#why is no one ever concerned about DISEASE????

[focsle]

Every day I come on the internet and the unfortunate algorithm feeds me videos of people being completely stupid about wild animals and ‘helping’ them (i.e. petting them and stressing them out further), and then I see more people saying ‘animals can match your energy they know when humans are trying to help stop being so critical of this person petting and filming some wild animal for internet clout, look how calm and peaceful the animal is’.

Humans are nothing but a potential predator, the wild animal isn’t reacting because it’s either in terror, or exhausted, or sick, you’re not a disney princess, and you’re gonna get rabies.

[girlthativealwaysbeen]

.

[ddollipop]

CURB THIS SICKNESS. . . ! — ( SOFT YANDERE!PLAGUE DOCTOR OC X READER. )

#. synopsis! — there's a virus outside that's snuffed out the lights of many. . . and lucian refuses to let you meet such a miserable fate .

#. contains! — f!reader , explicitly nsfw content , multiple orgasms , vaginal fingering , implications of paranoia , cum swallowing , oral sex , cunnilingus , blowjob , vaginal sex , obsessive behavior , frequent usage of endearment terms (love, darling, angel) , missionary position , bathing , established relationship , slight choking , slight hair pulling , creampie , biting .

#. word count! — 5.1k .

#. oc carrd! — click here to find more information on lucian + other original characters of mine that i might write for in the future! xx .

When the virus began to spread in all directions from its alleged location of origin, —you were certain you’d be dead before winter. If not from sickness, then certainly from another disease, or at the hands of some twisted maniac just searching for someone to slaughter that nobody would care enough to miss. You thought it was only a matter of time before you succumbed to hunger or thirst or the changing chill of autumn, or maybe something completely different: but something was bound to happen, and you were sure of it.

And it did. . . But it was nothing like what you had in mind.

Lucian may have seemed like something out of a horror story passed down through generations, still clad in his working attire the night he scooped you up in his arms from a shabby alleyway like a stray kitten, but he was surprisingly gentle (and perhaps unusually quiet.) He wasn’t very talkative, but he cared for you in a way you were completely unaccustomed to, —prepared you a warm meal, brewed you chamomile tea, ran you a hot bath, and gave you a place to sleep for the night. He said you were slightly fevered and a bit malnourished, but all things considered, it could have been worlds worse.

“You’re lucky,” he hummed, a gloved hand smoothing over your jaw, “the pestilence hasn’t taken hold of you.”

Even back then, that wasn’t why you felt lucky. . . No, much to the contrary, you felt lucky because this man had taken you in without expecting anything of you in return, and he sought to keep you safe from the rot of the outside world. Thus, little by little, you stopped caring much about going out there. 

His place is a bit quaint for two, but it’s homey, and it smells perpetually of lavender. Over time, he’s shifted the sleeping arrangements, and now you rest in his arms each night; about as close as one can get to being a lover without having the label.

A part of you is sure you could get it if you asked, but to you, it doesn’t matter much. At the end of each day, he comes home to you, and that’s what counts. You take care of the housework while he’s away (not that there’s ever much to do.) For as odd as he is, his living space is free of most things, —no trinkets unrelated to his work (which you are not keen on touching), and he’s meticulous about picking up after himself and keeping all his items in order, so your unofficial duties are few and far between. Otherwise, the rest boils down to cooking meals, washing clothes, and keeping yourself entertained while he’s away. . . Like some kind of glorified trophy wife.

And sure, this will probably get old eventually, but for now, this is what you’re working with. He likes to have you close and to know where you are, —to know that you’re safe and not out getting infected by anyone or anything. If you’re at his home, you’re safe from all the filth of the outside world, and heaven knows it’s so nice to come home and lie next to a body so utterly unmarred by the grime of society.

You’re sure once the virus has stilled, he’ll ease up.

But tonight is not that night. Lucian all but stumbles through the door, and you can hear his rapid breathing through the long, beak-like shape of his mask. He seems startled and frantic, and you rush over, a concerned expression crossing your features.

“Lucian? Are you alright?” You ask, reaching out to put a comforting hand on his shoulder.

In an instant, he snatches your wrist and grabs for the other, holding one in either hand. His grip is fervent, but far from painful, and you become more confused the longer he goes without explaining the state he’s found himself in.

“Lucian—”

“Darling,” he cuts you off, “you mustn’t get near the door.”

“Okay,” you nod in compliance, “but why?”

“The pestilence has taken hold of this city,” he replies. “The air out there, you wouldn’t believe the thickness of that putrid aroma. It’s suffocating.”

Before you can ask if there’s something you can do to quench his worries, he tugs you away from the entrance and into the bathroom. He removes his gloves and sets them aside, reaching down to begin running a warm bath. Then he looks to you, almost expectantly.

“Strip, please,” he encourages, —saying it like he’s desperate for the act, albeit not necessarily under the context you’d prefer of him.

“Lucian—”

“Darling,” he hisses, “please, do as I ask of you.”

His bare hands cup your cheeks.

“Please,” he repeats.

It’s hard to deny him when he asks like that and has been so good to you, and it’s not as if he’s asking for a lot. He’s just having a bad night, and if scrubbing yourself down will help ease his mind a bit, you’re willing to put in that sliver of extra effort for his sake.

Lucian sighs in relief as you begin to disrobe.

“Thank you,” he comments. “I really don’t have a clue what I’d do if you fell ill. . . I don’t think my heart could handle such a thing.”

You slip the last of your clothing off and step gingerly into the filling tub. It’s not long enough to stretch out in, so you bunch yourself up neatly to fit the space and look up at him once more.

“I feel fine,” you assure.

“I’m glad,” he replies. “Even so, it’s much better to air on the side of caution. The human body is a dangerously fickle thing, and it can be incredibly fragile. I’ve seen as much firsthand more times than I can count. In its infancy, this virus is little more than a common cold, but progresses into something fatal at a rapid pace.”

You simply nod as he kneels next to the tub, rolling his sleeves up.

“Your breathing is ragged, Lucian,” you state, “you should take that mask off and get some fresh air.”

“After,” he answers quickly.

He reaches for the half-used lavender soap bar and lathers it on his palms, then reaches out to smooth the suds over your arms and neck. His motions are a little rough and all too urgent. This is far from the first time he’s accompanied you for a bath, but it is the first time he’s ever done so and been this aggressive in his approach (if only as a result of his own anxiety.)

For the time being, he seems to avoid your breasts, instead reaching for one of your legs to hike it up out of the water. He repeats this process with the other, cleaning you until he seems satisfied. When he makes no move to revisit your chest, you take the soap from his hand and lather it yourself, placing it in its previous spot before leaning back slightly and allowing your hands to travel where you’d have liked for his to go.

Lucian watches but doesn’t touch. Your fingertips nudge at your nipples, feeling them harden under the minstrations, your bottom lip slipping between your teeth. If nothing else, he should be getting the hint by now.

Surprisingly, you’ve never had sex with him in all the months you’ve spent curled up in his arms, sleeping in his bed. He’s watched you take care of yourself on a number of occasions, has helped with his fingers another few times, —and allowed you to wrap your hand around him once a few weeks prior; but anything beyond that has seemed to be off limits. You’ve chalked it up to his shyness, or perhaps his distaste for human contact as a result of the pestilence; but tonight feels distinctly different.

Even in his previous state of frazzlement, Lucian seems all too content to sit back and watch you fondle your own breasts, soapy fingers clutching and releasing in tandem. You’ve always liked for him to watch you do things like this. Though his mask obscures the view of his face, you just know his eyes are trained on you, soaking up every movement, and you like to think he’s drooling at the way you grope yourself for his enjoyment (and for your own.)

“Lucian?” You prompt, half-lidded eyes glancing over to him.

His shoulders straighten as you say his name.

“You’re very beautiful,” he says, words almost too muffled by the mask to be made out.

“You think so?” You smirk a bit.

“I do.”

Ah, but that’s nothing new, and it’s nothing he hasn’t shared with you before. On the very night he took you in and washed your hair, he smoothed his gloved hands against your scalp and mumbled about how pretty you looked, even with dirt still caked on your skin. Even covered in filth from the alleyways you’d been sleeping in, he thought you were nothing less than stunning, —a real vision to behold, and he’s never skimped on such compliments.

You pause for a moment, reaching out to grasp for his hands. He allows the gesture, though he seems a bit confused, leaning in closer to the rim of the tub as you position him to your liking.

“Do you think I feel feverish?” You inquire, placing one of his hands on your neck and another on one of your breasts.

He makes no move to pull away, firming his grip up almost instantaneously, as if he’s been itching to feel you this way.

“Perhaps a bit warm,” he mumbles, taking a moment to roll your nipple between two nimble fingers, “but body temperature is known to rise during times of. . .” he trails off, clears his throat, then utters: “arousal.”

You trail your nails down his arm, letting your head tip back again. His hands are a bit calloused, but they feel so good against your skin, and you let a few moans slip past your lips. It’s not often he touches you like this without his gloves on, but the flesh-on-flesh contact is electrifying.

“Not to worry you, but I do feel a bit strange,” you huff slightly.

Through the slightly tinted bath water, Lucian can still watch your hand as it travels between your thighs.

“I’m just a throbbing mess,” you hum, giving him a pointed stare; “but you’ll take care of me. . . Right, Doctor?”

It may just be your imagination, but you could swear you heard his breathing shudder at that request. You’ve never been this forward with him, but something apart from the facial expression that’s still hidden away tells you that he likes where this is going. His fingers clamp down on the column of your throat, squeezing just enough to make taking in air a bit more of a struggle, but not anywhere near hard enough to be fatal.

The bit about being a throbbing mess was by no means an exaggeration on your part, so you take matters into your own fingers for the time being, drawing circles on your clit beneath the water.

“Of course,” he finally finds the voice to agree, “—I’d do anything to keep you from feeling unwell.”

That is what you like to hear.

“Anything?”

“Anything.” 

His grip tightens on your throat again, for emphasis, and with that, he seems to come slightly undone.

“Darling, that’s why I’ve demanded you stay here in my home, —our home. It’s safe here, free of contaminants and filth and anything that could cause you harm,” he says, the words spilling out like he’s been holding them back since he first set his sights on you.

“The world outside is ill, not just this rotten city. I’m working tirelessly to combat this pestilence, but as things stand now, the safest place you can be is here. With me. You understand that, my love. . . Don’t you?”

You’re only half listening, but you nod in agreement anyway. Whatever he’s saying, you trust his opinion on the matter.

“Of course,” you gasp, almost slipping a finger inside yourself to the tune of his melodic voice.

“I knew you would,” he continues, loosening the grip on your neck again. “You know I only want what’s best for you, that everything I do is to ensure your safety, —to eliminate the possibility of you ever falling sick.”

“Of course,” you repeat, head growing cloudier by the minute. “You’ve always taken such good care of me, right from the very beginning.”

God, he’s so elated that you’re seeing things his way. The way this makes him feel is almost too much to handle.

“I try so hard, darling, I truly do,” he says, both hands coming up to cup your cheeks.

“Please, Lucian,” you mumble desperately, “I need you tonight.”

He complies, shedding his long coat and draping it over your shoulders once you’ve stepped out of the tub. The chill of the air against your wet skin leaves your nipples hard and sensitive, and as he leads you to the bedroom, you hope he realizes just what it is you’re asking for. His fingers are a plentiful start, and you just know they’ll feel so good stuffed inside you, curling to hit all the right places, —but they’re nothing compared to the cock he’s stingily hidden away for all this time.

Tonight, you want him in all his glory in the glow of the lanterns on the walls. You want to strip him bare and gag on the length between his thighs, feel him twitch against the roof of your mouth, tease every vein that runs up his shaft. It’s not enough to grind against him while you’re half asleep or hump his clothed thigh until you’ve left his pants damp and your pussy sopping, just begging to be fucked by this man who might just love you more than he could ever fear any virus that lurks outside these walls.

“Don’t fret,” he tells you, though it sounds more like a command than a gesture to soothe any worries, “just lie back. I’ll be sure to give you. . . A proper examination.”

You could cum just hearing that.

With half your body pressed against the headboard and his coat nearly slipping off your body completely, he sets to work in his underclothes and mask. It’s by no means an uncommon sight, but there’s something distinct about him this late evening; the way his black attire contrasts so beautifully with the stark paleness of his skin and the mystery it shrouds him in that you’re just dying to sink your teeth into. Everything hidden beneath that cautious wardrobe and that long mask. . . You’ve gotta have it. It’s a necessity.

His fingers, ungloved, begin softly with your calves, tracing senseless lines.

“I’m not so fragile,” you remind him.

For as oblivious as he can be, Lucian takes the hint, and by the time he’s reached your thighs, he’s content to give them the same treatment as your throat.

The way he splits you apart is almost painfully clinical, a thumb on either side of your lips, peering through the eye holes of his mask to admire the way your folds glisten in the orange lantern light. A few prodding strokes leave you biting your lip again, body waning in anticipation for the moment he finally turns his hand over and sinks the longest of his fingers inside you, —slowly, but deliberately. It’s impossible to see his expression, but you hope his mouth hangs open a little at the way your cunt suckles on his finger, encouraging him to prod more and maybe stuff another few inside for you to grind against.

There’s something about the warmth of his fingers that gets you off almost in equal amounts to the way he moves. Another finger inside, and you whine, halfway to an orgasm from this alone.

He’s not particulary rough in his execution, but there’s a clean meticulousness in every movement that leaves every cell in your body craving more, begging for anything he can offer. Months upon months of wanting, of dropping hints, of hoping he’d catch on and finally see things your way, —and at last, you’ve made it. And now that you’re here, you’re content to simply lie still and let him have his way with you.

“Please don’t stop,” you beg, nearly choking on the words when the tips of his fingers brush just the right spot.

“Before you’re satisfied?” He sits forward a bit, resting his free hand on your stomach to press you down onto the bed. “Darling, I couldn’t fathom it.”

You will your upper body forward, grabbing for the hand on your stomach to move it up to your throat. He squeezes, scissoring the fingers inside you, watching closely as your body shakes and your eyes roll back a bit in ecstasy.

“I’ve tried,” he says to you suddenly. “I’ve tried so desperately to be gentle with you.”

You smile.

“I appreciate that,” you answer. “But I don’t want you to be gentle at the moment.”

“That’s a dangerous request, my love,” he warns.

God, you hope so.

You reach forward and grab at the beak of his mask, pulling it upward gently until it begins to slip off and reveal the handsome face underneath. Dark hair, dark eyes, but skin almost pale enough to be sickly, you meet his gaze just long enough to ask for permission, then lean in to kiss him on the mouth. It’s the first time, and it’s electric. He’s avoided this for months, —avoided your mouth, your unspoken pleas, all the passes you made for the sake of keeping himself at bay. But here you are now with two of his fingers stuffed inside you, his hand on your throat, and your lips slotted against his own.

“Please,” you murmur, fingers clutching at the fabric of his shirt.

And you can feel the restraints of his mind come unwound.

He’s no longer gentle in the way he fucks you silly with his fingers, hammering them over and over and over again into that delicious spot buried deep inside you, squeezing your throat hard enough to cut your breathing off. The way your pussy spasms as you cum is blissful, and he loves the way your arousal soaks his digits, loves the way your back arches, soundless moans spilling forth as he makes you orgasm.

“I fucking tried,” he says again.

It’s almost manic, so desperate and sort of pathetic in the kind of way that turns you on. This is the first time you’ve ever heard him curse, and it dawns on you that even the filthiest of words sound so unendingly elegant when they’re spoken by Lucian.

“I tried to be gentle. I tried to keep you safe here, —to shelter you from whatever forsaken wasteland remains out there,” he insists, his fingers still buried in your twitching cunt. “I just wanted to protect you.”

He lightens the grip on your throat as you lean in to kiss him again, cupping his face in your hands.

“You have,” you assure him.

“You take such good care of me, Lucian,” you mumble into his ear. “Let me show you how grateful I am.”

The fingers stuffed inside you slowly slip out, and reach for his hand, guiding them to your lips, taking his digits into your mouth to taste yourself on them. He watches with hunger and interest as you clean him with your tongue. He leans in to kiss you to get a taste of it himself, grasping your hair near the scalp and taking a fistful hard enough to make you gasp.

“I can’t let you leave,” he murmurs. “It’s not safe out there. When this pestilence has been subdued, I’ll do this all correctly. We can start from the beginning, and I’ll be a gentleman.”

“I look forward to it,” you answer softly.

“You’ll stay until then?” He inquires.

He’s clearly overreacting, but it’s hard to care when you just want him inside you. Lucian has seen death day in and day out, —so it’s no wonder it feels like it permeates everything around him. He just doesn’t want you to suffer such a fate, and you’re confident that you won’t, as long as he’s yours.

“Of course I will,” you answer.

It’s like something primal takes over. Suddenly his lips are on yours in a bruising kiss, and his hands are grasping roughly at your breasts, pushing you down onto the bed as he crawls between your legs. He pauses, hovering just above your dripping cunt, turning his head to sink his teeth into the meat of your thigh. It makes you squeal a bit, and he kisses the teethmarks he left behind as if in apology.

You can’t help but wonder how long he’s been yearning for this. It’s like every part of him is thrumming from the thrill of it all, and this man who has previously refused to even kiss you on the mouth is now stationed exactly where you want him, tongue lolling out to lick a solid stripe up your folds. He laps like a man starved, then spreads you apart with his thumbs to suck your clit mercilessly.

It’s good enough to make your vision go blurry, and you can’t seem to form proper words through the haze. Desperately, your fingers claw at the sheets of this mattress, and he moans against your hot cunt, sending a vibration rippling through your core that makes your back arch on instinct. You mumble something that comes out like gibberish, pussy convulsing against the flat of his tongue.

His arm comes round to press your hips down, forcing you to be still. It’s the kind of toruture you’re sure you’ll learn to live for. There’s only so much you can wriggle under his arm, which has a surprising amount of force despite his rather lanky stature.

From what little friction you manage as you attempt to grind against his tongue, you tip yourself over the edge and as the knot in your stomach unties for the second time tonight, he continues licking, lapping at the juices that spill forth.

He stands and reaches for the top button of his shirt, not bothering to wipe his face, chin and lips glistening with your aftermath. You watch him undress with lustful eyes, propping yourself up on your elbow, then slinking back against the headboard once again, resting your weary body against it. The quiver of your thighs doesn’t stop you from nudging at your swollen clit.

“I wanted to be a gentleman,” he comments, untucking the shirt from his pants and pulling the front open.

It’s not skin you haven’t seen before. In fact, you’ve seen every inch of him at one point or another; just never all at once, and now, you’re waiting with bated breath to see him completely exposed for your eyes only.

“I truly did. I wanted to give you comfort and security, —to love you as you deserve. And I knew from the moment I saw you that only I could give you exactly what you’ve always needed.”

You hum in acknowledgement as he continues to strip himself bare.

“But it’s so clear to me now that I’ve neglected you,” he continues. “This beautifully desperate display is all a result of my negligence. . . I failed to realize just how much you needed me like this. How much you needed the touch of a man. . .”

He sounds apologetic, but your eyes are fixated on his half-hard cock. The last time you saw it, he asked that you keep your mouth away; insisting it wasn’t sanitary to use it for such purposes, terrified that you might contract some sort of illness if you sucked his dick for the sheer enjoyment of doing so. This time, however, you have a feeling you’re well past that.

To test the waters, you let your hand fall away from your cunt, slipping off the side of the bed to kneel before him. He gazes down at you as you open your lips and let your tongue fall out, encouraging him to make what he will of it.

“My love,” he says, placing four fingers under your chin to rest his thumb against your tongue for a moment, “—I’ll make everything up to you. . .”

His free hand pumps his cock once, twice, thrice, —then he places it gently on the flat of your tongue, letting you feel the weight and the warmth of it. He sighs.

“Darling,” he groans, “ah. . .”

It takes very little for him to come close to cumming in your mouth, just a few minutes of sucking him off, listening to him moan, feeling him quiver at your touch. You hum with his member stuffed down your throat, and he cants his hips reflexively, an orgasm bubbling up beneath his skin.

Your non-dominant hand holds his cock steady while the other is stuck between your thighs, rubbing furiously at your clit, making you whimper along his shaft. When he notices, Lucian finds that wholly unacceptable and snatches you up to position you on the edge of the bed, relieving the pressure on your aching knees. You weren’t down there for long, but kneeling was hardly comfortable on the hard floor.

He spreads your thighs apart and smacks the pads of his fingers against your slit.

Whatever he’s doing, you’re sure you’ll enjoy it to the fullest, so you occupy yourself with his cock again from this new angle, bending awkwardly to mouth at the reddened tip. His fingers find their way inside you once more, working their delicate magic, brushing against all the right places. At this point, you’re more desperate for his dick to slip inside you like this, but you take what he offers in stride (and more of him into your mouth in the process.)

He’s vocal, and that’s utterly divine. His gravely moans and the pump of his fingers leave you cumming for a third time before his first orgasm arises, depositing a sizable amount of his seed into your mouth.

“I love you,” he huffs, —and if he were anyone else, you’d be certain it was just the oral sex talking, but no. . . Lucian wouldn’t have said it if he didn’t mean it.

Of course, he’s made similar confessions over the months, and has certainly treated you like it long before he ever expressed it so directly, but still. . . It feels nice to hear it, if nothing else.

“I love you too,” you answer honestly, urging him closer with your arms wrapped around his neck. “I’m yours tonight, completely. . . If you’ll have me. . .”

“Oh, darling, don’t be foolish,” he remarks, kissing you deeply. “You’ve been mine since the moment we met.”

Your back to the cool sheets, he lingers over you now, his shadow looming over you so monstrously. There’s a stark flush of red on his face that has begun to spread down the length of his neck, and one of his hands finds its way to your breasts as the other smoothes across your thigh. The head of his cock kisses your sopping entrance, sending a series of chills from the top of your spine to the bottom.

His breath on your neck makes your chest tighten, and he finds your lips with his own again as he sinks inside you, filling you up.

“Lucian,” you whimper, helpless to his touch as he pauses, buried down to the hilt inside your cunt.

He presses a few gentle kisses to your throat, murmuring something about how nice it feels to be stuffed inside you. He feels your nails dig into his shoulders as you adjust to his intrusion.

“You must understand by now,” he says, mumbling the words right next to your bitten earlobe. “Everything I do is for you.”

“I do,” you gasp slightly. 

As he begins to move, your walls clench around him, and he exhales deeply against the junction of your neck and shoulder. You roll your hips to match his pace, but as he goes faster, that becomes fruitless. Eventually, you resign yourself to the fate of lying there against the pillows, speared on his cock, him making a mess of you as you moan uncontrollably.

This was everything you’d been hoping for and then some, like some erotic dream come to life. Lucian’s lips travel where they please, —stopping to peck at your jaw, then to suck on your throat. Your breathing is haggard, and he smooths a hand down your side, resting it against your hip for a moment.

“Just a little more,” he whispers, as if to be reassuring.

“Just look how stunning you are, angel,” he murmurs, “how pretty you look like this.”

He kisses you once more.

“You take this so well, like your body was made for me.”

You’re delirious enough to believe that might be the case.

His cock pounds a little harder, and he hits the perfect spot, tearing a desperate yelp from your throat. You’re overstimulated and weak, but your high is itching just under your skin, and you couldn’t bear to see it disappear.

“Please,” you whimper to him, completely at his mercy, “—please, I’m so close.”

He loves the desperation that clings to your voice. The hand on your hip travels to your clit, pressing roughly against the abused little button, making you jerk slightly. He rubs a few heavy circles against it, and you come undone, cunt spasming around his cock as he chases his own release inside you.

Lucian is sloppy near the end, which may just be the only time you’ve ever known him to not be perfectly calculated and precise. His breath hits your neck again, over and over as he huffs through the hunt, finally sinking his teeth in when he comes to a finish. His cum sits hot inside your cunt, and he catches his breath for a moment, head resting against your throat.

“I apologize,” he utters. “I hope that wasn’t too much for you.”

You exhale slowly, his cock still buried in your heat.

“Don’t apologize,” you murmur, “I enjoyed myself.”

You feel him smile against your neck.

