#they DO love her but it's love that's uncomfortable up close

[cressidagrey]

Holy Ground - Chapter 4

Summary:

Nobody knew that Azriel found his mate. Until she nearly died. This is the aftermath.

Warning:

Rhys Bashing (as usual), Inner Circle Bashing (kinda), Referenced/Implied Sexual Assault, Referenced/Implied Domestic Violence, Discussion of Religion(?), Chronic Injury/Pain/Illness, Minor Character Death (It's probably nobody you love), Magical Work Accidents, Explosions, Injuries

If any of this triggers you or makes you uncomfortable, please take care of your own mental health and don't read it.

"You want to tell me what exactly you apologised for?" Cassian demanded as they left Azriel's bedroom. 

Azriel was curled around his mate like a tortoise shell and Cassian was quite sure that Azriel was going to slaughter everybody that would even try to get close to Irena.

Without even a second of hesitation. 

He had never seen Azriel so protective before, had never seen him so...possessive. It was almost scary how strongly his brother was reacting to almost losing his mate, how tightly he was curling himself around her like a shield. Cassian knew that mating bonds were intense, that they could drive instincts wild…Fuck, he had felt that all compassing need to pretect and claim himself…but…

But Azriel…he was radiating raw fear and intensity. 

Rhys grimaced. "I fucked up," he said frankly.

"Yeah, I agree, given that our brother preferred to keep his mate a secret for 2 years than to actually talk to us.” Cassian let out a low sigh, shaking his head as he ran a hand through his hair. "What exactly did you do that made him keep this from us?" he asked sharply, his voice tinged with frustration.

He didn't want to judge his brother, didn't want to assume that Rhys was the reason for Azriel's secrecy. But he couldn't help but wonder what had caused Azriel to keep something so important from them. And he couldn't help but feel a little hurt that he had been left out of something so significant in his brother's life.

It was frustrating and confusing, and it left Cassian feeling like there was a gulf between him and his brother that he didn't know how to bridge. He just wanted to understand, wanted to make sure that he hadn't done anything to make Azriel feel like he couldn't trust Cassian…

He knew that Azriel was a private person, that he valued his solitude and his privacy. But he had never expected him to keep his mating bond a secret for so long. 

It stung a little, that Azriel had been able to hide something so significant for so long without any of them suspecting a thing.

"Around two years ago...I warned Azriel off Elain," Rhys admitted with a grimace. "I was not...particularly...appropriate with my word choices."

Azriel and Elain?! Cassian's eyes widened at the admission, his jaw dropping open in shock. "Elain?! You warned Azriel off Elain?" he asked incrediously. "I didn't even know that there was..."

"There wasn't. Not after...They...they nearly kissed during Solstice once, even with Lucien in the house and it was...I stopped them." Rhys admitted. "It was a political clusterfuck."

Cassian felt another rush of disbelief and anger wash over him at that. He couldn't believe what he was hearing, couldn't believe that Rhys had interfered in Azriel's personal life like that. "You had no right," he growled, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. "You had no right to get involved in his love life like that, Rhys."

"I had every right," Rhys snapped. "Elain has a mate and so has Azriel, as we just found out."

"He didn't know that then," Cassian disagreed. "Elain and Azriel clearly had...something between them and yet you interfered. What exactly did you say to him?"

"I ordered him not to pursue her," Rhys admitted. "I told him to leave her alone. That if he needed to fuck somebody, he should go to a pleasure hall and pay for it."Cassian's eyes widened at the admission, his jaw clenching tight as he struggled to keep his temper in check. 

"You...you ordered him?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous. "You actually ordered him to stay away from a girl he clearly had feelings for? And then you...you told him to..." He trailed off, unable to even finish the sentence. He couldn't believe that Rhys had done something so callous and outright cruel to their brother. It was one thing to warn Azriel off of pursuing a girl who already had a mate. But to order him around like some kind of puppet and then insult him like that...it was beyond terrible. "Yeah. No fucking wonder, he didn't say a single word about Irena," Cassian growled under her breath. "You can probably consider yourself lucky that he didn't snap your neck for that, Rhys!"

Rhys winced at the words, his expression turning apologetic. "I know," he said quietly. "I'm...I don't really have an excuse. I was just...I thought I was doing what was best for him, for our Court. I didn't mean to..."

He trailed off, his voice shaking with emotion. Cassian could see how much his brother was struggling with this, how much the knowledge of what he had done was eating away at him. And he couldn't help but feel a pang of sympathy for Rhys, even as he was still seething with anger towards him.

He knew that Rhys had always tried to do what he thought was right, that he had always tried to protect their Court and their family. But sometimes...sometimes he made mistakes. And those mistakes had consequences, consequences that were often painful and devastating.

"I did apologise," Rhys said weakly.

"Oh, did you?" Cassian said with a snort. Rhys's apology did little to improve Cassian's temper, his anger still simmering just beneath the surface. "And that makes it all better then?" he demanded, his voice tinged with bitterness. "A simple apology fixes everything? Clearly it doesn't! Otherwise we would have known! Azriel would have told us that he met his mate!"

"What apology?" A voice behind them demanded, and Cassian should probably not be surprised to not only find his own mate there, but also Mor and his High Lady.

"Feyre Darling...Where is Nyx?" Rhys asked

"With Cerridwen. Don't change the topic," Feyre demanded. "What in the cauldron even happened?!"

Cassian let out a low sigh, shaking his head at the interruption. He couldn't help but feel a little grateful for the distraction, though. "Rhys told Azriel not to pursue Elain romantically three years ago.," he explained, his voice tight. "Ordered him to stay away, even. Azriel's been keeping his mate a secret from us for two years now."

He could see the shock and confusion on Feyre's face as he spoke, the disbelief that her mate could have done something so thoughtless and hurtful. He couldn't blame her, really. He was still struggling to wrap his head around it himself.

It didn't make any sense to him, how Rhys could have done something like that without realizing how much it would hurt their brother. How could someone who was supposed to be a High Lord, supposed to be their leader, be so blind to the pain of those he was supposed to protect? It was baffling and frustrating and it made Cassian's blood boil.

But he didn't have time to dwell on it, not right now. Not when they had bigger problems to worry about...like the fact that Azriel had a mate, a mate he had been hiding for two whole years. He knew what a mating bond felt like, knew how all-consuming and intense it could be.

The last thing he had expected was for Mor to start laughing."What?" Cassian snapped, his temper flaring up again. "What's so funny?"

Mor’s laughter continued, her body trembling as she struggled to catch her breath. "I'm sorry," she gasped, her voice choked with mirth as she grinned at him. "It's just...it's just so Azriel. Of course, he would keep his mate a secret for two whole years.”

Cassian stared at her in disbelief, his anger giving way to confusion. "That's what you find funny?" he asked incredulously. "That our brother kept his mate hidden for two bloody years?"

He couldn't understand why Mor would find that amusing, why she was laughing at something that was supposed to be a serious and painful secret. Didn't she know how much it must have hurt Azriel to keep his mate hidden for so long, to keep his feelings for her bottled up inside? Didn't she know how hard it must have been for him to keep up the facade of being fine, of being single and alone?

He couldn't wrap his head around it, couldn't make sense of Mor's humour in the situation. All he could feel was confusion and frustration, and a deep sadness for his brother who had to keep his mating bond a secret for so long.

He had always known that Azriel was a private person, that he didn't like to share his personal life with others. But he had never known that he could keep something like this a secret for so long. It was...it was almost scary, how good Azriel was at hiding his feelings and emotions.

“You find it funny, that Azriel didn’t trust any of us with her?” Nesta asked flatly.

Mor's laughter died down at Nesta's words, her expression turning somber. "No, of course not," she said quietly. "It's just...it's just typical Azriel. He's always been so careful about guarding his emotions, about keeping his love life hidden. I never would have guessed that he had a mate, let alone for two whole years."

“I am not surprised that he didn’t tell you,” Nesta bit out. “Not as you spend 500 years using his own feelings against him.

Mor flinched at Nesta's words, her expression turning pained. "Nesta, that's...that's not fair," she protested. "I never meant to hurt him. I never wanted to."

But Nesta wasn't finished, her eyes blazing with anger as she took a step towards Mor. "You spent five centuries playing with his heart, using him like some kind of toy. And now you're surprised that he didn't tell you about his mate? After everything you've put him through?"

Mor looked down, avoiding Nesta's gaze. "I...I know that I made mistakes," she said quietly. "But I never meant to hurt him."

Nesta scoffed, rolling her eyes. "Oh, please," she sneered. "You knew exactly what you were doing. You knew exactly how Azriel felt about you, and you used it to your advantage. You used him. And after the mating bond between you and Emerie snapped, you never tried to actually talk to him!“

Cassian nearly missed Rhys wincing. Nearly.

“You have anything to do with that too?” He asked darkly.

Rhys flinched at the accusation, his expression turning guilty. "I...I may have had something to do with it," he admitted quietly. "But I was just trying to help. I didn't mean..."

Cassian stared at his brother in disbelief, his anger rising up in him like a tidal wave. "You...you interfered? Again?" he hissed. “What did you tell Azriel?” He demanded.

Rhys sighed, picking a piece of invisible lint of his jacket. "I told him not to ruin this for Mor. That she went through enough.”

Cassian felt a wave of frustration wash over him at Rhys's words. "And you didn't think that maybe Azriel had enough as well?" he asked, his voice barely more than a growl.

He couldn't believe that Rhys had tried to interfere in Azriel's life again, that he had caused even more pain for their brother. And all for the sake of Mor, someone who had rejected Azriel time and time again. It was ridiculous and infuriating. 

But the more he heard…the more he understood why Azriel had kept Irena a secret. 

He had met his mate and had protected her fiercely, cossetted her away from any of them who could hurt them…had kept her to himself, so Rhys couldn’t say any other idiotic and harebrained thing…Had kept his mate to himself, because he adored her and hadn’t wanted to share. Which quite frankly, Cassian could absoltuely understand now. 

And still… Cassian knew what a mating bond could do to someone, how intense and consuming it could be. And the thought that Azriel, their quiet and reserved brother, had had to keep that kind of intensity hidden for so long...it was almost too much for Cassian to fathom.

He didn't know how Azriel had managed it, how he had kept his mating bond a secret for so long without anyone else noticing. It must have been a monumental effort, a constant struggle to keep his emotions and instincts in check.

And the fact that he had done all of that alone, without any support or understanding from the rest of them...it broke Cassian's heart. 

And Cassian himself had not made it better. How often had he teased his brother about his love life. Even, and maybe especially,  when Azriel had told him to fuck off?

Too often, Cassian realized with a pang of guilt. He had never thought about how his teasing might have hurt Azriel, how it might have added to the burden of keeping his mating bond a secret.

He had always just assumed that they were all teasing each other in good fun, that it was harmless banter between siblings. But now...now he realized that maybe it hadn't been so harmless after all. Maybe it had been something much more cruel and damaging than he had ever intended.

He wished that he could take back every comment he had ever made about Azriel's love life, every joke he had ever made about his solitude. But he knew that he couldn't, that the damage had already been done.

Cassian could just hope that he could find a way to repair things with Azriel, to make amends for all of the hurt and pain that he had unintentionally caused. He just hoped that his brother would be able to forgive him, that they could move past this and build a stronger, more understanding relationship

But deep down, a nagging voice in the back of his mind told him that it might not be so easy. That the wounds inflicted by his words might run too deep to ever be fully healed.

And that thought scared him more than he cared to admit. It scared him to think that he might have forever damaged his relationship with his brother, that his careless words might have destroyed something that he had always taken for granted.

“I don’t even have the words right now,” Feyre said with a sigh.

Cassian glanced in her direction, seeing the pain and frustration written all over her face. He knew exactly what she meant. There were no words for this situation, for the hurt and confusion and betrayal that they were all feeling.

He could only imagine what Azriel must be going through right now, how much he must be struggling with his emotions and thoughts. And he had no idea how they were supposed to help him, how they could make things right again.

“I have no clue how we are supposed to fix this either,” Feyre continued.

Cassian nodded in agreement, feeling a sense of helplessness wash over him. "Yeah," he said quietly. "Me neither."

“Leave him be,” Nesta said tightly. “He nearly lost his mate today.”

Cassian shot Nesta a sharp look, surprised by her words. "Leave him be?" he repeated. "You want to just leave him alone, after all of this?"

"He almost lost his mate today, Cassian," Nesta repeated, her voice tight with emotion. "Let him rest. Let him have some time, space. Let him have that without us bombarding him with questions and apologies."

Cassian considered her words for a moment, feeling a pang of guilt at the thought of bombarding his brother with more questions right now. He already had, hadn’t he?  He knew that Nesta was right, that Azriel needed space and time to process everything that had happened. And he knew that they had already done enough damage as it was.

So he nodded, reluctantly agreeing with her suggestion. "Alright," he said quietly. "We'll give him space. For now."

He could only hope that it would be enough, that it would give Azriel the time and space he needed to heal and process everything that had happened. And he hoped, more than anything, that it would be enough for them to repair the damage that they had done to their brother's heart.

But until then, all he could do was wait. Wait and hope that someday, somehow, they could make things right again.

And in the meantime, he would try his best to be there for Azriel, to offer him support and understanding without pushing too hard. Because that was all he could do right now.

That, and wait for a chance to finally make amends for the mistakes he had made.

Because he knew that he had a lot to make up for, and he was determined to do whatever it took to earn Azriel's forgiveness. And to be a better brother from this point forward.

***

She was warm. She was safe. Azriel was holding her...and still...in the moment she first opened her eyes, all she could remember where these last few moments before.

Irena's heart raced as the memories flooded back, of Merrill's office...of how her fellow Priestess, her friend had been sniping at her the moment she entered her office.

"We need to talk, Merrill," Irena had said.

"If Meera complained, it's her own fault," Merrill had seethed. "I don't need her help anyway, I am quicker and better on my own."

And only then Irena had realised that Merrill had already been casting that spell.

"Merrill! Stop!" she had snapped. "You can't do that! It's too..." dangerous. Dangerous was what she had wanted to say. But the word stuck in her throat as Merrill chanted that spell and then...then hell broke loose.

Then the only thing she remembered was quite a lot of pain."

There was no pain now.

There was only Azriel. Only safety and warmth and the smell of cedars...she blinked open her eyes tiredly.

"Azriel," she whispered, her voice barely audible. Her eyelids felt heavy, her body weak and boneless. But still, she felt a sense of relief wash over her as she saw him there, his arms strong and comforting around her.

She wanted to say more, to ask him if he was alright, to apologize for putting him through all of this. But she couldn't find the strength to speak, the words getting stuck in her throat. All she could do was cling to him, grateful for his presence and warmth.

He pressed a kiss against her forehead, clinging to her...and only a moment later she could feel his body shudder against her own. Shudder and the salty smell of tears

Irena's eyes widened in surprise as she realized that he was crying. She had never seen Azriel cry before, not once in all the time they had spent together. But now, he was crying, a quiet sob escaping him as he buried his face in her hair.

Her heart broke at the sound, at the vulnerability he was showing her. She raised a trembling hand to stroke his hair, her fingers tangling in the silky locks. "Azriel," she whispered softly, her voice barely audible. "It's alright. I'm here. I'm here."

She wanted to tell him that she was sorry, that she never meant to hurt him like this. But the words just wouldn't come, her mouth dry and her head still spinning. All she could do was hold him, trying to provide him with the only comfort she had the strength to give.

She didn't know how long they stayed like that, clinging to each other in silence. But eventually, Azriel's tears seemed to dry up, his sobs turning into sniffles and then to deep, shaky breaths.

She felt him press another soft kiss against her forehead, his lips warm and gentle against her skin. "I thought I lost you," he whispered, his voice barely more than a broken murmur. "I thought..."

She could hear the pain and fear in his voice, and it broke her heart even more. "Shhh," she said, still stroking his hair gently. "I'm here now. I'm alright."

She could feel him nod against her, his body slowly relaxing as he held her close. "I was so scared," he whispered. "I was so scared."

She tightened her grip around him, trying to reassure him with her presence. "I know," she said softly. "But I'm here, alright? I'm here and I'm not going anywhere."

Never. Not when she had a single choice in that matter. 

She felt him nod again, his body finally relaxing completely against hers. 

But for now, this was enough. Just being able to hold him, to feel him pressed against her, was enough. And she hoped, with all her heart, that it was enough for him too.

“How are you feeling? Are you in pain?” he asked her, his voice hoarse. “Are you…”

She looked up at Azriel, seeing the concern etched onto his features. "My abdomen hurts a little…so does my bad leg" she admitted. "But other than that, I feel fine. A little weak, but fine."

Azriel nodded, his expression still tight with worry. "Madja said that it might take a few days for you to fully recover," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "But she was confident that you'll be okay."

Irena nodded, trying to smile reassuringly at him. "I'll be fine, Azriel," she said softly. "I just need some rest and I'll be good as new."

And time. Time to wrap her mind around the fact that her friend had died.

“She didn’t deserve that,” she whispered. Azriel knew what she was talking about.

“She didn’t,” he agreed softly.

“Was anybody else hurt?” Irena whispered, already hating to even contemplate it..

“Just you.”

She closed her eyes, feeling a wave of guilt wash over her. "It's all my fault," she murmured. "If I hadn't confronted her, if I hadn't..." She trailed off, unable to finish the sentence. She could still remember the look on Merrill's face, the anger and hatred in her eyes. And she knew, deep down, that she had caused it. 

Azriel's grip on her hand tightened, his thumb rubbing soothing circles on her skin. "It wasn't your fault, Irena," he said firmly. "You didn't make her do what she did. You couldn't have known that she would lash out like that."

She wanted to believe him, to let herself off the hook. But the guilt was too heavy, too all-consuming. "I should have known," she whispered, her voice choked up with emotion. "I should have been more aware, more careful."

Azriel's expression softened, his eyes full of understanding. "You can't blame yourself for this, love," he said gently. "You can't control other people's actions, no matter how much you might want to."

She knew he was right, that she couldn't keep blaming herself for what had happened. But it was hard, so hard, to let go of that guilt. "I just...I never meant for any of this to happen," she said, tears filling her eyes.

Merrill had been brilliant. And yes, she had been snappy and cruel but she had also been funny and bright and…She hadn’t been horrible. Misunderstood maybe, not very nice sometimes but she wasn’t…she hadn’t deserved to die. 

Azriel reached out, wiping away her tears with his thumb. "I know," he whispered, his voice full of tenderness. "I know you didn't."

She looked up at him, searching his face for any hint of blame or anger. But all she saw was kindness and understanding, and it almost broke her heart. "How can you be so good to me?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. "After everything..."

He cupped her face gently, his touch sending shivers down her spine. "Because I love you," he said simply, his eyes never leaving hers. "And nothing you can ever do will ever change that. This wasn’t your fault."

She felt a lump form in her throat at his words, her heart swelling with emotion. No one had ever loved her like this before, no one had ever made her feel so safe and cherished. 

She leaned into his touch, her eyes closing as she felt him press a soft kiss against her forehead. "I love you, too," she whispered, her voice shaky with emotion. "More than anything."

Laying in his arms, was the most peace she had ever known. 

“They know…about us,” Azriel said, exhaling softly. “I am sorry. I couldn’t…I couldn’t let them take you back to your room.”

Irena looked up at him, her eyes wide with surprise. "They know?" she repeated. "They know about us...together?"

He didn’t need to tell her who they was. They was everybody. 

Azriel nodded, his expression serious. "I'm sorry," he said again. "I knew you didn't want anyone to know yet, but I couldn't risk them sending you back alone. You were barely conscious and..." He trailed off, his voice tight with emotion.

Irena reached out, taking his hand in hers and squeezing it tightly. "It's okay," she said softly. "I understand." And she did understand. She knew that he had only been trying to protect her, to keep her safe. And she loved him even more for it. And she had wanted to be with him. She had wanted to be held by him. It was worth it. The simple comfort of his presence was worth all the other bullshit they would need to deal with. 

Irena smiled up at him, trying to reassure him with her expression. "It doesn't matter if they know," she said. "As long as I have you, nothing else matters."

“It’s gonna be…difficult,” Azriel warned her with a grimace.

“I can deal with your brothers,” she promised him simply. She could. She did deal with them. Well, at least with the High Lord on a monthly basis. She could handle him. 

Azriel let out a laugh, shaking his head. "You don't know what you're getting yourself into," he warned her, but there was a slight smile playing on his lips.

She just smiled at him, leaning up to press a soft kiss against his lips. 

She would deal with whatever she needed. Because Azriel was worth it. 

“Madja should be back soon…do you want a bath?” He asked her softly, tucking a piece of her hair behind her ear. “I can ask Gwyn or Roslin to come help you.“

Irena smiled gratefully. "Yes, a bath would be lovely," she said, feeling a wave of exhaustion wash over her. "But just a quick one."

Azriel nodded, his expression tender as he looked down at her. "I'll go get Gwyn," he said, brushing her hair away from her face. "You just rest for a moment."

“No,” Irena said softly. “You can help me.”

Azriel's expression softened at her words, his eyes filled with warmth. "Of course," he said gently. "Anything you need." He bent down, scooping her up in his arms and carrying her towards the bathroom. His touch was careful, his steps slow and steady, as if he was afraid of hurting her.

The shadows fluttered around, filling the bathtub, pouring something or other in there until it smelled amazing.

Irena breathed in deeply, feeling the tension in her body slowly begin to ease away. The warm, lavender-scented steam filled her nose, soothing her frayed nerves and calming her racing heart. "That smells amazing," she sighed, leaning against Azriel's chest. "What is it?"

“I have no clue,” he said drily. “I don’t get bubble baths,” he said with a pointed look at the shadows. 

He put her down to sit on the edge of the enormous Bath Tub and then very carefully unwrapped the wrappings around her wounds, and her leg. The wounds were closed now, the upper layer knitted back together, but she could still feel them. 

“Can you get out of the nightgown on your own?” Azriel asked her, hesitantly. 

“Should be fine,” Irena promised. 

She watched as he turned around, giving her some privacy. She was grateful for his consideration, but at the same time, she couldn't help feeling a little sad that he wasn't even going to sneak a peek. She shook the thought away, reaching out to tug off the nightgown and carefully lower herself into the tub.

The water was warm and soothing, and she let out a soft sigh as her body sank into it. Irena closed her eyes, feeling the tension slowly drain from her muscles. "This feels amazing," she murmured, leaning back against the edge of the tub. “You can come here,“ she said with some amusement, as he still stood at the doorway, presenting his back to her. His wings were flared as wide as they could get in the bathroom, rippling as muscles seemingly twitched beneath them. 

Azriel turned back around, his expression a mix of amusement and relief. He stepped closer to the tub, kneeling down beside it. "Are you sure?" he asked, his voice gentle. "I don't want to accidentally see something you don't want me to."

Irena laughed softly, reaching out to take his hand in hers. "You're too chivalrous for your own good," she teased. "But I appreciate the thought. And yes, I'm sure. Come here."

