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amelee23 · 2 days

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My hero | Bang Chan

Pairing: Bang Chan x female reader

Genre: Married fluff, (a tiny bit of angst)

Word count: 2.400

Requested: yes

Warnings: mention of a stomach bug (very briefly) insecurities (both), self-depricating jokes (both), some marriage difficulties, caring for a child, they're EXTREMELY in love, tooth-rotting fluff

Both you and Chan loved to have your crazy fun, but to a certain limit. A limit you both understood so well, as if it was truly a shared items between your minds. Therefore, after your long awaited wedding ceremony, where tears were shed, dances were danced, cake ended up on the floor and someone's shirt, the bouquet throwing almost knocked someone out, and fortunately no relative started a fight - you both drove peacefully, home. No long flights to Honolulu, no rushing for any 5 star hotel reservation. Just a long, deep sleep.

You awake and instantly chuckle. You barely remember that you basically threw your wedding dress on top of the bedroom door last night instead of finding a hanger. Slept with the door open and all, but you were so exhausted you don't remember even washing your teeth. You turn around gingerly and find your newlywed husband, Chris, to be slightly salivating on the pillow. Nose half shoved inside the fluff, hair every which way and his cute ears poking through, his silver earrings still on. He was a sight to behold, and this sight was truly now yours.

You brush a few strands of hair away from his eyes, and as you accidently touch his ear he shudders. You procrastinate for a good five minutes, in which you gently pet his hair, and then lean to kiss him on the forehead before you get out of bed.

"No, don't leave." He calls out to you, his voice raspy and his accent thick. You give into the temptation and lay back down next to him.

"Good morning, my husband." You say, and it's so cheesy it makes you giggle.

"Good morning, my wife." He says with a toothy grin. You just married him, and you have a lifetime ahead of you to admire him and love him, and yet you're impatiently urging to jump on him and smother him in kisses for how adorable he looks. Cuteness agression and all.

You decide you won't be eating Chris alive one kiss at the time, and instead you lay your head on his outstretched arm and allow him to wrap the other one around your back, bringing you one breath away from his chocolate eyes admiring you sleepily.

"So, what will be our first important decision taken as husband and wife?" Chris asks you, and you furrow your brows. Does he mean something like deciding to paint the room green or getting a cactus?

"Deciding what to eat for breakfast?" He chuckles at your answer.

"The most important meal of the day! Yeah I think that's a very big decision to make. And as your husband, to showcase my deep trust in you, I allow you to have complete power over this first decision." He speaks so eloquently, you slap him on the arm and he begins to giggle.

"You're just too lazy to help me think!"

"What? Me? Neveeeerr."

"And I'm guessing you also want me to go get said breakfast if you're letting me decide what we eat." Chris pretends to gasp.

"How did you know? See, we're perfect for each other! You can read my mind." He makes that usual tutting noise as he winks at you and you go from adoring him to wanting to shove a pillow in his face. But most marriages are like this, you imagine.

"Fine, I'll do it. Under one condition."

"Anything my wife desires."

"You have to answer why you chose me. Like, as your wife. Why me and not anyone else?"

"Why not?" Chris answers with a laugh and you're reaching for the pillow and he doesn't even try to dodge.

"No but really, why did you?" You try your hardest to not show that this is a real question for you. Not just a joke to put your husband in a tough spot for fun, but an actual curiosity that makes you insecure. And Chan hates it when you're insecure.

"I chose you as my wife." You squint at him in a feeble attempt to understand his words.

"Yeah .... you did, since we just got.... married... But why me?" Chan laughs and flails his arms, probably realizing his words didn't come out very coherently.

"No, I chose you as my wife the entire time. It just took me a very long time to realize it.

When I needed an opinion on a song, for some reason I chose you instead of, y'know, the people who produce music with me. When Seungmin caught that stomach bug and I needed to get him to the hospital, I chose to call you to come with us. When I needed to have a serious conversation with someone, I'd call you up even if I'd be surrounded by 15 close friends in physical range of me. I used to choose you even if it was irrational, even if I was a burden to you-"

"You were never a burden to me, Chris."

"I hope I wasn't." He laughs awkwardly, almost as if embarrassed. "But anyways... Yeah. In the beginning I thought I was just being silly, but then I started to notice what I was doing. When my parents asked me if I've met anyone new, I chose you to talk about. Literally yapped for hours - you should have seen their faces! They knew I was in love way before I did. And when I was tasked with writing a love song...I chose you to write about. And then the next morning I chose to start sending you good morning messages every day. Then when I pictured Valentine's day... There was no other option other than spending it with you. So I chose to ask you out before Valentine's so when the holiday comes I could spoil you. And then I just... Continued to choose you. Over and over again." He finishes with a smile, in contrast to you who started crying many sentences ago. You thought you were done crying after yesterday's ceremony, but Chris is a man full of surprises.

"You even chose me over your career a few times..." You say as more tears escape you, a feeling of guilt washing over you. Although the fact that he sacrificed the thing he cares the most about in this world for your sake should prove his dedication, it also still makes you feel guilty to think about.

"And I'd do it again." He leans closer, wiping the tears off of your face, then taking your hand in his to lay tiny kisses on it. "So you see how I just... Chose you? From the get go? It's like I knew I could rely on you, trust you, love you eternally. From the day we met. So it's not... Anything you said or something specific. I just chose you. All of you. To be mine. All mine." He pulls you into a tight embrace and you feel the way your body wraps around his by instinct. Like you were molded to blend together. "You're mine." He kisses the side of your forehead and butterflies wreck your tummy. "My wife."

"But you could have chosen anyone else..." You still mutter unsurely, but Chris shushes you and pats your head.

"But I didn't. And I won't." He reassures you, rocking you left and right in a calming motion. He truly wishes he would be better at showing you and telling you just how much he loves you, how much he wants you in his life. He could never blame you for having insecurities about yourself, but at the same time he feels although he's failing as a lover if he lets those those thoughts invade your mind. He truly wishes his love could seep into your bones.

"So you don't just want me for my spicy chicken recipe?" You try to joke, to ease the atmosphere, bringing Chan out of his thoughts.

"I mean ... The spicy chicken is included in the package, right?" He continued the joke, but underneath that pearly smile he gave you, Chan was set on making you the happiest wife on earth. Whatever it took.

Even if that meant some arguments, some bumps down the road, and making you uncomfortable with affection and attention until you allowed him to love you well. That was a part of marriage no one warned you about, something you had to figure out along the way - that sometimes you have to make each other uncomfortable in order to grow. Sometimes you have to push some limits to become happier.

And so many years into the future, after the birth of you first son, you pushed a limit that wouldn't even seem humanly possible to Chris. You somehow convinced him to go on tour and leave you alone to care for your son. He was two seconds away from quitting his job and becoming a convenience store worker upon hearing just how many months he'd have to away from you and your four year old son, who needed very much to be around his dad at that age. But you convinced him, reassured him everything was going to be okay in his absence.

"Dada's out there spreading happiness into the world." You whispered to your son, who was sleeping in the same bed as you ever since Chris left on tour.

"Like a superhero?"

"Exactly like a superhero, baby. To every single city he goes, he makes people so happy he saves their lives."

"Dada's so cool." Instead of being able to calm him down to get him to sleep, it seems your son gained energy from the conversation instead. He was now flailing his tiny limbs around.

"Do you wanna watch Dada perform?" There is a video of Chris you have saved up on your phone, from a solo stage he had during a concert where he sang a lullaby. It was the most children friendly performance you had, plus it matched the melodicity of the songs Chris used to sing to you at night to soothe your pregnancy pains.

Your son always falls asleep listening to his father's voice, almost through magic.

When his breathing evened out, you thought it was finally time you kick back and relax with an episode of your favorite show while enjoying some not-so-recommended late night chocolate. As you headed into the hallway, you spotted Chan leaning on the wall and had to glue a hand over your mouth to not scream and wake up your son.

"Chris, you scared the shi- .... heck outta me! What are you doing here?"

"We have a few days off in between stops and I couldn't just sit in a hotel for three days while I was dying to see you two."

"So you're telling me you spent 10 hours on flight, to stay here for one day and then fly back to god knows where?"

"Exactly." He says, face full of dimples and his eyes sparkle in the dark shadows of the hallway.

"You're insane." You laugh quitely.

"No, I'm... a superhero...? That saves lives...? You gotta let me know what you've been telling him, or else he might be disappointed in me when he finds out I can't fly."

"You don't need to fly to be a superhero."

"Oh yeah? Then care to tell me what makes me a superhero?" He flirts with you, gently pushing your hips into the wall behind you as he leans over you. You keep an eye on the door to make sure your son doesn't wake up and walk in to see how big of a flirt his father is. He'll have decades to cringe over it later.

"Remember when I used to feel bad for all the nice things you used to do for me? All the help and the gifts?"

"Mhm." The limits Chris used to push and how they bothered you - they resulted in a lot of friction early on in the marriage.

"And you told me that I need to allow you to make me happy. And since then... I chose to. Just how you chose me to be your wife... I chose to let you make me happy. I chose to allow you to be my hero. It's tricky, because heroes need sleep too ..." You softly caress his cheeks, and even under the dim atmosphere of the hallway you can see the dark bags under his eyes. "and they can't always save the day... but I swear to God you make the world a better place. You make my world a better place. You're my hero."

Chris leans in to kiss you in the same way he did when you were young and unmarried. It's a kiss that burns you, a kiss that makes you feel like a woman. A kiss that made you want to be married. A kiss that teaches you to breathe underwater.

"You call me a superhero when you're literally managing a house, a job, a kid, a long distance relationship, a social life and yourself all at once. And somehow nothing is on fire and you're not losing you mind even when your good for nothing husband doesn't call or text for days."

"Don't talk about yourself like that!" You slap him on the chest, but unfortunately he's not in a joking mood.

"You're the superhero between the two of us, honey. If there's one thing I've learnt along the years it's... That the reason why I chose you as my wife.. the one you were asking me about all those years ago? Maybe there was actually a reason. That you were always stronger than me."

"Me? You're joking, right?"

"Not at all. You're the hero, I'm just trying to be the wind behind your wings. I'm sorry for missing your calls and not video-calling more often, and just.. being gone in general. I've missed you." You decided to drop the subject since Chris seemed too emotional to be coherent. You weren't mad at him for anything, and he surely was undermining himself by calling you the strong one.

Unfortunately, it's not like you would accept the title of hero and he wouldn't accept it either.

The one thing you didn't realize is that you were both superheroes. But it's okay, since your son was onto you a long time ago. He'll protect your secret, and hopefully, also grow into a superhero himself.

©amelee23 do not copy, translate or repost

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Please comment and reblog, a feedback a day keeps a writer's dread at bay!

Soft hours open! Send me your fluff fantasies so we can go delulu together!

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drdemonprince · 1 day

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Re: autistic advice; i keep seeing people making fun of stuff like "are you in a place to hear bad news" or scripts like that. I grew up in an environment where it was common practice to just drop heavy subjects on people out of the blue, & I still find that intensely uncomfortable. But I've now had multiple people tell me that it makes them feel shitty when I ask, for example, "are you up for a dark subject?" & I don't really know how to square it away. I want to make sure that I'm not stepping on anyone's toes or making them feel ambushed or trapped, but apparently it makes some people feel like they're not allowed to have their feelings. I end up feeling pretty shitty about it, because like... it feels like either I have to be Rude (because it DOES feel rude to just drop a dark topic on someone) &/or risk having something shitty I can't deal with dropped in my lap, or else really upset people. I guess... is there a way to navigate this?

I would recommend being more specific.

People find phrases like "Are you in a place to hear something that might hurt you?" and "Are you up for a dark subject?" to be a bit presumptuous about what their emotional reactions will be or what they are capable of handling. It also can make what would have otherwise been a very unremarkable exchange become tinged with anticipatory anxiety.

When someone asks me a question like "are you up to hear something dark?" I might feel coddled and condescended to, rather than emotionally respected. Or if they ask me "are you prepared to hear something that might hurt you?" / "are you up for a serious conversation?" I think they're about to drop some serious emotional bomb on me, like that they're friend-dumping me for something horrible that I didn't realize I did. Then when it ends up being a meme they want to share or a question about a celebrity lawsuit or something i'm kind of pissed at the false alarm and the coddling that, rather than protecting me, made me feel worse.

In either case, rather than giving me time to emotionally prepare or interact when I am ready, these vague questions have introduced some kind signal of social or emotional threat. If anything, it increases the felt urgency to just have the damn conversation already and see what kind of monster is lurking behind the person's words. It makes me *less* likely to exercise control over when the conversation happens or when I see the upsetting thing.

So be specific. "Do you wanna see a disgusting meme?" "I want your opinion on something, but the question touches on sexual assault. Is that okay to talk about?" "I want to talk to you about a conflict I'm having with my other partner." "Can I ask you your opinion on this transphobia discourse?" Etc.

The more specific you can be about the subject and why you are asking about it, the more power you are giving the other person to actually decide what they want to engage with. When someone asks me if I am willing to discuss something dark, I really have no idea what to say. They're imposing their judgement of what is a dark or upsetting topic onto me, when really they have no idea what I might find triggering and what I might really enjoy getting to talk about.

Rather than trying to protect me from something I haven't even encountered yet, you gotta let me encounter it, and actually trust that I will take care of myself. If I don't want to talk about sexual assault I won't, if I don't want to look at gross imagery I'll say no, if hearing one more bad thing about your other partner is going to make my jealousy fume, I am responsible for handling that. You're not responsible for my emotions.

It's good to notice which subjects your friends are especially sensitive to and what big triggers they have so that you can be considerate. My friends know I cant look at lots of blood flowing out of someone for instance and dont send me visuals/fics that feature, say, wrists being slit or blood being drawn. But if they forgot, I'd understand and just look away and squeal oh no i cant look at that get it away. And that would be fine. They are not responsible for my reactions to things.

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ashtavula · 2 days

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could I request floyd, epel, riddle, ace and idia with a spanish speaking s/o? I can just imagine them talking smack about the boys after they do something stupid (kinda like how epel just goes full accent mode when he’s upset) or out of nowhere speaking full blown spanish to them just to see how they would react😭😭

Translation magic is canon in twst, but I'm just going to ignore that for this post.

Floyd, Epel, Riddle, Ace, and Idia with a Spanish speaking s/o

Floyd:

-He thinks it's hilarious when you yell at other people in Spanish, and he always bugs you into telling him exactly what you said. It's not nearly as funny when you're yelling at him instead. He wants to learn your language, but his motivation to study varies wildly, so he's really only learned a few basics and all of the curse words.

Epel:

-Epel wants you to teach him Spanish, and he's teaching you his language in exchange. He's actually not bad at it, but he still messes up sometimes. Epel also really enjoys it when you show him Spanish cuisine, and he really wants to try cooking some of your favorite dishes with you.

Riddle:

-He started learning your language once the two of you got together, and he's rather good at it. Riddle can now hold full conversations with you, which is more than can be said for others. Hopefully you can forgive him for flaunting his lingual skills in front of your friends who don't understand Spanish.

Ace:

-He's trying his best to learn, but his pronunciation is terrible. Ace's "lessons" mostly consist of him pointing to something and asking you what it's called in Spanish. He will then proceed to repeat it over and over until you get sick of him butchering the word, or until he manages to get it right.

Idia:

-One of the first things he did when you started dating was give Ortho the ability to speak Spanish. Now he helps Idia with learning the language. However, Idia's keeping his lessons a secret until he feels like he's good enough to actually talk to you in Spanish. Well, he tries to, until the moment you compliment him in Spanish, thinking that he won't understand you, and his whole face turns pink.

#floyd leech #floyd x reader #epel felmier #epel x reader #riddle rosehearts #riddle x reader #ace trappola #ace x reader #idia shroud #idia x reader #twisted wonderland #twst reader insert #twst x reader #twst

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fluentmoviequoter · 2 days

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With You, Even When I'm Not

Requested Here by the amazing @newobsessionweekly!

Pairing: Tim Bradford x fem!cop!reader

Summary: When one of Tim Bradford's enemies is released from prison, he sets out to hurt Tim by hurting you. You trust that Tim will save you, but time is not on your side.

Warnings: angst, car accident, torture (injuries to r), based on 2x11 but this isn't a rewrite (for once lol), crying, fluff and comfort

Word Count: 5.5k+ words

A/N: I didn't include a scene with Tim threatening someone like he does in 2x11 and I kinda regret it because it was hot, but I also really like how this turned out...

Masterlist Directory | Tim Bradford Masterlist | Request Info/Fandom List

“The almighty Tim Bradford isn’t coming to save you. You know why? Because you’re already dead.”

You force your eyes open and ignore the pain and fear to say, “So are you.”

Less than eight hours ago, you sat beside Tim in roll call. You force yourself to remember that rather than consider what Ferguson plans to do to you.

- 8 Hours Ago -

Your day starts like any other: you wake up, get ready, go to the station, and take your seat beside Tim for roll call. The sun is bright, the sky clear, and Los Angeles is event-free for once. So, it has the makings for a good day.

