#that they’d be TERRIBLE partners | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

yandere-daydreams · 7 months ago

Text

Title: Negligence.

Pairing: Yan!Geto Suguru x Reader x Yan!Gojo Satoru (JJK).

A Continuation of Nursle.

Word Count: 9.0k.

TW: Dub/Con - Non/Con, Fem!Reader, Unhealthy Relationships, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Kidnapping, Mentions of Pregnancy/Childbirth, Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Lactation, Geto and Gojo Have Their Own Thing Going On That Is Entirely Separate From The Events of This Fic, and Age Gaps. Dead Dove: Do Not Eat.

[Part One] [Part Two]

Suguru wouldn’t let you hold Himari.

You’d offered to as he led you out of Suguru’s apartment, reached for her instinctively as he gently urged you into the passenger seat of a familiar black car, but Suguru was in a fugue state – eyes glassy, voice softened and tempered, a glazed smile painted over his lips. He kept Himari pressed against his shoulder, and then, when she started to stir, in his lap, bouncing idly on his knee as he drove. It was dangerous – for Himari and for you. You were tempted to tell him that, to insist on holding the daughter that wasn’t supposed to belong to him, but then you remembered that he was a cult leader and a kidnapper and a murderer and you kept your mouth shut.

Instead, you kept your hands tucked between your thighs and your eyes focused on the passing landscape, on Tokyo as it dwindled from skyscrapers to rustic storefronts to backwoods. You thought of Megumi, first, surprisingly. Even if he didn’t spend the night with Satoru, he’d notice if you weren’t in class, tomorrow. He’d be worried.

You wondered if Nanako and Mimiko had been worried when they suddenly couldn’t find you in Suguru’s bedroom, where you’d spent the days following Himari’s birth recovering, when you stopped appearing at Suguru’s temple with a folder of worksheets and enough candy to keep two girls under ten engaged for a full ninety minutes. You wondered how Suguru explained your absence, if he bothered to explain it at all. You wondered how long they’d hold it against you.

It was getting dark by the time you left the city entirely. With the setting sun to your backs, Suguru slipped onto a deserted seaside road and, still in that gentle tone, broke the silence. “Was it different?” And then, as Himari sniffled, “With him, I mean. Different than it was for us.”

It took you a moment to realize that he was talking, another to recognize that you were supposed to answer. It was less that you were lost in thought and more that you were lost in the absence of it – your mind a vague, cloudy haze of static and fog and every other grey, disembodied, terrible thing that could seep its way into your consciousness and leave you entirely blank, entirely numb. It was all you could do to remember how to open your mouth, let alone piece an intelligent response together. “With Satoru?”

“Satoru,” Suguru repeated, almost disdainfully. “It took you months to call by my given name.”

You couldn’t deny that, although part of you was tempted to try. Because it was true. Because it had.

Because it was different – or, it had been, at least. Things had moved so quickly, with Satoru. He’d gone from a stranger to a stalker to something not totally unlike a partner in a handful of hours, and you’d watched it all from a distance, never fully able to shake that strange sense of liminality. He was rich, and stable, and he’d never suggested that you quit your job or attempted to lock you up in his mansion of an apartment, as trapped as you’d felt. He’d raped you, but you couldn’t say you believed Suguru wouldn’t have, had you not been so terrified of what would happen if you ever tried to remove any part of yourself from his control. You knew, rationally, that they had to be around the same age, that Satoru shared every quirk and every immaturity that’d once made you disgusted to so much consider Suguru in a romantic light, but it was different. When you first met Satoru, you’d seen him as a parent, a provider, a man who wanted to raise your daughter (albeit, with or without your consent). When you first met Suguru, you’d seen him as a boy who fell asleep in temple gardens and pretended not to be as scared as he really was, and if you were being entirely honest with yourself, you’d never really been able to stop seeing him that way.

Suguru clicked his tongue. He still wanted an answer, but it was all you could do to shrug, to let your gaze drift back to the passing landscape. “I don’t know,” you admitted. “I don’t think I would’ve wanted to marry him either, if he’d asked me to.”

You heard Suguru shift, the engine rev. He started to say something, but a shrill, ear-piercing, howl of a cry cut him off. You didn’t need to check to know it was Himari, and to know why.

“She’s hungry.” You spoke without thinking, snapping toward your daughter. You’d been on your way to feed her when you found Suguru next to her cradle, meaning she was already more than an hour past due. Himari didn’t cry often, but when she did, it was usually for a good reason. Yet another trait that must’ve come from Suguru – had she taken more closely after you, she might not have done anything but cry.

Something crossed across Suguru’s expression; a flash of irritation, a spark of anger, but nothing more violent, nothing lasting. He cooled back into stoic neutrality as one of his hands fell away from the wheel and to the back of your daughter’s onesie – lifting her out of her lap and depositing her unceremoniously in your arms, his eyes never leaving the road. “Can you take care of it?”

It. You had to dig your teeth into the side of your tongue just to stop from saying something you’d regret, from telling him not to talk about your daughter like some unfeeling, inanimate object, not to talk about her at all. You were in a car with a murderer, and you couldn’t forget that just because of some misplaced, motherly paranoia.

Instead, you looked around for a jacket, a blanket, something to cover yourself with, and when you found the car utterly and entirely barren, you settled for turning away from him and struggling the sleeve of your dress off of your shoulder. You went through the motions mechanically, automatically – cooing and running your fingers through Himari’s soft hair as she latched on, little hands grasping the scrunched fabric of your dress as she practically fed herself. You preferred formula, especially with Satoru breathing down your neck, but you didn’t have much of a choice.

A minute passed in relative silence, Himari’s crying slowly fading back into her usual incoherent, but relatively cheerful babbling. Eventually, her little eyes fluttered shut, and you pulled her away, holding her against your shoulder as she fell asleep. When she’d gone quiet, Suguru glanced toward you out of the corner of his eye. You saw him stiffen, straighten, then felt the car veer off the road and come to an abrupt, jeering stop.

You held Himari that much closer as Suguru let himself out. He took his time – his fingertips brushing over the hood as he made his way to your side of the vehicle, opening your door and nodding to the side. “You can leave her on the seat. I promise, I’ll try to be fast.”

You clung to Himari, who shifted restlessly against you. “You really can’t leave newborns unattended, she might—”

“I’ll be fast.” That smile was back in full force, albeit cast in shadow by the quickly dimming light. “I’ve missed you.”

You didn’t want to, but he was using that tone, again – the one that meant he was already running out of patience. Leaving Himari tucked against the backrest, you let Suguru take your hand and pull you out of your seat. No sooner were you on your feet than the door was slammed shut behind you, then Suguru’s hands were on your waist, pinning you against the side of the car. The heat of the dark metal sapped into your back, your shoulders as Suguru’s mouth found its way to the side of your neck, the crook. “I’ve missed you,” he repeated, his voice airy, edging on desperation. “I thought something happened to you. You were gone, and I couldn’t find her, and I thought someone must’ve taken you, or—”

His voice cut out. He didn’t draw back, but one of his hands fell away from your waist, reappearing on the neckline of your dress. His movements were hasty, rushed, like he couldn’t tear the fabric off of your shoulders and down your chest quickly enough. You weren’t wearing a bra, but even if you had been, you doubt it would’ve been much more of a barrier. A chilled sea breeze washed over your exposed chest as Suguru’s mouth fell from your throat to your collarbone, and then to the curve of your breast, lingering. “Wanted to do this since you got pregnant,” he muttered, as something heavy and spiked dropped from your diaphragm to the pit of your stomach. “Held off for the baby, but she’s had more than enough time with you.”

For a brief moment, every intelligent part of your mind seemed to slow, stall, then stop altogether. You opened your mouth, ready to ask what he meant, but unfortunately, you weren’t given the chance to be so painfully oblivious.

Suguru’s lips latched onto your left nipple, and anything you might’ve said was replaced with a hitched whimper.

He was rougher than he really had to be, than his daughter had ever been. The only thing you could think to compare him to, deservedly, was Satoru; just as forceful, just as loud, just as sickeningly eager. The only difference was his tempo. Satoru had always been too giddy not to rush, eager to steal a kiss before you left for work or wake you up with a hand lodged between your thighs, but Suguru seemed content to act as if he had all the time in the world, as if you were somewhere more private than the shoulder of a public road. The flat of his tongue lulled over your nipple as he drank, his free hand coming up to paw at your other breast in almost meditative patterns. You tried to shut your eyes, to block out the wet sounds of his lips working against your skin, but as routine as it was supposed to be, there was little you could do not to hear an occasional, satisfied grunt, not to feel a certain amount of relief as the pressure you’d learned to ignore began to dissipate. His teeth grazed against your skin, and reflexively, your hand found the back of his head, nails biting into his scalp. Rather than pull away, Suguru seemed to purr – the noise deep and throaty, reverberating against you as he leaned that much closer, as he shifted and you felt something stiff press into your thigh. Don’t think about it, you forced yourself to chant in the back of your mind, trying to remember all the age-old coping mechanisms you’d used when you were with him, all the coping mechanisms you’d forgotten after realizing that they wouldn’t work on someone as unpredictable as Satoru. You couldn’t think about it. You couldn’t put a name to it. You couldn’t acknowledge that sucking on chest was in any way connected to the hard, pulsing cock pressing into your—

But you didn’t have a choice. Suguru gasped, his breath hitching, and then he was drawing away from you, his forehead resting against your collarbone as a hand fell to the waistband of his jeans, freeing his cock – already stiff, already leaking into his palm. “I missed you.” You’d lost track of how many times he’d repeated the same meaningless phrase, but this time, his voice shook, misery seeping out from each fractured syllable. You might’ve felt more pity, but any sympathy you might’ve been able to feel for him was quickly drowned out by the material of your skirt being gathered in handfuls at your waist, his cock finding its way between your plush thighs. His larger body kept yours in place as he rutted against you, his open mouth leaking drool and milk and all the other ungodly things you could imagine onto your chest. It was embarrassing, really – just how tightly you kept your eyes shut, like a child walking through their first haunted house. Like all the bad things in the world would go away just because you couldn’t see them. “For weeks, I couldn’t—I didn’t know where you were, I thought—”

His form jolted against yours. You felt it – a sudden, liquid heat against your thighs, a sudden tension where Suguru’s chest pressed into yours – at the same time you felt the first tear fall, searing your skin where it made contact. There was another, then yet another, before you finally realized what was happening.

Suguru was crying.

Huh.

He’d never done that, before.

Finally, you forced yourself to open your eyes. Rather than attempting to look at Suguru, to see if his shoulders were shaking as violently as it felt like they were, your gaze moved outward, first to the bay, then to the sky – as black as spilled ink, now that the last traces of light had faded. As black as Suguru’s eyes.

You carded your fingers through his hair as he cried silently into your shoulder, never making a sound. Minutes passed before he spoke again, but you let him be the one to break the silence. “I don’t get it.” You hummed, and he went on. “I don’t understand why you didn’t try to leave him, too.”

“I might’ve, eventually. If I’d had more time.”

“But you didn’t.” His blunt nails bit into your waist with enough force to sting, but you didn’t say anything. “I don’t understand why you didn’t.”

You didn’t try to answer.

Suguru stopped at a gas station to clean himself up. You stayed in the car, clutching Himari to your chest, attempting not to flinch as her tiny hands pulled at your hair and grabbed at your skirt – searching for something to do, to entertain herself with. The rest of the drive passed in relative silence. Suguru didn’t try to make conversation, and even if you’d wanted to, you wouldn’t know where to start.

Finally, Suguru turned down an unpaved backroad, and far too soon, you were in front of a house you recognized. The architecture was traditional, the design compact, but you could remember Suguru saying that he and the girls didn’t need much. Later on, when he decided you shouldn’t be allowed to wander any farther than his line of sight during your pregnancy, he’d played with the idea of a larger property – something that could accommodate a growing family. If he’d ever had any real plans, they must’ve been abandoned after you left.

“We’re only stopping by,” Suguru explained, as he moved to step out. You didn’t wait for him this time – shouldering the door open and pulling yourself to your feet before he could decide he needed to drag you out of the car himself. “There’s a nursery attached to the master bedroom. The girls can look after Himari while we’re gone.”

Your breathing hitched, then stopped altogether.

The girls.

You’d managed to forget you’d have to see them, tonight. Suguru would’ve been enough to handle on his own.

You tried to take a step back, more out of reflex than anything, but your legs were unsteady, unreliable. You stumbled, but before you could so much as start to fall, Suguru was by your side, one hand on your arm and the other underneath Himari. He started to say something, but you were faster, louder. “I—I can’t. They’ll be so—I knew you wouldn’t hurt them, but I shouldn’t have—”

“They’ll be just fine.” He wasn’t crying, anymore. Instead, he took on the inflection, the stature he’d worn when you first met him – when he’d been the level-headed priest and you’d been a distraught non-believe desperate for help. If you hadn’t known better, if you couldn’t still see the reddened skin around his eyes, you might’ve called his composure sadistic. “And they’ve been waiting for you all night. Wouldn’t it be cruel to disappoint them now?”

It'd be crueler to make them face the woman who’d married their father and abandoned them without a second thought, but you doubted Suguru would agree. He was already curling his arm around yours, already guiding you towards the rustic villa. Whatever daze was keeping you from losing your mind entirely must’ve worn-off sometime during the drive. It was all you could do to keep yourself on your feet as you edged closer, closer to the front door. You were walking down the unpaved driveway, then standing on the wooden porch, and then, Suguru was ushering you inside – taking Himari out of your arms as you passed over the threshold. You didn’t try to resist. He wouldn’t ask the girls to hurt her, not after how long he’d spent holding the idea of a new, adorably helpless little sister over their heads, and wherever he was going to do to you after this, you didn’t want Himari involved. You didn’t want to give him an excuse to use her against you.

Suguru moved further into the villa, but you froze in the entryway. You could already hear the little, rushing footsteps, already picture the betrayal in their eyes, the questions they’d ask you and the answers you wouldn’t be able to give them. They’d hate you. They had to already hate you. You abandoned them, and they would know you abandoned them, and they would—

Two arms wrapping around your legs, the force of a smaller body crashing into yours. You glanced down and found Mimiko, clinging to your waist, her face buried in the material of your skirt. She wasn’t crying, but you could see her shoulders shaking, feel her nails digging into your thigh through the thin fabric. Reflexively, you reached down, resting a hand on top of her head and moving to nudge her away gently, to see if she needed help, but she only clung to you that much tighter.

Nanako was there, too, but she hadn’t latched onto you. Unlike her sister, she kept her distance, hands ringing the hem of her sweater as she stared pointedly at the floor. “Geto-sama told us what happened,” she explained, while Mimiko mumbled something incoherent and affirmative into your skirt. “He said that sorcerer – the white-haired one – took you and Himari away.” There was a pause, a quick glance in your direction. “He promised he wouldn’t let it happen again.”

Her eyes met yours, and suddenly, her nervous posture, the measured distance left between you and her – it made sense. You recognize the light in her eyes, or rather, the lack therefore.

It was the same shadow her father’s eyes took on, when he looked at you.

Whatever lie he’d told them, Nanako clearly didn’t believe it. Mimiko – sweet and loyal and prone to holding onto the things she loved like there was someone could come and take them away at any time – would’ve believed Suguru if he told her that world ended every time she closed her eyes, but Nanako was more pragmatic. She knew something was wrong. You doubted she would speak to you at all if she knew just how wrong, but still.

Swallowing your guilt, you lowered yourself to one knee and hugged Mimiko properly, squeezing her for one beat, then another, before letting her go entirely. Nanako was next. For all her reservations, she was running towards you as soon as you opened your arms to her, crashing into your chest and clinging to you twice as tightly as her sister had. “I’m sure he won’t,” you mumbled into her hair. And then, pulling back, “I know I was gone for a while, but it’s alright. The sorcerer Geto-sama told you about – he just wanted a little advice. He had two children he was raising all on his own, just like Geto. He heard all about how wonderful you two are, and wanted to know if I could stay and show him how to bring up the best kids in the world.” A kiss on either forehead, a thumb drawn over Mimiko’s cheeks to wipe away the tears she was frantically (and unsuccessfully) attempting to paw away on her own. “But, although I was very flattered, I told him that I had to go home. I knew you two would be fine, of course, but let’s face it – Geto wouldn’t last a day without me.”

It was your turn to pause, now, to lower your voice into something secretive. Mimiko was still sniffling, still determined to keep her face buried in her hands or your shoulder, but you made sure to meet Nanako’s eyes, to sound as sincere as you could – even if complete honesty was beyond you, at the moment. “Don’t tell Geto, but I missed you two most of all.”

Nanako looked like she wanted to say something. She almost did, too – tensing, opening her mouth, but she shut it again just as quickly, her eyes falling back to the ground in a sharp, violently narrow glare.

The pain was instant and beyond words. You wanted to pull her and Mimiko close again, to squeeze them tight and promise you wouldn’t leave them, not again, to apologize when you’d inevitably have to for the sake of a sister you hadn’t given them time to love. You wanted to—

You heard Suguru’s footsteps, felt his hand on your shoulder, and every thought you might’ve had that wasn’t devoted to your daughter’s well-being was gone.

Rather than embracing the girls, you drew back from them. Suguru pulled you gently to your feet, his hand falling from your shoulder to your elbow before wrapping around your wrist. “Keep an eye on your sister.” You could only be thankful there was still an ounce of warmth in his voice, as he addressed the girls. “(Y/n) and I have one more errand to run. We’re trusting you two to look after her, until we come back.”

You might’ve added something, made sure they both knew that you really had missed them, but Suguru was already drawing you towards the door – still ajar. The last thing you saw was Nanako taking Mimiko by the wrist before the door was slammed shut, and you were left entirely alone with Suguru.

Of all the places you expected him to take you, his temple hadn’t made the list.

His followers must’ve been sent away for the night, and the property’s attendants either dismissed or told to stay in their dorms. Every window was dark and shuttered, the gates locked and the doors bared. As you followed Suguru across the desolate courtyard and into the main shrine, you tried to think of places you would’ve wanted to be taken to, but came up empty. Part of you had been expecting the cheap, equally lifeless chain motels he’d shown a fondness for during your pregnancy, or worse, the hotel where you’d spent your first night together. Another, larger, quieter part had been able to imagine him driving into the deepest, darkest forest he could find and having his monstrous spirits tear you to shreds before you could so much as scream.

His ultimate destination was far from shocking, and yet, you still felt your heart drop into your stomach as he led you into his darkened sanctuary. As if in preparation, two tapered candles had been left burning in metal trays on either side of the screen door, and Suguru took one up as he passed by. You were left to linger in the doorway as, with a surprising meticulousness, he lit the candles scattered throughout the sanctuary, casting the open space in an ebbing golden glow. When he was finished, he collapsed onto his raised dais – perched on its edge, rather than laid across it. He almost looked out of place, without his usual costume, his usual posture. He almost looked his age.

You didn’t move. Running seemed impossible, but so did breaking the silence, doing anything to make yourself an active participant in Suguru’s bizarre ritual rather than a passive observer, a prop to be moved from place to place with little thought as to where you might want to be. A moment passed in silence, then another. Finally, he cracked. “Sit down.”

You didn’t move. “Are you going to kill me?”

He didn’t react. “All I asked you to do was sit down, love.”

“Are you going to kill Himari?”

He flinched into himself, going crooked. Something like hurt passed across his expression, as genuine as it was hypocritical.

