#so i never struggled with not liking one of them??

[twenty-qs]

You know, one of my favorite under-the-radar interactions in Arcane is actually between Jayce and Vi.

On paper they have…literally nothing in common. One’s the golden boy science nerd, plastered all over Piltover as the symbol of progress, who has actively made decisions on the Council that made life in Zaun worse. One’s a bruiser who cut her teeth on the streets of Zaun, and then prison, as Piltover did its very best to forget she ever existed. They’ve had maybe, like, one actual conversation, in which Vi called him ‘pretty boy’ and Jayce looked deeply uncomfortable. But against all odds—they get along like a house on fire. I think Jayce is the only one Vi would have accepted weapons made of Hextech from; and I think Vi (and Caitlyn, but Vi came first) was the only person other than himself that Jayce would have made Hextech weapons for. They’re so in sync that they literally coordinate battle moves on the fly without needing to exchange a word. It might strike you as weird, at first. It’s just so improbable.

But it makes sense. Because the way they make decisions is almost the same—emotion. Impulse. Punch first, think later. Do what you think is right, and don’t wait for the world to give you permission, because it never will. They trust their gut and make snap decisions. And because the world of Arcane is morally gray, they usually regret it.

Which makes me think that some of the strongest parallels in this new season might actually be between Vi and Jayce. Arcane is about change. The price of change; the promises and dangers of change; and how people change, too. Vi and Jayce have been relatively stable character-wise. They change their minds about things, circumstances around them change, but at least at the end of s2e3, they’re still very recognizably themselves. Still punch first, think later. But the people around them have been undergoing extreme transformations.

Powder is now Jinx. Vi spent the entire first season refusing to see this, then failing to understand this. At the start of season 2, she still can’t reconcile the two in her mind—she can only conceive of them as literally two different people. Powder is dead. (I killed her.) All that’s left is Jinx. (I created her.) But the truth is that Jinx is still her little sister, is still the girl who was once Powder. Powder didn’t die—she changed.

Meanwhile, Caitlyn in season 2 is having a cataclysmic change because of her trauma and grief. The Caitlyn Vi fell in love with was brave, precise, determined—and fundamentally kind. She traded her gun away for medicine to save Vi’s life. She didn’t even hesitate. But now, all of that laser focus is being bent on revenge. Caitlyn has become increasingly single-minded, narrow-viewed, her world reduced to the target in her sniper’s scope. If you’re an obstacle, she’ll simply shoot right through you. She promised Vi she wouldn’t change, and then she hit Vi and abandoned her the moment Vi got in the way. Season 1 Caitlyn would never do that.

Vi struggles with change. She never seems to quite—grasp it. Doesn’t understand how the Undercity has changed while she was locked up, stagnant, an insect trapped in amber. She loves people with a sort of nostalgic glow. What the show forces Vi to reckon with is how far she’s willing to love someone before they’ve changed too much. She thinks it’s over with Jinx. She says she doesn’t consider Jinx as her sister anymore. But they are, they’re still sisters, of course they are. Jinx knows this. Jinx loves her sister, even now. Which means there might still be something in her for Vi to love too. But with Caitlyn, is there anything left of the kind girl who gave Vi her freedom and treated her with compassion? Can Vi still love the dictator literally waging war against her people? Should she? (Could she even stop loving Caitlyn if she wanted to?)

Jayce’s arc is just beginning in season 2, so I’m not sure which direction he’s heading in. But the parallels are already showing up. Is Viktor still in there, or is he dead? (Did I kill him?) Is it just the Hexcore using his body now, a monster that must be stopped? (Did I create him?) Jayce, too, might soon be forced to decide if he can still love someone who’s changed past the point of recognition. Or whether he should.

All this is to say that I hope we get more Vi and Jayce interactions this season. And that it’s definitely not a coincidence that we got two divorces in one episode.

[avatar-anna]

Never Really Over

a little bit of divorced!harry for your consideration

"I just wanna see him."

Y/n gave her ex a long look, not betraying the warring emotions swirling in her belly. Harry rarely showed up this late. He rarely showed up unannounced, for that matter. It made things easier—seeing him when she could prepare herself for the encounter. Now he was here on her doorstep, hair messy and eyes all pleading and sad.

"I just put him to bed, H," Y/n sighed. It wasn't that she didn't want to keep Harry from their son, but it was way too late, and it wasn't his week.

It had nothing to do with the fact that Y/n had been feeling particularly lonely lately and seeing her ex husband be all sweet with their son would make her think traitorous thoughts.

"I know, I know, I've just... I've had a long day, and I just want to see him. I won't even wake him up, I swear. I just want to sit with him."

Despite the divorce, Y/n still knew Harry struggled with the demise of their relationship, and she did too, even if she was the one who ultimately filed. They were five months in, but she felt like no time had passed at all. She floated between half expecting Harry to walk through the door like he used to and frustrated by the way their relationship turned so tumultuous by the end. It was all too complicated, which was why she preferred Harry's visits to be planned. It helped her to compartmentalize.

But she saw the look in his eyes and couldn't help but empathize with her ex-husband.

He looked tired and lost and maybe even at his wits end a little. She knew that look well, she recognized it every time she looked in the mirror on the days Harry had their son. She knew what it was like to have a bad day and want nothing more than to hold their little bub and let him wash away every bit of stress and frustration. Y/n did everything she could to not go completely out of her mind when it was Harry's week with their son, and she imagined that her ex felt similarly.

"Twenty minutes," she said, opening the door further and stepping to the side.

Harry's shoulders sagged with relief. He stepped toward Y/n as if he was going to hug her, then seemed to think better of it and went straight inside.

Y/n stayed downstairs while Harry went up, letting him have a private moment with their son. She cleaned up in the meantime, putting away stray toys and books and fluffing couch cushions and refolding blankets. Anything to not think of Harry with her son, or the soft look he always got when he gazed down at their little boy. It had always been her kryptonite, and she wasn't sure she'd gotten over it yet.

A little while later, Harry came back downstairs. Having organized and straightened up everything she possibly could, Y/n settled on the couch with the glass of wine she'd promised herself earlier that day. She'd wanted to have it in her bed with her book, but she settled for scrolling on her phone until her ex eventually left.

"Thank you," Harry said, his voice soft, careful not to wake the five year old upstairs. "You didn't have to do that, but I appreciate it."

"Don't worry about it," Y/n said, trying to appear like seeing him didn't have an effect on her the way it used to.

"Really, Y/n, I owe you."

"Let's not go and make promises you can't keep again," she muttered.

Y/n felt guilty as soon as she said it. They were having a civil moment, a rarity since the whirlwind of their divorce. She hadn't meant to pick at old wounds and make them bleed again. Her response was a reflex more than anything, one that she couldn't keep in check when she was tired.

"I'm not the one who filed for divorce, Y/n," Harry said, a dark cloud of emotion overtaking his face. "If anyone broke promises, it was you."

"Those vows were broken long before we got divorced, and you know it," Y/n said, that old fire that was more of a dull ember these days rising to the surface.

Harry and Y/n fell in love hard and fast, both loving each other fiercely and with everything cell in their body. Their relationship had been full of passion and intensity and so much love it was almost suffocating. But it also meant that they fought just as hard. Their arguments often blazed and burned bright, then fizzled out until they were in each other's arms again as if nothing had happened.

Until the arguments got bigger.

And longer.

And Y/n just couldn't take it anymore.

Y/n could tell that the anger simmering in Harry's eyes was more for show. She could see the sadness, perhaps even loneliness, in those lovely green eyes of his. And maybe her anger was a little more bravado than genuine hurt too. Maybe it was easier to slip into familiar habits and poke at old wounds than admit the truth.

She missed him.

"Don't make me the villain here. You—"

"I don't want to fight with you," she said before Harry could volley anything back. "I shouldn't have said what I said. I'm sorry. It's been a long day for me, and I'm assuming yours wasn't a walk in the park either."

Harry didn't say anything, or do anything, for a moment. Then, he let his head drop, his shoulders slumping a little. Feeling more than a little bad for kicking him while he was down, Y/n stood up from the couch and fetched another glass before pouring some wine in it for her ex. "Here," she said. "A peace offering. You look like you could use it."

With a laugh that held no humor in it, he took it and raised the glass to his mouth, and Y/n tried hard not to stare at his lips. Or the column of his throat as it bobbed when he took a sip. Or—

"Is this one of mine?"

Y/n willed her cheeks not to flush. "I might've snagged a few bottles from your collection before we sold the house. Most of them went untouched anyways."

"They were aging," Harry said, a little of that humor and charm she fell in love with sparking in his eyes, the lines of his face. "You're supposed to let the bottles rest for a few years until they're at their peak, and then you drink them."

Y/n shrugged. "If you wait too long it goes bad and you miss out on a perfectly good bottle altogether, and then you do all that waiting for nothing."

She didn't mean anything by it, but both of them recognized the subtle truth in regards to their own relationship. Y/n wondered if they would ever be over this part. The stumbling through conversations and trying to avoid dangerous subjects that were littered between them like a minefield.

"Are you saying that's what happened with us?" Harry asked after taking another sip. "That I waited too long to appreciate what was right in front of me? What was perfect in every way the whole time?"

"I was talking about wine, not us."

"You've always been perfect in my eyes, Y/n," Harry said. "You and that perfect angel upstairs. Both of you are my entire world."

"Don't," Y/n said, taking a step back when she realized how close together they were.

"I miss you," Harry said, his voice hitching in his throat. "I miss waking up to our baby snuggled between us. I miss holding your hand while we watch him play at the park. I miss building pillow forts and playing pretend. I miss you, Y/n. I miss being loved by you. I hate that we're divorced. I hate that I signed those stupid papers and let you walk away."

Her throat suddenly felt dry, her heart pumping in her chest so hard she worried he might hear it. Blinking, Y/n tried to maintain the thread of composure holding her together. "You've had a long day. I can tell you need rest—"

"Don't patronize me," he said, stepping closer and closing the small distance between them once more. When Y/n didn't try to widen it again, Harry continued. "If you don't miss me, if you don't still feel what I feel, then say that. But if you do..."

Harry took Y/n's glass and set it down on the coffee table along with his own. He straightened up, one free hand lightly caressing your face, his thumb grazing across her cheek with a touch so delicate she barely felt it. It was agonizing. To have him right there, just the way she used to, and only get a phantom touch. It was maddening.

So maddening, that when he leaned in, Y/n didn't stop him.

She might have whimpered, and her knees might have slightly buckled, and she might have clutched her shirt between her fingers in a desperate, iron grip as Harry slid his mouth against hers, but she would deny it if he said anything about it later.

His kiss was all-consuming, he'd been a ghost in her new life for months, and suddenly he was everywhere—on her tongue, in her hands, against her chest. And she nearly forgot how explosive kissing him was. How it was almost like a dance that they'd mastered but were always learning new and exciting steps to. The softness of her ex's lips were as familiar as ever, but the stubble on his cheeks was new. She didn't recognize the shirt he wore, but she knew the body beneath it almost as well as her own. And his hands—

"We can't—We're not—Harry—"

Over the years, Y/n had grown used to the feeling of Harry's wedding band against her skin. When he held her hand, when he cupped her cheek, when he was spreading her open or landing a firm slap to her ass. It was familiar, a part of him that just seemed intrinsic after they got married.

But now, as she placed her hand over the one that held the side of her face as he kissed along her throat, it wasn't there. The band was gone, they weren't married anymore, and they certainly shouldn't be kissing like they still were.

"Just this once," Harry murmured, pressing the words along the curve of her jaw. "It's been so long, baby. I just want to feel you again. We can still be divorced after. Like last time."

Flames licked Y/n's core as she remembered the night in question. It had been the night the divorce had been finalized. Harry and Y/n signed and initialed every dotted line, the lawyers shook hands and left, then Harry and Y/n went their separate ways

Harry still insisted that her late-night message about a few of his possessions that got mixed in with her things was meant to have some kind of subtext, and Y/n would swear until she was blue in the face that her text was innocent, even if the activities that followed Harry coming over to "pick up" said items were anything but. It was a final goodbye. It was closing a chapter on a book neither of them ever really believed would end.

"Last time was supposed to be the last time," Y/n said, her voice shallow and not at all convincing.

"Tell me you don't want me right now," Harry said, his hand creeping beneath the waistband of her pajama pants. Y/n's mouth opened in a strangled gasp, too aroused and too in love with him still to push him away. "Tell me not to set you down on the kitchen counter and let me love on that pussy the way I used to. Tell me not to haul you upstairs and fuck you hard for breaking us up when we could've had this every. Single. Day."

Harry's last words were punctuated by the thrust of his fingers inside Y/n, each one making her curl around him tight. He lifted her into his arms and set her on the couch, the closest surface in the vicinity that wasn't hardwood flooring. His fingers still moving inside her, pumping slowly, he pressed a bruising kiss to her lips.

"Tell me not to love you anymore," he said, his teeth nipping at her bottom lip. "Tell me how to fall out of love with you. Tell me how to not dream of you. Tell me how to not want you anymore."

Y/n, who had succumbed to this moment, this lapse in...whatever it was, could only grip her ex's hair as he worked her over with his fingers, each word he spoke a balm to the loneliness these last months brought. She wasn't ready to start seeing someone else after the divorce, but now she worried no one would ever measure up to Harry. He ruined her for any other man who might try to sweep her off her feet in the future.

"Tell me, Y/n, and I'll let you come."

Y/n was a mess. She could hear it as Harry's fingers slid in and out of her quickly and harshly, then slowing down before she could finish. He used to do it all the time, knowing how worked up it made her, and now he knew nothing had changed.

"I—" she gasped. She was so close she could barely think straight. Harry's desperate words and the way his fingers curled inside her had her seeing stars. But if she knew her ex, he would stay there and edge her until she gave him what he wanted. "I don't know. I don't know how to make it stop. Please let me come."

Having thought she'd given him what he wanted, Y/n prepared herself for an earth-shattering orgasm. She surrendered herself to tonight, to him, even if she regretted it in the morning. Even if secretly she didn't, which would make her feel even worse.

But instead of pushing her over the edge, Harry removed his fingers from her altogether. The whine Y/n let out at the loss was perhaps a little undignified, but she couldn't think straight with the thick cloud of lust looming over her.

"Wh—"

"We're going to do this properly," he said, scooping her up into his arms and heading back upstairs, taking a left toward her bedroom. Their little angel boy was down the hall on the right side, but Y/n knew they still had to be quiet.

Once behind the closed door of her bedroom, they were both quick to shed each other of their clothes. Stitching ripped, a button or two flew, socks tossed carelessly to corners of the room they'd probably forget about later until there wasn't an ounce of fabric between them.

There wasn't time to stand and appreciate. This wasn't a romantic moment. It was desperate, a little angry, and intense in the way it always has been between them. Y/n kissed her ex-husband hard, her teeth sinking into his bottom lip and soothing the ache with her tongue until he eventually flipped her over onto her stomach.

"You can't be here by the time he wakes up tomorrow," Y/n managed to say. "I don't want to confuse him."

"I know," Harry said, lining himself up with her entrance. "But wouldn't it be so nice if I did?"

"Harry—"

"Relax, baby, I'll abide by your rules," he said, his voice a soft caress. "Just let me have you tonight, and then I'll be gone."

Harry slid in with one smooth thrust, Y/n's mouth dropping open in response. She hadn't been stretched this way in months, and the feel of him inside her again as if nothing had changed...

"Fuck, Harry. I'm—I'm so close," she moaned, unable to say much more than that.

His movements were torturously slow, prolonging the climax he'd been teasing out of her on the couch. Then he leaned over her, his body pressing deliciously against hers.

"We may be separated, but you're still mine," he said, his words accented by his own pleasure. "These hips? Mine. Your tits? Mine. This little cunt? Well, she already knows. Absolutely drenching me. And tonight, I'm going to make sure you remember that."

Y/n could only whimper and wait to take whatever her ex-husband was willing to give her.

*.*

Y/n was having the best dream.

Sun streamed through the small crack in her bedroom curtains as she snuggled under the weight of the warmest, coziest blanket. She held onto it, wrapping it tighter around her, hoping to get a couple more minutes of sleep before her son eventually barged in and demanded they start their day.

She had a million things to do, but none of it seemed to matter while she slept. She felt relaxed in a way she hadn't in a long time.

Then the dream seemed to change. The cozy blanket became an arm draped over her, a leg tangled between her own, and a firm body pressed against her back. The unknown form wrapped around her began to kiss along her bare back, the arm tightening its grip around her waist. Her stomach flipped as a hand began to play with her breast.

She hadn't had one of those dreams in a long time, either.

Before the dream could go any further, Y/n regrettably began to feel the pinpricks of consciousness. But as she blinked her eyes open, she still felt that weight of another body next to hers, of someone other than herself occupying her bed.

It was then that last night made an appearance in her mind, recalling every dirty detail of how she'd given into her ex-husband.

"Good morning."

Harry's voice was low and gruff as if he'd only just woken up himself. The puffs of his breaths dusted over Y/n's skin and sent goosebumps all over. She didn't understand how her body, even while it was still waking up, was so responsive to him.

As casually as possible, she said, "You weren't supposed to stay over."

"Honestly, I don't even remember falling asleep," Harry admitted, though he made no move to leave her Y/n's bed.

"You have to go before he wakes up," she insisted, even if her body was completely against that idea. "He can't find you here. If he does, he'll have questions, and—"

Before Y/n could even finish, she heard the soft patter of feet against soft carpet. Then her door creaked open, and the light of her life appeared.

"Daddy!"

Y/n rested her hands over her face, but not before seeing Harry's broad grin out of the corner of her eye, one that was nearly identical to the little boy at the foot of the bed.

"Hey, buddy," Harry said, his voice less husky than it was just moments ago. "What are you doing up so early, huh?"

"Why are you in bed with Mommy?" the boy asked, climbing into bed with his parents and wriggling around until he was snuggled between them.

Wasn't that the question, Y/n thought, though she was in no rush to help Harry.

"Mummy and Daddy decided to have a sleepover," Harry explained.

"Oh. Well, why didn't you invite me?"

"Because..." Y/n felt Harry's gaze on her, but she was not inclined to dig him out of this hole. Their night was over. It was a new day, which meant everything was back to the way it was before Harry came over last night. "Because I wanted to surprise you this morning. We're all going to spend the day together. Just the three of us."

"Yay!"

"What?"

Y/n glared over the top of her son's head as he half-hugged half-tackled Harry from sheer excitement. This was definitely not reverting back to their normal routine of co-parenting and seeing each other only when it was necessary. Harry, who looked thoroughly pleased with himself, slid out of bed with their boy still latched into him.

Thankfully, he was wearing underwear, but that didn't help Y/n much. She couldn't help but stare at his muscles flexing as he stood and stretched while he held their son. At all the tattoos that littered his body and the mess of curls on his head. He had no right to look this good in the morning, especially when Y/n knew for a fact that she always looked haggard no matter what when she first woke up.

Not that her appearance in front of her ex mattered to her.

"Come on, let's start with making your mum some breakfast. I'm thinking...waffles?"

"Do not make a mess of my kitchen, Harry," Y/n warned, not even bothering to protest the idea in its entirety. She wouldn't have been able to tell her son no even if he tried. Not with how excited he looked at the prospect of spending the day with his dad.

"We'll clean up after ourselves, I promise," Harry said with a wink in your direction. "You stay there and rest. I know you had a...long night."

Y/n threw a pillow at Harry's retreating form before flopping back into her bed. She had half a mind to strut right over to him and prove him wrong, but, well, the dull ache between her legs was starting to make itself known, and the damage of her son seeing Harry in her bed was already done. She might as well stay in bed and take the morning off if Harry was offering.

Sighing, Y/n ran a tired hand over her face as one realization after another made themselves known.

Everything about last night and this morning was messy and would no doubt bring about consequences and difficult conversations she wasn't inclined to have. There were questions she didn't want to ask or know the answer to, but one thing was abundantly clear:

She was well and truly fucked.

[sena-seastar]

Bad Sleeping Habits

Dad!Aemond x Wife!Reader

Summary: Aemond has trouble being firm with your daughter.

A/N: This is just a little drabble I wrote. No beta, so I apologize for any spelling and grammar mistakes!

Aemond had always been a light sleeper, even more so after the birth of your daughter. He had always been the first to wake up and rush to her side anytime she made the slightest noise. So when he heard her shuffling out of bed in the middle of the night, he woke up immediately. He didn’t get up, instead choosing to wait and see what she was up to.

The two of you had been trying to get Daenys into the habit of sleeping in her own bed. To say it was a struggle would be an understatement. The two of you had let her sleep between you a few times, and apparently, she took that to mean she had to sleep in your bed every night.

Aemond didn’t honestly mind it. He loved every minute of it. He knows that once she gets older, he won’t get those moments when he can hold her close and have her sleep in his arms anymore. So he wants to hold on to her as long as he can. 

Aemond kept perfectly still as he felt the blanket at the bottom of the bed being tugged down. He used one of his hands to hold onto it so that it would not completely slip off the bed, as Daenys used it as a ladder to climb onto the bed. He pretends to be asleep, though he cracks his eye open just enough to watch his little girl, in case she slips.

She let out a little grunt as she successfully reached the top. Aemond doesn’t move as she climbs over him, most likely trying to take her usual place between the two of you.

He does his best not to cry out when her knee accidentally digs into the flesh of his thigh. He doesn’t want to frighten his little girl or, even worse, wake you up. So, he does his best to bear the pain.

He waits until she reaches the top of the bed before rolling over to face her. She freezes, her eyes wide open, knowing she’s been caught. Though her shock quickly turns to amusement. Daenys gives him a cheeky smile.

“Why are you out of bed?” He whispers. “Go back to sleep,” he scolds her playfully.

“Nuh-uh,” she shakes her head, making her little silver curls shake side to side.

 Daenys sits back on her heels—a mischievous glint in her eyes.

Aemond lifts his hands, trying to brace himself. He makes it just in time before she throws herself on top of him. Her little arms wrap around his shoulders, squeezing him tightly as she buries her face into his neck. Messy, silver curls tickle his nose. Aemond shakes his head, trying to push her hair away.

“Fine, you can stay,” he sighs, “but your mother won’t be pleased with us in the morning.”

He grabbed the blanket, pulling it over the both of them.

She yawned, nuzzling her cheek against his shoulder. “Night, night, kepa.” 

“Goodnight, my little dragon.” He hummed, gently running his hand over her back.

Aemond stared up at the canopy, and once again, he found himself wondering how he had gotten here. What had he done to deserve such happiness? The man had always known he would marry and eventually have children someday. He was a Targaryen prince, after all. Yet he had never imagined it would make him feel so... content. 

“You spoil her too much,” you mumble drowsily.

Aemond turned his head, finding you with your head still buried in your pillow.

“She’s a princess. It's practically in the job description.” He smirked. “Besides, you don't seem to mind when I spoil you.”

“Fine,” you sigh. “But she’s sleeping in her own bed tomorrow.”

Aemond reached over and grabbed your hand. He lifted it, pressing a kiss to your knuckles.

“Goodnight, my love.”

[kitten-kokomo]

Hi I’m here because Finch is incredibly useful for me

I get attached to things like stuffed animals easily, and Finch is another one of those. Mine is named Skipper, and she reminds me to get things done, so I can buy her cute outfits and send her on adventures. It’s great!

The app never shames you for missing a goal or forgetting to take an adventure.

How it works, for the curious:

You get a finch, name it, fall in love with it forever

you set goals for yourself (you can have them repeat or not), like brush your teeth, exercise, drink water, enjoy a hobby, or get some work done!

when you complete a goal, you get energy, and when you have enough, your finch goes on an adventure for the day.

When they come home, they tell you what they saw and are adorable about it!

you also get rainbow stones (coins) for completing goals, so you can buy clothes and furniture for your finch

Other cool features include breathing exercises, a super robust reflection/journal system which includes tags, so you can see how things like people or activities affect you, some activities for anxiety moments (like the 5 things you can see, four things you can hear thing, etc) and a lot of other cool stuff like stretches

also; micropets, which are lil pets for you per! It’s the cutest thing cuz they get bigger and it’s so smol and precious and AHHHHH

you can also send lil messages to your friends with the app, it’s adorable

The app runs on a freemium model. It is FREE to use and to access all the main features. If you pay for a subscription, you can get a few more bells and whistles, but it is not essential or pay-to-use at all. I use the free version, and the only issue I have ever had is that you can’t pick the emojis that tags (like your friends, or words like choir or math or swimming) are assigned, so at present, “legs” has been assigned a picture of a screwdriver, “thought” is a dragon, and “flute” is just a random circle. Not a big deal.

Here’s some pics!

Finch is a great app, especially if you struggle with getting things done, and want a happy little birdie to remind you to do things!

Two things to prop up right now:

The ACLU - They’ll do their best to make sure this dumpster fire doesn’t turn into a wildfire.

The Trevor Project - They’ll be fielding a lot of calls, texts, and chats in the next few days and beyond.

And, if you need something, try Finch. It’s the best self-care app I’ve ever used.

