#in someone's eyes for like a second. to feel like they have agency over their lives & aren't just in a prison where they have to watch their

[textualviolence]

ill say it though its a hostile climate on here. sometimes the person who's so anxious about being cheated on that they'll treat their partner w constant suspicion & insecurity, even when it doesn't cross the line into demanding access to their phone or invading their privacy, is creating a toxic environment that no amount of understanding or emotional maturity can diffuse & if they get cheated on my sympathy will be with the cheater on that one. Like thats unlivable. Sorry about your trauma but genuinely how can you expect anyone to live like this.

[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.

[okwonyo]

ROLLER COASTER ★ spy!enha

✴️ 𝗐𝗂𝗌𝗁 𝗂 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝖾𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍.

❪ 𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍 ❫ 𝟏𝟏𝟐𝟕 ───── enhypen & female reader 共 fluff action pining ❕ kissing skinship mention of blood ｡｡ REBLOG4AKISS

분지 ܃ i hope you enjoy this one ^^

𝐋𝐄𝐄𝐇𝐄𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐔𝐍𝐆 in your job, as someone who is fighting a lot, hand-to-hand combat is really important. hence why you take most of your free time to come to the agency and train— working on improving your skills and ability. you wouldn’t want to lose because of your lack of expertise.

but training gets really hard and unnecessary when the person you are fighting against barely fights back. yes, the tall muscular man you are combating loses against you over and over. given his experience and how well he fights during missions, you are starting to think it’s suspicious.

today is the third time he ends up on the floor in the spawn of ten mere minutes. he looks quite pretty with his wrists pinned next to either side of his head, his sly smile spreading on his lips as you over him. “don’t start things you can’t finish, angel,” he chuckles, enjoying it way too much.

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐊𝐉𝐎𝐍𝐆𝐒𝐄𝐎𝐍𝐆 he knew it was a bad idea the second you mentioned it. the moment you decided to dish the initial plan to go follow the target instead, here, in the middle of dinner while the enemy is heading to the kitchen, he knew it was a very bad idea. he should have said something about it. alas, he is caught under your spell.

his inner alarm goes off when the target turns around suddenly. there is only a few milliseconds before the rumored mafia member notices that you are both following him around. and your partner can’t even blink before you hold his cravat and pull him onto your lips.

his mind goes blank for a while. there is only the taste of your lips in his mind as his body leans into the kiss and moves in his own— holding your waist to press you closer against him. he almost forgets that it’s a cover, that it is just for the job until your target speaks, “ah! young love.”

𝐒𝐈𝐌𝐉𝐀𝐄𝐘𝐔𝐍 he knows he is supposed to be working, as his boss informed him with such a serious tone, but he gets easily distracted. especially in settings like this; a luxurious bar, delicious drinks and incredible dishes. with the music dancing gently in his ears and the alcohol in veins, for a minute he forgets that he is there to find his new spy partener.

but he can’t help it. with a woman as pretty as you are sitting next to him and gracing him with quick glances. there is a smile on your face when he approaches you, your eyes lock and his breath catches in his throat, “may i offer you a drink?”

the entire world fades when he hears your sweet and quiet laughter. his pulse rises when he finally discovers your voice, how well you articulate your words, how good it feels to hear your gentle tone; “they did tell me you were a charmer, agent 002.”

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐊𝐒𝐔𝐍𝐆𝐇𝐎𝐎𝐍 he might be a little crazy. perhaps, he has lost his mind and is going right into an infinite spiral. because, he feels good. really good. a little too god for someone who just fought against three different guys and whose face is covered in blood and fresh wounds.

although he feels good only because your soft hands are cupping his face. you are kneeling down to him who is sitting down, back against the back, breathing heavily. you are scolding him while he feels like he is at the gates of heavens, being welcomed by an angel like you.

“...why didn’t you wait for me?” he leans against your touch, barely listening to you. he straightens himself as you call for his name in a worried tone. then, he falls towards you, his head resting on your chest, “are you okay?” you ask again and he hums, rubbing his face against the soft material of your clothing. he feels perfect.

𝐊𝐈𝐌𝐒𝐔𝐍𝐎𝐎 he likes to think that is professional, that his mind is always set on work— and work only. alas, the truth is that he often finds himself distracted by you and your body. so much, that there are moments where his body is totally controlled by you.

like when he feels like you are in danger, so his danger sense rises up, as if he were a superhero. he turns his head to see a bullet coming your way and before he can even think about it, his body moves on its own free will.

that’s how he find himself above you, with his arm around your head so it doesn’t hit the floor. he groans into your neck before getting up— but he gets starstruck by the look in your eyes when he is so close to your face like that. for a moment, times stop and danger isn’t imminent.

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐉𝐔𝐍𝐖𝐎𝐍 he feels a little stupid for being so tense at you doing your job. he knows that it is not the first time he witnesses this, he knows you need to use this technique a lot in your job— but, he hates seeing you being flirty and touchy with someone else.

he can feel his jaw tightening, his teeth pressing against each other as you touch the man’s arm. his eyes trail over your interlocutor’s arm, following your finger, wishing it was him. he almost gets mad at how happy the man looks, how he doesn’t notice you stealing his access card.

his whole body eases when you come back to him, leaning the man still in a haze. you hold the card between your index finger and the middle one, showing it for him to take, “thanks to your doll face,” he says like the sour taste doesn’t linger.

𝐍𝐈𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐌𝐔𝐑𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐊𝐈 you are the first one to say it: he should never be left unsupervised. he is too slippery, to quick in his decisions to do anything without you having a very focused eye on him. you could feel that he was about to do something stupid when he told you to meet him outside after taking the opponents out.

“hop on, baby girl!” he exclaims as soon as he sees you running out of the building. the cool night air hits you in the face, but is nothing next to the shock that takes over you, seeing him on a big red bike. where the hell did he get this from? “c’mon, don’t be shy.”

you don’t really have time to scold him— to tell him that spies don’t steal other people's vehicles. so you do as he said, jumping a little to get behind him. you embrace his waist tightly, scared of god’s know what, your face rest on his broad back and you shut your eyes close as he starts the bike.

taglist. ( open )

[literatureloverx]

BSD MEN x their first time meeting their darlings

Characters: Fyodor Dostoevsky, Dazai Osamu, Nakahara Chuuya, Nikolai Gogol, Akutagawa Ryuunosuke

BSD MEN x fem!reader

Fyodor Dostoevsky

You and Fyodor met at the museum.

He noticed you from a distance, intrigued by your beauty as you stood before a painting for longer than most would.

Drawn by an irresistible curiosity, he approached you to hear your thoughts on the artwork.

To him, you resembled a beautiful doll, exquisite and delicate, with a mind that radiated compassion toward his complex moral code and a heart that was both truthful and sincere.

Your gentle smile captivated him, sparking an interest that went beyond mere admiration; it stirred something deeper within him.

The full scenario is HERE

Dazai Osamu

You met Dazai either in his Port Mafia or in his Armed Detective Agency era. I will go with the second option, because PM!Dazai is more complicated.

Dazai encountered you on the beach at dawn.

It had been another sleepless night for him, and he was wandering aimlessly, as he often did after consuming alcohol without a care for the consequences.

The cool sea breeze tousled his hair, and the rhythmic sound of the waves crashing against the shore provided a stark contrast to the chaos in his mind.

Thinking the fresh air would help ease his slight headache, he walked at a slow pace, allowing the serenity of the beach to wash over him.

Scenario

As he wandered, he spotted a bench facing the beautiful water, where the dawn reflected brilliantly like molten gold. Without a moment's hesitation, he settled onto the bench, feeling the rough wood beneath him as he gazed at the horizon.

The sun began to rise, casting warm hues of orange and pink across the sky, but even that beauty couldn't quite pull him from the fog of his thoughts.

He yawned, a weary reminder of yet another night spent in restless contemplation, unable to escape the burdens that always seemed to find him.

A few moments later, someone sat beside him on the other side of the bench. His eyes widened in surprise as he turned to see you, a soft smile gracing your lips, almost apologetically.

The way the morning light played with your features was mesmerising, and for a fleeting moment, Dazai forgot the weight of his troubles.

Your gentle, melodic voice cut through the sound of the waves and reached his ears, wrapping around him like a warm embrace. "I hope it's okay for me to sit here? I also came to watch the sunrise."

The sunrise cascaded across your angelic smile, illuminating your hair as if each strand were made of stardust.

Dazai felt an unfamiliar flutter in his chest, a sensation he hadn't expected. He studied you, taking in the delicate way your eyes sparkled with the early light, and the calmness that radiated from your presence.

It was as if you were a breath of fresh air amidst the heaviness that often surrounded him.

"Of course," he replied, a hint of a smile breaking through his usually stoic demeanor. "I can't say I mind the company of such a beautiful young lady, especially at a moment like this."

You smiled, but didn’t answer.

As you both sat in silence, watching the sun rise higher into the sky, Dazai's mind raced.

The tranquility of the moment was refreshing, and he felt drawn to you in a way that was both thrilling and unsettling.

He was self-aware enough to know that this was no simple attraction he was feeling; it was something deeper, something he didn't quite know how to handle.

Nakahara Chuuya

Chuuya likely knows you either from his childhood—perhaps through the sheep—or your family has loose ties to the Port Mafia, and you happen to cross paths by chance.

I prefer the second option because it excites me more and is easier to write. (I’m really excited about this and want to write a full story with various chapters, but unfortunately, I have too many requests to finish right now.)

You know those Wattpad stories where the main character's dad has ties to the mafia, deeply indebted?

One day, the handsome mafia boss appears out of nowhere, demanding the money back—or worse, the daughter of the man. Well, this is not how Chuuya operates. He is a gentleman, after all.

Due to certain circumstances, instead of Akutagawa, Chuuya—the mafia executive himself—takes on the mission to collect the debt.

The jewelry mart of the mafia is under his care, and he decides to handle the matter personally this time.

It's a rare move for him, but something about the situation tugs at his instincts.

He circles your house, a sleek black car parked discreetly down the street, as he assesses the scene with a discerning eye.

The neighborhood is quiet, almost too quiet, and he can't shake the feeling that something is off.

The thought of confronting someone who owes the mafia money doesn't faze him, but he feels a sense of responsibility creeping in.

He pushes the thought aside; his focus is on the task at hand.

Storming in with a show of force, Chuuya enters your home, flanked by eight other men meant to intimidate.

But everyone knows that Nakahara Chuuya is a one-man army.

Scenario

The tension in the air is palpable as he strides toward your father, who stands pale and trembling.

Without hesitation, he forcefully pushes your father to the pavement, making him bite the concrete.

"You've made a grave mistake," Chuuya growls, the weight of authority lacing his words.

Your father stammers, trying to explain himself, but the panic in his eyes only fuels Chuuya's anger.

As Chuuya raises his gun, ready to make an example of your father, a pleading voice interrupts him.

You, a young woman, are being held back as you desperately try to reach your father.

"Please, don't!" you cry, your voice breaking.

Your teary eyes strike right through his heart, leaving him momentarily dumbfounded. Here's someone ready to sacrifice herself for her family.

You.

In that instant, he feels something shift within him—a stirring he hasn't experienced before. He doesn't understand what is happening; he can swear he's never felt this way before, and it unnerves him.

"Who are you?" he asks, trying to mask his confusion behind a façade of coldness.

"I'm his daughter! Please let him go! Take me! Take me instead!"

Your words are infused with desperation and bravery, resonating deep within him.

Everything else—the chaos, the noise—fades into silence. He is entirely focused on you, captivated by your beauty and your courage.

Chuuya can't help but admire your spirit. You're not begging for mercy out of fear; you're standing tall in the face of danger, ready to take your father's place. It strikes him as both foolish and incredibly brave. The dichotomy fascinates him.

As he lowers his gun, the gravity of the situation begins to weigh on him. He looks at your father, then back to you, and realizes he doesn't want to be the monster in this story. Not before your eyes, at least. Not now.

"Enough," he says, his voice steady but softer than before.

He knows he doesn’t need to be doing this. He can take the debt in more than one way. He has many options, but he chose this one because it was the quickest. However…things changed.

Without a second thought, he lowers his weapon and releases your father, taking a step back. The shock in your father's eyes mirrors the confusion swirling in Chuuya's mind, but he knows he's made the right choice.

As you rush to your father's side, Chuuya feels an unfamiliar warmth spreading through him. You’re so…mesmerising.

The way you move, the way you talk, the way you cry…he could stand there and watch you for hours, maybe even days. In fact, he felt like he could watch you for all eternity.

He tries to shake this weird feeling off.

"Consider this your lucky day," he adds, turning on his heel, his heart pounding in his chest. "But next time, you won't be so fortunate."

Nikolai Gogol

He either encountered you during a mission, where you were merely an unusual target that intrigued him, or he met you before he joined the Decay of the Angels.

For the narrative, I would lean towards the idea that "he met you on a mission where you were an odd prey."

For Nikolai to become interested in someone (be it romantically or platonically), he would need to sense a connection between the intricacies of his mind and your understanding of this complex moral system.

You were likely an unassuming office worker, perhaps even a part-timer, blissfully unaware of the corruption that plagued your workplace and why it could become a target for a terror attack.

How naive of you.

When he sees your innocent, almost silly face, he would smile, a glint of mischief in his eyes as he prepares to do something whimsical.

Scenario

Nikolai approached you, flashing his trademark grin—one that held a hint of danger mixed with playful charm.

"QUIZ TIIIME!!! Guess what I'm about to do to youuuu, little dove?!—“

He moves forward, his nose almost touching your cheek. His theatrical chuckle echoes through the halls left behind.

The floors are covered with blood and shards of glass, and you’re the only one remaining alive—together with this madman.

“—Yes indeedy! I'll make you feel free like a true bird! Free from everything! I’ll free you from the cage of your emotions, so that you can live as a credit to our race, a truly free homo sapiens!!"

His voice danced with mischief as he leaned against the doorframe, tugging slightly at the ropes bound around your wrists.

"P-please..." you stammered, the tremor in your voice betraying your anxiety. He ignores your quiet plea.

"Do you happen to like birds, little dove?" he asked, tilting his head slightly. Your startled expression was delightful to him.

You nod, and he follows up with, "Why is that?"

You have no idea what this strange clown wants from you. The only thing you want now is to flee—to run away, to go home, to survive. You’re not sure how you’re going to reach that goal, but you’re willing to do anything.

That’s why you start making up excuses to occupy him with your chatter for as long as possible. You’re hoping to get rescued… or at least to receive his mercy.

"Some birds are free in that sense, while others are made to remain in their cages…"

Nikolai leaned closer, intrigued by your perspective, his whole presence threatening every fibre of your being.

"So you believe that some birds are meant to be clipped, little dove?"

"N-no," you replied, trying to steady your voice despite the flutter of panic in your chest. "They are meant to be free. But even if the bird is free to go wherever it wishes, freedom is nothing but an illusion.—“

You were scared, and you didn’t know if what you were doing was the right thing to do in this situation. Your voice trembled.

“—Because even if the bird is freed from its cage, it won’t be truly free to go wherever it wishes. The laws of nature still apply—it can’t abandon its flock.”

Your heart raced, and you felt exposed, as if you were revealing too much of your own fear. His unnerving heterochromic eyes scare you, you're trying to make something up, to avoid his gaze.

"—A bird that has never known freedom won't long for it; it is simply content with its cage and the comfortable life it provides—“

You aren’t sure if this is working, but he isn’t hurting you, and he’s certainly listening. You gasp as he tugs at the ropes again, speaking in his usual whimsical manner.

“Can you think of any reason why a bird born in a cage would crave freedom? A reason for the bird to detest its own—“

He giggles.

“…’comfortable’ cage?”

“I…I don’t see a reason for that to happen…unless that comfort turns into terror—"

His façade seems to crumble for a moment. Your voice wavers, the weight of his gaze amplifying your anxiety.

"—unless the bird has been abused in its very cage, sir..."

He stepped back, contemplating your words. The thought was foreign, yet it resonated with an undeniable truth.

Too real.

It felt way too real for him.

"You're quite insightful for someone so naive.”

"Please... just let me go," you whispered, your heart pounding.

He giggles again. It’s just one of the many unnerving qualities he possesses, as you recognize.

"I can't do that," he said softly, his tone shifting. "But I can promise you this—your voice matters to me now, little dove."

"After all," he added, his grin returning with a hint of mischief, "what fun would it be to let you go without revealing some of my tricks first? Riiiight??!!"

Akutagawa Ryuunosuke

He either met you during a pivotal, life-altering event, like when he was gravely wounded (edgy and intimate), or in a more everyday setting, like a grocery store or shopping mall (wholesome and adorable). I’ll go with the second option, just as you’ve chosen.

He coughs as he takes the shopping bags into his hand, nothing more than some snacks placed inside.

He feels particularly weak today, and he knows it’s best if he returns to a safe space.

It’s time to go home.

As he walks, his thoughts swirl with a familiar frustration.

Weakness gnaws at him, contradicting everything he knows he needs to know—survival of the fittest, strength above all.

He can’t even enjoy something as simple as crisps without feeling the sting of inadequacy, a reminder that he constantly strives to prove himself strong despite the frailty he sometimes feels.

However, a certain someone might change this mindset of his at some point. It’s you.

Scenario

“Excuse me!”

The soft voice cuts through his thoughts, and he turns around, annoyance bubbling to the surface.

He dislikes attention, especially in public spaces. It serves no purpose, and as a mafioso, he values his ability to blend in, to move through the world unnoticed. Drawing any kind of attention to himself, especially when he feels vulnerable, is the last thing he wants.

He scans the area, irritation rising when he realizes there’s no one in sight. His first thought is that he’s hallucinating—another sign that he needs to retreat to his quarters before the nausea overwhelms him.

But then, out of nowhere, you appear. Right in front of him.

His eyes widen slightly, just enough to betray his surprise.

His shock is mild but undeniable as he takes in the sight of you, someone warm and inviting, standing confidently before him. What could someone like you possibly want from him?

Akutagawa’s gaze flickers over you, searching for a reason, a threat, something to explain why you’re in his path. The unfamiliarity of the encounter makes him uncomfortable, and his guard instinctively rises.

“You dropped this…”

Your voice, kind and genuine, takes him off guard for the second time. Two moments of confusion in a single encounter—he’s already feeling off balance.

It would be a sight to behold had you known who he truly was—one of Yokohama’s most feared mafiosos.

You’re holding out his handkerchief. The one he uses to cough into.

His gaze shifts to the cloth in your hand, then back to your face. The urge to dismiss you rises quickly, but as he looks away, something unexpected happens.

Your eyes meet his. His cold, grey stare, which normally repels others or leaves them frozen, meets your gaze, and for a brief moment, something inside him stirs. The sensation is strange—something between discomfort and intrigue—as if, for just a second, he sees you differently. Not just as a stranger, but as something… more.

He’s not used to this. The feeling tingles at the edges of his awareness, unsettling and foreign, making him question what it is about you that sparked this unfamiliar warmth in his chest. In that instant, he feels the weight of his ideals—the relentless pursuit of strength and dominance—shift slightly, as though something in him yearns for connection despite the ferocity with which he clings to his principles.

Akutagawa hesitates, caught off guard by the genuine kindness radiating from you. He can feel the knot in his chest tightening as he grapples with the implications of your presence.

He clears his throat, attempting to regain his composure. “… Thanks,” he mutters, his voice low and rough, barely above a whisper.

The handkerchief hangs awkwardly between you, and he feels a surge of irritation at the vulnerability it represents.

You smile at his gratitude, and he can’t help but find the expression both refreshing and irritating.

“You didn’t have to bother. It’s nothing important.”

You tilt your head to the side. What could he mean? Nothing important as in ‘just a handkerchief’? It looked expensive. It definitely didn’t look like something you’d throw away after using it once.

“I wanted to,” you reply, your tone light and genuine. “I couldn’t just leave it there.”

He narrows his eyes, instinctively defensive. “Most people wouldn’t bother,” he retorts, his annoyance flaring up.

Oh, he wasn’t trying to blend in at all. He was being impolite.“They don’t care about things that don’t concern them.”

Your gaze wavers slightly, making him feel uncomfortable, which catches him off guard.

“But I do care. Sometimes, it’s the little things that matter.”

He scoffs, an edge to his voice. He mumbles, ready to leave any moment. “Little things? They mean nothing.”

You either survive or you don’t.—Is what he told himself. He recognised that he stepped out of the line. The nausea surely wasn’t helping him.

“Maybe,” you say, unfazed, “but that doesn’t mean we have to give in to that. We can choose to be different.”

Akutagawa’s chest tightens at your words. What were you yapping about? Like that stupid weretiger. He shifts his weight, irritation bubbling beneath the surface.

“You think you can change anything?” he asks, skepticism lacing his tone. He wants to leave. Your presence is making him feel uncomfortable.

“I believe we can,” you answer, your conviction steady. “Even if it’s just for one person at a time.”

His heart races, battling against his instinct to retreat into his shell. He studies you, trying to dissect your motivations, to find the weakness in your resolve.

“And you think you’re that person?” he challenges, his eyes cold.

“Why not?” you reply, meeting his gaze head-on. “If you’re open to it.”

His cheeks flush slightly. He feels an unexpected pull toward you, and he knows that he needs to leave. Now.

[queerteapie]

Please, I Beg (18+)

Pairing: Agatha Harkness/Rio Vidal/Reader

Rating: Mature

Fic Playlist: Spotify

Summary: You recieve a late night text asking for an emergency babysitter, and with the cost of LA, you take the job. The job, however, ends up being far more than the money.

Tags: 18+, angst, smut, NSFW, femme reader

Masterlist | Ao3 | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8

Chapter 1

The sun’s warmth begins to fade outside, giving way to a quiet breeze that whispers through the open window. It dances across your bare skin with a cool touch, raising goosebumps in its wake. Soft music plays in the background, and you hum along without thinking. Sitting on the edge of your bed, hair still damp and clinging to your neck from the shower, you hear the familiar buzz of a text. You reach for your phone, water still trailing down your arm, and glance at the screen - a message from the babysitting agency: an emergency request for a sitter tonight. Double Pay. 

Since moving to California, money is tight. Not the best financial decision you've ever made, but the right one nonetheless. The timing of this job is perfect. You type back quickly, confirming you can take it. A few seconds later, the agency responds with the address and a brief note about the family. You sit up a little straighter, already shifting into work mode. Time to get ready. You stand, towel slipping from your shoulders, and head to the closet to find something clean but comfortable. Your mind races through a mental checklist: ID, keys, snacks for the road. In the background, the music plays on, soft and steady.

You quickly change into a pair of workout leggings and a loose tee, comfortable but practical. After a quick blow-dry, you gather your hair into a messy bun, not bothering for perfection. You throw your overnight bag over your shoulder, taking a moment to glance around the room before heading out the door to your car. The drive to the family isn’t far, but with LA traffic, it’s going to be a close call.

With seconds to spare, you pull into the driveway of a house, grand in size. What could these people possibly do for a living?

Grabbing your bag from the back seat, you make your way to the front door and press the doorbell. Silence. You give the wooden frame a couple of quick taps, just as the sound of approaching footsteps breaks the stillness.

A woman’s silhouette appears behind the frosted glass, visibly fumbling with an earring as she moves closer.

“Coming, coming, sorry!” the woman calls out as she opens the door, stepping aside to usher you in.

“Evening! You must be Y/N. Lovely to meet you, I’m Agatha.”

You're drawn to her the moment she opens the door. There’s something commanding in the way she carries herself; confident, grounded, and unapologetically sure of who she is. Her hair falls over her shoulders with casual ease, and her dress fits in a way that shows she knows how to own a room without trying too hard. She has a presence that feels both warm and in control, like someone used to being listened to. As you inhale, a hint of floral perfume lingers in the air, subtle, but impossible to ignore, much like her.

"Y-yes, yes, I’m Y/N. Nice to meet you too," you manage to say, stumbling over your words. "I... wow, you look lovely."

It feels like an understatement. She looks phenomenal.

"Oh, why thank you, dear. How kind of you," she replies with a warm smile, and for a moment, the air around you feels heavier, charged. "Let me introduce you to Nicky. He’s pretty great, though as his mom, I suppose I have to say that."

She laughs, easy and genuine, and you find yourself smiling back as a quiet chuckle escapes you. You follow her down the hallway toward the lounge, still trying to gather yourself.

The décor along the walls catches your eye, unusual and unlike anything you’ve seen before. The furniture carries the weight of history, each piece rich with character, while the wallpaper speaks of quiet luxury.

Your gaze shifts to a collection of family photos, carefully arranged and lovingly displayed.

One image holds your attention. Another woman. There’s something about her, a quiet intensity that draws you in. She’s beautiful in a way that feels timeless, with a shadow in her eyes that hints at stories untold.

You linger, perhaps longer than you should, unable to look away. A soft smile finds its way to your lips, unbidden.

"That's Rio. She’ll be down in a minute. She only just got out of the shower," Agatha says with a sigh, her voice tinged with mild irritation at her partner’s lateness.

"You have a beautiful family," you reply, stepping toward the young boy sitting cross-legged on the floor with a colouring pencil in hand. He looks to be about seven, maybe eight. His tongue pokes out slightly in concentration as he fills in a bright red cape on what appears to be a superhero.

"Hey there," you say gently, crouching down beside him. "That’s a cool drawing. Is he flying or getting ready to save someone?"

The boy glances up at you with wide, curious eyes. "He’s flying. He’s got fire powers," he replies, holding up the picture with a touch of pride.

"Fire powers? That’s awesome. I’m Y/N, by the way."

"I’m Nicky," he says, then returns to shading in flames with an orange pencil.

You smile and watch for a moment, the quiet energy between you settling comfortably. Just then, another set of footsteps approaches, joining you in the lounge.

"Do you know where my suspenders are? I can't seem to find them anywh-oh, we have a guest," she says, appearing suddenly in the doorway, her movements hurried and distracted. Her eyes land on you, and she straightens slightly, surprise flickering across her face.

You rise to your feet and offer your hand. "Hi, I’m Y/N. I’m the babysitter for the evening.”

She takes your hand with a firm grip, her touch lingering just a moment longer than expected. A slow smirk tugs at the corner of her lips as her eyes sweep over you, deliberate and unhurried. "Well, aren’t you a pretty little thing," she says, her voice low and playful. There’s a glint of amusement in her gaze, and something else too, something that lingers like heat in the air between you, before she finally releases your hand.

Agatha raises an eyebrow as she watches the exchange, arms crossing loosely over her chest. “Rio, really?” she says, her tone light but laced with a hint of mock disapproval. “You’re meant to be getting dressed, not eyeing up the babysitter.”

Rio chuckles, clearly unbothered. “Can’t I do both?” she tosses over her shoulder as she heads for the stairs.

“Your suspenders are in the top drawer of the chest, try not to tear the place apart looking for them this time,” Agatha calls after her with a knowing smile.

Once Rio disappears upstairs, Agatha turns back to you with a warm but more focused expression.

“Okay, so Nicky’s already had dinner, he just needs a snack before bed. He’ll ask for chocolate, but try to keep it light or he’ll be bouncing off the walls. Bedtime is at eight, though he’ll try to push for eight-thirty if you let him talk you into one more story.” She pauses, then adds with a smile, “He’s good, honestly. Just a bit of a negotiator.”

You nod, taking it all in as Agatha reaches for her coat and bag. “We shouldn’t be too late, but feel free to help yourself to anything in the kitchen. If there’s any trouble, my number’s on the fridge.”

Just as she’s adjusting her coat, you hear Rio’s footsteps returning from upstairs. 

Just as Agatha slips her coat on, Rio reappears, now fully dressed and tugging her suspenders into place with a little flair. She gives you a wink in passing before turning her attention to Nicky.

“There’s my little man,” she says, kneeling beside him. “You going to be good tonight?”

Nicky nods solemnly, but there’s a cheeky sparkle in his eyes. “I’ll be good if I can have two stories.”

Agatha laughs softly and bends down to kiss the top of his head. “One story, and no bargaining. Don’t make Y/N call us, okay?”

He sighs dramatically but nods. “Okay. One story.”

Rio leans in, ruffles his hair gently, then glances at you with a smirk. “If he gives you trouble, bribe him with marshmallows. Works every time.”

“Rio,” Agatha says in warning, but there’s no real weight behind it. The two women share a look - half amused, half fond - before Agatha straightens up.

“Alright, we’re off. Thanks again,” she says to you, reaching for her keys.

“Don’t have too much fun without us,” Rio adds with a grin, and then the front door clicks shut behind them, leaving the house quiet for the first time that evening.

***********

Between entertaining, feeding, and eventually settling Nicky into bed, your mind never strays far from the two women who left you in a haze of perfume and flirtation. Images of Agatha’s dress clinging perfectly to her waist flicker behind your eyes, each detail burned into memory. And then there’s Rio - her smirk, her eyes, the deliberate way she looked at you just before stepping out the door. That one glance has been echoing in your chest all night.

The hands on the clock read 1am when you hear the soft hum of a cab pulling up outside, followed by the unmistakable sound of giggling and whispered shushes as they make their way along the path. You draw in a deep breath, hoping the extra air will steady you, maybe stop your thoughts from tripping over themselves.

It doesn’t.

The front door creaks open moments later, the soft shuffle of heels and the occasional laugh filling the hallway. Agatha and Rio are home.

“Oh, look who’s still awake,” Rio teases, her voice a little slurred, but no less alluring. She leans against the doorframe, eyes glinting with mischief as she scans you, her gaze lingering just a second too long on your lips. “I thought for sure you’d be in bed by now, all tired out from the little one.”

Agatha steps in behind her, her movements smooth and easy, but there’s a playful tilt to her lips as she sees you. “Don’t mind Rio. She’s had a little too much fun tonight,” she says with a knowing smile, brushing past her partner to pour herself a glass of water from the kitchen.

Rio pushes off the doorframe and moves toward you, her steps slower than usual, but just as confident. She stops a few inches away, leaning in close enough that you can feel the warmth of her breath against your skin. “But I think you should stay awake a little longer,” she murmurs, her voice low and teasing. “I bet we could make it worth your while.”

Agatha chuckles softly from the kitchen, evident that she’s listening, the tension building between the three of you. Rio’s hand brushes against your arm as she straightens, clearly waiting for your reaction.

“I-um, well…” you fumble, eyes making a quick glance toward the kitchen.

Rio’s smirk deepens as she watches you, her gaze steady and filled with mischief. The air between you crackles with tension, her nearness setting your skin alight. She leans in just a little closer, close enough that you can feel the warmth of her body and the sweet, spiced scent of her perfume.

“You know,” she murmurs, voice honey-smooth and heavy with suggestion, “Agatha and I don’t mind sharing... if you’re interested.”

Your breath catches before you can respond. Her words hit you low in the stomach, igniting something raw and wanting. Your mouth opens slightly, but nothing comes out right away. You can only stare back, heartbeat thudding, heat creeping up your neck. You weren’t prepared for this, how direct she’d be, how good it would feel to have her attention so focused, so intimate. A part of you aches to lean into it, to say yes, to let her take you apart slowly right there in the soft glow of the hallway light.