He didn’t respond, but either out of pity or remorse or a lack of anything else to do, you found yourself closing the gap between you and him, setting yourself down on the edge of his platform. Immediately, his head fell onto your shoulder, his hand to your thigh, as if he was afraid you’d leave him again if he didn’t cling to you. “…I thought about breaking your legs,” he confessed, without prompting. “I was angry, when I realized you hadn’t been taken by force. I thought I’d be able to do it in Satoru’s apartment, leave enough blood to make him think I’d killed you, but—” There was a pause, a slow shake of his head. “I don’t know. I guess I waited too long, lost the nerve or something.”

“I’m glad you didn’t.” And then, when he shifted curiously beside you, “It would’ve scared the girls. They’re already having such a hard time.”

At that, Suguru melted entirely against you. There was an airy laugh, a small sigh, and you felt his hand on your hip, his thumb drawing loose patterns into your side. “So considerate,” he muttered, nuzzling into the dip of your shoulder. “Maybe, one day, you’ll care about me like that, too.”

A knot formed in the back of your throat. It wasn’t that you didn’t care for him – or, that you hadn’t, before he made it clear that the ways you were capable of caring for him weren’t enough. If you hadn’t felt anything for him, none of this would’ve ever happened. If he’d been satisfied to let you feel the same way about him that you felt about his daughters, it would never have gotten this bad. If you’d just laid back and let him fuck you the first time he’d asked, he would’ve lost interest in you months ago. You almost said so, too, tensed and opened your mouth and everything, but Suguru was moving before you had the chance to spit something out, his mouth crashing into yours with all the care and all the tenderness of a blunt object shattering bone. His teeth cut into your bottom lip, his body pressing into yours with enough force to throw you off balance, but his arms were already around your waist, keeping you upright. It was less that he slid off of the dais and more that he collapsed – dropping onto his knees at your feet, as little difference as it made in terms of height. He never let you stray very far, but tonight, he seemed determined never to leave more than a hair’s width of space between your body and his. His lips fell from your mouth to your neck, his hands finding their way to your hips. One darted for your neckline, but dropped back to your waist just as suddenly – all ten fingers soon burrowed into the plush of your waist.

“Your dress.” He wasn’t panting, wasn’t grinning, wasn’t laughing. His voice reverberated dully against the base of your throat, his pointed canines scraping over your skin as he spoke. “Take it off.”

You swallowed. Normally, he preferred to undress and re-dress you himself. You’d been scolded more than once for thinking you had any right to decide what you wore without his loving input, and when pressed, he claimed it was a show of love; proof of his dedication, his devotion.

This wasn’t about love, though, or dedication, or any other flowery word he’d ever used with you.

This was about control.

Your hands shook as you raised them to the back of your dress, finding the row of corset-type strings keeping the loose material in place. You fumbled with the knot for seconds, but Suguru was patient, willing to wait until the bodice fell away from your chest entirely, pooling at your midriff. You weren’t wearing a bra (again, an extremely difficult habit not to get into with a newborn at home), and one of Suguru’s hands came up, a scarred palm cupping your breast with enough force to bruise. You remembered, dimly, the time he’d spent pulled over by the side of the road earlier that day, but the memory was foggy, already so far away. You wouldn’t have been surprised if all of this seemed like one hazy, distant dream by tomorrow morning.

He detached from you suddenly, pulling away and kneeling on the sanctuary floor. Rather than relief, you only felt the world distort more violently around you; your pulse slowing and your vision burning as you clumsily pushed yourself to your feet, allowing your dress to fall away entirely. You moved to sit back down, but Suguru caught you before you could – his fist wrapping around your ankle, then skirting upward, settling gingerly against your thigh as his dark, soulless eyes raked over you. His stare caught on your panties, and his expression darkened. “I’m going to kill him.”

You didn’t have to ask what he meant. The pair had been Satoru’s pick; not quite a gift, but something given to you, regardless. They matched his aesthetics – needlessly detailed, smothered in lace, cast a shade of light blue so pale, it bordered on ivory. With how expensive Satoru’s tastes tended to run, you were sure the set had cost a fortune, but the priceless fabric gave away without protest as Suguru slipped two fingers under the waistband and tore. The ruined article fell away before you could so much as process that he’d moved.

Suguru’s impressive patience waned quickly. In the same motion, he pushed himself to his feet and took you into his arms, carrying you against his chest onto the dais, then to the altar pressed against the far wall. The scrolls laid across it were sent to floor with a single movement of his arm, and in the blink of an eye, you were laid across the polished wood, Suguru on his knees between your open legs. Your mouth opened, but there was no time to protest, to call out before his face was buried between his thighs, tongue lapping over the length of your slit. Still, you grit your teeth, bracing yourself to sit up, to tell him to—

Oh.

He'd gotten his tongue pierced, sometime after you left.

He was shameless. A rounded, jeweled stud dragged over your pussy, circling your clit with no pattern or pace, no intention other than to taste you. Never content to leave you to your own devices, he kept his hands wrapped around your hips, pinning you to the surface of the altar as he tried to all-but swallow you whole. It was messy, and overzealous, and worst of all, it was good. It was a matter of seconds before a mixture of spit and arousal stained the inside of your thighs and dripped from his chin, less than a full minute before you had to concentrate just to keep yourself from squirming underneath him. Not that it would’ve mattered, if you had. Suguru had always been playful in bed, content to milk reactions out of you with measured precision and careful vigilance, but that had been when you at least attempted to present yourself as willing. Right now, anything you might’ve felt seemed secondary to Suguru’s pleasure; satisfied groans soon joining the slick, wet noise ricocheting off the walls of his sanctuary. You dug your teeth into your bottom lip, crossed your arms over your face, but neither distraction helped to stifle the feeling of his lips latching onto your clit, suckling on it with all the care and all the delicacy of a butcher’s knife cutting into lifeless flesh. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes by the time he pulled away, but the pressure was immediately replaced by the bridge of his nose grinding harshly against the bundle of nerves, his tongue slipping past your entrance to curl against the most vulnerable parts of your cunt.

He let out another reverberating moan, and reflexively, your hand shot to the back of his head, your fingers soon tangled in his dark hair. One of his hands fell from your waist, and for a moment, you thought he was moving to pry away yours, that he didn’t want you touching him. But, fortunately or otherwise, his attention wasn’t on you. Instead, he reached for the elastic band holding his hair in place, pulling it out with enough force to snap the cheap plastic. You didn’t realize what he was trying to do until you felt him lean into your palm, his eyes fluttering shut as he melted into the semblance of your touch.

If you’d been capable of feeling anything more towards Suguru than you already did, you might’ve found the sight pitiful.

At the moment, though, you weren’t in a place to be quite so sentimental. It was all you could do to knot his hair around your fingers as you felt tight and hot form in your core, as your thighs threatened to snap shut around his head. You bit into the inside of your check with enough force to draw blood as Suguru moaned shamelessly, as he dragged you that much closer. It was too easy to forget to care whether or not he’d enjoyed it, too reflexive to gather his hair in your first and pull, to buck involuntarily into his mouth, to—

Suguru drew back suddenly, pushing himself to his feet. Thankfully, you caught yourself before you could feel disappointment, and after a few shallow breaths, found the strength to follow his stare away from you and towards the sanctuary door. Instantly, your heart stopped beating, the blood running cold in your veins.

Satoru stood in the doorway, cast in shadow save for his bright, piercing eyes. One of his hands was still wrapped around the doorframe, while the other hung limp at his side, cupping a small, pulsing ball of… light?

You didn’t have time to think about it. Suguru acted swiftly – pulling you into his arms and onto his lap, seating himself on the altar where you’d previously laid. “Drop it,” he said, his tone cold, cutting, not unlike an owner talking to his disobedient pet. He’d been short with you all night, but you couldn’t say he’d ever spoken to you quite like that. “Before you do something you’ll regret.”

The light dimmed before disappearing entirely, but Satoru didn’t move. He didn’t do anything, but you could feel it – a drop in the sanctuary’s temperature, a change in the air pressure, something deep and intrinsic that you didn’t want to be a part of. Reflexively, you tried to stand, to move, but Suguru held you tight, an arm barred over your midriff.

Despite everything, Satoru was the first to break the silence, albeit without doing anything to make that intangible tension any more bearable. “I should kill you.”

“You should.” Suguru’s fingertips dug into your side. “Those are your orders, aren’t they? Or are you going to put off delivering my head to the higher-ups for another three years?”

Whatever he was talking about, Satoru didn’t seem interested in acknowledging it. “You took my girls.”

“You fucked my wife.”

At that, something seemed to break. Suguru’s chest pressed into your back as Satoru’s eyes shut, as he sucked in a harsh breath and broke out into a fanged grin, the sharpest you’d ever seen him wear. “Yeah. Yeah, I did.” He took a step forward, all hostility gone in favor of a sort of manic, unpredictable buzz. You didn’t know whether to be relieved that there was a slightly diminished chance you’d be caught in the middle of their fight to the death or terrified at the thought that they might want to do anything but tear out each others’ throats. “I fucked her after she left you. Bet you can’t stand it – knowing you’re not the only one who gets to run away.”

Suguru, for all his faults, didn’t flinch. He’d always had an even-temper at the worst of time. “What do you want, ‘toru?”

Satoru’s stare fell away from Suguru and onto you. His expression softened, taking on an almost apologetic lilt. Almost, but not quite.

“Not much,” he admitted, with a shrug. Even from a distance, even in the dark, you could tell his nonchalance was forced. “Just to say goodbye, make sure my pretty girl’s gonna be taken care of. Gotta wrap up loose ends, n’ all that.”

Suguru, for his part, seemed far from convinced. His grip didn’t loosen; if anything, he only held you closer. “And why should I let you?”

“Because I love her?” And then, with another step toward the altar, “Because you know I could wipe this building off the face of the planet, if I wanted to.”

Pragmatic as he was, Suguru seemed to consider it. The hand over your side flexed, a chin settling against the dip of your shoulder, and beneath you, his stiff cock pressed into your ass – either unaffected or worse, fueled on by Satoru’s interruption. You were still attempting not to dwell on the implications when Suguru responded, level-headed as always.

“If you try anything, I’ll kill the baby.”

The second before a car crash, the spark where two wires failed to connect. For the longest time, you couldn’t seem to process what he’d said or how it could’ve been so gut-wrenchingly terrible. Rather than pull away, you flattened yourself against him, glancing over your shoulder. You opened your mouth, but the ability to speak was suddenly beyond you, set deliberately out of your reach. He didn’t mean it. He couldn’t mean it, and yet, his expression was stoic, unchanging, the pinnacle of neutrality. There was no laugh from Satoru either, forced or otherwise. Still, he kept up his smile. As if Suguru hadn’t said anything of consequence. As if either of them had any right to so much as touch your daughter.

Satoru didn’t respond to the threat, nor did Suguru urge him to. Almost mechanically, Suguru’s arm fell away from your midriff, and with little more than a nudge to the back of your shoulder, you were on your feet, vulnerable and shaking on the center of the raised dais. You could still feel a mix of slick and saliva coating the inside of your thighs, and you had to swallow the urge to make a grab for your clothes, to put yourself through the humiliation of being forced to strip twice in one night.

Thankfully, tragically, you were liberated from any illusion of free choice swiftly. Without protest from Suguru, Satoru stepped onto the dais and took you by the hand, either overlooking or failing to acknowledge the panic in your eyes in favor of intertwining his fingers with yours and squeezing gently, as if you could still believe he genuinely wanted to comfort you. Rather than pulling you into his arms, dragging you down to the floor, he looked to Suguru, cocking his head to the side. “Get up.”

Suguru’s lips quirked downward, but he obeyed, pushing himself to his feet. “How blasphemous.”

Now, he pulled you off of your feet. In a moment, you were in his arms, and the next, you were perched on the altar, your back pressed against the wall and your legs spread around Satoru’s waist. “Blasphemous,” Satoru echoed, his voice low but plainly audible in the silence of the sanctuary. “would be fucking the most beautiful woman in the world on the ground. That’s why I’m her favorite – ‘cause I’m so considerate.”

No part of you trusted Suguru. No part of you preferred Suguru to Satoru, or the other way around. No part of you thought that, unless your life or his pride was threatened, he’d ever lift a finger to help you, but you found yourself glancing toward him out of the corner of your eye, doing your best to silently communicate that you needed to get out of here. Instead of sympathy, jealousy, you only found an idle smirk, a glassy sheen over his eyes that you could only imagine you’d mirrored for most of the day. “You’re not the one she’s married to, idiot.”

There was a dip, a surprisingly fleeting kiss to your lips, then your jaw, then your throat. “But she would get with me if you were out of the picture, right?” The question was punctuated with a nip to your collarbone, a hand dropped low enough to cup your pussy. The heel of his palm ground into your clit as two fingers pushed into your soaked cunt, spreading apart and scissoring you open. You tried to bow your head, to keep your eyes closed and your mouth shut, but you were still sensitive from your ruined climax, still so painfully exposed, and there was nothing you could do to bite back the cracked whines and pitiful mewls that slipped through your pursed lips. It was far from verbal confirmation, but Satoru hummed, grinned against your chest as if you’d sung his praises. “I’d get you a nicer ring, nicer house, nicer honeymoon. Always make sure you’re good n’ taken care of while Suguru’s busy playing god.”

Suguru huffed, and Satoru fell into a steady pace, adding a third digit as he carelessly fucked his fingers into your cunt. You didn’t hear him move, but before you could brace yourself, Suguru was at your side, leaning onto the altar to cup your face and trace over your jaw with the pad of his thumb. “I take care of you, don’t I?” You opened your mouth reflexively, ready to tell him that you were sorry, that you didn’t want him to touch you, that you wanted this to stop, but he was faster than you, more malicious. His thumb was forced past your lips before you could make a sound, pressed against the flat of your tongue with just enough force for your jaw to ache in protest. “I can’t blame Satoru for not being able to see that, though. Not when you treat me so cruelly.”

Cruelly. You’d never been cruel – at least, no crueler than you absolutely needed to be to survive. You felt pins and needles prick at the corners of your eyes before you noticed your vision blurring, before tears were streaming down either side of your face in boiling tracks. Satoru purred in sympathy, falling low and nuzzling into the tender spot at the base of your throat, flicking his wrist and burying himself inside of you to the knuckle. “You don’t have to worry, I know he’s the mean one.”

He was whispering, but that didn’t matter. He was too close, too awful for each word not to be absolutely deafening, for each little movement of his hand not to leave your nails scraping against the smooth wood of the altar, searching for purchase you wouldn’t find. Time was moving too quickly, it had been since you arrived at the temple. You couldn’t scream, couldn’t pull away, couldn’t breathe before Satoru pressed an open-mouthed kiss into the side of your neck and you were coming undone around his fingers, your thighs locking around his arm and keeping his digits inside of you until you could remember how to suck in a gasping inhale, until the last of the aftershocks faded and you could bring yourself to open your eyes. It wasn’t until the warmth of Satoru’s mouth fell away from your neck that you noticed the strange, copper tinge spread over your tongue, that you registered the absence of Suguru’s hand against your jaw. When you thought to look in his direction, he was evaluating his own hand. A thin, red line formed a dotted ring around the base of his thumb. You must’ve bitten down, at some point.

You must’ve hurt him.

Fear drowned out any satisfaction there might’ve been. He mentioned deciding against breaking your legs, earlier; was there any chance he’d change his mind? Would Satoru be able to stop him, if he tried to hurt you? Would Satoru even want to stop him? Himari was still alone, still in danger, and you wouldn’t be able to get to her if you couldn’t walk. You wouldn’t be able to stop Suguru from—

Satoru reached out, his hand curling around Suguru’s wrist and dragging it down to his height. With Satoru’s guidance, Suguru’s thumb came to rest against his bottom lip, then slipped into Satoru’s mouth entirely, his lips soon sealed around its base. There was a second or two of stillness, a swallowing-type noise too loud to ignore despite your best attempts not to hear it, and then, Suguru was pulling away and Satoru’s lips were crashing into yours.

It was strange for Suguru to be so clumsy, but you couldn’t bring yourself to be as surprised by Satoru’s lack of polish. It was all you could do to choke back a renewed sob as his mouth moved against yours, as his pointed teeth ghosted over your lips and grazed the underside of your tongue. He was all instinct, no logic, and when you tried to straighten, to leave enough room between you and him to catch your breath, he only seemed to want you closer. His hands were on your waist, then your arms, then your chest, never satisfied unless he could dig his claws into the most tender parts of you, and this time, when his canines grazed over your lips, he wasn’t satisfied to leave your connection at contact alone. He let out a shameless moan as he lapped at the puncture wound, warm blood leaking down your chin and pooling on your chest where it pressed into his. Again, you looked to Suguru for help, and again, you immediately wished you hadn’t bothered.

He wasn’t perched on the altar, anymore. No – he’d shifted, slinked, positioned himself behind Satoru where he was bent at the waist. He caught your eye as his arms snaked around Satoru’s midriff, as Satoru arched his back to better take advantage of the new contact. There was the distant, muffled sound of fabric rustling, a keening whine from Satoru, and then, Suguru’s hand was curled around Satoru’s stiff, leaking cock – pumping over the shaft while his dark eyes burned holes into yours. “Get it over with,” he muttered, the bitter sterility of his tone a sharp juxtaposition to the grin creeping across his expression. “Before I remember why I want you dead.”

Satoru didn’t have to be coaxed into compliance. No, he let himself be eased into place, let Suguru slot himself against his back as he carefully aligned Satoru’s flushed tip to your entrance. Even after he’d let go, his hands finding the edge of the altar on either side of you, Satoru failed to move on his own. You could feel him drifting from your lips to your throat, then lower – to the crook of your neck, a spot Suguru’d always favored. Vaguely, you were aware of his lips moving against your skin, of warm breath fanning over your chest and leaving frost wherever it’d touched. His voice was muffled by proximity, but whether or not you could hear him didn’t really matter. You would’ve recognized those three little words from a thousand miles away.

“I love you.”

If you’d been able to laugh, you would’ve.

At least Satoru didn’t expect you to say it back.

Suguru must’ve missed it – that, or he was beyond the point of caring. His teeth sunk into the nape of Satoru’s neck, and then, something hot and piercing was inside of you.

This time, you couldn’t stop yourself from crying out. A fractured moan tumbled past your lips as Satoru immediately fell into a brutal pace; all that teasing tenderness gone the moment your pussy was wrapped around his cock. Suguru didn’t pull away, but he didn’t help, either; straightening his back and gazing down at you with that same foggy, absent, pleased expression. It took you a moment to put a name to it; lovestruck, all glassy eyes and hollow smiles, any anger hidden behind a thick curtain of glazed-over satisfaction. He’d never looked away from you, but when you met his eyes, he seemed to soften even further, his shoulders dropping as he brought a hand to the small of Suguru’s back, spurring him on. “He’s always been this bad.” Suguru let out a keening whine into your shoulder, and Suguru chuckled airily. “Like a dog in heat. You’d think be as desperate as one, too, but apparently, his standards are too high for him to do anything but act like a whore.”

