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tarjapearce · 3 months

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Dr. Michael Stone (Pt. 2)

Art and Character by: Spiderthingcoo on X

WARNINGS: MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, forced voyeurism, body exploration, edging, double v penetration, female anatomy, rough and drugged induced sex, manhandling, substance abuse, 3some-ish, rimming (m receiving) nudity appreciation, breeding kink, a bit of dacryphilia, Objectification, overstimulation, filthyness undercut, no proofread, bit of cum play, bellybulge, electrocution, Michael is a sick fuck and I love him.

Miguelverse

Summary: Michael Stone has the time of his life.

A/N: I got too carried away and the fanart didn't help jskjs, hope you enjoy <3

Time ran at the speed of a snail. Each blink was torture, like you were removing seconds from the clock with each brief pause of your eyes.

How long have you been here? Certainly too fed up with trying in succeeding to escape. There was no punctual way to determine in which part of the day you were as there was no windows, no clocks, or anything of the sort that dictated the unstoppable force that always outlasted everything within reach.

Just dull pale grey walls, borderline white in every direction your sight stretched. Which wasn't much.

Your new habitat, was minimalistic, decored with the basics to sate physiological needs such as sleep, shower or pee. Ceiling too lowered to crawl or stretch your muscles properly when you tried to keep mobility going.

A fancy cage, nothing much, nothing less.

How long had it been since he slammed the door shut? Days? Week?

You didn't know. And the lack of a sense of time was irrevocably screwing with your head in a way it resembled how Michael had fucked your insides. There was no sun to bath in, no wind to blow and mess with your hair as you swung through the buildings, providing the right amount of adrenaline, no structures to crawl or stretch your muscles completely on. No external stimulus.Nothing.

Just a few meters of space that caged you like a live sample for a maniac's twisted experimenting and amusement. Fed and cleaned whenever you required it. It sometimes blurred the line between being a pet and a Guinea pig.

Just your cell, withering away your spirit. Even the food provided, lacked that homey seasoning you adored indulging in HQ's cafeteria after a mission. The only rift of color popping in the tray and around you were the vast array of vitamins and minerals, shaped in round and squared pills, nested within a metallic cup.

Cause according to him, if his offspring was to emerge within you, your body had to be properly nurtured. Ironically, the food was bland and tasteless, but you didn't starve. And it spooked you how easy your body took a liking to it.

Skin healthier, glowing and silky even, a soft natural flush dressed your cheeks, metabolism in its peak, a couple of pounds were lost, but that was the least of your concerns.

He was set into perfecting the vessel for his future seedling. You.

Michael was... You didn't even know where to start besides being the obvious doppelganger of Miguel. The only way you could tell them apart was because of his eyes. They were brown, like the most scrumptious shade of chocolate you've ever seen.

Unlike Miguel, he just took what he wanted and needed, everything in the name of science. He was the embodiment of 'the end justifies the means'.

Alluring, inviting you to a forbidden and fucked up world where he was the unanimous and dangerous sovereign. Like his whole aura. His impassive act was only a coy facade to hide what was underneath.

Madness, lust and something so dern you didn't want to try and decipher cause in truth, you were terrified to fuck around and find out. He had already gave you a little taste of his abyss, but it wasn't enough for him. He wanted you to drown in him and everything that rendered his mere existence.

He needed to crown a queen for his chaos. And what a better way to do it, than choosing you to give him a perfect offspring.

In his own twisted world the need of a superior being was a must. A need he was creating the proper foundation to sate.

He was prepping you to bare his child. And it scared you to no end. Not that you didn't want kids, but to be forced to fit into that role out of sudden scared you shitless.

And you didn't want to sour and make your thoughts awkward by knowing a variant of Miguel would be the father.

Fuck. No.

If your mind could have arms, it surely would've slapped itself for such thought. Not that you didn't think Miguel was handsome, in fact, you avoided being seen as that recruit that had the hots for the boss, lingering too much around him made you more nervous than you liked to admit.

And when you were paired with him, the anxiety of knowing you could mess up went heavenwards. Your Miguel wasn't one to dwell into conversations if they weren't necessary, canon before personal interests came first and always, awkward social skills that came out stilted and forced almost mechanically, specially when someone caught him off guard or in the high level of stress his gorgeous brain fed him on a daily basis.

Grumpy was his default emotional read, snarky or dry humored replies when dumb questions were asked, overworked to the bone. Secretly labeling himself as a bad man cause of the things he needed to do in order to keep the arachno-humanoid poly-multiverse working, a walking failure through and through, weak for meeting his emotional needs and trying to be happy for once and failing at it, and apparently the only one that knew how to keep everything together.

And still, the first one that always replied the call for help by either sending a group, or creating an escape plan route to ensure your and the rest's safety with the help of Lyla.

Unlike him. The man in the flesh and bone, that would easily supplant him physically, and had been watching you ever since you awoke. You didn't have to turn to him to know his presence had invaded your already reduced and secluded space.

Brown coals raked over the slope of your neck, the dip between your shoulder and junction, gaze remained over your rising form in every disguised breath you took, hoping he'd go away. Long and tan fingers tangled softly in the silks of your hair and the touch alone made your skin crawl, and not precisely in a good and pleasant way, no.

Whenever he was around your spider senses tingled, sometimes you'd end up with a headache, unable to shut it off. You didn't have to look deep enough to know he was as messed up and unpredictable as the task he had bestowed upon you.

"Eres tan perfecta..." his impish titter made your heart wrench and anxiety to bubble in the deepest of your gut.

In other circumstances you'd be a flustered mess, flattered even to have such kind of man groveling over you. But this one in specific had you coiling away from his touch, hoping to vanish into thin air or turn invisible like Miles.

God, you really wanted to have Mile's invisibility powers right now, so at least you could have a chance to escape. But dreaming had gone out the window ever since he dumped you here.

He never lingered too much, even when he did routine checkups on you. Blood and other fluid samples were taken, he made sure you ate the bland and soggy looking food 'til nothing but crumbs were left, and then he'd leave to do whatever he did in the lab and wouldn't return until your next feeding time.

The only thing he had in common with your Miguel was the workaholic attitude. He'd spend hours if not days tinkering with canisters and things you low key feared to know their components. You've noticed the little parts of limbs floating in some recipients, none of them human.

What kind of things this Alchemax did? Cause the little you had seen so far wasn't nice nor pretty.

Alchemax took seriously their research, and with this man on charge, you didn't want to even think about what kind of ungodly horrors they harbored. There was a little slapping in the air as he removed his gloves, and it was your chance to crawl away.

Rough pads thrummed over your soft skin, sending shivers down your spine, breath hitched as he beckoned your forearm, the only part of you that budged, towards him in a demanding pull.

"Haven't had the time to properly examine these." he mumbled, more to himself than to you, as his thumbs squeezed soft circles, soothing the previous pressure's discomfort.

You gulped as he narrowed his eyes behind his glasses at the tiny circular slits indented in your wrist, a pale pinkish hue rimmed the tiny hole. The way he admired and looked with child-like wonder at your web shooters was overwhelming.

Cheeks grew warmer as the tip of his nose ran up your forearm to finally stop on the shooters. A soft salty musk emanated from them.

"Organic webbing... Fascinating." He crooned.

He closed his eyes to relish in the smell of your skin. A shaky breath came off your lips as his moist tongue rubbed a kitten lick on it, a bolt of electricity flooded your senses and earned him a whimper. Eyes immediately shifted on you, pupils widening.

Much to your dismay both had accidentally unveiled a borderline gruesome breakthrough. The twinkle in his eyes made your brows twitch in worry. Your neck gulped and his eyes caught the fraction of movement to then smirk.

Pearly whites shone with twisted pride upon the discovery.

"W-Wait-"

The tip of his tongue pressed harder on the slit and you couldn't help but moan. A lovely and surprising melody to his keen ears at your reactions.

Web shooters were a sensitive and therefore an erogenous area.

You tried yanking your arm away, but your knees trembled when he delivered a wriggle of the tip of his tongue, trying to worm into your veins, prodding and tasting unabashedly at your dint.

With every coil of his moist muscle your brain sparked alive, neurotransmitters soaring in wicked delight. Your teeth clamped on your lower lip, stifling another upcoming moan.

The wet sounds and pops of his mouth made your insides clench involuntarily. Legs smothered together, as he now sucked. His lips pursed in that familiar shape it reminded you the way he ate your engorged and sensitive nub.

Head split in two, fighting over what side of reasoning you'd agree with. One side was ashamed such ministrations from your wretched captor turned your unwilling body like puty within seconds in his dexterous hands, and with this newfound information, his power over you just increased tenfold.

Or aghast for allowing such thing, for allowing him to cage you against the bed and his formidable frame while he devoured and toyed with your wrists, and for him to make you feel revered like no man ever had, even if it was for the wrongest of reasons. Brown eyes stared at your countenance with such curiosity and enthrall, as if you were everything he needed. Like his prayers had been answered and delivered in silver platter with you on it, right in his hands.

It didn't help your shaky resolution he squeezed and draped his other thumb in your other slit. Rubbing in lazy circles, pressing the right amount to have your clit throbbing and your mouth panting. The vibrations of his low groan on your skin sent your brain in tiny shortcuts, your synapses were howling.

A shiny streak of his saliva connected with the left wrist. The irisdiscent shine of your webs connected to his bottom lip.

"Tad salty" His tongue licked the web away, His thumb moved in a back and fro motion, alternating between circles and soft licks from his thumb pad.

"Hnng-" Your toes curled in, as your hips stuttered but he grounded his even more on yours, preventing you from shifting too much.

"Stop squirming" He huffed, annoyed, trying to focus his sight on the tiny crevice.

"F-Fucking stop then" you panted in angry breaths

Michael smirked, genuinely amused at your unexpected reaction.

"Why would I? This is the most exciting part of the research."

Shit.

He took your other wrist and kissed the dent, your eyes went shut as he pressed both wrist above your head. Thumbs kneading with a bit more of pressure right above your tiny holes. And God, it was embarrassing hearing yourself mewl like a needy bitch.

How couldn't you notice such thing about yourself after so many years of being a Spiderwoman?

Fuck

And why the fuck were you about to cum while having your wrists stimulated? But more importantly, was he really having a boner by toying with you?

"God, you're a pervert..."

You couldn't help but mumble and he pressed tighter on purpose, sending a muffled whimper through your throat, silencing your yapping.

"I rather the term, Man of science, pequeña. Now stay fucking still."

But you couldn't, not when he kneaded so closely to a spot that send your mouth gaping like a fish out of water, begging to be thrown back in the liquid oxygen. He pressed two inches away from the bitty hole, and that was it.

Jaw clenched and your spine arched. His brow quirked with clinical curiosity at your thrashing despair. Breaths paused and shallow, still deciding whether to moan or sob.

"Nmh-Fuck, fuck, oh my god-" Your eyes rolled back, and your insides clamped. Brain vaporising any coherent thought, mouth too busy catching air and sputtering dumb babble at the consuming climax. Contracting and pulsing at nothing as the little dent squirted a silky and sticky rope towards the wall with a soft Thwipsh. He blinked nearly stupidly at what he had just achieved, cracking his apathetic stare for good.

"Dios mío..." He pressed again and again and you sobbed as the web spurted hapzardly, diverting in every direction and etching to whatever surface it touched or landed. He stared with wide eyes between you and the webs. Limp limb suspended in the air.

Toes curled and clenched at the bedsheets, attempting to anchor yourself at the overwhelming sensations that clouded your judgement. Head spun and buzzed with the thrill not even you achieved when handling those annoying reminders of your solitude in your own hands.

For once your spider senses tingled deliciously. His cock twitched almost painfully at what he just witnessed, he groaned and cupped your face to deliver a deep and breathtaking kiss.

"I knew someday, all my work would be rewarded. All those sleepless nights, those sacrifices, would bring someone like you to me."

He panted, examining you with wicked excitement, shaking you softly in his aroused wake.

"You and I, will create something so beautiful even God will be jealous!."

If it wasn't for the ominous meaning behind those words, you'd be amazed and moved at his overboard thrill. He rested his head on your lower belly, a dark grin plastered over his face, fingers padded your skin, warmth spreading through his hand.

Where are you, Miguel?

"I can't wait to see you swollen, carrying the future of this earth, pequeña."

I'm scared

But as quickly as he laid down, he bolted out of your cell, too enraptured in his musings to actually care for your rattled state.

Now that his motives were clear, your need to escape was greater. But maybe if you played your cards well, you'd have a chance.

I need you.

----

The table landed on the wall, shattering in smaller shards that splintered all over the place. Michael's back rose and tensed so tight, his lab robe wrinkled, trapping the fabric in between his muscles.

The corner of his lip twitched, almost like a tick, teeth menaced with baring, fury boiling underneath his skin. If he could, the steam would blow off his ears, but instead he prowled over your unsuspecting and sleeping form in the very back of the lab. Mind assaulting his reasoning with so many questions, but one in particular made his hands to clench into tight fist.

Why weren't you pregnant?

He had came inside in your most dangerous and fertile days, and still, you weren't pregnant.

As much as he was a patient man, he was throughly disappointed at his own failure. Was his seed defective? No.

He had run studies on himself and his results were everything a desperate man in need of children could ask for.

Fertile, fruitful, healthy.

And still, the screen shone brighter on the 'Negative' results.

Hot and furious breath fanned over the glass wall where he saw you sleeping. He'd have to run even more tests on you, start all over and wait for another two weeks.

But what if your body refused him again? Your womb's rejection was an open slap on his face, when he had been nothing but kind to you. He had been taking care of you with the best things, and this is how you repaid him.

It frustrated him beyond reason. But he was a patient man. Weeks were nothing compared to all the time he had already waited. With a final huff, he returned to his lab to correct your stupid hormonal imbalance that was costing him his valuable time and resources.

However, a Public Eye officer barged in, breath in his throat. His personal hounds, and whenever they came in, it only meant one thing. They had found something, and by the scratches and claw like marks on the officer's bleeding shoulder, meant it was something good.

You had to wait for a moment longer.

-----

"Lyla"

Miguel's gruff whisper came behind the corner of the structure he was in. Lyla appeared right on his shoulder.

"Any readings?"

"Some-" She froze for a second, "Ssft-"

Her yellow shade glitched to then appear right before him, she was speaking, but Miguel could barely understand her.

Fuck.

The place's interference was messing up with her programming. His gizmo popped with a message, your location. Beeping in a bright yellow dot within the ever tall and imposing Alchemax building in the middle of the city, like a watchtower.

Your last signal. Earth S-2015.

If you were here, he was sure you'd quip up something about a movie reference, something about a Mordor, whatever the thing meant, to lighten up the mood. He'd never admit it, but it always made him a bit curious as to what you watched or did to entertain yourself. The things you spoke were beyond absurd and still, he listened, inwardly pondering as to what kind of substances your universe used to get that sort of inspiration, but now there was nothing but silence at his side. And he grew tired of it.

No matter how much he had tried to recover or track you, the signal vanished into thin air. And he wasn't happy. At first he thought the gizmo's self restart feature would bring the signal back, but days kept passing, and nothing happened, he even went to the extent of rewiring the trinket's code to see if there was anything between lines, but there was nothing after the current location he was in.

Miguel swung through the buildings, avoiding the constant and alert drones soaring through the sky. Alchemax safety propaganda was plastered all over the place, but this earth's inhabitants looked everything but happy. Unlike his wonderful and manageable utopia he had helped to improve.

Fear was forever etched in their faces, constantly moving, never lingering too much around those mean looking officers. The Public Eye.

Their image all over the city, with low key subduing messages as 'Keep The order', 'Report any anomaly in the nearest station.' It set perfectly with the gloomy, authoritarian and heavy atmosphere of this universe. Chaos brewing in the darkness, awaiting to be unleashed.

His gut felt queasy. He might not have spider senses, but intuition never failed him. And right now it was telling him to find you and get the fuck out as soon as possible. Precisely in that order. He didn't want to pull out a Miles, even if he wanted to on this wretched world. Frustrating as it was, Earth S-2015 was a necessary evil, like his ruler and his major minion.

Not that you were incapable of fending for yourself, one of the main reasons he didn't act right away, but knowing who was in this place, and the possibilities, made his chest constrict with a new wave of underlying anxiety and dread as there was no Spider in this earth to protect it.

His watch buzzed a bit too late with a new message from Lyla.

RUN!!!!

A hoard of drones shoot his way, creating a sequential line of explosions, he dodged, tore, and crashed the drones against eachother, as if they were bugs pestering him.

"Look! Another one!"

Some officers didn't wait to appear and shoot their best shots at him. They fired and Miguel fought back, talons in hands, ripping and tearing flesh.

They had taken you, and a cold sweat ran down his spine.

Mierda...

He took one officer by his neck, masked face came into view as his teeth bared.

"The other one, where is she?!" he seethed but the man was stupid enough to oppose. He thrashed, which only added gasoline to Miguel's already blazing fury. Talons dug in the man's tender flesh, but even so, the officer had managed to impale a needle on his arm. It's liquid immediately melting into Miguel's muscles.

It stung.

With a hiss, Miguel let the man go, too focused on the sudden burning sensation spreading through his arm and body like a wildfire. Breathings took a couple of seconds to turn erratic, lights flickered and dances before his eyes.

Concéntrate, mierda! (Fucking focus)

The remaining officers jumped on him, using their subduing tools on him, an electrical shock here and there, a couple of stabs that had him kneeling, punches that definitely got all air out of his scorching lungs. It hurted to breath, to move, to see. His photophobia was rampant as lights were suddenly on him.

Miguel tried to cover his eyes but punches kept coming, he lunged and swung back to nothing but air, as his faculties were in a painful sensorial overload. The last thing he could manage in between blurry and prancing lights was the officer's wicked smile, stretching. Darkness claimed him.

----

"Me estás hartando, quédate quieta de una vez!" (I'm getting tired of this, stay still!)

The lack of exercising had made you slow, he didn't give you enough time to fight back when dragging you by the ankles while you were in the best of your nap. The alerts in your body kicked a bit too late, and like he had done before, his hips grounded yours, suffocating their squirming as his hand squeezed the wrists, needle menacing on his other hand, a pinkish liquid shook within.

"Fuck you!"

With a low growl he smashed your hands against the mattress, earning him a painful yelp, and it was his chance to sink the needle on your neck, a sting that immediately stifled your body, a brief itch spreaded through before turning into a cool shot of drug.

"Don't worry... We'll get to it later. But I need your body cooperating first."

You tried batting his hands away, but he held your face, and you gulped. He was staring.

Michael Stone was staring at you.

Thrill, joy, and something eldritch within his beautiful eyes. It scared as it intrigued you.

"What did you just put in me!?"

His nose nuzzled on the crook of your neck and crooned, "Nothing you should worry about, pequeña. Just a little enhance that will take my investigation to the next level."

His nose revelled up to your neck, body shuddering with the soft kisses left imprinted on your skin. It confused you.

One moment he treated you like the best thing he had ever had, and the next he manhandled you like a rag doll, pumping whatever substances he thought right into your bloodstream.

"Ger'off me!" A backlash and he chuckled.

"You're amusing. Might keep you as a pet once my child is born." He frowned suddenly, like if an idea had came into mind, pondering.

"Or not, I could grow it on my own... But, no no. It wouldn't be the same, wouldn't it?." His peering landed on your abdomen, ready to see it plump. "Call. me traditionalist in that way, but there is nothing more beautiful than seeing life growing within a perfect specimen." His eyes twinkled.

"You're a sick fuck, you know that?"

"You loved having this sick fuck inside, pequeña. Your mouth might be spilling nonsense, but your cunt" He cupped it suddenly, shutting you up right away, "neither data lies."

A thick lump was swallowed down your throat.

"Rest well, I've got a surprise for you."

