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osarina · 3 days ago

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ᡣ𐭩 I HAVE HOPE (SHE'S BLIND WITH NO NAME)

FEATURING: dazai osamu

SUMMARY: dazai underestimated just how hard it would be on him trying to get close to you again, and he overestimated his ability to separate his mess of emotions concerning you from the mission. that being said, he finds himself confused more than anything else, because he doesn't understand why you're not suspicious of him like you were the first time. and every potential answer he comes to makes his chest weigh heavier and heavier with guilt.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: PART THREE AT LASTTTTTTT I HOPE U ENJOY !!! this chapter was fun for me because we really see just how all of this is affecting reader, she's becoming much more reckless/careless about things & dazai is finally seeing it because it's directed toward him and its eating him up inside. next chapter is going to be VERY fun. reblogs and comments always appreciated!!

GENERAL WARNINGS: fem!reader, port mafia boss!reader, civilian!dazai, mentions of alcoholism, temporary amnesia, dazai is mentally unstable, so is reader (it's pretty apparent in this chapter), both of them are struggling LOL, grieving (reader), a bit of suicide ideation (that's a given from dazai, a little bit from reader too), as always: reader is part of the mafia, expect mafia behavior from her, she is not a good person.

SEE: THE LAND IS INHOSPITABLE (BUT ARE WE?) SERIES MASTERLIST

Usually, the cafe you get your coffee from is slow this early in the morning—you’re in and out within five minutes. The sun has barely just risen, and the morning air is still too brisk for comfort, and yet you’ve been waiting in line for twenty minutes now. Klaus has been complaining incessantly about wanting to go somewhere else for coffee and breakfast, but you want a muffin from here, and you refuse to start off what’s already going to be a bad day by having to go somewhere else.

“I think I’d rather kill myself than wait a second longer,” Klaus complains so loudly that people look your way. You sigh heavily and give him a withering look, silently telling him to be quiet. Instead, he repeats louder, “I think I would rather—”

“Quiet,” you say sharply, keeping your voice low, and Klaus slumps over with a scowl. “If you’ve forgotten, there’s currently an active manhunt for you. I shouldn’t have even brought you here—I should’ve taken Akutagawa or Atsushi.”

“Don’t say that,” he pouts dramatically. “I’m in disguise.”

You roll your eyes at him, but don’t respond. His disguise is a baseball cap and sunglasses, which is probably more suspicious than if he’d come in none considering it’s cloudy today. There are only two more people left in front of you, and you’re just about ready to get back to headquarters to prepare for your next meeting with Cao Xueqin.

It’s going to be a long day of playing word games with each other—you just need to stall long enough to give Qu Yuan of the South’s Song a chance to make a move in Beijing. You’re not happy about having to go to the woman for help, but you know she’s been dying for the chance to knock the Red Chamber down a peg. The only issue now is that you’ll be forced to send your own men to help her when it inevitably blows up into war, which you were trying to avoid. But you suppose it’s a small price to pay to ensure you’re not facing a three-front war in the heart of Port Mafia territory.

You step up to the register to talk to the girl behind the counter, who immediately lowers her head in recognition. “Ah! I, uh, didn’t realize you were waiting in line, Miss Mori. I’m sorry. Are you in a rush? We can speed along your order.”

You have to force yourself not to cringe at how she addresses you.

“Y—” You start to say, but pause when you see something—someone—from the corner of your eye. Is that the boy from the bar the other night? “Take your time. It’s no rush.”

“What!” Klaus squawks. “I’m hungry.”

“Put your order in and shut up,” you tell him, distracted. “Put mine in too.”

“Are you joking—” Klaus complains, but you wave him off as you wander over to the far side of the cafe, tilting your head to the side as you approach the small table Dazai is sitting at.

He’s so absorbed in whatever he’s writing in his journal that he doesn’t even notice you approaching him. Curious, your gaze tracks down to what he’s scribbling—a bullet list, you barely catch the name of the cafe, the time, and the bar you met him at before he notices you from the corner of his eye.

He physically jumps, startled by your presence, “Jesus!” he gasps, shifting the papers out of sight as he turns to look. He looks like he’s not even sure that you’re there as he squints at you, uncertain. “You—you—”

“Me,” you say with a wry smile, raising your eyebrows as your eyes roam over him. There are dark circles under his eyes—he looks like he hasn’t slept in days. “Wow, look at those bags. Someone hasn’t been sleeping well.”

Dazai’s lips part at your words. He blinks twice as if he thinks he didn’t hear you correctly. “What did you just say?” he rasps. “I—”

“I said someone hasn’t been sleeping well,” you repeat, glancing at the empty seat across from him before, pushing it out and sitting down. Your lips quirk up into a teasing smile. “Too busy thinking of me to sleep?”

“Yeah, right,” Dazai scoffs, but he looks a bit thrown off by your question, which makes you tilt your head curiously. He shakes his head and asks, “What are you doing here?”

“Wow,” you repeat, not sure why you’re so amused by the rudeness—usually, it would only serve to piss you off, but it’s almost refreshing right now. “Someone’s in a mood. I’m getting coffee—is that a crime now?”

“Here?” he asks with a frown, looking a bit too disappointed by it.

“Mhm. It’s my favorite place” you agree, leaning back in your seat. “Problem?”

“Just… funny coincidence,” he says, face all twisted up like he doesn’t really mean it.

“Or maybe fate,” you correct, a bit caught off guard by how playful you’re feeling. You haven’t felt this way in… a long time. Since well before you killed Mori. Since Itou was killed. You glance down for a moment, a bit rattled by the sudden thought of both of them. You have to force the next smile on your lips as you ask, “Don’t you believe in fate?”

Something strange crosses his face at your words, but you don’t get an answer from him because someone comes to a stop directly in front of your table. Klaus’s shadow looms over the two of you, you don’t even have to look at him to feel the malice radiating off of him.

“I have to wait on my danish because you want to talk to a boy,” Klaus hisses, glaring at you before turning a cold expression onto Dazai, who looks uncomfortable because of the attention. “Does Chuuya know about him?”

“Klaus, if you mention this to Chuuya…” You don’t finish the threat, giving the younger boy a long look. He sighs, rolling his eyes, but settles down for the most part. “Go away.”

“I really wanted my fucking danish,” he mutters, giving Dazai a suspicious look. “Why’s he so familiar?”

You raise your eyebrows and say mockingly, “He shouldn’t be to you, you haven’t picked up a book since the EADF dragged you out of your kindergarten class.”

Klaus gapes at you. “I read—” he protests.

“You read takeout menus,” you agree.

“That’s so rude—”

“Go away,” you repeat firmly, rolling your eyes and shaking your head, waving him off.

Klaus casts one more cold, suspicious look at Dazai, but he wanders off to go lean against the wall. You side-eye him when he keeps his gaze trained on the two of you, but he only raises his eyebrows at you.

“Ignore him,” you say as you turn your attention back to Dazai. “He’s insufferable.”

“Who is he?” he asks curiously after clearing his throat.

Your subordinate in the Mafia, who was stuck in a trafficking ring in Europe for over ten years before another crime lord gifted him to you like he was some sort of pet.

“My brother,” you answer instead after a moment. “What are you doing out so early?”

Dazai pauses like he’s trying to come up with an answer. You tilt your head curiously, and he finally asks defensively, “What makes you think I don’t get up this early usually?”

Your eyes drift over him once because you say, “Don’t look like the type.”

Dazai scoffs, shifting in his seat. “And what type do I look like?”

You hum, propping your elbow on the table and resting your chin on your palm as you study him. His shirt is wrinkled, and his bandages are haphazardly wrapped around him, fingers twitching against the wood of the table. Something about him feels off—not the same odd familiarity you felt at the bar, something different this time, you’re not sure what.

“I’ve got some thoughts,” you say after a moment, keeping your voice light.

“Share them with the needy, princess?” he drawls, the corners of his lips curling up into a sharp smile.

Princess. Hime. No one has called you either of those since you took over as boss. And you know it’s a coincidence, there’s no way a random author would be aware of your former title in the Port Mafia, but it still makes you pause to collect yourself.

“Hmm,” you consider, tapping your finger to your chin. “Maybe the next time we meet, I’ll tell you.”

“The next time?” Dazai asks. “You’re already planning our next meeting?”

“Maybe, or maybe I don’t plan on meeting you again at all, so I don’t ever have to share them,” you answer, and then squint at him. “You’re not stalking me, are you? I’ve never seen you before, now suddenly twice in the same week.”

Dazai doesn’t answer for a second. His expression doesn’t change, but there’s a split second of tension in his jaw before he forces a chuckle. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” he asks. “You showed up at both places after me. I was here first.”

Before you can press further, the cafe worker clears her throat loudly from across the café. “Ma’am, your order’s ready,” she calls loudly, waving you over.

You sigh, standing up and smoothing down your suit jacket. “Well, One Hit Wonder, it’s been fun. Try to get some sleep, will you?” you say.

“One hit wonder?” Dazai demands loudly, offended, but you only grin to yourself as you walk away, lifting your hand in a lazy wave.

Klaus is already at the counter, shoveling his danish in his mouth, holding both of your coffees, your muffin, and Albatross’s order. You take yours from him and nod for him to follow you out of the cafe. You give him a sharp look when you realize that he’s still scrutinizing Dazai.

“Who was that?” Klaus whispers loudly as soon as the two of you are out of the cafe. “Who—”

“Does it matter?” you ask dryly, smile fading as you take a sip of your coffee. Now to business—you need to figure out the best course of action to keep Cao Xueqin occupied until Qu Yuan can do her thing. “Let’s go.”

“I mean, yeah, kind of,” Klaus says, stopping in his tracks. You sigh as you turn to look at him.

“He’s a civilian, an author I ran into at a bar the other night. He’s not a threat—”

“That’s not what I mean,” Klaus interrupts, rocking on his feet awkwardly, gritting his teeth as he tries to figure out what he wants to say.

“Then what?” you ask, folding your arms over your chest with a frown. “Klaus, we gotta get going—”

“It’s just—” He starts to say, but cuts himself off with a frown. “For a second, you almost looked happy. I haven’t seen you like that in… a long time.”

You look away immediately, swallowing thickly and blinking as you shake your head. “It’s nothing, Klaus,” you tell him quietly. “He’s nothing. Let’s get back to headquarters.”

“If you say so,” Klaus murmurs, continuing down the street to where Albatross is parked and waiting for the two of you.

Klaus looks like he doesn’t believe you.

You don’t even know if you believe yourself.

Who are you, Dazai Osamu?

------------

Every Wednesday night, you meet your associates at the rooftop restaurant near his campus—the same one you brought him to for your first date. Dazai knows this. You told him this while the two of you were eating dinner, and he finally asked how the hell every waiter seemed to know you personally. You own the whole building, evidently, and it’s your go-to place for wining and dining your Mafia associates. You meet a different one once a week to maintain relations, usually on Wednesdays.

Dazai hasn’t been back here since that night you brought him, mainly because he can’t afford it, but also partly because he thinks he won’t be able to handle being back there when his only memory there is of you. This Wednesday, though, he forces himself to put on the suit you bought him for that government event and drags himself to the restaurant’s bar. You get to your meetings early—always at least fifteen minutes before anyone else arrives, so that you can keep an eye out for any potential traps or set-ups. That’s when he plans on bumping into you.

He had a feeling he was making a mistake as soon as he stepped into the building. It was too… you. The last time he stepped into the lobby, your arm was around his waist, and you guided him to the elevator as you greeted the staff. He got weird looks because he fell out of place amongst the elite of society, but you would rub a soothing circle on the back of his hand or his hip, and he would feel at ease again because he was with you, and he always felt at ease with you.

Now, you’re not here to keep him at ease, and you’re not around to chase away the lingering stares, and Dazai feels very much out of place sitting at the bar with a glass of whiskey that is far too expensive for his meager wallet. He isn’t exactly sure how he’s going to pay for it, and he’s pretty sure the bartender has realized this from the way he keeps casting suspicious looks in his direction—Dazai had a feeling that the fancy suit would only throw them off for so long. You told him once that the rich sniff out those who don’t belong like bloodhounds, so he knew it was only a matter of time.

“Wow, One Hit Wonder, I think you are stalking me.” He hears your achingly familiar voice say from his left, and Dazai nearly chokes on his whiskey, head snapping to the side to focus on you.

He knew you were coming, he planned this, but he’s still startled by the sight of you. You look beautiful—always do, but especially right now—you’re dressed in a new suit, arms crossed over your chest, head tilted to the side as you look down at him. Your gaze is soft, fond, and Dazai almost forgets to respond to you because he’s so stunned by the way you’re looking at him.

“I–uh–wouldn’t you be the one stalking me?” he splutters. “I was already here. Both times. All three times. You showed up all three times. You’re the stalker.”

Because he was waiting for you to show up, but you don’t need to know that. Dazai’s mouth dries when you raise your eyebrows at him, amused, and then you take a seat next to him at the bar. Immediately, the bartender comes over to give you your drink—he doesn’t even have to ask you, of course, he would know what you want. Your gaze flickers over to his almost empty glass, and you nod at it.

“Fill his up,” you say. “You can put it on my tab.”

Dazai pretends his cheeks don’t heat up as he averts his gaze, and says loudly, “Well, if it’s going on her tab, bring me calamari too.”

It says right on the sign that food isn’t served at the bar, and Dazai isn’t particularly hungry, but he just wants to see the way the bartender’s face twists up when he realizes that he can’t say no to Dazai because of you. That’s what he gets for giving Dazai dirty looks.

“You heard him,” you agree lazily when the bartender shoots you a questioning look. “Who are we to deny a celebrity?”

“Stop,” Dazai complains, burying his face in his hands. “You didn’t even like the book, stop talking about it.”

“I did like it,” you disagree, taking a sip of your wine. “I didn’t like the ending.”

“Then you may as well have hated it,” Dazai huffs, crossing his arms over his chest and looking away. “So you don’t get to talk about it.”

“No, I enjoyed it, really,” you insist, leaning back in your seat. Dazai is getting embarrassed; he really needs you to stop talking about his book. “I liked the plot, it was interesting. The romance—”

“Alright,” Dazai complains, flustered, turning his back to you and taking a long swig of his whiskey. “No more. Please.”

Your lips curve up into a small smile, and Dazai’s breath catches. It’s not the same as it was, but it’s close—so close that it makes his heart ache. Your smile is soft, and though your gaze isn’t quite there, it’s not as empty as it was when he met you the other day, and that’s enough to make his throat swell.

“Fine, fine,” you agree, tossing him a teasing smile as you lean your elbow on the top of the bar. “What are you doing here, One Hit Wonder? Isn’t this place… mm, out of your pay range?”

“Well, that’s rude,” Dazai scowls, but you only look more amused by the expression he makes. “Look at what I’m wearing, what makes you think I can’t afford this?”

Now, Dazai is not and never has been stupid. That being said, he’s also never been particularly smart when you’re involved. He’s made a lot of silly decisions, ranging from trying to blackmail a mafia executive to running off to campus on some righteous mission to prove his worth while there were potentially three different criminal organizations hunting him down. So he realizes a second too late that maybe he shouldn’t have mentioned that his suit is from a luxury boutique that very few can get appointments at. You being one of them.

Your gaze flickers down, interested, and his breath catches when you reach out to touch the material of his suit jacket, pinching the sleeve between your fingers. You tilt your head to the side curiously and say, “This is one of Kido’s… who are you, Dazai?”

Dazai doesn’t know how to reply to that. Doesn’t know how to tell you that he got this suit with you. Doesn’t know how to tell you that he hardly knows who he is without you anymore. He can’t tell you that he misses you. He can’t tell you that he hates you. He can’t tell you that he loves you. So he stays quiet for too long—so long that it should make you suspicious.

But it doesn’t.

You raise your eyebrows at him. “Well?” you ask, leaning in a little with a flirty smile that flusters him. “C’mon. Give me the crash course, I have to go soon.”

Why aren’t you suspicious?

Dazai takes the out you unintentionally give him. “You just got here,” he complains. “Where are you going already?”

Why aren’t you suspicious of him?

Dazai feels sick to his stomach when you roll your eyes at his evasion instead of narrowing them. You should be suspicious of him—you were suspicious of him the first time around. You were suspicious of him when he wasn’t even doing anything wrong, when everything was just chance. Now Dazai is actively manufacturing these meetings with you, and there’s not even a hint of suspicion.

Why not? What exactly has happened in the last six months?

“Business meeting,” you drawl, waving your hand flippantly. “Terribly boring.”

Dazai swallows the uncertainty bubbling in him, smoothing his hands against his slacks as he asks, “What kind of business are you in?”

You pause to take a sip of your drink, and Dazai can imagine the thoughts running through your head. How do you explain that you’re a mafia boss to a civilian who has “no idea” about what your profession is? It makes Dazai bitter. He knows you, he knows what you do, and he accepted you, and now he has to sit here and pretend he has no idea who you are? It’s so fucked up that it’s almost funny, that he almost wants to laugh, but more than that, he wants to cry.

“I, uh, took over my father’s company recently,” you say as you take a sip of your wine.

Ah, that’s right, he thinks bitterly, the Mori Corporation. You’re not even technically lying to him, which somehow is even worse. You’re clearly uncomfortable at the mention of Mori, just like how you were at the bar, but Dazai can’t help the way he twists the knife in deeper by pressing.

Dazai raises his eyebrows in mock curiosity and asks, “Your father owned a company? What type of company?”

He doesn’t find any pleasure in hurting you. He’s vindictive and angry, but the satisfaction he feels when you have to mask the pain on your face dissipates instantly, and then he only feels pain. He doesn’t like hurting you, it hurts him to hurt you—but maybe that’s exactly why he can’t stop himself from digging his fingers into your open wounds and pulling them open more.

You inhale and then say slowly, “It’s a… conglomerate. We have stakes in a bunch of different industries.”

“Impressive,” he forces out, voice strained. “Sounds like a lot of work.”

“Yeah,” you agree faintly. Your gaze flickers up to someone behind Dazai, and you say, “I should go. My meeting is starting soon.”

“Right,” Dazai whispers, gnawing at the inside of his cheek. “Right, okay.”

You rise to your feet and then give him a small smile. It’s soft, gentle, and again, your eyes don’t match—not fully—but they’re not empty. It’s so close to what it used to be that it makes his chest ache with longing.

“It was nice seeing you again, One Hit Wonder,” you say quietly.

Shit.

“You too,” he says weakly as you turn to leave, walking in the direction of a private room in the back.

You’re still not lying to him. Why not? Why not? Why not? Why was it nice seeing him? Why aren’t you suspicious of him? Dazai feels a bit manic, and he’s realizing too quickly that he might be out of his depth with this mission. Being around you is hell and heaven all at once, and it’s too much for him to handle. He’s so angry at you, but he misses you so much that it makes him sick.

More than anything now, he’s confused—he doesn’t know what’s going on with you. You didn’t treat him like this the first time. You were so suspicious of him, Dazai could tell, and then at the end, everything with Mori confirmed it. Because even if you did ultimately believe Dazai when it came down to it, you hesitated.

There was no faking the expression on your face as Mori told him about all of the “schemes” that Dazai concocted to get close to you. You’d believed him so easily because you were suspicious from the start, and Dazai doesn’t understand why you aren’t now. He doesn’t understand why you’re acting this way with him, doesn’t understand the teasing attitude and flirting, he doesn’t understand why you aren’t suspicious of him. You should be suspicious of him, he’s already set up running into you three times within a week and a half.

You should be suspicious, but you’re not, and Ranpo’s words from the meeting the other day ring through his head. It makes his throat swell terribly with guilt.

Shit. He doesn’t know if he can do this.

--------

You don’t know why you come to this place. It’s disgusting. The dumping ground by the ports stretches miles along the coast—piles of fragmented shipping containers litter the muddy ground, toxic substances disposed of in the area seep into the open soil, and countless rotting corpses are hidden in the guck, long forgotten, left for the earth to consume. You’re sure that one day you’ll be there amongst them once one of the many attempts on your life succeeds, and decisions like this certainly don’t help your odds.

It’s hard for you to get away from your tails on most days. Klaus is usually attached to your hip even when he’s not technically on duty—he has abandonment issues and gets anxious being apart from you. Akutagawa is impossible to lose if he’s the one meant to be your protection detail for the day. Atsushi’s tiger senses allow him to easily track you down when you try to slip away.

And Chuuya is Chuuya—nothing else needs to be said there.

But on Fridays, one of the Flags is supposed to be your detail because Klaus and Akutagawa go into Tokyo to handle meetings with the Sun and Steel’s special operations unit, working with Hirotsu to get them merged with the Black Lizard, and Chuuya is busy in virtual meetings all day with Nicomedes Joaquin. The Flags are all too busy to be attached to you at once—usually, it’s Iceman or Albatross that tags along with you where you go, but sometimes it’s one of the other three.

That being said, since they’re all busy, it’s not too hard to… confuse them.

You tell Iceman that Albatross is with you, and Albatross that Iceman is. You tell Piano Man and Lippmann that Albatross took over for the day, because those two are more likely to seek him out if they think he’s available, and you tell Doc that Iceman took over for the day, because he’s more likely to seek him out if he thinks he’s available. This way, Albatross and Iceman are left alone to have a day off—Albatross, without fail, goes down to a club in Sakae-ku, and Iceman goes to a bar in Aoba-ku to meet some woman, no one bothers them because they think they’re working, and they both think the other is on the job, so you have at least a handful of hours to do what you want until Chuuya comes looking for you after his meetings.

You don’t do this often because you don’t want them to catch on, but you have to at least once a month—you just need a few hours to yourself without someone hovering over you. Usually, you go to a park—the fresh air and… normality does you well after weeks of being cooped up in the black towers. But sometimes, you find yourself here: the southern ports in Naka-ku, wandering the edges of the dumping grounds the mafia uses for all of its most unsavory waste.

You tell yourself it’s because of how forsaken this place is. Nobody comes to this abandoned shipping yard because everybody knows it’s Port Mafia territory—civilians keep a wide berth, even the government refuses to tread through the sludge when they know many of their cold cases would be solved here. You know you won’t be disturbed here—not even animals, field mice, even roaches, none of them come near this dumping ground. This is the only place in Yokohama where, at its center, you won't find a single living being within a mile.

You can think here. You’re not as suffocated by the lack of Mori’s presence and the reminder of what you did to him like you are when you’re in his office, and you don’t have to worry about eyes forever lingering on you. You’re left alone with your thoughts… whether it’s for better or for worse is still up in the air.

You exhale quietly as you step out of the car. You parked on the far end of the shipping yard. Whenever you come here, you walk along the edges of the yard. Usually, one loop is enough for you to clear your head, sometimes two when you’re trying to figure out how to proceed with whatever business is coming up, occasionally three or four if you’re in a particularly bad headspace.

Today is just business. Two loops, most likely.

You shove your hands in your pockets as you walk down the long abandoned road. War has broken out between the South’s Song and the Red Chamber in Beijing, so Cao Xueqin is out of your hair for the time being. Qu Yuan hasn’t reached out to you for assistance yet, but she will. It’s only a matter of time. You haven’t decided yet who you’re going to send over to her—probably one of Tolstoy’s units, maybe Gorky’s. You don’t want to send over Chekhov’s, you need him available to come to Yokohama once things start heating up with the government. Gorky is more expendable.

