#it isn’t anything but a torture chamber

[mhatterl0l]

Dear Gotham Citizens.

Arkham asylum is not, by any means, the wonderland you portray it to be. It is a dark, cold, unforgiving place, which lets in the worst and keeps in the bad. With no one to help you when you are sad.

It isn’t a blessing, it isn’t a safe house, it only makes our un-sane brains worse.

The Arkham asylum you know is not real!

A blessing? It’s only a curse!

We waste all our days locked in prison cells

As men in suits bang on their doors

And if that’s not enough we wear prison clothes

And are constantly scrubbing the floors.

“But it isn’t a hell: it’s a paradise!

It’s a chance for you to be something more!”

Well if that is not hell then I promise you

You won’t like what your hell has in store.

[osarina]

ᡣ𐭩 I LAUGH LIKE ME AGAIN (SHE LAUGHS LIKE YOU)

FEATURING: dazai osamu

SUMMARY: four years apart and the ultimate question is about to be answered: do you and dazai really still know each other, or are you clinging to a fantasy of the past? you decide to put it to the test with a game of wits and questions when dazai gets back to your apartment—but as the game drags on, dazai starts to wonder if maybe he was wrong. worse, if maybe he would prefer to be wrong.

(wordcount: 14.5k; ņsfw; fem!reader; port mafia executive!reader, jealous!dazai, possessive!dazai, smoking & drinking, unprotected sex, switch!dazai, switch!reader, undertones of angst (happy ending). lmk if anything is missing, im rushing to get this out!)

AUTHOR'S NOTES: guys here it IS - sorry it's late, but TRUST it's worth it. i'm so proud of this fic, genuinely one of the things im most proud of writing. this is technically a part 2 to he's my collar but can be read as a standalone

It takes far too long for Dazai to make it out of the Port Mafia headquarters, with both Akutagawa and Chuuya prowling about like the dogs they are. He wonders if you tipped either of them off—Chuuya, in particular—because the slug had been looking around like he was searching for someone. He thinks you’re entirely wretched for it, knowing that if he got caught, he’d be trapped in that damp and filthy torture chamber until he managed to finagle his way out, and he plans to make it known to you just how entirely displeased he is by the situation. 

The path to your apartment is achingly familiar, and the giddiness in his chest is something he hasn’t felt since the day he left. He knows that he should probably be more careful—he’s still in Port Mafia territory, your apartment spans the top floor of the easternmost building of the five towers—but he also knows that you’re the only one with direct access to the cameras in this building so he’s more reckless than he would’ve otherwise been. 

The floors tick up agonizingly slowly, Dazai swears that there must be something wrong with the elevator because it’s never taken this long before to get up to your place. His fingers thrum against his thigh, and his foot taps the ground impatiently. He paces from corner to corner within the small space like a caged animal. He thinks that maybe he should be taking advantage of the time alone, come up with some better excuses as to why he didn’t say anything to you before he left.

“I wouldn’t have left,” isn’t going to cut it. As true as it might be, it’s not the full truth, and Dazai knows you’ll be able to sniff it out in a matter of a few seconds with a clear head. He’s not walking into a cheerful reunion between old lovers, he’s walking into what’s about to be a stressful game of chess against a strategist whom Dazai has always considered a near-equal, a battle of wits against a woman whose whole life has revolved around political warfare. If he wants to keep his dignity intact and his secrets safe, he’s going to have to be incredibly cautious with what he says to you and even with how he reacts to what you say to him.

Still, he can’t help the giddiness. The excitement. He’s missed you. He’s missed you so much that it hurts. He’d thought that over time, the longing for you would go away, but it never did. If anything, it got worse because, over time, the pictures of you started to lack the soothing feeling they used to bring to the aching in his chest. Over time, he started to forget the sound of your voice and the sound of your laugh.

He’d known that you’d been sent away on foreign business not long after his last call to you, but he didn’t think Mori would actually keep you abroad for three whole years. He’d been hoping, maybe, that he could stumble into you one day. Or maybe just watch from afar, get close enough to hear the sound of your voice again. He’s been grossly denied of you for too long, and he knows that it’s of his own doing but that only makes it worse.

When the elevator dings, announcing his arrival on your floor, Dazai is sorely unprepared for the conversation about to take place. He steps into your penthouse, eyes drifting around the familiar vast space.

Like your office, not much has changed since the last time he was here. Your coffee table is still set down a few centimeters too close to the couch in the living room—the same couch he had his first kiss on with you when the two of you were sixteen and drunk on champagne celebrating a successful mission. You still hang your black jacket over a chair instead of properly on a hanger, it’s why it always has a crease on the back—he’d noticed it when you left your office, and he can’t help but smile slightly at the confirmation as his eyes linger on where it’s draped over one of your kitchen chairs. 

You tried to convince him that you’ve changed in the years the two of you have been apart, but Dazai doesn’t think you’ve changed much at all.

You’re leaning against the windows, looking down on the city—he knows you must’ve heard the elevator, but you haven’t bothered to look his way yet. There’s an indecipherable expression on your face and a glass of wine in your hand. You’re still dressed in your suit and Dazai notices there’s a glass of whiskey on the rocks untouched on the kitchen table. He shrugs off his trench coat and drapes it over yours, hoping that the scent of you seeps into it because he’s gone too long without it.

His fingers curl around the glass of whiskey you’d left out for him, and for a moment, he swears that he’s eighteen again. He’s making his way to your penthouse after a long mission with Chuuya, you’re expecting him—you always are—and he can never push away the fondness that squeezes his chest when he finds you lounging back on your couch, flipping through channels to find something to watch, a glass of his favorite whiskey set down on the coffee table next to where your feet are propped up as you wait for him to show up.

He wonders if you even care to remember what his favorite is. He wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t.

He makes his way out of the kitchen and back into the living room, and he’s reminded that he’s not eighteen and you’re not waiting for him to show up after a mission because you finally look at him, and his breath catches in his throat.

He thinks you look a bit older now than you did four years ago—to be expected, of course—and there’s a coldness to your eyes that hadn’t been there before. Impossibly, he thinks that you’re somehow even more beautiful than you were when he last saw you, and he realizes again, throat tightening, that even after three years of no contact with you, he’s just as in love with you now as he was the day he left.

He knew it back then before he left, even if he never said it. When he was eighteen and could only feel any inkling of pleasure when he was with you; it wasn’t like he’d never tried to have sex with other people, he’d whore himself out for information at any given chance and slept around frequently after you started dating a civilian to distract himself from the bitter jealousy he felt, but he’d never known how good it was supposed to feel until he slept with you for the first time. When he was seventeen and could only ever feel comfortable in your presence, seeking you out at any given chance when he couldn’t handle being around people anymore; he’d curl up in your office with your orange blanket, napping as you did work, knowing that you’d keep people away from him. He thinks he might’ve even known when he was sixteen when the two of you first met on the streets of the Kanagawa prefecture.

He wonders if you even believed him when he said it earlier—he doubts it, you don’t seem too keen to believe anything he says, and he doesn’t blame you for it. 

But whether you believe it or not, it’s yours—that rotted heart of his, shriveled and shabby, riddled with holes and decay, half-eaten by maggots and worms it might be, but it’s still yours. He thinks that it was meant to be yours since the moment he was born, and it’ll be yours even after the two of you are long dead. He doesn’t know how he’s meant to go without you again—he doesn’t think he can. He knows that despite the tentative ceasefire, the Port Mafia and the Agency are still enemies, but he knows in his heart that he won’t be able to leave you again. Even just the sight of you has condemned him completely. 

Then you speak, and at once, his entire world falls apart.

“I’m leaving again in the morning,” you finally say, tone flat and eyes sharp and shrewd as you look over him. He reminds himself that this is not a reunion, that he needs to get his head on straight if he wants to make it out of your apartment in one piece, but it’s hard. “I was only brought back to smooth things over with the government after the whole fiasco with Fitzgerald and his American cronies. I’ll be leaving for Russia in the morning to meet with Tolstoy and Nabakov. Hopefully, gain some intel on Fyodor Dostoevsky’s plans before the man makes another move on the city.”

He… did not anticipate that you’d be leaving again so soon. Something cold and sharp latches to his heart, like jagged nails ripping it apart. He makes sure it doesn’t show on his face.

“Be careful,” he tells you quietly. “Dostoevsky… he’s not someone to underestimate. Just-Just be careful.”

You raise your eyebrows, unimpressed, “I’ve worked with Dostoevsky before. I don’t need you to warn me about him.” 

Your voice is cool. Sharp. Dazai sighs, knowing that anything he might’ve said to you earlier in the night is lost to you, and he doesn’t know if he’ll have it in him to bare his heart again, only for you to scorn it. He’s not meeting with you as he knows you—as his closest friend, as his lover; he’s meeting with you as the Port Mafia executive. Not the version of you that treats with allies, wining and dining them with glittering eyes and playful smiles as you use your ability to ensure they never turn on the Port Mafia; the version of you that sits at the round table with enemies, with a quick mind and calculating eyes as you decide whether or not they’re worthy of being absorbed into the Port Mafia or if Double Black will be sent out to eradicate them. 

“I told you everything I had to say back at the office,” Dazai tries, and he wonders if you’ll let him get away with it—he doubts it, but it’s worth a shot, and it will at least stall for a few moments as he tries to forcibly turn the cogs in his mind to figure out the best way of appeasing you. “I missed you. I… couldn’t say goodbye to you, not if I was to leave. I…”

I love you.

He doesn’t say it; he thinks he was only able to push it out earlier in the night in the heat of the moment, the orgasm-induced haze fogging his brain enough to let it slip out in desperation to make you give him a chance. And it worked because you gave him a second chance when you invited him back to your apartment, but Dazai doesn’t know how to make the most of the opportunity. He thinks he’s a fool for not preparing for this before getting here.

You click your tongue sharply, lip curling up in something close to disgust, and Dazai is glad he didn’t speak his ‘I love you’ because he thinks he might’ve actually cried if that was your reaction to him saying it.

“The only things you told me earlier in the night were half-truths and sweet talk. I didn’t invite you back to my apartment to hear you beg for another chance, Dazai,” you say coolly, and Dazai desperately misses the sound of his given name on your tongue. The corner of your lip curves up into a half-smirk, eyes suddenly glittering beneath the dim lighting of your penthouse as you add, “Although, I wouldn’t be opposed to it after we talk.”

He thinks the fact that you’re already considering an after might be a good sign. He can feel his cheeks flush a bit at your words, but instead of letting himself get rattled, he takes a step forward, well into your personal space, as he dips his face down so close to yours that his lips nearly brush yours as he speaks.

“I’d beg pretty for you,” he whispers, letting his voice drop an octave as his gaze tracks down to your lips. “I’d even get on my knees.”

Unfortunately, you are entirely unbothered by the proposition. “We’ll see, I suppose,” you say, and then raise your eyebrows, signaling for him to take a step back.

He does, and he feels distinctly put out and rejected by your reaction, but he sighs and asks, “What did you invite me here for then?” 

He very much does not like the way your eyes glitter now—shrewd this time, more amused, dangerous, as if you know the two of you are about to tread down territory that he’s going to be unfamiliar with. You nod for him to follow you into the kitchen, taking a seat at the head of the table and motioning for him to sit opposite you.

He does.

“We can play a game,” you finally concede. Dazai settles back against his chair, fingers still tapping rhythmically against his glass of whiskey, a terrible habit that Dazai has accrued whenever he feels cornered. Not a frequent occurrence, but damning when it is. Your eyes linger on them, and he knows you’ve pinpointed the tell. He forces himself to stop, but from the way your lips curl up, he can tell it doesn’t matter. “Ten questions each. Yes or no answers only.”

Dazai notices that you pointedly leave out any rule about the honesty of each answer—intentional, surely, so he probes.

“How do we determine the winner?” Dazai asks. He finally takes a sip of the fine whiskey you’d poured for him, and his question from earlier is answered. His favorite. There’s a warm feeling in his chest at the realization that you’ve remembered it even after all of these years.

Your lips curve up into a sharper and wider smile, teeth glimmering like knives beneath the soft lighting of your kitchen. The glass of wine in your hands is suddenly more reminiscent of a gun being pointed at him than your choice of alcohol, and he feels as if he’s already made some egregious mistake in your eyes.

“After we give our answer, the other has to decide whether or not it was truthful. In the end, we’ll both see how many the other got right. A test to see how well we still know each other,” is all you say in response. You’re mocking him and his insistence that the two of you are still the same, but Dazai intends to prove himself right. You tilt your head to the side and then say, “The prize is to be determined by the winner. I’ll ask the first question.”

Dazai winks, a lecherous comment already on his tongue about the prize, but the withering look you give him is more than enough to make it die before he can let it loose. He pointedly takes another sip of his drink and sinks in his seat.

He thinks that this should be an easy win. You’re quite the adept liar, but you’ve always had a glaring tell. Well, he amends, it’s glaring to him, at least. Not many others would be observant enough to catch it, and even if they were, only someone with an abundance of experience with you would be able to put it together. His gaze flickers up to meet yours, wondering if your lashes flutter right before you tell a lie. It’s such a simple and subtle tell, so casual that it took Dazai a year and a half to put together, but it was hard to miss once he did.

You hum to yourself as you give off the appearance of thinking about a question, but Dazai knows you better than anyone, and he’s certain that you already have all ten prepared, so he rolls his eyes at the faux show of uncertainty. 

“We both know you know what you want to ask,” he finally says. “Do us both a favor and quit with the theatrics.”

Your lip quirks up in amusement. “And here I was being gracious giving you more time to formulate whatever lies you’ll try to get away with,” you drawl, and Dazai nearly flinches.

“You know me so well,” Dazai sighs to hide how disconcerted he really is. “The question?”

You stare at him for a moment, and your lips curl up into a deceptively soft smile that almost throws Dazai off because, god, he’s missed you. And he knows you’re looking at him like this just for this specific reason because you’re a despicable bitch who knows that he’s always been easily unsettled when people show any semblance of affection toward him, but he can’t help the way he falters.

He tries to brace himself for whatever invasive question you’re about to ask regarding his reasons for leaving. Tries to prepare himself to lie cleanly because he’s sure you’re as aware of his tells as he is of yours. 

Then you ask: 

“Did you defect because of something Oda asked of you?”

Jesus. Right for the throat. You really don’t pull punches. 

Dazai’s throat tightens at the mention of his old friend, but he’s able to keep his expression clear of the sudden pain that your question brings on. You’re watching him carefully for reactions, gaze hawklike as you study his face, and Dazai is not about to let you pinpoint any more of his tells so early in the game.

He figures that this is an easy question; you already know the answer but want to hear the confirmation from his lips, so he decides to tell the truth.

“Yes.”

“The truth,” you say, an indecipherable expression on your face. He wonders if you want to ask what Odasaku asked of him, but that’s not part of the game and Dazai has no intention of answering that.

Be on the side that saves people. If both are the same to you, become a good man.

You might laugh in his face—Dazai Osamu, the Demon Prodigy, a good man? The idea is blasphemous, and he thinks it might actually hurt him if you scoff or laugh in response to hearing that, so he keeps his mouth shut and doesn’t give away more than he has to, hoping that you don’t just straight up ask him.

You open your lips to speak, and Dazai braces himself for the prying question, but instead, you only probe, “First question?”

He wonders if your whole first question and the implications of it was just a means of trying to throw him off because now he’s fumbling trying to remember what he wanted to ask you before you hit him with it. He wouldn’t put it past you to play dirty like that—bringing up his dead friend and his last request just to unsettle him to give you the edge.

“Did we meet during my underground years after I defected?” he finally asks, and yeah, he knows the answer to this question. The missing half of his ear and waking up in the old safe house he used to hide out at with you is more than enough evidence for him to come to a definite conclusion, but he wants to hear it from you.

“Yes.”

Dazai inhales sharply and then murmurs, “That’s the truth.” And then, more loudly and far more affronted, he accuses, “I can’t believe you shot half of my ear off.”

He expects you to toss him a wink and a sharp grin, unrepentant and even finding amusement in his offense, but instead, your expression falters for the first time since he’s arrived. Something strange crosses your face; for whatever reason, his words leave you conflicted and Dazai suddenly feels even more nervous than he already was because now he can’t help but wonder what he might’ve said to you in his drunken state. 

He supposes that’ll have to be another question, but first, he’s going to have to figure out how to phrase it to get a yes or no answer first, without being vague enough for it to be a waste of a question or easy for you to misconstrue.

You hum after a few moments, taking a pointed sip of your wine. Dazai watches curiously—you’re bothered still, you’re not even trying to hide it. He knows you have better control over your facial expressions than this, so he thinks maybe it’s a ploy to get him to start spiraling down a path of useless questions. Put off by his sudden inability to discern your schemes, a part of him wonders if maybe you were right because the him of four years ago would’ve seen right through you right now.

“I’m afraid it had to be done,” you sigh with faux regret, but he can tell from the way the smile on your lips doesn’t reach your eyes that you’re not into the banter. “Were you able to fulfill Oda’s request?” 

Fuck. This time Dazai can’t withhold the grimace that spreads across his face. He tries to keep his voice light with a deflecting comment, “My, bella, you’re really hitting with the deep questions tonight, aren’t you?”

You raise your eyebrows, tilting your head to the side as you wait for an answer, not giving him any room to formulate a response to your question. He finally sighs and shakes his head, taking a long sip of his whiskey. He wishes he had a pack of cigarettes on him, suddenly desperately longing for the pleasant burn of the smoke against his throat; he needs the buzz badly right now.

As if you could read his mind, you shift in your seat a bit and stuff your hand into the pocket of your slacks. It takes a few seconds but you fish out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, sliding them across the table over to him. If he wasn’t already so in his head over the question you asked, he’d make a quip over the fact that you still know him so well despite your insistence otherwise, but he only pulls out a cigarette and lights it, looking curiously down at the familiar brand.

“Since when did you start smoking these?” he asks quietly, eyes fluttering shut as he tilts his head back and takes a long drag of it. He exhales slowly and then adds, “Thought you liked the other ones, in the green box.”

“Teal,” you correct, and then frown a bit. “... Switched after you left.”

Dazai’s eyes flutter back open as his gaze focuses on you, wondering if the implication you left up in the air is something he can take at face value or if it’s just another way of trying to get him to lower his guard. But from the way you suddenly don’t meet his eyes, Dazai thinks you might be being honest: you switched because they reminded you of him.

Dazai’s chest suddenly feels heavy again.

“... No,” he finally responds to your second question. “Not yet, at least.”

“... Truth,” you say, and Dazai’s lips curl into a wry smile.

“Unfortunately.” The word slips out before he can stop it.

Your gaze flickers back up to him, curious, but Dazai doesn’t give you the chance to dwell on his comment, asking his next question: “Did I… admit anything to you that night that I wouldn’t have said while sober?”

His fingers tap rhythmically against his glass of whiskey, half-empty now; he’s anxious to hear your response.

“You did,” you confirm.

Dazai grimaces because that’s another truth, and that is not good. But just like how he doesn’t offer any context for his answers, you don’t either. He doesn’t know what he might’ve admitted or how you might’ve taken it—he’s going to have to waste another question on this topic.

“Truth,” he murmurs.

You hum and then ask, “Do you still blame yourself for what happened to him?”

“Come on,” Dazai complains sharply, tossing you a dirty look now. His jaw is tight. He wonders if you keep asking about Oda as some sort of sick revenge for him leaving, ripping open wounds that never properly healed so you can dig your fingers into them and twist around. You don’t look bothered by his outburst, waiting patiently for a response. He lets out an angry sigh, looking away and taking another long drink from his glass and another drag of his cigarette. 

He voices his first lie, “No.”

You let out a puff of air, rising to your feet and making your way over to the opposite counter, you grab the bottle of whiskey and bring it back over to him, topping off his now-empty glass before pointedly holding out your hand. He passes the cigarette over to you, tilting his head back to watch you bring it to your lips—a part of him longs to lean forward, to slide his hand behind your neck and cradle your head as he brings his lips to yours, inhaling the smoke as you exhale it, dizzy off the proximity to you, high off the buzz of the nicotine, just like the two of you would do when before he left.

He refrains, if only barely.

You exhale the smoke, a small cloud billowing around you—Dazai mourns the waste—and then you pass the cigarette back over to him. Your fingers brush his as you do, and a spark shoots through his arm at the touch.

“A lie,” you finally say, looking down at him with a frown. “You shouldn’t blame yourself. There was nothing you could’ve done to save him.”

“You don’t know that,” Dazai says tightly, averting his gaze from you as you make your way back over to your seat across from him. “If I’d been faster-”

“If Mori wants someone dead, then they’ll die,” you interrupt him, a grimace on your face as you look down at your wine glass. “Trust me, Dazai, there was no saving Oda Sakunosuke.”

Dazai pauses instead of snapping again, catching the expression on your face. Haunted, as if you’re speaking from experience. He tilts his head to the side and then asks quietly, “Are you talking about your ex-partner? Itou?”

If Dazai remembers correctly, he died on a mission when you turned eighteen. You never told him the circumstances, and he never asked, but it was the first and only time you ever broke down in front of him.

The corner of your lips tightens, “Is that your next question?”

Dazai barely withholds a frustrated sigh. 

“No,” he says quietly, and then asks, “Did I tell you why I couldn’t say goodbye? The real reason?”

He holds his breath now as he waits for your response. One way or another, this question is a double blade: if he did tell you why, then he’s at another disadvantage because he’s going to feel distinctly bare and vulnerable; if he didn’t tell you, he just admitted that he lied back at your office, at least partially. 

After what feels like an eternity, you finally say, “Yes.”

The truth. Dazai wonders when you’re going to utter your first lie, if you will, or if you’re trying to make some sort of point by being honest with him. He voices his answer and then waits impatiently for your next question as his mind races.

He desperately wants to know how you responded to him back then. Would you have come with him had he come to you before he left? Or would you have chosen the Port Mafia? He wonders if he should ask, make it one of his remaining seven questions, but he doesn’t know if he has the guts to hear your answer, so maybe he’ll just change the subject.

“Are you enjoying yourself at the Agency?”

For the life of him, Dazai cannot figure out your angle. First, the prying questions about Oda and now asking about the Agency. He doesn’t know what he expected at the start of the game—you’ve always been unpredictable, but even more so now. He’s never had such a hard time reading you or your intentions before.

He starts to feel even more doubtful, wondering if you were right.

Maybe he doesn’t know you as well as he thinks he does anymore.

But this is an easy question, so he says the truth with little hesitation, “I am.”

Dazai swears the corners of your lips curl up into a soft smile, but it’s gone so quickly that he might’ve imagined it.

“Good,” you say quietly. “I’m glad.”

Dazai’s lips part, a warm feeling spreads through his chest at the honesty in your tone. Desperately, he wants to know what’s going on—where’s the rage and the betrayal he expected from you? The hate? Why do you seem… okay with all of this?

Irrationally, he starts to wonder if everything from the office was just a heat-of-the-moment conversation. If now that you’ve had time to sit on your thoughts, you’ve realized… realized what? That you’ve moved on from him? That you don’t care what he does anymore? That you’ve accepted that he’s no longer a part of your life? The warmth in his chest disappears, edged away by a sudden coldness and desperation because he thinks he’d rather die than go back to a life without you.

Even more irrationally, he remembers the comment you made back at the office, the admission that you’ve slept around since he left. Oh god, what if you really have moved on?

He knows his next question.

“The people you slept with—were they all one-night stands?”

He doesn’t want to know the answer unless it’s a yes.

You raise your eyebrows at the abrupt shift in his line of questioning, and then, to his absolute horror, you say, truthfully, “No.”

“What do you mean no?” he asks angrily—he thinks if he was a bird, he’d be puffing his chest out in irritation. He feels antsy suddenly, he needs to move around. He starts tapping his foot against the floor, his fingers against the glass. And again, he thinks you’re a despicable bitch because you only look amused at his question as if he’s not beside himself with righteous fury.

“It’s not your turn,” is all you respond with, and Dazai has a distinct urge to throttle you. Then you ask, “Do you feel like you belong there?”

He halts.

His fingers freeze from where they’re tapping against the glass, his foot freezes mid-motion. His lips part as he’s confronted with the very question that he’s been struggling with for two years now. He wants to yes, if only to maybe be a little spiteful, to rub in your face that he’s somewhere good and he’s somewhere where he belongs, and it’s not somewhere with you. A cruel dig to get back for the aching in his chest at the thought of you being with other people, but he knows that you’ll catch the lie, and more importantly, he doesn’t want to hurt you like that.

Maybe he has grown a bit because the Dazai of four years ago nearly killed your civilian boyfriend when he found out that you were dating someone besides him and then promptly made a show of sleeping around to try to get back at you.

So, instead, he says quite honestly, “I don’t know.”

You tilt your head to the side. “Not a yes or no answer, but I suppose it works. How curious.”

He hates your cryptic comments. Pointedly, he side-eyes you as he takes another long drag of his cigarette. Already, it’s nearly down to the nub, so he puts it out on your table, ignoring the distasteful look you give him, and then reaches for another to light as he asks: “Were you in a relationship with any of them?” 

You roll your eyes at his prying, and he cannot hide the abject horror that crosses his face when you say, “Yes.”

“That better be a lie,” he complains, and when you look at him as if to ask if that’s really his guess, he makes a show of pushing out his bottom lip and looking away as he says: “I cannot believe you dated other people. Cheater.”

“We were never even dating, Daz-”

“Yes, we were,” Dazai protests instantly, entirely aghast at your words. “We absolutely were. What does that even mean? Of course, we were dating. Everybody knew it. Ask anybody. Ane-san knew. Gin-chan knew. Chuuya knew. Even Mori knew. We were so dating, you-”

“You never officially asked me to be your girlfriend, which is, unfortunately, the most fundamental step of dating,” you interrupt him, and Dazai stares at you in disbelief.

“I bought you flowers, we fucked exclusively,” Dazai complains, aggrieved. “We were definitely dating, and you definitely cheated on me because we never broke up.”

“If we were dating,” you emphasize the if very pointedly, and Dazai is distinctly put out by it, “then we broke up the day you left without saying goodbye.”

Dazai withers. He has no witty comment to return fire with, so instead, he just takes another sip of his whiskey, grateful for the combined buzz of the alcohol and the nicotine to distract him from the overwhelming guilt he feels whenever you bring up how he left you.

“Do you feel like you belong more with the Agency than you did with the Port Mafia?” 

Your next question is an amendment to your previous on, and it leaves Dazai just as lost.

He wants to belong with the Agency. He does. Desperately. He wants more than anything to feel as at home and comfortable in the light as he does in the dark. He doesn’t want to question his place among them anymore, he doesn’t want to wonder if he sticks out like a sore thumb. He wants to enter the office and feel like he doesn’t have to pretend to be someone he’s not, just so he can keep his place with them. He doesn’t want to have to fear at every corner that he’s going to revert to old habits, and they’ll see him for the monster that he is: a monster that should have never left the dark crevices that he crawled out from, a monster with blood so black that it strikes fear in even the most terrible mafiosos.

“No,” he admits the insecurity that’s plagued him to the one person he feels comfortable enough with to voice it aloud. He can’t bring himself to look up at you, wondering if the admission will give you some sort of sick satisfaction, if you’ll be happy that he’s not finding a place he can be comfortable in without you. Instead, he decides to rush to ask his next question: “The one you were in a relationship with, did you love him?”

He thinks that the question came across as far more timid than he meant it to be, and his eyes slide shut as he waits for your answer.

“There were multiple I had relationships with—” Dazai scoffs, of course, there were multiple. “—...but no, I did not.”

He lets out a soft puff of air, shoulders slumping a bit in relief. But his fingers are still tense around his glass, waiting for whatever question you’re going to ask next that’s going to dig deep into open wounds, stripping him of all of his masks and armor to force him to lay himself entirely bare in front of you.

“Did you really blow up Chuuya’s car before you left?”

