#back to him doing whatever he was supposed to be doing before

[a-hermit-pining]

LaDs Men React to You Being Whipped for Them

AN: Is it love, if not bound by subtle insanity?

Pairing: LaDs x GN Reader

Emily Bronte (Wuthering Heights): “He's more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.”

Yearning Event

Xavier:

"Sit," you say, practically shoving him onto the bed. "Sleep. On time. For once."

You tuck him in with a look that brooks no argument. "You're going nowhere tonight. I don't care if the world ends. It can wait until morning."

Xavier blinks up at you from under the blanket, wide-eyed. He never imagined he'd live to see the day someone forced him to sleep. He slept plenty as is, but this? This was different.

You lean in, palm cupping his cheek, thumb brushing over his pout. "Not sleepy?" you ask, voice soft, lips close.

And then the little gremlin bites your finger. Gently. But still. His eyes glimmer. "Can't sleep," he whispers. "Not tired enough."

He gives you the look. You know the one.

You’re not sure if you want to fight him or kiss him breathless. Possibly both.

Rafayel:

He knows you’re whipped. And he lives for it.

This? This is his dream come true. You, hovering with tissues and cough drops. You, his personal bodyguard, ready to throw hands at anyone who so much as sneezes in his direction.

He flashes smug little smiles at everyone who sees you fuss over him. Sips his tea like royalty. Winks like the menace he is.

Cue: entire exhibition crowd watching you dig through your bag for lozenges because his voice might sound hoarse.

He’s a sucker for love, but terrified to be the first one to say it. So when you pour your heart out first?

He’s free. Free to adore you with all the softness he’s hidden for years. Free to give back everything he’s been aching to share.

He’ll never say it, but this kind of love? This saves him.

Zayne:

He doesn’t know what to do with this. Not at first.

You bring him lunch at work. Spend weeks researching ways to break the curse. Kiss every scar like it’s sacred.

Everyone around you sees it. The way you’re gently, beautifully spoiling him. And they love it. They love this for him.

And slowly… so does he.

At first, he’s confused. Then touched. Then quite overwhelmed.

Because he’s never had this before. Not like this. Not so deliberate. So quietly certain. But over time, it settles in his chest like warmth. Like a memory he never had but always wanted. Like home.

And when he finally learns how to return it. When he stops being afraid of breaking it... oh, gods. You’ll drown in it.

Because Zayne doesn’t love in halves. He just never thought he was allowed to have this.

Sylus:

He’s supposed to be the suave one. The smooth-talker. The charm incarnate. The planner. The tease.

But your easy, unrelenting affection? It undoes him.

“What next?” he asks, leaning down to tilt your chin up. “You going to complain next? ‘Sylus, why can’t you ever plan anything in advance?’” He mocks your voice with a grin, cocky and effortless.

But your smile doesn’t waver. You just wrap your arms around him, pulling him closer. Like you always have.

“No,” you murmur. “I think it’s an excellent idea to take a vacation. Thanks for planning, Sylus.” You say his name so gently. So sure. Then kiss him with painstaking care.

And he’s stunned. Just… still. A blush creeping in. Throat tight. Something in his chest cracks open.

“Well,” he says, voice lower now. No teasing this time, just a quiet, genuine warmth. “That’s what I like to hear.”

Gods help him. You’re too good at this.

Caleb:

You’re both the problem. The gooey couple that makes strangers jealous and your kids roll their eyes.

Your love is obnoxiously mutual. Like something ripped from a bard’s over-the-top romance ballad. And he lives for it.

He’s jealous by nature. Territorial. But with you? He has never felt more safe. You never give him reason to doubt. Never make him feel like he’s too much.

To be cared for so deeply, to be someone’s center of gravity, it heals something ancient in him. It’s the love he didn’t know he was allowed to have. And gods, he guards it with everything he is.

Because in your eyes? He’s not a colonel. Not a soldier. Not a weapon. He’s just Caleb. And he is so, so loved.

[randompiecesofwriting]

Wrong Name

Summary: Reader visits her partner Jack in the ED to drop off his lunch catching the excited attention of all of his colleges much to his chagrin

Pairing: Jack Abbot x Reader

Word Count: 2k

Warnings: None! Just super cute fluff

Author’s Note: My first Pitt Fic! Basically, a short simple grumpy x sunshine reader cause I had the idea. Everyone in the Pitt loves the reader and Jack pretends to hate that, but everyone knows better. Again my first Pitt fic so any and all feedback appreciated and I hope you enjoy!

To say Jack was surprised to see you at Dana’s desk was an understatement.

He had just left you a little over an hour ago, a silent kiss to your temple, a murmured I love you into your hair, a cup of coffee left in his wake on the countertop so it was cooled down by the time you got up, the same as every day. You were still asleep when he left could you have woken up with something? Did he miss something last night?

His head was so full of the hypothetical he didn’t take the extra second to acknowledge how at ease your body language was as you leaned against the tall desk, a soft smile on your lips as you nodded along to whatever Dana was saying.

Instead, he immediately crossed the ED in a few steps, sliding a hand to the small of your back to grab your attention, cutting of Dana’s story without a second thought.

“Hey what’re you doing here are you okay?”

Your eyes flickered briefly to his, the corners of your mouth pulling up slightly at his appearance as you grabbed his bicep and gave it a small squeeze. “Yeah don’t worry I’m fine” before immediately refocusing on Dana, silently signaling her to continue.

Dana, however, as she normally does, knew better, a look shared between the two women as she stayed silent and instead focused on Jack, the man himself having not moved his gaze from your form for a second.

Pinching your shirt at the waist softly he gave it a small tug, physically pulling your attention back to him as his eyes scanned your face “is it that headache you had the other night? Is it back? I can bump you up the CT line”

“Honey” you cut him off with that small laugh that always had his chest warming “I promise I’m fine I texted you like an hour ago to meet me in the parking lot, you just forgot your lunch”

He could physically feel the relief hit his system at your words, his shoulders dropping as he finally took a deep breath, his next words tumbling off his tongue before he could put any thought to them “you didn’t have to-“

But just as he knew you would, you cut him off with a shrug and the same words you always used when he tried to dodge being taken care off “I know but I wanted to”

He couldn’t have fought the fond smile off his face if he had tried, something he knew he was going to get shit over from Dana and inevitably Robby later. “Why didn’t anyone tell me you were here have you been waiting long?”

“No I’ve been talking to Dana” And it was so entirely you the way you stated it like it was obvious. As if this little act of kindness in going out of your way to get him food hadn’t hijacked your entire morning. He was nearly overwhelmed by the desire to pull you into him, barely registering the way you pivoted back to Dana at the mention of her name.

“A conversation we absolutely will be finishing” spoken like a threat that had the charge nurse chuckling, “drinks later? Location and time TBD?”

“Sounds good kid”

And maybe it was a little selfish of him to want you just to himself in that moment, to pull you out of the Pitt to get even just two minutes of you alone. But Jack had found over the past year that he liked being selfish when it came to you “Oh and Langdon was looking for you earlier if you haven’t seen him yet”

“You spoke to Langdon too” he’ll admit to only faking part of the exasperation in his tone that had you giggling.

“He’s got a new puppy” you protested with a grin “what was I supposed to do? Not ask to see photos”

“You’re right ridiculous question” he conceded easily, “now aren’t you supposed to be at work”

And Jack relished the way he knew what your exact reaction would be seconds before you made it, the way your eyes widened almost comically before you reached for his arm, pulling his watch specifically into your line of sight, Jack using the momentum to press a quick kiss to your temple before he could think any better of it.

“Shit I’m gonna be late” You groaned softly, Jack chuckling at the action.

“I mean it, you didn’t have to bring my lunch in today”

“Please we both know you wouldn’t eat anything if I hadn’t” you brushed him off thoughtlessly before brightening and exclaiming “oh before I forget”. Suddenly you were pulling back from him, reaching deeply into your bag and rummaging slightly before pulling out a fistful of protein bars “give these to Dennis”

“To Dennis” he repeated with a raised brow as you pushed them into his chest.

“Yeah Dennis, well except for the chocolate ones”

“You want me to give these to my med student” he repeated with another exasperated sigh.

Again you responded exactly like he hoped you would, a giggle and a teasing push against his chest “yes except for the chocolate ones he doesn’t like those he likes the fruit ones. He won’t tell you that though, he’ll gladly take them all but he’s just being nice about it because he doesn’t want to offend you”

He couldn’t help but appreciate how well you seemed to fit into his life. How you’d forged relationships with each member of the Pitt’s team that existed wholly outside of him. It was tough now to believe there existed a time when he had been hesitant to introduce you to the chaos of the Pitt given how you now had seemed to adopt each member of his chosen family on your own.

His train of thought was effectively cut off as he watched your gaze suddenly deviate from him to something behind him, the corner of your mouth ticking up as you took one of the bars back from his grasp and yelled across the room “Dennis”

The poor kid looked terrified for a brief moment as he spun around before breaking out into a relieved grin once his eyes landed on you.

That was all the acknowledgement you needed before you were throwing the bar at him, Whittaker to his credit only looking panicked for a brief moment before he was effortlessly catching the bar, grinning down at his new snack appreciatively once he had it “Thank you Mrs. Abbot”

“Not my name” you corrected breezily with a wave “but bug Jack if you want more I’m giving him the rest”

“Great now if you’re done upsetting the natural order of my ED don’t you have work to get to” Jack cut in with fake exasperation.

“Natural order of the Pitt” you scoffed “that’s an oxymoron if I’ve ever heard one”

Your comment had Dana snorting as she didn’t even bother to try hiding the fact that she had been eavesdropping on your conversation up to this point.

“Yeah yeah now get out of here” he rolled his eyes with a fond smile “one of us has to make sure our bills our paid this month”

“I’m going I’m going” you groaned with a matching eye roll, pushing up slightly onto your toes and pressing a quick kiss to his cheek, pulling away much too quickly for Jack’s liking with a whispered I love you.

Then you were gone, headed back the way you came leaving nothing but the soft scent of your perfume in the air around him as Jack forced his eyes down to the chart in his hands, pointedly ignoring Dana’s gaze.

Just when he thought he was going to be trapped in the inevitable teasing of his charge nurse Dr. King came running up to the station, Jack more than happy to turn his attention to her and ready to distract himself with whatever case had her moving so fast.

Instead, however, Mel’s expression with brimming with barely contained excitement, her gaze searching everywhere around Jack but never properly landing on the man himself “Was that Y/N I heard? Is she here?”

With a disbelieving huff, Jack went back to his chart “you just missed her”

“No she’s by the door with Robby” Dana cut in with a smile, enjoying the way Jacks neck nearly snapped as he whipped his gaze across the ED to where you now stood with Robby, talking animatedly about something while the older man listened with  a smile on his face and hands in his pockets, looking much more relaxed than the two of them usually saw him within the department.

Mel peeled off without a second word to either of them, the pair watching the way your expression lit up once more as you recognized her as she approached.

“You gonna correct that” Dana nodded vaguely in your direction, her and Jack leaning onto the counter of the nurse’s station from opposite sides watching you give Mel an enthusiastic high five over whatever story she had rushed over to tell you.

“Probably talk to everyone at some point” Jack shrugged in response “the Pitt can’t afford to come to a screeching halt every time she so much as walks in the doors”

“No dumbass” Dana admonishes with a dramatic groan “it’s good the way everyone brightens up when she’s here. God knows we could use some positivity around here. I mean Whitaker’s comment about the wrong name”

“I mean she’s already told him to call her by her first name but I could talk to him-“

Dana silenced Jack with a glare, the attending turning his attention back to you from across the room as you eagerly talked to Mel and Robby.

“Was thinking about asking Robby to go ring shopping with me this weekend” he admitted softly “Scale of 1-10 how bad of an idea is that”

“Not where I thought this story was going but love is love so I support-“ now it was Jack’s turn to silence Dana with a glare, the charge nurse enjoying way too much the way the tips of his ears colored at the admission.

“a seven” she mused with a shrug, turning her attention back to you as you finally said goodbye to the two doctors “maybe a six” she let the silence settle around them and watched as Jack eyed her with a skeptical glare from her periphery “invite me along and I can keep it below a three”

Jack studied her for a second, crossing his arms over his chest before nodding softly “done”

Dana fought to keep the grin off her face as Robby finally started to make his way towards the two of them, Jack catching him slipping an awfully familiar looking protein bar into the pocket of his sweatshirt “Jesus how many of those does she have”

Robby shrugged with a chuckle, eyes casting up to the board above the desk as he did so “she mentioned something about having extra chocolate ones”

“I saw her slipping Santos bags of trail mix earlier if you’d prefer that” Dana chimed in with a smirk as Jack huffed dramatically.

“did everyone get to talk to her but me this morning?”

“You get her every day, stop being so selfish” Robby clasped his shoulder with a smug grin, giving it a soft shake.

 “Selfish” Jack repeated under his breath with a shake of his head, eyes going up to the board to pick out his next case as he did so “god forbid I want to spend time with my future wife”

He hadn’t even realized he said it out loud until the Pitt around him seemed to go unnaturally quiet. Casting his gaze back down he caught Robby and Dana sharing pointed, amused looks before turning their teasing grins back on him.

All he could get out was a simple “no” before he was storming off to the closest room, refusing to acknowledge the way Robby yelled out a threat after him “We will be talking about this later”

[abbotjack]

˚. ྀིྀི୧❤︎୨ ྀིྀི.˚ We know Jack writes letters.

They're the kind Robby can’t read all the way through without stepping outside to gather himself. The kind that cut clean and simple, because Jack doesn’t waste words—he means them.

So when he falls in love, of course he writes.

He works nights. You work days. It wasn’t supposed to be a big deal—just a few missed dinners, a couple uneven weekends. But two years in, it’s become a rhythm neither of you like but both of you have learned how to survive. You brush your teeth while he’s lacing up his boots. He lets the microwave run too long reheating the dinner you left him. The sheets are always warm, but it’s rare you’re both in them at the same time.

You see him in fragments.

A half-empty beer left by the sink. His stethoscope on the kitchen chair. The smell of soap and hospital antiseptic lingering in the bathroom when you step out of the shower. Sometimes, if you’re lucky, you catch him in the doorway before you head out and he gets home—eyes heavy, jaw dark with stubble, scrubs wrinkled. He kisses your forehead like he’s apologizing for the hours he missed.

But then there are the letters.

Tucked in the pocket of your coat. Folded into your planner between work notes and receipts. Once, wedged between the pages of the book you keep meaning to finish, like he knew you’d open it eventually.

They’re never long—just a paragraph or two, scribbled on the back of supply sheets or crumpled chart printouts, whatever scrap he could grab between calls. The handwriting is always the same: rushed, uneven, slanted like he was writing too fast to second-guess himself. He never rewrites them. Never polishes a word. And at the bottom, always that quiet little “—J,” like he’s hesitant to leave too much of himself behind.

“Didn’t sleep today. Kept thinking about the way you were breathing last night, arm over your face like you were shielding yourself from something. I should’ve held you. I’m sorry I didn’t.”

“No letter tonight. Just wanted to leave a note saying I need to be near you. Wake me when you get in. Please.”

“You said something in the mirror yesterday—something about looking tired. I didn’t say anything then, but: You are beautiful. Even when you forget. Especially then.”

“There’s a receipt in your car from our favorite place. You went without me. I’m not mad. Just—next time, bring back fries. Or lie better.”

“You leave your rings on the counter and every time I see them, I think, ‘she came home.’ I don’t think you know how much that matters to me.”

“The plant you named after me is dying. Water it. Or don’t. I get it. But if it survives, I’ll take it as a sign you still love me.”

“You left the light on. Again. Which should annoy me. It doesn’t. The apartment feels like you were just here. Sometimes that’s all I need.”

“Tried to be quiet when I left. Still knocked over the shampoo bottle. Sorry. You flinched but didn’t wake up. I whispered goodbye anyway. It felt wrong not to.”

“You made the grocery list and wrote ‘Jack’s weird yogurt’ like I don’t have a brand. You’re lucky you’re pretty.”

"Tonight was rough. Lost one. Didn’t want to bring it home with me, but I needed to tell you I love you anyway."

“You were talking in your sleep again. Said something about stealing a goat. If I come home and there’s a goat in the yard, I’m not asking questions. I’ll just name it.”

“You asked me last night if I’d still love you if I was a worm. I said no. You hit me with a pillow. I’ve revised my answer.”

“You bought four new throw pillows. We now have eleven pillows on a three-seat couch. I have nowhere to sit. I love you anyway.”

“You said you felt off today. Didn’t tell me what that meant. Just curled up under the blanket and didn’t talk much. I stayed quiet too. I just wanted you to know I noticed.”

“You made the bed this morning. I know you were late. You didn’t do it for you. You did it for me. I love you.”

You keep them all. Pressed flat in a shoebox under your bed, like tiny pieces of him that can’t fade with time. Some of them still smell like antiseptic and worn leather and faint traces of his cologne. Sometimes you reread them when the loneliness sneaks in, when the hours between seeing him stretch too long.

And the thing is—he never asks if you read them. He doesn’t bring them up. It’s not about the response. It’s not even about being heard.

It’s about leaving something behind.

A thread. A trace. A heartbeat in your drawer when he can’t be in your bed.

Because Jack Abbot may not say I love you in the hallway or across a crowded kitchen—but he’ll write it. Every damn time.

And he knows you’ll find it when you need it most.

[piratesexmachine420]

> be me > dumbass > barely graduate high school > decide to enlist in the army 'cause I don't know what to do with my life > spend six weeks in training, then immediately deployed to Europa > shitshitshit.jpg > it's exactly as bad as you think it is > war is hell and hell has frozen over > get dumped into this trench complex in Arran Chaos defending a big ice harvesting operation > "p-something ice extraction and research"

> founded by some big tech guy on Earth apparently > most of us are stationed around their big office building instead of the ice fields > whatever at least it breaks up the horizon > nothing around but ice and rocks and our trenches and the other guys' trenches and bodies and stars > can't even see Jupiter > fuckingcomeon.ogg > they've got this big sign with their logo a hundred yards or so from the entrance > just a bunch of big metal letters > theyre like two feet high each > that's where they've got me and this dude kyle camping out > only thing between us and the...*other guys* are some sandbags and the aforementioned bigass metal letters > plus my MA-75 and my heatsuit and kyle and his heatsuit and his MA-75

> not that the heatsuits are worth much > coldasfuckhere.xlsx > can't even stay above 280 kelvin > i think that's something like fifty degrees fahrenheit > feels like thirty > whatever at least we just have to sit here and not get shot > direct quote from the lieutenant > nobody is willing to leave their trenches so it's mostly just sitting around waiting to get sniped > not much to really do but shoot the shit complain about the cold and eat the mres in our heatsuits > so we do > kyle is cool > i like kyle > we alternate twelve-hour shifts so we only chat when the other is supposed to be sleeping

> but sleeping is hard and talking is easy > kyle deployed the week before me > was stationed here alone until i showed up > begs the question why we're defending this fucking sign if they know its worth leaving unguarded half the time > why the hell aren't we out in the ice fields > why the hell are we fighting over ice in the first place > sign's probably more valuable by weight > kyle laughs > we talk about our home lives for a while > neither of us did much interesting > kyle's mom was really into astrology apparently > we start trying to name constellations > i'm no good at it > he tells me hes gonna finally try to get some shuteye > and leans into me > for warmth, probably

> the heatsuits don't conduct much but it feels good anyway > start to doze off myself > fuck this sign and fuck this building and fuck this moon i'll do whatever i want > set down my rifle and wrap my arms around kyle > for warmth, probably > fall asleep > dream of california and beach volleyball > wake up groggy > really groggy > something hurts > my head?

> something...a sound > theres a loud sound > it keeps going and going and... > fuck > its the heatsuit's oxygen alarm > struggle to sit upright > something heavy on me > its kyle > he's not moving > take stock of my surroundings > shrapnel everywhere > don't see oxygen tank > or our umbilicals > heatsuit's switched to a backup but it's leaking > there's this film of red ice everywhere > ... > kyle...

> i roll him over and there are so many holes > glance over the sandbags > see a glint from a distant trench > duck down and hear something hit the ice behind me > fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck > FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK > rage > grab my rifle and start spraying over the barrier > no response > probably didnt hit him but id like to think i did > oxygen is running out > goodbye hell world > close eyes for second time today > dream of nothing > wake up groggy again > in field hospital

> goddammit > whole thing was captured by a satellite > so they sent a patrol to go recover our equipment > im lucky to be alive they say > sure > end up spending a sol in the hospital > they ship me back to the sign after that > same rifle and even the same heatsuit > bastards didnt even clean it off its still got his blood on it > still not sure what the objective of this post even is > alone > freezing my ass off > too cold > cant sleep > too much blood > spend a couple sols half-awake sprawled face-down in the ice > not gonna hit me again

> eventually rotate back to the fob for a sol > sign is unguarded the whole time > what am i even doing here > skulk around the barracks for a while > overhear that a big inspection of the ice company's facilities is coming up in the next couple sols > gonna be a big push among the grunts to clear out the snipers so the bigwigs can check the place out > everybody is writing letters home for when they dont come back > i, of course, am being sent back alone to the fucking sign > lieutenant tells me that if my station isn't up to spec they're sending my ass to callanish to die painfully > direct quote

> fine > decide im sick and tired of being so goddamned cold out there though > talk to the fob quartermaster about taking a heat lamp into the field > he tells me its too dangerous with all the thermal optics the enemy is using > i tell him he can have my next ten sol's pay > he hands over the lamp > hell if im gonna last that long out here

> rotate back to the sign > heat lamp makes things more tolerable but its a big battery-powered thing so i cant keep it on all the time > spend another sol lying flat on the ice > pick out a star near orion and name it kyle > maybe ten minutes before the inspectors show up i just wig out > start yelling and throwing things > knock over part of the sign > the big letter 'I' > fuck it and fuck the ice it stands for and fuck me > calm down > inspectors are gonna be here any minute now

> fuck i dont wanna go to callanish > i dont wanna die > i dont wanna die > i dont wanna die > i dont wanna die > i dont wanna die > try to stand the sign back up > wont stay upright > shitshitshit > hide the letter under a tarp > look around for something to replace it > grab the heat lamp > MFW I'm Pixar

[osarina]

ᡣ𐭩 I'LL TAKE THE NIGHT SHIFT

FEATURING: dazai osamu

SUMMARY: now that the chaos following the aftermath of the decay of angel incident has settled, mori intends on making good on the deal he made with the armed detective agency. and you have a very important decision to make.

(wordcount: 13.4k, fem!reader, port mafia executive!reader, angst with a happy ending (if u can believe it!!), port mafia business, a bit of arguing, depictions of dazai's depression, unedited.)

AUTHOR'S NOTES: one last age 22 fic before your girl goes on a slight break. the ada/pm swap YAYYYY, it honestly came out a lot less intense then i intended, and the happy ending was originally not supposed to happen BUT i think it's well-deserved for age 22 pmreader & dazai. they are grown now, and the whole theme of their reconcillation at 22 is that they're actually WORKING to make this work, so i thought it would be an injustice to not let this one end happily. ANYWAY, on another note, don't expect any fics from me in may! i'm going to be cracking down on civzai2 so i can have it ready to post for june! i hope you guys enjoy! reblogs appreciated!