[osarina]

ᡣ𐭩 BLIND TO THE PURPOSE OF THE BRUTE DIVINE

FEATURING: dazai osamu

SUMMARY: you're finally in a position to make your first, and hopefully final, move, but the guild isn't your only enemy that's actively working against you. you were foolish to think things would be so easy.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: happy friday lil guys, i struggled with this chapter unfortunately and i'm not sure if i'm happy with the results </3 hopefully you guys will enjoy it more than i did hahah. comments & reblogs appreciated

GENERAL WARNINGS: fem!reader, port mafia executive!reader, civilian!dazai, dazai's struggles w suicide & sh, reader partakes in mafia business, dazai isn't dazai without a bit of obsessiveness and possessiveness (the possessiveness doesn't come til later but the obsessiveness starts from day 0).

CHAPTER SPECIFIC WARNINGS: hardly edited. suggestive language. reader is a bit of a cunt to fitzgerald & takes advantage of his love for zelda. she also takes advantage of zelda's fragile state to manipulate her. repin's ability (memory manipulation) is now going to be heavily in play for the rest of the series so keep that in mind. mentions of gore (blame klaus).

SEE: WASTELAND, BABY! SERIES MASTERLIST

The human mind is terribly fragile, but some are more so than others.

You don’t even need to use your ability on Zelda Fitzgerald to make her crack.

One conversation to plant the seeds of trust.

Three conversations to make her believe you’re a friend of her husband.

Five conversations to convince her that Fyodor Dostoevsky was the one who had her kidnapped from her home in Manhattan, and that you, as a favor to Fitzgerald, were the one who had her rescued. 

In the seventh conversation, you hinted at knowing something about her daughter before you left for a meeting with the other executives. You let her stew on it for a few hours before returning. By the time you came back, she’d worked herself up into a mess. 

In that eighth conversation, you acted apologetic, pretended that you’d misspoke, you backpedaled and bit your tongue. You made it seem like you were reluctant to speak, like you didn’t want to betray Fitzgerald’s trust. She begged you for hours to just tell her what you meant; you refused and left.

You came back three hours after that, and you put up a nice facade of guilt when you did. You told Zelda that you didn’t like lying to her, that her husband is a dear business partner of yours and you’ve come to think of his family like your own just from how much you hear about them through him. You told her that this wasn’t your secret to share, but she begged and pleaded, and you still made sure you came across as reluctant, but this time you gave in and told her.

In that ninth conversation, you told Zelda Fitzgerald that her daughter was still alive and her husband was keeping her away, because the last time Zelda spoke to her daughter, they’d gotten into an argument that drove Frances away. Her husband thought it would be easier for Zelda to think she was dead, because for all intents and purposes, Zelda was dead to Frances. You told her that you got your information through Nabokov, because Frances was living in Russia now under a new name with Dostoevsky’s help.

She believed you.

It took four days.

You don’t really have anything against Dostoevsky. You’ve met him a handful of times during events and he was pleasant enough, but his rats have been seen a bit too frequently in Port Mafia territory and since he and Tolstoy are both Russian, it’s easier for you to help Zelda confuse them. You figure this will be enough of a warning for him to leave Yokohama. If not, it’s just another issue for you to tackle later.

Nabokov, on the other hand—he pissed you off you. You’ve never thought highly of the man, even when you visited him in Saint Petersburg, you thought he was quite despicable, and the more you heard from Klaus about the things that happened in the fighting rings, the more your distaste grew.

Now, he backed out of a critical transaction with the Port Mafia which fucked over one of Piano Man’s deals with the Family in Rome and one of Ace’s casinos, so he’s turned just about the whole round table of executives against him and you think this is a quick way of getting even with him. He would be quite unhappy once Francis Fitzgerald turned all of the resources of the Guild onto him in retaliation for spreading lies about his daughter. The man's one weakness has always been his family, he wouldn't think twice once given a name and reason.

All of this is the reason why you prefer to work from behind the scenes. There are many pros, of course, to being in an organization like the Guild where each executive member is an influential, internationally known public figure, but there’s one big con that you just can’t get over: the lack of privacy. 

The Fitzgerald family has been headline bait for all of the world’s most popular tabloids for years, and when his daughter passed away five years ago, you made sure to follow each and every story. You figured one day that the Port Mafia would end up in conflict with the Guild—Fitzgerald’s reach has always been endless, Yokohama was one of the few places out of it, and you knew one day he would move to gain a foothold here and you didn’t want to be scrambling for information about the man once it happened.

Chuuya always rolled his eyes at you when he found you surfing the tabloids, but look how handy it is now. There’d been several popular theories circulating when Frances Fitzgerald was killed in a car accident. Some people thought it was an assassination—the tabloids speculated that Fitzgerald was the intended target but his daughter got caught in the crossfires; the people that knew of the Guild’s ties with the underworld tended to think that his daughter was the intended target as a means to try to break Fitzgerald.

You didn’t buy either of those theories.

You’ve witnessed many assassinations—assassinations gone wrong, assassinations gone right; assassination attempts on you and assassination attempts on enemies. You are very well versed in the art of assassination. You’ve plotted many of them yourself with Albatross and Iceman, and the ones you didn’t, you still oversaw.

You don’t think Frances Fitzgerald was assassinated, by accident or otherwise. 

No one bought into your theory when you tried to place bets on it with the Flags—not until one of the American tabloids released an insider scoop from a relative of Zelda Fitzgerald who claimed that the mother and daughter had gotten into a blow out fight the night she died in the car accident. 

You think that was the last bit of information you needed to confirm your theory: Frances Fitzgerald was not assassinated, she was a stupid and reckless teenager who was upset after a fight with her mother and drove too fast down a road that was too windy and ended up driving herself right off a cliff. It was a gamble to bring it up now to Zelda, because you couldn’t be entirely certain, of course, but it paid off. 

You’d been right—some type of argument had broken out between them the night of her daughter’s death, and Zelda has blamed herself for her death ever since. The woman, who’d been the face of American socialites for almost a decade, had all but retreated from the public’s eye after it happened. People whispered that her daughter’s death broke her mind, and you think that they were right—this woman is hardly a shell. You almost feel bad for what you’re doing to her.

Almost.

Unfortunately for Zelda, she’s a fair trade in Fitzgerald’s eyes, and until Dazai is back to you, she will be treated in the same way you assume Fitzgerald is treating his guest. He’s lucky that you have a high enough opinion of him to believe that he wouldn’t stoop to physical torture; he’s likely just trying to turn Dazai against you in the same way you have with Zelda, but Dazai will see through his manipulations.

He will.

He will.

He has to.

Your eyes slide shut as you fist one of Dazai’s sweaters—a cashmere one you’d bought for him to wear when you take him to nice restaurants, he prefers them to button ups. It still smells like him. He wore it when you took him to a hibachi restaurant in Nishi-ku a few days before the argument the two of you had that led to all of this and you haven’t had the chance to do laundry with everything going on.

You know that you don’t have time for this—there are more things you have to do to prepare Tolstoy’s subordinate, Ilya Repin, for what you’ll need him to do. You haven’t even met the man yet; Tolstoy is embarrassed over it, he keeps apologizing and saying that Repin is fickle when he’s in the middle of projects, but you’re not exactly in a position to make demands when they’re doing you a favor. 

“Should you be laying around right now?” a familiar voice hums from the entrance to your bedroom. Your gaze flickers up to see Chuuya's concerned face staring down at you, head tilted to the side. “You look like shit, y’know?” 

Your lashes lower as you look away. “I didn’t even hear you come up,” you say quietly. “Shouldn’t you be going to the meeting with the Family envoys with Piano Man?”

You’re the one that usually handles negotiations with the Family, but Piano Man brushed you off when you said you would go. Told you to focus on getting things settled here with the Guild. Told you to get Dazai back. You almost wish he would’ve let you go so you could busy yourself with something other than torturing yourself with reminders of Dazai.

Chuuya exhales as he tosses his hat onto your dresser before sitting down on the bed next to you. You almost want to turn away from him, but he doesn’t let you. He wraps an arm around your shoulder and drags you a little closer to him, and your eyes slide shut as you sink into him, hiding the way your vision blurs against his shoulder. Your breath shudders when you feel his hand running up and down your back, slow and soothing—Chuuya is always warm, but somehow, even with his arm wrapped around you and your body curled up against his, you still feel cold.

“Piano Man’s fine,” Chuuya murmurs. “He and Albatross are handling it. Wanted to come check on you.”

Ordinarily, you would make a snippy comment about him being sappy and he would get mad, smacking you over the head with a pillow. This time, you only let out a shaky breath and a noise of acknowledgement that’s far too weak, and evidently, concerning considering how Chuuya’s hand tenses on your back.

“Why are you here, Chuuya?” you ask tiredly, voice a bit raspy, before he can say anything. “I thought you were mad at me.”

“Never that mad at you,” he says quietly. “Not enough to leave you alone. Especially right now.”

The next breath you take in is wet and ragged, the tears that mist your eyes threaten to spill over. You’ve been on the edge of collapse for over a week now and every time you find yourself alone, you think it’s finally going to happen, but for better or for worse, someone shows up and you have to pull yourself together. But now… Chuuya’s arms are so familiar, too comforting—living in a world like you are, casual comfort is a rare delicacy, one that you can rarely allow yourself to indulge in.

“I’ve got you,” Chuuya whispers. His arms tighten around you and he pulls you more firmly onto his chest, shifting so you could wrap your arms around his waist, your fingers digging into his gray waistcoat. Oh, you realize, desperately trying to bite back a sob bubbling in the back of your throat, it’s happening. “We’ll get him back.”

“I’m tired, Chuuya,” you say, the words wobbly as you fight off tears. Your breath hitches when his hand slides against your shoulder blades gently. “I’m so tired. I don’t know how you did it.”

Your words don’t register until you feel Chuuya pause in the absent strokes of your back.You look up at him, about to speak again to change the subject because you hadn’t meant to bring up what happened two years ago, but he answers before you can.

“I didn’t,” he says with a wry smile. “I destroyed a ward and shut down. You handled it, remember?”

 And you failed, you finish, but Chuuya can certainly hear the thoughts running through your head from how his arm tightens around you. He pushes himself up into a sitting position and shifts you to sit upright in the bed. You sigh when he reaches out to grab your chin, forcing you to look at him.

“What happened back then, it wasn’t your fault. That shit was out of your control, you know that. Don’t let it start getting in your head now,” Chuuya tells you firmly. “You didn’t fail back then, you’re not going to fail now. Yeah?” 

You don’t even realize you’re crying until you feel Chuuya wiping the tears away. You avert your gaze and whisper, “I miss him, Chuuya. You were right. I never should have-”

You never should’ve let this happen. You knew from the beginning that you couldn’t let this go far, but you did. And even then, Chuuya warned you. He told you what would happen if you continued this, but you did.

Chuuya stares at you for a moment with an indecipherable expression before nodding to himself, pushing himself to his feet. 

“Come on,” he says. “Let’s go force that fuckin’ Russian to talk to us. I’m done waiting around for him to finish his shitty project.”

—

It is not Twain, James or Fitzgerald who walks through the door to Dazai’s prison cell of a room days after your alleged release from prison. It’s a girl who seems to be a little younger than him—she wears a maid’s dress and has long crimson hair tied into two thick braids.  

A girl who probably should not be there considering she looks shifty-eyed and nervous. Plus, Fitzgerald has not hid that he’s been making an effort to ensure that nobody else knows about Dazai’s presence here—he’s kept him isolated, and Dazai never hears anything going on outside of his room, so he assumes he’s purposely being secluded from the rest of the Guild for whatever reason. Probably has to do with the reason behind Fitzgerald keeping his knowledge of your ability on the low—he doesn’t trust that people aren’t listening and doesn’t want this information to get out to anyone.

So this girl is likely not supposed to be here, but Dazai can’t even bring himself to be curious as to why she is here, because he’s tired.

He is so tired. 

His gaze is listless as he tracks the girl. She acts like she’s the cornered animal as if she wasn’t the one who willingly came into his room. She paces to the corner of the room furthest from him and presses herself into it, eyes narrowed on him, studying him like he’s some sort of specimen. 

She’s his first visitor in eight hours. Dazai assumes that means it’s around morning. He doesn’t know exactly what time it is—there’s no windows in the room he’s been staying in, so he has no way to gauge the time of day, and everything has just been blending together. He tried to keep track of when they would bring him food to have some sense of the day and time, but he realized quickly that they were bringing it at uneven intervals so he couldn’t figure it out. 

He thinks it must be some kind of torture tactic—making the days seem impossibly long so that it feels like he’s been here even longer than he has. It’s working to some extent because it is hard for him to tell how long he’s actually been here. Realistically, he knows it can’t be longer than two weeks, but it feels like it’s been three or four. 

“You don’t look special,” the girl finally says, her tone slightly accusatory. Dazai’s eye twitches, he’s been reminded quite frequently by Twain that he’s nothing special and it’s exactly why you aren’t coming for him, and he doesn’t need to hear it from anyone else. “Francis has never taken a foreign prisoner and not consulted the rest of the Board. They’re not happy.”

“Does it look like I care?” Dazai asks irritably, rolling his eyes. He should probably try to get information out of this girl, but he has no patience for it.

The girl gives him a scowl in return, but her expression quickly returns to a more contemplative one. “I’m just curious. What organization are you affiliated with? Why didn’t he tell us what’s going on?”

Dazai can’t help the snide comment that spills from his lips. “Us?” he mocks, looking pointedly at the maid’s dress she wore. “I don’t think you’re a member of the Guild’s Board… Seems more like house-keeping.”

Her face flushes as red as her hair, eyes wild and angry, but more than that ashamed. Clearly, Dazai hit a sore spot and he can’t even bring himself to feel guilty for the way the girl gets embarrassed over it. Her lashes flutter as she looks away, not speaking for a moment.

“I was,” she finally says, voice strained, cracking over the word ‘was’. “I was, and I would’ve been consulted with the rest of them at the time, but I wasn’t. I want to know why, who are you?”

Dazai’s lips curl up into a taunting smile. “None of your business,” he sings, leaning back against the wall and raising his eyebrows at the girl when she nearly snarls at him in response. “Who are you?”

“Lucy,” she spits. “There. I told you who I am, tell me who you are.”

“Nope,” Dazai says with a grin. “Why would I tell you that? I didn’t promise to tell you who I was if you told me.” 

“You-” Lucy raises her voice, furious, but then cuts herself off, looking nervously at the door. She gives him a sharp look and then continues just as angrily, but more quietly, “Tell me who you are. Why didn’t Francis tell us about you?”

Dazai doesn’t respond. He thinks Fitzgerald has the right idea. The less people who know about him, the better, because if it does get out who he is to you, it’ll just give more of your enemies ammunition against you. Dazai’s done enough damage by now, he may as well mitigate as much as he can.

“You’re with the Port Mafia, aren’t you?” Lucy suddenly demands, and Dazai looks at her quickly, wondering how she managed to figure that out. She looks entirely too smug as she lifts her chin. “It explains the sudden pressure they’ve been putting on us. They blew up the S.S. Zelda a couple days ago, intercepted some of the supplies that we were sending out to our people back home, and slaughtered a whole regiment of Margaret and Nathaniel’s men. From what I heard from Mark, they’ve been nonstop for almost two weeks.You must be the reason why. Am I right?” 

“None of your business,” Dazai replies again, but this time, his chest feels a bit lighter. 

He makes sure not to let the sudden relief cross over his face, but Twain, James and Fitzgerald have made sure to leave him with no information on what’s going on in the outside world. Especially any information regarding you. But now he knows. He knows that you’re out there still fighting for him, even if you haven’t been able to get him back yet, you’ve been fighting for him—you’ve been taking out the Guild’s bases, you’ve been isolating them from their allies, you’ve been backing them into a corner. 

Suddenly, the past two weeks had become entirely more bearable. The heaviness that had been weighing on him wasn’t as oppressive anymore and the nagging doubt that had been clouding his brain was all but gone.

He knew you hadn’t forgotten about him—in his heart, he knew it, but getting verbal confirmation of it was much needed. 

“Oh, come on,” Lucy snaps. “I just-just tell me something. Tell me something I can bring back to Francis, anything, I just-

Dazai’s gaze flickers up curiously, watching as Lucy straightens, inhaling sharply as she tries to hide the tears of frustration that suddenly clouded her eyes. Her hands are balled into fists at her side, she gnaws at her trembling bottom lip as she forces herself to settle down enough to speak without her voice wavering.

‘I was,’ he remembers her saying, and realizes instantly why she came down here.

“You want something to bring back to Fitzgerald so you can get yourself out of the doghouse,” he drawls, eyes flicking over her. Her face flushes red, lips parting to protest Dazai’s words but nothing escapes them. “You want to know my opinion?” 

“I want information,” Lucy says. “I don’t care about your opinion.”

“I think that’s pathetic,” he shrugs, ignoring her. Lucy’s lips part in disbelief, but Dazai continues before she can say anything. “It is. You’re sneaking down here to beg me for information that you can bring back up to your boss because he demoted you… for what, exactly? Didn’t bring him the right food?”

Lucy swallows thickly, unable to meet his eyes. “I lost a fight,” she whispers. “I lost a fight to one of your people, and I lost everything. I worked so hard to get where I was. So hard. Harder than you could ever understand and-”

“I don’t care,” Dazai says, turning away from her. “If you want my opinion, if you got demoted to being a housekeeper because you lost one fight, you have a shitty boss and should probably find somewhere else to work instead of begging for scraps just to be treated like shit.”

Dazai doesn’t say anything else after that, and makes a show of not looking at her to make sure she knows the conversation is over. Luckily, she gives him no grief over it—in an instant, he hears the door slamming as she storms out of his room and Dazai lets out a soft sigh as he rests his head against the wall. Tired, lonely, and missing you so badly that it almost makes him ache.

Don’t keep me waiting too much longer.

—

You are irritated.

You’ve been waiting in one of the larger rooms in the Mafia headquarters for twenty minutes now—the smell of paint is giving you a headache and the sheer insult happening before your eyes is nearly enough to send you over the edge. Ilya Repin has the audacity to keep his back turned to both you and Chuuya even when Tolstoy introduces you to him. He sits on his stool and continues to paint his canvas, ignoring the two of you quite blissfully: he doesn’t look at you, doesn’t greet you, doesn’t acknowledge you. 

Tolstoy is becoming increasingly more embarrassed if his red ears and apologetic looks have anything to say about it. Unfortunately, you’re not sure if any number of apologies will save him from Chuuya’s righteous wrath at this point, because if you are irritated then he is downright murderous. 

You watch your fellow executive from the corner of your eye as his eye twitches and his lip curls up. The thin thread of control he has snaps as his tongue kisses the back of his teeth and he starts to storm forward. You stop him quickly, grabbing his wrist and giving him a sharp look.

“He-” Chuuya begins to hiss at you, but you only raise your hand to quiet him down and move forward yourself.

You don’t know if you’re making a mistake by forcing Repin’s hand before he’s ready to help, but you do know that you’re tired and you need Dazai back desperately. It’s been over a week now and if Fitzgerald has been half as aggressive with him as you have been with Zelda, then you know that he’s been playing mind games with Dazai. And Dazai is smart, yes, but how long can someone hold out when given no hope or reason to?

It takes ten long strides for you to cross the room, placing yourself between Repin and the canvas he’s working on. The man pauses, paint brush inches from your cheek, and then looks down at you with narrowed eyes.

“You’re in my way,” he notes astutely.

“And you are in mine,” you counter with a thin smile. “It seems we’re at an impasse.”

Ilya Repin is not what you expected. From how Tolstoy described him, you expected an old stubborn coot who had one foot in the grave and acted like each day was his last on earth. Instead, you’re met with a man who can’t be much older than you—with tousled brown hair and light blue eyes, you’d think he was pretty if he wasn’t so irritating. 

He looks down at you with a pinched expression, like he’s considering painting right over your face, but after what feels like an eternity, he lets out a dramatic sigh and glares at Tolstoy over his shoulder.

“I told you not to let anyone bother me until I was done,” he complains, rolling his eyes. You watch as Chuuya’s eyes bulge at the way Repin dismisses you, a familiar red glow flickering around his fists, but Tolstoy responds to Repin before the artist can find himself splattered on his own painting.

“Ilya.” Tolstoy spits out something in such rapid-fire Russian that even you can’t catch what he said. Whatever it is, it makes Repin roll his eyes again before turning to you with a smile that’s too sweet for comfort.

“Her Highness finally decides to grace me with her presence. Honestly, I thought you’d be down here days ago—you’re awfully patient for someone whose lover’s life is on the line… Unless, you don’t actually love him? But then why go through all of this trouble?” Repin hums, leaning forward so close that it has you taking a step back, forgetting that his painting is behind you. His hand darts out to curl around the back of your neck, stopping you from hitting the wet paint while at the same time forcing you even closer to him. He looks down at you through his lashes, nose nearly brushing yours as he says, “Don’t mess up my painting.”

You click your tongue and step away from him, careful not to let it show just how disconcerted you are by his casual disrespect. Chuuya looks like he’s on the verge of bringing the whole building down, Tolstoy has left a wide berth between the two of them as the gravity manipulator becomes more and more vexed by his subordinate. You give him a look to tell him that it’s fine, but it doesn’t seem to ease him in the slightest.

“You’re lucky that you’re Leo’s cousin,” you finally say, giving Repin an equally saccharine smile as you stand a few feet away from him. He finally spins in his stool to turn his back to his painting and his attention onto you, a curious expression on his face as he looks down at you. “I’ve had people’s tongues taken for less.”

“What a waste that would be, my tongue could be used for things much more pleasurable than glossectomy,” Repin replies easily, tone laced with innuendo as his lips curl up into an amused smirk. 

Unbothered, you amend your statement. “Your hands, then—a fitting punishment for a painter, I think.”

Unfortunately, Repin is equally unphased, holding his hands out as his smile widens. “But then of what use would I be to you? I thought you needed my ability,” he says.

You raise your eyebrows, silently beckoning him to explain what exactly his ability is because Tolstoy thought it would be better coming from the ability user himself. The man sighs and hops off of his stool, speaking as he starts to put away his painting equipment.

“Essentially, I can take memories from people and store them in my paintings,” Repin explains, walking over to a covered painting and pulling the cloth off of it, revealing a scene of a midnight rendezvous between two lovers. “This is a favor I did for an acquaintance. He was cheating on his wife, his wife figured it out and was going to grill him, he asked me to remove his memories of his mistress so his wife didn’t realize he was lying. I don’t really like him, so I keep the painting on me and light the bottom on fire whenever he irritates me.”

“What does that do?” Chuuya asks, side-eyeing the painting before turning his attention to Repin distrustfully.

Repin gives him a once over before looking back at you pointedly. You don’t have to look at Chuuya to know that he must be livid, so you give Repin an equally pointed look and wait for him to answer Chuuya’s question.

Repin sighs. “Burning the painting returns the memories to whoever they’d been taken from, so whenever I light the bottom on fire. He starts to get that looming feeling that he’s forgotten something important. He’s tortured with that feeling of something being on the tip of your tongue but unable to fully remember it. He calls me all wound up about it whenever I do… I think I might be his only friend, which is kind of sad considering I can hardly stand the sight of him…”

He’s rambling more to himself now than to you, frowning as he taps the tip of one of his paint brushes to his chin. You press your lips together as you think—removal is good, you need to have Fitzgerald’s memories of Dazai gone, along with any other of his subordinates that might’ve seen or met him.

But you need more than removal.

“What about implanting memories?” you ask, interrupting his stream of babbles. He casts you a curious look. “You can remove, but can you implant new ones to take the place of old ones?”

He studied you now, an intrigued expression on his face as if he’s seeing you in a new light. “I’ve done it once,” he says after a few moments. “It’s a far more… demanding process.”

“How so?”

“I need to have a painting ready for it,” he says. “More than that, I need a scene. A story. Every painting has a story—that’s the theory my ability is built on. Memories are stories that can be captured in paintings. I need to have the same depth of detail that a memory would have to make a painting that can be implanted as one. It’s much harder than you’d think. One lack of detail, one inconsistency, it could throw everything off, and once someone becomes suspicious that an implanted memory is a false one, it unravels. I burn the paintings here to return stolen memories; they, figuratively, burn the implanted memories in their mind once they start getting suspicious.”

Not quite as reliable as you’d hope, but you can make it work. You have to make it work. You’re running out of time, each day that passes—each hour that passes… You need to make your move, and you need to do it as soon as possible.

“If I can give you a detailed story, how long would it take you to create a painting that can be implanted as a memory?” you question.

Repin smiles, tilting his head to the side. “With the right muse? A couple of hours,” he murmurs.

Finally, you think. The relief that hits you is almost debilitating; you let out a sigh as you nod, giving Chuuya a long look. For the first time since your arrest, you feel an inkling of hope; you see the first rays of the sun breaking over the horizon, shattering the long night that’s been hanging over you.

The end is in sight. You’ll have Dazai back before nightfall. 

“Good,” you say. “I’ll be back in fifteen minutes. Have everything ready to start.”

You don’t bother to listen to the response, turning on your heel to leave the room. You have one last thing to take care of with Zelda, and then, you can sit down with Repin to finish up the final preparations. It’s almost vindicating when you pull out your phone to send a location and time to Fitzgerald.

Just a little longer. I’m almost there. 

—

Dazai is lounging in bed when the door opens again. 