You couldn’t take it – the way Satoru’s hips crashed into yours, how his pubic bone ground against your clit, the pure venom interlaced with Suguru’s velvet-soft tone. You knew that it was useless, childish, but you couldn’t swallow down the cracked sob that rose up from somewhere deep and unprotected in your chest, couldn’t hold back the tears now flowing freely down your cheeks. Suguru’s smile widened, his sharpened teeth catching the dull candlelight, but Satoru was kind enough not to be so observant. His attention was dedicated entirely to fucking into you as quickly and as deeply as possible; his cock never less than half buried. You felt him twitch, and before you could hold yourself back, your hands were on his back, your nails embedded in pale skin and tearing upward every time he bottomed out and sent a new type of agony coursing through your system. “Stop, stop, I can’t—”

“You can.” Clipped, concise, dripping with stone-cold affection. You’d be surprised if you ever heard any warmth in Suguru’s voice again. “That is, unless you’d like to break two hearts on the same night.”

Your mouth was still open, but you couldn’t answer. Satoru groaned as he rutted into you, his pace growing that much more erratic, his hips grinding into yours. He pulled you into another deep, copper-tinged kiss as he pressed his body flush to yours, as you felt something thick and hot and soul-crushingly familiar flood into you. It might’ve been the sensitivity, or the overstimulation, or the herbal stench of incense left to burn for a minute too long finally taking its toll – it didn’t really matter, either way. No explanation could’ve dampened the feeling of your cunt clenching tight around him, could’ve prevented the utter desolation of cumming on Satoru’s cock.

It seemed to go on for the longest time – second after second of thoughtless, helpless pleasure, century after century of Satoru against you, edging on your climax with the occasional sharp movement from his hips, a hasty kiss pressed into the corner of your jaw. Finally, after a small eternity, the last of the aftershocks faded, unwanted bliss fading into a slow, pulsing ache settled deep into the deepest pit of your chest. You felt Satoru shift; not pulling away, but lifting himself up, bringing his mouth to the shell of your ear. “I love you,” he said, again, and then, more quietly, “I’m sorry.”

You wanted to say something, to call him a liar, to spit out every venomous and vitriolic and warranted thing you could ever say to either of them, but it was already too late. Something vital slid out of place, a poor signal finally losing connection entirely, and then, everything went dark.

Nine months later, you’d find yourself in Suguru’s temple again, albeit not his sanctuary. A brown-haired woman in a lab coat and several female attendants swarmed around you, pressing damp cloths to your forehead and constantly rearranging the thick quilts laid over your limp body. Dried tears formed defined tracks down your cheeks, and every part of you screamed for rest, for escape, for a quick and merciful death. It was all you could do to suck in a shuddering breath, to remind yourself that there were more important things in the world than your own well-being. Sleep could wait. This couldn’t.

Slowly, you managed to turn your head towards Suguru, standing at your bedside just as he had for the past six hours. Your vision was distorted, dimmed around the edges, but it would’ve been impossible to miss the small, white bundle in his arms, already beginning to move. You could practically taste the relief, only slightly soured by your own exhaustion. Loving Himari had been a miracle. It would’ve been a lie to say that you hadn’t expected yourself to be more callous, the second time part of you was ripped away and molded into the shape of a man you hated.

Your eyes flickered to Suguru’s expression, to those impossibly dark eyes, and instantly, your relief was replaced by pure, unadulterated dread. A smile played at the corner of his mouth, softened and careless, but… Oh, god.

You’d never seen so much death in his eyes.

“Suguru.” You hadn’t meant to say anything, and yet, your voice was clear – a little hoarse, but far stronger than you felt. Never looking away from the bundle, he hummed, and you went on. “Can I see…?”

“Him,” Suguru filled in, bouncing your newborn – your son, gently. “A healthy baby boy. It’s a shame, really – I chose names with another girl in-mind.”

Thankfully, he didn’t make you ask again. With no small amount of care, the bundle was placed gently onto your chest, Suguru’s hand remaining on your shoulder – as if only waiting for your limited strength to give out. It took you a long moment to brush the swaddling sheets to the swaddling blanket aside, little hands immediately reaching up to bat against your own, and another to register what you were looking at. It wasn’t hard to see why Suguru was so angry.

You stared down at your son, and eyes more blue than the clearest, brightest sky stared back at you.

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere imagines #yandere jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen imagines #yandere jjk #jjk x reader #jjk imagines #yandere gojo satoru #yandere geto suguru #geto x reader #gojo x reader

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lovelyyandereaddictionpoint · 3 months ago

Text

This Halloween | Yandere SatoSugu

“Hi, gorgeous! Surprised to see me here?”

“Don’t cry, (Y/n). We were never going to kill you.”

The reveal that the small town’s biggest menace was your friends Satoru Gojo and Suguru Geto. To think that the golden boys of Jujutsu High who were dating two of the victims were hanging off one another in their bloodied costumes. Smiles wider than they’d ever been with their supposed partners, the reality sinking made the bile rise in your throat.

Thinking about your meditation you close your eyes. The smell of partygoers rotting all over the small beach house fills your nose. The sound of the back screen door bumping against the frame as the beach breeze goes in and out with the tide surging outside. The taste of pennies filled your mouth as you gnawed at the inside of your cheek. The twitch of your fingers awkwardly hovered in front of your chest as they flexed in and out. On top of your breathing didn’t calm you as much as it usually did.

“(Y/n) did you hear what I said?”

The voice of Suguru somehow made it past the warbled sound of absolute confusion that clouded your brain. The leather glove lightly held your left hand as he slowly came closer to you’re shivering state. Those brown eyes looking so deeply into your own, it felt wrong to look away.

“All you have to do is say we left early.”

You opened your mouth to ask but the growing sound of sirens stopped you. Gojo was the first to let out a curse, giggling about running away. He shook his raven-haired partner who hushed him with an amused smile, turning back to you.

“You can do that for me can’t you Dove?”

The duo left out the back. That screen door screeched as they ran through it; returning to bang against the frame angrily. Its aggressive banging triggered an all-new set of shivers to wrack your body, causing you to fall to the floor. Closing your eyes you try to level yourself again but the sound of your own heartbeat is deafening and the eyes of your best friend pleading with you.

It will haunt you forever.

The sight of Detective Choso brought an uncomfortable pit into your stomach. The man you’d met years ago in another city–your city, with his hair down and his eyes had bags like a masked vigilante.

“He’s out.”

The news didn’t scare you. Not as it should have. Many may find it strange to know you dreamt about serial killers on death row. But it warned you. Prepared you for the day you’d need to run as far as possible from anything you knew. On the anniversary of that day no less.

“What’s the plan?”

The detective pursed his lip and his eyes wandered. His feet, running the flat of his oxfords on the carpet of the entrance to your apartment. The silent scratch of the wool under his shoe irritated you almost as much as his request.

“We wanted to lure him out. Will you—”

He didn’t need to finish before the door was slammed in his face, pushing him back into the apartment hallway. Choso groaned to himself, the situation's futility ebbing at his already short patience. He calmly knocked on the door again.

A muffled, “Go away!”

He sighed, lightly banging his head on the rusted number of the apartment. With his ear so close to the door he could hear the receding footsteps and the mumbled curses directed at him. He looked down the hall making eye contact with the local department’s plant taking out the trash. He didn’t feel completely terrible leaving when there was a guard there, making a note to try again in 24 hours.

“I’ll be back.”

It was meant to be assuring but Choso worried it came off threatening as heard a defiant thump on the opposite side of the door. Resisting the urge to sigh again Choso turned tail, making his way to the elevator. Pulling out his phone he scrolled through his contacts, landing on the name: Idiot surrounded by blue hearts.

Holding the phone at his waist he timed the ringing until he heard said idiot singing out a ‘hello.’ Only then did he bring the phone to his ear and respond.

“The eggs secured and it’s staying in the next. How’s the snake?”

_____________________________________________________________

Gojo Satoru finished his lecture with a grand gesture as though he had finished giving a presentation. When in fact, he’d pressed play on the school’s TV the second his students got in their seats. Maybe in the back of his mind, he’d thought to make himself look better for the detective standing just outside the classroom. Even though they both knew it didn’t matter.

“I appreciate you waiting until the kids were outta the classroom. Wouldn’t want to explain to the parents why the police were in their school.”

The white-haired teacher spoke so cheerfully, that his familiarity with the detective might have seemed positive. The detective wasted no time calling their partners in; the stout one stood at the door while the taller one pulled at the blinds of the classroom. With the classroom darkened and the school slowly emptying the head detective decided to speak. Making a dramatic move of pulling a voice recorder out of his pocket he held it up as he asked his question.

“Where were you the night of October 7th?”

Gojo sat on his desk, kicking his feet as he mockingly thought hard. He pretended to put his fingers to his temple as though that would provide answers. The detective associates sneered at the childish display.

“Hm on the night of October let me see–”

The man trailed off as he reached over his desk, pulling a calendar out of a drawer. Flipping through it he animatedly pointed his index at the circled date on the calendar.

Smiling up at the detective Gojo exclaimed, “The anniversary of those horrible murders? Well, I was grieving over the victims by grading my kiddies homework.”

The detective snatched the calendar from him, letting his eyes glaze over the marked paper. Confirming the statement, he tossed the calendar back to him.

“Can anyone confirm this statement?”

Gojo let out a playful whine in annoyance as he dramatically flung back on his desk. The detective and their bodyguards all flinched at the large movement, hands hovering over the fire-arms tucked under their coats and at their belts..

“It’s always evidence with you guys, geez. I have it on the calendar, I never left my house you can ask my neighbors about that.”

“Your neighbors all live three kilometers away from you, That’s not an option.”

“So critical. If I personally broke out some poor inmate on death row do you really think I would have let you just walk into my space like this?”

The question had the detective hovering over their weapon again. Gauging the posture of the white-haired man who was only smirking in their direction with an unsetting nonchalance. The pause that ensued allowed the detectives to reluctantly let their hands drift from their weapons as the sound of multiple chattering students hurriedly approached the empty classroom. The door previously closed swung open to reveal Gojo’s most loyal student–a pink-haired teen leading the charge.

“Teacher! Did you see my post?”

With that smug persisting smirk on his face, Gojo turns his head feigning surprise.

“Unfortunately no. I was too busy talking with these old friends of mine. What’s up?”

“Dude! The police are totally raiding your place!”

The teen turned his phone around to reveal a short video of police and armored vehicles surrounding the luxurious Gojo estate. Plenty of onlookers also recorded the unnatural phenomenon for the typically small town. Granted the amount of paparazzi that constantly come in and out of the town to film anything they can on the Gojo head wasn’t all that rare, but the authorities looking so closely was. And like everything in this town, it was all anyone would talk about for months.

“Well, Detective Mahito am I under arrest?”

The long-haired detective sent a look to his partners and the curious teens absorbing the situation. Coming to a decision he openly hovered his hand over his weapon.

“You are not under arrest but for your safety, you need to come with us.”

Of course, there was a video preceding this of the beloved teacher being escorted into an unmarked vehicle and the students behind the camera being shooed away as it drove off. With all the interested eyes on this case, it almost felt impossible that anything would slip under the radar of millions of curious eyes.

_____________________________________________________________

(Y/n) remembered the way the couple went public with one another. After the tragedy that ensued at the annual Hallow’s Eve party, it was of minor shock that the two golden boys of the high school found solace in one another. Everyone chalked it up to the bonding of trauma after both lost their girlfriends.

“I just found that no one could relate like he can.”

You heard the reasoning in passing, always around the surrounding crowds curious about the latest scoop on the survivors of the Hallow’s Eve tragedy. No doubt some of them will have turned around to tell the outlets interested in the story as well while others would theorize about the identity of the masked killer.

“Maybe it was them!”

“Yeah, what a defense! ‘I don’t talk anymore after what I’ve seen!’ As if!”

The nauseating feeling would eventually go away but the pressure was suffocating then. Haunting your mind with their echoed speculations and the image of your dead friends. What’s worse was the killers so happily parading their sorrowed expressions along the halls. Accepting the gift baskets and surface-level condolences without an ounce of suspicion. The feeling of your hair raising along your skin when one of them mocked their sympathy towards you.

“Don’t be so hard on them, they’ve seen things no one should have to see.”

The constant threat of tears was a reoccurring pain, as you replayed the events of that party. It was never to be soothed by the couple who’d spend their free time pestering you. Often leaving quickly thereafter to repeat their sick game.

“Just keep quiet, Dove. We were here the whole time after all.”

“Yup, and to prove it we’ll take a picture. Don’t tell anyone okay?”

You couldn’t bare listening to them any longer.

______________________________________________________________

Conveniently the press that did have your new contact information weren’t as insistent as before. Quietly asking for a comment on the criminal notoriously associated with Hallow’s Eve murders. After all the rumored victim of the killer was recently detained, surely as the witness that convicted the killer to death row you’d have something to say. You kept quiet. Deleting emails and hanging up phone calls from unidentified numbers, solely focused on getting to your plane on time.

“I’m so sorry but all commercial planes have been grounded for the foreseeable future.”

Like glass breaking at the perfectly angled rock, you started to crack.

“What. Do. You. Mean?”

This poor employee didn’t deserve your wrath but she also wasn’t betting on this plane to save her life. She’d nervously stutter and stumble over her words as she denied every out or once of compensation to make this any better.

“There may be some private planes but those are in incredibly high demand–”

“I’ll go! I don’t care how much just tell me where!”

She seemed reluctant to say but she still told you. Maybe it was because she felt bad, seeing someone so desperate to get away or maybe it was because you were inches from her face. Either way, you were on the tarmac within the hour, along with a few others desperate enough to pay privately. Only to be crestfallen when you arrived at the staircase to enter the plane; letting the other exasperated passengers pass by your still form.

“May I help you with your bags?”

An attendant, with a shining smile and neatly pressed uniform with the plane’s company proudly pressed right above his heart. Greeting you with nothing but an offer to help; you cursed the involuntary reaction to vomit.

“Are all…the private planes available…from this private airline?”

You tried to keep the tremor in your voice to a minimum as you nervously wrung your hands around the handles of your bag.

The attendant—none the wiser—smiled and gestured to the other planes lining up the tarmac with rows of people.

“Yes, they are. Gojo Airlines is offering a discount during these trying times–”

He kept talking but you weren’t listening. Turning around to leave, ignoring the airport security and the attendants who were preparing to let you onto the plane. It meant nothing to you for the beating of your heart and your panicked breathing is all you can hear. When you finally waved down a taxi, you quickly dialed a familiar number.

“He knows.”

______________________________________________________________

Detective Jogo looked nervously at the contact of his partner miles away. Since the week that their missing subject committed the grand massacre, he was infamous for. Because of the nature of the parties involved, he was strictly instructed to not call unless absolutely necessary considering they suspected their phones were compromised.

“You eat yet?”

The question came with a warm bagel and a cup of coffee. Held over his seated form by the burly officer Hanami; coming from the breakroom on the other side of the station. For the first two weeks, it was just following the heir around. But with the inmate scheduled for death row at large and another anniversary coming up, it was decided they’d move the heir into one of their holding cells. Of course, it was lavished with furniture and decorations all chosen by the illustrious Gojo Satoru. He did whine when they demanded to inspect and bug his phone and laptop but the station was taking no chances when it came to this specific case.

The rumors were enough too.

“Have you checked on him within the last few hours?”

Hanami tilted her head looking at the one-way glass of the blue-eyed witness pacing casually in the fortified room. From the glimpses that Jogo got from his chair across the room, their witness was unusually chipper. The days they spent guarding him throughout the day were incredibly boring; temporarily leaving his job as a teacher to gallivant around a hotel of his choosing didn’t make it better. Throughout those weeks Gojo had subjected the team to an aggravating amount of chatter—none of it helpful or even worth repeating. Detective Mahito was plenty great at keeping up but Jogo and Hanami opted for alternating earplugs. Even with the earplugs in he could pick out the strong hints of annoyance bubbling underneath his wide smile and piercing gaze.

The change unnerved him. Especially with the rumors circulating around this specific witness.

“Didn’t want to besides I’m watching from the camera.”

Blunt and unforgiving Jogo wouldn’t expect anything more from the officer. It didn’t put him at ease.

“Where’s Mahito? Still investigating that place?”

If it was possible Hanami’s apathetic expression tightened, her brows knitting at the thought.

“Yes. Last he called all the evidence had been scrubbed and all we can hope now is that they forgot something we could use.”

Jogo sucked his teeth in shared annoyance. The rumor he was dreading was more like an undisclosed fact. The true masterminds behind the Halloween Massacre were both Gojo Satoru and the death row inmate Suguru Geto. The files say the Gojo family lawyer fought hard for the heir; effectively blaming it all on Suguru Geto. With prints, hair, witness testimony, and photographic evidence all on the heir they were able to plead for coercion by malicious manipulation. Getting their heir off and painting his partner in crime to be a greater threat than he. The whole fiasco of the jewel of the Gojo clan being involved made the whole case a living nightmare, that their superior Choso Kamo rose to fame with. By finally encouraging the only witness with viable evidence to testify Suguru Geto was sentenced to death row. And through expert lawyers mysteriously hired, he remained waiting for years.

Choso, before he left to guard the witness, believed it wasn’t just an escape attempt but a chance for the killers to tie everything up. Destroy the evidence, stop the search for the death row inmate, exact revenge on all who participated in the case, and reunite with their loved ones by the end of Halloween.

Of course, it was their best detective leaving to protect the witness who was in the most danger. Leaving his underlings—Mahito and Jogo to keep them on the pulse of the case and their eyes on the man believed to get off scot-free.

If it weren’t for him knowing Choso cared so much for this specific witness; he would have thought he was leaving them the rough side of this mission. He knew the hardened detective could be a compassionate man–a hard thing to retain in this line of work.

Jogo huffed taking a sip of his coffee,” I hope he’s having a better time than we.”

Hanami made a grunt of agreement before returning to the hall to stare at the monitors she had been for the past couple of days. He would have offered to switch if he didn’t think he thought this pit in his stomach could be resolved.

The 40-year-old detective stood from his seat. Careful to nurse the leg he’d fractured from two cases ago. He took his uneaten bagel, noting it retained some of its heat. He headed to the holding cell. Sending a look to the guard at his station, a buzzer rang and the door unlocked. With the final swipe of his keycard, he let himself into the semi-messy room. The culprit was sitting on his bed, a smile still on his smug little face.

“Hungry?”

Those cerulean eyes weren’t on him the second he came in, instead looking at the clock left graciously in the upper corner of the room. Nor did they flicker when Jogo asked his question. The disrespect made the Detective’s eyebrows twitch as he kept his hand holding the bagel.

“I’m not going to eat your leftovers, old man.”

“Not good enough for you!? Not up to your snobby standards,” was what Jogo wanted to say but he didn’t need to get kicked off this case for suspected bias. It didn’t help that the man still wasn’t looking at him, laughing to himself as though Jogo told the funniest joke.

“Have you eaten anything today?”

Jogo was trying. He really was.

“Nope, but I’ll eat later today.”

Jogo loosened up,” Have any idea what you want?”

The Gojo heir’s smile didn’t compare to the smirk he had on before. His smile practically reached his ears and those haunting eyes staring right through Jogo, “All of your livers.”

“What?!”

The suspect wasn’t speaking anymore and Jogo’s phone was ringing.

Jogo had a decision to make. Answer the call or make sure he just heard what he did.

“You should answer that. He might never call again.”

Despite his better judgment, Jogo pulls out his phone, seeing the name of his fellow detective and the goofy photo they took on his phone. Another look at the white-haired man and he answered the call. Immediately his ears were assaulted with the sounds of wood crackling; the unnatural sound made his mind piece together what was happening.