Your phone has been ringing for the past twenty minutes.

You know it’s Mori frustrated at your absence, trying to call an executive meeting to discuss the upcoming parley with the Armed Detective Agency, where the Port Mafia will be taking one of theirs to drag into the dark. He can wait for all you care, you sigh as you lean back on your hands, the wind ruffling your hair as you look down into the window of the building before you.

You don’t know what you’re doing here.

You watch with a heavy, unwelcome feeling in your chest as Dazai laughs wildly at something a vaguely familiar man with purple and white hair says. The man looks distinctly put out by whatever Dazai is laughing at, as one usually is whenever Dazai is laughing because nine times out of ten, he’s laughing at someone else's expense. The other members of the Agency are hanging around too. You see the uptight blonde, Kunikida, pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose. Mori’s favorite, Yosano, sits on his desk cackling, slapping Kunikida’s shoulder. The weretiger has his face buried in his arms, hiding himself from the world, while the other traitor, the girl that Kouyou obsesses over, hovers over him. There are others you don’t recognize, but they don’t really matter to you.

Only one does.

You don’t think you’ve ever seen him like this before. You’ve seen Dazai laugh countless times—snorts that he hides in your shoulder, mocking jeers as he taunts Chuuya, muffled snickers that he tries to bite back when he’s caught by surprise—but you don’t think you’ve ever seen this type of carefree, reckless happiness before. The corners of his eyes crinkle in a way that’s so genuine that you almost question whether or not you’re looking at Dazai Osamu or some lookalike imposter who has stolen his place; he laughs so hard that he looks like he’s struggling to breathe, doubling over and slapping the desk he’s sitting at.

He’s never looked so at home before. So comfortable. Even with you back before he defected, when you guys were alone with no one else to bear witness, he couldn’t rid himself of all of the protective layers he wears, he couldn’t let himself be at ease. He never fully let his guard down, not even for a second, not even for you.

Well, that’s not entirely true. He did a few times, but you can count them on one hand, and they were never by his own choice—only when he was pushed too far, when his mind caved in on him no matter how hard he tried to weld together the cracks in the dam. 

It wasn’t like this.

“He looks happy, doesn’t he?” you ask quietly as soon as you feel the familiar presence behind you.

“Why the fuck are you torturing yourself with this?” Nakahara Chuuya’s gruff voice meets your ears, the roof shaking behind you as he lands on top of it. You hear him make his way over to you, but you don’t turn to look at him.

“I’ve never seen him like this before,” you admit, letting the pain seep into your voice to the only person whom you can trust not to use it against you. “When he told me Oda Sakunosuke’s final request, I doubted him… not that I was going to let him know that… but he really has changed, hasn’t he? You see it too, don’t you?” 

Chuuya lets out a noise caught between doubt and amusement. “Wouldn’t be too sure. Y’know what they say about tigers and stripes.”

“Don’t be bitter, Chuuya, it’s an ugly look on you,” you say dryly, eyes following Dazai as he pushes himself to his feet, dancing away as the purple-haired man tries to whack him. Your lips curl up into a small smile when you see the genuine glee painted on his face. “He’s changed. We, of all people, should be able to see that.”

“I’m not bitter,” Chuuya says roughly, “and if I was, I have every damn right to be. So do you. More than me, even. How the fuck can you see him living his best life and not be bitter? After what he did to us? To you?”

“Bitterness ages the skin, it’s probably why you’ve started developing wrinkles at the ripe age of twenty-two,” you quip, just to hear the aggravated noise that Chuuya lets out.

“I do not have fucking wrinkles, quit saying that shit,” Chuuya complains, flicking the back of your head hard. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“Purposely,” you note, but then let out a soft puff of air. “I don’t know, Chuuya. I thought I would be bitter and angry. Sometimes, I still am. When I’m alone, usually drunk, I resent him so much that it makes me sick, but then…”

Then you see him. 

You see him happy. You see him surrounded by people who love him. You see him thriving in a way that he’d never be able to in the Port Mafia. Every day that passed while he was there, he somehow became darker and colder; less human, and more of an unfathomable concept. You could see it in his face when he would come home to your apartment, eyes empty and expression blank. His blood ran darker than anyone else’s in those towers, his mind a treacherous place that few would dare to even think of treading or even just understanding. He was never Dazai back then, he was the Port Mafia’s youngest executive, the Black Wraith, Mori’s heir. He was something to be feared and admired. He was the Mafia, everything it stood for, its incarnate. He was not Dazai. 

Not like how he is now.

You told him you forgave him when he showed up at your apartment three months ago, and you knew you meant it then, but you didn’t realize how much you meant it until now.

“He never fucking deserved you,” Chuuya says so quietly that you think he’s talking more to himself than you. Before you can comment on his words, he speaks up again, changing the subject: “Let’s get out of here. Mori sent me to come get you.”

You sigh, eyes lingering on Dazai for a moment longer before you finally turn to look at Chuuya. Despite the rough edge to his voice, you can see the concern plain on his face as he looks down at you, brows furrowed and lips curved down. He holds a gloved hand out to you, and you sigh as you place yours in it, letting him lift you to your feet. You wobble a bit, but he steadies you with a hand to your waist.

“Thanks,” you say quietly and then give him a small smile that has his eyes narrowing in suspicion instantly.

“Whatever it is, the answer is no.”

“What if I say pretty please?” you offer, linking your hands behind your back as you tilt your head to the side.

“Stop tryna look cute. You’re not cute,” Chuuya scowls, and you scowl right back at him, dropping the act. “What do you want?” 

“Can you stall Mori for another… hour-ish?” you ask with a sweet smile.

Chuuya's face drops as he stares at you, and your eyes turn up as your smile widens. After a few moments of him just staring at you, as if trying to figure out if you’re being legit, he lets out a sigh of utter suffering. “You fucking owe me, you understand? That ‘45 Conti is going back up on the auction in New York in two weeks. I want it.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll get you your fancy wine, Chuuya,” you agree, leaning in to brush your lips against his cheek. “You’re the best.”

He scoffs and rolls his eyes, but you see the way his cheeks heat up. “Whatever,” he mutters. “What’re you even doing that’s so important? You’re not usually one to hold up meetings like this.”

You sigh lightly, gaze tracking back to the window to where Dazai is leaning into the weretiger, trying to use him as a human shield. He laughs again, tossing his head back and jumping away, throwing a pen at Kunikida as the man tries to swipe him, and your throat feels a bit swollen, your heart tight. Not with jealousy or bitterness, but rather with content because four years ago, you never would have been able to picture something like this.

“I… have a decision I need to make before the meeting,” you finally tell Chuuya, voice a bit hesitant.

Chuuya gives you a long look, a heavy one, as if he knows exactly what decision you’re trying to make. You think that he probably does.

“I hope you make the right choice,” he says quietly.

“Yeah… I hope so too.”

---

It’s a Saturday afternoon, and the graveyard on the west side of the city is unusually busy—it’s just your luck, truly. There’s a distasteful expression on your face as your gaze traces across the mourners as they visit their lost loved ones. You’ve never liked graveyards; you can count the number of times you’ve been to them on one hand. Being here reminds you too much of a past you can’t remember—even though the corpses are buried well below the ground, the scent of rot somehow still finds its way to you, smothering and nauseating. 

“What the hell are we doing here?” Klaus asks from next to you, looking distinctly uncomfortable. “This place is creepy.”

“What do you think we’re doing here?” you ask dryly, resting your head against the cool window as your driver takes you down a dirt path leading to a more secluded part of the cemetery, toward the grave you’re seeking.

Klaus pauses and then offers, “Meeting an informant?” 

You roll your eyes. “We are visiting a grave.”

Klaus is clearly offended by your tone. “Forgive me, damn, it’s not like you’ve ever been sentimental before.”

“I guess there’s a first time for everything,” you say flatly, although sentiments are the last thing that drew you to this place—resentment is far more fitting.

“Riiiiiight,” Klaus drawls like he doesn’t actually believe you. “Are we going to be here long? Cemeteries give me the heebie-jeebies.”

“What the fuck is a heebie-jeebie?” you ask, turning your head to look at him so you can shoot him a strange expression.

“Seriously?” Klaus asks, blinking. “You’ve never heard that expression before?”

Your squinted gaze lingers on him for a second before the driver rolls to a stop in front of the small hill leading up to the grave you’re looking to visit. You shake your head and roll your eyes again as you step out of the car, instinctively holding your breath the moment the cemetery air reaches you. You have to force yourself to breathe, hoping you don’t look as uncomfortable as you feel. Your fingers tighten around the small bundle of petunias in your left hand.

“Isn’t that—” Klaus begins, frowning at the figure standing in front of the grave.

“Stay by the car,” you order as you make your way forward.

“But—”

“That’s an order, Klaus.”

You hear him sigh in irritation, displeased by your words, but he listens. Each step up to the grave is agonizing—you want to turn on your heel and leave, but you’ve already come too far to do that. Plus, it would feel like a wound to your pride now that he’s seen you.

“You’re the last person I expected to see here,” Sakaguchi Ango greets once you’ve come close enough. He looks down at the bundle of flowers in your hand curiously. “Especially with those.”

“It’s rude to approach someone’s resting site without a gift,” you reply blandly, brushing past him to kneel in front of Oda Sakunosuke’s grave, eyes lingering on the mossy cobblestone before you place the petunias down in front of it. “I have something I need to say, that’s all.”

“Not to me, I presume,” Sakaguchi replies, amused with himself. 

You’re not quite as amused.

“You’re lucky I don’t put a bullet through your head, traitor,” you murmur, giving the older man a cold look from the corner of your eye. “You’re lucky I don’t do worse.”

“Hah,” Sakaguchi says, pushing up his glasses—a nervous tick that makes your lips curl up. “You know, I never personally saw what you do to traitors, but I heard rumors through the grapevine. They say the executions you handled were more barbaric than Dazai-kun’s and Nakahara Chuuya’s combined. I found it hard to believe.”

A humorless smile rests on your lips as you stare at the grave in front of you. A necessary price—you don’t have an ability like Chuuya’s or a reputation like Dazai’s. Once it became clear you were in the running for the next open executive seat, you had to prove you were more than just Mori’s daughter. That the position should be yours and it wasn’t because of nepotism, and it wasn’t because you spread your legs for Double Black, as people liked to whisper back then. The easiest way of proving that was to make an example out of people, and with an ability like yours, it was easy to shatter a man’s mind before putting him in the grave.

“Chuuya’s never liked playing with his toys, and Dazai got bored with them long before I ever did,” you say absently, looking over your shoulder to focus your gaze on him. “I don’t get bored until they break.”

Sakaguchi’s throat bobs, and you watch his hand slip into his pocket—surely getting ready to send some sort of signal to his friends in the government.

“Relax,” you say easily, sitting back on your heels. “I don’t disrespect the dead—not even him. I wouldn’t do anything here.”

“How reassuring,” Sakaguchi scoffs, but his hand drops back to his side. “What on earth do you have to say to a man that’s been dead for four years?”

His voice wavers strangely—he’s defensive and in pain all at the same time, like he has some urge to shield a dead man from whatever words you want to speak to him, but it hurts him to admit he’s gone all the same. Rich, considering you’re pretty sure the man played a part in his death.

“I could ask you the same.”

“That’s different,” Sakaguchi says tightly.

“Is it?” you ask, amused.

“It is.”

You let out a puff of air, but the smile on your lips doesn’t reach your eyes. “Leave so I can say my piece. I don’t want to be here longer than I have to be.”

Sakaguchi doesn’t respond, but you hear him walk away. He goes far enough that he’s out of earshot of you, but he lingers close, which tells you that he has more to say to you, much to your displeasure.

You inhale slowly, eyes fluttering shut as you try to figure out what exactly you want to say. You tossed the words through your head the whole ride here, but now that you’re actually before the grave of the man you intended to speak them to, you find yourself at a loss.

“You… cannot fathom how deep my hatred of you runs,” you finally say, voice quiet. You swallow thickly, tongue pressing against the back of your teeth as you try to quell your rising resentment. “You’re the reason Dazai left me. You’re the reason he’s going to spend his life chasing after a goal he’ll always see as unattainable. You’re the reason that he’ll never let himself be at peace. You ruined him.”

You take in a shaky breath, blinking away the tears that suddenly sting at your eyes. “You saved him,” you correct after a moment, voice cracking. “I’ve never seen him as happy as he is now—not with you and Sakaguchi, not with Chuuya, not with me. You… wouldn’t believe how much he’s thrived in the light, or maybe you would, I don’t know. Maybe you saw something in him back then that I couldn’t, but I see it now. You would be proud of him… I’m proud of him.”

You exhale, shoulders slumping as you look down at the ground. “The President of the Agency made a deal with Mori—one member in exchange for protection when they needed it. Mori wants Dazai,” you say bitterly. You know that Fukuzawa shielded Yosano, and it makes you sick with rage that he didn’t do the same for Dazai. “I’ll… do whatever it takes to make sure it’s not him, but in return, you’re going to give him a sign that you’re proud of how far he’s come, understood? He can’t see it for himself, and I know he doesn’t fully believe me when I tell him, but he’d believe you. So find a way. You owe me that much.”

You feel crazy talking to a grave—Mori is a man of science, he’s never been religious, but Itou believed that the dead lingered, whether it was because of unfinished business or they just needed to see their loved ones some more, to protect them from the other side. You never really cared to hear his supernatural nonsense back when he was alive, but now you cling to it in hopes that maybe he’s still watching you, guiding you along the right path.

The wind picks up a little, and you swear you feel a brief warmth settle on your right shoulder—it’s probably just your imagination, but you’ll let yourself believe it’s Oda agreeing to your deal.

You rise to your feet with another shaky sigh. 

“Goodbye, Oda,” you murmur, throat tightening as you think back to the man who wanted you to come by his place to talk to the young girl he took in because he wanted her to have a strong woman to look up to—the only person who ever acknowledged how hard you worked to keep your place in the upper echelon. “One day, we’ll meet again. Hopefully not anytime soon.”

Without another word, you turn on your heel to leave, pointedly ignoring Sakaguchi when he tries to intercept you, walking straight past him back toward the car you came in.

“Do you know who he plans to choose?” Sakaguchi calls after you, voice wavering.

You don’t stop for him, but you say quietly, “I know who it won’t be.”

---

“Thank you for finally joining us,” Mori says dryly as you step into the conference room where all of the rest of the executives were waiting for you. “We’ve only been waiting for over an hour. Chuuya-kun has been trying to keep our attention on… office issues, I figured he was only trying to buy more time for you.”

Chuuya’ face reddens. “I don’t like the paper we write our reports on,” he says immediately, doubling down on whatever bullshit he’d been spewing to stall for you. “It’s too thick.”

“Right,” Mori agrees with a thin smile. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Chuuya rubs the back of his neck and gives you a helpless look once Mori turns his attention back on you, but you don’t speak, staring down at the older man with an unreadable expression. You’d been wondering why he was so lackadaisical about filling Ace’s executive position—he blew you off every time you tried to bring it up. 

This was why. He didn’t need to fill it if he was just going to drag Dazai back and sit him in it.

You don’t say anything as you take your seat across from him at the executive table. He watches you curiously, like he has a feeling that you’re going to make things difficult for him today. He rests his elbows on the table, lacing his fingers together and resting his chin on top of them as his eyes drift between his four executives.

“I think it’s about time we call in on the debt that the Armed Detective Agency owes us, don’t you think?” he hums. “I, of course, have my ideas on who we should bring over, but I would like to hear your opinions.”

Verlaine waves his hand dismissively. “We all know who is coming back,” he says. “It’s best we keep this short so that I can go back down and prepare for when the Clocktower finally decides to make its move.”

“That boy is the only logical option,” Kouyou agrees flippantly, fanning herself as she leans back in her seat. “It’s best we get this over with.”

Chuuya looks distinctly uncomfortable, but he only averts his gaze to the table. You’re not actually sure what his opinion is on all of this—he could want Dazai back for all you know. He can’t safely use Corruption without him, can’t access the full extent of his ability, and you know Chuuya doesn’t like using Corruption, but he also doesn’t like the fact that he doesn’t even have the option of being able to use it. The two of you have talked about seeing if you could use your ability to put Arahabaki to sleep, but it’s all been theoretical; neither of you wants to risk actually trying it when there’s a chance it might not work.

“If you bring Dazai back to the Port Mafia, you may as well execute me now.”

Chuuya’s head snaps toward you, eyes wide, and Kouyou pauses mid-fan to look at you. Verlaine doesn’t react other than a slight raise of his eyebrows, but Mori’s lips curl up, amused.

“Oh?” he questions, “and here I thought you would be the most excited to have Dazai-kun back.”

“I don’t want him back here,” you reply flatly. “Bringing him back here when he doesn’t want to be here might as well be shooting us in the foot. He’ll work from the inside against us out of spite. I’m not going to sit here and watch while you make a decision that will cripple us. If he comes back, I will leave.”

Curiously, Mori tilts his head to the side, entertained by your words. “An ultimatum. You can’t possibly think that you’re worth more to me than Dazai-kun.”

You don’t think Mori means that. He likes saying things to get under your skin, he likes seeing how far he can push you until you snap, and nothing gets under your skin more than the idea of you being a second or third-choice to him. This time, though, you only hit him with the same amused smile he gives you.

“I know I don’t compare to either of your precious proteges,” you say, leaning back in your seat, and then pass the manila folder in your hand across the table to him. He looks down at it and then raises his eyebrows at you before humoring you, opening the folder to flip through the contents. You watch as his smile slowly falls as his eyes scan the profiles of six crime lords inside. “But you don’t think you’d be losing just me, do you?”

Oddly enough, Mori’s eyes gleam in delight at your words. “Is that so?” 

You exhale as you choose your words carefully. “Goldoni doesn't like you, Mori. He’s caught between the Port Mafia and the Order of the Clocktower, and it would be much easier for him to make peace with the Clocktower considering they’re on his border. The only reason why he chooses us is because of my friendship with him. Mishima might not outright betray you, but he’ll slowly start withdrawing support when you ask for it once he finds out that I’ve left. I was the one who helped Qu Yuan get her brother back from Cao Xueqin when the two organizations were on the brink of war. I was the one who made sure Paz got his foothold in the central U.S. while the Guild was here. I was the one who acted as the mediator for Nabokov when Bulgakov and the White Guard threatened to come down on the Pale Flame—he even gifted me his strongest ability user for it, offered me a permanent spot in St. Petersburg with him.”

Mori doesn’t immediately respond, squinting at you slightly as he listens to you speak. Kouyou looks between the two of you with an unreadable expression. Chuuya looks sick. Verlaine just looks like he wants to go back to his office.

“And you don’t need me to explain what Tolstoy would do if I asked him to,” you finish quietly. “He would do anything for me. He’s who I would go to after I leave here. He would give me an executive position, and in return, I would give him Japan.”

Kouyou says your name, aghast, but you ignore her.

“Without my connections, you lose your foothold in the government, you lose all of your major allies—you will be pushed out of Japan, and I would help him hunt you down to whatever dark crevice of the earth you try to hide in,” you continue, leaning forward. “You know better than anyone that I have the means of doing it.”

“The means, maybe,” Mori agrees, closing the folder to look up at you. Though his expression is serious, you can see the way his eyes gleam, like he’s pleased with the sudden turn of events. “But perhaps not the will.”

Your eyes narrow. “You think I’m bluffing.”

Mori shrugs, tapping his fingers against the closed folder. “I think you’re angry—anger is a fire that burns hot, but short. You’ve invested too much in this organization to truly walk away, let alone betray it. And you and I have been through far too much together, my dear.”

Your throat tightens at the reminder of your past with Mori, but you only raise your chin so as not to let the discomfort show on your face.

Chuuya exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. "Boss—"

But Mori lifts a hand, silencing him. “That’s not to say your threats are without weight,” he continues, tilting his head. “The depth of your connections is impressive, your influence undeniable. You’ve built something that hinges on your continued existence here. I recognize that.”

“I’m not the same girl I was back then,” you say, lips tightening. “I know my worth, no matter what you do to try to make me feel it’s less. You can’t afford to lose me—try to call my bluff. I dare you.”

Mori hums, resting his chin on his hand as he observes you, violet eyes glittering. “No, you’re not. That girl would have never had the guts to stand against me like this.”

You don’t reply to that. The tension in the conference room becomes stifling as the two of you stare at each other, each waiting for the other to concede.

“You should know by now,” he finally says smoothly, “that I don’t deal in ultimatums. I deal in opportunities. So tell me—who do you propose we take instead of Dazai-kun? There is no one there with equal value.”

This is it, you think, regret swelling in your throat as you meet Mori’s gaze head-on. There’s no coming back from this, and there’s no forgiveness for it. Dazai will resent you for this as long as he lives.

“Nakajima,” you reply after a moment. “The tiger.”

Mori stares at you for a moment, eyes widening slightly. All three of the other executives turn to look at you in shock, and you stiffen when Mori suddenly laughs. It’s a bright and amused laugh, one that tells you he’s genuinely surprised by your answer, delighted by it even. His hand flies to his mouth to smother his giggles, but his shoulders continue to shake as he slowly calms down.

“And I would argue that he’s more valuable than Dazai,” you say once he’s mostly quieted down. Mori raises his eyebrows, entertained, but nods for you to explain. “Every conflict Yokohama has seen over the past six months has been centered around him. The Guild had a bounty worth seven billion yen on him and started a full-blown war for him, destroying their organization. Dostoevsky and the House of the Dead and the Decay of the Angel were hyper-focused on getting their hands on him. According to Akutagawa’s reports from the conflict between him, Atsushi, Dostoevsky, and Fukuchi, Dostoevsky spoke of him being connected to the reality-altering book that’s apparently here in Yokohama. And I know damn well Christie is coming for it, and him, too. If we can get our hands on him and understand what exactly his connection is with that book, we might be able to get ahead of the imminent conflict with the Clocktower. I trust I don’t need to explain just how destructive it will be if it happens in the heart of our territory.”

Mori’s amusement fades, and none of the other executives reply, so you take it as an opportunity to drive the point home.

“Okay, I will explain then,” you continue flatly. “The Order of the Clocktower is a British state organization. They’re not part of the underground—not really—and they’re not a simple secret society like the Guild. They are backed and empowered by the English government, and the English government is backed and empowered by the entire Western world. If Agatha Christie gets her way, it won’t just be the Order of the Clocktower on our doorstep, it’ll be the American AASF and the French SFCCA—”

“That would start a military conflict with our government—” Kouyou starts to disagree, shaking her head.

“No, it wouldn’t, because Christie will call a meeting with our Prime Minister first. She'll frame the situation in a way that makes us the sole target of the military operations. They’ll say we’ve gotten our hands on an artifact that could alter the very fabric of reality, and because of it, we’re a major global threat. They’ll use the incident with the Decay of the Angel as an example and claim we used that book to bring back our members who were lost to the vampire virus and the detectives who were killed by Fukuchi.—it doesn't matter if it's not true because it'll be believable. They’ll back him into a corner to where he would either have to agree or be deemed just as much of a global threat as us, and when he agrees, we’re going to be facing the full military force of the entire Western world. How exactly do you think that is going to turn out for us?” 