“I was sleeping,” Dazai says irritably. He wasn’t sleeping, but they don’t need to know that. Twain and James are the ones unfortunately gracing him with their presence, which is odd considering they’ve never shown up at the same before. “What?”

“Up,” Twain says, clapping his hands together twice as he ushers Dazai out of bed. “C’mon, kid. Francis is waiting. Let’s go.”

Dazai scowls when Twain grabs his bicep to pull him off the bed, slapping away the other man’s hand. His skin crawls where his fingers had once been—Dazai has never enjoyed physical touch, not until he met you, but even then it’s limited to you and you alone.

He misses you.

A heavy air settles around him as he drags himself out of bed. He doesn’t know why he’s started to descend into such a depressive spiral since Lucy’s departure from the room, he thought he would be happy knowing that you haven’t forgotten about him, but he’s only become increasingly more despondent. 

His fingers feel numb and clunky as he pulls on a pair of shoes—you bought him them. You bought him everything he’s wearing right now, actually. Despite the fact that Fitzgerald has brought Dazai several new pairs of clothes to wear, he hasn’t changed out of the outfit he’d arrived in. He’s sure it smells terribly and he must look like a mess, but Dazai’s mind has always been cruel and now more than ever, it enjoys playing tricks on him.

He’s never slept well before. Usually he doesn’t sleep at all, but when he does, he’s plagued with nightmares. The past few days, weeks, however long he’s been here, it’s been no different. When he sleeps—which is frustratingly often because of the head injury he received the day they kidnapped him—he wakes from long, vivid nightmares of lives where he never met you. He wakes entirely convinced that the entire past few months with you was just an elaborate dream that his mind made up to torture him, that you don’t exist, that you’re just a figment of his imagination created to show him a life that he could’ve had if he were more normal.

It’s only the physical evidence of you that drags him out of a dangerous spiral—the clothes you bought him, the lingering scent of you on him, and the few marks that remain on his body from the night spent with you in the cabin. But your scent is fading and the marks are disappearing, so all he has is the clothes on his back to remind him that you’re real, you’re alive, you’ll come for him.

You’ll come for him. 

“Where are we going?” Dazai finally asks, finishing getting on his shoes, but he doesn’t budge as he stares at the two of them, waiting for a response. They don’t give him one. He wonders if the Guild is done with him, if they’re skipping over torture and going right to execution. “Hello? I asked a question.”

“I told ya,” Twain tells him, stepping out of the room and raising his eyebrows, urging him to move along. “To Francis.”

“But why?” Dazai presses. “Why didn’t he come here? Where are we going?”

Twain and James share a long look, like they don’t want to explain to Dazai where they’re going. And-

And Dazai doesn’t dare get his hopes up—he knows better—but it’s impossible to stop the way his body physically reacts to the realization he just came to. His throat swells and he works on over time trying to stop the way his heart suddenly starts racing. He can’t.

Twain would’ve eagerly told him if they were marching him off to be executed; he’s been gloating over the fact that you ‘left him to rot’ since you were released from prison. If this were the Guild getting rid of him, Twain would be just as vocal about that, but it’s not, so could it be…? 

He stares at the two members of the Guild. He wants to ask, but he doesn’t want to be disappointed, so he waits to see what they say.

It’s an eternity before Twain rolls his eyes and says, “Seems your girl didn’t forget about you. She called for a parley. We’re going out to meet her.”

Dazai lets out a wavering puff of air, one that he can’t bite back. The tension in his shoulders instantly dissipates, after what seems like weeks of darkness and despair, Dazai finally sees the light at the end of the tunnel.

“I told you,” he tells them, voice a bit more breathless than he meant for it to be. “I told you she’d come. Maybe you should’ve listened to me.”

Twain clicks his tongue and rolls his eyes. “Get moving,” he snips, forcing Dazai out of the room and leading him down unfamiliar halls. Dazai is quick to map out the place, noting all of the twists and turns just in case he somehow ends back up here. He’ll get out on his own if he has to, he’s not spending another night in this place. “Don’t get your hopes up. I doubt she’ll be able to come to an agreement with Francis.”

Dazai is a bit too smug as he says, “If she reaches out to meet you, then it’s already over. She wouldn’t have reached out to meet you if she wasn’t sure things would land in her favor, otherwise she would’ve reached out days ago.”

It’s the truth—Dazai knows it. His faith in you wasn’t misplaced, never has been and never will be. You just needed time to make sure everything was in place because you didn’t want to find yourself on unequal grounds during the negotiation. He almost feels giddy as he follows Twain and James out of the building, walking in the direction of a long black car.

Their base is in one of the southern wards, he recognizes immediately. Sakae or Totsuka… maybe Kanazawa. It’s in a residential district, and there's a road sign to Kamakura, so he must be in Sakae or the southern part of Totsuka. His gaze flickers back over to the two escorting him, wondering why they wouldn’t have blindfolded him before leading him out of the building.

Maybe they think it doesn’t matter—they don’t intend on coming back to this base for whatever reason after their meeting with you, or maybe… Dazai’s gaze lingers on the side of Twain’s face, noting the way his jaw is tight and his eyes keep flickering around aimlessly. He looks over to James, seeing the larger man in a similar state.

“You’re nervous,” Dazai voices, still entirely too smug. When Twain doesn’t respond, only giving him a sharp side-eye, he realizes that his assumption was right, and it makes him even more amused. As he gets into the black car, he gives the man a simpering smile before saying, “Good, you should be.”

Fitzgerald is already in the car waiting for them. He’s so hyper-focused on his phone that he doesn’t even realize the three of them entered the car until Twain says something. Dazai should probably be paying attention to what they’re saying, but he finds himself dizzy over the thought of seeing you again. 

When the car starts moving, his heart starts racing. He doesn’t know where they’re meeting you, but it can’t possibly be more than a thirty minute drive and that means he’s thirty minutes from seeing you again after days—weeks, maybe—of isolation. He finds himself nervous, almost, because he doesn’t really know what to expect from you—are you mad at him for what happened? Do you still want to be with him? Dazai is unsure because he thinks that even if you did want nothing to do with him anymore, you’d still make sure to protect him if he got caught up in this.

He chews the inside of his cheek, doubt whittling away at his excitement; he’s only drawn back to the present when Fitzgerald responds to something that Twain says.

“I haven’t heard from Zelda today,” he murmurs, looking a bit unsure. “She usually calls when she wakes up in the morning.”

Zelda, Dazai notes the name down, recalling that Lucy had mentioned it too and thinking back to the comment Fitzgerald had made during the second conversation he had with him. I’ve only met one other… you remind me much of her. His gaze flickers down to the man’s left hand, seeing the gold wedding band sitting on his ring finger.

Fitzgerald notices Dazai’s lingering gaze and sighs before looking away, staring out the windshield as the driver continues down the road in the direction of Nishi-ku. After a few moments, he says quietly, “Zelda is my wife… All of this, it’s for her.”

His tone is solemn, eyes heavy as he stares ahead. Dazai tilts his head to the side as he studies the older man, curious. “All of this?” he asks dryly. “You kidnapped me because of your wife?”

Fitzgerald’s lips curve up into a resigned smile. “Yes,” he says. Dazai’s brows furrow, mind racing as he tries to put together the few puzzle pieces he’s been given. What does his endeavor in Yokohama and with the Port Mafia have anything to do with his wife? He’s missing something. “I’ve done terrible things in the name of love, I’ve gone well past the point of no return. I have to see things through now.”

“I would do terrible things for you, Dazai Osamu. I have done terrible things for you, and I would do them again and again and again.”

Dazai misses you. The reminder of your words from the beach house makes his body ache with longing. Yet, Fitzgerald’s words don’t settle well with Dazai. They make his skin crawl with nerves, itching uncomfortably beneath his bandages—he needs to replace them, he’s hadn’t had the chance to change them since the Guild kidnapped him. They’re all yellowed and grimy now, and they’re almost intolerable against his skin. He wants to go home. Wants to be with you. 

“What do you mean?” Dazai presses. “What does this have anything to do with your wife?”

Dazai figured that the Guild was just trying to expand into Japan and wanted their first foothold to be in Yokohama to unseat the Port Mafia as the reigning leaders of the Eastern Hemisphere’s underworld… but what would that have to do with his wife? It doesn’t make sense. There’s something he’s missing, something that runs deeper than just territorial conflicts. 

Before Fitzgerald can answer, Twain clears his throat, giving Dazai a suspicious look before speaking to his boss. “I’m sure Zelda is fine,” Twain says. “The nights have been getting longer and colder back home, she always gets more quiet when winter comes around.”

Any disposition Fitzgerald might’ve had to answer Dazai’s questions is gone as the man sighs and leans back in his chair. Dazai shoots Twain a dirty look, to which he receives an entirely too smug one. Bitter and irritated, he hopes that you humble the redhead severely in the meeting.

“You’re right,” Fitzgerald says more to himself than to anyone else. “I’ll see if J.D. can stop by the high-rise after this meeting, he offered to check in on her since he decided not to come along.”

Fitzgerald doesn’t seem inclined to continue any conversation at all. He looks out the window of the passenger seat and a tense silence falls over the car—Dazai is wildly uncomfortable between Twain and James. He can feel both of their thighs bumping against his with each turn the car takes and the forced physical contact makes all of this even more unbearable. 

The seconds feel like hours, the minutes feel like days. When the car finally pulls to a stop, Dazai is itching to claw past Twain so he can have fresh air and personal space. The other man takes far too long to open the door—Dazai thinks it’s on purpose from the way he gives him an entertained look. Dazai scowls at Twain and shoulders right past him, frustrated and antsy, and then-

And then he sees you.

Dazai’s breath catches when he steps out of the car, nearly tripping over his foot when he realizes that you’re standing outside of the teahouse. There are two people on either side of you, but he’s tunnel-visioned on you and you alone. The world could be burning around him and all he would be able to see was you.

You look beautiful. You always look beautiful, but you look especially beautiful now when he’s been deprived of the sight of you for so long. The sun is setting over the bay and Dazai thinks he could drown in the image of you, that he could die happy now that he’s seen you again. You’re dressed neatly in a suit and your expression is cold and closed off, but he can see the way your eyes soften as soon as he’s in sight and it makes his whole body warm with a comfort he’s been so awfully deprived of the past few weeks.

He loves you. He’s missed you. The apology that he’s been rehearsing every day since he was kidnapped threatens to burst from his lips along with everything he wished he said to you but thought he’d never have the chance to. He refrains, if only barely, because he knows now isn't the time for this, not in this setting, but he itches to be at your side, to feel your skin on his again. 

“Don’t try anything funny, yeah?” Twain says with an unkind smile as he nudges Dazai forward. He feels the muzzle of a gun pressed to his lower back, a silent threat for if he was thinking about running to your side.

Fitzgerald walks in front of the three of them, stopping at the bottom of the stairs you’re standing on—a power play, Dazai recognizes, you on a higher ground forcing them to crane their necks to look up at you. Now that Dazai is only partially dazzled by your appearance, he recognizes Nakahara Chuuya and Piano Man on either side of you. The three of you seem to be purposely blocking the entrance of the teahouse and don’t make any effort to move once Dazai and three members of the Guild start making their way to you.

“Do you intend for us to parley out in the open? I would’ve thought that the Port Mafia would appreciate discretion more than that,” Fitzgerald notes dryly.

“I’m afraid we will not be parleying under the current circumstances,” you sigh, and your voice. God, your voice is heavenly, he’s missed it desperately. “You send your… guest over to the car waiting right over there, and then we can talk.”

Hm? Dazai watches curiously, wondering what you’re playing at. There’s no way that the Guild will just hand over their leverage before going into a negotiation, even Dazai knows that much. He knows that you wouldn’t have called this meeting unless you got yourself on even footing with them, but even footing wouldn’t be enough to force Fitzgerald to hand his only advantage over to you. Unless… 

“Unfortunately, you’re in no position to be making demands,” Fitzgerald says with a thin smile. “Once we’ve come to an understanding, I’ll be happy to return your lover to you.”

Lover, Dazai thinks a bit dreamily as if he’s not currently a hostage.

You let out a soft laugh, but it’s not a kind one. Dazai snaps himself out of the borderline trance he was in because of how he was addressed when he hears it, gaze flickering back over to you. The smile on your face is small, but equally unkind, like you know something that Fitzgerald doesn’t. From the way Fitzgerald stiffens, he seems to realize that too.

“I fear that I’m the only one in any position to be making demands,” you say light-heartedly. Dazai watches as you slide something off of the ring finger of your left hand, brows furrowing as you hold up a ring between your thumb and pointer finger, showcasing it for Fitzgerald. “Beautiful ring, truly… You must really love her.”

You flick the ring toward them carelessly. Dazai watches as it bounces against the ground with a soft plink once, then twice, and then everything descends into chaos around him. 

His eyes widen as a gold glow emanates from around Fitzgerald—within a blink, he’s in front of you, Chuuya and Piano Man, fist raised as he threatens to land a devastating blow onto you. Dazai’s lips part in a cry that doesn’t even have the chance to escape his lips because Chuuya is instantly between the two of you, the Tainted Sorrow activated as he throws Fitzgerald back roughly into the road. 

The gun that had been pressed to Dazai’s back is now at his temple, and as Fitzgerald rises back to his feet, you raise your hands in mock surrender. 

“Careful now,” you say, an amused lilt to your tone. “We don’t want things to get violent before negotiations even start. Zelda is a lovely woman, I’d hate for something to happen to her.”

“Give me my wife back,” Fitzgerald says, voice strained, but he deactivates his ability, expression hard as he glares at you. “She has nothing to do with any of this. She-”

“Neither did he,” you interrupt, the easy tone replaced with a much colder one. “Let him go, and then you can come in and we can talk.”

The standstill that takes feels like an eternity. James and Twain stare at Fitzgerald, waiting for orders, and Fitzgerald stares at you, angry and frustrated. It’s almost odd seeing the suave and collected man that’s held him captive the past few days acting like a cornered animal. Dazai supposes he can’t blame him—if he’s done all of this for his wife only for you to now have her as a hostage… Dazai would pity him if he still wasn’t so bitter about the head wound and weeks of captivity. 

Finally, Fitzgerald nods. After a moment’s hesitation and with a conflicted expression, Twain drops the gun that’s pointed at his head. Fitzgerald is stiff as he makes his way forward, Twain and James a step behind him, leaving Dazai standing alone at the bottom of the steps of the teahouse.

You smile thinly as you step out of the way for them, letting them walk into the building. “Good choice,” you say quietly, mockingly because you know that he didn’t have another choice. 

Chuuya and Piano Man share a quick look with you before following the Guild members into the building, leaving you alone outside with him. Dazai stares up at you, all of his practiced words failing him, he wants to walk up the stairs to you but his legs are rooted to the ground. He doesn’t need to move though, because as soon as the doors shut behind them, you’re rushing down from your high ground to him.

Dazai nearly collapses into you as soon as he feels your arms around him. One arm curls around his shoulders, hand cradling the back of his head, and the other wraps around his waist to hold him steady when he leans his full body weight onto you. He has so much he wants to say to you, but he can’t even speak a single word—his breath is ragged and his nails bite into the back of your suit jacket, face pressed in the crook of your neck.

I’m sorry, he wants to say, I’m sorry for what I said, I’m sorry for running out on you, I’m sorry for putting you in this position, I’m-

“I’m sorry,” you say quietly. Your voice cracks over your words and Dazai’s throat spasms as he swallows back a lump. “I’m sorry it took me so long.”

“It’s okay,” he replies, voice muffled against your skin. His lashes flutter as his eyes slide shut, basking in the familiarity of your arms. For the first time in weeks, Dazai feels safe, he feels warm, he feels like he’s home. “I knew you would come.”

Your arms tighten around him and Dazai almost wants to ask you to skip the meeting with the Guild and come home with him. He doesn’t—mostly because he doesn’t think he has any grounds to ask you to do anything after everything that’s happened, but also because a part of him worries that you might agree to it and he knows this meeting is critical. 

When you pull away from him, Dazai barely bites back a protest but he can’t stop the way his face drops as soon as your arms drop from around him. You notice, a soft smile curling at your lips as you lift your hand to cup his cheek. Dazai leans into your touch, eyes lidded as he looks down at you.

“I shouldn’t have left,” Dazai whispers after a few moments. He’s always struggled with apologies, and even now, the words taste like ash in his mouth, but he forces them out. “I’ve caused you so much trouble, I-”

“No,” you say, shaking your head, not even letting him finish. “Don’t. I shouldn’t have let the argument escalate the way it did, I knew better. What happened isn’t your fault.”

Dazai begs to differ. Your words don’t ease his guilt, but he doesn’t want to argue with you about it, so he lets it drop. His eyes flutter shut again when you run your thumb along his cheekbone, fingers carding absently through the tips of his hair. He doesn’t want to leave you again, almost wants to ask if he could stay for the meeting, but again, he doesn’t.

“Atsushi and Kyouka are going to go back to the apartment with you,” you finally tell him what he’s been dreading, and he knows it’s only a matter of time before you send him off. “I won’t be long. I promise.”

Dazai lets out a heavy sigh, a bit more dramatic than he intended, and you give him a fond smile.

“I left some crab linguine in the microwave for you,” you add. Dazai lights up at the mention of his favorite food—he hasn't had crab since the night he was kidnapped by the Guild. “Go, the quicker I can get this over with, the quicker we can get home and curl up in bed together.”

Dazai makes a show of pouting and being unhappy, but he does step away from you in the direction of the car. He doesn’t get out of arm’s reach before he’s pausing and looking at you again, you raise your eyebrows, silently asking him what’s wrong.

“I love you,” he says very softly, almost like he’s hesitant. Not hesitant in his love for you, just hesitant voicing the words out loud when he knows how much the world likes to fuck with him. It’s not the first time he’s said it, but it’s the first time he said it first.

You give him a small, adoring smile. “I love you too, Osamu.”

Dazai lingers for a few seconds longer before making his way over to the car. As his fingers curl around the handle of the door, he pauses and looks back at you, remembering something crucial that he’d been meaning to tell you, calling your name.

“Yeah?” you ask with a frown, looking a bit concerned.

“The Guild isn’t working alone,” he says. “Fitzgerald… he mentioned that he had allies, referred to them as rats that he didn’t trust not to be spying on conversations. He also knows what your ability is, one of your executives is feeding information to him and the Ivory Eagle.”

Your expression shifts into a more unreadable one, gaze shifting from him to look out at the horizon. “Rats, hm?” you say quietly, more to yourself than him. “That explains a lot, actually.”

Dazai isn’t sure what you mean by that, but he figures he’ll bother you for more information when he gets the chance later. He gets into the car with another quiet goodbye, hardly paying attention as Atsushi and Kyouka greet him. His eyes stay on you even as the car pulls away, and you don’t budge from your spot at the bottom of the steps until the car is out of sight.

Somehow, Dazai still has a looming feeling that he’s not out of the woods yet.

—

You enter the teahouse a few moments after the car disappears around the bend leading to the main street of Nishi-ku. The air is brisk and familiar, you’ve spent many days and nights at this teahouse dealing with business for the Mafia. It's your favorite place to bring adversaries for negotiations—the owners are always quick to accommodate you even for last minute meetings, and they’re pleasant enough company when you’re there early waiting for the other party. 

Despite having seen and held Dazai, you still somehow feel discouraged. There’s an unexplainable heaviness in your chest as you make your way into the private room in the back of the teahouse, closing the door quietly behind you.

Chuuya and Piano Man sit on either side of the empty chair left for you; Fitzgerald opposite you with his two lackeys on either side of him. An executive of the Family sits at the head of the negotiation table—originally, you wanted Tolstoy to oversee the negotiation, but you figured that Fitzgerald would be at ease with a more neutral party as the host, and two executives of the Family were already in Yokohama to meet with Piano Man. While the Family is definitely more aligned with the Port Mafia, they also have significant business endeavors in Guild territory, whereas the whole world knows that the Three Deaths and the Port Mafia are pretty much extensions of each other because of your relationship with Tolstoy.

The Family executive is a young woman—you recognize her vaguely, most of your meetings have been with Goldoni himself, but she usually follows along like a silent shadow. You think Goldoni has her set to take over as the next ‘Father’ after him. Regardless, as soon as you take your seat at the negotiation table, she looks at you, waiting for you to begin the discussions. 

A tactical advantage, one that you appreciate. 

“Now that-”

“Where is she?” Fitzgerald interrupts, knuckles white around the edge of the table. “Where is my wife?” 

The executive of the Family turns an unimpressed look onto Fitzgerald. What a fumble, you think, amused. Negotiations aren’t just political devices to create a space for peaceful conferences between rival factions, they’re also used as avenues that can make or break alliances. Disrespect the mediator of the negotiation and you might just find yourself on the outs of the entire organization—the mediator chooses who gives the first dialogue of the negotiation, you don’t ignore that unless you want to piss people off.

You raise your eyebrows at Fitzgerald. “I didn’t say I would give her back to you if you let him go. I said we would talk.”

Fitzgerald slams his hands against the table and rises to his feet. His two subordinates share a look with one another, and you feel Chuuya’s hand rest on your knee, ready to activate his ability at a moment’s notice if Fitzgerald tries to attack you.

“Give me my wife back,” Fitzgerald says, jaw tight and voice rough, clearly trying to restrain himself. “I let him go, so give me her back.”

Your lips curve up into a small smile, and then you say, “No.”

Chuuya doesn’t sigh, he knows better than to not show a united front at the negotiation table, but you know that even though he knows this is necessary, he doesn’t like it. Still, you find yourself enjoying it—what Fitzgerald is feeling right now, you’ve felt for almost two weeks. You’ve never claimed to not be vindictive. 

Your smile widens a bit when Fitzgerald stares at you, expression entirely unreadable. You raise your hands up casually as you shrug, finding the whole situation entertaining. 

“Why would I do that?” you ask, amusement clear in your tone. “I never would’ve given Dazai up in your position. Much less without even getting a promise out of me to get your own hostage freed. That’s crazy.”

You almost expect Fitzgerald to launch himself right at you, no ability activated, just throwing hands, but after what feels like an eternity, he sits back down, back rigid and teeth grinding together. 

“What do you want then?” Fitzgerald asks, his voice is still strained but he’s calmer now.

“Why are you in Yokohama?” Instead of telling him what you want, you hit him with a question yourself, watching him carefully. Now that he’s calmer, your ability starts to go to work—not nearly enough to override how on edge he is because of the situation with his wife, but enough for you to work with. “We both know this isn’t about territory, Fitzgerald-san. Let’s start this off right; tell me what you’re really here for, and maybe we can come to an understanding.”

Fitzgerald’s subordinates share a look with one another, and Fitzgerald himself does not seem keen on answering your question. Interesting, you think, what’s so important that it makes him hesitate even under these circumstances? This is something big, it has to be, especially if Dazai heard correctly and Dostoevsky is involved—that man only ever gets involved with conflicts that have high stakes that he knows he can win, and that doesn’t bode well for you. 

“It is about territory to some extent,” Fitzgerald finally says, resigned. When you narrow your eyes, he shakes his head and continues. “We’re looking for something here in Yokohama. So yes, we were trying to get a foothold in the city so we would have an easier time looking.”

What?

You can feel both Piano Man and Chuuya give you a sharp look, but you keep your gaze trained on Fitzgerald. Your mind races trying to figure out what he means by this, but you just don’t have enough pieces to put the puzzle together. You need to press for more. 

“Looking for what?” you ask coolly.

Fitzgerald stares at you, lips pressed together, expression cold and conflicted. You stare right back, unrelenting. After a few moments, he shakes his head and says, “A book.”

“A book?” you echo. 

“A book,” Fitzgerald confirms. “A reality altering book.”

“What?” Piano Man asks sharply, unable to help himself. You give him a look from the corner of your eye—only the two people sitting in the central seats are supposed to speak during negotiations, but you honestly can’t blame him, because you don’t fully understand what Fitzgerald just said to you.

“What do you mean?” you ask slowly. “A reality altering book here in Yokohama? Where did you hear this from? How do you know it’s real?” 

“Fyodor Dostoevsky of the House of the Dead-” You almost roll your eyes. Of course, it’s him. You’re glad you decided to go with the route you did now. “-approached me about it. It’s something that I simply can’t let pass me by… my daughter…”

Fitzgerald’s face twists in pain; you almost feel bad for everything you’ve done with Zelda. Almost. His two subordinates—Twain and James—lower their gaze to the table, frowning. After a few moments of silence, and carefully constructing a question to figure out if this ‘reality altering book’ might be real’, you speak again.

“And how do you know this book is real? I know enough about you to know you wouldn’t start a full blown war over what could just be a wild goose hunt, what makes you think this thing actually exists?” 

“James was with me when I spoke to Dostoevsky, his ability allows him to decipher whether or not someone is lying. More than that, I’ve seen the Book at work,” Fitzgerald says. Your eyes widen a bit in surprise at his words, more so at the fact that he doesn’t seem to be lying. “Dostoevsky… he has one page of this Book. To prove its ability, and to secure an alliance with the Order of the Clocktower and the Guild, he used a section of it. The Book is real, I was promised a page of it to bring my daughter back if I helped Dostoevsky retrieve it.”

What the fuck. 