“I-it’s a trap!” the tearful voice of Mahito rings the loudest. Jogo almost doesn’t want to speak as if that would make what he heard go away. “G-get out–”

The sound of something large falling and the frantic screaming from either the detective or some other poor soul being abruptly cut off. Punctuated by the phone call ending.

Jogo couldn’t take it anymore throwing his phone aside to reel his fist back to punch the chuckling man in the face. Prepared to fight against the guards that would be arriving any second he aimed with urgency. He was certain he’d have time to get in one. One good hit to the face of the man responsible for the chance that his partner might be dead.

“Did you really think I’d just let that happen? That’s cute.”

Jogo’s fist was easily captured by Gojo’s hand, a careless gesture strong enough to keep the shaking fist static and far from its intended target. Unnerved by that restraint the detective launched his other fist only for it to receive the same treatment. Pushing with all his might Jogo–in the split seconds of any fight—found himself at an impasse. Figuring if both his fists were being thwarted he’d go to the next best thing–his legs. Cursing the ache he’d have later he aimed to kick the heir in the gut.

“But not that cute.”

The quip was a warning barely processed as Gojo caught the man off-guard, releasing his fists to latch onto the outstretched leg. Gripping the ankle of the old man swung the body of the detective into the one-way glass. It crackled under his weight bursting with shards of glass as the stout man rolled past the curious guard’s post.

Jogo didn’t feel like he could get up but he did watching the blue-eyed man let himself out of the holding cell, a stolen I.D. being twirled in his hands. He didn’t need the guard to let him out, outright kicking the metal door until it flew off its hinges. Of course, the guards in the room moved with a taser and baton in hand.

“You guys are so dramatic! How about you go out begging then maybe I won’t make you suffer.”

The guards didn’t bother responding to the one with the baton going first. Swinging from above any normal man could barely manage to dodge but Gojo was by no means normal. He easily sidestepped the baton using the downward stroke of the officer to grab at his neck. At speeds, Jogo couldn’t comprehend the officer’s head was facing the opposite direction. Even worse they weren’t dead their eyes darting around as they tried to scream—making a gargled plea instead. The one with the taser barely had time to fire, missing the dodging assailant who easily grabbed the coils beaming with electricity to pull the gun from the guard's shaking hands. Defeated with a hand slicing toward their exposed neck also making the man gurgle as he fell to the floor.

“Now what was it we were talking about?”

The question was directed to Jogo and the pain paralyzed him to the floor. Helplessly watching as Gojo slowly walked closer. The old man’s eyes darted nervously around searching for anything to use. His thoughts raged with an all-manner of possibilities running through his mind there was one tool bound to stop the incredibly durable heir. His gun. Jogo took great care to not let this realization be made. Planning to only reveal this when he needed which would be soon, judging by the way Gojo was cracking his knuckles.

“About how this was all planned by you?”

Jogo was stalling but it didn’t seem Gojo was listening. The heir tapped his foot impatiently against the floor as he looked annoyed at the aching detective.

“Are you done because otherwise, I’m just going to end–”

In a large flash of blue, the heir stood back just barely dodging the hurling form of Hanami. Using her natural height against him she aimed a violent punch into the ground, cracking the concrete the heir was standing over just a moment before sidestepping. Jogo felt his heart lift, who greater to fight alongside than Hanami—the human tank with punches as strong as steel. Surely now they had a chance.

Jogo pulled out his gun aiming at the dodging heir. Waiting for just the right moment to pull the trigger and finally end the menace that got to run free.

“This really was fun but I’m tired of this place.” The declaration sounded petulant like a child,” and I’m tired of you.”

Almost in annunciation a pale hand shot through the chest of Officer Hanami–the human tank stopping her assault to look down at the hand pulling out of her. Before Gojo’s bloodied hand could leave a spray of her blood dousing her face and eyes. Fear-filled eyes watched his partner struggle as a waterfall of viscous carnage poured out of her baffled mouth.

Through the tears growing in his eyes, Jogo fired his gun.

Over a year spent in the police academy and being a rookie in the small town. To a supervisor to a junior detective who humbled himself to learn the young genius detective. More than certain his aim was true, he collapsed into himself. The weight of both his partners, his friends dead when just hours ago they were as lively as ever.

Thankful that the beast responsible was gone.

“Glad you came I was just about ready to clean up myself.”

The monster he thought he’d defeated was standing above him casually calling out to another down the hall. Whoever this was holding a disembodied arm and was casually walking in the halls surrounded by bloody remains of the investigative team.

As frightening as it was to revel in the new threat having gotten past security and was brutal enough to be carrying the limbs of his coworkers. But it didn’t take away from the horror of realizing his gun never did go off. Instead, his gun was squished with the bloodied hands of Gojo Satrou, who sent one last disgusted look in his direction before dropping the disfigured gun in his lap.

“I told you, I had it under control.”

“Whatever you say ‘kuna.”

“Don’t call me that. Now go on get to your ‘date.’”

If Gojo had taken the talons he called fingers and torn out Jogo’s heart it would have been better than recognizing the pink-haired, tattooed man, covered in blood. To think he’d have the privilege to die near the detective-turned-mercenary Ryomen Sukuna. Face ashen and succumbing to his fate, he wistfully watches the white-haired man skip over the carnage of the force. Without so much of a glance, the Gojo Satoru had taken everything from him in a matter of minutes.

The only thing he did have left was doomed to be gone soon.

“You ready to fight to your death?”

An idol asking a question worthy of someone who wasn’t likely paralyzed by merely being thrown through a window and failing to shoot the man responsible for the destruction of an effort to maintain justice no matter who the suspect is. There was only one thing he could say as Sukuna awaited his answer.

“Yes. More than ready.”

______________________________________________________________

Today was the day you’d broken your silence all those years ago. Once again traveling with the detective to the far reaches of a rural town far away within the safe confines of a car. It didn’t soothe you in the slightest. From the airport incident, the unnerving shiftiness within your stomach hadn’t settled not like it did when Suguru was finally shipped off to prison and not like when Gojo was sent to a foreign exchange school. It wasn’t over.

“How are you doing?”

The question was worthless but you hadn’t said anything since Choso dignified the plan. A lot was unspoken between you but talking was still necessary.

“Like throwing up. How’s your brother?”

The immediate question was not just a deflection, it was the easiest way to distract the detective. Choso was a proud older brother who at any topic that reminded him of his little brother ensued in long rambles about said brother. It’s a perfect soundtrack to drown your thoughts and avoid playing therapist with the detective you’re effectively running away with.

“Since you asked—”

Seeing the tired straight-faced detective finally begin to smile as he proceeded to rant. It’s a nice change to the gloom you both permeate. You figured you’d help stave it off for a while with some light chatter.

“---and his little friends all look up to him like the natural-born leader he is!”

“He’s in high school now right?”

“He is. He’s actually….” Choso trails off as his smile falls,” he’s actually going to Jujutsu High.”

The name of the familiar school renews the tense atmosphere and with terrifying speed, the synapses of your brain begin to fire off. Suddenly you can guess why Choso insisted the plant stay behind or how he refused the undercover police escort. Or why instead of awkwardly attempting to cheer you up he keeps his tired eyes on the road ahead.

“So the safe house was a lie.”

Choso visibly grimaced, “Not entirely. I wouldn’t give you to them if I wasn’t sure you’d be safe.”

“Them!?”

He dared to look at you out of the corner of his eye.

“I know what they’re after and they’re not going to hurt you.”

You rolled your eyes, “You trusted the serial killers who promised they weren’t going to hurt me?! Gee, what a smart detective you are, let’s blindly trust the guys who have a death wish for me!”

Choso had the nerve to look offended at that. You didn’t bother holding back your glare, anxious to hear the reasoning behind this betrayal. His hands tightening against the wheel told you there was some turmoil—as if that would resolve the bubbling fury that had you debating about taking the wheel and driving you both off the road.

“My partners went back to the place, searching for evidence.” He spared a look towards you as if confirming you’d shrink in on yourself at the mention of that Halloween Night. “It was rigged to explode after they found some evidence. My other partners that were meant to guard him….”

His tired eyes were blinking in a futile effort to hold back tears. Thankfully he had the decent to pull over before clasping his hands over his tired face. With only the light sniveling filling the car, you were forced to remember that night. The fire. The blood. It was all too much. You reached for the handle of the door, pulling at it to get into the open fields Choso pulled in. Only to find the door would not give.

“(Y/n), their funerals will be closed caskets and the cause of death will be chalked to some accident that explains the state of the bodies.”

He was trying to look at you, to get you to look at him. The droplets clouding your vision and the frantic breathing you were trying to regulate weren’t helping. Recognizing your struggling he grasped your hands, holding them the way he did when you first fought to retell the tale that imprisoned one of the most infamous killers to exist. Rubbing his rough thumbs over your knuckles in comforting circles encouraging you to slowly inhale and exhale.

“They did that to the ones they wanted dead for years. They told me, the last thing they wanted to do was harm a hair on your head.”

The tears were running as Choso pulled you into a hug, listening to you blubber about it being a lie.

“I think if they wanted you dead they would have done so by now.”

His assessment was crude but the truth. Deep down underneath the fear and noxious feeling of encountering those two again, there was still disbelief. A part of you that always denied that the friends you’d seen reveal themselves to you would ever think about reducing you to one of their many victims. Perhaps for your sanity, you’ll have to trust in the friends you know. The friends that confided in such a secret all that time ago.

“So your brother…anyone else?”

He knew what you meant and as he lit a cigarette; he answered with a puff.

“The whole town. Practically wiped out the entire workforce with the stunt they pulled.”

He inhaled with a wince, taking in another painful huff. He hated smoking.

“If they did do anything the whole town would be completely at their mercy…”

Reaching into his coat pocket, you pulled out a cigarette for yourself swiping his lighter to enjoy your cancer stick. Both of you fill the inside of the car with your despair, smoking your anxieties into something smaller. Hopefully weaker.

“Well if it’s for your brother and the whole town then I guess it’s a worthy sacrifice.”

Both of you joylessly laughed, taking long pained drags of the sticks—all the while licking at the tears that escaped your blinking eyes. A couple more puffs of smoke were had before Choso pulled back onto the road.

For whatever reason things were lighter as if that would take away to the possibly dangerous future you’d be subjected to.

“When you can, you should take Itadori to see the city. That’ll really change his life.”

“Any places you recommend?”

“Do you want a list?”

It was nice to fill the space with something positive—a rare activity you two partook in after the court case. It was nice to do it one last time.

The drive wasn’t much longer, eventually pulling up to a small neatly painted house with no car in sight, if it weren’t for Choso’s intel you’d have been none the wiser.

As he put the car in park, he looked at you. As sincerely as he’s always done despite visible tiredness in his face. His arm wrapped around yours with a hesitant hand.

“If you really don’t want to do this you don’t have to. You can punch me and we can say you ran off into those cornfields we passed by earlier.”

Mustering a smile as you leaned your head against his chest, “I’ll be fine Choso. Say ‘hi’ to Yuji for me.”

He helped you get your bags, knocking in a specific tune on the door. The door opened and an old woman revealed herself, welcoming you with a warm smile inviting you both inside. You looked to Choso in confusion as you followed closely behind leading you to a parlour filled with hideously dated and flowery decor. She insisted you sit, promising to fix some lemonade for you both.

“Oh, young man can I have your help with this? I’d get it myself if it weren’t so high.”

Choso hurriedly followed after her, sending a look for you to sit and relax.

This felt weird throwing off your expectations for your meeting with the murderous duo. Managing the burden of a fate to come you allowed your hands and eyes to wander. Letting your eyes glaze over with thoughts of how old the intricate wooden end stand is. Playing with the frayed edges of the quilt decoratively draped over the couch. It kept you distracted long enough, finally breaking out when you saw the long and pale hands coming to wrap around your chest. In a perfect world, it would have been Choso being oddly affectionate but these fingers were longer than his, sculpted to the very knuckle to become a living weapon. Accompanied by an inhale against the top of your head the owner of these hands pulled you further against the back of the couch; further pulling you into the warm soft and sturdy chest of a man you’d feared. A curtain of silky black hair much longer than you remembered dropped just past your shoulders, daring you to look up at its owner who refused you the luxury of space as the shadow-colored eyes stared deeply into yours.

“Hello, Dove. You look radiant as ever.”

Velvety as the day he testified and was sentenced was Suguru Geto. Older but just as handsome as the day you met; exuding the air of gentleness that made anyone feel at ease. That is until he didn’t need to. Those hands long and spindly trailed from your chest and on to your neck tracing your collarbone through your clothes. Finally resting on the middle of your neck, index fingers toying with the organ underneath your skin.

“Hum for me Dove.”

It was just like old times, unwilling to speak and yet plagued by the demand into those dark eyes to give something. So you hummed broken and uneven, in your ears it was hardly the symphony he claimed it was. But it didn’t really matter what you thought now.

“That’s my Dove.”

He annunciated proudly moving his hands to hold your face up, keeping you in place as he softly explored your mouth. Nibbles were soft but urgent as though there was a timer for this reacquaintance unlocking the memories of this exact kiss.

Under the stairwell after a big game, the first after the reveal. Satoru was insistent you come, unable to goad a word out of you, he had you hum. A promise to come to their game and cheer them on. As per usual they won, despite suffering from so many late players the team relied on their surviving all-star players. Unsurprisingly Satoru was majorly credited with their win, allowing Suguru to pick you out from the cheering crowd leading you under the stairwell.

“Aren’t you proud of me, Dove? Show me how proud of me you are.”

The kiss was just like this, still soft but needy. Hands methodically wandering to allow for an opening; some easier access to melt his body into yours in the minutes he had before the others came. It was just like this.

“Aw gorgeous, you missed us?”

Playful as always and hands eagerly running under the hem of your shirt to rub thumbs along the soft expanse of your skin. Pecks in between the hands creeping higher all the while Sugure tightens his grip on your jaw a warning not to forget him. Not ever again.

When Suguru does pull away it’s to suck at your neck, holding you by your shoulders as you’re hands wiggle with uncertainty. Even subconsciously you hesitate to have your hands reciprocate while the two assaulted you with kisses that were getting rougher by the minute. Satoru ignored Suguru when he climbed up higher to meet your lips; and worked to intertwine his fingers with yours. With another attempt, he roughly pulled at Suguru’s lips with his teeth demanding they share a deep kiss of their own before returning to you.

“Oh Gorgeous we’ve been waiting to do this since forever.”

Two more final pecks from each of them, allowed you to breathe leaving you limp and pliable for the especially touchy Gojo Satoru who slotted you into his lap as he settled onto the older couch. Suguru sat closely his arm reaching over the top of the couch to let his hand rub at your neck once again.

“Missed you at the airport.”

The pit in your stomach returned at the loaded judgment and came with a pinch into your side. Under Suguru’s scrutinizing gaze and the feeling of Satoru’s eyes from behind you, had you hoping to defend yourself.

“I thought you were going to kill me.”

You said it with attempted laughter, begging for the laughter of the killers you’ve feared for years–all to confirm that still wasn’t the plan.

Suguru in his forever-contained demeanor sent you a smile with half-lidded eyes. The most unclear answer to the anxiety that hadn’t rested even with the butterflies of kissing these two again. The vibration of a laugh from behind wasn’t an answer either and neither were the muscular arms circling you.

Suguru released your neck, and brought his hand to hold up his head,” So you and the detective. Did you get together, after I left?”

The growl behind his smile reminded you of why it took so much courage to speak out. Something you bore witness to since the couple decided to reveal themselves to you. Not only for the fear of ending up like their victims but for the entirely personal punishment only Suguru in all his infinite fury could conjure.

“No! I’ve been single this whole time.”

That got you a squeal from Satoru who lightly squeezed you tightly into him giving light pecks to your neck. Not stopping anytime soon you turned your attention back to Suguru, who still didn’t look pleased.

“Hm, I’m not convinced.”

The nonchalant claim made you feel like crying again. You remember this conversation when it came to an old friend. Even when you pleaded, silently albeit he’d scoff and smile at you while he remained ‘unconvinced’. Kissing your forehead before leaving to claim another victim for the masked killer.

“He brought you to me …he-he convinced me to talk.”

That wasn’t true. It was you. Through a month of self-care and therapy, you were able to muster the ability to speak again. Choso was great support but it was you who did it. You who gained the courage to move away and restart your life away from the memories of your serial killer boyfriends. Speaking of, you whimper at the sting of pain along your neck.

Straining your gaze to look at the man whose admiring the mark on your neck. Despite the loving caressing of his hand along your neck, the glare of Satoru Gojo was just as frightening as the killer sitting across from you.

“I don’t know I think that’s all the more reason!”

You couldn’t restrain yourself from silently pleading with Suguru looking deeper into the house where Choso disappeared with the older woman. Suguru sent a hand through his unrestrained hair as he sighed.

“I’m not pleased with you (Y/n). Telling on us like you did someone’s got to pay.”

You could hear Gojo smirk behind you.

“So what do you say, babe round 3 of our favorite Halloween Night?”

Suguru released his locks as he mockingly stuck his nose to the sky,“I’ll think about it.”

Suddenly the rickety old house shook from a plane overhead; thinking nothing of it you expectantly looked at Suguru who seemed to be debating. Only for him to abruptly stand and make his way to the door. Satoru hopped up with you in tandem refusing to let you walk on your own without him clinging onto you.

They both made their way to the back porch where the very plane you’d refused to ride a day ago was releasing its stairs. With the steps fully extended Satoru tugged you along as Suguru began to ascend. With the question of Choso’s life still hanging in the balance you dug your feet into the ground pointing at the house which Satoru barely acknowledged until you’ve turned yourself in his direction.

“Wait! My bags! Choso has my bags!”

That had Suguru coming down the steps faster than you could turn; feeling that familiar grip on your jaw as he forced your gaze on him.

“You don’t get to choose if we bring that with you. I didn’t get to choose what I got to bring when you sent me to that cell. ”

You held your gaze as you stood your ground, “Not him. Be mad at me! Not him.”

For a moment those black depths flashed with something violent; a glimpse of what hundreds had seen in their last moments.

It wasn’t for you but how could you know that?

Suguru sighed lessening his grip on your jaw, using both his hands to hold your face. Running his thumbs along the creases of your face as if he had to remember the texture of your skin against his own. Since his reunion with Gojo, he fought tears, pulling you into a hug. One you returned on instinct, somehow even with the blood splattered on his face with the mask of a serial killer hanging on his head he was still your friend. As Gojo closed in from behind you you reminded that you felt the same for him; more than certain that you’d be rendered the same helpless witness to the deaths of so many friends. It would always end this way.

with them at the end of the blade, with the power they’d always have.

Satoru settled a hand on your waist and his other on Suguru’s face, his smile as warm and welcoming as the day you first met.

“Come on you two. Let’s spend this Halloween together. We’ll figure out the rest later.”

Finally entering the plane a part of you felt like you lost. That you succumbed to the imbalanced rulers of the system. But the largest part of you knew since you’d gotten involved with these two, you’d been given the footprint of a giant and it really would be better for everyone if you let them win especially this once.

At least with certainty, you can say this Halloween no one else is dying because of you.