But your first priority is figuring out who exactly Dostoevsky’s informant in the government is before any conflicts break out. You need to be able to funnel misinformation to him, because once the military police and the Hunting Dogs come down on Yokohama, you know he’ll follow. He’s always been a vulture, letting other organizations do the dirty work so he can swoop in once and pick at the corpses for what he wants.

You’ve been testing it over the past few months of meetings with him. He likes flaunting information to you, taunting you with the realization that his rats are everywhere, listening to everything, even in the highest levels of the Japanese government. You know how information trickles down through the government, so every time you know that you’re meeting Dostoevsky, you’ll meet up with certain members of the Diet, Cabinet, and the military in the days before.

You started broad. You chatted with groups of Representatives and Councillors at events, attended the Prime Minister’s sister’s wedding to whisper some words into the ears of his Cabinet, and met with some of the highest-ranking officers in the military for dinner under the guise of coming to an agreement. You narrowed down the rat to being somewhere within the military, high-ranked at that, because there wasn’t enough time for the information to trickle down into the lower-ranked officers between the time you met with them and the night you met Dostoevsky.

You hope that tomorrow you can figure out if it’s one of the high-ranking officers of the service branches or one of the special operations divisions. You’d prefer it if it’s the former rather than the latter, because the special ops divisions will be harder to clean. You’ve burned regular officers out of their positions before—bribed them, discredited them, and then fed them to the wolves—but the special ops officers don’t have the same arrogance that the ones in the service branches do. They’ll be more careful, more suspicious, and it’ll be harder for you to convince the rest that one among them is an imposter when it comes from an outsider—they’re bound through the shared experiences of all of the awful things they’ve done at the request of the government.

You sigh as you lower your gaze to the ground, kicking absently at a stray piece of asphalt and watching it bounce down the road. Once you have an idea of where Dostoevsky’s informant is, you can start to plan out everything else. You’ll need to figure out when the government is going to send the Hunting Dogs to Yokohama, and then you just… need to prepare.

You lift your hand to rub your face. You’re so tired, you can feel the weariness deep in your bones, in your soul—it’s been conflict after conflict since you took over as boss, and you’re not sure how much more of it you can take. You just want to rest. You want one day without the weight of Mori’s scarf draped around your neck. One day that you’re not constantly reminded of what you did to him. One day where you can pretend to be normal.

You just want—

Your thoughts come to an abrupt halt when you see a familiar figure standing at the edge of the deserted road. It’s the author that you’ve run into a few times this week. He doesn’t even notice you—he’s staring down the steep slope leading into a particularly gross puddle of muck, an odd, conflicted expression on his face.

What the hell is he doing here?

You don’t even call out to him. You’re so flabbergasted by the sight of him that a part of you almost thinks you might be hallucinating him, but you’re not. He’s there, several yards in front of you in the heart of Port Mafia territory, dressed in a cream sweater and khakis, with hands shoved in his pockets and head hanging low.

Your lips part to say something, but you don’t even know what to say. A part of you wants to demand to know what he’s doing here—because it’s suspicious, isn’t it? You swallow thickly, trying to come up with a reasonable explanation as to why he might be here. Maybe he doesn’t know what this place is (how wouldn’t he know? everybody knows). Maybe he does know, but he’s an author, authors do weird things for creative inspiration, don’t they? Maybe he purposely came here to try to get inspiration for a new book after the number of times you taunted him over being a one-hit wonder.

“Dazai?” you finally ask. Your voice wavers over his name, and you watch as he stiffens instantly, dark eyes cutting to the side. He looks… nervous, like you caught him somewhere you weren’t supposed to. “What are you… doing here?”

He doesn’t respond immediately, which sets off some alarm bells. Why would he be here? And why does he look like he’s just been caught red-handed? The only people who come here are… the cleaning crew. No one comes here, not even petty criminals looking to scavenge through the rubble for something to sell for a quick buck. Has he been… lying to you? But about what? Who is he?

No. There must be another explanation.

“Dazai?” you press again. “What are you doing here? It’s not safe.”

“What am I doing here? What are you doing here?” he asks instead of answering your question. Your eyes narrow, and like he realizes that he deflected, he stammers out, “I just—I come here to think sometimes. It’s quiet.”

“Right,” you agree quietly. “Me too.”

You don’t know if you believe him. His reaction to you seeing him here was strange, on top of the immediate attempt at deflecting your question. It was suspicious, definitely, because of all places, he’s going to come here? It doesn’t really make sense even if you attribute it to… eccentricity, especially taking into account how you’ve bumped into him three times, two of the places being mafia establishments.

Is it on purpose? Is he orchestrating these meetings? Sent by an enemy organization or the government to get close to you?

More importantly… Does it matter if he is?

You swallow thickly at the last thought that crosses your mind, blinking as you look down at the ground. Klaus’s words from that morning at the cafe ring through your mind: “For a second, you almost seemed happy.”

You have enjoyed your brief encounters with Dazai. You’re not sure why, but you’re not sure if it matters why, because it’s been so long since you’ve been able to exist without the overwhelming weight of your life bearing down on your shoulders. And for some reason, during your brief encounters with him, it lifts.

You can breathe.

You can almost feel�� normal.

It’s what you’ve been desperate for, it’s what you’ve needed so badly, so you think even if he is some sort of plant, you might as well… enjoy this while it lasts, right? It might be your only chance for it, and what’s the worst that could happen anyway? Your life is already as bad as it can get. What’s he going to do? Kill you? You’re at the point where you might welcome it.

“Um—”

“Are you—”

You both speak at the same time, and you bite your tongue instantly before raising your eyebrows at him, beckoning him to continue.

“Are you sure you’re not stalking me?” he finally asks, clearing his throat as the playful lilt returns to his voice. There’s something odd in his eyes, though—uncertainty, maybe? “I mean, four times now. Kind of weird. If you have a crush on me, you can just say it.”

“Right,” you repeat dryly, and then look around pointedly. “You come here to think?”

Dazai’s cheeks flush pink as he rubs the back of his neck. “It’s… hard to explain. I just—I think better here.”

“You’re pretty weird, y’know that?” you say absently, making your way over to him to glance down at where he was staring.

There’s nothing there—just a puddle of dark slush dribbling out of a large pipe beneath the road—but for some reason, your chest gets all twisted up and for a brief second, you feel a familiar, heavy weight in your hand. Disconcerted, you look away and take a step back, shoving your hands in your pocket before returning your attention to Dazai, who seems to have noticed your odd reaction from how he squints at you.

“You’re here too,” he says with a scowl instead of calling out your strange behavior. “What does that make you?”

Your lips curl up into an easy smile as you shrug. “Pretty weird, I guess.”

Dazai’s expression softens, a smile matching your own tugging at his lips as he looks over you. It’s almost dusk now, and Dazai looks stunning beneath the setting sun. His dark eyes look like warm pools of honey, and there’s a pink flush on his cheeks as he looks at you. The expression on his face is strange—there’s a shine to his eyes and the corners of his lips are tight, like he’s trying to force them to stop trembling.

He looks sad, you realize, wondering if maybe you interrupted him.

“You come here to… think too?” he finally asks, voice hesitant. When you nod, he asks quietly, “Why here?”

You don’t have an answer to that. You don’t know why you come here. You tell yourself it’s for the solitude, but you have a gut feeling that it’s something more than that. You could go anywhere for solitude—Itou’s old place up on the cliffside south of Higashikoiso or the property you and Chuuya bought on the Hokkaido coastline—but for some reason, you find yourself here every time. And it’s not like you ever feel better after coming here. In fact, you usually feel worse; the weight on your chest gets heavier, and you return to headquarters feeling all too lonely, heart in your throat and stomach churning.

“I don’t know,” you say honestly. “I don’t know why here.”

You don’t think Dazai will be satisfied with that answer. You expect him to press more, or make some sort of teasing remark, but he only smiles to himself, gaze lowering to the ground as if your answer pleased him for some reason.

“Guess we’re both weirdos then,” he says lightly, but you have a feeling that’s not what made him smile. Before you can question it, he continues, “What’d you come here to think about?”

You don’t really know how to respond to that. You can’t exactly tell him that you’re worried about a three-front war breaking out in Yokohama between the Mafia you’re boss of, the government, and Fyodor Dostoevsky’s slimy organization, but you don’t want to outright lie, so you say:

“Business issues,” you say, sighing as you lean back on your heels. “New government regulations… competitors trying to take advantage, pushing us into a corner. It’s a whole mess.”

His lips curve up into a small smile like he knows something you don’t, and you tilt your head to the side curiously, squinting at him, but he only shakes his head.

“Well, the best defense is a good offense,” he says airily. “Get them to back off by targeting them somehow.”

“It’s not—” you start to say, but then pause. Getting the government to back off is out of the picture, Dostoevsky will be just as hard, but maybe not impossible if you can get Nabokov involved. You don’t really want to get more people involved than you have to—you’re already displeased about Qu Yuan—but Nabokov owes you for handling the White Guard for him. “You’re smarter than you look.”

“So I’ve been told,” Dazai teases instead of getting offended, leaning in just a little with a sweet smile. “How do I look? Pretty, right?”

You scoff and roll your eyes before asking, “What about you? What did you come here to think about?”

His smile falls, gaze averting to the ground for a moment. He hesitates for a moment and then says, “Someone I used to care about. A lot.”

You tilt your head to the side. “The same person that made you write that bitter ass ending to your book?”

“It was not bitter,” he scowls at you, but it’s only half-hearted. His shoulders slump as he whispers, “Yeah. Same person.”

Dazai doesn’t look at you now. He looks crushed as he turns his gaze back out to the shipping yard. His eyes are glassy, and his lips are pressed together tightly, fingers trembling in front of his body before he shoves his hands back into his pockets. Something twists in your chest at the sight of him so hung up on someone who hurt him, and you’re not sure why, so you press your lips together and push the thought away, ignoring the sinking feeling in your chest.

“Whoever they are, it’s their loss,” you tell him quietly. You’re usually good at knowing what to say and when to say it, but you find yourself at a bit of a loss here. You want to say something else, but you end up just resigning yourself to standing there with him.

“Right,” he agrees quietly, like he doesn’t believe it himself. “I should get going.”

“Right,” you echo, feeling a bit disappointed when he turns his back on you to leave. After a moment’s hesitation, you call after him, “Dazai?”

He pauses and looks over his shoulder back at you. His voice is hoarse as he asks, “What is it?”

“I’m gonna be back at that cafe Sunday morning,” you say awkwardly, barely withholding a wince when you see the confusion fly across his face. “... If you’ll be there too.”

“Are you…asking me out on a date?” he asks, lips curving up into a teasing smile. His eyes light up, but they’re a bit distant, like he’s still lost in his own head. “How forward.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” you say dryly, rolling your eyes and turning to leave. “Bye, One Hit Wonder. See you there or not.”

“... See you there.”

-----------

Dazai doesn’t understand.

It’s been three weeks since he first bumped into you at the bar. Three weeks since he started orchestrating encounters with you. Three weeks since he made the deal with the Armed Detective Agency to get close to you for information that can be used against the Port Mafia.

Three weeks, and you haven’t accused him of anything.

No suspicious glances. No speculative stares. No questioning the way he just always happens to be there—on the same street, at the same cafe, in the same bar drinking a glass of whiskey he can’t afford. You smile when you see him. You talk to him like he belongs there. Like he’s welcome. Like you trust him.

He doesn’t understand.

You should have noticed by now. You should have long noticed. You should have been suspicious of him that first day at the cafe, and you definitely should’ve been suspicious when you ran into him at the bar. He thought he was done for sure when he ran into you at the same place where you faked his death—that one hadn’t even been intentional, he really does go there sometimes to think, and he never expected you to go there too.

It was… welcome confirmation that maybe you still subconsciously remember him, because why else would you be drawn there to think? What else was that strange reaction you had when you looked over the edge of the road, where his body had dropped over the edge six months ago, and then immediately looked away, confused? Even with your memories of him wiped, your heart and subconscious still remember. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be drawn to such a disgusting area, and you wouldn’t have been so disturbed by the location where you once had to shoot him in the head.

You seemed to be uncertain when you initially noticed him there. There was no disguising the hesitance on your face as you studied him, asking him what he was doing there, but when he thought that all was lost and he was fumbling out excuses so you didn’t actually kill him in the same place where you faked his death, your expression smoothed out and you teased him.

And Dazai doesn’t understand.

Or maybe it’s less that he doesn’t understand, and more that he doesn’t want to understand. Because if he’s right and you’re drawn to that area because you subconsciously remember him… It’s probably the same subconscious memory of him that’s leading you to brush off all of the things that should be setting off all of the alarm bells that he knows you have, and it’s making him sick to his stomach. That means he’s taking advantage of your memory loss, taking advantage of the trust you still unwittingly have for him to manipulate you. To spy on you. To hurt you.

And he doesn’t want to hurt you.

God, he doesn’t want to hurt you. He thought he did. He thought he was vindictive, he thought he wanted to hurt you half as bad as you hurt him when you wiped your memory of him, but he doesn’t. He feels nauseous with guilt knowing he’s doing exactly what he was once accused of. He knows you’re not doing well—he knew it the first time he ran into you, and he’s seen it in every subsequent meeting. Your eyes are empty every time you enter a room, you don’t hold your head high, and what’s even worse, you only seem to brighten when you see him.

Your eyes light up, and you straighten up as you lift your hand to wave to him when you find him waiting for you at the cafe. You tell him in advance the mornings that you stop at the cafe, and he can tell that you’re hoping he’ll be there too. You look forward to your meetings with him, and Dazai feels sick every time he realizes it might be the only thing in your life you have to look forward to.

And Dazai likes meeting with you, too. Not every time. Some days he’s bitter and angry, and he has to make an effort not to show it on his face or in his tone when he’s talking to you. Some mornings, he considers not going after he tells you he’ll see you there because he knows you’ll be disappointed. He doesn’t, of course, because he doesn’t want to hurt you; he’s just upset and resentful because he wants to be doing all of this with a you that remembers him.

But it’s also because he likes meeting with you.

It’s… It’s not refreshing. He doesn’t really know what the word is for it, but there’s something about getting to know you when you’re not cold and withdrawn with suspicion, and he’s not analyzing your every word and action for answers as to who you are, that’s nice. He can let himself just be in the moment with you. He can let himself laugh when you tease him about his taste in literature. He can let himself engage you in debates about why you think Petrarchan sonnets are better than Shakespearan sonnets (which you get oddly passionate about). He can toss around ideas with you for his new novel, and he finds himself smiling at your enthusiasm. He’s even started writing again—not depressing poetry that he rage and grief writes, but his novel. He’s already written three chapters since he’s started meeting you again.

Dazai never stopped loving you, but somehow, he can almost let himself fall in love with you all over again.

He can almost let himself forget what he’s there for.

But he never does. Not for long, and not entirely. The moment always comes—after the laughter, after the coffee, after your hand brushes his on the table and you don’t immediately pull away, that crushing reminder of what he’s doing always returns.

You trust him. A part of you, deep down, still remembers him.

And he’s lying to you. Using you. Manipulating you. Hurting you.

Your early morning meetings at the cafe never last long—twenty-five, thirty minutes max—but he always walks away from them feeling like he needs to scrub his skin raw. He keeps telling himself that he’s doing what’s necessary. It’s this or the Hunting Dogs coming down on Yokohama, and you getting caught in the crossfire of it. It’s this or risking you getting hurt or killed. It’s this or losing any chance at you ever regaining your memories of him.

He’s doing what’s necessary.

He’s doing this to protect you.

He’s doing this to get you back.

It doesn’t change the way his heart aches when you smile at him, and it doesn’t change the way nausea builds in his stomach when your eyes light up at the sight of him.

Sometimes, he thinks about telling you. Not everything—not about the Agency, certainly, because he doesn’t want to put them at risk. You’re still you, and as sweet as you can be with him, he knows there’s a cold and calculating mafia executive—boss, now—behind the pretty face and soft smiles. But sometimes, he wants to tell you something. He wants to hint at your past together and wants to see if your brows furrow in confusion or if your eyes glaze over as you try to remember a memory you no longer have.

He doesn’t, though. He doesn’t want to open that door. A part of him is scared of what he might find on the other side of it. As much as he wants you to remember—because he does want you to remember, that’s the whole point of this—he's not sure if he’s ready for it to happen so soon. The closer he gets to you, and the closer he gets to figuring out where those paintings are that store your memories of him, the more anxious he gets.

Because right now, even if it is all built on a lie, he almost has what he used to have with you. You look at him softly, and you smile at him gently, and Dazai wants to be able to enjoy it for a little while longer. He deserves it, he thinks, for the six months of hell he went through.

Once he pulls the trigger, once your memories return, he doesn’t know how you’ll react, but he can imagine. He can imagine the anger in your eyes when you realize that everything you did to protect him was for nothing. He can imagine the frustration when you realize that he tore everything apart because he selfishly wanted you back. He can imagine the betrayal on your face when you realize the past few weeks with him have been nothing but manipulation, and worse, if you figure out that he’s been working with the Armed Detective Agency against you, that he’s been getting close to you to bring down the Port Mafia.

If that happens, he might lose you entirely, even if you do have your memories back. You’ve never been one to take betrayal lightly.

Dazai doesn’t think he can survive that.

So he keeps quiet. He keeps playing the part he promised to play, keeps working to get closer to you to gather intel for the Agency. He knows he’s been acting strangely and they’re probably getting suspicious of him—they know that he has a past with you, and they know he has his own reasons for agreeing to this—but he still doesn’t like the unreadable look Kunikida casts his way whenever he walks into the room, and he especially doesn’t like the knowing one that Ranpo sets on him. Yosano is the only one who still acts normally with him, and he knows it’s probably for your sake more than his. He still doesn’t know the full story of your past with her, but he knows Yosano cares deeply about you and worries about you even now after what you’ve become.

He forces himself not to care, and he lets himself enjoy his early morning meetings with you. He lets himself bask in this before it’s inevitably ripped away.

He sometimes watches you absently stare down at your coffee and wonders if you feel it too—the hollowness, the yearning, the sense that something is missing, and no matter how many cigarettes you burn through or how many nights you drown yourself in alcohol, the emptiness never really goes away.

Sometimes, you say things that nearly make him cry. You’ll laugh at something he says and then pause, brows knitting, and whisper, “This feels familiar… weird, right?”

And he smiles, tight-lipped, and says something like, “Deja vu, maybe?”

It isn’t. He has a feeling you might know it too, but neither of you pushes it. He could, but he doesn’t know what will happen if he does, doesn’t know what he’ll do if he succeeds.

What will happen when you do remember?

Would you still smile when you saw him or would your expression go cold?

Would you hate him for what he’s been doing the past few weeks or would you forgive him?

Would you cast him out or would you let him come home?

He wants to believe you would. He really wants to believe there’s still a version of this where you forgive him. There’s still a version of this where you understand why he’s doing what he’s doing, even if you don’t agree with it. There’s still a version of this where you choose him.

But life has proven time and time again that Dazai doesn’t get happy endings.

“Dazai, are you even paying attention?” Yosano asks, hands on her hips as she stands near the whiteboard with Kunikida. She’s frowning at him, not in disappointment, but in concern, which Dazai personally thinks is worse. “This is important. It’s our only chance of getting in Port Mafia headquarters.”

Dazai grimaces. “Sorry,” he says quietly. “Was distracted.”

As he’s been for the majority of the last few meetings with them, but thankfully, they don’t call him out on it.

“It’s fine,” Yosano replies after a moment, too understanding with him. “Just listen up this time, okay?”

Kunikida sighs as he pushes his glasses up to the bridge of his nose. “We received intel that in two weeks, the Mori Corporation is going to be hosting an event at their headquarters.”

Dazai blinks. “What?”

Why would you do that? Dazai is baffled as his mind races, trying to figure out why the hell you would be hosting an event at Port Mafia headquarters when there’s so much suspicion on the organization. He knows through the Armed Detective Agency that the government has been on its ass for months, and he knows you know it because he’s pretty sure that whenever you’re ranting about “government regulations,” you’re actually talking about the military bill that passed a few weeks after the two of you separated. He also knows that the government is apparently only one of your problems, considering you’re also constantly venting about competitors that he assumes are enemy organizations.

So why would you invite more attention?

Unless that’s precisely why, he realizes, leaning back in his seat as he thinks to himself. If you’re drawing attention to headquarters in the middle of a storm of suspicion, then you’re not doing it as some arrogant flex of power. You’re not careless or stupid, so there’s a reason he’s missing.

“She’s trying to draw someone out,” he realizes quietly, barely realizing he’s interrupted Kunikida. “But who?

“What?” Yosano frowns.

“The event,” he says slowly, already going over the potential scenarios in his head. He doubts you’d be trying to draw out the government—one of the Port Mafia’s enemies, then? Or… “She wouldn’t just be hosting it to posture. She’s doing it to get someone’s attention—maybe even ours. She wants someone to come looking, to take the bait, that’s why she’s making the venue so obvious.”

Kunikida narrows his eyes. “You think it’s a trap,” he says. “Is she suspicious of you? Did you let anything slip?”

“No, she’s not,” he dismisses. “I—”

“Dazai,” Yosano interrupts, voice cautious. “If she’s suspicious of you, you could be in danger.”

“She’s not suspicious of me,” Dazai repeats loudly. He doesn’t mean for his voice to crack, but it does. That’s the whole problem—you’re not suspicious of him, and you should be, and it makes him sick to his stomach. “She’s not. I’m not in danger.”

There’s a moment of silence. Kunikida and Yosano exchange looks with one another at his abrupt outburst, and Ranpo studies him carefully. Dazai wants to shrivel and die.

“Well,” Kunikida finally says, tone clipped. “Whether it’s a trap or just a way to provoke chaos, it’s an opportunity we can’t afford to waste. If the Port Mafia is opening its doors, even for a single evening, we need to be there. It could be our only opportunity to stop a major conflict from breaking out in Yokohama.”

Could it be a trap for the Armed Detective Agency? Dazai isn’t sure. He knows he’s been extra careful not to implicate them in his conversations with you, so you shouldn’t know anything from what he’s said to you, but god knows what type of intel you get from your insiders. He knows you have some high up informants in the government. If you have any inkling that the Agency might be working with the government…

“You guys shouldn’t come to this event,” he says tightly. His throat swells as he remembers what you had done to Professor Ui and the journalists at the Ivory Eagle. “She… If it’s you guys that she’s trying to lure out… You don’t want to fall for that trap. But I can go. She trusts me. I’ll be okay.”

The words escape Dazai before he can really understand what he’s saying, and he shifts uncomfortably when Kunikida squints at him—not with judgment, but with something closer to worry. Worry for him.

“Are you sure you’re… okay with all of this?” Kunikida asks hesitantly. “You don’t have to keep doing this, we can find another way, I—”

Dazai shoots him a withering look. He doesn’t even want to know what expression must be on his face for Kunikida to be giving him that look and talking to him all softly like he’s about to break.

“Ah, Kunikida-kun, I didn’t know you loved me so much. You don’t need to worry,” he says, faux-playfulness in his tone but his smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’m fine. I’ll do it.”