His eyes fly open at the sudden change of pace in your questions, noting the smirk curling at the corner of your lips and the amusement glinting in your eyes. He accepts the olive branch quickly as he gives you a sharp smile and asks: “What do you think?” 

Your hand flies to your mouth to muffle a laugh, and the smile on Dazai’s lips becomes a bit softer as he watches you desperately try to get yourself under control. “You’re insane, you know that?” you finally say, still trying to bite back giggles. “He was so mad. Raged about it for weeks.”

Another question pops into Dazai’s head at the mention of Chuuya, and before he can consider whether or not he actually wants to know the answer to it, he asks: “Speaking of Chuuya, was he one of your trysts while I was gone?”

Suddenly, you are not laughing, and suddenly, Dazai regrets speaking.

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “Do not tell me-”

“He was,” you confirm.

Dazai’s glass of whiskey is empty. 

He grabs the bottle and drinks right from it, miserable.

“I think I would’ve rather been stabbed through the heart,” Dazai says mournfully, and though he keeps a faux-light tone with you, his throat feels like it’s swollen, and he feels a bit sick to his stomach.

He’s always been jealous of the bond you have with Chuuya. Absurdly jealous, even. You clicked with him quickly—you clicked with both of them quickly, and maybe it was a matter of the three of you being the youngest of the Port Mafia’s uppermost echelon, but Dazai doesn’t want to attribute it solely to that—but the way you clicked with Chuuya was different from how you clicked with Dazai. Two people so completely human locked away in the dark, clinging to one another to maintain some sense of normalcy; your and his casual humanity made Dazai’s lack of it irrefutable and glaring.

Regardless of the why, he never liked how close you were with Chuuya. 

Even before you were dating him—because you were dating him—a part of him had always felt sidelined whenever the three of you hung out together. Not because of either of your wrongdoings but just because it was hard for him to keep up with the two of you. He always felt a bit lost trying to, unable to follow along when the two of you would start laughing at jokes that he didn’t understand even when you explained them to him, when you would share glances with one another that spoke whole conversations he wasn’t privy to. The two of you got along in ways that Dazai would never be able to get along with anyone because there’s just something fundamentally wrong with him at his core. Chuuya, for all of his talk and fear regarding the question of his humanity, has always been so unfailingly human in ways that Dazai, to this day, cannot fathom to understand.

After you started dating him—because you were dating him—it only got worse because he’d see you with Chuuya and wonder if you were better off with someone like him instead. Dazai doesn’t know how to treat you right, clearly. He can’t even treat himself right; and Chuuya has always been the epitome of a gentleman, loathe Dazai is to admit it—Ane-san drilled that into the other boy where Mori only taught Dazai how to be cruel and unforgiving. The line between love and obsession has always been a terribly blurry one for him, and you have always wavered on either side of it—and Dazai, unfortunately, does not love healthily and obsesses so entirely that it would have most people running for the hills. 

For better or for worse, you’re not most people.

In his spiral of insecurity, he doesn’t catch the way your brows furrow as you put together some puzzle pieces. “Dazai,” you say suddenly, drawing him from his thoughts abruptly. There’s an accusatory look in your eyes that he really does not like. “Were you the one that booby-trapped my fucking apartment?”

Dazai snorts.

“You bastard,” you snap at him, and Dazai can’t help but bite the palm of his hand as a means of trying to stifle his laughter. “Mori thought it was a goddamn assassination attempt. He kept me under watch for weeks because of you. I couldn’t leave the towers without half of the Black Lizards with me.”

“Sorry,” he coos, not sorry at all. Dazai, because he clearly doesn’t know when to learn his lesson, then he promptly asks, “Am I better fuck than Chuuya?”

“Jesus Christ, Dazai, get off the topic of Chuuya and my sex life, it’s clearly only upsetting you,” you snap at him instead of answering the question. Dazai wants to argue and retain some dignity; he’s not upset, but then his entire world is shattered by your next words: “I am not answering this question.”

Dazai blanches. He can feel the blood drain from his face. He’d thought this was an easy question to make him feel a bit better. What do you mean you won’t answer? Does that mean Chuuya-

No. Dazai refuses to believe it.

 “No way,” he says, shaking his head. “He’s not a better fuck than me. You can’t possibly-”

“He’s not,” you finally say, and Dazai audibly lets out a sigh of relief. “But if you ever mention anything along the likes of that to him, you will never fuck me again, Dazai Osamu. Do you understand?”

Dazai is too relieved to even argue. “Yeah.”

“No more questions about my sex life,” you say firmly, and Dazai doesn’t respond, but he does agree internally because he doesn’t think his heart can handle any more scares like that. Your eyes sharpen again, and Dazai braces himself. “Were you the one to tell Mori I lied about being sick so I could skip out on the ball Mishima hosted when we were seventeen?”

Dazai’s eyes narrow right back at you and rather than answering, he shoots one of his own questions at you: “Were you the one to tell Mori I had his contact in my phone as ‘ignore’?”

You take his lack of an answer as an affirmative, correctly so. Dazai has no regrets about ratting you out to Mori because he was not about to attend Mishima’s event without you on his arm. He’d rather die. 

“You bastard, do you know the lengths I went to fake being sick? I wanted one night to relax without people breathing down my neck.”

“If I had to go, you had to go,” Dazai retorts petulantly. “I was not about to suffer with only Chuuya as company. You had no reason to tell Mori about the contact name besides to be petty. I fought with Chuuya for weeks because I thought he was the one to do it.”

You choke on a laugh. “Chuuya was so mad, he had no idea what you were talking about.”

“He tied me to a pole and swung me around for three hours,” Dazai complains, but there’s a smile on his lips as you burst into laughter, unable to stifle the giggles that spill from your lips.

“I know,” you wheeze, “I got it on video. We watch it sometimes when we’re bored and can’t find a movie.”

Dazai gapes, and you laugh harder, but for the first time in four years, Dazai finally feels… at home, he feels comfortable in his own skin again. He’s back in your penthouse, he’s drinking his favorite whiskey and smoking his favorite brand of cigarettes, you’re sitting at the kitchen table with him and laughing your head off at his expense, and for a moment, Dazai feels as if nothing has changed: he feels like himself again, eighteen and entirely enamored by the sight and sound of you, and you feel like you again, all of the doubt that had begun to rise to his chest as the two of you played the questions game long gone.

He falls in love with you all over again. Harder this time. Faster. He thinks he’ll fall in love with you again and again every day for the rest of your lives, each time more than the last, no matter how impossible it might seem.

He thinks maybe it’s not that he feels like he belongs with the Port Mafia more than the Agency. He thinks that it’s you. You’re the one he feels at home with. You’re the one he’s comfortable enough to be himself with. You’re the one he belongs with, always has, and always will.

After a few moments, you finally manage to get yourself under control, still giggling a bit as you look back up at him. Your smile is softer now, eyes gentle, more genuine than the smile you gave him before asking the first question. Dazai’s breath catches because when was the last time you looked at him like this—the last time anyone has looked at him like this? A warm feeling spreads through his chest; Dazai thinks he would stay in this moment forever if given the opportunity.

“Are you happy?” you ask quietly

Dazai blinks, startled, and an odd feeling spreads through his chest once your question registers. His lips part to answer, but no words leave them; he draws back as if he’s been slapped, a bit flustered and confused because that’s the furthest thing from what he expected you to ask. He wonders if you’d asked the last three questions to lull him into a false sense of security.

“I-” he starts to say but cuts himself off. “What kind of question is that?” 

He tries to deflect instead of properly answering, frowning, but you only raise your eyebrows, pointedly keeping your lips sealed to let him know that you expect an answer. He shakes his head and then sighs, bouncing the question in his head a few times before going for a cop-out: “When I’m with you? Always.”

You’re not pleased by his decision, frowning as you look away from him—he knows that’s not what you asked, not really, but you should have been clearer with your question if you wanted him to give you the answer you expected. But he doesn’t like the sudden disappointment on your face, it leaves his skin itchy and his chest longing for the soft look to return.

So he sits there, ruminating on the question. Is he happy? He should be, right? He’s saving people. He’s on the way to fulfilling Odasaku’s final request. He has a whole group of people whom he can rely on without having to fear being taken advantage of or betrayed at every corner. He’s happy.

But is he trying to convince himself of it? Why is he still trying to kill himself if he’s happy? Why is there a part of him that feels lonely no matter how surrounded he is by people? Why is it that when he’s at his lowest points, the only two people he wishes he could be with are you and Chuuya? Why does he ache for the days he’d spend dragging the two of you around Yokohama, causing trouble for Mori—the closest he’s ever felt to enjoying life?

“I don’t know,” he finally amends his answer, looking down at the bottle in front of him and the cinders of the cigarette dangling between his fingers. He lifts it to his lips again, taking one last drag of it as he tries to figure out what his last question should be.

There’s only one pressing question he has left, but he hesitates, unsure if he really wants to know your answer.

He forces it out anyway.

“Would you… would you have come with me back then?” His voice is quieter than he intended, cracks over ‘me’, and to your credit, you don’t react to the question, expression as eerily still as it was before, as if you’re considering your words.

A yes or no. It shouldn’t take this long for you to answer. Each second that passes feels like an eternity, and Dazai suddenly feels anxious, he doesn’t know why he asked this question because if the answer is no—if it’s no, then…

Finally, you let you a soft sigh, taking a sip of your wine as if to prolong his agony.

Your lashes flutter before you speak.

You lie for the first time that night.

“Yes.”

Dazai’s voice sounds far away as he says, “That’s a lie.”

“I guess you were right,” you say softly, but you sound so distant, like you’re on the opposite side of a long, empty tunnel and not sitting right in front of him. “We do still know each other decently well; you got them all right.”

Dazai doesn’t care. In fact, he would have gladly conceded a loss in this game, and he would’ve gladly admitted that maybe the two of you don’t know each other as well as you used to if it meant that he got the last question wrong because then he would’ve just given you a coy expression and asked if you’d let him get to know this new version of you too. You would’ve said yes, and he would’ve made quite the pleasurable night out of it for the two of you. Instead, he had to insist that nothing has changed, and now he has to come to terms with the fact that he was right and he had known you well enough back then to know not to ask you to leave with him because you would have chosen the Mafia over him. 

He’s so lost in his thoughts that he doesn’t even notice you approaching him until you’re leaning on the table next to him, index and middle finger coming beneath his chin to tilt his face up toward you. He looks up at you through his lashes, eyes searching your face, but he only finds another blank slate that he can’t read. His breath hitches when your hand slides from his chin to cup his cheek, and he can’t help the way that he leans into your touch, eyes fluttering shut.

“I would choose you over so many things, Osamu.” You speak his given name for the first time in years, but he can hardly find any comfort in it because he knows he’s not going to like what you’re about to say. Your fingers card through the tips of his hair, brushing the dark locks behind his ear as your thumb sweeps over his cheekbone. “But not over the Port Mafia. Just like how you didn’t choose to stay for me.”

“It’s not the same,” he says, voice hoarse. “It’s-”

“It is,” you interrupt, voice deceptively gentle, and he thinks you’re entirely unfair because he can hardly focus with your touch distracting him. He’s missed it so much—he’s gone four years without it, without any type of touch that wasn’t him getting his shit kicked in by Kunikida or an enemy. “You didn’t choose to stay for me. I wouldn’t have chosen to leave for you.”

“Why?” Dazai asks tightly, and he hates that when his jaw tenses, you smooth your fingers over it, and he unclenches it immediately.

There’s a sadder look in your eye now as you give him a small smile. “You know why.”

Of course, he knows why. He feels the hatred deep in his gut as his mind draws back to Mori. Because that’s who the issue is. It’s not the Port Mafia. It’s not your friendship with Kouyou. It’s not even your friendship with Chuuya that’s the issue. It’s Mori and your undying loyalty to him. No matter how much you claim to despise him, bashing him every chance you get, sneering at him whenever he tries to treat you like his daughter, Dazai knows that when it comes down to it, you’ll always choose him. You’d throw yourself on a sword if he asked it of you, and not for the first time, Dazai wants to spit in the man’s face for making you feel as if you’re eternally indebted to him for rescuing you from that warzone so many years ago; for making you feel as if you’re nothing without the Mafia, nothing without him.

“You don’t owe him anything,” Dazai says tightly. “You have to know that by now—you don’t owe him anything.”

“I don’t want to have this conversation, Dazai,” you sigh, sounding tired. Your hand drops from his face, and Dazai longs for your touch again instantly. His fingers twitch from where they’re resting on his lap; he only barely stops himself from reaching out for you. You try to smile as you change the subject, but it hardly meets your eyes, “It’s a tie then. No prize for either of us, hm?”

Dazai is not so inclined to switch the subject. He wants to press on this now that he has the chance; he doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to rip you out from beneath Mori’s thumb, but he needs to at least try… but you’re leaving again in the morning, and Dazai also does not want to ruin this night with you. He doesn’t know when he’ll get another.

So, instead, he matches your half-assed smile as he looks up at you and says, “I didn’t say you got them all right. You only said that I got them all right.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Did I get any wrong?” you ask, amused.

No.

“Yes.”

“Liar,” you say, but there’s a fond lilt to your tone as you let out another puff of air, the smile on your face finally reaching your eyes as you look down at him. The soft lighting of your kitchen casts a pretty glow over your face, your smile is so entrancing that Dazai thinks he could stare at it forever.

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathes out, the words slipping from his lips before he can stop them. “I’ve missed you so much.”

He’s sure he must look like a fool right now, entirely enamored by the sight of you, unable to even fathom drawing his gaze away. He wonders if you’ll protest again, call him a liar, and shift away from him.

You don’t.

The smile on your lips falls, and a wrecked expression crosses your face as your eyes search his. Your lips part to speak, and he waits with bated breath for whatever you’re about to say—he thinks that if you deny him again right now, it might completely shatter all of the walls he’d so carefully built to protect himself.

“I’ve missed you too,” you whisper as if you’re scared to speak the words out loud—and how can he blame you when the last time you dared to speak them, he hung up on you, never hearing from him again until tonight.

God, the guilt he feels whenever he thinks of you returns with a vengeance, so intense that Dazai starts to feel sick to his stomach. He can’t handle it, so he does the only thing he knows how to do to distract himself from it.

His movements are clumsy as he pushes himself up to his feet, nearly tripping over the leg of his chair, and his fingers feel clunky as he lifts them up to cup your cheeks. For a second, he fears that you might move away from him, but you don’t, so he leans in to press his lips against yours.

There’s no tenderness to his kiss. Dazai kisses you like he wants to consume you, lips sliding messily against yours, blunt nails indent crescents into your cheeks as he holds you close. Usually, he would be embarrassed by his blatant desperation and lack of finesse—he’s never been a sloppy kisser, when the two of you were younger, you would always let out pleased hums into his mouth, lashes fluttering as he worked his lips carefully against yours, tongue sliding against your own as he traces his name on it. 

All of his finely honed skill is thrown out the window now as he kisses you like a man who has been starved for years. He has been starved for years—the quick fuck in your office did nothing to quell the longing he’s felt for you the past four years. He could kiss you for hours. Days, even, and it still won’t be enough. Nothing short of an eternity with you would be enough to make up for the four years he’s been deprived of you.

He lets out a low groan into your mouth as you nip at his bottom lip, hands sliding from your face down to your hips. He’d take you here. Right now. But he remembers the last time he tried to fuck you on your kitchen table, it ended with him choking on the barrel of your gun as you yelled at him for being gross (“I eat on this table, you heathen!”) and he’s not particularly in the mood to set off your temper now that he finally has you in his arms again, so it’s with much restraint that he grabs you by the hips to walk you back into your bedroom.

He can hardly concentrate as your fingers twist the hair at the nape of his neck, soft moans slipping from his lips, muffled against your mouth. It’s only sheer instinct and muscle memory that has him making his way from the kitchen and down the hall. He can’t bring himself to separate his lips from yours for even a second. And he’s a mess because he’s not coherent enough to force himself to breathe properly through his nose, so his lungs are burning and his head feels a bit light, but he doesn’t care so long as it means he can keep kissing you.

Turn left, turn right, second door from the end of the hall. 

His fingers fumble for the knob of your bedroom door, pushing it open a bit too hard, considering the way he hears it slam against the wall and how you tug his hair hard in retaliation. He doesn’t care, moans a bit louder even when your nails scrape his stinging scalp, and you let out a derisive noise against his lips before biting down hard enough to draw blood.

The taste of iron makes a slow smile curl at his lips, walking you back toward the bed, and it’s only when your knees hit the edge that you finally pull away from him. “If you broke my door, you’re fixing it, Osamu.”

Dazai’s smile is lecherous. “I’m gonna break something alright,” he croons, relishing in the way you immediately roll your eyes at him. It’s all so familiar—he can almost pretend that he never left, that nothing has changed since the two of you were eighteen, dumb, reckless, and in love.

Before he can press you back against the bed, he feels your fingers drop from around his neck to his waistband, curling around his belt loops. In an instant, you’ve twisted the both of you around, and suddenly, it’s the back of Dazai’s knees pressed against the edge of the bed as you push him down onto the mattress. He hits the sheets with an ‘oof’ and a hazy smile, surrounded by the scent of you, drowning in the sight of you. He thinks he might be in heaven. 

You shift on top of him, straddling his waist; Dazai’s hands instantly come to rest on your thighs, sliding up the sides to grab your ass and pull you more firmly onto him. He groans when he feels you grind down against his cock, and god, he’s already hard just from kissing you. He hears you snort above him, but Dazai doesn’t even have it in him to be embarrassed.

His lips part in a silent moan as you lean down to ghost kisses along his jaw, hands sliding up his chest. He feels you wrap your fingers around his bolo tie and tug it, you let out a sharp noise of distaste against his skin before murmuring: “I hate this ugly thing.”

He lets out a huff of laughter that quickly breaks off into a moan when your lips trail to the spot behind his ear that always makes him writhe. His fingers bite into your hips, pushing you down on him as he rocks his hips up into you—shit, he might be able to cum just from this. His cock is straining painfully against his beige pants, twitching as he grinds up against your clothed cunt. He thinks maybe if he fucks his hips upward a few more times, he might be able to push himself over the edge, but as desperate as he is to chase his release, he refuses to cum anywhere but inside of you.

Plus, he thinks he’ll be shamed to hell and back if he finishes in his pants with you hardly touching him. 

“Then strip me out of it,” he gasps, lashes fluttering as your teeth graze his pulse point right above the edge of his bandages. Fuck, he’d give anything for you to bite down—riddle him with marks he can’t cover so he can flaunt them off to everyone who looks at him. Dazai knows that there are countless men and women out there who’d die to be able to be called yours, he wants them to know he’s the only one who can take that honor. “What’re you waiting for?” 

You hum and then sit back on his hips—he bites his bottom lip raw as you unintentionally put even more pressure on his cock. He’s half dazed out, not realizing that your grip tightened on his bolo tie until you straight up yank it off of him, snapping the string around his neck.

“No!” he complains, watching with wide eyes and parted lips as you fling the now-broken bolo tie off to the side of your room. “Noooo, why’d you do that? I’m going to have to order a new one.”

“Boo-hoo,” you say dryly, hardly paying attention to him as your fingers curl around the hem of his vest, pulling it up over his head, snorting when he lets out a puff of irritation as his nose gets caught around the collar. 

“This is so unsexy,” he protests, rubbing his nose. “Shouldn’t you be more gentle?” 

“Stop wearing so many layers of clothes,” you retort, but Dazai is placated when you lean back down to kiss the corner of his lips, lashes fluttering as his eyes slide shut. He lets out a pleased hum as you kiss down his jaw, nimble fingers unbuttoning his final layer of clothing. He wishes he wore an undershirt just to watch you huff in annoyance. His breath catches as you nip at his skin and then murmur, “This better?” 

“Yeah,” he breathes out, voice wavering as you get down to the last button of his shirt, sliding it off of his shoulders and easing him out of it. His body shudders as your hands slide over the bandages wrapped around his abdomen. Fuck, it’s been so long since anyone’s touched him beneath his clothes, even with the bandages still acting as a layer between the two of you, his nerves are on end, sensitive to everywhere your fingers touch.

He wonders if you’ll pull off the bandages—it’s a line that the two of you only crossed once back then, and although the idea of it has him brimming with anxiety, he longs for the feeling of your skin flush to his.

He almost feels a bit embarrassed when you sit back again to admire him as if there’s not a scar-ridden body hidden beneath the bandages. You look at him like he’s beautiful, like he’s not a monster disguised as a man, like he’s human. Dazai has always felt distinctly seen beneath your stare like you can see through all of the masks he wears and see him for him, and that has not changed over the past four years.

He’s missed the comfort of it. He has. It used to unnerve him back then, thinking someone could see him so clearly when he tried so hard and so carefully to hide himself beneath layers of impenetrable masks, but after going four years alone, with no one for him to turn to, no one he could look at and have them just know what he’s thinking… 

Yosano once mentioned offhandedly that to be loved is to be seen, and Dazai thinks the only time he’s ever been seen—truly seen, down to his core, deep in his soul—is when he’s with you.

It was a very lonely four years without you.

“I thought about you every day,” Dazai tells you softly, the grip on your hips easing up as he looks up at you. “Made a list of places I wanted to bring you and then burned it because I never thought I’d get the chance to be with you again. Stared at old pictures of you all the time, couldn’t sleep without thinking about memories with you. Drank your favorite wine just so I could pretend I was tasting it off your lips.”

You bring your hand up to cup his cheek, and Dazai leans into your touch, eyes fluttering shut again. He kisses your palm, humming softly when your thumb runs along his bottom lip.

“There wasn’t a single day I went without you crossing my mind,” you admit quietly and Dazai’s breath hitches as he stares up at you, dark eyes wide and lips parted. He thinks he should say something, anything really, but it’s a lost cause. You don’t seem to mind, luckily, because you only lean down to brush your lips against his again.

This kiss is softer than the last, lips trembling against yours as your tongue dances along his inner lip. He thinks his cheeks might feel wet but he doesn’t dare acknowledge it; you don’t either, only using your thumbs to brush away the tears as they spill over his cheeks.

“Are you really leaving again in the morning?” he finally asks, and he hates that his voice cracks over the words.

You hum in agreement, still hovering over him, still running your thumbs along his cheekbone. His lashes droop shut, but he forces them back open as you speak. “I am. Bright and early. Flight leaves at six.”

His gaze flickers to the left, over to where your alarm clock is set up on your nightstand. 

12:35

He looks back at you, eyes swimming with desperation.

You give him a soft, wry smile. “We should make the most of the night then, hm?”

He doesn’t waste any time on that.

His grip on your hip tightens, and in one swift motion, he flips the two of you around, elbows resting on the mattress on either side of your head as he hovers above you. Your eyes glitter as you give him a coy smile, and again, Dazai falls in love.

Then, he ruins the moment.

“Tell me how you fucked Chuuya.”

Your smile drops. “Osamu, what the fuck?”

“Tell me,” he pouts, nudging his nose against your cheek and peppering soft kisses on your cheek and down your neck. His knees drop to the bed on either side of your hips, holding up his weight as he reaches down to unbutton your slacks, sliding them off your body. A smile flickers onto his lips as his fingers graze your panties—drenched, finally, evidence that he’s not the only one so affected by this. “Tell me. Were you on top? Did he take you from behind? Was he rough? No, it’s Chuuya-”

“If you care so much about how Chuuya fucks, Osamu, how about you go fuck him yourself?” you interrupt him.

Dazai gags.

“Don’t ever say that again,” he says and then returns to his mission, fumbling with his own pants now as he tries to yank them and his briefs off, unable to hold back the relieved sigh when he finally frees his cock, unceremoniously tossing them to the floor. “Tell me.” 

“Why do you care so much, hm?” you ask, reaching up to brush his hair out of his eyes. “I told you that you were better.”

You’re only trying to deflect from the question and he almost lets you succeed, partially placated, but he stays strong, leveling an unrelenting stare onto you as he waits for your answer. You sigh heavily, and he knows he’s won.

“Not rough,” you say as if Dazai hasn’t already come to that conclusion. Chuuya’s had a crush on you since the three of you were sixteen. Dazai assumed he had grown out of it, but evidently, he was wrong, considering he took the opportunity to sleep with Dazai’s girlfriend—because you were his girlfriend—the moment Dazai was out of the picture. What a little snake. Dazai needs to vandalize his apartment again. Maybe set up a few more bombs. He’s only drawn back from his mental spiral when you start talking again: “He took the lead. Wanted to see my face the whole time, make sure I was okay.”

“How gentlemanly of him,” Dazai says—he’s not bitter. He’s not.

“It was,” you agree, too genuinely.

Dazai squints at you hard. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” you say. “You asked.”

“You don’t need to sound so wistful.”

“Oh, shut the fuck up, Osamu, I’m not wistful.”

“How-”

“Are we going to talk about Nakahara Chuuya all night, or are you going to fuck me?” you interrupt immediately, looking increasingly incensed. Dazai only raises his chin at you pointedly—you’re the one that slept with Chuuya. “Time is dwindling, Osamu.”

Okay. 

Dazai’s gaze flickers back to the clock and then back down to you, withering a bit under your irritated stare. He sighs and leans back over you to kiss the corner of your lips, fingers curling around the hem of your panties to slide them off your legs.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs against your skin, his kisses linger against your skin now as he drags his lips down to your jaw. “The thought of him being with you…”

It makes Dazai want to do terrible things. The part of him that he locked up deep within rattles at the bars of its cage, furious and bloodthirsty. The trigger finger he’s been so careful to tame twitches with a desire he hasn’t felt in four years. The thought of anyone being with you makes Dazai sick to his stomach—Dazai is the only one who should get to see you like this, be with you like this—but the thought of Chuuya being with you is so much worse.

“You’re all I’ve ever wanted, Osamu,” you tell him quietly, fingers intertwining with his hair as he nips at your neck. “No matter how much I slept around, nothing was ever able to fill the hole losing you left. Not even Chuuya.”

Dazai exhales, shaky—the guilt returns, and so does the doubt because what right does he have sitting here being petty about what you did while he was gone when he was the one who left you behind without so much as a word? His eyes flutter shut, he spares a few more chaste kisses across your throat before lifting his face back to yours, kissing you gently.

“Let me make up for lost time then,” he says softly.

He doesn’t hesitate now, one hand dropping down to your thigh, lifting it to wrap around his waist as he presses his hips into you. His breath shudders when his cock slips against your folds, a low moan spilling from his lips. He has to reach down to angle himself properly, tip pressing against your tight hole.

The fingers of his free hands are shaky as he lifts them to cup your cheek. “Look at me,” he says, heat spreading through his abdomen when he realizes you already can hardly hold your eyes open, quick breaths escaping your lips as you try to keep yourself from cumming already. “Look at me, I want to see you.”

Your eyes flutter open, lidded and heavy as you look up at him, and Dazai thinks that maybe he could cum just from the expression on your face alone, inhaling sharply as his thumb drags across your bottom lip. He thinks maybe he should try to get ahold of himself, fearing that if he pushes inside of you now, he might cum on the spot, but his cock is aching so badly that Dazai thinks he might die if he doesn’t feel your heat around him immediately.

It takes all of his strength to keep his eyes from sliding shut as he pushes inside of you, desperate to see the way your face twists and your breath catches. Your lips tremble, chest rising and falling rapidly, he can feel your thighs tightening around his waist, and Dazai groans when your heels dig into his lower back, forcing his hips flush to you, burying his cock deep in your cunt. He chokes, grip on your thigh bruising; his abdomen tightens, and his head feels light.

No way, he thinks, gritting his teeth as he tries to hold back the waves of pleasure threatening to tear through him. He hears you let out a huff of laughter beneath him, and Dazai would shut you up with a sharp thrust of your hips, but he’s still desperately trying to regain control over himself, so he thinks that’s maybe not the best idea.

