#and i was struck by this word appearing in both scenes

[riemmetric]

Something about "maybe the poison drips through" | Sports Night | S1E8 (top) and S1E23 (bottom)

[vadlings]

Represention of Autistic Frustration in Laios Dungeon Meshi

Like many other autistic people, I related strongly to Laios Touden while reading Dungeon Meshi. This post isn't going to spend time disputing whether he displays autistic traits or not—while I could do that, I want to focus on why specifically his portrayal struck a chord with me in a way the writing of most other autistic-coded characters has not.

Disclaimer: as the above suggests, this post is strongly informed by my own experiences as an autistic person, as well as the experiences of my neurodivergent friends with whom I have spoken about this subject. I want to clarify that in no way am I asserting my personal experience to be some Universal Autistic Experience. This post is about why Laios' character feels distinct and significant to me in regard to autistic representation, and while I'm at it, I do feel that I have interesting things to say about autistic representation in media generally. This also got a bit long, so I'm sticking it under a read more. Spoilers for up to the end of chapter 88 below.

The thing that stands out most to me in regard to Laios' characterisation is the open anger he displays when someone points out his inability to read other people. This comes up prominently in his interactions with "Shuro" (Toshiro Nakamoto):

The frustration pictured above (Laios continuing to physically tussle with Toshiro, using crude language toward him) becomes even more notable when you remember that this is Laios, who, outside of these interactions, is not easily fazed and often exists as a lighthearted contrast to the rest of the cast. Then we get to Laios' nightmare.

In Falin's words: "Nightmares love emotional wounds. Wounds you hold in your heart. Things that give you stress, or things that were traumatic for you. They aggravate memories like that and cause the dreamer to have terrible dreams." (chapter 42, page 10.) (damn. i'm properly citing for this post and everything.)

Thus, Laios' nightmare establishes an important fact: even if he is unable to recognise social blunders while he's making them, he's at least subconsciously aware that other people operate on a different wavelength to him, and that he's an outsider in many of his social circles (both past and present). His dream-father's disparaging words stress the impact this has had upon his ability to live up to the expectations set out for him, and we also get a panel of kids who smirk at him (presumably former bullies to some degree). Toshiro's appearance only hammers home how much Laios is still both humiliated and angered by his misunderstanding of their relationship.

I've thought a lot about anger as concomitant to the autistic experience. When autistic representation portrays ostracization, it's generally from an angle of the autistic character being upset at how conforming to neurotypical norms doesn't come easily to them; as a result, they express a desire to 'get better' at meeting neurotypical standards, a desire to become more 'normal' (whether the writing implies this is a good thing or not). In contrast, not once does Laios go, "I need to perform better in my social interactions, and try to care less about monsters, because that's what other people find weird." His frustration is directed outward rather than inward, and as a result, it's the people around him who are framed as nonsensical.

The Winged Lion starts delineating Laios' anger, and Laios' reaction is to think to himself, "It can sense all my thoughts, huh?" (chapter 88, page 16.) This is the scene that really resonated with me. I'm not saying I have never felt the desire to conform to neurotypical norms that is borne from insecurity, but primarily, I know that I don't want to work toward becoming 'normal'—I don't want to change myself for people who follow rules I find nonsensical. It's the difference between, "Oh god, why can't I get it," and, "WHY CAN'T YOU GET IT?" (phrasing here courtesy of my friend Miles @dogwoodbite). And for me personally, Dungeon Meshi is the first time I've seen this frustration and the resultant voluntary isolation from other people portrayed in media so candidly. Laios' anger is not downplayed or written to be easily palatable, either.

The culmination of Laios' frustrations in this scene wherein we learn that Laios has fantasised about "a pack of monsters attacking a village" drives home just how alienated he really feels. I need not go into his wish to become a monster himself, redolent of how many autistic people identify/have identified with non-humans to some degree as a result of a percieved disconnect from society (when I was younger, I wanted to be a robot. I still kind of do.)

Obviously, wishing death upon other people is a weighty thing, but the unfiltered nature of this page is what deeply resonated with me. The Winged Lion is laying Laios' deepest and most transgressive desires bare, and they are desires that are a product of lifelong ostracization by others (whether intentional or unintentional). This is the brand of anger I'm familiar with, and that my neurodivergent friends express being familiar with, but that I haven't seen portrayed in writing so explicitly before—in fact, it surprised me because most well-meaning autistic representation I've experienced veers toward infantilisation in trying make the autistic character's struggles easy for neurotypicals to sympathise with.

Let's also not neglect the symbolism inherent to Laios' daydream. "A pack of monsters attacking a village". Functionally, monsters are Laios' special interest—he percieves everything first and foremost through his passion for monsters. His daydream of monsters attacking—killing—humans, is fundamentally a daydream of the world he understands (monsters) overthrowing the world that is so illogical to him, that has repeatedly shunned him (other people). I joked to my friends that it's an autistic power fantasy, and it actually sort of is. And in it, his identity is aligned with that of the monsters, while his anger manifests in a palpable dissociation from the rest of humanity. This is one manga page. It's brief. It's also very, very raw to me. I think about it often.

To conclude, I love Laios Dungeon Meshi. This portrayal of open frustration in an autistic character meant a lot to me, and I hope I've sufficiently outlined why. Also, feel free to recommend media with autistic representation in the notes if you've read this far—I would really like to see if there is more of this nature. Thank you for reading. I'm very tired and should probably sleep now.

[dcxdpdabbles]

DCxDP fanfic idea: Danny's Did you know?

Danny is a contact creator.

He started off as a kid who wanted to dump info about space or other interests, making it more "Did you Know" as his theme, but his channel really took off the first time he invited a ghost to speak about the era that came before.

No one knows Sidney Poindexter is a ghost. Ghosts usually do not appear on camera; if they do, they are always a blur or barely visible outline. That doesn't come into play when the camera happens to belong to the Ghost King, who is unaware of the title.

Due to this, the ghosts, as his guest stars, turn out to look like normal human beings. There is no glow, no see-through effect, and the only odd thing about them is how they dress.

Even Poindexter's coloring could be explained with some well-done make-up.

They think he's just someone wearing a costume and pretending to be from the 1950s, using information Danny had researched. Danny's interview with Poindexter became an instant hit among those who applauded the genuine authenticity of what the 1950s actually were like.

Not only that, but Poindexter's reactions to modern terms and objects that Danny presents are hilarious to the viewers, as he never once broke character. There is even an entire section where both grumble about the bullying issue in their shared high school.

A particular scene becomes a trending meme.

"Did you know Dr. Seuss coined the word "Nerd" in 1950? He used it in the book If I Ran the Zoo," Danny tells Poindexter.

The other teenager rolls his eyes. "Of course, I knew. It was published in my first year of High school. I was one of the first to be called nerd, you know? It would have been more impressive if it didn't take the entire football team four days to read."

"Four days!?"

"Dr. Seuss's writing style saved the American reading levels back in my day."

"So we have always been stupid, huh?"

Danny's next guest is Johnny 13, a biker from the early 1980s who spends most of his time flirting with Danny—who doesn't acknowledge the attempts—and proudly tells the viewers he may have been there, but he was too poor to know much about the 1980s.

"What were the trends in that era?" Danny asks Johnny after considering his notes.

The biker shrugs. "I think cellphones? They were too expensive for me or my block. Never saw one in real life before I died."

"Well, one trend was waterbeds. Did you know that waterbeds were invented in the 60s? They were made by a design student but weren't popular until the 80s, making them popular for the sudden rise of sex appeal." Danny says with a cheerful grin.

Johnny 13 tilts his head, considering his words. "Radical. I couldn't afford a mattress, much less a waterbed, but I bet they were fun. If you can get your hands on one, I would happily show you how fun they can be."

Danny rolls his eyes and then considers something. "If you couldn't afford a mattress, how did you get your bike then?"

"I stole it. Car theft was effortless back then after hotwiring took off." Johnny's smirk turns dark. "I stole to keep myself fed. Bad luck followed you everywhere when you started at America's rock bottom. Only crime could get you out, and even then, life was shit."

Danny reaches out and pats his shoulder. "At least you got to live through one of the best eras in our history."

"Nah, I died in 1983. I missed it, but do you know who actually got to live it? Ember. She died in 1990."

Next week, Ember strikes an alarming resemblance to the one-hit-wonder singer Ember McLain, who had nearly made it big a few years ago.

"What were the 80s like?"

"Terrible, everyone hated me in school, and AIDS was killing all my friends."

Danny pauses for a long moment, looking horror-struck, until Ember shrugs, "But Glam rock was made popular, which was kind of cool."

"Glam?"

Ember smirked at the host, holding her guitar. "Want to hear some?"

By the end of her performance, everyone was losing their mind that Danny Fenton somehow knew a big name like Ember Mclain, and her music once again started to trend. So much so she released another song called "Lost," dedicated to all her fallen friends who died in the AIDS epidemic.

It goes on and on, with each new video showcasing different times and people from those backgrounds. Tim Drake never misses an episode as a dedicated follower of Danny's Did You Know?

He also thought it was a gimmick to make the show entertaining and thought nothing of the hilarious conversations—not when the host was such adorable eye candy.

Things are normal until Tim watches Danny interview Greta Hayes, who died in the late 90s. His very dead, very much a ghost teammate who happily tells the story of her life while looking like an ordinary girl for the first time.

It's not even someone dressed up as her. She makes an apparent reference to some slang Bart uses, and a few of the team's inside jokes are sprinkled into the conversation.

Tim feels a headache coming on. After watching the episode, he grinned darkly as he picked up his phone and called Bruce.

"So we may have a problem. Either a necromancer with an insane amount of skill or something similar. We need to go to Amity Park to investigate Danny Fenton."

Bruce sighs. "Tim, I am not helping you stalk your internet crush-"

"It's not stalking. It's detective work!"

[chosok-amo]

SLIPPING THROUGH MY FINGERS: GOJO SATORU, GETO SUGURU

“suguru, help!” he sounds, pathetic. gojo satoru is a pathetic man when it comes to you. “ . . . there are so many kisses to have, soul and bone for you to crash and swear that how stars are born, so please. . ., believe me, you have to believe me,” he cries, holding your hands, begging for you to love him— love him enough to stay.

warning : age-up! satosugu, depressed! fem x reader, drug mention, trauma mention, suicide, self-harm, death mention, drowning, blood, heavy angst.

w/c : 6,2k | [☆] MASTERLIST

𝜗𝜚 . . . . i had to stop so often writing this because i can't stop crying and think that i shouldn't continue because it hurts me so bad that i have to take a cold shower and think about my life. and honestly, i wasn't supposed to write the last part but yeah..

A MINUTES AFTER YOU TRY TO KILL YOURSELF

it was too quiet. . .

gojo satoru never screams so loud in his entire life, so loud. . . the world shaking beneath his feet, ready to swallow him whole and rotten. so loud . . . he sure he can no longer hear. he ran, slipping on his way until he broke his knee on the puddle of the red, transparent liquid that spill from the bath-up.

the starling sigh, you were there. . .

“no, no, no, baby— no.”

the water, tinged with a haunting crimson, surged and overflowed, cascading into the bathroom with relentless force. it climbed steadily up gojo's legs, as if the liquid itself sought to ensnare him, to drag him down into its suffocating embrace, or just. . . mock him.

a dark mockery that seemed to whisper that it alone held the power to drown him, to swallow your trembling breaths and the last echoes of your voice. it wasn’t him, or geto suguru who was to be your executioner, but the merciless water, eager to claim your final, stutter breath.

“i-i —sorry, i’m sorry..” you stammered.

your voice stammered between choke, barely a murmur beneath the frothy waves, struggled to be heard amidst the tumult. your eyes, devoid of warmth, reflected a chilling detachment. the coldness in your gaze was almost tangible, a stark contrast to the chaotic, drowning world around you.

“suguru, help!” he sounds, pathetic.

gojo, even on the verge of your death is still so gentle, as if he's afraid you are going to die than you already are. dropping on his knees as he tries to pull your warm bodies out of the bath-up.

gojo shook his head, a soft whisper escaping from his trembling lips, “shhh, it's alright baby, it's alright, you're alright,” his mumble, each word a fragile promise against the storm of his own emotions— words and voice shaking, his bones and soul shivering. his strong arm wraps around your body, pulling you closer to his chest, feeling everything, even as his flesh trembling.

tears cascaded from the corner of your eyes, tracing silken paths down your skin, while his embrace, though trembling, sought to cradle and calm you, a sanctuary against the turbulence of your anguish.

“suguru, please help!” again, this time he shouted.

geto runs upon hearing the horror howling, and his purple irises about to peel from his face and his lungs lose air— ragged gasps, as if each inhale were stolen from him. the scene before him struck with a painful clarity: you nestled within gojo’s embrace, your body wracked with distress.

foaming at the mouth, you appeared trapped in a tormenting grip of anguish, while the open scars on your wrist bled stories of suffering and desperation. in that moment, the sight was both heart-wrenching and surreal, a vivid tableau of fear and pain, painted across the canvas of his deepest fears.

“i'm sorry— i-i'm so sorry,” you whisper between choking gasps as geto kneels beside you and your body shaking. tears cascade uncontrollably, each dropping a shimmering testament to a sudden, overwhelming regret. it is as though a profound realization has swept over you, too late to mend the wounds that have been inflicted.

the regret feels like a bitter aftertaste of the sorrow you can no longer escape. the eyes of those around you, trembling with the weight of their own anguish, are bloodshot and haunting, mirroring the crimson that flows from your wrist. in that agonizing moment, the world feels irrevocably broken, and the fleeting desire to be alive seems like a distant, unreachable dream.

they burst from the bathroom, gojo's arms wrapped tightly around you as he dashes through the chaos. your lifeless feet and hands dangle, a heavy, haunting reminder of the blood seeping steadily onto the floor. each drop forms a macabre trail, like the relentless shadow of death that clings to you, a grim companion refusing to let go.

the crimson stains splatter and pool in your wake, an anguished testament to the finality that now seems inevitable— each red stain on the ground is a haunting reminder, a stark declaration. as they run, the blood's mournful descent weaves a sorrowful narrative of moments slipping away, each drop a poignant echo of what might have been, a stark and unyielding declaration that time has run out, that it is too late.

and suddenly, everything feels like a slow motion.

6 HOUR AFTER YOU TRY TO KILL YOURSELF

the doctor spoke with a grave tone, his words laced with concern. “it appears,” he began, looking at gojo who's just sitting there with his eyes focusing on the floor, meanwhile geto standing beside him. “that she intentionally tried to overdose. we've had to act swiftly to pump the substances from her body, working to counteract the severe effects of her actions.”

geto's hand gently gripping on gojo's shoulder as they listen. his expression was one of solemn seriousness, reflecting the urgency and gravity of the situation. “we've done everything we can to stabilize her, but it's crucial that you two understand the seriousness of what she has done. this was a life-threatening situation, and we're only beginning to address the underlying issues that led to this crisis.”

the doctor continued, his voice carrying a mix of relief and concern. “fortunately, the cut on her wrist wasn't too deep,” he said, his eyes scanning the notes before them. “it seems that the severity of the injury was somewhat mitigated by her weakened state from the drugs. if she had been stronger, the outcome might have been different.”

his tone softened, acknowledging the fragile balance between the danger of the overdose and the mitigating effects of your physical condition. “we've managed to address the immediate threats, but it's crucial to understand that this is a serious wake-up call. we need to work on her recovery and the emotional struggles that led to this moment.”

if she had been stronger, the outcome might have been different,’ the words echoed repeatedly, hauntingly through the air, like a broken record stuck on a painful refrain. once, twice, three times, they reverberated through their minds, each repetition a stark reminder of how close they came to losing you, how dangerously close the edge of despair was.

even the notion of ‘almost’ carried a weight too immense to bear, a heavy presence that pressed down on their hearts. the silence that followed was thick with unspoken guilt and anguish; none of them could find the words to bridge the chasm of their shared grief. they avoided each other's gaze, unable to escape the silent blame that hung heavy between them, a suffocating testament to their collective sense of failure.

gojo stared at his hands through the thin veil of his blindfold, his fingers trembling as they traced the dried blood staining his pale skin. the sight of it was a brutal reminder of you. with a strained effort, he clenched his hands tightly, hoping to meld the dried blood with his own, as if to erase the haunting evidence of what had transpired— his last hope trying to be with you.

each breath felt like a desperate gasp, a small gap forming between his lips as he struggled to draw in air. the sensation of suffocation gripped him, a relentless pressure squeezing his chest, making each inhale a battle. despite his efforts, the air seemed insufficient, leaving him feeling as though he were on the precipice of life, teetering on the brink of an abyss that threatened to swallow him whole.

geto felt an overwhelming tide of guilt and anguish, a heavy weight pressing down on his heart. the scene that unfolded before him replayed in his mind like a relentless, agonizing loop, hunting him down like he is some kind of a fucking prey. he was haunted by the sight of your suffering, the image of your blood-streaked hands and the anguished cries that pierced the air. each moment of his own reflection, seeing the remnants of your blood on his skin and his white shirt, deepened his torment.

the sense of responsibility gnawed at him, a constant reminder of how close he came to losing you. he felt suffocated by a profound sorrow and helplessness, as if the very air around him was too thick, leaving him gasping for breath— like the death itself pointing its ugly fucking finger to his face and laugh at him, at them.

what a fucking pathetic man’ the death must be said.

the weight of the situation settled heavily on his shoulders, and the silence between him and his companions only amplified his inner turmoil. the unspoken blame and the aching realization that he couldn't undo what had happened created a chasm of despair within him, making each moment feel like an eternity of unbearable remorse.

both of them are buried in profound sea of grief, guilt, shame because a thousand moments with you that they take for granted— shame, for thinking, assume that there would be a thousand more. is it too selfish to be here?’ they thought.

that curse must be laughing at them, the higher-ups, everyone— pointing their finger from all directions. look at them, ’ they thought, those two who called themselves the strongest can even save a single soul,’ again they must be laughing, let alone a soul who is to be called the love of their life.

but nobody knows, none, not even a single soul that, oh, how your presence evokes such selflessness in them— even amid their silent, tormented reflections. they are consumed by an incessant questioning of the selfishness of their own sorrow, wondering if it is wrong to cling to their grief while you teeter on the precipice of loss.

the haunting thought persists, a cruel reminder of time's fragile nature and the profound depth of their remorse. in their heartache, they are acutely aware of the contrast between their own suffering and the delicate balance of your existence, each moment of their anguish a poignant testament to the sorrow they feel for having taken so much for granted.

is it okay to feel sad? ’ they thought.

even the very sensation of sadness and grief feels like an indulgence they do not deserve. i can't even protect her, what rights do i fucking deserve to be sad?’ they thought. to them, these emotions seem an opulent luxury, an extravagant gift they are not entitled to. in their hearts, the depth of their sorrow feels almost excessive, a poignant reminder of how their suffering pales in comparison to the magnitude of the almost loss they face.

each wave of grief feels like a grand, unwelcome opulence, an unjust reward for the pain they have caused and the moments they have squandered. the luxury of their sadness seems a cruel irony, a stark contrast to the profound emptiness of the reality they must now confront.

people passing by in front of them, throwing them a glance or two. seeing their red eyes and tears-stain cheeks, blood in their hands, in shirts, in pants, in their soul, laid bare. everyone wants to give them both a pat on the back, telling them that they are good at handling grief; howling, crying, and blaming each other. that's the proper way to handle grief.

18 HOUR AFTER YOU TRY TO KILL YOURSELF

your hands are warm, a stark contrast to the pallor of your pink lips, which have lost their vibrant hue, your eyes open still so retain their gentle softness, a quiet testament to the grace you still hold.

as you lie upon the hospital bed, draped in the drab, floral-patterned gown that clings to you, it feels woefully inadequate. the gown, mundane and worn, seems too insipid and shabby to encompass your beauty, too faded and forlorn.

“i'm sorry. . .” you mumble.

you can’t bring yourself to look at them as they sit beside your bed, their eyes red and swollen from sleepless nights, their uniforms crumpled and disheveled, their hair falling in untamed disarray. their faces have lost their vibrant hue, a stark contrast to their usual vitality.

gojo satoru’s once-brilliant blue eyes, which used to shimmer with an unyielding light, now seem dull and lifeless, even when the golden sunlight spills over them. the sunlight, which once might have enhanced the beauty of his gaze with its warm orange tones, now only serves to highlight the emptiness that has replaced his once-sparkling eyes— it's dull, it's dull, it is fucking dull.

geto suguru's strikingly handsome face is graced with a smile, tender and achingly gentle, as though he is pouring all his effort into offering you a sliver of solace. his lips tremble with a subtle quiver, betraying the deep sadness that lingers beneath his calm exterior. his once-vibrant purple irises have dimmed, their former brilliance faded to a shadow of their former selves.

you fear that they might darken further, losing their hue altogether, slipping into a void of despair where even color seems to vanish. the sight of his sorrowful eyes, so devoid of their usual spark, reflects a profound sadness that pierces the heart, a silent testament to the emotional toll of the moment.

oh, what i have done. . .’ you thought.

“don't, please don't,” gojo pleads, his voice trembling as he clasps your unharmed hand with a desperate grip. his blindfold has been removed, revealing eyes that are filled with raw, unfiltered emotion as he gazes at you. beside him, geto's hand rests gently at the back of your head, his touch tender and soothing. he caresses your hair with a featherlight motion, his thumb brushing softly over your scalp.

“we are so sorry for taking you for granted,” he murmurs, the words heavy with regret and sorrow. “we are sorry for offering you only a lukewarm love, when you deserved a love that was fierce and all-consuming, a love that burned brightly and fiercely. i'm sorry,” his voice wavers, each word an echo of their deep remorse, as they both grapple with the weight of their unspoken apologies and the profound realization of what they failed to give you.

they do not seek to question why your soul bleeds, nor do they dare to unravel the dark tapestry of your pain. the blood, flowing with a steady, silent, and disturbingly deliberate pace, engulfs you in its relentless embrace. it seeps into every corner of your being, a somber tide that threatens to consume you entirely.

they find themselves unable to confront this harrowing reality, their hearts too burdened to bear the weight of such a painful inquiry. the sight of your suffering leaves them paralyzed, unable to utter the questions that linger in their minds, as they grapple with the profound helplessness of watching you slowly succumb to the encroaching shadows.

“i love you, baby,” gojo whispers, “i'm sorry that you're in so much pain so to think death is the only salvation,” he stopped for a second, cocooning your hand with his large one before resting his cheek against. “i'm sorry i didn't notice your rage for the world and too busy loving you. does my love scare you, love? that's why you decided to leave, hm?” his voice shaking, lips quivering.

“if you are angry, stab me a little so you can feel better, make it hurt, i don't care. a little suffering would be worth it if it's by your hands, by your pretty little hands,” he murmured against your skin, his breath a warm whisper that sent shivers across your body. each word was a soft plea, wrapped in a tone that trembled with both desperation and tenderness.

his trembling lips pressed gently against your hand, each kissing a fleeting starburst of warmth against your cool skin. him— no they, stood ready to endure your pain, inviting you to inflict upon them the hurt you felt.

they stand poised to let you sink your teeth into them, to delve into their very flesh. to let you open them up, laid bare and vulnerable, just to offer you a chance to heal. just so they can love you a little too much, starving even— like a flesh begging to be knitting together over a wound. ruin me, ruin us, and we will let you.

“i love you, i love you, i love you,” he gave you stars in each between. they fucking love you like a rotten dog. “believe me when i said this. . . there are so many kisses to have, soul and bone for you to crash and swear that how stars are born, so please. . ., believe me, you have to believe me,” he cries, holding your hands, begging for you to love him— love him enough to stay, “we love you.”

he finally said we’ geto thought.

at first glance, people might assume that geto suguru’s love for you surpasses that of gojo satoru, that his love is somehow greater. yet, the truth remains that it has always been gojo satoru who harbors the most profound and boundless love for you from the very beginning. his love is vast, immense, and utterly astonishing, stretching beyond the horizons of understanding.

gojo’s devotion is a vast expanse, a love so deep and wide that it seems to defy the very limits of emotion. even geto suguru, who himself is capable of immense love, finds himself awestruck and somewhat intimidated by the sheer magnitude of gojo’s feelings. no one can truly grasp the depth of gojo’s love—not even gojo himself—such is the overwhelming, almost incomprehensible nature of his heart’s boundless devotion to you.

and sometimes it scares the shit out of geto.

but maybe, just maybe, they have a little too much love for you more than for each other, even more than for themselves— as if you make a space in their ribs, and call it home country.

30 HOUR AFTER YOU TRY TO KILL YOURSELF

geto stirred from a restless sleep, his head resting gently against your hospital bed, nestled close to your side. as he slowly opened his eyes, he was met with the soft, gentle sight of you gazing at him, a faint, tender smile gracing your lips. the serene moment, bathed in the quiet of the hospital room, brought a flicker of warmth to his weary heart, a small but profound comfort amid the lingering shadows of their shared sorrow.

“hey sunshine,” geto whispered in a hoarse croak, reaching a hand to brush your hair away from your face, “how long have you been awake?”

“long enough to notice the dark circles under your eyes and the tear stains on your cheeks,” you replied softly, your fingers brushing gently against his cheek, your thumb tenderly caressing the worn skin. geto hummed, his hand capturing yours and guiding your palm to his lips, where he planted a gentle kiss.

the touch of your skin was like a salve, soothing the ache in his weary soul. he chuckled weakly. his eyes were tired and his skin pale, but your touch made him feel alive. “you’re too observant for your own good,” he teased, his lips curving into a weary smile.

geto shifted in his chair, wincing slightly as his body protested the movement. he settled into a more comfortable position, still holding your hand in his, his thumb tracing soothing circles on the back of your knuckles.

he studied your face, taking in every detail, from the delicate flutter of your eyelashes to the subtle flush in your cheeks. the sight of you, even in this vulnerable state, filled his heart with a mixture of tenderness and protectiveness.

“how are you feeling?” he asked, his voice low and gentle, his gaze fixed on your face. he knew it was a question he had asked before, but he couldn’t help himself. he needed to hear you speak, hear your voice, just to reassure himself that you were still with him.

“like shit,” you answer.

your hand is still gently cupping his cheek, thumb running low across his skin in a loving manner. at your blunt response, geto's lip curled into a soft smile. even in your weakened state, you still had a defiant spark.

he leaned into your touch, his eyes closing briefly as he savored the sensation. “i thought we agreed no profanity,” he teased, his voice laced with affectionate humor, opening his eyes to meet your gaze. he turned his head slightly, his lips brushing against the palm of your hand in a tender kiss.

“you’ve always been a bad influence on me,” he murmured against your skin, his breath warm and ticklish. he chuckled softly, his eyes softening as he studied your face.

he took a moment to compose his words, his expression growing serious. “there was a moment,” he began, his voice a hoarse whisper, “a moment when i thought i lost you.”

your smile faltered, and your eyes softened with concern as you listened to the gravity in his voice. you reached up to gently touch his cheek again, your thumb brushing away the remnants of his sadness.

“i’m here now,” you whispered, your voice steady but filled with warmth. “you haven’t lost me.” you looked deeply into his eyes, trying to convey with your gaze the depth of your presence and the promise of your unwavering support. “and i’m not going anywhere,” you added softly, hoping to soothe the lingering fear in his heart.

his hand covers yours, holding it against his cheek as he closes his eyes, relishing in your soothing touch. for a moment, he just allows himself to bask in your presence, letting the warmth and comfort wash over him.

“i was afraid i wouldn’t get to hear you say that,” he murmured, his voice growing thicker with emotion. he opened his eyes, the raw vulnerability in his gaze bared to you, his heart laid bare.

your heart ached at the sight of his vulnerability. you gently squeezed his hand, your voice trembling with sincerity as you spoke. “i’m so sorry,” you said softly, your eyes filled with compassion.

geto’s thumb traced gentle, small circles on the back of your hand. “you have nothing to apologize for,” he assured you, his grip on your hand tightening slightly. “it was my responsibility to keep you safe, and i failed.”

the guilt and regret in his voice were palpable, the weight of his self-imposed responsibility clear. he lowered his gaze, wrestling with emotions that were etched deeply into every line of his weary face.

he lifted your hand from his cheek, bringing it to his lips and pressing a lingering kiss against your knuckles, his gaze never leaving yours. “i just need you to know how much you mean to me,” he added, his voice cracking slightly. his grip on your hand tightened, as if he was holding onto you for dear life.

geto’s lips continued to brush against your knuckles as he spoke, soft and gentle. his eyes held yours captive, the depth of his affection bared for you to see.

“you are my everything,” he confessed, his voice hoarse with the weight of his honesty. “the thought of losing you, of living in a world where you don’t exist…” he trailed off, a pained expression crossing his features. he was torn between the love that engulfed his heart and the fear that threatened to consume him.

geto drew in a shaky breath, composing himself as best he could. he lifted his gaze from your hand, meeting your eyes once again. his expression held a mixture of love and devotion, but also a hint of desperation.

“i need you to know that no matter what, i will do everything in my power to protect you,” he vowed, his voice steady despite the turbulent emotions raging within him. “not just because it’s my duty, but because i love you more than i thought it was possible to love someone.”

you met his gaze with a warm, reassuring smile, the depth of your gratitude shining through. “thank you,” you said softly, your voice imbued with genuine appreciation. your smile was a reflection of the profound comfort and reassurance you felt, a silent promise to stand together through whatever lay ahead.

geto’s eyes softened at your smile, a flicker of relief passing over his weary face. he squeezed your hand gently, his touch both appreciative and protective.

he studied your face for a moment, his gaze lingering on each contour, each freckle and line, as if to further commit them to memory. “don’t scare me like that again,” he murmured, mostly in jest, but with an underlying current of seriousness.

gojo entered the room, his expression a mix of relief and lingering concern as he carried a bag of your belongings. upon seeing the tender moment between you and geto, his eyes softened, though they carried a hint of the exhaustion and worry that had shadowed him. he set the bag down and approached, took a sit at the edge on the other side of your bed, his voice catching slightly as he spoke.

