#warning mention of suicidal behavior

[nicksolemnlyswears]

THE BEAR AND THE BEE HIVE

summary: in which carmy falls for the sweet café owner that supplies him with endless americanos

pairing: carmen berzatto x fem!reader

word count: 14.4k

warning: it's a little bit of a slow burn. sorry. i'm a sucker for it and i feel like carmy is a slow burn kinda guy. 18 +, cursing, smut, p in v, oral (m. receiving), fingering, they use protection guys! i deserve a pat in the back. nothing too wild. oh, and very brief mention of suicide.

a/n: i started writing this way back in october and then it was nearly done and i abandoned it. well i finally got around to completing it tonight!

this is my first time ever writing for carmy and i tried my best writing this. i love carmy and the show but i didn’t expect it to be hard to write him as a character. i wanted to get him right so i took my time with it and didn’t rush it. hopefully you guys like my carmy. enjoy!

i think i've had this stored in my drafts for like 4 months and it's time for me to set it free.

The cigarettes were not enough anymore. No matter how many smoke breaks Carmy took, he still felt the edge on his shoulders. A fear laced with anxiety that overtook him.

After deciding that blowing through yet another wall in his restaurant was the way to go, Carmy took a break. He needed it before he used the sledgehammer to destroy the restaurant in its entirety, along with his dream.

He remembers a coffee shop only a block away from The Bear and thinks he could use a coffee right about now. Maybe the mixture of caffeine and nicotine will be able to relax his shoulders, if only for an hour.

As soon as he opens the door, the smell of ground coffee beans greets him. He looks around, taking in the cozy ambiance the decorative wood brings to the place and the splashes of warm yellow that lighten it up.

Then he sees you, and his focus shifts entirely. His eyes only see you.

"Hi, welcome to Bee Hive!" You chirp with a small smile.

Carmy freezes, forgetting why he's there in the first place. He slowly steps up to the register, where you patiently wait for him. It's just after the lunch rush, so you're in no hurry.

He finds he's acting like a teenager who has just seen a pretty girl. Only he's not a teenager, and you're more than a pretty girl.

"What can I get for you today?" You ask, not noticing the effect you've had on him. You take a sharpie out of your yellow apron, preparing to scribble down his order in a cup.

Carmy has perfected the empty on the outside but screaming on the inside face. Strangers don't tend to know he's almost always losing his shit.

"I-I don't…sorry," Carmy looks at you briefly before diverting his eyes. He apologizes in a flurry, looking for an excuse for his weird behavior, "Uh, it's my first time here. What do you recommend?"

"It's not a problem," you say softly as if to calm him, "I'm a simple girl. I love the latte, but if you're looking for something stronger, the americano is one of the favorites."

Carmy nods as you ramble about the drinks, where the coffee beans come from, and the different notes of each blend. He hangs onto every word that slips from your lips. The static in his brain clearing up for the first time in hours.

It ends too soon as you realize you're talking too much and probably overwhelmed him. You sheepishly smile at him and trail off, but he continues to stare, waiting for you to continue.

"I'll take the Americano," Carmy nods, giving you a tight-lipped smile. Although he had been hanging to every one of your words, he was too focused on the shape of your lips and the sweet tone of your voice.

"Good choice," you nod, grabbing a cup from the tray beside you, "What's your name?"

Carmy looks up, slightly alarmed, as if you've asked for his social security number. "What?" He thinks you'll be forward and ask for his number next, seemingly forgetting how coffee orders work.

"Your name? For the order?" You explain, trying to ease his worries. He's odd, but in an endearing way. You believe this is his first time here because you're confident you would've remembered him.

"Fuck, right, yeah," he nervously says, pinching the bridge of his nose, "My name's Carmen."

"Your Americano will be right out, Carmen," you tell him, capping your sharpie back up.

Carmy quickly pays and stands to the side to wait for his order. He forces himself to not look at you or in your direction as you take other customers' orders. He just knows he's made a fool of himself already. Not that it matters. Why would it matter? He's there for the coffee. Nothing else, no one else.

As he walks out of Bee Hive, he sips his coffee. His shoulders instantly drop, and his fear-induced anxiety starts to dissipate for the moment. He's unsure if the effect is because of the caffeine or the thoughts of your pretty smile.

Visiting your coffee shop becomes routine for Carmy. Whenever things at The Bear become crazy -or he starts to lose his fuckin' mind- he makes his way to Bee Hive with a cigarette hanging from his lips.

For twenty minutes, he's free of Richie's constant hounding, Sugar's struggles with the permits and scheduling, and Sydney's disappointment because the menu is still extremely underway.

Each time he's stopped by, you've been there to greet him, and each time, you've left a little heart by Carmen's name, which makes his heart race in a peculiar way. His hands would touch his chest to check if it was heartburn, but it didn't feel like that. It's not anxiety either cause he knows pretty well how that feels.

All he knows is he hasn't done anything to deserve such a gesture. He's convinced himself you draw little hearts for everyone because he's not special.

One Thursday afternoon, Carmy realizes he doesn't know your name. He looks for a name tag, but you're not wearing one on your yellow apron. He should know your name if you insist on making small talk despite his short answers.

He can't help it. He gets too in his head to answer like a normal person, so his answers come out choppy and dry.

"Alright, Carmen, your order will be right out," you say, handing his cup to one of the baristas. You always hold out and ask him what he wants to order. He has the right to change his mind anytime, but for now, he's stuck with the americano, which he drowns in sugar.

As curiosity eats at him, he gathers the courage to ask. "Thanks. Hey, uh, I've-I’ve never gotten your name…” Carmy says, cursing at himself for not formulating the question correctly. His hand comes up to grip his hair instinctually.

Your smile widens when he asks your name. The silly crush you've developed for your customer fluttering to life. It's just a crush over a stranger, nothing to write home about.

You tell him your name but follow it with "-call me Honey. Everyone knows me by that name. I'm sure if you ask my friends about me with my real name, you'll throw them for a loop."

You're rambling, hoping he doesn't think calling you by your nickname is weird. Then again, how can he judge when he has a sister people call 'Sugar' and he and his siblings also don the nickname 'Bear.'

"Honey." Carmy repeats your nickname, smiling as he finds it fitting. "In that case, call me Carmy."

"Nice to properly meet you, Carmy," you say, grinning.

Like all the days before, Carmy steps aside and waits for his coffee. He doesn't let himself continue the conversation or ask more about you even if it’s everything he wants to do.

It's rare for Carmy to be in a good mood, and whenever it happens, it doesn't tend to last. His goal of opening a restaurant in 12 weeks makes it impossible for him to relax and enjoy the ride. To prolong this unusual feeling, Carmy stops by Bee Hive on his way to The Bear.

"Have you made your boss angry, Honey?" He asks as he pulls out his wallet to pay. He ordered the americano as he always does.

"No…why do you ask?" You ask, tilting your head in confusion.

"Uh, 'cause you-you're always here. Do you not take days off? Not that I'm complaining. I-I like seeing you here." Carmy's words get quieter as he speaks, red creeping up his neck. So much for trying to make a joke.

You look around the room and tell him, "Imma let you in on a little secret."

Carmy follows your hand, waving him to get closer. The smell of cigarettes invades your senses as you get close to him. You'd never admit that the mix of his cigarettes and your coffee is addicting. As both lean over the counter, you whisper, "I'm the boss. I can't run away even if I wanted to."

"You own the coffee shop," Carmy pans in shock.

Carmy is more than surprised at your words. Especially now that he knows how expensive it is to open a business. You can't be a day over 25 and own a successful coffee place. There is hope, after all.

"I do," you nod, standing straight once more.

A couple of years ago, you had inherited a hefty amount of money from an estranged aunt. Fresh out of college and with no real plan, you thought it would be a good moment to follow your dream and open the cozy café.

"How do you do it?" Carmy asks, amazed at the girl smiling at him. "I don't know if you know, but, um, I-I'm opening the restaurant around the block. Used to be The Beef?" He finishes grimly as he points to his side of the block.

"Oh, yeah. The guys who worked there helped me move some equipment when I first opened two years ago," you reveal, "Tell you what, whenever you have a break, come around. I'll give you a free americano and tell you all about it. Neighbor to neighbor."

Stuffing his hands in his pockets, Carmy agrees. "I'll take you up on that."

Weeks go by, and Carmy seemingly forgets about Bee Hive and your pending conversation. You try not to overthink about his absence or how you might've scared him away. He's probably just busy remodeling his restaurant. You know better than anyone how much time that takes.

Still, his presence has become part of your routine, and you can't help but look at the door each time the bell rings. You expect to see him walking up to the counter, the remnants of cigarette smoke coming out his nose as he breathes.

You're pretty close to your assumption because Carmy has been dealing with the fire suppression test. They didn't fail the test once but twice, and if they didn't pass it on the third try, their plan to open the restaurant in 12 weeks goes out the window. Fak has tried everything, and nothing works.

He'd sent Richie once on a coffee run, but the fuckin' idiot went to the nearest Starbucks. Carmy had been looking forward to tasting your coffee and seeing his name in the cup with the little heart because he's 100% sure he's the only Carmen you know. It's not a common name in these parts of town.

One very early morning, he's walking to work, and as he passes Bee Hive, he sees you inside, wiping tables down before you open at 6:30.

Impulsively, he knocks on the glass, not giving himself the time to overthink things. You turn to look at the window and see him standing outside, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his familiar plaid jacket to protect himself from the chilly March air.

"Hey stranger," you greet him, opening the door and inviting him in.

"Hi," he breathes out, staring at you, "you're here early," he tries to casually mention.

You roll your eyes dramatically and say, "It's a downside of the job. Did you know people want coffee at the crack of dawn?"

You try acting as nonchalant as possible. It's not like you missed seeing one of your favorite customers, his beautiful blue eyes, or the way he rocks a simple white t-shirt.

"I had no idea," Carmy smiles, bringing his tattooed hand up to his lips, "I, uh, usually drink mine at night." That much is true. On those sleepless nights when insomnia takes over him, the best remedy is coffee.

"Would you make an exception and join me for a morning coffee at the crack ass of dawn?" Anxiously, you play with the rings on your fingers. It feels like you're asking the guy on a date when it's just a friendly coffee.

"As long as you have some business advice to spare?" Carmy responds shakily. He briefly looks down the street to glimpse at his restaurant. It's too early for anyone to be there yet.

"Deal."

Throwing the towel over your shoulder, you make your way behind the counter. Carmy attempts to make small talk with you as you prepare both drinks.

This is the first time he's watching you in action since you tend to stick to the cash register when he's around. It's not a coincidence. After the first time he came to Bee Hive, you wanted to see more of him, so you stationed yourself at the register where you'd be sure to see him, and he'd see you.

"Here you go." You place his coffee mug on the table along with yours before disappearing momentarily and returning with an orange soufflé coffee cake. You're pulling all the stops for Carmy to leave a good impression.

Carmy thanks you and sips his coffee, "Wow, this is fire!" He expected to taste an americano, but what you prepared was entirely different. He can make out hints of hazelnut and caramel in the coffee.

"Thanks. I took the liberty of changing your order. You can always come back to the americano, though…" you shrug shyly, looking at him over the rim of your mug.

"I-I appreciate it. Thanks." Carmy throws you a nervous grin. He gestures with his tattooed hand to dig into the cake you brought out. He shouldn't be the only one eating.

You and Carmy share the cake as you talk about yourselves and the crazy businesses you own. Somehow, talking to you comes easy to him. He's still nervous and scared to fuck things up, but the warm coffee and your even warmer smile ease him into it.

"How do you do it? This place is always packed, and you seem like you run a tight ship," Carmy wonders, playing with the fork. The cake is long gone, although the notes of orange remain on his tongue. Would you taste the same?

"It wasn't without mistakes. I had to learn a lot from my fuck ups and listen to my team because although I'm the owner, they are the ones doing most of the work. Whenever there's a flaw, they are the first to know," you speak softly, afraid of ruining the calm ambiance you've set up, twirling the small amount of coffee left in your mug.

It's your favorite part of morning coffee. When you have just the smallest bit of coffee left, and you know you'll never drink it because it's cold, but it gives you an excuse to remain where you are.

"So, all I gotta do is listen?" It's funny you say that because Carmy listens, but his friend's voices get muddled somewhere along the way. As much as he tries to focus on them, they merge together and form a cacophony in his head.

"A lot of listening and a lot of experimentation. I've been open for two years, and it's only been in the last six months that I can confidently tell you we found our groove," you admit with a grimace.

Bee Hive is your baby, but bringing it to life was everything but easy. You messed up so many times, costing you so much money. You didn't know shit about owning a business or building one from the ground up. Doing research and putting your pride aside to ask for help got you through it.

"I've only been doing this for, like, less than a fuckin' year, and I already want to pull my hair out," Carmy admits with a pitiful laugh.

"I'm sorry I can't tell you it gets better soon," you say apologetically, reaching for his hand that rests on the table.

Carmy freezes, glancing at your hand on top of his. He hasn't got a clue what to fucking do with the display of affection. Was it a display of affection? He doesn't fucking know. "It's, uh, it's, uh, it's alright. As-as long as you give me coffee, I think I can make it through," Carmen furrows his eyebrows as he stutters through the sentence.

"I can't wait to see what the award-winning chef does," you say, bringing your hand back to your lap, none the wiser to Carmy's internal struggle.

He should've done something to keep your hand on his. Place his other hand on yours or fucking turn his hand around to grasp it. He liked feeling your warm skin on his. It hasn't been a minute since you pulled away, and he's craving it already. It's ridiculous. Is he really that touch-starved that he's seeking affection from a near stranger?

He coughs and darts his eyes between the wooden table top and you, "Fuck. You-you know about that?"

"I might've done some research after finding out you're opening the restaurant. I got curious. I'm sorry." Apologizing is your default thing to do. Messing things up is your area of expertise. You really didn't think he'd mind you mentioning it.

"No, no, no, uh, you don't have to apologize. You just caught me off guard," Carmy shakes his head, reassuring both of you.

"Okay, good," you lightly smile at him, averting your eyes when your gazes meet.

If there's a time for you to make a move, it's now. Taking a shaky breath, you speak up, "I was wondering if you'd ever like to-."

A loud knock on the glass door interrupts you. You and Carmy jump and look towards the source of the noise. It's one of your regular clients, waving at you to open up. Looking at your watch, you see it's 6:30 already.

"Shit. I'm-I'm sorry I took so much of your time," Carmy apologizes, picking up his mug and the plate to put away.

You grab his wrist to make him stop in his tracks, "Relax. I enjoyed talking to you. Maybe we can do it again soon?"

Carmy nods wide-eyed. He likes the idea just as much as you do. You take away the mug and plate with a soft 'okay.' He then follows you to the door as you unlock it and turn the sign to 'open.'

"I, um, gotta go work on the menu. I'll probably be back later for another coffee?" Carmen asks you as if he's asking for permission, which you find adorable.

"I'll be behind the register," you say, watching him walk away. He turns his head back for a moment, and you catch the smile gracing his lips as yours turns to mimic him.

"Oh, he's cute," your customer, an older lady, says, watching him go along with you. "It's about time you got a boyfriend."

"Mrs. O'Hara, here for your tea?" You ask her, ignoring the comment about your love life. That woman will set you up with anyone. She does love her tea, though, and expects you to provide it on time.

It's slow, but Carmen warms up to you. Instead of grabbing his coffee to go, he now drinks it at the café, coincidentally around the same time you take your break.

He's been hesitantly opening up. It's not like he's telling you about how fucked up his family is or how his brother committed suicide. More often, it's about the restaurant and his work as a chef, the struggles of getting every permit they need on a tight schedule since they are supposed to open in about four weeks now, or the occasional childhood memory. It's everything you need to know at this stage.

You love listening to Carmy talk, even if you have to coax it out of him sometimes. He's passionate about the restaurant despite all the stress that comes from it, and he adores the people he works with. He's shy but not in a dorky way because he's actually fascinating. Before meeting him, you never knew that collecting denim was a thing.

The smell of cigarettes that clings to him is also tightly laced with his character. When you step outside to get some sun and the scent of someone smoking hits you, your heart instantly speeds up, hoping it's him coming for his daily americano, or to come swoop you away into a sunset.

"-I fell on my ass in the middle of the street. I was freaking out, thinking I was gonna get run over by a car," you exclaim as you tell Carmy about the crazy Christmas you spent in New York last year.

"It's New York. You probably would have been run over," Carmy chuckles along with you. "There was this one time I was running late and-" His phone vibrating interrupts him.

"Sorry, it's just the fridge guy," he tells you with a furrow of his eyebrows. You notice he does that a lot when he's thinking deeply. Carmy silences it and looks back over to you.

"You should pick that up. A busted fridge is the last thing you need. Trust me. Been there, done that." You encourage him to take the call. The restaurant is more important than your story about how you bruised your coccyx in New York.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, Carm! Call him back before you forget," you insist, grabbing his empty cup to trash it. You don't give him any other option, leaving him there to help your employees with a faulty machine.

He watches you closely, closer than ever before. He allows himself to watch how you frown at the machine and how your ringed fingers fumble with the knobs. His eyes keep trailing down involuntarily, and they take in how nicely your jeans hug your ass.

He goes into a spiral into these old pair of Levi jeans popular in the 90s and how they would fit nicely with the shape of your hips and legs. Carmy continues on the tangent, imagining himself peeling them off your body.

The phone vibrating in his hand snaps him out of it. Clearing his throat, he picks up the phone and walks outside. He waves at you through the window as he makes his way back to The Bear. Your frustration at the machine vanishes momentarily as you wave back, except the machine splatters, forcing you to redirect your attention. When you look outside again, he's gone.

Stakes are high at The Bear. There's less than four weeks until Friends and Family, and there is much to do. Marcus has returned from Copenhagen and is working on the desserts. Tina is doing her job as the new sous chef. Fak and Sweeps are helping out wherever they can. And Richie is being Richie, trying to be open but resisting change.

"I need coffee or a pop. Anything with caffeine," Sydney says, throwing her head back. She and Carmen have been working on the chaos menu for hours, and she keeps messing up. Carmy insists that it's okay that they'll adjust and get it right soon, but she's beginning to lose hope.

"Me too. I'd kill for an espresso," Natalie agrees, softly rubbing her hand over her growing bump.

"I thought you couldn't have caffeine cause of the baby," Richie mentions, remembering Tiff's time while pregnant.

"I don't need you to fuckin' tell me what I can or can't eat, Richie," Natalie yells, glaring at him. Although he's right, the doctor told her to limit her caffeine intake. Hard to do when she's up all night thinking about everything she needs to do for The Bear.

"Shit. I'm sorry for fucking caring," Richie screams back, lifting his hands up in defense.

"I can go to the coffee place down the block. Get everyone something," Carmy pipes up, looking forward to seeing you today.

Natalie is quick to shoot that idea down, "You can't. The fridge guy is coming in 20 minutes."

"Fuck, that's right," Carmy groans, digging his head in his hands. His fingers rake through his hair, messing up his curls. He wanted to see you and talk to you, even if it was for five short minutes.

"I'll go," Sydney sighs. She needs to leave the kitchen for more than five minutes, or she'll go crazy, "Just tell me what you guys want to order."

Natalie grumbles about getting decaf, Richie orders a plain black coffee, and Carmy asks for his americano. As Sydney leaves to ask Marcus, Carmy yells after her, "Please, go to Bee Hive. If you get Starbucks, I'm gonna fucking lose it."

Richie and Natalie exchange a look. Richie because he's confused, and Natalie because she knows something is happening with Carmy. He's never been picky over coffee. In fact, they have an old coffee machine in the office that now goes unused because he's always at that coffee shop.

"Sorry, I didn't get the fuckin' memo. Since when is Starbucks bad?" Richie frowns, looking to get a rise out of Carmy.

"I don't think it's about the coffee, cousin," Natalie responds, directing her gaze towards her brother, who is hunched over the counters, chopping vegetables.

"If it's not about the coffee, what is it about?" Richie questions, crossing his arms.

"Shut the fuck up, Sugar," Carmy grumbles, looking at his sister with a glare. He already knows where she's going. She tried to bring it up a couple of days ago after she walked by the coffee shop and saw him being friendly with you.

Natalie smiles and responds, "Carmy has a crush on the barista."

"That's ridiculous. I don't have a crush on her." Carmy shakes his head, avoiding Richie and Natalie's eyes on him. They always do this. They gang up on him if he shows even the slightest interest in a girl. They think they can help, but all they do is embarrass him.

"Come on, Bear. Why else would you go almost every day to get coffee?" Natalie asks, giving him a look.

"Because it's good fuckin' coffee. Jesus, it's not that deep." Carmy grabs the veggies he chopped and drops them into a container to use later.

"It's okay to admit you like a pretty girl, cousin! I'm excited for you! Makes you human and not a lonely hermit," Richie jokes, pushing on Carmy's buttons. "When was the last time you got laid?"

"I swear to God, Richie. Shut the fuck up," Carmy points at him angrily.

"No, I should go with Sydney and see who this girl is!" Richie says, walking out of the half-built kitchen.

Carmy follows him instantly, "You're not going fuckin' anywhere, fuckin' jagoff." He's turning red from anger, seeing Richie with his mocking smile. Natalie follows behind them, amused at the situation. It reminds her of the banters they used to get in with Mickey.

"Admit that you like her," Richie shrugs, giving him a choice.

"No, I won't," Carmy refuses. "You always do this shit."

"Then, I'm going," Richie nods, stepping towards the door.

"Fuck! Shit, alright. I like her, okay? Don't fucking go anywhere," Carmy yells, rubbing a hand on his face out of frustration. It's like he's not allowed to keep anything good to himself.

"Was that so hard?" Richie grins, clapping a hand on Carmy's shoulder.

"Don't fuckin' touch me," Carmy grumbles, walking back to the kitchen. Natalie follows him with a smile, shaking her head at Richie.

Carmy sighs and squeezes his eyes shut. He has yet to admit that he likes you more than he should. He's been avoiding it, afraid of what it might lead to, or rather, what it might not.

He couldn't let Richie go see you. He has a big fuckin' mouth and will tell you Carmy has a crush on you whether it's true or not. Just like that, he feels the sour taste in his mouth, his heartburn making an appearance. Carmy should go look for his pepto before it gets worse.

Unaware of the argument back at The Bear, Sydney walks to Bee Hive. She's walked past many times but has yet to have the time to stop and try it out.

As she waits in line, she reads over the drinks menu. It's clear that it's been carefully curated. Starbucks has nothing on this menu. She can see why Carmy would prefer to come here instead.

When it's her turn to order, Sydney takes out her phone to recite everyone's drink order. She also points to a few pastries, thinking Marcus would like to try some of them and get inspiration. That and she knows Natalie will enjoy them as well.

You're sitting at a table close to the pickup counter. You often find yourself all over the store, ensuring everything goes smoothly. Sometimes, you stop to talk to your regulars and see how they're doing.

You notice Sydney struggling with all the cups she has to carry. It's proving difficult despite the to-go trays your barista put them in. Deciding to approach her, you ask, "Do you need help?"

"Oh, no. I'm fine, thanks," Sydney responds with a nervous smile. She's trying hard to grab everything, including the box with the pastries.

You continue watching her struggle because you know she needs help. You let her try and figure it out for one more minute before stepping in again when she almost drops two of the drinks, "Need some help now?"

"Yeah," Sydney sighs, "I guess I can leave one of the trays here, go to the restaurant, and come back for the rest," she speaks mostly to herself.

"Are you going far?"

"No, just the restaurant down the block," Sydney responds with a sigh, scratching her eyebrow as she tries to figure out the logistics of carrying the drinks. She could get a box to put everything in.

You perk up at her response. The only restaurant down the block is Carmen's. Could she work there? "Carmy's restaurant?"

"You know Carmy?" Sydney asks, tilting her head. Maybe Nat was right. Carmy spends his time here because of the woman in front of her.

"He comes here often. Anyway, I can go with you to help you out. It's not far, and I'd feel bad if your drinks got cold." You offer to help her out because you're a nice person. Not because you want a chance to see the curly-haired man you are developing feelings for.

"You really don't have to…"

"It's really not a problem," you press, grabbing one of the to-go trays and motioning for her to lead the way.

Sydney sighs in defeat and nods, "Thanks. I'm Sydney, by the way."

"I'm Honey," you smile, following her outside.

You chat all the way to the restaurant with Sydney. She reminds you of Carmy in some ways, so you can see why they are friends. Before arriving at the restaurant, Sydney apologizes in advance for any sort of mess there might be, including yelling.

As you near the building under renovation, your palms start to sweat. Maybe you shouldn't have come. You're showing up unannounced, and he's probably too busy to talk to you anyway. You can slip in and out without him noticing. That's the goal now.

You open the door for Sydney, letting her go through first, and quietly follow her into the restaurant. There's no time to escape, as all eyes are instantly on you.

Richie is arguing with Fak when he sees you walk in. He narrows his eyes as Carmy looks in your direction from the kitchen. With just one glance to Carmy's face, he knows who you're supposed to be.

"Guess I didn't have to go anywhere. She came to me," Richie whispers, rushing out the door.

"Shut the fuck up. Where are you going? Don't embarrass me!" Carmy whispers out to Richie unsuccessfully.

"Oh, you'll do that all by yourself," Richie throws over his shoulder.

"Honey, hey, what-what're you doing here?" Carmy speaks, not giving Richie a chance to open his big mouth. He stands between you and Richie, blocking him for the time being.

"Sydney needed help with the drinks," you answer nervously, averting your eyes.

"Oh, thanks for that. You didn't have to," Carmy approaches you and takes the drinks from your hands. His fingers brush with yours momentarily, causing you both to blush.

"I did, or else you probably wouldn't have anything to drink," you whisper to him.

Sydney, Fak, and Richie all watch the interaction amusedly. Richie has a big teasing grin on his face as he makes a plan in his head.

"Hi, I'm Richie! Carmy's cousin," he introduces himself, shoving Carmy to the side and shaking your hand enthusiastically. "I gotta say Carmen right here is obsessed with your coffee. He's banned us from getting Starbucks."

Carmy curses under his breath as Richie does precisely what he tells him not to. He has the urge to throw the coffee at him and run away.

"Is that right?" You ask, amused, looking over at Carmy with a raised eyebrow.

"Oh yeah," Richie answers for him as Carmy tries to find the right words to say. "Cousin, why don't you give the nice lady a tour of the place?"

"It's not done yet. Could be dangerous," Carmy hopelessly says with a gulp.

"Nonsense! You'll take care of her!" Richie insists. He takes the coffee from Carmy's hands and pushes him in your direction. "Go give her a tour."

Richie, Sydney, and Fak all disappear to the office to stay out of the way and try to snoop simultaneously. Fak sends Carmy a not-so-discreet thumbs-up that makes you giggle.

He's internally screaming at his so-called friends but is glad to see you. It was all he wanted before Sydney left to get their drinks. It's strange having you here at The Bear, though. He's so used to seeing you in your own space back at Bee Hive.

Trying to make things better, you say, "Sorry you've been roped into this. You probably have better things to do. I can go-"

Carmy doesn't let you finish. "No, stay. I want to show you around."

"Let's see what you got then, Berzatto," you grin, following him to the kitchen.

Carmy takes his time showing you The Bear. He wants you to stay. He wants to spend time with you but doesn't really know how to say it. So he takes it slow, answers your questions about the restaurant, shows you the front and how everything will be laid out, and introduces you to the ones around, including the fridge guy working on the handle.

Sadly, you get a call from Bee Hive asking you to come back. Carmy walks you outside, dreading having to say goodbye.

"I'm really excited for The Bear to open. You have a great place and team," you tell Carmy.

"I really got lucky with them, huh?" He asks, playing with a dish towel.

"I gotta go. I'll see you later, Berzatto." You don't know where you got the guts to lean towards him and kiss his cheek.

Carmy stays still as his face heats up. You start walking away and throw him a smile over your shoulder. When you're a distance away, he touches the cheek you kissed. Back inside, Richie runs over to Sugar to tell her what he just witnessed.

It's late when Carmy leaves The Bear. As he walks to the train station, he has his hands stuffed in his jacket pocket. On his way, he sees a lone light turned on in your café. Crossing the street to check it out, he sees you're still there with glasses perched on your nose in front of the computer.

He tries the door, and to his luck, it's open. You look in his direction, startled, but relax once you see it's him.

"Nice glasses," Carmy teases, pulling out a chair to sit.

"Are you making fun of me?" You purse your lips, propping your chin on your palm.

"No, I…I think you look cute with them," Carmy admits. After a stern talk from Sugar and Richie, he's realized he should probably make a proper move on you because if what they say is true, you also have a crush on him.

"Thanks," you blush, the light from your screen making it obvious to Carmy, who can't stop the corners of his lips from turning up into a smile.

"Late night?"

"One of my baristas is moving out of state. I have to find someone new, preferably who has experience," you say with a sigh. Glancing at him, you add, "Are you perhaps interested in the position?"

"Poaching me from my own restaurant, nice. I'll let you know I'm an excellent worker," Carmy jokes, tapping his fingers on the table.

There's no doubt in your mind he's an excellent worker. He has to be if he's considered one of the best up-and-coming chefs. Or to work in one of the best restaurants in the world with three Michelin stars.

"I don't know. I'll need references," you speak as if not believing him.

Carmy smiles and softly chuckles, "Fair enough."

There's a moment of silence between the two of you that Carmy is quick to fill, "So, uh, have you had dinner yet by chance?" This is it.

You shake your head no and look at him with hopeful eyes.

"Wanna go grab pizza? I know a place," he asks, finding your gaze on him.

"Say no more," you say, closing your laptop and taking off your glasses. "I'm starving."

Carmy waits for you to lock Bee Hive and grab your things. Then, you both walk to the pizza place. To pass the time, you and Carmy talk about your days and anything that comes to mind. Nothing serious as you get to know each other.

Waiting in line to order the pizza, you tell him all about your nickname and how you were donned 'Honey' to everyone who knows you. In return, he tells you about his nickname 'Bear' and why his restaurant is named as such. For the first time, he dares mention Mickey.

"Best pizza in Chicago," Carmy says, taking a slice of the pie and placing it on your plate.

"I'll see about that," you murmur. You wait until he has a slice of his own and dig in simultaneously.

"It's good, but this is not the best pizza place in Chicago," you say after chewing the first bite, "I'm gonna get your chef license revoked."

"Are you? With what proof? Have you tried all the pizza places to know?"

"I don't have to because I've tried the best," you hum, taking another bite. The cheese stretches as you pull it away.

"Oh yeah? Which one?" Carmy questions you, taking a drink of his beer.

"Mine. The pizza I make is the best," you shrug modestly.

"Wait. You cook?" Carmy asks, giving you a look of surprise.

Cooking is a universal thing. Most people know how to cook up to a degree, yet only some are as confident in their skills as you are. You know you're definitely not up to Carmy's level, but if there is something you know how to do properly, it's pizza.

"Yeah! You're not the only good cook here, Berzatto," you sass back at him, dipping the pizza crust in the marinara sauce.

"Sorry for assuming," he raises his palms.

"You're forgiven," you chirp.

"When will I try this famous pizza of yours then?" Carmy wonders. An attempt to see if you'd like to see more of him.

"I promise I'll make it for you once you open The Bear. You're too stressed to fully enjoy it now," you respond. You were reaching out. Throwing hints that you want this to continue in the foreseeable future.

The conversation continues to flow with an empty pizza box in front of you. Customers come and go until it's only the two of you and a drunk customer picking up his pizza.

"Tell me about your tattoos. Were they an act of rebellion or something else?"

It's an excuse to touch his hands. You reach for them, turning them to see the black ink on his hands and fingers. You gently trace over them with the pads of your fingers. Over the hand that's stabbed, the letters S.O.U. on his knuckles and the forget-me-nots. The one you're dying to touch, though, is the one on his bicep; you'd give anything to feel the hard muscle underneath the rolled-up sleeves of his white t-shirt.

"Uh, my first tattoo is the 773. Got it when I left Chicago for the first time. After that, I sort of became addicted to them. I found they helped my anxiety when it was becoming too much. The pain distracted me and made me feel stronger than I actually was," he says, letting you touch him. He finds that he likes it. Your touch is soft and warm. Comforting.

"So what you're trying to say is you're a masochist," you say, bouncing your eyebrows at him. Your touch goes further up his arm to turn it and look at the fish tattoo on his forearm.

"I guess so," Carmy responds with a breathy laugh, "Do you have any tattoos?"

"Maybe…" You shrug as the pads of your fingers trail back down to his palm until you pull them back towards you. Carmy instantly misses the feeling, opting to cross his arms to retain the warmth you left behind.

"It's bad, isn't it?" He says knowingly. Your reaction told him everything he needed to know.

"The worst," you grimace, shaking your head at the memory of you getting it.

"So, rebellion or something else?"

"Rebellion. For all the wrong reasons," you groan, burying your face in your hands, "Growing up, everyone saw me as a good girl because that's what I was. Breaking the rules terrified me. So, as a teenager, I didn't want to be seen as a goody two shoes, so the summer before I went to college, I decided that getting a tattoo would make me a badass."

"Did it work?"

"God, no. I only got the outline done 'cause it hurt like a bitch. Then I went crying to my parents, fully having a meltdown, apologizing for disappointing them," You scrunch your nose as you say the following words, "They laughed in my face, called me a wimp, and told me to suck it up."

Carmy fully laughs at your story. Head thrown back, eyes closing, "What did you get?"

"That's a secret, Berzatto," you purse your lips, avoiding responding. You just know he'll make fun of you for it.

Everyone who has seen your tattoo has made fun of you for it, yourself included. It's so silly and not badass. Carmy will have to wait to see your tattoo, and you hope this continues so he can see it up close.

"Really? That bad?" Carmy stares wide-eyed.

"It's terrible," you nod, leaning on the table. "We should probably get going before the waitress throws a fit."

Carmy looks over his shoulder to see the waitress glaring at them. It's five minutes till close, and they've made no move to go. He turns back to you and nods towards the door. Carmy helps you with your jacket and leaves a tip on the jar for the waitress. At that, she happily calls after them with a 'Good night!'

"Do you live far?" Carmy asks, seeing how dark it is now that most places have closed. There are too many lamp posts that aren't working. He'd feel better if he could walk you home or you called an Uber. Preferably the former.

"Only a couple of blocks away. Why?"

"It's late. Let me walk you home," Carmy says decidedly, not giving you much of a choice.

"Thanks," you respond with a small smile.

The pace you set is slow. You don't want your time with Carmy to end just yet. He's such an interesting and sweet guy. He's a little awkward, but it adds to his charm, and you can see he's trying.

Somewhere along the way, his hand brushes against yours briefly. Then, it happens again, and you decide to bite the bullet. You grasp his hand in yours.

"Is this okay?" You ask when he falls silent.

Carmy doesn't have a lot of experience with girls. He can't even remember the last time he held a girl's hand. All he knows is he doesn't remember ever feeling this good. "Yes, uh, this is okay."

Carmy walks you up to your front door when you reach your house. You unlock the door but stay outside face-to-face with Carmy.

"Thanks for the pizza," you say, fiddling with your fingers. You were about to make one more move for the night. Because as long as Carmy allows you, you'll keep pushing for more.

"Sorry, it wasn't the best," he retorts, rubbing his jaw with his hand. You notice he does that a lot when nervous.

"Your company made up for it," you reassure him, "g'night Carmy." You kiss his cheek goodbye, watching as his cheeks blush.

"Night," he whispers.

As you turn to leave, Carmy stops you by grabbing your wrist, "Wait-uh, can I? Uh-shit. Fuck it." For a second, Carmy shuts out the excessive thoughts in his head and does what he's been dying to do for weeks.

Carmy cups your jaw and kisses you. It's soft and slow. He gives you enough leeway to pull away if it's something you don't want, but you reciprocate eagerly. You've been waiting for this all night.

As confidence surges through his body, Carmy throws an arm around your waist, pulling you closer. You wrap your arms around him, one of your hands resting on his neck, tangling on his curls. The tug of your fingers feels like heaven.

The kiss turns needy and desperate, your lips moving perfectly in sync. His tongue brushes over your lip; Carmy has been dying to test a theory. Are you as sweet as your name?

He's rewarded by a little noise in the back of your throat as he slips his tongue into your mouth. It's endearing, and he finds a way to make you do it again. With heads tilting to deepen the kiss, he concludes he was right. You're pure honey. Sweet and addicting.

When Carmy returns to his apartment, he gets the urge to create, to cook. He wants to bring your taste to life with his cooking. Something with honey.

"I was wondering if you'd want to come to the restaurant for Family and Friends."

You and Carmy are in your little office at Bee Hive. He stands between your legs as you sit on the desk. His lips are slightly red and swollen, and the hair at the nape of his neck is messier than usual.

"Hm, I could be persuaded," you pretend to think as you play with the golden chain around his neck, pulling him towards you.

"Yeah?" Carmy laughs, leaning to brush his lips against yours. When he feels you nod, he closes the small gap between the two of you.

His hands hold your hips, pulling you impossibly closer. He tastes like coffee, which is to be expected from the discarded cup beside you. It's funny how your relationship, if it could be called that, has moved all around Bee Hive from the register to the front and now to your office.

You're at a weird spot where you're not exactly friends because friends don't kiss, but you're not a couple either. It's a situationship for sure. You're content with what you have now, although you'd also love it if Carmy were to ask you to be more. You pin it on him being shy. He'll get around to it.

"What do you say?" Carmy questions as he kisses a trail from your cheek to your jaw.

"Consider me in," you giggle when he kisses a tickly spot.

Carmy brushes a strand of hair out of your face, remaining close to you. This is what he needs. After months of stress and anxiety of having to deal with The Beef, now The Bear, he needed you and your calming presence. Someone removed from the chaos, a safe haven.

He's quiet as his thoughts consume him, and you take the intimate position to fix his gold chain. Turning it so the clasp faces the back instead of the front. "I'm excited, Carmy," you say with a smile, brushing his cheek with your thumb.

"You can bring someone with you," Carmy offers nervously because he realizes he probably won't have the time to spend much time with you. "I-I don't think I'll be around much. I'm sorry. I'd understand if that makes you change your mind," Carmy drops his head as he braces himself for disappointment.

As the weeks pass, you learn more about Carmy and his insecurities. It doesn't deter you from wanting to be with him. Everyone has their issues. "Berzatto, stop. Look at me," you softly divert his attention, "I'd love to go and support you even if it's from the sidelines."

"You sure?" He asks once more.

If reassurance is what he needs, that's what you'll give. "Don't worry about me. This is your moment, Carmy. Enjoy it. I'll be around afterward."

"Thank you for understanding," Carmy responds, stealing one more kiss from you.

When he returns to The Bear, he helps Sydney prep the dishes they finally chose to serve. He notes how everything is laid out and anything they should fix before opening.

Richie struts into the kitchen with a suit on. Apparently, it's his thing now. Carmy figures staging at Chef Terry's restaurant had a good impact on him. All Carmy wanted was to show Richie he had what it takes. That he's not a fuck up.

"Glad to see things are going well with Honey," Richie thunders.

"What are you talking about?" Carmy says in a rush as he plates the lamb expertly.

"That thing on your neck," Richie says, motioning to his own neck. He has a smug look on his face.

"I don't have time for this, cousin," Carmy grumbles, wiping the plate where the sauce might've splattered.

Groaning, Richie grabs one of the new pans and holds it in front of Carmy. "I don't see anything," he frowns, looking at Richie for an explanation.

"Right here," Richie points towards the edge of his t-shirt around his neck.

Carmy pulls it back and finally spots what Richie has been referring to. There is a fading purple bruise on his skin, a hickey. You must've done it when he was back in your office. He'd been too busy touching you to notice.

Sydney, silently watching, pipes up, "No wonder he hasn't been as on edge lately." Carmy shoots her a glare, which causes her to shrug and laugh with a, "What? It's true."

"Ay, yo, Sugar, get in here!" Richie yells down the hall to the office.

"What is it?" Natalie barges in, afraid something went to shit.

Carmy ignores Richie as he babbles to Natalie what he found. His face is red, though, as Sydney nudges his side.

"That's enough about me. We have shit to do," Carmy shouts in his chef's voice.

Everyone in the kitchen, including Richie and Natalie, repeats, "Yes, chef!"

Walking out of the kitchen Richie, 'whispers' to Natalie, "I've always wondered if he likes to be called chef in bed."

"Fuck off, Richie," Natalie glares, but then it falls, and it's replaced with a teasing grin, "He definitely does."

"I heard that! Don't you two have better things to do?" Carmy screams at them.

"Yes, chef!"

Carmy keeps hearing Cicero's 'Uh-oh' throughout the whole day. He understands Cicero, he really does, but to call you a distraction?

His work with The Bear is only starting. They managed to make it to Friends and Family. Now, they have to keep up their best work to fill up the restaurant daily and have a waiting list. His work is far from done. He should listen to Cicero.

Cicero said it with the best of intentions. He doesn't want the Berzatto siblings to fail. He wants to believe they'll succeed and, most importantly, get him his money.

If there is something Cicero has learned throughout the years, it is that girls are distractions. They mean well, but oftentimes, they keep your eyes off the ball. Especially when it's a new relationship like Carmy's. Ultimately, it's up to Carmy to decide what he wants to do. Cicero has played his part by giving him his advice.

One last delivery is made to the restaurant an hour before opening. Richie is the one to receive it and place it in front of Carmy. "She's a keeper, Cousin," he says with a pointed look and a nod. He also wants the best for Carmy, and yet it doesn't align with Cicero.

You knew Carmy would be too stressed and all over the place to eat or drink, so you sent everyone at The Bear a drink and a pastry. One of the cups has Carmen's name with a little heart and 'good luck' written on it.

"Yeah, she is," Carmy sighs, turning the cup in his hands to look at the message. His thumb brushes over your handwriting longingly. Is listening to Cicero the wise thing to do? He's one of the most successful men he knows in his family.

When it's 10 minutes till open, Carmy changes into his uniform and looks in the mirror. His heart is racing, begging for Friends and Family not to be a complete failure. Walking out of the bathroom, Carmy is a man on a mission.

It starts relatively well, but like everything in Carmy's life, the kitchen starts welcoming in the chaos.

They are too slow getting the orders out, which causes Sydney to start doubting herself and asking Carmy to step in. He reassures her she's doing good. They just have to keep up the pace.

Then, one of the new chefs disappears mid-rush. Forcing Tina to work two stations and Marcus to step out of his to help Sydney. Carmy ignores some weird tension between them as he works on ensuring the dishes are good to go.

Next thing he knows, Sugar is rushing into the kitchen, yelling at him about forks. It's wasted time, as he can't do anything about it. A shrill reverberates inside his head as he looks at the ticking clock. It's enough to give him a headache.

With no one to take a dish to its table, Carmy takes it upon himself to do it. There's no time to re-fire or wait for someone. He places it on their table and pours the tea into their cups before retreating with an 'enjoy.'

He looks at his restaurant, and suddenly, the ringing in his head gets louder. Sitting in a booth is his old boss, staring back at him like he did back in New York. Like he was waiting for Carmy to fail.

His voice echoes in Carmy's head. Why are you so fuckin' slow. Hurry up. Go faster motherfucker. Talentless piece of shit.

Right before Carmy spirals, it all goes away. His focus shifts entirely as he sees you taking your seat for the night. The one he chose because he'd be able to see you from the kitchen. You have successfully blocked the mirage he'd conjured up.

You're there with your brother as Richie talks you up, thanking you for coming. As if sensing him, your eyes lock with Carmys. Shyly, you send him a wave, which he returns, thanking you in his head for getting there at the perfect time.

Carmy ducks back to the kitchen with newfound energy. Richie enters shortly after him.

"Chef, your girl is here."

"Thanks, Chef, um, do you have the notepad?" Carmy asks as he continues cleaning dishes and making sure each one is up to par.

"Here you go."

Taking the notepad from Richie, he begins scribbling. I love- No, too fuckin' soon. Thank you for- Nope, it's too stale.

I'm happy you're here, Honey. Wait for me after you're done? -Bear

"Here," Carmy hands it to him without even looking at Richie.

"Keep up the good work, Chefs," Richie yells out to the room before disappearing to the front of the house. The door swinging shut behind him.

"Yes, Chef!"

Something isn't working in the kitchen. They're too backed up, and no matter how hard they try, they're always a tad too slow. Through Sydney surrounding the wheel to Richie, Carmy steals glances out the kitchen window. You're smiling at whatever your brother says, your lips sipping the wine he chose. Carmy can get through this night because, in the end, you'll be waiting for him.

"There he is," you sing as you spot Carmy walking out of the kitchen. The chef's whites back in his locker as he sports his white t-shirt, jeans, and jacket.

Fak, who kept you company while Carmy finished up, speaks up next, "My brother, I'm gonna grab a sandwich and head home. Honey, it was a pleasure meeting you."

"You too, Neil!"

"Thanks for everything," Carmy tells him, giving him a hug and a pat like dudes do.

Carmy turns and grabs your hand to pull you close and kiss your cheek. "What did you think?"

"It was the most delicious thing I've ever tasted," you tell him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders.

There's a reason Carmy has had so many accolades despite his young age. He has a gift in the kitchen. The moment his food touched your taste buds, your life changed. He and Sydney outdid themselves, and the way everything flowed showed how much work they put into the restaurant.

"You're exaggerating," Carmy modestly says, his arms wrapping around your waist.

"I'm really not," you shake your head, pursing your lips. Carmy can't resist placing a small peck on your red-painted lips.

"What about your famous pizza?"

"No, it might be the best pizza in Chicago, but whatever I ate today topped it," you smile at him, scrunching your nose. "Consider your chef's license reinstated,"

"Thanks," Carmy laughs breathily, "Do you mind if we walk? I feel some of the rush still."

"Lead the way, Mr. Berzatto."

Carmy grabs your hand, leading you to the streets of Chicago. It's silent momentarily as the wind cools Carmy's heated face. He places his hand along with yours into his pocket.

"Did your brother like it?" He asks, breaking the ice.

"Oh yeah. I'm officially like the best sister ever," you respond, squeezing his hand.

You had accidentally forgotten that your brother had passed the Bar exam. So, you didn't have time to get him anything in celebration. You figured dinner at a lovely new restaurant would help while you got him a proper present.

"How did you feel throughout, though? It looked intense." You often found yourself looking through the small glass window into the kitchen. They were always on the move, looking for the next thing to do.

"It didn't just look like it. I'm used to it, though," Carmy admits with a sniff. Everyone's best and worst habits shone through for those couple of hours. It's an environment he's all too familiar with, in and out of the kitchen.

"That rough," you grimace.

"It's fine. We have a lot to work on, but it's a start, and it wasn't entirely terrible," Carmy says, thinking back on tonight. Before coming out to meet you, he wrote down a couple of things to go through with Sugar and Sydney.

"Good, 'cause I hope The Bear sticks around the block," you say, bumping your shoulder with his.

You invite Carmy into your house when you arrive. He takes up your offer, holding your hand to help you balance as you take your heels off. It reminds Carmy he forgot to mention how beautiful you looked today.

He follows you to the kitchen, watching your hips sway and your dress skirt swishing. Padding to the wine fridge, you pick out a bottle of red to celebrate.

Carmy indulges in looking at your legs as you stretch up to reach for the glasses of wine up in your cabinets. His blue eyes darken as your dress hikes up, exposing your pretty thighs.

His gaze darts back up at you when you turn around to place the glasses on the kitchen counter. You hand him the wine opener so he can do the honors because you suck at taking the cork out. It's why you mainly stick to cheaper wines with twist-off caps.