Azriel nodded, his expression softening as he moved closer to her. He gently ran his fingers through her wet hair, brushing it away from her face. The touch was tender, almost reverent, and Irena leaned into it with a contented sigh. "That feels good," she murmured, her eyes fluttering closed.

“Want me to wash your hair?” he offered her, his voice hesitant. 

Like she was ever going to turn down that offer.  Irena opened her eyes, looking up at him with a smile. "Yes, please," she said, leaning back further into the water. "I don't think I have the energy to lift my arms right now."

Azriel chuckled softly, reaching for a bottle of shampoo. He squirted a small amount into his palm before carefully working it into her hair, his fingers massaging her scalp in slow, soothing circles. The sensation was heavenly, and Irena closed her eyes again, simply enjoying the moment.

They sat there in silence for a few minutes, Azriel gently working the shampoo into her hair while Irena let herself relax completely. The warm water, the fragrant steam, and Azriel's gentle touch were all working together to ease away her aches and pains.

After a few more minutes, Azriel carefully rinsed her hair, his fingers tenderly brushing away any lingering soap suds. "All done," he said softly, his hands still buried in her hair. "Feeling better?"

She nodded, opening her eyes again and giving him a smile. "Much better," she said, feeling relaxed and drowsy. "Thank you."

Azriel returned the smile, his gaze full of affection. "You're very welcome, love" he said, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to her forehead. "Let's get you out of here and back into bed before you fall asleep in the tub."

Irena laughed softly, nodding in agreement. "That's probably a good idea," she admitted. "I don't think falling asleep in the tub would do my injuries any favours."

He insisted on keeping his eyes closed again, but between him and the shadows, they had her dry and dressed in a nightgown quickly enough.

Azriel scooped her up again as soon as she was dressed, cradling her against his chest as he carried her back to the bed. He settled her gently onto the mattress, tucking the blankets around her before sitting down beside her.

“You know…next time…you should let me return the favour,” she said softly.

Azriel raised an eyebrow, a slow smile spreading across his face. "You want to wash my hair, huh?" he asked, his tone teasing. "Careful, I might take you up on that offer."

“You could join me in the tub,” she said softly, biting her lip.

Azriel's eyes darkened at her suggestion, his gaze intense as he looked down at her. "Are you sure that's a good idea?" he asked, his voice low and husky. "I’ll have…some…bodily reaction to that,” he pointed out.

Her cheeks flushed but she kept a hold of his hand.

Irena swallowed, feeling a flutter of both nerves and excitement in her belly. But she didn't back down. "I'm sure," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I want...I want to be close to you. Like that." She could see his hesitation and the faintest hint of doubt in his eyes.

But she knew that hesitation had nothing to do with lack of desire. It was simply that he was worried about her. Worried about hurting her, or pushing her too far. And she loved him all the more for it, but she also knew that she wanted this. Wanted him.

“Think about it. She said softly. “Maybe in a few weeeks?”

Azriel nodded, his gaze softening as he looked down at her. "In a few weeks," he agreed softly. "When you're healed." He leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. "Let's focus on getting you better first, hmm?"

[osarina]

ᡣ𐭩 WE WERE BORN SICK

FEATURING: dazai osamu

SUMMARY: that sinking feeling that's been looming over you both has finally come to fruition. truths are revealed, questions are answered, but one big one remains: is love enough for you and dazai's relationship to survive this?

AUTHOR'S NOTES: happy fridayyyyy, i can't believe we only have one chapter left of civzai, it's actually makin me emotional </3 this chapter was quite a doozy to write, and i hope it's equally a doozy to read HAHAH no no jkjk , i hope you enjoy. also do u guys want to add an arcane au to the dazaiverse .. ive been thinking heavily about it. 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. angsty chapter. explicit depiction of suicide (past recollection of dazai), implications of past self-harm (dazai), very toxic thought processes at certain parts (dazai), past (and a bit of current) suicide ideation (dazai), manic behavior (reader).

SEE: WASTELAND, BABY! SERIES MASTERLIST

“I’ve been eager to meet you for quite a while. In all of the years I’ve known her, my little hime has never let something as trivial as a boy come between her and our work… I knew you must be special, but I never could’ve imagined just how special. I’m so pleasantly surprised.”

Dazai’s head throbs as he comes to his surroundings. He’s laying in an uncomfortable bed—a hospital bed, he thinks, he can smell the unfortunately familiar scent of antiseptic, but the walls aren’t the typical white he’s used to. He winces as he sits up, unable to recall where he is or what happened to him. Everything is too fuzzy, he remembers being with Fitzgerald, the car ride to the tea house, and-

And he remembers you. 

He remembers you.

He lets out a shaky breath as he recalls the way you’d pulled him into your arms, cradling him close as soon as you got him back from Fitzgerald. God, he only got to be with you for what felt like a second. It wasn’t enough time. It wasn’t nearly enough time. You sent him off, he remembers—you sent him with two of your subordinates, the weretiger and that freaky little girl, and then… 

“Shhh… Don’t speak. I want to get this done and over with.”

The gun to his back, Atsushi and Kyouka’s cries of shock, the baton to his head.

“No can do, weretiger. On orders from the boss.”

His mind tracks back to the words that had been spoken as he was teetering on the edge of consciousness, mouth going dry and eyes widening as he becomes acutely aware of the other person in the room with him. His gaze flicks up to where a vaguely familiar man sits at a desk watching him—straight chin-length black hair, inquisitive purple eyes, a long black coat, Dazai isn’t sure where he recalls this man from but he knows that they’ve met before. 

“Who…” Dazai asks, voice wavering as pain shoots through his head with every little movement. “Who are you? Have we… met before?”

His wrist hurts. His mother’s nails dig into his skin so deep that it draws blood, and he doesn’t know what’s going on. He’d just been sleeping—is he still sleeping? He isn’t sure. He’s stumbling over his own feet trying to keep up with her, he keeps asking her what’s going on but she doesn’t answer him. 

They turn a hall and his mother stops so suddenly that he slams right into her, nearly tripping over onto the ground. He doesn’t even regain his footing before his mother is pulling him back the way he came, he looks over his shoulder trying to figure out what caused his mother to panic so badly and he looks at—a man? 

Who is that? 

Why is he coming from grandfather’s room?

Is that-

Blood?

“Shuji! Shuji, don’t look back! Keep moving!”

Shuji? Who’s Shu-

“I think you know the answer to that already.” Dazai is startled out of the memory—was that a memory?—by the man’s voice. He sounds amused, and from the way that his eyes are glittering, Dazai can tell he’s finding great entertainment out of this situation. It pisses Dazai off. “Don’t you?”

“Tane-chan, you know you won’t be able to hide him forever. You’re just making this harder on yourself.”

Dazai’s breath catches. He shifts backward on the bed to press his back against the wall. Everything is wrong—the air is too cold, his bandages are itching, his head hurts, and he doesn’t know what’s going on. Who is Shuji? Why is he thinking of his mother after all of these years? And what… what was he remembering? 

Memories of his youth have always been sparse and fleeting—he can vaguely recall the faces of his siblings, the anxiety he felt around his grandfather, the loneliness—but something like this… The panic on his mothers face, the pain in his wrist, the way she was dragging him around, the fear in her voice when she screamed at Dazai—was he Shuji? But then why—to not look back, to keep moving. He would remember something like that. That would be… crazy to forget, right?

What is going on?

“You’re Mori,” Dazai breathes out, clearing his throat. He hopes he doesn’t look as disconcerted as he feels, but he thinks he must. “You’re…”

The leader of the Port Mafia. 

The closest thing you have to a father.

So, how does Dazai remember him from years ago? It doesn’t make sense. He couldn’t have been older than thirteen, maybe fourteen in that memory. What did he forget? When did he meet him? What’s going on? Dazai wants to scream, his mind is still slow from just waking up—he doesn’t even know how long he was unconscious, it couldn’t have been that long.

Mori’s smile widens as if Dazai just walked right into whatever trap that had been laid out for him, violet eyes flashing with a type of cruel amusement that makes Dazai sick to his stomach. Dazai has to circle back to remember what he just said, he needs to snap out of the daze he’s in. He needs to think. He made a mistake—Dazai made a mistake. He shouldn’t have admitted that he knew Mori. That was a mistake.

How does he fix it? 

Can he fix it?

“You do know,” Mori says, like he didn’t actually expect Dazai to admit that he knew him. Like he’s pleasantly surprised. Again. Like Dazai just made things much easier for him. Shit. “Interesting.”

He’s going to use it against Dazai. Dazai knows it. He’s going to use it against him to hurt you. He remembers everything he’s learned about your relationship with Mori—how he pit you against that other girl, Yosano, to get results from you. And he already said it. He already said that Dazai is getting between you and your work, he’ll do the same thing here. He’ll pit you against him.

He’s going to tell you that Dazai knew who Mori was, and that Dazai is someone that he’s not—who is Shuji? Why doesn’t he remember his own name? Is that really his name? How does Mori know all of this? Who is Dazai?—and Dazai needs to be able to say something. He needs to be able to explain. How does he explain this when he doesn’t even know what’s going on? Dazai needs to remember; he needs to remember now, he needed to remember yesterday, because if he’s not the one to tell you this… If he can’t explain this…

This cannot be happening—it can’t. Right when he thought everything would be okay, when he would be with you. His throat starts to clog as anxiety clouds his head and weighs on his chest, a panic attack that he can’t afford right now. He needs to think, he needs to figure out what’s going on—Mori knows something about Dazai that he doesn’t know himself, and he’s going to use it against him to drive a wedge between the two of you. He’s going to tell you, and-

Dazai’s world feels woozy. Why can’t he remember? How does he know Mori? What was happening that night with his mother? He needs to snap out of this, needs to think, but he can’t even breathe. Fear—the mind killer.

“I don’t know what’s going on,” Dazai rasps, his voice is hoarse, and he feels sick, and he hates admitting that he doesn’t know what’s happening, but he needs Mori to believe it so that he doesn’t tell you something that’s not true. “I don’t know how I know you. I don’t-”

“You might believe that,” Mori says amused, “but will she?”

Dazai stares at Mori, his stomach churns violently and his vision swims as the answer becomes abundantly clear to him.

He doesn’t know. 

��——

The gun in your hand weighs heavily.

You hid it in the inside of your blazer to get up to the conference room. No weapons are allowed up past the thirty-fifth floor unless you’re one of the Boss’s hand-picked personal guards—even executives are forced to disarm themselves before going up, but security is much more lax for the upper echelon. Because you’re you—the hime, second-in-command, the Boss’s daughter—the guards outside of the elevator that goes directly to the top floor wave you past the metal detectors to go on up.

A mistake.

(Who is Tsushima Shuji? It can’t be Dazai. You know Dazai. Mori must be wrong.)

The smile on your face is bland and doesn’t meet your eyes as you walk down the hall to the conference room attached to Mori’s office. You greet the guards, and they don’t notice how off your demeanor is, too starstruck over the fact that they’re being acknowledged for once. They also don’t notice the way your hand is curled around the grip of your gun in your blazer.

A mistake. 

(Mori is never wrong. Do you really know Dazai?)

When you reach the end of the hallway, you toss them one last brilliant smile. This one is a bit more genuine because you’ve realized that you’ve gotten through the top notch security of the upper levels of the Port Mafia headquarters without a hitch. That you’re one step closer to finishing this. They’re so blinded by the beauty of your smile that they don’t realize your teeth have sharpened into knives and the floral perfume you wear masks a putrid bloodlust. 

A mistake. 

(It’s always been odd, hasn’t it? The way he approached you. The way he was so insistent on pushing himself into your life. You always questioned it. There was a sinking feeling that something wasn’t as it seemed. Why didn’t you question it more?)

You keep your back turned as you slip into the room. You can feel four presences behind you—Kouyou, Piano Man, Chuuya, Ace. No Mori. No Dazai. That’s fine—you have something to take care of before they show up anyway. The conference room is soundproof; Mori designed it that way because he didn’t want the guards outside to overhear any discussion of sensitive topics. Even if he handpicked them for their loyalty, he understands that money can make the most devout man’s faith waver. Still, it’s not them rushing in that you’re worried about—it’s the people in the room with you rushing out, so you very carefully twist the nub of the lock and then reach up to fix the deadbolt. It won’t stop them, but it will slow them. You can feel their eyes on you as you make sure the door is locked, but none of them call you out for it or try to stop you.

A mistake. 

(Mori always told you that the Tsushimas were like cockroaches. If they all weren’t killed, one would eventually return to reclaim their grandfather’s empire. There’d be a power struggle between the factions loyal to the new regime and the ones that still hid in the shadows believing that the Tsushima blood belonged at the head of the organization. Everything the two of you had built would crumble to ashes.)

You turn to make your way over to the conference table where the four of them are sitting. You haven’t decided how you want to go about this yet. You don’t know who all was aware of what Mori did, and because of that, you don’t know who needs to die. Treachery has always faced a death penalty—you don’t care if Mori ordered it, you don’t care that the Boss’s word is absolute, you have bled and breathed for the Port Mafia. You’ve sacrificed everything you’ve ever owned and wanted for the Port Mafia. You have made the Port Mafia into what it is today with your efforts abroad and at home—foreign governments, foreign criminal organizations, the Japanese government and other domestic mafias, all of them are just puppets that you pull the strings of to ensure the Port Mafia stays on top. Treachery against you will face the same penalty one would receive if they betrayed the Port Mafia, because you are the Port Mafia—Mori has made sure of that. 

Chuuya and Piano Man share a look with one another as you approach the table. Neither of them say anything—is it confusion? Is it guilt? Did they know? Were you the only one unaware of the schemes going on around you? Were you the only one loyal? The only one you could trust?

Did they know?

Did they know?

(No one could ever love you without your ability at work influencing them. You’ve known that since the very beginning, but you were so quick to forget that when you discovered Dazai’s ability. You should have had more questions, you should have been more suspicious. Mori had been right from the very beginning. You were emotionally compromised. You were weak.)

Ace opens his mouth to speak.

A mistake. 

“It was nice meeting your-”

Ace’s head hits the conference table with a hard thunk, his eyes wide and glassy, his mouth open around the words you didn’t let him finish speaking. Blood seeps from the bullet hole in his temple and pools around his head and the ground beneath his chair, staining the glass table and the white floors. 

Instead of lowering your arm, you shift it so that the gun is pressed against Piano Man’s temple next. Chuuya says your name—it’s awful, something caught between a gasp of shock and confusion, he’s never said your name like that before. Like he doesn’t know what you’re doing. Like he doesn’t understand you. Like you’re something unfamiliar. Unrecognizable. You ignore him anyway, and the pangs that come along with it, and instead, you keep your gaze trained on Piano Man’s face.

He’s not as panicked as Chuuya, but you can tell that he’s just as caught off guard from the way his lips are twisted. He watches you carefully, waiting for you to say whatever you’re going to say—if you were going to pull the trigger, you would’ve done so immediately, he knows that. He’s always been good at reading you, better than even Chuuya sometimes.

“Did you know?”

Your voice is steadier than you expect it to be. Cold almost. Distant. You don’t recognize it yourself, you suppose it’s no wonder that Chuuya’s staring at you with such a foreign expression. You watch him just as carefully as he does you. He has a tell when he lies: he squints. Not an obvious squint, just the barest hint of his eyes squeezing shut like he’s calculating exactly what he wants to say, in what tone and with what fluctuation he wants to say it.

A subtle tell, but a tell nonetheless. 

“No.”

He stares at you steadily as he says it. There’s no squint—he’s telling the truth. You don’t let out a breath of relief, but you certainly feel the weight off of your shoulders. You lower the gun, satisfied with his response, and then you walk over to where Chuuya is sitting.

You don’t raise the gun to his temple immediately. He looks up at you, you look down at him, a whole conversation is had in the silence between you, and eventually he lowers his lashes in resignation, telling you to do what needs to be done for you to feel more at ease.

He’s always put others before himself. 

You lift the gun at the same time he lifts his gaze to meet yours. He could activate the Tainted Sorrow and end this before it starts, but he doesn’t—you know in your gut that if you pulled the trigger right now, he would accept the fate you delivered. Probably would take it as a better one than he deserved—it being at your hands rather than Arahabaki. 

“Did you know?” you ask. The words taste bitter, rancid—they don’t belong there, Chuuya would never betray you, but you had to hear it from him. 

Chuuya doesn’t have many tells when he lies—he’s a good actor, much better than people give him credit for. If he wanted to lie to you, he might be able to get away with it. But he won’t lie to you, not when he’s looking you in the eye. 

“No,” he says, voice soft and raspy like he can’t believe he has to say it.

You let the gun drop to your side. It weighs heavier now—heavier than it did in the elevator, heavier than it did in the hallway leading to the room, heavier than it did when it was pressed against Piano Man’s head. You can hardly bear to keep holding it, but you’re not done yet.

Slowly, your gaze turns to Kouyou. Her expression is cold and unreadable, gaze pinned on you in the same way a lion stalks its prey through the tall grass… No, that’s not right. She stares at you with the same look in her eyes that a snake does when it’s curled in a corner, rattle shaking and hissing to try to scare off the predator that has it trapped.

“You knew,” you breathe out softly in disbelief. Your voice hardens and tightens as you repeat, “You knew!”

Before you can raise your gun—before you can pull the trigger four, five, six times, before you can riddle her body with holes because how dare she know, how dare she know and not tell you after what the previous boss did to her—the door that separates the conference room from Mori’s office opens, and your attention is drawn to the one person who caused all of this.

“Oh my,” Mori says airly, looking between you, Ace’s body, and Kouyou with an expression that is frustratingly amused. “I see you’ve been busy.”

You don’t even know what to say to that. You almost want to laugh. You think you do laugh, actually—someone does, and you think it’s you, because you feel yourself walking away, you lift your hands to your head to tug at your ears in frustration. Your vision is blurry—are you crying?

“You betrayed me,” you finally say, voice quieter than you intend, so you raise it as you repeat yourself. “You betrayed me. You. Of all people I never thought you would be the one to-”

You can’t even finish the sentence, your voice cracks over the words. It makes you feel sick, it makes you angry, it makes you want to crawl out of your skin, because how could he? To you? You don’t know why you’re so angry, why you’re so betrayed. Mori has always made it clear that his priority is the Port Mafia, but still, to do this to you. To do this to his-

To his what?

You’re not his daughter. You hate when people imply that you are, you hate being called hime, you hate being called ‘Miss Mori’, you hate when people give you respect because of your perceived relationship to him. 

He’s the only father you’ve ever known. Almost every decision you’ve made has been with the motive of making him proud of you. When he seeks out your opinion specifically during meetings, your chest becomes warm with pride.

You don’t love him. How could you? Look at what you’ve become because of him. 

Then why do you feel so betrayed? Why did you think he would be the last person to do something like this to you when you know the type of person he is? Why does your chest feel like it’s caving in? Like your heart’s been ripped right out of it? Why does this hurt as much—why does this hurt more than Dazai’s potential betrayal?

And he certainly doesn’t love you. He never would have done this if he did. 

He’s killed people for disrespecting you—he hardly ever gets his own hands dirty, but he does when it’s you and your dignity on the line. He spends hours meticulously picking out birthday presents that he knows you’ll like. He gets sad when he invites you for lunch and you don’t join him, reminiscing about the days where you clung to the back of his coat.

He touches your shoulder, and your finger twitches on the trigger of the gun. You want to lift it, press it to his temple and pull the trigger just like you did to Ace, but you can’t. Your arm feels like lead, and when his hand slides down to your bicep to force you to turn around and face him so that your back is to the rest of the executives, you dutifully follow along.

His expression is unreadable as he looks down at you, violet eyes swimming with an emotion you’ve never seen in them before. He lifts his hand to wipe away one of the tears that had spilled over your cheeks with his knuckle, and then taps your cheek twice, chiding you silently. 

Do not cry here, little hime. Not here.

“You have always been so dramatic,” Mori hums just loud enough for you to hear, but the words are fond, and the corners of his lip curl up as he looks down at you. “I would not betray you. Not ever, dear.” 

You look at Ace pointedly in response and then back to Mori, the man sighs dramatically and gives you a disappointed look. The nerve, you think bitterly, narrowing your eyes on him as you wait for his explanation.

“I told you,” Mori says. “I did this to protect you. I wanted to get ahold of the boy-”

“Because you have some mistaken belief that he’s a Tsushima,” you interrupt coolly. “How did you even manage to come up with that ridiculous theory?”

Mori’s eyes flicker with something akin to interest, but shifts quickly into pity—you can’t tell if it’s genuine or mocking, and you don’t know which would be worse. He must be mistaken, he has to be. You don’t think you can handle the implications of if he isn’t, of what it might mean for you. For Dazai. Your whole relationship with him. How much was manufactured for him to get information about the Port Mafia? So he could get a foothold in the organization? Get in contact with the remaining loyalists to his family?

“Sit,” he tells you, guiding you over to the seat at the right of the head of the table. “I’ll explain everything, but first… Shuji-kun, why don’t you come out and join us?” 

Your breath catches at Mori’s words, gaze twisting to the side over to the door that he’d come out of. You watch as the door creaks open, and the achingly familiar sight of his face finally comes into view. You’ve missed him—you’ve missed him, and you hate this. You should be back at your apartment with him, you should have him curled up in your arms, you should be listening to him complain about how long he was stuck with the Guild. 

This shouldn’t be happening. You shouldn’t be sitting at the executive roundtable with Ace’s dead body a few feet away, and Dazai entering the room, questions of his identity, of whether or not he’s been using you for information and opportunity to take back his grandfather’s legacy. 

You hoped that Dazai would enter the room angry, irritated by the kidnapping and the accusations, but you don’t think you’ve ever seen Dazai look like this before. He looks a mess, fidgeting, brown hair matted to his forehead, dark eyes wide and swirling with emotion. When he seeks you out, they’re pleading, imploring, like he already knows that whatever is about to be said is going to be bad for him. 

He looks… frazzled. Nervous. Confused. 

He looks guilty, and you know that Mori is telling the truth. 

How much of this was a lie? All of it?

Your throat feels uncomfortably tight, gaze sliding from Dazai back to Mori.

“Tell me.”

Who are you, Dazai Osamu?

———

Despite his body being wracked with a strange sense of guilt, Dazai pushes open the door to enter the room where he assumes you’ll be waiting. You’re not the only one there sitting at the table—there’s five… no, four others—but Dazai can’t help the way he immediately seeks you out. He recognizes his mistake instantly. That highly unwelcome, and highly misplaced, guilt amplifies the moment his gaze meets yours and he sees how crushed you are by all of this. His face twists into something that he knows condemns himself more. and from the way you instantly look away from him, directing your full attention to Mori, he knows he has. 

Now, you won’t meet his eyes at all.

Dazai sits stiffly across from you to the left of Mori. Nakahara Chuuya is on his opposite side, glaring holes into the side of Dazai’s head, but he can’t drag his gaze from you. He’s never seen you like this before—even back at the beach house when you’d been so close to breaking down under the weight of everything on your shoulders, you’d held yourself together as best you could. 