“don’t scare me like that again too,” he said, his tone gentle but tinged with the weight of his emotions. his gaze met yours with a blend of earnestness and relief. “i know suguru’s been holding on tight, but i’ve been right here, too. seeing you like this... it’s been hard on all of us. please, don't leave us.” his words were a heartfelt plea, an echo of the concern and love he carried for you, a testament to the depth of his feelings and the strength of his devotion.

geto’s grip on your hand tightened momentarily at the sound of gojo’s voice, his eyes darting towards his best friend. he could hear the exhaustion and worry that laced gojo’s words and knew all-too-well the weight of the responsibility they shared.

he turned his gaze back to you, his expression a mix of worry and relief. his thumb resumed its gentle, soothing circles on the back of your hand. “yeah,” he said in agreement, his voice gruff with emotion. “please, don’t scare us like that again.”

gojo’s presence brought with it a sense of familiarity, a comfort that was both grounding and reassuring. he reached out and placed a gentle hand on your arm, his touch a silent expression of his affection and concern.

he studied your face, his eyes tracing every contour, every line, as if to commit the sight to memory. “how are you feeling?” he asked, his voice softer now, though still tinged with worry. “i wanna say like shit but suguru said no profanity,” you puff a little chuckle.

geto gives a little scoff at your comment, his expression laced with a mixture of annoyance and affection. he rolls his eyes playfully and mutters, “you’re such a bad influence.”

gojo’s lips curled into a small smirk before he turned his gaze back to you, the lines around his eyes creasing with a mix of amusement and relief. “can’t have you talking like that,” he teased, his words light but carrying a hint of genuine concern.

gojo studying your face carefully before speaking ever so softly, “well, apart from the obviously crappy mood geto’s been in, you look good. your color is better.” he noticed a faint crimson crushed on your cheeks, a little pink on your lips.

he reached his hand out to smooth a strand of hair away from your forehead, his touch light and tender. his gaze wandered from your face to where geto still held your hand, his eyes reflecting a subtle hint of appreciation.

geto watched gojo's gentle touch, his grip on your hand unconsciously tightening a little bit in response. his expression was a mixture of protectiveness and vulnerability, his eyes betraying the fear and worry that still tugged at his heart.

he took the moment to observe the soft interplay of emotions between you and gojo, the easy familiarity and the deep bond that existed between you all. he could sense the weight of gojo's concern as he studied your face, the care and attention in his touch.

gojo's voice was soft as he continued, his gaze still fixed on your face. “so, how are you feeling, for real?” he asked, his tone a gentle echo of geto's earlier question. “any pain? any discomfort?”

geto looked at you, his eyes silently pleading for you to be honest. he was hanging off your every word, each response a small insight into your well-being.

you took a deep breath, feeling the weight of their concern pressing down on you. meeting gojo’s gentle gaze and then turning to geto’s silent plea, you spoke with a mixture of remorse and honesty. “i’m sorry,” you began, your voice trembling slightly. “i’m sorry for how i handled things. i know i should have talked to you both, but i didn’t—i tried to take matters into my own hands without thinking it through first.”

your eyes reflected a deep sense of shame and regret as you continued. “i actually feel like absolute shit right now, and i’m ashamed of myself for thinking i could find a quick solution without considering the impact it would have on you both.” you looked at them, hoping your words conveyed the depth of your remorse and the sincerity of your apology, wanting them to understand that your actions were not a reflection of your feelings for them, but rather a moment of misguided desperation.

gojo's expression softened with understanding, his eyes filled with compassion. he knew the weight of your words, the regret and shame that clung to them. he reached his hand back to your arm, his touch gentle and reassuring.

geto's gaze was a mix of surprise and relief as he processed your apology. his hand around yours tightened slightly, his thumb tracing reassuring circles on your skin. “it's okay,” he said, his voice hoarse with emotion. “we all have moments of weakness. what matters is that you're here, safe and alive.”

you felt a wave of gratitude wash over you at their responses, their understanding and compassion a balm to your wounded spirit. “thank you,” you said softly, your voice thick with emotion. “thank you for not being angry with me and for not questioning me right away. i know i made a terrible mistake, and i’m grateful you’re here, supporting me instead of condemning me.”

geto's grip on your hand tightened slightly, his eyes filled with a complex mixture of emotions— relief, love, and a hint of lingering fear. he shook his head gently, a reassuring smile on his lips.

gojo chuckled softly, his eyes filled with a mixture of compassion and playfulness. “we can save the anger and lecturing for when you’re not looking so terrible,” he joked, a wry smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “and trust me, baby, i had a lot of choice colorful words for you when the right time comes,” he lean in to kiss your forehead, “but right now, we just trying to be here for you.”

geto nodded in agreement, his grip on your hand still tight. he couldn’t help but roll his eyes a bit at gojo's playfulness, but there was a hint of fondness beneath the feigned annoyance.

he leaned in, reaching out with his other hand to gently brush a strand of hair off your forehead. “you are a stubborn, reckless, and stubborn pain in the ass,” he scolded lightly, his tone a soft but affectionate mix.

gojo chuckled, his eyes crinkling at the corners with humor. he settled himself closer, his hand still resting lightly on your arm. “he's right, you know,” he chimed in, his smile wide. “you're very good at pushing our buttons and getting under our skin.”

geto's lips curled into a small smile, his expression a mixture of feigned anger and affection. “and you're even better at making us worry,” he added, his tone light but underlined with the gravity of their concern. “but we care about you more than anything,” he added, his gaze softening as he looked at you. “so you better not do something like that again, you hear me?” his voice held a hint of authority, but mostly it was filled with love and concern.

geto's smile grew a bit wider, his eyes crinkling endearingly at the corners. “yeah,” he said, his voice firm. “you better listen. we don’t need anymore of these near-death experiences from you.”

gojo chimed in enthusiastically, leaning in a bit closer. “yeah, cause let me tell you, i can’t handle any more gray hairs than i already have.”

geto's grip on your hand tightened again, his expression a mix of sternness and vulnerability. he looked at you intently, his gaze locking with yours. “he's right,” he echoed, his voice firm but filled with warmth and care. “no more reckless decisions. no more putting yourself in danger. you hear us, my love?”

gojo nodded in agreement, his expression serious but eyes softened with concern. he added, “yeah, we can't keep having our hearts in our throats like this. it's not good for our health, you know.” geto's hand caressed your arm gently, a silent plea for your understanding. “we just want you safe and sound. that’s all we ask.”

a hint of vulnerability flashed across geto's face, his expression betraying the weight of his words. he locked eyes with you, his gaze filled with a mixture of pleading and sincerity.

“we just want to know that you're safe,” he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “that you're not recklessly endangering yourself anymore.”

gojo leaned in closer, his hand resting on your arm lightly. “we can't bear the thought of something happening to you again,” he chimed in, his tone carrying an undercurrent of worry.

they continued to exchange tender words and earnest pleas, their voices overlapping in a chorus of concern and affection. each spoke fervently about their love and the lengths they would go to ensure your safety and happiness. their words, though filled with their own fears and frustrations, were underscored by a deep, unwavering care for you.

as you watched them, a soft smile touched your lips. their earnest devotion, their refusal to let you face this alone, filled you with a profound sense of comfort and gratitude. you could see their love in every gesture and hear it in every word, and it warmed your heart. despite the gravity of the situation, their caring presence made you feel cherished and supported, giving you strength even in the midst of your own turmoil.

after a few moments of their heartfelt declarations, the room fell into a short silence, the weight of their words lingering in the air.

gojo ran a hand through his hair, a gesture of nervous energy. “and just so you know, suguru here basically took a week off work to sit by your bedside like a damn watchdog, he even almost made the rainbow dragon eat gakuganji because that fucker won't let him leave.” geto, caught off guard by the sudden revelation, flushed faintly and shot a glare at gojo.

geto, taken aback, shot a sharp look at gojo before retort, “you clearly about to hollow purple the higher-ups and the entire school because they won't let you stay here with her.” gojo's expression darkened for a moment, “you know i would do it in a heartbeat, if i could.” geto's grip on your hand tightened, his gaze still fixed on gojo. “i know you would. and i'd be right there with you.”

gojo and geto turned their attention back to you when they heard your soft chuckling, their expressions a mix of relief and amusement at hearing you laugh.

gojo chuckled as well, “you find that funny, huh?” he said, a smile tugging at his lips. geto rolled his eyes a bit, but his own smile betrayed his true feelings. he couldn't stay serious when you laughed. “just the thought of us going rogue and taking down the entire school system for you is amusing, i guess,” he said, his tone laced with sarcasm.

you hummed in satisfaction, “they are shit anyway.” a gentle smile lingering on your pale lips.

gojo chuckled warmly, his eyes sparkling at your comment. “ah, and there’s that signature wit of yours coming back.”

geto, still feigning annoyance but struggling to hide a grin, shook his head slightly. “still as blunt and unfiltered as ever,” he said, his eyes soft.

you glances at both of them, the comforting silence lingering between you, and with a tender smile, you mouthed softly, “i love you.” your cheeks flushed a delicate crimson beneath your pale complexion as you kissed their cheek.

gojo and geto exchanged a brief glance at your sweet words and soft kisses, their hearts swelling with warmth and love. gojo's hand reached out to stroke your hair, his touch gentle and loving. “we love you too,” he said softly.

geto's smile widened as he placed a gentle kiss on your forehead. “always,” he breathed, his voice filled with tenderness.

the thought of you coming back to them is warm.

TAGLIST :

@junni-berry @fortunatelyfurrygiver @soraya-daydreams @diorzs @dancing--devils @iloveboysinred @bounie1 @nina3871 @ohnotheusernameisbroken

[ronwestbreeze]

too slow

pairing: miguel o'hara x spider!fem!reader

warnings: angst heheh. spoilers! small scenes of somewhat explicit nsfw. mentions of death!

summary: the both of you would come back from this. you would...right?

word count: 4.9k

author's note: did i come out of hiatus just to post a angsty miguel fic? yes. you know i had to as y'alls fav angst queen

part 2

No matter how far you left that spider life behind, he somehow managed to pull you back in.

And god you tried so desperately to stay away. To refuse him.

Miguel O’Hara just had a way with you. He always did. 

Sometimes you wished you were stronger.

The moment you stepped into your apartment was when all of your senses struck your spine and made you freeze in your doorway.

No one else would have known to continue forward cautiously by leaping up to your ceiling and crawling the rest of the way into the apartment, high on alert. Then again, no one else was you. At least not in this universe.

Your spider senses got worse as you crawled toward your ajar bedroom door. When you were close enough, you dropped down as quietly as you could to the floor. One hand preparing a web to shoot and the other raising toward the door to push it further open.

Only you freeze all together.

A sharp tingle struck your back.

Behind you.

Of course, you were quick. Without turning toward the intruder entirely, you shot a web to grab a large vase sitting on a nearby table in the short hallway and swung it behind you. They dodged the vase just as fast and you instantly shot both of your webs toward the intruder. Only for them to be caught by them with both their hands.

“I’m disappointed, Domino.”

It was a mistake to let your guard down by only a little. It was a mistake to instantly recognize his voice.

“Miguel—AAARGH!”

A sudden yank from the webs caused you to fly forward until an iron grip wrapped around both your wrists. Until you were facing the scarlet and blue mask of the one Spider-Man you never expected to see again.

“Too slow.” Even with the mask, you could hear his smirk.

Now that you were aware of who you were dealing with, the tension in your muscles lessened. Just a little.

Some part of you wanted to say “You shouldn’t be here” but since you weren’t in the mood for a long and exhausting spout with the man, you took the more easy and straightforward route of the conversation.

“Why are you here, Miguel?”

His hold on your wrists loosened but he didn’t let go right away. Which was to your dismay as you really didn’t want to be this close to him. Not when you knew that both seeing him now and now having very little space between the both of you would compromise your senses, your steeled will.

And yet you didn’t pull away.

You watched quietly as his mask disappeared, trying your very best not to get too drawn into his features like you used to. Resisting the urge to run your fingers through his dark locks, tugging on some of them like the old days.

Stop.

That was a long time ago.

And it should remain that way.

Unfortunately, Miguel didn’t appear as strong or restrained. The way he hungrily looked at you wasn’t missed but it certainly wasn’t voiced. By either of them. That was something they wouldn’t touch right now. Probably not ever.

When his forehead gently brushed against yours, when his scent overwhelmed your nostrils was when you forced yourself back on solid ground.

“Miguel.”

Eventually, he also had to pull himself together. Eventually, he dropped his hold on your wrists and walked around you, putting a good distance between the two of you. Warily and curiously, you watched his movements.

He gestured toward the shattered pieces of what once was the vase, “I bought you that, you know. That was rude.”

“So is breaking into someone’s apartment.” You retorted dryly. 

Miguel suddenly took out a small object that shone in the gentle light of the sunset, “I still have a key.”

You huffed, “Imma need that back.” You tried reaching for it, only for Miguel to quickly yank it out of your reach, the beginnings of a smirk forming on his face. That’s when you grew annoyed. 

“I thought you were never gonna come back to this universe again. Remember? You went on a whole tangent about it.”

“Mmm.” Was his response at first. You silently watched him tuck the extra key away into some invisible pocket in his suit. “That was only after you said you were never coming back to the team” You tensed at this as the memories came trickling back. “Or coming back to me—”

“So what’s changed?”

Miguel frowned, “I need you—”

“No.”

You reframed from smirking at the twitch in his jaw, at the way his trained mask momentarily slipped at your obvious stubbornness. You gestured in the direction of the front door, “If that’s all, the door’s over there—”

“It’s Electro.” That, of course—he knew it would—made you stop. It was your turn for your mask to fall, just enough for Miguel to notice as well. The intenseness in his features softened, “It’s your brother…he somehow made it into another universe—”

“When do we leave?” Miguel had the audacity to look surprised. You glared, “I’m not doing this for you, O’Hara. It’s like you said, he’s my brother. After that, I’m done for good, you hear me?”

With that, he schooled his face back to a controlled mask. One that meant business.

“Whatever you say, Domino.”

You wince and send him another glare before stalking toward your bedroom to change.

Ever since he started calling you that name, Domino, you’ve hated it. It originated from a mission gone bad—mostly for you—and he hadn’t stopped calling you Domino since. It was mostly because you had been knocked down into a bunch of trash cans that happened to be in a long line. 

Hobie said you tumbled like a stack of dominos. Miguel never let that moment go.

Fuck him.

Yet despite your hatred for it, you never discouraged it. You just liked the way he said it. You liked the way his voice softened whenever—

No. Fuck him. Fuck him. Fuck. Him.

After this you wouldn’t ever have to see him again. You wouldn’t ever have to be wrapped up in his shadows, in his overwhelming way of showing…

Fuck him.

It was odd being back in your old suit. Frankly, it felt dated as you swung around in it. There was an itching part of you that wanted to update it, get new designs, and test them out of your suit. Self-restraint was a challenge during that mission. Especially around Miguel.

Thankfully, Jessica and Hobie showed up so it wasn’t just you and Miguel facing Electro—or in other words your estranged brother. It was already enough having to face family drama, but then you add a frustratingly unlabeled drama that kept interfering with your focus.

“Stay on your side, O’Hara!” You snapped when you dodged an electric zap sent your way.

“Don’t be a child!” Miguel shot back.

“I’m not! We agreed Hobie and I’d take left and you and Drew would take right! You are not holding your end of the agreement!” You landed on a nearby pylon. “Which is no surprise!”

Another blast came from Electro, this time aimed at Miguel and Hobie. Hobie was able to swing out of the way and land on the same tower with you while Miguel landed on the other side, “What the hell is that supposed to mean!?”

“She means you’re an asshole, bud.” Hobie added.

“Nobody asked you!”

“Hey!” Jessica shouted from below, steering her motorcycle toward Electro, “Less fighting like children and more getting this guy before he causes the entire city to go dark!”

The fight hadn’t gone on for long. Eventually, you were able to confront your brother up close despite Miguel’s protests against it. Yet you were the one that knew your brother the best, who was he or anyone else to tell you what to do when it came to him? Certainly not, Miguel. Leader of a secret society or not, this was your turf. He asked you here and you would complete the job the way you knew how.

There was a point where you managed to get Electro at a somewhat calm and the thrilled part of you was ready to prove Miguel right. But unfortunately, family bonds wouldn’t save you in this situation. It wouldn’t tie anything up in the neat bow you were expecting.

The blast nearly threw you entirely off the building if not for a bunch of webs catching you in mid air and bringing you back up. Miguel and Hobie managed to subdue Electro thanks to your unintentional distraction while Jessica was the one to pull you back to your feet.

“Damn, babes, that was a close one.” She gave an amused smirk. “Just how long have you been out of the game?”

“Shut up, Drew.” You grumbled despite the other woman’s grin.

Coming back to HQ was the very last thing you wanted to do. But you wanted to make sure your brother was properly dealt with. Even if that meant dealing with Miguel’s bullshit along the way.

As you entered the computer room, Miguel’s mask came off, “What the hell was that back there?”

“Domino doing Domino things.” You mutter dryly.

“Yeah you are.” Hobie held up his hand for a high five, which you reluctantly gave.

Miguel sent him a scathing scowl before turning back to you, “You think this is funny? You could’ve gotten yourself killed back there!”

“I had it handled.” You gritted out, removing your own mask. “He didn’t need everyone coming at him all at once. If you had given me a few more minutes with him—“

“But we didn’t have a few minutes, did we?” Miguel snapped quickly.

“No, of course not.” You crossed your arms, ignoring how he stood taller than you. Ignoring how he would’ve appeared menacing if not for your pissed off mood. “Because everything has to go O’Hara’s way, right? Fuck everybody else.”

Hobie smirked from the side of the room, his mask also removed, “I missed her. ‘ow come she’s not around often, Bossman?” 

Miguel’s jaw twitched dangerously because they all knew Hobie never referred to him as “Bossman” unless to piss him off. because he knew that Hobie didn’t respect him as much, and didn't care for him as a leader. Bossman was just Hobie being a little shit, in Miguel’s words at least.

“It was fucking reckless.” Miguel seethed. “And as usual, you’re too immature to even realize what you did. What could’ve happened—“

“You brought me here!” You snapped back, as venomous as his fangs. “If you don’t like my way then you should’ve left me the fuck alone!”

“Guys, come on.” Jessica sighed, already used to the both of you like this.

Miguel was fuming and trying so desperately to hide the fact that you easily worked him up this way. And him failing at hiding it only made him pissed off even more. 

He hissed, turning his back to you.“I was being considerate. For your sake. It was your brother after all…It was a mistake bringing you in. I should’ve known fucking better.” 

A bitter laugh left your lips, “Finally! We can agree on something!” You stalked out of the room with Hobie trailing behind you—you were used to him following you around—as you muttered, “Let me know when you’ll be sending Max back.”

Just as you left the room, there was a loud crash and Jessica snapping at Miguel.

When your brother was finally sent back to your universe so that he could be sent to a cell powerful enough to hold him, you left HQ and didn’t look back when you did. Swearing to yourself that it would be the last time you would ever allow yourself to step back into that place. To allow yourself to set your eyes upon him again.

Unfortunately, that promise didn’t last too long.

Despite yourself, you started messing with your suit designs. Adding new stuff to make it look less dated than before. But that didn’t mean you were back to that spider life. No. Not one bit.

Hobie swung by your dimension and suggested that both of you went crime fighting for the day. And you only agreed just so your fighting techniques weren’t so rusty anymore. But you weren’t back in the game. Not one bit.

Then Jessica came to visit, claiming that she wanted you to see the progress in her pregnancy and catch up as friends. Which then led you to following her into another dimension to fight another Rhino, which was a great success.

Fuck, you missed this.

And you were tempted. You really were tempted to swing through your city as their Spider person again.

Maybe it wouldn’t hurt after all. Didn’t mean you had to face Miguel. Yes. That was fine.

In the next month forward, you had started your crime fighting as the spider person of your dimension. A new suit and refreshed skills, you felt unstoppable. You even brought out your dimension traveling bracelet. Just to go and visit Hobie and Jessica whenever. Just that.

Soon, Jessica took on a new protege. Spider-Gwen. She was a nice kid and started coming over to your dimension with Hobie whenever they had the time. You liked her alot. She was like a little sister whenever she came around. Same as Hobie being like a younger brother to you.

At one point you found yourself back at HQ—you were honestly terrible at keeping your steeled will—but only to return a few bad guys to their respectful dimensions. You had fully planned on avoiding Miguel—at this point you hadn’t seen each other since your spat a month ago—and going back to your dimension.

That was the plan at least.

“How come you never go with us to see Miguel?” Gwen asked while the two of you watched one of the villains being sent back to their dimension. “You two don’t get along or…?”

Spider-Byte snorted and you sent the hologram a glare, “They have a special history, newbie. You’ll see someday.”

“Quiet, kid.” You mumbled, crossing your arms before addressing Gwen, “Yeah…we don’t get along. It’s best for the both of us that we aren’t in the same room together, right now.”

“Is it?”

You tried your very best not to allow your face to fall into shock at his voice coming from behind you and Gwen. Really, you should’ve expected that to happen.

Miguel approached the two of you, glancing briefly toward Gwen but his eyes remained glued to yours. “Drew’s asking for you. Says she needs your help on Level 4.”

It took you a few seconds to realize he had been talking to Gwen as the blonde nodded her head and disappeared out of the room. Spider-Byte threw on some headphones and continued with her work. In other words, it was just the two of you. The very opposite of what you had planned and wanted.

“I hear you’ve been coming around here a lot more often.” Miguel mused as he brushed past you, his arm grazing yours as he did. You watched him, a lot less hostile than you thought you would be. Instead, you only stared at his back muscles. “I didn’t know you’ve become quite the contradicting person.”

You shrugged, hugging your arms closer to you, “I’ve just been helping Jess and Hobie out. S’not a big deal.”

A sound came from his throat, similar to a chuckle, “I also hear that the White Spider is back on the news.”

“You’ve been keeping tabs on me?” You instead said, one of your brows raising slightly. “When did you start that up again?”

Miguel glanced over his shoulder, his face unreadable, “Who says I ever stopped?”

You smirk, trying to hide how tight your chest felt at his words. At how soft his voice had gotten.

“Look who’s become contradicting now.”

Miguel was quiet at that.

You tried to continue your original goal after that frustratingly vague interaction. You weren’t really sure where you had stood with him after that. Sure, you still were hesitant to rejoin the society fully—mostly because of him—but now you were going on missions with some of the members and helping Jessica train her protégé. At this point, you were practically back, just without the official stuff.

And now you were on a mission with Miguel. You hadn’t been on one of these since your fight. Piece by piece you were just breaking your own promises, your stubbornness was weakening. Your spine had shaken.

Damn him.

No matter what you could never resist Miguel.

You could tell it was the same for him.

“You should go home.”

“Do you know how many times you’ve said that and I’ve still ended up staying?” You leaned on the doorway entrance to his quarters with a smug look on your face. “I think you should give it up by now.”

Miguel was topless. After a particularly long mission, a lot of the team had come out with some cuts and bruises, Miguel wasn’t exempt from that.

You watched as he was cleaning his wound on his left shoulder, only that put too much strain on his bruised side every time he reached his right hand over to tend to that shoulder. For a few more minutes you watched him keep going at it before you sighed and eventually stepped in.

“Stop.” You smacked his hand to the side gently and took the bloodied cloth from his hand.

Miguel tensed, “Domino—”

“I’ve got it.” You told him sternly. “We don’t need you reopening your stitches. Just relax. I’ve got you.”

Your words had disarmed him and caused him to loosen the tension in his muscles at your gentle touch. The wound wasn’t too bad, at least not as bad as the one under his right arm. Once the blood was wiped away, there was just a bit of purple coloring. The blood must’ve been from someone else.

His breaths fanned against your own shoulder. You didn’t forget how close the two of you were in that moment. It was more like you were trying to distract yourself from the fact.

Instead, a small smile tugged at your lip, “It’s been a minute since you’ve been injured.” You noted the light scars on the other parts of his arm.

“Not really.” Miguel grunted, ducking his head down as he rested his elbows on his knees. “I got hit a couple months back. Only difference was that you weren’t there to lick my wounds clean.”

“Do you always need me to?” You joked halfheartedly.

A small tug upward in his lip made your heart skip, “I would prefer it better than being alone.”

“I thought you liked being a loner.”

“Not these days.”

You knew you were treading dangerous territory but the question left your lips before you could rethink it through.

“Did you really want me to go?”

Underneath your fingers, you felt him inhale, slowly.

“Honest?”

You scoffed, “I wouldn’t be asking if I wanted to hear a lie.”

Over his shoulder, he stared at you. A part of you wanted to shift under his intense gaze, a part of you wanted to look away sheepishly but you bravely held it. Though the change in your grip was probably a dead giveaway at your nervousness.

“If it were up to me, you wouldn’t have ever left my sight.”

You tried not to feel too overwhelmed by his words, knowing it was your own fault for asking. For even bringing it up in the first place.

So instead you snorted, “Wow. Sounds awfully possessive—”

His other hand grasped the back of your neck and brought you toward him, your lips connecting. His desperation for you was clear. And your resolve had slowly fallen—no that was such a lie. It had quickly crumbled the moment you felt his touch, the moment his lips were on yours, the moment you felt his desperation sink into your skin just as easily as his fangs would.

When his larger body moved on top of you, you knew your resolve had fully broken. Completely gone. When his lips found your neck, you were gone. When his hips rutted against yours, your mind was gone. When you finally felt him sink into your being, when you felt him inside you—god you never realized how much you had wanted this until now.

No. You knew.

Miguel held your hands down to the bed sheets, only you managed to slip them from his grip and find them tugging and running through his hair, legs wrapped around his hips to pull him closer.

You felt him smirk against your neck, “My stubborn girl.”

And just like that you were back into a cycle in which you swore not to fall into again. Only, this time the two of you didn’t make it known to the others. It was a silent choice between the two of you to keep whatever this was to yourselves. It was better that way you realized.

But as time went by, you knew it would be a little more difficult to hide it. Miguel was touchy. It was fine on days where it was just the both of you, when the both of you were working on something together. Yet on the days where you are around others, such as missions, you know he can’t help himself. And neither can you.

The both of you were terrible at hiding it in the end.

Hobie was surprisingly observant.

“You’re lookin’ cozy now.”

You glanced up to find Hobie lounging about as you were looking at videos of different dimensions. “Let it go, B—”

“I ain’t sayin’ shit.” He shrugged. “Just noticed a few things is all.”

And the two of you left it at that. Never really spoke on it again. Hobie now knew. And Jessica had eyes and a brain, she probably already put two and two together. Especially with you coming to HQ a lot more often now. Even the newbie, Gwen, took double takes every now and then whenever she saw you and Miguel together.

“You seem particularly stressed tonight.” You hummed to him on another night—this time in your apartment, squirming as his cock twitched inside of you.

Miguel looked down at you, a brow raised in challenge, “Can’t take it tonight, baby? Usually you like it a little rough, hmm?” He buried his face into your neck, his thrusts slower than before. Gentle nips at your neck that would sure to leave bruises the next day. Just the way he liked it. The possessive shithead.

“And yet, you’re still stressed.” You whisper next to his ear, breathing out a sigh of pleasure.

Miguel grunted in reply and remained at your neck. Until he slowly pulled away to rest his forehead on yours. He sighed against your skin, “Just another anomaly. Nothing we can’t fix.”

You smiled with a soft hum, “You always do anyway.”

His lips were pressed into yours, a hint of a smile shaping his mouth, “Not just me.”

The anomaly problem never went away it seemed. Soon Miguel got buried deep into his work. You were fine with it, already used to his committed work habits. Besides, you had your own world to manage. You weren’t just waiting all night for him to come home like some girlfriend slowly practicing patience. No, instead you had your own thoughts to keep you busy. But you still managed to find time and visit HQ. To visit the others. To visit Miguel.

It wasn’t until the anomaly was formed into a single person. Another Spider-Man. A kid.

Miles Morales.

Gwen told you about him a few times. How he was the first friend she made after her Peter’s death. You remembered wanting to meet the boy with how much Gwen kept talking about him. And you told Gwen this as well. That they should plan a day to go visit him. Unfortunately, that day never came to fruition.

The unfortunate part was the why.

“What are you not telling me about this Miles guy?” You already knew the answer. You weren’t stupid. You just wanted to know if Miguel would tell you. Would trust you with the information.

Miguel had his back turned to you, facing the screens when you stalked into the room to ask him this. “He isn’t your concern.”

“Bullshit.” You cross your arms. “Clearly, you said something to Gwen. And Jess. Hell, even Hobie. What are you not telling me, Miguel? Why is Miles Morales so important?” You narrow your eyes challengingly, “Or rather, why does he make you so nervous—”

“Enough, Domino.” Miguel said through gritted teeth, trying desperately not to snap at you. “He isn’t your concern. Let it go.”

Hobie had already filled you in on the details before you had come to Miguel about it. The information in itself was troubling, yes. But what was even more troubling was why you were hearing it from someone else other than Miguel. Why did he want to keep you in the dark about this?

That’s when your eyes landed on the old video of him and his daughter. The daughter he lost on another Earth.

“Fine.” You frowned. “Don’t tell me.”

Miguel still had his back toward you. You scoffed and turned to leave. You would’ve been fine to leave it there. That was the one thing the two of you disagreed on the most. The canon stuff. Your sister had to die for it. That’s why Max had become what he had become. That’s why you had left the society, left him in the first place.

Restarting all of this. Thinking you could forgive.

But there was no way you could’ve ever forgotten.

You had to stand by and watch your sister die because it was a part of canon. Because Miguel cared for you and your world so much that he did not want to see it unravel like his did. A part of you wanted to believe that—maybe there was a small part that did—but that didn’t change the grief nor the terror. You just hoped.

Hoped. And hoped. And hoped….

Eventually, you did some research for yourself. Apparently, this Miles guy hadn’t lost his parents but his uncle. Apparently, he was supposed to lose his dad once he became captain. There was nothing you could do about it if it was supposed to happen. You certainly couldn’t tell him that was going to happen.

You couldn’t do anything….

Until you could.

Hobie appeared in the middle of your living room that night.

“I quit that place.” He shrugged, flopping down onto the couch next to you. “But I suggest you suit up, yeah?”

“Why?” You furrowed your brows, placing down your book you had been reading until he unexpectedly arrived.

“Because I ‘ave a good feelin’ you are the only person that wouldn’t like what’s about to happen. What’s currently happening.”

This time you frowned, an aching feeling tugging at your chest.

“Hobie. What’s going on?”

It wasn’t long until you were flying through the HQ, following all of the spider people as they chased after one thing. One person.

Nobody had known you were there. Nor what you were there for. You had blended into the crowd of spider people, flying around, swinging around until you spotted a blip of the boy that they were chasing. And you saw Miguel, Gwen, and Jessica going after him.