His forehead drops to rest on the pillow next to your head, lips brushing your ear as he lets out a low moan. He can’t even savor the way you let out a full-body shudder, fingers coming up to toy with the hair at the nape of his neck. Fuck, you’re so tight—Dazai can feel your walls tightening around him, spasming, his breath is shaky, and he tries to distract himself by pressing his lips to your skin, mouthing messily at your skin, sucking and nipping and counting to ten as he tries to settle down.

But it’s hard with the soft sighs you’re letting out, the way your fingers catch on his tousled hair, tugging enough to make his scalp sting. His head is so fogged that he can hardly think straight—god, he’s missed this, he hasn’t had the comfort of letting himself go like this in… since he left, really. His mind is always turning, plotting out ten, twenty, thirty steps in advance in fear of making a mistake, slipping up and letting the rest of the Agency see him for what he is, slipping up and their lives being the price just like with Odasaku. It’s only with you that’s ever comfortable enough to finally let the cogs in his brain slow and shatter, lose himself in carnal pleasures, lose himself in you; it’s been four years since he’s last had a reprieve from his own brain.

But he only lets himself slip halfway—tonight isn’t going to be about him, it’s about you. He has four years to make up for and he intends on getting a good start on it tonight.

He pants quietly as he lifts his head enough to bite your earlobe, tugging it gently before pressing his lips to your temple. “I’ve missed this,” he admits, voice raspy and clogged thick with emotion. “I’ve-”

He can hardly get the words out, and his breath catches when your hands slide from behind his head to cup his cheeks, forcing him to look at you. He thinks he must look wrecked—he can already feel the sweat beading on his forehead, and he knows his eyes are probably glazed over. You still look stunning, a soft expression on your face as you look up at him as if he’s not buried to the hilt inside of you. 

Unfair, he thinks mournfully. 

“What're you still holding onto, hm?” you ask, and Dazai only barely registers your words, sinking into your touch as you brush matted hair out of his eyes. He can finally bring himself to roll his hips—experimental, slow, trying to make sure he can actually move before trying to fuck you. Then you sigh softly, and he’s too out of it to try to make out the expression on your face as you say: “You work yourself so hard… always have. I’ve got you, you can let go, Dazai. C’mon.”

“No,” he hums, but his voice is strained, evidence of his struggle. “Tonight’s about my favorite girl.”

“Favorite?” you tease, lifting your shoulders off the bed to ghost a kiss against his lips that nearly has his hips stuttering—the conversation so reminiscent of one that the two of you had at seventeen it almost makes him smile.

“Only,” he amends quietly, kissing your nose, then the corner of your lips, and then nipping your jawline.

Just when he thinks he’s good to actually start picking up the pace, intent on fucking the thoughts out of you until you forget about your stupid flight in the morning, he catches a suspicious expression on your face, one that has his eyes narrowing.

“What?” he asks dubiously; your eyes are glittering in a way that he knows from experience is dangerous. 

You don’t say anything, just look pointedly at your thighs, then up to his shoulders. Dazai tilts his head to the side, recognizing what you want, and after a moment’s hesitation, he slides your legs up above his shoulders, folding them to your chest, eyes nearly rolling back at the new angle. Fuck, his hips do stutter this time, breath hitching. He has to readjust again, mentally focus on not cumming on the spot, and then-

And then you say: “He had my legs like this.”

A trick. 

Dazai knows it. 

You’re trying to make him let go of the thin thread of self-control he still has. To give in. To let all of the gears in his brain finally fall apart for the first time in four years.

He knows it.

He falls for it anyway.

Dazai’s jaw tightens, gaze snapping down to you only to catch a goading look in your eyes, a sly smile on your lips that Dazai has every intention of fucking right off your face. He inhales sharply, one hand sliding up your body to grab your chin, blunt nails digging a bit too deeply into your cheeks.

“Yeah?” he says, voice rough. 

Your lashes flutter and lips part as Dazai pointedly jerks his hips up. Your breath catches over a moan, and Dazai knows that this new angle is affecting you just as much as it is him.

“Mhm,” you agree, and just like that, the thin thread snaps.

He snaps his hips into you so hard that your bedframe bangs loudly against the wall behind it, quickly setting a steady pace, nice and deep, quick enough that you can’t even get a breath of air to your lungs before Dazai is fucking it right out of you. Already, he’s so fucked out that his mind is in shambles, one hand settling on your hip to hold you in place as he thrusts his hips into you, hitting that sweet spot with each stroke while his other hand, still cupping your face, slides down to your neck.

He doesn’t squeeze—wouldn’t dare to cut off the pretty noises spilling from your lips, moans of his names, choked gasps and cries between each rock of his hips—but the fact that you trust him, him, enough to have his fingers wrapped around your throat is always a quick way make him topple over the edge.

His eyes dart down to your chest, realizing, very unfortunately, that you haven’t taken off your button-up yet. He nearly bites down on his tongue in frustration as his hand comes down to your chest, careful to keep the pace of his hips as he hooks his fingers around the first button just to yank down, popping off half of the buttons of your expensive dress shirt and haphazardly pulling it off of you to toss it to the side before fumbling with the clip of your bra.

“Osamu,” you hiss, and Dazai revels in the way your voice wavers with each thrust, biting back moans. “That’s the second-”

You don’t get to finish your sentence. Dazai tosses your bra over with your discarded shirt and dips his head down to wrap his lips around your nipple, tongue swirling around the sensitive bud before rolling it between his teeth, and you’re gone—Dazai lets out a muffled groan around you as your back arches up into him, crying out his name, walls tightening around him as you cum on his cock.

“Oh-f-hah-fuck,” Dazai gasps as he rests his head on your collarbone, grip on your waist tightening. 

He has to physically force himself to lift his head, bracing his forearm on the mattress next to your head, desperate to see the way your eyes roll back, he can already feel himself teetering over the edge—the lewd sound of skin-on-skin, the sloppiness of his cock driving in and out of your cunt, he can feel your cum dripping down his cock, smeared on his pelvis.

His hand slides behind your head, lifting it from where you have it pressed against the mattress. Beautiful—the only thought that can run through his hazy brain is of you and how perfect you are, lips swollen and bitten raw, parted as pitched moans escape them, tears spilling from the corner of your eyes as he fucks you through your orgasm and right into a second. He’s the only one that should ever get to see you like this, with your clever brain fucked right and dumb, body writhing against the bed as you cling to him.

He leans down again, trailing sloppy kisses against your neck, gasping as he starts to feel his high approaching.

“No one makes you feel like this,” he says, or maybe he begs, he’s not sure if he’s making a statement or pleading for you to tell him it’s the truth. “Tell me. T-shit-tell me.”

“No one,” you sob over another moan, and Dazai can feel your pussy fluttering around him—he wonders if he’s already fucked you into a third. Usually, it takes longer. “No one, Osamu, you’re the only one.”

And that’s the only thing he needed to hear to give him that final push. His steady pace shifts into a more erratic one, sloppy and desperate, as he chases a high that’s just out of reach. His moans are muffled against your skin, teeth scraping your collarbone, mind a jumbled mess of thoughts of you. He feels your fingers trembling as you lift them to his cheeks, pulling his face up to press your lips against his, and that’s all it takes: he lets out a wanton moan against your mouth, pressing your legs further into your chest as his hips still against your ass, finishing deep inside of you.

Spots dance in his vision, head buzzing and ears ringing; he swears his orgasm lasts an eternity, body shaking and shuddering above you, letting out breathy moans into your mouth. He can feel his cum dribbling out of you, pooling onto the sheets beneath the two of you, so much of it that you can’t even keep it all in you. 

He doesn’t let his lips leave yours once—the kisses are messy and sloppy, devoid of all of the finesse that the two of you usually have, teeth nearly clashing, tongues sliding against each other’s. 

It’s only when his vision finally starts to clear and his head feels less on the verge of passing out does Dazai finally trails kisses from your lips to your jaw and down your neck before he finally collapses on top of you, mind entirely gone, like he’s floating on clouds. He pants as he tries to catch his breath, eyes lidded as he absently trails kisses along your chest and collarbone. He thinks the world could be ending around the two of you, and Dazai wouldn’t even have the capacity to notice. For the first time in four years, he really, truly allows his brain to rest.

He doesn’t know how much time passes, eyes drooping shut as he lets himself be enveloped by your arms, drowning in the comfort of your scent.

He doesn’t want to know. He’s scared to look at the clock and check.

“Tonight was supposed to be about you,” Dazai finally complains, burying his face in your chest as he pouts.

You only let out a soft laugh above him. “We have the rest of our lives for that… You deserved a break, Osamu.”

The rest of our lives.

Dazai’s throat tightens, vision blurring a bit at the thought—he can only barely bring himself to respond, and the words that slip out are not what he means to say: “I never thought I’d get to be with you like this again,” he admits, voice hoarse. “I never thought-”

“I know,” you interrupt, voice quiet, a bit shaky. “... I know.”

Of course, you know.

He can’t bring himself to say anything else, so he doesn’t, sinking into your arms and allowing himself the comfort he’s deprived himself of for so long. He almost starts to drift off—and god, he can’t remember the last time he’s dozed off willingly, only able to sleep after drinking copious amounts of alcohol or taking an even more copious number of sleeping pills. It’s not until you speak again does he stir back awake from the brink of sleep.

“What did he ask of you? Oda, I mean,” you finally ask, fingers brushing through his dark hair, lulling him further to sleep.

Dazai thinks that you’re cruel, asking him while his mind is still fogged from the exhaustion following his high, and he’s still half asleep in your arms, trying to regain his bearings. The words slip out before he can think twice, forgetting his fear of you laughing at the idea of him trying to be a better man.

“He asked me to be on the side that saves people… if both are the same to me, he wanted me to be a good man.”

The words dawn on him too late; he can hardly bring himself to look up at you, scared that he’s going to find an amused expression on your face or a derisive sneer. He wouldn’t blame you, he’s thought the same about himself ever since he left the Port Mafia, doubt and self-loathing riddling him with every step he takes in the light. He waits for the scoff, he waits for the laugh, he waits for-

“... I think he would be proud of who you’ve become, Osamu. I think you’ve fulfilled his request.”

Dazai does look up at you now, feeling particularly vulnerable, still scared that he might find a mocking expression on your face but he doesn’t. Only an uncharacteristically soft expression is painted on your face as you look up at the ceiling, a genuine one—a small smile and a look in your eyes that makes his heart feel warm. You don’t notice him looking until he lets slip out:

“I’ve missed you so much,” he whispers. 

(I love you, he means)

“I’ve missed you too,” you say back quietly.

(I love you too)

[saphronethaleph]

“I never wanted you dead,” Sheev said, smiling in a grandfatherly sort of way, which he was terrible at. “I wanted you here… Empress Palpatine.”

He gestured. “You will take the throne. It is your birthright to rule here. It is in your blood. Our blood.”

“I haven’t come to lead the Sith,” Rey replied, then there was a loud doom doom doom sound of someone knocking on a door.

“Who is that?” Palpatine asked.

Then Luke Skywalker entered the room, limned with blue light.

So did his father, Anakin Skywalker, and Leia Organa Solo. And Yoda, hovering along on a spectral hoverchair, and Qui-Gon Jinn, and Obi-Wan Kenobi, and Count Dooku.

“...um,” Rey began. “Master…s?”

“Rey,” Luke replied, with a nod. “You were right, by the way.”

“What is this?” Palpatine asked, his voice hushed and touched with fear. “What are you doing?”

“You never heard the story of Master Qui-Gon the Insightful?” Anakin asked.

“I’m insightful?” Qui-Gon said, sounding pleased.

“You are certainly something,” Dooku said, as Yoda chuckled.

Palpatine looked like he might be about to have an aneurysm.

“It’s not a story the Sith would have told you,” Anakin went on, with a terrible glee in his tone. “You see, the Light Side is a path to many abilities some would consider to be… supernatural.”

“Got that out of your system?” Obi-Wan asked.

“For now,” Anakin shrugged.

“What-” Palpatine sputtered. “What are you – this isn’t possible! You are dead! It is the Sith who can defy death!”

“The evidence suggests otherwise,” Leia smiled, then cleared her throat. “Sheev Palpatine. We are formally accusing you of-”

“Um,” Rey said, a bit hesitantly. “Sorry to interrupt… I recognize most of you as Jedi, but what is Count Dooku doing here?”

“Probation,” Yoda stated. “Very nicely, he has asked.”

“We are formally,” Leia stressed, “accusing you of, among other assorted crimes, thirty-seven thousand, eight hundred and twenty-seven counts of murder by use of a blunt instrument – to whit, a Clone Army – counting only those who were members of the Jedi Order in good standing at the time of their respective deaths, though we acknowledge that the number murdered on your orders is beyond easy counting. You are accused of treason in times of war and peace alike, of enforced disappearances, of enslavement, of wilful torture, of assorted Crimes Against Sapience, and of Consorting With Ye Powers Of Darknesse, which to my surprise was still on the books of the Old Republic.”

“There are, as the Princess says, many other crimes,” Dooku added. “But we believe those should be enough to be getting on with. For a start.”

Palpatine stared, then laughed.

“You – you are trying me?” he asked. “In what court? By what authority? I am authority! I reject your powerless, toothless threats! I am above punishment!”

“I think we’ll consider that a plea of ‘guilty’, then,” Obi-Wan said. “Wouldn’t you say?”

“That sounds reasonable enough to me,” Qui-Gon agreed. “All right. Grandmaster, if you would do the honours?”

Yoda raised his gimmer stick, and a bolt of lightning hit Palpatine on the head.

The Sith half-stood half-fell out of his chair, trying to hide behind it, then scowled at his own reaction and shot lightning at one of the Force Ghosts.

It passed right through Leia without doing anything at all.

Rey raised her hand.

“Am I still needed here?” she asked.

“You know, I think we can handle this ourselves?” Count Dooku said, courteously, then turned to Palpatine. “Know this, Sidious. You destroyed the Jedi Order, and now the Order will destroy you. If you return, you will be destroyed again. And again. Forty thousand angry ghosts cry out for vengeance.”

Qui-Gon coughed.

“Terminology, Master,” he said.

“Forty thousand annoyed ghosts seek justice,” Count Dooku corrected, as more Force Ghosts began to enter the chamber – walking through the walls in ranks, their ghostly lightsabers held high. “Is that better?”

“It’ll do,” Obi-Wan decided. “We appreciate you making the effort.”

Palpatine did not appreciate him making the effort.

[lordprettyflackotara]

betrayed || masky

tw: SMUT MINORS DNI 18+. abuse? masky beats the shit out of you, gun play for like five seconds, choking, hate sex, breeding, size kink

a/n: everyone do me a favor and pretend the plot to this isn’t kinda all over the place

“You fucking bitch!”

Masky’s voice was hoarse, his fist colliding with your nose once more. You had lost track of time of how long you’d been here, your head hanging as you gasped for air. The beating was one you could handle, Slenderman having trained you well, but the guilt Masky was attempting to make you feel was something you couldn’t have prepared for. “After all these years, you’re going to betray us? You’re going to leave? To do what? Work for Trenderman?!” He hissed. He stomped before you, gripping the handles of your wooden chair with his gloved hands. His eyes were cold and merciless, peering at you from behind the mask he refused to take off. Your hands were bound behind you, the chains rattling as you attempted to breath with them wrapped around your ribcage.

Trenderman had offered you a position at his mansion. You’d continue being a proxy, but you’d be under his management instead of Slender’s. The Trenderman mansion was a more poised and mindful group of creeps, his proxies the same way. Cat Hunter and Kate had been assigned to him first, them being gifts from Slender. However they lacked leadership. That’s where you came in. Slender had four proxies including you, Trenderman had two. You were the newest member. It only made sense to formally invite you to lead the duo. Trenderman was classy like that, he wasn’t going to force you to do anything. Plus it would make him even with his brother, something he knew Slenderman would understand.

However, Masky did not understand.

Masky had discovered your invitation, as well as your agreement scribbled on it. It enraged him, leading him to drag you into his hellish chambers. The proxies were not afraid to torture someone and you were no exception. Toby and Hoodie were unaware of your choice, but Masky’s interpretation was betrayal. “After everything i’ve done for you, you leave to go be an uppity proxy for the goddamn Trender mansion?!” Masky snarled. The brunette had saved you time and time again. Being a female proxy with some sanity left meant you were a target, constantly. On missions, to the creeps. He fought off all of them for you. “What’s he offering you huh? To be the group leader?” He questioned. You briefly managed to meet his gaze, before looking back down as you panted.

You were sure one of your ribs was cracked, if not at the very least bruised to hell. Masky didn’t know how to control his anger, you knew that. Thats why you didn’t tell him or anyone except for Slender. You knew Slenderman let his mansion residents do pretty much whatever they wanted, but he was bound to his word. You knew he wouldn’t talk. What you hadn’t accounted for was Masky’s snooping. He had gone into your room, searching for you to join him for training. An ominous red envelope sat on your dresser and Masky will admit it, he couldn’t resist the temptation to open it. His lack of will power landed you covered in sweat and blood, the light bulb that dimly illuminated the room flickering. “So that’s it. None of us matter, as long as you’re in a position of power,” He concluded. He swiftly turned around, grabbing his small wooden chair and chucking it against the concrete wall.

The wood shattered into chips, causing you to cringe at the loud noise. “After everything i’ve done for you. Do you think taking a stab wound from Candypop was easy? Huh? All because he looked at you funny?” Masky rambled. You managed to clear your throat, swallowing the remaining saliva and blood that occupied your mouth. “You’re a shit leader Masky. You handle all of your problems just like this. Hot headed and without logic,” You hissed. Masky glared at the floor below, bracing himself against the concrete wall. “Let’s face it. Without Hoodie you wouldn’t know how to do shit. You may be the muscle but he’s the brains. You’re not the leader, you’re the fucking puppet for the puppeteer!” You yelled, venom lacing your words. Masky turned toward you suddenly, grabbing you by the collar of your shirt. “Dont forget what you are princess. You’re a proxy just like the rest of us. This isn’t a promotion. You’re still going to be a filthy slave just like the rest of us. Do you really think it’s smart to burn bridges with the people you’re going to spend entirety with?” Masky seethed.

You shuddered under the feeling of his gloves, the material rough as you boldly stared back at him. He noticed the slight shift in your facial expression, the way your willpower was cracking. He chuckled darkly, a sadistic grin spreading across his lips under his mask. “Cmon princess I thought you were smart. Don’t tell me you really thought you were climbing up the corporate ladder,” Masky said. You wanted better. You wanted something better for yourself. Trenderman’s mansion seemed like a way out. A way to have some sort of structure and honor, even if your freedom was stripped away. “Fuck you Masky. You’re just pissed your hard work hasn’t paid off,” You growled. The brunette stood up, glaring down at you. You could feel blood droplets still trickling down your nose, threatening to spill over your lips. Masky grabbed your face, wiping his gloved thumb over the crimson paint.

You hated how flustered his touch made you, his large hands for once demonstrating some form of compassion. You snapped out of your trance, cringing at his tough. “Dont touch me,” You snapped, jerking your head away from him. Masky gritted his teeth, before smacking you across the face. This time you could taste blood, the metallic flavor dancing across your tastebuds. You choked, gasping for air as you spat onto the floor. “You call yourself a proxy? Unchain me and fight me like a man you bastard!” You hissed. Truthfully you didn’t know how much damage you could inflict in your position. You expected your nose to be broken somehow, blunt force trauma causing your nose to become a faucet. Your ribs were fucked, your jaw was popped just almost out of its socket. You were also sweaty, tired, and hungry. However you knew without a shadow of a doubt Masky was taking it easy on you. You had been tasked to torture people together. You knew what the sick fuck could do.

“You wanna fight? Fine. Prove to me you deserve to be a leader,” Masky grumbled. He huffed behind you, undoing your shackles. The chain clanked to the floor, immediately relief washing over your bruised wrist. The minute you were free, you caught Masky off guard. You swiped around him, grabbing his gun that was tucked into his back waistband. You knew exactly where he kept it, you didn’t need any other attack. You pointed the gun directly at his temple, backing him against the wall. He slowly raised his hands, scrawling at you from behind the mask. “Pathetic. I expected more from you,” You spat. Forcefully you grabbed his mask off his face, revealing the hateful expression he wore proudly. “You betrayed us. You betrayed me,” Masky argued. You took the end of the gun, removing it from his temple and shoving it past his lips. “Open your mouth or i’ll break your teeth in,” You threatened. In an odd way you liked this, humiliating him like this. After how much he had put you through, putting the end of a gun in his mouth was the least you could get away with.

Masky stared wide eyed as he loosened his jaw, allowing the gun to go inside of his mouth. There was something about it, something erotic he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Maybe it was the danger that he knew his gun brought. Or the amount of blood that the weapon had produced. Or maybe it was the determined stare you were giving him, your eyebrows furrowed and face hardened. You were so cute like this, so angry. You were always feisty, Masky knew that was a character trait of yours long before you joined his little band of misfits. And honestly, with the blood dripping down your face and messy hair, he had never been more turned on his life. You picked up on the subtle body language changes Masky was making, the sight causing you to raise your furrowed eyebrows. His face was turning a light tint of pink. “What’s your problem?” You asked, genuinely confused. You glanced down, Masky’s boner visible through his jeans. “What the fuck-” You whispered. Masky used your shock to his advantage, swiftly flipping you both around.

He disarmed his gun from you, pinning you against the wall. Lazily he tossed the weapon aside, using his hands to corner you. “Enough games princess. Let’s face it. We’ve always had tension. It’s always been you and me. The late night car rides when we’re the only ones awake. The way we make each other coffee. I see the way you look at me. You can’t lie,” Masky hissed. He wedged his knee in between your thighs, rubbing up against your clothed cunt. “You wanna up and leave? You wanna leave me?” He asked. For a brief moment he looked upset, insulted even. “The real betrayal is not you trying to leave, it’s you trying to leave and act like there’s nothing between us princess,” He snarled. His face hardened once more, your core beginning to throb from the pressure his knee was providing. “Please, just let me have a taste of heaven once,” He mumbled lowly. You stared up at him, grabbing handfuls of his jacket. You pulled him towards you, pressing your blood stained lips against his. His lips were rough against yours, desperate and hungry.

How long had he waited for this? To grab your waist, tugging at the hem of your shirt. You both were like feral animals, tearing at each other clothes. “Someone’s eager, hmm?” Masky teased, relieved to see you match his energy. You pushed him, forcing to sit down in the chair you once sat in. You straddled his hips, rolling them against his aching cock. “Fucking hell princess, you’re killing me here,” Masky groaned. His large hands gripped your ass, squeezing it harshly. Your shirt was long discarded, your hands beginning to fiddle with the clip of your bra. “Please, allow me,” Masky grinned, reaching around and unclipping your bra in a swift motion. He began peppering kisses against your chest, your hips continuing to roll against his. “I didn’t think you’d even know what a bra was, you’re such a virgin,” You smirked, tilting your head back. Masky began sucking at your breast, purposefully missing your exposed hardened nipples. He was littering your skin with marks, his chocolate eyes never straying from yours. He released your skin with a pop, his lips a darker pink. “I don’t fuck like one, but you’ll find that out first hand,” He argued.

Finally he brought your left nipple to his mouth, swirling his tongue around the sensitive bud. He had waited so long to hear that mouth of yours moan his name, your head tilted back and his name falling off of your tongue. You were soaking through your panties, the dampness forming a wet spot through your shorts and onto Masky’s jeans. “Fuck, Masky,” You whined, his tongue swirling around your nipple. He grunted as he grabbed you, throwing you onto the hard concrete floor before crawling on top of you. “You’re such an inconsiderate asshole,” You gritted through your teeth, lifting your hips to help him remove your shorts. Masky tossed them aside carelessly, before undoing his belt. The sound of clinking metal sent a shiver of anticipation down your spine. “Funny, coming from the traitor,” He huffed. He shoved down his jeans and boxers, his hard cock visibly twitching as Masky eyed your cunt. He leaned over you, his breath hot against your ear as the concrete pricked at your bare back. “In all my fantasies i’ve eaten you out for hours, made you squirm beneath me and beg for more. But if i’m being honest with myself, your betrayal has never made me want to fuck you more. I’m not going to wait,” Masky whispered.

His teeth grazed your earlobe, causing you to shiver as you felt the tip of his cock brush against your swollen sex. You whimpered, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Brace yourself princess,” He grumbled, before abruptly shoving himself inside of you. You gasped, your eyes wide and staring at the flickering lightbulb above as he split you in half. Your nails dug into his back, the sharp pain making him grit his teeth. “You can take it. I know you can,” He grunted, pushing himself in further. Your gummy walls were clinging to him, milking his cock in further even as you struggled to take him. Your body was screaming in an odd mixture of pain and pleasure, Masky’s lips pecking sloppy kisses against your ear and down to your neck. “I fucking hate you Masky. I always have. I hate the way you make me feel,” You confessed. You screwed your eyes shut as your body began to relax, Masky’s lips not letting up for a second. “You wanna know why i’m transferring to Trender’s? I refuse to fall in love with you. You sick twisted fuck,” You admitted, your last insult turning into a groan as Masky bottomed out inside of you. He lifted himself, just enough to where he was hovering over you. “I hate you too princess. But don’t lie to yourself. I feel the way you’re squeezing me. It’s a little too late for that,” Masky barked, before slowly moving his hips.

You moaned as he began to snap his hips into yours, your legs wrapping around his waist. His gloved hand came to your throat, viscously beginning to choke you. You gasped, your moans becoming restricted as he fucked you. “You’re such a fucking whore. You know that? Those little shorts you wear on missions. You think i’m the only one who noticed?” Masky rambled. His anger fueled his thrust, his cock abusing your g spot with each thrust. He choked you harder, your groans becoming choked sounds as he plowed into you. “Toby jerks off to you behind closed doors. Did you know that? And Hoodie has secretly recorded you showering so many times I can’t recall how many of those shitty cameras i’ve destroyed,” Masky continued, His eyes were full of darkness and rage, staring down at you intimidatingly. Your nails sank deeper into his back, Masky’s cock twitching at the sensation. He began to fuck you harder, releasing your throat and relishing in the sight of you gasping for air. “You’re never gonna forget me, i’m not going to let you,” Masky grumbled. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, listening to you mercilessly moan his name. It was the sweetest mantra he had ever heard and he attempted to ingrain it into his memory as he fucked you.

“I’m gonna fill you to the fuckin brim with my cum. You wanna play games? You’ll never get rid of me. I’ll leave you with a kid that looks just like me,” Masky groaned. Your walls squeezed his tighter, a sadistic smirk forming across his lips. “Oh you like that you sick little slut? Being bred by me? Why didn’t you just say so?” He questioned mockingly. You could feel your own orgasm approaching quickly, his filthy words making you come closer and closer to the edge of euphoria. “Masky, please, so close,” You whined, your fingers now entangling themselves with his thick brown hair. Masky rewrapped his fingers around your throat, pushing you down further against the pavement as he grunted into your neck. This was humiliating and borderline disgusting, yet you were on a high not even Slenderman himself could ruin. Your orgasm was sudden, Masky’s thrust not halting for a second as he fucked you through your orgasm. Your brain didn’t have time to process anything, your eyes rolling into the back of your head as your walls milked Masky to his own high. Your name fell off of his lips as he came buried inside of you, both of you panting messes as his seed painted your inner walls.

“I think I may stay.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

[wynnyfryd]

Trailer park Steve AU part 16

part 1 | part 15 | ao3

cw: unsympathetic religious discussion, mentions of oral sex (istg if you’re under 18 i will send such a sternly worded letter to your legal guardian, go aWAY)

“So just, to recap…” Eddie says dully, digging a thumb into his brow bone like he’s got a headache coming on. He’s sitting on the floor with his back against a work bench — one knee drawn to his chest, the other stretched out long, nearly tripping Steve where he's pacing a hole into the concrete. He lets his head fall against the bench with a thunk, looks up at Steve and continues, “we just got abducted by two asthmatic freshmen—”

“Pretty sure Dustin's the only one with asthma.”

"Okay, and I’m pretty sure that doesn't fucking matter when we've just been kidnapped and forced to play the world’s shittiest version of Seven Minutes in Heaven!"