The smirk on his lips was everything but a good omen. And the heat increasing on your body didn't help. Hormones were slowly coming to a riot, spider tingle ringing harder for a moment.

Great.

Fingers rubbed on where he sunk the needle, wishing that for once he wouldn't use the thick ones. A tiny red smudge came into the pad of your fingertip.

Asshole.

----

Disgust, curiosity and repulsion.

Those were the main reads on Miguel's bruised face when Michael was before him, having a taste of his lips, but quickly backed up upon feeling the prong of his fangs grazing at his tongue. Miguel spat away his taste.

"Vete a la mierda, cabrón!" (Fuck you, asshole)

"Oh" His smirk went wider, almost wicked. He wasted no time in securing his grip on Miguel's chin to probe and poke at his mouth, revelling at every single thing within his structure.

"This is... perfect! With you and my vessel, we'll create-"

Michael jumped backwards as Miguel tried to lunge for him, but to no avail, chains clinked on his feet and wrists, restraining him.

"Now, now. What happened to that... friendly neighborhood thing your species used to preach? Is it a ruse?"

Miguel's fury burned brighter than the sun, he was ablaze, the Ethyl Chloride still railed within his bloodstream. He'd have to wait a bit more, just a bit for it's effects to leave his system and he'd free himself.

Never in his life had the urge of hurting someone came so strong on him, but he needed to be as collected as possible if he wanted to find you.

Even if his evil twin's hand roamed over his chest, measuring and probing his physiology. What's with everyone trying to get a piece of him?

His sight landed on something that undeniably belonged to you, a piece of your suit, under a microscope. Michael followed Miguel's line of sight and smiled, naturally, proud even.

"She's been a good specimen. The best one I've got so far."

A cold shudder ran down Miguel's back, eyes immediately on him, venom dripping in his words as they came out in a growl

"What have you done?"

Michael shrugged nonchalant, pride swelling up his chest. "Nothing but my work, Mr. O'Hara. And now that I've got you, you'll help me too."

"Te juro que si has hecho algo para lastimarla-" (I swear if you've done something to hurt her)

"Oh no, no. Im not that kind of monster." Michael tinkered with some tubes as he pulled a couple strands off Miguel's head. The Boss shook his head away from his tweezers.

"But she can get annoying sometimes. Nothing that pleasure helps to shut her up"

Miguel's eyes went wide, horror and anger in tandem within his crimson gaze.

His talons poked out, itching to tear the man before him, until he was nothing but bloody chum, fuck the canon, fuck this dimension. He'd do everyone a favor, unlike the first time he broke the rules.

"But dread not. Tonight is very special" Michael smiled at Miguel, but it didn't reached his eyes. The same pink liquid he injected on you was now flowing in Miguel's veins, thanks to thw needles in his shackles.

"Mating season is around the corner , isn't it?"

Miguel scowled, wary as Michael made his arms and legs restricted to the metallic wall of his confinement, hitting his head in the process. A wave of pain invaded Miguel's skull.

"I won't hurt her, no. But I won't allow you to take her away from me."

Michael pressed a button, sending shockwaves through Miguel's body, suit glitching out, until it disappeared, leaving a bare, righteous doppelganger of himself at his feet, panting, gritting his teeth and growling in pain.

Michael leered at Miguel unabashedly, smoke oozed from his shimmery tan skin, and the madman nodded, pleased.

"You spider-folk are unique and wonderful creatures indeed."

It was the last thing Miguel heard before another electrical and unexpected shock subdued him to darkness.

----

Miguel

His mind was a puddle. Nothing coherent could properly take shape in his brain. His body was heavy, doused in a borderline painful heat, the same sort of feeling he'd get once his body entered this spider-like urge to mate.

Miguel!

The voice calling him was familiar, but it's tinge sent a delicious pulsation right to the tip of his already twitching cock.

Wake up!

Leaden-lids parted enough to take in his surroundings again, consciousness returning to his empty body. But as it did, the strong tidal waves of his arousal drowned him in.

It didn't help he kept hearing these delicious mewls and pants, begging for him to do something simple as to wake up. The constant slaps of flesh and the breathless moans made a trail of precum escape his flushed and sensitive tip. Thick veins decored his pulsating girth, aching painfully to sink in something. To be wrapped in nothing but snug zeal.

"F-Fuck... Wake up, please!"

Another garbled moan that ended in an acute whimper. And that made him growl. His toes curled in, bleary sight finally taking focus on what was going on.

He could only blink at the scene. Stupid and high in need. Dying to be free and unleash himself.

"Ohmygod-" you hiccuped, watching him, flushed cheeks, mouth gaping and panting, exhaling deep and sweet mewls his body yearned to induce

"Miguel!"

You called, waking him up despite your insides getting a good rearrangement by Michael. The latter was too keen in watching his reaction as he smacked himself against you, his cheeks reddened in want.

You were spreaded like a book ontop of the sitting madman, back colliding with his bare chest, hands cuffed within two metallic hoops, hooked behind Michael's head; cunt swallowing him inside, choking with his continuous thrustings, slapping the back of your ass over and over as his hands kept your thighs apart and close to your chest, providing Miguel with a 4K image of your bullied and glistening pussy.

The way Michael pushed in so swiftly made Miguel's cock to erupt with another pre cum bead. Your breast swayed and bounced at the rough pace settled underneath. A rhythmic slap, like a perfect metronome for an obscene and wet melody.

The little rational part of Miguel told him, demanded him to look away. To spare you some shame, but his body had been rewired in such way he was unable to tear his oggling away, cause he could feel the need to break the chains and do a better job than Michael. He'd destroy you. He needed to.

Michael's hands made you hold the back of your own thighs, so he could plow deeper. And your spine arched as your toes curled, legs shook and a sweet acute cry echoed through the lab, announcing your first orgasm.

Miguel's sore cock twitched. Begging him to jump into action. His mouth watered as your pussy swallowed Michael's cock so deep and tight that a frothy, creamy ring nested at the base of his tightened balls, contracting as the madman came inside your snug hole.

Your arousal awakened a primal need in him, to the point that his talons dug in the fat of his palm, cutting skin and bleeding, like his bottom lip. Plump mouth heaved, his throat rumbled with gutural growls the more he stared, hypnotized at your post-bliss face.

Miguel whimpered, like a kicked dog, a deep flush invading his heaving countenance.

"Seems the serum is also making effect"

Michael slicked his hair back and gave an excited sigh, "I think it's time to see his performance, right?"

Michael pushed you away from his body, Bambi-like legs failed their attempt to hold your whole frame. You fell on the ground with a wheeze. Miguel immediately lunged, but his restrains held him back, prevented him from achieving his main goal.

Crimson eyes turned darker, nearly matching Michael's. The latter pressed a button and the collar on Miguel fell with a clank on the floor.

"M-Miguel" it was difficult to find your voice when it was scrapped raw and dry, but still, you had to try.

"We... we gotta leave. Do you hear me?"

Of course he did, but his mating cycle was on peak, thanks to Michael. He had messed up the natural process by accelerating his heat prematurely.

Why would he leave when he was about to wreck you?

His feet were unlocked. You gave Michael a pleading look while trying to crawl away. When the last lock clicked free, your breath hitched.

It felt like a slow motion as you looked over your shoulders, marked with hickeys Michael left. Pupils wide blown as Miguel lurched forward, stalking and hovering over you. Cock smearing his pre cum in whatever skin it landed, marking you with his scent as he manhandled your hips up, aligning them with his girth.

His hand was big enough to keep your whole head on the floor. Michael cackled as Miguel sunk in deep in a powerful roll of his hips, earning a stuttering grunt through clenched teeth from you.

The fat of your ass trembled, your clasped hands curled underneath your torso, in dire need of holding onto something, cause Miguel merciless plows were fucking any coherent thought.

Your whole body shook underneath him, cunt ever tight, your juices and Michael's cum made him easier to delve in a pace you knew would scrap your knees, cause he wasn't stopping nor waning.

Michael circled you both, hand on his cock, stroking himself at the sheer display of primal desire. The whole show made him hard, specially when seeing your engorged clit peeking underneath Miguel's jackhammering frame, flushed from the unceasing beating the hero's balls provided it.

"Just like that" Michael husked, and whimpered as you did nothing but sputter nonsensical and lewd blabbering.

Miguel's fingertips sunk tighter as they grope your hips firmly to keep you from lurching forward, despite him plunging into you with abandonment, as if with every thrust he'd say take it.

Take it for disobeying.

Your toes curled in and your jaw slacked open, unable to keep it together.

Take it for not following instructions.

"M... Mig-"

Bendito... He was just starting and you were already clamping onto him in a grip so tight it only matched the way he was holding your beautiful and generous hips.

"You're almost there, Mr. O'Hara! Keep it going!"

One specific thrust had your eyes watering and rolling back. A pathetic and incomplete scream made Michael to kneel behind you both. His eyes were too dazed in how Miguel fucked you. Dancing up and down, like the strokes of his hands on his cock.

Miguel secured your head in a tight headlock that cut your air supply enough to clench on him, again. Strong biceps trapped your airy head, clouded with a biting desire that came stronger every time you breathed.

Michael groaned when Miguel pulled a last thrust, sheathing to the hilt, forcing a powerful and milky kiss on your cervix. The madman's mouth wasted no time to sink in between Miguel's firm glutes, tasting him, squeezing and pushing him towards his face, tongue fucking the tight hole, earning a low but stuttering growl from a surprised Miguel. Glasses fogging at the rising temperature.

"Fucking delicious." He mumbled with a smack of his lips to focus his attention in your flushed and sensitive cunt. When Miguel pulled out, Michael was already pushing him away, to then prowl at your throbbing cunt, gathering the leaking cum on his tongue, revelling in the taste as he pushed it back inside with a soft dribble.

"W-Wait" You hissed, his moist muscle had been wonderful once, but right now it felt rough. Flesh too sensitive to the touch.

Miguel staggered, body overridden with a relentless urge to be inside you again, but his body screamed for a rest, the venom still lingered on his muscles. Michael on the other hand, cradled and sunk you once more ontop of him.

"The more you take, the more chances you'll get pregnant are." He explained underneath you. Tears rolled down your flustered cheeks, overstimulated and pearled, glowy skin by the thin layer of sweat etched in every slope and dint in your body.

Michael licked them with a groan while his hips smacked yours in a slow but deep, deep rut, pulling the last coherent thoughts through muffled groans and hiccuping mewls, while you shook your head vehemently.

"You're so perfect, pequeña"

"T-Too much" you croaked

Michael sunk you in a swift move, as his slapping hips met yours upwards, sending a jolt of electricity through your body.

"No, no. you can. You're strong, bonita. You can take me." His crooning was eerie, yet so alluring it blurred the line between monster and devotee.

Pleasure clung to your brain with such force it was dizzying. Every pore of your body oozed with the pheromones the serum produced, creating a tantalizing smell that lured Michael and Miguel's attention.

The grumpy hero could only watch you squirm as another cock that wasn't his, wrecked your insides in a tortuous pace.

"Fuck" He grunted, feeling the consuming and mind numbing drug licking at every inch of his cinnamon skin, imploring to feel you again.

Even though the Ethyl Chloride's effect had been long gone, the serum reacted to your pheromones. Meaning he'd need to provoke one more peak to have the effects completely worn out.

He'd feel sorry and awful all he wanted later, his priority was to get you out of this madman's claws. But...

It was impossible not to think in how good you felt, how delicious your whole body contorted while witnessing the way Michael subdued you to ride him as he captured one of your nipples in his urgent mouth. Lovely and plump bumps of flesh jiggled at the tempo, outer folds that without a doubt would be so sensitive to the touch, parted and guzzled Michael's veiny cock.

Miguel crawled to you both.

How well you had taken them each., Adjusting perfectly at their sizes, like a perfect flesh sleeve.

He hovered over the both and smoothed away the strands of hair that stuck on your flushed and gorgeously fucked out face.

The heat was consuming, and Michael's pace wasn't enough. The madman noted you were reaching the peak of the serum functionality as you urged your wobbly hips clumsily on his.

Despite you not being able to properly verbalise your pleasure, you still sought it. Michael's wicked fantasies came true when Miguel pushed you tighter against him, as if wanting to flush your body and Michael's as one being, just to have a proper glimpse of the sight that had him guiding his tip towards your already stuffed entrance.

Detente (Stop)

But he couldn't, he couldn't stop himself from entering you, knees flexing as he lowered his pelvis, pushing inch my inch deeper. Earning an ascending pleasurable wail from you.

Your eyes widened and your jaw clenched, baring your teeth as he also sheathed inside, womb so full it bulged.

Michael's laugh echoed through the room. Everything had came as planned.

"Let's make you a wonderful mother, mi pequeña."

Oh my god.

A panting groan escaped as Michael moved in first, igniting the painfully delicious friction inside you. He wasn't only stimulating you, but Miguel as well. The snug crevice too tight for them to coexist in peace, yet there they were, fighting over who pulled the last peak and thread of rationality out of you.

Their cocks pumping and prodding had your spine arching. Miguel grabbed a fistful of your front strands and pulled backwards, hiding his face in the crook of your neck, letting your chest exposed to Michael. He wasted no time into pushing both of your breasts together, tongue alternating between the left and right.

Sucking, lapping, wriggling his hot muscle on your taut peaks, making a mess out of them by creating more hickeys in every inch of salty tasting visible skin.

"Michael!" You whimpered and it was enough for Miguel to plow harder. The sinful makeout session of their cocks inside your walls made you pant, beg and laugh like a total loon.

A streak of saliva escaped the corner of your gaping mouth. Head lolled back and fro, fried brain with the lust both men induced you, floating on cloud nine. You didn't want to come down to earth, much less when Miguel and Michael's groans and moans over you, urged you to be the best cum dumpster ever.

Miguel pulled your handcuffed hands underneath your chin, beckoning your lips to his. His mouth suffocated any future moan as you bounced on both.

Your one and only boss didn't need you wailing his name to know you ached for him. But Michael was set into having a proper taste out of you both.

He pulled you closer, pushing deeper inside you. Michael's lips erased all trace of Miguel's on yours, to then kiss Miguel. To his surprise, Miguel didn't oppose, too gone in the sensations this mass of tangled limbs offered.

Michael hands roamed your body and Miguel's, feeling his own climax approach.

Hearing Miguel's animalistic growls on your ear, made your clit throb. He pounded with every fiber of his body, urging you to reach the stars and play with them.

Your cunt soaked them, too wrecked and ruined to care. Like your mind. It didn't matter who fucked better, all your body asked was fresh cum, deep in your womb.

The serum coaxed you to move faster, almost matching the rhythm of their whomps. The sound of your greedy and drooling hole being battered was music to their ears.

Michael whimpered and his spine arched, finally reaching his peak, spurting his hot sticky scent inside. Miguel hissed and held Michael close, watching him.

Limbs nearly cramped as they curled in, hands fisted tightly on each side of his trembling body, eyes rolled back, mouth panting, head too heavy to think straight. And that's when Miguel sunk his fangs on his neck, injecting his paralyzing venom on his bloodstream.

A pornographic and slurred moan erupted from Michael, his wicked smirk widened as his body slowly but surely, lost all control of his nerves, unable to command them to move.

Miguel had to resist the urge to come inside. He knew he had a couple of minutes before Michael regained mobility, and as heavenly as you felt, he pulled out of you, drowning his orgasm with regained self control, earning a small hissing as he pulled you out too, gently, off Michael.

Legs and body refused to cooperate. With clumsy steps he stood, taunting the surfaces for support. He slanted against the table, gasping for air.

Miguel shook his head and threw a quick look to Michael, still on the floor, but now groaning in discomfort. Even his tongue had numbed out.

Miguel didn't waste time and sauntered over the next table where pieces of his gizmo laid neatly arranged in a metallic tray. He swept them all in a container, along the tubes filled with his samples.

Like Hobie, he took other parts of machinery in a quickened pace to finally grab a couple of lab robes. He wore one and covered your overworked body, to then throw you above his shoulder.

"Nos vamos." (We're leaving)

Michael groaned, loudly. Anger was felt in every gurgle his throat did. Despair widened in the only thing that still remained movable in his numb face. They darted between you and Miguel, begging him to leave you there.

He groaned again, losing sight once Miguel swung with you from a window.

"Hold on tight if you can" Miguel's voice cooed as you two escaped.

-----

Michael had to douse some pain killer spray on the two slits done in his neck.

How could he not forsee this? How could he miss something so obvious that ended up messing his one decade old plan?

He let his emotion get the best out of him, fouling up his usual calculating judgment, replacing it with excitement.

A Public Eye squad remained before him, awaiting for his orders.

"Find them. I need the woman alive, understood?"

"What about the... other one? The monster?" The same officer Miguel had sliced through and marked, spoke.

The lights in the screen gave Michael a sinister red hue on his face, light reflecting on his glasses.

"He's not a monster, Johnson." Dr. Stone smirked, copying your information in his database, "There can't be two of us."

Johnson, the captain, nodded. The squad obeyed, and the hunt was on.

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#t writes✨#Michael Stone #miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x you #atsv miguel #miguel spiderverse #miguel o'hara fanfiction #miguel o'hara smut #miguel ohara #miguel ohara smut #miguel ohara x reader #miguel o’hara x y/n #miguel spiderman

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dearbraus · 4 months

Text

Doctor's Orders ೀ

— Wriothesley

⊹ Details. 18+ minors dni, gn!afab!reader, werewolf!wrio, doctor!reader, reader is from liyue, wrio has boxing injuries, bratty and slightly tsundere reader, banter, teasing, power imbalance, boss!wrio and subordinate!reader, semi public sex, oral sex (reader giving), top!wrio, bottom!reader, vaginal fingering, hair pulling, pussy spanks, knotting, creampies, wrio speaks in french, french petname, french dialogue. ⊹ Run time. 5.0k ⊹ Note. This was originally a part of an event ask game held back in October ,,, Oopsies! But!!! It's finally finished and much longer than it was meant to be but this idea has been rotting my brain since September!! Enjoy lovelies <3

❝After a particularly grueling boxing match, Wriothesley finds himself on the receiving end of a scolding from his subordinate and doctor. Though he supposes he can't be too bothered when your next treatment has you on your knees for him.❞

The Duke’s office smells strongly of antiseptic and sweat. It smothers the usual scent of weathered parchment and fragrant tea that fills the room. The lack of windows and airflow makes the room grow stagnant, and your clothing clings uncomfortably to your skin as it’s dampened by the muggy humidity that claims the Fortress of Meropide. Rolling your neck out, you quickly glance upwards at the man who sits like a kicked puppy before you. His shoulders are slumped forward and he withers under your steely gaze.

It was unusual. Despite his newly elevated status and gruff demeanour, Wriothesley liked to talk, often far more than he should. Now, he remained silent in your care, save for the few pained grunts and whines as you dabbled disinfectant across his split knuckles. His brows are furrowed as he watches your deft fingers wrap gauze around his splintered skin. Your mouth opens and closes as you search for something comforting to say to him but you come up empty.

Not that you had said much to the man since being called from the infirmary to his office.

“All done,” you murmur, setting his nearly limp hand back into his lap, “Do you mind tilting your head for me?”

You nod to gesture at his split lip before turning away to rummage through your medical bag. There wasn’t much left but you had enough to finish patching him up. Soon, you’d need to visit the surface and replenish the infirmary supplies. Your lips dipped into a frown at the thought. Your scarce trips to the surface always seemed to be troublesome in one way or another. Taking Wriothesely’s stubbled chin between your thumb and forefinger, you sigh softly before dabbing at the gnarled gash that cut through his bottom lip.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile,” the Duke quips with a lopsided smile.

He peers up at you for a moment, his pale blue eyes flickering up and down your face as your frown deepens into a scowl.