“I’m glad, darling.”

For the first time, he sleeps next to you without clothing, letting you touch every part of him, tangling your limbs together. Your face buried in the crook of his neck, breath fanning softly against him, as close to sleep as you can manage without tumbling over the precipice, Lucian reaches for his long coat and drapes it over your body, holding you closer.

[osarina]

ᡣ𐭩 BIRDS OF A FEATHER (WE SHOULD STICK TOGETHER)

FEATURING: dazai osamu

SUMMARY: you're called back to yokohama when the president of the agency and the boss of the port mafia are infected by the same ability. you know that the situation is complicated, but you don't realize just how bad it is for you until you're sitting face-to-face with dazai on the opposing side for the first time.

wordcount: 8.7k; sfw; fem!reader, pm!reader, mentions of mafia business (pmreader doing pm business!!), light angst with happy ending,

AUTHOR'S NOTES: happy friday :') i hope u guys enjoy

You should have known better than to think your trip back to Europe would be uneventful. You’d hardly been away for a month, working with Tolstoy and the Three Deaths to figure out what exactly Fyodor Dostoevsky might be planning in Yokohama. The man is frustratingly good at covering his tracks, even Tolstoy’s best have been having trouble picking up his trail. You’d begun to make some progress in Rome when you got the 119 text from Chuuya, forcing you to drop what you were doing to get on the jet back to Japan.

“Are you on the way back yet?”

The urgency in Chuuya’s voice on the call only serves to stress you out more. Your eyes slide shut as you lean against your chair, ignoring your subordinate’s curious eyes as you reply with a short: “Yes, Chuuya. You sent a 119. Of course, I am on the way back, are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

“You’re not going to like it,” Chuuya says tightly. “I was going to wait until you got here.”

“Obviously, I am not going to like it,” you reply. “I cannot imagine why I would ever like a 119.”

“You’re really not going to like it,” Chuuya stresses and you can’t help but sigh, bracing yourself for whatever he’s about to say. “The Boss is dying.”

“What?”

You’re on your feet in an instant, eyes wide and phone pressed to your ear as your heart comes to a painful stop in your chest. Klaus straightens where he’s sitting, the curious expression quickly shifting into concern and confusion. You know the kid is itching to ask what’s going on, but you can hardly think straight with the sudden news. Fear begins to claw at your chest—a dangerous, dangerous emotion that threatens to shut down your mind. You know you have to get it under control before it can but your tongue feels swollen and heavy and your mind has become a jumble of thoughts that you can’t decipher.

That can’t be possible. It can’t. Mori dying? The thought itself is so ludicrous that it almost makes you laugh but you know Chuuya would never joke about this. 

“He and the President of the Agency were attacked by an ability user that can infect people with diseases. One has to die or both will. Unless we kill the President in the next thirty-six hours, the Boss will die.”

“Pushkin,” you spit out angrily. “That nasty roach. I’ve met him before. You called me right when it happened?”

“Yep,” Chuuya says, anxiety thinly veiled in his tone. “We just launched an assault on the Agency-”

“Dumbass,” you seethe, cutting him off. “I can’t stand you sometimes. Now we’ll have to track them down. I’ll be there in less than an hour, don’t do anything else stupid.”

You hang up the phone without another word.

“What’s going on?” Klaus calls after you curiously, but you’re already making your way to the front of the plane, pushing the cockpit door open to get the attention of the pilot.

“Fly faster.”

Dazai sighs as he rests against the pillows of the hospital bed, trying to figure out how exactly he’s going to convince the nurses to let him have his phone. His gaze drifts from his bedsheets to the window, following a bird soar past the glass into the sky as his mind races to piece together Fyodor’s plans.

By now, Fukuzawa should be safe within Lucy Montogomery’s interdimensional space; it’s only a matter of whether or not Tanizaki will be able to pull off the assassination on Mori. Dazai thinks the chances are slim—even if he does manage to get past the Black Lizards, Kouyou will be guarding Mori personally and Golden Demon will be able to sense Tanizaki through the illusion. He’ll be okay though, Dazai has Kyouka on standby as the one that’s going to extract him from the base and Kouyou will hesitate at the sight of her. He just needs to figure out a new approach. One that will be more successful.

What to do next?

For the first time in years, Dazai well and truly struggles to formulate a plan. He’s always struggled with the concept of failure and it haunts him now like an oppressive shadow hanging over his shoulders, knowing that the one man who had brought him in without hesitation, accepted him into the light with open arms despite his gruesome past, will be facing the consequences of his incapability this time.

Shit.

Despite the copious amount of pain relievers he’s on, Dazai can feel a headache coming on from the stress of this situation and Fyodor Dostoevsky. He’s never had an opponent like this before—one who can match him move for move on the chessboard, see through all of his plans, and it scares Dazai because he knows this is only the beginning and if he’s struggling now…

Dazai is drawn out of his thoughts as the door to his hospital room opens—he lifts his head, preparing round two of trying to convince the nurse to give him his phone, only to freeze when he’s met with an achingly familiar sight.

Your lips are curved up into a coy smile, his phone dangles tauntingly between your fingers. You look beautiful—always do—and Dazai’s chest flutters at the sight of you, drinking in your pretty face and basking in the warmth he only ever feels in your presence. For a second, all of Dazai’s fears are washed away because there’s nothing that he can’t handle with you at his side. 

For a second, because then Dazai remembers that you’re not at his side anymore.

You’re the enemy.

“Long time, no see,” you drawl, making your way forward to take a seat on the edge of his hospital bed. “You look like shit.”

Dazai sighs heavily, the smile on his lips becoming a bit more tired as he reaches out for your hand, fingers brushing over your palm before he laces them with yours. “My sweet hime, you’re always a sight for sore eyes, but I can’t help but feel dismayed by you being back in Yokohama now.”

You being back in Yokohama makes things even more difficult for the situation at hand. Chuuya and Kouyou, Dazai could’ve outsmarted them—it would’ve been difficult with how well Chuuya knows Dazai and all of his schemes, but it would’ve been doable, if only because the man is easy enough to antagonize. But you? You won’t fall for any of Dazai’s tricks and you’ll make sure Chuuya doesn’t either. 

Things just got much more complicated—he really didn’t expect them to be so quick to call you back. You and Dostoevsky at the same time, two opponents who can match him more for move when he was at the top of his game, which he’s not at with his head all fogged up with painkillers… it didn’t bode well for him or the people relying on him.

His throat tightens when you lift his hand to brush your lips against his knuckles, having to close his eyes to hide the way they mist over because of the casual intimacy that he’s only shown by you. Your fingers tighten around his as you drop your joined hands back into your lap, an unreadable expression on your face as you look at him.

“I’m so mad at you.” You smile at him but Dazai can see the way you swallow thickly, desperately trying to contain your emotions. “To walk into such an obvious trap set by Dostoevsky… To think you would try to leave me behind again so soon after our reunion. Are you so eager to rid yourself of me?”

“Never,” Dazai says hoarsely. “I knew he wouldn’t-”

“You don’t know anything about Fyodor Dostoevsky, Dazai.” You interrupt him, grip on his hand almost becoming painful as you glare at him. “I don’t know anything about him and I spent many months with him. How could you be so reckless?” 

Dazai was not aware that you spent many months with Fyodor Dostoevsky but that’s a conversation for another time. He feels distinctly scolded as he looks away from you petulantly. “I had to-”

You reach forward with your free hand to grab his chin, forcing him to look at you, and all of the fight leaves Dazai’s body as soon as you touch his face. His lashes flutter as he instinctively leans into your touch and his throat bobs when your grip on his chin shifts into you cupping his cheek, fingers carding through the edges of his dark hair. He lets his eyes slide back open after letting himself enjoy your touch for a few moments.

“You have to be more careful,” you say quietly. 

Dazai has become so entirely unused to people showing him such blatant concern that he almost can’t hide the way his eyes become wet. Of course, the members of the Agency care for him, he knows that in his heart even if it’s hard for him to come to terms with, but they do it so in a more subtle manner. They casually check in on him on his bad days, bring him food and try to get him out of his dorm when he can hardly drag himself out of bed, they know he doesn’t like it when they point out when he’s doing bad, so they’re more cunning with how they show their concern… but the way you look at him… the way you touch him… 

Back in the Mafia, on his bad days even before the two of you had acknowledged how you felt for one another, you’d always sit with him and made sure he was eating. Always made sure he knew he wasn’t alone even when he did his damned best to push you away. After the two of you had acknowledged your feelings for one another, you’d let him curl in your bed and surround himself with your blankets and clothes. You’d never push him, would always be there when he needed it—he’d taken it for granted back then, because his bad days after he left the Mafia… after he left you… Dazai almost couldn’t force himself through them.

But it’s different now after going four years without it; it feels… more intense. He thinks maybe it's because he’s still convinced that you’re going to change your mind and spurn him, toss him aside the same way he did to you four years ago.

He doesn’t deserve this, he thinks, not for the first time since he’s reunited with you, and he wants to know why. Doesn’t know why you let him come back to you when he decidedly doesn’t deserve it. If this is just some big cruel joke you’re playing on him. He doesn’t understand any of this. He feels like he’s eighteen again, so scared of a relationship with you that he’d rather avoid you at any given chance. 

After what feels like an eternity, your hand drops from his face and you lean back on the bed, concerned expression disappearing as you level a steady look onto him.

“Now, to talk business.” You smile and Dazai feels cold without your touch, pouting when his hand falls limp against the hospital bed. “What is it now? Thirty hours before the virus takes hold and they both die?”

“Ha!” Dazai barks out a laugh that makes him wince. “I know better than to sit on the opposite side of the negotiation table with you. Nice try.”

You give him a simpering smile. “Come, Dazai, my ability doesn’t work on you. We’re on even ground.”

“You don’t need your ability to win a negotiation,” he scoffs, but there’s a smile on his lips. “Anyway, I can’t negotiate on behalf of the Agency. You’ll have to find Kunikida-kun for that.”

“There is no winning negotiations, only-”

“Only a coming to terms, blah blah blah,” Dazai finishes for you, rolling his eyes. “I’m not negotiating with you.”

“I fear that you are going to be negotiating with me, Dazai.” You give him a sweet smile that instantly puts him on edge, folding your hands over your lap as you cross one leg over the other. “My subordinate is currently in the apartment of Haruno Kirako with her and Tanizaki Naomi. He’s waiting on orders for me to either leave or kill them. Said orders will be dependent on whether or not we’re able to come to an understanding.”

Dazai’s heart drops to his stomach, taking in a sharp breath and glancing down to his phone where it’s resting on your lap, wondering if he could snatch it and get out a SOS to the other members of the Agency before you can take it away. Your smile becomes more mocking as you toss it across the room to the couch on the opposite wall, keeping it far out of reach. 

“God, you’re still a cold-hearted bitch,” Dazai breathes out, tilting his head back against the wall with a heavy breath. “This isn’t a negotiation, this is a ransom.”

You wave your hand dismissively. “Close enough.”

Dazai gapes. “Close enough?”

“Close enough,” you affirm.

“What do you want?” Dazai finally asks, lips a bit twisted as he waits for your response. His fingers thrum against his thigh, mind racing as he tries to figure out what you could possibly want. Well, he knows what you want—you’ll want Fukuzawa dead to ensure Mori lives but Dazai can’t let that happen.

“Kunikida Doppo—you say he’s the acting President while Fukuzawa-dono is incapacitated?” you ask him absently, tilting your head to the side. He nods and you hum. “Set up a meeting between him and I.”

Dazai’s eyes narrow. “I’ll set up a meeting if you get your dog away from our office workers,” he counters, knowing that it’s not going to be that easy with you but he may as well try.

“You’re in no position to be making demands, Dazai,” you remind. “Why should I?”

“I’m not setting up a meeting between the two of you if you’re going to go into it with leverage over him already,” Dazai says firmly. “If you’re so set on trying to solve this through negotiation, you’ll have to give up the upper hand and meet them on even grounds.”

You stare at him for a moment, eyes too sharp and calculating for his liking. Dazai thinks that it’s entirely unfair that he has to deal with you when he’s still doped up on painkillers, but he doubts you care.

“Fine,” you finally agree, pulling out your phone and shooting a text to someone. You frown down at it for a moment before looking back up at him. “It’s done. Set up the meeting.”

Dazai has half a mind to say no. He knows that sending Kunikida to the negotiation table with you is going to be a mistake—you’re too sharp and too convincing—he isn’t sure if Kunikida’s ideals will be able to hold strong over your silver tongue. You can clearly tell that he’s considering reneging on his promise from how your eyes narrow.

You rise to your feet without another word, giving him a cool look. “I’ll be waiting for you at the teahouse in Nishi-ku that we-that the Port Mafia owns. If you haven’t arrived by the twenty-six hour mark...”

Dazai sighs your name, long and drawn out, his eyes feel heavy as he looks up at you. You pause, gaze softening for a moment as you reach out and grab his hand, squeezing it gently.

“When this is all done and over with, come by my place,” you say quietly. “I’ll have to head back to Europe soon after. I talked to the nurses, they won’t bother you when you try to leave.”

“Yeah,” Dazai says, voice a bit more hoarse than he intended for it to be. “Yeah, I’ll come over.”

You don’t say anything else, casting one last lingering look over where he’s laying on the hospital bed before turning and walking out the way you came. Dazai sighs again, slumping back against his pillows as he stares up at the ceiling, somehow feeling even worse than he did before you showed up.

Your car pulls up to the teahouse thirty seconds past the twenty-six hour mark.

“You ready?” Tachihara Michizou looks over the front seat back to where you’re sitting. Akutagawa Gin sits in the passenger seat, gray eyes curious as she looks back at you. “We could always y’know… just go in there and…”

He lifts his hand to make a finger gun, ‘pulling the trigger’ several times before giving you a pointed look. Gin rolls her eyes and raises her eyebrows, waiting for your response. You hadn’t even wanted to bring people with you, but Chuuya insisted on it—he wanted to come himself, but you felt more comfortable with him staying back at headquarters as extra protection for Mori.

“Yes, I’m ready,” you say dryly, not even bothering to acknowledge the second part of what he said.

You have yet to even see Mori despite Kouyou’s insistence that you go to him. You don’t want to see him—you heard enough from Chuuya to know that his condition is bad and you have no interest in seeing him while he’s in such a sorry state. The thought makes your heart twist uncomfortably and you can’t afford to be emotional right now. 

You’ve spent the past four hours trying to plan out what you’ll do if you can’t come to terms with Kunikida and the Armed Detective Agency. The best course of action would have been to have Akutagawa, Klaus and the rest of the Black Lizards positioned around the building for a quick execution once the negotiations fall through but…

But you didn’t do that.

Your eyes flicker over to where Dazai is waiting for you outside of the teahouse; he’s leaning against the wall tapping away at his phone. He’s dressed in that same ugly outfit he wore the last time you were back in Yokohama—the long tan jacket and the bolo tie over his shirt. He probably shouldn’t be up and about already, you can tell he’s still hurt from the way he’s leaning on one side more than the other, but a distinct fondness bubbles in your chest at the sight of him.

Instantly, you push it away, throat tightening because you know you can’t be letting your emotions get the best of you. You can’t go easy on the Armed Detective Agency just because Dazai is with them now; you need to do what’s best for the Mafia.

But you don’t like this. You don’t like that Dazai is the enemy now. You spent years working alongside him, friends with him (more than friends), living with him. You’d known that things would be different between the two of you after you spent that night with him in your apartment a few weeks ago… you just didn’t think you’d be forced to confront it so soon. 

Tachihara steps out of the car first and you watch as Dazai lifts his head, squinting at the sight of the boy. Tachihara makes his way to your door and opens it for you, keeping one hand ready on the grip of his gun as you step out of the car. Dazai’s expression shifts as soon as you’re in his line of view, softening just enough for it to be noticeable to you. Tachihara and Gin trail a few steps behind you as you make your way over to him, he doesn’t speak up until you’re a few steps away. 

“You’re late,” Dazai sings and you can tell that even though his lips curl up into a small smile at the sight of you, he’s not happy to see you. Not because of you, but because of what your presence means. He holds out his hand to you—Tachihara and Gin are instantly stepping forward between the two of you, which Dazai evidently does not like considering the way his expression instantly darkens, only lightening a bit when you wave them off. You purse your lips as you stare at his hand for a moment. “I can’t let you go in there with your ability active.”

“I don’t need my ability against your people,” you say coolly but you place your hand in his anyway. 

It’s not the first time you and Dazai have held hands but it certainly feels like it—the calluses on his hand from firearm use are gone so his skin is softer now and it feels almost�� unfamiliar.

Dazai has never felt unfamiliar before.

Dazai laces his fingers with yours, holding your hand tightly. Your hands don’t fit right together anymore—it feels awkward—and you wonder if it’s just in your imagination or if he feels it too. He squeezes your hand a bit harder as if trying to force them to fit together, so you think he might and that makes your heart sink a little. 

He looks down at you and you think he’s going to say something, but instead his lips only tighten and his brows furrow as he looks away. You bite back a sigh, wanting to say something yourself but not even sure what would be suitable for this situation.

“Dazai,” you say quietly before the two of you head into the teahouse and there’s an unreadable expression on his face as he waits for you to say something else, but you remember that Tachihara and Gin are not a foot behind you, so you just shake your head. “Nevermind. Let’s get this over with.”

Dazai looks disappointed but not surprised. He doesn’t say anything else as he pushes open the door to the teahouse. The air is brisk and familiar, and with Dazai at your side, you can almost imagine that Chuuya is on your other, that the two of them are escorting you to a negotiation meeting with one of the big Yakuza syndicates the Port Mafia has been at odds with. 

But instead of an oyabun and his advisor sitting at the table in the private room at the back of the teahouse, it’s two members of the Armed Detective Agency. And instead of Dazai taking a seat next to you, he sits at the head of the table as the pseudo-host of the meeting, the one who set it up and knows both sides… but he makes his preferences clear in the way he looks at his fellow detectives, waiting for them to give the first words of the negotiation, a tactical advantage. 

Even with Tachihara and Gin lingering right behind you, you feel alone. 

You almost wish you’d agreed to let Chuuya come with you—he’s familiar, the one person in this world you’ve been able to rely on without having to fear the rug being pulled out from under you. You always feel more confident when he’s at your side, but you needed him to stay with Mori, to hold down the headquarters just on the off-chance the Agency pulled something while you were busy with negotiations. 

So instead, you brave this as you are, squaring your shoulders and raising your chin. You’re not worried about this meeting, you know one way or another, you’ll come out on top against the Agency, but you find yourself more unsettled than you thought you would be due to the lack of familiarity between you and Dazai… and far more disconcerted at the realization that Dazai is an enemy now. 

Since he’s the host, you should be respecting Dazai’s decision of giving the detectives the first words of the negotiation, but you find yourself smiling lightly and tilting your head to the side before speaking. Petty, maybe, and disrespectful, surely, but you can’t bring yourself to care.

“You must be Kunikida-san, I want to say that it’s nice to finally meet you but…” you say lightly. You squint and then add, “I can’t help but feel that you’re familiar somehow. Have we met before?”

Dazai gives you a sharp look when you speak up—deserved, but you still give him an equally sharp look back. He can’t expect you to go easy on the detectives just because he’s standing with them now, but it… makes you feel weird. You think again how much you don’t like this; you don’t like being on the opposite side of Dazai, and you especially don’t like the fact that there is a creeping fear that this might create a rift between the two of you.

What did he think would happen? You want to spit at him. He chose to leave the Port Mafia. Chose to leave you. Chose to join up with the enemy. This is on him, he’s the one who changed, you haven’t. He knew what he was getting into by bringing his new friends to the negotiation table with you, he’s been on the right side of it with you countless times before, so he knows what you’re like at the table. 

Shit. 

“You’re that girl,” Kunikida suddenly realizes, squinting. “You came by Granny’s apartment during that gang conflict six years ago. You… you were with the Port Mafia back then? The father you were trying to get to-”

“Yes, that was me,” you agree, remembering just where you’d seen him before, eyes gliding over the blonde man curiously. He’s a far cry from the scrawny teenager you’d met a few years ago, nervous and bumbling to write down everything his grandmother says. “How is she?”

Kunikida’s lips twist. “She passed away two years ago. A stroke.”

“Sorry to hear that,” you say genuinely, frowning, before letting your gaze drift over to the last person in the room. The smile on your lips becomes a bit cooler. “Akiko-chan, it’s been a while. I don’t think I’ve seen you since you left Tokoyami.”

There’s an indecipherable expression on Yosano’s face as she stares at you, and you can’t help the way your lips twist in irritation. You knew there was a chance that she would show up with Kunikida, but you’d been hoping that she wouldn’t. You can’t let it rattle you, but no one gets under your skin like she does—you think that’s probably why she showed, to throw you off your game and make things easier on her coworker.

She’ll find herself sorely mistaken.

The way she says your name grates your nerves—it’s solemn, almost, a hint of remorse that makes your skin crawl. She looks like she wants to say something more than what she actually does, but she settles with, “You look good, better than the last time I saw you. It’s good seeing you again.”

She sounds genuine—that only pisses you off more. 

So your smile tightens as you say, “I look better? The last time I saw you, you were having a mental breakdown and nearly blew all of us up on the Ritter.”

Yosano physically cringes as she averts her gaze, and you turn your attention back to Kunikida and say, “Let’s get down to business, yeah?”

Kunikida sighs. He doesn’t look confident which is a mistake on his part, Dazai can tell too from the way his lips tightens just a bit. You give Dazai a look from the corner of your eye.

You should have prepped your people better.

Dazai gives you a sharp look right back, his fingers tighten around your hand. You ignore it. You hope you don’t look as bothered as it makes you feel, now’s not the time to show any weakness, especially to someone like Dazai. Especially when he’s not an ally. 

Shit, you think again, this time a bit more distressed. You swallow your discomfort and think again: what did he expect from this? It’s only a shallow consolation this time. You push on when Kunikida starts talking.

“I don’t see how we have anything to talk about,” Kunikida says, clearing his throat. “There’s nothing you can say that can bring us to an agreement under these circumstances.”

Alright, business time. This you can do. 

You just have to ignore the weight of Dazai’s hand on your own. 

“You are looking at this situation from the perspective of an employee who cares for Fukuzawa-dono,” you say, leaning back in your seat and folding your hands over the table. Dazai’s hand drops to the table and he shifts to hold your wrist, giving you a side-eye as if warning you not to slip from his grasp. You ignore it. “I empathize with your predicament. I do. But we can’t let our emotions rule us when the fate of the entire city is dependent on how this conflict is resolved.”

Kunikida is stiff on the opposite side of the table as soon as you start speaking, clearly uncomfortable with this whole meeting. Yosano holds her chin high as she stares down at you and you only raise your eyebrows at her before turning your attention back to the blonde.

“You have been named the interim director of the Armed Detective Agency, and from what I’ve heard, Fukuzawa-dono intends to name you President once he inevitably retires,” you say, tilting your head to the side as you observe Kunikida. “I’ve met the man often enough to know that he wouldn’t allow a man who’s rash and emotional to lead his organization. Neither you nor I want this to escalate to open conflict. There will be too many casualties on both sides.”

“Hm,” Kunikida says, pushing back his glasses as he considers his words. “And yet, we have a way around casualties on our end, thanks to one of our own—Yosano-sensei. The Port Mafia does not have any such means.”

Yosano stiffens when she sees the smile that curves at the corners of your lips.

“Your second attempt at an immortal regiment, Akiko-chan, I hope this one fares better than your last,” you comment with an easy smile before focusing your attention back on Kunikida, watching as the man casts a curious look between you and Yosano. You wonder how much she told the Agency of your shared past—seemingly very little. “I fear that even if your doctor is able to continuously heal all members of the Agency—assuming you’re never separated, which is unlikely—repetitive death breaks the human mind. How many times will she heal you and your other detectives before your minds start to fray? I’d wager the weretiger’s mind will break first—after the fourth resurrection, between dying over and over again and watching his friends die… from what I hear, the boy is quite the gentle soul with a fragile mind. He’ll try to stay strong for your sake, but it’ll be too much for him.”

