anton was torn between being shocked, being embarrassed, and just straight-up laughing. let's just say you got to see and feel just how big Anton was that night.

-🎀 (Anton has managed to sneak into my bias line 🧍🏾‍♀️, but no one can take Sohee's crown tho. 🗣THAT'S MY BABY! MY DAY 1!!) ((i swear y'all, i will stop talking about Anton the moment he stops plaguing my mind 🙇🏾‍♀️))

i feel like becoming an anton stan is so unavoidable these days especially if you bias sohee like they come in a pack i swear…

big dick anton has me foaming at the mouth… because not only is it long its thick too.

he’s so worried about hurting you because of it not to mention he’s just big all over and doesn’t want to be accidentally rough with you. you’re his super cute perfect girlfriend he doesn’t want anything happening to you. he has a lot of self discipline which he gained over the years of being an athlete so he used that to hold himself off of making any sexual advances on you. but you’re so irresistible to him so he’d make sure you were taken care of even if that meant he had to jerk off in the bathroom later on.

the night you feel how big he is under his pants you almost get nervous. he’s been hiding that from you this whole time? you tell him about how you thought he was just a virgin or that he was insecure about his size, and he lets out an almost embarrassed laugh. he’s surprised that you reacted like that, that you didn’t have an issue with it and assuring him that he wasn’t going to hurt you (unless you want him to) and then you’re asking him to let you see it.

once you finally see antons dick in all its glory, you’re basically salivating and begging the boy to fuck you. and he makes sure to stretch you out on his fingers first but it’s still not enough, but the stretch of his cock inside you is so delicious you can’t complain.

[morganski-19]

Chills Right to the Marrow Part 12

part 1, prev part

The Chief walks into the hospital room the next day in full uniform. Pulling out his key ring and setting the key in the lock. The cuffs open, clacking against each other as he takes them back.

Eddie is free.

“I owe you an apology, I should have taken these off a long time ago.”

Wayne looks at the Chief, wondering if he should be grateful or angry. “Why happed with the feds?”

“They agreed to point the other way. Still looking for a fall guy, but it won’t be your nephew. I made sure of that.”

“Thank you.”

The Chief huffs. “Don’t be thanking me. You should thank Harrington, he really knocked some sense into my head.”

That seems to happen often. Through his actions, the way that he talks to people. The way that he’s respected Wayne’s boundary to leave him and Eddie alone. The way he cares for Dustin. Cares for Eddie even when Wayne didn’t want him too. Fought for the things he knew were true, never giving up.

Wayne really needed to talk to him.

“I hear he’s been getting better,” the Chief continues. Taking the seat next to Wayne.

Wayne nods. “Yeah, wakin’ up slowly. Should be able to talk again in a few days.”

The Chief nods. “I know I was really dragging my feet to get the cuffs off, but my offer still stands. If you need anything, feel free to give me a call. I still can’t tell you everything that happened, but as time goes on, you’re going to have a lot of questions. I can hopefully give you some answers. Lend a hand when you need me to.”

There’s going to be a lot of things that Wayne will never understand. Life has shown him that already. There were things that he didn’t understand before and learned to.

He can do it all again. Try to ignore the need for answers and try to understand. Have the patience he had when Eddie was younger. As he was learning how to be the person Eddie needed him to be.

“I appreciate that, Chief.”

“Please, just call me Jim.”

Jim leaves a little after that. Giving Wayne some space. He goes on a walk a little while later. Wanting some fresh air. Coming back to see Dustin heading down the hall, Steve sitting peacefully in the waiting room. Looking a hell of a lot better than yesterday.

“Can I talk to you?” Wayne sits down across from him. Ready to actually have a conversation with him for once.

Steve sits up a bit straighter, trying to make a better impression. “Yeah, sure.”

Wayne clears his throat. “I owe you an apology. You never gave me a reason to treat you the way I did and it was harsh of me to assume things about you. It’s not an excuse, but I was angry at a lot of things and seein’ you walk out of here fine while Eddie’s not. . . It was an easy thing for me to be mad at.”