“You’re an idiot,” the words fly faster out of your mouth than you mean for them to.

Your shoulders tense up as you prepare for a tongue-lashing from your boss. If he’d been a lesser man, you likely would have been sent packing long ago but Wriothesely stares at you long and hard, his long black lashes brushing the tops of his cheeks as he blinks at you. Maybe you’d think he looks rather pretty beneath the scars and bruises with such expressive eyes and doll-like lashes had you not run your mouth. Still, your mind lingers near the shores of murky waters as it begins to consider that he is attractive. Attractive in a way that should he ever wish to leave his life beneath waves behind, he’d find no shortage of suitors knocking down his door, all vying for a crumb of his attention and affections.

Objectively speaking, he was rather good-looking. This you knew, though it was something you refused to allow yourself to acknowledge in all of the years you resided in the fortress. He was your superior, one whose rugged outward appearance projected a far more intimidating and unapproachable mirage than you assume he would have liked. It stunned you into a skittish silence that lasted six months and only ended once you caught him deep in thought over which tea he was going to pick. By the time he had chosen a packet of soothing chamomile, the kettle of boiled water that sat adjacent to his tea cup had cooled and needed to be warmed once more.

“Your Grace, you have my sincerest apologies. I did not-”

“Come now, you don’t have to lie to me,” Wriothesely laughed, his ears twitching with delight, “Though, I must admit I think you’d be hard-pressed to find anyone here who agrees with you.”

You stiffened, your mouth agape with shock, “That is not what I meant, your Grace,” you sputter, drawing your hands away from him. Your mind teeters and you’re nearly thrown off kilter when he laughs again. Had you not been so wrought with surprise, you might have felt insulted, “It’s just … I advised against any formal or informal boxing matches with your shoulder still recovering and you didn’t listen!”

Your shoulders tremble with emotion, it may have been annoyance but you were far too aggravated by how prettily he looked as he stared at you with an amused smirk as you scolded him. Blood dribbles down his chin as his grin widens, aggravating his wound further. Shaking your head at him, you resist the urge to roll your eyes in an act of defiance. It would do little to aid in your plight and your words would deaf upon his fuzzy ears.

“And if I may be frank, because you pushed yourself past your limit, you got your ass handed to you!”

The smug smirk that sits on his stupidly pretty mug makes your skin erupt with goosebumps. He seems far too amused at being scolded and it sets a fire in your belly ablaze, frustration bubbling over the lip of the pot where your emotions are typically stuffed into. Crossing your arms over your chest, you scowl at Wriothesley.

“Oh? You think I lost because I was injured?” He laughs, bemused by how your face is twisted up in annoyance, “I let ‘im win, he needed it far more than I did.”

Your silence only spurs his grin to grow even wider.

“Come now, you think that was my limit?”

Wriothesley asks as if it should be obvious to you as if you should know his body as well as you know his own. Did the other medics around the fortress know him so intimately? Were you supposed to?

Shaking your head to push away those pesky thoughts you sighed, “Yes,” a lump settled in your throat as he stared unabashedly at you, “Do you really expect me to believe you allowed yourself to be beaten to a pulp so your underling could have an ego boost?”

He shrugs his shoulders, slowly lifting one of his hands to curl a single finger around one of your belt loops. His slate blue eyes slide up the length of your torso before settling on your face, “I must admit I’m a bit disappointed in your lack of faith,” he remarks, sending you a playful pout, “But I suppose I could show you where my limits lay, so next time we can skip the scolding and go straight the good part.”

“The good part?” You echo.

“Yeah, you know when you kiss me better.”

Your jaw fell open in shock, eyes widening as you struggled to form words. All that slipped past your lips was a strangled sort of laugh, “What?” You managed to pant between breaths. Your cheeks warmed at the thought, your skin prickling uncomfortably as salacious images filled your mind.

“I’m just playin’ with you,” Wriothesley says, though the expression he wears as he peers up at you is devoid of the same playful lilt it previously had.

Something akin to adoration pools within the depths of his eyes. Your stomach curls in on itself and the urge to look away fills you but you can’t force your eyes away from him. The sight of him is burned beneath your eyelids, almost against your will. Maybe you’ll allow yourself to revisit it late at night once you’ve escaped his clutches and laid your head to rest. Wriothesley’s long, sharp canines bite into the plush flesh of his bottom lip as he bares his teeth to you. The finger that is hooked around your belt loop tugs against the fabric to bring you closer to him. Your feet, heavy like lead weights, trip over themselves as he puppeteers you closer to him.

“Are you?” You question with a tilt of your head, your throat running dry and your belly fluttering with nerves “I’ve worked beneath you for years, I’ve heard just about every joke you’ve ever told, you didn’t sound like you were joking.”

His long, fuzzy tail tickles your thigh as it thumps up and down. Though Wriothesley is able to school his expression down he’s betrayed by his body and its need to act on baser instincts.

“Don’t tell me you’d prefer if I was beneath you, literally?”

Your lip curls upwards as his cheeks fill with blush. It felt good to tease him despite your racing heart and the fear that it may soon stop. Heat blankets your clammy skin, leaving pin prickling goosebumps in their wake. His thick, sturdy thighs trap yours between them. The tip of his finger unfurls and trails up your navel, lightly brushing the sliver of skin above your waistband that reveals itself when you bristle in surprise.

“I like it when you scold me,” he confesses, his tongue flicking out to wet his bottom lip, “It’s hot.”

Pressing his calloused thumb to your tummy, he rubs a circle into the flesh just beneath your belly button. Your pussy clenches in anticipation but your brows furrow in something akin to shame. It is shameful, how the slight brush of his bare skin against yours has set your being on fire and plunged you deep within a pit of desire. Your skin prickles as you pathetically lean into his touch.

Cocking your head to the side you try to steady your wobbling voice, “Oh yeah?” You ask, hoping the slight lilt is infused with more confidence than you were capable of possessing, “Does it turn you on?”

You try not to cringe over how your voice crackles with nerves like an old, worn speaker system.

“Maybe it does, but can you blame me?”

You couldn’t not when the sight of him glistening with sweat and dabbled with splattered blood after a boxing match filled your head with thoughts that were far better suited for those Inazuman light novels that your coworker Marguerite often indulged in when Sigewinne didn’t have her tending to patients. The sound of your blood rushing past your ears distracts you from his question as you become acutely aware of how your heart throbs painfully beneath your rib cage. If you didn’t know any better you might’ve thought you were dying from the rushing sense of urgency that quickly filled you. Your fingers twitched by your sides, they ached to press against your pulse point for confirmation that this was real and the Fortress hadn’t yet imploded, sending you straight into some dreamlike afterlife.

The soft call of your voice breaks you away from the murky, spiralling depths of your mind, “Sorry,” you murmur, chewing on your bottom lip, “What did you say?”

“Distracted?” He asks, his voice irritatingly smug, “Come now, I haven’t even touched you and you’re already so dumb for me?”

“Shut up.”

The words fly past your gritted teeth with ease despite his seniority. You peer down at him with furrowed brows and annoyance laced between the buttons of your dress shirt. You blink in shock, still half estranged with yourself and your behaviour. Wriothesley smiles at you, cupping your face with an achingly tender touch. Try as you might, you can’t will yourself to hate his touch. Your tummy dips into a summersault as your nerves crawl up your throat to clog up your vocal chords.

“Archons … You're so cute when you try to be mean,” he muses, biting his lip despite the splintered skin. You’re about to chastise him, but he smooths his thumb across your bottom lip. Dragging the flesh downward, he exposes your bottom row of teeth to him.

Shaking your head you hiss,“I’m not trying … You’re just so annoying!” smack his hand away, you try to keep your stony resolve from crumbling beneath the weight of his heated gaze.

“So I’ve been told.”

You don’t when you dipped your chin down, but you’ve begun to crouch lower so your face is level with his. His warm breath fans across your nose and cheeks. The minty scent of the gum he chewed on all the way to his office lingers on his breath.

“Liar,” you whisper.

The tip of Wriothesley’s nose brushes against yours. Your breathing slows for a moment, the air collecting in your chest as you hold it. You don’t have to see his expression to know there’s a rather pleased smirk on his lips. You sigh, it’s a bit too heavy to be seen as simply a sign of your resigned fate. In the end, it’s you who closes the small gap between your mouths, ending this silly game of chicken and kissing him. It’s better than you could have ever imagined.

Wriothesley tugs you into his lap with an eager fervour, his lips never once leaving yours. His hands slip down to grope your thighs in spite of the thick, unmoving material of your dress pants. He’s warm, surprisingly so. Heat melts off the bare skin of his torso, your face feels hot. You’d rather blame it on him than accept the flush that’s dripping down your neck and leaving you dabbled with clammy perspiration.

“Everyone here loves you,” you grit, your chest heaving as you breathe, “They adore you, I hear the praises they sing for you every day.”

His canines poke against your bottom lip as he nips the flesh, “Are they? Hm, I hadn’t noticed,” he smugly muses, “Do join in? Or, are you strictly an observer?”

Pressing your thumb into the battered, bruised flesh of his shoulder, you give him a pointed look.

Wriothesley winces, “Mon petit agneau,” he growls in warning, “I don’t think you want to do that.”

“Why? You know I’ll just stitch you back up.”

Tangling your fingers into his hair, you pull him in for another kiss. His tail thumps wildly about, slapping against the side of your body as he crushes you into his chest. The sharp edge of his teeth prick your lips as he works to pry your mouth open and lick his tongue inward. He groans into your mouth when your fingers find the base of his ears. They twitch in your hold. You can feel his cock harden against your crotch as you experimentally smooth your fingers around the sensitive flesh.

“That’s what doctors do, isn’t it?” You ask, swiping your tongue across your lip. It tastes metallic but you’re unsure if he’s split your skin or reopened his wound, “They put you back together and make you feel good?”

Wriothesley’s lashes flutter as his eyes roll back slightly, “Kinda hard to do that when you’re purposely trying to get me all riled up.”

He pushed you onto your back before you were able to spin together a response. The sofa he keeps in his office is as uncomfortable as it looks. A rouge spring digs into your spine but it does not yet pierce the fabric, keeping you safe … for now.

“Archons above, have you always been such a brat?”

When he looms over you like this, Wriothesley appears oddly predatory. What’s strange is not how quickly perspective can switch but rather how little fear fills you up. It’s thrill that pours into your lungs and leaves you sputtering in anticipation. Your legs spread a little wider to invite his body to slot between your thighs.

You don’t think when your hands fly to unbutton your shirt, “I’m not,” you smoothly reply, “Don’t pout like a petulant child when I’ve bested you at your own game.”

His teeth glint in the low light.

“You think you’ve bested me?” He questions, grumbling something beneath his breath. You’re unsure what he’s saying, it’s something in his native Fontainian tongue. It sounds rather pretty, you almost want to ask him to repeat himself for the chance to hear it again but he cuts you off in the gruff common tongue you share.

“How foolish you are.”

The metal of his belt clinks as he yanks it open. You’re about to scold him to be mindful of his knuckles but blood soaks through the gauze before you’re able to. His handcuffs jingle loudly as he tosses them to the floor, his belt going with it. Goosebumps prickle your heated skin as the fabric of your shirt falls away from your body. You shiver, nearly flinching as your pants and underwear are tugged down your legs. His palms are calloused, weathered with the signs of time and age, they’re rough against your supple thighs. They drag over your skin in quiet contemplation as Wriothesley sizes you up.

“Am I, though?”

You sharply inhale when you catch sight of his hard, dribbling cock. He slowly strokes his length, his crystalline eyes boring into yours. There’s a small twinkle of mischief that pangs against the surface of his eyes, begging to be let out as you gawk at him. Precum spills over his knuckles and spatters across your pelvis with each shallow thrust of his hand.

Licking your lips, you cast your gaze upwards, “J'ai besoin de toi,” he mutters with a haggard breath of his own, “You drive me crazy, you know that?”

You shake your head, feeling a bit shy under his gaze.

“Well, you do.”

“Maybe … Maybe, I should do something about that then?” You suggest, reaching out to encase his hand within yours.

Wriothesley snorts a bit as he chuckles in agreement, “You should.”

Paying no mind to the small wince that he attempts to disguise with a throaty grunt, you wrap your fist around his cock. It throbs in your hold, a few more beads of precum flicking onto your belly.

“I’m sorry,” you apologise as you dip your head down to press your pursed lips to the weeping, red tip, “So, very, sorry.”

“Are you? I think you could do a bit better.”

Humming in contemplation, you squeeze the base of his dick, slowly allowing your tongue to loll out from between your lips to lick at his sweat salted skin. Wriothesley’s nails dig into the worn fabric of the sofa behind your head. The tendons and muscles in his arms flex and throb in the corner of your eye. You nearly moan at the sight alone, his raw strength further stirring up the embers that crackled deep within your tummy. The musk of his sweat fills your nostrils, adding to the intoxicating, heady mixture of precum that dabbles your tongue.

He curses under his breath, tossing his head back as he groans. A bead of sweat dribbles down the column of his neck and gathers within the deep crevice of his collarbone. It was truly criminal that skipped out on so many of his boxing skirmishes. If you hadn’t, you might have realised how gorgeous Wriothesley truly was, ages ago.

Swirling your head around the sensitive tip of his cock, you slowly guide his length into your mouth. Tears gather in the corner of your eyes as your mouth stretches to accommodate his girth.

“That’s it, fucking take it.”

Wriothesley’s eyes roll back into his head for a moment before they’re settled back onto the sight of you swallowing his cock down into your mouth. The intensity that glimmers amongst them makes you squirm, a whimper gathering in the back of your throat. The vibration around his length stirs forth another set of moans that tumble past his lips to form a twinkling melody of music for your ears.

Your hand strokes his shaft, accommodating whatever you struggle to fit into your mouth. The tips of your fingers stroke at the bulbous knot that sits at the base of his cock and occasionally his full, tender balls. You can feel him twitch in your mouth when you focus your efforts on his head, your lashes fluttering to blink away the tears that have continued to pool along your lash line.

“So fucking good,” he grumbles, his chest rumbling with each syllable, “Archons above … I need to be inside of you.”

Wriothesley decides at the drop of a hat. You whine at the loss of weight and warmth filling your mouth when he swiftly pulls away to settle between your spread thighs. His tail tickles your bare skin as he shoves his muscular, scarred arms beneath your torso to press your chest against his. You can’t help but giggle when his thick, scraggly chest hair grazes against your nipples. His stubbly cheek rubs your jaw and neck raw as he settles his face in the crevice.

“Please,” you croak with wanton need, “Please, fuck me.”

His free hand snakes between your bodies. Wriothesley cups your quivering cunt, the heel of his palm grinding into your clit as he sinks a finger into your weeping hole.

Your jaw falls slack as pleasure courses through your veins, “Be patient,” he laughs, his fanged teeth nipping at your shoulder, “I’ve gotta stretch you open first, fuck, you’re so wet for me.”

“Mhm, all for you.”

The rough material of the sofa rubs uncomfortably against your skin as you shift to bring Wriothesley closer to you, but you don’t care. Any of the day's worries slip between your fingers like the sand on the beaches of Yaoguang Shoal where you spent your youth splashing around without a care. Desire pools beneath your bodies and bathes your tangled limbs in liquid gold. It washes away your gathered worries and fears, leaving your body prickled in warmth.

You think there’s irony in the magnetic heat that flickers in and out between where your flesh meets his, being so deep beneath the ocean’s surface that the walls were often cold to the touch. He was cold to the touch, constantly shrouded in elemental residue from his frigid cryo vision.

Sweat dribbles down your brow, the apples of your cheeks burn.

“Oh yeah?”

Your vision blurs for a moment as you nod your head. Wriothelsey’s hair hands limply around his face, it brushes against your forehead when he dips his head to take in the sight of your puffy, wet pussy.

“Yeah.”

It’s cloyingly sweet, the lilt of your voice. You nearly choke on it. Goosebumps follow in the wake of the blanket of embarrassment that flew over you. He pays the way you nervously chuckle no mind, instead cradling the side of your face as he stretches you open with another finger.

“I want more,” you moan between pursed lips, your eyelids fluttering shut, “I can take it.”

The rough pads of his fingers and the stretch just barely satiated your appetite but, your palate had been wet by bulbous knot that teasingly sat pressed against your thigh.

Wriothesley presses a kiss to your sweat dabbled hair line, “I know ya can,” he murmurs, licking his lips as your body trembles beneath him, “But just let me be a gentleman, huh?”

“The gentlemanly thing to do would fuck me instead of making me beg for it.”

“Begging?” That sparks his interest, there's a devilish twinkle in his eye, “I didn’t know begging was on the table.”

Pleasure ripples through you as the heel of his palm grinds against your clit at just the right angle, causing your head to spin with wanton need.

“It’s not, I have enough self respect not to beg for cock.”

“Do you though?”

His smirk makes your need triple in size which in turns makes this game all the more maddening. You question it yourself– your resolve, you already asked politely but were you above begging. If you ruminate on the thought any longer you might’ve just found the answer to be no.

Wriothesley complies nonetheless, giving your pussy a few firm, wet slaps before slipping his hand upward toward your pubic bone. His fingers leave a trail of your arousal on your skin, it dries quickly and leaves you shivering from the cold. Spitting into the palm of his hand, he strokes his cock. Precum oozes out, flicking onto the sofa cushions. Your throat bobs as you swallow, a bundle of nerves gathers at the centre of your chest as he presses the tip of his cock against your pussy. Your cunt squelches lewdly as he slides his length between your sticky folds, light grazing your clit before he settles against your hole.

“Hurry up!” You find yourself saying though your stomach remains clenched in anticipation.

Rolling his eyes, Wriothesley shakes his head, “You have to savour it.”

Still, you feel your cunt stretch open to accommodate the girth of his dick. Your jaw falls slack as the wind is knocked out of your lungs, his visage is a mirror image. Not in mockery, but in relief. A satisfied sigh passed Wriothesley’s split lips as he slowly pushed his cock in deeper.

Wriothesley winces as you dig your nails into the meat of his shoulders, you sigh at the sight of his tensed expression, “Come now push yourself too hard,” you gasp between two wanton moans, “If you do that means I’ll have to patch you up again, would you really want to punish me with more work?”

Your taunts are cut short but a shudder that wracks through your body as he bottoms out. His thick knot teases your whole, just barely stretching you out before Wriothesley begins to thrust. Your nose brushes against his as he leans down, lips ghosting over yours.

“Either way you’ll do it with a smile,” he muses, pecking you on the mouth, “And say “Yes sir””.

You would.

You liked your job and were all too happy to work when needed even at the cost of your own sanity.

“Whatever,” you snip, burying your face into his shoulder blade to hide your smile.

Heat laps at your core, trickling into your chest. It leaves you hot all over. Your cunt throbs with need as you inch closer to orgasm. His cock feels like it’s in your stomach, the fat head uncomfortably kisses your cervix with each shallow thrust.

Pressing your teeth into the firm muscle of his shoulder, you allow a squeal to roll through your throat. You can feel yourself gushing around his length as he mercilessly bullies that spongy spot deep inside you. Warmth coats the apples of your cheeks as the cushion beneath your ass soaks up your juices.

“Je suis à toi,” Wriothesley hisses into your hairline.

The sofa's wooden arm crackles within the palm of his hand as he roughly grips it for purchase. Your heart leaps, there’s something oddly thrilling about the display of raw strength, you’re hardly pressed to consider the fact that the Fortress couldn’t afford to replace it.

Your hands drift upward to tangle into his sweat soaked strands of hair. Your fingers twist the locks between them.

“Tire-moi les cheveux!”

Wriothesely’s chest rumbles as he moans, his rhythm faltering slightly when you unabashedly yank at his tresses, “Harder,” you whimper, your shoulders shaking as pleasure thrums through your veins, “Please Wrio, I need it.”