“It’s all ‘what ifs,’” Kouyou says, raising her chin. “How are you so sure that’s what Christie will do?” 

Your gaze slides to the side to focus on her. “Because that’s what I would do. Christie is a political monster, more than I am, even. She won’t make mistakes—she’s going to keep her hands squeaky clean on the legal front.”

“There are still holes,” Chuuya says, leaning forward on the table to look at you. “Yeah, they could say we used it to bring back our members, but we could tell them that Stoker just canceled his ability. And there’s no proof that the detectives were killed—the only people that know that are the detectives themselves, who aren’t going to give themselves up like that, Fukuchi, who is dead, and…”

Chuuya’s expression suddenly shifts. He sits up right, gaze focusing on you. “You don’t think Dostoevsky is dead,” he realizes quietly. “Did you hear something?” 

“Not only do I not think he’s dead, but I would bet my life he’s with Christie right now in England planning out their next attack,” you say quietly. “It’s going to come soon—they know we don’t have that book yet, and they know Nakajima still doesn’t understand his ability. They need to make their move before we get any closer to finding it, because they know once one side gets their hands on it, it’s game over. Our best chance of finding that book is through Nakajima, and that’s why he needs to be the one brought over here. The Agency’s President gives him control over his ability, but not understanding—he needs to understand his ability so that we can understand his connection to that book, so we can find it before we’re getting fucked by the West’s military.”

Mori lets out a long breath, rubbing at his face as he leans back in his chair. “I have a lot to consider,” he says tightly, waving the four of you off. “Go. Meeting dismissed.”

Verlaine is the first out of the room—he always is—but he gives you a long look as he leaves, signaling to you that he’s going to want to talk to you soon. You sigh, but nod at him before he heads out. Kouyou is the next out, a grimace on her face and her shoulders a bit too tense as she makes her way out of the room. Chuuya waits for you at the door, leaning against the frame as you rise to your feet to leave.

When you turn your back to Mori, he finally speaks up. You knew he would. “You understand that he’ll never forgive you for being the reason his precious protege is dragged into the dark.”

He speaks the last two words mockingly, you don’t have to look at him to see the amused expression on his face.

“I understand,” you murmur, ignoring Chuuya’s heavy gaze. “I didn’t make my decision lightly. Nakajima is the best option for the Port Mafia.”

You make your way over to Chuuya, freezing when Mori speaks again, “Do you know why I’ve always held Dazai-kun and Yosano-kun in higher regard than you?”

You stiffen, ignoring how Chuuya looks away, pretending he can’t hear the conversation between you and Mori. A part of you wants to just walk away—you don’t need to deal with him taunting you right now, but you know he’s not going to let you leave until he’s made whatever point he wants to make.

“Why is that?” you ask tightly.

“It’s because they think for themselves. They take the initiative. You follow orders like a loyal dog, good for a lot of things, but not what I want,” Mori says casually. Your jaw tightens—like he didn’t make you this way, you think bitterly, but bite your tongue. “I’m glad to see you finally taking a step out of your shell, my dear. Fascinating that it only took threatening Dazai-kun for it to happen. I do wonder how far you will go to preserve his light.”

 You stiffen, gaze snapping to the side to focus on Mori, but he only gives you an easy smile in return, violet eyes glittering maliciously.

“I’m eager to find out,” he murmurs, before waving his hand dismissively. “Go. I’ll consider your alternative.”

You exhale sharply, head snapping back to look in front of you as you storm out of his office and into the hallway. Chuuya lets the door shut behind the two of you, reaching out to grab your wrist before you can get too far. He pulls you back toward him, forcing you to face him. His gaze is concerned as he looks down at you, a frown tugging at his lips.

“Are you okay?” he asks quietly.

“I’m great,” you reply sarcastically, giving him an apologetic look when irritation flickers across his face. “He’s going to hate me, Chuuya.”

“Nakajima might not even be the one chosen,” Chuuya says. “The boss has been set on that bandaged freak. You know that.”

“Well then I’m dead,” you say with a tight smile. “I literally just announced my plans to betray the Mafia if Dazai is chosen. Kouyou will execute me on the spot.”

Chuuya’s expression darkens, and his voice is low as he promises, “I won’t let that happen.”

“Then you’ll be a traitor too,” you say airly. “Is that what you want?”

Chuuya doesn’t like the idea of that, you can tell from the way his face twists, but he doesn’t waver. Instead, he says again, “I won’t let that happen.”

Your throat tightens as you swallow, and Chuuya’s expression softens. He glances down the hall quickly to make sure nobody is around, and then he steps forward, reaching out to wrap an arm around you, cradling the back of your head as he pulls you close to him. You let out a shaky breath as you bury your face in the crook of his neck, arms hanging limp at your side.

“What are you going to do now?” he asks quietly.

“I don’t know,” you reply, voice wavering. “Go to him, maybe. It’ll probably be my last chance.”

“Don’t say that,” Chuuya murmurs. “The bastard loves you. He always has—”

“And I’m repaying his love with betrayal, Chuuya,” you interrupt tightly. “This isn’t just us being on opposite sides. I put his protege—the kid that he saved—up on the chopping block. It’s too personal. There’s no coming back from it.”

“You did it for him, though—”

“And that makes it even worse. You know that.”

Chuuya sighs, but he doesn’t refute what you’re saying, which makes your heart feel even heavier. “Are you going to tell him when you see him?”

“I should,” you reply quietly. “So he isn’t blindsided.”

“But are you?”

“... I don’t know.”

---

Dazai isn’t in his apartment when you get there, so you decide to explore.

You’ve never been to it before—it’s messy, too small, and there’s a spoiled smell coming from his fridge. The futon on the floor is stiff, the padding is nonexistent, and the blanket is dirty, crusted; he probably hasn’t washed it in ages. Dazai has always liked soft things—he buried himself in fluffy blankets, plush pillows, and comfortable loungewear back when he lived at your apartment. He makes himself uncomfortable as a way of punishment. He would wear bandages that itched his sensitive skin until you stocked up on softer ones, and in his shipping container, he slept on a thin pad with an even thinner blanket until he moved in with you.

Now, he’s doing it all over again.

You frown as you kneel next to his futon, fingers brushing over the uncomfortable fabric, but your gaze is pulled away when you hear his door unlocking. You sit back on your heels, looking up as Dazai enters his apartment. A soft smile curls on your lips when you see the tired expression on his face—he doesn’t notice you at first, but when he does, he jumps so badly that his phone drops right out of his hands.

“Jesus!” he gasps, shooting you a withering look when he sees the amusement on your face. “What are you doing here?”

“Not happy to see me?” you drawl, rising to your feet and tilting your head to the side.

“Of course, I am,” he says immediately, voice quiet. He looks embarrassed as he glances around his apartment, eyes lingering on the mess around him. “I wasn’t expecting company.”

“Want me to help you clean up?” you offer, making your way over to him. Dazai immediately leans down to brush his lips against yours in greeting. It’s so casual, so domestic, it makes your heart ache knowing that it’s not going to last. 

“Can you?” he asks softly. “I just—I haven’t been able to. I’ve tried.”

Your hands settle on his hips, thumbs rubbing gentle circles over his hipbones through his pants. Dazai is never able to bring himself to clean when he’s in his head, and he’s always in his head. In his shipping container, he didn’t have enough belongings to actually make a mess, but once he moved in with you, he struggled to keep his room clean, so more often than not, you had to help him with it otherwise your whole apartment would start reeking.

“I know you have,” you tell him. “I don’t mind helping.”

Dazai lets out a puff of air, lashes fluttering shut and head hanging forward for a moment. You lift your hand to cradle his cheek, and he instinctively leans into your touch.

“Thank you,” he breathes out, kissing your palm.

You give him a small smile. “Go figure out what’s making your fridge smell,” you tell him before wandering over to a stray bag he has lying around so you can start picking up the empty bottles of sake and half-eaten cans of crab.

“I think everything is making the fridge smell.” You hear him say as you frown down at the pile of trash near his futon. 

“Then throw it all out,” you answer. “I’ll send you some groceries tomorrow.”

“My savior,” Dazai coos teasingly, but when you look at him to roll your eyes, you see the fond expression on his face as he looks over at you, dark eyes swimming with adoration. “How could I ever repay you?”

The words are still teasing, but there’s a breathy edge to them that lets you know there’s some truth to them. Your expression softens, and you hope that he doesn’t notice the way guilt suddenly clogs your throat. You think he might, considering the way he squints at you slightly, as if trying to figure out what exactly is going on right now. You should’ve just texted him to come over to your place, coming to his was too suspicious.

“How about you repay me by getting rid of this and getting yourself something more comfortable to sleep in?” you finally say after clearing your throat, nodding your chin at his futon. “Why do you have to punish yourself, Osamu?”

Dazai’s gaze instantly lowers to the ground. “It’s not—It’s not punishment,” he disagrees as he turns his back to you to start filling a trash bag full of all of the food in his fridge. “I just… I can’t let myself get comfortable. I’m scared if I get too comfortable, I’ll start slipping back into old habits and—”

“You’re too hard on yourself,” you whisper, shaking your head as you tie off the bag and put it down near his door. You make your way over to him as he grimaces and tosses a whole carton of rotten strawberries into his garbage. He rises to his feet, an unreasonable expression on his face, and you slip your arms around his waist, resting your forehead on his shoulder blade.

“What’s really going on?” he asks quietly, lifting a hand to cradle the back of yours. “I know you wouldn’t come here for no reason.”

Always too perceptive, you think wryly, pressing your lips together so you don’t let out a damning sigh. You feel his thumb stroking the back of your hand, and you think you might be sick—you don’t deserve it. You don’t deserve the tenderness from him, not when you know what’s coming and he’s oblivious to it.

“I’ve done something… really bad, Osamu,” you whisper.

“You’ve done a lot of bad things,” Dazai tries to joke, but you can hear the concern in his voice. You can feel the way his grip tightens on your hand. “I’m sure this is nothing extraordinary.”

“It is, though,” you reply, throat spasming as you swallow. He gently pushes your arms off of him so he can spin to face you. He cups your cheek to lift your face, but you slide your eyes shut so you don’t have to look at him. “It really is, Osamu.”

“I know the worst thing you’ve done. It can’t possibly be worse than that,” Dazai says dryly, desperately trying to lighten the mood. His thumbs stroke your cheek as he tries to get you to look at him, but you don’t. “Talk to me.”

“It is,” you say. “It’s something you won’t forgive me for.”

Dazai swallows thickly, fingers tensing on your face. “There’s nothing I wouldn’t forgive you for,” he tells you, leaning down to brush his lips against your forehead. “Tell me what’s going on.”

You almost tell him. You really do. The words are on the tip of your tongue, threatening to let loose, and his touch his so gentle, his gaze so soft and imploring. He deserves to know, he shouldn’t be blindsided when Mori inevitably calls this meeting in a few days, but you can picture the way his expression would close off once he processes what you’ve done, the way he would step away from you, and you just can’t. 

Even if he deserves it, you can’t. 

“Can you just… hold me?” you ask quietly, voice wavering terribly. 

You feel so weak. This was your decision, and you knew exactly what it meant for you and Dazai when you made it, but now all you feel is regret. You know you did the right thing. If Dazai were dragged back into the Port Mafia, he would never get out a second time. He’d sink back into the dark and would never let himself see or feel the light again. But it being his protege, you know he’ll do anything he can to get him back. Nakajima Atsushi will be back with the Armed Detective Agency within a month of leaving.

But Dazai never would’ve allowed them to risk trying to get him back. He never would’ve let them risk incurring the wrath of the Port Mafia for reneging on a deal on his behalf. He doesn’t see himself as worth it. You couldn’t let it happen.

“Yeah,” he finally says, voice soft. “Come on.”

He leads you over to his couch, carefully pulling you into his lap. You sink into him, burying your face in the crook of his neck as you cling to his shoulders. Dazai’s arms are strong around your waist, one hand splayed on the small of your back, the other cradling the back of your head. He kisses your temple once before resting his forehead against the top of your head. You’re not usually the one being comforted like this—sometimes Chuuya will hold you when you’re upset, but more often than not, you’re the one doing the comforting—so you can’t help the way your eyes well with tears. 

Being in his arms doesn’t make you feel better, though. If anything, it only makes you feel worse. It makes the guilt in your chest swell, it makes the nausea building in your throat threaten to come up.

Dazai must feel when your tears start to spill over your cheeks, because his hand starts running up and down your back soothingly, fingers carding through your hair. He hums softly—it’s a vaguely familiar tune that you can’t quite place, maybe one of the ones he used to play on the piano for you—it’s low in your ear, you can feel the gentle vibrations of his chest through your body.

You love him. 

You love him so much that it makes you sick. You love him so much that you would do anything for him. He asked you months ago if you would ever choose the Port Mafia over him, and you told him no, but you were wrong. You would choose him—you would always choose him. You know that you’re fucking over the Port Mafia with this plan, you know that its going to get the short end of this deal—you don’t care, because it means that Dazai will be okay.

“I love you,” you rasp, voice cracking as you bite back a sob. “I love you, you know that, right?” 

He pauses in his humming briefly to say, “Of course.”

He says it so easily that it makes you choke, and he quickly resumes his soft hums, now subtly rocking you back and forth, kissing your temple again. He doesn’t say it back, and although he doesn’t need to—you can feel it in the way he holds you, in the way his lips touch your temple, in the way he hums softly to try to chase away whatever is distressing you—you’re glad that he doesn’t verbalize it. You don’t think you could handle hearing it from him right now, it would be just what you need to send you spiraling over the edge.

You know he wants to know what’s going on. Not knowing things makes him anxious, and he can’t hide the way his fingers are tense against your body, even if his touch is gentle—his hands have always been his tell. Four years ago, he would’ve insisted and insisted until the two of you either fought or you gave in and told him, but now, he’s content to hold you. Content to comfort you. Content to love you. Content to trust you.

And you’re going to repay him with a knife through the back.

It’s for him, you remind yourself desperately. It’s to protect him. He’ll be able to get Nakajima back, and everything will go back to normal for them, even if it won’t for the two of you. Dazai might never get over the betrayal, he’ll never get over the guilt of you putting Nakajima on the chopping block in his place, he’ll never get over the resentment. He’ll understand maybe after the initial shock why you did what you did, but he won’t ever get over it.

You should tell him. Warn him. It might not change anything, but he shouldn’t be blindsided, not by you, not ever. But he’ll try to convince you against it, or worse, he’ll go to Mori and offer himself up on his own once he realizes that his transfer isn’t guaranteed. You can’t risk that. 

“I’m so sorry, Osamu,” you gasp, fingers digging into his thin dress shirt as you cling to him. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he tells you, voice low and soothing. “It’s okay.”

But you know it’s not.

You know it won’t be.

---

The fateful meeting with the Agency comes too quickly. 

“Ah, Fukuzawa-dono,” Mori greets when the Agency arrives at the small park where you’re meeting them. It’s a neutral site as demanded of this type of junction. You would’ve preferred the tea house in Nishi-ku, but Mori waved you off and said that it wouldn’t take that long. “I hope everything has gone well on your front in the aftermath of Dostoevsky’s attack. I heard the Ministry of Defense was trying to cause trouble again. If you’d like, I could have our lovely hime talk to Tonan-san on your behalf… for a price, of course.”

Mori’s lips curve up into a cruel smile. He knows Fukuzawa will never say yes, not when his last offer of assistance came with the price of one of his detectives. The President’s gaze hardens on Mori as he raises his chin.

“Unnecessary,” Fukuzawa replies coldly. “Spare the pleasantries. We’re here to fulfill our end of the bargain.”

Mori hums in delight, but he doesn’t immediately speak. Your gaze cards across the small group—all of them are here. Kunikida Doppo stands stiffly on the right side of the President, and Edogawa Ranpo rocks back and forth on his heels on his left. Yosano stands with her back turned in the far back—Kyouka and the tiger stand near her, along with an orange-haired boy that you dimly recognize as the illusionist. 

Dazai is here too. He stands separate from the rest, arms crossed over his chest and an unreadable expression on his face as he stares down at the ground. He won’t lift his eyes, not even to meet yours. You’re glad because you think if he looked at you right now, he’d see right through you.

“Of course,” Mori agrees. “Very well, I must say, it was a much more difficult decision than I originally anticipated.”

A ripple of unease spreads across the detectives. Daza finally opens his eyes. His lips turn down into a tight frown, dark eyes seeking answers as he looks directly at Mori before his gaze flickers over to you. You avert your gaze, swallowing as you raise your chin and focus your attention on Fukuzawa. You can tell this unsettles Dazai from the way he immediately straightens, looking between you and Mori uncertainly—he thought his transfer was a given, he’s realizing that maybe it was not.

“Nakajima-kun, won’t you come over here?”

Mori sounds too pleased as he speaks the words. His smile widens when he sees how Yosano immediately whips around, eyes wide. Most of the detectives look shocked, but Nakajima himself seems like he hasn’t even processed what Mori said. You can’t bring yourself to look at Dazai—Mori hasn’t even mentioned your involvement in this decision yet, but you know that he will. You can imagine the way his eyes widened at Mori’s words, and you know Mori probably took glee in it, considering how difficult it is to catch Dazai Osamu off guard, and the image of it makes your stomach churn.

Fukuzawa looks displeased. His jaw is tight, and his expression is hard; you can see in his eyes that he wasn’t expecting Nakajima to be the one chosen. He doesn’t protest—he knows better than to openly renege on a deal with a Port Mafia—but he does lower his gaze to the ground.

“Come now, Nakajima-kun,” Mori hums, beckoning the boy over. “Since our hime was the one who insisted on your transfer, you’ll be working directly under her… I do hope you’re comfortable with that arrangement.”

“What?” Dazai breathes out. “What?”

You ignore him, keeping your gaze trained on Nakajima, who finally reacts. You watch as the waves of realization visibly wash over him, eyes widening slowly before they snap over to you. His hands clench into fists at his side, and his lips part in disbelief as he struggles to find his words. 

Although your attention is on Nakajima, your mind is on Dazai—you can feel him looking at you, waiting for you to explain what all of this is about. The betrayal won’t hit him yet; if only because he believes you’re the last person who would ever betray him like this.

“I—what?” Nakajima stammers, voice barely above a whisper. His eyes flicker between you, Mori, and Fukuzawa, pleading for an explanation.

You remain still, forcing yourself to maintain the neutral expression you’ve mastered over the years. But inside, your chest tightens as you will yourself not to look at Dazai. He’ll start to understand what’s happening now, what you’ve done, and you won’t be able to bear watching how the betrayal slowly writes itself across his face.

Mori chuckles, reveling in the tension, in the way your relationship with Dazai is crumbling in front of everyone like this. “Yes, she was quite insistent,” he continues smoothly. “I was set on… a different prize until she opened my eyes to your potential. The Port Mafia is eager to have you amongst its ranks.”

Nakajima takes a step back. “That’s not—” His voice shakes, and he stops himself, taking a deep breath before turning to Fukuzawa. “President—”

Fukuzawa doesn’t lift his gaze from the ground. His silence is an answer in itself. Nakajima’s breath hitches; he looks helpless, like he’s about to start crying.

“When you said you did something I wouldn’t be able to forgive, I didn’t think you actually meant it.”

Dazai’s words cut deeper than any blade. Your chest tightens, throat swelling as you fight to keep your composure. You knew this moment would come, you knew Dazai would look at you like this, you knew this would be the end of everything.

It’s for him, you remind yourself. He’ll get Nakajima out of the Port Mafia one way or another, and Dazai never would’ve let himself escape a second time. You did what you had to do—you’ll always do what you have to do, whether he agrees with it or not. He’ll understand what you’re trying to do, whether he ever forgives you for it… Well, that’s another matter entirely. 

Before you can open your mouth to reply to Dazai, Mori claps his hands together, voice laced with mock cheer. “Well then, now that that’s settled, let’s not drag this out any longer. Hime, take our newest recruit back home, won’t you?” 

A command. A test. A punishment.

You swallow hard, raising your chin as your gaze settles on Nakajima, whose body is tense like he’s on the verge of bolting.

“Come,” you say, voice even. “We’re leaving. If you try to flee, punishment falls on the Armed Detective Agency for reneging on a deal.”

Nakajima’s shoulders slump instantly, head falling forward—all of his will to run or fight dissipates at the mention of his actions falling on his found family. His hands tremble at his sides before clenching into fists again as he steps forward to stand at your side.

“Good boy,” Mori murmurs approvingly before turning his attention back to Fukuzawa. “Always a pleasure doing business with you, Fukuzawa-dono. Until next time.”

The Agency watches in heavy silence as Nakajima forces himself to move. His steps are reluctant, but he walks toward you, expression twisted in disbelief. You can feel the weight of every stare pressing into you, most of all Dazai’s. You don’t dare lift your gaze to meet his.

“Let’s go,” you say coldly, turning on your heel.

Nakajima follows.

Dazai does nothing to stop you, but you hear him call your name—quiet, angry, but most of all, betrayed. You hesitate for a fraction of a second before continuing forward. You don’t look back, you can’t afford to.

Mori falls into step beside you, too pleased with the way this played out. His satisfaction drips from his voice as he speaks. “I do hope you enjoy your new subordinate, my dear. After all, you fought so hard for him.”

You don’t answer. You simply keep moving, ignoring the betrayal burning in Dazai’s gaze and the suffocating silence left behind by the Agency.

You did what had to be done. Even if it did cost you everything.

It’s only once you get to the car that Nakajima finally speaks. His voice shakes, like he’s nervous to say anything but forces himself to anyway. You would give him props for it if you weren’t so distressed by how everything went down. “You did this to protect Dazai-san, didn’t you?” 

Your gaze shifts to the side, focusing on the weretiger, who looks up at you nervously, waiting for your answer. You didn’t take him to be so perceptive, so you only raise your eyebrows at him curiously. He shrinks a bit under your gaze, but then he squares his shoulders and takes in a deep breath.

“You picked me to protect him,” he says again. “It would’ve been him otherwise. You had to convince them to pick someone else, and I was the most convincing option.”

“What makes you think that?” you ask coolly.

“It just makes sense.” Nakajima shrugs, fingers twisting nervously in his lap. “I think that I’m glad you did. Dazai-san… he’s good. I’m glad he doesn’t have to come back here. He tried to pretend everything was okay, but I could tell he was upset. He didn’t want to come back.”

“Hm,” you respond, turning your gaze away to look out the window, but it’s only to hide the way your expression drops at the confirmation of Dazai’s anxieties about returning to the Port Mafia. It makes you feel better about what you did, but only for a second, because you remember that no matter how much he didn’t want to come back, he never would’ve wanted his subordinate to come here in his place. “I doubt you’ll be here for long.”

“What?” Nakajima asks. “What do you mean?” 

“Do you really think Dazai will let you become a member of the Port Mafia?” you ask dryly. “I give it a month max before he figures out a way to force us to give you back up to them.”

“Won’t you get in trouble for that since you were the one to insist on me?” he questions, and to your amusement, he sounds like he’s genuinely concerned on your behalf. 