“What is up with you?” Tim asks quietly.

“What do you mean?” you counter.

“You’re all smiley and happy. Someone puked in my shop yesterday and you’re acting like this is the best job in the world.”

“It is!” You chuckle at his look before explaining, “It’s going to be a good day. Just let me enjoy this one for every hundred bad ones I’ve dealt with.”

“Sure.”

Wade enters, and you give him your full attention, though you never forget about Tim. He’s a constant in your life, and you wish you could have him by your side every moment, not just during roll call.

“Nolan, Harper is back so you can return to your TO,” Wade says.

“That’s why you’re so happy,” Tim muses. “You got rid of Nolan.”

You shake your head and smile before you stand. You’re patrolling in one of the nicest Los Angeles neighborhoods today, so you probably won’t see or hear Tim much today.

“Have a good one,” you tell him.

“Be careful,” he replies.

You exit the room, and Tim watches you go. Lucy walks to his side and stops, aware of what he’s looking at and longing for.

“Let’s go, boot, don’t just stand there,” Tim demands.

“Bradford,” Wade calls. “A word? Chen can stay.”

Tim nods and follows Lucy to the front of the room.

“Ferguson was released on parole this morning,” Wade says. “Sorry to tell you like this, but I thought you should know.”

“He had fifteen years left; how did this happen?” Tim asks.

“Who’s Ferguson?” Lucy inquires.

“Someone I arrested,” Tim answers. “He threatened to kill me when he got out.”

“Oh. Uh, should we-“

“That is up to Officer Bradford,” Wade interjects. “If you want to sit today out, I’ll understand.”

“No. I’m not letting him ruin my life, too. We can handle Ferguson if he’s stupid enough to show his face.”

“The parole board seems convinced he’s reformed, but we both know he’s a good liar and a better manipulator. Keep your eyes open, Tim, and don’t hesitate to call in anything you think is a threat.”

“Yes, sir. Let’s go, boot.”

Tim leads Lucy to the shop, and he's quieter than usual. Lucy hasn’t been a cop as long as him, but she knows what it’s like to have a criminal blame you for the consequences of their actions. She won’t push Tim, not about this, but she has questions about everything she heard.

“Pull up Roscoe Ferguson,” Tim says as he turns onto the road. “Get familiar with his face. If you see him, I want you to know it’s him.”

“You really think he’ll do something?” Lucy asks as she turns the dashboard computer toward her.

“I’m counting on it.”

“Dispatch, this is 7-Adam-9, are there any alerts in my area?” you ask into the radio.

“Negative, 7-Adam-9.”

You nod to yourself and place the radio back in the console. The morning has been quiet and slow. You know you shouldn’t complain; a sunny drive in the hills is rarely a bad thing, but you’re a cop, and you’re getting bored.

“7-Adam-9, switch to channel 4 for Sergeant Grey,” dispatch instructs.

You turn the channel dial and let Wade know you’re there. He doesn’t answer, and you slow at a stop sign as you bounce the radio against your thigh.

“You’re in the hills, right?” Wade asks suddenly.

He doesn't use your name or call number, only asks a rushed question. It concerns you, but you remain professional.

“Yes, sir,” you answer. “Do you need me to come back?”

“No, stay up there. Just wanted to double-check.”

“What’s going on?”

Wade goes silent again, and you repeat the question.

“Nothing, I hope. Just trying to keep everyone connected to Bradford out of the heart of LA today.”

“Why?”

“Ferguson was released.”

“He has 15 years left on his sentence!” you exclaim into your empty car.

“I know. I’m trying to get everything figured out and petition for it to be reversed, but for now, just keep working.”

“Yes, sir.”

You turn the channel back and set the radio down. Roscoe Ferguson hates Tim and would do anything to get to him. Tim knows you're here for him, so you focus on your assignment. The Hollywood hills are quiet this morning, but you know better than to let your guard down.

As you turn onto Tahoe Drive, you notice a black truck in your rearview. He gets close to the tail of your shop but slows suddenly and turns onto Tahoe Place. You roll your eyes; the people who live in the Hills drive like they own the hills. They probably do, but it doesn’t excuse unsafe vehicle operation.

You round the bend where Tahoe Drive turns into Lake Hollywood Drive, and the Hollywood Reservoir comes into view. When you glance up, you see the black truck speeding toward you again. You hit the lights and leave them on for a few seconds as a warning, but the driver doesn’t slow. If they pass you, you’ll stop them and issue a ticket, you decide.

There’s a point on Lake Hollywood Drive where there’s less than 200 feet of terrain between the road and the reservoir. It’s covered in sparse foliage, but it would be easy enough to get to the water or hide in the trees. You realize too late that the truck isn’t slowing down or moving to pass you as you near that point. It rams into you from behind, and you lurch forward before the seatbelt catches and snatches you backward. Steering is pointless as the shop slides into a small patch of dirt. The truck is still driving, pushing your car forward. The driver stops just before you collide with a tree, and you reach for the radio.

It's fallen from the console, and the seatbelt holds you uncomfortably tight to your seat. As you wrestle to free yourself and get the radio, you don’t see the man exit the truck or approach your window. He hits it with an illegal tool used for breaking into cars, and you turn your face away as glass showers over you.

“Hi,” he greets. “7-Adam-9, right?”

“And you’re Roscoe Ferguson,” you answer.

“Bradford, get back to the station,” Wade radios, “Now.”

“What’s going on?” Tim asks as he makes a U-turn.

“Ferguson stole a truck. We don’t know where he went after or what he’s planning to do.”

“We should find him,” Lucy says.

“And don’t say you should go look for him,” Wade adds. “You’re too close to this.”

“He’s not going to kill me, Grey,” Tim argues. “Let me help. I caught him once; I can do it again.”

“Get back to the station. That’s an order.”

“Yes, sir.”

Tim sighs as he continues driving toward the station. The last time he worried about Roscoe Ferguson, you were sitting beside him. Though you’ll never take the credit, Tim thinks you’re the main reason he finally got Ferguson in cuffs.

“What now?” Lucy asks.

“We find a way to help find Ferguson,” Tim replies.

“Get out,” Ferguson demands.

He pushes the gun closer to your face, and you raise your hands slowly. Your left shoulder aches from the impact of the seatbelt, and as you reach through the broken window to open your door, you feel the tiny scratches littering your face and neck sting. Ferguson pulls you away from the shop and pushes you toward the reservoir.

“What’s your plan here, Roscoe?” you ask.

He taps the gun against your back to make you keep walking. With your back to him, you slide your hand into your pocket and remove the laminated piece of paper you keep in it. It falls to the ground, and you hope it’s enough to help Tim find you and Roscoe.

“Kill me to get to Tim? Hurt him without touching him because you know he won’t let you get the chance?”

“Shut up!” Ferguson yells. “Walk!”

Taunting him may not be your brightest decision, but making him mad will make him careless. When you reach the water, he grabs your belt and pulls you backward. Your breath rushes out as your back hits the ground, but you smile through the pain.

“You will never beat him,” you say.

“Tim Bradford took everything from me. Let’s see how he likes the feeling,” Ferguson responds.

He raises the gun to your face and pushes the barrel against your forehead. You keep your eyes on him, unwilling to flinch in the face of death. He changes his mind, however, and brings the butt of the handle down against your temple instead, and everything goes dark as the water blows in the wind.

Tim and Lucy have been relegated to desk duty. With Ferguson on the run and numerous threats against Tim’s life, Wade decided it would be best for him to stay here. Wade watches them from his office and shakes his head when Lucy begins twirling her handcuffs around her finger. His phone rings and Wade steps away from the glass door to answer it.

“Sergeant Grey,” he answers.

He listens silently before lowering the receiver and stepping out into the station. Tim looks up, and his expression drops immediately.

“What happened?” Tim asks as he stands.

“They found the stolen truck. It was involved in an accident near the reservoir. He, uh… Ferguson ran a cop off the road, and they’re both missing.”

“Who?” Tim asks, urgency and panic lacing the syllable.

Before Wade can answer, dispatch reads your badge number in a missing officer alert, and Tim’s blood runs cold. He freezes, staring at Wade as he realizes what has happened and that it’s his fault. Tim never anticipated Ferguson going for the people Tim cares about – loves – and he should have.

“Let me go out there,” Tim demands lowly. “I can find her.”

“I shouldn’t,” Wade answers. He looks to Lucy and adds, “But I will. Don’t try to do this alone, Bradford. Take help where you can get it.”

“I don’t want the credit; I want her back,” Tim snaps.

“Then get to the reservoir and do what you do best, Tim.”

Lucy nods at Wade, an unspoken promise that she’ll do her best to help him and keep him from spiraling. They both know that it’s easier said than done.

“Tim,” you call out when you wake.

“Nope, just me,” Ferguson says.

He’s sitting across from you as he carves a piece of wood into a chipmunk. Your arms are tied tightly behind you, and one of your ankles is secured to a metal pole with your handcuffs. Whatever he’s planning to do to you will hurt you, but it will hurt Tim much worse.

“I hope you’re asking for a lot of ransom,” you mumble.

“You and I both know this isn’t about money. It’s about that little partner of yours and what he did to me.”

“Making you pay for your crimes? Yeah, he’s a terrible person.”

Ferguson moves forward quickly. The half-finished wood carving falls to the floor as he presses the knife under your jaw.

“These whittling knives are small, but I can cut an artery before you can call out to him again,” he threatens.

You swallow, causing the knife to bob in his hand. He presses harder and turns to the left before standing. Warm blood trickles down your neck, and you wonder what he plans to do to you before he kills you. If you didn’t have so much faith in Tim, you’d be tempted to anger Ferguson and trick him into killing you early. It’s a terrible thing to think, but at the end of the day, you’re a cop, and you know when your chances aren’t good enough. Right now, they are.

“When he gets here, he will put a bullet in you this time,” you tell Ferguson.

“You stopped him last time,” he answers.

He’s planning to use you as a human shield; let Tim be the one to finish you off in the darkness. Perhaps that’s why you’re underground. The only light you see is from a small lamp; when it goes off, you will be plunged into complete darkness.

“Stop talking,” Ferguson demands as he retrieves his chipmunk. “We don’t have much air in here.”

You try not to let your shock show, but as you look around and fail to see a single air vent, you worry that Tim won’t make it in time. Forcing yourself to take a steady breath, you close your eyes.

“No, no, no,” Ferguson chides. “No napping. We have to stay awake for the pre-game, and the final score.”

He tips your head back, and your eyes open instinctually. When he sees that, he tightens his grip on your jaw and circles you. Looking at him upside-down, you tug against your restraints. He raises a foot and places it on your bound hands before stepping down hard and fast. Your shoulders pull backward at a painful angle with no room that makes you yell in pain. Ferguson’s laugh drowns out your scream, and he keeps his hand on your jaw as he lays a rope over the back of your neck to hang over your shoulders.

“He’s going to kill you,” you say between pants when Ferguson releases your face.

He hinges at his hip, invading your personal space as he smiles and says, “You too.”

“Bradford, there’s blood,” an officer alerts.

Tim steps to your open shop door and sees a few small, oblong blood drops on your seat. Based on the shape, you were in motion when they fell, and it wasn’t enough blood to kill you.

“Probably from the glass,” he decides. “Let’s move toward the reservoir. We can’t tell footprints apart but watch where you’re stepping!”

“Tim!” Lucy yells from just past the tree line.

He jogs to her side and looks down. She found a small, laminated piece of paper, and Tim recognizes it immediately. Your self-proclaimed “perfect fortune” from one of your first dinners together as P2s rather than rookies. He picks it up and looks toward the water. He’s looking in the right place, you made sure to tell him that, but he feels like he’s missing something else.

“Please,” you whimper, even though you know he can’t hear you.

“How many more times do I have to tell you?” Ferguson asks. “He’s not here.”

The only thing on your mind is Tim because if you stop thinking about him you’ll only know the unbearable pain and the man inflicting it. Ferguson places his foot between your legs, pushing against the chair slowly. It tips back, and you close your eyes and imagine Tim catching you. It doesn’t stop the initial pain of your leg being held in one place by the handcuffs as the rest of your body moves back or the scream you release as you hit the floor, but it does give you a reason to keep fighting. Ferguson pulls you up nearly as fast as he tipped you over, and the rope digs in against the side of your neck.

“This is the best workout I’ve ever had,” he says.

He wipes the sheen of sweat from his forehead, and you notice how hot and thick the air seems. Ferguson admitted that the air supply was limited, so if you start wasting it, maybe he will leave.

“If you call him…” you begin slowly. “Let me hear Tim Bradford’s voice one more time, and I will lure him here for you.”

“Do you think I’m dumb?” Ferguson asks.

You nod and immediately regret it when he pulls the rope and forces your head down toward your chest.

“I’m not letting you take control. This is my plan, and it ends beautifully.”

“I can’t do this!” Tim yells.

He runs his hands over the back of his head and down his face as he squats by the reservoir. There are no other hints about where Ferguson took you, nothing to guide Tim toward saving you, only dirt and broken promises. He told you that he wouldn’t let anything happen to you; Tim whispered the promise in the dead of night when you were asleep during an overnight patrol, yet he’s holding himself to keeping it like it will kill him if he doesn’t. Because it will.

“Tim don’t give up yet,” Lucy encourages. She lowers beside him and lays a hand on his back. “We can do this, but we have to work together. The paper means something right? Could it be more than an indication she was here?”

Tim wipes under his eye, and Lucy’s eyes widen as she realizes tears are streaming down his cheeks. He stops them quickly, but she pats his back to remind him he’s not fighting alone. You’re fighting, too, and Tim needs to remember that.

“Lucy, I lo-“ Tim stops suddenly, though Lucy is confident she knows where he was going. “I know what it means.”

He stands quickly, and Lucy follows him to the place where they found the fortune. The little strip of paper from a fortune cookie has been in your pocket since you read it, but not only for the encouraging message on the front.

“34831,” Tim says.

“Your badge number?” Lucy asks, tilting her head to the side. “What about it?”

“It was on the back of my fortune that night. Hers, though, didn’t have a number. So, we wrote one on it.”

“What’s the number?”

“2 25 12 9. I didn’t think she’d know what it meant.”

“What does it mean?”

“It’s an alphabet cypher, but backward.”

“B, Y, L, I,” Tim rattles off. “If she had this, she may have left more clues at those points: 2, 25, 12, and 9.”

“This would have been about 2,” Lucy says, gesturing to the ground. “That’s what, 2 meters from the car?”

Tim furrows his brows at Lucy’s use of meters but nods anyway.

“We can’t walk 25 meters forward, we’d be in the water,” Lucy points out.

“Then we need to spread out in every direction we can go 25 meters… Unless I’m wrong.”

“Don’t question it.”

“No, she would’ve fought. He wouldn’t have been able to make her go anywhere if she wasn’t willing to. We should assume that she couldn’t leave a trail after this point.”

“Then we’re back where we started?”

“Exactly.”

“Tim, what does that even mean?”

“She’s still here. They both are.”

Tim turns and yells for someone to get satellite imaging of the area and the camera footage from your car. Your body cam and police uniform shirt were discarded by the water but the cameras could tell them what happened before and during the initial attack.

“We’ll find her, Tim,” Lucy promises again.

“Thank you,” Tim whispers.

Running footsteps echo over the top of the tin deathtrap you’re in. Someone yells, and Ferguson ducks his head as he moves out of your sight.

“Tim!” you yell.

Your voice cracks, and as you prepare to yell again, Ferguson pulls the rope around your neck. It digs into your skin and compresses your windpipe. Tears begin leaking from your eyes, and after the day you’ve had, you don’t care to stop them.

“Tim, please,” you whisper.

“Welcome to the final round,” Ferguson says into your ear.

He loosens the rope and pushes your chair forward. His foot pulls down against your hands again, pulling your shoulder muscles cruelly as they stretch to accommodate the impossible movement. You scream in agony as Ferguson pushes you past the point he stopped at previously.

“Did you stop to ask yourself what he’s thinking? Wouldn’t he have found you sooner if he cared? I’ve been out long enough that he knew, yet he let you out by yourself,” Ferguson taunts.

“You won’t win,” you say between ragged breaths.

Ferguson pulls your head to the side to hold the whittling knife against your windpipe, and the cut he made earlier pulls open. Your white shirt is stained with blood and tears, and even as your blinks slow and breathing begins to feel impossible, you trust Tim.

“The almighty Tim Bradford isn’t coming to save you. You know why? Because you’re already dead,” Ferguson says.

You force your eyes open and ignore the pain and fear to say, “So are you.”

Throwing your head backward, you ignore the sting of his knife sliding across the tender skin of your neck. Your skull hits Ferguson’s nose, and he staggers backward with a hand holding his face. Suddenly, you can’t pull a full breath into your lungs. Time has run out, and Tim isn’t here yet. You hold your breath as Ferguson stumbles behind you. He drops, and you see his hand and face are covered in blood. His chest rises and falls slowly, but you’re safe until the rest of the oxygen is used up.