You feel Dazai’s fingers tighten on your hand in warning, clearly not appreciating the way you’re talking about his new protege and to his friends. You ignore him, but it’s harder than you expect. You don’t like this. You don’t, even with you telling yourself that this is his fault, you still find yourself bothered by it all. It hurts being at odds with Dazai like this, in a way that you never imagined you would be; he’s supposed to come to your apartment after this, but you don’t even know if he’ll show. 

You don’t know if you’ll be able to look him in the eye if he does. 

God, and that thought only pisses you off more, because you shouldn’t be feeling guilty over this. Not when Dazai knew what he was getting into. Not when it was Dazai’s choice to leave the Port Mafia and join the enemy. You’re doing what you’ve always done, and you’ve never felt guilty for it before, and you shouldn’t now. Not because of him. 

“Our numbers overwhelm yours by a long shot. In a war of attrition, we’ll win. Your minds will break long before we run out of bodies to throw at you,” you finish, a bit more coldly than you’d begun. “There’s no scenario where you enter an open conflict with the Port Mafia and win.”

Yosano and Kunikida share a look with one another and you watch as Kunikida sighs before pressing his lips together, gaze hardening on you. “So, what do you propose? Do you just want us to hand over the President on a silver platter? Because that’s not happening.”

Phase Two.

You went into this knowing that you wouldn’t likely be able to sway Kunikida’s mind on handing Fukuzawa over to be executed, but that was never your intention to begin with. You just needed the chance to plant the seeds of doubt, to make him question himself so he can make a mistake that you can capitalize on.

Dazai realizes this from the way he stiffens, and you know he can’t be happy.

You don’t care.

You don’t.

“I want you to approach this how Fukuzawa-dono would as his stand-in,” you say. You itch to look at Dazai, want to know what’s running through his head right now. You don’t. “What do you know of the Port Mafia, Kunikida-san?”

“What kind of question is that?” Kunikida frowns, looking thoroughly displeased, but you’re unperturbed.

“Many people liken us to be the wardens of the night,” you explain, taking a sip of your tea. “We protect the city from the shadows, preventing an increase in petty and violent crime by discouraging lesser criminals who know that they’ll be hunted down for committing crimes in our territory.”

Your fingers thrum against your wine glass as you choose your next words carefully.

“It goes beyond that. Port Mafia presence in Yokohama serves as a deterrence to foreign criminal organizations-”

“A right good job you guys have been doing at that,” Yosano says snidely. 

You meet her gaze for half a second before focusing back on Kunikida. “Port Mafia presence in Yokohama serves as a deterrence to foreign criminal organizations,” you repeat coolly, ignoring the interruption. “Before the arrival of the Guild, there have only been two occasions of foreign organizations invading our territory, both conflicts were handled by us. The Guild Incident occurred because of the Agency’s decision to keep the weretiger-”

“That’s not fair,” Dazai says, voice low, grip on your hand tight. “We helped him. He needed help, so I-”

Dazai cuts himself off abruptly and you remember the night you spent with him a few weeks ago. You remember Oda Sakunosuke’s last words to him. You find yourself hesitating, considering dropping the topic for his sake, but you can’t, not with so much at stake.

When you continue speaking, the words taste bitter. 

“The agency’s decision to help the tiger then. Semantics. Either way, the decision laid in the Agency’s hands, not ours,” you correct, watching as Kunikida shifts uncomfortably at your words. “It wasn’t meant to be an accusation, only a statement. I’m not here to throw stones. My point is that we responded to the Guild Incident despite our attempts to prevent it from escalating, and we are not in a good position because of it. We faced major casualties at the hands of the Guild, several of our port warehouses were destroyed, one of our executives is dead—we cannot handle another conflict right now and the entire world knows it. Yokohama is being circled by sharks as we speak—Murasaki Shibiku’s Morning Glory, the Inagawa and Shimazaki-kai, Yi Sang’s Crow’s Eye, Cao Xueqin’s Red Chamber—they’re all waiting for the first drop of blood to spill in the water. If Mori dies, it’ll be as if an entire bucket of blood was spilled into the water. How well-versed are you in the organizations of the Eastern Hemisphere’s underworld, Kunikida-san?”

“Not very,” Kunikida replies tightly. 

“Dazai, what does the Red Chamber do to their enemies?” 

You don’t have to look at Dazai to feel the way he gives you a dark look. He pointedly doesn’t respond so you smile and answer your own question. A false bravado because you think your fingers might be trembling a little, and you’re sure that he can feel it, but you press on. You always press on. 

“They have their enemies chopped into pieces and scatter all of the different pieces across the country to prevent them from ever having a proper burial,” you say, watching a ghastly expression cross Kunikida’s face as he looks away. “Then they hunt down all blood relatives and anyone vaguely associated with the person to have them fed to starving hounds. Do you know how the Crow’s Eye deals with their enemies?” 

“No,” Kunikida replies. “I don’t care to know.”

“You will when it’s your entire ward burning because of you,” you say easily. “Scorched earth. The last time the Crow’s Eye had a conflict with an organization, an entire city burned for five days straight. Thousands of casualties for an insult.”

“What is the point of this?” Kunikida asks, voice strained—he does an impressive job at hiding the way he’s unnerved by your words. “Are you trying to scare us into giving you what you want? It won’t work.”

“Not at all,” you say dismissively. “I’m just making sure you know all of the cards on the table, and again, urging you to make your decision with your head and not your heart.. There is more at stake here than just two lives. Yokohama will be plunged into chaos if Mori dies… the streets will run with blood, wards will burn to the ground. The Dragon’s Head Conflict will look like child’s play compared to what’s to come, and I know you felt the effects of that conflict personally, Kunikida-san. Before making any decision, just ask yourself if this is what Fukuzawa-dono would have wanted?”

Kunikida doesn’t respond, you don’t expect him to. So, you slip your hand free from Dazai’s and rise to your feet with a thin smile.

“I’ll take my leave now so you can discuss your options with the other members of the Agency,” you tell them. “Dazai knows how to get in contact with me once you’ve come to a decision. It was a pleasure seeing you both again, Kunikida-san, Akiko-chan.”

“I warned them not to join you at the negotiation table,” Dazai sighs whimsically as he steps into your apartment. Your eyes lift from your phone to where he slides his jacket off of his shoulders and drapes it onto a kitchen chair before making his way to you on the couch. “They didn’t listen to me.”

“Their mistake. I suppose it doesn’t matter anyway, all of that was for nothing,” you say lightly, putting your phone down on the table. You don’t move toward him, watching him carefully to try to gauge where he’s at. His expression is indecipherable, but his shoulders are tense and each movement he makes seems a bit stiff and jolted. “I didn’t think you would show up.”

“Why is that?” 

His tone changes at your question, becomes cooler and more withdrawn. His expression shifts too—he doesn’t turn to look at you, but you can see from the angle you’re standing the way his lips curve down and his eyes sharpen. He’s testing you for something, probably wants you to admit that he has reason to be mad at you to give him a leg up in the conversation—he’s always loved playing games like that. 

“I’ve never seen you so emotional while dealing with business,” you note instead, not giving him that leverage against you. You fold your arms over your chest and study him. “It was… interesting to see.”

You’re not in the mood to play games, but you humor him. Dazai is not pleased by your comment, you can tell from the way his gaze cuts to the side to focus on you. Now, he’s familiar: his eyes are cold and black, his expression closed off. This is the Dazai you remember—the one who would sit next to you at executive meetings and stand behind you during negotiations, except even now, he’s opposite you.

You hate it.

You expect him to snap back at you with something along the lines of you being more emotional than usual too because you know he felt the way your fingers were trembling at one point during the negotiations, but instead, you watch as his expression instantly smooths out and clears up. He turns a smile onto you that doesn’t fully meet his eyes and you know what he’s about to do before the words even leave his lips.

“So, what’re we watching? There are some new movies, and I’m gonna, y’know, swipe your card to order some food, and…”

Dazai’s still talking. His lips are moving—you’re watching them move—but his words are going in one ear, out the other. You think maybe you should take the out he’s given the two of you. The conversation that needs to be had… it’s not going to be a pleasant one. In fact, depending on how it goes, it might be your last one with him. 

If you guys can’t reconcile with the fact that you’re no longer on the same side, this will have to end.

You can’t go into every conflict with the Agency feeling like you’re walking on eggshells because of Dazai. Your priority has been and always will be the Port Mafia. Dazai’s decision to leave can’t affect that. You also know that if he’s actively upset with you, it will affect that, because you don’t like seeing Dazai upset, you never have and that hasn’t changed the past four years without him. 

If the two of you can’t come to an understanding about it… You don’t even know if it’s possible to come to an understanding about something like this, but it’s you and Dazai, so if anyone can come to an understanding about it, it’s you guys. 

“Stop,” you finally say, voice more tired than you intend for it to be. Dazai pauses and then looks at you cautiously. You wonder if he’ll make an excuse and try to run once he realizes you’re not going to let this drop—it wouldn’t be the first time he’s fled instead of confronting an issue. “Can we talk about this?” 

“Talk about what?

Oh, this boy knows how to get under your skin. You stare at him for a second, lips flat and arms crossed; he doesn’t even have the decency to look ashamed. He’s entirely unrepentant as he stares right back at you, waiting to see if you’ll push the topic, but you don’t want to play games with him. You’ve had a long day, you’re jet lagged, you have a headache and you don’t even want to have this conversation but you know you have to have it.

“Forget it,” you finally say, shaking your head. “You can leave.”

Dazai blinks. “What?” he asks, voice laced with disbelief. “But-”

“Whether you like it or not, we have to talk about this,” you say, shrugging. “If you don’t want to talk about it, you can leave. Just don’t come back.”

Dazai stares at you. He’s hurt, you can tell from the way he withdraws at your words. For a second, you really expect him to leave; you’re tense as you watch him carefully, guarding yourself so that it doesn’t sting when he inevitably turns on his heel and goes back the way he came. After what feels like an eternity, his shoulders finally slump and he looks away, trying to figure out what to say.

“What do you want me to say?” he asks, the theatrics gone as he stares at you dully. “You were cruel to them. Making digs at Yosano-sensei, tormenting Kunikida-kun with those descriptions of the foreign mafias and making him think that the President would want him to kill him. You were cruel. I didn’t expect it, I guess.”

“Dazai Osamu admitting he didn’t expect something, I almost wish I got that on tape,” you say dryly. Dazai’s expression hardens at the comment—you probably shouldn’t have said that, you know Dazai doesn’t like getting vulnerable and gets especially defensive when he does, but you just couldn’t help yourself. Before he can get all wound up, you continue, “I am cruel, Osamu. You know that.”

The fight seeps out of Dazai at your words. He looks away from you, and you make your way over to him. You lift your hands up to cup his cheeks as you take your place in front of him, forcing him to look at you. His eyes are heavy in a way that’s so unfamiliar to you—you’ve been with Dazai during his worst depression episodes, you’ve been with him when he puts up that whole front of the Demon Prodigy, you’ve seen him hurt and you’ve seen him angry, but this is… different. It’s more intense. It’s reluctant, riddled with anxiety, like there’s a deep rooted fear that he’s worried will come true.

You wonder if he’s come to the same realization as you—that if the two of you can’t talk through this, it’ll be the end.

“I’ve never been on the opposite side of it,” he confesses quietly. “I… didn’t like it.”

You… can’t really blame him for that. As much as you’ve been around Dazai while he’s been the “Black Wraith” and the “Demon Prodigy”, he’s never directed it toward you. In fact, he’s always been careful to shield you from that side of him whenever possible even though he knows that’s not necessary. You suppose you would be just as jarred if you were suddenly faced with it. 

“It wasn’t directed toward you, Osamu,” you sigh, lifting your hand to run your fingers through his hair, watching the way his lashes flutter before you return to cupping his face. “You know that.”

“It was though,” he disagrees. “It was directed toward them so it was directed toward me.”

You don’t know how to respond to that. Your hands drop from his face as you look away from him, considering his words carefully and trying to figure out what to say next. This is the point of no return—either the two of you will be able to move forward, or this will be the end of your relationship. For real, this time because years apart and questions about whether the two of you are the same as you used to be is moot when your conflicting situations make your relationship incompatible. 

“I can’t apologize, Osamu,” you finally say, swallowing thickly. You can feel his gaze heavy on you, but you can’t bring yourself to meet it. “Not for what I did. I can apologize for how it made you feel, but not for doing it… and I can’t promise not to do it again.”

“I know,” he replies. “I don’t expect you to. It was just…different. Not in a good way. But what are we going to do about it?” 

He gives you a wry smile, one that you can only match half-heartedly. You watch him carefully for a moment, taking note of the hesitant expression on his face. He tries to hide it behind a curious mask, but you can see the anxiety thinly veiled behind his eyes. After a few moments, you nod for him to follow you and sit down on the couch, holding your hand out to him.

He hesitates before taking it, and you’re careful to avoid his healing wounds as you shift to lay down and pull him along with you to lay on top of you, watching as he rests his head on your chest and lets out a shaky breath. You lift your hand up to cradle the back of his head, and his eyes slide shut. His expression is still far from peaceful, you can see how his brows remain furrowed and his lips curve down, but he’s less anxious at least. 

“We’ll figure it out,” you tell him, all of the nerves that have been bugging you since the meeting wash away now that he’s back in your arms. “We always do.”

“I don’t want to lose you,” he admits quietly. “I lose everything eventually… It’s inevitable, one way or another, it always happens, but I can’t handle losing you. Not ever.”

“We made it this far,” you tell him, stroking his hair. He looks up at you and his expression is uncharacteristically vulnerable, it makes your chest tighten painfully. “We’ll be fine, Osamu. We always are. We’ll figure it out… Anyway, I doubt we’ll be on opposite sides for long, I think the city is about to be in a lot of trouble. We’ll probably have to work alongside each other if we even want to stand a chance.”

You can’t help the way you grimace, looking away. With Dostoevsky’s involvement confirmed, you have way more to worry about than just the Armed Detective Agency. You’ve heard through the grapevine that Agatha Christie and the Order of the Clocktower have been actively working with the House of the Dead, and you know very well that Dostoevsky has several other organizations in the Eastern Hemisphere in his pocket—both the Crow’s Eye and the Morning Glory have done dirty work for him before, and Cao Xueqin will ride the coattails of whoever is fighting against the Port Mafia. You’re surprised that he didn’t make a move these past few days. 

“What have you figured out about him already?” Dazai asks curiously, tilting his head up to look at you. He ghosts his lips against your jaw before settling his face in the crook of your neck. “Tell me what you know, maybe we can figure something out.”

Like old times, you think wistfully back to the days the two of you would lounge on this very couch as you rattled off all of the information you gathered during interrogations and negotiations. He’d absorb it all like a sponge and put together things and come to conclusions that would’ve taken you hours to get to.

But it’s not old times anymore, you remind yourself dully, absently running your fingers through his hair. Even if it’s likely that the Agency and the Port Mafia will end up working together against a common enemy in the near future, there’s no such alliance right now, so it’s risky telling him intel that could be more valuable to the Mafia if it’s the only one who is aware of it.

“Not enough yet,” you say honestly. “I was supposed to meet with Carlo Goldoni of the Family and the Pope in the Vatican before this went down. They claimed to have some intel about Dostoevsky that could be critical in the conflict with him, but I didn’t get the chance to talk to them. I’m heading back there tomorrow morning to talk to them… I’ll call you after depending on what they say. Maybe we can debrief.”

Maybe a reckless decision considering there’s the off chance that Mori refuses to work with the Agency and you know that he’ll be on your ass for giving them information, but the way Dazai smiles softly against your neck makes up for it. 

“Yeah,” he says quietly, and then he lets out a huff of laughter that tickles your neck. “But don’t tell me anything in detail, just enough to let me guess, that way if Mori questions you about it, you can say you didn’t tell me and not be lying… We can make a game out of it.”

Not quite like old times, but you suppose things will never go back to how they were. That’s not necessarily a bad thing though, different can be good—better, even. All that matters is that it’s you and him, just as it's always been, and if it’s the two of you, things will always work out.

His hand slides down to entwine with yours, and this time there’s no question about it—it’s familiar, like home, your hands slot together like they’d been made for each other and you almost feel stupid for questioning things so hard earlier in the day.

“Yeah,” you agree with a soft smile. “Yeah, we can. We’ll be alright.”

Dazai presses his lips against the hollow of your neck, and then to your jaw, and then to yours. You can feel his lips curve up against yours—he steals one, two, then three kisses before he sighs and nuzzles his face into the side of yours, resting his head down on the pillow next to you.

“We will be.”

[bam-stroker]

I got possessed by the opportunity for silly in @keferon's Texaid mech au and ended up with a slice of serious as well. Oh well, Bone Apple Teeth! - - - - -

Every muscle and joint in First Aid’s body aches. Flopped over the official break room lunch table, his face has been buried in his arms for at least twenty minutes. He’d taken one tired bite from a sad little sandwich at the start of his break, and now it’s just wilting beside him before he officially decides to just trash it. To be honest, he can’t find the energy to actually care. After months of cleaning up the messes left behind by that thing, lunch has become a “me time” escape for him as opposed to an actual meal. 

Well, to an extent. It can only be so much of a solo time with the cross over of employee lunch breaks. 

“You know, it’s not good to skip a meal when you work as hard as you do.” 

The sentiment is entirely sincere. Even face down, he can see the exact sad little face across from him. Those familiar blue eyes always twinkling with feeling. First Aid only grunts in acknowledgement. Why does Tailgate always have to be so… caring? He thinks to himself. Somewhere in the back of his mind, the memory of harsh laughter echoes at his thought. But it’s mechanical. As if that… machine is now a part of him. Haunting him. Or maybe it’s like a disease? But he can’t think of any illness where something like that can listen and watch to see the world through his eyes. Haunting it is then.

Whatever. He’ll take more time to care about that when he’s able to lift his head back up. Below his breath First Aid mutters, “I bet you like that, huh? Wearing me out. Must be so funny.” 

The voice in his head has nothing to say. 

First Aid huffs. Jerk.

Tailgate on the other hand, continues to pry. “So… Were you talking to him just then?”

Great. He’s saying shit out loud. Stellar! Amazing! This is going to do great things for his crumbling people skills. First Aid musters up that one sandwich bite’s worth of energy left in him to sit up. The popping of his joints should be concerning, but on the priorities list—stepping into a death trap daily as a new career—it’s hardly the top of it. 

“Look, Tailgate, I’m sorry. Yeah… I was talking to—” he starts to reply, and then cocks his head in confusion. “Wait, did you just say ‘him’?”

And there goes the old Tailgate big wet eyes shine. He nods his round little pale face, the short crop of his bleached white hair bouncing with the movement. “Well, yeah! Vortex is the one haunting it, right?” 

First Aid can’t help but sigh, slumping back into the uncomfortable break room chair. “Come on,” he replies. “Don’t tell me you’re another ghost believer?” 

He tries to keep the shake out of his voice. He tries to keep up the act, because if he admits it… if he admits it then it all becomes real.

Tailgate nods, giving a thoughtful hum as he eyes the sandwich waiting patiently to be eaten. “There’s a lot of stuff I don’t understand. But, it feels easier to talk about it like that,” he says. Looking back up to lock eyes with First Aid, there’s a weight behind his gaze. “You’re not the only one cleaning up the messes around here. So let me be a little superstitious to help me get through the job.”

With a heavy sigh, First Aid breaks the eye contact. It’s too much. 

He crosses his arms, staving off a shiver from the memory of the first time he ever cleaned up the mech. Of the look on Tailgate’s face, so scared, when he’d handed him the remnants. 

The janitor and the wannabe medic. What a sad sorry pair.

All First Aid can offer is a nod of his head in acknowledgement, before he changes the subject. “So yeah, I’ve been talking to…him. It’s about all I can do, since he’s the one, ugh, actually driving.” 

Tailgate gasps loudly, as he leans forward. “It’s like reverse Ratatouille!”

“What??” 

“He’s the rat, and you’re the chef.” Tailgate continues, an entirely too excited smile on his face. 

“No!”

“Yes!!” 

First Aid groans, rubbing his palms against his eyes. “Tailgate. Please. How is this anything like ratatouille?” He pleads.

Between the cracks of his fingers, he watches Tailgate gleefully lay out his vision. “Everybody thinks it’s you—but it’s really him driving. So you’re like the chef, but instead of being on the outside, you’re on the inside—that’s why it’s reverse—because the rat is in the hat driving the guy like some kind of chef mech suit in the movie. But the ghost mech is driving you. So you’re reverse ratatouille!”

There are no words. There’s absolutely nothing he can say in response to the nightmare of his new life being summed up as accurately as “reverse ratatouille”. 

With a weary sigh, First Aid leans forward on the table, staring down as if some other answer to what his life has become will appear like a magic eight ball in the scratched up countertop. 

No such luck. It’s the same table he’s looked at day after day. 

“Reverse Ratatouille…” First Aid murmurs. A haunted look in his eyes.

“Reverse Ratatouille.” Tailgate chimes back chipperly.

Far off in the haunted abyss of his mind, First Aid hears the crystal clear laughter of the mech at the revelation. 

Reverse Ratatouille.

[deebris]

Seems like destiny

Simon "Ghost" Riley x fem!Reader

Synopsis: After spending years in the bone marrow donation system, encouraged by the army, Simon was finally notified that they had found a match. He just didn't expect to find out that he would be donating it to his own son, who he had with his teenage love and never knew.

Warnings: Family problems, panic attacks, teenage pregnancy, swearing, mention of diseases such as leukemia, murder, archaic ideas, anguish.

Word count: 3.5 k

Any questions or errors, please let me know.

Simon always remembers how the army encouraged soldiers to be blood donors. There was a great concern within about it, as it was one of the ways the government found to help hospitals and people who depend on transfusions to survive.

Then campaigns for bone marrow donation began, but it was so rare to find someone compatible that after 6 years on the waiting list, Simon thought he would never find someone who would need him. But that changed two months ago when he received a call from the institute informing him that he should go there immediately.

He underwent more medical exams than he had ever done, and although he was a tough guy, he couldn't deny the pain he felt in the weeks following the procedure. Among so many people dying in beds waiting to find a donor, someone could finally heal because of him. It made Simon feel good about himself, as good as he hadn't felt in a long time. That had been one of the reasons why he joined the army: to help people.

Now he could only hope that whoever he donated to would improve. He found himself during the day thinking about it, wondering if in a few years it would affect him as much as it does now. It's not very fresh in his memory, but Simon is able to superficially remember the day he registered on the bone marrow donor list. He had been in the army for a short time, still a soldier, and "Ghost" didn't even exist yet.

He thought this would be put aside. He didn't understand if he would need to donate more often, not really knowing the process deeply. That's why when he received another call from the same institute, he thought there had been some mistake, or that they would need more, but the reason for the contact surprised him.

The recipient's caregiver wanted to meet him and was willing to break the standard anonymity by revealing their identity. Accepting the offer would mean that he would also need to disclose his personal information, which is why he hesitated so much. But as he constantly replayed the woman's words in his head, he grew restless.

"The caregiver wants to meet you," that's what she said. Could the recipient be a child? Or perhaps an elderly person? Or maybe someone who was already so ill that they could barely decide for themselves. He shouldn't have any information about this person, even something as empty as what that lady had let slip.

"You should accept. Everyone would like to have the opportunity to personally thank the person who saved their life," were the words of his Captain, John "Price." And it had been the push that Simon needed to agree to the idea.

Now, standing in front of the hospital room door, Ghost debated with himself whether he should open it. Just a few meters away was the little boy who had been haunting his mind for the past few days. And how did he know it was a boy? He had been directed to the children's oncology ward when he arrived at the reception minutes ago, as soon as he was cleared by the unit director, who already knew about the situation and the breach of anonymity.

Furthermore, the clipboard with the patient's information on the door also made it clear that it was a boy. The name "Lucas" was printed on the paper, accompanied by a surname that was familiar to him. There weren't many people in the UK with that name, which caught his attention.

All that separated him from the family was that door, dividing the cold hospital corridor from the room he could only hope would be less disheartening and empty. He didn't know if he would find a smile on the other side, or if he would be met with the sad gaze of the child's mother.