“Probably,” you agree absently.

“You must… really love him,” Nakajima says quietly.

Your throat spasms at his words, lashes fluttering shut as your head hangs forward. 

“Yeah,” you say softly. “I do.”

---

You don’t expect to see Dazai for weeks. You think that he’ll pretend you don’t exist, he’ll block your number, and stop coming around to see you. That’s what he would’ve done years ago when he was mad at you and feeling too hurt for him to come to terms with what happened—that’s what he did do years ago when he was mad at you and feeling too hurt for him to come to terms with. 

Instead, that very night, he barges into your apartment. 

You’re three glasses of wine in, drowning yourself in your sorrows, when you get the notification that someone is coming up to your apartment. You know it’s not Klaus, because he has a mission with Akutagawa in Tokyo for the next three days, and you know it’s not Atsushi, because although you told him that he could come up to your apartment whenever he needed after you showed him his, you knew it would be a long time before he ever felt comfortable enough with you to take you up on that.

You assume that it’s Chuuya, because he knows how upset you are and he knows you’re probably getting wasted by yourself. So when you get the notification someone is coming up to your apartment, you drag yourself out of your bedroom and down the stairs, wobbly on your feet. 

You get down there just as the elevator doors slide open. “Chuuya, do you—” you start to say, but cut yourself off abruptly when it is not in fact your best friend standing in the elevator.

“Osamu,” you whisper, eyes widening, taking a step back in shock. “What are you—”

“What am I doing here?” he finishes for you when your voice falls off—the words are cold and mocking, a harsh jab to the gut. He stalks forward in your direction and you step back quickly to keep space between you. “You would like that, wouldn’t you? Would’ve rathered me stay away so you can avoid taking responsibility for your shitty decision. Well, surprise! All of those years of getting pissed at me for avoiding confrontation are over—why do you look so upset? Isn’t this what you’ve always wanted? You should be happy.”

Your lips part to speak, but no words leave them. Dazai backs you into the wall and doesn’t give you the chance to run when he reaches out to grab your dress shirt hard. Your wine glass slips between your fingers and shatters against the ground as he tugs you closer to him so that you have nowhere to run or hide. 

Your breath is shaky as you look up at him, and he’s livid. You can see it in the way his eyes are black—the same darkness and intensity you remember back from his years with the Port Mafia, but they’d never been directed toward you before. You can see it in the way the corner of his lips twitches in fury. You can see it in the way his shoulders are tense, like he’s having to physically hold himself back.

He’s also hurt. His hands have always been his tell, and they’re not shoved in his pockets, so you see the way his fingers tremble around the material of your shirt. And his throat bobs as he swallows thickly, waiting for you to say something.

When you don’t say anything, Dazai’s expression twists in anger. He pushes you back against the wall as he lets go of your shirt. He’s not rough with you at all—he never is, even when he’s blinded with rage—but still, all of the air whooshes from your lungs when your back hits the wall.

He steps away, turning his back to you and running his fingers through his hair, tugging at the ends as he lets out a frustrated noise. 

“How could you?” he finally demands, but the words aren’t harsh—his voice cracks over them, and when he turns to look at you, you can see the hurt written plainly on his face. “How could you? After everything I’ve told you, how could you push for Atsushi? You know that he’s the only thing I have that proves that I’m doing something right. Something that Odasaku can be proud of. How could you? You? Of all people, I never expected you to do this to me.” 

You want to blame your speechlessness on the wine, but you know that’s not the case. You want to say something, you really do, but you can’t find the words for what you want to say. An apology isn’t enough, and you hadn’t anticipated that Dazai wouldn’t have put together what your plan was. You figured that he wouldn’t until he calmed down, but he’s usually pretty quick to set aside his emotions to look at things logically—but you suppose he never really has when it comes to you. That was an oversight, but what you really didn’t expect was seeing him tonight. You thought that he’d go quiet for a few days, a large part of you genuinely wondered if you’d ever hear from him again.

“Osamu,” you murmur, taking a step closer to him, but he steps away from you.

“No,” he says, holding up his hand before turning his back to you. “Stay over there. Don’t come closer. Explain. I need you to explain, and I need to think. I don’t think straight when you’re near me, so just stay over there and tell me why.”

You halt in your tracks as you stare at him. You still don’t say anything, and you can see him getting more and more frustrated with each passing second. You try to tell him that you only picked Atsushi because you knew Dazai would get him back, that you couldn’t let Dazai back because you knew he would never let the detectives do the same for him, but you can’t.

“Was the idea of me being back so bad?” he demands, eyes wild as he turns on you again. “Let me guess, you finally proved yourself to Mori while I was gone and didn’t want to be back in my shadow again. That’s it, isn’t it? That’s all you’ve ever cared about. It’s only ever been Mori and the Port Mafia. Now that you finally have it—his approval, in track for taking over after him—you don’t want to risk me coming back and taking it from you again.”

You draw back like you’ve been slapped—you may as well have been, you think, throat tightening. Your lips part to tell him no, of course that’s not the reason why, but you can’t force the words out.

Is that what he really thinks?

“You don’t think I knew back when we were kids that you were jealous of me?” he asks, laughing breathlessly as he looks down at you. “I knew it from the moment we met. You resented that Mori kept me in Yokohama and sent you away, that I replaced you—you hid it well, but I knew. I saw the way your expression got all twisted whenever he praised me, when I got the open executive spot, how you’d never look me in the eye when I came back from meetings.”

You stare at him, speechless, and then whisper, “I loved you.”

“Not mutually exclusive,” he scoffs. “Love and resentment are two sides of the same coin.”

“Is that what you really think?” you ask him quietly. Dazai has always known how to hit you where it hurts, but this was… “That I wanted Nakajima because of… selfishness? Because I was scared you’d come back and upstage me?” 

Your voice cracks, your eyes wet with tears as you take a step backward. You don’t know what you thought he would think of all of this, but realizing that he thinks so little of you makes you sick to your stomach. Dazai’s expression twists at your question, like he only just realizes the gravity of the words he said to you, but then anger flashes through his eyes again.

“I don’t know what to think because you won’t explain,” Dazai shouts—you’ve heard him yell a handful of times before at his subordinates while he was with the Mafia, but never at you. “Won’t you fucking tell me why you picked him?”

“Because I knew you would get him back!” You mean to yell at him, but your words get caught on a sob that you just can’t bite back. You want to blame it on the alcohol, but you know it’s a product of the guilt that has been weighing you down for days and the newfound understanding of just how little Dazai thinks of you. “I knew you would get him back, Osamu, and I knew you’d never let them risk getting you back. That’s why I insisted on Nakajima. If you came back here, you’d never get out a second time, and you’re right, I don’t want you back here but it’s not because of jealousy, it’s because you don’t belong here.”

Dazai stares at you, expression unreadable, but before he can say anything, you continue.

“I told you that I’ve seen how much you’ve changed for the better, I’m not going to let you ruin everything because you’re going to throw yourself back to the Port Mafia to be a fucking sacrificial lamb for the rest of them,” you continue. “And you know what? You’re right, I am selfish, because I don’t give a damn about any of them. I care about you, and because you care about them, I tried to figure out a way for the whole fucking Agency to come out of this deal unscathed, and the only way of ensuring that is making sure Nakajima was the one picked. I knew Mori would jump at the chance to put a wedge between us by flaunting my part in this decision to you at the meeting, and I knew you would fight tooth and nail to get him back, so your precious Agency would be whole again by the end of the month.” 

Dazai says your name quietly, but you shake your head, stumbling over to the couch so you can sit down. You feel too dizzy—nauseous. You can barely see straight and your whole body feels fuzzy from the wine you’d been drinking.

“That time we met after you defected,” you whisper, taking in a ragged breath. “You were so drunk, you probably don’t even remember what we talked about. But you told me I never would’ve chosen you over the Port Mafia, and that’s why you couldn’t say goodbye.”

You hear him making his way over to you, but you don’t dare look up from where you’ve buried your face in your hands.

“I told Mori that if he brought you back to the Port Mafia, he might as well execute me on the spot,” you say, ignoring the way he inhales sharply as he sits down next to you. “I told him I would leave. I’d go to Tolstoy. I would bury the Port Mafia and then him. I convinced him to pick Nakajima because I knew you would get him back, even though I knew it was screwing us over. I chose you, I’ll always choose you, Osamu, no matter what the cost is, even if you hate me for it.”

“I could never hate you,” he tells you quietly, tugging your hand to beckon you to look at him. “Look at me. Please.”

You let out a shaky breath and lift your head from your hands to look at him. The expression on his face is conflicted—you’re sure that he has plenty to say, but just doesn’t know where to start.

“Why didn’t you just tell me when you came over?” he asks desperately, threading his fingers through yours and squeezing tightly. “If you just explained—”

You shake your head. “I didn’t trust you not to go running to Mori to offer yourself up once you realized your transfer wasn’t a given,” you tell him quietly, “I did what I had to do.”

Dazai’s expression instantly twists. “But if you’d explained—”

“No,” you insist, looking away from him until he tugs your hand again. You let out a heavy sigh, eyes landing on his. “No, Osamu. You’re too emotional when they’re involved. I couldn’t risk it, I’m sorry.”

Dazai blanches. “Too emotional?” he demands, offended. “E-emotional? That’s ridiculous, I’m not emotional.”

Your lips curl up softly when you see how flustered he is by the accusation. “A little emotional,” you disagree, expression smoothing out when he lifts your hand to kiss your knuckles before pressing your palm against his face. “It’s endearing, but I just couldn’t risk it.”

His lashes flutter shut as he sighs heavily into your palm. Your throat tightens when he turns his face into your hand, forcing you to cradle his cheek. He doesn’t speak for a moment, but when he does, it makes your chest feel heavy.

“Promise me that if something like this happens again, you’ll tell me,” he whispers, dark eyes sliding back open to look at you. They’re a light amber in the dim lighting of your living room—too soft, too gentle, too imploring. “I—I need you to talk to me. I can’t—you don’t understand how it felt at the meeting. I was mad that Atsushi was chosen, but it felt like—the thought of you going behind my back. Betraying me. I couldn’t breathe, I’d never felt anything like that before. It felt like I was dying. It felt like I was losing you. I’d only ever felt this way before when—”

When Oda died, you finish for him when he cuts himself off abruptly, pulling his face away so he can turn his head in the opposite direction. You let out a soft sigh and shift in your seat to turn toward him. You lift your hand to his face to force him to look at you again—when he does, his eyes are glassy like he’s about to start crying.

“I can’t promise you that,” you tell him quietly, thumb stroking his cheekone gently. “I told you back during the Pushkin incident that I won’t be able to tell you everything anymore, but can you just trust that I’ll always choose you?”

Even after everything that’s happened the past few days, it scares you how much you mean those words. You will always choose him, no matter what the cost of it is. Your breath is shaky as you hold his gaze, searching his eyes for understanding.

Dazai is quiet for a long time, the silence thick between you. He’s still holding your other hand, and though his hand trembles, he holds onto you tightly, like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded.

“Okay,” he finally says. “I can… I can do that. I can try.”

“I will always choose you, Osamu,” you repeat quietly, squeezing his hand. “I promise.”

Dazai suddenly looks guilty, averting his gaze to the ground. “I didn’t mean what I said before,” he murmurs. “I—I was just angry. I—”

“I know,” you interrupt. “It’s okay.”

You don’t want to think about what he said before anymore—he was wrong, but he was also right. You had been jealous of him when you guys were younger, a part of you resented him as much as you loved him, and though you tried to push it away, it was always there. A constant reminder that there would always be someone more valuable than you to Mori. That you’d always be his second, third choice. You should’ve known Dazai had always been aware of it, but you never expected him to use it against you.

“It’s not,” he whispers. “I shouldn’t have—”

“Osamu, please,” you say, eyes sliding shut as you look away. “Drop it.”

His throat bobs as he swallows hard, voice cracking as he finally whispers, “You’re all I have. You’ve always been all I’ve had. I just… can’t lose you. I can’t.”

“You won’t,” you promise, shifting forward. “You—”

You bite back a yelp when Dazai suddenly grabs you. He lays back against the couch and pulls you onto his chest. You tense for a second, but then he wraps an arm around your waist and brings his free hand up to cradle the back of your head. He holds you close, you can feel his heart thrumming in his chest, the erratic pace evening out to match yours, and you bury your face in the crook of his neck. He kisses your temple before resting his forehead against the top of your head as you sink into his arms. 

Your eyes flutter shut, suddenly all too tired—the wine, the stress of the day, and the stress of this conversation with Dazai finally getting to you. The weight of Dazai’s arm around your waist and the feeling of his fingers absently toying with your hair is quickly lulling you to sleep.

He hums in protest, but the vibration only makes you sleepier. “You can’t sleep—we need to set up guidelines about Atsushi.”

You let out a soft laugh, but you don’t open your eyes. “This isn’t co-parenting, Osamu.”

“I mean, it kind of is,” he says. “Atsushi is my little protege, you’re my girlfriend, he’s going over to you, and we’re technically separated in two different organizations. So it’s kind of co-parenting, and like good co-parents, there needs to be rules and the first one—”

“Tomorrow, Osamu,” you yawn, shifting to nose his neck before you kiss his pulse point gently. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

He lets out a dramatic sigh, but his arms tighten around you and he lifts his head briefly to kiss the top of yours again. “Fine, fine, I suppose it can wait until morning, but only because my sweet hime is sleepy.”

“I love you,” you whisper.

“I love you,” he echoes softly as you drift off to sleep. “More than you could ever imagine.”

---

Chuuya is quite glad that he decided against bringing up his ‘97 Petrus when he gets up to your apartment and finds you curled up on the couch fast asleep with the very fucker that Chuuya was coming up here to console you over.

He really should’ve expected this.

He stands at the side of the couch, arms crossed over his chest and lips twisted in a deep frown as he looks down at the two of you. For a long, heavy second, he can only stare, thoroughly uncomfortable when a strange, warm feeling bubbles in his chest. The sight is too familiar—if Dazai’s bandages were wrapped around the right side of his face, he could almost pretend the three of you were eighteen again and Chuuya came up to your apartment for a movie only to find the two of you passed out already.

Then, with a low scoff, he runs a hand through his hair and whispers, “Unbelievable.”

Dazai’s face is half-buried in your hair, one arm snug around your waist and the other cradling your head, and you’re fast asleep in his arms. He can’t see your face, but he doesn’t need to—he can picture the peaceful expression on it, one that he’s hardly seen since the bastard left four years ago.

Dazai is sleeping too. Chuuya’s almost surprised he didn’t wake up when the elevator arrived on your floor—he’s always been a light sleeper. He supposes it’s just testament to how much Dazai lets his guard down around you. How much he trusts you. How much he loves you.

Chuuya sighs as he rolls his eyes. “Told you it would be fine,” he mutters to you as he snatches a blanket off of the armchair to drape it over the two of you even though he knows you can’t hear him. “Worried over fuckin’ nothing.”

You shift in your sleep when you feel the blanket on top of you, and Chuuya’s throat tightens when he sees the tear tracks staining your cheeks. He lets out a puff of air, lifting a hand to stroke your hair gently for a moment before he shakes his head to leave the two of you in peace.

“Both fucking freaks. Deserve each other.”

If there’s a small, fond smile on his lips, then he’s glad neither of you are awake to see it.

[starfieldcanvas]

The other thing that seemed missing from the response is the specific reason he was giving that speech.

Yes, he wants to eliminate autism and autistic people from public life, and we should push back against that, and push back against the general ableism that makes these insults against autistic people legible to the audience in the first place. Of course.

But he was giving that speech to introduce a new attempt to identify the cause of autism—and he said outright what the conclusion of the research would be. Before the research had even started.

The research is expected to discover an "environmental cause" for autism. Despite exhaustive study of this exact subject concluding that the cause is overwhelmingly genetics + age of parent, RFK Jr is determined to "find" an environmental cause when everyone before him has failed.

We can easily see from prior research that there is no clear environmental cause of autism, so then what exactly is the point of this "research"?

RFK Jr is looking to find confirmation that one of the medical advances he hates—fluoridated water, vaccination, antidepressants—is the "environmental cause" of autism. And given that he's already stated that this new research will find an environmental cause, there's a pretty strong likelihood the research will be manipulated to give him the outcome he wants.

However, it won't be enough for him to simply claim that vaccines/fluoride/antidepressants/whatever is the fabled "environmental cause" of autism. He will also have to argue that autism is a bigger threat to public health (and the economy) than the rollback of the helpful thing he is trying to ban. Even during the original "vaccines cause autism" scare started by Andrew Wakefield and before Wakefield was exposed as a fraud, plenty of doctors told parents they should vaccinate anyway, because an autistic kid was better than a dead one. Medicine and public health are always about trade-offs—what kind of rare side effects are we willing to risk to take a vaccine that will protect us from a deadly disease we may never encounter? What kind of restrictions are we willing to accept on personal freedom to protect the public from infection?

So to lay the groundwork for banning whatever it is he's going to claim is the cause of autism, RFK Jr is playing up not only the quality of life issues of autism but also their impact on the economy and, crucially, the supposed increased rate of autism diagnosis.

Keep in mind that if there actually was an environmental factor causing widespread decimation of intellectual capacity in children, identifying that factor and banning the hell out of it would be a good thing. That's why you're not allowed to put lead in most consumer-adjacent products anymore, no matter how convenient it is as a metal or an additive: it is a poison that causes brain damage and developmental delay, especially in children. And activists and health experts had to (and still have to) work really, really hard to get it out of the consumer economy, because lead is useful and ditching it is extremely expensive.

Consequently, people trying to ban lead from gas, paint, pipework, etc, had to hammer home how much of a problem lead was causing, not just in terms of occasionally, you know, killing kids dead, but in terms of the cost to the health system and to other parts of the economy. In dollars. (Here's a link to the EPA's 1985 report outlining that a dramatic reduction in the amount of lead in gasoline would save the USA more money than it would cost.)

So when autistic people push back on RFK Jr's claims about autism by pointing out that yes, they do pay a lot of taxes actually, and yes, they hold jobs, and no, there has not been a significant increase in autistic people with expensive support needs as the diagnosis criteria have expanded, that's directly relevant to RFK Jr trying to set up autism as an economy-harming problem the elimination of which would justify the rollback of an existing cost-saving public health measure.

While the US government makes a lot of very stupid financial decisions, often due to corruption, its policymaking process is still often formally driven by cost-benefit analysis; it's not totally unreasonable to keep that in mind when trying to counter Republican talking points. And it's good to set up a preemptive bulwark of "So what? Autism is nowhere near as big a threat to the US economy as widespread tooth decay/widespread pellagra/widespread gastric disease" when RFK's "research" inevitably turns up some bullshit about how fluoridated water/fortified grain/pasteurized milk has some minor positive correlation with autism diagnosis rates.

I've seen basically two response arguments to Kennedy's slurs about autistic people being unable to pay taxes, have a job, play baseball, go on a date, write a poem, or use the toilet.

Both the responses are good and necessary, but I think they're incomplete. The two response arguments are essentially: 1. "That's not true, there are plenty of autistic people who have jobs and go on dates and play baseball," and 2. (largely in response to 1.) "Autistic people deserve acceptance and dignity even if they can't pay taxes or write poetry or use the toilet; people's value isn't determined by their abilities or productivity."

And, again, both of these responses are true and good and necessary. But what I'm not seeing people talk about enough is why Kennedy listed those specific skills, and what he's trying to imply with them. Because, see, when people are reduced to a dehumanized stereotype, "Not everyone is like that dehumanized stereotype" isn't sufficient, and neither is "Even people who are like that dehumanized stereotype deserve respect." The problem is the dehumanization. So let's look at the list of things we supposedly can't do, which Kennedy is using to conjure an image of "Inhuman Unthinking Blob."

Having a job. This is the big one. In American culture, your value, your personhood, is solely dependent on Your Job. Are you a valuable cog in the capitalist machine, or are you a cheap cog in the capitalist machine, or are you so worthless you're not even in the capitalist machine, and therefore have no reason to be alive? So it's good and necessary and important to spell out "A person doesn't have to have a job to be a person with dignity and rights." But there's a larger question out there, which is: What, exactly, constitutes "a job"? Yes, absolutely, everyone should have dignity and rights (and material needs like guaranteed housing, food, and consensual healthcare). But also, most disabled people, including ""severely"" disabled people, can and do perform productive labor benefiting their communities. It's just often labor that capitalist society doesn't classify as "a job," like caregiving, studying, or making art. It's important to say that people shouldn't need "a job" in order to deserve rights or resources. It's also important to point out that disabled people have been doing labor this whole time, just without the dignity, rights, or pay associated with "a job." In a socialist utopia where everyone had their material needs guaranteed, labor would still be done, and a lot of it would still be done by disabled people. That's important. Disabled people's contributions to society matter. And erasing that is something ableists do on purpose -- excluding the labor done by disabled people from the category of "job" is integral to excluding disabled people from the category of "productive" and thus the category "worthy of life."

Paying taxes. This is the most transparently ridiculous one, because absolutely everybody in the U.S. pays taxes. Poor people pay taxes (too much). Rich people pay taxes (nowhere near enough). Undocumented immigrants pay taxes. You buy a Snickers? It's priced $1.79 but you pay $1.92. That's a tax. You live somewhere? You're paying property taxes. You rent your home? How do you think your landlord pays their property taxes? From your rent. You're paying property taxes. You have a crappy underpaid minimum wage job? You're paying FICA. Everybody pays taxes. What Kennedy probably means to imply is "They're too poor to owe federal income taxes." Politicians love pretending that "taxes" means "federal income taxes" so they can claim to "lower taxes" while shifting the tax burden somewhere else (cf. Trump's attempt to claim that tariffs aren't taxes). And. And also. There's another subtle implication in there, that I see a lot from parents and ableists. Because of the deep intersection of ableism and classism, Kennedy is implying "They're too poor to owe federal income taxes" (therefore they're inferior) but also "They're not smart enough to do something complicated like file a tax return." When ableists talk about disabled people who "can't take care of themselves" or specifically "can't pay their bills" or "can't pay taxes," they're intentionally trying to conflate an economic state (having enough money to pay bills/taxes) with a cognitive ability (having the skills/executive function to manage money, budget, pay bills on time, or file a tax return). Kennedy probably doesn't file his own tax return either. I'm sure he has an accountant for that. Presumed-neurotypical people are allowed to do that. The world is full of rich people who lack executive function or money-management skills, whose wealth insulates them from the consequences of that, because they can either afford to just lose money, or they can afford to hire someone to handle it for them. The world is also full of poor people for whom one missed payment has ruined them. The world is also full of disabled people for whom one missed payment has gotten them declared mentally incompetent, institutionalized, or placed under guardianship -- by abled family members who probably hire an accountant to manage their own money. Again, all this is deliberate. Kennedy and other ableists/classists/eugenicsts are intentionally trying to conflate "lacks money," "lacks money management abilities/skills," and "lacks General Intelligence" as one more-or-less interchangeable phenomenon (Note: If you've read this far and haven't figured out my angle yet: There is no such thing as "General Intelligence" and the very concept is harmful).