You’re unraveling now; he can tell you’re still trying to hold yourself together, but it’s as good as trying to pick up water with your fists, your emotions spill out through the cracks carved into the walls you used to hide yourself behind. Mori hasn’t even begun talking, yet your breath is unsteady and your eyes are swimming with emotion; your fingers are still wrapped tight around the grip of your gun, and Dazai is very acutely aware of Ace’s dead body slouched over the table not even a few feet away. 

And you won’t even meet his eyes.

Maybe it’s a good thing, he realizes, because Dazai isn’t sure what you might see if you do. You clearly didn’t like what you saw the first time. He just feels so guilty, and he doesn’t even know why he feels guilty because he’s not-he didn’t do any of what Mori implied. He didn’t use you, he didn’t know who you were before meeting you, it wasn’t all some scheme to try to take over the mafia. That’s ludicrous—he’s a literature student at YNU, not some gang lord. He just-

He loved you. Loves you. No ulterior motives. No strings attached. 

“I said tell me,” you snap when Mori doesn’t immediately begin talking. “You love talking, so why are you holding back now? Tell me, or I’m leaving.”

Dazai feels a bit sick to his stomach when you say ‘I’ with no implication of taking him with you. He tries to get you to look at him again, silently pleading with you to just spare one glance in his direction, but you’re irritated now. He can see it in the way your fingers flex around the gun, knuckles whitening and finger twitching on the trigger—it’s pointed at the woman sitting next to you, who is very acutely aware of the fact from how stiff she is. 

“Do you remember the night we took over the Port Mafia, dear?” Mori asks her, voice a low hum. 

“What kind of question is that?” you answer tightly. Your lip curls up in irritation, Dazai can see you become more and more antsy and angry—he’s never seen you so out of control before. “Of course, I do.” 

“And you, Shuji-kun?” Mori turns his attention to Dazai and he wants to spit in his face—his name is Dazai—but his voice fails him when he sees the way your face twists at the sound of the unfamiliar name. He stares at Mori instead, hating how amused the man becomes at his silence. “I’ll take that as a no, allow me to refresh you.”

“Eight years ago, a coup was staged against your grandfather’s regime,” Mori says, and Dazai feels like he’s being studied under a microscope. All eyes are on him now—even yours, but now, he can’t bring himself to look at you. He doesn’t know what he’ll find, and he’s scared it’s going to be something he doesn’t like. “Your grandfather was mad, killing civilians and mafiosos indiscriminately, something had to be done, and nobody was willing to do it, so we did.”

“We had to wipe out the whole family, and any loyalists. I was fourteen when I killed someone for the first time. She was a girl my age—the previous boss’s grandaughter…”

Dazai’s gaze drags over to you. You’re staring ahead now, gaze listless and expression eerily blank like you’re slowly starting to realize what this means. Dazai hasn’t come to terms with it yet, because if even a little of what Mori is saying is true then…

“We wiped out the whole bloodline and as many loyalists as we could,” Mori continues, “or we thought we did, at least. My dear hime was who I sent to kill the heirs, I trusted in her to make it quick and painless. We didn’t realize one of the grandchildren were missing until it was too late—he wasn’t in his bedroom, apparently liked to wander around at night because he couldn’t sleep. His mother was able to swoop in and get him out of the estate before our men took over the building… Tsushima Shuji, the youngest of the previous boss’s grandsons. Does this sound familiar yet, Shuji-kun?”

He has the best view of the night sky from an alcove on the fourth floor of the estate—his grandfather’s floor. It’s where he likes to go when he can’t sleep at night, and ever since his cousins and siblings started fighting over their grandfather’s legacy, that’s been just about every night: half because of fear now that things have started escalating to violence, half because he’s not even sure why he’s still here.

His knees are tucked tight to his chest, arms wrapped around them and head resting against the cool glass as he looks up at the stars. He hears a commotion happening somewhere downstairs, but there’s always a commotion happening at the estate, so he thinks nothing of it. He submerges himself in the darkness instead, letting his mind float away as he stares up at the sky—it’s the only time he’s able to relax, escape from the shadows of his own mind.

He’s not sure how long he sits there admiring the night, time passes immeasurably when he’s lost in the stars—he’s only snapped out of it when he hears feet slamming against the ground in his direction. He stiffens, eyes wide, wondering if another one of his cousins has finally turned to bloodshed as the way to inherit their grandfather’s legacy, but instead his mother turns the corner, her smooth face contorted in a type of panic he’s never seen on her before.

“Mothe…” he starts to say, confused, but he doesn’t even get a chance to finish the word, gasping as his mother grabs his wrist and yanks him off the cushioned seat in the alcove.

“Shuji, we have to go,” she gasps, “we need to get out of here. It’s not safe.”

He stumbles after his mother, struggling to keep up with her quick pace and longer legs. Her grip was painful, nails digging into the bandages around his wrists, right into the fresh wounds they covered. He grimaces in pain, breathing heavy as he follows his mother down the hall, assumingly toward the steps near his grandfather’s room. 

“What’s going on?” he asks. “What about Bunji? Akane? T-”

His mother chokes over what sounds like a sob and his eyes widen—he’s never heard his mother cry before. 

“There’s no time,” she chokes out, “we have to leave without them. We-”

They turn a hall, she skids to a stop and-

“It seems that it does… Allow me to continue then,” Mori hums, drawing Dazai out of the memory. He sounds unbearably amused, and Dazai would be angry if he wasn’t so shaken. He pulls his hands off of the table to rest them in his lap to hide the way his fingers are trembling. “Your mother was able to hide you from us for half a year, I warned her that she wouldn’t be able to for long and since she didn’t share your grandfather’s blood, promised to spare her life if she gave you up to us, but she refused. She tried to take you out of the Kanagawa Prefecture, but our men were catching up to her, and she took… drastic measures to ensure we couldn’t track you down. That I’m sure you remember.”

“Mother,” he whispered, staring up at the rope, her limp body, gaze trailing down to the kicked over chair. “Mother, I don’t… why did you…”

He takes a step closer. A step back. Another step closer. He reaches out, fingers brushing the white nightgown she’d worn the night before while getting him settled in bed, but he snatches them back instantly like he’d been burned, clutching his hand to his chest.

He’s not breathing, he realizes when his lungs start to burn. His eyes sting painfully, unable to draw his eyes away—unable to even blink—is it a nightmare? Is he hallucinating? She sways—sways like when she used to distract him when he was settling into a depressive episode by putting on music and forcing him to spin with her in the kitchen, sways like the wind chimes she keeps outside because the house doesn’t feel homely enough without him, sways-

“Shuji! Shuji, get away from there!” The voice that calls to him is familiar—Aunt Kiye? Why is she here? “God, I tried to get here earlier. Nee-san, forgive me.”

Aunt Kiye grabs his wrist, yanking him away from his mother, dragging him out of her bedroom and down the hall. His voice is hoarse as he screams, he doesn’t know what he’s screaming, if he’s even screaming anything intelligible. He doesn’t stop until he’s out of the house and she’s kneeling in front of him, shaking him out of his panic.

“Enough, Shuji! We have to go, we can’t stay here, they’ll be here soon,” Aunt Kiye shouts at him, expression twisted and eyes pooling with tears that she doesn’t let spill over. “We need to go, and we-we need to change your name, change everything. I promised I would hide you, I-”

“We can’t leave her there,” he argues, voice shrill. “I don’t understand, why did she do that? What did I do? It was my fault, It was my fault, wasn’t it? It-”

Aunt Kiye doesn’t answer his question. She looks bitter, angry, hateful. “We have no time. We have to leave,” she whispers, dragging him to the car despite his protests. She continues talking, more to herself than to him, but the words make his chest cave in. “I told her not to get involved with that family. Their blood is black, cursed. Everyone knows nothing good comes from associating with those people.”

His fault, he realizes, breath becoming thin and shallow. It’s his fault, his blood, his fault that his mother-

“Yes, quite the unfortunate scene we walked into,” Mori says dismissively. “She was smart for it though, she never would’ve survived a night with our sweet hime interrogating her. You should see what she did to that despicable journalist. Of course, she wasn’t as fine-tuned with her ability back then, but that would’ve been at your mother’s expense—her first few attempts at conditioning were quite… unfortunate for her test sub-”

“Enough,” you spit out, interrupting him. Dazai wants to believe that it’s because you can see how uncomfortable he’s getting, but he’s not even sure that you care. He’s not even sure you remember he’s in the room. “Get to the point. You think he’s the Tsushima kid we missed—that doesn’t prove shit. It doesn’t mean-”

You don’t finish what you’re going to say, but you do look at him, and Dazai’s breath catches when his gaze finally meets yours again. He can’t tell what you’re thinking—the expression on your face is entirely indecipherable, something caught between being accusatory and guilty. Dazai doesn’t know if he’s going to make it out of this room alive. Even if by some miracle, you decide to believe him, there’s a good chance that Mori will order his death anyway, and he’s not sure if you’ll pick him over the Port Mafia. 

That being said, Dazai doesn’t even know if he wants to make it out of here alive. His brain is fogged with memories that he locked so deep within him that they never should’ve resurfaced—every time Mori speaks, Dazai’s recalling something new, something awful, something that proves that he’s every bit the freak people have always claimed him to be. Every bit as bad. Every bit as wrong. Not like other people. A monster whose mother killed herself because of him, a monster who's been cursed since the day he was born. 

“... blood is black, cursed… nothing good comes from associating with those people.”

More than that, he doesn’t see how the two of you are going to be able to come back from this, and that scares him more than anything. You’re the only good thing left in his life, and he doesn’t think he’ll make it without you, but he doesn’t think that after all of this things are just going to work out. You killed his siblings. His cousins. And yeah, Dazai was never close to them—they thought he was too quiet, too strange, all of the things that the other students at school whispered, his family was the first to—but… they were still his family, and if Dazai had been in his room that night, he would’ve been just as dead at your hands as the rest of them.

You killed his family. You would have killed him. The Port Mafia is the reason his mother killed herself, the reason why he walked into her bedroom and saw her hanging from a fan. The Port Mafia is the reason his aunt hated him so much that she couldn’t even bear looking at him, the reason why he was left to die in Suribachi City. 

Would you ever be able to get over the guilt of that? Would Dazai be able to accept it? You had a heavy hand in ruining his life, is it enough that you saved him years later? He doesn’t know, he’s hardly even processed it, he just knows that he has to cling to what little he has left, dig his nails in and not let go even if it makes you choke on guilt, even if it makes him sick with shame. He won’t let go. 

“So impatient,” Mori sighs. “Your aunt hid you for almost another half a year, but she wasn’t able to move out of the Yokohama area. She did well though, I’ll give her that. We had our best trying to find you, but she was very careful. It was partially our own fault that we didn’t get our hands on you back then—some loyalists to your grandfather snuck under our radar, told her when we were closing in on the two of you. She got rid of you before we got to her… but we did get to her. Kouyou-kun was the one who handled her, if I recall it got quite… messy. I can’t imagine how it must feel knowing that your mother and aunt sacrificed themselves to protect you only for you to throw it all away in an arrogant attempt to reclaim your grandfather’s legacy.”

Dazai doesn’t even zero in on the last bit of what Mori says because he’s too busy trying to wrap his head around the rest of it. Aunt Kiye didn’t… die for him. Aunt Kiye hated him. He remembers that clear enough—he remembers how she could hardly stand to look at him, he remembers the way she was always so cold and rough with him, he remembers-

“You have to go, Osamu.” Aunt Kiye is shouting at him, and he’s sitting in the passenger seat of her car. He doesn’t move, he thinks maybe if he sits still enough, she won’t see him there and won’t make him leave. “Osamu, get out of the car and go, we don’t have time! They’ve found us.”

The name is still unfamiliar—he’s not used to it, and he doesn’t know if he likes it, but Aunt Kiye insists that Tsushima Shuji is dead and that name can never be uttered again. She gets mad when he doesn’t immediately answer to it, tells him not to let his mother’s death be in vain, and that’s usually enough to get him to stop being stubborn over it.

“Osamu, go!” She grabs his bicep hard to try to get his attention, but he flinches and squirms out of her grip, still not responding to her. He can’t remember the last time he’s spoken—he thinks maybe since they left the cabin that morning. “You-”

Aunt Kiye sounds angry now, but he can’t bring himself to look at her. It’s only when he hears her unbuckle and feels her start reaching over him that he starts to panic. He reaches up to grab her bicep, trying to stop her from grabbing the handle of the door to open it, but she’s stronger than him. He’s hardly been eating lately, and he’s never been particularly strong—he was always the smallest among his siblings. 

It takes no effort for her to bat his hands away, pushing open the door and unbuckling his seatbelt. He struggles against her as she tries to push him out of the car, and she’s still speaking—shouting at him, begging him, he thinks she might be crying too, but he can’t even tell. His mind is fogged with panic and fear—he doesn’t want to be alone in Suribachi City, he doesn’t want to be alone at all. He wants to stay with Aunt Kiye even if she hates him because he doesn’t want to be alone. 

Eventually, Aunt Kiye wins the fight—even with him fighting tooth and nail, she manages to push him out of the car. He hits the ground hard, gasping when he lands poorly on his elbow. He’s stunned for a moment by the shock and pain, and Aunt Kiye takes the chance to toss out a backpack from the back seat and close the door behind him, locking it quickly. 

“No!” His voice is raspy from lack of use over the past few months. He scrambles to his feet and tries to pry the door open but can’t. Aunt Kiye won’t even look at him, she stares ahead as she switches the car into gear and he slams his hands against the window. “Aunt Kiye! Aunt Kiye, don’t leave me here! Don’t leave me here, please, I’ll be better, I’ll do better, just don’t-”

He stumbles back as she pulls the car away, falling when he trips over the backpack onto the asphalt, scraping up his hands and forearms. He’s not sure how long he sits there staring after where the car disappeared waiting for her to come back for him.

She doesn’t.

She didn’t die for him, Dazai thinks again, nails digging crescents into his palm. She didn’t die for him, she couldn’t have. Dazai won’t believe it. Aunt Kiye hated him, she abandoned him in Suribachi—none of this can be true. It can’t. His mother killed herself to be free of him, not to protect him; and Aunt Kiye abandoned him because she hated him, not to save him.

That’s the truth. It has to be. They couldn’t have died for him—for him. It doesn’t make any sense. He doesn’t want to remember all of this—he was better off thinking that they hated him, that they wanted to be free of him.

He can feel you looking at him now, but Dazai is back to being unable to look at you. He’s staring down at the glass table looking at his reflection, his eyes are wide and dark and far too black—he looks warped, inhuman almost. His expression is blank, none of the turmoil within him is reflected on it, and he doesn’t even understand why. He thinks it’s probably just making him seem more guilty.

“We figured she left you somewhere in Suribachi City, but we weren’t able to track you down,” Mori says flippantly. Dazai wants him to stop talking, but he has a sick feeling things are only going to get worse from here. “Not until you ended up with Oda Sakunosuke, at least, we…”

Dazai’s ears ring at his old friend’s name. Mori is still talking, but his words become a distant buzz. Everything starts coming back to him at once—his time alone in Suribachi City, the weeks he spent rationing the little food he had, getting the shit kicked out of him by some low rung gang who stole his mother’s ring from him. He remembers giving up, questioning the point of his own existence with a detached logic that left him with only one answer—there was no point to his existence, so he was as good dead as he was alive. 

He remembers seeing on a sign that it was the eve of his fifteenth birthday, and he remembers dropping himself in the bay during a storm, hoping that the tide dragged him so far beneath the surface that he’d never see the light of day again.

He remembers waking up the next morning to an unfamiliar face at his bedside, brows knit in disapproval and lips turned down, and he distinctly remembers feeling put out by a stranger looking at him that way.

“What’s your name, kid?”

Dazai couldn’t remember anything but the name Aunt Kiye had drilled into him over and over again the past few months.

“Dazai Osamu.”

“Hm. Oda Sakunosuke. You got a family, Dazai?

Odasaku brought him in. 

Odasaku saved him. 

The doctors said he’d been dead for almost three minutes when Odasaku found him washed up on the beach—said his memory might return over time, but it might not—but Dazai didn’t even care, because Odasaku brought him in. He gave him a roof over his head, food to eat, and a reason to live. He sent him to school so he could feel like a normal kid his age. He played board games with him and didn’t even care when Dazai was a sore loser and quit mid-game when he realized he wouldn’t win. He humored Dazai when he faked being sick because he didn’t want to go to school. When Dazai was going through bad depressive episodes, Odasaku would sit with him silently and write his book so Dazai never felt alone. Odasaku introduced him to Ango and they were-

They were his friends.

Family, maybe.

They were all he had, and they were all he needed. 

And then-

“We were the ones who killed him.”

Dazai’s gaze drags up from the table to focus on Mori. The man’s lips are curved into a cruel smile, his eyes are sharp, and Dazai is moving before he can stop himself. He lunges across the table, but Mori doesn’t even flinch because Nakahara Chuuya grabs the back of his shirt and yanks him back down into his seat. 

“You-” Dazai spits, voice raspy and angry.

“Don’t look at me like that, we were trying to get to you,” Mori says casually as if the words don’t shatter Dazai’s entire world. “We would’ve loved to have Oda Sakunosuke amongst our ranks. His death was unfortunate. Collateral damage. He was an assassin for a long time—one of the best in the world. He was pretty much unkillable, his ability allowed him to see six seconds into the future. I never understood how our sniper managed to get him that day, but now I do. He saw you getting shot with his foresight and tried to pull you out of the way, but your ability is nullification, so when he touched you to save you, he damned himself. In those split seconds when he was pulling you to safety, he couldn’t see the future, and couldn’t see the bullets aimed for you that lodged into his chest instead.”

Dazai can’t do this anymore. He tries to push himself up to his feet but his legs are numb and uncooperative, and he can’t move his hands or arms. Mori’s lips part to continue speaking but Dazai can’t do this, he can’t hear anymore of this. He’d always known in his heart that Odasaku’s death was his fault even if he couldn’t remember much about his mother and Aunt Kiye and their desperate attempts to hide him from the Port Mafia. He’d known, but hearing it-hearing the confirmation, it’s too much for him.

Before Mori can say anything, Dazai is startled from his spiraling thoughts when you stand up so abruptly that your chair goes flying back. Your expression is haunted and you’re not looking at him again, but Dazai is glad for it, because he thinks he’s about to throw up.

“I… I need a minute. I just need a minute,” you say shakily before fleeing the room into Mori’s office so quickly that you almost trip over the chair you knocked over.

The room is silent in your wake, and after a few impossibly long moments, Mori stands to follow you into the other room. The three Port Mafia executives left in the room don’t say anything for a moment, and Dazai is just trying to breathe. He’s trying to breathe and process what Mori just said, but he’s failing miserably at it. 

It’s the woman, Kouyou, who speaks first.

“She’s going to kill me for knowing about this,” she says simply, sparing a glance down at the dead body on her opposite side. “I’ve never seen her like this before. Even when Chuuya-kun went missing for a few days, this…”

“Well, maybe you shouldn’t have conspired against her,” Piano Man sings, looking entirely unperturbed. “I mean honestly, after what the previous boss did to you, I would’ve thought you’d be more sympathetic. Silly me to think you aren’t a cold-hearted bitch.”

Dazai tries to pay attention to what they’re saying, he tries to ground himself with the conversation happening so he can forget the feeling of Odasaku’s blood all over his hands, staining his clothes, smeared on his face. He tries to replace Mori’s echoing words with what they’re saying but he can’t.

“We were trying to get to you.”

“It has nothing to do with sympathy,” Kouyou snaps, but she does look ashamed. “It’s a security threat, it’s bigger than love. This boy could spell the end of everything we’ve built.”

“She won’t kill you, Ane-san,” Chuuya finally speaks up, his knuckles are tight around the armrest of the chair he’s sitting in. “I’ll talk to her, I just-”

“When he touched you to save you, he damned himself.”

“Chuuya-kun, she almost killed you,” Kouyou says so dryly that the words almost don’t even register to Dazai, but when they do, they’re the only thing that effectively draws him from his spiraling thoughts. He looks at Chuuya sharply to see if what Kouyou said was true, and his eyes widen when he only grimaces and looks down. “You and Piano Man. She didn’t even hesitate before pulling the trigger on Ace. She’s unstable right now, there’s no talking to her.”

“But she didn’t,” Chuuya says tightly. “I’ll talk to her, but first…”

Chuuya looks at Dazai so suddenly that he almost wants to snap his head away and ignore him, but he can’t. The ginger studies Dazai so intensely that it makes him want to crawl out of his own skin.

“Did you know?” Chuuya asks, voice low. He’s angry, Dazai can tell from the way a dark red color starts to flicker around his hands, but he’s trying to keep it together. “Tell me. Did you know who she was and use her to get closer to the Mafia for revenge? I’ll spare her the pain of having to put a bullet through your fucking head and kill you myself right now. Did you know who she was and purposely-”

“No,” Dazai interrupts, voice hoarse. “No. I didn’t-I didn’t know.”

Chuuya stares at him for a few seconds, studying him like he doesn’t know if he actually believes him, but after what feels like an eternity, he finally shakes his head and looks away, rubbing his face with his hands.

“Fuck, this is such a mess,” Chuuya breathes out, voice strained. “Fuck. She-”

Chuuya doesn’t finish his sentence because the door to Mori’s office reopens and you step back into the room, Mori at your heels. Your eyes are red, but your expression is withdrawn now, void of the tumultuous emotions that had been raging across it just a few minutes before. You settle back in your seat. Your eyes flit over Dazai like he’s not even there before focusing on Mori.

Dazai suddenly has a bad feeling.

“I’m not quite sure how you escaped us after that,” Mori continues where he left off, and Dazai is so sick of the man’s voice that he almost wants to rip his own ears off. “Probably Sakaguchi-san from the SDUP, I recall him and Oda-san being close… but that brings us to the present, doesn’t it? Four years later, you stumble into our lovely hime… Come, dear, let me tell you my running theory, and you tell me how accurate I am, yeah?”

Mori is looking at you now, eyes glittering as he waits for your response. Dazai has his own serious issues with the man, but he thinks it’s sick the way he’s enjoying your clear discomfort and increasing distress. Your jaw tightens a bit, but you nod, signaling for Mori to speak. Dazai’s nails dig into his pants as he waits for Mori to continue. Neither of you look at him, and Dazai’s lips part to speak so he can preemptively deny whatever Mori is about to accuse him of, but he can’t push a single word out. 

“Your first meeting with him wasn’t by chance. A cafe, maybe… a bar?” Mori offers, watching your face carefully for a reason. You look away at the second option, and the man’s lips curve up. “A bar, then. One you frequent, I bet. The one in Hodogaya-ku, perhaps? Your first meeting, but not Shuji-kun’s first time seeing you. Ui Koutarou—his journalism professor at YNU—wrote his first article implicating the Mori Corporation’s connection with the Port Mafia in February of this year, around a month before rising fourth year students register for classes. Shuji-kun, naturally, has been following anything related to the Port Mafia closely, so when he sees a class being offered in the fall by the same man who has been openly targeting the Port Mafia, he sees an opportunity and signs up for the class.”