But before you can say anything, Agatha, who has been quietly observing from the kitchen, steps in. She folds her arms, the curve of a smile playing on her lips as she regards the two of you. “Rio,” she says gently, “you’ve had a bit to drink, love. Maybe... maybe it’s not the best time for this.”

There’s no judgment in her voice, just a calm certainty that grounds the moment. You glance at her, feeling a strange mixture of relief and disappointment. It’s clear she’s looking out for everyone - Rio, herself, and you.

Rio pouts, clearly not ready to let the moment slip away. “Oh, come on, Agatha. What’s the harm?” she says with a little laugh, then turns her attention back to you. Her eyes sweep over you again, slow and deliberate. “I’m sure she’s just as curious as we are.”

You swallow hard. She’s not wrong. Your body hums with tension, with want. But there’s also a part of you that appreciates the restraint, the respect humming beneath the flirtation.

Rio moves closer, and your breath hitches again. Her hand grazes your arm, light but electric. “Maybe just a little taste?” she whispers, her lips dangerously close to your ear. Her voice curls around you like silk, sending shivers down your spine. “We can save the rest for another night.”

Your body responds before your mind can form a full thought. Every nerve feels on edge, aching. But before anything more can happen, Agatha steps forward and gently rests a hand on Rio’s shoulder.

“You know I’m all for fun,” Agatha says, her voice softer now, almost intimate. “But I think tonight’s…not the right moment.”

She looks at you then, and you feel seen, not just desired, but considered. It catches you off guard, that subtle care beneath the suggestion.

Agatha smiles, her touch still on Rio’s arm. “We can wait. There’s no rush.”

Rio sighs, exaggerated and theatrical, but there’s a hint of affection in her eyes when she glances at Agatha. “Fine, fine,” she mutters, then shoots you one last look, hungry, promising. “But this isn’t over.”

Agatha chuckles, linking her fingers through Rio’s. “We’ll see you again soon,” she says to you, and her voice wraps around you like a secret. “And next time, maybe we’ll all be in a better state of mind.”

As they head upstairs, Rio casts one final glance over her shoulder, mischief still dancing in her expression, before they vanish from view.

You’re left alone in the quiet, the air still buzzing from their presence. Your body thrums with leftover heat, your thoughts tangled with everything that could have happened... and everything that still might.

[darkbluekies]

GOLDEN TRIAL PT2: A slippery slope

Part 1

Yandere!mafia x yandere!female!mafia x female!yandere x yandere!king x yandere!doctor x male!detective!reader

Summary: after your adventure on Normandie, you've been dealing with the consequences of the horror. Unfortunately, you start to realize that you might not be the person you think you are. It doesn't help when a certain doctor finds you again.

Warnings: lingering head trauma, identity crisis, kidnapping, mocking, dog collar (lol), syringes/drugs, forced tattooing,

Word count: 9.3k

You get off the subway in silence and push your way through the crowd, walk up the stairs and out onto the sidewalk. Blinking, you try to fix your blurry vision. Sometimes, even though it’s been three months since you were hit on the head with a glass bottle, you’re reminded of the events on board the liner Normandie. You had been running around over two days before going to the hospital about the blow to your head. It seems to have been too late. What could have been brushed off with some bandage and disinfection had now given you minor problems you are dealing with daily. Not enough to hurt or bother, but enough for your agency to hesitate sending you out on missions. 

These last months have been weird, to say the least. Not only have you been forced to take a break from your job, you have been lonely. So very lonely. You haven’t done anything and the only time you’ve went outside the door is when you go to your doctor’s appointments and when buying food. After the ominous note you got, you have been careful about going outside, scared that you will meet them again. How long will your life be forced to be like this? Maybe you should leave New York and start over somewhere new, where you can live a normal life. No more detective work, no more hiding, no more … fear. Perhaps a farm on the west coast? 

You open the door to the private hospital. It’s located in a house no other than any of the other houses on the street. The first time you were here, you thought that you had been given the wrong address and waked into someone’s private house. Quietly you walk into the reception. The young woman behind the desk has always been friendly. Her sparkly blue eyes and chestnut hair remind you of a squirrel.  

“Good morning”, the receptionist smiles at you. “Name?”

“Y/N L/N”, you say. “I’m here for a revisit at eleven am.”

“Ah, yes, I remember you. Your doctor is currently on sick leave, so there will be another doctor taking care of you today. Is that okay?”

“Yeah, it’s fine.”

“Take a seat and the doctor will see you in a moment.”

“Okay, thank you.”

You sit down in one of the wooden chairs. The clock on the wall ticks like a doomsday clock. You can’t help but shiver. 

Your eyes wander in the small room. A mother with her young son, a father with his daughter, an old couple. And you, alone. There’s paintings on the walls, as if to distract one from the horror they might have to partake in when they step through one of the three doors on the right hand side of the room. 

You’re not sure why you’re here. You have been going to this doctor for three months and all he’s done is to confirm that you do, indeed, have head trauma. As if you couldn’t figure that part out for yourself. Sometimes you wonder if you still have shards of glass stuck in your head. 

“The doctor will see you now, Mister Y/N”, the receptionist suddenly says. “It’s the middle door.”

You stand up and walk over to the doors on the other side of the room, opening the middle one. Behind the desk, a man sits. He looks up at you and you can feel your heart stop, and so does the clock. For a second, you wonder if it’s one of the side effects from the glass bottle, but you can still hear your heart pound loudly in your chest. He’s trying to hide a smile, trying so hard to make it look like you’ve never met before. What do you do? Do you close the door behind you and get into his office or do you make a scene and get away? Your hand still holds onto the door handle behind you. 

“Close the door, if you don’t mind”, Doctor Kry says and raises his eyebrows testingly when you flinch back. “Don’t even think about it. Close the door.”

With a frustrated sigh, you close it, but remain by the wall. 

“I figure that you’re not going to sit down”, Doctor Kry says and rises from his chair. 

“Don’t come closer”, you say quickly. “I will make a scene.”

“I’m fine with that. Easier for me to get you into a lunatic asylum.”

You freeze. 

“Your usual doctor is on sick leave, so I’m here today”, Doctor Kry continues as if the prior conversation never happened. “I hope that is fine with you.”

“I am not comfortable with having you anywhere near me”, you spit. “How did you even know that I went here?”

Doctor Kry leans back against his desk with his hands in his pockets. “I can’t take the credit for that, unfortunately. It was my dear friend miss Carter who managed to find you.”

“Hedwig?”

“Yeah. Who knew that a young heiress with a phenomenally large contact net and money would be able to find someone like you. Unbelievable.”

You don’t give in to his joke. 

“Sit down, Y/N”, Doctor Kry says and pulls out the chair for you, “or I will get you dragged out of here in a straightjacket.”

Involuntarily you sit down in his chair. Doctor Kry walks around you and you follow him in the corner of your eye. 

“I read your report”, Doctor Kry says. “Trauma to the head? What happened?”

“You fucking know”, you spit.

“Oh, right.”

You want to slap that smirk off of his face. He continues to smile as he puts on his gloves. 

“Let’s get it under control”, Doctor Kry says and takes your head in his hands. 

You flinch, silently praying that he won’t twist your neck and break it. 

“Don’t touch my neck”, you say. 

“How else am I going to treat you?” Doctor Kry scoffs. 

You start to wonder if he’s messing with you when he’s just touching around. He’s too close to your neck, he could snap it. 

“Can you hurry up?” The words just slip out, before you have the time to shut your mouth. 

To your horror, he chuckles. You freeze in your seat. 

“Why did you go so stiff all of a sudden?” Doctor Kry asks smugly, grabbing your shoulders. “Are you scared that I’m going to hurt you, Golden Boy?”

The familiar pet name sends a wave of nausea through your body. You feel how every hair on your body stands on edge. Terrified to meet his blue eyes, you concentrate on a point on the wall where it looks like a small bug has landed. 

“You threatened me with a tranquilizer”, you breathe out. “You could have helped me with my head that night — you’re a doctor — but you didn’t. You could have prevented me from coming here.”

“I could have”, Doctor Kry says. “But why would I? Remember what I told you? I’ve never said that I was nice.”

You stand up, shaking off his hands. 

“We’re done here”, you decide and start to move towards the door. 

“Alright, I suppose so”, Doctor Kry says. 

You grab the door handle with your shaking hand and open it forcefully. 

“I guess that I will see you soon, Y/N”, you hear his voice say behind you. “Can’t let a patient go before they’re healed, now can I?”

You ignore him. Stumbling on trembling legs, you pass the patients in the waiting room, struggle past the receptionist and out of the house. You throw up in the nearest bush.

For a few moments, the world has gone silent again. You can hear your heart thumping in your ear, feel every nerve in your body beat alongside it and you have to sit down on a nearby bench to collect your spinning head. That eerie feeling you had on board the Normandie returns … as if you’re being watched. You look around in a dizzy, blurry haze. Everyone looked like each other. Anyone could be them. If Kry had found you, what says that the others aren’t around the corner?

Going home feels wrong. What if they follow you and see where you live? Where do you go? What do you do? 

Your numb legs take you to a nearby telephone booth. With shaking fingers you call your boss and tell him about the incident. 

“You told me that I’d be safe!” you shout. “I knew that it would end like this! I knew that this would happen!”

“Y/N-”

“If I die, it’s your fucking fault, okay? You sent me out on that ship alone and now I have to deal with the consequences of your choices!”

You throw the telephone back in its hold and scream in frustration. The sound doesn’t escape the little telephone booth, which is probably for the best. You don't want to go to that mental asylum Doctor Kry threatened with.

You stand still for a few seconds, breathing heavily. You feel like crying.

The coming days can't be described as anything less than torture. You look over your shoulder for every step you take, flinch at every sound. Just as paranoid as on board the ship. Those four days will haunt you for the rest of your life … and the ones who caused it will hunt you until you're in their claws.

To calm your nerves, you've had to drink strong whiskey. Nothing else seems to work. Should you leave the country? You shiver. The thought of stepping aboard another ship again makes your skin crawl. You take another sip of the whiskey. It doesn't burn anymore.

The world started to blend together in blurry waves ages ago. It's starting to shift into black. Finally you're going to fall asleep and not have to worry about anything in this world. You’ll be safe in dreamland. 

A small sound reaches your drowsy ears, but you’re too far off to react in time, almost as if you’re drugged. The door opens slowly and a dark figure enters. Everything is fuzzy. The person says something, but you can’t hear it. A cloudy wall separates you from you and whoever has broken into your apartment. A cloud which quickly turns everything black.

When you wake up again, you feel every muscle in your body pulsating, hurting and a nauseating feeling roars in your body. You’re lying on a couch in what looks like a warehouse … or a basement. 

“He’s awake!” a familiar voice gasps. 

Hedwig jumps up from a chair right by your head and waves for someone to come over. You hear the sound of people move closer. You try to pull yourself up on your elbows. 

“You son of a bitch, Y/N”, you hear Silas say, a clear smirk in his taunting voice. “You thought that you could get away. How naive!”

“I want to put it on”, Jerry says and takes something from Edmund’s hands.

“Fuck sake, Jerry!” he hisses and pulls his hand quickly away. “I've told you to trim those nails!”

Jerry doesn't bother to answer. She walks over to you and slips something around your neck. You're too dizzy to realize what it is before it is too late. A collar and a leash. Like a dog. Just like they had promised.

“What an obedient dog”, she snickers. “Letting me put it on without protests.”

She tugs on the leash, causing your head to rip forward. The air in your throat gets abruptly cut off. Their laughter feels your aching head.

“Golden boy deserves a treat”, Edmund smirks and holds a piece of chocolate to your lips.

You turn your head away.

“Don't touch me!” you cough.

“A little too late for that”, Doctor Kry says and shrugs. “How do you think we got you here?”

You try to get up from the couch. Nausea roars through your body. Jerry pulls the leash towards her. You stumble before falling down on your knees, catching yourself with your hands on the hard cement.

“Just face it”, she says cockily. “You're too hungover to overpower us, and once you're sober enough you will already be broken. Don't bother to try anything. Hm, maybe he should stay on his knees, or what do you all think?”

“Stop fucking around”, Edmund sighs in annoyance and grabs the leash out of her hands, pulling harshly. “Stand up.”

It's on shaking legs that you manage to get on your feet. You're the same height as the king, but feel unbelievably inferior. Is it the collar around your neck, the degrading look in his eyes or the fact that you know what they're capable of that makes you terrified? You can't meet their eyes.

“This is humiliating, can you stop?” you hear Hedwig asks.

She's standing on the far end of their little line, a few steps away from them, with her arms hugging herself. Disgust covers her face.

“I feel nauseous just watching it”, she mutters. 

“Don't worry, Hedwig, we're just playing with him”, Silas smiles and ruffles your hair with his hand. “We're not hurting him.”

“Hedwig shouldn't take him”, Edmund says. “I don't trust him.”

“What do you want?” you ask, trying your best not to sound like a pathetic little puppy.

“What did you do with the list of names?” Silas asks. “The one behind the painting.”

“And where is my fucking painting?” Edmund asks.

“The painting, I don't know”, you say and meet Silas black eyes. “Your list was hidden on board the ship, but my contacts have found it. They're on the way to arrest everyone on your list.”

“Oh, are they now?” he asks deadly calmly. “And I suppose that you are still their shining Golden Boy thanks to that?”

You lower your eyes.

“Or did someone get put on an indefinite hiatus because they're a security risk?” Silas continues, moving closer, tugging ever so carefully on the leash. “Are you sure that you're their favorite? You never seem to have much protection, despite the threat against you. Don't worry, Golden Boy, we will make sure nothing ever reaches you. We will make sure you stay hidden.”

“If they don't want to give us our note, we won't give them their darling dearest”, Jerry says, shrugging.

You feel a lump in your stomach. Your contacts will never give over the note … and in that case they'll never give you. Wonderful.

A tug on the leash brings you back to reality. 

“It's healing quite nicely, don't you think?” Jerry asks, tilting her head to get a better view of the back of your neck.

“It's still fresh, it's nowhere near healing”, Doctor Kry says with his monotone voice, arms crossed over his chest.

Their eyes turn to your neck and you gulp, realizing that part of the pain isn't coming from your head, but from the back of your neck, easily mistaken as the brainstem. You lift your hand and try to touch whatever is hurting you. Hedwig picks up a pocket mirror from her pocket and hand it to you. You’re in disbelief when you see black marks on your skin, drawn in a strange symbol you have never seen before. The skin is swollen and tender to the touch. 

“What is this?” you question in pure fear. 

“We told you that you would be tattooed, didn’t we?” Silas smiles. “That tattoo is the symbol of my group. It’s somewhat of a trademark. Everyone who sees you will know that you belong to me.”

“I hate that you are the only one getting associated”, Edmund mutters. 

“Well, I am the only one with a symbol, aren’t I?”

“You are so self centered.” Edmund puts his hand on Hedwig’s shoulder. “As if we haven’t got one?”

“‘Self centered’, you absolute hypocrite”, Jerry scoffs. 

“I did not consent to this!” you shout angrily. “How could you just tattoo me when I wasn’t even conscious?!”

“It was pretty easy since you were, as you said, ‘not even conscious’”, Silas smiles teasingly. 

“Enough of this foolishness”, Doctor Kry cuts in. “We have things to do. The train leaves tomorrow morning and we still have things to do.”

Train? 

“Give the poor boy some food and make sure he sleeps”, Silas says. “It’ll be a long day for him tomorrow.”

They start to move towards the stairs of the basement, all but Hedwig who have went upstairs to get you a plate and Edmund — the man who’s holding the leash. 

“You don’t have to be here”, she says. “I can take care of him myself.”

“I don’t trust him”, Edmund mutters angrily and wraps more of the leash around his hand. “He knocked Jerry over when she was guarding him and — fuck it — she is tougher than you. I am not letting him anywhere near you alone.”

“Can you at least let go of the leash?” Hedwig asks. 

Edmund lets it go with great dramatic effect. You sit down on the couch with a thumping heartbeat. Hedwig sits down beside you, turning towards you. Edmund stands behind her, towering over the young woman like a giant, glaring at you. It reminds you of a lioness behind their cub. 

“Are you hungry?” Hedwig asks and looks down at the plate. “I’ve watched my maid cook ever since I was a little child but I don’t have much experience with it myself so I apologize if it isn’t the best.”

“I’m nauseous.”

“Then some sleep will do you good.”

“What train did he talk about? I’m not going on some train!”

“You are”, Edmund says, “and you’re doing it tomorrow morning. In a box.”

You look at him, baffled. “What?”

He looks at you with mockery in his icy blue eyes. “Nobody told you? You’re getting a first class ticket. I heard that they make those wooden boxes are quite comfortable nowadays.”

“I’m not going in some fucking box!”

You stand up in a swift, aggressive motion. Not only will they bring you onto a train going to who-knows-where, but they’re also stuffing you in a trunk? No shame. 

“Where are you taking me?”

“My father has a house on the coast, by the beach”, Hedwig replies. “You’ll like it. Hey, If you’re not going to eat, then will you please go to sleep?” 

“I will not be able to sleep. If I have to drink myself to black out, do you really think I will be able to fall asleep here?”

Maybe you shouldn’t have said that. You don’t want to see a sympathetic look from her. It’s their fault, after all. They took everything from you … and now she’s looking at you as if she’s pitying you. 

You refuse to sleep, refuse to even sit on the couch. It doesn't take long before the door to the basement stairs open and the sound of footsteps fill the air. You look up, seeing Doctor Kry walk down. In his hand, he holds a transparent syringe.

“I suppose that you are familiar with this”, he says and looks at the needle. “I thought that it was finally time for you to get acquainted with it.”

“Don't come close”, you warn him.

He's quicker than you've anticipated. Before you know it, you're tackled onto the hard floor. It knocks the air out of your lungs. Doctor Kry is stronger than you could have imagined. He doesn't look muscular underneath his clothes, and he probably isn't as muscular as Silas, but he is strong with firm grips. You try your best to fight against the needle coming closer to your neck.

“Goodnight, Golden Boy”, Doctor Kry says and finally punctures your neck with the sharp end of the needle.

He gets off of you immediately and you try to get up and run. You manage to get a few steps forward before your legs give up and you fall down on your knees. You start to lose your hearing, and your sight start to darken. Doctor Kry grabs your shoulders and pull you over to the couch. The last thing you see before it all turns back is his blue eyes staring down at you.

You’re not sure if you have opened your eyes. You try to shut them tight, then open them again. It’s just as dark. Your knees are pressed to your chin, arms folded over your chest. Panic rises in your body, suddenly feeling every single cell of your body and what it touches. Painfully aware that you’re squashed together in a wooden box. 

“Let me out!” you shout and try to bang on the walls, floor and ceiling. 

A harsh slap on the side of the box makes you flinch. 

“Shut the fuck up”, Silas voice hisses through gritted teeth, shocking you for being too close. “Do not make a single sound, whatever you do.”

You breathe heavily and crawl together. For these past months, you’ve felt scared … but never like this. The only thing you can compare it to is that morning when you ran around the Normandie with the painting tucked under your arm. Your heart has never beaten that quickly before. And here you are now, in a wooden box with a dog collar around your throat and a tattoo in the back of your neck. The leash is gone.

They won’t kill you before they have gotten the list, right?

You hear men's voices and suddenly the box jerks. Your head slams against the side and you groan, quickly biting your lip to avoid making sound. Silas will probably punch you if you disobey his command. You form fists. 

Whoever is handling the box does not care for it. It seems to go back and forth, up and down, with you hitting your head with every jerking motion. 

Finally, finally, it stops. The moving, the sound, everything stops. You breathe out, listening. Where are you? Can you get out of the box? You try to push the top of the box, but it won’t budge. Neither will the walls. With a frustrated yell, you kick and then, in defeat, sink down again. 

Silence keeps you company for what feels like ages. Suddenly, the ground under you start to shake and move. You gasp. The train!

It takes a while before the top of the box is moved. Bright light hits your eyes and you squint. 

“Good morning”, Silas smiles and pulls you up from the box. 

Your muscles are stiff and aching, popping when you try to move. Your legs threaten to give out. 

“Ouch …”, you moan. 

“Did you have a nice time?” Jerry smiles and claps your back. 

You look around, blurry eyes being met by a cargo hold. Silas and Jerry are the only ones here. 

“What are you doing?” you ask, stressed. 

“What do you mean?” Jerry wonders.

“What do you want? Why am I out?”

“Did you think that you were going to spend the entire trip in the box?” Silas asks. 

“Edmund said-”

“And you believe a single word that stuck up manchild says?” Jerry scoffs and grabs your arm. “Come now.”

They take you out of the cargo hold and into a thin corridor. Running along your left are cabins and to your right are windows. Silas opens a door and directs you inside the cabin. It’s a suite, and a gorgeous one a that. A king sized bed, couches, big windows, drapes and your own bathroom. Hedwig and Edmund sits on the couch doctor Kry is leaning against the window. Behind him, America swooshes past. 

“Here he is”, Jerry says.

“What’s going on?” you stutter. “What do you want?”

“We are not going to let you be alone in cargo hold”, Silas says. “We are not monsters.”

I have other opinions.

“We’ve decided that you are going to be by our sides so that we can keep an eye on you”, Hedwig says and smiles. “If you are in the cargo hold you could die.”

“You’re not going to wear the leash because that will cause people to be suspicious”, Doctor Kry says. “Yes, we are not the only ones on this train.”

“You will not talk to any of them”, Jerry says. 

“You will stay here in my cabin”, Silas says. “My second in command will be in Jerry’s cabin, so don’t think that you can do anything towards me. He’ll be just on the other side of the wall.”

Why does he have to be here too? 

Everyone leaves the suite but Silas. You sink down on the bed with your head in your hands. 

“Why do you do this?” you groan.

Silas sits down beside you. “You did this to yourself”, he says, voice weirdly calm. “You put your nose into the wrong business, knowing that it could put your life in danger.”

“It was my job.”

Was. 

“I still don’t understand why they sent you on that ship without backup … or any kind of protection at all besides that pitiful gun. Almost like they wanted you to get caught.” Silas furrows his dark brows and looks at you, unreadable hint in his black eyes. “Are you even sure if they liked you at all?”

This has to be some kind of scare-tactic. Don’t fall for it.

“Of course they did”, you mumble. “I had a high position, a good salary … they liked me. They did.”

“Are you saying that to reassure me or you?”

Silas stands up and breathes out. 

“Let’s go eat lunch, I’m starving”, he says. “You must be hungry too, I heard from Hedwig that you didn’t eat dinner last night. Come now.”

Silas walks out of the room, holding the door open out to the corridor. His words ring in your mind. Who are you trying to reassure?

“I’m not waiting all day”, Silas calls out. “You’re not getting lunch if you stay in there.”

You hurry to stand up and follow him out to the corridor, having to pass him on the way. The thin corridor is big enough for one of you. He walks closely behind you, peering over your shoulder. You’re led into a restaurant car with tables of four, each having seats instead of tables. The carriage is divided in two with a with a glass wall with open space where a door normally sits. Silas chooses one of these seats. 

“Sit down”, he says. “Now. By the window.”

You give him a questionable look before sitting down in the seat closest to the window. Silas sits down beside you, blocking your escape to the middle aisle. His second in command is already sitting by the table in the seat in front of you. Silas holds three menus laying on the set table in front of you, giving you one. 

“Choose what you want”, he says. “I have money.”

“I don’t doubt that”, you mumble. “With your dirty businesses you must make a lot of money?”

Silas scoffs, but there’s a small smile tugging on his lips. “More than you can imagine, Golden Boy.”

You start to look through the menu for things you like. You are, indeed, starving and head for a grilled salmon while Silas chooses a medium rare steak. When a servant is taking your orders, you look out the big window at the blurry obstacles whooshing by. Where are they taking you? You’re not leaving much, but you can’t bring yourself to start over. New York is not for you, not anymore, but you don’t want them to force you to leave your home. What will they do to you? You can’t give them the painting, you don’t know where it is anymore, and you don’t have the list of criminal names. You’re not sure that you will be able to be switched with it. You don’t have anything to offer them, but yourself … but why would they want you? 

“Pretty quiet today, huh?” Silas says. “You usually quite quick-witted.”

You pull your eyes away from the window and look at him. It’s almost comical, how a secret agent is having lunch with a mafia leader and his second in command. You have done it before, but under much different circumstances. 

“I don't have much to say”, you answer shortly. 

Everything in your body is hurting, which isn’t weird since you’ve spent the night crammed into a wooden box. Your broken head is not a help.

Silas converses with his second in command — a man you haven’t heard talk more than necessary. 

The food is served by a servant in a spotless tuxedo and slicked back hair. You thank him. It'd be so easy to let the words slip out of your mouth. A simple ‘help me’. The words are soft and rounded, it wouldn't be hard to pronounce them, but the fact that Silas and his second in command are sitting right here makes it impossible. The words are so simple. But as soon as he arrives, he disappears. 

“I've heard that the food on board is tasty, it better be”, Silas jokes and his second in command chuckles quietly.

He has gotten beef with grilled asparagus. You pick up your knife and fork and start to eat in silence. Silas is right, it’s delicious. Better than any of the food you have aten these last few months. It makes you guilty for enjoying it. 

“I have some rules, Golden Boy”, Silas says from beside you. 

You look at him. You are not a Golden Boy. He said that himself. Silas meets your eyes. 

“If you disobey us”, Silas starts, “by either trying to talk to someone, or come up with some stupid idea to get off the train, I will handcuff you to me, got that?”

Imagining being handcuffed to him, forced to join his every step, not have a single second to yourself is enough to make you shiver. 

“Yeah”, you reply shortly. “I understand.”

You let your eyes wander through the restaurant car, at the other passengers sitting and enjoying their meals. An older man is reading the newspaper while enjoying a bowl of soup, a mother and daughter pair are eating cheeses while chatting. How many on this train belong to Silas? He wouldn’t travel with only one man.

“I’m thinking about getting another car”, Silas smiles at his second in command and shoots a fork full of steak to his lips. “Any tips of a model?”

“One of those Ford models”, he replies. “It was good enough for Bonnie and Clyde.”

The news of the infamous couple’s death broke out in May last year. Some colleagues had been working on that case, from what you remember. For years. 

“I’m not Bonnie and Clyde”, Silas says and smiles. “But I’m a bit jealous of them. Imagine having a partner in crime like that. I mean, more than just a brother in arms, a love partner. Or what do you say, Golden Boy?”

You look up from your plate. Your vision has started to blur again. 

“Don’t you want a love partner, hm?” Silas asks, a teasing smile playing on his lips. “Someone to back you up when needed?”

“I don’t want to answer personal questions.”

He exchanges a look with his second in command before smiling into his plate. “You’re shy, I see. Didn’t know that you were so cute.”

You ignore him. 

When lunch is done, Silas decides that it’s time for you to get back to the cabin. You get up, from your seat and scootch out into the middle aisle. You’re not sure if it is the moving of the carriage or your balance that causes you to stumble. Silas catches you by the arm. 

“That wine you had with lunch didn’t make you drunk, did it?” he asks. 

“No”, you reply and gulp. “It’s my head.”

“I see.”

You’re sure that it isn’t meant for you, but you can see how Silas gives his second in command a murderous look. Doctor Kry had told you that it had been Jerry and Silas’s second in command who had hit you with that glass bottle that night. 

“You should go rest, Y/N”, he says and places his hand on your back to guide you. 

He leads you back to your suite. The second in command closes the door behind him. You sit down on the couch, but Silas pulls you up again. 

“What do you think that you are doing?” he asks. “The bed is over there.”

“I’m not sharing a bed with you”, you mumble. 

“You are. Stop being childish and go to sleep.”

You’re pushed towards the bed. He’s quickly after you to pull the neatly fixed covers before you can change your mind. The mattress is softer than anything you’ve ever rested your back upon. 

“Sleep”, Silas orders. “I will get you for dinner.”

He asks his second in command to keep an eye on you. 

The gentle rocking of the train both soothes you to sleep and wakes you softly. You sit up and yawn. The second in command moves his eyes from the window. You can’t help but wonder if he ever does anything for pleasure or if he can turn off his emotions and needs whenever he wants. 

You reach for a glass of water on the bedside table and halt. After everything they’ve done, you wouldn’t be surprised if the water is contaminated. 

“It’s not dinner time”, the man says. “Back to sleep.”

“I’m not tired anymore.”

“Lay down.”

You sigh and lay down again, listen to the gentle rocking of the train against the rail. Last time you spent a night in a cabin with them was when you were tied on the floor. You should never have taken that mission. Your mind involuntarily drift to what Silas had said and feel how your heart squeezes in pain. It can’t be.

Suddenly, the door opens. 

“Time for dinner”, Silas says. “Get up, you need to eat.”

You groan and pull yourself up from the bed. The second in command follows closely to the restaurant cart. One table can only fit four passengers. They have to separate three and three, and then you’ll have to choose whichever combination is the least bad.

Hedwig, Edmund and Doctor Kry … or Silas, Jerry and the second in command. You sit down besides Hedwig. Edmund is quick to have her change seats with you, so that you’re by the window and she’s blocking the exit out to the middle aisle. The girl smiles at you and takes your hand. 

“You look much better without that inhumane leash”, she says. 

“I think he looks better with it”, Edmund mutters and inspect his silver knife. 

She ignores him. “What do you want to eat, sweetheart?”

You shrug, telling her that she can choose for you. You don’t say anything throughout dinner, even though Hedwig tries her best to spark a conversation with you. She talks about the scenery swooshing past outside the window, the beautiful interior, how much she has missed you and how happy she is to have you back. You drown it all out to the point of wondering if her voice is all just a hallucination.

You’re barely active during dinner, only being able to think about your — former — job. Heart feeling unbelievably heavy.

“I have to leave”, you whisper to Hedwig. “I have to be alone.”

“Are you okay?” Hedwig asks worriedly and watches how you stand up. 

“I need to go.”

“I’ll come with you.”

She excuses the both of you from the table. You can feel the others eyes linger on you, burn right through you. You’re sure that Edmund wants to say something, but he keeps his mouth shut for once. Hedwig takes your arm and leads you back to the cabin carriage. 

“I don’t understand why they’re so afraid of me being alone with you”, Hedwig giggles and opens the door to Silas’s suite. “You wouldn’t hurt me.”

At this point you’re not sure what you would and wouldn’t do. 

“Do you want to sleep?” Hedwig asks and walks over to the bed. “I can tuck you in.”

You lay down in bed and Hedwig makes sure that none of your body parts escapes the covers. She looks pleased with herself and lets her hand caress your cheek. Her hazel eyes look down at you with immense love and for the moment that is the only thing you can believe. That kind of look can’t be mistaken. 

“Are you tired?” she asks softly, continuing to caress your cheek. 

You nod, despite not feeling the slightest bit tired. Exhausted, but not tired. 

“I will let you sleep”, she says and kisses your forehead. 

You close your eyes, hoping that she will think that you’re asleep and leave the room. You need to be alone, but Hedwig is making it impossible. As long as she knows that you’re awake, she will cling onto you like a leech. She’s like a dog, a puppy. 