Write a poem. Again, this is deliberately ambiguous wording -- pretty much anyone can write a poem, including people who can't write or speak. Have you ever expressed an idea in which the words you used had an additional meaning on top of their literal meaning? Boom, you can write a poem. Maybe not a good one. But Kennedy didn't say that autistic people's poetry is bad -- plenty of neurotypical people's poetry is bad too, after all. There is a somewhat positive stereotype floating around that neurodivergent people are creative. We may be tragic, burdens on society, our parents' heartbreak, worthless, stupid, subhuman, but at least we're creative. Probably due to being more animal-like, "closer to nature." And neurobigots like Kennedy absolutely hate this stereotype. No matter how much dehumanization the "positive" stereotype is rooted in, we cannot have any positive attributes at all. They must never let us forget that we have no redeeming value whatsoever. We must be rendered as completely lacking in thought, feelings, expression, and creation. I'm seeing some echos of 18th century racism, too -- a common belief among 18th century white Europeans was that even if non-Europeans were superficially clever, they could produce no "higher culture," no great art or poetry or literature, because they were intrinsically a lower tier of human. This seems to be the root of Kennedy's implication -- not that autistic people "can't" write poetry (anyone can), or that autistic people are bad at writing poetry (most beginners are), but that an autistic person's creative output cannot constitute true poetry, true "high culture," because it comes from an inferior mind.

Play baseball. This is an especially slippery one, because like writing poetry, it's a learned skill with gradations of skill level, not an intrinsic ability that someone does or doesn't have. Most autistic people aren't pro-level baseball players, but neither are most allistic people. And again, Kennedy didn't say "Autistic people are bad a baseball." He said that we would never play baseball. "Has ever played or will ever play baseball" is such a ridiculously low bar that even I can meet it. Technically speaking, I can play baseball. I have played baseball, in school gym class. I know how! You sit there minding your business until it's your turn to stand up, and then someone hands you a bat, and then someone throws a ball, and you're supposed to try to hit the ball with the bat, and in theory, after you fail three times, you're supposed to be allowed to sit back down again and go back to imagining wild self-insert fanfic, but the coach gives you "extra tries" out of pity, so you have to humiliate yourself with five or six attempts instead of three. Yeah. I can play baseball. So what's Kennedy going for with this one? Baseball in the U.S. is associated with two things: American identity, and idyllic midcentury childhood. If autistic people can't participate in America's Pastime, can we really even be Americans? Do we really count as citizens? I don't think Kennedy is personally, ideologically all that committed to xenophobia himself; he's just hitched his wagon to a deeply xenophobic administration because they indulge his medical conspiracy theories. But he knows how to align his goals to the administration's. He knows that his boss is deeply committed to narrowing and restricting who counts as "an American," who's not really part of "our culture," who's not really a part of baseball and hot dogs and the Fourth of July, if you know what I mean. Okay, okay. Maybe I'm reaching with this one. But I'm definitely not reaching with the other association he's going for: Idyllic Midcentury Childhood. All kids play baseball. By which I mean, all boys play baseball. I'm not sure Kennedy knows that girls can play it too, or that he cares. The point is, baseball is part of childhood, and autistic people are never children. We don't play, we don't learn, we don't go through developmental stages, we're just forever Mindless Blobs. That's why things that would be considered cruelty if done to neurotypical children aren't cruelty when they're done to us. We're not really children. We never become adults, either -- how can we, if we don't go through childhood first? You can tell we're subhuman because we don't go through the universal experiences of Real People Life.

Go on a date. Okay. This one. This is the one where I get actively angry at the well-meaning, "inclusive" responses. "Just because an autistic person has high support needs and can't do XYX doesn't mean --" no. Stop right there. There is no such thing as a disabled person who "can't" date. There is no impairment or disability that prevents someone from dating. There are people -- autistic and otherwise, disabled and otherwise -- who for whatever reason, choose not to pursue dating. Maybe they're aromantic, maybe they're loners, maybe they have religious objections, maybe dating just isn't something they're interested in. Fine. That's their choice. But there is no such thing as a disabled person who "can't" date. There is no such thing as a disability that renders people incapable of romantic relationships. There is no such fucking thing as being "too disabled" or "too severe" or "too profound" or "too high support needs" to have a romantic relationship if two or more people want one. That is not a thing that exists. That is a thing ableists made up. There is no such thing as an autistic person who "can't" go on a date. There are autistic people who aren't allowed to go on dates, because their family or caregivers control them, infantilize them, restrict their freedoms, or treat them as mindless blobs. But all disabled people (yes, all) can pursue romantic relationships. All disabled people (yes, all) deserve the human right to pursue romantic relationships if they choose to. With other disabled people. With abled people. With whomever. And yeah, dating doesn't necessarily have to be romantic or sexual, but let me be perfectly clear -- disabled people, autistic people, "high support needs" autistic people have a right to have sex, too. A multiply disabled autistic person who needs 24/7 assistance deserves the absolute, unreserved right to have wild, kinky, balls-to-the-wall, whole-chicken sex with the entire starting lineup of the Detroit Lions, if xe so chooses to, and if said Lions are on board. We should not accept the premise that there is any such thing as a disabled person who "can't" go on a date.

Use a toilet without assistance. This is the Kennedy playbook trump card, but unlike some of the other claims, this one is actually true. There's no such thing as a disabled person who "can't" date, but yes, there are in fact plenty of disabled people, including autistic people, who need help with using the toilet. So what's Kennedy going for here? He's trying to evoke two things: Disgust and infantilization. We have a visceral disgust around excretory functions. Needing to eliminate waste reminds us that we're animals made of meat, not the higher intellectual beings we pretend to be. Everyone poops. So we do it in private, we describe it with euphemisms, and if someone needs help with it, well, they're not keeping up their end of the social compact to collectively pretend we're not animals with animal bodily functions. So people who need assistance with the waste process are disgusting, subhuman, a violation of imagined purity. And of course, they're babies. Babies wear diapers. Babies need help using the toilet. So an older child or adult who needs diapers or toileting help is basically a big baby. We have entire election cycles centered on "Which candidate has incontinence issues?" as a proxy for "Which candidate is a big baby unfit to lead?" as though someone's bladder leakage has any bearing on their wisdom or policy positions. And of course, since people who need help with toileting Are Babies, we're meant to assume that they can't do any of those other things, either. They can't even use the toilet, let alone write poetry or go on a date. In reality, plenty of people who need toileting help are writing poetry and going on dates. One of the biggest misconceptions that holds disabled people back from education or, in some cases, from basic communication, is this myth of linear "developmental stages" -- that if someone isn't "smart enough" to master an "easier/earlier" skill, then they can't possibly be "smart enough" to master a completely unrelated skill that some abled person thinks of as "more advanced." This is literally the primary barrier to communication access for speech-disabled people, and the reason nonspeaking people who type to communicate are so often disbelieved -- if someone isn't "smart enough" to master a "baby skill" like talking, they can't possibly be "smart enough" to read and write! Nevermind that for many speech disabled people, reading and writing are much easier than speaking. And if someone isn't "smart enough" to use the toilet unassisted, they can't possibly learn any advanced topics at all, because they must the "mind of a baby." (The only people with the minds of babies are babies. A 50 year old with incontinence has the mind of a 50 year old.)

So. To sum up: Kennedy is intentionally evoking the concept of autistic people as The Abject Unthinking, and neither "Plenty of autistic people can do those things he says we can't do" nor "Disabled people deserve respect and dignity even if they can't do those things" fully addresses the dehumanization he's trying to conjure. Maybe I'm just jaded, too, about calls for "respect and dignity" for disabled people that don't challenge the concept of The Abject Unthinking. I see behavioral therapists, institution staff, and parents pursuing adult guardianship talking about "respect and dignity." I see articles about how to restrain and forcibly drug people with "respect and dignity." Ableists literally murder disabled people in cold blood in the name of "respect and dignity." I don't know what "respect and dignity" means to these people, but it's sure not synonymous with "bodily autonomy" or "civil rights." By this point, I consider "respect and dignity" about as meaningful as "thoughts and prayers." All disabled people can, and deserve the right to, express themselves. All disabled people can, and deserve the right to, make their own decisions about their own bodies. All disabled people can, and deserve the right to, participate in their communities. All disabled people can, and deserve the right to, pursue relationships with other people of their choice.

[sudsnribbons]

my plus one | j.m

dbf!joel miller x f!reader

MDNI

wordcount: 3,905

summary: your no good boyfriend breaks up with you, right before your dads big promotion dinner, that you need a date to. of course. lucky for you, joel miller was quick to offer. anything for his buddie's little girl..right?

warnings: big hefty age gap (reader is 19 & in her first year of college, joel is early 40s), SMUTT, no outbreak!, use of 'kiddo', dirtyoldman!joel, panty stealing (he a freak), fingering, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), p in v, use of petnames (sweetheart, darlin', ect.), (1) use of y/n, getting caught? lmk if i missed anything!

a/n: this is a long one, buckle up.. hope you enjoy reading, as much as i did writing! <33

two days before you were supposed to come home, for your dads big promotion dinner, bad news struck you.

in the form of a text message.

"this isn't working for me anymore, we're done."

really? that was all the asshole could say?

"what about the dinner tyler?? tf am i supposed to do?"

"you'll figure it out."

fuck him.

whatever, it's not like you cared.

---

despite not having a date, you decided to head back to austin anyways. it was the promotion your dad had waited his whole career for.

the drive was a bit long from your college, but it lined up perfectly with the start of your spring break.

you got home around 7pm, your dad was on the porch having a beer with joel.

joel.

it had only been a few months since the last time you saw him, but god did he look handsome.

the amber glow of the porchlight projected on his hair, laced with silver streaks.

"hey sweetheart, you're early.." your dad muttered out to you, placing his beer on the table between him and joel.

"yeah i just couldn't wait until tomorrow." you smiled warmly at the man, as he embraced you in a hug.

smiling over his shoulder to the man babysitting his miller lite.

ironic.

"good to see you kiddo.." he said, quietly. almost like he didn't trust his voice.

weird.

"good to see you too mr. miller.", you pulled away from your dad, now facing the older man. he nodded, taking another sip of his beer. "how's sarah?" you questioned.

"busy.. y'know how that girl is." he smiled. the corners of his mouth turned up, and wrinkled a bit with his smile lines.

you nodded in understanding. deciding it was getting a little late and you wanted to shower and unpack before you went to bed.

you drug the heavy suitcase up the stairs, its wheels hitting the wood every few steps. turning the knob and opening the door to your bedroom, you sit the suitcase down on your bed and unzip it. grabbing an old hoodie, underwear, and pair of shorts for after your shower.

socked feet patter down the hallway as you make your way to the bathroom, passing your mothers room and noticing her at her vanity.

"hey sweetheart when did you get here?" she asked, as she slid out from the seat. standing up to give you a hug. "maybe like 20 minutes ago?" you said, over her shoulder honestly forgetting.

she nodded and began, "so when is tyler coming in? the dinner is in two days sweetheart." your heart kinda sunk at the mention of his name. "oh uhm-" you didn't know how to tell her. "we broke up." you tucked a piece of hair behind your ear and stared at the floor. "oh honey are you okay?" she asked, going in for a hug once again, you declined. "yeah mom i'm alright." she smiled at you, sad for you. "what are you going to do about the dinner?" she asked. "i'm actually not sure, ill figure it out." she nodded her head. "i'm gonna shower, its getting late." she agreed, and you continued to the bathroom.

latching the door behind you, you turned the dial on the shower and let the water heat up. steam covered the mirror and dripped down in condensation. shedding the clothes off from the drive, you stepped under the water and sighed at the feeling of warmth embracing you.

45 minutes later, you stepped out of the shower. skin radiating steam from the heat of the water. you grabbed a white fluffy towel and wrapped it around your body. drying off and getting dressed, you walked down the hallway and to your room. moving the suitcase off the bed, and untucking the comforter from the sheets. sliding your body between the mattress and comforter you plugged in your phone and went to sleep.

--

you woke up around 8am, to the all too familiar smell of breakfast. yawning, you grabbed your phone, slipping it into the front pocket of your hoodie. slowly making your way down the stairs, you lock eyes with-

no.

oh my god no.

joel.

joel miller.

in your kitchen.

all the while you looked like you just rolled out of bed.

well in your defense-

your internal voice was cut off by his gruff one.

"mornin' kiddo." he said nonchalantly taking a bite of bacon. "morning?" you said confused, looking between your parents as you sat down at the table. "honey, i was just telling your father about tyler.." your mom started and you groaned, "mom i don't want to talk about this right now." she shushed you, filling up your glass with orange juice from the pitcher. "no now just listen." she tried again, your father and joel sitting in silence. taking a sip from your glass, you listened. "joel doesn't have a date either.. he so kindly offered to take you!" she said smiling, taking a scoop of eggs from the pan before handing the plate to you and sitting down. you almost choked. "i'm sorry what?" you felt like you could die from embarrassment, this can't be happening. "as a friend of course." joel chimed in, your dad nodded. "he's just helpin' out your old man." your dad smiled towards you. "right." you forced a bite of eggs down. joel silently ate his breakfast as your mom began to speak once more, "now i know you probably don't have a dress yet, so we are going to head into town after breakfast to find you something nice." you nodded, taking another sip of orange juice.

god i wish this was a mimosa.

--

you opted for a simple outfit to shop. needing something easy to change in and out of, all the while beating the texas heat.

you changed into a pair of dark wash denim shorts, and a longhorns tank top. brushing your hair and putting a pair of sunglasses on your head. simple makeup, fearing anything more would melt right off. slipping on your birkenstocks, you walked down the stairs and to your mother who was ready at the door.

--

you went to every boutique your mother could drag you into. dressing you up like a barbie doll. after what felt like 50 dresses you tried on, you pulled back the curtain to show your mother. "this is the one, you look gorgeous sweetheart." you smiled at your mother, and turned to the mirror to admire the dress. it was black, about ankle length that hugged your body perfectly. the top dipped down enough to show a little cleavage, but still classy. you nodded towards your mother and went to get changed.

you bought a pair of black heels to compliment. opting to match, instead of drawing away from the dress.

your mother offered to buy lunch, which you accepted kindly. stopping in at your favorite local spot and ordering a turkey sandwich.

the car pulled into the driveway around 2:30. opening the door to get out. then pulling the dress out, that was wrapped in a white dress bag.

"did you find one honey?" your father asked as you set down the keys on the table. "she did but you have to wait until tomorrow night to see it." she smiled at your father and you walked upstairs to hang the dress up.

--

"you really don't have to do this mr. miller." you typed out to him. as much as you wanted this, you didn't want him to see you like a chore.

"joel." he corrected. "and i offered didn't i?" he replied.

"yeah you did. joel." you smiled and typed back.

your heart pounded as you seen the three dots on the screen, waiting for his reply.

"ill see you at 7 tomorrow night sweetheart."

you hearted his message.

god i hope that wasn't too forward.

unhearting his message, you went down stairs to help prep for dinner.

--

snoozing the first few alarms, you finally got up around 1pm. "shit." you muttered out, not meaning to sleep in so late.

opting for a quick breakfast, lunch. you ate a greek yogurt cup topped with granola and a few strawberries.

you got in the shower around two. you decided to take an everything shower, i mean anything could happen... right?

getting out around 3pm, you blowdried your hair. sitting down at your vanity, you curl and roll your hair, wanting a blowout look.

that took about 30 minutes. you didn't want to to go too crazy with your makeup, but still enough to compliment your dress. you went for a black and dark brown smoky eye look, with thin eyeliner and big lashes.

you got done with your makeup at 5:30. you have an hour and a half before joel arrives.

walking down the hallway, hair still in rollers, in a full face of makeup, tank top and sweatpants from earlier. "you look so pretty sugar." your mother compliments. she was dressed in a navy blue dress, a little looser than yours but overall gorgeous. "thank you momma.." you smiled back at the woman, "so do you." she smiled and your father came out with tie in hand, he never could tie one by himself. "still cant tie it?" you teased the man as he handed the silk to your mother who quickly helped him. "what would i do without you baby?" he questioned your mother, kissing her lips. "you'd be lost." she teased back, "damn right." he looked at her with so much love as he combed his hair. "we are leaving soon." your dad said turning to you. "i thought it started at 7?" you questioned. he nodded, "yes sweetheart but i have to be there early. have to make a good impression." he replied. "joel will be here around 6:30.. you should put your dress on." your mother muttered. "yeah that's what i was gonna ask, i need you to zip me up." the older woman nodded.

you walked down the hallway and into your room. unzipping the bag and pulling out the dress. you slid the dress pooling at your feet, up your body and tucking your arms into the straps. you waddled from your room to your mothers to get her help zipping you up. you thanked her and hurried back to your room to undo the rollers that have been sitting in your hair. "perfect." you smiled, satisfied with how they turned out. taking your shoes from the box, you slid them on. taking a once over of yourself in the mirror. grabbing your clutch and phone, spritzing yourself with perfume before walking down the stairs. as soon as you reached the bottom the doorbell rung.

perfect timing.

your manicured hand wrapped around the silver door knob and twisted, the door opening to reveal a handsome older man. "joel." you muttered.

he was dressed in a tux, you've never seen him so put together. his beautiful eyes went wide, looking you up and down. clearing his throat, "you look beautiful kiddo." you smiled at the man, "thank you.. shall we?" you asked and he nodded, shutting and locking the door behind you.

he opened the passenger door to his truck. god did he have to be a gentleman too?

tucking your legs in, he shut the door behind you, rounding the hood of the car and joining you in the bench seat.

the car ride was silent. stolen glances every once in a while. pulling up to the venue, you sighed to yourself. feeling some relief of the tension in the truck.

he opened your door and helped you out, placing his hand modestly on the small of your back.

you wished he let his hand roam a little lower, just for a moment.

with your arms linked, you entered the ballroom. beautifully decorated for the occasion. your mother was the first to come up to you. "oh my sweet girl you look beautiful." your mother kissed your cheek and turned to joel. "you don't clean up too bad miller." she teased the man. "thank ya ma'am." god that southern drawl..

the dinner lasted about 2 hours, your feet killing you. damn those heels.

your mother and father held back a bit, soaking up the congratulations from his new role in the company.

"you ready to head home sweetheart? gettin' late." joel asked, you nodded standing up from the table.

your heels clicked against the pavement as the two of you walked back to his truck. sliding off those cursed heels as soon as the door closed, you relaxed against the seat, taking a deep breath.

joel buckled in and looked over to you, his restraint was tested more and more with each rise and fall of your chest, "got a starin' problem miller." his heart dropped as you muttered out, raising your head to look over at the man starting his truck. "don't know what youre talkin' about kid." he said under his breath, knuckles white gripping on the wheel.

as he pulled out of the parking lot you had decided to test him, "oh but i think i do...mr. miller" you teased. you wanted a reaction, something, anything. "that's enough." he muttered, eyes locked onto the road. you pulled your hair to one side of your neck, leaving your collarbone and dainty necklace on display... the necklace curving right at the dip of your cleavage.

you wanted him to break. lose control. you wanted him. "see i just don't think its enough miller." you pressed the matter further, voice softening with his name on your tongue, "i think theres a reason you offered to take me joel.." you turned towards him in the bench seat.

"just helpin' a friend sweetheart.." he almost whispered out, trying to convince himself more than he was trying to convince you. the bench seat gave you more room to.. explore.

sliding your foot over to his lap, tracing up and down his thigh. you could have sworn you seen the start of an outline in his pants. "knock it off.." he tried, not really though. he didn't want you to stop.

you continued tracing his thigh, heel of your foot dipping down to the zipper of his dress pants. his restraint snapped like a cheap rubber band. his thick fingers wrapped around your ankle, "you tryna' get us killed girl?" he questioned, his face illuminated with the red from the stoplight. looking down at his hold on your ankle, and the bulge underneath it.

your breath got heavy, as he looked at you with those dark brown eyes, "joel." you squealed out, like a mouse caught by a cat. your body tensed under his touch. "not so bold now sweetheart.. what happened?" he questioned, toying with you.

his fingers traced your ankle, and up your calf. stopping at the bed of your knee. "please.." you whispered out. "please what darlin'?" he asked. he knew what you wanted, but joel was the kinda man who needed to hear you say it. you shyed a bit, face flushing red. "don't make me say it joel." you begged. he just laughed.

the fucker laughed at you.

pulling over on the side of a back road, he turned to you. "can't give ya what y'want if you don't tell me sweetheart." he traced up your leg, higher this time. feeling your thigh under your dress. "y-you joel." your voice failed you, stuttering from nervousness. "me? well y'got me darlin' what d'ya want me for?" he asked, teasing you again. he wasn't gonna let you off that easily.

unbuckling your seatbelt, you scooted closer to the man. legs in his lap fully now. hardness pressing against the bend of your knee. "need you to touch me miller.." you sighed out breathlessly. "there we go honey.. wasn't that hard was it now?" he smiled satisfied with your answer. you whimpered out frustrated. you needed him to do something.. anything. "what would yer daddy think of you all whiney for me in my truck huh?" he asked, clearly getting off on how squirmy he was making you, "those college boys not do it for ya sweetheart?" you shook your head, "need you joel.." he snickers, "i know yer always needin' somethin' ain't ya?" he questioned rhetorically.

he bunched up your dress, you lifted your hips so he could get it to your waist. "soaked for me darlin'" he laughs, pressing a thick finger to the wet patch on your underwear. you whined and bucked your hips, "joel quit teasin'.." you begged. "ah ah who's in charge here baby?" he asked, "you joel.." he smiled pleased at you a wreck for him already. "atta girl." he hooked his fingers in the elastic waistband of your underwear, sliding them down your legs and past your ankles. he reached over you, opening his glove box, throwing the pair in and shutting it back. "don't need those do ya sweetheart?" he asked and you were quick to shake your head.

dirty old man.

yet here you are absolutely soaked for said 'dirty old man'.

his thick finger traced your slit, teasing you. your hips bucked again searching for friction. joel was quick to correct you, using his hand on your stomach to hold you down. "now you take what i give ya or yer gettin' nothin' t'all" he muttered out with dark eyes. you nodded.

his finger dipped past your folds and into you. "oh god joel." you whined out, still under his hold. "barely touched ya and yer goin' crazy.." he trailed off, "what 'm i gonna do with ya huh?" he questioned, but before you could answer he added another finger. stretching you out deliciously. "c'mon sweetheart if you can't take this you sure as hell ain't gonna be able to take me.." he said cockily, replying to your moans.

his fingers pumped in and out, curling in, like he knew your body better than you did.

sure as hell felt like it.

"close joel.." was all you could manage to get out. that band in your belly wounding tighter and tighter with each thrust of his hand. "c'mon baby girl let go f'me." he said, leaning over you to kiss down your neck.

that was all it took.

those words.

his mouth.

your back arched off the red leather of the old pickup truck he's always driving. chest heaving as you came down from one hell of a high.

a thin layer of sweat covered your body as you leaned your head up to look at the man between your legs. smug as ever he locked gaze with your eyes, taking his fingers in his mouth, tasting you. his eyes rolled back as the sweet tang filled his mouth. "taste like heaven sweetheart.." he wiped the saliva off his fingers and onto his dress pants.

you smiled up at the man, still drunk on the high you just came down from. "you think y'ready for me honey?" he asked as he unbuckled his belt, throwing it down to the floorboard. you nodded, wanting nothing more than to feel him. for real this time.