This woman had contacted him through a letter. On that day, he hadn't yet notified the institute that he was willing to speak with her, so the letter came anonymously since nothing had been filed. He read what she had to say, revealing some things, such as the fact that she was a single mother and was extremely grateful to God for sending him to save her son. Some paragraphs were difficult to read, where she recounted how she had lost hope before.

The little comfort he found in that text was when she talked about the boy. In those passages, her handwriting was less shaky, and he was sure she was happier when she wrote those parts of the letter. He knew that this had been her attempt to persuade him to come meet her, but without her knowing, he had already decided. Simon kept the piece of paper with him and reread it in his spare moments.

That stirred his emotions. He thought he had managed to harden his heart after everything he had been through, but he was wrong. Deep down in his soul, he was more emotional than he let on to others. He hoped that "Soap" would never find out, or he would be eternally tormented.

"Damn," he muttered softly, snapping back to reality. Simon began to bitterly regret agreeing to this. He should have declined and moved on. He could leave, but he was already here, so he mustered up the courage to knock on the wood.

He considered himself presentable in the civilian clothes he wore, accustomed to the heavy military equipment he carried all day at the base, and also missing the mask covering his face. Simon adjusted the collar of his dress shirt, as a way to occupy his sweaty hands, more nervous about the approaching footsteps he heard than his appearance.

Before the door opened, he had already told himself he would remain silent and wait for the boy's mother to start the conversation. If she asked who he was, he would state his name and explain why was there. But as the woman inside was revealed to him, he fell silent not because he had decided to, but because he was speechless. Suddenly, those seconds he spent admiring the child's surname on the door seemed like a scene from a comedy movie to him. How ironic it is considering he was just thinking about you moments ago and, like magic, you appeared?

It seemed like you took a few extra seconds to recognize him, and he doesn't judge you for that. Although you have changed and are now an adult woman, with a more mature face and body, he had changed much more since he was a teenager. Back when you two were in school, he was shorter and thinner, and he didn't have any of the scars on his face.

But it wasn't just that which changed in him. You stared in complete shock at how different the demeanor of the guy you were in love with was. He was more serious, more intimidating, very different from his brother, Thomas, whom you had seen years ago, just a few days before he was brutally murdered along with his wife and child.

Your legs went weak, and your eyes burned with tears threatening to overflow. You wanted so desperately to say something, but nothing could come out of your mouth. Was this real, after all? You withdrew your hand from the doorknob, not realizing you had been gripping it tightly until now, and sat in the nearest chair to avoid collapsing to the ground.

Your blood pressure had surely dropped, as you were sweating cold and seeing black spots. What were the chances, after so many years and after everything you had been through, of finally finding him just when you weren't even trying anymore?

Your memories since you found out you were pregnant began to flood back. You vividly remember your father's reaction when he found out you were having a baby; what he said when found out that the neighbor's son, Simon, was the father of the child; how you struggled to escape him after he took you away to another state, to cover up the shame of having a "prostitute" as a daughter.

You never managed to tell Simon, and when you returned to that town, the town where you two met, he was no longer there. You didn't have a penny in your pocket and only survived that week because of Tommy's help. He gave you a bed to sleep in, food, and clothes, both for you and his nephew. You remembered the perplexed expression he had when analyzed Lucas's appearance, it was impossible to deny that he was a Riley.

It was because of him that you found out Simon was in the army and that he hadn't come home in months.

You never managed to thank him properly. Just two days after showing up there, Tommy handed you half of the money he had in a bank deposit. He told you that a good part of that money belonged to Simon, and therefore, it belonged to your son too. You rented a hotel room so as not to continue bothering his wife, especially since she now had to cook and clean for five people.

You left for the hotel with the promise to reward him someday and continued making visits while anxiously tried to contact his brother on his phone, but Simon never answered. You didn't have a cell phone and couldn't spend the money Tommy gave you so lightly, deciding to prioritize your son's needs.

Several voicemails were recorded, but there was never a response. You felt angry at Simon. You screamed into your pillow, frustrated for not being answered and repeating to yourself how stupid he was. But the possibility that maybe he was dead haunted you. Tommy had told you how complex his work in the army was, that it was more dangerous than usual.

You always feared what you would find when you saw him again. He could have a wife, a beautiful house, and everything you ever wanted to have with him one day but couldn't. He could have children, children who had the opportunity to grow up with him, unlike Lucas. And then when you found out that no, none of that had happened, a kind of happiness flooded your chest, even though nothing in the world guaranteed that he would want anything with you again. The last time you had anything, you two were barely adults, until one day you left without saying anything. You thought he hated you.

That lasted until one time, when you went to Tommy's house, there was nothing there but blood. You still remember how scared you were when you found the broken door and called the police, who surrounded the scene of the violent crime that had just happened. You waited so long, but so long for Simon to show up. What kind of person doesn't attend their own brother's funeral? That's when you decided to forget him and threw away the phone number you had written down.

Some more time later, when Lucas had just turned 7 years old, your life was turning upside down again. It all started with symptoms of a common virus. He had fevers, weakness, and got tired very easily. Then he started losing weight and getting pale. Many pediatricians said it could be anemia or hepatitis, but more symptoms kept emerging. Joint pains came, as did swellings, and after a year of medical investigation, the diagnosis came: leukemia.

You entered a state of denial. Was there something wrong with his diet? Or his lifestyle? It could be genetic, but there were no cases of cancer in your family. Maybe the Rileys had some?

Since that day, your life has never been the same. With each passing month, your son only got worse. You would give all your savings, live on the streets, or even rob a bank if it meant seeing your baby well again. Fortunately, the government offered treatment for free, but some medicines needed to be acquired more urgently than the hospital could provide, and medicines for such treatment were not cheap at all.

The only thing that could cure your boy was the marrow from a compatible donor. You prayed so much that you could save him, but when the tests were done, it was impossible. If no one in the family could donate, it was almost a death sentence. Your last hope was your father. You hoped to never have to see him again, let alone tell him where you had run away to, but now you were no longer the same foolish young girl who depended on his money.

Despite everything, you knew he loved his grandson, and a single phone call was enough to make him come running. In recent years, he had been worried about the two of you, not knowing where you had gone. He never had the courage to admit he was wrong, and apologizing was never his strong point, but he regrets every day what he did. That day he didn't know how to react. He wanted to kill Simon, the brat who got his only daughter pregnant, just as he was afraid you would become a joke in neighborhood for having such a young son. He only managed to think about leaving to avoid a disaster, never asking what you wanted or how you felt.

For the first time, when he saw you so tired and alone, he held his tongue to not say anything that could ruin everything. Instead, he hugged you tightly, and you were so craving someone's company that you curled up in his arms just like when you were a little girl. He was a grumpy and archaic man, someone who made many mistakes, who still makes them, but he still has humanity within him.

Unfortunately, he was not a match either.

You stopped daydreaming, and you didn't realize how bad you were until you saw an adult Simon crouched in front of you, shouting in the hallway for a doctor, but you tried to silence him by grabbing the nails on his rolled-up shirt sleeve, catching his attention. The last thing you want is for the doctors responsible for your son's health to be alarmed, thinking he's worsened. These professionals worked as hard for him as you did. Simon seemed to understand and went to close the door to prevent curious eyes from appearing.

Simon looked at you with sadness, and it crushed your heart. He was afraid you wouldn't be able to breathe properly again; he knew you were desperately begging for air, but couldn't draw it in. He hesitated to touch you, but gave in to the desire and placed both hands on your cheeks. He was incredulous. It was really you, the girl he loved most in his entire life, more than he thought he was capable of loving another woman. Simon had imagined so many times meeting you again, and he had so many doubts.

"Calm down," he repeated in a whisper, locking his eyes onto yours. He knew panic attacks; he had experienced them himself several times. "I know. I know, dear. It's a lot to process."

"You…" your voice tried to come out amidst desperate breaths, while also trying to swallow the lump in your throat. Your hands grabbed both of his wrists, and your thumb smoothed over the skin, feeling his heartbeat. "It's you who…?"

"Yes. Yes, it's me, the donor," he quickly confirmed, even before you could finish the question. "Don't speak. Breathe."

You were managing to calm down and think more rationally. Understanding hit you like a bucket of cold water, and your embrace made the big burly man he had become freeze. The feeling was so strange. Of course, among so many people, the only one who could save your little son would be his own father. The person with whom he shared half of his genes.

"He's yours, Si," your voice sounded like a spell in his ear, the old nickname sending shivers down his spine. Your tone was so gentle that he barely understood the meaning of the phrase. But soon he felt his lips quivering, recounting the events of the past few months and how unbelievable this would sound if he told this story to someone. "I swear he's yours," you repeated as if that made it easier to assimilate.

The content of that letter invaded his mind again and again. He felt horrible.

Simon pulled you closer to him, your bodies almost merging. You were still beautiful, even in your disheveled state, betraying exhaustion. And even after so much time, it was as if nothing had changed between the two of you. He knew there was a small body behind him, sleeping peacefully in the bed, but he didn't dare to look. He could hear the sound of the machines, and then it all came crashing down on his shoulders at once: he had a son with you. By his calculations, the boy should be 9 years old. Wow! He hadn't seen you in over a decade.

"I have so many questions," he confessed with a choked voice, and you don't remember ever seeing him cry before when you were younger.

"I searched for you so much. I called so many times," the last thing you wanted was to make him feel guilty, but hearing that, he felt like he should have kept searching for you too. As soon as you left, he went asking where your father had gone. He worried and tried to find out something, until enlisted in the army, and then all he did from then on was just think about you; never seeking; never trying in any way to find you again because it seemed easier to accept that you had left forever.

You tried to distance yourself, even though you hated it, to look at his face one more time. Simon allowed you to run your fingers over his features until your eyes landed on your son behind him. He knew where your gaze had gone, but he didn't follow it. And of course, you would understand what was happening.

"Look at him," you pleaded with tenderness, but he shook his head while rubbing his eyes, as if they hurt. "You're hurting me doing this, Simon."

The last thing he wanted was for you to think he was rejecting the boy, so he stood up, fighting the weakness in his legs and slowly approaching the bed. The child's face was turned exactly in his direction, as if anticipating he would be there, but his eyes were closed, and his breathing was peaceful. It was only then that Simon realized how he was hyperventilating until he felt your hand gently pushing him closer.

His heart hammered in his chest, overwhelmed by anxiety and fear, as he watched his pale and still son. Each step was a journey through an ocean of uncertainty, each breath an effort to maintain composure in the face of the storm raging within him.

As he leaned over the fragile and inert body of the boy, a wave of emotions engulfed him. His broken heart cried out to stop the affliction that plagued his son, that beloved being he barely knew.

Tears blurred his vision as he stroked Lucas's hand, so small and vulnerable compared to his, so similar to yours. Each touch was a silent promise to stand by him in every moment, even in the darkest and most painful.

He found himself whispering words of comfort, as if each sentence could ignite a spark of life in his son's dormant soul. He pleaded to the heavens, to the stars, to any higher power that could hear, for a miracle, for a chance to see those childish eyes shine for the first time in his life. He was an identical copy of Simon at that age, and it made him wonder if the color of his irises was also the same, the same shade of brown. A sudden curiosity arose: what was his voice like? Would it sound like yours, so gentle and reassuring, or could it somehow sound like his?

There, in that moment, time seemed to freeze, the whole world disappearing. It was as if he were dreaming. There was no way all of this could be true, someone must be playing a prank on him. He wanted to look at your face again, to smell you while he ran his hands through your hair to make sure it was really you, flesh and blood. "He's going to be okay," he poured out the words, even though he knew the danger in promising that, and you dove into them, knowing you didn't have to face everything alone anymore.

[naomi-nana]

✎ᝰ. jealousy is a disease !

there's nothing wrong with a little bit of jealousy, right? as long as you're honest about it, surely...

featuring : till

cw : fluff, gn!reader, mentions of death/being killed but nothing too graphic, probably ooc till...

a/n : OMGOMGOMG ALNST FIC ON TUMBLR???? i wasn't expecting to find any, but i find quite a lot!! i was so happy so i decided to make one myself and joined all the other writers>:) i've never watched any theory videos, so i dont really know how till acts. but from the limited videos alone, i can atleast know his personality;)

he really wouldn't have cared at all if you got closer to another human, or even an alien—is what he thought, as if he isn't glaring at you talking to your fans. your smile at those aliens lining up to shake your hands doesn't help. why would you even smile at all the aliens anyways? they all look ugly. he knows that how popular you are is not under your control, and that this is all arranged by your owner. but still, he doesn't like it, not even a single bit.

but he is happy that you're getting the recognition you deserve, after being forc—i mean, working hard for it all. but it still upsets him at how happily you talk to all the aliens, the smile you gave them, the look of adoration that you gave them. you noticed that he's been staring at you the whole time, though. but you made it seem as if you didn't, which annoys him. if he could, he would grab you by the wrist and ran away as fast as he can with you following him. but he won't. he doesn't want or like the risk of the both of you being killed because of that.

so, he endured his jealousy for what felt like an hour, and it all finally ended. "i'm sorry, have i kept you waiting?" you finally turned at him, your face glistening with sweat. even with how messy your makeup and hair has gotten after all those handshake, you still look as ethereal as ever. "till?" you tilt your head curiously when he didn't reply.

"uh—huh, what? sorry. was zonin' out." he noticed that he have been looking at your face the whole time and unintentionally ignored your question. "what did you say again?" he asked, looking away from your face this time in embarrassment. you only chuckled softly at him before finally repeating your question. "no, you didn't, it's alright." he answers quickly, as if trying to hide something, making you raise an eyebrow. "really? i really didn't keep you waiting?"

"no, it's fine. let's get inside the car before the driver leaves us here." the driver really won't leave you both here, since it's literally his job to drive the both of you from place to place. it's just his excuse to leave the place faster so he could make you get away from all your fans. "you seem to be eager of leaving this place, is something wrong?" you come closer to him, concern lacing in your gaze. with how close you are to him, it's hard for him to hide his flustered face.

so, he just turned around and walked towards the exit, making you even more confused and concerned for him. he walks really fast too, while you struggle to follow him behind.

"till, are you alright? do you feel sick? uncomfortable? or is it something else?" you asked him once again, and he avoided your gaze again. it keeps happening over and over to the point that if someone else were to watch you both from afar, they'd thought that the both of you are playing a game of tag. it took a lot of convincing from you, but he finally tells you why. not directly though, he doesn't want you to think that he's too clingy.

"i-i got a little... annoyed, when your fans got closer to you, i guess..." he muttered to himself, which made you unable to hear what he says clearly. you tilt your head to look up at him, then cup his cheeks in your hands, earning a soft gasp from him. "w-what are you—"

"are you perhaps... jealous?" you grin at him, his face growing redder as time pass. "i'm—not! let go of my face!" he grips one of your wrist with his hand, but he didn't even make an attempt to move your hands away from his face. "really? your expression says otherwise." you giggle when he glares at you, although his red face betrays the 'scary look' he's giving you.

"i said i'm not, end of the story. let's get in the car or whatever..." he finally swats your hand away, not too harsh though, and he walks away from you. your giggle only grew louder at how flustered he got just from one single interaction with you. "wait for me, till. you can't leave a celebrity like me behind... you don't want any of my fans catching up to me, do you?"

"ugh, stop talking about that!"

naomi-nana. do NOT repost, do not use,(with or without permission), do not reccommend or talk about my works outside of tumblr.

[lowkeyrobin]

MINHO ; just like the rain

summary ; youre the rain to minhos storm clouds

warnings ; language, talk about mental health and self hate, mentions of death

track ; rain, sleep token

word count ; 874

masterlist

Minho was fairly reserved and didn't talk to many when he had the opportunity to. He'd lost friends, his memories, his life, coming to the Glade. He lost everything and for what, to run around a giant maze for the rest of his life? He was trapped in a cycle of sleep, eat, run, map, eat, and sleep, and he had been for years now. He felt worthless, and hated himself deep down. Thomas and Newt knew but didn't know how to help over his shrugging off of the situation. They decided if he needed to talk, he would if he wanted to or if he was ready.

But, upon your arrival, he found some sort of comfort in you. Your calm and friendly demeanor just had him spill himself one night at another Greenie bonfire. You listened to him talk for hours and gave him a whole motivational speech and reassured him he'd be alright.

And now, he could finally say that the viscous cycle of overworking and hating himself was over, and it had been since the first time you smiled at him.

You were the rain to his storm clouds.

Just like the rain, you cast the dust -his self hatred- into nothing. You washed the salt in his wounds from his hands.

You had your hooks in him, drawing him closer and closer each and everyday. He could see you in his dreams and in his fate, yet still deny the persistent questions from Newt and Thomas, and even Fry and Winston.

He went out of his way after spending hours in the map room just to talk to you and hear all about your day. Even the sound of your voice comforted him and sent a shiver, almost a tingling sensation, up his spine and into his brain.

He jogs to your side, wondering what you're up to at this hour at night. You snuck out in the middle of the night, wanting to feel the cold, wet rain against your skin for a bit. It wasn't pouring but it wasn't lightly sprinkling either, a fair amount of water soaking you.

His feet almost fall beneath him due to the mud under the grass, making him lightly gasp as he reaches out to you, now turning around as you heard him.

"Y/n!" He gasps, recalculating his footing to not fall.

You quickly reach your arm out for him and catch him at the forearm. You steadily help him back on his feet with a smile and chuckle while his face heats up from embarrassment.

"You good?" You ask, wiping away any stray rain around your eyes before it seeped in, not wanting to try and be bothered by it in the moment.

He nods, looking away for a moment. "What're you doing out here?"

You shrug, loosely hanging onto his wrist, not noticing, although he does. "Enjoying the rain"

"Why?"

"...It's nice, I guess. Makes me feel like there's hope outside the Glade"

He nods, seeing and feeling you drop his wrist. He slings an arm around your shoulder, a usual act of affection between you two.

You hear the rain pitter and patter against the Homestead as the force of the little raindrops increases. However, it’s soothing. You feel like you can stand here with Minho forever. He provided an odd comfort, even when silent, as just knowing he’s there beside you could rid you of any worries or fears.

"Are you not cold?" He asks, feeling goosebumps rise along his arms and legs.

You shake your head no with a shrug, "Why, are you?" You tease with a smile.

"No, no, no. Definitely not." He defensively speaks, playing into the joke as he retracts his arm from your shoulders and crosses them. His sassy personality was showing through even in the middle of the night. "I'm never cold, ever"

"I'd be really concerned if you were never cold, Minho. Maybe we should send a note down with the box asking about it" You speak, playing around with him. "Maybe we should stop hanging out. What if it's a contagious disease?"

"No, no, I mean, just get cold! Just like, not around you," He shrugs, taking back his last words.

"Oh?" You question, your lips curling into a smirk. "Around me?"

"I, uhm-"

"Hm?"

Before you can process what he's doing, Minho swiftly moves his hands to your jawline and smashes your lips together. You swear you hear a lightning strike as he does so, and rest your hands on his shoulders, not denying this new act of affection. You could get used to this.

You're the first to pull away, shocked and confused.

"Minho?"

He's silent, face burned up as he can't look at you.

"Min-"

"Don't talk about it"

You take a moment to think before patting him on the shoulder, turning back towards the Homestead.

"I'm going back to bed. Enjoy the rain"

He nods, crossing his arms again as he looks out towards the Deadheads again. He hears you slowly trudge off across the Glade, the squishing of the mud and wet grass below you drowning out as you walk further and further away.

"Damnit"

"Language!"

"How the hell did you just hear me?!"

[say-al0e]

Anything

Rating: SMUT, Minors, DNI! No one under 18!

Summary: For as long as you could remember, you'd loved Aemond with a fierceness that earned his loyalty. Now, he needs to know - just how much do you really love him? | Ft. Request: "You love me, don't you?" "Too much, sometimes." Warnings: Targcest, oral (m!receiving), mentions of Aemond intentionally harming Aegon, mention of war and the toll of war. Pairing: Aemond x Targtower!Reader [implied twin - but sibling relationship not extensively referenced] Word Count: 3.4k HotD Taglist | HotD Masterlist

Silence was a rarity in the Red Keep, only ever descending upon the magnificent structure in times of turmoil - disease, death, war. Nothing good came of it, nothing good accompanied it, but there was little surprise it clung to every corner where life once bloomed.

The throne room itself was akin to a mausoleum, no longer the lively host of lords from far and wide. With Aegon lost in poppy-induced dreams, there were no guards lingering about to fill the room with laughter or squires rushing to fill cups, eager to drown in the knowledge of these men - of members of the Kingsguard, of the king himself. Instead, it sat still and empty and dark as the last of the torches smoldered in its holder.

Outside, a storm raged - thunder rolled, waves crashed, guards and servants clamored to protect themselves and their animals from the downpour - but inside the stone walls of the Keep, everything seemed frozen in time.

Lightning flashed, illuminating the inky sky with sharp bolts of brilliant white light, and filtered through the windows, casting sharp shadows around the room. The lone figure amidst the endless stretch of stone never flinched, didn’t even seem to notice the light, even as you used it to guide your steps deeper into the silence.

Aemond stood just a few feet from the base of the throne, shoulders straight and hands settled behind his back.

Though he cut a severe figure on the brightest, warmest of days, he looked every bit the being of nightmares he’d come to be recognized as in the occasional flash of lightning. 

In the dark, the green leather he wore looked black and the straight, silk strands of his silver hair gleamed white. His angular face only looked sharper, cast in shadow with any trace of the warmth he once displayed - if only for you - now gone entirely. He stood tall, proud, and you felt an odd flurry of emotion settle into the pit of your stomach.

There was something like dread, a fear for what was to come next, right alongside concern - for your brother, lying in his bed with injuries too severe to know if he might survive them; for your husband, who had lost his way enough to place him there; for your sister, who had lost her son and now might lose her husband. There was understanding, a knowledge of why Aemond had done everything, and a deep desire to rush forward to comfort your husband as you knew he was hurting. But above all, there was a profound sense of grief as you mourned the loss of whatever life you’d been clinging to.

The only thing left for you was the man that stood before you and while that once might’ve offered you some semblance of comfort, it now only brought you fear.

For a long few moments - seconds, minutes, perhaps even hours; the passage of time seemed to disappear with the world the moment the doors sealed you inside the throne room - you stood in unbroken silence. Though he knew you were there, was likely more attuned to your presence than anyone else, Aemond didn’t turn. He didn’t bother acknowledging your presence for what felt like an eternity until, finally, he shifted his head just enough to glance at you from the corner of his eye.

“It’s late,” you whispered, hesitant - almost afraid to break the silence - when he tipped his head, as if inviting you to speak. “Come to bed.”

Aemond hummed, acknowledging your whispered plea, as his gaze lingered on the throne for a moment longer. There was a moment of concern - a moment you feared he might refuse you; a moment you feared he might accept and follow you to your bed - before he turned to face you, violet eye shimmering.

“You love me, don’t you?”

The low voice, a quiet rasp you’d long found more comforting than any other, that filled the silence was broken. It cracked, was thin and brittle in a way you hadn’t heard since Lucerys’ death, and you felt your heart begin to shatter as you took a tentative step closer.

“Too much, sometimes,” you confessed - words escaping without thought, without malice. But if anyone were to understand, it was Aemond.

It was an affliction you shared, a love that ran far deeper than anyone else seemed to understand - the passion of dragons, bound together in fire and blood. Though you possessed two bodies, your souls had long been intertwined and, even when you wished it were not the case, you understood him. You loved him, despite the fear and the anger he carried, and he loved you even harder in return.

The answer you shared was acceptable, understandable, and Aemond hummed once more. “You would do anything for me?”

As children, you were both quiet - sullen, almost, as you navigated the world together; never far apart, never content to be apart for more than a few moments - but you shared an understanding. If there was something the other wanted, something the other needed, there was no length too great to ascertain it.

This moment was no different.

“Yes.” Though it terrified you, the lengths you would go if only Aemond asked, you knew there was little you would not do for him. And, now, you knew that the time had come for him to ask a favor that would end in your demise.

Still, there was never a choice for you to be anything other than by his side, right until the very end.