“Tim,” you whisper toward the metal sheet above you.

“Wait!” Lucy calls. “The ground is hollow here.”

Tim returns to Lucy’s side and hears his footsteps echo. It sounds like there’s a metal sheeting under the dirt beneath his boots. He raises a hand to call a few officers over before someone screams. It’s muffled by the metal and earth, but it’s a clear sign of pain. Better than that, it means someone is still alive.

“Find a way in,” Tim demands quietly.

As he searches the area around the hollow spot, he wishes to hear your voice again. Not another scream, but an acknowledgement that you survived whatever caused you such agony.

"Bradford!” Janssen calls.

He waves Tim over and points to a small opening. Together, they lift the heavy steel cover away from the round hole. Another barrier of cloth and metal sheets blocks the entrance, and as Tim digs through, he wonders how much air is getting through, if any. The moment he can see inside the fortified bunker, he pulls his weapon and drops silently into the metal housing.

What was likely meant to be a storm shelter has been converted into a survivalist’s nightmare. A small corridor leads to a wider opening, and a dim light is the only sign that anyone is inside. Tim raises his guns and stays ready to shoot as he nears the opening.

“Tim,” you whisper.

Tim hears your voice and doesn’t hesitate to step into the open room and swing his gun as he clears the small, square area. Ferguson lies unconscious in the corner, and Tim can only see your back, the restraints keeping you in place, and the rope loosely wrapped around your neck and shoulders.

Your shoulders shake as you exhale slowly. When you notice that you can breathe again, you take a deep breath before letting your head fall forward.

“Tim,” you repeat, trying not to think of anything else.

Tim says your name as he holsters his gun. You sit up straight and try to turn your head to the side but are stopped by the pull of the rope and the pain in your shoulders. You hiss in pain before returning to your previous position.

“You can’t trick me, Roscoe,” you mumble.

Tim steps toward Ferguson and handcuffs him. He repeats your name as he moves into your line of sight. His hands are raised to his shoulders, though his expression is pure concern. When he sees the blood, sweat, and dirt covering you and your clothes, he has to fight not to rush to your side.

“Tim,” you say again. Your voice is louder than before but still has an untrusting quality. “Tim.”

When you start crying and lean toward Tim, he kneels before you. He reaches down carefully to use his key and remove the handcuff from your ankle. Your head rests on his shoulder as he moves, and when he sees the damage done to your ankle, the swelling, deep bruising, and handcuff-induced gash, he looks back at Ferguson.

Tim sits up slowly and raises a hand toward your face. He pushes your hair back softly and waits until your eyes meet to speak.

“I need to go get backup,” he says.

“No, no! Please don’t leave me, Tim,” you plead through your slowing tears.

You lean forward and wince when your shoulder meets its new range of motion.

“I need to get Ferguson out of here,” Tim explains. “There’s a lot of people above us waiting for me to signal.”

“Tim, please.”

“Can I yell?”

You swallow as Tim moves closer to you. He stops an inch away from you, with your knees almost touching his ribs.

“I’m not going to yell unless you say I can,” he adds.

Tim waits for your nod, then leans away from you slightly to yell for Janssen and Lucy to come in.

“Help me,” you whisper when Tim’s eyes return to you.

He sits back on his heels as he unloops the rope from around you. It’s heavy, and he sees your shoulders drop once it’s away from you. They drop unevenly, though, and he knows you need more help than he can give you.

“I’m staying with you,” Tim promises, “but I have to untie your hands.”

You shake your head quickly, and Tim moves his hands to the sides of your thighs as he agrees not to leave. He asks Lucy to free your hands and keeps his hands on you as Lucy cuts the restraints.

“Thank you,” you say.

Tim doesn’t answer before you pull your arms forward. With them free, you��don’t hesitate to raise them and wrap them around his shoulders. It hurts, and you sob as you fall forward and cling to Tim. He welcomes your touch and wraps his arms around your waist, but he doesn’t touch you, too mindful of how injured you are and where those unseen injuries are.

“I knew you’d come,” you say through your tears.

Tim looks over your shoulder as Janssen and a few other officers carry Ferguson to the opening. He should call an EMT to meet you here, but he can’t let you go yet. His grip tightens around your waist without thinking. When your only reaction is relaxing against him, Tim holds you as tightly as he needs to. Your tears are drying, and you turn your face toward Tim’s neck to speak.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t leave more clues,” you begin. “But I knew you didn’t need them.”

“The paper was smart,” Tim replies. “And I will always find you.”

“He wanted to lure you down here and trick you into killing me. Every time I called out for you he reminded me that we would both die.”

Tim exhales deeply, unsure how to tell you he knows you and he’d never make that mistake. He sits back, twisting you so that he’s holding you against his chest rather than letting you support your own weight.

“It hurts,” you say softly.

“Can you get out of here? Go up the ladder?” he asks.

“There’s a ladder?”

Tim’s brows furrow at your question. How did Ferguson get you down here if you weren’t conscious when you came in? He shakes his head; the detectives (and Tim) will look into the details of your abduction later. For now, your safety is the priority.

“Can you climb out?” Tim asks.

“Not without help,” you answer. “I don’t think I can walk.”

Tim looks at your ankle again, and his eyes catch on the fresh blood pooling against your collarbone. He leans closer to you to find the source. When he sees the cut across the front of your neck, he knows you need help sooner rather than later.

“Hold on,” he instructs you.

“I- I can’t move my shoulder.”

Tim lays you against the metal floor and looks at your left shoulder. It’s out of its socket, but Tim can’t risk pushing it back in without knowing if your muscles or ligaments are still intact.

“Please just get me out of here.”

Tim nods and turns around so your hips are beside his shoulders. He leans down and pulls your legs over his shoulder rather than your arms. With one hand pressing your shoulder to your side, Tim stands and pulls you up in a modified fireman’s carry. You stifle the yell that tries to escape, and Tim’s heart breaks when he hears it. He spent so much time fighting, desperate to find you, that he didn’t consider how different things would be when he did.

With the help of Janssen, Nolan, and Lucy, Tim gets you back above ground. He collapses to the ground but makes sure you’re set down with care. You reach out for him immediately, and Tim pulls your chest to his again. The paramedics are close, but until they arrive, Tim will hold you like he never has.

“I’m so sorry,” Tim whispers.

“You found me,” you reply. “You found me.”

Your right hand squeezes Tim’s shirt in your hand as you hold onto him. You didn’t doubt him for a second. Being in his arms gives you the safety and comfort you need to fall apart because you know he’ll hold you together.

“I know what it means,” you say. “Or I think I do. B-Y-L-I; it’s backwards, right?”

Tim nods against you, and you smile through your tears. The paramedics arrive, and you’re carefully removed from Tim’s grasp, though his hand stays in yours. You’re not sure you’ll ever be able to let go, but Tim has already made a new promise, and he won’t leave your side until he’s forced to.

“Where’s Kojo?” you ask as Tim leads you into his house.

“He’s staying with Lucy tonight. He gets excited when he sees you and I didn’t want him to hurt you,” Tim answers.

He guides you to the couch and sits beside you after placing your things in his guest bedroom. Tim refused to let you return to your apartment alone after being discharged from the hospital, and you didn’t need much convincing to stay with him while you heal.

You lean your head against Tim’s shoulder, careful not to jostle your shoulder in its sling. He moves his arm to welcome you closer and tilts his head to rest beside yours.

“It’s I love you backward, right?”

Tim looks down at your hand, surprised to see your fortune in it. He takes it from you and flips it to see his handwriting. He nods and sits up straight. When you turn toward Tim, he wipes under your eyes as if he can still see the tears you cried when he saved you. Your skin is littered with scars and reminders of what Ferguson did to you, but Tim still seems to only see you underneath all of it.

“It’s I love you, Bradford,” he answers. “Whether you wanted that to mean ‘from Bradford’ or something else.”

“I begged for you to save me while I was down there with him.”

“I’m-“

“Don’t apologize. I just- I need you to know I trust you that much because I know you love me. I’ve known for a long time. But I also knew that even if you didn’t find me in time, I would die loving you. And life was worth living because you were in it.”

Tim’s hands rise out of his lap before freezing. He looks down at your neck and back to your eyes before smiling. His eyes look misty, but you know yours are, too, so you decide not to tease him about it this one time.

“I don’t know where I’m supposed to put my hands to kiss you,” he mumbles.

You hold his shoulder as you lean in and kiss him. His hands raise to your waist without thought, and other than the soreness of using your obliques to search for Tim while tied in place, it’s a painless touch. Tim moves slowly and intentionally as he kisses you, reminding you of everything he said and did, even what you weren’t present for.

“I love you, Tim Bradford,” you say against his lips.

“I love you. I will always love you, and I will never lose you again.”

Tim slides the fortune into your pocket as he kisses you again, and every pain and fear you faced disappears because you know Tim will always find you and make you whole.

#hanna writes✯#tim bradford x reader #tim bradford x fem!reader #tim bradford x y/n #tim bradford x you #tim bradford fic #tim bradford imagine #tim bradford the rookie #tim bradford #requests #fem!reader #the rookie abc

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theoraclej · 2 days

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well, that was bitterly disappointing to the depths of my soul.

yes, I'm talking about Tech.

he deserved better. the BATCH deserved better. OMEGA deserved better.

I don't like the way they basically just erased any and all grief for Tech except for a couple of fucking off-hand mentions that barely whetted the appetite for more of the only character I really identified with

because I'm the info dumping autistic guy in my irl groups

and to see him shuffled off in the manner they used was a fucking insult

and to be teased about it by the show creators

or worse, harassed by the bad lot of Star Wars fans

and to kill off their autistic guy who DEFINITELY had chemistry and the first hints of flirty bonding with a Black woman is a bad look, v bad look

imo they botched the whole finale, not just the Tech thing because like look:

I guess this zillo beast is just gonna live on that planet now, instead of getting involved in the story they had it fuck off to the jungle - what

CX-2? who was he? too bad we'll never know because he was dropped before he was identified

it was shot so dark, everything was hard to see, and mind you my television set is especially tuned for it to NOT be dark because I hate that shit, I am going to be forced to watch it again despite not wanting to so I can listen to the audio descriptions and better understand the fights

they totally dropped Omega's force sensitivity stuff, like I wanted to know more about that, and about the other kids, will they even be safe? cause we know the empire keeps stealing force sensitive kids

speaking of those kids, what even was the point? the research was destroyed yet we know project necromancer is eventually successful or maybe they're retconning that too, who knows, all the rules are off the table and nothing matters

writing was inconsistent for an episode meant to be important

Crosshair did not deserve to have his hand cut off. I know prosthetics are "easier" and "more accessible" in this universe but also I don't give a fuck, just insult to injury and more, this man has suffered enough from the moment they jacked his chip up to 11

back to Tech: they spent so much time being cute little shits about him that his return seemed inevitable, as I watched the season I kept counting down time left for him to show up, and I had hopes all the way through until the first fade to black, only to be bitterly reminded of his death with the goggles in Omega's ship

two highlights I did enjoy - Omega and Hunter at the end, making me wonder if there will be a show about Omega set during the rebellion or if she'll show up in The Mandalorian or Ahsoka

Nala Se killing the shit out of rampart as she herself died, thank you Nala Se

but overall UGH, I will be tender from this one for awhile, I almost want to cancel Disney+ until I feel able to watch Star Wars stuff again

might write some fix-it fic, I'm too hurt right now tho

I'm commiserating with the rest of you who seem to have much the same reaction to this disaster of a finale

so yeah, we all deserved better, fictional folks and real folks and zillo beasts alike

#the bad batch #star wars #the bad batch spoilers #tbb tech #bad batch spoilers #tbb s3 spoilers #bad batch season 3 #the bad batch season 3 #the bad batch season 3 spoilers #bad batch season 3 spoilers #tech #tech the bad batch #tech lives as far as I'm concerned #whatever we saw there wasn't it y'all #tbb omega #omega #they have lost my trust and my faith #I don't think I've ever been so disgustedly disappointed #ugh

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jensensitive · 2 days

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I am obsessed with the way in which you draw Dean. You have his features nailed to perfection - somehow your Dean looks even more Dean than Dean in the show, because you exaggerate everything that makes him HIM. It's truly breathtaking <3 Any advice on how to get those features so flawless?

This is so so nice, thank you so much 😭💕💕💕

Honestly Dean is like my go-to thing to draw basically, and has been for many years, like I have to try to refrain myself from just drawing Dean again sometimes. He's like probably half of how I've learned to draw at all. So there's definitely practice there.

That said, I did not immediately have much of answer to this. It's like, his face is just his perfect, beautiful face, and then I try to draw that. 😅

So I drew some Dean to figure out what it is I do, so thanks for the excuse to draw more Dean lol

Extensive answer under the cut

If you're drawing something realistic from reference, for Dean you kind of have two options, you can either get a screencap that's closer up so you can see details better, but the top of his head is cut off, or you can get one where you can see less details but his whole torso is in frame. It can be weirdly difficult to guess at where the top of his head is sometimes, and you don't need details to capture a likeness, I think it was Sargent that said that the shape of the head is actually the most important aspect in capturing a likeness, so it's something to keep in mind. On the other hand, if you want to look at his pretty eyelashes while you draw him, you might want something closer up. (An understandable impulse).

Another thing is just to look for a reference that you really like, contrasty light and shadow are also great to look for. It's difficult to create a great drawing without them, but also it will illustrate the structure of his head best too. Look for shadow shapes you want to draw. If a reference is too dark (as it often is, because it's supernatural), edit it so you can actually see what you're drawing lmao.

I took a bunch of random screencaps of 11x02-- as random as I could, normally I'd just take screencaps of what I already kind of like, but I tried to just get all of it so you can see what I'm not choosing. (also couldn't help taking some cas ones when the lighting was going really hard)

I love a profile, I love a 3/4 view, I love when his eyes are like half open. His face was kinda giving towards the end of this episode.

Hopefully you can see them well enough. The mass ideas are more important for picking at impactful reference, but ofc I'm also trying to avoid any where he's making a dumb face or it's blurry. Sometimes that's only evident when I open it bigger, but that's okay, we have a bunch to pick from.

a. This one is one I picked out because it's an interesting angle, and I'd definitely do a little study of it, but because the lighting is so soft, it probably wouldn't be super interesting.

b. I like this one, the face he's making is hilarious, and I like the rhythm of his hand, but if I were to draw it, I might draw a fourth finger, otherwise it might look strange. So keep that in mind too, if it looks odd in the reference, it will look odd in the drawing, so unless you're confident that you can effectively change it, pick a different reference or find a second reference to help you change it.

c. This lighting's more dynamic, and I like his expression.

d. Would be hard to pick between these. This one's 3/4 and has a nice eyelash shadow, and I love the shape of his eye when it's downturned.

e. Shoutout to the shape of Jensen's brow when he looks down gotta be one of my favorite genders. + subtle Rembrandt lighting. Lovely.

f. This one is so good. Overhead lighting getting a shadow from his ear in a sideview, defining the jaw in an interesting way. Great expression. It's a bit strange, the way he's looking to the side, so it might be hard to draw convincingly, but would be worth it if I could do it. The shadow from the hair defining the shape of the brow. The light on the cheek defining the slight eyebag. The reflected light under the eye, the light landing on the nose. Would probably change the hair a bit because it looks a bit odd at this angle in this lighting, and if drawn like this it would probably look at bit block-like.

g. More rembrandt lighting. Shoutout to the shadow that this upper lip casts on his lower lip. Shoutout to the shadow his lower lip casts on his chin. Shoutout to the line of light defining his neck. Shoutout to the shape of his brow and forehead.

h. The rhythms here are chefs kiss-- the shadow line diagonal from the corner of his hairline to the corner of his brow echoed by the shadow line diagonal of his cheekbone, then that second line following through to the line of light on his neck that curves the other way.

i. This one's kinda boring wrt lighting, but it's an interesting enough angle to do a study of.

I'm going with screencap c because it's gonna work well to effectively illustrate the basic structure of how I construct his features. It's not directly straight-on, so the form isn't lost, but it's straight enough on to properly show our proportions.

For supplies here, I'm just using a soft charcoal pencil, I just use the kinda cheap ones (currently Markart) cause I actually like them better than General's. And it's on smooth newsprint. I just get it in a big thing of 500 sheets. Not archival but it's a cheap thing that's incredibly enjoyable to draw on. Pink Papermate eraser and a kneaded eraser. The pen I use at one point for some reason is a red Pentel RSVP ballpoint I think, although I actually prefer a Bic.

1. So first thing I block in that main shape, in this case, his head and shoulders. I also have to draw in the hairline at the same time, cause I can't figure it out otherwise. He's got kind of pointy ears. The collar of his jacket often comes up pretty high on the back of his neck. He's got a distinctive hairline that I think can go a long way to showing it's Dean, it's worth taking note of. It swoops to our left, and then the corner (I guess?) of his hairline will line up with the corner/arch of his brow. And don't draw the hairline as an unbroken line, but several lines with some room to breathe. His shoulders are pretty straight and broad, but about three heads across which is pretty normal.