"words baby.." he teased, "yes! please god." you whined out, "m'name ain't god.." he joked.

smug son of a bitch.

he pushed down his black slacks, his boxers following suit. his cock sprung out, and your eyes went wide. "you flatter me sweetheart." he chuckles, undoing his tie and discarding it to the floorboard.

"shit." his face dropped when he realized, "i don't have a condom." he looked down at you, still catching your breath. "don't care.. m'clean.." he shook his head, "y'sure bout' this?" he questioned. "can't come back from this sugar.." he tried again but you didn't care.

you wanted this. wanted him.

"fuck me already miller." you managed to get out, and he just laughed. "ain't nothin' but trouble.." he sighed out, pushing the head of his cock between your folds. you gasped out as he began to slide into you.

"f-fuck joel.." you cried out, slumping against the door of his truck, "you can take it baby i'm right here.. trust me." you swallowed hard at his words, burying himself into you, fully to the hilt. he gave you a minute to adjust. "you can move.." you whimpered and he took the green light to slowly pull out almost all the way, before plunging right back in.

"s'dirty for wantin' this trouble.." he used that nickname again. your back arched with every thrust. "wantin' yer old man's best friend like this.." he rubbed it in more, like salt in a wound.

you did feel guilty..

but more so, of the effect his words were having on you.

his dirty words went straight to your core, winding that band tighter and tighter..

"joel.." you whined, all this becoming too much.. you couldn't last much longer. "i know baby i know.." he teased.. picking up the pace a bit. your eyes started to roll back in your head, and you were clenching harder and harder.. he leaned down, taking your neck in his hold and pulling you to him. pressing his lips to yours.

he grunted through the kiss, your moans mixing in. pulling back from the kiss he picked up the pace once more, "c'mon trouble give me one more.." he asked, and you obeyed. almost as quickly as he asked, you delivered. back arching off the red leather again. white heat over taking your body. thighs shaking as you came down. and joel? he was fucking you through it. his body shuttered and you knew he couldn't last much longer.

"m'on the pill.." you muttered out, and that was all joel needed to hear. with a few more thrusts he buried into one last time, releasing inside. filling you up.

sweat covered the both of you as he pulled out. the mixture of both his and your release pooling between your thighs. he reached in his floor, trying to find something to clean you up with.

settling on his tie, he bunched the fabric and cleaned you up, throwing the soiled tie in the back seat. you tried to catch your breath, pulling your dress back down to your ankles and buckling up like nothing happened. joel got situated and buckled turning over the truck as you slipped your black heels back on.

you did not miss those. you thought as you picked up your phone from the floor. heart dropping when you looked at the time. 11:57pm "shit." you muttered, dozens of missed calls from your parents you were too.. busy to hear. "joel i need to get home..now." you showed him your phone and he pulled out of the back road and onto the main one.

you finally got home at 12:20am..

saying your goodbyes to joel with a promise of this happening again. smelling like sex, with your hair and dress a mess, you fished out your key from the small clutch your brought with you. you locked the door behind you, slipping off your shoes and taking them in one hand. thinking you're out of the woods, you start to tiptoe up the stairs. when you are halfway to your room, the hallway light flicks on and you hear your mother, "y/n?"

fuck.

[tinywand]

winning a fancall as their partner ᵔᴗᵔ

pairing - ot7 x gn!reader

genre - fluff

warnings - minor language (very minor) !

Jungwon

doesn't realize at first

does his rehearsed greeting, then is like, "??????"

"Y/n??"

lets out a sigh of relief and has a big smile

"You won't believe the fan call I just had... Some people.."

Jungwon vents his frustrations with people making him aegyo and meow

"Hey Wonnie?"

"Yes, Y/n?"

"Can you meow for me?"

Jungwon sits in silence for the rest of the call, arms crossed, and giving you a blank look.

When he sees you after, he continues to give the silent treatment until you offer to scratch his back

"Y/n, please don't ever do that again.."

Heeseung

ALSO doesn't realize right away

you both just kinda sit there like "😐"

then Heeseung goes "😮"

"Y/n! I didn't know you won a fan call! Why didn't you tell me?"

pretends to sulk, but is refreshed seeing you between all the other calls

"Don't be mad, I just wanted to surprise you!" You watch Heeseung start to laugh a little

"Well it worked! I love seeing all of ENGENE, but this is refreshing.. And this chair is really uncomfortable.."

"Well it's not like I'm a random ENGENE, stretch your legs while you can, Hee."

Immediately gets up and starts to stretch.

"See, this is why I love you so much Y/n."

You laugh as you see only his legs in view

He sits back down with a grin

"I'll see you later Y/n, thanks for letting me take a little break."

Jay

realizes its you and plans to tease you

"Oh my god." Jay says with a slight smile

"Surprise!" You let out little jazz hands

Pretends to not care, but secretly has butterflies

"Yeah yeah, whatever... How do I skip you?" Jay pretends to signal staff over

"Hey! Don't you dare! I won this fair and square!"

Jay laughs and blows into the mic

"Hey I thi- pshhhhhhhh this call is- psshhhhhhhh breaking up"

"You're so annoying, Jay. Im an ENGENE too you know, where's my dedicated three minutes?"

Jay laughs and settles in his chair, "Fine, I guess you're right, what do you want to talk about?"

"Actually I'm glad you asked, do you remember where I put my-"

"Hate to cut you off sweetheart, but times up." Jay laughs and sends an air kiss.

"That.. Brat!" You scowl, but end up only being able to laugh about it.

You jokingly complain about it when Jay sees you later that night

"Y/n, how about I go get you some snacks? Will that make you feel better?"

You nod, because how can that not help?

Jake

Immediately perks up. "Y/n?!"

You play dumb.. "Uh.. No that's not my name."

Jake looks confused for a second before doubling down. "Y/n, I know it's you. I literally see your posters in the back."

"Crap.." You mutter under your breath, letting out a nervous smile.

"Y/n, I didn't know you won a fan call? Were you trying to prank me? Next time I'll pretend to fall for it!"

Your heart swells, Jakes just too cute.

"Aaaghh, you make it really hard to stay in character you know. I had a whole plan set up."

Jake laughs, "Here, let's pretend like I did fall for it. Go on, do your prank."

You nod and show Jake a crude, not very well drawn photo of him. "I made this for you, cause you're my bias, Jake oppa!" You did a cringey aegyo after

"Never mind, please never do that again Y/n."

you head over to Jakes dorm, having a better prank in mind

You wait on his bed and run into his closet when you hear the boys get home.

"What the hell is this? Y/n?"

You pop out of the closet, seeing Jake staring at the fake body you made with pillows, only for the face to be your drawing

"PRANKED!!"

Sunghoon

pretends like he doesn't realize

"Hel- Oh wow. Usually I'm not supposed to say this, but you're the most attractive person I've ever seen.."

You do a mental facepalm

"Sunghoon, it's me, Y/n."

"Y/n? That's a beautiful name.. Here, let me write down my number and text me after this."

Sunghoon scribbles down his number and puts it up to the camera

"Stop playing dumb, hoonie! I was supposed to surprise you!"

"Ahh, playing hard to get? That's okay Y/n, I'm more than happy to fight for it."

"Hoon, why don't you ever flirt with me like this when we're together?"

"If I knew you, I definitely would Y/n."

Wait for him to finish his fancalls, then call him

"Oh hey babe, I saw the most beautiful ENGENE during the fan calls today..."

"Sunghoon, I swear to god I'm gonna kill you."

Sunoo

Immediately decomposes himself and lays on the table

"Y/n... its brutal out here..."

You let out a little chuckle, "What happened this time, Sun?"

Sunoo peeks up. "I have to pee, it's too hot in this room, my hair isn't cooperating, and we still have a bunch of fan calls left to do... I don't know if I can make it."

"Do it for ENGENE Sun, lots of them are looking forward to this.

Sunoo sits back up and nods.

"You're right Y/n, and they're all so nice! One of them showed me this picture they drew.. It looked exactly like me, just more handsome!"

You smile, letting Sunoo talk about all the ENGENE he met today.

"You feel better, Sun?"

"Yes, just what I needed."

A hour later Sunoo sends you a text.

"Thanks for the pick me up Y/n! I picked up some ice cream and I'm on my way over : )"

Ni-Ki

Notices its you before you even realize the call connected

Ni-Ki lets out a fake sigh. "Oh great.. It's you."

You cross your arms, used to Ni-Ki's teasing by now. "And what is that supposed to mean, Riki?"

He grins and sits back. "All I'm saying is you already take up my free time, you should share some with ENGENE."

You scoff and act hurt. "I'll have you know I won this spot buying albums. Actually- buying ENGENE versions trying to get YOURS Riki."

Ni-Ki shoots his hands up in defense. "I offered to give you one, don't pin this on me!"

You roll your eyes playfully. "If you gave me one it wouldn't count towards Billboard! I was being a supportive partner!"

Ni-Ki laughs, admitting defeat. "Alright you got me, but only because we don't have much time."

"Sounds like an excuse, but I'll take my win."

"Good decision Y/n, you don't win often!" Ni-Ki laughs

"Oh you're so dead when you get home."

You wait in Riki's dorm room, hearing his steps grow closer

You jump on him as he walks in

"Ack- What the- Y/n?"

"I told you earlier! Your dead meat Riki!"

[keeryhours]

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Order: Chocolate lava cake for two with chocolate fudge and crushed oreos

Ingredients: Smut (18+), rockstar au, one bed trope (more like no beds one van trope), protected and unprotected p in v, oral (f receiving and a second of m receiving), fingering, creampie

Total: $35.20 (3.5k words oops)

Place an order!

Masterlist Tag Lists

The vibe in the van was one of pure exhaustion as it rumbled up to the shitty Colorado motel. You had just played a show hours before, and everyone was sweaty and gross and ready to pass out after a good shower. 

This was Corroded Coffin’s first tour, mostly financed by the band themselves. The shows were great, the crowd was energetic and excited to be there every night. But the run down motels and long hours in the van were getting tiresome.

“Okay,” Eddie said. “Everyone’s got their own room. So we can all get a shower and pass the fuck out.”

“Sounds good to me,” Gareth said, yawning as he opened his car door.

Everyone climbed out, stretching sore muscles. Eddie walked into the lobby, leaving everyone else at the van. He approached the receptionist, a teenage boy who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else. He looked up as Eddie approached, his expression bored.

“Hey,” Eddie greeted. “Uh, we have 5 reservations? Should be under Munson.”

The guy typed on the massive computer. “Edward?”

“Uh…yeah,” Eddie said.

“It looks like you only have two rooms booked.”

Eddie blinked. “I booked five rooms.”

“Well, here, it says you have two.”

Eddie’s head dropped in exasperation. “Well can I get three more rooms?”

The boy gave him a fake pitying look. “Sorry, we’re all booked up.”

Eddie clenched his fists. “Awesome.”

“Do you still want the two rooms?”

“Yeah,” Eddie said, pulling out his wallet. He paid the guy in cash for the rooms. He handed him two keys. “Enjoy your stay, sir.”

Eddie rolled his eyes as he turned around. He met back up with the rest of you at the van, where everyone was dead on their feet, ready to get into their rooms.

“So, bad news,” Eddie said as he walked up, swinging the keys around his fingers.

“What?” Grant asked, already dreading whatever their frontman was about to say.

“We’ve only got two rooms.”

“What?” you said. “You were supposed to book five.”

“I did,” Eddie said, “but apparently something got messed up. We have two rooms and they’re all booked otherwise.”

You and the guys all looked at each other. “So…” Jeff said, “…who gets the rooms?”

“I’ll sleep in the van,” Eddie offered. “Just let me get a shower first in one of the rooms.”

“By yourself?” you asked. “I’ll sleep out here with you.”

His eyebrows drew together. “You don’t have to do that. It’s not gonna be very comfortable.”

“I’m fine,” you assured him. “I’ll bunk with you.”

“Works for me,” Gareth said. “I call my own room. Jeff and Grant can share.”

While the three guys argued over who got the room to themselves, you and Eddie snuck into the hotel rooms to take the first showers. It felt like heaven after a long day of performing and feeling so gross. The hot water washed away not only the sweat and dirt but also the stress of the day, the anxiety of tomorrow’s performance.

When you were done, you dried yourself off, dressing in your pajamas - shorts and a t-shirt. You brushed your teeth and walked out of the bathroom, seeing Grant on the bed.

“I won,” he smiles.

“Congratulations,” you laughed. You left Grant alone to take his own shower and headed back out to the van - your accommodation for the night. You found Eddie already in the vehicle, having laid the back seats down and made a large space for you two to sleep.

He was dressed in nothing but some low hanging sweatpants, leaning back against the seat with his lyric notebook. You climbed in next to him. “Whatcha working on?”

Eddie glanced up at you. “Ah, just some songs I’ve been messing around with. Nothing concrete yet.”

“Can I see?”

Eddie paused. “Yeah, I guess.”

You took the notebook from his hands and began flipping the pages, reading the notes and lyrics and chords he’d written down. There was one thing that stood out to you about these lyrics - they were all love songs. Corroded Coffin didn’t do love songs. None of you had much experience to write about, after all. But these lyrics were all longing, yearning, pining. Desire.

It wasn’t what you expected from Eddie. Eddie wasn’t soft, he was rowdy, wild, the life of the party. He wasn’t tender, like these lyrics. These lyrics were beautiful, they were poetry. But they were also dark, longing without the belief you can ever have what you truly want.

“Eddie…” you said, lowering the notebook. “These are…”

“They’re stupid,” he said quickly, taking the notebook back from your hands. He shoved it under the seat. “They’re not done or anything. Just some stuff I was messing around with.”

“Eddie, they’re beautiful,” you said. “I didn’t know you wrote songs like that.”

“Yeah, well,” he said, “I don’t.”

He seemed like he was being a little hostile, so you backed off. You reached into your bag and pulled out your body lotion, pumping some into your hands and then rubbing it into your legs, part of your usual post shower routine.

Eddie watched. His eyes were glued to your long, smooth legs, the way your hands caressed them, and he thought about those being his hands. How badly he’d love to rub your body like that, feeling every inch of your skin beneath his palms, calloused from years of guitar playing. 

He made himself look away.

Once you were done, Eddie closed up the van, settling down into the makeshift bed in the back. You laid down next to him, with a respectable distance between you. You stared up, looking at the sky through the windows, the stars twinkling in the clear night sky. It was almost romantic.

You figured Eddie had fallen asleep next to you, but he shifted, and when you looked his big brown eyes were looking right at you. Your heart stuttered in your chest - maybe he startled you, what other reason would there be? But he was looking at you so intensely, it made it hard to breathe.

“Eddie?” you said his name like a question.

He just looked at you. “I…”

The starlight shining on your face through the van windows made you look ethereal. Eddie had loved you since the moment he met you, he thought you were the most beautiful person on the planet, but he had never seen you looking so soft, so otherworldly.

“Every love song is about you,” he whispered.

You froze. “What?” you whispered back.

“Those songs I wrote,” he said softly. “They’re all about you.”

Your brain couldn’t process this. Eddie? Into you? In love with you? Those songs hadn’t been light. They had been pure need. You had been best friends with Eddie for forever and never had you gotten the vibe that he was interested in you.

Eddie took your lack of response as a rejection. He looked up at the ceiling of the van, his heart sinking in his chest. He felt like an idiot. He had kept this inside for so long, and here he went and ruined everything, and while you’re on tour together, too. How could he be so stupid-

“I love you too, Eddie.”

His heart stuttered. He wasn’t sure he heard you right. “You-?”

“I feel the same way,” you whispered. “I have for a long time.”

Eddie turned on his side. He placed his hand on your cheek, thumb gently caressing the skin. It was silent for a few minutes. Just the two of you looking into each other’s eyes, finding so much said without words.

“I don’t think you know you’re the most beautiful girl in the world,” Eddie said gently.

Your lips parted. You weren’t sure what to say. You’d never had someone say something like that to you before. Your heart was thudding hard in your chest, your stomach buzzing with nerves.

“Whenever I watch you on stage,” he continued, “I can’t look anywhere else. I’m supposed to be working the crowd, but I’m watching you. You’re always…you’re everything.”

You were misty eyed, at a loss for words. You had to have been dreaming, because what was this? A literal dream come true?

“Eddie…” you said, your voice still slightly hoarse from the show. “I…are you serious?”

“Dead serious,” he said, his voice an octave lower. Then, as if to prove how serious he was, he moved in slowly and kissed you.

You had thought many times about what Eddie’s lips might feel like. You had certainly fantasized about his mouth in multiple places, his long, skilled tongue-

Eddie’s lips moved against yours in a slow kiss. His hand brushed through your hair slowly. Yours rested on his bare chest, feeling the skin beneath your palm moving with his heavy breaths. He let out the quietest moan as he kissed you, a barely there breath of a moan, all his longing put into that kiss.

He nibbled on your bottom lip just slightly, testing the waters. You opened up for him, and the feeling of his tongue just slightly touching yours brought you heavily to the present. This was really happening. You met him eagerly, tongues slowly pressing together, exploring intimately.

You let out an involuntary moan, his kisses bringing your body to life. Your nipples hardened in your thin t-shirt, wetness collecting on your panties. You wanted to know what else he could do, maybe with those long dexterous fingers -

As if he read your mind begging for more, his fingers crept under your shirt, slowly enough that you could easily stop him if you wanted to. You absolutely didn’t. His hand slid up your side, sending goosebumps across your skin. You shuddered, squeezing your thighs together. Eddie didn’t miss it, and you felt his smile against your lips.

“Naughty,” he mumbled. You wanted to tell him to shut up like you usually would, but you found you didn’t want him to. You wanted his mouth to keep doing all kinds of things.

His hand crept up slowly until it reached your breasts. He cupped one of them gently, his thumb brushing over your sensitive nipple. You gasped, and Eddie nipped playfully at your bottom lip again.

“You have the perfect tits,” Eddie said. “I’ve known that for a long time, but now I know for sure.”

He pushed your shirt up, exposing your tits. He separated from your lips and sat up, pulling you onto his lap, your legs wrapped around his waist. He dipped his head down to wrap his lips around your nipple. You drew in a shaking breath, your hands grasping onto his back.

He moaned as he sucked on your nipple, running his tongue over it, suckling at it like it’s the best thing he’d ever had. His hand played with your other breast, massaging it and pinching at your sensitive bud.

Eddie was in heaven. Your tits in his face, in his mouth. He had dreamed of this alone in his hotel room with his cock in his hand more times than he could count. His fingers dug into your soft hips, and you experimentally rolled your hips down against his. It drew a moan from deep in his chest, and you could feel him hardening against your core through both of your clothes.

“God, you’re fuckin’ unreal,” Eddie groaned against your lips. “I can’t believe you’re in my fuckin’ lap.” He went right back to your tits, enveloping the other with his mouth this time.

“Yeah?” you said. “Well I can’t believe I’m making out with the Eddie Munson.”

He pulled off your tits with a wet pop. “The Eddie Munson is about to be doing a lot more than making out with you.” He grinned at you sheepishly. “If you’ll let him.”

You answered him with another kiss, tongues tangling together. He guided your hips down against him, back and forth, rolling low against his rapidly hardening cock. Every drag of his hard length against your dripping core was making your clit throb, your pussy clenching around nothing as you imagined having him deep inside you.

He pulled your shirt off before he flipped you over, laying you softly down on the blankets. You couldn’t help your eyes drifting down, noticing his massive dick pressing against his grey sweatpants. It made you a little nervous. You weren’t a virgin, but you weren’t the most experienced, either.

Eddie squeezed his cock over his pants, you could see the print of his dick through the material. His thick mushroom tip was obvious, cock bobbing in his pants as he moved. He kissed down your body until he reached your tiny little shorts, sliding them down along with your panties at an agonizing pace.

Once they were off he threw your legs over his shoulders and dove in. His tongue traced along your glistening folds, tasting you - finally. He moaned against you, sending vibrations through your clit. “Tastes so sweet, baby.”

You whimpered, tangling your fingers in his curly hair. “Oh, Eddie.”

“Yeah, pretty girl?” he cooed, tongue flicking over your clit. A loud gasp escaped your chest as he pressed a long finger into you, pumping it slowly.

“It’s- ohmygod-“

Eddie chuckled, never stopping his movements. He sucked on your clit hard before going back to lapping up your wetness with his tongue. He was eating you like a starved man, like he was loving every second of it. He pressed another finger into your hole, stretching you further.

“Gotta get you ready for my cock, baby,” he said. “Think you can take another?”

You whined. “Yeah.”

“My good girl.” He pressed a third into you, the stretch uncomfortable at first. But he was pumping them so slowly, curling them deeply inside of you to press against something that had you breathing harder, squeezing your eyes shut, tiny moans coming from your lips over and over.

“Eddie, that feels so good,” you whined. “So so good. Please…”

“I’m not gonna stop, sweetheart,” he said, reading your mind. “Gonna make you feel so good. Gonna make you cum on my tongue.”

You were close. You’d never had a guy make you cum before, only your own toys had brought you there. The guys you’d slept with had no interest in your pleasure. Eddie was different.

“Eddie…Eddie…” you cried out, body writhing in pleasure. “G’na cum…”

“I can feel it, baby. Can feel you tightening around my fingers, squeezin’ me, pullin’ me deeper. She’s greedy, isn’t she?”

He wrapped those lips around your clit again and sucked, fingers pressing right against that spot, and oh god oh god oh god-

“Eddie! Oh, fuck, Eddie!” you cried out, grinding your pussy against his face, taking everything he’d give you as you had the biggest orgasm of your life. Eddie went even harder, devouring you with his sinful tongue. He moaned against you as he drank you in, tasting every bit of your slick, rutting his hips against the blankets.

He kept going until you couldn’t take it anymore, whimpering as you pushed him away. He looked up at you from between your legs with your wetness coating his lips and chin. He grinned.

“Gotta have you,” he growled. He shoved his sweatpants down, cock bobbing against his stomach. Your eyes widened at the sight of it, even bigger than it looked covered by his pants.

He reached into the front seats, opening the glove compartment and pulling out a condom. Of course, they were always readily available on the road. You were grateful for it now.

He bit the package open. His tip was flushed red, the tiniest bead of precum at his slit. In an impulsive moment, you sat up and licked it off.

“Shit!” Eddie cursed, surprised. “Fuck, baby. If I didn’t want to fuck you so bad right now, I’d tell you to do it again.”

You giggled - but you were admittedly intimidated by the thought of taking all that down your throat. Another day.

You watched as Eddie rolled the condom onto his dick, clenching your thighs together. You felt the excitement building between your legs all over again, as if you hadn’t just cum all over his face.

Eddie positioned himself between your legs. He lifted your thighs, spreading them wide, gazing down at the view. “Christ,” he muttered. “Look at you.”

You blushed, but Eddie didn’t notice. His attention was elsewhere. He tapped his cock against your pussy, rubbing it between your folds, just feeling it all over his shaft, coating the condom with your slick. He didn’t think he’d ever been this hard in his life.