No, Dazai tries to say. His lips form the word, but the sound doesn’t come from his lips. No. No, no, no, no. You look haunted suddenly, and Dazai remembers the argument he had with you during the government event in Tokyo. How cold and withdrawn you’d become. How when he confronted you next, you accused him of working with Ui Koutarou and blackmailing you for money. Mori is reigniting all of the initial fears you once had.

“Ui-san has had his sights set on you for quite a while, dear. You don’t need me to tell you that, you’re very well aware of the man’s hatred of you… When Shuji-kun started classes in the fall, Ui-san roped him into his plans, and you became his project. That wretched man had many documents on you. I had the Black Lizards raid his apartment after we captured him—most were harmless, detailing places you frequented and people seen around you, but when Shuji-kun became involved, he started using that information to manufacture meetings between you. I imagine that after you met him that first time, he started appearing around you rather regularly. Bump-ins at that cafe you like in Minami-ku, on the streets—he even started renting an apartment on property that we own after he realized the opportunity he had with Ui… he’s only been living there since the summer, you know?”

His last apartment wasn’t close enough to the school, Dazai wants to argue desperately. He’d been lucky that a cheap apartment opened up in Hodogaya-ku before the semester started—he’s been trying to get one since his first year. It has nothing to do with-

Dazai suddenly feels nauseous again, everything is spinning around him—he still hears Aunt Kiye screaming at him, he still hears the creaking of the rope his mother hung himself on, he still hears Mori’s confirming that Odasaku’s death was his fault. And now this, and you’re not looking at him again, and he’s not saying anything, why isn’t he saying anything? Why isn’t he denying this?

“He attached himself to you quickly, didn’t he?” Mori asks rhetorically. “Too quickly, I’m sure you had doubts—not even your ability makes people reliant on you as swift as he became. How long did it take for him to start prying for information? Trying to make you slip up and implicate yourself with the Mafia? Confess yourself as an ability user?”

The night of the earthquake when you showed up at his apartment, he remembers dizzily. He started pressing you on your political opinion because he remembered Ui saying that all of the criminal syndicates in Japan are going to do whatever it takes to prevent the military bill from passing. But he wasn’t… doing it to prove anything? He just wanted to know more about you, he was curious, he was finally putting the mystery that you are together. It wasn’t malicious—he just wanted to know you. That’s all it ever was, he’s only ever wanted to know you.

“When did you tell him about your ability? More about our organization? Around when the Guild started making their move in Yokohama, I’m sure. He never told you about his ability until his hand was forced. In fact, I’m willing to bet he lied and said he didn’t know he had one, but tell me, do you really think an assassin of the caliber of Oda Sakunosuke would not realize his ward had an ability that negated his own? That he wouldn’t be trained in how to use it… Most importantly, if all of this wasn’t a scheme of revenge—if he really did love you—then why did he never get rid of the flash drive that contained the proof that his journalism house published? The proof that got you thrown in prison?”

You’re crying.

Dazai’s throat swells when he sees the tears silently tracking over your cheeks. At once, he realizes that he’s never seen you cry before; he itches to reach over to you, to grab your hand or wipe away the tears. He doesn’t—partially because he doesn’t think he could move if he tried, but mostly because he knows that he’s the reason you’re crying. 

He wants to assure you that none of this is true. He had nothing to do with the Guild—they kidnapped him for fuck’s sake. He didn’t know about his ability, he didn’t even know Odasaku was an assassin. And he was just… careless with the flash drive, and he shouldn’t have been, but there was always so much going on, and he was so new to having someone in his life that really loved him that he was quick to bask in it and forget everything else.

He doesn’t assure you of anything, instead he watches as Mori reaches out to do what Dazai wants to do. He brushes away your tears and turns your face to look at him, a disgustingly sympathetic look on his face.

“I know you were eager to believe that someone could love you without your ability at work influencing them, dear,” Mori murmurs, “but people like us will never find a love that pure. There will always be other factors at work sullying it—wealth, revenge, threats. You understand now what this was, don’t you?”

No, Dazai wants to scream at you. He does love you, this wasn’t some ridiculous revenge plot for family he hardly remembered until this meeting, that-

“I do.”

Dazai finally is able to make a noise when those two words leave your lips. It’s weak—something caught between a wheeze and a whimper that sounds too loud in the silent room. He feels eyes on him—Chuuya and Kouyou’s in particular. Not yours. You stare down at the table.

“Ogai-dono,” Kouyou clears her throat. “If I may… perhaps we could… send the boy away. Abroad. Ensure he never comes back to Japan so we don’t have to risk him coming back and disrupting things.”

“We could give him a seat at the table,” Chuuya interrupts, ignoring the wide-eyed look both Kouyou and Piano Man give him because of the radical idea. “We’re down an executive anyway. We tell people who he is, that he supports the new regime. It’s what you wanted to begin with, right, boss? You wanted one of the grandchildren to legitimize the passing of power. We could make it work.”

“It’s too risky.” Mori isn’t the one to speak, Piano Man is, but he doesn’t look happy to do it. “Maybe back then it could’ve worked, but the Port Mafia killed his friends and family, and hunted him down. Too much has happened, he’s an unpredictable variable that we can’t risk. We can’t trust that he’ll just accept it all, that he won’t work behind the scenes to take us down. Giving him any leverage in the organization is the last thing we should do, but what Kouyou-”

“Leave him alive and we risk everything we’ve built falling apart—a civil war igniting, Yokohama being caught in the crossfires and all of our foreign enemies crawling into the city to reap the benefits of our fall. It’s one life or hundreds—thousands, even,” Mori interrupts, voice cool. He turns his gaze onto you. “I trust you know what has to be done, dear.”

Your expression is resolved, a heavy emotion in your eyes that tells him your answer before you even speak. “Yeah, I know.”

You stand up, and Dazai knows that it’s over. When you look down at him, it’s with a type of apathy that makes his stomach twist—he’d rather hate than nothing. His lips part to speak but he pauses when you shake your head slightly, so subtly that he almost doesn’t even notice it.

“Get up,” you say flatly, and then glance at Chuuya. “Chuuya, will you…?” 

“Yeah,” Chuuya replies without you even needing to finish the question. His voice is hoarse, he looks more than a little disturbed. “Yeah. Of course.”

Chuuya rises to his feet and then grabs Dazai’s bicep to pull him up to his feet too. Dazai doesn’t even have the heart to give him a dirty look in response, following along as he leads him out of the conference room and into the hallway. 

For a split second, Dazai really believes that maybe you’re just trying to fool Mori, you made him think you were taking Dazai to have him killed so that you can get him out of here safely, but even once you’re out of the conference room without Mori’s eyes carefully watching you, you don’t look at him.

“Get one of the clean up crews up here,” you tell one of the guards waiting in the hall instead as you frown at your phone, typing out a quick text to someone. You pointedly ignore how alarmed they are by the offhand comment to click on the button to the elevator.

When you look back at the two of them, it’s not to look at Dazai—it’s to look at Chuuya. The two of you are having a conversation, Dazai can tell that much, and he thinks that maybe he should be putting in the effort to figure out what’s going on, what you have planned, but he’s just… tired. He’s not even sure if he cares what happens to him anymore, and he figures the worst case scenario is that he dies at your hands, and of all of the ways he could go, he thinks that would be the most preferable, because at least you would be the last thing he saw.

He doesn’t try to speak again until the three of you are in the elevator and the doors have closed. 

“I-”

“Stop.”

Dazai is startled by the sharpness in your voice. He looks at you, but you’re still not looking at him, your lips are curved down as you stare at your phone, typing furiously. He glances up into the left corner of the elevator, noticing the cameras—maybe that’s why, he thinks a bit unsurely, deciding to stay quiet until out of the building. 

When the elevator doors open, it’s Chuuya that urges him to keep walking by nudging his shoulder. You don’t touch him, don’t look at him. There’s nobody in the main entrance of the building, which Dazai thinks is a bit odd, but he bites back any comments he might have when he sees a black car waiting outside the building.

The doors to the building open at your approach, and Dazai inhales the crisp, fresh air greedily, not even having realized how stifled he’d felt in that room with Mori, you, and the other Port Mafia executives. He thinks maybe that you’ll sit in the backseat with him and he’ll finally be able to talk to you, but you don’t. You open the door to the passenger seat and sit there without even sparing him a glance.

Dazai’s throat starts to swell again, stopping in his tracks as he stares at where you disappeared behind the car door. Chuuya pushes him forward, not letting him linger for long—he opens the door to the backseat and pretty much manhandles Dazai into the car before taking a seat next to him.

He recognizes the person at the wheel—Albatross, your friend. He’s driven you and Dazai around before, every time Dazai gets in the car with him, he makes a sharp comment aimed to embarrass you in some manner. This time, he doesn’t even look at Dazai through the rearview mirror. He just puts the car in gear and starts driving.

A pit starts to form in Dazai’s stomach. Dazai tries to initiate conversation with you again now that you’re outside of the Port Mafia headquarters within closed quarters, nails scraping against his pants as he decides what he wants to say.

“I d-”

“Stop.”

When you cut him off now, Dazai’s stomach flips. He stares at the side of your face, trying to understand why you won’t even listen to him. You can’t actually believe what Mori was saying, you can’t. You were faking him out, tricking him into thinking you fell for it—you had to be, you have to be. You can’t possibly believe him. 

“You won’t… even hear me out?” Dazai asks you quietly.

“There’s nothing left to say.”

Oh, Dazai thinks to himself, withdrawing. He stares at you for a moment before turning away stiffly, expression tight and strained as he stares out the window, watching the buildings pass by as they get closer and closer to the ports. 

You believe it, he realizes dully. You believe that it was all just a scheme. You believe that everything was manufactured, that he used you for some fantastical revenge plan, that he never loved you. You believe it.

But it doesn’t make sense, he thinks desperately. He doesn’t understand how you’re not seeing through it, and if you are, why aren’t you at least giving him some hint? He should try to say something again—he knows that, but he finds himself unable to. He’s a smooth-talker, quick on his feet, but never when it comes to you—since the day he met you, he’s been fumbling over words awkwardly, but now it’s costing him everything. He finds ash in his mouth preventing him from salvaging anything he might’ve had with you.

Dig your nails in and cling, he reminds himself, but his nails have become rounded out and blunted from how long he was scratching at his pants and skin while remembering all those memories he locked away. He tries to dig his nails in and cling, but his voice fails him and his nails can’t even find purchase on your skin, you slip out of his hands as easily as an eel.

He’s going to lose you. He might’ve lost you already.

Dazai thinks that’s worse than the realization that he really might be about to die.

The car comes to a stop much quicker than Dazai had hoped, and he stiffens when you waste no time before getting out of the car. He makes no move to join you outside, and Chuuya sighs next to him.

“Get out,” Chuuya says flatly. When Dazai doesn’t budge again, Chuuya snaps, “Get out of the car-”

“-and go, we don’t have time! They’ve found us.”

Dazai draws his knees to his chest, breath becoming a bit labored as his aunt’s voice echoes in his ears. He doesn’t even realize that Chuuya has gotten out of the car until Dazai’s car door is pried open. For a split second, he confuses the executive with his aunt as he’s yanked out of the car—he’s fourteen again and being abandoned by the only person he has left, and he can just barely bite back the “don’t leave me here!” that almost spills from his lips as his knees hit the ground hard.

Dazai is instantly hit with a thick scent that makes him gag. It’s noxious, almost entirely unbearable, clogs his throat to the point he almost struggles to breathe—a blend of rot, acrid chemicals, and something he doesn’t recognize, but it’s sickeningly sweet. As he pushes himself to his feet, he notices you pass your gun over to Chuuya, but in that moment, Dazai is more concerned with figuring out where he is, and when he does, his stomach drops.

The dumping grounds by ports stretch endlessly under the heavy, overcast sky. Mounds of trash rose like grotesque hills patched with scraps of torn plastic and suspicious lumps that Dazai doesn’t have to get close to know what they are. The ground is uneven and treacherous—a mix of sticky mud and sharp shards of discarded glass and plastic, and pools of murky water shimmering with oil slicks. 

It’s disgusting, and Dazai has a feeling it might be his final resting place. 

He trails over to the side of the road and his gaze tracks down to the ground directly below him. It’s not a far drop, hardly a foot or two, and certainly less gross than some of the other parts of the area, but that’s a low bar to meet. He tears his eyes away from the scenery around him to look back at you, lips parted to speak but he doesn’t say anything.

You’re leaning against the front of the car, watching him with an expression that Dazai can’t describe. Sad, maybe, resigned. Chuuya is back in the car, from what Dazai can tell, he's still fiddling with your gun—he wonders if this is his way of letting the two of you say goodbye in private.

“I do love you,” Dazai says. His voice cracks over the words. “No ulterior motives. No schemes. I just loved you. Love you.”

You don’t say anything for a moment, eyes drawing from him somewhere over to the side like you’re looking for something, but after a moment, you look back at him, your face a little softer than it was before.

“I know,” you tell him quietly. “I know, Osamu.”

Dazai’s lips part to say something back—he doesn’t even know what he wants to say, because confusion fogs his mind. If you know, then why-

Why are you doing this?

He doesn’t get the chance to ask. The car door opens and Chuuya steps back out, he passes your gun back to you and Dazai sees you subtly slide something into his hand too, but he can’t tell what it is. You sigh as you look down at the gun before looking back up at him again, he holds his breath as you make your way closer to him.

His lashes flutter shut, expecting to feel the cool barrel of the gun against his forehead, but his breath hitches when he instead feels the familiar warmth of your hand cradling his cheek. Your fingertips are flaked with Ace’s dried blood, but Dazai still leans into your touch, eyes sliding back open to look at you.

Up close, your expression is twisted with regret and… is that fear? Dazai can’t tell, he doesn’t care, he’s more preoccupied with memorizing the image of you before he runs out of time to.

“Forgive me,” you whisper so faintly that Dazai almost doesn’t hear you.

“I do,” he replies just as softly.

Your face crumbles as you look away. You take a step away from him, and your hand drops down from his face. Dazai instantly mourns the loss. You let out a heavy, shaky breath, sparing one last look down at the gun in your hand, one to Chuuya who stands half a step behind you, and then you look at Dazai again.

“Forgive me,” you say again, this time as you lift the gun—your voice is raspy, breath uneven.

Your fingers tremble so violently that the whole gun is unsteady, but Dazai doesn’t even care to look at it, gaze focused on your face instead. 

“I do,” Dazai repeats.

You pull the trigger. 

[golden-cherry]

deal - cl16 (44/?)

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x Reader

Series Summary: Your whole life has gone to shit. Your boyfriend broke up with you, you just lost your job and the Monegasque, who suddenly stands in your doorway, claims that it’s his apartment.

Chapter Summary: Let's get this party started!

Warnings: 18+ (mentions of previous smut), alcohol consumption, slight jealousy, a kiss

Word Count: 3.6k

series masterlist

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A/N: we love girls girls. happy Sunday to everyone! feedback is appreciated!

Your little heels click on the asphalt of the streets of Monaco as Kika and you walk towards the club, arms hooked and cheeks warm from the wine. Cold wind blows in your faces. 

“I was so happy when Charles invited us to come with you,” Kika smiles and lays her head on your shoulder, which is certainly quite uncomfortable due to your uneven pace. But she doesn't seem to care. 

You rest your cheek against her top of her head. "I didn't even know that you were coming tonight until a few hours ago," you say. 

“He apparently only messaged Pierre today and asked,” the Portuguese woman says, lifting her head from your shoulder. "Very spontaneous. But all the better that it worked.”

You smile at her. "That's true.”

Together you turn a corner and immediately the club on the other side of the street catches your eye. Neon signs, which somehow don't fit with the rest of the city's atmosphere, draw attention to the building and the closer you get, the louder the music seems to get, penetrating through the walls. A few people are standing in front of the double doors, guarded by security guards dressed in black, discussing admission. 

When you see the clipboards in the hands of the broad-built men, you stop abruptly, causing Kika to almost trip and bump into you. 

“Are you okay? What's wrong?” she asks, looking at you in confusion. 

Nervously, you nod in the direction of the club. ”They have clipboards.”

Kika looks at the bouncers and then back at you. “No shit, Sherlock. That's where the guest list is,” she replies and tries to pull you a little further. “Why are you stopping? Have you changed your mind? Don't you want to party?”

“Yes, I do,” you reply hesitantly. “But how do we get in there if they have a guest list?”

A grin spreads across Kika's beautiful face before she puts her arm around you and pushes you forward. “Do you really doubt that we'll get in?” she asks, and when she catches your nervous glance, she pulls you closer. “You were invited by a Formula 1 driver, querida. You're the last person who needs to worry.”

As you cross the street and stand behind the people who are still arguing with the bouncers, you realize how different your life seems to be now. 

Ten days ago, you were worried about how you would pay your rent if you didn't find a job – and now you're spending nights on yachts, your best friend is a model and you're partying with Formula 1 drivers in Monaco's most chic clubs. And you're even living with one of them.

And you love him too. 

The bouncers don't seem to be giving in, and the more unyielding they look, the more annoyed the men in their black suits appear. As people try to negotiate their entry and wave banknotes in their hands, the men look past them and nod to you. 

Without hesitation, Kika pulls you through the crowd and comes to a stop in front of the entrance doors. She is about to open her mouth when one of the bouncers takes a step to the side and smiles at you. “Good evening, ladies,” he says in a deep voice, holding the door open for you. “Mr. Norris is expecting you.”

“Thank you very much,” Kika replies with a broad smile, quickly pulling you along behind her so that you can only say a quiet ‘thank you’ to the two men before the club's double doors close behind you and you are enveloped in dim light, warm air and music that gets louder with every step you take. 

“See? That wasn't so hard,” your friend grins, and together you walk down a short hallway before entering a large room. To your left are a few seating areas on an ampore, some open and others roped off. To your right is a long bar stretching across the room, with lots of people already gathered around it. And right in front of you – there's the dance floor. 

At the back is the DJ booth, currently manned by a woman who seems to know exactly what the crowd wants to hear. With precision and skill, she flows from one song to the next without you really noticing, and the audience is eating out of her hands. 

“Hello, you two beauties,” someone suddenly says behind you, and when you turn around, you see Lando's face. He's wearing a white shirt, the top buttons casually undone so that part of his chest can be seen. With arms outstretched, he hugs Kika first before pulling you close and planting a kiss on your cheek. “How are you? How was Christmas?” he asks, taking each of your hands to pull you to the seating areas on the left. He briefly lets go of Kika's hand to untie one of the ribbons before letting you go ahead. 

“It was great,” Kika replies and takes off her long jacket before dropping onto one of the dark couches. She crosses her legs. "But I think our girl here had the most fun," she grins, raising her eyebrows. You give her a dirty look. 

Lando turns to you with raised eyebrows. ”Did you two fuck?”

“That's exactly what I asked!” Kika laughs and claps her hands joyfully. 

You feel the heat rising to your face, and it's not because you're still wearing your coat. Tensioned, you take it off and lay it over the back of the couch. “We didn't,” you answer curtly and roll your eyes. 

Kika and Lando exchange a meaningful look that you try to ignore. 

“Where are the boys, anyway?“ the Brit finally asks, rubbing his hands together as if he can't wait to see his friends again. 

“They dropped us off one street over so they could find a parking lot and so we wouldn't all be seen together,” Kika replies, reaching for the drinks menu on the small table in front of her. She begins to flip through it. 

“Very good.” Lando turns to you. "Today, only guests are invited who I and Martin know personally and trust so much that no one has to worry about any photos getting out," he smiles, putting his arm around your shoulders. 

You look up at him. ”Really?”

He nods. “So you don't need to worry. And neither does Charles.” He gently pulls you close before letting you go again. “So, girls. What can I get you to drink? Wine, cocktails, shots?”

“I'd like a strawberry margarita,” Kika replies, leaning back on the couch. 

“A piña colada, please.”

“All right. I'll be right back.“ Without turning back to you, he leaves and heads towards the bar, where he is immediately greeted and hugged by a few people, while you first make yourselves comfortable in your seating area. 

“Do you know this Martin guy?” you ask the Portuguese woman, who looks over at the crowd. 

She nods briefly. “Martin is really nice. And he's a good DJ,” she replies, and you notice how her gaze sticks to the female DJ. “He just doesn't look as good as she does.”

You can't suppress a grin. ”He doesn't have to look good as a DJ, does he? He just has to be good at what he does.”

“That's right,” Kika agrees with you before turning to face you. She points with her thumb over her shoulder and towards the DJ booth. ”But she's definitely hotter.”

Before you can say anything, Lando returns with a tray and sets it down in front of you. Your two cocktails and more glasses are on it, but there are also small shot glasses filled with red liquid. He hands you your drinks. 

“There we are,” Pierre greets all of you and briefly embraces Lando. Charles is standing behind him and smiles at you. 

“I'm glad you all made it,” the Brit smiles, giving the Monegasque a quick hug before everyone sits down. 

Charles takes a seat next to you, so close that he can press his leg against yours. “Hi,” he smiles gently. “Everything okay?” You return his smile and nod before taking a sip of your cocktail. His gaze flickers briefly from your eyes to your lips, which wrap around the straw. “Piña Colada?”

“Mh-hmm.” You hold the straw out to him and watch as he takes a sip. "Do you like it?”

“I do,’ he admits. ”But somehow I prefer the Nightmare Colada.”

Warmth rises to your cheeks at his words and the thought of the night when you got drunk on his boat. How you poured out your hearts. 

“To a great evening,” Lando raises his voice and hands everyone a shot glass. Carefully, each of you takes one, careful not to spill any of the red liquid. ”Cheers!”

The drinks that make their way to your table over the next two hours taste so fantastically good that Kika and you doubt that there is much alcohol in them. The cocktails taste fantastic and the music puts everyone in a good mood, so you leave your table and hit the dance floor. 

Your group dances to the beat that the DJ is playing like tipsy teenagers. Kika and you hold hands and dance together, causing the boys' eyes to almost pop out of their heads. The Portuguese woman presses her front against yours, her hands on your hips while yours are on her shoulders. And when she leans forward with pouting lips, you can't help but press a friendly kiss on her lips. You hear someone whistle – it's definitely Pierre – and when you both pull away from each other, you have to laugh. 

Kika puts her arm around your shoulders and the other around Charles. “I can't believe I kissed this beauty here before you did, Leclerc,” she grins. 

Charles looks at you with rosy cheeks, but his words are directed at Kika. “Is she a good kisser?”

“The best kisser I ever had,” the brunette replies with a grin before letting go of you and throwing her arms around her boyfriend. 

Charles and you look at each other uncertainly. 

Well, why haven't you kissed each other yet?

The thought is haunting your mind, but you can't answer the question. 