“I don’t blame you. I think I would have reacted the same if it was my kid in Eddie’s position. You really have nothing to apologize for.”

“But I do,” Wayne insists. “You all clearly went through something that I don’t fully understand. I had no right to keep you from seeing him.”

Steve has a look a mix emotions. Like he’s fighting between gratitude and sorrow. “Would it be ok if I saw him now?”

Wayns nods. Walking down the hall with Steve to Eddie’s room, letting him sit in the chair next to him. He swears that he sees tears start to form in Steve’s eyes, but he blinks them away before he can confirm.

“Where’s the kid?” Wayne asks.

Steve clears his throat. “Visiting Max. She’s doing a lot better now.”

“That’s good.”

“He looks so different,” Steve says after a break of silence. “Like the energy of him was sucked out.”

Wayne nods, having felt the same way for a long time.

“I know I didn’t know him that long, but.” Steve takes a breath. “During that week, he was really starting to feel like someone who could become a friend. I was really looking forward to becoming his friend.”

“What happened to him?” Wayns asks, desperate. “What happened to you?”

Steve meets his eyes, a troubled look resting on his face. The want to tell him but the knowledge that he can’t. “I wish I could tell you, but I legally can’t. I know that probably doesn’t make it better.”

“It doesn’t. But I appreciate you trying.”

Dustin comes in and reads his chapter like he always does. Having to pull up another chair since Steve stole his. They leave shortly after it’s done. Giving Wayne a few minutes to himself before he has to leave for work.

He leans closer to Eddie’s bed, placing a hand on the empty bar. Afraid to touch him, to do anything to make him worse. But he hasn’t said much in the days he’s been here. Too hopeless to imagine that Eddie could hear him. Today, he decides to try.

“Hey, kid. I’m sorry that I haven’t talked to you much in the past week. You must think there’s somethin’ up. That you did somethin’ to make me not talk to you. That’s not the case.”

Fear like this is something that Wayne never wanted to experience. Losing a child is something that a parent never wanted to even think about. Let alone live through. And while Eddie isn’t technically Wayne’s kid, he is in all the ways that matter.

“Truth is, I was scared. I thought I lost you so many times in the past few weeks. Each time I came in here, I thought would be the day that the nurses told me you were really gone. That I lost my son.”

Words get choked in Wayne’s throat as tears fall down his face. Things he’s been too afraid to say all coming out at once.

“But I didn’t. You’re still here. And you’re gettin’ better and I am so proud of you.”

Eddie opens his eyes, looking toward Wayne. His fingers tense, raising slightly towards Wayne’s hand. Wayne places his hand on top of Eddie’s squeezing it tight.

“Nothin’ you could do could ever make me not proud of you.”

Note: I’m not crying, you’re crying. Jesus why do I do this to myself. Also this concludes chapter three, now posted on my ao3. Back to Dustin's POV in the next part

part 1, part 2. part 3. part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8, part 9, part 10, part 11

tag list, let me know if you want to be added or removed: @the-they-who-nerded, @insteviewetrust, @croatoan-like-its-hot, @jettestar,

@tinyplanet95, @steddie-as-they-go, @slv-333, @littlecelestialmoth, @thatonebadideapanda,

@fandomsanddeath, @marismorar, @wonderland-girl143-blog, @glass-bottle03, @gutterflower77,

@here4thetrama, @goodolefashionedloverboi, @jaytriesstuff, @cryptid-system, @manda-panda-monium,

@resident-gay-bitch, @anaibis, @xxsutherlandxx, @forevermineliv, @mugloversonly,

@gregre369, @n0-1-important, @different-tale-student, @spectrum-spectre, @tartarusknight,

@devondepresso, @swimmingbirdrunningrock, @cheertain, @anti-ozzie, @autumncrocusandladybug,

@greeniebean911, @cr0w-culture, @stillfullofshit, @connected-dots, @daisynotquake,

@morgannotlefay, @a-little-unsteddie, @dolphincliffs, @maskofmirrors, @me-and-my-sloth,