"Here is to The Bear and its amazing owner," you say, lifting your glass in front of you.

"Here's to not fuckin' it up entirely," Carmy follows, making you giggle. Your wine glasses clink, and you take a drink.

Placing the glass back down, Carmy pins you against the counter, his strong hands resting on the edge of it. You look at him through your lashes, a hand coming up to his chest to feel the steady thumping of his heart.

"You look beautiful. I like the dress," Carmy murmurs. It's better late than never.

The dress you wear is a pretty shade of light blue. Simple yet dressy. The neckline gives him a good view of your cleavage and has long sleeves to compensate for the shorter length. They currently cover the goosebumps lining your skin.

"Yeah? I picked it out thinking you might," you reveal, biting your lip. The shade reminded you of his eyes.

"You were right," he whispers, cupping your jaw. As pretty as the dress is, he's sure it'll look so much better on the floor.

Carmy closes his eyes as he leans down to kiss you. He's always struggled with words, so he hopes it's enough for you to catch what he's trying to say.

You smile into the kiss, blindly leaving your glass to the side to be able to touch him. Your palm presses against his chest and taut abdomen. He hides a nice amount of muscle under his t-shirts, a pleasant surprise.

Carmy easily lifts you up to sit down on the kitchen island. He steps between your legs, never breaking the heated kiss. The hands on your waist trail down to your thighs and under your dress. Carmy's tattooed hands squeeze your ass and thighs, earning him a moan from you.

This is the farthest you've ever gotten, and you're more than ready to have all of him. Carmy knows this, which leads to his thoughts getting out of control.

He has to make a decision now. Does he allow himself to be with you, or does he remain by himself like always? Richie's, Sugar's, Cicero's, and Sydney's voices all shout at him different things. Some are in favor, and others are in opposition. 'Uh oh.'

He can't lead you on and sleep with you if he will back out tomorrow. The voices become deafening in an instant, ripping him away from your embrace. His emotions bubbled over and spilled all over the place.

"Wait, stop, I just-" Carmy breathes heavily, taking a couple of steps back from you. Carmy's hand comes up to his forehead as he attempts to organize his thoughts.

"What's wrong?" You ask worriedly. Did you do something wrong?

Carmen's thoughts spill out his mouth without making much sense as he paces in your kitchen. "I can't stop thinking about it and owe it to my team..."

"Carm?" You slide off the kitchen counter, approaching him slowly.

"-keeps saying it's a distraction," he rambles mostly to himself. His heart is pounding painfully in his chest. If he didn't know any better, he'd think he was having a heart attack.

"Hey, hey, hey. What's a distraction?" Softly, you grab onto his arms, stopping him in his tracks, trying to find his lost gaze.

"You. Whatever this is," Carmy breathes, finally meeting your eyes, which he instantly regrets as your eyes turn sad.

The watering of your eyes is unintentional, as is the knot forming in your throat. "You think I'm distracting you?" You question barely above a whisper.

His response is instant, "Fuck, no, the opposite. W-When I'm with you or-or think about you, things get clearer, and it's-it's when I feel the most focused." Carmy holds your shoulders, comforting you because he never meant to hurt you. He can't stand the sad look in your eyes.

Slowly, you begin to piece together his rambling and conclude that other people have been telling him you're a distraction. You wonder if they don't want him to be happy. The Bear is the center of Carmy's life, and before that, it was the restaurant in New York. He deserves more than this crazy job.

"Then fuck what others tell you, Carmen. You deserve to have a life outside The Bear." Maybe you're selfish because you don't want to lose him, but you hope he believes your words.

"I-I don't. I don't deserve all your attention or your affection. I'm nothing special. I don't deserve you." Carmy says, shaking his head with furrowed brows.

Weeks ago, he had no source of enjoyment. He said it himself at the support group. Now, he has you, yet he can't bear the thought of you wanting to be with him. He feels like he's tricking you into a bad deal. That's what he is, though, isn't he? An overachieving fuck up with tons upon tons of baggage.

Carmen Berzatto is an anxious person with too many problems in his life. He has a fucked up family. His mother is a mentally unstable alcoholic. His brother was addicted to painkillers and decided that shooting himself on a bridge was better than living this life. That's without mentioning all the trauma he has from his job and the terrible people he's worked with.

What good does he have to offer you?

"Yes, you do," you reassure him, placing your hands on his cheeks. The cool metal of your rings soothes him somewhat, grounding him. "You deserve all that and more, Carmy. You're so sweet and kind and hard-working. You've been through shit. You deserve something good in life. Maybe it's me, or maybe it's not, but don't close yourself off."

You're begging at this point. Whatever this relationship is, it's just starting. He's not giving himself a chance. You like Carmy so damn much. He's funny without knowing it and thoughtful, too. There are so many qualities he doesn't realize he has.

His eyes watch you as tears line them. He's silently pleading for you to convince him. To get him out of his own head and forget the expectations others have on him.

"I'm not going to force you into anything, Carm. It's your call, but I've enjoyed our last couple of months together. I know we don't know each other completely, but I want to know everything about you. I have feelings for you, so whatever you decide, I'll support it."

Being honest is all you can do at this point. You pour your heart out and hope Carmy chooses you.

You and Carmy stand in the middle of your kitchen. Face to face, reaching out towards each other. It's clear as day that you want the same thing. It's only a matter of taking the right steps now.

"I can't let you go," Carmy responds, grabbing the hand on his cheek. His thumb brushes over the back of it.

"Then don't."

Carmy's decision is made. Without another thought, he smashes his lips against yours. He grabs the back of your neck, tilting your head to meet his heated kiss.

It's more intense now that the cards are on the table. Nothing to hold him back.

Tongues clash together as your bodies seek each other out. The temperature rises when Carmy lifts you up to wrap your legs around his hips. His hands are on the back of your thighs, holding tight onto you.

"Bedroom?" He asks, breaking the kiss, a trail of saliva between the two of you.

"Down the hallway," you breathe heavily, kissing down his neck.

Carmy makes it to the bedroom, opening the door with a bang. He spots your bed, placing you in the middle with him holding himself up on top of you.

He watches as your back meets the bed and your fair fans around you like a halo. The curvature of your breasts accentuated even more from the position.

Carmy hikes your leg further up his hips as he dips down to kiss a wet trail down to the neckline of your dress. He leaves open-mouthed kisses on the rounded flesh, nipping at the skin playfully when you arch your back to push more into him.

"Carmy," you breathe, cupping his jaw to pull him back to your lips. Grinding your hips, you manage to graze against his bulge.

"Shit," Carmy shakily curses, thrusting his hips to meet your touch once more.

Curiously, your hands wander across his body. Carmy's moans in your ear make your panties wetter than they already are.

You grasp the hem of his shirt, pulling it up and off. You're desperate to have him, your cunt aches for him. Your nails scratch down his firm stomach when he bites into your earlobe, softly calling your name.

"Unzip me," you pant, pushing him away and pulling your hair off to the side.

Carmy grabs the small zipper, pushing it down and exposing your pretty skin. As he slides the fabric off of you, he kisses your shoulders and back, taking note of the goosebumps on your skin.

His mind is in the present, and nothing can take it away from him. It's like a switch he managed to turn off in his brain. No more family drama, no more The Bear. It's just you...and him. Honey and Bear.

You stretch your neck to the side, giving Carmy more space to pepper kisses across the delicate skin. The dress pooling at your feet exposes your chest, and Carmy's hands come up from behind you. His fingers shyly brush up your stomach, tickling you, until they find your breasts.

He draws a moan from you as he squeezes them in his palms, pushing you back to meet his chest; turning your head to the side, you find his lips.

The kiss breaks when he slides one of his hands into your underwear, dipping his finger to feel your wetness. Your arm reaches back to dig your fist in his curls.

"You're soaked, Honey," he moans, finding your clit to tease it.

"Been waiting for so long, Carmy," you whine as your hips stutter along with the flicks of his wrist.

"I'm sorry. I'm here now," he purrs into your ear.

Carmy can hear the distinct 'shlick, shlick, shlick' of his fingers against your clit. It spurs him on as he slips a finger into you. He can't wait to have his cock inside of you, snug and warm.

"Oh my god, Carmen," you gasp when he prods another finger into your entrance. Hanging onto his arm across your chest, you roll your hips against his fingers.

"I got you," he says, digging his fingers deeper into you and curling them.

Your knees buckle as the tips of his fingers curl and hit your g spot repeatedly. If it weren't for him, you'd be on the floor. With your tummy tensing under the weight of the pleasure, you stutter out, "I'm gonna cum."

Carmy's hand is wet from your juices as he ups the ante. Just as your walls begin to squeeze around his fingers, he pulls them out to circle around your clit.

"Oh, f-fuck!" You squeal, throwing your head back onto his shoulder.

The way your clit softly twitches under the pads of his fingers fucks with Carmy. It makes his cock throb and leak into his jeans.

Untangling from his embrace, you place a breathless kiss on Carmy's lips. His slick digits dig into your hips as he prolongs it.

Blindly, you find the edge of his jeans and unbutton them. If Carmy notices, he doesn't say anything. You want to give him one more reason to stay with you.

He moans into your mouth when you grasp his length through his boxers. He's rock hard as he desperately ruts against your hand.

With your hold still on him, you push him to sit on the bed. Carmy looks up at you lustfully. You plant a single short kiss on his lips before kneeling on the floor between his legs. You leave love bites down his chest while looking up at him through your lashes.

Carmy brushes away any hair that falls on your face, his blue eyes focused solely on you. When you reach the waistband of his pants, you pull them down along with his underwear.

His length pops up from its confines, slapping against his tummy. Its tip is a pretty pink shade, with a thick length and a slight curve to it. You salivate instantly at the sight of it.

Carmy's nervous under you. It's been a long since he's been with someone else, and he's never been the most confident.

"Relax," you say teasingly, kissing around his lower tummy to calm him.

Finally, your hand wraps around his cock, lightly pumping it. Leaving sloppy kisses down his happy trail, you feel Carmy's stomach taut in anticipation.

It's been so fuckin' long.

With your eyes staring into his hungry ones, you kiss the pink head that glistens with pre, teasingly brushing it against your lips. Keeping eye contact, you lick his length from base to tip. You alternate between kissing and licking for a minute, enjoying watching Carmy squirm.

"Fuck, Honey," Carmy throws his head back at your torturous pace.

"Look at me," you sweetly say.

Taking mercy on him, you part your lips to take his length into your warm, wet mouth, bobbing your head to a steady rhythm. Prying one of Carmy's hands from the bedsheets, you place it in your hair, encouraging him to use you.

"Good girl," he moans, fisting your hair to force you to take more of his cock. You let your hands rest on his thighs, feeling the strong muscles underneath.

Carmen observes you with hooded eyes as you hollow your cheeks, sucking him expertly. He's obsessed with how your lips leave behind a tinge of red lipstick on his skin.

"Shit-Fuck me," he yells into the room when you swallow around him.

You want him to cum, but Carmy has other plans. He doesn't think he'll last long if you make him cum now, so after the stunt you pulled, he pulls you off his sensitive cock.

The sight in front of him is erotic as a string of saliva connects you to his cock. The tears lining your eyes and blushed nose add to that pretty picture.

"c'me 'ere," he says, helping you up and kissing you as he leads you back to the bed. He tugs off your wet panties, throwing them somewhere in the room.

You lay back on your pillows with Carmy slotted between your legs. It's torture having him so close and yet so far. Now that you've gotten a taste of his cock you need more.

Carmy touches the inside of your thighs, inching his way closer to your cunt. He instantly notices how fuckin' wet you are. You're dripping even more than before.

"Sucking me off, got you this wet, princess?" He asks, leaning his forehead against yours.

"Mhm, Carmy, wish you would've cum in my mouth," you admit, tilting your head up to brush your lips against his.

"You have such a dirty fuckin' mouth," he chuckles darkly.

Where did this side of you come from? You're usually so sweet and delicate. He should've known you would be a freak in bed. To think he almost let this all go.

"Carmen, please."

"Please, what?" Carmen teases, lining his cock against your opening, wetting his cock.

"Fuck me," you moan, kissing his jaw.

"'m gonna fuck you good, princess," he promises, with a shaky nod before he remembers, "Fuck! I-I don't have a condom with me."

"I should have some in my drawer," you mention breathlessly.

Carmy opens the condom in record time but is surprised when you take it from his hands and roll it down his shaft yourself. You just want an excuse to keep touching him.

With your leg hiked up, he aligns himself and slowly pushes in. You both gasp at the sensation. Carmy, for one, is trying to not bust a nut so soon because you're so tight and warm.

Meanwhile, you hold onto Carmy's back as he stretches you out. It's been so long, and your toys aren't nearly as thick as him. You breathily moan in his ear, which he takes as a good sign as he begins thrusting more forcefully and deeper.

Carmy hopes this isn't a dream, and if it is, he hopes he doesn't wake up anytime soon. He has one hand holding onto your thigh and the other holding himself up. His gold chain dangles above you as he picks his head up from its spot on your shoulder. You take the chance to tug on it, returning his attention to your lips.

"You feel so fuckin' good, princess," Carmy groans, squeezing your thigh.

"I love your cock, Carmy," you whine, feeling the drag of his cock on your walls. The pleasure is all-consuming, leaving a fuzzy feeling in your brain.

"You like when I fuck you like this?"

"Yes, yes, yes, keep going."

His hips snap hard against yours, hitting that spot each and every time. His pelvis hitting your clit. He squeezes your thigh, hips, and sides before his hand squeezes your tits, too, playing with your nipples.

Suddenly, he straightens up, pulling you down the bed to have you flushed against his pelvis. He's a sight for sore eyes that forces you to keep your eyes open.

His thrusts are more forceful like this, where he digs his fingers into the fat of your hips to pull you towards him with each snap. It makes your tits bounce, hypnotizing him.

Through your lustful gaze, he looks like a marble statue. His chest glimmers under the lowlights of your room as sweat clings to him, his chain jumping against the blushed skin of his chest, and his fucking hair falling over his pretty eyes. The set of his jaw could've been sculpted by Michaelangelo himself.

Your hands indulgently reach down to touch him in any way you can. You can only reach his stomach, where a nice pair of abs appear due to the effort.

"You like what you see?" Carmy teases. He's entirely lost on you because otherwise, he wouldn't be as cocky to say that.

"You're so handsome," you pitifully say. Your brain not computing as it should, but how can it when it's being fucked out of you?

Carmy doesn't know how to respond. It's not often he's called handsome or looked at as lustfully as you're looking at him. Thankfully, he doesn't need to say much as your eyes roll back and you squeeze your walls around him.

"Carmy, I'm so close," you pant, trying to find any part of him to hold. He offers you his hand, lacing your fingers together.

"Just a little longer, princess," Carmy groans as you clench around him. "Fuck, don't do that to me."

He glances down at the spot where you and him meet to see a ring of white on the base of his cock. He's enthralled with the way you stretch to accommodate him and the way your pink walls drag along his length when he pulls out. Fuckin' beautiful.

Putting all his knowledge to use, he thumbs your clit, making you jolt. He needs you to cum now, or he won't make it. His balls feel like they're about to burst.

"Carmy," you cry out, tightening the hold on his hand.

You teeter on the edge for only a second until you cum, waves of pleasure washing over you. Carmy curses from above you as your tightening walls choke his cock, making him cum too. He stutters his hips a couple more times, riding out his orgasm.

He leans back down again, catching your lips in a small kiss. His body slowly relaxes against yours as his head rests on your neck, breathing in the scent of sweat and perfume.

"That was good," you breathe heavily, rubbing your hands up and down your back. You're just starting to think clearly.

"Fuckin' amazing," he adds.

There's a beat of silence before you both burst out laughing.

A bubble encases you, and it can't be popped as long as you stay in your bedroom. Carmy doesn't want to leave; it's late already, and in a couple of hours, he has to get up and go to The Bear to repeat the process.

For once, he forgets about that and focuses solely on you. He has a couple of hours to spare. Sleep is overrated.

You face each other on the bed, talking in hushed whispers. Your fingers trace the '773' tattoo on his bicep like you've always wanted to do. It tickles Carmy, so he grabs your hand and kisses your palm.

"Now that I'm thinking about it. I didn't see your tattoo," he whispers to prevent disturbing the peace.

Your face warms at his words. You had forgotten about that. He's seen a lot of you in the past couple of hours. What's a bit more of skin?

"You missed my big bad tattoo?" you joke, poking his nose.

"Show me," he says with a lopsided smile.

You make it dramatic, rolling your eyes and giving him a big sigh. Sitting up on the bed, you peel the bed sheets from your body. Carmy props himself up on his elbow in anticipation.

Right there, on your left side and under the curve of your breast is a small outline of Winnie the Pooh's face. Carmy touches it, biting his lip to hold back a laugh. Unsurprisingly, it's precisely what he expected from you.

A few chuckles pass his lips as he pulls you back into his arms.

"Don't laugh. It made sense at the time," you whine, covering yourself back up.

Carmy pulls you to his chest, kissing your temple, "I'm sure it does. Pooh Bear loves his Honey," Just like he does.

"Exactly! Someone gets it!"

And he does because Carmy, aka The Bear, is quickly falling for his Honey.

A couple of days later, Carmy is back at your house helping you prepare the famous pizza you promised him. He lets you take the lead on everything, preferring to follow your instructions rather than let his mind run wild. It's not like you'll let him do most of the work anyway; it's your recipe, and you're protective over it.

"Can you chop up the veggies?" You ask him as you lay down the dough in a pan.

"Yes, Chef," he nods, kissing your cheek as he digs through your kitchen drawers for a knife.

"Oh, I like the sound of that," you muse, shaking your shoulders as you knead the dough to spread it.

"Don't let it get to your head, Hun," Carmy smiles, slicing the vegetables expertly.

Cooking with Carmy is surprisingly easier than you thought. He's not controlling over the kitchen or judgy. He lets you do your thing in peace, following your orders no matter how strange they might be. This is your kitchen, not his.

As you spread the sauce and cheese over one of the doughs, Carmy gets a call. He wipes his hands with a rag and picks it up. You only hear his side of the conversation.

"No, I'm off tonight. I'm with my girl. Call Sugar. She should be able to help you with that. Great. Thanks."

Carmy had promised himself that he would try to balance it all better. He has his team to help each other out. The Bear is a priority, but so are you because you help him keep whatever sanity he has left.

Carmy hangs up, and when he returns to you, he notices the grin on your lips as you put the toppings he chopped on the pizza.

"What's with the smile?" Carmy stands behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist as he props his head on your shoulder. Your hair tickles his nose, smelling the notes of coconut of your shampoo he digs his head farther into it.

"I'm your girl?" You ask, the smile still present on your face. He'd missed your initial reaction when you heard him call you 'my girl.' You almost dropped the container of pepperoni that was in your hands. It's a shock cause he never asked you to be his girl.

Carmy pauses and tenses up against you. "Uh, yes? Hold up. Turn around," he orders, as he places his hand on your hips to turn your body around.

"Yes, chef," you respond cheekily, your arms around his neck, careful not to touch his sweater with your messy hands.

"Aren't you my girl?" He frowns, rubbing a thumb over your hips.

"I could be, but I don't remember you asking," you pretend to think.

Carmy never directly asked you to be his girlfriend, and you never asked him to be your boyfriend. You might as well be a couple since you've been dating long enough. You decide to seize the opportunity now to get it out of him. Having a proper anniversary day would be nice because you hope this lasts.

"I see, my mistake," Carmy nods, catching your vibe, "Honey…"

"Yes, Carmy?" You blink innocently at him.

"Would you do me the honor of becoming my girlfriend?" He finally asks.

You could joke around but decided against it cause the moment is perfect, "I'd love to," you nod, giving him a small kiss.

When the pizza is cooked, you bring it over to the dining table. Serving Carmy a pretty slice. Excitedly, you wait for him to bite into it and taste it.

"What do you think?" You ask expectantly.

"You were right. Best pizza in Chicago," Carmy agrees with an unbelievable laugh. He's got a lot to learn from you. It's the truth, or maybe he's blinded by his feelings. Only time will tell where you and Carmy will end up.

The End?

thank you guys for pulling through and reading! i know it's a slow burn but i hope you liked it! i certainly enjoyed writing it even though it took me like 4 months.

if you liked it, i would appreciate you liking it, commenting or reblogging. if you have some feedback feel free to send it my way too. i wanna get better at this whole writing thing!

thank you! bye xx

[osarina]

ᡣ𐭩 A DEAL YOU CAN MAKE ON A MIDNIGHT WALK ALONE

FEATURING: dazai osamu

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

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

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

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

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

But this? 

This can’t be real. 

This can’t possibly be happening. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s not right—none of this is right.

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

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

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

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

What’s your name? 

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

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

A joke.

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

Are you… flirting with him?

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

What if he hadn’t been the one here?

How many times has he not been the one here?

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

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

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

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

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

What.

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

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

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

He never imagined you would’ve fucking read it.

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

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

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

“And… what did you think?”

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

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

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

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

“The ending was interesting,” you finally say.

Dazai blanches. “Interesting?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If he could find it…

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

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

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

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

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

Does he… recognize Dazai?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ranpo: knew you would :P deal

--------

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

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

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

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

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

Why is he suddenly so comfortable lying to you? 

Why is he lying to you at all?

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

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

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

Doesn’t it? 

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

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

Doesn’t it? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Please,” he says, tired. “I can’t.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Mhm.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you know what death smells like?”

“I’ve killed—” he starts to murmur.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why?”

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

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

Repin?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When did you start crying?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

--------

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What about—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I can do exactly what I was accused of. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And now, here he is conspiring against you.

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

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

Right?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s unforgivable. 

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

It’s for the best.

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

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

Anything.

--------

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

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

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

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

He’s already here.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Weird.

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

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

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

He’s playing with you. He always is. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I will indulge you in anything, darling.”

[velvetvisionsaurora]

Pairing: Mafia Ateez OT8x Reader

Warnings: smut, fluff, angst, poly ateez, violence and weapons, mafia ateez, organized crime, parental death and grieving process, bullying, possessive and controlling behavior, mentions of suicidal thoughts.

Summary: When Y/n Ricci is forced to marry Kim Hongjoong—leader of the notorious ATEEZ organization and one of eight men who cruelly abandoned her seven years ago—she finds herself trapped in their heavily guarded compound with the ghosts of her past. As she navigates the dangerous world of mafia politics and her own wounded heart, Y/n discovers that all eight powerful, irresistible men still harbor deep feelings for her, suggesting an unconventional solution to their shared dilemma. But before she can consider forgiving them, let alone loving them again, she must uncover the dark secret that tore them apart—a truth that could either heal their fractured bonds or destroy them all completely.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

18+ only- Minors do not enter

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Masterlist

Chapter 3: The Dinner Declaration

You stare at your reflection in the mirror, jaw set with determination. If they expected you to play the part of the grateful, compliant bride-to-be, they were about to be sorely disappointed. Your fingers work methodically, pulling your hair into a messy bun and scrubbing away the last traces of makeup from earlier.

The silk pajama set you slip into is designer—black with delicate lace trim—but unmistakably sleepwear. Let them see exactly how little effort you're willing to put into their charade.

Your phone buzzes against the nightstand. Marco's name lights up the screen, and for the first time today, you smile genuinely.

"Little sister," his warm voice fills your ear as you answer. "How's life in the wolves' den?"

"About as welcoming as you'd expect," you reply, sinking onto the edge of the bed. "They're all here, Marco. All eight of them."

A pause. "And how are you handling that?"

"Like a Ricci," you say, but your voice wavers slightly. "Though I'll admit, seeing them all together again... it's harder than I thought it would be."

Marco's voice turns serious. "Y/n, listen to me. These men broke you once. They shattered you so completely that I almost lost you." His words carry the weight of that terrible night seven years ago, when he'd found you on the balcony, ready to step over the edge. "Whatever game they're playing now, whatever excuses they have—don't let them do it again."

"I won't," you whisper, but even as you say it, you remember Wooyoung's enthusiastic embrace, the way Mingi looked at you with such longing.

"Steel your heart, sorellina," Marco continues, using the Italian endearment that always makes you feel protected. "Make them pay for every tear you shed, every night you cried yourself to sleep wondering what you did wrong. You owe them nothing but contempt."

His words straighten your spine, reminding you why you're here—not by choice, but as a pawn in a larger game. "You're right."

"Of course I'm right. I'm your big brother." You can hear the smile in his voice. "Now go show them exactly what kind of woman you've become. The kind who doesn't break twice."

After ending the call, you sit in the silence of your temporary prison, Marco's words echoing in your mind. Steel your heart. Make them pay.

By the time you descend the stairs at exactly seven o'clock, your armor is in place—not silk and steel this time, but defiance and deliberate disrespect.

* * *

The dining room falls silent as you enter. Eight pairs of eyes track your movement, taking in your appearance with varying degrees of shock and something that might be appreciation. The massive table is set with formal china and crystal, multiple courses already laid out with military precision.

Hongjoong's jaw twitches as his gaze sweeps over your pajamas, his knuckles whitening where they grip his wine glass. Good, you think with savage satisfaction. Let him see exactly how little this arrangement means to you.

"Y/n!" Wooyoung's voice cuts through the tension, bright and welcoming as if no time has passed at all. "You look comfortable! I love that you're making yourself at home already. Oh, and your hair looks so cute up like that—remember when we used to braid it? You'd sit between Seonghwa and me while we watched movies, and—"

"Wooyoung," Seonghwa's voice carries a warning, but Wooyoung barrels on, his energy filling the room like an unstoppable force.

"—and you'd always fall asleep halfway through, so we'd have to carry you upstairs. Your mom would laugh and say we spoiled you rotten, but honestly, we loved taking care of you. Remember that time you got sick with pneumonia and I learned to make your mom's minestrone from scratch because it was the only thing you'd eat? I must have made it twenty times that summer—"

Your heart clenches traitorously at the memory. You do remember—the fever, the way Wooyoung had sat beside your bed for hours, spooning soup into your mouth and reading to you when your throat was too raw to speak. The gentleness in his hands as he smoothed your hair back from your fevered brow.

But then the storm clouds gather, dark and vengeful, reminding you of other words he'd spoken. God, Y/n, you're exhausting. Do you know that? You're exhausting and needy and you never know when to stop.

The memories collide—past tenderness and past cruelty warring in your chest until you can't breathe properly. You look around the table, seeing all of them watching you with expressions ranging from hope to wariness to barely contained longing.

That's when it hits you. The sheer audacity of it all.

"Are you all fucking delusional?" The words explode from you like shrapnel, sharp enough to draw blood. "Do you think you could each break my heart over and over with your words, and I would come here and play house with all of you?"

The temperature in the room drops ten degrees. Wooyoung's smile falters, his hand halfway to his wine glass freezing in mid-air.

Hongjoong sighs, setting down his utensils with deliberate care. "We were trying to—"

"Protect me? Right?" you sneer, cutting him off. The word tastes like poison in your mouth. "Poor little Y/n. Needs everyone to protect her with secrets and lies. I don't give a fuck why you did it."

You stand so quickly your chair topples backward, the crash echoing through the silence like a gunshot. Every eye in the room is fixed on you now, but you don't care. Seven years of buried rage is clawing its way to the surface, demanding to be heard.

"You were all my first friends," you say, your voice deadly quiet, look at Hongjoong. "You took away my first kiss." Your gaze shifts deliberately to Yunho, whose face goes pale as understanding dawns. Around the table, surprise ripples through the others—apparently, he'd never shared that particular secret.

Yunho's mouth opens as if to speak, but no words come. His eyes are wide, almost panicked, as if he's afraid of what else you might reveal.

"Now you want to take away my marriage?" You laugh, but there's no humor in it—only broken glass and bitter irony. "What's next? Am I going to be expected to have a child with you too?"

Hongjoong's eyes flash with something dangerous, possessive. His grip on his wine glass tightens until you're surprised it doesn't shatter.

But you're not done. Not even close.

You smile then—sharp and vicious and completely without warmth. "Don't worry, dearest fiancé. You won't have to take my virginity. That honor went to someone else."

The silence that follows is deafening. You can feel the jealousy rolling off them in waves, thick enough to choke on. Hongjoong looks like he could murder every man in the city with his bare hands, his carefully controlled facade cracking to reveal something primitive and possessive underneath.

San's knuckles are white where they grip the edge of the table. Mingi has gone completely still, like a predator preparing to strike. Even gentle Yunho looks stricken, as if you've physically wounded him.

Good, you think viciously. Let them feel a fraction of what they put me through.

"Enjoy your dinner, gentlemen," you say with false sweetness, gathering what remains of your dignity around you like armor. "I'm sure you have much to discuss."

With that, you turn on your heel and head for the door, your bare feet silent on the marble floor. Behind you, you hear the scrape of chairs, raised voices, the sound of something shattering—whether it's glass or composure, you neither know nor care.

You've delivered your message loud and clear: the naive girl they once knew is dead and buried. In her place stands someone who won't be broken twice, someone who learned that the only way to survive wolves is to become something more dangerous than they are.

As you climb the stairs to your room, you don't look back. But you carry with you the image of eight faces, each reflecting a different shade of devastation, and for the first time since arriving, you feel like you've won a battle.

Even if the war is far from over.

***

The silence after your departure stretched like a taut wire, ready to snap. Eight men sat frozen around the dinner table, the wreckage of your words settling over them like fallout.

Hongjoong's wine glass lay shattered on the floor where he'd thrown it, red liquid seeping into the pristine white marble. His chest rose and fell with barely controlled fury, his carefully maintained composure crumbling piece by piece.

"When did you two kiss?" His voice was deadly quiet, but his eyes burned as they fixed on Yunho.

San's hand slammed against the table with enough force to make the crystal jump. "That's what you're focusing on? Did you hear what she said?" His usually charming features were twisted with anguish. 

"We broke her," Seonghwa said steadily, though his face had gone ashen, the careful mask he wore stripped away to reveal raw devastation beneath. His hands trembled slightly as he reached for his wine, the only outward sign of the turmoil raging inside him.

Yunho shifted uncomfortably under Hongjoong's intense stare, running a hand through his hair. "It was nothing," he said, but his voice cracked slightly. "We were fifteen, at that beach bonfire. Everyone was drinking, and she was upset about something—I don't even remember what—and I just... I comforted her. It didn't mean anything."

But his eyes told a different story. His eyes remembered everything—the taste of salt on your lips from tears and ocean spray, the way you'd looked up at him with such trust, such innocent affection. The way his heart had stopped when you'd pressed your mouth to his, soft and tentative and perfect.

"Bullshit," Hongjoong snarled, starting to rise from his chair. "You never—"

"Enough." Jongho's voice cut through the air like a blade, stopping Hongjoong mid-motion. The youngest of them rarely spoke with such authority, but when he did, they all listened. "You weren't the only one in love with her, Hongjoong. Just because you're going to be her husband on paper doesn't change that. It doesn't give you the right to interrogate the rest of us about our feelings."

Hongjoong's jaw worked furiously, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. "I'm her—"

"Her what?" Jongho challenged, rising to his full, intimidating height. "Her fiancé? A title forced on both of you by circumstances and family politics? You heard her tonight—she doesn't want this any more than we do. So don't stand there acting like you have some special claim when we all lost her seven years ago."

The words hit like physical blows, each one landing with devastating accuracy. Hongjoong's face cycled through emotions—rage, pain, frustration, and underneath it all, a grief so profound it was almost unbearable to witness.

Across the table, Wooyoung had begun to cry—silent tears streaming down his face as he stared at his untouched plate. His shoulders shook with the effort of containing sobs that wanted to tear free from his chest.

"She hates us," he whispered, his usual bright energy completely extinguished. "Did you see her face when I was talking? She looked at me like I was a stranger. Like I was nothing." His voice broke completely. "I used to make her laugh every day. Every single day, and now she can't even stand to hear my voice."

Mingi hadn’t moved since you’d left, his eyes fixed on the doorway as if he could still see you standing there. His face was a mask of quiet devastation, all the light drained from his features. Of all of them, he seemed the most deeply affected, as if your words had physically wounded him.

“Someone else,” he murmured, almost to himself. “She gave herself to someone else.”

The words sent another ripple of tension around the table. The implication that you had been intimate with someone else—someone not in this room—was like salt in an open wound for all of them.

“Who?” Hongjoong demanded, turning his fierce gaze to Seonghwa. “You’ve had people watching her. Who was it?”

Seonghwa’s expression remained carefully neutral. “Our surveillance was for her safety, not to monitor her personal life. If she was involved with someone, we weren’t aware of it.”

“Find out,” Hongjoong ordered.

“Why?” Yeosang spoke, his quiet voice cutting through the tension. “So you can what—track him down? Threaten him? Kill him?” He shook his head. “Her life is her own. It always has been.”

“She’s going to be my wife,” Hongjoong said through gritted teeth.

“On paper,” Yeosang countered. “This is a business arrangement, remember? Your words, not mine.”

The two men stared at each other across the table, years of friendship straining under the weight of the moment.

"She's gone," Mingi said quietly, his deep voice barely audible. "Even when she's here, she's gone. The girl we knew... we killed her that day."

San laughed bitterly, the sound harsh and broken. "And for what? To protect her? Look how well that worked out. She's alive, sure, but she's nothing like the person we fell in love with."

"She's stronger," Yeosang said quietly, speaking for the first time since you'd stormed out. His observant eyes had been taking in every detail of the confrontation, analyzing and processing. "Harder. She's built walls that would make ours look like paper."

"Strong enough to hate us," Yunho added miserably. "Strong enough to look us in the eye and tell us exactly what we took from her."

Seonghwa set down his wine with shaking hands. "The way she looked at me when I walked in yesterday... like I was a stranger. No, worse than a stranger. Like I was an enemy." He closed his eyes, pain etched in every line of his face. "She used to run to me when she was scared. Used to trust me with everything."

"We all lost that," Jongho said grimly. "The way she used to light up when she saw us, the way she'd curl up between us during movies, how she'd share every thought and feeling without hesitation." His massive frame seemed to shrink in on itself. "She was so open then. So trusting."

"And now she threatens to shoot anyone who touches her," San said flatly. "We did that. We created this version of her."

Hongjoong finally sank back into his chair, burying his face in his hands. When he looked up, his eyes were wild with frustration and something that looked dangerously close to desperation.

"We had no choice," he said, but the words sounded hollow even to his own ears. "The threats were real. They would have killed her."

"Would they?" Yeosang asked quietly. "Or did we just make the easy choice? Take the money, break her heart, and tell ourselves it was noble?"

The question hung in the air like an accusation. Around the table, seven men faced the weight of a decision made in desperation and fear, a choice that had saved your life but destroyed your soul.

Wooyoung's sobs finally broke free, raw and devastating in the silence. "I can't do this," he choked out. "I can't sit here and pretend this is fine. She's upstairs right now, alone and hurting, and I can't even comfort her because I'm one of the reasons she's in pain."

Mingi's chair scraped against the floor as he finally moved, standing abruptly. "I need air," he muttered, heading for the terrace doors. "I can't... I can't breathe in here."

"Running away again?" San called after him, his own pain making his voice cruel. "That's what we do best, isn't it? Run when things get difficult?"

Mingi stopped at the threshold, his broad shoulders rigid. "What would you have me do, San? Go upstairs and beg for forgiveness? Explain that we broke her heart to save her life? You think that'll make her hate us less?"

"At least it would be honest," San shot back. "At least it would be something other than sitting here feeling sorry for ourselves."

"Enough," Seonghwa said wearily. "Fighting each other won't fix this."

"Nothing will fix this," Yunho said hollowly. "Don't you see? We can't go back. We can't undo what we did. And she's made it clear she doesn't want our explanations or our apologies."

Hongjoong's hands clenched into fists on the table. "So what? We just accept this? We marry and spend our lives as strangers? She lives in our house, bears our name, and hates us every second of every day?"

"Maybe that's what we deserve," Jongho said quietly. "Maybe that's the price we pay for the choice we made."

The words settled over them like a death knell. Seven years of guilt and regret crystallized into a single, awful truth—they had saved your life, but in doing so, they had lost any chance of sharing it.

Yeosang stood quietly, pushing in his chair with deliberate care. “You all keep talking about her like she’s a problem to be managed,” he observed. “She’s not. She’s Y/n. Our Y/n. And right now, she’s alone and hurting.”

“Where are you going?” Seonghwa asked as Yeosang moved toward the door.

“To do what none of you seem capable of,” Yeosang replied. “Listen to her.”

“Yeosang,” Hongjoong warned. “The agreement—”

“I won’t tell her anything she doesn’t need to know,” Yeosang assured him. “But someone needs to make sure she understands that whatever happens next, she’s not alone in this house.”

Without waiting for permission, he left the dining room, his steps purposeful as he headed toward the staircase.Before anyone could stop him, he was gone, his footsteps echoing up the stairs toward your room—toward a conversation that was seven years overdue and might already be too late.

Next>>

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[kenwio]

Joker's kid! reader : how batfamily would react on them trying to end their life

Route : recovered dove

Please read warnings before reading this one!

If you do not feel like reading it, it's okay! (Spoilers will be at the end of this part) Please have tea or hot cocoa, and read relax 💖 and remember there are people who care and support you 💖 I'll be posting more fluff in future parts

Warnings : heavy topics, mentions of death, implications of self-destructive behavior and suicidal behavior, hurt/comfort, traumatized characters.

Idea for this part from this ask here . I also used this idea for comfort part form here

Author's note : I'm including this part in route: Recovered dove only because I want to show that mental healing of Joker's kid is a long way, it had ups and downs, but in the end they have family who acres about them now.

You don't know what exactly triggered it. Maybe it was the fact that everyone started discussing break out in Arkham asylum instead of the usual breakfast convention, maybe it was how Bruce said he didn't have time for you, maybe it was how Alfred was distant today, so you thought something wrong, maybe it was that Dick ignored you today, maybe it was that Jason's aggressive demeanor when you saw him, maybe it was Tim's comment when you brought him coffee, maybe it was Damian's harshness when you meet him near your room today.

That all made you feel so lost. To see them all being unwelcoming to you again was overwhelming. Is it because your father is free again, and they thought you'd be helping him? Wait if your father is free... he will want you back. You don't want back! No! You don't want to be with him again! You do not want to be experimented on again, be beaten up by him again. You thought it was finally over, that you were taken away from that life, never to return. You thought you found family! Why does he have to ruin your life again? He drove her away from you already, the only person who protected you before Batman and his birds, the only person who was your family before them, your mom ... and now he is doing it again; he is taking your family away again! But were they your family? You thought that Bruce was thinking about you as his own child, you thought that Alfred was proud of your progress, you thought that Dick was happy to spend time with you, you thought that Jason was enjoying your shared reading time, you thought that Tim liked to study with you, you thought that Damian finally accepted you. Were you wrong? Was it all a lie? Did they want to use you as bait for your father? Or did they think you would be able to tell them something about him? Was that a reason why they got close to you? But now that they see they were wrong, and after they made sure you didn't know anything, they decided to drop the act?

Was it all a happy dream that's just ended? If it was a dream, you don't want to wake up to the nightmare of your previous life. You can't take the suffering anymore. You need to make it stop to end it, to end it all.

You didn't know how long you were in you were in your thoughts, when you got up. You wanted to live. The room that became your own, became your safe space now felt like JOKE. You needed to get away from it. You struggled to open the window, as it required much strength from your shaking hands. But you were persistent in your efforts to open it, and in the end window opened. You looked down, it was quite high, and you knew that for your body, which was unlike theirs, weak and fragile, it would be enough. You've seen a grown man die when he fell from his high back in a crime alley, so for you, it will definitely be enough. Oh, crime alley, you don't want to go there. You don't want to return to life with Joker. You stood up on the windowsill, looking at the green grass down, feeling the cold night wind against your skin. Your head felt heavy, ringing in your ears just made it all worse. You took one step, and you felt incredibly calm. You took another step, only to be pulled away from the windowsill on the ground and held up. You didn't register the loud voice, the way someone was shaking you. You just sit there staring at nothing in particular, not even able to cry because of how tired you are.

In the meantime, Damian, the one who pulled you away from the window, had already called everyone and was trying hard to make you snap out of it. Yet it was not helping. When Bruce arrived, he moved Damian, who was looking at you with extreme worry, aside. Bruce recognized your expression; he had seen it before - thousand-yard stare - your own mind was protecting you from whatever you were feeling. As he was trying to help you, holding you against him, trying to soothe you, the rest of the family arrived in your room, seeing scared Damian, worried Bruce, and you... you looked so broken. It was too hard on them all

A few hours later, when you fell asleep after you came to your senses and cried for a while, Bruce and others started figuring out what made you feel this way. And it didn't take long; they are a family of detectives, after all. And this all made them feel really bad, guilty. As it turned out, on this day, you were too unlucky to notice only the bad sides of things.

There wasn't any breakout In Arkham asylum. Turns out, the lead they were investigating turned out to be false. Bruce, indeed, was busy, but he failed to communicate this in the normal way: he only added that he would try to make some only by the time you stepped away, which he didn't notice. Alfred was distant because he had a migraine today, but he still wanted to work around the house; there were too many chores to be done in the Wayne manor. Dick didn't mean to ignore you, he was too tired after his few nights of being up and he just failed to notice your quiet presence, being too busy thinking about his bed. Jason was behaving aggressively because of the lead about break out from Arkham asylum, which was the one that he followed for his case, and since it was false; it took the case he was working on back to square one. Tim actually was mumbling about his case, quietly cursing criminals, and not you; just like Jason, he had too much trouble because of that stupid lead. Damian stepped in at the last second to help you avoid stumbling and falling when you were waking in your room, which resulted in his harshness to you, but you were too deep in your panic to notice that his gaze was more worried than angry. If Damian wouldn't have been worried and decided to check up on you... non of them want to think about it.

They spend night in your room and in the morning, they talked to you, communicating how things actually were the previous day, and expressing how important you were to them.

It was a shock to everyone. Even Bruce thought it was going fine, that your session was working and helping you, that you were feeling safe, and that your relationships with the rest of the family were getting better. And he knew that what happened damaged the whole family because they almost lost you. He regretted that he didn't phrase his words correctly, feeling like he failed to show his care for you. He knew he should have been careful with words, he knows how impactful they can be. And since he said he hadn't got time for you he started making time for you. He wants you to know that he cares for you and he will make time for you wherever you need him. His one daily check-up became 2 check-ups, and when he had more free time, he checked up more. He pays extra attention to you. Even your little sneeze will make him worried to the point of examination in a medbay. He stays with you, and sometimes talks with you, encouraging you to open up and share your opinion and feelings. He tries to lessen the influence of "bad guidelines" (that were with you because of Joker) in your head. He helps you talk through your feelings, helps you show them and process them. He reminds you that you are cared for now. And he promises that he will protect you. After hearing you out, learning your fears and insecurities, and when he learned out that most of all you are afraid to go by your father's way, he promises you that he will do everything in his power to prevent you from taking this way. Bruce wants you to be happy, to make good memories. You already got unlucky with your father, who made you experience hell, but Bruce will try to be the best Dad he can for you.

Alfred felt so guilty. He knew you needed care, but he was distracted. He feels like he let you down, by forgetting how fragile and sensitive you are. He knew you were struggling; he had seen it himself. If only he had paid you more attention. But Alfred, better than anyone else, knows that he shouldn't be focusing on the past; he needs to work on the present, and he needs to make sure you feel better. He makes sure to make you more happy while he can. It's always your favorite tea at the tea time you share, with his cookies, of course, which he bakes with you from time to time. It's always your comfort shows or documentaries on TV when you two watch something. He also makes sure no one dares to make you feel uncomfortable, even if it will make him look around like Hawk. But Alfred understands that he can't always be around; that's exactly why he makes sure that he teaches you at least a few techniques that would be able to help with worry and anxiety, and he practices them with you. You are his little star, who may be really quiet but still efficiently lights up his days, and he doesn't want to lose you. When you share that you are afraid your family will reject you, he personally goes to everyone, making sure that they won't be saying something that contains a message. He wants to see you all grown up and happy in the end; he will work hard to make sure your life in Manor will be good.

Even when Dick just heard how Damian called for help for you, he felt shocked, what to say when he saw and understood the situation. What do you mean his baby sibling tried to make their life end when he was blissfully unaware, sleeping in his old room? How? What he missed? Just a few days before, you seemed on your way to becoming the happy sunshine of a kid, and now that has happened? He is your older brother and he missed all the singes?! He needs to sit down. It's too hard to accept this version of reality for him. The reality is that he can lose another member of the family. He knows what it is like to lose a sibling, and he will never want to experience it or feel this pain again. And knowing that it's you who tried to end your life makes it all worse. He tries to understand what pushed you, trying to see what he can do to prevent this from happening. He also tries to distract you from all the negativity in your life with quality time and different activities. The incident shook him hard, and while he hoped to introduce you to cuddles differently, he had to do it now. He needs to make sure you are close, still warm, still safe, still alive. And it seemed like cuddling with him made you calmer; you didn't even realize how touch-starved you were until then. It became a sort of comforting ritual for both of you, cuddling, sometimes just cuddling, sometimes while watching something. While cuddling he often says sweet words of reassurance to you. And while he knows he can't stay in Manor forever, he makes sure you know that he is always here for you, just a call away.

Jason was mad at himself for allowing himself to snap at you earlier. He feels incredible guilt that he was the reason that you were in that state. For a few days after, he could only watch you in your room or living room until he talked about his feelings and the incident (how he calls it because he can't speak that out loud, it physically hurts him to admit it) with Bruce and Dick. He started slowly approaching you, continuing your reading sessions, but also, sometimes, he decided just to start talking with you. He shares with you his experiences in the crime alley, and you share yours; you both know that only you two in the whole family could understand the full horror of this place, and that's aside from the fact that both of you know the full horror of Joker. He says to you that you'll never become like him, because he sees you are different. Jason tries to comfort you, yet he knows he is not ideal in it, but he is willing to try as much as he can just for you. He can understand that you feel lonely; he can only imagine how lonely you get when all the family is busy with vigilante work. It got him thinking, remembering. He remembers times when he was still Robin, and sometimes, when he got hurt, he stayed in his room alone, and. he hated it. Back when Dick gifted him a plushie of a bat, and now, in another attempt to comfort you, he brings this old plushie to you. He tells you that this plushie kept him company and protected him from everything bad, and now it will protect you, and now you'll never be alone anymore; your family's love will be here for you.

Tim was second after Damian to arrive in your room. This sight horrified him. He just froze, in shock. For once, he didn't know how to act or what to do. After everyone made sure you were okay, and his brain began working again, he started to do what he knew best - investigating and researching to find ways of how to help you, trying them with you in the meantime. Art therapy? He tried to hold a few sessions with you. Special games? You both alredy beating third one. Special music? Here is his player, listen when you want. He becomes more attentive to you, noticing every little detail. He knows as a person who likes studies like him, you would want to learn more about your mental health and how to care about yours. He found a way to explain the basics of it all to you in a way that is easier for you to understand, and only when she reads articles (that he chose, of course) about mental health and coping mechanisms. You want to cuddle with him while reading? Good, he will do it (he is happy that Dick showed you how to cuddle and totally not jealous). You want to stay with him while he works? Okay, sure, he is here for you. He makes sure you can ask him anything; he reminds you that you are safe with him and with others. So when you ask about Arkham and your father there he makes sure to show you that Arkham is hard to get out (even if it's not true).