Eddie takes a shuddering breath, brings his voice back down an octave. "Sorry,” he says, then sighs morosely to himself. “Imprisoned by my own sheepies…”

What a goddamned drama queen.

“Sheepies?” Steve asks.

"Never mind,” Eddie huffs. “Just... I mean, Jesus Christ, is this really what's happening? This? This is really where my life's at right now?”

Steve’s been wondering that himself.

“It's an intervention!" Dustin screeches. "It's for your own good!” “I’m gonna intervene your head from your body!” “That doesn’t even make sense!” Steve gives the metal above him one final, fruitless shove, then sinks down on the steps and puts his head in his hands. Pinches the end of his nose. His voice is hoarse from yelling, his temples starting to throb. Eddie’s shaking beside him like a cat that fell in an ice bath. “Seriously,” he pleads, lowering his voice. “Let us out; this isn’t cool.” “We will, okay? We promise. Just talk to each other first. Please? Just fifteen minutes.” Aaand he's yelling again. "Fifteen— are you out of your mind??" He's about to say 'hell no,' or maybe 'go fuck yourself,' but then Dustin yelps, “U.S.S. Butterscotch!” 'U.S.S. Butterscotch.' It’s basically the Scoops Troop's 'Olly olly oxen free.' “Goddammit, dude, FINE!”

“....Yeah, that about sums it up." Steve runs a hand through his hair, sweeping his bangs back off his forehead.

Eddie gives him a worn-out stare. “Well, shit.”

“Yep.” He goes back to his pacing — back and forth, back and forth, like it's actually doing anything to calm him down. (It isn’t really. If anything it’s just making his lower back damp with sweat.)

On the floor, Eddie shivers and draws his other leg to his chest, chin resting on bony knees, arms wrapped around his legs. "Christ, it's freezing," he complains, rubbing a hand over his shins. "If we die of exposure before I get to exact my revenge on those little assholes I'm gonna be so pissed."

"Here—" Steve starts to shrug off his jacket to give it to Eddie, but then he remembers the pills he still has stashed in the left pocket and abruptly changes course. He turns to the storage shelves, scanning for anything that might be useful, and— "There we go."

He makes his way to a messy pile of old camping supplies, scoops up an armful of whatever he can find: sleeping bags, flashlights, a lantern, some old citronella candles. They won't do much for warmth, but they'll make the place a bit less Russian torture chamber, at least.

Eddie eyes him a little warily as he sets up a spot right beside him on the floor. He spreads one sleeping bag out for them to sit on like a picnic blanket; offers the other one to Eddie, who drapes it over his shoulders like a cloak, his long, dark curls spilling over the edge.

"You got a light?" he asks, arranging the candles and the lantern in a half-circle around them.

"Sure do,” Eddie says. His face lights up when he slips a hand inside his pocket. "Oh, hell yeah, baby! Look what else I got."

He pulls out a silver flask, flashing it at Steve, and Steve ignores the way the words 'hell yeah, baby' bounce around his skull like an echo through an empty cavern.

"A little insurance policy in case the dinner party was a bore." Eddie unscrews the lid; takes a wincing swig. "Would have taken boring over this, though. Think I might’ve gotten a little more excitement than I bargained for." "Yeah,” Steve laughs under his breath. "You think?"

Eddie passes him the flask, sets to lighting all the wicks while Steve takes a shot. The whiskey is cheap, and it stings on the way down, but it's nice. Warm. Liquid amber in his chest, glowing like the candlelight Eddie sparks to life.

Eddie settles down beside him. With the workbench at their backs and the warm tint to the room, it's almost cozy. Reminds him of backyard sleepovers with Tommy; a little fortress built for two.

“Do you think they’re still listening?” Eddie's eyes flit to the stairs.

“Probably." Steve takes another swig, gesturing to the shadows beyond their makeshift camp. "He probably got Suzie to help him bug this whole place."

"Ah, yes. The crazy hot, crazy smart summer camp girlfriend who totally exists."

"She does, actually,” Steve laughs, “if you can believe it."

"No shit?"

"I know, right? I mean, like..." He scratches the side of his nose. "She's Mormon and lives all the way out in Utah, so it's not exactly like... but, whatever. He's super into her, so—"

"Hold up. Dustin's dating a Mormon?" Eddie says it like he’s spitting sunflower hulls. "That's almost worse than her being fake."

“What, you got some kinda history with Mormons?”

“Oh, yeah," Eddie snorts derisively. "The Mormons and I go waaay back."

"Wait, for real?" Was Eddie in a cult? Because that would actually explain so much.

"Dude. No. Hell no. Those fuckers love to solicit the downtrodden, though. They show up at the park all the time.”

“Great,” Steve deadpans. Another wonderful amenity of the Forest Hills experience.

“Don’t worry. Wayne usually just crosses himself at them until they go away.” He makes the sign of the cross, his rings glinting in the light. “Catholic middle-aged men and LDS teens, now there’s some quality petty drama.”

“So you’re Catholic, then?” Steve asks.

“Jesus, Harrington. We’re supposed to be kissing and making up and you want to start a religious debate?”

No, he absolutely does not. He wants to make fun of Eddie, because, "That’s the second time you’ve mentioned kissing." Eddie’s cheeks go horribly pink; peach tint in the deep orange glow. “First you wanna suck my blood at dinner, now you’re talking about making out. What next?” Steve teases. “You gonna offer to suck my dick?”

He means it as a joke — a slightly rude one, sure; insinuating, but still. He expects Eddie to get it, to roll his eyes and play along. Ha ha, Harrington.

When he used to say shit like this to Tommy, Tommy would always just laugh and shove him off, tell him to go suck it yourself.

Only Eddie doesn’t laugh.

Eddie goes quiet. Runs his tongue over his teeth. He fixes Steve with one of those looks; the kind that make him feel like a burglar caught in a flood light’s beam. “Why?" he teases back. "Did you want me to or something?”

—

part 17

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[jolapeno]

trouble keepin' my eyes off you

john 'soap' mactavish x f!reader wc: 4k | warnings: angst, jealous!soap, pining summary: soap has been aware of it for longer than he’d like to admit. each time his eyes land on your mid-smile, each sound of your laughter—all he thinks is, I want this, I want it all with you.  an: prequel to yours to keep and a thousand — and dedicated to @guyfieriii who i adore, and dedicate all my soap too. teehee.

soap masterlist

It’s uncomfortable, the heat. It clings, wraps and drapes over everything, smothering any breeze or fresh air.

The sweat builds on his brow, dripping down the back of his neck, leaving puddles at the base of his spine. Worst of all, beads drop from his hairline, sliding down his cheeks, dropping from his jawline as he runs his hand through his hair.

His hair has grown—the shorter sides having gained some length, beginning to conceal his very deliberate mohawk he had going. Which is another string to the bow of annoyance. It tells the tale of how long they've all been here, sweating, not sleeping, watching and waiting.

But the bow, the real thing which has been grating him is that you’re on the other side of a slightly ajar door, sparring—and it isn’t with him. 

Soap has been trying not to listen. 

But, they’re loud—you are loud. 

Even his attempts of burying it have been futile. He's attempted to recall songs from home. Ones where there’s a scotch or beer in hand, swishing from side to side as his voice cracks as he screams the words—arms around a friend or two. The words which he knows are embedded into his soul—into the very fibre of his being—and yet, you’re making it hard for him to finish a verse, never mind a song. 

He’s tried to focus on the quieter noises. The ones he wouldn't usually pay any fucking attention to—like Gaz tapping the keys of the laptop in the kitchen and the hot breeze trying to brush through the open window. The background noise, never loud enough to cause any impact—but he needs them to. He clings to hope that they will. He practically claws out for them, grabbing them with metaphorical hands—anything to drive the much louder noises away. 

The ones coming from the door he’s forbidden from entering all because of stern words from even sterner eyes behind a balaclava. 

On some level, he understands. 

The whole place is small. Privacy is not something any of you are granted. But, he knows Ghost is trying to provide that for you in this case. Because you, little Squid, rarely ever ask for help—especially from him. 

Gaz, yes. Price, maybe. Even him, occasionally. 

Ghost—never.

But, he’s softened. He has jokes with you, purposefully having chosen to spend time with you on watch. Something rare, and very out of character for a man who initially didn't even show any of them his bloody face.

Soap knows you've done it again. Seeped under his layers, like you did with all of them, weaving your way, making it hard not to instantly take a shine to you.

He doesn't blame Ghost, he understands why. He can see that time was taken making you, carving each element of your personality, creating someone that is both good, clever and funny. You're strong-willed, giving-a-shit attitude is most likely the reason Ghost is helping you—training with you, offering guidance and support.

Handing you fucking praise.

Because he too has caught on to what they’ve all seen. He’s taken notice of how fucking splendid you are, how you’re capable and fucking gorgeous all rolled into one. 

That’s it, Squidlet. Use your—perfect, that’s it, you got it. Atta girl. 

He’s sure he’ll need bleach to burn Ghost’s words from his brain. 

Even if it’s his fault—because he knows he shouldn’t be listening. 

Having created his own personal torture chamber that he’s taken the time to design, construct, and build. Because there wasn’t a table and chairs here before—he moved them here. Choosing this spot so he could be close, just in case. Of what? He's not sure. But he needs to be here, something within him compelling him to be.

Under his jealousy, he doesn’t blame you, and he doesn’t blame Lt either. He knows the two of you can hardly be expected to spar outside, where every pair of eyes could be the enemy. Out there, the air isn't just thick with heat, but tension too.

Apprehension simmers as they come closer and closer to completing the very thing they are here for. 

So, he's sat outside the room. Pretending to be interested in the latest report. Not wanting to move. Twisting and turning his emotions like playing cards, wondering why didn’t you ask him? 

He bristles, chewing the inside of his mouth, breathing heavy, hating it—hating it all. His cheeks burning, coated in sweat as he stares at the words on the page, unsure why none of them are soaking in.

Why wouldn't you choose your lieutenant? That's the thought that gnaws, that sinks its pointy teeth into him. And it makes his bones ache. 

Because he's so close, and yet so far. He almost has you, but not entirely. And it pecks at him, weaves into his insecurities, his need to prove himself—so much so he can’t rid the image of his lieutenant looming his big fucking frame over you. You under him, eyes staring up, lips parted, shredding your clothing for the man who rarely shows his face—

Your groan punches the air. 

A sound he knows is from you being knocked on your arse, but it makes his fingers turn white. The sound so painted with frustration, and tiredness. He can tell—christ, he can even imagine the look on your face that accompanies it. Yet his brain twists it, morphs it, transforms it into something so ugly it almost breaks his heart.

It makes him want to claw at his brain, scratch out the images the tortured parts of himself keeps creating.

Because he knows you’re both sparring, that Lt is likely knocking you down, over and over again—not knowing that you’re stubborn, not knowing he should stop, that you’re running on nothing. 

He’s your lieutenant, yes, but he doesn’t know you. Doesn’t know that you push yourself until you snap and shatter, leaving fragments of yourself in your hands. Pieces he’s tried to help guide back into place when he’s found you, lost and broken in such a way he’s not sure how to glue you back.

But, you didn’t choose him. 

You chose Ghost. 

Asked, practically pleaded with him. 

So, he had to listen—even if he really fucking didn’t want to. He had to take the few sightings of you through the cracked door—the proof that you’re not on the floor, broken, breathing hard with sweat blending with tears. 

Which means he also sees your body sheened with sweat, hair sticking to your face, neck and shoulders, and your tiny, tight shorts. It means he's seeing you looking ethereal, almost too good for this goddamn place.

And it nips at him—fueling his jealousy. It peels at his skin that Ghost is seeing you like this without a filter, without anything getting in the way.

All of it whisking against the vexation of the heat, the fear of failure and the growing tiredness. It makes his knuckles almost crack, his skin almost translucent as his wrists ache from the way he continually clenches his fist. 

He’s down bad. He knows that. 

Soap has been aware of it for longer than he’d like to admit. Each time his eyes land on your mid-smile, each sound of your laughter—all he thinks is, I want this, I want it all with you. 

Not that he says those words. He just thinks them. Lets them swirl around his godforsaken mind until they try to drag him under. 

Sometimes, he can’t even think because of it. The depths of his own thoughts like water, drowning him from the inside, made so much worse by the simple fact—he’s not the one pinning you to the floorboards. That he has barely seen you, spoken to you, been around you since they all landed here.

But Ghost has. His lieutenant has. The same Lt who is funny, witty, and even has his own nickname for you. The one who has height even on him, who is broader, and who your eyes land on immediately when briefs are given out. 

Not his. 

Each time he almost wants to exit the room, his teeth cutting the inside of his cheeks. Instead, he sits and silently stews. Bubbling away like a broth his mum used to make—hoping, waiting to get back to base where things feel easier.

And then, your squeal pinches the air, Soap unaware he's even standing until he blinks.

Then he hears the unmistakable gruff, Manchester twang of “Y’alright, Squidie?”

His heart pounds, attempting to crack his ribs and fly out of his chest. More so as each millisecond ticks on, as they add up into seconds and your voice hasn’t cut through the air—

“Not broken. Winded. But—“ 

You cough. Heavy. Chesty. 

Soap’s mind fighting, urging him to push the door open more and visibly check you over himself. But, he hears movements, feet—boots. 

“And. Stop callin’ me, Squidie.”

“Prefer Squidlet?"

"Fuck no."

"Get up.” 

“Alright, alright,” you hiss, and the floorboard creaks again as you do. “Anyone tell you that you're the worst sometimes, Ghostling.”

Each night, he hopes the air will be easier to swallow. But, each night he wishes, it brings a new fresh hell he feels ill-prepared for.

Tonight, it’s sticky—the air clogged with thick, stubborn heat. There’s moisture, but it’s wrong. It smothers, makes his clothes chafe against his muscles. 

All of it is made worse by you being difficult. You're kind, warm-hearted, and beautiful—but fucking difficult too. Especially on low sleep. Especially when you're woven so tightly, you're going to snap.

He’s heard Price order you to get some fuckin’ sleep—your back against the dingy wall, his palm flat against the wall, eyes close to yours. Soap watched as you lifted your chin defiantly, muttering back, I’ll sleep when you do, Captain. 

Anyone else, he suspects they’d have their neck wrung. Sharing a look with Ghost—one he wasn’t able to translate—as you spit that you'll do the next watch, climbing the stone staircase and the ladder at the top before anyone can argue.  

It reminds him of months ago, when you’d driven yourself to near exhaustion then. Your stubborn, difficultness being the backbone for you not to sleep, something always needing to be done—as if you’re the sole person who can stop all of this and put the world to rights. 

You’ve always taken on so much.

The fire in your chest is both a blessing and a curse. He’s heard Price chew you out for the same reason. You try to do it all, not because you don’t rely on them or because you don’t trust them, but because:

“I care about you, all of you.” 

Soap had been lingering, hanging outside the door of Price’s office when he heard his response. 

“What makes you think you’re alone in that, hmm? You’re one of us, Squid. So, be one of us.” 

When you’d emerged—tail between your legs—it didn’t take a genius to see you’d taken it hard. Not the berating, but the statement; the fact you fit in, that you were cared for.

And, even then you’d tried to shift the emotions dancing in your eyes from him. The mask not slipping down quickly enough, and the smile was not being presented fast. 

“Y’alright?”

He always wondered if you’d have lied if he’d found you one minute later. If you’d have done so because you’d have known he hadn’t seen you undone, exposed—walls at your feet. 

“No. Not… not really.”  “C’mon, lass.” 

It wasn’t the first time, but it was one of his favourites.

He’d held you against him, his sheets over both of your bodies, comfortable silence surrounding the two of you, clothes a welcomed barrier to anything else—as you held him like he was your rock in a storm.

Just like the two of them did on that first mission together. 

I trust you. You know that, don’t you? Course, lass. Be bit awkward if y’didn’t? I mean, I don't do this with anyone else. Sleep with them... like this. I hope fuckin' not. You're special, Johnny. That's all I mean.

Sleep took you seconds later. Gently stealing you from him, breaths turning heavier and body relaxing and moulding around him. 

Soap had found, in that space between reality and sleep, that’s when you were the most free. When your tongue is loosened and your heart is without chains. A side of you he sees in fleeting moments when he’s alone with you, but in a greater capacity like this—when you’re about to leave him for your dreams. 

Now, though, it’s different.

You're weighed down by more than stress and pride, but rocks and fucking anchors. Whether because of the growing casualties or because you missed your bed, because it brought up memories you only ever half told him about.

He knows this because he's overheard Gaz ask you if you’re okay—Soap watching from the sidelines as you lie through your teeth. Something you’re getting better at, somewhat able to control your features, almost a poker face. 

He knows you hate lying, to them at least. Each lie you spit opens a sore inside of you. It’s why he’s not asked himself. Not wanting to give you something else to churn and worry over, knowing it knots your insides and makes you spiral. 

It’s not his turn to keep watch, but he follows you up the ladder all the same. He leans, the air coating his skin, making him already dream about the dribble they call a shower. Because even the rooftop wall is boiling, almost cooking him through his vest and clothes. 

“Talk to me, lass. What’s keepin’ y’up?” 

You don’t look at him, continuing your pacing, eyes trained in the distance. But your breath audibly catches, clearly startled, clearly rattled by his question—his presence. 

“I hate losing.” 

“We ain’t gonna lose, Mari.” 

Your chin lifts, tongue swiping across dry, cracked lips. “I know… we’re the best of the fucking best. But…” 

He knows. 

He’s been feeling it too. 

That thing. Unexplainable. The shadow in the corner, the one which has been haunting and hunting them since the wheels touched down. Sometimes, it’s easy, and sometimes it’s methodical—it’s torturous observing until the perfect moment. And when it’s the latter, it has a way of scratching at sensibility. 

They all have a past. A failed mission that stands out from the rest—one that reminds each of them not to relax, to not let their guard down—what a single mistake can cause. 

Your head turns, the moon casting a shadow across your features, and the hold you have on his heart tightens—nails digging in deep as the muscle tries to thump. 

“Johnny, I’m just so t—“

But it’s stolen, your explanation. 

Heavy boots and a masked face cut off whatever you were about to say. Eyes sitting around darkness, staring from him to you, bouncing, before frowning. 

“It's not your watch, Johnny—"

"—I know—"

"You should get some sleep."

He wants to argue. Almost bloody does, too. 

Wants to dig his heels in, and get you to continue, but he’s tired—his shoulders aching, his eyes stinging.

But, it's your words from another mission that come to mind. The ones from when you’d emerged like a phoenix—fire and smoke behind you as you stumbled into his arms— 

Dunna do that, lass. Scare me. Need to stop worrying, Soapie. I always find my way back. I promise.

So he nods. He leaves. His palms descend down the ladder, half-stopping when he realises he left the window opening pausing.

He's not sure what he’s expecting—if anything at all. A confirmation, maybe? That the girl who drives him mad, has feelings for the more obvious choice. The brooding, big lieutenant who spits army jokes like he has an arsenal of them; the one you spend more time under, even if it’s sparring, than any of the others.

He’s about to move, shaking his nonsensical thoughts when he hears Ghost.

“Y’gotta stop fighting us all, Squidlet.”

“I’m not.”

“You fuckin’ are, and you know it.” 

Silence. Horrid, fucking silence. So much so, his mind begins to fill with images of your bodies moving together, arms pulling the other close, ripping, shredding—

“You’ll be a piss poor shot if y’don’t sleep. Plus, you’re wearing Johnny out.” 

His face flushes, bloody burns in the space between the second floor and the roof.

He doesn't miss you mumble that you’re not. All dismissive. Making his hands grip the spindle of the ladder, releasing a puff of air. 

“If I sleep—“

“The world will keep turnin', trust me.” 

“You almost sound like you care.” 

His heart sinks, drops—and fucking plummets. Because you’re right. It does. It sounds exactly like that. The nickname. The way he’s come up when it’s not even his watch. All of it screaming that it’s something—all flashing lights and loud music accompanying it. 

“Go to sleep, Squidie.” 

“It’s my—“

“Go.” 

He has to move. 

He needs to move. 

Even if he wants to pull you close to him. Even if it feels like you’re slipping through his fingers.

Just like he had done when he first realised how he felt, how he’d been feeling. When he’d almost told you. Rain hammering down, drowning you both to the bone. The two of you sent east, the rest west. Splitting a building each, finding his empty, and telling you as much. Your radio silence still haunted him. His blood thumping in his ears, ripping through each room, doing what he does best—cleaning fucking house. Finding you, bruised, bleeding, your knife in hand trembling under a dead body. The sound of boots drawing nearer to the opening they’d made—

“Thanks, Simon.” 

He blinks in the present. The memory faded into nothing, vanishing like smoke—like it was never even there. Whatever held the last parts of him, snapped. His eyes staring up, pricking with the heat and the moment—stinging, aching. 

You called him his name.

It left your tongue wrapped in intimacy, in care.

He’s unsure how he reaches the bottom of the ladder, his palms closed, fists clenched, nothing else in his head except getting to his room. Crossing the landing, passing the room with the others, only focusing on reaching his own room. The small thing—the cupboard with a single bed he’d managed to cop. 

Everything he's squashed down, rises. They all begin to angrily fuse, mixing with the heat and his pent up frustration that he’s still here—so much so he almost slams the door. Almost.  

His fingers instead press the thin wood into its frame. The click blessing the air like the first strum of a guitar, his heart beating like a drum—and then a knock, one belonging to a smaller hand, calloused, but still soft, the bass that sets the mood. All of it blending, creating a song he's not sure if he'll love or hate.

He knows it’s you. Knows it as he opens the door, watching you stare up at him, sliding your vest from your body, all defeated and knackered beyond belief. 

Deep down, no matter what his brain says—what he hears, what he sees—he at least knows it’s him you choose to curl up to. That when you really need comfort, it’s him you look for. It’s him you pull close until your bodies almost merge into one. 

“Hi.”

“Lass...” 

You look troubled, more weighed down than he really noticed. Not even bothering to hide it, to plaster a smile over the cracks. 

“Can I… Soap, I can’t…” you chew the inside of your cheek, avoiding his eyes as you sigh. 

He tugs on your wrist, pulling you to him. Your body falling into him like it’s weightless, like you’re all attitude and feathers. Bringing you close, holding your head to his chest—almost swaying with you. 

It always starts like this. 

One, long hug. Rooted to the spot. Nothing—not a single thing able to penetrate the two of you. Frozen in a moment no one can ever take. And then, he’ll turn, finding shorts and a different t-shirt, hearing you undress before finding something more comfortable. Sometimes it’s your own, sometimes it’s his. 

And fuck, when it’s his. 

Your wicked, but sleepy smile is a picture for sore eyes and one he wishes he could take a photo of when you wait for his invite, as if you ever need one to climb into his bed.

Your bodies slide against the mattress. Usually, the springs protest, but the cot you’re sharing just groans in frustration as both of your sets of limbs find their place. 

It should feel awkward, but it never does. He shouldn’t crave this, should be able to sleep solidly without a person on his chest. But, he finds he sleeps better with you. Finds that dreams are easier, that there’s more sunshine, more hope and fucking rainbows in the world when you’re on top of him, softly breathing. 

“Night, Mari.” 

He waits. 

Your usual sleepy ‘Soapie’ or ‘Johnny’ blessing his ears. But none come, none. And he almost tenses, almost moves you to see your face. 

“You… you don’t mind that we do this, do you?” 

His hand tilts your chin up, staring into those eyes, begging them to give him a reason—either to close the gap or begin the process of getting over you. Something. Anything. 

Because how could he mind this, when he wants something more? 

He’d ask for it too. If he weren’t afraid. The big demolition man scared of losing you, of losing this, by being greedy and wanting more. 

“Neve’, lass. I like being the person y’come t’when you need somethin’.”

He doesn’t miss the smile. The soft one. The one which you rarely show, but is bloody beaming for him now. 

“It’s only you, Soapie,” you say, curling tighter into him, leaving no space. 

And it takes all of his control. 

Thoughts of his great-aunt with her harsh accent and wiry moustache to be able to pull you closer. Your head on his chest, fingers dancing up and down your arm as he feels you relax, muscle by muscle. 

“Only me, y’say?” 

You let out a soft breath, one that dances warmth over his t-shirt—almost over the hair on his chest. “You’re an idiot, Johnny. Course it is, who else?” 

And he smiles. 

Not at his name, not at the insult, but the fact you’re falling asleep—something you’ve not done for two full days. And it’s on him. 

Only him. 

He buries the rest of your words. The ‘who else’ and the instant answer that appeared on the tip of his tongue. He can unpack it another time. 

There’s something about waking on top of him. Clothes are a horrid, but necessary barrier between the two of you. 

You don’t want things to change, for them to spoil, to wilt and fade from grasp. So, you’ll put up with only having this, having him in this way. At least then, you'll always have arms around you that you know won’t hurt you. You’ll accept the hugs, and long for the cuddles; you’ll settle for sleeping alongside him, rather than with him. 

And, you won't tell MacTavish that you think he’s handsome, no matter how much he dares you to drink. That even asleep he is beautiful, even minus the evidence of his smile, and the dimples you wish to trace with your fingers. He’s still everything, without being anything. 

He’s your best friend, your safety, your person. 

He feels like home, a soul that grounds you and keeps you rooted. He makes you better, helps you grow and—

Your fingers draw a circle on his chest. Watching his lashes flutter, his eyes slowly opening, and your throat going dry—like it does each time he looks at you with so much softness. 

I think I’m in love with you, Johnny. 

That’s what you should say. 

Instead, you say, “Morning, Soapie.” 

READ NEXT PART

[auspicioustidings]

The Ghost

Blue Blood Part 6

Summary: The conclusion to Blue Blood, you are finally hunted by the Ghost.

Words: 1.8k

CW: Most of this chapter is smut!

“It’s too much, it’s too much!” 

You thought you might die. The marble altar you were on was cool beneath your skin but you were on fire. An hour of fragrant ritual oil being massaged into every inch of you had already gotten you unbearably wound up, but now Johnny had three fingers massaging inside you and Kyle was right by your ear giving you delicious little praises that made you squeeze involuntarily at the fingers and John was standing just looking with such an intensity in his eyes that it was difficult to look away.

“You can take it Duchess” the Duke said firmly.

“I can’t! Please I-” you begged, a moan cutting your words off when you tried to move your hand to touch yourself where you needed only for the Prince to grab your wrists to stop you. Johnny pressed his thumb hard to your clit, not moving, just pressing almost painfully.

This must be some form of torture, not letting you cum. You felt so dazed, like you were starting to float outside of your own body. You tried to move your hips so that Johnny’s thumb would change from an uncomfortable pressure to getting you to the high you wanted, but he pressed a hand to your stomach and held you in place. You think you may have been babbling incoherent curses at them, threatening them with anything you could think of to just touch you properly. There wasn’t even a burn from the stretch anymore, the drooling from between your legs was encouraging the fingers pumping in and out if anything. You think you screamed when they left you.

Desperation was not something you understood before now. You needed more, there was nothing outside of that need anymore. Emptiness and want was all that there was, the need to be full and touched. Without their hands on you, you felt untethered, not even aware of what you were saying or doing.

“Fuuuck ye beg so pretty don’t ye?”

You were vaguely aware then that you were reaching out to Johnny, begging him to come back to you. Begging him to use you how he wanted, satisfy himself with your body if that meant he would let you cum. The Duke grabbed onto his hair and yanked him back sharply, stopping him from getting his hands back on you. Stopping him from putting more than his fingers inside you. You all but squirmed off of the altar, finding your knees weak and legs shaking at trying to even hold up your weight. Johnny looked near feral, the Duke now having to put in some effort to hold him back.

“Kyle!”

At Price’s shout the Prince moved to back Johnny against the wall. The Duke came to stand in front of you then, blocking your view of Kyle going to his knees. What a sight you made, the oil on your skin making it shine in the moonlight pouring in through the skylight of the little ritual chamber, your eyes wet and shining from unshed tears of frustration. You looked up at him so wide-eyed and trusting that if Duke John Price were a weaker man he would have taken you right there and then.