Though your answer should have pleased him, Aemond still looked stricken as he nodded. “Will you come with me to Harrenhal?”

There was an underlying understanding you both shared, one in which you knew that the end of your story awaited in the ruins of Harrenhal, but that did little to stop you from nodding. Like a lamb lead to the slaughter, you would follow him to your death. 

“I will.”

Aemond turned fully then, violet eye shimmering with a flurry of emotion that made your own heart race. There was pride, an overwhelming feeling that he’d finally settled into his rightful place; grief, an overwhelming sadness that his rise came at the demise of his eldest brother; guilt, an understanding that his crimes would not be permitted to go unpunished; and, finally, a desperate desire to be loved, to find a light in the midst of all the darkness.

“Vhagar and Vermithor,” he whispered, “you and I; there is none who will defeat us when we stand together.” The false bravado was easy to detect, even easier to understand. He did not want to lead you to your death, did not want to see your story end alongside his, but there was no other way; you were born together, you’d lived together, you would die together. “Come closer.”

The moment you stepped within his reach, Aemond’s hand gripped your wrist. Though he’d always been careful with you - reverential, in his own way - his touch was painful, nearly punishing as he pulled you against his chest. His free hand lifted to your cheek and you took great care to keep from flinching, despite your certainty he’d never purposely harm you, as his violet eye searched yours for reassurance.

“Tell me you love.” It was not as sharp as you knew him to be capable of, but it was clear that this was a demand, not a request to be refused.

“I do,” you assured him, voice still a whisper but conviction evident as the hand not held by his lifted to his cheek. “I love you. I have and will always love you.” It was a promise, reverent and desperate, meant to remain unbroken, and Aemond seemed calmed - if only minutely - by the warmth of your palm pressed to his cheek.

“Show me.”

While he spent little time reveling in the touch of others, even less allowing those he did not care for to reach for him, Aemond had always found great comfort in your touch. It soothed him, settled the unsteady beat of his heart and the ragged edge to his breathing, and you took the opportunity to indulge him as he released the grip on your wrist.

As desperately as Aemond needed your comfort, the soft touch of your hand or the warm press of your mouth to his skin, you needed him just as badly.

To feel him, standing tall and solid - still there, whole and unblemished from the skirmish that nearly claimed Aegon’s life - would assuage the fears that lingered. To hear the tremor in his voice as he spoke, whenever he deemed the moment worthy of his internal anguish, or the tension bleed from his tone as you allowed him to seek solace in the warmth of your body; you needed it nearly more than he did.

Aemond needed your reassurance that you still loved him, despite all he’d done - despite all he would do. You needed reassurance that there was still something to love.

Without wasting another moment, you leaned into him.

Whereas his skin usually ran warm, the blood of the dragon pumping through his veins, his smooth cheek was cool to the touch. He leaned into the gesture, seeking the heat from your own body, and you shared it gladly as you pressed yourself onto the tips of your toes to bring your mouth to his.

Much of Aemond’s life had been lived under the control of others, dictated by his place as a prince -  as the second son of a king who cared little for any of his children born after his first daughter. Decorum left him with little room for error, with little room to dictate his own future. And in the wake of Aegon’s own rebellion, there was less freedom and greater expectations.

Control was not something anyone had ever given Aemond willingly - with the exception of you.

With you, there’d never been any need for Aemond to extend any kind of force. He’d never needed to manipulate or coerce, never needed to make you fear him. Your life had been lived by his side, allowing him to give and take as he needed, and he rewarded you with a love so fierce you feared not for yourself but for anyone who crossed you, lest they invoke his wrath.

There were but a brief few moments where Aemond allowed you control - where he allowed anyone control, especially now that he could easily take it - but as you pressed your mouth to his, lips softened by sugared scrubs and herbs meeting familiar wind-chapped lips, he gave you leave to prove your love as you wished.

Large hands slipped beneath the open front of your robe, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hips, as he pulled you closer. His head tipped, silver hair falling in a curtain around you, as you sought to deepen the kiss.

Outside the Keep, the wind howled and lightning flashed. Flickers of bright white light flashed behind your eyelids but you willed it all away; the only thing that existed was that which you could feel, that which you could hear. Aemond’s lithe frame, slight but athletic from years of training and riding; the warmth of his chapped lips, parting to allow your tongue to slip between them; the sharp inhale of breath, ushered as your hand brushed at the leather covering his chest, slowly descending.

The only thing that existed, the only thing that mattered, was Aemond.

A slow, simmering heat filled the air between you - a desperate, needful warmth that would have frightened you, had you experienced it with anyone else - as you broke the kiss. As he inhaled a shaking breath, you refused to part more than an inch from him as your mouth pressed to every available inch of skin.

Lips slick with spit and beginning to swell mapped the angular planes of Aemond’s face; over his cheeks, the bridge of his nose, the sharp line of his jaw.

Soft hands flitted over his chest, down his stomach, and came to rest at the belt looped around his waist. The sword and dagger were dropped without thought, both clamoring to the ground with a noise that might’ve drawn guards had they not all been too afraid to find themselves alone with the Prince Regent, and you made quick work of the ties and buttons and buckles that hid your husband from your view.

Covered as he was with leather - practical, always ready for flight - he tipped his head to allow you access to any sliver of skin left exposed. The crook of his neck, the hollow of his throat; every inch was warmed by the press of your mouth before you sank to your knees before him.

The stone of the floor bit into your knees through the thin fabric of your shift, doubtlessly leaving behind bruises that only he would see, but you found that you cared little as your hands fell to the fabric at his hips.

As he stood before you, the image was one that sent a shiver down your spine. Aemond, tall and lithe - a beautiful being seemingly carved by the hands of the most skilled artists - with his angular features and violet eye shimmering in radiant flashes of lightning, looked every bit the villain he was painted as. 

Against the backdrop of the Iron Throne, thousands of blades melted to form the seat he would die for, there was no more ethereal image.

Though he could be a man of immense patience - a strength he used to serve himself; a strength most often invoked in tormenting you - there seemed to be little at hand as he reached for you. Calloused fingers cradled the side of your head, sliding into hair left undone, as Aemond urged you closer.

With deft fingers - and considerable effort to hide the trembling therein - you tugged the fabric from his hips just low enough to free his cock. Above you, Aemond sighed. It was a quiet sound that might’ve been lost in another environment, but in the silence of the throne room, every noise was amplified.

Despite your better judgement - or, perhaps, because of it - you chanced another moment of reverential study.

Everything about Aemond was beautiful, breathtaking in a way you long since stopped trying to understand, and you couldn’t help but breathe the sentiment aloud. “So beautiful,” you whispered, as your gaze traveled from the top of his head to the tip of his cock. “My glorious dragon.”

Another sigh, this one less patient, escaped him. However, before he could offer any reproach for your drawn-out worship, you leaned into him.

Aemond’s cock was hard, Valyrian steel wrapped in the pale velvet of his skin, and you offered a sigh of your own as you wrapped a hand around the base. The tip weeped, pale droplets of pre-come glistened in the pale flashes of lightning, and you leaned in to lap at them.

Settled before him, knees aching and heart pounding in your chest - hammering at your ribcage in a way that hurt - you could almost pretend. 

As you closed your eyes to keep the traitorous tears at bay, tongue tracing the vein running along the underside of his cock, you could pretend that you were tucked away safely in your own chambers. As his fingers ghosted along the curve of your jaw, brushed an errant piece of hair behind your ear, you could pretend that the scent of dragon fire and blood lingering on his skin was nothing more than the remnants of a long day of training. And as he breathed your name, so reverent and desperate, you could almost pretend that the man above you was the one you’d loved your entire life.

In a desperate bid to forget, to lose yourself in the love you held for him - in the unending devotion that would lead you to your doom - you reached for his free hand and laced your fingers with his. You held it pressed to his thigh, used it to stabilize yourself, and took the rest of his cock into your mouth.

There was little about you that escaped his notice and no doubt he could see the tears beginning to line your lashes when you blinked up at him, desperate for a glimpse of his face. You could only hope he would attribute them to your relief that he remained unharmed, that he stood before you with one hand buried in your hair and the other tethering you to reality.

Anything that was not Aemond was of little concern as he allowed you to move at your own pace, taking as much or as little of him into your mouth as you wished.

With every bob of your head, every swirl of your tongue, every twist of your wrist, you held a power he rarely relinquished. And with every glance up at him, your own glassy eyes meeting his, you could feel the rigidity in his body begin to relax.

Moment by moment, each ministration you lavished him with seemed to settle him.

Above you, Aemond began to resemble himself once more. With every swipe of your tongue, with every inch you pressed forward, you proved the love he needed to feel so desperately. That you were willing to submit yourself to him so wholly, body and soul, was enough to earn you a broken moan and the release that saw rigid shoulders slumping as his head bowed.

A curtain of silver hair covered Aemond’s face as his eye fell shut. His brows furrowed, a look of near pain compressing his features, but you could feel the grateful squeeze of the hand holding yours as the other pressed you closer.

Though he rarely allowed you to remain on your knees long enough for him to spill in your mouth, he kept you there - nose pressed to the sharp bone of his pelvis - until you swallowed his spend.

The moment your lips parted and your lashes, wet with tears, fluttered, he pulled you to your feet.

Quiet settled for a long moment, broken only by the ragged sound of Aemond’s breathing and the clank of metal just outside the door - the guards still in place, still devout despite their fear; a mirror of your own life. That violet eye, dark and clouded with an anger, a sadness, a broken resolve, met yours. The hand cradling your jaw moved to grip your chin, fingers digging into the flesh almost hard enough to hurt, as he searched for a moment, looking for the answer to an unasked question, before he leaned closer.

“Avy jorrāela,” Aemond whispered, voice quiet - resolute - as he used the grip on your chin to lift your lips to his. 

As many times as he’d promised his love, you’d never once doubted him. Even in that moment, as the walls felt as if they might begin to crumble at any moment, you knew that he loved you. You felt it in your heart, deep within your soul, and offered him the most genuine smile you were able.

“I know, my love,” you returned, eyes fluttering shut for just a moment as his forehead pressed to yours. “You’ve had a long day. Come to bed,” you urged, squeezing his hand gently, “let’s get some rest.”

Though a small part of you feared he may resist, content to stand in the dark and ruminate over a future that you both knew could never exist, Aemond acquiesced. With deft fingers, he righted his clothing - and yours, closing the robe and hiding your satin nightgown from the eyes of any who might dare look - and settled his sword and dagger back in their rightful places before returning his hand to your own.

The future was as bleak and volatile as the storm that raged outside the walls of the Keep, as unpredictable and unrelenting, and there was an immense fear that settled in the pit of your stomach. The end was near, approaching with each moment that passed, but there was no escaping destiny.

From the moment you were born, you knew that your fate was intertwined with Aemond’s. 

So with interlaced fingers and a kiss pressed to your brow, you allowed him to lead you into the unknown - straight to your demise. After all, you promised that you would do anything he asked.

_________________________________________________________

Author's Note: I've been so productive lately, wow. Anyway. Enjoy this.

Taglist: @anaya-rhys, @holypeacecrown, @marvelously-flawed, @travelingmypassion, @letsgotothehop, @reynacrawford, @liannafae, @ffsg0jo, @targaryen-madness, @hangmanscoming, @barnes70stark, @mysticaltwoface, @biqueen20, @lolathebunny221, @nourangul, @darylandbethforever9, @liandav, @r-3dlips, @torchbearerkyle

[littlemissmentallyunstable]

title: the dancer and the angel part 2

pairing: grayson hawthorne x (first person) reader

synopsis: lyra kane is closer to your boyfriend than ever seen as grayson has just been put of her team in the grandest game and it’s making you a little nervous, you don’t trust her and you don’t want her too close to him

parts: part 1 part 3 part 4

warnings: mild swearing, SPOILERS FOR TGG

a/n: I had quite a few requests for a part 2, so here she is… trying to get into my productive era right now (fake it till you make it right??)

tag list: @tornqdowarnings @whatsamongus @wish-i-were-heather @inmyheaddd @never-enough-novels @sweetlikeanangel @lxvebelle @xoxo-vee @emelia07 @f4iry-bell @zaraaaabear @thoughtdaughter3 @benny1989fredd @elysianwayy77 @maybxlle @sheisntyou @anintellectualintellectual @aleatorio1234

RECAP

“Whose team is he on?” I say quickly.

“Odette Morales and Lyra Kane.”

***

Lyra Kane. Lyra Kane. Lyra Kane. The name rattles around my brain, echoing off of my skull, only to replay in my mind again. Of course it just has to be Lyra Kane that he’s on a team with. That breathtaking woman with beauty that shouldn’t be possible for a human. Yeah, that Lyra Kane. I feel like laughing and crying all at the same time, so I express nothing instead. Why did it have to be her? Out of all of the players.

I’m not jealous, I try to convince myself, I’m just concerned. Yes, that’s it. Except it isn’t and the only person I’m lying to is pathetic little old me. I am ferociously jealous. It scolds me torturously, raging from the pit of my stomach, crawling under my skin to settle comfortably.

Grayson loves me, I know this. I felt the kisses we’d shared on the beach moments before he’d gone into the stupid house. They still linger on my lips now, I could taste him slightly, I’d heard him say he loved me, only me and yet I can’t get the feeling out of my system. The jealousy always manages to seep its way back in. I’m sick with a disease called envy.

I don’t want to be the jealous girl, the possessive one that people roll their eyes at or avoid. That’s not me. I didn’t want it to be me. But deep down I’m petrified that that’s who I’m becoming. I sigh, realising I was just going to have to swallow it. What could I do about it now? Besides I know Grayson, I trust Grayson. He wouldn’t let her try anything on, would he?

***

Hours of waiting and not watching. We couldn’t see the players at all. Or hear them. Anxiety is killing me slowly from the inside out, gnawing happily at my organs. I spin the ring on my middle finger as my leg jigs up and down, counting down the seconds until sunrise, four-thousand one-hundred and eight-two to go.

“You know you don’t have to look so panicked all the time,” Nash sighs, slumping down beside me.

“I’m not panicked,” I say, forcing a laugh.

“Sure darlin’,” he says, “my name’s Roger and I have a pet turtle.”

I roll my eyes, fighting the urge to smile, “I mean it, I’m fine.”

“It’s completely safe in there, we designed it that way,” he explains slowly, soothingly, “no one’s going to get hurt and there’s an emergency button just in case.”

“Okay,” I nod, exhaling.

I don’t believe him and his words don’t offer me much comfort. My overthinking brain is currently listing all of the ways Grayson could possibly die in the next ten minutes. But Nash is trying and I’m thankful to have him.

“At least pretend you’re convinced,” he drawls, a twinkle in his eyes.

Maybe I’m not convinced that everything’s going to be fine but I am convinced Nash has a sixth sense called ‘big brother knows all’ because for some reason he always knew everyone’s thoughts and feelings, even when they were trying to hide it. Either that or he’s a mind reader.

“I am,” I tell him, as convincingly as I could muster, “everything’s going to be fine.”

“Shit!” Jameson yells from across the room, perfect timing as per usual.

“What?” I hear Avery ask quickly.

“The powers gone out,” he says, smacking the table so hard I didn’t know how he didn’t break a bone.

“What do you mean the powers gone out?” I say, standing up and walking over.

“I mean they have no light, no heaters and they ate completely locked in by the mechanisms,” he explains, gesturing to the blank screens.

“We’ve lost all connection to them as well,” Xander murmurs, eyes darting from left to right at each and every screen.

“Everything?” I exclaim, trying not to get over-anxious and failing miserably.

“Yes,” Jameson confirms.

“You’re panicking her,” Nash scolds him.

“Well she asked I’m not going to lie,” he defends.

“Not the time to argue guys,” Avery rolls her eyes, getting back to the computer. Jameson follows her lead, trying to reconnect the lost signals.

“Shit shit shit,” he groans as more things shut off. He slams his hands down on the keyboard and starts guessing random buttons, “Xand help me out here,”

“Don’t you worry, dearest brother,” Xander replies calmly, “I’m working on it.”

Silence hits us like the dead. We’re all intently staring up the layers and layers of code coming up on the several screens. I can’t understand any of it.

“This is Python,” Jameson points at one of the scenes.

“Yeah and this is Java,” Xander nods, “but I have no clue what this is.”

“Shit,” Jameson curses, running a hand through his hair, reminding me of Grayson when he was overstimulated.

“Not yet,” he replies, turning to the other Hawthorne brother present, “Nash do you remember when I was in fifth grade-“

“The de-coder book?” he says before Xander even finishes.

“Please,” he nods sharply.

“Got it,” he replies, rushing out of the room.

“Do you have any idea what they’re talking about?” I whisper to Avery

“Absolutely none,” she shrugs, looking as clueless as me offering me some comfort.

“Who would even cut the power?” Jameson asks to nobody in particular.

Avery and I share a look. I already know we’re thinking the same thing.

“Grayson is in there, does she know that?” I ask quickly.

“I don’t know,” she replied, chewing the inside of her cheek

“She?” Jameson interrupts. We both ignore him.

“Don’t you think he’ll be her prime target,” I say, the worry warping my tone a little in a way that made me sound a little too vulnerable for my liking.

“Target?” Jameson says. We ignore him, again.

“Most likely, if it is her,” Avery sighs, tapping her bottom lip melodically.

Jameson looks at Xander, baffled, “are they speaking in code?”

“I’m kind of concentrating right now Jamie, please don’t talk to me,” he responds, not taking his eyes off of the computer screens as he attempts to decode.

“Who are you talking about?” Jameson raises his voice a little, forcing me and Avery to address his question.

“This could be Eve,” Avery says softly.

“Eve?” Xander says, freezing mid-type and actually lifting his head up.

“No surely not,” Jameson shakes his head in denial.

“Think about it,” I say, “who else can you think that would want go sabotage this game?”

“Anyone who fancies a good bit of money,” he states, “and it could be nothing at all.”

“A power cut isn’t nothing,” I argue.

“I hate to agree the circumstance,” Avery exhales, “but it’s true, this feels like a threat of sorts.”

“And we can’t contact the players meaning anything could happen right now,” I say, worry bleeding into my voice.

Jameson’s face softens.

“But they’re locked in,” Nash points out, sauntering back in, “no one is getting in or out, that means they can’t be hurt.”

He hands the decoding book to Xander who frantically flips through the pages to find something in particular.

“Windows can be smashed,” I point out.

“You think whoever this is would risk smashing a window,” Nash asks, with his eyebrows raised.

“I don’t know how these people work,” I snap, throwing my hands up in the arm.

“You’re shaking,” he says softly.

I look up to see my shaking limbs. Immediately they drop to my sides and I desperately try to still them, “no I’m not-“

“Breathe a little okay, Gray will be fine,” he reassures me, his tone placid, as he delicately takes my shaking hands between his.

“Look as long as they all stay put no one should get hurt,” Avery says calmly, “the glass on the windows are double glazed and harder to smash than the average window, that is if they’re going to risk that.”

“Besides Xander’s on it,” Jameson adds.

Xander sticks a thumb into the air, still audibly tapping the keyboard with the other, “whoever did this is incredibly skilled at hacking and annoyingly so,” he mutters in reply.

No one talks. We are all just stood in silence, barely daring to breathe not wanting to break Xander’s concentration. Mine and Avery’s hands are intertwined, gripping the others so tightly that our fingers are white. Xander is frantic. He’s practically sweating as he types quickly and clicks buttons I didn’t even know existed. And just when it seemed like he might be getting somewhere more and more boxes of undeciphered code popped up. I’m close to being hopeless when Xander leans back in his seat.

“We’re back up and running,” Xander announces, “lights, buttons, connections, locks, everything.”

Avery and I squeal, hugging each other tightly. Relief floods through my body and I’m giddy with it. Xander stands up and breathes out slowly.

I kiss his cheek in affection and gratitude, platonically, “thank you Xander.”

“You’re welcome,” he says.

“I owe you a scone,” Jameson tells with a slap on the back.

“That, you do,” he nods with a wide grin.

“What do we tell the players?” Nash asks, reminding us that the game is still going and the players will be wondering what the hell just went on.

“Do we tell them the truth?” Xander asks.

“We don’t even know the truth,” Jameson tells him.

“Then we tell them what we know,” Avery says, “Nash?”

“You got it kid,” he nods.

Xander slides an arms around me.

“Sorry ‘bout that folks,” Nash drawls through the microphone, “brief technical snafu on our end, but we’re back. You still have sixty three minutes until dawn. As long as at least one team makes it down to the dock by the deadline, the rules still stand.”

It’s fine, everything will be fine. Three thousand seven hundred and eighty seconds left. I rest my head on Xander’s shoulder and he puts his head on mine. I think he’s the only thing that’s holding me up at the moment. If he weren’t I’m pretty sure my body would be some sort of odd shaped puddle of consumed thoughts on the carpet. Only one sentence goes through my head, over and over and over. I can’t wait to have my arms around Grayson again.

***

It’s almost sunrise when we make our way to the dock so we’ll be there for when the players make it out. If they make it out. I walk in between Xander and Nash, trying to keep up with their obscenely large leg strides. Avery and Jameson lead the way holding hands. My heart squeezes, it won’t be too long before I see Grayson again. I know it seemed stupid, we had only been apart for a few hours, but those hours had felt like weeks given all of the events that had taken place. Not to mentioned the long prolonging wait of which I couldn’t see or hear him.

And there was still something going around in my head. Something about him being with Lyra Kane for this long in such close proximity. It was grating at me, but I push the feelings down and bury them under a mound that I’m trying to ignore.

“Want to have a bet?” Xander ruffles my hair, stealing me from being consumed by my own thoughts.

I slap him away, “I’ve heard it’s dangerous to wager with a Hawthorne.”

“What’s my brother been telling you?” he asks.

“Mum’s the word,” I wink back, tapping my nose.

“What’s your bet on little brother?” Nash asks.

“What team will make it first,” Xander grins, mischievous glint in his eye.

His brotehr grins towards the sky, “had a feeling it might be.”

“I’m bias then,” I scoff.

“Okay so your Hearts,” Xander says.

“Hang on I never agreed to this bet,” I exclaim, holding my hands up to surrender.

“Whoever wins gets a scone,” he bribes me.

“That only benefits you,” Nash points out.

“Actually I would also benefit, I like scones,” I smile sheepishly,

“See? Who are you voting Nash?” Xander asks.

“I’ll go with Clubs, I’m rooting for Gigi,” Nash shrugs.

Xander nods, “that means I’m going with Diamonds.”

“You don’t have to,” I tell him.

“Yes I do, otherwise it’s uneven,” he says. I wasn’t going to argue.

“Who would your original vote gone to?” I ask.

He smiles at me, a cheeky glint in his eyes, “no one shall ever know.”

“What are you three wittering about,” Jameson says, interrupting the train of conversation as he turns around.

“Probably something better than the lovesick whispers you two are sharing,” Xander teases.

“Xand-“

The thumping of footsteps cut him off. It’s a race. Hearts and Diamonds are out. Savannah is the fastest, Rohan hot on her heels. Though Lyra takes them both over in a matter of seconds. She must be a runner. Would explain the to-die-for figure. Grayson is close behind her thought Odette trailed behind slightly, but for a woman of her age she’s doing remarkably well. They all arrive within milliseconds of each other, breathless and rosy-cheeked.

“Congratulations Diamonds and Hearts, you’ve made it,” Avery smiles.

“Where’s Clubs?” Savannah asks, its only then I notice how her longs blonde hair has been chopped off unevenly. It makes her look even colder than before, sending a chill down my spine

“Still playing,” Jameson says.

“Gray,” I breathe in relief, as he takes me into his arms.

Something about the hug feels unnatural maybe even slightly uncomfortable, but I brush it off. We’d both been awake for far too long. I couldn’t trust my judgement on this little sleep.

“You okay?” I murmur into his shoulder.

“Fine,” he replies, so only I can hear him.

“Good.”

It hit sunrise and something sinks in my stomach. Clubs haven’t made it. Gigi is out of the game. This is going to destroy her. We all wait in silence. All knowing Clubs have failed, all knowing the disappointment we’d have to see on their faces. My heart is thumping loudly in my chest, I can hear it in my ears. I grip onto Grayson’s hand tightly. I catch Lyra’s honey golden eyes. She looks me up and down as I narrow my eyes at her. I can’t read her body language towards me, it was difficult to make out what she was thinking or feelings. I turn away and try not to think too much of it.