Damian didn't like how it felt to see you on the windowsill. He doesn't like how it feels to see you in this state. He doesn't like fear. But fear made one thing clear: he cares about you. He hadn't understood how important you became until that incident happened. You are his sibling, and even if he did not choose you, even if he was against the idea of you being in the family at first, now he knows you held a place in this family like everyone else. And now he knows that he will do everything in his power to make you safe; he will protect you even from yourself. He asked Bruce to install precautions in your room. He follows you like your shadow everywhere you go. He makes sure that there is no danger in your way. He checks up on how you sleep after patrols. He makes sure to be nicer when he is around you, and he heads to ask Father, Pennyworth, and Grayson how exactly to behave around you. He joins in Tim the research of ways for you to cope with traumas or ways to comfort you, and when he sees articles about how communicating with animals improves mental health, he brings Titus to you, and when he goes for walks with Titis he makes sure to take you on them too since he also found out that walks improve mental health, and since it's walking with Titus it's beneficial in double. He protects you and he cares for you even if he struggles with proving it

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Thank you for reading! Feel free to share your opinion and have a good day 💖

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Tag list :

@socially-embarrassing , @leovergurl , @deathbynarcisstick , @cryptic-arr0w , @lynns-cornerr , @cxcilla ,  @charlotteking23 , @ninihrtss , @lillycore , @pix-stuff , @tfamidoingwithmylife , @linoalwaysknows , @00hellohello00 , @lilithskywalker , @bagofrice , @lenaisaloser , @devilslittlehelper , @camilo-uwu , @l3v1us , @eyeless-kun , @stargazingbutgayer, @wpdarlingpan , @weirdothatreads , @maybea1 @lyla-viper-wayne @amber-content @lizzyzzn

if i forgot to add someone to the tag list, please let me know, and i will add you to the next part

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Spoiler:

Next chapter connected to this (click here) and after that I'll finally write about Joker's kid! reader hair dyeing adventures

[rynwrites4fun]

Eyes On Me | Jack Abbot x Popstar ! Reader

Jack Abbot x f!Popstar !  Reader

Summary: You’re a breakout popstar on your first headlining tour. Fame hit fast—sold-out shows, screaming fans, and nonstop momentum. But behind the scenes, it’s overwhelming. You’re struggling to keep up with the pressure and pace. After collapsing backstage after a show in Pittsburg, you’re rushed to the ER—where you meet Dr. Jack Abbott.

Word Count: 6491

Warning: Age Gap (mid 20’s/late 40’s or early 50’s,) Mentions of mental health struggles discussions of suicidal thoughts/behavior

Author's Notes: Hi I’m ryn. Honestly this fanfic was is for myself LOL. Jack Abbot x Popstar ! Reader has been circling in my brain for the last 3 days and I just had to brain dump a story. Sorry for any grammatical errors and/or inaccuracies and unrealistic aspects. Like I said brain dump I just needed to get this out of my head before I went crazy. This is just for fun. Okay, enjoy.

Pittsburgh—night 22 of 36 shows on your tour across North America, all crammed into two relentless months. 

Your career had skyrocketed overnight. One day, you dropped your first single, Hands and the next, your song was all over the radio. Suddenly, you were doing live performances on late-night shows, Hollywood events, and festivals, posing for magazine covers, releasing your debut album Sultry, and now headlining your first tour. 

Performing and creating music was everything you ever wanted, but it came at a cost. You’ve been silently struggling for a while now. The pace, the preassure, expectations, the sheer magnitude of it all were starting to wear down—physically, mentally, and emotionally. You just wished you could hit pause. Slow it all down. Everything was happening so fast. You were trying to figure out how to process it all. And beneath all that, you felt incredibly lonely. 

You were exhausted, but you kept going anyway. You had to. People depended on you, your fans, your team, the crew, your label. You didn’t want to let anyone down, so you pushed through, running on fumes, but after tonight's show, it finally caught up to you. Once the curtains closed and your adrenaline wore off, you collapsed. 

—-

11:25 pm Dr. Jack Abbot reads on the computer at the ER’s Central station. His shift had started three hours ago, and so far, it had been uneventful. A few drunkards in a bar fight, some run-of-the-mill illnesses, the occasional kitchen mishap—nothing out of the ordinary. The night was still young. 

“We got the bus coming from PGG Paints Arena. ETA 5 minutes” a nurse calls out. 

“Heard!” Jack shouts as he types. 

“Oh skin to skin, your touch feels like a sin- I want you can’t you see, I need your hands all over me…” Doctor John Shen sang under his breath a high pitch voice as he picked up a clipboard off the central counter and scans through it. 

John continued to mumble words. Jack raised an eyebrow, glancing up from the report he was typing up to look at his fellow attending.

John could feel Jack's eyes and looked up at him. John shrugs “Hey, Hands is a catchy song…gulity pleasure” he said, unbothered by being caught singing something vaguely suggestive. Jack didn’t ask—he just assumed it was some pop song.

“Never heard of it…” 

John was shocked. “You’re kidding! You never heard of Hands?” It’s all over the radio- pretty sure it's ranked at number 3 on Billboard Hot 100.” 

Jack sighs, “I don’t listen to the radio, or pop music for that matter, Shen” 

“Right, you listen to a police scanner in your free time like you’re-” John drops his voice into a gravelly imitation and makes a grump face “Batman”

Jack rolls his eyes, continuing to type.

“Honestly, if nightshift were a superheros you’d definitely be Batman- you know, you finding comfort in the dark and all-” John was a talker, already veering into one of his usual tangents. 

“Anyway, the singer of Hands, biggest Popstar in the world right now- she had a concert tonight at the area- she’s sold out 36 shows across North America– impressive honestly–”

Jack was only half-listening—actually, not even that. He hummed and nodded anyway, pretending he was following along. Jack usually zoned out when John was on his tangents when it was something not related to work. 

 “You should listen to her stuff, it’s actually really good! Her album Sultry—I’ve been playing it on my way to work some nights. For a debut album, it’s pretty solid. Bop after bop, banger after banger—”

“Don’t you have patients to attend to, Shen?” Jack cut in, needing him to stop yapping.

Jack looks over his shoulder, his attention drawn to sudden commotion in the ambulance bay behind him. Muffled noise, shouting, screaming, and strobe of camera flashes lit up the glass of the automatic doors. The chaos was visible—but just barely contained.

“What the hell is going on?” He furrowed his eyebrows as he fully turned around, and straightened himself from hunching over one of the computer monitors.

“The bus just pulled up,” John says

“Yeah, but-”

Before Jack could take a step or say anything more, the automatic bay doors slid open. The muffled noise from outside crashed into the ER like a wave.

The paramedics burst through, wheeling in the gurney. The head of the gurney was propped at an angle. 

“Well I be damned, it's her” John said casually, like Jack was supposed to know exactly who she was.

Jack furrowed his eyebrows as he looked over John “Who?” 

John shot Jack an annoyed You weren’t listening look and said your name. “Only the biggest popstars in the world right now—ring any bells? The whole conversation we just had- came on, old man, weren’t you listening?” 

From where Jack stood, he could see a young woman—you—trembling, your breaths shallow and rapid.

Your hair was disheveled, makeup smudged and streaked. A bomber jacket draped loosely over your shoulders. But beneath it, he caught a flash of purple sparkles—stagewear, most likely.

Beside the two paramedics wheeling you in, three people buzzed around you like bees, talking over one another, yet you looked numb. Not registering or taking anything they were saying. 

The paramedic shouted over all the noise and commotion  "Twenty-five-year-old female, syncopal episode post-performance. Now conscious and alert—”

Somehow, through the rush and chaos, your eyes managed to find Jack’s. They say the eyes are the windows to the soul—and in that moment, yours didn’t lie.

Jack didn’t see a popstar. He saw a human. A woman who looked disassociated, exhausted. Sad. Worn thin.

He’d seen that same look before—in the military, and even here, on the job. That quiet, aching kind of broken. The kind that creeps in when you’ve been running on empty for too long.

Time seemed to slow as you were wheeled past him. He was an older man, a doctor you assumed. You couldn’t look away from his dark eyes. The look in his eyes. No one had ever looked at you like that—not the way he was in that moment. Different from every glance, every stare you’d ever known. And for a moment, you thought he could see you. Really see you. The weight of it made you sit up slightly, still staring back at him.

“I got this one- South Wing, Exam Room 4 —move her!” John barked, falling in step beside the gurney as it sped past, your eye contact with Jack breaking. 

Snapping out what felt like a trance, Jack gets back to work. 

“Call for more security-” Jack snaps one of the nurses as he bolts from central, heading to the ambulance bay. The two security guards on duty were overwhelmed, struggling to control the crowd.

 “Hey! HEY! you can’t be here unless you are sick, injured, dying or are here for someone that is!” He shouts over the chaos “If not get the hell out of my ER and ambulance bay!!!” 

The commotion only grows—cameras flashing, people yelling, shoving for a better view, the frenzy thick with screams and blinding light.

More security comes to help push everyone back out, managing the crowd. Jack exhales, knowing they’ve got it under control. Without another word, he turns on his heel and makes his way back inside, the chaos fading behind him like background noise.

He was going to head to your exam room—something about you lingered. That look in your eyes. He’d seen people in pain before, but this was something different. Quieter. Deeper. And he couldn’t shake it.

He was gonna head over to your exam room, but he was cut off by another nurse.

“Doctor Abbot! Trauma Room 1—stabbing victim”

Jack glanced down the South Wing, hesitating for half a second.

“Copy that,” he said, before turning and rushing toward Trauma Room 1.

___

The exam room was loud and overcrowded. Your manager, publicist, and assistant hovered around you as a nurse tried to take your vitals and ask you basic intake questions. Doctor Shen was trying–unsuccessfully– to get your team to leave so their staff could do their job, but my manager refused. 

“It’s best if you wait outside-” The doctor states. 

Your manager protested “No!” 

“Look, we can’t do our job effectively and efficiently if-” the doctor is cut off by your manager. 

“Well your medical professionals! I’m pretty sure you can handle extra people in a room! Hello, you do surgeries and what not with more than five people in a room!”

Your chest heaved as you sat there, still listening, your breathing shallow and uneven.

“For the sake of the patient—”

“Well, the sake of my client—”

I couldn’t take it anymore.

“Stop!” You said sharply. “Mac, give them space-”

“What?” Your  manager blinked, stunned. 

“Let them do their job. I—I feel fine, like I told the paramedics,” You said quickly, forcing a shaky smile. “They just need to check me out. Once they see everything’s okay, I’ll be out of here in no time. And we’ll hit the road”

That was a lie. You didn’t feel fine. 

All these eyes on you—the world—and yet none of them truly saw you.

They couldn’t tell you were faking it. Couldn’t see how much you were silently struggling. How you really felt. Not even the people you saw every day. Part of you felt guilty for even being here—for slowing everything down, for putting yourself and your team behind schedule. Everyone was counting on you. And you were falling apart.

Your manager sighed “Alright.” nodded in agreement, and the rest of your team quietly made their way out of your exam room and directed to the family room. 

You let out a sigh.

“Sorry about them, I didn't mean to cause any trouble.” You apologized to Doctor Shen and the Nurse as they began to check my vitals. 

“Don’t sweat it. It’s fine—comes with the territory in the ER. Your team’s not the first to argue with us, and they’re definitely not the worst.” 

You let out a breath, nodding faintly.

“Still… I hate that it got like that.”

“Seriously, don’t worry about it. What we should be focusing on is you. Is it okay if we go over a few questions?”

Doctor Shen and the nurse continued their routine—asking questions, checking my vitals. I answered them all, but inside, I felt numb. Like I was moving through it on autopilot.

When they finally left, the silence swallowed everything.

You later there for god knows how long. Curled up on your side, motionless.

Your boots were scattered nearby, forgotten. The tights clung to me like a second skin, and the purple sparkle bodysuit caught the fluorescent lights—still shimmering like it belonged on a stage, not under a hospital ceiling.

But you kept it all in. You didn't let yourself break. Even though you wanted to. Desperately. Ypu wanted to scream. To beg someone to just see me. To understand. To notice what youwere holding together by threads.

You needed somewhere to go. Anywhere but these walls.

You slid off the exam bed, my boots still on the floor, untouched. You didn’t bother putting them back on. You didn’t need to. Out in the ER, the chaos buzzed around me—everyone seemed preoccupied, moving in their own world. But none of that mattered. You didn’t stop.

As you quickly searched for an escape, anything to get away, I finally found the stairs. Floor after floor, my body moved on autopilot, pulled by some quiet instinct—a need for silence. For up.

The rooftop door wasn’t even locked.

And suddenly, there you were —standing beneath the open night sky, the wind pulling at my hair, the city lights stretching out below me like a pulse, faint but steady.

___

Jack peeled off his gloves and paper gown, tossing them into the overstuffed disposal bin without a second glance. His safety glasses came off next, dropped into a tray with a soft clatter.

The stabbing victim had finally been stabilized—barely. They’d coded multiple times on the table, the blood loss severe, the damage extensive. It had been a fight, but for now, they had a pulse.

Jack made his way to the center of the ER, eyes lifting to the patient triage board glowing on the monitors above the central station. He stood there for a moment, just staring—taking it all in, processing the chaos the way only someone used to it could.

John approached quietly, coming to stand beside him. For a moment, neither of them spoke—just two physicians staring up at the ever-shifting list of names, numbers, and needs blinking across the screen.

“Rough night,” John finally said, his voice low, more of a statement than a question.

Jack didn’t look away. “When isn’t it?”

Jack’s eyes stayed on the board, but his mind drifted.

The popstar.

He didn’t even need to say her name—she was already burned into the back of his mind. The look in her eyes when they brought her in.

“How’s she doing?” he asked finally, still staring ahead.

John followed his gaze for a beat, then glanced at the chart in her hand.

“Vitals stabilized. Labs were all over the place when she came in—dehydration, low electrolytes, stress markers through the roof. But mostly?” She paused. “She’s just exhausted. Like, bone-deep. Extreme fatigue. Burnout, plain and simple.”

Jack finally turned to face him.

“Does she say anything?”

John shook her head. “Not much. I didn't need to. You could see it all over her.”

Jack nodded slowly, jaw tightening just slightly.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “You could see it the second she walked in… or was wheeled in.”

He leaned on the edge of the counter, eyes distant now, somewhere far above the triage board. “It wasn’t just physical. It was in her eyes. Like she’d been running on fumes for a long time, and this was the moment her body finally said ‘no more.’”

John studied him for a moment. “You connected with her.”

Jack didn’t answer right away. He just let out a quiet breath through his nose, staring at the board, but not really seeing it anymore.

“Maybe it’s because I’ve seen it before,” he said quietly. “That look. The kind of exhaustion that doesn’t show up in lab results. The kind that runs deeper than what anyone can measure. You can tell when someone’s been running on empty for too long... and their body just finally gives out.”

John says “She still has 14 more shows left. With the pace she’s been going, I honestly don’t know how she’s made it this far.”

A flash of purple caught their attention.

Jack’s eyes snapped to the hallway just in time to see you slip from your room—glittering tights and a purple sparkle jumpsuit, unmistakable even in the dim hospital light. You moved quickly, your bare feet barely making a sound against the cold tile, as though you were trying to be unnoticed, trying to outrun something—or maybe trying to find something.

John caught the movement too, his gaze following you down the hall. “I bet she’s headed to the roof,” he muttered, voice low, tinged with understanding.

Jack’s eyes stayed fixed on you, his jaw tightening.

Jack didn’t respond immediately. His jaw tightened as he watched you slip through the door at the end of the hall, already heading for the stairs.

John frowned, glancing at Jack. “You think she’s gonna be alright up there?”

Jack didn’t answer immediately. He just stared after you, his mind racing. There was something about the way you moved—like you were running, but didn’t know where you were running to. It made something shift in him.

“People like her… people like us, sometimes,” Jack began, his voice quieter, “they forget they don’t always have to do it alone. That there are moments where it’s okay to stop pretending.”

John didn’t push, but there was a silent understanding between them.

Jack was already moving toward the stairwell, his steps purposeful now. "I’ll check on her."

Jack follows your path, climbing up several flights of stairs to get to the roof

When he finally reached the rooftop, the door creaked open softly, the cool night air greeting him as he stepped out onto the open space. His eyes immediately found you on the other side of the railing, standing still, your arms wrapped tightly around yourself like you were trying to hold together everything that felt like it might break.

You were staring out into the distance, as if the city lights could somehow offer you the answers you were looking for. 

___

“Hey,” he says, his voice low but steady.

You let out yelp, startled by the sudden voice. You hadn’t expected anyone else up here. Your hands instinctively grab the railing behind you, gripping it tightly for support. There was still a sliver of space between you and the edge, but your heart was already racing.

 “Whoa, whoa—careful now,” says quickly, a hoodie draped over his arm. His hands rise in a calming gesture, fanning out as if to steady you.

You glance over your shoulder, blinking in disbelief. It’s him—the man you locked eyes with earlier across the chaos. Tall, calm, dressed in black scrubs that cling to his frame like a shadow. His salt-and-pepper curls are tousled just enough to soften the sharpness of the stubble along his jaw.

“I’m Doctor Abbot,” he continues, stepping closer but keeping his distance. 

“I didn’t come up here to jump—” you say defensively. 

“I’ve heard that one before.”

“No, really—I’m serious. I just—” You hesitated, your eyes drifting away.

It wasn’t a total lie. The thought had crossed your mind once or twice before—on different nights, in different places—This wasn’t that.

You just needed space. A moment to think, to breathe. 

“Hey…” he says softly. “I get it. I head up here to get away from everything down there.”

He nods toward where you’re standing. “That spot? It’s usually mine.”

You glance at him, surprised.

“I’ve seen enough chaos for ten lifetimes,” he adds with a faint smile. “Up here’s the only place where no one’s life is on the line or yelling at me.” His voice carries a dry edge—half joke, half truth.

He steps closer to the railing.

“Do you mind?” he asks, gesturing to the space beside you, silently asking for permission.

You give him a quick glance, and he understands—it’s okay. He ducks under the railing and steps up beside you, settling in quietly.

He lowers himself to the ground, knees drawn to his chest, arms resting loosely on top. His back leans against the railing with a quiet familiarity. After a moment, you follow suit, settling beside him, sitting cross-legged in the hush of the night.

A silence falls between us as we look at the city skyline. 

“I come up here when I need to feel like a person again. Not a doctor. Not the guy who’s supposed to keep it all together. Just… me.”

He lets out a slow breath. “There are nights—some harder than others—where the thought crosses my mind. Of just… stepping off. Letting go.” 

He pauses “But something always stops me. Reminds me why I stay.”

He glances at you, voice quieter now.

“It’s the need to help people. To connect. Even when it’s messy… even when it hurts. It’s what keeps me tethered. It’s what drives me. It’s in my DNA”

Jack hadn’t shared that part of himself because he was looking for comfort. He shared it because he saw something in you—something he couldn’t ignore.

He couldn’t shake the look in your eyes from earlier, when they wheeled you in. That numb, exhausted sadness. The silent plea buried deep in your gaze. A quiet scream for someone—anyone—to really see you.

You were young—early twenties, maybe. A pop star. To the world, you probably seemed untouchable. Perfect. Living the kind of life most people only dream of.

But up close, all Jack saw was someone unraveling. Someone barely holding on. And he’d seen enough to know that pain doesn’t care who you are, how famous you are, or how bright the spotlight is.

And he couldn’t imagine what it must be like.

To be seen by the eyes of everyone… but never really seen.

“I guess what I’m trying to say is… this is where I come to stop pretending. So… no pretending. You don’t need to be anything up here, okay? I see you.”

My head snaps up at his words. “W-what?” your eyes widened, caught off guard.

“I said… I see you,” he repeats, voice steady, eyes locked on mine with quiet intensity.

Something in you breaks. Your lips start to tremble, and then the tears come—uncontrollable, unstoppable. You start to sob, the weight of everything finally cracking open.

This man—this stranger—was the first person to really look past the surface. To notice the pain you’d been drowning in. To see you, not the version of you the world demands.

And in that moment, you realize how long you’ve been waiting for someone to do exactly that.

Without a word, he takes the hoodie he’s been holding and gently drapes it over your bare shoulders, shielding you from the cool night air. The fabric is warm, worn, and smells faintly of him—clean soap and something grounding.

You lean into his side, drawn by a comfort you didn’t know you needed.

He hesitates for a moment, unsure, then instinct takes over. His arm wraps around you, slow and careful, like he doesn’t want to startle you. His hand begins to rub your arm—slow, steady circles. Not to fix anything. Just to let me know you're not alone.

The sobs come in waves—raw, jagged, leaving your chest aching and my throat tight. I try to stifle them, to keep it quiet, but he doesn’t flinch. He just stays beside me, steady and still, his hand never leaving my arm.

Eventually, it passes. Not completely, but enough for you to breathe again. Your chest still hiccups with the occasional shuttered breath, 

“I—I don’t even know where to start,” You whisper, voice hoarse from crying. “I just… I’m so exhausted.”

He says nothing, but his presence says I’m here. Take your time.

“Everything happened so fast—my career, all of it. It’s like I’m on this train, expecting stops along the way… but it just keeps speeding past every one of them. No breaks. No time to breathe.”

You pause, trying to find the right words through the tightness in my chest.

“And then there’s the pressure. The expectations. People depend on me—my fans, my team, the crew, the label... all of them. I’m supposed to be the one who holds it all together.”

Your voice wavers. “But inside, I’ve been unraveling. It’s like I’m screaming, and no one hears it. Or worse—they hear it and just… don’t care.”

You glance up at him, tears clinging to my lashes, your voice barely above a whisper.

“I have everything I thought I wanted. Everything I dreamed of since I was a little girl. And I still feel empty. So lonely. Like I’m surrounded by people… but completely alone in all of it. My voice cracks on the last words. I look away, ashamed.

Jack doesn’t speak right away.

He just watches you, eyes full of something that feels a lot like understanding. His arm is still around you, steady and warm. And when he finally speaks, his voice is low. Gentle.

“I know that feeling,” he says. “Being surrounded… and still feeling like you’re the only one in the room who’s not okay.”

He exhales slowly, like the weight of my words hit something deep in him too.

“You’re not broken. You’re human. And humans aren’t built to carry everything alone—no matter how strong the world expects us to be.”

He shifts slightly so he can face me more fully, his hand still resting on my arm, grounding me.

“You’re allowed to feel lost. You’re allowed to not have it all together. And just because people look up to you doesn’t mean you owe them everything. You still deserve to be a person. To rest. To be seen.”

He pauses, taking a breath, then adds softly, “Your job is demanding, I get that. But sometimes, you have to do what’s best for you. Put yourself first, even if it means letting others down in the process. You have to take care of yourself. You have to. Don’t be afraid to ask for help when you need it, either. Because if you don’t, you’ll find yourself on a path that’s hard to get off of.”

Thank you, Doctor Abbot.”

“Jack,” he corrects gently. “My name’s Jack.”

“Jack,” you repeat with a small smile, then introduce yourself.

He chuckles. “You know… I’m really aging myself here, but I only found out who you were a couple hours ago.” Trying to lighten the mood. 

You laugh. “Honestly? That’s kind of refreshing.”

“I don’t really keep up with pop culture,” he admits. “Dr. Shen was the one singing your earlier in our shift—what was it? Hands?”

“Oh god…” you groan, burying your face in your hands. That song was definitely suggestive. Of all the songs…

Jack grins. “What was it—‘Oh skin to skin, your touch feels like a sin… I want you, can’t you see, I need your hands all over me’?” He stumbles through the lyrics, trying to recall them.

“No, no, please don’t sing it!” you laugh, half mortified, half amused.

Jack arches a brow, a teasing smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Why not? It’s catchy?”

You groan, hiding your face in your hands. “Don’t encourage it.”

“Oh, come on,” he says, nudging your shoulder lightly. “It’s stuck in my head now.” 

“Why don’t you sing it?” 

You lift your head, eyes narrowing in disbelief. “Excuse me?”

Jack leans back against the railing, feigning innocence. “What? Fair’s fair. I butchered it—might as well hear it from the professional.”

You stare at him, mouth open. “You want me to sing that song? Right now?”

He shrugs with a teasing glint in his eye. “You’re the one who wrote it. Own it.”

You groan again, dramatically flopping your head back. “Absolutely not.” 

He arches a brow, clearly amused. “Why because it’s…?”

You shoot him a glare, cheeks burning. “You know why.”

Jack smirks. “Nope. Enlighten me.”

You groan, burying your face in your hands for a second before peeking at him through your fingers. “Because that song is suggestive, okay? And I’m not gonna put on a whole performance for the guy I just met while sitting on the edge of a hospital rooftop.”

He grins, utterly unbothered by your embarrassment. “I mean, you might as well—you’ve got the outfit, so you’re halfway there.”

Jack shrugs, his expression playful. “It’s not every day I get to share a rooftop with a pop star. Kind of a once-in-a-lifetime moment, don’t you think?”

You come back quickly. You cross your arms, giving him a teasing look. “But hey, if you’re lucky, I might just give you a private concert… somewhere a little less public.”

You freeze for a heartbeat, flustered, but the moment passes just as quickly as it came. Jack looks out over the city again, that easy smirk still tugging at the corner of his mouth.

His brows rise, amused, but he doesn’t say anything right away—just lets the silence stretch for a beat too long before offering a slow, teasing smile.

“Oh really?” he says lightly, head tilting. “Didn’t realize I’d stumbled into the VIP experience.”

Your eyes widen. “Wait—I didn’t mean it like that, I—” You groan, running a hand through your hair. “That came out so wrong. I swear I’m not flirting.”

Oh, but you were.

And so was he.

Somehow, without meaning to, the two of you had tangled yourselves into this strange, electric mess. One minute you were unpacking the weight of everything you’d buried inside, the next, you were tossing playful banter back and forth like it was the most natural thing in the world. Somewhere between the quiet confessions and the shared silence, something shifted. Neither of you planned for it, neither of you were sure what to call it—but whatever this was, it felt real. Unexpected, but real.

Jack knew this was unprofessional—wildly unprofessional. He knew better. He should have known better. She was a patient—vulnerable, barely holding herself together just hours ago and years younger. The kind of line he’d never imagined crossing. Every rule in the book told him to step back, to keep the boundary clear and intact.

He told himself it was harmless. Just words, just a moment. He told himself it was just a moment. Just a conversation. But even he knew that was a lie. Jack knew it was more. This wasn’t about flirting. It was about connection—messy, imperfect, unexpected connection—and despite everything telling him to walk away, he couldn’t bring himself to.

Not yet. 

Jack chuckles, clearly enjoying every second of your flustered state.

“Oh great—now you’ve seen me at my absolute worst and my most embarrassing.”

You groan, pressing your palms to your face. “I swear, I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Oh, I know what you meant,” he says with mock seriousness, nodding slowly. “A pop star tries to seduce a jaded ER doctor with a rooftop concert. Very scandalous. Very tabloid-friendly.”

You peek at him through your fingers, trying not to laugh. “Stop.”

You shake your head, laughing despite yourself. “This is humiliating.”

“Come on,” he says, nudging your arm with a lopsided grin. “If anything, I should be flattered. First time I’ve ever flirted with a pop star on a rooftop.”

“I wasn’t flirting,” you insist, a little defensive.

“Keep telling yourself that,”

Silence falls between you two again. 

Jack looks at his watch. 1:13 am

“We should probably head back down,” Jack says, standing up and using the railing to steady himself. 

“Right…”He ducks under the bars, making his way back to the safe side.

You follow suit, and he extends his hand toward you, offering support as you step back over to the safer side. You take his hand, steadying yourself as you make the move.

___

None of you speak as you head back down to the main floor of the ER. The silence hangs between you as Jack walks you back to your exam room, his footsteps steady and measured.

Once inside, Jack’s gaze softens, his expression shifting to something more serious. “The tests came back, and it’s clear you’re dealing with extreme fatigue and exhaustion,” he says, his voice calm but insistent. “Your body’s been running on empty for too long, and it’s starting to take its toll.”

He pauses for a moment, letting his words settle before continuing. “I’m recommending that you take some time off, but I also think it’s crucial that you talk to someone—a therapist. You’ve been through a lot, and it’s important to get the support you need to process everything properly.”

Jack looks at you with genuine concern. “We’ll discharge you soon, but I want to make sure your team knows what’s going on. I’ll have a word with them so they understand the need for you to take a step back for a while. You need the time to focus on yourself and heal.”

He pauses again, reaching into his pocket. “I’m also going to write down some resources for you—therapists and support groups, people who can help you through this. I want you to have everything you need to get better, okay?”

“Thank you,” you say quietly, feeling the weight of everything finally starting to settle.

Jack gives you a small nod, his expression softening. “The nurse will come back soon to hook you up to an IV to rehydrate. Rest as much as you can.” He pauses for a moment before adding, 

“I’ll come in a check up you soon”

With a final glance, he turns and leaves, the door clicking softly behind him. The room feels quieter now, but in a way, the silence feels less heavy—like a small sense of relief has finally started to creep in.

___

6:30am Day shift would be coming soon to relieve the night shift. 

You’d stayed in the ER throughout the night. Your team stayed with you too—quiet, worried, but present. When you woke up, you finally opened up to your manager. You told him everything—how you’d been feeling, how long it had been building, how it all finally broke.

He listened. Really listened.

And when you were done, he looked at you—genuinely shaken. “I had no idea you were carrying all that,” he said, his voice low with guilt. “I’m so sorry. You should’ve never felt like you had to keep this to yourself.”

He reassured you that things would change. That they’d meet with the label, reevaluate everything. “If we have to cancel the rest of the tour, so be it,” he said firmly. “You—your well-being—that’s what matters now. Nothing else is more important.”

___

“Alright you’re all set” Doctor Shen says, officially releasing you from the hospital. 

I was still in my stage outfit, my boots in hand, and wearing Jack’s hoodie.

“Thanks, Doctor Shen,” you say, grateful as you start to turn.

“Wait!” he calls after you, stopping you in your tracks. “Before you go, do you think I could get your autograph?”

You pause, surprised, then smile. “Yeah, of course,” you say, walking back over with a light laugh. It’s a small, sweet moment, something you didn’t expect, but somehow felt right—maybe even grounding in its own way. You take a moment to sign, your pen moving across the paper as you look up at him with a warm smile.

“Thanks for everything,” you add, handing it back to him.

You see Jack, approaching. 

“Would you like an autograph too?” I joke 

“Wow I really downgraded there. What happened to my VIP Experience? My private show?”

“You’re still on about that?” 

Jack laughs, shaking his head. “I’m just saying, I had big expectations for this VIP experience. Autographs? Really?” He sighs dramatically, pretending to be disappointed.

“Raincheck on the VIP experience?”

He nods, chuckling softly. “Alright, I’ll hold you to it” 

“So…what are your plans now?” He asks. 

You glance behind your shoulder, catching sight of Mac pacing on the phone, waiting for you by the automatic doors of the ambulance bay. “Uh, headed back home actually. Mac, my manager, is talking to the rest of the team and my label about me canceling the rest of the tour, taking care of my wellbeing,” you explain.

“That’s great to hear,” Jack says, his tone soft, genuine.

Silence falls between you two, an awkward pause that neither of you knows how to fill. You both understand, without saying it, that this is probably the first and last time you’d be seeing each other.

You shift your weight, unsure of what to say next, and Jack clears his throat, glancing down at the ground for a moment before meeting your eyes one last time. “Take care of yourself, alright?” he says, his voice sincere.

You give a small nod, managing a quiet, “You too.”

Jack steps back, his hands in his pockets, his expression still thoughtful. “I meant what I said earlier… about getting the help you need. It’s important.” His words hang in the air between you, as if he’s trying to convey something deeper, something he might not have the chance to say again.

You nod, the weight of the moment settling in. “I will,” you reply softly, feeling the weight of everything you’ve been through start to press against you again. 

You start to walk towards the automatic doors, the hallway stretching ahead, but you stop. You can still feel Jack’s eyes on me, pulling me back. You turn around, your feet moving almost without thinking, and walk back to him.

He looks up at you, confused by your sudden change, but before he can say anything, you drop your boots on the floor and fling your arms around his shoulders, hugging him tightly. You hold him for a moment, feeling the warmth of his embrace, his hands finding your waist and wrapping his arms under his hoodie that you’re wearing.

“I didn’t think anyone could see me,” you murmur, your voice soft and vulnerable. “But somehow, you did. All these eyes on me, yet you’re the one who truly sees.” You hold him tighter. “Thank you… for seeing me. For truly seeing me.”

Before you pull away, you press a soft kiss to his cheek, a gentle gesture that lingers for just a second longer than expected. You let go, picking up your boots, and walk toward the automatic doors.

You take one last glance back, giving him a small wave, and for a fleeting moment, you catch his gaze. But then, you turn away, making your way out, leaving the hospital and the weight of everything behind you. I won't look back again.

___

Doctor Michael Robinavitch, 30 minutes early for his day’s shift, strolled beside Jack with a coffee cup in hand. He noticed the young woman in a shiny outfit, wearing Jack's hoodie. She leaned in, pressing a kiss to Jack's cheek before pulling away. Leaving the ER with her boots in hand. She shot Jack a final look, a wave and then disappeared out of the automatic doors.

Jack stood there, still in a bit of a daze. He hadn’t noticed Michael approaching. He could still feel the warmth of her kiss on his cheek, the feeling lingering far longer than it should have.

Michael finally broke the silence, glancing at Jack. “She took your hoodie.”

Jack blinked, coming back to himself, and then offered a small smile. “I know,” he said, his voice a little distant.

Michael raised an eyebrow, a teasing grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Well, guess that’s one way to make a lasting impression.”

Jack chuckled, a soft, almost wistful sound. He rubbed his cheek absently, still feeling the imprint of her kiss. “Yeah… guess so.”

Michael leaned against the counter, watching his friend with a knowing look. “You’re still thinking about it, huh?”

Jack met his gaze, a faint smile playing on his lips. “Maybe.”

A quiet moment passed between them. Jack knew, deep down, he’d probably never see her again. She was a pop star, and he was just another ER doctor. Their worlds were too different. But still, there was something about that moment—that made him hope he’d be wrong.

“I hope I do,” Jack muttered, almost to himself.

Michael looked at him, the playful edge gone from his voice. “Yeah. I can see that.”

Jack didn’t say anything else, his mind still caught up in the strange, fleeting connection. He wasn’t sure if it would ever turn into anything more, but for now, the memory of her was enough.

(another part??? let me know)

[rollinouttahere-writes]

Breaking Point Chapter 3

Whitebeard Pirates x Teen GN Reader

4.3k words

First / Prev / Next

Summary: You're in the thick of it now. On a pirate ship surrounded by enemies and powerless against them. What will these bloodthirsty brutes do to you now that you're at their mercy?

Warning: mild suicidal ideation, mentions of drugging, cancer mention, trauma responses

Many questions race through your mind as Elise pushes you down the long hall of the Moby Dick. Namely: Why you? What did you do to deserve this fate? What would that fate even be?

One thing seems certain. You won't survive this. Of course you won't. You're completely defenseless around one of the most powerful pirate crews on the planet, and you're a marine. Well, a former marine, but you doubt they know or care about that fact. 

Sweat is beading on your face and back as you sit in a petrified silence because even the heavy dose of sedatives you believe they have you on can only numb your mind so much. An inescapable sense of dread looms over you, getting heavier every second as you draw nearer to the door at the end of the hall. 

Would Elise take you back to the infirmary if you pretended to faint? It might be worth a shot… Or maybe that would just make her double down on her alleged quest to get you fresh air. You're usually an enviable strategist, but your disordered and foggy thinking does nothing to bely that fact. You couldn't think your way out of a paper sack right now. 

Thatch quickens his step to get to the door first. He looks completely relaxed and carefree about this funeral procession in disguise. Which you suppose makes sense. A marine's death is probably downright mundane to a pirate. You don't fault them for such a mentality. Admittedly, a pirate's death was just as unremarkable to you as a marine. It was a fact of war. 

And now it was your turn to be a casualty of it. 

The sunbeams that shine through after the door is opened momentarily blind you, which is equal parts relieving and distressing. You're spared the sight of what is to come, but your brain is left to fill in the blanks on its own, and it never shows you less than the worst case scenario. 

Images of pirates lying in wait with their weapons at the ready flash through your mind. In your mind, they’d been given a covert heads-up that you were on route to your life’s terminus. This medical gurney would become your deathbed in a matter of seconds as they used your body as a pincushion for their weapons. 

As your eyes adjusted to the light and made sense of their surroundings, you found yourself… very much not surrounded. Thatch was there, and you could assume Elise was still the one pushing you, but no one else was in your immediate vicinity.

That’s not to say that there weren’t any other pirates here, you could see many. But they were just casually milling about with no real sense of urgency. They haven’t seen you yet. Perhaps the assumption that they knew you were coming was off base. Certainly their behavior will change once they realize you’re here.

Elise hums as she pushes you over to the taffrail so you can have a scenic ocean view as you’re murdered. How considerate. Maybe they plan to simply toss you overboard and let your devil fruit status take the reigns in your demise?

Rather than taking in the sight, you scan the open deck of the ship. More specifically, you’re logging who all is here. Much to your mounting horror, you spot a majority of the division commanders. Diamond Jozu, Flintlock Pistol Izou, Vista of the Flower Swords, all of the heavy hitters of the Whitebeard’s are lurking nearby. Even Fire Fist Ace is here, and now you don’t have the means to counter his flames. You are so dead. You wouldn’t be able to fight your way out of here even if they removed the seastone cuffs.

Lastly, your eyes settle on the large and imposing figure of Whitebeard himself. You were well versed on who he was, any marine worth their salt was, but even still you were startled by the sheer size of him. His looming frame cast a wide shadow across the deck and all the way over to you, encompassing you fully.

Height aside, there was something else that struck you about him. There was talk of his failing health, but no one had clear answers on its severity. You never would have guessed it was this bad. The drip stand behind him had multiple IV bags hanging from it, several chest tubes were attached to him, and he even had a nasal cannula that you almost missed thanks to his mustache. What appeared to be an entire ward of nurses were hard at work around him.

Then the absolute worst thing happens. While you are blatantly gawking at Whitebeard, he turns his head and makes eye contact with you. You instinctively look away and press yourself back into the thin mattress of your gurney as if it will swallow you up and take you far away from here. It does not. Woe.

A rumbling laugh rolls off of the captain as he bears witness to your nonsensical actions. You sink back even more, but you can’t help but look his way again. He’s still looking at you, and he appears to be amused more than anything. It seems strange to you at first, but you suppose someone like yourself really doesn’t prompt a serious reaction from someone as powerful as him. You were nothing to him even in peak condition. Even in his poor health, you know better than to underestimate him.

His grin was relaxed as he regarded you. “So you’re finally awake,” he shifts and props his chin up on one hand, “and in better spirits, I hope?”

What the hell were you supposed to do with that? Answering felt ridiculous, but ignoring him felt downright stupid. Whitebeard wasn’t someone that you could just up and snub! That would be like telling Big Mom to piss off! Should you be honest and say that no, your spirits are in fact quite abysmal, or are you supposed to lie and say that you’re just peachy keen?! Oh, but now you’ve been silently staring at him for too long, you’re making it weird! In a frantic attempt to save face and not give him a reason to be angry at you, you nod your head up and down and blurt out an answer, “I-I’m fine, sir!”

Whitebeard’s eyebrows raise slightly, then he laughs again, this time much harder. Probably over the way your voice cracked, if you had to guess. You sounded like one of the fresh recruits rather than a seasoned marine. Akainu would never approve of you speaking in such a disgraceful manner.

“It’s been a while since someone called me that. You can drop the formalities, my child, this is a pirate ship.”

What did he just call you? Is he… belittling you? By using such a juvenile term to describe you, it certainly felt that way. Is this a joke to him? Are you a joke to him?

“Hey!” You're startled by the sudden proximity of a new voice. You break away from your staring contest with an Emperor and see that Fire Fist Ace is strolling on over to you. He flashes a relaxed, boyish grin your way and perches himself up on the railing next to you. “You're looking like you're feeling better. That's a relief.”

A relief? You fail to see how that would be “relieving” to anyone here. You eye the pirate suspiciously, trying to figure out what he's up to. He's seemingly trying to get you to lower your guard, though you have no idea why. Such a tactic is unnecessary when you're already physically restrained and weakened. As you size him up, you notice some bandages on his right hand. 

Isn't he supposed to be a logia fruit user? Injuries shouldn't be a problem for him. 

Ace follows your gaze to his hand. “Oh, you don't have to worry about that. It's not that bad, I'll be fine.” He lifts the hand up and flexes it open and shut as if to prove his statement.

His wording confuses you. Is he implying that you have a reason to be worried about that? Did you do that to him? Surely you didn't. Your zoan fruit would be largely ineffective in a physical attack against him, and you feel pretty confident in assuming that you didn't spontaneously develop Armament Haki and then forget about it. 

Damn whatever medicine they gave you and the memory loss that came with it. This situation is bad enough as it stands. You don't need to heap confusion on top of it. 

“So this is the marine you and Marco caught? I'll admit I was expecting a bit more… fury?” The flower swords wielder, Vista, had come up on your other side and was now bent down to examine you closely. “Come on, don't you have some threats to shout? Curses to hurl?”

Before your sluggish body can retreat back from having your personal space invaded, Elise pushes his face away with a huff and then swats at the hand he had placed on the sidebar of your gurney. She speaks sternly, reminding you of a mother scolding a child, “Don't antagonize them, I much prefer them like this to how they were. And watch where you're putting your hands, you almost snagged the IV line.”

Yet again, you were in awe of her fearlessness when confronting infamous pirates. Was she truly that brave, or was she somehow naive to how dangerous criminals like these people can be?

Vista, shockingly, immediately concedes and holds his hands up in a placating manner, “Sorry, Sorry! I'll be more careful next time, ‘lise!” 

Elise rolls her eyes, but there's a playful lilt to her tone, “Yeah right, I'm sure I'll have to correct you again before my shift is over, flower boy.”

The way they conversed reminded you of what you'd hear amongst your platoon. A well earned rapport built up over months or even years of a kind of teamwork that can only be wrought from surviving life threatening situations together. Genuinely speaking, you'd never really thought about the fact that pirates would have such bonds. The treachery and the survival of the fittest mindsets that were so commonplace in piracy would surely sabotage such a relationship from forming, right?

Dwelling on this puzzling revelation isn't really an option for you, unfortunately. Not when more of Whitebeard's crew was encroaching on you. 

No doubt, you were probably something of a roadside attraction to them. A (former) high ranking marine whose reputation was built around the fact that you were the child of Admiral Akainu, but now you were reduced to some aloof inpatient strapped to a bed. You suppose the way they stare at you isn't all that far off how you gawked at their captain. Both were sorry falls from grace- not that you would ever even think to dare to say that of Whitebeard. The drugs in your system were keeping you from being that suicidal. 

Ace slipped down from the railing and propped an arm up on the top of your raised up gurney. As you turn your head to see what he's up to, his other arm darts out and tosses your blanket up over you so that it's covering your exposed arm. 

For a moment, you're just vaguely confused. What was the point of that? Did he think- and moreover, care- that you were cold? You stare down at where the thin sheet is draped over your arm, hoping that answers will jump out at you given that you've been sorely lacking in them today. What about your arm was worth hiding?

Wait. 

The scar. 

He was covering up your burn for you. In typical fashion, you feel a distinct lack of clarity despite technically getting an answer. Everyone on this damned ship spoke nonsense, and their behavior was even more mystifying. What was his angle? What did he have to gain from helping you cover a scar before the whole crew could spot it? His expression belies no clear answer. He's looking away and acting like he didn't do anything. 

More and more pirates were meandering over to you, which kept you from trying to press the Fire Fist for answers. Flintlock Pistol Izou was standing near the foot of the bed and looming over you with an intimidating presence as his eyes pierced into yours, seemingly looking for something that only he knows about. 

His painted lips quirk into a half smile, “So what is it like to be on a pirate ship for the first time?”

The straps on your legs and the handcuff around one of your wrists are brought fully to your attention following his question. You make a display out of squirming uncomfortably against them, “A little restrictive, if I'm being honest.” Also terrifying, but you aren't about to vocalize that. 

Some chuckles echo through the crowd you've amassed. Thatch shifts on his feet, then consults Elise, “It wouldn't hurt to let them walk around, would it?”

Elise sighs and looks conflicted, “It would be good for them to stretch their legs, but I was hoping to wait until Marco was back before we tried that.”

Hold on. Were they seriously considering it? Wow. You really aren't shit to them if they're fine with the idea of freeing you. It's a bit of a blow to your ego, frankly.

Vista interjects, “All of us are here, we can help keep an eye on them.” Elise makes a hum of continued uncertainty, so he tacks on, “Just let the kid walk around a bit, it’ll be fine.”

“Fine,” Elise relents. “I'll go get a portable stand for the IV.” She fishes a key out of her pocket and hands it to Thatch before departing. Given that she was the closest thing you had to a safety net around these pirates, her absence was immediately felt. To an extent, you felt like she was keeping everyone else at bay, but now they were free to act however they want.

Thatch approaches you casually, coming off as entirely unconcerned about what you may or may not do upon release. His carefree attitude left you feeling enviable. You were anything but right now. Your eyes flit back and forth between the faces of everyone crowded around you. There had to be dozens of people circling you, not counting Whitebeard himself in the distance. 

Yeah, it made sense why no one was worried about you harming anyone. You had no chance against anyone here, even one-on-one. The whole mob could easily tear you to shreds. Why they hadn’t already was beyond you. Maybe they wanted you free first for the sport of the hunt. Not that there would be much of a hunt. There was nothing in this world left for you to flee to. Laying down and dying was much more appealing than fighting a pointless battle.

The cuff that was locked around a bar on the bed clicks open. Thatch stares at the other one, looking considerably more uncertain about undoing that one. He gnaws at his lip for a moment, then sighs, “We should probably leave that one on until Marco’s here. Let me just…” He holds the cuff on your wrist, grabs the chain connecting it to the other, and then rips it clean off on the first try. “There we go. That should be more comfortable.”

For a few seconds, you just stare at him wide-eyed. That casual display of strength HAD to be an intimidation tactic. This was apparently absolutely nothing new to him, seeing as all that he did after casually ripping apart seastone cuffs was set to work on undoing the straps still holding down your legs.

This crew really was on a whole other level from anyone else. They’d earned the right to be a part of an Emperor’s army.

Once all of your limbs were free, he held out his hands to you, “Here, let me help you down.”

“No,” you recoil back and shake your head, “I can do that on my own.” Thatch holds his hands up and steps back to give you space, which surprises you, but you try not to dwell on it. You resituate the sheet so that it’s draped around you like a shawl and covering your arm. You’ll just say you’re cold if anyone asks. You slide off the gurney and onto your feet, then immediately start backing away from the crowd.

But Vista abruptly grabs your arm and pulls you back. Involuntarily, you flinch. Your shoulders jump up and your free arm raises into a defensive stance. Here it was. This was it. The pack was ready to tear you limb from limb for everything that you’d done as a marine.

“Whoa there.” His grip on your arm loosens, enough to be noticeable, but not enough for you to be able to pull away. “I didn’t mean to scare you, but you were going to rip your IV out if you kept going.”

Your… Oh. Dammit. You’re so stupid! In a sorry attempt to save face, you mutter out a quiet, “I wasn’t scared.” Ugh. That sounded fake even to you. The slight tremble in your voice was a dead giveaway. How pathetic. You get a little bit of drugs in your system and you’re reduced to a whimpering cowardly mess.

Vista hesitantly releases your arm, his hand hovering over it briefly to see if you’d try to move away again. You didn’t. He pats your shoulder before pulling away, “See? Everything is okay.”