“You’ve already done so well little bird, just a little more. It’s time for you to run” he said, hand coming to caress your cheek. “It’s going to be scary but you need to trust he would never do anything that would permanently hurt you. You’ll not be able to see me, but I promise I will be right there if you need me.”

With a hard squeeze to your hip you were all at once outside.

–

You are running. The earth beneath your bare feet is soft and damp. The moon is high and bright, light filtering down through the trees and turning the woods into some otherworldly realm. Time isn’t linear here, you think you may have been running for hours, yet only seconds ago you had been married. You are scared of being caught and yet your body craves it. Every glimpse of the figure stalking you heightens your nerves until you lose the ability to hear anything but the blood rushing through your veins and throbbing needily between your legs. 

You are caught.

–

The Ghost panted above you, his cock throbbing even through the layer of fabric at your ass. You wanted to turn and see him, but you were pinned down into the dirt, face barely able to turn so you could breathe. He was growling lowly, shifting so that you could feel his hot breaths right on the shell of your ear.

“Thought you could run from me? Stupid thing, there is nowhere you could go that I would not hunt you down.”

There was the tear of gossamer as he ripped at your gown. If either of you had any sense then it would just have been rucked up, the thing was designed for easy access, but you were both so far gone that it didn’t register. You writhed under him, scrambling to get away or get closer with no sense of certainty on which. He wrenched one of your arms to pin it painfully to your back and you howled out in protest as your other hand clawed at the dirt to try and drag you forward and away from him.

“Quit fucking squirming. Think I can’t see how needy that cunt is little girl? Fucking gagging for it.”

He was mean and your hips pressed back against him in response. You had turned into something mean too. 

“Throwing stones at glass houses, you feel plenty needy.”

He barked a laugh and used his free hand to pull his cock out of his clothes, stroking it only once before running the head through your soaked folds. When you felt the heat of it against your clit you fought as hard as you could against his hold to try and rub against him. 

“Want it pretty girl? Want my cock inside you?”

You whined and kept trying to move back against him in answer which only caused him another mean laugh and a sharp smack against the flesh of your ass which you screeched at.

“You were so happy to talk back, what happened? Use your fucking words. Beg for me.”

It didn’t matter that his cock had already caught on your hole, that he was already starting to push into you. You were getting what you wanted but you were so gone, so desperate to get everything he could give, that you choked out an answer anyway.

“Please please, need you inside me! Take me, I’m yours. Ah! I’m yours! Please I- ah!” you screamed as you felt the heat of him sink into you inch by inch. “Full, m’too full.”

“You can take it Duchess.”

Him repeating the words that Price had said had you choking on your own saliva with the possibility that the Duke had given him advice on how best to handle you. When you thought there could not possibly be more inside of you he let go of your arm to put his hands on your hips and pull them up, your chest still pressed into the dirt with your ass now high. He sunk impossibly more into you and you whined long and low. It felt like he was in your fucking stomach. 

“Fuck you’re tight,” Ghost groaned as he gave a few slow thrusts, making it deeper each time until he bottomed out.

When one of his hands came to press low on your stomach, when you both realised at the same time that he could feel himself there, you felt your walls flutter and pulse around him and came very close to cumming from his moan alone. His hand on your hip tightened until it was bruisingly tight. He was fighting himself.

“I can take it.”

That snapped any self control Ghost had and he started fucking you with a fury. The air was punched out of your lungs with every hard and deep thrust of him inside you and you were light headed from the lack of oxygen. It was intense, it was too intense. The hand on your stomach moved back so he could ram you back onto his cock again and again, using your body for his own pleasure. It was intense and pain and pleasure and if you did not cum you would die. You couldn’t verbalise it, the only noises you could make were sobs and moans as he ruined you. 

“Perfect cunt, all wet and squeezing at me. Want you to cum on my cock, try fucking strangle it.”

His fingers only had to touch you for moments before you were screaming your throat raw, the orgasm making you see white. Your pussy choked on his dick the way your throat had on Price’s, body overwhelmed and trying to force him out. 

“Fuck, take it!”

He fucked you hard through your orgasm and gave one last push, spilling himself deep inside of you. You went completely boneless, head totally empty and body exhausted. It meant you didn’t notice how despite him being in the same situation, he still made sure to catch himself on his forearms as he collapsed on top of you to protect you from his weight. 

You were barely conscious by the time he pulled out and rolled off of you, dragging you with him so he could hold you close there on the earth and Simon Riley could mutter soft praises into your hair, telling you how sorry he was for hurting you and how proud he was of how well you had done. He told you he loved you. 

As the darkness of sleep took you, you couldn’t help but think that despite how little you knew the man holding you, you loved him too.

–

“I like rainbow butterflies so much!”

“Aye? Is that right wee yin?”

“I pick red, your turn!”

You hide your laugh in Ghost’s shoulder, but he does very little to hide how funny he finds the sight of the scary Blood Druid once again hanging on every word of nonsense your toddling daughter says. The War Duke is happily sat right next to the two of them, following orders and picking out a gemstone which earns a delighted laugh and an exclamation of “blue!”. 

The Wild King is holding your sleeping newborn, gazing down at the baby with soft adoration. It had caused quite the scandal when your second child had been so clearly not your husband’s, but behind closed doors the only tension had been Kyle endlessly teasing the others that they would simply need to try harder next time if they didn’t want every other child you had to have the same soft brown skin as him. 

“Are you happy, my gentle little Duchess?” your husband asks.

“Blissfully.”

[queen-haq]

Fic: Never You - Part 10 (Penelope x Colin)

Fandom: Bridgerton (TV show)

Spoilers: S3 released scenes.

Summary: They may have been friends once but his callous words decimated their relationship. Determined not to have anything to do with him, Penelope is ready to move on. But Colin isn’t giving up, not at all. Friends or not, they are connected for life - and he intends to remind her of that.

Excerpt:

“You would hate me for not wanting to court you. You would be that selfish?”

“Of course you would think that.”

“What else is this if not punishment?”

Masterlist (contains links to previous parts and my other stories)

A03 link if that’s more your jam

Colin awoke with a start. His body was covered in sweat, his heart drumming in his chest. Complete darkness surrounded his bedchamber, exacerbating his jittery nerves. After taking a minute to settle his mind, he lit the candle next to his bed, slid off the bed and put on a shirt and trousers over his naked form. Desperate for some air, he walked out of the chamber, silently making his way along the extended hallway and down the staircase before grabbing his coat to head out to the gardens. The air outside was cool and crisp, exactly what he needed to soothe his frayed mind from the cursed nightmares that had been torturing him.

Since his last conversation with Penelope a week ago, he’d been haunted by dreams of her with other men. The first couple of nights his subconscious mind had conjured up the most horrific images of faceless men fucking Penelope. His Penelope. However, the nightmares from the past three nights had been far worse. Because it was no longer just visions of Penelope being seduced. No. The night before last he had dreamt of her marrying a faceless prick in the church. Last night Benedict painted her nude form while she fed his brother cake in return. And tonight was the fucking worst. Fife – Fife! – had his arm around Penelope, hugging her, holding her, while the two danced and laughed together. Just the thought of it made him want to stab Fife repeatedly, his hand instinctively forming a fist.

Images of her with all these other men elicited such a visceral reaction in him that he spent most of the week in bed, feeling sick to his stomach. But enough was enough.

He came to a stop at the farthest edge of the Bridgerton garden, bringing him in close proximity of the Featherington property. Leaning against a tree, he watched the building in front of him. The mansion was dark, it appeared everyone was asleep.  Penelope’s bedroom wrapped around the northwest corner of the property, allowing him viewing access to the front window. The one and only time he had snuck into her room he had used the window on the west corner, so he wouldn’t be visible to others on the street. Right away his mind rushed to that night, the memories ingrained into his brain. The feel of her sweet, luscious body, the way she moaned his name as she touched herself, his cock sliding along her magnificent tits – fuck! Colin shook his head. Stop. He had to stop. Because he couldn’t fucking think when he was caught up in those sensations.

Anger surged through him as his eyes trailed back up to Penelope’s bedroom. The windows were closed, the room dark. She was probably sleeping without a care in the world while he hadn’t experienced a single moment of peace in weeks. The nightmares may have started recently but Pen had been weighing heavily in his mind ever since the Danbury ball. That was the night she had lambasted him about his unfortunate words from last season, and consequently his world had shifted on its axis. Of course he didn’t fault Pen; she had every right to be furious with him. After playing the hero for the Featherington ladies he had been full of himself and celebrated with one too many drinks. Foxed out of his mind, he grew increasingly irritated by Fife’s taunts and decided to shut him down. Unfortunately his ego stroke came at the expense of Penelope.  There were no excuse for his behaviour. He was an ass and deserved the tongue lashing, but what took him by surprise was how seductive Penelope’s rage had been. Dressed like a siren, the Penelope in front of him had been a fiery, intoxicating goddess and not the shy, sweet girl he grew up with. It was the first time she had revealed herself to him truly, and from that day on he was completely transfixed.

He inhaled a cold, deep breath as Penelope’s secret engagement flashed through his mind. She was engaged. Engaged. To another man. A man who was allowed to touch her and fuck her, hold her, comfort her, sleep beside her. She would marry this man and bear his children. She would take his name and build a life with him. Smile with him. Laugh with him. Love him.

Nausea hit him like a tidal wave. He bent over to retch, his body trying to expel all thoughts of Penelope with another man out of his physical form – but nothing came out. He dry heaved instead. Ironic. Even when she was making him sick, his body didn’t want to give her up. After a few more attempts, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before walking forward and crossing over to Featherington property. No doubt if someone were to see him now they would think him crazy but Colin didn’t care. He couldn’t go back to sleep, he needed to be close to her.

She had confessed to being in love with him. Not her secret lover, but him. Yet she’d turned down his proposal anyway. Colin wasn’t a fool, he knew exactly why. She wouldn’t marry him because he didn’t love her. A heavy weight lodged in his chest remembering the pained expression on her face when he confessed the truth. If he knew how excruciating it would be to have Penelope sever their relationship he would have happily lied. Unfortunately he chose truth and now had to pay the price for that honesty.

It's not like he didn’t want to be in love with Penelope. Things would be so much easier if he was, but what he felt for her wasn’t love. Because love was good, it was pure and kind, it brought out the best in people and made them want to be better for each other. His parents were deeply in love, and their relationship was forged from kinship and selflessness. Anthony, so cantankerous and domineering in the past few years, was a different man after falling in love with Kate. She brought out the joyous side of him, reminding Colin of the brother he grew up with before their father died. Even his own feelings for Marina were closer to love than what he felt for Pen. With Marina he was noble, not even tempted to kiss her because he was determined to be a true gentleman. But Penelope. A harsh breath escaped him. She was in his blood, running through his veins, calling out to him every minute of every day. Being good and kind, making a name for himself – all of his earlier pursuits no longer mattered. The only thing that did was being with her.

The depth of his feelings for her terrified him but not as much as the thought of not being with her. He would do anything for her. Whatever it took, no matter the consequences. If he had to risk her reputation to make her his, so be it. If he had to burn the whole world down, he would. What he felt for Penelope was caustic and dangerous. It made him selfish and desperate and volatile. It was all-consuming, leaving space for nothing else in his soul but her. 

There was no comfort in what he felt for Penelope. Around her he was aroused, excited, elated. Frightened, because every moment he was with her he was also paranoid about losing her. Fear and ecstasy coursed through him when she was near, her eyes on him, her body close to his. He couldn’t breathe around her, his heart constantly pounding. And he didn’t even want to think about how painful it was to be away from Penelope. The ache in his chest was palpable, it physically hurt, wounding him deeper and deeper. It was only her touch that stopped the pain from searing through him. None of it made sense, nothing did anymore.

It didn’t used to be like this. In the past their friendship had been earnest and meaningful; they shared their hopes, their dreams.  Looking back, however, he realized their relationship had been superficial in nature because Pen always held herself back. Like she purposely only showed him the good parts of herself, never the flaws - no fear, no sadness, nothing remotely real. The only time he remembered any discontent was when she had tried to warn him about Marina but even then he had been able to sway her easily. But things were different now, she was different. She no longer attempted to hide behind a mask of happy emotions to appease him. There was an assuredness in her which meant she wasn’t guarded around him anymore. He liked seeing her heightened emotions, liked watching her unravel in front of him. Because it meant he wasn’t the only one out of control.  They were both spiraling, because of each other.   

Under no circumstances would Penelope marry anyone else, not as long as he was alive. He would never allow it. She belonged to him; they were connected forever. She owned his mind, his heart, his very soul and he owned hers. It didn’t matter if she wasn’t a virgin. The past was the past, and he was her future.

Resolved in his decision, he started walking forward. One week was enough without Penelope, he wasn’t going to waste any more time away from her. Intending to climb up, he made his way towards where her chamber was located when the sight of a hooded figure exiting the far corner entrance caught his attention. He stopped in his tracks. For weeks now he had watched Penelope, studied her intently, her face, her hair, her curves, the way she moved through a crowd, how she danced – and he had catalogued every inch of her, including her gait. That’s how he knew with full certainty it was Penelope sneaking away from her home despite the oversized cape and hidden features.

Immediately red-hot anger coursed through him. Where was she going so late at night? To meet her lover? Jealousy burned inside him. His nausea returned with a vengeance but he ignored it through sheer willpower. No. Absolutely not. He was willing to accept a past lover but that’s where he drew the line. She was his. His. And he would kill anyone who tried to take her from him.

He trailed behind her while she crossed several streets, keeping his distance so she wouldn’t notice him. After she jumped into a hired hack, he did the same, following behind her until she came to a stop in front of a rundown tavern in Bloomsbury. 

This was no place for a lady yet his fucking Penelope waltzed inside the establishment like she owned the place. His temper rose exponentially, it took everything in him not to grab her and drag her home. But he knew that would be a mistake; he needed to know who she was meeting and surveilling her was the only way.

The tavern was loud and busy, filled with rowdy drunks and lascivious women. What the fuck was Penelope doing here? Colin scanned the crowd until he finally spotted her sitting in a far corner. Her face may have been hidden but he recognized her anyway. Like finding her here wasn’t troubling enough, he felt even more disgusted when he saw the man conversing with her. Because Colin knew who it was, had seen him conduct business with both Anthony and various other men amongst the ton.

He was a solicitor and old enough to be Penelope’s grandfather.

To be continued...

A/N:I hope Colin's POV was a bit illuminating on where his thoughts landed on Penelope. Also hope it wasn't disappointing :)

Your feedback is truly loved and cherished. If you're so inclined, I would love to read your thoughts! And so excited for the show to come back this week!

[xreaderbooks]

Paradise on Earth (20)

Chapter: 20. The Coastal Venture

Pair: JJ Maybank x Routledge! Reader

Summary: John B, Pope, JJ, Kiara, and You are on the way to help Sarah and retrieve the cross.

Warnings: language, violence, mentions of death and kidnapping

Word Count: 3.7k

Wattpad | Ao3 | Playlist

Chapter 19 | Series Masterlist | Navigation | Chapter 21

The heat in the torture chamber was going to make you stab somebody. You’ve never felt this suffocated before.

“Let’s address the elephant in the room,” John B announces and focuses his attention on you, “Y/n.”

“Are you fat shaming me, JB?”

He narrows his eyes at you, “You know what I mean.”

“Is this even an appropriate time to be talking about this?” You wonder aloud. He couldn’t seriously expect to get into this right now, you hadn’t even found a way to leave this hell hole without getting caught by the crew members and now, he wanted to talk about your controversial sex life.

“Uh, yeah, ‘cause if I have to keep thinking about what Sarah might be going through right now, I’m gonna go crazy.”

You brace yourself for the worst, “Oh God.”

He doesn’t say anything, he stays in his position on top of a stretch-wrapped box. “So?”

You glance to the side and back at him, “So, what?”

“We’re waiting,” He extends his arms outward to gesture to the crowded area of your friends. Kie took off her jacket and let out a breath, Pope was leaning his head against other containers listening.

“I don’t know what you want me to tell you, I’ve already apologized. Not that that fixes anything or takes anything back.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Pope said. “What’s done is done, we have much bigger things to worry about but since we’re getting into it; I just wanna know what your thought process was-”

John B cut him off, “Or whatever the opposite of that is ‘cause you obviously weren’t thinking clearly.”

“Alright, you know what, no.” You got up from where you were sitting cross-legged on the bottom of the container. “I wasn’t thinking and at that moment I didn’t regret it because he cared about me, I’m not going to go into detail about how or what he made me believe about him ‘cause I obviously didn’t know him as well as I thought…”

“So he manipulated you?” Pope asked.

“No, not entirely,” You risked a quick glance at JJ whose gaze averted from your own. “He made me feel like he cared, I was hurt and felt neglected. I’ve always been a part of the Pogues but it always felt like I’m just John B’s sister to you guys like I’m only along for the ride. I don’t have much to offer the group, Rafe made me feel seen as ironic as that is.”

“That’s some bullshit, Y/n,” John B scoffed.

JJ steps forward, “John B.”

John B stares at JJ with pure annoyance, “I don’t see how you’re not losing your shit over this, you’re always going on about how she’s like a sister to you, this is some high-level offensive shit and you’re all chill?”

“She was right,” JJ shook his head. “This isn’t the time, alright? We gotta figure out how the hell we're gonna get out of this, you know these things lock from the outside? This is your  fault and now we’re trapped in this death cage!”

“JJ, you’re not helping,” Pope was breathless as he spoke. All you knew was that there was not enough oxygen coming in to be wasting our breath on arguing.

“You don’t have enough room to talk right now, Pope, you said you had a plan, but what happened to thinking ahead?”

“I find your lack of self-knowledge disturbing.”

JJ laughs sarcastically, “Last I checked, you literally shot an oil container with the gat, remember that?”

“Oh my God, Shut up!” Kie who was perched on the highest stacked container, stretched her foot slamming it between the two boys against the other box parallel to hers. “Shut up! Pull it together.”

She removes her foot with a roll of her eyes landing on yours and puffing out a breath, mouthing the word boys to you. 

~~~

“Hey Pope, how do you kill a snake?” JJ asks randomly.

You lost track of how long you’ve been in here, looking out of the metal panel of the vent/window, whatever it was. It had to be around noon.

“You go for the head,” Pope answers with exhaustion.

“Exactly, but the head in this instance, is the bridge. To take the bridge, we need maximum firepower and I happen to know that there’s an armory on this ship in case of pirate attacks.”

“Pirate attacks,” You mocked in a whisper. Kie gets up from her place on the ground and walks behind JJ, through the middle of the columns of boxes, nodding for you to follow.

“You lost me,” She said as she passes him.

“I’m talking knives,” He tells her.

You pat his arm as he continues his nonsensical planning, “Killing everybody here is not a plan.”

“You too?” He waves his hand dismissively, “Alright, we lost them. I’m serious, if we get to the armory, I’m talking AKs, pistols, knives, double barrels-”

“Are you okay?” Kie searches your face with sympathetic eyes. “John B shouldn’t have called you out like that.”

You shrugged, “Yeah, to be expected honestly. I’m more worried about how we're gonna get out of here, he can bitch at me later.”

You caught a glimpse of light shining on her face and follow the beam to where sunlight was peeking through, hidden behind a barrel of tubing. “Hold up,” You carry the heavy roll and place it on another one beside it.

“Guys,” Kie calls out to the boys who were now bickering loudly, “Guys!”

With a look, they come over to where you and Kie were determining whether or not you all could fit through another vent. It was bigger than the other one, you’d have to find a way to pop it out.

“What was that about a Swiss Army knife not coming in handy?” JJ pulls one out of his pocket and climbs on top of one of the rolls and begins to remove the screws. “Okay, we raid the armory, get weapons, roll back here, and plot the next move.”

That didn’t sound like a stable plan.

“The armory is on the third deck, aft, near the laundry room.” He instructs Pope and John B, “Let’s roll.”

“JJ, hold up.” Pope stops him before he can fully take out the vent, “I don’t think we should all go out there, it’s too risky.”

“Why?”

John B and Pope give each other an unspoken message, and your brother confesses, “I’m just gonna be honest, I think you should stay here.”

JJ had a puzzled look, “What?”

“I have Sarah that I’m gonna go after and Pope has the cross, also, if you go out there there’s a hundred percent possibility that you’re gonna do something stupid.”

“Okay, first of all, I think the correct terminology is ‘ballsy’, that is it,” He tries to debate but Pope pulls him down from his spot that was blocking the exit. “I’m a field player.”

John B shushes him, “If we go out there and we get in a bind, we need someone to look out for us. That’s what we need.”

That was the only way you figured he could convince JJ to stay behind with you and Kie, no doubt he felt a little betrayed by the boys.

“Okay, I get it, I get it.” He tunes out the rest of John B’s words, “I’ll be on ‘B team’.”

“I never said B team,” John B states.

Kie sputters motioning to you and herself, “Sorry, are you calling us ‘B team’?”

“Did ‘B team not just find our way out or am I totally tripping?” You say, looking between JJ and Kie.

Pope grasped JJ by the shoulders, “Just hang back and hold down the fort.”

“Great, looking forward to it,” JJ purses his lips. “You guys have fun, it’s your funeral, your game. I’ll be in here, on the bench.”

He backs away into the area the five of you were once suffering in, Kie grabs both Pope and John B and gives them, her last words of wisdom before sending them on their way. John B didn’t so much as give you a last glance before climbing out of the small window.

~~~

The lack of flowing oxygen in the container was concerning, you grew up with struggling winters and no electricity during hot summers but this felt like hell. Especially now with the conversation that you were witnessing.

JJ began to express his dream of traveling the world with the riches you were in the process of acquiring and surfing every coast he comes across.

“When all this is over, and we’re just rolling in the dough.” He speaks with half-lidded eyes, sweat beads down his neck with his head leaning against a netted crate. “I’m gonna get a new board, deck it out, and I’m gonna go on a surf trip. I don’t know where, but the world’s calling.”

You felt so faint and fatigued from the heat, yet the thought of JJ being excited about a future when all his life he’d been told he wouldn’t have one, made your heart warm.

“Name a place,” He tells Kie.

She rolls her head in thought, “Spain.”

“Then after Spain, South America, or South Africa.”

You raise a brow, “You’ll go to South Africa?”

“One of the South places,” He shrugs. “Then Micronesia maybe, and then… and just ride. Wherever the wave takes you, you know?”

“So that’s the plan if we were to get a ton of cash, that’s the dream. Surf trip?”

You watch Kiara as she asks and that’s when you notice, the hope in her heart that’s shining through her eyes, the soft smile as JJ describes the end goal of this adventure. JJ resembles the freedom and lifestyle she craves to escape the Kook life her parents have for her.

“Ripping jungle break all day long, bamboo hit, cooking a fish on the fire, and after that, you go back out and just hit the waves again. That’s the dream.”

Then, at the same time after listening to the blissful life of adventure, you and Kie respond at the same time. “Sounds perfect.”

Your and Kie’s eyes meet at your matching answers, the nonverbal confirmation that you both wanted it. You both wanted the dream and you wanted it with JJ.

Kie recovered faster than you did, “Got room for one more?”

JJ chuckles casually and taps your knee that bumps into your other one from the way you were sitting. The little tap gave you hope.

“You got your passport?” He sideglances you before asking her.

She grins, “You don’t have a passport.”

“Hell no, I don’t have a passport, that’s the Kookiest thing ever.” They laugh in sync, and your hope is gone.

Thankfully you hear a whistle come from outside the vent and you immediately jump up to open it, passing it to Kie who was right behind you. Pope climbs through, then John B, you were about to cover the hole when Pope stops you.

A girl wearing a workers cap pops up from the other side, “Jesus Christ! I kill you, John B!” she threatens your brother with a thick West Indies accent.

“Who is this?” Kie begins to panic.

“Just relax, okay?” He tries to ease her mind, “I told you I had a surprise. Remember I told you about the girl we met in the Bahamas that saved us?”

You took in the appearance of the girl standing above you and tried to match her face to the name your brother told you, “This is Cleo?”

“She’s gonna help us,” John B said more to Kie than to you. You wondered what it was gonna take to get John B to forgive you.

“Next time, ask me,” Cleo retorted.

John B and Pope updated you all on what happened when they left the container, the only thing they succeeded in doing was getting the crew's attention, getting Cleo on your side, and not grabbing any weapons on their way back.

“This is why I should have gone with you,” JJ emphasized. For once, you would’ve agreed with him, if only so that you didn’t have to sit through Kiara fawning over JJ.

“Let me get this straight,” Cleo cuts in. “You five, with no weapons, decided you were gonna hijack this tramp steamer on your own? Do you have any idea who these people are?”

She stares you all down like a mother scolding you for touching a hot stove, “Eberhimi, if he catches you, he’s gonna kill you. Dead. Cut off your fingers.”

“What about waiting until we get to port?” Kie suggests. “At least then, if something goes wrong we have a place to run.”

You shake your head, “We can’t wait, by now they already know we're here.”

“I’ve run this scenario over a thousand times in my head, our best chances are on this ship.” Pope adds, “There are fifteen crew members and six of us, three-to-one odds, that’s the best it’ll get. If we wait till we get there, they’ll trap us.”

“We have no chance,” Kie protests.

“There’s something else,” John B spoke, and by the look on his face- it had to be bad news. Your stomach sunk, and your mind immediately went to Sarah, Was she hurt? Dead? “Ward’s alive.”

The worst thing he could have said, your father's killer was alive, the peace you thought you had when he was dead was ripped away from you once again. There was no winning against him.

“He’s alive, and he’s on this boat. It was all a setup, blowing up the boat, the confession to Shoupe. Think about it, that was to clear Rafe’s name.” John B glances at you, “And he does what? Goes to the Druthers, and what’s on the Druthers?”

“Scuba,” You exhale your answer, your back hitting a corner of a box.

“Ward’s alive, he’s got the gold and the cross.” JJ’s boots slam down on the metal as he climbs off the crates he was hanging on to. “And Sarah.”

“Thanks for rubbing that in,” Kie looks up to the ceiling.

“He’s just gonna get away with everything again, huh?” JJ shakes his head in denial, “Not happening. We’re not watching this movie again, right, Pope? You said we need the win, and with her,” He points to Cleo. “We’re going to the bridge and we’re gonna take it right now.”

“Let’s do it,” John B nods.

“I’m with you, and I wanna be the one to take that bridge,” Pope agrees with a new fire in his eyes.

Cleo snickers, “He’s gonna take that bridge?”

“Yeah,” JJ defends Pope.

“He couldn’t even take me.”

You giggled at that, as much as you would like to believe in Pope, he would definitely need help.

“First of all, I was going easy on you.”

“I went easy on you,” With the knife in her hand, you would bet on her.

John B shushes them both, “Relax, both of you.”

JJ takes the silence as an opportunity to say his plan aloud, “If you’re with us, we can use that knife to hold it up against the captain’s neck then we go on the intercom and make him tell the rest of the crew to meet up in the forward hull. Once they’re in the same place, we lock them in there and we take back what’s ours.”

“I like it, it could work,” Pope concurs.

“Are you with us?” JJ meets Cleo’s eye to ask her seriously.

She takes a second, “No. This is stupid.” Cleo looks at you sharply. There was a man shouting orders from outside to check the containers, she hops onto the platform and opens the vent. She hops out, and you all hear her shout a name.

You were starting to think about how John B was wrong to trust her when you heard her tell the men that were trying to open the container that she searched it already. You all breathe a sigh of relief.

“She’s on our side,” JJ says. “Pope, you’re up, we’ll wait for your signal.”

Pope pulls the vent from the hole once more, climbing out. You watch as he follows Cleo with no trail before covering it up again.

You were getting anxious about how long it was taking, how long does it take to take over a bridge anyway?

“You think he’ll pull it off?” You ask Kie. Right as she opened her mouth to respond, the order from an unrecognizable voice was heard through the intercom.