[lumea-art]

Hey, guys! I'd like to address a personal issue which actually concerns everyone in this fandom. Please, read and react somehow🙏 For those on the bojere fanbook server, that's going to be pretty much the same as what you read yesterday. If I'm too direct or accidentally overshare, sorry, keep in mind that I'm autistic

So for quite a long time I felt secretly disliked in the fandom. I am a very anxious person, I hang on every piece of feedback that I get so it bothered me a lot. I wasn't allowed to participate in the Käärijä zine and they never explained why and I almost didn't get in the bojere fanbook as well but at least the mods were kind enough to communicate the issue

So the mods told me yesterday that people felt uncomfortable about me taking part in this and having me on the server. I felt very down the whole day and didn't understand shit until Moko and Due gave me the explanation. The issue was "radfem" in my bio on Twitter. They explained to me how my associating with radfem made them think I was potentially threatening to other people on the server, especially the queer folk. But the thing is I turned out to be quite different. I consider myself to be radfem cause I've had a lot of traumatic experience with men (SA, abusive relationship), I don't want any other women to go through something like I had to experience, I am with women, I'm fighting for our comfort and against the patriarchy. Also I am from Kazakhstan and we have big issues with women's rights here including all kinds of abuse and femicide for which men tend to not get in jail. You might have heard how our ex minister of Economics abused and k*lled his wife and didn't get in jail until the case reached the news. That's all, that's what it means TO ME to be radfem. So I guess this radfem is different to the one you're used to. I am not transphobic and I have never thought my views had anything to do with queer people. I have always been nothing but respectful towards queer people, online or irl. I have nonbinary friends who are comfortable with communicating with me. As a cis person, I may not understand something, but we tend to talk anything through in order to understand each other better, not waiting for any of us get hurt accidentally. So I suggest the same - if you need further clarification, you can ask me questions in reblog or dms and I'll answer. Also I'm open to literature suggestions to get to understand you guys better💕

Also regarding Russian-Ukranian issue in case anyone has a problem with it

Since I'm openly Russian speaking (though being from Kazakhstan and half Ukrainian myself), Ukrainians might have an issue with me and I perfectly understand why so I try not to bother them. However, some of them didn't want to leave me and my friends alone. You might have seen this big Russian-Ukranian fight on twitter in April, mostly taking place in JO fandom. The thing is that (again) people don't dig deep and assume I am pro Russian since I speak Russian and happen to not be able to speak Ukrainian or Kazakh (in Kazakhstan we mostly speak Russian). Me and my Russian speaking friends were bullied, our personal info was leaked without our permission and one of us got threatened to be physically hurt once she arrives to a JO gig we are all going to. Of course I protected my friends and myself, maybe not in the best way possible. Luckily, we were able to talk everything through with the guys and no one means to hurt anyone anymore. I suggested doing commissions for donations and I still do that if you're interested. I am pro Ukrainian and pro Palestinian and genocides suck

If someone doesn't want to communicate with me for whatever reason, just don't, what's the problem. But don't limit a person before clarifying things, I beg you. Please, I really want to be on good terms with everyone. I wish peace to everyone 🙏

[omamorens]

If you, a divinity amongst mortals, did inkblade headcanons with Oisin and Aelwyn becoming weirdly good friends, and bonding over how they want to be better people for Adaine - it would be extremely delightful, is all <3

AELWYN MY BELOVED of course lovely anon!! this was cooking for so long in my asks i apologize for that

you know what Adaine’s worst nightmares are made of?

its her scheming sneaky older sister being weirdly good friends with the newly reformed and redeemed dragonborn that may or may not have a crush on her.

Adaine isn’t one to assume his affections though (she found out from Aelwyn).

But Aelwyn is definitely not their wingman, mind you

Everything she does is for her entertainment

And seeing her little sister be very skittish around the hot dragonborn trying his best to make amends with Adaine, then you better bet Aelwyn is watching it while eating popcorn

On the other hand, Aelwyn’s tips on how to apologize to Adaine isn’t working so well for Oisin

Adaine avoids him every chance she gets and at some point he even asked Aelwyn to set up a trap or something just to have Adaine hear him out

“That’s not how you apologize, dragonboy.”