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talesof-old · 3 months ago

Text

lay me down | r.l., s.b., j.p., & l.e.

pairing(s): poly!marauders + lily x fem!reader

warning(s): 18+, smut, sexual and nonsexual intimacy, mentions of war, near death experiences, mentions of child abuse, mentions of scars, talk of death, using potions for pain management, fingering (f receiving), piv, talk of pregnancy, Lily’s pregnant ???, the human need to fuck after a traumatic event, this started as one thing and then took a really weird turn — ends abruptly bc i needed to finish this :/

word count: 8.3k

masterlist

war leaves none untouched

Your hands shook as you smoothed a dittany balm over James’ newest magic induced injury.

Tonight has been a close call. Too close.

Lily was still arguing with the others in the living room, voice pinched and pitchy, eyes lined with livid tears. You sighed, rubbing a hand over your face as if to will away the adrenaline. Things were getting worse.

“Hey,” James caught your other hand, his thumb tracing gentle patterns into your skin. You observed the action with glazed eyes. All you could see was the Death Eater, wand spouting an all too familiar green spark before you were tackling James away from its trail. There’d been so many of them.

So many trying to kill you these past few months it was going to eat you alive. They’d keep coming, and you’d keep fighting, even if it ended with you six feet under.

“We’re alright, sweets. Alive and whole.” You glanced up at his face. Earnest, and worried, with a crinkle between his brows that nearly had you reaching out to smooth it.

“You almost died.”

The words were a broken whisper as they left your lips. His eyes softened further, reaching to pull you into a solid embrace as Lily continued to rant on about recklessness and careless stupidity. Tears burned at your eyes so you squeezed them shut, burying your face in James’ neck.

“I know we made some terrible decisions, but we’re gonna live to see another day, yeah? Promise.” You huffed, responding with a shaky giggle.

“I don’t know, Remus and Sirius might not with the lashing Lily’s giving ‘em.”

He chuckled and squeezed you against him, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. You breathed in deeply with the hope of settling your frazzled nerves. James’ scent washed over you, a combination of his favorite cologne and sweat, lulling you into a place of safety you never wanted to leave.

“There you are.”

Lily’s frigid voice drew you away from James. He turned towards her, watching her with a sheepish apology written all over his face. Remus and Sirius ducked into the bedroom behind her, both wincing at her tone. You moved, leaving James and crossing over to the other two, taking stock of any potential injuries. Lily had done a little, though you knew she could’ve done more. Holding your tongue, you grabbed your first aid supplies, motioning for the boys to sit so you could heal their scrapes and cuts.

Sirius’ were minor, a scrape along his left arm and a cut on his right hand, plus a few bruises here and there. You kissed his forehead when you finished, moving on to your tallest partner.

Remus at least had the decency to wince when you started working on his worst injury, though part of that might’ve been his increased sensitivity with the approaching full moon. You gnawed on your inner cheek. His upper left thigh held a deep cut still oozing blood, the skin red and angry around the wound. You slipped into the bathroom, ignoring Lily and James as you passed by them, wetting a fresh rag and returning to clean the offensive gash.

You were used to this. Lily and you were the healers of the bunch, normally passing around the first aid kit like it was your calling, healing and cleaning as you went. Your mouth pressed into a tight line as you worked, a silent, wandless spell already closing up the majority of the injury. A dollop of dittany balm across the now much shallower cut worked like a charm, and soon all that remained was a pinkish scar.

Remus watched you as you went, cleaning any wound and healing it just as fast, goosebumps covering his skin. It took you a few moments to realize that the room had gone silent, and that all of them were looking at you expectantly.

You blinked, mouth twisting into a frown. Remus reached for your hand, a gentle grasp on your wrist as he guided you to the bed next to him.

“Are you alright?” The words were soft as they left him, warm, honey colored eyes seeming to stare into your soul. You drew in a sharp, shaky breath.

“I’m fine. Promise.” There was a weak smile plastered onto your lips that you were sure looked fake, but you couldn’t muster any energy to make it look real. Exhaustion gripped your very bones, and all you wanted to do was take a quick shower and go to sleep.

“You don’t have to pretend-“ Lily was the next to speak, though James was already shaking his head, eyes never leaving you. If there was one person in the room who could pick up on when to press an issue, it was him.

“Come here, sweets.” You finished packing the first aid kit, leaving it on the bed as James tugged you towards the bathroom, the shower already started. The mirror began to fog up, steam rising to the ceiling as you undressed. James followed suit.

You stepped into the shower; time seemed to slow down and speed up all at once. Water rushed over your sore limbs, working better than any spell to ease the tension between your shoulders. You sighed as James entered the shower behind you, warm hands coming up to caress your ribcage.

“‘M tired, James. Tired of having to fight all the time.” He smoothed his hands over your shoulders, simply letting you vent as he lathered up soap and a wash rag before handing it to you. You went silent again, cleaning the dirt and sweat off of your body. A panic had settled into your chest when the war started, and it seemed as though with each passing month, it coiled tighter and tighter around your heart.

“I know.” Those simple words were enough to break the dam you’d been keeping strong. A sob bubbled up from your throat and before you knew it you’d thrown your arms around James and shook in his grasp. He held you close, rocking you through every sob and hiccup as though he could somehow soothe away the fear.

“You’ve been so strong, sweets, let us take care of you.” You sniffed, thankful you were in the shower and not out in the bedroom, where everyone would’ve seen you crying. There was not a part of you that hadn’t held steady since everything went to shit. You’d been the one to comfort, the one to help, the voice of level reason. You haven’t stumbled once.

But the thought of losing James, or any of them?

You would never recover.

He pulled away from you, pressing a watery kiss to your forehead before washing himself. You stepped out from the water to let him rinse off, though your fingers twitched with the need to comfort yourself by touching him. A lopsided grin made its way to his face, though it was obvious to you that he couldn’t see a damn thing. Some part of you warmed at the fact that James couldn’t really see you with his glasses off. Your shower cap and snotty face was not exactly an image you wanted out there.

“I’m gonna go check on the others, okay? Gotta get some food together.” He pulled you towards the warm water again, his fingers running over the skin of your arms.

“Take your time. It’s okay to need support.” He pulled the curtain to the side just enough to pop out onto the bathroom mat and dry himself off. You could already imagine his messy black hair and comfy clothing. An ache settled in you that had you turning off the shower and reaching for a clean towel.

It didn’t take very long for you to get dressed, the lotion you used a birthday gift from Lily that you had taken to rationing for special occasions.

You felt like using it.

It reminded you of a certain redhead, of her signature floral and ink perfumes. You breathed in deeply, willing that ache away. It did you no good.

Instead, you let your mind wonder to other things, like the upcoming full moon. Just four days away, not even a week into December, but you knew Remus was having a hard time this month. He’d been jumpy, sensitive to touch, spent. You hoped that the potion you’d been working on would help, but all it seemed to do was dull the pain. That counted for something.

You didn’t have the energy to deal with your hair, choosing to pull it into a loose ponytail at the base of your neck to deal with tomorrow. James had been kind enough to grab some of your clothes; loose pajamas were slipped over your body and socks pulled into your feet and then you were leaving the safety of being alone. The door swung open soundlessly.

Sirius bounded past you, whatever he’d decided to say muffled as he shut the door and turned on the shower.

You sighed. Briefly, you wondered if this is how Remus felt every full moon: every bit a stranger in his own body, aching from head to toe with skin that felt much too tight. You shook your head, wrapping your arms around yourself and making your way into the kitchen.

Lily was a whirlwind, putting together a meal of omelettes. James dutifully obeyed each of her commands, but you saw the way they both faltered. They were just as weary as the rest of you. Guilt bubbled in your chest as you turned away, choosing to approach Remus instead. You gently pressed yourself into his side where he was practically laying on the kitchen island. He glanced down at you, eyes bleary but far too seeing for you to handle. You buried your face into his arm. The pressure of your face against his bicep was enough to distract you from the tears that threatened to fall once again.

He cooed, shifting your body until your face was pressed against his chest and a soothing hand ran up and down your back.

The clatter of a plate near you had you startling. James rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly, though he made a gesture to the plate.

“Eat up. You need food ‘fore you go to bed.”

You huffed, but reached for the fork he offered you anyway. None of you had eaten since early this morning, and even then it was nothing but granola bars and juice. Merlin, one of you needed to go grocery shopping.

Remus watched you eat like a hawk, making sure you ate every bite. Warmth spread across your face. You’d gotten better about remembering to eat, but they hadn’t forgotten about the mission that nearly ended with you in a casket because you went dizzy.

Lily set a glass of juice down in front of you and paused, hesitancy written across her features. You deflated. “Lily-“

Then she was crushing you, arms wrapped tight around your shoulders as she pulled you from Remus’ side into her, body trembling. Today could’ve ended much differently. If you hadn’t been fast enough, it would’ve been James or you that died. You melted into her touch, her soft body melding into yours until you weren’t sure where you ended and she began.

“I’m sorry.” Almost unrecognizable in tone, and filled with unshed tears, you said the phrase that all five of you hardly ever uttered. There wasn’t much else you could say. You wouldn’t promise to never do it again. If it meant saving them, you’d do it a million times over.

“I love you.” The words made you tighten your grip, burying your face in her neck. She still needed a shower, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to care. It was Lily: she had been there for you the moment you stepped onto the train to Hogwarts, and she’d be there for you until she drew her last breath.

“I love you too.”

She pulled herself from you, a hand coming up to caress your face. Her eyes searched yours for a moment, and when she seemed content with what she found, she went back to her cooking. Your heart ached at the distance, like a mournful puppy, and you slunk back to Remus’ side. He had no problems tucking you into his arms.

“Mine ready yet?” Sirius bounded in like a burst of energy, loud and eyes sharp. Remus scoffed and nuzzled his nose into your hair.

“Dunno, are you finally done with the bathroom?” Sirius smacked a hand against his chest in mock indignation, eyes opened wide with a teasing look of shock. You couldn’t help but smile.

“Are you suggesting I spend too long in the shower?” Remus shrugged, lips quirked up in a lazy smirk. Another plate was placed on the island and your now empty one was whisked away, James using magic to keep up with Lily’s demands. Comfortable silence settled, interrupted only by the clatter of pans and silverware.

You sipped on your juice while the others ate, and before long, James was waving a wand to clean and put away the dishes. He pulled you away from Remus, ignoring both of your half-hearted protests. His arms wrapped around your shoulders like a comforting blanket, slowly guiding you back towards one of the bedrooms.

You sighed against him.

With the shut of the door and a, “Sweets, let me take care of you,” James lead you to the bed and tugged on your oversized shirt. You shook your head. His grin turned teasing, his eyes sparkling in the artificial light coming from one of the few lamps still on.

“How dirty minded of you, I didn’t even mean it that way.” You shook your head and laughed, pulling off your trousers to just sleep in your shirt and pants. It didn’t take much for you to settle into bed, eyes closed and breath steady.

“Let me hold you?” Featherlight fingers traced over your bare thigh, but nothing could hide the uncertainty in James’ voice. You peaked over at him, his eyes on you even though his glasses sat on the edge of the bedside table. Something akin to grief tugged at your heart. It took a lot to truly shake up James—you couldn’t remember the last time he’d looked like this.

“James.”

That one word, just his name, was enough for everything to come spilling out. A tidal wave of emotion on an already broken shore. Tears pricked at your eyes again and you inwardly cringed, wondering if perhaps your period was nearly here because there was no other reason for you be crying like this.

“You almost died.” James’ words were spoken with enough intensity that it startled you. Sure, James was often passionate about a great many things, but the fire in his eyes burned differently this time. You knew why.

In just six months, you’d almost been killed on three separate occasions, and that was just you. The others had run ins of their own that nearly went south.

Pain twisted James’ pretty lips, his dark brown eyes as focused on you as they could be.

“You could’ve been killed! And it would’ve been my fault. I chose to follow after them, I put us in danger even after you begged me not-“

You cut him off with a kiss far harsher than you meant it to be. He startled at that, but was quick to use his arm to pull you against him, ruffling the sheets you were laid out on. He remained tense despite it, so you continued, kissing down his prickly chin and neck. He’d complain later when he had to shave.

“It wasn’t just your fault, James. I love you, and I don’t blame you for what happened. Were you the one pointing that wand?” You might’ve murmured the words against the skin of his collarbone, but you pulled away to look at his face once you finished speaking. A faint blush warmed his cheeks and neck, a pretty flush on his brown complexion.

You raised a brow. “Well?”

A shaky breath left his lips and he shook his head, fingers coming to play with the hem of your sleep shirt.

“I love you, James Potter. And I always want you around, ‘kay? You can hold me whenever you like.” He nodded, face even redder than before. You nearly giggled, choosing to instead bury your face in his neck and breathing in deeply. “Goodnight, Prongs.”

You woke up to complete darkness.

Well, not complete darkness, if the moonlight shining in through the curtains had anything to say about it. A sigh left you. At least you’d gotten a couple of hours of rest before your body decided being awake was preferable.

Faint snoring could be heard from the other side of the bed, quiet enough to let you know it was Lily. For a split second, you wondered if she’d let you finally run some tests tomorrow. She’d been complaining about sore breasts and nausea she attributed to a late period and stress, but you weren’t of the same belief. It’s not that you wanted her to be pregnant, you were all still so young, but it was bound to happen eventually.

Better her than you.

You cursed softly at the thought before slowly sitting up, careful not to wake up James or Lily as you eased off the mattress and padded across the hardwood floors. The door hinges were silent as you opened it, and then the door was clicking shut behind you, leaving you alone. You breathed in and out deeply.

Water was first on your list of things to acquire, and you settled into the couch with the glass in your hand and a blanket around you. Your books on different kinds of healing littered the living space (much to James and Lily’s dismay), but you almost always knew exactly where each was. You rolled your shoulders.

The minutes ticked by, your books illuminated by your wand as you studied. It wasn’t unusual to find you hunched over a book, eyes scanning every inch of the page to ensure you remembered the information spread out in front of you. The chapter you were currently reading was about the mental effects of certain spells, and it was engrossing enough that you missed the creak of a door opening down the hall.

“You’re up late.” You jumped, your own hand slapping over your mouth to muffle your yelp. Your heart ached in your chest as adrenaline rushed through your veins. Remus chuckled quietly and settled onto the couch next to you. He stretched, wincing as his bones popped before falling limp on the cushions. You bite at your lip before placing your book on the coffee table, choosing to instead shift closer to him. He let you, honey colored eyes framed by dark circles watching your every move.

“Why’re you up, hm?” You gently laid your head on his shoulder, your entire body pressed to his. He let out a tired sigh, letting his head fall to rest on yours. Every inch of him was rigid, like one wrong move and his bones would snap. You reached over to trace circles along his bare legs, his boxer briefs riding up just enough for you to stroke the edge of a particularly brutal scar on his upper thigh. His muscles flexed underneath your hand.

“James didn’t fucking give me time t’see if you were alright.” There was no animosity coloring his tone, just bitter resignation that had you humming, fingers still tracing over his scars. You understood James’ need to confess his guilt, but you didn’t even utter a word to Sirius before you fell asleep. You ran your tongue across the back of your teeth.

“Are you alright? And Sirius?” Remus nuzzled into your head, the action similar enough to a dog you would’ve normally laughed.

“Jus’ tired.” You nodded, hand coming to a standstill on his leg. Remus shifted, not bothering to hide the pained gasp that built in his throat. You pulled away from him, ignoring his whine, and were already crossing the room when he rasped, “What are you doing?”

You opened the potions cabinet, pulling out the last vial from your tester batch. A hopefully potent pain relief you’d been formulating for months. It glittered in your wand’s light, a beautiful shimmering pale blue. You’d originally tried to make a potion to help Remus’ transformations, but when that hadn’t worked, you’d turned to managing symptoms instead. This was basically meant to be a cure all, and a dropper full allowed you to go without pain for a full 24 hours with no side effects.

“My next batch will be ready to decant tomorrow, so I’m making you take this tonight.” Remus nodded, though you weren’t even sure he’d attempt to argue. It didn’t take away the unsteadiness brought about by the full moon, or the discomfort, but the pain was the worst part so you’d do what you could. You handed over the vial, settling down next to him once again. He pretended not to grimace as he popped the lid off of the glass bottle. The smell of bitter greens wafted towards you but you managed to keep a straight face.

Remus brought the bottle to his lips and tipped it back, nearly gagging at the less than agreeable taste. You patted his shoulder. He discarded the bottle and pulled you back against him, arms wrapped around your upper body. One of his hands rested directly above your heart, thumping beneath his palm like a steady drum. His muscles relaxed as the potion began to work its magic.

“Can’t believe you f’cking did that, ya know? Think I nearly had a damn heart attack when I saw that bloody spell almost hit ya.” His thumb ran over the hem of your shirt, edging over your collarbone. You took his moment of silence as a chance to study him. Messy curly hair that had grown just a tad bit longer than he liked, softer waves turning into tighter ringlets the longer he let it get. A newer scar on his cheekbone to add to the few that spanned across his face. It was only when you met his gaze that you knew he was studying you just the same.

“‘M glad you’re alive, dove.” Affection bled into his words, a far more frequent occurrence as of late. You smiled softly.

“Me too.”

The moon slowly moved across the sky, but the two of you stayed sitting on the couch, wrapped up in the comfort of simply being next to each other. By the time you glanced at the clock, it read a simple 3:48am.

You groaned, choosing to instead move your body to straddle Remus, burying your face in his neck. He breathed a laugh, a large hand coming up to rest on your lower back as you got comfortable. You shimmied closer, ignoring his groan because you knew it had nothing to do with the moon. The potion had been working for nearly two hours now.

“We should go to bed.” He nodded sagely at your statement, though his fingers dug into your skin, pushing you down until your clothed cunt made contact with his half hard erection. Involuntarily, your hips rolled. He hissed. You smiled against his skin, arms wrapped around his torso as you pressed as close to him as possible. He let you, the sensitivity brought on by the moon turning him into something that craved intimacy and softness more than anything. Due to your and Lily’s curves, it wasn’t uncommon for Remus to hold either one of you close, basking in the comfort that you offered.

The week leading up the full moon normally saw an uptick to Remus’ sex drive, but two days before, he’d crash, needing nonsexual physical support instead. Any of you would jump through fire to make sure he got what he needed.

“Want you t’let me fuck you.” His soft voice hit your ears, breathy and hoarse with want. You rolled your hips again, cheek pressed to his collarbone.

“You sure?” He hummed, fingers coming to grip your hips. Nights like this made for lazy sex, nothing frantic or quick like what you’d often found yourself doing at school. You drew away from his chest, face to face. His eyes were half lidded, focused on your movements as though he already knew what you’d say.

You lifted a hand and carded your fingers through his hair. His eyes fluttered shut as you did so, and you wasted no time in moving in to press your lips to his. His fingers tightened against your skin, the fabric of your sleep shirt bunched in his palms. You smiled against his mouth. Remus sighed against you, melting into your touch as you trailed your fingers from the back of his head down his chest, all the way down until your fingers came to the hem of his t-shirt.

“Take this off f’me?” He was quick to oblige. You couldn’t help the girlish giggle that left your lips at his hasty attempt to remove his shirt. You’d had feelings for Remus the longest out of any of your partners, an innocent schoolgirl crush turned deep infatuation. Now, he called himself one of your husbands, and it sent your heart fluttering. He tossed his shirt onto the floor, not caring where it landed. Your eyes honed in on the small chub of his belly from his slouched position, the scars that lined his torso. He nearly jumped out of his skin when your fingers grazed over his happy trail, a soft groan falling from his mouth.