“Repeat. All hands and all passengers report to the tween forward hull immediately.”

“Sounds like he did,” JJ responded. “Let’s split up, once they’re all in the hull, Kie, Y/n, and I will lock them inside.”

“Is that really a three-person job?” John B asks JJ.

You look at him suspiciously, “I’d go with you if you wanted me to, but...”

“Now is not the time guys,” Kie tells you both.

“Fine, I’ll find Sarah and get the lifeboat.”

“We’ll meet you, load the cross, and get out of here,” Kie confirms the plan.

JJ climbs out first, John B after, then Kie, and You. You glance behind you to check if there was someone coming before walking after the rest of them. John B went his separate way as soon as you all made it inside the ship. You and Kie followed JJ to the forward hull, knowing you’d get lost on your own.

There are still a couple of crew members making their way inside, huffing and complaining as they went.

“How many?” JJ whispers to where you and Kie were pressed against the metal wall. You hold up three fingers as you counted the men walking. You heard Wheezie talking to Rose, and walking behind them was Rafe.

You almost gasped as you saw him, and moved your head out of sight. You were sweating from the nerves and anxiety of potentially getting caught as well as the heat. “That’s all of the crew,” You whisper to JJ.

“Except Ward, we need Ward.”

“We can’t wait,” Kie tells you both. JJ begrudgingly nods for you all to go ahead with the plan. You, Kie, and JJ push the heavy metal door shut, the crew members from the inside were pushing it to stay open. You plant your feet as you push against them, using all your strength, and JJ officially closes the latch.

You heard their footsteps run away from the door they were fighting against you. “There’s another door!”

The three of you bolt to the other side, the crew members were too late. JJ managed to close the smaller exit before they could fight against it. With no crew members to stop you, JJ found a lower ground where the cross could be.

You climbed down the ladder where there was a wooden box, the shape of the cross, was. A blanket was lazily thrown over it, you, JJ, and Kie uncover it.

JJ smiles at you both, “Surf trip.” He reaches out his hand to do your secret handshake, he had a different one with both you and Kie.

The ceiling began to open, and Pope was standing on top, Finding this cross was a huge step in the right direction, Ward may be alive but the Pogues were going to take back what was rightfully yours, one by one. Sarah, The Cross, your lives.

You, JJ, and Kie let out shouts of excitement as Pope pumps his fist in the air, “The time where people do shit to us and we just sit back and take it is over!”

With final whoops of encouragement, Pope rushes to the crane as you, Kie, and JJ prep the cross for him with the thick rope hooked on each side of it.

“It’s ready for you Pope!” JJ shouts at him.

Pope lifts the cross quicker than he should, you shout him a warning, JJ directs him to move the cross more to the middle but he moves it far to the left. The Cross swings at a barrel of wrapping, knocking it over.

“Too far, too far!” Kie exclaims.

You hear a faint, “My bad!” coming from inside the crane.

“Your other middle!” You told him. JJ helps him by moving the extra rope from the cross and guiding it to where it isn’t hitting the ‘ceiling’ until he finally had it in the air.

You and the others go back to the upper deck from the same ladder, passing where Pope was with the crane and the cross, making sure it was clear before moving forward in your search for the lifeboats and John B. You kept going until you saw a man who looked boiling mad.

“I don’t see him,” JJ said.

“J,” You called his attention as he was looking over for John B. You and Kie shared a concerned look.

The man pulls out a machete, “Of course, there’s more of you. Get down on your knees.”

“Yeah that’s not gonna happen,” JJ speaks right before the man swung his machete down on JJ. He manages to dodge it and gets a hold of his forearm, pushing it onto the wall, you and Kie hold it down as JJ punches him. Kie lets go, and you open the metal emergency kit door, slamming it in his face, knocking him back.

Kie looks over to the lower level and calls for John B as JJ attempts to fight off the guy who’s two times his size. JJ gets shoved on the ground, his head hitting the floor, the man makes his way to Kie who had her guard down.

“Kie!” You yelled out her name as a warning and jump on the man's back, your right arm around his neck- choking him and your left arm pulling against his with his hold on the machete to keep him from swinging it at your friend.

You heard JJ shout at you, “Y/n, no!”

You couldn’t hold him back, he slams his back against the railing which meant that you would take the hit, your spine hit the edge making fall off his back and onto your feet. He then, with full force, elbows you in your stomach. You couldn’t breathe, he literally knocked the wind out of you and as he swung the machete at Kiara, she ducked and the blunt end of it hit you in the head and you went straight into the water.

JJ dove in after you, Kie kicked the man back and went in after him.

“Y/n!” Kie swam after you.

JJ held you in his arms, desperately trying to keep you afloat while also keeping himself up. “Y/n, c’mon, stay with me, baby!”

“John B!” He dully heard Kie shout. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t think, he was struggling to keep you both up but he didn’t care how much his arms ached, he would make you sure you were alive.

“Y/n, please,” He begged. “John B’s coming alright? He’s coming, Kie!”

The lifeboat came around the corner of the ship in the distance.

Kiara continued to scream for John B to rescue the three of you. At the sight of you, unconscious in JJ’s arm, John B felt sick. Pope, John B, and Sarah cried out for you as Kie helped JJ swim with the weight of your body.

John B pulled you from JJ’s hold and into the lifeboat, JJ hovered over your body, “C’mon, Y/n.” He held your cold cheek in his palm, wishing- willing for you to wake up. The lifeboat stopped moving.

“What’s going on?” Sarah asked.

“We’re stalling!” John B pulls the string to start the engine back up again.

“You serious? We’re sitting ducks,” Pope panics.

JJ looks up to the ship and sees Rafe pointing a gun at the boat, you were all in. He moves his body in a position where he’s covering you in case Rafe starts shooting, while John B keeps trying the motor.

Miraculously it starts, and speeds away, as soon as you all were in the clear, everybody turns their attention back to where you lie, unmoving.

“I’m sorry, alright?” John B crouched on your left, holding onto your hand. “I am so fucking sorry.”

JJ was beginning to feel anxious, the start of an anxiety attack forming in his chest, “Wake up, Y/n, wake up!” He had both of his hands on your cheeks, shaking you ever so slightly. Your eyes shot open, and you were coughing out water. “There you go, cough it out, baby.”

~~~

The first thing you saw was blue, your throat felt raw from the salt water you unknowingly consumed, your lungs were screaming, and your head was throbbing like you had a migraine that was splitting your head open but the only feeling that mattered was the one you felt when you saw him looking at you the way he was right now.

His eyes held words you wished you could understand, tears appeared as if they were about to spill over, and they did as he grinned so wide, his cheeks wrinkled his eyes.

“No CPR needed, huh?” Kie commented with a smile.

You broke the intense eye contact you had with JJ and felt a hand in yours, you looked to the hand's owner and saw your brother. He immediately engulfed you in a hug. “I’m not, not talking to you again.”

“Don’t lie to yourself, JB,” You hugged him back with feeble arms, relieved that he was no longer upset with you. “I’m sorry.”

“We’re all good, lil’ P,” John B ruffled your wet hair before letting you go. JJ was mute as he beamed down on you.

“Hey,” Your voice came out small.

His lips parted, once again, in a bright smile “Sup?” He brought your head to his chest, grabbed a piece of cloth, and dabbed at the side of your head that stung.

“What the hell happened?”

“The blunt end of a machete,” Kie explained.

“Next time, duck,” Cleo joked.

You chuckled, “I’ll try to remember that next time, thanks.”

Way into the distance, on the ship you had barely escaped from, the members of the crew were hoisting the cross from the water. The plan you all thought would work, and was working, had gone wrong. You were left with nothing. Ward had the cross, the gold, and the retribution you all thought you had when Ward was dead is gone.

At least Sarah was now safe and with her people, you thought as you and the girls sat against a couple of palm trees along the shore of a remote island.

“Good job, guys” Sarah cheered for the boys as they brought in the lifeboat from the water.

“Anybody knows where we’re at?” JJ threw out the question you were all wondering.

“Deserted beach, unknown island,” Pope answered as he settled down next to Cleo.

“Plan A, huh Pope?” JJ leaned his forearm against the tree to your left, you looked up at him from where your head lay on Kie’s lap. “That went well.”

“This is the lowest we can go,” Pope said. “We literally have nothing else to lose, the cross? Gone.”

You sat up, letting the weight on your hands that dug into the sand as you listed another thing off. “The gold? Gone.”

“Seriously, if we had a nickel for every time we got beat up, I’d say we’re at a dollar fifty.” JJ reminded the group.

“That’s more than I got on me,” Kie commented.

“Somehow that doesn’t make me feel better,” Said Sarah.

“Yeah, you’re right. But, we’ve had some good stuff happen.” Your head snapped to John B, wondering what speech of optimism he was going to muster up.

“Name some,” Pope told him.

“The boiler room, if the boiler didn’t explode, I wouldn’t have gotten away from Rafe. I couldn’t have gotten the zodiac and gotten us out of here.” He mentioned, and pointed to the lifeboat the newly branded ‘Zodiac’.

Cleo, who was to the right of John B, looked amused. “That wasn’t luck, that thing was gonna blow the second I stopped feeding it.”

“Stealing my thunder, Cleo.”

“Sorry.”

“Okay, Pope,” He redirects. “You’re related to Denmark Tanny, that’s crazy.”

“And I lost all of his inheritance,” Pope shut down John B’s next point. You knew where he tried to go with it, and you admired him for trying to keep the group's spirits high, but you were all literally on rock bottom.

You’ve accepted your fate, after your near-death experience, all that had bothered you before had drifted away just like you and that Pogues did. All except one, human-sized thing that was stuck on this island with you.

“You know what,” John B stood and faced the ocean with his arms out wide. “Guys, this is it. This is the Pogue life. We are in the Caribbean, it’s our own little slice of paradise, with my best friends- with my family. I wouldn’t wanna do it with anyone else.”

You raised your hand and pursed your lips, “Can you say that again in like two weeks? When we’re still here, starving, and fed up with me.”

“Y/n, you almost died, the love’s gonna last a ‘lil while- don’t ruin the moment.” He put up a hand as if to stop you from speaking. “Look, while you guys were complaining about every little thing, JJ?”

The blond who was stabbing his pocket knife in the tree, paused after sinking into the bark, humming in response.

“I was looking at those burly lefts,” John B points to the waves forming on the water.

“There are some slabs out there,” JJ agrees.

“Kie, you see that?” John B attempts to persuade her.

She shakes her head, “No boards.”

“Well, we can bodysurf till we make some boards.”

“Lame.”

“They are tasty,” Pope refers to the ocean. “There’s nobody around, we could squat here for a bit. Kind of belongs to us now, huh?”

“You got a point,” You shrug. “Seven-way split.”

“Poguelandia. I claim thee Poguelandia,” JJ pipes in with a posh accent. You noted how he carved ‘P4L’ on the bark of the tree right below where his knife was embedded, emphasizing your ownership of the island. Then returns to his normal voice, “I like the ring of it, I’m gonna make a flag. It’s gonna have a chicken on it with a coconut bra, smoking a J, in crocs.”

The image of it came to mind and you laughed, it was a little blurry but you didn’t doubt that JJ would make a real visual as soon as he could find the materials.

“I could use a J,” Kie confessed.

“Can we vote on this?” Sarah asked, John B reached out to her and pulled her out of the sand.

“‘Til death do us part?”

You looked away from their little moment, slapping your hands together to get rid of the sand that got stuck, when you looked up a hand was extended out to you. The owner of it being JJ, you took his hand and allowed him to wrap his arm around you.

“What’s up?” You ask him as he guides you along the coast, away from the group. You looked back to where Kie and Pope were teaching Cleo the Pogue handshake, Sarah and John B were a couple of feet behind you and JJ.

“Just wanted to check in on you,” He let his arm slip off your shoulders once you were far enough away from the others.

Besides your severe thirst for water, the pounding in your head had gone from a blinding headache to a dull throb, and despite the fact that you were on a deserted island? You were well.

“I’m good,” You told him honestly.

“You cared the shit out of me,” He let out a sigh. “You know, earlier?”

“When I got knocked the fuck out?” You laughed. “Yeah, well, he was going at Kie and I couldn’t just not do anything.”

“I don’t know what I would’ve done if I lost you, dude,” He fiddled with your fingers as he was holding your hand. You wanted to know what he meant- what he truly meant- by that.

“You’d survive, J,” You playfully pushed his shoulder. He didn’t budge. “It would suck, losing your only form of amusement, all of you would be losing an asset to the team.”

He didn’t laugh, he was standing in front of you, his back covering the view of you from the group and openly searching the features on your face. Your neck was tilted upwards, doing just the same. You'd be lying if you said you didn’t expect something to happen right now.

The way his face was the one you saw when you woke up, according to Kie he jumped into the water the moment you were hit, the way he was looking at you then- the way he was looking at you now. Everything that happened between you in the past, it had to mean something.

“Y/n, JJ!” John B’s shouting broke through the tension around you and JJ. “C’mon, we gotta get started on provisions!”

“We’re going!” You shout back, though you weren’t sure it was loud enough. You step to the side to move past JJ, “We should go before-”

He took a hold of your face with both of his hands and you thought that he was gonna do it, he was going to kiss you. Instead, he kissed you on your forehead and said “I just need you to know that I care about you, alright?”

You flushed, “Yeah. I care about you too, J.”

“Not that I’m letting that happen ever happening again, but I didn’t want you to die without me telling you.”

“Right.” That was not what you were expecting, you had to admit that you were disappointed, knowing JJ had a difficult time expressing his emotions but when he acts like this it builds up your hope.

~~~

Before the sun went down fully, you all had started a fire with Pope’s lighter and dry wood. Everyone was surrounding the fire, just like you all would in your backyard. The only thing lacking was the beer and the lights that JJ had strung up when he bought ‘the cat’s ass’.

With the fresh breeze and ocean spraying on you, JJ exaggerating his side of the story on the ship, Cleo showing off her knife tricks to Sarah who had John B’s arm around her, Pope correcting JJ on whatever parts he got wrong, and you and Kie leaning against each other for warmth.