“Okay, since you’re so great at it, how did you apologize?”

Aelwyn thinks the real!Oisin is too catty for his own good sometimes

But oddly enough, Oisin knows a lot of stuff about other people (is he just that observant? does he have his own network of spies like Aelwyn does? who knows)

And they bond over shit-talking about other people (they have to be a little bit evil. it comes with the territory im afraid)

Oisin is the type to rant logically too. what i mean is, when he rants, he pulls up a whole ass whiteboard and explains every reasoning as to why this thing infuriates him.

Ivy was his usual audience for his rants, but eventually Aelwyn becomes a regular too.

its actually such a healthy coping mechanism that Aelwyn takes up the same habit too.

but her audience is Adaine and Boggy, and theyre both very supportive of her rants (better she rants than enact physical violence or blackmail because she’s irritated)

Aelwyn and Oisin definitely bond over magic too. Wizards and their little tower of trinkets (but for Aelwyn, its just her apartment and the dozens of cat she has)

Oisin feeds the cats for her sometimes, in exchange for knowing about Adaine’s favorite things (so he can apologize to her with them)

Does it work? Definitely not. Adaine’s forgiveness cannot be bought with material riches

But she does notice how Oisin seems to handle himself better than before (healing looks good on him, though she wouldn’t admit that out loud)

she also gets the nagging suspicion that having Aelwyn and Oisin meet is certainly good for their individual psychological health, but terrible for the rest of Solace (again, being a little bit evil comes with the territory)

i love me some evil (handshake) evil best friendship. sure theyre trying their best to be better people but not much fun being the goody-two-shoes all the time

[drdemonprince]

in regards to the concept of abled people not existing/abled folks being expected to do more in relationships with disabled folks... You make some good points about us all being disabled in different ways and not recognizing it, but I still feel that there's quite a vsst gap materially between say, an ADHDer who can lift and push 50lbs easily/without pain and one who can't. And i have run into big roadblocks in relationships with other lefty types as the person who can't! And I think that expectation should be talked about and accepted more because I know a lot of "leftists" who would never think to apply this to stuff like doing the dishes because they're hellbent on everyone doing Equal Amounts. It's all fun and IG graphics about disability justice until they decide that youre Nonbinary roomate named sock who doesnt do the dishes etc etc , then see yourselves to the door!

You're absolutely right that there are differences in what various disabled people can do and the privileges that affords. It's glaringly obvious as a problem in Autism spaces, where people who can mask and speak like me are listened to and trusted and frequently talk over people who are nonverbal and cannot mask.

Even there, though, there are massive problems in attempting to rank-order someone's level of ability rather than just speaking specifically about these things in terms of privileges and oppressions. People assume I'm capable of all kinds of things I am not capable of, for instance, or hold me to ableist standards of productivity and ability because I "seem more capable. And Autistic people whose disabilities are more obvious have the opposite problem -- they are denied agency, presumed to be incompetent, not permitted to take on challenges they could find stimulating and worthwhile, and are dehumanized, etc.

And so where I'm getting with this is that we can't determine from the outside what a person is capable of doing, or what they should be capable of doing. It's not that far of a logical path to go from saying "Oh, this ADHDer is not physically disabled, they can lift 50 pounds, they can do a lot of things that I can't do" to saying "This ADHDer didn't unpack all our luggage for two weeks after our trip, they are lazy and not pulling their weight."

Someone might have the literal physical ability to do something in terms of strength or mobility, but not have the ability to complete a task because of the disabilities they do have (ADHD, in this case), and even if we are disabled ourselves we may be primed to see those people as lazy, uncaring, not pulling their weight, and all kinds of ableist interpretations.