It took you just a few moments to discard your own shirt, your breasts exposed to the chilly air since you’d forgone wearing a bra to sleep. None of your partners ever made you feel anything less than beautiful, and right now was no exception. Remus’ pupils had blown wide, nearly drowning out their beautiful amber colour, dark with desire as he took in your heavy tits. You’d often complain to Lily about back pain from your larger breasts, and while Remus would never want you hurting, he loved the mounds on your chest more than anything. One of his hands came up to your breast, thumb flicking over your right nipple. Your breath hitched and you pressed further into him.

None of you had had the chance to actually be intimate in the past three weeks. Between missions, brewing potions, and healing people, there was simply no time. Exhaustion had sunk its claws deep into each of you, and none had a chance to escape it.

“Always so pretty f’me, dove, always s’perfect.” Remus’ other hand, the one not preoccupied with your breasts, splayed across your lower back, almost as low as your arse. You arched into him, trapping his hand between each of your chests, though you weren’t sure he minded. He let you grind against him, the two of you in nothing but your undergarments. You ran your hands over his back, his shoulders, his arms, anywhere you could reach, simply wanting to feel him.

Heat pooled in between your thighs, pulsing in time with your heart. Remus looked similarly affected.

“Come ‘ere.” He lifted you off of his lap, ignoring your pout, and began to pull down your panties. They were old, a ratty pair you’d normally wear on your period, but you didn’t care. They’d end up on the floor anyway. You moved your legs to pull them off and deposited them by the foot of the couch, Remus doing the same. His dick slapped against his abdomen, the same brown shade of his skin, though the tip was flushed a deep reddish shade that had your mouth watering.

Remus’ fingers gripped your chin before you could move towards it. Something sparked in his eyes.

“‘M gonna ‘ave to prep you first, dove.” You let your head fall to the side as if disappointed, but Remus was skilled with both his wicked tongue and long fingers. You squirmed and clenched your thighs, desperate for some kind of friction that you were currently deprived of.

He smirked, drawing you to him, lips soft against yours. He cupped your neck and jaw, thumb running atop your cheekbone. You were quick to run your tongue along the seam of his mouth. He parted his lips ever slightly, teasing you as if he believed you’d force them apart. Instead, you drew back your tongue and simply deepened the kiss, forgoing any need to breathe. Remus was all you wanted to know, all you wanted to think about.

He moved, lips trailing from the edge of yours down your jaw, coming to suck on the sweet spot at the junction of your collarbone and neck. Your head fell, baring more of your throat to him. He sucked and nipped as he pleased, and it was only when you were trembling beside him did he gently guide your thighs apart. You shivered in anticipation. Rough fingertips caressed the tender skin of your inner thighs, wandering higher and higher until they were right where you wanted them. You nearly keened as Remus ran his fingers over your lower lips, spreading them apart to thumb at your clit.

“Quiet.”

He chuckled at your near silent whine and buck of your hips, urging him to do something other than tease you. He traced along your slit before dipping just the tip of his middle finger into you, testing your wetness. You hummed, rocking onto it, taking him deeper. He tutted softly, palm grinding against your clit, the roughness enough to send little jolts of pleasure through your body.

It didn’t take long for you to take the entirety of his finger, body jerking as he added his ring finger. He curled his fingers, a quiet, broken moan leaving your lips. He chuckled against your skin. Remus let you ride his fingers, scissoring and curling them expertly until his fingertips grazed some spongy spot inside of you. A strangled gasp echoed through the dark room.

Something tightened in your abdomen, your walls fluttering around Remus’ fingers. He grinned, thumb swiping over your clit in a much more targeted manner. Your hips rolled uncontrollably. Remus kept up with the circling of your bundle of nerves, every inch of your body taut as the coil went tight. He smirked as you gripped his hair and pulled him over to you, a clash of lips and tongue as your orgasm washed over you. Your legs tightened around his arm as you ride out the waves of your orgasm, thighs slick with cum by the time it’s over.

Remus withdrew his fingers with a squelch, immediately sticking them in his mouth and licking them clean. You whined, pussy clenching on nothing as he rearranged himself, turning to sit with his back pressed against the armrest of the couch, the cushions to his left. Your grin was hazy with lust and sleep, but you straddled him all the same.

He gave his dick a few pumps, precum spread along the shaft to help ease any pain. Your eyes hungrily took in the way his fingers looked wrapped around his pretty cock. His hands shook as he aligned himself with your opening.

You whined with sensitivity as he gently guided you into his dick, the head prodding at your entrance. You slowly sink down, pausing every few moments to accommodate the girth of him. Remus’ dick was longer than the others, and fairly large all things considered. It took you ages to get used to the feeling. Your pussy stretched, stuffed full as you rocked your hips to ease any uncomfortable sensation.

Remus hissed as you did so, shallowly thrusting to help you along. Soon enough, you’d taken him completely, bodies flush to each other. You clenched hard around him, relishing in the throaty moan that fell from his lips. His hands palmed at your arse, urging you to still as he gathered himself. You tilted your head forward, forehead pressed against his, noses touching. He tightened his grip on you, arms coming to twine around your waist. The closeness had your heart aching.

A few moments passed before you gave an experimental roll of your hips, Remus responding with a sharp thrust. The two of you found a rhythm, grinding and thrusting against one another in an almost lazy manner, relishing in each other’s touch. Heat spread through your entire body, turning your limbs soft and your mind fuzzy. You pressed another kiss to his lips.

Remus adjusted his arms, letting one of his hands come down to your pussy and swiping across your clit. You shivered against him. Pleasure snaked up your spine as he circled your sensitive clit, his body responding in kind. With every thrust, his balls tightened and throbbed, urging him to spill inside of you. You clenched around him again.

“Fuck, fuck-“

Broken groans and gasps muffled only by locked lips filled the space, along with Remus’ murmurs. You let your head fall to his shoulder, the vibrations of his voice lulling you closer to your orgasm.

“S’good f’me, s’pretty, so tight.” He was babbling, his last word punctuated by a sharp thrust, hitting a spot inside of you that had you seeing stars. You moaned, thighs trembling as something deep inside you knotted and tightened. His thrusts turned sloppy and frantic. You rolled your hips in time with his movements, every swipe across your clit sending you hurtling towards an edge.

Remus’ dick throbbed inside of you, and then you were in free fall, gasping and moaning as your pussy clenched like a vice around him. He grunted, following you in climax. He coated your inner walls, still rocking against you as you both came back down to earth.

You shook, falling limp in his lap. He chuckled wearily, both of you hissing as he slid out, pliable in his arms as he nuzzled into your breasts.

“Moony?”

In your chase of pleasure, the two of you didn’t hear the opening and closing of a bedroom door, nor the padding of bare feet on hardwood floors. You nearly jumped out of Remus’ lap in surprise, your head whipping around to face Sirius. He stood in the entrance to the hallway with messy hair and an amused expression. You settled into Remus’ arms again.

“And what do you two think you’re doing?” You huffed, reaching out a hand and making grabby motions towards your husband. He smiled widely, quiet as he crossed the room and settled beside you. His gray eyes swept over your naked bodies, at the wetness that coated each of your thighs and the glow of your faces.

“Could’ve asked me to join.” The words came out petulant, and if it wasn’t 4am you’d be laughing loudly. You hummed.

“You could join us now?” Sleep lined his face, though it was rapidly leaving as the seconds ticked by and you both remained unclothed next to him. Sirius sighed dramatically before shifting his body to curl up next to the two of you. Remus remained quiet, his thumb tracing circles on your left hip.

“Dunno if ‘m up for it…” You buried your fingers in Remus’ brown hair, peppering kissing along his cheeks and forehead. He scrunched his nose at the affection, though his eyes bled a warmth you knew meant he enjoyed it. Sirius halfheartedly pouted next to you. You tugged on the hair at the nape of Remus’ neck, lips trailing down from his jaw to his bobbing Adam’s apple, ignoring the way Sirius squirmed beside you. Remus panted as you continued your ministrations, skin decorated in a mosaic of rapidly reddening skin.

“Nope, enough. My turn.” Sirius all but dragged you away from his lap, tugging you into him like a child would his favorite toy. You rolled your eyes. He nuzzled into your hair, which by now had turned into a haphazard mess from sleeping and sex.

“I’m glad you’re alive, darling.” You nodded against him, sleep pulling at you more harshly than before. You yawned, choosing instead to burrow into his chest and close your eyes. Sirius ran a hand up and down your back—a soothing tactic he’d learned from Remus.

“Tomorrow?” He murmured against your temple. You snuggled closer to him and hummed, blindly reaching out to grab ahold of Remus’ hand. Warm fingers intertwined with yours and you sighed contently, finally letting your body sleep again.

At some point during the early hours of the morning, one of the boys had wrapped you up in a blanket and moved you to lay down. Sirius curled his long body around yours, one arm draped around your waist to hold you in place. Soft voices rose from the kitchen, leaving you groaning as it pulled you from dreamless oblivion.

“Morning, love.” Gentle fingers grazed over your hair, tucking it behind your ear. You preened at Lily’s soft touch. She giggled quietly. James whispered something to Remus, to which the taller man elbowed him in the ribs. He yelped, huffing laughter filling the room. Sirius groaned, tightening his grip on you and forcing you back into the warm cocoon he’d created for you. Lily clicked her tongue.

“Here.”

She offered one of the longer pillows on the floor and the two of you maneuvered it to replace your body. You grimaced at the state of your body. Neither you nor Remus cleaned up afterwards, leaving your thighs a now crusty mess.

Lily laughed, tossing you your shirt as she sauntered into the kitchen. You padded towards them, all too aware of your bare lower half. Remus smirked at your shyness and ran a finger along the bare skin of your arm, shivers following in its wake.

“So what time do you want to leave?” You glanced at the clock. 11:28am.

By now, the sun had well risen, which meant you’d probably see at least one or two other people at the potions ‘lab’. It truly wasn’t even a lab, originally starting out as a storage room at Headquarters.

“Uh,” you scrunched up your nose. “Give me thirty minutes?”

You didn’t leave until an hour later, Sirius still asleep on the couch and the other two pouring over defensive spells to practice. Lily clasped your hand as the two of you apparated away.

The ground disappeared from under you and suddenly reappeared, shiny hardwood floors replaced with dingy old ones. Lily stumbled a little beside you. You eyed her, her pale face twisted from nausea and tinged a faint green.

“Lily, I actually wanted to ask you something.” Her eyes were wide as she turned to you, though you were already moving across the room and offering her a rubbish bin. She took it, a grateful and sheepish expression on her face, as though she wasn’t sure if she would end up puking or not. Candles lined the space, adding additional light to the small window. You breathed a sigh of relief. The two of you were safe here, and potions were something you understood better than any other.

The walls were lined with used and unused bottles, ingredients in large glass jars, and bubbling cauldrons. Vapor from the potions spilled out along the floor, seeming to wrap around the legs of the tables before dissipating. You hummed as you looked from the potion of pain relief you’d been brewing.

The sound of gagging drew your eyes to Lily, and just a few moments later, she was vomiting into the container. Her eyes watered as she chucked up her breakfast, grimacing at the acidic feeling in her throat. You offered a look of sympathy and a little bag you'd packed just in case something like this happened.

“It’s so gross.”

You can’t help but snort at her dejected words, intentionally ignore her pointed glare.

“Take this.” After pressing a vial into her palm (a stomach soother that had been used by pregnant witches for ages), you begin to gather up all the supplies you’ll need to perform a pregnancy test. You wanted to get this done privately, without the boys hounding you or anyone else noticing.

Lily frowned as you closed and locked the door, motioning for her to take a seat at the large table you’d set up everything on.

“So I have a feeling,” you’d have to broach the topic carefully. A child, in times like these? You were losing a magical war because the Order of the Phoenix refused to fight dirty—not that you would ever say that aloud. But to bring a baby into the world with no certainty that you’d be alive to see them grow? Lily had once mentioned to you that she did want kids. That she’d wanted to be a mother.

You didn’t necessarily share the same sentiment, though you knew the risks of unprotected sex just the same as anyone else. Luck has been on your side up until now.

“I think you’re pregnant.” Time stopped.

Lily’s lips parted and she seemed to be frozen, though the frantic look in her eyes was enough to tell you she hadn’t. You reached across the wooden surface of the table and grabbed her hand, squeezing her fingers. She squeezed back, green eyes glazed.

Her cheeks flushed and you moved around the table to sit beside her, wrapping an arm around her shoulder.

“Are you sure? It could just be stress-“

You raised a brow, motioning to the items before you. There was a chance it was simply a scare. It couldn’t hurt to test it, though the implications threatened to make your heart explode.

“What if…” Her voice was thick with something you couldn’t place.

“It doesn’t matter. It could be a scare, but even if it isn’t, we’ve got time to figure it out.”

Her messy braid bobbed as she nodded, though her face remained dazed. You sighed, running a finger along the shape of her arm. Goosebumps followed your finger but Lily ignored it. With most situations, she’d shake off how she felt and put on a brave face, but a baby was throwing her off more than she must’ve been prepared for.

“Let’s just see, yeah?”

Lily grimaced in discomfort as the two of you apparated back home, trembling with nervous energy. Her free hand and fingers were constantly flexing beside her, eyes still as glazed as they were several hours ago. The only difference now was the way her hand would occasionally drift to her belly, then drop back down as though she was afraid it somehow wasn’t real. You squeezed the hand you were holding, tugging her into you and wrapping your other arm around her shoulders.

“Lils, I’m gonna need you to calm down, yeah? Everything is gonna be fine.” She huffed, but all you could do was grin. Anything was better than the state of shock she’d seemingly gone into. Maybe if you hadn’t been so caught up in the woman before you, you’d have noticed the morose atmosphere of the place you called home.

She squeezed you tighter.

“You promise?” A breath of laughter escaped you before you responded with, “Of course.”

You broke apart, light finally entering her eyes again. A gentle, happy smile crossed her lips. There was movement in another room, but you paid it no mind as you crossed the living room floor, the potion bottles in your bag clinking together. Following a positive pregnancy test, you’d spent much of your time decanting multiple potions while Lily began to brew new ones. She didn’t seem to mind whenever you checked over her work to make sure she did it right.

“James?”

You heard muffled voices down the hall, but it was the lack of response that had you pausing and drawing your wand. Lily did the same.

The two of you pressed forward through the house, apprehension coiling in your gut. Had someone found you all? Were the boys alright? Were they hurt?

You rounded the hallway, entering the only lit bedroom with a resigned face. If they were hurt, or god forbid, dead, what were you going to do? The thought was pushed away as soon as it entered your mind. No, they weren’t dead.

It was the sob that alerted you to something wrong, something that perhaps didn’t involve Death Eaters torturing your husbands. The door swung open to reveal a blotchy faced Sirius, still devastatingly beautiful with his watery grey eyes. James knelt beside him, rubbing a comforting hand on his thigh as Remus half-held him.

“Are you alright? What happened?”

James opened his mouth as if to speak, but was cut off by both Sirius’ glare and voice.

“I’m fine.”

You sighed, pocketing your wand and shooing the boys away. Lily fidgeted, unstable in the emotional whiplash of the last twenty-four hours, and you grabbed James’ arm.

“Lily wants to make a cake. Help her?” He nodded, sending one last distraught look towards his husband before exiting the room with Remus and Lily in tow. You turned back to the raven haired man.

“I thought we promised not to lie to each other anymore.”

He ran a hand over his face, wiping away the tears that streaked down his cheeks. Something lit up in his eyes. A fire you knew well, too well, perhaps. You raised a brow at the anger that rose up within him.

“You weren’t here. Do you have any idea what it was like to wake up after last night and see that you were gone?” Your eyes softened and you moved to sit next to him. He flinched away from you. “I thought I’d made up the whole thing, thought maybe you’d actually died and I had fooled myself into thinking you were real.”

“‘M right here, Siri. I’m alive, and breathing.” He shook his head, shaggy curls frantically moving as he did so. Each of you deserved better than this, you thought. None of it was fair.

“You almost weren’t.” You nodded. Nothing you could say would change the fact that you jumped into harm’s way to protect James. You’d do it again in a heartbeat, though you knew for a fact they would hate to hear that. Sirius picked at the skin by his nails, prying at already inflamed and tender skin.

“Love,” you wrapped a hand over Sirius’ trembling fingers. His expression continued to flash between anger and distress, tears lining his eyes. He kept his gaze on your joined hands. Pots and pans were clinking in the kitchen, punctuated occasionally by Remus’ soft laughter. You glanced out the open door.

“You can be as angry as you want with me, but you’re not allowed to push me away.”

He leaned his head back, swallowing hard. Silence stretched. You let it, focusing on the steady drum on your heartbeat and breath. Sirius fell into your breathing pattern.

With a low, hoarse whisper, Sirius turned to you. “I can’t lose any of you.”

You sighed, opening your arms and drawing him close. He pressed his face into your neck, cold nose pressing against your warm skin. You hummed and threaded your fingers through his hair.

“I promise to do what I can to keep myself alive.”

As you attempted to move, he gripped onto your coat, fingers tight on the dark wool blend. It proved a struggle to get up with him latched onto you, but you managed. The two of you shuffled down the hall towards the kitchen. Remus had pushed James away in favor of helping Lily mix up the ingredients, bumping hips every few minutes and exchanging soft smiles. James pouted off to the side, likely exiled due to his overeager attitude towards anything kitchen related.

Nearly all the prep work had been done already, and you shared a knowing look with Lily. Leftovers from the day before would be eaten tonight, finished off with a cake you’d decorate to let the boys know they’d be fathers. Lily seemed infatuated with the idea, and after convincing you she insisted on using blue frosting in the middle. You sighed against Sirius, leaning into his body. The great thing about magic was you were able to see what the sex of the baby was far earlier. Lily’s gasp and subsequent teary eyes had you agreeing to just about anything.

You discarded your coat along with your bag of potion vials, gently tossing it over the side of James’ favorite armchair, shuffling next to the man. Sirius remained by you, clinging to your form. James wrapped an arm over your shoulders, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. You buried your face into his chest. The three of you stayed there, wrapped up in each other, as Remus and Lily finished stirring the box cake mixture and poured it into the pan. Remus dropped it gently back into the counter, hoping to remove any bubbles. The oven’s soft beep let you know that it was ready. Your heart turned gooey warm and soft at the sight of Remus putting the cake into the oven and turning to wrap his arms around Lily.

“Heat up the food, would you?” Lily directed the request towards your trio, settling into Remus’ warmth. Sirius huffed beside you. He complied with little complaints, exhausted from the day he’d had. You melted further into James’ side.

Dinner was a quiet affair.

The lot of you spent most of your time actually enjoying the food you’d previously rushed through eating, comfortable silence broken only by the quiet noise coming from the radio. At some point, Remus got up to take the cake out of the oven, setting it on a hot pad to cool.

You glanced at Lily as James asked, “How were the potions?”

She paused, taking a sip of water as her green eyes flickered between the both of you. You sighed.

“It was fine. I got my next batch of pain killers bottled.” James nodded along. Sirius narrowed his eyes at Lily before looking at you expectantly. You shrugged, choosing to get up to check on the cake. You patted Remus’ shoulder as you went. “Anyone fancy a cuppa?”

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forhappysake · 11 months ago

Text

"Because I love you."

A/N - Guys I'm really into these sappy pieces recently. Pls feel free to send requests for something else if inspired. Also, I might be doing a pt.3 to Teach Me at some point, I just have to pick where the story is going.