2. Next what I think about is the shape of the eyesockets and the line of the brow. This bit will go a ways for conveying Dean's expression, because he has a wide range from light and happy to horribly scowly that's in the brows. You don't have to define the exact line of the brow at this moment, blocking in the general line is fine just to have an idea of where it lands. You can go back later and refine it. I also find where the bottom lid lands. In my brain it makes a shape like what I've drawn. I might not draw it just like this, but even if I don't, this is the shape I'm thinking about. The line from the end of his eyebrow to his bottom lid is a fave, sometimes you can see it on him, especially at an angle, and it's real pretty.

3. Next I find where the bottom of his nose lands, it's about double the length of the eyesocket. And the line under his bottom lip, about halfway between his nose and the bottom of his chin. These measurements are pretty average measurements for a face. I didn't give myself enough room for his chin initially, so I moved it down to fix it. Also adjusted his face very slightly wider on the right side, cause it's looking a bit narrow.

4. I added some of our shadow shapes. This is where finding a reference with well-defined shadows will be very helpful. And I sketched in the clothes cause why not. The clothes don't have to be perfect, who cares, Dean's collar is not our point of interest lol. The shadow on the neck will probably be slightly curved because of the roundness of the neck. If it's not, you might want to make it curve slightly anyway just to help define the form. I blocked in where the eyes are.

eyes: For Jensen's lovely eyes, they have a specific shape that is so nice to draw, especially at certain and angles and with certain expressions. But basically the top lid is more angular and can be almost boxed off at the end, and the line from the corner of the eye to the lashes is an s-curve that's higher in the middle. Again, not unusual features in drawing a face, but such pretty examples. The shadow that his lower lid casts (or his makeup idk?) is often dark enough to look vaguely like eyeliner. Jensen's lower eyelids, an underrated part of Jensen. His eyebrows are thicker in the middle and sparser on the ends.

5. Next I found the corners of the lips. This is an important aspect in the way I draw mouths. Sometimes I just draw them with dots where the corners of the lips are, a curve where the lips part in the middle, a shadow under the bottom lip, and the curve of the cupid's bow. (This is seen below in 6) I think I also adjusted the bottom lip shadow here. Straight-on, the middle of his lips is slightly higher than the corners, but of course, this will change when not straight-on, depending on if we're looking up or down at his mouth. I also sketched in the nose shape. The ridge of his nose has a nice subtle bump, and then the ball of his nose is very slightly squared off I think, from a front-facing perspective, I feel like. And I drew in his slightly drawn brows. Just pay attention to the angles in your reference, because the expression, the perspective and the angle of the head can impact it. But of course generally, drawn down in the middle, furrowed = scowly; drawn up, unfurrowed = happy.

nose: I prefer drawing his nose in profile. And who wouldn't, look at it! The slight curve of the bridge and then the ball of the nose. I will exaggerate this a little sometimes, just because it's fun and I like it. I couldn't find a reference, but from below, you can see the shape of the bottom of his nose, it dips in the middle a bit more than average. Drawing the bottom of the nose is often a delicate balance between shadow and reflected light. I love keeping it light, save for the nostrils, but then the shadow under the nose can be important too. Sometimes it's just a stylistic choice. Note that there's a plane change between the side of the nose and the cheek. (I think I drew his nose too upturned here, but the general idea is still there)

6/mouth: In drawing the mouth, the top line of the upper lip looks more rectangular at the ends, increasingly so as it turns away from us, and much less so as it turns towards us. Of course, he has a full upper lip that you can shade as you like. I try to keep it distinct from the shadow of the line of the mouth, and a reflected light on the top lip can be good here too. For the bottom lip, it's always nice to give is some shine with a hard-edge highlight. For the cupid's bow, I try to leave a light between the upper lip and the shadow in the cupid's bow. For some reason I drew the shadow backwards here, but I think it looks fine.

7/ears: I started to shade it, and then I remembered that he has ears. There's a simplified way I draw ears that I like. It's not entirely accurate, because the two shadows at the top are actually usually connected, but I find it a bit distracting that way sometimes, so this is more subtle I guess. In profile, I don't really have a method of drawing it, I just draw whatever the reference gives me or bs it with a similar version of this, depending.

8/hair: My method for drawing his hair is 1) suffer 2) hope and pray. I like to leave a rim light-type deal between the contour/outliine of the hair and the rest of the hair, I feel like it helps define it a bit more. The direction of his hair, and thus the direction of my lines is something like this.

9. And then I more or less just shaded. When shading, it's always good to follow the direction of the plane, and I also alternatively like to shade in the direction that the light is falling to reinforce that gesture, but when I shade a face, I try to shade in the opposite direction of where wrinkles would go, if that makes sense, mostly up and down I guess. This is of course on a case by case basis, like a lot of times, I'll do the forehead horizontally anyway, but it's especially touchy around where the laugh lines of the mouth would be and the neck. And on soft plane changes (and softish hard plane changes), I often shade at a different angle to the main shadow. Shading direction can also delineate different areas of similar tones, like I did with the jacket and the side of the nose. I like to give Dean his eyelash shadow, because he deserves it. I also drew in the eyes, of course. I think I actually tend to shade them backwards, and the light would fall in the opposite direction, so when lit from the right, the right side would be darker, but I just don't draw it that way idk maybe I should.

And there he is, that's our guy!

Normally when I'm drawing, I'm definitely a bit more all over the place, and don't necessarily do things in perfect order. And it's good to move around. I'm probably not going to be shading things before noting where all the features are going to land, but I often am shading something before I've drawn everything. Or end up drawing one eye and then maybe do part of the other and then move to do part of the nose and then sketch in an ear and then maybe notice something's off somewhere and adjust that, etc. Just go with it, have fun, he's got a fun face to draw! 💗

#ask #art tutorial #if there's one thing I can talk about forever!!#dean winchester #my art #portrait drawing

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crystallinestars · 7 hours

Text

If They Were Your Pet Cat (Part 3)

This won the poll, so here is part 3. My HCs on what Gepard, Ratio, Dan Heng, and Sampo would be like as your pet cat.

I don't know what I'm doing anymore

Links to previous parts:

Part 1 (Genshin)

Part 2 (Aventurine, Argenti, Jing Yuan)

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Gepard:

🛡️ Norwegian Forest cat

🛡️ Gepard is the most dog-like cat you have ever met. Much like a dog, he sees you off when you leave your house, and greets you when you return. He enjoys playing fetch more than chasing after a string, since it fetch gives him more of a workout. He’s also easy to train to perform tricks since he understands and obeys commands quickly. If you wanted, you could bring him to cat agility tournaments and do fairly well in the competition.

🛡️ He is incredibly loyal to you. While he’s welcoming and accepting of your loved ones and lets them pet him, he only listens to you. He doesn’t obey their commands the way he does yours. He might comply if your relative gave him an order to come here, but won’t do tricks and such for them. If you tell him to come here, roll over, play dead, etc… Gepard will comply without hesitation. He’s that trusting and loyal towards you.

🛡️ While to you Gepard appears harmless, in reality, he’s a force to be reckoned with, even for a house cat. If he sees you welcome someone into your home, he assumes the person is important to you, so he welcomes them in turn, albeit with some initial suspicion. That’s why he’s so accepting of your loved ones. However, if someone enters uninvited, especially if it’s someone he doesn’t know, Gepard won’t hesitate to growl and threaten the person to leave. His fur stands on end to make him look larger, and his teeth and claws are bared, showing that he means business. It’s usually enough to discourage anyone from trespassing. If not, then he’ll alert you with a loud yowl if you’re home, or go in for an attack. Furthermore, if someone makes you uncomfortable in your own home, Gepard senses your discomfort and is immediately at your side, ready to attack if the other person tries anything. He has no reservations about using his claws and teeth for the sake of protecting his owner.

🛡️ Due to his long and thick coat, Gepard requires regular grooming. Based on the somber expression on his cute little muzzle, you can tell he doesn’t enjoy being bathed and groomed, but he soldiers through it without struggle or complaint. As mentioned previously, he’s very loyal and trusting of you, so he understands that what you’re doing to him is not dangerous and is for his own benefit. Giving him praise about how much of a good boy he’s being, seems to help warm him up to the process.

🛡️ While he’s not a huge fan of being pet, but if you spend some time gently petting his head or brushing his fur, he will relax and accept the attention. He purrs and kneads at whatever is under him, clearly enjoying the experience. You try to give him gentle pets as a reward for waiting for you to come home and keeping watch of the house, and it works to deepen your bond with him.

🛡️ He’s vocal when with you. Gepard often communicates with you via chirps and low meows, using them as a means of calling you over for something. When you leave something cooking on the stove and forget about it, Gepard smells smoke and meows at you to come over and take care of it. If you haven’t unloaded the washing machine for a while, he calls on you to let you know its done. He just wants to help his owner stay on track.

🛡️ Once the two of you settle into a daily routine, Gepard expects you to maintain it. He’ll be unhappy if the pattern is broken. If you oversleep, Gepard is there to wake you up. He’ll meow and walk all over you until you get up and feed him. It’s great for when you sleep past you alarm since it prevents you from being late to work/school, but it’s not so fun on the weekends… Similarly, Gepard expects you to go to bed at the same time every night. He’s used to going to bed together with you, so if you stay up late, he’ll sit nearby and glare at you, tail twitching in dissatisfaction. If you don’t get his hint to abandon everything and head to bed already, then he’ll quietly meow to get your attention.

Ratio:

📘 Is a Bengal

📘 Ratio is an extremely intelligent cat, but he has a nasty attitude. He’s very prideful and stubborn, and despite your attempts to discipline and train him, he refuses to bend to your will. If anything, you’re the one bending to his. He’s not a troublemaker, but if you piss him off enough, Ratio can resort to knocking items off shelves or swatting at your face (with claws retracted, thankfully) in retaliation. If you scold him for his behaviour, he simply glares at you with his ears flattened to his head and tail flicking, as if daring you to say more. Everything about his body language screams he will swat you in the face if you say another word.

📘 If he messes up big time, such as breaking something important or accidentally nicking you with his claws, then Ratio accepts the scolding with a guilty expression. The flicking of his tail indicates he’s not happy to sit through your verbal lashing, but he’s smart enough to understand that what he did was bad for you. Despite his prideful attitude, the feline doesn’t want to cause you too much trouble, or so you like to think.

📘 You find out that Ratio is unusually intelligent for a cat soon after adopting him. He enjoys playing with cat toys that serve as a puzzle he must solve to get a treat. Ratio also observed how you open doors, and devised his own methods of opening them despite not having hands. He also likes to sit beside you on the bed or desk when you read books, in particular textbooks. As a cat, there’s no way he knows how to read, but you frequently catch him staring intently at the pages. It’s a mystery as to what is going through his mind during those moments, but it sometimes unnerves you how he seems to be studying the images. Aside from books, Ratio also enjoys watching TV, especially if it’s a documentary where he can observe various animals. He’s smart enough to know that what’s on TV is not in real life. If you bring something new home, Ratio takes time to thoroughly sniff and inspect whatever that something may be. He’s very curious and enjoys interacting with new things. That said, he also requires a lot of exercise. He’s a large and muscular cat for his breed, and requires ample space and playtime to run around and burn off excess energy.

📘 Despite being a cat, Ratio considers himself your equal, if not your superior. Back when you first got him, you had placed some cat food into a bowl on the floor for him while you sat at the table to eat. Ratio had expressed a clear dislike for this arrangement, climbing onto the table and angrily meowing at you. You expect him to eat kibble off the floor like a common cat, while you eat a freshly cooked meal at the table? Absolutely not. Know your place, human. After several consecutive sessions like that where he angrily yowled at you for constantly shooing him off the table, Ratio now eats at the table with you. He always waits to eat together with you, so if you skip on a meal or are late to eat, he’ll make his dissatisfaction with you known.

📘 On the topic of food, Ratio dislikes eating cheap cat food. He likes healthier cat food brands which usually end up being more expensive, but he especially likes it if you cook his meal yourself. Some cooked chicken, fish, or seafood make him a very happy cat. He’s a spoiled cat.

📘 Ratio dislikes loud noises, so if you have noisy guests over, he will usually hide. He developed a habit of sticking his head inside a small paper bag you had lying around, and wearing it on his head until the guests leave. You’re unsure if he’s trying to block out the noise or trying to hide, but one thing for certain is that he becomes very upset if you remove the paper bag from his head. The bag must stay.

📘 Ratio typically isn’t into being pet or cuddled, so such occasions with him are rare. He does, however, enjoy it when you scratch under his chin. He tends to close his eyes and purr when you lightly scratch under his chin. Another time he allows you to touch him freely is during baths. Ratio is probably the first cat you’ve ever met that loves baths. He seems to always be eager to hop into the tub and soak in the warm water. He lets you clean his body without complaint, seeming to enjoy the pampering. He’s patient while you dry and brush him, but he expects you to do a good job of grooming his fur. If you’re gentle enough with the brush, he might lean into it and purr in enjoyment.

Dan Heng:

🐉 Is a Dragon Li (I had to)

🐉 Dan Heng is a reserved cat. He prefers to spend time alone, away from the chatter and activity of people. You can often find him sitting by a window, pensively staring outside at the world beyond the glass. You can only wonder what he’s thinking about with such a somber expression. What kind of troubles do cats have on their minds?

🐉 If you have guests over, then Dan Heng hides. He dislikes crowds and loud noises, you’ve noticed. It’s rare for him to come out of hiding to meet guests. If he does, he tends to keep his distance and peers over the corner at whoever you have invited. Once his curiosity has been sated, he’ll leave without interacting with your guest at all.

🐉 Dan Heng is pretty antisocial, but he’s more amicable around you. While he doesn’t humor your guests when they try to play with him, when you’re the one dangling the cat toys or laser, Dan Heng engages in play with you. He also lets you get away with more than you think. He tolerates it when you play with his paws or rub his belly, even though he doesn’t actually like it. You’re also the only one he allows to pick him up.

🐉 Despite purchasing him a cat bed, Dan Heng doesn’t sleep in it. He acts a bit awkward around it, as if not knowing if it’s for him or not. He prefers to sleep on the floor, usually on a comfy rug. With some time and patience, you can coax him to sleep on your bed but know that he won’t snuggle up to you. Dan Heng will keep some distance between you and will lay at your feet. Even then, he’ll only lay on your bed if you’re settling in to sleep. During the day, he still naps on the floor.

🐉 Sometimes, you notice Dan Heng’s legs twitch and ears flatten when he sleeps, his fur standing on end as if he were terrified of something in his dreams. You’re uncertain if cats can have bad dreams, but Dan Heng’s reaction makes you think he’s having a nightmare. He seems dazed when he wakes from such episodes, and you wonder if he dreamed about something horrible from his days when he was a stray. You try to comfort him through these episodes by checking in on him and speaking gently, which seems to help calm him down. He follows you around for a bit after that, as if wanting to remain in your presence for a bit longer.

🐉 Despite how aloof Dan Heng is, you still know he cares about your well-being. If you’re having a bad day, he softens up to you. As if sensing your sadness, he comes out of hiding and remains by your side, sometimes even lying on your lap or chest. He allows you to pet and cuddle him if you need the comfort, and stays with you until you feel better. If you take medication, Dan Heng reminds you to take it on time if you forget.

🐉 Dan Heng keeps himself quite clean, and only needs an occasional bath and claw trim from you to keep him in perfect condition. He's surprisingly tolerant of baths. You thought he might struggle and run, but Dan Heng calmly handles the entire bathing process without so much as a peep. If you make fun of him for looking like a wet cat, Dan Heng will give you the most unamused look you’ve ever seen from a cat, and proceed to give you the cold shoulder for the rest of the day.

Sampo:

💣 Korat breed

💣 Cats are renowned for how quietly they walk, to the point their owners don’t hear them approach. It’s an amazing skill, yet somehow, Sampo manages to surpass the average cat in terms of stealth. While most cats still make noise when they accidentally knock something over when walking along cluttered surfaces or running around the house, Sampo doesn’t. He’s silent and careful about the way he moves, putting his feline brethren to shame. This skill of his comes at a detriment, however. You don’t hear him trail behind you when you do chores at home, and sometimes trip over him or step on his tail on accident. Sampo still hasn’t forgiven you for squashing his tail.

💣 He's a very intelligent and mischievous cat. Sure, he can do tricks in exchange for treats like a dog, but his intelligence goes far beyond that. Back when you first got him, there was a time when you were having dinner and Sampo came up to you and started to rub himself against your legs. He was very responsive when you leaned down to pet him, purring up a storm as you cooed at him. You were so engrossed with how cute and affectionate Sampo was acting, that you didn’t mind when he climbed up onto your lap for more affection. That was your mistake. While you were distracted with petting him, the furry scoundrel took the opportunity to snatch some food off your plate and made a run for it.