Is he fine though? What the hell is he supposed to do? You haven’t invited him to this event, and he can’t show up without really blowing everything out of the water. If he shows up there, you’ll be forced to confront him and acknowledge that he’s been orchestrating these meetings with you. Manipulating you. Using you.

But if they go, and this is a trap for them, who knows what you’ll have done to them. And the detectives in the Agency have been here for Dazai in the last six months—all of them have checked in on him in some manner to make sure he’s okay. They took him under their wing so quickly when he showed up at the cafe that day. They didn’t press when he couldn’t answer their questions about you without choking up, and they didn’t take offense when he got vile and defensive if they caught him on a particularly bad day.

They accepted him as he was and with open arms, so Dazai wasn’t going to let them go out and put themselves in danger. Especially not when he knows what you’re capable of.

“If Dazai can get into this event through an invitation…” Tanizaki says, leaning forward. “We were going to try to sneak in as attendants, there’s a huge chance of us getting caught if we go about it that way.”

“It’s up to Dazai,” Yosano says, looking at him with a frown. “... But I really don’t like the idea of sending you in there alone. It’ll be dangerous. Pit of the snakes and all. If you get caught there, we can’t even use Tanizaki-kun for extraction because of your ability.”

Kunikida looks displeased. “I don’t like this at all.”

“I’ll handle it,” he replies, quieter now. “I can get the invitation.”

He doesn’t know how he’ll manage it. Maybe you’ll mention the event during one of your early morning meetings in the next few days, and he can steer the conversation that way and invite himself along. Maybe you’ll even invite him once you realize what he’s getting at. He doubts it—even if the event is under the guise of a Mori Corporation event, he knows it’s going to be a Mafia one, and he knows that there are going to be a lot of unsavory figures in attendance. You’ll need to be focused on all of the things happening there and whatever your plan is, not him.

Getting an invite is not going to be easy.

Yosano still looks like she wants to argue, but she relents with a sigh. “Be careful, Dazai. Please.”

Ranpo doesn’t say anything. He just stares at him with a gaze that sees far too much, and it takes every ounce of Dazai’s strength not to look away.

-----------

“And why is it that we’re here tonight, Dostoevsky?” you drawl as you enter the private room in the Ryugin, one of Chuuya’s favorite restaurants in Tokyo. You adjust your fur shawl with one gloved hand, lifting your chin as the man rises to his feet to greet you. “Have you grown bored of our shows?”

“Hardly,” Dostoevsky replies, holding his hand out and beckoning you to place yours in it. You raise your eyebrows at him before doing as he wishes, watching as he leans down to brush his lips against your knuckles, lingering for just a moment too long. “But I thought tonight deserved a quieter stage.”

“Is that so?” you hum, careful to keep the expression on your face unbothered when his fingers brush the inside of your wrist. He releases your hand after a second, straightening as he tilts his head to the side to look down at you. “And why is that?”

Dostoevsky’s smile is as enigmatic as ever, teeth sharp beneath the dim golden lights of the private room. There’s a glimmer in his eyes—dangerous, amused, and you know that this meeting is not going to fall in your favor. You’ve come out of the last two on top, narrowing down the place of his informant to one of the government's most elite special operation units, but you have yet to pinpoint the exact unit they’re in. This meeting will not be as kind to you—Dostoevsky is too at ease, and that’s never a good thing.

“Because things are finally about to begin,” he says lightly. You press your lips together and wait for him to continue. When he does, he changes the topic. “Utilizing Nabokov was a good move. I had to divert more resources than I was comfortable with back to the motherland… It wasn’t quite enough, though.”

You had a feeling it wouldn’t be, but with Dostoevsky’s attention split, your job becomes easier, if only marginally. You don’t sit down right away, even when he beckons you to. Instead, you trail your fingers across the smooth lacquer of the table, gaze fixed on him. Dostoevsky has always been dangerous, but there’s something different tonight. You can feel it in the air, in the way the servers left so quickly, in the way only the two of you are here, in the way he’s looking at you.

“Are they?” you ask slowly, ignoring his last comment. “I’ve only been waiting six months for you to finally make your move.”

Dostoevsky chuckles lowly, pulling out your chair. You sit down after a moment and let him slide your chair in. Your breath catches when he leans down behind you, lips brushing your ear and hands resting on your shoulders, slowly sliding down to your biceps.

“Not me, my dear,” he murmurs, voice soft as it is suffocating. “Not yet.”

Dostoevsky finally pulls away to lower himself into the seat across from you, folding his hands in front of him. You try to brush off the way his proximity left your hair standing on end.

“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised,” you reply dryly. “You’ve always been one to pick at the corpses after everything has settled. You’re much like a vulture, you know?”

Dostoevsky smiles like it’s a compliment, fingers drumming once against the edge of the table before they still. “And yet, here you are—dining with the vulture.”

“Here I am,” you echo flatly, watching as a waiter brings out two glasses of red wine. You wait for him to leave before asking, “If not you, then who?”

“Where is the fun in cluing you in?” Dostoevsky hums. “I would much prefer to watch it all unfold on its own. Unless, of course, you have something to exchange for the information.”

“Information doesn’t come free from either of us,” you reply coolly. “And I’m not in the habit of trading truths for your riddles. I know better than to deal with snakes—your exchanges are never fair.”

“Do you?” he questions, eyes glittering in a way that makes you pause. “Because it seems you’ve become quite… fond of one the past few weeks.”

Dostoevsky is a filthy liar. You know this. In the years you spent with him abroad, you watched him spin complex and meticulous lies at a moment’s notice—the two of you had made a game of narrating stories of your pasts, seeing which of you could get away with weaving in the most lies without getting caught. Dostoevsky has lied people into bankruptcy and the grave with the same soft eyes and pretty smile he wears now—you’ve laughed along with him as he did it. You know better than anyone what he’s capable of.

But he doesn’t seem to be lying right now, and that makes you hesitate.

“Here,” Dostoevsky says, taking a sip of his wine. “How about instead of trading information, you trade an invitation?”

Your only response is to raise your eyebrows at him.

“I want to come to the event you’re hosting next week,” he explains with an easy smile. “It’s been a while since I’ve been able to attend a good party.”

“You can’t be serious,” you say flatly. “Absolutely not. Why?”

“I told you,” he replies. “It’s been a while since I’ve attended a proper party, and I have a feeling this one is going to be quite entertaining. I assure you, my information is well worth the invitation.”

You’re half inclined to laugh in his face, but you find yourself hesitating. Having a snake in your inner circle when the government is preparing to bring down its wrath on the Port Mafia is not in your best interests, but having Dostoevsky attend an event where you’re trying to lure out some of the Port Mafias more… reckless enemies before war breaks out is equally ill-advised.

But which is worse?

“Fine,” you finally say firmly. “If I suspect you’re plotting anything, you’ll long for death, Dostoevsky.”

Dostoevsky lifts a hand to his heart in mock sincerity. “I will be on my best behavior, I assure you. I only wish to observe.”

“The information,” you prod.

“I got word from my informant that the government has made a deal with the Armed Detective Agency,” he says, leaning back in his seat, a more serious expression settling on his face as he studies you. “They were… concerned that they were wasting time waiting for the detectives to fulfill their end of the bargain. They were under the belief that you were planning to use the event to draw out and assassinate some of the more persistent advocates for military intervention in Yokohama.”

You have to force yourself not to react. Even if the information about the ‘snake’ turns out useless, the invitation has already become worth it. You funneled that little piece of misinformation into the ears of one unit: the Hunting Dogs.

Is Dostoevsky’s informant in the ranks of Japan’s most elite group of ability users?

The thought is chilling. You’ll need to confirm it, but you have to share your suspicions with the executives as soon as you can, because the implications if you’re right… Well, they’re very dark to say the least.

“As if I would be that stupid,” you scoff instead. Then, you add derisively, “Although, I assure you I haven’t gotten close to any of the Agency’s detectives.”

“I told them as much,” Dostoevsky hums, taking another sip of his wine, eyes sharp and calculating as he studies your face. “I figure someone must have purposely fed them wrong intel.”

“I wonder why,” you say off-handedly.

“I wonder indeed,” he echoes, carefully examining your expression before frowning, evidently coming away answerless. “It’s not one of the detectives they’re using, my dear. It’s a civilian. An author.”

The amusement and satisfaction that settled in your chest immediately disappears as you sit up in your seat. A civilian, an author, ‘you’ve become quite fond of one these past few weeks.’

Dazai?

“The detectives would never risk using a civilian to do their dirty work,” you dismiss immediately. “They’re too honorable for that.”

“I thought the same,” Dostoevsky agrees lightly, “but it’s true. The government offered them two jobs: either get information to call for the removal of Walter Lippmann from office or capture and hand over the foreign terrorist who goes by the name of Klaus Mann. I assume since the civilian is trying to get close to you, that they’re attempting the former.”

Lies, you want to immediately spit out, but the word catches in your throat. You had been suspicious of how many times he bumped into you—especially that evening at the shipping yard—but you let yourself be willfully blind.

“Do you have proof?” you ask flatly, “or are you just spinning another lie?”

“Come, darling,” Dostoevsky drawls. “We know each other well enough to know when the other is lying. I don’t have proof for you, but you can prove it yourself… I’m sure over the next couple days, he’s going to try to find a way to get an invite to the event you’re hosting. When he does, he’ll be expected to immediately go back to the detectives so they can plan. Offer to walk him back to wherever he’s going—he’ll either refuse or lead you to the cafe beneath the Agency. Either way, you’ll have your answer.”

“Or he’ll just lead me somewhere else,” you say dryly, but your voice is tighter than you intended for it to be.

He won’t. You’ve noticed over the past few weeks that Dazai is extraordinarily smooth and good with words whenever he’s talking to anyone but you. Whenever you catch him off guard, he’ll fumble with an answer and get embarrassed, cheeks flushing a pretty pink as buries his face in his hands and groans.

If you offer this, he’ll fumble and then refuse, and you’ll have your answer.

But do you want it? Do you really want to know?

You’re not sure.

“He won’t,” Dostoevsky confirms your thoughts. Then, he leans forward a bit, a playful smile dancing on his lips. “Although, I am curious, what exactly drew you to him? I must say, I’m a bit jealous of how fond you are of him.”

You raise your eyebrows. “He entertains me,” you reply flatly, even though it’s in no way so simple to describe. You don’t even know why you’re so drawn to him. “Green is unflattering on you, and jealousy implies there’s something between us that makes you feel threatened by him. There is nothing between us.”

“There’s no color unflattering on me,” he dismisses, “and you and I both know that there is certainly something between us.”

“Yes, irritation. Mostly on my part,” you scoff. “There is nothing between us, though I often wish there was a wall.”

Dostoevsky laughs, delighted by the snide comment. Then, he repeats with a teasing smile, “We know each other well enough to know when the other is lying.”

“Sure,” you agree with a roll of your eyes.

“Are Tolstoy and his cousin still in the city?” Dostoevsky suddenly prods, changing the subject. When you raise your eyebrows, he says, “Just curious if I’ll see them at the event.”

“For your sake, you should hope not,” you tell him. “Tolstoy prays for your death every day.”

Dostoevsky sighs dramatically. “He never did get over Tula,” he says more to himself than to you. “So emotional. It was only business.”

“That business cost him all four of his siblings and his parents,” you remind him, “and you only got him involved through a lie.”

Dostoevsky waves his hand dismissively. “Collateral damage for a greater good.”

“I’m sure,” you agree dryly.

“Well, business has concluded,” he says with a contemplative look, dark hair framing his face prettily as he tilts his head to the side inquisitively. “Will you be staying for dinner?”

You know you should probably take the opportunity to go, but you find yourself hesitating—you don’t want to be alone with your thoughts tonight, not when Dostoevsky has thrown in your face that the one thing you’ve been able to look forward to these past few weeks might be a lie. Your gaze meets his, and he raises his eyebrows tauntingly. You let out a soft scoff, and then straighten your shoulders, unfastening your shawl and draping it over the back of your chair before tilting your head to the side.

Dostoevsky’s lips curl up into a pleasant smile, violet eyes lighting up in delight. “You always do manage to surprise me,” he breathes out.

“Don’t make me regret it.”

“I would never.”

----------

Dazai is running out of time to try to get an invite to this event.

It’s already Wednesday. He has less than two days, but every time he tries to bring it up to you, he ends up floundering and telling himself that he’ll just ask next time. He thinks maybe you can tell he wants to ask you something, because every time he goes quiet for too long, you squint at him, waiting.

He thinks maybe that’s why this morning has been so awkward. Usually, when you get here, the two of you slip into easy conversation about whatever the topic of the day is—sometimes the new book he’s started writing to spite your loathsome nickname for him, sometimes a random poem he wants your opinion on. This time, he didn’t say anything besides a quiet ‘hello,’ so the two of you have been drinking your coffee in silence.

“Sorry,” he finally says. “I’m just… thinking.”

“Terrifying,” you reply instantly.

“Rude,” he complains, feeling a bit more at ease when he sees the way your lips curl up into a soft smile. “I just…”

His voice trails off again. I just need to come with you to your event so I can snoop around for information to give the Armed Detective Agency so that they can give it to the government to use against you.

Right, he thinks dryly, words immediately dying on his tongue. He just has to… ask you what you’re doing on Friday. Like he wants to take you on a date. And maybe that will prompt you into asking if he wants to come with you? Or maybe you’ll just say you’re busy—what should he do then? How is he supposed to press? Should he insist on knowing what you’re doing and then invite himself along? That’ll be so… suspicious and—

“Are you busy Friday?” you suddenly ask, and for a brief second, there’s a strange expression on your face. He can’t tell if it’s resigned or sad, and it’s gone too quickly for him to figure it out. “Hm?”

Dazai stares at you, lips parting to reply, but no words leave them.

Your eyes narrow slightly and then you raise your eyebrows. “Well? Are you?”

“No?” Dazai offers after a moment, voice stunted and awkward. “Um, why…?”

“I’m hosting an event at our headquarters,” you say, leaning back in your seat as you sip your coffee. “It’s going to be miserably boring, and I don’t have a date. Come with me?”

“You’re… inviting me?” he asks in disbelief, praying it doesn’t come out as suspicious as he thinks it does. “I mean—why me? I’m sure there are better options.”

“Because I like your company,” you say easily, so unguarded that it makes Dazai twist up inside. “Do I need any other reason?”

Yes, Dazai wants to scream at you. Yes, you do need another reason because just enjoying his company doesn’t explain why you aren’t looking deeper into this. It doesn’t explain why you haven’t used your resources to get information on him—if you had, you’d know he’s pretty much been an honorary member of the Armed Detective Agency for six months. It doesn’t explain why you’re not more suspicious of the number of times he coincidentally “ran” into you. It doesn’t explain why you’re letting him into your life so easily when you fought him at every corner the first time.

He thought maybe it was because you subconsciously remember him, and because of that, you trust him—he still thinks that—but he thinks there must be something else going on. What’s happened to you the past six months? What happened after you wiped your memories of him and took over the Port Mafia? You must have an inkling of what’s going on here, what happened to make you not care?

“I guess not,” he whispers, and then adds, “I like your company too.”

Your smile is sadder this time—it doesn’t reach your eyes like it’s started to the past few weeks. Dazai’s lips part to say something, but he doesn’t know what to say that won’t make his stomach churn with guilt.

“So, will you come?” you finally ask again, tilting your head to the side. “Or are you too busy for me?”

“Never too busy for you,” he murmurs, voice too raw. He clears his throat quickly, “But, I hope you’re prepared to be embarrassed. I’m notoriously bad at fancy events.”

Your smile is a bit more genuine as you avert your gaze. “You’ll be fine.”

Dazai breathes out a laugh that sounds too much like a whimper, masking it by taking another sip of his coffee. He thought he would feel relieved, but he only feels suffocated. He needs to get out of here and tell the Agency that he got the invite before they settle on doing something stupid because they think he wasn’t able to get the invite.

“I have a meeting in fifteen minutes,” he says after a moment. “I should get going. I’ll see you Friday?”

Something shifts in your expression as he grabs his bag and rises to his feet, he gives you a small smile that he hopes isn’t as shaky as he feels, but pauses when he sees that strange expression return. He was right—it is resignation, or something between resignation and dread, maybe. Why?

“Do you want me to—” You cut your question off abruptly as you look down at your coffee.

Dazai tilts his head to the side with a frown. “Do I want you to….?” he prods curiously.

“Nothing,” you say, shaking your head. “I should get going too. I’ll see you Friday.”

Dazai gives you a curious look but he nods, shouldering his back and giving you one last long look before he turns to go. He doesn’t let himself linger, doesn’t let himself ask the questions that he suddenly very desperately wants answers to. He can’t afford to think about the way your voice faltered or the hesitance on your face—if he does, it’ll consume him.

He’s gotten what he wanted—needed—hasn’t he? He got the invitation, now he needs to go back to the Agency so he can let them know and they can drop their risky plan of sneaking in as attendants.

So, he forces himself to keep going. He walks out of the cafe and toward the Armed Detective Agency with his heart in his throat and guilt heavy in his chest.

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

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personasintro · 1 day ago

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Hi Mimi 💗

How are you doing? I just read your latest asks and I found out that you've been sick. I really hope you're taking care of yourself. Your health matters the most. Your rest, your comfort, your happiness, that's the number one priority. Updates don't matter rn. What matters is that you're okay. What matters is you. Everything else can wait.

I've been reading Mutual Help since the beginning. I've been here since the start, and I still love it just as much, if not more. Your writing has meant so much to me. There were times in my life when I felt like I was stuck in the dark, and reading Mutual Help helped me through that. I didn't even used to like the best friends to lovers trope, but when you wrote it, you made me realize how beautiful it can be when best friends fall in love.

The way you write it, it just feels real, soft, and full of so much heart. Now it's one of my favorite things ever, all because of you. You’re the reason I started writing fanfics. You inspire me so much, and I look up to you more than I can say. Watching you write with so passion made me want to follow in your footsteps. I really hope I can become an amazing writer like you someday.

I also just want to say that I'm really sorry you've been receiving hate. That's not fair. It's really upsetting to see people act like that, especially when you're not well. You don't deserve it at all. No one should be treating you like that. You're doing your best, and that's more than enough. You owe nothing to anyone. Don't let any of the hate get to you. You're a phenomenal writer, and there are so many of us who know that and love you for it.

We're always here. We love you so much. Your loyal readers, we're not going anywhere. We'll wait for chapter 60, no matter how long it takes. We'll always be excited to read what you write, but we'll never want it at the cost of your peace. So take your time. Rest. Heal. Be happy.

You're the sweetest, most creative person, and I just want to send you all the love and support. I love you so much, truly. You matter to me, and you've made such a difference in my life.

Take your time, rest well, and know that we'll be here always.

Forever cheering for you 💌

Hi 💕

Thank you so much for saying that! I’ve been trying to put myself first when it came to online “life” but it was way harder to do that offline. I guess that’s just what happens when you’re an adult and there’s a lot going on. I hope everyone’s taking care of themselves and are doing everything for them to be happy and healthy. Including you bub 🫰

You know what? I actually wasn’t a fan of best friends to lovers trope. As someone who prefers enemies to lovers, I didn’t really read stories with best friends trope 🫣 I’m glad you gave it a shot and of course, that you ended up liking this story!

Thank you for this part as well! I’m someone who likes to explain stuff, especially when I feel like I’m aggrieved by people for everything I say or do. It’s been a lot in this particular area as well and my patience is running low. I understand that no matter how much I’m trying to explain, there’s always going to be someone that won’t understand. And I’ve seen many people leaving for this specific reason and I always thought how hard that must be. But now I understand that even better.

Thank you so much for the incredibly sweet words. It makes me tear up and I’m truly touched by your kindness that I can feel just from reading this message. You’re a living proof that there are readers with heart full of love 🥹 I wish I knew your name, so my respond could be at least a little bit more personal but bub, I hope you’re happy, healthy and doing everything in your life that you want to do. Good luck on your writing journey, people will find your good heart and they will love you! I know I do already 🫶

#💜

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lacedbykami · 2 days ago

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˙ . ꒷ 🍰 . 𖦹˙—𝐇𝐐 𝐁𝐎𝐘𝐅𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐃 𝐇𝐂𝐒! - multi!

⋆𖦹⋆ˎˊ˗ synopsis: what its like dating them, hcs, etc <3 [♡] including: suna, bokuto, suga, oikawa, kenma; cute hcs, might make some parts to this

SUNA RINTARO.

╰┈➤ what its like dating him- slow makeout sessions in the dark, sharing playlist while talking shit about weirdos at school, going down random fight pages tg, falling asleep on each other, the faint smell of cologne and fresh laundry, random love bites.

ᰔ alot of people seem to think he's the stoner, non-chalant, distant type. Suna rintarou? not in the slighest. not with you. He sends you random brainrot memes at 3 am, spams your phone when you don't respond in 0.1 seconds and gives you the cold shoulder when yall can't sleep call

ᰔ doesn't really mind pda, he's just really chill about it. Whether its resting his chin ontop of your head, holding your hand, you resting your head on his shoulder, kissing you. Suna doesn't make a big deal out of it, if someone sees they see. (His heart beats fast in his chest when you kiss him suddenly <3)

BOKUTO KOTARO.

╰┈➤ what its like dating him — random ' i love you's,' princess hugs, kisses littered all over your skin, matching phone cases, movie nights with him falling asleep first, running out in the rain, cheering him on at his games, being carried on his shoulders soon after <3

ᰔ always texts you goodmorning as soon as he wakes up; like no I don't mean oh lemme drink some water and get up, no. This man, that can barely even see his screen will text you "GOODMORNING PRETTY BABY.' at 5am before falling back asleep.

ᰔ very emotionally mature actually; bokuto isn't stupid by any means. He pays close attention to your expressions and how you move, so before you even get properly upset he's already asking whats wrong before you go quiet. And he never tries to fix you or help you right away, he knows you'd ask. So he simply pulls you into his arms and whispers sweet words into your skin as he waits until youre ready to talk.

SUGAWARA KOUSHI.

╰┈➤ what its like dating him — late night calls filled with giggling and deep conversations, warm hoodies he "leaves" at your place on accident, cheek kisses everytime he has to leave, dates at the park on nice days, your first kiss under the stars, princess treatment

ᰔ never lets you open a car door: Suga will actually jog around the car just to open it for you first. Doesn’t matter if it's raining, snowing, or if you're in a rush — he gets genuinely offended if you try to do it yourself. “Excuse me,” he’ll pout, “I thought I was your boyfriend.” And yes, he does the hand-on-your-lower-back assist when you sit down like it’s second nature.

ᰔ He’s the kind of boyfriend who smiles like you hung the stars just for existing: Calls you nicknames like sweetheart, baby, and sometimes when he’s sleepy or extra soft, my love.

OIKAWA TOORU.

╰┈➤ what it's like dating him — endless selfies (with you in every single one), coffee shop dates where he insists on ordering for you with a smirk, forehead kisses before games, wearing his team jacket that's definitely too big for you, dramatic love letters left in your locker or slipped under your door, dressing you up and posting you on his instagram

ᰔ Treats you like royalty and wants everyone to know you’re his: Expect hand-holding 24/7, even in public, even in summer. He’s constantly fixing your hair or tucking it behind your ear, just to have an excuse to touch you. “You're so pretty, y’know that? I’m gonna have to fight people off again today.”