He lined himself up with your entrance. He was thick, and that was the first moment you actually felt a little scared.

Eddie sensed the change in you as if you’d said it out loud. “I’ll be gentle,” he said, kissing you softly on the lips. “If you don’t like it, just let me know, yeah?”

You nodded. “Okay.”

“Okay.” He kissed your cheek, then your lips again. He kissed you gently as he slowly pushed into you, and you keened, feeling him stretch you the way only he could.

“Oh, god, baby,” Eddie bit off a choked groan as he felt you envelop him, every inch he pressed into you lighting up every nerve ending in his body. He shook with his attempt to keep himself under control, to not pound into you like a fucking animal the way he wanted to.

He bottomed out inside of you, and you finally felt like you could breathe. You let out a shaky exhale, your nails digging into his back like you were holding on for dear life. “S’big.”

Eddie chuckled breathlessly. “I know, baby. You’re taking it so well. I’m so proud of you.”

He pulled out a little before rolling his hips back into you, watching your face to make sure you were alright. He pulled out a little more with every thrust, each one getting deeper and deeper. You could feel him in your fucking stomach it felt like.

Once he felt like he could set a steady pace, he was thrusting his hips into you in a firm rhythm, the van rocking with your movements. You moaned and dragged your nails down Eddie’s back, making him hiss. “Damn, baby. You gonna mark me all up?”

“Maybe,” you breathed. “Can I?”

“Do whatever you want to me,” he said, low. “But I get to mark you, too.”

He buried his face in your neck as he sped up his hips, biting and sucking at your neck like he was determined to let everyone in the world know he’d fucked you. He thought about you on stage with your neck bruised and marked, all the fans seeing, wondering who gave them to you, jealous.

“You’re mine,” Eddie growled into your neck. “Mine. All fucking mine.”

“All yours,” you agreed, your brain hazy as he fucked you stupid. “Yours, yours, yours.”

Eddie threw his head back, the muscles in his neck and shoulders tensing. He was holding back, not wanting to cum too fast. “Your pussy is too fuckin’ good. Gonna make me bust too quick.”

“You can,” you said. “I wanna make you cum.”

“Wanna cum in you,” he grunted. “God, I wish I could fill you.”

“Can you?” you said quickly.

Eddie paused. “Are you serious?”

“Dead serious,” you said, repeating his words from earlier. “I’m on birth control.”

“Oh, fuck yeah.” Eddie pulled out of you, quickly pulling the condom off and tossing it. He slapped his cock against your pussy one more time and then he buried himself back into you in a single thrust. You cried out, fingers digging deeper into his skin.

He was fucking you like a madman now, hips pounding into you relentlessly. The slapping of your skin was so loud it made you blush. You held onto Eddie, your lifeline, your constant.

“Gonna cum deep,” he grunted. “It’s gonna be dripping out of your little pussy for days. You’ll be on stage, feeling me, remembering all I did to you.”

You whimpered - it was all you could do. Eddie thrusted into you at a punishing pace a few more times, then he stilled, grounding out a deep moan as his cock twitched inside of you, rope after rope of his spend coating the inside of your pussy, filling you just like he promised.

It took him a while to come down. You were both shaking, clutching onto each other. Eddie was peppering your skin in kisses all over, whispering, “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

“I love you too, Eddie,” you mumbled back sleepily. Eddie pulled out, and you felt his release dripping out of you. He smirked, wiping it with his finger and pushing it back inside.

He collapsed on the floor next to you, pulling you into his body and wrapping you up in his arms. You laid your head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat slowing back to normal. He rubbed your bare back soothingly.

And you were happy.

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[demonic0angel]

Please post more of your Dan in Arkham series please!!! it is so good and I love it so much. Could we maybe get a glimpse of the first meeting?

(Hell yeah!!)

Dan’s eyes widened.

The man in front of him was lean and lithe, clad in blue and black with an even more gorgeous soul underneath. His soul was bright and free, beautiful like a dove in a clear summer sky. The purity and goodness of it almost made Dan sick to the stomach, if it didn’t make his mouth water even more.

The man turned around, noticing the chill and then frowned at him, looking at him up and down. Dan just smirked, enjoying the attention and observing him right back, eyes specifically drawn to the mask. Was this man a hero?

Ugh.

Of course he was.

He was very lucky that his soul seemed delicious and he was easy on the eyes. Otherwise, even with his promise to Jazz, Dan would’ve just completely ignored him, if not beating him up.

The hero finally said, “Sorry, do I know you? If you’re new here, let me warn you. There’s a no meta rule here in Gotham.”

“I am new here,” Dan said. “Maybe you could show me around?”

The hero blinked, before his lips twitched. Then he forcefully frowned and said, “Sorry, I have a policy of no flirting while on the job. Can’t afford any distractions after all!”

“You think I’m a distraction?” Dan purred. He leaned in closer and said sweetly, “The name’s Wraith. What’s yours, hero?”

“Nightwing,” the hero said. “And you’re definitely not supposed to be here, Wraith.”

Dan grinned, his fangs showing. Nightwing shivered and stared at him with wide eyes from behind the domino. Dan purred, “Want to fight me for it? If you win, I’ll leave. If I win… hmmm, you owe me.”

Nightwing narrowed his eyes. Two slender sticks slid into his hands in an instant and Dan eyed them with sudden wariness.

“Deal,” he said, and then he swung with a wild smirk. Dan dodged and grinned at him, just as savagely.

Yes, they’d get along wonderfully.

… he had thought, several hours before he accidentally set a building on fire in the middle of his fight with Nightwing. He had gotten a tad arrogant and had hoped to distract Nightwing with it, but only drew his ire as the hero gasped in horror at the sight of the empty apartment alit with green flames.

“Alright, fun’s over. I’m beating your ass and hauling you to jail,” Nightwing said, a sharp glare on his face.

Dan almost whined like a petulant child. That was barely any damage! “It’s an abandoned building! No one even died!”

“You’re still going to be arrested for destruction of property,” the hero said, although he did seem a tad more relaxed. Now he just sounded exasperated and was squinting at him with his head tilted to the side, probably listening to whatever woman was on the other side of the hearing piece.

Dan was especially annoyed at the interloper in between him and Nightwing’s fight.

However, he still responded flirtatiously, “Only if you’re the one to put the handcuffs on me.”

Half an hour later, as Dan was carted off to Arkham, he couldn’t help but curse to himself, glaring at the head cuffs on his wrists.

How come no one told him that pretty, good boys were his one and only weakness?!

[christopherisfoive]

Terms and Conditions (Changbin one-shot)

Roommate AU | Changbin x Reader | Comedy + Sugesstive | College Setting

word count: 1.3 k

a/n: last one shot before the requests start coming out. also i feel so warm that so many of you actually sent me requests. I was only expecting one or two. T-T makes me so happy that you guys want more of my writing. <3

You and Changbin were never supposed to be roommates.

You were supposed to live with Mina—your quiet, soft-spoken friend from chem lab who baked banana bread and cried during Pixar movies. Not with her extremely built, extremely loud best friend who apparently thinks 3AM is a perfectly reasonable time to blast a gym playlist and deadlift in the living room.

But Mina bailed after getting into a study abroad program in Europe.

And Changbin, who “just needed a place for the semester,” slid into her spot with a duffel bag, ten tubs of protein powder, and a megawatt smile like this was some kind of blessing.

You told yourself you could handle it.

Two months later, your self-control is hanging on by a thread, and you’re convinced the universe is laughing at you.

Especially when he walks around shirtless. All. The. Time.

Now, here you are—sitting in the cramped kitchen of your shared apartment at 11:48PM, watching him absolutely obliterate a tub of protein powder like it insulted his ancestors.

"That is not one scoop," you mutter, staring as he shovels another mound into his shaker bottle.

Changbin doesn’t look up. “It’s leg day tomorrow.”

“It was leg day yesterday.”

“And?”

“And you sound like a blender when you breathe after the gym.”

He finally glances up from his protein apocalypse, one eyebrow raised. His hair is damp from a shower, sticking to his forehead. He’s shirtless, obviously, because why wouldn’t he be? And the gray sweatpants aren’t helping. You’re only human.

“You have no idea how much I hold back just to be a tolerable roommate,” he says, shaking the bottle like he’s challenging it to a fight. “I could be doing protein shots in the bathroom at 3AM. Be grateful.”

“Oh, I am. Especially when you moan while drinking it.”

“I do not moan—”

“You do. Yesterday? You drank it like it was your last request on death row.”

His mouth twitches. “Sorry I enjoy my supplements. Some of us are dedicated.”

You roll your eyes and toss a popcorn kernel at him. It bounces off his shoulder.

He picks it up. Eats it.

“You’re lucky I’m not territorial angel,” he says, mouth full. “You keep stealing my stuff.”

“I borrowed one scoop of pre-workout.”

“For what? Running your mouth?”

Your jaw drops. “Wow.”

“Wow what?” He grins. “Wanna fight about it?”

You stand. “I’ll win.”

“You’re like half my size.”

“I have rage strength.”

“You have cartoon character energy.”

You’re in each other’s faces now, barely six inches apart. You hadn’t meant to close the distance, but the smirk on his lips dared you to, and now neither of you is backing down.

His eyes flicker down—just once—to your lips.

And there it is.

That quiet shift.

The silence between a joke and a mistake.

You swallow. “This is a really bad idea.”

Changbin’s voice drops. “What is?”

“Whatever this is.”

“We’re just talking,” he says, tone too low, too easy. “Having a little midnight bonding.”

Your heart is hammering. You want to step back. You really do.

But then he leans in, just a fraction, breath warm against your cheek.

“You gonna take more of my protein powder, baby?” he murmurs.

You blink. “What the hell.”

“Sorry,” he says quickly, laughing. “Slipped out.”

“Yeah, okay. Keep it in your pants, gym boy.”

“Can’t promise anything if you keep staring at me like that.”

“I’m not staring.”

“You’re absolutely staring.”

There’s another beat of silence.

Your voice comes out quieter. “You’re not as annoying when you’re quiet like this.”

He tilts his head, eyes never leaving yours. “You’re not as mean when your voice goes all soft like that.”

You stare at him.

He stares back.

It’s only a second.

But it lingers.

You finally clear your throat. “Goodnight, Changbin.”

You turn and walk off—quick, firm steps, refusing to let him see your expression.

You don’t see the smile tugging at his lips.

Or the way he whispers, “Yeah. Night, baby,” under his breath.

It’s 1:30AM, and you’re standing in the kitchen, hunting for something to snack on—because why not eat half your weight in chips when you're trying to avoid sleep?

The silence between you and Changbin has been stretched thin ever since your brief moment in the living room. It’s not that you’re avoiding each other—well, maybe you are—but it's mostly because you know if either of you opens your mouth, you're gonna say something ridiculous.

“Found them,” you mutter to yourself as you pull open a cupboard.

Suddenly, Changbin appears next to you, and you don’t even notice until your elbow accidentally jabs into his ribs.

“Ow—what the hell?” Changbin huffs, taking a step back, but in the process, his foot hits the trash can, sending it tumbling across the floor.

You panic. “No!” You scramble forward to catch it, but you’re too late—your hand shoots out, and in a clumsy attempt to steady yourself, you slam into him.

Changbin stumbles back, and you’re completely off balance now. His body collides with yours, and suddenly, your face is inches from his. Your hands fly to his chest, but he’s already got his arms around you to keep you from falling flat on your face.

And then—like the universe just decided to mess with you both—your lips land right on his.

It’s a full kiss. Not a light peck, not a brush of lips—no, you accidentally full-on kiss Changbin like it’s something you’ve been doing for years.

You freeze.

Changbin freezes.

The moment drags out for way too long, and you’re both too stunned to move.

You pull back first, but not before you notice the way his lips look swollen and the breath he’s holding in.

“Uh…” you clear your throat. “Sorry. That was—”

“Yeah, it was,” he says quickly, his voice rougher than usual.

“I didn’t mean to—”

He cuts you off with a smirk.

“Didn’t mean to kiss me like that?”

You roll your eyes. “I didn’t mean to kiss you at all, okay?”

He grins wider. “Mhm. I’m pretty sure that’s the second time you’ve said that.”

“I swear to god—”

“You’re so cute when you’re flustered,” he adds, watching you closely as you try to compose yourself. He leans closer, a teasing glint in his eyes. “Now, I’m curious, Y/N. What’s it feel like?”

You blink. “What’s what feel like?”

“Kissing me.”

Your face goes hot.

“You’re unbelievable,” you say, flustered and trying to get back to your bag of chips.

“Come on. You can’t just kiss me and not talk about it.” He steps in front of you, blocking the pantry. “You can’t get away with that.”

You shove at his chest lightly, but Changbin stays right there, a little too close for comfort.

“I wasn’t kissing you on purpose,” you protest, crossing your arms defensively.

Changbin grins, leaning in even closer, his voice dropping lower. “Really? Because it seemed pretty intentional to me. What’s it like to kiss someone this handsome?”

You’re about to smack him, but instead, you breathe out an exasperated laugh.

“I hate you sometimes.”

He smirks. “I know you don’t. You wouldn’t have kissed me if you did.”

You glare at him, trying to hide your smile, but it's impossible.

“You know,” he continues, eyes gleaming, “I think this whole ‘not being in a relationship’ thing is getting old.”

You narrow your eyes. “We live together. We’re basically in a relationship.”

“Hmm.” He raises an eyebrow. “So, when are you gonna kiss me again? Accidentally, of course.”

You groan. “I didn’t—”

He steps back, clearly satisfied. “Yeah, sure. Keep denying it.”

You walk past him to grab your chips, and Changbin calls after you.

“You know,” he says casually, “I’m just gonna say it. I think we should kiss again, but on purpose this time.”

You flip him off without turning around.

[rosierin]

serving looks and trouble | atsumu, osamu

synopsis; (y/n) works as a barista and the twins decide to pay her a visit. cue the gossip, the questions, and atsumu being atsumu.

a/n; if this isn’t the most “y/n” scenario ever idk what is

this fic is part of the off-season quartet™ series! for more, click here :)

It started with the jingle of the café door.

Then a pause.

Then a collective gasp from behind the counter.

“Ohmygod,” one of (y/n)’s co-workers whispered, eyes almost bulging out her head. “Who are they?”

Another peeked over her shoulder, milk jug still in hand, jaw slightly slack. “Are they celebrities or something?”

The sound of milk frothing and mugs clinking didn’t stop, but it definitely slowed, as if the entire café had turned its head in unison. Even the indie pop playing overhead felt like it dipped in volume.

(Y/n) was elbow-deep in seasonal syrups and foam art when one of her co-workers eagerly tugged at her sleeve. Thing was, she didn't even bother looking up.

The shift in atmosphere was unmistakable—bolder than the espresso in the air and louder than the hiss of the steamer.

She could recognise those twin sets of footsteps anywhere. Those unhurried, confident steps paired with a presence that filled the room, the kind that stated we’re here without so much as opening their mouths.

Still, she smiled, lighting up at the sight of them as they walked through the door. “Hey, guys.”

Her greeting was met with a pair of lazy waves and even lazier smiles.

Atsumu leaned against the counter first, sunglasses pushed up into his hair, his expression as casual as it was intentional. His eyes found hers instantly—like they always did.

“Afternoon, angel.”

Right behind him, Osamu matched the pose but with a quieter presence, one hand in his jacket pocket, the other resting on the edge of the counter. His smile was crooked and warm, but no-less smug.

“How’s our favourite barista?”

(Y/n)’s co-workers—two Uni students and one high schooler doing weekend shifts—were frozen. One of them dropped a spoon with a curse. Another accidentally messed up her latte heart. The third turned away and giggled girlishly into her sleeve.

“Don’t encourage them,” (y/n) muttered, face warming as she wiped her hands on her apron. She gave the twins a weak glare as she walked over, but her voice was far from scolding. “You guys are doing too much.”

Both claimed to have no idea what she was talking about. Merely exchanging a glance before shrugging in almost perfect sync.

Freaky twin telepathy things, she supposed.

"What brings you two foxes here anyway?"

Neither twin flinched at the nickname. She found herself referring to them as such ever since she met them in high school. Cunning minds, sharp tongues and charming faces.

In fact, she was pretty sure they enjoyed the shared title, if their award-winning smiles were anything to go by.

She would've rolled her eyes, but Atsumu stepped forward and propped his chin on his hand, watching her with the kind of shameless awe that made her want to melt and throw a towel at him at the same time. “We came for a pick-me-up.”

“And maybe a pastry,” Osamu added, already eyeing the display case. “Whaddaya recommend?”

That earned a muffled squeal from one of her co-workers, who instantly perked up and bounded over to assist him—suddenly very enthusiastic about describing each of the monthly specials in great detail. Osamu listened politely, even throwing in a follow-up question or two, and offering the occasional quiet joke that made the girl giggle, cheeks flushed pink.

(Y/n) shook her head fondly, watching the scene unfold. Turning up the charm, I see. She bit back a smile, amused.

She watched them for a heartbeat longer before her gaze naturally drifted to Atsumu, already bracing herself for whatever antics he had planned.

The small sigh she let out was almost instinctual as she asked, “You. What do you want?”

Atsumu tilted his head, a slow, amused grin pulling at his mouth. “That how ya talk to all yer customers?”

(Y/n) blinked, realizing belatedly that her tone had been a little too dry and quickly plastered on a sunnier smile. “No,” she said sweetly, hoping to cover up her little slip-up. “Just the ones who flirt with staff.”

A brief flicker crossed Atsumu’s face—something entertained and boyish—before a laugh spilled out of him, as bright and easy as the sunlight pouring through the picture window.

“Hey, I barely said anythin’ yet," he held his hands up in mock surrender, the sparkle in his eye unmistakable.

“Yeah, and it’s the yet that’s worrying me," she said, grabbing a pen and paper. "Anywho..." She clicked it once and put on her best customer service voice and smile. “What can I get for ya?"

Atsumu was clearly enjoying their little roleplay, because the grin on his face didn’t waver once. If anything, the glint in his eyes only seemed to brighten, like he was waiting for something she wasn’t quite catching.

When her eyebrows quirked up in question, he merely shrugged, his voice dropping just enough to make it feel oddly intimate. "Alright, alright…" he drawled, "I’ll get whatever the pretty barista recommends."

An eyeroll was her only response to his flirting. She began jotting down his order, pretending not to flinch at the heat crawling up her neck.

You'd think she'd be used to it by now, but with her friends-slash-co-workers all hovering nearby, all trying a bit too hard not to listen in on their conversation, it was hard not to feel even the slightest bit flustered at all the compliments and smiles he was tossing her way.

“How do ya know I was talkin’ about you?”

Her hand froze mid-scribble.

"'Tsumu—Seriously?"

His attempt at innocence was appalling. Especially with how he was practically soaking up the chorus of giggles her co-workers had the audacity of sparing him.

The blush on her cheeks worsened as he chuckled along with them, the sound doing little to quell the heat blooming across her features.

“God,” she muttered, swatting at one of the girls who was already fanning herself with a receipt pad.

Atsumu just beamed, looking far too proud of himself.

“Go sit down,” she ordered, jerking her head toward the seating area where Osamu had already claimed a window seat with a perfect view of the counter. When Atsumu didn’t budge, she gave him a gentle shove on the shoulder. “Go on. Shoo.”

“Alright, alright, no need t’ push,” he chuckled, stepping back with that dopey smile of his.

(Y/n) shook her head, but a small laugh escaped before she could stop it. She watched him retreat across the café—bright with sunlight and chatter—to where Osamu was already sitting by the window, peeling the wrapper off a muffin with the look of a man who hadn't eaten in days.

Her co-workers were on her instantly.

As she turned to prep their drinks, they leaned in with laser focus, like they were dissecting a secret romance novel.

She focused on the task in front of her—anything to ignore the way they were practically vibrating behind her. Two iced lattes. One with a single pump of vanilla for Osamu—classic, smooth, no fuss. The other with two generous pumps of caramel for Atsumu—of course. She added ice, poured the shots, topped both with cold foam, then reached for the lids.

She was just about to slide them across the counter when a hand grabbed her wrist.

“Conference room,” her co-worker whispered urgently, tugging her into the back prep corner like they were about to discuss classified information.

The three of them circled her like cats cornering a mouse.

“So…” one began, eyes wide and burning with gossip. “Are you gonna tell us who they are, or what?”

(Y/n) felt the weight of the question loom over her. “...Friends?”

“Friends?” another echoed, voice rising an octave. “Plural? Girl, what did you do in a previous life to end up with two friends who look like that?”

“I—what?” (y/n) spluttered, a laugh threatening to break through. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I mean—no, I do. But it’s chill. We’ve been friends since high school, that’s all. We're pretty close but that's about it."

“Pretty close,” the highschooler probed, narrowing her eyes with a teasing smirk. “How close?”

(Y/n) groaned, but affection tugged at her lips. “Just friendship close. Seriously. They look all charming now, but they’re more of a handful than they’re letting on.”

She tilted her head, glancing toward their table. Osamu was holding his muffin just out of Atsumu’s reach, stretching his arm above his head like a protective parent while Atsumu made multiple attempts to steal it, getting kicked in the shin each time. They were already arguing—hands waving, faces animated—even though they hadn’t been in the café ten minutes.

“Not to mention noisy,” she muttered.

“Wait,” one of the girls said suddenly, eyes lighting up. “Are they… single?”

(Y/n) hesitated. “Uh… yeah. They are. But I don’t think either of them are looking for anything right now—”

A round of the most judging, disbelieving glances followed, enough to make (y/n) slightly curl in on herself.

“Whattt? How do you know that?”

“Yeah, (y/n). C’mon, don’t gatekeep.”

“I’m not!” she laughed, exasperated. “But if you’re seriously interested, why don’t you just ask them yourself? I dunno, write your number on their cup or something.”

That sent her co-workers into an absolute spiral.

They all started fussing—giggling, whispering, glancing over at the twins’ table a few too many times. The air felt warmer, buzzing with curiosity and far too many hormones.

And as if Atsumu could somehow smell the pheromones from across the café, he rose to his feet and sauntered over.

He plucked up his iced latte with a lazy grin plastered on his face. Then he took one sip and asked to nobody in particular, “What’s all the fuss about? Saw ya glancin' over a coupla time."

One co-worker opened her mouth to speak—then immediately closed it again, already red-faced and flustered.

(Y/n) took this as her cue. “Yeah, actually. The girls wanted to know if you were both single.”

A chorus of gasps echoed around the bar.

“(Y/n)!” one of them hissed, scandalized.

She just shrugged, completely unbothered, sipping her own drink with the calm of someone watching the world burn.

Atsumu jerked a thumb at his brother. “He is." He took another long sip of his drink before his eyes flicked back to (y/n), practically gleaming. “I’m not.”

She cocked an eyebrow, arms folding. “Oh, really.”

He didn’t elaborate—he didn’t need to. The implication hung in the air like steam from a fresh cappuccino. But just in case it wasn’t painfully obvious, he winked.

She hated the way her heart skipped a beat.

God’s sake.

In front of her co-workers? Seriously?

(Y/n) was about to retort something when Atsumu suddenly turned to leave, Osamu trailing after him with an amused shake of the head.