💣 He tried to use the same trick on you again, but it didn’t work a second time. However, he uses it fairly often on your guests. Despite your warning to not fall for his false charms, Sampo always manages to win your guests over and then unceremoniously yoinks their food from their plates when they least expect it. He has now been banned from the dining area when guests are over.

💣 Sampo has proven his cunning in other ways, too. Since the same tactic doesn’t work on you twice, the little furball devised another plan. He learned that you respond very effectively to his calls of distress, and so now when you have a meal, he goes into another room in the house and yowls in the most pitiful manner you have ever heard. His distressed meows make you abandon your food in favor of searching for your cat, concerned that something might be wrong with him. While you’re busy searching for him, Sampo slinks past you to where you were eating. By the time you come back after a fruitless search, you discover that half your food has gone missing.

💣 Sampo’s antics don’t end there. Once when you came home, you found your pantry raided and fridge open and emptied. The culprit was none other than your feline fiend of a pet—Sampo. You can’t fathom how, but he figured out how to open the fridge, among other types of doors. Of course, you gave him the scolding of a lifetime. He immediately started begging for your forgiveness by rubbing against your legs and staring at you with his big, green eyes as if begging you to not be angry at little ol’ Sampo. Despite sucking up to you, Sampo continued to steal food from the pantry, but in smaller quantities this time to not get caught. You still caught him in the act, though, and now have locks on all your cabinets and fridge to keep him out.

💣 Aside from food theft and manipulation, Sampo also has a habit of collecting various knickknacks around the house. He squirrels away anything that catches his fancy and that isn’t securely stored away where he can’t get into. He keeps his “treasures” in a small nook where he suspects you won’t find them, such as under your bed, behind the couch, or in a cluttered spot inside the closet. You only discover his secret stash when you do a deep cleaning of your home. There, in the dusty corner, are your missing hair ties, jewelry, candy wrappers, random string and other junk that you lost track of long ago. Sampo will be very upset if you confiscate these items.

💣 You can’t force Sampo to do something he doesn’t want. If you want bathe him and he hears the water running in the tub, he vanishes without a trace. If it’s time to go to the vet and he sees you get out the cat carrier, he disappears like smoke. He’s right next to you one moment, and then gone the next. No amount of “pspsps” or cat treats will coax him out of hiding. You can even turn the entire place upside down and still not find him.

#honkai star rail x reader #star rail x reader #hsr x reader #gepard x reader #gepard landau x reader #ratio x reader #hsr ratio x reader #veritas ratio x reader #dan heng x reader #sampo x reader #hsr sampo x reader #sampo koski x reader

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shayyprasad · 2 days

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helloo this is my first time in a while requesting so if this doesn't make much sense then that's whyy

could I please request peter parker with an s/o who does competitive cheer as a sport, and gets hurt a lot because they have a lot of main parts in routines (like tumbling nd holding girls up nd stuff), peter is always concerned for them cuz they r always hurting something but he also loves seeing them perform at comps and stuff

if you want a better understanding of the sport u could research! but thanks in advance <3

pom-poms and bruises | peter parker

a/n: your request was great, no worries! i did do my fair share of research, but lemme tell you, my knowledge on cheer (or, like, any sport) is mad limited. if i got some information incorrect, i apologize in advance! i took... creative liberties (?) and changed some minor details - instead of competitive cheer, it's high school cheer. enjoy the fic, and i hope i did this request it's justice. sorry this took so long!!

summary: peter can't help but worry seeing you all bruised up, but no matter what, he's your biggest fan.

warnings: the ouchies, innuendos to sex

pairing: fem!cheerleader!reader x peter parker

word count: 1.8k+ words

"oh jeez," peter sighs, rubbing his thumb over the bruise on your cheek. it was a blue-purple, indicating that it was fresh. "what happened?"

you wave him off, grinning, "you know how it goes, battle scars and all."

"scar?" he cocks a brow.

sighing, "battle bruise isn't half as badass."

"right, i forgot the most important thing is proclaiming our dominance in the social hiearchy of the big ol' globe. and obviously not our physical health."

"you wouldn't understand, baby. it's a full time job."

gently, peter pushes you up against your locker. leaning in to whisper, he says, "i wouldn't, angel? best believe i've got battle scars of my own."

"ugh. so not the same. not everyone has the luck of getting to be a human-spider."

"yeah, okay, luck."

"you seriously cannot complain," you deadpan. "that bite did you favors! like, down there, you grew at least- mmph-!"

peter covers your mouth with his hand, "we are not having this conversation."

"it was a compliment! i mean, it's not like you sucked before or anything. i'm just saying it... improved... you."

"somehow, this isn't going the direction you think it is."

"oops. i didn't mean to hurt your over-inflating ego."

"first off, if anyone has an ego that needs to be kept in check, it's you."

"don't blame me," you tell him, "blame the girls," you're referring to your cheer team, pinching his cheeks. "but... maybe i can compensate with a kiss?"

he feigns annoyance, "i suppose." in response, you lean in for a kiss, melting at his touch.

peter kisses your bruise as well, letting it linger for a moment longer. "does it hurt?" he asks.

"barely," you shrug, leaning in for more, but he isn't quite focused on that at the moment. giving you a look, he softly pokes your cheek, to which you wince.

"right. barely."

"don't be a worry-wart, worry-wart."

"i'm not! 'm just concerned!"

"puh-lease," you scoff. "you come back worse! remember that time you broke and entered into my bedroom, then proceed to bleed out onto that cute new rug?"

he looks down, epitome of cute puppy. "yes," peter says, guilty, "i do."

you pat his stomach, nuzzling your nose against his. "see? so you have nothing to worry about. me, on the other hand," you trail off.

"nah. you don't have anything to worry about either, angel."

"watch me worry anyways," you snort.

he pinches your cheeks, and you swat his hands away. "watch it!"

"you're my intellectual property."

"oh, so you're objectifying me now?"

"wait- no! no, of course not!"

"lemme me just say right now, may would not be happy."

peter groans, shoving you away.

"no!" you giggle, "i'm sorry! i won't snitch!"

he peeks an eye open, turning his head just barely to look at you. "fine, i guess," peter pulls you back.

"hey, petey?"

"hm?" he asks, nuzzled in your neck. there's just a few minutes before class starts, and he wants to make the most of it.

"are you coming to the game? it's my first year of being captain, and, well, it'd be cool if you came." suddenly you're more bashful than giggly, and he's quick to assure you.

"are you kidding me? of course i'm coming. i'm not missing the chance to see my girl shine.

"you sure? because i know you don't care for foot-"

"shhh," he presses his palm to your mouth. "yeah, i hate football, but i just to happen to love y- god!" he exclaims as you lick his hand, but in your defense, what did peter expect?"

"you put in on my mouth!"

peter narrows his eyes at you, "vermin."

"see you tonight?"

"see you tonight," peter replies as the bell rings. with one last kiss, you part ways.

your hair was done, two yellow and blue bows to tie the look together. midtown theme eyeshadow was painted on your eyelids, with stars dotted on your cheekbones. you have your cheer uniform on, and you're basically jumping with how giddy you are.

part of you is nervous, because you don't want to mess this up. every year, a senior is picked to be captain, with a junior as a mentee. not only do you have to set a good example for the junior this year, but you have to wow everyone.

checking your makeup one more time, you grab your purse, heading out to the car.

by the time you get there, your teammates are already stretching. on the other side of the field, football players are warming up. last year, liz was captain, well, before she moved. then she got replaced by gwen.

you knew liz and peter... okay, so you weren't completely sure, but they had something. some part of you wanted to be better than liz, entirely for peter. you know it was silly, but you felt like you had something to prove. some families are already in, which is funny, because there's an hour to the game.

it's normally parents and friends of the cheerleaders/players that get here before most people, but there are some occasions.

peter's here, you know that. you haven't looked for him yet, but as you get up, you scan the bleacher. finally, you spot a curly, brown-haired boy (it helps that he's waving like crazy) and his aunt. you blow a kiss to them, grin present of your face.

tasha, one your girls, taps your shoulder, "we're gonna run our routine a couple times, okay? just before the game starts." you pull your eyes away from may and peter, nodding at her.

the familiar music of your routine starts playing. the first part's easy, synchronized movements, shoulder-to-shoulder.

as the routine progresses, you feel the familiar rush of adrenaline. you spot the base of the pyramid, their arms outstretched, and with a deep breath, you allow yourself to be pulled upwards.

their grip is firm and reassuring as you climb, hand over hand, until you reach the apex. a split second later, you're soaring through the air, launching into a full backflip.

as you launch yourself into the backflip, you feel your body twist off-axis. the ground rushes up to meet you, and with a sickening thud, you land flat on your face. a gasp escapes your lips, the sting of impact radiating through your jaw.

the cheers falter for a moment, but your teammates are quick to react. they rush to your side, concern etched on their faces. you sit up, momentarily stunned, but the pain quickly makes itself known.

just as soon as it's there, it's gone, leaving you slightly sore. "i'm okay!" you call out, lopsided smile on your face. the first person you look for is peter, who's already heading towards you.

gently, he moves everyone away. "jesus, are you okay? what'd you fall onto? your head? wait, are you dizzy? lightheaded? nauseated?" peter grabs your by the chin, hurry to inspect everything on your face.

"baby, baby," you say, cradling his hand. "i'm okay, i swear. i might've bruised something... like my ego," you joke, smile on your face, but he is not amused.

"no? okay. well, honestly my jaw is too, or will be," you point to the left side. "'s red?"

"yeah," he winces, "it's gonna leave a nasty bruise." you're sure it's not as bad with makeup on, but you can't be sure.

"does anyone have concealer?" you call out.

jenny, a girl that's your shade nods, "yeah! i'll grab it!" she tosses it to you, and you catch it perfectly.

peter presses his lips together, "so no concussion?"

"because i caught it? to be fair, that was mostly luck."

his eyes widen. "but no! i don't have any concussions!"

peter tilts his head, "icepack?"

"nah. i'm good, really."

he hesitates, "okay. be careful though, seriously." you don't feel like hearing a lecture right now, so you nod quickly.

"i will, i will!"

"because i swear-"

"you won't have to! i'm all good. now leave," you joke, "you're embarrassing me. if i wanted to be smothered, i would've asked for my mom."

he blows a raspberry at you, and gives you a quick kiss. "be careful," he repeats, "and good luck!" he jogs back over to may, and you watch him leave.

jenny giggles as you brush yourself off, "you guys are so cute."

blushing, you murmur a thanks. quickly, you grab your phone to cover up the forming bruise. and there's not really time for another run-through.

all you can do is hope it won't happen again.

there's a small dance at the start of the game and some other here and there, but it's not anything crazy. what is crazy is halftime.

as you get into your position, you fidget. "you'll be great," one of the girls tell you.

"thank you," you smile.

"yeah, no, you will," says another.

you don't feel super ready, not after that fall, but there's not much you can do about it.

the song, louder than before, echoes through your eardrums, a roll of excitement passes through you. no matter how anxious you are, you'll always love cheer.

it's your safe place.

the music swells, and you launch into a series of cheers with your teammates, your voice ringing out in perfect unison. as the routine progresses, you feel the familiar rush of adrenaline. you spot the base of the pyramid, their arms outstretched, and with a deep breath, you allow yourself to be pulled upwards.

their grip is firm and reassuring as you climb, hand over hand, until you reach the apex. a split second later, you're soaring through the air, launching into a full backflip.

you twist perfectly, landing with a confident thud back in the waiting arms of your base. the crowd erupts in cheers, and you beam, the thrill of the successful stunt coursing through you.

you did it, and everyone's squealing. peter's not that far from where you are, and you can hear him shrieking; "that's my girlfriend!"

you grin at him, and he whoops again.

the rest of the game flies by, and you finish the last routine. midtown ends up winning 20-17.

peter scooping you up in his arms, spinning you around. "that was awesome! seriously, like, mind-blown! and you didn't fall this time!"

may comes up beside him, hugging you, "you did fantastic, sweetheart. freaked me out with that fall, though," she chuckles, and you kiss her cheek. "my bad," you tell her, rubbing the back of your neck.

"hey, pete, hun, i'm gonna head out, okay? hospital shift was crazy."

you frown, "was it late?"

may sighs, "two a.m. to five p.m."

"oh, may, you should've gone home to get rest!"

"and miss my lovely girl's big night? you're crazy."

"aww," you coo, hugging her again. "sleep well, okay?"

"oh, please, i'll be knocked out like a baby." you laugh as she leaves.

"we should totally get ice cream," peter says.

"ooh, yes!"

"wait, don't you have an after party?"

"i'd rather spend it with you," peter pecks your lips. "and, we can have extra dessert," he winks.

you frown in confusion, "like cupcakes too? can we get cho- oh. oh! i really, really like that idea."

"good. i'm gonna let you know how badass of a girlfriend you are."

"why don't we skip straight to the second dessert? switch things up?"

taglist: @whatsupstark @ell0ra-br3kk3r @idli-dosa @susvale @kdbsr-h @littlemsbumblebee @sflame15-blog @twinsunkithies @chocolateshepherddreamclod @one-piece-frvr7 @477strberry

#spiderman #peter parker #peter parker x reader #fluff #angst #tom holland x you #peter parker x you #tom holland #tom holland x reader #peter parker imagine

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fyorina · 2 hours

Text

ᡣ𐭩 ICARION

FEATURING: beast dazai osamu

SUMMARY: dazai had known he was flying too close to the sun, he should have stopped himself while he still had the chance. {wordcount: 11.5k; fem!reader, romance & tragedy}

AUTHOR'S NOTES: installment fiveeeee otherwise known as part 2 of installment four LOL! ugh guys i'm dragging myself thru the trenches right now i'm so miserable - i wasn't even up to posting this today i won't lie but </3 i pulled thru </3 if only barely. fun fact this is actually only a 3 scene chapter but the second scene is just MASSIVE. i wasn't up to restructuring so you guys are just going to get it as it is. this is also unedited because i just wasn't up to it so bear with me regarding mistakes. JUST TO REMIND YOU ALL: the last installment is DELAYED - i have 3 finals next week and haven't had the time to finish it. it will be up by the end of may </3 sorry guys. wow this actually is attempt number three trying to post this correctly - i'm so shot

IMPORTANT NOTE FOR 17 & UNDER FOLLOWING THE SERIES: partially copy and pasted from badlands - if you guys read badlands, you know the deal. y'all knew what you were getting into. this is the smut chapter. but again, i'm not going to ask y'all to not interact/read a whole 12k chapter just because there's 4k words of smut, but i am going to say here the smut is in the SECOND scene. there is very little plot development in the smut itself, so i ask you guys, again, to respectfully scroll past it. i'll make the sentence when the smut starts red like this so you know that's when it starts, and then you can continue reading at the next divider. thank you for understanding! there is NO plot development in the smut, i'll reiterate that at the end where i put the summary in badlands, i restructured to make sure none of it was in it.

SMUT WARNINGS: unprotected sex, dazai cries </3 poor baby, sub!dazai, as always pussy drunk!dazai, bit of overstim on dazai's part too, jfhsuhdfsu i will say it starts on the bathroom floor so that might be a bit gross to some of you but dazai hardly even uses his apartment anyway so trust it's clean. bear with me. it just flowed from there i had to go with it. the story writes itself, i'm only the scribe. LOL let me know if i missed anything, i might have

SEE: UNREAL UNEARTH SERIES MASTERLIST READ: BADLANDS SIDE A

Dazai is hardly listening to the conversation at hand. They’ve been going back and forth for thirty minutes about inconsequential matters. Tolstoy is getting increasingly heated as he goes tit-for-tat with Nabokov, evidently the tripartite alliance between the Russian mafias is not quite enough to quell all of the bad blood that’s simmered between them, but something about the situation isn’t sitting right to Dazai. He can feel it in his gut, swirling in the depths of his chest—something is wrong but he doesn’t know what.

Mishima looks equally put out, gaze trained on Tolstoy and Nabokov’s conversation, occasionally looking back at his executives. Cao seems bored, head tilted back against the red cushions of the round booth as he smokes a cigarette; in all regards, he seems relaxed, but Dazai notices the way the fingers of his free hand are tense on the table, as if he’s bracing himself for something.

Something isn’t right.

Dostoevsky is cunning. Intelligent. He’s been lethally sharp in every universe that the other Dazais have encountered him in. He wouldn’t send Tolstoy and Nabokov into this meeting with them at each other’s throats like this without an ulterior reason. Dazai is missing something critical; he knows it’s not something as simple as wanting to give off the appearance of a divided front as means to get Dazai and Mishima to lower their guard. Nothing is that easy. There’s some ulterior motive that Dazai has to figure out.

Cao’s presence. Tolstoy and Nabokov’s blatant hostility toward one another. Mishima’s words from earlier, warning him that something seems to be brewing, that Tolstoy and Nabokov had been on edge since he arrived at the event hall. Dazai’s head hurts, and he can’t focus, not when you’re in the other room without him.