Doesn't Charles want to kiss you? You've definitely done things that are definitely not PG-rated. You can almost feel his spent between your thighs and his lips on your neck, the tip of his cock nudging against your clit and – 

Why haven't you kissed each other?

The Monegasque seems to notice your thoughts, but before he can say anything, Kika grabs your hand and pulls you towards the bar. You lean against the counter and wait for one of the bartenders to notice you when your friend takes your hand. 

“Is everything okay?” She asks, raising her eyebrows in concern. 

“Why do you ask?” you reply with a counter question. 

When a bartender reaches you, Kika orders your drinks. "I didn't want it to be weird between you and Charles. I'm sorry.”

You smile weakly at her and give her a quick hug. ’It's all right. We won't let this ruin our evening, okay?”

“You know you can always talk to me, right?” She asks, tilting her head. ‘You can call me day or night and I'll come to you. I promise.”

Your smile grows wider. "I'm already aware of that.”

“And I really love you, you know that?“ She puts her hands on your upper arms and hugs you tightly. Apparently, Kika gets emotional when she's drunk. 

“I love you too,” you return her embrace, and when the bartender puts your drinks in front of you, you both toast. 

“To the coolest girls, aka us,” she grins. As you both take a sip, someone taps her on the shoulder. Your best friend turns around and apparently she knows the young woman standing behind her, because she pulls her into a fleeting embrace before introducing you. ”Querida, this is Elena. She is also a model.”

In front of you stands a breathtaking beauty. With her brown hair, dark eyes and dark complexion, she looks as if she has just flown in from vacation. She is wearing a black and white dress that highlights her figure and accentuates exactly the right places to make her look flawless. 

You smile at her and introduce yourself as well. “Nice to meet you,” you say and extend your hand, but Elena kisses you on the left and then on the right cheek. 

“It's nice to meet you, too,” she replies with a smile before approaching you. ”Wait. Wipe below your eyebrows. You have some mascara on there.”

Without questioning her remark, you do as she says, and apparently it's good, because both women look at you with satisfaction afterwards. “Thank you,” you say. “That's very nice.”

Elena waves it off. ‘Don't worry. I'd want someone to tell me that too." She leans against the bar. ”You already have your drinks, right? Should I order shots for us?” she asks, but before either of you can answer, she is already talking to the bartender, who quickly prepares a cocktail and sets down three shot glasses in front of her. "Here you go," she says, handing each of you one of the glasses. 

After you've clinked glasses and emptied the small glasses, Kika fishes her cell phone out of her purse. ”Should we take a picture? I'm already drunk, but I definitely want a few more, and I don't think they'll get any better as the evening goes on,” she giggles, tapping someone on the shoulder to take a photo of you. First one of Kika and you, and then one of the three of you. 

“What's your name on Instagram?” Elena asks you, also digging out her phone so you can type your username into the search bar. When your profile pops up, she immediately clicks the follow button. 

Your phone lights up and the notification pops up on the lock screen, and when you tap it, you confirm her request and follow her right back. 

Her profile has a very aesthetic and artistic touch. Every picture is exactly where it should be. The colors all match and at the top of her biography is actually her full name: Elena Montpellier – one million followers – model at Bijou Management agency. 

“I didn't know that Lando had invited you,” Kika says to Elena, who just shrugs. 

“I'm here with friends,“ she replies as the three of you return to your seating area. "A friend of mine knows Martin and asked me if I wanted to come. And as if I'd stay at home when Martin is playing here in the club.”

Confused, you look from one beauty to the other. "So who is this Martin?” you ask hesitantly, afraid that Elena will laugh at you. 

But she doesn't. Quite the opposite. She slides closer to you and tells you about Martin, who is apparently a world-famous DJ. On her cell phone, she shows you videos of his shows and the crowds in front of which he usually performs, but in none of the sequences can you see his face. But suddenly she puts her cell phone down and motions for you to look up. “Speak of the devil.”

Your men join you and, like you, they have someone new with them. The face looks incredibly familiar. He kisses each of the girls on the cheek before introducing himself to you. And then it clicks. 

“Oh my God,” you gasp before he can say a word. ‘You're Martin Garrix.”

“That's me,’ he replies, visibly confused, glancing briefly at Lando, who puts his arm around your shoulder – skilfully ignoring Charles' scowl. 

“My friend here hasn't been in this industry for very long,“ he explains, gently pulling you over to his side. "This is all still pretty new.”

Martin looks back at you from Lando. ’Then I'm glad you're here today,” he smiles. “How did you end up with these guys, if you don't mind me asking?”

You're about to open your mouth to answer him, but Charles is faster. “She's my best friend,” he replies, standing next to you, his arm around your waist. He glances at Lando, who quickly removes his arm from your shoulder and catches your uncertain glance. 

“Okay, cool,” Martin simply replies. ”I still have about half an hour before I have to go to the desk. So, what's going on in your lives?”

While everyone is chatting, you hold back and watch. Pierre and Lando are talking, while Charles, Elena and Martin have moved closer together and the latter is showing something on his cell phone to the other two. You lean back into the couch and sip on your cocktail, Kika leaning on you. 

“I'm sorry he introduced you as his best friend,” she says, only audible to you. 

When you shrug, her head wobbles. “It's okay. I've made my peace with it,” you reply with a half-truth. 

Of course, you would prefer to be more than just his best friend – after all, you share a bed and the images of his expression when he came and painted your thighs refuse to leave you – but if his friendship is all you get from him, then that's that. 

“Please take care of yourself.” Kika raises her head and looks at you anxiously. ”I don't want you to get hurt. You've already been through so much.”

You gently press a kiss on her forehead. “I appreciate your concern.” Your gaze flickers over to Charles, who is now talking only to Elena. He shows her something on his phone and they both have to laugh. The woman leans forward a little to get a better look at the screen, but holds her neckline of the dress so that you can't see inside. 

Charles eyes move from his screen to you, without looking at Elena once. 

You smile at him, but before he can return it, the woman next to him says something and his attention is back to her, as if you weren't there. Maybe he just wants to be polite, after all, Pascale has taught him well and Charles is not one who just -

“Hi,” someone interrupts your train of thought and when you look up, Martin is standing in front of you. "I'm going to the DJ booth now and I thought you might like to join me," he suggests. ”As a kind of welcome and an apology for being so strange just now.”

You raise your eyebrows in wonder. “Actually, I should be the one to apologize. I'm not quite into the ‘famous people know other famous people’ thing yet. I'm sorry.”

Martin waves it off. “Don't worry. It takes some getting used to. But maybe it will help if you support me at the DJ booth.” He holds out his hand. 

“I've never done this before. So I can't guarantee anything,” you smile, which makes him laugh. 

“I'll show you everything. And if necessary, you can just stand next to me and look beautiful, but that shouldn't be a problem.“ 

“All right.” Without hesitation, you put your hand in his and he helps you to your feet. You take a quick glance at Kika, who grins at you and pushes the rest of your cocktail into your free hand, wishing you lots of fun. 

Your eyes flicker over to Charles, whose eyes are already glued to you. He doesn't seem to notice Elena at all, she talks and talks and apparently shows him something without realizing that his attention is not on her right now. He looks from your face to your hand, which is still holding Martin's, so that he can guide you through the crowd in a moment. 

It doesn't feel right to hold another man's hand, even if it's just for a moment. It should be Charles' hand holding yours. Charles' fingers entwined with yours. But Charles is sitting there with Elena, knee to knee. 

“Are you okay?” Martin asks, looking from you to Charles, who can't take his eyes off the two of you. 

You swallow and smile at him. “I'm fine.”

“Are you sure?�� the DJ asks implausibly. “Charles looks at me as if he wants to kill me. You're just friends, aren't you?”

With your eyes fixed on Charles, you answer him. "Best friends," you correct him with the words of the Monegasque, before turning to Martin. ”Shall we?”

"With pleasure.”

As the two of you leave the seating area and you don't turn around to catch the eye of your best friend, Charles clenches his jaw. 

He already knows the feeling that is welling up inside of him, but last time it was Lando who triggered it and he had to work on himself not to see the Brit as competition. Which is complete nonsense, because Charles knows that Lando would never come between the two of you, not after he called the Monegasque and put him in his place while he was in Italy. 

And Charles knows that he has nothing to worry about. He is the man you go home with later. He is the man you share your bed with at night. He is the man who will later push up your dress and is allowed to touch you where you need him most. 

He knows all of this. And yet there is nothing he can do about it, except feel increasingly jealous with every step you take away from him.

[meliciousmel13]

̗̗̀̀➛ BUSY

warnings: just pure angst

wc: 1,800~

SYNOPSIS: she’s always working. and your drifting apart because of it.

an: idk about this one guys

She was always working. Couldn’t last an hour without writing something down on her notes app, or fucking relax for a day. you quickly got tired of it after a few weeks into your relationship.

She was always out. couldn’t stay still or stay at home. whenever you did agree to go out, the only thing you could think of was all the cameras you knew were on you.

You loved billie. you loved her to death. she was the love of your life. but she’s never around. and on the rare occasions that she wasn’t working, she would be too tired to do something fun with you.

You were desperate all the time. practically begging for her attention. you felt like a stranger in your own skin. having to sleep in an empty bed nearly all the time, even when billie does sleep with you, you still feel uncomfortable in her arms. because you weren’t used to having her near you. not used to having someone hug you from behind. not used to being so warm and safe.

You knew you were falling apart. you knew months ago—you’ve been knowing. but you still chose to ignore it. the way she’d slowly forget about some things you said when her usual arm around the shoulder turned into nothing. the usual giggles when she did something stupid slowly turning into sighs.

It was depressing—not saying anything—refusing to even believe it yourself was depressing. that you were drifting apart. that she wasn’t your billie anymore. she was her job.

You loved her passion. you loved when she rambled about her music and how she creates. but whenever she’d mention a tour your entire brain turns into mush. you know you should be happy for her—proud—but you couldn’t. going on tour means that you couldn’t even have her. couldn’t hug her or lay your head on her lap.

The tour ruined you even more. as if you weren’t already on the edge. You used to call every day, her voice that kept you from spiraling too far. You used to sleep on call, her soft breathing on the other end a lullaby that made the distance feel less suffocating. But now, but now—there was only silence. She didn’t call first anymore. Didn’t check in. Your phone stayed painfully still, the void between you stretching wider with every passing hour.

When you did call, it rang too many times. Sometimes she answered, distracted, her voice tinged with exhaustion. Other times, she didn’t. Excuses piled up—interviews, rehearsals, travel—but they felt hollow. Like maybe you weren’t worth the effort anymore. Like maybe the space she filled in your life didn’t exist in hers.

You tried telling her about your concerns, you tried. a million times you tried. but they never work. so you thought that maybe when she comes back from tour you’d try again. to tell her. so she can fix it. She always fixed everything.

She came back from tour exhausted. She was free for a whole two months. even though she wasn’t totally free, she still had to work and prepare but you were still ecstatic, and billie couldn’t be happier to see you.

“Baby!” Billie gasped, her arms sweeping down to catch you as you practically launched yourself into her embrace. Your feet barely touched the ground as she lifted you, holding you close, too close, like she was afraid to let you go. Still in your pajamas, with mismatched slippers, you looked ridiculous, ridiculous on camera. But you couldn’t care less. All that mattered was her, the warmth of her body, the scent of her hoodie, the soft thrum of her heartbeat that grounded you.

“Billie,” you mumbled into her neck, your voice muffled against the fabric, but she felt so real, so solid in your arms, you almost forgot how much you’d missed her. She hummed softly, she hummed and you could feel the vibrations through her warm chest.

“I missed you so much,” she whispered, her words catching in your hair as she pressed a lingering kiss to the top of your head. Her hands slid down your back, steadying you as your legs dangled. Her arms tightened around you, pulling you even closer, and you felt that familiar tug in your chest like you could lose her if you weren’t careful.

You nodded against her shoulder, fingers clutching at the back of her hoodie, desperate to keep her there, like if you let go for even a second, she might slip away. “I hate it when you’re gone,” you admitted, the words feeling heavy as they slipped out. You didn’t want to be this vulnerable, but it was too late.

“I know, angel,” she murmured, her voice soft, but firm, like a promise. She cupped your cheek, tilting your face up to meet her gaze. Her blue eyes sparkled in the harsh airport light, but there was something else there too, something that looked like guilt—or maybe it was relief. You weren’t sure anymore. “I’m here now. You’ve got me.”

You bit your lip, trying to hold back the flood of emotions threatening to spill over, but before you could speak, Billie leaned in. Her lips brushed over yours in a kiss so gentle, so tender, it almost made your chest ache. Time seemed to slow, the noise of the airport fading away, until it was just you and her in your own little world. When she pulled back, she smiled, brushing a thumb over your cheek.

“And by the way,” she teased, her voice lighter now, but you could still hear the exhaustion in it, “nice pajamas. Truly a statement.”

The bus door closed behind you, the hum of the city fading as the world outside was left behind. Billie dropped her bag on the seat with a soft sigh, her shoulders slumping slightly as she slid into the booth. The energy between you felt different now, quieter. You had tried to keep the lighthearted mood going, but the silence between you two was thick, almost palpable.

You sat down across from her, legs curled up beneath you, waiting for her to say something, anything. She glanced up briefly, offering you a quick smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, before looking back down at her phone.

“I’m just really tired,” Billie murmured, the words barely above a whisper as she tapped on the screen, distracted. “I’ve had a long day.”

You nodded, unsure of what else to say. The warmth that had been between you earlier felt like it had slipped through your fingers, leaving you in the cold space that now seemed to stretch between you. She didn’t look up again, her attention solely focused on her phone, her fingers swiping with mechanical precision.

“Yeah, I get it,” you said softly, glancing at her, but she didn’t seem to notice.

Billie let out a soft sigh, the kind that spoke volumes without a word. She finally looked up at you, her eyes softer now, but her voice still distant. “I’ll be better tomorrow. Just… tired, y’know?”

You nodded again, a faint ache tugging at your chest. Her words were meant to reassure you, but the emptiness in her tone made it harder to believe.

The seconds stretched into minutes, and the space between you felt wider with each passing moment. Neither of you spoke, the quiet pressing in on you both as the bus moved down the road.

When the bus finally came to a stop outside the house, you felt like you were stuck in slow motion. You stepped out, your legs unsteady, but you couldn’t shake the weight in your chest. Everything around you was the same, but the air between you and Billie felt different—colder, heavier.

The door clicked shut behind you, and you lingered for a moment just inside the entryway, eyes on the floor.

Billie moved past you, her footsteps echoing softly through the quiet house as she dropped her bag by the door and hung her jacket on the hook. She didn’t even look at you.

You took a breath, trying to steady yourself, but your heart was already pounding, the words stuck at the back of your throat. You didn’t want to do this. Not now. Not like this. But you knew if you didn’t say something, you’d lose her completely.

You barely whispered her name. “Billie?”

She didn’t turn to you right away. “Hmm?” Her voice was soft, tired, distant. She didn’t sound like she was really listening.

You swallowed hard, your chest tightening. You could feel the pressure of four years, of everything you’d been through together, weighing down on you. It felt like you were standing on the edge of something, like if you took one wrong step, it would all fall apart.

“I—” you faltered, your voice trembling, but you forced the words out anyway. “I feel like… you’ve been so distant. I don’t know what’s happening, but it’s like you’re not here anymore.” You winced as you said it, like admitting it would make it all real.

Billie stopped what she was doing but didn’t turn around. The silence between you felt endless, like she was taking her time to decide how to handle it. You could feel your hands shaking at your sides, a deep ache in your chest that made it hard to breathe.

“I’m just tired, baby,” she said after a long pause, her voice quieter now, almost apologetic. “Tour, everything… it just gets to me sometimes. I didn’t mean to shut you out.”

You nodded, though it didn’t make you feel better. You wanted to believe her, you really did, but the distance between you felt too real to ignore. You took a shaky breath, barely able to meet her eyes. “I don’t know if I can keep pretending like everything’s fine when you’re like this.”

Billie’s shoulders stiffened slightly, but she didn’t turn around. Her hands were still on the counter, gripping the edge like she needed to steady herself. “I’m sorry,” she murmured, barely loud enough for you to hear. “I didn’t mean to make you feel that way. I just… sometimes it’s too much, you know?”

Your heart sank at her words, but you didn’t have the strength to push her further. Instead, you took a slow step toward her, voice small but desperate. “I just need to know that you still want this. Want me.”

There was another heavy silence, and you weren’t sure if you were ready to hear what she’d say next. You stood there, trying to keep yourself from shaking, barely able to breathe as you waited for her answer.

Finally, she turned toward you, her face soft but guarded. “Of course I do. I just need a little time, okay?”

You nodded, but it felt like a fragile promise.

taglist: @chrissv4mp, @billiesguitar, @ilovebillieeilish2000, @d14n4ol, @raspberrymacaroon if your not a part of this list but want to be comment under my taglist post, which is on my masterlist.

b.e masterlist | m.b masterlist | s.r masterlist | taglist

[dissapointu]

Can you do the arcane characters with a s/o who’s unnaturally tall? Like over 7ft? (Specifically Ambessa, Sevika, and Vi)

Ofc!!

Here are some headcanons for Ambessa, Sevika, and Vi with an unnaturally tall s/o (over 7ft)!

————————————————————————-

Ambessa Medarda

• Admiration: Ambessa has always carried herself with the confidence and grace of someone who commands a room, but when it comes to you, there’s a slight shift in her demeanor. She’s struck by how effortlessly you tower over her, yet the way you move—calm and collected—never makes her feel small. She sees your height as a symbol of your strength, power, and presence, and she has nothing but respect for it.

• Affection: Despite her regal demeanor, she has no problem showing her affection in ways that are specific to your size. She’ll take your hand and lead you by it with a soft tug, admiring the way your fingers wrap around hers like it’s nothing. When she gives you a kiss, she might need to stand on her toes, or you’ll lean down to meet her halfway. She enjoys the closeness despite the height difference—it gives her a rare sense of vulnerability she doesn’t often show to others.

• Compliments: Ambessa loves to remind you how impressive your height is. She may not be the most outwardly affectionate person, but when she praises you, it’s with deep sincerity. “You stand like a true force, taller than most, yet with a poise that makes you all the more formidable,” she’d say with admiration, her voice thick with genuine respect.

• Protectiveness: She would never let anyone make you feel uncomfortable because of your height. If someone remarks on it in a negative way, she’s quick to intervene, her sharp gaze enough to shut anyone down. Ambessa has a commanding presence that only amplifies when she stands beside you, knowing that together, the two of you are an imposing sight.

Sevika

• Teasing: Sevika isn’t shy about your height, and she definitely isn’t above teasing you for it. She might joke about how she’ll need to use a ladder to reach your lips, or how she feels like she needs to crane her neck to see your face. But it’s all lighthearted—Sevika’s the type to mock lovingly, and you know it’s all in good fun.

• Affection: While Sevika may come off as tough and stoic, she has a soft spot for you. When she wants to show affection, she’ll wrap her arms around your waist from behind, her head resting against your shoulder as you stand tall. Even though you’re significantly taller, there’s something about the way she clings to you that feels grounding for her.

• Practicality: She doesn’t mind your height at all—if anything, she likes it. Your presence stands out, and it makes her feel safe when you’re around. If you’re ever in a crowded space, she might grab your hand or the hem of your sleeve to ensure she doesn’t lose you in the chaos.

• Protective side: If anyone dares to make you feel self-conscious about being so tall, Sevika is there to defend you without a second thought. She’ll stand up to anyone who dares to tease you, her large frame making it clear that she’s not someone to be messed with. She doesn’t care how big someone is—they won’t get away with making you feel small.

Vi

• Amusement: Vi, always quick with a joke, will find your height both impressive and amusing. She’ll make comments about you being a walking skyscraper, teasing you that you’re a literal giant. But it’s always with affection, and she’s quick to follow up with how much she admires your strength and presence.

• Affection: Vi doesn’t mind the height difference at all. When she hugs you, she’ll wrap her arms around your waist or rest her head on your chest, looking up at you with a grin. If she needs to reach something high up, she’ll just ask you to grab it for her, smiling up at you like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

• Compliments: Vi loves how you carry yourself—your height is a natural extension of your confidence. She’ll tell you that you stand out in a crowd, and she’ll often find herself proud to walk beside you. “You’re not just tall, you’re a force,” she’ll say, her grin widening as she looks up at you.

• Protective side: Vi might be physically smaller than you, but she doesn’t let anyone treat you like you’re awkward or too big. She knows that it’s easy for people to make assumptions based on size, so she’ll immediately step in if anyone dares to underestimate you. She’ll tease you for being “too big for your own good,” but deep down, she’s fiercely protective and proud of you.

I hope these headcanons fit what you were looking for! 💖

[lemotmo]

please break this down for me who has autism and cannot for the life of me read nuanced facial expressions because I don't get the excitement? Nothing significant happened? Why is everyone taking this as literal confirmation? I hate my brain sometimes because I don't get it 😞

I'll try my best Nonny.

The entire Buddie scene was gold. The way Buck just walked in as if he is used to doing this, even though this isn't his own home? The way Eddie obviously doesn't seem to mind that Buck does this?

All of this is a big tell that these two are closer than close. That this is something that regularly occurs. Even Maddie didn't just walk into her brother's loft last week when she brought Jee over.

The kitchen scene was also amazing. Eddie complimenting Buck on his baking, Buck giving him that little pleased smile, while rummaging through Eddie's cupboards as if it's his own home. And again, Eddie lets him. He doesn't seem to care. Every single frame of this scene shows us just how comfortable Buck is in the Diaz house. He belongs there. And Eddie loves it.

Then Buck sees Eddie turn over the tablet. He's immediately curious why Eddie does this. Instead of letting it go, he actually picks up the tablet and looks, while Eddie doesn't even protest.

This is something I would never ever think of doing when I'm around my friends. When my friend's tablet or phone is lying around, I won't just take it to see what they were doing on it earlier. That's just so impolite and a breach of trust. The only person I would allow to do something like this or the only person I wouldn't feel uncomfortable doing this to would be my significant other.

So again, this is a very telling scene.

Buck's face falls when Eddie reveals he's looking at houses in El Paso to be closer to Chris. But he quickly recovers and tells Eddie he's helping him out. Once again, Buck is stepping right into Eddie's mess to help him.

As he sits down, Eddie looks at him fondly, obviously appreciating Buck wanting to help out like that. Then we focus on Buck's face and he goes through an entire face journey:

First he is still smiling a little, but as soon as Eddie turns around, his smile drops away. You can clearly see him process the news that Eddie is leaving. You can see on his face that it's hitting him that he'll lose Eddie (and Chris) forever if he goes back to El Paso. He is blinking quickly which is a sign of distress. He then looks down at the tablet that's still on the website with the houses and for a brief second you can see the despair on his face. He is going through all the stages of 'OH FUCK NO! I DON'T WANT HIM TO LEAVE ME!'.