So broadly I get your point, it is undoubtedly true some of us have abilities that others don't. but I think there's no way to put this idea into practice beyond just trusting people when they say they cannot do a thing, and not passing harsh judgement against people we think ought to be able to do a thing but don't (and maybe can't). This goes back to the original point of the discussion -- wondering why so many other people seem to fail disabled people and not show up for them.

To your second point, about a lot of even leftist people bringing therapy and instagram infographic "boundary setting" advice to their relationships and expecting all chores to be divided up equally, yeah that's a big problem and it's been a big problem in interpersonal relationships for many decades at this point. Most people overestimate the portion of the chores that they do, underestimate the work their partners or housemates do, and aspire to "equity" in a way that drives them absolutely crazy with score-keeping and resentment. There's a lot of research on how that outlook absolutely poisons heterosexual relationships and has done so pretty much ever since women started getting the ability to say no to a chore. It's a big problem of individualism under capitalism at its root, I think.

And the social change needed is much the same thing -- people need to learn to actually trust their loved ones when they say they cannot do the dishes, cannot clean the gutters, can't drop off the rent check, etc. I think a disability justice politics of raising everyone's class consciousness regarding their own disabilities and others is the way to go, and a massive strengthening of community ties.

[alltheboysandgirlsiloved]

The more I think about Ben's girlfriend the more shady and off it sounds. This whole thing is rotting my brain so hard that... Welcome to ✨ Ben's character breakdown in Chaos Theory and "Ben's GF" theory✨

Here is what we know about Ben in Chaos Theory that may or may not be crucial:

- he used to be in a college but is currently taking a break

- he keeps all of his necessities in his van

- he is obsessed with conspiracy theories

- he occasionally keeps in touch with the rest of the campers (knew where Darius lived, received at least one parcel from Sammy)

- has a girlfriend from Europe and it's a long distance relationship

- gets paranoid easily (refuses to use the phone because it's trackable, believes that he is followed)

Here are things we don't know for sure but are assumable:

- his obsession with conspiracy theories is at least one year old (Ben talked about it with Brooklyn when he was still in college and it sounded fairly fresh)

- he spends a lot of time traveling in his van (very possible that he has been living there for a while)

- he didn't tell anyone about his girlfriend prior to events in CT

- Brooklyn was most likely (to some degree) infected by Ben's obsession with Dark Jurassic

Other things that I noticed:

- Ben talks about his girlfriend twice and his sentences about her can be roughly divided into two categories: normal speech bubbles and awkward hesitance.

- Ben was the one who told Brooklyn about Dark Jurassic

Theory under the cut:

A lot of things about Ben's behaviour tick me off. Don't get me wrong - everything is still in character but at the same time... It feels slightly off. The girlfriend thing is what set the alarm inside my head but the more I thought about it, the more things just didn't quite click.

As I mentioned earlier, how Ben talks about his girlfriend can be divided into two categories: normal speech bubbles and awkward hesitation. When he says that he has a girlfriend and doesn't behave like Sammy it sounds normal and casual, the same when he mentions his girlfriend to Yaz - I doubt he would lie to Yaz about that. So, I think, in general, that this person (his GF) does exist, or at least Ben believes that she exists and is his girlfriend. However, it would be foolish to ignore the very awkward "she's from... Europe" - it sounds hesitant, it sounds like a lie, or even (what I'm leaning towards nowadays) sounds like a bashful admittance that Ben doesn't know much about her. Keep that in mind for now.

One of the first things we learn about Ben in CT is that he is obsessed with Dark Jurassic and conspiracy theories. While some part of it can certainly be explained by lingering trauma ("the more you know, the safer you are"), I feel like that explanation alone isn't enough. What is even more interesting is that it seems that this obsession is strong enough for him to take a break from college and move to live in a van. Not his mother (who, as far as we know, is very loving) but a van. Almost as if he wanted to reduce contact with other people to the minimum - and we actually have proof for that because he doesn't use a phone. We also have evidence that it is both a fairly new and not-that-new development. From his flashbacks, we know that Brooklyn visited him in college - which, according to my very rough estimations, probably happened around a year ago (assuming that Ben entered college at 18 (he is 20 in CT) and Brooklyn died more than six months ago)), and we also know that this is when Ben mentioned Dark Jurassic to Brooklyn.