But she doesn’t leave. You can feel her sit on the side of the bed, and without opening your eyes, you know that she is staring at you with that same look of extreme love. As if you are the most important thing in the world. Her sun, her solar system. 

Eventually, she leaves. You wait a few seconds before opening your eyes and letting out a sigh. Lying down makes it hard to breathe. You try sitting up, but the pressure over your chest remains. You pull at your tie to open your airways, but neither that or buttoning up the first buttons on your shirt help. Your fingers claw at the window lock, but it remains in place. God, how badly you need air. You hurry over to the door and open it, exiting out to the corridor. They can get you, you don’t care. You need air and you need it now. 

You walk through the claustrophobic corridor in the opposite direction of the dining hall. You reach a door with a window. The rails run away from the train, towards the horizon. You rip the door open and find yourself on a balcony. Fresh air roams around you and you grab onto the oval railing, breathing in deeply until your lungs can’t take anymore, welcoming the pleasurable feeling of light headiness. You sink down on the floor with your back towards the train’s wall, watching the surroundings disappear further away. The sun is setting in the horizon, like in a painting. 

The thoughts return. Was everything a lie? Were you nothing more than a pawn? Why were you put on that mission? Did they know that you would be taken? Broken? Damaged? They didn’t bother give you any security or backup, and when you weren’t killed or taken, they use the trauma they caused to put you on hiatus and made you look at fault. You have worked for them since you left school, given them your everything. Did they want to get rid of you? Were you worth nothing more? Did they ever care about you?

Suddenly you’re aware of the tears running down your cheeks.

“There you are”, a voice sighs. 

You flinch and look over your shoulder. Jerry is standing in the doorframe, holding her hands on either side.  Out of all the people who could find you, why did it have to be just Jerry?

“Everyone is looking for you”, Jerry says. 

“Didn’t mean to”, you mumble. 

“You better have a good explanation.” 

She sits down on the other side of the door, in arms reach of you. The door closes behind her, leaving the two of you on the balcony platform. It’s first now that she seems to notice that you’re crying. 

“Oh, what’s wrong?” she asks in a sarcastic tone, clearly mocking you. “Feeling homesick?”

“No”, you sigh and look down at your hands. “Just leave me alone.”

“Can’t do, princess. You are not allowed to be alone, you know that very well. But sure, I can leave. I can tell the other that you have attempted to escape.”

Your hand shoots forward to stop her from leaving. “No, don’t say that!”

“Then tell me. Hurry up, princess, I don’t got all night!”

You sigh and rest your head back against the wall. She’s doing it on purpose, you think, riling you up to the breaking point so that she has something to punish you for. 

“Jerry, stop”, you plead and hold your head in your hands. “I’m asking you nicely. Don’t do that.”

“In what position do you think you are to speak to me like that? Do I need to go get the leash to remind you who you are? Hm? Is that what you want, Golden Boy?”

The name breaks something in you. You feel so stupid. Like an absolute fool!

“Don’t call me that!” you shout. “I never was a fucking ‘Golden Boy’! They just used me! And I just let them do it! Like the idiot I am!”

Your head pounds worse than ever. You’re afraid that it is going to rip out of your skull. You can feel how Jerry moves closer. 

“They never fucking cared about me”, you hiss. “No one does!”

“Now, who told you that?” Jerry sighs.

“It’s obvious! Just look at how they’re treating me! They wanted to get rid of me, that’s why they sent me on that ship, wasn’t it …?”

Jerry sighs heavily and runs her hand through her black hair. “Well, fuck … I don’t know what the fuck to say.”

“Be quiet, then.”

You don’t want to hear her ‘I told you so’ mantra. You’ve understood how much of an idiot you are, you don’t need her to remind you. She removes your hands and forces you to look at her. 

“It does not fucking matter what they thought of you, okay?” she says. “I get that they tricked you but you’re never going back there, so drop them. They’re not worthy of your attention. Just look at what a mess you become when you think of them! And I don’t want to hear that shit again, about no one caring about you. We have looked for you day and night since that last night on the ship!”

“That’s different. You know that. You won’t get the list or the painting. If they wanted me gone, they won’t trade me for it. I’m useless to you.”

She sighs frustratedly and runs her hand through her black hair again. 

“Fuck, I am not made for this”, she mutters and looks around for help, but the only thing nearby are the passing landscape. “Listen, Y/N, we could have done things a whole lot differently. We didn’t actually need you, alright? Not for business. Hell, we don’t even want the same things! Me and Silas are the only ones wanting the list. Edmund wants his painting. I don’t even know what the doctor and Hedwig want, but do you know the only reason why the five of us stay together? Because of you, dumbass.”

She grabs your head and holds it to her chest, letting you cry. 

“The term ‘Golden Boy’ isn’t just because of your job, it’s more than that. Don’t take it the wrong way. Now stop talking like that, it is getting on my nerves. Pity yourself to someone else.”

Silence. You listen to the rattling sound, the wind and Jerry's irregular breathing.

“What did I do wrong?” you ask quietly, emotionlessly. “Why did they do that to me?”

“I don’t know, Y/N”, Jerry answers softly. “Some people are horrible. There is a difference between people who's openly bad, and those that pretend to be good but are rotting on the inside. I can’t stand those people. If you’re going to be a bad person, at least stand for it.”

“I feel like a fool.”

“You are a fool, but it isn’t your fault. You did what you had been told, like everyone else.”

“I wish that I knew why they decided to let me go … I mean, that way I could have prevented it … or fixed it.”

“Stop thinking about it. I told you that you’ll never deal with those people again. You’re with us now.”

You sigh. Listening to Jerry’s heart beat makes you want to laugh at how hard it is beating when she has acted like she doesn’t have one. 

“Get up”, she says after a while. “We can’t sit here the entire night. It’s starting to get cold.”

You drag yourself up on your feet. Jerry takes your hand and leads you back inside. Warmth hugs you the second you reenter the thin corridor. She takes you back to Silas’s cabin where you find him arguing with his second in command. You catch something along the lines of ‘you hit him so hard he’s lost his mind’ and don’t have to think twice to know who he is talking about. A new punch in the chest. Does everyone view you that way? As a loser who can’t take care of himself after what happened? As a dog?

“Where have you been?” Silas asks angrily. “Wasn’t I very clear what would happen if you tried to leave?”

“I didn’t fucking try to leave!” you burst out, unable to do anything else beside matching his energy. “How could I when the train is moving at two hundred kilometers per hour?!”

“Yeah? What were you doing then?”

How dense is he?

“I tried to get one second to myself to try to think! My life is falling apart and no one is caring! Everyone is just mocking me!” Tears blur your vision. “Why is no one treating me like an actual human being?! No one respects me!”

Your knees give out. The carpeted floor does nothing when you fall. A few seconds pass where you’re left to sob in silence before a pair of arms wrap around you. They’re too muscular to be Jerry’s and the second in command would never touch you. It has to be Silas. 

“Get up, Y/N”, Silas says. “You need to sleep. We’ll talk about this tomorrow.”

He tells Jerry to get the doctor and she disappears out of the room. Doctor Kry comes in two minutes later. In his hands he holds an identical syringe to the one he injected you with before you got onto the train. Silas holds you down as the sharp needle pricks your arm. You can feel the foreign — yet painfully familiar — substance enters your bloodstream. Damn them, you think before the darkness swallows you, damn all of them.

You wake up with him sitting by the round table. He’s already dressed. You wonder how long that syringe makes you sleep. 

“Good morning”, Silas says. 

“Hi”, you mumble as memories from yesterday wash over you, like an ice cold shower. 

“I thought that you’ll stay here for breakfast. I’ve already ordered room service.”

Your eyes lay upon the silver tray with coffee, toast and waffles on the table, when you sit up. 

“Jerry filled me in about what you talked about”, Silas says. “I don’t want more of that, got it? You don’t get to run around causing havoc like that. You need to tell us instead of getting a melt down. Surprise, we might actually help you.”

You scoff and roll your head against the headboard. “You don't want to help. You just want to hurt me.”

Silas sighs. 

“Is that why I have tattooed my symbol on you?” he asks. “To hurt you?”

You don’t answer. How should you know?

“It never crossed your mind that I tattooed that on you so that you wouldn’t leave?” Silas asks. “Maybe because I want you here?”

“It doesn’t excuse what you have done.”

“Okay, maybe not, but ask yourself something, Y/N: where would you go if not here?”

You try to avoid his dark eyes. They burn right through you, confirming everything you have been thinking. You have nowhere to go, nowhere to stay. Nowhere where you are safe, nowhere where you feel like home. Not anymore. The only thing that kept you in New York was the pride in your job and now, if you go back, the only thing that is associated with that city is shame and hurt. With Silas tattoo on your neck, no one will want to have anything to do with you, for fear of him. 

Silas leaves you be. He doesn’t ask you questions, doesn’t try to get you on better thoughts or distract you. He lets you sit by the table with him, lets you feel your feelings. Lets you try to sort out the fog in your head. 

“How long do we have until we reach Hedwig’s house?” you ask after a while. “I’m getting tired of people.”

“Two days”, Silas answers. “You’ll like it. It’s far away from everyone and everything. You’ll be able to go somewhere quiet, where you can rest for once.”

The thought of resting makes you almost tear up. You can’t recall the last time you actually had a moment of peace. 

“I don’t know what you want, I don’t have anything more to give you”, you mumble. “I don’t have the painting, or the list of names, or any contacts. You can’t trade me for the list, and it’s too late now. They’ve already seen the names.”

“We don’t care about the list anymore”, Silas says. “When are you going to realize that?”

“I don’t know. I can’t seem to … think.”

Silas grabs your neck and pushes your head onto his shoulder. You let him. And there it rests until you’re feeling better. 

You decide to get out of the cabin before it’s going to swallow you whole. You make your way down the carriages until you get to the lounge. People sit chit-chatting in their seats, drinking tea. You wonder how many of them belong to Silas, how many eyes he has on board. You do your best not to stare at any of them. Instead, you walk towards an empty table and sit down by the window, staring out towards the horizon. You’ve never been so … lost before. And yet, you feel better — just a tad bit. One day at a time. Things will be fine. Hopefully. 

“Good afternoon”, you hear a voice. 

You look up to see Edmund carrying a deck of cards. 

“ Have you finished sulking now?” he asks. 

You don’t answer. Not even these kinds of stupid questions deserve stupid answers.

“If you have, why don’t we play a game of cards?” Edmund asks and sits down in front of you. 

“Sure”, you sigh. “What do you want to play?”

“What can you play?”

“A little poker, I suppose.”

“Good. Let’s play.”

Edmund starts to sort the cards. He shuffles them skillfully. 

“What do we play about?” he asks. “What do i get if I win?”

“What do i get if I win?” you conquer. 

A spark ignites in Edmund’s eyes and for once, it gives him a human touch. He leans forward, over the table, and smirks. 

“What do you want, Golden Boy?” he asks. 

You think about it. What do you want? 

“I don’t know”, you reply and when he rolls his eyes, you add: “I actually don’t know. A bit more freedom, maybe.”

“Oh, as in?” Edmund asks. 

“Be able to walk around freely without anyone going insane, like yesterday. I can’t run anywhere on here, now can I? Just being able to go wherever I want on the train whenever I want would be a comfort.”

“Alright, I can work with that. And if I win?”

“What do you want?”

Edmund leans back in his seat and looks out the window, thinking. 

“You need to call me ‘your majesty’ or ‘your royal highness’ from now on”, he says, looking pleased. 

Any traces of humbleness is gone. 

“Haven’t I been humiliated enough?” slips out of you before you have the time to stop yourself. 

Edmund smiles boyishly. “Nope. Not nearly enough.”

There’s a small tug at your heart, and your first instinct is to feel offended … but you can’t help but feel relieved that, while the others are trying to keep you from breaking down, Edmund is still the same. 

You smile slightly. 

“Alright, let’s start”, you say. 

He’s a skillful player with sharp eyes. You wonder who he has trained with. 

“Oh, you’re an idiot, Y/N.”

Doctor Kry stands by the table, watching the table amusedly with his arms crossed over his chest. Edmund grins up at him. 

“Aren’t I smart?” he asks and nods at you. “This dumbass has to call me by my title — as he should have from the start — from now on.”

“The game isn’t over yet”, you remind him.

“Just throw the towel in and die a hero. That way you’ll have some dignity left.”

“No.”

Edmund shrugs. “Alright.”

You’re not sure how, but you manage to beat him. Doctor Kry laughs behind his hand. Edmund glares at him.

“Beginner's luck”, he insists.

“Good job, your majesty, now you've given him free roam over the entire train”, the doctor says.

“Don't get so fucking happy, doc, I can still have you executed”, Edmund warns him with dark eyes. “I don't care if Silas has you under his protection.”

Doctor Kry doesn’t seem affected. “It’s just a day.”

“This motherfucker did quite much in a day last time.”

“I’d like to see our friend Axel Ainsworth trying to do his stunts here.”

You rise from your chair and bid farewell to the two men, happy to show that you are allowed to walk away. Your last day on board won’t be too bad, you reckon. 

You take the time to sort out your thoughts and think. Sitting in the lounge, looking out the window with a glass of whiskey, listening to the sounds of the train moving and the other guests chitchatting. Your head starts to make sense, for the first time in months. Your heart beats in your chest. You hate them, hate what they did to you. How they played you. How they used you for bait. 

“Can I sit down?”

You’re pulled out of your thoughts. Hedwig stands by the armchair in front of you, wearing a sweet pink dress. You nod. She squeals and sits down, looking giddy. 

“Do you want me to get you anything?” she asks. “Maybe something to dilute the whiskey with? Drinking on an empty stomach isn’t good, you know?”

“What do you know about that?” you ask. “Are you a heavy drinker?”

“No, but Edmund is … and I guess that you can imagine how ha is when he is drunk.”

“I’m not drunk … but yes, i can imagine how he would be. He’s not the politest sober either.”

“He’s nice, in his own way.” She shakes her head, as if she’s shaking herself free from thoughts. “How are you feeling? I heard that you had some troubles. Do you want to share them with me?”

“No, I’m okay, I think I got it now. It’s been nice to sit and think … to deal with it myself.”

“What have you come up with?”

“That I don’t want anything to do with those bastards in New York anymore. If I had the list, I’d give it to Silas and Jerry. I wish I had written down the names.”

“You remember some of them, don’t you?”

She picks up a notebook out of her purse and places it on the table. A golden pen is connected to it. 

“Write them down”, she says. 

You stare at the notebook, questioning if you really should give away the little information you know. You would never have done that before. An old saying pops into your head — my enemie’s enemy is my friend. 

You pick up the pen.

[soluversworld]

ACCEPT HIM?- REN/REDACTED X G.READER

14 days with you! is a 18+ visual novel Minors don’t interact!

Words: 9548

Genre: G.N Reader (Angst!)

Summary: 

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[REDACTED]...?

This one-shot is inspired from Chae Yul, Sian, The secret alliance stuff! Please check it out! This is a gift for his birthday!

Trigger Warnings:

Obsession & Stalking

Identity & Self-Hatred

Psychological Horror & Manipulation

Physical Restraint

Mental Breakdown & Trauma

Loss of Agency & Power Imbalance

Dark/Surreal Imagery

You spat.

The rats. The wretched, sacred rats. God’s vermin. Love incarnate. They fester in the walls, whisper in the dark. Their teeth are scripture, their hunger divine. They rot you from the inside out. FIRST YOUR MATTRESS, NOW YOUR BOOTS. You will give and give until there is nothing left. A sacrifice, unwilling but ordained.

They move in silence, except when they don’t. A chorus of claws, a hymn of gnashing teeth. They spread sickness like gospel, like prophecy fulfilled. Holy infection. Gnawing devotion. The plague of faith with pink tails and black eyes.

You will scratch. You will cough. You will kneel.

You’re done. Done with the walls that breathe, the floorboards that scratch back, the whispers in the vents. Done with the stink of decay seeping into your sheets, into your hair, into your skin. The rats can have it. The mattress. The boots. The whole fucking place.

You’re leaving.

Because of Ren. One kind man. Your boyfriend. Seven days, and somehow, you managed to talk it out. To say it. You liked Ren. You really did. Soft hands, soft voice, soft everything. What surprised you was how eager he was—with that. With you. The moment you said you liked him, it was over. He latched on, sticky-sweet, clinging like you might disappear if he let go.

You didn’t mind.

The hallway smelled like dust and something old, something settled. You wanted to say goodbye. Just a quick knock on Violet’s door, a small wave, maybe a half-smile if you were feeling generous. You didn’t even like her that much—she was just there, always outside her apartment smoking cloves, watching the world through heavy-lidded eyes like she already knew how everything would end. But she was nice enough. She was someone who existed in the same space you did, which had to count for something.

You shifted the box in your arms, fingers curling against the cardboard, and turned toward her door.

Then—

“Angel, are you okay?”

Ren.

You startled, nearly dropping the box, because you hadn’t heard him approach. He was just there, suddenly, like he had been waiting for the exact moment you thought of leaving him alone. Wide blue eyes peeking out from under the rim of a froggy hat—soft green, button eyes, covering every inch of his fluffy pink hair. Every inch. Not a single curl in sight.

You giggled. You couldn’t help it.

He tilted his head, smiling at the sound. But something nagged at the back of your mind. He never covered his hair. Ren was all about touch—he liked when you played with it, when you ran your fingers through it, when you tugged just a little and watched his lashes flutter. He liked being seen. But now it was hidden, every strand tucked away beneath thick fabric, like it was never there at all.

Before you could ask, he noticed the box in your arms and made a small noise. “I’ll carry that.”

You shook your head. “It’s okay.”

For a second—just a second—his lips curled, something smug flashing in his eyes before he laughed and ran.

“Who reaches first?!”

And like that, your thoughts scattered. You gasped, gripping the box tighter as he took off down the hallway, his laughter bouncing off the walls.

“Ren—!”

But you were already running after him, giggling as you tried to catch up, feet pounding against the floor. The weight of the box slowed you down, but Ren wasn’t even trying to win, just looking back at you with that too-wide smile, steps just fast enough to keep you chasing. He liked when you chased.

You didn’t realize you had forgotten to knock on Violet’s door. Didn’t realize you hadn’t said goodbye at all.

Didn’t realize that, maybe, Ren had planned it that way.

Outside, the air was cool against your skin, the last traces of evening pressing soft against the horizon. The world was quiet out here, the hum of streetlights blending into the distant chatter of a city that never fully slept. Ren slowed to a stop near the moving truck, turning to face you with a victorious grin, still cradling your box like a prize.

“You lose,” he teased, rocking on his heels. “That means I get a kiss, right?”

You rolled your eyes, breathless from running. “That’s not how that works.”

Ren pouted, but his eyes were still smiling. He tilted his head, the froggy hat slipping just slightly forward. “I carried your box. You should reward me.”

“You stole my box.”

“Carried.”

“Stole.”

He gasped, dramatic, clutching at his chest. “Angel, I would never. You wound me.”

You laughed, reaching for the box, but he shifted it out of your reach with ease, holding it high over his head. You huffed, stepping closer, and he took a step back, grin widening.

“What’s with the hat?” you asked, changing tactics. You squinted at him, stepping in just a little more. Close enough to touch. “You never wear hats.”

His smile didn’t falter, but something in him stilled for just a moment, just a breath. “I wanted to be cute for you.”

“You’re always cute.”

He blinked. Then laughed—soft, warm, delighted, like he hadn’t expected you to say it. The box lowered slightly. “Angel.”

“Ren.”

The space between you buzzed. He tilted his head again, letting you see just the faintest flush dusting his cheeks, exaggerated by the green of the froggy hat.

“…Do you like it?”

You hummed, reaching up to tug at the rim just a little. “I like you.”

His breath hitched. And then he melted, shoulders loosening, eyes softening into something devoted. Obsessed.

“I love you,” he murmured.

Your chest squeezed. “It’s been seven days.”

“So?”

You had no answer. And maybe that was an answer in itself.

You lost.

Ren beat you to the entrance of his building with that same smug grin he always got when he pulled ahead. He didn't gloat, but you could feel it radiating off him, warm and sticky like honey in the sun. And you? You just huffed, breathless, grinning like an idiot as you caught up, half-wondering how he had the energy to sprint and look so unbothered about it.

Then he swiped his electronic key card.

WOAH.

Yeah, okay, you still said it. Loud, too. Like the first time. Like you hadn’t already visited this place, hadn’t already gawked at the sheer absurd richness of it. But come on—he had a whole damned foyer. In an apartment.

Ren laughed as the doors slid open with a soft, expensive-sounding click. “You really like saying that, huh?”

You shot him a look. “Well, sorry, not all of us live in a place where the elevator doesn’t creak like it’s about to collapse.”

“I’d save you if it did.”

His voice was light, teasing, but you didn’t doubt he actually meant it. And you? You just sighed, pretending to roll your eyes as you stepped inside.

Still ridiculous. Still overwhelming. Still unbelievably nice.

It smelled expensive in here, like something clean but not sterile, like whatever subtle scent they pumped through luxury hotels. The lighting was soft, the floors heated. Your shoes felt wrong stepping onto them, like you were dirtying something meant to stay untouched.

But Ren was already ahead of you, dropping your box by the entrance like it was nothing, then reaching into a small cubby near the wall. “Here,” he said, holding something out to you. A pair of house slippers, still neatly wrapped in plastic.

You blinked. “You… bought me shoes?”

Ren hesitated, his usual confidence dimming just a little. His fingers twitched on the plastic wrapping, and then, for once, he actually looked shy.

“You’re staying, so…” He cleared his throat, shoving them into your hands. “It’d be rude to make you walk around barefoot.”

What the hell.

What the hell.

It was still so insane to you. Not the apartment, not the foyer, not the money. Ren. Ren being this nice. Ren being so nice. To you. You had only known him for seven days and he was already like this, already so attentive, already ready for you, like he had been preparing for this from the start. It was a little weird. A little eccentric.

But you? You were an idiot. A dumb, lucky idiot.

So you took the slippers, sat down, and pulled them on. Bless this man.

Ren watched, his eyes flickering with something you couldn’t quite place, then exhaled, like he had just won some kind of internal debate. “Oh,” he said, suddenly fidgeting again. “And, uh. About that.”

You looked up.

Ren rubbed the back of his neck, eyes darting to the side. “I, um. I gave you your own room. For now.”

For now.

You blinked again, slower this time.

“I just—” He hesitated, then smiled, small and careful. “I don’t want to overstep anything. Y’know, since we’re still figuring things out.”

…What the hell.

You stared at him, at this boy who had just beaten you in a race to his stupidly fancy apartment, who had already bought you house slippers, who had set up an entire room for you just so you wouldn’t feel pressured, and you just—

You didn’t know what to say.

So you did the next best thing: you thanked him. Earnestly.

Ren beamed. That stupid, boyish, sticky-sweet smile that made your stomach turn weird.

And then, finally, finally, you asked what had been itching in the back of your mind since he first popped up out of nowhere.

“…Why are you wearing that hat?”

Ren blinked. “Huh?”

You pointed. “The frog hat. It covers your entire head. I can’t see your hair.”

For a second, he didn’t say anything. Then, too quickly, he blurted, “I, uh. I kinda messed it up.”

You tilted your head. “Messed what up?”

“My hair.” He scratched his cheek, looking away. “Ordered the wrong batch of dye…” His voice dropped, muttering something too low for you to hear.

You squinted. “What?”

But Ren was already stepping away, already shifting the conversation like a well-practiced trick. “Anyway!” He clapped his hands. “You should change. The bathroom’s down the hall.”

You frowned, suspicious, but he only smiled.

Too easy. Too slick.

Ren sniffled. Just a little. A soft, barely-there sound, like he was trying not to make a big deal out of it, but you noticed. You always noticed.

“You okay?” you asked, eyeing him as he rubbed at his nose.

“Oh—yeah, yeah.” He waved a hand dismissively, his voice a little stuffy. “Just a little sick. Nothing serious.”

You frowned. “You should rest.”

Ren brightened, suddenly perking up way too much for someone who had just admitted they were sick. “Oh, but before that—” He rocked on his heels, looking almost nervous now. “I, uh. I wanted to tell you something.”

“…Okay?”

His fingers twitched at his sides. Then he cleared his throat, standing up just a little straighter, as if that would help get the words out properly.

“So, um.” He took a breath. “I already paid your rent.”

Silence.

You blinked.

“What.”

“For the whole year!” he added quickly. His hands shot up in some kind of panicked gesture, as if to soften the insanity of what he had just said. “I just—I thought it’d make things easier for you, and—”

“What.”

He stammered. Actually stammered. “It’s—it’s fine! You don’t have to pay me back or anything, I—”

“Ren.”

“I just—I want you to be comfortable! That’s all!” He was so frantic, so eager, so stupidly bright-eyed about it, like an overexcited puppy who didn’t quite realize he had just knocked over the whole table.

You just stared.

He paid your rent. For the entire year.

“What the hell,” you whispered, voice barely steady.

Ren flinched, and the sight of it broke you. He didn’t want you to be upset. He didn’t want you to think of it as a bad thing, didn’t want you to feel like a burden or anything other than happy. You could see it in the way he was fidgeting, his fingers curling and uncurling at his sides, his whole body practically vibrating with nervous energy.

It was too much.

And you? You almost cried.

You weren’t even sure what hit you first. The sheer weight of it, the overwhelming kindness, the way he was so eager to give, to do this for you, to take on something that wasn’t his responsibility just because he wanted to.

Ren made a tiny, startled noise when you stepped forward. He barely had time to react before you crashed into him, arms wrapping tight around his middle, pressing your face into his chest.

For a second, he didn’t move.

Then, suddenly, he almost jumped, body jerking before he practically melted into you, hugging you so tight, so fiercely, like he had been waiting for this.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you mumbled, voice thick. “You didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to.” He buried his face against your shoulder, voice muffled but earnest. “I wanted to, Angel.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, inhaling deep. You didn’t deserve him. You really, really didn’t deserve him. He was too nice. Too nice. It almost hurt how nice he was.

You pulled back just enough to look at him, his face way too close, his arms still tight around you, warm and solid and real.

You kissed his cheek.

Ren froze.

A tiny, sharp inhale. A complete full-body reaction.

You smiled, pressing your forehead against his, barely able to see with how blurred your vision had gotten. “Thank you for coming into my life.”

He looked love-struck.

Actually, physically struck by love.

His lips parted, his pupils huge, his face so red it almost matched his usual hair color—except, well. You still couldn’t see his hair. Stupid froggy hat.

For a moment, you thought he might cry too.

Instead, he suddenly pulled back. Too fast. Too clumsy.

“I—I should—” He turned, stepping away only to trip over absolutely nothing.

“Ren!” You reached out instinctively.

He stumbled but caught himself against the wall, laughing—embarrassed, giddy, too many emotions packed into one person. “I’m okay! I’m okay.”

You frowned. “Be careful.”

He exhaled hard, shaking his head, still smiling like an idiot. Then, finally, he looked back at you, softer now. “Go sleep, Angel.”

You couldn’t quite place it, but something in his tone had shifted, as if there were a thousand unsaid things he was trying to hold back. You smiled, ready to retreat into your room for the night, the events of the day still swirling around in your mind like a fever dream.

Then, as you were about to close the door, he appeared again, holding your clothing box in his hands. He looked… almost nervous. His cheeks were tinged with pink, and there was a slight tremor in his fingers as he handed the box over to you.

“I—I almost forgot,” Ren said, his voice thick, like he was trying to control something. Something deep inside. He didn’t look directly at you at first, his gaze flitting to the floor, to the side—anywhere but your face.

"Thank you, Ren," you said, still feeling a sense of warmth bubble up from the way he had cared for you, for everything he’d done. It felt… unreal, the way he had been so giving, so gentle. But then, Ren shifted again, stepping just a little too close. His breath caught, and you could feel his presence grow around you, suffocating in its quiet intensity.

“Angel…” he whispered, his voice breaking slightly, almost like he was afraid to even say your name. He moved your hair away from your neck, fingers brushing lightly against your skin, sending an electric shock through you. You froze, caught off guard by the sudden softness in his touch, but there was something more there, something heavier, something dark.

“I—” He hesitated, and you felt a weird knot form in your stomach. He wasn’t looking at you now, his eyes downcast, almost embarrassed. His hands were trembling, the clothing box in his arms like it weighed nothing compared to what was running through his mind. “Angel, I—I just need to ask you something.”

You blinked, your own heart racing now. “What is it?”

Ren swallowed, his voice barely a whisper. “Do you… do you love me?” His voice cracked as he spoke, the words torn between desperation and something else—something you couldn’t quite identify. He looked at you finally, eyes wide with need, with raw, unfiltered emotion. “Do you love me like this?”

You stared at him, confusion furrowing your brow. “Like this?”

He was visibly shaking now, his fingers tightening around the box. His face was flushed with embarrassment, but his eyes were clouded with a deep longing. He couldn’t look away, couldn’t pull himself back. "Like this. Just... me. The way I am. All of me.” He winced, as if the words were hard to get out, as if he had to rip them from his own chest. “I—I just want to know. If I’m perfect for you… in your eyes.”

There was a moment where time seemed to stretch, where everything felt suspended in the air between you two. You couldn’t help but feel a swell of something warm and protective, something that ached deep in your chest at how much Ren wanted this—wanted you to say it, wanted to hear you tell him that he was good enough.

You opened your mouth, but words failed for a moment. The emotional weight in the room was too much, too overwhelming for you to properly process all at once.

And then, with a deep breath, you spoke. “I love you, Ren.”

His eyes widened, and then his face—his beautiful face—was overcome with something so fragile and pure, it made you feel weak in the knees. His cheeks flushed deeper, and he suddenly pulled you into a tight, almost frantic hug. You could feel his heart beating hard against yours, his breath coming in uneven, desperate gasps.

“I love you, Angel,” he repeated into your hair, voice barely intelligible as he hugged you tighter, like he was trying to hold you in place, like he was afraid if he let go, you might slip away. He was crying, though you could barely tell through the small, stifled sobs. “I love you so much. I—I didn’t think you’d—” He cut himself off, his emotions overwhelming him, making him speechless.

You felt your own eyes well up, the overwhelming sense of affection filling you up until it hurt. “Ren, I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

But you could feel his shaking, his entire body trembling with emotion. His hands clutched at you desperately, and he whispered, almost like a prayer, “Please, don’t leave me. Please… I can’t be without you. You’re everything. You’re everything.”

The desperation in his voice made your heart ache for him.

Ren pulled back slightly, his hands still on your shoulders, his eyes locked onto yours, that same intensity still burning. He smiled softly, though there was a hint of something frantic, like he was still trying to hold it all together. “I’m glad,” he whispered, voice trembling. “I’m glad you love me.”

He suddenly straightened, his posture almost rigid as he turned away, almost like he had just caught himself in something, a bit of control returning to his shoulders. “I’ll get the rest of your stuff,” he said quickly, trying to brush it off.

But you stopped him. “It’s fine, Ren. I’ve got it.”