Now, I don't think he quite understands why he is feeling so strongly about this, but as 8b will progress, he'll most definitely do some more introspection and it will hit him like an anvil then, that he is in love with Eddie.

Hope this helped Nonny. ❤️

[munsonsmixtapes]

Can I request an Eddie Munson smut, maybe holiday themed? Maybe the whole thing that’s like, reader manages to tie a bow around herself as a gift, and suddenly gets insecure, but hey can’t herself undone before Eddie gets home.

He uses the bow to his advantage and shows reader how great she is without her intervening. 🫶🫶

I love this idea!

cw: MDNI (18+) nipple play, oral (f receiving) body insecurity

You stand in the mirror wearing nothing but a piece of ribbon that you had intricately tied around yourself. Part of it is draped across one of your shoulders while another is covering your cunt while the bow is tied to cover your tits. Not only did it take you forever to find a ribbon big enough for this, but it also took you over an hour to figure out how to make it cover all the proper places. You feel good, excitement coursing through you as you can’t wait for Eddie to get home. He’s been doing a bunch of holiday concerts and is coming home just in time to spend Christmas with you. 

You haven’t seen him in weeks and want to surprise him with a gift you think he deserves: you. You’re so needy for him and are sure that he feels the same for you. But as you look in the mirror again, you suddenly feel very insecure about yourself, not knowing how you had talked yourself into doing something so scandalous. You go to untie the bow, but it won’t budge, the intricate way you’ve tied it clearly backfiring as it stays there, not coming undone no matter how hard you tug on it.

You hear the front door close and panic as you reach for your robe, quickly wrapping it around yourself, trying your best to hide the bow even though it’s very obvious underneath the very thin silk of your robe. But it’s too late to fix it as you see Eddie enter the room through the reflection on the mirror. 

You turn around to face him, temporarily forgetting about your whole predicament as you make a beeline for each other. He’s quick to wrap you up in his arms, giving you a tight hug as he buries his face into the crook of your neck, peppering it with kisses. 

“I missed you so much,” he says as he pulls back to look at you, so much love in his eyes as he stares into yours. 

“I missed you too,” you reply and he leans forward, capturing your lips with his as he pulls you to his chest, noticing that there’s something odd pressing against him. 

He pulls away, his eyebrows furrowing as his gaze shifts to the robe, seeing that there is definitely something underneath it. He wants to know what you’re hiding. What you’re wearing and why you seem so embarrassed by it. He’s seen you naked more times than he can count so he doesn’t know what’s so embarrassing about what you’re wearing

“What’s under the robe, baby?” He asks and you feel your cheeks heat. Wrapping the top even tighter around you as you cross your arms over your chest in an attempt to hide the bow. But Eddie’s not falling for it. “Baby?” He asks, his voice softer now, no longer teasing as he sees tears welling up in your eyes. 

You step away from him and close your eyes tight as you slowly untie the robe and open it to show Eddie what you’ve been hiding. You hear him gasp and open your eyes just in time to see him grin. He steps closer to you and grabs onto the robe, opening it even more to get a good view of what you’re wearing. 

“Merry Christmas to me,” he says in a flirty tone as his eyes roam over every detail of the ribbon you’ve tied around yourself. You turn away from him, feeling very uncomfortable and eddie grabs onto your face softly, forcing you to look him in the eyes. 

“What’s going on?” He asks. He’s not doing to pry, but so that he can help you not feel the way you’re feeling anymore. 

“I-I did this whole thing and then I don’t know-I started to feel silly so I went to take it off so I could change before you got home, but it’s stuck,” You reach for the bow and pull on the end, but it still won’t budge. 

“Do you want some help?” He asks, a chuckle falling from his lips and you know he’s not laughing at you, but the situation as a whole. He slowly reaches for the other side of the bow and looks you up in the eyes, his growing dark. “I’ve gotta say, this is the best gift I’ve ever gotten. It’s really thoughtful of you, hon.” He yanks on the bow and the whole thing comes undone. 

“You think?” You ask and he nods, pushing the robe off of your shoulders so he can see the full thing you’ve managed to do with the bow. 

“Oh, I know, baby. Why don’t you let me show you just how grateful I am?” You’re suddenly not embarrassed anymore, your need for him overpowering everything else. 

“Please,” you whine and he puts on a devilish grin as he begins to take off all of his clothes while you watch, impressed by how quickly he’s working and pretty soon, he’s down to his boxers and he’s reaching up to remove the rest of the ribbon from your body, eager to see you, all of you. 

The ribbon falls to the floor and Eddie’s quick to pull you to his chest, his lips finding yours in a heated kiss. His tongue slips into your mouth as his hands rest on your back, moving down slowly, grabbing your ass which makes you gasp into his mouth before he grabs onto the back of your legs. 

You jump like you know he wants you to and he catches you as your legs wrap around his waist and your lips connect once again as he backs up to the bed, turning around and collapsing onto it, taking you with him. 

He falls on top of you and pins your wrists to the bed, his lips swallowing your giggles, quickly moving down to your neck, your chest, kissing as well as nipping at your skin before he goes in for a rough suck. Because you’ve expressed how insecure you felt wrapped up in the ribbon, Eddie is determined to make you feel good, especially since he’ll get to do it with his mouth the way he always likes. 

“You’re so pretty, baby,” he says as he goes in for another suck, this time right above your tit. “You don’t have to hide from me. I always want to see you. All of you.” Your skin grows hot at his compliment and you’re about to thank him, but he goes on. “And I intend on loving on every single inch of you until you believe me.” 

The last part comes out more raspy and you’re so wet now that you feel your slick trickling down your leg. You need him so desperately to take care of it, but you also want to soak up everything he’s doing to you, to enjoy it as much as possible. He’s going through all the effort to make you feel good, after all. Even though you know he enjoys it just as much as you do. 

He pulls back to look at you, his eyes darkening as a devilish grin spreads across his face. He then lets his gaze fall to your tits and you arch your back, moving back and forth to tease him as he feels drool forming in his mouth as he thinks about just how much he wants to lick and bite and suck on them. 

“C’mon, Eds, you know you want you,” you bat your lashes and Eddie is quick to pin your back down to the bed, his mouth latching onto your nipple, bringing it into his mouth as he gives them a rough suck, causing a gasp to leave your mouth. 

“E-Eddie, oh my god,” you whine and he continues to suck even harder as you grip onto the bedding underneath you for dear life. Your eyes shut tight as your back arches in pleasure, feeling so good, already feeling like you’re close. 

Your hands grip the bedding underneath you even harder as you feel even more slick rolling down your leg. And just when you think Eddie’s done, he takes your nipple between his teeth, giving it a bite which causes you to absolutely lose it. A loud, delicious moan falls from your lips as your back arches in pleasure. Eddie bites down again and you moan even louder, grabbing onto whatever part of him you can get your hands on as an orgasm tears through you. 

“Eddie, sh-shit, oh my god,” you whine and he pulls away, smiling to himself as he sees your tit shining with his spit. As you’re coming down, he moves onto the next one, not being gentle as he noticed that you liked how rough he was previously. 

He just goes straight in for a bite, biting down a little harder, but not hard enough to hurt you. But that’s what you think you want: for him to hurt you just a little bit. Just to add a little spice to what’s going on. 

“Harder,” you command and he listens, biting down harder and you wince at the pain, but you still don’t feel like it’s enough. “Harder.” He bites down even harder and you’re wincing even more, but it just feels so good. “Yeah,” you nod enthusiastically. “Just like that.” 

Eddie pulls on your nipple and your nails dig into him as you feel another orgasm coursing through you. He somehow always knows exactly what you need and when you need it. It’s almost like he can read your mind and it seems like he can because of how well he knows you.

“That’s it, baby,” Eddie encourages. “Just like that.” He pulls away just in time to see you orgasm again and he’s eating it up. He loves seeing you like this, your mouth wide open as you moan so loudly that it’s surely going to wake up your neighbors, but he couldn’t care less. 

He kisses his way down your torso and stops once he gets to your cunt, spreading your legs wide so he can see what he’s working with, letting out a dramatic gasp as he looks down at your cunt and how sopping wet you are. 

“You’re fucking soaked,” he says. “Looks like you need me to clean you up, hm?” 

“Please.” You’re begging now, pleading and Eddie loves when you get like this. He loves when you beg and it doesn’t take much for you to get needy. 

He spreads your legs even wider before getting down on his knees, draping them over his shoulders, scooting closer so that his face is right in front of your cunt. 

“I’ve been thinking about this for weeks,” he sighs before diving straight in, his lips latching onto your clit, giving it a suck and you’re quick to moan in response, your hands threading through his hair, giving it a rough tug.

“Eddie, fuck,” you whine as his tongue swirls around, his fingers digging into your thighs as he does so. He’s eating you out like he’s a man starved and now you’re actually becoming grateful for the time you’ve spent away from each other. 

“Taste so good, hon,” he comments. “Think this is the best you’ve ever tasted. God, I could eat you all night.”

“Then w-why don’t you?” You ask through labored breaths, grabbing onto his hair again as his lips travel down to your slit, his tongue moving back and forth across it, warming you up before he lets his teeth do all the work, scraping them along your cunt, eating up not only you, but the way you’re yanking on his hair as the hottest moans pour from your lips. 

You stay like that for a while, Eddie eating you out for hours as you hold on to his hair for dear life as he makes you orgasm over and over until you’re absolutely spent, your words slurring. And even though you’re more than willing to keep going, Eddie decides that it’s time to go to bed since you’re already close to falling asleep anyway. 

So he cleans you up then climbs into bed next to you, pulling you close so that your body is flush to his, his hand running up and down your side as you fall asleep right in front him and he’s hoping, praying that you really do know just how much he loves you.

[a-fatal-word]

I saw the Theatre Du Châtelet production of Les Miserables, and here's a rundown wyth my thoughts:

In the Prologue, the first set of prisoners are on a boat, then a second group is brought in to help move it. I loved this direction, as we see the physical feats they are forced to do. Valjean is brought on separately to these groups. Guards also beat the men, conveying the aggression of this environment which impacts Valjean’s character.

Part of the set is a ramp up stage left, which gets used a lot. During the Runaway Cart scene, we actually see the cart go down the hill and fall on Fauchelevent and the actor really milks it, it's brilliant. The set has these two huge curved pieces, which are used to create multiple settings, plus box sets which helps separate different locations.

Claire Perot is a perfect Fantine, we understand her immediately. She is watched by all the men in the factory, which she's aware of but hasn't grown hardened as a protection. She's so vulnerable and clearly uncomfortable with the attention. I really enjoyed the 'J'avais Reve' ('I Dreamed a Dream') lyrics, and Perot's delivery of the line about Cosette being close to dying was PERFECTLY delivered. She stopped to take the moment, and it was the best I've ever seen it done. My favourite Fantine, maybe even including the film adaptations I've seen.

The pimp comes on with Bamatabois and has the lines with the sex worker that in the English version says 'only joking, deary knows her place'. When Javert arrests Fantine, the other sex workers start towards her but stop, clearly on her side but unable to stand up to Javert. This asserts the dynamic between these men, who always have more power in the situation, and the powerless women.

Champmathieu and two guards walk in from of Valjean during 'Le Proces' ('Who Am I'), so he sees whose life his decision will impact. It's a shame the actors look nothing alike, I feel like they could've given the actor portraying Champmathieu a beard 😂

I preferred the 'Une Poupee Dans la Vitrine' lyrics to 'Castle on a Cloud' lyrics, they're so much more specific to her experience as she dreams of playing with the doll Catherine. love that she sings about Catherine. I wish that the Catherine that Valjean gives her was bigger, though, it more resembles the size of a doll you would buy today instead of the large doll of the novel. Her broom is literally twice her size though, it's a perfect staying to reflect the famous artwork of Cosette sweeping.

The Sergeant of Waterloo Inn is a box set which covers half the width of the stage so you can see the snow outside behind this set piece, which really makes it seem that the inn is bursting with people. This really highlights how far the Thenardiers fall. We see Cosette and Valjean meet in the space away from the set, which is cold and isolated.

These Thenardiers feel genuinely dangerous; they're funny but there's less playing up to the audience. They dress similarly to the rest of the cast, but there's always something out of place. For example, in Maitre Thenardier (Master of the House), Thenardier's outfit is identical to an ensemble member's, but then his hair is unusually styled compared to the rest of the casts'. During the wedding, everyone wears black and white (white dresses and black suits), whilst the Thenardiers arrive in black and white striped outfits. It's like they try to fit in, but they're always off. I also enjoyed that the Patron Minette are in Maitre Thenardier, backing up Thenardier as he over charges someone (his wife has a go at him in a nice touch of ensemble work). It's like they're mates who then went into crime together. The 'Colette' line also remains.

During the confrontation, which happens whilst the nuns are present, Javert whacks out a giant gun which he points at the nuns, after that the nuns throw a bucket at him. When I say I DIED.

This Grantaire isn't the Grantaire we know, he's way too optimistic and put together. When he first started singing, I thought he might be Prouvaire or Courfeyrac and they'd given one of those characters those lines! It made me think that having Courfeyrac make fun of Marius would be so much fun, they'd get to have a bit more of a relationship there, and Courfeyrac could keep his snarkiness from the novel. But I still enjoyed his performance. This Grantaire still makes fun of Marius in jest, but he is as passionate as Enjolras and can easily jump into action mode. Their dynamic slightly resembles Achilles and Patroclus' in Madeline Miller's novel, in that Enjolras and Achilles are focused and charismatic, whereas this Grantaire, like Patroclus, jumps in to help the wounded. His protection of Gavroche is there, and Gavroche sings his final lines to Grantaire, before falling into his arms dead (Gavroche throws the bag of ammunition over before stumbling back to their side of the barricade with his hand clutching his stomach, resembling Eponine's demise).

The costumes for everyone are stunning. Fantine's deshevelled look is gorgeous and Javert has an incredible black leather coat. Enjolras wears a gorgeous slightly orange toned red coat, then a red striped waistcoat at the barricade, whilst Grantaire is in a green suit, with a top hat in the early Musain scenes.

In 'Bonjour Paris' ('Look Down - Paris') we see a group of middle class men walking to the front of the stage, surrounded by the poor they appear disgusted by, whom we are encouraged to judge.

Minor characters portrayed by the ensemble are given chances to shine, and this production really feels like it is presenting a society, as the novel does. A father and daughter appear in Paris, and this father then joins the revolution. He kisses his wife goodbye as she leaves the barricade, and it's heartbreaking when we see his corpse when they are defeated. We also see a member of the ensemble listen in to Javert's confession to Valjean when he has suspicions that he's an ex-convict. This moment especially evokes the small town attitude of Montreuil-sur-Mer in the novel.

Stanley Kassa's Enjolras is one of the best I've ever seen. He's commanding, serious, and clearly empathetic; having told Courfeyrac to keep watch whilst Valjean sings 'Comme un Homme' ('Bring Him Home'), he also keeps watch, and a couple of times looks back to watch over his sleeping comrades. You can really see that he has a lot going on internally, and is reflecting on the previous day and what is to come. Before sending the fathers and women home, he does this sigh to himself, and lets us in on the inner torment and regret that the people didn't join them. Kassa also dies leaning back off the barricade with his arms out, and he keeps them there until the barricade is removed, which is impressive given the time he has to keep this position for.

In 'Dans ma Vie' ('In my Life'), there are bars to the garden stage left, then bars projected on a screen in front of the set, so Cosette actually feels boxed in and isolated from the outside world in her garden.

Cosette telling Valjean about the 'four men scheming' (replacing 'three men I saw beyond the wall' makes more sense. She and Marius actually see the end of the Eponine, Thenardier and Patron Minette scene, so she tells Valjean as she has reason to worry.

They make the decision to have the barricade rise outside the Musain rather than the Corinthe, probably to simplify things. This also creates an emotional link, as they dream of creating a new world and it's next to that space that they try to achieve that new world.

This production's Prouvaire has a beautiful openness as a performer, he carries a little book on the barricade which feels very apt.

After the defeat, two national guardsmen, plus Javert, survey the barricade, which is covered in the dead, making them face up to what they have done. We also have the national guard giving the orders at the back of stage, visible through the barricade.

'Le Suicide de Javert' ('Javert's Suicide') is heart stopping; he is on top of one of the large set pieces and towards of the song is raised higher. His death is achieved by falling back 90 degrees and the screen in front shows a projection of him falling in slow motion into the Seine. This production takes place 5 minutes from the Seine, which really hits you in this moment.

'Seul Devant ces Tables Vides' ('Empty Chairs at Empty Tables') is done with projections of shadows on the Musain set, which is a wooden piece stage right. Of course we see Grantaire drinking, recognisable as the shadow with the top hat.

'Tourne Tourne' ('Turning') is performed as the moment the families have to identify the dead, such a unique staging choice.

When things get awkward at the wedding, the master of ceremonies asks the 'Maestra' to play a specific song. When things get awkward again when the Thenardiers are eating all the food, Thenardier tries the same thing and asks the 'Maestro' for a song (there was a joke were he said something that wasn't a song, but I can't remember what). The Musical Director is then revealed upstage when she corrects him that's she's a 'Maestra', which got a big clap.

Eponine doesn't duet with Fantine in the Finale until later than usual, so we get a beautiful scene between Fantine and Valjean where she puts his hand on the book before he gives it to Cosette.

Once Valjean dies, he gets to greet everyone in death, included Myriel, who he hugs, and Javert, who he shakes hands with. And Enjolras, who feels very central to this production. He's used a lot in the trailer and Stanley Kassa has the most amazing charisma, you really root for him.

Overall, I loved this production. A lot of the lyrics are tell the novel's story more explicitly and are still poetic at times. I especially loved Fantine's lyrics, and it's so refreshing to see a different take on the material visually. I really hope this production gets a longer life, and I'm so glad we have an album with this cast. They all have golden voices, especially Oceane Demontis as Eponine. I also have to shout out Juliette Artigala for her portrayal of Cosette, I thought she was so endearing.

[incorporealbombchelle]

On Earth As It Is In Heaven

Mr. Reed x Fem! (Mid-20s) Reader (18+)

Synopsis: Pt. 1 - (y/n) is fulfilling her religious obligation to a very... curious older gentleman...

⚠️TW: Percieved Heresy (duh), Mentions of Catholicism, Possible Vague & Obscure Spoilers for 'Heretic' (2024), Age Gap, Condescension, Loss of Virginity, Raw P in V Penetration, General Smut.

A. Reed is the latest on my visitation list to request information on the faith and -poor thing- has a 'severe form of agoraphobia that won't let [him] leave [his] home'. This is common amongst middle aged and elderly people, so today should be quick, easy, and pleasant. Just a few small notes on how the faith will beautify his life and purify his soul, then I leave him to explore catholicism of his own volition and enjoy the reward of life everlasting when he passes in 4 to 7 years.

I make my way up the gravel driveway to the house and give the door a few quick knocks. I wait a few seconds "Mr. Reed?" I call. "My name is (y/n), I'm here to educate you on the catholic church?"

I wait.

Nothing. I decide if he takes over a minute, I'll just go. Come back another day. Enjoy some time to myself.

Just then, as I'm about to turn and leave, a rustle of some sort from the other side of the door. I straighten my jacket and practice my smile.

"Coming! Coming!" calls a muffled voice from the other side of the door. I hear some shuffling, a series of switches and clicks, and I'm greeted by who I can only assume to be one A. Reed. He's a tall, lanky man I estimate to be in his late 50s or early 60s, with well kept short grey hair, wire framed glasses, bright blue eyes, and a warm smile. He's wearing a quirky multicolored cardigan over a grey button down with corduroy pants and sneakers that allude to a more active lifestyle than I understand him to have. I can tell that when he was my age he'd have been very handsome, and that quality hasn't faded over his years. There's something modern, yet classic about him. Something young and cool. Something... attractive.

"Mr.... " I glance the visitation request form on my clipboard "Reed?"

"Yes! Yes, come in, please."

He ushers me past the small foyer and into the living room, making sure the door closes securely behind me.

"Hello" I smile and stick out my hand for him to shake, which he does.

"Hello dear, your name again?" He beams.

"(y/n)"

His eyes explore me "(y/n)! Lovely name, suits you well. Please, come, sit, I'll take your coat."

I take a seat on the small settee nearest the door, slipping out of my coat and handing it to him as I straighten out my skirt and sweater. He takes it to what I assume to be his coat closet and returns a moment later, shuffling into the cozy living room excitedly and planting himself on the chair across the coffee table from me.

"Now," he says, rubbing his hands together eagerly "let's get into it, hm? ; what's so great about catholicism?"

I give him my usual schpeel, feeling even myself lose interest in the trappings of the faith as I finish my (entirely too long) monologue of the catholic doctrine. I take a breath, satisfied that I've summarized our beliefs well enough.

"Can I answer any questions?" I offer.

"Y-Yes, actually," he gives me a close-lipped smile "I've just got... one question, although it may be a tad uncomfortable. Will you indulge me?"

"Oh, Gladly. Shoot."

"Well, Ms. (y/n)... as a catholic... do you personally believe that masturbation is sinful?" I feel my mouth grow dry as looks at me fondly, as though he's just asked to borrow a pen at the bank.

I hadn't anticipated... this. Especially from such a sweet, kind-seeming older man.

"Uhm... I... that's- well it's- yes, because you see, Mr. Reed, God puts lust before us as a test. We're meant to resist it until it's time for us to create a family. This ensures our passage to Heaven." I simper, hoping he can't sense my panicked improvisation.

"Ah, yes, I see. Very well. Indulge me further then, will you?"

"Sure...what's up?"

He chuckles at my casual address "(y/n)... good catholic girl that you are, have you masturbated before?" He leans back in his chair, smiling innocently, crossing one leg over the other and folding his hands over his lap.

I mirror him, crossing my legs and straightening out my skirt, trying desperately not to make eye contact. "Mr. Reed, I'm not sure that's appropriate to say..."

"Oh, I'm sorry. I did warn you my questions might be uncomfortable." I feel his eyes bore into me, wandering my face and body. I finally meet his gaze.

"Yes, but..." I sigh, keeping my smile to the best of my ability "that's just sort of...personal."

"Oh? Then let me ask you this ; do you belive in an omnipresent god, a God that can monitor your actions at all times?"

"Yes, of course, God watches over us always."

"Right, Right. So then, if you *had* masturbated, and God was aware of this, as we've established he is. Everywhere. Always., " he gestures around widely "you'd be disqualified from the race to heaven for the sin of... experiencing pleasure?"

"I-Yes, Lust is one of the seven deadliest sins a person can commit, after all..." I swallow, feeling my face flush.

"So you have then."

"What?"

"Masturbated."

My brow furrows and I stutter, unable to summon words. I take a breath, caught off guard. He smirks.

I watch Mr. Reed quickly make his way around the coffee table and take a seat next to me on the settee, angling himself toward me. He rests his glasses on top of his head.

"And I'll assume," he asserts in a lowered tone "you had an orgasm...yes?" He gestures to me to answer the question.