All that you knew was that he was alone. The boy was alone. He needed at least one person at his side. One person who understood what he was going through right then.

By the time you had gotten to the speeding trains, Miguel had Miles pinned down to the top of the train. He had yet to see you. But there was no doubt he would sense you. There was no doubt that he would see your flashing figure, zipping toward him. There was no doubt that in the corner of his eye, he would see you flying at him with a kick and landing it just perfectly, and in time before he could prepare to block you.

Now you stood in front of Miles as Miguel rolled away before clawing his hand into the top of the train to keep him on it.

You removed your mask and grinned, “Too slow, O’Hara!”

“Y/N!” Gwen stared at you in shock.

“Who’s that?!” One Spider-Man with a pink robe—and a baby—attached to him questioned in confusion.

Miguel crawled to his feet. In the corner of your eye Miles jumped off the train and disappeared in seconds. “What have you done?!”

You shrugged, “Nothing yet. That depends on you.”

“Y/N, don’t!” Jessica shouted. “You can’t beat him!”

Miguel’s face was twisted into a scowl, mixed with both betrayal and anger, “She’s right, Domino. You can’t win. You’re on the wrong side!”

You pulled your mask back on and melted into a fighting stance, “I don’t have to win. I just have to give the kid more time.”

For a brief second, the scowl was gone. This look was only for you to see. The same look he wore when you first quit the society.

They were back to where it all began. This was the cycle. It was bound to happen. You knew this. He knew this.

“I don’t want to fight you.” He gritted out. “Stand down, Domino. I’ll only ask this once.”

Not once did you budge.

“I hope we come back from this, Miguel.”

You dashed forward.

Miguel let out a roar of anger and dashed toward you.

The two of you would meet in the middle. And for a second, you really wondered…

Would you? 

Would you come back from this?

[fraugwinska]

all of these requests have been great! could i suggest Human Alastor/Unruly Reader? they have a little age gap where he’s in his thirties while they are in their early twenties. he puts them in their place by spanking them with his belt then fucking them? the daddy issues in me needs him to reprimand! 💛💛💛💛

Here you go, Anon ;> I hope you'll like your little #SlutSnack, as will all the Human!Alastor fans ;>

Lessons in Leather

"Say it again, sweetling."

He didn't give her time to get the words out, his leather belt whirring through the air with a whipping sizzle before it struck her already red cheeks again. The impact produced two sounds. The first one was a hard, sharp smack like a cracking whip as the leather hit her supple ass. The second noise came from the girl bent over his study as she cried out, mewling with pain and moaning from the pleasure alike at the force of the strike.

"I'm waiting, darling."

"I..", she whimpered, squirming as he looped the leather strap in between his hands, "I won't make a scene in front of your home ever again." She stayed obediently on the study desk, ass naked and wiggling. With his free left hand, he steadied her thighs and dug his strong fingers around her supple flesh. He spread her buttcheeks so that the tiny little entrance was spread open to his gaze, pink and tender with barely-used, delicate little muscles stretched into a virgin ring around that opening.

"And you will come only when I summon you. I will not be inconvenienced by a bratty child, will I?" He ran a finger, very carefully, along her rosebud. The skin there was hot, flushed and even damp with arousal and perspiration. It fluttered with need beneath his thumb, as if it was anxious, and his own cock throbbed within the confines of his breeches. A long time had passed since last he'd taken his pleasure so completely.

"I'm n-not...not a child."

He smiled darkly, at both the petulant tone of her voice as well as the fact that she had purposefully said it like that to provoke him. It was objectively on the borderline to outrageous, their little affair, Alastor knew it. She knew it too. But his sweet darling, more than ten years younger than him, had been persistent from the moment she met him in the little café where he always got his morning coffee. A new hire, a quick-witted, bratty little thing, with a sharp tongue and long, batting lashes. The younger fellas were all over her, but she only had eyes for him. And what started as a harmless flirt for the fresher batch of coffee soon became a dangerous game when she started appearing at his work and on his way home. Alastor was torn - she matched his own insanity in a beautifully twisted way, and even though he threaded dangerous ground when his eye was drawn by someone who proved to be this intrusive, given his nightly endeavors, he just didn't seem able to resist her.

"Running your mouth with attitude, my pretty, only means you need a harder spanking to get the message across, doesn't it? Very well then. No more little love-taps."

She swallowed as he let his belt slip onto the ground, his palm instead caressing her silken, creamy flesh, scattered with hot red streaks, and with an efficient little motion, he kicked her feet apart and pressed his hand on the arch of her back as he pulled his trousers open and released his painfully hard cock.

"You know the rules, sweetling. Good girls get fucked like good girls. And bad girls..." His voice was thick, deep and filled with lust as he rubbed his thumb against her unexplored hole until she was gasping and whimpering. "Bad girls get fucked here, darling."

His cock slid in between her cheeks and the moan that followed at the sheer vulgarity was long and loud and utterly delicious. His girl had been a virgin, and while he didn't take her the traditional way for a long time, he finally broke her in after the memorable tantrum she threw when she first came to his workplace. It was only fitting that her recent misbehavior, breaking the only other set boundary she unnervingly had pushed until today - following him to his home and disrupting his private space, including his nosey landlord - was treated the same way. Her little bottom was still untouched however, and the thought of the sensation of her tight, silken channel clenching and fluttering around his cock, squeezing him deliciously as he fucked her little asshole, was enough to drive him out of his mind with devious glee.

"Ala-Alastor!"

Slowly, teasingly he prodded her, working the tip of his cock into her tight, virgin entrance, lubricated nicely by both his thick precum and her dripping arousal. The puckered little rosebud resisted him for only a moment before her hole spread hesitantly to allow him entrance. He could see the strain as her ass was slowly but surely stretched around his girth, and he paused halfway in, enjoying the sensation of being buried inside of her, and the sight of her, shivering in embarrassment and lust.

"I've got you, sweetling." He murmured soothingly, stroking a hand up her back to grasp the long fall of her hair, pulling on it just enough that her back arched in the most delightful way. "Just relax, now. Show me you can be my good girl, just relax and take it, sweetheart."

His movements were slow and careful as he thrusted, and her little body shivered and jerked as he slowly began to fuck her in earnest. The girl was a wanton and cunning vixen hiding behind the facade of a naive bimbo of a girl, and she loved being fucked by him. Her brattish words failed her as her body betrayed her every time, responding so nicely to his lectures and punishments. Even now, her body was quick to adjust to the stretch and the friction of his cock as he took her ass, her hips moving and pushing back against him, greedy and almost demanding.

"That's it, pretty girl." Alastor rasped. "Look at you, taking my cock like a good girl. And good girls get to cum, don't they?"

"Y-yesss..." she moaned, his thrusts growing longer and deeper, and his cock swelling with the neediness and impatience in her tone. Alastor smiled wickedly, the fingers of his free hand reaching around her waist to dip into her swollen cunt, finding her wet and slick with her own juices, overripe, ready and waiting for his touch. He knew he'd make her cum soon enough, and the thought made his cock twitch in her ass as he started to circle her clit with strategic pressure, her breath coming out in stuttering gasps of his name as he worked her towards the precipice of her climax. But he also knew that just once wouldn't do. Alastor was nothing but a thorough teacher, and his little sweetling still had some lessons to learn.

[planetdream]

— 11:57 PM

this post contains; smut [m. solo—masturbation. spit and cum. junhui watches wonwoo n the reader lol] 998 words

💌 i will be using kinktober to have fun

Junhui feels perverted—and yet, he cannot stop looking. 

The night started just like any other; a completely dark room with the fan blowing on medium. Junhui settles into bed, using only the lighting of his phone to guide him. One thing leads to another, and his shirt is thrown off, pajama pants bunched around his ankles; spit soaked fist tight around his cock. 

He pauses momentarily, praying that he won't have to unwrap his hand from his cock [he’s so close], thumb burning as he scrolls to find yet another video that satisfies his needs. Then, it appears he’s struck gold. A 7-minute long video. The thumbnail is simple, bare ass across the screen, nothing more and nothing less; it piques his interest, not even caring to glance at the title. 

The video starts. The screen is black for three seconds until the scene begins. Junhui sees your eyes boring straight into the camera. The camera pans down from a shot of your eyes to your full face—or, most of it, the angle, not to mention, the cock you’ve nestled down your throat obscures the lower half of your face. Either this is a doppelganger or it’s actually you. He feels the pit of his stomach tighten when he notices the selling point: the years old shitty stick and poke kitten tattoo on your shoulder. It really is you. 

Video uploaded six months ago. 

Another realization washes over Junhui, if this is recent then that means…he’s currently watching you suck off Wonwoo, your boyfriend and Jun’s longtime friend. And yet, Junhui’s hand is still tight around his cock. In fact, his hand twitches, daring to return to milking his cock for a release. Still, his eyes stay locked onto the screen. He watches how you take Wonwoo’s cock into your hands, spitting all over it before sucking it back into your mouth. 

Embarrassment eats Junhui up; he’s sure that his face is flushed. He can even feel the heat spread from his nose to his ears. Jun feels wrong, watching two of his best friends in an intimate moment, even despite it being recorded for thousands to see. He bites his lip. Mind racing, he squeezes his eyes shut—but with the audio of your moans, all Junhui can see is you, even in darkness. He sighs once he opens his eyes, disgusted with himself, yet he begins to work his hand around his cock once again. 

His fist is tight, wet, and maintains a grip on the shaft of his cock. Funnily enough, Jun moans when you moan, tongue daring to roll out your name; watching you take more of Wonwoo’s cock down your throat, a small part of him craving, wishing that it was him in your mouth instead. Any ounce of connection Junhui has to you or Wonwoo is gone at this moment; he chooses to maintain a free mind while he jerks off. 

There’s a cut and the next scene shows you bouncing on Wonwoo’s cock, in a view similar to the thumbnail. There’s a white ring of cream around Wonwoo’s cock that slowly drags into a faint, near transparent color with every bounce of your hips. The rhythmic sound of skin slapping against skin and the squelching of your cunt fuses with moans from both you and Wonwoo, making stimulating music to Junhui’s ear. 

His thighs tense, the tips of his fingers nearly marking into the soft skin of his shaft. He’s not sure he’ll last too much longer seeing you like this. He tries to push the thought from his mind, at least just to the back of his mind until he cums, but you remain in the forefront of his thoughts. Then yet again, Jun wishes that it was him that you were on top of, and he feels an itch of jealousy within the pit of his stomach. He fights all feelings that aren’t horniness though, allowing you to flood his mind and all of his senses; taking in the way your ass looks as you bounce up and down, up and down. 

Junhui’s stomach turns, tightening. He clenches his ass; the grip of his hand tightening around his cock in effort to hold back the feeling; just momentarily. He brings his hand up to his mouth, gathering as much spit as he can, coating his palm with saliva. Cock wet and sticky with his bodily fluids, Junhui covers the head of his cock in spit; massaging his hand around the tip of it, working around his shaft all the way to the base. 

Cock in hand, Junhui works himself up, eyes glued to the screen. Your moans increase in volume, one voice crack after the other, begging Wonwoo to give you more—despite you doing all the work—to which, he slaps your ass, igniting you to bounce on his cock harder, making a show for the camera. Junhui responds with his high libido, cock twitching at the sound and sight of you, he’s unable to hold back too much longer. 

One. Two more pumps of his cock and he’s spilling his cum all over his hand and stomach, a bit even getting on his phone. He bites his lip, almost tearing into his flesh; hand squeezing tightly around his cock in an attempt to stop himself from spraying too much. Eyes shut tightly to the point he’s seeing splotches of color. Warmness and euphoria taking over his senses. He scrambles, phone flipping out of his hand, sound still playing as he grabs the kleenex at his bedside table to clean up his mess. 

Post nut clarity hits Junhui like a truck when he’s finished cleaning himself. His stomach turns, he feels queasy, disgusted with himself—not solely due to the fact that he got off to two of his best friends fucking, but because he knows he’ll watch another one of your videos again. And again, spilling his seed over and over to the sight of his friend’s cunt. What a dilemma. 

© PLANETDREAM 2024

[iamgonnagetyouback]

Oh my- I loved your Regulus x Crouch!Reader so much 😭😭

Can you do one of Sirius meeting/discovering Reg is dating Barty's twin sister. Maybe with Barty being dramatic again, 'cause him being a Drama Queen when it comes to their relationship is perfect 💖

(We can pretend the Black brothers have a good relationship, please?)

regulus black x crouch!reader where you both are soulmates but aren't just made for each other (atleast according to sirius and barty)

It was a perfect afternoon by the Black Lake, with Regulus lying in your lap as you ran your fingers through his hair, content and peaceful. His eyes were closed, and he looked utterly at ease, which wasn’t something you often saw in Regulus Black. You were both so relaxed that the shuffle of footsteps didn’t even register at first—until a small, trembling Hufflepuff first-year appeared before you, looking as though he’d just delivered his own death sentence.

The boy gulped, holding out a folded piece of parchment. “Um, f-for you,” he stammered, and before you could thank him, he scurried off like a bat out of the Forbidden Forest.

With a sigh, you unfolded the note. Sure enough, in Barty’s unmistakable handwriting, it read: 5 PM. My dorm.

You rolled your eyes, showing it to Regulus, who gave you an amused, knowing look. “Looks like it’s time for another lecture,” he murmured, smirking as he took your hand to help you up. “Shall we?”

As soon as you reached Barty’s dorm room, you were greeted by the sight of Barty and Sirius standing in front like two dueling professors, each radiating pure drama. Remus and Evan sat on the bed with their arms crossed, looking thoroughly unimpressed, but still showing up for moral support.

“Ah,” Barty said, clearing his throat and holding up an invisible microphone with great importance, “Lady and gentleman, you’ve arrived. Welcome.”

Before you could reply, Sirius charged toward you and Regulus, hands in his hair. “My little brother,” he cried, grabbing Regulus by the shoulders with a look of exaggerated horror. “Of all the people—my baby brother!”

“Calm down, Black!” Barty held out his hand in a grand, theatrical gesture. “Let’s handle this like the mature adults we are.”

“Right,” Sirius huffed, trying to regain some dignity as he nodded solemnly. “Like adults.”

Evan coughed, muttering something suspiciously like, “Since when are either of you adults?” but Barty ignored him.

“Now, for the purpose of today’s meeting,” Barty began, bringing the invisible mic to his mouth, “we are here to discuss the… situation.” He said the word like he was addressing a crime scene. “The subject of this meeting is none other than Regulus Arcturus Black and my dearest, beloved sister,” he announced dramatically. “Today, we will weigh the pros and cons of this outrageous relationship.”

Sirius nodded, looking proud. “Brilliant. Let’s proceed.”

You and Regulus shared a look, rolling your eyes in perfect sync, but Barty and Sirius either didn’t notice or chose to ignore it.

“Pro number one,” Barty started, glancing down at a real, honest-to-Merlin list he’d scribbled out on a piece of parchment. “They are… academically compatible.”

Remus snorted, looking over Barty’s shoulder. “Barty, that’s barely a pro.”

“Excuse me, Remus,” Sirius cut in, waving his hand dismissively. “This is serious business. Real feelings are at stake.”

“Right,” Remus sighed, crossing his arms again. “My bad.”

Barty grinned proudly, moving on to the cons. “Con number one: Regulus is too punctual.”

Sirius gasped as if struck by a life-changing revelation. “Yes! And I hate to admit it, but that’s seriously unhealthy.”

Remus raised a brow. “But I’m punctual too—”

Sirius shot him a deadly glare. “Shush, Moony. You’re perfect.”

“Right,” Remus muttered dryly, sharing a look with Evan, who looked like he was barely holding back laughter.

“Con number two,” Barty continued, “Regulus never smiles.”

“True,” Sirius agreed, snapping his fingers. “It’s like he’s permanently moody! Bad influence material!”

Regulus raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms. “That’s rich, coming from you.”

Sirius ignored him, turning to Barty with a look of serious concern. “Barty, your sister deserves someone who smiles. Often. Like… Peter!”

Barty blinked, horrified. “Peter?” He shivered. “Let’s not get too carried away, Black.”

“Right, right,” Sirius agreed, looking relieved as he flipped to another page of their scribbled list. “Anyway. Pro number two: Regulus is, regrettably, very intelligent.”

“Thank you,” Regulus muttered.

“BUT,” Barty interrupted dramatically, “he’s also suspiciously quiet. This is concerning.” He pointed an accusatory finger at Regulus, as if the quietness itself was a crime.

“Con number three!” Sirius interjected. “Regulus is obsessed with the stars. And he’ll probably try to convince you they’re interesting!”

Remus and Evan gave up all pretense and just rolled their eyes, sharing an exasperated glance that was almost affectionate.

“And what is wrong with astronomy?” Regulus asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Everything, dear brother!” Sirius cried, clutching his invisible microphone. “Absolutely everything!” (please don't stress on the fact that sirius loved astronomy)

They continued on with their ridiculous pros and cons, listing everything from “too fond of black clothing” to “a penchant for reading way too much.” Meanwhile, you and Regulus exchanged more eye-rolls and smirks, trying to keep straight faces as the list got more absurd.

Finally, after what felt like hours, Barty concluded the presentation, tossing down his parchment. “So, as you can clearly see, this relationship is just—”

“—a disaster waiting to happen,” Sirius finished solemnly.

Evan sighed, leaning toward Remus. “Are we actually done here?”

Remus shrugged. “If we’re lucky.”

Before either Barty or Sirius could launch into a closing speech, you finally decided you’d had enough. “Thank you both for your… input.” You gave them a sweet, exaggerated smile. “I’ll be sure to let you know if we need any more valuable insight.”

“Exactly,” Regulus agreed, deadpan. “Couldn’t have done it without you.”

Sirius looked briefly wounded before turning to Barty. “Do you think they took this seriously?”

“Not in the slightest,” Barty replied, looking scandalized.

With a huff, he turned on his heel, marching toward the door with Sirius trailing behind, muttering about how they’d “try again later” if you didn’t break up on your own. As they disappeared into the corridor, Evan and Remus finally broke, bursting into laughter that echoed through the dorm.

Remus clapped a hand on your shoulder, still chuckling. “You know, I’m almost sad to see them go.”

Evan smirked, folding his arms. “Next time, maybe we’ll make a pros and cons list on them.”

Regulus’ lips twitched in a rare smile as he pulled you closer. “Now that’s a study session I’d love to attend.”

thank you so much for requesting, love! i had so much fun writing this 💕

[deliciousangelfestival]

Another Ending - 4 | Bucky Barnes

Character: ex!Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader

Summary: It was supposed to be a short week watching over your niece, who loves romance books. She thought you were just a normal aunt, but it turns out you have secrets.

Tags: Spies, action, threat, offense, fight scene, violence, romance, comedy.

Chapter 1 , Chapter 2 , Chapter 3 , Chapter 4 , Chapter 5 , Chapter 6 ,-

Main Masterlist || If you enjoy my work, please consider buying me a coffee on Ko-fi 🙏🏻

Thank you to everyone who has read this chapter. Leave a comment and Reblog, please. I'd love to hear your thoughts. ❤️

Inside the cozy café, where the aroma of freshly brewed coffee mingles with the soft hum of chatter, Jill Krege sat at her usual spot near the window. The café was a revolving door of people, each bringing their unique quirks and stories, making it the perfect place to find inspiration for new characters. For a bestselling author like Jill, places like this were gold mines—at least, they usually were.

Today, however, was different. Despite the stream of customers, none sparked the creative flame she was hoping for. She sighed, disappointed, and began packing her belongings into her bag. Her latest novel, The Red Swan, had catapulted her to fame, and with that fame came the pressure to produce something just as captivating. Her agent was already pushing her for a new book, but inspiration was proving elusive.

Just as she was about to leave, a new group entered the café—a family, by the looks of it. A mother, a father, and their teenage daughter. Jill's eyes were immediately drawn to them. The mother had a cool, confident demeanor, and the father… something about him struck a chord. He reminded her of the male protagonist in The Red Swan. And the daughter? She seemed like an ordinary teenager, though her eyes were sharp, and observant.

As the daughter scanned the drinks menu, she glanced over at Jill, and their eyes met, her eyes lightened up like she recognized someone.

She must be a fan, Jill thought, instinctively straightening her posture and smoothing her hair. She reached into her bag, readying a pen for an autograph.

Lori turned to you both and whispered. “Why don’t you guys get drinks? I’ll give you the signal.”

Watching her stride confidently towards Jill, both you and Bucky felt a flicker of unease. “Did a 13-year-old just give us an order?” Bucky murmured.

“She’s perfect,” you replied with a smirk, clearly impressed by Lori’s nerve.

Bucky chuckled, squeezing your hand as you both walked toward the cashier. “So, what will it be, dear? I’ll take the usual—an iced Americano.”

You shot him a look, surprised by the sudden intimacy. Bucky leaned in closer, his breath warm against your ear. “We have to play the roles of mom and dad, right?” he whispered, a playful wink following his words.

Rolling your eyes, you turned to the cashier. “Two iced Americanos and one matcha latte, please,” you said. Then, glancing at him, you added, “A real married couple would stop acting so lovey-dovey.”

While waiting for the drinks, you both stood in silence. “I noticed you never mentioned Lori's father,” Bucky remarked, remembering that Lori had mentioned her father, but you had never brought him up.

“He died,” you answered, your voice subdued. Lori's father had passed away several years ago from stomach cancer. Your sister had become obsessed with creating healthy food in hopes of helping him. Though he managed to maintain his weight and appearance, the cancer cells never stopped, and eventually, they took his life.

In the wake of his death, your sister became even more fervent about spreading healthy eating habits. Lori, on the other hand, had been very quiet after her father's death. To cope with her grief, she had turned to reading books, finding solace in them. You knew that was her way of escaping.

She used to be a quiet girl like you, but after her father died, she began to change. She became more like him—cheerful, funny, and with a love for singing.

Bucky was taken aback. With Lori’s cheerful demeanor, he had never imagined she had experienced such pain. Now, he felt a pang of sympathy for her.

Meanwhile, Lori approached Jill cautiously, her steps deliberate. She paused before speaking, her voice small and nervous. “Hello, Miss Jill?”

Jill’s smile widened as she turned to face the young fan. “Hello to you too.”

Any pretense of Lori’s role melted away as her inner fangirl took over. “I’m your biggest fan! I really love this book!” She held up a copy of The Red Swan with gleaming eyes. “Can I get your autograph and maybe a picture with you? But only if it’s okay.”

Jill’s heart warmed at the polite request. Fans like Lori were the reason she loved what she did. “Of course!” she said, signing the book and preparing for a photo.

Lori suddenly looked around, feigning surprise. “Oh no, my phone’s with my dad!” She waved you and Bucky over. “Mom, Dad! Come here!”

That’s the signal, you thought as you and Bucky made your way to Lori. The two of you snapped a few photos, with Lori grinning from ear to ear.

“Mom, let’s take a picture together!” Lori suggested, her voice dropping to a whisper as she turned to Jill. “My mom won’t admit it, but she loves your book too.”

Jill nodded, finding the idea charming, and invited you to join in. You played along, acting bashful as you handed the phone to Bucky.

Now, it was you, Lori, and Jill posing together.

“One, two, three, say Tchaikovsky!” Bucky announced with a grin.

You and Lori smiled brightly, both saying “Tchaikovsky!” in unison.

But Jill didn’t. The color drained from her face as she heard the name. Tchaikovsky. No one ever mentioned that name, not in her circles, not even in passing.

It wasn’t a name associated with classical music for her—it was tied to something far more sinister, something only she and a select few knew about. It was the name of a mission, a report she had read, and a man she never wanted to cross paths with again.

Jill froze, her mind racing. How do they know?

Your eyes narrowed as you saw her reaction. It was all the confirmation you needed. The name was a gamble—a code word that only someone with knowledge of the mission would recognize. And Jill’s reaction was telling.

You leaned in close, your voice a whisper that barely reached her ears. “If you want to live, follow us.”

Jill nodded, her hands trembling as she hurriedly gathered her belongings and followed you out of the café.

As you made your way to the car, you and Bucky exchanged a glance. Both of you noticed the black sedans idling near the café, their drivers watching you intently. The hairs on the back of your neck stood up. You weren’t safe yet.

“Get in, quick,” Bucky urged as the four of you piled into the car. He floored the gas, pulling away from the curb just as the sedans roared to life, tires screeching as they gave chase.

Jill clutched her bag tightly, her eyes wide with fear as she glanced back at the cars gaining on you. “Who are they?” she whispered, her voice shaking.

“Not the kind of people you want to meet,” you replied, your tone grim as you kept your eyes on the road ahead.

The chase intensified, with Bucky weaving through traffic, narrowly avoiding collisions as he tried to lose the tail. You kept a close watch on the side mirrors, searching for any sign of an opportunity to shake them off.

Finally, as you approached a busy intersection, Bucky made a sharp turn, diving into a narrow alleyway just as the traffic light turned red. The sedans were forced to a stop, unable to follow.

Bucky didn’t slow down until you were several blocks away, the sound of sirens fading into the distance. Only then did he exhale, glancing at you with a look of relief. “We lost them. For now.”

Jill was still in shock, her mind racing to make sense of what had just happened. You turned to her, your expression serious. “We need to talk. And you’re going to tell us everything.”

🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀

In a secluded, dimly lit room, the atmosphere was thick with tension. Jill Krege sat tied to a wooden chair, her hands bound behind her back. The only sound was the faint creak of the old floorboards beneath her feet. Her eyes darted around nervously, landing on the door where you and Bucky stood, your expressions unreadable.

Lori was safely out of sight, back in the car, just as you insisted. This could go bad quickly, and you couldn’t risk her being involved.

“Now, Miss Jill,” Bucky began, his voice low and controlled, “tell us. How do you know about the Red Swan mission? Are you with the agency?”

Jill’s head snapped up, panic flashing in her eyes. “No,” she stammered, shaking her head vigorously. She glanced between you and Bucky, her gaze dropping to the floor as she mumbled, “I’m sorry. Did he send you here for royalties? I’ll prepare the payment as soon as I can.”

Both you and Bucky exchanged a look of surprise. “He?” you questioned, your tone sharp.

Jill hesitated, too terrified to continue. Her hands trembled, the ropes binding her wrists biting into her skin.

“Please, believe me,” she pleaded, her voice cracking. “I had no idea the story would blow up like this. I’m just a failed writer who took another job as a nurse at a nursing home. I changed all the names to make sure they didn’t match the reports.”

Bucky’s eyebrows shot up. “Make changes? The mission details, the routes, the street names, the hotel numbers, even the seats at the opera—they’re all the same. You’re a lazy author.”

Jill winced, guilt washing over her. She hadn’t had the money to pay for a fact-checker, and the publisher assured her it was fine. Nobody had ever complained—until today.

But then, a realization struck her, and she lifted her head, her eyes widening. “Wait a minute! Are you Agent Cipher?”

Her gaze shifted to you. “And you’re Agent Nightingale?”

A spark of excitement lit up her face, reminiscent of Lori’s fangirl energy. “Oh my God! Both of you are real! I can’t believe it!” She looked you and Bucky over, from head to toe, nodding as if something had clicked. “I can see why.”

Bucky sighed inwardly, feeling more exhausted than before. Another one, he thought. “For the last time, Miss Krege, who gave you the details of this mission?”

Jill’s excitement dimmed slightly as she answered, “It was Mr. Henry Tucci.”

Your eyes narrowed. “Is he bald, with scars on the back of his head, and only three fingers on his left hand?”

Jill’s eyes widened further. “Yes! There are scars on the back of his head, but he’s not bald anymore.”

That was all you needed to hear. The physical description matched perfectly. You knew who Henry Tucci really was—your former handler, Mr. Herb.

The one who still had access to those classified reports. Jill wasn’t a threat; she was just a nurse who had stumbled upon a treasure trove of secrets and turned them into a novel. But something still didn’t add up.

Why would Henry be so careless as to let someone like Jill get her hands on those reports?

“That’s all we need,” you said, your tone firm but not unkind. You pulled up a chair and began cutting the rope that bound her hands. “Thank you for your cooperation.”

Bucky leaned in close to Jill, his voice low and dangerous. “If a word about us gets out, you know what will happen, right?”

Jill nodded quickly, too frightened to speak.

“Where is this nursing home?” you asked, your eyes narrowing.

Jill scratched her head, hesitant. “At Legacy Residence Nursing Home. It’s not exactly a nursing home…”

“Explain,” you demanded.

“It’s a nursing home,” Jill began cautiously, “but it’s also like a prison for elders. Most of them are too old to be in a regular jail.”

You massaged your forehead, frustration mounting. This just got a whole lot more complicated.

“Let’s go,” you said to Bucky, turning on your heel and heading for the door.

“Wait, wait… I have questions!” Jill called after you, desperation creeping into her voice. “Can I interview you for my next book?”

“No,” you and Bucky replied in unison, not breaking stride.

“Please! Maybe I could give the characters a good ending,” Jill insisted.

Your footsteps faltered. “What happened to the ending?” you asked, a dangerous edge in your voice.

Jill hesitated, her excitement faltering under your glare. “Well… it’s a sad ending. The male character gets shot and falls off a cliff.”

You shot Bucky a look, both of you visibly tensing.

“But it could be an open ending,” Jill added quickly. “Look at you both now—you’re alive!”

“No,” you repeated, this time more forcefully.

Jill tried to follow you to the car, still pleading her case, but you and Bucky ignored her. Lori, however, couldn’t bear to see her idol so dejected. She rolled down the window as you approached.

“Miss Krege, I’m sorry,” Lori said, her voice small but sincere.

Jill spotted her and asked. “Are you their daughter?”

“Lori, don’t answer that,” you warned.

Jill reached into her bag and pulled out a card. “If you have any stories, please contact me. This is my private number.”

Lori’s eyes widened in disbelief. She had just gotten her idol’s number. “Yes, you can count on me!”

“Bye!” she called out as the car started to move.

Jill waved back, a mix of disappointment and excitement swirling within her. Today was her lucky day. Despite the danger, she had everything she needed for her next bestseller.

Seeing Jill’s figure shrink and eventually disappear from view, Lori adjusted her sitting position and asked, “So where are we going next?”

“To a nursing home. This time we need your acting skills again,” you replied.

Lori gave a salute gesture. “At your service, Sergeant!” Then she turned to Bucky. “Did I do a great job?”

Bucky glanced at her through the rearview mirror. Reaching back, he patted her head. “You did. I’m proud of you.”