I think the bit about Ben mentioning Dark Jurassic to Brooklyn is a very interesting detail because Brooklyn was introduced to us as someone whose presence is very rooted online. And yet it is Ben who tells Brooklyn about Dark Jurassic. Ever since he spoke to Brooklyn about that, his obsession started to expand (surely, Brooklyn's "death" only fueled that), slowly consuming every aspect of his life – he took a break from college, he decided to spend a lot of time on the road, he dedicated a lot of his time to checking conspiracy theories. He became paranoid in a sense (which he used to be prone to as proved in season 1 of Camp Cretaceous) to the point when he considered suspecting Sammy. ben double-checks everything, he tries not to stay too long in one place, he is afraid that he is being tracked (rightfully so), and yet... he is in a long-distance relationship with someone "from... Europe".

This is where my theory enters. I tried to consider every aspect of Ben's personality and also the flow of the story in Chaos Theory - where the plot is thick and full of twists and turns.

I think that it was Ben's girlfriend who nudged him in the direction of Dark Jurassic. Or even – potentially he was the first "victim" of the anti-nublar six agenda. What's the best way to keep track of all the campers? Have an insider. Ben suspected that Sammy was spying, he didn't even consider that he could be the unknowing insider. It could have played out like this: when you're in college you come across many people who know other people etc etc. One way or another Ben got into contact with his current girlfriend (I doubt they have ever met in person but I don't completely rule out this possibility). They got close, when she showed his Dark Jurassic - a website brimming with mysteries - knowing that he would be interested (Ben has trouble establishing what is "normal", he is a little lost - the more lost you are, the more desperate you are to find out "what is real, what is true", reaching even for things like conspiracy theories). The deeper Ben fell into the rabbit hole, the more anxious he was, suspicious of others too – but not of his girlfriend. Why? Because she was the one who showed Dark Jurassic to him. She showed him where he could learn more, so naturally - naturally - she is beyond suspicion, right? Because (I doubt Ben has ever even voiced those thoughts but he didn't have to voice them out, the feel them) if she had something to hide, she wouldn't encourage him to explore the world of "I should be suspicious of everything/nothing is real".

At the same time, Ben is a smart boy - but he started to realize "some things" when he was way too deep. For example, with time he realized how little he actually knew about his girlfriend. By then, he trusted her a lot so now it would be awkward to admit that there are a lot of things he doesn't know like the fact that he's not even sure where is she from. It is also important to note that considering the timeline, they have been in a relationship for a while, and yet only now do the campers learn about her - strange considering that he stays (more or less) in touch with some of them. Perhaps, one way or another, at the beginning his girlfriend suggested him to... not mention her. Just in case. In case Ben's friends wanted to know more and encouraged Ben to start asking questions – questions that could be "uncomfortable" for Ben's girlfriend. No, I think she wanted to know everything about the Nublar Six but remain mysterious in return - at least until the plan (her plan? their plan? who are they?) was in full swing. Notice how Ben doesn't use the phone right now, but I'm pretty sure that it is a new development (I'm talking months news). Why new? Because earlier, it was crucial for his girlfriend to know everything (what are his friends up to, where are they) and to fuel Ben's anxiety and paranoia. Now when the atrociraptors are actively hunting the Nublar Six, when the plan is already in development, Ben isn't as needed as he used to be (that also explains why it was Brooklyn, not Ben who was lethally targetted first – Ben was literally needed alive because he was an active naive insider + because Ben trusted his girlfriend and wasn't suspicious of her presence around the conspiracy, whilst Brooklyn could be suspicious in more dangerous ways).

So yes, right now, this theory seems to more or less tie up most of the loose ends and weird things that surround Ben. To put it briefly – Ben was manipulated - his girlfriend is real but has some sort of ulterior motives.