It most certainly was not, but you don’t say as much. You’ve made enough of a fool of yourself. The last thing you needed was to keep running your mouth and start crying or something else humiliating like that. You pull the blanket around yourself tighter and stare down at your feet. There wasn’t much of a point in watching the people around you when there was nothing you could do about them. Whatever happens, happens. 

A door opens nearby, and you can hear a set of footsteps and the sound of wheels rolling over the wooden flooring of the deck. Pink shoes come into your line of sight. Elise is back. The liquid inside the IV bag swishes softly as she moves it to the mobile stand, “There we go! How are you feeling? Are you lightheaded at all?”

You shake your head, “No. I’m fine.” You hazard a glance at Elise and see her smiling back at you. What was there to be so damned happy about?

Her smile persists despite your terse response, “That’s great! Now, what do you want to do?”

Huh? “What do I… want to do?”

“Yeah. Do you want to go for a walk? We could go to the kitchen and get you something to eat if you’re still hungry.” She stares at your mystified expression expectantly, but her smile starts to droop when all you do is continue to stare at her. “Or we could do something else if you want. What do you usually do for fun?”

“For fun? I was a marine, I didn’t have time for “fun”, don’t be ridiculous.” Your entire life has been training, sparring, and studying. Fun was for children, not soldiers.

Elise’s mouth hangs open in surprise, the smile finally gone. She shakes her head and steps closer to you, “Hey now, don’t say that! Come on, surely you had at least one hobby. Like something that you did to relax after a long day?”

“To relax after a long day? You mean sleeping?”

“No!” Elise pinches the bridge of her nose and sighs sharply, “No, I mean an activity, not something you have to do to survive. Something fun.” You just stare at her blankly, and her hands find purchase on her hips, “Give me an example. Tell me something that someone might do for fun. It can be anyone or anything.”

Why was she so hung up on this? You huff out a sigh and look down at the floor again. What was something “fun”? Well, one thing comes to mind. Memories of Akainu tending to his precious bonsai trees flash behind your eyes. “Does gardening count?”

“Yes! Do you like gardening?”

“No.” Your expression twists into a bitter scowl, “I do not.” You hated those damned trees. They were completely useless, yet Akainu treated them better than anything and anyone.

“O-Okay! Um, how about we try something new then?” It would seem the hatred within your words took her by surprise. It honestly surprised you a little, too. You never emoted this much.

Similarly, you were never this confused, “What do you mean?”

“I mean that you should give a new hobby a try. I think that would help you to feel much better.” Elise is smiling hopefully at you.

She really was bound and determined on this matter, wasn’t she? “What am I even supposed to do?”

Thatch steps forward, “A lot of people enjoy baking as a hobby. I could show you the ropes if you’ll let me.”

Izou speaks up next, “Tea preparation can be an artform in and of itself if you take it seriously enough. You could try that.”

Elise claps her hand together, “Oh, what about watercoloring? I would be more than happy to share my supplies with you!”

Everyone around you starts calling out random hobbies with enthusiasm. Sewing, reading, flower pressing, hiking, pottery, origami, fishing, the suggestions don’t end. This was completely and utterly baffling. It was entirely nonsensical. They should be killing you, or ransoming you at the very least. Why were they doing this?

What even was this? You didn’t have a word to describe their actions.

—

Teach sat away from the crowd. He had no desire to be around that cutthroat little shit. Last time he was this close to you, you damn near slit his throat open. His finger ghosts over the scar on his neck from where one of your talons cut him. Had you aimed just a little higher, his jugular would have been torn open.

What the fuck was Whitebeard thinking? His old age was definitely getting to him.

A quick glance up at the captain all but confirmed his thoughts. The old man was watching the spectacle with open bemusement. He’s definitely gone soft. An unsurprising development given his poor health. Anyone’s mind would begin deteriorating when cancer was eating them alive from the inside out.

“Are you really sure about this, old man?” He can’t help himself, he needs more insight on what’s running through that fool’s mind.

Whitebeard turns his head to look at him, “Am I sure about what?”

“That marine.”

“That child is no more a threat than any of the nurses on board.” Teach begged to differ on that front. The worst any of them had done to him was wrinkle their noses at him. “Besides, from what Marco told me about what they said after being captured, it sounds to me like they are a former marine.”

Does that make any difference? Once a marine, always a marine. Hating and killing pirates was in your blood.

A quiet, rumbling chuckle escapes Whitebeard, “Come now, don’t tell me you’re scared of the kid.”

“Me? Scared? Perish the thought!” Teach laughs and hopes that it sounds convincing. “I would just hate to see anyone get hurt because of them.”

His concern is waved off, “You worry too much, my son. They aren’t going to hurt anyone, I can tell. I’ve been around for a long time, I have become a good judge of character by this point.”

Teach chuckles at his words, “Yeah, you’re right, pops. Sorry I ever doubted you.” Good judge of character, his ass. What a stupid old fool.

“Pops!” One of the crew members not fawning over the marine hurries over to the captain. What was his name? Teach couldn’t be bothered to remember. There were far too many people crammed onto this ship for that.

“Yes, Colsman?” How the hell was Whitebeard able to keep track of all these names and the unremarkable faces attached to them? Ridiculous. 

“You have a call coming in.”

Whitebeard sighs, “That Admiral really isn’t getting the hint, is he?”

“It isn’t coming from Marineford.” Colsman inches closer, a combination of confusion and apprehension on his face, “It’s originating from Totto Land.”

That definitely got the old man’s attention. And Teach’s, if he’s being honest. Big Mom was quite literally the last person he was expecting to hear from today. Whitebeard sits up straight, “What does Lin Lin want?”

“That’s the weird part, it isn’t Big Mom on the line. It’s a different woman, but she’s adamantly refusing to disclose who she is to anyone but you. She insists that the matter is urgent and involves,” he cocks his head back at the marine, “them.”

Whitebeard stares at Colsman, then at you. He nods, “Very well. I’ll take the call in my quarters.” The nurses all set to work on mobilizing his medical equipment to follow him, and Teach finds himself wanting to do the same. Then again, he’s sure that the nurses will be forced out of the room for the duration of the call. He doubts that he’d be able to eavesdrop without being caught.

Teach looks over at the marine again. What could the Big Mom Pirates possibly want with you? Was there some use to you that he wasn’t aware of? He supposes that he’ll have ample opportunity to find out so long as he continues playing his cards right.

Your wings have been clipped, after all. He doesn’t need to be scared of you now.

Taglist: @twotrucksinatree @tigerstarstorm @mu5hro0m @brooks-real @one-piecelover @ratchetprime211 @ithoughtthinks @simpfor2dpeoole @vinillies @selfindulgenceisthekey

[nebulousmoon3990]

SPECTERS OF SILK

[Dark!Paul Atreides x Runaway Reader]

part 1

Description: In an alternate universe where Paul never dreamed and fell in love with Chani, he becomes a tyrant feared throughout the universe, being a sadistic maniac whose power is worshipped as that of a god. The Brotherhood sent you as Muad'Dib's concubine to try to manipulate him, but all you want is to live free, so you don't try to persuade him, but to escape. But your unexpected twist in fate makes Atreides start to love you, his obsession growing without you realizing it. So when you finally escape, Paul is not accepting it.

.

Warnings: possible spelling mistakes (English is not my first language), bene gesserit!Reader, nsfw, afab!reader, obsessive and possessive behavior, Dark!PaulAtreides, slavery (not sexual), child abuse, mentions of torture and blood, swearing, mentions of ideas like suicide, use of Voice, sexual content (not recommended for minors, read at your own risk), obscenity, (Spoiler: Corrino!Reader), everything is fictitious and false!

You were always going too fast.

Always fast.

But now it seemed you were too slow.

-

You were a slave, sold from master to master, you never knew your parents, you never knew your origins or what made you a slave in the first place, you were just… there.

Being used, being ordered around, obedient, educated, all for your own good.

Maybe that was what drew Reverend Mother Gaius Helen Mohiam to you.

What had it been like? Oh, you had been thrown out by your former master and taken to be sold again. On the streets, you walked in handcuffs, your gaze expressionless as you walked, you had been taught that, as a slave, you should look down, never directing your gaze to those above you.

That was why you had bumped into her.

She was accompanied by two sisters, all three dressed in black, with a veil like night over them. The slave buyer attacked you in front of everyone for your carelessness, but you didn't say anything, you weren't allowed to. Imagine your surprise when somehow, the Reverend Mother approached her seller wanting to buy you.

Her sisters also showed surprise (moderate, of course), but they said nothing. That day you were taken by them, and you were never the same again.

You were trained in the bene gesserit arts, your teaching was much more severe than the others, said by the Reverend Mother herself, but she never told you why.

You never questioned it further, fearing punishment.

You trained in all kinds of things: history, politics, justice, posture and reflexes, trained to control and know the human body and its reactions, trained to control your body. You trained in the Voice, the mechanism was the hardest, trying to find the perfect timbre, you trained your body in hand-to-hand combat, trained to study and identify any poison, toxin or anything harmful to health and well-being and how it all affected the body.

You learned everything.

But you were never told why you, a slave, should learn these things.

And, although you could not ask the reason for your training, you asked about your freedom.

"Will I be free?" "Will I have freedom after I complete my purpose?" "Will I be able to have freedom someday?"

The answers were always the same.

"Only destiny knows, child."

It was not a No, it was a doubt. You could be free someday, that is why you obeyed the Reverend Mother, that is why you pushed yourself beyond measure. In the hope that, someday, you would be set aside and could be free.

You never knew your purpose, but the hope of sweet freedom remained like a blanket of comfort over your heart.

There was hope.

That was until Paul Atreides ascended the throne.

The Kwisatz Haderach.

He killed the former Emperor, Shaddam Corrino, and seized power. He showed no mercy as he brought the Fremen into the universe and subjected the great houses to his empire. A tyrant, sadistic and cruel, he killed billions, his power unknown even to the Brotherhood.

Your influence and fear spread throughout the universe, your presence dominating and claiming everything in front of you, even though your reign was only five years old, everyone already felt the weight of your power.

It was in this dictatorial regime that you understood the reason for your training.

A sacrifice.

Reverend Mother Gaius had trained you to control whoever rose to power, whether it was Feyd-Rautha or Paul Atreides, you were a plan B in case Irulan failed, and although your training at first was for the case of Feyd reigning, with Paul conquering the throne and massacring the entire Corrino house for treason, the Reverend Mother focused your training on controlling the Kwisatz Haderach.

And you only found out about this a month before marrying the Emperor.

Shocked, you accepted it, you trained for it and to maintain your obedience to the brotherhood, but you did it because you didn't realize the main point, you only realized it after a few hours.

The Reverend Mother did not expect to give you freedom.

That was enough for you.

You wanted to be free! You were a bird trapped since birth, with no choices, no peace, no love, no affection, living a life of fear and suffocation, where you could be given and subjugated by anyone who bought you for a price, you were tired of being controlled and handled like a doll.

With your marriage to Paul, possibly being one of coldness and appearances, just to manipulate events, you would only be taken from one cage to another.You refused to do that.

So, as you approached the throne room, with a light gray dress and veil that covered your entire face, along with the bene gesserit accessories that you clutched tightly, either out of anger or fear, you decided at that moment.

You would do anything to escape, both from the brotherhood and from Paul Atreides.

You would be free.

Whatever the cost

—

Paul made many choices in life.

Some good, some bad, and that led him to who he is today.

The Emperor of the Universe.

Paul Atreides stopped being the innocent and kind boy when his entire home, his honor, and his father were taken from him. And although he made many bad choices, he will never regret keeping a part of the innocent boy he was inside him.

The golden path he was following, for the survival of humanity, would make him be recognized as a maniacal and heartless tyrant, never as the savior of the human race. But for him it was okay, the only people he loved and cared about were his mother and his sister, and they were both on his side in this game.

But perhaps, the decision to keep the old Paul Atreides inside him, would make him regret or be grateful for the rest of his life.

It all depends on you.

-

Paul was intrigued.

He knew the old witch would try anything to keep him under her control. But he had expected that after Irulan's death when she tried to poison his little sister, Gaius would be more fearful of confronting him.

Apparently, she was braver (or stupider, it's the same) than he thought.

Offering a political marriage was a bold move, one that Paul could have easily rejected.

But the Reverend Mother needed a lesson for defying him so openly, and what would be better than seeing her plan fail miserably?

Oh, that would be fun.

To become a tyrant, Paul had immersed himself in the memories of his Harkonnen ancestors, seeking to delve into the pleasure of others' suffering, the diabolical and maniacal methods he had so immersed himself in made him find himself silencing the whispers in his mind to go further, to do more.

So there he was, sitting on the throne in black robes, he allowed himself to sink into ways in which he could break his new concubine. Delighting in the good manners of making the woman surrender to the brink of madness.

Then when he felt the Reverend Mother he was confused for not feeling anyone with her.

Wouldn't the union be today? Why didn't she-

"My lord, Reverend Mother Gaius is here." Gurney said as he entered the throne room, Paul waved his hand tediously as Duncan went to his side. The large doors opened with a creak that everyone had become accustomed to, Gaius' figure approached him along with another woman at his side, it took more than a few seconds before Paul realized.

He didn't feel that woman, didn't feel her presence and hadn't even anticipated her arrival.

He didn't see You.

He waited until you were at the foot of the throne, where you bowed subtly, your movements being followed by everyone in the room "Your divinity."

Only those closest to Paul could call him sir or by his name, the rest could only address him with titles befitting the Emperor. The slightest bit of disrespect caught in speech could lead someone to the gallows, or even a worse sentence, in another life, Paul would be disgusted by this and would be more benevolent.

But he didn't go.

He smiled falsely at the witch, his anger towards her hadn't diminished one bit over the years "I was beginning to think you wouldn't come." No expression appeared on the old woman's face, but in her eyes, deep down, he could see the trace of anger towards him.

Even after years, the enmity between them remained strong and firm. Paul was amused by how the witch was forced to respect him, even though years ago she had treated him with ferocity. "We didn't mean to take so long, but Your deity knows how rigorous the process is to enter the palace."

"Yes, I know." His attention was on the girl beside him, once again his interest being drawn to her. He stood up from the throne, the movement attracting the attention of both of them. With slow steps, he approached you. Wisely, you didn't dare meet his eyes or raise your head, not even when Paul was in front of you.

"I assume this is the girl you talk about so much, isn't it?" He tried to look through you again, to see your mind or your ways, but Paul found himself blank again. It was as if he was near a black hole, a beautiful mystery that constantly pulled him closer to you.

What the hell are you?

"That's right, your deity." Paul looked at your face through the gray veil over you, for some reason he felt like seeing your face. So he took the veil and lifted it up, passing it over your head, finally giving Paul a view of your face.

Although Paul had acted surprised when he took your veil, your face still seemed unmoved, he got no reaction from you other than the almost imperceptible movement of your head when the veil was lifted.

Your face was a truly divine vision, the features of your face were like a painting taken from the sky, the skin as soft as the clouds and soft as the petals of the Caladan flowers he still remembered. Your hair was like a flowing river, caught in the hairstyle you wore, its vibrant and vivid color hidden behind the veil.

And your eyes, Oh your eyes.

Your eyes were lowered, but Paul could still see them, they were a mixture of your own tones that made Paul sigh in ecstasy, an explosion like the immense clouds of nebulae that roamed the universe, their beauty reflected in your irises. Your eyes, your eyes were the window to your soul, the soul that Paul Atreides lost himself in the moment he saw you.

Still mesmerized by you, Paul put two fingers to your chin and lifted your head. "Look at me." His voice came out lighter and sweeter than he had used in years. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Ducan and Gurney looking at each other in confusion, but he didn't care.

You followed his order, your beautiful eyes meeting his deep blue, you stared at each other for a few seconds before his voice rang in the air again. "What is your name?" Your eyes blinked slightly before your voice, the voice he had unconsciously longed to hear, spoke.

"It's [Name], your deity."

"[Name]" he felt the name on his tongue, tickling his mind, he traced his thumb across his lips, gently parting them "Indeed, it is a very beautiful name, it suits the owner." His cheeks darkened slightly and his lips trembled, his eyes averted to the new floor, shining in subtle embarrassment.

How cute you were.

Maybe this wasn't as bad as he thought.

NEXT CHAPTER

bye

[last-words-ofashootingstar]

Hard Times

Chapter Two: Navigating your day-to-day becomes increasingly less difficult with your step-dad proving, time and time again, he always has your back.

RATED X. MATURE AUDIENCES ONLY.

❥Kim Hongjoong x fem reader

"A little girl who needs her Daddy real bad."

-Ethel Cain, Hard Times ♫

♡'･ᴗ･'♡genre: yandere, angst, smut ➯disclaimer: DARK FICTION. DEAD DOVE. 18+, MINORS GET OUTTA HERE.

✫彡wordcount: 13k

ಠ_ಠwarning/content: limited short series; see general warnings in the masterlist: step-dad hongjoong, age gap (reader younger adult, hong in his late 30s), flashbacks are italics and past tense, reader calls hj dad + he's way too into it, like WAY too into it (mmmmboner-), therapy where reader talks abt ptsd from the crash: flashbacks / nightmares / anxiety, grief / survivors guilt / depression, in depth flashback of the immediate aftermath: fear / gore / death / dissociation, mentioned attempted suicide, reader is not described as religious but prays because her mother was, unhealthy attachments + extreme taboo relationship, alcohol consumption, jealousy / possessive behavior, emotional manipulation (lwk both ways), hong dresses reader in traditionally girly + cute clothes, reader kisses her friends on the lips platonically, reader has insane daddy issues + joong takes advantage of it, pet names including: (sweet, pretty, little, ect) girl, angel, sweetheart, baby, honey ಠ_ಠSMUT warning/content: hj is a pervert with a corruption kink and likes making virgin reader: squirm / cry / call him daddy / suck on his fingers, HEAVY HEAVY DDLG THEMES, dirty talk and praise, neck kisses (nnngh-), hj lightly teases reader (calls her needy, naughty, crybaby, ect), overstimulation and subsequent dacryphilia, virginity kink. 1/2: snuggle boner 1: make-out, dry humping, muffling, talk of masturbation and panty stealing 2: tipsy action, fingering, body worship, cunnilingus, hong holds reader down and overstimulates her until she squirts (NNNGHHH-), pussy + thigh job. THIS IS LOWKEY DUBCON. very explicit consent is given, but reader should not be making these decisions in her state of mind + joong blurs the lines

➯a/n: mmm dinner is served 🍽️ i cried like such a little bitch writing the crash scene and readers monologue, grab your tissues lmao ♡masterlist + navigation !♡ ୨ sweet as honey ৎ @m00njinnie @seonghwassii @tinyteezer @whyismingi @emotionallyanaemic @werewolfcrimson @ninjakitty15 @klllerwaifu @a-tiny-thing @pandyandy71 @monstacheol @aurorasjoongie @lxsunshine @peelingpaint-heavyheart @xh01bri @giiouis ₊‧⁺stardust˖⋆ @sousydive @sunnysidesins @onyxmango @devilzliaison @ateezswonderland @queenofdumbfuckery @emilysecresy @kyomiingi @pansexual-and-eating-pancakes

────୨ৎ────

It's been five weeks since the accident.

You've just sat down for your sixth therapy session. Hongjoong is waiting in the lobby for you. Just like he always does.

It's the hottest day of the year so far; but you're dressed in one of your father's larger t-shirts despite the heat. It's a stark contrast to the pleated skirt Hongjoong picked out for you, but your therapist doesn't even look twice.

She's an older woman. Greying hair sported proudly and wrinkles around her eyes from years of smiling kindly at patients — just like she does to you as you sit down.

"Good afternoon, (Y/n). How are you doing today?"

"I'm good, Ms. Cain." You say, maybe a bit too quickly. A bit too practiced.

Because it is.

Over the past few weeks, every single person — save for the brothers, Hiyyih, and Kai — have gotten that answer. When you walked to get the mail for the first time, and your neighbor offered their condolences. When you got a replacement phone and started getting calls and messages.

She looks at you pointedly, a small raise of her eyebrow making your shoulders slump.

"Not so great today..." You admit as you lean back into the plush cushion of the small couch.

"Thank you for telling the truth," she nods, offering a slight smile, "that's the only way this works. Would you like to tell me why?"

You know that you technically have a choice. You could choose to talk about something else. But you're starting to get comfortable with her. She's good at her job.

The first few times, you had to be coaxed into speaking a lot more. She even had to bring in Hongjoong to make you comfortable enough to open up about what had happened — even though she knew.

Everyone knows.

But she gave you the chance to tell her in your own words. And you appreciated that deeply. That's when she earned your respect, trust was a bit different.

You'd never had a therapist before now. You didn't know exactly how it worked. But she helped you understand when you voiced your concern. When you said that you thought it was kind of stupid when you could just talk to Hiyyih.

'Hiyyih knows everything about you, doesn't she? Won't she just say what you want to hear, even subconsciously? I can tell you what you need to hear.' And, 'imagine if she were in your position. You would only want to comfort her.'

And it's true. Hiyyih is subconsciously comforting you, so is Hongjoong. So are Bumjoong and Kai.

Ms. Cain is honest with you. Not brutally, but almost. She tells you it's normal to feel the things you're feeling. But she doesn't coddle you. She's validates you, but she never crosses the line into pure comfort territory.

That doesn't mean it doesn't feel good to talk to her. It does.

Sometimes you get tired of their unshaken kindness and care. Sometimes you start wishing Hongjoong would yell at you again, like he did the night you tried to kill yourself. Just to get you to stop pitying yourself so badly.

So, you find yourself always telling her the truth. Even when it's uncomfortable.

"I had another nightmare last night. It was kind of hard to get in the car today."

"Was this the same nightmare as you've been having?" She asks as she flips through her notebook, "of the crash?"

"Yeah- well... Yes, but it was different." You pick at the cast on your arm. It's become a habit.

"How so?"

"Instead of my parents in the car, it was Hongjoong..."

It's a reoccurring dream — a memory, really. A nightmare that your waking mind has blocked out; coming to haunt you in your sleep instead.

Of that night. In the car. The headlights blurring. The loud honk of the semi-trucks horn, trying to warn your mother that the driver had lost control.

You always wake up screaming, held by Hongjoong tightly, your arm hurting with a soul crushing pain — just like it had when the bone broke through your skin all those weeks ago.

You blink rapidly as the memory comes to you. You don't want it to. You want it to stay in your dreams. Because then, you don't really have to deal with it.

Ms. Cain told you how bad it is to do that — to try to ignore it. But you aren't ready to take that step yet.

"I see. Just you and him?" She asks as she scribbles in her book. It used to bother you, the first few times. But you got used to it after a while; when you figured out she didn't just write down bad things. She wrote down the good too — the progress.

"Yeah."

"And did he survive?"

The thought, the image your mind had conjured up last night, it makes your throat feel constricted. Tears press against your waterline. "N-no."

"Did you?"

"I always do." And it makes you hate yourself.

"I think I understand why you had this dream, (Y/n)," she begins slowly, looking to you. When you look up, urging her to continue, she goes on, "Hongjoong cares about you deeply, right?"

You nod, quickly snatching up a tissue.

"Your brain is crossing wires. Seeing him, who takes care of you, as a replacement — or sort of a stand-in for your parents. Do you have a similar relationship to him as you did them?"

"Uhm," you sigh as you think, "not really? Hongjoong is... he's just Hongjoong."

"Do you see him as a parental figure? As a father figure, maybe?"

"N-" You stop yourself quickly, eyes widening a little bit. "Not- not like my father. But... I've accidentally called him Dad a few times." You look anywhere but her. Thinking she'll judge you — thinking anyone would.

"So, he isn't like your father, but you see him as a father?"

"I guess so."

"I can see how you think of him like that. From what I gather, he's very caring to you." She gives another soft smile, but her question makes you feel like you've been punched in the gut, "how was your relationship with your father? You don't speak of him as much as your mother."

"I don't want to talk about that-"

"I think you should try."

You glare up at her, weakly. "Why?"

"You're calling a man who's not your father 'Dad'. Lots of women have issues with their fathers because of the societal-"

"I think it's just because my dad is dead." You don't really. You called Hongjoong 'Dad' a few times before the accident.

"I don't think so. Is that his shirt you're wearing?" She points with her pen, and you look down at the fabric you're swallowed up in.

"Yes."

"Why did you decide to wear that today?"

"Because..." You don't know. You have no idea. "I just... wanted to."

It's quiet for a long moment. She doesn't say anything, and you don't either. She's been in the game a long time. She sniffed out your daddy issues the second you sat in her office. She just waiting for you to catch up.

"I told him I hated him."

Now you're getting somewhere.

────୨ৎ────

"Ready, honey?" Hongjoong hops up quickly as the door to Ms. Cain's office opens.

She smiles knowingly as you quickly make your way to him, watching the way his arms wrap around you without hesitation when you hug him.

"You two have a good day. Try to work on those breathing exercises, yes?"

"Thank you, Ms. Cain," you mumbles from his shoulder.

"We're on it," he nods, returning her smile as she closes the door.

He pets the back of your head softly, "rough session, angel?" He's given up on holding back all of his nicknames for you, and you don't mind.

"I'm ready to go home." You respond simply, wiping the few stray tears from the corners of your eyes as you pull back.

"Come on," he guides you with his hand on the small of your back, nodding to the receptionist as you exit the small office building.

He opens the car door for you. It makes it easier when you're afraid. You buckle yourself up as fast as humanly possible, already clicked in when he opens the driver side door.

"Do you want to share what you talked about?" He asks as he starts the car, seatbelt similarly strapped across him before he even does so.

Once, he put the key in the ignition before he put it on and you freaked the fuck out. He didn't make that mistake again.

"Not today," you lean your head back with a small groan, "I just want to digest it."

"Alrighty." He doesn't press the matter. He knows you'll come to him when you're ready. He can't ask your therapist, because of patient confidentiality, but there's no rule about not asking you. Ms. Cain even encourages it — sharing your breakthroughs and how he can support you better.

You hold onto the seatbelt, bunching it up in your fist as he pulls out of the relative calm of the parking lot and into the street.

You focus your eyes on the stereo, flipping through the channels. "They do know that saying 'an hour of commercial free music brought to you by blah blah blah' is a commercial in of itself, right?" You groan, switching it off.

He lets out a puff of air, not quite a laugh; but pretty close when paired when the smile he has.

Looking down at your phone, you have a small grin of your own.

"Hey, Hiyyih and Kai are gonna come over tomorrow- oh, if, uhm, if that's okay with you?" You peek over to him, thumb hovering over the send button on your phone until he says it's okay.

Really, you don't have to ask his permission. You're a grown woman and it's your home as well. But you feel the need to.

"I don't have a problem with that," he hums, fingers tapping on the wheel. "Long as Kai sleeps on the couch."

"Really, Joong?" You chuckle quietly, "still with the Kai-hating agenda?"

"I don't hate him! He's a cool kid, I just would prefer that he sleep separately from you for no particular reason..." He shrugs, mumbling the last part, making you laugh harder.

"Yeah, right, no reason," you shake your head, looking back down to your phone.

You go to say something else when a loud honk makes you jump, looking to the source across the road with wide eyes.

────୨ৎ────

The pain was immediate and immense. It didn't creep up. It slammed into you with the force of a thousand suns.

The crack of your bone filled the air. Your scream was ear-shattering as it ripped through your skin.

Your mother's pained gasps. Your father's dizzy groan.

The incessant hiss of something broken in the vehicle, the metal creaking pitifully. The chirping cicadas heard through the lowered windows. The radio quietly continuing, however warbled.

When you had opened your eyes, the world was upside down. Or, rather — the car was. In a ditch, flipped wrong side up; wheels still spinning in the air from your mother's useless attempts to spin out of the way.

"Baby! Baby! Are you okay?!" She yelled through her own pain, shaky hand placed on the roof as she turned her head to look at you. She screamed when she saw you, other hand held to her bleeding stomach. She called your father's name, as if he could do something to help.

He was too busy with the internal bleeding in his head from where he had knocked it. A broken stutter of your name could have been heard if not for your sounds of Earth-shaking pain.

The driver of the truck was unscathed, thanks to the size of his vehicle. He came running, screaming. Into his phone, at you, at your parents. Begging god that you're all okay.

"Three! There's three of them!" He was still yelling as he fell to his knees in the ditch and looked into your car. "A- two women! A man. Oh my god, her arm! Oh, god! We're on —" He never got to give the dispatcher your location.

"Please, please," your mother turned to the man quickly, "help my babygirl!"

He dropped his phone into the dirt, glass crunching under his knees like ice as he crawled forward. "Oh, oh fucking god! I'm so sorry! I- my breaks!"

"Mommy!" You had cried like a blubbering child, clutching your broken arm to your chest as your seatbelt kept you tethered to the backseat, fighting against gravity. The rough fabric biting into your chest and hips.

"It's okay, baby! Mommy's here! I'm right here," she sobbed as she watched the man unbuckle you, a loud shriek breaking in your throat as your arm moved.

"I- I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry," was all he could say as he caught you in the short drop. Your legs got cut as he drug you out of the car, your blurry vision catching a glimpse of your father's head rolling towards you.

You didn't hear what he said, but it looked like 'goodbye'. Like he knew he wasn't going to make it.

"It's gonna be o-okay," your mother yelled as he drug you up the ditch.

You were too weak with pain to fight back to your parents as the driver of the truck drug you out of the ditch, laying you on the side of the road. "I'll go- I'm gonna get them."

He left you there. Arm bleeding onto the cement, bone exposed to the elements. The bugs chirping loudly over the thudding of your heart.

And then there was an explosion next to you. Screams. Screams of your name.

And you didn't move. You didn't dare move.

The stars above you blinked down as you stared at them.

You didn't move. Your blood staining the road, your tears sliding down your temples.

There was silence, after a few moments.

The crackling of a fire. The singing insects. A phone ringing somewhere in the distance, going unanswered.

You were cold. You were sweating. You wanted someone to hold you.

Your eyes were drooping as flashing lights came over the horizon, catching your attention with its contrast against the darkness of the sky.

The loud sirens and the screeching of the tires against the quiet of nature made you cringe after having laid there in the calm for half an hour.

"She's alive!" The paramedic had yelled, in absolute disbelief as she ran to you. "She's alive!"

────୨ৎ────

You hadn't remembered any of that.

You only remembered the headlights coming straight for you, the honking — and then you woke up in the hospital.

Now you've just lived through it all over again.

You knew they died. But no one told you how. You were so in shock that they all thought you'd block it out completely.

They thought wrong.

You're lucky Hongjoong pulled over as soon as he noticed your shallow breathes, your far-off eyes shedding tears quickly.

Because you throw yourself out of the car just as he parks it, right into the grass on the side of the road as you scream unintelligibly.

"(Y/n)!" He yells as he unbuckles his seatbelt, not even bothering to take the time to open his door and run over. He climbs over the center console and out of your open door, kneeling beside you.

"Hey, hey," his eyes chase your frantic ones, trying to catch them, "honey! Look at me, please!"

You have tears streaming down your face like a waterfall, gathering at your trembling chin and dripping onto the Earth. You grip the bright green grass so tightly that your knuckles start to lose color. You're shaking your head, mumbling nonsense.

"Look at me!" His sternness breaks through your trance, making your eyes snap to his as he holds your face; your cheeks squished in his palms. "You aren't there."

"W-what?" You're so confused. Disoriented. Lost.

"Look at where we are." When your eyes only stay locked on his, he moves your face for you. Making you look around, "look. You aren't there."

You fall into him, grabbing his thighs as you bury your face in his chest. It seems like that's where it belongs lately. Always being cradled gently and hid from the world.

"What can you feel?"

You shake your head, breathing heavily, "I c-"

"What do you feel, honey? Right now."

Excruciating heartbreak. Unbelievable grief. Guilt. The need to throw up. The need to curl into a ball and never move again.

You push all of those thoughts away, closing your eyes and forcing yourself to breathe. "The wind."

It wasn't windy that night. You were stuck in the heat with no breeze to soothe you, the fire beside you making you sweat. But now it blows around you softly.

"Good, that's good. What else?"

"...You."

He wasn't there that night. You had dug your fingers into the concrete. His thighs are gripped tightly in your hands. You had looked up at the stars. Your face still hidden away in his chest, his hand stroking the back of your head. You were all alone.

"Yeah," he sighs softly with relief as you slump into him, "you're here with me, honey. I've got you."

His hazards still blinking, passenger door open; people slow down as they pass — but they continue on the road when they see it's you.

The local tragedy, pulled into your step-father's lap.

They know better than to interject after the amount of times Hongjoong has slammed the door in their faces when they came to offer their condolences.

"I've got you," he reassures you softly, kissing the top of your head as you slowly pry yourself away from him.

Looking towards the car, you press your lips together. He wipes your tears. He always does.

"I don't, uhm," you look to him, a bit embarrassed. Ashamed, maybe. Or like you're burdening him when you say, "I don't think I can get back in the car."

"We can wait, angel. Take your time. Lets do some of those breathing exercises, yeah?"

────୨ৎ────

"We don't have to do this."

"You don't... I do."

You stand in front of your mother's closed door. It had only been opened once, when Hongjoong went in to fetch some papers. You stayed far away.

He stands right next to you. "Honey, if you aren't ready-"

You grab the doorknob before you can hesitate any longer, pushing the door open quickly.

The light filters in through the open curtains. Her towel is across the back of her vanity chair. Her wedding ring to your father is on her bedside table by a picture of you as a child.

All of her belongings are waiting for her to come home and resume life as normal.

But she never will.

You swallow thickly as you step into the room. It still smells like her perfume. The one you used to steal spritzes of before school. The one that filled the room when she walked in.

"Can-" You look around slowly, eyes welling up with tears, "can I have a moment, please?"

Hongjoong hesitates, lingering in the doorway with the light shining onto him as he watches you. "Y-yeah," he nods when you turn and catch him staring at you. "I'll be, uh, just yell if you need me."

You wait until you can no longer hear him to let your tears start streaming down your face. It's like he has a supernatural sense to know when you're crying — even when you hold your head down or lay with your face away from him.

Pulling back the vanity chair slowly, you take a seat.

And you stay there.

For a long time, you stay there. Hands folded in your lap; staring down at your cast.

"God..." Your voice cracks, lip trembling.

Your mother wasn't deeply religious, but she believed in... something. Something bigger than herself — bigger than any of you.

"Are you there?"

And only the sound of the air conditioner replies.

"Fuck-" You place your elbows on the table and put your face in your hands, "this is so stupid..."

Ms. Cain said that doing something your parents used to do might give you some comfort. Your mother used to pray at her vanity.

Taking a steadying breath, you look up at the ceiling.

"I w- I don’t even know what I’m supposed to say. I should have payed more attention when she prayed out loud... I’m here? I'm here... And- and I don't understand why. I don’t understand why I lived. Why I walked away when they didn't. Why you let me breathe while they- they don't get to do anything. Why am I here and they're all buried? Why I walked away without a goddamn scratch and had to listen to them all burn?!"

You slam your hand over your mouth, tears rolling down your temples as you stare up at the ceiling.

"Why did you make me see that today? I t-tried so hard to block it out... Now, though — it won't leave my head. I keep replaying it. Is this- is this my punishment, God? For surviving? Carrying around the weight of their ghosts in every waking moment? Is that why I survived, just to suffer? Feel them ridicule me from beyond for wasting away? I can’t even take care of myself. Hongjoong is doing everything. Taking care of me because I'm too fucking broken to do it... And I love him for it, I do… But every time he looks at me like that, I feel like a fraud. He didn’t sign up for this, w-"

You swallow your tears and wipe your nose on the back of your hand; looking down and, unfortunately, catching your own eyes in your mother's mirror.

You look and feel pathetic.

"Why did you make me so weak?"

You sneer at your reflection.

"I should be stronger. I should be able to stand on my own by now. B-but I’m not. I can’t. I'm a fucking weak l-little girl and I miss my mommy..."

You sniff up the snot trying to run down your nose and stare at yourself in the blurry reflection.

"I miss my daddy... I w-want to take back all the mean things I said to him! I just want- want one more chance, please! If you do one miracle, please... Please, I've learned my lesson... Just make it stop- make- make me understand why I'm the only one who walked away. I'm so tired of feeling guilty... I don't know h-how to be the lives. I can't bear the weight of it..."

You rest your head on the cool wooden surface of your mother's vanity, sobbing freely.

"Give me a sign. G-give me anything."

Just out in the hallway, Hongjoong sits against the wall with his hand over his mouth — crying just as hard as you; having heard everything.

────୨ৎ────

"Hey, (Y/n)?" Hongjoong knocked gently on your door for the third time as he opened it slowly. "Your mom wanted me t-"

He shut up quickly as he saw you face down in a book, laid on your stomach sideways across your bed.

He pushed the door open and smiled fondly as he came up to your bed. "Honey," he whispered, leaning over and rubbing his thumb on your cheek tenderly to wake you.

"Mh?" You moaned tiredly, blinking up at him a few times while your vision adjusted. "Joongie?"

"Hey, sorry to wake you, ba- but," he corrected himself quickly when he caught himself about to call you 'baby'. "Your mom wants to know where you put the skillet, we can't find it anywhere."

"Oh," you nodded, rubbing your eyes as you lifted yourself up on your elbows.

Your sweater was too big and you looked so comfortable. You had lines on your cheek from resting it on the book. It made his heart warm. Made butterflies flutter in his stomach.

"Under the oven," you yawned, "what's she making?"

"Vegetable soup."

You looked at him confused, sleepy eyebrows pressing together. "In the skillet?"

"I don't know either," he chuckled softly; internally cooing at how you stretched out on your bed, one of your feet dangling off the edge. "You want me to wake you up if it's semi-edible?"

"Mhm, yes, please," you smiled as you closed your book, head falling back down.

"You have a good nap then, honey," he reached and patted your head gently, turning to leave when you called out.

"Joong?"

"Hm?"

"Can you pull up my blanket, please?" You mumbled as you curled up on your side, entirely too comfortable and tired to care if it's a bit of a strange request for the man you've only known a few months.

"Sure," he smiled widely even though you couldn't see it — he can't contain his happiness at the opportunity to do something, if only something small, for you.

He pulls it up slowly, and you sink your grasp into him deeper unintentionally as you smile while cuddle up under the warmth.

"Thanks, Joong~"

"Anything for you, honey."

────୨ৎ────

"(Y/n)?" Hongjoong lifts his head from his pillow and rubs his face before focusing on your figure in his doorway.

The lamp from the living room, where Kai sleeps due to Hongjoongs insistence, shines behind you and casts you in the light in a way akin to a halo.

"Are you girls ok-"

"I can't sleep."

He had thought you wouldn't be able to. He hadn't left your bed since the pill incident.

His own bed felt uncomfortable and unfamiliar as he laid down in it a few hours ago. He can never go back to sleeping alone now that he knows what it feels like to have you next to him. What it's like to fall asleep to the sound of your soft breaths. To wake up in the mornings and have your resting face be one of the first things he sees.

"Me neither." He says truthfully, sliding to one side of the bed and lifting the covers. "Come on, you can lay with me, baby."

Your heart flutters to life in your chest. He's been letting those little nicknames slip so often, like he's been saying them to you for your entire life.

"I can?" You whisper while you enter into the darkness of his room, making your way to the bed with the guidance of the far off lamp in the other room. "You don't mind, Dad?"

You can hear his breathing hitch in his throat, see his fingers twitch in the shadows as he holds the blanket up for you; balling up the fabric in his fist.

You had said it too... purposefully. Like it wasn't subconscious. And it certainly wasn't joking. It sounded like you had meant to say it — you had meant to call him that.

Because you did.

You wait at the side of his bed, swallowing thickly.

"N-no, I don't mind, honey." His response is quick and shaky, and it almost sounds like he doesn't mean it but he does. He means it. "I don't mind at all."

You slide in next to him wordlessly, turning on your side with your back to him; sliding back into him slowly until your back meets his chest. The second it does, his arms are wrapped around you tightly — tightly. Like he's never going to let go. Like he's a snake crushing its prey.

And you melt into his hold with a soft sigh. "Hongjoong..."

"Yes?"

"Do you like it when I call you Dad?"

"...Yes."

And he hopes you can't feel how much he does; his cock is stirring to life in between the layers of fabric of your pajamas separating you.

You do. And for whatever reason, you aren't utterly disgusted like you thought you'd be — like you might have been just a few months ago.

"Hm," you let out a sleepy moan, snuggling your hips back into him. He catches his lip between his teeth quickly, silencing himself as he closes his eyes and presses his forehead against you.

You have no idea what you're doing to him. He thinks with a shaking sigh.

But you do. You started putting the pieces together a few days ago. You're slow and steadily coming back to what's going on around you.

And you know you should be running as far away from Hongjoong as possible as you feel his growing hard-on from you calling him something so... innocent.

But here you are. Willingly in his bed because you couldn't sleep without him. Teasing him. Testing him. Wanting him to pass the test.

"Why?"

It's so quiet between the two of you that you can hear Kai's soft snores from his place all the way on the couch.

"Because," he finally gives in, "I love taking care of you. If you were my little girl, I'd never treat you like he did."

He doesn't have to specify. You both know he's speaking of your dear departed father. Who was so absent most of the time that he could be considered a deadbeat. Especially after the divorce.

But Hongjoong was always there. Always.

"You're so precious... I'd do — I will do anything for you. I want you to have the world. I want you to be happy, honey..."

You reward his answer with the smallest roll of your hips while you sniffle — he passes the test with flying colors; adding a cherry on top when one of his hands comes up to wipe your cheeks so softly.

"Don't cry, baby-"

"I love you, Hongjoong."

His heart is about to slam out of his chest. His blood runs colds, then boiling hot, then he's dunked back into ice. He knows you probably don't mean it, not in a normal way.

But he doesn't care.

You mean it in your way. You mean 'thank you for taking care of me'. You mean 'I wouldn't have minded if I was your little girl'.

You mean it to say, 'I am your little girl, please don't hurt me like he did'.

"I love you." He says back as fast as he can, pulling you impossibly closer; putting a leg over your hip and breathing out a soft moan, "I love you so much."

You don't know why he does. And you don't ask. You just revel in his touch. You let him press his hard length into your backside, and you relax even further into him when he doesn't do anything but snuggle and comfort you despite it.

────୨ৎ────

"I'm just saying," Hiyyih had shrugged, helping you unpack your boxes as you moved into your new home, "don't you think it's a bit weird?"

"Why?" You huffed, wiping your brow after you sat down a heavier box on the unmade bed.

"I mean... what does he get out of all this? Hongjoong seems a bit... off." He did almost quite literally jump at the opportunity to marry your mother when she had mentioned her struggles now that she had no one to split her bills with besides you — and she hated putting that pressure on you.

"I think he's cool," you replied as you looked around the bare bones room. "He's just a really nice guy. He's worked with my mom for a while."

"Maybe." She did the same, smiling over to you, whispering, "maybe you could lose your virginity to him~"

"Hiyyih!" You yelled, aghast. "He's my step-dad!" You lowered you volume quickly, slapping her arm, "don't be gross."

"Ow! Whaaaat? I'm just teasing you," she shoved you back playfully, "I know you like older men-"

There was a small fumble outside in the hall, sounding like a dropped box. "Everything okay?" You asked as you both made your way, seeing your brand-new step-father lifting a box off the floor with a small blush on his cheeks.

"Oh, yeah! Just, be careful over there," he nodded to the floor, "uhm, loose floorboard."

"I don't s-"

"How's unpacking going?" He interrupted quickly, looking into your room, "aaah. You gotta get busy, kid. See ya!"

He shuffled down the hall quickly, disappearing into what would be his room while you and Hiyyih watched confusedly.

"Yeah," you sighed as you turned back into your bedroom, "maybe he's a bit off."

────୨ৎ────

"I'm just saying," Hiyyih says softly, quietly as you sit at the table the next morning. "I would have cuddled with you." She pouts playfully, earning herself a small smile from your lips.

They've gotten more of those, slowly.

"Didn't have to leave me all alone and go to some old man. I thought we were best friends~"

"He's not that old," you let yourself laugh. Just a little. Just a small huff of amused air. But it lightens the tense sadness that's been in the house ever since you got back from the hospital.

"He's practically ancient," Kai chuckles from beside you, nibbling on his breakfast.

"C'mon, you guys," you laugh a little louder — and Hiyyih can see the light in your eyes that's been void for so many weeks. "You're acting like he's sixty years old, he's only thirty eight..."

Kai chokes on his juice, placing a hand to his chest. "What!? Oh, my god! He's way older than I thought he was. He has such a baby face..."

The genuine, light hearted sound of your giggle makes the siblings crack a mirrored grin; wide and happy.

"You guys are ridiculous." You smile — and it reaches all the way to your eyes.

"Showers open," Hongjoong says as he enters the room, wet hair pushed back and a towel hanging around his neck.

"Me!" Kai stands up quickly, sticking his tongue out at Hiyyih as she slumps back in her chair; having barely stood up. He slides the rest of his fruit onto your plate and smiles down softly at you.

"Thanks, Kai," you smile back, leaning up and pecking his lips, "save Hiyyih some warm water, don't be a jerk."

"No promises," he chuckles before heading off in the direction of the bathroom, squeezing past Hongjoong; who stands in the doorway frozen.

He stays there, still, as you and Hiyyih return to your conversation. Her asking what you would like to do today, you asking if she's okay with watching a movie you've both seen a million times, her saying 'totally!'

"Honey." His voice makes you turn around in your chair.

"Mhm?"

"Come get dressed," he says, already turning around into the hall after tossing his towel onto the couch.

"I'm still eat-"

"Now."

You're a bit taken back. After such a meaningful moment last night, why is he being so... weird? You give Hiyyih a confused look, and she returns it. "Maybe he has to talk to you about something," she shrugs, pushing around her food with her fork.

"I'll be right back, be thinking of a movie we can all watch." You sigh as you get up, making your way down the empty hallway and to your room quickly.

He's there, going through your clothes and picking your outfit out like he always does. "Close the door."

"They've seen me-"

"Close it."

You fight the urge to roll your eyes as you do what he asks, closing the door with a soft click.

"What's going on with you, Joong?"

Whatever it is, you don't like it. He isn't being soft and sweet with you. He's being short and distant.

"Nothing." He hums as he unbuttons your sleep shirt, his eyes avoiding yours. "What makes you ask?"

"You're being weird."

"No, I'm not," he says shortly as he slides your shirt down your arms.

"Bullshit."

His eyes flick up to yours quickly. A staring contest ensues, neither of you backing down even as he slides down your sleep shorts; purposefully gliding his fingertips over the round of your ass.

"Tell me, I don't like how you're acting." You huff as you kick them away, trying to ignore the heat growing up your neck as you stand in nothing but your underwear under his intense gaze.

You gasp as he cups the sides of your face in his palms, quickly backing you up until your back collides with the wall softly. Just a single molecule of air between you as he looks deep into your eyes and asks, "did you do that on purpose?"

"W-"

"Kissing some little boy in front of me?" He near spits the words, like they burn his soul. And maybe they do.

You kiss everyone on the lips. He dealt with it before — shoved his misplaced jealously deep down so it never saw the light of day — because you weren't truly his to be jealous of in the first place; and they were all platonic pecks anyway.

Not anymore.

You're all his. And you should act like it.

"Did that to make me jealous? Hm? Kissing someone else in my house?"

Your eyes widen a bit, watching this all new side of him closely. "Your house? What, I don't p- jealous?" You breathe out; a sweet smelling puff of air that nearly knocks him off his feet.

He presses closer to you. His eyes keep flicking to your lips. Not an inch between you. His body against yours.