When Lori heard that, she felt a lump in her throat. It had been a while since she’d heard those words or had someone pat her head. Bucky’s large hand reminded her of her father. She lowered her head, cleared her throat, and asked, “What do I need to do next?”

🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀

At Legacy Residence Nursing Home, the atmosphere was far from the peaceful retirement community it might appear to be at first glance. This was no ordinary place where elders spent their twilight years in comfort. Instead, it was a luxurious prison, a haven for former criminals who were too powerful and wealthy to serve time in a regular jail.

The residents here were dangerous individuals, their pasts shrouded in secrecy, and though it was technically a prison, the price of admission ensured that their surroundings were lavish. Guards patrolled the grounds, and the security was tight, but family visits were almost unheard of.

Most of the criminals housed here had long since alienated any relatives, and their only visitors were usually lawyers managing their affairs.

So when you and Lori walked through the front doors, your presence caused quite a stir. The guards exchanged puzzled glances, and the receptionist at the front desk looked up in surprise as you approached.

“Hello,” you greeted her politely, keeping your voice calm and composed.

“Yes, ma'am. How can I help you?” the receptionist replied, her tone professional but tinged with curiosity.

You cleared your throat, mentally preparing yourself for the act you were about to put on. “Yes, uhm, I’d like to visit my father, Mr. Henry Tucci.”

The receptionist’s fingers flew over the keyboard, searching the system. “Uhm, Mr. Tucci doesn’t have any listed family.”

A wave of relief washed over you. He was here, and he was alive. You quickly composed yourself, shifting your expression to one of sadness and regret. “I’m sorry. Yes, it’s been a long time since I last saw my father. We… cut ties because of his job.”

The receptionist’s gaze softened, understanding flashing in her eyes. She was well aware of the type of people housed here, and it wasn’t hard to imagine a child distancing themselves from a criminal parent.

“And my daughter,” you continued, pulling Lori closer to your side, “she wants to meet her grandfather.”

Lori played her part flawlessly. She looked up at the receptionist with wide, innocent eyes, her lower lip quivering slightly as she clutched a piece of paper tightly in her hands.

The paper, folded neatly, had “Nice to meet you, Grandpa” scrawled on it in Lori’s careful handwriting. She glanced at the receptionist, her expression a perfect mix of hope and nervousness.

The sight of Lori’s apparent longing to meet her grandfather was enough to tug at anyone’s heartstrings. The receptionist’s resolve visibly softened, and she gave you both a sympathetic look. “No matter what, he’s still family, right?”

You nodded, your eyes shimmering with unshed tears, as you reached up to wipe them away with the tip of your finger. “Yes, exactly. Thank you so much for understanding.”

Moved by the emotion in the air, the receptionist handed you two guest necklaces. “I’ll let your father know about the surprise. He’ll be delighted to have his daughter and granddaughter visiting him.”

You accepted the necklaces with a grateful nod, giving her a tearful smile. “Thank you,” you murmured, holding onto Lori’s hand as you prepared to face what came next.

🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀

You and Lori waited in the garden, a beautifully landscaped area that seemed more fitting for a high-end resort than a prison. The sun was shining, birds chirped in the distance, and the gentle breeze rustled the leaves of the meticulously maintained trees.

If it weren't for the discreetly placed guards and the subtle sense of tension in the air, it would be easy to forget that this was a place where some of the world's most dangerous criminals were confined.

Lori, ever the curious and bold teenager, was taking everything in with wide eyes. She wasn’t scared at all; in fact, you almost wished she were, if only to make her a bit more cautious.

Instead, she leaned closer to you, her voice barely above a whisper as she said, "Aunt, that guard over there is handsome. I could see his muscles from here. I wouldn’t mind staying in a place like this."

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes at her casual remark. "You’d have to be a criminal first. A threatening and powerful one at that."

Lori pondered this for a moment, her brow furrowing in mock seriousness. "Hmm… what should I do to qualify?"

Before you could reply, you heard a voice behind you, gravelly yet carrying a tone of amused resignation. “They thought I had dementia when I told them I don’t have a daughter or granddaughter.”

You turned to see Henry Tucci approaching. He was an older man in his seventies, his hair a silvery gray that matched the fine lines etched into his weathered face. He wore a pair of glasses that gave him a scholarly look, more like a retired professor than the feared handler he once was.

The years had softened his once intimidating presence, but there was still a sharpness in his eyes that hinted at the formidable man he used to be.

“I guess so. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have let your nurse read the ‘Red Swan’ project,” you replied, keeping your tone even, though the irritation was evident. “Did you forget to secure it properly?”

Henry raised an eyebrow, a smile playing on his lips. “So that’s why you’re here,” he said, his voice carrying a hint of satisfaction. “I remember that young nurse. She had quick hands. If the agency still existed, I would’ve hired her.”

As he spoke, his gaze shifted to Lori, who had been watching him with open curiosity. “You have a daughter?” he asked, a touch of surprise in his voice.

“My niece,” you clarified.

Lori, ever polite despite the strange circumstances, waved her hand. “Hello.”

Henry returned the gesture with a warm smile. “Hello, young lady.”

“Why did you bring your niece here?” he asked you.

“It was because of her that I found out about this,” you replied, pulling out a copy of The Red Swan from your bag. You held it up for Henry to see, the cover prominently displaying the book that had unintentionally exposed so many secrets.

Henry lit his cigar, letting the smoke curl lazily around him before he spoke again. “Ah, yes, that book.” His tone was dismissive but carried an undercurrent of grudging respect. "It’s quite the little troublemaker, isn’t it? Also, the most interesting mission the agency got."

You rolled your eyes and decided to keep the conversation light for now. “How many years did you get?”

Henry’s eyes twinkled with a dark amusement. “For life.”

“I can’t exactly feel sorry for you,” you said, glancing around the picturesque garden. “This place is like heaven.”

Henry lit a cigar, taking a deep inhale before speaking. “Try living here with killers, mafias, and corrupt officials for a few days. My hands itch to strangle their necks—”

You cleared your throat sharply, a pointed reminder of Lori’s presence. Henry caught himself, glancing at Lori before exhaling the smoke and growing more serious. “Where is he?”

“Who?” you asked, though you already knew.

“Your flame, your lover, the traitor,” Henry replied, his tone a mix of disdain and curiosity. Despite Bucky’s potential, Henry had always resented him. Bucky’s betrayal of the agency had been a personal slight.

You avoided his question, focusing on the pressing matter. “First, tell me why you let a civilian read the mission report,” you demanded. “And why was a writer chosen to care for you?”

Henry chuckled softly, tapping his fingers on the table as he considered his answer. “You’ve always had a sharp mind,” he said, a note of pride in his voice. “Yes, I chose her because of her background. And yes, I let her take the report.”

“Why?” you pressed, trying to make sense of his reckless actions.

“Because I’m bored,” Henry replied, his casual tone catching you off guard.

You leaned forward, anger simmering. “Because of you, everyone knows about the mission. And now, they’re chasing me and him.”

Henry’s expression remained unchanged, though a flicker of amusement or regret passed through his eyes. “Oh,” he responded, almost dismissively.

“I could make them stop,” Henry offered as if it were a trivial matter. His eyes glinted with a mix of challenge and opportunity. “As long as you can get me out of here.”

You crossed your arms, your eyes narrowing. “You planned this, didn’t you? You wanted us to come here, to get you out. You want to escape.”

Henry’s smile widened, confirming your suspicions. Jill’s success with the book had not been a mere coincidence; it was a carefully orchestrated plan by Henry himself. He had been pulling the strings from within his gilded cage, manipulating events from the confines of the nursing home.

The real motive behind his actions was far less straightforward than mere boredom. For Henry, it was akin to a twisted game of treasure hunting. He was driven by an intense curiosity, a desire to see which of his old connections would notice the hidden clues buried in the pages of The Red Swan.

What would happen next? Who would come looking? It was a way to inject a bit of excitement into his otherwise monotonous existence.

Over the year since the book’s release, he had watched with a mix of disappointment and impatience. There had been no significant fallout, no grand revelations—until today. But to be honest, he hadn’t anticipated that you, one of his top agents, would be the one to unravel his little game.

And even more surprising was the role of your niece in the discovery. The unexpected involvement of a teenager had added a layer of complexity he hadn’t counted on.

Henry leaned back in his chair, his gaze shifting between you and Lori. “You see, it was never just about the book or the chaos it created. It was about the challenge—testing the waters, seeing if anyone was sharp enough to pick up on the clues I’d planted.”

He chuckled softly, a glint of amusement in his eyes. “I didn’t expect you to come here. I didn’t expect a teenager to be the key to solving my little puzzle. But here you are, proving that even in a place like this, things can still get interesting.”

You stared at him, grappling with the realization that his manipulation had been far more intricate than you’d initially thought. His aim had been to create a ripple effect, to see who would react and how.

“I taught you well,” Henry admitted a hint of pride in his voice. “Now, where’s Bucky?”

You remained silent, giving him nothing.

Unfazed, Henry took another slow puff of his cigar. “I’m the agents’ handler. I know everyone’s real name.”

You stayed quiet, but he continued, undeterred. “He’s already preparing to get you out of here.”

Henry clapped his hands together, clearly pleased. “I knew I could count on you two.”

Lori, who had been listening intently, suddenly spoke up. “Wow… really mind-blowing!” She looked at Henry with wide-eyed admiration. “Sir, you’re a genius.”

Henry chuckled, clearly enjoying the compliment. “Hahaha… thank you, little girl.”

“Are you satisfied with what you’ve done?” you asked, your voice tight with frustration. You clenched your fist, the knuckles whitening as you tried to keep your anger in check.

"You're not exactly blameless yourself," Henry said, his voice carrying a hint of mockery. "You also betrayed the agency."

That was why you and Bucky had been chased—because the previous agency you worked for had also turned against you both.

You shot him a cold look. "It’s what we do."

Henry smirked. “Touché.”

Just then, a guard and the receptionist who had helped you and Lori enter the nursing home appeared. The guard announced, “Mr. Tucci, your visiting time is over.”

Henry rose from his seat and spread his arms, a crooked smile on his face. He looked at you and Lori expectantly, as if waiting for a family embrace. As you moved closer, he leaned in and whispered, "I’ll be expecting my ride. And don’t forget, you owe me."

“What do you mean?” you asked, narrowing your eyes.

Henry’s grin widened. “Without this book, you and Bucky wouldn’t have ended up together.”

Lori, her face lit up with a bright smile, chimed in, “He’s right!” She and Henry shared a laugh, the camaraderie between them almost palpable. Meanwhile, you managed only a tight strained smile.

To the guard and receptionist, it looked like a touching family reunion. In reality, you were itching to punch this old man in the face. You forced a smile, though the tension in your shoulders betrayed your true feelings.

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[the-fiction-witch]

I Like Him P3

Media - House Of The Dragon Character - Oscar Tully Couple - Oscar X Reader Reader - (OC) Jaerra Targaryen [Daughter of Daemon Targaryen & Rhea Royce] Rating - 15 Word Count - 1250

Requested -

Need. More of this so bad P3! I beg!!! Plz Part 3 of I like him More Oscar! More please!

The great fortress of Harrenhal bustled with activity as armies were being raised and prepared, gathering within the ancient walls. The grand hall was filled with a sense of urgency and purpose, with every seat at the round table occupied. The Riverlords convened in the grand hall, their seats arranged around the ornate table. Daemon sat at the head of the table, emanating an aura of authority, with Lord Strong positioned to his right and Jaerra to his left. Lord Oscar occupied the seat beside Jaerra. The table was covered with an array of dishes, although it was not a lavish spread, the quality of the food was more than sufficient for the lords in attendance. A group of musicians in the corner softly played melodic tunes, creating a pleasant ambience for the guests to enjoy while engaging in lively conversation and savouring their meal.

As the evening unfolded, Oscar couldn't help but steal frequent glances at Jaerra as they engaged in conversation and shared a meal. Despite growing tired, they silently acknowledged each other as the youngest ones at the table, silently agreeing not to be the first to leave. They both knew that leaving early would inevitably lead to playful teasing and inside jokes at their expense, so they decided to stay put, exchanging a wordless understanding between them.

Jaerra had changed since earlier in the day, wearing one of her black gowns with red knotted embroidery around her waist and hems with Juliet sleeves that flowed long past her waist, Jaerra found herself feeling a bit disengaged as she sat at the table, the lively conversation around her fading into the background as she became entranced by the music playing in the room. Unconsciously, she started tapping along in sync with the enchanting tune, with her elbow on the table and her chin on her hand,

Oscar's attention was drawn to a subtle vibration beneath his feet, prompting him to glance down at Jaerra's feet before returning his gaze to her face. As he pondered the situation, an idea struck him. With a glass of wine in hand, he took a sizable gulp, draining the glass in one go. He fixed his clothes a little having removed his armour from earlier and he stood, turning to Jaerra with a smile and extending his hand towards her. "My lady?"

Her eyes flicked to him, glancing down to his palm and back to his eyes before she spoke, "Yes, my Lord Tully?"

"May I uhh, May I-" He stuttered a little, "Would you like to dance?"

A gentle, subtle smile slowly appeared on her lips as she gracefully turned in her seat. With a flourish of her hand, she made a dramatic, lady-like gesture that added an air of elegance to her movements. "Why yes I would my lord,"

She rested her hand softly on his own, and with a wide smile rose from her seat.

Oscar could barely believe it but he hid his smile as best he could and led her around the table to the stones in front of the musicians,

"Forgive me, I do not recall the last time I danced," she admitted,

"I- am not so sure I ever have," Oscar chuckled,

As they began to dance, they moved with a gradual and tentative manner, being careful not to step on each other's toes or miss the other's arm. Over time, they found a rhythm with the music and with each other. As they danced, their smiles continued to grow, and they couldn't help but laugh with each other.

The other lords paid them little mind, too busy focused on wine and food.

Lord Strong, with a warm smile on his face, leaned back in his chair and observed the two of them dancing. It was as if he were a proud grandfather, taking in the joyful scene before him. "How very sweet," He cooed,

Daemon heard this and looked up from his food to notice his daughter, he watched Jaerra and Oscar dance with a disinterested look but found himself flooded with thoughts inside his mind.

He felt... protective of Jaerra, for perhaps the first time in her life. He didn't like the idea of his daughter dancing with a man let alone the young Lord Tully a boy he didn't exactly have the highest opinion of.

But he also felt he didn't wish to end it, he knew he could if he wanted to. Simply a word would end this whole thing but when he saw her smile so widely he found himself chewing on his inner cheek unable to call it to end.

The longer he watched the more he thought, he wished to look away but found himself unable to.

He thought of his children, all of the young in his household. He thought of Jaerra, of Beala, of Rhaena, of Jacaerys, of Lucerys, of Aegon, of Viserys and even of Visenya.

It occurred to him just how little he thought of the children, he of course did think of them always in his mind but... so often pushed to the back of whatever else he had to deal with.

He pondered the uncertain future that lay ahead, the impending war that loomed on the horizon. For the first time, he contemplated the staggering number of lives that would inevitably be lost, and the immense suffering that would unfold. What had once seemed inconsequential to Daemon, merely a part of the brutal reality of war, now weighed heavily on his conscience. As he observed Jaerra and Oscar twirling in a graceful dance, his mind raced with thoughts of the losses. He envisioned each of his children, positioned steadfastly at the forefront of the battle lines, wielding swords and dragons soaring through the sky. In an instant, it all vanished. The melodic sound of Jaerra's laughter enveloped his senses, gradually transforming into the joyous giggles and playful sounds she once emitted as a baby, filling his heart with both warmth and sorrow.

"Reminds me of my sweet Eleana," Lord Simon Strong cooed,

Jaerra and Oscar finished their little dance with a final linked arm spin, but Oscar kept his hand with hers and brought her knuckles to his lips pressing a tender kiss to her skin, closing his eyes as he did before glancing up to meet Jaerra's eyes.

She smiled and bent her knees to lowly curtsy never breaking their eye contact.

A few lords gave the two some gentle claps, Simon Strong included.

But Daemon did not, he waited seething.

Jaerra and Oscar returned to their seats at the table but before a word could be spoken or a cup could be sipped, Daemon grabbed Jaerra but the wrist.

"Go." He demanded,

"What?!" she protested,

"Go. To. Bed." He demanded through gritted teeth,

"Let me go, I'll go to bed when I'm ready,"

"I am your father. And I say you are going to bed. Now." He growled,

"Fine." She sighed pulling her hand free, she turned to Oscar and smiled, "I'm heading to bed, thank you for the dance my lord,"

"Of course, thank you as well," Oscar smiled back, "Did you want me to walk you to your chambers?"

Jaerra was about to answer but Daemon shot her a look, "No thank you, it's alright. Have a pleasant evening."

"I see, well sleep well Jaerra," Oscar smiled,

"You too Oscar," She smiled before she stood from her seat giving Daemon a glare before she turned and left the hall.

Daemon and Oscar met eyes, and each shared a dark look between each other. 

[acesgarden]

Can you please do a Lloyd X reader Lloyd has full control over his Oni form and he gives the reader big cuddles in private so no other ninja knows about the big cuddling because Lloyd lock his door so no one interworks the cuddling jay manage to take a photo of Lloyd and the reader cuddling and jay send the photo to garmadon and Lloyd ended up chasing jay till the reader calm him down (in this au not only does Garamond not sacrifice him self but he still has his Oni form and the other ninjas know about his Oni form and this take place a month after crystallized and when Lloyd chase jay Lloyd turns back into his human form this is just pure fluff)

I completely forgot about this request oh my. 😭 So so so sorry bout that haha. Anywayyyy this was fun to execute hehe, though not my favorite. I love writing soft and silly things oml. I needed this after this morning. I can now work on my other requests 😭

Warm Embrace

Type ->

One-shot

Pairing ->

Lloyd G. X GN!Reader

Warnings ->

Ooc Lloyd(?), Headcanons present👍, Fluff lots and lots of fluff!

Summary ->

Lloyds a big cuddle bug, does he want the rest of the ninja or even his family to know? No. Absolutely not. He’s embarrassed by it. Yet secrets are just something you can’t keep in the Ninja house hold…

853 words | Masterlist

Peaceful, tranquil, soft. Three words you’d use to describe the scene. From the soft light filtering in, to the melody of birds songs, and the methodical rhythm of your lover’s heart beat; the rise and fall of his chest. It was not an uncommon practice between you and Lloyd. But it still posed the issue of locked doors and chatter of embarrassment. An issue you’ve grown to accept as it meant spending time with the boy you’ve grown to love.

And the best part? Double the arms, double the cuddles. He had grown to control his Oni form (he wouldn’t admit it but his dad helped a ton.) Lloyd had asked to try it out once and turns out you both enjoyed it to the point it became the common ritual of cuddling. Comfy clothing, snacks, maybe a show, and one giant Oni holding you like you’re the only thing in the world.

The big body shuffled around you, tired eyes meeting yours. a golden snout burying into your neck with a tired sigh. Reaching a hand up and stroking his hair.

“So soft..” it came out almost a whisper, a small laugh coming out with a loving smile.

Lloyd (like many other Oni) purred, his own lovingly fanged smile appearing on his snout. maneuvering you to lay on his chest with the small repetitive vibration occurring. It was one thing you tended to forget.

“Okayy you, c’mere.”

A shrieking giggle left her as he began to tickle her, unable to stop his four arms she was defenseless.

“Ch-hahaha-eater haha!”

This went on for a good five minutes till she spoke up from her laughter.

“I yield, I yield!” Her voice hoarse from laughter but bright and smiley as she calmed down, finding comfort in the room's now quiet sound. A quiet transition into simple talking.

Lloyd spoke of his day, the usual patrolling. Something stupid Kai and Cole ended up doing. Trailing on up to this one robbery they had to stop-

“-And then! One of the robbers jumped out from behind a plant and tried to ambush us!” Lloyd said, throwing his lower arms out dramatically.

“Oh really now? And what did you do to stop it?”

“Jay struck him with lightning..”

“Oh? Well that was very noble of-“ A camera clink and string of curses interrupted his retelling.

“What-?” Lloyd slipped out from under, looking at you confused with a bit of panic.

“I’m sure it’s nothing Lloyd.” He opens the door just to check, and is met with an equally panicking Jay behind the door.

“Oh- oh! Hey Lloyddd How’s it going?” You could see him hide his hands behind his back from where you sat on the bed.

“What did you see?”

“Nothing-“

“Liar.” Lloyd seemed to have caught a glimpse of something and began to chase. “Oh first spinjitzu” you laughed, worriedly. Hearing the shrieks coming from down the hall. You walk to the open door peeking out and down the hall to see a few familiar and curious but confused looking faces.

“Jay” was all they needed to hear before a disappointed Nya walked after them. You joined her, everyone else slowly filling after.

The scene the group would walk out too was Jay clinging onto a tall piece of equipment for dear life, as Lloyd was trying to find a way up. And it seemed Jay was trying to do something? frantically typing away as he screamed for Lloyd to leave him alone.

“Not until you delete that photo Jay!”

“What photo.. Wait- Jay Walker-Gordon I swear to the first spinjitzu master if you don’t delete it this instance.” You walk right up to the equipment, standing right beside Lloyd, glaring just as intense as Lloyd’s face looked embarrassed.

“.. Too late?”

“What do you mean 'too late’?”

“Jay what did you do?” The both of you spoke in sync, worried but poor Lloyd was panicking.

“I.. mayhaveaccidentallysentittoyourdad..”

“what..”

You looked between the two. Lloyd looked shocked but flushed with embarrassment, then to Jay with a scared but awkward look.

“Lloyd, I’m sure we can deal with this later, maybe he won’t see for a while. It’s Jay, I'm sure his texts aren’t important, no offense Jay, to your dad. c'mon you.” Lloyd, who has since softed by you into his normal form, allowed himself to be pulled away by you and back to his room.

There they got comfortable again, Lloyd calming down while being held by the person he loved. Yeah.. thinking about it you were right. It was something that could be dealt with later.

Until the familiar buzzing of his phone was heard. Knowing immediately what it was he groaned. You just laughed smiling at the embarrassed ninja holding onto her.

His secret was out and there was nothing they could do but embrace the teasing that will no doubt follow.

[avelynss]

Jealous Obsession (Part II) / Sebastian Sallow x Female Reader

Warnings: Not suitable for readers under 18; includes adult content. Explicit sexual content (+18). NSFW. Lubrication, fingering, kissing. All characters are above 18years WordCount: 2.7k Summary: Weeks have passed since your heated encounter with Sebastian in the bathrooms during the Yule Ball, and you’ve been doing everything to avoid him, desperate to escape the memory of that passionate kiss. Now, in a bold move to reclaim your attention, Sebastian waits for you in Professor Figg’s classroom after classes. As you stand before each other the temptation that has haunted you both becomes almost impossible to resist.

"How long do you plan on ignoring me?" A deep, familiar voice broke the silence from behind the door, making your heart race. At this time, there shouldn’t be any students or teachers in Professor Figg’s classroom, let alone someone sitting at his desk, so you definitely weren’t expecting anyone there. As you turned abruptly, you saw Sebastian casually leaning against the desk, his arms crossed, and his dark eyes staring at you with an intensity that seemed to unravel your thoughts.

He was still wearing his uniform, though his cloak was nowhere in sight. His shirt and tie were wrinkled, and his sleeves rolled up: clear signs that he’d been wearing them all day and had loosened them for comfort. The freckled’s hair was slightly disheveled, and his expression showed a mix of fatigue and irritation, as if he’d had an exhausting day and was hoping to end it with this conversation. Despite his raw appearance, he looked particularly attractive.

"Sebastian," you exhaled, still feeling your heart pounding while clutching the books tightly against your chest. "You nearly scared me to death."

"So?" His voice was low and confident, and his eyes held a touch of impatience or something deeper that you couldn’t quite figure.

"I don’t know what you’re talking about." You proceeded to place your books on the desk, right next to him, and carefully folded your cloak, deliberately avoiding his gaze as if he wasn’t there: doing exactly what he had mentioned.

"Sure." He crossed his arms, a gesture that made him seem even more imposing, one eyebrow raised as if he was challenging you to offer a propper explanation. You could feel the weight of his gaze consuming you. You sighed, trying to appear annoyed.

"I’m new in fifth year, remember? I have to catch up while you’re off having fun with Ravenclaw’s." You tried to sound casual, but the irritation in your sarcasm was evident. A playful, teasing smile appeared on his lips. "Are you going to tell me what you’re doing here?"

"I’ve been watching you." His words wrapped around you like a dangerous caress as his eyes gleamed with darkness. "Since that night, you’ve been coming to this classroom every night after dinner, and it struck me as odd, considering Professor Figg’s day is long over."

"You’ve been following me?" You tried to sound irritated, but your voice betrayed a hint of nervousness.

"I’ve been trying to talk to you since then, but all you’ve done is ignore me."

He was right. Weeks had passed since that night, and neither of you had dared to confront the issue. Your evasion had been a desperate attempt to dodge the conversation, or worse, to avoid admitting how much it had affected you. Every night you stayed awake, haunted by the memory of his passionate kiss and how he lifted you with eagerness, pressing his hips against yours, replaying the scene over and over in your mind. Your cheeks burned with a fierce blush at the thought, and you shook your head, trying to erase the image.

But confronting him would force you to face the reality of what had happened and reveal the emotional chaos he had stirred in you with an intensity you barely understood and even less wanted him to discover. The idea of him realizing how deeply he had impacted you was unbearable; it was a risk you simply couldn’t afford to take, so you continued with your tasks as if nothing had happened.

"Are we really going to go over this again?" You sighted again.

"Are you jealous?" he murmured, his voice a mix of seriousness and playful provocation that, combined with its depth, was almost a purr. You stopped flipping through the pages of your Transfiguration book and looked at him, incredulous.

"Jealous?" You raised an eyebrow, a spark of mockery in your eyes.

"Do you think I don’t know how irresistible I can be to women?" His smile widened as his eyes sparkled with a mix of sarcasm and challenge. That expression made him annoyingly attractive, and you hated how much it affected you.

"Narcissist," you shot back, turning back to your book as if wanting to end the conversation, but the challenge in his eyes sharpened.

Suddenly, with a dull thud, he immediately closed your book in order to focus your attention on him and only him, His torso leaned slightly toward you, and his arm was right in front of you, invading your space and making you even more nervous due to the closeness, while murmuring to you in a seductive tone. 

"And are you really that immune to my charm?" A wave of heat coursed through your body, leaving you torn between irritation and the uncomfortable truth of his words. You couldn’t resist the urge to look at the veins in his worked arms subtly visible as he expected your answer. But you couldn’t let him win. You met his gaze with a fiery, defiant intensity, daring him to back down. 

Despite his relaxed posture, his eyes remained fixed on you with an air of ironic detachment, fully aware of how right he was from the blush that had appeared on your cheeks. A loose strand of hair fell over his forehead, his head slightly tilted to the side as if he was genuinely curious to see where this conversation would lead.

Your lips curled into a slow, deliberate smile, loaded with undeniable provocation, and this time it was your eyebrow that raised in a silent challenge.

"Maybe it’s not me who’s jealous," you murmured, stepping forward with deliberate slowness, your gaze locked on his like a predator stalking its prey. You knew you were turning the tables, doing exactly what he had done that night. His exterior remained composed, but you noticed the slight downward movement in his throat that betrayed him. You moved close enough to feel the warmth radiating from his body. With calculated slowness, your fingers found the knot of his tie, tightening it with a pull before smoothing the fabric of his shirt: a gentle, seemingly innocent gesture that carried a dangerous edge. You leaned closer to reach the collar of his shirt, and with a low, provocative voice, tinged with something dark, you whispered, "Didn’t it bother you to see me with him that night?" The words dripped like poison. "Imagining everything he could have done…"

Before you could finish the sentence, Sebastian moved quickly and desperately. He lunged forward as if wanting to silence you, and with a sharp gasp, you found yourself stumbling backward, your back colliding with the hard wood of the desk where he had been moments before. His body leaned forward, trapping you, his hands planted on either side of the desk, caging you in a way that made every breath feel heavier. His presence filled the room, every detail sharpening: his scent, the warmth of his body so close, the tension in his muscles.

For a moment, you hesitated, but you quickly regained control, meeting his gaze with a defiant attitude that teetered on the edge of control. You planted your palms on the desk, forcing yourself to remain slightly upright. His eyes, burning with an almost feral hunger, roved over you, devouring you inch by inch with a twisted smile on his lips. You hated what his arrogance did to you.

He moved dangerously close to your ear, so close you could feel his breath on your neck, and at the same time, you noticed a soft touch on your waist, deceptively teasing, a caress that made you crave something rougher, something like that night. Then, with a purr so low it sent a shiver down your spine, he whispered

"Do you really think I’d let anyone else touch like I would?" His lips found your earlobe, grazing it with agonizing slowness. Your stomach tightened, and something low within you began to burn. His teeth briefly caught that erogenous spot on your ear with the lightest bite, intensifying the wave of heat coursing through you, and your breath hitched as a soft, involuntary sound you hadn’t meant to give him escaped your lips at that touch. You felt his lips curve into a smile against your skin, fully aware of what he was doing to you.

At that moment, you knew the game had changed. It was no longer about who could hold out the longest, but about a battle for control, who would give in first, who would surrender. And with every inch of space between you evaporating, both of you knew the answer was dangerously close.

He pulled back just enough to lock his eyes onto yours, and when your gazes met, a shiver ran through his body at the sight of the desire reflected on your face. Your chin slightly tilted downward forced you to look up at him from an angle that was, at the very least, provocative, while your lips parted. Your breath was fast and ragged, and the extreme closeness of his body against yours made you feel something hard growing in his trousers. You smiled wickedly, which caused that to press even more awkwardly against you.

You both knew exactly the effect you had on each other, but neither of you was willing to stop this game, fueled by lust, which only intensified with each new reaction.

He leaned in again, this time to capture your neck, licking painfully slowly, continuing his game. A stifled breath escaped your lips at the feel of his hot tongue on your skin.

Without letting go of your neck, you felt his fingers start to slide gently up the underside of your thigh, stroking upward with wild slowness that sparked a desperate need for contact. Your breathing became even more ragged with every movement. He abandoned your neck to look back at you and with a sharp movement, he gripped your thigh firmly and lifted one of your legs onto the desk, leaving you completely exposed to him, never breaking eye contact. His lips were slightly parted, and his gaze was fixed on you, feeding off of your reactions to his touch and seeking to demonstrate exactly what he had mentioned.