ᰔ He’s the kind of boyfriend who gets jealous of your dog: Will pout if you give the dog more kisses than him. “I’m cuter, right? Right?” But also, he’ll take 800 photos of you cuddling your pet and use them as his lockscreen.

KENMA KOZUME.

╰┈➤ what it’s like dating him — building a world together in animal crossing, lazy mornings tangled in blankets and soft touches, sharing a single pair of earbuds on the train, him letting you rest your legs over his lap while he games, forehead kisses when he's too shy for words, ganging up on annoying kids in roblox

ᰔ does little things for you: Adds a player two charm to his switch just for you. Buys you little things that remind him of you, even if he doesn't say it out loud. Texts you “eat something” or “get some rest” because he’s thinking about you nonstop, even if he’s too shy to say I miss you.

ᰔ purs when you play with his hair/scratch his head: It starts as a quiet hum, almost imperceptible — but the second your fingers slide into his hair and scratch gently at his scalp, Kenma practically melts. His eyes flutter shut, body going limp against you like a sleepy cat. You’ll hear the tiniest, most content sigh escape him, and if you listen closely, a low, pleased hum in the back of his throat.

If he’s laying on your chest, he’ll nuzzle in closer and mumble something like, “Don’t stop… that feels really nice.”

And if you tease him for it?

His cheeks go pink instantly. “I don’t purr,” he grumbles — but the moment your fingers go back to work, that little sound comes right back. Every time.

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i-suggest-scumplane · 1 day ago

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Ok so au where in order to course correct in case anyone finds out that Shang Qinghua knows to much the system makes Zhao Hua monastery actually worship Airplane Shooting Towards the sky instead of being Buddhist and makes this prophesy about their reluctant and remorseful god reincarnating into a mortal form to change the fate that he wrote

Shang Qinghua decides to befriend Shen Qingqiu to save the plot and as they get closer Shen Qingqiu gets suspicious about how much he seems to know about things like near mythical plants and demonic politics only speculated about by cultivators. This leads to a confrontation where Shen Qingqiu asks Shang Qinghua the location of a plant he had read about that no one had found and Shang Qinghua answers confidently. When pushed on how he knows that Shang Qinghua panics and says that he can’t tell anyone or there will be grave consequences (which is true) so Shen Qingqiu backs off but keeps looking into it, suspecting someone is threatening his shidi

It’s then when the system kicks in and sends Shang Qinghua, and Shen Qingqiu along with some other peak lords to do a political meeting with Zhao Hua. Conveniently it just so happens that the meeting coincides with a celebration they have yearly to show their support for Airplanes reincarnation.

So Shang Qinghua, who of course wasn’t told about any of this by the system, panics and acts suspicious as hell while he tries to convince his martial siblings to leave as soon as possible. Shen Qingqiu latches onto this immediately and starts asking all sorts of questions about the religion and the prophecy, mostly just to watch Shang Qinghua squirm at first but the more he learns the more he realizes that Shang Qinghua being a reincarnated god come to fix fate would actually make a lot of sense.

He’d never actually believe his shidi was this mighty “author of fate” but maybe there was a bit more truth to this myth than he gave it credit for.

Things come to a head when the celebration reaches its climax and the high priest gives a speech about how even if Airplane made a world and wrote a fate less than kind to his creation, it was enough that he cared enough to fix it. No one is beyond redemption as long as if they are willing to put in the work and repent for their mistakes. if this god wants their help they will welcome them with open arms.

Shang Qinghua starts crying in the audience, just full on sobbing as all the guilt and repressed emotion he’s felt for years catches up to him. He tries but he can’t stop and Shen Qingqiu has no idea what to do so he just sits there with him. People start asking if Shang Qinghua is okay but Shen Qingqiu gets them all to leave them alone until they are ready to leave

Once they get back to where the peak lords have been staying Shang Qinghua asks if Shen Qingqiu wants him to explain

“You can when you’re ready, but we can wait as long as you need,”

“You don’t understand I-“ Shang Qinghua chokes on his words. “Everything you’ve been through, it’s all my fault! I’m the reason for all of your suffering,”

Shen Qingqiu is silent a moment, considering before responding

“And yet you are still here. You know me and you are still willing to help and defend me. That’s certainly more than anyone else has done for me,”

#this is also scumplane if you couldn’t tell #Scumplane #svsss #shang qinghua #shen jiu #original shen qingqiu #jiuplane #svsss ideas #svsss au #god shang qinghua

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stellar-haikyuu · 20 hours ago

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not all is lost ☆ keishin ukai x reader

synopsis: when your life turns upside down, you move back to the town where you grew up. you attend an alumni fundraising event in the hopes of reuniting with people you haven’t seen in so long. however, when your daughter gets lost, the very person you were afraid of running into stays by your side. details: hurt/comfort | friends to lovers to forbidden lovers to exes (who are hung up on each other) | unexpected reunion | single mother!reader | second chances | ~2.9k words | dedicated to @umesakus for the summer fic exchange. i hope you like this!! :D

“Hi, could I have two bottles of water, please?” You rummage through your bag, searching for your wallet.

That morning, you had forgotten your water jug on the kitchen counter after your sweet but clumsy four-year-old spilled her glass of milk on the table. You had dashed out the door without a second thought so you could board a bus on time.

“Uh, how much are-”

When you finally take a good look at the vendor, you nearly drop your belongings.

“Keishin?”

You almost didn’t recognize the man, considering he had grown his hair out and dyed it blonde.

“You…you’re?”

“Yes.” You blink at him. “I’m here. How much was the water, again?”

“That’s uh…hi. Yeah.” He stares at you, dazed.

You spare him the embarrassment by looking at the price list yourself and taking out the right amount of money.

“Two waters, please,” you repeat. “We’ve gotten pretty thirsty…you know, the afternoon heat and all.” He nods, but you notice his eyebrows furrow at the pronoun you use. “We?”

“Ah, uh, Keiko. My daughter.”

“D-Daughter?” He stutters, and that’s when you realize, rather belatedly, that Keishin doesn’t know anything that happened after you moved away for college.

But, this probably isn’t the time for long stories or explanations. Keishin, beneath his shock and disbelief, might not even want to see you again.

Introductions, get the water, then leave if there’s nothing more. Simple enough.

You snap back to reality, smiling nervously. “Yeah. Um…she’s over here-”

Wait.

Where did she go?

There is no four-year-old girl next to you. You gasp, turning around to scan the area, but you see no one who resembles her among the crowd.

“Fuck,” you curse under your breath. “No way. She was just right there.”

“What do you- is she lost?”

In your panic, you fail to reply to Keishin. You yell your daughter’s name, hoping that she’ll appear or respond to your call.

Yet, nothing, except the concerned looks of other fair attendees, who also start looking around them.

A chill runs down your spine.

This is not good.

You feel the urge to run and scream, yet a paralyzing fear strikes you.

Calm down. Calm down.

You have to find her.

“Hey. Hey. Can you look at me?”

Among the whispers of the crowd, the music blaring through speakers, and the clanking and hissing from the nearby food booths, you’re startled by the clarity of Keishin’s voice.

“Look at me. We’re gonna find your girl. I’ll help you.” His hands find their way to your shoulders, and the gesture moves you to tears.

This was exactly what he used to do years ago—when you had a bad score or needed some sort of pep talk, he never failed to keep you grounded.

And what you truly missed? The overwhelming sincerity and determination in his eyes. It always filled you with some form of hope.

Keishin was sometimes quick to shrug others off, not wanting to be bothered. For you, though, he would always drop everything to help.

Like now.

“Okay,” you whisper, wiping your face. “Okay. Thank you.”

“Takinoue, can you take over for a while?” Keishin turns to his friend, who sends you both a thumbs-up. You feel a little guilty, considering that he was one of the few who tried to stay in contact with you, but the small, reassuring smile he gives eases some of the weight on your chest.

After letting the information desk know about the situation, you both spend the next hour and a half going to each booth, asking vendors and fair-goers if they’ve seen a small child pass by.

Some vendors are apologetic, not having paid much attention to the details of each customer. Other fair-goers give conflicting directions on where your daughter might have gone (and a part of you doubts that the kids they saw probably weren’t her).

The longer you spend searching, the more you feel your insides are being clawed at. Even Keishin has grown sweaty and tired, looking just as frustrated as you.

“Do you want to sit for a few minutes?” He asks cautiously, aware of your emotional state.

“I don’t know,” you huff. “Maybe. My feet are killing me. Let’s…fine.” You walk ahead of him, taking a seat on a nearby bench under a big tree.

He follows silently before sitting next to you. For a few minutes, it’s silent, but you can tell he wants to say something. You almost ask him to spit it out, but you also don’t trust your ability to avoid a public breakdown.

But your love for your daughter will always outweigh any sort of embarrassment—tears slip from your eyes once more, but this time, you can’t hold back the sobs.

“Shit. Um…” He rummages through his pockets for something—a tissue or a handkerchief, perhaps.

“I’m scared,” you wail. “Keishin, I…I can’t lose Keiko. I can’t lose any more people. I already lost you. I lost my friends. I lost everything.”

You notice the way he freezes. “What are you talking about? Lost everything? I-”

“I’m sorry for leaving you!” The words that have been waiting to burst out finally escape. “I regret it so much. I regret listening to my mother. I spent years pretending that I was fine with the decision I made, but I wasn’t. Keiko was the one good thing I had there in Tokyo.”

Keishin stays silent, processing everything you’ve just told him. Hell, if you were in his position, you’d be bewildered too.

“My husband was cold, but he was rich. Set for life. Mother loved him.” You sighed bitterly. “I thought, fine, he might not love me, but I’d get by. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. But then I saw how little he cared about raising Keiko. He was never home, and then I found out he was seeing other people. I couldn’t do it anymore—Keiko deserved better.”

You don’t know what kind of expression Keishin is wearing on his face, but you’re too ashamed to look.

“I just gathered evidence of my husband’s cheating and filed for a divorce. Asshole wasn’t even apologetic. Mother was furious, but at me. ‘Maybe I wasn’t a good wife for him’ and a bunch of other crap. I pretty much told her to disown me because I didn’t wanna listen to her anymore. Keiko deserves a better, happier life.”

A hand gently settles on your wrist.

“So, I left and moved back here with my grandmother a month ago. Maybe I can start again somewhere that feels more like home. Let Keiko get the full experience that I couldn’t. I can’t fail her.”

“I don’t think you’ll fail her,” Keishin responds kindly. “The fact that you’re willing to rise above and become a better mother than yours ever was? Defying people you’re closely involved with? Leaving everything behind and starting anew? Not everyone can just do that. That’s tough.”

“Gosh, I don’t know.” You sigh. “I wish I didn’t let her dictate my life so much. I wish I had fought harder for us to stay together in high school. I’m so sorry, Keishin. You deserved better than me.”

There’s a moment of silence before Keishin wraps his arms around you. “You know, I used to think I didn’t deserve you. No matter how many times you said that you liked me for who I am, sometimes, I felt like the things your mother used to say were right. I wasn’t good at school, nor is my family very well-off. And well, I still kinda look like a delinquent, don’t I?”

That draws a snort out of you.

“It’s true!” He chuckles. “But, it was the reason why I didn’t argue when you had to break up with me. I thought that perhaps your mom was right—you’d be better off going to college and getting a job in Tokyo. Besides, your mom would have done a number on us if we didn’t separate. I was scared for my family and…for you.”

A knife twists in your heart. “She was such a bitch, wasn’t she? I can’t believe she nearly threatened your family. I’m sorry. I wish things could’ve gone differently.”

“It’s all in the past,” Keishin replies, caressing your hair. “And we were in high school, so I never blamed you. We didn’t have all the independence we wanted—even I got stuck running my family’s store all these years.”

“Keishin, you’re too kind. Honestly, I was surprised you didn’t send me off as soon as I appeared at your stall.”

“Well, what good would denying customers do for our store?” He teases. “Though my mom would kill me if she saw what happened. Can’t do something as simple as get two bottles of water for a beautiful lady.”

“Oh, stop.” You giggle. For a moment, you recall how nice Keishin’s embraces were. How could you not return this one? You hug him back a little tighter. “I missed you. Thank you for helping me despite everything.”

“Like I said, I’m not angry,” he says before pausing. “Well, unless it’s your mom or your stupid ex-husband. If they get their hands on you or Keiko again, I’ll fight on your side. I’m sure most of our other friends here would, too.”

“Thank you. I’ll do better. For everyone’s sake.”

“I trust you will.” You can hear the smile in Keishin’s voice. “Anyway, do you need a few more minutes before we continue searching-”

“Mama!”

Instantly, you both pull away and turn your heads in the direction of your daughter’s voice.

Your heart clenches at the soft pitter-patter of her footsteps as she runs up to you. “Keiko!” You open your arms to welcome her.

“Mama!” You rub her back as she cries into your shoulder. “Mama.”

“Hi, baby. I was so worried. Where did you go?” You try your best to stay calm and avoid upsetting her further.

“I’m sorry, Mama. I saw my classmate, but it wasn’t her. Then I got lost and can’t find you, Mama.”

“I see.” You give her a quick kiss on the forehead—there is no need to chastise her for an honest mistake. “Next time, tell Mama where you want to go. This is a very big place, so it’s easy to get lost.”

“I’m sorry, Mama! I will!” She promises, before asking tentatively, “Are you mad?”

“No, Mama isn’t mad.” You give her your biggest smile; it’s not hard to when her big eyes are looking up at you. “You didn’t mean it. I was scared like you, but I’m happy now because you’re here."

“Okay,” she sniffles. “I’m happy too.”

“Sensei, was she with you this whole time?” You hear Ukai question a kind-looking man standing in front of you. Judging by the honorific, he was probably a Karasuno teacher.

“Yes.” He affirms, adjusting his glasses. “Hi, I'm Takeda-sensei. You are Keiko’s mother, then?”

“Hello! Yes, I am. Thank you for being with her. I apologize for the inconvenience.” You stand to bow to him, which he reciprocates immediately.

“Not a problem!” He rubs the back of his neck. “We were actually on our way to the information desk, but she noticed you and before I knew it, she took off.”

“I see. Thank you so much for your help, Sensei.”

He gives you a sweet grin before addressing Keishin. “So this is where you were, Ukai-kun! I noticed you weren’t at the stall. I was about to ask you if you’ve met a mother who was looking for someone.”

“Well, yes.” He chuckles.

Suddenly, Keiko gives him a good, long look. “Mama? Is that your friend?” She tilts her head.

“Ah. This is Keishin-san. He helped me look for you.”

“Keishin-san?” For a while, she furrows her eyebrows. Then, she gasps and beams at you. “Mama! Is this the special person you named me after?”

“You…what?” He blinks in confusion. You blush as soon as you realize what has just come out of your daughter’s mouth.

“Uh- I, well. I-it’s,” you stammer, heart pounding in your chest.

“Keishin-san! Keishin-san! You’re the person Mama loves!”

That’s it. You want the ground to swallow you whole.

“Thank you for making her happy!” She suddenly throws herself at Keishin and gives him a big hug.

Hesitantly, he returns her embrace before glancing at you. “Is that…true?”

“Yeah. Keiko, for lucky child.” You look at your daughter endearingly—the way her cheek squishes against Keishin’s chest is adorable. “I wanted to give her a name close to yours, while also wishing for fortune in her future.”

“That’s…sweet.” He comments. When Keiko looks up at him with stars in her eyes, he smiles in return. “It’s a beautiful name.”

“Yeah!” She squeals. “I’m super lucky because of my mama!”

“Oh, you.” You pat her head gently. “Well, you must be hungry and thirsty. Why don’t we go to Keishin-san’s store?”

“Okay!” She claps, seemingly happy to be around him.

“Well, I’ll get going for now." Takeda-sensei excuses himself. "I’ll let the information desk know that everything has been resolved. See you around!”

“Bye-bye, Sensei!” Keiko waves to him.

As the three of you walk back to Keishin’s stall, you tell Keiko to hold your hand. With her other free hand, she insistently tugs at Keishin’s. Despite getting flustered, he doesn’t protest. Her happy hops are worth it.

“Keishin-san? What does your name mean?”

“My name? If I remember correctly, it means connecting heart.”

“Connecting…heart?” Keiko is deep in thought as she tries to figure out what that means. How cute.

“Connecting is like putting things together,” you explain, thinking of an example to help her. “Ah! Remember the glue we use at home?”

“Yeah! We made art! My hands got super sticky,” she shares with Keishin, and you laugh at the memory of all the tiny cutouts sticking to her hands and arms.

“That’s right. We used the glue to connect the little papers to the big one. Or, if you look at our hands,” you pause and point for emphasis, “they’re connected!”

“Oh!” Keiko’s eyes widen, almost like she’s made the biggest revelation. “Put together?”

“That’s right!” You give her hand a little squeeze.

“Keishin-san putting together hearts!”

“Ah…” He goes speechless, considering how loudly your daughter had shouted.

You giggle as other nearby attendees coo at the sight of her. “Keiko, not too loud, dear-”

“Keishin-san, can you put together Mama’s heart?”

What?

Both of you stop in your tracks, while Keiko bounces excitedly and pleads. "Please?"

You panic and mouth a quick apology to Keishin, who waves it off.

He guides the three of you to a less crowded area, before he squats down next to her. “What do you mean, Keiko?��

“My bad daddy broke her heart.” She pouts at Keishin and you. “He made Mama sad. But you make Mama happy. Please put together her heart.”

Your jaw nearly hits the floor. “I did not put her up to this,” you whisper to Keishin. “I swear. I didn’t even think she’d remember your name that clearly.”

He glances at you for quite some time, gears turning in his head. He takes a deep breath before asking, "Would you let me put your heart back together?"

And the sincerity in his voice makes you realize that this isn't just a mere question—it's an invitation to try again.

"Are you sure, Keishin?" You mutter. Despite everything he's told you earlier, you're afraid to believe this is real. "Even after all of it?"

"Yes. I'm sure. I want to make you happy, especially now that nothing's standing in our way." He takes your hand in his. "Would you let me?"

You find yourself about to bawl for the hundredth time that day, but at least it's out of sheer joy and gratitude this time.

Biting down on your lip, you nod. "Yes. Please."

Unable to hold yourself back, you gather them in your arms for a group hug.

"Okay, Keiko. I'll put your mama's heart back together."

Your daughter cheers. "Thank you, Keishin-san!"

A warmth seems to fill the cracks of your heart, making you feel whole.

After years of regret and hurt (and the past three hours of terror), you never could have imagined this kind of outcome. But now, you're filled with some hope that things will get better.

It's not long before Keishin reintroduces you to his family, who welcomes you warmly, the same way they did the first time. They are over the moon when you offer to use your business and advertising expertise for Sakanoshita's growth.

And to your surprise, you find out that Keishin's been coaching Karasuno's male volleyball team for almost a year now. You're highly amused by his attempts to keep up his tough exterior with the kids, especially when it quickly melts away in your presence.

Over the next few weeks, you catch up with your friends, who are more than thrilled to see you, and…the mini version of you. They waste no time branding themselves as Keiko's best aunt or uncle.

As for your daughter, she quickly makes new friends around the neighborhood. By the time she goes back to school, you're thrilled whenever her classmates invite her over for play dates.

Now that everything has started falling into place, you thank your younger self for letting that burst of courage win.

You made the tough decision to leave and start over, despite the fear of losing everything.

But in the end, it turns out that not all is lost.

masterlist

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cryogeniccrush · 20 hours ago

Text

NIGHT CRAWLING — Bucky Barnes x F!Reader +18

Part One: "Caged Silence"

Summary: You’re sent to neutralize an intruder—but what you find instead is something you never expected: a glimpse of the world beyond the cage. They try to stop you. They fail. You move like smoke, like shadow, like something half-wild and halfway gone. But one of them sees through it—The Winter Soldier. And something in his voice cracks the silence inside you. So you run. You claw your way out. And for the first time, you don’t look back.

Word count: 7k

Warnings: Graphic violence, trauma response, references to torture/experimentation, psychological manipulation, hallucinations, blood, PTSD/dissociation, dark themes, hostile environment, mentions of child abuse, language, morally grey characters, derealization.

masterlist • next part

You’re seated on the edge of the med table, one leg dangling lazily off the side, posture perfect—relaxed but composed. You don’t flinch, you don’t fidget.

They trust you now. Enough to leave you untied. But not enough to remove the guards from the door.

Dr. Mathers clicks his tongue softly, inspecting the vibranium claws extended from your fingers. He mutters something under his breath about wear and tension. You don’t respond. You’re not really listening. Your senses are tuned to something else.

The air shifts.

It’s subtle—barely a vibration in your chest, like the static charge before lightning. You inhale slow, steady, but something beneath your skin twitches.

Danger.

You sit up straighter, head tilting slightly toward the ceiling. Your heart rate doesn't spike, but your shoulders tense.

Dr. Mathers notices. “What’s wrong?”

You don’t answer. Then—

Boom.

A low, controlled explosion echoes through the base. Not enough to collapse a wing. Just enough to get attention.

The guards snap into motion, fingers tightening on their weapons. Mathers stumbles back, eyes wide.

"Protocol Six-Echo, Nyx," one of them barks.

You nod. Understood. Investigate. Neutralize. Return.

You don’t need a weapon.

By the time you step into the hall, chaos has started to bloom. People running, alarms whining, bodies crashing into each other in panic. You move through them.

The air is thick with heat and smoke. You inhale deeply. Chemical fire. Small charges. Distraction-level.

Around the corner—three intruders. Military. Not lab staff. Tactical formation, advanced weaponry. Real threats.

You disappear into shadow. They don’t see you.

You wait. One separates. Easy.

He’s unconscious before his body even hits the floor.

Two more. You slip into the vent above them, moving without a sound. Your bones were carved into nothing, designed for silence. You drop behind them.

Crack. One goes flying, spine-first into a metal wall. The second raises his weapon—You twist.

One, two, dodge.

You disarm him and slap the gun back into his face with a dull crack.

They don’t even have time to scream.

You pause, listening.

Voices. Nearby.

“…How long is this gonna take, man?” Male. American. Irritated.

“I do not know,” a gruff Russian voice replies, exasperated. “I’m not tech support.”

You crawl into the next vent silently, limbs fluid. Efficient. Curious. You can’t help it.

You drop behind the American soldier—John Walker, by his uniform—and tilt your head slowly, watching.

Alexei turns just as he's about to speak. “You know that—WHO THE HELL IS THAT?!”

John spins, gun already raised. You knock it clean out of his hand before he can blink.

“Shit,” he mutters.

You fight. He's good, strong. But you're faster. Sharper.

You land a kick to his chest that sends him stumbling into the hall.

Alexei watches, wide-eyed, then breaks into a laugh. “HA! She’s kicking your ass!”

Your earpiece buzzes. "Nyx. Entertain them. Buy us time. Keep them together. Don’t let them scatter. Then get out.”

The order is clear.

Always is.

You shove John out the door, and sprint.

But something flickers at the edge of your vision— a shadow leaning against the hallway wall. Smirking.

Your breath catches.

He’s not real.

You know that.

But he grins at you like he always does. That man. The first one.

"You always were a fast learner, kitten."

You squeeze your eyes shut for half a second—

and keep running.