You stare at Fitzgerald, careful to keep any emotion off your face even though you’re full of turmoil on the inside. If there’s even a chance that Fitzgerald is telling the truth and there’s now a reality altering Book at play, and not only that, if Dostoevsky already has a page of it, that changes everything. There’s no telling what has or has not been altered, the entire truth of this reality is at question. How much damage could be done with a single page? How does it work? There’s too many variables. 

It might not even be real, you think, trying to calm your racing thoughts. Dostoevsky is notoriously manipulative, there’s always a chance that he manufactured the existence of this book to get Fitzgerald and Christie to do his dirty work. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s pulled something like that—he could’ve used someone else’s ability to make it seem like the page of the Book altered reality to ‘prove it’ to the two other leaders… but somehow you have a feeling that might not be the case. 

“What does the Book have to do with the weretiger you put the bounty on?” you ask. 

You’re starting to feel a bit anxious—this is way more than you anticipated, and there’s so many bad implications that you almost feel overwhelmed, but now’s not the time to let it get to you. You need to focus, you can’t afford to shut down. You need to understand what’s happening before finishing up this negotiation, especially now that Fyodor Dostoevsky and Agatha Christie are seemingly involved. 

“We were told that the weretiger is essential in finding the Book,” Fitzgerald says after a few moments. “I wasn’t told more than that. I intended on getting my hands on him to figure out why.”

Atsushi doesn’t know anything about this Book. The first thing you did when you got ahold of him was interrogate him for any reason the Guild might’ve put so high of a bounty on his head. Your mind drifts back to Dazai’s theory—that maybe the tiger is a separate consciousness, maybe the tiger knows something about the Book, but you’re not going to voice your theories now. You’ll talk about it with Chuuya and Piano Man later.

“I see,” you say with a thin smile. “How enlightening.”

“Where’s my wife?” Fitzgerald asks again. “I told you everything you want, I-”

“I didn’t promise to give you your wife back if you answered my questions,” you tell him dryly, tone a bit mocking. “That’s twice now. You’d think you would learn.”

You almost commend Fitzgerald for not instantly snapping at you. He stares at you, expression tight and voice strained as he speaks, “Tell me what you want for my wife. Enough of this.”

You watch him listlessly for a few moments, trying to decide if there’s any more pressing information that you should get for him. You’ll have a chance later, but you need to figure out if there’s anything more that might affect the plan you’ve concocted with Tolstoy and Repin. You don’t think there is, and you have to be careful with what you say anyway considering the human lie detector is sitting right next to Fitzgerald, so after a hesitation that lasts too long for Fitzgerald’s comfort, you finally give him your answer.

“How many of your subordinates are aware of Dazai’s existence?”

“Just the three of us,” Fitzgerald replies. Your eyes narrow, so he continues, “I didn’t want it to get out to Dostoevsky. I was worried he would capitalize on the situation before I could. These two were only made aware because they were the ones I had bring him in.”

“Is that so?” you ask coolly. “And which one was the one that left the massive bruise on the side of his face?” 

You don’t get a response, you don’t expect to, but you do catch the way that both glance at the man sitting on the left—Henry James. Your gaze slides from the man over to the far right corner where Akutagawa is standing; Klaus is in the far left one, but Akutagawa will be more brutal if you let him off his leash for this, and you want him to suffer. The boy catches your gaze and gives an imperceptible nod, acknowledging your silent request.

“It doesn’t matter,” you say even though you’ve gotten your answer. “I’ll release Zelda to you, but there’s one non-negotiable condition to it.”

“Tell me it,” Fitzgerald demands. “I’ll do it.”

You lean back in your seat, tilting your head to the side as you study him for a moment, and then you tell him, “You’ll meet with a friend of mine. He has an ability that allows him to alter memories. All memories of Dazai will be removed.”

The room goes silent at once. The redhead, Twain, stiffens in his seat and casts a justifiably wary look toward Fitzgerald who looks caught off guard by the request. You imagine that he probably assumed you would demand he stops working with Dostoevsky and leaves Yokohama. You don’t need to demand that, because that will come as soon as Repin does his job… but Fitzgerald doesn’t know that, of course. 

“How do I know you won’t mess with other things in my head? That you’ll only remove those memories?” Fitzgerald asks tightly.

Originally, you planned on lying and telling him that Repin’s ability didn’t have the power to do anything more than memory removal, but you can’t do that with Henry James sitting next to Fitzgerald, so you're forced to pivot.

You shrug and say, “You’ll have to trust me not to.”

Fitzgerald stares at you, and it feels like hours even though it’s only been a few passing seconds, but when he speaks, you feel as though you’ve won. 

“Fine,” Fitzgerald agrees, expression pinched and conflicted, swallowing thickly. “Fine.”

Your lips curve up into a small smile when you realize he’s decided to trust you—not that there was much of a choice for him if he ever wanted to see his wife again. 

“Good,” you say softly.

Still, a fatal mistake. 

—

“So… uh,” a white-haired boy says awkwardly as soon as Dazai settles in the car next to him. A girl with black hair dressed in a red kimono sits on the other side of him, back stiff and expression eerily blank as she watches Dazai—she doesn’t blink, hardly breathes, Dazai is almost unnerved. “Don’t mind Kyouka. She takes our missions… really seriously, and you’re our mission right now, so…”

“I’m your mission?” Dazai asks dryly, sighing as he rests his head against the head rest, careful to not touch either of the teens sitting next to him. God, he’s tired of being around people, he just wants to curl up in bed. Preferably with you. 

“Mhm.” He nods his head a bit too enthusiastically. “Boss told us to make sure you get to her apartment. We’re gonna stay with you until she gets there.”

Great, Dazai thinks, a little bitter over it.

Evidently, it shows on his face because the boy cringes in on himself and says, “We’ll leave you be, I’m sure you’ve had an, uh, exhausting past two weeks. You won’t even know we’re there. Promise.”

Dazai side eyes him, noticing the way the boy stares ahead embarrassed as if contemplating all of the words he just spoke. He looks… normal for the most part—not like the girl sitting on Dazai’s other side, definitely not like that emo Akutagawa that trails after you like a lost dog, and certainly not like that unhinged brat Klaus who follows you around.

“What’s your name?” Dazai asks for a few moments, sparing the kid from his own thoughts. The kid looks at him startled as if he didn’t expect Dazai to willingly speak to him. “Well?”

“Ah-” he splutters out and then smiles a bit. “I’m Nakajima Atsushi. Just Atsushi is fine though. It’s nice to finally meet you, y’know, without the others around.” 

He lets out an awkward laugh and Dazai recalls the last time he saw the boy—he was with the other two outside of your building when Dazai first got the blackmail on you. Of the three of them, he seemed the most nervous. He’s met both Klaus and Akutagawa since then, unfortunately, but never him.

“That’s Kyouka-chan, by the way. She’s not much for conversation, but she’s great. I would’ve introduced myself sooner, but the first time we met wasn’t exactly the best situation, and boss has me training all the time to try to learn better control over my ability, and Kyouka’s always on missions for Kouyou-san so you probably haven’t met her yet.”

Dazai nods, although he’s not fully paying attention. “What’s your ability?” he asks absently, wishing he was sitting at the window so he could at least distract himself with the passing buildings. 

“I can, uh, turn into a tiger. I can’t control when though,” Atsushi explains, tossing Dazai a sheepish smile. “That’s why I’m always training. I need to be able to control it without relying on boss or, uh, the collar.”

“You’re the weretiger,” Dazai realizes, glancing at Atsushi and then down to the collar around his neck. He can’t tell from first glance what exactly it does, but before he can figure it out, the boy is speaking again.

“She’s mentioned me?” Atsushi leans forward, eyes wide. “What did she say? Did she say anything about how my training is going? She’s been so busy, I haven’t really been able to get any feedback from her, but I’ve made some progress with controlling my transformations… Kind of.”

“Uh,” Dazai says smartly. Weak-hearted, too soft, not fit for the Mafia. Atsushi's smile starts to drop, so Dazai quickly adds, “Yeah, she has. She’s noticed all of the work you’ve been doing. She’s impressed.”

Atsushi frowns and side eyes Dazai. “She’s never impressed with anything. You don’t need to lie.”

Dazai grimaces and decides not to argue. Instead, he asks, “How did you end up with the Port Mafia?”

“Oh, ah… it’s a long story,” Atsushi says, laughing awkwardly as he rubs the back of his neck. “I lived at an orphanage, but I got kicked out because there wasn’t enough food. Or well, actually it was probably because I was attacking people when I turned into a tiger at night. But it was for the best anyway! And, well, I ended up here in Yokohama, and I guess at night when I transformed, I started attacking Port Mafia warehouses. So boss sent Klaus and Akutagawa to, uh, kill me, I guess. Or capture me, maybe, for the bounty. I’m not sure now that I think about it; it felt like they wanted to kill me, but they’re both also always trying to kill everything, it’s just their natural state. But I wasn’t tiger-me when they got there, I was me-me, so they brought me back to her… um, and then I talked to her for a bit and she told me about the bounty, and then she fought the other executives to not hand me over to the Guild, and now I’m here.”

Dazai stares at Atsushi. “Wow,” he replies blandly. “Quite the story.” 

Atsushi flushes. “You asked,” he accuses, scowling at Dazai and looking away.

“Yes, very narrative, ten out of ten story-telling skills,” Dazai says with a simpering smile. He notices the stone-faced Kyouka’s lips curl up as she looks out the window, as if trying to hide it, so he considers it a win, even if Atsushi gives him an outraged look. “What?”

“We can’t all be literature majors, some of us spent our entire lives in an orphanage only to be kidnapped by the Mafia as soon as we got out,” Atsushi hisses, face still pink as he pointedly looks away from Dazai. 

“Actually, I’m a creative writing and classics double major if we’re being specific,” Dazai corrects with a sweet smile. “... How did you even know that?” 

Atsushi clicks his tongue and side-eyes Dazai. “Aren’t you supposed to be smart?” Dazai squints at Atsushi, a bit insulted. “Where do you think I heard it from?”

You, Dazai realizes, lips curling up a little instinctively. He wonders how much you talk about him—Atsushi isn’t the first to throw in his face that he’s supposed to be smart. Klaus did when he first met Dazai outside your building, Chuuya has too. He imagines you must brag about him, and it makes Dazai’s chest feel warm and bubbly because he’s never had someone brag about him before. Never.

“You make her happy, y’know,” Atsushi says quietly. He’s not looking at Dazai, opting to stare out the window instead. “She’s… not as… Forget it. I don’t know what I’m saying.”

“You can’t just say that,” Dazai complains, interested in knowing what Atsushi was about to say about you, but the boy seals his lips shut and stares out the window. Dazai rolls his eyes.

“Hime is not as cruel as she pretends to be,” Dazai startles at the voice of a young girl, almost forgetting that Kyouka is on his opposite side. “She looks out for everyone, but doesn’t let anyone look out for her. Acts like she doesn’t care so no one cares about her, but she does. A lot. Ane-san worries about her, I can tell.”

Atsushi nods. “When she found out everything that… happened at the orphanage, she had the whole staff removed and replaced them. Made sure what happened to me didn’t happen to anyone else,” he says quietly, an indecipherable look in his eyes. Dazai isn’t sure what happened at the orphanage, but he doubts it was anything good. 

“Hime and Ane-san helped me figure out the truth of what happened to my parents,” Kyouka agrees softly. “Ane-san couldn’t have gotten the files without her help.”

“And she’s done stuff for Klaus and Akutagawa too,” Atsushi adds, “but she won’t let anyone else help her with anything. Not me, not Klaus or Akutagawa. Hardly even Executive Nakahara. She relies on you though, I think a lot more than she realizes… she’s not been good the past few weeks.”

Dazai’s expression drops, lashes lowering as he looks down at the floor of the car. He’s wondered while he’s been captured how you might be doing. When he got really in his head, he imagined that you were doing perfectly fine without him, didn’t even care that he was gone. He thinks maybe he would’ve preferred that than to know that you haven’t been doing well, he doesn’t like that. Doesn’t like that you were hurting because of him and his stupid decisions.

He’ll just have to make it up to you, he decides. He’ll make it up to you once everything has calmed down. But how? He can’t buy you nice things like you do for him because he’s broke. If he tries to take you out somewhere to eat (not that he can even afford it), you wouldn’t let him pay the bill. Maybe… maybe he could show you what he’s been working on for his poetry workshop.

His face flames up at the thought, pushing it away immediately.

No, he’ll think of something else.

“Why is your face all red?” Kyouka suddenly asks, eyes sharp as she stares at him. “Are you ill? Did they poison you before releasing you? Look at me, I can call Doc-”

“I’m fine,” Dazai bristles, flustered. “I’m fine, I’m not sick.”

Kyouka looks unconvinced, reaching forward to try to press her hand to Dazai’s forehead. Dazai leans back, almost into Atsushi, who yelps and worms away from him.

“Stop that,” he hisses, grateful when the car rolls to a stop in front of the familiar sight of your building. Dazai is climbing over a protesting Atsushi and pushing open the door before the car has even fully stopped. “Thank god.”

He almost trips and falls, foot catching on Atsushi’s leg as he stumbles out of the car. He ignores Atsushi and Kyouka rushing to scramble after him as he rushes into the building. He’s too eager to be back in your apartment, he has every intention of getting up there and locking himself in your bedroom until you get back. 

He’s home free now, nothing else matters.

He’s home.

Home.

It’s almost too surreal for him to believe. He’d just about come to terms with the fact that he was never going to see you again, that his fate was in that cold and ugly room the Guild had him trapped in, but now he’s moments away from being back in the familiarity of your apartment. 

Moments away from being home. 

In a few hours, when you’re back, he’ll be able to curl up in your arm, he’ll be able to hear your voice, he’ll be able to be with you. He just wants to be with you. And he will be. Soon, he-

Dazai freezes when he takes a few steps into the lobby of your building and feels the muzzle of a gun press to his lower back. His eyes widen and he hears Atsushi and Kyouka skid to a stop a few steps behind him. He swallows thickly, realizing while he’d been lost in thought, he’d also lost track of his surroundings. 

There’s a group of unfamiliar people in the lobby of your building, all armed and all wearing strange collars around their necks. Not like the one Atsushi wears, these ones are large metal ones with a gem implanted in the middle. Your doorman, an older man named Hinata who Dazai has become acquainted with over the past two months, lays dead on top of his desk, hand still reaching out for his phone. 

“Who-”

“Shhh,” an equally unfamiliar voice says dismissively. It’s nasally and grating to the ears, Dazai already knows this man is going to be a piece of work. “Don’t speak, I want to get this done and over with.”

“Ace,” Atsushi shouts angrily. “What the hell are you doing? Get away from him.”

“No can do, weretiger,” the same man, Ace, drawls. “On orders from the Boss. I suggest you step out of the way, I was told he needed to be alive… but anyone that tried… well, you see what happened to old man Hinata over here. Never liked him, thought because he answered directly to our precious hime that he was something special. He wasn’t. Neither are the two of you, so get out of the way so I can complete my mission, yeah? Yeah. Good.”

Atsushi and Kyouka don’t verbally respond, but they don’t need to. Kyouka seemingly responds well enough from the sound of her katana being drawn, Dazai wants to turn around to look, but the gun against his lower back stops him. He’s so frustrated that he almost wants to cry, of course things couldn’t be this easy. He should’ve known better.

Ace clicks his tongue and Dazai still can’t see him, but he can tell just from the mocking tone he uses that the man must have a really punchable face. “Careful, Kyouka-chan, you won’t be the only one getting in trouble for going against the boss’s direct orders. Little hime and Kouyou-san will face the consequences for your disobedience too. You don’t want that, do you?” 

“Kyouka-chan, it’s okay,” Dazai says, voice deceptively even. “It’s okay.”

It’s definitely not okay, but if they’re not going to kill Dazai on the spot, then he can safely assume that they want something from him. That means he’ll have time to stall. Enough time for you to finish up the negotiations and get here. 

“But-”

“You heard it from the man himself,” Ace sings, forcing Dazai to turn around to walk right back the way he came. “Swords down and claws away, kids, and step over to the side so my men can make sure you don’t go and let our shining star know what’s happening too early, alright? Let’s give her time to handle things with the Guild so we don’t have to worry about those irritating Americans anymore.”

Dazai was right. Ace’s face is extremely punchable, and his hands twitch at his side when the man has the nerve to give Dazai a very smug smirk. 

“I’ve been waiting for someone to knock that girl off her high horse for a long time. Longer than you can imagine,” he says wistfully. “I’m so glad I get to be the one to do it. Get moving.”

“She’s gonna kill you,” Dazai says quietly.

“And disobey a direct order from the Boss?” Ace mocks. “You must not know her as well as you thought you did. She’s like a loyal hound to that man. A real bitch if I do say so myself.”

Dazai’s body moves before he actually processes the words, arm shooting out and fist cracking against the man’s jaw hard. Dazai is almost proud of himself as he watches Ace crumple to the ground, groaning, realizing that even after all of this time, he can at least somewhat remember the self-defense lessons that Odasaku forced Dazai to take part in. Though he doesn’t have much time to bask in his pride, because for the second time in less than a month, his head is bashed in by a baton and he crumples to the ground hard.

Shit, he thinks, pain coursing through him as his vision starts to go black. This is bad. This is-

—

“Is it done?”

“Don’t talk to me,” Repin says, holding up his hand as he swiftly walks past you. “I have paintings to create. Too many memories are flooding my head right now, if I have to see that moron you call a boyfriend for longer than I have to, I will gouge my eyes out.”

You roll your eyes. “I’ll take that as a yes then.”

“Don’t forget our deal,” Repin shouts as he leaves the room. “I’ll be cashing in on it. Those additions you asked for were not easy work.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you say dismissively. “Go do what you need to do.”

Chuuya looks concerned. “Deal?” he demands. “What deal?”

“Don’t worry about it,” you sigh, shaking your head and turning your gaze back to the one-way glass showing the room that Twain and Fitzgerald are sitting in.

The two are chatting with one another, oblivious to what just happened to them. Repin told you to give it a few minutes before going in, let their brain adjust to the new memories he implanted, but you’re impatient. You want to finish things up here so you can get to Dazai. You miss him desperately already—the few seconds you were able to hold him in your arms were simply not enough. Each passing minute without him now is agonizing.

Before you can spiral deeper into your thoughts, the doors to the room behind you open. Akutagawa and Klaus step into the room—an impassive look on the former’s face, as if his coat isn’t dripping blood onto the ground beneath him, and the latter has a wild smile on his face and an even wilder look in his eyes. Akutagawa evidently allowed the other boy to partake in the bloodshed considering Klaus’s face is smeared with an equally disturbing amount of blood.

“It has been done,” Akutagawa announces, raising his chin. “Henry James was killed.”

“Really fucking brutally too,” Klaus interjects with a laugh that almost disconcerts you. “Wanna come see?”

“No,” you say flatly. “Call the clean up crews.”

Klaus visibly pouts at your words, but Akutagawa nods and pulls out his phone, taking a step away. You turn your attention back to the room, lips pressed together. It’s… odd almost—Fitzgerald and Twain talk casually, not knowing that the negotiation that took place between the two of you even happened, not knowing that 

Not odd—scary. 

You’ve encountered all types of abilities before. Chuuya and Akutagawa have two of the most lethal abilities you’ve ever come across. Klaus’s ability has always disconcerted you with the way it takes and takes and takes from the boy, knowing that someday it would consume him entirely. There was a child you once met with an ability kind of like yours—a type of mental manipulation triggered by physical harm to the user that ravaged the human psyche with hallucinations; they couldn’t control their ability, couldn’t even stop it at their own will, so you had to have them killed. Ayatsuji Yukito, the notorious Homicide Detective that the Special Division has recently leashed, concerns you because the man could kill just about everyone you care about with minimal effort if he’s ever brought into Yokohama to investigate the Port Mafia.

But this is different. Repin’s ability alters the mind so fundamentally that you don’t even know your mind has been altered. That scares you. It scares you almost as much as the prospect of that reality altering book Fitzgerald mentioned. The idea that one person could completely manufacture your perceived reality and you’d have no idea…

It scares you.

“What’s wrong?” Chuuya asks quietly as Akutagawa and Klaus leave the room to direct the cleaning crew to wherever they butchered Henry James. “Hey, you okay?”

“I’m fine,” you say, shaking your head. “Just want to be back at my apartment.”

“Soon,” Chuuya tells you, nudging your shoulder. “You wanna go in and talk to them now?”

“You think it’s been long enough?”

“Yeah,” Chuuya says. “Go for it. I’m gonna head up to the conference room. Mori wants to see us after you’re done here.”

You roll your eyes. “I’m going to see Osamu first,” you mutter. “I need to make sure he’s okay before…”

Before getting back into all of this bullshit. You just need to spend ten minutes with him before doing anything else. Ten minutes. Even though he’s back, and you know he’s safe, you watched him get into the car with Kyouka and Atsushi… you’re still on edge. You don’t know why, but you’re still on edge.

Chuuya nods. “I’ll cover for you,” he promises. “Now go finish things here.”

You don’t say anything else, sighing as you make your way over to the door. You wrap your fingers around the door handle, pausing for a second to collect your thoughts. You already know what you’re going to say—you’ve scripted it out, rehearsed it a hundred times. You’ve gone over information with Repin dozens of times to make sure everything is ironed out. 

You know what you’re going to say, you just have to say it, and then you can go see Dazai.

With that thought in mind, you push open the door to the room where the two Guild members are waiting for, making sure the smile on your face is warm and inviting while amping up your ability just enough for it to have a physical effect on them. The tenseness in their shoulders eases, and Fitzgerald rises to his feet with a small smile. 

“Ah, Miss Mori-” God, being called that makes your skin crawl. You can’t remember the last time someone actually referred to you that way—you even prefer hime to it. You have to make an effort to not let the irritation show on your face as Fitzgerald continues speaking, “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Fitzgerald-san,” you greet lightly, holding your hand out to him. He shakes it firmly and you add, “I wish it didn’t have to be under the circumstances.”

Fitzgerald grimaces as he nods and takes a step back. “Yes,” he agrees, voice low. “My wife. You have her?” 

“I do,” you tell him, taking a seat next to him. “She’s… not doing well.” 

This is a more casual setting, a sitting room in one of the central building’s higher levels—a few couches set up in the center of the room around a coffee table, a window overlooking the city and a bar on the opposite side of the room. Twain lounges back in one of the armchairs in the corner of the room by the window while Fitzgerald sits closer to you. You chose this setting on purpose: it’s more intimate, less official than a negotiation room. 

More like a meeting between friends than enemies, which is exactly what this has become with Repin’s meddling. 

Fitzgerald sighs and looks away, lashes fluttering. “I feared that would be the case,” he murmurs. “How bad is it?”

You give him a small, sympathetic smile as an answer and Fitzgerald inhales sharply, rubbing his hand across his lower face, forehead creased in worry. 

“I should’ve known better than to deal with Dostoevsky,” he sighs, despondence lacing his tone. “I was warned, but…”

“Many have made the mistake of falling for his charms,” you say quietly. “You can’t blame yourself.”

Good, you start to become a bit more comfortable. Repin pulled through. If all went according to plan, Fitzgerald should believe that Dostoevsky was the one to have Zelda kidnapped, and the Port Mafia was able to intercept. You’ve spent the past few hours tying up all the loose ends—Tolstoy handled the security cameras in New York, you the ones here in Yokohama, there’s no physical evidence left of Tolstoy’s involvement in Zelda’s kidnapping and you’ve ensured rumors have already started spreading about Fitzgerald reneging on his alliance with Dostoevsky and Christie by withholding information. You don’t need to whisper anything else, the entire world knows that Fyodor Dostoevsky does not take treachery lightly, the assumptions will be made on their own. 

“I can when my wife is on the line because of it,” Fitzgerald snaps, and then lets out another heavy breath. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to snap at you. I’m just frustrated with myself.”

“It’s okay,” you tell him easily. “I understand.”

“Can I see her?” Fitzgerald finally asks hesitantly. “Or is she…”

You make sure the expression on your face is contemplative, a bit concerned and then say, “You can, but I don’t know if it will go well… Dostoevsky… he did a lot of damage to her psyche with the stories he was telling her. I’ve hardly been able to make any progress with her, I’ve only been able to convince her that I’m a friend.”

Fitzgerald grimaces and looks away. While he decides what to say, you contemplate your next move. You have Lippmann ready to bring Zelda into the room; you know that she won’t take the sight of Francis kindly, you’ve ensured that much. Zelda Fitzgerald’s mind has been all but shattered even without the use of your ability. But if Fitzgerald insists on taking her with him, which there’s a good chance he will, you’ll lose some very critical leverage over the Guild. If Fitzgerald ever manages to unravel the memories Repin has woven into his mind, it’ll leave the Port Mafia vulnerable to a full blown war with the Guild without a hostage in hand. 

You really don’t want to lose Zelda.

But… maybe you can still make this work. 

“I want to see her,” Fitzgerald says after a few moments. “Please.”

You nod and glance down at your phone to shoot a text to Lippmann. You’ll only have a few seconds before he walks through the door with Zelda, but you’ll have to figure out your exact approach once you see how visceral her reaction is to Fitzgerald. Though you know it'll be bad, if it’s not bad enough, you won’t be able to convince Fitzgerald that she needs your help. 