In that exposed position, he continued to caress your thigh, causing your skin to tingle at the touch of his calloused hands, a reminder of his hard physical labor. You decided not to look away from his eyes, aware of what your reactions were provoking in him. You could feel the bulge in his crotch grow at the touch of your other leg, and as he pressed it tighter against you, he took the opportunity to rub even harder against you, intensifying his caresses. The anticipation was tantalizing you.

His hand reached up the skirt of your uniform and with a gentle movement he pulled the fabric aside to gain greater access to your nether region. With extreme gentleness he caressed your sensitive area above your underwear with two fingers, exploring your sensitivity. You exhaled softly at the surprise of the touch, without taking his gaze from yours, and your skin tingled.

He smiled softly as he brought his fingers into your line of sight, inching them closer to your lips. Without breaking eye contact, you parted your lips, welcoming his fingers and moistening them. His erection pressed against you, desperate to break free, while he guided those fingers downward. With utmost care, he pulled aside the fabric of your underwear, determined not to lose the slickness on his fingers. A breathy moan escaped you as his fingers found your most sensitive spot, tracing slow, deliberate circles that made your abdominal muscles tighten. A hungry gleam sparked in his eyes, his lips slightly parted, entirely focused on your response to his touch. Uncontrollable moans slipped from your lips as he set a languid rhythm, melting you into a wave of pleasure.

You broke that intense eye contact only when your head fell back completely, a deep, shuddering exhale escaping your lips as you felt his middle finger sliding slowly into your wet heat. You couldn’t help but notice the satisfied smile spreading across his face at how eager you were.

“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice a sultry caress against your skin. “I want to watch you while I touch you.” You locked your gaze with his again, and your breath caught as you saw the bulge in his pants straining painfully against his clothes, pressing closer to you.

He established a relentless rhythm inside you, each thrust echoing the melody of your own moans, building a tension that left you breathless. It was only when he slid in a second finger that the overwhelming pleasure inside you surged beyond control, setting your senses ablaze.

“Ah, Sebastian…” You clutched his shoulders, desperately trying to contain the overwhelming pleasure surging within you, as if you could no longer bear to remain in that position. But your grip only drove the brunet to intensify his movements, his thumb drawing tight circles on your most sensitive spot. Heat flooded your cheeks as he leaned closer to your ear, his hot breath sending shivers down your spine.

“I love the way my name sounds on your lips,” he purred, before returning to tease your earlobe with wet kisses that made you tremble against him. Watching you in such a vulnerable state only ignited his hunger and desperation for you. “I want to fuck you so hard, darling.”

“Do it,” you breathed, your voice emerging as a pleading sigh, thick with longing and desire.

“I won’t do it here.” A flicker of disappointment crossed your eyes, and he seemed to catch it, leaning in closer as he continued, “I want to fuck you somewhere I can hear you scream for my name.” A wave of heat pooled in your core, your mind swirling with desire at his words. His fingers plunged in and out, expertly circling your clit, each movement igniting a delicious wave of pleasure that swelled and intensified with every gentle stroke.

You felt an overwhelming pressure build within you, blurring your vision as his rhythmic motions quickened, propelling you closer and closer to ecstasy.

“Ah, Sebastian… I’m gonna—” you moaned, but he silenced you, covering your mouth with his free hand. The sensation of his fingers working so masterfully sent shockwaves of pleasure through you, leaving you trembling and gasping as waves of bliss washed over you, urging you to surrender to the overwhelming tide of sensation.

“Cum, darling” he purred in your ear, his voice sending shivers down your spine. At that moment, everything faded away; you were completely lost in the sensations, feeling every exquisite movement he made. “Come on my fingers.”

Your body began to tremble uncontrollably, and you gripped his shoulders tightly as he continued his insistent rhythm. Waves of electric pleasure crashed over you, each one more intense than the last, overwhelming your senses. Finally, you collapsed into his arms, breath hitching in your throat, your heartbeat pounding fiercely, echoing like a relentless drum in the silence. Each pulse resonated with the aftershocks of ecstasy, leaving you breathless and yearning for more.

You stayed in that position, clinging to each other just long enough for you to catch your breath. When he pulled away just a few inches, his gaze sought yours, as if the contact wasn't enough. Then, without warning, his lips met yours, this time with a disconcerting softness, the complete opposite of the ferocity of their previous touch. Exhaustion overcame you, but the kiss, slow and full of need, swept you away, making you melt completely in his arms. You opened your lips to let in his tongue, which this time was extremely light compared to the kiss from that night. Your lips joined with a slowness that, rather than being frustrating, was an attempt to enjoy something you had never allowed yourselves and wanted it to never end.

When he broke away at last, his hands adjusted your hair and tightened the fabric of your skirt, but his eyes were still fixed on yours, filled with that mixture of emotions he could barely contain. He seemed to be debating internally, until, in a voice laden with frustration and something that felt like a confession, he murmured:

“I hate to imagine that anyone else could have you like this”

Okay, this is the first time I do a sexual explicit shot, and I personally feel quite satisfied. Wanting to keep learning to do it better. I hope you like it, and please be patient with me as I continue to try! It actually makes me want to make a whole fanfic about this hahaha A special mention to these beautiful souls who supported me and specifically asked me to tag them for the second part; I hope I lived up to the occasion! @dragonstoneshortcake @katking0943 @insidemyimaginationn

<3<3<3

[ghoulsbounty]

From a Previous Life (Pt 4)

Cooper Howard (The Ghoul) x Preg!Reader

Summary: You and the Ghoul quickly learn that your actions—and your words—carry significant consequences.

Warnings: Emotional hurt/comfort, pregnancy, doctor examination, sickness/radiation poisoning, arguing, angst, grief, yearning, rejection, slow burn, stubbornness, canon-typical violence, miscommunication, mention of blood/wound, reader throws things.

Word Count: 7.1K

A/N: It's been a while since I posted for this story, part 4 has been kicking my butt! Lots of angst and drama as usual, but the happy ending is on the horizon! I'd love to know what you think 💌

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

After thoroughly scouring the house and filling his saddlebag with every vial he could find in the basement, the Ghoul was adamant that you both leave immediately and put as much distance as possible between yourselves and the grim scene. You offered no resistance; despite the crushing fatigue that weighed heavily on your body and muddled your thoughts, you were eager to escape the horrors of that place. The pervasive stench of blood and decay had seeped into your clothing, becoming nearly suffocating, making it difficult to breathe and causing a deep ache in your chest.

As you left, you couldn't resist the urge to glance back at the lifeless forms of Mags and her family. The scene struck you deeply, like a blow to the gut that stole your breath away. In her final moments, Mags had dragged herself to her son, her fingers interlocking with his as she drew her last breath. That image seared itself into your mind, intensifying your desperation to leave until you were nearly sprinting out of the door.

The house now loomed as a grim testament to the violence that had transpired within its walls. Shadows gathered thickly in the corners, murmuring unsettling recollections you wished to erase from your mind. Each groan of the floorboards and whisper of the wind through shattered windows seemed to echo with ghostly reminders of the atrocities you had witnessed—and narrowly escaped. This sinister ambiance was compounded by a deeper regret: your inability to rescue the Ghoul, resulting in your needing to be rescued by him once again.

The Ghoul moved with a newfound intensity and focus that left your nerves frayed. Normally cautious, almost paranoid about traveling after dark with you in tow, his demeanour had shifted dramatically. Driven by a sense of urgency, he hurriedly led the way outside. "We can't stay here," he growled under his breath, more to himself than to you, his voice a tense murmur. "It's not safe. The next town isn't far; we can make it if we hurry." His words were laced with determination, pushing both of you forward into the encroaching darkness.

His usual paranoia had transformed into a fierce resolve. The normally measured pace was replaced by swift, almost frantic strides, and you struggled to keep up. Each step was a battle against the pain and exhaustion that threatened to overwhelm you, but the Ghoul's insistence was infectious, propelling you forward despite the fatigue weighing down your limbs.

"We're close," he assured, though it was unclear whether he was speaking to you or trying to convince himself. The path ahead was cloaked in shadows, the only light coming from the dim glow of the moon partially hidden by clouds. The noises of the night—distant howls, rustling amongst the dunes, the occasional whistle of the wind—kept your nerves on edge, but the Ghoul's presence offered a small measure of comfort despite your earlier confrontation.

You remained silent, too afraid to question why he was so determined to leave the house in such a hurry. You had your own reasons to comply—each step a painful reminder as your shirt rubbed against the scratch on your pregnant belly—but his urgency unnerved you. He was usually the epitome of calm under pressure, but now he appeared almost desperate, causing your own anxiety to simmer just below the surface.

You cast a wary glance at the Ghoul, observing the tension etched into his features. His jaw was clenched tight, and his eyes flicked restlessly from side to side, meticulously scanning the surroundings for any potential threats. The silence stretched taut between you, a palpable tension hanging in the air. As you approached the edge of the property line, the urge to speak became overwhelming. Unable to suppress your curiosity and growing unease, you finally broke the silence.

"What's chasing us?" you whispered, the question escaping your lips before you could rein it in. His head snapped towards you, eyes narrowing for a moment before he responded, his voice low and gravelly.

"You don't need to worry about that," he murmured. The edge in his tone cut through the night air, sending a chill down your spine. "Just hurry up," he said louder this time, his voice firm. As the faint outline of the town emerged, he quickened his pace, and you struggled to keep up, your backpack bouncing painfully against your spine with each hurried step.

Your breaths came in ragged gasps, the icy air searing your lungs as a sudden, sharp pang shot through your abdomen. Clutching your stomach, you recoiled in horror when your hand came away slick with thick, crimson blood. Lifting your shirt, the dim light revealed the alarming state of your wound. What had started as a mere surface scratch had transformed into a grotesque display of infected tissue, marked by unsettling shades of green and purple. Yellowish pus oozed from the lesion, trickling down your trembling thigh, each drop intensifying your dread.

The sight alone was enough to send waves of panic through you, but it was the accompanying symptoms—the feverish chills, the throbbing pain, and the overwhelming weakness—that truly underscored the gravity of your situation. Your heart pounded in your chest, a frantic rhythm that mirrored the escalating fear gripping your mind as you realized just how dire your circumstances had become.

Dizziness overwhelmed you, a disorienting fog clouding your thoughts as a wave of nausea surged, making your mouth water uncontrollably. The chilling night air felt like icy tendrils wrapping around you, adding to the disorientation. You fought to steady your breathing and quell the nausea, each breath a struggle against the rising panic that threatened to consume you. Your vision blurred, and the ground beneath your feet seemed to sway.

You knew you should tell him about your worsening condition, but you were reluctant to add to his worry. The Ghoul had enough on his mind without your complications, you rationalized, though a niggling part of you wanted to keep it secret just to spite him. Despite his presence and support, the unresolved tension between you lingered, feeding your stubbornness.

"We're almost there," you muttered to yourself, a mantra to keep your legs moving. The Ghoul glanced back at you, his eyes narrowing as he noticed your distress.

"Everything okay?" he asked, his voice tinged with concern.

You forced a weak smile, nodding slightly. "I'm fine," you lied, the words tasting bitter on your tongue. The effort to appear composed was draining, and the dizziness intensified, making it harder to focus on the path ahead.

The town's lights shimmered in the distance, their soft glow promising relief and safety. Each step felt heavier, your legs trembling with the effort to keep moving. The Ghoul eyed you warily, noting the beads of sweat that dripped from your brow despite the harsh coolness of the evening. His hand reached out suddenly, gripping your arm and stopping you in your tracks. You swayed on unsteady feet, his firm hold the only thing keeping you upright. His eyes, filled with concern, searched your face for an explanation you weren't ready to give.

"What's wrong?" he asked, his voice low and demanding.

You took a shaky breath, trying to steady yourself. "It's nothing," you mumbled, but your body betrayed you, another wave of dizziness making you clutch at his side for support.

"Don't lie to me," he said, his grip tightening. "You're not fine. Tell me what's going on."

Your vision blurred again, dark spots dancing at the edges, and you stumbled, the infection's toll on your body becoming undeniable. Each pulse of pain radiating from the wound sapped your strength, making it increasingly difficult to stay upright. Despite this, a stubborn part of you resisted admitting the severity of your condition, not wanting to appear weak or vulnerable.

The Ghoul tightened his grip on your arm as he shook you gently but firmly, trying to snap you out of your daze. "Tell me. Now." He urged, his voice low but intense. He dipped his head to meet your eyes, which wandered aimlessly, struggling to focus.

"I... I'm not feeling well," you stammered to the Ghoul, your voice quivering as you struggled to focus on him through the growing haze of discomfort. His eyes widened as he pulled your hand away from your stomach, revealing the crimson stain seeping through your wet shirt. He lifted the hem, his teeth clenching at the sight of the grievous wound.

His gloved hands moved with a mixture of desperation and gentleness as he examined the area around the infected wound. He was careful not to press too hard, yet his touch was thorough, probing the extent of the damage. The seriousness of the situation was unmistakable in his expression—the furrowed brow, the tight set of his jaw, and the flicker of panic in his eyes. You could see him mentally calculating the next steps, his mind racing to figure out how best to manage the injury in the desolate surroundings.

The cold air bit at your exposed skin, adding to your discomfort, while the distant lights of the town seemed both tantalizingly close and frustratingly far. The Ghoul's demeanour was a blend of determination and fear as he quickly formulated a plan in his mind.

"Is it bad?" you asked, your voice barely more than a whisper, thin with fear. You weren't sure if you truly wanted to know the answer, and even less sure that he would tell you. His eyes flickered with something unreadable and he hesitated for a moment, as if weighing how much to reveal.

He grasped your wrist and began rapidly tapping on the screen of your Pip-Boy, his eyes scanning the information with growing alarm. The glow from the screen illuminated the deep lines around his sunken eyes, and in your hazy state, you thought about how handsome he looked. When he finally looked up, you felt unsteady under his worried gaze.

"We need to go—now," he declared, his voice leaving no room for hesitation. His grip tightened around your forearm, the pressure both reassuring and insistent, as he tried to pull you up. The intensity in his eyes and the firmness of his hold made it clear that there was no time to waste, and your mind struggling to keep pace with the rapid escalation of the situation.

Despite his urgency, your legs betrayed you. They faltered, stumbling and ultimately failing as you collapsed onto the sandy ground with a soft thud. The Ghoul's voice echoed as if from a distance, his words urging you to get up, but your body felt disconnected, heavy, and unresponsive. A visceral wave of panic surged through you, tightening its grip around your chest, making it hard to breathe. The edges of your vision began to blur, darkness creeping in, threatening to engulf your senses like a spreading shadow.

As you lay sprawled on the cold, sandy ground, the Ghoul quickly bent down to your level, his face etched with unease. He searched your eyes, looking for any flicker of awareness, but your responses were slow, your eyelids heavy and fluttering, making his movements appear surreal and drawn out, as if you were both submerged underwater.

Despite the chill that pervaded the air, beads of sweat continued to form on your forehead, streaming down your face as a fever raged within you. In a feeble attempt to find solace, you reached out blindly, seeking the familiar touch of your companion, only to grasp at the empty, chilling air.

Then, a profound dizziness overwhelmed you, like being pulled into a deep, dark chasm. You lost all sense of direction, no longer aware of what was up or down, past or present. The world around you faded to nothingness as you slipped further away, drifting into an inescapable void that swallowed all consciousness.

A faint voice, soft yet persistent, gently coaxed you back from the void's embrace. Wrapped in a dense fog, your mind meandered through scattered memories, teetering on the edge of consciousness. Slowly, sensations began to return as if awakening from a deep slumber; nerves tingled and flickered back to life under your tentative command. The first movement was a mere twitch of a finger, but it felt monumental, the brush of thin cotton against your skin amplifying the moment.

What happened? Where were you? These questions nudged at the corners of your slowly clearing mind. With effort, you drew a deep breath, marshalling the strength to pry your eyes open. They fluttered initially, rebelling against the harshness of light and the strain of waking. Gradually, your vision steadied, focusing upward at a ceiling marred by stains and the passage of time. You lay still for a moment, taking in your surroundings, trying to piece together how you had arrived at this unfamiliar place.

"Thought I'd lost you again," the voice spoke, its timbre resonating with relief and lingering anxiety. You turned your head slowly, your neck stiff and uncooperative, to see the Ghoul sitting in a dusty armchair nestled in the corner of the room. He had one leg crossed over the other, and his hands were clenched into tight fists resting in his lap. His posture betrayed the tension that had not yet left him.

"You seem to have a nasty habit of getting away from me," he added, a faint, wry smile playing at the edges of his lips, softening the sternness that had settled over his features. The combination of relief and reproach in his eyes alluded to the worry he had endured. The dusty armchair creaked slightly as he shifted, uncrossing his legs and leaning forward, his gaze never leaving you.

Your lips parted to respond, but the pain and dryness in your throat silenced you, leaving only a strained whisper. The effort made your vision blur momentarily, and you felt a wave of dizziness threaten to pull you back under.

The Ghoul jumped from his seat, closing the distance between you in two swift strides. He grabbed a glass of water from the side table and held it to your lips. His hand gently rested underneath your chin, helping you tilt your head back into the pillow as you swallowed painfully. The cool water soothed your raw throat, each gulp easing the burning sensation and bringing a momentary relief from the discomfort. His gloved touch was surprisingly tender, his eyes filled with concern as he looked down at you.

"Easy now," he murmured, his voice softer than you had ever heard it. The rough exterior he usually presented was momentarily stripped away, revealing a depth of care you hadn't fully realized before. As you finished the water, he set the glass aside, his hand lingering on your chin before carefully adjusting the pillow behind your head, ensuring you were comfortable.

"Thanks," you managed to whisper, your voice still hoarse but filled with gratitude. "Guess you can't get rid of me, can you?" You joked, your voice light despite the underlying exhaustion. 

A hint of a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Wouldn't want to," he replied, his tone gruff but softened by a note of sincerity. A flutter rose in your stomach at his words, and you felt an ache at the growing distance between you as he returned to his seat. Your fingers flexed against the bedsheet, wanting to reach out to him, but the memory of his words in the house still lingered.

The room seemed colder without his proximity, the silence stretching out once more. You watched him, noting the tension still evident in his posture, the way his hands clenched and unclenched restlessly in his lap. His gaze was fixed on some distant point, lost in thoughts you couldn't decipher.

As your eyes adjusted and began to focus, you took in more of the surroundings. You were in a bedroom, worn and slightly dishevelled. The vanity mirror across from the bed was cracked, its spiderweb fractures distorting the reflections it caught. A large, old wardrobe stood partially open, its doors unable to fully close, with clothes spilling out like colourful waterfalls onto the dusty floor.

The walls were faded, peeling wallpaper hinting at a time long past, while the floorboards creaked softly under any movement. A small nightstand next to the bed held your Pip-Boy and the empty glass. The bed you lay in had a wrought iron frame, rusted and showing signs of age, with a thin, threadbare quilt covering you. A faint scent of dust and age hung in the air, mingling with a lingering hint of antiseptic from recent efforts to clean and treat your injuries.

Despite its state, the room had a certain charm, a sense of having been lived in and cared for, even if that care had become sporadic over the years. The small details—a chipped teacup on the vanity, a child's drawing pinned to the wall—made it feel almost homely.

Your eyes widened in a flash of panic as you turned back to the Ghoul, but he cut you off before you could speak. "We aren't back there," he quickly interjected, his voice firm but reassuring, keen to alleviate your fears even momentarily. "We're safe."

His words settled some of the immediate panic, and you took a deep breath, trying to ground yourself in the present. Of course he hadn't taken you back to Mags' house, he'd wanted to get away from there almost as much as you had. Maybe more.

"Where are we?" you croaked, trying to make sense of your surroundings. Your gaze shifted to the window, where thin curtains let slivers of daylight filter through, casting faint patterns on the floor. The sounds of street vendors calling out their wares and distant bird calls drifted in, mingling with the occasional clatter of footsteps and murmured conversations from passers-by.

He shifted slightly in his seat, the gentle sunlight casting a warm glow on his worn features. "A makeshift clinic, managed by an old friend," he explained, his voice calm but laced with a hint of unease. "It's safe, for now." His eyes flickered towards the window, as if to reassure himself of the safety he promised, before returning to you with a determined expression.

He paused, his face reflecting deep thought as he carefully considered his next words. "You've been unconscious for almost two days," he disclosed, his voice heavy with the weight of the vigilance he had maintained while watching over you. His eyes were shadowed with exhaustion, the lines on his face more pronounced from the sleepless nights.

"You should have told me," he said, his voice a mix of frustration and concern. "How could you be so reckless to keep this to yourself?" His eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that made it impossible to look away, the weight of his stare drilling into your conscience. The guilt welled up inside you, sharp and consuming, making your chest tighten with regret.

"I didn't want to bother you," you said softly.

He scoffed in response, rolling his eyes. "That's ridiculous," he muttered.

Narrowing your eyes in determination, you pushed yourself up to rest against the pillow, wincing slightly from the effort. The fabric rustled as you settled into a more upright position, your gaze locked onto his, the resolve in your eyes challenging the storm of emotions swirling in his.

"I'm tired of being a burden," you continued, your voice steadier now. The weight of your words hung in the air, the unspoken resentment evident in your tone. The room felt still, the sounds from outside momentarily fading as the intensity of the moment drew both of your focuses inward.

He shook his head, a sneer playing on his lips as he looked at you. "That's not your choice to make," he said, his tone carrying a cold edge. His eyes shifted away from you, staring out the window as if searching for answers in the distance.

The room seemed to grow colder, the sunlight no longer providing its gentle warmth but instead highlighting the tension between you. Each breath you took felt heavier than the last, the weight of unspoken words pressing down on both of you. The air was thick with emotions, and the distance between you felt insurmountable.

A chill ran through you, his words settling like a heavy weight in the space between you. "Seems I don't get much choice over anything nowadays," your voice wavered slightly, but you held his gaze when it snapped back to you, determined to confront him. You could see his jaw tighten, his eyes flickering with a mixture of frustration and something you couldn't quite identify. Each second stretched out painfully as you waited for his response.

"If you've got a death wish, that's between you and that baby," he growled through clenched teeth, pointing at your pregnant belly. "But don't drag me into it. I'm not hauling my ass across the desert just for you to throw your life away at every turn," he spat, his words sharp and biting.

Your breath caught in your throat as his words sunk in. "Glad to see where your priorities truly lie," you said, tears welling in your eyes. Anger surged through you at his insinuation. You didn't have a death wish—far from it. Since the bombings, you had fought tooth and nail to survive and to keep your baby safe, and he knew that.

His words felt like a betrayal. Whether he was trying to push you further away to save face or make it clear that he really did feel nothing for you, his harshness cut deep. The tears spilled over, tracing hot paths down your cheeks. "You know I've done everything to keep us alive," you continued, voice trembling with emotion. "I can't believe you'd think otherwise."

His eyes flickered with a brief moment of regret, but it was quickly masked by the anger that still lingered. "I'm just trying to keep you safe," he muttered, but the words felt hollow against the backdrop of your pain.

"I never wanted this!" you shouted, your voice cracking. "You captured me. I didn't ask for any of this!"

The anger and fear boiled over, and your desperate cries filled the room, making the air between you almost suffocating. The walls seemed to echo your words, amplifying the magnitude of the moment. His expression remained hard, but you could see a flicker of something cross them.

"You think I wanted this?" he shot back, his voice rising. "None of this was supposed to happen!"

"You should have just left me out there!" You cried, voice breaking under the weight of your anguish.

"I wish I did!" The raw emotion in his voice startling you as he stood up, his figure towering over you. The intensity of his words cut through your anger, slicing deep into your heart and leaving you both teetering on the brink of something irreversible. His face was flushed with a mixture of regret and pure fury, and the raw vulnerability in his eyes was a stark contrast to the harshness of his words.

The silence that followed was thick with unspoken words and unresolved pain. Each of you grappled with the complex web of emotions that bound you together, the weight of your shared past and uncertain future pressing down heavily.

You wrapped your arms protectively around your belly, your gaze dropping to the intricately patterned bedsheets. The delicate floral design blurred as tears welled up in your eyes. "Get out," you whispered, your voice barely audible, but the sharp flinch of his jaw from the corner of your eye told you that he had heard you clearly.

The words felt like lead on your tongue, heavy and final, as you struggled to maintain your composure. The room, once a refuge, now felt like a battleground. You could sense his presence still looming over you, his conflicting emotions almost tangible in the air between you. The moment stretched, every second amplifying the tension.

Tears streamed down your cheeks as you thought back to the memories you'd shared together. Each recollection felt like a dagger to the heart—the lingering gazes, the fleeting moments when you sought solace in his arms, the fragile bond you believed was forming between you. Perhaps it had all been a figment of your imagination, a desperate illusion in the midst of chaos.

The realization struck you like a punch to the gut, leaving you breathless and reeling. The weight of it pressed down on you, squeezing the air from your lungs and making your chest ache. You remembered the way his eyes would soften, the rare, fleeting smiles that had given you hope, the comforting warmth of his embrace. But now, those memories felt like cruel jokes, mocking your naïve belief in a connection that perhaps never truly existed.

The Ghoul sighed, running his tongue over his teeth as his gaze briefly flickered to the ground before locking back onto you. "What are you gonna do?" he asked, his tone softer but still edged with irritation. "Don't be so foolish; you wouldn't last a second out there alone."

"Maybe not, but that's no concern of yours," you retorted, refusing to meet his gaze. "If you don't want us, then we don't want you either." You placed a firm hand on the swell of your belly, feeling the life growing inside you.

A small flurry of movement, a determined kick from within, gave you a momentary pause. The sensation was both a reminder and a source of strength. You sniffed, drawing in a shaky breath, and willed your voice to work as you finally looked up at him through bleary eyes, the tears making everything a blur. "Leave," you commanded, your voice trembling but resolute.

He sighed again and moved toward you with an outstretched hand, but you stopped him mid-step. "Go! Get out!" you shouted, your voice echoing off the walls.

The Ghoul looked at you exasperatedly. "There's nothing for you here with me, do you understand? Dispel any romantic notions you have about me, darlin'. I am not a good man," he said, his eyes pleading with you. "But it doesn't mean I want you in harms way—far from it. Just listen to me, dammit."

His words cut through the air like a knife, sharp and final. "I said get out!" You shouted again, your hand gripped the Pip-Boy on the nightstand, and with a surge of adrenaline, you hurled it towards him. He ducked just in time, the metal device shattering against the wall behind him. Shards of glass and metal scattered across the floor, the sharp sound punctuating the tension in the room.

He straightened up, his eyes wide with shock. The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by your heavy breathing. You sat there, chest heaving, eyes blazing with a mix of fury and desperation. The broken pieces of the Pip-Boy lay on the floor, a stark reminder of the irreparable rift between you.

"Just leave," you said, your voice now a raw whisper. "We don't need you." The determination in your eyes left no room for argument. He hesitated for a moment, his gaze lingering on you, before turning and walking out of the room, the door closing behind him with a finality that echoed through the stillness.

A few hours later, a knock on the door startled you from your sobs. The door creaked open, and an elderly man entered. His features bore the unmistakable signs of ghoulification: mottled, decaying skin and sunken eyes. Despite his unsettling appearance, his expression was warm and kind, a gentle smile softening the harsh lines of his face.

You eyed him warily as he stepped into the room, each movement slow and deliberate, as if he was conscious of not alarming you further. The contrast between his ghastly visage and the kindness in his eyes created a strange, almost disorienting juxtaposition, leaving you uncertain but cautiously hopeful.

"Good to see you awake," he greeted with a gentle smile, his voice carrying a soothing, raspy tone. He moved toward your bedside with a practiced ease that spoke of long experience and familiarity with such situations. His steps were steady and confident, his presence oddly comforting in the wake of the Ghoul's absence. 

He stopped next to you, his eyes briefly scanning the room before focusing on the IV bag connected to your arm. With expert hands, he adjusted the flow, his touch slow and precise. "Your friend said you were feeling better," he remarked, glancing back at you with a reassuring nod. "Looks like the RadAway is working," he commented, his tone imbued with calm confidence. 

The mention of 'your friend' had your eyes darting to the door, replaying the memory of him walking out of it hours before. A sudden dread gripped you as the realization struck: perhaps it really would be the last time you saw him. Why wouldn't it be? You'd told him to leave, said you didn't want him, which was only partially true.

The truth was more complicated. You wanted him. You undeniably craved his affection and needed his approval, but your stubbornness—almost a mirror of his own—kept you from admitting it. He had made it clear that he didn't want you, or at least that's what his words said. Yet, his actions often told a different story, leaving you confused and frustrated.

You weren't going to beg. Pride and self-respect wouldn't allow it, no matter how much your heart ached for him to come back. The conflicting emotions swirled within you, a storm of longing, pride, and hurt. You drew a shaky breath, pushing the thoughts aside as you refocused on the present, determined not to let your vulnerability show.

"Dry your eyes, pet," the doctor said softly, offering you a handkerchief from his pocket. You took it with a grateful smile, dabbed at your wet cheeks until you felt the tears ebb.

"Thank you," you whispered, watching as the yellow liquid filled the tube attached to your arm. "What is RadAway?" you queried, your eyes narrowing slightly with caution as the elderly ghoul continued his examination, his fingers pressing against your wrist to check your pulse.

"It's a medical treatment used to flush radiation from the body," he explained, his voice steady and informative. "It speeds up recovery, especially with injuries like yours." He paused, then gave you a concerned look. "It's essential out here. I'm surprised you don't know about it."

His eyes held a hint of curiosity, perhaps even worry, as he studied your reaction. The weight of his gaze made you acutely aware of your vulnerability and the gaps in your survival skills, but his tone remained kind, without a trace of judgment.

You sniffed and feigned a smile. "I'm still getting my bearings on the surface," you said, your voice small.

His eyes flickered with an unspoken understanding, a subtle nod acknowledging the enormity of adjusting to life above ground. The corners of his mouth turned up slightly in a sympathetic smile, and he placed a reassuring hand on your arm.

"That makes sense," he replied softly, his voice full of understanding. "It's a lot to take in, but you're lucky your friend got you here when he did. He almost woke the whole town with his hollering. I was in the middle of a quiet evening when the commotion started. I looked out the window and saw him rushing through the streets, carrying you in his arms. Poor feller, the colour drained straight from his face with all the worry—well, as much as it can drain from us irradiated folk."