“No, no. I—I want to,” he insisted, eyes shining with that same intensity. He gripped your hand in his, the small moment of affection making your stomach flip. “I’ll get it, Angel. Wait here.”

You nodded, but as he hurried down the hall, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something was… off.

You entered your room, setting the clothing box on the bed. As you closed the door, you felt the faintest sense of unease gnaw at you, though it wasn’t something you could easily name.

Ren stood still in front of the mirror, his hand trembling as it pressed against his face, hiding the soft, self-loathing smile that spread across his lips. He was so close—so close to everything he wanted. To you. To having you. And now you were here. With him. You chose him.

You chose him.

In the quiet of the moment, his fingers traced the outline of his face, almost lovingly, as if to reassure himself that the person staring back at him in the mirror was truly who he had become.

The other REDACTED—the one who had never been enough—the one who was so weak, so pathetic—he was gone. Gone like the skin of an old, discarded self that no longer mattered. That person didn't deserve you. That failure didn’t deserve a single thought from you.

The new Ren, though? The one standing before you, the one you called by name, the one who held your heart in his palm with trembling fingers? That Ren was the one you loved.

He closed his eyes for a second, letting the thought wrap around him like a warm blanket, soothing the gnawing, twisted feeling in his chest. No more pretending. No more hiding. He had transformed for you—because you needed him. You needed him to be strong. To be worthy of you. So, he became Ren.

A tiny laugh escaped his lips, soft but dangerous, like a secret only he would ever know. He could feel it. The ache in his chest, the way his heart swelled when he thought of you. The way he almost lost control at the thought of you being with anyone else. But that was all gone now.

He had you.

And you—oh, you would never leave him. Not now. Not after everything he had done. Everything he had become.

His fingers curled tighter around his face, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes, as if trying to suppress the wave of emotion threatening to drown him. He was weak again, but this time, it wasn’t from lack of effort. No. This time, it was because he had finally given in—given in to the need to own you, to make sure that no one could touch you. No one could have you but him.

But then his thoughts twisted again.

He hated himself.

He hated REDACTED.

The one who had never been good enough for anyone, especially you. The one who never understood why anyone would care about him, the one who couldn’t even keep his hair the right color. That REDACTED was worthless. A failure. And in the pit of his stomach, he still felt that gnawing self-hatred, the reminder of who he used to be.

He didn't deserve you.

He clutched the fabric of his clothes—his carefully chosen attire—and thought about the effort it took to craft this persona, this perfect version of himself. You wouldn’t love him if he was weak. You wouldn’t look at him the way you did now if you saw the truth beneath the mask. So he gave you Ren. This Ren. The strong, kind, loving Ren that you needed.

And somehow, it was enough for you. Enough that you would choose him.

The old REDACTED—the ugly, broken REDACTED—had no place in your life. That REDACTED would have only destroyed everything. But now, this new Ren—the one you needed, the one you loved—he would make sure you never left. He would make sure you belonged to him.

He lowered his hands, his reflection staring back at him, the soft pink hair still hidden beneath the frog hat, his body still just as delicate as ever. But beneath that surface was the raw, trembling devotion that would never let you slip away.

“You’re mine, Angel,” he whispered to the reflection, as if trying to remind himself of his purpose, his new self. “You are mine.”

And then the realization hit him: this was it. This was the moment.

There was no going back.

Ren gripped the edges of the counter, the dark, obsessive smile stretching across his face once more. He had crossed the line, and there was no one left to stop him. He had you now. And nothing would take you from him.

You leaned back against the cool, smooth surface of the couch, eyes staring into the nothingness of the wall in front of you as you spoke into the phone. Your voice was a quiet mix of frustration and fear, too many things you weren’t sure how to articulate.

“Yeah, Elenor... I’m still staying with Ren,” you sighed, your words coming out almost too tired. “I mean, I like him. I’ve always liked him... It’s just... it’s like he’s... always been there. So kind, so nice to me.” Your throat tightened slightly at the thought. “He does everything for me. I don’t know how he does it, but it’s like he’s... trying to make up for something.”

The weight of the last few days sat heavy on your shoulders. Ren’s soft smile, his gentleness, the way he watched you like he was afraid you’d disappear if he blinked. It all made your stomach twist in both comfort and confusion. And it wasn’t just that. There was something else, something that made you feel like you were on the edge of a truth you couldn't reach—yet couldn't avoid.

"But..." you continued, almost whispering, your words faltering. "I think I’ve taken too much of him. He’s always doing things for me, always... offering his space, his time. It’s like, I don’t even know how to repay him, you know? And I don't even know if I should be taking all of it. It feels wrong sometimes."

The thought of too much—of overstaying your welcome in his space, in his life—felt suffocating. You had been around him for a week now, and it was intense. More than you could have imagined.

Elenor’s voice came through the phone, a soft but persistent murmur of concern. "Y/N, you're not a burden. If you feel comfortable, then stay. But... what's really bothering you?"

Your heart skipped, and you exhaled sharply. You leaned forward, resting your elbows on your knees, a wave of worry crashing over you as you thought of that other thing—the stalker. The person who had been creeping around, sending odd messages, showing up in places they shouldn’t be. It had been escalating, and it terrified you more than you wanted to admit.

“It’s just... Ren,” you said, barely believing it yourself as the words left your lips. “I mean, he told me he would keep me safe from them. That one word... ‘safe’... He makes me feel like I trust him more than anyone else. And I... I do. I trust him. I trust him more than I should.”

Your voice dropped off at the end, an unsettling feeling in the pit of your stomach. That wasn’t what bothered you. What bothered you was the thought that maybe you shouldn’t trust him as much as you did. You had no real reason not to... but still, something gnawed at you. It felt like there was something more—something you weren’t seeing.

You stood, pacing slightly as the phone sat in your hand. “But… Elenor, it’s like... why do I feel like I’ve known him longer? Like I’ve been through this with him before? Maybe I’m just being dramatic, or it’s just a dream. But I can't shake the feeling... that I know him—no, that he knows me in a way no one else does. It’s... it’s so hard to explain.” You stopped in your tracks, staring out the window with your breath caught in your throat.

You knew it didn’t make sense. You trusted Ren. You really did. He was so kind, so patient, but something about the situation felt off. You could feel it crawling beneath your skin, just waiting for you to acknowledge it.

"God, Elenor," you muttered, "Why am I even thinking this way? He’s just trying to protect me... and I’m sitting here, suspecting him? What is wrong with me?"

The guilt twisted in your chest.

You hung up the phone, feeling the weight of everything press down on you. The stalker. Ren’s kindness. Your growing trust in him. It was all tangled up in your mind, making it hard to think clearly. You wanted to feel safe. You wanted to believe in him completely. But there was that other feeling. That whisper in the back of your head, telling you there was something you hadn’t seen yet.

And as much as you tried to push it away, it was growing louder.

But you couldn't… You couldn’t doubt him. Not now. Not when he’d done everything to keep you safe, to make you feel welcome.

But still…

Why did it feel like you were standing on the edge of something you couldn’t control?

You decided to sleep..

The world around you felt heavy, like swimming through something thick and suffocating. You weren’t sure when you had fallen asleep, but here you were—somewhere that felt both distant and too close at the same time.

You heard it first.

A voice. Soft. Gentle. A whisper floating through the void like a lullaby.

"Angel…"

Your heart squeezed. That name.

"Angel… where are you?"

You turned, eyes darting through the darkness, searching. Footsteps echoed, and you realized—you were running.

But why?

With every step, something felt off. Your body—smaller. Your legs shorter. The oversized sleeves of your favorite purple hoodie brushed against your hands, just like it used to when you were little. And then, through the haze of memories that weren’t quite memories, you saw him.

A boy.

His hair was black, not Ren’s familiar soft pink, and his blue eyes shimmered under the dim, dreamlike light. He stood there, small and hesitant, clutching something in his hands. He looked familiar—too familiar—but the name in your head didn’t quite fit.

Wasn’t this… REDACTED?

No.

No, it wasn’t.

Your breath hitched as you moved closer, feeling a weight settle deep in your chest.

“Angel…” The boy—who wasn’t Ren—spoke shyly, his voice so small, so fragile. “I-I… I have something for you.”

He lifted his hands.

A ring.

Tiny, gold, glinting even in the strange darkness. Not fancy, not expensive—just a simple little band. But he held it like it was the most important thing in the world.

"For tuu…" he mumbled, his voice laced with nervous excitement.

Something in your heart twisted. This moment. You knew this moment.

You reached out, almost touching his hands, when—

"Hey, what are you doing?"

A new voice.

Your head snapped to the side, and suddenly you weren’t alone with him anymore.

Another child. Taller. Leon.

His face was shadowed, unreadable, but you could feel his presence, his overprotectiveness. Even in the dream, even as a child, he stood between you and the boy like a wall.

He didn’t like this.

You knew before it even happened.

And then—he shoved him.

The tiny ring slipped from the boy’s hands, hitting the ground with a soft clink. His dark eyes widened in panic as he scrambled to grab it, but before he could—

Leon kicked it away.

“Stop bothering them,” Leon’s voice was sharp, almost possessive. “They don’t need weirdos like you.”

The boy froze.

Your chest tightened painfully, something screaming inside of you that this was wrong, wrong, wrong.

The boy stared at the lost ring, at Leon, then at you.

His hands curled into fists at his sides.

He didn’t yell. He didn’t fight.

Instead, he bent down, picked up the ring with trembling hands, and held it against his chest.

Then, so softly you almost didn’t hear—

“…Okay.”

A whisper.

“…I’ll try again.”

His small voice cracked.

His shoulders shook.

And then—he was crying.

It shattered something deep inside of you.

You saw your childhood self hesitate, stepping toward him, but Leon pulled you back.

“Let’s go,” Leon muttered. “You don’t need to waste time on him.”

Your small hands twitched at your sides.

Your child self looked back.

One last time.

At the boy holding the ring like it was all he had.

At the pain in his eyes.

At his tears.

And then—darkness.

Everything twisted.

Reality snapped and distorted like a glitching screen, and suddenly, it wasn’t just the past anymore.

Suddenly—

You were falling.

Falling straight into those dark, familiar eyes.

A deep, obsessive gaze.

And then—

Hands grabbed you.

Clutching. Pulling.

"Angel."

His voice.

"Stay with me."

You couldn't breathe.

"Angel."

You saw his face.

The boy was older now. No longer a child.

No longer soft.

His black hair, his dark, blue eyes.

"You promised."

Promised what?!

You tried to pull away, tried to run—

"Don’t leave me again."

And then—

A SMILE.

Wide. Twisted.

Obsessed.

The dark eyes swallowed you whole.

And then—

You screamed.

You woke up.

Gasping. Drenched in sweat.

Your heart pounded against your ribs like it was trying to escape.

The room was dark, too quiet, too unfamiliar.

Ren’s apartment.

You were safe.

Right?

Your hands clutched the sheets, your breath shaking. The dream—the memory?—was already slipping away, but that feeling, that fear, still clung to your skin.

That boy.

That name.

Why couldn’t you remember his name?

But you knew—you knew.

This wasn’t just a dream.

It was something more.

Something you had forgotten.

Something you had lost.

And yet…

You turned, staring at the bedroom door.

Your breath was still uneven, the remnants of that dream gripping at your chest like unseen hands. You needed air. You needed… Ren.

Slipping out of bed, your feet hit the cool floor, grounding you back into reality. This was Ren’s apartment. It was safe. You were safe.

Right?

You cracked open the door, peering into the dimly lit hallway. The apartment was silent, but something in the air felt off. Heavy. Like it was watching you.

Ren’s room.

That’s where you needed to go.

Step by step, you moved, the floor quiet beneath you. His door was just slightly ajar, enough that the soft glow of a nightlight seeped out. But when you pushed it open—

Empty.

Ren wasn’t here.

The neatly made bed, the folded blankets, the plush frog sitting perfectly centered on the pillows—everything was untouched. It looked like he hadn’t even been here tonight.

Your stomach twisted.

Where was he?

And then—

You heard it.

A noise. Faint, muffled, but unmistakable.

A voice.

Ren’s voice.

But he wasn’t speaking.

He was panting.

Short, shaky breaths, almost strained. Like he was struggling. Like he was—

Your body tensed as you followed the sound down the hall.

To the one place he told you not to go.

The room at the very end.

You swallowed hard.

He had said it was just old stuff.

Things he didn’t want to look at.

Things that didn’t matter anymore.

And yet…

You stood in front of the door.

The sounds were clearer now, the sharp rise and fall of his breath, like he was working himself into something feverish. It was almost desperate.

Your hand hovered over the handle, but—

A password lock.

The glowing numbers blinked at you, blocking you from whatever lay beyond.

You shouldn’t be here.

You shouldn’t even be thinking about this.

Forget it.

Just go back to bed.

Trust Ren.

Trust him.

But…

Your fingers twitched.

Curiosity curled around your ribs like an eager whisper.

Why was he in there?

Why not in his own bed?

Why lock the door?

And why… why did the way he sounded make something in your gut churn with uncertainty?

You didn’t understand.

Your hands were clammy, your heart pounding so hard you swore it would wake Ren—wherever he was.

The keypad blinked at you, waiting.

You hesitated, fingers hovering over the numbers. You tried something random—some goddess’s name, something mystical, something obscure. Nothing.

You exhaled, gripping your wrist, willing yourself to be rational.

You shouldn’t be doing this.

But the dream still lingered like static in your skull, the boy’s eyes, the lost ring, the way Ren had always felt so… familiar.

You licked your lips, staring at the keypad, and then—

You typed in your birthday.

Just as a joke. Just to see.

You didn’t even know why.

It wasn’t like you’d ever told him.

Right?

And then—

Click.

The lock flashed green.

The door unlocked.

Your blood went cold.

No.

That wasn’t—

That wasn’t possible.

Your breath hitched, and for a moment, you just stood there. Frozen.

Because this was wrong.

This was so wrong.

You never told him.

You would have remembered telling him, right?

The thought sent a sick shiver down your spine.

How did Ren know your birthday?

You stepped back, every part of you screaming to turn around, go back to bed, pretend you never did this.

And yet—

The door, now slightly ajar, called to you like a mouth just barely parted.

A dark, waiting secret.

And from inside—

The sound of Ren’s breath, sharp, shaking, desperate.

You had a choice.

Walk away.

Or step inside.

Your breath was shallow as you stepped inside the dimly lit room, your fingers trembling as they pushed open the door just enough to let you slip in. The air was thick, oppressive, and something about it felt suffocating. Like you weren’t supposed to be here. Like the walls themselves were whispering turn back.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you took another step forward, your foot making the faintest creak against the floorboards. And then you saw them.

The pictures.

Lining the left-hand side of the room, pinned with precision, hundreds of them.

At first, they looked like ordinary photos—old, slightly yellowed at the edges. But the more you looked, the more your stomach twisted.

They were all of you.

You recognized some—pictures taken from your social media, old selfies, candid shots where you were mid-laugh or deep in thought. But others—

Your fingers clenched. Your breath hitched.

These were different.

A shot of you as a child, no older than five, in a park with a bright purple hoodie. A blurry image of you in middle school, sitting at your desk, eyes down, utterly unaware of the camera. You didn’t remember anyone taking these.

And worse—

They weren’t just old.

Some of them were before you even met Ren.

Your blood ran cold.

Your hand twitched at your side, fingers flexing, as if trying to ground yourself in reality. Maybe you were wrong. Maybe—maybe these weren’t what they seemed.

Maybe it was just a coincidence—

You turned, needing something—anything—to contradict the horror sinking into your bones.

But then you saw the right-hand side.

More pictures. More of you.

And these weren’t just old. They were recent.

You sleeping in your bed.

You sitting at a café, headphones in, oblivious to the camera.

You inside your own house, looking out the window, unaware you were being watched.

Your stomach churned. Your heart pounded, cold sweat forming at the back of your neck.

How?

You took a step back, swallowing thickly.

And then—

A sound.

Slow, ragged breathing.

It was coming from the farthest corner of the room.

Your head snapped toward the sound, your whole body frozen in place. And there, sitting hunched on the floor, shrouded in shadow—

A boy.

His back was facing you, his shoulders trembling slightly with every breath he took. His black hair fell in messy strands over his face, over his hands, over the bent curve of his form. It was long—longer than Ren’s. But the more you stared, the more a realization crept up your spine, slow and paralyzing.

The same eyes.

The same voice—when he had panted behind this door.

You felt your lips part before you even realized you were speaking.

“…[REDACTED]?”

The moment the name left your mouth, the boy flinched.

A violent, shuddering jolt, like you had struck him with a knife.

Slowly—so, so slowly—he turned his head.

And then—

You saw his face.

It was Ren. But it wasn’t.

The same eyes. The same face. But his pink hair—gone. In its place was jet black, stark against his pale skin, and his expression—

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t Ren.

It was raw. Wild. Desperate.

“Angel…” he whispered, voice hoarse, thick with something you couldn’t name. His wide, glistening eyes locked onto yours, his breath coming in uneven gasps. His lips parted, but no more words came out—only small, broken sounds, like something inside him was fracturing, shattering before your very eyes.

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

It was him.

The boy from your dream.

The boy who called you Angel.

The boy who once held out a ring for you, years ago, only to be crushed by another’s cruelty.

The boy who never stopped chasing you.

“N-No… no no no no…” he whimpered, shaking his head violently, hands grasping at his hair as if trying to pull himself apart. “Not yet. Not yet, Angel, it wasn’t—It was supposed to be perfect.”

You took a step back, your entire body trembling. Ren never stuttered. Never lost control. But this—this was not the Ren you knew.

And then, like a dam bursting, he sobbed.

He sobbed.

Not soft, not quiet—loud, broken, shaking cries. His hands clawed at his face, his breath ragged and uneven. His shoulders shook as he gasped for air, like he was trying to breathe you in.

“It was going so well…” he choked out, curling into himself. “You stayed, you were happy, you—you loved me. You loved me, Angel. It was supposed to be okay, it was supposed to be—”

His voice cracked. His hands gripped his arms, nails digging deep, too deep.

“You weren’t supposed to see this.”

A shiver ran through your spine, your feet frozen in place.

You tried to understand. Tried to process.

Ren—no, not Ren.

[REDACTED] had always been there.

Watching.

Waiting.

The sweet, gentle Ren you knew—the one who kissed your forehead, who held your hand, who laughed with you—that was him, too.

But it wasn’t.

Because this was Ren.

A boy who had shed his old self like dead skin.

A boy who had erased every trace of the past that Angel—his Angel—might not have loved.

And now, you had seen it.

Now, you knew.

His wide, tear-streaked eyes found yours again, and in that moment, the madness swirling inside them was as clear as a mirror.

He smiled.

Soft. Devoted.

His lips curled, his entire body trembling with emotion, and then—

He crawled toward you.

“Angel…” he whispered, voice quivering, thick with tears. His fingers reached for your ankle, barely brushing against the fabric of your pants. “Please… don’t run.”

You stumbled backward, your breath hitching as your vision blurred at the edges. Panic clawed at your throat. No, no, no. This wasn’t happening. Your body screamed at you to run, but your legs barely moved—jelly beneath you, wobbling as you reached for the door.

Your fingers fumbled with the handle. You wrenched it open. A burst of cold air, freedom, just a step away—

A force yanked you back, slamming the door shut with a resounding thud. You gasped, air cut short as an arm wrapped tight around your middle, pulling you flush against a trembling chest. His breath was hot, uneven, panting against the shell of your ear. The scent of him—familiar yet foreign—invaded your senses. His grip was suffocating, his presence engulfing, an inescapable cage.

Your phone clattered to the ground. No chance of calling for help.

His hand pressed over your mouth as you tried to scream. His whole body shook against you, but whether it was from anger or desperation, you didn’t know. You struggled, nails digging into his skin, but it only made him hold tighter.

"Don’t," he whispered, his voice cracked, raw with something unreadable. His forehead pressed against your shoulder, his entire body tensed like a string about to snap. "Angel, don’t—don’t run from me."

You thrashed. You elbowed his ribs, stomped on his foot, anything to break free. His grip loosened just enough for you to twist away, for you to stumble toward the window, toward anything, anywhere but here. But he was faster.

A tangle of limbs, the sensation of falling. The impact knocked the air from your lungs as you hit the floor, a sharp pain shooting up your spine.

And then—

His weight pressed down on you, his knees caging you in.

His hands trembled as they found your wrists, pinning them above your head.

He was shaking. His breath hitched like he was trying not to sob.

You squeezed your eyes shut. You refused to look at him. You didn’t want to see whatever expression he was wearing—

"Look at me," he whispered, voice barely holding together.

You refused.

"Please." His voice cracked.

Slowly, hesitantly, your eyes opened.

His face was streaked with tears. His lips trembled, his expression raw, vulnerable, broken. And there, around his neck, a chain hung, glinting under the dim light.

A ring.

A ring you had seen before.

Your stomach twisted.

His hand curled around yours, and your breath hitched when you felt something cold against your finger.

Another ring.

It looked like a wedding band.

Your pulse roared in your ears, drowning out everything else.

His fingers, scarred, burned, holding onto yours so tightly it hurt. His tattooed neck, the ink forming a heart, your name embedded in his skin like a permanent scar.

His lips trembled as he whispered, "You were always mine. From the start."

You felt your world tilt, reality fracturing at the edges.

And then, finally—

You screamed.

Around his neck, dangling from a delicate chain, was the same ring from your dream. The ring that little boy—no, REDACTED—had once offered you, the ring he had picked up from the dirt after Leon had tossed it away.

"I kept it," he choked out. "I kept everything. I waited. I changed. I—I became someone you could love. Because the old me—he wasn’t enough, was he?"

His fingers curled around yours, forcing them to touch the wedding band on his hand.

"But this time… I made sure. I made sure you’d stay."

You gasped, your breath catching in your throat, but he wasn’t done. His entire body trembled, a shuddering breath escaping him before his hands dropped to his sides, clenching into fists. His eyes darkened, an unhinged, broken sort of despair creeping into them as his lips parted. His entire frame shook.

"LOOK AT ME!" he suddenly screamed, his voice breaking apart, desperate, raw, aching.

You flinched, but he wasn’t stopping. His breath hitched, and then, like a dam bursting, he sobbed—loud, uncontrollable, a pitiful noise that clawed through the space between you.

"I ruined it! I—I ruined everything!" He collapsed against you, his forehead pressing against your shoulder as his body wracked with silent cries. "No, no, no… It was perfect, it was all going to be perfect, I just needed more time! More time to fix it, more time to be him! But you—You had to come here! You had to—!"

His hands gripped your arms like a vice, as if he were terrified you’d disappear the moment he let go.

"I didn’t want you to see me like this," he whispered, his voice raw, his words frantic. "I—I was supposed to be like Haruko. I was supposed to be good for you. Someone you could love. But I can’t—I can’t be him all the time! I can’t—"

He hiccupped between words, his fingers curling tighter. "I tried, Angel. I tried so hard. But it wasn’t enough, was it? You still found out. You still see me as that… thing."

His nails dug deeper into your skin, and you winced.

"But I had to do it," he continued, his voice turning frantic, desperate. "Because you—" He swallowed hard, his breath shaky. "You never loved me before. You never even looked at me."

A trembling hand reached up, tracing the line of your jaw, down to your collarbone, resting against your hammering pulse.

"But you love Ren, don't you?" His grip tightened. "You love the one I made for you."

Your mind was screaming. Your body was screaming. And yet, your voice refused to come out.

"Say it," he pleaded. "Say you love me. Say you won’t leave. Please, Angel—just say it."

Tears streamed down his face, raw emotion cracking through every fiber of his being. His chest heaved with every shaky breath, his heart pounding so loudly that you swore it echoed against your ribs.

"I need you," he whimpered. "I need you more than you could ever know."

kept it," he choked out. "I kept everything. I waited. I changed. I—I became someone you could love. Because the old me—he wasn’t enough, was he?"

His fingers curled around yours, forcing them to touch the wedding band on his hand.

"But this time… I made sure. I made sure you’d stay."

His voice cracked, the carefully constructed facade of Ren trembling at the edges. His breathing hitched as his grip on you tightened, not with force, but with a desperation so palpable it left you breathless.

"Angel, do you know what it’s like? To be invisible to the one person who mattered? To watch from the shadows, to shape yourself into something they might finally see?" His voice rose, frantic. "You see me now, don’t you? You’re looking at me now. You know who I am. Not just Ren, not just some stranger you met in a library—ME. The real me. The one who has always, always loved you."

His expression twisted, the manic gleam in his eyes sharp enough to slice through you. His breath came in uneven gasps, hands shaking as he clutched onto you like a lifeline.

"It was supposed to be perfect!" he shouted suddenly, the sheer anguish in his voice sending chills down your spine. "I did everything right! I became someone you could love! Haruko, Ren, whatever you wanted—I gave it to you! So why… why do you l look so scared?"

Tears welled in his eyes, though whether they were of frustration or heartbreak, you couldn’t tell. His whole body trembled, his forehead pressing against yours.

"Angel," he whispered, voice a broken plea. "Tell me it wasn’t all for nothing. Tell me you love me. Like this. As I am."

His fingers curled around the ring on his necklace, the metal cold against your skin. And in that moment, you realized—you weren’t looking at Ren anymore. The mask had finally, irrevocably cracked.

You were looking at REDACTED.

Ren's breathing was ragged, uneven. His fingers trembled as they curled into fists, then released, then clenched again. His shoulders shook, his entire body wracked with something dark and ugly that he couldn't contain any longer.

"Look at me!" he sobbed, voice breaking apart like glass shattering on concrete. "Please… just look at me, Angel. I'm sorry… I'm sorry I ruined it… I'm sorry I'm like this!"

His face was twisted in anguish, an expression so raw it cut deeper than any knife ever could. His tears fell onto your skin, hot and desperate, as he gripped onto you like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

But you couldn't move.

Something cold and thick was creeping up your legs, winding around your ankles like tendrils of ink. It climbed, higher and higher, latching onto your waist, then your arms. Panic overtook you as you gasped, thrashing wildly, but the more you struggled, the faster it spread.

"S-Stop! Stop it!" you shrieked, clawing at the darkness consuming you. "This can't be happening!"

Ren's arms tightened around you, but it wasn't a comforting embrace. It was desperate. It was suffocating. His breath hitched as he felt you shuddering in his hold, your sobs turning into choked screams.

His praise became a fevered mantra, his lips moving against your temple as he whispered worship, obsession, madness.

"You're light. You're everything, you're perfect. I'm nothing without you. I'm nothing!"

The ink coiled around your throat. Fingers. Hands. Clutching, grasping, squeezing. It seeped into your mouth, into your lungs, and you gagged as the taste of rust and rot filled you from the inside out.

Your screams were muffled.

Memories—they came flooding back, crashing over you like a tidal wave.

A boy, small and quiet, his black hair hanging over his wide, fearful eyes.

A ring, tiny and glinting, held out to you with shaking fingers.

"Angel, it's for you…"

A rough shove, a cry of protest. Leon's voice, sharp and cruel.

"Get lost, freak!"

The ring, tumbling through the air, swallowed by the grass, lost.

And the boy—

[REDACTED].

He had picked it up.

He had picked himself up.

He had tried again.

But not as himself.

Ren collapsed inward, a hollow shell of the person he had tried to become. His hands trembled, gripping at his own arms as if trying to claw himself out of his own skin. "I didn't deserve you," he whispered, the words cracked and broken. "I never did. I never could. I'm filth. I'm nothing compared to you, Angel. You're— you're light. And I— I was never meant to touch you."

But he had touched you. His entire being had wrapped around yours like a parasitic vine, feeding off the glow that you barely recognized in yourself. And now, it was suffocating you. The air grew thick, tangible as black ink seeped into your skin, curling up your arms like coiling veins of tar. Your body twisted, recoiling, but it didn't stop. It climbed higher, reaching your chest, your throat, your mouth—

You couldn't breathe.

Hands. It felt like hands. Hands grabbing your limbs, your face, your throat, prying your lips apart. The ink curled inside you like a living entity, pulling, pulling, pulling. Your screams gurgled in your throat, strangled by the suffocating black.

"STOP!!! NOOO!!!" You writhed, thrashing against it, but there was nowhere to go. Nowhere to run. The hands held firm, yanking you down, burying you in a nightmare made flesh. You sobbed, fists slamming against Ren’s chest, clawing at him in sheer desperation.

Ren held onto you, his grip firm, but it wasn't controlling. It wasn't possessive. It was desperate. "Angel—" he choked, voice cracking as his forehead pressed to yours, his tears mixing with your own. "Please, don’t— I didn't want this, I never wanted this—"

But you didn’t hear him. You couldn't. Because suddenly, it wasn’t just his voice— it was another. A voice from a long, long time ago, buried deep beneath years of missing memories. A boy’s voice, timid and small.

"Angel, this is for you."

A ring, held out in tiny, shaking hands.

The child’s black hair was unevenly cut, his eyes the same dark abyss you now feared. Your younger self reached out, almost hesitantly—

Until Leon’s hands appeared, shoving him back. The ring tumbled to the ground, lost in the dirt.

"Get lost, Don't bother them."

You gasped, your whole body convulsing as reality lurched back into place.

Ren— [REDACTED]— clung to you, his whole body trembling as if he were barely holding himself together. You stared at him, your vision blurred with tears, your breath coming in ragged, choking gasps.

"WHY DID LEON THROW THAT RING AWAY?!" The words ripped out of you, raw and furious and agonized. "WHY DID YOU BECOME LIKE THIS?! WHY?!"

His eyes widened, lips parting, but no words came out. Only a silent, broken sob.

Memories slammed into you like a wrecking ball, each one hitting harder than the last. The boy from your dreams— he wasn’t just some shadowy figure from the past. He was real. He had always been real.

And he had always been right there, waiting. Watching. Loving you in the only way he knew how—

Even if it ruined him.

Even if it ruined you.

You screamed again, but this time, it wasn’t just fear. It was grief. It was rage. It was heartbreak, the overwhelming weight of it all crushing down on you like an avalanche. Your body convulsed, your nails digging into the floor, into your own arms, as if trying to rip your own skin open just to make it stop.

Ren— or whatever was left of him— cradled you against him, rocking slightly as tears streamed down his face. "I ruined everything," he murmured, his voice fractured. "I—I wanted to be perfect for you. I wanted to be someone you could love. But I was never enough, was I?"

You sobbed into his chest, your body shaking uncontrollably. You wanted to hate him. You wanted to scream at him, to push him away, to run. But something in you cracked at his words, something deep and ugly and tangled with guilt. Because you had known him. Because once, a long time ago, you had been friends.

And now, both of you were broken beyond repair.

The ink around you dissipated, but its presence lingered, staining everything it touched.

Including you.

Including him.

He ruined everything.

No.

You ruined him.

He was never supposed to be like this. He was supposed to be happy. He was supposed to be someone else, someone whole, someone untouched by obsession and pain and a love so twisted it devoured everything in its path.

And yet here he was.

Crying.

Crying for you, for himself, for the past that could never be undone.