Summary - A showdown with an unsub leaves you in the hospital. Spencer can't help but feel guilty. Could almost losing you push him to confess his love? (spoilers: yes it does)

Warnings - spencer x reader, BAU level violence, some angst on Spencer's part, fluff, and a love confession

You stared down at your hands, battered and bloodied from your futile attempts to fight back. Caught off guard during an interview with a man who was only supposed to be an eye witness, not the unsub himself, forced you to fight for your life. By the time the neighbors heard the scuffle and called the local police to come to your rescue, you figured you looked like you’d been through seven rounds of an MMA fight. Your head ached, your eye was swollen shut, and you nearly cried in agony with every breath as you were certain you’d broken a rib.

After a tense standoff with the local police, the unsub was in custody, leaving you on the floor with your many wounds. You managed to stand yourself up and walk out the door to the waiting ambulance, only to collapse into the EMT’s arms. You felt yourself being loaded in the back of the vehicle as they started an IV. As consciousness drifted away from you, you couldn’t help but wonder where your team was.

***

You awoke in the hospital to the steady sound of your heart monitor beeping and muffled conversation from outside your room. Your bloodied clothes had been traded in for a hospital gown at some point, and your midsection was bound tightly with some sort of bandages, you assumed to keep your rib in place. You managed to open your good eye in an attempt to find the source of those muffled voices. Your eyes landed on Emily and JJ speaking in the corner of the room, voices hushed.

“He can’t blame himself. None of us saw this coming,” Emily said, her voice stern but laced with concern.

JJ shook her head. “He feels terrible, Emily. I’ve seen him come in and out of here crying three times in the last two hours. He rarely cries.”

Who could they be talking about?

Emily looked at the floor in silence, trying to formulate a reply. JJ cleared her voice to speak again. “They’re partners, Emily,” JJ said, “Of course he’s going to blame himself.”

Spencer.

Deciding you’d had enough of eavesdropping, you did your best to sit up, only to let out a whimper when a sharp pain pierced your side. JJ and Emily turned to face you, surprised looks on both their faces.

“Hey, just lay back,” JJ encouraged. She rushed to the bedside, placing a soothing hand on your arm.

“How long have I been asleep?” you asked.

Emily shook her head, “Only twelve hours, which isn’t very much considering what you’ve been through. I’ll tell the doctors you need another IV and some pain medication.”

As she turned for the door, you shook your head, “Emily, wait.”

Emily turned to face you, coming to stand at the foot of your bed. “What is it?”

“Where’s Spencer?” you asked. Emily looked to JJ, the two of them sharing a knowing glance. You and Spencer had always been close, as partners and friends.

“He’s been going back and forth between pacing the parking lot and the lobby for hours. I can’t imagine how many steps he’s taken,” Emily joked. “I’ll go get him for you.” With that, she turned and left the room, leaving you and JJ to catch up on what you’d missed in the last few hours.

JJ explained what happened after you’d passed out: how the unsub was in custody, finding another victim in his basement, and the team realizing that they’d sent you out to interview the lunatic on your own. “We just thought he was going to give you some information about the case. We had no reason to think that he was the one who-”

You shook your head, holding up a hand to stop her. “I didn’t think so either. It’s why I agreed to go alone. Nobody’s at fault.”

JJ nodded, a solemn look on her face. “I’m just so glad you’re okay. We were all so worried once we connected the dots. I was telling Emily - I haven’t seen Spencer so stressed in years.”

As if on cue, both you and JJ turned to the sound of rushed footsteps coming down the hallway. Spencer’s tall frame was running (no, sprinting) down the hospital corridor. You felt a small smile tug at the corner of your lips as he burst into the room, hair danging in front of his eyes and clearly out of breath.

He approached your bedside, leaning down so he could be face-to-face with you. You could only see him with one good eye, but you did your best to smile to show him that you were doing alright. You brought a hand to his face, pushing the fallen strands of hair out of his eyes so you could see him more clearly. “Hello to you too,” you joked.

“Y/N-” Spencer started, the tears quickly gathering in his eyes, “I’m so sorry. I should’ve gone with you. I should have known that-”

“That the guy who called into the tipline was actually the unsub? Spencer, be logical. None of us knew. I was just telling JJ, nobody is at fault.”

A single tear fell down his cheek as he examined your injuries. With each scratch and bruise he found, he felt another crack forming in his heart. He hadn’t protected you. Wasn’t that what he was supposed to do? He was your partner. Your best friend. He loved you, that he knew. He’d forced that love to be as platonic as he could make it, trying to avoid ruining your perfect friendship. It was moments like this that made that more difficult than ever, as he tried to reckon with his love and his guilt.

Your bruised hand was still cradling his face. He could feel the bandages against his stubble, and he cursed himself again. It was only then that the other presence in the room became known to him. JJ stood on the other side of the bed, another knowing smile gently painting her lips. Spencer knew what he had to do. JJ knew what Spencer had to do. He looked at her, his eyes subtly asking her to leave the two of you alone. JJ took the hint with a small nod, leaving the room without another word as you and Spencer continued to examine each other.

“So, JJ’s filled me in on what I missed,” I said, breaking the silence. “Sounds like a pretty exciting half day,” I joked.

Spencer shook his head, pulling away from your hand. He didn’t go far, though, intertwining his own with yours as he leaned back from the bed. “I was worried sick,” he said.

“I can tell, Spence,” you said, trying to prop yourself up with your pillow. “You really shouldn’t have been. You know I always come out of these things relatively unscathed.” He raised an eyebrow at your statement, taking in your swollen and bruised features. “Well… maybe not unscathed. Alive, at least,” you quipped.

An eerie silence fell over the room. You could feel the tension increase as the gears turned in his head.

“But what if you don’t someday?” he whispered, his voice far away. You looked over at him, his eyes fixed on your heart monitor and the gentle green lines rising and falling accompanied by the signature beep-beep-beeping.

You squeezed his hand in an attempt to bring him back down to Earth. “I’ll always come back, Spencer. It’s what you and I do. We come back alive for each other.”

The tears that had pooled in his eyes earlier spilled over his cheeks as he let out a small whimper. He leaned down, gently wrapping his arms around you as he wept. “Hey, it’s okay Spencer,” you tried to calm him.

“No, it’s not. It-it’s not because,” he trailed off. You could still feel his shoulders shaking as he cried.

“Why, Spencer?” you asked once more. “Please, you can tell me anything.”

Suddenly his sobs slowed. He pulled back from your embrace, taking in your features. Bruised and battered as you were, you were the most beautiful person he’d ever seen. He felt like his heart was going to explode. Before his brain could catch up with his mouth, the words came tumbling out. “Because I love you,” he said simply.

Your jaw dropped open at his words. While you should’ve seen this coming, nothing could prepare you for the way your heart jumped. If it wasn’t evident from the expression on your face, the heart monitor picked up its beeping, nearly doubling its pace. The sound wasn’t lost on Spencer, who frantically looked at the screen.

“Oh no,” he mumbled, quickly walking to the monitor. “Did I upset you? I’m so sorry, Y/N. I’ve just felt this way for so long and if I keep pretending like I don’t-”

“Spencer,” you cut him off, his eyes meeting yours for the first time in minutes. “I love you too.”

The look on his face was priceless, and you wished you could have taken a picture, but you did your best to engrave it on your brain forever. His brown, teary eyes brightened in a moment, a glimmer of hope shining from within. “You do?” he asked.

You laughed, allowing your head to fall back on the pillow behind you. “Spencer, I volunteer to work with you during nearly every case. We split a room every week. I only wished that you’d said this sooner so we could’ve split the bed, too.”

He stared at you in shock. The tears in his eyes long forgotten as a smile crept on his face.

A soft laugh left his mouth as he leaned down to you once more, placing a soft kiss on your forehead, careful to avoid any injured area. “Well, I promise that next time we can,” he said. “And,” he started once more, “I’m never letting you go anywhere by yourself again.”

You smiled up at him, running your fingers over his own. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

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osarina · 3 months ago

Text

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 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.”

#dazai x reader #dazai x you #dazai osamu x reader #dazai osamu x you #bsd x reader #bsd x you #bungo stray dogs x reader #bungo stray dogs x you

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lockheed-martin-unofficial · 6 months ago

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I was thinking about Cybertronians freezing in the Arctic due to the ice that forms on them instead of just the cold & not knowing what humidity is again, and what if they weren’t instantly aware of all the abilities of their alt modes?

They’d have a warmup period after scanning them and have to gradually get used to/ discover all the things they can do. There’s little to no water on cybertron, no reason for them to know that ice forms in the cold, no reason for them to have de-icing. And when they come to earth and choose aircraft as their new vehicle modes, they have no idea those aircraft come with built in warmers on the wings.

I thought about how some flying decepticons would deal with it. Let’s go with Starscream first because I love him very much.

(Also because he complains about cold the most out of all the characters. I imagine everyone ices up the same amount, but the cold is an entirely different problem and one that affects him more because he’s all thin and lanky, not very good at retaining heat. It’s worth clarifying that the freezing is what’s dangerous to them. The cold bothers them but isn’t a threat in and of itself, seeing as they can walk around in space just fine. But I ramble on)

- If he had a human friend or partner, he’d be complaining about how cold it is in front of them and they’d be like “Wait, aren’t you a plane?” He’d ask what that has to do with anything and get very annoyed that he didn’t know he came with extra heating.

- He claims he totally knew about that all along and merely forgot about it in the moment. He also claims he totally knows how to turn it on, but…remind him again?

- The realization that he can just… make himself warmer at will is incredible. He’s still gonna complain about the cold though. Probably out of instinct, he complains to fill the silence. (Is it obvious I want him to be safe and warm. I think it’s obvious.)

- Cue a concerned human asking if he’s been flying through clouds and terrible weather and all the way into the stratosphere with ice building on his wings for all this time. How is he still flying? He just replies that he’s built different, and that he’s far superior to human machines yap yap yap blah blah.

- He doesn’t want to admit how great it is, but after the human shows him how to turn it on, he’d be waking around with the de-icing turned on all day, even when he doesn’t need it. I reckon it’d make the area between his wings an excellent nap spot. He could just put a human in there and squeeze them between his wings and it’d feel like being put in one of these bad boys, I dunno what they’re called in English

In any case, peak nap spot.

Up next is Megan:

- Megatron doesn’t actually have an earth based vehicle mode, leading me to believe he wouldn’t have any form of de-icing. My headcanon is that his bigger, bulkier frame would require and generate more heat, but look at him.

He got a lot of nooks and crannies that ice could build up in. Even spikier than Starscream. Much like Starscream he doesn’t have paint which may also have acted like an extra layer of heat insulation. Additionally, his joints on the arms and legs are visible.

(Actually unsure if Starscream is painted and just gray, but Megs definitely isn’t)

- My point is, I’m not an ice expert but Megatron is terrible for both heat insulation and icing prevention. Megatron is a tough bot, he can take a lot of punches, and as prideful as he is I doubt he’d ignore the fact that a snowstorm would be a genuine threat or hinderance to him.

- Not that he’d let anyone notice, of course. He has a reputation to maintain, and he can’t allow anyone to know his weakness. When he’s in private though, I find the image of evil dictator Megs snuggled up in a billion blankets drinking a hot cocoa hilarious. I’ll probably draw it.

- A human pal or partner may not be able to advise him to turn on de-icing that he doesn’t have, but they might be able to offer him another solution. A badass cloak or cape to protect himself from the snow, while also remaining intimidating. Anyone would think it was just for show, unaware that it’s actually to keep him from freezing.

Last but certainly not least, Soundwave!

-Oh, Soundwave totally knew about the de-icing without needing anyone to mention it. Soundwave knows a lot of things. He’d totally read his own altmode’s manual. I don’t think we’ve ever seen Soundwave in the Arctic though.

Trying to find a good gif for my own reference hang on-

- I’d argue that out of these three he’s probably best with the cold. Sure, he’s spiky too, but nowhere near the other two. His “elbows” are awfully small and exposed, but since his wings form the arms there’d be no issue once he turned on the de-icing. In the gif he easily covers his entire body with those huge arms, so he could easily curl up around himself and defrost if be needed to. Now here’s a good writing idea I probably will never use

- Laserbeak probably has its own de-icing, which makes Soundwave extra warm when he requires it. ADDITIONALLY Laserbeak could be deployed in order to warm up a human friend or partner from afar. Tactical warms.

- Not much to say about Soundwave. Maybe I’ll edit and add later.

#transformers #transformers prime #tfp #decepticons #decepticons x reader #starscream #Megatron #Soundwave #tfp starscream #tfp Megatron #TFP Soundwave #transformers x reader #transformers x human #starscream x reader #megatron x reader #soundwave x reader #headcanons #transformers headcanons #tfp headcanons #cybertronian headcanons #de icing #don’t forget to turn on your de icing kids #clear ice can bring you down #also remember to adjust throttle occasionally in icing conditions lest it freezes in place #always use your carburetor heat #and turn it on gradually if you suspect it has already iced to prevent water ingestion #follow me for more airplane fact’s or cybertronians in the cold headcanons #there is no starscream gif because I already know by heart what he looks like #cybertronians struggling with temperature and humidity

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fosliie · 7 months ago

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It is time to actually explain that one vague Sam and Max au! Calling it

Take me out Noir au

first off, you have to know, this au is essentially a hypothetical fanfic Sam and Max write together with their “totally not me” ocs. I feel like they’d be the kinda guys to write self fulfilling fanficfion (they’re terrible at it)

The gist is that it is a gritty noir detective drama starring Samantha and Maxine, their fem counterparts. It’s the same vibes as a noir detective pulp fiction novel in the 1950’s, so VIOLENCE!! DRAMA!! TENSION!!!

With a disheveled detective and her ex-partner turned performer/singer (with connections to the mafia..?), they often cross paths and usually end up fighting, reminiscing longingly, or a mixture of the both

#myart #freelance wives #sam and max #gotta be real I do NOT think I’ll be talking more about this AU after this-#had to finally get this out of my system cause they’ve been racking my brain for WEEKS #maybe I’ll make a comic in the future about them?#also I cannot take Maxine wearing makeup at all seriously-#EDIT- if you saw that I edited something…nuh uh #felt that ‘mafia’ wasn’t totally accurate for the au soooo IGNORE THAT

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kyber-queen · 21 hours ago

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tf141 icks

don’t get me wrong i think they’d put so much effort into a relationship they care about but unfortunately they are gross icky dirty stinky military men (all love no hate)

—

price changes into the exact same shirt after his post-deployment shower every. single. time. no one knows how long he has had it—you have considered sending it in all its yellow-pit-stained glory to a lab to be carbon dated bc that thing is straight primeval. if (god forbid) you subtly replace it with a new one he will subtly dig through the trash to retrieve it.

soap believes in an open-bathroom policy. you’re adults in a relationship in a one-bathroom apartment and it wouldn’t be a problem except every once in a while he shits when you shower. it is straight foul. the humidity, heat, and stench are primed to create an atmosphere that is 1000% inhospitable. your very vocal complaints are met only with cackles.

gaz leaves the remnants of his shaved facial hair caked to the sink as a fun little surprise for you each morning. he cooks, he cleans, he takes out the trash—he really is the perfect partner, save for the little dark hairs that await you each time you wake and go to brush your teeth.

ghost has the worlds most terrible morning breath. the man survives off of cigarettes and black tea and lord knows that combination is straight dastardly in the morning. his ‘good morning’ kiss and murmured “morning, lovie” before he brushes his teeth take a week off your lifespan each time. -10000HP on god

#simon riley x reader #soap x reader #ghost x reader #johnny soap mactavish #john price x reader #kyle gaz garrick #gaz x reader #gaz x you #soap x you #tf141 x reader

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trustmypoison · 7 days ago

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SVT when another member has a little crush on you

Requested? Yes!

Request: ‘hii can i request a svt reaction where another member starts liking you while they are already dating you? how would they react? love your writing 🫶🏼’

Would approach this very delicately - Hoshi, Woozi, DK, Seungkwan

Even if this is a tiny crush, I think they’d still have a moment where they’re afraid this might cause a rift. They don’t want to bring you around too much in case it feels like they’re rubbing it in, or if it would encourage the crush to grow. But they don’t want to not bring you around, you know? I think these guys might try to approach it the most maturely by just have a simple level-headed conversation with the other member because he cares about you both deeply.

Might become a little possessive or jealous - Seungcheol, Wonwoo, Minghao

He doesn’t want to feel any animosity towards one of his group members, but when he overhears that another member has a little crush on his partner, he might not be able to stifle the feeling of jealousy. He’ll try to forget it, he really will. But that jealousy will bubble up again anytime you both are around. He’s not proud of it, but he’ll do his best to keep you two separated. If this possessive streak causes problems, he’ll feel bad, but maybe not bad enough to stop it.

Might rub it in a little - Jeonghan, Mingyu, Chan

When he overhears that another member sort of likes his partner, his first instinct is to gloat. To spare the rest of the group that environment, he tries to remind himself that it’s not his member’s fault that you’re so likable. And he isn’t trying to be cruel. So he’ll make a concerted effort to act the same when you both are around. Still, he feels a little bit of pride seeing his member look at you while you look at him.

Probably won’t think much of it - Joshua, Jun, Vernon

Genuinely just shrugs it off as long as it’s a tiny crush. Like if the member just admits that he thinks you’re attractive or funny, etc. etc., he’ll think his member is just right. You are all of that. He thinks the world of you and it’s not a terrible surprise that others might feel that way too. I think the line might be if you and the other member are close or if this is much more than a tiny crush. Then there might have to be a conversation.

#seventeen #svt #seventeen x reader #svt x reader #seventeen reactions #svt reactions #seungcheol #jeonghan #joshua #jun #hoshi #wonwoo #woozi #dk #mingyu #minghao #seungkwan #vernon #dino

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penny00dreadful · 1 year ago

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Before He Cheats

AO3

“Munson Home for the Recently Deceased, you stab ‘em we slab ‘em. How may I direct your call?”

There was silence on the other end of the line for a few seconds before a light chuckle crackled through the speaker.

“Is that really how you answer the phone?”

Eddie smiled to himself. “Got you to laugh didn’t it?”

“Suppose.”

“Plus, no one calls the landline anymore unless they’re trying to sell something. You trying to sell me something?”

“No. No, I uh… I’m looking for an Eddie Munson?”

“Only an Eddie Munson? Only one? What a terrible fate. Well you’re in luck, my good sir. This is he. What can I do you for?”

The voice on the end of the line gave a light laugh once again but went silent almost immediately after.

Eddie stared at the wall in his apartment, waiting for something to happen. In the quiet he could hear the guy letting out little nervous breaths before one big inhale.

“I um. I’m sorry to have to tell you like this, I’d prefer to do it face to face but I don’t know where you live and you probably wouldn’t even want me at your house afterwards and I did find you on social media but it’s not something I wanted to do in DM’s, you deserve better than that-”

“Okay, hold on, slow down.” Eddie tried to ignore the panic starting to kick around in his heart. “Is someone dead? Is someone injured?”

“No! No, Jesus, I’m sorry. I told Robin that I’d be terrible at this but I couldn’t just let it go on without saying anything-”

“You haven’t really said anything. You’re just rambling.”

“Right. Sorry. Again, blame Robin. I’m around her too much. But… okay. Do you know Rick Lipton?”