You can feel yourself teetering on the precipice of orgasm, his sweat is dappled upon your tongue.

“Et t'as l'air bien, tu te sens bien.”

“Wha-”

Your confusion is cut off by a moan which is then followed by a flurry of curses that you didn’t know you had in you. The obscene sound of wet skin slapping together smothers any other questions that may dare to dribble down your lips.

You choke on a gasp as your orgasm washes over you, much like the first time you dove into the frigid waters in search for your place of employment. You’re dunked in a disorienting sea of cold that electrifies every nerve ending in your body. Tremors wrack through your spine and your eyes roll back into your head before you force them shut.

“Wrio,” you moan, your nails clawing at his scalp.

His tail curls possessively around your thigh, snaking its way around your hip to the small of your back. The sofa creaks, scraping loudly across the roughed hardwood floors as Wriothesley’s thrust takes on a new vigour. The hairs on the back of your neck stand to attention as his claws tear through the fabric behind your head.

“I want you to knot me!”

Wriothesley’s head bobs in what you assume to be agreement, “Je suis à toi,” he repeats, more to himself than to you.

Your lungs burn from how you hold the air in the centre of your chest, your lips rounded and jaw locked as Wriothesley slowly pushes his knot into you. He growls when your nails break skin as you claw at the nape of his neck. The tinges of pain slowly dissipate with each passing, excruciatingly long second. Your walls flutter, struggling to accommodate for the instruction.

“Fuck,” you curse, your chest heaving as you such in a ragged breath.

Wriothesley all but collapses on top of you with one last week thrust before he cums. His stubbly jaw scratches at your skin as he tucks his face into the crook of your neck. Though his knot is supposed to plug your hole up, you can feel some of his thick, sticky cum oozing out of your cunt and lathing across his pelvis.

“What did it mean?” You ask once you’ve regained your breath, your words slightly minced from how your cheek laid flat against his broad shoulder.

“Hm?”

Pausing to lick your chapped lips you wildly gesture around his back though he can’t see you, “The Fontainian, what did it mean?” you clarify, “You said quite a lot.”

“Oh, nothing, don’t worry about it.”

His blaisé tone has those familiar embers of annoyance flickering to life though you were too exhausted to argue. The fur of his tail drags uncomfortably against your sweat damp skin as he possessively holds you close.

“You know me, I always worry.”

“You don’t need to,” he reassures, planting a kiss to your neck, “Everyone adores you.”

It’s almost second nature the way you roll your eyes and huff.

“At least I do.”

#wriothesley smut #wriothesley x reader #genshin smut #genshin impact smut #wriothesley x you #gi x reader #gi smut #genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #x reader

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copper-16 · 1 month

Text

She Feels Safe With You

Ingrid comes to a realization about her wife as a mother after a particularly hard day with a fussy, upset baby.

(a/n: this was requested by someone on ao3! It's honestly half coherent but life I am riding the struggle bus a tad bit ust wanted to write something soft and sweet about these three, hence this!)

Mapi never really considered herself a crier, not just as a general rule.

She did not cry when she got hurt, or when she was frustrated, or when she watched a sad movie.

She cried occasionally, sure, but it wasn’t a daily, or weekly, or even monthly occurrence.

The Spaniard had cried when Ingrid had walked down the aisle, when she had resigned from the national team. She had cried when she got the notification that Spain had won the World Cup, an event she was not present for.

When they found out they were pregnant, Mapi cried. Ingrid had been in too much disbelief to cry at first, not truly believing that it had worked, not after two failed transfers.

But the center back had cried instantly, fat, bumble bee like tears rolling down her cheeks as she thought about the fact that they were actually going to be having a baby.

It probably should have been a sign of what was to come, in the future.

Mapi cried at nearly every ultrasound, tears springing to her eyes whenever they simply wheeled the doppler, practically. Ingrid had begun to joke that her wife had turned into Pavlov’s dog, except it was listening to their baby's heartbeat at the appointments. It earns her a withering glance, as Mapi roughly shoved her tears away.

“Are you going to cry every time you hold her? What is going to happen when you hear her heartbeat when she is no longer inside of me?” Ingrid sassed, though Mapi does not dignify her with a response.

The Norwegian has a relatively easy pregnancy, thank god. She keeps waiting for the wild emotional highs and lows, or the cravings, but neither really come. She had her moments, sure, but in the large percentage of the time, she felt normal.

What had been more fun, honestly, was to watch her wife turn into a complete and utter pile of mush, emotionally.

She had never seen Mapi cry as much as she did in the lead up to Elena’s birth. Sometimes she would walk out of their bedroom to see Mapi sitting on the couch, tears running down her face as she looked straight ahead, not even really looking at anything in particular.

“What are you crying about?” Ingrid had asked, her head cocked to the side in confusion. The Spaniard looked back toward her, her brows furrowed in confusion as she shook her head.

“I’m not really…I’m not really sure?” Mapi asked, her words a question rather than a statement. She took Ingrid in for a second, the swell of her stomach, and couldn’t help the fresh wave of tears that overtook her once more.

“We’re having a daughter,” she breathed out, her words slightly gasping over the wavering of emotion in her voice. Ingrid made her way over to the couch, settling next to her wife as she curled into her.

Mapi moved to wrap her arms around Ingrid, as she usually did, but the dark haired woman stopped her, softly. Instead, she took her wife's hands gently in her own, pressing a kiss to each of her palms before she placed them over her belly.

Ingrid relished in the way that her wife let out the tiniest little sigh of relief, even as more tears dripped down her face.

“That’s your daughter in there,” Ingrid insisted, her voice soft. A tiny kick pressed against the center back’s hand, as if to punctuate the defender’s point. Mapi closed her eyes, even more tears leaking out of her eyes as she nodded.

The Spaniard was terrified that she wouldn’t be connected to Elena, because she wasn’t the one who carried her. She was terrified that she wouldn’t love her daughter, or be a good parent, that she wouldn’t do or say the right things.

It was easy for Ingrid to know that Mapi was going to be a good parent. Because the reality of the matter was that her wife cared, deeply, and that already made her a hell of a better parent than a lot of people out there.

But Mapi still struggled to see that, no matter how much she was reminded.

————

Mapi cried when Elena was born. She cried as she held her little baby, as she pressed the pad of her pointer finger to her little nose. Elena stayed firmly asleep when she was in Mapi’s arms, never once fussing until she was passed around.

It became a bit of a theme, their daughter sleeping on Mapi.

Ingrid didn’t notice it at first, not when she was a baby. She was so little after all, all she did was sleep, practically.

But still, Ingrid snapped a million photos of her daughter, and so she got a fair bit of Elena sleeping against Mapi. It was where her daughter always seemed happiest, and as much as the Spaniard panicked and turned to Ingrid when the baby was fussing, it was her who was the best at calming Elena.

It was only when Elena got a little bit older, that Ingrid finally pieced it together.

The baby was a little bit older, a little bit more alert. She was nearly a year old when she began to resist sleeping, not as easy to put down, waking up early, becoming fussy.

Ingrid had been at her wits end all morning. The baby wouldn’t stop crying, and her head hurt, and she was tired.

She wanted nothing more than to go into her bedroom, curl up with her wife, and sleep for more than two hours at a time. But she couldn’t do that, not with her baby here, not when Elena needed her.

When the doorbell rang, the Norwegian honestly wanted to scream. Elena looked as though she was just about to fall asleep, but the baby jerked awake as soon as the doorbell rang, her nap forgotten.

The crying was back, and Ingrid held the baby to her chest as she ripped the door open, lashing out at whatever was closest.

The culprit just happened to be Frido.

“Fridolina Rolfö I swear to GOD–” Ingrid started, only to be cut off before she could say something she truly regretted.

“Ingrid.”

The voice was soft, and probably shouldn’t have been audible over the crying of their daughter, but Ingrid would never not hear her wife. The defender turned around, finding Mapi standing behind her with a sympathetic look on her face.

The Spaniard had just gotten off the phone from a brand meeting, just a few minutes prior. But she had called Frido before the meeting started, telling the Swede that she needed to come steal Ingrid for a bit. Feed her, let her nap in peace, get away from the house for a bit.

The Norwegian looked back at her wife with confusion. She hadn’t made plans with Frido, and she knew that she couldn’t leave Elena like this.

But the Spaniard reached for the baby regardless, taking her from Ingrid. The dark haired woman looked over her wifes face. There was exhaustion present, lines written into her face, bags under her eyes.

But there was also understanding there. Some nerves, but understanding nonetheless.

“I called Frido to come take you back to her house for a bit, to have a little bit of a break. Eat a proper meal. Get some sleep without a crying baby around. Rest for a while, princesa. We will be here when you return,” Mapi promised, leaning forward to kiss Ingrid’s cheek. The Norwegian panicked, looking from Frido to her wife.

“But–” Ingrid started, knowing how nervous it made Mapi to be left alone with the baby.

Still, even all these months later, she worried that she was struggling to connect with her daughter. All of Ingrid’s movements seemed so natural, so perfected. And somehow still, hers felt awkward and stinted, never quite right, never as maternal or as easy as she wanted them to be.

She wanted to do better, though, for her daughter and her wife, who was clearly exhausted. Not that the center back wasn’t equally as tired, she just couldn’t very well do anything about it right this very second. But she could do something about Ingrid’s exhaustion.

“No, we will be fine, Ingrid. Take a few hours, amor, you are exhausted,” Mapi soothed, gently pressing the Norwegian out of the door with a soft hand, allowing Frido to lead her away.

It turned out, Ingrid needed it more than she thought humanly possible. When she got back to the Swede’s house, there was Sodd waiting for her on the table, and she practically collapsed into the bowl she ate so quickly.

She napped in Frido’s guest bedroom, sleeping for four straight hours.

When she awoke, she felt like a new woman. She emerged from the bedroom with a small, sheepish smile.

“I am SO sorry for snapping at you this morning,” Ingrid apologized, even as Frido held up her hand.

“Ingrid, you were exhausted and carrying a screaming baby, if I had been you I would have been roundhouse kicking someone,” Frido admitted, and the defender couldn’t help the tiny laugh that she released at the thought. As she came back to herself, she couldn’t help but straighten, a thought racing through her mind.

“Oh my god, Mapi is still home with the baby…can you take me back?” Ingrid asked in a slight panic, and her Swedish teammate quickly sprung into action to grab her car keys.

“She is still so worried that she is not doing a good job with Elena,” the Norwegian admitted as they drove, her heart punctuated with worry.

“Still?” Frido asked, well aware of the struggles that the center back had during the first few months of Elena’s life.

“Not as much now, but still. It does not come as naturally to her as she wants it to be, but she still does such a good job, somehow. I do not know how she doesn’t see it, really,” Ingrid revealed, and Frido let out a small, sad sigh.

“She is so hard on herself,” the Swede commented, and Ingrid could only cringe as she nodded, her agreement weighing on the car heavily.

Frido parked the car in the car park of their apartment building, coming up with Ingrid to check on Mapi and Elena. They were both expecting to still hear crying as they unlocked the door, but the house was…quiet.

Ingrid looked toward her teammate in confusion before they walked into the house, both of them searching for the Spaniard.

“Mapi?” Frido called out softly as she checked the kitchen, only to hear the Norwegian call out to her in the living room.

When the blonde walked into the room, she stopped next to Ingrid, surprise coating her expression.

Mapi was fast asleep on the couch, with Elena curled into her chest. Mapi was only in a sports bra, her shirt discarded on the floor. The baby was stripped down to her diaper, pressed into her Mami’s chest comfortably, completely asleep as well.

Frido looked from the Spaniard to the Norwegian, her eyebrow raised.

“I don’t know, looks pretty natural to me,” she shrugged, and Ingrid softened as she nodded, unable to tear her eyes away from the sight. She pulled her phone out, snapping a photo and placing it in an album on her phone that she was well acquainted with.

Ingrid left the two of them, seeing Frido out before she returned to the living room. She sat on the floor, simply staring up at the two of them as they slept. Elena was completely safe, engulfed by Mapi’s arms.

How Mapi could keep her daughter so safe and secure, and still question whether she was a good parent, Ingrid sometimes did not know. It seemed so blatantly obvious to the dark haired woman, that her wife was an amazing parent.

She only wished that the brunette could see it herself.

It was only another half hour before Elena began to fuss, and Ingrid quickly plucked the baby from her wife’s arms, going to feed and change her. The Spaniard was dead to the world, and Ingrid decided to simply let her sleep.

Lord knows the woman could use it, just as she had needed it.

But even after Elena was fed and changed, she continued to fuss. She cried softly, not very loudly or in a grumpy way, but as though she was not completely happy.

Ingrid tried everything. She bounced the baby, she walked her around, she made faces at her, she covered her in blankets, she laid her down.

Nothing seemed to appease her daughter. Not even when Ingrid stripped her own shirt off, wondering if maybe she just enjoyed the skin to skin contact.

But still Elena kicked her little legs, letting out a weak, tired cry. The defender held her baby out in front of her, her eyebrows furrowed.

“What do you need?” Ingrid asked aloud, though she wasn’t really expecting an answer. Still Elena let out a frustrated cry, wriggling slightly. The Norwegian paused for a moment, before turning around and heading for the living room to test a theory that was beginning to form.

And sure enough, as soon as the baby was laid on her Mami’s chest, she quieted instantly.

The brunette shifted in her sleep, wrapping her arms protectively around Elena, mumbling incoherently as she snuggled into her. Ingrid sat down on the couch next to her, cuddling into her wife as she slept, and helping to keep their daughter held securely as she slept.

Mapi awoke when Elena started fussing again, waking gently as she wrapped her arms around her daughter, her attention completely on Elena even as she woke up.

“Shh shh mi sol, esta bien, esta bien,” Mapi murmured, picking Elena up and going to sit up, at which point she registered Ingrid next to her.

“Oh, hello princesa,” the Spaniard murmured, settling their daughter in her arms before she leaned over to deposit a kiss on her wife’s cheek. She paused though, when she found Ingrid crying, her phone in hand.

“Ingrid? Is everything okay?” Mapi asked softly, her voice thick with sleep but still filled with concern. The Norwegian nodded easily, running her hand over Elena’s back as she set her phone down on the couch.

“You are the best Mami,” she replied simply, watching as a flicker of doubt overtook the Spaniard’s face before she nodded, trying her hardest to look encouraged. The Norwegian looked at her wife for a moment before she reached for their daughter.

“Here, give me Elena,” Ingrid said gently, taking the baby and going to put her down for an actual nap.

When Ingrid returned, she found the center back sitting on the couch, her knees pulled up to her chest.

“I realized something, when I came back from Frido’s,” the defender began as she sat back down, reaching for her phone once more. Mapi turned to look at her, quiet and more than a little curious.

“Ever since Elena was born, I’ve kept an album on my phone that is just pictures of her sleeping on you. And whenever I feel sad, or upset, or I just need a little pick me up, I always look at it. It’s my two favorite people in the world, after all,” Ingrid explained, and her words are so gentle that Mapi can’t help but smile shyly, even after all these years.

“She’s always loved sleeping on you, María. You are the best at calming her down, you are the first to get her to sleep. She feels safe sleeping on you, amor,” Ingrid argued softly, though Mapi looked immediately posed to disagree.

“Look,” Ingrid insisted, pressing her phone into the hands of her wife. The album is already pulled up, simply waiting for the Spaniard.

Hundreds of pictures.

Thousands of pictures, even.

All of Elena snuggled into her Mami, fast asleep. They started when she was a newborn, so tiny that Mapi had struggled to even hold her without feeling fear.

As the little girl grew, so did the Spaniard’s resolve to be there for her daughter. Her confidence grew as well, her worry subsided a little bit.

But more than anything, over the last year, her love for the little girl grew immensely. Tears slid down her cheeks as she scrolled through the album, through the actual, physical proof that just served to show how much she had come to care for their daughter.

The brunette still had no clue how she could hold so much love for someone so incredibly small, but she did.

The Spaniard stood suddenly, handing Ingrid’s phone back to her before she walked back into their apartment. It was the number one rule, not to move a sleeping baby, but Mapi did not care, not right now.

She picked Elena up from her crib, tucking her daughter into her arms tightly, praying that she could always protect her from the world as much as she could right now.

The baby stayed fast asleep, little hot puffs of air hitting her in the chest, where Elena was positioned. Mapi bowed her head downward, her tears dripping from her nose and onto her daughter's perfect little head as she pressed kiss after kiss to the crown of her head.

“Te amo mucho,” Mapi murmured, as she wondered if finally, finally, she was enough.

“She feels safe with you,” Ingrid commented from her spot leaning against the doorway of the nursery. The center back looked up for a moment, her eyes thick with tears. “She is always falling asleep with you, always soothed by you. She feels safe with you, amor. She feels safe with her Mami, and that is enough, you are enough,” Ingrid emphasized, and Mapi struggles to keep her composure as her lungs spasm, burning from the effort of keeping her cries quiet.

Elena opens her eyes carefully, blinking up at Mapi with sleep ridden eyes.

“Mami,” she rasps, reaching out for the Spaniard. Mapi cradles her daughter close to her, pressing her face into Elena’s skin as the little girl giggles lightly, reaching out to pull at a lock of brunette hair.

The Spaniard cannot bring herself to care as she pulls the little girl back, looking her firmly in the eyes. Elena smiles back at her, content and happy, safe and secure.

“Te amo tanto. No puedo vivir sin ti,” Mapi murmured to her daughter, as she felt a part of her heart settle.

Maybe it hadn’t always been the most natural thing to her, to hold a child or change a diaper or play with a baby.

But what she made up for in lack of skill in the beginning, she had made up for with an entirely overwhelming amount of love. Because no matter what she did not know, there was absolutely nothing that Mapi would not do for her little girl.

And maybe, at its core, that had always been enough.

Maybe all they needed for everything to make sense was a little love, and a very long nap.

#ingrid engen #mapi leon #ingrid x mapi x daughter #woso #barcelona femeni #fridolina rolfö

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tokkishouse · 1 year

Text

(Nsfw) Time of the Year

Characters: Tighnari x fem!Reader

Warnings: (n)sfw -- minors dni!!!, Tighnari is insatiable, he's a fennec fox during mating season-- do the math lol (breeding, knotting, a little manhandling), little dacryphillia, hair pulling, reader is implied to be a fellow forest watcher and has a vision, bit of a long set up (pwp?), NOT PROOF READ, i kinda...blacked out when i wrote this LMAO

WC: ~3.4k words

There were many things about Tighnari that intrigued you. How a hybrid like him came around was the major one-- you had only seen one other hybrid like him before and that was General Gorou all the way in Inazuma.

His mannerisms also caught your eye-- the constant grooming of his tail and the nesting habits where he'd hoard all the warm blankets in his abode. While endearing, it never failed to earn your attention and curious stares.

What you really wanted to understand was where exactly your fearless leader went during the entire month of January and February. During all the years you were under his instruction as a forest watcher, without fail, Tighnari would be on a leave of absence from January 1st until the end of February. March 1st would roll around and there he was, picking up his responsibilities as if he wasn't gone for two months.

When you inquired about it to the others, they'd brush it off and dance around the subject. Some would scold you for being too curious while others would bluntly say it wasn't your business. And maybe it wasn't-- if it was crucial for everyone to know, Tighnari would've made sure everyone knew.

Too bad you were always determined to find the answer to your deepest questions.

After a long day of exploring Avidya Forest and clearing out any withering zones, you longed to take a nice relaxing bath and sink into your bed as you escape to dreamland. Tasks had gotten a tad harder recently with Tighnari gone, but everyone managed to make do, especially thanks to you and Collei assisting with your visions.