You screamed, throat raw, body trembling as you pushed against him, nails digging into his arms, shoving with every ounce of strength you had left. "GO AWAY!! GO AWAY!!" The words left you like a desperate exorcism, like if you said them enough, you could banish him, the ink, the past, everything that led to this moment. But nothing changed. He was still there. Still looking at you with that broken, pleading gaze. Still holding you as if letting go meant losing himself entirely.

"I’m sorry… I’m sorry…!" You sobbed, body wracked with uncontrollable shudders. The ink, the memories, the suffocating weight of it all crushed down on you until the world blurred, until your head spun and your breath stuttered—until there was nothing but blackness.

When you woke up, your body ached. The room was eerily silent, save for the faint rhythm of breathing beside you. You turned your head, heart seizing at the sight of him—[REDACTED]—asleep, curled up just inches away. His fingers were loosely laced with yours, gripping even in unconsciousness, as if even in sleep, he was terrified of losing you again.

You stiffened, breath caught in your throat. He looked… so different like this. Not the monster you had screamed at. Not the obsessive shadow that had haunted you. Just… him. His face, usually sharp with desperation and unchecked emotion, was peaceful now. Vulnerable. His long lashes cast shadows over his pale skin, and his lips—so often trembling with unspoken words—were parted slightly, his breath warm against your wrist.

A choked noise slipped past your lips before you even realized it. You had ruined him, hadn’t you? You had left him behind, and he had chased you into madness. If you had just looked back—if you had just seen him, really seen him—maybe it wouldn’t have come to this. Maybe he wouldn’t have had to carve out a new identity just to be near you again.

Your eyes drifted to his chest, to the thin silver chain around his neck. There it was. The ring. The one he had once held out to you with trembling hands, the one Leon had tossed away like it meant nothing.

You hesitated only a moment before reaching out. Your fingers curled around the ring, carefully sliding it from the chain. The metal was cool against your skin as you turned it over, inspecting the worn edges, the faint imprint of time. And then, without thinking, without knowing why, you slid it onto your own ring finger.

It fit.

Tears welled up again, burning hot trails down your cheeks as you laid back down, curling up beside him. Not on the bed. Not in the safety of the blankets. But here. On the cold floor, next to the boy you had abandoned.

You didn’t care anymore.

You had ruined him.

You wanted to fix him.

And maybe, just maybe… you could tell him what you should have said all those years ago.

He didn’t need to be Ren.

[REDACTED] was enough.

...........

[wannaeatramyeon]

DG x Reader: Manager and their Idol

8.5k. G/N. Soft, colleagues to lover (guess I love this trope). Masterlists

You had imagined life as a K-Pop idol manager to be much more glamorous.

You pity your young naive self. The one that envisaged schmoozing with stars and rubbing elbows with the movers and shakers, and instead set you on this horrid, lacklustre path.

What you didn't expect was the amount of time playing driver. Carting that stupid pink haired brat around. Waiting on him hand and foot during shoots and interviews, and being at his beck and call.

You have saved his ass more times than you can recall, ran through scripts with him, practised his stupid dances and moves alongside, protected him from unhinged fans and reporters and scavengers.

And yet you can count on one hand the amount of times he has thanked you.

Actually no, it didn't require any hands because he has thanked you exactly zero times for all your early mornings and late nights and for going above and beyond your duty.

Out of desperation, you had asked your boss if you could manage someone else and the request was declined.

"DG has taken a liking to you," she said, tone impressed as if that was something you should be proud of.

"Great," your smile comes out as more of a grimace.

And goddamn, this agency was so stupidly prestigious and the benefits and perks here really are second to none. Just why did Diego fucking Kang have to be their top idol.

.

.

The first time you crossed the threshold into his building, greeting the reception security guard and entering his penthouse keycode like you had been let in on the world's greatest secret, you had tiptoed around like a child in a museum. After all, this was DG's residence. The DG!

You had ooh-ed and aah-ed at every little thing. 

Taking delight in seeing his interior design of choice, the type of candy that he snacks on, the shampoo and conditioner he uses, the way he organises his desk. This is the chair DG sits on to eat. This is the sofa DG lounges on to watch TV. This is the bed he sleeps in, the bath he uses, the toilet he-

Any wide eyed innocence and awe evaporated after your first week working together.

Today, you stab in the entry code and let the door shut with a bang. 

You set his now cold coffee order on the kitchen counter and rifle with practised fingers through his unopened mail to see if there is anything you should draw his immediate attention to. You pick up his discarded clothes from the floor (and for fuck's sake, this suit jacket was on loan) and make your way to his bedroom where tufts of pink hair peeks out from under the cover.

"Good morning," you announce, locating the remote to open the blinds and letting in some sunlight.

Bedsheets rustle behind you.

"Good morning Diego," you repeat and give one warning, "I hope you're decent." With that, you throw the covers back to find the scantily dressed idol glaring up at you.

You remember the days when this sight would have made you weak at the knees. Seeing him half naked, in the flesh, freshly woken up with bedhead and half lidded eyes. It's what most of Korea dreams of, including yourself once upon a time.

Now all you feel is extreme irritation.

"Good morning," you say for the third time, plastering on a saccharine smile that you know DG sees clearly through because it is insincere as hell to anyone with half a brain cell. You let the fakeness shine through anyway.

For a split second, DG frowns as his eyes drop to your lips and then he pretends everything is good. Smiling back prettily, sharp canines on show and stretching. Lifting his arms overhead, showing a good stretch of pecs and abs and the line of muscle in a V pointing like an arrow straight down to his-

You roll your eyes.

"You're late." You throw the covers back over him and stride back towards the door. "We should have left half an hour ago." You leave out the part where you had been waiting downstairs in the car and after an hour of no show and no anything, you stomped your way up to his home.

DG, sensing your mood, adds oil to the fire with a smirk, "Why didn't you wake me then?"

If that idiot bothered to look at his phone, he would see a number of missed calls and unread messages from you.

Whatever.

"Hurry up."

.

.

DG has come across many people like yourself over the years. All cute and bright eyed, way too soft.

He never gave you any special treatment, for better or worse, and assumed that you would eventually burn out or give up and move on to something more worthwhile.

Unfortunately, in a rare turn of events, he had miscalculated.

Of course most people would be starstruck, it's only natural. But he mistook your sincerity and kind smile for ignorance and missed your sharp, observing gaze, and astute mind.

He's impressed, and he really can't remember the last time he was impressed.

In a matter of days of working together, you had managed to cut through the bullshit and within the month got him more compliant and docile than anyone else ever has.

Which should be a huge fucking problem, and raising red flags all over DG's mind.

...Except-

What's really troubling him right now, as he sulks in the passenger seat and you in the driver's, is that you have developed some sort of resistance to his charms.

Maybe a part of him does actually miss the you who he formed the first impression of. Who looked at him in wonder, with the same admiration that everyone else did.

Now that he knows you, he hates that he had thought that initial admiration was insignificant and worthless.

.

.

DG has a stash of candy in the car.

Or more accurately, you keep a stash of candy next to him to a) Shut him up and b) Keep him tolerable.

If DG wasn't so aloof, the fact that he has an incurable sweet tooth (and probably cavities to prove it) would have made headlines as a cute K-Pop fact and likely garnered sponsorship and advertising deals with all sorts of confectionary brands.

You had only found out during your adventures as his manager, rifling through his kitchen drawers trying to find his goddamn phone that he misplaced and you stumbled upon his stash of candy.

It really was a disgusting amount, something you'd expect a gaggle of grade schoolers at Halloween to hoard, not Diego goddamn Kang.

And then you also found out if he's not quiet and haughty in the car, making the atmosphere awkward, he likes to comment on your driving.

Who even sits in the passenger seat next to their 'chauffeur' anyway? He complains about you braking too suddenly and not accelerating fast enough. How you drive like an 80 year old with cataracts, and you're too slow when the light changes to green.

The turn in your relationship happened when you snapped at him to shut the fuck up after losing the final shred of your sanity on a three hour drive.

DG, to your dismay, didn’t miraculously lose his hearing and turns to you as you silently berate yourself for voicing the quiet thoughts out loud.

Although, you're in the deep end now. You're gonna get fired anyway, so if he says anything else you might as well give him a flick on the forehead or a pinch or maybe a punch to the face-

Instead, he laughs.

It's nothing like the laugh you have heard on TV and in interviews. The rehearsed and manicured 'haha' or cool chuckle that suits his shiny persona. It's kinda goofy and a lot endearing.

What's even more endearing is the way he does actually shut the fuck up for the rest of the journey. You like him a lot more after that.

So. You digress.

The candy is a way to keep the sweet toothed maniac quiet. Even if it doesn't work, at least it's harder to make out what insults he's slinging with a lollipop rattling around his mouth.

However, he has never ever shared any with you. Any of the candy that you stock, and pay for.

(That you technically claim back on company expenses, but you're trying to be self righteous here.)

Ever.

In all the months of working with him, he gobbles away happily even if your stomach is growling and you refuse to take any yourself out of principle.

Until-

"Here."

"Huh?"

Taking advantage of your response and open mouth, DG leans into your personal space and feeds you some chewy strawberry something or another (which coincidentally are his least favourite), fingers lingering on your lips for a fraction of a second.

Three things happen in quick succession.

The burst of sugar hits your tongue.

You nearly choke.

You narrowly avoid swerving.

"Careful now," DG grins when you get the car and yourself under control, and glance at him with a scowl.

Good. That proves you're not completely immune to his charms.

.

.

That bastard has now taken it upon himself to feed you candy at every opportunity.

You wonder if he's doing some sort of Pavlov experiment. The sweetness trying to erase any sourness you feel towards him.

It sort of works, and you consider biting his fingers off one of these days.

You hear the crinkling of wrappers, one for him that he pops into his mouth, and one for you that he gives without asking.

You angle your head towards him, and his fingers graze your lips every time.

Neither of you comment on the change but the intimacy drives you a little crazy.

.

.

And DG too.

Because intimacy works both ways and damnit his little gesture to keep the pretty blush on your face has backfired.

The only form of intimacy he knows comes from discreet hookups and low key links. Not someone who is around day in, day out. Or anyone that goes deeper than one night stands and booty calls.

You're there, you're always there. Of course you are, you're his manager.

But today, he feels under the microscope with you standing a couple metres away and keen eyes watching the camera monitor.

It's a no nothing day. Standard schedule where he shoots a fragrance commercial and he exits a pool all wet and sultry, white t-shirt clinging to his muscled body.

Then another scene where he writhes around slightly on a sunbed and eye-fucks the camera.

How it sells a fragrance, he never knows. The mystery of showbiz.

"Cut! More powder!" The director shouts out, the crew springing into action and DG knows exactly why.

He feels strangely embarrassed and flustered, which has manifested into his cheeks being flushed, and god he can't even remember the last time he has been like this.

It’s out of character and he needs to get his head together.

As the make up artist hurriedly dabs on some foundation, you make your way over to him.

"Are you sick?" you ask, concerned and reaching out to feel his forehead with the back of your hand.

"I'm fine," He says, turning away from your attentiveness and staring at a point in the distance.

.

.

With most people, if DG wants them out of sight, they stay out of sight.

But as his manager, and a very competent one at that, it’s harder to get you to leave.

Not that DG wants you to either, don’t get him wrong. 

The only constants he has around him are people who want something from him. And yes, he knows you’re only in his company because you work with him. However, he really can’t doubt the concern he always sees in your eyes. The compassion and empathy even when he makes you want to scream and tear your hair out.

His standoffish demeanour is not new to anyone. It’s part of his appeal to be quite honest. 

Yet he feels bad over the next couple weeks as he turns it up to eleven and tries to create some distance. He registers the hurt on your face as he is extra short with his answers and behaviour.

.

.

Pandering to overinflated celebrity egos and the insane Korean work ethic often leads to after hour shoots and dinner delayed until past midnight.

Honestly, this wreaks havoc on your sleep schedule and your skin.

"Here." You retrieve DG's takeout from the paper bag.

A double portion of delicious fried chicken with a side of kimchi and pickles. It's a change of pace from what most idols order, yet he doesn't give two shits about calories or sodium intake and to add insult to injury, somehow manages to keep his trim figure.

You lament your soggy salad sitting at the bottom. As if it’s not sad enough right now - once you arrive home, the lettuce will be wilting and room temperature and you will eat it in your dimly lit apartment with nothing to keep you company except the sound of the TV.

DG notices you turning to leave his penthouse, and his mouth moves before his brain can.

"Aren't you staying?"

"What?" You double take at the question.

DG's company is usually worse than your lonely meal for one. 

He’s annoying and you frequently want to slap him, but how he has been with you lately has been troubling and you actually feel a sense of relief at his offer.

(You had wondered if you might have been getting sacked up until this moment.)

Nevertheless, in all your time working alongside, you have never had a proper meal one on one together. Nothing more than you driving with one hand and the other hastily shoving a burger into your mouth as he looks on in disgust.

You would have dwelled on this more, wondering what's changed, what’s happened, but then-

"I'll share." DG nudges the box towards you, and the delicious scent of deep fried, battered goodness wafts along with it it

All your misgivings and your salad is forgotten.

.

.

Almost.

No, you were wrong.

Eating with DG, without any distractions such as traffic to navigate or other boisterous colleagues around, is unnerving. Disarming.

His haughtiness remains, but how haughty can someone be when munching on a drumstick.

All frostiness from the past weeks melts away as you both eat your way through his chicken.

He’s talking more tonight than you have heard in a while.

You find him funny, and really quite bitchy. Which you did know all along except it's much funnier now his slanderous comments aren't directed at you.

And has he always looked at you with such a piercing gaze? So intensely focused on what you have to say. Even if you're just complaining about your boss, blurring your lines of professionalism, he gives you his full attention.

You really can't remember the last time you have been in each other's company like this. 

You loathe to admit that even with what an asshole he is, DG's shine hasn’t dulled enough for you that you don't understand the appeal.

.

.

Leaning forward, DG whispers into your ear.

To anyone else, it looks like an over-affectionate idol with their manager. If they could hear his words, "I'm going to kill you," they would think otherwise.

Ok, so this one is your fault.

The good times have to come to an end and maybe you should have been more careful with his pride and joy - some ridiculously overpriced and over-specced vehicle.

Taking advantage of the clear blue Seoul skies, the pink haired menace was the one who drove you today in his fancy imported sports car, but the speed limits and the rest of the traffic was not on his side.

Already running late, even for him, he parked somewhere convenient and illegal then passed you the keys, leaving you stranded on the sidewalk, mouth opening and closing like a goldfish, as he strode off to meet his music producer and choreographer and left you to park his baby elsewhere.

Why he entrusted you with it, you're not sure.

You would have done it anyway though, because when else are you going to have an opportunity to drive a supercar, if your boss didn't call at that moment. Questioning your expenses and DG's schedule and confusing you about the fitting at a fashion house and hair styling appointment that you knew like the back of your hand but when someone is so confidently incorrect, you start to doubt yourself.

By the time you got off the phone after pacing up and down the street and checking and double checking DG's timetable, you finally make your way back to the car-

And see it in the middle of being compounded.

You had begged and pleaded with the two men who were having none of it and you left, tail between your legs, to beg and plead with the other man who you knew would also have none of it.

Damn, you hate it when you prove yourself right in these instances.

You know DG won't really kill you, but he will likely make your life hell for the next couple weeks.

.

.

A normal person being pissed off at you would probably result in the silent treatment until tempers cool down.

DG does the opposite. Sort of.

He takes pleasure in making things as awkward for you as possible, until you're squirming in your seat trying to stay professional, thinking about your job and your rent and your bills; or torn between wanting the ground to swallow you up.

Around other people, your boss, your colleagues, his colleagues, he sidles up to you all smiles and soft looks. Slips purposely into banmal, and then oopsy, pretends that he didn't mean to be so informal with you around others.

Gossip soon stirs about your and DG's close relationship, if there's something else going on. Only you can see the mischief in his eyes and the malice in his smile and you think about yanking him by the ear and demanding to know what he is playing at.

Alone, he denies any sort of miscreant behaviour. Barely listening to you complaining and snapping at him. Ending with him outright ignoring you and you fume even harder.

This time, you're not sure the punishment even fits the crime. 

Any guilt soon dissipates when his car is returned in perfect condition within a couple days but his performance lasts for weeks.

.

.

Teasing you has always been fun for DG - when your cheeks dust angrily with pink and your eyes burn with fire.

The equivalent of a boy pulling a girl’s pigtails in the school yard.

.

.

Meetings with HNH Group usually do not involve you. If it does, at most you are waiting in the car.

Luckily, there are also an assortment of cafes and restaurants within a stone's throw and it gives you some time to debrief and catch a breather from following DG's hectic schedule.

The downside is you're never sure if a two hour meeting will be condensed to fifteen minutes or if a quick catch up with Charles Choi and other Executives turns into an all nighter.

There's been days where you have ordered a meal, then had to abandon it with a sigh and a longing look as you spot DG striding out of the building looking pissed off that you're not already there, or stayed in the vehicle with the engine running and your stomach rumbling as short appointments overshoot.

Maybe this is another consequence from DG being petty and irate with you for getting his car towed - you're left snoozing at the steering wheel of your runaround, the idol standard-issue luxury minivan, waiting for his return.

It's far too late in the evening for anywhere to be open, only the fluorescent lights of convenience stores and glare of the HNH logo illuminates the streets.

DG opens the sliding door, climbs into the back and slams it hard enough to jerk you awake and rattle the entire van.

He’s sitting by himself in the back, which is odd enough in itself.

As you blink away the dregs of sleep, in the rearview mirror, you notice the stiffness in his shoulders and the tightness in his jaw. His eyes stare vacantly out the window. DG is clearly upset about something, enough to crack through his aloof veneer.

"Are you ok?" You don't get a response, not even a passing glance.

Obviously something has gone wrong with the HNH Group meeting and the stress has manifested.

You wrack your brains thinking of something that might cheer up this asshole and you think of the only thing that improves your mood when you're on the verge of a breakdown.

(Usually due to the aforementioned asshole in your current presence). 

"Tteokbokki and beer?" You offer. It’s past your bedtime but a sulky DG for the rest of the week will also ruin your week too.

DG briefly looks at you before going back to staring at the window. It’s not a no.

You don’t get home until past 4am that night. 

At your favourite late night hole-in-the-wall, you eat far more tteokbokki than DG. On second thoughts, you don’t remember him eating any at all. You’re talking and downing beers to fill the silence, trying to perk up this silly celebrity. Loose lipped and spilling far more details than you would if you were sober, with him seated opposite and sipping on a soda. 

As the night ticks along, he thaws and a small smile settles on his face watching you gesticulate and ramble about your life.

You don’t get home until past 4am that night-

With DG driving, piggybacking you up to your apartment, and tucking you into bed.

.

.

DG can’t stop thinking of the weight of you on his back, arms slung over his shoulders, legs at his waist and his hands gripping your thighs.

You slurring drunkenly into his ear as he climbs the stairs in your building. It’s mostly nonsense. He can’t make out your words but remembers your breath tickling his skin.

And when he wraps your duvet around you, the brief moment of lucidity in your eyes as you look at him, softer than you ever have, you tell him, “Thanks Diego.”

Diego.

.

.

Nothing changes between the two of you after this. Not really.

You still find him an enormous thorn in your side. Incredibly stuck up and haughty and you continue to want to throttle him on a weekly basis but you are immensely grateful for him not leaving you a passed out heap on the sidewalk.

You’re in the middle of chastising him once again, dragging him out of bed as he is running late and being an absolute dick about it. Taking it easy as if he has all the time in the world. 

Well of course he does. He’s not the one that will be getting an earful from your boss or on the receiving end of the production crew’s complaints, as if trying to manhandle and cart this manchild around is easy.

“Diego Kang, I swear to fucking god-”

"James." He says, interrupting you as he picks out and pulls an eye-wateringly expensive jumper over his head.

"What?"

"Call me James when it's just us.” He checks out his outfit in the mirror, seemingly satisfied with it, before moving onto his hair. “James Lee. That's my real name."

DG, or James Lee, keeps his eyes on his reflection. Inspecting his non-existent roots, styling his fringe to make it fall just so and applying a liberal amount of hair product.

Nonchalant and casual even as he offers something desperately personal about himself.

"James," you say, trying out the sound for yourself. A name that seems at odds with his loud K-Pop shell but you imagine a time before the fame and the celebrity and the pink hair and it somehow fits.

"James," you repeat, and receive a small smile in return. Then it drops as you add, “If you don’t get your ass in the car in the next five minutes I will kill you.”

.

.

“James,” you think to yourself before you drift off to sleep that night. 

How peculiar.

“James, James, James.”

.

.

Celebrities these days are multi-hyphenates.

DG is an Idol-CEO-Actor, or at least trying to add the last one onto his resume. On looks alone, he would have already gotten his foot through the door. Add on his reputation and popularity, he is drowning in offers.

What you personally dislike more with K-dramas scenes though, is how long things take. How much it revolves around other actors and their managers whereas DG being in the studio or filming a music video is pretty much all him.

This K-drama is supposed to be the next big thing. 

With the biggest names attached, including DG who is making a cameo. The cameo that was also scheduled to be filmed five hours ago but you have both just been lurking in his dressing room since.

Along with some measly snacks and refreshments, which the crew has been kind enough to provide. 

However, the snacks are all but gone (thanks to you) and the refreshments are dwindling and there is no end in sight.

DG, or James, as you have started to call him in your head, is on his phone. He’s always on his phone. Scrolling through news articles, responding to important emails and messages.

There’s only so much news or celebrity gossip you can take. You have exhausted your own social media feeds and you have spent far too much money on your gacha games and the guilt has set in.

You twiddle your thumbs on the sofa next to him as he takes no notice of your presence and you decide to rest your eyes. 

Why not anyway? DG doesn’t need anything right now, work won’t be interrupting you, and there’s nothing for you to do. Just for a minute or five. Until someone from the production team knocks on the door and announces that it’s time for his scene.

DG side-eyes you when he notices your breath start to slow and deepen. Falling asleep on the job, really?

Then you let out a snore before smacking your lips together a couple times and he holds back a snort. He reasons that he should let you have some time to rest. After all, you’re the one that drives him around, his life is in your hands everyday and tiredness kills.

He’s on his phone for a few more minutes, reading through more emails on PTJ Entertainment and out of the corner of his eye he notices you drooping.

Body slowly slumping to slouch over him, until your head makes contact with his shoulder and you’re snoozing happily on your newfound pillow.

It’s equal parts inappropriate and cute.

Ugh, DG is 99% sure you’re drooling on him and the wardrobe department isn’t going to be happy when he returns the outfit.

Either way, that’s not going to be his problem. He adjusts minutely, makes it just a touch more comfortable for you and continues to scroll.

.

.

You wake up to a wetness by your mouth, and to your horror, DG smirking down at you.

.

.

Despite none of this being your fault, you apologise to everyone about having to reschedule DG’s music video shoot due to the previous day’s K-drama delays.

To your relief, the music video goes swimmingly and without a hitch, and the production is wrapped up on time. 

You’ll happily bet that his new song will go straight to No.1. If not, then at least the sensual music video will guarantee DG remains top of mind for weeks. 

You’re updating your boss and even she seems to be pleased.

"This is just work." DG interrupts as you're mid call.

You look up at him, brows furrowed.

Holding your hand to your phone to mute the speaker, you whisper, "I know."

"Good," and he walks away leaving you as confused as ever.

It's not the first time you have seen him shoot an MV, which thank the heavens is so much more efficient than bloody k-dramas, and also not the first time that there's been scenes that emulate an intimate moment. Lips nearly brushing together. Hands roaming bodies under fake rain.

Even if DG notices that you're watching the scene, eyes glazed over and bored, he still felt the urge to explain to you that there's nothing between you and the leading lady in the video.

Once out of sight of everyone, he facepalms himself for his ridiculousness.

.

.

You’re right, and you absolutely love it when you’re right.

The song goes straight to No.1 and holds that position for weeks, fending off competition from boy bands and girl groups and other solo artists. Apparently it’s going to be the song of the summer.

The music video also breaks records for being the most watched within 24 hours.

DG only reviews it once for post-production checks and finds it just fine.

There’s something he can’t quite put his finger on that seems off with it.

He wonders what it would look like if it was you starring opposite him.

.

.

“Where on earth is he?” You grit your teeth and grip harder onto the umbrella that is threatening to be swept away by the wind.

And another thing with being DG’s manager: it’s fine if he’s late but not if it’s you.

(Although to be fair, this instance of him being late is likely due to this particular music producer he’s meeting with enjoying the sound of his own voice.)

You were running late exactly one time in the past, during the first couple days of managing him, when the skies opened and drenched the earth. 

Heavens forbid DG’s perfect, beautiful, flawless hair is ruined by the rain. 

It’s not like he looked like a drowned rat. The paparazzi caught him in a wet t-shirt, fabric clinging to his abs and his pink hair slicked back stylishly. Even the goddamn raindrops were running fashionably down his high cheekbones and dripping off his pout.

For the next week, the tabloids and internet forums went wild with how hot he looked. 

(Who knows, maybe that was the inspiration for his fragrance commercial.)

Nevertheless, DG was displeased and it made its way back to your boss how displeased he was.

Ever since, you have been the unfortunate soul waiting in all manners of weather for him. Rain storms, blistering sun, freezing snow.

Today, it’s your favourite. Rain. You shiver against the elements trying to take shelter under the building entrance canopy, the wind whipping the downpour every which way and you’re getting soaked regardless of how you angle your umbrella.

“Hurry up, DG.”

You check the time over and over. He would be early to his next appointment if he exited the building now. 

…On time.

…On time if the traffic was in your favour.

…Late, but not terribly so.

…Fashionably late.

… Late enough to piss everyone off in the room.

Shit. Just as you begin to fret, wondering if something has happened to him-

Clicks and flashes from cameras alert you to his royal highness finally making an appearance, ready to exit the studio and making his way over to the car.

He materialises by your side, and you mutter a familiar phrase to him. 

“You’re late.” 

It’s a mantra you’re tired of repeating, but he relishes if the amused grin is any indication.

Without a word, he takes off his trench coat and drapes it around your shoulders. His right hand covers yours over the umbrella handle, left wrapping around your waist as he guides you through the throng of reporters and fans.

“What are you doing?” You hiss under your breath. 

You can imagine the optics now from the papers and your boss. It looks… Well. Not terrible but not the best.

“You’re soaked,” is all DG provides, accompanied with a raised eyebrow and a smirk. 

He opens the driver’s door for you before he climbs into the passenger’s side.

.

.

Thank goodness for your gift of the gab.

He’s being a gentleman, you tell everyone that would listen. Isn’t this what Korea wants? An idol with manners and who looks after everyone? Is empathetic and caring?

Think how well it would resonate with the female demographic, who wants a boyfriend like this! The older boomer demographic, who thinks none of the young ‘uns have any manners anymore!

Your boss isn’t convinced until the advertising offers for umbrella companies roll in.

.

.

Truth be told, DG doesn’t know what possessed him to do that. Especially in front of cameras.

Though, it’s not like he could just let you get even more drenched could he? You’re standing there, looking pitiful and he was just going to let you hold the umbrella over him when he should be the one taking care of you-

Hold on.

DG frowns at himself.

Damn.

.

.

James Lee has never looked after anyone besides himself. You need to look after yourself if you are to survive this dog eat dog world. To make it atop the Pre-Generation, the First Generation and now the Second.

He had unfathomably high expectations of himself (that he managed to achieve) and low expectations for relationships (that hadn’t been proven wrong yet).

People have flitted in and out of the chapters of his life, no-one staying around for long. Definitely no-one staying around long enough to know him, for him to grow comfortable with. 

Perhaps it has been the forced closeness that has caused him to let his guard down. Cabin fever, in a sense.

But James Lee, Diego Kang, has himself also been around long enough to know there’s more to you and he wants more of you.

.

.

Finding reasons to spend time together isn’t difficult. Actually, finding reasons to spend time apart would be much harder.

You both get on with your jobs and your duties, even as the closeness grows day by day.

And every time when you’re alone and you call him James, his heart grows fonder.

.

.

Out of all the seats available in his apartment, James lounges next to you, long legs draping over yours.

It's another night in together.

These seem to be happening with increasing frequency. DG at least used to keep up appearances, networking with his fellow celebrities.

Parties where you used to look at him with distaste as starlets surrounded him, award shows that he couldn't care less about as you hung around in the background.

Now he prefers to stay in with you, using work as a thin excuse. Studying lyrics that he has already memorised, going over dances that are long ingrained in him.

"You're not going to her party?" You ask, you were sure this fan-favourite and DG were an item or had history. At the very least, the who's who of the industry always attended her gatherings.

"No," his eyes continue roving over the lines.

Then when you thought the conversation was done, he looks over the top of his paper, eyes sparkling with playfulness, "I prefer being here with you."

Oh. Your breath catches in your throat.

You think you might never breathe normally again.

.

.

No, that’s a lie. Any opportunities for rose-tinted glasses has long passed by. You both know each other too well for that.

You breathe perfectly fine. Actually, this morning you are taking deep breaths to try and centre yourself. 

It’s not working. 

“You’re always fucking late,” you snap, giving in to your anger.

Sometimes you think it is your fault for not watching over DG 24/7. That instead of going back home, you should just live with him so you can shake him awake when he is supposed to get up instead of when he wants to.

And does it hurt him to look the least bit contrite at making your life a misery? 

Why does he have to look so smug with a lollipop stick hanging out his mouth? Seriously, between all the rushing around this morning, when did he find time to look for goddamn candy?

“For fuck’s sake, James.” You’re speed walking towards his front door, looking at the Maps app on your phone and miss his smile at you snarling his name. 

You’re already running behind and every route to the recording studio is red due to roadworks or an accident or just plain ol’ congestion. “Shit!”

Your finger jabs at the elevator button multiple times.

“It’s not going to get there any quicker if you do that,” DG speaks lowly into your ear and you get the urge to pinch him.

Instead of prodding some more at the button, you turn around and prod him in the chest.

“You’re going to get me fired one of these days,” You growl. “It’s fine for you, Diego goddamn Kang, the star who is pretty much untouchable. I’m not. I’m replaceable. There’s a million people who would take my job-”

DG snatches your hand, holds it still. “You’re not replaceable.” Then adds with an infuriating grin, “So what if we’re late.”

The minivan is skipped, and his answer to your problem is his other pride and joy. A motorbike that looks far too aggressive and a complete death trap.

“I’m not getting on that,” you say as DG hands you leathers that materialised from god-knows-where and a spare helmet.

“Fine,” he says, shrugging and throwing a leg over. “I don’t think your boss will be happy.”

“Fuck!”

.

.

If this was any other situation, you would be acutely aware of yourself pressed up against DG’s back. Your arms wrapped tightly around his waist.

Except all you can focus on is that you’re going to fucking die. You think you might be screaming.

“Stop screaming!” His disembodied voice calls out. Oh. Turns out you are.

For some reason, DG had thought the helmets with built in speakers and mic would be better for communication. Fun, even. Frankly, you’re just giving him a headache.

(Not to mention the fact that he bought a spare helmet at all. And leathers that he thought would be exactly your size.