Eddie felt the panic leave him, replaced only by irritation as he sighed through his nose. “What did he do now?”

“He… um. I’m sorry to ask this but are you his partner? Like, romantic partner?”

Eddie scowled. “And if I am?”

There was movement against the line, almost as if the other guy was nodding.

“Shit.” He muttered before picking back up in volume again. “Listen, I didn’t know. He told me he was single and I only found out because Robin lives in the same building as you and she saw him with you and asked the neighbours and they said you’d been a thing for like two years and you have to believe me if I’d known I wouldn’t have touched him, I don’t fuck around with cheaters-”

“How long?”

Eddie had expected to feel betrayal or sadness, devastation or heartbreak and they were there.

They were just lost under a tidal wave of anger and indignation. He was even surprised at himself that he didn’t feel more caught off guard.

Rick had never cheated before (that Eddie was aware of) but he had always had a wandering eye and a few off-colour jokes about 'going to find someone more his speed’.

They’d never really felt all that funny.

Maybe it was because their relationship had felt dead for the last few months.

They barely talked, they just existed around each other. The sex had all but dried up as well and whenever they did have it, it was completely impersonal. Get in, get out, move back to separate parts of the apartment if either of them even bothered to stay over.

More often than not one of them would make a quick exit back to their home.

Eddie had been thinking a breakup was on the horizon for a while.

But that was no excuse to cheat.

At least have the fucking decency to end the relationship first before going out and chasing tail.

“Um, like four or five weeks." The guy on the phone muttered, clearly ashamed. "I’m so sorry Eddie, I swear to god if I knew I would never… I have- I have proof if you need it.”

“If it’s a sex tape I don’t think I want to see it.” Eddie was trying really hard to maintain his calm and not snap through the phone.

If what the guy was saying was true, then he was an innocent party in this.

Didn’t make it hurt any fucking less though.

Didn’t make him any less pissed.

“If- no it’s not a sex tape.” The voice sounded scandalised. “Fucking hell, do people actually do that?”

“Yes.”

There was a pause, as though the guy was waiting for Eddie to continue but Eddie just let it hang in the air. He wasn’t ashamed.

But he was definitely going to have to purge those files now.

“Okay well… It's just a photo. I posted it to my insta a week ago but he was really weird about it being up, which in hindsight makes a lot of sense, so I took it down.” He said, quiet and sad. “I can send it to you if you want.”

Eddie pursed his lips.

“Please hold.”

He unceremoniously dropped the phone with a clatter, leaving it dangling from the cord, bouncing against the wall and probably blowing the guy’s ear out.

Maybe in the morning Eddie would feel a little bad about that, but for now it just felt very satisfying.

He rifled around in his bedsheets for his phone before making his way back to the landline.

“Still there?”

“Yes. Ow, by the way.”

Eddie just shrugged, well aware the guy couldn’t see him but whatever. He wasn’t in the mood.

“Send it on.”

Only a moment later his phone pinged with a notification and Eddie opened the photo.

Well.

Shit.

There was Rick, in amongst a crowd at some nightclub, plastered to the side of some pretty boy who looked like he had a regular workout routine.

Ugh.

Eddie couldn’t handle gym bunnies, the amount they could bench or whatever was all they ever talked about. But this must be the guy on the other end of the phone.

@King.Steve.Of.House.Hair

Rick had King Steve’s earlobe in between his teeth and from the angle of the selfie Eddie could see his hands were wandering.

It looked like some kind of Halloween night, if the teeny tiny little sailor outfit was anything to go by.

God damn.

But even so, Eddie still wanted to be sure that what he was seeing was… well. What he was seeing.

“Steve, is it?”

“Oh, uh, yeah. Sorry, I didn’t realise I hadn’t given you my name yet.” Steve let out a nervous laugh, like he was expecting Eddie to jump through the phone and strangle him.

Eddie was fit to strangle someone but Steve wasn’t in his crosshairs.

“Don’t worry about it. Tell me, what does Rick have tattooed on his ass?”

“Uh…” Steve paused. “He doesn’t have a tattoo on his ass? Not that I’ve seen anyway. But I can tell you he does have his taint pierced. For some fucking reason.”

Eddie gave a quiet laugh at that, despite the monumentally fucked up situation and the final cracking piece of his heart breaking away. Rick had that piercing by the time Eddie had met him. He insisted he’d gotten it because it was sexy. Eddie was pretty sure he’d just lost a bet.

Eddie was no stranger to intimate piercings himself. He had his frenum done a while back.

That one he’d definitely done because it felt sexy.

He looked back down at his phone, idly flipping through Steve’s profile and all of his other photos.

He probably shouldn’t be thinking about how hot Steve was, how it was juxtaposed with a soft cuteness that almost felt like it didn’t belong to someone with such broad shoulders and defined arms.

He hated himself for thinking about Steve’s attractiveness.

It felt wrong.

Even though he was pretty much single now.

Even if Rick didn’t know it yet.

But fuck him.

He’d find out.

One way or the other.

And Eddie was nothing if not a drama queen.

But he wouldn’t do anything tonight.

No tonight he would just… hurt.

And smoke.

A lot.

“Eddie?” Steve’s voice came through to him. “You okay?”

Eddie swallowed, finding it a little more difficult than he expected it to be and realised he’d just been staring down at his phone in silence.

The screen had gone black.

“Yeah.” He answered, his voice thick. “I’m fine.”

Steve hummed. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

Eddie laughed. It was wet and sniffly and vulnerable and horrible. “What are you gonna do from over the phone far away… wherever you are?”

“I dunno. I could just… talk to you I guess? Help you plot Rick's murder?”

Eddie laughed again, a little brighter this time. "Yeah, that could be good. But if I'm plotting murder I want to be a little more comfortable." He unlocked his phone and hit the follow button on Steve’s account. “This conversation requires lounging, not standing by the landline.”

“Oh-”

“How do you feel about a video call?”

A notification popped up on his phone, letting him know Steve had followed him back.

“A video call is fine.”

“Great.” Eddie paused. He wasn’t even sure how to end this call with the guy his boyfriend of two years had been cheating on him with and who he’d just asked if he wanted to video call so Eddie could smoke his feelings away.

He just didn’t want to feel alone right now.

He could have called Chrissy or one of the boys to come hang out with him but that would require explaining everything over again and he really didn’t want to do that right now.

Before he could think much more on it Eddie said a quick “Okay bye,” and hung up.

Steve knew the story and Steve had been wronged too and maybe they could just be mad and sad together.

He unlocked his phone again as he walked back into his bedroom and hit the video call button, not even bothering to turn his light on, leaving himself and his room shrouded in darkness. He propped his phone up on his desk, angled towards the window where he sat on the sil and started to roll, using the streetlights streaming in the window to see.

Steve picked up only a moment later and Eddie got his first good look at the guy live in action and not through a photo online.

He was sitting at what looked like a kitchen table fully lit by the overhead lights, a pair of wire framed glasses perched on his nose and his hair messy and dishevelled, like he’d been stressfully running his hands through it, which he probably had been.

Eddie didn’t know how stressed he would be if he had to make a call to someone to tell them their long term partner had been cheating.

He was leaning forward, elbows on the table in a cosy yellow sweater with a slight worry between his eyebrows.

He looked so soft.

Nothing at all like the nautical sea queen look he’d been giving in those photos. He looked comfortable and gentle and a little worried.

“Eddie?”

“Mm-hm?” He hummed, bringing the joint to his mouth and lighting it up before pushing open the window a little more and exhaling out into the dark rainfall outside.

“You okay?”

He shrugged. “I will be.”

“I’m not asking about whether you will be, I‘m asking about now.”

Eddie looked over and watched Steve as Steve watched him through the screen.

“Alright, then no. I’m not okay.” He took another drag. “I’m fucking pissed. I’m sad, I’m upset, I’m hurt, I’m angry, I’m disappointed and I don’t know if all of that is directed more at him for doing this to me or me for not expecting it.”

“How were you supposed to expect it?” Steve shook his head in disbelief. “No one should have to expect to be cheated on.”

“Dunno.” Eddie shrugged, looking back out the window. “Relationship was dying anyway.”

“Okay, and? That doesn’t make cheating okay.”

“Suppose not.”

“I’m sorry, for what it’s worth. For my part in it.”

Eddie glanced back over, taking in the downward tilt of Steve’s mouth and his big sad eyes.

“S’not your fault. You were wronged too.”

“I guess, but…” Steve bit his lip and looked up from the screen, casting his eyes around his kitchen like something was going to pop out and answer whatever question was running through his head.

Eddie waited. The guy had been very gracious so far and he seemed to genuinely feel bad for all the mess he’d been wrapped up in.

“I…” Steve continued. “I know how this thing usually goes. You find out you’ve been cheated on and you still love your partner so you tend to focus all your anger towards the person they cheated with rather than the person who actually wronged you.” He looked down, fiddling with some kind of flash card on the table in front of him.

“Sounds like you’re speaking from experience.” Eddie stubbed his joint out, happy enough with his current buzz. He was sufficiently mellowed, he hadn’t cried yet though that would probably come once he was in bed, but his anger had simmered down to a level where he didn’t feel like putting his fist through a wall but still angry enough to plot.

“I am, I guess.”

Eddie nodded. “This happened to you before?”

That was probably rude. His filter malfunctioned at the best of times but when he smoked it was all but gone.

“Yeah.” Steve stared down at the cards in his hands. “My mom had to put up with my dad’s infidelity a lot. And my ex-girlfriend cheated on me a while back.” Steve paused before taking a deep breath. “Rick was actually my first attempt to get back into the dating world so…”

“So we can both be sad and angry together.”

“Yeah.” Steve smiled and Eddie stood up, plucking his phone from his desk and settling it on his bedside table, switching his lamp on and throwing himself face down on his bed, probably barely visible to Steve.

“We can be sad and angry together.”

Eddie glanced up. Now that he was closer to his phone, he could better see exactly what Steve was fiddling with, he could read some of the text on the card.

“Stevie.” Eddie sat up, moving closer to the phone and unable to stop the smirk running over his face. Steve’s eyes snapped up towards him. “Did you write out flash cards for when you called me?”

Steve’s eyes widened before he unceremoniously swept all the cards off the table in front of him, his cheeks turning a terrific shade of red and he leaned his face on his hand, trying to act as nonchalant as possible.

“No.”

It was adorable. Incredibly dorky and adorable.

Eddie laughed, full on braying belly laughs, collapsing backwards onto his bed. When he peeked back up to look at his phone through his giggles, Steve’s face was somehow even redder.

“Oh my god.” Eddie breathed. “That’s darling.”

“Shut up.”

“No, no. It’s really very sweet.”

“Ugh. Whatever.” Steve rolled his eyes but was still smiling, still had a blush lighting up his cheeks.

Eddie settled himself back against his headboard. “Actually, listen, let me ask you something.”

“Okay?”

“Does Rick know? Does he know that you know? Or that you told me?”

“No.” Steve answered, finally relaxing his fake nonchalance into real relaxation, folding his hands on the table and propping his chin up on them. “I figured if anyone had the right to rip his balls off it would be you.”

Eddie nodded.

That he could understand.

“I get that, but there’ll be no ball ripping from where I stand. No, I want to hit him where it hurts.”

“Woulda hurt me plenty.”

“Oh, I’m sure. But the only thing Rick loves more than his own balls is his car.”

Steve nodded. “Yeah, he’s like, obsessed with that thing. It’s weird. It’s not even that nice of a car.”

“I’d love to say he has bad taste but considering he picked the both of us, I’m pretty sure his tastes are actually immaculate.”

“Just his decisions are bad.”

“Exactly.”

“Well.” Steve sighed. “I’d love to help any way I can. I hate that I was involved in this, in what he did to you.”

“To us, Stevie. To us.”

“Right, so what’s the plan then?”

“When are you due to see him next?”

Eddie pulled his van into the parking lot of the bar. It was halfway across town and a place that he never frequented if he could help it. Rick liked it though, always had. Eddie just liked other places around town more.

But it could be cute, he supposed. A small little country and sports type place that had a rainbow flag behind the bar and a small number of regulars who, according to Steve, wouldn’t do anything unless you got between them and their drink.

He knew that Steve was inside with Rick, playing up the flirty angle and acting tipsier than he actually was to put him at ease.

Steve had mentioned one of his signature moves involved pool, bending over the table and wiggling a little bit to keep the attention on him. Pulling out a little pout whenever he missed a shot or asking for help to line up his cue.

Eddie would be more upset by the fact that he was missing the sight of it if he didn't know he'd have the opportunity to see it himself at some point in the future.

They had talked for so long that first night, long enough that the sun was starting to come up by the time they'd both dragged themselves away from their phones to sleep.

They’d talked about their families, their friends, what they were doing in life right now as opposed to what they had hoped they would be doing when they were teenagers. They talked about their school selves and their dating lives and as the conversation wore on Eddie found himself thinking again and again about how long it had been since it had felt so easy to talk to someone like that.

It had been a very long time since Rick had put any effort into getting to know him as he grew through their two years together, like he expected Eddie to stay the same person as he was at the start of the relationship.

After that first night where they’d figured out their master plan, he and Steve had just… kept talking. Throughout the rest of the week up until tonight, they were in almost constant contact, only really taking a break to sleep and work.

Eddie felt connected to Steve and in some roundabout way he was thankful to Rick for bringing him into his life.

He’d even met Robin in passing one day, living two floors below him, holding the door open for him as he tried to wrestle with grocery bags.

She was so weird. He kind of loved her the second she opened her mouth. Honest, but with the sharpest tongue he’d ever met on a person.

She had knocked on his apartment door later that evening to tell him Steve was calling over to visit and asking if he wanted to come around to meet him.

Steve had apparently delegated the asking to her because he was too nervous to do it himself.

Again, adorable.

Steve was somehow even sweeter and even saltier in person than he was over the phone and Eddie tried hard, he tried really hard not to look too much or let his fucking horomones run away with him but Jesus. H. Christ it was difficult.

The sweetness of his soft sweaters and polos, his gentle smiles and understanding words matched with his salty mean girl attitude that would slip out every so often and the bitchiest of eye rolls that made Eddie’s heart jump.

Eddie was also trying to feel bad about what was happening but honestly, he was losing reasons to care that much.

He hadn’t texted or called Rick once in the last week and Rick himself had never reached out which all at once made Eddie realise he was the primary communicator in the relationship and it hadn’t been reciprocated in a long, long time.

Adding onto that was the knowledge that Rick was still fucking cheating on him and was in regular contact with Steve left Eddie only half heartedly feeling bad.

He and Steve would go over the screenshots of the conversation together every night and every night Eddie found it harder and harder to hang up the phone.

He was pretty sure Steve was feeling the same way.

They kept just catching each other staring. Or smiling or, pulling back from touching too much and he was almost sure that as soon as Rick was out of the picture for the both of them, something was going to blossom.

Even now, with Steve inside, flirting up a storm with Eddie’s ex-boyfriend who didn’t know he was an ex yet, they would be ending the night together.

Robin was waiting back at her apartment with an alibi ready if Eddie needed it though he suspected he wouldn’t.

Neither he nor Rick had a great track record with the police and it would be more trouble than it was worth to get them involved.

Speaking of, Eddie spotted Rick’s car, some souped up four wheel drive monstrosity of small dick syndrome sitting in the shadows and away from the cameras of the bar where Steve had convinced him to park with a suggestion of something happening in those shadows later on.

He hopped out of his van and threw open the back doors, grabbing his bag of goodies before sidling around Rick’s car to wait.

When the chords of some Shania Twain number started to leak through the walls, the signal he’d been waiting for, the sound loud enough to drown out what Eddie would be doing, he dropped his bag to the floor.

Curling his keys into his fingers and with almost a skip in his step Eddie began to carve a stripe through the immaculate and expensive paint work. Working his way around to the drivers side, he lifted the key up before bringing it back down.

With a little bit of sickening glee, he hacked the word CHEATER into the side of the car, the side that would be immediately visible from the bar door and the side Rick would have to see every time he wanted to get in and get out of the driver's seat.

At least until he paid a bomb to get it fixed.

Eddie had connections in this town. Working as a mechanic here for years would do wonderful things to extend this pain.

Rick knew fuck all about cars.

Tucking his keys back into his pocket, he sidled back around to his duffel bag, unzipping it and pulling out his Stanley blade.

Unsheathing it, he gripped it tight in his hand and punched it down into the nearest tyre, listening with satisfaction as the thing slowly deflated before moving onto the other three.

A second Shania song had started up.

He could hear Steve crooning out from inside, getting louder and Eddie knew he was running out of time.

He pulled Steve’s baseball bat from the duffle and gave it a little twirl, the same one he’d seen Steve do when he’d first handed it off and he had tried so hard not to be attracted to it.

He’d failed miserably.

Maybe Eddie could deal with a gym bunny if that gym bunny was Steve.

With an almighty swing, he brought the bat down, shattering one of the headlights with an almighty crash that wasn’t quite drowned out by the karaoke inside.

Rearing back Eddie swung again, smashing the other headlight and while the music didn’t cut off, he could clearly hear Steve inside calling out for Rick to “Wait!”

Okay, only a few seconds left.

Pulling the bat back and letting the anger and betrayal and indignation flow through him, he brought the bat down hard into the windshield where it embedded itself, the spider cracks of the tempered glass making the thing practically opaque.

The bat was fucking stuck.

Eddie knew that if he was able to pull hard enough he would be able to release the whole windshield from the car but he didn’t even have the strength in him to budge the bat.

“What the fuck?!”

Eddie slowly released his hands from the bat and turned, looking at Rick standing in the doorway of the bar, his mouth hanging wide open in shock, unable to believe what he was seeing. Steve was standing just behind him, with one hand over Rick’s chest.

To anyone else it would look like a comforting gesture, maybe. A show of support.

But Eddie could tell the hand was there to hold Rick back if he decided to lunge.

Both Steve and Rick dragged their gaze over the flat tyres, the word carved into the side, the bat stuck in the windshield.

“Hey sweetheart.” Eddie called across the distance, feeling comfortable enough to turn his back to pick up his bag, trusting Steve to at least shout if Rick was about to tackle him.

“Eddie,” Rick breathed, still open-mouthed somehow. “What in the god damned hell has gotten into you?!”

“I wasn’t talking to you.” He slung the bag over his shoulder and held his hand out.

Steve patted Rick twice on the chest and stepped out from behind him.

Rick watched him walk away looking even more bewildered than before.

With one hand Steve took Eddie’s and with the other he grabbed the bat, wiggling it a few times before pulling it free.

They broke apart as they reached Eddie’s van, Steve climbing into the passenger seat and Eddie throwing his bag in the back before starting up the van from his position in the driver's seat.

He leaned over Steve to shout out of the window, “Have a nice life, asshole!”

As the van tore out of the lot, Steve stretched both hands out of the window, two middle fingers extended until Rick, still frozen on the spot, was out of sight.

When he pulled himself back inside, Eddie saw him glance his way, a huge grin on his face.

Eddie had a smile to match, whooping into the night as they sped down the road.

AO3

@geekymagicalpotato

Big thanks as always to @hbyrde36 for her magnificent beta work and to the STWG for their motivation.

#steddie #stranger things #eddie munson #steve x eddie #steve harrington #eddie x steve #penny00dreadful #before he cheats fic #anniversary #1 year posting anniversary challenge #pennys anniversary event #steddie fanfic #steddie fic #fanfic #tw cheating

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