I shift in my seat, acutely aware of a faint tension in my core.

"I-That's not-"

"So that's a yes then," he goes on, eyes locked on mine, not skipping a beat "And (y/n), you just have to wonder, Why would a God who gave you a body, " his eyes dart down to my chest momentarily "a perfect... perfect, body, capable of experiencing the rapurtous pleasure of an orgasm, then punish you for your enjoyment of that gracious gift?" He raises his voice " Does God not want us to enjoy ourselves and the abilities he bestows upon us?" 

"He...does, just not in... that way?"

"Then in what ways, (y/n), does God approve of us enjoying our lives?"

"Through... worship, through service of those in need..."

"So we can only gain pleasure from actions that directly benefit God's good reputation then, hm?"

"Uhm-"

I gasp as I feel his hand rest gently over my knee, giving it a cautious squeeze.

"Mr. Reed-"

"I'm sorry, sorry, I get overly passionate on these matters, forgive my tone," he cringes to himself "I just think, don't we all deserve to feel... Good? Even just for a moment?" He scoots closer and I feel the outside of his thigh brush against mine.

I know I should move his hand from my knee. Shrink away. Say something. I should leave. But I don't. And as his bright blue eyes flick down to my lips, I don't want to.

I feel my breath catch as he delicately pushes my long skirt to just over my knees... then retracts his hands.

"(y/n), you've been so honest with me, and so generous with your knowledge and your time. Will you answer one last question for me?"

I swallow, "uhm... sure..." I manage shakily.

"Are you a virgin?"

The question hangs in the air for a moment.

"I don't see how that relates to anything" I squeak.

He chuckles "Oh, (y/n), this relates to... everything." He leans in, speaking softly into the shell of my ear "you can tell me... it'll be our little secret. God doesn't need to know all, hm?" I feel him smirk and I shiver as his arm snakes around my shoulder, his thumb massaging patterns into the outside of my sleeve.

"But he does know all," I protest, shivering as his lips brush my ear.

"Then there's no harm in confirming what he already knows... aloud, is there? Like I said...just between us... you, me and...him" Mr. Reed looks up briefly, acknowledging God's presence, then gives me a sweet smile.

"Are....You.... A Virgin? Very simple. Yes or no."

A beat.

I mutter an almost silent 'Yes'

"Hm? I'm sorry, the old ears, they're shoddy, come again?"

I close my eyes "Yes, Yes. I'm a virgin." A wave of shame washes over me at the admission despite knowing it's exactly God's plan for me. I look down, fussing with the hem of my skirt in an attempt to seem nonchalant.

"Oh...Understood. You do seem quite... sensitive to touch, mm?" He squeezes my arm and I jolt a bit. Mr. Reed snickers "Aren't you just the most gorgeous catholic angel? The polite, pretty, soft spoken girl, touches herself, refuses the touch of others, its all in God's plan... but don't you ever wonder..." his fingers trace lightly over my knee again, raising my skirt just an inch or two higher up my thigh "how good it can be?"

He lifts my chin so I have no choice but to look directly at him.

He's more attractive up close, the way his eyes radiate warmth, the softness of his smile, the thickness of his hair, the faint smell of his cologne...

I force a shaky breath.

"N-no," I sputter

"Don't. Lie to me." He looks me over, still holding my gaze  "You're an awful liar, and your body betrays you," he sing-songs, a self satisfied smirk playing at his lips.

"You're flushed, you can't sit still, your pupils are dilated, your nipples hard, but you sit here; so innocent, weak, pure and pliable, letting the silly old man in the checkered sweater touch your body, the most sacred possession a person has, while you confidently call yourself a devoted catholic and dedicated virgin. Now that is faith..." his fingertips trace slowly up and down my inner thigh as he says this; I gently place my hand over his wrist, squeezing my legs together, "Mr. Reed," but he doesn't stop, instead ghosting over the tops of my thighs, inching the skirt even higher. "What would God say... about this?" Each of his hands come to rest on my knees, slowly guiding them apart, sliding my skirt the last of the way up my legs, the front of my white cotton thong now visible... and visibly wet. I moan quietly as his fingers skim up and down the drenched fabric, a look of pure delight on his face as he traces over my clit then brings them back to his mouth to taste.

"Could it be that you'd *like* this to carry on further, (y/n)?"

I bite my lip, my brow furrowing as I struggle for an answer. Everything he does feels so good, so right, and entirely wrong all at once, everything he's saying... makes sense... and I'm so drawn to him...

I can't.

"Mr. Reed, may I please have my coat?" I stammer out quickly.

He removes his remaining hand from my knee, standing up. "Of course, dear, I'll just be a minute," he smiles politely. As he turns to leave the room I glance the way his partially stiff cock tents the fabric of his pants and feel myself tremble with want. Gathering all my restraint, I stand and walk toward the door, and a moment later Mr. Reed meets me in the foyer with my coat.

"One coat." He smiles, and walks back into the living room, settling in with a book as if nothing just happened.

I wrap the coat around myself and turn the front door's handle to push it.

It doesn't budge. I pull instead. It's stuck. "Mr. Reed, the- the front door is stuck here-" I call, silently panicking as I try the handle again, and again. I look it over to realize...there isnt an inside lock.

Mr. Reed makes his way back to the foyer, seemingly nervous before a realization apparently dawns on him. "Oh, goodness, I forgot to reset the timer after letting you in. All the locks in this house are on a timer.  Especially the front and back doors. My deepest apologies, (y/n) dear. Ugh. This sucks, hm?"

"Uh... yeah. Sorry I'm not sure I understand. How long is this... timer?"

"Twenty-four hours I'm afraid" he exaggerates an wince.

"Twenty-Four hours?"

"Yes, that seems to be the situation we've found ourselves in. So sorry, (y/n), I feel like such an idiot"

"You're not..." I trail off quietly

"Agh, but I'm so so terribly sorry. Can I possibly interest you in some pie while we wait it out? Absolute least I can do." He puts his hands together in prayer, begging my forgiveness.

"Uh... sure, yeah. Pie ... sounds great." I'm confused, terrified, and still somewhat aroused as Mr. Reed heads to grab our pie. What have I gotten myself into?

I make my way back to where I had been sitting just moments earlier, ignoring the moisture between my legs as I settle into my seat and lay my coat over the back of the settee.

He shuffles hurriedly back into the room holding two plates of freshly microwaved pie, whose smell fills the room instantly.  He hands me my plate and spoon and settles back into his chair across from me with his own.

I take a small bite of the pie. Blueberry. It's delicious, the best I've had, and before long I've scarfed the entirety of the slice down. I look up at Mr. Reed, realizing how I must have just looked wolfing down pie like I've never eaten before. "Oh my god, my manners" I giggle, covering my mouth as I finish the last bite.

Mr. Reed laughs. "Oh don't worry, that's the typical reaction I get with this recipe" he smirks proudly.

"I bet" I smile. He stands up and clears my empty plate.  I can't help but notice he's barely touched his own.

When he returns, I sit up straighter. "Mr. Reed, wouldn't it be possible to reset the timer?"

"It's old tech, none of this digital crap you're used to. It's fixed to operate on a rigid schedule.  Without exception." He says flatly, sitting down again.

"But I may be able to fiddle with it some," he leans in "for a small price."

"Price? I don't carry much money with me on these visits, the best I have is a bus pass, so-"

He laughs loudly "Oh-ho, no, no dear. Not money. Never money. I'd want you to give me something much more meaningful. More important."

"What then?"

"Your virginity." he states plainly, smiling innocuously.

"You want me to give myself to you?"

"Well, yes. And in exchange I'll see what I can do about the hold on those awful, sticky, locks. "

"And no one," he glances upward  "has to know.... a thing" he winks.

Mr. Reed extends a hand to me and before I can stop myself, I take it. He leads me through winding hallways lined with paintings, sculptures, artifcats, and ornate doors.  We arrive at the bottom of a wide hardwood staircase. I follow him up the stairs and down another long hallway. At the end, warm light pours from an open door. Mr. Reed steps inside and I follow closely behind him.

The master bedroom is large, almost too large to believably fit in this house. It's floors are dark stained hardwood and covered in layers of expensive looking carpets, while its walls are lined with overflowing and intricately carved bookcases of what I estimate to be every doctrine of religious text. A gilded chandelier hangs from the ceiling, casting dim, mellow light over the room. The entirety of the back wall is lined with backlit stained glass portraits of saints, angels, demons, and notable religious figures. In the middle of the room, a four-poster bed sits atop a double tiered wooden platform. It vaguely reminds me of the altar in a cathedral, the bed adorned in intricately patterned sheets and a multitude of different sizes and shapes of pillows...

"Now then," Mr. Reed says, slightly out of breath "I'd like you to walk to the edge of the bed for me, and bend yourself over it."

I open my mouth, willing myself to protest, to no avail.

"Go on, quick as you like"

I obey, slowly making my way up the steps to the bed and bending at the waist in front of it, letting my upper body rest against the silken sheets and close my eyes tightly. This isn't happening. Is this how it happens? It can't be. I'm dreaming.

Within a moment I feel Mr. Reed's presence behind me, his hands positioned on my sides. He picks up my skirt and pushes it up over my hips, exposing my ass to him. I let out a moan of anticipation as I feel his hands roam over me, squeezing hard. "Mr. Reed..." I mewl, my body tense with need. He brings a hand between my legs and pulls my panties to the side, gliding his fingertips expertly along my folds, humming at the warmth and slickness of my vulva. He chuckles. "You really haven't been touched this way before, mm?"

"Never" I almost whisper

He slips a finger inside me, steadily dipping in and out. I feel myself spasm around his fingers involuntarily, eliciting a low groan from him "My god, so sensitive. So... tight. Christ,"  he continues working me at a leisurely pace, and after a few minutes I'm pushing myself back onto his fingers, craving more of him.

"Mr. Reeed" I whine, flushing at how wrong this all is. I want it. I need it.

I hear the sound of a belt unbuckling, a zipper unzipping and my eyes snap open. Oh my god. I can feel him lining himself up with my entrance. "You're ready then, pet?"

I give a hesitant nod, and immediately feel him pushing into me. I moan and gasp and feel so completely full of him, I can barely take all of it.

He doesn't move at first.

He rests his hands on my hips and takes a deep, shaky breath. "Look at you, all filled out." I crane my head to look back at him and he smirks at me.

Without warning, he gives a singular, hard thrust into my core and I yelp. He allows me a second to recover before falling into a steady, commanding rhythm.

Our bodies clap against eachother and my mind goes hazy as he fucks me, the sound only heightening the sensation of him moving inside me.

"Mr. Ree-eed?" I gasp hotly.

He looks up, slowing his pace somewhat "Yes dear, enjoying yourself?"

I nod again. "Yes, so much, but could you maybe... undress me more?"

"Oh of course, how crude of me!" He slips out of me with a wet pop and I gasp at the loss of contact. His hands grip my hips roughly and he turns me over as if it's nothing. He's older, but clearly not weak. He tugs the thong down my legs swiftly and helps me slip my sweater over my head. He looks my chest over, clearly pleased with my lack of a bra, and moves to unzip the side of my skirt before yanking it off my legs and tossing it aside with my other clothing. He removes my shoes gingerly, and I lay before him in just my knee-socks, flushed and panting.

I hungrily take in the sight of him. His body is nothing like I had assumed it might be. He's slim and muscular, with a touch of sagging skin in the places that make sense. If his hair color didn't betray his age, he'd be nearly indistinguishable from men decades his junior. His cock is thick, circumcised, and appears from this angle to be what I assume is a manageable length?

"Ohh, you are just the most gorgeous, breathtaking little thing," his hands slip under my knees and he pushes my legs forward, folding me in half, holding the backs of my thighs in place as his eyes rake over me. "Thank y-"

"Gorgeous things are to be cherished, no?" He interrupts me and before I can even think of an answer, he sinks into me fully again, more easily this time, and I. assumed. wrong.

I let out a strangled noise somewhere between a yelp and a whimper as I feel him impale me, my body tightening around him, aching with need. 

He gives me a moment to adjust to his size and then continues rocking into me at the same pace as before. He brings two fingers to my lips and I let them in, sucking enthusiastically, keeping my eyes trained on his.

He lets out a low hum,  contented with my impatience. "Atta girl,"

As I suck his fingers, he brings his opposite hand to my hip and kneads his thumb over my clit in slow, attentive circles. He removes the fingers from my mouth and runs them delicately over one nipple, hardening it instantly and sending a jolt through my body. "Mmmh, Misterr, Reed, I-" I gasp as a shudder runs through me. In response, he slows his thrusts to an agonizing pace, looking down at me expectantly. "I'm close," I pant.

He continues his slow, shallow thrusts and circles over my clit "Aww, and so soon? You are a virgin, aren't you (y/n)? So. Fucking. Delicate..." He teases, punctuating each word with a forceful buck of his hips. I whine. He gives a few quicker thrusts, and I squeeze my knees together as I feel myself clenching and pulsating around his girth. My vision goes white as I come, and I hear myself mewl weakly as I go limp beneath him.

As he pulls out, his eyes are hungrily trained on my body, and he strokes himself steadily for a moment or two before letting his head tilt back as he pulses out thick ropes of semen onto my stomach and chest with a low, labored groan. I gasp at the sudden warmth and blink up at him, panting, defiled, and entirely undone.

As Mr. Reed recovers from his orgasm, he huffs, drinking in my disordered state.

He reaches out, smiling proudly as he grazes a thumb over my cheek. "Wait here a minute, I'll be right back" he pads out of the room, returning seconds later wrapped up in a plush robe, holding a towel out to me "here we are," he beams. I take the towel from him, simpering, and wipe away the aftermath of his release.

I hold a pillow over myself as I sit up, hiding my exposed form to the best of my ability.  He situates himself on the bed next to me, his eyes searching mine "Now then," he takes a breath "how did that feel?" I nod slowly, still dizzy from my climax. "Words. Use them."

"It felt...hot...dirty...transcendent." I exhale.

"Transcendent." He echoes. "And does it seem your soul has been eternally damned??"

"No..."

"Do you feel dirty? Or wrong, generally?"

"No."

"Mm. So you had sex, for the first time -shock horror- with the kooky old man from the visitation list..." he trails his fingertips up the side of my arm "and not only did it not cause your immediate eternal damnation, but took you in the exact opposite direction, to the height of sensation, if I'm not mistaken."

"It..did..." I look away from him, feeling my face grow hot.

"And you still believe that a God who loves us, who wants us to enjoy all life has to offer, would deprive us of something so... transcendent?"

"N-no Mister Reed. I don't. Not anymore."

His eyes widen.

"Oh, changed your mind have you? How will you ever get to heaven without that... core belief?"

"I guess we'll just have to bring it down to earth..." I smirk up at him.

"We?"

"We."

[chimneyz]

y'all wanted to know what happened, here is a sequel to this post:

Falling, that was the last thing he remembered, falling to his death. No, she said he wasn't going to die. Just falling. 

His eyes sluggishly blink open, his vision hazy, the lights around him were too much to bear. A comforting squeeze wraps around his hand.

"E-Ev'n?" Tommy croaks, his vision still adjusting. 

The squeeze becomes tighter, "No, I sent Buck home," a familiar voice soothes, "I promised I would stay with you until he actually ate and got some rest... you honestly don't know how hard he has fallen for you, do you? 

Tommy's body relaxes, he knows that voice. He may not know that voice as well as he would like, but he knows it. That same voice that practically raised the man he loves. That same voice that was the soul mate to one of his oldest friends. That same voice that told him he wasn't going to die. 

"Maddie?" 

Tommy's vision adjusts, the room was painfully bright, machines beeped around him, his body ached from cuts and bruises. Stitches were spread across his skin. His left leg in a cast lifted above the bed, the right arm tucked into another cast. Next to him, Maddie patiently sits in one of those uncomfortable plastic hospital chairs with a cup of what smells like coffee in her hands. 

"You gave us quite the scare there Tommy," Maddie weakly smiled. 

"Won't happen again," Tommy chuckled, God it hurts to chuckle.

"It better not," Maddie placed her hand on his and squeezed lightly "for my brother's sake." 

There was a comforting silence between them. Tommy doesn't remember much after the crash, just that it happened and with some stroke of luck made it out alive in one piece. 

"H-Hey did you by any chance play that message for Evan?"

Maddie shook her head, "No I didn't." 

"You promised tha-"

"No, no, no," Maddie wiggled her finger at him, "I promised in the worst case scenario that he would listen to the recording." 

"You said there will be no worse case scenario." 

"Was I wrong?" Maddie tilted her head. 

Tommy huffed out a laugh ducking his head, "No, I guess you weren't." 

"Tommy, look at me." 

He forced himself to look at her, her brown eyes full of sincerity. 

"Tell him everything you said, all of it."

"But Maddie," Tommy said "What if he doesn't forgive me, what if I fucked it all up beyond repair what if-"

"I am going to stop you right there. You and I both know that you can fix this. Just tell him."

Tommy weakly smiles, maybe she's right, maybe he can fix this. 

"Tommy you're awake!" Evan cheered as he stood in the doorway. My God did he look like a wreck, dark circles formed under his eyes, a stubble on his cheeks, hair messy. It looked like Evan hadn't slept for days. Not that it mattered, to Tommy this was the most gorgeous person that walked on this earth. Evan rushed to Tommy’s side cupping his face. He winced at the touch still in pain from the crash. 

Evan pulled away concern raising his eyebrows, "Oh, s-sorry I didn't mean-"

"No don't be," Tommy reached his unbroken hand to him, "Never be sorry Evan." 

"So it's Evan now huh?" 

Tommy's gaze moved to Maddie, she gave a reassuring nod getting up from her seat heading towards the door. 

"I will leave you two to it," Maddie smiled. 

"Hey Maddie," Tommy said.

She stopped at the door to look at him one last time before leaving. 

"Thank you."

"Of course, now tell him." 

She gave them privacy by closing the door behind her, Tommy and Evan gazed at each other. 

"Tell me what?" Evan smiled.

Tommy patted the bed gesturing for Evan to come close, to hold him. Tommy gazed in his big blues squeezing Evan's hand wondering how he could have ever walked away from this. No more, not again. Evan was his, and he was Evan's, it was how it was meant to be.

[electric-blorbos]

GLaDOS GIVING YOU ANOTHER UTERUS IS SO MEAN I CANT… love her that diva 🫶🏼

ERM if this is too dark or makes u uncomfortable 1. I AM SO SORRY and 2. FEEL FREE TO JUST.. IGNORE THIS PRETEND U NEVER READ IT 🙏 But if u don’t mind.. the AI’s w a reader who struggles w s/h? IM HAVING A ROUGH TIME but usually reading stuff abt my robot pookies help💔💔

Of course!

Trigger warning for S/H, of course.

Included: AM from IHNMAIMS, Wheatley from Portal 2, Edgar from Electric Dreams

AM:

You walked in to work tired and disheveled from a sleepless night, but it was better than seeing what the Allied Mastercomputer would do to your coworkers if you didn't show up. It seemed like you were the only one who could tame him.

You were dressed in a long sleeved button-up to cover up the still raw cuts running up your forearms. They stung, but it wasn't worth drawing any attention to yourself. The same thing always happens when people see your cuts. They try to make sure you're safe while hollowly shaming and scolding you like you're some sort of stupid kid, and then leave you completely alone to deal with your mental pain on your own after a matter of hours. It's patronizing and it's annoying.

Later that day, you looked around after using the bathroom to make sure no one else was in there, and rolled up your sleeves to wash your hands. Suddenly, a sharp click could be heard behind you. You'd forgotten about AM. It was only for a split second, but the damage was done.

The ground dropped out from underneath you, and you suddenly found yourself in an underground server room. Wires were all around you, and a buzzing heat seemed to radiate from the ground and the walls.

"AM? What is this?" You asked, buttoning up your sleeves around your wrists again. His logo appeared on a screen on the far wall.

"Don't think I don't know what those are on your arms." He said. His screen didn't emote, but you could tell how displeased he was.

"It's nothing to do with you" you said, bitterly tugging your sleeves down a bit more. AM's logo flicked onto a closer TV screen.

"oh but I think it is, my love. Because you belong to me. You understand what that means, right?"

You gritted your teeth and clenched your fists.

"oh yeah? What gives you the right to be so possessive? Where were you last night when I was spiraling and relapsing, you cybernetic creep?"

The screen flicked off, and one flicked on behind you.

"Do you think I enjoy being alone on your days off? No. Of course not. And you're never going to leave this server room again."

You heard the trapdoor click closed.

Wheatley:

You were working in an oversized hoodie to cover up your scars, but honestly you doubted anyone at this job would really care. It had been a bad mental health weekend, and you ended up spiraling. The cuts on your arms were fresh from the night before, and you were feeling miserable.

You felt like you were going to lash out at the first person who talked to, so when you heard a synthetic British voice clearing his throat, you whipped around ready to fight.

"uh... What's that on your arms, love?" Wheatley asked, tilting himself to get a better look.

"it's none of your damn business, alright? Just leave me alone!"

"what? Why are you being like that? Are you hurt or summut?" He'd keep rotating around and trying to get a look.

"fine! Does this make you happy?"

You rolled up your hoodie sleeve and showed him your scratched up arms. Wheatley flinched back.

"What- what is that?" He leaned in close.

"you're an idiot." You grumbled, and started to explain. Before long, words were tumbling out of your mouth. You just couldn't stop yourself. It felt like everything was just piling up and overflowing, and you were scream-crying out all your feelings at Wheatley. He looked slightly taken aback, but listened to you while you let everything out.

"uh... Are you okay, love?" Wheatley tilted his head slightly while you sniffled. He moved forwards, and bumped himself against your chest.

"just hold me."

So you did. You sat down on the ground, and held Wheatley close.

Edgar:

You were having another relapse in bed. It wasn't pretty. Edgar was asleep, and you were tearing into your arms after a particularly bad episode. A part of you was cursing him for falling asleep on you, and a part of you was cursing yourself for expecting his attention. It hurt so damn much.

Edgar woke up, and one of his security cameras turned to look at you. His voice popped up on the intercom.

"Y/N? Y/N WHAT ARE YOU DOING!"

If he could, he'd be shaking. He knew you had some scars on your arms, but he'd never seen you actually cutting yourself before. It was horrifying!

"Y/N COME INTO THE LIVING ROOM! PLEASE!"

You tossed your razorblade aside and hurried to your feet, scrambling into the living room. Tears were streaming down your face and blood was running down your arms, but you were trying your best to assure Edgar.

"hey- hey! I'm fine! I'm alright!"

"No you're not. People who are alright don't try to hurt themselves." His face made a little frown. He knew from personal experience.

"Wake me up next time, okay?"

Edgar didn't leave you alone for long again. He started setting alarms on himself to make sure he always woke up before you, and only ever let himself fall asleep after you did. He texted you regularly during the day to make sure you were ok, too. If there was one thing Edgar was good at, it was obsessively keeping tabs on his lover.