"Are you jealous? Joong, it's not like he shoved his tongue down my th-"

Your words get muffled by his lips on yours with more passion than you've ever felt before. His tongue in your mouth before you can even blink. Before you can even think. Staring at his closed eyes for a moment before you follow his lead, letting your eyes close and opening up your mouth just a fraction of an inch.

Even just those words coming from you — the very image of it shoved him off the deep end.

He's the only one who can do that. Him. Him. Only him.

Only he can touch you. Only he can taste you.

You taste like your breakfast, like honey oatmeal and fruit. He can't get enough. He licks every single inch he can reach, moving your lips against each other slowly until neither of you can breathe properly.

He presses your foreheads together, staring into your very soul.

"You- you kissed me." You stutter out through your blissful puzzlement. Eyes locked on his and nowhere else to go while he cradles your jaw.

"Have I not been giving you enough loving, is that it, baby?" He pants against your lips, grinding his hips into you. He just about fucking melts when you let out a shocked little moan, grabbing his wrists for purchase. "You want Daddy to pay more attention to you? That why you're acting out?"

He can see the cogs turning in your head, clanging against each other roughly as they try to sort how you feel about what he just said. What he just called himself.

"C'mere," he smirks to himself as you let him pull you away from the wall without a fight; still processing his words. Still possessing the way he shoved his tongue into your mouth.

"My Honey wants all of Daddy's attention?" You land on your bed with a soft thud — he throws you onto it —arms sprawling out to either side of you and fingers gripping the fabric. "Is that why you're kissing other people when you belong to me? To get me all worked up so I'll put you back in your place?"

"N-no." You gulp, finding your legs spreading with a mind of their own.

"Don't look at me like that, sweetheart... Like you're shocked~" He grins, dark and calculating, as he crawls over you; slotting himself between your open legs. "I know you felt me last night..." He whispers against your lips, holding himself up with one hand planted on the mattress next to your head — the other tracing up the side of your torso ghostly soft.

"We can't-"

"Why not?" He counters quickly, wild eyes flicking all over your face.

"Hiyyih a-and Kai-" His lips silence you again quickly, kissing you deep and rough — but fast, too. Leaving you stunned as he pulls back just as fast as he came in.

"Don't make me spank you..." He groans, hips grinding into you lightly, "say some else's name while your under me and I swear, baby-"

It's your turn to cut him off, tossing your good arm around his neck and pulling him down to your lips. Messy and less refined than his technique — but just as much passion in your movements.

He moans into you, his hand finally continuing its journey and landing on your breast. Giving it a light squeeze; he slips his tongue back into your mouth when you let out a gasp. He stretches it so far from his mouth, into yours, that the intrusion causes a soft gag to bubble up your throat.

"Fuck-" He has to pull back quickly, moving to sit on his knees as he stays hunched over you. He pulls your thighs over his, your hips hovering just over the bed and your pelvises pressed together. "You feel what you do to me, Honey?"

You can only breathe heavily in response, looking at him with... something in your eyes.

You have no idea what you're doing. All you know is that he feels so good against you — your clit is starting to throb, begging for attention.

"Make me cum, Daddy-"

"Don't say shit unless you mean it, pretty girl." He's breathing just as heavy, every fiber of his being having to be held back from yanking your panties down and showing you what else his tongue can do.

He wants to show you what a real man can do. Not all of the little boys, the men your age. The ones who treat you bad and make you come back home to him crying. He can take care of you in life and in bed.

"I mean it," you nod, rolling your hips — and only getting half way because he grabs them tightly; eyes narrowing down on you.

"I'm going to grind my cock on you until we both cum," he says lowly as he leans down to your neck, giving it a soft kiss, "and you'd better keep the volume down unless you want your friends to hear your step-dad making you cream your panties."

You don't think it will be a problem, you're never very loud when you masturbate —

"Oh~" You slap your hand over your mouth quickly as he starts rolling his clothed bulge into you. Slow and deep, pulling your hips to meet his.

"What did I say, sweetheart?" He chuckles airily into your neck, goosebumps raising on your skin. "You want to get caught with Daddy humping your little cunt?"

You shake your head quickly, planting your feet on the bed for leverage to grind into him; meeting his movements with his guidance.

You'd probably be mortified if either one of them caught you. Not because it's Hongjoong, but because it's sex. And you've never done anything like it. And you've certainly never been caught doing anything like it.

You just want him to make you cum. And he's moving towards that goal quickly.

A whine breaks off in your throat as he leaves kiss after kiss on your neck.

"G-god," he grits his teeth for a moment, speeding up as he rubs his bulge against your steadily dampening panties. "You're so fucking cute, Honey..."

"I- gonna-" You grab at his shoulder, meeting his eyes as he looks up from your neck; whispering so needily that he can't help but smirk.

The sight of his lips curling into that dark grin makes you moan — his hand cupping over your mouth as your jaw drops.

"Gonna cum for me, angel? Yeah?" He leans his forehead on yours, practically fucking your hips into the bed now; keeping you pinned as he drowns you in pleasure. His eyes might as well be sparkling as he looks into yours while you nod. "Aww, yeah you are~ My sweet virgin is so needy-" His eyebrows press together, his cock aching for release. "I bet- oh, fuck~ I bet your little pussy is so wet for me..."

Your back arches off the bed, his voice sending you into a shivering mess of muffled moans as you cum — his dirty words paired with the massaging pressure of his clothed cock making your clit tingle. Your eyes roll into your head, so you miss the way he grins like a maniac as he starts grinding into you harder; chasing his own peak.

"Fuck- This is so much better than I ever thought, baby..." He whispers breathily into your ear, "you're so fucking gorgeous when you cum~ I could never have imagined it. Oh-" His hand quickly slides up from your twitching hips, grabbing your waist tightly as he moves to lay completely on top of you — all of his weight in his hips as he grinds into your overstimulated cunt like he's trying to fuck you through the layers of fabric.

You grab his arm tightly, toes curling into the blanket, sounds still quieted by his hand as you start to tremble underneath him.

He laughs softly, cheeks flushing with a blush as he teases himself; dragging the moment out and stopping himself from cumming because he wants it to last forever.

"Do you know how many times I jerked off while thinking of you?" He says it before he even realizes. The words roll off his tongue without hesitation — and apparently he doesn't have to worry about it because you only moan louder behind his hand.

"Oh, naughty little girl~" He kisses your forehead shockingly soft for the situation, "you like that idea? T-thinking about it going to make you cum again? Fuck, what if I told you I did it with your panties? That I wrapped them around my cock and came all over them-"

You know that's incredibly perverted. It's a violation of your privacy.

But it makes you cum so hard you blank for a good few moments, vision going white and entire body spasming.

He isn't far behind; replacing his hand with his lips and muffling your sounds with his tongue in your mouth as he cums into his boxers with a deep whine.

When you've finally stopped moaning every other second, he pulls back slowly and licks your lips gently.

Your vision is blurry when you come back down to your body, and for a moment you wonder if he's fucked you so good — without even taking your panties off — that you've gone cross eyed.

"Shhh," he coos softly as he swipes up your tears with his thumbs, "shhh, Daddy's got you, pretty girl~"

And he's not letting go.

────୨ৎ────

You were sad.

Hongjoong could tell. Anyone who looked at you could have guessed by your slumped shoulders and the large hoodie you hid yourself in as you waited for your food at the microwave. Arms crossed over your chest and leaning against the counter.

"Do you want to talk ab-"

He barely got to ask before you went off, gesturing wildly and rambling about what had you upset.

You'd come to trust him in all these months of him being in your life.

"I don't understand why men are such jerks! No offense, you're chill- but, like... damn! It's like you're the only man I know that isn't a complete asshole! I asked my father to come over and watch a new movie with me and he's like, 'not tonight, I'm going to a friends place to watch the game', like —" You yanked the microwave open to stop it's incessant beeping, "hello!? I'm your daughter! I'm trying to spend time with you and you'd rather go and watch a stupid game!"

You slammed the microwave shut again after you got your food, leaning your hands on the counter and looking down with a sigh.

Hongjoong just watched for a moment; let you vent all of your frustration — anger in his heart but love in his eyes.

"What movie did you want to watch, sweetheart?"

You looked up slowly, unshed tears in your eyes and your chin trembling slightly. You didn't say anything, but he could tell you were asking why he'd asked.

"I could watch it with you, if- if you want me too. I know I'm not your father, but if you want some company-"

You crashed into his chest so fast he didn't even see it coming. Wrapped your arms around him so tightly it made his heart melt for you all over again.

"I'd love some company."

────୨ৎ────

A week later, you sit on the couch beside him in complete silence while he works on his laptop. He doesn't mind the silence.

You, though, can't stand the silence. It leaves you with nothing but your thoughts.

"Hongjoong?"

He looks up quickly, eyes on you within the second, "yes?"

"Do you think... you- uhm," you hesitate a bit, slightly embarrassed, but your need to do something outweighs it. "You think you could come on a walk with me?"

"A walk?" He raises his brow slightly before nodding, "of course." He saves his work document before all but throwing the device onto the recliner across from you.

"Really? Right now?" You ask as you stand, eyes slightly wide.

"Yeah," he smiles, pulling you towards the door by your hand gently. "It's good to get out of the house! I'm glad you finally want to go somewhere, angel," he pulls your shoes from the rack and kisses your head, "we can go for as long or as little as you want to. Can go wherever you want~"

A smile tugs its way onto your lips as you take in his words. "Maybe- maybe just around the neighborhood a few times?"

"Deal," he hums as he kneels and pulls your sneakers over your socks.

The white shirt and colorful shorts he'd picked out for you this morning felt a bit... strange to go out in. But, maybe it's just because you haven't been anywhere besides therapy.

He ties the laces up and pats your foot softly before pulling his own shoes on.

"Come on, Honey," he holds your hand gently as he opens up the door; leading you as you step into the outside world.

────୨ৎ────

A few days pass. You go on a walk with Hongjoong at least once a day.

You start feeling better. More and more each day.

You have less nightmares. Sleep through the night, for the most part. Your arm doesn't have phantom pains anymore. The scars on your legs don't make you want to scratch your skin off when you look at them. You can't take your pills without being reminded of when you swallowed two whole bottles. You feel good.

You feel good enough to cook your famous ramen. Good enough invite Bumjoong and your friends over.

Hongjoong watches you with the biggest smile on his face as you set the pot of noodles at the table with the chicken and beer Bumjoong brought with him.

Bumjoong leans next to him on the wall, similarly smiling as they watch you check your phone; excited for the first time since the accident.

"Good job, Hong," he whispers to his brother.

"With what?" He tears his eyes away from you and looks at him, still smiling as he hears you hum to the music you're playing.

"Taking care of her. Helping her through everything. I know it's been rough..." He tilts his head, looking at Hongjoong intently.

"You love her, don't you?"

The words make him freeze, staring at him blankly; eyes slightly wide.

Bumjoong isn't blind; and he isn't stupid, either. He sees the way his little brother looks at you when he thinks nobody is paying attention. He notices when he places his hand on your lower back while passing behind you — even when there's enough room. He hears the love in his voice when he speaks about you.

He could sense the pure panic the night of the accident, when he got the call from the hospital because you put him as your next emergency contact. Before your own father, it was Hongjoong.

Panic like he'd never seen in his brother before panic. Not something that someone would have when they got the news that the child of the person they married out of convenience was in the hospital with a broken arm. No —

It was axiety like the love of his life had just been shot to bits.

"Hongjoong?"

He swallows, feeling like the world is about to collapse around him.

"It's okay."

"Jesus, fuck you," Hongjoong sighs, relieved, as he hugs him tightly, "you sacred me. I thought you were going to try and scold me."

Bumjoong chuckles as he hugs him back, patting his shoulders. "I get it, man, you've been through alot together. And she's sweet," they both look over to you as you run to the door when the bell rings; the fastest you've moved in weeks. "You, uhm, does she know?"

"Yeah, she does," he grins as you greet the siblings with a kiss — to their cheeks.

────୨ৎ────

"Hey, honey!" Hongjoong yelled over the pouring rain, passenger side window rolled down as he pulled up to the grocery store you work at.

"You came?" You asked, genuinely surprised, "I could have waited for my mom!" You leant a bit further away from the wall, under the awning and protected from the downpour for the most part.

"Nonsense! You'll catch a cold out here, come on," he leaned over and cracked the door open, rolling the window back up; leaving no room for argument.

You ran quickly, and were in the safety of his car within thirty seconds. But you were soaked to the bone nonetheless, your work shirt clinging to you. "Shit, I'm dripping all over your seat, I'm sorry, Joong."

"It's okay," he laughed as he started driving, looking over to you as you buckled your seat belt. "Did you have a good day at work, honey?"

"Eh," you smiled, "same old, same old." You kept pulling the soaked fabric from your chest and torso just for it to cling back onto it.

"Are-" He cleared his throat, fingers drumming on the wheel, "you should take that off." When you looked over to him quickly, eyebrows raised, he hurried to say, "if it's making you uncomfortable! I mean, I don't- I have, uh, a blanket in the back seat you could cover up with."

You relaxed in the seat, letting out an amused huff of air, "sorry. I thought you were being a pervert again."

He laughed, genuine and taken off guard.

He'd been married to your mother for almost ten months now. You'd gotten comfortable with him, enough to joke and let your own guard down. He'd been slow and steadily worming his way into your life.

"God, that's what you think of me? I'm hurt, honey~"

"Yeah, don't get too worked up, old man~" You returned his joking tone as you peeled your soaked shirt off, setting it by your feet, "you might have a heart attack."

He might actually, catching a glimpse of you in your bra with his peripheral vision; forcing his eyes to stay on the road. The little bow in the middle of it caught his attention as you leaned and reached into the backseat.

He could pull over. He could just pull over and tell you to take your pants off as well. He c-

"Why do you have a blanket in your car anyway?" You asked as you pulled it around you, cuddling into the warm fabric.

He swallowed before he answered, taking a breath. Thankfully for the casual conversation to get the image of you in your cute bra out of his head. "I get cold when I work from the office, they keep it fucking freezing in there."

"Ah," you nodded in understanding, "it's comfy... Smells like you." You hummed contentedly as you closed your eyes, bundled up in the dry blanket and feeling so cozy and safe.

"S- what? What do I smell like?" He felt a blush creeping up his cheeks.

You know what he smells like.

"Like that one fancy cologne in the bathroom," you smiled, subconsciously nuzzling your nose deeper into the blanket, "and like... something Earthy. It's nice. I like it."

He could pull over. He could park on the side of the road and h-

"Thanks..." He bit at his thumb quietly while focusing solely on the road, hoping you don't open your eyes and see his blush.

He was starting to get impatient with the more time that went on; and you were starting to get more comfortable with him; and it made him want you more — an inescapable loop.

He doesn't know he won't have to wait much longer.

────୨ৎ────

Your body is warm with the effects of the alcohol, head pleasantly fuzzy as you hug Hiyyih and Kai goodbye; waving to them the entire time while they get into her car and back up before Hongjoong finally pulls you inside with a laugh.

Bumjoong left a little bit before them, giving Hongjoong a knowing smile and you a hug before he did.

"Come on, sweet girl."

"Bye!" You shout with one more wave as he shuts the door.

It's quiet for a moment after the loudness of the small gathering. You turn to him with a smile. "Thanks f-"

His lips are on yours before you can even finish thinking of your sentence. Cradling your jaw and moving against you slowly.

It takes you a moment before you come to your senses, slightly inebriated and lagging behind. You open your mouth against his, following his movements.

He licks at your bottom lip as he pulls back, opening up his eyes slowly. When you do the same — you see his are fully dilated as he says, "you're so pretty when you smile."

"Shut up," you laugh shyly; like you didn't just have his tongue in your mouth.

"I mean it, baby~" He hums, trailing his hands down the straps of your tank top slowly — the one he picked out in the morning.

He can't get over the fact that you still let him dress you even as you're healing and placing yourself back to a somewhat functional human. He hopes you'll never stop. He'd probably cry. And then you'd probably keep letting him.

"You're my pretty angel," he whispers sincerely, making the heat in your face multiply quickly.

"I w-" You scan his expression, searching for any hint he might be lying and finding nothing. Pure adoration in his eyes.

At least, that's what you think it is.

"Will you touch me, Daddy?"

His eyes snap back to yours. "What?"

You hadn't called him that in more than a week — not since he had gotten jealous and made you cum twice in five minutes.

It makes his face just as hot as yours is. One simple word and he's about to rip your clothes off.

You step forward, wrapping your arms around his neck. "Touch me, Daddy." You say again, more confidently as you watch him nearly fall apart from the sound of your voice.

You yelp in surprise as he pushes you against the door, pressing his forehead to yours. "Have you ever been fingered before, baby?" His question, the nonchalant way he asks it, catches you a bit off guard.

"No," you breathe after a moment, "I only... I only ever played with my clit."

"Good god-" He moans, burying his face in your neck and kissing at it just as passionately as he does your lips. "Fuck, Honey," he says between his heated kisses; his hands roaming all over your torso, "you have no idea how perfect you are..."

He certainly flipped the script quickly, making you fall apart with his words and the utter desperation he whispers them with.

"I want to ruin you so badly," comes from his lips as a low whine while he presses his hips against you. "Will you let me? Let me show you how good I can make you feel."

You want nothing more than to feel good; and you don't want it from anyone else, either.

"Yes," you seal your fate with a soft moan as he sucks on your neck. "Please, I wan- I want you to show me..."

"Come on, sweetheart," he lands another kiss to your jaw and takes your hand in his, "Daddy will make you feel so good, promise~"

"Promise, promise?" You swallow thickly as he guides you to your room.

"I promise, promise." He smiles over his shoulder at you, "I'll make you cum so good, pretty girl. Don't you worry, I'm gonna take care of you."

"And we- we don't have to..." You squeeze his hand tightly as he twirls you to be in front of him, sitting you down on the edge of your bed. "Go all the way, right?"

He spreads your knees with his, standing between them and looking down at you — with unadulterated lust, something dark shining in his eyes. "Not until you're ready, Honey," he grins wide before leaning and placing a kiss to your forehead. "I can show you lots of other things in the meantime~"

"Thank you, Daddy," you let yourself smile as you place your good hand on his hip; touch soft as a feather.

Your touch and your voice and the trust you put in him — he's already so hard. He can't stop imagining how warm your cunt must be, how it might taste, what he could do to make you squirm and beg for his cock.

"Be honest with me, angel," he hums as he kneels between your legs. His hands find the hem on your shirt and you quickly lift your arms to allow him to rid you of it. "How much do you know about your own cunt?"

"Wh- huh?" You blank, staring at him with slightly wide eyes; eyebrows raising.

He laughs softly, sliding his hands up your back and undoing your bra quickly. "I mean... You've really only ever played with your clit? You've never got curious?" He trails off slowly while pulling your bra away.

You suddenly feel very exposed. He sees you naked everyday. He has for a while. But this feels different.

You have so much spit in your mouth, swallowing so much; but your throat is bone-dry.

"You've never put... anything inside?" The way he says it is hopeful, but you don't lock in on it. Nor do you realize the smirk that tugs on his lips as you say —

"No... I've thought about it, but- I'm just scared it will hurt."

"Aw, sweet girl," he rests his head on your thigh, looking up at you, "you don't have to be scared when I'm here. Okay? I know what I'm doing, baby. I'll make it feel so good you forget you're even a virgin~" You can't help but moan when he places a tender kiss to your inner thigh. "You trust me, Honey?"

Despite the little skip of your heart that tells you not to — you nod. "Y-yeah."

"Lift your hips." And when you do, he pulls your shorts and underwear down in the same slow, fluid motion; tossing them to the side. Leaving you completely bare and him still fully clothed.

The both of you try to speak at the same time, leaving you to let out an airy giggle. "Sorry."

"You first, sweetheart." He says gently while rubbing your thighs, eyes locked on you like you might disappear if he looks away.

"Can you take your clothes off, too? Just- just a little?"

His eyes crinkle as he smiles, nodding quickly, "of course. How selfish of me~"

You feel like your entire face and neck is sunburnt as he stands up and pulls his shirt over his head. You're so hot you might as well be sweating —

"You're sweating, baby," he coos, swiping the sweat from your brow with his knuckle and feeling how heated you are. "Are you still nervous?"

"No," you say a little too fast, giving yourself away if the way he bites his lip to conceal his laugh says anything. "Just hot in here..."

He turns away and pulls the fan closer to the bed, turning it onto you. "Lay down, pretty girl. Don't be shy."

It's hard not to be when a man who's so clearly aroused is taking off his pants. A handsome man, at that. And one who takes care of you so good.

"Do you want me to tell you what I'm going to do before I do it?" He asks as he crawls over you, straddling your hips.

"Mh, please," you lean into his palm as he cups your cheek. You're starting to be more than wet with all the soft touches he's been giving you. Starting to get more needy.

Just how he wants you.

"I'm going to eat you out, yeah?" He smiles so innocently for the words he speaks, making your breath catch in your throat.

"Y- fuck, please?" You beg, eyes soft and pleading as you look up at him.

"How could I say no to that?" He chuckles as he moves down, leaving a trail of open mouthed kisses in his wake. "Spread," he says; even though he moves to do it for you before you register his words. He pushes your thighs apart, staring down at your wetness.

"Quit it-" You squeal as you quickly cover your heat with your hand, "you- you're staring."

"So?" He deadpans, grabbing your wrist gently and placing your hand over your stomach; out of the way. "I'm about to lick it, baby, and you're shy about me looking?"

Yes. You can't help it. You huff embarrassedly, tossing your head back into the pillow.

"God, you're so cute~" He groans to himself as he lays on his stomach — truly face to face with your cunt now. "Don't hide from me, angel," he says while he lets go of your wrist; trailing his fingertips along your arm. "Let me see my pretty girl."

"Sorry," you bring your hand up to your face instead, rubbing your face. "I'm nervous, still."

"Don't be." His lips graze your mound, kissing just above your slit. "You said you trust me. Were you fibbing, little girl?"

Your hips move with a mind of their own, fidgeting to get closer to his mouth. "No, Daddy..." You whisper without even thinking about it. Aching for his touch which is just inches away, rubbing your legs.

"No? Then relax, Honey~ Daddy will take perfect care of you."

"M'kay," you nod, looking up at the ceiling still as you take a deep breath.

You really have no reason to be so nervous. You trust Hongjoong. You know he won't hurt you.

But it's the first time anyone has been so close to you — had you so exposed. So vulnerable.

Your shoulders relax the second his tongue meets your slit. "Oh, fuck..." You bite down on your knuckle as he drags his flattened tongue all the way up; over your clit so warm and gentle that it makes you shiver. A full body twitch running through you as he points his tongue and circles it slowly.

He's almost as blissed out as you. Your arousal on his tastebuds is sending his mind into overdrive — a million thoughts running through his mind, and none at all at the same time.

"D-do that again," you whine as you roll your hips towards his mouth, "again, Daddy~"

He has to take a deep breath, closing his eyes to stop staring at your chest as it rises and falls. "Again, Honey?"

"Y- oh!" Your hand flies down and grips his hair as he does it again — and again, and again. "Oh my god!" You cry out, fingers curling into the sheet and into his scalp as he licks at your slit; bobbing his head slowly.

The second he wraps his lips around your clit and sucks — your back arches off the bed and your jaw is dropped in a silent scream as you suddenly tumble over the peak of your pleasure.

An unintelligible moan falls past your lips as you slump back onto the mattress, panting softly and clinging to his hair like a lifeline. Your hips twitch as he gives one more slow, steady lick up the length of your slit.

"Didn't that feel so good, pretty baby?" He chuckles, licking his lips and squeezing your thighs gently from where his arms are wrapped under your legs.

"Holy shit..." You respond with a gulp, slowly letting go of his head and letting your arms falls.

He kisses your inner thigh softly, slipping one of his hands down; making you gasp as he slides a finger up your slit. "I'm gonna go slow, baby," he coos as you fidget a bit.

"Mmh," you relax again immediately as he places a kiss to your sensitive clit — and his finger slips right into you. It's a strange and foreign feeling, but pleasant as he slowly thrusts it in and out of you.

"My god..." He moans from between your legs, "you're so h-hot." He takes his lip between his teeth, resting his head on your thigh and watching closely as your hole swallows up his finger.

When he adds a curling motion to his leisurely thrusts — your brain all but short circuits. You shake your head, confused by the sudden rush of intense pleasure that hits you every time his pushes his finger in and curls it. "W-what the fuck- oh!" You whine, bucking your hips into his hand before he places his forearm over your pelvis and holds you down. "No, no, please, it feels so good!"

"Yeah~? Feels so good, Honey?"

"Yes!" You nod quickly, finally brave enough to look down at him; lifting yourself up on your elbows. "I th-think you're touching my g-spot."

His eyebrow raises quickly, "I am?"

"I th-" A groan breaks off in your throat as he slowly sides another finger into you, curling them both right into the same spot that has tingles spreading through your body. "Definitely! Oh, fuck, definitely!"

He curses under his breath, torn between watching your faces little twitches of pleasure and watching his slick fingers disappear inside of you. "I want you to cum again for me, angel," he moans, sliding a bit further down to lick around his fingers; making you squeal and fall right back down into your back.

"G-gonna!" Your hips still squirm under his arm as he presses you to the bed, unsure of what to do with the all new pleasure.

When he spreads his fingers inside of you; you lose your mind. Clenching involuntarily around his digits as you cum, hand slapping over your mouth instinctively as you let out a broken scream. Thighs tightening around his head and eyes squeezed shut.

"That's it, that's it, sweet girl," he rubs your hip softly as he keeps your trembling form held down. "Keep cumming~"

You whine loudly from behind your hand, your cunt tender with ecstasy and he isn't stopping; not even slowing down his steady pace. "Hongjoong!"

"One more, pretty baby," his voice is muffled as he kisses your clit. He chuckles deep in his throat as you cry out — slapping the bed and writhing below him.

When he wraps his lips around you again and sucks rougher than before — you have no choice but to cum again.

You swear you black out for a few seconds, completely taken over by mind-numbing pleasure as you moan incoherently and kick your legs weakly.

He just about cums in his boxers as a small splash of liquid hits his jaw and neck. He moans loudly, vibrating against your overstimulated cunt and making you wail; fingers dug in the sheets tightly. "Daddy!!"

He pulls his fingers away quickly, another low rumble in his throat as another gush comes with his rough motion. He shoves your thighs open and climbs back up quickly, his chin dripping your own arousal onto your body. "Open, baby," his breathes heavily, all but shoving his fingers into your mouth.

"Fuck-" He looks down at you, awe-stuck, as you start sucking on his digits immediately; your eyes closed blissfully and your breath uneven. "Look at my girl~"

You only hum around him, your pussy buzzing and your mind fuzzy.

He's so enamored by you that he can't help but grind on your stomach, a needy whine stuck in his throat. "Suck 'em clean, sweetheart." He rolls his hips onto you as he rubs between the valley of your breasts softly.

Swirling your tongue around his fingers, slipping it between them; you can taste yourself and you don't find yourself minding one bit as he continues to coo soft praises towards you.

"There we go, angel," he smiles as you finally open your eyes, dragging his fingers out slowly. "Feeling good?"

"So good, Daddy," you smile back up at him dizzily, "did-" You try to sit up, falling right back down, "did I squirt on you?!"

He laughs at your sudden realization, nodding, "you did, Honey."

"I've never done that before," you mumble with wide eyes; letting him maneuver your legs and press them together. You've never done any of these things before.

"Aww, really?" He asks with a fresh wave of lust in his eyes, grinding his bulge on your stomach softly. "Daddy was the first one to make you squirt?"

You nod with a whimper as he moves lower, pressing himself against the front of your sensitive cunt.

He cups your cheek in one hand, the other placed by your head; soiling your pillowcase with your spit. "You're such a good girl for me, you know that? Daddy's perfect little girl~"

"Fuck-" You wriggle as the fabric of his boxers drags along your puffy clit. "Sen- I'm sensitive..."

"Shhh, I know, baby," he grins before leaning down and pecking your lips softly. "Can you take just a little bit more for me?"

"Are you gonna... put it in?"

Fuck, he might if you keep looking at him like that — eyes all wide and shiny with unshed tears.

"Not today, Honey," he shakes his head to reassure you, but his next words make you shiver. "I'm gonna have to stretch you out a lot more before I do, or I'd split you in half."

"What?" You stutter, hands going up and fingers clinging to his sides.

"Oh, not really, sweet girl," he chuckles as he pulls his underwear down past his hips. Giving you another kiss before he sits up and rids himself of them completely.

"Oh my god- yes, really!" You gasp as you look down. "What the fuck, Joong? You have a fucking monster cock- that's never going to fit inside me, no fucking way-" You curse as you push yourself up, making him laugh even more.

It is slightly intimidating, especially because it's the first one you've ever seen in person.

"I'm sorry-" He says as he covers his mouth to hide his amusement, "sorry, Honey. You're just so cute... C'mere." He yanks you back down by your ankles suddenly, making you yelp.

"Don't worry, baby," he moans as he kiss your neck, slowly jerking himself off above you. "Daddy will make sure you're all soaking wet and stretched out before you take it~"

"You're h-huge, Daddy..." You sigh as you melt under his lips, "I bet-" You giggle breathlessly, "I bet you could really make me squirt with your di- hmmph~" You press your lips together tightly as his tip meets your aching clit, an embarrassingly loud moan muffled.

"Don't tease me, sweetheart..." He groans as he rubs the head of his cock on you. "Might not be able to stop myself if you say those things."

"I'm sorry," you whine quickly, "I'm sorry, don't!"

He eases your panic before it can fester, "I'm not going to, angel. I'm not. I'm not one of those little boys you've hung out with — I have some self control. Just don't- don't tease, m'kay? I already want you so badly..." He whispers as he glides his cock against your wet slit, looking down at it intently.

"S-sorry," you bite back another whine as he grinds his bare cock against you. "A-"

"Close your legs," he says quickly, helping you bring your wobbly legs together. "Gonna fuck you one way or another," he groans impatiently, fisting his length more roughly as he straddles your thighs.

"How are- oh," you blink up at him with soft shock written on your face as he slots his length between your thighs; right against your wetness.

"So warm..." He pants as he starts a steady pace — laying above you and fucking into your thighs; his cock sliding against you. "G-god, you're so wet~ Making a little mess of yourself, baby."

He buries his face in your neck, sucking at your skin roughly and making you gasp. His arms wrap around your shoulders; pressing you chest to chest. Yours find their way around his neck, clinging to him as another orgasm creeps up on you.

Tears start streaming down your face, your thighs trembling around him and your volume impossible to control as you moan.

"Such a needy girl, aren't you~? You love it, angel?"

"Yes!" You pant out quickly, "yes, yes, please!"

His hips are slamming against yours, filling the room with the sound of skin colliding. If he was inside of you — you're sure you'd actually split in half from his sheer force.

"Fucking hell, baby," he licks up your neck, digging his fingers into your shoulders and pushing your legs together tighter with his own. "I need you to cum," he says as he leans up and presses his forehead to yours.

"Honey," he smiles widely as he registers your tears, "you crying for me? Yeah~? I bet your virgin cunt is so overwhelmed~"

"Sh-shut up," you whine embarrassedly, slapping his back weakly.

"Oh, yeah, it is~ Needy little crybaby never had someone make her feel so good before, don't know how to handle it," he laughs airily, slowing down his hips and pressing closer to your slit; making you sob. "Shhh," he squeezes your shoulders, kissing up some of your tears, "don't try to fight it. I know, it's so much for my sweet girl... But you can do it~ Give me one more, one more, sweetheart. Do it for Daddy-"

You let out an unintelligible yell, trembling like a leaf in the wind below him and crying your eyes out as the overwhelming pleasure washes over you.

"F-fuck, oh, fuck~" He moans loudly, rubbing against you for just a moment longer before he sits up quickly; straddling your thighs and holding your waist tightly with one hand while stroking his length quickly.

His noise is almost as needy as yours as he cums all over your stomach, his fingers digging into you as his eyes roll back. More low whines and mindless praises before he finally lays back over you with a long, contented sigh.

His mess is still on your stomach, and it gets on him as well as he hugs you tightly; but neither of you mind or notice. "My Honey..." He moans breathlessly, rubbing his head against yours gently.

"Good fucking fuck me..." You babble as you hold onto him tightly, "how are you so good at this?"

He presses a kiss to your cheek and smiles, "older men just do it better."

────୨ৎ────

[gloomskulls]

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ WHAT LIES UNDERNEATH [cult member peter parker x reader]

pairings: dark! peter parker x reader

blurb/part 2

⇢ ˗ˏˋ SUMMARY ୨୧ after losing your family, your friends, and your boyfriend, Peter Parker casually crashes in your life out of nowhere. His presence was welcoming, as his so-called village is too. But his hospitality seems to have something darker underneath

⇢ ˗ˏˋ WARNING ୨୧ NON-CON/DUB-CON (RAPE), heavy manipulation, toxic relationship, cult beliefs, oral (fem receiving), drugging (use of an aphrodisiac), p in v, multiple orgasms, breeding kink, obsessive behavior, mild violence, mentions of death, depression, suicidal thoughts, implied murder. lemme know if I missed any. READ AT YOUR OWN RISK!

If you don't wanna see my dark stories, please block the tag #madi: dark content

a/n: this is loosely based on Midsommar, it's a really good movie. I have changed some stuff that i didn't feel comfortable writing or I just didn't want to write. Also this maybe the worst smut you've ever read probably. don't steal any of my shit or I'll steal ur head.

"I'm sorry sissy, the darkness is consuming me, and I will take them with me"

Those were the last texts your sister sent you. You were worried sick about her cryptic message and wanted disclosure from her, but she hasn't written back.

Your sister has been known to be a rather mentally challenged person. She was just venting to you. Right?

It was unnaturally still in the air, sitting at your kitchen table with the phone pressed close to your ear. Your fingers drummed an erratic rhythm against the edge of the table, still collapsed trying to ground yourself. All night, your sister has not picked up her phone. The strange text messages she had sent earlier in the day replayed like a broken record in your mind.

How many times have you been thinking of something really wrong, more than you would admit, but still dismissing it?

Somehow tonight felt different.

You texted Harry to reassure you, but the typical unsympathetic reply only served to add more weight to that chest heaviness again. Now you are left alone with your thoughts, and each one seems darker than the other.

You were about to not pick the phone because it looked like a spam call to you. The number was unknown, but that gut feeling inside you made you press accept.

"Hello?" Your voice dared as you strove to steady it.

The unknown caller said your name as they spoke, "Is this her?" The voice on the other end was calm but carried a cold detachment that made your stomach drop.

"Yes," you replied.

"This is Officer Hill with the NYPD. I'm sorry to tell you we've had an incident regarding your family," she said.

Air disappeared from your lungs suddenly, and your grip tightened against the phone. "What kind of incident?"

"I understand this is tough," she said, her voice carefully measured. "But I need you to come to the station. It's better to speak in person."

The issue of reality has been stretched and heavy between you, and it was so unbearable. “No,” you spoke finally in a panic voiding interiorly. “Please, just tell me now. What happened?”

There was a moment's hesitation in Hill's case. In that moment, you could feel the world starting to crack around you.

"There is no easy way to say this," she finally managed to come up with. "Your parents and sister were involved in a fatal accident. I am so sorry."

You could not comprehend those words for a moment. They swayed in the air outside with an unreal and incomprehensible quality. "What do you mean? Are they okay? What—"

"They didn't survive," Hill said softly, and that cut through your spiraling questions.

The phone fell from your hand and banged tipsily on the table. To this resonating rattle in the small space, however, your ear was tuned out. Your chest tightened, and the phrase ran in your brain, echoing in shallow gasps.

They didn't survive.

The days that followed the funeral just passed in a haze of hollow condolences and noise deafening silence. Your world had been torn apart while everything moved forward—all relentless and lame. Harry, your boyfriend of 2 years stayed as he assured you, but his presence seemed more of a fulfillment of an obligation than any comfort.

He was not exactly a cruel person; at least not really overt, for distance was a high-dubious chasm with every awkward conversation and with every minute spent by him scrolling through his phone instead of talking to you. Not blind are you to those glances he exchanged with his buddies once they assumed you weren't watching. There is pity instead of love and comfort in his eyes whenever you cry.

The last straw fell on a quiet Friday evening. You had dragged yourself to the apartment of Harry, looking for refuge in his presence after yet another sleepless night. He was lounging in the couch with one hand gripping a phone while the other was a beer.

"I feel like I'm falling apart," you admitted softly and settled next to him. Your voice cracked, and at last, the tears that were kept in were poured out. "I don't know how to do this without them. I don't know how to… keep going."

Harry glanced towards your direction, the look on his face inscrutable. After that, he set his phone down and fell into this heavy sigh as he rubbed the back of his neck. "I understand, okay? But you can't keep unloading things like this on me. It's…it's too much."

Your heart sank. "Too much?"

"I'm not your therapist," he said in defensive. "I don't know what you want me to do. I can't fix this for you."

"I'm not asking you to fix it!" You snapped while accepting the anger that had replaced the hurt. "I just need you to be here. To actually care."

He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he diverted his gaze from her, tightening his jaw. "This isn't fair," he muttered.

"What do you mean fair!?" you yelled, your volume rising. "Me grieving my whole family? It isn't as terrible as needing the person who's supposed to love me to act and comfort me?"

Harry stood up immediately and started pacing the tiny living room. "I didn't sign up for this," he said. The words cut like knives. "I feel like… like I'm drowning too. I'm trying to keep my head above water, but here you are, pulling me under."

Your breath literally caught in your throat at that last sentence, as if a blow on the physical plane had hit home. "Is that really how you see me? As one who drags you down?" You asked in disbelief.

However, he stopped pacing and turned toward you, shoulders sagging. "I don't know," he said more quietly. "I don't know what I feel anymore. My friends tell me I should end it. They say I can't do this to myself. But I thought, you know, that might help."

"Help?" you echoed, voice breaking. "You think pity keeping me would help? Do you know how humiliating that is?"

Harry looked away. "Well, I'm sorry! alright!? It's not like I want to be part of your fuckin tenth reason in your suicide note!". Guilt was scrawled across his face when those words left his mouth. "I didn't mean for it to be like this."

You stood waveringly. Nevertheless, your voice remained firm. "If this is too much for you, then spit it out. Be frank for once, Harry."

He hesitated, his silence answering the question you hadn't dared to ask outright.

You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat. "Well, that's what I figured."

You took your bag and stepped out of the apartment, closing the door behind you just before the torrent of tears fell as you stumbled down the street. For the first time in weeks, you were truly alone. Sure, Harry wasn't the best boyfriend, but now you didn't have family, Harry, heck, you don't even have friends to pat you in the back and tell you it's alright.

You were truly alone, crying in the middle of the streets.

A week later, at the dinner party of an old classmate's friend, Peter Parker walks into your life.

Peter wasn't meant to be there—he admitted that soon after you started the talk. "I kind of crashed this," he confessed with a sheepish grin, rubbing the back of his neck. "I heard there was free food, and, uh… I have no self-control."

You laughed against your will. It was a real laugh that felt vaguely familiar after weeks of grief.

He was awkward but charming, with rapid tumbling out of words out of his mouth as he tried to start a small talk. "So, uh, how do you know Sam? Are you a friend from work? Oh wait, no, you don't look old enough to work with him—wait, not that you look like a kid or anything. I just meant—"

"It's okay," you interrupted, smile still there regardless. "I get it. I am also kinda crashing here, I never really got a proper invite, I just found out from one of my old classmates that there was a party, now here I am"

The more you could talk to him, the more you would discover how easy it was to be in his company. Unlike Harry, who had always been polished and withdrawn, Peter was frank and genuine, emotions laid out for all to see.

And by the end of the night, he had known your family. You had not intended to tell him, but somehow the way he listened— actually listened— made it spill out.

"I'm so sorry," Peter said softly, voice laced thickly with empathy. "That is… I can't even imagine what you're going through. But, if you ever need someone to talk to—or like, someone to distract you with dumb jokes—I'm here."

You've been taken aback by his earnestness. Finally, after what felt like years, someone might have noticed you.

It was indeed one of those nights which made time stretch out into eternity. You were there with Peter on a park bench where the faint light of the flickering city lights was shining through dense bushes and trees. The air was crisp, a cool kind that could very much seep into one's bones, yet Peter's company made it bearable.

He had this way of filling the silence without forcing it: sometimes talking, rambling on about whatever random thought invaded his head, sometimes just sitting with a person comfortable in the quiet, and today, he was acting especially thoughtful, staring at some faraway towers protruding above the skyline.

"Can I ask you something?" he suddenly blurted out, breaking the stillness.

"Sure."

He hesitated, bit his bottom lip as if he couldn't decide how to start, and began speaking. "Do you ever feel like…I don't know, like you're stuck?"

You blinked. It caught you off guard. "What do you mean?"

"Like everybody around you is moving ahead, but you're just there standing still," he explained, his words pretty crumbling out in that earnest, awkward way of his. "Like no matter what you do, you can't catch up."

The question was a little more awkward for you than you'd expected. "Yeah," you quietly admitted. "too many times than how I want it to be"

"It's tiring" he said, his eyes still far. "I get that. After my uncle… well died, after all that, I felt like I was trapped in this… I don't know, this loop. So, I couldn't allow myself to be happy because it would feel wrong, you know? Like I didn't deserve it."

You were gaping at him, flabbergasted by his openness. Peter was not the kind to talk much about himself—not like this, anyway.

"How did you get out of it?" you asked in a soft voice.

He smiled faintly. "I didn't. Not really. But I found something that helped."

"What was it?"

Peter gazed upward at the stars. "My hometown. It's a little dot in the middle of nowhere on the map. Quiet, kind of old-fashioned place. But there's something… something grounding."

He stopped for a brief while, casting a doubtful glance at you. "I go back every summer. It's like hitting a reset button or something. And, uh… would you want to join me this year?"

Totally unexpected. "You want me to go with you?"

"Yeah," Peter said quickly, blushing in the face of it. "If you want to. No pressure, or anything. Just you have been through a lot, and I thought maybe time away might help or something. It's not fancy or anything—definitely not the kind of place with five-star hotels—but it's peaceful. And I'd be there, so… you wouldn't be alone."

At his words, your throat became somewhat tight. He was not offering a vacation. He was inviting you to an escape.

"I don't know," You finally ventured with a little quiver of voice. "What if I just feel worse?"

"You won't," Peter said firmly, his brown eyes locking onto yours. "I won't let you."

There was something so genuine about the way he said it, like he truly believed he could protect you from the weight of your grief.

"What is it like?" you asked, helpless curiosity walking over your hesitation.

Peter's eyes set aglow at that moment, brimming over with a lot of excitement. "Oh gosh! Now where do I even begin? Okay, so there's this diner right in the middle of town. It's run by Mr. and Mrs. Beck. They've been married for like fifty years or something, and they make the fluffiest pancakes you've ever tasted in your life. And then there's this old library. Small, yes, but it has this weird charm, you know? Everything is crooked, and half the books are falling apart, but I love it. Oh, and there's this great big field just outside of town—it's perfect to stargaze because you can see the Milky Way out there. It's insane."

Now he was practically bouncing out of his seat, his enthusiasm almost contagious.

"It sounds… amazing," you found yourself admitting. A small smile tugged your lips.

"It's amazing," Peter said earnestly. "And I think you would love it. Everyone is so welcoming there. It's like… a little bubble of goodness in this horrible world sometimes."

For just a moment, you let yourself imagine it, far from the city and the reminders of everything that had been lost, somewhere I might again breathe.

"Okay," you said finally, barely above a whisper.

Peter's eyes lit up. "Really? You're going to come?"

"Yeah," you said, surprising even yourself. "I think I need this."

"Trust me; you won't regret it," Peter continued, his grin stretching from ear to ear.

For the first time in what felt like forever, you felt a flicker of hope. Maybe this trip wouldn't fix everything. Maybe it wouldn't fix anything. But for now, it was enough to know you wouldn't be facing it alone.

It was a surreal feeling about the trip toward Peter's hometown. It was almost a relief because you sensed that you were really leaving everything behind, even thought it was just a few weeks. Driving in a comfortable pattern with Peter talking animatedly about all of the town's strange things, while you listened and occasionally chimed in with a question or a laugh at one of his goofy replies.

As you drove farther from the city and the scenery opened to rolling hills and dense forests before you, Peter shifted in his seat to adjust the radio. The soft tune filled the car and merged with the sounds of the tires over the road.

"You are going to love it," Peter said, glancing at you with an innocent smile. "Air's so fresh it nearly smells fake, and the stars. They're nothing like anything you've ever seen before. I promise."

"I'll hold you to that," you said, smiling despite the nervous knot still twisting about in your chest.

The town came into view just about the time the sun started sinking, dipping the horizon in gold and pinks. It was a little bit smaller than you had in mind, the kind of place that probably knew everyone by name.

Peter slowed the car as you entered the main street, which was lined with quaint buildings that appeared to have been plucked from another era. A few of the local's whereabouts were either on their porches talking, in their gardens working, or taking their dogs out for a walk. They would almost wave at Peter as they drove past.

"See? Told you. Nicest people on the planet," said Peter returning the waves enthusiastically.

"No shit," you said, watching a woman coming across with a basket of flowers smile toward you warmly.

Peter stopped in a graveled driveway leading to a homely two-storied fairy tale house. Crooked white picket fence and wildflower-laden garden, there was little that screamed charm.

The moment the car stopped, from the front door, she came, a petite woman in her 30's with brown hair, beaming with kindness in her eyes and warmth in her smile.

"There's my darling nephew!" she called out.

Peter jumped out of the car, practically bounding onto her, hugging her. "Aunt May!"

"And you must be the girl Peter keeps talking about," she said, her bright eyes finding their way to you. "Peter has told me so much about you."

"Oh, um, hi," you said, stepping out of the car and giving a small wave.

"Then that's it," she said, surprising with her strong hug for her small figure. "It's so lovely to finally meet you. Come in! It's rather hot out here during the summers"

Once you stepped into the house, you were met with interior that was as cozy as anyone could expect, the design suggests mixes between vintage and modern furniture, with colorful throw blankets and knickknacks making it feel lived in. There was also a faint waft of freshly baked cookies, which you soon spotted on the kitchen counter.

"Make yourself at home," May said, "Your room's already set up upstairs. Peter can show you around."

"Thanks May," Peter replied, already grabbing your bag before you could protest.

Up came Peter, leading you to a small but cozy guest room overlooking the backyard.

"Hope that's cool," said Peter, dropping your bag next to the bed. "Not fancy, but it's quiet."

"It's perfect," you said, placing your backside on the edge of the bed and taking a moment to breathe.

In the following days, Peter became your own personal tour guide, leading you through the town every nook and cranny, and introduced you to everyone as if you were already a part of the community, and to your surprise, they all welcomed you with open arms

Mr. and Mrs. Beck would insist on serving you their best pancakes while there at the diner even after breakfast time.

"We have heard so much about you," Mrs. Beck said it with a twinkle in her eyes. "Peter's nearly counting the days until you came."

Peter turned red and scratched the back of his neck. "Thanks, Mrs. Beck. Subtle as always."

Library, this was to be; the charmingly ramshackle structure seemed to sag under the weight of its many books. Peter's eyes lit up as he walked through those rows of crooked shelves with his fingers trailing over the spines.

"This here was my escape growing up," he said, pulling a worn copy of The Hobbit from the shelf. "Any time things got… overwhelming, I'd come here. Just me, a book, and a whole lot of silence."

This was the kind of moment when one caught a glimpse into Peter's world of quiet, reflective, introspective thinking where the depths beneath the sunshine state, as always, reside.

The very field that Peter had described so vividly turned out to be even more breathtaking than you ever imagined. The grass stretched out in every direction, swaying gently in the breeze, and the sky above was that of a canvas painted with stars, brighter and bolder than he had ever seen.