The door to the room cracks open and Fitzgerald is on his feet in a second, holding his breath as Lippmann steps in, holding the door open for the fragile woman. His blue eyes are glittering with amusement as he catches your gaze, and you find yourself relaxing, realizing he must’ve been able to get her worked up before leading her in here.

You lean back in your seat, folding your hands in your lap, settling in to watch the show about to unfold. 

It doesn’t take more than a few seconds for it to begin.

Zelda freezes in the door frame as soon as her eyes fall on Fitzgerald. You watch the way her breath catches, the way her eyes widen and the way her pupils dilate. She mouths the word ‘no’ before speaking it, shaking her head slowly.

“Honey,” Fitzgerald whispers, taking a step forward, but Zelda takes a step back as soon as he does. “Honey.”

“Stay away from me.” Zelda’s voice breaks over the words, lips visibly trembling as she presses her back against the door frame. She looks like she’s on the verge of fleeing, but Albatross’s sudden presence in the door stops her. “Stay away. You lied to me. You lied. Frances… our daughter, my daughter, you…”

“What?” Fitzgerald breathes out, brows furrowing in confusion. “Zelda, honey, what are you talking about? I don’t-”

“You lied,” Zelda cries, voice rising. “You lied to me. You took my daughter from me, get him away from me, get him away! I don’t want to see him, I don’t-”

Zelda is hyperventilating, hardly breathing properly, eyes wide, wet and watery. You nod at Lippmann, and the man leads her out of the room. It’s quiet once she’s gone—your gaze sweeps across the room, Twain looks sick from where he’s sitting stiffly in the chair he’d been lounging in and Fitzgerald, the powerful leader of the Guild, looks crushed, ashen as he takes a shaky step backward to sit back down.

To his credit, he still tries to keep himself put together. You can tell from the way his breaths are robotically even and his fingers are trembling in his lap. You watch him for a few seconds before reaching out to place your hand on his shoulder.

“I’ve been trying to help her,” you say, carefully choosing your words. “I’ve been told you know what my ability is, is that true?”

You know that it is, you were careful to make sure that Repin didn’t disturb any of those memories. You figured it could help you in convincing him to let you keep Zelda if he thought you could undo the damage ‘Dostoevsky’ had done. 

“I don’t want you messing with my wife’s head,” Fitzgerald spits out. “That Russian bastard has done enough damage.”

“Of course not,” you agree amiably. “That’s not what I mean. I can use my ability to keep people at ease. Every other hour she’s going into violent fits of hysteria… tries hurting herself, I-”

Fitzgerald lets out a sharp breath, looking away. “What did he tell her?” he asks, voice wavering. “She mentioned Frances. I-”

“From what I was able to gather, she seems to think your daughter is alive and you helped her… escape to a foreign country to live out her life away from Zelda,” you say, watching Fitzgerald’s face twist in distress and frustration as he buries his face in his hands. “I can release her to you, if that’s what you want, but-”

“You can help her?” Fitzgerald demands, looking at you. His eyes are red and glassy but his face is tight. He seems to be doing his best to not fall apart until you’re gone, but his self control is wavering the more he hears about Zelda. 

“... I can.”

“How?” he asks. “How will you do it?”

Here’s your chance. You can’t mess it up.

“When Zelda is having those… hysterical fits, she’s impossible to reason with and can’t settle down on her own. I’ve only been using my ability to calm her down so I can speak with her. It’s taking a lot of time, but since I’ve managed to convince her that I’m a friend, I think I’ll be able to make progress in convincing her that Dostoevsky's lies were just that—lies. It’ll be… tenuous, definitely won’t be a smooth path, but I think, with time, I’ll be able to do it.”

“Will there be any side effects to you using your ability to calm her down?” he questions, watching you carefully.

“Nothing major,” you say honestly. “In the future, she’ll probably feel instinctually more relaxed around me—her brain will just associate me with being at ease, so even if I’m not actively using my ability, it’ll still reflect that way, but no lasting effects.”

After an agonizing few seconds, Fitzgerald nods. 

“Help her. Please,” he says, voice raspy. “When Dostoevsky comes to Yokohama, you’ll have the Guild’s support in dealing with him. I swear it. Just help my wife.”

Wow, you think, almost unnerved by how well this worked out. You have Dazai back, you managed to keep Zelda, and you turned the Guild against Dostoevsky. You can’t help but feel like there’s going to be some sort of catch, or that it’s going to backfire. It would track considering how poor your luck has recently been. But for now, you roll with it and hope for the best. You'll start preparing for the worst after you’ve been able to spend a few days with Dazai. 

“I’ll do everything I can for her,” you say, rising to your feet and giving Fitzgerald a small smile. “You can stay here for as long as you need. I’ll have one of my men wait outside to escort you back to the lobby when you’re ready.”

Fitzgerald thanks you, and you finally turn to leave, ready to see Dazai. You just need fifteen minutes with him before you go off to your meeting with the other executives. You need to see him, hold him, talk to him. Need to make sure this isn’t all some cruel, elaborate trick your mind has played on you before heading into another exhausting meeting. 

Klaus, Akutagawa and Albatross are waiting outside for you. Albatross parts his lips to speak but you shake your head, not wanting to risk saying anything until you’re well out of ear shot of this room, just in case. They follow you to the elevator, and it’s only once the doors close that Albatross bursts into laughter.

“You’re one evil bitch,” Albatross snickers. “Fucking that woman’s head up just to play the hero? That’s messed up even for you, doll. I don’t know how you sleep at night.”

Your lips curl up into a smile as you toss a wink at Albatross. “I’ll sleep just fine tonight with Dazai in my bed.”

“Gross,” Albatross complains, rolling his eyes. “No, but really. This was one big play—less than two hours and we’ve managed to totally turn the tables. Crazy. What exactly did you have Repin do besides remove their memories of your boy?” 

“Before Dazai went back to my apartment, he told me that the Guild was working with Dostoevsky,” you explain as the elevator gets to the lobby. Albatross walks at your side, Klaus and Akutagawa trailing behind the two of you as you make your way out of the building to walk across the property to your building. “I already intended on using Dostoevsky and Nabokov as scapegoats, but this made it a lot easier. Fitzgerald was withholding information from him-”

“Everyone knows that bastard doesn’t let disloyalty slide,” Albatross grins sharply. “Of course he’d retaliate.”

“Exactly,” you agree. “I had Repin twist the situation. Made them believe that Dostoevsky was the one that had Zelda kidnapped, but we were able to intercept. Only Tolstoy’s executives, our executives, and my direct subordinates know the truth. Tolstoy handled CCTV in the States, we handled the ones here. If Dostoevsky tries to convince Fitzgerald that it’s not true, there’s no proof—only he said, she said—and even if he does…”

“We still have Zelda,” Albatross finishes with a sharp grin. “Evil. I can’t believe we managed to come out of that with your boy back, the Guild on our side, and the hostage still in our custody. God, I love you. You can be fucking terrifying sometimes, y’know that?” 

Your lips part to make a quip back at him as you push open the doors to your building, but the words die on your tongue as your gaze lands on what’s awaiting for you in the lobby. The first thing you see is your doorman slumped over the desk, blood dripping over the side and pooling on the ground in front of it. The next thing you see is Kyouka and Atsushi, both unconscious, needles discarded carelessly on the ground next to them.

You don’t see Dazai.

“What the fuck,” Albatross breathes out, pulling out his gun and shifting to stand in front of you. “Klaus, go check on Atsushi and Kyouka.”

Klaus and Akutagawa rush from behind you—Klaus to Kyouka and Atsushi, trying to wake the two of them up, and Akutagawa in front of you and Albatross, Rashumon at the ready. You can feel Albatross’s hand tight around your forearm, you can hear him talking but you can’t make out any word that he’s saying.

“This isn’t real,” you say flatly as you stare ahead. “This cannot be real.”

Something bubbles in your chest—you don’t know if it’s rage, distress or sheer hysteria, you think a combination of all three because although your blood is simmering, you feel your eyes misting over and a laugh about to burst from your lips because what the fuck? 

You press your hand to your mouth, hardly even registering what’s going on around you. Klaus is trying to shake Atsushi and Kyouka awake, Akutagawa is scouting out the rest of the lobby to make sure no assailants are still lingering, and Albatross is trying to get your attention but you don’t take notice of him, shaking your head, and trying to hide the way your lips are curling up into a disbelieving smile.

What a joke, you think, breath catching as you pace over to Klaus, Atsushi and Kyouka. Shit.

As soon as Atsushi’s eyes flutter open, you’re grabbing his chin and craning his neck to force him to look you in the eye. “Where is he?” you ask, voice surprisingly steady. “Where is he? What happened? Answer me, Atsushi.”

Albatross says your name and grabs your wrist to try to get you to back off, but you toss his hand right off of you. Atsushi is still out of it, not understanding what you’re asking him, but before your frustration can bubble over, you feel your phone vibrating in your pocket. 

Your hand drops from Atsushi’s face to reach into your pocket. Your fingers are stiff and clunky as you pull your phone out, and as soon as you see the name on your screen, you know. 

You don’t say anything as you answer the call and lift the phone to your ear, waiting for the person on the other line to speak first. 

“Hello, little hime,” Mori says, you can hear the smile on his lips. “Have you finished with the Guild?”

“Where is he?” you ask in response. “Where is he?”

“Safe for now,” Mori hums, sounding entirely too amused. “I’ve had quite an interesting conversation with him. I can see why you like him as much as you do.”

“Everything I do for you,” you hiss, the nails of your free hand digging into your palm. “Everything I do, and this is how you repay me. I’ve spent my whole life doing everything you want, and you can’t even spare me a shred of fucking loyalty. You-”

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic, dear,” Mori sighs and your blood pressure skyrockets. “I’m doing this to protect you, as has everything I’ve ever done. You truly have no faith in me.”

“To protect me?” you shout, your throat burns and it’s a struggle to force yourself to breathe properly. You feel dizzy, a panic attack coming on, but now is not the time, you need to calm down. “You did this to protect me?”

“I did,” Mori agrees. “This boy had been lying to you for months. I had a feeling, but I wanted to confirm it before bringing anything up to you. I know you care for him. I didn’t want to unnecessarily break your heart.”

“What are you talking about? You’re not making any sense, I don’t believe you.”

“I’ve never lied to you, little hime. I have to many people, but never you. He’s been lying to you about who he is… I suggest you get up here quickly.”

“What do you mean?” you ask. Your voice wavers this time, you can’t stop it. You can feel several sets of concerned eyes on you, but you can’t bring yourself to meet any of them. “Stop being cryptic, just spit it out.”

“The boy’s name is not Dazai Osamu, dear. It’s Tsushima Shuji.”

Your ears ring as his words slowly process through your head. Your silence is enough of an answer for Mori.

“I’ll be waiting in the conference room for you. Do get here soon.”

[xinganhao]

🥈 svt vs. reader's bad boyfriend.

anon → "could you do a post with one of the members getting after yn's bf because he thinks he's not treating her well enough?"

⌗ ┆i have a terrible feeling i might've misunderstood this req,, so please forgive me if i did lol ꒰ ꒡⌓꒡꒱

‧₊˚✩彡 includes: reader has a bad boyfriend, hurt/comfort, [light] angst, crack, cussing, [short] headcanons under the cut.

🥈 headcanons .ᐟ

— "break up with him now" ✩ junhui, soonyoung, wonwoo, minghao, vernon.

ah, yes. the trope of someone who will immediately insist that breaking up is the solution, although, in this case, it's completely warranted. soonyoung and minghao are the most vocal about you ending your relationship, but in their own little ways. for his part, soonyoung's a little annoying about it— you'll barely have explained your current predicament and he's already whining, "just break things off with him!" minghao, meanwhile, actually listens, but his expressions and consequent advice are brutal. he's always been no-bullshit when it comes to life, and so when he hears about all the things your boyfriend is doing/has done? he's actively advocating for you to get up and go. junhui's the type to take it out on your boyfriend. he's constantly threatening bodily harm and various other minor crimes against the poor guy, even though he doesn't really ever act on it. he is extra cold when he's in the other man's presence, to the point that your boyfriend may be under the impression that junhui hates him. (spoiler alert! jun does!) wonwoo isn't always vocal about his distaste; he's a little more backhanded/passive-aggressive about it. he's more of an actions guy, through and through. picking up the slack here and there to show you that your boyfriend is a dick for not doing things that your friends can. vernon also struggles a bit to get the right words out, so he just... says it as it is. he may look like he's packaging his advice as a joke, but he's 100% sincere when he sends you breakup playlists and reddit threads about ending things with your significant other. that's just his way of communicating it, really.

— "but are you okay?" ✩ seungcheol, joshua, mingyu, jihoon, seokmin, seungkwan.

for the most part, all the boys are the 'just-end-your-relationship-please' type, but there's also some who rely more on expression of concern. take mingyu, for example, whose chief endeavor will be to cheer you up. he'll leave sweet nothings and encouraging notes in hopes of lifting your mood; his eyes, constantly peeled to see how you're faring. you can rant in to the wee hours of the morning, and both seungkwan and joshua will listen. they'll let you tell the same old stories again and again; even if they half-joke that you just never listen to them, they're still there as a shoulder to cry on. seungkwan is more likely to give advice, while joshua's strength lies in non-judgmental indulgence. seokmin will make it his life's mission to distract you from the issue at hand. a movie night? a trip to an obscure café? if it will improve your mood in any way, shape, or form, he's already halfway there. he won't even mention your boyfriend, if you don't bring him up. seungcheol is similar to mingyu in the sense that he best expresses his concern through little encouraging gifts. he's not the type to push the envelope, to try and get you to talk when/if you're not ready, so he just communicates to you that he's there, when/if you need him. jihoon's also a bit unsure how to navigate a relationship that's not his. he can pick up how you're feeling, at the very least, and so he instead focuses on that. he's a quiet, steadfast presence who will take you to the gym or encourage you to write songs, if only because he thinks those might be potential solutions.

— "play stupid games, win stupid prizes" ✩ jeonghan, chan.

svt's petty line, how i love you so. they can all admittedly be petty when they want to be, but these two? they take the cake. jeonghan is a big believer in "show him what he's missing." he'll snap hot photos of you on your behalf. he'll let you use him as a nice little ploy to incite some jealousy. is it a little toxic, a bit red flag-y? sure, but that asshole is putting you through much worse. jeonghan's a firm believer that revenge is a dish best served cold, and he's cold to the bone when it comes to making sure you get what you deserve. (and that your boyfriend, too, has what's coming for him.) chan is insistent that you should break up with your boyfriend, of course, but he's a big believer that you should go out with a bang. it's a bit amusing, to see one of the group's more lowkey members insist that your boyfriend should be on the receiving end of a public lashing. some might say he just likes the drama. truthfully, he just wants to make it abundantly clear to everyone that you're not someone to be messed with, and that you're not going to settle for anything less now that you've kicked the devil's incarnate to the curb.

[bredlederblog]

Someone once commented that Republicans will make all kinds of excuses, until it finally affects them personally.

That person was 100% right. They didn't care about the pandemic, they didn't care about our farmers, they didn't care about our immunocompromised, the elderly, our veterans, or even our allies.

I thought they had doubts after having their families exposed to a new and unpredictable virus (like, my grandmother survived cancer and had been struggling healthwise from decades of smoking and alcoholic dependency. She lived in Florida during 2020 and I was scared shitless that she was going to be killed. And I thought my family felt the same way, and would have thought that such a thing should never had happened and was inexcusable. Turned out I was 100% wrong).

So yeah, all I can suggest to anyone out there...to just focus on the ones who need help. If someone wants to allow more people to get hurt for taxes/gas money? Then there's nothing anyone can do or say to ever convince them. They will let everything happen until they themselves are impacted by Trump's policies.

[cl-0v3r]

Mel is alive, but at what cost

Mel was nearly killed TWICE, her mother began being a struggle, she'd been thrown aside and trying her best to stop her, her boyfriend is not doing well, neither is anyone else (can't blame them) and the fact that she hadn't cried or spoke much about this situation to anyone a single time?? She IS upset about every single thing, yet she stays strong and enduring every bit of torture. The most she did was tell Jayce that Ambessa put her palm on the table, and let him know that she is going to push for hextech. That's it, nothing remotely related to her feelings.

The fact that she was constantly looking at Caitlyn, being able to understand her grief and knew she was in pain?? Mel knows this feeling. She'd went through it.

And in the end SHE has to pay the price of her mothers incompetence.

The intro is very much foreshadowing, we know the hands represent black rose/LeBlanc.

This is what happens in act one, she gets kidnapped by them. The lyrics do correspond to the characters as well (not just Mel, everyone.)

"Tell you you're the greatest" plays as a petal of the black rose floats down the screen, I think it adds significance to the power this organization holds, possibly the Medardas greatest foe.

"But once you turn, they hate us" both Ambessa and Mel were present in this line, I think its foreshadowing for when Ambessa switches up for whatever reason and goes against both Piltover AND Zaun. And Mel WILL go through change as well, a change that could hurt her relationship with others, and receive interest from others too.

"They hate us" could be read individually too, I feel like its a sort of "realization" ?? Perhaps Ambessa WASN'T the one that switched up, maybe Piltover switched up on them, and maybe Mel JUST got out of wherever she's taken to, and saw the mess Ambessa had done to her city??

I think this represents ACT TWO.

The hands pull away and it sort of looks like Mel is fighting back, a "get away from me" type of scream. you know what this reminds me of??

Don't mind me just pushing my Jinx/powder-Mel parallel agenda

Here is when i think Mel truly learns about LeBlanc/BR, she curiously and slowly goes to grab the rose, she learns about the history between her Mother and them, Kinos death, and most of all, learns about HERSELF. The lyrics speak otherwise.

"Pray away, I swear

I'll never be a saint, no way"

This feels like a parallel to caitlyn of sorts if that makes sense. Caitlyn had done everything to try and stop the council from attacking the Undercity, she kept her mouth shut when Jayce asked about Jinxs grenade, she was willing to protect Vi and the undercity, but how many times has she been tossed around? She'd been burned, exploded, kidnapped (god knows what happened during that time) and hit in the face by the same person, her MOTHER died because of the same person. She has every right to go insane. And she is hunting ONE person, which is Jinx. Although she is harming the people around her along the way.

What if Mel goes through a similar situation? Her mother pushed for war in her city, she dragged the enemy along with her even if she didn't mean to, she manipulated everyone around her INCLUDING Jayce, she LITERALLY got Mel hurt from the chembarons attack and killed so many people during a MEMORIAL to get her hextech weapons, Elora is most likely DEAD, not to mention whatever happened in the past between them. And the thing is, this will NEVER end throughout the entire season.

And what if she learns what she is? That she's 'blessed' by Kindred? The fact that the wolf is quite literally in her blood?

I feel like the "ill never be a saint, no way" also sort of indicates Mel will realize she'll never be able to push for peace and mercy like she always hoped for no matter what, and she comes to accept that as much as it hurts. But not like how ambessa accepted the wolf, but she sort of realizes she needs to push a little violence, towards nobody but the one and only, Ambessa "fine, if you want me to be like you, I guess I'll be like you towards YOU." Type of acceptance.

I think its also related to Mels new outfit too, she's dressed like her mother, in red and all of that. I will still stand by the idea that she has plans to decieve, but she will do something she doesn't want to do.

Mel was left with no choice, that lyric sounds like realization, acceptance, but also like a plea at the same time, an "I'll never be who I wanted to be" because in the end, she's still a Medarda, she's still her mothers daughter, she still has violence in her veins, she will never not suffer from the weight her name holds, and she will never escape it either, its like a shadow.

The Characters won't be themselves at their core this season. And those vital parts of their characters that represent them are no longer there in the intro, they all have given up what makes them, THEM design wise. (e.g.) Vi without her tattoo, Viktor hiding his identity with the mask. And the thing is, they did that to themselves because they do self-harm, they're changing themselves because THEY want to, they're forcing themselves to do that, they think they're undeserving and they're erasing their past selves.

But Mel? Mel doesn't have her gold accessories, Jewelry, or her Armor, she'd been stripped bare and hidden away because of the brutality of her name. She pays the price her mother brought to HER city. She's forced to change herself against her will, because nobody is giving her a chance to push for her ideals.

This entire theory never ends, and with all of this? I kinda do see Mel actually committing Matricide, it lifts the "Ambessa will die" theory further.

[gojobbg]

friction | reader (f) x crush!nanami pt. 8

pairing: reader (f) x crush!nanami

synopsis: [AU] you have always had a crush on nanami. since the day you were hired as his personal assistant, you've been right at his side combating numbers and making money within the finance department for the company you two worked for. but, things take a turn when nanami catches wind of your feelings, and rejects you. little did he know the weight of his mistake.

warnings: angst, heartbreak, sexual tension, jealousy (future smut)

a/n: AHHH im so sorry i was gone for so long! work and school and i got sick again. my luck lately has been quite poor, but here's the next part!! i dont think its quite well written but i hope you all think its good! thank u again for ur support, kindness, and patience :) (sorry i say thank you so much, cant help myself!)

all parts: pt.1, pt.2, pt.3, pt.4, pt.5, pt.6, pt.7,

December | Tokyo, Japan | Wednesday

You should have worn more lotion. 

The unkind cold and threatening winds made your trek to work excruciatingly more difficult. Surely you made it, but had to get blind by the flurries of snow in the process. You take your time in the lobby, stomping aggressively down at the weather mats to remove all the snow and ice from your boots. You shake yourself like a wet dog to get the snow off your coat, too. The lobby men chuckle at you, and you couldn’t help but smile. 

It’s been rough to do so, after all. Considering you got rejected twice by the same man, you needed all the serotonin you could get. You spent hours crying, which only halted when you finally passed out. The heartbreak exhausted you, given how dark your eyes were, and how hollow your chest has felt since then. The worst part about all of it is that despite everything, you still had Nanami’s coffee in mind. 

It floated in your mind to go to the cafe and get him a cup. But you have to remember that he has other assistants who know his coffee order now. You were now one of few who knew it. 

To have your relationship seen as just boss/assistant by the other participant felt like punishment. A large sigh left your lips when you exited the elevator on your floor. Shivers tickled your body as you begrudgingly walked over to your desk. It was warm in the office, enough for you to take solace in. 

You begin to turn on your computer and prepare your desk, before being interrupted by two hands slamming down your desk. You look up to find a panting (and exhausted) Haibara. “Yu?” You whisper worriedly. “Is everything okay?”

“He lost the flashdrive,” Haibara lets out. “The presentation… it’s missing.” 

Your eyes widen, “Nanami? But… how?” Of all people, Nanami was never one to lack in anything, especially in organization. He was always sharp and aware of where all his things were. You never had to concern yourself with assignments getting lost because Nanami is too diligent.

“We– we um, drank last night…?” Haibara reluctantly confesses. “We both got home quite late… he might not have his whole head on.”

Without another word, you swiftly leave your desk and rush over to Nanami’s office, with Haibara following closely behind. On your way towards his office, you see all of Takada’s assistants outside of his office, their expressions full of concern. You make your way through them and knock on his door gently. 

“What?” Nanami’s annoyed tone rang through the door. 

“It’s Y/N,” you reply, ignoring his attitude. 

Quick shifting was sound behind the door before the doorknob began to turn. The door opens to reveal a disheveled Nanami. Despite his usually refined features, his unkempt hair and unbutton shirt was quite distracting. The shadows line his collarbone and the darkness under his eyes add to the intensity in his struggling, hazel eyes. He leaned against the door frame, his eyes slightly lighting up from your presence. There was some sort of relief in his eyes, but it was still drowned out by anxiety. 

“Please, please tell me you have a copy?” Nanami practically begs.  

You feel a lump in your throat from seeing his desperation. Not even you can be dismissive to his plea. “I–I was instructed not to keep an extra copy. It’s confidential, so I didn’t…” 

Nanami let out a quiet ‘fuck,’ retreating slowly back towards his desk. “Don’t worry, I’m not upset with you. I’m upset with myself because you’re right and I’m simply irresponsible…” He leans back against his desk, defeatedly holding himself up with his hands firmly down on the desk behind him. He looks distantly to the floor, a sight you never thought you’d ever see. 

The confident, sharp Nanami was now at his wits’ end. 

“Do you remember when you last had it?” You ask quietly. 

“I had it in my coat pocket on my way here,” he recalls quietly, “I still had it when I got off the train, so it must be outside around the area.” 

“But with all that snow…” Haibara begins, the defeat clearly on his tongue. 

You let out a sigh, emitting a calm apology before dismissing yourself. Once you were out of sight, you ran towards the elevator, practically beating the button until it arrived to you. You impatiently wait as you descend, your body already feeling the cold from outside. Even maintenance couldn’t believe their eyes as they watched you run out from the lobby, and into the harsh weather. 

It was a bit embarrassing for you. You were always there to fix Nanami’s scarce mistakes, or prevent them. Even after he broke your heart twice, here you are, outside in the freezing cold, without any garments to protect you from it. You could feel your body beginning to go numb from the seconds you were outside. 

Your exposed legs were inches deep in the snow, your frigid hands sifting desperately through the snow. Why? You asked yourself. Why, why, why? You were freezing, the weather was harsh, and this flash drive is as small as a roach. Why were you doing all of this? 