It felt right, you felt at peace, like you were home. John B was right, you wouldn’t want to do this with anyone else. 

~~~~

Last Chapter of Season 2! What do you guys think?

Credit to @ steffi55 on wattpad for the idea to switch from JJ getting hurt to Y/n

Chapter 21

Taglist:

@jbassettjmaybank - @deanwherescas - @thtbwltts - @nerdypartytrashpsychic - @random-girl-army - @wisegirlies - @instabull - @sexyfoxlady - @bubs-world - @sdawn03 - @mendesclines - @obx-pogues-4-life - @mentalforfics - @p-prettybitch - @namacissi - @dczedhee - @inkandpen22 - @royalavenger - @ayeitsjustmee - @80strashbag - @onlyangel-444 - @freds-slut - @poppet05 - @itsjuststaticnoises - @ahnneyong - @lovepizza567 - @jasminfelling - @rana03 - @loki-loveer - @rana030 - @lostinatimeline - @boldlypessimistic - @clinelyn - @a-j-stuffs - @yunhobug - @syd223sworld - @strawberry--fawn - @mysticalavenuecheesecake - @itsmytimetoodream - @natashtessabeth12 - @thatsthewaythechrissycrumbles - @chervbs - @or-was-it-just-a-dream - @newbooksmell777 - @afterzonee - @hana-1235 - @ilovesteveharrngton - @s1Ingwns

(if your name is crossed out that means tumblr won't let me tag you, I apologize for the inconvenience)

[anonymous-dentist]

Soulmate au where everyone with a soulmate has a little marking on their wrist in the shape of something related to their soulmate. It isn’t usually romantic, like we’ve got Pac with a creeper on his wrist and Mike with a little Pac Man symbol.

And Roier? He has a cat, but he’s never really believed in soulmates. He’s always been a firm believer in Having Fun and not tying himself down to someone because of fate; if he wants to settle down with someone, it’ll be because he loves them, not because a magical tattoo is telling him to

He tries Spreen, gets stabbed for it. Decides that love isn’t worth anything, decides that his real soulmate is the torture chamber under his basement

And then a boat crashes on the island, and time seems to slow down as Roier accidentally meets the eyes of one of the poor Brazilians trapped in the boat’s office

Meet Cellbit, who’s managed to convince himself that he doesn’t deserve a soulmate after all the terrible things he’s done. He wears long sleeves and he wears gloves that cover his wrists, so almost nobody knows what his soulmate symbol is. But he knows. He knows it’s a spider, which is one of the few things that freak him out, so, like. Nah. He’s good

Unfortunately for the audience, our two idiots don’t realize shit for a very long time. Roier doesn’t wear a spider-man logo until after their engagement. He calls Cellbit ‘gatinho’, but he does so as a flirtatious counter to ‘guapito’. Both of them keep their symbols covered, and neither really care about the whole ‘soulmate’ thing at all because they’ve decided they love each other and that’s what matters

It takes until Festa Junina for someone to put the physical pieces together, and it’s actually Foolish. He knows how to keep a secret, though, so he stays quiet until the date. He gets Leo to spill wine all over Cellbit and Roier’s hands where they’re joined over the table, soaking their sleeves (and gloves) through

Roier immediately swears and swats playfully at his sister. He rolls up his sleeves, showing his symbol off for the first time as Cellbit begrudgingly pulls his gloves off to let them dry, showing his symbol for the first time. Who cares if they see each other’s symbols? They’re getting married no matter what at this point, probably, who cares about soulmates?

The world freezes. They look at each other’s symbols, and everything just sort of clicks into place

Roier laughs so hard he cries. Of course! Of course he managed to fall in love with his soulmate without even knowing it was him!

Cellbit, though, is quieter. He still doesn’t know how to feel about the whole Abueloier Thing, and he isn’t sure if Roier would even want to be soulmates with him

The answer, of course, is a resounding “Of course, pendejo! I forgave you before I even found out we’re soulmates, shut up. Let’s go back to the castle. Now.”

So they go back to the castle, and they talk, and they decide that them being soulmates doesn’t really even matter because they would’ve fallen in love with each other regardless of what the Goddesses of Love had planned. Maybe that’s because they’re soulmates, or maybe it’s because they’re so in love that they don’t need to be. It’s a bit of a paradox, but so is everything else on the island. They’re in love, and that’s all that matters.

(They don’t tell the rest of the island, though. They wanna see how long it takes everyone to figure it out.)

(Joke’s on them, everybody already had a pretty good idea after one week of them hanging out together.)

[rodolfoparras]

it's ok i want both

in a streak of possessiveness, dragon!price ends up being too rough with you, relishing in the marks from his claws and fangs on your body and the obscene amount of cum oozing out of your entrance, and the bulge it left in your belly ;(

this can go the opposite way too, you fucking the bigger man so hard he's left as a drooling mess, unable to measure hid own strength. price doesn't want to let you go so his tail wraps around your waist and keeps you inside of him for as long as he wants... this also brings the topic, dragon mpreg

- 🌷

Lord y’all are going to judge me but hear me out

Since dragon!price basically used the cave as a torture chamber to torture the men that comes his way I can’t help but imagine him chaining you up in the air, and pulling on the strings to help lower you down on his dick,

Imagine him taking his anger out on you for partially being the reason as to why he lost his mate, basically skewing you onto your dick, while berating you telling you how pathetic you look how embarrassing it is that you’re this eager and you don’t even care matter of fact you love it feeling like you’re being split over while spilling ropes of cum all over the ground

Or dragon price being desperate to submit to someone, exhausted by always being the one in power so he has you chain him up yo do anything you want with him, using his mouth, fucking his hole leaving his basically wrecked like he isn’t the monster here

[cake-writes]

A Dutiful Disaster (Part Seven)

Pairing: Loki x Reader

Story Tags/Warnings: Arranged Marriage, Enemies to Lovers, Royalty, Pre-Thor (2011), Smut, Angst, Drama, Slow Burn, Odin’s A+ Parenting, Cis Female Reader (she/her), No Y/N Usage, Second Person POV, POC-inclusive descriptors, Toxic Relationship (lil bit of abuse from both parties - mostly screaming matches with the occasional physical thing but he never like slaps her or anything), Smut, Slut-Shaming, Mommy Issues, Reader has anxiety, 18+

Chapter Warnings: anxiety, reader is super bitchy in this chapter, and so is her letter, oh my gosh you guys they actually talk shit out like MATURE ADULTS

Word Count: 3.8k

Snippet: “I do not wish to be kissed. It’s too great an intimacy for our,” you pause to consider the word, tapping your finger to your chin, “unique situation, wouldn’t you say? We are the furthest thing from lovers.”

“Oh?” Loki sounds amused by your answer – and then he drops his feet back to the floor with purpose, taking advantage of your startled jump to pull you further into his lap where you can feel the hardening length of him against your clothed core. “If not lovers, then what are we?”

“Married,” you gasp, arms clutching around his neck for fear of being dropped – or so you tell yourself.

Master List / Spotify Playlist / Part Six

A/N: And we’re back! This chapter finally ties us in to the prequel one-shot, as well as the argument between Loki and his father in part two. You may need to read them again for a refresher because it’s been a fair few months (in real life) since those were posted. Enjoy :)

You study your husband from above the gold rim of your teacup. It’s suspicious, the certain ease to his demeanour as he discusses today’s breakfast offerings with his servant.

Loki is manipulating you. He must be. It's the only conclusion you can come to.

You haven’t forgotten the nasty things he said about you to his father the day after your wedding. Loki made it crystal clear that he can't stand you, that he finds this sham of a marriage as torturous as you do, to the point that he'd even referred to it as a life sentence – much like your own thoughts on the matter. Yet, it bothers you in a way you can’t quite explain.

What’s worse is that the Allfather thinks you disloyal to the Crown, and you still haven’t been able to figure out why. You’ve been nothing but loyal, the events of last night notwithstanding. It makes you feel uneasy, knowing that the King has tasked Loki with ensuring your loyalty to Asgard, like he actually expects you could ever be a traitor—a proper one, that is.

Even so, you find yourself begrudgingly admiring the way your husband’s dark, glossy hair perfectly accentuates his sharp cheekbones – during which he turns his attention to you. 

“Is that acceptable?” Loki questions, just as you take another sip of chrysanthemum tea—your favourite, and all you can think is that it can't be just a coincidence.

You hate how infuriatingly attractive he is. Even now. Especially now, with his pretty green eyes so focused on you, like he actually cares what you have to say. 

“That would be lovely,” you answer amicably as you set down your teacup, even though you have no idea what you’ve just agreed to. Something about smoked salmon and capers.

Loki seems to accept your answer, and when he engages once more with his servant, you lose yourself in your thoughts. Two ragged, albeit manicured fingernails tap an anxious rhythm against the side of the porcelain cup in its saucer, each fingertip sounding its own melody.

Tink, tink. Tink, tink.

It worries you how easily Loki plays the part the perfect husband. Sitting here in his chambers is unnerving; you’re just waiting for the other shoe to drop, but he seems perfectly content, like he isn’t at all bothered by the contents of your letter. Nor does he seem to hold any opinion of the events that transpired last night. 

For now.

Tink, tink. Tink, tink.

The daylight streaming in through the open windows offers a glimpse of the fine lines near his eyes and the dark circles just beneath. While he always appears as though he’s never been able to get enough sleep, courtesy of his fair skin, you’re starting to think that Loki might have slept about as well as you did last night—in other words, scarcely at all.

Tink, tink. Tink, tink.

You conceal a yawn with your free hand as the servant bows and makes his way to the exit, and then you’re alone with your husband again. That knowledge should set you on edge, but you’re more focused on the rich accoutrements of his sitting room. It’s the first time you’ve been here since that awful argument following the attack; no sign of shattered glass in sight, but then, it has been a week since then.

Tink, tink. Tink, tink.

A vase full of fresh flowers sits upon the entry table. You’d bruised your hip against it that self-same night. How suspicious that the blooms are the colour of plum wine, a deep reddish-purple that makes your heart sing: your colour.

Tink, tink—

You stop tapping the instant you notice him watching you, and snatch up your teacup as if you meant to do so all along. Then you take a larger sip than you intend. The hot tea scalds your tongue, and his lips twitch in silent laughter as you try and fail to pretend it doesn’t.

“What?” you snap irritably.

“How did you sleep?”

“Why act as though you care?”

Visibly amused by your bristly demeanour, Loki retrieves his own tea, his slim fingers pinching the gilded handle with more finesse than you could ever hope to achieve. “I cannot help but wonder, petal, if you haven’t slept a wink. Were you worrying about how this conversation would go?”

You set your teacup down in its saucer with force, the loud clink of fine china resounding through the room. “Considering the events that transpired during our previous one, I’d be a fool not to worry. I expect that you will have me imprisoned the very moment you manage to lull me into a false sense of security.”

He doesn’t bat an eyelash at your vitriol, instead opting to take a sip of his tea. You can scarcely tell what kind of tea it is anymore, what with how he's drowned it in cream and sugar. Some things never change. It’s comforting, in a way.

Your husband savours the too-sweet taste for a moment before he speaks. “I will not have you imprisoned. You have my word.”

You scoff. “I threatened you.”

“Indeed.”

“With a knife.”

“A dagger, actually,” Loki corrects, and when you cut him a withering look, he gives you a shit-eating grin. You hate how stupidly reassuring it is that he’s just as insufferable as ever. Then his expression shifts to something a little more serious, his eyes softening at the corners. “You felt that I posed a threat to your safety, and you acted in self-defence. A sleepless night is punishment enough.”

You don’t buy it. “And my letter?”

“I suspect that you would never have sent it, had your fear not driven you to do so. No one in their right mind would call me—what was it, an animal?—among so many other insults that I cannot even begin to fathom them all, in a letter signed with one’s personal seal. That alone could have landed you in the dungeons, yet you did so with little regard for the consequences.” A puff of laughter escapes him. “You have always had an impulsive streak, darling, but never to that extent.”

He sees right through you. You despise it. “Yes, well—”

“If you truly think me an animal, then I can only imagine that you would indeed feel safer in another part of the palace.” He mentions the request you’d made in your letter so nonchalantly, like the two of you are merely discussing the weather. “Where did you have in mind?”

That does it.

“How—How can you be so calm about all of this?” you sputter. “Forgive me, husband, but I do not trust how willingly you would turn a blind eye to my transgressions!”

The precise manner in how Loki returns his teacup to its saucer betrays him. “Don’t you?”

You glare at him. Something is simmering beneath the surface of his suspiciously mellow exterior, but you can’t quite discern what it is. Not yet.

“If you think that I am calm, darling, then you couldn’t be more wrong—unless, of course, you honestly believe that I have any penchant for forgiveness.” His tone may be cordial, but every single one of his movements is calculated to the nth degree. The tactician.

No, he isn’t calm at all. He’s plotting. You should have known.

“Or is there another reason that you would arm me with more than enough ammunition to have you imprisoned?”

With that single question, the conversation becomes an interrogation. Your palms turn cold and clammy at the knowledge that he very well still could, and when you start to fidget with the white napkin in your lap, the cloth sticks unpleasantly to your skin.

“Is that what you want me to do? Arrest you for a rash, impulsive decision? A crime of passion?”

You can feel your blood pressure rise under his rapid fire, your anxiety and sleep deprivation giving way to anger. “No,” you bite out. 

While part of you feels that a life in the dungeons would be infinitely better than one bound to him, your more reckless side likes to push boundaries – to your own detriment. And Loki knows it as well as you do. His mouth sets in a firm line, his expression unreadable.

“Then you do trust me,” he says, tone neutral. “And that, dear girl, is the worst transgression of all.”

You stare at him, disbelieving, before you let out a loud peal of laughter – like he’s just told the funniest joke you’ve ever heard. It just might be. “I trust you, do I? No, husband,” you spit the word like it’s a curse. “I loathe you. If you have mistaken that for trust, then I pity you.”

If your venomous tirade affects him at all, Loki does well to hide it. A prolonged silence falls over the room as he rests his elbows on the table and laces his fingers before him, no less patient with you than he has been for the rest of the morning. He studies you – studies your reaction – studies every single flaw you try so hard to hide, and he says nothing.

You look away first. You always do, when your temper gets the better of you.

Only then does he finally grace you with a response. “I am amenable to your request. Choose whichever chambers you’d like.”

Your eyes snap back to him in shock, only to watch as he procures a small envelope from beneath his place setting. Your letter.

Casually, he extends it out to you between two slim fingers. “I wish to return this to you as well. I refuse to hold something so incriminating over your head. It is neither fair to you, nor to our marriage.”

You stare at it, then at him, stunned into silence by his magnanimity. The Loki you know would never do such a thing. He’d hold onto it for leverage.

Your husband rolls his eyes, almost like he knows what you’re thinking. “If you do not take it, then I will destroy it in a similar manner to the gift you so graciously decided to bestow upon me, after…” he shifts uncomfortably in his chair, then, “after what I did to you that morning.”

He means his own letter – the one you’d returned to him, torn to shreds after he’d all but thrown you into the entry table. The very same entry table upon which those lovely flowers now rest.

You sit up straighter at the memory. It sets you on edge, and though you’re tempted to cower, instead you overcompensate. “Oh? Go on, then.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“It is incredibly cathartic, you know,” you drawl, delicately picking up a biscuit between your thumb and forefinger to examine its intricate design. The sugar granules glimmer in the light. “To destroy one’s heartfelt letter in a fit of anger. Though I must confess,” you hold your head high, smug as can be, “I did not read what you’d written before doing so.”

That doesn’t seem to faze him either. “You say that as if you expect it to surprise me.”

You scrunch your nose at him in annoyance. “Well? Go on. Or will you not follow through on your promises?”

His promise not to harm you. His promise not to touch you. His promise not to lock you away.

Maintaining eye contact, you use your teeth to break off a piece of the biscuit with a crunch.

Your challenge isn't lost on him. “Very well,” Loki sighs. He swiftly opens the letter to pull out the fine stationery upon which you’d so hastily scrawled all manner of insults, after which he makes a point to show it to you, front and back, to prove its authenticity. “I’ll not have you thinking I’ve stowed it away to use against you later on.”

You bat your eyelashes at him. “I see you’ve turned over a new leaf.”

“Charming,” Loki comments dryly, but you don’t miss the humour in his tone – nor in his eyes as he skims them down the page. “I must say, darling, you have quite the talent for castigation. It would be a waste not to read such a heartfelt letter aloud.” His eyes flick back up to yours, then, and you know for a fact that he’s taunting you. “For posterity. You understand.”

Posterity. There is no doubt in your mind that he knows you only wrote it yesterday. You’d even sealed the envelope with the ink still wet, as evidenced by the dark smudges littering the page.

“Stars above,” you grouse. “Get on with it, then, seeing as you are positively chomping at the bit to humiliate me.”

“Humiliate you? No.” Loki holds your gaze, resolute, and for once, you’re inclined to believe him. “I want you to acknowledge exactly what you’ve said of me before we put all of this to rest.”

Of course he does. Gracelessly, you wave a hand at him as if to say go ahead.

Loki clears his throat before he begins to read your letter verbatim, surprisingly in a manner that befits its serious nature. His voice holds not a single shred of mockery.

“To my dear, despicable husband,” he arches an eyebrow at you, “I fear I cannot stand this any longer. My chambers are in such close proximity to yours that I’d sooner return home than sleep here for another night, knowing that a wolf in sheep’s clothing rests his weary head so near to mine.”

Whether he intends it to be or not, it is humiliating to hear what you’ve written become spoken word. All too soon, you feel your face start to flush.

“I find myself ill with the knowledge that the Einherjar would allow such a predator to prowl these halls while I remain entirely defenceless. Nay, it is hardly reassuring to know that not a single soul shall protect me from the animal who would bring me harm, either in his own chambers or in our marital bed.”

When Loki pauses, you immediately recognise the real reason behind this exercise. Though you’d written the letter to be purposefully harsh in order to invoke a reaction, in the light of day, your spiteful words seem to imply something else.

You haven’t just told him of your fears in a general sense, using your marital bed as an example. You’ve alluded to a significantly more heinous act.

“You will not see me become your prey, thrilling though the chase may be to a brutish man with little regard for others. I refuse to become the spoils of a war you’ve so savagely waged upon me and my body for no other reason than your own entertainment.”

No wonder he’d been so angry with you last night. The implication that he would assault you in such a way is bad enough on its own, but there is another layer.

For centuries, the two of you have harboured a forever unspoken secret. Neither of you have acknowledged it outright, but it’s there. You’ve seen each other at the den – the covert, invitation-only club which caters to the niche sexual preferences that both you and Loki seem to share. Namely those that are, and have always been, less than socially acceptable.

“One cannot expect an animal to behave in any way but his basest nature. As a scholar of grey morals, you have always preferred books to people, but a snake, however erudite, is still a snake.”

There, on multiple occasions, your rooms have been next door to each other—through no fault of your own, though you suspect Loki has done it intentionally. After all, what he’s seen of you through the window in between are things that you’d never tell another soul, and you’re sure he relishes in holding that over your head, if not your letter.

But then, you’ve also seen similar of him. His proclivity for consensual non-consent is just one of the great many things you’ve witnessed, time and time again, and you realise, now, that Loki thinks you’ve used that forbidden knowledge against him. He thinks you’ve used it to hurt him in a way that most others could never.

“No ruffian should ever be permitted to walk freely as you do. Until such a time that you do not, for my continued health and wellbeing I have made arrangements to return to my family’s manor.”

Of course he’s bothered by what you’ve implied – albeit unintentionally. And he has every right to be.

“I will only be persuaded to stay if you grant me a new set of chambers as far from yours as possible, for I have no desire to encounter any manner of beast in the wild.” Loki snorts derisively and drops the letter down onto the table between the two of you. “Disrespectfully yours, your dutiful wife.”

There is no laughter to be elicited, now, nor anger, but something else entirely. Loki hides it well, but the implication has clearly gotten under his skin. You can see it in his eyes, and in his posture, how guarded he is as he looks to you for a response.

Thoroughly humbled, you swallow the lump in your throat and focus upon your lap. “I… I did not mean what you’ve understood my words to mean.” 

When you glance back up at him, you immediately have to look away again in shame when you find him watching you, jaw set, waiting for a proper apology. 

“Of course, that does not matter when they have made such an impact,” you rush to add. “I sincerely apologise for my thoughtlessness. I did not mean to imply that you would do something terrible.”

Silence stretches uncomfortably between the two of you as you begin to pick at the skin around your nails. At the very least, you should have reread your own letter before you sent it. Perhaps then you wouldn’t feel so guilty.

After a prolonged few moments, he asks quietly, “What else could you have possibly meant?”

“I meant to paint a picture of my fears.” You accidentally draw blood from a hangnail, and it stings. “My intent in mentioning our marital bed was to offer an example of one such fear—not that sort of fear, mind, but I fully understand how it could have sounded like an accusation.”

“I see.”

Finally, you muster the courage to look at him again, impassioned because you would never, ever use what you know against him. “You’ve been nothing but a gentleman in that regard, Loki. You respected my wishes on our wedding night. You have asked for my consent during every one of our trysts. Please know that I would never accuse you of anything untoward.”

His eyes search yours for a long time, trying to discern the lie, but there isn’t one. Then he exhales a long, weary sigh and leans back in his chair, the tension visibly lifting from his shoulders. “Norns,” he mutters, dragging a hand down his face. “Yes, I suppose not even you would stoop so low.”

A jab.

You respond with the opposite: a jest. “Ah, but how could you know for certain? What with our—” you clear your throat, nearing ever closer to openly acknowledging the forbidden secret that you both share, “our history?”

It’s the closest either of you have come to doing so. You and Loki have been playing this game for centuries, trying to see who will cave first, but you continue to tiptoe around it.

Just as you predicted, the layered meaning instantly captures his attention. “Our history?” he repeats, as if he doesn't quite believe he's heard you properly, before his lips curl up into that same insufferable grin you so adore. “Oh, do go on, sweet. I’m all ears. What about our history?”

You try to give him a deadpan look, but find it impossible to keep the smile off of your face. “Only that we have never enjoyed each other’s company, you and I. You know that as well as I do.”

It isn't at all the history you’d originally mentioned, and you’re well-aware he recognises that when his voice takes on a note of smooth, persuasive silk. “In what way do you intend for me to take that, darling? Because I suspect that there are many things for a husband and wife to... enjoy.”

His insinuation is absolutely not what you meant, and he knows it, but your heartbeat quickens all the same.

Just in the knick of time, two rapid knocks resound on the door. 

“Enter,” Loki calls out, never taking his eyes off of you. Something about the heat within them, however slight, makes you think he isn’t done with you just yet.

You find yourself silently thanking whoever has chosen to interrupt.

The door opens, and another servant pushes a small gold cart into the room, two shelves stacked high with breakfast delights. The spread is much more elaborate than your typical morning meal, and your mouth waters.

“Now, I believe you said I would find this cathartic?”

You glance back over at your husband, only to watch him deftly pluck your letter up from the table. Before you can get a word in edgewise, however, you watch as your stationery sets aflame in the palm of his hand.

It’s an impossible sort of fire, for it doesn't seem to burn his skin. 

Magic.

You’ve always loved his magic, even now, loathe as you’d ever be to admit that you find Loki’s mastery of it in any way appealing. He wields his seidr like one might a paintbrush, creating masterful works of art from intricate spells and enchantments.

As the flames burn away your spiteful letter, your eyes follow the curling wisps of smoke as it drifts up, up, up towards the intricately-painted ceiling. Instead of the colourful collection of wildflowers you expect to see upon it, however, you find a field of white daffodils in their place.

A symbol of forgiveness.

In that moment, as you stare at the illusion he’s cast, you realise that your husband will forever be an enigma to you. Perhaps he’s changed in the great many years you've known him, or maybe you've never really known him at all.

Then Loki lazily waves his hand, and the illusion dissipates—as do the singed remains of your letter.

He’s manipulating you. He must be. It’s the only conclusion you can come to, but when you meet his eyes once more – when you see the mischief shining within them, and the softness hidden just beneath – you desperately wish that he wasn’t.

Part Eight

And because I’m a clown, here’s my ko-fi / patreon if you’ve got a buck or two to spare so I can buy a new laptop! Otherwise reblogs and keysmashing in my ask box are more than welcome 🤡🤡🤡 Thanks so much for reading!!!

[lovelyrots]

Forced Matrimony

Chapter 16: Can't You See I'm Broken?

Content Warnings: descriptions of anxiety and panic attacks (fairly mild), kidnapping and mentioned torture, a smidgen of romantic angst

Forced Matrimony Masterlist

It was organized chaos. A flurry of gloved hands drags her defeated body, and the marching of combat boots through the underground tunnel echos as Sae struggles to keep her only good eye open. The other had swollen shut by the time she woke up in the windowless van and got dragged down to this concrete hell.

She couldn’t make out any insignias or emblems on the black uniforms of the four men that ambushed her or the four that now ‘escort’ her to what she’s sure will be some torture chamber.

The group stops in front of a steel door, giving her a second to glance around the bare hallway as she hears the beeping of a code before she’s tossed in, and the door is slammed shut as she falls onto a thin mattress on the floor. “Get comfortable. We’ll be back later.” One of the men that dragged her here chuckled as the sound of their boots led away from her dark cell.

“Shit, those spineless cowards...attacking a civilian in her sleep? Just wait until I get out of this shithole!” She scrambles over to the only source of light and yells through the thin slot in the door. “I’ll make sure you won’t see the light of day when I’m through with you! You hear me, you pig-headed cowards?!” Her voice echoes around the empty hall, yelling back to her in the silence.

“Damn it!” She rages and thoughtlessly slams her hand into the door.

—-

You jolted awake at the sound of crashing pots and pans before looking around and noticing you were alone again. But you noticed Izuku’s phone was still on the dresser, and his side of the bed was somewhat warm still.

You blearily blink and rub the remnants of sleep away before making your way over to the closet and throwing a random assortment of clothes on—some sweatpants that must be from Izuku’s side of the enormous closet, a shirt from your side, and a hoodie you grab on your way out. A warm little collection of fabric that wakes you up with the remnants of mint still on two of the articles of clothing.

Your feet pad down the hall until you come to the top of the stairs, and you can clearly hear another voice besides Izuku’s. A loud, brash voice with a hint of annoyed gruff that overpowers Izuku’s weaker, more tired voice.

“Kacchan, I really appreciate this, but I’ve been getting better! All I’ve burned recently was some bread.” “That was the easy part, dumbass! Besides, Round Cheeks was bugging me about you.” There’s a beat of silence, broken up by the clinking of dishes, before you hear a sigh. “Things have just been...hard lately. I’m trying to just take it slow with her, and I thought her being around a giant group of people would freak her out. I’m not ignoring everyone just because.” You hear Izuku say before it clicks that he’s talking about you.

Wanting to hear more, you crept down the steps as the two kept talking. “And shutting her up in this place is doing wonders for that, right? At least feed her something that isn’t takeout.” “I’ve been trying, but enough about us, how was the honeymoon?” There’s a clamor of steel banging together for a second before the other voice explodes. “It wasn’t a damn honeymoon! Shitty hair just wanted to get away from everything for a while, so we took a vacation.” He ends much softer than when he began.

“Well, I hope you two had a great vacation then. I’m going to go check on her, oh, and Kacchan.” You start creeping back towards the bedroom before you hear anything else, too worried about how Izuku might act if he knew you were listening in. A pit of worry wedges itself in between your stomach and throat, burying deeper until you find yourself back in the bedroom, trying to stall for time until he comes back. Your eyes trail over to the bathroom, and you run in, shutting the door seconds before you hear Izuku’s muffled knocking on the bedroom door.

You turn the faucet on and wait a few seconds before you open the door and see Izuku sitting on the edge of the bed, chewing on his thumb and likely thinking about something—you’ve noticed that when he chews on his thumb or a pen, that means something is on his mind. He looks up as you move closer, though, his once darkened eyes almost glowing up at you while he tugs you down to sit.

His arms wrap around you, and he slowly smiles. “Good morning, Bunny. How do you feel?” His fingers slip under your shirt, tapping to an unknown rhythm as he takes you in. You were simply stunning. The vision of beauty before him was wearing his clothes, sleeping in his bed, and, hopefully soon, carrying his child.

You already light up his world. He can’t even imagine how akin to divinity you’d be while pregnant. Skin glowing, defenseless, and forced to rely on him for any little craving or for help getting up when your belly gets too cumbersome.

A tap on his cheek brings him out of his delusional thoughts. “Hm? Sorry, I guess I zoned out for a second there.” He apologizes before you could even say a thing or before he could watch your lips form words. “Is everything okay? I thought I heard someone, or is that the TV downstairs?”

Ah, he completely forgot that Kacchan was downstairs. Perhaps he could use this to reinforce the happy couple image he’s been boasting about with everyone else. If Kacchan were to see just how happy the two of you were, then he’d tell Kirishima, who’d tell Mina, who’d tell everyone, and then there’d be no question that you two were a happy couple and that you had to be happy with him.

“Oh, an old friend came over. He seemed to want to check how you were doing.” And make sure Izuku isn’t poisoning you with his cooking, he won't mention that to you though. “Since you’re dressed, we can head down.” He says this but can’t seem to be able to move. He just doesn’t want to. Izuku’s also worried. What if something goes wrong?

“You know how to behave, right? Be on your best behavior and just be happy; I don’t want to have to punish you later.” He can hear you swallow; the sound is loud in the quiet room, and the flash of fear in your eyes tells him not to worry. You’d behave, or you’d learn to.

He sighs and pecks your lips, seeming to deflate, before helping you stand up and leading you out of the room. Each step closer to the kitchen, closer to the smell of something delicious, you can feel your heartbeat harsher than before.

This could be your only chance to get some help, but the thought of whatever punishment Izuku has in mind is almost paralyzing. You almost want to pretend to be feeling sick to get out of this. You finally get to see someone besides Izuku, and they’re not on the TV, and you don’t want to meet them—it’s almost funny, too bad you’re not laughing.

“Guess who finally got up? Katsuki, meet my girlfriend and soulmate (Y/N).” Izuku tugs you close to him and flashes a smile brighter than the summer sun at the man setting dishes on the rarely used dining table. “Sup. So you’re the reason the nerd had us raid that base, huh?” You remember him, Dynamight.

He looks tanner than you remember, and there isn’t a scowl on his face (unlike all the times you’d seen him on magazine covers before), but he still looks like he’s ready to cuss you out if he feels like it. “Uh, hi.” You squeak out after Izuku squeezes your side, keeping an arm wrapped around you to keep you tucked into his side. “Um, thanks for that.” You can do this. Just go along with whatever until he leaves, and you’ll be in the clear!

“Don’t mention it. Now, sit down so we can eat.” Carmine eyes follow you and Izuku, lingering on the way you stiffly—almost robotically—move to sit across from him. “Thank you for cooking.” You glance up at him as Izuku fills your plate, then his. “Again, don’t mention it. I felt bad for you. This dumbass couldn’t even heat up some bread, so I figured I’d throw something together.” He shrugs and leans back in his seat.

“So how long have you two been together? I haven’t ever seen you before, and this nerd would’ve mentioned you way sooner. He couldn’t keep a secret to save his life.” The blonde raises a brow as you glance at Izuku, unsure what to say. “Just over a year, we ran into each other when she was a temp at the agency.” Izuku tells him, but the annoyed expression on his friend’s face makes you think that isn’t what he wanted to hear.

“I didn’t ask you, Deku; I asked her.” He snaps at the freckled hero and looks back at you, waiting. “Um, well, we met at a bar, kind of.” “Was it a strip bar or somethin’?” You couldn’t stop yourself from snorting and laughing as Izuku almost choked on his drink, coughing while trying to yell at the blonde. “No!” You manage to huff out, slowly calming down and staring down at your half-full plate as you tell him how you met someone.

“He kept looking at me and left a note for me, asking me to meet him outside, and I was bored of sitting around with my friend and said, ‘Why not?’. We went out for coffee and talked until the cafe closed hours later.” By the time you finished, a small smile had graced your lips, and you could almost forget that you were being held captive by the supposed ‘Symbol of Peace’.

You could almost trick yourself into thinking that you were just having lunch with Shin, recounting how you two met like it was some rom-com meet-cute.

At least, until the hand that used to be wrapped around you gently turned into a tight grip—forcing you back into the reality you were tossed into. Sitting at a dining table, where you have to pretend to be a happy little thing that is so in love with the green-haired hero so his friend won’t think something’s up.

“Ya afraid to say you go to dive bars, nerd? Ain’t that how normal people meet anyway?” You spy the way Izuku flinches, his harsh grip on your side softening immediately as he chuckles and suddenly acts bashful at his friend’s words. “If you feel like you need to lie about how you met your soulmate, then you’re just acting like a piece of shit. You know I wouldn’t give a shit where you met, and neither would anyone else that actually matters. As long as you take care of each other and aren’t hurting each other, then that’s all that should matter.” The blonde concludes as he looks away from the pair of you, his voice droning on as if he’s said this before.

You tune out the rest of the breakfast, suddenly feeling sick to your stomach. There was no way he’d notice the way Izuku pulled you closer or how his grip on you tightened just enough to barely hurt, which meant that there was no way he could possibly help you.

—-

The clanging of the metal door opening brought Sae out of her daze, looking up to see a group of men enter the room and drag her out before she could even think to move.

“Where are you fuckers taking me now?” She lashes out as best she can while being carried further down the hall, where the smell of mildew and iron could fully assault her nose. “Just shut up.” The man leading the group barks out as he turns to a rusted door. At least she hoped it was just rust.

She’s dragged into the door and forced to sit in the only chair in the room, a wooden chair with shackles on the arms and legs. “Going to try and torture me so you can know where my notes are? Good luck.” Sae spits at the masked man, who’s acting like he’s in charge.

She’s ignored as the other two men back off, hands clasped behind them, while the third just stares at her with his black eyes, almost looking at her boredly. “Leave; I want to have some fun with her.” He orders, but the other men seem to hesitate. “We were told not to go too far, man; just find out some stuff and keep her here.” One of them states this, staring at the supposed leader of this little troupe.

“I know, just go get me some coffee. By the time you’re back, she’ll be almost the same as when you leave. Then we can just wait here.” Once again, the two hesitate before leaving, the door closing with a heavy bang on their way out.

Almost immediately, the masked man slumps against the nearest wall. “Kid owes me one.” Sae hears him mutter before he limps over to her and starts releasing her from the chair. “What is this? Some trick to make me think you’re on my side?” She eyes him as he sighs and pulls his mask up.

Steel eyes widen before a name is uttered: “Aizawa.” He looks almost the same as he did in his heroic days. “Did Hitoshi send you?” She asks as he pulls her to the door, quickly looking out before the pair rush as best they can toward the exit. “Not quite; he knew you had disappeared, but he wasn’t sure if it was because something happened or because you were waiting until the trial. So he asked me to check on you.”

He explained as quietly as he could, holding out an arm and glancing down hallways before guiding Sae through the maze of dungeon-like cells and rooms. She was shushed anytime she tried to talk to him and sent the kind of tired glare that she swears Hitoshi adopted whenever she would berate him about ‘not antagonizing’ anyone while he was locked up. How the tables have turned for her.

“There’s a side exit up ahead, and I parked in the nearby woods. We can talk once we’re away.” Sae just nods and follows his lead; she’d do just about anything to get out of here.

Once the pair finally made it out through a set of heavy steel doors, Sae was ready to collapse. Her legs were aching from the sudden sprinting after days of sitting or being forced to stand, and her stomach and ribs ached for completely different reasons.