Already, he feels as if he’s been separated from you for too long, he’d been hoping this meeting was only going to last thirty minutes at most, and it’s been thirty minutes already and hardly any progress has been made. If Dazai didn’t know any better, he’d think that…

He’d think that Tolstoy and Nabokov were stalling.

At once, Dazai starts catching onto the things that he missed. The way Nabokov keeps glancing up at the clock on the wall above Cao. The way Tolstoy’s gaze keeps flickering to his phone. The way Cao’s attention seems to be elsewhere.

Cao Xueqin. A Dream of Red Mansions. A scrying ability.

His heartbeat slows and Dazai blinks. Once. Twice. Blood roars in his ears as his gaze twists down to where his phone is laying on the table in front of him, on its face. Tachihara should have texted him to let him know that he got to you. Him or Chuuya. He usually reports to Chuuya anyway, so Dazai figured that Chuuya would’ve gotten the confirmation. He turns his head to the side to look at the executive from the corner of his eye, trying to keep his breath as slow and steady and natural as possible when he realizes that Chuuya is frowning with furrowed brows, looking at his phone. Unsure.

Dazia reaches for his own phone, fingers deceptively steady despite the way his insides are curdling with a sudden jolt of anxiety. His eyes zero in on the top right corner of his phone. No signal. Dazai has been to this event hall countless times in this life and dozens of others—there’s always service throughout the building.

Unless it’s being jammed, that is.

Dazai’s blood runs cold, gaze dragging from his phone to the door that leads to the hallway connecting to the event hall where you are. He feels as if he’s been doused with icy water and lit on fire all at once. For a second, he doesn’t move—he’s not sure if it’s anxiety or fear, or both, but he knows it’s because you’re out there and Dostoevsky is plotting something while trying to keep him out of the picture in this meeting.

He should have known better. Mishima had assumed that Dostoevsky wasn’t in the building—he had his three best scouts prowling the whole building trying to place the real leader of the tripartite but had failed. Nabokov had apparently told him that Dostoevsky had to stay back to handle residual business in Russia, a blatant lie, one that has had Mishima on edge all night.

The one with the overcoat. The clown.

Dazai stills as he remembers the white haired man who hung around Dostoevsky in some of the other universes. Not all of the other Dazais encountered him—in fact, Dazai thinks there were only half a dozen other universes where he met the man, he can hardly remember his name, but when he did…

Spatial linking. Of course Mishima’s men hadn’t been able to hunt down Dostoevsky. Dostoevsky would’ve predicted that the Sun and Steel would seek out the mastermind with their scouts. He used the clown to enter the building without anyone knowing after the scouts finished their hunt.

Dazai had missed a critical piece on the board.

Dazai rises to his feet abruptly, mind numb, eyes distant, and lips parted to speak but no words escape them. Tolstoy and Nabokov exchange a sharp, pointed look, pausing in their hostilities, and Dazai knows. He knows.

Dostoevsky is going after you.

He hears Chuuya and Kouyou calling after him but it sounds like a distant buzz. His throat feels clogged, his heartbeat is erratic and uncontrollable, his ears are ringing. His surroundings are blurry, a part of him doesn’t even know where he is: the event hall, your apartment, in the cafe below the Armed Detective Agency, it’s all blurring together.

This is it.

His vision swims and his head spins. The hallway seems impossibly long, much longer than it was to walk to the room. He can hear Chuuya spitting curses, scrambling out of the room, and he’s sure that his other executives and the other mafiosos aren’t far behind, but Dazai’s mind is on a single track. He doesn’t know how fast he’s moving—fast enough that Chuuya is chasing after him but can’t catch him. Something is heavy and cool in his hand—his gun—numb fingers moving to click the safety off.

This is it.

He might enter that hall and find you dead, slumped over the bar he’d last seen you sitting at, blood splattered across your face. Limp, cold. Just like you were on your bedroom floor. In the booth at the cafe. He’s pulling you from the water. He’s screaming for Yosano when he’s with the Agency. He’s screaming for Mori when he’s with the Mafia. Sometimes he’s alone, and he has no one to call for help, so all he can do is hold you and cry.

It’s his fault. He knew this would happen from the beginning. He knew that being with you would lead you to the same fate that you’ve met in every other universe because of him. He knew that being with you would be your death sentence, but he couldn’t stop himself.

His vision swims again, the red and gold patterns on the walls of the event hall are indistinct blobs, he feels someone try to grab his wrist—Chuuya, probably—but Dazai rips himself free and pushes himself into the event hall.

He ignores the eyes on him and the way people all instinctively move away from the sight of him with his gun out, he’s sure he must look deranged but he’s hardly even keeping himself grounded to this reality. Pages pile around him, every single one has variations of the same scene that’s haunted him for almost eight years written on it; one is being written before his eyes, he can see the words appearing on the blank sheet. He needs to find you before it’s complete. He has to stop it.

His eyes cut across the room, toward the bar he’d last seen you at, and you’re there. You’re there. It’s almost enough to make him scramble to put his gun away, cover up his steep spiral of paranoia even if you are looking right in his direction and see the gun in his hand. He can hardly come to terms with the consequences of this, how you’re seeing him right now, because his gaze tunnels right in on the person sitting next to you and his world comes to a halt.

He lifts the gun. He ignores as people shriek and scramble to the edges of the room. He ignores the look on your face as he moves closer to where you’re sitting with Fyodor Dostoevsky. He ignores the way Chuuya and Kouyou and Piano Man have all skid to a stop somewhere behind him, trying to figure out what to do. Dostoevsky’s hand is mere inches away from brushing against your body, it would only take the slightest movement and you would be dead. It would be a game of who’s faster: Dazai’s trigger finger or Dostoevsky’s ability. Dazai’s always been quick to pull the trigger but now, faced with your life on the line, when he should be at his best because of what’s at risk, he finds himself scared and unsteady.

He can’t lose you. He can’t watch it happen.

He paces toward you slowly, steadily, he swears each step he takes echoes across the suddenly silent event hall. He doesn’t stop until the muzzle of his gun is pressed against the back of Dostoevsky’s head.

“Stand up.” Dazai’s voice is deceptively cold and steady for the rage and fear that’s clawing at his chest, threatening to take control.

Dostoevsky turns his head to the side to look at Dazai, faint amusement in his eyes. “Are you sure you really want to do this here, Dazai?”

The mocking lilt his voice takes is almost enough alone for Dazai to pull the trigger. And if that wasn’t, the way Dostoevsky smiles at Dazai like he’s won is certainly enough to push him over the edge.

Before he can, he feels Chuuya grab his bicep hard.

“You can’t do this here,” he hisses quietly. “If you kill him now on neutral territory, we’ll have all of the mafias in the Eastern Hemisphere coming after you and the government on your ass. You can’t do this here and you can’t do it in public.”

Dazai doesn’t care. He doesn’t care how many mafias come after him for killing on neutral territory when invited as a guest. He doesn’t care that the government will come after him for such a blatant murder. All he cares about is getting Dostoevsky away from you.

“Chuuya is right,” Kouyou murmurs, low enough for only Dazai to overhear. “We can cover this up as is. If you pull the trigger, there’s no hiding what happened here. You know better than this, boy. You won’t be the only person this affects if you do this. Think of her. She will be implicated for coming here with you. Lower the gun and let us handle sweeping this under the rug.”

Dazai can’t even bring himself to look at you. He’s scared of what he might find. But he doesn’t even consider lowering the gun, not until Dostoevsky raises his hands and slips off the bar stool to step away from you. Even when he does, Dazai keeps it trained on him, still tempted to blow his head right off his shoulders.

“I meant no harm,” Dostoevsky says smoothly. “I was intrigued, wanted to know the girl who’s managed to capture your interest. I must say, I see the appeal. Beautiful and intelligent, you have quite the eye, Dazai.”

Dazai’s lips stretch into a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. It’s not kind, and it’s mildly feral, and Dazai’s pretty sure he must look entirely deranged from the way Dostoevsky’s eyes widen in a mixture of surprise and entertainment, just enough to be noticeable.

“If you ever go near her again, I’ll put a bullet through your fucking skull, Dostoevsky.”

He should do it now. He should. Fuck Chuuya and Kouyou’s warnings, he should put a bullet in his head and be done with it, move onto handling Christie so that both of the major threats to your life are gone. But he can’t. If he takes this opportunity now, if he kills Dostoevsky so blatantly on neutral territory, the Pale Flame and Three Deaths will come at him in full force, and Dazai is sure the Red Chamber won’t be far behind them with Cao’s recent interest in expanding his business into Japan. And you’ll be caught in the crossfire of all of it, Dazai has ensured that by bringing you here. Dostoevsky must have accounted for all of this. He knew that Dazai would be put in a situation where either way, whether he kills him or lets him go, he’d be throwing himself onto a blade.

Is that it? Killing you wasn’t the goal, was it? Exposing Dazai was. Forcing him into this impossible decision.

Did he really just fall into Dostoevsky’s hands so easily? Even with all of the forewarning the other universes have given him?

It’s you. You always make him reckless, his mind is never as sharp whenever you’re involved, muddled with thoughts of you, plagued with spirals of paranoia and anxiety that make him double guess himself. It’s like this in every universe—he becomes stupid, he becomes rash, he becomes careless. It’s you.

You.

Suddenly very hyper aware of your eyes on him, Dazai lowers his gun, gaze turning in your direction. Dostoevsky lets out one last snide comment, something toward you, telling you ‘don’t you see’ but Dazai doesn’t even process it, heart in his throat as he looks at you. He doesn’t know what he expects—fear, betrayal, even anger. He’s not prepared for the emptiness. He can’t read a single emotion on your face, your eyes eerily void of any feeling as you stare at him.

He says your name quietly. His voice cracks. He should be embarrassed, so many people watching the scene play out, so many of his enemies and allies and subordinates, and he’s staring at you like a lost child with an unsteady voice, but he can’t bring himself to care. The fingers of his free hand are trembling, and the ones wrapped around the grip of his gun are so wound so tight that his knuckles are white.

You’ve never looked at him like this before. Not in any universe.

He thinks he might throw up.

You’ve been mad at him before, scowling at him whenever he distracts you from your work and snarling whenever he makes messes that he never cleans up, but your eyes always stay soft in spite of the venom you spit. He’s seen betrayal on your face a few times before, screaming at him through tears when he got a bit too close to a successful attempt, cursing at him for trying to leave you, but you hold him so gently that it makes up for the harsh words. You’ve been scared of him once, when he lashed out so badly during one of his slumps that he nearly hurt you, but even then, you were more concerned for him then you were scared for yourself, speaking to him softly to settle him down.

He’s never seen this. He wants it to go away. Desperately.

“I’d like to leave,” you finally say after a few moments of silence, and your voice is so vacant of emotion that it leaves him feeling even more sick.

Dazai nods, because he can’t bring himself to speak.

He holds his hand out for you, waiting for you to take it.

You don’t.

You haven’t spoken a word since the event hall, and Dazai doesn’t know what to do. He used to find peace in silence—for years, he’d become accustomed to it, isolating himself from everyone around him, keeping everyone at arm’s length. The most he ever spoke was a few sentences to give out orders to his executives; his voice had become hoarse and raspy over the years of self-imposed isolation, unused to being utilized. But the past few months with you have utterly obliterated any semblance of comfort Dazai had found in solidarity.

It’s become entirely intolerable, the silence is making him sick with anxiety; he has hundreds of lifetimes worth of memories with you and he can’t even vaguely predict what to expect from you right now. You’ve been tense and cold since leaving the event hall. Dazai tried to open up a conversation in the car once but found himself promptly ignored. Chuuya tried to say something to you but only received the same cold shoulder. Even Albatross tried to lighten the mood when the four of you got in the car, but all you did was stare out the window with your back to Dazai.

Now, you’re back up in his penthouse with him. You haven’t sat down. You’ve hardly budged from where you’re standing near the elevator—Dazai wonders if you’re scared of him now, if you want to be as close as possible to the only exit in fear of him lashing out at you. The thought makes him even more nauseous.

He doesn’t even know what to do with himself. He doesn’t want to sit down, he’s uncomfortable standing in the living room, waiting for you to say something, and he can’t bring himself to try to break the silence because if there’s one thing he learned very swiftly, it’s that he can’t handle being ignored by you. He’d prefer anger and hate to the stonewall iciness you’re giving him.

He can’t even fathom what you might be thinking right now. You’re not looking at him. You’re staring at the window that looks over the city, he can see the bright flashing lights from Cosmo World flickering faintly in your eyes. It’s so quiet that he can hear the distant honking of horns, police sirens coming from the streets below.

He just wants you to say something, do something. Yell at him. Scream at him. Hit him or punch him. Anything is better than this.

It feels like an eternity before you finally move away from the elevator. You still don’t speak, but Dazai watches raptly as you make your way into the kitchen. You fling open the cabinets, searching for something, and Dazai’s lips part to ask what you’re looking for but he decides against it. You stop with your jerky movements when you catch sight of the numerous bottles of sake Dazai has stored in his cabinets—room temperature, because Dazai can’t stand cold drinks, they make his teeth hurt. He watches you struggle to uncap it and his body itches to move toward you to help but he knows it won’t do any good. It’ll probably just piss you off more.

When you get the cap off, you’re immediately bringing it to your lips. One. Two. Three. Four large gulps before you put the bottle back down on the counter and turn to look at him. The emptiness in your eyes is gone, replaced by something caught between hurt and anger and betrayal. It makes his heart sink, but he thinks it’s preferable to the emptiness.

“You lied to me,” you finally rasp out, shaking your head as you pace behind the counter. There’s a whole length of a room separating the two of you and Dazai longs for your touch but he forces himself to stuff his hands in his pockets and keep still. “You lied to me, Dazai.”

“Osamu,” he corrects quietly without thinking, not liking the switch up. He’d finally gotten you to call him by his given name earlier in the night, he doesn’t want to lose it so quickly.

For the briefest of seconds, the hurt and betrayal in your eyes disappears and only fire rages in them. “Dazai,” you spit out pointedly.

Dazai almost draws back, not having expected that. In all of the other universes, you’ve always been gentle with him even when you’re livid. You speak his name softly, even with a tight jaw and fisted hands—his given name, you’ve never used his surname against him like this before. Probably because most of the major fights he had with you in those other lives, it was months into the relationship; it’s only been a few weeks in this life so of course-

Dazai realizes, a bit dizzy, that he’s about to lose you.

You found out too soon. You found out through Dostoevsky, through Dazai's own loss of control. You found out in the worst possible way and you found out too soon.

Dazai is about to lose you.

“Okay,” he murmurs, not wanting to test your temper anymore, giving in as a means to try to soothe your anger, regardless of how much it might wound him because being wounded is nothing compared to losing you. “Dazai.”

His compliance seems to do nothing to quell your anger from the way you just scoff and shake your head again, looking away from him. You stare out over the city, dozens of emotions cloud your expression but Dazai still can’t predict what you might do next. He feels out of his depth, in murky waters with an anchor tied to his ankle.

“I knew it, you know?” you finally say quietly. “I knew it from the beginning, honestly, but I kept making excuses for you. I mean, the guns. The secrecy. You weren’t really subtle about it. Did you think I was stupid, or something?”

“Never,” Dazai says honestly, without hesitation. He sees your gaze flicker down to the ground at his words, but you don’t make any move to speak again so he takes the opportunity to, in hopes that you’ll finally listen. “You’re the smartest woman I know. I-”

You interrupt him with a sharp laugh, it’s loud and almost cruel, and Dazai turns in on himself at the sound of it. He feels small and unsteady, like a child who’s being scolded by a parent. When you look at him again, your eyes are wide and wild, half-crazed in sheer disbelief. You don’t believe him. Of course, you don’t. It’s plainly displayed on your face. And why would you anyway? He’s given you every reason not to.

“If you think I’m so smart, why didn’t you think I would figure it out?”

He tries to say that he knew you would. That he’s been living in fear for weeks that you’d finally see him for what he is but when he opens his mouth to say it, no words leave him. Like he’s frozen in fear, ice crawling through his veins, stones weighing on his tongue; he can’t respond, and he knows that he’s only condemning himself more. He tries to force something out but he can’t even make the barest hint of a sound. The mindkiller. He’s never responded well to fear, much less when you’re involved.

You click your tongue, as if to solidify that his silence proves your point, or maybe you know what he can't bring himself to say and you just don't believe him. His stomach churns again, and dread spreads through chest when you say: “If I’m so smart, and I was going to figure it out anyway, why didn’t you just tell me?”

“You would have left.” Dazai is finally able to speak, but he speaks the wrong answer, clearly, from the way you let out another humorless, breathless laugh, eyes wide in disbelief. You look at him like he’s the most audacious man in the entire world. Maybe he is.

“Yeah, I would have,” you agree and Dazai flinches. “Without hesitation, without even looking back. And now, I can’t because you made me fall in love with you without even warning me about what I was getting myself into.”