He had never rode with anyone before and you certainly had never expressed any interest. Yet he passed by a motorcycle store when he had rare time to spare, and visited on a whim.

If he dwelled on this anymore, DG is sure his headache would turn into a full blown migraine.)

Later that night, when the ringing in his ears finally subside, he will still think about the way you held him.

.

.

When public opinion is on your side, then that’s fantastic. Amazing. You tend to get away with all sorts of things.

When it’s not, the truth can become muddied and there’s mental gymnastics from all sides painting you as the villain.

Fortunately, public opinion generally works in DG’s favour, especially in the case of his stalker who got sentenced for more jail time than if she was harassing a normal person, but not long enough to account for all the distress she has caused.

Such is the criminal justice system.

Her date of release looms large and near. DG, despite his talent and fighting prowess, realises certain traumas can’t be erased.

He grows on edge. Skittish. Snaps at any and everything. It’s noted by journalists. Other managers gives you questioning looks

You don’t miss his change in demeanour. To you, the reason behind it is obvious. 

You’ve heard about this case, everyone has. It dominated headlines for almost a month: the crazy sasaeng fan who believed herself to be DG’s girlfriend before moving onto another poor soul and was finally arrested.

As he spirals, nothing you do or say to him manages to get more than a nod or a frown. You try to offer that she had fixated on someone else before she was arrested, hoping that was a small consolation to him. And though he managed a weak smile, the black cloud still hangs over him.

In the end, you pack your bags and arrive at DG’s one evening. Instead of letting yourself in like you usually would, you ring the buzzer, smile into the door camera and tell him “It’s me!”

The door swings open to reveal DG looking perplexed (and worse for wear). Head tilting, curious and inquisitive when he sees your suitcase and carrier bags full of snacks.

“I’m staying for a while.”

“According to who?”

You barge past him anyway with a grin.

.

.

The date of his stalker’s release arrives and passes without drama.

You miss your home comforts but it makes you happy to see DG’s mood genuinely improve as the days go on.

The luxurious oversized mattress, fancy spa shower, and jacuzzi bathtub also helps to make your stay a bit more bearable.

Not to mention each morning DG actually cooks breakfast for you. Turns out he’s not bad at all at playing a househusband, and it’s also maddening how he manages to get up each day before you when he hasn’t got any place to be.

“Thanks James,” you say, when he presents you with a home cooked meal and his smile grows a bit more each day.

.

.

Peace doesn’t last.

Blurry photos of you both leaving and entering DG’s apartment at all hours of the day and night make the front page of certain news sites.

Headlines scream with leading questions. 

“Relationship beyond Manager and Idol?”

“How a Manager seduced their Idol.” 

“Who is this mystery person that has tamed DG?”

Why anyone deemed it newsworthy is beyond you. You’ve been to his apartment a million times. 

Yes, you suppose the closeness of DG and yourself in the photos can look a little suspect. 

In this particular one, it looks like you have your hand caressing his chest when in actual fact you were shoving him away for a dismissive comment he made.

And the other photo, of his hand on your wrist, was actually him dragging you away when he spotted a herd of fans in the distance.

More pictures unveil themselves.

A snapshot of you driving and DG feeding you candy.

You and DG, whispering intimately in your ear as his supercar is being towed away in the background.

You red faced and drunk as DG piggybacks you outside your building.

His jacket wrapped around you, hand on your waist and angling the umbrella over you.

Him smiling down at you (ok, you admit that you didn’t realise how soft that looks to other people.)

Finally an exceptionally pixelated image of you both on his bike, that could be anyone really.

Unfortunately, your opinion is in the minority as the articles are inundated with comments and furious, tearful fans shrieking that their idol is betraying them. 

Simply unhinged.

.

.

The speculation grows. You’re damned if you do deny anything, damned if you don’t. Your talent agency puts out an official statement.

To your ire, the statement is ‘no comment’ rather than anything more definitive. You glare at James when you find out, suspecting he has something to do with this.

He gives you a shrug, and a familiar look of mischief.

To his credit, he doesn’t leave you completely to fend for yourself. You stay off social media for your sanity, and when the paparazzi hounds you, he's the one with his arm around you, cutting a path through the crowd and shielding you.

It adds fuel to the fire. Does nothing to help your case. 

Still, you can’t help feeling safe and secure with his hand guiding you - holding onto your waist, round your shoulder, or simply - 

Your hand in his.

.

.

Outside of the conference room, where DG is wrapping up a press release for his newest album and nothing else, a reporter slinks out and approaches you.

You’re used to being on the other side of the conversation. Part of the staff, herding DG through camera flashes and questions being thrown at him though there was always some sort of camaraderie. Both parties just trying to do their job with deadlines and targets to hit.

This time you just feel a weariness as you see this person making a beeline towards you.

“Nice to meet you, Y/N.” They say, holding out their hand for a shake which you take with reluctance.

“Hi.”

A voice recorder is thrusted into your face, and you automatically take a step back. “Hope you don’t mind, but I just have a couple questions for you.”

“Um...”

“There’s been lots of sightings of you and DG together-”

You open your mouth to argue-

“Can you confirm your relationship with him?”

A vacant smile settles onto your face. It’s a practised expression where you follow all the cues to be polite and professional even as internally you wish to be anywhere but here. “I’m his manager.”

“Are you two together? Romantically?”

“I’m his manager.” You repeat through gritted teeth, and you’re surprised to hear your voice calm and collected.

“Is that a no? Or-”

“What even is this question?” You scoff, ignoring the way your cheeks heat, and refusing to partake in this circus a moment longer. “This is over.”

You manage to at least catch them looking apologetic, before you stride off into a corner to take a deep breath.

.

.

DG, much more adept and experienced at fending off questions, had finished the conference early and caught the entire exchange, watching you both with a bemused look.

Walking towards you with quiet, measured footsteps, his hand settles onto your lower back as he murmurs your name.

He bites back a laugh at your small, startled jolt.

DG tilts his head to signal ‘this way’. You give him a look but follow him regardless. Trailing behind, moving far away from other prying eyes. 

Up a flight of stairs, through multiple fire doors, turning left then right then another right then maybe a left. It doesn’t matter. You’re hopefully lost and decide to just put your faith in this wretched idol.

He finally seems to find what he’s looking for as he reaches an empty corridor; stopping mid-step and you collide into his back.

“Ack!” You exclaim, hitting the solid wall of muscle.

He lets out a huff of laughter and whirls around to face you, noting how cute your look of surprise is.

How strange though, that this is his current position. But is it really unexpected that the person that has been by his side for months has finally worked their way into his heart and has somehow learned to read him when no-one else could?

If he really thinks about it, yes actually, it is unexpected. No-one else has managed to grow close to him before. As James Lee, as Diego Kang. Birds of a feather or opposites attract or everything in between, no-one has got him like you do. 

There’s still so much more to tell and show you but… First things first.

Fidgeting, you shift your weight from one foot to another, growing self-conscious waiting for DG to talk, only to find him staring intently at your face. Impatient, you give in and speak first.

“What is it?”

“...”

“Diego-”

“James.” He cuts in abruptly, “It’s just us right now. Please.”

You blink in shock at the please and correct yourself at his insistence, lowering your voice so it doesn’t echo down the empty hallway. “James, are you ok?”

“Better than ever,” he says, a smirk now pulling at his lips.

You register his change in mood and narrow your eyes, wondering where this is going. “Why are we here?”

“When the reporter asked if we were together, you said you’re my manager.”

“I am your manager.”

“But you are interested in me.”

It’s not a question. DG, no James, says it like a fact and there’s no doubt in your mind or his. You open your mouth to argue, then close it again. Open it once more-

What.

You feel some cogs in your brain misfiring and all you can manage is a feeble, “Huh?”

“You told them you’re my manager, but didn’t say no to being with me.”

“...”

“So. What do you think?”

“Of what?”

“Us.”

“You like me. Tell me that I’m wrong.”

You take a step back. “...”

Another step. “...”

“Tell me you don’t want this.”

And your back hits the wall with an oomph.

DG slaps his hand on the wall beside your head, bends at the waist and leans his weight forward until he’s eye level with you. “Tell me and I promise I’ll stop.”

“...”

You’re cornered and he searches your face for a response.“Y/N?”

“...”

Fuck. Fuck!

How on earth are you supposed to respond when he looks at you like this. When his face is millimetres from yours and his breath is on your skin and his dark eyes pierces into your soul, pupils blown deliciously wide.

With his stupid pink hair and his fringe flopping, framing his face and his high cheekbones.

The stupid canines of his poking out that gives him so much character and is so hot it hurts when he flashes it accompanied with an arched brow and an arrogant smile.

His stupid pout and his stupid lips, that you know is constantly moisturised with a fancy overpriced lip balm to make it look kissable for the cameras.

And Jesus Christ, you hate to admit it but they do. They 100% do because somewhere in the back of your brain you always knew they look kissable but it has been often clouded by just simply how annoying and bratty you found him.

Except right now you don’t find him annoying or bratty at all.

Even as he’s confessing his feelings with complete confidence, no unease, no anxiety or doubts, because he always had a way of worming under your skin and he knows exactly how to push your buttons.

Damn it all.

“Kiss me,” you tell James, and he isn’t surprised at all by your reaction, face lighting up at your confirmation.

He shifts. 

Hand coming up to cup your cheek. He rubs his thumb twice over your skin, savouring you any way he can before tilting your face towards his. His lips at first brushes against your forehead. Leaves a trail down your nose, peppers both cheeks and then your chin. 

He draws back once, takes in your sweet face and gives you a smile so soft it makes your heart hurt.

Then finally, after wanting this for so long, presses his lips against yours.

Diego Kang, James Lee, tastes like candy and sugar.

[hyukalyptus]

prove it. — yeonjun x fem!reader

cw. yeonjun is implied to be an idol but it's not super relevant to the story, reader is jealous of another woman, established relationship, chubby!reader implied, friends to lovers implied, kissing, cunnilingus, nipple play, fingering, use of a butt plug, penetration (protection not mentioned), eating ass (f. receiving), a bit of exhibitionism, multiple orgasms, hickeys, marking, edging, masturbation, joi, "fat" as a positive descriptor, "I love you," pet names (baby, babe, love, my love), swearing, lube, mostly porn w little plot tbh, aftercare. notes. hello! i haven't posted in forever and i feel like i haven't written smut in a while so i may be a little rusty, lol. wc. 6.3K

Looking down at the city through the glass railing that lines the rooftop, you draw your knees to your chest. No matter how hard you try, staring at the city isn’t enough of a distraction to divert your mind from the images of them. But your jealousy is unwarranted; you know that. You weren’t even dating him at that time, but he knew how you felt and he felt the same way about you, but the timing simply wasn’t right. You were about to leave for three months and that’s no way to start a new relationship. He did anything and everything to try and get you off his mind—drinking, partying, sleeping with strangers, dyeing his hair, and…dating her.

Thinking about you sitting in endless hotel rooms, longing for him while he was kissing, hugging, fucking another woman is too overwhelming. That’s why you’re here. You’d wanted to surprise him after a long work day, but instead of finding your Yeonjun taking a coffee break alone in a dance studio while he scrolled Instagram, you found her all over him. 

You couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. It didn’t matter if he was calling after you. You just ran and found yourself on the roof. But he knew where to find you. He explained he was trying to put a stop to it, but it still hurt. You couldn’t stop yourself from asking who she was even if you tried. But he always told you about his relationships and dates. He was your best friend; you told each other everything. But he kept her a secret from you.

“We never overlapped, did we?”

“Of course not. You know I wouldn’t do that.” Reaching for your hand, he brushes his thumb across your knuckles and asks, “You okay?” You nod, but he knows you too well. “Stop lying.” 

“I dunno…” you shrug. “I can’t sit here and say I didn’t hook up with anyone while I was gone, but I never dated anyone. Just kinda stings.”

“I’m sorry,” he says seriously. “Listen,” he sighs. “I know it’s weird I dated her then, but I love you more than anything. You have absolutely nothing to worry about.” And you want to believe him, really you do. Especially while you look into his eyes only a few inches away from yours while on the rooftop of his agency, stories above anyone else, alone as the breeze chills your nose and he looks at you like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. 

“Prove it,” you say softly. He hums. “Prove it. Prove you love me more than anything.” 

Seconds pass before he pulls you by your ankles, wrapping your legs around his waist and his lips fall into yours, kissing you so amazingly. His kisses still make you dizzy. Then he guides your body to lay on the ground, trailing his lips down your neck and chest, pulling down the hem of your shirt to access your skin, all while working at the button of your jeans. 

“What if someone sees us?” You ask, breath heavy. There’s a low chance of that happening, but you can’t help but think about it. 

“Let them.” Fully pulling your jeans off your legs, goosebumps prick your skin as it makes contact with the cold air. Stuffing his nose into your pussy over your panties, he inhales while his hands wrap around your thighs. Shaking his head to dive deeper, his nose teases your clit. 

“Yeonjun…” you groan, letting your head fall back while his hair slips between your fingers. He’s not wasting a single second. Desperately moving your panties to the side, he spreads your pussy lips, dragging his tongue up your pussy so deliberately you may faint. The tip of his tongue teases your clit forever, never quite touching it.

When he finally flicks his tongue over your clit, you gasp and your back arches off the roof while your hip rolls accompany his movements. God, he’s so fucking good at eating you out. Sometimes you can’t believe it. It’s genuinely the best oral you’ve ever had. Slow at first, getting you all worked up and wet, then he dives right in, making your head reel. 

Then he slides two fingers inside you, curling them up, perfectly hitting the exact right spot. He is absolutely gonna be the death of you. You moan, blissfully watching as a plane goes by thousands of feet above you. Can they see you? You’re not quite sure. Either way, it’s thrilling to think about. A couple hundred people watching as the sexiest guy in the world makes you feel like the sexiest woman in the world. 

“Oh my fucking god,” you say, your chest heaving. He comes up for air, but doesn’t take his fingers out of you. As he makes his way back up to your face, he kisses you slowly, letting you taste yourself on his mouth, and finishing it off with a lick across your bottom lip. 

“Let me take you inside,” he suggests. “I wanna worship your body for hours,” he whispers against your lips, nudging your nose with his own. “Wanna show you how much I love you. How much I crave you. How much I need you,” he says, punctuating each power word—love, crave, need—with a stroke against your g-spot. “Wanna make you feel things you’ve never felt before. Wanna make you forget every word you know except my name,” he keeps adding on to this incredible list, leaving wet kisses all over you. “Wanna make you so wet you drip all over my bed. Wanna make you cry from how good I’m making you feel. Wanna make you cum so many times you’re begging me to stop,” he says. “And then I’d make you cum again. Wanna taste every inch of you.” Finally taking his finger out of you, he sucks and licks every last bit of you up. “Wanna leave marks on you that stay for days so you never forget how much I love you.” 

Which is more delicious? Him whisking you off to his bedroom to fuck you raw or him fingering you on the roof? The way your heart races at every glance of each glowing window across the street is almost too good to give up but the thought of him filling you to the brim with his cock is too tempting. And when he pulls his face away just enough to look down at you with those gorgeous-as-fuck eyes and his black hair barely hanging in front of his face and asks—

“Is that okay?”

Your body crumbles to dust. That contrast of whispering the dirtiest shit you’ve ever heard along with the sweetest form of gaining consent—literally asking—is overwhelming. Part of you scoffs at how something so bare minimum, something so basic decency as consent, turns you on so much. 

But fuck you need him more than ever. 

“Fuck yes,” you say confidently. 

He barely gives you enough time to slip your jeans back on before lifting you to your feet to lead you to the roof access door, down the elevator, into his bedroom, and onto his bed. 

While you wait on his bed for whatever’s about to happen, you watch as he takes his time unbuttoning and unzipping his pants. What shall he do with you? So many parts of him want to rip your clothes off and ravage you with fast, hard, and dirty sex; cover you in spit and sweat and cum until you’re trembling and begging for rest. But another part of him wants to do exactly what he said: worship your body for hours. Slowly, carefully, intentionally, tenderly. 

Ditching his t-shirt, he smiles at you—not in an I’m gonna fuck you so hard way, but in a You’re perfection kinda way. Letting him take your clothes off so carefully like he’s unwrapping a vintage book waiting to be adored is one of the best parts of it all. Showered in love and kisses and attraction and compliments for who knows how long. 

“I love your body so fucking much,” he says as his lips brush your collarbone, but his hands are everywhere else—your tits, tummy, hips, ass, thighs. Taking a beat to look into your eyes, he says, “I meant it.” You nod. “I’m gonna worship your body for hours.” 

“I don’t know if I can wait that long to come, babe…” you trail off. 

“Hm…” you can feel his smile against the sensitive skin under your breast. “Who said you have to wait? You can come as many times as you want.” 

Relief floods every part of your body. You could already tell you weren’t gonna last long but he absolutely loves making you wait. Edging you until you’re begging him to let you—wait. His words from earlier, Wanna make you cum so many times you’re begging me to stop—echoes in the back of your mind. A couple orgasms is exactly what you need right now. 

“Lay on your tummy, love,” he says gently. Face down, you hear him rummage through his bedside table drawer. The smell of eucalyptus lavender massage oil fills the air before his strong hands work through your tense shoulders, back, and ass. Perhaps you dozed off because the next thing you know, he’s turning you over to lay on your back. Then his fingers work through your arms, kneading your tits so good your breath hitches in your throat, then up and down your waist. 

As you start to drift off again, his hand carefully slides up your thigh to gently cup your pussy—nothing vulgar or pushy, just resting his hand there while his other hand brushes all over your skin. You succumb to him, letting your hips roll as gentle as his touches. Then your body slowly welcomes his middle finger inside, no deeper than his first knuckle. 

Are you floating? Flying? Spinning? You can’t tell—just that it’s warm and dizzying and that you can’t get enough of it. Then his fingers spread your pussy lips with slow precision and your breath catches. Your eyes burst open, but he shushes you, brushing his thumb across your brow, coaxing your head back onto the pillow. Your lashes flutter closed, the weight of everything melting under his hands. You ache at the loss of his finger from inside you, only for him to circle your pleading clit with a maddening patience. The touch is slick and deliberate, then his other hand finds your breast, palm gliding over your nipple in slow, teasing spirals. Every nerve is tuned to him as everything shrinks and dissipates like he has all the time in the world.

No more than three lazy circles later, he stops teasing your clit. One thumb stays on your nipple, warm and firm, while he leans down to flick his tongue over the other. Oh. He knows how much you crave this—how nipple play drives you crazy—and this time, he’s drawing it out. Every touch, every word, every slow stroke leading up to now has left you raw in the best way, so keyed up you don’t know whether to squirm away or pull him closer.

It doesn’t take long until you’re gasping, rolling your body involuntarily, and feeling so on edge you’re about to fall off something. And all he’s doing is playing with your nipples—rubbing then circling, biting then licking, teasing then soothing. Spit covers your nipple before he backs off, blowing cold air to perk it up. Gentle bites flicker your body like sparks, subtly like fireflies. Internally begging for something—his cock, his tongue, his fingers, anything to be inside you—but you don’t say a word because this alone feels too good to stop. 

Then it sneaks up on you, a shiver that starts somewhere deep and unnamed. You’re holding it, but only for a second. Then you let it overcome your entire being. It crashes over you, an orgasm so strong it’s hard to believe it came from nipple play alone shocks you until you’re seeing stars. But it’s no longer those gentle fireflies. It’s lightning—bright, electric, and unstoppable. 

While you catch your breath, he waits patiently and silently, not daring to ruin this moment. Giving you space to relax for a moment while he hums against your collarbone, skating his lips across your skin while he leaves tiny kisses that make your ears burn. 

And fuck. It finally sinks in. You came. Just from him playing with your nipples. He’s never gonna let you live this down after tonight. And you know he’s gonna beg you to try it on him. 

Right now, though, he doesn’t care about himself. You’re the only thing on his mind. And he’s ready to get back to it. 

“That’s my girl…” he murmurs, smug and low. “You’re so fucking sexy like this. I want to memorize every way your body falls apart for me.” And fall apart you do. Your legs are still trembling from the last orgasm, but he’s already bringing you back up for another. “I just want you to feel good for me,” he whispers, his breath hot against your ear. “That’s all I care about.” His middle finger finds your clit again, slow and careful, drawing soft circles that make you melt all over again. “You feel that?” he asks. 

But there’s no way you can form a sentence, but he doesn’t really need an answer—he can feel it in the way your body responds. You simply nod with a blissed out, closed-mouth smile across your lips and he chuckles, basking in how right he is—he makes you feel so fucking good. 

It’s almost embarrassing how much you crave this: slow, gentle, sweet, simply caring for you in the best way possible. Is it selfish that you want this to last all night long? Are you not allowed to be selfish once in a while? And it’s not like he’s not enjoying this—you can tell he loves this from how hard he is alone. But his subtle hip thrusts make that even clearer. 

“Baby…” you whine pathetically. 

“What is it, love?” He asks sweetly. “I’ll do anything you want, just tell me what it is.” 

“Your mouth,” you murmur. 

“Of course,” he hums, placing a gentle kiss to your shoulder, then your arm, and makes his way down toward your pussy where your clit is begging for his tongue all on its own. It doesn’t take long before you’re edging on euphoria again. You’re chanting his name, which then makes you chuckle as his Wanna make you forget every word you know except my name, plays in the back of your mind again. And you suppose he noticed too because you feel the smile tugging at his lips against your core.  

How was he able to get you here again so quickly? Your body craves his touch and it surrenders to him every time. The heat builds low and fast, curling and billowing in your stomach like a firework ready to fire. There’s no point in holding back. Not only has he proved how much he loves you, he’s proven he can pull another orgasm out of you like it’s nothing. 

But that doesn’t make this one any less intense. It’s sharp and deep and crashes through you in an insistence that leaves your fingers clawing at the sheets and your breath caught in your chest. The fireworks fill your body like a night sky—sudden, bright, and everywhere at once. 

“How many orgasms are you planning on giving me tonight?” You ask breathlessly. 

“Hm…at least five,” he says. Can you even handle five of his orgasms in one night? You’re not even halfway through and you’re exhausted. But who are you to say no? “I’m just trying to figure out what to do with you next.” 

Still breathless, you mumble, “My plug—” trying to support yourself on your elbows, but he slyly encourages you to lay back down; he’s not letting you lift a finger tonight. 

“Oh…” he says cheekily. “Oh, fuck,” he chuckles. You hum in question. “Just thinking about it in your little asshole. Made my cock twitch,” he says matter-of-factly as he starts looking through his bedside table drawer. It doesn’t take him much time to find it but first, “Get on your knees, my love.”

You do as you’re told, shaking your hips to put on a bit of a show. Well, as good of a show as you can give when your legs feel like jelly. Then his big hands grab your hip fat. To simply feel and squeeze. You can’t hear, “I love your body so fucking much…” enough. Your heart flutters every single time as if it's the first time you heard it. And, “I love you so fucking much, baby…” 

And he’s continuing to prove it, you’ll give him that. Then he spreads your cheeks, shoving his face right between them while his tongue circles your hole, earning an insatiable moan as you resist the urge to double over in pleasure. How do you always forget how good it feels when he eats your ass? 

It’s simply so vulgar—going from him worshipping your body in such a loving way to absolutely devouring your asshole with his strong hands on your hips, squeezing so harsh you’re certain he’ll leave marks and groaning as if you’re the most delicious thing he’s ever tasted. 

He’s always had a thing for your taste, even outside of the bedroom. Can’t help it; you’re too yummy…he’d whisper after licking your neck once the elevator door closed you off the world. Or leaving the tiniest kitten lick on the back of your hand before a kiss. Just a little secret between the two of you. But when you’re in bed, his fascination is on full display. So many parts of you glisten with his spit—tits, thighs, collarbone, lips, clit. One harsh spank to your asscheek wakes you up again, fueling the need for more. 

“Baby, please…I feel so empty.” 

He chuckles—low and amused—and you hear the soft click of the lube bottle opening. A beat later, the coolness hits you as he rubs the gel around your hole with his thumb. It jolts you, making everything feel hotter in comparison—your skin, your breath, his body behind you. But he’s not rushing. He never does. You picture his face: focused, patient, and just a little smug.

Then you feel him shift, and you know he’s slicking up the plug, almost certainly more than necessary. You relax as best you can, bracing for what’s about to happen. It always takes a bit of time. There’s the stretch, the sting, that moment where your body wants to resist—but he knows how to help you through it. And fuck, it’s always worth it in the end. The way it makes you feel full, needy, desperate—like he’s taking care of you in the filthiest way possible. 

“Tell me when it hurts, love.”

“I know,” you say with a smile, voice soft but sure. He always checks, always looks out for your comfort. He presses in slowly, carefully, the plug stretching you open millimeter by millimeter. At first, it’s fine—just pressure—but then the burn edges in and your breath catches. “Okay…hurts a little,” you murmur, not quite wincing but close. 

Immediately, he pauses and pulls back just a bit. “Take a few deep breaths for me,” he says, his voice low, grounding. One hand stays on your hip, steadying you, the other rubbing soothing little circles along your lower back while you focus on your breath. 

It becomes a rhythm. A slow, patient dance of pushing in, holding still, easing out, and beginning again. Each time he sinks in a little deeper, your body adjusts a little more, until the edge dulls and gives way to something warmer, thicker, heavier. Then it’s finally fully seated inside. You let out a sigh of relief, giving yourself time to adjust to the feeling of it with more breathing and relaxing. He’s perfectly content watching the shimmer of that cute pink heart gem poking out of you.

Then he rubs soothing strokes down your hips and asks, “What now, hm?” 

“I told you I feel so empty,” you whine. 

“I’m not fucking you yet.” A strangled noise escapes your throat, unintelligible yet unmistakably disappointed. “You’re getting at least one more orgasm before I’m inside you.” Rummaging through his side drawer again, you know he’s going for a dildo but—

“I don’t want anything else inside me before you,” you say. “I want the first thing I feel with the plug in to be you—just you, nothing else.” Moving awkwardly behind you, he’s unsure of himself for the first time tonight. “Guess you’ll have to figure out another way to make me cum…” you sing. 

“Get on your back,” he says, voice smooth but firm. His hands trace the curve of your hips, obviously killing time while he brainstorms. “Hmm…” His eyes search everywhere, and you can’t help but giggle. You’ve got him stumped. But then that smirk appears, slow and wicked. “Touch yourself.”

“What?” Your voice is higher than you’d like, breath catching in your throat.

“You heard me.” He tilts his head, eyes darkening. “Touch yourself.” Heat blooms across your skin, embarrassment and arousal twining together. You haven’t felt this flustered since the very first time he undressed you—that same nervousness, that same raw vulnerability. “Don’t be shy.”

You bite down on your lip, dragging your hand lower, fingers trembling. You’re caught in that delicious limbo, equal parts exposed and excited, your face hot as you fight the urge to hide under the covers.

“It’s okay, baby,” he coaxes, voice low, a little rough. “Why are you nervous?”

A shaky breath escapes and you look away. “I dunno…I liked you being in charge,” you say, the words slipping out in a rush. 

“What if I told you how to touch yourself? Would that be better?” Reaching for your dominant hand, he kisses your palm, closing his eyes to savor the feeling of your skin against his lips before turning your hand over to kiss the back of it. Once he flips it back over and his lips meet the pulsepoint of your wrist, your spine tingles. Then he sucks on your thumb before letting spit pool in his mouth to douse your first two fingers, making them slippery and wet. “As if you need any help getting wet.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You ask with a laugh. 

“Touch your nipples for me,” he whispers, dodging your question while you do as you’re told. With the fire your body’s been feeling all evening along with the shyness you feel, they’ve become soft and tired. But, under your touch, they spark back to life, pebbling once again. “That’s it, baby.” It’s silly how much of an affect those three words have on you. “Look at you…” he groans, tilting his head to look at your pussy. “Check.” 

“Huh?”

“I made you so wet you’re dripping all over my bed,” he says, casual as anything. “Just checking that off my list from earlier.”

You roll your eyes, a smug smile playing on your lips. “Pretty sure I did this to myself.”

“The first two orgasms didn’t contribute?”

You shrug, playing coy. “Nah. You just warmed me up.”

He snorts, brows lifting. “Oh, is that right?” He moves like he’s about to stand, brushing his hands off dramatically. “Well, if you’re so good at it, I guess you don’t need my help.”

“Wait, come back,” you say, the words slipping out before you can catch them. He turns around immediately, grin wide and shameless. “You’re still missing something off your list.”

“What’s that?”

“You haven’t left any marks. I might forget how much you love me.”

“Oh, that’s right,” he says, drawing it out, his eyes bright with that mischievous gleam. “You want me to leave some marks while you touch yourself?” You nod, perhaps a little too eagerly. His grin widens as he leans in, his lips a whisper away from your neck. “You’re not touching yourself yet, are you?” he asks, voice all slow and syrupy. You hum, shaking your head. “Good,” he says, sinking his teeth into the soft curve of your shoulder. 

He takes his time, leaving one dark mark, then another, each hickey followed by a slow, soothing lick. “Start moving your hand down to your pussy,” he says. “But don’t touch yourself yet.” He nips at your ear, hot breath making you shiver.”Just drag your fingertips across your skin.” Your stomach jerks at the tickle and it makes your breath hitch. “Now the insides of your thighs.” Your hand inches closer to your center, your breath coming out in shallow, shaky puffs. 

“Tell me you love me,” you gasp. 

As his expression softens, his thumb traces slow circles over your hip. “I- love- you-” he says, each low and velvety smooth word punctuated by a kiss. He closes the gap between his lips and your neck again before whispering against your skin, “And I’m gonna make sure you don’t forget it.” He sucks gently, then harder, a deep, deliberate mark blooming just above your collarbone. His tongue soothes over it, slow and lingering. “Want everyone to look at you and know how good I make you feel,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your skin.

“Can I touch myself yet?” you ask, your voice barely more than a whimper.

He pulls back just enough to catch your eyes, his gaze heavy and intense. “No. Not yet.” He pauses, his thumb stroking over that fresh mark. You nod in defeat. “Remember earlier when I pressed my palm over your pussy, baby?” You nod again. “Do that again.” You follow his instructions, your palm pressing down, letting relaxation spread through your body as you sink deeper into the mattress. His lips are a paintbrush, each hickey blossoming like a petal against your skin. Some marks are soft, faint as the blush of a rosebud. Others are darker, deeper, rich as crushed violets, spreading slowly beneath his mouth like flowers unfurling in the dark. “Feel how wet you are.” 

“I’m so fucking wet for you,” you say, a whimper escaping you. 

“I know you are,” he says. “Cup your pussy again,” he whispers. “Grind your hips against your palm,” he says, telling your body exactly how to move. “But that’s still not what you want, is it?” You shake your head. “I know,” he soothes. “I’ll get to your clit in a bit.” 

Clenching your jaw, it takes everything in you not to touch exactly where you need most. He chuckles evilly. “Please…” 

“Not yet, babe,” he chuckles. “Touch just around your clit, not right on it. I love hearing you whine and beg for me.” He takes a few deep breaths, trying to steady himself.