(and oh wouldn't it be a dramatic plot twist if the person who suspected everyone turned out to be the one who was, ultimately, delivering a lot of information to the "bad guys"?)

if you got this far - congrats tbh hahah

[cordelia-cardale]

I’ve been thinking a lot about how the society doesn’t really seem to react or gossip about how close Pen and Colin sometimes are. Some have said it’s because of how Pen is perceived in society and a spinster so no one in the ton thinks that an eligible Bridgerton man could be interested in her romantically. I believe it’s the contrary. And I think this commentary kinda supports this idea:

“All these rules are to keep the marriage mart churning. But once you have performed your function and found your match, you are free.”

“It’s an intriguing perspective that, one assumes, much of the ton shares. It also casts a new light on Colin and Penelope’s interactions thus far. From day one, they’ve always been a little (or a lot) closer than society allows. They think nothing of being unchaperoned alone, talking about highly personal things, or even physically touching. There’s a casual intimacy there, and it only becomes a “problem” when the ton begins scrutinizing them more closely. Symbolically, they are already on the level of an old married couple, with the freedom and intimacy it allows.” Amanda Prahl - Scene Breakdown: Colin and Penelope’s Dance in Bridgerton’s “Old Friends” (Marvelous Geeks Media)

Like yes, when they’ve been written about in LW then there’s gossip, or when Colin interrupts that dance then there’s scandal, but the rest of the time? Not really, no. Like the willow tree? The sweet stand? The repetitive dances they have throughout the season? The fuckin “come with me”? There’s talk at the end of season 2 sure but for how close they are most of the time this is nothing. This is just some teenage boys being immature and unkindly teasing Colin (it is basically what that is). My guess is that Pen and Colin have always been so close that the ton doesn’t really question it. Of course young girls still throw themselves at Colin because he is eligible and of good fortune and that’s the horrible game they’re all playing. Try to catch the biggest fish in the pond. But what strikes me for example is when Cressida says “Eros and Psyche battling it out”. She says it so nonchalantly. There’s not a hint of a question or surprise. She acts as if it’s obvious and there was no other plausible situation. And you can argue that she says it this cause she’s Cressida or that it advantages her because then Debling is available, but I think that in that moment she’s probably voicing what everyone else in the ton is thinking. That it’s a given. That there was probably always something unspoken between Pen and Colin, thus allowing them to act as they have with the freedom and intimacy it allows. The unspoken but well known fact that these two were always meant to be for each other

[neptunes-sol-angel]

Can they match your freak? 👀 Think of a person that you're interested in, then pick the picture that you feel drawn to the most to find the corresponding message about how the sexual chemistry would be like between you guys.

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Pile One

The person on your mind comes across as formal, polite, but not interested in being in everyone’s face or being the center of attention. They could be considered a bit odd, maybe the timeline in which their beliefs, speech, and hobbies are not common in their age group. They could be assumed as a nerd because of how serious they take most things, like if you were to joke with them or use sarcasm, they’ll turn what’s not supposed to be literal into something pragmatic which is kind of cute in an innocent way. But they’re not rude or dismissive, because if you stick with them long enough they’ll eventually catch up with your sense of humor, even if the jokes don’t land, the fact that they’re trying makes it hilarious. They’re great at guiding people and teaching someone without looking down on others. They could come from a big family and are actually really nurturing and considerate which leaves them feeling more selective with who they choose to be their friend or romantic partner, and are content with spending a lot of time alone. They’re really “slow moving”, they don’t like to be rushed in anything, and for a good reason. They don’t like to compromise their stability, and love to have a work-life balance, even if they are an overachiever.