As you shoveled through the snow, you were finally able to feel how you were feeling after facing Nanami again. You were able to keep yourself from crying, but you wanted to cry profusely. Your boss, your crush, was stressed out over a mistake he made, and it didn’t even make you feel better. Unfortunately, your feelings were too weaved into his, and you felt the stress he is feeling. 

It bothered you to see him stressed. So much so, your body moved on its own and now it was in the cold, looking for the solution to Nanami’s problem. You didn’t even stay idle for a moment while in his office. Perhaps, the reason why you were helping him was because since you met Nanami, he has always been someone to work for his team. 

But you know for sure part of it was that you never want to see him like that again.

Taking on projects on his own to keep his other colleagues working in low piles. Working with clients he personally isn’t a fan of to make sure the company grows. Providing breakfast and lunch when important meetings arise to make sure everyone at least eats well before torturous work. He was strict, but never a mean person. And to that end might explain why you still felt the way you did. 

However, 

Your respect for him goes above your feelings. A hard piece of plastic was barely felt between your fingers, but they were able to hold onto it firmly. The small flash drive, covered in a bit of snow, still glowed green when you pushed up to reveal the USB. You promptly make your way back in, the warmth barely penetrating the cold you developed while being outside. 

I’m gonna get sick, you thought to yourself. As you passed through the lobby, you noticed Nanami’s clients getting checked in at the lobby. You hurry to the elevator, pushing aggressively at the close button so they didn’t have a chance to get there at the same time you did. You move your legs in place, attempting to regain some warmth. While you ascended, you purposely pushed the buttons of the floors you passed to delay their arrival. Finally reaching your level, you rush out to go to the other free elevator. As you did, you were met with a concerned Haibara. 

“H-hey!” Haibara calls to you, but you ignore him and shove the flash drive into his hand. But as you did, he noticed that you were frozen and kept his hands around yours. “You… found it? Did you go outside? Without a coat? Y/N, you’re freezing!” 

Oh, how you wished you fell for Haibara instead. You pull away your hand, quickly entering the other elevator and slamming your hands on the buttons. You look up at Haibara, your bottom lip blue and quivering. “Take it to Nanami,” you say roughly, your voice hoarse from the little warmth in your body. “Your clients. They’re downstairs. Hurry up.”

Haibara holds onto your arms, noticing that you could barely keep yourself up, “yeah, fuck the clients. You look like you’re going to pass out.”

“Please,” you look up at him desperately, tears welling in your eyes. It was already enough that you felt stupid for even looking for the flashdrive in this state. But even Haibara couldn’t push away the hurt and stress in your own eyes. “I’ll be fine… please help Nanami finish this.” 

“Let me at least walk you to your desk–” 

“I got her!” You both look over to see Tae run over, his apron dancing left and right from not being properly tied in the back. He quickly takes hold of you, looking up at Haibara to give him a curt nod in replacement of a proper bow. “Resume your work, Haibara-sama. I can tend to her.” 

Tae held you close enough that you could feel his warmth. It was intoxicating almost, the solace of his heat and the scent of pine needles emanating from his body. The fresh scent of linen coming from his black sweatshirt made you feel a little nostalgic but uneasy. You could still feel the cold taking you over, your entire body shivering. His hands firmly held you without squeezing you tightly. 

Haibara looks down skeptically, but you wave at him. “Please go,” you croak, coughs finally leaving your throat. “I’ll be fine.” You could see that you didn’t quite persuade him, but for the sake of Nanami, he nodded. 

He eyes Tae, a rare serious aura surrounding him, “get her to a doctor if she needs it. I’ll be back as soon as the presentation ends. Please make her something hot, like hot cocoa or soup.” Tae nods, allowing Haibara to run back towards Nanami, who was probably drowning in his own anxiety. 

“‘m sorry to inconvenience you like this, Tae,” you whisper, your body still shaking and twitching from the cold. “But thank you for that.” 

“No worries, please don’t exert yourself,” Tae softly warns. He tightens his hold on you before slowly walking you over to the cafe. Though you didn’t have enough trust to close your eyes, you did have enough to hold his sweater, confident that he won’t let you fall. “Let me help you. After all, you helped me first. Come, the cafe is just around the corner.” 

The relief on Nanami’s face was truly meant to be displayed in a museum. 

He held onto the flashdrive tightly, mentally scolding himself from ever dropping it in the first place. He forces it into the projector, and everything was set up for the clients to come in moments. He noticed that the flash drive was not only still cold, but slightly wet. “Was it outside in the snow?” 

Haibara nods as he fixes up the conference table a bit. It was ornate with drinks, snacks, and notetaking items for their clients to use and enjoy. “The snow is really growing by the inch out there. This winter is brutal.” 

“It truly is unkind out there,” Nanami sighs, his eyes looking through the window. “I hope you grabbed your coat before going out there.” 

Haibara shakes his head, “it wasn’t me who found the flashdrive; it was Y/N. I caught her at the elevator, and she was the one who handed it to me.” 

Nanami slightly perks up at your name, “did she really?” 

“She left straight from your office to go find it,” Haibara says quietly, “but she didn’t even bring a sweater. She was completely frozen when I saw her.” 

This left a pit in Nanami’s stomach. “Why did she not bring a coat? She’s more rational than that.” 

Haibara lets out a sigh, “who’s to say, Kento. Y/N works very hard to do right by you and this company. I think she’d do whatever it takes in order to make sure you and this department shines.” 

“Disregarding her health is not why she’s here,” Nanami huffs strictly. “Where is she?” 

“I left her with the barista you hired,” Haibara informs, “my guess is he took her to the cafe to warm her up.” 

Nanami’s eyes cut over to Haibara, burning through his soul. Despite this, Haibara still didn’t see his eyes. “You left her with a stranger?” 

“A stranger you hired,” Haibara clarifies. “Anyways, Y/N insisted I come help you. I’d probably make her feel worse if I didn’t.” 

There was a rare annoyance that Nanami never felt. You were always conscious of yourself, and others. Nanami always noticed when you would help someone with a large pile of papers, or when you applied bandages to blisters due to your heels. But more times than not, you never shied away from a challenge, and never hesitated to help someone whether they asked or not. 

But now you were far from him, and he couldn’t do anything to help you. He had this stupid presentation to do, rather than be by your side and tend to you. After all, you truly were the reason behind his success. The reason for his reduced stress, and a direct asset to his department. You did so much for him, only to be given a shred of that effort. He was feeling guilty, not only for being unaware of his feelings towards you, but the immense disregard he had for your own feelings and effort in this company. 

You were his dear assistant, and he was breaking you. 

“I’ll be back,” Nanami hums, rushing out of the conference room. Haibara looks back and follows right behind him, surprised by his sudden dash. 

Nanami, the meeting!” Haibara calls out to him, “you can’t do this right now!” 

His response was silence as he reached the corner towards the cafe. As he appears in the opening, his hazel eyes relentlessly looked for you. But when he stumbled upon you, his concern and annoyance skyrocketed. 

You were lying on one of the couches at the cafe, surrounded by a few of the baristas there. They all comforted you, as you lay under a few blankets. But Nanami noticed that below all of that, you were covered by a large, black crewneck. On your head, a beanie as well. And sat on a stool right in front of you with a hot coffee cup was Tae, the barista he hired. Nanami noticed the warmth in his eyes when he looked down at you, with a free hand out to you. Your boss felt a lump in his throat when he saw you take his hand, helping you sit up to take the cup from him. Tae kept his hand on the bottom of the cup while you sipped it cautiously. 

His chest felt like someone was pushing it down, his breath was limited. His heart, at the same time, was punching against it as well, almost as if it was going through a two-front war. He looks down at his hands, adjusting the sleeves at both of his wrists. He needed to reach you– sooner rather than later. And now looked like the perfect opportunity. 

But before he could take another step, the elevator behind him opened, and the entourage of clients he was expecting stood before him, all smiles. Haibara catches up and pats Nanami’s back, forcing him to turn around as they both curtly bow in greeting. A vein protruded Nanami’s temple, and Haibara looked back to see what he was looking at. 

What he saw made him crack a small smile, his energy returning to him as he led the clients and an annoyed Nanami towards the conference room. 

Taglist: [Now Closed]

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[endless-ineffabilities]

be young, be dope, be proud

dynasty heir Aemond x heiress reader

a/n: randomly and carelessly drafted after a night out, so don't even ask me what this is. title obvi from Lana. also, I feel like the setting here is an acquired taste. so, enjoy? 💁🏼‍♀️🤍

themes/warnings: spoiled rich assholes, New York/modern references, language, clichés galore, Targs are like the Kennedys if that whole family was pure evil and Rep, SMUT, angst between brats who clearly want each other, also—you're kind of a hypocrite

main masterlist

The estate reeks with old money: marble columns, ancestral portraits, and a long dining table loaded with crystal and silver. Chandeliers try to warm the place, but it's all cold opulence. Outside, the gardens are cut and tamed to show that even nature has a price.

Your father always brings the family along to stately dinners up there in Westchester, with the usual crowd in attendance—the Targaryens, the Velaryons, the Lannisters—the whole lot.

Between them, they could probably purchase every building in Manhattan without creating a single dent in the bank.

Hell, maybe they already have. Generational wealth truly is the gift that keeps on giving.

You've tried to distance yourself from it. From people whose words drip poisoned honey and condescension. Being waited on like new order royalty.

But who are you to talk, when your father's lineage traces back to the fucking Mayflower? You and them are one and the same—filthy rich and borderline insane.

It is nearly impossible to maintain a steady sense of self, to have ample room for personal growth, when everything, every single thing, is handed to you on a silver platter. There is no tension there, no struggle, no need to exert any effort.

Failed your courses? Your father donates a building to the university. Aemond gets several DUIs? His great-uncle is a Supreme Court Justice. Aegon nearly burns his friend's house down while throwing a bacchanal-themed party? Let's just say that friend is grounded. For a week. Oh, the horror. Their family had many other estates, in many other places anyway.

When there are no real repercussions to your actions, you will feel like you can do just about whatever you want.

Burn the world down, for all you care. You can just buy a new, better one.

Granted, not everyone in your circle is an entitled egotist. There's Helaena, who strangely enough, does not possess a single self-important bone in her body, unlike her aforementioned brothers. Jace, who spends most of his time getting involved in political activism, for the side that his magnate grandfather Viserys steadfastly opposes.

You'd always sit beside either of them in these dinners, for the sake of your sanity. Unfortunately, Aemond and Aegon are never far. Especially Aemond—who occassionally stares you down as he sits across the table. Aegon, seated to his left, whistles at you. "Hey. Hey so... are you still slumming it with the art crowd?"

"I'm sorry?" You narrow your eyes at him. He didn't even say hello or mind if I cut in? as Jace was telling you about attending the DNC rally.

Aemond watches you again, so closely it raises goosebumps along your arms. He's been stealing glances at you ever since you arrived with your family. And you've been openly shooting glares at him when you sense it. Him and that steely one-eyed gaze of his always gets under your skin.

Aegon sneers, and you think how it's so in character of him. "You still live in Brooklyn? Cosplaying as a normie?"

"Fuck off, Aegon."

You've been living in Brooklyn for the past year, trying to finish up your Masters from Barnard. You would never hear the end of how this is the most redundant and useless thing, especially from people like Aegon. It does seem contrived, daddy's little heiress playing at being a scholar at Columbia, but at least you are doing something.

Besides, you have no desire to take over your family's empire. If anything, you want to branch out, maybe take on Jace's proposal on starting a charity foundation together.

"Aegon! Do you know how messed up that sounds?" Jace comes to your rescue, but you know it'll be for nought. Aegon's brain is too warped, too silver-spoonfed, to recognise his folly. You used to feel sympathy for the guy—this life is all he's ever known, and it isn't as if the adults around him ever set a good example, so can you blame him?

Used to. Now, he just annoys you. You grew up the same, but you are not like him, aren't you? So did Hel and Jace. So did Aemond. And Aemond, while still an asshole, is at least someone you can tolerate. He's vicious when it comes to his ambition, but he's genuinely smart.

He's cold and aloof, but he is also capable of tenderness.

You would never readily admit to anyone how you know this about him.

And he's staring you down, once again. You immediately know it's him when you feel someone nudge your shin under the table.

You eye him warily. What do you want?

He raises his eyebrows. Nothing. Just missed you.

At least that's what you're picking up from him. Why wouldn't he miss you? You're probably the best thing in his life right now. He should be so grateful you're still giving him the time of day, especially after everything he's done.

Aemond nods ever so subtly, the gesture meant for only you. You already know what he's getting at, but you don't feel like caving just yet.

It's another long moment of tuning in and out of your conversation with Jace, but Aemond's unspoken question lingers. When you deign to look at him again, he tilts his head to the side. Let's go.

He knows to leave first, and he stands and excuses himself from the table. Barely anyone gives him any mind, the adults debating passionately at the farther end.

You wait one whole minute, your heels tapping impatiently under the table. Then you follow suit.

"I need some air. Might have a smoke or something," you mumble to Jace. He wouldn't want to tag along, the scrunch of his face revealing how much he loathes the habit.

"Just the one," he tuts, raising a finger.

You roll your eyes fondly. "Okay, dad."

Aemond has just lit a cigarette when he hears you come in. The door to the private library lets out a tiny creak then shuts without a sound. He faces the window, his back to you. But he knows it's you. He can almost hear the derision in your exhale. A hint of your unmistakeable Guerlain scent is present in the room.

When you draw closer, he sees the ghost of your reflection on the glass, a mirage perched atop his shoulder. He thinks of the age-old visual of having an angel and a devil on either side. You would be the angel, and the devil... would probably be his own self.

The side he fights to keep buried. He knows you see it, and hate it, but you want him anyway. You let him have you anyway. And these stolen moments with you are the only times when he is truly free.

Without a word, he offers a cigarette to you, his hand moving with a smooth, practiced form that makes it feel like he's not just offering you a smoke but issuing a silent challenge. He lifts his lighter, an intricate, expensive thing engraved with his family crest, flicking it open with a soft metallic click, then holding the flame steady as you lean in.

He can't help but admire how beautiful you are as the glow illuminates your face.

"Do you ever get bored?" you sneer, folding your arms as you lean against a shelf. "Sitting there all night with that smug, 'yes, I agree with all of this' look while your family drones on about the 'sanctity of tradition.' Like a good little heir."

Aemond raises an eyebrow, barely looking up from his cigarette as he takes a drag. You sure have a habit of getting right down to business. "Funny," he replies smoothly. "For someone who 'hates' tradition, you play the part of Daddy's obedient little princess pretty well. I saw you batting your eyes at every gray-haired councilman at that table."

"Oh, please." You roll your eyes, heat flaring in your cheeks, though whether from anger or the way his gaze always seems to pin you in place, despite your best efforts, you can't say. "I'm not doing it because I like it. I don't sit there pretending I'm better than the rest of the world."

"You don't?" He cocks his head, his lips quirking into a wry, infuriating smirk. "Could've fooled me, princess. All I ever hear from you in these dinners are 'Oh, absolutely' and 'Oh, that's so interesting'—like you'd just die if they didn't think you cared."

"Wow, okay, says the guy who spent twenty minutes nodding along while they debated the tax breaks for HNWIs. Planning to cut yourself some more slack there, hotshot?" You take a quick, sharp puff, the smoke billowing out of your lips as you continue your tirade. "You're a damn statue, Aemond. Most of the time, you don't even say a word, and yet somehow you sit there looking like everyone should be grateful you graced them with your presence."

He takes a step closer, and his voice drops. This is something only you can do—you get to him, you hit him where it matters. Or, you're the only one he allows the privilege of doing so. "And you hate it, don't you? You hate that I don't care what they think. That I'm not actually here to impress anyone."

Your laugh comes out bitter. "Please. You don't care because you're so convinced they already think you're perfect. You don't have to impress anyone because you're Aemond Targaryen, right? The perfect heir to a glowing legacy."

"Better that than playing the poor, tortured rebel." He's so close you can count the facets of the sapphire in his socket, a dangerous gleam flashing behind them—another outlandish, excessive thing only a billionaire's son would think to do. "At least I'm not pretending I want to burn it all down while running around in the same circles as everyone else. Tell me, do you actually care about the policies Jacaerys painstakingly explains to you? Or is it all just for show?"

"You don't know me, Aemond."

"Oh, but I do. In fact, I think I'm the only one who knows the real you."

You clench your jaw, craning your neck up to look at him. How ironic that he literally has to look down on you too. "Unlike you, I actually feel something about all this. You sit there like you're above it all, and it's pathetic."

"Pathetic?" He lets out a low, humorless laugh. "You want to talk about pathetic? The only thing pathetic is you standing there acting like a revolutionary when you're just like the rest of us."

"At least I want to get out. At least I want to make a goddamn difference and—"

"Then do it," he says, his tone mocking, as he leans in closer, his breath warm against your face. "Get out. Run off, make your big escape. Show everyone how different and special you are, princess."

"Oh, right," you shoot back, trying to regain some of your moxie after his unexpected retort. "And leave you to taint my image after then?"

He scoffs, the gesture dismissive, almost cruel. "You wouldn't be here if you actually had the guts to go through with it."

Aemond may be a pretentious asshole, but he's right, and you know it. "You know what, Aemond? What if... I tell you that I like it. The power, the status, all of it. Is that what you want to hear?"

He smirks. "You'd be adrift without it. You'd be lost without all this to complain about." His gaze drops to your mouth, as if he could already guess exactly how a rendezvous like this is going to end.

How it always ends.

You feel your breath hitch, your pulse racing even as you grit your teeth against the draw of him.

"Don't look at me like that," you snap, trying to keep the upper hand. You should leave. You know this, know you should storm out and leave him here with that damn arrogant smirk on his face.

Call it a truce, and do it all over again next time.

"What's wrong? Afraid you'll do something you'll regret?"

The challenge in his tone has you seething, heat blazing up your neck. "You're insufferable, you know that?” You try to sound as furious as you feel, but your voice wavers, and the corner of his mouth tilts in a dark, smug smile.

"Then leave, princess." His eyes flash, daring you, mocking you, yet he doesn't move back. "Go on. Show me that strength you keep talking about."

The words are meant to push you away, to test how much you can take, but they do something else instead. They push you over the edge, sending you surging forward before you even know what you're doing, fisting the front of his pristine shirt and yanking him down to you.

Your mouth meets his, all anger and fire, biting at his lips as he smirks against you, welcoming the aggression. His hands find your waist, pawing at your gown, pushing you back until you stumble against the bookshelf.

You try to hold onto the anger, to use it to keep yourself in control, but the way he kisses you—rough, possessive, familiar, with a hunger that seems to match yours—makes it impossible. His hands slip to your hips, fingers digging into you with a desire that you both pretend doesn't exist anywhere but here, in the dark corners of your little meeting places.

"Stop," you gasp for breath, pulling away for just a second, trying to steady yourself, but he follows, his mouth trailing down your jaw to your neck, biting down just enough to make you groan.

His fingers slip beneath the slit of your dress, finding bare skin. "Then tell me you don't want this."

Your head tilts back involuntarily, the blissed hitches in your breath becoming frequent. You should tell him to stop, but the words never come, not with his fingers tracing up your thigh, the pressure of his lean body against yours, the electric shiver that races through you as his mouth tongue dances with your own.

You give in, letting your anger melt into something messier, something that's been building between you both for so long you don't know how to unravel it. Your hands move to his white-blonde hair, pulling him closer. His hand slips higher, while the other is braced against the bookshelf behind you.

There's nothing careful about it—gone are the dynasty heirs who are unfailingly curated and perfect and genteel in the public eye. It's all frantic, hands grabbing, mouths clashing, neither of you willing to let the other take control but both of you giving in to the heat. He yanks your dress up, lifting you and positioning himself between your legs, his breathing rough as he makes quick work of his belt. Then he lets his trousers and underwear drop halfway down his thighs, and his cock springs free, pressing on the draped material of your gown, which you hurriedly bunch to the side.

It's like a sick power play when he takes two fingers and plunges them past your soaked entrance, right to his knuckles. All without breaking eye contact.

But neither has the upper hand. You and Aemond are one and the same.

"Seems like you're ready for me, princess."

"Mhmm, aghh—" He hooks his fingers inside you, hitting that damned spot. "Just fuck me already."

And when he does, his cock practically propping you up against the bookshelf, it's fast, chaotic, your movements nothing short of needy and desperate, as if you're both trying to prove something to the other. You don't care about the priceless first-edition books that rattle precariously behind you, nor about the way his fingers dig into your flesh that guarantee bruises that will show tomorrow. Right now, you're past caring, past pretending that you actually ever cared about anyone but yourself.

And maybe... Aemond.

His groans come out unrestrained against your neck, his tongue flicking over the droplets of sweat, as if he can't bear you being any less than perfect.

Only he can taint you, only he can see you broken in and fucked out like this, your lipstick smeared to the side of your mouth. That same shade of rouge littering his cheek, his jaw, the collar of his shirt.

No words are exchanged, as if they've been used up in your twisted version of foreplay from earlier.

All he offers is, "Fuck, baby, I'm close," as his hips continue in its assault, his hands buried in the softness of your arse, keeping you in place.

"So am I," you counter.

He falls apart inside you, his cock sputtering while lodged deep in your clenched walls. The near-animalistic growl he lets out brings you to your climax, your forehead falling against his as your entire body is rendered limp in his arms.

When you finally pull away, flushed, your heart still racing, he looks at you with that same arrogant smirk, and you can't help but feel the distaste rising back up.

"Still think I don't know you?" he murmurs, smug satisfaction written all over his face.

You glare at him, pulling your dress back down, refusing to let him have the last word even as his expression uncharacteristically softens as he gazes at you, making you want to pull him close and kiss him again. Gentler, this time.

"This can't happen again," you force out your usual lie.

"That's what you said last time, princess."

Vhagar taglist: @kravitzwhore @litchifaerie @g-cf2020 @notsurewhattocallthisblog8888 @noxytopy @fan-goddess @m00n5t0n3 @diannnnsss @nsr-15 @the-awkward-barbie @rockstwrsz @yellowstonebaby @urdeftonesgrrrl @eddieslut69 @callsigncrushx @starwarsdinosaur @qweq-6802 @tulips2715 @joyismm @just-mj-or-not @crystal-siren @all-for-aemond @alokaaaaa @vhwyrm @purpleskiesandroses @technicallystrangereview @jjkysnk @inesdiary96 @weirdblob21 @lonelyladyghost @tssf-imagines @nurtargaryen @paula-lkr @queenofshinigamis @breezyjin @empfm @amanda08319 @unrealwinchester @optimizche @seamaiden @spoffyos @subliiminals @believeinthefireflies95 @ex0tic-vgh @anukulee @mrsmunson-harrington @romyfe06

[ciceroprofacto]

Few additions as someone who struggled with this in undergrad because I was disorganized:

Yes, start with your bibliography. if you see a good source and wanna jump right into it- either because you're already focused or you're not sure if you'll use it and don't wanna waste time, it's enough to get the author's name or a key word of the title down. Just slap it at the end in parenthesis and highlight it to fix later. You don't need to do a perfect citation on the first draft, but you need something that will trigger your memory to where you found it.

In academia, you need a source for every idea, even if you had it on your own. Even if it seems really obvious. (I know- this one got me too). Think about it this way- sources aren't just a demonstration of where you found info, they're also a demonstration that the info is coming from multiple reputable places. It's either "I got this from here" or "these people think so too". Never these are my thoughts. That's not a thing. Your thesis might be the one thing you claim, and even then, it shouldn't seem like it's coming from you. It should be the conclusion your reader draws from the arguments you're presenting. If you're doing it right, you might not even have to say it. Erase the idea of 'State your thesis' and think about it as 'Argue your thesis' because you're not saying what you think, you're presenting evidence of why you think it.

ALWAYS always always make it as easy as possible to find your sources even if you think you're done using them. Use bookmarks and folders in your browser or download and drop them somewhere contained on your desktop as soon as you find them. If you can afford a writing software like Scrivner, those can be used to organize your schoolwork too. Different software have different advantages and disadvantages, but some of these programs even let you highlight and write on pdfs now.

It's always better to fuck up your format than it is to not cite something. If you end up in a time crunch and aren't able to make your citations perfect, STILL DO THEM. An academic review board that's checking for plagiarism is going to regard an attempt to cite with incorrect formatting a lot more kindly than no attempt at all.

in re plagiarism and citation and people not knowing how to do it

in the capstone class of my MASTER's degree, I had to do a group paper with fellow students who had all done 6+ years of collegiate study to get there

we shared drafts of our portions and they had no citations and i was like???? and they were like "it's a draft i'll put the citations in at the end" and i was like ???????

because by the time you're done writing the thing you're not going to remember what you got where and whether you synthesized information together! this is how "i thought i thought of it" plagiarism cases occur!!!!

anyway i told them at the bare minimum any time they referenced a numerical figure they needed to cite it, and since it was a paper on accounting fraud that mostly worked out. but i could tell they were citing stuff simply because i'd told them to cite where numbers came from, because they didn't bother to cite some non-numerical things that definitely needed it.

anyway this is why when you have classes that have multiple assignments for a paper to teach you how to write it, annotated bibliography comes before drafting. because you're supposed to have your sources and know what's in them when you start writing.

to current college students: PLEASE put the citations in as you're writing not as you're editing. i know it seems like a pita especially if you don't know the formatting well, but that's what tools like Purdue Owl are for. Tell it what citation format you're supposed to use, what kind of source you have, fill in the fields and it will format the citation for you.