"That Tighnari...I wonder how he's doing," you mumble under your breath as you make your way back to your hut. You just finished taking a bath as evident from the dull drip drip of the water falling from your hair. You stop at the intersection between everyone's huts and you look down the path to Tighnari's.

"I didn't see him leave the forest. Maybe he's still here?" The desire to check if your leader creeps into your brain. You recall everyone's hesitance to explain Tighnari's absence and without thinking, your legs carry you down the path to his home.

His closed door greets you, and there's a sign hanging from the hook. It reads, 'Do not Disturb-- Please Come Back March 1'. You click your tongue in frustration. Why on earth would you request an absence and still stay here in the forest?

You raise your fist to knock on the door, the desire to ignore all warnings stronger than ever. It hovers right in front of the door, and no matter how much you seem to want to knock on the door, you can't bring yourself to do so. You let out a defeated sigh, letting your hand drop to your side.

"Let's not be an ass. I'm sure Tighnari has his reasons. We can always ask him later." Despite your aching curiosity, you decide to respect Tighnari's privacy, and you turn on your heel to leave. Before you can leave though, a loud groan catches your attention. It sounds pained, and you whip your head back around towards the door.

"Tighnari...? Are you okay?" you call out to him, concern lacing your voice. Silence fills the air, and you almost move away, convinced you misheard the sound in the first place. Another groan sounds from behind the door, and it sounds more strangled this time. Instincts kick in, and you immediately grab the doorknob, twisting it as you walk in.

You take time to let your eyes refocus on the sudden burst of light in your eyes, nearly blinded by it. When your vision clears, your jaw drops at the sight in front of you.

Tighnari is propped up against his couch, limbs sprawled out as if they're made of jello. His face is flushed and his bangs cling to his head from the sweat that's dripping down his face. His usually bright and focused eyes have taken on a glazed look, and his pupils have contracted, giving him a more animalistic look. What really catches your eyes are his clothes, or rather-- his lack of clothes.

The hybrid has stripped down bare in the middle of the room, his clothes strewn around in a haphazard way. You're unable to fully react to the sight of him gingerly palming his erect cock. It stands up straight, blushing a bright red at the tip. Precum leaks from the head, smearing around the shaft from his languid motions. He lazily turns his gaze to you, a small glimmer of recognition shining in his eyes.

"Y/n...what are you doing here?" he manages to breathe out. He doesn't stop his hand, letting out a quiet whimper when he presses down hard on his sensitive length. You can feel your brain short-circuit as you stumble over your words, trying to form an excuse for the invasion of privacy.

"I-I heard you groan and I thought you were in pain, so I thought I'd come in," you explain, and you can't help the fact that your gaze lowers, once again entranced by the sight of Tighnari touching himself. You weren't blind-- Tighnari was a handsome man. His personality was welcoming, and his features were easy on the eyes. You weren't the only person to have felt this way, and the sight of such an attractive man pleasuring himself, almost pathetically, sends a tingling sensation down to your core, and you feel yourself grow damp.

Tighnari catches on easily, the scent of your blooming arousal sends his mouth watering. He can't help his more animalistic urges-- no matter how much he tried. You see, he had also found you attractive, and the first year that he had a rut with you as a ranger, he nearly tore off the head of one of the male rangers who flirted with you. Unaware of your feelings for him, he opted to instead request a leave of absence. Two months out of the year he'd be gone, and then he'd come back perfectly fine, and you would be unaware that you were the reason for his choice of isolation.

However, smelling your arousal and recognizing the signs of want, of desire as your gaze remains steady on his weeping dick, he knew that the feelings were mutual. A fire was lit in his stomach, and any feebleness he felt from the onslaught of hormones washed away as he adjusts himself to sit up properly. His hand remains on his shaft, switching to a pumping motion.

"Are you getting off to seeing your leader a lewd mess? I didn't take you for that type of person," he teases, and he grits his teeth, a shock of pleasure shooting up his spine with the squeeze of his hand. You feel your cheeks burn in embarrassment and you finally manage to peel your gaze away from the angry dick, choosing to find the ceiling more interesting.

"I-I'm sorry! I'll leave right away. Forget you saw anything. I'll-"

"Forget I saw anything?" Tighnari laughs, and your legs feel like lead. His laugh is incredulous-- and you don't blame him. How does one just forget the sight of their subordinate walking in on them jacking off?

"The fact that you didn't run out of here leads me to believe that you find me attractive and that the sight of me pathetically trying to get myself off turns you on. Am I wrong?" He's not, by any means, and the growing wetness between your legs is further proof of that.

"Why don't we help each other out?" He suggests, watching you through his long lashes.

The air is thick with sexual tension as you both stare at each other. Despite his exposed position, Tighnari holds all the power. He's giving you an out, and you can tell he's genuine. You could just run out of his home, and pretend the situation never happened. But the yearning inside you is too high. You've desired a chance like this ever since you joined the Forest Rangers. And of course, you were curious.

What was it like to fuck a hybrid?

✦✧✦✧

Exhausting. That was your answer. The moment you gave Tighnari his approval, he pounced on you. His claws made quick work of your clothes as he flung them around the room. You barely had time to react before his mouth latched onto one of your breasts, his hot tongue painting shapes on your skin. You keen at his touch, whines and moans tumbling out your lips as he leaves love bites all over your chest.

Alternating between the two, his mouth suckles on your nipples, painting drool and spit coating your breasts. When Tighnari pulls away, they feel sore and you hiss as the air feels cool in contrast to the warm saliva and the heat that rushes to the surface of your skin.

He wastes no time as he pulls you into the desired position, his animalistic strength making it easy to get you on your hands and knees. Clawing at your ass, he bites his tongue and hisses as he catches sight of the slick gathering on your inner thighs.

"I won't have to waste time prepping you. Good, because I don't want to wait any longer." Your cunt clenches around nothing, and you whine in anticipation. In an attempt to hurry him, you wiggle your hips to entice him. All that earns you is a harsh slap to your ass, and you yelp in surprise. The fox kneads the skin soothingly, as if in apology before lining his dick with your entrance.

The tip kisses your folds, splitting them apart as some of your essence coats the head. He nearly cums right there, his nerves lighting up like fireworks at the warm feeling of your slick coating his cock. He manages to restrain himself, just enough to give more instructions.

"The safe word is 'bloom'. I intend to have you as I please and I won't stop until I'm satisfied. Even if that means you can't hold yourself up." You clench again, this time catching his tip and he nearly crumbles. "If you need me to stop, you will have to say it. I will not stop unless you say 'bloom.' Do you understand?" he manages to finish.

Why on earth you would ever stop him from ravaging you is beyond you, but you appreciate the communication. You nod and wiggle your hips again, taking on a desperate tone to your voice.

"Hurry up and give me a reason to use that safe word, 'Nari."

Like lighting a match, his restraint burns away and his grip on you becomes bruising. In one smooth push, he fully sheathes himself inside you, hissing at how tight and warm you feel around his cock. The sudden intrusion has you trembling and you almost fall over. Your cunt is quick to grow wetter in an attempt to provide more lube. The stretch is mind-numbing, and you whine pathetically as he brings you to the hilt. You feel something slightly bulbous push against your folds, and your mind scrambles to try to make sense of it.

You don't have time to focus on the sensation, and moans slip between your lips as Tighnari slowly pulls his cock out, only leaving just the tip in. The emptiness you feel is hallowing, and you realized you've already become addicted to the feeling of his cock inside you. He doesn't leave you dissatisfied for long, thrusting back into you shortly after.

He picks up a steady rhythm, pulling you back against him with each thrust. You sob with each thrust, digging your nails into your palms. Every time he pulls out, he catches sight of his cock coated in your juices from your sopping pussy. A creamy ring forms around the base of his cock, and he bites back a growl that reverberates in his chest. After years of only being able to get off with his own hand, he'll never go back. Hearing your squeals and watching the way that your essence drips out around his length with each thrust was intoxicating, and he can't get enough.

His thrusts get more violent, his clawed hands digging more into your hips, you find yourself struggling to keep yourself propped up on your hands. Heavy balls slap against your clit, adding extra stimulation that makes your cunt squeeze around Tighnari's cock deliciously. He snarls in your ears with each squeeze, your reactions spurring him on to continue his assault on your dripping heat.

"T-Tighnari...p-please, slow down..c-can't," you plead, slightly turning your head to gaze at him with bleary eyes. Your cheeks are flushed, heat radiating off of your body, and drool dribbles down the corner of your mouth as you struggle to meet his gaze. You flinch at his unwavering stare, and let out a squeal when he reaches one of his hands up to place it on your back between your shoulders.

"Are you going to say the safe word?" he questions, slowing down his thrusts. His gaze remains unchanged but you can hear concern sewn into his words. He's offering you another out. As much as it hurts, you didn't want to slow down anytime soon. You've wanted him for as long as you've worked with him and there was no way you were going to stop halfway. You shake your head, clamping your mouth shut. That's all the permission he needs before he gives a forceful shove and pushes you down onto the floor, forcing your body into a deep arch and your head to the floor as you let out a pornographic moan.

"If you can't hold yourself up, just lie there and take it. I won't have my fill for a while," he hisses out, the edge in his voice coming back. He continues his previously brutal pace,

The new angle has you feeling him so much more, and you swear he's able to fuck into you deeper. His name rolls off your tongue in chants as you press yourself against the floor, submitting to the position you've been forced into. A new burn aches through your body from the harsh angle but the way that Tighnari's cock bullies itself into your cunt brings pleasure crashing down in its wake.

The feeling of a coil tightening in your stomach grows, and as it grows tighter and tighter, your vision blurs as your eyes roll to the back of your head. Your moans dry into pathetic whimpers, stifled by the rubbing of your face against the hardwood floor. The friction stings, causing tears to well up in your eyes, much to Tighnari's delight.

" 's too much, hm? Are you crying because you can't take it? I told you I wouldn't be nice," he mocks, slowing down his pace to a more intentional one, sharp thrusts rutting against that spongy spot in your walls. You wail at the new pace, missing the vigor behind Tighnari's thrust but craving the grinding of his dick against that sensitive spot.

" 'm gonna cum...'nari, I'll cum!" you whine, gathering all the strength you can to try and push your body up, hoping to be able to meet his thrusts. Sharp pain rings through your head as Tighnari grabs a fistful of your hair and yanks you back, causing you to yelp. Your back is pressed against his chest, and he quickly adjusts his hand so his arm wraps around your torso to hold you upright.

Your breathing picks up as gravity forces you to drop down on his cock at a more direct angle, and more pathetic sobs slip off your tongue. He bucks his hips up, forcing you to bounce in his lap. His knot, now rising and more shapely kisses your folds, parting them more and more with each thrust. The wet slaps of skin against skin, the splats of your fluids dripping onto the floor-- you've become hyperaware of the erotic scene unfolding around you. Something damp and fuzzy wraps around your leg and presses against your clit, and that coil inside starts to tighten more. You manage to spare a glance and whine when you realize that Tighnari's tail has started rubbing against your sensitive nub.

"Go on, cum. Cum all over me," he commands, and your body listens without hesitation. Loud, purely pornographic wails fill the room as you gush all over Tighnari's cock. He groans into the crook of your neck, melting at the feeling of your walls spasming around him. He almost gets swept up by the sensation, nearly cumming inside you. But he instead bites down on your unblemished skin in an attempt to ground you, and you arch your back from the pain of his canines digging into you.

Your vision dots with white, and you feel you curl your toes in pure euphoria. The crashing waves of your orgasm keep rolling, powered by the persistent stroking of your captain's tail stroking your clit. In a brief moment of clarity, that fact rings bells in your head: your captain. Your superior. You just came on your superior's dick. There was no coming back from this. Your relationship with Tighnari has changed, for better or for worse. A twinge of worry shoots down your spine, culling your orgasm almost instantly. But you don't have time to dwell on your fears-- a sharp bite to your jaw brings you back to reality.

"Don't think I'll let you go just yet. We still have plenty of the rest of the month to go," Tighnari scolds under his breath, and you squeal as you come back to the fact that you're still bouncing on his cock, taking all of it, inch by inch, with little resistance. Your cheeks darken when you glance down at the growing puddle of milky fluids underneath the two of you.

You can feel the head of his dick swell, and you realize he's about to cum. Tighnari's tightening grip and more erratic groans are all you need for confirmation. Crescent moons form on your hips as his claws dig in drawing a little blood. You can barely focus on the increasing pace, gasping every time he bottoms out fully inside you. His knot pops in and out, the only shred of resistance despite the copious amounts of essence dripping everywhere.

The faint, reasonable part of your mind is screaming at you to ask him to pull out, to cum on any part of your body that wasn't your pussy. The more prominent, more needy, and desperate part was far louder-- you craved to feel his cum inside you. You don't know if a hybrid can get a regular human pregnant, and a part of you wants to find out. A risk that results in Tighnari's warm cum filling you up? You clench at the thought and he growls in appreciation.

His thrusts get sloppier, more intent on slamming your hips down against his in an attempt to catch his knot. His efforts are initially fruitless, his knot just barely slipping out. With one rather harsh thrust though, he manages to force it in with a wet pop, and you keen as you both cum at the same time. The tightness of your cunt aids in keeping his knot plugged inside you as he cums.

It's warm and thick and flows inside you like a turret. Tighnari continues to bite and tug at your neck, lapping up any blood that spills when he breaks the skin. Your mind goes blank, and you feel like you're floating on clouds. His cum leaves you feeling warm and full, and you feel limp as you rest against him.

A few moments of stillness pass, and as you feel your strength return, you try to shift to get off. Tighnari is quick to grab your waist and keep you still, letting out a warning growl.

"Don't. Move. Not done yet." A shiver runs down your spine and you manage to voice out your confusion.

"Done..? But you came..and," you trail off, too embarrassed to discuss the literal knot inside you. He chuckles at this, and slides a hand down to palm your overstimulated bud, causing you to whimper in protest.

"I told you-- we have the rest of the month. I'm not finished with you yet." He lowers his voice to barely above a whisper, his next sentence making your stomach flip.

"By the time I'm through, I'll make sure you have a kit or two inside you."

Happy Valentine's Day and thank you for 750+ followers!

@scarasweetheart For u ❤️

Requests (both sfw and nsfw) are open~!

#genshin impact smut #genshin smut #tighnari smut #tighnari x reader smut #genshin impact x reader smut #tokkis ribbons #irl mutuals dni

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empress-simps · 2 months

Text

Line That Leads To You

Pairing: Sirius Black x Fem! Reader AU: Soulmate AU CW: Language, Genre: Angst with a happy ending (don't worry guys) Summary: You make Sirius realize that having a soulmate isn’t all that bad— that he too, will have his happily ever after.

Note: One of my favorite tropes to write, soulmate AUs! Sirius just needs love and affirmation. I love writing for this! Enjoy! Picture is from pinterest, credits to the owner!

You know, Sirius never really believed in those pesky soulmates stuff. It irks him to no end, and makes his head hurt.

The topic makes him snappy, bitter, and it leaves him feeling angry. To whom? The world— the one who’s responsible for everything that has to do with soulmates. He thinks it is a bunch of bollocks. It’s a pathetic little concept that everyone seems to be too invested in.

Sirius would be very much happy to tell you it doesn’t really end with a happily-ever-after.

“I’m telling you, Prongs. It’s just a bunch of crap.” Sirius tells James one time at the drawing room in the Potter Manor. James shakes his head, disagreeing with his best mate.

“It isn’t always like Walburga and Orion, Pads.” James gently tells him, eyes swimming with empathy for Sirius. “Just look at me, Lily and I are together, finally.” Sirius can’t help but scoff, shaking his head in a disagreeing manner.

“That’s because you were already pathetically in love with her before you even knew she was the one, Prongs. Same thing for Lily, but she was quite stubborn trying to deny what she felt about you. You guys are actually made for each other.” James lets out a laugh, the memories resurfacing making a love-struck smile appear on his face (Sirius gave him a disgusted look)

“That’s what soulmates are, Pads. You’re supposed to complete each other, balance the other person out” He pursed his lips and sighed, there’s no way Prongs could understand his opinion on the matter.

Complete each other, huh?

Then can someone give him a reasonable excuse on why his parents broke each other? One descended into madness; the other doesn’t really seem to care as long as the noble house of Black lineage will continue.

Sirius bites his bottom lip, deep in thought as he stares at his pinky, willing the connection to be seen; a red string that was tied into a bow that leads to Merlin-knows-where. It serves as a connection; the string that he and only his soulmate can see whenever they want. He tugs on it curiously, awaiting any reaction with bated breath. He almost scrambled away when he felt the other end also tug it. Sirius was utterly terrified, a shiver crawled up to his system, it’s foreign feeling for the Black’s eldest son. It made everything feel too real. A fact that he desperately tries to deny.

That night, before they returned to Hogwarts as sixth year students was the last time he ever willed to see the annoying little string in his pinky, not caring if his supposed other half was finding him or already found him.

Maybe it had to do with his twisted upbringing. He saw how his father cut the string tying him to their mother, the purple string that bound them together turning gray and withering away.

He saw how Regulus flinched, no one should’ve seen a scene like that, but they did. Someone severing their connection to someone who should’ve been with them through better or for worse, the one that fate intended for them. Their life got worse just after that, forcing him to flee and leave his younger brother behind at the deranged hands of Walburga Black.

“You should eat more, Reggie.” You turned towards the quiet and reserved Slytherin, pushing his plate closer to him, which made him wince. “I am quite full.” You raised a brow “None sense, all you did was sip pumpkin juice so you better do as I say or I’ll tell Evan and Junior.”

“Do you know that you boss people around quite well?” He grumbles, shoving a few spoonsful of dinner in his mouth as you hummed in approval, cracking a small smile. “I was told.” Your eyes flickered to the Gryffindor table, it seemed to gravitate you, pulling you in.

Looking down at your pinky, you willed the string to be visible to you. Seeing the red string attached to Sirius Black made your stomach churn; was it butterflies? Unease? You don’t particularly know, having mixed reactions to the string that leads to your other half.

You’ve known for over a year now, keeping it to yourself as you quickly figured out that he wants nothing to do with his soulmate.

“Reggie! Reggie!”

You exclaimed, slapping the poor boy’s arm as he was currently staying in the L/n Manor. He looked in your direction, quite annoyed, he was interrupted reading his book. “I’m reading, Y/n. You know, you should too. It’ll do you some good.” He sassed, trying to find which part he stopped reading. “My soulmate! They tugged the string!” You gushed, “They must be looking for me too, right?” You asked no one in particular, you can still feel the tingles you felt, how your heartbeat picked up, and how you felt like you were in could nine.

Quite the opposite from what Sirius felt, huh?

You never told him, never planned to. It was quite clear what his views are on the concept of soulmates when you saw him snogging different girls every week. It wrecked you; you swore you felt your heart stop beating every time you see him loving a girl other than you even just for a week. It sounds stupid and all, but you would give up everything just to know what it feels like; how he will look at you with love and adoration in his eyes, how his touch and kisses would linger on your body, and how his voice would sound like as his breath fans in your ear, whispering promises of love.

You looked at him from the Slytherin table; so close yet so far.

Regulus noticed, the all too familiar broken look in your face. His heart hurts for you, even if you do not tell him, he already knows. Seeing his brother’s indifference, Regulus’s gaze hardened. How could he have the guts to do this to his soulmate?

The memory of their mother's despair, the way she withered away after their father severed the bond, was etched into his mind. Regulus does not wish for anyone to feel that way, he does not wish upon it even in his worst enemies.

It was a pain no one should endure, a lesson that should have been learned.

Yet there sat his brother, laughing with his friends and willfully ignoring the pulls of his heart. The person who held the other end of this unseen tether, was beside Regulus. Your soul ached as you watched your soulmate. It was a betrayal of the heart's deepest connection, and it stirred a tempest of fury within Regulus that he struggled to contain.