Dazai’s heart should be leaping through the roof at your confession, but if anything, he feels even worse. His throat feels clogged and his chest feels so heavy. You’ve never regretted falling in love with him before. Not in any lifetime.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes out, because he doesn’t know what else to say. The words are still foreign on his tongue, he doesn’t think he’s ever apologized to someone in this life before the last twenty-four hours.

“No, you’re not,” you say bitterly, looking away. “Isn’t this what you wanted? For me to care so much about you that when you finally tell me who you are and what you do, I won’t be able to leave.”

Dazai stares at you, lost. He remembers how just the other day he was finding comfort in the way you could read him so easily, knowing he didn’t have to speak for you to know what he needed at the moment. He thinks he hates it now, because you’re finally reading deeper into his soul and seeing him for the sick, twisted monster he really is. Just like he feared from day one. Manipulative. Selfish. Undeserving. His fingers tremble in his pockets, nails biting into his palm so deep that he can feel blood trickling down his skin, but not even the stinging pain can distract him from the numbness spreading through him.

“I didn’t-”

“Didn’t what?” you interrupt him. “You didn’t think I’d be upset? You didn’t think I’d be angry? Or maybe you didn’t think it would happen this soon? Is that it, Dazai? You thought you’d have more time to win me over in hopes that I’d take the news in stride. News flash, Dazai, no amount of time or charm would have made me accept this easily. Accept you easily. How could I ever accept any of this?”

Nausea rises to his throat so suddenly that he almost gags. He feels dizzy, taking a step back so that his back is against the wall, keeping him steady. Your last words echo through his head over and over again, he can’t escape them. The one person who’s always accepted him in every lifetime, the only person he was ever able to find a home in—how could I ever accept you?

His cheeks feel wet, his eyes are wide as he stares at you. He doesn’t know how to respond to that. He doesn’t even think he could if he knew how to respond to that. His lungs are burning and his throat feels so swollen that even just the thought of trying to speak is painful.

You let out a sharp breath, caught between a hysterical laugh and a sob as you press your hands to either side of your neck and pace across the kitchen. “What am I supposed to do, Dazai?” you ask, voice hoarse. “What the fuck am I supposed to do?”

He thinks it might be a rhetorical question, but he still forces out: “Don’t leave me.”

You scoff again, louder and harsher this time. Dazai’s eyes flutter shut as if to futilely minimize the blow. “I wish leaving you was still an option for me.”

Oh. He’s going to throw up.

He wants to blame it on the alcohol he drank earlier in the night. He wants to blame it on the stress of the past few weeks. He wants to blame it on anything but this, even though he knows damn well that this conversation is what triggered the bile that rises to his throat. He forces himself to move, nearly tripping over his feet to get to the bathroom because he doesn’t want you to see him vomiting up his guts.

He hardly makes it to the toilet, crashing to his knees and clutching at the seat as he dry heaves. Nothing comes up—he hasn’t eaten enough the past few days to have anything solid in him, too busy with preparations—but he can’t stop gagging, eyes stinging with tears and throat burning. He doesn’t know how long he stays crumpled at the toilet, losing track of time entirely, a part of him just wants to stay there forever so he doesn’t have to go back out and face you.

Evidently, he doesn’t have to go back out and face you because you come to him.

He’s gagging again when he feels your hand brush his back, hesitantly at first and then firmly. Your touch is warm, and Dazai thinks he must look pathetic as he turns his head to the side to look at you. Your expression isn’t as harsh now, your eyes are still conflicted but your face is softer. After a moment, you take a seat on the floor next to him—you don’t say anything, but you let out a soft puff of air as you slip your arm around his shoulders once he stops heaving.

He crumbles into your chest, body collapsing against yours. You wrap your arms around him, and at once, the numbness starts to fade away. His fingers clutch at your dress desperately, afraid that you’re going to disappear, but you only hold him tighter. You bury your face in his hair, forehead pressed to the top of his head.

“You’re so unfair, Osamu.” Your voice cracks, you’ve lost all of your fire, but Dazai finds no solace in it.

“I know,” he croaks out, throat scratchy and voice wavering. “I know.”

And then words are spilling from his lips before he can stop them, jumbled and hardly intelligible and he’s not even sure that you’re understanding what he’s saying but he can’t stop himself: “I tried. I tried to stay away, I tried so hard, you don’t understand. I knew it would turn out like this, I knew I would ruin you so I tried to stay away, but I’m selfish. I’m so selfish, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I knew better, I’m going to-you’re going to-”

The panic is returning, the words he wants to say but can’t push out are too damning: I’m going to get you killed. You’re going to die because of me. Dazai is breathing but the air isn’t getting to his lungs, his chest burns, and now even with your arms around him, the numbness is returning. It’s rapid now, spreading from his chest to his arms, down his abdomen to his legs; it’s going to consume him entirely, he can feel it, he can-

Oh.

Your lips press to his. Tilting his head back to angle his face up toward you, you lean down and press your lips against his, swallowing his words, his air, his panic. One of your hands cup his cheek while the other cradles the back of his head, Dazai can hardly kiss you back, his lips feel cold and prickly, but his eyes flutter shut as your lips move slowly and carefully against his.

Not for the first time, he thinks that he doesn’t deserve this. Especially not now. He tastes something wet and salty against his lips—he doesn’t know if you’re the one crying, or if he is, and he doesn’t want to know, so he forces himself to move. His arm feels heavy and clunky, and his fingers feel stiff, but he’s able to bring them up to your face, palms cupping your cheeks as the tips of his fingers tangle into your hair. He kisses you until his lungs are screaming for air, and even as he starts to feel lightheaded, he kisses you still, because your lips are the only thing able to push away the numbness overwhelming him.

When you break away from him, you keep your foreheads pressed together, nose nudging against his. You share the same thin sliver of air and Dazai feels dizzy, he wants to kiss you again but he doesn’t think he’s capable of moving yet, so he only stays crumbled in your arms, waiting for you to grace him with your lips again.

“I wish I still had the chance to be a better man,” Dazai says hoarsely, honestly, gaze searching yours desperately. “I would be. For you.”

Please believe me, he thinks to himself helplessly, because it’s the truth. He would try to be. For your sake. He might fail, he might be too far gone, his soul corrupted beyond salvation and his blood black beyond purification, but he would try. He would try so hard for you. But he can’t, not in this lifetime, not without risking everything he’s strove to protect since coming in contact with the Book. He has to stay the criminal, the monster, the demon so that you and Odasaku can live out your lives here. Until Dostoevsky, Christie, and any other person that could turn out to be a threat to either of you are killed, Dazai has to keep playing this role. He has to.

You don’t respond. Dazai thinks it’s because you don’t believe him and it makes him feel sick again. His lips part to repeat himself but you only press yours against his, as if to silence him.

You don’t believe him, the kiss confirms it, and his heart sinks but he can’t even bring himself to protest, to insist that it’s true. Instead, he decides if he can’t prove it through his words, he’ll prove it through his actions. Even though his limbs still feel leaden and clumsy, he forces himself into a better position, sitting up a bit more and bringing both of his hands up to cup your cheeks. He tilts your head back, leaning into you and slowly pressing you back against the floor and distantly Dazai recognizes that this is not the place for this but the thought is only fleeting, he’s too lost in the feeling of your lips against his and your body pressed to him.

And you let him ease you back against the floor. You let him tilt your head back and when his tongue darts out to swipe against your bottom lip, you part your lips for him. He doesn’t have to knock your knees apart, because you spread them just enough for him to slot his hips between them to keep your bodies flush. He wonders if you can feel how clunky his movements are—his fingers still feel heavy against your face and he can hardly hold himself up above you. He hopes he’s not crushing you with his weight, he might be, but you don’t seem to care.

He pulls back to ask if you’re okay with this but you chase his lips and he lets out a soft, muffled noise when you tug gently at his bottom lip and bring your free hand up to cup the back of his head, fingers tangling with his hair, pulling him back down to you. You drag your lips from his to slide them down his neck to the edge of his bandages. He twitches a bit at the feeling, wondering if you’re going to ask to take them off, but instead, you just trail your lips back upward, nipping at his jaw, and he shudders.

And then he finally hesitates, pulling away and not letting you chase after this time. He weighs his options in his head anxiously. He feels like he should do something, that he owes something—a lowering of a mask, a show of vulnerability, you’re entitled to at least that much after everything he’s done. Aren't you?

You give him a curious look and he tries to respond—he does, his lips part for him to speak but nothing leaves them. He swallows thickly, eyes fluttering shut as he braces himself before trying again, bringing one of his hands to yours and wrapping his fingers around it gently, lifting it from his chest to the bandages covering the left side of his face.

“Take them off,” he tells you, voice hoarse and shakier than he would have liked.

Your eyes widen, and he shudders a bit when your fingers smooth against the bandages, uncertain. “Are you sure?” you ask him softly, bringing your other hand to his opposite cheek, cupping his face in your hands again, eyes searching to make sure he means it.

Is he sure? Dazai doesn’t know. He can’t speak again as he stares down at you; a part of him is nervous, and he doesn’t even understand why. You already know who he is, what he is, but a part of him still fears that once you actually see him, something will change. And it’s ridiculous, so many other universes you’ve seen him without his bandages and you’ve never made him feel uncomfortable about it. But you’ve also never used his surname against him during an argument in the other universes, you’ve never regretted loving him, and you’ve certainly never wished you could leave him.

So, yeah, he thinks the anxiety of you removing his bandages and then seeing him in a different light might be more of a possibility in this universe than any other one. His body is more covered in scars than not, and he knows it’s not attractive; he thinks if he sees your expression shift in a negative way when the bandages come off, it might shatter him entirely.

Just the face bandages then, he bargains with himself, swallowing thickly as he forces himself to nod. You sit up from where you’re still laying back against the tiles, propping yourself on your knees to shift closer to him.

Dazai thinks his heart might be in his throat when he feels your fingers unclip the clasp holding the bandages together around the left side of his face, eyes fluttering shut as you slowly unwind them from around his head. He isn’t sure why he’s so nervous for this part—there are no scars on his face, but he still feels distinctly vulnerable, like he’s giving you a window into himself that might reveal more than he means to. He can barely breathe as he feels the last of the bandages fall to the floor, he can hear you push them to the side.

Still, he keeps his eyes shut, counting each second that passes. He’s anxious, can’t even bring himself to look at you until you cup his cheeks again.

“Look at me,” you say quietly.

Dazai does as you ask, he always does. He doesn’t know what he expects when he opens his eyes to meet your gaze; he prepares himself for the worst, for a twisted expression or thinly veiled pity, but he finds none of it. Rather, your eyes are soft and fond, tracing over his face, looking between each of his. He can feel the pads of your fingers gently brushing over his cheekbones, tracing absent patterns.

“You’re so handsome, Osamu,” you whisper, one of your hands sliding behind his head, intertwining with his hair. “Why do you wear them?”

Dazai doesn’t know how to answer that. His throat feels swollen at your words, eyes a bit misty and fingers trembling against your thighs. Instead, he breathes out, “Kiss me.”

And you do.

God, when you kiss him again, it’s so intense that it has his head spinning. He doesn’t know how long he sits there kissing you, back against the cabinets with you half in his lap. It could be a few seconds, or a few minutes, or a few hours—he has no concept of time whenever his lips are against yours. It’s only when you press your hand against his shoulder, murmuring for him to get up, that he finally pulls himself away from you.

Dazai forces himself to push up to his feet—it’s much more difficult than he thought it would be, nearly tripping over his own feet, but you follow him up to your feet, steadying him when he almost tumbles over. You bring your hand up to rest against his cheek, fingers gently toying with the edges of his hair. He leans into your touch, eyes fluttering shut for just a moment before he forces himself to look you in the eye.

“You’re so frustrating,” you say softly, but all of the fire is gone, replaced by that same soft look you’ve directed toward him—not him—hundreds of times before. “You are so frustrating, Osamu.”

His throat feels tight again, the sound of his name on your lips causing a wave of warmth to spread through him, the numbness slowly subsiding.

“I know,” he whispers, swallowing thickly, and you sigh, gaze averting to the side for a moment before you look back at him. He still can’t fathom what you might be thinking and it scares him.

But then you kiss him again, your other hand coming up to his other cheek and his hands fly to your waist, holding you close. You walk him backward, out of the bathroom and into the hallway. His back hits the wall and you press your body close to his, and this time it’s you whose tongue is darting out to brush his bottom lip, urging him to part his lips for you. He does, and he thinks he might be in heaven when he feels your tongue dip into his mouth, sliding against his tongue. His eyes flutter shut, rolling back just a bit when you trace the back of his teeth with your tongue before sucking gently on his bottom lip.

Your hands slide down from his face to his chest, over his jacket, down to his waist. Your fingers hook in his belt loops and Dazai groans as your lips ghost from his down to his jaw, breath shaky as trail slow, wet kisses to the sensitive spot behind his ear. He can hardly do anything but follow along as you guide him from where he’s been backed against the wall into his bedroom, dazed and entirely consumed by your touch. His head already feels a bit fuzzy, breath hitching as your teeth graze his pulse point, kissing down to the edge of his bandages and then across his throat.

He barely even knows where he is until he feels the back of his knees hit his bed and he topples backward until he’s laying flat on it. His chest is heaving, head dizzy and breath shaky as you straddle his waist. You don’t kiss him again and Dazai wants to drag you down for another but he can’t even bring himself to move. His body refuses to cooperate, nervous that he’s going to make the wrong move.

“Do you want this?” you finally ask after a moment, voice raspy as one of your hands squeeze his gently, as if to get his attention.

Dazai’s brows furrow a bit, lips parting to respond but for a second, no words leave them. You wait with the patience of a saint as Dazai tries to process what you’re asking and respond to it. After what feels like an eternity, he nods once. Of course, he wants it. You search his eyes as if to make sure he’s not just agreeing to agree, and once you’re satisfied, you continue you with:

“And do you trust me?” you ask softly, your gaze gentle as it searches his face for the next answer.

Dazai doesn’t hesitate this time, and he speaks as he breathes out, “With everything.”

He can’t tell what you’re thinking, but your expression is still soft and your touch is still gentle as you run your thumb over his knuckles. Dazai doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to the gentleness you show him. You lift your hand to cup his cheek and he leans into your touch, throat spasming beneath his bandages as he waits for you to say something.

“Let me take the lead then,” you say quietly, his eyes widen a bit at your words. “I want to try something.”

He watches you carefully for a moment, guarded and studying you. He thinks this might be another first, and the thought alone makes him feel a bit giddy because he can’t recall any other life where you’ve ever been the one to take the lead like this, especially the first time the two of you sleep together. You look a bit anxious the longer he goes without responding, so he nods and says, “Okay.”

He’s pliant beneath your touch as you lean down to press your lips against his; he lets out a soft, muffled noise when he feels your hips shift, unintentionally grinding down a bit on his straining cock. He’s more hesitant this time in the way his lips move against yours, unsure of what to do with himself. His fingers twitch from where they're resting on the bed, itching to grab your hips but not wanting to make the wrong move.

This has happened every time one of you tries to take the next step, either he gets interrupted or he ends up getting cold feet because he’s scared of doing the wrong thing and making you uncomfortable. And it’s ridiculous because Dazai has so many memories, he should know at least vaguely what you like and what you don’t like but he thinks having the memories are a double-edged sword because he overwhelms himself if what ifs: what if he assumes you like something and you end up not liking it in this universe, what if he does something that you only liked after the two of you have been together for a while and you’re uncomfortable with him doing it because you’re not as comfortable with him. Maybe Dazai is just overthinking it all but how can he not when you’re involved. He wants everything to be perfect for you.

“Is this okay?” you whisper, separating your lips from his just enough for him to answer your question. Your breath mingles with his and Dazai can hardly think straight; it’s hot, dizzying, there’s something so intimate about it that it makes his body fuzzy.

“Yeah,” he says, eyelashes fluttering as he looks up at you. “It’s okay.”

You kiss him again. His lips move against yours desperately, needy, he’d be embarrassed if you weren’t matching his energy, but you are. He can feel your fingers tugging at his hair, your hips grinding down against his. Every time you start to pull away, he lifts his head from where it’s laying flush against the pillows, chasing your lips.

He needs you. His hands slide from your thighs to your waist, keeping your body pressed to his. He’s needed you since the day he came in contact with the Book and learned about you, since the day he met you at the club, maybe even since the day he was born even if he hadn’t known it at the time. He thinks his entire life has led to this, to the two of you being together; your souls have been entangled since the moment you were born and he isn’t sure how he ever thought a life without you was possible.

“I need you,” he gasps against your lips, hips jerking up just a bit to try to alleviate the pressure building in his lower abdomen, desperate to reach down and unbutton his slacks, but wanting you to make the first move.