[jimmybutlrr]

Missed or Licked

Pairing: Aaron Pierre x Average Height Thick brown-skinned Women

Warnings : 18+, Mature Content (Cursing , Teasing and smut), Missing good dick.

Summary: Missing dick could be dangerous

A/N: I have decided that I will be releasing my smut fanfictions first, then fluffy, Drama etc. just because it's easier and as always, feedback would be appreciated😁*Please let me know if you want to be tagged in future writings.

“Do I really have to work? Why can’t I just quit and life would work itself out..…....nevermind, I sound dumb as hell, let me shut up and get out of this car”. She said laughing at herself, Alisha started getting ready to exit her car when she heard a knock on her driver's side window. She looks to see her co-worker Terry Richmond (Who by the way is in a tight fitted shirt, showcasing his big veiny arms and thick chest ). Winding down her window “ Terry, hi”  she said confused, wondering why the hell he was at her window.

“Sorry to bother, I was just wondering if you're alright” He wondered staring into her eyes, “I’m good just.. preparing myself, for the long ass day ahead of me” she said feeling a little flustered, as he continues to stare into her eye’s not daring to look away. 

Alisha and Terry had a bit of a complicated history together. They met in a Walmart parking lot, when she was clearly struggling to fit her tv into her car. Which brought the attention of Terry, Sparking up a conversion between the two which ended with her bringing up that she wanted help moving some items into her home. Terry agreed, asking to swap information. After a few days of talking, Terry was in her living room and  helped her move furniture where she wanted it, putting up her tv etc.

Time went on and Terry got tired of the unspoken tension, which ended up with Alisha’s legs on either side of her head, being filled to the brim with dick and hot tears falling down her face. A memory she remembers so vividly. 

Their situationship came to a stop when he left the state and stopped answering her text, which left her a little broken because you can’t find dick like that just anywhere. Time passed, she moved, switched jobs and found out that Terry was one of the warehouse workers while she worked as the receptionist in the building beside it.  

Throughout the time they worked there, they had stolen glances at each other and greetings but never daring to engage in a conversation. 

A few minutes went by before Alisha broke eye contact, the need to let him spread her open was too great to start ignoring. “Sorry, but I have to get out of the car, so if you could move” Alisha said trying to open her door “I just wanted to say I'm sorry for leaving you, there was some family business that I had to take care of” Terry said hoping that what he said was taken into consideration.

Alisha pushed her car door open and stood up as Terry walked backwards giving her space to get out of her car. Reaching forward to grab Terry by his arm, she pulled him in  closing the space between them believing what he said. If it were her family, she would have done the same no doubt. “I believe you, I was just a little heartbroken that you filled me to the brim, Touching spots that no other man is able to reach, then decided to leave a day after that”. 

She said, whispering in his ear while staring into his eyes, seeing a shocked expression on his face, moving to the right side of his face,she grabbed his body to support herself on her tiptoes.  “I’m just a little hurt because I wanted you in my throat but I guess…… that fantasy will no longer happen”. The feeling of her breath tickling his ears as she spoke, Alisha  looked down to see him wrapping his big, veiny arms around her body, he bent his face down to level their faces going as close as possible to her face that  if you were a person just a few feet from them, you would think they were kissing.

“Who said that can’t happen here, hm”. Terry mumbled, his eyes moved from her eyes to her lips feeling bold, she closed the space between them, pulling his face towards hers. She open mouth kissed him, making Terry press his body even more into hers, pushing his tongue in her mouth, roaming her mouth with his tongue endlessly trying to lick every inch of her mouth. They both stumbled back into the open door of the car Terry pulled back, picking Alisha up with one arm and his hand squeezed her ass, moving to kick the door closed while simultaneously opening the back door, laying Alisha down, kissing down her neck.

 “Terry, wait” Alisha breathlessly said  “Sit down, I wanna you in my mouth” “Are you sure” “Yes, I want to show you how much I missed you”. Terry kissed her, lifting her on top of his lap her hands roamed his body. She slowly removed her lips from his, bringing her body down between his legs. Staring at him in his eyes, she pulled his belt buckle open while her mouth was practically slobbering, waiting to be filled with his pink tipped dick. She pulls his pants to his knees with the help of him raising his hips and freeing the one thing that she truly missed.

She stared at the sight before her,  admiring his pink fat tip dripping with pre - cum, her eyes making its way down his thick hard dick with prominent thick veins littering his dick with fat heavy shaven balls. Alisha took one long lick from the base to the tip, circling her tongue around the tip slowly sucking “ohhh fuckk, mmhm”. Terry moaned looking down from half opened eyes at the complete brown skinned goddess taking his dick in her throat. Alisha continues to suck the tip, slowly inching down his thick dick down her throat.

“Stop playing with me, open your throat” he demands, putting one of his hands  under your chin making you look up into his eyes “ Open your mouth as wide as possible” he said trying to stuff her mouth with his dick. 

As his dick reaches the back of your throat, you gag, making him inch out. “When I go in, take a deep breath, when I retract, you exhale, understood”. “Yes,” Alisha tried to say with her mouth half full. “You ready,” Alisha nodded, ready to take whatever he gave her. Terry inches back down her throat, Alisha following his instructions, suppresses her gag reflex. Terry roughly starts to fuck your face, grabbing your $500 raw bundles.

When he gets to the back of your throat, he holds your head there for a few seconds moaning at the feeling “Shiiitt, this throat is so good, fuuck”. He continues to fuck your face, tears start decorating your face, with the help of your silva falling down your chin. 

His moans motivating you to swallow and moan on his dick causing him to let out a string of moans. He starts fucking your face faster making the car shake, creating a rhythm between the two of you. “ oohhh, ssss, i'm gonna nut, you ready for it” Alisha nods her head ready suck this man dry as soon as his grip gets weak, “Shit , Shit, Shit, hmmmhmhmm” He groans, busting a fat nut. Alisha takes the opportunity to grab his hands, pinning them into the seat of the car. 

Twisting and sucking his tip with the help of her tongue, she sucks up the mess he made while staring him in his eyes. Terry ‘s eyes roll back, he bites his lip and moans ”my god”  he overpowers her grabbing her head pushing it back and a deep exhale. He finally feels relieved that she is no longer trying to push him past more than he can take. Terry stares up at the ceiling as Alisha pulls his pants up, tucking his dick back into his pants.

“I left you speechless, didn’t I big boy” Alisha laughed. Terry drops down his head, grabbing Alisha pulling her in for a kiss. “I'm so glad that I” and before Terry could finish his sentence, there was a knock on the window making them turn there heads towards the notice, “THE FUCK, YA’LL DOING IN THERE”.

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[luvismenu]

Only When It's Us — JJK ,, index ,, about taglist

Chapter 02 — distraction ✎

fic summary: you both say it’s nothing serious, but with every touch and argument, it gets harder to stay away.

nsfw warnings: smut; lots of kissing, lots of touching lol, oral (male recieving, fem too? kinda), sucking fingers, doggy style, unprotected sex (shes using birth control so yep, be safe!) use of ‘good girl’

wc: 6k

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📜 series taglist: @deepikhaprakash @rjooniesdimples @sweetmimosa28

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“i have to go.”

“why don’t you just come back home? you can start over, and this time, maybe you’ll be more like your brother.”

you sigh.

“mom, i don’t want to be him,” you say quietly, trying to keep the frustration out of your voice. on the other end, you hear her let out a soft, disapproving tsk, a sound that always manages to make you feel a little smaller.

“aren’t you clearly struggling with school? if you were here with us, with your brother, we’d help you. you’d be fine,” she insists, as if coming home would magically fix everything.

you roll your eyes.

“i really have to go.”

“___, just listen to—”

but before she can finish, you end the call, staring at the blank screen for a moment.

there’s an unsettling feeling in your chest, one that refuses to fade, no matter how much you try to brush it off. its like a quiet reminder of all the things you’re trying to avoid.

go back home?

after everything you’ve been through to study what you want, to finally live on your own terms. every argument, every latenight fight with your parents, all just to claim a bit of freedom.

you worked so hard to break free from their expectations, to stand on your own.

you even transferred universities just to escape the constant pressure back in your hometown. no matter what you did, it was never enough. every choice was somehow wrong, not ‘their way.’

you can’t go back now.

not until you’ve made it, not until you have something real to prove them wrong. you have to be successful, if only to show them that your way was the right way all along.

“hey, are you done thinking? never seen anyone contemplate cheerios this hard.”

min yoongi’s low voice pulls you out of your thoughts. you look up, finding him behind the cash register, his lips curving into a small smile.

“just wondering if i can actually trust your store’s products. what if you are some sort of cheerio secret agent and you're trying to poison me?” you joke, handing him the money.

“oh no, you figured it out. we’ve been poisoning the cheerios. now how am i gonna explain to my boss that our mission failed?” he dramatically placesb a hand on his forehead as if you revealed his deepest darkest secret. you can’t help but chuckle, the tension in your chest loosening just a bit.

“bad day?” he asks, his gaze softening a bit as he opens the cash register.

min yoongi; your friend.

well, he's more like your senior. he graduated last year and he is working parttime at this convenience store cuz he thinks in this way he could spend some time outside.

you didn't question him about it any further.

you don’t usually come here unless it’s an emergency, and breakfast for tomorrow qualifies as pretty urgent, or so you tell yourself.

“something like that,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper.

he nods slightly. “well,” he begins, “i’m sorry i can’t give you a discount,” he adds, trying to lighten the mood.

you chuckle, the corners of your mouth lifting. “aw, that’s too bad. i thought i might get these cheerios for free.”

he smiles softly, “maybe some other time,"

you smile back at yoongi and turn to leave. but then you almost bump your head against a man’s chest, stumbling back in surprise.

that was close.

you look up to apologize, but your words get caught in your throat as you take in his appearance.

he’s handsome.

no, that doesn’t even begin to cover it. his face is sculpted to perfection, with sharp cheekbones and a jawline that could cut glass. his dark eyes seem to pierce right through you, and his long, dark hair falls effortlessly over his forehead.

but there’s something else,

he looks... mad?

you quickly gather yourself, your cheeks warming slightly. “sorry,” you blurt out, stepping aside to let him pass.

as you walk out of the store, you catch a snippet of conversation behind you.

“are you still upset about her, jungkook?” yoongi’s voice carries just enough for you to hear.

you try to shake it off, not wanting to dwell on whatever is unfolding behind you. it’s not your business, after all.

you step outside, the cool air hitting your face as you leave the store, and try to focus on the tasks ahead of you.

“it doesn’t make any sense, hyung,” jungkook scoffs, the frustration bubbling up inside him.

“when did she ever make sense?” yoongi replies dryly, not backing down as he meets jungkook’s glare. the tension in the air feels thick, but yoongi isn’t afraid to speak his mind.

“from my point of view, you’re now a free man. free from all the bullshit you’ve been through,” yoongi explains, hoping to lift jungkook’s spirits.

“what bullshit? i was happy. we were happy,” jungkook frowns, his confusion evident. he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, struggling to comprehend yoongi’s words.

“that’s what she wanted you to think,” yoongi replies, his tone serious. “and to be honest, that’s what you always did. you did whatever she wanted. you changed for her.”

“i loved her,” jungkook insists, his voice a bit softer but still filled with conviction, as if saying it out loud would make it true.

“did you? really?” yoongi presses, searching jungkook’s eyes for any hint of doubt. he knows this is a tough conversation, but it needs to be talked out.

jungkook looks away and mutters. “you don’t get it,”

yoongi’s expression softens. he presses his lips together as he looks at jungkook, feeling bad for him. “i’m sorry, jungkook. but you really have to let it go now. it’s been two weeks. it’s time to start moving on.”

jungkook stays silent.

instead of responding, he reaches for a lollipop displayed near the cash register, the bright colors contrasting sharply with his gloomy mood. he hands yoongi some money, more than what the lollipop costs, as if he’s paying for more than just candy.

“do you want the change, or can i keep it as a tip for my great service slash friendship?” yoongi tries to lighten the mood, hoping to bring a smile to jungkook’s face.

and it does.

jungkook’s lips curl into a faint smile, a small but genuine response. “keep it,” he says softly.

as jungkook turns to leave, yoongi watches him go, feeling sad for his friend.

“bad day indeed.”

you're sat on a bench in the park near the convenience store, lost in your own thoughts. the quiet sounds of the evening settle around you, the faint rustle of leaves, the distant hum of traffic, and your own sighs mingling with the cool air.

you’re not really thinking about anything in particular, just letting your mind wander in that aimless way it does when everything feels overwhelming.

then, a loud voice cuts through your thoughts.

“no, i know you're hiding something from me!” someone snaps, his voice taut with irritation. “fine! have it your way then.”

curious, you glance over and recognize him immediately; the same man from earlier at the store, the one you’d nearly bumped into.

he’s pacing as he talks on his phone, one hand running through his dark hair in exasperation. his jaw is clenched, his brows furrowed, and you can practically feel the tension radiating off him even from a distance.

after a moment, he ends the call with an aggravated sigh, stuffing his phone into his pocket as he makes his way into the park, still visibly upset. he barely notices his surroundings as he walks closer to where you’re sitting.

he sighs, tilting his head back and closing his eyes, muttering something under his breath as if willing the frustration to melt away. you can’t help but stare a little, like an idiot.

then his eyes snap open and land directly on you.

“got a problem with me?” his voice is sharp, cutting through the silence between you.

you blink, startled, and stand up instinctively. “excuse me?”

he turns fully to face you, his eyes never leaving yours. “i asked, you got a problem with me?”

“no.” you shake your head, eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

“good.”

wow. nice attitude.

just as you’re about to walk away, he calls out again.

“never seen you around here before.”

“pardon?” you turn back, surprised.

“you’re yoongi's friend, right?” he asks,

you cross your arms, giving him a wary look. “why do you care?”

he shrugs, almost nonchalant. “my bad, just curious. never seen yoongi smile at a normal customer before, so i assumed.”

“oh,” you reply, softening just a bit. “well, i guess you could say we're friends.”

he raises an eyebrow, an amused smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “you guess?”

you offer a small shrug of your own. “he used to help me when i was still a freshman, and he still tries to whenever he can. i'd say he's like my teacher, in a way. it’s not like we hang out or anything, though.”

he tilts his head, considering your words. “well, consider yourselves friends. trust me, he doesn’t just help anyone.”

you narrow your eyes slightly, still wary. “and who are you, exactly?”

“jeon jungkook,” he says, extending a hand with a surprisingly polite nod. instinctively, you reach out and shake it, his grip firm. “since you're yoongi's friend, i think we go to the same university. though this is the first time i’m seeing you.”

“same, i am ___,” you pull your hand back.

“what are you doing here, in the middle of the night? didn’t your parents ever tell you not to go out alone?” he asks, the way he talks is somewhere between teasing and serious. you can't quiet get what it is but something about it grates on your nerves, like he's playing at being concerned but in a way that feels almost mocking.

“i could ask you the same thing,” you shoot back, meeting his gaze head on.

he doesn’t flinch, only tilts his head slightly. “i always come here,” he says, his voice calm, almost like a matterof fact.

“same,” you respond. “during the day.”

he quirks a brow, “so why are you in my night shift?”

you scoff, a laugh slipping out before you can stop it. “this isn’t your place or ‘shift,’ you know."

“well, you come here during the day; i come here at night. sounds like shifts to me,” he says with a shrug, and you catch the playfulness on his face.

“guess i’m overtiming, then,” you say, glancing away to hide your own smirk. “don’t mind me.”

he stays silent.

“you’ve got your own shit to deal with, huh?” he says, his voice breaking the quiet.

“why are you talking to me?” you blurt out, catching him a little off guard. “i mean, you don’t even know me.”

he raises an eyebrow, unphased. “i could ask you the same thing,” he replies, mimicking your answer from before.

you narrow your eyes, folding your arms. “i don’t think i want to talk about my problems with a random stranger.”

“problems…” he echoes, looking you up and down like he’s trying to figure you out. “let me guess. got into a fight with your boyfriend?”

“no,” you say quickly, rolling your eyes. “i don’t have one.” for a second, you think you catch a flicker of surprise on his face. “what about you? girlfriend mad at you?”

his face shifts, something almost vulnerable passing over his features before he looks away. “guess you could say that,” he mutters. “since she broke things off with me.”

a silence stretches between you two.

“i’m… sorry to hear that,” you finally say, feeling the awkwardness settle around you.

you didn't expect that.

honestly, the idea of someone like him getting dumped hadn’t even crossed your mind. a guy who looks like that—that intense aura—doesn’t exactly seem like the type to get left behind.

you assumed he’d be the one calling the shots, the one walking away. but here he is, single and clearly dealing with the aftermath of something that’s weighing on him. its surprising.

a thought crosses yourmind.

if someone could leave him, someone who had a place in his life and a claim to his heart, maybe he’s not as perfect as he seems on the outside. maybe there’s something beneath the surface, something that’s harder to deal with than his looks would suggest.

it’s like a puzzle you didn’t even mean to start solving, yet here you are, wondering if there’s more to him than just that handsome face.

but then you shake the thought away. he’s a stranger. a random guy you happened to bump into, quite literally, at a park in the middle of the night. it’s not like you’ll see him again after tonight. or, at least, that’s what you’re telling yourself.

because, really, why should you care?

whatever his story is, it’s none of your business.

“anyway, hope you figure your problems out.” he says, his gaze flickering away as if he’s eager to dodge any deeper conversation.

“likewise,” you reply.

without warning, he pulls a lollipop from his pocket, holding it out to you. “here,” he says, waiting for you to take it.

you reach out slowly, raising an eyebrow. “thanks?”

he smirks, “again, did your parents never tell you not to take candy from strangers?”

“maybe i like to be a little rebellious,” you say, smirking back at him and he shakes his head smiling.

“well, go ahead, eat it. i don’t want you tossing it away. i spent a lot on that sucker,” he says, a playful grin spreading across his face. despite the oddness of the moment, a corner of your mouth quirks up.

you unwrap the lollipop, examining it with a critical eye before giving him a look that says it all.

he catches it, tilting his head in curiosity. “what?”

“i don’t think i like raspberry flavor,” you admit, holding the lollipop up like a trophy of sorts.

he squints at you, “you’ve never tasted one before?”

you shrug, trying to sound nonchalant. “i don’t like raspberries, so i’m guessing this is more of the same.”

he shakes his head, lips twitching into a smirk. “that’s pretty bold, making assumptions without even trying it.”

“just give it a taste; maybe you'll like it,” he suggests, a teasing smile forming on his lips, clearly wanting you to try it. deep down, he doesn't even like raspberry flavor; he just picked it out randomly at the store.

“uh, no thanks. i don’t want that nasty taste on my tongue,” you reply, scrunching your nose a little . “but thanks, you could have—”

your words are abruptly cut off as he grabs your hand, the lollipop still held tightly between your fingers. in one swift motion, he leans in, wrapping his mouth around it. his tongue swirls around the candy, and then he pulls it out, his lips glistening with a reddish-pink hue that matches the flavor.

you're completely taken aback, eyes widening in shock.

oh what the fuck.

“yeah, you’re right. it does taste nasty,” he says, licking his lips as he releases your hand. “give it to me, i'll just throw it away or something”

suddenly, the lollipop feels trivial compared to what he just did. you stand there, completely speechless, your mind and heart racing as you try to process what jus happened.

“what?” he stares at you.

“you’re good with your tongue,” you say, the words slipping out before you can really think them through.

he pauses, his eyes widening for a second, and he chokes on nothing, almost like he’s been caught off guard mid-breath. “uh, what?” he finally manages, blinking rapidly.

realizing how that might’ve sounded, “i just meant... the lollipop. you seemed pretty skilled with it,” you clarify, though you’re aware it’s not really helping.

what are you even trying to say?

he looks at you, a smirk playing on his lips now. “uh-huh, sure,” he says, teasing you. “that’s what you meant.”

you roll your eyes, trying to play it cool. “don’t flatter yourself, i was just making an observation.”

but the way he’s looking at you now, dark eyes glittering with amusement and something else you can’t quite place, makes it hard to pretend that slip of the tongue didn’t mean more than you intended.

“so, do you want to suck on it?”

“huh?” you blink.

suck on what now?

“the lollipop” he clarifies, a small smile playing on his lips.

oh.

you clear your throat, fighting to keep a neutral expression. “no, definitely not, especially now that you had your tongue all over it.” you try to scrunch your nose, but any attempt at showing disgust falls flat with the heat rising in your cheeks.

“alright then, just asking if you changed your mind,” he shrugs, still holding your gaze.

“i still don’t want it,” you say quickly, trying to sound convincing.

“okay.” he blinks, unfazed.

“okay,” you repeat, awkwardly.

he gestures to the lollipop still in your hand. “uh, so… are you gonna keep holding it?”

you glance down, pulling your hand back. “i’m gonna throw it away,” you declare, though it feels a bit ridiculous now, given everything that just happened.

“i hope so,” he says, one side of his lips quirking up.

why do you kind of like his smile?

you try to shake your thought off, tossing the lollipop into a nearby trash can, trying to act as casual as possible.

“well, guess that's the end of that,” you say, hoping to sound nonchalant. he nods as he crosses his arms.

you raise an eyebrow, mimicking his stance. “do you usually hand out half-eaten lollipops to strangers?”

he laughs, low and soft, the sound surprisingly warm in the quiet night. “only when they look like they need a little distraction.”

you tilt your head. “oh? and what made you think i needed one?”

his eyes meet yours, his expression softening. “just a hunch,” he says, his voice dropping to a murmur. “we all got stuff we’d rather not think about, right?”

a pause.

there’s something unspoken between you two, a quiet understanding in the way you hold each other’s gaze.

he's right.

you are stressing about things you'd rather not think about, things that seem to cling to your mind no matter how hard you try to push them away.

and then there's him, a stranger but somehow not, going through his own mess. you can see it in his tired eyes, the way he keeps looking off into the distance as if trying to shake off whatever weight he's carrying.

you realize you don’t mind it; you don’t mind his company, or even the strange comfort of this shared silence.

both of you are here, each trying to forget whatever it is that’s eating at you. maybe that’s why this moment feels so easy.

”yeah,” you finally say, “guess we do.”

“i gotta go now,” you announce, hoping to put an end to whatever weird tension is building between the two of you.

he doesn't say anything. no goodbyes, no attempts to stop you. so you turn and start walking away, trying to shake off whatever just happened.

but before you can take more than a few steps, his hand shoots out, wrapping around your wrist. you stop, surprised, and turn back to face him. his grip isn’t tight, but it’s firm enough to make you pause.

you meet his gaze, and there's something in his eyes—something intense, something that makes your stomach flip.

“would you like a distraction?” he asks, voice low, almost like a whisper meant just for you.

you blink, not sure if you heard him right. “what?” you manage to say, your voice barely above a whisper.

instead of answering, he tugs you gently closer. your body stumbles forward, and your hands land on his chest to steady yourself. his heartbeat is strong under your palm, and suddenly, everything feels too close, too intense.

he looks down at you, his eyes flickering over your face like he’s searching for something. “i think i do,” he mutters. “don’t you?”

your mind is racing, trying to make sense of this.

is he asking what you think he’s asking?

he’s a stranger. someone you barely know beyond a couple of conversations and an awkward encounter in a convenience store.

yet there’s something about the way he’s looking at you, something that makes it hard to think straight.

“yes,” you hear yourself say before you can even process it.

his lips curve into a satisfied smile, and without another word, he leans in and kisses you.

the world seems to stop as his mouth meets yours. it’s not hesitant or soft; it’s urgent, as if he’s been wanting this for longer than the short time you’ve known him. his hands slide up to your face, cupping your cheeks as he deepens the kiss.

your fingers clutch his shirt, feeling the heat of his body against yours. it’s messy and impulsive, and he doesn't even care that you’re both in the middle of a park, under the dim glow of the streetlights.

right now, all you can think about is him. the way he tastes, the way he kisses you desperately.

maybe you do need this distraction.

his hands grip your waist, pulling you closer, and you instinctively wrap your arms around his neck, letting the kiss deepen. his lips are soft, and you moan as if you're melting into the kiss. there's something about the way his mouth moves against yours; like he's been waiting to do this.

“wait—” you pant as pull back, your heart pounding against your ribs, trying to gather your thoughts. he looks into your eyes, his brows furrowing slightly as he asks in a low voice, “what happened?”