“My brother is foolish. Eat.” He states, pushing your food and placing the cornbread on his plate to yours. She cracks a smile, chuckling. “Alright, Reggie. You’re lucky I love you.” You pat his curls, proceeding to eat the bread, smiling a little. Reggie never really shares his food with anyone, except for you. You’re the only exception.

“Padfoot.” Remus starts, looking out of the window as Sirius lays down lazily in his bed, looking at nothing.

“What, Moons?”

“If I say that I have an inkling on who your soulmate is, would you… look for them?” Remus asked cautiously. Peter and James perked up, eyes wide with shock. How could Remus possibly guess who his soulmate is? Unless… They’re also in Hogwarts?

“Don’t start with that crap, Moony.” Sirius sat up; a scowl displayed in his features as his grey eyes turned stormy.

“Don’t you even feel the slightest amount of guilt in your system as you snog other girls?” Remus frowned.

Sirius’s scowl deepened, his hands clenching into fists. “Guilt? For what, Moony? For not wanting to be chained down by some ancient magic?” His voice was a low growl, barely containing the emotions that surged within him. “I won’t be dictated by fate. I make my own choices, and I refuse to be bound by a bond I never asked for.”

Remus’s expression softened, the lines of concern etching deeper into his face. “It’s not about being chained, Pads. It’s about finding someone who complements you, who understands you in ways no one else can.” He paused, his gaze steady and piercing. “You’ve seen what happens when that bond is severed. You’ve seen the pain it causes. Is that what you want for yourself? For your soulmate who’s probably hurting somewhere?”

Sirius looks down, biting his lip and playing with the rings on his fingers. “I don’t plan on severing our bond, Moons- “

“Then what the fuck are you doing?” Remus spat, Sirius flinched, looking at anything but them. He knew deep down that Remus was right. He can’t deny he also wants to look for his soulmate. The only thing that was holding him back is that he’s scared. What if your story would end similarly like how Walburga and Orion’s did? Dread fills his system as he reflects on how he slowly realized he’s becoming like his father. Peter and James exchanged a glance, the weight of the conversation settling heavily upon them.

“I’m scared,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “Scared of finding her… Scared of repeating the same mistakes.” He paused, his gaze lifting to meet Remus’s. “But you’re right. I can’t keep running from this. It’s not fair to them, and it’s not fair to me.”

James offered a supportive smile, feeling happy for his friend. Sirius stood up, his posture straightening as if shedding the weight of his fears. “I’ll do it. I’ll find her,” he declared, his voice steady. “I owe it to both of us to at least try.”

“That’s our Padfoot.” Remus breathes a sigh of relief as Peter nods encouragingly at Sirius.

The next daylight soon came. Sirius gulps, looking around the great hall, feeling quite overwhelmed at the number of students entering for breakfast, eating, or chatting amongst themselves. For the first time in a long time, he willed the red string of fate to reappear within his vision.

Ah, there it was. The red string connected to someone from the Slytherin table. Sirius felt his heart drop, seeing the end of the string connected to your pinky. “Y/n?” The name left his lips in a hushed awe, his heart skipping a beat as he saw the string connected to your pinky. You, who laughed with such ease beside Regulus, were the missing piece.

Whether it was some brotherly instinct, Regulus looked at him, shooting him a warning stare as if to say: ‘If you hurt her, you’ll never see the light of day ever again.’

Remus raised his eyebrows in surprise, knowing eyes set on his friend. “Found her, Pads?”

“Yeah. Found her, Moony.”

“Then what are you waiting for?” James chimed in, a grin spreading across his face as Peter silently cheers him on. “Go on, before you lose your nerve.”

Sirius took a deep breath, trying to shake off the weight of Regulus’s protective stare. It was a silent challenge, a vow to keep your heart safe from his brother. With a nod of acknowledgment, Sirius stepped forward, crossing the small distance between the Gryffindor table and Slytherin.

“Y/n,” he said, standing before you, the red string pulsing with a life of its own.

You stilled, slowly looking in his direction. Eyes wide with surprise, searched his for a moment before softening. “I was wondering when you’d come around,” you teared up, making Sirius’ heart ache.

Sirius extended his hand, the red string wrapping around both your destinies. “Let’s talk, yeah?”

And in that moment, as your fingers intertwined, Sirius knew that whatever the future held, he had made the right choice. For in finding you, he had found a new path that began to unravel, one filled with hope and courage. The buzz of Great Hall continued, but both of them felt time still, feeling the bond weave into their souls deeper.

Sirius’s and Y/n’s story had its flaws, but it was theirs, uniquely woven by the red strings of fate.

#sirius black x reader #sirius x reader #marauders fanfiction #marauders era #soulmate au #sirius black #james potter #remus lupin #moony wormtail padfoot and prongs #harry potter #angst with a happy ending #sirius orion black #regulus black

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fyorina · 21 days

Text

ᡣ𐭩 I, CARRION

FEATURING: beast dazai osamu

SUMMARY: the day of the event has arrived and dazai is second guessing everything, but it's too late for him to back out now.{wordcount: 12k; fem!reader; romance & tragedy}

AUTHOR'S NOTES: PART FOUR wow guys we're really getting into the meat of the fic now. HAHAH this is the chapter i had to split into two parts, initially it was going to be one big one but then it would've been a whopping 23k words and that's a bit much even for me. i didn't want to cross the 20k realm HAHAHH. anyway, this chapter really was a pleasure to write, the second scene was my favorite but the ending was SOOOO close to usurping it

GENERAL WARNINGS: again, i'll just leave this warning on every chapter - dazai struggles a lot with disassociation/derealization & losing himself in the pages of the book. as always please let me know if i forgot any warnings

SEE: UNREAL UNEARTH SERIES MASTERLIST READ: BADLANDS SIDE A

“Gin-chan, I’m so nervous.”

You pace around Dazai’s penthouse anxiously, twisting your fingers in front of your body. The event is taking place tomorrow night. You still don’t have an outfit for it—Dazai told you not to worry about it, you’re still worrying about it because what does that even mean? You don’t know what to expect from the event, and Gin is evasive when you ask her about what will happen, just keeps telling you that it’ll be fine as long as you stay with Dazai.

“There’s no reason to be nervous,” Gin says, as she always does, still tapping away at her laptop. Glasses hang off the bridge of her nose and there are dark circles beneath her eyes. You feel a bit ashamed about constantly going on about your nerves when you know damn well she, Dazai and all of the other executives of his company have been working nonstop the past few days trying to finish preparations. “Dazai-san will be with you the whole time, and if he has to talk business, someone will sit with you until he can get back so you’re not feeling awkward.”

Somehow, you think that might be even more awkward because you doubt a random person is going to want to babysit you while Dazai is busy, but you don’t voice your thoughts, instead just withering as you circle the large room for the sixth time in the past five minutes.

You’ve hardly seen Dazai all week. You don’t really mind, you know he’s swamped with work and you’ve been keeping yourself busy going out cafe hopping and shopping. Gin comes with you when she can, but it’s usually Nakajima Atsushi or Tachihara Michizo that joins you—Gin had introduced you to the two security guards a week ago when she’d been too busy to come with you to a cafe downtown. You don’t mind the company but you can’t help but wonder why Dazai is so insistent that someone comes with you.

Well. You can’t help but wonder about a lot of things, really. You’re pretty certain that Dazai is still hiding something major from you. You don’t know a lot about business, and you especially don’t know anything about his business, but something isn’t right. You’re not stupid and everyone is not as slick as they think themselves to be, you see how tense and anxious people get when you mention him to them, more so than the average worker would be at the mere mention of their boss, and everyone in the entire damn building is armed, even though they clearly try to hide it whenever you’re in the area.

You and your friends have joked about the uber wealthy before, and how no one above a certain tax bracket obtains their wealth without some sort of blood money; you’re about 99% sure that’s what’s taking place here too, and it would certainly explain all of the secrecy. More so than trade secrets at least, you feel a bit dumb for that to have even been an explanation in your mind. You just don’t know the specifics. You don’t know if you want to know the specifics, you think you’d prefer to remain ignorant because 1) you definitely don’t want to have any sort of culpability, not when you’re on path to graduate school and hopefully a very prestigious job with the government, and 2) … you don’t want to face the reality of what that would mean.

You like Dazai. More than like him. You’ve been slowly coming to terms with the fact that you really, truly care for him, and if you end up learning the… specifics of his job, then you’re going to be forced into making a decision you don’t want to make: preserving your future and morals or risking them for him. And you’re not going to sit around and claim to be some upstanding, virtuous person. You’re not. But you are ambitious, and you’ve had your mind set on your future since you learned how to pick up a pen and write. You’ve worked your entire life to get where you are now, slaved your way through a prestigious undergraduate school in Japan and spent months preparing for the entrance exams for graduate school, only to what? Throw it all away for some man?

God, you almost feel sick. Distantly, you wonder how awful of a person you must be for the threat to your future success to be the main reason why you’re questioning yourself, and not the fact that it’s very likely that Dazai and his conglomerate have some sort of business with Japan’s underground, maybe even direct dealings with the mafia itself.

You pause from where you’re pacing around the room, eyes widening a bit as another realization hits you. You had thought it was odd that Dazai and Gin and all of the executives of the conglomerate have been so stressed and anxious over an event that they’re not even hosting, but what if… Your throat spasms a bit as you swallow, wondering if Dazai is about to bring you not to an event hosted by their rival, but to an event hosted by the mafia. You don’t think he would put you in danger like that, you don’t want to think he would put you in danger like that and you wonder if you’re just sending yourself down a spiral of unnecessary paranoia.

But it doesn’t make sense. Dazai is enamored by you, and you don’t think you’re being conceited by saying that because he has made it abundantly clear. There’s no way he would ever put you in danger like that. Not unless… you feel a bit green remembering his reaction to you saying that you’d go out on your own and stay with your friend the weekend of the event. You could feel the anxiety radiating off of him for a split second before he asked you to come with him. You also remember how he always makes sure someone is with you when you go out, and god, you swear you’re not a conspiracy theorist but nothing is making sense when you look at it through your rose-tinted lenses but looking at it through these lenses. The lenses of a man who is obviously smitten with you, and who might have dealings with the mafia—of course he wouldn’t want you to go out on your own because he’d be scared that you might be targeted as a means to get to him.

Oh, you feel dizzy. What have you gotten yourself into?

“Are you okay?” Gin is looking up at you, brows furrowed in concern. “You look a little sick.”

“I’m fine,” you say, but the words sound pathetic even to your own ears and you know Gin doesn’t believe you from the way she tilts her head to the side to study you.

Luckily, you’re saved by the bell. Literally.

Your head snaps to the side as the elevator dings, and ordinarily, you would be ecstatic because who else would be coming up to the penthouse besides Dazai and while you’ve certainly missed him over the past week with how busy he’s been, you’re not sure if you’re ready to see him right now with the way your thoughts have just spiraled, because you think you might blurt something out that you can’t take back.

But, for better or for worse, it is not Dazai that enters the penthouse.

“Good morning, ladies,” a familiar voice croons as the elevator doors slide open. Your eyes light up as you whip around, eyes falling upon a face you haven’t seen in almost two weeks. “I come bearing gifts.”

“Albatross!” you say, excited, a smile splitting your face, because yes, even knowing about the possible affiliation with the mafia, you’re still excited to see the blonde—he’s never been anything but sweet to you, and he’s really the only one besides Gin and Chuuya who doesn’t treat you weirdly because of your relationship with Dazai.

“D’aw, look at it, Lippmann, told you the doll would still remember me,” Albatross grins, dark glasses hanging on the bridge of his nose as he tosses you a wink and then looks back toward the elevator.

Your gaze follows his, and your eyes fall upon a vaguely familiar person stepping out of the elevator and into the penthouse, carrying a few boxes. Pale hair cut into a bob, a pretty, androgynous face, dressed to the nines in a light purple waistcoat and matching pants—where have you seen him before? Wait-

“You’re-!” you begin, eyes wide and lips parting in shock.

“Walter Lippmann,” the man greets you with a kind smile and soft eyes, you feel a bit flustered, you can hardly meet his gaze. “Everybody just calls me Lippmann though.”

You try to speak, but you’re a bit starstruck—the last thing you’d expected was for a movie star to step into the penthouse. You’re looking between Albatross and Gin and then hesitantly back at Lippmann as you try to figure out what’s going on.

Albatross cackles. “Looks like she’s gotta crush, Lippmann. Better not let the boss find out, he’ll get jealous.”

“Albatross,” you complain, hands flying to cover your hot face. “Not true, I’m just surprised. Am I allowed to be surprised?”

“Yeah, sure, doll, that’s it,” Albatross says, clearly not believing you at all as he throws himself onto the couch next to Gin, looking up at you. “The boss asked us to pick up a dress for you. Go try it on, I’m going to raid his liquor cabinet while you do—if he asks, you better take the blame.”

You see Gin roll her eyes. “You will not raid his liquor cabinet, Albatross,” she says firmly, but the man only winks at her.

You turn your attention back to Lippmann, who’s carrying the dress in a garment bag, a shoe box tucked under his other arm. He gives you a small smile and then motions for you to follow him; you’re still starstruck as you follow him into Dazai’s bedroom, pointedly ignoring the way Albatross snickers.

You watch as Lippmann hangs the garment bag up on the closet, placing the shoebox down on the bed. He turns toward you after and says, “Try it on and make sure it fits properly. And make sure you like it.”

You nod, lips parting to speak but no words leave your lips. You look up at the garment bag, down to the shoes, and back to Lippmann and then you ask, “How do you… how do you know Dazai?”

Lippmann gives you another gentle smile, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. You notice, a bit curiously, that he seems to take a moment before he speaks, as if choosing his words carefully.

“I knew Dazai’s father,” he says after a few seconds. “I work with the Mori Corporation sometimes regarding press and political matters. Like a spokesperson when Dazai is unable to.”

Hm, you think to yourself before nodding, a movie star as a spokesperson for a corporation, that’s a bit odd, isn’t it?

Your brows furrow slightly as you try to fit the new knowledge in with all of the rest you’ve put together over the past few weeks but it’s just another jagged puzzle piece that’s not fitting in anywhere.

“I’m a huge fan of your movies,” you finally tell him, rubbing the back of your neck as you toss him a sheepish smile. “Like, no joke, almost cried when you had your discussion panel for The Good Society three months ago because it was two days before my entrance exam to grad school so I couldn’t go.”

Lippman laughs, pale cheeks flushing as he looks down at the ground before back up at you. “Honestly, you didn’t miss out. The whole panel was a mess, and the AC broke twenty minutes before, so it was ridiculously hot.”

You don’t really know what to say to that, cursing the fact that you are 1) still half dazed on top of 2) already being naturally awkward, but Walter Lippmann is Walter Lippmann, so of course he knows just what to say and do.

He nods to the dress that he hung up on the closet. “Try it on and then give us a show,” he says, winking at you before he makes his way out of Dazai’s bedroom back into the other room with Albatross and Gin.

You sigh when you’re alone again, tilting your head up to look at the ceiling for a moment, wondering what your life has become before you make your way over to the dress. You unzip the garment bag, curious to see what Dazai had picked for you, and your eyes shoot open when you see the red gown within the bag. Smooth and silky, off-the-shoulder, it’s probably the most expensive thing you’ve ever laid your eyes upon; you feel like you shouldn’t even touch it, much less put it on.

But Lippmann and Albatross and Gin are out there waiting, you can hear them talking through the door, so you force yourself to gingerly pull it off of the hanger, careful to not be too rough with the material. It doesn’t take you too long to get your clothes off and the dress on, but when you do, you can hardly bring yourself to move away from the mirror.

You look beautiful. You do. The dress is a perfect fit, it compliments your skin, it compliments your hair. You look beautiful, but you feel like a fraud, like a clown in a ball gown, hoping that the beauty of the dress would draw attention from the fact that it’s not meant for someone like you.

You don’t know how long you stand there, staring at your reflection. Too long, evidently, because you hear a sharp knock at the door and Lippman’s concerned voice asking if you’ve gotten the dress on.

“Yeah,” you say quietly. “I’m dressed.”

You hear the door to Dazai’s bedroom creak open but you don’t turn to look.

“I think this costs more than my student loans,” you breathe out, staring at yourself in the mirror. You smooth your hands over the silky material, eyes catching the way it clings to you perfectly. “God, where the hell did he get something like this? It’s like it was made for me.”

“Probably was,” Lippmann says from where he’s leaning against the doorframe, lips quirked up into a half smile as he tosses you another wink. “Perks of dating one of the richest men in Japan.”

You let out a noise caught between a whimper and a laugh, suddenly feeling very, very out of place.

Lippmann clearly catches your sudden change in attitude and his brows furrow. “Do you not like it?” he asks curiously. “There’s plenty of time for him to send for something else.”

“No, no,” you hurry to say, voice catching. Although you’re unsure how twenty-hour hours constitutes ‘plenty of time’, but you digress. “It’s perfect. It is.”

“What’s the issue then?”

“I just…” you trail off, eyes lingering in the mirror. “I feel silly, I guess. How obvious is it that I’ve never worn anything like this before?”

“Silly?” Lippmann asks, amused, peeling off the doorframe to make his way over to you. You swallow thickly as he straightens your posture and then uses two fingers to make you raise your chin. “You look stunning. Like a woman who belongs on the arm of the most influential man in Japan… Like a woman who doesn’t need to be on the arm of any man.”

Your face feels a bit hot as you let out a puff of laughter. “Now you’re exaggerating.”

“I certainly am not,” Lippmann says firmly, taking a step back. “You’re only getting in your head. From what Chuuya has told me about you, you’re more than suited to outwit and outclass anyone in attendance at that event.”

Your face feels hotter now, smiling as you roll your eyes. “Flatterer,” you say, but you feel a bit better, chest lighter as your gaze turns back to look at the mirror. “... Do you-”

A sharp whistle from the door draws your attention from Lippmann; there’s a lecherous smile on Albatross’s face as he leans against the frame and looks at you, glasses hanging off the bridge of his nose. “Damn, if you weren’t the boss’s girl…”

Gin slaps him hard on the back of his head, glaring at him before turning a small smile to you. “You look beautiful,” she says softly. “He’ll be speechless when he sees you tomorrow.”

Your throat feels tight as your lashes flutter, a smile on your lips as you look down at the ground. Even though the concerns of your realizations from before still weigh heavily in the back of your mind, you can’t help but feel a bit giddy at the thought of seeing Dazai tomorrow.

The giddiness is long gone.

You still haven’t gotten dressed.

You’re sitting at the edge of Dazai’s bed in your bra and panties, staring at the wall with your knees pulled to your chest. Your dress is hanging on the closet on the far side of the room, heels sitting on the floor beneath it. You’ve done your makeup and you put your earrings on already—pretty, dangly diamonds that are the most expensive thing you own, the last thing your brother gifted you before he cut you off entirely. You need to be getting dressed, Dazai will be up here any second to pick you up to leave for the event, but you just can’t bring yourself to put the dress on, anxiety eating away at you.

It’s not even because of the realization you’d come to yesterday, it’s because you think you’re about to make a fool out of yourself. Even if you’re wrong about the theory that you might be heading into an event hosted by the mafia and their associates, you’re still heading into an event that’s going to be attended by people who are much wealthier than you, and you already feel out of place and you’re not even there.

The dress is beautiful, but you think you’ll look like a clown in it, everyone will know that you’re not from the same sector of life as them with a single glance. Lippmann’s words from yesterday are in one ear out the other now that you’re closer to the actual time of the event.

You’re so lost in your thoughts that you don’t even hear the bing of the elevator arriving at the penthouse, and you don’t notice Dazai until he pushes open the cracked door to step into the bedroom. And you feel like you should be embarrassed sitting half naked on his bed, rather than being dressed and waiting for him, but you can’t muster it, eyes dragging up from the wall to land on his concerned expression.