“Baby, please let me touch my clit. Please…” 

“Go ahead. Touch your clit.” You finally indulge in yourself, letting your moans and body rolls roam freely. “That’s it.”

“God, you feel so good,” you say, throwing your head back.

“That’s all you,” he coaxes.

“I love it when you talk to me like this.” The knot in your stomach tightens—his voice along with your fingers are delicious. “I’m so close,” you say, close to being out of breath.

“Don’t stop,” he insists. You don’t change anything—you don’t need to. You know your clit better than anyone and the way he’s playing with your body and leaving marks adds that much more pleasure. 

“Cum so good for me,” he says and you push yourself over the edge for the third time that night, moaning loudly through gritted teeth, letting the sparks fly, lighting your whole body ablaze once more. “Just like that,” he praises, along with all kinds of sweet things. 

“I could do this to you forever…”

“Look how well you listen…”

“You’re such a good girl for me…”

When you finally open your eyes, your vision is hazy, your body weightless above the sheets. His gaze is waiting for you, dark and warm. He’s leaning over you, hair tousled, chest heaving like he’s just as wrecked as you are.

“That was fun,” you say, a breathless laugh spilling out, caught between a moan and a sigh.

He smirks, his thumb tracing one of the love bites on your chest. “Yeah?” he asks, voice dipping low. “Liked being good for me, huh?” You nod, a shiver running down your spine when his thumb presses a little harder, enough to remind you how each mark got there.

Two more left. 

And thank fuck because he’s  finally on top of you, stroking your pussy lips with his hard cock. If you thought he’d finally jump straight into it, you’d be wrong. He teases you with his words and hands, brushing your most sensitive spots and whispering dirty shit to you. 

“Can’t wait to feel you squeeze around me like you don’t want to let go…”

“I’m so lucky I’m the only one that gets to make you feel like this…”

“You belong to me and me alone…”

But he’s still just teasing. “How long do you think I should make you wait again?” He hums, watching you writhe. “How long should I keep my cock from you?” You whine while he circles your clit with the tip of his cock. “Right there?” You shake your head. “No? You were begging me to let you touch your clit ten minutes ago and now you don’t want me to?” He tsks. 

“Please,” you practically shout. “I can’t take it anymore…”

“Yes you can, baby,” he smirks. But he places his cock right at your entrance and his own confidence falters, groaning at the slightest touch of your pussy. “Shit,” he chuckles. His hips inch forward so slowly, letting his head inside, his mouth falling open. Already full from just his head and your plug, you feel everything just that much more. Then he pulls back out. You groan again, throwing your head back in a fit. 

“Fuck you,” you laugh, resting your forearm over your eyes. He snickers but doesn’t know if he’ll last much longer than this himself. But you’ve still got two left. Either he needs to get you to cum as fast as possible—which might be difficult after three orgasms already—or he needs to pace himself significantly. Teasing you again, he lets his head prod your pussy, but then he finally pushes in as slow as he can physically force himself. It’s exhilarating and sensual and romantic and dirty. 

The way the plug makes you feel along with him inside you is incredible, perhaps a bit too much but in the best way possible. You don’t think you’ve ever felt so full and so his. Your eyes go wide at the sudden intensity, your body caught off guard by how overwhelming it is. But then you exhale slowly and surrender to it and let yourself bask in the feeling, relaxing all your muscles to feel everything—the shape of him inside you, the way his cock presses onto your plug, his hands on your hips. 

The muscles in your body melt like glass in a fire, slowly and gently as you relax into the sensation of the thick weight of him inside you. The plug is tight inside, pressing just right while his cock shifts and nudges against it with every slow thrust, sending sparks through your spine. His hands are firm on your hips, grounding you, guiding you, worshipping you. 

Speechless. That’s the only way you know how to describe this. You let him fuck you slowly and deliberately, succombing to the feeling of him and nothing else. Your body is slack as you let your throat react by itself, not holding any sounds back—you can’t even hear yourself over the immense amount of pleasure he’s giving you. 

There’s this intense sense of trust and security in it, in letting him overcome your body; you know you can let your guard down with him. He’d never do anything you wouldn’t want. Everything is sparks and glitter and sugar. You can’t even hear him, if he’s even talking at all.

Then he rubs your clit with his thumb and you wake back up. “Fuck—” you gasp. It must’ve been a bit more sudden than you realized, because it made him pause, but it wasn’t long before he started back up with a smile. When he adds his other thumb to your nipple, that’s it. An echo of an orgasm is in the distance, like he’s calling you from across a valley, urging you to jump, telling you you’ll fly. 

And you believe him. You answer him, doing what he’s asking by jumping off your cliff, but you don’t fall. You fly just like he said you would. Your orgasm is swift like a tornado and carries you through it, gusts of pleasure and want and need swirl around you as you let yourself trust him in the rawest way possible. 

The tornado settles into a gentle breeze, bringing you back down as he holds you there, letting you feel everything gently, knowing exactly when to stop pushing your buttons so you don’t get overstimulated and it becomes impossible to make you cum again. 

“How was that?” You can only muster up a lazy nod. “Can you give me one more, baby?” He asks, rubbing soothing strokes up and down your thighs. Blissed out, you nod happily. “Of course you can.” 

He might start out slow, but once you’ve adjusted again to the feeling of him sliding in and out of you, along with the plug stretching you comfortably, he picks up speed, finding the speed that both of you like. The way his demeanor shifts once he’s taking what he needs takes your breath away. His eyes darken, his brows furrow, and his jaw is clenched tight with desperation. 

It’s fast and rough and downright nasty the way he fucks you. He’s got your legs spread wide open while he holds them in his arms, thrusting into you fast and hard, skin slapping on skin making it sound that much more desperate, and he’s breathing so fast you know he’s not holding himself back any more. 

And this new dirty way of fucking you makes your pussy and ass feel so full and sensitive and overstimulated after the four orgasms tonight. Your nipples are tired and spent, clit’s worn out and puffy, lips swollen and red from kissing, hips and neck and chest covered in hickeys and love bites, but you’d be lying if you said you didn’t want more, more, more. 

It should be impossible to come again after all that’s happened tonight, no? How the fuck does he do it? How does he still make your pussy clench around his cock after hours that should’ve left you immobile? You can’t help but give credit to the amount of care he’s taken with you. Not just tonight, but every single time you’re together. The way he looks at you���it’s the same whether you’re across the room or spread open right underneath him: an aching adoration that you feel in your core. Like literally nothing could ever tear you two apart. 

But it overcomes you once again. Bursts of pleasure whip around your body as he fucks you right through your fifth orgasm that night. Five. What the fuck? Sometimes you don’t even cum five times a week, let alone five times a night. And to make it even more delicious, he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t stop thrusting into you until his hips stutter while he spills inside you, filling you with cum while his mouth drops open, groaning like it’s the best he’s ever felt. 

And it very well could’ve been. Fuck, edging himself for hours to lead up to one of the best orgasms he’s ever had. It was all so worth it, worshipping your body for hours, showing you just how much he loves you and can’t imagine being with anyone else but you. 

You’re still coming down from your high when he pulls out, the sudden emptiness makes you miss him already. His hands are firm on your hips, but these are gentler squeezes this time. The room is thick with the scent of sweat and sex, the silence heavy before he presses his forehead to yours, still slightly out of breath. He says confidently, “I love you so much, baby.” You may be the giddiest you’ve been all night—doesn’t matter how many times he’s said it tonight.

It doesn’t need to be said how exhausted you are. You whimper as he eases the plug out of you, and his hand immediately returns to your thigh, steadying, soothing. “I know,” he murmurs, voice thick with something more than lust. “You did so well.” It’s worship in its quietest form—soft touches and whispered reminders that you’re his favorite person in the whole world. He moves slowly, gently. Not just because you’re weak and spent, but because you’ve given him everything, and he knows it.

The towel is warm and damp when he presses it between your legs, and you can’t help the soft sigh that escapes you. “Up,” he says gently, patting your leg, and you groan in protest. “I’ll carry you if I have to, but you’re going to the bathroom.” You try to glare at him, but your body is too soft, too pliant, too thoroughly taken apart. Still, you shuffle up onto wobbly legs, bumbling to the en-suite. 

By the time you’re back in bed, he’s already waiting, holding out a glass of ice water and you can’t help but think that maybe this is what true love really looks like—your body aching, your heart steady, your mind blissfully blank—because he knows how to care for you even when the sex is over. Especially then.

You curl onto your side, and he’s there immediately, pulling you back to his chest, tucking you into the warmth of his body. You belong here. His fingertips trace lazy paths along your arm, slow and soothing, like sand slipping through fingers—gentle, rhythmic, grounding.

Up and down. Over and over.

The world fades. Your muscles unwind. And with his breath against your neck and that soft, steady touch guiding you, you sink into sleep—safe, satisfied, and loved all the way through.

[holybibly]

If there's anything in this world that can inspire me more than MATZ, let me know.

In the meantime, unholy thoughts of the day - Luxurious married alpha-couple MATZ are seeking a pretty virgin omega to date.

Hongjoong and Seonghwa had been together for a long time—powerful, hot, filthy rich—they were an incredibly sexy and powerful couple. It was clear to anyone who had ever been in front of them that they were madly in love with each other. But in their perfect world, there was one big but: they couldn't fuck each other. Because they were both alphas, their animal's natural instincts would go into overdrive every time things started to get hot and heavy. Kissing, touching, fucking—it didn't matter; they were ready to rip each other's throats out. So they were always on the lookout for the perfect little Omega they could fuck at the same time and keep around like a little sugar thing.

Omega matchmaking services have become very popular recently, so they decided to try their luck with one of the new luxury agencies. They look at over a hundred Omegas but still can't find one that meets their high standards and exquisite tastes. Seonghwa has always been very fussy, especially when it comes to the slime of his Omega. He loves getting drunk on pussy, and when he sticks his face in someone's pussy, he wants nothing but the best on his tongue.

Whether it was your uncharacteristic Omega taste of strawberry liqueur or your complete inexperience with sex, you didn't know, but either way, you weren't the Alphas' first choice. That was until the MATZs set their sights on you.

You found it hard to believe that such a strong and sexy pair would choose you for a date; it was both intriguing and unnerving.

Like all the Omegas before you, you have been invited to a private viewing at their luxurious nightclub. It's a very private and intimate place, and the room you've been taken to is velvet-lined and dimly lit, creating a highly sexual atmosphere, and to be honest, it bothers you a little, but not as much as the gorgeous couple in front of you.

The taller Alpha, Seonghwa, is sitting comfortably on the lap of the second Alpha, who is smiling predatorily and looking at you with dark eyes. As you can see from the profile the agency provided you, it is Hongjoong. A godlike, refined Alpha lazily caresses his partner's bare chest as he gives you seductive siren eyes, while the tip of his tongue slowly slides between his sensually parted lips.

They're both dressed in expensive fur coats and designer clothes, and you're wearing a simple dress and plain cotton panties, and as you watch, you can't help but wonder why they chose you. You hear the door lock behind you, leaving you alone with MATZ.

You don't know what to do, shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other, clutching the hem of your dress.

Seonghwa gets up from Hongjoong's lap and slowly walks towards you like a huge cat of prey, circling you and devouring you with his eyes. He's so amazing, and you can clearly feel his dominating and sexual energy.

You squeal loudly as his lips press against your ear and his arms wrap around your waist, pulling you closer to him. You almost drown in the softest, most luxurious fur of his furcoat as your back is pressed against his chest.

"This is what's going to happen, sweetheart; I'm going to kneel in front of you, lift up that ugly dress, and run my tongue all over your cunt and if I don't like the taste of you, you're going to get the hell out of here. I like pussy, I like to lick and suck tight, sweet holes, and I only want to fuck the sweetest, stickiest, slipperiest cunt. Do you understand me?"

You nod shyly, afraid to say a word. Your condition amuses the other Alpha, who is currently lounging on the velvet couch like a king.

"Don't make that sweet expression, angel; it only makes me want to fuck your pretty throat. And honestly, I hope you will fulfil Hwa's wishes so that I can do that.".

[winestaineddress13]

Early Morning Walks

bodyguard!reader x sabrina carpenter

synopsis: sabrina fic • sabrina is just looking for some time off with her new puppy and you were assigned as new detail for her more personal adventures. leaving you to supervise a very messy morning walk with the puppy, ending with a coffee as an apology.

warnings: none just fluff (I have no clue what her new puppy’s name or gender is so just roll w it, ok?)

Early morning adventures were never your thing. Not until you got assigned to one of the world’s most beautiful pop stars. With a bright energy that could run for miles, and a smile that could wreck your world, you knew you were in trouble with this job.

Sabrina had been wanting some time off in between tour stops. Just having bought a new puppy, with new responsibilities on the line, she knew some quiet would help.

You’d been briefed three times before arriving at her place.

“Low-stakes detail,” your supervisor had said. “She’s just taking her new puppy for walks, maybe brunch. No fan events. She just wants to feel normal. Some structure.”

You listened, nodding. Babysitting a bubbly pop star’s morning stroll sounded like a joke—until you met her. You’d known she was beautiful but—not like that.

Sabrina Carpenter, barely five feet of sarcasm, sunshine, and absolutely no control over the squirming golden retriever puppy currently chewing through his leash.

“You must be the new bodyguard,” she said, eyes scanning you as you towered over her. “You look… serious.”

You blinked. “That’s the idea.”

She grinned. “Cool. Well, serious lady, this is duke. He’s teething and has no understanding of traffic.”

“Noted.” You said still standing upright and looking forward. Trying to stay professional.

What followed was less a relaxing walk and more of a hassle that you weren’t expecting. Duke chased a bird into someone’s lawn sprinkler. He wrapped the leash around your legs (twice). Sabrina slipped on fresh wet grass trying to stop him from chasing said bird. By the end, your all-black uniform was streaked with mud, and her sweater dress was clinging to her like a second skin.

Sabrina looked at you shyly as Duke finally flopped onto a patch of sidewalk, panting in defeat.

“So… this is usually where I say thanks and bribe you with coffee so you don’t report me to your agency for ‘gross negligence via canine.’”

You raised an eyebrow. “Bribery is against protocol.”

She tilted her head, smirking. “But coffee’s not, right?”

You hesitated. Her cheeks were pink from laughing. Duke rolled onto his back, tongue out, cute as can be, as if he hadn’t just caused trouble for the two of you.

“No,” you said low. “Coffee’s not against protocol.”

Ten minutes later, you were sitting across from her at a café around the corner. Duke was asleep at her feet, leash tied to the chair. Sabrina was sipping something too sweet and looking at you still trying to figure you out.

“Not so serious now,” she added, a nod to her first impression comment.

You exhaled a laugh. “Not when a puppy uses me as a jungle gym.”

She leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand. “You’re good at this, you know. The quiet watching, the lowkey protectiveness. It’s weirdly comforting.”

You eyes met hers. “That’s kind of the job.”

Sabrina smiled, softer now. “Still. Thanks for not quitting after one walk.”

You sipped your coffee, heartbeat a little faster than usual. “Guess I’ll have to stick around. Make sure Duke doesn’t try to swallow you whole with a leash again.”

“Guess you will.” She said slyly.

lmk if we want part two! make a lil… more closer?

[fellominaarcher]

UNTIL YOU LOVE ME — KARINA

01. FAULT LINES

SYNOPSIS

» » After a humiliating wardrobe malfunction goes viral, movie star Karina becomes the target of ruthless media and online hate. But behind the scenes, an obsessed fan decides to protect her—by any means necessary. As stylists vanish, stalkers go missing, and hate commenters face harsh lawsuits, Karina begins to suspect that someone is watching over her. Someone dangerous.

» » movie star!Karina x stalker!protector!femreader + g!p fem!reader

» » warning: public humiliations, hate comments, parasocial relationship & mental instability

The first mistake: Karina’s bra strap snapped while she was on stage, mid-speech, accepting her award with a luminous smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. The cameras caught her grace, her poise but not the tremble in her fingers as she clutched the mic, the rigid tension in her shoulders. She didn’t falter. Not once. Even in discomfort, even while something betrayed her beneath that custom couture gown.

The moment she stepped off stage, Karina rushed backstage, the smile dissolving from her face like mist under harsh lights.

That mistake didn’t go unnoticed. Her fanbase erupted online within minutes, outraged whispers turning into hashtags. The stylist was blamed—rightfully so, they said. How could they let a star of her caliber walk out like that? Where was the professionalism? Where was the care?

The second mistake: her left heel snapped just before she descended the stage stairs. She stumbled. A hand shot out to steady her, but the damage had been done. She could have fallen. She could have been injured.

Did her stylist check the shoes thoroughly? Probably not. Probably too lazy. Or too confident that nothing would go wrong.

They were wrong.

The third mistake—the fatal one: tearing along the seam of her dress. Jagged, ugly lines where the delicate fabric gave way. Skin flashed under flashing lights. Cameras did what they always do—clicked mercilessly, greedily. There was no delay. No grace. Within the hour, pictures and videos saturated social media feeds and news sites, dissected by thousands of anonymous fingers.

Zoomed-in. Cropped. Shared. Mocked.

Karina—Yoo Jimin—darling of the red carpet, favorite of directors and fans alike, was now a spectacle.

Poor, poor everyone's favorite rising star. They offered her no mercy.

The netizens, once devoted, turned their backs with the speed of a guillotine. They fed off humiliation like parasites, leaving Karina no time to respond, no time to breathe. Her Instagram went silent. Her agency gave no statement.

Karina disappeared.

The agency, SM Entertainment, was livid. Jimin herself was tired, humiliated, and raw—had reached her limit. The stylist who had failed her would be made an example of. Fired. Sued. Their name scrubbed clean from future projects. There would be stricter protocols. Quality checks. New contracts.

Too late. The damage was done.

Online Forum Comments

“LMAO her whole tit almost popped out. SM really fumbled.” “This is what happens when you give actresses idol treatment. Can’t even wear a dress right.” “What’s next? Her wig falling off on live TV?” “Her team is obviously sabotaging her on purpose. No way this many wardrobe 'malfunctions' happen by accident. What did she do to make them hate her so much? 👀☕”

She could feel the dissatisfaction and anger rising like bile in her throat. These faceless cowards hiding behind usernames, tearing apart someone they'd never even met. Someone who didn't deserve a fraction of this venom.

For a moment, Y/N allowed herself to think about Karina's feelings. How much had this affected her? How was she coping right now, alone in whatever penthouse or safe house her agency had stashed her in? Had she cried herself to sleep? Was she angry, or had the hurt consumed everything else?

Y/N hoped she cried.

Y/N's phone screen reflected her face in its black surface as she finally set it down. In that distorted reflection, something cold and determined crystallized behind her eyes.

She had money. She had intelligence. She had resources that most people could only dream of.

And she had a very clear idea of who was responsible for Karina's suffering.

The stylist had been identified, of course. Kang Minseo. Social media had done Y/N's preliminary work for her, complete with photos, workplace information, and personal details that people had no business knowing. A careless woman, posting selfies at a café just days after Karina’s humiliation. Did she feel no shame?

But Y/N wasn't like those other obsessed fans. She wasn't going to send death threats or spam the woman's Instagram.

No, Y/N believed in a more... permanent solution to problems.

She opened her laptop and began to type, her fingers moving with the precision of someone who had done this kind of research before. Background checks, financial records, daily routines, family members, weaknesses.

Everyone had something to lose. Everyone had pressure points.

And Y/N? Y/N was very, very good at finding them.

The cursor blinked steadily on her screen as she worked, the only sound in her apartment the soft clicking of keys and the distant hum of the city below. Somewhere out there, Karina was hurting. Hiding. Probably questioning everything about her career, her choices, her worth.

That was unacceptable.

Y/N had been watching Karina for years—not in the creepy, invasive way that made her skin crawl when she thought about those disgusting sasaengs. She maintained her distance, respected boundaries, never tried to break into hotels or follow her home or hide under her bed. She wasn't that kind of fan.

Almost like a normal fan.

But protection? Ensuring that the people who hurt Karina faced consequences?

That was different. That was justice.

And Y/N had always been very good at delivering justice.

──────────────────────

One Week Later

Nearly eight days had passed since the humiliating incident that sent Jimin into hiding. Eight days of silence after her manager's explosive confrontation with the stylist—Minseo. Eight days of SM Entertainment scrambling for damage control while sensible fans fought back against the tide of ridiculous hatred flooding social media.

No woman should become a feast for people's cruelty and growing apathy.

After extensive discussions with her agency, today was supposed to be the reckoning. They had summoned Minseo for contract settlement, questioning, and finally, the lawsuit that would serve as both justice and warning. Minseo would be held accountable for damages, for the harm she'd inflicted on their rising star, for the defamation that had nearly destroyed Jimin's carefully built reputation.

Arriving at SM's conference room, several staff members were already seated around the polished table, and a lawyer sat prepared with documents spread before him. The tension was suffocating. Jimin felt a weight pressing against her chest, making each breath deliberate.

Life had been unbearably difficult since the incident. Wearing only lipstick, sunscreen, and moisturizer—the bare minimum she could manage—Jimin wished for this nightmare to end quickly so she could return to the public eye without guilt and shame crushing her shoulders.

Then came the waiting. And waiting.

What should have been a fifteen-minute delay stretched into forty minutes. Even the representatives from Minseo's styling company looked increasingly bewildered by their employee's absence.

"I'm sorry, I'll try calling her again," a woman in her thirties pressed her phone to her ear, her body bowed in embarrassment as she spoke to someone who clearly wasn't picking up.

Jimin sighed, eyes sliding shut as she leaned back against the headrest. Her chair spun slightly from the movement. "I'm usually patient, but for this situation, I'm making an exception." Her voice carried an edge that made the room feel even more tense.

Two sharp knocks echoed against the glass door. A staff member verbally granted entrance, and in walked another employee holding a pristine white envelope.

"This just arrived. A delivery person said it was urgent correspondence for Karina," he announced, extending the envelope toward Jimin's manager.

The manager reached for it, beginning to unfold the letter, but Jimin was quicker. She snatched it from his hands, her eyes immediately scanning the Korean characters written in surprisingly messy handwriting. There were several words crossed out and rewritten, spelling mistakes covered with hasty corrections. It took her a moment to decipher the chaotic penmanship.

"Too Miss Karina,

Or formally, Yoo Jimin, I apologize deeply for the damage I have caused and for defaming you, for embarrassing you through my carelessness regarding your well-being. I should have been more thorough, more careful with your wardrobe. Clearly, I failed to show the proper care and attention you deserved. I apologize again, sincerely.

Please give me some time to arrange my affairs, and then I will come to apologize in person and discuss my settlement appropriately.

From, Minseo"

A new kind of tension descended upon the room like a heavy curtain. Stressed sighs filled the air as everyone processed this unexpected development. Questions about Minseo's sudden disappearance began circulating in hushed tones.

Of course she would run from her mistakes, they reasoned. It was only natural for someone to flee when faced with consequences.

They remained completely oblivious to the divine intervention that had orchestrated this outcome. Minseo was alive, nothing too dangerous had happened to her.

──────────────────────

Two Days Earlier

Kang Minseo had been buzzing with excitement as she prepared for her date. After hours of chatting and exchanging jokes on the dating app, she'd finally matched with someone who seemed perfect—tall, funny, attractive, with an easy charm that made her heart flutter. Their conversation had flowed effortlessly, leading to plans for cake and coffee at a cozy café near her apartment.

She'd spent extra time on her appearance that evening, sitting by the large window of the café while touching up her hair and makeup. Her outfit was carefully chosen and well-fitted—ironically, much more attention than she'd ever paid to the garments she'd provided for Yoo Jimin.

"You're Kang Minseo?"

The voice made her look up expectantly. A tall, strikingly attractive woman stood beside her table, radiating the kind of confidence that made Minseo's pulse quicken.

"I'm Cho Haejin. From Tinder—remember my face?" Y/N asked with a warm, teasing smile that perfectly matched the persona she'd crafted.

Creating the fake identity had required meticulous planning. Setting up the Tinder profile, curating photos, developing a believable backstory, then carefully orchestrating their match—it had taken weeks of patient manipulation. But for Jimin, Y/N could go to any lengths.

"Oh! Yes, Cho Haejin! Please, have a seat," Minseo gestured enthusiastically, her head dipping in a small bow of respect—a traditional courtesy that felt almost mockingly polite given what Y/N had planned.

Everything about "Haejin" exceeded Minseo's expectations. Tall, witty, beautiful smile, impeccable fashion sense—Minseo found herself completely captivated. They talked for hours over red velvet cake and iced drinks, but Minseo's desire was building with each laugh they shared.

She wasn't this enthusiastic about Karina's well-being, Y/N noted with cold amusement.

After more flirtatious conversation, Minseo leaned forward with barely contained want. "Do you want to come to my place?"

──────────────────────

The apartment door closed behind them with a soft click. Within moments, they were pressed against each other, Minseo's arms looping around Y/N's neck as their lips met. The stylist tilted her head, deepening the kiss with desperate hunger, while Y/N's strong arms held her close. They stumbled toward the bedroom between breathless laughs, Minseo leading the way with growing urgency.

Heat consumed Minseo's thoughts. She needed skin against skin, needed to strip away the barriers between them. Her fingers fumbled with Y/N's shirt, tugging impatiently at the fabric until a firm hand covered hers, stopping her movements. Their kiss broke.

Minseo looked up into Y/N's eyes, both their lips slightly swollen and parted. "I need you, Haejin," she whispered, breathing heavily, heart racing. "Come on, make me feel good."

Y/N hummed softly, shaking her head while studying Minseo's eager hands. "I could make you feel good in ways you've never experienced, Minseo," she said quietly, reaching into her pocket. Her eyes met Minseo's again. "Like this."

Y/N's hand wrapped around Minseo's throat.

The world shifted violently. Y/N pushed Minseo against the wall, her grip tightening—not enough to kill, but enough to control. A cloth appeared in her other hand, already covering her fingers. She couldn't risk leaving fingerprints when Minseo inevitably went to the police.

"If you make a sound, you won't survive this," Y/N's voice transformed completely, all warmth draining into something venomous and dead. "I need you alive for when Karina and her agency drag you to court. You're going to watch your own fate unfold."

Minseo bit her inner cheek to stifle a sob, panic flooding her system. "Did... did Karina send you?" she managed to whisper, unable to meet Y/N's eyes.

"No."

"Then who are you?"

"Someone who understands that careless, ignorant actions have consequences." Y/N's tone was almost robotic now, completely devoid of emotion.

Tears streamed down Minseo's face as she pressed her eyes shut, trying to block out the terror. Her body shook with the effort of not screaming. "What are you going to do to me?" Her voice cracked. She was too weak to break free from Y/N's hold—the woman was surprisingly strong.

Y/N stepped back slowly, releasing her grip. A flicker of something that might have been sympathy crossed her features. "You're going to write something for me. Maybe learn a lesson and take some time to reflect on your mistakes. Hmm?" She pocketed the cloth and pulled out latex gloves, snapping them on with practiced efficiency.

"Please don't hurt me..." Minseo was seconds away from collapsing, trembling with bone-deep fear.

Suddenly, Y/N's expression shifted completely. The warm, charming smile returned—the same one that had captivated Minseo at the café. "No, I'm not going to hurt you, Minseo! Relax, I can promise this will still be a memorable date!"

The whiplash between personas was more terrifying than any threat.

──────────────────────

Minseo sat on her living room floor, pen trembling in her hand as she carefully wrote each word of the apology letter. Y/N sat across from her in a dining chair, casually holding a pair of fabric scissors—the same ones Minseo used for Karina's costumes.

The irony wasn't lost on either of them.

Y/N supervised every word, ensuring the apology sounded sincere, authentic. The shaking in Minseo's hand created the perfect touch of desperation, the crossed-out words and messy penmanship adding believability.

"Good," Y/N said when Minseo finally set down the pen. "I'm proud of you."

The praise, delivered in that same warm tone she'd used during their "date," made Minseo's skin crawl.

──────────────────────

Night After Failure

The failed meeting had left everyone at SM Entertainment in a state of tense uncertainty. With Minseo's mysterious absence and cryptic apology letter, they could only assume the stylist was on the run, too cowardly to face the consequences of her negligence. If she didn't surface soon, they'd have no choice but to involve the police in finding her.

Jimin sat curled on her couch, legs tucked beneath her, drowning in an oversized hoodie and sweatpants. The television played some mindless reality show that she wasn't really watching—just noise to fill the oppressive silence of her apartment.

"So your stylist ran away, the public is split between ridiculing and defending you..." Aeri's voice drifted from the other end of the couch where she'd sunk deep into the cushions. She was staying the night, having flown into Seoul for the week. "I hope things get better for you soon."

Jimin released a heavy, exhausted sigh, pressing her fingers to her temples. "This is literally the worst month of my life. I've had bad days before, but this is definitely in the top three," she said, her voice hollow with fatigue.

Who wouldn't be exhausted? When your stylist's ignorance and recklessness had humiliated you in front of the entire world, when every mistake felt like another nail in the coffin of your carefully built career.

"I didn't know you ranked your worst life moments," Aeri commented absently, her eyes glued to her phone screen as she scrolled through feeds that undoubtedly contained coverage of Jimin's latest scandal.

A bitter laugh escaped Jimin's lips as she let her head fall back against the couch. "With that whole messy letter showing up too... I guess I'll take it as a sign that she'll eventually come back." Her gaze drifted to the ceiling, blinking slowly as exhaustion weighed down her eyelids.

"Hopefully," Aeri murmured.

Jimin closed her eyes and exhaled deeply, her mind churning through possible solutions. How could she navigate this disaster? How could she return to the public eye without this scandal following her forever? The uncertainty gnawed at her, making sleep feel impossible despite her bone-deep weariness.

──────────────────────

aespa m.list | UYLM m.list | main m.list

[bluejeanstrash]

inspired by this and this (sfw)

tags: idol! seungcheol x idol! reader, reader is a certified brat, brat taming, seungcheol and reader are hooking up, use of oppa and hyung, suggestive conversation | wc: 1.4k

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

seungcheol swears he’s mistaken when he hears the first paparazzi call your name. but there it is again, and again, and by the time the crowd is screaming hysterically, he’s sure it must be you. he turns around as he’s being escorted into the venue to see you on the red carpet, waving to the cameras, posing with a poise only a professional idol has. you look jaw-droppingly good, and he curses at the fact that he only got to see you for two seconds.

things work out in his favour though. he reaches his table to see a place card with your name on it. idols seated together. not a bad marketing decision.

unlike the vibrant red carpet, the inside of the venue is dim, a velvety purple hue painting the room, and there’s a dj whose set suits seungcheol’s taste. it’s nice being here after months of hiatus, and it would be even nicer if you’d get here quicker. your group and seventeen were contemporaries, and pretty good friends, though in the public eye it seemed like you’d barely interacted. everyone wanted to keep it that way.

finally, after what feels like hours, you walk in, heads turning as you make your way to the table. he checks you out, slowly this time, blown away by just how incredible you look. your dress is sensual yet subtle, and his hands are itching to feel the fabric, and you under it. you’re a few steps away when you pause, spotting him, equally surprised to see him here. you would rarely cross paths during schedules, so this was unusual.

respectful bows are exchanged before you take a seat. a waiter comes by to drop off glasses of champagne, and you take that as an opportunity to check seungcheol out. all black everything with faded auburn hair looks very sexy on him. you make a quick decision about what you want him to do to you in this outfit.