“we're... we're outside,” you point out, glancing around.

he tilts his head, his brows raising slightly as if that’s the least of his concerns. “so?” his voice is low and almost teasing, like he finds your hesitation cute.

you let out a scoffing laugh, “what do you mean so?wee’re literally in a children’s park.” you gesture to the swings and slides nearby, deserted at this hour but still... it’s a public space.

he pauses for a second, “my car’s parked just over there,” he nods towards a sleek vehicle at the edge of the park, his lips curling into a smile. “we could, uh... relocate or—”

before you can even process that, your curiosity gets the better of you. “wait— you have a car?” you cut in, a little surprised.

he chuckles. “yeah, and it’s a pretty one at that.” there’s a glint in his eyes that says he’s enjoying this back-and-forth with you, like it’s some sort of game.

you sigh, still trying to wrap your head around the craziness of this entire situation. “okay,” you murmur, almost to yourself, deciding to just go with it. what’s the worst that could happen?

he releases his grip on you, but only so he can grab your hand and guide you towards the car. the walk feels a little awkward now, a heavy tension hanging in the air. you're not sure what to say.

what’s the protocol for walking towards a car with a guy you’re about to hook up with?

as if sensing your nerves, he gives your hand a gentle squeeze. “come on, my car’s comfy. don’t worry,” he says with a grin, trying to lighten the mood. the way he’s holding your hand... it’s surprisingly tender, making it feel just a little less awkward.

when you reach the car, he opens the back seat door for you. you hesitate for a second, “you won’t, like, kidnap me or something, right?” you half-joke.

he lets out a soft chuckle, shaking his head. “for someone who’s so aware of the things you shouldn’t be doing, you sure do them anyway,” he teases. his words send a shiver down your spine, both a warning and an invitation.

but you ignore that nagging voice in the back of your mind. instead, you climb into the seat and he follows you right away.

“why are you—” your words are cut off as he crashes his lips against yours, the urgency in his kiss making you lose your breath. one of his hands grips your waist, pulling you against him, while the other tangles in your hair, tugging gently to tilt your head for better access.

the way his lips move against yours, hot and hungry, sends sparks shooting down your spine, and before you know it, you're moaning into his mouth, matching his intensity. your hands scramble to find something to hold onto, eventually locking behind his neck as if he's your lifeline.

“are we seriously gonna fuck in your car?” you gasp, your words shaky when he pulls away just enough to start trailing hot kisses down the side of your neck. your legs wrap around his waist instinctively, drawing him closer.

“no,” he breathes and sucks on a sensitive spot just beneath your ear, his teeth grazing the skin before he soothes it with a slow lick. “just couldn’t stop myself,” he admits, voice low and breathy, and then his mouth is back on yours, devouring you with a hunger that makes your head spin.

your hands move restlessly over his broad shoulders, wanting to feel more, wishing his clothes were gone so you could touch him everywhere.

his hands roam your body like he's memorizing it, fingers pressing into the curves of your waist, teasingly brushing against your chest. each touch has you arching into him, wishing he'd just tear your clothes apart already.

it's all too good.

too overwhelming, and before you know it, five minutes have passed with the two of you tangled in each other. when he finally pulls back, panting, his lips are swollen and glistening. your chest rises and falls rapidly as you try to catch your breath, both of you staring at each other in the dim light of the car.

he’s leaning back slightly, his hard on pressing against your thigh. it’s impossible not to notice how turned on he is, and it only makes your own arousal spike.

you're so fucking wet right now.

you’re laid back on the seat, eyes locked on him, watching the way he runs a hand through his disheveled hair, pushing it back revealing his forehead.

“hotel? or my place?” he asks, trying to catch his breath “hotel’s just a minute away, but my place… well, it’s a bit further.”

you can practically see the options laid out in your mind like a checklist.

a) go to the hotel, have your fun, and slip away without looking back. no strings, no regrets. just a quick fuck and disappear like it never happened.

b) go to his place, let him fuck the shit out of you, see if he’s worth all this heat between your thighs. maybe wake up in his bed with his arms still wrapped around you... and if he's good enough, maybe get his number so it doesn’t have to be a one time thing.

you bite your lip, your decision already made before you even realize it.

“yours.”

the drive to his apartment is quick, the tension between you both barely held back. you're glad it’s late at night, because the two of you can’t seem to keep your hands off each other and you don't want anyone witnessing it.

the second you step into his apartment, the door slams shut behind you, and it's a scramble to rid each other of clothing. shirts are yanked off, belts undone, pants shoved down until you're both stumbling towards his bedroom in a mess of heated kisses and needy touches.

“o-oh fuck—yes baby, suck it just like that,” jungkook throws his head back, moaning, his breath ragged. he’s sprawled on the bed, legs spread wide, hands gripping the sheets. you're on your knees between his thighs, sucking him hard, your lips stretching around his thick length.

you glance up at him, eyes half lidded, watching the way his abs flex as he tries to keep himself steady. “shit... you look so fucking hot,” he rasps out, voice rough. his gaze darkens, and he pushes himself up, one hand threading through your hair.

“can you take it, baby?” he asks, his voice low, a hint of a challenge in his tone.

you know exactly what he’s asking. you nod, barely managing it with your mouth full, and he smiles, almost wickedly, his eyes gleaming.

“good,” he murmurs, his grip tightening just enough on your hair. “tap me if it’s too much.” and with that, he starts moving his hips, fucking into your mouth with slow, deep thrusts.

you gag slightly as he pushes deeper, but you relax your throat, trying to take him in. the room is filled with the wet, obscene sounds of him moving in and out, his groans echoing off the walls.

“fuck—you’re taking me so well, baby,” he praises, his voice thick and raspy, sending a wave of heat straight to your core. each time his cock hits the back of your throat, it forces a choked gasp from him, his hands instinctively tightening in your hair.

your eyes water, tears pooling at your lashes, but you don’t stop, even as your throat aches. your nails dig into his firm thighs, using them for balance as he fucks your throat. you want to show him just how much you can handle.

“i’m gonna—” he grunts, voice rough and strained. a hot burst of his release fills your mouth, and you swallow it all, not breaking eye contact with him for a second. his chest heaves as he watches you, mesmerized, as your tongue slides slowly along his length, cleaning up every drop. his jaw clenches, the sight clearly driving him wild.

“get up,” he orders, voice still a little breathless, and you obey instantly, letting him pull you to your feet. “on the bed, all fours.”

you get onto the mattress, positioning yourself as he asked. there's a moment of stillness as you feel his gaze roam over your exposed body. your heart races, anticipation building as you wait for his next move.

“you’re dripping,” he murmurs, leaning in closer until his breath is hot against your soaked core. he licks a slow, deliberate stripe along your folds, and your eyes flutter shut, a soft, breathy moan escaping your lips. his mouth envelops your pussy, sucking and licking with an rhythm that makes your thighs tremble.

he pulls back just enough to catch his breath before moving up, positioning himself between your legs. his right hand trails upward, skimming over your skin until his fingers brush against your lips.

instinctively, you part them, taking his fingers into your mouth, sucking and swirling your tongue around them. the low chuckle that escapes him tells you just how much he enjoys it.

“you like that, hm?” he asks. you moan softly around his fingers, your response muffled but desperate.

he withdraws his fingers, his lips curving into a satisfied smirk. leaning down, he wraps an arm around your waist, lifting you slightly until your back is against his chest. you can feel his length pressing against your ass, you move your hips a little causing a little friction.

his hands slide over your breasts, kneading them with just enough pressure to send shivers down your spine.

you melt into his touch, your head lolling back against his shoulder as his fingers pinch and roll your hardened nipples, sending sparks of pleasure through your body.

“want me to fuck you, baby?” his voice is soft against your shoulder as he places feather light kisses along your skin. he nips gently, his hands never stopping their teasing, and you can’t help the whimper that escapes when his fingers pinch just a bit harder.

“y-yes,” you mewl, voice shaky with need, “fuck me, jungkook.”

he squeezes your breasts harder, a groan rumbling from his chest as he sinks his teeth lightly into the curve of your shoulder.

“yeah? can i fuck you raw?” he whispers, his breath hot against your ear.

“yes,” you gasp, your voice barely more than a whimper. “p-please.”

his grip on you loosens slightly, and he leans back to look at you, his eyes dark, like he's stopping himself. “you sure?” he asks, one last time, his tone gentle but urgent.

you nod quickly, breathless. “i’m on the pill,” you assure him, and the tension in his shoulders eases.

“fuck. okay, bend over.”

without hesitation, you resume your previous position, arching your back and presenting yourself to him. he groans softly at the sight, his hand sliding down to rub slow circles over your entrance.

he teases you, slipping a finger inside, making you moan softly as your walls flutter around him. he withdraws his finger, watching the way you clench around nothing, desperate for more.

grabbing his cock, he taps the swollen tip against your slick hole. you whine, impatience leaking into your voice, “just fuck me already.”

a smirk curves his lips, and without another word, he pushes into you.

you grip the sheets tightly as you take him in fully, your walls stretching to accommodate his thick length. a choked gasp escapes your lips, eyes squeezing shut at the delicious burn that quickly morphs into pleasure.

each inch fills you so completely, leaving you breathless, your body trembling at the feeling.

“fuck,” he groans behind you, his voice low and rough, a sound that makes your toes curl. “you’re so tight, baby... taking me so fucking good.” the words are almost a growl, filled with barely restrained control as he fights the urge to pound into you.

his hands move to your hips, gripping them hard enough to leave marks, steadying himself as he sinks even deeper.

your moans spill freely now, raw and needy, muffled slightly by the pillow you bury your face into. he starts to move, slowly at first, pulling out just enough before thrusting back in, his cock brushing against that sweet spot inside you.

the rhythm is torturously slow, each stroke making you whimper, your back arching even further in a silent plea for more.

“please... more,” you manage to gasp out, your voice shaky. “jungkook, i need it.. need you.”

“yeah?” he rasps, picking up the pace, thrusts becoming sharper, each one driving you into the mattress. “want it harder, baby? want me to ruin you?”

“yes.. yes mmph- more!” you cry, your voice breaking as he slams into you harder, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room. your nails claw at the sheets, the friction of his hips against your ass making stars dance behind your eyelids.

his fingers snake around to your front, finding your swollen clit, and he rubs it in tight, quick circles. your entire body jolts, your hips bucking back against him as you let out a loud, broken moan.

“oh, fuck, that’s it, that's a good fucking girl,” he hisses, feeling you clench around him, your walls fluttering as you near the edge.

“you’re gonna cum for me, aren’t you?” he growls against your ear, bending over you now, his hot breath fanning against your neck. he bites down on your shoulder, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to drive you wild.

“you're gonna cum like the good girl you are?”

“yes n-ngh.. i’m close.. s-so close,” you whimper, your thighs trembling uncontrollably. his fingers press harder against your clit, his thrusts turning frantic.

“cum with me, baby” he demands, his voice thick and commanding. that’s all it takes. your body shatters. your vision going white as you scream his name. your walls squeeze him so tightly, milking his cock, and with a deep, guttural groan, he loses himself too, spilling inside you as his thrusts grow sloppy.

he stays buried inside you, his chest heaving against your back, both of you panting heavily. he leans down to press soft, lazy kisses along your shoulder.

after everything that just happened. you've made up your mind.

you're definitely going to ask for his number.

a/n: erm.. don't get into random strangers cars !! haha

[finalgirllx]

guitar teacher!ellie x smartass!reader thank you for all the meet-cute requests @thatdammchickennugget -- they are my absolute favorite and this one is a classic. i plopped a lot of my real life into this lmao. i kinda wanna do a spicy part 2 here. idk. we'll see!

you wait with bated breath inside the cramped, soundproof lesson room at your local music store, where you signed up on a whim to learn the guitar. it’s an impulse decision, really—all but doomed to be just another tick off the ever-expanding list of random cool skills you’ve tried. at the very least, you hope maybe you can whip this one out to “impress the ladies.” maybe even serenade them with some songs and actually sound good doing it—lord knows many have endured the clunky chords of a red hot chili peppers song from some mediocre man already.

you clutch your new guitar semi-awkwardly, plucking the strings and lightly tapping the cool basswood. you can tell that the tune is off, but damn if you know how to fix it. you wonder if you’ll abandon it after the first 40 minutes, just like most other hobbies you’ve sampled.

in your hasty decision-making, you hadn’t even requested a specific teacher. you’d only ever seen middle-aged men employed here, which is fine. you trust their experience, picturing some warm-hearted old rocker coming in and showing off his tried-and-true tricks. what you don’t expect, then, is when the door opens and a girl your age enters the room, extending her hand to shake yours.

“hi, my name is ellie. you’re the one here to learn guitar, right?”

you shake her hand, eyes glancing over her form, trying not to seem like a dumbfounded creep. jeez, she’s cute. she has reddish-brown hair in a choppy bob, freckled cheeks, green eyes, and a dorky smile. she’s adorned in a faded blue jacket rolled up to her elbows, revealing arm tattoos, and a ragged t-shirt with a band you’ve never heard of. and this is the cutie who will watch you fiddle with out-of-tune strings and act like a complete dumbass? you half hope the ground will swallow you whole.

“yeah,” you manage to reply once you remember how to speak. “that’s me. word of warning: i really don’t know what i’m doing, so i’m, like, a total beginner.”

ellie chuckles reassuringly, likely having heard that tired statement a million times over. she gently picks the guitar up from your lap, inspecting its quality. of course, in her hands, the instrument looks like it was made to be held by her. “hey, that’s fine. everyone starts somewhere, right?” she gets to tuning the strings as naturally as breathing.

“so, what’s got you interested in learning?” ellie suddenly asks, just to fill the dense silence of the room. your mouth runs dry, struggling with a response that doesn’t sound as idiotic as “i’m an obnoxious flirt.” she catches onto your fumbling, adding, “what? wanting to look like a badass guitar god, hm?”

“calling yourself a badass, then?” the tongue-in-cheek question escapes before you can rein it in. ellie pauses her tuning to look up at you, and your heart drops to your stomach. she’s going to kick you out, you reckon.

“i mean… you are staring at me with your mouth open. must be in awe of my guitarist badassery or something. i don’t mind,” ellie replies with a knowing, smug smile, then returns to helping your sorry ass tune up your guitar.

yep, you definitely need that hole in the ground right now.

after that rocky introduction, the lesson takes on a more professional atmosphere, with ellie explaining the basics. she teaches you about the body of the instrument, the strings, and some basic history—you name it, and she knows it. it’s clear that ellie is enthusiastic about the guitar, her interest rubbing off on you, which does not help your case with how cute you already find her.

you try your best to be a good student, which isn’t the energy you typically bring to all your other short-lived courses. there is something special about ellie’s passion—how her lips move as she speaks about it, how her eyes light up, her fingers curling against the strings while demonstrating songs—it compels your attention. you listen respectfully to the multitude of rambles she embarks on and cuts short whenever ellie realizes she has led you too astray from the basics.

at approximately the 38th minute of the 40-minute lesson, you realize that you haven’t attempted to actually play the damn thing. ellie must have come to the same realization, flashing a tilted smile, hoping you aren’t too annoyed that this instructional course devolved into a ted talk, a worry she couldn’t possibly be more wrong about.

ellie assists your clumsy self in positioning the guitar onto your lap, showing you how to hold it correctly. the closeness has your heart racing, and every touch sends shivers through you—you hope the internal gay panic doesn’t translate outwardly. ellie takes her time helping you press your fingers onto the correct strings and frets to play a simple “c chord.” her fingers guiding yours with such precision causes your thoughts to veer into thousands of inappropriate possibilities. the pose feels a tad contorted, your fingers placed in a way totally foreign to you, but her reassurance builds your confidence to try. she crouches before you, making final adjustments before her greens glance back up to you expectantly, waiting for you to try.

you strum the one chord—a passable sound that resonates throughout the guitar. it gets the job done but, of course, lacks the flow that ellie could have had. but ellie is proud, her genuine smile and silly applause flustering you.

you find yourself feeling more accomplished in this single instance than in the last three skills you’ve tried combined.

“good start, guitar god. i’ll show you another one—if you think you’ll stick to a second lesson,” ellie then suggests, an endearing smile on her face as she watches you absent-mindedly fiddle with the individual strings a bit more. an effective bargaining tactic for sure.

“yep, no problem.” easiest commitment you’ve ever made.

"hell yeah," ellie rejoices, reaching out one last time to high-five you. she looks delighted. just happy to have a new, consistent student, of course--that has to be it.

you sign up for another lesson after—and maybe another. and another.

[themagicmusicman]

quick context: character im doing is shå; she is the girlfriend of angu, one of the main characters in neim’s worldbuilding project, kunirn. shå uses she/her, angu uses she/ her, kik (angu’s close friend/basically brother at this point lmao) uses he/xey 👍

1. i reckon she’s usually too busy beating people up to have other hobbies but like. does cooking count as crafting? she crafts. food lmao

2. this bitch might be trans but she wears the manliest man cologne lmfao like. whatever the kunirn equivalent of something tobacco, sandalwood and orange would smell like. man shite /fem

3. fuck yeah!!! that’s basically the main thing she does besides being gay and fighting people

4. mmmm not really, unless her and angu are baking together for the sillies (kik sometimes joins in too)

5. yeah!! she has the Ǎtrothang mark on her right shoulder (shown at the bottom of the post) as well as loads of others hjehekr

6. probably kik (angu’s friend n basically non blood brother) bcs xey seem like they would work the best under pressure and know first aid. all that shit yknow [update. neim told me that kik is canonically good at patching people up so i was right!]

7. bitch isnt scared of anything except her parents, and thats fairly normal i think. guys thats normal. right. ri-

8. yeah she probably has the weirdest collections of shit. stuff like bones, eyeballs, that kinda thing

9. she usually tries to just wait it out and continue whatever she’s doing, but when it gets so bad she can’t, she just leeches to angu until it goes away

10. not standing up to her parents’ bullshit :[

11. ehhhh probably not anything. canon but she seems like the kind of person who would

12. oh yeah shå has amazing style /gen this bitch dresses like the most butch lesbian. also she’s just hot lmao (evidence at tje bottom)

13. not in the slightest lmao

14. absolutely. it took her close to a year to open up to angu about her parent bs so. yeah just a bit

15. she’s just a silly lil guy. the sillies! silly and tiny and definitely doesnt have a really dark/horny sense of humour!

16. nope and nope :D

17. basically never. she stands by what she believes at doesnt bend for anyone

18. easier to become her enemy than her friend :3

19. you have to be pretty awesome she has trust issues lmao

20. meh not really seeing as her life in Ǎtrothang was. pretty traumatising

21. friends. friends for sure

22. never

23. n/a shes immortal /j (in other words doesnt think about dying ever)

24. most people are her enemies :3👍

25. uh morning routine, wake up and get on with the day. evening routine, go to bed and toss n turn until she eventually falls asleep

26. she’s her own hero (aka has no heroes (except maybe kik or angu but thats just her being gay lmao))

27. i mean. her meeting angu was pretty much a chance encounter and that changed her life drastically so!

28. # idontthinkgamingexistslmao

29. i’d want to be but she would scare me 😔

30. she doesn’t want to be famous. the less people who know her, the better

31. i would probably give her some sort of silly telepathic powers, she’d want invisibility

32. being afab (she doesnt mind the dick but she occasionally gets dysphoria thinking that she’s a Fake Woman because she has not biological booba (she is the most womanly woman i know))

33. oh yeah. i think angu, shå and kik would play silly ttrpgs the same way i play dnd with neim and my irl mates

34. terribly. she hides it well, but inside she’s struggling :[[[

35. in charge of her own destiny. fuck the dead gods she’s deciding her fate

36. yes and uh. for legal reasons no /hj

37. she doesn’t really like the gods, n chooses to just kinda. do her own thing lmao (same as angu but less Loud About It /lh)

38. she doesn’t dream (me core)

39. definitely!!! that sounds fun as shit!

40. she would be able to pull it out first try because shes a big strong jerboa. speaking of pulling ou-

41. she hates making mistakes so doesn’t learn from them as much as. promise herself not to make the same mistake again

42. yeh! she speaks mainly speaks rurleki (surprisingly. the language of rurlek) but also speaks atro from living in atrothang

43. fairly well, except mentally. afterwards she’ll freak out but she’s usually fine in the moment

44. only angu, not even kik i dont think

45. wing it gdejdbksbdkf

46. for sure, she probably lies quite a lot lmao

47. she would for quite a few people, ofc including angu and kik

48. in a heartbeat. revenge quest time babyyy!

49. nah she knows the difference. big difference (this is a threat 👍)

50. shes a trans lesbian jerboa!!!!! what is there to not love!!!!!!!!!

@neim-batteries-not-included haiiiiii :3

You've Got Questions and I've Got Answers OC Edition

Do they have any crafting hobbies?

Do they wear perfume/cologne? If so what scents do they prefer?

Do they enjoy cooking?

Do they enjoy baking?

Do they have any tattoos? If so what are they and do they have any special meaning?

If they were badly injured, and for whatever reason couldn't go to a hospital, who would they go to for help?

Do they have any unusual fears?

Do they collect anything? If so what and why?

When they're sick what do they do to feel better?

Do they have any regrets?

Do they have any addictions?

Do they have any sense of style? Regardless of the answer do they believe they have a sense of style?

Do they enjoy poetry?

Do they have a hard time opening up to people?

What kind of sense of humor do they have? Or do they have one at all?

Do they have or want kids?

How easily would they be convinced to do something that goes against their morals?

How easy is it to become their enemy?

How easy is it to become their friend?

Do they have a strong connection to their culture?

What is more important to them, friends or family?

Would they ever betray someone for money?

How would they want to die?

Do they have any enemies?

Do they have a daily/nightly routine?

Have they met any of their heroes? Did they regret it?

Has a chance encounter ever had an unexpected effect on them?

Are they a #gamer?

If they were real would you be friends with them?

If they had the chance to be famous would they take it? If they are famous would they rather they weren't?

What superpower would you choose for them and what would they choose for themselves? If they have one would they choose something else?

If they could change one thing about themselves what would it be?

Do they play ttrpgs? If so what kind of characters do they play? Or are they more likely to GM?

How well do they deal with grief?

Do they believe in fate or do they believe they are in charge of their own destiny?

Would they ever kill someone? Have they already?

Are they religious? If so do they have a strong sense of faith, are they uncertain, or are they somewhere in between?

What are their dreams like? Do they have any recurring dreams/nightmares?

Would they ever crash a wedding?

If they found a sword in a stone would they try to pull it out? How would they react to being able to pull it out or not?

Do they learn from their mistakes?

Can they speak multiple languages? If yes which all do they speak and why?

Can they handle stressful situations?

Who, if anyone, would they trust with their deepest secrets?

Do they plan in advance or just wing it?

Would they lie to get out of trouble?

Would they lie to get someone else out of trouble? Even if they would have to take that someone else's place?

How likely are they to go on a quest for revenge?

Do they have trouble keeping their enemies and their friends straight?

What is your favorite thing about them?

I love these so I figured I'd make one of my own! Just be sure that if you reblog this ask one or two of these to the person you reblogged from (｡•̀ᴗ-)✧

[prettypinkeel]

I made some icons for my megoplita au, so here's some explanation of the relationship between the characters in this AU + icons without text in the end. (this is inspired by other tf universes and various shows, etc., it's not tied to any canon)

Relationship chart:

1)Megoplita family

Optimus and Elita are married here. The two were dating since high school and their relationship only grew stronger through years, eventually leading to their marriage.

Both OP&Elita are having feelings/dating for D-16 (and this is mutual).

Rodimus is a distant family member from OP's side but he visits his family a lot, giving that "cool uncle" energy towards Bee.

Arcee and Roddy are besties, and based on comics, I made her adopted by Ultra Magnus, with Magnus mentoring Arcee.

2) Skystar/Jetstar family

Starscream and Jetfire were also high school sweethearts but they were more "friends to lovers" troupe. Both Star and Jet wanting to become researchers in the future. Eventually, they achived their dreams ⭐.

One day Twitch and Spitfire appeared in their lives, the twins were the important life for the two. Despite being a young parents, they always there for each other.

But after one accident, Jetfire was declared missing/dead and that had a big impact on Starscream, so he had to abandon his dreams and focus on raising Twitch and Spitfire, who are still very young.

3)Megastar family

Somehow, D-16 appears in Starscream's life when he needed someone the most. Their relationship were nice at first, D-16 helped with raising Twitch and Spitfire.

Spitfire didn't really like her new dad, so she still clang to Starscream more. Meanwhile Twitch grew really close to D-16, her friendly personality is irresistible!

But D-16 and Starscream relationship doesn't last long. I see them dealing with their own problems separately, they struggle with something «simple» like just sit down and talk, since none of them wants to bother the other. One is growing distant due to trauma of his soulmate leaving him all alone in this world, the other has no idea how to fix this, in a fit of frustration it all ends in break up. They still think of each other as the reason of it.

4) Colleagues:

I think 13 Primes are alive here, and they trust Sentinel very much to deal with the company.

Elita-One is mostly closed with D-16 since they work together, with Elita being his boss. There are some admiration D-16 feels towards Elita which grows into deeper feelings.

Starscream and Elita dislike Sentinel due to his smug personality. Sentinel makes it his personal goal to mess with Starscream throughout the day, and Elita just gets very protective over D-16.

Sentinel and Arachnid are dating here, but they're free to explore the other options. Airachnid listens to him gossiping about the others or just rambling his thoughts to her, both don't really mind it. They're just that duo who tell each other "exaaaaaactly" lol.

I also like the idea of Shockwave having that tiny crush on Elita but he would never admit it, even though it is very obvious. They're co workers but work in different department.

Airachnid and Elita rarely talk to each other unless it's about business, there's something in Elita that makes Airachnid to take interest in her. Silently staring at Elita from the corner of the room as definition of love language, aaaaaaa :p