And he’s a sight, you think. He’s so handsome. Absently, you think he might be more handsome than the last time you saw him but you think that’s a bit ridiculous because he hasn’t changed at all. He’s wearing the same long black coat and burgundy scarf, but the sleek, dark suit he wears beneath it is different, more expensive than all of the others that he’s donned the past few months you’ve known him.

His lips are turned downward as he approaches you, placing a blue box down on his dresser, dark eye soft with concern, and you also can’t help but notice that he still wears the bandages around the upper left side of his face, covering his eye. You want to know what’s beneath them desperately, but you can’t bring yourself to ask, hoping that he’ll show you on his own terms.

He stands in front of you, and you rest your chin on your knees as you stare forward, staring at his abdomen instead of looking up at his face. But he doesn’t let your gaze linger there, bringing his right hand to cup your cheek so he can gently lift your face upward, forcing you to meet his eyes. You can feel the rough edges of his bandages scraping against your skin, and you instinctively lean into his touch. You try to remind yourself of all of the realizations you’d come to yesterday, tell yourself to not be as at ease with him, at least have some semblance of your guard up, but you fail.

“What’s wrong?” he asks you softly, letting you lean into his touch as he brings his other hand up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “Are you okay?”

And you feel selfish, you realize, as you try to figure out what to tell him. You can’t even fathom the amount of money he spent on your dress and the shoes, and here you are being a baby because you’re self conscious. You don’t even want to reply to him, so you try to turn your face away but he doesn’t let you.

“Tell me,” he says quietly. “I’ll fix it, whatever it is.”

“It’s silly,” you finally breathe out, averting your gaze to the ground as you let your eyes flutter shut, turning your face in his hand to kiss his palm before leaning back into it. “I’m being a baby, I’m sorry.”

“It’s not silly if it has you upset,” Dazai tells you, and he kneels down in front of you to catch your gaze again and briefly, you think it’s absurd that you have such a powerful man at your whims like this, kneeling before you, willing to do anything to make sure that you’re content and happy. It makes your throat swell a bit, those inferior feelings rising back to your chest with a vengeance, because what the hell did you do to deserve this? There’s nothing special about you. “Tell me what’s wrong, let me help.”

“I just don’t understand.”

Oh my god, your voice cracks, you can feel your eyes go a bit misty, and instantly, Dazai’s concerned gaze is narrowing, as if trying to calculate what exactly is the source of your distress so he can remove it, and it only makes you want to cry more because what did you do to deserve all of this?

If you’re right about all of the assumptions you made the other day, and Dazai is bringing you to this event even though by all means he should not because there’s likely going to be a lot of shady business occurring that could incriminate him and all of the other people at this event, then why? Why would he risk that just for a girl he met a few months ago? You can’t fathom it.

God, you know better than anyone the effects imposter syndrome can have on a person in school, but the last thing you expected was to be dealing with it in love too.

Love, the word makes your stomach churn because you do love him, you realize, as he stares up at you desperately trying to figure out what’s wrong so he can fix it. And how scary is that, considering only twenty-four hours ago you came to the realization that he’s very likely involved in the underground, in some way or another, and you had to come to terms with the fact that you’d have to choose between your future and a man. But he’s not just a man, he’s a man that you love in spite of everything you’ve put together.

A tear spills over your cheek and Dazai’s gaze becomes alarmed as he instantly wipes it away with his thumb before caressing your cheek gently.

“What don’t you understand?” he presses quietly. “Talk to me.”

Where do you fucking start?

You want to cry even more but you force yourself not to, you can’t afford to let your makeup get anymore messed up than it already is. Instead you sniffle a bit and try to blink away the tears.

“This,” you finally say, and your voice cracks again, you take a wet breath. Dazai’s lips part a bit, as if he wants to speak but he’s not sure what to say, brows furrowing. “There’s nothing special about me, Dazai, and I don’t understand why you’ve gone to the lengths that you have for me. Meeting me at that club every Friday as if you’re not always swamped with work, indulging me whenever I want to do things. You gave me a place to stay after only knowing me for a few weeks, gave up your own room, your own bed, so I could be comfortable while you slept at your desk. You’ve made sure people are always with me so I never get bored or lonely. You’ve given me literally everything I could possibly ask for and I’ve just been freeloading off of you for two and a half weeks now. Now, I’m going to go with you to this event and end up embarrassing you because I’m going to stick out like a sore thumb compared to everyone else there. They’ll know I don’t belong there and I just-”

You cut yourself off, and you want to avert your gaze from Dazai’s but you can’t bring yourself to. Instead, you watch as something akin to amusement flashes through his eye. He takes one of your hands into his and brings it up to his lips, eye sliding shut for a moment as he kisses your knuckles. You let out a shaky puff of air as his lips linger for a moment before he looks up at you again through his lashes.

“Let me help you get dressed,” he murmurs, and you look down at the ground now as you nod, letting him help you to your feet and lead you over to where the dress is hanging up on the closet door.

He pulls it off the hanger and guides you into it, pulling it up and adjusting it so that it covers you properly. He steps behind you, and you realize that he also has you standing in front of the floor length mirror set up on his closet door. You sniffle a bit again as you look at yourself in the mirror.

Your makeup looks a bit smudged beneath your eye from the tears gathering at your lash line, but somehow, you still look beautiful. You think it’s only because of the dress, the way it clings to your body so nicely and brightens all of your features. You take in another shuddered gulp of air when you feel Dazai begin to zip up the back of your dress slowly, each brush of his fingers against your skin lights your nerves on fire, and once he finally has it zipped to the top, he kisses the nape of your neck, hands falling to your hips to caress them gently. Your eyes flutter shut as you lean back against him, his comforting hold settling your turbulent emotions.

“I met you at the club every Friday because you were the only relief I had from reality,” he finally says, resting his forehead on your shoulder as he holds you. “I indulged your requests because I was indulging in you myself. Every moment I spent with you, I allowed myself to be Dazai Osamu, the person, and not the… Not what I’ve had to become to keep this organization running.”

Your breath catches, lips parting at his words but no sound escapes them. He kisses the nape of your neck one last time before he moves to stand in front of you, kneeling down again as he grabs one of your heels and undos the buckle. You watch with bated breath as he lifts your left foot from the ground to kiss your ankle before sliding the heel on, deft fingers fasting the clasp.

“I gave you a place to stay because I was selfish and I wanted you around more,” he sighs, resting his forehead against your knee now as he lingers there for a moment before moving on to repeat the process with your other foot, kissing your ankle and slipping the heel on. He continues, “Likewise, I have kept you surrounded by people because I have been desperately afraid that you’re going to get bored and want to leave because work leaves me little time to be around. Unfortunately, I’m not the generous person you’re making me out to be, I’m horribly self-serving and greedy, especially when it comes to you.”

He looks up at you now from where he’s kneeling in front of you, gaze searching your face. You want to reach out and cup his cheek, so you do, and immediately, he’s turning his face to kiss your palm just as you’d done to him before letting his eye slide shut as he leans into your touch, as if basking in it.

“I would give you anything you want,” he admits softly, keeping his gaze shut as he holds your palm against his face. “Anything. And if it was something outside of my reach, I would make it in my reach. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you, no lengths I wouldn’t go to and no lines I wouldn’t cross.”

You think your lungs might be burning, you don’t think you can breathe as you stare down at him, heart thudding in your swelling chest, tears building in your eyes again but this time not out of insecurity. Dazai finally rises to his feet after placing one last kiss upon your knuckles, and he doesn’t say anything as he makes his way over to the dresser where he’d placed the blue box.

You don’t move, watching as he opens it and pulls something out before making his way back over to you, standing behind you. He looks at you through the mirror as he lifts his hands to place a glittering diamond necklace upon your collarbone. You can’t breathe again, you realize, it’s cool against your skin and you think it might be the most expensive thing you’ve ever laid your eyes upon, dozens upon dozens of white diamonds shimmering in the mirror in front of you. Your skin feels like it’s on fire as his fingers brush the nape of your neck as he clasps it onto you.

“You are beautiful,” he says, voice so raw that you almost shiver at the intensity of it. His fingers brush your hips as if he’s afraid to touch you. “You are beautiful, and intelligent, and everything I have ever wanted. You deserve so much more than me, more than you’ll ever be able to understand, and I’m sorry that I’m not a good enough man to do what’s right and let you go. The last thing you should ever be doubting is this.”

His eye slides shut again as he lets out a soft puff of air, the warmth fans across the back of your neck and you think you could spend forever in this moment with him, wishing that you could freeze time.

“You said that you thought it was fate that brought us together,” he finally finishes, voice quiet as he references what you told him the first time you met. “Don’t ever doubt your place with me. Wherever I am, you belong, whether it’s a club, or an apartment, or an event.”

“I thought you hate the idea of fate,” you say, voice a bit choked as you try to force the tears back again.

“I do,” he affirms, “but if fate brought us together, then far be it from me to deny the one thing in this world that has ever made me happy.”

You love him.

You feel sick to your stomach—be it from butterflies or the implications of the realization. The words threaten to burst from your lips but you swallow them, instead, another tear trails down your face and he sees it through the mirror, lifting his hand to wipe it away before leaning a bit over your shoulder to press his lips to your jaw.

“I’m ruining my makeup,” you rasp, letting out another shaky breath.

He smiles against your skin.

“You’ll be beautiful still,” he murmurs before pulling back, admiring you for a moment before he asks: “Are you ready to go?”

You nod. “Yeah,” you say, a bit breathless. “I’m ready.”

“Everyone is staring at us.”

You’re not wrong, exactly. As soon as the two of you had entered the room, all attention was sent your way, and though the music was loud enough to drown out most chatter (intentional, of course, so unsavory ears can’t overhear even more unsavory dealings), Dazai couldn’t help but notice the hush that spread through the room at the sight of you. The boss of the Port Mafia with a date on his arm was certainly a sight to behold to all of the rest of the occupants of the event hall,.

“Can you blame them? You look beautiful,” he says, voice laced with a teasing edge that is certainly not matched in his expression. Dazai knew people would be looking at you if he brought you here. Still, he wants to gouge their eyes out.

His arm tightens around you as he tucks you into his side, cold gaze sweeping across the massive event hall. At least two hundred people are attending Nabokov’s event—an even mixture of pharmaceutical tycoons, technology barons, politicians and mafiosos.

At first glance, he recognizes four different mafias in attendance.

Mishima Yukio of the Sun and Steel stands by one of his associates, the president of Mitsubishi Chemical Group; the man’s dark eyes card over Dazai with lazy interest, before his head tilts to the side as he studies you.

Dazai thinks that the Sun and Steel might be the Port Mafia’s only allies in attendance, and even then, allies might be taking it too far. The extent of Dazai’s dealing with Mishima was a general agreement to not encroach the Sun and Steel’s monopoly over the narcotics industry—which Dazai never intended on doing anyway because the industry is far more trouble than it's worth—and an unspoken promise to protect Japan’s underground from foreign mafias.

Dazai wonders if that unspoken promise still holds or if the Russians have cut a deal with him.

Nabokov’s Pale Flame, obviously, is in attendance, along with the remnants of Leo Tolstoy’s Three Deaths. Tolstoy himself is sitting at the bar, a glass of whiskey in hand as he leans back on the stool, gaze focused on you. Nabokov is off to the left, making his way across the room to greet Dazai, a curious expression on his face. Dazai recognizes Cao Xueqin of the Red Chamber sitting near Kitazawa Michihiro of Fuji Electric, one of the Port Mafia’s closest associates; and Dazai thinks that might be a bit foreboding, both because of the presence of the Chinese and the company he’s keeping.

Dostoevsky’s House of the Dead is nowhere to be seen, but Dazai knows that they’re here. Somewhere. He just has to find him—and he will.

More eyes are on you than him, and although that was to be expected, Dazai can’t fight the doubt that suddenly swirls in his chest, wondering if he’d made the right decision. If you hadn’t been on people’s radar already, you definitely are now, and the thought makes him a bit sick to his stomach. He tries to console himself with the fact that this was the lesser of two evils—the mere chance of you being on the radar of any of the mafias in this room, no matter how slim it might be, was not something he could gamble with. There was no way he could let you go out alone and unprotected. People like them, people like him, would jump on the chance to take advantage of the weakness and he couldn’t let that happen.

But is this really any better?

He’s thrown you into a pit of snakes, and you’re ignorant to all of the threats around you. His gaze drifts back down to you, catching the way your brows are knit together slightly, the way your lips are pressed in a thin line. There’s an indecipherable look in your eyes as your gaze shifts over the room, and Dazai wonders if you know more than you’re letting on. That’s another scary thought, but he can at least find comfort in it for now because it’ll have you keeping your guard up around these people. He’ll just have to deal with the consequences later.

He dips his head down to your ear, speaking quietly before Nabokov finally reaches him: “Just follow my lead, you’ll be fine.”

The look you shoot at him is nothing short of withering, and Dazai can’t help the smile that curves at the corners of his lips as he lifts his head back up to subtly brush his lips against your temple. He catches sight of movement from the corner of his eye and any softness that might’ve been visible in his expression washes away instantly.

“Dazai,” Nabokov greets, beady eyes flickering between you and Dazai, partially curious about you and partially nervous about Dazai. Dazai tilts his head to the side, becoming increasingly more unamused the longer Nabokov’s gaze lingers on you. “I’m glad you came. I wanted to apologize for not being able to attend our planned meeting a few months ago.”

“So I heard.” Dazai’s voice is short and distant, more focused on the feeling of you tucked into his side than the conversation at hand. He has to force himself to keep his gaze steady on Nabokov, wanting to look down at you, but he contents himself with letting his hand slide down to your hip, rubbing absent circles against the silky material of your dress.

Nabokov fumbles over Dazai’s clipped response, a bead of sweat gathering at the corner of his forehead. He wishes he could peer into your head and see what you’re thinking, about him, about this, about everything. He doesn’t know if he’ll be able to get through the night without you realizing who he is, what he is, and that thought scares him because he thinks that maybe he should have been the one to explain it to you, so he could at least try to paint himself in a better light. Although, he’s not sure what sort of light would make anything about him look better.

“Who is this?” Nabokov finally asks, turning his attention toward you. Dazai doesn’t like the way he looks at you, eyes raking over you like you’re a piece of meat.

“My partner.” To Dazai’s credit, his voice is much smoother than the turbulent emotions in his chest would suggest. “Where is your wife, Nabokov?”

Nabokov doesn’t even respond to the question, laughing loudly. “Never thought I’d see the day you found yourself a lover, Dazai,” he chuckles and then holds his hand out to you. “Vladimir Nabokov.”

You shift a bit to take his hand, but Dazai is faster, lithe fingers wrapping around Nabokov’s wrist in an agonizingly tight grip. Nabokov winces, Dazai’s face is cold as he stares down at the man.

“Keep your hands to yourself,” he warns, keeping his voice low.

Vladimir Nabokov. Invitation to a Beheading. An ability that grants its user to draw a target into an interdimensional space through physical touch—Dazai isn’t sure what the space entails because no one has ever left it alive.

Nabokov tries to laugh it off, weaker this time as he takes his hand back and shakes out his wrist. “My, Dazai, possessive, aren’t you?”

“Very,” Dazai agrees idly. “Be sure to remember that.”

Nabokov gives him another wavering smile, and Dazai can’t help but wonder how Dostoevsky could have possibly thought anyone would believe the man could head the tripartite alliance of the Pale Flame, Three Deaths, and the House of the Dead. Anyone with half of a brain would know that Dostoevsky is behind their union. Maybe that’s what he wanted, Dazai notes absently as he watches Nabokov’s gaze flicker to the upper left corner of the room. Dazai follows it to where a camera is positioned, encompassing most of the event hall.

The smile on his lips is nearly as chilly as the air-conditioned room around him.

There you are.

Dazai’s gaze cuts back to Kouyou, who’s standing a few feet behind you and Dazai with Chuuya, Ace and Piano Man. The woman inclines her head in recognition of his silent order as she fans her face lightly, taking a step away to make a call to Hirotsu, who should be stationed around the building with the rest of the Black Lizards by now, prepared to move in at the first sign of danger.

Nabokov looks as if he’s going to speak again, which inclines Dazai to believe that he’s seeking something out in particular for Dostoevsky, and from the way he keeps glancing at you, Dazai assumes it has to do with you. So as the man's lips waver, eyes darting as he tries to formulate another conversation opener, Dazai speaks before he can get the words out.

“If you don’t mind,” he says, voice cold and clipped as he all but dismisses Nabokov, who flushes a bit, nodding and apologizing before stepping away.

Dazai realizes that he probably has not prepped you enough for this event, but in his defense, he’s been swamped with his own preparations and how is he supposed to prepare you when he can’t even fully explain all of the dangers? But now, it’s making him anxious, because at some point tonight he’s going to have to step away from you to meet with Nabokov in one of the backrooms, likely with Tolstoy, Cao, and Mishima. Dazai’s executives will have to be there with him, and Tachihara is supposed to slip from the shadows to join you while you wait for his return, but there’s likely going to be at least a good two to three minutes where you’ll be alone until Tachihara can get to you. That’s assuming he doesn’t get caught up on the way over.

He needs to talk to you, at least warn you about the ability users attending the event so you don’t accidentally stumble into a potentially lethal situation without him around.

If he goes to the bar, Tolstoy will take advantage to try to sweep you into a conversation, picking up right where Nabokov left off. If he goes off to the left side of the room, Cao will make his way over to interrupt. If he goes off to the right side of the room, Mishima is there. The only place… Dazai inhales as his gaze focuses on the massive dance floor of the event hall, dozens of couples are spinning around already, and it will be loud enough there for the music to drown out his conversation with you from unwelcome listeners.

He turns his attention to you, holding his palm up and tucking one arm behind his back as he asks lightly, “May I have this dance?”

Your eyes widen a bit in surprise, seemingly hyper aware of all of the hungry, curious glances of the other attendants directed your way, but he’s only focused on you, and the way your eyes glitter beneath the chandelier’s lights, and the way your dress clings to your body, and the way a soft smile tugs at your lips. He thinks that even if you hadn’t entered the event on his arm, all of the room’s attention would be on you still, because you’re beautiful, and captivating, and Dazai doesn’t think he’ll ever understand how he managed to pull you in one lifetime, much less all of them.

You place your hand in his and Dazai guides you across the floor, intent on finding the perfect space. It’s hardly obvious the way that the other people on the dance floor would inch away as the two of you passed by, intent on staying out of Dazai’s way and letting him have whatever space he wants, but you pick up on it, he thinks, seeing the curious look in your eyes as your gaze sweeps around the people around you. He bites back a sigh, because he’s sure that you’re tallying everything up in your head trying to put it all together, and once you get that final puzzle piece, everything will be over.

His chest sinks at the thought of losing you, but he forces it away. He has to focus on the situation at hand because even a single slip up could be fatal—not only for him, but for you too. As soon as he reaches a suitable spot on the dance floor, he tugs you a bit closer to him, hands sliding down to your waist. Your own arms instantly come up to loop around his neck as you look up at him through your lashes and Dazai suddenly feels breathless, vision tunneling and heartbeat stuttering at the way you look at him.

God, how is he supposed to focus with you around? He can hardly concentrate on anything but you. He’s flying too close to the sun. Has been since the moment he met you. Drawing you into his life and keeping you there, now bringing you here, so many gambles, too many gambles… the heat is scorching, and it’s only a matter of time before his wings burn. If he was smart, he’d let you go so that you don’t burn with him, but his fingers only bite deeper into your waist at the thought.