When it comes to doing the deed, it feels like intimacy is heightened because it feels as if you’re with a whole different person. Their sexual energy feels electric and eccentric. I feel like they’re a music junkie. They’re a lover of all genres, but pay attention mostly to the artists and bands that don’t get a lot of appreciation. I keep picking up on music theory, which could of course hint more about what they like to learn about, but I see this more as them effortlessly knowing the right note, the right rhythm, and the right scale to successfully lead their partners into an orgasm. They’re absolutely magical with their fingers, but feral with their stamina. They’re competitive when it comes to showing their partner who can go round for round, and they’re determined to make sure they’re at the top. Speaking of top, they love to be dominant in the bedroom. Their sex talks chains and whips! Just kidding, but it’s an art for them to see the many ways in how pain brings their partner pleasure. They’re down for almost anything in sex, as long as it’s consensual. Outdoor sex could be a favorite of theirs. Should you have sex with them? I feel that sex with them will be better than anything if you’ve had with anyone else, which can be addictive. Make sure that the relationship is something solid with this person, if it’s a situationship, it can be problematic, especially around issues with possessiveness, unhealthy attachments, and a lack of boundaries.

Pile Two

Sol cherubs…I’m sorry but I’m going to have to roast this person. I feel like they’re the kind to wine and dine a person. Dinner dates are nice, yes, but this person is very cheap, and likes to do the bare minimum while thinking that the other party should give them something back in return. They talk themselves up a lot, and could even get carried away with dirty talk in the bed because THEY think they’re doing something. Like this person could think that they’re a total freak, but their sex talks vanilla…They do basic positions, they’re repetitive, which is not the problem, the problem is that it’s not doing anything for the other person, and the only thing freaky about them is their gross personality. They’re self-serving, it’s not to say that you can’t experience pleasure with this person in sex, but if you expect for them to care about making sure that you finish too, don’t. They’re cheap with their wallet and in the bedroom. DO NOT have sex with this person, you won’t feel satisfied, and their energy in general is creepy and the epitome of what a loser looks like. If they’re a man, they have a toxic patriarchal mindset, weak in reality, but prowls for individuals who they think that they can control. They’re an energy vampire. Sex is an ego booster for them. It excites them more when they come across a person who’s strong in personality, or harbors a lot of potential to be a star, so that they can seduce them in order to feel better about themselves.

Sex should be an equal thing, where both parties are respected, having fun, and feeling good. You should both feel empowered rather than seeing it as taking power from another person. I’m also getting the feeling that this could be a past person for certain individuals. The message is also for you guys to know that sex isn’t supposed to be a shameful thing either if you’re still in regret about giving it to the wrong individual or even individuals. You’re not less of a person because you had sex so don’t let anyone try to punish you for it, and that includes yourself. Heal the negative beliefs you have about sex within yourself by not seeing yourself as a body count, limiting yourself to people who don’t satisfy you, and to trust in yourself to keep your stance in not doing something if you don’t want to just because someone gave you something and speaking up about what you want and how you want to be treated.

Pile Three

The person on your mind is spontaneous. You could play hard to get with them on the outside, but on the inside they’re very alluring to you, and lowkey they know this. Your chemistry in general with this person is breathtaking, if you aren’t a couple, people wonder why you aren’t one yet because of how close you guys are with each other and how obvious your attraction towards one another is. There’s heavy sexual tension here, partly because of how racy things get when you guys flirt with each other or how compatible you guys are to the point where you feel comfortable just yapping about almost anything, and the other part being the elephant in the room, which is something just feels forbidden about this relationship. Maybe this is a coworker which I understand why it wouldn’t be appropriate. You could consider this person a goofball, someone you always have fun with, or can count on to put a smile on your face, but the friendship between you guys is strong. Y’all get each other emotionally and are generally supportive, I would be shocked if you guys weren’t best friends. I’m not even picking up their individual sexual energy, my intuition just keeps pointing to how it would be if you guys were to ever have an encounter. I just keep getting “yes, yes!, YES!” go for it with this person, because it doesn’t feel at all like something you would regret. Ya’ll complete each other in so many ways that it just feels right. The sexual chemistry would be stable, you wouldn’t get bored of each other because it brings you guys closer rather than apart. This won’t be for everyone, but some people in the pile might have a theme of knowing right then and there that this is the person that they would want to spend the rest of their life with. Be wary though if you aren’t in the position of wanting to have kids or having enough to support a child, because you guys are going to be on each other like rabbits.