There’s sound coming from the left of us and in the distance there are three figures. Everyone’s eyes snap to the three remaining players who’s hearts are probably all sinking in realisation that they were nit longer players in this game. Then I notice what’s in Knox’s arms or rather who… Knox is carrying a bleeding Gigi. My stomach twists. Grayson freezes beside me.

“Put her down,” Grayson says sternly, his voice commanding authority.

Immediately Knox gently places Gigi down, making sure she was stable before he completely let go. We rush to her side immediately. Grayson putting a protective arm around her shoulder, his eyes flitting between the gash on her head and her face.

“Oh god Gigi,” I murmur tentatively touching her bloodied head to assess how severe it is.

“I’m fine,” she winces, blinking back tears.

“You are not,” Grayson says, his voice hard almost empty, “you’re injured Gigi.”

“Who among us is not occasionally concussed?” she says happily.

“Our team is out of the game, go ahead say it we’be been eliminated,” Knox says turning to Avery.

She ignores him and approaches Gigi, “are you okay?”

She nodded with a smile laced with the pain he thought she could hide. Maybe it was invisible to the others, but not to me. I’ve been under the same mask she’s trying to hide behind now. I understand. Grayson keeps his arm around her and I keep my hand in hers. She squeezes my palm and I squeeze hers back. I’m here, I wanted to scream, I’m here for you.

“Diamonds and Hearts, you’re onto the next phase of the game. Clubs… there’s always next year,” Avery finally brings herself to say.

“Once a player, always a player,” Jameson adds.

***

I don’t leave Gigi’s side until Nash has patched her up properly. ‘Stay with her, please,’ Grayson had murmured after we’d shared a quick kiss. He’d had something to discuss back at the dock with Odette. And Lyra. So I did, I stayed by Gigi’s side through every wince, every hand squeeze, every stitch.

“All patch up darlin’,” Nash nods, tipping his cowboy hat towards her slightly.

“Thanks,” she smiles brightly, it’s an unnatural fluorescent brightness that she radiated. Too bright, too artificial.

“You feeling okay?” I make sure, looking at her head.

“Fine,” she replied, gently feeling over her stitches.

Before anyone can say anything else there is a sharp knock at the door interrupting the thread of conversation. Nash answers. Brady walks in. Something was off about that guy. I got a bad feeling when I was around that guy. Nash gets up to leave and as much as I want to stay, it’s not my place to and I know that.

“Holler if you need anything,” Nash tells Gigi.

“We’re not going far,” I reassure her.

“Don’t worry about me,” she beams up at me, though the smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes, “really I’m fine.”

“I think we both know that’s a lie,” I say, my voice so low I’m not sure if she can hear me.

The way her eyes soften, revealing an ounce of vulnerability, indicates she has, “can we talk later? Maybe on the boat back?”

“Of course we can,” I say, squeezing her hand in mine one last time, before standing up to leave her to talk to Brady.

She nods with a small smile which I return, then turn to follow Nash who’s holding eye contact with Brady intensely. As soon as we’re out of the room and a few paces down the corridor Nash blurts out, “I don’t trust him.”

“Neither do I,” I grimace, at least someone else had picked up on Brady’s sketchy vibes, “he gives me a weird feeling.”

“Same here kid,” he nods in reply, then pauses slightly before saying, “you go and find Gray, I’ll be close by if she needs me.”

I fumble over my words. How did he know again? He has to be some sort of mind reader. I make a mental note to discuss it with Xander.

“Are you sure?” I ask quietly.

“I’m sure,” he says, placing a brotherly hand in my shoulder, “I know you’re still worried, you’re horrible at hiding it.”

“Thanks Nash,” I chuckle, brushing hair out of my face,

“No worries kid,” he says, shooting me a lopsided grin as I rush off to reunite with Grayson.

***

The boat left for the mainland at noon, that was when Gigi, Knox and now Odette were leaving, as she traded her place for Brady’s. But the players had been told to try and get some rest before the next phase. I’d also been up all night and could feel myself growing tired, so Grayson and I were currently laying on our bed in each other’s arms. It feels nice to finally breathe a little. I don’t feel the weight of stress from my jealousy or guilt or worry, I just feel normal.

“Do you think Gigi will be okay,” I murmur into Grayson.

“Nash is used to patching up our ailments,” he responds, his tone a little distant. It made me iffy.

“Yeah but I mean after being cast out of the game,” I reply, “I know I wouldn’t feel great if I were in her position.”

“I don’t know,” he murmurs, blowing out a short breath.

“I’m worried about her,” I say quietly.

“Me too,” he whispers, “I’m really worried about her.”

“I think we’re going to talk later,” I tell him, hoping it might provide himnwith some sort of solace.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” I confirm, “I hope she might get whatever it is that’s hurting her off of her chest.”

“Make sure she’s okay for me, okay?” he makes sure, “no matter what.”

“Of course,” I say, a little confused. Why had he said it like that? Like something bad might happen? Like I might lose him? I brush off the feeling. I put it down to overreacting, as usual.

We fall into a long silence as I trace different shapes on chest with my finger tip. I slowly drag it along, with no specific shape in mind. A blank expression is present on his face and I can see he’s deep in thought. There’s something on his mind and I have a horrible feeling it has something to do with the unseen, unheard happenings of the grandest game.

“What’s on your mind?” I ask him, doe-eyed.

“Hmmm nothing,” he says, refusing to look me in the eye.

“You sure?” I press on.

“I’m sure,” he says, planting a kiss on my forehead.

The kiss was off and I could see something was bothering him but he didn’t want to tell me, I’d wait until he was ready. Even if it were forever.

“What was it like in there?” I ask, attempting to change the subject, “the game.”

“It really was the grandest game,” he whispers, “like nothing I’ve ever experienced before.”

“Really?”

“They outdid themselves thoroughly,” he says.

“I bet,” I nod, nuzzling further into him affectionately.

“You really couldn’t hear or see anything the whole time?” he asks, a hint of worry delicately woven into his tone. It was so brief you would’ve missed it if you didn’t know him. But I know Gray.

“Nothing, it was like hell,” I say with a small tired laugh, “it was killing me that I had no clue if you were okay.”

“I was fine,” he replied quickly, almost curtly.

“Well I know that now,” I yawn and feel my eyes begin to close slowly but I fight to keep them open.

“You’re tired,” Grayson says, the ghost of a smile faintly touching his lips.

I shake my head in denial, “no I’m not,” I protest, “not even a little bit.”

“Go the sleep love,” he whispers.

“I want to talk to you though,” I pout, rubbing my eyes.

“We‘ll have plenty of time tomorrow,” he says, playing with my hair.

“Okay,” I murmur, letting myself fall into a dimension of much needed sleep, finally with my love back in my arms.

***

I wake up in the middle of darkness, though there is light desperately trying to make it through the black out blinds. I wonder how long I’d been asleep for, it couldn’t be past noon though. I’m aware of the coldness on the other side of the bed. Grayson wasn’t there. It wasn’t exactly uncommon. Usually when we were home, if it were the early hours he would either be swimming or having a wander and a read to make himself tired again.

I hear the door handle turn slowly and the sound of his all too familiar footsteps hitting the floor. I crawl out of bed, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, as I make my way toward him. Though as I do he stands still, frozen, like he can’t move. Concern latches onto my throat.

“Are you okay?” I whisper, tentatively touching his arm.

He recoils away quickly, like I’ve hit a tender nerve or a bruise of sorts.

“Are you hurt?” I ask worriedly

“No,” he murmurs, his voice stone cold.

It hurts a little more than it should, he’s never usually so blunt, so cutthroat. Not with me anyway.

“Where have you been?” I say, fishing for an honest reply.

He meets my eyes for the first time. Swimming in endless pools of grey is a mournful sorrow, “I’m sorry.”

His voice cracks. Grayson’s voice never cracks.

“Gray?” I say in a ghost of the whisper, the word not even feeling real once it is said. My pulse quickens suddenly and a large lump that I cannot swallow forms in my throat.

He’s pale, his face is regretful. Hollow. Lifeless. My heart sinks. I already know.

“Tell me,” I say, my voice shaking nearly breaking like weak houses in an earthquake.

He shakes his head glossy eyed, “I’m sorry. I never wanted to hurt you, I never meant for it to happen, I-“

“Tell me,” I grit through my teeth trying to prevent the thick emotion building up in my chest from overflowing.

There is a long pause. A deadly silence that seemed to last for days.

He parts his lips and utters the words, “I kissed her.”

It’s like a masked killer has dragged me from the comfort and safety of my own bed in the middle of the night, taken me into the thick of the wood where the vegetation is overgrown and no one will ever hear you scream. The part where it’s hard to see the sky or tell day from night and where no birds sing. And once we’re there, he takes a sharpened knife, laced with the most excruciating poison and slowly opens the left side of my chest, carefully ripping out my beating heart full of blood to destroy in his hands at his leisure. Grinning as her leaves my broken body to bleed out, dying heartless and lifeless. It’s like the person under that mask is Grayson. The one person I put all of my love and trust into. The one person who I thought would saved me from the masked killer is the masked killer. What a fucking joke.

“Who?” I ask, my tone low, dangerous, angry, “who did you kiss? I want to hear you say it.”

“I kissed Lyra,” he whispers, tears rolling down his cheeks, a state I’d never witnessed him in before. But right now I’m too broken to care.

My heart shatters into a million pieces on the spot. And then I am numb with agony.

a/n: so that was a fun ending :) hope you enjoyed part 2 my loves <33 and thanks to everyone who requested it, I’m sorry it took me so long to get around to it

NOTE I DONT THINK GRAYSON IS A CHEATER!! LIKE AT ALL. MY BABY WOULD NEVER!! but I thought I’d spice things up a bit yk, for the ✨drama✨

ALSO the de-coding thingy when the power went out if probs completely wrong on my part but I was allowed to drop computer science last year and I did ;) so I was just waffling, I know nothing about computers other than they can type, play music and they provide me with google and amazon

TIG masterlist

[jinuaei]

Would it be fucked up to write about Chronic Wasting Disease(on deers) but make it Yandere! Alastor. Highkey inspired by Lovesick! Wally Darling.

TW: It's YANDERE and maybe horror like?

The more the disease develops the more boney and ill-looking Alastor gets. Wasting away in his room as he tries to find a cure for this disease, unwilling to show his face to the hotel members with how messed up he looks right now, drooling and skinnier than he has ever been, ears drooping low on his head, he doesn't have enough energy to perk them back up.

Even all through what has been happening to him, the smile on his face never falters, granted, he could never stop even if he wants to. The disease will never let him drop the grin on his face.

Enter you, a trusted member of the Hazbin Hotel, and a good friend to the Radio Demon before his isolation. The princess of hell has been concerned after a month of no contact from Alastor, she has been trying to get him out of his room but all she gets in return are incoherent mumbles and even growling. So, she assigned you to take care of Alastor during that whole month, her being too busy to focus on him.

You've been leaving him food outside his room, he never ate them so you resorted to asking Rosie to bring you demon meat or venison, he ate them but not alot. However when you left the food in it's raw state, as suggested by miss Rosie, he didn't leave any leftovers after that.

For the past month that's the routine that you fell into, wake up, eat breakfast, bring Alastor his food, try to talk to him while he's eating-- you never get any responses, then leave. One time though, you were a bit late in bringing him his food, and as you bent down to leave the meat, the door burst open and you screamed in surprise, dropping the food and crawling backwards against the wall. The hand that snatched the meat was too fast, too boney, and too sharp.

The door didn't close though and through the gap you can see a single red eye peering through it. It looked frantic, pupils dilated, shaky. Why are the pupils shaped like a heart...?

"I...scared you...? I'm sorry, I'm sorry...Imsorryimsorryimsorryimsorry--," Alastor's demonic voice mumbles as the door creeps open. You ran away before he could fully open it.

That was a week ago, ever since then you tried to be on time. Today though, things went differently, not only did he grabbed the meat, he also grabbed you. Now you're laying on the ground shivering in fear as the deer demon lays on top of you, nuzzling onto your neck, the drool soaking your shirt.

"You're here...Yes... It doesn't hurt anymore, oh my darling... I was so sick for so long... I was trying to find the cure to heal me... but oh...," he sighs, gripping you tighter, "You were the cure all along! It was so close to me and I didn't even know it! It has always been you...!"

"Every time I thought about you, it hurt less, and every time you were outside my door bringing me food like a good mate. The pain was gone...! But why would you leave every time? Don't you know you have to stay with your mate? Your husband?"

"Hmmm... Maybe if you keep taking care of me, I'll be healthy enough to go outside our room! And we can go on dates! Yes... That would be lovely..." He croons, pulling away from your neck and looking down at you, his heart shaped eyes glowing in the dark.

What the hell happened to Alastor?

[theres-a-body-here]

Scumtober- Day 18 (Medical Play)

SCP-049 x Male!reader

"Now, now," said SCP‐049 calmly, raising a hand to wave vaguely at the array of tools. "Let us begin. First things first – tell me how you've been feeling recently?"

You snapped out of your trance. You were busy looking around the containment room. Right, you're here for a checkup. You've recently been feeling under the weather, which is concerning considering you're an Euclid class SCP. Even more ironic, your abilities pertain to human diseases and ailments, more specifically, spreading them on an unprecedented level yet remaining immune to them. So its not hard to see why the Foundation would be interested to know what exactly is infecting you.

"Ive been feeling strange.....melancholic" you say softly as you glance at his medical tools curiously. The doctor nods as his hand goes under his chin as if in thought. He motions for you to continue. You look through your memories. "I saw one of the assistants whispering to one of the researchers the other day. She laughed and I felt....left out"

The Plague doctor stops pondering as he internally facepalms. You're just lonely. He could cure this in his sleep.

SCP‐049 leaned against the table, his mask's beak pointing at you. "Ah yes, the Pestilence of loneliness," he mused. "A most insidious affliction indeed. But fear not," he purred, placing a gloved hand on your shoulder. "For I shall be your... cure."

Without warning, SCP‐049 pulled back suddenly, revealing a syringe in his gloved hand. Before you could react, he pressed it firmly against your neck and pressed down on the plunger, injecting you with an unknown substance. As he did so, he continued to speak in his smooth, almost hypnotic tone. "There now, that won't do. Let's see if this helps clear up those pesky blues."

He removes the syringe and starts cleaning up the spot where he injected you. Within minutes you start to feel a warmth traveling from your chest to your groin. You blush as you start to visibly tent up. You move your hands to cover your boner. The doctor huffs and shakes his head as he gently grabs your hands to pull them away. You groan but let him since you want this funk to end already, no matter what crazy ideas this loon has.

As SCP‐049 began examining you, his movements became increasingly sensual, his fingers tracing along your inner thighs and brushing against your growing erection. "Tell me, mon cher," he whispered behind his mask. "Have you ever considered... exploring your own desires? There's no shame in wanting pleasure, after all."

Your mind swirled with arousal as you tried to focus on answering him truthfully. Finally, you managed to stammer out a response. "I... I haven't really thought about it much."

He simply gives a hum in response before tugging at your pants. Your blush darkens but you let him, he's the professional after all....you think. The doctor pulls down your pants and underwear as he carefully folds them and places them on a chair besides the trolley holding the tools. You shiver as your bare ass touches the cold metal of the exam table. The doctor reaches over to the trolley and pulls it closer to the table. He picks up the clipboard.

With practiced ease, SCP‐049 spread your legs apart with his free hand, exposing your genitals to his gaze. He hummed appreciatively at the sight of your throbbing member, eager and throbbing. He tilted his head as he ran a finger lightly along the sensitive skin of your balls. You let out a soft sigh at the contact. Your cock flexes and twitches.

"Interesting..." he murmured, jotting down some notes on his clipboard. SCP‐049 moved closer to you, pressing the tip of his pen directly onto the slit of your penis. At the slight pressure, you let out a surprised whine, involuntarily thrusting your hips towards him. This elicited another low hum of approval from SCP‐049 as he went back to writing more notes.

He suddenly puts the clipboard onto the trolley. He picks up a thin metal rod and applies some lubricant to the end of it. You raise an eyebrow as you try to guess where its going. With deliberate slowness, he placed the lubed end of the rod against the slit of your penis. You sharply inhale as you wait, shaking with nerves.

"Relax, cherie," he crooned, running a gentle hand across your stomach. "This won't hurt...much."

Slowly, oh so slowly, SCP‐049 pushed the sounding rod into your urethra, making sure to apply just enough pressure to keep you aroused without causing pain. As he worked, he couldn't help but marvel at the way your body responded to each millimeter of intrusion – your breath coming faster, your cock growing harder, and your eyes widening in anticipation.

Finally, with a satisfied grunt, SCP‐049 reached the desired depth and held the rod steady, taking great satisfaction in hearing your whimpers. Placing a small clamp near the base of the rod, he secured it in place, ensuring that it wouldn't slide any further into your urethral tunnel. Satisfied with his work, he returned to his clipboard, scribbling furiously as he documented everything he observed.

You whimper as he takes his time. "Please....I need more" You moan out desperately. The doctor rolls his eyes and sighs. Being a doctor can be so demanding sometimes. He shakes his head as he lubricates his gloved hands liberally.

"Oh, very well," SCP‐049 sighed, rolling his eyes dramatically behind his mask. "It seems our dear patient requires additional stimulation." He presses his fingers against your puckered hole, inciting a soft moan from you.

With expert precision, SCP‐049 inserted two fingers past the tight ring of muscle guarding your entrance. He scissored them open once inside, stretching you wider. Each movement was accompanied by a keening cry from you, your voice hoarse with desire. Your hips buck and your cock bounces, causing the metal rod to slide a bit in and out.

"Subject exhibiting signs of extreme arousal. Penis fully erect, testicles drawn up close to body. Vocalizations indicate heightened state of excitement. Shall proceed with next phase of experiment"

As SCP‐049 spoke, he removed his fingers from your hole and replaced them with three – one middle finger sandwiched between two index fingers. Your body writhed helplessly on the table as you let out guttural moans.

SCP‐049 grabs hold of your shoulder for support, using it as leverage to drive his digits deeper still. His fingers move with a cruel rhythm, plundering your depths ruthlessly until you felt like nothing more than an empty vessel begging to be filled. You grasp the edge of the table for support as he abuses your prostate. The sounding rod bobbed maddeningly inside you, adding yet another layer of sensory input to fuel your impending climax. Already, you could feel the telltale stirrings deep within your core as your orgasm approached.

Desperate to reach release, you claw at SCP‐049's robe, searching for something solid to anchor yourself amidst the storm of pleasure. Without warning, he yanks the sounding rod out of your urethra in one swift motion, sending a geyser of hot semen shooting forth from your dick. It splatters across your torso and chin, leaving you utterly spent and trembling with post‐orgasmic bliss.

"Magnifique!" SCP‐049 declared triumphantly, moving back slightly to admire his handiwork. "But I fear our session has only just begun, ma cher. We have much more ground to cover if we are to rid you of your loneliness."

With that cryptic statement, he began to undo the fastenings of his robes.

This was going to be a long visit to the doctors.

Scumtober 2023 Masterlist

[portraitofalinkonfyre]

hello :D i'm so in love with your writing i actually came up with a request for the first ever time *ever* since i joined like 5 years ago lmao

-reader gets into trouble with the chain for self endangering, reckless behavior, reprimanding/arguing ensues, maybe with reader not valuing themselves all that highly in comparison to the others? preferably with some rather rough lovin' as an escalation, just to get it through reader's thick skull that they're wanted and important

-i'd love to see Time, Warriors or Sky with this, but if you think someone else fits better that's perfectly reasonable too

-feel free to switch up any details you can't really work around (but no degradation please)

Absolutely!! I love this idea so much, so thank you for gracing me with it! I was also really inspired by this ask so it's going to be about 3-4 chapters long <3

The Bluest Eyes

Pairing: Warriors x Reader

Warning(s): A whole lot of smut and a few scenes of Reader suffering from PTSD. Reader is requested to be female.

Notes: Set in the same AU as Burning Love, where Reader is a retired war medic from Warriors' Hyrule. Also, a "night rail" is a type of nightgown :)

Main Masterlist | Fic Masterlist | Next Chapter

"Get down right now!" Hyrule's shout rang through the clearing, unusually annoyed for the typically patient traveler. Warriors lifted his head, blanching when he caught sight of you sitting atop the thick branches of one of the nearby trees, feet swinging down as you yelled back. 

"No! Go heal Wind!"

"Wind has a scrape on his arm," the traveler stressed, gesturing to the snoozing hero as the others began to gather under the tree, expressions ranging from concerned to downright shocked. "You've been stabbed, (Y/n)."

"I'm fucking fine," you hissed back as blood dripped onto the ground from the wound in your shoulder, and Warriors was caught between terror at your condition to complete bafflement at how you managed to climb the tree in such a state. "Leave me alone!"

"Not until you let me heal you," Hyrule ground out with a stormy expression, hands twitching as if he intended to make you come down with sheer force of will alone. 

"(Y/n)," Time tried in a soft tone, ever the voice of reason. "Denying yourself care will only hurt you further."

"Then I'll be hurting and Wind will be alive," you snarled, snapping your legs up when Wild took a running jump for them. More blood splattered from your shoulder, staining the sleeve of your tunic beyond repair, and Warriors finally noticed the unaltered fear in your expression. 

You were afraid, and he had an idea why. Being a medic during the War of Eras, there was no doubt in Warriors' mind that you had seen terrible things–death, disease, perhaps even betrayal--and the way your eyes nervously shifted to study each of them only confirmed his theory. You were trying to sacrifice yourself for them, though he couldn't fathom why; they had more than enough health potions to go around, and Hyrule had hardly even used his magic when tending to Wind. 

There was no reason for you to be acting this way, yet he knew exactly what you were. There was a faraway gleam in your eyes, like you were looking at something that didn't exist anymore. 

Warrior's stomach churned as he couldn't help but wonder how long it had been since you felt truly safe. 

"(Y/n), please..." Legend's voice was uncharacteristically soft, eyes wide with worry, an expression they all shared. "It was only a lizalfos attack, no one else got hurt."

"He did," you spat, pointing to Wind, and Warriors couldn't take it anymore. 

"That's it, we're coming up."

You gasped as the captain took a running start, leaping up and just barely latching on to the branch below your feet. "Get down right now, you're going to hurt yourself!"

"We're just trying to help you," Sky took a less physical approach, moving to stand beneath the branch with a look of barely disguised regret. 

"I'm fine," you repeated in a weak voice, and Warriors knew he had to act fast. 

"You're bleeding out," he grunted as he heaved himself over the branch, ignoring the blood dripping down onto his scarf; it wasn't like he couldn't wash it later. 

"It's just blood," you said, and he could have laughed at how disappointed you looked in yourself when the words sunk in. 

"Just blood?" Warriors pulled himself onto the branch, settling next to you, hand reaching around your waist to stabilize your swaying form. Your hands valiantly tried to bat him away, but you were far too weak to do any real damage. 

"Please," his heart ached at the beginning of tears forming in the corner of your eyes. "Get down."

"Not without you," he countered quietly. 

"You're hurt," you whimpered, and it was as if all the air had been sucked from the space. Your gaze was worryingly unfocused as you turned your head to look at him, and Warriors could only imagine what you were seeing. "I can't heal you."

"I'm not hurt," he replied gently, not wanting to scare you even more than you already were. "It's all yours."

"Oh," you blinked slowly, as if you were struggling to comprehend his very words. "I'm sorry."

There was a knot in Warriors' throat. He tried to gulp it down, but it bounced back with more force than he expected. "Don't be sorry, just let Hyrule heal you."

Your gaze flicked slowly to the heroes waiting below, a protective glint in your slowly-focusing eyes. "...What about them?"

"They'll be okay," Warriors promised, and you nodded weakly, head lolling to the right to rest against his shoulder, pressing your wound to his chest with nary a hiss. 

"Okay," you whispered in the most broken tone he had heard from you. 