════════════════════════════════

Outside, Yelena drops an enemy with a clean elbow to the throat. Bucky is surrounded—dodging blades and bullets, jaw clenched, brutal and methodical. Ava flickers in and out of sight.

And then—The metal doors slide open behind them.

“Job’s done, guys! We got the intel!” Alexei announces proudly, strutting out with blood on his knuckles and a massive grin. “Yes! We are an amazing team!”

“Are you serious right now?” Ava snaps, dodging a knife.

“We could use some help,” Yelena adds, slamming a guard into the wall.

John steps beside her, pulling his shield from his back. “Relax. I’m here now.” He scans the hallway. “Something’s off. This feels too easy.”

Bucky shoves an attacker back. “What do you mean, Walker?”

“We saw someone inside,” John says, parrying a blow.

Alexei interrupts, landing a heavy punch. “More like someone rearranged your face, Walker!”

“Whatever,” John mutters.

Yelena’s eyes narrow. “Someone?”

“I don’t know. A girl. She wasn’t trying to kill us... Just fighting.”

“A girl?” she echoes, confused. “What girl?”

Before anyone can ask more, you drop from above—silent, weightless, fast.

Bucky turns just in time to see his own knife fly from his hand, knocked clean by you. He reacts on instinct, raising his gun— But you’re already airborne, twisting mid-roll.

A bullet grazes past as you slide between his legs, rip the gun from his hand, and flip behind him.

He turns, jaw clenched. “What the hell—?”

Bob’s voice crackles over the comms. “Uh… guys? Who the hell is that?”

Yelena looks at John. “The girl?”

John nods, like is obvious. “The girl.”

You don’t pause. Alexei is next.

Claws extend with a slick snikt, glinting under the hallway lights.

Alexei grins. “Ooooh. Come here, kitty kitty—”

He swings. You drop, slide clean between his legs—

And drive your fist upward, hard.

Alexei crumples with a strangled oof.

The entire team winces.

“Damn,” John mutters. “That’s gotta hurt.”

“Who's getting their ass kicked now, huh?” He shouts, grinning.

“They’re retreating!” Yelena adds quickly, watching the remaining guards fall back.

Bucky’s breathing hard, eyes locked on you. “This was a distraction.”

Ava groans, wiping blood from her cheek. “She’s not gonna let us past. We need her out.”

They move fast—toward the back hall, toward their target. But you’re faster.

You strike.

You clash with Yelena first. She’s skilled—graceful, focused. But you’re relentless. You duck her roundhouse, twist past her sweep, and slam a hit into her throat that leaves her gasping.

“Damn,” Alexei croaks from the floor. “She’s good.”

Yelena coughs, nodding. “Too good.”

You register Ava blinking behind you—

You spin just in time to block, but she clips you in the gut. Pain flares—but it only sharpens your focus.

John moves in too. Too slow.

You predict Ava’s blink path, feel it like a static shift in the air. The second she reappears—you grab her with one hand, John with the other— And crack their heads together in one brutal motion.

They drop like stunned animals.

Ava groans from the floor. “What the hell is your head made of?”

“Bob?” Yelena calls into the comms, breath still uneven. “Any ideas?”

There’s a pause, then static.

“…Umm. Maybe… talk to her?”

Bucky grunts, deadpan. “Any idea that we can actually use?”

“No, that’s fine,” Yelena mutters. She takes a step forward, slowly. “Maybe we can reason with her.”

“I hate this whole therapy bullshit,” John groans, rubbing his skull. “She almost split my head in two. I say we take her out and call it a day.”

“Well, we clearly can’t, genius,” Ava snaps, letting Bucky help her up from the floor, still clutching her ribs. “Unless you’ve got vibranium in your skull now.”

Yelena ignores them.

She moves forward, careful. Hands raised in surrender. Her voice is calm, patient, the way you speak to a wounded animal.

“We’re not here to hurt you,” she says. “I know—maybe they lied to you. But you can trust me.”

You don’t move. You don’t blink. You’re too still.

But you let her come closer.

She inches forward, inch by inch. Breath slow. You’re watching her, hyper-aware. Every twitch. Every breath. Every flicker in her pupils.

Then—her fingers brush your arm.

Wrong.

You don’t even think—you react.

You twist, knock her flat on her back with a clean, ruthless blow. She lands hard.

“WELL that went perfect,” John says, and lunges. “Alright, claws, let’s dance—”

“No! WAIT—” Yelena yells from the ground.

But he’s already on you.

You fight again. He’s tougher this time, angry, moving quick—but not quick enough. You're slipping into rhythm, but… you’re off. Barely. Your breath hitches. Your hands falter. Something’s stuttering under your skin.

Bucky notices. He steps in—grabs John’s shoulder and yanks him back. “Get off.”

John growls, but doesn’t argue.

Then Bucky turns to you. And grabs you.

You snarl, twist, trying to rip his vibranium arm off you, claws scraping. He holds firm, just enough to hold you—not hurt you. His jaw’s tight. His eyes are locked on yours.

“You’re going to regret this,” you hiss.

“Maybe,” he says. “But trust me. You can get out.”

The words land in you like a punch. You gasp. Not because of pain. But because—Nobody’s ever said that. Not like that.

He feels your pause—just a flicker of stillness—and it throws him off.

That’s your opening. You bolt.

You move like a shadow. A blur. Darting toward the back hall, where the smoke is thick and the emergency lights flash red.

“Nyx!” a voice shouts behind you.

You freeze.

Doctor Mathers. The man who shaped you. Tuned you. Broke you.

He’s in the hallway now, panting, arm bleeding. “Nyx—stand down! Don’t run. You know your command protocol.”

You don’t move. But your mind does. Something’s wrong.

He’s beside you. Not the doctor.

The man. The first one you killed.

Smiling.

“Run,” he whispers, eyes glinting.

You don’t. Your muscles tremble. Your mind stutters.

“Do you want to be their little pet forever?” he snarls, suddenly in your face. “Their weapon? Their freak?”

He’s not real.

But he’s screaming in your head.

You turn your head slowly. Look toward the woods beyond the compound fence.

Freedom.

You run.

Vanish into the trees like smoke. And no one—not even Bucky—can follow fast enough.

════════════════════════════════

The mood in the meeting room is grim.

Scraped knuckles. Bruised egos. Silence heavy in the air.

Then the door swings open.

Valentina strides in, stilettos sharp against the tile. Her sunglasses are still on. That’s never a good sign.

“What’s this?” she asks coolly, looking at them like they tracked mud onto her favorite carpet.

Mel—nervous—taps the screen. A video plays.

Security footage. Choppy and grayscale.

It shows you: dropping from the ceiling, slamming two trained agents into each other.

A collective groan rises from the table.

John slaps a hand over his face.

Ava sinks lower in her chair.

Yelena just sighs. “We suck.”

“Yes,” Valentina says flatly. “Yes, you do.”

“She’s just really good,” Bob offers half-heartedly.

Valentina turns her head slowly. “And you,” she says, pointing at him. “What was that about talking to her? This is not kindergarten. We eliminate, or we capture. That’s it.”

“That’s not how we do things, Valentina,” Yelena mutters, arms crossed.

Valentina’s smile is all teeth. “I don’t care how you do things.”

John slams a palm onto the table. “You don’t get to decide shit!”

The silence crackles.

Valentina’s jaw tightens. “Right then... I want her in.”

Heads snap toward her.

“What?” Bucky says, eyes narrowing.

“I want her in the team,” Valentina repeats, enunciating like they’re all children. “I don’t care how you do it—bring her here.”

She turns on her heel and strides out.

Mel scrambles after her, then hesitates at the door. Glances back at the group.

“…I’m sorry,” she whispers.

The door closes.

Silence again.

Ava breaks it first. “Sooo… any ideas on how to bring that wild animal here without losing an eye?”

“Nope,” Bob says.

“She was hesitant,” Bucky mutters, staring at the frozen frame of you on the screen. “She’s a little shit, sure—but I know that look.”

Everyone glances at him.

“So what,” John deadpans. “We pray she’s got a noble little spark buried under all that rage?”

The door opens again.

“Hellooo, guys!” Alexei strolls in, holding a bucket of popcorn.

“You missed the whole meeting,” Yelena says, unimpressed.

“Really?” He pops a handful into his mouth. “Great. I hate that Valentina woman.”

Yelena sighs and presses a hand to her face. “Let’s just get this over with.”

════════════════════════════════

You’re not stupid.

Staying in one place means becoming predictable. Trackable.

So you move.

Slip from shadow to shadow. You haven’t had any sleep since the escape. You don’t care. You’ve gone longer.

But you're not running. Not exactly.

You’re thinking.

Your enemies want you back in a cage. So maybe… it’s time to try your enemies’ enemy.

════════════════════════════════

The store is small. A hole-in-the-wall place on the edge of a dying town. You pick it for that exact reason—no one here asks questions. Everyone’s too tired.

You wear a cap. Hood up. Dark clothes. Shoulders hunched.

You blend in.

You slip into the corner, slide behind a dusty desktop. The clerk doesn’t even look up from his phone.

The keys clack under your fingers—fast.

“The Winter Soldier.”

You know the name. Everyone in the lab did.

There were whispers. Ghost stories. You’ve seen flashes of him in old footage, grainy recordings from Hydra files. Blood and metal and silence.

They said he broke his leash.

Maybe you can too.

You dive deeper.

It takes a minute, but you’re quick. You find the names. One after the other.

»Valentina Allegra de Fontaine

Yelena Belova

Ava Starr

John Walker

Bob Reynolds

Alexei Shostakov

James Buchanan Barnes

Location: Watchtower

Bingo.

You sit back. Breathe out slow.

Then—one by one—you erase every trace.

You wipe the history. Erase the cache. Access the security cam in the ceiling and delete the last fifteen minutes.

You’ve done this before. Too many times.

Cap down. Shoulders squared. You walk out.

You walk for days.

No rides. No talking. Just you, the road, and the voices in your head.

You don’t need much sleep. Just catnap in abandoned buildings or under bridges, always with your back to a wall. Always facing the exits.

But you do get hungry.

So you stop at a gas station.

Grab whatever crap you can carry—chips, jerky, a bottle of water. You walk right out.

Behind you, someone yells.

“HEY! You need to pay for that, kid!”

You stop.

Slowly, turn around.

The man at the counter stumbles out. Stops when he sees your eyes.

Golden. Unnatural. Glowing faint in the low light.

You say nothing. He says nothing either.

He raises his hands. Steps back.

“…Forget it.”

You keep walking.

Eventually, the trees thin. The ground hardens. Civilization looms. And there it is.

Steel and glass, high fences and watchpoints. Hidden in plain sight.

The Watchtower.

You find a high ridge overlooking the perimeter and crouch low, eyes scanning movement patterns, guards, cameras. No alarms yet.

They don’t know you’re coming. Good.

════════════════════════════════

The training room stinks of sweat, rubber mats, and irritation.

Valentina’s sitting on the observation platform above the floor—legs crossed, sunglasses on indoors like the villain she is. She’s supervising, which is code for making everyone miserable. Or, as John so lovingly puts it: “A living pain in the ass.”

Yelena leans on the railing by the water cooler, sipping from a bottle and murmuring something snarky to Bob, who grins and shrugs.

Ava’s got her fists up, focusing hard as Bucky holds the punching bag steady.

“Your elbow’s too wide,” Bucky mutters. “Tuck it in or you’ll throw your shoulder out before you land anything.”

John and Alexei are sparring nearby with two wide-eyed interns who clearly regret every life choice that led them here.

Then—Boom.

The doors burst open. Something flies through the air and slams onto the mat with a dull thud.

A body. An intern.

Everyone freezes.

The body twitches, groans, and collapses face-down at Alexei’s feet.

“Oh no,” Alexei says, staring at the unconscious. “No no no.”

Everyone turns. And there you are.

Cap gone. Clothes dusty. Gold eyes glowing faint under the fluorescent lights. You’re calm. Still. Deadly.

The remaining interns snap into formation—good little soldiers. Too bad that doesn’t help.

They rush like they’ve got a chance.

They don’t.

You move like a shadow, spinning through them. One goes down with a sweep to the knee. Another gets the wind knocked out of them with a jab to the ribs. A third tries to tackle you and ends up flat on their back, wheezing.

“Oh look,” Bob mutters, folding his arms. “We found her.”

“More like she found us,” Bucky replies, dropping the punching bag.

You throw one last intern onto the mat and turn to face him.

“I’m not here to fight, Winter Soldier,” you say coolly.

Bucky’s jaw ticks. “Doesn’t look like it. And don’t call me that.”

From above, Valentina claps her hands slowly. “Well, well, well. Look who came crawling back. What brings you here, darling?”

You look up at her. Calm. Sharp.

“I want shelter.”

The team blinks.

“You’re in no position to ask for anything,” Bucky snaps, stepping forward.

You meet his eyes and stalk toward him, closing the space with deliberate steps. You stop inches from his face.

“I wasn’t talking to you, soldier.” You can practically see the smoke coming out of his ears. His hands curl into fists.

Yelena slides between you, pushing Bucky back with one hand and facing you with the other.

“Okay, okay—let’s compare sizes later, yeah?” she says with a dry smile. Then, gently, “Are you okay?”

You nod once. “I’m fine.”

Yelena narrows her eyes. “You look exhausted.”

“I’m fine,” you repeat, voice steady.

Valentina claps her hands again, teeth flashing. “Well, welcome to the team, sweetheart. I’ll report your arrival and prep your first mission.”

In a blink, you’re in front of her. Hand wrapped around her throat.

Fast. Feral. Final.

Mel gasps beside her, backing up fast.

“I don’t take orders from you,” you growl.

Valentina doesn’t panic. Not exactly. But her eyes narrow slightly.

“I respect that,” she says, her voice tight under your grip. “But this is still my tower. So if I let you stay here… what do I get in return?”

You lean in slightly. “You get to live.”

Alexei whistles. “Ohhh, I already like her.”

Ava elbows him, annoyed. “Of course you do.”

Valentina smiles again, snake-like. “I could just send you back. Mel, contact Doctor Mathers.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Mel says weakly.

You hesitate. Just enough.

Then you release her.

She breathes in sharply and adjusts her blazer.

“That’s good. Good judgment. I appreciate that.” She brushes invisible dust off her shoulder. “You’ll stay here now. Learn to play nice.”

And with that, she turns, heels clicking toward the door. Mel follows, glancing at you one last time like you might pounce again.

You don’t. Not yet.

════════════════════════════════

The hall is quiet—too quiet for your liking. You walk with light steps between Yelena and Bob as they lead you through the Watchtower, pointing out things they assume matter.

Training rooms. Cafeteria. Medical bay.

Bob is talking. He does that a lot, you’ve noticed. His energy is easy, almost harmless—but that doesn’t make you lower your guard.

“So… you remember anything from before the lab?” he asks, not unkindly. “Parents? A place?”

You look ahead. “I was an orphan.”

When he glances over, there’s that look. Like maybe he wants to say something comforting. Wrong move.

“I don’t need your pity,” you say, sharp and flat.

His mouth opens, then closes. Yelena throws him a look. “Subtle.”

“I’m just—curious,” Bob mutters. “She doesn’t talk much.”

“I like that about her,” Yelena says, then turns to you. “I was in the Red Room. A long time ago.”

You don’t miss the weight in her voice. You nod once. “I know that place.”

You don’t elaborate. She doesn’t press.

By the time you reach your assigned room, someone’s already waiting.

Bucky is leaning against the door directly across from yours. His arms are folded, head tilted slightly forward, like he’s been there a while. Waiting.

You come to a full stop. Your eyes meet, and neither of you blinks.

“Got something to say, soldier?” you ask, voice flat but unmistakably sharp.

“I sleep here,” he says, nodding toward his door. Then adds, “And I’ll be watching you.”

You take one step closer, tilting your head. “I don’t need a babysitter.”

“Too bad,” he mutters.

You hold his stare a beat longer before turning. Walk to your own door.

Slam it behind you—hard.

Inside, it’s quiet. The room is warm, freshly cleaned. Soft lighting. A real bed. Too soft. Too wide. Too unfamiliar.

You don’t trust it.

The walls are blank. No vents. No observation windows. But that doesn’t mean you’re not being watched. You know better.

Steam clings to your skin as you step out of the shower, muscles still aching from the run, the fight, the forest. You walk past the bed without touching it.

You grab one of the pillows, toss it to the ground, and settle down.

Back against the wall. Eyes on the door. Knees drawn up just enough to move if you need to.

But for the first time in your life, no one locked the door behind you.

You fall asleep waiting for them to.

════════════════════════════════

The floor is cold beneath your cheek.

Hard. Familiar.

Somewhere in the distance, someone is screaming. A child. The sound is muffled, as though filtered through water—but you know it well. It used to pull at something inside you. Used to make you curl up tighter, small and silent, convincing yourself: It’ll be over soon.

You close your eyes tighter.

The scream comes again.

Then another sound—a voice, sharp and cruel:

“You are useless.”

“You want to change the world like this? You can’t even help yourself.”

A loud thud follows. A body hitting the floor. A soft whimper.

Then—blood.

You taste it in your mouth before you smell it. Metallic. Warm. Your eyes snap open.

You’re in the cage again. Small, shaking, bones jutting out beneath pale skin. The bars. You reach out. Tentative.

Nothing.

They forgot to turn the electricity back on.

You move without thinking, slipping through the bars like liquid. Silent. Almost like a cat.

The hallway is empty, but the scent leads you—thick and coppery, iron and adrenaline. You follow it to a door left cracked open.

Inside, the devil waits.

That’s what the others call him: The Devil. The guards laugh behind their masks when they say it. But you know it’s true. The devil doesn’t have horns. He has a stick and a smile.

A boy kneels on the floor, sobbing, back split open.

You barely recognize your voice when you speak.

“Stop.”

He turns. Slowly. Like he’s savoring the moment.

“Oh,” he says. “But look who’s here. Came to play hero, did you?”

You say nothing.

He takes a step. “Look at you. Trying to be good.” Another step. “Tell me, do you think you can win?”

Something cracks in your fingers—skin splitting, bone shifting. You gasp.

He grins. “So the kitty’s got claws after all.”

Then, suddenly, the gun is in his hand. Not pointed at you.

The shot is loud.

You scream. Your body moves before your mind catches up.

You cross the room in a blur, sink your claws deep into his gut. He gasps, choking. Drops to his knees.

You tilt his head back with one clawed hand. He looks into your eyes, still smiling.

“Do it,” he says. “Show me how much of a monster you are.”

You scream as your claws tear through his throat.

His body slumps forward. His head rolls. Blood pools.

The door opens behind you. Dr. Mathers stands in the frame, stunned. Then—

“Look at you,” he whispers, stepping forward, voice reverent. “It’s finally happened.”

He kneels, pats your head gently.

Like you’re a good little animal.

You wake up with a jolt, drenched in sweat.

The room is dark. Quiet.

Your chest heaves. You blink—and you hear him.

“Dreaming of me, I see.” The voice is silk over glass. Rotten. Familiar.

He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, elbow on one knee, head tilted like he’s just waiting for a conversation.

You grunt and push yourself off the floor, into the bathroom. The cold water hits your face like needles.

He appears behind you in the mirror. Unchanged. Same eyes.

“Can’t get me out of your head?” he says. “Cute.”

You grip the sink tighter.

“You know,” he leans closer, whispering against your neck, “they’re watching. Waiting. And you’re just playing house. But you’ll come back. You always do.”

You don’t respond. You’ve learned to ignore him.

It’s better that way.

So here’s the first part. I know—I changed it completely. But honestly? I think it’s way better now.

What do we think? 👀

#bucky barnes #bucky fanfic #bucky x reader #bucky x female reader #bucky fic #bucky #avengers #bucky barnes x reader #james barnes x reader

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skibasyndrome · 3 days ago

Note

hiiiii <3333

How about "Aren't you afraid it'll hurt?"

hi Ninaaaa, thank you so much for sending me this prompt 💜💜💜 from across the living room dkghkfdajhgfk 👀 since i kept saying it's high time for some vampire wilmon again <3

Hope you enjoy! 💜

cw: very slightly nsfw, vampires, wille pain kink if you squint

Wille has been wondering for a while now, has been thinking about it more and more, has dreamed about it once or twice. But it's now, with the two of them sprawled out on top of Wille's rumpled sheets, the post-orgasmic exhaustion making Wille's eyelids heavy and his inhibitions low, that the thought is especially present in his mind, familiar and suddenly weighing heavy in his throat. Simon is propped up next to Wille, drawing circles into Wille's chest with one hand, his fingertips a welcome cooling sensation on Wille's heated skin. He slows above Wille's beating heart.

Wille swallows hard. Of course Simon hears. Of course he turns his head, dragging his eyes up, from Wille's chest to his face. At once, the words are there, ready for Wille to draw out the thought. "I- I think I want you to bite me," he rushes out, eyes darting between Simon's eyes and his mouth. For a long moment, there's no sound, nothing but Wille's quickened pulse hammering in his ears. Simon's hand stills completely, stays where it was. He must be able to feel it. A soft, cool breeze blows in through the opened window, the heavy curtain billowing, the candles on the bedside table moving gently. It rushes over Wille's body, raising goose bumps on the wet, sticky skin of his belly. Finally, Simon unfreezes, tilts his head to the side, as if he's contemplating. Wille desperately tries to dim down small spark of hope inside of him. "Aren't you afraid it'll hurt?" Simon's expression in unreadable, a light frown, the same deep, dark eyes that make Wille squirm if he looks for too long. Wille shrugs. He has thought about it. A lot. Simon is still staring, is trying to figure Wille out. Wille averts his eyes, feels the blood rushing towards his face. He moves his fingers to find a loose corner of the duvet and dig in, hoping to find some much-needed stability. "I don't think I mind," he says, hears the waver in his voice and clears his throat. His eyes flit up to Simon, hoping he doesn't read into it. But Simon isn't meeting his eyes anymore. Instead, he's fixating on somewhere below Wille's face, somewhere on his neck. The realization sends a tremor through Wille's body. "You don't?" Simon's voice has dropped significantly. Wille's heart responds immediately, picking up speed, as if it's trying to jump out, trying to meet Simon's waiting, cold palm. Wille likes the idea, likes the image. Something about it makes his breath hitch.

He shakes his head, tries to unstick his tongue from his palate. "I don't." It's determined, but quiet, would maybe be too quiet for anyone other than Simon to hear. But Simon hums. Then nods. His eyes still haven't moved and Wille's cheeks, his head, his neck feel hot with blood rushing to the surface. It would be so, so easy for Simon to get to it. Wille is a little surprised when Simon manages to tear his gaze away after all, manages to look up again, meeting his eyes. He swallows down the whimper that's trying to force its way out of his mouth at the sight of those eyes, dark, maybe darker than Wille's ever seen them. They feel heavy on his, feel like they're weighing him down, pinning him against the mattress. His stomach lurches at the thought. After another moment of looking, of trying to see... something, Simon shifts, lifts his heavy palm off Wille's chest. Instead, he skims his fingers up Wille's arms, then urges him up the bed. He moves slowly, but with purpose, only stopping once he's got Wille slightly propped up, soft pillows piled behind his upper body, lifting him up just so. Wille forgets how to breathe when, slowly, carefully, almost without touching him, Simon climbs over Wille's body, comes to rest with his knees digging into the mattress by Wille's hips. Wille's body is screaming for him to move up, to close the space between them, to get to feel all of Simon's weight, the solidity, the realness of his form. But he stays put, watches with bated breath how Simon runs his eyes up and down Wille.