The music is slow, and the two of you sway in tune to it. The other couples give a wide berth, some casting wary looks at Dazai, ones that he’s sure you’re catching. He doesn’t know where to start, or how to start; what does he tell you that doesn’t condemn him? Luckily, he doesn’t have to start the conversation because you do, for better or for worse.

“Was that man the rival that Gin mentioned?” you ask curiously, and Dazai can’t help but notice there’s a strange look in your eyes as you ask it, one that he can’t place.

He hesitates, but then says, “No. He wasn’t. I haven’t seen him yet.”

You hum lightly, fingers toying with the hair at the nape of his neck in a way that makes him shiver. But his eyes narrow when he realizes that you don’t look the slightest bit surprised by his answer.

“You knew that already,” he accuses lightly, and he forces himself to swallow the lump that suddenly forms in his throat because if you figured that out on your own already, what else have you figured out? God, he knew this was risky, you’ve always been ridiculously perceptive—he just needs to get through tonight without you putting everything together, then he’ll be fine.

“I suspected it,” you finally affirm his accusation, gaze searching his face. “He was nervous talking to you. If he was your rival, I’d expect him to be a bit more… assured. And he kept looking up toward a camera, like he knew someone was watching that he’d have to answer to.”

Oh, you did pick up on a lot more than he expected. He doesn’t think that the smile he gives you quite meets his eyes, if the way your brows furrow have anything to say about it, but he distracts you by bringing his hand up from your waist to cup your cheek, thumb brushing over your bottom lip as he murmurs, “That’s my girl, always so smart.”

Your lashes flutter as you avert your gaze, a tell tale sign of you being flustered. His lips quirk up into a more genuine smile, hand dropping back down to your waist. He can do this, he tells himself, he just has to be careful, tell you enough to make sure your guard is up and you know to at least some extent that the people in this room aren’t to be trusted.

“There are a lot of ability users in here,” he finally warns, careful to keep his voice low even with the music covering his words. “Do your best to keep your distance from people. I’ll stay with you as much as I can, but I’m going to get pulled away sooner or later. Chuuya or Piano Man will stay with you when they can, and if they’re pulled away, Tachihara is going to come down to stay with you.”

“... That’s why you didn’t let him shake my hand,” you say, realization flashing through your eyes, another puzzle piece fitting behind your eyes and Dazai has to be careful because it’s only a matter of time before you’re given that final piece and everything comes together. “What’s his ability?”

“... Nothing good,” he answers after a few moments of silence, but you’re not content with that, brows furrowing. He sighs. “No confirmation on it, we only know it’s lethal. Many are in here.”

Your eyes widen and then you look a bit skeptical. “And you think they would use it here? In public?” you ask slowly.

To Dazai’s horror, it is not skepticism tainting your tone, but rather, you’re fishing for information, trying to put more pieces together, and he doesn’t have much choice but to give you answers because he can’t risk you setting your guard down even for a second.

He chooses his words carefully. “... There is little they wouldn’t do to get ahead in our business.”

“Hm,” is all you say in response, something akin to understanding flashing through your eyes and Dazai dreads to know what his answer has just told you. He feels distinctly like he’s playing chess against an opponent he did not anticipate and he’s at a disadvantage because the opponent is you. He can feel your shoulders slump suddenly, an unfamiliar expression crossing over your face; you look tired, as if you’d aged twenty years in a matter of seconds. “What did you get me involved with, Dazai?”

You say it so softly that Dazai barely hears it himself, and he knows. He knows that you’ve figured something out, he doesn’t know what and he doesn’t want to know what. He wants to evade it as long as possible, because the moment he has to have this conversation with you, he knows he’ll lose you. He can’t think about that now, it’ll throw him off and this is the last place he can allow himself to be thrown off.

Instead, his grip on your waist tightens again, gaze averting down toward the ground.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. The words weigh heavy on his tongue, not just an apology for tonight but an apology for accepting your offer for a drink two months ago, knowing he wouldn’t be strong enough to let it be a single night of indulgence; an apology for seeking you out again afterward, knowing that he would be sentencing you to death.

He feels sick.

What is he doing?

Why are you here?

What has he done?

“Dazai.”

You say his name but Dazai hardly hears you. God, he can feel it happening, where his fingers are pressed against your body, the skin suddenly goes cold and stiff, his surroundings are blurring, the people fading into the background. This isn’t the place. Nabokov. Tolstoy. Mishima. Cao. He can’t lose himself, not now, but his grip on reality is starting to waver, the pages pile around him.

“Dazai.”

What has he done?

Everything he’s planned for, seven years of careful calculations and planning gone down the drain. How does he even fix this? Can he fix this? His mind races, but he’s not even sure he’s thinking coherent thoughts, trying to ground himself to the present because he needs to stay here, he can figure out how to fix it later, when you’re not in danger but-

His vision swims. Not now. He can see it—he can see you. Still on the ground. Sometimes there’s blood, so much that he can hardly recognize you (but he can, of course, he can always recognize you, even when your body is littered with more gaping wounds than not). Sometimes it looks like you’re sleeping, so much so that Dazai kneels next to you, begging you to wake up (he knows in his heart that it’s futile. he can’t stop himself from trying). His head spins, he loses track of where he is and then-

“Osamu.”

His breath catches, gaze zeroing in on you. You. Alive. Your brows are furrowed in concern, searching his face to try to draw him back to reality. He thinks his grip on your waist must be painful but he can’t bring himself to loosen it at all. He stares at you, still desperately trying to keep himself grounded because although you’ve brought him back mostly, the corners of the pages still linger in the edge of his vision, threatening to consume him again.

“You can’t leave me,” you tell him quietly. “You brought me here. I need you here with me. Don’t go off somewhere I can’t follow.”

Oh.

He lets out a breath, slow and maybe a bit more shaky than he would’ve liked, but he tries to focus on the situation at hand. He loosens his grip on your waist, rubbing a gentle circle over your hip in an apology.

His gaze drifts around the room, Nabokov is in deep conversation with Cao, hardly paying attention to anything going on, but Cao’s sharp, dark eyes are pointed over Nabokov’s shoulder, scanning the dance floor. He’s looking for someone—not Dazai, which is a bit worrying, and he becomes all the more attentive to everyone in the vicinity, trying to make sure none of the Red Chamber’s assassins made it through the security. If any organization would be able to pull it off, it would be them.

Once he’s decided the coast is clear, he turns his gaze back to the bar. Tolstoy is looking at him—blue eyes sharp, blonde hair hanging in them, a curious expression on his face as he sips at his drink and watches as Dazai dances with you. As soon as Tolstoy notices Dazai has caught him, his lips curl up into a smirk and he raises his drink. Dazai’s expression is cold as he looks away, seeking out Mishima only to find the man nowhere to be found.

Hm.

Chuuya and Kouyou are entertaining idle conversation with two executives of the Sun and Steel, both keeping a sharp eye on where you and Dazai sway on the dance floor. Piano Man is entertaining several politicians, doing a good job at ensuring that none of the other foreign executives get any chance to get their ears. Ace, Dazai notes, is in deep conversation in the shadows with one of the executives of the Three Deaths.

Interesting.

He finally draws his attention back to you, a small smile on his lips as he recalls what you’d said to drag him from his spiral.

Osamu,

“You called me Osamu,” he murmurs, a warm feeling spreading through his chest as he focuses on that instead, trying to ease himself back into reality. Technically, he’s heard you say his given name before. Well. Not technically. It was never you and it was never him, rather it was vague memories of other yous and other hims, but it was nothing in comparison to hearing you actually say it.

You look embarrassed, averting your gaze. “I didn’t know how to get your attention, I’m s-”

“Say it again,” he whispers, lifting his hand back up to your chin to tilt your face back up, forcing you to look at him. His eyes search yours, watching the way you can hardly hold his gaze. You look hesitant, so he continues with, “Please.”

“... Osamu,” you say again, breathless, and god, Dazai wishes the two of you were anywhere but here. He wants to press you back against his bed, run his lips up and down your body, map out all of your curves with his hand. He wants to watch you come undone on his tongue and on his fingers—he wants you, he wants you more than anything else in the world. Every time he’s tried to take the next step with you the past few weeks, he either got interrupted by work or he ended up getting cold feet, nervous about making a mistake.

Before his thoughts can spiral even more, the music picks up to a faster paced waltz. Your eyes widen, watching as all of the other couples shift into the respective dance. You look up at him, a bit panicked, clearly not sure what to do, and his lips curl up in amusement, beckoning you to lace your fingers with his to take the stance the other couples were taking.

“I don’t know this da-” you begin, voice hushed.

“Just follow my lead,” he repeats the same words he spoke to you when they entered the hall. “You’ll be fine. Trust me.”

You exhale, studying his face for a moment before sighing and mimicking the stance the other women took with their partners. He can feel your fingers wavering against his as he interlocks your fingers and he rubs his thumb over the back of your hand soothingly.

“Keep your eyes on me,” he tells you, just as the music finally picks up for the dance to start.

He thinks you’re worried for nothing. You moved smoothly in line with him and in tune with the music, gliding across the dance floor as if you’ve danced with him hundreds of times before, your body so in sync with his that the two of you put all of the other couples to shame. Not that any of them matter, of course, you’re all that Dazai can focus on. Your eyes never leave his, not even for the sparest of moments, and Dazai feels like he’s caught in a trance, lost in your eyes and the feeling of your body so close to his, hyper aware of the way your your hand rests on his shoulder and the way your fingers are wrapped tight around his.

God, there’s something so otherworldly about you. Doesn’t know if it’s heavenly or supernatural, if you’re his angel sent to lead him to salvation or his very own siren singing a sweet melody to lead him to ruin. Doesn’t think he cares either way—salvation, damnation, none of it matters as long as he has you.

“Not so bad, hm?” he murmurs, sweeping you out into a spin before pulling you back to him, closer this time. He can feel your chest brush his and he prays you can’t feel the way he’s lost control of his heart, painfully cognizant of the erratic thumping. His hand slides from your hip to the small of your back, holding you close to him. He could stay in this moment forever, surroundings drowning out; all he can see is you, all that matters is you.

“Yeah,” you say softly. “Not so bad.”

His lips part to respond but he’s interrupted when he sees movement from the corner of his eye, freezing.

“Dazai.”

Dazai stiffens as a familiar voice speaks from behind him, shifting to stand partially in front of you as his gaze cuts to the side to see Mishima’s familiar figure standing a few feet away. Turning to face him, he asks, “Do you need something?”

“I’d like to speak to you before we meet with Tolstoy, Nabokov and Cao.”

Mishima’s voice leaves no room for argument, dark eyes absent of any emotion as he waits for Dazai to follow him. Dazai’s jaw tightens, eyes drifting back to you as he tries to figure out what to do. He can’t leave you here, not with Cao’s hawk-like gaze trained on the dancefloor and Tolstoy waiting for the opportunity to make a move. But he does need to talk to Mishima, have some idea of where he stands with the Sun and Steel before facing all of the foreigners.

“May I have this dance?”

Dazai hadn’t even heard Chuuya approach, turning to the side to watch as he holds a hand out toward you expectantly, quick to step in to take Dazai’s place so that you’re not alone. You shoot Dazai a concerned glance, brows furrowing a bit, before you place your hand in Chuuya’s.

Chuuya leads you back onto the dance floor, Dazai’s gaze lingers for a few moments, a bitter feeling spreads through his chest because that should be him, and it’s wholly unfair that he has to deal with all of this unsavory business when he should be spending time with you.

He should just kill them all here and be done with it.

The words ring through his head, echoing, tempting. He inhales and forces himself to look away as you loop your arms around Chuuya’s shoulders, swaying in tune to the slow song playing. He turns his attention back to Mishima, voice cool and expression void of emotion:

“Speak.”

Dancing with Nakahara Chuuya is awkward. Awkward is even being generous. It’s not like he’s a bad dancer—in fact, it’s clear that he’s a very good one. He’s smooth on his feet as he spins you around the dance floor, but he’s so stiff. He’s careful to keep space between the two of you, hands never dipping lower than your sides, lips pressed together. He hardly even looks at you, his attention is more on where Dazai had stepped to the side to speak with the dark-haired man who’d interrupted the two of you, but you’re grateful for it, because it’s giving you a chance to gather your thoughts.

You think Dazai might’ve inadvertently confirmed your suspicions from yesterday. You don’t know who these people are, but there’s no way any ordinary business event would be dangerous enough for Dazai to genuinely worry that someone might kill you in a room crowded with two hundred people. A part of you wonders if it’s just different for ability users, that they’re not scared of committing crimes in public because they have an ability that prevents them from getting caught, but you know you’re just trying to make excuses at this point.

Your gaze drifts back over to the older, light-haired man with dark eyes who’d approached you and Dazai when you walked in. He’s off to the side talking with a Chinese man dressed in a red suit—your gaze lingers, trying to piece together the puzzle in your head desperately, but all of the edges are jagged and confusing, you can’t seem to figure out where they each fit with each other.

You’d thought maybe that Dazai and his business was somehow affiliated with the mafia, because no one with the amount of money and success that he has gets it cleanly, but now you can’t help but hesitate, reconsidering your original theory. Vladimir Nabokov had been scared of Dazai. And it’s not like you haven’t noticed the effect that Dazai has on people. Whenever you’re around people with him, they get tense and on edge, but it’s different seeing the effect he has on someone who doesn’t even work for him, a foreigner supposed to be one of Dazai’s associates if you understood what he meant about not showing up to a meeting.

Who are you, Dazai?

You don’t even know if you want to know. You love Dazai. You do. You knew it earlier in the night. You know it now. It’s something you can no longer hide or deny. You remember the concerned look on his face when he saw how upset you were. You can feel the way his lips brushed the nape of your neck as he explained why he kept meeting you at the club, the way he kissed your ankles as he knelt in front of you and told you how he was selfish for keeping you around, how he kissed your palm and leaned into your touch as he promised you anything you want. God, you love him, you don’t think anyone has ever looked at you the way he does; no one has ever spoken to you the way he does.

You love him, and it scares you because you’re realizing you still don’t know anything about him, not really, and you’re also realizing that there’s a high chance he’s been lying to you about what he does. It scares you even more that your first instinct isn’t to run. Because you should run. This should make you run. He brought you to an event with people so dangerous that he’s afraid they might try to hurt you, or worse, but you don’t want to run, because you’d be running from him and you don’t want to run from him.

Could you sacrifice everything for him though?

Fuck your morals—everything you’ve worked for, all of the years slaving away to put yourself on the path to success. You’ve told yourself your entire life that it would be all you would focus on, that it would all be worth it in the end. You convinced yourself that maybe if you proved yourself enough, your brother would return to your life; he’d be proud of you and he’d come back to you. You know he’s still out there somewhere, you get letters with no return address every month—the only thing in the envelope is a check with a dubious amount of money, but it’s in his hand writing, so you know it’s him.

A part of you wants to cry, frustration clawing at your chest: the future you’ve worked so hard for, or love? The question you’ve dreaded since your epiphany yesterday is finally thrown right in front of your face, and you need an answer. The two are mutually exclusive—you will not be able to pursue the career you want with Dazai Osamu, not in the way you want at least. And you don’t want to do all of this work to just end up being another shady politician.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

Your gaze snaps up to Chuuya, who’s suddenly looking at you, and you don’t really know how to respond.

I’m pretty sure you guys are part of the fucking Mafia and you’re all hiding it from me, but also I don’t want to know if you are because that’s going to force me to make a decision that I don’t want to make so I’d rather live in ignorance.

“My thoughts are only worth a penny?” You deflect with a grin instead, hoping it meets your eyes.

It doesn’t, evidently, because Chuuya’s eyes narrow a bit, and then he tilts his head to the side and hits you with a more direct: “What’s wrong?”

“I’m just worried,” you finally say, not entirely lying but also not telling the truth.

“About?” Chuuya presses and you sigh, exhaling a bit.

“He mentioned that there were dangerous people here,” you tell him quietly. “I’m just nervous for when you guys go to your meeting… I’m guessing it’s going to be soon.”

Chuuya’s brows furrow and you can see the thoughts racing behind his eyes before he speaks again. “You’ll be fine,” he tells you. “We have people all over the event hall, and Tachihara is going to sit with you until you Dazai can get back. Dazai shouldn’t have worried you with all of this. He shouldn’t have even-”

He cuts himself off, jaw tightening, but you know what he’s going to say: he shouldn’t have even brought you here.

“I don’t know what he’s thinking,” Chuuya says quietly, and you think he might be talking more to himself than anything else now, but you listen anyway. “He’s always been hard to read but this is…”

He stops speaking out loud, as if he’s realized that you’re there again, and instead he shakes his head. “You’ll be fine. Back at the headquarters before you know it.”

You aren’t so sure.

Your gaze drifts to the side as you watch Nabokov and the Chinese man make their way over to Dazai and the man he’s talking to. The blonde at the bar that Dazai kept looking at also stands up, drink in his hand as walks in the same direction.

Chuuya spits out a curse under his breath and gives you an apologetic look. Your heart sinks and your throat feels a bit tight—he doesn’t abandon you right away though, pressing his hand to the middle of your back as he guides you across the dancefloor to the bar, all the while keeping a keen eye on what’s happening on the other side of the room.

He pulls the barstool out for you, eyes still trained on where Dazai is standing with Kouyou, two men that work for him you haven’t met yet, and the four men you assume are business associates of his. Dazai is looking at you, an indecipherable expression on his face. You’re looking at him, suddenly anxious at the thought of being left alone, a bad feeling sweeping over you.

“Tachihara will be over here soon,” Chuuya finally says to you, tearing his gaze from his coworkers to look back down at you. He flags down the bartender to order a drink for you. “You’ll be fine. Knowing Dazai, the meeting won’t last long anyway.”

Your shoulders only slump a bit as you nod, thanking the bartender quietly for your drink as he hurries to bring it back to you, taking a sip of it. Chuuya doesn’t say much else—once you’re settled in your seat and have your drink, he squeezes your shoulder before making his way back over to the intimidating group of people standing on the opposite side of the room.

Your gaze meets Dazai’s conflicted one one last time before he’s forced to turn away and disappears down a side hall deeper into the building. You sigh as you twirl your drink around, the clear liquid sloshing dangerously close to the brim of your glass as your eyes twist around the event hall, seeking out Tachihara, or Atsushi, or anyone that works with Dazai because you’re feeling distinctly vulnerable alone. You find none of them. You can feel eyes on you—most you’re sure are harmless curiosity, wanting to know who exactly came in on the arm of Dazai Osamu, but you know some aren’t nearly as harmless, you can feel the hungry stares of vicious opportunists directed at your back and you don’t feel comfortable sitting alone.

You don’t even get five minutes to yourself.

“Is this seat taken?”

You’re startled by the unfamiliar voice, head snapping to the side. Your gaze focuses on a pretty man with soft features, shoulder-length black hair and gentle purple eyes. Your lips part to speak, but no words leave them, caught off-guard by his sudden appearance. He looks harmless enough, but there’s something about him that has you on edge—something simmering beneath the surface of his deceptive eyes that you can’t quite place but you know you don’t like.

“I mean no harm,” he says smoothly, lips curving up into an amiable smile. “I’m an old friend of Dazai’s. I only want to talk.”

An old friend. You don’t buy it, but you don’t want to risk antagonizing him, Dazai’s warning about the many lethal ability users prowling the event ringing through your head. You just hope that Tachihara shows up sooner rather than later as you finally shake your head.

“It’s not taken,” you say quietly, motioning to the stool as you take another generous sip of your drink.

The dark-haired man smiles at you as he takes a seat at the bar next to you, teeth glimmering like knives beneath the lighting of the chandelier. Instantly, you feel like you’ve made a mistake, a chill running down your spine as your eyes meet purple ones that are not quite so gentle anymore. Sharp and shrewd instead. Calculating. Dangerous.

“Fyodor Dostoevsky. A pleasure, truly.”

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

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