Warriors was sure he hadn't moved quicker in his life, carefully gathering your limp form in his arms and dropping back to solid ground. He remained silent as Hyrule dashed over, hands already glowing with green magic. 

"Lay her down," the traveler said in a wavering voice, and Warriors did as instructed, placing you on the ground as if one wrong move would shatter you, and it was then that he truly noticed the ashy pallor your face had taken on, eyes squeezed shut as Hyrule worked his magic above you. 

Slowly but surely, the exposed wound on your shoulder closed, your skin knitting together under the traveler's hands, leaving behind a wide rip in the blood-soaked sleeve of your tunic. The fitful expression on your face softened some, but he could still see the slight frown tugging at the corners of your mouth. 

Warriors' hand found your uninjured shoulder, shaking it softly as Wild plopped down beside you, face twisted with worry. "How are you feeling?"

There was no response, and his heart could have damn near stopped when he registered the tell-tale softness your breathing had taken on. Nearly shoving Hyrule aside, he pressed two fingers to the side of your neck, fearing the worst. 

"Is she dead?!" Four exclaimed in absolute, unadulterated horror, and the others began to murmur in fear. Warriors' pressed harder, motions unusually desperate as he fought to find a pulse. No, his mind whispered, a cacophony of dread as his fearful thoughts soared, cursing himself for not acting sooner. He shouldn't have waited, and now you were paying the price for his stupidity--

The very notion of time seemed to skid to a standstill when you wheezed suddenly, throat bobbing harshly against his prodding fingers. 

"She's alive!" Hyrule exclaimed in palpable relief, and the tension in the air began to dissipate. Warriors took several breaths to calm his racing heartbeat, removing his hand from your neck as you coughed, turning your head to the side, groaning softly. "Fuck," you said, and the captain was torn between crying and laughing. 

"Are you alright?" Sky was quick to help you into a sitting position. You winced, rubbing at your healed shoulder with your free hand. 

"Yeah," you mumbled, looking around with mounting apprehension. "...Where's Wind?"

"Here!" called the sailor, having just woken up from his nap, and you gave him an exhausted half-grin. 

"Good," you tried to stand, only to be pushed down by Hyrule. 

"Not a chance, (Y/n)," the traveler chided, obviously still shaken from your initial refusal of help. "You're staying right there."

"I'm okay--"

"No," Hyrule said in a tone that brokered no argument. "You are– you are going to sit there and get better, or Hylia help me I will tie you down until you do."

You opened your mouth to respond, but Warriors noted how quickly you reconsidered the idea when Hyrule fixed you with a dark glare, crossing his arms over his chest in a manner that screamed 'try me and die'. 

"...Fine," you relented, slumping backward, and the captain had a distinct urge to ruffle your hair. Your cheeks pinked and you all but hissed: "Stop that."

"Nope," said Warriors, laughing softly when you fixed him with one of your practiced stares, though even a fool could see that there was no heat whatsoever in your gaze. He rose to his feet, deftly dusting the tops of his pants. "Time, do you–"

"Um, guys?" Wind's voice interrupted, filled with apprehension. Warriors turned to face the sailor... only to blanch. 

A portal had opened in the center of the clearing--pure white mixed with swirling hints of gold. The air around it crackled softly, charged with an explicably dangerous energy that had the hair on the back of his neck standing on end. 

"Is that...?" You trailed off, letting the situation speak for itself. 

"Time," Warriors drew his sword, stalking over to put himself between you and the portal. "Do we have another–"

"No," the oldest hero cut him off, tone unusually icy. "This isn't anything I recognize."

"We'll have to go through it, then," said Wild, already advancing forward. Warriors gazed back at Twilight and Legend, who both nodded, unsheathing their swords while the captain re-sheathed his, bending over to gather you in his arms. 

"I can walk," you half snapped, though you made no real move to prove that point. 

"No, you can't," Warriors responded, turning to face the portal as Time and Twilight entered it, disappearing in a flash of light. The others followed swiftly, and he could only hope they'd be able to survive what awaited them on the other side.

You recognized the castle gates as soon as you saw them. 

You had long since wrapped your arms around Warriors' neck, holding on for dear life despite the fact that you knew he wouldn't drop you, deftly studying the bustling streets as the group stepped into Castle Town. 

It was undoubtedly your Hyrule, and there was a certain comfort in being home again. You remained silent as the others chatted, half because you were nearly asleep and half because you couldn't fathom what to say to any of them at this point. Embarrassment coursed through you as you recalled their terrified expressions when you scaled the tree, too lost in your thoughts to realize what was going on. 

You liked to think you kept decent control of your emotions, but now...

"Hey," you felt the words rumbling from Warriors' chest before you heard them. "What's on your mind?"

"Nothing," you said quickly. Perhaps too quickly, from the way he cocked an eyebrow down at you in response. "I'm fine."

"You keep saying that," the hero paused, then continued in a far quieter tone. "But I don't think I believe you anymore."

"Maybe because it's none of your business," you hissed... and immediately regretted it. "I'm sorry, I just–"

"I understand," said Warriors. The hand on your ribcage tightened as he hefted you tighter against him. "I really do."

You didn't doubt that, you really didn't, but a thick ball formed in your throat and you didn't trust yourself not to start bawling in the middle of the street. With a shaky huff, you tucked your head against the broad expanse of Warriors' chest, letting familiar darkness consume you. 

You couldn't sleep. 

The bedroom Queen Zelda had so graciously gifted you was too cold, yet your pillow felt hot enough to burn a hole through metal. You flipped onto your stomach, gripping the pillow as you buried your face into it. Every time you closed your eyes, memories of the War would pop into your mind's eye like flies, only dropping when you awoke, panting like you had run a lap around the castle itself. 

"Fuck..." you whispered to the empty room. Warriors had passed you off to Twilight and Hyrule as soon as his boots crossed the foyer, declaring that he had a meeting with Zelda, only returning with a grim expression and ten keys. The Queen had heard reports of a black lizalfos roaming the land, but they were largely unreliable, leaving everyone with no choice but to stay in the castle for the night. 

While you were grateful for the unexpected privacy, there was something to be said about sleeping in the open with what you now considered to be some of your closest friends. The room, decked out in purple tapestries, was terribly lonely, as four-poster beds typically weren't the chattiest of company. 

The bed creaked as you shifted onto your back, staring up at the stone ceiling, hands fisted in the soft fabric of the creme night rail you wore. You tried not to think of how Wind had almost been slashed, or how close Time had gotten to being bisected by a moblin, but they kept popping up the harder you willed them away. 

It was hopeless, you realized. Completely, utterly hopeless. 

You swung your legs off the side of the bed, kicking your slippers on and shuffling to the nightstand, where a lone candle sat. With trembling hands, you lit it. A fierce orange glow illuminated the room, and you used it to guide you to the door, peering outside at the empty hallway. 

You were no stranger to the castle, which is why you stepped out for a short walk, shoes scuffing gently on the polished floor. 

Aimlessly, you wandered, uncaring of where you ended up. Dark shadows stretched and spun before you, quickly vanquished by the light of the candle. You walked beneath one of the many arches, entering a hallway you didn't recognize. A large portrait hung on the very back wall, a stunning caricature of Queen Zelda and... Warriors. 

You approached the portrait, holding up your candle for a better view. Their faces were relaxed–not too relaxed, of course–and could be vaguely described as peaceful. Warriors himself looked younger, like the burden of being a hero had not yet hit, with a small grin that made the corners of your lips quirk up. 

"...(Y/n)?"

You nearly dropped the candle as you spun around, heart nearly leaping from your chest. 

"Wars?!"

And there he was, in all his blonde-haired, bleary-eyed glory, dressed in nothing but a pair of pants. You tried not to look at his chest, mostly because it was highly inappropriate and partially because you were supposed to be upset, and looking at that glorious abdomen made you feel anything but sad. 

"You're not asleep," he observed in a matter-of-fact tone. "Why was I expecting this?"

You crossed your arms over your chest. "I could say the same about you."

"I know," his gaze flicked to the portrait, then back to you. "Do you want to talk?"

"Not really."

"Liar."

You bristled. "Excuse me?"

"You're unexcused," Warriors shot back, and you became distinctly aware of just how close a two-foot distance was when you were alone. "Tell me the truth."

"And that is?"

The captain fixed you with a half-hearted, largely exhausted glare. "Gee, (Y/n), maybe when you climbed a tree to avoid medical attention?"

"That's diff–"

"Or perhaps when you refused to let Hyrule heal you until we climbed the tree?"

"That's not–"

"Or should I mention that time you attempted to give Wild a healing potion after he stubbed his toe?"

"You–"

"I'm not done," Warriors cut you off, running a hand down his face. "Do you have any idea how worried we were? How worried I was?"

There was silence, because you didn't trust yourself to speak without breaking down. 

"Well?" the captain prompted. "Don't you have anything to say for yourself?"

You stared at him. This was pointless; you didn't want to talk, you wanted...

A knot formed in your stomach. What did you want? It had been so long since you considered something so... well, you felt it was rather mundane, but that didn't excuse that you had no idea what you wanted. 

You didn't realize you had begun to cry until Warriors' hand swiped gently at your face with a gentleness you didn't know he possessed. For you, at least. 

"It's going to be alright," he said, and, before you knew it, you were bawling, thick sobs shaking your shoulders. Wars wordlessly pulled you to his chest, wrapping his arms around your trembling form. 

"I can't do it," you whispered against his clavicle, arms encircling his bare back. "If I can't help him, how am I to help the rest of you?"

"You don't have to," the captain responded softly, hugging you a bit tighter. "You've helped enough-- no, more than enough."

"I know, b-but," you hated how your voice wavered noticeably when you spoke the last word. "I can't lose you."

"You won't."

"How can you promise that?" you hiccuped, pressing yourself closer, heavy tears blurring your vision. "Wars..."

"We're strong, (Y/n), we'll always be here," he responded slowly. Carefully. "Always."

“Promise me,” you whispered, unable to force any other words out. You needed to hear him say it, and the anticipation was tearing you from the inside out. 

“I promise,” said Warriors. He sounded genuine, but, then again, he always did. 

“Good,” you sniffed, feeling slightly sheepish for crying on him in the middle of the night. “I’m sorry, I just…”

You froze when Warriors put a finger over your lips, shushing you softly. “You have nothing to be sorry for,” he said, holding you like he would never let go. “Don’t apologize for things that aren’t your fault, okay?”

That… that was new. You had always liked Warriors; he was kind and reliable, not to mention an excellent strategist. Butterflies fluttered in your stomach, but you willed them away, hoping the night was dark enough to conceal the burning flush on your cheeks. 

“...Okay,” you agreed, distinctly aware of the flexing muscles lying just beneath your fingertips. Warriors was strong–they all were–and you felt as much anxiety over it as you did comfort. “Why… Why were you up?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” he responded quickly, and you couldn’t help but chuckle half-heartedly. “What is it?”

The words slipped from you like a knife through butter, like the softest silk and the quietest breeze. “We’re both hopeless.”

Warriors hummed and turned his sparkling cerulean gaze to you. “Maybe,” he whispered to the night. “Helplessness can be helped.”

“You think?” You were almost afraid to ask, but you could have done anything to hear his voice again. 

“I think it’s time for bed.”

You laughed before you could stop yourself. Warriors released you when you pushed lightly on his chest, arms hanging loosely by his bare sides. “Isn’t that Sky’s line?”

“...I won’t tell if you don’t.”

“Deal.”

With slightly-lifted spirits, you peered outside, studying the star-spangled sky with mild interest. The moon was bright, bathing the hallway in a milky sheen that made it all the more eternal, and you wondered why you hadn’t taken the time to study it before. “It’s so–… I never noticed…”

“Beauty comes in many forms,” Warriors intoned softly with a glance in your direction. “There are people who go their whole lives without appreciating the little things.”

“And you are?”

The captain hesitated, shoulders slumping slightly, making you wonder if he would appreciate a hug. “I’m still working on it,” he admitted softly, and made the executive decision not to pry.

“So am I,” you shot an exhausted grin his way. “...How mad do you think Hyrule will be if I don’t sleep?”

Warriors ran a hand down his face, and only a fool would miss the very obvious, very large smile he was attempting to conceal. Until it shifted to a grin, then a smirk. 

“If I have to sleep, you do too.”

“Actually–”

“Hush,” you blinked dumbly when his hand extended, palm up, toward you. A few seconds passed, and Warriors let out a small huff. “(Y/n)–”

“Present.”

“...Just take my hand.”

You did.

First chapter done! This is the second ask that has activated me like this, and I'm excitedly-terrified of the other wonderful ideas y'all might send me in the future!

[mirkhammett]

die, die my darling (vampire!kirk)

summary; recently, you’ve realised that your roommate kirk has been acting different, inhumane. and you soon find out why.

warnings; blood drinking, light gore?, smut <3, a teeny bit of angst, fingering, non-protective sex (though baes a vamp so i believe it doesn’t matter :3)

w/c; 3.9k

the vamp kirk isn’t my idea, inspired by a great writer, @orions-choker!! pls go check their work out, it’s sooo addictive :p (not yet proofread so expect mistakes!!)

to say your roommate had been acting different would be an understatement.

his timid responses were the first signals that something was off- and then it was the lack of eye contact. the boy you knew to be once so smiley, couldn’t even luster up a few seconds of direct contact as you bid him off on many on his nights out, that had become much more common recently. he never said were he was going, and you never asked, but you had an inkling that every time was the same- he’d go out for a smoke, and a walk to clear his head (most likely). that would explain the faint stench of tobacco that always seemed to arise in the early mornings.

some nights you wouldn’t even wave him off- but something was the same, every single time. not once had you ever heard him come back, nor even the sound of the heavy wood door of your shared apartment clashing closed. nothing. and it wasn’t you were an early sleeper either, no. most nights you spent up into the early hours, an opened book resting on your duvet covered lap, your head only hitting the pillows when your neighbours would finally stop arguing and hit the hay. (which was never before midnight on a good day.)

but sometimes, only sometimes, you’d wake up after feeling a harsh whoosh of air through your room, rubbing your eyes in confusion and glancing to locked window. weird. you’d always blame it on your cheap, hardly working fan, and in a daze, go back to the land of dreams.

it wasn’t the first time he had acted like this, though. every couple of weeks he’d slip out into the night for these walks, and you’d take no mind of it, until now.

it was different this time. in the many months since kirk had moved in with you, you kept him close and considered him a friend. so why was it that he would avoid physical contact with you like the plague, hell, why was he so hesitant to even have a conversation? why was he always fully covered, wearing long trousers and thick sleeves in this scorching heat? and why were his eye bags so prominent, so much that his reddened veins were peeking through the thin layer of skin?

still, your feelings for him never once faltered, neither did the immense concern you felt for his wellbeing. maybe tonight was the night, do to something. to just say something, make sure he’s not struggling too much.

tonight you hadn’t heard him leave, and you hadn’t been in the living room, so he must’ve felt no need to announce his whereabouts. you couldn’t deny it, the division you felt between you and him hurt. -and tonight, tonight you were restless. kirk, he plagued all of the thoughts in your brain like a disease.

you yawned, setting your book down onto your duvet covered lap, just like every other night. the (un-happily) married couple next door had finally decided to give it a rest, but your whole body felt an immense itch, that wouldn’t go away no matter how much you scratched it.

you sighed as you slipped from under the covers, using one hand to rub your eyes and the other to mindlessly clutch your book. just as every night before, you checked the window was closed and locked, the moon shaped like a fingernail, the cheshire cat grinning down at you in irony. in irony of what, you didn’t know yet. you made your way down the hallway, passing kirk’s empty bedroom, not even bothering to check. you knew if he was home, there was no way his light would be off, and his door would be open, not even by an inch. he appreciated his privacy, and you couldn’t be mad about that.

the couch was where you decided to reside- and you didn’t care if it took even mere minutes or hours, you were going to get to the bottom of this. the thin blanket you draped over yourself didn’t provide much comfort or warmth, the coolness of the brown leather beneath you overpowering the heat, the shitty air conditioner on blast.

not even a full hour had gone by before you starting to hear it. the clatter of heavy combat boots walking down the hallway, the noise getting louder and louder as they reached your door. his combat boots. you immediately sat up on the couch, wiping your drooping eyes as you twisted around on the couch, so your body was resting against the backrest, your eyes studied tightly on the door.

he opened it with the firm gentleness that would radiate off of him, the gentleness that you knew so well. he fumbled to shove his keys back into his book, kneeling down to untie his shoes.

you leaned further over the couch, watching him with your mouth open. “kirk?”

he immediately stilled, raising from his bent position and turning to slowly, slowly face you. so much looked wrong with him, with so little explanation. you felt yourself straightening your back up. “i..” he whispered, like a deer caught in headlights.

his once muscular arms now looked much more frail, with such prominent veins, like a red rash covering his whole body as they pulsed wildly, thrashing with a hunger for blood. the rash continued up his bare arms, up to his pale neck, and through to his lifeless face. he looked tired. so, so, tired.

and without thinking you rose from the couch, stepping towards him with pure concern and worry in your features. your voice came out a soft, comforting whisper, as you reached your arm towards him. “what’s wrong with you, kirk?”

he winced as soon as your soft skin came in contact with his arm, his expression a grimace as he shut his eyes as hard as you could, almost as if he could escape this situation. you were hurt by his sudden moment, and you didn’t fail to show it, no matter how hard you tried to mask it. “you look so sick,” your eyes trailed down to his figure, “is there something i don’t know about?”

he shock your arm off of him, wrapping his arms around himself in a protective manner. a low grunt of pain escaping from his lips.

“i don’t want to hurt you, please..” it was the most you had heard him speak in days, and while you should’ve been happy, the tone of his voice was so heartbreaking, so shaky and frail.

you looked up at him, eyes full of concern, brows furrowed. he wouldn’t look at you, not fully. his eyes were either trained on the ground, or glued shut. he couldn’t bear to look at you, not at a time like this. he couldn’t bear to think of the consequences.

he had been putting of his weekly feed for a while now. infact, he hadn’t fed in weeks. whether it was the guilt or hurting another that consumed him, or self hatred, he didn’t know. all he knew was that he didn’t want to hurt you. the smell of tobacco was present on him, but you hadn’t even realised it. and if you had, you really couldn’t care less, not with the state of him.

his fingers were so pale, and the effect it took for him to press them against his own skin made you wince. even more so, did his response.

“why would you hurt me?” you slowly closed the gap between the both of you, bringing a gentle hand to burns against his cheek. “you could never hurt me.”

“but i could, y/n.” he spoke seriously. it took all of the strength in him to not just take everything he wanted from you, drain you dry. but with anyone else, he wouldn’t have even made it this far. your touch sent shivers through him, the strong scent of your sweet, warm blood rocking through him.

suddenly it all became too much, his chocolate brown orbs turning a dark, sinister shade of red, his mouth opening as he gasped out a grunt of pain, clutching his cheek.you flinched, pulling your hand away and stepping back away from him. if he was in a better state than he was know, he would’ve noticed your fear and reassured you. but he couldn’t, with the growing pains in his gums.

and once you recovered from the shock of his sudden harsh movement, you saw it. where two of his teeth once stood, were razor sharp canines, the gums around them enflamed and bloody- and that was when he finally looked up at you. with the look of horror in your eyes, he knew he couldn’t hide it anymore. “i…i’m not human, y/n.”

“you’re..a vampire?” you voiced wearily. he nodded, his exhausted eyes catching onto yours. “why do you look so…so ill?” you spoke with caution, fear in your voice, and kirk could tell, no matter how hard you tried to cover it. kirk felt his heart break at that.

“i haven’t fed..in a while,” his hand was still clutching his pale cheek, his voice filled with pain and despair. he coughed shakily, his legs buckling slightly. in a state of panic, you immediately held him up straight. he sucked in a harsh breath at your touch. “i can’t..i can’t risk hurting you.”

you shushed him, leading him to the couch, your book left discarded, the blanket now kicked to the floor. he sat slowly, still wincing his features at your gentle hands. your touch felt good, too good, and that was the problem. your touch had his undead body pulsing and throbbing, like his heart was really beating again, when he knew it.

that was how it always was with you, and he had no explanation for it, not until recently. why was it he felt so strongly for you, and no one else? it wasn’t just his heightened senses, no, no..that was for everyone else, too. it couldn’t have been his bloodlust, thought he found it so much harder to spend time around you when he was on a fast. it was more than that. there was no way for him to explain it, not truly, other than that when he was around you, he felt alive.

he didn’t even feel it when you sat down next to him, occupied by a whirlwind of thoughts circulating around his brain, going through to his empty lungs. all he breathed in was you.

“do you need blood?” how you still seemed to remain so concerned for him after what you had just found out, he couldn’t fathom. he continued to stare at the ground, and you know his answer. “okay,” you hummed, coming closer. “feed from me.”

his eyes widened, his hands coming to push you away, his voice a pained ramble, “no, no, please, i couldn’t..you’re the only person i don’t want to hurt.”

he looks like a kicked puppy, his eyes so wide you were afraid they could pop out of his head. he voiced pure denial, but you knew he couldn’t deny it for too much longer, the bloodlust taking over.

“it’s okay,” you bared your neck to him, your warm breathe sending shivers through you. “take what you need.”

he grimaced, though he leaned in, his guilt so clear on his face. you brought a hand up to his hair, ruffling it so gently he felt he could cry.

“i’m sorry,” he whispered, resting his cracked lips against your smooth skin. he hesitated for a couple seconds, until you tightened your grip on his black coils, and he lost it.

his sharp fangs broke the barrier of your gentle skin, your warm blood intoxicating and filling up all of his senses. he growled into your neck, your whimpers going unheard by him in his blood lustful state. he sucked your neck with force, a bruise already forming around, what would soon be, a bite scar.

he didn’t take much, because it was you. and if it wasn’t you, he feared he would’ve drained them dry, sucked them of all their life and soul, body turning paler, and paler, until their skin was tinted grey and he had no choice but to pull away, as they held no use to him anymore.

but it was you. so he pulled away, his mouth gone just as quick as it arrived. you whimpered as his fangs retracted, his rambled words drowning out the pain. “thank you, i’m sorry, i love you,” these words flowed from his boyish voice like a river, talking before he could even think properly again.

he wiped the loose droplets of blood from your neck with his thumb, which suddenly didn’t look so lifeless anymore. his eyes had returned to their normal shade of brown, his veins no longer visible. your body relaxed against the couch as it was now his turn to dance his hand through your hair, kissing your forehead lightly, and then pulling back.

“you love me?” you grinned, your eyes half shut, but still gazing upon him.

he returned a soft grin, his black curls bouncing as he nodded down at you, regaining his strength back. “how could i not?” he mumbled.

your body felt like a million fireworks had just gone off in your stomach, butterflies zooming around at the impact- and no, your giddiness was not from the blood loss, but kirk’s admission of love. their had been an undeniable tension between you and kirk for the many months you had lived together, confessions of love always wanted to be released, but remaining to hang lowly in the back of your minds.

for when you would grocery shop for your shared apartment together, and he’d go off and gather all of the snacks he knew you loved, without you even asking. or when you’d have a movie night, and he’d pick whatever movie he knew you were dictated on at the time. but neither of you ever said anything.

and now with his vampirism so clear to see, you knew things should have changed. you knew your feelings towards him should’ve changed. but they didn’t. “i love you too,” you whispered sweetly. you rolled your body closer to him on the couch, sitting up and using your hands to steady yourself, bringing your face towards his. “kiss me?”

he complies quicker than the speed of light, his hands gripping on your waist, softly, but firmly, his touch electrifying. he shuffles his hips, urging you to straddle his lap as his lips take place on yours.

he’s soft with it at first, becoming increasingly sloppier with time. “fuck, you’re so pretty.” he breathes heavily into the crook of your neck, his lips back on yours.

and then it’s happening all too quick. your hands are dragging down his back, clawing even as he dominates the kiss, one of his hands now on the back of your head, keeping you steady and pulling you into him. he’s much more vocal than he was before, your blood giving him more energy than he’s ever felt before. you tasted different to everyone else. sweeter, he thought.

he’s quick to reach for the buttons of your sleep shirt, his nimble fingers slipping the bonds between the buttons and the holes of the striped material, the silk shirt hanging loosely off your shoulders. he takes in the sight of your bare chest with widened eyes, your perky nipples hardening under the shitty cool air radiating off the fan, and kirk thinks you look perfect. he leans in, leaving soft, wet pecks all over the bare skin, leaving imprints in their tracks.

you giggle, shimmying yourself out of your matching pair of shorts that complete the set, the silk material easy and complaint to slip from your body without much hassle. you mentally thank yourself for choosing this set for tonight. he quickly rids himself of his own shirt, leaving nothing to the eye.

his chest is like a sculpture from the gods, and you wonder if his figure has always been this good, or improved when he became undead.

his hand trails down your thigh to lightly graze your panties, then he stills. he looks up at you with a serious expression, his eyes soft and thoughtful. “is this okay?”

you nod with urgency, grabbing his hand firmly and pushing it into your crotch. “more than okay.” you mutter, catching your own breath.