With a dramatic sigh, Peter flopped onto the ground, patting a spot next to him. "Come on, you're not getting the full experience unless you lie down."

You hesitated to lie down beside him, letting the cool grass tickle your arms as you stared up at the infinite expanse of sky.

"Wow," you breathed.

"Yeah?" he said, turning his head towards you. "It's like the universe decided to show off or something."

They lay there silently for a good while with the sound of the rustling grass and an occasional chirp of crickets. That was the most peaceful you had felt in a long, long time.

Maybe it was a little initial self-talk that told you it was just small town hospitality. People in cities don’t wave at strangers, though maybe that’s simply what people do out here. Maybe they were just genuinely curious about a stranger in a little place where everyone knows everyone.

But as the day went on, those small gestures, those innocent jests began to feel… different.

It started out slow.

At the diner, Mrs. Beck lingered longer than she ought to while refilling your coffee, her smile warm but sharp, penetrating eyes boring onto you.

"You're feeling like one of us already, aren't you?" she would have said, almost as if it were a statement rather than a question.

You gave a polite smile with no idea of how to answer. "Uh, yeah, everybody's really welcomed here."

"Oh, good," she said, with a firm nod. "That's what we want."

There's something in the way she said it, words weighing a lot more than they were supposed to.

And so it went; the Becks household was not the only one. The pattern held true for nearly every encounter.

"How are you settling in?"

Not "welcome" or "hi and how long are you staying?" The last kind of question you would expect from someone meeting a newcomer. The question, however, assumed permanence. It assumed that you were settling in, that you live here now.

Initially, you passed it off as just another one of those quirks that could be attributed to small-town hospitality. Maybe that's just their way of being polite. But after a few more days, it became pretty hard to ignore the repetition.

You brought it up to Peter one morning as the two of you sat on May's porch, sipping coffee and watching the sunrise.

"Is it just me," you began, keeping your tone light, "or does everyone here ask the same question?"

Peter looked up from his mug, a confused smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "What question?"

"How I'm 'settling in.' Like, literally everyone has said it."

"Oh, that?" Peter chuckled, brushing it off with a wave of his hand. "That's just how people are around here. Small towns, you know? Everyone's in everyone else's business, and they just want to make sure you're happy. It's aggressively wholesome."

You nodded while struggling to let his explanation take root in you, but that feeling of unease lingered.

Then came the presents.

The librarian insisted that you check out a copy of Little Women, even if you just went there to browse.

"You'll love it," she said, sliding it over the counter to you with a knowing smile.

"How do you know?" you asked, only half-joking.

Her smile didn't waver. "I just do."

At the hardware store, the owner gave you a tiny potted shrub. "Every home needs a little bit of green," he said cheerfully, but his eyes had a dark intensity that made him more intimidating.

"Thanks," you mumbled awkwardly, holding the plant as you walked out.

It was the kind of gift given by a dead beat dad, not at all because you wanted it, but so they could wave it in your face.

The real breaking point occurred one night at the diner.

Peter was treating you to dinner there after spending the afternoon wandering around town. It was quieter than usual, the counter occupied only by a few regulars. The place smelled of coffee and fries, and while Peter was busy demolishing a plate of the latter, you excused yourself to go to the washroom.

The hallway at the back of the diner is dark and narrow, the overhead fluorescent lights humming in slightly grating tones. At the door marked "Women," you caught snatches of voices from the kitchen-garbled, urgent.

"…And she's settling in?"

"She seems fine so far. Peter's doing a good job keeping her comfortable."

You were frozen with your hand on the doorknob. Your pulse raced. "Good, she has to feel like she belongs, it's important."

Then there was a crashing sound of many dishes, followed by a long heavy pause.

"So," says the first voice, "you think she suspects anything?"

"No. Not yet."

There, silence fell between the voices after that, then just the faintest clink—the sound of silverware-and the quick pounding of your heartbeat resounded in your ears.

When you stepped back to the table, Peter's easy smile greeted you. "Everything cool?" he asked as he dipped a fry into ketchup. "Yeah," you said quickly as you slid into your seat. "Fine."

The mind remained racing.

They must be talking about someone else—a new hire at the diner. Maybe a new family into town. There was no way they were talking about you.

Right?

You tried to shake it off, sinking into Peter's chatter about the upcoming festival, but the unease clung to you like a second skin.

May's small guest room became so beautiful in the rays of the morning sun that they filtered through lace curtains and softly flecked the walls. You stared ridiculously at the ceiling, a heavy weight on your chest, making sleep unusually elusive. Thoughts had been just too loud and tangled.

Those whispers from the diner, the rehearsed kindness from townspeople, and the way he seemed to brush it all off so easily were elusive things you couldn't shake off. The most you told yourself was that it was probably nothing.

This is what you told yourself as you forced yourself out of bed and down the stairs. Peter wouldn't lie to you; he was the most genuine person you knew. Right?

The smell of pancakes and coffee greeted you in the kitchen.

By the stove stood Peter, his hair at odd angles and humming a tune under his breath. For a moment, you let yourself relax. This is Peter, your Peter.

"Good morning, sleepyhead!" he greeted, grinning at you with that boyish grin. He slid over a plate of pancakes drenched in syrup and topped with fresh strawberries.

"Morning," you replied, low enough to be heard.

"You okay?" he asked, tilting his head.

"Yeah, just didn't sleep much," you tugged and picked little at your food.

"Frowning," Peter said and kept down his fork. "Anything troubling you?"

"No," you lied quickly. "Just one of those nights."

He studied you for a moment, and you forced a small smile. Whatever the unease was, there was no reason for dragging Peter into it. He'd just dismiss it as he always did.

At last, the day was spent in a well-practiced blur of activities. It seemed Peter had made up his mind to keep you as busy as possible, even dragging you around the town park and to that creek he used to catch tadpoles as a kid. And if that weren't enough, he picked you up from the bakery where the sweet aroma of pastries was very strong. Offering you so many pastries till your stomach ached

Evening had cloaked the house in darkness, and so much for bottled up emotions. After dinner, the two of you sat alone in the living room: May well and truly off to bed. And that left you here with Peter sprawled across the couch flipping through some book, while you closed yourself into a tight little knot in the armchair.

"Peter," you broke the silence.

He blinked up at you with alarmed eyes. "Yeah?"

"I need to ask you something."

His brows knitted slightly, but he set aside the book. "Sure. What is it?"

You pause, heart racing. "Last night at the diner I heard something. Two people in the kitchen were talking about me."

Peter's face remained impassive. Still in his eyes, there was a flicker of something that disappeared as quickly as the light.

"What did they say?"

"They said you were doing a good job keeping me comfortable. That I need to feel like I belong." You paused, faltering with your voice. "Peter, what does that mean?"

Peter leaned forward, dangling his elbows on his knees. "It's nothing, they were probably just being nosy. People here care about each other, and when someone new comes in, they get… curious."

"That is not how it sounded," you said shaking your head. "It sounded like, intentional. It sounded much like plotting."

"You're overthinking this" Peter sighed rubbing back on his neck "Seriously, this town—it's different—close-knit. They just want to ensure you feel welcome, happy here, nothing but that".

“Then why does it feel so fake?” you pressed, raising your voice. “Everyone acts like they already know me. Like they’re expecting something to come from me.”

Peter tensed his jaw, and then he did not speak anything for a moment. He then stood up suddenly. "I brought you here for your help," he said in a hard tone. "I brought you here so you might begin a fresh mental state, a place where you could heal. And instead of appreciating it, you are looking for ways to tear it apart."

"I didn't ask for this!" you shot back, standing as well. "I didn't ask to be dragged into some town where everyone acts like I'm part of some… some secret club!"

Peter turned to you, eyes flashing. "You didn't have to ask! You were falling apart. You needed this. And I've been trying my best to make things easier for you, but you can't even see that, can you?"

The words hit you like a slap. Staring at him, breathless, tears filling your eyes. "Peter… why are you doing this?"

He softened immediately, shoulders slumping. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I didn't mean to—look, I just… I care about you. I hate seeing you so lost. I thought bringing you here would help, but maybe I was wrong."

You wiped your eyes, and the mind is busy with thoughts. Maybe he is right. Maybe you are over-reacting. Peter was not that manipulative. He was just worried.

"Okay," you said finally, your voice shaky. "But if this town is so great, then why does it feel like there is something you are not telling me?"

Peter's eyes drifted towards the window momentarily—as if to check whether there were eavesdroppers outside—"It is not like that," he said, whispering faintly barely audible.

"Then tell me what it is," you said. "If you want me to trust you, then stop keeping secrets."

Peter sighed deeply, his shoulders sagging. "Alright," he said. "But you're not going to like it."

"And that's supposed to mean what?"

He moved closer, looking you straight in the eye. "Some things are better demonstrated rather than told," he said, his tone even more pleading. "I'll tell you everything tomorrow. Just…give me another day."

You gawked at him, feeling your belly tie up in knots. Every instinct in you screamed to demand answers right now, but for some reason, the look in his eyes stopped you. He looked… desperate.

"Fine," you said with reluctance. "One more day."

Peter nodded, a relief washing over his face. "Thank you," he said almost inaudibly. "I assure you, it will all come into perspective soon."

But climbing into bed that night only made more pronounced the doubts gnawing at you louder than they had done before.

The cold, crisp evening air wrapped tight around you like a noose, as they led Peter into the woods. Try as you might to ignore the uncomfortable hollow in your gut, the longer you sat in this strange, unsettling village, the more you felt that something dark ran underneath it all. Every villager's smile, how they seemed to know just a little too much about you—everything just felt orchestrated, perfect.

You had held the doubts to yourself, buried deep down because Peter had always been the perfect anchor. But tonight, something flickered in his eyes—his tense shoulders and that almost undetectable flash of something darker crossing his face—told you that you were no longer in control.

You entered the clearing, gasping for air by the time you stepped into the structure resembling a stone chapel. The door agonizingly creaked open, bringing in the cold air from outside in juxtaposition with the stifling heat within. There, illuminated softly, were the others. A few you recognized from the eerily quiet familiar faces that watched you through predatory eyes.

It felt thick and heavy in the air, almost stultifying. The walls were closing in, and the silence was becoming almost oppressive. Peter gently but firmly drew you forward, his comforting presence still providing warmth, though everything else seemed wrong.

He was more weathered and older than you imagined, the drawn skin of his face tight over sharp features, pale and unblinking eyes matching his face. The robe hung dark and almost blended into shadows as he approached you. A murmur swept through the people gathered, and you paid little attention. Everything spun in your head and your heart drummed against your ears.

"Peter," said the man with a voice which grated like a rusty hinge, as if he had been whispering for years. "She has come."

Peter's eyes had been fixed on you for some time, and now he nodded slowly. The heat of his gaze made your skin crawl. The man checked you out from head to toe, and his intense eyes seemed to promise a lot of something. "Perfect," he said under his breath but not for too long so that others could hear him as he shouted, "She is the one. It's time."

Time, just like that word, seemed hollow, reverberating in the air around you like a bad omen. Instead, you opened your mouth to argue or question what part of this was really happening, but then, Peter squeezed your shoulder so tightly that it felt like it might crush your bones.

"It's okay," he whispered against your ear with his very warm breath. "I'll explain everything. You'll understand soon enough."

But understanding was the last thing you wanted to happen. All you had in mind was running. The man stepped forward, never breaking the eye contact. "Our village has managed to survive for many centuries and still thrive at its odds. But there is one rule that we have to abide by—there is one rule that can't be broken. After every eighteen years, one of our own must depart from this world and find someone in the outside world—from beyond these walls to someone pure."

Your mouth went dry. "What… what do you mean by that?"

"Every time a child turns eighteen, he must leave for a period of time to spend in the world outside, learn its ways; but after this period, he must return, and he must bring someone from the outside to add to the village."

Your body suddenly turned ice cold. "What do you mean, bring someone from the outside?" You spluttered. Your voice barely made an impression on the silence.

The smile of the man became broad. "A new family member. A mate. Someone to whom they will get married, with whom they will create children. This is the law."

You turned to Peter with wide eyes filled with horror as your heart stuttered deep in your chest. "What do you mean… a mate? You want me to…?"

Peter tightened his grip on your shoulder and breathed shallowly. "That's how it is done. This is how we survive. The village needs strong new blood. The children produced from these unions keep the bloodline pure, preventing inbreeding."

Inbreeding. That one word roared through your mind like no other thought. You couldn't breathe. You felt suffocated under the weight of all that.

"What… what are you saying?" you gasped, stunned and unable to take in everything being revealed to you.

Peter stepped even closer; eyes dark with something almost predatory. "That's how this works. You're part of the plan now. You have no choice. You are here because you were chosen. You are going to help us keep the village alive. Our survival depends on… "

"No," you whispered, stumbling backward as you tried to retreat. "No, this isn't right. You can't—this isn't—"

And suddenly, an old man stepped beside you, his shadowy tallness overshadowing you. "You will understand soon. You are not the first, nor will you be the last. Every child who leaves returns with someone. And they will mate, they will bear children. This is how we preserve our people, how we protect our bloodline." He said as if it was your duty, as if this was your destiny.

"No!" You screamed tearing the air with your voice now choked in emotions. "This is insane! You're insane!"

The gentleness from Peter that used to soothe you all vanished, replaced by the steely resolve. He took another step forward, and instinctively you recoiled. "I did not want you to have this," he said, his voice low and strained, "but it is how it is. You will come to understand, and you will see that it is for the best."

The other villagers watched you with silent intensity as the space surrounding you felt as if it were closing in on you, with walls pressing from all sides. You could feel their hungry and expectant eyes on you.

You wanted to run. You wanted to yell.

But as soon as the old man reached out his hand to grab you, Peter's hold on your arm tightened, his fingers digging into your skin, keeping you anchored. "You don't understand yet," he said quietly, his voice tinged with something darker, something that, as it sent chills down your spine, made you think he was going to take you off somewhere to be tortured. "But you will. Soon, it will make sense. The only way to survive is this. This is something we can't let you ruin."

You were trapped. The weight of their expectations crushed you, their smiles now twisted masks of something monstrous beneath.

"Your child will also do the same duty," the old man said softly. "When they come back to the village with their mate, they will fulfill their destiny. They will carry our future."

Your chest constricted. Every part of you screamed to escape, to run, to fight against the suffocating nightmare into which you had been dragged. All the while, in the depths of your consciousness, you knew that there was no escaping this; they had planned for this. They had chosen you.

Back against the stone wall of the chapel now, your breath came in rapid, gasping suction since the reality began to drown in you. It beat loudly in your chest, a frantic mind racing for exit routes, for freedom from the path that had been laid out for me like a spider's web in all its horrible detail.

Peter's gaze was cold and cruel; it was no longer the warm presence one had hoped for. The heady words of the old man echoed in your ears, chilling and impossible to escape, like a curse. "You will return. You will bear our future."

As impossible as it was to believe, you finally realized it, this fucked up cycle wanted you to be part of it—and not by choice.

But you weren't going to let that happen.

You pushed past Peter and felt the sharp sting as he grabbed at your arm. You broke free, legs now trembling beneath you, as you headed for the door. You had to get out. You didn't know where you were running, but the woods were the only option. The only chance at freedom. You burst through the chapel door and into the cold night air, stumbling over uneven ground.

You heard footsteps behind you, but you didn't dare look back. The wind howled around you, swallowing up any sounds from the village. Your lungs burned as you pushed yourself faster, harder, your breath ragged from panic clawing at your chest.

You didn't look up when you heard a car approaching, but you didn't stop either, as your mind told you to keep running, to escape, but your legs were beginning to fail you.

The car stopped short before you, the headlights blinding. You turned with a wild heart as the door to that vehicle swung open. A man in a police uniform stepped out, his expression unreadable.

"Hey, are you alright?" he asked, with a soft voice but underneath carrying an authority.

He wouldn't let you trust him, and you could be in danger. "I-I need help," you stuttered, barely able to catch your breath. "They're chasing me. They—they won't let me leave."

The officer stepped closer, his eyes darting toward the woods behind you. "Who's chasing you? What happened?" His voice was smooth, coaxing, calm.

You stumbled toward him, the last shreds of your resistance slipping away. His presence was comforting, the uniform a familiar sign of safety in this strange world that had turned upside down. "Please," you gasped. "I need to get out of here. Please help me."

The officer smiled, that warm, almost paternal smile that gave you a moment's feeling of cocooned safety. "You are well within safety here. Get into the car and I'll take you to the station. They won't find you."

You didn't even think twice about it. Worn out and shivering, you climbed into the passenger seat of the car. The door slammed behind you, then the engine revved into life. You sank into the seat, closed your eyes, letting the sound of the engine create an illusion of safety. Finally, you escaped. Finally, you could breathe again.

The engine growled before heading out with the officer looking at you and softening his expression to almost a grin. "A strange night out here, huh?" Are you really sure you are, okay?"

You shook your head, catching your breath. "I need to get away from those people… I don't know who they are but they're dangerous."

"People can be dangerous, can't they?" he mused.

You glanced at him. "Yeah, I guess. I just don't know who to trust anymore."

Soft chuckle from him, as if to sense that it sounds contrived, that it has to be learned. "What's trust? You just have to know whom to get along with and whom to avoid. It requires experience."

You just turned to the window and trees and darkness rushed by. The mind was reeling from the attempt at grasping everything that has happened as it was really too much: the town; the event; Peter's cold stare; and now this—this officer who has apparently materialized at just the right moment. He must be the one sent to rescue you.

"Where are we off to?" You asked

"Oh, just a little way out of town," he replied, his voice smooth, almost too smooth. "Nothing to worry about."

You nod, fatigue dragging heavily on your eyelids. For a moment, it felt good, like all was well. But then the cop's voice became a personal one.

''I'm Steve by the way, Steve Rogers. Was just coming here for a quick stroll," he began, "I never thought I was going to be out here, helping someone like you. It is really funny, how life turns out."

Brow furrowed, and incomprehension written all over the face. "What do you mean?"

The very slight narrowing of the officer's eyes at you, just for an instant, was followed by his returning gaze to the road ahead. "I spent a lot of time in these parts, and the people can be somewhat…. they are peculiar. But then, I guess you already know that."

Heck, what was he talking about? "What do you mean by a little hard to understand? Who do you mean by that?"

Just above a smile, something confidential, something dark, flickered across the officer's lips. "Well, my wife, Peggy… she was from around here. She got them, you know? Understood what was going on. It took me a long time to realize it, but eventually, I figured it out. I did too."

Your heart stops, hammering against the confinement of your ribs. "Peggy… Carter?" That name rang in your mind like a bell, sharp and dissonant. You had heard that name before, only in whispers, a long time ago.

From what you remembered Peggy Carter was one of the most vicious woman in the police force, even in her short time in doing her job. One day she got married to a man named Steve and nothing was heard from her again. As if she disappeared, she completely left her job and duty, and so did Steve who was a fellow police like her who also vanished from the face of the earth. That was all you knew, and all of that happened 10 years ago. Many believed they moved. Some believed

The officer's smile brightened, but now it had no warmth. His voice went down low, as if telling you a secret you weren't supposed to know, "That's right. Peggy Carter. She was special. A part of something much bigger than either of us ever realized. I didn't understand it at first. Thought she was just a regular woman… but then I saw it. I saw everything for what it was."

It had caught in your throat because your mind was connecting all the dots. Peter, in actual fact, couldn't stop saying that you were here for a bigger thing, that you actually belonged. And now there is the officer, Peggy Carter, the strange village thing, the quite twisted ceremony—now everything starts to get clearer while terrifying you.

Your pulse raced, and once more, you cast a glance at him, eyes wide with realization. "You… you’re one of them, aren’t you? You’re one of their… their plan.”

For just a second, something shadowy, something colder, flicked through his eyes; and with that flicker, somehow you knew you'd made a terrible mistake trusting him.

Steve Rogers, the cop smiled "I was hoping you'd come around sooner or later. You're a bit smarter than I thought," his voice was light, like he was discussing the weather. "However," a dangerous tremor lurked below his words. "Peggy always said you'd be the perfect addition - just like I was, just like she was."

You sprung back, your first instinct was to reach for the door handle, but before your brain could register what was happening, the vehicle shifted violently. Body flung against the door; your head crashed against the metal side with a sickening thud. Stars exploded behind your eyes, and suddenly, everything muffled.

When you woke up from what felt like the worst sleep in your life, but you weren't sleeping, or did you just doze off and you couldn't remember any of it? Everything felt like a blur, memories were juggled up, and everything seemed out of place. How did I get here again? You thought to yourself.

It was strangely silent all around. The engine's rhythmic humming gave way to a stifling, heavy silence. You couldn't move. The air around you was thick and stifling; you had a throbbing headache that was likely to make you nauseous.

You couldn't even comprehend what was happening before you saw the door of the car opened, your whole-body weight made you fall off the vehicle. You audibly groaned as your body hit the rough dirty cement

Lo and behold, standing right in front of was Steve Rogers, towering above you, his face expressionless. His cold stare that piercing through your soul at you while your arms continued to adjust the sleeves of his uniform with a calm expertise.

He circled you as if he was predator cornering its prey. He stopped just at your head. He looked at you with an expressionless face, he slowly smiled, the creepy type of smile you would see psychopaths do on movies.

You wanted to run, punch him in the face and fucking run. But you couldn't, it felt as if your feet have already given up on you, plus the blooming pain in your head made it hard to think.

"It just never gets the job done" He frowned momentarily, your eyes widened in fear as you saw him take a beer bottle from behind his back, you shook your head, no please, please, please. You tried your best to crawl away from him, but you couldn't even feel your legs.

You sobbed in defeat, but he just caressed your cheek and wiped your tears away, as if to lure you into a false sense of security. With all the softness of a feather, he said, "You'll be fine," really more to reassure himself than you. "The ceremony's just waiting for you."

Before you can act, a hard bang on your head seems to lurch your stomach. The officer had swung a beer bottle at your skull; it hit with a sickening crack and within the instant the pain exploded into darkness pressing behind your eyes, and the world went black.

It was the scent of incense—sickeningly sweet and heavy enough to churn in the stomach. Candlelight flickered. shadows danced on stone walls, making the small space feel smaller by the second.

You woke up all lethargic with a blooming headache. You felt relaxed underneath the soft bed that you laid, but once you took in the stone walls, it felt like a train has hit you. All of the events from a few hours ago running you over.

Your mind raced, scrambling for an escape route, but all you saw was Peter standing between you and the door.

He never looked more like a stranger.

The once boyish charm which drew me to him was now a hollow mask as he hid himself behind his dark eyes. The face had no malignance—worse, it was soft, almost tender, like he really believed in what he was about to do. And that thought haunted me most terrifyingly.

"You are trembling," Peter said, his calm and soothing voice only making the fear spike higher. "I know it's a lot, really overwhelming, taking it all at once… but… it will be okay, I promise you."

"Peter, please," you whispered, your voice breaking into pieces at the seams. You could hardly utter a word without your throat choking it. "You don't have to do this. Let me out. I promise I won't tell the police—"

But that was where he cut you off by shaking his head sadly. "You don't understand. This is my home. It is where I belong. And now, it is where you belong too. We are part of something bigger here. Something meaningful."

"Meaningful?" you spat. "You kidnapped me, lied to me, and brought me here to…" The words cracked at the tightness in your throat. You couldn't even say them. I dawned onto you that you have been too trusting with Peer, but who wouldn't? Who knew that clumsy little sweet Peter was capable of doing something this fucked.

Peter stepped closer, casting a shadow over the too small room where it suddenly felt claustrophobic and anchoring. “I didn’t kidnap you. I saved you.”

His voice is insistent, though not harsh. “You were lost out there. Alone. No family, no one who cared about you. Don’t you see? This is your chance to start over, to have a purpose. To be loved.”

“Loved?” The word struck your lips like venom. “This isn’t love, Peter. This is… this is sick.”

It darkened slightly his countenance, as a spark of frustration crossed his face before it was replaced by forced patience. "You're scared," he softly pronounced. "That's normal. But fear does not last. Once you embrace your role, once you understand what we're building here, you'll see that it's not sick. It's beautiful."

“No,” you whispered, the soft sound swallowed by the thrumming of your heart. “No, this isn’t survival. This is—”

“But” Peter cut you off firmer now like a knife slicing through your protests. “It’s already decided. The village chose you. I chose you. And now… it’s time to fulfill your purpose.”

Peter looked at you, with a voice deceptively soft. “It’s not about what you want. It’s about what the village needs. What I need. We can’t let our bloodline die. Every generation, we bring someone in—someone like you. It’s how we survive. How we thrive.”

“Not,” that voice barely came out through the rapid pounding of your heart. "No, this isn't survival. This is—"

The words sent the waves of nausea throbbing through you. Your knees buckled, landing you onto the edge of the bed, your body shaking violently. Peter knelt before you, hands gentle as they gripped your knees. The touch made your skin crawl, but you were frozen, paralyzed by fear.

"You are afraid," he repeated, the tone almost tender. "it needs to be this way. After the ceremony, you'll see there is clearly a need for it."

"Peter," you choked out, barely in a whisper. "Don't do this, please."

He tilted his head, softening in expression as if he really thought given how pitiful you look. "This is for them. For us. For the village. You'll thank me one day."

The door creaked open, and two women stepped in to the door. They moved with quiet, almost unnerving precision their white, long, and flowing robes covering the ground as they entered. Both had faces that seemed devoid of emotion—serene but cold as if they had performed this ritual hundreds of times before.

You instinctively tried to press yourself into the corner of the bed pulling down from Peter. “Who are they?” you asked unsure though your voice came out shaky and weak.

Peter turned toward the women; his posture casual almost welcoming. “They’re here to help,” he said softly as though the explanation should comfort you.

Help. The word in your stomach was like poison. You didn’t need help. You needed to escape.

One of the women carried a bowl filled with a dark unknown substance that shimmered strangely in the candle's light. She laid the bowl down on a small wooden table near the bed, her movements carefully controlled. The other carried a smaller cup with her fingers clutching tightly as she looked at you.

“Don’t,” you said, your voice trembling as you shook your head. “I’m not drinking that.”

It’s just to help,” he said calmly. "You’ve been through so much. You lived so much. You’re shaking. You’re exhausted. This will relax you.”

“I don’t want to relax!” you cracked your voice rising in desperation. “I want to leave! Please, Peter, don’t do this!”

He sighed, as though disappointed but his patience did not waver. “I know you’re scared,” he said reaching out to hold his hand on your knee. “But this isn’t about fear. It’s about trust. You trust me, don’t you?”

Your stomach tilted and a cold wave of nausea was rolling over you. Why would he even ask that question? "Peter, you are not the person I thought you were. I don’t trust you. I don’t even know you anymore.”

Peter’s jaw tightened somewhat ever so slightly, as if flickering with guilt. Peter was the funny and clumsy guy you met at a party, but this Peter. You don't know which dimension he came from. But his guilt was immediately gone in an instant replaced by the same calm, unnervingly patient expression, accompanied with a reassuring smile that could've been comforting in different circumstances.

“It’s my fear. I think that can be said,” he said, his tone softening again. "Once you let go of this, you will see. You’ll feel better.”

He gestured toward the woman with the cup to reach closer to you. Her movements were graceful, fast rehearsed as she held the drinking. The cup itself was simple, wooden. But compared to what's inside looked nothing compared to ordinary. It was a dark murky brown with faint swirls of crimson that seemed to ripple on its own.

Your stomach churned at the sight of it, you wanted to gag at the thought of even coming in contact with that liquid, you said again "I won't drink that." Your voice barely above a whisper.

The woman didn’t respond. She held the cup in her hand, as if waiting for you drink it still.

Peter reached for your hand and firmly gripped on it, but not a forceful one. "It’s okay,” he said softly, his eyes locking with yours. “This will help you. I promise.”

You tried to pull your hand away, but his grip tightened, and the woman moved the cup closer to your lips. Panic rolled. Your heart began to beat, and tears were falling from your eyes. “No!” you shouted thrashing against Peter’s hold. “Let me go!”

But he didn’t let go. His strength was shocking and unyielding as he held your and instructed the woman to force the drink in your mouth. The dark liquid sloshed down the rim, spilling onto your trembling chin as you refused to open your mouth, moving your head back and forth so that you could just avoid the unknown and disgusting liquid.

“Please don’t fight this!” Peter shouted; his tone now laced with urgency and desperation. "It’s better if you just let it happen."

The woman tilted the cup and poured the thick liquid into your lips. You clenched your teeth, refusing to let it in. Peter’s hand moved to your jaw, his fingers pressing firmly until your mouth opened involuntarily. Liquid graced on your tongue, its taste vile and metallic like rotting herbs and rust.

You gagged and coughed violently as they forced you to swallow. The bitterness burned all the way down, leaving an acrid aftertaste that made you want to rip out your tongue, you fell on the bed as you gripped your throat—massaging your throat, a pathetic attempt to soothe the taste that felt like it travelled all the way down to your throat, it didn't have any burning sensation, it just felt like your throat had taste buds.

You convulsed on the bed, “What the- What was that?” you asked; out of breath as you tried to gasp for air.

Peter stood “You’re going to feel it soon,” he said, pushing a damp lock of hair off your brow.

It was a gentle warmth blooming in your chest, then outward like the bright afterglow from the strongest of drinks. Then it grew. It scorched through your veins, making your skin feel alive with a burst of tingling sensations. Your breaths came quicker as you kept trying to dismiss the feelings, but they just wouldn't listen.

“W-What is happening to me?” came the stammers from you in a trembling voice.

Peter knelt beside you again, touching your knee ever so lightly with his hand. “The elixir is working its magic on you,” he said kindly. “It allows you to let go. To free yourself to connect with what is meant to be.”

This warmth soon transformed into a more diabolical sensation, a slow burn that throbbed low in your stomach that stretched to your clothed womanhood. Suddenly every nerve ending on your skin was hypersensitive, sending a shiver down your spine against that crawl of fabric over your body. Heart racing, but it was hardly with fear.

“No,” you whispered, shaking your head. “No, this isn’t right.”

Peter merely smiled all the wider and relaxed his squeeze on your shoulder. “It’s okay to feel this way,” he said. “Your body is just responding. It’s natural.”

While your mind was telling you every reason to fight it off, your body would have none of it. That heat, the damn heat; it clouded everything snuffing off every thought but that strange feeling growing in you.

Peter leaned in closer as he whispered “This is how it’s supposed to be. Don’t fight it. Just let it happen.”

Your brain screamed against this intrusion, invoking all the force it could muster to reject it, to reject him. But your limbs felt heavy, thick, sluggish, as though they had been clapped into a steel frame. The drug took effect, you loathed it and wished to deny the dull calling of unwanted pleasure.

"Please," you managed to whisper, letting your tears flow down your cheeks. "Don't do this."

In every way this was wrong. You didn't want to partake in this, you wanted out. Peter was not the person you thought he would. Maybe he was before all of this, but not now.

Peter held your face with both his hands—gentle yet firm. "It's been done," he said, pinning his gaze on yours with steady resolve.

The heat had become unbearable; it drummed against your thoughts and created ceilings that pressed down on you. You could hardly breathe, each breath barely manageable since all control was lost over thoughts revolving around him. The very touch of him inflamed every nerve in your body.

Peter continued to lean forward until the distance separating your two faces became almost nonexistent. The darkness of his brown eyes was rendered soft, for all that, it was chillingly out of place now. "You're trembling," he said softly, his voice dipping with mock concern as he brushed his palm over your damp forehead, lingering perhaps a moment too long.

You turned your head away, yet your body was heavy and unwilling to cooperate. "P-please," you whispered, not even sure what it was you were begging for at this point—mercy, some distance, anything but this.

Peter's hand slid down again to cradle your face, thumb grazing your cheek. The warmth of his touch felt like additional treachery against your body, which leaned into his hand, once again, even though the screams of your mind were saying otherwise. "Shh," he said, his voice dropping to a soothing pitch. "It's okay. You're safe here. With me."

His words twisted a knife that lodged in your heart, and you were still trying to find a protest when his other hand clamped on your waist—gentle yet firm. Just enough pressure was applied to make acutely aware of every detail of your closeness: the scent of wood smoke and something faintly sweet, flooding your senses and drowning all your composure.

"You've had to fight for so long," he said; there was almost a tenderness in his voice. "Let it go—let me take care of you."

You shook your head weakly, your lips parting to say no words that would come. Everything in you resisted, heavily dulled by the drug that now crumbled your defenses and left you helpless to bask in warmth blossoming in your chest and the sickening affinity of Peter's presence.

He angled his face, gazing down at you as the thumb of his right hand traced the curve of your jaw. "So beautiful," he murmured, almost a whisper. "Yet you don't even see it? You are something else—so special."

The tears that had built up in your eyes crashed down, scalding lines down your cheeks. "Please," you said again, but it came almost like a feeble whisper, your power to protest fractured.

Peter leaned forward, and his breath ghosted over your lips. "I've waited for this," he murmured, as though revealing a secret. "Waited for you. I thought I would never even have a chance with you since you were so fucking smitten with your dick of a boyfriend. But you're mine now,"

And before you could think, hit him back or convince him otherwise, his lips crushed against yours.

The kiss was languid, purposeful, and claiming. His mouth flowed with an unsettling confidence, an almost eerie manifestation of such rehearsed movement, if it existed at all. You wanted to break apart from him and scream and fight him, but your body let you down one last time; it was folded under the drug and against the full force of his presence.

His hands moved, one remained cradling your face, while the other tightened at your waist as a gentle reminder that you belonged nowhere else. It was a kiss more claiming than forceful, a silent proclamation of his ownership over you.

He finally pulled away but only to press his forehead to yours, feeling warm against your skin. "It's time" he whispered, it was loud enough for the women to hear. They immediately scurried out of the room and closed the door on their way out.

Before even asking what was going on, Peter attacked your neck. You shrieked at his sudden actions. He kissed, licked, and bite every single portion of your neck.

Peter's hot tongue licked your skin as he leaned closer, lips barely grazing the curve of your neck. A shiver made its way down your spine as he softly sucked on the sensitive flesh, forming this sweet vacuum that made your heart stand still.

Peter kept on kissing and nibbling at your neck, fueling his excitement that grew hotter like a fire, determined to engulf you both. His hands tightened around your waist, drawing you closer as he deepened the kiss, lips and tongue moving together in a dance that spoke both pleasure and pain.

You winced; you want nothing more but for this to end. You tried to imagine yourself in another scenario, a happy one. That one time where Harry bought you this wonderful necklace for your one-year anniversary. Things were still calm, peaceful.

You were so deep in thought that the ripping sound of fabric made you flinch. You have realized that Peter has ripped off your thin graphic t-shirt, leaving nothing but your bra on full display for him. But of course, the bra didn't stay on for long.

He ripped your bra off you with such force. He threw the bra elsewhere, that was the least of his worries as your he saw your mounds with all its glory. Blood rushed up to his cock at the sight of you half naked and slightly damp from sweat. You on the other hand just wanted nothing more but all of this to end.

Peter leaned in, his lips grazing your skin down to the soft curve of your delicate breast. His mouth latched onto your nipple, and he started to suckle; the soft gentle tug sent a jolt of sensation radiating through your body. Your hands fisted the sheets as you let out a shriek.

"You have no idea how long I have waited for this moment" His words came in muffled since he was still stuffing his face with your breasts, but you heard it loud and clear. How blind were you? Peter has been lusting over you, longer than you even met him, how come you never realized it? All the warning signs were there, but they were subtle, now they're just coming to light now that it was too late.

He had grown more daring now, sucking, kissing, and licking every inch of your breasts. He nibbled and sucked at the curves, gently biting the flesh around them. Meanwhile, his hands traveled all over her torso, cupping and squeezing dear breasts as if to remember every contour.

"So beautiful," he whispered in between kisses. "Perfect. Mine." Those words sent a shuddering chill up your spine.

Peter stared into your eyes while he was sucking and nibbling on your breasts. They would have been a sweet sight if the present state of affairs were any different.

He released your nipple from his mouth, as drool connected from his lips to your erect nipples.

With urgent impatience, Peter fumbled with the buttons of his shirt and then tore it off, revealing a sculpted torso that demanded attention. The muscles of his torso flexed while he moved, and for a second, you could not help but look at the sheer grace and control that radiated off his body.

Now, Peter had long ceased to be interested in himself; he was now concentrating all his energy and attention on you. The moment he grabbed hold of your pants, and his fingers had clasped tightly around the waistband, panic ran through you at the sight of him pulling down on them. You didn't want to give in, not now, not ever.

Your hands went straight up to push against him; you punched at his chest with all the remaining strength that you have that wasn't stripped off by the drug. Your fruitless attempt on trying to gain some space between your bodies.

"Peter, no," you said, your voice wavering but earnest. "I don't want to. Please!"

His eyes never left the prize, and nothing was going to stop him. He yanked your pants down, regardless of how you kicked and thrashed against the force with which he was pulling. Your underwear met the cool air.

A wave of embarrassment washed over you as you realized that Peter was staring down at the small scrap of fabric that barely covered you in your most intimate area.

He wrapped his fingers around your underwear's waistband. You tried to squirm away from him, but he held you tight, his grip like a vice. In one swift motion, he ripped the fabric from your body, leaving you completely bare.

Peter's eyes had wandered across every inch of your naked body, you tried to look away from him, but your face was met with a wet pillow, you didn't even notice that you have let out a few tears.

Peter dove on to your crotch and his warm breath rolled over your sensitive skin like a wave of fire. His tongue flicked out as he suckled at your clit, and involuntarily, jolts of electricity pulsed up your spine. You attempted to push him off you once more, but Peter was far too strong

Peter continued his assault on your pussy, you felt a familiar sensation happening. You shook your head as your body betrayed you. Peter seemed to notice this, "There she is"

Before you knew it, he inserted a finger in your hole as he continuously licked your clit with such vigor.

You let out a strangled moan as your hand flew to his hair. Peter smirked at this as he slowly fucked you with his finger, which was a stark contrast to his tongue who ravished you like you were his last meal

"God, such a tasty pussy" He murmured, which just sent vibrations to your pussy. He continued, his tongue circles your clit, licking and sucking on it like he can't get enough. "Good lil fuckin pussy" He moaned as if he's the one getting head.

He continues to lap on your juices, slurping any arousal seeping through as if he hadn't drunk water in many years.

His voice low and soft, whispering how good it is, how perfect your sweet pussy was for him. "Fuck, baby, you're so fucking sweet—so good for me. God, I'm so glad your mine now." He kisses it so passionately, muttering praises to it while his tongue laps you up.

And as he continued to lick and suck at your clit, you felt a building pressure inside yourself. It felt like every nerve ending had been ignited by Peter’s ministrations.

Your legs stiffened, your hips jerked upwards, and your entire body began to tremble with anticipation.

With such joy and pain, you felt like you were seeing stars right in front of you. The intensity was too much to bear as your grip on Peter's hair tightened

That instant when the knot finally snapped and a deluge of pure, harmless ecstasy engulfed you, your body contorted, muscles oscillating and contracting rhythmically; an intense orgasm swooping upon you like a tempest.

Your legs stiffened and your toes curled in pleasure. You clutched at anything and everything. Peter's hair, bed linen, anything to hold on to the threads of reality, as everything before your eyes dissolved into an ocean of forced bliss.

River of tears were falling from your eyes. You couldn't help but reminiscence your time with Harry. For the first years you were together with Harry, he was sweet and loving, even if your relationship has turned sour after Harry found another hobby, he would never force himself inside you. When you had sex, it was always consensual.

With the final ripples of the orgasm fading away, Peter finally pulled his head from between your legs. His gaze brushed over you with a kind of possessive pride, and he took the disarray of your body in the messy fondle of your hair, the daze that lingered from where he brought you so close to the edge that you fell over it, and the slick of sweat glistening over your skin.

“You look tired,” Peter said with a soft almost guilty tone, "But I'm afraid that that was just to prepare you, were just beginning"

When those words came out his mouth you shook your head as you begged him, "Please Pete, please" You sobbed, your words barely even intelligible.

"Shhhhhhhh" He shushed you, "The more your accepting, the sooner this will end" No, you didn't want to accept this, there must be another way, there must be.

As he stood up and took off his pants, exposing his erect cock. His cock slightly bounced once the boxers were fully off of him. He climbed on top you as both of you were now fully naked as the day you were born.

"The bedding ceremony is about to begin” Peter said, low in his throat, his voice husky with desire. “It's going to hurt, but I think I prepped you enough”

He then aligned his cock to your slit. You gasped as his bulbous tip entered you, he wasn't big, but he was thick. He slowly pushed his cock inch by inch inside you, your sensitive flesh was still sore from the previous orgasm.

Peter suddenly thrusted deep inside you, fully losing patience, with a forcefulness that took your breath away. His cock touching your cervix when he bottomed inside you, it felt almost painful how intense it was.

“Please, Peter,” you pleaded, attempting to push him away. "You're hurting me."

But Peter just smiled at you, it gave you tingling shudders through your spine. “That's the first step of the ceremony” he said, pulling out then plunging back in. “You just have to learn to accept what I’m giving you, if you learn maybe Goddess will reward you"

His relentless cock was battering your insides, and you were starting to tear up. It was nearly unbearable agony; the pleasure was subtle that you could barely even get the gist of it, the searing warmth that burned itself into your very essence.

“Stop,” you said again, trying to wriggle out of his grasp. "Please just stop."

Through the pain and the fear, you never lost hope. So you fought back with a passion you never had before.

Your hands raked Peter’s chest, ripping at his skin to the point he grunted in surprise. Your fingers sank into his skin, but he only chuckled—a sound that was hollow and empty.

Unfazed, you fought on. Your teeth dug into his shoulder, biting down hard enough to make him hiss. But even as he grimaced, he wouldn’t stop — his hips pumping a relentless rhythm, one that threatened to swallow you whole.

You swung your fists, punching into Peter's face and chest with a frenzied abandon. Forced down in front of him as he sunk his cock deep within your needy hole, you tried to twist away, to squirm free as he held you in place, the weight of his body pinning your hands above your head, forcing you to take this.

And you tried, even though it was entirely pointless. You kicked your legs to try and buck him off you. But he was too heavy — too powerful — and he laughed again as he kept your legs pinned down beneath him.

With each thrust Peter grew more aggressive; almost brutal the heat inside you was burning you up; threatening to consume all reason and make you numb.

You were lost in the agonizing bliss, as Peter's cock continued its merciless assault on your insides. The fire in your belly grew more intense, it felt like it was spreading through your insides like wildfire.

"God, you're squeezing me so hard" Peter breathed as his thrusts slowed down just a little bit.

Yet whilst you sensed you were in pieces on the inside, that you were toppling apart, something in you relished it. It felt like your body had turned against you, reacting to the vicious attack with a disgusting cocktail of agony and pleasure.

Peter thrusts forward and you felt your hips bucking in time with his, your mind spinning in horror. It was like your body had created its own consciousness that responded immediately to the arousal with animal instinct that couldn't be suppressed.

You were losing yourself in the sensations, being sucked into a world both dark and depraved, where no line could be drawn between pain and pleasure. It was the most terrifying feeling in the world, when you wondered if you would ever find a way out of the grip of this monster who was responsible for everything.

With every thrust, Peter became more aggressive, more brutal - You could feel yourself losing control; teetering on edge, ready to plunge headfirst into unknown; uncertainty ignited both fear and anticipation.

Your breaths were coming in small gasps now as Peter gripped your hips, his fingers digging into your skin like a vice. You attempted to move; attempted to wriggle against him—but it was futile: he was too strong

This friction just poured gasoline into the flames that had been raging within you—turning those pleasurable sensations into unbearable ones. The edge of your sight blurs out; stars dance along the border of your vision as the world narrows down on a single point of focus: Peter

In pure ecstasy moment you found yourself surrendering, submitting to the wave pleasure that is tearing up your body. Its fear inducing and freeing sensation — like leaping off a precipice without a net — not knowing what awaits at the base.

The world went white and quiet. You hear Peters voice in your ear whispering "Come for me" and with that your body explodes into thousand pieces

You weren't sure what happened, your mind all fogged and your pussy sore. The only thing you have noticed was that Peter was still thrusting inside you.

He leaned as he whispered the most haunting words into your ear, "I almost feel bad for you. I guess you should always follow what your parents says, don't trust strangers"

@gloomskulls 2024. DON'T COPY, TRANSLATE OR USE ANY OF MY WORKS HERE OR ANY OTHER WEBSITES. Photos don't belong to me

[w1ll0wray]

LET’S RUN AWAY ft. jinx x fem!reader

⊹₊⟡⋆ summary: after hearing the news of her escaping prison, you finally find your girlfriend in desperate need of comfort.

⊹₊⟡⋆warnings: mention of suicide, minors or men dni, jinx almost attempting, mention of other characters.

wc. 1.4k

𐙚 note | I’d really appreciate it if you would not only just like, but also reblog & give me feedback. thank you:)

You ran for god knows how long. Pushing over people— you had one target in mind.

Jinx.

She got out. She got out of jail. She somehow got out and now you were determined to find her. You knew what she was planning— after Isha’s death, her one goal was to end it all. You didn’t want that to happen. 

Caitlyn gave her a chance— a chance to restart. But all Jinx did was escape, without even seeing you. The look on her face when the explosion dissipated, Isha nowhere in sight, it broke your heart to see her surrender. Thankfully, you had sneakily got out before anyone could arrest you— sharing one last look with your girlfriend. It’s been a week since you’ve seen her.

Enforcers flooded Zaun, surveying the areas— surveying the areas to catch you. Right now, you didn’t care if your hood had fallen and revealed your face. 

You had to get to Jinx.

Catching a sniff of fire, you swiftly took a turn, eyes widening at the Last Drop lit up in flames. 

“Oh no.” You scrambled around the building, taking a few turns until a door finally came into view. Barging in, you skipped a few stairs down, almost falling onto your face until another door appeared. Hurrying, you slammed the door open to her hideout, heart leaping out of your chest at the sight of Jinx dangerously standing by the edge. 

“Jinx!” You called out, prompting her to turn her head towards your panicked self. Sighing in relief, you bolted to her and flung your arms around her. 

She remained frozen, eyes not meeting yours as you explained how relieved you were, arms still tight around her. Noticing her absent behavior, you raised your head up, eyes filling up with tears.

“I’m sorry about everything, Jinx.” You sniffle out, slowly moving her away from the edge, hand coming up to cup her cheek, “I’m so sorry.” 

Her rosy eyes remained on the ground, face emotionless. Your arms were around her waist and shoulder, holding her incase she’d disappear again, “Please, Jinx.” Your finger caressed her cheek, searching for any sign of emotion. 

When she doesn’t budge, you burst into tears, tucking her head into the crook of your neck as you hugged her, “I love you so much,” Letting your fingers thread through her short hair. 

“I’m with you, always.” You whispered through sobs, hand on the back of her head, “It’s not your fault—I promise.” Tightening your hold around her, you felt defeated at the thought of her enduring torture in that cell alone. You should’ve never run away— you should’ve surrendered alongside her. 

Maybe then, she wouldn’t have been so alone. Repeating your soft hearted words, you silently hoped that she was indeed listening.

 Lost in tears, you unexpectedly felt the fabric of your shirt turn damp. Pausing, you slowly pull away, eyes searching hers, only to freeze. Your chest tightened, and it felt like your heart had cracked in two as tears streamed down her cheeks. 

A faint whimper slipped from her lips, bottom lip quivering as her gaze finally met yours. Eyes glistening with tears, she grit her teeth, trying to hold back her sobs. Noticing her restrain herself, you lifted her face with your hands, “You’re the bravest person I’ve ever met.” You swept her into your embrace as soon as she faltered, causing her crumble into a flood of tears. 