He paused, shaking his head slightly with a wry smile. "He was frantic, you know, practically bursting through the door, demanding help. I've seen people in desperate situations before, but the way he looked at you... It was clear you mean a lot to him."

The doctor's words painted a vivid picture, but you shook your head, dispelling the hopeful image he conjured. The Ghoul's actions came about as a result of you flaking out on him during his urgency to get away from that house. Despite wanting to believe otherwise, you reminded yourself that you didn't mean anything to him.

"He was just trying to get away," you murmured, more to yourself than to the doctor. "I collapsed, and he didn't have a choice."

The doctor studied you for a moment, his expression thoughtful. "Maybe," he conceded gently, "but actions speak louder than words. Sometimes, people show they care in ways they can't admit to themselves."

You didn't respond, letting his words linger in the air as he pulled a rusted stethoscope from his coat, preparing to listen to your heart. The cold metal pressed against your skin, a stark contrast to the warmth of your conflicting thoughts.

As the doctor listened intently, you couldn't help but replay the moments of the Ghoul's protectiveness in your mind. The anguish on his face when he found you at the house, the curl of his finger beckoning you closer, his arms wrapping tightly around you as you lost yourself in his touch. Had you really imagined those moments? The ones before those? They felt as real as the beat of your heart pounding against your chest at the thought of them.

The tenderness in his eyes, the security of his embrace—it all seemed too genuine to be mere figments of your imagination. Yet, his harsh words and actions contradicted those fleeting instances of connection, leaving you in a state of confusion and doubt.

But sometimes, kind words did slip through. You remembered what he had said hours ago, before the shouting: you had told him that he couldn't get rid of you, and his response had been a soft admission, almost lost in the tension of the moment. "Wouldn't want to," he'd said.

You were so hurt by his past rejection, by his constant pushing you away rather than addressing any feelings he may harbour, that you didn't stop to consider, in the heat of the moment, that perhaps you were doing the exact same thing when you told him to leave.

The doctor finished his examination and removed the stethoscope, his eyes meeting yours with a mixture of concern and curiosity. "Your heart sounds strong," he said, his tone reassuring. "Physically, you're doing better. But don't ignore what's happening inside here," he added, gently tapping his temple.

You nodded absently, his advice barely registering as you continued to grapple with your emotions. The lines between reality and wishful thinking blurred, and you found yourself longing for clarity in the midst of the turmoil.

"Would you like me to check?" he asked, gesturing to your stomach that you still hugged protectively. You blinked, slow to understand until he mouthed 'the baby.' He was a genuine doctor, or as close to one as you could find in the wastelands. The individuals who had held you captive in the vault were more torturers disguised as scientists than actual healers. However, the risk of revealing your pregnancy was not lost on you, especially after recent events.

His hands stilled as he met your gaze with an understanding that seemed to stretch beyond the typical patient-doctor exchange. It was evident he had a wealth of experience dealing with the unique challenges of the wasteland, a far cry from the so-called doctors of your past who had hidden cruelty behind their clinical masks.

"Yes please," you replied, your voice tinged with apprehension. You hesitated, weighing the risk of revealing too much against the need to know your child's fate. "Is my baby okay? Can you tell me?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, yet laden with the weight of your worries and hopes.

The elderly ghoul's expression softened further, and he nodded slowly, placing a reassuring hand on your arm. "Let's take a look," he said gently, reaching for a small, somewhat battered handheld device from his bag. He moved the device slowly over your abdomen, his eyes focused intently on the faint screen.

After a moment, he looked up, a small smile breaking through his weathered features. "From what I can see, your baby seems to be doing just fine," he announced softly. "The heartbeat is strong and steady. You're both fighters, that's clear."

Relief washed over you upon hearing the doctor's reassuring words, easing some of the persistent tension that had gripped you since you regained consciousness. Your eyes instinctively sought the Ghoul's, and your heart dropped at the sight of the empty chair.

"A few more days of rest and you should be back on your feet," the doctor said, gently covering your stomach with the thin sheet. He reached into his bag and pulled out a small bottle of pills. "Take one a day with food, and if you come into contact with any large bouts of radiation, double the dose until you can get some RadAway," he instructed, handing you the bottle.

The torn label read Rad-X, and you turned it in your hand, trying to decipher the rest of the words. The doctor watched you with a patient expression, his gaunt features softening as he spoke. "Rad-X is used to increase your resistance to radiation," he explained, his voice steady. "It’s different from RadAway, but just as important, especially with your...relations," he finished, and your cheeks burned at his insinuation.

You thanked the doctor when he promised to check on you again soon before leaving the room. As the door closed behind him, you sighed and settled back into your pillow. Relief washed over you knowing your baby was healthy, but the sense of being on your own left your heart heavy. The room felt both too big and too small, the deafening silence pressing in on you as you stared at the Rad-X label, contemplating the uncertain future that lay ahead.

You didn't see the Ghoul after that, but a supply of RadAway and bullets appeared on your bedside table. The sight of the neatly arranged supplies made you pause, a mix of surprise and gratitude washing over you. You assumed it was his doing, imagining him sneaking in during the night amidst the few hours you'd managed to sleep. The thought of him moving silently through the darkened room, leaving behind the essentials you needed, brought a bittersweet pang to your heart.

A woman named Ada, who you had come to learn was the owner of the establishment, dropped in regularly to bring you warm meals. They were hearty and nourishing, intended to build your strength, but your appetite was often suppressed by the weight of your thoughts and the loneliness that settled in your heart. Ada's gentle encouragement and understanding smile were small comforts in the otherwise stark and quiet room.

She chatted with you during her visits, sharing stories about the settlement and its inhabitants, giving you a glimpse of the life that awaited you once you were well enough to leave the confines of your room, if you were to stay in town. Her tales painted a picture of a tight-knit community, resilient and resourceful, each person playing a vital role in their collective survival.

"The Ghoul, he's gone," she informed you on morning, her voice gentle but firm. "I do hope you'll consider staying. He's covered your keep for more than enough time." She rested her hand on your shoulder, her touch warm and reassuring. "It's not safe out there alone."

Her words hit you like a wave, the reality of his absence sinking in. The weight of his generosity and care pressed heavily on your heart. Her eyes were filled with concern, reflecting the danger that awaited beyond the safety of this town, and her kindness was a small comfort in the midst of your turmoil, a reminder that you still had allies even in his absence.

"Thank you, Ada," you said, offering her a smile despite the worry inside of you. "But I have to go."

The morning sun cast a gentle glow on her face, highlighting the kindness in her eyes. She nodded, her own smile reflecting a mixture of pride and concern. "Where will you go?"

You eyed the map in your hands, the one you had taken from the Ghoul the day you left to find the vials. Your eyes traced the path that led to the haven, a route marked with careful notations and warnings. The map had become a lifeline, a tangible connection to him and his meticulous planning.

During the last few days of your bedrest, you had spent hours poring over it, mapping out your journey, and planning stops for resting and loading up on supplies. The intricate details on the map showed the effort he had put into ensuring your safety on your journey to the haven, each mark a testament to his care.

It wasn't until that morning, as you packed your bag and ran your hand over the tattered paper, that your resolve solidified. The realization that he had crafted this map specifically for you, considering every possible danger and refuge along the way, filled you with a bittersweet determination.

"I'm going to find him," you told her, your eyes steely with persistence as you adjusted your backpack over your shoulder. "There are some things I left unsaid," you finished, your voice resolute. 

You hugged her goodbye and thanked the doctor for his car on your way out. When you left the clinic, your gun felt heavier on your hip, the burden of not having the Ghoul there for your protection weighing it down.

Navigating through the bustling streets, you kept a firm grip on the map, each step taking you further from the comfort of Ada and the doctor's care and deeper into the unknown. Vendors continued to call out, their voices blending into a distant hum as you made your way toward the town's edge.

As you reached the outskirts of the town, the lively sounds of the marketplace faded behind you, replaced by the vast silence of the open desert. You paused for a moment, breathing deeply, taking in the endless expanse of sand and scrub stretching out before you. The horizon shimmered with heat, the sun high and relentless in the sky.

You questioned whether you were making the right choice in attempting to find the Ghoul. The vast, treacherous wasteland stretched out in every direction, offering countless places for him to disappear. He could have gone anywhere, but deep down, you felt certain that he wouldn't retrace his steps. He would likely stay as far away from Mags' home as possible, avoiding any place with too many memories or potential danger.

Then, the hairs on your arm stood to attention at the familiar sound of spurs jingling on the ground behind you. The distinct, rhythmic clinking sent a surge of recognition through you, and a hopeful smile began to tug at your lips. However, before you could turn around, the cold, unyielding metal of a gun barrel pressed firmly against your temple, sending a chill down your spine and freezing you in place.

Your breath caught in your throat, and your heart pounded in your chest, the sudden shift from hope to fear almost too much to process. The coolness of the barrel contrasted starkly with the warmth of the sun on your skin.

"I'll ask you this just once," a rough voice growled from behind, the command filled with menace. "Where is Cooper Howard?"

Taglist: @cheshirecat484 @lothiriel9 @ancientbeing10 @maeplaysbass @moon-trash1507 @rebelmarylou @giggle-shade @skrzydlak

(if you have been removed from the taglist it is because your blog does not show an age)

[lila-lou]

✨ His only exception - Pt. 16/? ✨

Summary: 12 months ago, Butcher went above and beyond to have you join his team. You had a simple office job at Supe Affairs. The same thing every day, working from 9 to 5 and watching Butcher and his team defeat one renegade after another. One evening, however, something changed.

Pairing: Soldier Boy x Reader

Warnings: Language, Violence, soft Ben

Word Count: 5612

A/N: This is part 16 of “His only exeption”.

English isn’t my first language, so please be lenient. 💙✨

Homelander's gaze narrowed, a sardonic smile playing at the corners of his lips. "Oh, have I now?", he retorted, his voice oozing with disdain. "And what, pray tell, do you think you can do?".

Soldier Boy's expression darkened, a cold fury burning in his eyes as he took a step closer to Homelander. "I'm going to make you regret every fucking thing you've done".

A tense silence fell between them, the air crackling with the anticipation of violence as they stood locked in a deadly standoff. Each knew that the other was a formidable opponent, and neither was willing to back down without a fight.

With a surge of aggression, Soldier Boy lunged forward, his fists clenched tightly as he prepared to unleash his fury upon Homelander. But Homelander was ready, his eyes gleaming with malicious intent as he braced himself for the coming onslaught.

The clash between them was inevitable, a collision of power and rage that would shake the very foundations of the room. And as the first blow was struck, the echoes of their battle reverberated through the darkness, marking the beginning of a confrontation that would determine the fate of them both.

The clash between Soldier Boy and Homelander erupted with a ferocity that seemed to shake the very walls. Soldier Boy moved with the precision and grace of a trained warrior, his movements fluid and calculated as he launched a barrage of punches and kicks at Homelander.

Homelander, however, was no stranger to combat. With superhuman speed and strength, he deftly dodged Soldier Boy's attacks, his movements almost graceful in their efficiency. Each blow he delivered carried the full force of his immense power.

Undeterred, Soldier Boy pressed forward, his determination unwavering as he launched a relentless assault on Homelander. Blow after blow rained down upon his opponent, each strike fueled by a burning desire for revenge.

As the fight raged on, it became increasingly clear that neither combatant was willing to yield. They fought with a primal ferocity, their movements fueled by a potent mix of anger and determination.

With a thunderous crash, Soldier Boy sent Homelander hurtling through the wall and into the dimly lit hallway beyond. The force of the impact echoed through the corridor, sending debris flying in all directions as the two superpowered beings collided with bone-jarring force.

As the dust settled, Butcher and the rest of the team rushed forward, their expressions set in grim determination as they prepared to join the fray. With weapons drawn and muscles tensed, they charged towards the scene of the battle, ready to confront their formidable adversary head-on.

But Homelander was quick to recover, his eyes flashing with fury as he rose to his feet, his gaze fixated on his newfound adversaries. With a snarl of rage, he launched himself at the approaching team, his fists lashing out with lethal precision.

Butcher and the others met his onslaught head-on, their weapons clashing against Homelander's superhuman strength in a frenzied melee of steel and flesh. Blow after blow was exchanged as they fought with all their might, each member of the team determined to bring down Homelander.

The hallway became a battleground, the air thick with the sound of grunts and curses. But despite their best efforts, Homelander seemed unstoppable, his power seemingly limitless as he fought with a ferocity born of desperation.

But just when it seemed as though all hope was lost, a glimmer of light appeared on the horizon. With a roar of defiance, Soldier Boy re-entered the fray.

As Soldier Boy’s chest began to glow, the team’s eyes widened in horror, knowing the destructive power that lay dormant within him. With a sense of urgency, they turned and fled, their footsteps echoing through the deserted corridors as they raced to escape the impending explosion.

With a deafening roar, Soldier Boy’s chest erupted in a blinding flash of light, the force of the explosion sending shockwaves rippling through the building. Walls crumbled as the immense power unleashed by Soldier Boy tore through the structure with unstoppable force.

Homelander, caught off guard by the sudden blast, was hurled from the building with the force of a cannonball, his body tumbling through the air before crashing to the ground below.

As the chaos ensued, the rest of the team stormed towards the scene to apprehend Homelander, their determination driving them forward amidst the debris and destruction. Meanwhile, Soldier Boy's attention was drawn to a different target as he turned and sprinted towards your unconscious form, his heart pounding with urgency.

Reaching your side, Soldier Boy skidded to a halt, his eyes wide with concern as he took in the sight of your battered and bloodied body. Without hesitation, he knelt beside you, his hands trembling as he checked for signs of life.

Finding a faint pulse, Soldier Boy's relief was palpable, but his worry only deepened as he surveyed the extent of your injuries. Gently cradling your limp form in his arms, he felt a surge of protectiveness wash over him.

With determination in his eyes, Soldier Boy rose to his feet, your unconscious body held securely against his chest. Ignoring the chaos around him, he set off towards the nearest exit, his mind focused on your health.

As you began to stir in Ben's arms, your eyelids fluttered open, , just a bit, revealing pale, exhausted features and a faint heartbeat. Feeling his comforting embrace, you managed a weak smile, your voice barely a whisper as you teased him.

"You always have to play the hero, don't you?", you murmured, your words laced with affection despite the pain coursing through your body. Even in your weakened state, you couldn't resist poking fun at his penchant for rushing into danger to save the day.

As the team scoured the chaotic scene in search of any sign of Homelander, Ben and you found yourselves alone amidst the rubble and destruction.

Gently, he adjusted his hold on you, ensuring you were as comfortable as possible despite the dire circumstances.

Despite the gravity of the situation, Ben couldn't help but let out a soft chuckle at your teasing, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Always the joker, huh?", he murmured, his voice laced with affection and a hint of nervousness.

But beneath the light banter, there was a palpable sense of fear and concern in Ben's eyes. He held you close, his grip tightening ever so slightly.

As Ben felt your heartbeat grow weaker in his arms, a wave of concern washed over him, his expression turning somber as he realized the severity of your condition. Gently, he pressed his hand against your chest, feeling the faint rhythm beneath his fingertips.

“Hey, hang in there”, he whispered, his voice tinged with urgency.

As Ben finally reached the Team´s Van, he carefully laid you down on the backseat, his hands trembling slightly as he fumbled for the first aid kit. With practiced efficiency, he began to rummage through its contents, his mind racing as he searched for anything that could help stabilize your rapidly deteriorating condition.

“Alright, sweetheart”, he murmured, as he gently adjusted your position. “This might sting a bit”.

You groaned softly in response, the pain evident in the lines of your face as you struggled to remain conscious. Your pulse grew fainter with each passing moment, sending a shiver of fear down Ben’s spine as he fought to keep his composure.

Ben rolled up his sleeves and reached for a blade, his movements precise as he prepared to make a small incision on his wrist. “Alright, time for a little blood transfusion”, he quipped, a nervous edge creeping into his voice as he attempted to lighten the mood.

As he began to cut, a bead of sweat formed on his brow, his heart pounding in his chest as he watched the crimson liquid well up from the wound.

As Ben infused his blood into your system, he couldn't help but feel a surge of desperation wash over him. With each drop that mingled with your own, he prayed silently that it would be enough to save you from the brink of death.

As he worked, his gaze wandered over your battered and bruised body, taking in the extent of the injuries you had sustained. Broken bones, deep lacerations, and bruises marred your skin, evidence of the brutal ordeal you had endured. Yet, despite the pain you were in, you had still managed to find the strength to tease him about his penchant for playing the hero.

A bitter smile tugged at the corners of Ben's lips as he reflected on your words. In that moment, he realized just how much he relied on that role to give him purpose, to drive him forward even in the face of insurmountable odds. But now, as he fought to save your life, he couldn't help but wonder if he was truly capable of being the hero you needed him to be.

With a heavy heart, Ben continued to administer the blood transfusion, his movements steady and sure despite the turmoil raging within him.

As Ben carefully pulled your unconscious body into his lap, he cradled you against his chest, feeling the weight of your limp form against his own. His blood steadily dripping into your veins as he held you tight, unwilling to let go.

Ben leaned his head back against the seat, his fingers gently tracing the contours of your face as he whispered words of encouragement, desperate to reach you even in your unconscious state.

"Come on, (Y/N), you've got this", he murmured, his voice soft and soothing despite the fear that gnawed at his insides. "You're tougher than anyone I know. You'll pull through this".

Despite his attempts to remain composed, Ben couldn't help but feel the weight of the situation pressing down on him, the fear of losing you threatening to overwhelm him.

As Ben held you close, his heart skipped a beat as he felt a faint stir beneath his fingertips. With bated breath, he pressed his ear against your chest, listening intently as your heartbeat began to grow stronger, albeit still faint.

A surge of relief washed over him, mingled with a glimmer of hope as he realized that you were fighting to cling to life.

"You're doing great, (Y/N)", he whispered. "Just hang in there a little longer".

As he spoke, Ben gently adjusted the IV line, ensuring that the blood transfusion continued uninterrupted.

As footsteps drew nearer, Ben's muscles tensed, his protective instincts kicking into overdrive as he prepared for a potential threat. With practiced efficiency, he tucked the first aid kit away, his gaze locked on the approaching figures.

His heart skipped a beat as Annie emerged from the shadows, followed closely by the rest of the team. Relief flooded through him at the sight of familiar faces, but it was quickly overshadowed by a surge of anger and frustration.

"What the fuck took you so long?", Ben snapped, his voice sharp with accusation as he glared at the approaching group. "You're supposed to be the fucking heroes, aren't you?".

Annie's brow furrowed with concern as she approached, her eyes flickering with worry as she took in the sight of you cradled in Ben's arms. "We came as fast as we could", she insisted, her voice tinged with frustration. "We had to make sure the area was secure".

Ben's lip curled into a sneer as he shot back, his tone biting with sarcasm. "And how's that fucking working out for you?", he retorted, his gaze icy as he tightened his grip on you, as if daring anyone to challenge him.

As the team gathered around, Ben's anger simmered just beneath the surface, his protective instincts flaring up as he shielded you from view, unwilling to let anyone else get too close. Despite his gruff exterior, there was a fierce determination in his eyes, a silent promise to do whatever it took to keep you safe.

Annie's voice was laced with genuine remorse as she stepped forward, her expression contrite. "I'm sorry", she began, "We should have been here sooner, for saving her. We should have…"

But Ben cut her off as he refused to accept her apology. "Sorry isn't fucking good enough", he spat, his voice sharp with frustration. "You were supposed to save her. You were supposed to fucking protect her".

His accusatory gaze swept over the rest of the team, his eyes landing on Frenchie with a searing intensity. "And you", he growled, his voice low and dangerous. "You were supposed to be looking out for her. Where the fuck were you when she needed you?".

Frenchie's expression fell, guilt washing over him as he struggled to find the words to defend himself. "I… I'm sorry, Soldier Boy", he stammered, his voice barely above a whisper. "I should have been there. I should have…"

But Ben wasn't interested in excuses. His anger burned hot and fierce, fueled by the fear and frustration of nearly losing you.

Ben's voice was seething with fury as he glared at the rest of the team, his words cutting through the tense silence like a knife. "If it wasn't for me, she'd be fucking dead right now", he spat, his tone laced with anger and frustration. "I'm the one who saved her. I'm the one who kept her alive".

As he spoke, his hands trembled with barely contained rage, the pressure of the situation weighing heavily on him. In his fury, he didn't realize the force with which he gripped your unconscious body, his fingers digging into your skin as he fought to maintain his composure.

Suddenly, his rage boiled over, his grip crushing one of your ribs with a sickening crack. The sound echoed through the quiet space.

As Ben's fury continued to boil over, the rest of the team exchanged uneasy glances, unsure of how to proceed. Annie took a hesitant step forward, her expression filled with concern, but Ben's glare stopped her in her tracks.

"Leave us the fuck alone!", he roared. "All of you!".

His words were like a slap in the face. They remained rooted to the spot, paralyzed by uncertainty.

Ben's rage only seemed to grow in intensity, his accusations becoming more and more cutting with each passing moment. "You're fucking useless", he spat, his voice dripping with contempt. "You couldn't protect her. You couldn't save her. You're all just a bunch of fucking cowards!".

In order not to escalate the situation further, Butcher indicated to the others to leave the two of you alone.

Alone with you in the quiet car, Ben’s senses were hyper-focused on the sound of your heartbeat. With each passing moment, it grew stronger, more steady.

As he listened to the rhythmic thump of your heart, a sense of relief washed over Ben, dispelling some of the fear and uncertainty that had gripped him since he first found you unconscious.

With your heartbeat growing stronger and more stable, he waited until he was certain you were in a relatively stable condition before bringing you back into the apartment.

The rest of the team remained silent as Ben passed by them, their eyes following him with a mix of concern and respect. They knew better than to interfere or approach him as he made his way towards the bathroom with you cradled in his arms.

If you weren't dependent on him and his help, his anger would certainly have led him to slaughter Butcher and the rest of the useless monkeys

In the bathroom, Ben worked with careful precision, his hands moving deftly as he cleaned the wounds that marred your battered body. Each touch was gentle, yet purposeful, as he navigated the delicate task of tending to your injuries without causing further harm.

He worked methodically, his brow furrowed in concentration as he cleaned away the blood and dirt that stained your skin. With each swipe, he revealed the extent of the damage you had endured, his heart clenching with each new bruise and laceration he uncovered.

As he finished cleaning your body, Ben moved on to bandaging your rips to steady them.

With a weary sigh, Ben leaned back against the bathroom wall, his muscles aching with exhaustion. He ran a hand through his hair, the weight of fatigue settling heavily upon him, but his eyes remained fixed on your unconscious form, his concern unwavering.

Despite the overwhelming exhaustion that threatened to engulf him, Ben knew that his priority was ensuring your comfort and safety. Careful, he draped a towel around you, shielding your modesty before gently scooping you up in his arms once more.

As he carried you into his room, Ben’s steps were slow and deliberate, his movements careful to avoid jostling you unnecessarily. He laid you down on the bed with the utmost care, tucking the blankets around you with gentle hands.

With a final glance, Ben brushed a strand of hair away from your face and sank down on the chair next to you.

As Ben settled into the chair beside your bed, he reached into his bedside table and pulled out a joint, his fingers trembling slightly as he lit it. The familiar scent of smoke filled the room, mingling with the heavy silence that hung in the air.

Meanwhile, in the kitchen, the rest of the team sat in somber silence, the weight of the recent events pressing down upon them. Annie’s expression was one of profound regret as she spoke up, her voice heavy with guilt.

“I can’t believe I wasn’t able to help her”, she murmured, her eyes clouded with sadness. “I should have been there for her”.

Butcher, ever the pragmatist, furrowed his brow in thought, his mind working to make sense of Ben’s intense reaction to your plight.

“Why the bloody hell is he so bent out of shape over her?”, he mused aloud. And just like that, the topic of how no one but Ben was capable of saving you slipped into the background.

Annie cast a knowing glance at Butcher as she spoke. "Ben has always had a soft spot for her, even if he'd never admit it".

Butcher let out a grunt, his expression skeptical as he mulled over Annie's words. Despite his doubts, he couldn't deny the possibility that there was more to Ben's reaction than met the eye.

Frenchie remained quiet, his thoughts hidden.

“Butcher, you think Soldier Boy’s got a thing for her?”, Hughie asked, his voice tinged with surprise.

Butcher nodded, his expression grim. “Aye, he’s always had a thing for her”, he confirmed. “But fucking her and being this intense about it is something else”.

"It just seems like there's more to the story", Annie mumbled.

Butcher grunted in acknowledgment, his gaze drifting to the door of Ben's room. "Could be", he conceded, his voice low and thoughtful. "Either way, we've got bigger bloody problems to deal with now."

Annie sighed heavily, her frustration evident in the furrow of her brow. "I can't believe he got away again", she muttered, shaking her head in disbelief.

"We need to figure out a way to track him down", Frenchie insisted, his tone determined despite the odds stacked against them.

Butcher's gaze hardened, his jaw clenching with resolve. "We'll find him", he vowed, his voice carrying a steely edge as he reaffirmed their commitment to bringing Homelander to justice.

24 hours later, Ben still remained by your side, his vigil unyielding despite the passing of time. He hadn't eaten or drunk anything, his sole focus centered on you and the faint rhythm of your heartbeat that served as a lifeline in the darkness.

With each breath, Ben's resolve only strengthened. The rest of the team had ventured out in search of Homelander, but Ben refused to abandon his post, knowing that you needed him now more than ever.

As the hours passed by in tense silence, a subtle change began to stir in the air. Ben's gaze remained fixed on you, his senses heightened as he watched for any sign of movement or change.

Then, almost imperceptibly at first, your hand began to twitch, a faint flutter of movement that caught Ben's attention.

With bated breath, Ben reached out, his fingers hovering just above yours as he waited. Time seemed to stand still as he watched, his heart pounding in his ears.

And then, ever so slowly, your fingers curled slightly, a faint movement that sent a surge of relief coursing through Ben's veins.

"(Y/N)… can you hear me?", he murmured, his words hanging in the air as he waited for a response.

As consciousness began to return to you, your senses slowly coming back into focus, you found yourself greeted by the sound of Ben's voice, his words laced with a familiar blend of humor and affection.

"Hey there, Sleeping Beauty", he quipped, a playful smirk tugging at the corners of his lips as he attempted to lighten the mood. "You sure know how to make a grand entrance".

Deep down, Ben was relieved beyond words to see you awake and aware, but he wasn't about to let his guard down just yet.

As Ben helped you sit up, he made sure to arrange the pillows behind you for added support, his movements careful and gentle. "There you go, easy does it", he murmured, his tone soft and reassuring as he ensured your comfort.

Once you were settled, he turned his attention to you, his gaze searching your face for any signs of discomfort. "How are you feeling?", he asked.

You let out a weary sigh, your energy depleted from the ordeal you had endured. "Exhausted", you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper as you leaned back against the pillows. "Feel like I've been through the wringer".

Despite your fatigue, a small smile tugged at the corners of your lips as you glanced at Ben. "But I'm alive, thanks to you", you added, your gratitude evident in your tone.

Ben flashed a lopsided grin as he leaned in closer. "Well, I'm glad I could save your sorry ass", he quipped, his tone lightening the mood despite the seriousness of the situation. "And hey, most of your wounds are healed up nicely. Except for that cracked rib".

"Accidents happen, right?", he added with a chuckle, attempting to downplay his guilt.

As Ben carefully pulled down the blanket and towel, revealing the bandage wrapped around your torso, you couldn't help but let out a raspy chuckle. "How the hell did you manage this?", you asked, your voice weak but tinged with humor.

Ben scratching the back of his neck. "I got a bit carried away", he mumbled.

Your cheeks flushed with embarrassment as you glanced down at your naked body, the realization sinking in that you were completely exposed before Ben. Despite your weakened state, you couldn’t help but feel a twinge of self-consciousness at being so vulnerable in front of him.

Clearing your throat awkwardly, you shifted slightly, attempting to cover yourself with the blanket as best you could. “Sorry about that”, you mumbled, your cheeks still tinged with color. “Guess I’m not exactly in top form at the moment”.

Ben’s expression softened as he reached out to gently tuck the blanket around you.

"Shut up", he said softly, a hint of warmth in his voice as he brushed a strand of hair away from your face. Leaning down, he pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering for a moment before he pulled away.

"I'll get you something to eat", he said, his tone firm yet caring. "You need to regain your strength".

Ben rose from the chair and made his way to the kitchen, leaving you in his room.

As Ben entered the kitchen, he spotted Annie in the midst of making herself a sandwich. Without a word, he strode over and grabbed her plate, much to her surprise.

"Hey, what the hell?", Annie protested, her brows furrowing in confusion.

Ignoring her complaints, Ben added some chocolate bars. "She needs it more than you do", he replied bluntly, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Annie opened her mouth to retort, but the look in Ben's eyes stopped her in her tracks.

After Ben gathered the food, he headed back to his room. Annie watched him go with a mix of curiosity and concern. She couldn’t help but feel a twinge of guilt at being unable to help you when you needed it most.

Sitting down at the table, Annie sighed heavily, her thoughts swirling with worry and uncertainty. She knew that finding Homelander was their top priority, but she couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that they were leaving you in capable hands.

As Ben returned to the room, you rubbed your eyes tiredly, watching him with a mixture of gratitude and exhaustion. "I'm not really that hungry", you admitted, your voice soft and weary.

But Ben wasn't having it. With a firm resolve, he set the plate down on the bedside table. "You need to eat", he insisted, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Sighing, you nodded reluctantly, realizing that arguing with Ben would be futile. As he settled into the chair beside the bed, you reluctantly reached for a chocolate bar, taking a small bite as you tried to muster up the energy to eat.

"Thanks for bringing this though", you said, genuinely appreciative of Ben's thoughtfulness.

As you finished the small snack, Ben turned his attention back to you. "So, how are you feeling now?", he asked, his tone light but attentive.

You couldn't help but chuckle at his teasing tone, even though you knew he was genuinely concerned for your well-being. "Well, I'm still alive, so that's a good start", you quipped, a faint smile playing at the corners of your lips. "But seriously, I'm okay. Just a bit sore and tired".

Ben nodded, a hint of relief evident in his expression. "Good to hear", he replied. "Just take it easy for now. We'll figure out what to do next once you're feeling better".

You furrowed your brow in confusion as you struggled to piece together the events leading up to your unconsciousness. "I don't remember anything after the explosion", you admitted, your voice tinged with concern. "What happened?".