As much as she wanted to just sit and catch her breath and enjoy the fresh air, the retired hero kept her moving forward with a semi-gentle grip on her bicep. Further into the woods that concealed her steel prison, sat a black sedan. Aizawa hurried her into the vehicle, all while he looked calm and relaxed. ‘Perhaps being a teacher at UA for so long has numbed him to these kinds of high-stress situations.’ Sae thinks to herself as she watches him.

“I know something bigger is going on, but I wasn’t told much, so you mind filling me in?” He probes her, not necessarily demanding an explanation. Sae lets her head fall back, wondering how best to tell him that one of his most prolific students has turned out to be the human equivalent of a sack of shit. This would be a fun ride.

—-

After the breakfast with ‘Kacchan’, as Izuku kept calling him the whole time, you would wake up and find random heroes, or who you used to know only as heroes, downstairs with Izuku. Talking, laughing, and acting like the world was made of sunshine and bubbles. And you just felt worse and worse each time you were pulled away from their questioning eyes and charming smiles.

He never said anything other than a reminder to behave or else; he never did much more than hold some part of you in a bruising grip; and he never looked at you with less than an all-consuming devotion when they were there.

You didn’t hate it; it was a change from being alone for who knows how long, but tonight was a different story. Tonight you, or rather Izuku and you, would be throwing a dinner party to celebrate something that happened at one of their agencies, and Izuku would often remind you that it was also supposed to be a way for you to get to know his friends. Meanwhile, yours is probably rotting away in some cell or six feet under.

They’re all gone, and you’re stuck here playing house with your soulmate. You should’ve just left town instead of staying at the base; you could’ve traveled the countryside or snuck onto a ship and left the country; you could’ve done something different so your friends would still be free. But you didn’t.

You jump out of your thoughts as your cheek is tapped, your eyes blinking to focus on the furrowed brow and the concerned expression on Izuku’s face. Oh no, you did it again.

“Are you sure you’re okay? You’ve been spacing out all day; I’m starting to worry about you.” He says he's worried; at least you think that’s what he said. Everything sounds so muffled, and the heavy hammering of your heart isn’t helping. Even so, you just nod and struggle to swallow the growing lump in your throat. “I’m just nervous, I think. How many people were coming again?”

He sighs and eyes you warily, as though you might collapse at any second, before answering. “Just ten people, ten friends. I know them; they’re good people, good heroes; there’s no reason to be nervous.” His hands sit on your shoulders while his thumbs rub circles into the delicate skin under the sweater he all but told you to wear. Green cashmere that, on any other day, would normally feel like wearing a cloud instead just feels like it’s clawing at your neck.

Though, to be fair, everything the past twenty-four hours felt constricting. The loose, old, and worn hoodies that still faintly smell of fresh-cut pine, like being at a Christmas tree farm, were your favorite things to wear since it had gotten cold, but it felt like the sleeves had shrunk when you tried to throw one on last night. Then the turtleneck sweater that’s currently feeling like a snake has coiled around your neck, and the hands that keep touching you.

Why is he touching you? Doesn’t he have to go make sure his party is set up perfectly? Why does he have to make you go through this? Weren’t you behaving just like he ‘asked’ you to? You didn’t want to be surrounded by people—by strangers—that helped him ruin your friend’s lives.

“Hey…Can you…me?” You heard someone, but you couldn’t seem to focus on their voice or even move. It was like being plunged into the lake after the ice breaks in winter, all encompassing cold while the world above grew muddled and far away.

Meanwhile, Izuku was starting to hyperventilate while holding you in his arms. You had just started crying and collapsed, struggling to properly breathe, and your hands had started shaking. Then a pair of scarred hands appeared, and he snarled as black tendrils wrapped around you, keeping you anchored to him. “Izuku! Snap out of it; she needs help!” He knows that, so why is someone else touching what’s his?

Then rough, hardened arms wrap around his neck, pulling him back. The shock of suddenly being grabbed is enough for Black Whip to let you go, and Katsuki is quick to carry you into the dining room and away from Eijiro before Izuku fully loses control. “Let me go! I can help her! She needs me!” Izuku’s screams can be heard through the walls while Katsuki sets you down on the floor before rummaging through the kitchen and returning with a paper bag, the cookies it once held tossed onto the counter.

“I know it feels difficult to hear or do anything, but try and breathe. I’ll hold this up, so just focus on my voice and keep breathing.” He tells you as he holds the white bag up to your mouth, keeping it pressed against your face and starting a slow countdown, one to five, and again and again until finally your eyes gain some focus and your breathing starts to even out.

“Keep going; don’t stop. Can you hold the bag yourself now?” Your eyes look up at him, wondering: Where was the hero who was famous for his temper and sour attitude? Still, you nod and move your hands over the edges of the bag and hold it still as he slowly stands and quietly walks to the living room, where you can now hear Izuku throwing a tantrum.

“Oi! Deku! Shut the fuck up so your girlfriend can have some peace and quiet!” You had to laugh when you heard the blond shout as soon as he was away from you. You slowly start to sit up and move the bag away, finally feeling like you can breathe again and that your heart isn’t going to burst. Yet, you still feel a sense of dread in the pit of your stomach. Is that just because you don’t want to be a part of this ‘party’?

You didn’t have much time to think before a green mess of a human launched into you, wrapping his arms around you and breathing heavily. “Zuku?” His name stumbles out of your lips, gaining nothing in return besides a nonsensical whispering of your name or that oh-so-sweet nickname he gave you. “Hey, Deku, the others are here. You sure you don’t want to just meet us at a restaurant; none of those losers will care about changing plans.” You look up to see Dynamite leaning against the doorway to the dining room, a fresh split lip decorating his face while his hands are shoved into his pant’s pockets.

Izuku stiffens up before slowly turning to his friend, quite eerily, if you were being honest, before he sighs and stands in front of you. “Maybe it’d be for the best if (Y/N) and I stayed home. Sorry for all the trouble, and the split lip. Sorry again, Kacchan.” His shoulders hunch down, and if you could see his face, then you’d probably see a face full of guilt and embarrassment, only half of which would be fake.

“Actually, nah, it might be for the best if she starts getting used to people. Just take a few minutes; we’ll be out there.” Then the blond stalks back to the living room, where you can start to hear more voices—the same voices of heroes you’ve met all week. “Fucking ass, she never listens to me.” You hear Izuku mumble, sounding much like that very first night you technically met him. Like a switch flipped as soon as he was, almost alone.

“(Y/N)?” He doesn’t turn around, still staring at the doorway, as if he could see through it and to the party guests. “If you start feeling like that again, come to me. Understand?” His head turns a fraction to look at you over his shoulder, and you couldn’t bring yourself to say anything, not trusting your voice to even work right now, so you just nod.

You slowly stand up, taking careful steps towards him, until he grabs you and tucks you into his side. “Just play nice for an hour or so, then I’ll reward you for all your hard work this week.” He presses a kiss on your forehead, an act that would be sweet paired with any other words, but the way his eyes rake hungrily over you sends lightning shooting down your spine.

He hasn’t even suggested anything remotely sexual since you got drunk; in fact, he’s slept on the couch the past two nights. That look in his eyes, though, tells you that any reward for you would be more of a reward for him. And you're not even sure if that pit in your stomach is fear or excitement anymore.

Whether it was due to fear or exhaustion or, albeit reluctant, excitement to see the end of the night, you play nice and play the role of an idyllic partner. Smiling and laughing as heroes and their partners talk about their work and their old school days, most of it sounds like what they do now, except they now unwind with alcohol instead of soda, as if they were chit-chatting about kitchen tiles or the difference between chartreuse and lime.

The way they talk about their work and the villains they've stopped recently makes your stomach roll. One of them, the uptight one wearing glasses, talks about how he ‘effectively crushed’ a C-tier villain's arm before the hostages even had time to freak out. Another talks about how her intern accidentally crushed some vigilante's ribs and is now being sued, and how it's such a pain and unnecessary. Like it's completely okay to brutalize and nearly murder someone just because they aren't an ‘official’ hero.

It's all enough to have you excuse yourself to drift over to the booze set up near the kitchen, needing something to numb you. You've only just started to wrap your fingers around a bottle of wine when a familiar hand forces you to put it back down before quietly admonishing you. “I don't want you drinking; it's not healthy for you.”

Stiffly, you nod and wrench your hand away. You didn't want to risk making him angry at you—not tonight. Not tonight, when you have a feeling that you'll be treated like you're just a cocksleeve if you upset him.

“Good girl.” He whispers as his arms cage you in from behind, with those scarred hands interlocking in front of your stomach. “Just another hour or two, then it'll be back to just us.” You're not sure if he's talking to you or himself, but the strained groan he muffled into your neck gives you a hint.

The barely concealed giggles and someone sighing make your face feel hot as embarrassment courses through you, only fractionally helped by the giant wrapping himself around you, as if to hide you from his friends.

The time seemed to fly as Izuku dragged you to each of his friends, sending smiles that you know are fake—you've learned how to tell his real smiles from those fake happy-go-lucky ones he gives out so often—and laughing as they tease him about small ridiculous things, like the time he accidentally knocked a kid's ice cream down and ended up buying out an ice cream truck’s inventory for the kid and his friends. Then, when he got elbowed in the stomach by a kid who thought he was Grand and was very upset when he learned it was Deku, that story made you crack up for obvious reasons.

Then another story, and another, and another. All of them involved kids and how Izuku handled or treated them, and as one of them put it, “Seems like he's ready to have his own kids.” That sent red flags waving and alarm bells ringing in your head. Then he does something that makes your blood freeze.

A gasp is heard from somewhere in the room as Izuku detaches from you and drops down to a knee, with one hand pulling out a small velvet-green box with a gold ring presented to you. The ring itself is gorgeous, and you're sure you'd have a heart attack if you found out just how expensive it was, if the giant diamond surrounded by emeralds on the golden band is anything to go by.

You see his lips move, people around you covering their mouths or grinning as they wait for your answer, but the world's gone near silent to you. The only sound you can hear is the frantic beating of your heart in your ears, and you can't tell if you stopped breathing or if your lungs somehow stopped working. Your stomach is ready to riot, your hands feel clammy and cold, and your head feels like a bomb just went off inside it.

As Izuku stares up at you, waiting for the answer he knows you'll give him; otherwise, he'll have to do something he'll regret, he sees you start to sway before your eyes roll back and you start to fall. He's quick to drop the ring and shoot forward, grabbing you and gently lowering you to the floor.

“(Y/N)? Wake up, please, sweetie?” He croaks out as he holds you in his arms, feeling his own heart start shutting down in terror. “Midoriya, can we get her to a bedroom? Tenya, dear, will you grab my kit from the car?” Smaller hands grabbed his as footsteps shuddered through the room. He didn't know and didn't care who was doing or saying what. He just knows that you're not fine; if you were, then you wouldn't have fainted. Or, what if this is worse than that? Have you actually been sick, and he just hasn't noticed? He shouldn't have pushed you to meet everyone so soon or forced you through this party.

“Zuku?” That soft, tired voice snapped him from the doom spiral he was about to travel down. His eyes snap down to meet those beautiful eyes he's become so obsessed with, and he feels like he can breathe again. “(Y/N)? Are you okay? Do you need anything? Food? Water? J-just tell me, and I'll make it happen.” He rushes before you or anyone else could say anything.

You take a look around, just a second or two, and shiver under the intense attention aimed at the two of you before curling further into his arms. “I just want to go to bed.” He heard you mumble, and he's all too quick to oblige.

He carries you effortlessly up the stairs and to your bedroom, letting his friends downstairs figure things out themselves. All he cared about right now was making sure you were comfortable.

That doesn't stop someone from following, though, and he's about ready to turn around and yell, but he notices it's just Iida's wife with a bag slung over her shoulder. “I just want to check her vitals; if she seems fine, then I can give you a rundown of what to do to help her. If not, then we can head over to my clinic and get her treated. Can I do that?” She explains, and Izuku has to admit that it's reasonable.

He has just some basic medical knowledge; he can set a broken arm or leg, he knows how to best wrap a wound, and he wants to believe that he knows how to best take care of you. But deep down, he knows that if he doesn't get his head out of his ass and let her just check over you, then he might end up letting you get worse.

“Fine, just be gentle.” He relents with an exhale. She nods and continues to follow him, not saying a word the whole time. He nudges the bedroom door open and tries not to notice the way her eyes skim over the state of the room.

He lowers you to the bed, moving down to your feet and removing your slippers before leaning over you and pressing his forehead to yours. “Do you need anything? Tell me, please.” He whispers with his eyes clenched shut.

You blink up at him before clearing your throat and asking for something to drink. He nods, slowly pulling away until only his hand is holding your limp wrist and even then his touch lingers until he reluctantly leaves the room.

“Has this happened before?” You look at the woman as she adjusts her blue layer gloves, she's the wife of one of Izuku's friends. “(Y/N)? Do you know where you are?” She steps forward with her bag, setting it at your hip as she gently helps you sit up against the pillows. “Sorry, um, no this hasn't happened before today. Well, I mean, I had some issues breathing before the party.” You stumble through your response as she pulls out different things from her bag.

“Were you experiencing just a shortness of breath or did you feel lightheaded? Look this way for me.” She prompts you as she shines a light over your eyes. “It felt like I couldn't breathe, and I couldn't really hear anything either. Guess I still wasn't feeling right afterwards.” You try to laugh but it just sounds strained and breathy.

“Without knowing your previous medical history or being able to do tests, I'd wager a guess that you may have been experiencing a panic attack.” She starts off while digging through her bag again. “Do you have anxiety or any other mental health issues?” You start to open your mouth but pause. Do you have anxiety?

After all the shit Izuku's put you through? Then the shit you've gone through before you ever met, if that didn't fuck you up then Izuku definitely should have. “If you're not sure then you don't have to say anything. One last question and I think it'll be safe to say whether you're fine or not. Do you know if you're currently pregnant?”

“No! I-I mean, I can't be. I haven't felt sick or anything, and we use protection. So, no.” You can't be, you'd really lose it if you were. Bringing a kid into this fucked up mess? Even if you wanted kids, which you don't, there's no way you could ever be that selfish. “Okay, if you start to feel sick or you have another panic attack or fainting spell, then ask Izuku to bring you to my clinic.” She places a card in your hand, and squats down so she could look up at you.

“The address for the clinic is there. If you come by yourself, for whatever reason, ask for Mariko Iida and I'll help you as best I can.” You look down at her, and the kindness radiating from her makes you want to cry and tell her everything that's happened, but you know you can't. If she even believed you, she'd probably be in some kind of danger if she did try to help you.

“Listen very carefully. Look in the book on the dresser when you're alone. Page fifty-five, don't do anything until the fourth.” She quickly whispers before standing and humming. “Well, I think as long as you don't get too stressed out or do anything anxiety-inducing, you should be fine.” Your mouth opens and closes as she tucks everything back into her bag and walks out, leaving you alone in the room.

‘What was that? What book?’ Your gaze whips towards the dresser and you spot a blue book, one you don't remember seeing this morning, but your attention is quickly drawn to Izuku as he slowly enters the room. “Everyone left, Mariko told me to make sure you don't get stressed. She even suggested spending a few hours outside in the sunlight.” He attempts a laugh, but he can barely put a smile on one enough to fool either of you.

It's quiet, enough to hear the wind beating against the window, and you can see how exhausted he looks compared to earlier. He looks at you, judging if you're about to fall apart or not, before setting a cup of tea down on the nightstand next to you. “She also said that chamomile tea might help you, I only added in some honey to sweeten it.” He adds before warily sitting on the bed facing you.

“How are you feeling now?” He reaches for your hand and waits for your answer. You can only shrug and look away from him, even if you knew how to put what you're feeling into words, would you tell him?

“I guess I'm just tired now.” You finally reply. “I'm sorry, for the party and springing the proposal on you like that. I shouldn't have pushed you so much.” His thumb brushes over the mark on your hand and sends a shiver racing through you.

“If you want to wait, then I can wait. I just thought that since things have calmed down and things are going smoothly then maybe it was time to make things official.” He sighs and lets out a dry chuckle, “Guess I'm just a blind idiot.”

You glance at him and can feel your heart clench. He truly looks sad, broken, torn down. Once again, you feel yourself being split in two; one half of you wants to rub it in and be glad that he's feeling bad, while the other half just wants to comfort him and make him feel better.

“I just…all those people there and then everyone looking at me, I just hated it.” You tell him, pointedly forgoing any mention of his proposal. It's best to let that moment slip away and be forgotten.

"Can we just forget the last twenty-four hours never happened?" He asks, with an actual laugh this time. You simply nod, ready to just lay down. "Alright, do you want a bath, or are you ready to just go to bed?" "A bath sounds really nice, but my legs feel like jelly still." You groan and start to lay back down, ready to just sleep in your clothes, but Izuku apparently had other ideas.

"If it's a bath you want, then it's a bath you shall get." He says as he picks you up and carries you to the bathroom, setting you on the counter and turning around to start drawing you a bath. "This is the least I can do after everything I put you through this week." He says as he pulls out different bath salts and oils and hands them to you to pick from.

You choose your favorites from the bunch and hand them back, watching as he diligently checks the water before adding in everything once it's warm enough. "Can you stand on your own? I can help you if you need me to." He's quick to offer as he watches you try to steady yourself but the second your legs give out from under you, he's got you.

No words are shared as he helps you undress and finally sets you down in the water. No lewd looks from him or even a blush on his face. Just genuine concern and...love.

"Let me know if you need anything, okay? Don't hesitate to ask me for help, please." He pleads before leaning over and pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. He doesn't say anything as he leaves you, he just gives you one last look before he shuts the door to give you some privacy.

[alangdorf]

Welp, the ref lineup still isn’t done cause I haven’t drawn Shion yet, and the belated valentines I’ve been working on are gonna be like at least a month late cause I just planned three more, but what I did do these past couple weeks is start writing a fanfic and then immediately abandon it to go draw a bunch of only tangentially-related suzutsubas (except for that first pic; that’s a scene from it, albeit one I haven’t written yet), only half of which are fit for public posting (one of ‘em I could make a few edits and feel ok about posting sometime; it’s not that out there, it’s just, y’know. Hamal Cine Bad End Hyperbolic Torture Chamber. I’m usually very “whatever happens happens” about my art but if I don’t show some restraint I know I’ll end up stuck in there forever), but hey, since I’ve been teasing them for ages and finally have some finished stuff with them, take a couple Suzumii! Also gonna ramble abt headcanons under the cut (and it will be LONG)

To begin, a note abt my Len’en gender/pronoun headcanons: as a they/them preferrer myself, I’m thrilled that most people just stick with those for everyone, but I’ve developed some more detailed headcanons as I go through working on designs and I’ll generally be using those. Don’t worry though, most of them are still nonbinary and basically all of them are trans/gq. Relevant ones for this post are Tsubakura: they/them nonbinary (transmasc to some degree) and Suzumi: cis female, question mark?? (to be elaborated on); for clarity’s sake I usually use she/her for Arde and Hamal Cine individually and plural they for the system collectively (also I don’t usually use their nicknames, dunno why), but singular they for Benet (the wiki says Benny is probably short for Benetnasch so I’m assuming that’s their actual name) for reasons which will also be elaborated on (sort of).

Aaalso this clearly isn’t autobiographical or anything but I think I’m subconsciously putting a lot of myself into Suzumi because 1) we do look pretty similar (brown wavy bob + blue eyes) and 2) given their current status as both the main antagonist and the most well-known plural Len’en character (I get the impression that Hooaka also being plural isn’t super common knowledge; I mean it took me several read-throughs of their wiki page and their dialogue with BPoHC Secret Team to get what they were getting at lol) I am probably way too anxious about doing a bad stereotype. Just an observation and also probably partially why I’ve even ended up with so much headcanon for them in the first place

And before I get into the thick of it, notes on derivations from canon: I’m running with the assumption that Suzumi being a system is a relatively recent development tied to whatever incident it was that caused the falling-out, since Tsubakura is like the only person who seems at all familiar with Hamal (including Mitori/Chouki/Fumikado, but they’re more easily explained away as just having met with one of the other alters the few times they’ve interacted) even though she’s supposedly usually the one fronting. They don’t seem to know the mechanics of it though, judging by their confusion when Arde implied that she and Hamal are different people. So basically, I’ll be referring to pre-incident Suzumi as a different character from any of the other three. (Ngl I am very influenced by Dissociation Constant on that and just in general [when will my wife The One and Only Suzutsuba Fic return from the war…..]) I was also debating whether to have Suzumi have any history with the gang before starting to work at the lab/whether stuff would happen around high school or college age, cause they keep referring to everything happening “a long time ago” and I know I, a 24-year-old, feel like stuff that happened five years ago was like yesterday, but I do have the pandemic and not really doing much of anything for most of that time to reckon with so like, eh. College age makes more sense in my head and so does the dynamic of like, Suzumi was only introduced into the friend group (she was acquainted w Hoojiro and Yabu already though bc lab) because she was dating Tsubakura and since that ended, and badly (understatement of the century), they have extremely little reason to be civil with each other and also interacting at all is really awkward.

Ok now on with it! Either end of high school or beginning of college, Suzumi ends up interning at Tsubakura’s lab for college credit (Tsuba’s already practically a department head despite being like 17 or something because. Idk. Who even knows what’s up with them) and she’s like. Only wears t-shirts and jeans (bought a bunch of khakis for this job though), [reading] glasses from the men’s section, hates leaving her hair down (it’s lab safety anyways). Repressed queer in denial, you know the type. Starts interacting a lot with Mx. Tsubakura “wears short shorts that everybody thinks are actually a skirt and also uses ore and omae almost exclusively” Enraku who seems to have everything all figured out and is immediately starstruck (GIRL WHY?? they are such a mess). Lots of “do I want to date them or do I want to be them” confusion (this will be relevant later); eventually evolves into the “am I trans or just a lesbian” question (not that they would need to be attracted to women to be into Tsubakura but you get the picture), which never quite gets answered.

In any case, they do eventually start dating (Tsubakura thinks she’s cute and smart so they reciprocate), and they’re not like super great together cause Tsubakura is emotionally constipated at the best of times (Suzumi’s into that though) and neither of them are the most mentally/emotionally healthy people even back then and also Tsubakura is more or less Suzumi’s boss which is weird, but they’re kind of ok??? Tsubakura’s mom dies at some point, also they move in together (college housing is expensive), the rest of the crew at the very least tolerate Suzumi, etcetera.

And then…! [insert catastrophic event here]!! I don’t have a shot to call on this yet cause I have no idea what it could’ve been (and I’m sure it’ll get revealed at some point anyways); I’m just banking on it being something extremely not mundane and something where you could reasonably set the blame on either (or neither) party cause they sure both seem convinced the other is way worse, huh! In Tsubakura’s case at least, blaming Suzumi is partially a defense mechanism so their self-loathing doesn’t get the better of them over it (guess what the fic was supposed to be about, lol).

The worst part of all this business though is that they DON’T break up over it immediately and it just makes everything orders of magnitude worse for everyone involved. Tsubakura and Arde have hate sex MORE THAN ONCE………… they would both really rather forget about it. Hamal thinks it’s hilarious, ofc, but the less said about her, the better. And Benet… exists??? The only idea that I’m running off of for them atm is the observation that I think they’re the only character with flat black eyes other than Tsubakura/Tsurubami and the subsequent idle thought, “hey if someone malded so hard about a breakup that they ended up with an introject of their ex would that be messed up or what?” So make of that what you will. (Oh and it may have been obvious that this is what I was going for but Hamal is femme and Arde is butch and they’re constantly squabbling abt aesthetic presentation. Having Arde be straight-up male would’ve been too straightforward of an interpretation and I think it’s funnier this way)

The canonically mentioned murder attempts start taking place and I’m leaning towards Tsubakura eventually being convinced to move out even though it was originally their apartment, albeit mostly just because the wikipedia page for house sparrows mentions that they’re known to take over swallows’ nests, usually after they’ve been abandoned, but they will sometimes drive away or kill the current occupants, and that was a very fun fact to come across when specifically doing research for Len’en but idk how else to incorporate it lol. And so on and so forth up until the present time.

Uhhh is that all I have atm? I think so! Anyway, I think I finally shook out all my suzutsuba doodles (and rambling, though I do still have that fic to work on. idk whether I’ll be able to finish it though; I started strong with an extended metaphor in the middle but Iiiii’m not sure if I can successfully write my way up to it while making it make sense. Also I may draw pretty slow but I write even slower!! Eh I’m sure I’ll post some of it sometime) for the time being so I should theoretically be able to finish up my bigger projects now. Maybe I’ll have the valentines ready in time for white day? We’ll see!

[usedtobethelegendcreator]

This is a HAZBIN HOTEL APPRECIATION POST.

I’ve seen way too many “The pilot was 10000000x better than the show”-style posts recently, so I’m going to talk about why I like the show more.

1. Alastor’s new voice:

I kid you not, if they’d kept his pilot voice, I would have stopped watching immediately. I could not stand hearing it for extended periods of time (anything longer than ten minutes). It grated on my ears and made something deep within my soul hurt. His new VA is, ironically, a godsend—he sounds like he’s speaking through a radio without making me feel like I’m in an auditory torture chamber.

2. Charlie’s new hair:

Just looking at her old hairstyle gives me anxiety. It looks like it’s going to come loose at any moment.

3. Angel’s new design:

He no longer looks like his fur is matted.

4. Alastor’s new design:

Even I don’t know why, but I hate how his eyelids used to look. Absolutely hate them. His hair used to part at the back of his head and looked like I would find cockroaches in it. His hands had little spots on the back. Just. No. Give me New Alastor any day.

5. Vox looks less like the TV version of Alastor and more like his own person. There’s nothing to be done for his personality, though.

6. Vaggie is now less of a stereotype. I’m glad her misandrist phase is over. We didn’t need another.

7. Do I need to bring up the Dahmer joke? Because I will bring up the Dahmer joke.

8. Alastor now has visible emotions that do not consist of Smile, Bigger Smile and, of course, Even Bigger Smile (ft. unbearable static). He no longer acts like a malevolent Ken doll—he used to be a human being and it shows now.

9. HUSK THE EX-OVERLORD. All the radiohusk and huskerdust fans ate well that day.

10. Niffty gets more than one scene (and a chance to redeem herself for misgendering Angel and being a little sexist).

11. Alastor gets to sing something that isn’t a reprise.

12. Susan.

13. Alastor being an Overlord. Fuck that one post about him not being one.

14. Zestial. Him being the one (1) male that Alastor genuinely respects is an amazing dynamic to watch. Cool Old Guy and his murderous little gremlin.

15. Rosie. Rosie Rosie Rosie. ROSIE.

16. Again, Alastor. We got to see a hint of why he had THREE WARNING POSTERS up IN THE SAME AREA. I never knew hearing sharks get vored would be so satisfying.

17. Watching the King of Hell get bullied into being a present father would be enough by itself even if the rest of the show was shit.

[depressed-teacup-inc]

At this point, I am literally just trying to see this season to an end

Hi hello, yes I’m late, time to review Revolution! Let’s go because at this point I’m getting tired of this show.

So basically the entire episode is Adrien’s trying to tell Marinette that he’s leaving Paris and trying to stop it, but Marinette doesn’t really listen, and is focused on stopping Chloe, who’s now mayor/dictator??? Yeah trust me the logic of this show is gone, somehow people are ok with the super demonized caricature Chloe being mayor like everyone didn’t hate her already (my guess is that this is supposed to be alluding to the current state of world and politics and lack of trust people hold in the government)? Love the lack of consistency and logic.

Now. I don’t want to criticize Marinette too much, because technically, yes, she was busy trying to handle the Chloe situation (which in itself makes absolutely no sense and by all accounts shouldn’t be possible) but I will note that despite Adrien clearly telling her something was wrong multiple times, she never seems to care or understand? Like he told her multiple times that there’s something wrong, but she never seems to care or do anything about it until it actually affects her (which is unfortunately in character)

But apparently people are criticizing Adrien?! Saying how he’s awful for lying to marinette about having to leave and left it for the last minute? And frankly, the show kinda does it too (in the next episode, many of Adrien’s classmates discuss how awful it is Adrien didn’t say anything and how could he keep this from them like that)

LIKE??? BITCH??? Two points:

1. Adrien’s dad is Gabriel fucking Agreste?!

Like wow what a shocker the child of a man that has proven to abuse and isolate his son on multiple occasions has a fear of asking others for help in his situation because he worries nothing can truly beat this actual billionaire who’s also his legal guardian? And also is implied to have legit magic control powers over him, sentimonster style?

2. This really isn’t that of a big fucking deal

Like I do not get why this show keeps saying how “Adrien lied to marinette!!! He didn’t tell her he’s moving away!!!! How could he!!!” And how literally everyone and their mom is seeing this as an awful situation for marinette, when in actuality, all she knows is that Adrien will now be living a couple of hours away from her (due to the bullet train between Paris and London) and that he won’t literally be with her every second of the day.

Like I get it for a 14 year old yes this might be a huge fucking deal, but Alya even says so herself! Adrien is in London, they’ll just get a couple of tickets for the train and figure it out from their! And even in the worst case scenario where Adrien stays in London, there’s the option of a long distance relationship (that’s just as valid a relationship as any and would be a refreshing take on how not every relationship is super conventional and in person)

I just really don’t understand why the show shows Adrien genuinely going through some horrible shit from his father (like full on white room torture in the episode after) and then all the show focuses on is how this affects marinette and how sad she must be rather then the genuine psychological damage this must be doing for the kid! Like no one in this show remembers the amount of control Gabriel has on Adrien or something.

Anyways rant aside, before the entire going to London thing happens (btw congrats adrienette shippers for the kiss) there’s a whole thing where Chloe makes a deal to be akumatized by Monarch so she can send people to detention (it’s painted as a torture chamber but it’s literally people walking around with a video of Chloe saying they’re ridiculous, so basically P.E. Class), and then there’s a big fight where Ladybug and Chat Noir almost detransform because they used up their lucky charm and cataclysm and are trapped (btw the lucky charm had no fucking point to the story, why was it underwear? Frankly it was kinda creepy if the writers to have panties as the lucky charm for nothing but a weird joke, and not even connecting to the messages of unity and everyone taking action but ok)

But like… they just don’t?! Like I swear to god this show makes no sense anymore, Ladybug and Chat Noir just say they’ll never give up and fully transform and recharge again, and now they have no time limit and full powers?!

Like, the entire principal (just like Gabriel said) of the miraculous time limit, is that Kwamis need to recharge after one use, and that adults can lend some of their energy and power to Kwamis and therefore have them last longer to the point they don’t need to detransform, hence “only adults don’t need to detransform”

But now it’s apparently a purely emotional thing and not physical? Ladybug and Chat Noir somehow grew up by saying they’ll never detransform again (I do not at all see how this is a moment of growth to them) and now they just don’t detransform, despite the fact they are physically still kids?

Like by the shows logic of emotional maturity, Gabriel shouldn’t be able to hold a transformation at all then, because he’s the farthest thing from emotionally mature.

And also, it kinda makes all the stakes in fights now null and void? The biggest stake and challenge in each fight from day one of miraculous was “there’s this bad guy, you guys have one chance to use your special powers to beat them, think smart and solve this puzzle” but now it’s just gone??? It would have worked if the akumas overtime became more intense and hard to beat but clearly that’s not the case as even akumas powered up with actual miraculouses can be beat by a normal ladybug and chat noir.

The best thing the show could have done here is rather then make the becoming adult thing emotional maturity, have Ladybug and Chat Noir notice their transformation seems ti be slowly lasting longer as they age (have it be a metaphor for puberty and growing up or something) and then actually make the fights and villains more difficult and compelling so by the time Ladybug and Chat Noir no longer transform back, the priority isn’t for them to keep their secret identity (which sucks and anyways doesn’t matter) but to stay alive!

But anyways I digress, when has this show ever pulled a logical move?

Which speaking of…

I have no fucking clue what they’re doing with Chloe anymore.

They spent. Entire SEASONS! PLURAL! SEASONS! After the introduction of Audrey Bourgeois, telling us how “no Chloe is irredeemable her actions are never justifiable she’s just evil and bad and she has no other reason for doing anything and she’s so bad she’s cooperating with monarch and Lila look how evil she is hate her so marinette looks better in comparison”

To now… suddenly pulling this scene?!

Like. WHY??? Why would you purposely demonize Chloe despite the very real opportunity she had to get better and be complex, only to now pull a “whoops wait look guys deep compelling character!”

And while I heard people say this is the show maybe finally making Chloe get her redemption arc after hitting rock bottom, I can’t agree? The show is known for its repetitive nature, and if the show is to redeem Chloe and suddenly make her a good person or give her a compelling reason for acting the way she did, marinette looks bad in comparison, for not having as compelling reasons to do just as bad things:

Example? Marinette and Chloe in season 3’s Animaestro, trying to sabotage Lagami and publicly humiliate her in front of Adrien so she won’t “win him over”.

If Chloe has an explanation for this behavior (she’s taught to be cruel and mean from a young age by an abusive and neglectful mother, and because of her equally neglectful father, she learned the only way she’s heard and anyone cares for her is if she lashes out, and someone will just throw money on the problem) what reason does marinette have? She was raised by perfectly loving and doting (maybe too doting) parents, who from day one have taught her to be kind to others, and to do good.

Both characters did an awful thing, just one character has a genuinely compelling explanation for said behavior, while the other is pure jealousy and wanting the guy for herself by all costs.

So no, I don’t think the show will redeem Chloe for that reason: because it would force marinette to admit her wrongdoings and therefore force the plot to develop!

So this just makes no sense? It feels like a case of the show wanting to have its cake and eat it too, wanting the show to remain the same, Chloe to remain awful for no reason, and for marinette to stay the hero by comparison, but also have the bragging rights to say “we write complex character you guys!”

It makes no sense is my point.

Anyways besides these huge inconsistencies, leaps in logic, and bad writing, I don’t really have anything else about this episode to say? This show has officially come to the point for me where I genuinely think nothing will ever change or be able to fix how wrong everything is (from characterization of everyone except for marinette, the plot, the rules of miraculouses, the LOVE SQUARE)