Once you both met the floor, you pulled her into your arms without hesitation, hand resting on her shuddering body. It was like old times— when she used to crawl back into your arms when Silco scolded her or kicked her out of a mission. 

Running a soothing hand over her hair numerous times, you felt her body soften into yours. 

Without warning, her hands tremble as they wrapped around you, “I can’t live like this anymore.” Her voice was quieter, as if she’d fall apart any moment. 

You frowned, lips pressed together, “We’ll find a way, I promise.” Whispering, you cradle her face, tired eyes meeting yours, 

“It’s not your fault.” She knew you meant Isha and…Vander. 

Though, in the blink of an eye, a gust of wind came from behind you. You whirl your head around, eyes widening at the sight of an old friend. 

Green sparkles enveloping him as he took steady steps towards you both, “I just want to talk.”

“You think she’ll be alright?” You mumbled, finger rubbing your eyes, glancing at Jinx snoozing beside you in Isha’s fort. Ekko only sighed, “We have two choices,” 

You quirked up, watching him get up, “, we join in the war or…” He stares at Jinx’s body laying into yours, “We run away.” 

He knew the answer, there was no way you’d let Jinx go kill herself. No one knows what she might do if she sees Vander again— or even Vi. Raising your head to meet his eye, you said the words , “We run away.” 

Later that night, Ekko had gone out to make sure of things, leaving you to take care of Jinx. She had woken up shortly after his departure, her emotions all over the place. 

“I don’t deserve to live!” She cries out, tears starting to cascade down her face, trying to avoid your touch, “I need to die.” 

You tried your best to stay calm, hands landing on her bare shoulders, “You think you’re the only one with all the guilt?” Cupping her face, you nuzzle her closer, 

“Everyone in this world has done something they regret.” You reassured, gently planting a kiss on her forehead, sensing her tension ease. Afterwards, you tried feeding her some fruits that had been out in the abandoned stalls. She only ate three pieces before commenting that her stomach hurt. 

Thankfully, Ekko had returned, a smile spreading across his face, “I managed to get us a ride.” A surge of relief blossomed in you, prompting you to turn your attention back to Jinx, a soft smile etched on your face.

“We can get out of here.” Her eyes widened, a sign of life returning. That night, Ekko helped Jinx cut her hair, shaving signs of her past life. You were secretly upset about her beautiful locks but accepted it eventually. 

You all decorated each other in marker, Jinx cracking a smile for the first time. She even had the full course meal Ekko had given you both, her face a bit fuller. Once it was time to sleep, she snuggled into you, craving your warmth. 

In a blink of an eye, it was morning and the streets felt emptier. You all absorbed the undercity one last time before departing from your childhood home. Jinx had her hand in yours, trembling when signs of places she’d been in came into view. You reassured her with a squeeze, “We’re almost there.” Nodding, she let you both guide her out and into the shining sun of Piltover. 

War was near, all the enforcers were gone in some parts, guarding up in town square. Finally reaching the station, you pulled Jinx alongside you as Ekko gestured to the airship.

“It’ll get you out and into another city.” You frowned as he stayed on the ground, not entering with you both. 

“Are you not coming?” You asked, noticing his saddened expression. His gaze lands on the hextech building before meeting yours again, “I need to save my people.” 

Jinx tensed up beside you before running towards him and engulfing him in a tight hug, “Are you insane—?” 

“—Find happiness, Powder.” His voice cracked, eyes glistened as she embraced him, his bottom lip quivering, “Try to send me a message when you can.” He sniffled out, patting her back once she let go. 

You nodded, watching as Jinx slowly walked towards you, “Thank you for everything, Ekko.” Wrapping your arms around him, you then let go, shoving his shoulder with yours, “Stay safe, our boy savior.’” 

He chuckled, guiding you into the airship, a tear escaping down his cheek, “Fate will bring us back together.” 

Jinx held onto your arm as the airship started departing, her cheek resting on your shoulder as you waved goodbye. Feeling her gaze on you, you tilt your head down, a brow raising, “Hm?” 

She pouts, eyes innocently gazing up at you, “We’re in this together,…right?” 

You giggled, gathering her in your arms tightly as if she’d disappear any minute, 

“Together.” 

wanted to write a different one. Hope you enjoyed! ps. thank you sm for the wonderful requests I’m trying my best to reply to them all ! but for the ones asking for part 2 there’s a high chance I won’t reply depending on the one shot :) but continue with new ideas I luv it.

[osarina]

ᡣ𐭩 WITH NO ONE TO SHARE THE MEMORY OF FROST

FEATURING: dazai osamu

SUMMARY: you can't keep going on like this. it's been six months since you took over as boss of the port mafia—six months since you killed mori—and nothing is adding up. you don't understand why you did what you did, and everyone always hits you with the same reasoning: it was for the betterment of the port mafia. you can't accept it, and you need answers, but you can hardly breathe with all of the enemies circling yokohama. you allow yourself one night of freedom. you shouldn't have.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: LETS GOOOOOOOOOO YAYYAYAYAYAYYYYYY INSTALLMENT ONE POSTED AT LAST. PLSSSSS CIVZAI NATION, I HOPE YOU GUYS DIDN'T LEAVE ME </333333 i hope you guys enjoy the first part MWAH MWAH <333 civzai fridays will be every other friday from here on out! so next one is coming the 27th. reblogs and comments always appreciated!!

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

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

Red was once your favorite color.

Every Monday morning, you would start the week off with a fresh set of red roses in the vase on your desk, courtesy of Mori. He sent it with a note, usually asking you to do something for him or bemoaning the fact that you ignored another invite to brunch. You hardly ever read the notes he would send along with them, and sometimes you would toss the flowers too if he pissed you off enough the week before, but you never could help the small smile that curled to your lips when you first walked into your office and saw them every morning without fail.

Every Tuesday at three in the afternoon, you would meet Elise for teatime. She would shoo Mori out of his own office and dart around the room trying to finish setting everything up before you got there, not knowing you were already leaning against the door watching her scramble. Her red dress fluffed out around her as she panicked to get the cookies presentable, and she would screech when she saw you standing there watching her, slamming the door in your face until she was ready to let you in.

Every Wednesday, you would go down to the ports to ensure that all the week’s shipments arrived without any trouble. You would come back to your office late in the night to write up the report for Mori to review in the morning, and you would always find a drawing waiting for you. Usually just of you and Elise, but sometimes she would add in Mori or Chuuya or Kouyou, or all three—she always drew you in a red dress because she wanted you to wear one to match her, but you always said no, and she added little hearts along the border of the paper. You think she must’ve spent hours making sure that they were all even. Unlike Mori's notes, you kept every drawing from Elise in the top right drawer of your desk.

Every Thursday, Mori would send one of his direct subordinates down to your office as a messenger to invite you to dinner with him on Friday. You hardly ever looked up at the man, always too busy with your own work, only barely catching sight of the red tie he wore around his neck before you told him to get the hell out of your office.

Every Friday, in spite of your complaints, you would meet Mori for dinner at a rooftop restaurant in Naka-ku. You arrived five minutes late, just to keep him sweating, but his expression always lit up at the sight of you entering the private room. He never sat down until you did, so when you entered the room, he would be standing next to his seat with his hands behind his back, red scarf hanging around his neck and a ribbon of a matching color tied around yours—the only time you ever used to wear the gift he gave you back when you were a child. 

You never realized how much comfort a color brought you until you were deprived of the very things that you associated it with. Now, Elise’s dress haunts you around every corner, and you see Mori’s reflection in the mirror every time you dare to look into one—their blood stains your hands no matter how hard you scrub it away. The very color that once brought you solace is now the cause of your heartache.

Your throat swells as your hand closes around one of the wilted petals lying on the desk you’ve long abandoned, looking down at the drawing on the wood surface that must’ve been left months before. You haven’t been back to your office since taking over Mori’s, and you regret coming down here as soon as you step into the suffocating place where time seems to have come to a halt.

It’s been six months, but you’ve hardly had the chance to even mourn. You don’t even know if you have the right to mourn. This is on you, isn’t it? Your decision, your coup—not only were you the one to make the plans, you were the one to look him in the eyes and pull the trigger… and for what?

You let out a shaky breath as the withered petals crumble in your hand, letting them fall back onto the cool wood. You sigh and turn your back to them, leaning against your old desk, head hanging down. A mistake because your gaze immediately lands on the scarf that you pulled off Mori’s corpse. You swear you can still see the blood dripping off of its ends, pooling on the ground below you.

Luckily, the sound of someone opening the door to your office draws your attention away. Your gaze lifts until it lands on Chuuya, whose hands are shoved in his pocket as he looks over you quickly, a concerned expression clear on his face.

“You shouldn’t be wandering around alone,” he murmurs. “Why didn’t you tell Klaus or Akutagawa where you were going? Me?” 

You exhale deeply, shaking your head as you look away, gaze settling on the skyline of the city and the rising sun in the distance. The night is over, and any peace you might’ve had is gone with it. You miss when night raids and compromised weapons shipments were the biggest stress you had. Now, you had to deal with them, and you had to spend every waking second in heated discussions with the government, trying to dissuade them from sending in the Hunting Dogs to Yokohama.

They want someone to blame for the conflict with the Guild that rocked the city and the video that was released of you half a year ago, and they can’t get you now that you’re the only thing holding the East’s criminal underworld together unless they want an incident to put the Dragon’s Head to shame. They want Klaus if they can’t have you—they haven’t said it explicitly, but you know it’s true—and you’re not giving him over, so you’re desperately trying to brace yourself for a potential conflict with the military police. 

“I’ve hardly had a moment alone since I took over, Chuuya,” you reply after a second. “I’ve had someone with me every hour of the day. I’m in our main headquarters, I can afford to step away for fifteen minutes.”

“You’ve had six assassination attempts on you within the past two weeks. Three in this building,” Chuuya counters coolly. “You’re trying to risk everything we did just for fifteen minutes alone.”

You inhale deeply, jaw ticking at Chuuya’s comment. You know that he’s right—a few moments alone is not worth the potential risk that comes along with it. You don’t have an offensive ability or really any way of defending yourself if you’re ambushed while alone, but there’s only so much you can take of people hovering around you every second of the day. If it’s not Klaus, it’s Akutagawa. If it’s not Akutagawa, it’s Chuuya. If it’s not Chuuya, it’s Iceman and Albatross. If it’s not Iceman and Albatross, it’s Atsushi and Kyouka. You can sneak away sometimes, usually when it’s the Flags assigned to you, but those moments are far and few between, certainly not enough to rid you of the suffocation you feel on a daily basis.

“Give me a break,” you say quietly in response, the fight draining out of you. “Please.”

Chuuya falters at the frailty in your voice, shoulders slumping as he makes his way over to you. His eyes are heavy with emotion as they scan over you, and your lashes flutter when he reaches out to cradle the side of your face—the leather of his glove is achingly familiar against your skin. You can’t help the way you instinctively lean into his touch.

He lets out a long breath before stepping closer to you, pulling you to his chest. You’re boss of the Port Mafia now, and you can’t afford to show any weakness unless you want people to take advantage of it, but you’re in the privacy of your old office with your most trusted friend, so you allow yourself to sink into his arms, face dropping to rest in the crook of his neck. His hand slides to the back of your head, his other arm wrapping around your waist. 

You can’t remember the last time someone held you like this. You want to savor it, but you don’t let yourself. With Chuuya’s body flush against yours as he comforts you, you can feel his heartbeat, though he’s become adept at lying to you with a straight face over the past half a year, his heart won’t lie.

“It’s been six months, and I still can’t understand why,” you say quietly, eyes sliding open, but you keep your head resting on his shoulder as you feel him tense.

“Why?” Chuuya prompts you to explain, trying to keep his voice light and conversational, but you can feel the way his heartbeat picks up.

“Why I killed Mori,” you say, gaze trained on Chuuya’s neck as he visibly swallows.

“It was for the—”

“For the betterment of the Port Mafia,” you finish before he can. “That’s what everyone tells me, and that’s why I remember doing it.”

“Then, what’s the problem?” Chuuya asks instead of confirming that it’s because that’s what happened—a mistake. “Hm?”

“You know something that I don’t, Chuuya.” You finally voice the suspicions that have been plaguing you for months. Chuuya’s heart rate spikes, and it’s all the confirmation you need. “I see. And you’re not concerned that I’ll order you to tell me what you know?”

“Don’t,” Chuuya says tightly. “I won’t forgive you for that.”

You exhale deeply. Having gotten what you need, you pull away from Chuuya, evading his gaze when you catch the hurt expression that crosses his face when he realizes you only indulged in his comfort to get information from him. You look down at your desk, fingers brushing the note Mori left for you with the now-withered roses six months ago. You haven’t opened it yet, and you don’t plan to, but you let your fingers trace the cursive hime on the front of the envelope. 

“At least tell me if I did the right thing,” you whisper, voice hoarser than you intended for it to be. “Please, Chuuya.”

“I wouldn’t have supported you if you didn’t,” Chuuya tells you after a few agonizing seconds of silence. “Cao Xueqin just landed in Tokyo. Mishima is hosting him until we get there. Are you ready?”

It’s his way of telling you to drop the subject—you can’t be centered on the past when there are threats at your doorstep just waiting for the first opportunity to strike—but it’s hard for you to move forward when you don’t even understand your own motives for killing your-

For killing Mori.

It’s for the betterment of the Port Mafia, but everything Mori has ever done has been for the betterment of the Port Mafia. Something just isn’t right about the reasoning—even if he did make questionable decisions concerning the Yakuza syndicates and outright bad ones against the Guild, it wasn’t enough to justify your eagerness to displace him as boss. Your ‘driving motive’ was the hand he supposedly played in your arrest half a year ago, conspiring with Ace to use you as a scapegoat to get the government off the Mafia’s ass but…

Your hand flattens against the note he left for you, eyes lingering on the roses he made sure to replace every week without fail.

He would never do that to you. You know in your heart that there’s something else going on, but you don’t know what, and you don’t know why you’re unaware of it. It’s hard for you to focus when you feel like you’re not understanding something so fundamental. 

You need to know why. You need to know why you really killed him, you need to know why you don’t know, and you need to know why Chuuya knows but won’t tell you. 

But first, you have to deal with Cao Xueqin.

“Yeah,” you finally say. “Yeah, let’s go. Hopefully, this shit doesn’t take all day.”

From the way Chuuya grimaces, you have a feeling that it absolutely will.

------

Dazai doesn’t think about you anymore.

He doesn’t think about you when he wakes up in an empty bed every morning, and he pretends he doesn’t instinctively reach out for someone who is not next to him. He doesn’t think about you when he passes by a bookstore and sees the book he almost decided not to publish in the wake of your betrayal, and he pretends he doesn’t wonder whether or not there’s a bookstore close to the Port Mafia base, and if you’ve maybe seen it in passing. He doesn’t think about you while walking home after a day of lounging around the detective agency near Motomachi Shopping Street, passing by the ports to get to his apartment, and he pretends he doesn’t whip around when he thinks he sees a familiar figure shadowed by the setting sun.

He doesn’t think about you anymore. 

He really doesn’t.

Dazai takes in a deep breath as he adjusts his shoulder bag, attributing the way his eyes suddenly sting with tears to the midday sun shining directly into them. He shouldn’t be thinking about you, at least, but for some reason, you’ve already crossed his mind twice today, and it’s making him sick to his stomach. He knows it’s because he’s hungover, and whenever he’s hungover, he’s more prone to accidentally letting his thoughts run astray, but he wishes he would stop.

A part of him wishes that he could forget like you have. You took the easy way out by erasing your memories of him and going on with your life; he doesn’t haunt you the way you haunt his every waking second. You have it easy, and you don’t even know it. You don’t wake up with his name caught between your teeth like he does with yours. You don’t see him in the gaps between people’s faces on the street or hear his laughter in the wind like him. You don’t flinch when someone says the words forgot or abandoned, because those words mean nothing to you.

But for Dazai, it’s different. You’re in everything. He should hate you for wiping your memories clean of him, but he doesn’t. He envies you. He wishes that it were him. He told you once that he’d rather die than forget, and he thinks that maybe it still stands, because he can’t imagine a life without the memories of you, but sometimes… Sometimes, he thinks it might be easier. Sometimes, he wishes that it could be him who forgot, and you who was suffering being haunted by the ghost of him.

He’s moved on, he reminds himself like there isn’t still a gaping hole in his chest that he’s been trying to drink and fuck away for over half a year now. Nothing does the trick no matter how hard he tries to act like it does—taking someone else back to his bed is only bearable when he’s drunk enough to pretend it’s you, but it’s a double-edged sword in that once he’s drunk enough to start thinking about you, he can’t stop, and it always floods over into the next morning.

At least he’ll be at the Agency soon—he’s only a block away now, and then he can waste the day bothering them and trying to find some new inspiration for the new idea he had for a book. He hasn’t been able to get a single word down on paper despite making every effort. He’s resorted to filling up a journal with depressing poetry, hoping that if he rage writes and grief writes all of his emotions away, he’ll be able to move on and actually get to working on the new novel.

He isn’t exactly sure how he ended up with the Armed Detective Agency; he’s not complaining because he thinks the past six months would’ve been much darker without them in his life, but he does wonder why they took him in the way they did. He knows it has something to do with Yosano’s relationship with you and Ranpo supporting her, but he was surprised the rest were so quick to accept it.

“Hellooooo,” he sings as he enters the cafe beneath the Agency. 

The cafe manager immediately turns his attention to Dazai, a small smile curling at the corner of his lips. “Dazai-kun, do you want a coffee before you head upstairs?”

“No, thank you, Uzumaki-san,” Dazai replies. “I’m going to head up. I’ll be down in an hour or two to try to sway your lovely wife astray.”

He tosses the cafe manager a wide smile, but the older man only rolls his eyes with an exasperated smile. “You’re going to end up being whipped across the head with another wet towel, Dazai-kun.”

“Worth,” Dazai calls over his shoulder before disappearing up the stairs to the fourth floor.

Dazai pretends he’s not almost out of breath by the time he gets up there, flinging open the door dramatically with a “Guess whooo!” only to pause when he doesn’t immediately get a response. His brows furrow as he makes his way deeper into the office, snooping around a bit until he hears some noise from what sounds like the first conference room.

Dazai isn’t technically a detective, and he probably should just lounge in the waiting area until someone comes out who he can annoy, but they’ve let him get away with enough that he can’t help the curiosity getting the best of him. He creeps around the corner and sees the whole group of them sitting around a table in the conference room, looking at something projected on the screen.

Dazai only barely registers the way Yosano’s expression shifts as soon as she notices him, rising to her feet. In the back of his mind, Dazai knows he should scamper back into the waiting room and pretend he wasn’t snooping, but he finds himself freezing at the sight of the image on the projector, mouth going dry and blood running cold. 

“Dazai,” he hears Yosano say distantly, but he can’t even draw his attention away from the screen. “I texted you, I said you probably shouldn’t come in today, I-”

“My phone was dead,” Dazai replies, but his voice sounds far away, even to his own ears. “What is… Why…”

Why are you on the projector? 

It’s a faraway, grainy image of you, but it’s you—Dazai would recognize you anywhere, and he feels like he’s been punched. He’s over this, over you, he tries to convince himself of it over and over again, but he just can’t draw his eyes away. He hasn’t seen you since that last day at the safe house, and the sight of you again after all of this time is ripping open all of the wounds that for months, he pretended were healed.

You look different now—he expected it, of course, it’s been over half a year, but nothing could’ve prepared him for actually seeing you again. He almost finds it hard to breathe, lungs clogged and body tense. It looks like CCTV footage from the ports, you’re standing with Nakahara Chuuya and your subordinate, Klaus, and Dazai has never seen you so tired before.

Even back at the beach house when he cornered you into admitting what was happening and why you were being so cagey, it’s nothing compared to this. Even with the image being as grainy as it is, he can see the lifeless expression on your face, and even though he knows he shouldn’t, he can’t help the worry that bubbles in his chest. He should feel gleeful that you look as miserable as you do, at the idea that maybe you’re even half as miserable as he’s been without you, but he only feels concerned. And guilty. He feels guilty for accusing you of taking the easy way out when this clearly has not been easy for you.

Then, he pushes the thought away instantly. This was your choice. Dazai didn’t get a choice. There’s no reason he should be concerned, and there’s especially no reason for him to be feeling guilty.

“We got a request from the government regarding the Port Mafia.” It’s the President, Fukuzawa, who speaks up, and the surprise of it is enough to finally draw Dazai’s gaze off the screen.

“Sir, should we be—”

“It’s fine,” Ranpo interrupts, green eyes visible as he gazes at Dazai curiously before shooting a pointed look at Fukuzawa, waiting for him to continue. Dazai found that they don’t really question Ranpo much at all, so he’s not surprised when Kunikida backs down, even if he does still look perplexed as to why they’re telling Dazai the details of their new case. 

“The government was suspicious that there was a transition of power happening with how quiet they’ve been the past few months,” Fukuzawa explains, and Dazai swallows thickly, knowing exactly what power transition must have happened. “There’s been an uptick in activity the past month that they can’t handle on their own. This image was captured at one of the ports in Naka-ku four nights ago during a raid by the military police on a warehouse suspected of being owned by the Port Mafia. They were ready for it; twenty-nine officers were killed in the conflict that broke out, another eighteen still in critical condition. These three were at the center of it.”

“The one on the left is Nakahara Chuuya, a confirmed executive of the Port Mafia and one of the strongest ability users in the world. He’s been at the top of the nation’s most wanted list for years,” Fukuzawa continues, and Dazai has a feeling he knows that he doesn’t need to explain this, considering Dazai’s former relationship with a Port Mafia executive, but he supposes it’s better to keep up appearances. He wouldn’t be in the best spot if his connection with the Port Mafia became public knowledge—the less people who know all the details, the better. Even in this room, only the detectives are aware of Dazai’s past with you. “The young boy in the red is supposedly the new boss’s personal bodyguard—nineteen-year-old Klaus Mann, a wanted terrorist throughout Europe and Asia. Three years ago, he was added to the list of the Seventeen Worldly Evils at number nine after massacring several military units in Eastern Russia. Four hundred and thirty-six soldiers were killed in the rampage.”

Though Dazai thinks he should be more stuck on the fact that the stupid teenager that screeched at the sight of plastic skeletons in your apartment and looked like a kicked dog whenever you scolded him is on the list of the Seventeen Worldly Evils alongside some of the most villainous individuals Dazai’s ever had the misfortune of learning about, he’s more stuck on something else.

New boss.

His gaze drifts back up to your image on the screen, but this time, his eyes linger on the red scarf draped around your neck—the one he vividly remembers Mori wearing that day. Dazai knew that this was your plan, but it’s different hearing that you succeeded. It’s different knowing that you’re actually the Port Mafia boss now.

Does that mean that you killed Mori?

 If he weren’t so devastated over how things turned out for the two of you, he would almost be impressed that you were capable of following through with a plan like yours in the midst of the chaos and confusion of your memory being altered. But he is devastated, and angry, and resentful, so his jaw only tightens in frustration.

“New boss?” Dazai whispers, voice faint. He ignores the grimace that crosses Yosano’s face at his question to keep his eyes trained on you. He feels bitter again—angry—you could have succeeded with him at your side. You didn’t have to stoop to this; you didn’t have to—

“The woman in the middle is suspected to be the new boss of the Port Mafia,” Fukuzawa answers, and Dazai’s gaze averts to the ground immediately. “Under the new regime, the Port Mafia has expanded rapidly, and it’s left the framework holding this city together unbalanced. There’s no longer a functioning government check on the Port Mafia, which leaves them open to acting out of their jurisdiction.”

Dazai swallows as Fukuzawa clicks onto the next slide, gaze focusing on a vaguely familiar smiling face.

“The new mayor of the city,” Fukuzawa explains, although Dazai is fairly certain that’s not where he knows him from. “Walter Lippmann.”

“The actor?” Tanizaki asks doubtfully, brows knit together.

“And suspected Port Mafia affiliate,” Fukuzawa agrees, clicking onto the next slide, which shows that same man sitting with you and another familiar face. That’s right—he was one of the ones he met that day at the safe house, so is the other man sitting with you in the picture.

You don’t look quite as lifeless in this image—it’s less grainy than the CCTV from the warehouses—but you certainly don’t look happy. The smile on your face is convincing, but Dazai can tell that it doesn’t reach your eyes. He’s seen your real one often enough to know that.

“So what does the government want us to do?” Kunikida asks, straightening in his seat to frown at Fukuzawa. “If they can’t do anything, what makes them think we can?”

“They’re using us to knock the Port Mafia down a peg, obviously,” Ranpo says, unwrapping a lollipop and sticking it in his mouth, leaning back in his seat carelessly. “We’re not bound by the same rules as they are. They want us to either get proof to have Lippmann removed from office, or they want the kid, Klaus, so they can do something to prove to the rest of the world that the Port Mafia is still under control.”

Dazai suddenly doesn’t want any part of this. His stomach churns, and his eyes are a bit unfocused as he directs his attention to the wall. He wasn’t prepared to hear about you today—he hasn’t spoken about what happened to anyone, even Yosano, who Dazai is pretty sure has a good idea of what happened, considering her past with you. He’s tried so hard to pretend that you don’t exist, and he just wasn’t prepared to have reality tossed in his face like this.

Shit. 

He needs fresh air desperately; the room feels too stuffy, the air too stale, what little is getting to his lungs is not enough, and it’s making his head feel light.

“Are you okay?” He hears Yosano ask, but her voice sounds so far away. He wants to snap at her—does it look like I’m okay?—but no words leave his parted lips. “Dazai, you—”

“I need to step out. Ah, too much crab last night. Yosano-sensei, you're so right, I need to change my diet. Don't mind me,” he finally pushes out, voice wavering in spite of his attempts to joke around as he quickly comes back the way he came, only getting to the main room before he has to lean on one of the detective’s desks, hand pressed to his mouth as he tries to hold back heaves. He hears someone follow him, but he doesn’t bother to look until he feels them touch his shoulder—he knows it’s Yosano, but he still jerks away. “Don’t touch me.”

So embarrassing, Dazai thinks, desperately trying to get a hold of himself. He’s been careful to keep a light demeanor around the detectives. He doesn’t want to be too off-putting and push away the only people he has left, but he can’t help the way his body physically reacts to the image of you after all of this time, and he certainly can’t help the way his whole mind feels like it’s collapsing at the reminder of your betrayal after he’s tried to shove it away for so long.

He hates you, he thinks desperately, but even as the thought crosses his head, he knows it’s not true. He doesn’t think he could ever hate you, but he’s so… so angry. He’s so angry and resentful, and he’s hardly allowed himself to really come to terms with the fact that you forcibly removed him from your life by wiping all of your memories of him when you knew he needed you and when he told you that he would rather risk being with you than alone again.

Dazai usually has a silver tongue, but he can’t even put into words the pain that he’s been suffering every day knowing that you’re out there living your life unaware of his existence when six months ago you would look at him like he’s the only thing that mattered in the world, when you treated him like he was something worth risking everything for. He’s woken up drenched in sweat from nightmares where he would run into you again, and your gaze would flit over him like he’s not even there, like he’s no one. 

“Dazai, what… happened between the two of you?” Yosano asks after a moment, voice quiet. “I don’t… I still don’t understand-”

“Nothing, I'm fine. I told you, it's just the crab," Dazai replies, trying to keep his voice light and giving her a smile that he knows doesn't reach his eyes. She frowns at him, but he looks away, doing his best to pull himself together before he can embarrass himself even more. “I should go.”

“Dazai…” Yosano starts to say, but Dazai ignores her, fixing his shoulder bag and starting to make his way out of the Agency. He only stops when he hears Ranpo call his name.

“We could use your insight,” the detective says flippantly. “You know more about the Port Mafia than any of us. If we don’t succeed in at least one of these requests, the government plans on sending in the Hunting Dogs to deal with them, and if they do that… Well, let’s just say there’s a good chance Miss Coup D’etat ends up being their first target. They don’t want to target her, because as much as she’s been pushing boundaries with the government, the threat of her and the new Port Mafia is keeping a lot of foreign organizations out of Japan, but they will go right for her throat if they can’t get her in line somehow.”

Dazai stiffens at his words, an unsure feeling spreading through his chest at Ranpo’s words. Instead of agreeing, he gives the other man a dirty look.

“Ah, Ranpo-san, you really know how to make a man feel wanted,” Dazai sighs airly, ignoring the sting in his chest. “I wondered why you kept me around so long. This was why, huh?” 

“Let’s get one thing straight,” Ranpo says irritably, “I’m the greatest detective this world has ever seen—I don’t need you for anything. I don’t need anyone for anything.”

Dazai presses his lips together and is about to walk away, but freezes when Ranpo’s eyes open to focus on him. He thinks he’s seen the man open his eyes no more than a handful of times in the months he’s spent hanging around the Agency, and two of them were today alone.

“But no,” Ranpo continues, more serious now. “I didn’t agree with you hanging around here because we might need you in the future. I agreed because you looked lonely and like you needed someone.”

Dazai doesn’t respond. He shakes his head and turns to leave as he repeats more hoarsely, “I should go.”

“Think about what I said,” Ranpo calls after him.

Dazai has absolutely zero intention of doing that, but he does intend on getting shit-faced drunk to forget about everything that’s happened today.

------

You think this meeting would be far more bearable if you were drunk. 

For ten hours, you’ve been sitting across from Cao Xueqin, and you’ve made no progress since you first arrived. In fact, you think you might’ve taken steps backward, if anything, because you’re becoming increasingly more frustrated with how the man seemingly has a billion different ways to phrase the same request, and he’s becoming increasingly more frustrated with how you seemingly have a billion different ways to say no.

Having the Sun and Steel merge into the Port Mafia as a subsidiary branch meant that you were also acquiring oversight of their narcotics trade. It was the only condition Mishima had to the merger—he didn’t want to lose everything he built, and you could sympathize with that—and although you were displeased by the prospect of involving the Port Mafia with narcotics, the benefits outweighed the risks. 

Now, you’re faced with the consequences because, of course, Mishima didn’t tell you that he’s been in constant conflict with the Red Chamber over the shipping routes in the East Asia Sea. He was still dealing with the aftermath of a fight that broke out between the two organizations at sea when he agreed to the merger and didn’t find it prudent to warn you of it before you arrived in Tokyo to a displeased mafia boss who has lived by the eye for an eye principle his entire life.

Eighteen deaths, including one executive, for the Red Chamber, only nine for the Sun and Steel, no executives; and Cao Xueqin has the nerve to come to Port Mafia territory and demand the lives of nine members, including one of your executives, in recompense. You had half a mind to have Chuuya kill him the moment he made his demand, but it would only cause more issues in the long run—the Red Chamber is like a hydra, kill one head, and two more take its place. If you’re going to go to war with them, you need to salt the foundations their organization is built on, or you’ll never be rid of them.

And you can’t afford to do that right now because you still have the government on your ass and the threat of the Hunting Dogs hanging over your shoulders.

What a mess, you think irritably, cool gaze drawing back over to Mishima, who has the decency to be shameful as he looks away. You have a feeling that he did this on purpose—that this is why he was so amenable to merging with the Port Mafia. You’d expected more pushback from him than you got; you should’ve questioned it more than you did. The only reason they would jump to accepting this was if they needed the Port Mafia’s protection, but you’d been so overwhelmed with the coup that you took your blessings when you could.

Of course, they weren’t actually blessings. Nothing is ever that easy for you.

“Maybe we should come back to this another day,” you finally say, putting your cigarette out on the table. God, you don’t even want to know how many you’ve gone through today. It comes out like a request, but it isn’t really because as soon as the words leave your lips, you’re rising to your feet. “How long will you be in Tokyo?”

Cao Xueqin smiles thinly as he replies, “Until this is settled.”

“Lovely,” you say, careful not to let the distaste show up on your face. “Perhaps it would be more efficient if you were staying at a hotel in Yokohama—that way, we don’t have to travel to and from Tokyo just for negotiations.”

Cao Xueqin would have come to Yokohama to begin with if he had wanted to stay in the city. He doesn’t because it’s the heart of Port Mafia territory, and you know this, but you want to remind him that he has no right to make any demands of the Port Mafia when he’s too wary of it to even step foot in its city. 

His smile tightens, clearly understanding the point you’re trying to make, and he answers tensely, “It’s easier for us to remain in Tokyo.”

“I’m sure,” you reply, amusement audible in your tone. “I’ll contact you when I get to Tokyo tomorrow. Have a good night.”

You don’t wait for a response—usually, you would wait for the other party to leave in order to keep up appearances, but there’s no point in hiding your annoyance. Everyone in the room knows that neither you nor Cao Xueqin is pleased with how the day turned out, so there is no point in pretending, and you just want to get home. You need a drink desperately.

Chuuya trails behind you as you leave. Mishima is the one who comes to walk next to you, an awkward expression on his face. When his lips part to say something, you raise your hand to silence him.

“We’ll speak another time,” you say tightly. “Have a good night, Yukio.”

Mishima sighs, gaze lowering. “Have a good night,” he echoes quietly. “I’m sorry for the trouble.”

“Another time,” you repeat, stressing the words this time as you give him a flinty look from the corner of your eye. Hearing his bullshit apologies right now would only serve to piss you off more. If he were truly sorry, he never would’ve hidden this from you to begin with. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” Mishima replies, coming to a stop at the top of the steps while the three of you continue down to where Albatross is waiting in the car.

Before you get in the car, you turn to look at Chuuya. “Can you…”

You don’t have to finish what you’re asking for him to know what you’re going to say, which you’re grateful for because you never know who’s listening. But you don’t want Cao Xueqin freely roaming around Port Mafia territory, so you need him to go make sure one of Verlaine’s special ops units is in the area and can tail him while he’s in the city. 

“Yup,” he agrees, reaching out to squeeze your bicep before turning his attention to Albatross. “Get her back safe.”

Albatross waves his hand to dismiss him, rolling his eyes, and Chuuya scowls at him before casting you one last long look and taking off.

“Get her back safe,” Albatross mocks in a pitched voice once you sit in the passenger seat next to him. “The fuck else am I gonna do?”

You let out a huff of laughter, smiling down at your lap. Your fingers thrum against your leg as an idea comes to mind now that Chuuya is gone. You give Albatross a curious look from the corner of your eye as he pulls off the side of the street to start driving back to Yokohama. You give him a sweet smile that only makes him suspicious.

“I want to stop at a bar when we get back to the city,” you finally say firmly.

Albatross has the nerve to laugh in your face—the only person who hasn’t started treating you differently now that you’re boss. “Oh, I get it now—the warning wasn’t because of me, it was because of you. No fuckin’ way.”

Your brows furrow as you turn in your seat to face him. “I’m the boss,” you remind him. “I want to stop on the way back.”

“I don’t give a flying fuck,” Albatross says in response, giving you a pointed look before looking back at the road. “I’m the one behind the wheel. We’re not stopping at a goddamn bar. Drink in your office.”

You let out a frustrated puff of air as you look away. “I want one normal night, Albatross, please-”

“Sure,” he agrees too easily, so you know something else is coming. “Let me go get the Black Lizards set up around whatever bar you’re trying to stop at. We’ll make it a whole operation.”

You shake your head as you let out another sigh. “Forget it,” you murmur. “Let’s just get back to the base.”

Albatross groans. “Come on, doll. Don’t hit me with that.”

“Hit you with what?” you ask bitterly. “I dropped it, isn’t that what you wanted?”

Albatross rolls his eyes, but his lips flatten as he stares out at the road, a conflicted expression on his face. “Why do you want to go to a bar so bad?”

“I need a break from headquarters for the night,” you say quietly. You don’t know how to tell him that you’re haunted by the face of the very man you killed; that you can’t even look in a mirror without seeing him, that being in his office and sitting at his desk makes you sick to your stomach, that wearing his scarf feels like the weight of the world around your shoulders. So, instead, you just say, “It’s suffocating.”

But Albatross is Albatross, so he knows exactly what you mean. He always does. You want to hate the sympathetic look he casts your way, but you relax when he reaches out to squeeze your hand. Your fingers tighten around his instead of pulling away.

“I’ll call Iceman. He’ll meet us there, and we’ll wait outside, yeah?” Albatross finally compromises, turning his head to look at you. “No bringing anyone back to HQ otherwise Chuuya will find out. You find someone you wanna fuck, then we’ll bring you to one of our hotels and tell him tomorrow what you just told me. Deal?” 

“You’re so crude,” you complain, but you already feel a weight lifted off your chest at the realization that you won’t have to spend tonight spooked by shadows that take the form of achingly familiar figures. “... Thanks, Albatross.”

“I’ve got you, doll,” he murmurs, squeezing your hand again and letting your joined hands rest in your lap. After a few moments, he turns his head to look at you and says, “Just don’t fuckin’ tell Chuuya.”

You laugh. “As if I would.”

------

Dazai doesn’t know how he finds himself back at the bar he met you, of all places.

He hadn’t even realized where he was walking until he was standing outside with his hand around the doorknob. By that point, he was so desperate to numb all of the emotions that had been wreaking havoc on his chest and mind all day that he just gave up and went in, acknowledging that it probably wasn’t the best idea but too frustrated to care. 

He regrets it now, though—he feels like he’s suffocating sitting in the same exact seat he was in when you first walked through the doors the night the two of you met. His fingers are tracing the same etch in the wood underneath the bartop that he was fiddling with when he was rambling to you, and his gaze is trained on the top-shelf whiskey that you were drinking that night; it doesn’t even seem like it's been touched since then. He supposes he shouldn’t be surprised—most people coming to this bar can’t afford that type of liquor anyway.

It’s almost dusk, and Dazai is still on his third drink—he went back to his apartment before heading to the bar, and he ended up lying in his futon staring up at the ceiling for hours until his thoughts became too unbearable to deal with without alcohol. He’s only just now starting to feel the buzz, and it’s just not enough; every thought that crosses his mind is centered around you. Memories of his time with you that you no longer have, questions about what you might be doing, fantasies of how things might be if you’d actually listened to him instead of going through with your shitty plan.

Dazai’s throat spasms as he takes another long swig of his drink—the burn in his throat isn’t enough to take away from the pain that shoots through his chest. He misses you. He misses you so badly that it physically hurts, and he wants to hate you for what you did, but he can't even bring himself to do that. He’s angry, and he’s hurt, but most of all, he’s frustrated.

Frustrated that you took away his choice.

Frustrated that you wouldn’t listen to him.

Frustrated that you erased all of your memories of him.

Frustrated that you left him alone when he asked—no—when he begged you not to. 

It’s all so unfair, and he knows life has never been fair. Dazai, of all people, knows that, but you were always fair to him. Maybe he’d gotten too used to it, but the most unfair part of all of this is that he can’t even bring himself to hate you. He wants to, he’s tried to, but the closest he’s gotten is the burning resentment he feels for you on nights like these.

Every time he remembers you’re out there living your life without knowing he even exists after all of the months you spent with him, it makes him sick with anger and distress. He can feel the bile rising in his throat and the acidic burn on his tongue because how is it possible that you can just not know him when you used to look at him like he was your entire world? 

Nobody had ever looked at him the way you did before, nobody ever treated him the way you did, nobody ever loved him the way you did, and nobody ever will again because you chose to go and completely cut him out of your life. The only person who ever loved him so unconditionally no longer even knows he exists.

He misses the door to the bar opening when he takes another long gulp of his whiskey, trying to ignore the sting in his eyes and the tremor in his fingers. He should find someone to distract himself with—that’s the only thing that sometimes works when he gets like this. If he leaves himself alone all night, plagued with thoughts of you, he’ll end up drinking himself to a bridge that he can never bring himself to jump over and end up sleeping on a bench in some shady park too close to the ports.

He’s about to turn around to seek someone out—he doesn’t care who, but he’d prefer if they had some similar features to you, that way, when he gets drunk enough, he can trick his brain into thinking it’s actually you—when his traitorous brain conjures up another horror:

How many people have you been with since you wiped your memories of him?

Dazai freezes in his seat as he stares down at the amber liquid sloshing in his glass—he’d slammed it a bit too hard on the bartop when the question crossed his mind, and he can vaguely see the bartender giving him a dirty look from the opposite side of the bar. Dazai has been with quite a lot of people since you left him, and he’s had the memory of you as a major deterrence, be it because some nights he gets too sick at the thought of anyone but you touching him or that the person he sought out realizes he’s a bit too fucked in the head and makes an excuse to leave, but you…

You don’t even have the memory of him as a deterrence, and Dazai knows better than anyone how sought after you were. It was the root cause of many of his insecurities when the two of you were together; he remembers the event he attended before the two of you were official, how people were drawn to you, put off by the fact that you were dancing with him. People would jump at the opportunity to be with you and—

Dazai feels sick, swiveling around in his seat a bit too quickly because he’s desperate for a reprieve from his own mind. He doesn’t even care who anymore. The first person who looks at him will do as long as they can take his mind off you. He just can’t deal with being stuck with his own thoughts as company anymore, and he…

Huh?

His gaze settles on a figure standing just a few feet away from him, and Dazai thinks that his mind must be playing tricks on him—it certainly wouldn’t be the first time in the past six months. He blinks twice, trying to clear his vision, and his brows furrow slowly in confusion when the figure doesn’t immediately disappear. His mouth goes dry, and his throat spasms as he tries and fails to swallow a sudden rock lodged in it. 

There’s no way-

“Hey,” a voice that’s unmistakably yours says easily, an inquisitive lilt to your tone as you look over him with achingly familiar eyes. “Have we… met before?”

[wwooyology]

The Murder House | Masterlist & Intro ⏃

↳ this is inspired by an ask from the lovely @addictedtohobi

「parings」 : enha x fem!reader

「synopsis」 : it was halloween season once again, and your brother begged you and your friends to go to this new hit escape room that just came into town; the only problem? you hated going to them almost as much as you hated waking up early in the morning. however, being the good friend and sister you were you went with them. you expected cheesy props, dumb riddles and questions, and a rigged room, so you couldn't get out even if you got the right answers. what you weren't expecting was being drugged and waking up in a room with a dead body and separated from all of your friends.

「genre」 : horror/thriller, gore, angst, psychological thriller, mystery

「warnings」 : MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!!, heavy gore, blood, murder, mentions of suicide, cussing, death, manipulation, mentions of being drugged, toxic behavior, reader is speculated to be an 03' liner, trauma bonding, other specific warnings on individual parts.

𝒄𝒂𝒕𝒄𝒉 𝒎𝒆 𝒐𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒅𝒂𝒓𝒌 𝒔𝒊𝒅𝒆

「taglist」 : CLOSED

↳ a/n: I have decided to make this into a short series because I just know trying to write one long fic won't suffice, so I am making it into separate parts! I am super excited to see what you guys think so far and to hear all of your theories. don't forget to read the intro at the bottom!! I will be figuring out release dates for all of the parts at a later time, but they will all be subject to change depending on multiple factors! also, if you were on the taglist located on the wip post, then you are still on there, so don't worry! with that being said you will only be added to the taglist if you are 18+ and your age is visible on your page. if you don't meet either of those criteria, you will be ignored.

「start」 : May 8th, 2024 「end」 : June 20th, 2024

「synopsis」 : after waking up trapped in a room with a dead body, you are saved by none other than heeseung, but you're still left with questions. why were you and your friends trapped there, and who is behind it all? though it would seem that you won't be getting your answers very easily and definitely not without a few losses. 「word count」 : 10.2k 「warnings」 : blood, dead body, cussing, mentions of murder, mind games, drugging, mentions of mental health disorders (anxiety, panic attacks, etc...), jungwon is kinda reckless, lmk if I missed anything! 「release date」 : read here

「synopsis」 : with everyone's lives on the line will luck be on your side? except it seems like whoever trapped you here doesn't plan on letting any of you leave that easy... suspicion is rising and trust is starting to falter, but can you save everyone and bust whoever put you and your friends through this hell? or will you have to watch all of your friends die? 「word count」 : 11.3k 「warnings」 : cussing, spiders/bugs, water, blood, mentions of betrayal, arguments, mentions of claustrophobia & arachnophobia/entomophobia, mentions of spider venom, life or death situations, more mind games, mental health disorders (anxiety, panic attacks, breakdowns, etc...), (some tags will be hidden as to not spoil the story!) 「release date」 : read here

「synopsis」 : everything seems to be going downhill at a rapid pace and nothing is going right and you've already suffered the loss of two friends, but the mastermind behind this doesn't seem to be satisfied just yet. another test is thrown your way but things are starting to become more clear and you're realizing that the culprit has been with you the whole time... but will you be able to stop him and escape this hell house with your lives intact? 「word count」 : 10.5k 「warnings」 : cussing, even more 'games', blood, violence, gore, gun goes pew pew, poisoning, betrayal, gaslighting, familial issues, mentions of abuse (mental & physical), knife goes stabby, threats, death, obsessive/stalker-ish behavior, mental health disorders, even more betrayal, traumatic events, police, pls lmk if I missed anything! 「release date」 : read here

「synopsis」 : it's been a few weeks since you managed to escape from the murder house, but it's not quite over yet. your brother's trial was right around the corner and everything is brought back to the table. after he's found guilty and sent to prison you are determined to find out some answers, though you aren't sure if you'll like what he has to say.... 「word count」 : 6.2k 「warnings」 : cussing, petnames (my love, love...), kissing, court trial, sister complex, familial issues, mentions of abuse (mental & physical), obsessive behavior, threats, mentions of death, gaslighting, lmk if I missed anything! 「release date」 : read here

“Come on, y/n. We never get the chance to do this!” Riki whined as he draped his taller frame over your back, causing you to slouch forward. You let out an annoyed huff, letting your hands fall to your lap. Your phone slid from your fingers as you tilted your head to look back at your brother.

“Riki, how many times have I told you that I hate going to things like that?” You pushed back against him, causing the boy to fall dramatically back on the couch. Rolling your eyes, you grabbed your discarded phone off the ground, Riki watching you with a pout.

“You watch too many horror movies,” he grumbled, remembering all the nights you would watch horror movies only to have some new-found fear afterward, even if it was something completely unnecessary.

You dropped your phone once more before glaring up at your brother, “ya know, there is always some truth to them.”

“y/n, please. They are just movies. Complete fiction. Ghosts aren’t real.” Riki rolled his eyes, picking at the loose strings of the couch cushion. 

“Even rumors stem from some kind of truth, Riki.” You huffed out, but it didn’t seem like your brother would stop pestering you until you finally gave in. So after hours of continuously asking and begging, you finally gave in to him, telling him that you would ask your friends only if he brought his own.

And he agreed.

When that dreadful night finally came, you were stuck in a car with all of your friends. The crisp October air was cold on your skin, but the heating in the vehicle that Jay had turned on was enough to leave you comfortable. Jake had some random playlist filling the speakers jamming out in the passenger seat while Jungwon, Sunghoon, and Heeseung were crammed into the far back of the SUV, all three on the brink of passing out from how long the drive was.

“I thought you said this place was in town, Riki.” You grumbled, flexing your jaw, trying to ease the discomfort from having it placed on your hand as you stared mindlessly out the car window. However, now that it was fully dark outside, there wasn’t much to look at, seeing that there were no streetlights.

“I mean, the address said it was in town; how was I supposed to know it was in the ass crack of it?” Riki sassed as he scrolled through his phone, looking at whatever was posted on social media.

“Language, dude.” Jay scolded the boy, his eyes staring at him through the rearview mirror.

“Korean, what else?”

Pursing your lips, you reached over and landed a smack on the back of his head, resulting in him letting out a groan as his head fell forward.