Soldier Boy took a deep breath. "I managed to take down that fucking pussy", he explained. "But he managed to get away again. The team's been out, searching for him ever since. Coming and going".

You nodded, absorbing the information with a sense of resignation. "Damn", you muttered, frustration simmering beneath the surface. "I can't believe he got away again".

"We'll find him", he said firmly, his tone unwavering. "But for now, let's focus on getting you back on your feet".

You offered Ben a grateful smile, your eyes reflecting genuine appreciation. "Thank you for taking care of me", you said softly. "I don't think I would've made it without you".

He waved off your gratitude. "Ah, it was nothing".

Despite his attempts to downplay his role, you could see the sincerity in his eyes, and you couldn't help but feel a surge of gratitude towards him for being there when you needed him most.

Ben watched you nibble on your sandwich, his expression softening as he took in your tired but slightly improved state. He cleared his throat before speaking, his tone careful yet filled with underlying concern.

"What did they do to you in that lab?", he asked.

You paused, setting down the half-eaten sandwich, the memories of the harrowing experience flooding back. With a heavy sigh, you began to recount the torturous tests and experiments you endured at the hands of Vought’s doctors.

“They… they ran all sorts of tests”, you started, your voice trembling slightly as you recalled the ordeal. “Extracting fluids, cutting into me for tissue samples… It was relentless”.

Ben’s jaw clenched as he listened, his expression darkening with anger at the thought of what you had endured.

As you recounted the horrors you endured, Ben felt a surge of protectiveness well up within him. Without hesitation, he shifted beside you, his back against the headboard, and carefully pulled you into his arms, your head resting gently on his lap.

“I fucking swear to you”, he murmured, his voice low and determined, “I’m gonna kill that fucking cocksucker for what he did to you”.

You looked up at him, gratitude shining in your eyes despite the pain and exhaustion. “Ben, you don’t have to do that”, you protested weakly.

But Ben shook his head, his grip tightening around you. “No, (Y/N)”, he insisted firmly. “He needs to fucking pay for what he’s done”.

You looked up at Ben, a mixture of admiration and concern in your eyes. “Ben…".

Ben’s voice was firm as he interrupted you. “Cut it out, (Y/N)”, he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I’ve made up my mind. I’m gonna kill that bastard”.

You sighed, knowing there was no changing his mind once he was set on something. “Just promise me you’ll be careful”, you pleaded, your voice tinged with worry.

Ben's gaze softened as he met your eyes. "You should be the one who needs to be careful", he replied. "Your little human body might not be able to handle another round with Homelander".

You chuckled weakly, the corners of your lips turning up in a tired smile. "I'll try my best", you promised, your voice barely above a whisper.

Ben's expression softened as he brushed a strand of hair away from your face. "That's all I fucking ask", he murmured.

You couldn't help but giggle at the sensation of Ben's soft touch on your face, a warmth spreading through you at the gentle caress. "I like this side of you", you admitted with a playful grin, your eyes meeting his.

Ben's expression softened, a rare hint of vulnerability shining in his eyes as he chuckled gruffly. "Don't get used to it", he retorted, his tone teasing but genuine.

You grinned mischievously, letting out a playful laugh. "Too late", you quipped.

Ben rolled his eyes, but a faint smirk tugged at the corners of his lips. "Yeah, well, don't get too comfortable", he replied. "I'm only being nice because I kinda feel bad about breaking your rib".

As Ben leaned down, he carefully scooped your weak and naked body into his strong arms, his touch gentle yet firm. With tender affection, he pressed his lips to yours.

As he pulled back slightly, his gaze meeting yours. "I won't tell anybody about your soft side", you whispered with a playful grin, your voice barely above a whisper.

Ben chuckled, his eyes sparkling with amusement as he leaned in to whisper back, "Good. Because then I'd have to deny it and break another rib".

Feeling Ben start to pull away, you weakly cupped his face in your hands, a silent plea in your eyes as you tugged him down to you once more, craving the comfort and connection of his kiss.

Ben hesitated for a moment, his gaze searching yours for any sign of hesitation or discomfort. Seeing only warmth and affection reflected back at him, he gave in to the pull of your touch, lowering his lips to meet yours in a tender embrace.

As your lips met once more, the world outside faded away, leaving only the two of you in a moment of quiet intimacy amidst the chaos and uncertainty that surrounded you.

As the kiss deepened, Ben grinned against your lips. "Guess I'll have to show you more of that 'soft side' sometime, sweetheart".

You rolled your eyes playfully. "Oh, so now you're admitting you have one?".

Ben´s hands trailing lightly along your sides. "I've still got a reputation to uphold".

As the tender moment lingered between you, a sudden rumble echoed through the room, emanating from Ben's stomach. He paused mid-kiss, a sheepish expression crossing his face as he chuckled softly.

"Guess I should've eaten something earlier", he mumbled.

You couldn't help but giggle at the unexpected interruption, the sound light and carefree despite the gravity of the situation. "Looks like someone's hungry".

Ben grinned, leaning back slightly to meet your gaze. "Yeah, well, I've got a growing appetite", he replied with a wink, his tone playful as he shifted to get up from the bed.

"Well, Maybe you should get something to eat. After all, you can't take care of me if you're starving".

"Alright, alright", he relented. "But don't go anywhere while I'm gone, alright? I don't want you causing any more fucking trouble".

You grinned up at him, nodding in agreement. "Wouldn't dream of it", you replied cheekily.

———————————

A/N: SURPRISEEEEEE :P

Please let me know what you think.🥰

-

Part 17

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Taglist: @deangirl96, @thatgirljayy, @suckitands33, @deans-spinster-witch@mimaria420@kaz11283@uncle-eggy @jackles010378 @vxnilla-hxrddrugs @meowmeowyoongles @sarahgracej @zemosdarling228 @leila22rogers @mostlymarvelgirl @emily-winchester @blacknoirr @onlyangel-444 @seasonofthenerd @staple-your-mouth @artemys-ackles @selfdestructionandrhum

[nochukoo97]

boyfriend drabbles (pt.29)

pairing: jungkook x oc

summary: the one where you react to jungkook’s new music video

word count: 1.6k+

a/n: ALSOO there is a little scene before oc actually reacts to his music video 🥹 sorry i just wanted to add a little scene in hehehe

boyfriend drabbles masterlist!

After a long day, you and Jungkook had ditched your initial plans to go out, both of you instead craving for a peaceful and calm ending to your long and hectic day.

The atmosphere was calming, jazz music sounding filling the silence of your apartment, Jungkook engrossed in his phone, his occasional soft hums harmonizing effortlessly with the music. He has your legs propped up on his lap, his calloused and warm hands brushing over your legs from time to time. You’re deeply concentrated on your newly found book that you had gotten at the bookstore with Jungkook recently, the illustration of a dog on the cover catching your eye.

As you continued to read, what had initially appeared as an endearing story depicting the life of a dog began to unravel before your eyes, gradually transforming into a saddening and heart-wrenching tale that struck at the very core of your emotions.

With another turn of a page, your heart begins to shatter in your chest, tears prick at your eyes, blurring your vision slightly. There was no way the dog’s ending could be this tragic. Soft sniffles escape your now trembling lips, your whole body becoming an emotional wreck to a made up story of a dog.

Jungkook immediately catches the sniffle that sounds through your apartment. Though it had been much softer than the music playing, along with the videos sounding on his phone, he immediately whips his head up, his previously calm expression now etched with concern.

His warm hand reaches out to brush away an incoming tear that threatens to roll down your cheek, Jungkook’s eyes searching your face frantically to read your emotions.

“What’s wrong?” His voice laced with concern, taking the book now scattered with your fallen tears and placing it face down on the coffee table so you won’t lose your page.

All you can muster up is a soft yet exasperated huff, lips turning into a pout as you think about the heart-wrenching plot of the book that left you momentarily speechless. You quickly raise your hands to your face, using the sleeve of your hoodie to wipe away the tears in your eyes.

“This book is so sad, Kook,” you murmur, your voice quivering with a mix of emotions. Your lips tremble slightly as you feel a sob welling up within, threatening to escape. Your gaze remains fixated on the cover of the book, where the cute illustration of the dog seems to mock your current state of distress, its joyful expression almost taunting you.

Jungkook pauses for a moment, the weight of your words sinking in. His response is soft, giving you an understanding smile.

“Does it have a sad ending?” He asks, his fingers gently stroking your cheek.

With a sigh, you nod in confirmation, your heart still heavy. “Yeah, and I had no idea it would be so sad. If I had known, I wouldn't have started reading it,” you confess, your fingers seeking solace in the comforting feel of the hem of his shirt, seeking reassurance in this moment.

“It made me think of Bam,” You tell Jungkook, as the brown doberman whips his head up, ears perking at the mention of his name. You couldn’t help but giggle slightly at his reaction.

Jungkook fondly watches the heart-warming interaction between you and his dog, calling Bam over.

“Well, he’ll be here for a long time, and I’m pretty sure with the amount of things you spoil him with, he’ll have more than just a happy ending,” He reassures you with a playful grin, shoulder nudging you gently to coax a reaction out of you.

You weren’t going to lie, Jungkook’s efforts in making you feel better did work. A smile tugs at the corner of your lips as you pet Bam’s head, the dog’s tail smacking against the sofa as he happily receives all the attention and love.

-

A few hours later, you’re already feeling much better, the previous events slowly escaping from your mind. As you stand next to Jungkook, peering as he gently places the uncooked noodles into the boiling water in the pot, it provides you a sense of warmth.

It’s these domestic yet comforting moments you shared with him that made your relationship so significant to you. For such normal and almost boring tasks to suddenly be a moment of happiness and warmth for you, simply because Jungkook was there.

The familiar smell of ramyeon fills the kitchen, coaxing an involuntary groan from your lips as your mouth waters at the thought of the good food you were about to eat. Jungkook turns to smile amusingly at you, watching as you begin to fiddle with the packets to add, reading the packaging and trying to decipher the words on there.

“Does this say cheese?” You question, pointing to the korean words illustrated on the packet. Jungkook immediately lights up, eyes widening in surprise as he quickly affirms to you, “Yeah, how’d you know?”

“You told me some of the Korean alphabet the other day, remember? I couldn’t remember everything so I just took a wild guess with some of the letters,” You laugh, placing the packet down as you peer up at him.

Jungkook nods, proudly smiling as he continues to stir the noodles that were now cooked. He lets you add the seasoning packets, occasionally stirring with his chopsticks to mix the powder with the noodles.

You shuffle around the apartment to set up the coffee table, placing down two placemats and an extra pair of chopsticks for yourself, as you wait patiently for your boyfriend to bring over the pot of ramyeon.

The evening slowly unfolds as you and Jungkook begin to eat the ramyeon, but an idea strikes your mind. “Can I watch your music video? I haven’t had the chance to see it yet,”

His face lights up with a mixture of excitement and pride, eagerly nodding in agreement as he quickly grabs the remote to turn the TV on. The wide screen flicks to life, illuminating the room as it casts a soft glow.

Jungkook seizes the opportunity to tease you a little, flashing a mischievous grin as he finds the music video. “Get ready,” He turns to you for a split second to watch your reaction, “because I’m reallyyyy sexy in this one,”

You can’t help but roll your eyes at his sudden playfulness, shaking your head as he laughs at your reaction.

“1, 2, 3D,” You hear his whispered voice from the video, an immediate grin showing up on your face as your heart swells with pride.

As you continue to watch, Jungkook’s unwavering gaze remains locked on your face, his eyes flickering with anticipation as he scans your reactions. Your heart swells with pride as you watch, knowing that he had put in a ton of effort into the release of his second single.

As the lyrics flow, you nod your head softly to the beat. The phrase, “Champagne confetti~” catches your attention as you hear your boyfriend sing on screen. Your eyebrows raise at the words, a surprised smile on your face as you turn to him. “Do you even know what that means?” You tease him with affectionate banter, awaiting his reaction.

Jungkook appears caught off guard by your sudden question, a mischievous grin appears as he chuckles and retorts, “Of course I know,” His response broods with confidence as he playfully puffs out his chest, leaving you gleaming with amusement at his act.

As the music video progresses, the verse plays out Jungkook’s rhythmic tone, “Body to body to body to body,” The female back-up dancers pushing him onto a couch, you watch as your heart tingles a little.

You definitely weren’t the jealous type, but the sudden dance move caught you off guard, a surprised sound emitting from your mouth as you watched wide-eyed on the unfolding choreography.

Jungkook notices your reaction, and he can’t help but laugh at your response. His laughter fades in with the song playing watching you continue to admire your boyfriend dancing on screen. His eyes sparkle at your small yet endearing reactions, a fond smile displayed clearly on his face.

As the music video ends, the screen finally goes dark, as you turn to your boyfriend, a smile tugging at your lips as he awaits your response.

With a sigh of contentment, you grab his hand, “That was seriously amazing Kook, seriously, I’m so so proud of you,” Your words filled with admiration and affection tingles Jungkook’s heart, as he smiles fondly at you, leaning in to peck your lips.

Jungkook responds to your praise with a contented hum, his arms pulling you closer to wrap around your figure, allowing your head to rest on his chest.

With a playful glint in his eyes, he taunts you further, “But you know what baby?” He chuckles, laughter reverberating through his chest, “You haven’t seen the Tiktok I filmed during dance practice yet, that’s even crazier,”

You peer up at him, expression mixed with curiousity and amusement as you respond, “Oh really?” a teasing smile playing on your lips.

It’s safe to say you almost went feral after seeing his little act at the end of the Tiktok video.

taglist!: @imlyfie @jksgirlhere @laylasbunbunny @borahaexoxo @jklvrs-world

[thedamselzelda]

Break Into Chains

Featuring: Fyodor Dostoevsky & Beast! Dazai Osamu

Summary: Waiting... watching... done. Perhaps, playing this role was meant to take lesser time? Who could know now? Nevertheless, it's a role you must play out to its finale. Who knows what the end might be now? If only your part had been planned out better...

word count: 9.2k+, fem!reader, HOTD!reader → pm!reader (perhaps?), nsfw (domestic abuse [possessive Fyodor, very unhealthy relationship]), reader referred to with other names (no use of y/n), reader's eyes described as violet, Russian words used (general meanings at the end), slightly proofread

Author Note: Dear lord have mercy. This took wayyyyy too much time and for that I am sooooo sorry. I wanted to have this out last week, but the first scene DRAINED ME. I want to remind, or warn readers, this is a Dazai x reader fic, so Fyodor is not painted in good light.

ᡣ𐭩 There's also an additional part at the end since this part has been so delayed. The time is slightly ambiguous since I can't quite say when Dazai becomes PM Boss

previous part ~ next part | LBH masterlist | BSD Masterverse

Weeks had passed without a word from Fyodor, lulling you into a false sense of security. Yet, you knew better. His rats - Nikolai chief among them - lurked in the shadows, their watchful eyes ever-present. The unsettling thought that some of your own staff might be secretly under his command gnawed at the edges of your mind. But with the immense pressure of your new responsibilities, you couldn't afford to dwell on such paranoia.

Crisp crinkles echoed through your office as you shuffled through the papers littering your desk. Your eyes darted from document to document, meticulously ensuring everything was in order for the weeks to come. Invoices for food and excess liquor orders were neatly stacked, the staff schedule awaited your final approval, and ornate invitations for a masquerade party - Kōyō's insistence for after the Star Festival - had been prepared. The merger with the Port Mafia had transformed The Midnight's Caress into a whirlwind of activity, far beyond your initial expectations.

A weary sigh escaped your lips as you massaged your temples, the beginnings of a headache pulsing along your brow. A lit cigarette dangled precariously between your fingers, and you took a long, desperate drag, hoping the nicotine would quell the growing tension. The smoke curled lazily in the air, a stark contrast to the frenetic energy that now permeated the club.

When you agreed to sell to Osamu - to the Port Mafia - you hadn't anticipated this surge in business. Moreover, you'd agreed to the club becoming a front for trade, strictly in jewels. It was an additional burden, one you tried to distance yourself from, clinging to the illusion of separation from Mafia affairs.

Thankfully, Osamu had been true to his word, respecting your wish for distance from Mafia affairs. Yet, he kept you informed of pertinent matters, treating you with the consideration typically reserved for a high-ranking executive within the Port Mafia. This delicate balance he struck only served to underscore the undeniable shift in your relationship.

What had begun as harmless weekly chess games had gradually evolved into something more intimate. Weekend dinners became a regular occurrence, followed by conversations that stretched into the early hours of the morning, ending only when dawn threatened to break the night's spell. His presence, once a distant memory, now constantly permeated your thoughts, even in sleep. In your dreams, Osamu appeared to you, gentle and caring, showering you with the kind of love he insisted you “deserved.” These nocturnal visions left you feeling both comforted and conflicted, a stark reminder of the complex emotions that still lingered between you.

The lines between past and present, professional and personal, had begun to blur, causing you to find yourself navigating through an increasingly complicated emotional landscape. Osamu's actions spoke of a desire to rebuild what was lost, while your own feelings remained a tumultuous mix of longing, caution, and the ever-present awareness of your true mission.

Your weary eyes drifted to your phone, its white light a stark contrast to the warm yellow glow of your desk lamp. A message from Osamu illuminated the screen:

Osamu:Hey, I'm sorry. I ran into some issues here. I'll be there soon. Did you decide on a place yet?

A small smile tugged at your lips, the domesticity of the message both comforting and unsettling. You extinguished your cigarette in the overflowing ashtray, ash and butts a testament to your increased stress. With a deep breath, you reached for your phone, fingers hovering over the keys as you contemplated your response. The soft glow of the screen illuminated your face in the dimly lit office.

Still settling everything for Kōyō's party in the upcoming weeks. I picked dinner last week, so I'd say it's your turn. Surprise me.

The smile lingered on your lips, a small content sigh escaping through. For a moment, the weight of your responsibilities seemed to lift, replaced by a warm anticipation.

"Who's got you smilin' like that?"

You whipped your head around, heart leaping into your throat at the unexpected voice. Nikolai stood in the shadows, his lanky form materializing as if from thin air.

"Fuckin' shit, Nikolai!" You breathed, slamming your phone screen down upon your desk. Your smile instantly vanished, happiness evaporating. "I have a fucking door!"

You shot your hand up and gestured at the door, only to freeze as it swung open. The atmosphere in the room shifted palpably, the air growing thick with tension as Fyodor entered, Dimitri closing the door behind him with a soft click.

"Fyodor!" You plastered on a smile, rising to your feet. You felt Nikolai watching you, stepping back slightly to allow you to approach the front of your desk.

Fyodor's hand rose slowly, a silent command for silence. His eyes, cold and unreadable, refused to meet yours. "Have you been having a good time, moya zhena? I see you are quite busy."

He gestured to your desk in disarray behind you. You cocked your head, clinging to your facade of innocence. The words fell from your lips quickly, showing your anxiety from the sudden, unexpected intrusion. "Admittedly, business has increased dramatically, which is why I haven’t been regular in our correspondences—"

Nikolai's sharp laughter cut through the air. He held up a champagne bottle, a mocking toast.  "No need to be so anxious, Marena. We simply came to... ‘surprise you’, seeing as you sold The Midnight’s Caress and still have ownership. That’s quite interesting."

You shot an irritated glance at Nikolai, who fell back onto chaise with infuriating casualness. Closing your eyes, you shook your head, trying to regain composure. Your eyes fluttered open to look back at Fyodor. "I only sold it to get closer to him. He thinks you're abusing me. I'm using that to our advantage."

"But why would I harm you, moya dorogaya zhena?" Fyodor's gloomy expression finally rose to meet yours, his eyes boring into you with unsettling intensity. His eyes shimmered slightly, as if trying to coax you into a sense of security. "I love you."

Irritated by his selection of reply, your eyebrow twitched involuntarily. His cold tone a stark contrast against his words. "Of course, moya lyubov'. I know that. Just as I love you."

Fyodor moved towards you, his gaze never wavering. Your body reacted instinctively, inching backward till you brushed against your desk, betraying your mind's attempt at control. "Yet, you cower from me."

Your eyes darted between his, desperately searching for the motive behind this unexpected visit. Panic rose in your throat; Osamu would be arriving soon, and Fyodor couldn't be here when he did. "I just… feel your impatience, moy dorogoy; your unrest. I assure you; I’m working my way back in. The Book will be ours."

Fyodor’s lips curled down; you could see he was no longer interested in your promises, your efforts. "Still, I see no progress from you. You have yet to even pass through the threshold of the Port Mafia’s doors."

"I—"

Before you could explain yourself, Nikolai's voice cut through, uncharacteristically low and ominous. "The rats have watched you, Marena. And unfortunately for you, they've whispered of your betrayal in the dark halls."

Your jaw clenched involuntarily as he continued, "Fyodor doesn’t exactly see your late-night rendezvous with Dazai as productive.” Nikolai's lips curled into a cruel smirk. "Who knows what the two of you have been up to?"

The implication hung heavy in the air, a deliberate attempt to unsettle you and sow further doubt in Fyodor's mind. You fought to keep your expression neutral, acutely aware of the growing tension in the room and the dangerous ground you now tread.

Your chest heaved with each breath, anger and fear coursing through your veins. But you refused to continue to cower before them. "Of course you've been watching me. Whispering lies into my husband's ear." You raised your chin, forcing steel into your gaze. "You have been envious of me since the moment he brought me in."

Your ears began to ring loudly from Nikolai’s boisterous laughter. You gritted your teeth, becoming increasingly irritated by his presence. Nikolai’s laughter faded into a malevolent grin. "Envious? Oh, Marena, don’t be absurd! Who could envy a woman who clings to men who see her as nothing but a tool?"

You remained silent, taken aback by his venomous words. A flicker of hope prompted you to glance at Fyodor, expecting him to intervene, to silence Nikolai's disrespect. But as your eyes met his impassive gaze, the harsh truth crystallized - Fyodor was no longer your ally.

The realization hit you like a physical blow. Months of delayed progress, your prolonged failure to retrieve The Book, had worn Fyodor's patience. Nikolai, ever the opportunist, had seized upon this, whispering doubts and suspicions into your husband's ear. Now, standing before you, Fyodor was a stranger; his former affection now completely erased, replaced by cold calculation.

You felt Nikolai's gaze bore into you, his words continued cold and calculated. "Dazai’s affection doesn’t make you special. To him, you're just another expendable pawn in his grand game. And Fyodor," he gestured towards your husband, "anyone could see he doesn't favor you out of love; he pities you! You're nothing more than a tragic puppet, dancing on strings held by men who will never see you as their equal!"

Your eyes fluttered, a tempest of emotions raging behind them. Frustration and anger simmered in your veins, not just at Nikolai's cutting words about Osamu - words you knew to be far from the truth - but at your own naivety. The realization crashed over you like a tidal wave, leaving you clear minded for the first time in ages.

Fury ignited in your gaze as you locked eyes with Fyodor. "Is that so?" The words escaped as a low, dangerous murmur. You searched his face one last time, hoping against hope to find a glimmer of the man you thought you had married. But there was nothing - only a cold, calculating stranger stared back.

"It makes so much more sense now," you continued, your voice gaining strength with each word. Fyodor's head tilted slightly, a flicker of intrigue crossing his otherwise impassive features. He seemed curious about the conclusions you were drawing from Nikolai's taunts.

"I was a girl wanting freedom and you saw that dream in me, and so you seized the opportunity. You wanted to dangle me in front of Dazai this whole time," you spat, the pieces of the puzzle falling into place with sickening clarity. "That's why you insisted I return home! So you could give him a taste of something he couldn’t have. You lulled me into a false sense of security, fed me morsels of affection to temper my cravings, all to push me towards retrieving The Book! Not for us! But for you!"

Throughout your revelation, Fyodor's expression remained stoic, unmoved by your piecing together of his elaborate scheme. His lack of reaction only confirmed your suspicions, twisting the knife deeper. You were intelligent - Fyodor had always known this. It was inevitable that the facade would eventually crumble, that the truth would come to light.

You took an intentional step forward, and it was now Fyodor who took a slight step back.

"Now, you cower from me." You laughed, a sound tinged with both bitterness and newfound resolve. The sound cut through the tense silence, causing Nikolai to stiffen slightly in the background. Your eyes never left Fyodor's as you closed the distance between you, each step deliberate and measured.

You stopped mere inches from him, so close you could feel the warmth of his breath. The familiar scent of his scent, once comforting, now seemed nauseating and oppressive. Still, you didn't flinch or back away. Instead, you tilted your chin upward, meeting his gaze with unwavering defiance. Your proximity forced Fyodor to look down at you, a subtle shift in the power dynamic. Despite the slight height difference, it was clear you were not intimidated. Your body language radiated confidence, a stark contrast to the meek subordinate he had expected you to remain.

Your lips curved into a smirk, a dangerous glint in your eyes. Fyodor mirrored your expression, his own smile cold and calculating. The air between you crackled with tension, two predators sizing each other up. Your voice dropped to a menacing whisper; each word laced with deadly intent.

"You gravely misjudged me, Fyodor. You saw a vulnerable girl to be manipulated, a pawn in your grand design." Your eyes narrowed, boring into his with unwavering intensity. "But soon, you'll witness the true nature of the Port Mafia's Izanami. And you'll realize just how badly you've miscalculated. With every new life you assume, ty chertov ublyudok, I will find you and kill you, again and again, until the day comes when you can’t tell where you end and the life you stole begins."

Fyodor's lips curled into a cold smile. "Eto tak?" he replied, his voice dripping with mockery as he echoed your words. His eyebrow arched, a gesture of casual dismissal that belied the tension in the room. "Well, Izanami, I think that you'll find that your role here is not quite yet finished."

As Fyodor spoke, his lifeless gaze slid past you, settling on Nikolai. The abrupt shift in his attention left you reeling, a sudden vertigo gripping you. An icy tendril of dread snaked down your spine as Fyodor turned away, his lack of retaliation more unnerving than any threat.

In that disorienting moment, the gravity of your mistake crashed over you. You had fixated on Fyodor, forgetting the other dangerous player in the room. The air grew thick, almost suffocating, as time seemed to stretch and warp. Your instincts screamed a warning, every nerve on high alert.

It happened in the blink of an eye.

A whisper of movement behind you sent alarm bells ringing through your body. Pure instinct took over, your mind barely catching up as you spun around. Your eyes widened in horror as they locked onto Nikolai's form. His face wore a sadistic smile, eyes glinting with cold purpose as his arm arced through the air.

Desperately, you threw up your arm in a futile attempt at protection. However, it did no good as the champagne bottle connected with brutal force, shattering against your skull with a sickening crack. A shower of glass shards rained down, mixing with the sticky liquid that now saturated your hair and trickled down your face. A sharp, burning pain lanced through your forearm where the bottle's jagged edge had sliced into your skin.

The world lurched violently, your vision swimming in and out of focus. Agony exploded through your head, each pulse sending waves of nausea and pain radiating outward. You staggered, your legs threatening to give way as your senses overloaded, struggling to process the sudden assault.

Across your back, you felt the sharp, stinging pain of multiple lacerations. The acrid smell of champagne mixed with the metallic tang of blood, confirming your suspicions about the source of these new wounds - the shattered remains of the bottle that had started this brutal assault.

Nikolai then seemingly darted around you with intentional speed, exploiting his ability to materialize in your blind spots. Your eyes desperately tried to track his movements, but he always seemed one step ahead, vanishing and reappearing like a malevolent specter. The sharp sting of alcohol assaulted your vision, and as you struggled to blink away the burning sensation, a sickening crack echoed through the air.

A crushing force collided with your right arm, the impact reverberating through your body. Your mind reeled as you imagined the bone splintering beneath your skin, fragmenting into a thousand jagged pieces. A guttural cry escaped your lips as your arm went limp, hanging uselessly at your side. Before you could process the agony, another vicious blow struck the same shoulder, intensifying the waves of pain coursing through your body.

Despite the overwhelming pain, survival instinct kicked in. You fought back with desperate, uncoordinated movements. Your uninjured arm flailed wildly, fingers grasping at the air where Nikolai had been just moments before. If you could just make contact, just brush his skin with your fingertips, you knew it would all be over. Your ability would cease this nightmare. However, Nikolai was too quick, too practiced. He danced just out of reach, leaving nothing but empty air in your grasp. Your frustration mounted with each failed attempt, the realization of your powerlessness adding a new layer of anguish to your physical torment. The bitter taste of failure mingled with the blood in your mouth. As your body screamed in agony as the assault continued, hit after hit, a different kind of pain blossomed within your chest. Resentment bubbled up, hot and caustic, directed not just at your attackers but at yourself.

You wrestled with the dawning realization, desperately trying to silence the insidious voice in your mind. It whispered at first, then grew to a deafening roar with each passing moment of agony. "You fool," it seemed to taunt, the words reverberating through your battered psyche. "Look at the mess you've made of things."

Your thoughts drifted to that sun-drenched day at the quaint café in Italy, the scent of espresso and freshly baked cornetti, and the charming smile across from you still vivid in your memory. But no, you sowed the seeds of your downfall were planted even earlier. You recalled the day Osamu approached you, his eyes a frenzy of emotions, seeking reassurance as he grappled with the weight of his sudden succession. Instead of offering support and feeling relief at the resolution, you had chosen indifference, allowing bitterness to take root in your heart. Was it not you who had longed for it more?

It seemed trivial now to dwell on the chain of decisions that had led you to this moment of reckoning. Yet, as your body gave way and you crumpled to your knees on the cold, unforgiving floor, these memories were all you could cling to, a lifeline in the sea of pain and regret threatening to drown you.

"Please..." The word escaped your lips as a barely audible whisper, a final, desperate plea. Despite its softness, it was enough to give Nikolai pause, his imposing figure freezing mid-motion.

Fyodor's voice sliced through the tense silence, calm yet commanding. "I do believe that gets the point across. Thank you, Nikolai."

As the tears cleared your vision and burning, you saw Nikolai step back, lowering his improvised weapon—an ornate, silver candelabra from your office, now stained with crimson. A bitter chuckle escaped your lips, bordering on hysteria. Your hand had gone numb, and a vice-like pressure tightened around your chest. It took every ounce of strength to keep your head lifted as Fyodor approached, replacing Nikolai's looming presence.

He crouched before you, raising his hand to thread his fingers through your matted, sticky locks. "Moy malen'kaya mysh'," he murmured.