‘i didn’t know you were attending. just you?’ he asks politely, in stark contrast to how impolitely he'd fucked you the last time you met.

‘just me. just you?’

‘and wonwoo. wonwoo!’ seungcheol waves him down as wonwoo makes his way to the table, taking a seat to your other side.

‘hyung, they need you for some solo press’ he informs and seungcheol is escorted away by his manager.

in the 10 to 15 minutes that seungcheol’s gone, you make small talk with wonwoo, touching on agency-approved topics like comebacks, dance challenges, and the like. topics that wouldn’t cause an internet meltdown when someone would inevitably zoom into your lips and try to breakdown every word being said.

what you’d actually been dying to discuss with wonwoo was his latest fling, and why he’d ghosted them, but that’s filed away for another day.

seungcheol returns with a second drink in his hand, and message for wonwoo ‘wonwoo-ya, they’re calling you now. do well’ he encourages like always.

seungcheol takes a seat beside you, close enough to dispel any negative rumours and far enough to not get pulled into dating ones.

‘have you finished press?’

‘what?’ you lean forward, the music too loud to speak at a distance. he does the same, almost placing his hand on your thigh but he catches himself in the last second, closing his palm into a loose fist and resting it on the table. seungcheol repeats his question, and you nod. yes, you’re done with press.

‘there are way too many cameras here’ he recognises a few fans who run his biggest fansites, all “discreetly” pointing huge DSLRs in his direction. he has to be careful not to accidentally touch you. not to do something that makes both your names start trending tonight.

‘are you done with schedule? what are you doing after this?’ he gives your dress a once over, trying to figure out how to undo it. there’s a complicated knot at the back which makes him eager to try.

the corners of your mouth curl into a playful smile before you take a sip of the bubbly. the sparkling gold goes down easy, and your words come out smooth,

‘you’

his eyes widen as the gulp of champagne he’s taking enters the wrong pipe, sending him into a tiny coughing fit. his eyes dart around the room to see if anyone caught that.

he takes another sip to recover, regaining any composure lost. then he leans in, plump cherry lips brushing against your ear ‘don’t say shit like that when we’re in public or i swear to god’

he sits back, adjusting the fall of his suit, and runs his fingers nervously through his thick hair which bounces right back into place.

this time you lean in completely, seungcheol refusing to meet you halfway, your earrings dangling with the motion ‘or what? what’s oppa going to do to me? punish me for being bad?’ you have a dangerous lilt in your tone that makes his dick throb.

‘stop. it.’ he mouths a warning. as if that has ever made a difference.

to seungcheol’s surprise, you had turned out to be quite a handful. you were different from your idol image. same, but different. he’d liked you instantly when you’d met outside work at his manager’s party and one thing led to another till you both had hooked up. he couldn’t believe it. you were two of his favourite things — a brat and a nasty slut combined into one gorgeous woman, and seungcheol wouldn’t have it any other way.

though, right now he could, because at this moment you were a pain in the ass and a throb in his dick, both of which he couldn’t afford. it’s not like he could refuse to engage in conversation with you. how bad would that look? so he stays still, listening to whatever lewd filth you’re whispering into his ear.

‘oppa, you know that thing you said you wanted to try with me? you wanted to put it inside my…while you turned on the vibrator in my other hole? can we try it? please?’ you leave your words vague, his imagination running wild. he’s going to kill you. it can’t get any worse, he thinks, but then the music changes.

an rnb song. no, an rnb song that’s no. 24 on your blended spotify sex playlist. in a biological reaction that would make pavlov proud, his cock starts to stiffen in his pants from the very first note. he catches your eye, looking away instantly. this is bad. this is very bad.

in an attempt to hide the tent that’s pitching in his pants, seungcheol crosses one leg over the other, taking further precautions to cover his crotch with a drape of his arms. it’s clear to you what’s happening, and if it wasn’t obvious enough he starts bouncing his knee, moving it a million times a minute. he’d read somewhere it gets rid of an unwanted erection, but it seems to be doing jack shit.

you lean back, amused, smoothing a flyaway hair, and elegantly throw your sleek locks over your shoulder to reveal a hint of your cleavage. seungcheol has spent a lot of time in there — kissing, licking, sucking…and shooting cum on that strip of skin. you know what you’re doing. he knows what you’re doing. the waiter who just walked past knows what you’re doing. seungcheol makes a mental note to tell his manager not to book you both at the same event ever again.

he tears his gaze away from your chest, focusing on the table in front of him. how many overlapping stitches can he see? he counts.

but you’re not done yet. no, you want him riled up and pissed off. you want that vein in his neck to pop. you wonder if you can run the risk of sliding your foot up his leg. probably not, and yet a second later the point of your heel slides up the inner seam of his pants, making him jump in his chair.

his jaw clenches, his neck tightens ‘that’s enough, you fucking brat’ he spits, forgetting to lean in or hide his mouth.

you grin impishly, taking a congratulatory sip of your champagne. he doesn’t know this but you’re soaking wet, your panties sticking uncomfortably to your cunt. riling him up always made you leak arousal in anticipation for the impending punishment.

unfortunately, before you can get a teaser of what’s to come, wonwoo returns, walking alongside your manager. you’ve done your part, made your appearance, and it’s time to leave, he says. you say your goodbyes, first to wonwoo, and then turn to seungcheol who lets out a small huff of air before standing up. he smiles for the cameras and bows, glaring at you as you lock eyes and whispers,

‘you’re in so much trouble’

[katsukistofu]

PLEASE (if you feel like it) WRITE FOR AIZAWA! A SICK READER TROPE MAYBE?

Btw ur fics are so good and are part of the reason why I’ve gotten back into mha <333 I love ur writing style sm and ur hawks fics??? That was amazing

hi my love! thank you so much omg that’s so sweet, i’m happy i helped you rekindle your love for mha again lol! <3

sick (but never of you)

contents ౨ৎ ⋆ s. aizawa x fem reader. fluff. cursing. 997 words ★ your husband insists on taking care of you when you fall ill, despite your protests.

Not this shit again. 

You groan as your eyes flutter open for the second time after you said you were fine, then proceeded to dramatically faint in Shota’s arms in the middle of your patrol and sit up, hurriedly tossing the pile of soft blankets off your body.

You shiver despite the warmth radiating from the heater nearby. Shota must have brought it out for you after getting you home.

“What do you think you’re doing?” 

The disapproving voice of your husband floats over, and there he is, leaning on the doorway with a steaming bowl of something in his hands. You perk up despite yourself. Miso soup? 

“I don’t have time to sleep off a little cold, Shota!” Your arms tremble as you try to force yourself off of the plush king-sized bed. “It’s already past nine, I have to head to the agency.”

“Don’t care, didn’t ask.” Shota wraps his arms around you to trap you in place, ignoring your insistent budging. “You’re staying home today with the cat.”

“But—But they need me…” You weakly mumble in his firm grip. It was no use trying to break free, and you’re not sure if you even want to anymore with how nice he feels against you.

“And I need you here.” His stern gaze doesn’t waver, and his hand guides your head from the back of your hair, which you’re certain looks like a disaster zone right now, to rest on his chest. “It’s my job to make sure you’re safe, happy and healthy.”

Shota brushes a hair from your face and tucks it behind your ear. The little beads of sweat on your skin don’t bother him in the slightest.

“So let me do my job.”

“Are you using your teacher voice on me?” You grumble into the dark fabric of his sleeveless shirt. He smells warm and like all things good, as if he just came out of the shower. 

“I vaguely recall someone commenting that it was ‘hot.” Shota’s gravelly voice teases your ear and his stubble tickles your cheek as he smirks, knowing he’s won the battle when he finally feels you melt in defeat against him. 

He brushes a soft kiss to your forehead. “Stay in bed, sweetheart, I’ll be right back.”

“Okay.” You say in a tiny voice, weakly slumping back into the sheets. 

Shota comes back with a spoon and a folded piece of paper. A hint of a smile tugs at his lips as he holds it out to you.

“Looks like I’m not the only one that wants you to stay home.”

Your eyes widen as you look at the get-well card in your hands.

feel beter soon!! lots of loove, eri it said, with millions of tiny hearts doodled around your name. You choke back a sob as your eyes fall onto the little stick figure drawings of you pushing the little gray-haired girl on a swing set. 

It looked just like the one from the playground nearby that you would often take her to on your days off.

us when youre not sick anymor! :D

“Shota, give me that damn soup.”

He chuckles deeply and scoots closer on the bed to feed you. You squeeze your eyes shut as a sharp throb suddenly pierces through your head.

“The room’s spinning again, that’s not normal is it?”

“No. No, it’s not.” Shota’s forehead creases in concern, bringing the spoon of warm soupy goodness up to your lips while his other hand holds yours.

You part your lips to drink it, letting the rich, comforting flavor of miso spread across your tongue.

Letting out a little sigh of relief, you’re about to lean back before Shota sets the bowl down on the nightstand to prop up the pillows behind you, making sure you’re comfortable before he picks it back up again and holds up another spoonful to your mouth.

“Come on, one more for me sweetheart.” 

“Not hungry anymore,” you huff, turning your head away from his outstretched hand.

He lifts an eyebrow. 

“We can cuddle after you take your medicine.”

“...Can you rub my tummy too?”

“You know I will.”

You sniffle and reluctantly open your mouth to sip a spoonful of the soup once again.

“Atta girl.” Shota smooths a kiss on your forehead, rubbing circles against the back of your hand. 

He reaches over to the nightstand to grab your medicine he picked up from the local pharmacy earlier, and hands a small cup of what he pours to you. 

You grimace at its cherry-colored contents and tilt your head back to drink it in one go like a shot.

“Good job. Now come lay on me.” He didn’t need to ask you twice, but Shota’s hands are already on your waist to gently flip you over him as he takes your previous position on the bed, setting you down to rest your head on your usual spot on his chest.

He strokes your hair gently, arm snug against your back while he presses you to him. “How are you feeling?”

“A little bit better,” you mumble, absentmindedly tracing the outline of his abs under his shirt. It's always been soothing to you.

Shota’s chest rumbles as he lets out a husky laugh. “Are you just saying that so you can keep tracing my abs?”

“Maybe.” You giggle against him, which turns into a cough and he firmly pats your back. His hand slides under your pajamas to rub gentle circles on your tummy like he promised. You softly squeal at the ticklish feeling of his hard-earned callouses against your skin, and Shota tenderly kisses your cheek once, twice.

All your senses are numb, but you can still feel the overflowing love behind them.

“Go to sleep, sweet girl. I got you,” he murmurs into your hair.

“Okay.” You comply easily this time, nuzzling deeper into his chest. “Goodnight, Shota.”

“Goodnight, angel. Love you.”

“Love you too,” you mumble before drifting off to sleep in the safety of his warm arms.

Maybe being sick wasn’t all bad.

[heliosunny]

Request!! Can you prettyy please do a Ranpo x masochist reader? It can be to whatever degree you interpret it as: romatic & sexual, or a platonic pass-time to cut up a monotonous day. Go crazy w it. Physical or emotional, I'll eat up anything you put out. Feel free to ignore my dumbass, luv you! 𓆟

Yandere!Ranpo x Masochist!Reader

Another day at the Armed Detective Agency, the sun filtering through the wide office windows, the sound of papers shuffling, the occasional clatter of Fukuzawa’s tea set. Everything was normal.

At least, on the surface.

You were a new recruit—diligent, polite, attentive—the kind of employee everyone liked. You followed orders without complaint, kept your workspace tidy, and never seemed to cause trouble. Nothing about you was particularly suspicious.

But Ranpo noticed things.

The first incident.

It was entirely his fault, of course. He’d been slacking off (as usual), leaning lazily in his chair while balancing a cup of hot tea on his knee. Someone called his name, he turned too fast—

Ah, shit.

The cup tipped, spilling a few hot drops over your fingers before you managed to pull away.

"Ah—!"

Ranpo blinked down at the mess, lazily dragging his gaze back to you. You didn’t flinch. You just… turned your head slightly to the side, as if inconvenienced, as if this wasn’t worth reacting to at all. You wiped your hand on a napkin, casual as ever.

"Ahh, sorry, sorry~! Guess I got too excited" Ranpo said, dragging out his words in a sing-song tone.

"It’s okay" you replied easily, already moving on.

Ranpo squinted at you.

"Huh. That didn’t hurt?"

"Not really." You smiled

Hmmm.

The next time, he did it on purpose.

It was lunch time, the office mostly empty as everyone scattered to grab food. You were focused on your work, fingers gliding over the keyboard, too absorbed to notice Ranpo creeping up behind you.

"Boo!"

You didn’t jump.

You barely reacted at all. Your shoulders stiffened for half a second before you forced yourself to relax. But Ranpo saw it—the tension in your fingers, the way your breath hitched before settling into something controlled.

Not fear. Not normal startlement.

No—you were suppressing something.

Ranpo leaned on your desk, grinning. "Wow, you’re no fun. Didn’t even scream."

You smiled, but your grip on your pen tightened.

"You startled me a little."

"Liar~," Ranpo hummed, tilting his head. "That wasn’t ‘a little startled,’ that was a ‘I’m used to sudden things happening but I have to act normal’ kind of reaction."

Your fingers twitched. He saw that too.

The crowded hallway.

Yosano brushed past you while walking by, nothing more than a casual nudge of shoulders. You jerked ever so slightly, fingers curling, tension visible for half a second before you forced it down again.

Ranpo, watching from across the room, narrowed his eyes.

It wasn’t normal. The way you reacted to sudden movement, casual touches, heat, pain—it wasn’t the reaction of someone simply uncomfortable.

It was someone who wasn’t used to things being this light.

Ranpo popped a candy into his mouth, still watching you closely.

"Ne, ne~" he called lazily, "You sure are sensitive, huh?"

You glanced at him, confused. "What do you mean?"

"Dunno," he hummed, tapping his chin. "People brush past you, and you act like you’re bracing for something. But it’s subtle. Most people wouldn’t notice."

Ranpo grinned. "You don’t like pain, do you? You like it a little too much."

Your breath caught. Gotcha.

And from that moment on, Ranpo was hooked.

This was going to be so much fun.

It was too easy to pretend.

You kept your head down, listened well, followed orders. Everything about you was perfectly normal—on the surface. No reason for anyone to look too closely. No reason for anyone to suspect that beneath all that obedience was something much, much uglier.

Unfortunately, Ranpo wasn’t just anyone.

He didn’t act right away.

So instead, he watched. Quietly.

Every time you flinched—he noticed. Every time you suppressed a reaction—he noticed. Every time you acted a little too unaffected by something painful—he noticed.

And most importantly? He noticed the way you always made sure other people were around.

Because when people were watching, nothing could happen to you.

It was instinctual, the way you hovered just close enough to the others, safety in numbers, an unspoken barrier. But Ranpo was smarter than you. He was smarter than everyone.

And the moment he realized you were avoiding being alone with him?

That’s when he decided it was time to change the rules.

"You should stay late today."

He said it so casually. A lazy request, stretched out in a bored drawl, as if it were nothing important.

"You don’t mind, right? Just a little longer~? I could use the extra help with this case."

It was nonsense. Ranpo never needed help. And everyone in the ADA knew it.

You hesitated. But what could you say? No? That would be suspicious.

So you smiled, pretended it was fine. "Sure."

And with that, the office emptied out.

One by one, the others left. Atsushi, Yosano, Kunikida—all of them disappearing through the doors, their voices fading into the night. The agency lights dimmed, the usual buzz of conversation died, and soon...

It was just you and him.

Ranpo didn’t immediately pounce on his curiosity.

At first, he actually pretended to work—lounging back in his chair, half-heartedly flipping through files, occasionally tossing you some meaningless task just to keep you still.

Then, when he was sure the moment was right, he spoke.

"So… you don’t feel pain, huh?"

You froze.

It was so, so small. A brief pause in your breathing, a millisecond of tension in your fingers—but Ranpo saw it.

"What are you talking about?"

"Ohhh, don’t play dumb~." He propped his chin on one hand, watching you squirm. "I noticed, you know. You’re real good at hiding it, but I’m better at noticing things."

"I really don’t know what you mean."

Ranpo sighed dramatically, stretching his arms over his head. "Well, if you won’t admit it… should I prove it?"

Before you could react, he suddenly reached forward—

And flicked you hard on the forehead.

It wasn’t much. A childish, meaningless flick—something Atsushi would have yelped at, something Kunikida would have scolded him for. But you?

You didn’t move. Didn’t swat his hand away. Didn’t blink. Didn’t react at all.

"See? That’s what I’m talking about."

He leaned forward, too close now, too knowing. His elbows rested on his knees, posture casual, but his eyes—those sharp, all-seeing eyes—were locked entirely on you.

"That didn’t hurt, did it?"

"Don’t even try to deny~."

The office felt smaller than before. The empty desks, the dim lighting, the utter silence surrounding you both. Your heartbeat, the shift of your breath, the scrape of Ranpo’s chair as he leaned just a little closer—

It was suffocating.

"You’re really good at faking normal," he mused, tapping his chin.

His smile stretched, playful and lazy, but something dangerous lurked beneath it.

"But see, I’m kinda a genius? So stuff like that doesn’t really work on me."

He reached for his candy jar, popping one into his mouth as if this were just another conversation. As if he weren’t pinning you in place with nothing but words.

"So let’s play a game, okay?" he said cheerfully, unwrapping another candy—a deliberate pause, a build-up, forcing you to wait. "You tell me what’s up with you, and I won’t have to figure it out myself."

The candy clicked against his teeth. His smile didn’t fade.

"I mean, I’ll figure it out either way~."

"I don’t know what you’re talking about."

Ranpo hummed. "Liar."

Another flick—this time, to your wrist. A harmless little tap, one that shouldn’t even be worth reacting to. But the expectation behind it? The way Ranpo was watching, waiting, calculating?

It made something twist inside your stomach.

"It’s weird, y'know?" he continued. "Most people have all sorts of little tells when they feel pain. They wince, they pull away, they rub at the sore spot, even just instinctively."

He tilted his head, studying you like a puzzle piece that didn’t fit.

"But you? Nothing."

"Ohhhh~." His tone lifted into something mockingly amused. "Wait. That’s not it, is it?"

Your fingers curled—Ranpo saw.

"You don’t ignore pain, you like it."

"What I don’t get," he mused, tapping a finger against his temple, "is why you try so hard to pretend otherwise."

He moved. A slow shift, resting his chin in his palm, his elbow propped against the armrest—lazy, relaxed, but watching you like a cat with a cornered mouse.

"What’s the point?"

You swallowed.

"I don’t—"

"Nuh-uh." He cut you off, "No more lying~."

Then, Ranpo sighed dramatically. "Okay, fine. If you won’t say it, I’ll just have to test it myself."

And before you could process what he meant—

His fingers suddenly tightened around your wrist.

A simple touch, his thumb pressed lightly against your pulse, fingers wrapped loosely around your wrist.

But the implication was what made something cold coil down your spine.

Because Ranpo didn’t touch people.

Not unless he was stealing snacks or draping himself over Fukuzawa like a spoiled housecat. But this?

This was deliberate.

Ranpo hummed. "Ah, see? I can feel your pulse picking up~."

"That means you’re nervous," he went on, "But not scared. Which means—"

He squeezed.

Ranpo studied you for another long, agonizing moment before suddenly—letting go.

He leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms with a yawn. "Welp~! That’s all I needed to know."

Ranpo smiled.

"You’re really bad at hiding things, y'know? But that’s okay!" His tone was cheerful. "I don’t mind playing with you a little."

Ranpo reached for another candy, lazily unwrapping it with one hand. He didn’t look at you, but you could feel the weight of his attention.

"Just so you know~," he drawled, popping the sweet into his mouth. "I’m not letting this go."

"And the fun part? You can’t stop me."

That much was clear.

Ranpo knew your secret.

----

Wherever you went, cases followed.

Murders, disappearances, odd incidents—the kind of things that required his presence, much to his displeasure.

Ranpo had noticed the pattern early on.

It wasn’t just coincidence. It wasn’t just bad luck.

You were like a grim reaper in disguise.

And for the first time in a while—Ranpo wasn’t bored.

"You attract the fun kind of trouble."

"Tsk, tsk~." Ranpo clicked his tongue, rocking back on his heels. "You really know how to keep me busy, huh?"

Another crime scene. Another case that wasn’t even worth his full brain power.

Blood soaked the alley floor. The body was still warm. And yet, Ranpo barely spared it a glance, instead letting his sharp green eyes drift to you.

You were used to this.

"You know, I almost feel bad," Ranpo continued, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "Wherever you go, someone dies. How tragic~."

You sighed. "I don’t cause it."

"Mmm, debatable."

Ranpo grinned, but there was something sharper behind it.

"You're always at the scene. Always nearby. Even when it doesn’t make sense for you to be."

A slow step forward.

"Almost like you enjoy it."

He got bored so easily. That was the problem.

Most cases weren’t worth his time. Most people were predictable.

But you? You were different.

Ranpo licked his lips, thoughtful. "Ne, ne~. Do you think the killers know?"

"Know what?"

"That they should be more scared of you than me."

There it was. That little, tiny slip of hesitation.

Ranpo grinned.

"Don’t worry, I won’t tell."

For the first time in ages, solving cases wasn’t boring.

Because you were there. Because you reacted in all the wrong ways.

Because you weren’t normal, and Ranpo loved breaking things open just to see what spilled out.

"I think I’ll stick close to you~" he hummed, nudging your shoulder as the sirens wailed behind you both.

"After all—" he turned, smiling like a child with a new toy.

"—I wouldn’t wanna miss the show."

It was getting ridiculous at this point.

The Agency had been busier than ever since you joined.

Accidents. Murders. High-profile cases that should’ve been one-in-a-million coincidences—yet somehow, wherever you went, another incident cropped up.

Fukuzawa hadn’t said anything outright, but you knew he’d noticed. Kunikida was constantly scribbling in his notebook, muttering about “statistical anomalies.” Even Dazai had joked about how you were the unluckiest (or maybe luckiest) person they’d ever hired.

And Ranpo?

Ranpo just grinned like he already knew the answer.

"Maybe you’re cursed."

You had shrugged. "Maybe."

Ranpo hummed, popping a piece of candy into his mouth. "If you are, I kinda like it."

And that had been the end of that.

"Tch—! Atsushi, focus!"

You barely ducked in time as the enemy’s blade sliced through the air.

This case was supposed to be hard. A brutal serial killer—one with connections to the Port Mafia, one who had managed to evade capture far longer than expected.

Which was why Atsushi had been sent with you.

"I got him!" Atsushi growled, dodging a strike before slamming his claws into the enemy’s ribs—only for the bastard to twist away at the last second.

A few feet behind you, Ranpo yawned loudly. "Ahhh~. You guys are taking too long."

"Then help—!" Atsushi snapped, but Ranpo waved him off.

"Nah, I already solved it."

"…What?"

Ranpo grinned. "Yup! Figured it out ages ago. He’s got an old knife wound in his left side, see? From a previous fight. That’s why he keeps avoiding right-handed attacks—his muscles are weaker there."

Atsushi stared.

"Then—then why didn’t you say anything sooner?!"

"Because you were having fun~," Ranpo said simply, stretching his arms over his head. "And it’s not like I was ever in danger."

The second Ranpo spoke those words—the moment he revealed that he was the one who had figured everything out—The killer moved.

He must’ve known the Agency would catch him eventually. He must’ve known this was the end.

So if he couldn’t escape…

He would at least take one of you with him.

And he knew exactly who to target.

Ranpo—the brains of the Agency.

The knife swung for him.

And you—because you were you—reacted immediately.

Atsushi shouted. Ranpo’s eyes widened.

But neither of them moved fast enough.

Because you were already there.

You stepped into the blade.

Pain blossomed.

A sharp, beautiful thing.

The knife sank deep, slicing across your side, the force of the attack knocking the breath from your lungs. Blood soaked through your clothes, warm and spreading, but the moment the blade left your skin—

Your lips curled into a smile. That was amazing.

"Oi—!!"

Ranpo’s voice was sharper than you’d ever heard it.

He caught you just as your knees buckled. His usual lazy demeanor had vanished—replaced by something much, much darker.

"What the hell was that?" he hissed.

You swallowed, heart pounding. "Keeping you alive."

"That wasn’t your job."

"Well, it is now."

Ranpo’s expression shifted.

Something visibly snapped behind his green eyes.

Atsushi roared—his tiger form tearing into the culprit, rage and panic fueling his attack. The sound of metal hitting the floor, the sickening crunch of bones breaking—none of it mattered.

"You shouldn’t be able to smile like that."

His fingers dug into your wrist.

"You’re bleeding."

The moment you collapsed into him. The moment he realized you had taken a wound that was meant for him.

The game had shifted.

Ranpo wasn’t bored anymore.

"I don’t like that." His voice was light, but his grip on you was too firm. "I don’t like that at all."

And then—Ranpo smiled.

A slow, terrifyingly amused thing.

"Guess I’ll just have to keep a better eye on you, huh?"

---

The first thing you noticed was the lack of pain.

You should’ve felt sore, at the very least. That knife wound had dug deep, and yet— When you shifted, there was nothing. No sting, no ache—just the softness of a futon and the unmistakable presence of another person.

Ranpo.

Sitting cross-legged beside you, sucking lazily on a lollipop.

He was watching.

"Ohhh~." His voice was mockingly sweet. "Look who’s awake~."

You sat up slowly, glancing around. Yosano’s doing. You had been expecting that.

"Completely healed" he said, stretching. "Ain’t that nice? If it were anyone else, they’d probably still be out cold for another day or two. But since it’s you~"—he wiggled his fingers—"poof! Good as new."

You stared.

Then, cautiously, side-eyed him.

Ranpo giggled.

"What? You don’t trust me?" He pulled his lollipop from his mouth with a dramatic pout. "That hurts, y'know~."

You didn’t respond.

Ranpo hummed, twirling the candy between his fingers before suddenly holding it out to you.

"Here. Wanna taste?"

You glanced between him and the half-melted candy.

Slowly, narrowing your eyes.

Ranpo’s lips twitched.

"Haaah~. So rude." He rolled his eyes, stuffing the lollipop back into his own mouth before reaching into his pocket.

Crinkle.

A fresh one.

He unwrapped it for you, flashing you a mockingly indulgent smile as he held it up—

And just as your fingers brushed against it—

Ranpo leaned in.

And licked it.

Smirking as he pressed it right against your lips.

"Here~" he purred. "Open up."

"C’mon," he teased, voice dripping with amusement. "You’re not gonna waste it, are you?"

You could still see the way his tongue had just been on it.

The heat of his breath, the lazy grin, the unmistakable enjoyment dancing in his green eyes—

This was a game.

And he was waiting to see if you’d play along.

You didn’t play along.

Ranpo pouted dramatically.

"Maaaan" he sighed, tilting his head. "You’re no fun."

The lollipop hovered at your lips. Sticky. Sweet. Still carrying the warmth of his mouth.

You stared.

It was a battle of patience now.

Ranpo watched, waiting for you to crack.

You waited for him to get bored.

"Fine, be that way~."

You almost sighed in relief

Until his teeth sunk into your finger.

Not hard. But enough. Sharp canines pressing down—just the right amount of pressure— Your lips parted, a sharp inhale slipping through before you could stop it.

And in that moment of weakness—

Ranpo took his win.

With an obnoxiously pleased hum, he pushed the lollipop past your lips.

"See?" he cooed, leaning back with a mockingly triumphant smile. "That wasn’t so hard, now was it?"

You glared at him over the candy.

Ranpo just giggled.

He had won.

This time.

[lazyflower48]

Dazai and Ranpo: The Two Geniuses of the ADA

The thought about making a post about Dazai and Ranpo's teamwork has been plaguing my mind for a while now, and so I finally found some time and decided to go through with it.

So let's talk about one of my favourite underrated duos for a moment. The two geniuses of the ADA- Dazai and Ranpo. Two people who make a wonderful team and are actually, in my opinion, the backbone of the agency.

What I find interesting is that (though I believe that Dazai respects and admires all members of the ADA) Dazai openly admires Ranpo A LOT. He's always quick to praise Ranpo (basically fanboying over him and it's quite adorable to see Dazai gush over someone like that other than Oda) and in 'Dazai's Entrance Exam' we see him being surprised over the fact that Ranpo's ability is not actually an ability and we see him further praise Ranpo's intellect after finding that out.

Despite the fact that Dazai is a huge mystery, even to the people around him, Ranpo figured out that there was something up with Dazai in just a single glance (in 'Dazai's entrance exam'). And despite knowing that Dazai was probably hiding a sinister past, he didn't press him any further for details (probably in order to respect his privacy or his wish to not disclose his past OR maybe due to the the fact that knowing Dazai, he most likely wouldn't answer truthfully even if questioned about it)

What I also love is that even though both of them are extremely intelligent, their intellect differs in such a way that Ranpo is a master of deduction and Dazai is a master of manipulation (as stated by Kunikida in 'The Daily Routine of the Detective Agency'). However, one thing both of them share in common is that they both felt isolated due to their nature.

They may have limited interactions but their interactions are always my favourite, for instance-

1. Dazai's entrance exam - Dazai's admiration and respect towards Ranpo

2. Season 1 - Murder on D-Street - Dazai showing a good understanding of Ranpo's deduction process and acknowledging that Ranpo caught onto more details than him

3. Season 2 - "Mountains or sea?" " Sea. "

Showing their unspoken communication. They can read each other's minds at this point lol.

4. Season 3 - Ranpo basically acknowledging that Dazai would be a tough opponent to go up against by comparing Fyodor to him (sort of praising his intellect in a way)

5. Season 5 - The Strongest Man in the Agency- Ranpo

Dazai keeping an eye on Fyodor while leaving the rest to Ranpo

Dazai relying on his allies- trusting Ranpo to negotiate with Bram in order to undo the vampire curse.

6. Dead Apple - Ranpo seeing through Dazai's plan beforehand.

7. 55 minutes - Seeing through upcoming events beforehand, one thing Dazai made sure was to inform Ranpo about the whole fiasco on Standard Island in order to save the Agency in the end.

Also, sidenote: I found out that the Dazai and Ranpo duo is named Souheki, which translates to double jade. Now, I'm not sure if this information is fanon or canon (feels more like fanon tbh but I really like it because it's a pretty name)

Anyway, one thing we can say for sure is that as long as the two geniuses of the Agency- Souheki work together, the ADA will most likely remain undefeated cause no one really does it like them

Lastly, just some food for thought. I've always wondered how Dazai would react if he found out that Ranpo met Oda TWICE and the second time he met him was right before Oda went on to his certain death.

Honestly, I would LOVE to see more fleshed out and direct interactions between these two.