“What was that for?!” Riki exclaimed, rubbing the back of his head as he looked over at you with wide eyes.

“Don’t be such a smart ass.” You scolded him, and Riki grumbled before showing Sunoo something on his phone. 

Shaking your head, you lean forward, resting your arms on the back of Jay’s seat, “How much longer do we have to go?”

Jay quickly glanced at you from the rearview mirror, much like he did Riki, before glancing down at the GPS on his dash.

"It's saying we have about ten or so minutes left until we get there." He told you before putting his eyes back on the road. 

It was then that you started to notice just how desolate the surrounding area was. If this was such a hit attraction, why weren't any other cars around? Or any kind of sign of life. It was starting to give you the creeps. However, you just reminded yourself that you were doing this for your brother and that it was probably just your imagination playing tricks on you. So you just tried to relax, sitting back in your seat once more, eyes staring out at the blackness of the trees.

That feeling of unease only grew more once Jay pulled into the driveway, and you noticed that there wasn’t a single car in sight. You pulled your seatbelt off slowly, eyes searching everywhere, trying to find anything to settle this unnerving feeling that was twisting in your gut. As you opened the door, welcoming the chilling air outside, goosebumps littered your skin.

“Come on, y/n, get out. My legs are cramping!” Riki complained, pushing on your shoulder and urging you to leave the vehicle.

With a shaky sigh, you slowly let your foot fall to the ground, your knees feeling like jelly. Jay stepped out of the car, pocketing the keys before looking over at you. His eyebrows scrunched together, taking in the uneasy expression on your face.

“Hey, y/n, are you okay?” he asked, softly taking your arm and pulling you away from the open door so everyone else could pile out. 

“Yeah, it’s just…” You trailed on as your eyes caught sight of the small sign that was hammered into the ground.

The Murder House

You could have sworn that you felt your heart stop. What kind of douchebag names their escape room that? As if the air around you wasn’t suffocating enough, seeing that only made it feel like you were fighting for your breath.

“Sunoo, you’re in the back on the way home.” Heeseung groans as he stretches out, his joints groaning in protest. Sunoo just gave the older male the side eye before moving to stand on the other side of Jake, who had just gotten out of the car.

“Riki, I thought you said this was a hit attraction.” You looked over at your brother, who was inspecting the area much like you were until his eyes landed on you. “Why is there no one here?”

“Calm your tits, sis. I’m sure we just came on a night that no one else wanted to?” He rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, that just means we won’t get stuck with some randos.” Heeseung shrugged, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket.

"Come on, y'know, we didn't come all this way just to chicken out," Jungwon grumbled, tossing his hair with his fingers.

You curled your lips inward, knowing that they were right and that you were just thinking too much about the situation. Crossing your arms over your chest, you nodded your head in silent agreement. Jay wrapped his arm around your shoulder, giving you a gentle squeeze, ignoring the prying eyes that were on the two of you.

“Don’t let it get to you too much, okay? We’ll just get it over with, and if anything, we just let the timer go out.” He whispered softly in your ear, and the warmth of his breath eased your mind slightly. 

“You’re right, I’m just overthinking.” You gave him a small smile before following after him and the others.

“God damn, Riki, why did we have to walk all the way up here?” Sunghoon huffed as all of you reached the steps of the porch.

You couldn’t help but laugh, knowing he was right because that was a pretty lengthy walk uphill. All of the guys nodded in agreement before Jake walked further up the step, trying to see if you were able to get in. He then noticed a welcome sign hanging from the door, with a small basket underneath holding a piece of paper.

“It looks like we got some instructions, boys and girls,” Jake exclaimed with a broad smile, turning with the paper held high.

You looked at him uneasily as he unfolded it with a flourish and started reading it out loud so everyone could hear.

‘You will have two hours to uncover the grand mystery and escape the murder house. You will find clues and puzzles, but be careful, for everything isn’t as it seems… Good luck!’

A shiver ran down your spine as he finished reading. You weren't sure whether it was the chilling breeze that swept through or the cryptic words of the note. However, you did know that it wasn't just your mind messing with you; there was something deeply wrong with this place.

“Hey guys, this seems really weird. Maybe we should just go.” You voiced your concern, earning yourself a collection of groans from the guys.

“Oh, come on, y/n. Stop being such a negative Nancy and have some fun for once in your life.” Jake rolled his eyes, his hands falling to his side.

Your jaw clenched shut, and a glare adorned your features before you leaned forward, snatching the paper out of his hands.

“You’re such an asshole, Jake.” The words tumbled out quietly as you reread the same message that Jake had just read aloud, trying to see if there was anything else that he had missed.

“Yeah, yeah.” The brunette rolled his eyes before going on to complain about how thirsty he was and how he was sure that they would have drinks for sale or something inside. Then, without another word, he opened the door despite the multiple protests from you and a few others. 

“Jake, you can’t just walk in like you own the place!” You exclaim, hands slapping against your thighs as he disappears around the corner.

Letting out a huff, you step past the threshold, trying to shake off the eerie feeling that started to settle into your bones before going in the direction you saw Jake go, everyone trailing after you.

You walked into the foyer with a groan as you saw the older male chugging down a water bottle, some of it trickling down his chin before catching on his shirt. Your eyes then trail over to a tray that sat in the center of the table, six other bottles neatly placed inside.

“Jake, you can’t just take shit that’s not yours!” You scolded him, which only caused him to stop drinking, a gasp leaving his lips as he pulled the bottle away.

Riki then walked past you, looking down at the table and seeing some kind of note. Taking it, he held it up so everyone could see.

Free refreshments!

“The host probably just sat them out for people to take.” Riki shrugged, setting the paper back down on the table before grabbing a bottle for himself. 

Your stomach turned as you watched him unscrew the cap, “we can’t just trust drinks that are given to us by some random strangers.”

Heeseung then moves past you, his arm brushing yours, before grabbing one of the bottles. He inspected it for a few seconds before meeting your gaze.

"It's still sealed; there's no way someone tampered with it," he explained before twisting the cap open and swallowing a few drinks.

“Weren’t you the one complaining about being thirsty in the car?” Riki raised an eyebrow at you, and you just rolled your eyes.

“Yeah, but-” “But what, just drink the water, it’s not like you’re gonna die.” Riki quipped, causing your jaw to tighten. You knew he was right; you had been complaining about not bringing an extra drink for the road, but you weren’t quite sure if you were thirsty enough to drink some random water given out by a stranger. However, the dry feeling in your throat was telling you otherwise, so with some hesitation, you took the bottle Jay was handing you before twisting the cap off and bringing it to your lips; the liquid instantly quenched your dying thirst. 

After everyone got a much-needed drink, they all needed you all gathered around the coffee table. You, Heeseung, and Jay were on the long couch while Sunoo, Niki, and Jake cramped on the loveseat, leaving the armchair for Sunghoon, Jungwon perched on the armrest. 

“So… when does this game start?” Sunoo asked, leaning forward so his arms rested on his knees. Looking around, you couldn’t help but notice that the room was neatly decorated and clean, yet there was no sign of anyone being there.

Heeseung then leaned forward to grab something sitting on the table, catching everyone’s attention. He flipped it around, trying to find any indication of what it was, but nothing was written on the outside, so he opened the flap and pulled out the papers inside.

“It’s more instructions,” he explains as he starts to read them aloud. It says that as soon as the… the… sorry, I just feel really lightheaded.” He mumbles, shaking his head while squeezing his eyes shut, trying to stabilize his vision.

"Hee man, are you good?" Jay asked, putting a hand on the older male's shoulder, and Heeseung just nodded.

“Yeah, I just…” Heeseung’s words slurred as he started to sway, his eyes drooping. 

Panic started to set in your chest as you noticed that Heeseung looked like he was on the brink of passing out. Just then, Jungwon slumped to the side, falling right into Sunghoon’s lap, causing him to start calling out the boy’s name.

You quickly stood to your feet to check on him, but you fell back into your seat just as soon as you stood, your vision swimming. However, as you looked around, you noticed that all of the boys were either slumped over or on the brink of passing out. 

Worry then etched itself into your bones when your hazy vision landed on your brother's motionless form. You opened your mouth to call out for him and tried to get your body to move, but it wouldn't respond, and no words left your lips. Then everything seemed to fade, and your body grew weaker and weaker until you fell to the side, your head resting against Jay's back before everything went black.

Your body shot up with a gasp, and your ears rang so loud you could have thought it was coming from some kind of speaker. However, as it started to die down to a dull shrill, you realized that it was just you.

Looking around, you felt a chill run down your spine. You couldn’t see a thing. The room was shrouded in darkness, with not a single light in sight. Panic then started to set in as the earlier events started to play in your head. 

Where was your brother? Or your friends? What caused you all to black out?

So many questions started filling your brain, some overlapping others as you fumbled to get to your feet. You blinked multiple times, trying to fully stabilize your vision and to see in the darkness.

A scream escaped from your lips as you tripped over something, landing in some kind of liquid. Your heartbeat roared in your ears as you hurriedly tried to get to your feet, the ringing in your ears growing louder.

Scrambling to your feet, you reach out in front of you, trying to find the wall, and as soon as you do, you start searching for the light switch. With shaky hands, you felt around the wall until you felt the switch. Letting out a relieved sigh, you flipped it, allowing the room to flood with light.

You looked up with a smile before remembering that your hands were still covered in whatever you had fallen into. Your gaze then fell down to your hands, only for the smile to be wiped away and your eyes to go wide.

Blood. Your palms were covered in blood.

Your stomach turns the urge to throw up very strong; dread then fills your veins as you slowly turn around. A high-pitched scream leaves your lips as your eyes are set upon the body of a man, blood pooling all around him.

Fear clouded your brain as you quickly turned back around to open the door. Rushing over to the wooden door, you wrapped your hands around the knob, hoping that it would turn. But it didn’t.

The door was locked, and you were trapped.

@wwooyology | Do not steal, plagiarise, translate, or repost any of my work

𝖉𝖎𝖘𝖈𝖑𝖆𝖎𝖒𝖊𝖗 : ᴛʜɪꜱ ɪꜱ ɴᴏ ᴡᴀʏ ᴀ ᴛʀᴜᴇ ʀᴇᴘʀᴇꜱᴇɴᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ᴀɴʏ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴇᴍʙᴇʀꜱ. ᴛʜɪꜱ ɪꜱ ᴘᴜʀᴇʟʏ ꜰɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴ ᴀɴᴅ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏᴍᴇɴᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ ᴀɴᴅ ɴᴏᴛ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ᴛᴀᴋᴇɴ ꜱᴇʀɪᴏᴜꜱʟʏ.

[droaxa]

✧ tags: yandere cheater x reader alt. timeline 1

what if the reader became emotionless toward her captor and the situation?

✧ warnings: kidnapping, violence and force, yandere behavior, kissing, angst, dead dove, mentions of suicidal thoughts and depression (if you struggle with these topics please click off and take care of yourself) probably more stuff

✧ a/n: so i just checked how long its been since i finished the end of the cheater series and it was 6 months!?! sorry for the crazy long wait guys, appreciate y’all that stuck around for this

3 months and 12 days. that’s how much time had passed since you were trapped in this prison of a house. the ability to track time was one luxury that raph had allowed you to keep and you were damned if you couldn’t use it. the calendar and the clock in your room became the objects of your obsession, things that raph had bought you when he decided that you were finally acting ‘good enough’.

you lay on the plush bed, in a similar manner to how you were situated when first captured. arms outstretched and legs spread as you stared at the ceiling above you, but of course without the ropes. you slowly turned your head to the side, gazing at the baby pink alarm clock and taking note of the time. 6:23 pm, raph would be home soon.

you pushed yourself off the bed and dragged yourself to the couch in the living room. the house you were kept in was a small apartment with one bedroom, far from cozy but it was obvious that raph had tried to make you more comfortable.

however, you couldn’t bring yourself to care for his efforts anymore. the plush of the couch under you offered no comfort, same as everything else in this house. food had lost its flavor long ago and even keeping track of the time didn’t bring you the same joy that it used to. no matter how he tried to dress it up, the house was cold and draining, the color had left you long ago.

you became numb to anything that raph tried to do, his threats and anger had no power over you when you weren’t afraid to die anymore. after all, what was the point of living in these conditions? the last time you had these thoughts, the results had been more than drastic, driving you to make an action that you would forever regret.

1 month and 23 days ago.

you fumbled with your razor in the bathroom, cold hands desperately clawing the razor out of the holder until it fell out with a pop!

shaking hands brought the razor to your wrist as you looked at yourself in the mirror, diminished to the disheveled ghost of a woman. your stay at the house and away from society had drained you, the healthy tan you once flaunted had left, your hair grew long with split ends, and your eyes reddened from constant crying, dark circles and bags lining your eyes.

this single razor was the mistake that raph had made in his hurry to leave for work, his grooming kit being left on the bathroom sink, in reach for your curious hands.

but the discovery had provoked a question in yourself, was it worth living like those? hell, was this even living? after seeing raph's disgusting approaches to rekindling the relationship, you decided not. no matter what you tried you couldn't leave, asking raph was out of the question. you could still feel the soreness of bruises on your arms from when raph had grabbed you, yelling that you would never leave.

nights after he had grabbed you, you planned your own escape. your obsession with schedule came in handy when deciding what time was best to shatter the bedroom window and escape, an hour after raph had left the building. using a standing lamp, with its sturdy base facing the window you repeatedly rammed into the window as small cracks began to form on the smooth surface. on a burst of adrenaline, you continued, and just as you felt hope at the sight of light peaking through the exposed window the slam of a door was heard throughout the small apartment.

your blood ran cold. he was home. but, this shouldn't be possible. no, it couldn't! you had spent weeks painstakingly mapping out his schedule, no he shouldn't be home for another 4 hours. but yet, there he stood, chest heaving as he took heavy steps toward you. you had never seen raph mad, at least not really mad. but for the first time, the entirety of his anger and frustration was not hidden behind a facade of amusement. and he was furious.

lunging at you, raph offered no time for reaction as he slapped the lamp out of your hand as if it was nothing but a toy. grabbing you by the hair so hard that tears began to form, he shook you like a doll.

"you thought I was stupid didn't you, you fucking bitch,"

he slaps you harshly across the face with his free hand, sending a shockwave of pain throughout your body.

"but you're the one who came up with a halfwitted plan to leave me, what did you think, I trusted you?"

he pulls on your hair sharply pulling a hiss of pain out of you,

"bet you didn't notice the cameras, but I did hide them pretty well"

something in you broke that day. you couldn't do a single thing without raph knowing, and anything that could be used to break the windows was out of the question, as he had boarded them up. all you could do was sit around all day staring at the windows that you had assumed would help your escape. that was until you found the razor.

now you stood at the bathroom sink, razor in hand as you stared at yourself. if death was the only escape from your tormentor then be it, this was the end. in one swipe, velvety red blood rushed out of your artery and down your arm as your vision faded to black.

present day.

damn those cameras. despite what you thought, you ended up surviving the night and being taken to a small clinic while you were unconscious. raph had you hastily taken care of under the supervision of a somewhat unqualified nurse, but despite his biggest fears, you lived to see another day. weak of course, but nevertheless, alive.

you wake up few days later, the same way that you always had. blinding lights searing your vision and clinical smell floodin your senses, truly jolting you awake. however, you're not chained up? you simply lie in bed under the fluffy white covers, as you feel a weight on your left thigh. craning your neck, you see raph laying his head on your lap, watching you wordlessly. he seemed as drained as you, lips chapped and eyes red.

the moment he realized you were awake his threw himself into your arms, sobbing. his total 180 in behavior made you raise your eyebrows.

"i'm sorry, i'm so sorry. i should've been more careful, please don't leave me. I love you so much" he started to kiss up your arms, gentle near where your scars were. he didn't do anything to you that night, just held you and burrowed his face into the crevice of your neck.

you eventually fell into slumber from the exaustion, eyelids heavy as you drifted off. as you woke, you smelled something unusual: unlike the usual hospital smell, it was eggs and toast. shakily, you pushed yourself off the bed and hobbeled into the living room to see him cooking. as soon as he felt your eyes on him, he greeted you with a smile.

you ignored him and noticed something unusual. every sharp corner in the house was now rounded off with a silicone covering; no table corner, cabinet, or door was left ungloved. everything sharp or with a capablility to harm was gone. and that meant everything. even the legs of the couch were now sawed off, leaving the three seater to sit on the floor in an unnatural way. in short, the house had been completely baby proofed, down to the kitchen cabinet sthat all had combination locks on them

somehow, you couln't even bring yourself to cry anymore. this had to be what living in hell felt like, no escape, just eternal torture. you sat down on the couch, and blankly stared at the tv ahead, which was now inserted into the wall.

your mind was blank. no emotion. no thoughts. not anymore.

just then, raph approached you with what you assumed was breakfast. avocado toast, something you had adored in the past. that past seemed so long ago now, when you would sit at the kitchen counter and your father would make you food. you didn't want to think about those times anymore, you would never return to them.

despite raph's unusually gentle nature as of late, you were still on edge and refused to even look at the food as he placed it down on the coffee table in front of you.

"here, i made your favorite"

you looked at him blankly, no words. his mouth quirked in and unpleasant manner as he waited for you to speak. but you didn't. you just stared. and stared. and stared.

he is visibly uncomfortable and starts to grow angry with your silence. you just stared. suddenly he struck you, his anger surging in a moment of blind frustration. but as the sting of his actions settled, realization hit him hard. guilt flooded his senses.

"i'm sorry... i didn't mean it" he whispered, voice trembling. raph dropped to his knees in front of you, eyes filled with tears that blurred his vision.

his hands grasped her face, but you remained still, your expression unreadable. raph pressed his forehead against yours, his lips brushing against your skin as he murmured again

"I'm so sorry... I didn't know what I was doing."

His tears fell freely, staining your cheek as he kissed you softly. you said nothing, but the silence between you both spoke volumes—both a barrier and a plea for forgiveness. you were right, this had to be hell.

tags: @crazyyanderefangirlfan and @stuff6969fuckyou for the idea!

[idkwhylou]

𝐈𝐈. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐰𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞

Summary : Since your marriage, the distance between you and Marcus has only grown wider. Doubt settles in, hand in hand with your growing loneliness. But during a conversation with Lucilla, you come to realize something far heavier—you are even more alone than you thought.

Marcus Acacius x f!reader

Warnings : arranged marriage, mentions of suicidal thoughts (blink and you'll miss it, it's like just one sentence), cold behavior, age gap ? (not mentioned), infidelity (towards reader), secret relationship, toxic behaviour, manipulation, angst, no y/n

Words : 5,9K

A/N : this one was so hard to write, idk why. Sorry if it’s not perfect

masterlist | previous chapter | next chapter

⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

The domus was quieter than you imagined a place of such size could be. Its silence was not peaceful; it was the sound of old stone and restraint, guards who never laughed, courtyards where voices echoed too sharply. Rome, they said, was the center of the world. But for you, it felt more like a stage where everyone played a part, and you were still reading the wrong script. Your new home was beautiful, you could admit that. Even if it never quite felt like yours. The marble glowed ivory in the mornings, and the frescoes caught the changing light like painted memories, but there was something unyielding in the walls, something that did not bend to your presence. The mosaic of Gods watched you wherever you walked, their inlaid eyes judging, as though they knew you did not belong in this place. 

And yet, you did what was expected of you. Gods, even more. You learned the names of every servant in the villa, learned where they came from, and tried to address them in their own dialects—poorly at first, but with effort, and with warmth. You oversaw the household ledgers, made notes in elegant Latin, organize the pantry to accommodate both Roman and your homeland’s cuisine—dried figs wrapped in parchment, pickled lemons floating in clay jars and cinnamon sticks tied with string, sent directly from your mother’s kitchen gardens across the sea. 

You had meals prepared with quiet hope, always with some small detail meant for him. Lamb seasoned the way his men said he liked, olives pressed into the bread he often reached for first, honey-wine chilled precisely to the hour he returned. You even arranged a private dinner once, beneath the olive trees in the inner courtyard, where hanging lanterns cast golden halos through the leaves and the scent of citrus bloomed in the dusk.

He had thanked you with a nod. 

Just a nod.

A simple and quiet nod. How stupid of you.

He never ignored you, and sometimes you wish he would. That would have been easier. Cruelty had shaped, form and texture. But civility ? Civility was airless. He was always courteous, always present in body but never in soul. His answers remained clipped, delivered with military efficiency. You dared to ask once, when you saw the pale edge of a scar disappearing beneath his tunic, if it sometimes still hurt. 

 “No.” He said. And that was the end of it. 

You tried again, weeks later. He had just returned from the Senate, and you met him as he sat, pouring his wine before he even asked. “How was the council ?”

He shrugged, already reaching for a piece of bread. “As expected.”

“Do you often speak on behalf of the Emperor ?”

“When required.” He replied, cutting into the meat without ever looking at you. 

“Do you-”

“I had a long day,” he interrupted firmly, glancing sideway to your form. “Please.”

As always, you nodded and lower your gaze, retreating just before his indifference could harden into something sharper. You had learned quickly the quiet line between civility and dismissal. This time, you did not even get the chance to tell him about the meal. How you had spent half the afternoon with the chefs, your sleeves rolled up and helping to cook the roast with spices your mother had insisted you bring from home. “He should taste where you come from.” she had said, tucking the jars into your palms before you could say anything. 

But Marcus never asked, never seemed to notice, never paused, never looked at you the way husbands were supposed to look at their wives. His expressions always remained unchanged as he took his place at the table, not even looking at you. You would trace the lines of his profile over and over, trying to find the man everyone else seemed to see. He was never cruel though, never raised his voice or said anything unkind. Just detached. And somehow, that was worse. 

His silence and distance stretched on for weeks. You had already gone over it all in your mind, countless times. Was it your fault ? You barely knew each other, why did he not at least try to act like a kind husband ? Maybe he did not see the efforts you made, did not feel the quiet weight of your loneliness. Perhaps it was simply normal here, in Rome—for a man to neglect his wife so thoroughly. After all, it was so easy to hide behind duty, to wear the excuse of responsibility like armor. 

And yet, he had not even bothered to do that. He had not even tried to offer you those hollow words. Since your wedding night, he had not deigned to speak to you for more than a few clipped seconds at a time. Surely, he could not imagine what it felt like to live in this constant state of silent dismissal. And so, you tried. You held yourself together with frayed strings and stubborn hope, and each day, you persevered. Secretly, foolishly, you hoped that maybe he might change. But deep down you knew. You were not meant to except anything in return. Not from him or anyone. 

A few days later, you could not take it anymore. It had been two days since you last saw him. Two long, empty days. You wandered through the corridors of his villa like a ghost—alone, disoriented, slowly unraveling. You could not flee, that would be reckless, foolish, and so humiliating for you or your father. But the mere idea of stepping outside made your stomach twist. You could not bear the stares anymore, the judgment etched into every look. Perhaps you were discreet, yes, but not naïve. Or at least, that is what you once believed. 

The rare times Marcus allowed you to company him beyond the villa’s walls, you could feel it—the whispers, the mocking smiles, the stinging judgment. Walking beside Rome’s most revered General made you disappear in your own skin. You were not seen as a person anymore, only as a wife. Not even his. 

That morning, something inside you broke. You had risen far too late, long past the moment you always cherished: sunrise. The one constant in your days, the only faithful presence left to greet you. And even that, now, had passed you by. That day, your mother arrived at the domus unannounced, as if she felt that broken feeling from where she was. It was late in the afternoon when a servant came to your room, wide-eyed and breathless. “Domina… Your mother… She is here.”

You did not believe it until you saw her. She stood in your chamber like a mirage; her cloak dusty from travel, her hair twisted in the same thick braid she wore the day you left, the faint scent of jasmine clinging to her skin like a memory.

“I was not supposed to come.” She said as soon as you closed the doors behind her. You fell into her arms without a word, breathing her in like air after drowning. “I had to see you with my own eyes,” she whispered, cupping your face, her thumb brushing your cheek. “Letters do not hold truth. Not the kind I needed.”

Yes, the letters. It was clear you could not speak the truth in them, not fully. You could not lay bare the reality of your new life: its silence, its coldness, its invisible grief. You reminded yourself that in some strange way, you were still lucky. While you suffered in loneliness, others died in agony. That thought haunted you, shamed you even. And yet… there were moments when the weight of it became too much. Moments when you would have gladly traded places with those lives lost. When you would have offered yourself in exchange, just to be freed from this beautiful prison gilded in gold. But you could not write that—not to your mother. 

You both sat near the brazier, heads close together like the nights of your girlhood, when you had listened to the ocean wind rattling through the shutters and believed the world would always be kind to you. You felt her eyes study your face. She could see it, surely, the fatigue carved into your skin, the fine line that had deepened between your brows, born from confusion and sleepless worry. You could not let her grow more concerned than she already was, and so you spoke.

“I just did not sleep well, mother. I am fine.” But even as the words left your lips, you could not convince yourself.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Then softly, with the heaviness of someone who already knew the answer, she asked, “He sleeps elsewhere ?”

You hesitated. Then nodded.

“I thought it might be… a slow beginning,” you said, though even the words felt thin now. “I thought if I gave him peace, he would give me trust.”

She looked at you with a gaze you had never seen in her before, something almost sacred. There was no use in lying anymore. Not when her eyes saw through every wall you had built. Not when they refused to let you hide anymore. “I tried, mother. Every day, I try. I make this house a home. I speak his tongue, follow his customs. But I think… I think I am only another one of his duties.”

Your mother exhaled through her nose, not sharply, but in sorrow. She reached for your hand, her fingers soft and warm against yours. “There are men,” she said gently, “who wear armor inside their skin. Even when there is no more war to fight.”

You looked at her completely lost, your voice a whisper. “But am I not enough reason to take it off ?”

She did not answer immediately. Her gaze drifted to the window, where the rooftops of Rome caught the last rays of sun, burnished gold and cruelly beautiful. 

“He may learn,” she said at last. “Or he may not. But you, my daughter, are not here to be small.”

You pressed your forehead to her shoulder and stayed there, unmoving, wrapped in her quiet warmth. For a moment, you let yourself forget the silence of the halls, the weight of your own unanswered questions. She said nothing because she did not need to. Her presence alone was enough, like a balm laid gently over skin that had long since learned to ache in silence. You breathed her in, that faint familiar scent of crushed herbs and something maternal you could never name, and clung—not to her exactly, but to the feeling she brought. The reminder that there was still softness in this world. That someone, somewhere, still saw you.

She left before nightfall, as if she feared to overstay in a home that was never truly yours to begin with. Or maybe she was too furious to risk running into Marcus. You walked her to the threshold, fingers reluctant to let go, your mouth forming the barest thank-you that did not even touch what you wanted to say. Her departure felt like waking from a dream you were already mourning, like the kind you chase back into your pillow, only to find it slipping further each time.

That evening, you sat at the long marble table once more. Alone. Again. The light from the candles trembled faintly along the gold detailing of the walls, too bright for the mood that clung to the air like fog. His chair remained untouched, the embroidery on its cushion undented, preserved in its quiet defiance. The food cooled slowly on the plates, but you could not bring yourself to lift the fork. You stared down at your wine—red, still, and full—as though it might hold some answer at the bottom of the cup. But it did not. It never did actually.

There was no anger in you. Not that night. Just a familiar hollowness, settling in again like an old companion. You sat there, in the vastness of a home that had never felt like yours, and wondered how long it would take for the sound of your own thoughts to drown you.

You would try again tomorrow, you promised yourself.

And the next day.

And the next.

⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

But there were patterns you could no longer ignore. The day Marcus finally decided to make his grand return, he gave no explanation for his strange and prolonged absence. Nothing. Not a word. And in the days that followed, nothing changed. The same distance. The same evasive glances. He slipped right back into his silence, as though he had never been gone.

As thought you had never waited

He left earlier in the mornings. Returned later. Sometimes did not come home at all until the moon hung low and pale, and even then, he would pass your chambers without a word, smelling faintly of perfume that was not yours. The scent so faint it might have been imagined. But it was not. And yet, it clung to him like smoke after flame, unsettlingly familiar. You tried to place it once, standing alone by the doorway long after he had gone—that note of crushed rose and some darker resin beneath—but your memory gave you nothing. Just unease. 

You could not let the weight of it settle without resistance. You owed yourself the truth, or at the very least, the effort to seek it. So, you began to watch, to listen, to gather the pieces one by one as the days unfolded. And yet, something refused to align. As if a part of the puzzle had been carved to deceive, beautiful on the surface but wrong in its shape.

You began to see things with new eyes. The way certain hours of the day were always unaccounted for. The way Lucilla began to arrive unannounced. The way she never glanced at you directly, but smiled as if she knew a secret you did not. The way the servants went silent in her presence, and even more silent in yours after she left.

That evening, a dinner had been arranged. Not grand enough to warrant togas stiff with ceremony, nor quiet enough to be dismissed as informal. A gathering, modest in size but laced with the kind of expectation that only Rome could dress in such refined stillness. You had prepared for it without thought, your fingers guiding the clasp of your dress, smoothing the folds, pinning your hair—motions you had long since stopped attaching meaning to. 

The seat at Marcus’s left awaited you, as it always did, and you sat there before the others arrived, your hands folded gently in your lap, your spine held by an invisible thread of composure. He was beside you already, not late for once, but silent, cloaked in the same guarded stillness he wore as naturally as his mantle of command.

He had not said much. Well, he rarely did. But for a moment, his eyes had lingered on you simply… observing. As if trying to remember something that refused to take shape. You could feel the weight of his presence more than you could feel the shape of it. And when you dared glance toward him, there was nothing in his expression that betrayed thought or feeling. Just distance.

Then she arrived.

Lucilla swept into the atrium with the poise of someone who had once belonged to the place and never truly left. Her dress was a muted gold that caught the light just enough to seem effortless, the shade almost the same as the skin at her throat. Her hair was gathered with a kind of calculated ease, too graceful to be accidental, too loose to be innocent. Her voice followed her, soft and warm, full of the kind of charm that made people lean in just slightly, as if wanting to catch a secret they knew she would not give.

You felt Marcus shifting beside you, so subtly it might have been nothing. But you knew his silences well by now. You knew the way his body tensed, not from danger, but recognition. His gaze moved—past the servants, past the senators already halfway rising in greeting—and settled on her. Not with shock. Not with longing. But with that heavy pause, the kind that stretched a single moment wide enough to fit years inside.

He looked at her as one looks at a place they have once been and both long for and regret.

It was not dramatic. No drawn breath, no visible stiffening. But it was enough. Enough for your own gaze to falter, your stomach to dip, your throat to tighten. And when at last he turned to you, his greeting quiet and courteous, it did not matter what he said. The pain lay not in the words, but in the ease with which he spoke them, as though you were no more than any other guest at his side.

Dinner passed like mist. The roasted duck, crisped with honey and thyme, the jeweled lentils, the pine nuts glistening with oil. You registered none of it. Their voices moved around you, threading together with the practiced smoothness of people who had spoken many times before in places you had not been invited. Lucilla never raised her voice, never pressed, well she did not need to. Her control was in the softness of it, in the practiced pauses, in the way her laughter folded at the edges of his words as if they had rehearsed the timing in another life. And Marcus… Marcus responded with a familiarity that asked for no explanation. One that told you enough.

You smiled when you had to. You answered when spoken to. But each movement felt like wading through something thick, something that clung to your skin. The wine was too warm. The candlelight too bright. The scent of pomegranate and spiced oils made your chest tighten. And when Lucilla laughed—that delicate, curved laugh—it was not jealousy that came. It was the confirmation of a quiet truth; one you had tried to ignore. That you were sitting beside him, but he was somewhere else entirely.

You excused yourself before the final course, fingers trembling slightly as you set your napkin down. No one stopped you. Marcus did not even turn, his shoulder already leaning, just slightly, toward hers. His hand rested near his cup, fingers curled in a way that invited the space between them to narrow. You stood slowly, brushing your fingers once more along the cool edge of the table before turning away to the gardens. 

The night clung to your skin like silk, warm despite the breeze, the air heavy with something darker and unspoken. You did not look back as you crossed the peristyle, just moved, half-guided by the rhythm of your breath and the dull ache that now lived beneath your ribs, quieter than before but no less present.

Inside, the murmur of conversation spilled gently from the triclinium. You did not return to it. Instead, you lingered in the antechamber, half-shadowed beneath a tall candle, where the flickering light painted gold across the stone floor. Here, the house felt quieter. Removed. As though you had stepped just slightly outside the world everyone else still inhabited.

Then you saw her.

She rose from her seat with the same fluid elegance she wore like a second skin—unhurried, unannounced. There was no drama to it, no glance cast around the room. Only the subtle gathering of her shawl, the way her hand trailed for the briefest moment across the back of Marcus’s chair, and then—

She moved.

Out into the corridor, past the columns, toward the garden. You hesitated. There was no reason to follow her. No purpose, no justification. But your feet had already begun to move before your thoughts could intervene. Maybe it was instinct. Maybe it was guilt. Or maybe it was the simple, awful need to understand—her, him, or yourself. You did not knew anymore.

You told yourself that you only stepped into the garden because the air inside felt too thick, because your thoughts screamed too loudly within the echoing silence of your own restraint. So, then, you wandered past the stone columns, past the still water of the fountain, trying to find a breath that did not burn. At least, that is what you tried to convince yourself.

You caught her beneath the laurel arch—the same one you used to stand under at dawn, waiting for the first light—and it hit you all at once. The scent. Not the sweetness of garden herbs or fresh linen, but something richer. A fragrance you had noticed once on Marcus’s cloak, faint and persistent, clinging where your hands had never touched. At the time, you had told yourself it was a stranger’s, a passing trace from a crowded room.

But now, in the dark, under the stars, it wrapped around you again—and this time it had a name.

Suddenly, everything snapped back into place. 

It was her perfume you scent on Marcus’ shadow. 

The one she had worn the night you first met her, when she leaned in too close with a smile that was too sweet. You remembered it—the way it clung to her skin, expensive and deliberate, a scent that marked territory without needing words. She belonged in this house more than you did. 

The garden exhaled cool air around her as she stepped into the night. Silver light softened the sharpness of her shoulders, catching in her hair like it had been placed there on purpose. You felt invisible, walking behind her. Like a ghost in someone else’s story. She reached the edge of the walkway and turned. Slowly. Not startled. Not surprised. As though she had already known you were there. Her eyes met yours, and she offered you a smile.

That smile—soft and polished, serene as temple marble. It held no suspicion, no tension. You had seen her offer that same expression to Marcus, across the atrium, when she thought no one was looking. Now, that same look was yours. Somehow that made it worse.

“You walk like someone carrying a secret,” she said gently, almost amused, but without cruelty. “Do you need something from me ?” Her voice was so gentle, and she looked at you with such tenderness. There was something kind, something genuinely good that seemed to radiate from her presence.

And yet, you did not know how to answer. Your mouth was dry. Your thoughts rushed forward too fast and tripped over themselves. Lucilla waited. She always waited—not with impatience, but with the calm of someone who had already played this scene before. 

“I did not mean to follow you.” You murmured eventually.

“But you did.” There was no bite in it. Just a simple truth spoken without judgment.

You dropped your eyes to the stone floor and nodded, heat crawling up your throat. She turned slightly, looking toward the laurel trees that danced softly in the breeze. “It is quiet here at night,” she said, voice distant. “I like to walk when the house sleeps.”

“I do too.” You replied. “But tonight, I could not.”

Lucilla glanced sideway at you. “Why not ?”

You did not answer. You could not, at least not without unraveling. Instead, you asked the question you had not dared until now. “How long have you known him ?”

A pause. Just long enough to feel measured. “A long time,” she said eventually. “Before the wars. Before he learned how to wield silence like a weapon.” Lucilla kept her gaze fixed straight ahead when you finally reached her side. Her back was straight, her hands clasped neatly behind her, as if she was reciting something she had long since committed to memory.

The answer struck something in you. A note of truth so resonant it almost hurt. “He acts different with you,” you confessed. “Not soft, but… closer.”

Lucilla tilted her head without looking at you, as if she had not anticipated this. Suddenly, there was nothing soft left in her voice. Her brows drew together in a sharp frown, and even before she spoke, you could feel the irritation radiating from her, pulsing off her body like heat from sunbaked stone. “He knows I am not asking for more than he is ready to give.”

The honesty of it stung more than you excepted. “So you think he is cold with me because I expect something real ?” The words came out sharper than you intended. Not because you wanted to wound her, but because you no longer knew how to ask gently for something that kept slipping through your fingers. 

She did not flinch, of course she did not. She titled, once again, her head slightly, like someone measuring a fragile object for cracks. Her voice, when it came, was smooth but laced with that certain knowing that made your spine straighten in defense. 

“I think Marcus fears depth,” she said carefully, each word placed like a stone. “Not because he lacks it. But because he gave it once, and what he gave was lost. That kind of wound does not bleed anymore. It calcifies. It teaches you to guard what you love by never letting it be loved again.”

You stood very still.

She had been kind to you when you arrived—warm, even. The only one who had offered you a true smile, a soft touch of welcome when everything else had felt like ceremony and silence. You remembered how gently she spoke that first night, how it had made you feel seen for the first time since your arrival. But, that memory now flared like a sting against your skin, the contrast unbearable.

“So he lets you in,” you said, and it came out colder than you meant. “That is how you know.”

Her eyes narrowed, just a little. Not enough to seem angry, but just enough to make it clear she had heard what you were really saying. “I have known Marcus longer than anyone in this house,” she said, and though her tone was soft, it carried an unmistakable edge. “I have seen what he is like when no one is watching. What he hides from even himself. That sort of knowledge does not come from title or proximity. It comes from surviving with someone.”

You felt your stomach twist. “But you, are not his wife.” You replied, and your voice wavered between defiance and desperation.

Something flickered in her gaze then. Something proud, something ancient. But her smile did not falter. If anything, it grew fainter. Sadder. “No,” she said. “I am not. Which is why I can afford to be honest with him.”

You scoffed, unable to stop yourself, “Honesty… You two seem to treat it with a luxury, not a principle.” 

The words settled like ice between you.

“Are you implying something ?” She asked quietly.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. When Lucilla finally took a step back, it was not with the grace of a victor. It was slower, smaller, measured perfectly to make you feel as though you had struck first.

“I did not realize that you thought so little of me.” Her voice trembled just slightly, just enough. 

You opened your mouth—whether to apologize or defend yourself, you did not even know yourself—but she was already turning away, her posture tense with something between pride and sorrow. Her eyes did not narrow, and neither she raised her voice. 

“I have only ever been kind to you,” she said, and her voice was maddeningly calm. “Even when I did not have to be. Even when others would not.”

You opened your mouth to reply, but no words came fast enough. She went on, her gaze never breaking from yours. “From the moment you arrived, I treated you with warmth. I welcomed you into a world that is colder than you realize. And still-” she shook her head lightly, not in anger, but something quieter. “Still, you speak to me like I am your rival. Worse—your enemy.”

There was no venom in her tone. That made it worse. Your pulse had risen seconds ago, chest tight with something sharp and defensive. But now that heat began to dull, giving way to something heavier. Shame crept in, slow and low, curling around the anger like a vine around stone.

“I did not mean to…” You started, your voice thin.

She stepped back half a pace—not retreating, just drawing a boundary.

“I have lived long enough to recognize fear when it wears the mask of cruelty,” she said, softer now. “You are not the first woman to feel lost in his silence. But you might be the first to take it out on someone who is only ever offered you understanding.”

It landed with the weight of truth. No accusations. Just… quiet disappointment. Your throat tightened. You had not expected kindness to be a weapon, and now it was turned inward, piercing something you did not know was vulnerable. All the words you had flung like stones—suspicion, jealousy, hurt—suddenly felt childish, small.

“I did not mean to-” You said, barely audible. 

But Lucilla did not wait for you to finish. She turned, not in fury but in sorrow, and walked away with the silence of someone who no longer needed to defend herself. And as her figure slipped between the marble pillars and into the night, your anger left with her. Replaced by a quiet ache, dull and sinking. You stood there, hands clenched at your sides, and felt it bloom behind your ribs: you had wounded the only person who had offered you kindness in this house.

And somehow, that hurt more than any of the silence Marcus had ever given you.

And you hated yourself a little for it.

You breathed out slowly, the tension in your shoulders beginning to unravel, even as your chest remained tight. You had let suspicion get the better of you. Gods, you had followed her like a shadow, had spoken too sharply, had thrown barbed questions like someone preparing for betrayal. And she had not met you with cruelty. Now, in the silence of the empty courtyard, it was not anger you felt anymore. It was shame.

What had you done ?

Lucilla had smiled at you. That soft, slow smile she always wore like a veil, neither warm nor cold, simply practiced. And still you had doubted her. She was his friend. His oldest companion, maybe the only person who had known him before the walls went up. Of course they were close. And yet you had questioned it. Accused her, even if you had not meant to. Your voice had been edged with fear, your words too pointed, too raw.

She must think you are fragile, insecure, a jealous child playing dress-up in a home too grand for you. You sat down slowly on the fountain��s edge, fingertips brushing the cold marble. The night felt softer now. The air cooler, clearer. You told yourself it was relief. Still, something gnawed at you. Not doubt in Lucilla’s words… but in yourself. You had let that perfume, that glance, that silence turn into something else in your mind. You had let yourself spin shadows into stories. And now you were left with the sour taste of regret. 

You stayed in the garden, head tilted to the stars you could not name, trying to gather yourself. You had wanted truth, but now that it was offered, it felt heavier than you expected.

You did not hear the steps at first.

The garden held too many sounds; the wind threading through the laurels, the soft ripple of the fountain in the dark, your own breath, shallow and uneven in your chest. But when the footsteps stopped behind you, not heavy, not urgent, just there. You felt it before you turned. A shift in the night air. A stillness pressing in.

Marcus.

Standing just beyond reach.

“Why are you still out here ?” His voice was quiet. Careful like a blade turned flat so as not to cut.

You did not turn to face him yet. Your fingers brushed the edge of the marble, grounding yourself. “I needed air,” you said softly. “To clear my head.”

A pause followed. Not long, but long enough to carry weight. You could almost hear him choosing his next words. “Lucilla seemed… upset.”

You winced. You hated how easily your body betrayed your guilt, how quickly the shame surfaced. “That is my fault.” You said before you could stop yourself.

He waited.

But you did not elaborate.

You could not. The words burned in your throat, too tangled to set free.

“I thought…” You shook your head, staring out at the dark curve of the garden. “It does not matter anymore.”

“I see.”

You turned to him then. Slowly. You did not know what you were looking for in his face, a crack in the calm, perhaps. A glimpse of something real. Or maybe just permission to say what needed to be said.

“She told me there is nothing between the two of you,” you said, your voice barely more than breath. “That she only knows the shape of your silences.”

Something flickered behind his eyes. Not surprise. Not guilt. Just the faintest withdrawal, like a man pulling his hand from a fire he had not realized was lit. “She is been a part of my life a long time.” He replied, and his voice held nothing but truth. Clean, uncomplicated. The kind that did not defend, but did not deny.

“I know.” You whispered.

And now you did. You should have the moment you saw them together; the familiarity that ran deeper than words. The ease of shared pain. There was nothing seductive in it, only something private. That was what stung.

“I think I was unkind,” you admitted. The words tasted strange in your mouth, raw and half-formed. “I let fear turn me into something cruel. I made her feel unwelcome. And she is been… kind to me. From the beginning.”

He looked at you then. Really looked. Not like someone observing, or assessing, or simply fulfilling the role of husband. But like a man seeing the ache that had no name. The hollow behind the eyes. The tired slope of your shoulders. You did not look away.

“You were not cruel,” he said, after a pause long enough for the wind to shift. “Just hurt.”

The word landed softly. Hurt. No embellishment. No dismissal. And somehow, it was worse than blame. Because it was true. Something inside you gave. Not entirely, not visibly, but enough to feel it: a slow loosening of the knot you had been carrying behind your ribs for weeks. Your throat tightened. For a moment, you thought you might cry. Not from sorrow, but from the unbearable relief of being seen.

But you did not.

Instead, you stood up. Your voice was steadier now when you said, “I am going to bed.”

He nodded once. You moved past him, your steps slow, your breath measured. But this time—this time—you felt it as you passed:

He turned.

Not to stop you. Not yet. But to watch. To follow not with his body, but with something else. With thought. With attention. And though nothing was spoken, you carried the echo of it with you into the darkness. Only when they stopped behind you did you sense him. Marcus, standing just beyond reach.

⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

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Tag-list : @negrita2345 @aretha170 @immyowndefender @suzysface @isabella-rose-trastamara @simpingforjoel @unmagically

[gotham-daydreams]

The Red Dawn

Yan!Batfam × Cop!Reader

[General Warning: Reoccurring of suicide, May contain uncomfortable context such as mentions of cults, occult like practices, gore (mild mentions to heavy descriptions), blood, insanity, obsession - and general yandere behavior. You have been warned.] (Note: Unless otherwise specified, it's to be believed that actions involved with harming, hurting, or heavily injuring the self are not talking about the Batfamily or the reader.)

New trouble arises in Gotham as mentions of a 'Red Dawn' happening on Devil's Night spreads. With a take down of a small group leading into an even deeper mystery, it seems the Batfam must dawn their masks and look into even the most darkest corners of Gotham - as something dirty, and potentially dangerous, is at play once again.

You, a transfer from Metropolis, are also following the case. Only time will tell what exactly will happen next, as this 'Red Dawn' is just over the horizon. As the Dawn itself has finally come.

Day 1

Day 2

Day 3

Day 4

Day 5

[Something to Note]

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Trying something new in the spirit of Halloween while I get some things done, and also just trying to challenge myself a bit here :]

[cinnamoonblue]

The Neighbourhood | Masterlist

Ao3 || Wattpad

Started: 01.11.2024 Finished: Last Update: 23.06.2025

Summary: You moved to one of the biggest cities in the world - Grand Line to pursue filmmaking career. Soon enough your path will cross with the vocalist of upcoming band called “The Neighbourhood”. At first you decided to be just friends - because it would be easier, but sadly as everything in life sometimes by taking the easy path we regret a lot of things.

Main characters: Portgas D Ace x Reader (female)

Supporting characters: Nami, Usopp, Luffy, Zoro, Sanji, Law, Shanks, Buggy, Sabo, Eustass Kid, Marco, Koala, Robin (more to be add)

Description: Modern AU | Musician Ace

WARNINGS: ALL CHARACTERS ARE AGED UP this story will contain descriptions of violence, 18+ only, contains explicit sexual themes and content, explicit language, use of alcohol, use of cannabis, use of nicotine/cigarettes, angst, hurt/no comfort, hurt/comfort, implied injury, family trauma, slow burn, destructive behavior, toxic behavior, illegal activities, NSFW, conflicted feelings, loneliness, pain, conflicted relationship, emotional distress, jealousy, suggestive themes, violence, substance use, mentions of death, mentions of suicide, mentions of depression, mentions of loosing a loved one, mentions of violence, PLEASE PAY ATTENTION TO THE WARNINGS

Chapter I | Fantastic Mr. Fox and The Cry Baby

Chapter II | Compass

Chapter III | Don't kill me Mr. Ghostface

Chapter IV | Sweater Weather

Chapter V | Siri

Chapter VI | Cakes and Alleyways

Chapter VII | A Little Death

Chapter VIII | The Beach

Chapter IX | W.D.Y.W.F.M?

Chapter X | Daddy* Issues

Chapter XI | Ghost in the Shell

Chapter XII | coming soon...

writing, format, header & dividers © cinnamoonblue ©cinnamoonblue, do not copy or plagiarise my work.