A solitary tear escaped as you attempted to turn away in disgust, but Fyodor cupped your cheek with unsettling tenderness, like a lover trying to soothe your pain. His thumb gently wiped away the tear threatening to streak your bruising skin. He shushed you softly as your lip quivered, unable to contain your anguish.

"I will give you one more chance, moya samaya bol'shaya lyubov'. Perhaps this will help get you through the guarded gates of the Port Mafia." Fyodor said, his voice a velvet caress as he stroked your head. Despite his gentle demeanor, the weight of his power over you was palpable. Your breath caught in your throat at his next words. "But if you fail me, I will have that detective you are so fond of gutted."

Your eyes fluttered as fresh tears welled up and spilled over. You shook your head weakly, your pleas barely above a whisper. "No... no, please."

Fyodor's smile was soft, almost benevolent, as he leaned in to press his lips against yours. You squeezed your eyes shut in revulsion, forcing yourself to return the twisted show of affection. As he pulled away, he hovered mere inches from your face, his breath warm against your skin. "I hope you're creative with my death this time," he murmured, his words laced with dark anticipation. "Just one page, moy dorogoy. That's all I need. Bring me one page from The Book within a month’s time, and perhaps, I'll reconsider the detective's fate. Fail me again, and... well, let's hope it doesn't come to that."

You remained motionless as Fyodor rose, your eyes tracking his every movement as his attention shifted back to Nikolai. Each breath became increasingly laborious, pain radiating through your body in waves, discovering new territories of agony with each passing moment. The metallic taste of blood lingered on your tongue.

As Nikolai moved to open the door for their departure, Fyodor's gaze returned to you, his eyes glinting with a mixture of possessiveness and cruel amusement. His voice, smooth as silk yet sharp as a blade, cut through the heavy air between you.

"Despite Nikolai's charged words, Dazai evidently still harbors feelings for you. But, moya dorogoy zhena," he paused, "he will do what he must to achieve his goals. You are nothing more than an obstacle for him, a fleeting distraction."

Fyodor's lips curled into a smile that never reached his eyes as he delivered his final, chilling statement. "To me, you are everything, moy angel smerti. You would do well to remember that."

The words hung in the air, as stale as the empty promise of helping you. As the door closed behind them, leaving you alone with your pain and the weight of Fyodor's threat, you couldn't help but feel the noose of circumstances tightening around you.

You winced, a sharp hiss escaping through clenched teeth as you gingerly cradled your broken arm, drawing it close to your body. The initial surge of adrenaline began to ebb away, leaving in its wake a tide of overwhelming pain and exhaustion. Your eyelids grew heavier with each passing moment, the world around you starting to blur at the edges.

From somewhere far away, as if through a thick fog, you heard the faint buzzing of your phone vibrating on the desk. Osamu calling, no doubt. A part of you yearned to answer, to hear his voice, but your limbs felt leaden, unresponsive. In that moment of weakness, you found yourself hoping—praying even to whatever cruel deity might exist— that Osamu would somehow sense your distress and come to find you.

As your eyes fluttered closed, fresh tears carved warm trails down your cheeks. Fyodor's words echoed in your mind, a haunting refrain. Even in this dire situation, with your relationship to Fyodor taking this twisted new turn, you couldn't bear the thought of Oda becoming a target. You tried to steady your breathing, pursing your lips with each labored exhale as you tilted your head back, fighting against the encroaching darkness.

The phone continued to buzz, the sound becoming from further and further away. With immense effort, you attempted to rise, to crawl towards that lifeline. But your body betrayed you, and you pitched forward, your cheek connecting with the plush fibers of your new rug. Another one to be replaced… Your vision narrowed to a pinpoint, then faded to black. The last vibration of your phone became nothing more than an auditory ghost, dissipating as consciousness slipped away.

Osamu, what did I do…

Osamu's leg bounced incessantly as he sat in the back of the sleek black car, the soft leather seat doing little to calm his fraying nerves. He cursed under his breath, pressing his hand firmly against his thigh in a futile attempt to still the movement. The usually composed Mafia executive was irritated with himself, his calm facade cracking under the weight of his tumultuous thoughts.

Neon lights from the bustling Yokohama nightlife flashed across his face in a dizzying array of colors, muddling the conflict swirling within his mind. Tonight. It had to be tonight. The mantra repeated in his mind, a mix of determination and barely contained anxiety. He was going to ask you to return to the Port Mafia, to come back to his side where you belonged. The very thought sent a tremor through his body, a potent cocktail of exhilaration and terror coursing through his veins.

God, how he hoped you had sensed his intentions during the past weeks—surely you must have. All those carefully orchestrated conversations, the gradual sharing of executive-level information... He'd watched you absorb it all, your eyes lighting up with that familiar spark of intrigue and excitement. If anything, that light seemed even brighter than in the other universes he glimpsed in his dreams and visions.

Osamu's mind reeled, memories from alternate realities blurring together in a kaleidoscope of possibilities. In every version, you were there, a constant by his side across the multiverse. Here, now, in this world - why should it be any different? It shouldn't. It couldn't be any longer. The separation had gone on far too long already.

But what if...? No. He violently shoved the doubt aside, refusing to let it take root. You'd been so receptive, so eager to engage with Mafia matters again, even if there had been initial hesitation. Surely that meant something. It had to.

He needed you back. The Mafia needed you. But if he was honest with himself - a rarity for the guarded man - he longed for your return on a level that transcended mere organizational goals. You made him feel... whole. Grounded. Like the best version of himself, a feeling he'd been desperately missing since your departure.

What if he pushed too hard? What if this was the mistake that finally drove you away for good? The thought made his chest constrict painfully, his breath catching for a moment.

No. He couldn't think like that. In every universe, in every reality, you belonged at his side. This one couldn't be the exception. He wouldn't allow it to be.

His hand moved instinctively, reaching into his breast pocket to retrieve his phone. With slightly trembling fingers, he punched in your number, holding the device to his ear. The monotonous rings gave way to your familiar voicemail greeting: "Thanks for giving me a call! Sorry I can't get to my phone right now!"

Osamu frowned, a new thread of worry weaving its way through his already tangled thoughts. Why weren't you answering? Surely, you were just attending to matters within the club, your phone left behind in your office. Yes, that had to be it.

"You 'ight, boss?"

Osamu's gaze snapped up to the rearview mirror, meeting Albatross' concerned look. He cleared his throat, forcing himself back to the present moment.

"Yes, Albatross," he replied, his voice steadier than he felt as he closed his phone with a swift motion. "Our ETA?"

"Just under two, sir."

He hummed in acknowledgment, his fingers seeking out the familiar texture of his silk scarf, fidgeting with it to channel his nervous energy. As his eye darted about the passing streetscape, he fought against the nagging thoughts threatening to overwhelm him.

For what if you refused, purely out of fear of Fyodor retaliating? Or what if...? No. Here he was once more fighting himself. He couldn't let himself go down that path. You would see reason. You had to. Because the alternative – a world where you weren't by his side – was simply unthinkable. Especially now, with the clock ticking relentlessly on his grand plan. Osamu was acutely aware of the limited time he had left in this world, and he was determined to spend as much of it as possible with you. Every moment was precious, every shared experience a treasure to be cherished before the inevitable end. He needed you back, not just for the Mafia, not just for his plans, but for himself – to make these final chapters of his story truly meaningful.       

Osamu exhaled sharply through pursed lips as Albatross brought the sleek black car to an abrupt stop outside The Midnight's Caress. The club's neon sign bathed the street in a garish blue glow, highlighting the queue of patrons eager to enter your establishment.

"I'll only be a moment," Osamu said, his voice taut as he slipped his phone back into his jacket pocket. His fingers curled around the door handle. "We'll be going to Azamino Ukai-tei once I return."

Albatross let out a derisive snort, his eyes meeting Osamu's in the rearview mirror. "Azamino Ukai-tei? Seriously, boss? Taking her to such a fancy place?" He shook his head, not bothering to hide his disdain. "What's next, gonna get down on one knee? Oh wait—" He paused for effect, his lips curling into a smirk. "Forgot she's already got that rat bastard."

Osamu froze, his knuckles whitening on the door handle as he shot a sharp glare at his subordinate. The caustic comment struck a nerve, but he couldn't entirely fault Albatross for his opinion. The other Flags shared similar sentiments about you.

"That's enough, Albatross," Osamu warned, his voice low and dangerous despite the turmoil roiling within him.

Albatross raised his hands in mock surrender, but the sarcasm in his voice was palpable. "Sure thing, boss. Just remember, some stray cats ain't worth bringing home, no matter how pretty they are."

Osamu gave a heavy sigh, too preoccupied with his own emotional storm to properly address Albatross's insolence. "We'll be down soon," he muttered, yanking the car door open and slamming it shut behind him, the sound echoing in the night air as he tried to push Albatross's words from his mind. Damn that man and his sharp tongue. It was an unwelcome reminder of how The Flags disapproved of you, a fact that had been a constant thorn in his side even before your departure.

He couldn't help but recall that day - the five remaining Flags and you, standing in his office with heads bowed in shame. The memory was etched into his mind, a permanent reminder of the crime committed within Port Mafia walls. What had been done was done. All six of you bore the consequences of your actions from that day forward, and he knew he couldn't fix what had been permanently damaged, no matter how much he wished otherwise.

Shaking his head to escape his thoughts, Osamu strode towards the club's entrance and was recognized immediately. The doorman stepped aside with a respectful nod. Osamu returned it with a curt nod and faint smile of his own, passing the threshold of curious onlookers. His eye took in the full crowd before him, an impressive amount on the Thursday night. He searched among the throngs for any sign of you, desperate to catch a glimpse of those amethyst eyes he knew so well. But among the bustle of staff and club-goers, he found no trace of you. Strange, he thought. He'd expected you to be downstairs, if not waiting for his arrival.

Without your guiding presence, he found it oddly difficult to navigate the crowd. To the drunkards and oblivious patrons, he was no one important - a foreign feeling in a city where nearly everyone feared the Port Mafia's presence. As he moved through, his gaze caught a few staff members whispering and glancing his way. Their eyes held judgment and cruelty, something he hadn't seen in them before tonight. It was as if he was unwelcome in the building he'd visited so many times before.

The longer he watched, the more they seemed to scurry away, like rats exposed to sudden light. Shadows darted across his peripheral vision, always just out of sight when he turned to look. An uneasy feeling settled in the pit of his stomach as he approached the first flight of stairs. Something was wrong here; he could feel it in the oppressive silence and the stale air that clung to his skin. But what exactly? And where were you? The questions echoed in his mind, amplifying his growing anxiety.

His feet carried him upward as quickly as his thoughts raced, skipping up the flights with increasing urgency. The banister felt sticky beneath his palm, and he could have sworn he heard whispers emanating from behind the peeling wallpaper. His breath came in short, sharp bursts as he climbed higher, the pit within his stomach churning with each step.

The stairwell seemed to stretch endlessly before him, twisting and turning like a maze, though he knew it wasn’t so. Dim, flickering lights cast grotesque shapes on the walls, transforming innocent shadows into menacing silhouettes. He pressed on shaking the visions from his mind, driven by a mixture of fear and determination, his senses hyperaware of every sneer and whisper within the building. If he hadn’t been able to negate other’s abilities, he would assume these visions to be the works of another ability user. Unfortunately for Osamu, they were common works of his own mind, something he hadn’t quite yet become familiar with as negative thoughts poured in to drown him.

Alarms rang within his ears as he yanked himself onto the third landing, his bandages feeling damp and sticky against his skin from the sudden exertion. His unbandaged eye immediately locked onto the empty door frame of your office, conspicuously devoid of Dimitri's imposing presence. The door was slightly ajar, a sliver of darkness visible through the gap, but not enough for him to peer inside.

He swallowed hard as he caught his breath, the taste of adrenaline bitter on his tongue. His hair, slightly damp with sweat, fell slightly into his face, obscuring his vision. With trembling fingers, he ran a hand through the tangled strands, pushing them back. His other hand reached out tentatively to tap the door open.

As the door widened with an ominous creak, his worst fears were justified. There you were, motionless in the dim light filtering through the blinds drawn over the office windows. Your name fell from his lips, quietly at first, a desperate whisper in the silence. Then, as his leaden feet carried him forward, your name escaped louder, echoing off the walls in hopes of rousing you from your unnatural stillness.

His eye roved over your still figure, taking in every detail with growing dread. Your head was slumped forward, a curtain of hair cascading down to hide your face from view. Your back was pressed against the front paneling of your desk. In your lap, you cradled one arm, the angle suggesting injury or worse.

"Bella?" Osamu's hands trembled as he gingerly brushed your hair from your face, his nostrils flaring at the pungent scent of alcohol mingled with something metallic. His unbandaged eye roved across your features, his heart clenching at the sight of fresh crimson droplets and forming bruises marring your skin. As his fingers found purchase upon your cheeks, he released a shaky sigh of relief when you grimaced, your eyes slowly fluttering open.

"Osamu?" Your voice, barely above a whisper, sent a jolt through him. He watched, transfixed, as tears escaped from your eyes, leaving glistening trails down your battered face.

He managed a weak smile, feeling his own eyes well up. Internally, he cursed as the bandage over his left eye became damp. The urge to protect you, to shield you from further harm, overwhelmed him. Before he could stop himself, he pulled you toward his chest, wincing as you let out a sharp groan.

"I'm sorry, I..." Osamu's voice trailed off, the words catching in his throat. Seeing you in such a state was excruciating, and the weight of guilt pressed down on him. He should have been there, should have prevented this. “I’m sorry. I should’ve been here sooner.”

Your hand found his cheek, and he leaned into your touch, savoring the warmth. His forehead touched yours, as he inhaled sharply to calm himself. It grounded him, a reminder that you were still here, still fighting.

"Osamu... I just want to go home. Please take me home..." The desperation in your voice tore at him. He gazed into your bloodshot, teary eyes, his chest tightening at how small and vulnerable you looked. It was a far cry from your usual commanding presence, and it shook him to his core. You gasped as more tears fell, "I can’t take this anymore."

"Of course. Of course, cara mia..." Osamu's mind raced, considering the implications. The guests couldn't see you like this - he knew how fiercely you guarded your image. And the staff... a cold realization settled over him. Despite your careful selection, he was now certain they were plants, watching your every move.

With slightly trembling hands, he fished out his phone. "I'll call Chūya... and Doc. You'll need to see Doc." He hated how rushed and unpolished his words sounded, so unlike his usual eloquence.

Your vigorous refusal caught him off guard; you shook your head and weakly pushed away from him. He watched, heart in his throat, as you tried to stand, only to pitch forward dangerously.

“Stop,” he scolded gently, your name a worried hiss on his lips. "You'll surely only hurt yourself further. Chūya will clear the club, but you need to see Doc."

As he cradled you against his shoulder, dialing the phone, Osamu felt the weight of responsibility settle heavily upon him. Your whispered words about them, The Flags, wanting you dead sent a chill down his spine, but he pushed the thought aside. Right now, getting you help was all that mattered.

When Albatross answered, Osamu steeled his voice, pushing down the worry that threatened to break through. "Albatross, I need you to go get Chūya and Doc. Bring them here immediately." As he spoke, he tightened his protective hold on you, silently vowing that no further harm would come to you on his watch.

"Course, Boss. We'll be back in five."

Osamu closed his phone with a soft click, his attention immediately falling back onto you. His hands, usually so steady and sure, trembled slightly as he pulled the maroon silk scarf from around his neck. “They broke your arm...” he muttered, his voice low and seething with barely contained rage.

With an attempted gentle precision, he wrapped the silk around your forearm, fashioning a makeshift sling. Each wince or groan you let out cut through him like a knife, and he found himself whispering "sorry" with every slight tug and pull. Osamu tried his best to be gentle, but his anger made his movements less fluid than usual. His mind raced with violent thoughts of retribution against Fyodor. If he had the time, if it fit into his plans, he would kill the man without hesitation. It was only your voice, weak but present, that pulled him back from the brink of that consuming rage.

"Why would you command them to help me? It just further cultivates that issue. I can't take back what I did to Piano Man, and they will always hold it against me."

His eye found yours as he reached up to tie a knot of silk behind your head. The warmth of your gaze steadied him somewhat. I would like to think... we've all grown since that day," he said softly, hoping his words held more truth than he feared.

You rolled your eyes and sighed heavily; the sound filled with a weariness that made Osamu's heart ache. He carefully maneuvered behind you, leaning back against the front of your desk. His hands, gentle but insistent, urged you to lean back, to rest against him as they awaited Albatross and the others.

He cradled you close, his arms forming a protective cage around you. The fear of losing you, of you slipping away from this world and leaving him behind, gnawed at the edges of his mind. Your head fell back upon his shoulder, and you looked up at him, your eyes capturing his in a moment of shared vulnerability.“I don't think Chūya's grown at all... especially height wise.”

Osamu felt you give a pitiful huff of a laugh, your lips curling into a weak smile. Despite the gravity of the situation, he couldn't help but feel a small spark of relief at your attempt at humor. It was so quintessentially you, finding levity even in the darkest moments. He allowed himself a small chuckle, the sound rumbling in his chest against your back.

"Perhaps not vertically, no. Though his ego has grown to compensate. It's a wonder he can still fit through doorways."

Osamu felt a warmth bloom in his chest as he heard you manage a weak laugh. The sound, though faint, stirred memories of happier times, of shared laughter and stolen moments before everything had fallen apart. His lips curved into a bittersweet smile, unseen by you but evident in the way his arms gently caged around you. He finally allowed himself to savor the feeling of you in his arms, finally returned to him, and despite everything, still able to laugh at his quips about Chūya.

🎹 𝒮𝑜𝓃, 𝒞𝒶𝓃 𝒴𝑜𝓊 𝒫𝓁𝒶𝓎 𝑀𝑒 𝒜 𝑀𝑒𝓂𝑜𝓇𝓎

Your head quickly bowed down as the slam of the double doors reverberated behind you, the sound adding to the tense atmosphere of Dazai's office. In your peripheral vision, you saw Lippmann jump slightly, his eyes squeezed shut and slightly puffy from what you assumed was a mix of stress and sorrow.

You closed your eyes, taking in a deep breath that did little to calm your nerves. The scent of polished wood and old leather filled your nostrils, a familiar smell that now seemed tainted by the gravity of the situation. You knew nothing productive would come of this; it wasn't exactly your fault. However, if Dazai didn't take action, it would only solidify the views, the opinions, and the overall stance that The Flags and the Port Mafia held of you.

Dazai swiftly passed all six of you who stood before his desk, his coat billowing slightly with the rapid movement. The sound of his footsteps on the hardwood floor seemed unnaturally loud in the silence. Chūya was the first to break the oppressive quiet, his voice tight with tension, "Da—Boss, you have to know this wasn't our fault."

Your head shot up, eyes darting over to him, a mix of disbelief and anger flaring within you. "Why? Because you'd claim it was all me?" The words came out sharper than you intended, laced with bitterness.

Chūya's bi-colored eyes met yours, a challenge evident in his gaze. "Well, if you wanna admit to it?" His tone was equally caustic, the underlying tension between you palpable.

Your lips parted as you attempted to shoot back at him, but you were cut off by Dazai’s booming voice.

"Shut up! Both of you." Dazai's angry tone cut through the air like a whip, emanating from behind his desk. He was leaning over, hastily flipping through the report, his movements jerky with barely contained fury. The atmosphere in the room grew even heavier, if that was possible. It was clear that Dazai was beyond angry - this kind of infighting was unacceptable, something even Mori wouldn't have tolerated.

"I honestly don't care who started it," Dazai said, looking up from the papers, his single visible eye scanning the group before him. "I just want to understand what happened to cause this. I shouldn't be standing before the six of you with a member of The Flags, a member of the Mafia, dead within my building."

All of you stood in uncomfortable silence. For once, Albatross, usually quick with a quip or comment, was silent, seemingly at a loss for words. Doc kept his gaze fixed on the floor, anxiously pushing and pulling his IV drip beside him, the soft squeaking of its wheels the only sound in the room. Iceman, true to his taciturn nature, remained stoic and silent, having been merely a witness to the events that had unfolded.

"So?" Dazai's eye scanned all of you again, his gaze falling upon you last. You steeled yourself, looking back at him, unflinching. You could feel the pain emanating from him, see it in the way his eye closed momentarily, his head falling into a slight shake of disappointment.

Unsurprisingly to you, it was Lippmann who stepped forward, the movement causing you to roll your eyes. You knew him well enough to anticipate what was coming - some elaborate story crafted to soften the blow, to shift blame or minimize the severity of what had occurred. As he composed himself and opened his mouth to speak, you braced yourself for whatever tale he was about to spin.

"Boss," he began, his voice a perfect blend of concern and disappointment, "I'm afraid what we witnessed today was a grave lapse in judgment and control from our... esteemed colleague."

He gestured towards you with a subtle, dismissive wave. "Piano Man, while admittedly agitated, was merely expressing concerns shared by many within our ranks. His approach may have been… unorthodox, but his intentions were rooted in loyalty to the Port Mafia."

Lippmann's eyes darted to you briefly, and you furrowed your eyebrows causing him to refocus on Dazai. "Unfortunately, instead of de-escalating the situation as one might expect from a sub executive, Izanami here resorted to... extreme measures. Whether this was due to a lack of proper training, an inability to handle pressure, or perhaps," he paused meaningfully, "other motivations, I cannot say."

His voice lowered, taking on a conspiratorial tone. "It pains me to suggest this, Boss, but we must consider the possibility that this incident was not entirely accidental. The speed and finality with which Piano Man was dispatched raises... questions about intent and premeditation."

Lippmann straightened, his expression a mask of regret. "I fear this tragic event may be symptomatic of larger issues within our organization. Issues of favoritism, perhaps, or the granting of positions beyond one's capabilities. It's not my place to question your decisions, Boss, but for the sake of the Port Mafia, we must address these concerns."

Your eyes flashed with anger as you stepped forward, turning to face them all, ignoring Dazai's growing protests. "Is that how you would describe Piano Man's unprovoked attack on me? As 'expressing concerns'?" Your voice trembled with barely contained fury.

"As I've said countless times before, though I was born and raised in the Mafia, I still worked and earned my position. My role began long before Dazai stepped into his position as our boss."

You looked among the group, your gaze lingering on each face - men you once respected, now twisted by their silent misjudgment and apparent willingness to see you harmed.

"I will not apologize for defending myself against Piano Man, especially if this is how the five of you choose to twist events - painting me as some sort of liability or threat to be eliminated." Your voice rose, filled with indignation. "I have never once plotted against Dazai or the Port Mafia, nor will I ever. My loyalty to this organization goes far beyond the petty jealousy and baseless accusations you're throwing around."

Your eyes locked onto Lippmann, your words sharp and precise. "Your insinuations about 'favoritism' and questioning my capabilities are nothing but thinly veiled attempts to undermine my position. I've proven my worth time and time again, and I won't stand here and let you rewrite history to suit your narrative."

The room fell into an unbelievable silence, the air thick with tension. Even the usually persistent squeak of the IV pole's wheels had halted, as if the inanimate object itself was holding its breath. The lights dimmed dramatically, casting long shadows across the faces of those present, as your words hung heavy in the air.

As one, you all turned your attention to the screen that had silently lowered before the windows. The footage flickered to life, replaying the incident in the hallway with stark clarity.

There you were, walking purposefully down the corridor, your stride confident until the moment Piano Man and the other Flags called out to you. You watched yourself turn to meet them; your body language open, ready to converse. Yet, even through the silent playback, it was clear how quickly the conversation soured.

Piano Man circled you in the video, his movements predatory. As you watched, you relived the moment in your head, the echo of his insinuated insults ringing in your ears. His lips moved, forming words you could still hear clearly: accusations of your rapid rise through the ranks being due solely to your relationship with Dazai, claims that his love for you was a weakness.

The footage showed you lunging at Piano Man, your face contorted with rage at his comments. Immediately, all the men around you raised their weapons, causing you to freeze in place. You watched Piano Man's lips move again, hearing his taunting words from just hours before: "Let's see how fearsome you are, “great” Izanami."

Your gaze flickered away from the screen to Dazai. He was lounged back in his office chair, a cigarette dangling precariously from his fingers, its ash growing long and threatening to fall. You gritted your teeth, a mix of emotions swirling within you. How did you get here? Looking toward your lover for some form of help, even as you knew it would be considered unwise for him to play favorites. Yet, you could admit he always did. The easier jobs, the safer ones, always fell to you. He had ensured you were fully moved into the penthouse with him, safe from anyone who would attempt to harm you otherwise... well, in hindsight, you hadn't expected this.

Your attention reluctantly returned to the camera feed. You watched as Piano Man swiftly moved to wrap the piano wires around your throat, the thin metal glinting in the hallway light. A part of you wondered if he would have actually killed you, or if this was all some twisted hazing ritual to force you to stand down from your position. It didn't matter now.

The final moments played out on screen - you, standing before Piano Man, blood pouring from his eyes and ears. It seemed surreal, like watching an out-of-body experience.

"From what I can tell... she was provoked into attacking." Dazai's voice cut through the tense silence, startling everyone.

No one said a thing in response. The men only looked back at you, their gazes a mix of fear, disgust, and something akin to awe. To them, you were an unnatural anomaly that shouldn't have existed.

"I expect this to never happen again. Do I make myself clear?" Dazai's voice cut through the tension, stern and final. Yet Chūya, his face flushed with anger, still felt the need to avenge his fallen friend.

"That's it?" Chūya's voice was loud and rough, grating against your ears like sandpaper. "She gets no punishment?"

You scoffed, your patience wearing thin. "Here I was going to let this go, but what about you five getting punished? You all ganged up on me! Watched him and let it happen!" You took several purposeful strides toward Chūya, getting close enough to see the flecks of gold in his blue eye. "You are just as much of a guilty party as I am!"

"You privileged ass bitch; you better get out of my face!" Chūya's words were laced with venom, his body tensing as if ready to strike.

You puffed out your chest, outstretching your arms in a challenge. "Or what, Chūya? Gonna finish the job?!"

Before either of you could make another move, Dazai was between you, his movements so swift you hadn't even seen him leap from his seat. One hand gripped your wrist tightly, the other pressed firmly against Chūya's chest.

"This is done, now!" Dazai's voice was sharp, brooking no argument. You huffed as his grasp on your wrist tightened, a warning. His gaze scanned yours, which was still locked in a fierce staring match with Chūya. A guttural sound of frustration escaped Dazai's lips as he looked up at the remaining Flags. "Leave!"

They scurried out quickly, but you barely noticed. Chūya was all you could see, red clouding your vision like a bloody mist.

"You get off scot-free while my friend is dead! All 'cause you fuck the boss!" Chūya's words dripped with accusation and bitterness.

In a moment of blind rage, you spat in his face, mentally thankful for Dazai's unyielding grip on your wrist.

"I oughta kill you and get your misery over with!" Chūya snarled, his hand twitching towards his hat.

"Chūya!" Dazai's voice cracked like a whip as he pushed hard against his chest, forcing him back several feet.

"Why don't you then? Huh? You'd be doing me a big favor if I never have to deal with you again!" The words tore from your throat, raw and angry.

Dazai hissed your name, pulling you from Chūya's line of sight. You tore your arm away, huffing as you stormed over to the bookshelf, seeking some semblance of calm.

Your eyes darted over the book titles, desperately trying to settle your frayed nerves. Behind you, you could hear hushed murmuring interspersed with Chūya's occasional outbursts. You narrowed your eyes, attempting to stay focused on the shelves before you. Your fingers traced along the spines, the familiar texture of leather and cloth a small comfort.

Suddenly, your finger grazed a book spine that felt off - lighter, newer. Curiosity piqued, you tugged on the random book, one you wouldn't normally notice, and found it wasn't actually a full book, but a façade hiding something behind it. Leaning in, your nose brushed against the edge, inhaling the scent of old parchment. Your eyes widened as you spotted another book tucked behind the others, almost out of sight. Its stark white cover was a stark contrast to the darker tones surrounding it, with golden details catching the light just barely.

You turned back, seeing Chūya storming out of Dazai's office, his departure punctuated by the slam of the heavy doors. Quickly, you returned the shell book to its original position, your mind racing with questions about the hidden tome.

Dazai turned to you, sighing your name heavily as he began to walk over. "What a mess."

A thousand responses flitted through your mind: Wouldn't have happened if you didn't kill Mori. If you had only let me take the position I always told you I wanted. If… if… Maybe I should have left with Oda when I had the chance. But you kept every racing thought to yourself, only offering a noncommittal hum in response.

He stopped before you, his unbandaged eye looking weary and tired. With a gentleness that contrasted sharply with the earlier violence, he cupped your cheek, leaning down to press his forehead against yours.

"You did nothing wrong," he whispered, his breath warm against your skin.

"I'll let our maker decide that," you sighed, grasping his hand. "You need to stop coddling me. It's inadvertently led to this."

His breath fanned over your lips as he pressed them against yours. The kiss, once a source of comfort and passion, now felt tainted with bitterness. Yet, you returned it, your love for him still present, even if battered by recent events out of his control. This test of your relationship was something you hadn't anticipated, its ability to strain and potentially break your bond a sobering realization.

He frowned as he pulled away, still holding you close. "Only if you stop asking people to kill you."

You forced a smile, the expression not quite reaching your eyes. "The only way I'm going, amore mio, is if you're going with me."

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Author Chat: I think after this part I might take a little bit off from writing, but trust: the next part, I'm excited for. It's just being a dog mom, nursing student, and person in general has drained me slightly and I want to give my all towards writing because I love it as an outlet.

Also, I want to mention, it hurt to write The Flags in this way, but with reader being ambitious while also having a romantic relationship with Dazai, I saw it as a reason that could anger some of the members, especially if Dazai dotted on the reader (which let's be honest: Beast! Dazai and Main Story Dazai would def do.)

If you liked, feel free to like and reblog! I always appreciate everyone who interacts! ᡣ𐭩 ~DamzelZelda

Song Inspos: Haunted- Chris Grey Dark Bloom- Amber Run Runaway- Aurora Piano Man- Billy Joel (Lyric Only)

Russian Word "Dictionary" (Curtesy of [unreliable] Google translate):

moya zhena: "my wife"

moya dorogaya zhena: "my dear wife"

moya lyubov': "my love"

moy dorogoy: "my dear"

ty chertov ublyudok: "you fucking bastard"

Eto tak: "Is that so?"

Moy malen'kaya mysh': "my little mouse"

moya samaya bol'shaya lyubov': "my greatest love"

moy angel smerti: "my angel of death"