Whatever nerves that have made him get cold feet all of the other times the two of you have tried to take the next stop are long gone. You don’t give him any time to wonder if he’s doing the wrong thing—the fingers of one of your hands intertwining with his dark locks, just tight enough to make him hiss into your mouth, eyes rolling back at the pleasant sting. Your other hand slides across his chest, even through his dress shirt, your fingertips seem to scorch through to his skin, leaving his body tingling everywhere you touch.

“You have me,” you tell him, breathless, and Dazai can’t bite back the noise that slips from his lips, wanton and obscene, borderline pornographic—if he was any more coherent, he might be embarrassed but he can’t find it in him. Not when he’s finally getting what he’s wanted after all of this time.

His hands fly down to his slacks, he fumbles with the button and zipper before yanking them down just enough to free his cock and he watches as you sit back on his thighs, eyes wide and lips parted as your gaze focuses in on his cock, watching as the leaking precum dribbles down his length, alongside the vein running along the underside of his cock.

“Please,” he breathes out, fingers biting into your thighs as he bunches your dress up to your hips, another low moan spilling from his lips just at the thought of what’s about to happen, lashes fluttering.

You don’t even take off your panties, clearly driven by the same desperation that he is as you slide them to the side and position yourself above his cock and Dazai gnaws at his bottom lip when he feels the tip pressing against your entrance. He can feel how wet you are already, so drenched that your slick is dripping down the length of his cock. His hips stutter up instinctively, but instead of pushing inside, his cock slides between your folds and he whimpers, arm flying to cover the lower half of his face. You don’t let him, fingers wrapping around his wrist to pull his arm from his face and pin it to the mattress above him.

“Don’t hide yourself,” you say softly.

Dazai thinks there must be stars in his eyes as he looks up at you. You’re so beautiful, lips parted as you pant softly, an adoring expression on your face as you look down at him. He loves you. He loves you, god, he loves you more than he’s ever loved anything in his life; he thinks that nothing the other Dazais ever felt for any of the other yous could ever compare to how he feels for you.

When his tip starts to push into your tight hole, all he can let out is another loud, lewd noise; his head falls back against the pillows. His ears are ringing, but distantly, he can hear you gasp. His vision is blurry as he forces himself to look up at you but Dazai thinks you look otherworldly with your head tilted back as his cock starts to stretch you out, lips swollen and wet from the kisses you’d shared. He thinks he must look insane, pupils blown wide and eyes wild as he tries to focus on the sight of you. All of the clever wheels that usually turn within his mind are crumbling.

His fingertips leave crescents in your thighs as you sink down on his cock slowly—too slow, it leaves his head dizzy as your warmth slowly envelops his length. He’s imagined this so many times before. Dozens. Hundreds. He has so many memories of the feeling of your body flush to his, thighs over his shoulders as he fucks you deep and slow, swallowing your moans, but he thinks that nothing compares to this, the sight of you above him, watching your body tremble and face shift as his cock stretches you out. He barely refrains from letting out a string of strangled curses, barely able to hold his eyes open to watch you.

You give yourself a moment to adjust, and when you do, you look down at Dazai. He thinks he must look a mess—chest heaving, breath erratic, eyes heavy and lidded and entirely glazed over—but he doesn’t care, not with the way your hand slides up his abdomen, fingers tracing patterns along the bandages covering his body. You look beautiful—you always look beautiful—but you look extra beautiful right now, and he thinks he could stare at you forever and never tire of it.

Experimentally, you roll your hips—it’s still slow, agonizingly slow—and Dazai throws his head back, another obscene moan spilling from his lips.

“Fuck,” he gasps, his fingers falling from your thighs to twist the sheets below him, knuckles white. “Feels so good. So good.”

You let out a hum that’s caught between a moan and agreement as you continue the slow rolls of your hips, hands sliding up and down his abdomen in a way that’s deceptively innocent and soothing compared to how his cock is dragging along your walls. His body shudders at the feeling of it, heat pooling in his abdomen so quickly that it has his whole body tensing as he tries to push it away.

“You’re so perfect.” Words spill from his lips, more of a babble than anything else as you lean down to ghost your lips over his jaw, nibbling over the bandages covering his Adam’s apple. It bobs beneath your teeth as he lets out another shaky noise. “S’like you’re made for me. I’d do anything for you. Anything. You know that, right? Anything you want, it’s yours.”

He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, clawing at the sheets and occasionally reaching for your thighs, and he doesn’t know what to do with his body, hips jerking up at an erratic pace, like he’s trying to meet your pace but his body simply can’t match the slow rolls of your hips, desperate for more. He doesn’t know how you’re so put together—maybe you’re not, he can see through a blurry vision how your lashes are fluttering with each roll of your hips, breath shaky, but you’re just not as far gone as he already is.

“Anything?” you murmur, and he can feel your lips curve up against his neck.

“Anything.” His breath hitches, fingers reaching for your hips as he rocks his up into you, a desperate attempt to get you to pick up the pace. “‘d give you the whole world, burn it for you, anything you want, I’d give it to you.”

His hands slide up from your thighs to your waist as you lean down to press your lips against his in a deceptively innocent kiss. He tries to chase your lips as you straighten up but you don’t let him, one of your hands curling around his throat—not choking him, but firm enough that it goes right to his cock, lips parting in a silent moan—while the other braces back on his thigh.

He thinks that nothing could have prepared him for the feeling of you picking up the pace. His breath hitches, he chokes over a moan, stars sparkle in his vision as the tip of his cock presses deep inside of you. You sigh out his name and Dazai thinks this might be the closest he ever gets to heaven: you on top of him, cock buried to the hilt in your cunt, the sight of your blissed out face above him as his head spins.

“Oh, fuck,” Dazai cries out, back arching and hand flying to cover his face again but the hand you have on his thigh flies forward to snatch his wrist before he can, pinning it back above his head. Dazai’s eyes roll back, you’re leaning over him entirely now, leaning most of your weight on the hand that’s pinning his wrist but the new angle adds pressure onto how you’re squeezing his neck, paring his airways just enough to make his lungs burn. “More. Faster, fuck, I-ah-”

His voice falls off into another moan, head falling to the side to press his cheek against the pillow. He thinks drool is starting to pool at the corner of his lips but he doesn’t care, he can’t even think at this point, too lost in the lewd sound of skin-on-skin, the sloppiness of his cock fucking deep in your cunt, your soft moans and gasps, lost in the feeling of your tight walls clamping down on his cock, the warmth, the wetness, your fingers digging into his wrist and the sides of his neck. He wants to tell you that he needs more but the words are garbled, entirely unintelligible.

He forces his eyes back open, feeling the tears spilling over his cheeks just from the intensity of it all, the intensity of you. You’re gentle with him even when your hand is wrapped around his throat and his cock is splitting you open—he can feel the soothing circles you rub with your thumb, he can see the way you’re searching his face to make sure he’s okay. Dazai is just so overwhelmed that he can’t stop the way his next moan breaks into a sob; acutely realizing just how deprived he’d been of any type of care or love before meeting you, and forcibly coming to terms with the fact that he is never going to be able to go without this again, without you again. He’d known it to some extent before this, the thought of losing you and the light you bring him has made his stomach churn violently but this…

He’s torn from his thoughts when you suddenly stop the rolls of your hips, halting the spreading heat in his lower abdomen desperately. The noise that escapes him is something caught between distress and betrayal, dark eyes wide as he looks up at you questioningly, but the expression on your face makes his breath catch. Your hand slides up from his throat to cup his cheek, your other hand releasing his wrist so that you can hold his face between your hands, thumbs wiping away the tears spilling over his cheeks.

Distantly, Dazai recognizes that he’s still choking over sobs and that’s probably why you’ve stopped and that only rips his chest apart more because of course, you’re still putting him above you—even when you’re mad, even when you’ve just fought, when he’s betrayed you in a way that should be unforgivable, you’re still kissing away his tears and putting aside your own needs to take care of him

He doesn’t deserve you. Not in any universe, but especially not in this one.

He thinks he could stay here for eternity. Fuck the rest of the world. Fuck the Port Mafia. Fuck his plan. He just wants to stay here with you, your lips brushing his, sharing the same sliver of air. He leans into your touch, groaning against your lips when he feels your walls spasm around him.

“You’re beautiful,” he breathes out, unsure if you can even understand him. “You’re so-”

His words fall off into another moan, and he can’t control his hips as they thrust up sharply against yours, another string of incoherent curses escaping his hips as your breath catches and you straighten back up, head falling back as you gasp his name.

Your nails dig crescents into his upper thighs through his bandages as you brace yourself back against them. You move your hips again—faster, this time, harder, and Dazai thinks his head is in the clouds. He’s so deep inside of you that he can feel everything, jaw falling slack as heat spreads through his body too rapidly for him to get control over. He wants to throw a hand over his mouth to muffle the lewd, pitched moans spilling from his lips but he can’t drag his hands from where they’re clawing at your hips, desperately trying to help you meet him with each thrust.

“I-hah-shit, I’m gonna-fuck-”

He slurs out your name and several obscenities, trying to warn you that he’s going to cum when he feels his cock twitching inside of you and his abdomen tensing, but you only lean down to press a lingering kiss to the corner of his lips and Dazai is gone. He wants to watch you, he tries, but he can’t hold his eyes open, they’re half-rolled back as he chokes over moans of your name, hips stilling as he cums deep inside of you. His body twitches, expression twisted as he presses his head so hard into the pillow that he thinks he might permanently indent it.

His head is spinning, lungs burning, sweat beading at his forehead and hair matted to his face—he thinks he’s never cum so hard in his entire life; all of the nights he spent alone, desperately trying to fuck his hand to the thought of you in attempts to mimic how you’ve made all the other Dazais feel, to give himself some semblance of the pleasure you’ve brought him in other lives to hold him over on particularly lonely nights, they’ve never felt like this.

You don’t stop, even as he squirms and lets out jumbled pleas beneath you, body shuddering at the overstimulation but you’re too lost in chasing your own high now. He spasms beneath you, nails digging into your thigh as you fuck his cum deeper inside of you, bouncing on his cock desperately. He doesn’t care that the sensitivity is pushing his body to the brink, letting you use him however you want if it means he gets to see you like this.

Dazai’s head feels light, pins and needles pricking his body—he thinks he might pass out but he forces himself to hold on, enraptured by the sight of you on top of him with your eyes half-rolled back, lips parted and throat bared to him. Your tits are half-spilling out over the low-cut of your dress and Dazai thinks you’re fucking divine. The only holy thing in this godless world. He wants to spend the rest of his life worshiping you.

“I’m gonna-” you gasp, head falling backward as one final roll of your hips that has your clit grinding against his pelvic bone sends you spiraling over the edge.

Dazai wants to sear the image of you behind his eyelids, watching as your nails drag against his thighs, drawing red lines even through the bandages, back arching, head tossed back—your body is trembling violently as you cum on his cock, expression twisted and entirely blissed out, sobbing over his name. He chokes and gasps at the feeling of your cunt tightening around his sensitive cock again, jaw tight and spots dancing in his vision as he’s so abruptly pushed over the edge a second time, the coil in his abdomen tightening and snapping all within the span of a few seconds.

He’s still reeling when he feels you slump forward onto his chest, burying your face in the crook of his neck, shivering in the aftershocks of your orgasm. He’s only half aware as he instinctively brings his hands up to rest on your hips, rubbing soft circles of your hip bones to try to soothe you.

He shudders when you press a kiss to his neck right at the edge of his bandages, and then tilt your head up to press another on his jaw. One of your hands comes up to caress the back of his head, fingers carding through the dark locks in a way that has his eyes drooping shut.

“We’re not done with this conversation,” you finally say after a few moments of silence, voice soft, breaking the silence. Dazai stiffens a bit, lips parting to respond but no words leave them. “... but let’s just lay like this for a while first, okay?”

He lets out a shaky breath, still not entirely convinced that he’s not going to lose you, so he lets his eyes flutter shut as he nods. He may as well bask in this for as long as he can, and if you notice the way his fingers dig just a little deeper into your skin after your words process, you don’t mention it.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, “okay.”

Dazai wakes up the next morning and you’re nowhere to be seen. The bed is frighteningly cold next to him and his heart is instantly in his throat. He doesn’t waste a second before he’s sitting up in bed, looking around, eyes wild and heart racing. He doesn’t settle down, not until his eyes fall upon where you’re sitting curled up on the chair of the desk he never uses, eyes trained on the dark clouds outside the window, the beauty of the sunrise wilted by a morning storm.

“His intention was to make me leave you.” You’re not looking at him, but you must have heard him sit up. “Fyodor Dostoevsky. The things he told me, they were to make me leave you.”

Dazai doesn’t move an inch, throat swelling. He forces himself to ask, “What did he tell you?”

He isn’t sure if he wants to know.

“It doesn’t matter,” you say—Dazai thinks that it definitely does, but he bites back the questions that rise to his tongue because you’re clearly not about to budge on your answer. “Who is he?”

“A monster,” Dazai bites out, bitterness seeping into his tone as he leans back against the headboard, eyes still trained on where you’re curled on his chair, gaze distant. “You have to stay away from him.”

“Well, I didn’t intend on seeking him out,” you say it so dryly that Dazai nearly finds humor in it. Nearly. The smile that rises to his lips is mirthless at best. You turn to look at him, finally, and Dazai finds only cool indifference on your face; the fondness, the softness, the gentleness from last night are all gone. He wonders if you regret it, but he doesn’t let that thought linger, it’ll only make him sick. “... He doesn’t seem like the type to give up.”

“He never is,” Dazai murmurs, ignoring the brief, questioning look you direct toward him, mind drifting off to all of the Russian’s incessant attempts to take you from him in all of the other universes. “Did he tell you what his plan was?”

Dazai doubts it, but maybe there was something he said to you that shed some light to it.

“He didn’t have to,” you say quietly. “He wants Yokohama, for whatever reason—couldn’t figure that out, I think he’s looking for something—and clearly, he has to get through you to get it. He thinks the best way of getting through you is by taking me away from you first. That’s what I’d gathered from how he was talking at least, what he was saying about you, the way he was phrasing it. I’d put together enough on my own during the night to fill in the blanks. He told me things about what you’d done as… what you’d done as boss of the Port Mafia—things you’ve done to enemies… to allies. He told me that I’d see the real you as soon as you realize that the meeting he set up was a farce; that the mask you put up would crumble and I would see you for the demon that you are.”

Dazai doesn’t respond, jaw tight as he averts his gaze to the window—he’d played right into Dostoevsky’s hands. He can hardly bring himself to look at you; he wonders if you do see him differently now that the cloud from the night before has worn off, but he can’t bring himself to ask. Now’s not the time anyway, there are more pressing matters.

“... He’ll come after me again, won’t he?” you ask quietly. “Getting me to leave you willingly didn’t work. If he’s so set on me being the trigger to your downfall, then he’ll come after me again.”

He would. As he always has. Of course, Dostoevsky would try to get to him through you, he’s tried it in every universe, and Dazai hadn’t been careful enough. He hadn’t been smart enough. He’d known this was going to happen and was still arrogant enough to believe he could somehow prevent it. He was a fool, and he was a fool at the cost of your safety. He doesn’t know how to respond to you, he doesn’t want to confirm your suspicions, he doesn’t want to admit that this is all his fault, that he knew this would happen and was selfish enough to pursue you anyway.

“... I’m scared, Osamu,” you finally say quietly, and you suddenly look a lot smaller from where you’re sitting on his desk chair, hunched over with your knees tucked to your chest. “I’m really scared.”

Dazai’s heart claws up to his throat and he pushes himself out of bed, still dressed haphazardly in his suit from the night before. He makes his way over to you and kneels in front of you, hands curling around your ankles as he looks up at you.

“I won’t let anything happen to you,” he tells you, voice a bit more raspier than he intended for it to come across as. “I don’t care what I have to do to ensure it, how low I have to stoop. I will not let anything happen to you, do you understand?”

Your eyes meet his, and he can’t help but notice that doubt still riddles your gaze as you search his face, as if you want to believe him but can’t bring yourself to. A pit starts to grow in his stomach, wide and gaping as he realizes that this is all really about to happen, and one mistake on his part could lead you to the same fate you’ve met in so many other worlds because of him.

Finally, the doubt slowly clears as you let out a soft breath, nodding, and Dazai inhales sharply, laying his forehead against your shin as he lets his eyes slide shut.

He won’t let it happen. Not again.

again there was NO plot development in the smut - you guys didn't miss out on anything, pinky swear. i restructured the scene to fit the only notable scene (bandage removal) into the part before the smut, so if that felt a little forced, that was why </3 it wasn't supposed to be there. i was struggling trying to figure out how to move it upward a bit. the only arguable "plot" development was dazai letting go of his control freakiness to let her take the lead

#ᡣ𐭩 carina’s archives #dazai x reader #dazai x you #dazai smut #dazai osamu x reader #dazai osamu x you #dazai osamu smut #bsd x reader #bsd x you #bsd smut #bungo stray dogs x reader #bungo stray dogs smut #bungo stray dogs x you

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