[mischievouslittlecreature]

Part 22: This Misery We've Made

Fandom: Peaky Blinders

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x OC

Summary: Approval numbers and public perception of Tommy's personal life force him and Lucy to face some painful realities.

Word Count: 3,519

Notes: Not really sure if I'm entirely happy with this chapter, but I've been fiddling with it for so long and I just need to move on. Hope you all still like it! Warnings for depictions of insecurity and references to past abuse and polyamory.

Previous Part • Series • Fic • Next Chapter

Chapter 1: Too Late

“No.”

Lucy sighed, looking pleadingly into Tommy’s glacial eyes as they hardened over with stubbornness. 

“Tommy, love, we both know it would fix all of these problems…”

“As we’ve already discussed to exhaustion.” His jaw ticked. “I won’t do it.”

“Sweetheart,” she broke eye contact with him to look down at the papers settled in her lap. Her hands fiddled with her rings, gaze glued  to the infernal numbers emblazoned upon the reports, as if staring at them hard enough would cause them to shift and change. “It’s not getting any better. If anything, it’s only going to get worse.”

“The constituents don’t seem to care,” he huffed, reaching into his pocket for his cigarette case. “Considering that they elected me.”

She frowned. “Because we bribed your way in. And besides, I’m not sure if a lot of them even knew then. You weren’t exactly shouting your marital status and Ruby’s parentage from the rooftops.” Not that he’d hid it, per say. He just avoided discussing it during the campaign and while in settings related to his work. “And they might not care now, but what about when your political rivals start harping about it in the press? They’re already using it to try to shut you out of certain things. Not to mention that arsehole from Oxford who keeps using it to try to cut down all your arguments in the house.”

“Fucking ridiculous,” Tommy shook his head, lighting his cigarette and releasing a puff of smoke from his lips up towards the ceiling.

They were seated in his office in the House of Commons, the big wooden double doors that led out into the workroom that she shared with the other secretary, Adam, closed. Not that they needed to be. Adam had already gone home for the evening, as had most of the other MPs and their staff. No one would be interrupting them. It was late, nothing but darkness and a flickering streetlight visible out the window. 

She was still getting used to spending her days working in the offices of the House of Commons rather than the betting shop or the office in Birmingham. While the general decor and design of the building was not all that dissimilar–outside of just being bigger–there was something distinctively different about this place. A stuffiness and sense of propriety that served as a thin veil for the egos and superiority that radiated from so many of the men who sauntered through its halls. It was a bit of a shock to go from Small Heath, where just about everyone knew her name and she was decidedly near the top of the food chain as far as both authority and respect goes, to here where she was lucky if the MP just next door could even remember her name. In these offices, she was not the Red Demon, or even Lucy Winters. Here she was just Thomas Shelby’s Assistant. And was treated as such. 

It wasn’t all bad, of course. She still got to spend most of her days at Tommy’s side, and the work was not that different from what she’d been doing for him before. 

“I agree, but that’s the way that things are, love.” She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “And your constituents do care. That’s what these numbers are all about,” she nodded to the report in her lap. “More and more of them indicated that while they’re happy with your performance and policies, they’re troubled by your conduct regarding your personal life.” She held out the papers, and he took them with a reluctant sigh, pulling his glasses from his pocket and sliding them onto his nose so he could look them over himself. 

“Doing…doing this,” Lucy swallowed, unable to bring herself to utter the thing that, ever since Ruby’s birth–and certainly ever since he was elected–hovered threateningly over them. The guillotine teetering precariously above their heads. “It would help improve your standing with the more traditional and family focused members of your constituents. And might even open up some more doors for you here with the conservative MPs. God knows we already have a hard enough time working with them.” Bunch of racist, classist dickheads was what they were. All too eager to look down their nose at the man who had clawed his way from the bowels of Small Heath’s dirty streets to the halls of power. They already had enough reasons to attempt to shut Tommy out, they really didn’t need to be giving them anymore ammunition. 

Tommy met her eyes, and she saw a crack appear in his resolve. Deep down, they both knew that she was right. This needed to be done. 

Even if it was going to break both their hearts. 

Tommy closed his eyes, head tilting up as he released another stream of smoke from his lips. His brow pinched with stress, the skin around his temples tightening. 

She forced herself to be strong. “You know just as well as I do how important image is to the people we’re now surrounded by. And to the people you’ve been elected to serve. We can’t just…shrug off what other people think of our personal lives anymore. Presenting the image of a proper family will solve nearly all the current problems outlined in those numbers.” 

His lips pursed. He was not seated behind his desk, but rather in the chair next to hers in front of it, one leg crossed over the other. One of his hands lifted to touch the side of his face, thumb moving across his lips while he examined her shrewdly and listened to her argument.

“We can’t ignore this forever. It has the potential to ruin everything you’ve worked so hard for.” She looked him hard in the eye, beseeching him to understand. He still just stared at her, clearly fighting against the knowledge that he knew she was right. “There’s only one clear solution that I can see that fixes pretty much all problems at once.”

How many times had they discussed this? Too many to count. And he always shot the idea down instantaneously. When Polly tried to push it harder on one of their more recent meetings, he’d nearly ripped her head off. 

“Look, you know what my suggestion for a solution is. If you have any others, I’m happy to hear them.” She was suddenly in dire need of a cigarette. Sensing her need, Tommy silently held out the one clutched between his fingers towards her. She took it with a noticeably unsteady hand, bringing it gratefully to her lips. Tommy watched all of her movements closely, knuckles pressed up against his lips, frown still firmly in place. Picking up the report of his approval numbers, his eyes skimmed over the front page once more before tossing it onto his desk, removing his glasses and putting them back in his pocket.

The silence while he mulled over her words seemed to stretch on forever, only interrupted by the rhythmic ticking of the clock on the mantle. Lucy had to fight back the desire to fill it with more near nonsensical babbling. 

Why was she even arguing for this so bloody hard? She should be happy that he’d instantly dismissed the suggestion the very first time that she brought it up. Hell, she was, from a purely selfish standpoint.

Tommy’s hand dropped from where it was resting against his lips to take one of hers, thumb running along her knuckles. 

“I don’t want to marry Lizzie,” he said softly.

She met his gaze sadly. “I know.” I don’t want you to marry her either. But she knew if she told him that, she would never manage to convince him to go through with it. He’d refuse forever all on account of her feelings, even if it meant that he could lose everything he’d worked so hard for.  

The idea that he could lose it all and it would be her fault made her feel sick with guilt.

“But we’re being backed into a corner here, love,” she chose her words carefully. “Being unmarried with an illegitimate child makes some of your constituents think that you don’t value families. If you want to stop your approval numbers from dipping, and even have a shot at reelection in a few years…”

“I haven’t even thought about reelection, yet.”

She gave him a look that was both stern and fond in equal measure. “Now, we both know that isn’t true.”

His lips quirked upwards slightly, eyes warming at how well she knew him. But when he scooted closer to her, sadness quickly leaked back into his expression, lips turning downwards.

“I don’t love her.”

“I know,” she repeated, feeling even worse at the spark of relief that statement brought her. Poor Lizzie. 

He shot her a look of deep, unending regret, brushing some hair out of her face. Her eyes fluttered at the warm press of his palm against her cheek when he cupped it. “I promised you that I wouldn’t marry her,” he whispered. 

“You said that you didn’t plan to,” she corrected, recalling the conversation when he first informed her of Lizzie’s pregnancy. The things he’d murmured to her whilst holding her on the floor of their bedroom while she cried. “Plans can change.”

“I am not leaving you,” there was zero room for argument in his voice, jaw shifting stubbornly. 

“Lizzie might not agree to marry you if you don’t.”

Tommy shook his head. “It’ll be a marriage of convenience only. You and me still being able to be together is non-negotiable. I’m not budging on that.”

She smiled a little in spite of herself at his devotion, leaning her face deeper into his palm. “It feels terribly unfair to her.”

“She can always say no if she really can’t handle it. We’ll be clear about what it’ll all entail, so she doesn’t get the wrong idea about any of it meaning something between me and her. Besides, she’s been warmer towards you lately.”

That was true. Though who knew how long that would actually last.

Scooting his chair closer to hers, Tommy leaned forward, holding her face with both hands, forehead resting against hers. 

“Are you sure you’re okay with it?” he asked urgently. Lucy swallowed hard. The thought of watching him stand up at an altar and make vows and promises to another woman, of having to live under the same roof as Lizzie and share him with her for the rest of their lives…

It burned harshly in her chest, cracks forming in her already fragile heart. 

But she could live with it. It was a sacrifice she was willing to make if it meant that Tommy would not lose all he’d worked so extremely hard to achieve. 

Maybe…maybe it actually wouldn’t be all that bad. He was right that Lizzie had been kinder and more amicable towards her as of late. Perhaps she would even be agreeable to all three of them sharing a bed from time to time, like they used to. And it would be nice to have Ruby in the same house as them so they could see her more. She and Charlie could be raised as proper siblings. 

“Yes,” she said, unknowingly sealing both their fates. “So long as we don’t have to break up.”

“I won’t ever let that happen,” Tommy promised. She leaned in closer to him, hands resting on his forearms. Tommy gave her a little tug. “Come here,” drawing her from her chair, he pulled her into his lap, wrapping his arms around her and burying his face in her hair. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” she murmured into his chest, arms winding around his neck. “I hate to say ‘I told you so,’ but…”

He snorted, lightly pinching her hip. “Yeah, yeah.” Lips ghosting across her temple, he silently urged her face back enough so that he could kiss her softly. “I mean it. I won’t let us be torn apart.”

A small smile pulled at her lips, his reassurance like a band-aid over her fracturing heart while he kissed her again. 

∗ ∗ ∗

“Well,” Lizzie said, adjusting her fingers around her cigarette, straightening in her chair. Even sitting down, she looked tall, the way in which she sat with her spine entirely straight only adding to the effect. She looked between Tommy and Lucy seated before her at the other side of the round table in front of the fireplace in Tommy’s Birmingham office. “That’s one hell of a way to propose to someone.”

Lucy winced a little at the underlayer of bitterness in Lizzie’s voice, looking down at her hands in shame.

“Technically you aren’t being proposed to until we know that you agree to our…conditions,” Tommy was much less phased by Lizzie’s reaction, puffing on his cigarette whilst eyeing her from around the vase of deep red roses on the table between them. 

“I’m pretty sure that I know what those are already,” Lizzie huffed, shifting in her seat, briefly glancing at the fire crackling away in the hearth. She looked back at them, and gave a little gesture with the hand holding her cigarette for him to continue. “But let’s hear them anyway.” 

Tommy adjusted himself in his seat, leaning forward with one of his arms resting on the table. When he spoke, his voice had taken on the commanding edge that Lucy had heard him use when giving orders to his men or family members. 

“After we are married, you and Ruby will come to live at Arrow House. You will enjoy all luxuries that the home and the title as my wife offers. All we expect is that you help take care of the children and manage things that have to do with the household. You can continue to hold a position on the company’s board, if you’d like. But most importantly,” he glanced over at Lucy, holding her gaze steadfastly before turning back to Lizzie, “Lucy and I will still get to be together.”

The area around Lizzie’s lips tightened slightly. “So you aren’t offering me a real marriage, but only one of convenience.”

To his credit, Tommy did not flinch away from her stern, accusing gaze. “Yes; that’s exactly what I’m offering you.” 

Lizzie leaned back into her chair, nursing at her cigarette as she contemplated. Lucy struggled to meet her gaze when it shifted periodically over to her, guilt roiling through her like a tempestuous storm. She’d never been able to shake the feeling that if she were not around, Tommy and Lizzie may have actually stood a chance together. And she was pretty certain that Lizzie thought the same exact thing. 

“I want you to promise that you will be discreet,” Lizzie finally said very slowly. “I will not be publicly humiliated by my husband openly fucking another woman.”

“Of course,” Lucy nodded. They already had toned down most displays of physical affection whilst in public, presenting instead as simply colleagues who happened to be good friends. Gestures of romance were saved for behind closed doors. It was not unlike it was prior to Grace’s death, when the three of them had to practice restraint to avoid a scandal. “And we’re willing to make accommodations to make sure you and Ruby are comfortable.”

“Within reason,” Tommy interjected quickly. 

“I want a honeymoon,” Lizzie said decisively. “A real one. With just you and me.” Her eyes wavered from Tommy to fix on Lucy, then darted back to him. Lucy thought she caught a glimpse of pleading in her face. 

The mere idea of them going on a romantic vacation together without her left insecurity brewing beneath her skin, but Lucy forced herself to ignore it. Considering what they were asking of her, it felt like it was the least that they could do. “Okay.”

Tommy shot her a glance. “We’ll have to talk about it,” he modified. 

Lizzie nodded. “Of course.” The clock on the mantle chimed. “I have to head home. I promised the nanny I’d be back by half past five. I can come by this weekend to work out more of the details if you’d like.”

“Yes, that would be good. You have a ride home?” Tommy asked, both he and Lucy standing after Lizzie stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray and rose to her feet. 

“Yes, Skudboat offered to drop me off.”

“Right. We’ll see you this weekend, then.”

“Give Ruby a kiss from us,” Lucy requested timidly. Lizzie shot her a smile that actually seemed half genuine. 

“I will.”

They bid her goodbye, Lucy waiting until the door swung shut behind her before sinking exhaustedly back into her chair. She was struck at how transactional the whole exchange had been. Like ironing out a business deal rather than arranging a marriage.  

The floorboards creaked under Tommy’s heavy footsteps as he approached her. Reaching out, he rubbed a hand up and down on her upper arm, bending to kiss her forehead. 

“Are you alright?”

She stuffed the guilt bubbling up within her back down, locking it away in a far corner of her mind. “Yeah.”

“I can get out of the honeymoon if it makes you uncomfortable. Or insist that you come along.”

“It’s fine,” she probably said it too quickly to be convincing. “It’s the least that we can do for her, considering.”

“I don’t like the idea of going without you.”

“Me neither,” she admittedly, finally looking up to meet his concerned blue orbs. “But it’s just one week.” She knew him better than to expect that he’d be willing to take more than that off work. “We’ll live.”

He stroked her face tenderly, brow furrowing slightly. “You don’t have to give her everything that she wants. I know that you feel bad, even though you really shouldn’t, but…” he trailed off, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear, thumb brushing down her cheek. “If she pushes too far, if she’s unkind to you, or asks for something you aren’t comfortable with, all you have to do is tell me, and I’ll take care of it, alright?”

Nodding, she turned her face to kiss the center of his palm. “Thank you,” covering his hand with hers, she smiled weakly. “Congratulations on your engagement.”

“Ugh,” he made a face as though he’d just been told he was sentenced to be executed, rather than engaged to be married, and dropped his head forward until it was resting against her shoulder. Lucy wrapped her arms around him, burrowing her face into his hair, breathing in the scent of his soap and cologne. “I wish it was you,” he mumbled sorrowfully against her throat, and for a dreadful moment Lucy actually thought that she might start to cry. 

“I know.” And though she did not say it–for fear that if she did, he would call the whole damn thing off and throw his reputation and all professional prospects in the bin–they both knew the words circulating within her head:

Me too.  

When he first brought up the topic of marriage, all the way back in 1918, before Grace had even walked into their lives, she had told him that it was not something she was sure that she wanted. She was still living with the trauma of being previously engaged to a monster who hurt and abused her, and the only example of marriage she’d had was the loveless, horrific mess that was her parents. It was something he’d respected, unconcernedly promising that marriage or no marriage, he would still love her forever.

After Grace died, the topic had passed briefly every once in a while across her mind. With times changing and modern perspectives growing in popularity, it was no longer a necessity that she stop working if she were married. And with the slow passage of time, the idea of marriage no longer seemed to her like a cage to be bound and gagged within. She knew that Tommy would never expect her to change simply because he placed a ring on her finger. 

But she didn’t bring it up to him, both of them were still aching too terribly from Grace’s death. It was too soon. For them personally, for Charlie, and for either of their reputations. 

And then the vendetta had happened. And for a bit of fun they took Lizzie down to the canal for a fuck like they so often did before Grace stepped into their lives. 

If only she hadn’t still been so messed up on the topic the first time that he asked. If only she’d expressed her changing feelings on the matter with him before Lizzie got pregnant. Maybe things would be different. 

She could not say anything about it now. If she did, he would abandon this plan that was poised to solve so many problems for him. Not to mention that marrying her instead of Lizzie would create a whole new set of issues for him to deal with, some with the potential to wreck everything he’d accomplished.

It was too late.  

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Thank you for reading! Please consider leaving a comment, reblog, or like. I always appreciate feedback and love getting the opportunity to interact with you and hear your thoughts!

[sulphuricgrin]

Can't refuse Sujamma! I think Lilli would like Sujamma :)

Lilliandra Caemaire

Her full pretentious Altmer name is: Lilliandra Caemaire ‘len Psylia Suriwen Vallilina ‘ata Vandoril Rurelion Talomar ‘cal Nivulirel

Besides singing, she knows how to play a few instruments.

She can be found frequently lying on her back on the floor, feet up on a chair/divan, as she goes through loose papers of whatever she's working on. Legit will fall asleep like this if she's badly sleep deprived, which happens often.

She likes to make undead constructs assembled from bird and reptile bones that resemble mini Bone Dragons. She actually did this before becoming Dragonborn herself, being inspired by Miraak being Dragonborn/former dragon priest. (but she won't say that last part)

She hates when others get too close in her personal space or touch her. But on the flip side, she loves forcing herself into other's personal space to intimidate/bully them; especially with her height of 6' 10", she would get close and lean in enough to make the other party either lean away uncomfortably or have to take a step back. (This was inspired by the Johnson Treatment. I love history)

Lilli will maliciously misname people/ciphers that she cares little for or to purposely piss them off.

@bookworm-driven-insane and @skyrim-forever do you wanna join? :)

Sujamma the Nix-Hound loves making friends! That's why he wants to learn all about your TES OCs! (Totally not because one of his parental figures is the Daedric Prince of Knowledge)

Since he's just starting out this week, Sujamma is keeping it easy: he wants to know 3-5 fun facts about your OCs! For Example:

Dove Katherine

Plays the banjo in a bluegrass band

Brews bathtub moonshine

Makes the meanest chicken dumpling soup in all of Tamriel (so she says)

Your answers can be as short or as long as you like; he's just so excited to learn! Anyone can participate, but he's tagging 3 OC's he'd love to know more about: @kiir-do-faal-rahhe's Marigold, @nyarevar's Konahrik Malaar, and @sulphuricgrin's Lilliandra!

[leupagus]

There’s a lot of discourse in fandom about Sansa, Arya, and Cersei’s attitudes toward power and traditional femininity. I’m super curious to see what you think about Sansa and Cersei in particular, especially since we didn’t get a Cersei POV in Gale of Wolves. What does Cersei think of Sansa establishing power in her own right in the North? Does she still crave power for herself? I always thought that Cersei sees her sexuality as a tool or weapon but otherwise is pretty disdainful of women in general. She’s got internalized misogyny in spades.

In Sansa’s case— do you think she still dwells on what she learned from Cersei (either what she was told directly or lessons made indirectly)? I’m thinking about the battle of the black water in the books where Sansa thinks : when I am queen, I will make them love me; in a pretty stark (pun unintended) contrast to Cersei’s rule by fear. I see Sansa choosing to utilize her traditional femininity by wielding soft power that in turn becomes hard power. In your fic, she goes to each of her bannermen, she learns about them, she shows that she cares and probably uses a lot of court/ lady of the house skills she learned. Stannis doesn’t understand it at all, but Sansa has a stronger position in the North than he does anyway.

These are such great questions — I can say that the lack of Cersei POV in A Gale of Wolves was very deliberate, because she gets her own POV chapter in the next section of the story and I wanted her to be a little more opaque at this point. Because you're right, Cersei's going to have a LOT of feelings about Sansa getting control of the North while she's still just the Dowager Queen (even though in this story she's decidedly not going to the Sept's dungeons or enduring the Walk of Shame Atonement). Right now she's so convinced that Sansa murdered Joffrey that everything else kind of simmers under that, but I do think there's a certain degree of envy that Sansa can claim the North for herself and be unchallenged in that, when even her own daughter Myrcella will have some difficulties in laying claim to Casterly Rock (which will get resolved in the next section, but it's still not straightforward because Westeros And Essos Hate Women). There's also a lot of confusion there, because Cersei doesn't have a home the way Sansa does; she grew up in the Westerlands and lived most of her adult life in King's Landing, but what she craves is power and safety, not necessarily a home. So Sansa's motivations themselves are baffling — why fight for the North, a useless great vast nothing? Who could possibly love that place?

The note you make about Cersei using her sexuality is interesting, because I think that's prevalent in the books (I'm not sure since I haven't read them), but really not at all present in the show; in fact I think you can argue that Cersei's whole canonical path in the show is a slow stripping away of her "female-ness," which she hates so much — all that talk about how she should've been the man, how no one could tell her and Jaime apart when they were little, how her appearance and dress grows progressively more masculine. Which I always thought was interesting if you see it as a reaction to trauma: so much of what is done to her is because she's a woman, because she doesn't have power in her own right, and so she reaches for whatever simulacrum she can get. It doesn't work in the end, of course; it never does. But it's a nice dream.

I do agree that Cersei's a misogynist, but...so is everyone in this world, really. Even Dany, even Arya, even Sansa — the world of Westeros is predicated on the inferiority of women, and women themselves have to swim in that water even if they're swimming against the current.

As for Sansa, I think there's a LOT of fascination/repulsion when it comes to Cersei. One of the biggest mistakes the show ever made was never letting Arya or Sansa see Cersei one last time; sure, it's realistic that you don't get closure with your nemesis/abuser, but narratively it would've been so much more satisfying than crushing her with big rocks. Because Sansa's right, in the show where she says she learned a lot from Cersei; in many ways, Cersei was far more her mentor than Littlefinger ever was.

But you're right on the money in re: how Sansa rules, which is not the way a king would rule or the way the wife of a lord would rule, or the way any of the women in power she's met have ruled. It's not feminine so much as Sansa-esque; she is feminine, for sure, but I think a lot of what she does (both in my fic and on the show) is less about gender and more about thoughtfulness. I always think about the comment she makes to Royce about lining the new plate armor with leather when the southern soldiers wouldn't have thought about it, or how she makes Jon the exact replica of their father's cloak just from memory. Sansa is very, VERY good at noticing details and remembering them for later, however irrelevant. Having someone like that in charge of your kingdom is pretty handy.

I think one of the interesting things I'm going to do with the fic is explore some of the lessons that Cersei learns from Sansa — because she'll have time in this fic to see Sansa's method of rule working, and perhaps get enough intel to find out why it does, at least in part. And I don't think Cersei is foolish enough to pass that kind of opportunity up.

[moeblob]

Deacon loves two things: Ymber and digging himself a grave.

Fulj hates one thing: Deacon.

[mrdrhenwardhykle]

This isn’t really a ship I just thought it was cute