“someone’s eager,” he mumbles under his breath, chuckling softly. he doesn’t mind though, as he’s already lacing a finger under the lacy material of your thong, hooking it and yanking it down your legs. it bundles up around your ankles, and you kick it off with ease. “there’s my girl, so pretty.”

you whimper as he trails a finger over your bare pussy and he experiments, rubbing it lazily over your clit. he whispers praises that you can barely hear, adding another finger to the mix. he uses this one to rub up and down your slit skillfully, all your arousal accumulating up just from the touch of his gentle hand. he speaks again, this time loud enough so you can just about hear him. “tell me if it hurts, m’kay?” you hum and nod, squirming on his lap.

he pushes a finger into you at the arrival your consent, slowly and gently, as to not hurt you- once he’s fully sure that you’re okay, he slides another in, this time firmer with his movements. he doesn’t move them yet as he lets you adjust to the new intrusion, just curling them inside of you.

“more, more,” you whine breathlessly, and he complies wordlessly. without warning he starts to thrust them, not quite reaching a fast pace yet, but not slow either. he uses your whines and whimpers to his advantage, finding the pace that he’s figured you enjoy most, deep thrusts of in and out, in and out, the sounds of your wetness and his palm slapping against your pussy with each thrust creating a cacophony of passion.

and it’s not long before your muscles start to contract more often, your gushy walls tightening around his calloused fingers like a vice, when he knows your getting close, and without a second thought, slips his fingers out- with absolutely no struggle, even with your tightened walls, your arousal a perfect homemade lube.

he silences your whines before they even start with a messy kiss, and it’s right then when you realise- when did he take his pants off? you don’t spend much time pondering over it, instead over his muscled legs, and his, oh my god, perfect dick.

it’s not the longest, but it’s girth makes up for it, and you can hardly even think about it before his whispering into your ear, bouncing you on his lap. “can you lay down f’me, baby?”

“y-yes.” you manage to pull squeak out, trembling of off his lap as he arises to stand, getting comfortable with your head resting on the armrest of the worn out couch, you bought way before he even moved in. you never imagined in a thousand years it would be used in this way.

it’s not long before he’s back above you again, his face just above yours as his curls coil down to brush your skin, his front strands tickling your face, causing you to giggle. you smiles at your response, opening your legs apart with a single hand. he rubs your clit, holding his dick in the other, like he hasn’t prepared you enough already. and then he’s pushing in, and it’s oh so good, and it’s nothing like you’ve ever felt before, still feeling slightly dazed from the blood loss, the tingles from your wound sending signals all the way down through your stomach and electrifying the butterflies, down to your pussy.

it takes him a good minute to fully emerge himself, taking his time by looking at your facial expressions, waiting until the pain of the initial stretch has fully dismissed before continuing to push further in. he’s situated inside you comfortably, like the missing puzzle piece, and it’s so disgustingly loveable, the air thick with the stench of sex and cigarettes lingering from his discarded jacket laying on the side.

slowly he begins to thrust experimentally, whacking your face immensely for any signs of discomfort, to be greeted with none- so he continues, his thrusts gradually growing in speed and deepness. he uses one hand to hold himself up, propping it up beside your waist, shadowing over your figure. he uses the other hand to rub your overstimulated clit with agility, knowing all the ways to make you tingle in just mere minutes.

the way his balls slap against your smooth skin with every thrust is addictive, the way your hands grip loosely onto his forearms powering him on- just knowing how good he’s making you feel all the motivation he needs. “you’re so fucking perfect.”

“thank you.” you respond airily, your whole body bouncing with each thrust, your words changing in pitch, becoming higher as you move up and down. he lets out a small chuckle, his thrusts slowing just slightly, before returning to their normal pace.

he’s breathless himself, sweat beading up along his hairline, his chest covered in a thin pearly layer of sweat. not enough to drip onto you, but enough to show the effects you have on him. he’s grunting himself now, his thrusts becoming more and more erratic. that’s when he feels that familiar tighten of your wall as again- thought it feels so much better this time, so much warmer, so much tighter. he’s grunting softly, more and more with each and every thrust, becoming more wild by the second, your bodies moving up and down in unison.

“i’m, im close..” you manage to mutter out, thought there was no need, as he could already tell himself, your not so subtle tighten around his length giving you away. he nods repeatedly, his breathing heavy and heightened.

“i know, i know baby,” his thrusts are so sloppy, and it’s so addictive to both parties. you’re not sure if you could ever live without him. fuck, how did you go so long without him before? “are you gonna cum f’me?”

and all you can do is whine in response, a whiney and whimpering mess for him, all sprawled out on the couch, your hands no longer on his arms, but laying uselessly beside your body, to weak to grip onto anything. your walls contract even tighter now, and kirk knows it’s any minute now. your soft moans don’t stop though, no. infact, he’s almost sure they’ve gotten louder as you encounter release. “come for me, okay?”

it’s almost as if he’s controlling you like a puppet, for the way you release immediately after he’s told you too. he doesn’t stop yet, not until he’s reached his own peak- and when he does, he still doesn’t slow, riding his, and your orgasm out to its full extent. and then when you’re fully spent, that’s when he finally pulls out, his body relaxing on top of yours. he doesn’t still for long though, and after a minute he’s up again, rising from the couch to kneel beside your body.

“you tired, baby?” he peers out the window, seeing how the suns just barely, but still beggining to set, and he feels guilty for the long hours he made you wait for him earlier. you hum in response, causing him to smile softly. “okay, lemme carry you to bed.”

maybe feeding isn’t so bad after all.

[tenkasato]

I’ve never done a request before. So I’m sorry if it’s awful. 😩

But can we get a Gojo Satoru x Reader. Maybe where they’ve been best friends for so long and the reader has loved him for years but he’s been in denial of his feelings and started pushing her away. Until one night when she’s been sent out to take care of a curse and maybe gets hurt or “beaten” by the curse and he has to come save her and admits his feelings bc he was scared he was never going to get the chance to?

Dearest nonnie, there is no such thing as an awful request ^^ Sorry for the delay.

Pairings: Gojo Satoru x reader

Warning: minor hints of spoilers ahead

You stand proudly, body relaxed, eyes focused with such savage intensity that could literally crack glass. The gargantuan glaive in your hand shines magnificently under the glory of a full moon. Confident. Strong. Unbeatable. That's what you're known for in Jujutsu Tech.

As a special grade sorcerer, you were sent out to a small hospital in a backwater town where dying patients crumpled and laid in their deathbeds. The death toll has been rising. A new epidemic threatens to wipe out the villagers. You raise your head and glower at the culprit—a diseased cursed spirit whose grotesque body is riddled with festering boils, rotting avulsions and corrugating flesh, the scent of carcass hanging in the air.

You eye the thing with disdain, however, as you take one cautious step forward, a pair of cold blue eyes flashes in your mind. Why? Why now? Now is barely the time to get distracted with frivolous matters like that.

“You can do better than that. I’m not the one you're supposed to fall for, dummy.”

But since when did one Gojo Satoru ever become trivial matter to you anyway?

“Come on. Enough of the joke. It's not funny anymore.”

Shut it, you mentally yelled at his voice playing rewind in your head. Gritting your teeth, you twirl the glaive methodically in your hand before tossing it high up in the air. You catch it swiftly, hand encircled around the handle firmly. You have to exorcise this fiend. Gojo can come later.

You leap towards the curse, and the next thing you know, the world is pitch black.

~ O ~

You hear your name being called even before you're able to succumb to drowsiness. Bolting upright, you flinch as the door swings open to make way for Gojo to barge into your room and storm after you.

You pull over your covers as he looms over you, arms folded indignantly.

“If you want a ‘thank you’ for saving my ass back there,” you say before making a theatrical bow, “Thank you, Gojo-sama.”

This seems to piss him off even more than he already is. “What the hell were you doing there? If I hadn't followed you, you wouldn't be here yapping sarcastic comments at me as if everything’s swell.”

“Please, it was a special grade!” you roll your eyes.

“Hardly. You could handle the piece of shit even with your eyes closed. It isn't like you to be careless like that.”

You drop your gaze and observe the new cuts in your hands. You feel the weight of his stare as you lightly rub on your fingers. “I have a lot in my mind.”

“That's not an excuse,” he tells you. “What's going on with you?”

Gojo’s usually smooth voice is serrated in your ears. It almost hurts to listen to the words he threw out as if he's clueless. You grapple at the thin thread of patience you had and exhale sharply. “It doesn't concern you. Besides, you already have a lot on your plate to worry about my little problems.”

“Is this still about what we talked about this morning?”

Your eyes snap towards his direction faster than you appreciate. You're surprised he brought it up in the first place, being one who always ran away whenever you broached over the topic. He treated your feelings for him like a taboo, even as he continued to openly flirt with you with every opportunity. The mixed signals drove you crazy, so you confessed having loved him for years now. However, Gojo wasn't keen to accept them even when you knew he felt the same way.

“Is it?” he prods.

“Shut up.”

There’s a pause, but Gojo immediately recovers from your caustic tone and stretches his hands. He turns back to you, a lopsided grin plastered over his face as his glasses slide a little down the bridge of his nose. “I told you to stop playing around with my feelings like that. I know I’m a loveable b—”

“If you're going to keep treating this as a joke, do me a favor and get the hell out of here, Gojo.” Your throat tightens as you feel a sting in your eyes. Digging your nails to your palms, you continue, “I’m tired. I’m so tired.”

You wait for him to stand, to walk out of the door quietly and run away which he always did anyway. Blinking back your tears, you tell yourself you couldn't cry in front of him. Vulnerable as you are now, you never wanted for him to see you weak.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to. Just…I just—hear me out, alright?” He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “Earlier in that village, I thought even you were going to leave me. I’d lose my mind. I can't have that. I don't think I can take it anymore.”

Speechless, you raise your head to risk a peek at him, but his eyes are switched ahead. He ignores your questioning glance and goes on, “It's the same as what I felt when you confessed. I was a coward. I was afraid I'd screw up at some point and hurt you in one way or another. Call me selfish. I know, but…”

Gojo trails off, lost in his own musings. His lips are downturned to a small frown. You close your eyes in bitter regret before leaning towards him to remove his glasses. He seems quite taken aback with the sudden gesture, aquamarine eyes meeting yours, bared and unblemished. You reach out and touch his cheek.

“Satoru, you can never hurt me enough to keep me away.”

He leans to your touch and lets out another mournful sigh, “That's not what I meant. Our profession as sorcerers is risky. We live each day without knowing if we'd still be there to see the next sunrise. I just didn't want you to come too close to me…”

Pain ripples your expressions as you press your forehead against his. “Don't talk that way, Satoru. I can't lose you either.”

“I know.”

And he doesn't say anything else. He doesn't promise you anything, because you both know any promises said in the walls of this place were hollow and meaningless.

Gojo gives your hand a squeeze and rises from his seat. “Get some sleep. The doctor said you’ll be back to full recovery after a few days.” He heads towards the door. When his hand encircles around the knob, he turns back at you and gives you a half-hearted wink.

You start to raise your hand, but midway, your hand falls back in place. His words echo in your head, the truth of it piercing through every fiber of your heart. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out, because you also knew pleadings such as ‘stay please’ were just as empty as promises. 

In the light of the recent events in manga, I felt inspired to write something along those lines. I hope I was able to satisfy the request. Thank you so much for the ask ^^

[piedinthepiper]

Disease ˖ ⊹

Doctor!Jimin x fem!reader

Summary: You’ve had a sore throat for months now, good thing Doctor Jimin has a cure.

Warnings: dark content, dubcon ish, corruption, smut, mention of bullying, yandere?

Wc: 2.3 k

A/n: wrote a little something based on this request! Reader is innocent in the beginning, but throughout you will discover that she’s not innocent at all, but not in a sexual way… This is a great concept, but this is just so unserious. But I had to! It was right in front of me and I had to!

Another A/n: This is also written based on my firm belief that all doctors were pretentious nerds in high school. Because no one gets grades like that from actually having a life.

This can be read as both a pt. 1 or a pt. 2 to before: disease. They can also be read separately, you decide!

Disclaimer: This is 100% fiction. I am in no way saying that this is how any member of bts would act. Nor do I condone the actions detailed in the story. This is purely for entertainment purposes only. If any of the warnings trigger you, or you’re under 18 ¡do not read! I’m not your mother, and I don’t take any accountability for what you decide to read online!

Another disclaimer: I’m not a doctor, everything is off Google! Some technical terms might me wrong, don’t sue me! Also it’s a really stupid story, it’s pure fiction! If any doctor or medical personnel ever does this to you it’s not ok! Ok?

“Y/n y/l/n.”

Your name was heard throughout the waiting room. You smiled at the woman in scrubs, getting up from your seat to follow her. You clutched your bag to your side. Anxiously walking down the hallway.

“Dr. Park will be with you in a minute.”

She smiled as she stopped, holding the door open for you. You walked into the empty doctor’s office. She closed the door behind you, leaving you alone. You sat down in the chair, placing your purse carefully in your lap. You let out a deep breath. Being in a doctor’s office was just scary. You knew it was safe and all that. It was just something about giving a random person information about yourself that made you nervous. The sterile room that so many people had received bad news in. You were dreading the thought of you also receiving such news in that room. The possibility of not knowing if you’re terminally ill or if you just have a flu. Well, that was why you were there in the first place. The door opened, and your face turned in its direction.

“Good morning, ms. y/l/n, right?”

A sweet calming voice erupted from the man. You nodded and stood up to shake his hand. He sat down opposite of you, starting to click and type on his computer. You nervously looked down at your hands, waiting for him to talk again.

“I see you’ve had a sore throat for quite some time now. Is that the reason you’re here today?”

You looked back up at him again. He was leaning forwards on the desk on his elbows. His hands neatly put together.

“Yes, it’s like I’ve had a cold for months now. It just won’t go away.”

He nodded and typed something on his computer.

“Have you noticed any swelling in your lymph nodes?”

He asked still focused on the computer screen. You thought for a second.

“I don’t know, I haven’t checked.”

He nodded at your answer.

“Any peculiar or ugly coughs? Like slime coughs or even blood?”

“There was this one time where there were a little blood.”

He looked back at you, clearly concerned about what you told him.

“How much?”

You shook your head.

“Very little, it was more the taste of blood. Nothing visible.”

He went back to typing.

“And it was only once.”

You added, trying to make the whole situation sound a little better. It wasn’t even that bad, it was probably just because you had been coughing so much that day, your throat was so sore that a little cut appeared. But it was the reason you decided to go to the doctor in the first place.

“Ok, are you ok with me examining you a little?”

He asked calmly, his full attention back to you. You sighed but nodded. He got up from his chair and pointed to the bed looking thing with a long sheet of paper on it. You got up as well and followed him, jumping slightly to get up on it. You wiped your clammy hands on your jeans, trying your best to calm down. He put on white latex gloves and came over to you, positioning himself between your legs. You straightened your back a little.

“Look up for me.”

You did as asked and looked up at the ceiling. His gloved hands immediately went to your neck. Slightly pushing on the sides of it.

“Does this hurt?”

He asked and you nodded slightly.

“Your lymph nodes are quite swollen actually. It’s weird that you haven’t noticed.”

He said as he quickly moved to your stomach. Your back quickly straightened even more at the sudden contact.

“Just relax for me, I don’t bite.”

He jokingly said. You let out a small laugh and tried your best to relax. He put pressure on your waist.

“Does this hurt?”

He asked and looked you directly in your eyes while his hands roamed your waist. You shook your head, not trusting your voice. He stopped.

“Do you mind taking your sweater off?”

He asked calmly, looking down at where his hands were seconds ago. You panicked for a second, not knowing what to answer.

“Your sweater is quite thick, it’s purely so I can examine you correctly, ms. y/l/n.”

You nodded and started taking off your sweater.

“Of course.”

You mumbled as you pulled it over your head, leaving you in just a black bra. Goosebumps littered your skin at the sudden contact with the cold air. For a second you saw him looking at you, mouth slightly open. It made you uncomfortable, the look was not a professional one.

“Amazing.”

He said and licked his lip slightly before finding your waist again. You tried your best not to freak out at how close he was now. You felt so much more vulnerable now that you were half naked.

“Does it hurt now?”

He asked and did the same motion he did earlier. You shook your head again.

“Can you turn to the side for me?”

He almost whispered. You turned to the side, placing one leg at the floor for stability. You felt his hands slide up your back, pushing at some spots and asking if they hurt. You suddenly felt the cold touch of a stethoscope on your back.

“Breathe slowly in for me.”

You took a deep breath.

“Keep going, keep going for me, y/n.”

You breathed out once those words escaped his mouth. He didn’t say it like a doctor would. There was something behind it you couldn’t put your finger on.

“Try again.”

He uttered and you did. You managed to hold your breath.

“Good girl.”

He said as you breathed out again, making you cough.

“That cough doesn’t sound very good.”

He said as he stepped back into your view. You positioned yourself fully back on the bed.

“I’ll examine your mouth now, ok? Tell me if anything feels too uncomfortable.”

You nodded.

“Open up.”

You did as he commanded. He put two of his gloved fingers flat on your tongue.

“Wider, please.”

You opened your mouth as far as you could. He pointed a flashlight down your throat. Tears started forming in your eyes as his fingers almost choked you.

“Looks like you got some tonsils down there.”

His fingers slowly slid out of your mouth and you closed it and swallowed whatever spit had occurred during the examination. He started removing his gloves, throwing them in the nearest bin. He came back to you and placed himself close to you again. So close that it would be awkward to reach for your sweater that had fell to the floor.

“They’re not big enough to remove just yet. They might shrink if you do the right things.”

You crossed your arms over your chest, trying to get a little bit of modesty.

“What do you recommend?”

You asked him.

“Take cough syrup and cough drops, drink as much warm beverages as possible.”

You sighed.

“But I’ve been doing that for months now, and it hasn’t helped as far as I’m concerned.”

You said and looked down, finding it hard to maintain eye contact with him that close. He hummed in understanding, stepping slightly away. You took the chance to reach for your sweater again. But his arm stopped you. You sat back up, looking at him confused.

“There is another solution. It’s a bit- well. Unorthodox.”

“What?”

You asked, willing to do whatever he told you. You didn’t want to walk around with a constant sore throat for the rest of your life.

“Do you have a partner?”

He asked. You shook your head, still confused about where he was going with this.

“That’s a shame. You see, recent research has found out that fresh and warm semen can do wonders for a sore throat.”

You swallowed feeling the saliva sting your sore throat. You knew what he was aiming at, you weren’t dumb. Or at least you didn’t think so.

“Really?”

You asked, not convinced that he was actually asking you to blow him.

“Yeah, I’m a doctor, you can trust me.”

You nodded and stepped off the bed, hearing the thin sheet of paper slightly rip. You looked him in the eyes as you sunk down to the floor. Letting your hands drag down his body.

“Woah ok. Didn’t know you were that desperate.”

His hand went to your face as you positioned yourself on you knees.

“I’m just doing this to get better, alright?”

“It’s ok, baby. I’ll help you.”

He was quick to answer, almost eager. You started working on his belt, trying to get it done as quick as possible. Maybe you were dumb, maybe he tricked you to give him a blow job. The thought definitely crossed your mind. But like he said, he was a doctor, he knew this better than you. And after months of trying everything to cure your throat, you were willing to try just one more thing.

You pulled his half hard dick out, giving it a few pumps. It was a good size, even at its half hard stage. You were about to put your lips to it, but his hand reaches your forehead.

“Haven’t you forgotten something?”

He asked with a sly grin. You looked confused at him. He clicked his tongue, hissing slightly.

“Well, I don’t offer this to every patient that comes in with a sore throat. Maybe a thank you, a little begging for my help would work?”

You mentally cursed yourself, but you were too far in to back out now. You let one of your bra straps fall down your shoulder as you looked up at him with doe like eyes. Your hand started jerking him slowly.

“Please, Dr. Park. Please let me suck your cock. You’re the only one that can help my sore throat.”

His eyes changed from slyness to horniness at your words.

“Good girl, you deserve a cure for that throat.”

You kissed his tip.

“Thank you so much, Dr. Park.”

You said before your mouth covered his tip. You started sucking on it watching his face twist in pleasure.

“That’s it.”

He whispered as you swallowed his cock. His head turned to the ceiling, as a moan escaped his lips. You started bobbing your head up and down, not wasting any time and keeping a steady rhythm. His hands reached your hair, grabbing a fistful. He didn’t force you to go deeper, he just held your hair as some sort of stability for himself.

“I always knew you were a little slut. Sucking me dry in my office with other patients waiting outside.”

He started talking dirty once the initial pleasure wave was over. Swearing in between his words.

“I’ve waited for this for so long. Fuck- Ever since I first saw you I’ve wondered what those lips looked like around my cock.”

You choked at his sudden comment, his hand in your hair stopping you from removing yourself of said cock. You started going faster instead, wanting this to stop so you didn’t have to listen to his creepy speech.

“You remember me from high school right?”

You now realised you were very very dumb, as your mind raced through your memories from high school. Park Jimin, the nerdy weirdo in science class. You would always catch him stare at you, but you couldn’t remember ever speaking to him. Well, except for when you and your friends would call him names and break his glasses. He pushed his hips forward, making you choke again.

“Of course you don’t. You were too popular. But- shit. Look at me now.”

You looked up at him with teary eyes. His hand went from your hair to your cheek, and caressed it carefully.

“I made a shit load of money to have you sucking my dick today. Shit- I have the most gorgeous girl from high school blowing me right now. Finally.”

He started moving his hips, you knew he was close.

“Fuck- you’re so fucking gorgeous.”

He moaned as you felt the warmth of his seed fill your mouth. You waited for it all, not wanting to have any of it actually hit your skin. You swallowed, before you got up again. You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, giving him a deadly look.

“I remember you, you little freak. You were disgusting back then and you still are to this day.”

You erupted adjusting your bra strap back over your shoulder.

“There you are, that’s the y/n I remember. Always something mean to say.”

He said as he tucked himself back, that sly look creeping back onto his face.

“Who’s the bully now, y/n?”

You snarled at him and turned around to get your sweater from the floor. You were ready to leave and change doctors immediately. But before you could get up again you felt his body crash into yours, pushing you up against that bed thing. He bent you over it, whispering in your ear.

“You were always the meanest. And I loved it. I loved you so much. I practically worshipped you.”

His groin was pushed up against your butt. You felt his bulge growing by the second as he took a deep sniff of your hair.

“Please, let me go. I’m sorry, I’m sorry ok?!”

You practically screamed, now afraid of the boy you never thought would be able to overpower you. But that was in high school. He was a man now.

“I will let you go, y/n. I’m not like you.”

But before he did as promised he got a good grip of your tits. Letting out a satisfied moan.

“Even better than I thought they would feel.”

He whispered before stepping away from you slowly. You immediately got away from him, quickly throwing the sweater back on your body.

“Remember that I had the power today, y/n.”

You rolled your eyes and walked towards the door. You stopped, and didn’t speak before your hand was placed firmly on the handle.

“Whatever you fucking weirdo.”

You said and opened the door, not looking back. You regretted being this fucking dumb. Falling for his trick, thinking that he had good intentions. The worst part was that it didn’t even get any better.

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