Simon grabs the side of Wille's neck, comforting and gentle and cool and making Wille's skin burn up at the contrast. His thumb follows a line down the length of Wille's neck, pressing against his jumping pulse. Wille's eyes flutter closed. When he blinks them open again, Simon is hovering right above Wille. If he doesn't think about it too hard, Wille's breath reflecting back towards him almost feels like it's coming from Simon's mouth. He licks his lips at the notion. Simon sees, always sees, and, for the first time in what feels like forever, there's a small smile curling up the corner of his mouth. It takes what little oxygen is left in Wille's stuttering lungs right out of him. "This is going to hurt," Simon says. He brushes over Wille's cheek once, barely there touch. Wille nods helplessly. "I know," he more breathes than says. He hopes it will. Simon carefully lowers down, meeting Wille's body, all pressure, all resistance. It coaxes a quiet moan out of Wille. Simon's smile widens. "Is that why you want it?" Heat rushes through Wille, sudden and violent. It's only now that he notices, now that Simon has got him trapped underneath him, now that Simon is right there. Wille is hard, he's so painfully hard, trapped between their bodies. It's mortifying, it's- Simon shifts again, raises and lowers his lips so Wille can feel him, too. His cock presses up against Wille's crotch, just as hard, just as heavy. It punches the truth right out of him. He nods. Simon hums again, then dips his head to brush his nose against Wille's. Wille cranes his neck, tries to catch Simon's lips, hungry and thirsty and feeling horribly, horribly deprived. But Simon's hand is holding him down by the back of his neck, keeping him just far enough for Wille to be able to look down and catch a glimpse of Simon's sharp teeth, peeking out behind his lips. Wille helplessly tries to buck his hips against Simon's. "Should've told me that," Simon mumbles as he moves away, down to where Wille wants him most. "I can give you that..."

Wille nods quickly, desperately. He immediately stops when Simon gives a gentle squeeze to his neck. "I would love to give you that."

Feel free to send me some prompts from that list, or just make some up <3 Or read my other ficlets here

also pls let me know what you think <3

#wilmon #young royals #wilmon fanfic #yr #yr fanfic #young royals fanfic #wilmon ficlet #yr ficlet #my fanfic #answered #vampires #vampire #vampire wilmon #vampire simon #hergrandplan

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svt-jia · 9 hours ago

Text

LIVE . COOKING WITH SOONAEWON ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

⤷ masterlist . ( 📎 ) . lives

— ( 🐯☀️️ ) SYNOPSIS: The worst best cooking duo, Soonyoung and Haewon, surprise fans with their terrible cooking skills, failing miserably at making simple Chiikawa pancakes!

bolded and italicized words are spoken in english

warnings: none // WC: 2.1k // mainly proofread but there might be mistakes? // requests are open! ♡ maybe i should start a taglist?

Jia entered the screen's frame in a rolling chair, being pushed by Hoshi to make a grand dramatic entrance. The chat immediately flooded with CARATS spamming sun and tiger emojis, excited to see what the chaotic duo would bring this time.

"Helloooo CARATS!" Once Jia entered the frame and waved to CARATS, she brought a chair for Hoshi and let him side beside her. "We had a great idea today, and we need to start ASAP! Hoshi, bring the pan!"

"Yes, ma'am!" Hoshi stood up and bowed to the camera like a strict soldier, making Jia giggle at his weird introduction. "Pan coming right in!"

The tiger stepped off-frame for a few seconds and returned with a pan on his hands. He opened the device and showed the shapes inside to the audience.

"What do we have today, Hoshi?" Jia asked.

Hoshi brought the pan closer to the screen, "Today, we're gonna show CARATS how to make Chiikawa-shaped pancakes. Credits go to me for the idea."

- SOMEBODY TAKE THE PAN OUT OF THEIR HANDS💔💔

- Do NOT let them near the kitchen

- Put that DOWN.

"They don't have faith in us," Hoshi laughed and clapped his hands. He turned to look at Jia, "We have all of the ingredients right?"

"Yeah, but the recipe?" Jia asked as she brought the butter. "Do we have a set recipe?"

Hoshi stared at her in silence. Shoot, he completely forgot about the recipe. Jia took it as a terrible sign, knowing that without a recipe, their food would end up tasting like rotten tomatoes.

"We can just freestyle it," Hoshi snorted. Jia shrugged and agreed with him. Sure, it wasn't a big deal. Not like the pancakes were going to explode because they didn't follow a recipe.

Jia set down the butter, flour, baking powder, sugar, milk, and eggs on the desk beside the desk beside the pan. "Shouldn't we be doing this in the kitchen? Nah, you know what, it's fine."

"You can't say that! I have a feeling we're going to destroy the room!" Hoshi picked up the ingredients and separated them. "Okay, let's cut the butter."

"No! Let's ask Siri first," Jia suggested, and Hoshi's mouth immediately made an 'o' shape. He nodded and strongly agreed with Jia's idea. "Siri, what's the first step to making pancakes?"

The robotic voice answered, "To make pancakes, first collect the ingredients. Typically, pancakes are made with flour, milk, eggs, baking powder, sugar or honey, and butter or oil."

"We know that," Hoshi sighed. "Siri, how much flour should we add to the—"

"Two," Siri responded. The pair did not know what the hell the robot meant by two. Two tablespoons? Two teaspoons? Two cups? Two packages?

"Don't worry, I made pancakes before, but I'm just trying to make sure," Hoshi put the ingredients in the bowl. "Wait, don't we need the measurements first?"

- Do they even know what they're doing...

- THOSE ARE NOT PANCAKES THEY'RE WAFFLES SOMEONE SEND THEM HELP LMAOOO

- Have you guys EVER made waffles in your life😭

- CALL SEUNGCHEOL ASAP

"It's not that we don't know how to make pancakes. It's just that the pan this time is different! It has shapes! So the measurements are different!" Jia was quick to defend herself, and Hoshi agreed. "They're supposed to be 3D."

"Hey Siri, how many tablespoons do we need to make pancakes?" Hoshi asked and opened the flour.

Siri didn't answer, and Jia laughed at the failed question. She looked at Hoshi and opened the butter, "Tablespoons of what? I'll be right back — I'm gonna melt the butter."

"Wait, wait!" Hoshi called, but Jia already left the room. He looked back at the camera, completely helpless. "She left me. Okay, I'll figure this out. Don't worry, CARATS, this is for you!"

"One thing I learned from Mingyu is that once you get the hang of the kitchen, you start to eyeball everything," He explained as he picked up a tablespoon. "What I mean is, you guess how much amount of ingredients you need when you know the recipe by heart. I made pancakes a few times, but I vividly remember how to prepare them."

"So here's a measuring cup, and here's the flour," he looked at the chat. "What do you mean I need three cups? So this isn't enough? Guys, guys, stop saying different answers! So how many do I actually need?!"

"Ah, this is so confusing," Hoshi took out his phone and typed in a recipe. "Freestyling is overrated."

So, instead of ruining the mixture, he strictly followed a recipe. The occasional slip-ups weren't excluded, of course, as he was more focused on talking to the chat than on his pancakes.

Soon, Jia returned with the melted butter in another pan. Hoshi gave her space to she could stand beside him. He glanced at the pan and looked back at the mixture he had in the bowl, but then he quickly snapped his head back to the butter.

"Why did you use so much?!" Hoshi exclaimed, his eyes widened in disbelief.

"I thought we agreed on making enough pancakes for everyone!" Jia's eyes shifted downwards to the mixture of ingredients inside Hoshi's bowl. "That's too little for thirteen people..."

"And that's too much for two people. It was supposed to be for us," Hoshi bit back with lighthearted banter. "Okay, let's pour it inside. The more the merrier."

Jia poured the butter into the bowl, helped him stir it, and the chat panicked immediately. The pair wasn't paying attention to their fans and instead focused on making the pancakes as best as they could.

"Should we put them in the pan?" Hoshi asked, and Jia nodded, giving him the green light to proceed. Hoshi carefully poured the mixture into the shapes. However, of course, something had to go wrong...

A large chunk of the mixture spilled from the bowl and into the pan, coating the black metal surface with a yellow, slightly orange sticky liquid. As if on cue, Hoshi's panicked expression met Jia's concerned eyes. They stared at each other for a few seconds, then at the camera, and then at each other again.

"Seungcheol is gonna kill us!" Hoshi laughed nervously.

"Let's finish the pancakes, it's okay! We're not done pouring the ingredients yet!" Jia helped her friend pour the rest of the mixture into the pan, and once it was enough to cover all of the shapes, she closed it. "Do you think they'll turn out fine?"

"I HOPE SO?!" Hoshi ran his hand through his hair. "NEVER invite me to your cooking lives again."

"Turn the stove on," Jia ordered, and Hoshi did as she asked. They both sat beside each other and waited for the food to cook. She offered a supportive high-five, and he reciprocated her gesture. Somehow, they were slightly proud of how their cooking turned out. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary for now.

Once the temperature rose enough, the unbearable sounds of crunching and burning echoed in the room, startling the pair. Jia looked at Hoshi and then at the pan, silently asking if they should open the device and cancel their cooking.

"No, no, wait a few more seconds. The pancakes are cooking," Hoshi reassured her, while in reality, he wasn't even sure himself. "We used too much butter and too little ingredients. I think the butter is making that sound."

"Should we let it marinate?" She asked, and the other nodded.

- DON'T LISTEN TO HOSHI TF?

- SOMEBODY HELP THEM THE WAFFLES ARE BURNING

- DID NOBODY TELL THEM THEY'RE SUPPOSED TO COOK WAFFLES?!

- CHIIKAWAAAAA💔💔💔😭😭

Soon, the burnt scent of failed waffles spread throughout the room, and that was the signal for Hoshi and Jia to turn off the stove. However, neither of them opened the pan.

The two continued to stare at the device as if it was from another dimension, conflicted between opening it to check their creation or keeping it closed to avoid any more disasters.

"Maybe we should ask Mingyu for help next time," Hoshi stated.

"I don't think there'll be a next time if we don't open that pan and clean the mess we made before Seungcheol shows up," Jia added.

"You're right," Hoshi nodded. "I'm not doing it."

"Seriously?!" Jia sighed and looked at the man.

"This is your cooking show!" He grinned, trying to defend himself.

Jia stood up and placed her hands on the handles closed pan. Hoshi got closer to her and peeked at the mess. She took a deep breath and let out a long sigh, bracing herself for whatever was about to come out.

However, the door opened before she could check how the food turned out. Fortunately, it was just Vernon and Seungkwan, who were worried due to the burnt smell that came out from this room.

"What the hell are you guys doing?" Seungkwan approached the pair and looked at the closed pan, then at the camera. "Cooking live?!"

"We made pancakes!" Hoshi explained. "Chiikawa pancakes. Wanna try them?"

"Chiikawa? I don't know, but they don't... smell that good," Vernon snickered and leaned closer to the table. "Can we see?"

Jia slowly opened the pan. As soon as it opened, the mixture was stuck everywhere, which made it hard for her to open it further. The Chiikawa pancakes had been absolutely obliterated by the scorching heat of the oven, burning them until there was nothing except a non-consumable substance left.

Vernon and Seungkwan looked at Jia and Hoshi and burst out into uncontrollable laughter. They cackled and hit each other, losing their balance and rolling on the floor while they died of laughter until their stomachs hurt. Meanwhile, Hoshi and Jia seemed unamused and disappointed at how their pancakes turned out.

- THE WAFFLES😭😭 THEY KILLED CHIIKAWA NOOO

- 5 star Michelin...

- IM FUCKING CRYING GOODNIGHT

- Cooking like a chef

- LMAOOOOO

Vernon's laugh morphed into a cough. Seungkwan took deep breaths and ran both of his hands through his hair, still giggling after looking at the mess the duo made.

"Soonyoung, Haewon, you guys," Seungkwan wheezed and started to laugh again, unable to control himself. "I can't— I can't believe— This is terrible!"

"Hell no, I'm leaving!" Vernon tried to escape the room.

"Where are you going?!" Jia called out. "You came into the room, you saw our pancakes, and now you're gonna help us clean this!"

"Yes, what she said!" Hoshi chimed in. "Or we'll tell Seungcheol you were involved. Let's make it a team effort."

"What?! Why?!" Seungkwan whined. "This is your cooking live, not ours! Why do you have to drag us into this?!"

"Unless you eat the pancakes, you're not leaving," Jia stated.

Seungkwan and Vernon looked at each other. "No, thank you."

"Then come and help!"

Seungkwan and Vernon quickly helped Jia and Hoshi put the supplies away. The live now turned into a cleaning compilation of chaos and jokes, with the squad helping out cleaning the space before their leader could see their mess.

"Who's cleaning the pan?" Vernon asked. Jia's eyes immediately pointed at Hoshi, and he knew he had to get it done without complaining unless he wanted to get caught.

"Can't believe you two would make such a mess," Seungkwan scolded. "Who thought it was a great idea to put so much butter into the mixture?"

"As if you can cook any better?" Jia responded.

Once they were done cleaning, they brought the camera to the living room and sat down on the couch, pretending like the whole mess didn't happen. Fortunately, Seungcheol wasn't aware of the mess they made, and on a positive note, now Seungkwan and Vernon joined the live.

Although the rest of the live was peaceful without any more chaos, it was safe to say that Jia's cooking live featuring Hoshi ended up in terrible failure. Additionally, she and her cooking buddy learned that they were supposed to make waffles, not pancakes. In conclusion, CARATS shouldn't follow the tutorial at all, and she wouldn't try to cook any more waffles without the help of a good cook.

But what they didn't know was that S.Coups had been watching the live from the moment Jia and Hoshi prepared the mixture for the pancakes. They absolutely got scolded after the live ended.

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rinawrote · 2 days ago

Text

Realistic Relationship Headcanons

Joseph Lisgoe (The League of Gentlemen) x f!Reader

Warnings: Swearing, mentions of smut, this is so unserious

I find myself way too funny ALSO I loved doing this so I may do it for other Reece characters soon

- Would refer to you as “me bird” or “the mrs”

- Will 100% send you unsolicited pictures of his knob and ur just like 👍

- Deffo comes home and cracks open a can of Stella to sit and watch telly with you

- If you ever had a kid he’d forever be sending them to the fridge to get him a beer

- Ain’t no way this man is doing his own cooking and cleaning once u come into his life

- Drive-by slaps your arse all the time

- Would get your name tattooed on him

- His affectionate pet names for you include “cunt,” “dickhead,” and “tart”

- Snores in your ear all night and talks in his sleep

- Will deffo just come up behind you and grab your tits

- Responds with, “you love it,” every time you call him out for being a perv

- Makes you sit on his lap in the office

- Does NOT like your mates

- But secretly loves when you gossip about your friendship/work drama (he’s so invested)

- Falls asleep with his hand down his pants every time you try to watch a film together

- Answers his phone on the first ring (only when it’s you tho)

- Leaves the toilet seat up

- Absolutely keeps a picture of you in his wallet

- Do NOT walk in front of this man on the stairs unless u want him to poke u in the arse

- WILL feel you up in Tesco

- Weirdly gets on well with your parents

- Calls your dad ‘big man’ and your mum by her full government name

- Tells you to wear something sexy for a night out then gets visibly annoyed when other men look at you

- Never lets you pay for anything (he’s a providerrrrr🙈)

- Acts hard all day but makes you give him back scratches when he gets home (absolutely melts)

- If you’re out and someone upsets you, he’ll be like “who??? point ‘em out,” like bro doesn’t even need context he’s just ready to fuck them up

- Puts his arm out in front of you before you cross the road 🫠

- Will carry everything for you

- Thinks a grunt is a genuine response to a question

- He’s so clueless when he’s done something wrong/upset you, bless him xx

- Always lights your cigs for you

- Manspreads

- Waits for you to fall asleep first and gives you little forehead kisses when you do (but he’d never tell you that)

- Gives you a classic eye roll and a, “don’t be daft” if you’re ever insecure/jealous

- You’ve only ever seen him cry once and that’s cos he accidentally sat on his balls

- Memory like a fuckin sieve

- Will finish your food if you don’t

- Only says “I love you,” when he’s hammered or something serious has happened

- Will look at you weird if you don’t immediately snuggle into him when you sit next to him on the sofa

- Bites/nibbles on you affectionately

- Literally does NOT know how to act when you cry??? like it physically hurts him???? but he has the emotional intelligence of a piece of bread so he just kinda hugs you and calls you a dickhead in a sweeter tone than usual

- Actually gives amazing hugs

- Doesn’t have a password on his phone and literally does not gaf if you go on it

- All that’s on it are pictures of you 🥹 and a work groupchat with Glenn and Barry that’s mainly verbal abuse

- When he gets hard he doesn’t say anything, just kinda presses it into you

- Uses your expensive products in the shower

- Listens to Skepta in the car and goes, “this song reminds me of you,” like it’s the most romantic thing ever

- Wakes you up in the middle of the night watching dash cam car crash compilations at full volume on youtube

- If you mess something up he just laughs and calls you a melt

- He’s always so warm????

- Sometimes he’ll just look at you and be like “you know I love you, yeah?” then immediately ruin it with something like, “don’t cry or owt, I’m not dying”

- Watches you do your makeup like it’s a nature documentary

- Says ur not funny but no one makes him laugh harder than you

- Horny 24/7

- Gets all clingy and soft after sex (post-nut adoration)

- Pretends he’s not interested in one of your TV shows but will stand in the doorway with his hands behind his back watching it

- He’s mean but if he ever takes it too far he will immediately be all over you, clinging to u like a koala and giving u sweet little kisses

- Likes to start conversations with “I’m not being funny, but…” and then says something that’s definitely being funny

- Quadruple texts you if you don’t reply straight away but claims he’s “not arsed”

- Exaggerates stories to make himself look better and impress you

- Gives you the weirdest compliments ever, e.g. “you’re gorgeous. like a really nice pint”

- Flexes his muscles whenever you touch his arm

- He loves you so so so so so so much even though he’s a twat!!!

Also these:

#reece shearsmith #fanfic #reece shearsmith x reader #ao3 fanfic #my writing #writing #the league of gentlemen #tlog #steve pemberton #jeremy dyson #mark gatiss #joseph lisgoe #joseph lisgoe x reader #joseph lisgoe x reader fluff #joseph lisgoe x reader smut #headcanon #drabble

23 notes · View notes

sunshine-lux · 6 hours ago

Text

Clueless (ix.)

summary: after the conversation at the aquarium, y/n is practically on cloud nine. but she knows that in order to fully allow herself to enjoy it, she has to make amends with some people. peter on the other hand, is willing to do anything to prove himself to y/n.

pairings: Stark!reader x MCU!peter parker

warnings: light swearing, some innuendoes, mentions of a black eye, peter trying real hard to win back his girl, f!reader. i think that's it!

word count: 9.6k

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺

Y/N woke up with a smile on her face.

It took her a second to realize why. This was the first time in a long time where things didn’t feel so heavy. Where everything wasn’t a mess of noise and confusion and unspoken hurt. Where it didn’t feel like the world was tilting under her feet.

Everything felt… light. Not perfect. But lighter. Like she finally had room to breathe.

She rolled over in bed and grabbed her phone from the nightstand. A new text was waiting at the top of her screen.

Spideyboy!: Good morning. I hope you slept okay. I know yesterday was a lot. I don’t want to push anything… just wanted you to know I’m thinking about you.

Y/N blinked down at it, her smile softening into something smaller. Warmer. She stared at the message for a long second before replying.

Good morning. I did sleep okay. Yesterday was a lot. But thank you. For reaching out. I’m thinking about you too.

She pressed send and just laid there for a moment. Letting herself be still. Letting herself feel good. And for once, not immediately talking herself out of it.

Eventually, she got up and headed to the bathroom to get ready. She threw on one of Tony’s old band tees and her ripped baggy jeans, splashed cold water on her face, brushed her teeth, and pulled on a pair of socks that didn’t match. It didn’t matter. She felt like sunshine.

Padding out into the living room, she yawned and glanced around.

“FRIDAY, where are my parents?”

“Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts are still asleep, Miss Y/N,” the AI responded politely.

Y/N’s eyes lit up.

“Oh my god. That never happens.”

She glanced around the kitchen. Smirked. Still high off her mood from yesterday and still floating from Peter’s text. She made a very important decision.

“Alright. Let’s cook.”

Within minutes, the kitchen looked like a warzone. Slightly burnt pancakes were stacking on a plate. There was a bowl of strawberries she only remembered to wash halfway through eating three of them. A pot of coffee brewed in the background, and she managed to pour three mugs without spilling… too much.

She plated everything with way too much enthusiasm, arranging a little fruit smiley face on one pancake and grinning to herself. She wasn’t a five star chef, but she was their kid. And this was love. Slightly charred, but love.

She carried the tray down the hall, nudging the bedroom door open with her hip.

“Rise and shine, best parents in the whole world!” she called cheerfully.

Tony groaned. Pepper cracked one eye open.

Tony mumbled, “Who is she and what has she done with our daughter?”

Pepper smiled sleepily. “Smells like a fire hazard and affection.”

Y/N beamed. “I made you pancakes. They’re not great, but the coffee’s hot and I’m in a good mood. So, you’re welcome.”

She handed off the tray and climbed up to sit on the edge of their bed, stealing a strawberry from the plate and popping it into her mouth.

Tony stared at her, suspicious. “Okay. No offense, sweetheart, but you only ever do this stuff when you want something or when something happened. So what’s up?”

Y/N blinked innocently. “Nothing’s up. Maybe I’m just feeling generous.”

Tony narrowed his eyes. “Uh huh. And maybe I just started believing in the tooth fairy again.”

Pepper took a sip of her coffee and smiled. “Let her be happy, Tony.”

“I’m not stopping her!” he defended. “I’m just… gauging the situation. This isn’t normal behavior.”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “You guys are the worst.” But she was still smiling. Still glowing.

And for the first time in a while, she didn’t mind being seen.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Peter sat at the kitchen table, barefoot and messy haired, poking at his toast while the morning sun spilled through the window. A half eaten bowl of cereal sat in front of him. He wasn’t paying much attention to it.

His phone buzzed.

He snatched it up instantly, heart already racing and then smiled when he saw her name light up his screen.

Y/N/N 🐾: Good morning. I did sleep okay. Yesterday was a lot. But thank you. For reaching out. I’m thinking about you too.

Peter’s whole face softened.

He tried to play it cool, but the smile tugging at his lips gave him away completely.

“Okay, I’m gonna need you to stop grinning like that unless you plan to tell me what’s going on,” May said from the stove, where she was flipping a pancake with much more grace than Y/N had.

Peter looked up, caught, cheeks tinged pink. “It’s nothing,” he tried. “Just a good morning text.”

May raised an eyebrow. “From the girl who had you blasting Radiohead? That kind of good morning text?”

Peter laughed, ducking his head. “Okay— maybe.”

May turned off the stove and carried a plate over to him, setting it down and ruffling his hair like he was still five. “You gonna tell me what happened or am I calling Ned and getting the real story?”

Peter grinned down at his plate. “I talked to her. Yesterday. At the aquarium.”