“Anyway we gotta bounce," he shot over his shoulder. Osamu lingered at the door, propping it open with his foot as he waved. (Y/n) returned the gesture, head tilting as Atsumu flashed her one last cheeky grin.

"See ya later, babe. Text us when ya come home!"

And with that, they left the store with the same swagger they had entered it with.

Finally, the café could breathe again.

The silence behind the counter, however, was nothing short of deafening.

Well. It was.

Not for long.

"'Babe?'" one of them gawked, holding her hands up like she'd just made a world-shattering discovery. "And hang on a minute—you live with them? I like how you conveniently left that detail out. God, I have so many questions—!”

And in came the flood of inevitable interrogations...

"Wait, so you are dating him, then?” another gasped, leaning dramatically over the counter.

"Be honest," the youngest chimed in, eyes sparkling with mischief. "Just blink twice if it’s complicated."

“(Y/n), I can't believe you didn't even TELL us??” the first girl cried, clutching her chest in betrayal.

"Giiiirl—" the second chastised, "you're living the dream for real."

(Y/n) buried her face in her hands.

“We’re not dating," she groaned into her palms. Then, almost completely glossing over the unexpected lore-drop, she added, "We do live together though."

A synchronized gasp.

"Since when?! You never told us that!" one of them demanded, arms thrown wide.

"Since we started Uni! Have I never told you?"

She peeked up sheepishly as the three of them shook their heads, scandalized. Whoops. She could’ve sworn she had.

"Oh— Well, you know how I live with Rin, right?"

This time, they all nodded vigorously.

The youngest, almost reverently, murmured, "Ohmygod, Rintarou Suna, how could I forget?" which earned a laugh from (y/n).

She recalled him being equally as popular among some of her co-workers in the past.

"Yes, Rin—anyway," she continued, gathering what remained of her dignity, "basically we all moved in together during our first year. And… that's it, really. I swear I told you guys."

"You didn't," one said flatly, voice comically grave. "I'd have remembered."

Another leaned her elbows on the counter, flashing her a mischievous grin. "So you're telling me you're living with not one fittie, but three? And two of them are twins?"

(Y/n) tried not to flush at the implication. She shook her head with a huff, flicking a towel at the offender.

"Girl, you must have some fuuun," the high-schooler teased, nudging her with an elbow.

"That's so gross—no chance," (y/n) retorted, shaking her head.

One of them sucked in a breath and let out an almost envious sigh. "You're better than I am..." she said dreamily.

"Pffft," (y/n) snorted, rolling her eyes.

She brushed off her friends' teasing, already expecting as much. But under the mortification, somewhere deep beneath the surface, was a smile she couldn’t quite fight off.

Because maybe Atsumu wasn’t her boyfriend.

But he really liked to act like one.

And maaaybe she didn't actually mind.

[falmerbrook]

Theories for What Darien is

Some folks seem content with "vessel of Meridia" as an answer to "what's Darien's deal" but I'm not, and I think at some point we'll get more answers, so here's a collection of some theories+clues I've thought of or seen others suggest in the meantime.

A Demiprince

A Demiprince is "the Daedric offspring of a Daedric Prince or Daedra Lord and a lesser entity such as a mortal". They aren't really a thing this series puts a lot of focus on (and I like that, personally. We have enough focus on daedra already) but having a focus on a major character being one could be a good opportunity to flesh the concept out perhaps. From what we do know, though, the relationship between Prince and Demiprince seems less like that of a literal parent and child and more like the Prince provides some part of themselves or their power/essence/realm to create a new being with part of the essence of a lesser being. When that other entity is a mortal, I suppose that would just be the other parent. Basically under this theory Darien's father (as a reminder, a character we have met and interacted with in-game) was probably a Meridia cultist, or otherwise connected with her and for whatever reason agreed to make and raise Darien. He probably grew up from a child if this is the case.

Meridia wasn't a part of the Coldharbour Compact, but maybe for whatever reason she felt she needed a mortal with loyalty and a connection to her, as well as a sample of her power to do her bidding on Nirn, and thought a Demiprince would be the best way to go about it? Regardless of motivation, I think it would set up a very interesting relationship or dynamic between Darien and Meridia if they ever return if it turns out she's basically his mom.

Evidence:

Darien mentions that he never met his mother when you talk to him on Summerset. It seems like something pretty specific to bring up unless it had some sort of relevance (although the rest of this dialogue is going to be more relevant to later theories)

He also seems to be under the impression that he has always had whatever power/abilities he has related to Meridia in him his whole life (now, how long that life is depends on the theory).

(me too, Darien)

When he mentions that he had dreamed of the assault on Coldharbour and the light of Meridia before, he says that he's been having these dreams since he was young, implying that 1) he had a childhood (that's relevant I swear) and 2) his connection to Meridia and purpose as her Champion has been present since he was young. In his journal you can find in Camlorn, however, he says he's been having dreams predicting the Planemeld "since winter", implying they are a more recent thing. Perhaps his dreams have just gotten more specific or frequent as he got older?

---

Something of otherwise daedric origin that Meridia plops on Nirn when she needs something done

Basically, my thought with this one is that "Darien" has been Meridia's vessel (whatever that entails) for a long time, that she sends down to Nirn/Mundus whenever she wants to more covertly get something taken care of. For an example, in the context of the Planemeld, a certain amount of time before it started (I'm thinking, say, months) he appeared in Camlorn as a full adult, with him and the people around him having false memories of his past. Perhaps his "dad" is in on it, or perhaps he's just a random guy who has now been assigned an adult son by a god. Once he had fulfilled the task she set out for him, in this case helping to thwart Molag Bal, she would bring him back into the Colored Room for the next time she needed him (in this case, the conflict with the Dark Triad). In this case, he isn't a mortal, he just appears as one and is under the impression he is one. Usually, his memory is reset when he returns to the Colored Rooms, but, according to Meridia something changed in his interactions with the Vestige...

This one certainly has it's own holes in how it actually works, but it's a start.

Evidence:

The biggest evidence for this theory comes from the player's conversation with Meridia during the Summerset main quest.

She claims that he only believes himself to be Darien, and that he is really something else. (also she calls him "it") As well, she also says she sends him to Mundus to execute her will, implying this is not only his purpose, but also that she's done this before.

Additionally, she directly says that something about her intended purpose for him has been altered since he met you (and she specifically cites the Vestige as the problem). Perhaps he was meant to forget about his bonds and life from before he was returned to the Colored Rooms, but something about this time made it so he didn't and now he's invested in that past life.

The way he keeps returning to the Colored Rooms when he "dies" (his first time having not been within the protective shield Meridia set up, the second time being when he sacrificed himself to restore Dawnbreaker) is reminiscent of the way daedra are returned and reformed in their home realms when they are killed elsewhere. Daedra aren't actually "killed" when they die, they are instead just returned to the plane of Oblivion they originate from. Perhaps that is what's going on with him.

(source)

Finally, I mentioned earlier that in his journal, he claims he's only been having his dreams of the Planemeld and Meridia for probably a few months at most. Perhaps that's how long he's actually been on Nirn?

We saw earlier that he also mentions that his childhood was a blur. Maybe that's because he didn't actually have one.

---

A(nother) Vestige™

(or just generally, originally a normal Breton dude, turned into something daedric)

So, from my understanding, a vestige (lowercase v) is basically the daedric version of a soul. Daedra do not have souls in the way mortals do. Instead they have vestiges that are basically the essence of a daedra that its form/body is created around. This is a bit different than what The Vestige (uppercase V) is. When mortal souls are sacrificed to Molag Bal, the soul is replaced by a vestige in Coldharbour, turning the mortal into a Soul Shriven who is compelled/forced to serve as a slave in Coldharbour for eternity since they cannot die permanently (similar to daedra). The bodies of Soul Shriven are weak and decay over time, but rarely, such as with The Vestige, some other Aunic (which I think means relating to Mundus) aspect allows them to maintain their former body, while still have the ability to reform after death like a daedra. (all of this is taken from this book, so if I got it wrong let it know)

With that out of the way, this theory is basically that Darien is like The Vestige, but for Meridia instead of Molag Bal. Alternatively (and more simply) it could be that he was originally born a normal mortal, but at some point had some part of Meridia's power/essence imbued in him to become what he is now (the Ambitions had this sorta thing going on for another example of it).

There isn't really any evidence for this theory that makes it more likely than the others. As a matter of fact I think it's weaker than the previous two. However, it would be thematically interesting to have him parallel with The Vestige, and it would make this line A+ foreshadowing:

---

Other random tidbits I found interesting but don't really apply to any one theory

In his final words to the Vestige in the books he leaves us after the Summerset main quest, he rather definitively says that Meridia is responsible for bringing him into existence. So at the very least she has something to do with his existence. This could apply to any of the theories I've already put forward, but mostly the first two.

His powers or whatever essence of Meridia that he has is implied to be finite. He initially seemed to think that he was transferring the rest of what he had into Dawnbreaker when he sacrificed himself at the end of Summerset, but in his final words it seems more like it took away a part of it, and each time he does something like that or "dies" he loses a bit (and that when he loses all of it he will actually die :( )

Nocturnal seems to recognize him as "Meridia's vessel". This is right after he mentions using Dawnbreaker so the Meridia connection is obvious, but the same use of the word "vessel" makes this seem like a thing the other Princes understand or already know about unquestioningly. Maybe it's a Daedric Prince thing, maybe it indicates Meridia has had this "vessel" in whatever form for awhile.

His dad is definitely a guy that exists given Lady Arabelle mentions having worked with him at some point at least 16 years prior to the events of the game. Make of that what you will for however he fits into all this.

Not really related to what his deal is at all, but still a interesting part I forgot about: Darien and Sotha Sil have had a conversation. I very much wish I was a fly on the wall during that. Maybe Sil could recognize more about what was going on with Darien than we could.

[sthilarions]

(We’re working in a slight AU where cats can see ghosts but can’t talk because otherwise this would get weird. I considered a bunny or a ferret to avoid the issue but - whatever. Anyway)

Charles faced Edwin’s empty chair behind the desk, addressing it, in the empty office. “Edwin. So - I know you’re going to be kind of mad. And I know about the Puppy Debacle. And that was bad all around, you were all the way right that time, I’m not saying you weren’t. But after the case at the shelter today - it’s just, he reminded me so much of you, with that little head tilt, yeah?”

He paused. “And we have Crystal and Niko around now anyway so it’s not like we’re still keeping the no living rule, at this point, and, he’s got this little marking on his neck like your bowtie, and he came right up to me to play but then this big guy came in and he curled up against the wall and he looked just like you did in - and there’s no version of this where I don’t come get you, is there, even if you’re a cat, and - ”

He smacked himself, hard, on the head, with his free hand. “Fucking stupid, Charles, why would you even say that? You’re gonna have to come up with something way better than that. Fuck.”

There was a sound from behind him and Charles jumped violently and hid his cargo in his coat. He did not turn around.

“Charles,” Edwin said, from behind him. “You are not stupid, fucking or otherwise. However - ” he paused. “I don’t suppose you could turn around?”

Charles shook his head. “I’d rather not just at the mo’, mate,” he said, holding his coat shut.

“As you wish. As I was saying, to you instead of to an empty chair, I will note, I, ah, I know I was the one to initially stand against the Infamous Puppy Debacle of ‘94, but it has been thirty-one years since then, and our lifestyles have shifted, and the circumstances are rather different now than then. She’s not a hellhound, to start with - ”

“Wait, hang on,” Charles said. “Whaddayamean, ‘she’?”

Edwin took a deep breath. He was getting better at doing that without being told. “When we were separated, at the shelter. And I was looking in their Special Care area. They said she had been - ” Edwin broke off.

“Hurt,” he continued, “for a while, but she’s ready to adopt now, they just hadn’t moved her out yet to keep things familiar for her. And she came up to me immediately, even though she looked so scared when I walked in, and you know dogs can’t see our disguises so she must have had a near-death experience before, and she licked my hand, which was a very slimy experience but we can find a way to protect the books and ingredients and other items, I’m sure there must be an anti-drool charm somewhere, and when the poltergeist started attacking she tried to get in between it and me even though she was trembling, you may have heard the barking before I got back to you? And they said that Saint Bernards are actually quite good in flats, so long as they get walks, and - ”

Sometime partway through that monologue Charles had spun around. He wasn’t quite sure when, because he’d immediately had his brain go almost completely blank at the sight of the absolutely massive dog standing, jowls in what looked kinda like a loose grin, dangling long trails of drool, at Edwin’s side.

Edwin finally cut himself off, looking down towards Charles’s chest, where his coat had fallen open when his arms loosened as a result of his shock. “And they said she’s very good with cats,” Edwin concluded. “So that’s all right.”

Charles bent over in delighted laughter, careful not to squeeze the cat in his arms. “Well,” he said, after getting the laughter under control a bit, “they told me this little guy was very good with dogs. So I guess that works out.”

Charles looked at the dog for a minute, and Edwin looked at the cat for a minute, and then they both spoke at the same second. “Crystal’s going to be furious.”

[mrsdarkandyandere7]

Yandere AIB Boys - Restraining Order

▶ This is a yandere/dark work and it may contain triggering content so please READ THE WARNINGS before. Do not read if minor.

More at Masterlist

Female reader

Summary: (Normal world AU) Filing a restraining order against him was supposed to solve your problems, but it only makes it worse. [Arisu, Karube, Niragi]

WARNINGS: Stalking; Manipulation; Violence. 

AN: Please, reblog and give me feedback 😊

Hope you like this @ccaarro (idea credit goes to her)

--

Arisu

“Please, just– just listen to me… All I want is to talk.” 

Your face heats up, exasperation and frustration building up inside you like a volcano. You’re tired from work and being ambushed by Arisu right after the restraining order only adds up to your annoyance.

The parking lot is practically empty, only a few cars left. You would be scared if you didn’t know that Arisu is physically incapable of hurting you. 

 You fish inside the purse, searching for your keys with the shiny moonlight as the only source of light and Arisu stares at you with big desperate eyes. His hair is all messy, clothes wrinkled.

He looks so miserable and distressed that you almost feel bad about him …

... almost. 

“This is all a big misunderstanding, please, you have to understand!” he tries, “I’m not a creep, I swear I’m not.”

You look back, glaring at him for a moment before diving your face back into your purse. Those damn keys. 

“Arisu, just… go home.” you say, finally getting a hold of your car keys. “And leave me alone.”

You turn towards him, a few more prepared words ready for him. A yelp escapes from your lips at the sudden collision against his body. 

“What-”

Arisu backs out immediately, hands in the air to placate you. 

“I… you’re not understanding me. Please, just let me explain, okay?” he rushes to say, before you can stop him. 

“I love you. I love you so much.” you glare at him, and Arisu gulps but doesn’t falter. “And I know that you don’t feel the same for me, but if you just give me one chance…. I’ll give you so much love, I’ll always keep you happy - no matter what."

"And please… I’ll do whatever I have to do to make you understand that.” 

Karube

There’s a commotion rising near the entrance of your office, you can hear it from the street as you approach the building. That’s unusual. You strut forward, getting your company ID card, ready to clock in.  

“I’m not leaving without talking to her, damnit!” the shouting voice is awfully familiar, the sight of the bleached blonde hair even more so. Oh no!

You stare as the scene unfolds in front of you. Karube curses, hand rubbing his hair in a frustrated motion as the doorman doesn’t allow him to enter.

It feels like a slow motion scene when his eyes meet yours, his face lightening up with recognition. Your legs move too slow, only making it to the corner of the street before you’re caught. 

You yelp right before Karube grabs you, dragging you by the wrist to the nearest empty alley.

It happens too fast, your mind swirling with emotions and thoughts, your voice swallowed down by your helplessness. You’ve never been good at confrontation. 

“Have you lost your mind?!” Karube is on you the moment your back is against the cement wall. His hands grab your face, strong and determined, forcing you to look at him.

“Huh?! What were you thinking? A restraining order? From my own girlfriend? Fuck no.” 

“Karube, just… just calm down–”

“Why are you being so melodramatic, hein? We’re in love, we love each other.” he vehemently declares, and you shiver at the flurry of emotions that paint his face.

This isn’t the Karube you fell in love with.

No, this new Karube is someone that scares you to the core. Someone that tries to control you down to the smallest things, someone that despises your own freedom. 

“Listen, okay, just listen to me.” his hands dig deeper into the soft skin of your face, immobilizing you.

His breath rages on your face and the slight hint of whiskey makes you nauseous. “That restraining order… that damn thing doesn’t change anything for us. Okay?”

“I’m not letting that come between us. I’m not letting anything come between us.”

Niragi

The banging on the bedroom door grows in volume. More insistent, more aggressive. You’re scared it won’t hold out for much longer and your heart races wildly at the thought. 

You should call the police. Call your parents. Call anyone that might help you. Except your phone is currently sitting in the kitchen while you’re barricaded in the small pantry of the apartment. Damn it. 

“Oi, open up the door.” a nasty punch is delivered on cue, the door shaking on its hinges. “Do you really want me to break it down? Cause I will, damnit.” 

Terror swells inside you, pushing on your chest like heavy stones. He’s angry - of course he’s angry.

Why wouldn’t he be after being delivered with a restraining order? 

A pathetic attempt at a threat. Practically an insult thrown his way. Now that you think about it, it was never a good idea. But fear makes you do stupid things. 

The banging increases in power, Niragi’s laughter filling your ears. 

“If you open this door, I’ll go nicer on you. Don’t you want that?” he yells. “Open this door and I might not break your entire face, doll. Just a punch or two as a punishment.”

You scrunch your face, hand curling on your chest as if to keep you grounded. 

You stare at the door, helpless. The lock shakes and rattles, growing weaker by the moment.  

There’s a moment of silence that marks the nail in the coffin, your heart thumping in your ears. The lock finally gives up, breaking apart as it reveals an euphoric Niragi.

He kicks the door to the side, with a victorious chuckle. 

“You look scared. Trembling like a leaf.” he remarks, cracking his head to the side. “Looks like that restraining order of yours didn’t work, huh.” 

[crustyfloor]

The instrumentation of R7 is so cleverly immersive in the way it portrays Till's unstable emotions because by the end, Blink Gone is supposed to be petrifying and traumatic for Till. The repetitiveness of the lyrics and the many variations of "Blink gone" are like a mantra meant to drive you mad. The music is quite different from the genres we've heard before because it sets the emotional tone. Blink Gone sounds like mainstream party music (that much gives off a different tone that puts an invisible wall between audience and performer, though we have more of the advantage of seeing their emotions in more focus). That being said, Blink Gone's pacing is fast. It naturally allows this round to sound more like an actual competition. The concept and overall feel of Blink Gone is exhausting and quick (blink and you miss it kind of thing)

And I think that is meant to be portrayed in Till's gradual loss of will throughout the whole round, it looks very clear that he's running on adrenaline and ambition as he faces off against Luka, as opposed to R6, he's dropped the resignation and passivity, and is now probably fluctuating between fight or flight the whole time (Or in other words, Hyperarousal. Which you can identify a lot in his skittishness and his sporatic energy and his hyper vigilance and his eventual lack of response). I think it transitions that way because of Till's protective instinct after such a traumatic situation just hours ago, he doesn't do anything else than what comes naturally, and that is to fight (I think maybe there is a clearer notion behind that that we'll see in his introspection one day). Within his performance, he's actively assertive and firing back, that's what makes the coming scene with Till and Luka and their signature instruments so impactful because Till's skills have always been his advantage, but there is definitely something in the way Luka can do it all and interjects Till's performance with his violin, more smoothly and beautifully as opposed to Till's frantic playing, he makes his presence known and fights with Till for the spotlight, after this point you can see Till losing his wind and his energy comes back in brief strokes, his abrupt outburst of energy is impractical (entertaining most likely yes, but it gives a lot of insight into how he's handling the increasing pressure right now)

His stamina could be better because it can be, but Till didn't come into this round in the best state of mind anyway, it is why it's so easy for Luka to break him down

Ruler of my heart and BL gone have many similarities in this sense, in terms of immersion and showing the emotional volatility of Mizi, because this is Luka's technique, he intimidates his opponents, essentially exploiting their fearful adrenaline and whatever else he can bank on that he's observed from them in previous rounds perhaps, his displays easily steal the audience's attention and leaves his opponent fighting a losing game, essentially exploiting their emotional turmoil

The instrumental takes a low and slow turn in the scene where Luka gets close to Till and touches him so that we only know to focus on him while he sings and intentionally triggers Till, causing Till's shock to leave him momentarily shaken, what I really adore about that scene other than the lengths Vivinos went to to show his emotions-

(Like right here, color theory seems to be implemented to show you just how he feels in that moment, cold > warm > hot / freeze > shaken > assertion from the moment he's frozen in fear and right when he jumps back into action)

Alongside that, the way he sounds shaken as much as he is visibly afraid is so good, especially considering what we know he sees when he looks out into the crowd and realizes that everything is out of his control, and the threat of death is looming. That much is enough to prompt him to give himself the kick he needed to snap out of it and come back into action, though you can really see the way after this point, Till loses his energy, and his stage presence in quick succession, and again, (similar to Mizi in ROMH,) he is visibly panicking and desperately trying to get his wind back to no avail, Till's emotional fragility gives at the very moment he's so stressed his nose bleeds and he gives, the stage scene too circles back to what I said before about Blink gone having a suffocating and intimidating vibe, because hearing the crowd repeatedly sings different variations of " oh in a Blink gone forget everything and just enjoy" is like it's compelling Till to just give up at this point when faced with Luka who has the clear advantage, he'd be playing a losing game. (It's also so especially cruel that in this moment he's surrounded by trauma and he's facing it up-front, the fear in the moment froze him like the other instances, and the intensity of the moment is coupled by the way the crowd becomes more persuasive and has a pervasive influence on the way Till shuts down)

And the visual notes would've given the impression that this is where Till will inevitably lose, until instrumentally and visually the whole scene gives pause and redirects your attention and mood to a newfound energy, as soon as Mizi is introduced again, and the center of his vision focuses on her

In this way, you follow Till's train of thought as he sees Mizi and instantly snaps back into it, not the actual performance, but his state of mind is intensely focused on one singular thing, and that is getting to her. That is enough to get him back on his feet. It's also notable that this is one of those instances again where a character is singing to the listener, but they've actually stopped singing in real time on stage

The instrumentation captures the feeling of elation and hope in that moment in the drastic change of tone, (Save for Luka's utmost frustration/exasperations in his lines I love bl8m for showcasing that in his tone) it essentially sways you into thinking "oh, this is the part where he will be saved" because everything in that scene leads you to that perspective, even in the lyrics Till "sings" quite literally about him leaping for the moment, forgetting everything and not wanting to regret missing this chance to escape. Then he gets shot

If you think that sequence of events was rushed/fast-paced, I'd think that was the intention, given the repeated "blink, gone / the clock goes tik tok" because Till was racing against time, dragging himself to Mizi thinking she could save him was his leap of faith moment, and he went for it. And that's just so good to me, how it goes very literal beyond a listener's perspective, and the way the guitar sounds resoundingly low and ominous in the very end, giving off that sense of dread that Mizi feels, and the question of "what..."