May sat down across from him, quiet now. Listening.

“It was in the jellyfish room,” Peter said. “I told her everything. About Gwen. About the gala. About how bad I’ve been feeling for weeks. I just… laid it all out.”

May reached for her coffee and nodded, her eyes warm.

Peter hesitated for a second, then smiled again, more sheepish this time. “And I got her something. A bracelet. It reminded me of her.”

That made May’s face light up.

“God, finally,” she said, setting her cup down. “I’ve been waiting for this boy to pull it together. Do you know how miserable you’ve been? You’ve been moping around this apartment every day for like the past month.”

Peter let out a laugh. “I have not.”

“You literally played How to Disappear Completely every night for a week. On repeat.”

Peter groaned and buried his face in his hands. “Okay, fine. Maybe a little pathetic.”

May reached over and squeezed his wrist. “You weren’t pathetic. You were in love and hurt and scared to admit it. But I’m proud of you, Peter. You let someone see you. And you’re giving yourself the chance to love and be loved. That’s a big deal. I know it’s not easy for you.”

Peter blinked, trying not to get emotional about it. “Thanks, May.”

She smiled. “Now eat your breakfast, loverboy. You’ve got a long road ahead if you’re gonna win her back properly.”

He picked up his fork and smiled down at his plate.

“I know,” he said quietly. “But I think I’m finally ready to try.”

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The elevator chimed as Y/N stepped into it, matcha in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. She hadn’t texted Harry she was coming. She figured if he was home, he’d answer the door and if he wasn’t, well… she’d try again later.

But of course, he was there.

He opened the door wearing sweatpants, an old university crewneck, and the faintest smirk despite the very visible black eye.

“You always show up with caffeine and guilt?” he asked, leaning against the frame.

Y/N rolled her eyes with a smile and held up the coffee like a peace offering. “Consider it a thank you. For not blocking my number when I ghosted you for like— what? Thirty six hours?”

Harry took the coffee with an over dramatic sigh. “I was this close. But the coffee bought you some time.”

She snorted and followed him inside, settling onto the couch like it was muscle memory now. He flopped down beside her, propping one leg up and eyeing her sideways.

“So,” he said. “You good?”

Y/N took a breath. “Yeah. I think I am. But I still feel like I owe you… a lot.”

Harry shrugged like it was nothing. “You had a lot going on. And like I said over text— I’m not holding anything against you.”

Her shoulders relaxed slightly, but there was still more on her chest.

“I think I still need to say it though,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry, Harry. For… everything. For maybe making you think I felt something more. I never meant to lead you on I just… I really do love being around you. You make me laugh. You make me feel safe. And you were there for me when Peter wasn’t. But my heart’s… always belonged to him. And I’m sorry if that hurt you.”

Harry looked at her for a moment, then smiled softly. “I knew,” he said. “I think I always knew. You were never subtle, Y/N/N. And it’s not like I was some innocent bystander— I offered to be used, remember? Played my role a little too well.”

She laughed, cheeks pink. “You’re ridiculous.”

“But real,” he said, nudging her shoulder. “And honestly? I’m not mad. You didn’t do anything malicious. You were hurt. And I was happy to be there for you, even if it was messy. It’s been like— what? A few weeks since we reconnected? But it feels like we’ve always had each other’s backs.”

“Because we have,” Y/N said. “Even when we didn’t talk. We just… get each other.”

He nodded. “Two misunderstood nepo babies trying to prove we’re not just legacy names.”

“Exactly,” she said, bumping her knee against his.

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment before Harry nodded toward her with a knowing look.

“So… Peter?”

Y/N exhaled slowly. “Yeah. We talked yesterday. At the aquarium.”

Harry’s brow lifted. “And?”

“He apologized. For everything,” she said. “For the gala, the game, Gwen. Even the fight. He said he should’ve kissed me at the party. That he’s liked me since Berlin. He even bought me a bracelet. It’s dumb, but…”

“But it meant something,” Harry finished for her.

Y/N smiled faintly. “Yeah.”

Harry took a sip of his coffee, his tone light but his eyes sincere. “Well. I still think he deserves a black eye. Oh wait.”

She laughed. “You’re awful.”

“But I’m glad,” he added, softer now. “I’m glad he’s trying. You deserve that kind of effort, Y/N/N.”

She leaned her head against his shoulder.

“Thanks, Harry.”

He rested his cheek on the top of her head, letting the quiet settle in again. “For the record,” he said after a moment, “if it all goes to hell again, I still got one more good punch in me.”

Y/N snorted into her cup. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

As Y/N stepped out of Harry’s apartment, the late morning breeze hit her with a kind of gentle clarity.

She slipped her headphones on, hit play on a soft, slow playlist, and started walking.

The city buzzed around her. Cars honking in the distance, the clack of heels on pavement, someone yelling about bagels two blocks down but all she could really focus on was the echo of Peter’s voice from yesterday. The jellyfish glowing around them. The look in his eyes. The bracelet still snug around her wrist.

He meant it. Every word. She could feel it in her chest.

But before she could allow herself to lean fully into it— to really fall— she knew she had something else to do. Something she should’ve done a long time ago.

It wasn’t about not trusting Peter.

It wasn’t about jealousy or rivalry or anything ugly like that.

It was about Gwen.

Because Gwen had feelings, too. Gwen had been part of this complicated equation from the start. And no matter how messy it got, Y/N knew she had played her part in that.

She could’ve told Gwen the truth from the beginning. She could’ve admitted that Peter meant more to her than just some old crush she was “totally over.” She could’ve stepped back when things started to get weird instead of using Harry as a shield. But she didn’t.

And if Gwen was hurt then that was on her too.

If Y/N wanted to turn the page, to start something new with Peter… she needed to close the last chapter with honesty. With accountability.

So, she changed her direction.

And started walking toward Gwen’s place.

Gwen opened the door a few seconds later, her brows lifting in surprise when she saw who was standing there with a half nervous, half soft smile and a coffee cup in hand.

“Matcha for me,” Y/N said, lifting her own cup, “and vanilla sweet cream cold brew for you. I guessed based on the sticker on your Hydroflask.”

Gwen blinked, then huffed a small laugh. “Okay… creepy but accurate. You coming in?”

Y/N nodded and stepped inside.

They settled on Gwen’s bedroom floor like teenagers in a sleepover, legs crossed, drinks in hand. There was a lingering tension at first. Not anger, not even bitterness. Just uncertainty.

Finally, Y/N broke it.

“I came here because I owe you an apology,” she said. “Probably a couple of them.”

Gwen shook her head gently. “You don’t have to—”

“No,” Y/N cut in. “I do.”

She took a breath, fingers nervously fidgeting with her straw.

“I haven’t been the nicest to you. And I think I tried to justify it by convincing myself you were the problem— that you were only here to make things harder for me. But the truth is, I just… felt replaced. And instead of dealing with that, I took it out on you. And I let things fester. I stood there and let you walk into a mess that you didn’t even know was already burning down around you. That wasn’t fair to you.”

Gwen didn’t speak right away. She stared at her drink, then finally said, “I guess I always kind of knew there was something between you and Peter. I didn’t want to see it, but… I knew.”

Y/N’s chest sank.

“I never wanted it to become a competition,” she said quietly. “And it wasn’t one. You were never the villain in this. You’re… you’re actually really cool. And smart. And funny. And you deserve better than the way I treated you.”

Gwen’s gaze softened. “I think we both got caught up in something bigger than either of us really knew how to handle.”

“Probably,” Y/N muttered. “But that’s still not an excuse. You didn’t deserve the side eyes and the passive aggressive comments. I was mean, Gwen. And I’m really sorry for that.”

Gwen let the silence stretch for a moment before nodding. “Thank you. That means a lot.”

Y/N looked at her hopefully. “Can we be cool? Like… maybe not best friends, but like, not enemies? Potential acquaintances that don’t silently beef over who gets to sit next to MJ at lunch?”

Gwen cracked a real smile now. “Deal.”

They clinked plastic cups in a toast.

And just like that, a fresh page was turned. Not completely clean, but enough to start again.

Gwen looked at her for a moment before speaking, her voice a little quieter. “You were my first friend at Midtown. You were the first person who really made me feel welcome. And even when things got messy, that still counted for something.”

Y/N swallowed hard, suddenly feeling her eyes sting. “You’re so sweet…”

Gwen smiled gently. “So are you.”

They both reached for their drinks at the same time and let out small, awkward laughs. And then, without thinking too hard about it, Gwen reached out and pulled Y/N into a hug.

Y/N hugged her back tightly.

When they pulled apart, Gwen wiped her eyes lightly. “Peter’s not the only guy in New York City, you know. I’ll be okay, Y/N/N.”

Y/N gave her a watery laugh. “You’re gonna be more than okay. You’re gonna take over NYU and start a girl band or something.”

Gwen snorted. “Duh.”

They sat back down, and Gwen glanced over curiously. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“For a second there… I really thought you and Harry were a thing.”

Y/N winced. “Yeah. That was… kinda on purpose.”

Gwen raised an eyebrow.

“It was a dumb plan,” Y/N admitted. “Harry and I talked. He literally offered himself as jealousy bait. And I was upset and heartbroken and spiraling, so I said yes.”

Gwen laughed a little, not unkindly. “Well, it worked. It looked real.”

“It felt real, sometimes,” Y/N said. “He’s a really good friend. But I think…” she trailed off, smirking.

“What?”

“I think he and MJ like each other.”

Gwen’s eyes widened. “Shut up.”

“I’m serious,” Y/N grinned. “Opposites attract, right?”

“That’s… kinda genius, actually.”

Y/N nodded. “Though I think it’s gonna be a while before either of them admits it. MJ’s too proud, and Harry’s too… Harry.”

Gwen groaned dramatically. “God, I hope it’s not a repeat of this mess we just made.”

Y/N giggled. “MJ would never let it get that far. And honestly? Harry would probably die if he ever saw her trying to make him jealous with another guy.”

Gwen burst out laughing. “He’d combust on the spot.”

They dissolved into giggles again, and for the first time in a while— everything felt light.

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Y/N sat cross legged on her bed, a bag of chips untouched beside her, phone in hand. For the first time in weeks, she opened the group chat.

The main group chat.

It had been practically dead for the past month— ever since everything got… complicated. But today had been good. Better than good. And maybe it was time.

She sent the first message.

Y/N/N 🐾: we're really gonna act like this chat isn't collecting dust??? tragic.

It took about five seconds before the typing dots popped up.

NED🤠: WE’RE USING THIS AGAIN???

MJ🐛: wow. what a cultural reset.

NED🤠: i literally forgot we even had this

Y/N/N 🐾: omg i hate you guys

MJ🐛: you love us

Spideyboy!: sdo i soryr im slidding down a biulding

MJ🐛: WHAT

NED🤠: BRO ARE YOU TEXTING WHILE SWINGING AGAIN

Y/N/N 🐾: Peter.

Spideyboy!:No…

Spideyboy!: mayb

MJ🐛: you are going to die one day because of this and it will not be our fault.

Y/N/N 🐾: i'm actually gonna block you if you hit a bus mid text

Spideyboy!: Not a bus. Was actually a billboard this time 😎

NED🤠:YOU'RE NOT HELPING YOUR CASE

MJ🐛: someone take his phone. now.

Y/N/N 🐾: siri call tony stark

Spideyboy!: NOOOO

NED🤠: LMFAOOO

MJ🐛: that man will end him

Spideyboy!: ok fine. putting phone away. (just wanted to say hi 😶)

Y/N stared at that last message for a moment longer than she meant to, biting back a smile.

Y/N/N 🐾: hi :)

Spideyboy!: hi Y/N/N :)

MJ🐛: oh my god

NED🤠: here we go again.

MJ🐛: it’s been ONE DAY. they’re already back to being gross.

NED🤠: "hi Y/N/N :)" i’m gonna throw up

Y/N/N 🐾: you’re just mad no one says hi to you like that

Spideyboy!: ok whatever im on patrol now bye

MJ🐛: GOOD. go fight crime and reflect on your corniness.

Y/N/N 🐾: anyway mj shouldn’t be talking rn. i saw that little look she gave harry two days ago. i have EYES.

MJ🐛: do not start with me

NED🤠: LMAOOOOOOO

MJ🐛: i KNOW you’re not laughing. i’ve seen the way you talk to betty

Y/N/N 🐾: bro is not subtle 😭

Spideyboy!: i put my phone away for TWO SECONDS

NED🤠: peter please do your job. crime is winning right now.

MJ🐛: and we’re losing brain cells watching y’all flirt like it’s 8th grade

Y/N/N 🐾: at least we’re cute about it 🤷‍♀️

Spideyboy!: facts

NED🤠: ew.

MJ🐛: hate you both.

Y/N/N 🐾: love you too 💋

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The kitchen was warm and softly lit, the clinking of cutlery against plates the only real sound at first. It was rare for all three Starks to be at the table at the same time— no distractions, no emergency calls, no tech prototypes in arm’s reach. Just food. And each other.

Y/N sat across from Tony and Pepper, her plate half finished but her expression light. She was… calm. Genuinely. For the first time in weeks.

Tony raised an eyebrow as he sipped his drink. “Okay. Who are you and what have you done with my daughter? You haven’t glared at anyone or rolled your eyes once.”

Pepper smiled, glancing over at Y/N. “She’s glowing. That’s what’s different.”

Y/N chuckled softly. “You guys are being weird.”

“We’re being observant,” Tony said, narrowing his eyes like he was analyzing her. “You’re not stomping around the tower. You’re not threatening to electrocute anyone. Which means either you finally meditated like I told you to… or something’s shifted.”

Y/N hesitated for a second, then nodded. “I went to see Gwen today.”

Both of her parents quieted at that.

“I wanted to talk to her. Apologize, really. For everything that happened.” She twirled her fork on her plate. “It wasn’t easy. But… she was so kind. Way more kind than I probably deserved.”

Pepper’s face softened. “Y/N/N…”

“I told her I never meant for things to happen the way they did,” Y/N continued. “And I meant it. I owned up to my part in all of it, and she—she forgave me. She even hugged me.” Her voice wavered, just a little. “It was a good talk.”

Pepper reached across the table and took her hand gently. “I’m proud of you,” she said sincerely. “That’s not easy to do. But it matters so much. That kind of honesty… it changes things.”

Y/N gave a small, grateful smile. “Thanks, Mom.”

Tony leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. “Alright, so you made up with Gwen. You’re smiling at your phone like an idiot. I assume Spider-Boy is crawling his way back into your good graces?”

Y/N rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t hide the tiny grin that bloomed on her face. “He’s trying. I’m not making it easy.”

“That’s my girl,” Tony said proudly. “Fear is a powerful motivator.”

Pepper shot him a look. “Tony.”

“What? I’m just saying she’s finally acting like the daughter I raised. High standards. Emotional dominance. An affinity for setting things on fire with her brain.”

Y/N laughed. “I haven’t set anything on fire lately.”

“Well, then I’m slipping as a mentor.”

Pepper shook her head, but she was smiling too. “Just… keep leading with your heart, Y/N. I know it feels messy sometimes, but you’re doing a good job.”

There was a pause. A real, comfortable pause.

Then Tony clapped his hands. “Okay, dinner’s done. Movie night?”

“No horror,” Y/N said immediately.

“Fine,” Tony huffed. “But only if you make the popcorn. And don’t use your powers this time, the last bowl was literally scorched.”

Y/N smiled again— this time, brighter than all the others. “Deal.”

Y/N was curled up on the couch, half watching the movie, half scrolling through her phone. Tony and Pepper were sitting beside her. Tony with a bowl of popcorn in his lap, already snoring lightly, and Pepper half asleep with her feet in his lap.

The soft buzz of her phone made her glance down.

Spideyboy! 9:37 p.m. hey. how was your day? :)

Y/N smiled instantly, her fingers typing before she could think too hard.

Y/N/N 🐾: better than most. how was patrol?

Spideyboy!: quiet night. i stopped one guy from keying someone’s car in queens. real thrilling superhero stuff.

Y/N/N 🐾: lmao congrats. our city is so safe because of you 🫡

Spideyboy!: i have to make sure the city’s safe for you.

Y/N’s smile widened, her cheeks warming.

Y/N/N 🐾: so cheesy. but i’ll allow it.

Spideyboy!: what are you up to now?

Y/N/N 🐾: movie night. my dad’s asleep. pepper’s pretending she isn’t. i’m texting you.

Spideyboy!: that sounds nice.

Spideyboy!: i really missed talking to you like this. i can’t wait to see you on monday.

She stared at that one for a beat longer than the others. Her fingers hovered, heart doing a tiny somersault.

Y/N/N 🐾: i missed this too. but you do know you're not done making it up to me, right?

Spideyboy!: of course i know. words don’t mean much without actions. i really hope you know i’m willing to do anything to make it up to you. i’m ready to show you how badly i want you, Y/N/N.

Her breath caught a little. She reread the message three times, then typed

Y/N/N 🐾: mm. you’re gonna keep me on my toes, huh? good. i like that.

Y/N/N 🐾: goodnight, spidey.

Spideyboy!: goodnight, Y/N/N.

She locked her phone, a quiet, full smile tugging at her lips. And for the first time in weeks, she wasn’t dreaming of thunder or heartbreak.

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It was Sunday afternoon, and Y/N was lying belly down across her bed, a velvet scrunchie holding her hair up, while MJ lounged backwards in her desk chair, spinning lazily with her feet up on the wall. A half eaten acai bowl sat on the nightstand. Y/N's phone was in MJ’s hands.

And MJ was gasping.

“You’re telling me…” she said slowly, staring at the screen in complete shock. “Peter said this to you?”

Y/N, practically glowing, nodded. “Yes.”

MJ blinked. Then reread the message for the third time:

“I really hope you know I’m willing to do anything to make it up to you. I’m ready to show you how badly I want you, Y/N/N.”

“Our Peter?” MJ clarified, blinking again. “Peter Parker? Science nerd. Radiohead enthusiast. King of repressing emotions.”

Y/N burst out laughing. “Yes, our Peter. The one who spent over a year pretending he didn’t like me. That one.”

MJ dropped the phone onto the bed like it was radioactive. “This is insane. I didn’t know he had it in him. I feel like I’ve been punk’d.”

Y/N buried her face into her pillow, squealing. “It’s real. He sent that. Last night. I almost passed out.”

MJ reached back over and picked up the phone again, her voice teasing. “Okay, but… you do realize this is, like, borderline romantic behavior, right?”

“I know!” Y/N shrieked into the pillow again. “And now I don’t know what he’s planning but I know he’s planning something because he’s Peter and he overcommits.”

MJ nodded solemnly. “He’s about to be so extra. I’m expecting some weird robotics project. Skywriting. A live animal involved somehow.”

“Oh God,” Y/N laughed. “I swear, if he tries to pull some dramatic Spider-Man stunt in the middle of Times Square, I’m walking away.”

MJ grinned wickedly. “Mmm. Or… what if his grand gesture involves a bed, a candle, and absolutely no supervision—”

“Stop!!” Y/N smacked her with a throw pillow, red faced. “Don’t put images in my head!”

MJ giggled, holding up her hands. “Hey, you’re the one who lets him talk to you all seductively now. You opened that door. I’m just walking through it.”

Y/N couldn’t help it — she laughed until she had tears in her eyes. But then she rolled onto her back, phone clutched to her chest, smiling like an idiot.

“You really like him,” MJ said, softer now.

Y/N nodded. “I always have.”

MJ smiled too. “Then I hope whatever he’s planning completely knocks you off your feet.”

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

The sun was barely up when Y/N stirred awake, groggy and warm beneath her comforter. She blinked at her phone on the nightstand, already buzzing.

Text from Spideyboy! 6:14 AM – Good morning, Y/N/N :) You said you were walking today, right? Let me know when you're leaving… I have a surprise for you.

Y/N blinked again. Sat up. A surprise?

She texted him a quick “Leaving in 40 :)”, brushed out her hair, threw on her favorite hoodie, and pulled her headphones around her neck. And forty minutes later, when she stepped out the front door of the Tower, there he was.

Peter Parker. Standing at the curb. Grinning like a golden retriever in a hoodie. With a paper cup in his hands.

Y/N slowed when she saw him, blinking in disbelief. “What…”

“Hi,” Peter said, practically bouncing. “Good morning!”

“You’re here,” she said, bewildered, gesturing at… all of him.

“I made you matcha.” He handed her the cup like it was the Holy Grail. “Well. Tried to.”

Y/N stared at it, then up at him. “…You made this?”

“Yeah!” He beamed. “I woke up early and watched, like, five TikToks. And one barista tutorial. I’m ninety percent sure I did it right.”

She hesitated— then brought the cup to her lips, smiling at him as she sipped.

And nearly choked.

It was so thick. Like molasses. Way too sweet. Somehow gritty and sticky at the same time. She coughed, eyes watering slightly.

Peter’s smile dropped instantly. “Oh my God. You don’t like it. I knew it. I messed it up. I’m so sorry, please don’t hate me—”

“No— no, it’s—” She coughed again. Swallowed. “It’s… nice.”

He blinked. “You’re lying to be nice.”

She took another sip— why was it spicy now??— and smiled through the pain. “I said it’s nice.”

Peter stared at her, wide eyed and worried. “You don’t have to drink it, Y/N/N. Seriously. I just wanted to try. You always look so happy when you drink it and I—” He cut himself off, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just wanted to be part of that.”

Y/N blinked at him. Then smiled. A real one this time. “You are.”

Peter melted.

She took another sip and somehow didn’t die. “Maybe just… less sugar next time?”

He groaned, hiding his face. “God, I’m never making matcha again.”

Y/N laughed and bumped his shoulder. “No, you are. I just have to train you.”

“Deal.” He nudged her back. “But only if you teach me how to drink it without choking.”

“Only if you stop showing up at 7am like a Disney prince,” she teased.

Peter grinned. “No promises.”

They walked the rest of the way side by side— her sipping her terrible matcha like it was her favorite thing in the world, and him watching her like she was.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Y/N plopped down on the seat next to MJ, humming contently as she sipped the disaster of a matcha.

MJ raised an eyebrow immediately. “It’s 7:30am. Why are you so happy?”

“I’m trying a new matcha.”

“And that’s got you so happy?”

Y/N just grinned, then slid the cup across the table. “You try it.”

MJ blinked at her. “You know I prefer chai.”

“Oh come on, just one sip. I think I might’ve made it wrong.”

MJ narrowed her eyes. “You made it?”

Y/N gave her the most innocent look in the world. “Yes.”

MJ sighed, took the cup, and very reluctantly raised it to her lips. “If I die, I’m haunting you.”

She took a sip.

And immediately choked.

“OH MY GOD—WHAT THE HELL—” MJ grabbed her water, coughing violently. “Is this—what is this?! Why is it—thick?! Why is it so sweet?! It tastes like melted crayons—”

Y/N was laughing so hard she nearly fell out of her seat. “I knew it!”

MJ was still coughing. “What is wrong with you?! Why would you drink this voluntarily?!”

“I didn’t make it,” Y/N admitted through giggles.

MJ froze. “Wait. Who did?”

Y/N was practically crying now. “Peter.”

MJ’s eyes widened in horror. “Peter made this?!”

“Yup. Showed up outside the Tower this morning like a little loverboy.”

MJ clutched her chest. “That man is dangerous. This is attempted murder.”

Y/N took the cup back and sipped it like it was a warm hug. “It’s the thought that counts.”

MJ looked like she was still processing. “Peter made you this and you’re drinking it?”

Y/N smiled at the cup. “Every last drop.”

MJ stared at her. “You're already gone, aren't you.”

Y/N grinned. “He’s trying, MJ.”

MJ leaned back, shaking her head. “He’s lucky he’s cute. And that you're into emotional terrorism.”

“Pot, meet kettle.”

“Oh shut up.”

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Peter was just minding his own business, swapping out books at his locker, when a sharp shove nearly made him drop his binder.

“Screw you, Parker.”

Peter turned around, wide eyed, to see MJ already walking past him with murder in her eyes.

“What?! I didn’t even do anything!”

MJ turned back just to glare. “You almost killed me.”

“This is my first time seeing you today!”

She stopped in her tracks and whipped around. “Yeah, well, you deserve the death penalty for that fuckass matcha you made. I didn’t even know it was possible to screw up that bad.”

Ned, who had just arrived, immediately burst out laughing. “Oh noooo, she tried it?”

Peter looked horrified. “I knew Y/N didn’t like it. She hates me now, doesn’t she?!”

MJ gagged dramatically. “It had the consistency of sludge, Peter. I thought I was drinking minty glue.”

“But she—she drank it anyway?” he blinked, stunned.

MJ leveled him with a glare, then sighed. “I don’t know what you put in that drink, but that girl finished every last drop with the biggest smile on her face.”

Peter’s face went soft. “She did?”

“Gross,” MJ muttered under her breath, walking away.

“Love is crazy,” Ned said through laughs. “Bro, you’re smiling so hard right now. This is embarrassing.”

Peter leaned his head against his locker, clutching his chest. “She drank the whole thing... even after that taste.”

“You are so gone,” Ned laughed, slapping his shoulder.

MJ reappeared just long enough to smack Ned for laughing at her, then vanished into her next class.

Peter turned to Ned, dazed. “You think I should try again tomorrow? Less sugar this time?”

“Do it,” Ned grinned. “But maybe... ask someone who actually knows how to make matcha.”

“Fair.”

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Peter jogged up beside Y/N the moment the final bell rang, looking like a golden retriever. “So… it’s Monday.”

Y/N raised a brow, adjusting her bag. “And?”

He smiled, almost shyly. “And that means Love Island.”

She stopped walking and gave him a look that was way too smug. “Oh, Peter. Just because I let you walk me to school this morning does not mean you’re back in.”

Peter’s face fell so fast she almost laughed. “What? But—”

“Nope.” She shook her head, holding back a grin. “You don’t get to skip all the steps. You still have work to do, loverboy.”

Peter blinked. “You’re actually— seriously not letting me watch Love Island with you?”

“Nope.”

He gave her the most devastatingly pathetic puppy dog eyes known to man. “Y/N… please. I’m emotionally invested in their journey.”

“You can wait,” she smirked.

There was a beat. A quiet, charged beat. The air between them shifted— warmer, softer.

“…Can I at least walk you home?”

She rolled her eyes with the most theatrical sigh ever. “Fine.”

They started down the sidewalk. Peter, being Peter, didn’t miss a beat before gently taking her backpack off her shoulder— and her water bottle— and the notebook she’d been holding. “You’re seriously carrying way too much.”

Y/N blinked at him, and the faintest smile crept onto her lips. “Trying to win brownie points?”

Peter grinned. “Is it working?”

“Maybe.”

As they walked, Peter kept stealing glances at her like he couldn’t believe she was real. And when his hand accidentally brushed against hers, Y/N nearly tripped over her own feet. The tension was palpable.

They didn’t speak. Just walked.

And then— subtly, deliberately— Y/N reached down and hooked her pinky with his.

Peter’s breath caught, but he didn’t say anything.

He just smiled.

Peter followed Y/N all the way to the building, practically bouncing on his heels. “You shouldn’t be carrying all this, by the way. A pretty lady like you? That’s just wrong.”

Y/N looked at him, unimpressed. “Peter, the elevator is literally twenty feet away. I think I’ll survive.”

“Still.” He smiled, reaching for her bag like it offended him. “Let me be chivalrous, please. I’m in my ‘making things up to you’ arc.”

She squinted at him. “So dramatic.”

“You knew this about me when you fell for me,” he said, taking her bag anyway. Y/N rolled her eyes but she let him.

They stepped into the elevator and rode it in silence, tension thick as honey.

When they made it up to the residential floor, Peter set her backpack gently next to the couch, then placed her water bottle and notebook down with almost too much care. He stood there like he didn’t know what to do with his hands, or if he should stay or leave, or if it’d be too much to ask for one more second of this new normal they were carefully rebuilding.

Y/N hovered by the arm of the couch, her fingers resting lightly on the edge like she needed to hold on to something.

They looked at each other.

No words. Just that look.

The one that said I missed you and don’t move and kiss me, please, right now.

Peter stepped forward.

Y/N didn’t move back.

They were inches apart, the space between them humming, and Peter’s hand twitched at his side like he was debating reaching for her.

Their noses were almost brushing.

And then—

“Y/N,” FRIDAY chimed, voice cutting the silence like a knife. “Happy Hogan left a message for you. Shall I play it or—”

Both of them jumped back like they'd been electrocuted.

Peter let out a breathy laugh. “I should, uh… I should go.”

“Yeah,” Y/N said, biting her lip. “Yeah, okay.”

Peter nodded, eyes still lingering on her like he really didn’t want to leave.

He took slow steps backward toward the elevator, still glancing at her like she might change her mind and pull him back in.

She gave a little wave. “Bye, Peter.”

He gave the softest smile. “Bye, Y/N/N.”

And the second the elevator doors shut behind him, Y/N flopped face first onto the couch, grabbed the nearest pillow, and screamed into it.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Y/N’s in her cozyest oversized hoodie, fuzzy socks on, matcha in hand (a real one this time, thank god), curled up on the couch with a blanket thrown over her legs. Love Island is playing and even though the episode’s new and the drama is hitting, she’s distracted. Her phone is beside her. Quiet. No texts.

Until it lights up.

Spideyboy!:Are you watching?

She stares at it, a little confused.

Y/N:Love Island?

Spideyboy!:Duh.

Spideyboy!:I saw it was on and I thought You might be watching. And maybe if I watched too I’d feel like I was with you.

Her heart. Her freaking heart.

She smiles, curls deeper into the couch.

Y/N:Did anyone tell you you’re a simp?

Spideyboy!:Not in the last ten minutes.

Spideyboy!:But like… it’s a compliment when it’s for you.

Y/N:You’re ridiculous. (But I’m not watching without subtitles if you’re texting me all night.)

Spideyboy!:Bold of you to assume I’m not gonna live text every second. The new bombshell? Red flag. 🚩🚩🚩 Calling it now.

Y/N:God you’re so annoying. But like in a cute way.

Spideyboy!:That’s the goal. I meant what I said, by the way. I’m gonna show you. Every day. How serious I am about you.

Y/N stares at the screen, her heart flipping. She types, pauses, deletes, and finally:

Y/N:You’re off to a good start. Now shut up and watch the episode.

Spideyboy!:Yes ma’am 😌

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Y/N peeked around the corner like she was in a spy movie, back pressed to the wall. MJ stood a few feet behind her, arms crossed, completely unamused.

“This is the most unnecessary stealth mission I’ve ever been dragged into,” MJ muttered.

Y/N grinned. “You say that like it’s not the highlight of your week.”

“Ditching the last two periods to hang out with Osborn? That’s definitely a new low.”

“I’ll do your homework.”

MJ blinked. “...Go on.”

“I’ll also hack into the school system and erase our absences. All of your tardies? Gone. It’ll be like we were always here. On time.”

MJ held out her fist. “Now we’re talking.”

Y/N bumped it without hesitation. “You’re so easy.”

“You’re so lucky I’m bored.”

They slipped out the side door like the well dressed little criminals they were.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

The door swung open.

Harry stood there in gray sweatpants, brushing his teeth, toothpaste on his chin.

“Wow. Two truants at my doorstep. Be still my heart.”

Y/N breezed past him like she owned the place. “You’re welcome for blessing you with our presence.”

MJ stepped in behind her, glancing at him. “You have toothpaste on your chin.”

Harry wiped at it with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. “I’m not ashamed. This is what peak mental health looks like.”

Y/N was already on the couch, matcha in hand, boots kicked off, legs folded up like she lived there. MJ sat on the armrest beside her, scrolling on her phone.

“Big day today,” Y/N announced, sipping from her straw.

“Oh?” Harry said, shutting the door. “Did you finally agree to marry me?”

“I'm seeing my suit for the first time,” she replied, completely unfazed. “My dad finished the nanotech. It's ready.”

“Didn’t you design it?” MJ asked.

“Yeah, but this is the first time I’ll actually wear it. It’s different.”

Harry flopped down into the armchair across from them with a dramatic sigh. “Why am I never around when cool Avenger shit happens?”

Y/N looked over the rim of her cup. “You were literally the first person outside the team to see my powers.”

“Okay, but that wasn’t official Avenger duty, Stark. I get no bragging rights over that,” he huffed. “There were no suits. No aliens. Just me, my broken ribs, and your little lightning hands.”

“You’re so ungrateful,” Y/N muttered, kicking her boots off onto the rug.

MJ didn’t even look up from her phone. “You did get punched in the face. You’re practically an honorary Avenger.”

“That punch was powerful,” Harry muttered, rubbing his still-bruised jaw. “I think I saw the afterlife.”

“And yet, here you are,” Y/N said sweetly.

“Tragically,” he agreed. “Anyway. While I recover from the trauma of being sidelined by superhero drama—”

He hopped off the chair and made his way to the kitchen island, opening the fridge and pulling out a bottle of juice.

“—I have a dinner on Thursday. Osborn Foundation thing. So many rich people. So many monologues. No good food. My soul is already shriveling. I’m taking applications for emotional support humans.”

Y/N leaned over the counter, sipping her matcha. “Can’t. I’ll be training.”

Harry turned to MJ like she was his last hope.

“You. Be my date.”

MJ glanced up with a flat stare. “Absolutely not.”

He clutched his chest. “Then I shall perish in silence.”

“Good.”

He poured her juice anyway and pushed it toward her. “You’d look amazing in designer. Come on. We’ll show up fashionably late. Maybe hijack a yacht. I��ll let you steer.”

“I’ll crash it on purpose.”

“Perfect. Adds to the intrigue. Mysterious girl in boots sinks billionaire’s boat. Romance. Rebellion. Press eats it up.”

MJ rolled her eyes. “You’re clinically insane.”

“And yet, charming.”

He didn’t stop there. For the next hour, it was relentless. Guilt tripping, pleading, bribery, fake tears.

MJ endured it all with increasing exasperation. Y/N, meanwhile, had curled up in the corner of the couch with her matcha, openly cackling.

“This is better than Love Island,” she said, sipping smugly.

Harry tossed a grape at her. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

“I’m on the side of drama.”

MJ rolled her eyes again, but this time, she didn’t fight the smile tugging at her mouth. Harry caught it.

“That’s a yes. I saw that. You smiled.”

“I’m smiling because I’m imagining pepper spraying you at the gala.”

“You can! Fashionably, of course. Chanel pepper spray. I support your vision.”

Y/N looked up from her phone, grinning. “I’m calling Pepper right now. She’s had a dress picked out for MJ since Christmas.”

“No you’re not—Y/N—do not—”

Too late. Y/N was already dialing.

Harry spun toward MJ, triumphant. “You’re gonna look so good. We’re gonna be the hottest pair there.”

“If you ever say ‘hottest pair’ again, I’m setting your tie on fire.”

“Matching arson. Oh, the things you do to me.”

Y/N checked the time, grabbing her backpack and her now empty matcha cup. “Okay. I gotta go. Compound training calls.”

MJ followed, still threatening Harry with increasingly violent acts involving high heels and formalwear.

“Love you both,” Y/N called, heading for the door.

“Break a leg, Stark!” Harry called after her.

“Break his!” MJ added, thumbing toward Harry.

Harry just waved with a grin. “Can’t wait for Thursday, gorgeous.”

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

The sleek black Audi pulled up to the compound entrance and came to a smooth stop. The door popped open, and Y/N stepped out, dressed in a fitted black sports set— biker shorts and a cropped tank— her hair pulled back and training sneakers.

Tony circled around the car to meet her.

“Ready to see what a billion dollar budget gets you?” he asked with a grin.

Y/N gave him a playful eye roll. “Is this the part where you give me a big speech?”

“Nope. This is the part where I give you jewelry.” He pulled something from his coat pocket— a thin, gleaming gold bracelet. Sleek, minimal. Almost Cartier-like, except definitely more dangerous.

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Ooh. Stark approved accessories?”

Tony smirked. “Let’s just say... it’s more than a fashion statement. Put it on.”

She slipped the bracelet around her wrist, the magnetic clasp clicking shut softly. A low hum vibrated up her arm— warm, subtle.

And then, the nanotech bloomed from the bracelet, unfolding across her body like liquid metal. In seconds, it transformed into a full body suit: sleek, tactical black like Natasha’s old uniform, but layered with smooth, segmented armor panels. Fingerless gloves. Lightweight and sharp.

Visors slid down over her eyes— translucent enough to see her face, but glowing faintly with a blue interface. A soft chime echoed in her ear as a calm AI voice greeted her:

“Hello, Y/N. I’m BLUE. Welcome online.”

Neon-like blue lines lit up along the suit starting at the base of her legs and tracing up both sides of her body toward her chest, glowing brighter as her adrenaline kicked in.

Y/N blinked in awe, looking down at her hands.

“Holy shit,” she whispered.

Tony smiled. “Go see for yourself.”

She ducked into the locker room. The second she was alone, she walked up to the mirror and stared.

It was… insane. She looked like someone out of a sci-fi movie. No— not someone. An Avenger. The suit hugged her figure perfectly, the technology seamless and powerful. She raised her hand and watched the light pulse along her arm like lightning under her skin. The HUD on her visor displayed vitals, weather, proximity data. All of it crystal clear.

Her reflection smirked. “Damn, Stark.”

She stepped back out into the training room, still adjusting to the weightless feel of the nanotech. On the mat, Peter stood in his suit, adjusting his web shooters, but the second he looked up and saw her—

He froze.

His mask was off, his curls a little messy from warmups, and his mouth parted slightly like his brain had quite literally just stopped functioning.

Tony stood beside him with arms crossed, a proud dad smile on his face.

“Told you she’d look cool.”

“Cool?!” Peter blurted. “She looks— uh. I mean— yeah. Super cool. Really cool. Wow.”

Y/N stepped onto the mat, blue light still tracing down her suit. She crossed her arms, visor sliding up to reveal her eyes as she looked straight at Peter.

“You ready, Parker?”

He nodded a little too fast. “Yep. Yep. Totally. Yep.”

Tony clapped his hands. “Great. Let’s see what the two of you can do.”

And Peter was definitely not ready.

Not when she looked like that.

The training room was lit in a soft blue glow. The mat in the center of the room was sectioned off for combat drills, and the walls around them flickered with projected data— movement speeds, energy levels, vitals.

Tony leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, watching like a coach mid playoff.

“Alright, lovebirds,” he called out. “You’re suited up. I wanna see what the tech can do. Let’s go hard today.”

Y/N smirked, lowering her visor with a blink. “Lovebirds? Bold assumption, old man.”

Peter adjusted his stance across from her, cracking his knuckles. “You sure you’re ready, Stark?”

Blue light pulsed along her suit. “Born ready, Parker.”

Tony raised an eyebrow. “You two done flirting? Fight.”

The second the words left his mouth, Y/N lunged— fast. The new suit enhanced her movement, and Peter barely dodged her first strike. They fell into a rhythm, swift and sharp. Peter ducked low, sweeping at her legs, but she jumped, flipping over him with a jolt of electricity sparking off her heels.

“Oof!” Peter twisted to recover, skidding back and blinking at her through the eye lenses of his mask. “That’s not legal in the rulebook.”

“I am the rulebook,” Y/N teased.

She darted forward again— fast as lightning— and Peter caught her wrist mid swing, using her momentum to toss her over his shoulder. She landed on her back with a loud thud but rolled right back up like it was nothing, a little breathless, her grin feral.

Tony’s voice boomed from across the room. “PARKER! Pull your punches, damn it!”

“I am pulling them!” Peter shouted back, blocking a roundhouse kick from Y/N. “She’s the one going full Mortal Kombat!”

“She can handle it,” Peter added under his breath— just for her to hear.

Y/N narrowed her eyes, grinning. “Damn right I can.”

She faked left, then delivered a solid elbow to his side. His suit absorbed the impact, but he stumbled, laughing despite himself. “Okay! Okay! I deserved that!”

“Yeah you did,” she said, breath hitching. “Maybe next time don’t bring up Mortal Kombat mid fight.”

They circled each other again. The tension between them was electric. Literally. The blue veins of her suit glowed brighter now with the energy she was building. Peter could feel the static lift in the air, crackling around them.

She struck again, and he caught her ankle mid kick. She twisted out of his hold, landing low in a crouch, and swept his feet. He hit the mat on his back with a thud.

From the wall, Tony winced. “Okay, okay! Maybe you start pulling your punches, Stark!”

Y/N, still crouched over Peter, looked up at her dad. “You told us to go hard!”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t expect you to treat him like a crash test dummy!”

Peter was laughing now, flat on his back. “This is the best training I’ve had in weeks.”

She stood and offered him her hand. “Told you I’d make you work for it.”

He took it, and she pulled him up, both of them a little sweaty, a little out of breath, adrenaline still buzzing between them.

Tony sighed. “You two are gonna give me an ulcer.”

Peter looked at Y/N. “Totally worth it.”

Y/N looked back. “Agreed.”

They turned back to the mat— already ready for round two.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Y/N was resting at a nearby bench, visor flipped up, sipping water like she wasn't casually angling herself to catch every word being said across the room.

Tony clapped Peter on the back— not exactly gentle. “A word, Parker.”

Peter flinched. “Is this gonna be, like… a compliment sandwich or full blown lecture?”

Tony didn’t answer. He just led Peter toward the corner of the training room, well within Y/N’s earshot. (Not that Tony noticed. He never noticed. He was a genius but selectively oblivious.)

“Listen,” Tony said, arms crossed. “I said train. Not try to obliterate my daughter with a backflip and a judo throw. What the hell was that?”

Peter held up his hands. “Mr. Stark, I swear I was holding back—”

Tony narrowed his eyes.

“Okay, like… a little. But she can take it! You’ve seen her. She wiped the floor with me five times today. Five. I got electrocuted in the spine and she laughed.”

Tony didn’t blink.

Peter took a breath. “Look, I’d never hurt her. You know that. But she’s not just your daughter— she’s my teammate. She’s brilliant, she’s strategic, she’s faster than me half the time now. I wouldn’t even be improving if it wasn’t for training with her. She pushes me in ways no one else does.”

Tony raised one eyebrow. Peter kept going.

“And I mean— have you seen her in that suit? I mean— not like that, sorry, I didn’t mean— well, I did mean, like— like objectively, she’s incredible. The way it syncs with her powers? That thing is genius. She’s genius. You built the tech, sure, but she designed it. And she’s just…”

He trailed off, his face pinking.

Tony was staring at him like he was an unfamiliar species. A mildly annoying one.

“…She’s just everything,” Peter finished, a little breathless. “And I’m lucky to train with her. That’s all I’m saying.”

Tony blinked. “Christ, Parker.”

Peter panicked. “Too much?”

Tony sighed and looked away. “If I ever catch you looking at her in the suit again like that, you’re scrubbing the compound floors with a toothbrush.”

“Got it.”

“But…” Tony huffed. “That was… very eloquent. Mushy as hell. But I appreciate it.”

Across the room, Y/N— who had definitely not been listening— was red in the face, grinning at the floor and biting the inside of her cheek like a lunatic. She turned her back and dramatically pulled the towel over her head to hide her blush.

Peter peeked back and caught just a glimpse of her trying not to smile. His whole heart did a somersault.

Tony clapped a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “Alright, loverboy. Training’s over. Go ice your ego.”

Peter saluted, still smiling. “Yes, sir.”

Tony rolled his eyes. “God, I miss when you were shy.”

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Fresh out of the shower, Y/N pads across her room in an oversized Stark Industries hoodie and fuzzy socks. Her hair’s damp, cheeks still warm from the heat. She’s singing under her breath as she flops onto her bed.

Her phone buzzes beside her.

Spiderboy! CALLING…

She answered on the second ring, already smiling.

“Why, hello, Spider-Boy.”

Y/N could practically hear Peter’s grin. “Hey. You all clean and cozy now?”

“I’m burying myself in blankets as we speak,” she replied, voice warm.

“Lucky. I run too hot to do that.��

Y/N giggled and curled deeper under the covers.

“So… what did my dad say to you after practice?”

“Oh, you know. Just the usual— ‘be careful with my daughter,’ ‘pull your punches,’ that kind of stuff.”

“Peter.”

“What?” he laughed, playful.

“Don’t be like that! I know he grilled you. And I know you said some stuff.”

He sighed. “Okay, fine. I told him you’re the best person I’ve ever trained with. That you’re smarter than me. Stronger. That I wouldn’t be getting better if it weren’t for you pushing me.”

She went quiet, staring at the ceiling, lips twitching into a smile.

“…And I might’ve called you beautiful.”

Y/N buried her face in her pillow, heart doing cartwheels.

“It’s true. You in that suit today? Y/N/N, I couldn’t breathe. But it’s not even just that. You’re brilliant. And funny. And kind of terrifying— in the best way.” He paused for a second, voice soft now. “I’m in awe of you. All the time.”

Y/N rolled onto her back, trying not to let the squeal in her chest reach her voice.

She cleared her throat and tried to sound as casual as possible. “Yeah, I mean… I guess I sort of feel the same way about you.”

Peter snickered. “Oh, look who’s trying to be nonchalant now.”

“Shut up! I’m cool and mysterious, okay?” Y/N shot back.

“You’re actually the biggest dork I know.”

“Takes one to know one, Parker.”

They both laughed. The easy kind. The kind they hadn’t shared in what felt like forever.

“I missed this,” Peter said quietly.

“Me too.”

They fell into silence, but it was the good kind. soft and steady. Comfortable.

“Are you sleepy?” he asked.

“A little,” she murmured. “I’m not hanging up, though.”

“Good. Me neither.”

She set her phone beside her pillow, fingers brushing the screen.

“Goodnight, Spidey.”

“Goodnight, Y/N/N.”

They fell asleep like that— miles apart, but completely connected, matching smiles on their faces.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

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author's note: peter is locking in!! I was giggling kicking my feet writing this one.

i'm so excited for the upcoming chapters, we'll def get some spidey action soon! i know some of you have been asking for that and we're finally getting close to it!

i have some pretty fun things planned for this fic, we just have to be patient. like truly, i have some crazy stuff planned and i wish i could tell yall ughhhh

also, sorry for the longer wait on this chapter, i had a crazy week. some really insane stuff happened at work and it just threw me off my writing schedule LMAO but we are so back.

anyways! let me know what yall think! love yall

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